You can also read my most recent works on Ao3 đ«¶đŒ
Kingdom Come: Deliverance 2
The Crack in The Armor: Jan ĆœiĆŸka x Female Reader
Warnings: Bit of angst (mostly the form of yearning), past sexual activities mentioned, objectifying women.
Of Duty and Desire: Jan ĆœiĆŸka x Female Reader
Warnings: Angst in the form of yearning, Dry Devil is ignored by everyone.
The Devil's Bet: Dry Devil x Female Reader
Warnings: Lots of "fucks" and "fucking", foul language.
The Widow's Aim: Kubyenka x Female Reader
Warnings: Mentions of death, killing animals.
Turncoat: Gules x Female Reader
Warnings: Forced physical contact, enemies-to-lovers, reader being very mean.
The Walls Have Ears: Henry x Female Reader
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, mentions of death, severe night terrors, PTSD, my poor boy Henry suffering.
Hands Off: Adder x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, obssession, Adder being a pervert, stolen clothes, male masturbation, wanking to stolen clothes (?), oral sex, teased smut, reader being clueless.
Monastery Red: Radzig Kobyla x Female Reader
Warnings: Old men being annoying to young ladies, Radzig being a smug mf, game spoilers.
A Game of Excuses: Hans Capon x Female Reader
Warnings: Reader is separated forcefully from her parents, mentions of depression and isolation, a bit of angst, reader is called a bitch.
Shingeki No Kyojin/Attack on Titan
The visit: Erwin Smith x Female Reader
Warnings: I wrote it with 16, haven't checked Grammar in forever, Injured Reader.
Hello! So I'm making this post both for myself (so I can keep track of all of your requests hehe) and for anyone who wants to send in a prompt. Of course, all of them are "x Reader".
Hi, there! Firstly, Iâm so sorry for disappearing. Right now my time is fully consumed by work, my Masters, and the fact that Iâm moving to another country in one month đ
However, I PROMISE I still have on my mind writing, itâs just that atm itâs a bit too chaotic and busy for me to do so, especially because for me the utmost quality in my fanfics is super important. Aaaand, of course I still need to fulfill the Voyta request.
Once again, iâm sorry for the delayment đ«¶đŒ
Can we get yearning characters pleaseeee⊠I love when the match my freak but can the match my yearning
I hope the one I just posted serves your petition <3
đŹ 4  đ 2  â€ïž 6 · Can we get zizka yearning for a noble lady he canât have plsssâŠ. She also secretly likes him back
Y'all shall ask, and I w
Can we get zizka yearning for a noble lady he canât have plsssâŠ. She also secretly likes him back
Y'all shall ask, and I would provide.
I got soooo many requests for yearning that I felt the pressure đ, so I truly hope I lived up to the expecations. I got a little bit carried away with this one, trying to build up the tension. I decided to take this prompt with ĆœiĆŸka because it ALSO HAD YEARNING, GUYS ARE WE OKAY IN THIS FANDOM??
Nonetheless, I really hope y'all enjoy this one, since it lacks dialogue because I focused more on the emotional aspect.
Again, sorry for the delay. My beta reader and I are so busy with both studies and work, that writing, editing and posting requires a bit longer to do so.
Summary:Â When ĆœiĆŸka agrees to escort Lord Ruthardâs eldest daughter to Raborsch, he expects nothing more than duty, but the quiet, sharp-eyed noblewoman unsettles him in ways no blue-blooded bastard ever had. Through mud, blood, and a bandit ambush, an unspoken tension grows between them, one neither dares acknowledge.
Warnings: Angst in the form of yearning, Dry Devil is ignored by everyone.
Characters: Jan ĆœiĆŸka x Female Reader
Word count: 4.4k
The gif belongs to @kcdeliverance
If you'd like to read more, here is my materlist and my Ao3
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ĆœiĆŸka never indulged much in noble company. Lords and ladies were a different breed, softened by warm halls and cozy beds, born to sit in judgment from chairs they had not built nor deserved. He had seen too much of war and the cost of menâs pride to put his trust in those born into titles. And yet, when Lord Ruthard had asked him and Hynek to bring his eldest daughter to Raborsch, ĆœiĆŸka found himself agreeing. It was just a job, another step towards the cause, nothing more.
Of course, Henry had told the Pack everything there was to know about you: the eldest of three siblings, basically working as Sir Kunzlinâs right hand whereas your little sister, Rosa, was the hand of steel, all since your brotherâs death during the conquest of Kuttenberg. Henry had met you when he had to collaborate with your family to get to Capon, and the young lad described you as a quiet force, stating that the way to earn Lord Ruthardâs trust was to obtain yours first.
He reminded himself of acting as befits your presence if he wished to be in Sir Kunzlinâs good grace. Then he saw you waiting in the courtyard of your familyâs estate in Kuttenberg, back straight as every noble woman should, hands clasped in front of you, your dress a sober traveling garment that still spoke of your status. You greeted him first, your courtesy exact, your gaze sharp and assessing, and for a heartbeat too long you did not look away, trying to absorb as much information as possible from the man that was supposed to escort you. There was no disdain in your face, none of the veiled disgust he had seen in other noblewomen when they looked at lower class folks. You stared at him as though he was an equal, not a curiosity. He did not know why that sat so heavily in his chest, Captain Jan ĆœiĆŸka of Trotznov didnât need a high bornâs approval.
