'Cause no matter how broken I am, I'll keep going.

—

You had nearly begged on your knees when you found out you were to be wed, pleading with your parents’ advisors. 

You were no fool. You knew that one day you’d have to marry, and you were prepared to do your duty. A Princess isn’t awarded the luxury of a choice, and you knew any match that was made probably wouldn’t be from a place of love. But you never thought your parents would be prepared to ship you off to a man none of you had ever even laid eyes on, and that’s including the advisors.

A second son, and a rumored bastard at that. It was all happening too fast, and you weren’t having an easy time processing it. 

“You can’t send me! We already have an alliance with Ravka, why send me still?”

One of the men had stood, trying to ease you. “You must go, Princess. We may have an alliance, but our forces need to be strengthened. Prince Vasily is already spoken for. Marrying you to Prince Nikolai is the fastest way.”

“I am told he is charming, if it is any consolation,” another man said, though his voice was firmer. “It is time, Princess, for you to do your duty. You will marry.”

You finally relented, your fate beginning to set in. “That’s it, then. When will I be expected to leave?”

There was a moment of silence, and an awkward shuffling of feet as the advisors stood. And then one of the men spoke, sending dread running through you like ice in your veins. 

“Your arrival is set for the end of the week. The King and Queen are expecting you.”

—

The journey passed far quicker than you had anticipated. A trip like that should have been grueling, yet each moment felt more fleeting than the last. By the time you arrived on Ravkan soil, you would practically be theirs. Upon your arrival, you were escorted to the Great Hall to meet the King and Queen. 

“Moi tsar,” you curtsied, keeping your eyes low. “Moi tsaritsa. It is an honor.”

The words tasted sour on your tongue, but you spoke them anyway. The King and Queen were not known to be the kindest of people, and you’d rather spend your time in a foreign country on the good side of the sovereign. 

“Princess,” the King greeted as he stood, his eyes racking your body. “You are as beautiful as they say. My son will be pleased. Unfortunately, your arrival has preceded his. He attended a meeting with our generals, and is set to arrive in a few days. The wedding will be in a fortnight. Until then, please enjoy our hospitality. I look forward to this new found alliance between our great countries.”

“As do I,” you said, forcing a smile. 

—

As the days passed, you grew more uneasy. The weight of your duties were beginning to drag you down, and you didn’t know if you could bear the burden any longer. 

Nikolai had yet to return to court, but with his inevitable arrival looming, it became harder to face each day. You were practically alone in the castle, having yet to make any friends. And you doubted the arrival of a Prince—the subject of scandalous rumors—would do anything to lessen the loneliness and fear you felt every night. 

One evening, the pressure became too great.

Despite your duties, and the anger you knew both countries would feel towards you, you fled. It was a rash decision, and a stupid one at that. But it was the only option that could give you your freedom, so you took it.

It led you all the way down to the harbor, which you briskly made your way to with little more than the clothes on your back.

Your window of opportunity was closing, and you took it. In mere hours, someone would notice you were missing from your room. Guards would be sent all throughout the palace, and they’d track you down if you weren’t quick enough. One way or another, you would marry the second Prince of Ravka. You’d be forced to. And although the thought of being alone in an open country you knew next to nothing about terrified you, it was less terrifying than the thought of being trapped in that castle forever. 

So you went. Fled, more accurately. All the way to the harbor, in nothing but a dress and cloak, with a bag of coins hidden in your skirts. 

As you approached the harbor, the shout of guards could be heard in the distance. “Spread out! She cannot have gone far.”

The Kingsguard.

You felt your chest tighten as you quickened your pace, pulling your hood over your head. You rushed as inconspicuously as you could, clambering to get as far from the palace as possible. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your wrist. 

“What’s the rush for, My Lady? You’re going to hurt yourself running in those shoes,” the woman said, her brows furrowing.

You stopped in your tracks to take her in, realizing she was standing next to a much larger man. She had axes sheathed at her waist, and a confused but intrigued grin. 

“Please, excuse me—” You stuttered out, trying to pull away.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” the man said, in a tone much gentler than his appearance. “We mean you no harm. What are you running from?”

“I need to get away from here, and fast,” you pleaded, deciding to trust these people who stopped you. 

“That wasn’t an answer to our question,” the woman said, easing her grip. 

You let out a frustrated sigh, turning to look over your shoulder before turning back. “Please, I’ll pay you whatever you want. Just let me go. I have to get out of here, and quickly.”

The woman shared a glance with the man, and for a minute, you were beginning to think you had been found out. They somehow recognized you, and would know that the castle guards were looking for you. If that was true, the pair didn’t show it, looking back at you. 

“We have a ship,” the man finally said, gesturing behind him. “And a captain. A name you’d perhaps recognize. Sturmhond.”

Sturmhond, you thought to yourself. The richest pirate on the True Sea? What was he doing in a port in Ravka? You shook your head, having no time for questions. 

“Would he grant me safe passage? I can pay, I have the means. Please, I need to know if this is my only option of getting out of here. I haven’t done anything illegal, I promise. I just need to go.”

The woman laughed, her relaxed disposition beginning to ease you. “Illegal would have been more fun. Don’t worry, Princess. We’ll take you to our captain. You’ll be safe with us.”

Your eyes widened, and you stepped back to retreat, when the man raised his hands in surrender. 

“We mean you no harm, Princess. Clearly, you’re in trouble, and we have the means to get you away from the palace.”

“Trust me,” the woman said, offering you her hand. “We have no wish to return to the palace.. I’m sure our captain isn’t too keen, either.”

You looked between the ship and back at the castle uneasily, when you heard another shout coming from the guards marching through the village. You turned towards the man and woman, who you just realized looked very similar. Siblings, perhaps, who had just gotten back from a journey at sea.

“Sturmhond is quite the character, but he’s a good man. You have my word,” the man said. 

“Alright,” you said, making your decision as you took the woman’s hand. “I’ll go. Thank you, uh…”

You trailed off, making the man smile. He led you towards a nearby ship, helping you climb your way onto it. 

“I’m Tolya, and that’s my sister Tamar. We’re part of Sturmhond’s crew. Come along, he’ll want to meet you.”

They quickly led you aboard a ship, ushering the crew to cast off. The crew looked around with confused faces, but listened anyway. As the ship slowly left the harbor, you were led downstairs to the cabins below. 

“Captain,” Tamar called, knocking on the first doorway below deck, before opening the door herself. 

“Do you want to tell me why my ship is moving away from the dock?” Sturmhond asked without turning around, shuffling through his cabin as he pulled on his coat. 

You cleared your throat. “That would be because of me, I think.”

Sturmhond turned around at the sound of your voice, his eyes widening as he took you in. “I don’t believe it. Good evening, Princess. I do hope you are well. Tamar and Tolya have treated you kindly, I expect?”

You shrunk under his gaze, letting out a nervous chuckle. “Is my title that easy to spot? You’re the second to figure it out, is it something I’m doing?”

“Tamar has a keen eye,” Sturmond shrugged, grinning. “But you’re also wearing an evening gown fit for court, and the jewels around your neck could buy a small country. Those things aren’t exactly subtle, darling. Even with that cloak.”

You nodded, still nervous but relaxing with his calm demeanor. “I was told you could grant me passage away from the palace? I can pay, I don’t expect you to do this out of the kindness of your heart. But seeing as we’ve already left the harbor, I don’t think you have any other option but to take me with you. Unless you intend on throwing me overboard into the bay, although I’ll thank you kindly not to do that.”

“In that dress? You’d sink to the bottom, darling. There’s no need to worry, Princess. You’ll stay dry on deck, that I can assure you,” he chuckled, motioning for you to sit. 

“We’ll inform the crew our trip has been extended,” Tamar announced, pulling Tolya behind her to leave the cabin. 

You sat in the chair on the other side of Sturmhond’s desk, and he sat across from you. He offered you a kind smile, one that surprised you. You had heard plenty about the infamous privateer. You hadn’t expected him to be this young and handsome. His reputation matched that of an old tycoon, not of what appeared to be an ex soldier. He looked at you with curiosity, motioning for you to speak. 

“So, would you like to explain to me why my ship is sailing back out to sea? Not that I’m upset or anything, I was dreading my return to Ravka myself. But as I understand it, you were asked to come to Ravka to strengthen a political alliance—”

“And how would you know about that?” You interrupted, raising a brow. 

He smiled, shrugging. “I have my ways. It pays to know lots of things about lots of things. Including which Princesses are being married off to far away royalty.”

“Do you know him?” You asked, your voice a little unstable. “The Prince, I mean. Nikolai. I could hardly find anyone who knew him, and any knowledge of him was limited. I went into this alliance blind, thanks to my parents and advisors.”

Sturmhond’s grin widened as he nodded. “I do know him, yes. We were briefly acquainted some time ago.”

“And?”

“He’s alright,” Sturmhond laughed, leaning back in his seat. “Dashingly handsome. A bit cocky for my taste, perhaps a little spoiled, but what royalty isn’t, right? No offense.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “None taken.”

“I suppose you’re lucky in that you’re set to marry him, and not the Crown Prince. Vasily is—how should I put this—well…”

“A bastard?” You finished, making Sturmhond chuckle, nodding. 

“He is, yes. Nikolai is, in another manner of speaking, the same as well. Is that why you’re running? You don’t want to risk your reputation on a second son who may not even be the second son?”

Sturmhond looked at you through curious eyes, although there was a little apprehension in them. A little vulnerability that you didn’t quite know what to make of. You shook your head, inadvertently easing his thoughts. 

“It’s just rumors, Sturmhond. Whether there is any truth to them, I don’t know, and I don’t care. History records names, not blood. A true Lantsov or not, it doesn’t matter to me. It’s not Nikolai’s fault who his true parents are, and he shouldn’t have to bear the consequences of their actions. All that matters to my parents is what he means for my country. His reputation doesn’t affect that.”

“And what matters to you?” Sturmhond asked, his eyes softening. “Your secrets are safe with me, and I promise to not throw you overboard for whatever your answers are. Why are you running, Princess?”

You sat in silence for a moment, letting out a heavy sigh. Sturmhond politely waisted for you to start, nodding encouragingly for you to speak. 

You fiddled with your hands in your lap nervously. “Nikolai’s blood doesn’t matter to me, truly. All that really matters is that he has a kind heart, and he makes living at Ravkan court for the rest of my life more bearable.” 

Sturmhond nodded as he listened intently. You continued.

“From what I hear, he’s a perfectly good man. Compared to my list of options, he was probably the best I could have hoped for.”

“Was? Or is? Do you intend on running forever? Seems like a waste of time in what is already a fleeting existence, Princess,” he said quietly. 

“I know,” you nodded, growing frustrated. “I don’t know why I did it. I just thought about being alone at court for the rest of my life, and even the promise of a semi decent Prince wasn’t enough to ease my fears. I just wanted control over my own life for once, you know? My own freedom. It was a rash decision, I admit. But it seems to be working well in my favor so far.”

Sturmhond nodded, standing up from his desk to pour two glasses of whiskey. You downed yours the second he placed it in front of you, deciding it was better to let the second one sit when he refilled your glass.

“And Nikolai? What are his thoughts on the matter?”

You shrugged, fiddling with the glass. “I don’t know. He hasn’t been at court since I arrived. I have yet to meet him. Although, once he hears of me running, I’m sure any first impressions he could have had of me are ruined.”

“I don’t know about that.”

You raised a brow, coaxing him to continue. “Really? Why is that?”

“From what I hear, Nikolai isn’t really one for court, either,” he started, shrugging. “He runs when he gets the chance, too. Why do you think he’s away from court so often?”

You pondered the thought for a minute. “I don’t know. I always assumed his duties took him elsewhere. He’s not the Crown Prince, so he doesn’t need to remain in the palace. He serves in the First Army, doesn’t he?”

Sturmhond nodded, grinning. “He does. Or, to put it more accurately, he did. I think he just loiters around neighboring countries until his Mother forces him to come home and make an appearance now.”

You chuckled, letting out a deep sigh. “Isn’t that a treat? Coming home for the first time in months, only to find out your bride to be has run away.”

“With a face like that, I doubt he’ll care much about anything once he sees you.” 

You felt the heat creep to your cheeks at his words, setting your eyes to your lap to avoid Sturmhond’s heavy gaze. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice as he breathed out a laugh. 

“Besides, I’m told the Prince isn’t expected back at court for a few more days. Plenty of time for you to decide whether or not you want me to turn this ship around. Who would I be to deny a Princess?”

You smiled, your voice soft. “And if I don’t want to turn around?”

“Well, you’re paying me. I don’t really care either way, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” he said, grinning as he topped your glass off. “But just between you and me, I’d do it for free. Anything for a pretty face like that. Just don’t go telling everyone I said that, I have a reputation to maintain.”

You laughed, nodding. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”

—

You spent the next few days on the ship, feeling more and more at ease the further you made it from Ravkan shores. 

At night, you longed for home. 

Not for you parents, or any of their advisors. But for your own bed—not on a constantly rocking ship—and the familiar trill of the birds outside your window on dewy mornings. For the library in the East Wing people seemed to forget was even there, and the soup the cooks would make when a chill was in the air. For the gardens midmorning where you could escape to when you wanted to avoid all the guards constantly watching you. 

Sturmhond did a good job at keeping you distracted from saddening thoughts, though. It was sweet of him, really. Making sure you had someone with you during the day, taking all his meals with you in the evening. 

Your time on the ship was the most relaxed you had been in a long time, actually, which you attributed to him. 

Sturmhond had quite the representation amongst high society—or any society, really—and he certainly met your expectations. He was charming, and attractive. Clever and ambitious, like everyone said he was. 

You hadn’t expected him to be as attentive as he is, however. He seemed to really enjoy a new guest on the ship, one that could keep up with his banter. He didn’t make you feel like a burden like your parents so often did, actually including you in his daily routine. 

Tolya and Tamar were great, too. Kind, and funny. Fiercely loyal and protective, both of their captain and of each other. They were the kind of friends you hoped to make during your time in Ravka. 

So far, it was off to a good start. 

As the days moved on, you found yourself growing closer to Sturmhond. You tried to stop yourself in the beginning. Despite not wanting it for yourself, you were engaged to Nikolai. Falling for another man wasn’t exactly a good thing for your future

But that damned smile.

His ridiculously attractive smile, and his stupid mop of hair that had only gotten longer from his time at sea. The infuriating way he’d look at you and make you want to shrink away from his gaze, but you could never bring yourself to look away. The obnoxious green emerald ring he wore that could probably buy a small village.

He had charmed you, despite your reservations, and you were practically head over heels. It scared the absolute shit out of you. 

Tamar had of course noticed already, confronting you about it one night after dinner. She joined you on deck, sitting next to you on a crate as you watched the stars twinkle in the sky. They were so visible out at sea, away from all the lights and clutter of the cities. 

“You’re not hiding anything from me, you know,” she smirked, sneaking your flask away to take a few sips from it. 

You feigned innocence, shaking your head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tamar.”

“Come on, darling. Let’s skip the bluffing…you like him. It’s so obvious.”

“Saints, I hope not,” you groaned, scrunching your nose up at the thought of Sturmhond finding out. 

Tamar grinned at your embarrassment, chuckling. “Don’t worry. I may not swing that way, but I know the look when I see it. He’s all puppy dog eyes and desperate looks of longing when he sees you. It’s gross, really. I can actually hear his heart skip a beat when he sees you. He likes you, too. I’d stake money on it.”

You swallowed down your excitement, trying to think rationally. “Don’t even joke about that, it’s not funny.”

“I’m serious! You’re a catch, Princess. He may be my captain, but he’d be a fool not to want you.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, but we can stop there,” you nervously chuckled. “We don’t need this going to my head. I’ll do something stupid like staying on this boat forever.”

She grinned, nudging your shoulder with hers. “Would that be so bad?”

—

The next few days, you couldn’t get Tamar’s words out of your head. You went on with your routine with Sturmhond as usual, trying not to put much thought into it. 

Your feelings for him were true, that’s for sure. 

And when you’d catch him looking at you from across the deck, you’d swear by the look in his eye that he felt something for you, too. What it was, exactly, you didn’t know. 

But it was something. 

On your last evening before you had to make a decision about where you wanted to go, you skipped dinner. You couldn’t bring yourself to go along with your usual banter with Sturmhond, beginning to feel guilty about just how close and comfortable you’d gotten with him. 

You still had a duty to your country and your family, which meant at least a little to you. Plus, it wasn’t fair to make a promise to Prince Nikolai, only to leave him hanging when he returned to Ravka. 

You were leaning against the deck railing, watching the way the moonlight bounced over the still waters. So lost in thought, you almost didn’t register Sturmhond’s approaching footsteps. 

“A bit chilly for stargazing, isn’t it?” He asked, coming to stand next to you. 

You turned to see him, smiling when you noticed he was wearing his signature blue coat. You couldn’t remember a time since you met that he wasn’t dressed to the nines, no matter what time of day it was. 

“You know, for a pirate, you don’t really look like one.” 

He grinned, gently correcting you. “A privateer, darling, not a pirate. There’s a difference, I assure you.”

“Ah, a privateer. How could I have forgotten?” You chuckled, hugging yourself in an effort to shield your arms from the biting cold. “But seriously. The emerald on your finger is the size of a walnut, and that coat is fit for royalty. I find it hard to believe a privateer does well enough to afford things as nice as those.”

“Maybe I’m just good at my job,” he retorted, that signature smirk on his face.

It was enough to stir butterflies in your stomach, making you turn to look back out at the water. His gaze lingered on you a moment, and you could feel the heat creeping up to your cheeks under the weight of his stare. 

“You’re cold,” he observed, breaking the silence.

“I’m fine,” you tried to say, but Sturmhond interrupted you.

“I can practically hear your teeth chattering,” he laughed, shrugging his coat from his shoulders. “Here. Seeing as my coat is fit for royalty, as you say, I think it’ll suit you better.”

“Sturmhond—”

“Princess,” he mirrored, smirking when you relented, letting him place it around your shoulders. 

“Thank you,” you said softly.

You turned away from the water to face him, leaning back against the bannister. His eyes flitted up and down your form at his coat wrapped around shoulders, before his eyes met yours. He took a seat on the crate behind him, leaning back and settling into the post next to him. It was quiet a moment before he finally spoke.

“You weren’t in your cabin at dinner. Where have you been?”

You sighed, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat. “Thinking.”

“Thinking? About what?”

“About my future,” you said shakily, shoulders slumping. “Both the imminent one, and the one to follow based on what I decide tonight.”

Sturmhond nodded, seemingly lost in thought. “I’ve been thinking about that, too, if I’m being honest.”

You raised a brow at his words. He’d been thinking about your future? He’d been thinking about you? The thought was both intriguing and terrifying, and you hoped the confusion on your face wasn’t too apparent.

“Well, I…I’m sorry, what?”

“Your future directly impacts me,” he quickly corrected, suddenly steeling his face and meeting your confusion with his usual grin. “Where you go I go, remember? You are paying me, after all.”

You tried to hide your disappointment, forcing a smile. It was a foolish hope to have, that he’d think something more of you. But it wasn’t a hope you were ready to give up. 

Not just yet, at least. 

He seemed to notice your disappointment, brows furrowing. “Have I upset you?”

“No,” you quickly replied, trying to brush it off with a laugh. “No, it’s not you. I’m just not quite sure what I should do. I know you need an answer, and Ravka needs an answer, but…I don’t have one yet.”

“Why?” 

You shook your head, sighing in frustration. “Earlier, I had more than halfway made up my mind. I value my freedom, but I think I value my dignity more. I don’t think I could go anywhere and face anyone, knowing I’ve turned my back on my duties. It may have not been a promise I made for myself personally, but it is a promise I had every intention of keeping.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” He asked, a genuine look of concern on his face.

His eyes softened on you as your face fell, and you turned away from him as you felt heat creep up to your cheeks. You could hear him stand and approach you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. 

“Princess?” He asked, only worsening your embarrassment. 

He spoke again, finally getting you to acknowledge him. “You’re worrying me, darling. Surely it cannot be that bad.”

“But it is,” you groaned, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes to stave off the tears you could feel brewing. 

“Try me,” he said gently, carefully placing a hand on your arm. “You can tell me the truth. What’s stopping you from returning to Ravka?”

You could feel his touch even through the coat, which struck you like a punch to the gut when you remembered it was, in fact, his coat you were wearing. And to make it worse, that damned grin was on his face as he spoke with such a genuine kindness in his voice that it made you want to cry. 

You finally met his eyes, taking a sharp breath. Shit, you thought to yourself. You were really going to admit it. He eagerly awaited your response, which you finally managed to utter. 

“You.”

He sucked in a breath, withdrawing his hand. He looked up at the sky for a moment, before taking another breath and turning back to you. 

“Me?” He asked. 

“You,” you said again, exasperatedly laughing. “You, and your ridiculous clothes, and your infuriating charm, and your kindness and ambition…that damned smile.” 

Sturmhond’s cheeks flushed, and he took a step back, although he was grinning like a fool. He couldn’t stop himself if he tried. You didn’t dare speak, waiting for him to say something. After an agonizing moment of silence, he leaned against the bannister, letting out a chuckle.

