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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Note

I'm in the mood for Steve to manhandled me 😞 please give me some nice input. Do I want medivial Steve, mob Steve, cop Steve, lumberjack Steve? What Steve? Help me 😭

I'm giving you medieval Steve

Merciless

Summary: You're caught in the spoils of war.

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence/hitting, blood, death. You know what it is, mind the warnings.

Notes: this turned out much longer than intended. As usual, I would appreciate feedback, reblogs and likes. Love yall 💓.

You clamp your hand over Agnes' mouth as you lay hidden from the furor. The screams of horror and agony, pleas for death and life, and the slash of steel and flesh. She quivers, her salty tears flowing between your fingers. Your own trickle down your cheeks and patter into her orange hair.

The loft is poor protection, you know it, and to stay would be as dire as to yield yourself to the soldiers and their bloodlust. It is undoubted that they will strike flame to the barn as they have the rest of the settlement.

Tales of brutality and blood precede them but the common farmers and serfs never imagined it would strike the insignificant hamlet. The huts and the fields are too sparse to offer bounty to pillagers but it seems their desires are not uniquely material.

You shudder as Agnes gulps, the hooves growing closer and closer. You can't stay. You hear the men calling for torches.

You squeeze your hand around Agnes' lips and lean in to whisper, "be very quiet."

She nods and you cautiously peel your palms away and slowly push yourself up from beneath the straw. You mop your cheeks as fear blooms anew in your stomach, causing you to quake as you crawl towards the edge of the platform, peering down the ladder.

The orange light of flames flickers faintly around the barred doors, the night drifting in between the cracks in bitter gales. You wave Agnes closer and point her down first. She descends as you watch the door, the crack of fire eating at wood noisily without. Closer and closer.

You follow her down, the girl you've known since you were barely able to walk. She's pallid with terror, her eyes dilated in the shadows of the barn. You grab her wrist and pull her around the bales.

"Here," you point to the loose slat hidden along the rear of the structure.

"We can't go out," she hisses, "they will see us."

"It's our only chance," you whisper, "otherwise, we'll burn as easy as the hay."

"Please," she clings to you, "I'm scared, I can't."

"I am too but we must," you insist, voice quavering as you recall the desperate whimpers of your mother, "to stay is a certain death, Ag, so we go."

She sniffles as a new wave of tears overflows and she wipes them away with her wool sleeves. You carefully inch the slat aside, angling it on the loose nail so you can peek out.

The forest isn't too far, not if you run. Your heart swells as you ponder the expanse.

"Don't look back, right? I'll watch from behind and you run."

"What– aren't you coming–"

"I will be only steps behind, I will only keep an eye for any soldiers," you assure her, "you go out first and I will follow." You reach for her hand and squeeze, "don't look back."

She shudders and you can't help but do the same. You angle the board enough for her to step through and she kneels in the tall grass. You come out in quick succession and ease the plank back into place.

"Buncha old man and their forks," a soldier growls from somewhere on the other side.

"Likely sent the young ones to the church for refuge," another scoffs, "women too."

"Not all, Wilson found a pretty little thing up a tree," a third snickers.

"Oh, she got good hips?" The second japes.

"Didn't notice, cunt is a cunt," the other slithers.

You wince in disgust as Agnes looks at you in horror. You shake your head as if to say, don't listen. You press a finger to your lips then point across the field. Your gazes meet in wordless consent.

You make a fist, a signal, then open your hand. In a moment, she's sprinting through the grass with her skirts raised to her knees, the rustle and snapping of twigs marking her flight. The men's voices carry on in their nasty repartee then pause as the noise draws their ears.

You hold your breath as she bounds without a glance over her shoulder. You hear metal clinks, the friction of leather and mail as a man comes around the corner. He doesn't see you as he sights Agnes flees and he gives a smirk before leaping into pursuit. Your chest knots as you quickly follow suit.

You chase after him as you hear Agnes give a pitiful cry at the realisation of her pursuer. You can barely keep stride with the man and jump forward to grasp at him desperately before he's completely beyond your grasp.

Your fingers cling to the pommel of his sword and the back of his thick leather belt. He staggers and shouts in surprise as you throw your weight into him. He topples as you land atop him.

He's face down in the grass as you scramble to climb off him. You get one foot down, then the other, fighting for balance as you heave and look ahead as Agnes nears the treeline.

You take a step, then another, your third is caught by the man's thick gauntlet and you hit your elbows as you fall forward. You kick blindly and call to Agnes to keep running. Several other man clatter by in mail as she delves into the forest. You can only pray she loses them.

"You're a tricky one," the man grabs your other ankle and crawls up your body.

His hand snakes to the back of your neck and pinches, crushing your face into the bent grass. He's large, made heavier by his armor, as he curls his arm around your throat and forces your head up. You writh and claw at the ground as you try to squirm out from beneath him.

"Ah, you're going to be good fun, aren't you?" He snickers as he keeps his thick arm around you, hauling you up with him as he stands, bending your back painfully with the awkward rise, "let me get a good look, hm?"

He spins you, grabbing your chin as the scales of his gauntlet dig into your skin. A streak of blood crusts his hairline and continues down to his jaw, defined and trimmed on dark blond hair. He smirks as his other hand gropes through the layers of your apron and dress, "full-bodied in the least."

You try to shove his touch away and he squeezes your chin until you whimper, bracing his wrist in a silent plea for mercy. He chuckles as your eyes prick and the pain furrows in your brow.

"Please, sir," you murmur, "I am only the daughter of a reaper–"

"No doubt he's somewhere among the traitorous corpses," he snarls and yanks you closer, his hand slipping around to knead your bottom, "but he does breed good stock."

You flinch at the depths of his blue eyes, striking but sinister. His blond hair is pushed back, shiny with sweat and blood, as a single shank hangs down his forehead. He smells of battle, a gut churning stench.

His chestplate is marked with a large five-pointed star with thorny vines wrapped around its arms. It is armor due to more than the common soldier. He must be a knight.

"Oi, Rogers, caught yourself a fawn, eh?" Another man chuckles as he appears just behind your accoster.

The loud lick of flames rises behind them, rising up the boards of the barn. The orange hues tinge your eyes as your forebodding burns in the evening dim.

"She would go well with the cask we found in the farmer's cellar," the dark-haired man reaches to touch you but is stopped as the knight, Rogers they called him, releases your skirts to fend him off with a swat.

"Not for you," he growls.

"Eh, you lords, always so selfish," the other retracts his hand and scowls, "I suppose you won't need the wine anyhow."

You try to pull away, drawing his attention back to you as he jars your neck painfully. You grunt as the other man stumbles of, muttering discontently. Rogers turns his wrath on your, his hand quickly spreading across your skull, threatening to crush it.

"Let me tell you, bunny," he sneers, "you'll pray you'd burned up in that wreck," he turns you, forcing you to look at the smoke billowing from the sparking wood, "or at least hopped a little quicker."

"Why--" your hand slips down his bracer, "why are you doing this?"

"We take no mercy on treasonous rats," he snarls as he leans in, his nose pressing to your temple, "especially not their whorish daughters."

"We... we are no traitors, sir, we are commonfolk--"

"Raise not your axes and scythes for the king, but wallow in your fields," he shakes you, keeping hold of your scruff, yanking you along with his sudden march, "indifference is as good as an assault upon the crown."

You reach back as he twists the fabric of your dress tight, choking you as he drags you around the rabid heat of the burning barn. You stumble on your toes, held up by his unyielding grip

"My horse, where is my horse?" He barks out.

You hear a shrill cry and turn to see. He pulls you back meanly and throws you onto the hard ground, your knees scraping even through the wool and linen.

"Mind yourself, wench," he growls as you look up from the dirt.

"Please, don't--"

You glance over as you press your scratched palms against your skirts. Agnes struggles between two captors as they tug at her dress, the laces already loosened as her bodice droops down. You go to stand as you call out to her.

Once more, you're hauled back as Rogers catches your arm and spins you around.

"Lost cause, now," he girds, "less you want to join her."

You quiver and sniffle as you watch Agnes weep, barely able to fend off the men grabbing at her. Her helplessness compounds your own, suffocating you as tears gleams along your eyelids and spill over.

"Tears won't help you," he sneers callously as he accepts the leather reins from another man, a great white warhorse snorting at the looming fire, "up." You hesitate and he shoves you, nearly under the feed of the steed, "suppose you've no need of manners tilling the soil but you'll learn, bunny. Go on."

He doesn't wait for you to grab onto the horse, instead he takes you by the hips and lifts you, so swiftly you feel as if you'll fall over the other side. You latch onto the saddle and bring your leg around, clinging unsteadily on the sturdy beast, never sitting more than the old mule in Theo's stables.

He's swiftly up behind you, body flush to yours as he crushes you against the curve of the saddle. You can hear Agnes still as she whimpers and whines, wailing as the tear of fabric cuts through the air. You glance around frantically, trying to find her.

"Stubborn thing," he raps along the crown of your head with his knuckles, "be grateful you only have one master, she'll see a dozen by dawn."

"Please--"

"Please?" he challenges as he snaps the reigns, the sweat dripping down your chest as the heat of the burning barn permeates the night. "Please, what? Shall I take you down and pull your skirts up for those heathens? By all means, make your choice, bunny. Me or them?"

You shiver, despite the boiling gusts of the flames. You hear Agnes and other women, shrieking, crying, groaning. There are shadows limned in shades of orange and yellow, violent jerking, flailing limbs. You're dizzy with the repugnant visions all around me.

"What shall it be, bunny?"

You shake your head. You can't speak. Your mouth is dry, your throat lumped in dread. Your slump your shoulders and hang your head, sobbing in shame. You cannot protect Agnes, you're too weak, too cowardly.

Rogers snaps the reins, the horse breaking into a cantor. You sway with its motion, the world blurring behind the wall of your futile tears.

⚔️

The tall walls of the tent billow with the night winds. You stand in a haze, the soreness of the horse's gait lingers in your thighs and back. You weren't abreast long but the frantic energy of your fear recedes and leaves you wilted.

It is indeed a rich man's tent, not like the short poles of the common soldiers you passed along the outskirts of camp. There is a four-postered bed with a feather mattress and canopy, a war not waged without luxury. The oaken furniture and brocade cushions or finer than any piece found in your village, even before it was raized to cinder.

You press your hands together as his movement distracts you from grief. Several pieces of armor lay on the round trestle table, lain over a map drawn on hide. His sword leans against the side, still attached to the slack belt hanging from it.

He lifts his mail over his head, further messing his blood-streaked hair. He glances at you but says nothing. Only the glean of impatience in his eyes speaks his irritation.

You stare, witless, then look over your shoulder at the canvas flaps.

You wince as his shadow nears and you turn back to him as he snakes his arms around you, yanking loose the not of your apron. He whips it away from you and traces his fingers up your bodice, bracing the round neckline and renting the wool down the middle to reveal your linen shift.

His gruffness jerks you as he strips, ripping your dress to the hem and making short order of your shift. You hug yourself, trying to hold the fabric around you and he shoves your arms down, tugging the sleeves past your hands.

"Bed," he jabs his thumb behind him.

You swallow and shiver, rubbing your upper arm as you cover your chest and hover your other hand before your vee. You step back fearfully as you eye the mattress. He growls and grabs your elbow, dragging you away from the ruin of your clothes.

"Must I say everything twice?" He snaps and tosses you ahead of him.

You hit the bed and fall onto your stomach. You roll over, bringing your legs up to your chest and hugging them. He sighs as he pulls his tunic off and crumples it before throwing it away.

He stretches his fingers then furls them as his eyes graze over you hotly.

"You act like a virgin," he scoffs, "I've never known your ilk to be chaste."

You push yourself away from him as he nears the edge of the bed. He picks at the laces along the top of his breeches as he approaches. You dig in your heels as you awkwardly evade him.

"Not that the modesty of a peasant is worth anything," he sneers as he shoves down his breeches, revealing the thick muscle of his thighs.

You blink at the golden hair across his legs, that thickens around his turgid length, and thins against along his stomach, trailing up to and across his chest. You've seen men before as they bathe in the river, but never more than flaccid.

"Come," he reaches for you and you roll away.

You get your hands and knees beneath you, crawling towards the other edge with a squeak. His grip closes around your ankle and pulls your leg out from under you. He flips you over as he climbs onto the mattress and snarls, a low guttural noise.

"I should've known," he pulls your legs apart and moves to kneel between them. You slap at him and catches your wrists, pulling you up as your back curls tenuously, "you stop or I'll make you stop."

He threatens to crush your bones with his strength, only easing up as you still and whimper. He scoffs and pushes your hand down, sliding his fingers along yours and guiding them around his cock. You gasp as he holds you there, letting your other hand fall to the bed.

"You should be so honoured that you can get me hard, wench," he bristles as he moves your hand up and down his length, "perhaps it is that the road has made me too eager."

He pushes your shoulder down so your hand slips from him and he pins you flat to the bed. He sidles closer to you on his knees, shifting his hand to your chest and resting his weight there.

You turn your face away from him as the air rushes from your lungs. He rubs his tip along your pelvis, trailing along the creases of your thighs, as if teasing you, taunting you with what he's about to do.

You bite down as tears rise again, the thick cloud once more clogging your nose. He presses against your entrance and grabs your chin.

He forces your head up and you close your eyes. He taps along your folds and tuts as a pang radiates through your jaw. You look at him through glossy eyes, tears trickling down your temples.

"That's it, bunny," he growls, "it is improper to disregard a lord... or his will."

He pushes on you, slowly, the resistance of your body keeping him out. Still, a twinge of pain flickers in your pelvis and he pokes harder at you, stretching you around him as he grunts. He exhales and shifts his posture, dipping his hips lower.

You whine as he inches into you. The pain is immeasurable, a deep ache in the bones, the strain of flesh around his intrusion like a blade tearing through you. You grasp his forearm, reaching to touch his thigh with your fingertips.

"Ow," you whine, "please, it hurts, sir. Stop--"

You're struck suddenly, the world spinning as your head snaps to the side with the sheer fury of his slap. You hold your head as you babble cluelessly.

"You do not issue me orders, bunny," he sinks in further and your back arches as you cry out, curling your fingers in agony, wanting to claw at your own face. "That's it," he rocks back then in again, still barely inside you, "you cannot keep me out, bunny, I have never left any unconquered."

You murmur and slap your hands down on the woven blanket, fisting the fold of it as he tilts into you, each time deeper than the last. Your toes clench as he moves your thighs over his, pulling you closer as he topples the last of your resistance.

You gurgle at the stunning pain, the dizzying rattle in your head as your cheek sears from his assault. He bends over you, his rough hand covering your breast as he gropes you, rolling his thumb over your tender bud. He rocks steadily, long strokes in and out, stretching you over and over.

You grit your teeth as the tears wet spill out freely and gather in your throat. His body moves against yours, the hair along his torso tickling you as the heat and friction entwines you. His blue eyes drink in your tortured sobs, watching you as he thrusts deliberately, your squeaks and squeals goading him on.

He slides an arm beneath you as your hand spreads over the corded muscle of his chest. He impales you to his limit and you shriek. It's as if you will split in half.

He turn you over as he rolls with you, bringing you up over him as he lays on his back. You sink deeper onto him and brace his stomach as the pressure tingles down your thighs.

He chuckles at your struggle to take him from below, your body shaking violently as you mewl. He slaps your ass and squeezes the hot flesh, his other hand on your hips as he guides your motion.

You hang your head, breathless as he works you atop him, wiggling his hips and adding to the torment within. Your nails dig into the lines of his stomach as you tremble over him, tensing each time he tilts you against him. He groans and purrs as he moves you faster and faster.

"Oh, bunny," he slaps your rear again, then pinches you until you squeal, "you are such a weak thing."