He kept his distance when you set out, riding slightly ahead, his eye sweeping the tree line for threats, but every so often he caught himself glancing back to where you rode beside Dry Devil, who was shamelessly telling you obscenities. Much to his surprise, you did not flinch nor backed down from Hynekâs horrible chat, you remained completely unaffected by all, and did not complain even once about the pace or the mud either. Sometimes, he found himself wondering about what you could possibly be thinking, since there were instances that gave the impression you were dissociating. When you spoke, your words were calculated, controlled. You asked about the state of the reign, the likelihood of bandits, where they hid. It seemed as if you were assigned the task of figuring everything out, to do the job that would have been your brotherâs. ĆœiĆŸka quietly understood the weight of your responsibilities, and couldnât find himself to pity you considering that would be more of an insult than compassion towards you. Dry Devil provided short answers, sometimes drifting from the topic of your interest, and ĆœiĆŸka stayed quiet âbut more than once, you directed a question to him, and he found himself answering in his rough, clipped way. Jan didnât understand why, but the imperious necessity of establishing distance from you hammered in his heart. You listened and absorbed every word, not politely, not as though humoring a soldier, but intently, as if what he said mattered.
He told himself not to think about it.
The journey would take at least one day and a half, so when the Sun started to disappear from the horizon, it was clear that establishing a camp was required. That night, when everything was settled and the fire burned low, he took the first watch. He leaned against a fallen tree, his mace across his lap, and kept his eye on the darkness. You sat by the fire, hair loosening from its braid as you looked intently at the flames. When Dry Devil bedded down and you stayed near the fire a while longer, as though lost in thought, he told himself he was only watching you to keep you safe. He gave his word to Lord Ruthard that he would take you to Raborsch, thatâs all there was to it. It was his duty. But when you shifted and the firelight traced the line of your cheek, his heart stuttered. He looked away too quickly, muttering under his breath like a man caught at something shameful.
When the first rays of Sun beamed through the branches, the group collected everything and began the journey once again, time on your heels. The road turned dangerous in the early hours, both of the men knew that. You were halfway through a narrow pass when bandits came, four men, ragged and hungry, weapons dull but deadly all the same. One of them bastards pulled you fiercely from your horse, throwing you against the floor with a force that wasnât needed whatsoever against a woman. The fight was quick and brutal. ĆœiĆŸka crushed oneâs arm with a clean, heavy swing from his mace, and sent another sprawling in the mud. Hynek fought the third and the fourth that had laid hands on you. When it was done, ĆœiĆŸka turned to find you kneeling on the sand, a fallen sword clutched in both hands, your knuckles white. You had not needed to use it, and probably didnât know how to yield it either, but you had not screamed, either. Your gaze found his across the churned earth, and for a moment it felt as though the whole world had gone silent. His heart pounded intensely against his rib cage. Something raw passed between you ânot gratitude, not fear, but recognition. He wanted to approach you, relieve you of the sword in your hands, tell you that you had been braver than the peasants he had hired to save Dry Devilâs arse from getting executed. Instead, he cleaned his weapon and turned away, with such a heaviness in his soul that for a split of a second he felt dizzy. The need to comfort you was hefty, but his bitter voice told him that he needed to back off. Why though, he didnât know.Â
You felt an intense disappointment when Hynek was the one to put you back on your feet. It felt absurd, really, how intensely you craved for that cold bastard of ĆœiĆŸka to check if you were alright. There was something about him that triggered you, not in the way most men of his kind did. A quiet determination and sense of duty seemed to follow him wherever he went, even when fighting. Most of the nobles you were forced to interact with didnât seem to care about anything but their own skins, only cherishing groschen and status. Jan, on the other hand, seemed loyal to whatever his responsibilities were. Nowadays, barely nothing was sacred in the war-ravaged Bohemia, maybe that was why his firm stance on his assignments struck you with such intensity.   Â
Dry Devil whistled, bringing you back to reality, indicating it was time to move once again. ĆœiĆŸka remained silent, his jaw tight as he wiped the last remnant of blood from his weapon. His eyes kept sliding back to you despite himself âto the way your hands still shook faintly as you brushed the dirt from your skirts, to the thin smear of mud on your knees, to the stubborn set of your chin as you mounted your horse again without help this time. You were pale, but you did not complain, did not tremble once you were seated. He told himself he was glad for that, that it meant you would not slow them down, but something hot and inexplicable twisted in his chest all the same. He wondered about how much death you had witnessed throughout the course of your existence, considering your younger brother had died not so long ago. ĆœiĆŸka shook his head, discarding any unnecessary trails of thought. Â
For the rest of the morning, he found himself glancing back at you too often. Every time he did it, he got angry at himself and bit the insides of his cheek. He needed to refrain from such nonsense before anyone got hurt due to his negligence. The rational part within told him to focus on the road ahead, the sounds of the forest, but each time your horseâs pace faltered, or you shifted in the saddle, his heart lurched as though the world might come apart again. He hated the feeling. Distraction was dangerous. And yet, he could not stop cataloguing the faint furrow between your brows, the way you held yourself a little too stiffly, as though bracing against memory or fear. He thanked the Lord that Dry Devil was too busy telling stupid stories for him to notice the awkward behaviour of his friend.
