#medieval america

[dearhearted111]

A post-medieval scale tang knife handle with inscription 'make you bleed' from the 17th - 18th century

[illustratus]

Honeymoon by Joseph Christian Leyendecker

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

upon his grace 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter 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: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: bro, Idk how I start at point A and get to fucking outer space. Also happy bday to Steverino.

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. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The gardens of Astra Castle are unlike any you’ve seen before. Certainly, you’ve never been to a royal castle previously. Your father’s own hold is modest, still bearing the wooden foundation, whereas the rich lords have poured mortar and built in stone. 

So, it is a great honour to be among the noble women chosen to serve the queen. Most unexpected. As a daughter of a lower house, it is rather unusual, but it comes with the newly set writ tabled at the end of the uprising. That is how your father tells it anyhow. 

King Steven is as newly crowned as he is newlywed. After a lengthy revolt against the previous king, the land has settled, and upon his victory, the new ruler promises the expansion of prosperity to all. The very precedence of his war rested on the greed of the former court and its covetous lords. 

To those who took up his mantle, he has made good his word. To the commoners, he has sent bread and ale, livestock and alms; to the nobles, he has granted titles and lands. You were of the same doubt as your father, however, you expected to be forgotten in the disarray. 

Yet, you were not. You’re there with several other ladies. A set of blond twins borne of a duke and duchess, the sole heir of a widowed countess, and several earl’s daughters such as yourself. Unlike them, you do not wear satin or silk, not muslin either. You have only the dyed linen your mother attempted to enhance with some embroidery around the cuffs and collar. 

“Marcia and Marigold,” the twins introduce themselves as you cluster together in the gardens, grooms and servants bustling around carriages and chests. “Lady Calliope,” they call out the countess’ daughter, “we met prior, yes? Your mother is near Estrela.” 

“She is,” Calliope answers in her stern manner, herself seeming a widow in her black dress. The shimmery fabric makes up for its single tone. 

“Ameri, Dorida, and... Selene,” they point to the other girls, themselves clothed in scarlet, rose, and azure respectively. “We know the earls, your fathers. They gathered at our father’s hold for the battle near Caffre.” 

The twins take turns speak so that sometimes you cannot track whose lips are moving. It is even that they trade off in the middle of sentences. You find yourself almost as lost by their words as your new surroundings. 

“And you...” The twins turn their jade eyes upon you. It is there you have found the only difference in them; they have the same heights, the same hair, the same gowns even, but there is a sliver of grey through Marcia’s green iris. “We haven’t figured who you are.” 

“My father is an earl. In Woodsdam.” 

“Woodsdam,” they echo in unison and share a look. They are perplexed. 

“A minor house,” Calliope provides. “a farmer more than a noble, if I’m not mistaken.” 

“We have vast lands and we tend to them, yes,” you assure. You expect their condescension. Your father warned you for it but he bid that you keep your chin up. The king has given him a mission of his own and so you will represent the family for the time. “We keep our people well and we fed the king’s troops when they marched." 

“Mm, sounds very... common,” Marigold grins and her sister snorts into her hand. 

“We know many lords like us, yes. They work hard amidst their vassals. It keeps the lands strong so that we may better serve the crown,” you return evenly.  

Your mother helped you prepare. She coached you to keep your manners and your spine. The latter is much more difficult as you face these ladies and their bobbles with only a ribbon in your hair and a pair of patched gloves. 

“Woodsdam? I think I rode through it once on the way to my grandfather’s summer castle,” Ameri tuts, “it was little more than a swamp.” 

“It must’ve been the spring rains, perhaps, lady,” you offer. 

“Summer house,” she enunciates, “one travels there in the summer.” 

Your cheek twitches at her barbed retort. Very well. You are not used to their sharpness. Their chittering has thus far centered on gossip and the cost of their new caps. 

“A wonder the pauper’s daughter received an invite. Are you certain you can read, lady?” Dorida snipes and looks to the twins for approval. You notice how they all tend to do so. 

“It was sent to my father, Lord Eldon,” your voice quavers. You are not so strong as your mother bid you to be.  

They cackle at your meek response, “the precious maiden of Woodsdam.” 

You put your head down as the activity all around threatens to swallow you up. You wish the ground would rent and you would fall right through. All your excitement has dissipated to a sludge in your veins. You touch your cheek as you try not to show your embarrassment. 

“The Lord of Woodsdam,” a deep voice startles you as boots approach from behind, “is that what I heard?” 

You stiffen up as the ladies before you hush and blink, almost in tandem. They curtsey as their faces wash over in shock and you turn to face the newcomer. A man in a deep blue vest over black sleeves and grey breeches. He wears belt of gold and a circlet across his brow in a similar hue. It is that which betrays his statues. 

You lower your eyes and mimic the other women, mortified to be faced with new king so informally. You would not think him wandering out in the yard. Still, he has vowed to be unlike the former leige. That he would be of the people. 

“King Steven, your majesty,” the others titter in a messy chant and you murmur your own propriety as you back away. You find yourself still to the shoulder of the king as the other ladies give no room for you to join. 

The vision of him stains your mind. He is tall, with dark blond tresses that extend past his neck, and blue eyes which put his own attire to shame. He has a jaw which looks etched in stone and a bearing which matches his rank. He is tall and broad and a finely built knight. 

“It is an honour,” Marcia says most boldly. 

“You may rise,” he allows in a breezy timbre. “I did hear my wife would receive new ladies. Young ladies.” 

“Your majesty,” the murmur rolls across each lip. 

“It is much needed. We have so many established ladies at court and yet we need to think of the future. Of the next generation,” he declares as he emphasizes his words with his large hand. You watch his garnet ring to keep from so brazenly looking him in the face. 

“Certainly, your majesty,” Marcia and Marigold chime in unision. 

“And don’t worry for there are many young lords as well,” the king laughs galely at the quip which makes the ladies, yourself included, blush. “Ah, then, Woodsdam I believe we were speaking of...” 

You blink and glance at the other ladies. They are cowed, unsure if they were overheard in their derision. You hope as much as they that they were not. It is rather unflattering. 

“My father, Lord Eldon,” you explain, “your majesty.” 

“You? You are the young lady of Woodsdam I heard so much of.” 

“You did? Er, your majesty,” you curtsey apologetically; unnecessarily. 

“Certainly, I did. Your father was a great assistance in me holding counsel with the lower lords. He is very patient. “When not about his duty, he spoke of you oft. Though what matters are more important than family?” 

“Yes, your majesty,” you can’t help a smile, “my father is a very kind man.” 

“Kind and courageous. I’m certain you’ve inherited as much,” the king praises, “and these other ladies. The twins who belong to Mawsley, the Countess of Clovers daughter, and the three earls daughters from the White Plains.” 

The ladies each bow their heads as he proclaims them by their forebearers’ titles. You watch from aside, feeling even more out-of-place. The king recites them all proudly as he extends a finger for each. 

“Allow me myself to extend a welcome to Astra. When you are sorted, my wife shall receive you all and have you acquainted with the grounds. I hope you enjoy them, we’ve had the gardeners at work day and night,” he pronounces, “for now, I must be off, for a king has many obligations and not so much time.” 

He bows and turns on his heel, marching off with his shoulder straight and head high. He walks as a soldier does, not some lord. You’ve seen the difference before, more recently in the aftermath of battle. A soldier is more akin to a farmer, much as your father, whereas a Lord tends to keep his steps tight. 

“Wow, oh my,” Dorida fans herself, “he is rather handsome.” 

“Oh yes,” Marcia and Marigold say, the latter forging ahead, “we met him at our father’s castle. He is ever so charming.” 

“Hm, and the queen would love to hear it, I’m certain,” Calliope intones brusquely. 

“The queen is not here,” Ameri sneers, “so what does it matter? Besides, is it so wrong to state a truth?” 

“He is very elegant,” Selene agrees. 

“Much too kind, as well,” Marigold snips, “Woodsdam? He speaks as if it more than some paltry farmhouse.” 

“You’d never even heard of it,” Calliope remarks. 

“And how had you, hm? You seem the bookish type. Perhaps you should leave the maps to the men. What good will a river or road do for a widow’s welp?” 

“Needn’t be cruel,” Calliope rebuffs. 

“Pity if this is the lot they send,” Marcia shakes her head as the sisters share another cryptic look. 

You keep to yourself. That is all you can do. It is better to watch and learn than to leap and land wherever you might. Your mother always said so and she was your best teacher. 

“Right, there must be some maid who might show us to our rooms,” Marigold stands on her toes and waves at each passing servant. “I tire of the sunlight and boorish company.” 

👑

You have two trunks awaiting you in your chambers. Not as the other ladies who had at least a dozen each. Less humble than your lunger are the rooms themselves.

There is an antechamber hung with tapestries showing wildlife and flora, a table set for two and cushioned bench by the window. The bedroom is draped in similar hangings with a four-post bed and a grand hearth. A desk, another bench, a woven carpet, and fine accouterments on square tables. And a closet for the commode as well and a pot in the far corner of the bedchamber. 

If only your mother and father could see this. They would be just as amazed. You can’t help but admire all of it. To touch the curtains as you approach the window and stare off at the afternoon sky. The gardens are a medley of hues; petals and thorns; leaves and dirt. It’s all so wonderful, you can still hardly believe it. 

Seems those other ladies can’t either. You can’t help but think of their words anon. They said so outrightly what you doubted inwardly. You don’t belong here. It must be so clear to them. 

You lean on the ledge and peer down into the garden pathways. It is almost a labyrinth with how intricately they’ve laid out the hedges. You lower yourself down to your elbows and cross your arms as you sigh. 

Your eyes are drawn from the swaying roses to the dark speck that appears below. You squint at first. From the second floor, it is harder to discern. It is the glimmer of gold in his hair and the defined gait that gives away the king. For an instant, you believe you might be dreaming. 

He walks along one path and to the next. There is another with him. A man with darker hair and a stauncher figure. They speak and stop just as they enter a circled walkway centered by a large vase of flowers. The other man talks, though you can hear neither, and the king rubs his chin. 

You should turn away. They might think you an eavesdropper. Oh, too late! You don’t dare move as the king tilts his head. You wouldn’t want to pique his attention. You cannot tell if he has spotted you. Not until he raises a hand and waves. The other man stops and looks to follow the gesture. 

You stand up straight but before you can flee in horror, you recall yourself. It is improper to turn your back to the king. You lift your hand and return the wave. He dips his head and turns to clap his companion’s shoulder, pointing him onward. 

Oh, you hope he is not unhappy. If you pray, perhaps he will not have recognised you. You needn’t an enemy of the king as well. 

[gwydpolls]

Time Travel Question 50: Early Modernish and Earlier 4

These Questions are the result of suggestions a the previous iteration.This category may include suggestions made too late to fall into the correct earlier time grouping. In some cases a culture lasted a really long time and I grouped them by whether it was likely the later or earlier grouping made the most sense with the information I had. (Invention ofs tend to fall in an earlier grouping if it's still open. Ones that imply height of or just before something tend to get grouped later, but not always. Sometimes I'll split two different things from the same culture into different polls because they involve separate research goals or the like).