You shakily cover your face in humiliation, unable to stem the flood of tears as they well over. His hand slips up your back and he pulls you down against him. He grips the back of your neck as he holds your body flush to his, stilling you as he bucks from below.

You wail as he hammers into you. All restraint is lost to his lust as his growls underline your pathetic babbling. You cling to him with nothing else to ease your pain.

He guides your hips, slamming you down onto him as he thrusts up into you. You huff and puff as your eyes roll back and the shadows swirl in your head. You can't take much more.

"Shall I gift you with a bastard, bunny?" he growls as he slows, "hm? Something to recall me by."

"Sir..." is all you can get out as his motion turns erratic.

He groans and grunts as his fists your hair and a warmth erupts inside of you. His voice falters with his pace and he quakes as he spills his seed across your walls. He shudders as he falls limp, keeping you pinned against him as he pants.

You're stuck there, not only by his will but your weakness. Defeated, defiled, you lay over him, desecrated.

"If the lord wills it, you will have it," he rasps and wiggles his hips, "but it is said that it often takes much sowing to plant a seed."

#fic #dark!fic #dark fic #marvel #mcu #au #captain america #steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #medieval au

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anika-ann · 2 years

Text

In the Name of the King (S.R.)

Type: medieval/fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 13,000 *

Summary: Sir Steven Rogers, having risen from common people, now one of the most trusted knights to prince Anthony. You, nothing but a servant, albeit to Princess Maria herself.

Love blooms in any place and it cares little for the rules of the court – much like your Steven. Then again, war cares just as little for any feelings you and your knight might harbour for each other...

Warnings: 18+ for NSFW thoughts, talk and sexy times in making, inexperienced and rather reader, probably desperately era-inaccurate, blood and mention of violence, death, religious ambiguity, tooth-rotting fluff, angst, language, (reader has hair long enough to be braided)

A/N: This is sort-of a song fic for it is based on a Czech song. You can find it here. I took the liberty to loosely translate the lyrics for you throughout the fic.

* A/N: If you prefer reading it in two parts, the best part for a split is after 5,5k words – you will find a gif there. Divider’s mine, btw. Enjoy 🥰

Another bolt of lightning illuminated the room. You rolled around in your small bed, squinting against the violent light leaving you blind when the darkness of the night took over again. Your heart, already racing for it was filled with worry, jumped at the clap of thunder – as did you.

A bad sign.

A warning from the Gods.

They should not be out there, settled in a camp and preparing for battle. Storms like these were meant to make mankind bow in front of higher power and yet the cavalry had left in the morning, several troops heading to the West to protect the borders of the kingdom against Hydra, against the self-proclaimed king Pierce.

Gods, how you wished he would get struck by lightning for all the misery he caused to so many people, his own and others alike.

As if the Gods heard your thought, another clap of thunder seemed to shake the castle walls – a scolding for your blasphemy. You should not wish harm to another human being.

Then again, you should not pray to the old gods in the first place, but to the Lord, who shall save your soul from eternal flames of hell. Such were the ways of new religion; yet, it was impossible to let go of the ties to the dogmata you had been raised in.

And so you prayed to both. As fresh light exploded behind your closed eyelids, you prayed not for another man’s harm, but for one’s safety.

You shuffled on your bed, kneeling up, clasping your hands together, whispering under your breath as not to wake the two women sleeping beside you.

Please, bring him home. Protect him. Please, please, please. Should any harm come to him, the world would cease to make sense. Keep Steven safe.

Your Steven.

Your knight.

Your sun, your moon, your stars; with his smile shining as bright as all these combined, surrounding you with gentle warmth from the very first moment he had set his cerulean eyes on you and kneeled by your side to help you collect what your clumsy hands had spilled.

It was early morning, the sun barely peeking out from behind the horizon, colouring the East walls of the castle in orange and pink, the warm sunrays pleasant on your skin as you carried Princess Maria’s breakfast tray. You could not but smile at the gorgeous play of colours; and yet, your gaze wandered as you heard the grunts of effort mingling with light-hearted laughter from the grassy training areas.

A maid could never think herself anywhere near equal with the knights, therefore it was considered unthinkable to harbour feelings for any of them – the laws of the court would frown upon such union. And yet, you were only human of flesh and blood and the warm liquid rushing in your veins always felt hotter whenever you set your gaze on the well-built men.

Their physique easily made for a woman’s heart to race, the heroic tales of their bravery only strengthening the sentiment, as did the tales of their gentlemanly ways. You had witnessed differently, many of them acting overgrown children, but it would be foolish to deny that they were a sight to behold, every single one of them.

One in particular, however, stood out; for he was not only a handsome man, but an extraordinary one. The story of his heroics was spoken of long after it took place, long after his ascension to knighthood.

Of common origin, Steven was the only son of the town’s most valued blacksmith; Steven himself was adept at forging a sword, armour or a shield of the highest quality, but apparently also at wielding it – alert and bright.

Attentive to his surroundings, he had been fast and strong enough to prevent fatal consequences of the attack on Prince Anthony during his visit of the town where he was ambushed by two slayers of the Hydra kingdom. He stopped a deadly strike when dashing between a slayer and the prince, strong arm wielding the shield he had finished earlier that day.

Of all knights, Steven was most loved by the common people for while the rules for knighthood had not changed with his actions and he remained the only one graced with the honour to date, he had proven that a man, no matter of how humble origin, was capable of great things.

A knight from the people. A humble hero.

His features were sharp, but his eyes spoke of softness; he did not seem to lack determination, on contrary, his lineage forged his desire to fight for a better world. Of tall build, he held his head high – an aristocratic face lined with sandy chin-length hair – but for he never forgot where he had come from, he did not look down at people.

You had never spoken to him, but you had heard his voice before; deep, pleasant, respectful. Falling for him despite the distance between you had been as easy as dangerous for your heart. You were but a maid; had you been in love before he was knighted, then perhaps the circumstance would be different, but you had not met him before then. And so you were destined to long him in silence, busying yourself with serving to Her Grace Princess Maria.

Such was your goal at the moment; you were carrying breakfast, you reminded yourself, vainly, of course. The sight offered to you was too distracting to ignore.

As your gaze lingered on the expanse of Steve’s arm swaying the unsharpened training sword with ease, you lost your step – and sent the tray and its content flying, the metal clinking loudly as it hit the stony path.

All the knights’ heads snapped to you in an instant, alert, causing your face to be set aflame under their scrutiny; and as you swiftly kneeled to gather the utensils and food with a silent curse and prayer that most of it was salvageable with another wash, booming laughter hit your ears, causing your cheeks to burn in shame.

“Well done, my friends, our training must truly be aesthetically pleasing!” Prince Anthony’s voice called out, followed by another roar of laughter that chased tears of humiliation into your eyes you barely kept at bay.

Your shaky hands frantically started gathering the fruit – grapes, apple, pear, hopefully not too bruised – as you made to ignore the quickly approaching footsteps. You refused to look up, shame settled deep in your stomach as you assessed the damage, the smallest relief when you found the slices of bread still wrapped in cloth, albeit considerably less white now.

You felt the large man kneel by your side before you registered the hand, clad in fingerless leather glove, appearing in your field of vision. Only when the man begun to gather the scattered grape berries, you dared to look up; and the time must have stopped.

Your heart certainly did as your gaze was met with a pair of the most beautiful kind eyes without a trace of laughter. You lost the reigns of your body – it froze, your mind occupied fully by seeing such grace from such short distance. You had never noticed how plush and alluring his lips were, framed by a short beard; how handsome his face was when one corner of his lips curled up almost uncertainly.

It was the unusual emotion in his smile which pulled you back from your reverie. A knight was kneeling by you, the kingdom’s hero, helping you clean up the outcome of your clumsiness.

How kind of him – how below him

“Oh, Sir Rogers, you must not bother-“

“But I must,” he opposed before you could even finish your sentence, sincerity lacing his voice and by gods, his voice was like velvet lined with silk. His gaze flickered back to the group of knights whose eyes you could feel at you still, intent. “Do not mind the blockheads that are laughing instead of helping a lady.”

A giggle of surprise escaped you, your hand quickly covering your mouth so no one could see; but Sir Rogers could and a smile broke out on his face, a boyish grin sprinkling his eyes with laughter and pride, warm and inviting.

By Lord, he must have been the most handsome man to ever walk the world, more so when he smiled like this. And he called you a lady – you, but a maid.

“I am hardly a lady, Sir Rogers,” you whispered bashfully, your lacking status bringing you grief like you had never experienced – a reminder.

But a mere smile from the man, and you lost the ground under your feet, your heart on your sleeve for him to take, no matter how unthinkable your romance would be.

His fingers took a gentle hold of your wrist, eliciting a gasp from your lips at the tender touch; he spilled several berries into your hand, thumb brushing your sensitive skin, sending the sweetest tingle up your arm.

A blissful smile fought its way to your face despite all reason.

“Well. Your beauty rivals one of a lady. … especially when you bless the castle with a smile like that.”

Oh, your heart fluttered like butterfly wings, your gaze instinctively searching his for the faintest trace of a jest; yet, you found nothing but sincerity.

“S-sir Rogers…”

He released your wrist, already having you mourn the loss; instead, his nimble fingers found one of the loose cornflower blossoms which had broken away from the small bouquet you had gathered to bring with the breakfast. He twirled it in his fingers for a moment, almost absent-mindedly, before his smile softened.

“This one might be broken, but perhaps it could serve its purpose in your hair at least?” he suggested, beckoning lightly to your braid.

Before you could as much as realize he meant it, he reached out, careful fingers – surprisingly so, for such a strong man – stuck the stem to the base of the braid behind you ear, sending your heart into frenzy when the pads of his fingers accidentally brushed your cheekbone.

“Lovely.”

A thank you never spilled from your lips for another voice rudely interrupted your intimate conversation.

“Steven! We fighting or picking flowers? Get your pert arse in here!” Sir Clinton howled, causing you to wince – and the dream world Steven had created for you, one where he could harbour affections for you, started to disperse like a morning fog.

“He’s charming a girl for once in his life, give him a moment!” Sir Barnes, prince’s most entrusted Knight, cried out.

His exclaim was followed by a wave of suggestive boo noise at which Sir Rogers finally tore his gaze from yours, staring at his friends.

“Well if you acted more like knights and less like barbarians, making fun of a lady like that, perhaps I would have taken more haste to come back to you!”

All he earned by his chivalrous defence of your long-lost honour was a chorus of “oooooh” and perhaps later, he would be laughed at just as much as you had been when you had tripped. Yet, he seemed to be bothered little by that fact.

He shook his head, expression speaking of an apology not needed.

“I’m afraid I have been summoned, as rudely as it was.”

You gathered the last items, carefully laying them on the tray, a sad reflexion of how it had looked before you lost your balance and practically fell to Sir Rogers’s feet. As if it was not too late for that.

“Thank you for your assistance, Sir Rogers,” you thanked him sincerely, astonished to find him swiftly rising to his feet – and offering a helping hand you could not dare to refuse even if you wished. His strength made itself known as he pulled you to your feet with little effort on your part, causing your head to spin, the brief curtsy you gifted him at last feeling like a daydream. “You- you are most kind.”

The breath-taking smile shone the force of thousand suns, yet caressed you as gently as a summer breeze. “It was an honour, my lady.”

“I am not a-“

“I hope to see you again soon,” he spoke before you could protest fully, laying his arm over his middle, gracing you with the tinniest of bows you were not worthy of, “smiling just as beautifully.”

With those words, he turned back to the prince and his knights, leisurely running back to the group.

As you walked away, you could not but waver at the corner, casting a last glance at the man; Sir Barnes mimicked a curtsy and proceeded to punch Sir Rogers in his shoulder with laughter. Sir Rogers pushed him away with a playful scowl, gaze wandering you to.

You rushed away, smiling to yourself for the rest of the day, embarrassment long forgotten.

Smiling you were not tonight; fear had seized your heart, consuming you by every moment as you silently stepped out of the princess’ maids’ room, leaving Wanda and Carol sleeping peacefully despite the rumble outside – and in your heavy heart.

You missed your Steven greatly whenever he went, but you understood his duty. Tonight, however, something hovered in the air, an aura of something ominous which had you losing sleep. With a candleholder burning in your hand, you wandered the corridors, nodding to the guards on patrol.

“The seamstress is awake,” Pietro, Wanda’s brother, uttered knowingly, beckoning the direction of Natasha’s chambers.

Perhaps it should have not surprised you that Sir Barnes’ beloved, too, could not find peace on this trying night; and as much joy as it brought you to find yourself not alone, a suffocating feeling squeezed your chest tightly for it meant she might sense the same unease surrounding tomorrow’s battle.

Yet, you headed for her chambers, nodding at Pietro in thank you.

That night, we were all losing sleep it was as if God sent the storm to warn us; oh foolish men, there is no peace in a war I, too, laid down my life in the name of the king.

The warm light of the candle was casting long shadows as you walked, reminding you of how the light and darkness played on Steven’s handsome face last night. The princess had been laid to sleep, providing you with a few moments to spent in your beloved’s presence before he would leave to fight for his country, yet again, and you were not one to waste the chance.

Goodbyes were never easy. Whether it had been just a chance meeting after the fateful breakfast incident, meetings when Steven would insist you called him his name, offered you a flower of a compliment in exchange for your smile or whether your encounter had been planned when he revealed his intention to court you, rules of society damned. Whether you were to tell him goodbye for several days due to an upcoming quest or just for the night. Whether the goodbye consisted of words, a touch, a kiss on a cheek or lips… never easy.

Yet his absence left larger ache in your heart the deeper you were falling in love. Every goodbye seemed harder than the previous one; last night parting made for no exception.

“I will think of you every moment I am away,” he promised sweetly as he sneaked his arm around your waist, sitting on the bench by the dying fire in the kitchens, long abandoned by the cooks.

Your body, pliant to his touch, melted into his strong form, arm laying over his torso, temple resting against his chest as you sighed, feeling your worry heavy in your stomach.

“As much I appreciate the sentiment, please do not, Steven.”

You could almost hear his frown as he nuzzled your hair, his lips brushing your forehead lovingly.

“Why not, my sweet? Will you not think of me as well?” he questioned, voice wavering despite his teasing tone.

You swatted his hip gently, soothing the attack with a caress then.

“You must know that is not true. I—you must focus. Be careful. So you can come back to me,” you whispered, doing your best not to let the depth of your anxiety show.

Steven carried enough burdens for the time being, he needed not your fears to add to them.

“Oh my sweet…”

His fingers slipped under your chin, leading you to meet his gaze, a smile playing in the corners of his lips; not even his beard could hide his amusement. You pursed your lips in slight offence – his safety was no laughing matter.

“Please, Steven. I could not bear any harm coming to you. Be careful.”

His thumb brushed over your lower lip, his smile only growing, wandering gaze warmer than the remnants of fire.

“You know I will, my sweet. I have a duty to my king and I have a duty here, to you,” he muttered, gaze flickering to your lips, following the motions of his thumb as he felt the softness of your flesh.

You had not enough time to process the words before he leaned closer, capturing your lips with his in a kiss, hand moving to cradle the back of your head, parting your lips to engage in a dance of love which could have consumed all your thoughts, all your worry – and yet, the anxious feeling only dug its claws deeper, chasing tears into your eyes.

Steven released you to breathe the moment he felt the salt of your tears, sighing as he tucked a lose strand of hair behind your ear. Still, a smile adorned his now kiss-swollen lips, condescending and kind at once.

“Promise me?” you demanded, the prickle of his beard leaving your skin tingling, your heart racing.

“I promise, then. Do not cry, my lady…”

Oh, the traitor… the corners of your mouth twitched, the difference in your status having turned more of a teasing matter than anything else.