“What?” You forced yourself to ask, preparing yourself for his answer. 

“Saints, Princess…you’ve gone and done it now.”

You shook your head, your heart dropping to the pit of your stomach. “What?”

“You’ve managed to outdo me. On my own ship. Quite the feat, I’ll give you that,” he laughed, still grinning. 

You narrowed your eyes, still shaking your head. “Sturmhond, I don’t have a fucking clue what you’re saying to me right now. Will you do the honor of enlightening me, or are you going to stand there grinning at me all night?”

“You like my grin,” he mused, making you flush.

He spoke again, saving you from your embarrassment. “And it just so happens that I like yours, too. I like all of you. Very much so indeed, Princess.”

Your heart lurched into your throat at his words, and you had to grab ahold of the bannister behind you to keep yourself steady. He placed his hand over top of yours, his palm warming yours. 

“I cannot believe you beat me to the punch. It’s rude to upstage a captain on his own ship. You’re lucky you’re royalty. I’ll allow it just this once.”

You had just now calmed your breathing, beginning to take in the weight of his words, and what it meant for you both. “Sturmhond, I—”

“I have a confession to make,” he suddenly said in a very serious tone, startling you. “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I must tell you something before either of us share something we can’t take back.”

“Alright…” You said uneasily. 

Carefully, he took your hand in his, giving it a squeeze. You let him hold it, waiting for him to speak. Absentmindedly, you comfortingly ran your thumb along the back of his hand, silently reassuring him. 

“My name isn’t Sturmhond,” he finally said, the nerves in his voice the worst you had ever heard them. 

Trying not to jump to any hasty conclusions, you nodded, squeezing his hand once more. “Alright…if it isn’t Sturmhond, then what is it?”

“Well, technically it is, but it also isn’t. It’s just a nickname—” He rambled, and you placed your other hand on top of his to stop him. 

“I gathered that much. What else are you trying to tell me? Go on, you can say it.”

He took a deep breath, his voice soft. “It’s true that people call me Sturmhond, but I’m much better known for my birth name…Nikolai. Nikolai Lantsov.”

The realization struck you like a bolt of lightning. You tried not to flinch in his grasp, but you knew he could feel you stiffen. You cleared your throat, feeling your voice begin to grow hoarse

“Nikolai Lantsov…as in Prince Nikolai Lantsov, second son of the Ravkan throne? Moi tsarevich,” you croaked out, attempting to curtsy. 

“Please,” Nikolai said, holding both your hands in his to keep you from bowing. “There is no need for such formalities, darling. If anything, I should be the one bowing to you.”

You stood up straight, shaking your head. “We’re long past that, don’t you think?” 

He chuckled, nodding. “I suppose so.”

The reality of your situation began to set in, and you couldn’t stop yourself from chuckling along with him. He smiled at the sound, raising a brow. 

“What is it?”

“I suppose my little dilemma is solved then,” you said, shrugging. “I was beginning to spiral, thinking my annoying habit of not being able to contain my feelings had ruined any decision I could have made. But of course—in your usual fashion—you’ve managed to upstage me. As is your right, it is your ship, after all. Well, I suppose there’s no decision to make now. At least, I think there isn’t…right?”

Any nerves you had mustered up were immediately squashed when Nikolai brought his hands up to cup your face, running his thumbs across the tops of your cheeks.

“I wasn’t lying when I said I’d take you wherever you wanted to go. All I can hope now is that you’ll allow me to join you…wherever that is.”

You brought a hand up to rest against his wrist. “Don’t you want to go home? You’re expected back in Ravka any day now.”

“I love my country, but I’m in no hurry to return. You’ve told me multiple times how dreadful court was for you—”

“That doesn’t matter,” you quickly said, squeezing his wrist. 

“Of course it does! I cannot ask you to return to a country you’ll be miserable in for the rest of your days for a man you barely know.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t asking, then,” you reaffirmed, giving him a smile. “I told you. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. I said that I was afraid I would be all alone at court, and that I was afraid the man I am promised to wouldn’t want a life with me.” 

“What a fool he’d have to be to not want that,” Nikolai joked, making your grin widen.

You continued to reassure him, not convinced that he was believing your words. 

“You say that you’ll follow me wherever I go. Well, I want to go with you. Wherever that is. And I want you to go home. I may have not known you for long, but I’ve been around you long enough to know that you won’t truly be content if you’re tied to my wishes. And I know you’re too stubborn to admit that, so I’ll tell you my wishes, and I need you to believe me. I wish to be with you. I wish for you to return to wherever feels like home, and I wish for you to take me with you. If that’s Ravka, then Ravka will be home. Court will become much more bearable with you there. And if it begins to become too much, I know a certain privateer that can whisk us away for a few days.”

He was doing it again. Smiling like an idiot. He seemed to be in disbelief at your words, this being one of the very few times in his life that he couldn’t find the right words to say. 

“I didn’t mean to trick you, Princess. I should have told you who I was from the beginning.”

You shook your head. “I don’t blame you, Nikolai. If I was given the chance, I wouldn’t have told you who I really was, either. At least, not until I knew I could trust you. I would have done the same as you did. It’s alright.”

“I can’t believe my luck,” he grinned, taking your hand. “How is it that my betrothed managed to stumble upon my ship the very hour I returned to Ravka?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not one to believe in fate, and it sounds impossible.”

“Not impossible…improbable,” he corrected, smirking when you playfully narrowed your eyes up at him. 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but smile at your turn of luck. “Are we doing this? Are you going home to Ravka?”

“Are we going home, you mean? I can’t be expected to abandon my betrothed when she turns out to be the single most invigorating person I’ve ever met, now can I?”

“You cannot,” you agreed.

A comfortable moment of silence passed between you both, and you looked down at his hands as you held them in yours. The familiar glint of green on his finger made you chuckle. 

“I knew it, by the way,” you added, grinning. “This coat and that ring are far too ridiculous for a privateer. They’re fit for royalty. Fit for a Lantsov.”

“Am I to understand that you’re not interested in a Lantsov emerald for your engagement ring?” He asked, smirking when you quickly shook your head.

You laughed, pulling his hand closer to inspect his ring. “I said nothing of the sort. I was merely observing how ridiculous it is, as well as this coat. But I’m still wearing it, aren’t I? If I’m going to be married to a ridiculous man, I should begin preparing now, shouldn’t I?”

He narrowed his eyes, playfully jutting his chin up at you. “You just like the coat and want to keep it. It’s alright, darling, you can admit it. We can have your own fitted for you, all you have to do is ask.”

Nikolai gripped the hem of your sleeve, tugging you closer by the arm of his coat. You let him pull you, chuckling nervously when he drew you nearer. 

“I admit nothing, only that my future husband has a taste I will have to acquire. But I’m sure I’m up for the task. We have all the time in the world now, don’t we?”

“We do,” he smiled, settling his hands around your waist. “Although I’ll have to admit, I don’t think we know each other well enough to become husband and wife.”

You tensed under his hold, and he quickly retracted his statement, shaking his head. He didn’t give you enough time to truly panic, interrupting your train of thought. 

“And that’s perfectly fine, darling. Like you said, we have all the time in the world to get to know each other. I think I’d like to take advantage of that starting now. After all, it is our last night on the ship, isn’t it? At least, I assume it is. I expect you’ll want to set a course for Ravka now. Unless you’d rather I get down on one knee, and make a big show of it first. I can do that, if you wish.”

“I certainly wouldn’t stop you,” you chuckled, letting your hands rest on top of his as your tone shifted to a more serious note. “Are we really doing this, Nikolai? Returning to Ravka? Getting married?”

He smiled wider, a twinkle in his eye as he looked down at you. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you stepped foot on my ship, the second I laid eyes on you. And I’ve wanted you more every day since. I’m not one to believe in fate either, but I do think the Saints may have gifted you to me. Who knows what I did to deserve it, but you most definitely won’t find me questioning their will if you’re the result.”

You felt your heart swell at his words. He was right. Of all the ships in the harbor, his was the one you found yourself on. Of all the captains in Ravka, he was the one who took you in. The man you were supposed to marry, and you found yourself falling for him long before you even knew who he truly was. If that isn’t fate, then what is?

“I’ll take all the influence from the Saints I can get when it comes to explaining to your parents why I’ve disappeared right out from under them,” you said with a groan, leaning into him. 

Nikolai chuckled, holding you close. “My Mother will forget all about it when she sees my future safely secured with marriage. There is no need to worry, trust me.”

“I may not have to worry about her, but I do need to worry about Tamar,” you said, letting out a pained chuckle. “I think she staked money on our little situation.”

“She most definitely did. I expect Tolya will be paying up when they hear the news. Who should break it to him?”

You grinned, shaking your head. “I think that duty lies with you, as my future husband. If I’m going to have to listen to Tamar’s endless bragging about being right, then you should have to take half the burden in the form of telling Tolya. That’s how marriage works, isn’t it? Half and half. It’s only fair.”

It was his turn to groan now as he pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, taking yours in the other. 

“Alright, I’ll do it, but you have to accompany me. I think your presence will help soften the blow. What do you say, darling? After all…it’s only fair.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, squeezing his hand. “If I must. You’re lucky you’re pretty, Lantsov.”

“Darling, I’m lucky for a lot more than that,” he smiled endearingly, and you couldn’t help but smile back.

"I... I'm not sure." the words come out of you as you look at him, trying to recover from the shock. You thought seeing him in person wouldn't do anything to you. How stupid you were...

"Please... I just want to talk to you. Give me five minutes and then you can sand me back to hell."

You bite your lip. You saw on the news that the Punisher and Jigsaw had teamed up... if Frank could forgive him enough to work with him and let him near Maria and the kids, you could give him that five damn minutes, before you try to kick his ass.

"Only five minutes, Russo." you say as you let him in.

Closing the door behind him, you wonder how far you've fallen by letting him back into your home… but from the way he looks around your place hesitantly, avoiding looking at you, you wonder who's really lost their dignity here.

I imagine you are home In your room, all alone And you open your eyes into mine And everything feels better

"You... you look beautiful." he says as he finally looks at you for the first time since your… rather tumultuous breakup.

"You wanted to talk." you say, crossing your arms as you lean against the dresser and stare intently at the man sitting on your couch.

"I… wanted to come to you after… all this shit. I… I could have lost my fucking memories somehow, but I think you've embedded yourself in my brain more than anything else. I went to your apartment, but you moved away." he admits, avoiding your heavy gaze to stare at the coffee table. You see a sad smile on his face as he stares at the pile of books and papers that were almost always present in any available space in your apartment. Some things don't change.

"I did." you say, closing some of your patient files from him so he can't analyse where exactly you work after you quit your job at Anvil as their private doctor. You collect papers and put them on your desk, turning your back to him. "Some people would get the hint. Did Frank throw out what was left of your brain by smashing your head against a mirror?"

You know it's a low move on your part, but you can't resist making him suffer. And by the way you suddenly feel his warm body behind you, you know that turning your back on your former marine and murderous ex wasn't such a smart idea. You swallow and turn around, crossing your arms to stare defiantly at him.

He is angry. You see it in his eyes. For some strange reason, instead of throwing you against the wall, he decides to close his eyes and take a few calming breaths.

And the part of you that still cares about him reminds you that he never laid a finger on you. Screaming, shouting, verbal threats were options. However, he never lost his temper enough to actually try to hurt you... but maybe you should stop testing your luck after all?

"Well... I... I think he finally put something into my empty head." you shift your puzzled gaze to him. You thought Frankie and Billy would go back to fighting like vicious dogs, trying to kill each other. Apparently, things have changed more than you originally expected.

"And here I thought that no one would be able to get through your thick skull."

"I'm going to therapy." he blurts out. You frown. Well, this wasn't at all what you expected when you saw Billy again. "To… sort it all out." he says, not breaking eye contact with you.

"Well… good for you. But I assume you didn't come here just to brag about it."

Billy shakes his head and takes a step towards you, watching your reaction. You tense up, but then relax as your body subconsciously takes in the scent of his perfume, which after all reminds you of (ironically) safety.

"No. I don't. I... I'm here to ask you if..."

"Stop it. Whatever you are about to ask me, my answer is no. I don't want to have anything to do with you." you interrupt him before he makes any suggestions for you to consider. "Not after what you did to me, to Frankie, to Castles. I'm glad you're on the mend, but I don't want to know you, Russo."

"Y/N, please..." he sighs pleadingly and reaches up to cup your cheek. You grab his hand before you can feel his fingers on you in a tender gesture that so often melted your heart for him.

"DON'T... just leave. Do one damn thing for someone else's sake and just leave. Let me be as I was." you say, glaring at him and internally cursing yourself for the tremble in your voice.

Somehow you win this battle of hurt glances because the next thing you hear in the room after his heavy breathing is the door slamming as he leaves. You are left alone. You're shaking with the emotions that are flowing through you now. You put your hand to your mouth and cried quietly.

Billy fucking Russo always had to come and mess up your life like a damn master.

And right before your eyes I'm breaking, no past No reasons why Just you and me

You come back from your shift at the hospital to find Frankie sitting outside your apartment door.

"One more such trip to the past, and I swear I will take a dog from the shelter and threaten you with it. What do you want, Frank?" you ask, crossing your arms and glaring at the Punisher.

"Nice to see you too, Doc. Have you finally learned how to sew people up, or are you still torturing them?" he asks with a mischievous smile, standing up and walking over to you.

"It was only once in Afghanistan, and in my defence, you were squirming like a dog in a nettle. Besides, it's not my fault you fell on knives because you stumbled like an idiot after the action was over."

The man laughs and pulls you into a hug. "It's been too long. Too bad you fucking ran away from Russo all the way here, I hate coming back to this town. By the way, Maria and kids missed you too."

"I spoke to them just yesterday on Skype. Besides, somehow this distance doesn't stop you from harassing me. And not only you. Billy was here two weeks ago." you say, leading him into your apartment. You give him a stern look as he walk inside. He rolls his eyes at me but bends down and takes off his shoes before walking further in.

"I thought so. He's been looking like shit for two weeks. I'm sure he now consists of 70 percent alcohol. Lisa wondered if his corpse on the couch was starting to decompose enough for Maria to let her perform an autopsy on him." you smile at the mention of your goddaughter. That's your little girl.

"If you tell me you're here to stand up for him, I'll kick you out of my apartment. The idea of letting him be part of your family again after all this shit he has done is sick. You're a fucked-up man, Frankie."

"Y/N, it's not what it looks like."

"Frank damn it, he almost helped kill your family! If I hadn't let Maria talk me into going with you that damn morning to the Central Park and forgave him after seeing those fucking eyes of a broken puppy, he probably wouldn't have lifted a finger to save Maria, kids and you!"

"I thought so too, so I shattered up his face, and we did a lot of shitty, sick things to each other, but believe me, it's not that simple. This fucking mess around us... is partly his fault, but not in the way we first assumed. He's still my brother… he's still our Bill."

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. You were fed up with it all. All this drama that's going on around Russo. Sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have been better if they'd never called you in to stitch up that damn Marine and you'd never met him...

"I don't care, Frank. He hurt you. For money. He can go and keep selling himself like a whore." you say bitterly and walk past the man standing in the middle of your living room. You go to the bar and pour yourself a glass of something stronger.

"You can't be serious."

"I fucking am, Castle." you reply dispassionately, drinking the alcohol in a gulp. You pour yourself another glass and sit on the couch, watching the conflicted man in front of you.

"Come on. It's you and Billy. You always came back to each other. After every shit, big fight and breakup. Like a damn Ross and Rachel."

"For the last time I'm telling you, stop fucking watching Friends with Lisa and Maria, it's our show. Besides, this isn't damn Friends or any soap opera, Frankie. Billy fucked up. Ultimately. Nothing will change that, so just fuck off or accept it. God! You're taking our breakup worse than that cold bastard." you laugh bitterly and finish your glass. You set it down on the coffee table with a bang and run a hand through your hair. No. You won't get drunk again because of that damn asshole.

"Bullshit. He's a mess… I've never seen him like this."

"Do I look like I care?" you ask him, raising an eyebrow defiantly.

"You fucking liar, you couldn't stop loving him overnights."

You don't answer right away. He was right. You couldn't stop loving someone who was so deeply embedded in your soul, who saw all of you and became a part of your heart so easily... but loving Billy hurt you more than staying away from him. And for once in your life, you just want to feel at peace and be somewhat happy. Even without Bill by your side.

"If you want something, you better fucking say it or get the hell out." you say, not looking at him as your attention is drawn to your hands instead of the man standing in front of you.

He sighs, tightening his grip on the chair. You see his white knuckles, and for a moment, you think he's going to break the back of the chair. He sighs suddenly and relaxes his muscles, staring at you with a less angry look.

"I need your help."

This is the last time I'm asking you this Put my name at the top of your list This is the last time I'm asking you why You break my heart in the blink of an eye (Eye, eye)

You imagined your reunion with everyone a little worse. Maria and the kids were in a safe house outside the city, but it was nice to meet the rest of your old friends (in the case of the murder of the last of Rawllins' men, but hey, people talk about different things, right?) And it was really nice... until Billy returned to the apartment.

As soon as his dark-brown irises met yours, an unpleasant, awkward silence fell in the living room. You felt not only his gaze but also the curious gazes of the others as they glanced between the two of you.

"What the hell is she doing here?" he asks, shooting an angry, betrayed look at Frankie.

"Don't worry. I'll be gone as soon as I make sure the Castles are out of any danger. I don't really feel like seeing your face too." you say, giving him a defiant look. You turn your head away from him and towards Micro as quickly as you can.

Billy had dark circles under his eyes, a paler face than usual, and obvious signs of sleep deprivation. You'd care if he was more than just a piece of trash who betrayed people close to him. Yet you still cared.

However, the man does not give up easily. He walks over to you, stands in front of you, and takes your chin in his hand to make you look at him. If you didn't know better, you'd think you saw pain in that son of a bitch's eyes.

"You don't have to look at me from the hiding place where we put Maria and the kids, so get your pretty ass out of here and don't cause us any more troubles than we already have."

"How dare you talk about them after what you did?!" you growl at him in anger, pushing his hand away and standing up to face him. "All the trouble we're having is because you're a selling-out motherfucker who betrayed the only people in this world who fucking cared about you!"

Billy clenches his fists and takes a step towards you, leaning towards you. You both breathe quickly, shooting each other hostile glances, waiting to see who will break away and attack first. The tension in the room is so great that you can almost feel sparks flying between you. Frank quickly steps between the two of you, gives Billy a stern look and turns to face you.

"Save the lovers' quarrel and make-up sex for later, okay? Billy, Y/N is coming with us. Y/N, you're not trying to kill Billy until we do what we have to do, and it's best not to argue with him at all. Same with you, Bill. Can you do it, or are you resentful young brats who will be at each other's throats after a breakup?" he says, looking between you two. You huff, crossing your arms and staring at Castle.

"And since when did you become such a responsible asshole, Frankie?" you ask mockingly, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Since we've been planning a glorious murder at those, who tried to kill my family." you sigh and nod. He is right. Killing these bastards is your priority. You can't let your feelings for that asshole who still manages to get under your skin somehow complicate your already difficult mission.

"Fine. Just keep him away from me." you growl in anger and walk past Billy, elbowing him as you go to get ready for your 'mission' with the boys.

And if you looked over your shoulder, you would see a dark brown irises staring longingly at your retreat towards the armoury silhouette.

You find yourself at my door And just like all those times before You wear your best apology But I was there to watch you leave And all the times I let you in Just for you to go again Disappear when you come back Everything is better

A ring at your door at 2 a.m. should make you suspicious.

You should pretend to sleep and finish studying for the last exam that separates you from your desired diploma. You promised yourself that after completing your specialisation, you would leave the army and move to a state hospital. You were fed up with gunshots all around you. For now, you were well on your way to shedding your soldier's uniform and permanently donning a doctor's coat.

You were one exam away from your dreams... and one Billy goddamn Russo who was standing outside your door.

Before you could close it in his face, the man stuck his shoe between the door and the frame. You curse under your breath and open them again to meet this hot damn asshole on your doorstep.

"You shouldn't open the door at this hour without checking who's behind it." he starts, resting his hand on the door as if to make sure you won't shut it in his face again. Only now do you notice his bag slung over his shoulder. He must have come here straight from the airport as soon as he landed.

"A lesson for the future. What do you want?" you ask dryly, crossing your arms. He looks at you tiredly and sighs. The hand that isn't holding the door is combing through his hair. Dog tags hang from his neck as he bows his head slightly before looking back into your eyes.

"Please... I just want to talk." he pleads, wearing his best apologetic, kicked puppy look.

"We have nothing to talk about. Can you let go of my door now? I have an important exam tomorrow; I need to get some sleep." he smiles slightly. Reluctantly, you feel your chest warm up at that damn cute smile.

"Knowing you, honey, you probably weren't even going to go to sleep, just keep revising the material."

"What are you doing here? There were no more sheets of paper in Afghanistan? The poor postman used to come here with a bag full of letters from you. I felt bad sending them back just because of him."

"So… you haven't read any?" he asks, swallowing and staring at you with those damn eyes you would kill for someday.

