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messers-moony · 3 years

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So Perfect 2 | J.P

Paring: Young!James Potter X Fem!Lupin!Reader

Summary: James falls in love with a bookstore called, Lupin’s Library, and can’t believe what they’re going through.

Preparing for a date seemed easy enough, except when it’s with a twenty-five-year-old man that already has a child. Granted, the twenty-five-year-old man was handsome, very handsome; maybe that’s what made this so hard. Every dress that she tried on didn’t seem to fit or didn’t seem to look right.

Y/n was looking at her appearance in the mirror when a light knock was heard on her door, “Come in!”

Remus almost dropped the tea he was holding for her, “You look spiffing.”

“Spiffing?” Y/n crossed her arms with a stupid smile, “That’s all you could come up with?”

“Dashing, beautiful, gorgeous?” Remus shrugged, “I'm not good at this whole thing. ‘S why I’m into blokes, remember?”

Y/n hummed, reaching for the tea he was holding for her, “Thanks, Remmy.”

“No problem.” He replied, taking a seat on her twin bed, “So, are you excited?”

“Nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Yeah, I mean, he’s already got a child, Rem!” Y/n said exasperated, “If this goes well, then he’ll expect me to be Harry’s stepmother, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

Remus placed two hands on his shorter sister's shoulders, “You’re going to be fine. No one is more prepared for that than you are.”

“I’m regretting this.”

“If you don’t go on this date, then I’ll never call Sirius.”

“That’s not fair!”

“It is.” Remus replied, “How about this-”

“Oh no, you only do this when you know you’ll win.” She murmured.

Remus smirked, “If you go on this date and have fun, I’ll ask Sirius out. If you don’t go on this date at all, I’ll block his number.”

“But you and Sirius are perfect for each other.” Y/n whined, “And so are you and James.” Remus countered.

Y/n pouted, and Remus smiled, “Now go have fun on this date. James is waiting outside.”

“Are you shitting me?!”

Remus laughed, “Nope!”

Y/n scrambled to grab her things, and Remus watched amusedly, “You’re the worst, Rem!” She yelled as she began to leave the bookstore.

“Love you too, sis!”

The door closed behind her, and she was releasing breaths of air. James turned to see her out of breath and a flush on her cheeks. It made him smile. She looked absolutely breathtaking too. Y/n’s hair was styled, and her dress looked dashing on her. James offered her his hand, and Y/n took it with a gentle smile.

“Sorry for making you wait.” Y/n apologized, “Rem was no help.”

James chuckled, “It’s fine.”

James opened the car door for her, and she got in. Instantly she felt out of place. Y/n hadn’t been in a car since high school and ever since then had taken public transportation or walked. She and Remus didn’t have money for a vehicle, so they made do with what they had. The seats were black leather, and the car didn’t have a spec of dirt on it.

He got into the driver's side of the car smoothly and took notice of Y/n’s awestruck expression, “I take it you like my car?”

“I’m sorry.” Her expression turned sheepish, “It’s been a minute since I’ve been in a car.”

James quirked an eyebrow, “Remus and I walk or ride buses to get by.”

“Well, I’m glad I could be with you for your first experience back.” They both laughed.

It was so easy with James. Conversation flowed like water, and the air was light like clouds. His hand went from the shift to intertwine his fingers with hers. Y/n’s face flushed, and James smiled genuinely. James couldn’t remember a time when a girl made his heart race and butterflies fill his stomach like this before.

When they arrived, Y/n was starstruck. It was fancier than she thought. Her heart pounded, and insecurity filled her body. James made his way to her side of the car and opening the door for her again. He helped her out of the car and felt her hand tremble just the slightest bit.

“You look beautiful.” James assured, “No need to be worried.”

Y/n swallowed thickly, “Hey,” James turned her face to his, “If I thought you were underdressed, I would’ve told you. You’re gorgeous, and I think you’ll be the prettiest girl in the room.”

“Thank you.”

He gave her another one of those beautiful smiles before walking up to the hostess, “Name?”

“Should be under Potter.”

The hostess smiled, “Right this way.”

James motioned for Y/n to go first, so she followed the hostess to the table. Y/n sat down, and James sat across from her as the woman set down two menus. Maybe it was a force of habit, but she couldn’t help but let her eyes travel to everything around her.

He smiled, slightly amused by her way of checking everything around her. It wasn’t the fanciest place that he could’ve taken her - there was much better - but he didn’t want to overwhelm her. It wasn’t pitying that drew him toward her, though. There was something about her that made him feel like a teenager again.