When they stopped at a small brook to water the horses, he stayed apart at first, watching the treeline while Hynek filled his wineskin. But when he turned back, you were kneeling by the river, washing the dirt from your hands. Your reflection shimmered in the liquid ripples, and for a moment ĆœiĆŸka thought he saw something almost unbearably soft pass over your face, the kind of expression a person wore when they were alone and no one was watching. Then you glanced up, catching him staring, and the look vanished. He would never have it admitted out loud, but it hurt him how quickly that expression had vanished the second your eyes met his. He should have looked away, he knew it. Instead, he held your gaze a moment too long. Long enough for something to spark low in his chest, unbidden and unwelcome.
The air was heavy with the promise of rain. Hynek, unfazed as ever, went to grab some herbs that, according to him, made water taste like liquor, grumbling good-naturedly about the state of the world and how soberness only made it worse. You stood quietly, hands folded on your stomach, observing the scenery. ĆœiĆŸka kept to the edges of the clearing, as though the circle of light was forbidden ground. Every time he thought of him being the first person to take you that far away from your home, something inside him tightened until it almost hurt. The feeling of privilege crept on his insides, and he felt immensely foolish about it.
When Hynek finally appeared with a crooked smile, the journey began once more. He moved closer to you before he could think better of it, Dry Devil ahead of the two of you and him riding close to you this time. It was close enough to see the delicate lines of your face but far enough that he could still pretend he was only keeping watch. You glanced at him, the Sun rays catching briefly in your eyes, but said nothing.
âDoes it always feel like this afterwards?â you asked at last, your voice low, almost hesitant.
ĆœiĆŸkaâs brow furrowed. âLike what?â
âLike the world is too quiet, meaningless all of a sudden.â
He stared into Hynekâs back for a moment, feeling the weight of your words settle in his chest. âAye,â he said after a moment. âIt does.â
You did not answer, but your gaze stayed on him. He felt it like a touch, like the brush of a hand against the back of his neck. He had been looked at by many people in his life âwith fear, with respect, with hatredâ but never quite like this. However, if he was supposed to describe how your stare was, he would find that no word could really provide the emotion behind it. For the longest time, ĆœiĆŸka had felt like a weapon for nobles, despite putting himself in that position to defend Margrave Prokopâs interests. But he had to admit to himself that it felt refreshing to be witnessed as a man. Especially by you.
It was almost dusk when the three of you finally reached Raborsch. There was still one day before the feast with Margrave Jobst and the other Wenceslasâ supporters would take place. You disappeared from his sight when Sir Kunzlin called you over, and he felt just a tiny bit saddened that he would probably never get to see you again. At the end of the day, you were a fine companion to travel with, taking Dry Devilâs words and not his.Â
Sleep did not come easily that night. ĆœiĆŸka laid awake, staring into the darkness above, every sound of the night sharp in his ears. He should not care. Should not think of you sitting somewhere in the fortress, of the line of your throat when you tilted your head, of the way your voice softened when you asked him that question today. He should not wonder what you would say if he told you that he too felt the silence after battle, that sometimes it pressed so hard against his ribs he could hardly breathe. He shouldnât think of the weight on your shoulders having to step up after your little brotherâs death, the responsibilities of both taking care of your sisterâs inextinguishable fire and helping balance your fatherâs political decisions. You were a noblewoman, nothing more. Jan shouldnât care about you, nor about your feelings, as you probably sought him as a tool, just like the rest of the high birth.Â
He rolled over and forced his eyes shut. But even then, he saw you. He slapped himself. You were nothing special, just another woman. There were prettier women than you, more important nobles, better talking partners⊠Yet he couldnât get the softness of your voice out of his mind when you seeked his answer, not Dry Devilâs, to your question. He couldnât escape the look on your face when he responded, as if you had truly cared about what he had to say.Â
Little did he know that the feeling was mutual as you laid on silk bed sheets. You had never been particularly interested in the men your father had presented you to marry, never given a second glance to the knights that ought their Lord to protect you. At the end of the day, it had been that kind of people that had come to Kuttenberg and killed your brother. Even your own father wasnât exempt from that category, considering he saw you as a tool of helpfulness as he confides in you. Sometimes you envied Rosa, as her young age, despite not being fully spared of heavy responsibilities, allowed her some freedom. You had to admit it even pissed you off when she spoke of that young boy, Henry of Skalitz, and how she stated that he had been different from anyone she had ever met. You never had that. Nevertheless, ĆœiĆŸka appeared to not care whatsoever about your bloodline or the honour of having been set as your escort. Jan had seemed far more worried about what he felt was right to do, to achieve his ultimate goals. He was profusely loyal to his own ideals, and that awoke a respect in you you hadnât felt in a long time, or perhaps never. Of course, no one would be able to hear the giddiness in which you longed for him to look at you.Â
The next day dawned grey, clouds heavy overhead, and the air thick with the smell of yesterdayâs rain. ĆœiĆŸka woke with the bitter taste of unrest still clinging to the back of his throat. The barracks felt stifling, full of snoring men and the faint smell of wet leather. He strapped on his brigandine and belted his mace without a word, but the motion felt heavier than usual, like every buckle and strap was fighting him. It was ridiculous, really. There were bigger things to worry about than some noblewoman whose world was so far removed from his own that they might as well have been born in different spheres. And yet, when he stepped out into the courtyard and saw you standing there speaking to Lord Ruthard, that same dull ache he had fought last night flared to life as if it had only been sleeping.