“Steven, you must stop this. I am not a lady.”

“Oh, but you are?” he opposed with a twinkle in his eyes before his lips went to catch the tears from your cheeks, drinking them as if they were nothing less than ambrosia gifted by the gods.

The warmth of his lips and the burn of his beard combined with his jesting drew a giggle from your lips, turning into a breathless moan when his strong arms winded around your waist, pulling you into his lap just like several nights ago.

Dirty, dirty cheater.

His lips found yours again, playful nips causing more giggles spill right into his mouth.

“Am I, truly?” you asked doubtfully. “What are my possessions? What lands do I own and command, Sir Rogers?”

“My heart.”

The jesting and games left as swiftly as they arrived, silence filling the room, your heart stumbling in your chest as you felt your expression morph into something much softer.

How had you ever stood a chance of not falling for this man? For his strength, for his beautiful brave spirit and his gentle, gentle heart? A heart he claimed was yours to own and command?

You let your fingers map out his handsome features, running tenderly over his forehead, brows, the nose of a true aristocrat, his pushy lips; a careful touch which had him flutter his eyes shut, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, the fire as if accenting his beauty, revealing his soul to entice yours to entangle with it forever.

“It shall be my most prized possession, then,” you whispered, barely audible, his hand blindly reaching for yours to kiss your fingertips, one by one, the tender gesture tugging at your heartstrings.

He looked at you then, with overwhelming affection that would choke you once he left in the morning – but you could not think of such things now. He was here still. And he was yours, as you were his.

“Good,” he hummed. “Should you trust me with yours-“

“I do-“

“I shall ask for it in front of the Lord and the gods themselves.”

Your lips parted in surprise, your heart suddenly so loud you could almost hear it, breath catching in your throat. Surely, he did not mean-

“Once I return, I shall ask for your hand, should you agree, my sweetness,” he promised, eyes wide and sincere, stunning you into silence lasting long enough to have him hesitate. “Do you not-“

Oh, how could he even question your wish to marry him!

“I do! I--- but Steven, you are a knight. I would spend thousand lifetimes with you if I could, surely you must know-“ you babbled, his index finger covering your mouth before you could explain.

You would love him always, day and night, from summer solstice to winter and back, and you cherished every moment--- yet the void between you was immense.

“I will settle for one lifetime. You know Anthony cares little for rules and I am but of a common origin myself. What kind of a monster would stand in the way of our love?”

It was not until morning when you realized the answer to his question; when you watched him from above as he stood in the courtyard by his horse, fastening the scabbard to the saddle and tugging at the leather, checking it would hold as they would ride.

You hated seeing him leave more than ever – you dreaded the moments his horse would canter out of the castle’s gates, rushing so willingly to face dangers the other kingdoms posed; to serve his king, your king, to protect what he held dear.

His gaze travelled up the castle’s walls, lingering at the windows of the princess’ chambers – the very windows you were watching him from, stealing last glances as your heart wept and trembled in fear for his life, longing for him to keep the promises he had given you last night.

With the prince’s command, the knights and soldiers left but ache and dust behind, along with an answer.

War.

The biggest and only true monster standing in the way of love was war.

The word resonated with you, leaving you weary and in frenzy at once, as you reached Natasha’s chamber, not needing to knock for her door was ajar – as if she knew you would be coming; as if she did not want to be alone either.

You slipped into her chamber, welcomed by a humourless but gentle smile.

“A pleasant night, is it not?” she hummed noncommittally, “leave the door open, please. Just in case…”

Just in case there would be any commotion in the castle. Perhaps the knights and soldiers would come back, accepting the warning from the Gods. Perhaps, perhaps…

Natasha’s room was relatively spacious for it equalled her craft-space. Besides a small bed with a solid wooden frame, several tables stood covered in pieces of fabric from simplest to the rarest ones, embroideries, bobbin lace, silk. Dresses in various state of completion laid over them or hung on improvised metal frames imitating princess’ lean figure. Silver and golden threads shone in the warm lights provided by a few candles by the stony walls, flickering to life as another lightning erupted behind the window, followed by a distant clap of thunder.

The storm was leaving. Could that be because the danger was not as great or that the gods had given up on the king’s army since they were not heard out?

“Personally, I would say a long night. An ominous one,” you whispered, earning a sigh.

Natasha ceased her work on a lovely silvery embroidery, laying the tambour frame on the nearest flat surface and rose to her feet, a silent offer you accepted with gratitude for the arms you longed to find yourself in were miles away.

She reciprocated the embrace firmly and you felt an ounce of your fear fall from your shoulders for now you shared the weight of it – yours and hers alike. Her goosebumps matched yours as she slipped hr arms under the flimsy shawl you had taken to cover yourself form gazes of the guards. Both of you wore but in simple nightgowns besides it, yet you sensed cold was not to blame for the prickle of her skin either.

Losing sleep with anxiety and intrusive thoughts were at work instead.

“The weight of fears is lessened when one’s hands are occupied,” she informed you as she let go, brows furrowed with worry still, sighing. “But what of mind…”

Oh, you wished…

“I must try to busy my hands too then, at least.”

At your words, Natasha’s lips curled up in a smile yet again as she handed you your very own tambour frame which you kept in her chambers for such occasion, for sleepless or nightmare-filled nights such as this one.

You found your seat by hers, not fully across, not fully by her side, assessing the floral pattern you had started almost a month ago.

Natasha had been kind enough to sneak some of the royal threads for your work, expensive ones; threads no one would miss nevertheless for Nat was likely the most trusted woman in the castle besides the cook and the princess herself.

She jested you only deserved the very best for your wedding gown once Steven would lay his heart to your feet and you had been working on it since with the deepest care. Tonight, however, tears burned in your eyes as you observed it, the pattern as if mocking you with Steven’s entirely serious promise.

“He shall come back,” Natasha spoke, your expression not escaping her sharp attention. This of all her qualities was what made for her unparalleled ability as a seamstress – her attention to detail. “They all will, Steven and Bucky included.”

Bucky. Sir Barnes. Natasha’s beloved. He too was likely to be pestered about courting a seamstress, but Natasha was well-loved among the noble – the court would never bat an eye and passed no judgement, yet Sir Barnes had not yet asked Natasha’s hand in marriage. She rested unbothered by such; for all you knew of your friend, she would have asked his hand in marriage should she decided she was in a rush.

The thought made you smile for you were aware of the fact Sir Barnes would have said yes and thanked her, worshipped her more than ever. Their love was strong… and word had it that they shared a deep bond beyond pure love, crossing the lines of physical and perhaps the lines of proper. Natasha had hinted at such herself before.

Should you marry Steven as you wished, you were willing to cross as many lines as necessary yourself. You were willing to do just about anything to ensure he would not change his mind, that he would not be plagued with as much as a seed of doubt.

You believed your most trusted friend could be of assistance… without passing judgement.

“Natasha?” you spoke without looking up as you focused on continuing the cornflower with your needle. “I heard rumours.”

“Oh? Of what? Do tell, my dear. I am always happy to learn of the whispers laugh over them at times.”

You felt the blush creeping up your neck, your stomach twisting in embarrassment. Perhaps what you had heard was nonsense – something to laugh over as Natasha just said, nothing but a foolery you had believed in your naivety and inexperience.

“I must say now I am truly curious for your silence lasts too long. And you seem ashamed… just tell me,” she prompted you gently.

You noticed from the corner of your eye she had stopped working, only adding to your nerves.

Your felt the tips of your ears burn as you attempted to keep your tone and expression nonchalant nevertheless, clearing your throat.

“I heard rumours of… making men happy.”

“That does sound promising. Gold, glory or a woman can do that do them.”

You chuckled despite yourself as she deadpanned, some of your embarrassment melting away.

“I overheard a servant talking of ways a woman can please a man without… without sinning? As in truly sinning in the eyes of the Lord? Have you ever, uhm, heard of such thing?”

Silence settled over the room, hanging heavy above your heads.

The storm had left far enough so that no claps of thunder reached you anymore, no bolts of lightning interrupted the intimate atmosphere.

Nearly pricking yourself with a needle in anticipation, you opted for ceasing your work, hesitantly looking up, meeting Natasha’s curious eyes with a sparkle of mischief that had you lower your gaze again.

“I have. And they are true,” she said simply at last, sending your heart racing.

Oh. So it was the truth then. There was an experience more pleasurable for men than you knew, places where Steven might appreciate your lips more than on his cheek, in his hair, on his mouth or even his neck. Your temples pulsed with the intensity of each beat of your heart at the revelation.

“Do you… do you know of it, Natasha?” you asked, fingers toying with the fabric in your lap.

“I do.”

Your head snapped to her; she was smiling playfully, head tilted to side – a cat that got all the cream and was bragging to her less sneaky friends.

You huffed and pursed your lips, not liking one bit to be made fun of; yet, you needed to know. And so you eased your offence, looking at the redhead pleadingly, baring your heart to her; for you knew that despite her smirk, she would never truly laughed at you.

“Would you please, please, tell me? I… he promised me yesterday. That he would come back and ask-“

“To marry you? Good Lord! Steven promised to marry you at last?!” she gasped, her eyes truly sparkling now, all teasing gone.

You nodded, unable to prevent your lips from forming a smile at the thought, and continued.

“I want to be a good wife to him one day…. but I would like to show him I will be able to make him feel good. What if he wonders if I can please him? He promised me everything and I-- I want to give him the same. Gods know marrying someone of my status will come with burdens and judgement… I don’t… I don’t want to disappoint him, to make him question his decision.”

Natasha’s booming laugh was a reward for your honesty, startling you.

Was this the first time you appeared utterly stupid to her? Silly? It was such a painful feeling… But once her laughter died down, she observed you with kindness, grinning wide and shaking her head.

“I cannot imagine a world in which Sir Steven Rogers could ever be disappointed in you. That man would build a ladder tall enough to reach the stars should you ask him to bring you one.”

Oh.

The shame dispersed in a blink of an eye, warmth enveloping your heart instead. Was that how Steven appeared to others in regard of his feelings for you?

“But very well. I shall tell you – he is only a man, after all. He will appreciate it, of that I am certain. But know, he can please you in a very similar way. And he should – sin or not.”

“…does Sir Barnes please you in such way?” you asked on a whim, taken by surprise at her revelation.

“Oh, but a lady does not kiss and tell!” she mocked offence, her coy smile answering your question. “Perhaps he shares the secrets of his mastery with Steven and you shall be very surprised when you succumb to him.”

The mere idea – so strange and yet incomprehensibly arousing since you had no experience with it nor you could imagine drawing pleasure from such activity – chased blood to your cheeks, having them burn hotter than fire.

The longing for Steve’s presence hit you sharper than the edge of his shield and sword combined, leaving your head swimming and your chest aching.

“He must return home safe first,” you murmured, exchanging a gaze of understanding with your friend, followed by her smile when you asked an innocent question. “Would you pray with me later?”

“I will. And they will. But now… I shall share the wonders of driving a man mad in ways he will thank you for.”

And by gods and Lord, she did.

Strange cavalrymen are racing from the forest in our eyes, but droplets of fear – here, to kill is no sin. The very first shot has silenced my heart I shall not return home; my time has come.

(In the name of the king!)

Little did you know that in the darkness of the night, cut by bolts of lightning, howl of the wind, distant claps of thunder and the aroma of rain in the air as if warning them not to go into the battle, Steve laid awake, his thoughts were with you as well.

The tent shared with the rest of the knights protected him from the disgrace of a weather raging outside, light snores a strange lullaby Steve had grown almost fond of during the years of comradeship. He could recognize every single one of his friends by that sound alone, distinct to each; and despite that fact only strengthening the sense of belonging and his gratitude to be given the opportunity to become a knight, he longed for nights to spend with you at last.

The idea brought a smile to his lips; you would lie beside him, facing him, wide eyes watching him with affection, drunk on the pleasure he would have given you but moments before, warm palm gently laid on his cheek as if begging him to kiss your wrist. He would oblige – he would always give in to whatever you asked – but in the end, he would wrap his arm around your waist and roll you over to pull you to his front, align his body to yours, inch by inch. He would drop a goodnight kiss to your bare shoulder, causing you to shiver and snuggle ever closer and let the sleep take you both.

And in the morning, he would wake only to make love to you again, because he would be allowed; because you would be married at last.

He had promised you as much last night and it was a promise he intended to keep. Just like he had promised himself he would bring all the pleasure he ever dared to think of, clinging to his mind ever since the night you had treated his wound from training, giving him but a taste of bliss.

The way you lowered your gaze when he called you beautiful still, the shape of your lips when you smiled, your tender hands scratching at his scalp when he kissed you.

The warmth of your body seeping into his skin.

He could only imagine how much warmer and inviting your heat would be once he was allowed. Oh Lord, how he had wished to have been allowed that night…

The way the torches illuminated your face made him yearn to pick up a piece of charcoal and a scroll of parchment meant for significant documents to capture the alluring image of you – an image which to him felt just as important as a treaty between kingdoms.

It was rather unusual for him to see you from his angle for normally he towered several inches above you, having you have to tip your head back to reach his lips. You had seated him there, however, and your expression left no space for protests once you learned he had been injured in the evening training, grazed by a little too sharpened sword which cut through his armour, made for a bruise and broke through his skin as well.

You were no physician, you had said, but you could clean and dress a wound like this.

A frown to your brow clouded your soft features with disapproval as you placed the bowl of warm water on the only table in the room, careful not to tip over the small vial of alcohol you had obtained for him. You pulled at the white cloth thrown over your shoulder, dipping one of the edged in the water before glancing at him and halting in your movements as if seeing him for the first time that night.

“What weighs your mind, my sweetness?” he asked silently.

“You not being careful enough,” you retorted as if on instinct; and then your teeth pulled lightly at your lower lip, indignation melting into bashfulness. “Uhm, I believe you will have to- to take off your shirt.”

A smile tugged at the corner of Steve’s lips. That did sound reasonable, yet he felt a slight pull at his nerves as you did at the realization.

You had never seen him bared of his garments, never seen his upper body exposed – or his lower half for that matter. He feared not your judgement for that would be ridiculous. But perhaps he did feel a bit anxious to fulfil your expectations.

A baseless worry, truly; the moment he slipped his shirt off, gritting his teeth at the pull at his cut, you were left staring at him, suddenly mute, lips parted with a soft sigh that spoke of everything but disappointment.

Steve would have been a liar should he say he did not feel pleased, his ego stroked gently. He had worked for the strength in his upper body his whole life and he worked hard for he had been born a weakling. Now muscles adorned his torso, a prove of power he had when wielding a sword and a shield. And by Lord, by would wield it for your eyes only had you always watched him with this silent wonder.

“Did cat get your tongue, my dear?” he teased lightly, unable to hide the smugness when you tore your gaze away from the newly exposed skin, caught staring. “I would never use my strength to hurt you.”

“I know,” you squealed before clearing your throat and composing yourself. “I was merely… assessing the damage.”

He was sure you were.

“Of course. Do you need me to strip anything else-“

“No--! This… this will certainly suffice. Thank you,” you smiled at him shakily, feeding his ego further with your embarrassment. “Just sit back for now, Steven, and let me clean the wound-- oh.”

You tilted your head to side curiously, gaze zeroed above his left hip.

Steve knew instantly what caught your eye.

The black lines were thick despite the size no bigger than his own palm, a small work of art many still frowned upon. You did not seem offended nor, Lord forbid, horrified. Merely curious – perhaps even fascinated.

“May I?” you asked in a whisper, already moving forward and reaching out your hand.

Steve gulped.

Yes, you may, by all means, he longed to say. Touch it, trace every line with your fingers, with your lips, your tongue even-

“Of course,” he rasped instead, scolding himself for his dirty thoughts.