The place was made of what appeared to be a dark wooden material. The lights were a dim yellow, and the tables were polished beautifully. The booths were comfy and with red cushioning. The atmosphere was cooling and dry.

Y/n had opened her menu and began to survey it, “Pick whatever you want.”

“Are you sure?” Y/n asked, “I really don’t mind-“

“This is a date.” James reminded as he held her hands from across the table, “Let me treat you so well that you a second date.”

Y/n blushed, “You’ve already done that.”

“I have?”

“Shut up.”

James chuckled, kissing her knuckles, “Whatever you want, love.”

Half of the food on the menu Y/n hadn’t even heard of. Granted, she and Remus never really ate out much as kids. Usually, their mother - Hope - would cook them dinner as their father - Lyall - got home from work. Dinner was generally around seven-thirty or eight o’clock.

The dinner went by gracefully, with lots of banter and getting to know each other. It wasn’t until the end of the date where James had paid despite Y/n’s efforts, and they got into the car where he had asked the dreadful question. They both sat in the parking spot when James had turned to her.

“How do you feel about children?” James asked and quickly added, “I know that you’re good with them because of the reading on Saturdays but, I mean, about having children?”

Y/n wrung her hands, “I never really thought about it.”

“Why?”

“I have two jobs and a sick brother to take care of.”

Y/n replied, “Kids don’t really fit in. I’d also have to have a significant other to have children. Which I don’t have.”

James nodded, “Okay, but if you were to have a significant other.”

“I mean, I’d like to.” Y/n shrugged, “My life is just hectic right now. Bringing a child into this life wouldn’t be fair.”

Okay, so this isn’t going anywhere, James thought; I need to be blunt, “How would you feel about being Harry’s stepmother?”

She swallowed, “James….”

“I know that’s a hard thing to answer right now. Especially with us just getting started.” James added, “But if you aren’t interested, then this isn’t worth starting.”

“No, I know and understand.” Y/n said, fidgeting with her hands in her lap, “I’m sure it’s hard to find someone, you know, already having a kid and all.”

James nodded.

“I’d love to be Harry’s stepmother.” Y/n replied as James’ face lit up, “But I still have the bookstore, the bar, and Remus to take care of as well. It’ll be stressful.”

“I’m not asking you to be a stay-at-home mother.” James chuckled, “I’m just asking that at the end of the day, you come home to us.”

“And hopefully,” James smiled sheepishly, “Sirius can knock Remus off your list.”

Y/n chuckled, “Hopefully. Remus is a handful.”

“He seems nice.”

She snorted, “Until you officially meet him.”

“Well then,” James smiled, taking her hand in his as he began moving the car, “Looks like we’ll be having double dates.”

Y/n squeezed his hand as he began to drive. The car drove effortlessly over the unpaved roads. Light music played in the background. The sky was a beautiful blue littered with sparkling white specks. The moon was crescent and barely a sliver. James had gotten to a stoplight when he spoke up again.

“My house or yours?”

“Whichever.”

James smiled and turned the wheel to the left, “Okay.”

It didn’t take long to realize that they were going to his house. His neighborhood was much different than hers. Granted, she lived on top of a bookshop, but it was still different. James lived in the suburbs. The houses were breathtaking, and the streets looked clean. Asphalt roads were freshly paved, and sidewalks looked new. The homes were family-sized, but they looked ginormous compared to her and Remus’ studio apartment only suited for one.

James pulled into the driveway, and Y/n was flabbergasted. It was a two-story house, mostly white concrete, and the accents were a dark brown color. The grass was freshly cut, and the vegetation was trimmed. The backyard appeared to have a pool and a patio area, but Y/n could barely tell over the solid fence.

His keys jingled as he placed the key into the slot and the door opened with ease. Gently, he motioned her to go first. The floors were dark oak wood, seemingly similar to the dark paint on the accents of the house. Everything was so clean, exactly like the car, not a spec of dust laid on the surfaces.

A movie was playing on the television in the room on the right. The kitchen was on the left, and the sitting table was in the room beside it. James shut the door behind him, locking it. He took off his coat and shoes, placing them at the front door. He smiled.

“I take it you like the house?”

“It’s beautiful.”

James smiled, walking to the kitchen, and Y/n took off her shoes before following him. He sighed when he opened the fridge, and Y/n had taken a seat at the barstool in front of the island. James picked up an empty bottle of wine that was still residing in the fridge.

“You keep empty bottles of wine in the fridge?” Y/n questioned as James rubbed his face with his hands.

“No. Bad habit of Sirius’.”

Y/n quirked an eyebrow, “He lives here?”