You wore a different gown now, one far more proper than the travel-stained you had on the last days, your hair plaited more tightly than yesterday. It should have been a relief to see you well-kept and composed after the road, a sign he had done his job correctly, but instead it was infuriating âbecause it made him want to know how much effort it had taken to look that calm, whether you had slept at all or if you had stared at your ceiling the same way he had stared at the rafters, hearing the storm in the distance and thinking of a question he should never have answered.
You glanced towards him as though you could sense his stare, and for a moment your gaze caught his across the yard. Not long, a heartbeat at most, but long enough for the world to quiet around him. Long enough for that same dangerous spark to set itself in his chest and smolder there. You looked away first, turning back to Sir Kunzlin, and he tore his eye from you as though wrenching himself free of a snare.
âWas the ride tolerable, my dear? Did that Dry Devil and ĆœiĆŸka protect you?â, Ruthard had asked.
âYes, father. Everything went smoothlyâ, you answered, but not quite there. Your mind was elsewhere. Your head drifted to the memory of Janâs stare after killing those bandits. âIâm glad you asked them to escort me.â It wasnât them, it was him.Â
It was supposed to be a simple day. Secure the perimeter, drill the men, make sure Margraves Jobstâs feast went without a hitch. But ĆœiĆŸkaâs focus slipped more than once, his eye wandering towards the hall where he knew you were. He hated it. Hated how his gut seemed to tighten each time someone mentioned your family name, how the memory of your pale face in the aftermath of the fight kept intruding when he was supposed to be scanning the treeline for threats.
When the evening advanced and the great hall filled with voices and firelight, he stood near the back, keeping watch as he always did. He told himself that was why his gaze kept straying to where you sat among the other nobles âbecause it was his duty to keep your kind safe. However, that argument seemed to lose weight as alcohol beamed in his blood. When you laughed at something a lord said, the sound sharp and quick, his throat went dry. It made him want to hear it again.
Hynek clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. âYou look like a man with a toothache,â he said under his breath.
âBe quiet,â ĆœiĆŸka muttered, but Dry Devil only laughed and went back to his mug.
âCanât really blame you, my friend,â he kept on going. âShe is one hell of a beauty, I will admit. However I believe Lord Ruthard would skin you alive if he ever heard of you clapping his lovely daughterâs cheeks.â
He left before Hynek could say one more heinous thing. He normally wouldnât bat an eye to his harsh language, but there had been something so wrong in the way he spoke of you. Outside, the air was cold enough to bite, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. He walked the perimeter of the outer yard, letting the chill clear his head. When he passed the side of the hall again, he stopped short.
You were there, standing by the stone column, your cloak pulled tight around your shoulders. The torches burned low, casting long shadows over your face. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
âCaptain,â you said at last, inclining your head just enough to be proper.
âMy lady,â he replied, his voice lower than he intended.
You looked back over the courtyard, the silence stretching between the two of you. He should have left. Should have nodded, saluted, gone back to whatever he was trying to do. Instead, he found himself saying, âYou feel alright after the journey, my Lady?.â
You turned to him, brows raised slightly. âYou mean concerning the bandits.â
He nodded once.
âWhy wouldnât I be?â you asked, not unkindly, but with that same sharp curiosity that had marked you since the moment he first saw you.
âI donât know,â he said simply, and that seemed to surprise you enough that your lips curved in the faintest smile.
âIt may not seem like it, but nobles are surrounded by death. There is always betrayal, bigger interests, some poison in your wineâŠâ You looked away for a second before you returned your gaze to him. âWhen I asked, it was to see if you felt what I did.â
The air between you felt heavy, charged. He could hear the faint sounds of music still spilling from the hall, peopleâs laughter ringing out somewhere inside, but all of it felt far away. There was only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the pale line of your throat where the cloak didnât quite meet, the way the torchlight turned your hair to liquid at the ends.
He wanted âGod help him, he wantedâ to step closer. To reach out, to see if your skin was as soft as it looked in the firelight. But his feet were rooted to the ground, fists curling tight at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaked.
âWhy are you here instead of inside, my Lady?,â he said at last, forcing the words out past the knot in his chest. âI bet your father is looking for you.â
For a moment he thought you might get offended, but you only inclined your head. âI think Jan ĆœiĆŸka of Trotznov is far more important in such a meeting than me. At the end of the day, I am nothing but the daughter of someone. So, why are you here outside, Captain?â
Your question struck him harder than it should have, because it was not asked like a courtly challenge but like a genuine one. Why was he here? Why had he left the hall, left Hynek, left the safety of noise and laughter to stand under the cold stars like some fool? He did not answer right away, only stared at the stone at his feet as though he could grind the answer out of it.
âMaybe for the same reason as you are,â he said finally, his voice rough.