Please add new suggestions below if you have them for future consideration. All cultures and time periods welcome.

[anika-ann]

Mine, Yours, Ours (Love) - S.R.

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; a part of this pseudomedieval-fantasy AU or a one-shot, I suppose

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x witch!reader   Word Count: 4,8k

Summary: Sir Rogers, the honorary knight of Starkerbürg, feels blessed. Another day has passed, another day he gets to come home; to his lovely wife and his child. A household full of love in the face of everyday bliss and hardships of life alike.

But there’s a shift in the air tonight; something sweet and exciting crackling in the air, a longing and all-consuming need blooming within him as he sees his wife, so divine, in the most mundane and extraordinary of moments.

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, smut, body worship and (light) breeding kink, oral (fem-rec), PIV, but also tooth-rotting fluff, polytheism and light blesphemry, Slovak terms of agreement ‘cause I can (translation at the end), knight Steve 'cause he's a warning

A/N: A super-belated gift for @stellar-solar-flare 's birthday - or perhaps an early Christmas gift 🤭 fits after the events of the previous instalments but can probably be read as a standalone; DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics

Shiny armour; a heavy sword by the hip. Stance straight and tall, head held high.

An emblem of the kingdom, worn with pride. Bloody hands and scars from defending those in need.

Standing witness to events remembered by history and lending a hand in their creation.

Virtues of a knight; strength, courage, chivalry. Loyalty. Mercy and generosity; faith.

The honour of the noble servant of Starkerbürg, the glory only growing after the appointment of the new king.

Words of praise by royalty itself, whispers of admiration from commoners and nobility at every corner.

No higher honour in these lands than knighthood; and yet.

And yet as Steven stepped into the house, all the whispers and praises fell silent in his head, the great honour slipping off his shoulders into nothingness.

As Steven stepped into his home, he allowed the thoughts and echoes of sensation in his chest having been following him all day fill in his lungs, heart and soul alike instead.

Conviction ringing truer than the steel of a sword against another.

There was no greater honour than to having stood tall at the altar where his future wife had awaited him. No greater pride than to having hold a new life, one he and his beloved had created, in his arms. No greater title to carry than the one of a loving father and a loyal husband. No greater fortune than to witness and take part in precious, ungraspable and yet achingly tangible moments history might not remember, but Steven shall, forever.

You turned to him from the stove as you were setting the tea pot down, gifting him a smile; and from his very soul, Steven would swear that all the gold and luxurious robes of the royal halls in the castle could not compare to your beauty.

His wife; the mother of his child.

The yearning to hold you in his arms again struck Steve with force beyond all the longings throughout the day combined. And yet he hesitated; torn as to whether to come to greet you or the little human sleeping soundly in the cradle first, his heart large enough to adore both and wishing to show his affections all at once.

Your smile turned softer as if you sensed his hesitance and eagerness; you beckoned with your chin to the sleeping baby, solving his dilemma without taking offence, offering warmth in your gaze as Steve’s own wandered to the small bundle of joy, his steps sure and impatient after having missed his daughter since the early hours of the morning.

His breath caught in his lungs; he had seen her for over three hundred days now and yet, air stuck in his chest every single time he laid eyes on the beautiful miracle of life.

Her lips were slightly pursed, tiny hands in fists as if she was trying to grasp her dreams and make them stay; much like Steven had once grabbed after his own dream of you and him together, despite your worlds seemingly laying hundreds of miles apart. She cooed silently as he leaned over the crib and settled his hand over her belly, his index finger caressing her soft cheek, causing her to stir minutely. For a child barely old a year, her face already showed a myriad of expressions; at his careful touch, she almost seemed to smile in her sleep.

Steven’s chest inflated almost painfully, so full it might burst; by gods, he had been blessed. Running the pad of his finger over her still closed fists, he marvelled at the small fingers clenched so fiercely. A strong, healthy, gorgeous child. A gift from the gods he shall always fight to be worthy of; a gift from you.

Tearing his eyes, prickling with tears, away, his gaze found you, a goddess in her own right pouring two cups of tea almost mundanely, the smell of herbs filling the little cabin and complimenting its warmth; the house he had helped build with his own hands; the house you had turned into a home with your generous heart.

Striding to you in quick long steps, he wrapped his arms around your waist at last, even if not before you had set the pot down as not to hurt you.   

The glimpse of your smile was warmer than the fire in the hearth, your body melting into his front so willingly and with such relaxed trust as if you, too, were only now entering your home despite having spent most of your day right here.

“Welcome home, rytier moj,” you whispered simply. Your palms laid over his, caressing in response to his lips instinctively attaching to the tattoo adorning your neck, soft warm skin humming with life under his kiss.

“It is good to be home, bosorka moja,” he muttered, granting himself a generous inhale, all senses tuning to you; the scent and warmth of your skin, the softness and fullness of your flesh causing his head to swim and his heart calm, thoughts circling around the centre and sense of his life he’d hold onto with vigour should he die the very next moment. “How are the two most important ladies in the world doing?”

Your hand rose to card through his hair, gentle touch sliding over his cheek, a smile adorning your lips and voice alike.

“Oh? In the whole world, rytier moj? Perhaps in yours…”

“Same difference.”

Turning your head, you caught his lips with yours, a taste of sunshine and pure contentment on his tongue as you smiled into the kiss and sighed, the only sign of the day’s exhaustion you allowed yourself to display. A smidge of worry creased Steve’s forehead, his arms tightening a fraction as to not only hold you and indulge in the feel of you in his embrace, but to support you too.

“It was a good day, rytier moj,” you said, a drop of humour rendering your voice a tad warmer. “However, you should know that your daughter made all the pots fly for a bit, which led to me having to clean up for eternity.”

Steven chuckled, nose nudging your temple.

The image of you having to run around rose vivid in his mind, along with concern about long hours of exhausting work of caring for the small child, no matter how joyful at moments, tiring you out; yet, the tenderness of your voice and the soft note of humour made his chest hum with overwhelming feeling of love, wide smile attacking his lips.

“Hm… I am sorry to hear that, love,” he said. “But have you noticed, how our little one is referred to as my daughter whenever she is up to no good? I find it curious, especially since such magical feat is something she has certainly taken after you…”

His thoughts wandered, the sensation of your body filling his hands so well evoking the memory of you indeed having your magic burst out of you before, more than once; sinful, beautiful images filling his mind. The memory of the taste of you tickled on his tongue, your cries of pleasure as your hips had buckled under his firm grip echoing so sweetly in his ears, heat pooling in his groin, rousing visceral need to hear and touch and taste and have again.

“Mmm, I would not be so certain, rytier moj…. stirring trouble is most certainly your specialty.”

You opposed him, amused; perhaps oblivious, for the moment, of how his grip on your sides grew firmer, your warmth and scent bringing his body to the fullest, most delicious alert.

What was it you said? Stirring trouble? Being up to no good? Oh, his sweet wife, his lovely bosorka… you had no inkling of what he was up to indeed, the longing to sink the entirety of his being into you turning too much to bear for him only.

“Is that so?” he chuckled.

Your breath caught in your throat as you heard something in his voice change; or perhaps it was his hands, sliding over your hip, moving over your belly, fingers inching lower in a wordless plea, lips pressing to the side of your neck again, lingering, a greedy inhale causing his head to spin and his hips thrusting forward just an inch, to feel more, more, more.

“Perhaps you are right, láska moja… You are so, so good. I do recall you only have your magic act out of control when I am near you.” When I take you, when I have you tether at the edge of unholy bliss, when I sink into you and make you mine. My love, my wife, the heart of my life, of my family. My everything, mine to love, to protect, to have, his mind whispered sinfully, no words spilling from his lips as instead they wandered over the column of your throat you so generously revealed when you tipped your head back to rest it on his shoulder, desire and pride of being the one to have you succumb to his ministrations so willingly roaring in his veins even as his voice was intimately quiet. “When I am so, so close to you, my name on your pretty lips, parted in bliss…”

“Steven-”

No hesitation. No protest. A plea instead, a godsdamn prayer of his name on the very lips he longed to taste and claim; and for a loyal worshipper of forces beyond Steve’s imagination, for being a force of nature yourself, you sounded damn near reverent when speaking the name of the mere mortal he was and it filled him with dark delight.

Pride was a sin; but he had established long ago that for you, he’d walk the path to hell with an indulgent smile on his face. For him, the highest authority to judge him was but pliant, warm and so wonderfully alive in his arms, an echo of the want he himself felt humming in your flesh right under his palms; your permission was the only one he’d ever seek.

“May I have you, bosorka moja? I missed you all day long, missed being home…”

“Yes-“

Just as the single breathless left your lips, his impatient fingers slid under your skirts, a silent groan escaping him when his fingertips reached your heat, soft, warm, inviting, your body arching slightly into his touch.

“We missed you too, I missed y—you.” Your breath hitched so lovely as he couldn’t but nip at the sensitive skin of your throat, the pads of his fingers brushing along your welcoming heat instead of sinking in, teasing himself as much as you. “I-- longed for you, your voice, your breath, your touch-”

Gods you were made for him or perhaps he was made for you or perhaps both—a beautiful temptress, created to seduce all his senses. To see you fall apart, to hear your cries, to taste you, to feel you, to smell like you for days to come-

Retreating his hand minutely despite your startled silent keen, he grasped at your hips, spinning you around until your lower back gently bumped into the make-shift counter, hand under your skirt spreading all over the apex of your thigh to keep you still, mouth claiming yours with hunger, groin rocking against yours just to swallow the delicious sound you made at the contact.

Your hands came to life too, sinking into his locks and gripping all gentle and needy, your other roaming over his chest, down and down to his abdomen and lower to his pants, leading him to drink from your lips deeper before tearing away to press his lips just above your collarbone, both his and your chest rising and falling rapidly, meeting in the middle, your pulse thundering under his lips. Gods, when he looked up just slightly, your mouth was so gorgeously kiss-swollen already and parted with rapid breaths, pupils blown wide and fixated on nothing but him, touch so hot and purposeful and owning just as wished and did own you, as you had given yourself to him and would love to give again; even if the light circles under your eyes whispered of how much of you you had already given today and had been giving every day.

But gods were you his and he breathed in deeply to allow the miracle settle in his very soul, sending a silent prayer of gratitude for you being his and him being yours.

A ring on both his and your ring finger; a dark tattoo with each other’s name and an intricate pattern over your hearts, your daughter’s name right under. A family; the centre and the sense of his life.

And you were nothing short of breathtaking.

His wife, his love, the mother of his child; a cradle of love and life. A force of nature just as capable of protecting as his to protect. A goddess in her own right; awaiting as to hear out his scrambled thoughts since he appeared to pause a brewing storm of desire.

“Gods, bosorka moja, you could lead a man into madness-“

You tugged at his hair the slightest bit, pulling his mouth back to yours, a hushed whisper of ‘ľubim ťa’ falling from your lips to his and back, and Steven was lost to that very madness, and hoped to never be found again.