“He acts as he does.” James muttered as he recycled the empty bottle, “But no, Sirius lives a couple of doors down. But I feel like he should be paying rent here.”

Y/n laughed, “Regardless, I’ve known him since elementary school, so he’s like my brother. Harry calls him uncle and everything.”

“That’s adorable.” Y/n said, “Do you have any actual siblings?”

“Nope. Jus’ me.” He answered, motioning to himself, “Sirius has a younger brother named Regulus.”

“His parents obsessed with constellations or something?”

“Supposedly.”

“Where is Harry now?”

“With Sirius.” James replied, taking out a full bottle of wine, “Told him I might get him tonight or might not.”

Y/n took the glass of wine he offered her with a smile, “Mind if I ask why the tv was left on?”

“My cat.”

“Cat?”

“Technically, not mine.” James explained, “It’s my ex-fiancées, but she left him here, so he’s mine now.”

“And your cat likes the tv?”

James nodded, “What's his name?”

“Moony.”

“Moony?”

“Yeah. Harry named him actually.”

Y/n smiled. They continued to talk, and the night kept going on by. It was well past midnight when James drove her back home to her shared apartment. The car ride was silent, primarily with music playing lightly in the background once again. He walked her to the door of the bookstore before bidding her goodnight.

Gently James pressed his lips to her forehead, “Goodnight, get some sleep.”

“You too…” Y/n muttered, blushing as she walked into the bookstore.

She hadn’t even made it up the steps when Remus began talking, “Had a good night, I presume?”

“You’re a dick, ya know?”

He smirked and closed his book with a thud, “Runs in the family.”

Y/n gasped playfully, “You ass!”

Remus chuckled as they both walked up the steps, “Seriously though, good night?”

“Yeah, really good night.”

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cazimagines · 2 years

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Born to be wild - chapter 13

Synopsis: Joining F1 as one of the first female drivers you knew was going to be a challenge but you weren’t prepared to deal with one particular asshole on the tracks. With the urge to win so strong within each racer, will romance pave the way? Or will it destroy everything?

Word count: 2.4k

Previous chapter: The morning after the party your memory was foggy and dull, which lead to Niki being anxious about all that had happened the previous night and leaving it in the past

A/N: I'm sorry this has been so long overdue! The last few months I was focusing on finishing all my uni work so I didn't have a lot of time to carry on writing but I have finished now and it is the summer break! Furthermore I have just under a month now till I start my summer job which means hopefully more time to write! I still have a lot more chapters for this planned so thank you to everyone who is still reading this fic! Love you guys <3

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Previous chapter

The finale had arrived. The United States. The last race of this season, and Niki Lauda was ahead of you.

You were in the last few laps now, and though Niki had already won this championship with how many points he had, you were still determined to give a show for the crowd.

After all, all you needed to do was get a second place here to beat James for second place in the world championship.

For the first half of the season, James was confident in his Hesketh’s ability. It was why he had been so invested in getting you into the points as well, to fight with him against Niki. Yet it had backfired on him. As his car started to have problems in every race, Niki had stormed ahead to get first place and you were ready to snatch second place from him.

You were peeved to not get world champion for yourself, but not as upset as you would have been earlier in the season.

After the first picnic outing with Niki, he had asked you out again, then again, then again. It has almost become a tradition between the two of you. Whenever you arrive in the new country, you and Niki would go out somewhere for a picnic, a pub or a restaurant. Anywhere to spend some time together. Each time you tried to pay for your own meal, Niki insisted on paying each time. He didn’t need to say anything now. Simply he would pull up in his car, and you would jump in, or you would find him on your motorbike, and with some resentment, he climbed onto the back.

Those earlier feelings of anger towards Niki had started to morph. His egotism was still relentless and often he was grumpy more than anything else, but even with those annoying factors, you lived for the other side of him that would appear when it was just the two of you. The glimpse of his kinder, shyer side. He seemed to always put up a front around others, but when you got him on his own, it felt like pulling his mask away to reveal the vulnerable man beneath.

You could see him ahead of you now, speeding on the underside of the track to hold off his lead. Smirking to yourself, you pushed down on the accelerator and pushed forward to reach him. Niki saw you coming out the edge of his vision and pulled over, blocking your strip steam. Still, you held close to Niki, chasing him as you both passed over the beginning of the lap. There were only a few more left, and then that was it for this season. Determination burned through you as you moved to the side, and as expected, Niki drifted ever so slightly, narrowing down your chance of overtaking there. But with a jerk to the steering wheel, you pushed to the other side, which had now opened up for you.