You tilted your head, your eyes searching his face as though you could peel the words from him, but he said no more. Silence stretched again, and ĆœiĆŸka felt it in his chest, a taut pull that would not let go. You were too close. Not close enough to touch âGod forbid he let that thought take a hold of himâ but close enough that he could smell the faint trace of lavender from your cloak, close enough that if he turned just slightly he would see your breath in the cold air mingling with his own.
He should go. He should say good night, bow like a soldier, return to the hall, to his duty, or anywhere but here. But his feet would not move.
âI understand,â you said at last, more as though you were remarking on something you had been turning over in your mind for some time.
âFor being so quiet throughout the journey you seem oddly talkative today, my Lady,â he said, his lips twitching despite himself.
âI donât really speak unless itâs because I have nothing to say,â you went on, your gaze steady. âBut you are the same, arenât you? I think you have too much to say, and most of it is not meant for people like me.â
That nearly undid him. He turned his face away sharply, staring at the torch burning in its bracket. âMaybe you are right,â he said.
âI often am, thatâs why my father forced you to bring me here,â you said softly, and that drew the faintest breath of laughter from him, brief and startled, a sound he had not meant to let slip.
You smiled, small but bright in the torchlight, and for a moment you both simply stood there, suspended in the quiet. He felt every heartbeat like a blow, every inch of space between you like a thing alive. He was meaning to tell you that the thought of you had left him restless, that he had been angry at himself for caring if you were startled, that his eyes had seen too much blood and fire to be undone by some noblewomanâs steady gaze âand yet here he was, unraveling under it.
Instead he said, âYou should return inside, my Lady. Itâs cold.â
âYou should too,â you replied, though you did not move.
He almost smiled again, though there was no humor in it, only a quiet kind of pain. âI will, but Iâm afraid I need a moment.â
Your eyes held his for another long second, then you nodded once, as though accepting some order, and turned back towards the hall. He watched you leave, the line of your shoulders straight, the faint sweep of your cloak trailing over the stone. Only when the door shut behind you did he let out the breath he had been holding within.
He stayed there until the torches burned low, until the cold began to bite through his brigandine and into his bones. The image of the curve of your mouth when you smiled at him lingered on his mind.
He hated it, how much space you took up in his thoughts. Hated that in battle he could keep his mind sharp as a blade, but here in the quiet you turned him into something reckless, distracted. If he wanted you only as a woman, as a product of desire, it would be easier. But this thing, whatever it was, felt like a torture to the soul, slower, gnawing. It made him want to know what you thought when you stared into the fire, what else you had lost besides a brother and whether anyone had ever mourned with you.Â
He had survived campaigns, sieges, betrayal and near-starvation. He had buried comrades and friends, seen cities burn, heard the death rattle of more men than he could count. And yet it was you who threatened to unmake him, a noblewoman who should mean nothing to him, whose world was far removed from his own. And still, somewhere in the fortress, your heart beating just as fast, wishing he had allowed you to linger just one second longer.
Just finished writing the Zizka x Reader piece, it was so angsty. WHY ARE YOU GUYS SO MUCH INTO YEARNING??? (Literally me tho, I am feral when it comes to tough men yearning) Also, close to 5k words so the wait is worth it.
My beta read it will correct and improve it, and as soon as it's done, I'll publish it :)
Summary:Â You are nothing but a commoner from MaleĆĄov, forced to work as a maid under von Bergowâs care after the Ruthards are kicked out of their own castle. Your duties bring you to a locked room, where you meet the lonely nobleman Hans Capon. Unfortunately, your orders are clear: serve the prisoner, speak only when necessary, and obey the guards. But when Sir Hans Capon tries to talk to you to ease his melancholy, you find it harder and harder to ignore his pleas.
Warnings: Reader is separated forcefully from her parents, mentions of depression and isolation, a bit of angst, reader is called a bitch.
Characters: Hans Capon x Female Reader
Word count: 3.6k
A/N: I'm sorry for the delay, but this week has been pretty hectic. Here is the Hans Capon one-shot! Tbh I didn't really know if I was going to be able to pull it off since in my head Hans and Henry are already in love and is complicated for me to imagine him with someone else romantically. However, I enjoyed experimenting and writing him, and I think I did good building his chemistry with Reader.
Also, Brabant (fuck him) has not yet been brought to the castle.
The gif belongs to @charlie-rulerofhell
If you'd like to read more, here is my materlist and my Ao3
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You had always known MaleĆĄov as home. Its crooked cottages and inclined roofs, the dirt road worn smooth by generations of carts, the smell of bread wafting from the nearby houses every dawn⊠It was the rhythm of life. Your life. The roosters sang at sunrise and you rose with them, stretching your aching back before hauling water from the well and sweeping the floors clean. You knew every face in the town square, every gossip whispered between the butchersâ wife and the merchant, every dog that chased geese through the puddles. Life was not easy, but it was simple, steady, and safe.
Then the Ruthards were expelled from their own fortress.
It began with whispers, travellers bringing news of Sigismundâs soldiers sweeping through the countryside like the rising tide. At first you thought they were just stories intended to frighten the big nobles and burghers into supporting the new king. But then came the horsemen, with their iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the stones, shouting voices that echoed in every house. Your father grabbed your arm and yanked you inside your tiny cottage. Your mother prayed under her breath, clutching the wooden cross at her neck. None of it mattered. By sunset, the banners of von Bergowâs men flew over the town and both the Ruthardsâ and their servants were dragged from the manor by their collars.