Yet, as if you heard what was on his mind, the pads of your fingers brushed over the tattoo, a featherlight touch in a place where your skin had never met his before and set it on fire.

“A wolf?”

“Yes.”

You pursed your lips lightly in a sign of disapproval and so Steve rushed to explain.

“Bucky often jested we were a pack of wolfs rather than a group of knights and so we all chose a wolf. Do you… not like it? “

You met his gaze briefly, shaking your head with a shy smile, taking your touch away; and he already carved it again.

“No, it’s beautiful, just… a little aggressive.”

“Well, wolves are fierce warriors. Strong, loyal,” he pointed out, hoping you would not miss the weight behind his next words. ”Protective of their own.”

Their own. His own. You might not be a fellow knight nor family nor his wife yet, but he would lay his life to protect you should it be necessary.

And you could bet the royal jewels he would fight aggressively had anyone tried to harm you.

“Then you could have not chosen better,” you whispered, laying a kiss to your fingertips before pressing them to the artwork again, having Steve’s breath catch.

He wished you would kiss it with your lips directly – but then you would have to kneel in front of him, giving him a completely different idea as to where your lips could be and the imagery alone would be permanently etched into his mind.

So perhaps it was for the best that you had not, for he felt his arousal growing at the thought alone; instead, you moved to take care of his cut.

Your dominant hand dutifully wiped around the wound first, tender but thorough, your focus as sharp as one of an archer aiming to hit the middle of the clout. Your other hand rested against his shoulder for balance as you stood between his legs crouched and a little twisted, your position slightly awkward and no doubt uncomfortable.

“Sit, my sweetling.”

You gazed up at him, eyebrow raised questioningly, as surprised by his suggestion and he was for a moment.

Needless to say that at the moment, he was eternally grateful that Bucky and Clint had left for the town’s tavern, celebrating news of Clint’s wife Laura finding herself with her first child – leaving you and him alone.

“I must not block the light and have to be able to reach the bowl. I cannot very well sit, Steven,” you explained softly, blinking when he grasped at your hand and tugged at it lightly.

“You will not block the light,” he opposed, closing the gap between his thighs and leading you closer to stand by his legs and pulling at your skirt a fraction, “if you are sitting, straddling me. Come, my love. It shall be much easier for you.”

Your eyes grew adorably wide at his suggestion, softening at the endearment. Reluctantly, you obeyed, climbing over him and lowering your weight on his thighs, leaning onto his shoulder as not to fall. Steve welcomed the weight you brought with you, your breaths fanning his face as you shifted in attempt to find a comfortable position.

You met his gaze with an apologetic smile as if you had not just gifted him with your intimate proximity.

“Am I not too heavy like this?”

Oh even if you were, Steve would never dare to tell you in order to keep you so close to him for the rest of his days; let alone when you moved a few inches and brushed his most sensitive spot.

Oh Lord, he was going to hell, but it mattered not if he had his time with an angel before he would go.

“Like a feather, sweet. Comfortable? Stable?”

He placed his hands on your waist to ensure better balance and you smiled at him, gaze flickering to his naked chest, a gorgeous flush rising to your face.

Yes, he could go to hell for at the moment, he was having a taste of heaven.

“Yes. I shall work now.”

Steven wanted not to show he felt the sting as you continued cleaning the wound; but he found out letting you see him vulnerable was not the worst thing possible to happen.

When a hiss escaped his lips at the burn of alcohol, your eyes snapped to his with an unspoken apology; and his pain was soothed by the softest of kisses.

He stole several more from your lips, squeezing your waist, toying with the hem of your bodice before he let you continue, demanding such compensation every time you made his jaw tick with pain; and with each kiss, his hunger grew, each encounter of lips longer than the previous.

The moment you were to take a fresh cloth to finish cleaning with water once again, Steve knew he could not let you. Not yet; he drew too much pleasure from this, having you, his dutiful carer, seated in his lap, soft and tender and unwittingly seductive.

Your lips had grown swollen from the kisses, calling for him to taste you again – and Steve was not one to ignore a call like that.

With a small noise of surprise on your part, he claimed your mouth again, hand reaching to cradle your face, gentle thumb stroking your cheek and coaxing you into giving in. Your body melted into his, pliant, lips succumbing to his advances and he felt something in him roar, a proud primal thing boasting at your trustful submission.

His arm wound around your waist firmly, pulling you chest to chest, your gasp of surprise swallowed by his mouth, your hands catching on his arm and in his hair, making him groan at the sensation which sent an impulse straight into groin.

It made his pants too tight all of sudden; he had no doubt it did not escaped your attention.

Yet you did not protest, your breathing turning heavy, your heart hammering against his chest and under his palm laid on your neck. You seemed to force your grip on him to ease, grasping at remnants of sanity in the whirlwind of need – and so he followed your example and released your lips for a moment.

“My love, my sweetling…” he whispered, drunk on the assault of sensations, drunk on everything that made you you.

How sweet you were, so effortlessly, unconsciously alluring to all his senses. The scent of your skin, the taste of your lips, the tender heat of your touch as you mimicked all little acts of affection he had ever shown you, your lips, hesitant and shy, wandering to his neck or the hollow of his throat to treat him.

The most beautiful sight, eyes unknowingly blown with lust and wide with surprise at once as you felt his arousal he simply could not help, not with a temptress like you in his lap. Innocent but quickly learning from him, from others too no doubt – for you recovered from your shock, your trembling hands settling on his shoulder for support, grinding against him and by Lord, Lord, he wished to take you right there.

He had women in the tavern touch him before for money, he had eased the pressure in his loin thinking of how sweet your heat would be, but he would never – he could never. Not before he married you, not before he promised his love to you in front of the whole world.

Yet, the way your eyelids fluttered shut at the foreign feeling, your lips parting with a shaky exhale at the first taste of pleasure, had his hands travel up your waist, teasing the underside of your breasts. He craved to taste you there too, almost as much as he longed for the ambrosia awaiting him between your legs, a cure which would make all the pain above his collarbone disappear completely.

“Oh Steven-“ you whispered as your thighs trembled when his hips buckled up, his name on your lips like an oil to the fire and a gush of wind strong enough to put the fire out at once.

He could feel the pressure in him building, his hands twitching to untie your bodice, ruck up your skirts and pull his pants down to remove all barriers between you, just him, you and absolute bliss--- but he could not, fuck, he must not do that to you.

He seized your mouth with his to swallow your sigh of pleasure; a desperate claim with a smidge of teeth for he felt his control slipping and he needed to take reigns of his desires at once, before he’d do things that could grant him instant gratification but would make for regrets later on.

He grabbed your hips, forcing his own to cease the instinctive motions, preventing your own as well.

A small pitiful sound which almost broke his resolve for it had his blood boiling escaped your kiss-swollen lips, leading him to stray from your mouth to your neck, heavy breaths expanding his chest as much as they did yours, every inhale of yours causing your breasts to brush against his naked chest.

You shall not give into temptation, you shall not give into temptation—

“Lord--- my sweet, my sweetling, how you tempt me,” he panted into your skin, unable to resist a small taste of it, one last time, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

“I must not dishonour you in such way, but…” He dared to look up to your flushed face, instantly regretting it for the acute need in his groin grew tenfold at the sight of your own desire written all over your features. “Lord knows it is the most difficult and yet the sweetest trial I have ever faced. You are beautiful, so beautiful…”

He ran his fingers over your cheek, over the slightly irritated skin where his beard scratched when his lips had sought to drink from yours, the corners of your lips now lifted in a shy smile.

“As you are handsome… how hard it is not to give in to a sin. I have never known until I met you, Steven,” you admitted, somehow appearing abashed and pleased at once.

His beautiful kind bashful minx of a woman. How could he not fall in love with you?

“I feel the same, my sweet. I love you. I thank the Lord for you every day.”

Your eyes shone with affection as you cupped his face and planted a soft kiss on his forehead.

“I thank the gods and the Lord for you and your love every day as well. I love you. You must be more careful, Steven,” you whispered, gaze flickering to the wound you had not finished cleaning, worry clouding your features.

Oh should you always react in such way, curing him with loving kisses and the same passion you had shown him a moment ago, Steven thought that he should be, as matter of fact, much more careless.

But he could not tell you that – and he would not. He would soon put a plan in motion to spend the rest of his life with you. What kind of a fool would he be should he not try his hardest to make that life as long as possible?

“I will, my sweet. I will.”

Momentarily soothed, you kissed his lips softly and returned to your original task.

Should he keep his promise, Steve needed to catch a shut-eye at last – and chase those sinful memories away.

An early morning awaited them, the last training and a battle to be won to earn his reward; to no longer think of you, but to be graced with your presence… and to be granted your hand in marriage as well.

To reach victory, however, every single man, every knight and soldier, had to be in their best shape, in their sharpest minds, for Hydra could be cunning and unpredictable.

Defeat was not an option for Steve; he had too much to fight for.

For his king.

For his kingdom and the people.

For you.

Oh you.

How you would cry upon learning how desperately outnumbered the Starkerbürg army was. How you would weep, precious tears running down your face once you were to be informed of the victory coming with too high of a price.

Your tears would make for an ocean when you would see only a handful of men coming back, Natasha’s beloved a picture of blood and grief as he had witnessed Steve being one of the first men to get hit.

You would have drowned in your own tears if you only knew Steven’s last thoughts belonged to no one but you. The last thing he had seen looking up into the morning sun as he lied on his back, body too heavy to rise once more and fight, was your loving smile.

Steve could not bear to see you crying; so he was grateful for leaving this world with your smile in his thoughts instead.

Do not weep for me, my beautiful Marian, when the tower bell rings to honour soldiers, proud My heart is silent, but in you there shall remain all the words that flare up like fire.

The storm did not return the following night – yet the uneasiness in your heart found you in Natasha’s chambers again, frantically working on your embroidery for busy hands were meant to settle an unsettled mind.

You retreated back to your simple bed earlier than the previous night however, your body feeling the consequences of missing sleep the night prior, exhaustion wearing you down and sweeping you to dreamland as soon as your head touched the sheets.

Yet, you were woken up with the first chirps of birds, the castle still wrapped in dark shadows – but lively with a haste that could only mean one and one thing only.

The troops were coming back.

You threw away your flimsy cover, searching for your shawl in a haste, your heart threatening to jump out of your chest with anticipation.

They were back. Steven was back!

Wasn’t it too early for them to return? Had something gone wrong? Was he injured during the battle? Had he lost a dear friend?

You caught Wanda’s sleepy eye as you stumbled out of the room, noticing Carol’s bed already empty – she always had been a light sleeper so the commotion in the castle must have intrude her rest before it did yours.

The corridors were brimming with servants and guards, all taking haste to gather in the courtyard by the gate, heavy footsteps and the rattle of armour ominous as you were still wiping sleep from your eyes and hurried along.

Gods please, I am begging you, Lord – let him be alright. It is but all I ask. Perhaps a cut for me to clean with care and love, a bruise for me to kiss tenderly--- grant me the sight of him, standing tall and healthy, smiling with relief to be home.

Breath had nearly left you by the last stairs, every beat of your heart almost painful against your ribcage, but you cared little for it, willing your feet to hurry still.

They had returned! Only a few more steps and you would be able to see them, dealing with neglecting the princess later on after your soul would meet its other half, chasing all worries away and wrapping you in his love instead. A few more steps only, to find peace-

You gasped as you found yourself in the courtyard at last, your soul nearly leaving your body in fright at the sight of several men looking a miserable excuse for knights – clothing torn, bloodied, articles of armour missing, two horses barely limping by their side.

Prince Anthony in the centre, supported by Sir Barnes and Sir Barton. Sir Drax leading the horses. Your eyes skimmed over what you believed was Mr. Thorn, Mr. Vaughn and Mr. Richards and a few men you did not recognize for their beaten faces or for having never met them before.

Cold seeped into your bones upon seeing that there were not more than thirty – and they appeared to carry themselves with the last remnants of strength, attempting to support one another.

There was no doubting whether there were others on their tail – they were not.

A pained cry erupted from your throat at the sharp pain piercing your chest, hand grasping at your sternum as to sooth it as the realization dawned to you.

No more men were coming. The pitiful remnants of an army stood before you by their prince, their future king, whom they protected with their lives--- and many loyal soldiers and knights were left behind, having kept their promise and laying their lives in the name of the king.

Steven was one of them.

Another sob escaped your lips as you rubbed at your breastbone, scratching that terrible itch that seemed to be spreading through your veins, burning and so devastatingly cold against the tears springing from your eyes, rolling down your cheeks.

Your lungs ached as you took a hungry gasp for air, violent tremble seizing your body, your head shaking of its own volition, stubbornly rejecting the plain facts laid in front of you. You understood – you understood in an instant, but your mind, and more so, your heart refused to acknowledge the gut-wrenching truth.

He was gone.

How could he---how could he be gone? He had promised! He had promised to come back and to be careful and to love you and to ask your hand in marriage for he cared not for who you were and who was him, only who you were together, he-

Steven was an epitome of strength and bravery and loyalty and trust and all the virtues known to man. How could he… how could he simply cease to exist? That must have been gods’ mistake for certain, for it made not an ounce of sense.

Steve was a knight, a fierce warrior, protective of his own as his comrades were supposed to be and yet they were standing there and he was not--- how could that be?

Surely this must have been but a nightmare. A nightmare your tired, fear-clouded mind had invented to make for an encounter all the sweeter, sweeter than Steven’s lips… sweeter than his promises.

Then why were you still dreaming? How had the terrible ache not tugged at your hand and pushed you back to reality?

Was your fear truly so paralyzing it had trapped you in your nightmare?

A flash of red hair caught your eye, Natasha’s hasty embrace nearly causing Sir Barnes topple over and the truth of the terrible scene in front of you twisted the knife in your chest.

There was no denying anymore; there was no waking up from this.

This was the price you paid for war: love. Your love was no more.

“What is it like?” you whispered shyly, teeth worrying over your lips as you wondered whether you had the right to ask.

You toyed with the soft ends his hair, a little too long perhaps, but only adding to the air of a nobleman he might be not, but certainly resembled. Steve was simply too handsome of a man to be a commoner, you would think people believed; and despite his heart of gold, his gentle hands brushing over your cheek as you laid on the grass only a few moments from the castle’s gate, you had to agree.

His beauty rivalled the sun itself; and his love bested the one of the sun as well.

“How-- I mean… on the battlefield. What is it like to fight?”

He tilted his head to side, frowning at you as he appeared to contemplate your inquiry – perhaps an inappropriate one. Yet you could not seem to help it for you wanted to know him more, you wanted to know everything… you wanted to be close to your love even at times when you were not for he had rushed to defend the crown and the kingdom.

“I apologize, I-“ you hurried, only to be interrupted with a shake of his head, sending his golden locks flying adorably.

“It is… loud. Chaotic. Cruel sometimes,” he tried to explain, cerulean eyes filling with an absent look, pulling him away from your happy moment.

And yet, his embrace was as tender as ever as you laid your heavy head on his chest.

His fingers slipped under your chin, insistent to see you instead of the horror which was no doubt etched in his mind. You were certain a single look at the terror would haunt you – left you terrified for your every breath. How could Steven simply lie here with you, heart on his sleeve, kind and inviting?

“And do you not… do you get scared?”

It must have been written in your eyes. Or perhaps Steven was such talented observer, reading between the lines, reading in your deepest thoughts; for he saw a plea and not another question.

Your plea of please, say yes. Tell me that for all your bravery, you do feel fear. Tell me that for all your heroism, you are only a human made of flesh and blood and strength and weakness and dreams, as am I.

“Sometimes, yes,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile. He grasped your wrist in his long fingers tenderly, ran them over your palm and then fingers, only to bring them to his mouth, kissing every single fingertip. “But then I think of you.”

“You do?” you queried, doubtful and confused.