You shot forward, narrowly getting past. Instantly Niki was on your tail, annoyed he had left a gap for you to get past. Hurling into the last lap, Niki kept seeking a way past, and you tried to the best of your ability to keep him at bay, but in one fleeting second, you pushed out too far and hit a patch of grass. It caused the car to slip slightly, and in the time it took for you to recover control, Niki was in front again, leading off.

Both of you circled around to the finishing line, and you watched as Niki pushed past where the man was waving the checkered flag, calming first place in this race and in the championship.

Slowly you pulled into your place in the pit and your team rushed over to congratulate you on second place. They cheered and danced around you, picking you up on their shoulders to carry you and celebrate. While you were inclined to join in with the celebrations, feeling an immense joy from doing so well in your first year in formula one, a feat not achieved by many. You couldn’t help but look over to the Ferrari garage. Glancing over at where Niki Lauda was also being carried, smiling and laughing cheerfully. For a moment, he glanced backwards, both your eyes catching each other. But then it was gone as his team pulled him away, ready to take him to the winner’s podium.

It wasn’t long till you were walking onto the stage before hundreds of fans cheering and shouting your name, You smiled and waved at them, stepping up to join Jame’s on the podium. He waved to the fans as well, but his lips pressed into a tight grimace, a heavy sigh that only you could hear leaving him.

“Perhaps next year!” you say optimistically.

With a plastered grin, James responded,

“I hope.”

There wasn’t time to talk to James further, though you wanted to. It was Niki’s turn to walk on stage, waving his hands and smiling widely, his lip curling over those precious front teeth. He hopped up to the stadium and stood still as his national anthem played out. His chest was thrust out and he held a satisfied smile on his lips as his gleaming eyes looked over at the fans. As if feeling your eyes on him though, he looked down at you. You flushed at being caught but he merely chuckled quickly and whispered to you.

“You put up a good fight.”

“You’ll have to watch out next year, I might just be able to beat you with all that I know now.” you whisper back, looking out over the audience and smiling to not raise suspicion.

Niki’s face straightened for a second though, the smile slipping from his lips as he watched you.

“Yes.” he muttered.

“It would be useful to know all about your…tricks.”

His smile came back in the next moment as they brought out the trophies and the champagne. Niki thrusted the trophy up in the air, waving it about comically as the crowd cheered. When handed the champagne, though, Niki was fast to pull the top off and hold it over your head, getting the drink over you. Quickly you hopped down, running off to the side in an attempt to remain dry but like a child, Niki followed after you determined to douse you.

That’s what caused you to be sitting in the garage an hour later, ringing the last few bits of the campaign out of your sticky hair with a towel you had found lying about. A wooden knock echoed in the room and you saw Niki leaning against the entrance of the garage, sunglasses on, a wreath over his shoulders and holding his trophy against his hip.

“I thought you would be out celebrating with your team,” you say, walking over to Niki while the corner of your lips tugged upwards. Your eyes flickered over Niki and a warmth flushed over you taking in how his world champion look.

“I have no time needing to celebrate with them. I’d rather celebrate with someone that I like.”

You grin, cheekily elbowing him in his side,

“Niki admitting he likes me. Never though I would never see the day.”

“Fuck off,” he laughed, pulling his sun glasses off.

“Well, it’s true; only a few months ago, you said yourself that you couldn’t stand me.”

“Don’t make me regret asking you out,” Niki shouts as he turns to walk to the car park, not sparing a glance back at you. You shook your head, chuckling under your breath then jogging to catch up with Niki.

He tossed his trophy in the bonnet of the car, now no longer caring about what he considered an ugly thing. The wreath soon followed. As the two of your drove off, your conversation turned for plans over the break before the next practise starts, which trailed off rather quickly when you both found out you two had nothing planned, then joking about making plans together. Then it turned into talk about the other drivers, to which Niki was very scathing while you rolled your eyes at what he said.

Eventually, he parked up at another fancy restaurant that had soft lights and leaves hanging along the walls, a red carpet out the front and a man waiting to let people in. Though you never really gave a care for where you ate, Niki was a man with an appetite and considered it vastly important to have a good meal, and after tonight he must want a celebratory meal.

The man at the front’s eyes lit up when he saw Niki approaching and with a giddy smile, lead the two of you to a reserved table, and then pulled out a notebook to ask for an autograph. Niki’s lips tightened, but he picked up the pen and quickly signed it.