"Why? I broke up with you before I left the unit. I was just your sexy doctor, right? Or maybe I'm distorting your words? I'm almost sure that's what you called me while bragging to your colleagues in the unit that you fucked the coldest and most unapproachable bitch from the base."

"These same colleagues saw me rage and fall apart as I was getting my letters back from you. I was the one of us, who was there to watch you leave." he responds to your accusations, and the pain in his eyes almost convinces you to throw yourself into his arms. But luckily, you remember the nights you spent crying because of the asshole in front of you.

"And I was the one who overheard that everything between us was some kind of fucking adventure for the time being until you get to another woman." you growl angrily, trying to slam the door on him, but his hand on it prevents you from doing so. He pushes himself inside your apartment and pins you to the wall, closing the door behind him with a loud bang. Loud enough to have your neighbours hear that.

"It's not true… what was between us… it was the only real thing I ever had in my damn life." he says with a shaky voice and you see tears forming in his eyes. "Neither of us expected what was between us to turn into something more than a few-month fling, but here I am, flitting around without you like a moth searching for the fucking light after spending years in the darkness, which was my life without you. I care about you. More than anything. More than I want to admit, more than I would like. That damn much that I would travel halfway around the world for you, I will grovel at your feet just to be fucking close to you."

You let your tears flow freely as you listened to his confession. You know what the man in front of you has been through—what demons of his past pursued him at every turn. And maybe it's his words; maybe it's those damn, tearful eyes that allowed you to see his vulnerability, hidden for so many years; or maybe you just can't live without him either...

Anyway, you grab his dog tags and pull him towards you for a passionate, tearful kiss as both of you realise one terryfing truth... You need each other.

"This is the last time, Russo." you whisper against his lips as he guides you towards your bedroom, stripping you of your clothes.

And right before your eyes I'm aching, run fast Nowhere to hide Just you and me

"What the fuck are you thinking you are doing?" you ask him angrily as he drags you by your elbow away from the shooting.

Things have gone a bit south. Frank didn't anticipate how much support the group we were supposed to kill would get, and now they cut off your group, and now you were forced to work with Billy to get out of here and kill the people you had to. A very mad Billy Russo in his stupid mask.

"I'm saving your ass. Stay here. I'll take care of the rest." he says, letting go of your elbow as he looks around the room.

"There's no fucking option. You won't play my hero, Russo." you say, and reload your gun.

"You won't distract me. You're staying here. End of discussion." he walks up to you and tries to grab the gun out of your hand. You struggle with him and use the grip he taught you to push him away. After a while, you aim your gun at him. You see a hint of fear in his eyes. You shoot, killing the guy standing in the doorway behind him.

"I'm not you. I don't kill my people." you growl at him in anger and move past him to drag the dead man inside and close the door. Billy is grateful for his mask... at least you can't see his shocked, pained expression.

He pulls up a chair and starts rummaging through the flap of the ventilation duct. During this time, you take the gun and bullets from the corpse.

"I would never kill the Castles." he says, not looking at you as he continues to open the vent. "They are my family... just like you."

"You haven't been my family for a long time." you snort at his seemingly tender words. You shiver when he suddenly jumps from the chair and pins you to the wall. Even from behind his mask, you can see how hurt and furious he is.

He holds your arms tightly, almost in a bruising embrace, as he whispers from under his mask so quietly that you can barely hear his words and his voice shaking with emotion.

"Everything... I've ever done... I've done for you. For us."

"There are no us, Russo." You growl in anger and push his arms off of you. You go to the air vent, but he grabs you by the waist and pulls you towards him. You fight him, even going so far as to rip off his mask, but he still holds you in a tight hug, staring into your eyes.

"I fucking love you; do you understand?! With my entire pathetic existence. I know that now you only see me as a monster and that my face is disgusting, but I can't... I can't lose you. Not you. I can endure everything—insults, your hatred... just... please... please don't leave me." he whispers desperately, cupping your cheek in one hand and resting his forehead against yours. You close your eyes, feeling tears welling up in them. You can't count how many times you cried because of that bastard in front of you.

"You think I care about your scars? I don't give a damn about them. What's keeping me away from you is your ugly inside, Russo. You don't care about anyone suffering as long as you profit from it. I'm disgusted by your personality and by the fact that you were willing to sell out your best friend's family and all the people who cared about you for goddamn money and fame. And I hate you, because somehow, even after all you've done, I still care about your damn ass."

His thumb strokes your cheek tenderly as you let him kiss the tears off your face as you almost fell apart in his hands, which you've missed for so long.

“Y/N, my heart, I swear I would never, ever hurt them. You have to believe me. I wouldn't risk what we have… I wouldn't risk losing you after having no one to care about for my whole messed-up life.”

And you're inclined to believe him. You are willing to forget everything and just accept him back. But then you hear a faint beeping sound. You both freeze, staring at each other.

Billy works fast. Too fast for you. He pushes you into the vent and closes the hatch behind you before you can do anything. After a moment, a quiet explosion echoes from the room below you, masking your frantic scream of his name.

This is the last time I'm asking you this Put my name at the top of your list This is the last time I'm asking you why You break my heart in the blink of an eye (Eye, eye)

Billy was not a good man. He knew it. He had no reason. Life never spoiled him, and everything he worked for he had to tear out with his nails. He had no reason to be good. But what he was about to allow now would seal who he was forever. There would be no turning back. And he knew it the moment he joined Castles in the Central Park.

He actually had nothing to lose. Y/N left him, and it would only be a matter of time before Frank would turn on him. He would be alone again. At least he would have guaranteed his future... however empty it might be. But he always believed that it was better to be depressed in an expensive sports car than anywhere else.

At least that's what he thought until he saw Y/N again, for the first time since their next big (this time final, which he deeply believed) breakup. And God, she was beautiful. More beautiful than ever.

She was wearing that little black floral dress that he loved, and she was joking about something with little Lisa as she dragged her through Central Park and the stands. Little Castle led her towards him.

Quiet: "Don't fuck it up, Uncle Bill." came from Frank Jr.'s mouth, before the kid disappeared, likely going to his father, who was probably already watching him. A young boy had to stop using such words. Maria would have his and Frank's heads for it.

Billy's eyes met yours. He gulped, watching as you walked up to him, and Lisa disappeared, probably going to the hideout where her parents were, watching him and Y/N. He clears his throat as you stand in front of him and gives you one of his practiced smirks... though he doubts he's acting as confident as he should be.

"Hi." he says quietly, staring at your face. His stupid heart beats like crazy as he completely forgot everything that wasn't you.

"Hi." you reply, playing with one of the rings on your finger—a nervous habit that he has despised since he felt the need to put HIS ring on you that you can play with and twirl on your finger when you feel insecure. "It was a long time."

"Indeed." he agrees and puts his hands in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant. "You look beautiful, how are you?" he asks, as if he didn't have people positioned around you, to keep you safe and out of his troubles... the daily update about your life was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind after... losing you.

"All right. I got this job at the hospital." he knows. He himself made a transfer to the account of the hospital's head so that he would employ you there. Still, a smile appears on his face at the excitement in your eyes.

"I told you it was only a matter of time. You are the best surgeon in the USA."

"Well, I doubt Frank would agree with that." you laugh, and he can't help but join you. Frank was your test subject. A very grumpy test subject. Billy could never complain about being a little too strict or stitching it up too quickly at your beginnings. You were just perfect in his eyes.

"Don't listen to him, he is just a brat." he says, nudging your shoulder gently with his. And suddenly, you both stare at each other. You both linger on the other's lips for a moment longer.

"I missed you, Bill." you admit and his heart starts beating wildly.

He swallowed. No. He can't drag you into his shit. You would be better off without him... but as you stood in front of him, looking at him with those beautiful eyes of yours that he would do anything for, he knew he had lost. And much sooner than he realised it.

He pulls you into his embrace. And when you wrap your arms around him, when you snuggle into his chest, and he inhales your scent, burying his nose in your hair, he knows he's home. He knows that he wants to feel this way forever and that life without you simply makes no sense to him anymore. And if he were anyone else, if he hadn't gone through all this shit in his life, he would have cried right there.

Instead, he pulls you closer to his chest, almost digging his fingers into your back, and whispers softly, his eyes closed tightly:

"This is the last time, I won't hurt you anymore." he kisses your head, sealing his promise. He will burn the world for you. And nothing will stop him.

And as you sit next to him on the bench, across from the Castles, who are teasing you about how you two can't live without each other, he just smiles and texts his people to call off the action. Unbeknownst to you all, he declares war on Rollins, writing to him: "No one hurts my family. That's the end of the deal."

This is the last time you tell me I've got it wrong This is the last time I say it's been you all along This is the last time I let you in my door This is the last time, I won't hurt you anymore Oh-ho, oh-ho, oh-ho, oh-ho Oh-ho, oh-ho, oh-ho, oh-ho

You've been holding his hand since you returned to the Castles' house after his doctors examined him and patched him up. They didn't let you get to him. Something about an emotional attachment would cloud your judgement as a doctor. Stupid bullshit, but there was nothing you could do against Frank's strong grip as he held you in the hallway until you were allowed to carry him home. You're sure Castle had scratches from your nails when you tried to get away to go to Billy.

You shiver when Frank suddenly enters the room and hands you cup of tea. You take it from him without a word with one hand, and with the other, you still hold Billy, waiting for him to wake up. Frank snorts and sits down in the chair next to you, watching you closely.

"He'll get through this. Fortunately, he didn't set himself on fire, he just crashed into the opposite wall." you shiver, ignoring his words as you sip your tea. "Although I doubt he'll have any luck next time if you dump him again. Who knows what he'll do next time just for you to hold his hand."

"What the hell are you talking about?" you ask angrily, shifting your outraged gaze to him. He just shrugs.

"Do you think he let me give him those scars just like that? This is some form of his twisted compensation or punishment. The fact that he was hoping you would magically come get him and patch him up only encouraged him more to stay still as I smashed his face."

"You're fucked up. Both of you. No normal people would come back to being friends after something like that."

"We're all fucked up. Me, because I still see him as a brother. He, because he still wants to be part of my family. And you, who love him despite everything, but leave him at every possible opportunity." you turn your gaze away from him to Billy. He is right. And that hurts the most.

"Every time I promise myself it will be the last time. That I will never go back to him. That this is the last time he breaks my heart without even blinking. One last time I let him back into my life, but I… I just can't, Frankie… I can't leave him, no matter how much he destroys me."

"He thinks he's not worthy of you. That you deserve better." you huff bitterly, shaking your head, trying to fight away the tears.

"There is nothing for me apart from him." you whisper, staring blankly at your linked hands with Billy's. "Not after everything I've been through with him."

"Then stick with it. It's better to be fucked up together." you are laughing. It's not that simple, it never was… or maybe it was you who didn't want to make it such a simple thing.

"You should go to Maria and the kids." you say, wanting to get rid of him. You don't know what you feel. All you know is that you won't leave this room until those dark brown irises look back at you again.

"Will you stay with him?" he asks, and from the heavy atmosphere in the room, you feel like this question means more. He asks if you will stay forever. You lift your hand and gently run through Billy's short hair, observing what happened to him after the two of you were apart... and in fact, you weren't holding up any better than he was.

"Yes... yes I will." you whisper, never taking your eyes off his face. And you feel like something heavy has fallen off your chest. Months of crying, anxiety and apathy passed with the snap of a finger.

"I want to be godfather to your first. And for him to have Frankie as his second name if it's a boy."

"Fuck you, Castle." you say and throw a spare pillow at him. The man laughs as he leaves. He closes the door behind him and you look at the unconscious Billy.

"This is the last time, Russo. I mean that. Don't fuck it up." you whisper and kiss your joined hands.

This is the last time I'm asking you this Put my name at the top of your list This is the last time I'm asking you why You break my heart in the blink of an eye This is the last time I'm asking you this (This is the last time I'm asking you this) Put my name at the top of your list (Put my name at the top of your list) This is the last time I'm asking you why (This is the last time I'm asking you why) You break my heart in the blink of an eye (You break my heart) This is the last time I'm asking you, last time I'm asking you Last time I'm asking you this This is the last time I'm asking you, last time I'm asking you Last time I'm asking you this

The gentle brushing of your hair is the first thing you feel when you wake up. Another is his tight grip on your hands, as if he's afraid you're just a product of his head high on painkillers. You raise your head slowly. His hand slips from your hair and rests hesitantly on your cheek.

"Hello." he whispers, staring at you. And for a moment, you just stay like that, each drinking in the sight of the other.

And your heart breaks when you see him waiting for the moment when you start screaming at him, when you take away the closeness he missed so much.

So against your better judgement and what you should do, you lean in and kiss him sweetly, cupping his cheek in your hand. You caress one of his worst scars with the pad of your thumb as he responds to your kiss. His hands stay stiffly in place as he's afraid to move, lest he disturb this moment between you, to feel your lips as long as possible.

You pull away from him and rest your forehead against his. You close your eyes, catching your breath. You feel his burning, confused gaze on you, but you don't move. You don't say anything. You just sit there, enjoying his touch and his closeness, not thinking about the conversation you need to have.

"I missed… I missed this." he whispers shakily. You feel him burning with the desire to taste your lips one more time, but he maintains some semblance of control and settles for just moving the hand that isn't cupping your cheek to your waist.

"Me too."

"I know I screwed up. But… I will never… never again…" you kiss him again, interrupting him. You brush away the tears that fall down his cheek with your thumbs and gently brush your nose against his as you end your kiss.

"Shhh... I know." you whisper, straddling him, needing to feel him as close to you as possible after everything that happened. You were both shattered, but maybe you could put each other back together?

"Are you sure?" he asks, swallowing. You nod and bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. He strokes your back slowly, drawing patterns with his fingertips under your blouse. You shiver at the feeling of his touch on your skin.

"This is the last time, Russo. Either we succeed or... it's over. And I mean it. There will be no great quarrels and returns, no appearances on the doorstep of the other at midnight. We'll either be honest with each other... and make it work... or we won't be together at all. You understand? We're at the top of each other's lists, or not at all. I don't want anything less, any toxic love, any blaming each other, and all that bullshit. We take each other and try to do something with us, or we end it."

He nods and pulls you closer to him, digging his fingers into your back, anchoring you to his chest.

"Deal. I hope you know, you just stuck with me forever, because I'm not leaving you." you lift yourself gently from his chest to look at him. Your eyes water as your eyes meet and for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to fully express your feelings to him.

"Just... don't make me ask you this again... don't hurt me. Please."

Billy pulls you into a tender kiss, showing you all the love and devotion he has for you. Trying with your actions to ensure that this time will be different, that you will never suffer because of him again, that you will never run away from each other again, that you will never watch the other one leave again.

"I'm nothing without you. Trust me. I tried to live without you and look how it ended." he jokes, and in any other situation you wouldn't find it funny, but now, fueled by the high of being with him again, you giggle stupidly into his neck. Billy smiles fondly and strokes your hair, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Break my heart again, and it will end worse for you. I have connections in the mortuary, Russo." he huffs, undeterred, and pulls you closer.

"Please. As if you didn't fly across two states just to stitch my face together because you didn't believe in the competence of the doctors at the hospital." you blush as you realizes that he knew about your moment of weakness after you found out what happened to him after his fight with Frank.

"How did you know?"

"I'd know your stitches anywhere." he says with a shrug and pulls you in for a kiss.

"I was thinking about you for a whole blody month. I couldn't sit through a single meeting without thinking about those enticing lips and the things I want to do to you when I finally return." he whispers, kissing your forehead.

He strokes your cheeks tenderly with his thumbs and studies your face carefully, looking for any changes that may have occurred in the month he's been away.

"You came back earlier. I didn't even hear any sounds of horses from the courtyard or whispers among the maids that you were back with your Grishas." you say, stroking his hair messed by the air. You notice that he still has a few snowflakes in them and giggle at how this dangerous man looks so cute with the snow in his hair, black cloak, and red nose.

"I could have left Ivan in charge of the rest and set off earlier myself. They should be here tomorrow. I left them as I saw the walls of Little Palace, and actually, I saw them in the distance from the tower when I was running here." he admits, and you're pretty sure the blush on his cheeks isn't due to the change in temperature. However, you decided to ignore it and not tease him about his obvious embarrassment.

"Come. We need to warm you up. We wouldn't want the general to get sick and be more grumpy to his soldiers only because he wanted to see a girl earlier."

"But what a beauty she is."

Before you can even answer him, his now slightly warmer lips crash against yours, stealing your breath. You moan as he pushes you onto the windowsill. Your back, cushioned by his hand, hits the cool window as he kisses you, as if trying to make up for the month of separation with his one (or maybe more) kiss.

"Next time, I'm taking you with me so I can claim what's mine whenever I want." he pulls away for a moment to whisper before capturing your lips again. You smile, pulling him closer to you by the black fur on his coat.

"Aleksander..." you moan as your lips part and his hand travels under your dress, caressing your leg and making you shiver, both from the cold air and the electric touch of his skin on yours.

"So distracting, so teasing... my little Otkazat'sya, who is constantly occupying my every thought when I should be focusing on the possible war to come. The saints know you will be my sweet undoing."

Your hands land on the collar of his kefta under his coat, and you slowly move them along his chest, unbuttoning his kefta and shirt. You are caressing every newly exposed bit of his skin with your hands, not ashamed of the desire to touch, and caressing every single part of your general...

"Your man came here." your colleague taps you on the shoulder, taking you out of your 'reading', and nods towards the main aisle.

You turn your gaze away from the book, which was only your excuse anyway, thanks to which you could freely indulge in your fantasies. You take a quick glance at the general.

"Shush!" you hiss at her, checking if the general didn't hear her. You breathed a sigh of relief when you saw that his attention was completely focused on the bookshelves. "He might have heard you. Besides, he's not my man."

"You better tell him that. Every time he comes here, he asks specially about you. That means something." she teases you as you put the book back on the shelf.

"That means nothing. It's just that I know most of the books on military tactics from my father and brother, so only from me he can find out where exactly it is. I doubt anyone else in this library would understand which book he's looking for." you brush her comment off and walk over to the general, who was looking at the titles of the books on the shelves.

"Good morning. How can I help you this time, general?" you smile politely, trying to fight the stupid fluttering of your heart you had around him. As well as the dirty thoughts that tormented you about this unfairly handsome man.

You thanked saints every time you talked to him, for that he wasn't a heartrender and couldn't hear your traitorous, stupid heart racing fast each time you were in his presence.

You take a moment to study his face, noticing that the dark circles under his eyes have increased slightly over the course of the week. His eyes, although still shining in their characteristic, even mischievous way, are cloudier and more tired. And if you could, you would comfort this over-busy man, or at least try to provide him with some sense of comfort.

But you can't. All you can do is watch him from a distance.

So you do so. You study every bit of his face carefully, allowing yourself to do so when he talks to you about a book, and you pretend to listen to him, right after you heard the title of the familiar book he was looking for.

After all, you didn't want to waste his time… or give him any suspicion that you were taking every possible moment to admire him.

You know that your infatuation and dreams are stupid and that nothing more will ever happen between you two than a polite conversation and maybe the exchange of a few observations about books. But you can't help but imagine how wonderful it would be to kiss his tempting lips, cup his bearded cheek in your hand, or run your hand through his dark brown hair.

Just as his soft voice is no longer heard in your ears, you come back to reality, and it takes all your strength to look away from his too-perfect (for your stupid heart's sake) face and focus on the books on the shelves.

"This is a basic position. You should have it in your book collections." you say, running your finger along the spines of the books and looking for the one he needs.

If you had turned around at that moment, you would have seen a blush spreading across his cheeks as he looked around nervously and cleared his throat, trying to think of an excuse.

"To be honest... my personal library is not kept in such an... order. It's much easier and faster to come here. A nice company is also an additional benefit, as also the opportunity to break away from reports, plans, and other annoying papers."

"And here I thought that soldiers usually kept order around themselves. Especially the general of the whole army." you tease him with a smile and hand him the book he was looking for. His fingers brush against yours briefly, making you shiver.

"I found it hard to keep everything in order in the thought process. Especially lately when so many things which are on my head."

"So I guess your library is pretty messy." you smile as you hear his soft chuckle after your comment.

Everything about this man was ethereal. Starting with his appearance and ending with the way he carried himself. With pride and power radiating from him, which made everyone show respect, awe and fear for him.

Some invisible electric force was pulling you towards him—something inexplicable that only a few people could resist. And you definitely weren't one of them.

Like a moth to a flame. - you think mockingly, knowing that everything he represented was darkness and danger. But you could see more than his shadows. Something that didn't let you put him out of your mind so easily.

"That's putting it mildly." he says, snapping you out of your thoughts. You lick your lips and nod, laughing a bit.

"Maybe you should find someone who will clean up this mess for you. It would be a shame if the general of the Second Army got lost under the piles of his own books." you say, expecting to hear another burst of laughter from him.

But that didn't happen. Instead, his gaze lingered on you, as if he was searching your eyes for some kind of answer. You stared, hypnotised, into his dark irises until he finally saw something in your eyes that made him take a step towards you.

"Are you offering?" he whispers, making you shiver as you try to hold his intense gaze.