Instead, he wandered over the gorgeous landscape of your body, mapping every enticing curve and soft valley even as one of his hands already reached the destination, welcomed with everything he could ever desire. He’d make the journey the goal for it was pure bliss and he was wandering but in his very home, lands he lived to explore and worship over and over again, nothing short of reverent.

And should his will be yours as well, he’d see to nestle at home and never ever depart again, leaving behind traces that could never be erased.

Breaths coming out short, lips parted; a slight arch to your back limited by Steven’s grasp, the most loving cage where the gift of overwhelming pleasure bordered on a punishment.

Thoughts scattered and dissolved in bliss, feelings and sensations were ruling instead – and yet they served you all the same; a lover’s sense as strong as a mother’s instinct.

Love so profound you’d see it – feel it, taste it, breathe it – all the same should you be robbed of all senses at once, was poured into Steve’s every action, touching your very heart and soul as much as ever; and yet. There was a shift tonight, a softly crackling change in the air. You could tell. A lover knows.

Steven’s touch felt different tonight, as did his undivided attention. Thumbs pressing a tad firmer into your hips as he held you down, lips drinking as if with insatiable thirst, leaving your throat raw from soundless cries. Lips wandering, hands grasping, dark gaze following every trace his heated touch left behind, praises rolling off of his tongue; of soft, soft plump skin, so warm and welcoming, a gift, a grail, the only home he’d ever want, a breath-taking art to wreck and recreate all over again; Sinful words written by your husband’s lips all over your body like poetry quietly read to a lover’s ear in hidden corners of the castle only known to those who wished to hide their desires from prying eyes.

With bliss worthy of gods gifted you once, twice, Steven’s heavy-lidded eyes kept hypnotizing you through between the valley of your breasts, the pads of his fingers appreciating the flesh so carefully but with intangible visceral need. His intent gaze grew impossibly dark – the last image you saw before your eyes slipped shut with a rasp of his name, your body trembling with ecstasy for the third time that night.

Distantly aware of your magic casting lights and shadows over your little cabin, setting inanimate objects in motion, a breathless chuckle left your lips.

Your beloved pressed a firm sloppy kiss above your belly button, thumb running over your hipbone to ease you down to earthly low as he had lifted you to heavenly heights; lingering, he breathed you in, over and over for so long a flicker of concern wormed its way into your foggy mind.

“Rytier moj?”

His palm sprawled over your abdomen, replacing his mouth; he peppered kisses over your sternum, over the flesh of your breasts, his gaze meeting yours with such heat and something so familiar and yet ungraspable it sent a shiver down your spine, a tingle in the back of your mind.

Something truly was different tonight. In his touch, in his gaze, in his aura—a good man, a loyal man, fighter, protector, father, lover-

“You are the closest thing I’ve ever seen to a goddess, láska moja…” he declared quietly, his lips brushing yours with tenderness that would make the gods themselves weep, and you as well. “Your body is a miracle I shall worship over and over.”

The tingle in the back of your mind sparkled brighter, recognition dawning oh so slowly, your rapidly beating heart thundering now.

Worship. Religious reverence; in mortal flesh.

He had laid you on your marriage bed as if it had been an altar itself, an offering to gods and goddesses and a prayer to the one he had just deemed you all at once.

The holy grail. A miracle.

A goddess.

Gathering your swirling thoughts as you would have gathered raindrops during the first full moon of spring, you realized therein lied the difference of this night; the most devoted of husbands, your Steven, your knight, blurring the lines of human and celestial.

Devotion and worship.

His love had always reached beyond human understanding of just how much of affection a single heart, even the brightest of souls, may contain and pour into another, filling your chest with sensation no language of men or gods could hope to describe; and yet tonight, it went beyond the beyond.

Every single gesture, every word, whispers of prayers to a godlike entity; his lips pressed to your body as if he glimpsed and touched the divine through your body. Through you. In you.

“Blasphemy,” slipped from your lips, no more power in the admonition than in your blissed out body, the recognition of utter adoration your husband harboured for you rendering you unable to catch your breath.

“It is not, gods must forgive me,” Steven responded, stubborn as he could be, the darkness in his eyes turning warmer as his lips pressed over your heart, involuntary tears prickling in your eyes at the sincerity lacing his hoarse voice, his absent smile. “Beautiful, soft and strong… made for loving… my precious wife, the mother of my child-“

“Our child,” you corrected him, your voice cracking with emotion rather than humour, your fingers carding through his locks.

Steven’s smile only widened, eyes glimmering.

“Yes, ours. Indeed, my love. Our blessing…”

He captured your mouth again, soft and demanding, drinking from your lips as if they tasted of ambrosia the gods themselves offered to him.

A gift. A miracle made to worship. Your body.

A goddess, love and life, his wife, the mother of his-

Realization struck you like a lightning out of clear skies, your body was overtaken by a tremble, frantic heart stumbling in your ribcage.

Blurring the lines towards the divine was but a minute shift your Steven had been building up to ever since the day he had first laid his lips on yours, since he had first made love to you.

No, the true difference of tonight was laid in purpose. Purposebeyond sharing your love together, purpose beyond bliss.

A child.

Your husband’s action, while guided by profound love, were spurred by desire and new longing. He wished for another child; the divine miracle your body, when loved by his, was capable of.

The closest to a goddess. A prayer. A plea. An offering.

“Láska moja… I shall give you my everything,” he promised sweetly, a sinfully sincere tilt to his words. “If you only let me, if you’d only give me, us, more than a man can ask, more than I can give but shall forever worship you for, fight to be worthy of…”

A surge of power that had nothing to do with magic filled your veins, affection so urgent it panged sharply in your heart and your tears spilled over, your voice caught in your throat.

Gods, you wanted.

To give him, to give yourself, to give to your daughter--- to be blessed by the gods once more, a blinding image flickering behind your eyelids.

Your daughter, sat on your Steven’s shoulders, placing a crown weaved of daisies on his head, her musical laughter filling the air, causing your lips to curl up in a smile; familiar. Such a familiar image, one that had once given you strength to battle the impossible; now changing. The idyllic image of a meadow with your husband and your child growing brighter, your gaze suddenly snapping to the firm grip on your thigh; a set of small hands pressing various herbs and flowers to your skirts, an adorable chuckle and a joyous cry of ‘for mama—pretty!’ reaching your ears even as the face of the boy remained somewhat blurry beyond the warm blue of his eyes. Your Steven’s eyes-

With a gasp you snapped your eyes open, Steven’s dextrous fingers continuing their appreciation of your burning skin, tracing the lines of your tattoo with his wet lips, lighting your sated needs alive.

“You are literally glowing, bosorka moja… say yes,” he coaxed, “say yes and I will keep you sated and so full every day, every night, until my seed comes to fruition… another little one, your belly swelling with our child, a little miracle-- I shall take such good care of you, my love, of all of you, I swear as gods are my witnesses-“

A minute crack to his voice, having been dripping sweet and sinful like honey; regret and desire so pure you could not bear his words anymore, reaching out to cradle his cheeks and silence him with a kiss.

You could taste it on your tongue; something so primal and possessive as laying claim, to continue one’s bloodline, gently laced with a need of much noble nature. To protect. To take care. To provide. Read minds you could not, but a lover knows. A wife knows. The hitch in his voice could have been caused by myriad of reasons and yet you had no doubt, your heart feeling more than reason; it laid heavy on his conscience still that he had not known from the very start of you being with a child, that he could have not been treating you as you’d deserved in his mind. Not treated the way his love, the mother of his child, a goddess in her own right should have been.

He wished to be there. He wished to be the kind of man he believed you were worthy of.

You let your lips drink from his and hoped he could taste your truth on your tongue; by gods, he was worthy. If he could only understand just how much, how overwhelming loving him could be, how you’d perish before not giving him whatever he should ask; if he only knew how you would wish for another child yourself.

“Yes, Steven-- by gods, yes-“

Heart stumbling in his chest under your palm, he tore his mouth from yours, gaze roaming your face in the soft light of the dying fire in the hearth.

“Yes?” he breathed, dark eyes sparkling with delight, the curve to his kiss-swollen lips as sinful as blinding.

You could not but chuckle, fresh tears spilling over the undiluted joy and determination he observed you with.

“Yes, rytier moj. Let us make love and create it all the more.”

He stole all air from your lungs with his next kiss, hands setting to a journey with clear destination ahead, his large body nearly vibrating with acute need his touch seemed to pour straight into your veins, heat burning low in your belly as you arched against him.

“Please-“

“Oh such a sweet plea,” he chuckled darkly, a teasing touch to assure you still awaited him more than prepared, before giving you just a hint of the pleasure he was about to shatter you with. “My precious wife, my wonderful bosorka, I shall give you anything you ask, anything you need…”

Your silent keen of his name was drowned in his mouth, the soundless cry of yes as he finally moved to make love to you as gods intended drowned in a cry piercing the cabin-

-but not one of pleasure. Of discomfort and misery.

A pair of lovers frozen in time for several frantic beats of hearts.

Steven groaned, lips detaching from yours with true blasphemy.

“I am afraid your little one does not long for a sibling,” he grumbled, taking a deep breath, slowly, oh so slowly and carefully moving away, eliciting a soft gasp from you despite his great effort – and a tired chuckle as you too returned to earthly realms in which your child – yours and Steven’s – demanded your attention.

“Oh, mine, is she now?” you challenged him cheekily as you went to stand up and tend to your momentarily not-quite-joyous bundle of joy.

Steven’s warm palm sprawled over your shoulder, pressing you down gently.

“I shall get her.”

“She is likely hungry-”

“Then I shall bring her,” he said, leaving no room for arguing despite his soft tone. “You rest, my love.”

Melting against your bed, you obeyed, a content hum rumbling in Steven’s chest as he leaned to you and briefly pressed his lips to your forehead.

As soon as he moved away, you sat up still; if for nothing else then for the precious sight of your husband crossing the modest interior of the cabin to reach into the cradle, large hands reverently careful as he picked up your daughter to the protective cage of his arms, cooing silently at her to settle her cries. Your heart swelled with pride and overwhelming affection, your blessings counted one by one, over and over.

Cherishing the feeling of holding his child, Steven took too long of moments to bring her and nestle her in your arms instead. Lingering with his touch, he pressed the sweetest of kisses to the crown of your head as you whispered to your daughter and begun to nurse her, before he busied himself with maintaining the fire. And yet, the moment his chore was done, he hurried to seat himself by your side again, wrapping his arms around the most important ladies in his whole world, gaze so warm you could feel it without tearing your own away from the child attached to your breast.

And once your little one was sated, cries having long turned into content coos, a few sleepy blinks of her large blue eyes bringing her to the land of dreams again, your knight without shiny armour gathered her to his protective embrace again, carrying her back to her cradle just as slowly, laying her down with a tender kiss and a whisper of ‘ľubim ťa, maličká’.