Both of you were aware though of the silence that had befallen the restaurant as the two of you sat down, and the lingering eyes trailing on the two of you. Feeling your cheeks burn you glanced down at your lap while Niki huffed and crossed his arms. It wasn’t long before people started leaving their tables to come over to the two of you. Some simply wanted autographs which meant it was easy for Niki to get rid of them but others wanted to sit and chat with Niki, the new world champion. You could see Niki narrowing his eyes at the line of people appearing. His foot started tapping under the table and you shot him a look when he frowned and loudly complained as another person came over.

Eventually when the waiter’s realised the situation at hand they came over and scurried everyone back to their seats but the special moment of the evening had been lost for you too.

“Let’s leave.” Niki said pointly, standing up and tucking the seat under the table.

“But what about dinner?”

“We can find somewhere else that respects our privacy. Come on.”

You walked alongside each other, arms brushing as you both swayed. You two walked along the empty roads as dusk settled in and found yourself walking towards the end of the road which had a view of the coast before you. In silence both of you walked over to the gate, leaning against it and listening to the gentle lapping of the calm waves against the shore. The sea was mainly still, with the reflection of the full moon glimmering against it in the night. The atmosphere was serine and you closed your eyes to feel the fresh air brush against your skin, mellowing in the feeling.

“I remember the night.”

Niki’s face turns to glance at yours, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I eventually remembered everything, what I did, what you said, the slap… the, well….”

Niki hums, sucking on his front teeth as he looks out over the sea again.

“I forgive you for what you said. I know you didn’t mean it, not really. And I’m sorry for what I did as well; I should know you’re not really comfortable in that sort of situation, and I never asked you how you felt and if you even liked me, you know, and that’s fine that you don’t but-”

As you continued to talk, Niki leant forward to grasp your forearm, twisting you to look at him. Without a moment's hesitation, his lips were pressed against yours. Like so long ago you tasted that sweetness again, the softness of his lips as his eyes fluttered shut and his spare hand snaking around your waist to pull you closer. As your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest, you closed your eyes as well and allowed yourself to be overwhelmed in the feeling of Niki. His lips moved ever so slightly against yours. You could feel how his front teeth jutted out and pressed against your lips but the sensation of them sent sparks to your core.

You two held each other tightly, melting into the kiss as the air glided over you and the moonlight showering you in lightness. When you pulled away to steal a breath of air, your eyes locked onto those warm brown eyes that were already looking at you. They were softer, not the usual harsh exterior, and a little smile showing his front teeth appeared on his face.

A strand of hair fell down in front of your eye as you observed him. He unwrapped his arm from around your waist and brushed the hair out from your eye, tucking it behind your ear again. His hand lingered against the side of your head for a moment, the warmth of his skin comforting till he pulled away again.

“Niki?”

“I was fed up of hearing you apologising.”

You huff, shaking your head, glancing away from Niki, but that made Niki frown, He placed his hand on the side of your cheek and pulled your face to look at him again, his eyes flickering from your eyes to your lips.

“I… liked it when you kissed me at the party. It was what I wanted for, well, a while. It just wasn’t how I imagined it. Not at a party”

He sucks on his front teeth again, now looking away as his cheeks burned.

“I’m not good at these things. Plus, to date, someone as a racer is danger in itself. For both of you to be racers, that’s madness and irresponsible.” Niki lists off as he looks away, but as he slowly stops talking, he turns to look back in your unwavering eyes.

“But, if you’re willing, I would be honoured to date you.”

“My God,” you chuckle, looking at Niki as he licked his lip and flickered his eyes from the ground to you again.

“A poet!”

You lean forward, wrapping your arm around the back of Niki now to bury your fingers in those soft, curly brown locks. You pull him forward, pressing your lips onto his to give him the answer he wanted.

Perhaps it was madness, crazy and bound to end in disaster. The way your relationship had started was rocky at best and there was still the mutual competition between the two of you. Yet you found the thought of it exciting and, as your lips pressed against Niki’s again, your body flush against his, nothing felt more right.

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PS: The tag's look odd to me but it might just be the new format, if someone tagged on here could let me know if they got a notification or not that would be great! Thanks :)

#niki lauda rush #niki lauda fic #niki lauda x reader #niki lauda imagines #niki lauda fanfiction #niki lauda #daniel brühl #daniel bruhl #niki lauda x you #niki lauda rush 2013 #niki lauda fanfic

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xmyshya · 3 years

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Omnipotent

summary: You'd spent nearly your whole life with a certain kitsune, until it was the time to marry the man you were sworn to. But the night of a final goodbye changed everything. genre: heavy angst, smut, a pinch of fluff? warnings: heavy angst, MCD, monsterfucking, virginity loss, unprotected sex, arranged marriage, pregnancy, starvation, homelessness, historical au (with some inaccuracies), consensual turning non-con, MINORS DNI betas: @anime-nymph @vanille--kiss thank you so much my lovelies, I hope your pillows are always cool <3 a/n: In Japan number 9 is considered a “bad number”, it’s sometimes pronounced as “ku”, same as 苦 which means “pain, torture, agony, suffering” wc: 5k

When you were 5 and still carefree, the whole world was a playground. Especially the neighbouring shrine, forsaken by gods themselves. Its endless stairs were now worn and dented, grass peeking from the cracks. Arches covered in blood red were now faded, and paint peeled off their pillars. Still, it seemed like an entrance to another world, charming and compelling.