“Yes. And it gives me strength. I think of you, my sweet,” he whispered sincerely, “and my father and the kids playing pebble toss and five stones and… I recall in the midst of chaos what is it we fight for.”

Touched, you strained your neck to steal a kiss from the lips spilling the tender words, words speaking of Steven’s good heart; words helping you remember just how good of a man your Steven was.

And how your heart, whenever in his orbit, belonged to him more than to yourself.

He pecked your lips, smiling wider then, honest, and dropped a kiss on your nose.

“And I am not alone. Tony, Bucky, Clint, Drax, even Peter or Scott and others. They might all be dollop heads…” You failed to stiff a giggle at his choice of words, knowing he was not mistaken. “But they are skilled fighters. I shall not trust them with saving me lunch, but I trust them with my life.”

Skilled fighters they were, such you had had the chance to witness before. It stood to reason to believe Steven then. The knights could protect each other, having each other’s back, fighting all for one and one for all.

And so as difficult as it seemed whenever Steven had gone, you knew he trusted his friends – and you shall try to do the same.

The words Steven had spoken to you that day echoed in your head, bouncing around like little goblins, mocking you for your and Steve’s naivety.

I trust them with my life.

How foolish a man of his wits could be? How could you have allowed his empty promises to lull you into peace of heart?

I trust them with my life.

There was no denying Steven put his faith in those who were not worthy of it.

And for his foolery he had paid the highest of prices. His life. Your love.

Through the mist of your tears, you noticed the valets letting flags down the balconies; already signalling kingdom’s grief for the fallen men. Black as night and yet not black enough to capture the true nature of sorrow.

You blinked away the salty droplets burning in your eyes as people passed you, leading the survivors to the doctor’s chambers. Cries could be heard from several houses as the news spread like wildfire, burning everything in its wake, leaving unhealable scars.

Sobs shook you, but no one acknowledged you; each of you were overtaken by your own sorrow.

Sorrow was a lonely work after all, for everyone was destined to mourn in different manner, grieving different things… and different people. Sons, brothers, fathers. Husbands and lovers.

Lovers.

Your love. Your Steven.

A caress of a wind carrying his name ruffled your hair.

The night had just barely begun tuning into a day, the lower castle wrapped in shadows and darkness when the commotion disturbed your sleep and but upon learning the appalling reports of the army’s pitiful victory, the night seemed to cling to its reign.

Yet now, the wind made to disperse the heavy clouds which had surrounded the castle in sympathy. Sharp cold light of the sun broke through, a dawn of a new day; a beginning of an end. You let the violent intrusion of light fall on your face, eyes fluttering against the assault.

So bright… too bright in comparison to what your world had become.

Perhaps this was your punishment for praying to Lord and the old gods still at once; perhaps you displeased one or the other by not worshipping them and them alone.

Or perhaps the power of all of them together was not enough to protect your beloved Steve; perhaps the gods were just as powerless and helpless as any mere mortal like you.

Who even knew if there were gods and how mighty they were; what you did know with certainty was that they were not enough to protect Steve in life.

And so you fell to your knees, with no regard of getting in the way, clasped your hands together and prayed for Steve’s soul in death.

May the Gods protect him from ghouls and evil spirits. May the Lord grant him entry to the gardens of Eden, for his soul deserved peace and eternal love.

One day… one day you would hope to join him in afterlife; until then, you shall stay in the purgatory of living in the senseless world without him.

In the world where pointless wars slaughtered the mattes of love and tore soulmates apart.

With the last shot fired, the once lively meadow burst into quiet tears and embraced the bodies of the fallen and the winners – whom there are none for a war is not won when lives are the price to pay. And all the beautiful Marians, who received the report of our death just as night melted into day, lifted their inquiring gaze to the skies and in that moment, the sun rose.

Despite the truth settling in, despite every passing day screaming the loss the whole kingdom had suffered, your life, suddenly dull, resembled the strangest of fever dreams.

Your mind received the message of reality clearly and undeniably; yet there remained an immense rift between the thought and your heart. In your heart, you could not yet accept that Steven was no more; where your thoughts kept humming with grief, your heart awaited Steven’s return, welcoming smile and pretty words to wrap you in affection.

It was simply such an ungraspable idea, a world without him. Incomprehensible. Impossible.

And yet your mind accepted it, perhaps for Steven loving once seemed just as imaginable.

But before your heart could be ripped apart by harsh facts, you tucked them into an imaginary drawer in your head along with your grief to hide it from sight – for a mere glimpse of it hurt too much.

You busied your hands during your days and attempted to engage your mind as well; yet every night, images of horror awaited you, haunting.

Steven’s motionless body swimming in a sea of blood, vultures circling above him to swoop down in order to feed on his flesh. The tattoo of a wolf adorning his torso coming to life, climbing out of his skin only to tear away a limb to present it proudly to the pack and begin a feast with a growl.

You were waking up with tears drenching your face, screams on your lips which you profusely apologized for to your friends in the morning, earning their forgiveness and endless pity.

Steve’s absence was ever-present; while no longer amongst the living, you saw him everywhere.

You had always thought his eyes were the colour of the sky; yet these days, the skies were the colour of his eyes. The golden threads Natasha laced Princess Maria’s wedding gown with were the colour of his hair when the sun shone bright and painted a halo around his handsome face.

The apples you brought to the princess for breakfast were the colour of Steven’s kiss-swollen lips. You took a bite of the ones you carried back, untouched, but it did not taste nearly as sweet, prompting you to burst into inconsolable sobs, infecting the cooks who had lost their loved ones as well with your tears. You longed for Steven’s lips to kiss your tears away, for his tickly beard to sooth their burn on your skin.

Your only fortune, should you choose to find joy in the smallest of things, was sudden haste to marry king Howard’s children for the kingdom needed swiftly strengthen its alliances; prince Anthony was to marry princess Virginia of Pottenberg, whereas princess Maria was to be wed to prince Steven of Strangerlands.

The preparations for a royal wedding which was to take place in the castle, along with packing and readying the princess for her journey, left only little space for your grief to overwhelm you.

And since you were one of the princess’ maids, you were to prepare yourself for a journey as well.

While you might have not possessed much, there were items you laid into your pitiful excuse of a luggage with great care; you set the hand-made embroidery for a wedding dress you shall never wear, for you no longer had your groom, on the very top of your bag. You ran your fingers lovingly over the pattern of meadow flowers you had chosen to for it reminded you of your first interaction with your beloved and swallowed your tears.

Foreign lands with foreign customs would have scared you only a few days ago, yet now they were a promise of easing your pain. In the walls of the new castle, you would see the ghost of your Steven less frequently for he had never walked its halls.

Leaving, as intimidating as it might seem, would bring you relief.

The loud crash of the chamber’s door against a wall startled you, having you swiftly cover your embroidery with the nearest cloth, your head snapping to the source of the noise.

Met with the flushed face of your closest friend, you blinked in surprise at her wide-eyed gaze, swiftly drying your cheeks with the back of your hand.

“Why would you make such noise, Wanda? What is the matter?” you asked silently, clearing your throat when the swallowed tears made your voice hoarse.

“The--- the- I,” she panted, clutching at her chest as she tried to catch her breath, shaking her head wildly, causing you to feel worry instead of sorrow for the first time in days. “You are needed outside right away!”

To say such order struck you as odd would be a gross understatement.

As it was, you could not imagine a single thing you could do for the princess outside for you were certain she was having tea with her father and her brother before they would be forced to part. And if any help was needed at a request of anyone else, then surely your presence specifically was not a necessity? Wanda herself had just run up all the flights of stairs – she could have done the work in your place, could she not?

Why would she come for you instead? You possessed no special skills to make you any more desirable than Wanda – on anyone, truly.

“Me? Now? What for?”

In lieu of an answer, your friend simply gestured with her hands vaguely, the movement incomprehensible for you.

“Just take haste, for Gods’ sake!” she cried out exasperatedly, the smallest of smiles passing her lips at your gaze widening as well.

Wanda even more than yourself, was raised within the old religion – to call upon the gods felt not in character for her for she knew better.

You willed your feet to move despite how heavy they seemed for the past few days; haste would then be too strong of a word and yet, you tried.

The corridors were lined with royal colours of red and gold, the servants tasked with decoration for the royal visit and upcoming wedding dutiful as always. The preparations and anticipation had made the castle buzzing at last despite the tragedy striking barely a week ago – yet, now it seemed fresh excitement hovered in the air.

Had the party on the behalf of Pottenberg arrived without your notice? You had been so lost in your own thoughts lately it would not be too surprising should you be honest with yourself.

If that was true, you certainly did have to take haste.

Running your hands through your hair, quickly pulling it into an improvised half-braid, you hoped to look presentable enough not to be ejected by the royals. You attempted to straightened your skirt a bit as you descended the stairs, quickening your steps.

Taking a deep breath to stand tall despite feeling yourself anything but small, you stepped outside with your head held high so you could lower it in a curtsy when the situation asked for such display of submission and servitude.

Confusion had your head spin slightly instead as no horses, no carriages and no gleam of luxury which came with royalty appeared in sight.

Instead, you were met with a crowd of servants and townsmen, surrounding a group of people who looked as if they crawled out of hell itself. Dirty, bruised and bloodied, too pale to appear anything but sick and yet, tired smiles seemed to adorn---

Your heart gave out, a painful skip of a beat that made you truly dizzy.

You recognized them.

Your eyes searched every face frantically, some of them swelled with brutal bruises beyond recognition, yet you were certain these were Sir Lang and Sir Quill, then Ethan from the stables-

Oh gods.

Your palm was over your mouth, muffling the sob before you realized it erupted from your throat.

He was a horrifying sight; smudges of dirt he had clearly attempted to clean, hair on his left side stuck in a dark lump due to dried blood, as was part of his entirely unkept beard, the thick crimson seeping into once white under armour shirt where the blood trickled down his neck and shoulder.

Exhausted red-rimmed eyes, limp posture with his arm hazardously fastened to his chest by torn fabric, several shallow cuts peppering his arms, dirt cloaking the remnants of his trousers and shirt where the terrifying amount of blood – his or his enemies’ – hadn’t already stained it. Normally standing tall, his figure sagged at the moment, shoulders slumped as he barely remained on his feet.

And yet, by lord, by gods, he was the most beautiful you had ever seen him, his injured arm clinging to his chest which was rising and falling with only slight irregularity of his breaths.

He was still breathing, his heart was still beating – and yours thundered in your ribcage painfully as you choked on air and sobs.

Steven looked marvellous in his misery, because despite the weariness in features, his eyes lit up upon seeing you, his lips curling up regardless of the split--- he lived, he lived, he lived.

Your feet, having taken roots in the ground, moved of their own accord at last, carrying you to him swiftly as the soldiers hopped away, clearing your path with weary attempt at a smile. Your hands tore away from your chest and your face as you came to a halt in front of your beloved, eager to touch, aimlessly searching for a place to feel him without causing him pain.

Solving your dilemma for you, Steve was kind enough to reach out with his uninjured hand, cradling your wet cheek gently. You minded not the tremble in his fingers, covering his hand with yours, eyes fluttering shut to fully revel in the sensation you had believed you would never experience again; a sensation you had only had the fortune to savour in your dreams.

The sudden surge of panic had your eyes snap open, afraid you were still in the dreamland.

But you did not have to fear; Steve’s warm eyes observed you with endless affection still, melting into your touch as your hand found its way to his own cheek. His lips brushed your palm lovingly before he gently pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours with a breathy hiss of pain.

It was the display of agony he must have been in with every breath and the smallest of movements which finally untied your tongue, a waterfall of words falling from your lips.

“Steve---Steven, Steve, my love, what—how-“

Your fingers slipped to his nape, his pulse racing under your palm, the most precious thing you ever felt, only causing him to lean closer, nose brushing yours in a tender act of affection bringing fresh tears to your eyes.

Thump-thump-thump went his heart, a chant of love and life.

He was alive. Your beloved was alive.

“Druids. Luck. Divine intervention. I do not know, but it matters not. I am here,” he whispered, voice no less firm than within a battle cry.

I am here.

A promise. A declaration of love.

You found yourself yet again at loss for words, another sob escaping you instead. There were no words you were familiar with to do justice to your joy at this reunion. After countless of days, endless days of grief, he was standing there, holding your face in his hand and your whole heart as well.

Steve was alive.

“I made you a promise,” he continued in husky voice, “I told you I’d call upon your hand. It was all I could think of in the face of… of what I thought was the end.”

You squeezed his hand as to stop him, for it mattered not, not at this very moment, not ever, you would give him anything, everything, regardless of whether you were courting, married, or sneaking around and being the subjects of slander at the lower castle and the court alike.

As long as you should keep him, as long as he kept breathing, it mattered not if you could chant his name as you were now; falling from your lips like a prayer to whatever ancient force that brought him back to you.

And yet, you should have known better. Your Steven was a force of nature himself, stubborn and determined and proper. Time waited for no man and Steve could no longer wait for when fate would try to separate you again. He had to act in this very moment.

“Will you marry me, my sweet?”

You laughed, the joyful sound absurd in the circumstance; but your heart could burst as the reality of Steve holding you and asking you to marry him sank in at last, feeling as if the sun itself settled in your chest.

What choice did you have? What else could you possibly say when the gods were so merciful to give you a chance at bliss of spending your life side by side with a man you loved?

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

Cheers erupted around you, words of how sappy your future husband was, yet you could not care less, whatever the meaning the word possessed.

You had your Steven back; you had your heart sown together at once, waterfalls of grief turning into tears of undiluted happiness. Long path lied in front of you and it was not to be an easy one; Steven proposed, yes – in shaggy clothes, bloodied and dirty and with no ring to give you.

His proposal was far from flawless indeed; however, it was a promise. Not a promise of perfection, but a promise nevertheless. A promise of a beautiful life, for it would be with him.

And as you had learned upon daring to doubt him… your knight would always keep his promises to you. For that, he was a man far more noble than those who were born with nobility in their blood.

And he was yours. Always and to the end of the days – yours.

As much as you always would be his.

Do not weep for me, my beautiful Marian, when the tower bell rings to honour soldiers, proud, My heart is silent, but in you there shall remain all the words that flare up like fire.

S.R. masterlist

Sequel - In the Name of All That’s Holy

Thank you for reading 💗 Feedback to this 13k beast is appreciated!

As you can see/hear, the song does NOT have a happy ending, but I just couldn’t… 😭 I couldn’t break her heart like that (AND MINE). Also, I was sent a cute knife along with a message as not to hurt knight Steve (yes, my beloved, I’m looking at YOU) 🤭

If you felt a bit of himbo energy from the knights in the beginning, know that Merlin is to blame. As he is for “dollop heads”.

(I never found whether the choice of a name ‘Marion’ has any particular meaning. I’ve always imagined her as a loyal woman in love, waiting for her kingdom’s hero to come home – I translated as Marian, for the resemblance with Lady/Maid Marian tied to Robin Hood legends. Up to interpretation.)

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #captain america x reader #steve rogers #captain america #knight steve rogers #captan america x you #medieval au #fantasy au #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst #in the name of the king #anika ann

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dilfmansion · 8 months

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medieval fantasy au with monster hunter!Steve and werewolf!Bucky that I desperately want to write and pop on ao3

the two of them used to hunt together, before Bucky turned. they were some of the most well-known mercenaries in the country, at least before the accident.

Bucky was swarmed by a pack of werewolves during an ambush and, when the blood cleared from his eyes and he was alone, Steve accepted his death reluctantly. it was a hazard of their job, one he had learned early on he had to be okay with.

it’s not until years later, when Steve is hired to eradicate a werewolf tormenting a small town that he sees Bucky again, even though neither recognizes the other at first.

it’s during a full moon that Steve makes his attack; wolves become frantic when the light hangs heavy in the sky. they make mistakes.