As he returned, you took his hand and coaxed him to lie next to you, his arms spreading to hold you close and warm through the night, shifting to hide his face in your hair.

Oh your sweet knight, so dutiful in watching over his beloveds’ sleep… so wholly unaware of how your body, while worn to a bone, had been charged with a taste of something wonderful and exciting; yearning, craving, unbearable.

He released but a soft noise of surprise when your hand found its way through the warm cage of his arms, escaping the loving embrace to cup his face, gaze flickering over his handsome features.

“Bosorka moja?”

A smile forming on your lips, you leaned forward, capturing his mouth in a slow, sensual kiss, palms caressing the expanse of his shoulders – the large arms of a protector, provider, lover – body pressing to his as your hands began to wander.

“You made me a promise, rytier moj,” you whispered, sultriness creeping into your voice, causing your Steven’s breath to catch, fingers, having grasped at you so tenderly during your kiss, flexing on the flesh of your waist. “Are you not keeping it? Have you changed your mi-”

Your breathless laughter was the last sound your lips were allowed to release before Steve responded to your affection with vigour, rolling your bodies over to trap yours under his soothing weight, fingers running over the lines of your body to continue where you two had left of.

“Oh, I always keep my promises, bosorka moja.”

You brushed your fingertips over his cheek, a moment of slow gentleness before descending into the whirlwind of passion, a smile playing on your lips.

“I know, láska moja. Then let us deliver on this one.”

bosorka moja - witch mine rytier moj - knight mine láska moja - love mine maličká - little one (to a child) ľubim ťa - I love you

Other headcanon and playlist

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist (now with blurb masterlist as well)

I'm going to scream into the void after this for a while 🥹🫠😩 You're welcomed to join me!

Thank you for reading, loves 💕 If you enjoyed and can spare a few seconds of a minute to reblog or comment, you shall have my gratitude ✨

I hope you'll have lovely Holidays, one way or the other 💕

[sunnylolli]

(Not ship, please don’t tag it as such :,))

This sort of au has been done numerous times before by others, but an au where Alfred inadvertently ends up getting pranked by the fae and ends up back in 1100 A.D with a feral albeit equal aged Arthur who’s wondering about 

a) Where Alfred got his clothes to be that blue b) What’s on his face and c) Why is he simultaneously a threat and a source of familiarity?

And I’m thinking about how Arthur ends up needing to step in to make sure Alfred doesn’t kill himself on accident, because while the guy might be well-trained for hunting and self defense with a gun and hand to hand - Swords, staffs and archery just isn’t on the board of things he’s particularly skilled at fighting with.

Archery is his best bet, but I don’t see Arthur being particularly keen on sharing his bow and arrows, so Alfred ends up needing to learn how to make his own.

And since they have absolutely nothing to do besides woodworking, walking and talking with each other, there ensues a lot of talking, and I am rubbing my mischievous little hands together, because the possibilities for a strange father-son bonding on equal terms is ENDLESS.

[leehanji]

Illustrations from my Stucky fic The Limits of Duty

Read it here on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48358507/chapters/121967410

[barbucomedie]

Tairona Anthropomorphic Gold Pendant from Columbia dated between 800 - 1500 on display at the Museum of the Americas in Madrid, Spain

Photographs taken by myself 2019

[lab-gr0wn-lambs]

She married this guy

[third-world-punks]

[therossgarden]

Personal review regarding what if…? season 2 episode 8 (spoilers)

No ok, I must admit, the episode was good in some aspects.

Wanda was majestic. Loki and Scott were hilarious and I loved every single moment with them.

Thor was amazing, dark and serious out of loss but still enjoyable, and the crumbs of his relationship with Hela were very nice.

I’ve actually liked Tony for the very first time in my life, probably because I tend to like him a lot more in AUs and fanfictions than I do in the normal timeline.

And then… there were those two.

I will never comprehend why marvel wants Steve to be so dependent on Peggy. And I will never comprehend why, to make him interact with her, they have to destroy or sideline every other relationship he has built, or make his character flat.

Bucky being friends with Scott was amazing, but the fact that him and Steve interacted like two times was extremely disappointing. You’d expect “best friends in every universe”, if you dislike the romantic pairing so much, to acknowledge themselves for more than a few scenes, in only one of which they’re in frame together (Bucky was literally 😐 while his best friend disappeared, come on now).

And the storyline about Peggy coming from another world to save the universe was just… Mbah. It could’ve been executed in another way without including her and it still would have made sense. It really feels like a Y/N insert.

Seeing literally any other character was so good, so fun, and they had to ruin it this way, making Peggy once again the self insert and girlboss she didn’t need to be.

Plus, forgive my constant complaining, but it’s extremely infuriating how all of Steve’s friends were eliminated to put the focus solely on Peggy. Where’s Sam? Where’s Nat? Where’s Clint? It’s not an underrated friendship we’re talking about, a big chunk of the fandom loves the cap quartet or team cap, and after civil war it would have been nice to see them interact, especially after its popularity and popular demand. Outlaw team cap would have been glorious, a good chance to bring back many characters who aren’t here anymore in the right way, and involve characters that are rarely involved in What if in the storyline, for a change.

The treatment of Sam in this series particularly angers me, and even more so in this episode. I understand not involving him in other storylines, but Sam was a big part of CATWS and he wasn’t even in the episode centered on that film. What, because Steve met him while running he can’t be introduced in any other way? And oh, there’s no excuse for this episode. If there was one episode they could have placed Sam in, it was this one. Sam was there in infinity war, where the mess happened, and he should have been with the other avengers in this one.

If marvel wanted to involve someone from another universe so bad, it should have been a Captain America Sam from another universe. Can you imagine the poetry of seeing Steve and Nat again after endgame? Can you imagine having closure with them both, and having fun in the process? It would have been so great.

Another great storyline without involving characters from other universes would have been one where Steve, who touched the time stone, accidentally brought everyone in the past, and he was the only one to remember it. And to go back and prevent everyone’s distraction, he had to recruit the avengers, who don’t know him and don’t trust him but that in the end become his friends and companions. It would have been so interesting to see the original avengers involved in something different from being some side characters or extras in the one woman show that seems to be What if, constantly centered around the same bland, one dimensional reimagined side character. Peggy’s blandness is so obvious in these episodes (aside for some random remarks that made me smile) that literally everyone who’s involved directly with her must be bland like her, otherwise risking to overshadow her.

I don’t think I was supposed to cringe and look away as much as I did during Steggy’s forced scenes, but I did. If they had to force Steggy and Peggy down our throats, at least they could have done something different from the same bland and boring storyline as always. I wouldn’t be as mad as I am now if Peggy and Steve’s relationship wasn’t as bland. I would have preferred an enemies to lovers type of twist or change, where Steve doesn’t trust Peggy and struggles with her because he sees in her a different version of the Peggy that died in that universe. But noooo, god forbid, let’s go with the same old song.

An episode five or ten minutes longer with a better, avengers-centric or Steve-centric storyline would have been much better than what we got.

And given that this was my most anticipated episode, I was very disappointed by it. I hope for the next seasons, if there’s other ones, Marvel will listen to the general complaint regarding Peggy and will give her a break. I don’t think any of the original avengers or relevant MCU characters made as much appearances as Peggy, and being a main focus in four episodes out of nine is ridiculous.

[dinosaur-mayonnaise]

a general rule about history: when you think things can't get worse, there will be another plague outbreak.

[illustratus]

Frontispiece of "História da Colonização Portuguesa do Brasil"

Illustrated by Alfredo Roque Gameiro

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

upon his grace 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter 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: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)

Characters: king!Steve Rogers

Note: friday!

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. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved. 

The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood. 

“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through. 

There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her. 

The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.  

The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.” 

The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all. 

“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?” 

“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds. 

“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.” 

“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp. 

“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.” 

Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.” 

“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another. 

“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims. 

“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession. 

“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend. 

As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title. 

“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.” 

“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees. 

“Farmland,” the right says. 

“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply. 

“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.” 

You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can. 

“Many thanks, your highness.” 

The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.” 

You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?” 

Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child. 

You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter. 

“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming. 

“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab. 

“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.” 

“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering. 

“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.” 

“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer. 

“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.” 

“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.” 

“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.” 

You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught. 

“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?” 

“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.” 

“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.” 

“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound. 

“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.” 

You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease. 

“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.” 

Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe. 

👑

Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant. 

You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book. 

Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece. 

“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.” 

He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause. 

“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.” 

Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known. 

You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence. 

“There you are,” she mutters. 

“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly. 

“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.” 

“The measure? They were all quite friendly.” 

“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.” 

You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?” 

“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.” 

“The dowager?” You echo. 

“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?” 

“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!” 

“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?” 

“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through. 

“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.” 

“She did?” You frown. 

“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.” 

You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary 

[historysideblog]

Online History Short-Courses offered by Universities Masterpost

Categories: Classical Studies, Egyptology, Medieval, Renaissance, The Americas, Asia, Other, Linguistics, Archaeology

How to get Coursera courses for free: There are several types of courses on Coursera, some will allow you to study the full course and only charge for the optional-certificate, for others you will need to audit it and you may have limited access (usually just to assignments), and thirdly some courses charge a monthly subscription in this case a 7 day free trial is available.

Classical Studies 🏛️🏺

At the Origins of the Mediterranean Civilization: Archeology of the City from the Levant to the West 3rd-1st millennium BC - Sapienza University of Rome

Greek and Roman Mythology - University of Pennsylvania

Health and Wellbeing in the Ancient World - Open University

Roman Architecture - Yale

Roman Art and Archeology - University of Arizona

Rome: A Virtual Tour of the Ancient City - University of Reading

The Ancient Greeks - Wesleyan University

The Changing Landscape of Ancient Rome. Archeology and History of Palatine Hill - Sapienza University of Rome

Uncovering Roman Britain in Old Museum Collections - University of Reading

Egyptology 𓂀⚱️

Egypt before and after pharaohs - Sapienza University of Rome

Introduction to Ancient Egypt and Its Civilization - University of Pennsylvania

Wonders of Ancient Egypt - University of Pennsylvania

Medieval 🗡️🏰

Age of Cathedrals - Yale

Coexistence in Medieval Spain: Jews, Christians, and Muslims - University of Colorado

Deciphering Secrets: The Illuminated Manuscripts of Medieval Europe - University of Colorado

Enlightening the Dark Ages: Early Medieval Archaeology in Italy - University of Padova

Lancaster Castle and Northern English History: The View from the Stronghold - Lancaster University

Magic in the Middle Ages - University of Barcelona

Old Norse Mythology in the Sources - University of Colorado Bolder

Preserving Norwegian Stave Churches - Norwegian University of Science and Technology

The Book of Kells: Exploring an Irish Medieval Masterpiece - Trinity College Dublin

The Cosmopolitan Medival Arabic World - University of Leiden

Renaissance ⚜️🃏

Black Tudors: The Untold Story

European Empires: An Introduction, 1400–1522 - University of Newcastle

The Mediterranean, a Space of Exchange (from Renaissance to Enlightenment) - University of Barcelona