Your tiny feet rushed up the steps, quickly, before any of the adults took note of your absence. Passing the tenth Torii, you found yourself on a square surrounded by trees; their dense leaves blocking the scorching heat coming from above. At the far edge, there was a wooden decaying shrine, its entrance guarded by two stone foxes, each greened by a layer of moss.

Between them, right at the door, slept a boy. Curious, you approached him slowly, tip-toeing, but his ever alert fox ears twitched and perked up. He opened one eye lazily, scurrying to hide inside of the cabin. Humans weren’t supposed to come here, he had been told.

“What’s your name?” You followed him unabashed, happy to have possibly found a new playmate.

“Rin.” The boy peeped over another fox statue, curious but careful. “I think.”

“You think?”

“I don’t remember.” Was it weird to not be sure about his own name? Were you going to leave now?

“Okay! I’m Y/N, wanna play together?”

You came again on another day, and then another, and another. Before long you were almost an every day visitor, teaching your newfound playmate all the games you could think of.

Most often you played hide and seek, the sacred area being made for this particular activity with its surrounding forest, statues, and rotting cabin. Which wasn’t exactly fair for a human child against a spirit, who could disperse right before your eyes, and who could smell the human scent from between the plants.

“You can’t do that!” You scolded him when he dematerialised again.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t! It’s not fair!” He laughed for the first time that he could remember.

Sometimes, after particularly intense running, you would nap with the boy on the old musty stairs. Rin’s body didn’t seem to have a temperature of its own, but still filled you with warmth and lulled you to sleep—much like your mother’s arms.

He really liked those quiet moments, when he was curled up against the heat of human flesh, and drifted off listening to the gentle rustling of leaves and your even breaths.

Thanks to a certain little girl, he also tasted food. Initially, you sneaked various fruits—pears, peaches, tangerines, and the boy loved the saccharine flavour dripping off his fingers and chin. As an apparition he was void of hunger, luckily the laws of a spiritual world omitted taste buds.

From time to time you got to share some dried fruits too, and these were his favourites, with the condensed sweetness that didn’t make him feel sticky. The way his eyes widened every time you brought something only encouraged you to continue stealing from your house’s kitchen—bread, cakes, rice, vegetables, but it was the sweets that made his mouth drool.

One day, when all energy was spent, cheeks were hurting from giggles, stomachs aching from sugary bites, you were both lying on the square’s paving. Quiet, tranquil, peaceful.

“Hey Rin, do you want to be my friend?”

“What is a friend?” Human customs were still foreign to him, but he liked the sound of the word when you spoke it.

“It means you’re my favourite to play with!” His cheeks dusted with pink, and tails started wagging uncontrollably.

“Yes! I want to be friends!”

---------------------------------------

When you were 10 and knew a little more about the world, you understood that the encounter was special. It said so in the thick books in father’s library, your second best entertainment. Mother wasn’t very happy about your new-found hobby, but she didn’t complain as long as all duties were fulfilled.

Rin’s ears twitched with anticipation when he heard your steps. He always knew when you were coming, even before he could see you. What would you bring this time?

***

“I know what you are!” It surprised him, but you were undisturbed, still swinging your legs under the bench. “You’re a kitsune!”

“Kitsune? How do you know?”

“I saw it in a book!”

“What’s a book?” He looked at you lazily, listening to explanations about papers, leather covers, ink and letters, words and images, and countless stories and dreams enchanted in the writings. “Can I see one?”

On the next day, a mischievous smile adorned your features and your scent held a promise of adventure. There was an extra spring in your step, and it made him unconsciously giddy from excitement.

“I brought a book!” You whispered conspiratorially, even though it was always just the two of you. “Don’t tell my dad, he’d be so mad!”

“I won’t.” The boy swore, despite knowing it would be impossible.