For a while, nothing changed. You kept your head down. You mended clothes, grinded grain, listened to the villagemen in the tavern mutter about politics that seemed far too distant to matter. But then came the order: von Bergow was in need of new servants for the castle.
You were taken before you or your parents had time to come up with a plan. The soldiers went door to door, selecting girls like cattle at a market. One grabbed you by the wrist, ignoring your motherâs pleas. You barely had time to snatch your belongings before being shoved towards the wagon with three other frightened faces you knew from childhood. Your mother wept; your father stood silent, his jaw like stone, and did not look at you as the cart lurched forward. You told yourself you would return. You told yourself the work would not be so bad. But castle life was nothing like the stories.
The first days left you blistered, hands raw from scrubbing stone floors until they shone, knees aching from hours of crawling through the guard barracks to sweep away the filth. The air was drenched in sweat and smelled of horses and unwashed armor. You fed the guards, washed their linens, and obeyed every order they gave. If they told you to scrub until your knees bled, you did. If they told you to stay silent, you did. Von Bergow was a strict master, and so were his companions.Â
And of course, there were doors you were told not to open. One of those led to him.
You didnât know at first who was kept in that guarded room, only that the sentinels outside it were stricter, rougher and meaner than the others. They kept the key close and stood watch day and night. The first time you were ordered to bring food inside, your stomach had twisted so hard you almost dropped the tray. Whoever was inside must have been very important or dangerous, you thought. You had to focus extra hard on keeping your hands steady, as you couldnât stop shaking. The guard gave you von Bergowâs orders: no talking unless it concerned his commodities, and to get out as soon as the task was done.Â
When the door opened, you first felt the warmth of the room, lit by wax candles instead of smoky torches like your sad quarters. The space was considerably decent in size and well equipped in mobiliary. You almost laughed at the idea of it being considered a prison, since it was just as big as your former home. In the right corner a figure stood.Â
He was nothing like you had imagined. Not some half-starved prisoner in chains, but a young and handsome noble, sitting near the window, staring at nothing with his head in his hands. His blonde hair was neatly brushed, his shirt clean, his goblet full. He had everything a man could ask for. Except freedom and company, perhaps.
When he looked up, you saw the boredom in his eyes before anything else. Â
âAh,â he said, voice hoarse from disuse. âYou must be new.â
You didnât answer. You werenât sure you were allowed to. You set down the tray where the guard told you to, nodded once, and backed out of the room without a word. Your heart hammered against your chest in his presence, terrified of what could be done to you if you spend more than a couple minutes inside that room.
From then on, you became his regular attendant. Food, wine, water, books⊠Whatever it was that Sir Hans Capon of Pirkstein âyou eventually learnt who he wasâ needed, you provided it to him. And every time, he tried to speak to you. Sometimes a jest, sometimes a question about the weather, sometimes just a simple greeting. You kept your head down, murmuring short replies if you dared to speak at all. The orders were clear: do not engage with the prisoner unless it concerned his needs.
But it hurt. Each time you left, you saw him watching the door long before you had gone, and something in your chest ached. He had all a man could possibly need covered, and yet it was impossible to notice his melancholy. Some days he didnât even bother to brush his hair, and at times the shadows under his eyes grew darker. You have heard whispers among the soldiers about how it was expected of him to crack due to loneliness, so you understood that he was kept isolated from everything as torture more than precaution.Â
Once, he tried to give you a letter. You stared at the folded parchment, shame burning in your throat, before handing it back with a shake of your head. You whispered to him, breaking the order, that you could not read. At the end of the day, you were a peasant. He only smiled sadly and tucked it away.
Still, you were forced to keep coming. You kept stealing glances when the guards were not looking, smiling at him when you noticed he had taken care of himself that day or asking with your hands if the book was to his liking. And then, one day, you decided things would change.
It was a grey morning when you finally gathered up the courage. You had slipped a mild digestive potion into the guardâs breakfast gruel. You had learned how to decoct it thanks to the bathmaids that lived across from you, and you knew it was harmless, meant to send him sprinting for the latrine. After some time, you were commanded to go upstairs to the nobleâs room. There you found the custodian cursing under his breath. The second he saw you, he tossed you the key. âI need to leave now, lass. Donât tell anyone about this or youâll see!,â he barked before rushing off.
You stood in the doorway for a long moment, clutching the tray until your knuckles ached. Opening the door in a hurry, he looked up from where he sat, surprise written across his face at the sight of you without the guard.
âWell,â he said slowly, setting aside the book in his lap, âthis is new.â
Your mouth went dry from nervousness. This idea of you had been foolish, but exhilarating nonetheless. Adrenaline burned in your veins and the feeling of thrill extended from your hands to your stomach. You set the tray down, your heart hammering. Then, before you could think better of it, you spoke.
âWould you like me to open the window?â
For a moment, Sir Hans simply blinked. Then he laughed âa warm, disbelieving sound that made your belly twist. âYes,â he said softly. âYes, I think I would.â
You crossed the room and unlatched the window. Cold air rushed in, brushing over your face like freedom itself. Behind you, Lord Capon leaned forward in his chair, watching you closely.