Steve had fought his fair share of werewolves before, during, and after working with Bucky, but nothing like this. the creature was massive, saliva dripping in threads from bloody fangs and white fur streaked with viscera and grime. it was feral. there was no humanity behind its yellow canine eyes, even the last vestiges that the wolves he had seen before had.

he doesn’t even recognize the wolf as Bucky until he manages to wound it. his sword blade through the meat if it’s shoulder. the creature screams, not even a howl, and for just a moment, the shock of digging pain brings the animal out of its trance and Steve sees it. sees him. just a glimpse, barely a difference, but it’s face falls into something more human, more his friend.

as the moon begins to set the werewolf uses Steve’s distraction to escape, eyes flashing back to sick yellow as it moves once again into the thick darkness of the woods, only a trial of blood and a stunned Steve left behind.

thoughts?? ideas?? I’m thirsty for werewolf content and I miss stucky LMAO lmk what you think!! I’ll update on here when I do get around to writing/posting anything to ao3, I’m bearwrites over there :)

#stucky #steve x bucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #marvel #captain america #winter soldier #medieval #werewolf #monster #monsters #fanfic #stucky fic #to write

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trans-cuchulainn · 10 months

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i do think it's kind of funny that ao3 seems to have made a blanket change to all the "mythology" tags to make them "religion and lore" (not a good change) EXCEPT the "arthurian mythology" tag, which remains intact despite a Number of people trying to get that one reworked or at least different wrangled for ages. they're like "we're taking mythology away from all the contexts where it might be applicable. and leaving it in the context where it's dubious. this is a sensible change"

#Choices Were Made #genuinely very funny that they left that one specifically #extremely annoying that they changed the others #especially the (dubiously correct) use of irish and welsh #when the Norse tag etc does not use any language except english #so it feels weirdly othering #especially because the exact translation of the irish doesn't match the english #like béaloideas is not simply 'lore'. it is far more specific than that.#so it doesn't feel like a carefully thought through change #not to mention “ancient” which. crucially. they have not used for the norse tag #so it's only the irish and welsh material that's ancient huh?? those are not living traditiona to you huh???#it's arbitrary inaccurate and problematic #also can they stop making the Ulster Cycle tag redirect into the general tag please !!!#that's like making captain america redirect into the general mcu tag... it's a venn diagram not a circle...#i want to be able to look for other ulster cycle fics and not scroll through twenty pages of 'assorted fandom plus fairies'#which is what dominates the irish mythology as-was tag and why i never found it browseable #but the new one is like. no actually i am not writing fic of 'ancient irish religion and lore'#that's not at all what I'm writing about #i am writing about medieval irish literature #'irish mythology' was never my favourite tag but god it was better than this

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gloromeien · 1 month

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Happy Irish Day! Erin go brah!

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America (Movies) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson (Marvel), Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Darcy Lewis, Sarah Rogers (Marvel), Rebecca Barnes Proctor, Bruce Banner, Luke Cage, Jessica Jones (Marvel), Claire Temple, Stephen Strange, Jarvis (Iron Man movies), Gabe Jones, James Montgomery Falsworth, Peggy Carter, Alexander Pierce, Brock Rumlow, Peter Parker, Maria Hill, Brunnhilde | Valkyrie (Marvel), Phil Coulson, Original Child Characters - Character Additional Tags: Stucky - Freeform, Married Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Feels, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Slow Burn, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Original Character(s), Original Child Characters, Kid Fic, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Protective Steve Rogers, Alternate Universe - Medieval, ish, House System, Queendoms, Call it feminist medieval, Think What If CA:TWS happened but with feuding queendoms, Slight Romeo + Juliet ripoff but without the tragic ending, Two Houses both alike in dignity, Star-crossed lovers but arranged marriage style, I don't really know how to classify it, let me know if i miss something Summary:

Two Houses, both alike in dignity In fair Venora, where we lay our scene

Not a typo. ;) Three years after a brutal, bloody war that saw their formerly friendly queendoms at odds for the first time in history, Prince Steven Rogers of House Grant seeks to solidify the peace between Lehigh and Venora through an alliance--marriage with Prince James Barnes of House Buchanan, his childhood friend turned unexpected enemy. But after years as the Fist of Hydra and a long recovery from brainwashing and torture, Bucky isn't in a place to marry anyone, let alone someone he doesn't even remember. Stubborn to the core, afflicted by tragic losses, and still half in love with someone who might only be a memory, Steve and his family journey to Lynbrooke, the capital of Venora, to attempt to end the tension between their queendoms, and perhaps heal his wounded heart.

#stucky #steve x bucky #stevebucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #captain america #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #medieval au #two houses both alike in dignity #arranged marriage

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qft · 2 years

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From Avengers Forever #7

A bunch of Steve Rogers. Including a dog and CapWolf.

Because I’m sad I didn’t know the week it came out (but have ordered it now).

#steve rogers #captain america #multiverse #avengers forever #capwolf #knight steve rogers #gorilla steve rogers #chunky steve rogers #wolverine steve rogers #skinny steve rogers #dog steve rogers #steven grant rogers #medieval steve rogers

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redeyeflyguy · 10 months

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Wonderful Things That May or May Not Be Wonderful!!! As a Viking missing an arm and a leg may have said "When given a choice between the sword and the shield, always pick the shield." Sure, swords are cool. No doubt about that but they’re bladed metal on short sticks which means (despite what years and years of pop culture has led us to believe), they're kind of unwieldy if you're not trained to use them. Not to mention, swords aren't as effective when guns and explosives exist. Shields on the other hand, while heavy, are pretty simple to use. You hold in front of the oncoming attack and it protects you from the attack. Simple right! While they aren't as prominent as they were in Ancient Greece or the Middle Ages, they are still used in combat (ever hear of a riot shield). And don't get to thinking they aren't good on the offensive. Have you ever been hit by a heavy slab of wood, metal, or plexiglass? Probably not because if you were you'd probably still be in the hospital by now or maybe you don't remember because you have amnesia from the head trauma. Plus, don't even get me started on what happens when Captain America throws HIS mighty shield! In short, shields may not have the popularity of swords, the range of guns, or the panache of explosions but they will keep you safe on the battlefield. That not only makes them badass but also wonderful.

#wonderful #shields #weapons #defense #protection #riot shield #captain america #sparta #the legend of zelda #medieval times #combat #heavy #safe #slab #how to train your dragon #gobber the belch #ancient warfare

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elbiotipo · 1 year

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You see, the thing is that first worlders (and wealthy people in general, this is an increasing trend) have never had to think where their food comes from. Their all-(US)American cup of black joe comes from coffee beans harvested in South America, from a plant originally domesticated in the Arabian Peninsula. From the way most fantasy is with potatoes, you would think they come from say, Germany, and not the Andes (and I'm sure some people believe that). People in the first world have unprecedented access to food (and other items) from all over the world, including items that were luxuries to most people not long ago, and they don't really think that much of it.

Of course my space captain drinks coffee, I do! How hard would it to get coffee in space (really hard), I drink it all the time! Of course my fantasy wizard eats a stew with potatoes and tomatoes (domesticated in the American continent) and seasons it with pepper (an item so incredibly valuable in medieval europe it was worth its weight on literal gold), I do, I mean, you get potatoes and pepper from like, the store, right?

I'm not saying you have to include a cited ethnobotanical paper on the history of food in your world detailing domestication centers, varieties and social effects (I'm actually 100% saying that), but the mere act of researching where your food comes from, not only now but its history, will make you not only a better writer but also increase your concioussness about the world. You will learn history, ecology, botany, zoology, culture, social issues, perhaps even a few recipes. And hey, maybe instead of making another Standard European Fantasy World, you might set your next novel in some other place with more spice, or maybe include a Turkish or Persian space captain interested in the history and culture of tea, something that isn't your Standard USAmerican Space Crew.

try it.

#cosas mias #worldbuilding

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leehanji · 1 year

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Bucky’s face turned towards him and when he opened his eyes Steve swore he saw starlight glittering in their blue depths. He smiled back, lost in the way the moonlight made Bucky’s skin glow. Bucky’s hand found his on the cool stone railing and his warmth sent shivers down Steve’s spine. “Steve,” he breathed, sliding his thumb across the back of Steve’s hand. “I—“

...Coming soon to an AO3 near you.

Patreon || NSFW

#stucky #steve x bucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #medieval AU #captain america #winter soldier #my art #marvel #mcu #leehanji

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

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Crown of Thorns I

Warnings: this fic will noncon/rape, abuse of power, violence, injury, blood, mentions of hunting, tags will be added throughout. My tags are not exhaustive, proceed at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your reclusive existence is interrupted by an unexpected company of men. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, possible secondary pairings.

Note: I’m hoping this will be like weekly installments and I’m gonna be working on Hopelessly Devoted and hopefully the final part of my Tony/Peter Medieval AU in the upcoming week.<3

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Prince Charming loves mirrors. Take care. 💖

The doors quake with the sudden thunk of metal on wood. You rise from your weaving, startled by the unusual racket. The banging continues, voices hollering.

"In the name of the king, open the door," a deep voice booms as you near.

It's not the first time soldiers happen upon your little hideaway. The last time, they plundered your hen house but let you be. You lift the lever and ease the door open.

"Get him in," the door's shoved into you before you can react to the men on the other side.

You're nearly crushed as they barge in, four men carrying another on a board, a fifth at their rear, familiar. They lay the wounded man on the plank before the fire as chaos erupts in your quiet hovel.

"Bartholomew? You brought these men here?"

"I hadn't any choice," he answers, "they need help–"

"Enough," one of the soldier nears and grabs your arm, "be upon your work."

"Bartholomew?" You say quizzically as you watch him over your shoulder, dragged away by the soldier.

"Do not worry for him, worry for your king," he swings you towards the bloodied body before your hearth.

"King?" You blink cluelessly.

"Tell us, fool," another man looks up from his knees, pressing a torn tunic to the shoulder of that who lays prone, "did you lead us into a bandits' lair?"

"N-no," Bartholomew bluster, "woman, please, you tended to my son when he fell from the tree, and Diana when her labour was premature."

"I must have time," you shrug away from the gauntlet on your arm, "I can do nothing for this man if I haven't anything to tend to him with."

"But you can tend to him?" The man who seized you prompts.

"I can try, but I am inexperienced in battle wounds."

"Do as you can and consider that as the king's life lays in your hands, so does the realm."

You clamp your lips shut. You are no healer, not truly. Your mother was more the sort and they banished her for her practices. You go to the unconscious body and kneel by him, looking over the broken links that reveal mangled flesh.

"Get his mail off," you stand and take the kettle from the table, hanging it over the fire, "you," you point to the blonde who previously growled at you of your duty to the crown, "there is a linen hung to the east of the house, bring it and shred it it to strips two fingers thick."

He winces at your orders but does not argue. He passes back through the door as Bartholomew wrings his hands. You send him a look, how dare you bring them here.

The single room of your modest abode is bustling with the intruders. Three work at carefully dismantling the layers of metal from the man's form. The king, they say he is.

You take your chest from beneath the shelf of pots and vials. You search out some dried herbs with your mortar and pestle, then gather some corked bottles from overhead.

At the table, you work at mixing the poultice, crushing it to a thick paste as the blonde returns and the noise of fabric being rent joins the mutter of voices and heavy breathing. You pick out your sharpest bone needle and weave through strand of horse hair. The thread is old and you fear it might snap if pulled to hard.

"Haven't you any medics?" You ask the soldier as he presents the strips of linen.

"It hardly matters now," he scowls.

You sigh and gather your tools, nearing the dark haired man by your hearth. The other men move aside and stand over you as you take account of the man's injuries.

"How did he take such wounds?" You ask as you rip his tunic to the hem.

Muscles stained with blood and gashed down the right side of the chest to his side, several smaller cuts along shoulder and down his arms as you reveal them.

"He was pulled off his horse and fell into a rabble. He may have been caught beneath some hooves," another man explains as the blond huffs with arms crossed behind you.

"I can tend to the flesh but any broken bones may not be so easily repaired," you feel his left shoulder, his arm limp.

"Do what you can," the blonde snarls.

"I need to set the arm, a stick, strong, straight," the kettles shakes noisily, "bring the water."

The man to your left rises and with his gauntlet to shield his hand, unhooks the vessel.

"Pour it into a basin," you order as you take a square of fabric.

Another man takes a large wooden bowl from a shelf and you dip the cloth, singing your fingers in the steaming water. You work at wiping away the excess blood. There is so much and the flesh is so pale it may be too late.

"You," you point to the young of the troop, "put pressure here," you gesture to the chest, "I can try to sew him up."

He pulls off his gloves and you stop him, "rinse them in the water."

He hesitates and grumbles as he dips his hands, no doubt scalding as he hisses. You hand him a strip to hold against the wound as you pack the poultice into the side of the king's torso and move up to the soldier's hands.

The room fades away, the figures barely more than shadows as you take the needle.

"Wilson, find a splint," the blond orders.

You barely hear the words as you poke through the skin, in and out, back and forth. You tie off the horse hair, the skin closed but weeping. You tend to the smaller cuts, left by the pinch of armour and trampling.

A soldier, Wilson, they called him, returns with a thick stick, almost a branch, and helps you place the king's thick arm and bind it tightly. Your hands are crimson as you tie the knots. You sit back and turn your hand to feel the king's forehead with your knuckles.

"He's feverish," you say, "I will need assistance. He must have some tea."

"Tea?" The blond nears as you rise, "make it in front of me."

"I need more water boiled," you say as you go to the shelf.

"What are you taking?" He follows as the youngest soldier takes the kettle and goes to the door.

"The well is to the rear of the house," you call over as you take a pot, "ginger." You present the first ingredient and the man shifts as you hand it to him, "why would I poison a man who I've already spent so much on? I do not live a bountiful existence."

"An existence granted you under his authority," he insists.

"Very well," you sort through your collection and pluck each and explain the contents. He is hardly amused by your careful explanation.

Again, you wait for the kettle to heat. The other men sit dully as the energy of the battle and their dire need wears away, but the blond remains close to observe you. You combine the herbs and spice into a dark tea and steep it under his watch.

"You claim that man is the king, James of Brookstone, yes?"

"Who else?" He rebuffs.

"And you?"

His blue eyes flare, "Steven Rogers, Duke of Ameril."

"A duke? And the rest of them?"

He's silent, staring.

"You needn't worry, I would hardly know their titles or the bearing of such should you name them. Your own is mystifying to me and I know only of the king from the minstrels and the ashes left of villages nearby."

He tilts his head as you fill a cup, "the man on the stool is Samuel Wilson, an earl, as the younger, Peter Parker. Our forth is a mercenary called Rumlow."

"You must prop him up so he does not choke," you do not acknowledge the revelation as it is hardly that to you. Merely a way to place each strange face.

He comes with you and lifts the king as you warn him to be gentle. He holds James' chin as you carefully pour the tea through his lips and massage his throat. His body swallows instinctively though he coughs a few times and you slow to let it pass. Steve lays him down again and remains at his side as you rise.

"Apologies that I have no more than a floor to offer you royal knights," you say and Steve clicks his tongue.

"We have slept in worse," he assures.

You turn to Bartholomew as he cowers by the door still, dazed as his gaze falls to your bloodied tunic, belted over a patched skirt.

"Aye, you should go home," you coax him, "your family will worry."

"I didn't know what else to do," he whispers.

"Go, I cannot say the king will survive," you keep your voice low, "you will not want to be near if he does not."

"And you?"

You shrug, "so it will be."

He heaves and frown, "I am so very sorry, lady."

"Go," you flick him away with your fingers, "it is much crowded as it is."