The Life and Afterlife of Mary Queen of Scots - University of Glasgow

The Tudors - University of Roehampton London

The Americas 🪶🦙🛖

History of Slavery in the British Caribbean - University of Glasgow

Indigeneity as a Global Concept - University of Newcastle

Indigenous Canada - University of Alberta

Indigenous Religions & Ecology - Yale

Asia 🏯🛕

Contemporary India - University of Melbourne

Introduction to Korean Philosophy - Sung Kyun Kwan University

Japanese Culture Through Rare Books - University of Keio

Sino-Japanese Interactions Through Rare Books - University of Keio

The History and Culture of Chinese Silk - University for the Creative Arts

Travelling Books: History in Europe and Japan - University of Keio

Other

A Global History of Sex and Gender: Bodies and Power in the Modern World - University of Glasgow

A History of Royal Fashion - University of Glasgow

Anarchy in the UK: A History of Punk from 1976-78 - University of Reading

Biodiversity, Guardianship, and the Natural History of New Zealand: A Museum Perspective - Te Papa

Empire: the Controversies of British Imperialism - University of Exeter

Great South Land: Introducing Australian History - University of Newcastle

Indigeneity as a Global Concept - University of Newcastle

New Zealand History, Culture and Conflict: A Museum Perspective - Te Papa

Organising an Empire: The Assyrian Way - LMU Munich

Plagues, Witches, and War: The Worlds of Historical Fiction - University of Virginia

Russian History: from Lenin to Putin - University of California Santa Cruz

Linguistics 🗣️

Introduction to Comparative Indo-European Linguistics - University of Leiden - Coursera version

Miracles of Human Language: An Introduction to Linguistics - University of Leiden

Archeology 💀

Archeoastronomy - University of Milan

Archaeology and the Battle of Dunbar 1650 - Durham University

Archaeology: from Dig to Lab and Beyond - University of Reading

Archeology: Recovering the Humankind's Past and Saving the Universal Heritage - Sapienza University of Rome

Change of Era: The Origins of Christian Culture through the Lens of Archaeology - University of Padova

Endangered Archaeology: Using Remote Sensing to Protect Cultural Heritage - Universities of Durham, Leicester & Oxford

Enlightening the Dark Ages: Early Medieval Archaeology in Italy - University of Padova

Exploring Stone Age Archaeology: The Mysteries of Star Carr - University of York

Forensic Archaeology and Anthropology - Durham University

Roman Art and Archeology - University of Arizona

The Changing Landscape of Ancient Rome. Archeology and History of Palatine Hill - Sapienza University of Rome

[anika-ann]

Ochranuj me (Protect Me) - S.R.

Part 1/2

Type: medieval/fantasy/fairy tale AU; a part of this pseudomedieval-fantasy AU

Pairing: knight Steve Rogers x reader   Word Count: 8,6k

Summary:  Your practice of magic is punishable by death. Your love is forbidden by law; and yet it has been blessed, more than he knows.

When the crown prince is poisoned, Knight Steven Rogers is faced with a choice: will he risk a war or the love of his life?

And what of you? If asked… shall you risk it all? For the lands where you live… for your knight?

Warnings: attempted murder, poisoning, blood, mentions of death, polytheism, mentions of pregnancy (reader/OFC), Slovak language ‘cause I can

A/N: Actual title is Ochraňuj mě (Protect Me) ...tumblr cannot handle a ň in their title 🙃 DIVIDER by @firefly-graphics; fits after the events of the previous instalments

A/N 2: This is one less smut and more plot, forgive me 🤭 I hope you'll enjoy anyway. Yes, the Merlin inspo is real here. Inspo also from Bílá laň by Vesna. For music, check it out here, for visuals here.

Chodila, chodila za tebou bílá laň lásky se napila navzdory všem přísahám. Prosila pány lesa ať ji pustí za tebou zažít si, jaké to je jít za srdce ozvěnou.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Jako bílá laň svoji duši chraň, ať záři neztratíš.

Tady je tvůj háj, tady je tvůj ráj, jinam nepatříš. Tak ať nepotká tě kříž. (kříž, kříž, kříž) - Bílá laň by Vesna

Boisterous laugh. Wine poured in gallons painting cheeks nearly just as ruddy as the warmth of the torches illuminating the high halls of the Starkerbürg castle painted the walls. Rich aroma of butter, oils, meats and spices flowing in the air, clinking of the most precious silverware and a distant sound of flutes as the musicians tasked to raise the already high spirits could be barely heard over the noise of the feast.

Under the watchful eye of the gods or the only God it was now believed there was, a celebration of peace was raving, everything but peaceful and serene; loud and overwhelming instead, a whirlwind of emerald green threaded with gold welcomed by the steady colours of rich crimson and gold. An anniversary of the peace made between the kingdom of Asgard and Starkerbürg, a party led by Thor Odinson, the king of the lands, honouring the deal his late father King Odin had made right before his passing.

The high table with King Howard sitting at the centre, his son Anthony, the crown prince, by his right, along with the woman he was courting, Pepper of the Potts; on her right, King Howard’s daughter, Princess Morgana. On the king’s left, the guests of honour; King Thor, his wife Queen Jane, and his brother Prince Loki. Knights and warriors of the highest ranks, lords and ladies of nobility joining the celebrations, servants all but running around the hall to tend to everyone’s needs.

Then, a sound of a chalice hitting the stone floor, one that would have been met with more laughter, had it not fallen from Prince Anthony’s hand, suddenly scarily pale and trembling. Cold to touch too, a terrifying contrast to his burning forehead glistening with sweat. Body sliding down the chair, barely even faint frantic motions to his chest.

Brief, deafening silence.

The traitorous calm before a storm would hit and leave nothing but death and destruction in its wake.

Chaos.

Swords drawn.

A wave of threats of violence.

A thundering voice of the King of Starkerbürg himself.

Calls for the royal physician Banner.

Images of peace and joy shattered; a single inconspicuous calm face among the sea of others in the face of a tragedy in making.

“Poison. I cannot determine what kind as of yet. Carry His Royal Majesty to his chambers!” the physician called out, not bothered by the fact he was ordering around knights and other nobility. “At once! There is no time to spare!”

Knights practically tripping over each other to tend to their prince, to their future ruler, to their brother in arms even as by rank he stood high above them. Rustle and grunts; a whisper of skirts as the culprit slipped away in the midst of disarray and cries of fear for the prince and the future of both kingdoms alike.

To think that an attack at the crown happening during the presence of a party of another kingdom – one similarly strong – was but a coincidence, would have been foolishly naïve.

Oh there were no such coincidences; this was but the first step towards a war.

And the perpetrator would be treated with that in mind.

“Aconite, most likely,” sounded the verdict, the words solemn on the physician’s lips as he fearfully raised his gaze to the King hovering over his shoulder as he inspected the second most important patient of the kingdom at the royal chambers.

The dark note in Banner’s voice snapped Steven from the haze as he, Sir Barnes, Sir Barton and Sir Wilson stood along the walls of Anthony’s chambers, tall and menacing, but just as helpless as Prince Anthony’s betrothed seated in the corner.

Whatever poison the physician was talking about, it was not known to Steven; but the message written in Banner’s expression was clear as day and terrifying like a night to be spent in the woods with rumoured presence of ghouls.

Inevitable death.

It was true that King Howard Stark might have yet to comprehend, despite his long years of ruling his lands, that one might catch more flies with sugar than vinegar, gain more by threading his actions with kindness than by spitting threats of violence; but he was no fool. He perceived the solemnity of the announcement and received it with a shadow over his already distorted features.

“This… aconite, Banner. What kind of a poison is that?” he demanded, crossing his arms over his chest, but not bending. Not under the weight on the crown on his head, nor under the weight of the tidings he might be scared to receive. His face was but a mask of stern indifference; a silent warning to Banner to choose his next words carefully.

As if stating the patient’s condition was a choice, Steven thought darkly, his heart pounding painfully against his ribcage as he exchanged glances with his best friend standing by his side. When he looked back at the physician, he could see him swallow dryly even from the several feet distance. Yet, the brave man faced the King with his head held high and his expression filled with sorrow.

“A deadly kind, Your Royal Majesty,” Banner said slowly. Rage flashed on the King’s face, Steven’s stomach dropping at both the sight and the worst tidings brought. Death. “It is made from the nectar-filled blossoms or the tubers of the Aconitum lycoctonum flower. There is… no cure known to man.”

A sniffle sounded in the corner of the room, completely ignored except for Sir Barton’s compassionate glance towards the woman who was on the brink of despair at the mere thought of the man she had clearly already learned to love leaving this world forever.

The King beckoned to the guards standing by the door, making them instantly step forward with their spears ready, heading for Banner menacingly.

Steven’s feet twitched as he wanted to step forward to protect the physician, outrage rising at the injustice even as fear twisted his stomach.

Sir Barnes brushed his hand discreetly to stop him.

Steven gritted his teeth, but stayed put for now, watching the scene unfold with disdain.

Sir Barnes was correct in one thing: Anthony being poisoned and having his life hanging on a thread was horrible enough, and rash decisions and actions such as standing up to the King would only make it worse.

A raging man was an unwise man; and the King was only a man too, even as he compared himself to various deities and had nearly as much power as them – which only rendered him more dangerous. There was no point in scaring the physician to death or even hurting him, but such was the King’s power. Such was his God-given right to punish whoever as he pleased. It mattered little that Banner could barely be blamed for-

-for the crown prince’s impending death, apparently.

“Then I advise you, Banner, to find one fast,” King Howard sneered as the guards stood behind the physician now. “Otherwise, you shall meet the same fate as whoever of Asgard dared to try and rob me of my son.”

The guards grabbed the man’s shoulders and Steven’s hand instinctively went for his sword again; and he was not the only one. Still, the knights stood, hesitant to disobey their King even in the face of the glaring injustice, fighting an inner battle between honour and goodness of heart and the oath they had taken. Their loyalty was to the kingdom and the King represented it most of all, after all; even if he seemed to threaten it the most of all, too, at the moment.

Well, not on Steven’s watch.

“Wait!” he called out as he stepped forward, earning a hard glare from the King himself that should have told him to keep quiet and fall in line, but he could not. Not even for Bucky’s audible sigh behind him. Not when-

“Is there anything we can do for him as of now, is what we are trying to ask,” Sir Wilson spoke up before Steven could, moving to stand next to him.

Steven took a deep breath as his gaze flickered to his comrade, finding his face arranged in a carefully crafted humbleness – as it should be in the face of the ruler even when he was addressing the physician.

Banner’s words were kind, his voice firm and regretful.

“I am afraid there isn’t, good Sir.”

“The Royal Guard and all the knights have a clear mission given by the crown, Sir Wilson,” the King barked as he gestured for the physician to be dragged away, the poor man allowing it without a protest. King Howard’s gaze fell on his son’s pale face as he lied on the bed with nothing but soundless whimpers on his lips, before he snapped back to the four knights present. “Arrest all servants and nobility of Asgard. I shall have the King and his brother for myself. And should my son meet his forefathers, I shall have their heads on a spike by tomorrow.”