âSo you can speak loud and clear,â he teased gently. âI was beginning to think you were some mute spirit sent to torment me.â
His words startled a laugh out of you, small but real. His expression softened, and you had the wild thought of wanting to see that look again. It felt good to finally be able to speak without restraint, not just to Sir Hans, but in general. Since you were forced out of your house and separated from your parents, you hadn't really maintained a proper conversation with anyone.
âI in fact can, my Lord,â you answered. âAnd it feels good to do so.â
He stared at you as if he was studying a book. He asked for your name, and you gave it to him. He questioned the reason as to why you were there, and you provided an answer. It was then Lord Capon learnt that you were a captive yourself, forced to serve Von Bergow, and the motive of you ignoring him was nothing but direct orders that could get you in serious trouble, when disregarded.Â
When the guard returned, your mouth was sealed once more. But from that day on, you schemed. Each morning you woke up thinking of ways to earn just a few minutes without the prying eyes of the sentinel. Obviously, you needed to cover your tracks, so it was impossible to act on a plan every day. It was necessary to leave some days in between. On Monday, you told the guard a chest downstairs had been left unlocked and must be secured at once. On Wednesday, you brought the soldier ale and convinced him to take a well-earned break, telling him how unfair it was to be forced to stand for hours without doing anything, assuring the custodian that the fortress was way too patrolled and there was no chance of Sir Hans escaping. And each time, after every successful trick, Lord Capon greeted you as though you had brought him the sun itself.
You learned small things about him. That he hated being confined to small spaces for long periods of time. That he missed hunting more than anything. That he thought the castle wine was weak and watered down. In return, you told him about MaleĆĄov, the spring fairs, the gossip of neighbors, how the smell of rain on freshly turned earth woke you up that morning. You were careful, but you grew bolder.
The days that followed passed like stolen hours of summer âbright, too brief, and dangerous to linger on. Each morning you woke up with the same flutter in your chest, the same quiet rush of anticipation. Every tray you carried, every excuse you devised to send the guards away, became part of a secret game you and Sir Hans were playing against the rest of the world. Sometimes it was easy. You convinced a soldier that the kitchen mistress needed him to carry a keg upstairs immediately. You swore you heard one of the stewardâs dogs attacking the chickens and sent him down to check because you were terrified of cans. Other times, your excuses were more desperate, claiming you had seen a rat in the hall and begged him to chase it away. Each trick normally bought you a few minutes, sometimes, on the other hand, no more than a handful of seconds, but it was enough.
Lord Capon was always waiting, ready with a wide smile or some outrageous quip to greet you. At first, you only dared to talk about trivial things, but soon he began telling you stories, voice warm and full of mischief, about the hunts he had gone on before being locked away, about the feasts in Rattay where wine flowed like rivers, about foolish drunken escapades with women he probably should not have shared. And you found yourself laughing. Really laughing, until your ribs ached and you had to press a hand to your mouth to stifle the sound lest the guard outside hear.
One afternoon, after you had tricked the guard into fishing some breeches that had flown to the insides of the castleâs well, Hans asked you to sit. Not just stand at attention with the tray, but actually sit on the bench by the window. The request startled you, but you obeyed.
âYou are always hovering in nervousness,â he said, watching you with an amused expression. âHumor me, please. Sit, just for a moment. Let me remember what itâs like to speak to someone who isnât standing three paces away as though death would enter the room in any second.â
You sat. The wood beneath you creaked, and the sun streaming through the window warmed your face. For a moment, you forgot the fear of discovery. You simply listened as Sir Hans spoke about the world beyond these walls. The world you never had a chance to discover.
âYouâd like Rattay,â he said after a moment of silence. âItâs not as big as Kuttenberg, but itâs lively. Markets filled with the very best, tournaments, taverns where the music doesnât stop until morningâŠâ He trailed off, glancing at you. âYou should come and see it someday.â
The idea seemed absurd to you. A peasant girl, walking freely through the streets of Rattay as if you belonged there. The furthest you had ever been from home was Wysoka when your Pa had promised to get you some new shoes from a proper shop. However, the way in which Hans had said it, as a matter-of-fact, made it feel possible, as if it was a possibility actually worth entertaining.
You found yourself telling him about your own dreams, the ones you never said aloud. That you wanted to learn your letters one day, that you wished to see Prague just once, to stand at the edge of a real city and watch the world rush past. Capon listened as though every word mattered, nodding, asking questions. No one had ever really done that before.
It became the rhythm of your new days: the secret moments, the quiet sharing, the dangerous closeness. Once, you brought him a small apple tart you had hidden from the kitchens, as he had told you how much he enjoys them. He took it with exaggerated delight, bowing over it as though you had gifted him a kingâs ransom.
âYou spoil me,â he teased, but there was a softness in his smile that made your chest ache.
âPerhaps,â you said, unable to stop yourself from smiling back. âBut I think you deserve it.â
He looked at you for a long moment after that, and the air between you felt suddenly charged, as though the room had grown smaller.
The next time you came, you found him standing by the window, looking out over the courtyard. âItâs strange,â he said when you set the tray down. âI used to spend my days running wild through the forests, and now I am caged like a hawk. Do you know the worst part?â
You shook your head.