You were lying on your tummies next to each other, the book in front of you. Rin’s tails swayed in the air, while his curious eyes followed your finger moving along the words you read out loud. It was about his kind, fox spirits, living in shrines in the human realm. However, with each reincarnation indicated by the number of tails (and your friend had 9 of them), their existence became more ethereal and spiritual, in turn gaining power close to omnipotence.

“It says you’ll grow until you look like an adult, and then stop.”

“Really? Is it something great?”

“Yes! I think it is!”

Something like pride bubbled up in his chest, and then he got carried away with the feeling and asked,

“Can you teach me how to read?”

“You can’t? But the book said kitsune know how to.”

“I… I think I forgot.”

The fox boy felt guilt wash over him, was he supposed to remember? Or maybe there was something wrong with him, maybe his final incarnation was defective. He hoped you wouldn’t vanish like the memories of the past lives, that he would still be worthy of your companionship, that you—

“Sure! I’ll teach you!”

The following days were filled with your chirping and Rin’s stuttering; his mind tried to grasp the sounds hidden within your uneven writing that didn’t resemble the ones in the books at all. He was embarrassed of his pace—was he not a powerful creature? How was a mere human more skilled than him?

And yet not once were you disappointed with him; instead your eyes crinkled and your lips curled up in a bright smile whenever Rin got something right. In those moments his tailes waggled uncontrollably, and a wide grin adorned his own face. So he tried harder, even if it was only to make you proud.

One day when you were heading home with your flushed cheeks, you exclaimed,

“Hey Rin! You’re my best friend!”

“Is it better than a friend?”

“Yes! It’s a lot better!”

And then you ran off, your resounding laugh echoed between the trees. Rin was once again alone, but he didn’t mind. He was your best friend now, after all.

---------------------------------------

When you were 15 and were beginning to grow into a beautiful young woman, you couldn’t visit the shrine daily. Mother became insistent about teaching you proper etiquette, as well as instilling appropriate interests for a girl your age. Which in your mind, truth be told, resembled training a future wife more than anything else.

Certainly your parents’ ambitions of marrying you off to a noble man dictated which activities filled your days. You weren’t taught cooking or cleaning, for those you would have servants, but applying tasteful makeup and elegant hairdos were high on the list.

Mother demanded that you start preparing tea, in the traditional, almost ritualistic way. You were always required to be dressed in the most ornate kimono that you possessed, always mindful of your posture and movements. Always under the watchful eye of your mother, repeating the same steps over and over again, until you were grace personified.

As luck would have it, you still managed to sneak out of the household, claiming it was to find inspiration for your embroidery practice. More often than not you headed straight to your secret place, hidden behind a veil of ten Torii. There, in an old, ruined shrine, lived your best friend and inspiration of all—a kitsune.

“Huh? Is this what I look like?” The curious apparition glanced over your shoulder.

“Hey! Don’t look! It was supposed to be a surprise!” You tried to cover a half-embroidered fox, but it was too late; he already saw.

“A surprise…” He seemed to be lost in thought. “Yeah, I’d like a surprise.”

Rin sat next to you in silence for a few more moments before continuing reading a book you had brought him. His voice was gentle and soft, soothing your nerves and bringing peace to your mind.

When you took a short break to let your fingers rest, you laid your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes, letting the sound of his voice take you to fantastic worlds from the book. This was your favourite moment; if you were to describe it, you’d say it felt like home, like a warm embrace, like safety.

You were lulled to sleep, and in the sleepy haze you felt the weight of his head on top of yours; it was grounding, telling you “I’m here, you’re safe”. Rin continued reading until your breathing evened out, and when it did, he pressed a kiss to your crown.

“Sweet dreams, beautiful.”

---------------------------------------

When you were of age, your life crumbled at your feet with just two words: Arranged marriage. A deal was made with a man you hadn’t met, and his only known attributes were wealthy and reputable. A man who was just another guest at your parents’ house, just another offer over the tea after seeing your face from afar.

Of course you were aware of the arrangement. Beautiful and obviously pricey gifts in the form of kimonos, kanzashi, bracelets, and many other shiny tinsels had been delivered for over a year. Still, it was easier to push such thoughts in the depths of mind, in a box of “that’s still in the future” and cover it with a lid of indifference. But the future was right at your door, giving you one last breath before the next morning.

Many of your belongings were already taken and placed at your new home. The room was now empty save for the few clothes and accessories, almost rid of any evidence of someone living here for so many years. Bare walls silently witnessed the battle of your thoughts, muffled sobs, and any signs of resistance dying out.

As you laid naked in your futon, trying to find comfort in your last moments there, one name echoed relentlessly in your head. Rin. Your first playmate, first best friend. First, and last, love. This was the last night, last chance to see him, before he turns into a precious memory, and remains as a memory forever.