With those words, he turned on his heel and stepped out, his leave abruptly followed by Anthony’s wife-to-be rushing to her betrothed’s side, cheeks damp with tears.

Steven regarded the scene unfolding, frozen with horror and unease greater than anyone.

He feared the death of his friend, naturally, as they had just dragged the one single person with any chance of curing Anthony in the whole kingdom away from his bedside.

But Steven feared a lot more deaths too. Should Prince Anthony die, King Howard would unleash pure hell on Asgard and as a consequence, on all Starkerbürg as well.

All the knights knew that; everyone knew that. They all had a heavy feeling in their stomach at the mere thought, their feet slow and unwilling as they left the chambers one by one. Yet, Steven’s heart was heavier.

The thought had occurred to him when he had wondered what exactly the King was expecting from Banner.

To turn back time so the prince had never got poisoned?

To pray to the gods for a miracle?

To perform a miracle himself and cure what was considered uncurable?

The last idea had squeezed his heart in an icy fist, nausea clawing up his throat.

He knew someone who could achieve things as close to a miracle as possible in this realm. He had felt such miracle in his own blood, tissue and cells; he had felt the wonders strong magic was capable of when in the hands of the kind-hearted. He was still breathing solely because of it; and he knew the person who could achieve this closely, intimately even, mind, body and soul, the depth of the goodness of her heart.

Perhaps you would be able to replicate the feat of saving Steven from certain death.

Perhaps your magic was powerful enough to save thousands lives by saving one. Powerful enough to prevent a war.

But hope and miracles were not to be trifled with. Magic was not to be trifled with. Being seen practising magic meant a definite death sentence.

But would it? If it saved the future king’s life?

Surely, he couldn’t risk it; he couldn’t risk your life. Of all the things he had seen in his life, of all the things he had ever had the fortune to hold, you were the most precious one to him. If he brought you here, he could lose you. He could lose you, by his own hand no less, and that would be the highest price to pay for peace he did not even know would settle or not in the end.

No.

That was the one price he couldn’t pay. He’d much rather pay with his own life – but not yours. Gods, never yours.

But if you only could… knew a potion, could do anything at all…

As he marched with his comrades to arrest the innocent – for it could not be the work of all Asgardians at once – his jaw was tense, the dilemma occupying all his thoughts, feeling like it might tear him in half.

Until it hadn’t.

If he did nothing, the war was be inevitable. If he did nothing, he would lose you anyway.

A raging man was a dangerous man and King Stark would burn the world in the wake of his anger and grief, heedless of whoever would burn with it.

Steven stopped dead in his tracks, Sir Barnes nearly colliding with him as a result.

“Steve, what the-“

“I must go,” Steven said in a hushed voice, swiftly changing direction; or attempting to. Sir Barnes’ hand was quick to grab onto his elbow, stopping him, heedless of other knights continuing their path.

“Steve, what in heavens do you mean by that?”

“I must fetch someone. I believe she could help.”

Sir Barnes bewilderment would perhaps be almost comical had it not been for the dread pooling cold in Steven’s gut.

“…she? What—the woman you have been sneaking off to see?” Sir Barnes enquired, causing a startled and utterly confused expression to appear on Steven’s face, a small alarmed sound pushing past the man’s lips despite his effort to remain composed.

Hold on, hold on-- Bucky knew?!

The look Steven received back was unimpressed at best – of course Bucky knew. He knew Steven almost better than he knew himself.

“Save the surprise for another day. How could she possibly help? Is she a physician’s assistant? Or even an apprentice for some insane reason?”

Had Steve had the capacity, he’d glare at Bucky for the offensive tone with which he had asked the question; however, he did not have it and in the brief moment he spent pondering, he realized that Bucky was not opposed to the idea itself. It was simply the ways of Starkerbürg: to try and take a woman as a physician’s apprentice was insane indeed. King had the God-given right to appoint physicians – and King Howard would certainly never approve of a female one.

But that didn’t matter, because that was not who you were.

“She’s… she is a healer.”

“A healer?” Sir Barnes echoed pointedly, doubt colouring his words. “What does than even mean? We do not have time for this.”

Steven huffed, trying to tug his arm free from Sir Barnes’ grasp as his impatience grew along with the number of doubts whether it was ever a good idea to consider your aid; but there were no options. No time to search for them. No time to waste and no time for finesse. He needed to go and he needed Bucky to understand – and more than that.

“She saved my life, Bucky. Back when I fell from the crags into the river… when you thought I was dead-“

“You must have been lucky, fell into deep water. You had superficial injuries. This is a poison. One the best physician of the court claims to have no antidote for.”

Steven swallowed thickly, the heaviest of feelings in his stomach as he chose to reveal his greatest secret as to make a point and be released to act before it’d be too late. “Bucky, I had much more than superficial injuries. She… she helped then. She might be able to help now, but… I will need your help with protecting her should it come to it.”

Bucky looked at Steve as if he had just grown a second head, glancing around nervously as guards and knights alike kept passing them, casting strange looks at them for their stillness. Sir Barnes lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper.

“Are you saying you were wounded much worse and yet she was able to tend to you? In such short time that you were missing then? And that she might be able to help here, now, with a poison that has no known cure?” Sir Barnes demanded hastily, bewildered and clearly irritated. “Are you hearing yourself, Steven? What kind of a healer would she have to be to-“

The almost sardonic voice suddenly fell silent, all blood draining from Sir Barnes’ face when the horrifying realization finally dawned to him. His hand fell limp, finally releasing Steven’s arm.

“Steve, this is not a subject for joking.”

Steven swallowed heavily, heart thundering in his chest, blood pounding in his temples. He shouldn’t have told – but he had to. He had to, right? Bucky needed to understand-

He sighed quietly, whole body strung tight in expectation of his friend exploding in rage – rage he had no time for.

“I am not joking. And you are right, we are losing precious time, I should-”

The sudden grip on Steven’s his shoulder, appearing as to stop him from leaving, was much more brutal than the hold on his elbow had been, fingers digging into flesh even over the layers of clothing.

“You— have you been… lying with a--”

Steven’s voice was quiet, but as sharp and dangerous as the sword resting in the sheath on his hip. “Choose your words carefully, Bucky. That is the woman I love and owe my life to. I would die for her, and I would not have been standing here had she not healed me.”

“That could be exactly what she wants you to think!” Sir Barnes sputtered. Steven fought the urge to roll his eyes – the absurdity of such statement was glaring.

“Oh for heavens-- I might be a fool sometimes, but I am not an idiot-”

“Debatable!” Sir Barnes whispered as madly as if he was in fact yelling. “As you’re proving it this very moment!”

Steven shook his head, the feeling in his gut growing more gnawing by the second, every frantic beat of his heart feeling like a waste of precious time.

“Bucky, you said it yourself – we do not have time for this! I must go. I will get her, but… please. Help me protect her if the King is blind to the fact she uses--- it to do good.”

Sir Barnes simply stared back, the halls empty by now as much as his gaze, however inquiring.

The grip on Sir Rogers’ arm loosened.

Silence stretched. Precious second ticked by, grains of sand in hourglass no one could turn back falling; and with each and every one, Steve’s stomach tightened further with creeping horror.

Surely his most precious, most loyal friend, having been standing by his side since childhood, would not abandon him now? Surely he would not betray him in moments that might be deciding his fate, the fate of his beloved, of the whole kingdom?

“Bucky, please. I swear-- I’m begging you. I need to-- I need to protect her. At any cost.”

“What of your sword?” Sir Barnes asked dully, appearing indifferent to Steven’s desperate pleas.

What of your knighthood? Are you willing to give up that, if you are forced to leave in the darkness of the night and never return to bring your beloved to safety? Are you willing to leave the path of the honorary knight to become a lawless fugitive?

The smile which found its way to the corners of Steve’s lips was soft; sad and torn, for it was the greatest honour to serve, to protect, to help. He had been and always would be grateful for the rare chance he had got.

But there was no greater blessing of the gods themselves than you having entered his life and taking it by the most beautiful of storms. He loved you. He loved you more than anything and anyone in this world and that was what he would not even dream of giving up.

He didn’t respond with words; and yet, the exasperation on his closest friend’s face told him he did not have to. Sir Barnes understood from Steven’s expression alone. He always had.

“Gods, Steven Grant of Rogers, of all stunts you could have pulled to get yourself hanged, you truly had to go and chose the most foolish one. My God- Steven…”

Most foolish one? Echoed in Steven’s head, the words absurd. No. The most gorgeous one, the purest one, the most blessed, he allowed himself to muse. The most honourable one too, no? Love. Where was justice, if love, the purest emotions of all, was considered a crime? Did the new religious teachings not speak of love being kind, patient, knowing no dishonour and wrongs?

That was how he loved you. Wholly and entirely, kindly, patiently, even if passionately.

It was only then when Steven snapped from his haze and finally noticed a trace of hurt on Sir Barnes’ face when it occurred to him why Bucky had taken so long to respond. He was cross with Steven; but not as much for the alleged crime, but for having kept it a secret. Keeping you a secret; the one closest to his heart, his beloved, hidden from the one person he had always trusted with anything.

“I’m sorry, Bucky. No one could know. She’s-- she is too precious. I had to protect her,” he explained softly, urgently. “And I still do. I will, with your help or without it. But… please.”

Sir Barnes continued to regard him, stunned into silence still, expression unreadable.

Then, he shook his head; what might seem as disagreement however, Steve recognized as resignation. He had known Bucky for too long to not be able to decipher which shake of a head was a no and which was an expression of indignation and regret at his own choice of a best friend.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

And with those words, Steve took his hasty leave, his minute relief drowned in the sea of worry when he sneaked into the stables to rush through the gates of the castle, claiming to be running a King’s errand.

Seeking his closeness the pretty white doe having sipped at love all despite her oath, she begged the forest spirits to let her go to follow her heart and its eternal song.

Light breeze caressing your hair like the tender fingers of your lover, brushing away a lose strand from your face. Gentle September sunrays of a late afternoon warming your cheeks, long leaves of grass tickling your ankles and your hands as you gathered brownwort, thyme and lady’s mantle, the smell almost too much despite its pleasant notes. Your hand instinctively laying over your belly as the reminder of why you were gathering these particular herbs blossomed in your mind anew, a smile settling on your face. It was not just the time of year blessing people with abundance of these flowers, a nature’s reminder the time was coming to bath in the blessed lake on the Autumn equinox; it was the sweet secret humming under your heart too, growing stronger and more beautiful by day – and slightly bittersweet for for now, it was only yours to keep, your beloved knight none the wiser.

Steven.

The very reason, you suspected, for the heavy feeling in your heart; the reason why none of the kind offerings of mother nature seemed to sooth a jittery feeling you had woken with up from your restless sleep. Unease had been crawling over your skin; a solemnity’s shadows, despite the beautiful weather and the joyful morning realisation that a barely noticeable bump was now showing on your body, a testament to the blessings of love.