The fact that he's close enough that you can smell his cologne, his intoxicating scent, and his warmth, which is nothing like your fantasies, makes it even harder for you to string together a coherent sentence.

"Maybe I am." you whisper back, not sure if he understood it as a statement or a question.

But judging by the way he leaned towards you, slowly closing the distance between you and your lips with each small movement, you think he rather understood your intentions...

And just when you think he's finally going to end this torment—when he's going to lean down and catch your lips in a passionate, tender kiss and pin you to the bookshelves like he already did in your dreams, too many times for you to remember—you two hear somebody calling him.

You are the first to break eye contact, shift your gaze to the shelves next to you, and step away from him, even though every cell in your body screams with the need to be close to him.

"It looks like I have to go." he says. It clears your throat and catches your eye again. His dark eyes are focused entirely on you as he decides to make his move and adds, "I shall be waiting for you tonight if you are still offering your help. I could really use it." he says, ignoring the footsteps approaching the alley.

"Well, I shall meet you then, general." you answer instantly and with a little flirtatious tone before you can think about it or get scared and change your mind.

He gives you such a wonderful, charming smile that it convinces you that he was created by the saints themselves. Your heart skips a beat as he leans down and presses a such gentle kiss to your hand that you have to focus very much to feel his lips on your skin.

"I shall be expecting you then, milaya." he says, and you think he winks at you before turning around just as one of his Grishas comes into view.

They walk away together quickly, the man explaining something to him in a hurry, but all you see is him stealing a quick glance at you before disappearing around the bend into the main alley.

"Milaya?" you whisper to yourself, frowning.

And before you can think it through, you rush to the old Ravkan dictionaries to find this concrete word he used, ready to endure your friend's teasing when you tell her you think you have a date with the general of the Second Army.

"I told you I didn't want to be disturbed." he says slightly angry, after they return from the training field, where the young Inferni have started a fight with the Squallers and started a damn fire. Aleksander frowned as he felt the soot harden on the sleeve of his kefta.

"My apologies, General, but that was an important matter." Grisha, who interrupted his conversation with Y/N, explains himself as they enter his chambers, straight to the war room.

"Next time, you can only come to me if a Little Palace is set on fire, not some field. And even then, it will be better if you find some tidemaker to extinguish the fire. Understand, Captain?" he asks madly and sits down at his desk. He sighs when he sees the new papers that Ivan must have delivered to him in his absence.

"Yes, sir." he sees Grisha nods nervously. He rubs his eyes and sighs, seeing that his hands are also black with soot.

"Bring Fedyor here. And Ivan. I need someone reasonable." he mutters and gets up to go to the bathroom and get rid of any traces of fighting the fire. "And make sure the kids show up for their night training with Baghra. That should calm them down and keep them busy... at least for a while."

Grisha salutes him and leaves as quickly as he can. Aleksander rolls his eyes and looks in the mirror, cleaning his face. He returns to his desk and looks over the reports Ivan brought. After a few minutes, his heartrenders appear.

"You wanted to see us, sir." Ivan says this, standing in front of his desk. Fedyor is next to him, looking at the general. He frowns at seeing the messy state he is in.

"I have a task for you." he says, and he signs some orders. "First of all, please explain to me how the Little Palace was almost set on fire when I was only a few minutes away?" Ivan swallows and wants to say something, but Fedyor comes first.

"Zoya is on a mission. The kids felt too... carefree in someone else's care. But I assure you, General, that after today, it is unlikely to happen again. I heard them say on their way here that they had never been so afraid in their lives. Besides, they're just kids. Good thing the tidemakers were close. As soon as Zoya returns, she will definitely teach them a life lesson."

He nods, deciding to deal with this matter another time. "Were you able to gather the information I needed, Fedyor?"

"Yes, sir. Y/F/F. These flowers are waiting in the conservatory; you can pick them up and give them to her whenever you want." before Aleksander can scold him for making such bold assumptions, Fedyor continues. "Oh, right, I forgot. David is finishing the necklace you ordered. With her favourite gem, of course. But we have a serious problem, General. People are talking."

"They always talk. What exactly do they have in mind this time?" he clears his throat, trying to ignore how the heartrender so easily suggests his blatant infatuation of Y/N. He decides to remain silent. After all, Fedyor was the best... informant regarding Y/N. And his help was necessary in this case...

Although he liked Ivan's company more, it was Fedyor who was mainly responsible for them both being together, and that means he was more useful in his little mission. How two heartrenders got together—even Darkling didn't know exactly—but he desperately needed all of Fedyor's advice after his own attempts to woo you had failed.

He may have been handsome and had many women vying for his attention, but since Luda... he hadn't really courted anyone. No one was important enough. No one had broken through the wall of his heart created by Luda's death. When he decided that he had buried too many people close to him to endure another death, another loss.

And then you appeared. An ordinary human, not even Grisha. And he fell for you fast, hard, and suddenly, and despite his better judgement, he gave in to this need to be in your presence. And every day, he wanted much more. Irronicaly, he was too nervous around you to finally make a move. Or at least one that will be clear to you and provide him with your… reciprocity of his feelings.

And Fedyor had too much fun helping him to 'get a girl'. Just like teasing the general, who put up with his taunts as long as his advice worked. At least Ivan was here to stop his lover when he walked on the thin line of the general's patience.

"They are… interesting why our general is so often a guest in the Grand Palace… a library, to be precise."

"And? Is it something wrong? Can't I use Ravka's book resources?

It was a weak excuse. Aleksander knew this. But she won't admit his feelings... especially not to Fedyor.

"It's not like I'm going there just to look at her." he adds, mumbling under his breath as his attention is fully focused on the report in front of him. He wanted to finish this as soon as possible to prepare for your visit.

"And with all due respect, moi soverenyi, what exactly are you doing there?"

Aleksander hears Ivan kick Fedyor in the ankle as Heartrender asks him this question. He smiles to himself and finishes writing the last report.

"None of your worries." he says and hands the completed papers with his directions and orders to Ivan. "I'm unavailable for the rest of the day. Only matters of the utmost importance, and I only accept these messages from you two; keep any incompetent soldiers away from me; I had enough of them today."

His thoughts wander back to that moment where he almost managed to kiss Y/N. If it weren't for that damn soldier… his mind wanders to all the possibilities of how his visit could end.

"It really worked? She comes here?" Aleksander wonders if he should be offended by the incredulous tone he used.

"She is. That's why I hope I won't be disturbed anymore. At least not with trivial matters that can be taken care of without my interference and that I can find out about the next morning."

"Does she know she's staying until the morning, sir?"

"Fedyor." Ivan hisses at him, furious, unsure how much longer the general can take it.

Aleksander swallows, embarrassed. He can't help but wonder if you'll be as willing as he is to extend your overnight visit into the next day… or two.

"General, your heart is beating faster. Do you need any help?"

Fedyor smiles, half-malicious, half-happy to see the general melt at every thought of you. You completely swept him off his feet, and he didn't even have a second to defend himself. It was refreshing to see him so... lost in his feelings for you.

"Ivan, get your other half out of my sight before I send him to West Ravka, right through the fold, without any light or Inferni with him." Fedyor tries his hardest to stop smiling at his words. Ivan covers him and nods respectfully to the general.

"Yes, moi soverenyi."

As the door closes behind them, Fedyor laughs softly at Ivan. "Who would have thought that he of all people would choose Otkazat'sya? The one who never stayed around non-Grishas longer than necessary?"

"Do not be stupid. He definitely needs her for something else."

"You yourself heard his heartbeat. He fell head-over-heels. I have to tell Genya to make him a new kefta... preferably two, one male and one female, matching, you know, just in case."

Fedyor smiles as he sees people cleaning the corridors of the Little Palace. Their general was so obvious about his feelings that it hurt. The opinion of a heartless general effectively covered up his obvious actions.

"Why? She's not a Grisha. The general knows better than to pursue her."

"My dear, in the state our general is in now, he hardly cares about the fact that she doesn't have any powers. Besides, I know of marriages between Otkazat'sya and Grishas. There are few of them, but thanks to the sharing of life energy, the couple lives happily ever after, as long as Grisha's one doesn't die."

"Marraige? Don't go that far into the future. Even if he feels something for her, he will get over it."

"You will remember my words when he asks you to be his best man. Come on, honey, let's see what we can do for our general." Fedyor laughs and pulls Ivan towards the conservatory.

You walk through the corridors of the Little Palace, led by one of the Oprichniks, to the general's chambers. You feel weird coming here. He was usually the one who always visited you. At different times of the day in the library.

Involuntarily, you remember one of his rare nighttime visits.

You were alone in the library. You sat curled up in an armchair by the fire with a blanket around you.

You liked spending evenings in the library. It was completely silent then; you could listen to the crackling of the burning wood and get completely lost in your book.

However, lately, your thoughts have been turning more and more often around a certain general of the Second Army. Hence the book that was on your lap. "The Lives of Saints."

You've read most of the books about Grishas. About how they use their powers. About their little science. They fascinated you. Like Kirigan. At first, you were afraid of the general. He was, after all, a Black General, a descendant of the Black Heretic. But there was something... defenceless about him. Humane. Not identifying with the terrible legend circulating about him. And that little element of the common human in him drew you to this mysterious man.

You smirk to yourself as you hear the quiet footsteps you've learned to recognise as he lets you hear that he's close. You remember quite vividly how you shouted at him when he snuck up on you and almost dropped the stack of books you were holding. You don't know who was more surprised then—you or him.

"A little late for a night visit." you say, closing your book and shifting your gaze to the man walking towards you.

The smile disappears from your face when you see that he has dark bags under his eyes and is much paler than usual.

"Do I look that bad?" he asks with a laugh at your reaction. The blush on his cheeks and his less confident step make it clear that he didn't take your behaviour as carelessly as he showed.

"You look like death. What happened?" you ask, worried as he sits down in the armchair across from you.

"Tough week. I will be good. I had to come here. I... I haven't looked here for a while."

Little did you know that he wanted to say that he hadn't come for you. That he didn't come to check on you even though he wanted to, but he just didn't have time. That he had been watching you at every opportunity, hiding in the shadows. He was stopping at the library to simply look at you each time the king called him to confer with him about a possible war with the Fjerdans, which thankfully he had managed to avoid.

Now that the vision of Grishas' blood being spilled was no longer hanging over his head, he had come here—to the only shelter he had in this forgotten by the saints country on even a world.

He came to you.

"I noticed." you say and give him such a beautiful, comforting smile that this week of fighting against the king and the general of the First Army is worth the price of his nerves, sleepless nights, and the effort he put into avoiding war. This smile is a sufficient reward for all his efforts to maintain peace and security.

For Grishas, his mind screamed; he did it for his people.

For you, whispered a small voice in his head, coming from the remains of his shattered over the centuries heart. He did this to keep you safe—the only piece of his humanity he allowed himself to have. The only ramains of a man he used to be.

"You did?" he asks, swallowing. He watches you carefully, assessing your every little move and reaction.

He doesn't trust you yet... but he feels that he is getting closer to completely losing himself in your presence, which is soothing his battered soul like anything else in this world, and the warmth that radiates from you. If he didn't know you, he would think you were Inferni.

"Mhm..." you nod and start telling him about a book you read recently that he might have liked.

And he really wants to listen to you. Your voice soothed his frayed nerves and calmed the anxiety he had felt over the past few days, but as soon as he allows himself, as his head rests against the armchair, he begins to feel tired as well. And your wonderful voice, the sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace, and the familiar smell of your perfume mixed with the smell of books lull him to sleep better than any lullaby.

You smiled, watching him relax in the chair and slowly fall asleep. You quietly got up from your seat and walked over to the fireplace to add a log to the fire. You took the blanket you covered yourself with and walked over to Kirigan.

Just as you were about to cover him, a strong pair of arms swept you off your feet, leaving you in the general's lap while he snuggled into you.

“So warm…” you blush when you hear his half-asleep whisper, but you don't question his actions.

You cover the two of you with a blanket, and after he settles his head comfortably on your shoulder, with his nose gently nuzzling your neck, you can't help but run a hand through his hair. And you almost moan at how soft they are. If you could, you would stroke him at every chance you got. But now you just leave a light kiss on his temple, trying to fight the hope rising in your chest, which tells you that maybe your feelings aren't so hopeless and unreciprocable after all.

Because what other reason could there be for this man, who was completely out of your league and who is currently clinging to you like it's the most normal thing in the world, than that he has feelings for you?

As if this strong, powerful man needed a shelter and could find it only in your arms...

You never talked about that night, nor did it ever happen again, but it was one of your favourite memories with him.

Surprisingly, he always hits your shifts. And you wanted to believe that it wasn't a coincidence that you two met so often.

And that milaya... he didn't call every woman a sweet girl, did he? No. There had to be at least a hint of attraction in him for you. And you were so desperate for him that you would take any scrap of affection he gave you—any chance to see how it would really be to be loved by him. Even if this closeness was to last only for one night.

He was nervous.

The hundreds-year-old shadow summoner was nervous. And not with the upcoming fight, battle, and important meeting with the king, in which he had to use all his manipulation techniques and lies.

He was nervous before meeting with you.

Baghra would laugh at him and beat him for being distracted by mortals. For letting his stupid heart take control again and naively allowing himself to feel something for a woman who would pass so quickly that he wouldn't have time to blink.

But does that stop him? Of course not. He always takes a losing cause and always makes bad choices.

But how could he not, when you were the only light that had appeared in a very long time that he spent utterly alone in the darkness of his war room, still planning and still thinking about how to provide all Grishas with a safe future in which they wouldn't worry about their lives anymore? How could he just ignore you when you were lightening brighter than the sun summoner herself?

A gentle knock on the door sent a shiver of both excitement and fear through him.

You were already here.

"Come in." he says, trembling with anticipation as he waits for you to enter his chambers for the first time.

However, his face grew grumpy when, instead of your silhouette in some beautiful (preferably black) dress, he saw Fedyor enter his chambers.

"What are you doing here? And what is that all for?" he asks, confused, as Fedyor places a vase with a bouquet of your favourite flowers on his war table, a basket with wine and delicacies you like, and goes to light more candles in the room.

"Things that will come in handy. Good night, General."

Fedyor leaves before he can react. He stares at the room for a moment and laughs to himself, shaking his head. You were going to be his undoing. People will see how... soft he is getting because of you. But somehow it doesn't bother him, at least as long as the prospect of holding you in his arms was within his reach thanks to it. He would put up with Fedyor's banter and whispered gossip within the ranks of the Second Army if it meant having you by his side.

The soft creak of his door draws his attention. His gaze is fully focused on the entrance, his breath catching in his throat as he waits to be blessed with the sight of you. Maybe he could afford this one weakness? To allow himself a moment of blissful peace in the constant, lonely war that he waged for the safety of every Grisha.

The curse almost leaves his mouth when someone else appears instead of you. This time, Alina. In a nightgown, loose hair, and an uncertain expression on her face. And although he really needed her in his plans, he couldn't help but damn her for her timing. It looked like he didn't deserve time free from his duties.

"Alina? How can I help you?" he asks instead, glancing briefly at the clock and wondering how politely and quickly he can dismiss her so that you won't see her leaving on your way to his chambers.

Ironically, what Alina would think about his encounter with you at night didn't matter to him at all. But it should be the other way around. After all, he was going to seduce her and use her power for his plans.

You weren't supposed to mean that much to him.

And yet he was there, standing in front of the Sun Summoner he had dreamed to find for so long, but now he was only wondering how to get rid of her.

"Am I... disturbing you?"

As always, he thought, but quickly shook his head.

"Not at all. What's the matter?" he asks in a polite tone, trying not to get irritated by the way she looks around his chambers. Her cheeks blush slightly, and her eyes glow in the candlelight.

He wonders how you will react to the scenery Fedyor has created. Maybe he should light more candles? Or dust off his old record player and put a record of slow, classical music in it. He knew it would help him. Many times, he caught you dancing alone in the abandoned alley of the library. There were many times when he joined you so that you wouldn't have to dance with the air... although the main reason that encouraged him was the opportunity to hold you in his arms.

He doesn't pay attention to what Alina is saying to him. He only catches the way she says his name, and he can't help but let his thoughts fly to you again.

Considering how often he was in this library, he should have known by now where to look for the books he wanted. However, he was glad that none of the librarians commented on it, and they immediately showed him where he could find you.

However, the reputation of a cruel Grishas' general had its benefits. No one dared to question him.

As he walks through the library, he smiles and thinks about you. How you weren't afraid to put him in his place when you didn't like something.

At first you were just a means to an end, then a pretty thing to look at, then over time you became a challenge, and now... he couldn't go a day without seeing your face or hearing your voice.

He swallowed and shook his head. NO. He didn't fall that low. Not for an ordinary woman, a mortal.

A mocking voice in his head that closely resembles Baghra's words mocks him as he tries to deceive himself. How weak he is.

And he would probably have turned back and tried to save his naive heart if he hadn't heard a familiar, slow song playing from the gramophone.

He froze, watching you dance to the piano sounds coming from the record player, and put the books back on the shelves, rearranging them in order. The skirt moved with your movements, and he wanted nothing more than to place his hands on your waist and pull you as close to him as possible, letting his hands trace your curves as he stared into your eyes.

So he did. Allowing himself to do what he wanted and forgetting for a moment what he should have done.

He walks over to you quietly and places his hands on your waist, turning you towards him and lowering you, keeping his hand on your back in reassurance that he won't let go of you.

"Kirigan!" you scream at him, scared by his sudden action.

You cling to him, and he might have laughed at your adorable reaction if the fake name he gave himself didn't feel like a slap in the face when you said it. And then, as you stare at each other without saying a word, he realises that he wants the only name that leaves your wonderful, tempting lips to be his real one.

"Please... call me Aleksander." he whispers, and somehow this was something more intimate and meaningful than all the flowers and furtive glances you had received for him. Than all the talks you have had. Than all the kisses on the hand, cheek, and hugs you had exchanged.

"Aleksander." you say back, whispering it, like it was something sacred.

His heart sinks further. It does a flip when he hears how gently you say his real name, the name he kept away from the world and close to his heart, only for himself.

He makes himself vulnerable to you.

And instead of freaking out, all he can do is look at you as if you were his only anchor, keeping him sane in his crazy life full of worries, fear, and anxiety. Your eyes shine up at him, reminding him of the stars—the stars that for a long time have guided him in his darkness and made him blind to everything else around him but you.

He was cursed. There was no turning back. He knew it the moment he heard his real name on your lips. And if it weren't for the damn pile of books falling with a loud bang, causing him to go into defence mode and hide you behind him, he would have kissed you right there and then.

He remembers perfectly that day. And he cursed every moment you decided not to use it. As if he cared who might hear it. As long as it came out of your alluring lips, he didn't care who heard it. He knew it would be the end of him to hear you scream it loud in the darkness of his chambers.

He doesn't notice when Alina approaches him. Or when she places her hand on his. At least not until a ball of light appears around them. He looks fascinated by Alina's possibilities and her power.

Alina leans towards him. His gaze shifts to her. He wonders if he should let her kiss him. But then the image of you comes to his mind, and he knows he has no choice but to push her away. He can't do this. Not when he knows he could be kissing you; taste your lips on his instead of hers. And the realisation makes him even more aware of how hopelessly he has fallen for you. To reject the Sun Summoner herself.

And that's when he notices you standing in the doorway.

"Y/N? Y/N, wait!" he pushes Alina's hand away and shouts after you as you walk away, closing the door.

He leaves a confused Alina speechless as he runs after you. When he's in the hallway, he sees no sign of you. He curses, realising what an uncomfortable situation you found him in with the sun summoner.

This will be difficult for him to explain. But damn him if he doesn't try his best.

"Don't." he stops his oprichniki from chasing you. You needed a moment for yourself. He knows that chasing after you would only make things worse... even if that was all he wanted to do right now. "Just make sure she will come back safetly to her chamber. If something happens to her, you will suffer the consequences. Understood?"

"Yes, general."

"That's all." they bow to him and leave. He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

"Aleksander?" Alina's hand is on his shoulder as she turns him to face her.

And maybe, if they had met a few years earlier—before he met you—he would have allowed himself to take the opportunity to get the sun summoner for himself. But now... all he wants is you.

"You should go back to your chamber." he says coldly, returning to his room.

Only to take his black kefta. Just because he couldn't talk to you doesn't mean he couldn't watch you to make sure you were okay. Maybe, thanks to you, he will figure out how to explain all this to you.

You were stupid. And naive.

You think angrily as you clean the library floor with a broom. If anyone noticed that you started cleaning again as a way to release your negative emotions, they did not comment on it. And good. You were a ticking bomb today.

Honestly, you could have seen it coming. Him and the Sun Summoner. They were perfect for each other. In every book, they would end up together, and you would just be a supporting character.

The less important one.

It's good that you realised this before you let yourself do with him something stupid, before you got to know how his lips tasted, how it was to lay with his arms around you... Although... you guess he got under your skin and into your everyday life too deeply for you to simply forget about him.

Especially when he wouldn't leave you alone.