âItâs the silence.â He turned to face you, his expression raw. âNot knowing what happens outside these walls. The way the world keeps going without me.â He exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. âIf not for you, I think Iâd go mad.â
Your throat tightened. You wanted to reach out, to offer him something, comfort, reassurance, anything. But your hands stayed at your sides. You wanted to tell him that he was saving you from the nightmare of living in that damned fortress, that he had been the only company that made your days matter ever since you were robbed from your previous life.
âBelieve me when I say the feeling is mutual,â you admitted softly. âI thought I hated this place. I still do, sometimes. But when I know I get to see youâŠâ You trailed off, unable to finish. âLife is a bit better then.â
Hansâs gaze softened. He stepped closer, slowly, as though approaching a frightened animal. âYou are the only thing that makes this bearable,â he said quietly. âI wake up looking forward to your hurried footsteps in the hall.â
You couldnât look away from him. Your heart thudded painfully against your ribs, as though it wanted to leap from your chest. Then, as if sensing your thoughts, Hans chuckled softly and took a step back. âCareful,â he said, trying to make light of the moment, though there was something tight in his voice. âIf the guards catch you smiling at me like that, theyâll think youâre plotting my escape.â
You tried to laugh, but your voice shook. âMaybe I am.â
Hans raised his brows, and for a heartbeat there was something intoxicating in the air between you, something reckless, dangerous. Then he smiled, slow and lazy. âThen I hope youâre very good at plotting, my lady.â
You rolled your eyes at the mocking title, but you couldnât help grinning. The guard soon arrived, and you were forced yet again to keep your mouth shut and you head low.
As the days went by, your tricks grew more daring. You timed your errands so the sentinel would be called away at predictable moments. You bribed one with a loaf of bread and cured meat you had saved, convincing him to fetch water from the well while you stayed behind. Each time, Hans seemed more alive, more himself. And you began to feel something you hadnât felt in weeks. True joy. But that joy brought danger. You knew one mistake could undo it all. And yet, you couldnât stop. Luck always seemed to be on your side, as you never faced any consequences for your unhinged actions.
Until the day you slipped.
That morning, you told the guard his superior was looking for him urgently. He grumbled but left, and you had just begun telling Hans about how you had overheard whispers about Von Bergow leaving the fortress in a week. It was then you heard the echo of heavy boots pounding angrily up the hall.
Your blood turned to ice. You froze, panicking, making your breath catch âbut Hans was on his feet in an instant. He grabbed your hand and tugged you towards the bed. âQuickly,â he hissed, dropping to his knees and pulling you down with him. He squeezed you into the narrow shadowed space just as the door banged open. Capon stood up so elegantly it could have fooled anyone.Â
The guardâs boots thudded across the floor. âWhere is she?â he barked. The soldier was visibly upset, his eyes roaming the entirety of the room, trying to find you. Hans leaned casually back against the bedpost, as though nothing were amiss. âWho? The maid? She brought my food and left,â he said smoothly. âPerhaps you should check the kitchens.â
âShe has lied to me, that whore!,â the man spat.Â
âIâm afraid I donât understand what you are talking about.â You had to give it to Hans, he knew how to act oblivious.
There was a long pause, then a curse. The guard stomped back out and slammed the door so hard the paintings on the wall rumbled. You did not dare to move nor breathe until Hans kneeled down to look at you. He offered his hand and gently put you again up on your feet. Both of your faces were standing very close to each other. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then he grinned, sudden and bright.
âSo,â he began, âour meetings havenât been mere coincidences, then. Youâve been really plotting all this time just to talk to me.â
Heat crept up your neck. You havenât really thought about what could have Capon come up to justify your sudden hang outs. âI⊠I justââ
âYou donât need to explain,â Hans said softly. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with a touch that made your heart trip over itself. âThese talks⊠They are the only thing I look forward to every time I wake up in this condemned room. Youâve no idea what it means to me.â
Your throat felt tight. âIt means everything to me too,â you whispered. âEver since I got taken away, you are the only reason that makes me continue.â
For a long moment, it felt as though the world had shrunk to just the two of you beneath that bed. He leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath, his lips brushing with impossible softness your own. You closed your eyes when you felt his skin against yours, the warmth of his lips stealing your breath. It genuinely felt as though the world had succumbed to just the two of you. It was not a desperate kiss, not hurried âit was slow, lingering, as though he was memorizing the shape of you, as if the fragile moment might shatter if he pressed too hard. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing fast in the shadowed quiet.
âGod help me,â he whispered, voice raw. There was a mysterious meaning behind those words you were not able to grasp, as if he was not really talking to you.
Then, Hans took a step back, he breathed out slowly, and his jaw tightened.
âYou should go,â he murmured. âBefore he comes back.â
You hesitated but nodded. You lingered at the door, looking back once. Hans was still watching you, unreadable, and something in your chest ached at leaving. But you left, heart pounding, already planning how you might steal another moment alone with him.
I AM SO SORRY!! I finished it already but my beta reader is going through it rn.
Ik I promised to have it last week but we both started working and studying and I forgot how time-consuming adult life is đ
As soon as it's ready (for me quality is very important, that's why I take so long) you'll have it. Also! I've read all of your messages and prompts, and I'll work on them whenever I can đ