The sky was beginning to colour with sunset with no clouds in sight; and yet, you could feel a storm coming, one you did not feel would be of the refreshing purifying kind. The air did not smell of rain; if you breathed in deeply, it reeked of the very death the wind seemed to whisper about in the tallest of birch trees. A warning; a witch’s intuition tuned to the finest hints of the gods of nature and forest spirits. You had tried to sooth yourself, coaxing yourself into peace by wondering if it perhaps was but a new future mother’s anxiety.

Yet, an instinct as old as time whispered to you to know better.

Which was why the wild stomping of hooves nearing your cabin should have not taken you by surprise. But it did.

You rose from your crouch so fast your head span, gathered flowers falling from your hands at the brief faint sensation; you steadied yourself just as Steven’s horse came into view, slowing into a walk as not to startle you or crush all the blossoms on the meadow.

The silent thank you to the gods for seeing your love alive and well left your lips without prompting, followed by your spine tingling with a shudder of power at its base.

Almost as if the gods blessed you for your genuine gratitude and gifted you with strength. Strength you shall no doubt need, for Steven might be living and breathing, dismounting his mare in a thousand-times practised manner, breathtaking as ever, but the distress on his face and the tension of his wide shoulders told you those shoulders carried the weight of the world at the moment.

Feet waking with motion, you met him halfway as he rushed to you, his arms quick to embrace you lovingly but so tight all air left your ribcage for long moments. Steven’s heart thundered against your ear as you hid your face against his chest. Fresh air had washed his clothes of most smells, but sweat and wine and rich spices still enveloped your senses, a tell-tale signs of the feast which he had told you about being interrupted by something vicious.

Yet, you took precious moments of simply breathing your lover in, basking in the comfort his arms offered no matter the circumstance.

He nuzzled his face in your hair, his chest expanding with a generous inhale, a steadying breath which made his heart race faster, as if attempting to outrun the very storm you had felt arriving.

You ran your hands down his broad back, feeling your own heart leaping into your throat as the silence between you, often so sweet and comforting, stretched ominously.

“Steven… love,” you whispered, attempting to shift in his embrace, only achieving his hold growing firmer, his muscles almost shaking with effort not to let go.

Oh Steven… What a terrible feat had been laid upon him?

“What has happened?”

Finally releasing your body, his hands were quick to cradle your face instead, achingly gentle, even as his eyes roamed your face wordlessly, brimming with so much emotion it stirred your unease further.

“Rytier moj?”

Steven’s face softened minutely, thumbs stroking your cheekbones as tenderly as butterfly wings despite the power – or the lack of it – in his grip.

“My love…”

Lips curling in a tiny smile, you mirrored Steven’s affection, reaching to settle your palm against his cheek, fingers of your other hand carding through his hair; your heart fluttered when he leaned into your touch, a wavering breath escaping his lips before they pressed against your palm to sooth the scratch of his beard against your skin.

Despite the dulcet image he made, eyes fluttering close for a blissful moment of nothing but love shared, you felt his body pulse with anxious urgency seemingly seeping into yours through your fingertips.

“I did not sleep well…” you confessed, his already pursed lips turning down. “I had a heavy feeling in me. Now I know the gods had not warned me simply for their own whims. What’s happened?”

Steven opened his eyes again; with a single caress of the breeze, he straightened, his aura of a knight – a fierce protector, a loyal friend, a humble determined servant – returning with its full force as did his worry.

“I need your help.”

A simple plea.

A simple answer.

“Always, rytier moj. Anything,” you promised.

One would expect relief to fill your lover’s features; instead, dread twisted them into a frown of dismay. Almost as if he had been hoping for your rejection.

Why?

The whisper of death among the trees grew louder, haunting, sending such a shudder through your body not even your lover’s warmth could hope to protect you from it, another urgent question scratching at the back of your mind.

Death, the trees seemed to whisper.

Whose death?

“Oh bosorka moja…”

Not Steven’s. Never. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

And not your child’s. You’d claw a throat open with your bare hands had anyone tried to take them away. Take her away. You had dreamed two nights prior, dreamed of a girl with Steven’s beautiful eyes and your hair caressed by the wind, her laughter filling the air as he sat her on his shoulders and she placed the daisy crown on his head-

The image had been so full of hope, so bright, so full of promise; it battled the current scent of death fiercely, one blending into another, and it felt like you were stood in the middle.

Your choice. Your power.

Your victory; or your loss.

You gulped, your gentle hold on Steven’s face growing shaky; with fear or the weight of responsibility, you weren’t sure.

“What is it, love? You are worrying me… come in. Tell me what weights down your-“

“Prince Anthony has been poisoned,” he said at last.

The whisper of the wind seemed to turn into a screech of a gale, even as the tree leaves and grass barely rustled.

The Prince… was he the one whose death you felt impending? It must have been.

In a split second, it became so clear why Steven was so shaken.

An impending death of his brother in arms. Of someone whom he served and appreciated.

Of the future ruler; quite possibly caused by the attempts of the party of Asgard.

An act of war.

Should Prince Anthony die, there would be no stopping at one death. Devastating number of lives could be lost. Including Steven’s.

No. Not on your watch. Not as long as you walked this realm.

But could you stop it?

Stood in the middle. Your choice. Your power.

Could you prevent a war?

Your mind was set into a whirl, various herbs and remedies for different poisonings refreshed in your mind.

“Do you know which poison it was?” you asked urgently, dropping your hands; and confused as why Steven’s remained firmly on your face, his expression speaking of pain greater than before. “Steven, love. What are his troubles? I can send a potion, pass it as a remedy from a physician-”

“Burning feeling in his forehead, weakness of muscles, trembling, cold sweat… he fainted and could not be woken up, only for a brief moment. He had trouble speaking, began to shake, fainted again...” Steven listed slowly, his unease growing with every word.

And so did yours.

Determination bled out from your body drop by drop, replaced by dread, the very weakness your lover was talking about as if settling in your own muscles and bones.

“The physician believes it might have been... aconite?” he added.

You had figured as much, seemingly endless moments before Steven spoke the dreaded word.

Aconite.

The worst nightmare of all living things; the deadliest daydream of those who meant harm and would not stop until their enemy released their last breath.

Death, screeched the breeze in the crowns of the birch trees; the yew trees, the very symbol of passing, joining in.

Death. War. Death.

Your power. Your victory. Your loss.

Your voice shook more frantically than young aspen leaves in the wind.

“Steven… aconite is deadly. I have no potion or salve for this. There is no cure-”

“That is what physician Banner said.”

“But then what…”

Your voice trailed off, words stuck in your throat, air stolen from your chest. A lighting from clear skies could struck you at the very moment and you would barely take notice of such.

It all made sense now. You having lost sleep. The whispers of death. The assumed shiver of power you shall no doubt need. And at last, Steven’s almost palpable dismay when you had said you’d help. That you’d do anything.

He had hoped you’d help.

He was terrified of it all the same.

You could feel blood draining from your face, rushing past your ears; unspeakable horror and determination swept you like the non-existent gale in the tree crowns.

“Steven…”

His grip on your face grew firmer, unsteady but urgent, his forehead pressed against yours as his eyes slid shut, his whisper a frantic promise, a confession and a prayer at once.

“I know. Believe me, my love, I know, and I have never been more scared of anything in my whole life,” he said huskily, barely audible over the wild thundering of your heart, the shaky sound of your quick breaths, even as the rest of the world faded into background, all noise ceasing. Or perhaps even the sparrows forgot how to sing, struck by fear for their life.“I would have not asked this of you if I did not fear that Anthony’s death would unleash a war with Asgard and might destroy us all… and if I did not believe I could protect you.”

“Steven-“

A thumb over your lip, gently pressing to silence your protest, Steven guided you to look up to his eyes, every word falling from his lips an oath signed by his own blood.

“Bosorka moja… I shall protect you, no matter the cost. You must know I would lay my life for you. I will, should it come to it. As long as you are safe.”

Consumed by adoration and terror at once, you slipped from Steven’s hold, shaking your head.

He had not the slightest idea what he was speaking of, the reckless fool.

He had no idea.

And he had no idea whom he would be leaving should he deliver on his terrible promise.

“These words are not nearly as comforting as you believe them to be! How would we-- how would I live without you?” you lamented, feeling the fire of power and indignation burn inside of you, chasing the fear away for several beats of your heart. “And I-- I am not even sure I can heal him.”

“You healed me,” Steven offered kindly, encouraging, confusion and the softest trace of hurt at you having escaped his touch twisting his face. He had no idea. He had no idea at all. “You said I was at the brink of death myself-“

“You were,” you spat, not appreciating the reminder – not of his injuries, nor of your past recklessness, as grateful as you were for the latter, not a single regret in your mind for having risked it all to save the handsome stranger with goodness etched into his very soul, having shone so bright it had outshined your doubts and fear for your life. But this was different. So much circumstance had changed. “But I was… I had faith in your soul, saw your good heart. I believed to be safe from you should I be too weak to protect myself after I casted my spells, and for that, I was able to pour all my magic into the healing. And I-- I was much more careless with my power then… “

You made a pause, inhaling slowly, gathering courage in the face of Steven’s features twisting further with distress.

“But Steven… that was before. I-- before we-“

“What is it, bosorka moja? Before what?”

Your lower lip trembled, regret lacing the soft touch of your fingertips to his face.

This was not how you wished for him to find out. You had told him before, erased his memory to ease his conscience and to prepare for the right moment, a moment fit for such joyful tidings; but much like him, having rushed here asking for help despite the unspeakable risks, you had no other option.

You had no choice.

You had no time.

The deep-sea blue with a forest green shade of his irises brimmed with emotion, tenderness and silent question.

With a lump in your throat, you dropped your hands again, curling them around your middle as if to protect the secret and save it for a reverent moment your love and lover – and your child – would have deserved.

Steven regarded your stance with dread visibly climbing up his throat. You could see it in his eyes, the sudden uncertainty, the questions written in his eyes growing frantic and painful.

Why had you stepped back from him? Why had you evaded his touch? Why did you seem taken by sorrow? What secret had you been keeping from him? For you must have had some. You must have not told him something crucial – and in a dark time like this, it shall come to light.

You appeared so shaken; you appeared scared. Of something he had failed to protect you from?

Or of his reaction to the revelation?

You chose your words carefully, speaking them slowly, even though you could feel him hanging onto every syllable.

“It is not only me anymore who needs to be protected.”

Steven did not understand; that much was clear from his expression, from the step he took closer to you only for you to take a step back, etching his hurt deeper into his face.

“I… I do not understand, my love. Do you have—do you know of someone who could help you? Do they need protection too?”

The they tasted of poison much bitterer than aconite; disbelief and profound pain.

You could almost hear it, the absurd questions he seemed to be asking himself. Was there… was there someone else? Someone else who had earned your love more fiercely than he had? More deserving?

The way your love remained hidden, the distance he still had to keep, laid heavy in his mind, always, now feeding his doubt; his fear that someone else now occupied the space he had so selfishly taken up in your heart.