"You can't avoid me." he says, walking out of the alley. You almost run into him with a broom and for a moment, you feel the urge to hit him with it. But then you remember that you didn't actually promise each other anything. You were nothing to him. Only a librarian. An ordinary person. At best, a friend.

"I'm not." you say it coldly and try to move past him.

"You are." he says, blocking your way. You lift your head to look at him defiantly. All he does is grab your hands and take the broom out of your hands. You suddenly feel vulnerable… as if the broom could somehow protect you from the shadow summoner and your feelings for him. "Please. I just want to talk."

"How can I help you, general?" you ask him in an emotionless tone.

He sighs, but you can see from the look in his eyes that he won't give up that easily. But you also don't want to get involved in something that is doomed to failure. Men like them didn't end up with women like you. Not with someone so… ordinary.

"That's not how it looked like."

"No? You seemed… quite enjoyed your closeness to her. Besides, it is not my business. You can do whatever you want. With whoever… If you don't need my help finding a book, then I should go now."

"No, wait. Please." he grabs your arm and takes a step towards you, refusing to let you just walk away from him.

"Do you call her milaya too?" you can't help but ask him this question in a tone full of resentment, anger, and bitterness.

His reaction surprises you. Instead of responding to your ridiculous jealousy with anger or a comment as cruel as yours, he… smiles. The bastard has the nerve to enjoy how bad you feel.

"Nevermind. Just…forget about it." you say, trying to break free from his grip, but he won't let you go—not even a step away.

After a moment, you feel him pressing you against the bookshelves. His nose brushes lightly against yours, and your lips are closer together than ever. He breathes heavily, his dark, almost black eyes staring into yours as he tries to stop himself from simply kissing every thought that isn't him out of you. You look at him, waiting; you don't know what. Every inner moral battle in him is settled by your quiet whisper:

"Aleksander?"

He's losing it. All the control he had gained over hundreds of years. He leans down and connects your lips in a long-awaited kiss. At first, he tries to be slow and gentle. He caresses your cheek affectionately and carefully places his hand on your waist.

Your moan changes all his plans.

He grips your waist tighter, bringing you as close to him as possible. He tangles his other hand in your hair, deepening the kiss and taking in all your whimpers. And Aleksander, for the first time in his long life, feels like he's in heaven.

By simply touching you. By simply kissing you.

He pushes away all his thoughts about breaking you and about defiling your sweet and pure person with his darkness. But he can't stop.

Not when you respond so eagerly to his kisses. Not when you pull him as close to you as possible by his hair and kefta. Not when he feels the same lust and desire for you that he has for you. Not when his wildest dreams are coming true.

He pulls away as he feels you slowly running out of air. He gives you just enough space to breathe but still stays as close to you as he can, resting his forehead against yours and pressing a kiss there. Both of his hands roam over your figure, and he curses at how delicate and otherworldly you feel under his fingertips. Like you always should have belonged right here, in his arms, in his hands.

The saints created you for him as his eternal trouble, as his baine of existence. To sweep him off his feet. To question any decisions he ever made. To prove to him that all his plans will be ruined and that his priorities don't matter when it comes to choosing between them and you.

"I… I want… I want it to be your business. I want you to care about me… just as I care about you too, moya milaya. My one and only." he whispers, pulling away from you enough that he can look into your eyes.

He strokes your cheek tenderly, deciding he doesn't want to spend another second missing you, your touch, and your presence. Holding himself back from kissing and chereshing you as you should be.

"And how can you possibly care about me? I'm… just me. Otkazat'sya. I can't summon the sun, shadows, or anything. I can't heal or manipulate hearts. I can't composite materials such as metal, glass, textiles, and chemicals. I'm not Grisha. I'm nothing special."

"Do you think I don't know it? Do you think that meant anything to my stupid heart the day I first saw you? That after our first conversation, I gave a damn about anything, but how is your laugh so hypnotic? How can I simply spend the day just looking at you or listening to your sweet voice, talking excitedly about every single book you've read? I know it makes no sense, but... isn't that what it looks like? How is it supposed to be? To fall for someone even knowing that you shouldn't? Even knowing that it's something doomed to fall from the beginning?"

"I suppose that's not how a love confession should look like, Aleksander." you laugh a little and hearing his name on your lips again gives him hope that he needs to fully open up.

"Maybe not. But we are not in the story. I speak from my heart, with my own words, because… nothing I ever knew can be compared to what I feel for you since the time we know each other. You attracted me at first, but… with time, I understand it isn't just some attraction. It is something deeper. More personal. You understand me like no one else has before, so don't stand there and pretend there is no special link between us, because this… this is everything that keeps me sane. With so many wars I have to fight, so many plans I have to put into action, and so many sacrifices I have to make… I shouldn't think about you… and yet it is everything I can do each time I leave your presence. You became a part of me… best part of me that I have ever had. And I know I will probably lose you in time, but… I can't imagine being without you. To go my day without speaking to you, seeing you, or laughing with you. And if you let me… I would like to keep you close for as long as I can. As long as you will have me."

He says all of this while looking at you with so much earnestness and passion that you have a hard time saying no to him or entering into his speech.

He sees your doubts. And he's so afraid of them that he decides to kiss you again, to try to bribe you, to make up your mind in his favour with the feeling of his lips on yours.

This time, you pull him in, placing your hands around his neck. He shivers as you play with the strands of his hair, and he knows that if he doesn't get you, the only ray of light in his grey existence, he has nothing to lose. Nothing will stop him from becoming a monster.

"I'm not so... open-hearted. Time taught me to keep my feelings to myself. But with... with you, I feel like the man I used to be. And I really like to be him again with you by my side."

"And... what about Alina?" you ask hesitantly, unable to get used to the idea that he might be… that he might choose you.

"You are the only one I can see." he whispers. He steals another kiss from you. This time, he presses you closer to him. You feel his muscular body under his kefta pressing against you, and you feel yourself slowly turning into putty in his hands. The bastard grins gladly as he feels you trembling.

"But for how long?" you try to hold on to one last rational thought before the warmth of the moment you share with him overwhelms you, and you become undeniably his. However, your internal struggle is just a matter of decency. You both know who won anyway.

"Eternity." he whispers against your lips before kissing you hungrily, losing control as he finally gives in to his desires, touching and caressing you as he wants with your more than willing consent. "Mine." he murmurs into your neck, pressing kisses there, his stubble teasing your sensitive skin as you moan at the feeling of his hot lips that you've imagined more than you care to admit.

"Mine." you respond, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling him in for another kiss.

Feeling his lips against you, his hands roaming over your body, caressing you, pulling you as close to him as possible, and his skin that you explore with your fingertips while unbuttoming his kefta as his shadows surround you, hiding the two of you from the sight of others who might be looking for you between the bookshelves, is making you realise that maybe, after all, you were the main character… at least in his story.

You had both left on such harsh terms those several years ago when your betrothal had been announced. You had been missing him for years, feeling as though a very piece of your own heart had been missing. 

“Thank you, your grace,” you tell her, speaking softly.

Your lord husband had been a kind man. Married to you as an alliance for your families and that was all. He was nearly twice your age, but he had been sweet to you. 

“My son has missed your presence,” Alicent tells you. 

“I was hoping to see the prince,” you said, heart rate increasing. 

Alicent nods, looking off to the side. Your smile falters as the realization washes over you at her hesitant glance.

“Aemond does not know I am here,” you tell her. It is a statement, not a question. 

Alicent struggles to keep the smile on her face. She brought her hand to yours, squeezing it gently. 

“I thought perhaps we shall surprise him,” she says softly.

“I do not think he wishes to see me,” you tell her, and feel a slash of pain in your heart. The wound is still fresh, though the years had passed. 

“Tell them not to let me go,” you had begged him, chasing him down an empty corridor. 

The one-eyed prince had stopped his long strides turning to face you. 

“Tell them you wish to marry me,” you had begged.

Aemond had been silent for many moments. 

“I cannot tell them what is not true.”

You remembered it as though it had happened yesterday. The cold look in his eye, so unlike that of which he usually awarded you. None of the kindness you had grown to love. 

“He does,” Alicent insists, “he has been terribly lonely these past years. Growing more resentful each day. I worry about him.”

In truth, you had never stopped thinking of Aemond. He plagued your thoughts at every moment. 

You blink away the tears that gather in your eyes.

“He shall be returning soon,” Alicent tells you, “join us for supper tonight, please.”

Her thumb continues to stroke the back of your hand, a hopeful look is in her eyes. You nod in agreement. 

Aemond remembered watching you go, the way your eyes had filled with tears. The look of betrayal on your face. That most of all. That has haunted most of his days since your departure. 

In truth, he had wished to marry you. But duty is often in conflict with matters of the heart. And duty demanded he remained unwed. 

And though it pained him to do so, he had to let you go. 

Aemond walks quickly to his chambers, eager to bathe and dress before joining his mother for dinner. The days have been long, and there is no feeling like that of being home. 

He hisses as he lowers himself into the tub, the hot water nipping at his pale skin. Aemond wishes to be done quickly, he doesn’t like being alone with his thoughts. He finds himself constantly training, reading, researching, and doing anything to distract himself from the constant thoughts that plague him.

You. 

It has been years since he last saw you since you last spoke. He supposed you must have several children by now. This did not make him sad, he hoped you had children to brighten your life. 

Aemond readied himself before making his way to his mother’s chambers. It was to be a small affair for supper that evening, as Aegon was entertaining some guests from the west. 

“Aemond,” Alicent said, as he arrived. She embraced her son whom she had not seen in several months. 

“It is good to see you, mother,” he said.

“I have missed you,” she told him, “I have invited a guest for dinner..”

“A guest?” Aemond questions, as the door opens. 

He turns and his breath catches in his throat as he sees you in the doorway. Your eyes are wide as you take him in. Aemond looks good, taller perhaps if that is possible. Leaner, the entirety of him is ropey muscles. He is handsome as ever, eyepatch securely covering his ruined eye. Aemond’s lips part.

“Hello Aemond,” you say softly smiling. 

“Lady (Y/N) has agreed to join us for supper, isn’t that lovely?” Alicent says, placing a hand on her son’s arm. 

Aemond jerks his head in a nod causing Alicent to smile. 

“I shall be but a moment,” she says, starting toward the door. She stops to caress your cheek, before leaving the room, the door clicking shut behind her. 

You inhale a shaky breath. 

“Are you well?” you ask as Aemond continues to stare, a rather innocent expression on his normally harsh face. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice hoarse. You wet your lips wringing your hands together. 

“Your mother invited me to the capital,” you tell him, “I did not know you had no part in the invitation.”

“My mother?” Aemond said, shaking his head. Of course, his mother. The hopeless romantic who always wanted more for her children than the hand she had been dealt. You nod. 

“She wished to offer her condolences,” you continue, walking towards the fireplace. You reach for a grape that lays on a golden tray. Aemond’s brow furrows.

“Condolences?” he asks, watching you pop the grape into your mouth. You chuckle.

“Shall you speak in questions all evening, my prince?” you tease before answering his question.

“My late husband has passed,” you inform him. A moment of pause lingers between you. 

“I am sorry to hear that,” Aemond says, “I do hope your children are weathering alright?”

You meet his eye, a blush beginning to creep onto your cheeks. Aemond wishes he could place his hands upon your cheeks, to feel the burning that resides underneath your smooth flesh. 

“We were not blessed with children,” you tell him, “my lord husband was not well, for the majority of our marriage.”

“Did he treat you well?” Aemond asks, voice turning to a tone of concern.

“Oh yes,” you assure him, “yes, he was very kind to me. But-”

You find yourself struggling to speak, struggling to find the right words.

“He did not love me,” you decide, “he did not desire me. It was a quiet marriage.”

Aemond is watching you carefully. How foolish he had been to let you slip from his fingers. The gods are good, they must be repaying him for his suffering in some way by returning you to him. By offering him a second chance. 

“I would,” Aemond says softly.

He walks over to you until he stands directly before you. 

“I would love you, I would desire you,” he tells you, “I do, I always have.”

Your eyes fill with tears and you shake your head. 

“You don’t have to say that-”

“I do, and I was a fool,” he continues, taking your hands in his, “I was a fool to let you leave when I loved you. I have loved you and continue to love you.”

The tears are freely flowing down your cheeks, dripping past your chin and onto the stone floor.

“There has not been a day that goes by where I do not think of you,” he continues, “there is not a corner of this world I could fly to where I did not see your face. In every passerby, in the light of the moon. You are everywhere. You are all-consuming.”

“Aemond,” you beg, not sure exactly if you wish him to stop or keep speaking. 

“I love you,” he insists, fingers digging into your waist. 

You bring your hands to his chest, pulling him towards you and connecting your mouths. The kiss is desperate and passionate, making up for the lost time. Aemond can feel the coolness from your tears caressing his face, and you start to laugh against his mouth. 

He kisses you again and again, swallowing the happy laughter that pours from your sweet lips. 

Queen Alicent stands outside the room, back pressed against the wood of the door, listening to your whispers, and laughter. She places a hand against her heart and closes her eyes, happy that her son has found the love he so longed for. 

He pushed himself up until he was kneeling between your legs, your thighs propped on his, knees tucked in against his waist. You were more exposed than ever but you didn't seem to care. Your skin was glowing in the candlelight, flushed at your throat and the top of your breasts. He wondered if it was the novelty of the situation that was making you turn pink in this way, or if you were naturally inclined to blush whenever you were aroused. 

Running his hands up and down your thighs, he took his fill of you, enjoying the way your legs tightened around his hips whenever his thumbs stroked the soft crease where your inner thighs met your pelvis. The more he was doing it the more impatient you were growing, but you seemed to enjoy the slight teasing. You almost whined when one of his hands slid all the way up to your chest, bypassing your core, but sighed in relief when he touched one of your breasts.

It was both soft and firm in the palm of his hand, growing a bit harder as he caressed it gently. You indulged him for a minute, looking at him with a tenderness he had never seen projected toward him before. He lowered his gaze, unused to such display, and distracted himself by curling his other hand around your thigh and lifting it until he could kiss the inside of your knee without bending down too much. 

You chuckled lightly at first, then sighed when he pressed firmer kisses along your inner thigh. He hooked your leg around his shoulder, caressing your leg from your ankle to your knee, enjoying the softness of your skin and of the thin white hair that coated it. 

"What do you intend to do?" you asked, pushing yourself up on your elbows, obviously seeking his mouth. He laughed darkly and bent further down to catch your mouth in a deep kiss. you moaned and used your position to your advantage, pulling him in closer with your leg hooked at his upper back. 

"May I be awfully forward?" he asked after pulling back for air. 

"Please," you grinned against his mouth.

"I intend to kiss you everywhere," he murmured, enjoying your subsequent shiver.

Instead of diving back into a kiss, you bit your lip, looking a bit hesitant. "May I ask you something first?"

"Anything you wish is yours," he said fervently.

You sat up even more, your legs sliding down until they simply rested on each side of his. you trailed a hand up his arm, then his shoulder and finally into his hair, gauging his reaction, expecting him to stop you when he understood your intention. His eye widened as he did, dread curling in his stomach. He was sure you knew in great detail what had happened to his eye, and therefore could imagine the extent of the damage and the scarring without trouble.  

"Would you take it off?" you asked gently.

"I don't want to frighten you," he admitted. "It's unpleasant to look at." 

"Does it seem to you that I frighten easily?"

"No, but still. You don't want to see that while we're — " he interrupted himself.

"I want to see my husband. Just as he is."

He seemed to consider your words, then slowly nodded. He knew he couldn't keep it hidden from you forever, but he had hoped he would have more time before unveiling his disfigurement. However you had asked and he had promised you whatever you wanted. He grew tense when you reached for the string of his eyepatch, careful but confidently pulling it and sliding it off his head. As he was bared he instantly averted his gaze in both discomfort and something akin to shame. 

In other circumstances, he might have felt pride and power at showing the sapphire that adorned his empty eye socket, but the scar was jagged, still red despite the years, and that was not an impression he wanted to give in his marriage bed. He knew he was no knight in shining armor and that you were no frail damsel to begin with, but he would have still liked to have a pleasant face for you to look at.

His eye snapped up at you when he heard you make a happy sound, but it didn't sound like mockery. you sounded joyful and delighted, and when he looked up at your face you were smiling brightly. When your gaze met his, your wondrous expression didn't change, as if you weren't bothered by the unmoving gem staring back at you. 

"It suits you," you said, tracing the curve of his eyebrow with your thumb. you didn't try to touch the scar, wary of making him uncomfortable. "I don't care about it being pretty or not. I only care that I get to see all of you."

The eyepatch abandoned somewhere on the sheets, he wrapped an arm around your waist and lowered you onto the bed again. He was afraid of the sight he was making, looming over your, so he hid his face into the crook of your neck, losing himself again in the soft skin of your throat and shoulder. You seemed to understand and slid a hand in his long hair, the other roaming his back tenderly. There would be time to talk about it more, now he just wanted to drown in your softness.

"May I ask you something else?" you asked as he was kissing your neck.

"You may ask me anything. I won't keep secrets from you," he said very seriously.

He felt you swallow where his face was pressed to your throat. "How many women have been in your bed?"

He pressed one last kiss between your breasts before rising up again, resuming his kneeling position between your legs. He felt exposed by both your question and the unrestrained view you had of his face, but he thought about it for a second then decided that blunt honesty was the best course of action. 

"My brother took me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day," he explained, stroking a knuckle along your inner thigh absently. Deep inside him he was intensely relieved and grateful that you wasn't looking at him any differently than when he was still wearing the eyepatch. Sometimes your gaze seemed to be caught by the gem, but there was only affection and passion in your eyes.

"He said it was his duty as my brother, to make sure I was as educated as he was," he said tentatively, a strange emphasis made on the word educated.

You couldn't help but chuckle. "He said that?"

"Not in so many words," Aemond answered, amused. You propped yourself up again and kissed the smile from his lips, and for a minute he lost himself in the tenderness of your kiss.

"You haven't answered my question," you reminded him.

"My apologies, I was distracted," he answered, earning himself another charming chuckle from you. He pressed one last kiss to your smiling mouth before continuing. "There was a woman there. She taught me. I went back a couple of times over the years. I wanted to learn."

"Learn?" you asked, visibly interested. You sighed appreciatively as Aemond resumed his exploration of your neck and breasts with his mouth, and of your legs with his hands. 

"Yes," he confirmed before taking one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking gently. 

You almost startled at the new sensation, but the feeling of his hot tongue made you shudder. The heat at your core pulsed and you got the feeling you were wet again. You felt the urge to wrap your legs more firmly around his hips and pull him against you. You noticed he was hardening again against his thigh. There was a pull, deep inside you, to have your bodies joined again as they had been an hour ago, a pull that was triggered by the sight of him aroused, as intimidating as it still was.

"What did you learn?" you managed to ask.

 "Do you want me to show you?"

Biting your lip, you nodded, flushing bright pink when he smirked.

He pushed you down gently and you let yourself be guided back to the sheets, your head resting on a plush pillow. He licked his lips and curled his hands around your thighs before bending down again, this time kissing the underside of your breasts. Then he shifted further down the bed and trailed his mouth down your stomach. 

You gasped when you understood where he was heading, almost asking him to stop. You were a bit embarrassed but he didn't let your nerves get the best of you and pressed a tentative kiss to your center, where your more sensitive spot was. 

He did it again a few times, letting you breathe between each press of his lips, then when you moaned out loud for the first time he gave you a tentative lick with the tip of his tongue. you gasped loudly in both surprise and pleasure as lightning ran up your spine. 

"Aemond," you whined and he did it again, more assured this time.

This time you moaned and rocked your hips up slightly, which he encouraged with his hands. Following your movements he pressed his tongue harder against your nub in a slow but steady rhythm. It felt so incredibly intimate and almost filthy, but it felt too good for you to feel embarrassed anymore. you closed your eyes and surrendered to the heat and pressure of his mouth. 

He was as gentle and careful as he had been since the beginning, but confident and firm. His tongue was skilled, matching the rocking of your hips with the press of his tongue. He tried broader strokes, licking your with unconcealed pleasure. You whined when he hummed against your and it earned you a firmer lick down your folds, the tip of his tongue pressing against your entrance. He was a fast learner, quickly figuring out what made your shiver and sigh and what made your moan and curse under your breath.

You had never thought he would kiss you there, even less have his tongue taste you. You lost yourself to the heat of his mouth, forgetting all about modesty.

Whenever you looked down you were met with a breathtaking sight. His long hair was spread along the strong line of his shoulders and his sapphire eye shined. He looked ethereal, like a creature from an ancient time, both angel and sin made flesh with the only purpose of ravaging your. You threw your head back and slapped a hand against your mouth, not wanting to curse out loud or make too much noise. 

"Let me hear you, please," he pulled away long enough to demand, sounding wrecked like he was in the throes of pleasure.

You nodded even though he couldn't see you and instead you curled your hand in his hair, keeping his head where you wanted him. He pressed his shoulders forward and grabbed your hips tighter when your moans turned into high-pitched whines. The rocking of your hips faltered and you started to make the same gasping sounds he had heard earlier as he had touched you. It spurred him on and he made sure to keep the same precise movement and pressure.