He gives a sullen nod and turns, angling through the half-open door and letting it clatter behind him. You shake your head and turn back, gathering up the mess left from your urgent work.

You rinse your hands in the water before dumping it in the grass and come back to the men reclining around their king. All but Steven who watches him fervently.

👑

The soldiers sleep on the floor as you huddle in the corner on the pad packed with straw. You're rarely around people, let alone strange men. Soldiers at that, dangerous.

Their snores keep you alert, even as you doze off. Shallow slumber that leaves you stiff and stunted.

You wake before the rest and boil oats with nutmeg and cinnamon. The aroma from your pit burning outside draws them out, all but Steven who remains inside. You offer them wooden bowls and some milk from your goat.

"Thanks, lady," the youngest, Parker, beams as Rumlow scowls and grunts and Wilson gives a smile, mouth already full of porridge.

They sit on the ground and eat as you take the last bowl and enter through the open door of your hovel. Steven watches over the king, perhaps a companion given his constancy. You near, heartened to see some colour to James' complexion, though still ashen.

You hold out the bowl but he doesn't accept it right away. Finally he takes it and peers down at the grey oats.

"He hasn't stirred," his voice is crackly from the dryness of his throat.

"He might not for some time. There was so much blood and the wounds are deep. If he did, the pain would likely put him out again."

"Yet, the priests would bleed him or put leeches to him," he sniffs.

"I cannot speak on priests, lest they claim blasphemy. I've done what I can, pray it is enough."

He looks up at you. Bags droop under his eyes. You doubt he slept, only pretended to.

"It hasn't been a day, my lord, it will take time."

"But you believe he will awake?"

"I am not healer, I only know recipes," you shrug.

"Curse that fool who brought us to some woods witch."

You go rigid. That title rarely bodes well. You stare at him nervously.

"Will you have the stake readied?" you quaver.

He lowers his chin, "I speak drolly, but let us pray for our king's recovery."

You back away. You will not provoke the man further, as even kindness seems to goad him. You return to the other men as they empty their bowls.

"There will be scouts searching," Rumlow gristles, the first words he's spoken, "we should be on sentry for them."

"We might find a few rabbits as well," Parker offers, "for supper."

"Perhaps," Wilson squeezes his shoulder and stands. You take his bowl and collect the rest from the men.

"Be wary of the bears," you warn as you sit to break your own fast.

"I could use a pelt," Wilson scoffs.

You do not answer as they go back to claim their weapons and emerge again, ready for a hunt. You're thankful to see them go but dread their return already. You do not foresee a brief stay for the men, not with the king in such a state.

👑

The soldiers return with a bundle of rabbits and some squirrels. You promise them a stew should they skin the creatures. They speak of a stag they were unable to corner as they do and you go to look in on the king and his duke.

Steven lays on his shoulder, breath even as he's succumbed to his fatigue. You near as the king remains as he was, the rise and fall of his chest slightly more obvious. You will need to check the stitches but for now, you leave him under the wool blanket before the embers.

You emerge with a cauldron and go to pick some vegetables from the patch along the west of your home. Leeks, potatoes, and a few carrots. You use your small knife to peel and cut them into the pot.

Wilson helps with slicing up the rabbits and you add some seasoning and water. You hang it over the pit and feed it to lick at the heavy iron.

Rumlow sits dragging a whetstone along his blade, Parker tosses a knife at a tree, and Wilson wipes his hands before cleaning his nails with a twig. The days will be even longer for your unwelcome company.

👑

Two days pass as Steven keeps watch over the king. He lets you close to tend to the stitches but does not part for more than his bodily needs. The man is persistent and you can't help but admire his devotion.

That afternoon, as Steven departs to find a private place in the woods to relieve himself, and the others bathe in the river you directed them to, you take a basin of water to the king's side.

You uncover him from beneath the wool blanket, clothed in only his breeches. A layer of sweat wafts pungently from him as his hair is greasy and coiled around his head. You gently comb out the knots with your fingers, the angles of his jaw and high cheekbones lend him a noble air even as he lays weak.

His beard shines against the firelight, thick and slightly unkempt. You dip the cloth in the water as you sit on your knees and wipe clean his wounds. You check the splint on his arm before going back to dabbing gently at his face, tracing his hairline with the linen.

You're startled as suddenly a gleam of blue flashes with the flick of his lashes. Your eyes meet, his oceanic and deep, a sudden vice on your neck as his right hand meets your throat. You gasp and choke as he grips you tightly, squeezing until you can't breathe.

You can't get a word out as you drop the cloth. You don't know what to do, shocked that he can even move with the agony of his injury. Your fingers find the wound in his chest and you push down, enough to make him hiss and release you.

You fall back onto your rear and catch yourself on the heels of your hand as you gape at him. He groans and shakily touches his chest, dragging his hand heavily to his unmoving left arm.

"What've you done to me?" his tone creaks.

"N-nothing, I helped you," you rub your throat as it burns with the pressure of his grasp still.

"Where-- Who--" his confusion laces his weak timbre. He tries to sit up, only to collapse heavily and grunt.

"Lord Steven brought you."

"Rogers?" he drones as his head lolls, "where is he?"

"He went to... he'll be back shortly. I can go fetch him."

"Stay," he orders.

"Your majesty," you muster as you recall yourself.

He closes his eyes, "wine?"

"I have none."

"Ale, then."

"I have only milk and rainwater, your majesty."

He waves his fingers waveringly, a wordless ascent, whatever you have. You get up and grab the pitcher from the table, enough water remaining to fill a cup. You bring it to him as he struggles to sit up. He cannot.

"Allow me," you grab a blanket and bunch it up atop the cushion beneath his head, enough to keep him at an angle.

You take the cup and tilt it against his lips. He grimaces but lets you pour it into his mouth, gulping greedily until it's empty. You set it on the floor and retrieve the cloth and put it back in the basin. You lift it and carry it to the table.

"What were you doing to me?"

"Cleansing your wounds," you say.

He feels his face curiously. You chew the inside of your cheek.

"Trying to tidy you as best I could," you explain, "I thought it only decent."

His brows furrow and his eyes fall to the gash down his torso. He touches the end of it along his stomach. Then peeks at his arm.

"It is good I hold my sword with my right hand," he mutters.

"Your majesty," you linger by the table, "I should... see to my hens."

"As you will," he leans back and closes his eyes.

As you reach the door, another figure fills the frame. You haven't a moment to react before Steven shoves you from his path and barrels over to James.

"My king," he falls to one knee, "you've awoken."

"Is this not some nightmare?" the other man rebukes, "what is this place?"

"A hermit's hole," Steven answers, "I am gladdened to hear your voice, to see you well."

"Well? Is that what you'd call me?"

You leave them to their reunion. The king is alive and that gives you hope you too will survive this invasion. You sit by the dead pit and stare off into the trees. Perhaps you might have them out within the fortnight.

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anika-ann · 2 years

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In the Name of All That’s Holy

Type: medieval/fantasy AU, sequel to In the Name of the King

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader Word Count: 5200

Summary:

Finally having married your love, Knight Steven Rogers, you are ought to be happy – for he is the gentlest, kindest and most loving man… who happens to be very handsome as well.

And dutiful. So very dutiful and proud of his place at court that he might be neglecting his other duties, like the ones of a husband.

Warnings: 18+, SMUT, touch-starved horny and innocent-ish reader, breeding kink, slightly dom!Steve being a bit of a jerk, unprotected sex (who would have guessed in this AU), era-typical misogyny if you squint, a tiny bit of angst, religious ambiguity, fluff and himbo knights

Restlessness was a sensation you were no stranger to.

You remembered moments where your feet itched with need to tap on the floor incessantly, your hands clenching and unclenching, your heart racing despite sitting entirely still with no physical exertion at all; moments where your mind, on the other hand, seemed to rival the fastest horses of the kingdom.

Yet, this feeling appeared foreign.

You were certain you had a taste of it previously, almost always in relation to Steven – your Steven, long before he was yours.

No amount of fidgeting brought you relief; your body ran hot and yet you felt cold when outside of Steven’s arms, your husband’s arms, deep yearning within you, which made your tongue tied and sharp at once. Irritation spiked easily, blood rushing in your veins and holding you in a state of the strangest haze.

You must have been losing you mind.

You felt so unwell you were relieved of your duties for several days now; Queen Virginia, the amiable and kind sovereign and the noblewoman you now answered to, had been so gracious to note your state, your fever. You had known the goodness of her heart; you had already witnessed it when she had first arrived and allowed you to stay for some of her own maids remained in her old kingdom for their ties to their husbands and their families.

Yet, she turned out to be even kinder in her actions now.

After you assisted to their wedding and celebrated your own, served with honour for over two weeks, fever brought you to your knees, the strangest you had ever experienced. You felt weak and full of energy at once, trembling, thirsting after things intangible, after life itself it seemed.

After three days, you still remained feeble, worrying your husband who did not have nearly enough time to take care of you despite the concern creasing his brows intensely whenever he had a chance to see you.

Such was the case tonight; earlier today, you had a chance to witness the coronation of Prince Anthony, yet you had no energy to serve at the feast to celebrate this grand event.

Steven could not be by your side as you rested; he had not even been allowed to stand by you during the important royal event.

You had stood on the opposite ends of the room and despite the gravity of the ceremony unfolding your gaze travelled to your husband often, your heart flying.

He was a handsome man; standing tall, dressed in traditional colours of Starkerbürg and lighter armour; every single person, should they bother to look at him, would be able to tell he was proud to carry his title of a knight. Hair combed as carefully as his beard, a neck protector made of chain mail laid over the crimson shirt with a golden royal insignia, double-belted with leader –one for appearance, other to hold a sword he himself forged. A cloak in royal colours, clipped together with a golden clasp.

Your husband was nothing short of magnificent.

Gods, Lord, who could blame you for stealing glances at him, even as you could have been watching the priest, a divine messenger, place the crown on Prince Anthony’s head and entrust him with the power over the kingdom to his hands, from the will of the Lord himself? A different sort of a divine power was pulling your gaze towards your husband, no doubt just as sacred – it must have been.

With the end of the coronation approaching, you already felt your fever overtaking you again; so you retreated to your chambers, Steven’s worried gaze following you, his stance unmoving otherwise.

He had a duty he was most proud of – a duty he would never break, perhaps not even for you. Instead of the fever, a few tears burned in your eyes at the thought, and yet… you could not but love him with all your heart, for he was the gentlest, kindest, loving and most giving man, human, you had ever encountered. Memories of your wedding night and the night after flooded your mind and reminded you of another undeniable feature of his. Passionate.

Steve was a tender, but strong and incredibly passionate man. You felt the ghost of his lips on your own still, the scratch of his beard as his lips wandered your body, showing you pleasure you could have never imagined in your wildest dreams.

The sensations set your body on fire again as you downed a tall glass of water, changing into your nightgown and retreating to bed, the heat seemingly only growing even as you simply laid on the covers instead of under them. Steve’s scent, so greatly missed these days for his duties kept him occupied and away, twirled in the air around you, somehow irritating instead of soothing as usual.

You tossed and turned, uncomfortable in your own skin, a feeling you could not hope to understand crawling up your back, inside your belly and your chest. An itch whose source you were failing to find, no matter how frantically you were searching.

The itch, the burn… it was simply not leaving, rendering you half-mad and fatigued.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･

It must have been hours when you finally calmed, lying on you back in your marital bed, eyes dazed over, mind void of a single coherent thought.

The sounds of the feast, having echoing through the castle even to your chamber, grew louder all of sudden, accompanied by a low squeak of the door.

Despite exhaustion having settled deep in your bones, you willed your head to turn, met with a sight for your sore eyes: your knight in all his glory, wrapped in the crimson cloak still, sword still by his hip, ready to rush to protect those who could not protect themselves. Prepared to lay down his life for others. For you. A true hero.

The room had been wrapped in shadows, illuminated by two candles you could not recall lighting up; the scarce light played on Steven’s troubled face as he blindly closed the door and graced you with a faint smile, the curl of his plush red lips almost hidden by his thick beard.

“Good evening, sweetling,” he whispered, voice husky from laugher the feast no doubt made for.

He took off his cloak, leaving it on the chair by the door.

The sound of his voice caressed you tenderly and yet – it clutched at your abdomen tight, your heart, having calmed down at last, stumbling again and breaking into a run. Your eyes fluttered close at the assault of a feeling, its intensity taking you by surprise.

“Evening,” you croaked out, hearing his suddenly rushed steps, feeling his weight as he sat down by your hips.

His warm hand landed on your forehead gently, pushing your hair away to grant himself a proper look. His fingers brushed your cheek, wincing slightly as a booming laugher reached the chambers once more.

“Are you not feeling better?”

Your gaze sought out his, a breath-taking image of his face in rich detail for he was so close, leaning in to plant a kiss on your forehead – the blue of his irises was nearly swallowed by his pupils, the sight causing your lower belly burn.

It was only when his lips caressed your face, once and twice, when the realization finally dawned to you.

Steve’s touch, his lips, his warmth against yours, his proximity – all of these blessings were both the source of your fever and the only remedy.

Your body burned because of him. Burned for him.

“Sweetling?” he questioned silently as you observed him, rendered speechless by the epiphany.

For all your duties, you had struggled to find moments for each other and now your body called for him; a call you could not hope nor wanted to ignore.

In an instant, your strength had returned. Your hand found Steven’s cheek, stroking his cheekbone with the pad of your thumb, bringing a smile to his face even when you added pressure as to pull him in.

He yielded, sweet lips with a faint taste of wine meeting yours, careful, gentle, sending shivers down your spine, exciting and comforting at once.

“Are you cold, my love?” he whispered to your mouth, withdrawing an inch – an inch too far. “Why are you not co-“

Never allowing him to finish his sentence, you kissed him again with urgency for since you found your remedy now, you refused to let it go.

Should you release him, should your lips part from his again, you would certainly gone mad; for at the moment, you felt health rushing through your veins, thirst you had not known you had suffered from sated and growing at once for Steve’s lips on yours were but a promise, but a taste of what he could give, what he had given you pleasure of experiencing.

You opened your mouth to deepen the kiss, to taste him profoundly, to make him understand.

Surely, he would understand? You were not left alone in your craving, or were you? You could not be called sick for your desires, not truly. No? Surely, loving your husband, loving the entirety of him, was only natural? Your core throbbed with need as you felt him give in, tongue joining the dance of your lips, your breaths coming out short as the air seemed to crackle, adding to the fire inside you.

You reached out to his shoulder, forcing him to lean in, your body rising to meet his, to have his warmth seep into yours, your pulse thundering as your fingers ran down his chest to his belt.

He withdrew with a gasp, earning a whine from you for you felt as if you were on fire; all-consuming fire only he could put out. Would he deny this relief to you?

He watched you with eyes blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, hand on your face tender still even as you stole another kiss from him, nothing but a short peck he was swift to end, turning your advances down with a gentle caress on your cheek.

“Love, love, sweetling… I must go back to the feast.”

“Do not dare,” you whispered firmly, a fraction desperate at the mere prospect.

You understood your condition at last, you were aware of what was it you needed and what you wanted. Could he not want the same?

“It is not that I wish to-“

“Do not, then,” you begged, following him as he sat up, emptiness filling you at the possibility of the distance between your lips growing. You kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth, then his lips again – he did not retreat, did not protest, but his hand on you grew heavy, falling to your shoulder, his eyes tainted by regret. “My fever. Its origin is withing me. You have not bedded me since the night after our wedding night.”

His gaze softened, apologetic with a spark of something you could not hope to decipher.

“Oh my sweeting… I shall make up for my shortcomings, soon. But for the moment, I must-“

You scooted closer, following his every move without conscious effort, your bodies gravitating one to the other. You ran your fingers through his beard, thumb brushing over his lips as you leaned in for another kiss, holding onto his shoulder for both the proximity and the fear he would leave you cold and alone despite clearly regretting his choice.