But had only been here mere days ago, yes? Surely you could have not--- you would have not… or had you? No. That wasn’t possible. You were the kindest most loving person he had ever met, loyal to a fault – and he was blessed to be yours, to be loved, unconditionally, more than he deserved for keeping you his little secret.

You could not read thoughts; but Steven’s always seemed to be laid bare in front of you to card through. Betrayal and resignation all at once, jaw tight to mask his hurt, to hide the very doubt you read so clearly. Doubt, but not of you; of him. He had always carried it with him, the guilt of not providing for you as he imagined he should for his beloved.

Doubt, crystal clear in his gaze. It was possible, was it not? The most wonderful woman he had ever met, finally fed up, the goblet of your patience finally having overflowed, deciding to find a man worthy of you, able to take care of you, truly, one you were willing to-

You could not bear his mind screaming anymore, even as you had not heard a single word, a single thought, all of it but achy questions expressed by his gaze alone.

“No, Steven, I do not--- I merely cannot only think of myself now,” you said softly, searching for words to reveal the secret at last, not, not wanting to and craving it all the same. “I… I need to protect us.”

His shoulders sagged, doubt and heartache erased at once, tenderness at your worry for him melting into his smile.

“Do not fret, bosorka moja. I can hold my own.”

The faint smile in the corner of your mouth hurt, tears burning in your eyes.

“I know, rytier moj… and yes, I meant us, but I--- I also meant us.”

The arm you had curled around your middle shifted. Your palm spread pointedly over your belly as you met his gaze with hesitance and silent hope; for as much as you dreaded revealing the source of your worst fear, the tidings were still joyful. And you hoped with the entirety of your heart that Steven would accept them as such, much like the first time.

But first, he had to comprehend them.

Several rushed beats of your heart it took him; but then he finally did.

Suddenly, it was his turn to stand still and rigid as if a lightning from the perfectly clear skies struck him. And it might have as well.

His voice was barely louder than a breath, hoarse, laced with careful hope despite the glaring truth.

“You—we- are we-?”

A crystal-clear memory of those being the very words he had spoken the first time entered your mind, a single tear spilling over; the awe and reverence on his face mirrored his expression all the same as you confirmed.

“Yes.”

“You are with a child? My child?”

It would have been amusing, the questions, if you hadn’t been on a brink of hysteria and hadn’t there been a metaphorical sword hanging above your heads while you indulged in revealing the sweetest secret there was between lovers.

“Yes.”

Countless grains of sand in hourglass fell, Steven simply observing you, his gaze feasting on the entirety of you with newfound emotion that touched your very soul and made it shiver with delight. He observed you with such adoration and devotion you could only imagine he would show to a deity descending to walk the Earth.

And then he was surging forward, falling on his knees in front you, one hand on your hip, the other wrapping around your lower back to keep you close as he laid his forehead on your belly, shaky, slow and careful; nothing short of reverent. Despite the circumstance, all the tears prickling in your eyes found their release – every inch of your body sang, feeling Steven’s love for both you and the life he had a generous hand in creating.

“Oh bosorka moja… láska moja,” he muttered into the fabric before he looked up, hesitant fingers slipping under, to feel the very bump you had only noticed today. His lips parted in mute awe, eyes turning glassy with sheer delight and wonder at the miracle.

You allowed yourself another moment of basking in his love; feeling the delight spreading through every vein, through every bone and nerve, all the way to your very core and source of power. Your hands found gentle purchase of Steven’s hair as his lips pressed to your belly.

But then, the inaudible crackle in the air brought you both from your reverie, the breeze screeching of death instead of new life returning.

There was no choice; dread filled your being along with a haunting whisper of opportunity from a voice speaking in tongues you barely understood and yet deciphered as guidance.

You must go. You must try. Despite the risks.

Stood in the middle. Your power. Your victory; your loss.

Your only hope and your possible doom.

“I shall try my best to help, even as I do not know if I will be able to. But Steven…” you addressed him softly, revealing one more piece, one more source of joy, “our little girl must remain safe at any cost.”

The hands sprawled around your middle twitched, a single tear escaping him as his eyes shone.

“Our--- a girl? How-“

“It is but a feeling,” you admitted, earning a brilliant smile which lasted too shortly.

You smiled tightly in return, a few more tears rolling down your cheeks as Steven’s hand softly caressed your barely-there bump again, butterflies seemingly to erupting in your stomach, your heart humming.

He rose to his feet with something in his eyes turning steely, his gentle voice once against taking on a heaviness of an oath.

“I will protect you both, even if it should be the last thing I will ever do.”

One wavering breath was all the luxury you granted yourself before springing into action, not allowing yourself to lament at the potential of death weaved into Steven’s promise. You could not afford any more distraction. The hourglass was unrelenting, rushing you.

“I know. We shall get going.”

You could feel his eyes on you, a mute confusion as you ruminated through the cabinets, the fire lit, a small pot placed on it, two handfuls of water, milk thistle, ginseng roots, and sprinkle of uncaria leaves added to the mix.

“You can sit down, love, I shall only complete the potion swiftly and we will be on our way,” you assured him, reaching for a pinch of turmeric to add.

Steven did not, in fact, sit down – if anything, you could feel him grow taller behind you, as if his growing bewilderment added an inch or two to his already impressive height. His stare was firmly set on you, a little burning and slightly insulting since you could almost hear his silent questioning of your sanity.

A potion? But you had said-

You looked over your shoulder briefly, your lover’s body nearer than expected, causing you to need to crane you neck a bit.

“No, there is no potion to neutralise the poison – but this remedy strengthens a body, aids it to fight off an infection and weakness,” you explained, expecting Steven’s face clearing, but not waiting for it do so, busying yourself with reading the mental list of ingredients, recalling every indispensable element. Milk thistle, ginseng, uncaria leaves, turmeric… ah. Yes. Where herbs were concerned, rare or common, that would be all. Only one last ingredient.

A gentle hand on your elbow stopped you as you were turning to the stack of knives, halting your movements tenderly but firmly. Blinking, you lifted your gaze to Steven’s face again, disconcerted by his unreadable expression.

“Is it… safe?”

Had it not been for the large distress he was in, the feeling oozing of him and adding to your own shakiness, had it not been for the tenderness of his touch, you’d feign a slap to chase his hand away at the almost silly question – and at the sudden doubt in your knowledge and power and your reign over it.

“Steven, love, my apologies for the bluntness, but Prince Anthony is on his deathbed, so I cannot very well hurt him further and I shall have you known that this very potion you have drunk yourself-”

“For you,” he clarified, two soft syllables in contrast to your slightly exasperated words, your voice falling silent as sweet worry reflected in his sky-blue irises. Despite the circumstance, your heart seared at the fussing, no matter how groundless and ironic. “I am asking whether it is safe for you and our… our child to prepare that. I know it may seem irrational given why I am here, but-“

It was, you had to admit. And yet. You spent a precious moment, precious grains of sand falling in the ominous hourglass above your heads, placing your palm over his hand, reassuring.

“It is perfectly safe, rytier moj… certainly no more dangerous than rushing to the castle, the very heart of the Kingdom, and attempt to save the prince using the most outlawed practice in these lands,” you added with an unsteady cheekiness, earning an exasperated glare; and a full body shudder he couldn’t hope to contain.

The same tremble ran through your body; and yet, the whisper for caution was overshadowed by a tingle of energy unknown, a wordless encouragement. Almost a haunting promise from the Fate itself that bravery shall be rewarded.

But if that were true, where would the ever-present whispers of death and upcoming end fit in the mosaic then?

Shaking your head as well as the overwhelmingly bewildering sensations off, you charmed a soft smile for your lover and love – for the father of your child, already caring so deeply for the life to be born out of your love – and let your hand fall, turning back to your work as stream began to fill the cabin.

One last ingredient; a life essence to help maintain life.

You cradled the handle of the blade carefully in your hand, turning your other palm against the tip; the knife was out of your hand before you could comprehend how, pressed flat to Steven’s thigh, shielded from your touch.

“I’m sorry. I--- is that necessary?” Steven asked with a painful edge to his voice, his continued concern causing your heart to tremble.

“Yes… it is but a drop of blood, my love, I promise. A speckle of life essence to maintain life.”

His frown deepened as you reached for the knife again, fingers brushing his soothingly as you grasped at the handle. So many emotions played over his features; hesitance, concern, guilt. He must have realised you had used your blood before to cure him before you had even learned his name, another sacrifice having been made aside from having left yourself completely vulnerable to him when you had drained your magic and body alike to bring him from the death’s doorstep where you had found him at.

Then, an almost shy question, as if he felt too bold to even suggest such heretic thought.

“Life essence… would mine suffice, then?”

Where his implication was shy – that his mere mortal, human blood could match yours, the blood of a born witch – his determination was not.

He met your eye, a brilliant satisfied sparkle lighting up his irises when he read the truth in your hesitant gaze.

“Yes… it would. But-“

Your knight offered his left palm outstretched, no further questions. The bottomless trust in his gesture and in his eyes caused a lump to grow in your throat; the mere idea of cutting him, even if it was to only be but a scratch, had ache sting deep within your ribcage.

“Are you cert-“

“Would you rather I lead the cut myself, love?” he asked, his voice tender upon your hesitance, understanding the action would cause you pain – as if you were to hurt yourself instead.

And you might as well.

Your hands were made to heal his wounds, not cause them; your hands were made to erase his aches, not bring them; your hands were made to love, not hurt.

Your read in his gentle gaze as he nearly read in yours: I despise the thought of hurting you, rytier moj; It is but alright, bosorka moja.

You shook your head.

“I-- no. I may do it. I apologize, we do not have time for-“

A hand grasping your jaw, soft lips silencing your apologies; your eyes fluttered close despite seeing right through the trick. You felt the pressure of his hand against the blade, the silent sound of protest earning you a deeper kiss, a softer caress of his lips against yours, tasting sweeter than summer breeze, so achingly tender.

“There you go, bosorka moja…”

With his retreat, Steven ran his thumb over your cheek, smiling; then, he moved his injured hand into yours, leading you above the pot.

Slightly dazed and exasperated still, you sighed and carefully squeezed his wound to indeed only spare a drop of his precious blood.

As you pressed your lips to his fingertips in a thank you, you let your healing power flow through your touch, closing the cut your body should have worn.

“This had better be the only blood spilled today,” you whispered; and prayed too. You met your Steven’s stormy gaze as the contents of the pot sizzled, sweet coppery aroma rising in the air.

“It will, bosorka moja. It will.”

He sealed the deal with a kiss, sweet and desperate and bruising.

And falling on deaf ears, whisper in the crowns of the birch trees, his and your words echoed the very same song.

Blood had better be spilled…

Today, today, today…It will, it will, it will…

Next part

Other headcanon and playlist

S.R. masterlist - contains other knight!Steve fics, independent of this universe

Complete masterlist

Endearments used: Rytier moj (My knight) Bosorka moja (Witch mine) Láska moja (Love mine)

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