Suddenly your entire body froze and you cried out, long and drawn out as your hips shook beneath his mouth and hips. He kept his tongue firm and his rhythm steady all through your high, only stopping when your hand released his hair and your moans turned into pants. His jaw was a bit sore but he loved it and he pressed his face into your inner thigh as you caught your breath, reveling in the pride of being between your legs, at the service of your pleasure and having succeeded at bringing you over the edge.

His own arousal was a pulsing heat between his legs, but he resisted the urge to take a hand to himself, knowing the release would be only more intense if he waited to share it with you.

"Is that what you learned?" you asked when you could finally talk, looking down at him. He hummed with a smile, obviously pleased with himself. You laughed, delighted and carefree, curling a strand of his hair around one of your fingers. You hoped you hadn't pulled too hard on it when you were lost in ecstasy. 

"Come here," you beckoned in a whisper that made him visibly shudder.

He groaned when you wrapped your hand around his hardness, his head dropping to lick at your breasts. He savored the feeling of your hand around him, soft and hesitant, but the simplicity of it didn't take away from its intimacy and intensity. It was the same hand the High Septon had tied to his. 

You were learning how to read him, how to soothe him, how to stoke the fire of his desire, how to channel the storm inside of him into something great. For you, he would summon all his rage and anger, only if it would protect you. Only if it would defend your.

For you, he would learn to master his fire and unleash it at your command, only so you would keep looking at him the way you were. 

He wasn't sure if it was love. He had never known the love of a woman, true and beautiful. He had never witnessed the passion one could have for a man, the fierceness with which they could become one. He wanted to believe it was love, in whatever form the Gods deemed him worthy of receiving from your.

When he entered your for the second time this night you were more than ready. You were still tight, but wet and welcoming, your body loose with contentment and trust. He marveled at how you threw your head back, eyes closed and mouth parted on a breathless sigh.

He had been worried that you would be too sore or wouldn't be able to feel any more pleasure from the act, but your instant reaction at your joining made him tremble with emotion. What he had read in a few ancient Valyrian poems was true, there was nothing quite like holding the woman one loved and having your moan in genuine pleasure.

He was relieved as the pressure at the base of his spine built slower than the first time and he could take his time making you enjoy it. He tried different paces, quickly figuring out from your reactions that you needed him close, in long deep strokes, your whole bodies flushed against one another.

He suspected the friction of his abdomen against your sensitive nub played a crucial part in it, but you also seemed to love the feeling of your breasts against his chest, shivering and sighing in contentment whenever he pressed his upper body against yours.

You were trying to learn his body too, quickly catching on to the fact that he loved your hands roaming his back or grabbing his shoulders.

He grunted when you brought your knees up to his waist and pressed your feet to the back of his thighs, bringing him in. He groaned louder when you let your hands trail further down his back and grasped his bottom to guide the rocking of his hips. You kneaded the firm muscle with each rocking motion and it brought him out of his shell, making him more vocal. He grew frantic, moaning in the crook of your neck and you felt as though you were flying.

You knew you had reached your limits in terms of pleasure but that didn't stop you from enjoying the embrace. Nothing could have prepared you for the heady feeling of having him on top of you, taking his pleasure from your body and from the touch of your hands. 

Aemond moaned and panted in your mouth when he reached his high, his whole body trembling with the force of it. 

When your lovemaking was over, you stayed in his chambers all night, the both of you alternating between moments of sleep and moments of quiet exploration, both verbal and physical. His throat felt tight as you sleepily ran your fingers in his hair, your eyes closing despite yourself. 

You were nothing but beauty and peace, and he had never known such quiet, such affection, honest and true.

Dividers by @saradika

Beta reader @annikin-im-panicin

Author's Note: This work was taken from my series Love is a Downfall, transformed into a reader-insert and turned into a one-shot (for readers who find reader-inserts more immersive). I hope you enjoyed it!

Please reblog to show love - this is how we keep stories alive on this site ♡

She had never been the object of Aemond Targaryen's ire. The closest she has ever gotten is a cold glare after too sharp a word, a slow, calming sigh followed by a very measured warning. She had seen it before, of course. When a match in the training yard goes a hair too far, when a lord had made some unseemly comment about his sister, even when a servant had accidentally knocked a plate from the table on a particularly bad day and let it shatter on the floor. She knew her husband had a bad temper but still, she has never fallen victim to it. He was careful with that around her and she had been quite sure she never would. That is, until today.

Aemond had stormed into the Grand Maester's surgery like a bear prepared to savage a hunter, eye wild and fists clenched. He had forced the door open so aggressively that she and the maester both flinched, the sound like a crash of thunder over the previously quiet room. He did nothing but stand here for a moment after he entered, taking very heavy breaths as he glared at them both, before finally managing to grind out a question, the words grating together like steel on steel.

"What happened?"

Though it is a question it does not sound like one. It is more demand than request, leaving no room for refusal.

Maester Orwyle has more composure than she does. As she stares at Aemond in poorly contained shock, Orwyle answers. "Little more than a few bumps and bruises, my prince. Nothing you need worry about."

Aemond's eye immediately flicks back to her, his impatience growing as he waits for her to fill in the blanks. She sighs wearily.

"I am fine. We ventured a little too close to Flea Bottom and a few men decided to get too familiar. Nothing happened."

"Nothing happened? Where was your guard?"

"I held them back at first. I thought I could defuse the situation myself. It seemed only a little bit of tension and I did not see the use in troubling them. I had it in hand."

"You are the trouble they are meant to attend to. And you did not have it in hand, look at your arm."

Begrudgingly, she looks down at her arm. The maester had been right in his assessment of bumps and bruises, the black and blue ring around her wrist an indication of it, but she thinks her ego is the thing that has been hurt most of it. She had made it a habit to venture into the city to aid the poor. Usually with Helaena, but she had made an exception today as her good sister was too far along in her pregnancy to manage walking about on stones all day. The smallfolk were usually kind to her but of course she usually did not go into Flea Bottom. She spent her time in the more lucrative parts of the city, buying alms and spending time with orphans and widowed mothers and the like. Those who would be more receptive to her company and well wishes- and the handfuls of coin she had a tendency to give away.

However, it seemed as though that rumour had made its way into the streets of Flea Bottom, as when they arrived at the border between it and the Street of the Sisters, a small group of men had been waiting. They had approached civilly enough, more akin to beggars than thieves, and she had encouraged Ser Arryk to sheathe his sword when she had heard the sound of metal scraping the scabbard. They only wish to talk, she had assured him, and who am I to deny them that? At first, it had only been that. A simple conversation between herself and the men. But then the largest of them had grown impatient and lunged forward to grab her and it had all fallen apart from there. She had come away from it mostly unscathed- which is more than she could say for the man who had grabbed her. A bruised wrist from his hand, a sore arm from Ser Arryk's when he had dragged her away, a small cut on her brow, and a bruise on her hip from when she had fallen. She had considered herself rather lucky at the end of it, but it is clear Aemond did not share her opinion on the matter.

"It was only a small altercation and I am fine."

"A small altercation that should not have happened at all."

She sighs tiredly before turning to face the maester. He takes the pause in conversation as his cue to flee, once again assuring them that her injuries are minor before taking his leave. The door closes heavily behind him and then they are alone. That fact seems to do little to calm him, his face still looking like a storm, feet planted stubbornly in place next to the door.

She suppresses the urge to sigh again. "A handful of bruises and a tiny cut are not worth upsetting yourself over."

He scoffs. "You forget just how you received them then."

She stands then, making her way toward him. He remains petulant, though she thinks she can see him beginning to soften a hair when she grabs hold of his arms. He looks at her for only a moment before his eye travels upward, all but glaring at the gash now adorning her hairline. His hand comes up to her forehead, running his thumb along the wound.

"I don't like the idea of you going into the city if this is how they intend on treating you."

She tuts. "The actions of a few do not represent the many."

That manages to pull something that almost looks like a smile from him. "A philosopher now, are you?"

"You are not the only one with access to the Red Keep's library." Her grip on him tightens, shaking him lightly, but the half smile disappears when he looks down at her bruised wrist again. This time she does nothing to hide her sigh. "Nothing happened, my love."

"Nor will it again."

He presses a kiss to her forehead, careful to avoid the wound but a bit too rough to be considered sweet, before pulling the door behind them open and guiding her outside.

The cool breeze of the night air almost makes you regret not just heading straight home and slipping under the steam of a nice long shower and grabbing the first blanket you see on the sofa and planting yourself there for the rest of the night. Await your boyfriend's arrival under the comfort of cotton and cushion that he’ll surely plop down next to you on after he’s kicked off his shoes. His cold fingers finding you under the blanket to pull you close to his side, a string of kisses pressed along the side of your neck before finding your lips. The smell of yeast and sugar—embedded in his skin at this point—making you bury your nose into his collarbone. 

But this was a ritual for the both of you. 

You finishing your studies and then meeting him after work. 

The two of you walking home together, barely making it through the threshold of your place before lips and clothes were being pressed together and thrown to the floor. Luca’s soft laugh at needing to shower. Thus always leading to your face pressed into the wall of the shower and Luca’s fingers digging into your hips as he thrust inside of you. 

So that nibble of regret doesn’t last long when you come to a stop in front of his work. The makings of anticipation pull at the corner of your mouth as you grab your phone from your bag and start to text him to let him know you’re out front. 

A text that’s barely on the last word when the breeze of the door is hitting you and making you look up, “you can go in. He's in the back.” a co-worker you’ve met a dozen times, but his name slips your mind as you give him an appreciative smile and thank him as you slip through the doors as he walks out. 

You could enter the kitchen a dozen times—a million, a billion—your nose filling with that sweet aroma, Luca bent over a table, a dish, fingers deep in a ball of dough, the monochromatic uniform making his tattoos stand out on his skin like the most beautiful canvas, and you’d never get over the view. 

Over how your insides react when you see him in his element.

See him doing what he loves. 

It’s like the first time every time. 

Just like the first time he dragged you into the kitchen after your tenth date. Showing you his own version of paradise. His love. His joy. The way his face lit up when your eyes brightened when you bit into the scone he had made—saved—for you. The euphoric sweetness a good dessert can do to one's brainstem is still a scientific mystery to you, but you’d gladly leave the research to the experts if you could experience it forever. 

Taste Luca’s creations forever. 

That memory seems like ages ago. Now well into two years of your relationship. 

Nothing seems to fade with Luca. 

Your first times feeling just as tortuous to your fluttering insides as the tenth or twentieth time around. 

It knocks you off kilter in the best way. 

And when you look over at Luca after dropping off your bag and sweater in an open chair, you can not help but laugh when he finally looks up from cleaning off the surfaces of the metal tables and that stone look of him being in chef mode falls from the creases of his face and his features melt into something soft. 

He doesn’t say anything until his arm is around your midsection, drawing you in. “Hi, beautiful.” He smiles as your lips meet in a long kiss. Kissing you as if he hasn’t seen you in days, as if he has spent the entire day waiting for this moment and this moment alone. “How was your day?” 

“Not as good as it is now,” you tease. Hand in the back of his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. 

The hum that makes your lips buzz and that lands on your tongue as he backs you up so your back is pressed into the doorframe makes anything you could tell him about what happened in your day lackluster. Incomparable. How could you possibly think of anything worthwhile—how could anything be as worthwhile—as his tongue moving along your bottom lip, his hand at the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing a small circle into your skin? 

It couldn’t.

"Let me finish cleaning up," he smirks. Thumb and pointer reaching for your chin, squeezing it, luring you in for one last kiss before returning to cleaning and leaving you dazed in the doorway.  

And if you didn’t know how seriously Luca takes this, from the ritual of making pastries to maintaining a stern, clean kitchen, you would tell him to hurry. Complaining that it is not fair for him to kiss you like that and then make you wait for him to finish, but the payoff was always worth the wait. And you love Luca’s love for his craft. Love him in this element—watching him and seeing him go into that little part of his brain that makes him go into boss mode. 

The stern gentleness of it all. 

It’s breathtaking to watch.

It’s art.

He’s art. 

So that’s what you do. 

You push off the doorframe and enter further into the kitchen just to watch him. 

“How was your day?” You ask while watching him write on the white board in the corner. 

“Good. We got a new guy who came in.” 

“Is he any good?” 

“Better than he thinks he is.” 

“I bet you brought out his best. You always do.” You smile at him when you watch him shrug off the compliment, not missing the twitch of the corner of his mouth. Ever so modest. 

Wordlessly, he puts the cap back on the marker and sets it against the metal of the board, walking over to one of the refrigerators and pulling out a small bowl of something green and white. 

Something that looks too beautifully crafted to eat, let alone eaten by someone who might not fully understand what went into making something so decadent—something that looks like it would be served to someone with a gold card, not someone who eats boxed mac and cheese for dinner twice a week (which Luca always tries to make fancier than Kraft ever could). 

Luca hands you a spoon, “told him the only critic that mattered was sharing a bed with me.” You make a face, the both of you knowing how outlandish that sounds when the food genius himself is standing in front of you. The critic who mattered to a lot of people more than the girl who was sharing his bed. 

But it still brings a smile to your face. 

“Did he think you were utterly insane for such a statement? I think eating greasy takeout two nights in a row is five star dining.”

He chuckles, “you’re the only critic that matters to me.” His palms come down on the edge of the metal table between you as he leans against it. “The only important one at least. Try it.”

The swoop that runs through you from his words, from his eagerness to hear your thoughts on a dessert you do not even know the name of, but know you will appreciate more than anyone else because it came from someone he admires, makes your cheeks heat up. 

And when it touches your tongue, when that euphoric sweetness overcomes your tastebuds, you don’t think the English dictionary could come in handy with describing the taste. The goodness of it. Compliments, which you know Luca and his fellow chefs have heard many times before and then some. But still bring that artist's joy to their chests when your eyes widen and you look at them in something akin to shock. 

The moan you let out makes him grin.

“Good?”

“Is he single?” 

“Oh, that’s how it is, huh?” His arms cross over his chest, a playful brow raised.

You take another bite of the dessert, “I think you might want to start looking for another job.”

“And a girlfriend?”

You nod, “with something that tastes this good, I would give him my social security number easily. Oh my god.” You dramatically moan around the spoon, the action doing little to hide the simpering look on your face.

“Here I thought I was the only one who could make you spill such confidential secrets.” Luca strides across the table, coming to stand at your back. His lips pressing against the back of your neck and the top of your shoulder. 

Finding its home where your collarbone meets the junction of your throat, where he lets his warm breath blow against the known sensitivity there, then presses his lips to it. Making your back push into his front, your body melting against him. 

A soft noise lays dormant at the tail end  of your throat, making a ghost of a smirk etch against your skin from his mouth as he murmurs, “and the only one who can make those noises come out of you.”

Your voice is breathy when you say, “so much for being humble.”

"When it’s the truth, I do not need to be humble." His lips trailing to your ear, fingers running up the back of your exposed thighs, pulling up your skirt until they are at the apex of your hip, skating forward and close to your clothed mound. “Am I wrong? Should we see?” 

The spoon in your hand lucky you don’t have superhuman strength because it would be crushed in your grip right now. 

Luca’s fingers splay themselves across your pelvis, toying with the top of your underwear. “Hmm, awfully quiet now. Where’d my mouthy girl go?” An airy chuckle tickles your ear as he lets it out, “humbled are you?” 

There’s a teasing sneer forming on your mouth before it does a 180 and morphs into an ‘o’ as Luca’s fingers push into your underwear, the pad running through the clear as day arousal that’s been making your thighs clench uncomfortably since your kiss in the doorway. 

When the finger moves against your clit there's no covering up the gasps that fall from your lips. Or the way your ass grinds against the erection that’s pressing up against it. 

“Who’s humble now?” He teases. A cheeky grin on his face when he pulls his hand out from your underwear, bringing his finger to his lips and sucking it into his mouth. Making your cheeks heat even more when you turn to look at him. Your teasing turns needy as you give him that look, the one that always makes him drop whatever he is doing and have his body on yours within seconds. 

You both know that making it home now will feel ten times longer. Ten times more agonizing in the cool air with your warming bodies.

With you soaking your underwear and him hard against his zipper. 

So when he says “office”, all you can do is chew on your bottom lip in eagerness as you make a beeline towards it. Luca closer behind you than you expect when you hear the door shut seconds after you’ve entered and his mouth immediately on yours, your ass hoisted onto the nearest surface. 

Luca’s fingers making quick work to pull down your underwear, your skirt bunched at your hips. You fully expect him to pull himself up from his knees after slipping the lace from your ankle and tossing it to the floor. You expect him to come back up and slide inside of you quick and easy, but instead he’s trailing kisses and bites into your thighs. 

Blue eyes look up into yours, and he must see the need in them—that glint that tells him all you want is for him to be inside of you right now. The heady woes of foreplay just torture at this point. 

His teeth sink harder into your flesh, making you gasp. “I’ve worked hard all day; don’t I deserve a treat? A taste of the best dessert out there.” 

And how could you argue with that?

You can’t.

Not when his tongue runs from the bite mark in your skin to your wetness. Spreading you around him as he licks a stripe up your pussy. Your grip on the metal your ass is under hard and tight enough to leave marks against your palm. 

And as crude as it makes you sound, as obscene and cocky as it comes off your lips, you will never hold back from telling Luca that his talent as a chef will never outweigh how good he is with his mouth and cock. 

He’s multi-talented and it’s a blessing and a curse to your insides. 

“Oh, fuck. Luca,” your head hangs between your shoulders. Your fingers in his hair, the heel of your shoe pressed against his back—his apron long gone, leaving him in that navy blue—his fingers digging into the side of your thighs as he keeps you against his mouth. 

The mouth that’s switching between sucking your clit between his lips and rolling his tongue against it. Eating you like you’re the best dessert his tongue has ever had the pleasure of tasting. 

It never takes him long to get you there. To make your chest heave and your nerve endings light up, as if they are about to make you panic from the overwhelming feeling of pleasure that is completely taking over your body. 

His fingers have created beautiful, mouth watering food, just as they’ve made you completely lose your mind. Your legs shaking around his head. Your back involuntarily bows until it hits the metal surface of the desk you’re perched on. 

It’s when he slips two fingers inside of you that you completely lose it. The sob that pulls itself from your lungs feels red-hot in your throat as your fingers grip the strands of his blonde hair as you come against his mouth. Your hips riding out your high. Rolling against his tongue in a languid way, drawing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

Your body still reeling and alight with that desire-train that still has it wanting more. That heavy ache between your legs that wants to be filled. To be fucked by something bigger and thicker than a finger.

Your mouth comes down on the tabasco tattoo below Luca’s wrist in a gentle kiss, one of your favorites of his, when his hand comes to cup the back of your head to pull you up to him. 

His thumb runs from your cheek to your chin, where he pushes it up, so you’re looking up at him and he’s looking down at you as he stands between your legs. Your nails run along the tattoos along his arms, up his bicep, and to the nape of his neck. A fire burning in his eyes when your fingers run between the strands back there. 

“Tell me,” he says close to your lips. He’s checking in. Seeing if you’re too spent for his cock, seeing if there's more you want. If you want to wait until you get home. If you’re ready for him now. 

“It’d be cruel to not fuck me now.” You say it in a half-tease-half-serious tone. 

“Ooh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “I don’t want to be cruel.” You can feel his other hand move between the two of you, undoing the button of his pants and messing with the zipper until he’s pulling himself out of them, hard and leaking. “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t give my girl what she so desperately needs?” 

Luca smirks when you laugh into his mouth, “the worst kind.”

With one last kiss, lick, and nip at your lower lip, he’s rubbing the tip of his cock against your clit, making your thighs shake. Nails dig into his skull as he soaks up your oversensitivity to coat himself before going lower and slipping inside of you in one slow, fluid motion. 

Your mouth hung open at the stretch, and your breath caught in your lungs. Your foreheads resting against each other as you let your walls accommodate his girth, both of your breaths heavy. The pounding you can feel between your legs—that you’re not sure is coming from him or you or something more poetic and overwhelming like your conjoined bodies aching as one, like a heartbeat aches for a chest cavity when it’s torn from a body. 

The two of you need this. 

Need each other. 

When Luca starts moving, you know the two of you are both completely fucked. Spent and so full of desire that you know your time in this office is just the start of a long night of tangled limbs and wet mouths. 

The sounds you are making against each other's mouth are breathy and intoxicating. His tongue in your mouth swallows every mewl and moan he coaxes from your body with each stroke of his cock. 

His fingers find the back of your head again, not allowing you to even think about leaving his mouth. 

You think you see stars when his palm finds the back of your thigh and pulls your leg higher on his hips. Think you could let this man completely consume you, and you’d still never be satisfied. Never get over how good it feels to feel his hips drive deeper into you, to feel the head of his cock hit that spot inside of you that makes his name roll off your tongue like a prayer. 

“Who’s pussy is it, baby?” 

"Mm'fuck," you are not sure if he is still playing the game of you leaving him for the new chef or if his filthy mouth is attempting to completely destroy you—which is nothing new when he has you coating and tightening around his cock like this. 

When you say his name, when you whine it into his mouth like a pathetic desperation, the erotic noise that it’s met with makes you cling to him tighter. Makes you press yourself closer to him. The movement makes the outside of his pants grind against your clit. 