You kneeled by him now, a moment from finding strength and courage to stand and straddle him; yet, you feared he would reject you still; and such action would break your heart.

“You have not made love to me since then and my body, my heart-“ you whispered, voice cracking with the severity of your admission, “it is burning for you.”

“Oh, my love… but I---- I apologize, but I must-- such is the King’s will,” he explained, eyes fluttering shut when you kissed him, a small sound escaping him when your fingers dove into his hair; a little noise spurring you on, feeding your hope. “The God’s will, I-”

Nimble fingers of your free hand undid the belt holding the sheath without a single protest on his part, the thud on his sword on the floor a testimony to your victory.

“Is it not God’s will to love and to create life?” you spoke to his mouth, a blissed sigh falling from your lips when his hand tentatively found your waist. “My lips burn for your lips, my womb burns for your seed, aches to grow your child. Sooth me. Fill me. Please.”

“For all that’s holy-“ he cursed, taking your mouth, claiming dominance and sealing your fate at once.

His hand cradled your face firmly, angling your head to his liking, holding you in place despite the power behind his lunges, causing you to nearly cry out in relief. Yes, yes, please, do not stop-

“Give my body a child to carry. A child born of our love.”

“I will, wife. I will,” he promised huskily, his touch earning urgency you would never dream of.

Despite losing control over the kiss, your lips curled up in a smile as he advanced on you, barely finding time to have you pull the chainmail over his head for he attached his mouth to yours again, hand squeezing your waist, chest to chest as your nipples hardened.

“I shall not come back there.”

“You shall not,” you confirmed breathlessly, shaking your head at the mere idea until he gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, steading your movements just so he could drink from your mouth as he had drunk from his goblet at the feast.

“I shall have my own feast here… for it is God’s will…” he murmured, rucking up the skirts of your nightgown, palm kneading your thigh as it made its way up. “And I shall find my holy grail without leaving our marriage bed.”

His words were a promise; and you knew that your knight, your husband, your Steve was one to deliver on them, always.

He stripped you of your modest garments entirely, laying you down on your marriage bed and begun his journey in search of the holy grail he had spoken of.

And by gods, he treated your body as his quest, one single destination in his mind.

Yet, he took pleasure in the journey itself; his lips skimmed over your skin, soothing the burn his beard left behind, adoring hungry kisses trailing down your body, walking reverently through the valley of your breasts, licking and sucking at your nipple, nosing the underside of your breasts and heading down down down until his mouth latched onto his prize, hands seizing your hips so you could not escape his worship.

“Steven-“

“Divine,” he only muttered, darting his tongue out circle your pearl, your hands gripping the sheets in a desperate need to hold onto reality as you felt on the verge of entering an entirely different plane of existence.

Your body boiled, singing in pleasure and relief at last and yet he was moving so painstakingly slow.

He kissed your lover lips like he would kiss your mouth – tender and loving until he lost his patience and delved in, tasting and savouring every drop of your essence on his tongue as it was nothing less than the most delicious wine. His large palm was sprawled over your belly, keeping you in place as ifyou ever had the intention to escape his ministrations.

And just when you were on the edge of bliss, almost touching the stars and reaching for the cure your body needed for so long, he withdrew his tongue, licking a broad strip up your glistening petals and placing a gentle kiss on your pearl, lips drawing a tickly line up your abdomen.

The action – or the lack of it – elicited a startled cry from your lips when he strayed further and further from where you quite literally burned for his touch. Tears formed in your eyes at the denial, your hips bucking up in protest against his unrelenting grasp.

“Steve—why?”

“I want to feel you, angel… I love feeling your body begging for my seed. Is that not what you crave? Is that not what you asked from me?” he muttered to the skin of your neck, a broad and evil, evil smile he made sure you could feel.

You cared little for his smugness, feeling you were a second from losing your mind as you babbled in agreement.

“Yes, yes, but I--- yes. Please.”

Boneless yet strung so tight your body threatened to snap, you laid limp bar the frantic rise and fall of your chest and wordlessly watched him discard his remaining clothes, take torturously long to untie his heavy boots, undo his pants and free his manhood.

Yet, once he returned to you, he made up for his absence; he covered you like a blanket, heavy, soft, but unrelenting as his body tangled with yours, capturing you in the most blissful trap, locking his mouth on yours, allowing you to taste your own essence.

“My beautiful, beautiful wife,” he whispered to your lips, “I have been blessed making you my wife, do you know that, my love?”

The sweet words had your head spin, breath catching in your chest as his mouth slanted over yours again, filthy kiss in stark contrast to his declaration and the care he took to slowly enter you, teeth grazing your lower lip for he must have felt your tight heat squeeze him hungrily the moment he was fully seated.

The sensation compared to nothing else; for nothing made for a feeling of being so profoundly loved. Your bodies merged so perfectly as if you were created for each other and in this very moment, no matter how the fire inside you only seemed to intensify, it truly felt like you were.

Your love, your Steven, your husband. Beautiful, lost in the moment of bliss as you were, candlelight casting shadows over his handsome face, over the small scar above his brow – a testament to his bravery and good heart. His heart; yours.

Steve grunted as your core squeezed him in need and he took several breaths, fluttering his eyes open to find you watching him, eyes no doubt glossed over, glassy almost. The pads on his fingers ghosted over your cheekbone, tenderly drying your tears; feelings you could not hope to put into words bubbled in your throat alongside your desire.

“It is me who was blessed,” you whispered, barely audible, your trembling hand cupping his face as you licked your lips. “Please.”

“As you wish.”

The slow drag of his length through your heat had you seeing starts; and this time, he hoisted you high enough for them in a blink of an eye, having you gasping in pleasure, body tensing in almost painful manner – but oh so blissful.

He indulged in the sensation of your heat clamping on him, nearly ceasing his movements, resting deeply within you. His eyes never left your face, committing the precious image to his memory.

How he had managed to keep from you for days were beyond his comprehension now when he was granted a moment to have you; the memories he had relished so far made it no justice.

Despite every prayer to the Lord or to the Gods, this moment and moments alike were when Steven felt the closest to divine power; for this must have been what Heaven felt like. He was in the loving arms of an angel.

You blinked your eyes open, solitary tear running down your cheek, breathless, lips parted. Steve stole the salty droplet and brought it to your lips, kissing you with reverence, tenderly making love to your mouth. He craved nothing but to chase his own release too, yet he was perfectly content stealing your breath and making for your lips to be kiss-swollen, having them chant his name like a prayer and a thank you.

“Steve, Steve, Steve…“

As if he had just executed an act of heroism instead of profound pleasure to himself.

“Is the burn gone, my sweet?” he asked, gently despite the teasing edge to his smile.

But how could he jest, mock your wish to feel him close when he felt the same… how could he when you watched him with his eyes half open and so full of love and serenity?

“Yes, my love. Most of it.”

And was there any sweeter music than this, a hidden plea for him to fill you further, to plant his seed and claim you as his in every way imaginable?

His crotch throbbed at your willingness – at your desperation almost – to have him release deep inside you. Images flickered in his mind, crude images that had much less to do with love-making you deserved, but perhaps fitting enough for what you both craved.

“Oh, only most of it? Let me remedy it then, sweetling.”

He kissed your lips with determination and hunger, eliciting an adorably startled sound from your throat when he pulled away, and stood up by the foot of the bed. A choked yelp followed when his fingers curled about your ankles and he dragged you to him – as gentle as he could in his desire-clouded mind – leaving you with your sweet centre just on the edge.

Lifting your leg, planting a kiss to your calf and resting it against his shoulder, repeating the motion with your other legs, he was not blind to your confusion and your wide-eyed gaze; you watched him breathless with anticipation as you realized what he wanted.

But by gods, knowing his intention prepared you not for the feeling when he entered you again, thrusting so deep you felt him like you had not before, the sensation as blissful as startling, your hand instinctively covering your belly in shameless wonder.

“Oh gods,” you sobbed, little sounds you did not know you were capable of spilling from your lips with every thrust, each coming faster than the one before, leaving you stunned and yet having you crave more of this incredible feeling.

You felt an open-mouthed sucking kiss land on your calf and you could not find yourself to care for it beyond whimpering, a plea for more, senselessly begging to feel Steve spill inside you and to take you touch the stars again.

His burning hand covered yours on your belly, pressing as if he could feel the depths he reached with every buckle of his hips forward.

“I will spill so deep inside you, my love, that the seed will take.”

You sobbed as you felt your peak approaching at his words, dripping with desire and need to claim.

“We will be blessed with a child… you will grow a new life, right here,” he added pressure, the sense of possessiveness delicious, rich and dark. Irresistible. “And then again and again.”

“Yes, please-“

“Oh sweetling, you will not—have to ask again.”

Your lips parted in silent cry as his movements grew erratic and the feeling you craved so much arrived at last, triggering your own release, both Steve’s and your body wrapped in bliss at once.

You felt his eyes on you as you breathed heavily, chest rising and falling at the overwhelming sensation, eyes fluttering open only to see him watch you with fascination; an emotion that only seemed to grow when he slowly pulled out, his release nearly spilling out. His fingers were swift to gather the thickness and push it back where it belonged, causing shivers run up your spine.

He kissed each of your knees as he laid your legs down to the cushions, your limbs appearing and feeling boneless. He stretched over your body, offering his generous warmth, watching with a smile that rivalled your own before he graced you with the sweetest of kisses – unhurried, but an echo of the fire prior to your love-making.

“Are you alright, my love?” he questioned, a soft frown creasing his brows as he observed you. “Did I… did I hurt you? Such was not my intention.”

“I know. You did not, Steven. Never,” you assured him swiftly, leading him to lie by your side.

He obliged, draping the covers over you both as much as he could without moving much, facing you with a smile which earned a teasing edge that had your cheeks burn.

“Cannot believe my lady craves this so much.”

Biting your cheek, you lowered your gaze, feeling shame bloom in your chest. Was it wrong? Surely, it could not be? Not when you finally felt as peace again; no fever, no irritation. Only love and serenity.

“There is no other feeling like it,” you muttered, attempting to explain, to justify yourself. “Being as one… leaving a part of you behind, deep inside me, I--- do you believe me to be silly for feeling such?”

Steven’s hand found yours, bringing it to his lips, tenderly kissing your knuckles before moving onto your fingertips; his eyes were sincere as he met your gaze, urgent almost.

“No. I could never. My beautiful wife, with enticing body and gorgeous soul… I could never. I love you. No matter what your needs should be.”

Your shoulders relaxed, calmness washing over you again; and this time for good, for Steven, your Steve, would not think any less of you. You should have known as much.

“And I love you, husband.”

“And since I know now how much you adore this feeling… and how much wish for a child, just like I do, I shall make sure to keep you full of my seed every day,” he declared, hand sprawling over your abdomen, a shadow of desire in his gaze as he looked up at you. “I must not neglect my marital duty anymore.”

You gulped at his choice of his words, a echo of hurt and sorrow creeping up your back.

“Duty…” you mused. “Will you go back to the feast? To fulfil your duty?”

He simply shook his head, laying your connected palms between your, fingers interlaced.

“No. I shall stay here. I have fulfilled my duty already. Serving my king and my kingdom it is no longer my only obligation.”

“And… what of pleasure?” you questioned hesitantly for you feared his answer.

In the bliss following your act of love, you could not stop wondering whether this was a duty to him also – for while you had convinced him to stay, he had not seemed nearly as eager as you did.

Your soul would be at peace for Steve had not held your needs against you, he did not think you strange; yet, you would hope he would be as keen as you were. He had not appeared that way – and now, he was smiling at you softly, bemused.

“What of it, sweetling?”

“Well,” you said, carefully watching his face as you explained. “You said you must no longer neglect your marital duty. Your obligation. But… what of pleasure?”

Should he tell you that your source of pleasure was a mere duty to him, your heart would break; yet, not knowing was nearly as painful since it gnawed at your mind.

Steve observed you for a moment, curious, clueless, thumb caressing the back of your hand.

At last, his expression softened, strong arms pulling you to his front, tucking your head under his chin, a lingering kiss planted to the crown of your head.

You knew then he must have understood what you were asking; whether he found pleasure in it as well, at least half the bliss you felt when you connected in the most intimate manner, one reserved for a wife and a husband only.

His palm stroked your back as he held you firmly to his chest, his voice soothing in its outrage.

“If you have any doubt, my sweetling, I shall tell you I find myself a lucky man for making love on my wife is both. Tis’ a pleasure I can speak of as duty… a duty I may use as an excuse to lose myself in you, lose myself and never want to find my way back,” he admitted fervently, before his voice softened again. “Do you understand, my love?”

You smiled and nodded as the warmth of his words enveloped you, comfort and a promise.

“I do, Steven.”

His fingers tickled your lower back, causing you to giggle and withdraw on instinct, allowing Steve to slip two fingers under your chin, leading you to tip your head back, rewarding your pliancy with a kiss on your lips.

“Surely you must know, my sweet. You are the closest to heaven I have ever been. You. Always you.”

You blinked heavily, tiredness washing over you in the safety of your loving husband’s arms.

“And you,” you whispered, earning a hushed laugh as you yawned, leading Steve to help you roll over and assume position you would always seek when sleeping.

Your back to his front, not an inch between your bodies and his lips on your shoulder, he wished you a good night and sweet dreams.

Only tonight, his arm did not simply drape over your waist; his palm laid wide over your belly, possessive – and protective.

Far from the pair of lovers having settled to sleep, Sir Barnes held out his palm in the direction of Sir Drax and Sir Lang with a self-satisfied grin. The two men only groaned, much to the amusement of Sir Barton who had gentlemanly refused to participate in the actual bet. He had been too certain of the outcome.

Lang and Drax tossed a few coins to Barnes, who then shared a few with Barton anyway for he had whispered his tip to his ear earlier.

“Told you,” Bucky bragged, putting the coins away into his pouch.

“But he is such a stuck-up ass about his duty!” Lang called out, outraged and confused, which only had Barton erupt in laughter.

“True. That he is. But he’s got a husband’s duty now,” he pointed out, not having to imagine what he would have done had he needed to go and check on his wife Laura. “Trust me, fellas, I know how such things are.”

“Ew!” Bucky cried out, disgusted at the imaginary. “Did not need to know that. The point, however, is that he was too enchanted by his sweetling even before they were married. It would hardly change now. There was no chance ever he would come back in here.”

“But why would he stay with one woman there when there are so many in here?” Drax questioned, frowning, while Lang just shook his head and sighed.

“Should have known. I’m never betting against you again, Barnes.”

“No, please. By all means, give me more money,” the knight grinned, earning a scowl from the two. “If it makes you feel any better… I think Steve would bet the same as you.”

“How do you figure?” Barton wondered, intrigued by the idea.

“He is a stuck-up ass about duty. That’s why his wife is so good for him, maybe more than the dumbass realizes.”

“Hear hear!” Barton laughed, raising his beer to toast to that, coaxing the others to do the same.

Many chambers away from the royal hall, Steven could not but agree with Barnes. His wife was indeed the best; but contrary to his best friend’s claim, he was well-aware.

He was very, very well-aware.

Sequel - In the Name of Blood

S.R. masterlist

*hands over a box of tissues, for whichever use you need and prefer*

Is it purple prose? Probably. Do I care. NOPE.

This post appeared on my dash and I was done for 😭 Blame this on that (and someone telling me that after what they endured, they deserved to get some. A lot of some.)

Thank you for reading 💕 If you enjoyed, consider leaving feedback and reblogging.

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #medieval au #knight steve rogers #lemons #steve rogers #captain america #captain america au #captain america x you #captain america x reader #steve rogers imagine #in the name of all that's holy #anika ann

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