“So beautiful,” Luca murmurs. The octave of his voice grows lower and choppy with heavy breaths the closer he gets. Neither of you lasts much longer when his pace picks up. The grip the two of you have on each other is hard and rough, enough to tear and leave marks that you’ll later kiss with gentle lips, unlike the passion that’s coming through with the hard kisses your mouths are giving as you both come. 

Flung by the creature, his body collided on the other side of the fallen bridge, cushioned by the thick layer of snow. His head snapped back as the beast lunged for him, its blood staining the ground from its severed arm. Geralt’s hands tightened around the sword’s hilt as pain twisted out of his chest and sank into his limbs, turning his vision red and black. His mind didn’t register the fight, only a vague sense of movement as he swung his sword, a burn in his lungs, his muscles moving of their own habits and years of experience. His sense of time dulled as each second pulled out a year’s worth of life from him. He hadn’t heard her gasp for air. The red and black slipped out of his mind when his blade sheathed through the kikimora’s throat, retrieved only to cut off its head. Then he ran.

The rapids sent white mist up into the air when he found his way to the base of the cliffside, the sound of rushing water invading his ears to the point it was difficult to hear anything else. He scanned down the bank, but for as far as his eyes could reach, he saw nothing. No body, no footsteps, no indication she had pulled herself from the icy water. His breath came in short as he tried to focus, eyes becoming wild as he started downstream, his steps becoming quicker with each second passing that he couldn’t see a trace of her. 

Focus.

The body goes into shock when it hits the water, forcing you to gasp for breath. If she wasn’t careful, she could inhale water or fall into a spell of rapid breathing, losing control. She would need to control her breathing in under a minute.

After 10 minutes of immersion she would lose the ability to fully use her limbs. However, body heat would be lost faster the more she moved. She would need to flow with the current and glide herself to shore using as little movement as possible. How long had it taken him to kill the monster? How many minutes was that?

In under an hour, her body would become too weak and cold, forcing her unconscious and—

His jaw clenched. It wouldn’t take that long. Still, though he knew in his mind without a doubt, he would find her, he couldn’t settle the cold hands clenching around his lungs. The fear gripped at his chest like nothing else and drove his feet to move faster, his eyes to strain a little farther. It was a fear known only for those who were his.

She was his.

—

Her body struggled when her hand gripped onto the jagged rocks along the bank, her vision spotting as she heaved her chest out of the frozen water. Her lungs coughed up the remnants of the river behind her, limbs collapsing as they lost feeling. The pins and needles once sparking beneath her skin were gone, though her body shivered uncontrollably. It was a good sign, at least, the shivering, but the gust of deep winter air cut around her and she wondered how much longer her body would hold out against it. Rocks dug into the palms of her hands as she crawled further out of the water, her feet at last pulled onto the ground as the weight of her body grew. A cry broke against her teeth as pain erupted up her leg, curling even into her belly.

It had to be broken. Given the height she fell from, she wasn’t entirely surprised. It did, however, shatter her hopes of walking out of there, of finding Geralt. Gritting her teeth, she pulled herself up and looked around. Cliffs rose on either side of the river, leaving maybe a rod’s distance of graveled land between her and the nearest wall. Ice grew along the waterline, building up along the cliffs and its ledges as snow mounted upon them, and if she hadn’t been frightened of the cold allowing it to exist, it might have been beautiful. Perhaps if her mind wasn’t hazy and her vision growing dark, she would have admired them, but with growing numbness it was all a miserable shade of gray taunting her stubborn will to live. There were divots, though, small, but enough to shield her from the brunt of the wind if she could reach them. It was a bit of luck, she supposed. She smiled grimly, but it quickly dissolved when a shrill sound echoed through her memory.

Geralt. His hand gripping her wrist when the kikimora appeared, the bridge shaking under the creature’s weight, the sheathing ring of Geralt’s sword, the old ropes snapping—and weightlessness. So close to the ledge, to solid ground, and then nothing but a yank of her wrist as his hand was ripped from her by the swing of the kikimora’s arm. The sound that had ripped from his lungs—pain, desperation—she had never been cursed with the knowledge of it until now. Frustration, annoyance, gentleness, and care, those were the sounds she had a loving collection of, but this one—it sent violent tremors through her body. Fear. Fear for him. All at once, the pain in her leg, the weakness of her body and mind were insignificant. She dragged herself to her feet.

She huffed on a choked breath, her eyes squeezing closed against the wind as she hauled her body toward the cliffside. Her cries echoed along the stone when she stumbled against the wall, using its rugged face as a crutch to lean her weight on. Stubbornly, she walked, limping past the pain as she forced her numb legs to move, to find purchase, but all too soon she collapsed. Overtaken by the cold and the slippery, frozen ground, she fell to her knees near the mouth of a small cave, her head colliding with the wall to leave her more dizzy than she had already been. Just as quickly as the strength to stand had come to her, it left, leaving her hollow.

“—ralt…” she mumbled, his name sounding wrong coming from unfeeling lips and a heavy tongue. She huffed in frustration as pain swept over her skin with the wind, collecting the powdery white snow on her clothes.

Her clothes....

Clothes.

Shit.

Limply, her hands clawed at her soaked tunic, attempting to pull it over her head but failing miserably. Groaning weakly, she tried again, the garment slipping from her grasp as her fingers couldn’t hold onto the material, sliding over her body instead and falling to the ground. How long had she been out there? In the river? It was in this she noticed the stillness of her hand, and her heart sank. It wasn’t moving. She wasn’t moving.

When had she stopped shivering?

—

“Fuck—” Geralt cursed, his voice raw like the ground edges of a stone, his wide eyes latched on her collapsed body, snow beginning to pile upon her. His knees dug into the gravel as he dropped to her side. “Dove?” 

She was limp, her skin descending into a pale grey-blue as he rolled her onto her back, cradling her head. Clotted blood trailed down the side of her face as his hands flew to inspect the gash along her temple, his thumb sweeping over her cheek. The vines twisting around his chest tightened when her half-lidded eyes shifted, trailing up his body to meet his eyes, empty, lacking a sliver of recognition before they closed entirely. His lips pressed tight as he glanced to the mouth of the cave some distance away, and he hastened.

“Forgive me,” he spoke, laying her head back on the ground as he began to strip her body of her soaked clothes, his hands lingering along her skin to leave a trace of warmth in his wake. He paused at her legs when a purple swelling wrapped around one of her calves. Broken. He swallowed thickly and removed his cloak, wrapping her body within it and pulling her up against him.

He tried not to focus on how cold and limp she was, her nose like ice against his throat, or how still she was, not a shiver trembling within her, her chest hardly moving with each breath. Rather, he leaned his head over hers to hide her from the wind, tucked an arm beneath her knees and hauled her into his arms entirely. Lifting her with him, he rose to his feet and carried her the last bit of distance, into the mouth of the cave. He was quick, feet rushing as the snow storm grew, the afternoon sky darkened by the swells of ice in the atmosphere, spiraling down to the earth like a curse.

The wind howled as he pushed past the dead vines trailing over the cave’s entrance, taking her to the back where the air was still, settling himself on his knees a few feet from the furthest wall. Holding her, he reached out a hand in a sign, igni, and fire erupted violently over the stone. Lacking kindling, the flames soon died out, but their heat remained to act as a furnace. Carefully, he laid her cloaked body on them, an unsettling frustration building in his throat as her body limply settled.

He stormed off, returning after only a minute, her clothes tossed to some edge of the cave as he tore down the vines and bramble, the fallen branches at the foot of the cliff. He brought them beside her, using igni to get the wet wood to ignite, forcing them into a roaring flame. Shifting the sign once more to the rocks, he reheated the floor, sparks and flames blackening the stone. Quickly, his leather jerkin was removed, his tunic to follow before he brought her closer to the flames. Letting the cloak lie beneath her, he settled against her bare skin, his arms and legs wrapped around her with the flames at her back and the warm floor beneath them. 

“Come on now, dove,” he said, and it was now, as he was unable to do anything more than hold her and pray, that he was overwhelmed. His nose buried in the crook of her neck, his arms curling around her tighter, his fingers digging into her skin as his jaw set and released. His golden eyes squeezed shut as he listened to the only sound keeping him tethered: the gentle thump-thump dwelling in her chest—too slow to give him any true comfort.

He hadn’t realized he had shifted, his leg sliding over her hip to pull her closer, his arm tucked beneath her head and crossing over her back as he rocked them back and forth. The movement was hardly perceptible, his gentle sways as he tried to soothe the ache growing within him.

“It’s alright, you’re safe now.”

Thump—thump

“You’re too stubborn to give in to some cold water.”

Thump…..Thump

“Come on…”

Thump………..thump

Too slow—too slow, too fucking slow—

Geralt strained as pain ripped through his chest, tearing through his body and escaping him past grit teeth. He curled into her, hands gripped tight enough to leave bruises in their wake, pulling her into him as if he could sink into her, give her every last bit of himself. His warmth, his strength—everything. Again, the desperation took hold.

His voice was wretched and marred. “Come back. Damn you, come back to me.”

He waited. He waited and waited and waited, casting igni over and over until the floor radiated heat like a summer’s day. Sweat rolled down his back, both from the heat and physical strain of casting so many signs. His body ached, his mind warped, but as time collected minutes like gold, he heard it. Her heartbeat steadied, slowly increasing, her body warming. Relief flooded him, and his whole body went lax. Lifting his head from the crook of her neck, his eyes trailed over her. Her skin was shifting back to its normal hue, and her chest moved with every breath now passing her parted lips. Though her brow was furrowed, she shifted, and he didn’t care that the first sound she made was pained. She’d moved. The heavy breath caught in his lungs released, fanning over her cheek as her eyes cracked open.

—

Gold. It was the first thing she saw, two eyes so familiar and close she thought she was still dissolved in a dreamy haze—granted it had been a rather painful dream. The rest of him slowly formed in the blur, Geralt’s face framed by his dirty white hair, sweat beading along his hairline. One of his arms rested beneath her head, his other was wrapped snugly around her waist—her bare waist, she realized. Steadily, so very slowly, her memories trickled in and the fog lifted. A sigh escaped her as her eyes closed, fighting back the tears welling in them. 

She opened them again when Geralt’s hand cupped the side of her face, fingers reaching to the back of her neck. His jaw clenched, his body rigid as if the notion of her eyes being closed once more pained him. She could see it in the way his eyes flicked between hers, his breaths shallow.

“Hey there, handsome…” she said through heavy lips and tongue, and Geralt softened, huffing out a short laugh before his forehead leaned in, resting against hers.

“You’re delirious…”

“‘M not.”

“Confused, then.” He smiled, a narrow, crooked sort of thing just touching the edges of his lips with a slight tug. “Are you warm?”

She hummed, shivers running down her spine uncontrollably. “I’m getting there,” she whispered, lifting her heavy arm and resting it along his side, trailing her fingers along his skin. “Are you alright?”

He laughed again, but she couldn’t find the humor in the hollow sound this time. Rather, it sent an ache curling around her heart. A crease grew between her brows as she tried to sit up, stopping sharply as pain spiked up her leg. She grit her teeth, a stifled cry pushing up against them and Geralt was quick to press her back down.

“Don’t move. Your leg is broken.”

“Fuck…” she groaned, allowing herself to fall back against him. Still, her hands trailed over his torso, his chest, leading up his back and over his shoulders and arms. She hadn’t forgotten the bridge, the kikimora, the sound that had torn from him, and yet, she found few remnants of the fight. A light bruise, a cut, but no broken bones were to be found beneath her searching fingers, no true injury.

His eyes never left her even as hers wandered over his body, their intensity caressed her skin like she was about to slip out of sight, and he was desperate to remember every dip and curve. Haunted, like a nightmare on the verge of its precipice. Her breath caught when she found them, wide and gripping, almost as if—

“Geralt,” she whispered, sitting up onto her elbow. Her hand traced over his shoulder before her fingers passed over his temple, brushing back the tendrils of hair falling against his cheek, tucking them behind his ear. His lips tightened as his frightened eyes fell closed against his will, his brow furrowing with her touch—pained. “Are you alright?”

The fire crackled behind her, the licks of flames stirring with her shadow and sending waves of gold and yellow over his features. His hand swept up along her spine and over her neck to hold the side of her face, pulling her closer. The tip of his nose brushed along her cheek, his breath unsteady.

“I’m alright,” he said with a voice laced with something heavy and raw before his lips caught hers for a chaste moment. Like a grounding breath, a gust of fresh air, she was settled. “I’m relieved.”

Her hum was soft, sweet, and it washed over him, enveloped him, but not nearly as much as when she pressed her lips to his again, kissing him and solidifying him in the present. The touch of her hands, her scent, her heart—her heart—beating within her chest. She brought him back from the sharp edges of what could have been, what almost was, and gave him something soft to embrace.

Her thumb soothed the crease in his brow as she parted from him, pressing her forehead to his. And as he held her beside the fire, she grew warm. The shivering slowly subsided, the ache within her bones melted. With time, her lover, a man of too few of words to be able to tell her of his heart, was finally at ease. She could feel it as his calloused fingers ran along her skin, hear it as she laid on his chest, his heart falling back into its natural rhythm.

“No more precarious bridges for you,” Geralt said after some time, and she couldn’t help but laugh. His own was soon to follow, though she felt it more in the tremors of his chest more than she heard it.

She lifted her head, resting it on her hand as she peered up at him with a raised brow. “I would hope it is the last of precarious bridges for the both of us.”

He opened his mouth as if to argue, probably to spout some Witcher madness, but he thought the better of it. “I thought that was self evident,” he said, voice tilted in amusement.

She giggled, and this time, she was able to see the fullness of his smile as it reached out and softened every one of his features. Her fingers trailed up into his hair as she leaned in, kissing the cleft of his chin. His golden eyes held on to her as she tried to settle back against his chest. 

“You missed.”

Scoffing, she leaned over him, letting him watch as she rolled her eyes playfully. “Demanding,” she grumbled, and his smile only grew. Unable to refuse him, she brushed her lips against his. “I love you too, Geralt…” she whispered, and at last, she kissed him, knowing well the words he held in his throat, the ones he was trying to convey. She could feel them in his hands, taste them on his tongue. 

You looked up, furrowing your brows. “What do you mean?”

Vesemir chuckled, meeting your eyes. “I mean perhaps you are not entirely human. Or perhaps in your travels, you have been exposed to something that has made the impossible possible. Wouldn’t be the first time, now, would it?”

It was then that you felt a shift, a kick-- against the hand you had rested on your abdomen. It was moving. 

You looked up in shock, only to be met with a look of glee from Vesemir. 

“I heard the heartbeat when we first met, my dear. Geralt must know, he just doesn’t want to accept it.”

A few hours later, you finally had some alone time with Geralt. You were watching him carefully as he bathed, looking for any indication that he was aware of your pregnancy. Maybe he thought it wasn’t his. No, you'd hardly had time for one another, let alone for another man the past year. And he was your everything; he knew that. He had to know. 

“Geralt,” you started, undressing slowly before sinking into the warm water with him. He gave you a slight smile, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his lap.

“How are you, my love?”

“I’m pregnant.” You blurted out, bracing yourself for his response. 

You were expecting denials, confusion, perhaps anger-- not Geralt pressing a kiss to your lips and grumbling, “Fuck,” into your mouth, followed by a soft chuckle.

You pulled away with a frown, eyes wide. “Did you know?”

“I suspected,” he explained, tilting his head as he observed you. “The sickness, the weight gain, your insatiable appetite for cheese... and I heard the heartbeat a week ago. Not much slips past my senses, unfortunately.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, thinking back to that fortune teller. Did he know before you did? Geralt shook his head, glancing away. “I didn’t believe it, at first. There was no way. I’m sterile, I know for certain. I just kept telling myself I was going crazy. But if Vesemir says it is true...”

You leaned back slightly, hands clinging to his shoulders. “How is this possible--”

“The mage we helped back in Temeria. I had mentioned how good of a mother you were to Ciri, but that you would never be able to have your own if you were with me. I think she may have slipped a potion in our ale that night.”

Your cheeks heated up when you recalled how that night ended; yes, a pregnancy would not have been a surprise if magic had been involved after the hours Geralt spend worshipping your body. 

“Oh,” you breathed out, looking up to meet his eyes. “Are you... are you okay with this? I mean, I know there is a reason Witchers are sterile--”

“This life is not conductive to raising a child, having a family,” he finished, rippling the water with his hand and letting a rivet of warm water run down your arm. “I always thought I’d be a terrible father, anyway. But I look at Ciri, and I know I can protect her. I can protect you, and this baby, too. Maybe it is not impossible, after all.”

You felt tears come to your eyes, and blamed it on the hormones. But yesterday you were prepared for Vesemir to tell you it was it was some mind game and all in your head, that having Geralt’s child would never be possible, and today you were having his baby. A baby with those yellow eyes and maybe his nose, his abilities-- but whatever it was, you already loved it. 

How did she always end up here? Months without a word or seeing him. She had accepted the peace. Only occasionally did she perk up when there was a knock on her door, secretly hoping it was him. But only one could be so lucky. Instead, it was travelers from all over the Continent who heard word of her abilities.

She couldn’t complain. Healing others in exchange for seeds, food, and sometimes money. Not that it was required for her service but she couldn’t complain about the gratuity.

In fact, she enjoyed helping others. However, it was nearing winter and there were less travelers. They were most likely home to prepare for the violent winter storms that damned the Continent. 

It was one of the first snow falls of the season. She had finished feeding the chickens and her horse Atticus. That was always her nighttime routine. Feed the animals, make some tea, study until all the tea is drunk, and finally get ready for bed. 

Some might think the routine would get tiring, but there was never any guarantee. It was the one consistent thing in her life at the moment. She was content. 

However, some nights, she heard the enchanted chimes outside that let her know someone was approaching. But before she made it to the door, it swung open, snow flurries drifted inside. The cold was sharp and pricked her nose, making her sniffle. 

In most cases she would be alarmed. There was no telling what creatures or people were harmless and which ones weren’t. She clutched the nearest thing to her— a broom that always gave her splinters when she used it. 

His snow white hair peeked from under his hood and she recognized the distinct low grumble that could be mistaken as a quake. He slowly closed the door, ensuring it was locked this time. “You startled me.” She said, releasing her grip from the broom, checking her hand for any loose wood. 

“You should keep the door locked. What if I was a dangerous man breaking in?” She played it off as a joke, not seeing the concerned look on his face. 

“Some might say you are dangerous.” She smirked. She never expected him to react to her jokes, but she could feel the warmth blanket around her when his shoulders relaxed. “Are you going to stand there all night?” 

He limped further into the cabin. She could see the snow melting on his cloak, dripping on her floor. “You made a mess,” she huffed. 

His head lifted and cat-like eyes met hers. It was known his abilities and job forced him to lack showing how he felt. But, she noticed right away how his eyes drooped that he was in pain. 

She ran towards him, immediately untying his cloak so that it dropped to the floor. She gasped at the large claw marks scratched into his chest. He could withstand most injuries but the cuts had broken past the many layers of skin. 

“Fuck, Geralt. What happened?” Her finger ghosted over the wound on his shoulder. Almost immediately he grabbed her wrist. But she didn’t pull away. 

“I’m starving.” He took a moment to look her up and down before letting go of her wrist and walking past her. 

Unbelievable. She scoffed and followed him into her den. “Are you serious? Geralt, you’re hurt and need to be healed before you get an infection.” 

“I smell meat pie. Do you have any to spare?” He left no time for her to answer. He grabbed the plate on a table and began to shove them in his mouth. He groaned in satisfaction. 

She wanted to be annoyed, but she had never seen him act this way. So instead she watched as he stuffed his face. He sat down slowly in a wooden chair. His large body mass made it creak, rocking it with the sound of the crackling fire. His spastic breathing mellowed out into a deep sigh.

He was definitely hurting from his wound but there was something else. She could sense that something was bothering him. Yet, she didn’t pry for an explanation. Instead, she let him watch the fire as she gathered her supplies of elixirs and jars. Then she picked up the pot full of water hanging above the fire and poured it into a bowl. The steam warmed her face that was still cold from earlier. 

“Are you still hungry? I think I only have bread.” She sat her things on the table next to him, but not looking in his direction. However, she could feel his piercing eyes watching her every single move. “If you’re not feeling like bread I can stay up and make you soup.” 

His hand flew to her wrist. She jumped, nearly knocking over a bottle with green shiny liquid. She turned her head slightly, sighing deeply. “It hurts,” Geralt mumbled. 

His wound was red, inflamed, and looked worse in the light. And if Geralt says it hurts then it was worse than she had imagined. “Take your tunic off while I prepare.” Although it was her giving the instruction, she couldn’t help the heat on her cheeks arise. Especially when he did what he was told. She had only seen his bare chest a handful of times, but each time made her stomach knot up. 

He took a heavy breath as he settled back into the chair, wincing when she placed a hot cloth on his open wound. His nails dug into the chair. His teeth clenched as he threw his head back. She couldn’t help but giggle. In return, he snapped his head to look at her, visibly annoyed. “What?” 

She swatted him for the rash reaction. “No need to be hot headed, Geralt. I was only laughing because I’ve never seen you act so dramatic.” 

“I’m not being dramatic,” he argued. He winced again when the cloth touched his skin once more. He rolled his eyes when he noticed the smirk she tried to hide from him, her hair covered her face. Not thinking, he took his finger and pushed it out of the way so he could see her more clearly. 

She tried to ignore the knot in her stomach or how her chest was breathing differently. She even tried to look away subtly but the only thing she could look at without being suspicious was his bare chest. “How’s Yennefer?” 

The change of subject was almost as if she had poured salt into his fresh wounds. He yanked his hand away and turned his head to face the fire, jaw ticked. She should’ve felt guilty for bringing up his on and off lover. Instead, she felt relieved his attention was no longer on her and probably wouldn’t be the rest of the night. 

That’s how it always went. He would get too close and right before she fell under his spell she would mention the other woman. She had only met the sorceress once. They neither liked or disliked one another. Yet, she could tell there would not be any attempts to go frollicking in a field like they were the best of friends. 

In some ways, she had been jealous of Yennefer– she was interesting and traveled the Continent and had fought in many wars. She was beautiful and cunning. Of course Geralt would pick her as a lover. 

“Ow.” Geralt grimaced, shifting in the chair. Her fingers were touching the wounds, and spreading them apart. “Are you about done? I’m tired.” 

She continued to inspect his wounds closely, having to push between his legs to get a closer look. “I have to ensure there are no severe damages so I know what to make.” His huff made her roll her eyes. She wanted to swat him for still acting like a child. “Whatever got you, got you good, eh?” 

He looked away then back at her, swallowing. “Yes, I suppose.” 

There was a beat of silence. Only the fire was popping. 

“I thought I was goin’ to die.” He said out loud in a low whisper. Almost like he didn’t want her to hear him.

She stopped briefly to look up at him. He was serious. “Well, fortunately whatever it was missed your heart by a hair.” She pointed to where his heart was and traced a line to the start of one of the scratches only millimeters away. She got up, leaving him with a witty smile as she started to pour the many different potions into a different bowl. 

“Me and Yennefer haven’t spoken in months,” he admitted. 

It was hard not to react, but she had never seen him willingly talk about the woman before. “Oh.” 

“We wanted different things I suppose,” he continued. “If it weren’t for Ciri’s letters, then I wouldn’t even know if she was still alive.” 

“You miss her?” It was meant to sound like a question, but it came across as a statement. 

He looked down at his hands, ashamed. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to miss someone.” 

“Are you not allowed or are you unsure you know what it’s supposed to feel like?” 

He didn’t answer. 

She walked back and found her place again between his legs. “Missing someone feels like always looking at the door when there’s a knock, and your heart skips a beat, hoping it’s them.” She dipped her finger in the cream she had made and started to apply it to the open wound. 

“I don’t live in a cottage with a door.” His hands creeped to his thighs so they brushed her as she moved. 

She finished with the first cut and moved onto the second, which was much deeper and longer. “Well, missing someone can also feel like wanting to cry even when you’re happy.” 

“You do know I have emotions?” He quizzed her. 

She smirked. “Of course I do. I was only trying to help you figure out if you miss Yennefer.” 

He hummed, running a finger over the first wound she had treated which was starting to already heal. His skin attaching itself together again. “I miss her, but not in the way you think I do.” 

“Then in what way?” She raised her brow, clearly confused as to what he meant. 

He didn’t answer her right away. “Not in the way I miss you.” 

The bowl in her hand nearly clattered to the floor. She froze, replaying the words over and over as if she hadn’t heard him. Did Geralt really admit to missing her? No, he doesn’t actually mean it. He was messing with her. “That’s not funny.” Her breath was shaky. In fact, her hands were shaky too as she tried to continue healing him. 

“Did I make a joke?” His tone was unwavering. He placed his hand on her warm cheek, brushing his thumb over her soft flesh. He had never touched her so intimately like he was now. 

She shook her head, using her free hand to brush him away, focusing on the rest of his injuries. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. You’re delusional.” 

“I thought your potions helped with that?” 

Her eyes flickered up to meet his, briefly, before averting them back to the bowl. She swooped the last of the cream on her finger and spread it slowly over the last scratch. The others had closed up but one could make out the red scar. “Those will go away in due time,” she mumbled. 

As she tried to get up he caught her arm, standing up with her, and in doing so their chests were against one another. He could feel her heavy breathing. And she could feel the warmth from his body electrifying hers. 

“I should go make your bed. You need to rest.” She tried to walk away but his grip never left her arm. “Geralt.” 

He took the bowl from her hands and placed it back on the table. “How much longer will you deny it?” 

She swallowed the gasp that had almost escaped her, shaking her head. “What do you mean?” Finally, she had pulled away but made no efforts to leave the room, only stepping back to make space between them. And of course he could probably read her like an open book while she only had his stoic expressions to decipher. He opened his mouth, but closed it, sighing loudly. “Thank you, Y/n.” 

Her face softened. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what I would’ve done if it weren’t for you. In fact, I don’t know what I would do without you.” His jaw slacked, watching her intensely. 

She could feel the pull, like a magnet, all too familiar when it came to Geralt. Normally, she had to ignore it. But at that moment, it felt like a boiling pot of water, steaming and bubbling, unable to contain itself. And as she looked into his piercing eyes, the knot in her stomach told her it was time to say something. “Geralt.” Her voice was above a whisper. “I have something to tell you.”

“Yes?” His expression never faltered. 

She shifted her feet, uncomfortable. “I… I um… I’m making oat porridge in the morning.” She had decided it was best to hold back what she really wanted to say. “I’ll go prepare your room.” 

His yellow eyes narrowed, searching for hers. She knew he was watching the emotions swirl through her mind. She knew that he knew that wasn’t what she really wanted to say to him. “No.” He was assertive and the growled vibrations dragged along her back like a dagger, giving her chills. 

Ignoring the goosebumps along her arms, she ran her hand over her face. “What do you want me to say?” She felt like a twig that had snapped. “Why are you being mean? You stand there forcing a confession out of me. A confession you will never get because there’s nothing to say.” Her tears burned in the corner of her eyes. She hated how foolish she looked in front of him. Crying and blubbering because he decided to dig deeper. 

They had a routine. He would knock on the door and she would heal his wounds. Their deep conversations were rare, and sometimes he wouldn’t speak at all. Sometimes he would leave in the morning without a word. So why must this time be any different than the others? 

“You’re angry.” 

She scoffed. “Yes, I’m angry.” Unable to face him, she turned to look at the fireplace, shaking her head. “That’s the most frustrating part of all of this. I’m angry that you’re here. I’m angry that I don’t see you for months with no word if you’re even alive. I’m angry that you show up when I’m missing you the most.” Her eyes caught his, her nostrils flared. She had had enough of it, storming up to him and putting a finger against his bare chest. “I’m angry that you sit there and touch me and talk to me like we’re lovers. I’m angry that you won’t go to someone else for help. Because I can’t do it anymore, Geralt. I can’t do it.” 

And there it was. Years worth of bubbling water, spilling over the pot and all over the floor. She had made a mess that she wasn’t sure if she would be able to clean up. 

Geralt’s jaw ticked, his eyes scanning her face. “You wish to not see me anymore? Would that be easier?” 

Her finger fell slowly from his chest. Her voice trembled. “It’s easier than caring about you.” 

Geralt brought his hand up slowly to her cheek, brushing his knuckle against a tear. “I am angry at you too,” he whispered. Her brows furrowed, unsure what he meant. “I told you I have feelings too. Yet, you assume I don’t. You assume I don’t care about you either.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Do you?” 

“Why do you think I keep coming back?” His jaw slacked. 

The tension between them was thick and palpable. She wasn’t sure what else there was to say. Her heart was torn. Even with the confession, there was no guarantee. He was a Witcher with responsibilities that were not suitable for the life she wanted. She pushed it away, cracking a smile. “Are you saying that you got injured on purpose? So you could see me?” 

“Perhaps.” The corner of his mouth flickered, leaning his head down towards her. 

“You could’ve died.” She stepped closer to him, tracing her finger of his scars, looking at his lips.

“But I didn’t.” He said against her mouth, finally closing the gap between them. 

He wrapped his arms around her, strong and sure, deepening the kiss. It was gentle but fierce, full of longing and tension that had been built up along the years. It tasted like all the warm tea she had made for him over time. 

When she moaned, Geralt took the opportunity to slip his tongue in her mouth, gliding it tenderly and carefully against hers, groaning in satisfaction. He somehow managed to pull her closer as if their bodies weren’t already meshed together.

It was her who broke away first, both of them gasping for air, chests heaving from the heavy kiss. Geralt’s eyes had turned black, his senses heightened, craving more. 

Without a word, she unbuttoned her blouse, freeing her chest as she dropped it to the floor. She kissed Geralt again on the mouth, his neck, and then his chest. She whispered in his ear, “I think I should go prepare your room now.” 

He nodded, allowing her to take his hand to lead him to her room, rather than the room up in the attic that her guests normally stayed in. It was full of knick knacks and books scattered. Her bed was unmade, but neither one of them cared. 

She pushed him on the bed, straddling his lap, peppering kisses all over his chest. If she was smart, she would savor all of it– every kiss and touch. But fuck all of it. She had waited too long to savor it.  She grinded herself against his hardness, smiling against his ear when she felt him jump through his trousers. Something had told her it was too long for him too. 

The rest of their clothes had found a new place on the floor of her bedroom. She was now laying down, Geralt hovered over her, his chain dangled over her face, and his hands roamed over her bare body as she whimpered under his touch. His lips attacked her neck, trailing down her body, relishing every inch. 

“Geralt,” she mewled. 

She felt the vibrations of his chuckle, revitalizing her, the warmth between her legs now ached. “Yes?” He came back towards her mouth, placing a life-wrecking kiss on it. 

She nibbled his bottom lip. “You know.” 

“Mm, I don’t think I do,” he teased. His hand was between her legs, fingers gliding, taunting her. 

She thrusted her hips upwards, forcing friction against her swollen clit, gasping when he slid a finger in her. “I need you.”

The pitiful look in her eyes convinced him enough to give her what she wanted. And because any longer, he felt like he would combust. Geralt pushed her legs apart and then guided his girthy length to her entrance, sliding it in slowly. 

She gasped as he sunk deeper inside her, finally able to marvel all of her. It was sweet like the honey she snuck in his tea. Rich like the pastries she packed in his knapsack whenever he left in the mornings, without saying goodbye because he was afraid he would never leave if he saw her golden smile in the mornings. Yet, he wasn’t strong enough to never come back. 

At first, his thrusts were slow and tender, slipping so deep that his tip reached as far as it could. She gripped his shoulders, nails forming crescents, back arching as he picked up the pace. She wanted to hug him with her thighs, but his hands were sure to keep them open and spread for him. 

The sounds of their sticky skin crashing together blended with their moans and grunts, forming a delectable melody. She pulled him into an open-mouth sloppy kiss, humming. The bed rattled beneath them, his pace was dangerously close to cracking the frame. 

In a swift move, he pulled her up, so that she was straddling him. Their bare chests flushed together, her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering as she bounced on his cock. “I’m… fuck,” she breathed, unable to make the words as it hit her sweet spot. 

“Me too.” He slightly pushed her shoulders back, wanting to see her. His palm cradled her face, swallowing the thickness stuck in his throat. He knew he looked destroyed. He didn’t show how he felt often, but the pent up tension over the year had finally arisen. 

“G…Geralt!” She shouted as her walls closed around him, releasing her orgasm around him, resting her forehead on his chest as he continued to move her up and down. She clutched onto him as if she was about to float away. 

He threw his head back as his cock twitched, finishing, He thrusted through his climax, panting as he slowed to a halt. His senses were still high and could hear the fire still crackling in the den. He could feel her breathing still rugged and hot, sticking to his chest. 

She couldn’t see it but Geralt let a small smile briefly appear as he stroked her bare back. He placed a kiss on the top of her head. She looked up at him, running her fingers through his snow-white hair. “Will you stay one more night?” 

He tilted his head, brows knitted together. “Are you still angry with me?” 

A mischievous glimmer crossed her eyes. “If I am, does that mean you’ll stay?” 

He snickered, placing a peck on her lips, lingering, scared if he were to break away she’d disappear. 

His bike was loud coming down your alley, the sound caged in and amplified by the surrounding buildings. You always gave him hell for it— something about waking the neighbors, but he’d press his lips to yours and the subject would be forgotten. Besides, he liked that you could hear him coming; you always met him at the door.

Bucky parked next to your car and cut the engine. Your car was here, so you were here— there was just something wrong with the phones, that had to be it. You’d be waiting to let him in, standing just inside the door, like you always were. But his pulse quickened when your door didn’t open in front of him— something was wrong.

He knocked on the door softly, but he couldn’t hear any movement inside the apartment. A few seconds later he fished the spare key you gave him— for emergencies, you said— out of his pocket.

Bucky unlocked the door and cracked it open just an inch before his doubt started slipping through. Was this an emergency? Maybe you were busy and he was intruding. Maybe you had guests over. Maybe you just didn’t want to talk to him anymore— he gulped and pushed that thought away.

The apartment was dark, his voice breaking through the silence when he tentatively called your name. Maybe you weren’t here. Maybe you had gone somewhere without your car— a perfectly normal thing to do. So why was he sneaking into your apartment? He was being creepy, he was out of line. This was a bad idea, he should go— but then he noticed the faint flickering light of the TV coming from your bedroom.

Bucky clicked the door shut behind him and took quiet, careful steps down the hall to your room. Your door was half open, and the TV screen alternated between darkness and casting a harsh, artificial glare across your bed. And there you were, tucked almost completely under a blanket, only the very crown of your head visible on the pillows.

Bucky rapped his knuckles gently on the doorframe and said your name again. You stirred slightly but didn’t poke out of your cocoon, so he repeated himself— and you flung the blankets back and looked at him, wide-eyed and panicked. He immediately took a step away from your doorway, backing into the hall.

He scared you, of course he did, breaking into your fucking home like this— he tried to tell himself it wasn’t breaking in, he had a key, for god’s sake, but your expression told him otherwise. He raised his hands in front of him, palms up, instinctively trying to be as small and unthreatening as possible. Which, frankly, was impossible, given his stature—

“It’s just me,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry— I can go—”

You were here. You were alive. You were… avoiding him on purpose? Fuck, why did he think this was a good idea?

You exhaled softly, and alarm bells started in Bucky’s head when you spoke because your voice was almost slow-motion, wavery and weak— “No, no,” you drawled. “It’s okay.” You rubbed your tired eyes and pushed a piece of tousled hair away from your face. “Shit… what time is it?”

Bucky checked his watch. “Almost six. Are you okay?” He glanced around your room. Empty cups and water bottles were piled on your nightstand, and a half-empty bag of popcorn sat next to you on the bed. Dirty clothes littered your floor, just feet away from the hamper where they should’ve landed.

“M’fine,” you said as you flopped back down onto your pillows.

You were clearly not fine. “Can I come in?” he asked. You made a soft sound that he interpreted as a yes, and he walked to your bedside, stepping gingerly over a discarded hoodie.

You threw the crook of your elbow over your eyes, blocking him out completely when you spoke. “To what do I owe the pleasure—” the words seemed to wind you, and you took a deep breath before continuing, “of you showing up in my apartment?” Saying that many words in a row seemed difficult for you, and Bucky sat down carefully on the edge of the bed.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he mumbled. He wished he could see your eyes; he looked at your messy hair, the indented pillow lines on your cheek instead.

“Ah, fuck,” you said in that same slow voice. You moved your arm off your eyes, but didn’t open them when you pointed at the hoodie on the floor. “S’in there. Thought I heard it going off.”

You heard your phone, but you didn’t get it? “Have you been sleeping all day?”

“Not sleeping,” you said, and Bucky waited for you to explain. You finally looked up at him, and his brow instantly wrinkled with concern. “Just… relaxing.”

You didn’t look very relaxed. Your eyebrows were drawn with permanent worry, and the bags under your red eyes were deep and pronounced. You looked tired. So, so tired.

“I… don’t feel good,” you continued. Bucky knew it. You were ill, you were sick, he needed to call a doctor— he hadn’t been sick in decades, not since the serum, but he remembered what to do. He touched the back of his vibranium hand to your forehead, but you winced at the cold. Right. That wasn’t smart. He wouldn’t be able to tell if you had a fever with that hand, anyway, what with the temperature difference— he moved to swap hands, but you ducked away.

“I’m not sick,” you said, once again avoiding his gaze as you picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “I promise. Just… needed a self-care day, or whatever.”

Bucky pursued his lips into a straight line. Lying awake in the dark, surrounded by a mess, and not answering your phone sure as hell didn’t look like self care. “You’ve been in bed all day,” he stated.

You shrugged, or at least attempted to. “Not all day. I showered. Ran out of hot water, though.” You glanced at his eyes and immediately looked away, but he still noticed— you had tears in your eyes.

Bucky was glad you couldn’t hear his heartbeat like he could hear yours, because he panicked a bit at that— you would’ve talked about it by now if you wanted to, but how was he just supposed to pretend like everything was fine? He wanted to fix it, wanted to make it better, wanted to hold you— ah.

He glanced at the flashing screen. “Can I watch TV with you?”

You moved your bag of popcorn and scooted over to make room for him, and he kicked his shoes off before stretching out alongside you. You took a deep, shaky breath when his arm pressed up against yours. That was good— so he adjusted slightly, touching more of you, and was rewarded with a long, calm exhale.

It helped. He was helping. He rolled to his side and wrapped his arm around you, squeezing lightly. “What’re we watching?”

“No idea,” you said in a small voice. But Bucky shouldn’t have bothered asking— he recognized it, some show about astronauts and space travel. You hadn’t changed away from the sci-fi channel he had put on the last time he was over. You didn’t care for it then, and you didn’t care for it now, but you loved the way Bucky lit up when he watched it. Bucky found the remote and clicked the volume up a bit so you— he— could hear.

You rolled to your side, your back up against Bucky’s front, and he buried his face in your hair. Your shoulders started to shake after a little while, but you still didn’t say anything, so Bucky did the only thing he knew how to do— he held you. He waited it out with you, rubbing your shoulder and pressing soft kisses to your back as the tears spilled. They weren’t because of him, he knew— if anything, having his arms around you made you feel safe enough to finally let them out.

When your sobs had mostly subsided into faint hiccups, he spoke. “Sweetheart?”

“Hmm?”

He glanced at the crumpled snack bag. “…Have you only eaten popcorn today?”

You nodded, and Bucky had an idea— food. That would help. Food always helped.

He rolled over, away from you, and dialed the number to that little hole-in-the-wall spot down the street. You watched him quietly as he ordered your usual, and his, and some extra appetizers for good measure. After he hung up he curled back around you, and you were both quiet until there was a knock on the door.

Bucky sighed. Your breathing had slowed down, you were relaxing— if only the delivery guy could bring the food straight into the bedroom. He climbed up reluctantly and accepted the order. It was nearly pitch black in the apartment, and he flicked on the kitchen light; it was nice out here, he thought. Clean. Bright. Cheery. He set the food on the kitchen table and went back to you.

He flopped on the bed, curling around you again with a kiss on your cheek. “Food’s here,” he murmured. “Come out and eat.”

“Can I eat in here?” Your voice was muffled; you had pulled the blanket back up to cover most of your face.

Bucky shook his head. “You might be capable of eating in bed, but I’m not,” he said against your ear. “Too much red sauce.” You were silent, so he continued. “You like these sheets, don’t you?” You nodded slowly. “Me too. So c’mon, come out to the table.”

You sighed, clearly fighting with yourself. You didn’t want to say no, but you couldn’t say yes, either.

“C’mon,” he repeated, and he glanced at the astronauts on TV. You still didn’t reply, but he had an idea— a dumb idea, but so dumb that it might just work, might make you laugh— he covered his mouth with his hand and made a sound to imitate radio static. “Chh.”

You rolled over and looked at him with scrunched eyebrows, clearly confused by his act. You sniffled. “What are you doing?”

But Bucky’s face was deadly serious. “Preparing for liftoff,” he said against his hand. “Agent Popcorn, do you read me?” One edge of your lip curled up just the tiniest bit, and you nodded tentatively. He spoke into his pretend radio again. “Roger. Cleared for liftoff. Begin countdown.” The other side of your mouth was rising, too— “Chh. Ten… chh. Nine… chh.”

You shoved at him, but you were smiling, and god he was glad to see that smile. He leaned into you and kept going, nosing at your neck, his voice tickling your skin until you were squirming and giggling. “Two… chh. One… aaand, liftoff!” He rolled off the bed, looking at you, because this was the moment— if this didn’t work he might not recover from it, might not be able to look at you after making such a fool of himself— but you huffed out the tiniest laugh. You rolled to the edge of the bed, too, and climbed unsteadily to your feet in front of him. You moved to wipe tears off your cheek, but Bucky’s lips got there first, and he kissed them away while you smiled.

You still looked tired. Your smile still didn’t quite reach your eyes. But you looked hopeful, and that was enough, for now.

“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s eat.”