You found yourself wrapped loosely in nemaki, sneaking out of the quiet house. Having the full moon as your only companion, you ran through the garden, and along the pathway nearly losing your geta. Ten Torii felt like a thousand, never ending stream of arches and steps, separating you from the arms you wanted to be embraced by.

The square was empty, the air filled only with the rustling of dried leaves and your pants.

“Rin?” His name came out as a whisper, unsure if he could hear it you called again louder, voice cracking. “Rin!”

“I’ve been waiting for you.” An adult kitsune appeared in front of you, sleepy eyes filled with sadness. “For so long, and you didn’t come.”

“Rin, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Tears ran down your cheeks in hot streams, dripping into the fabric barely covering your chest. “Listen to me, please, Rin…”

He listened silently—how your parents had made a deal and sold you off to marry a stranger, how you had been a prisoner of your own thoughts, how it was the last time to see him before you were sent somewhere far away. If it made him feel anything, it didn’t show on his face, only his eyes clouded with inexpressible pain.

“I love you, Rin. Only you. I want you to be my first, I want to become one. Please.”

The man leaned his forehead on yours, thumbs gently wiping away stray drops. Your eyes locked for a moment, before his lips brushed yours. Rin kissed you again, open-mouthed, as his fingers trailed down along your neck, and lower, grazing your still clothed breasts, until they landed on your waist. He pulled you closer, already intoxicated by the warmth radiating from your body.

First touch of the tongues sent shivers down your spines, the feeling unfamiliar but not unpleasant, making the mouths move against each other. It was also awkward, with too much nose bumping, too much teeth clashing, not enough breathing. Unsure what to do with your hands, you settled them shyly on his shoulders.

There was a pulsating heat in your body, calling out to him, invading his supernatural senses. It compelled his kisses to trail down the column of your throat, to graze his teeth gently on collarbones. Rin could feel the trembling of the woman in his arms, could hear the whispered “closer, closer” when his lips left wet tracks on your breasts, the soft gasp when he flicked his tongue on your nipples and sucked.

The scent was overwhelming, driving him crazy, and he fell to his knees, parting your nemaki. You watched as the man neared his nose to your pussy and inhaled deeply, action spreading embarrassment through your veins like a wildfire. Soon after something wet touched your sensitive skin, both the sensation and realisation elicited a spontaneous moan.

Rin pulled one of your knees over his shoulder, wanting nothing more than to bury himself in your delicious heat. Something sweet was flowing out of you, something he deemed to be a life nectar, and he couldn’t let even a drop go to waste. His tongue swiped across your slit in long stripes, his lips attached to your lower ones, as he lapped and swallowed whatever you were willing to give.

Your hand found its way into his hair, stroking and tugging at his soft strands. He made you feel so good, the warmth of his mouth spilled into you and bubbled up your body to be released in breathy moans. You wanted him closer, closer, to devour you whole, until there was nothing left.

You weren’t aware of this, but Rin noticed how you pulled his hair harder when he touched a little nub hidden between your folds. He noticed how it made your moans louder, how they sounded like his name, how your sweet sweet juices started overflowing. So he sucked and flicked his tongue on it, driven by a pure desire, until your whole body started shivering.

Firm hands on your waist and back held you up, overwhelming pleasure caused your legs to give out slowly. You relied fully on the kitsune kneeling before you, calling his name over and over again. Something started building up in your abdomen, something mellow and powerful, and set your nerves ablaze.

You could feel the fluttering in your pussy, muscles tensing, not able to process it fully. All you knew was that it felt amazing, it felt intimate, it felt obscene, too much and not enough. And then an orgasm came crashing down on you, like a flower blooming in spring, like a thunder on a summer night, bringing a promise of relief.

Slowly the haze left your mind, and you took notice of the arms wrapped around you tightly. You were seated in his lap, face hidden in the crook of his neck, as he cradled you in his embrace. Rin smelled like rain soaked soil, like a promise of a new, nurtured life, and you inhaled deeply as if wanting to engrave his scent in your heart.

There was still a craving in your body, an unsatiated hunger for his touch. You nipped on his skin, moved your lips from his neck to the jaw, occasionally adding tiny, wet licks. His chest vibrated from the low purrs he emitted, and something moved underneath you, something under the layers of his clothing.

You reached your hand down to his obi and untied it, just when your lips connected with his. Flaps of his yukata spread apart revealing a pale toned body; his skin was cool under your fingertips, as if there wasn’t any warmth inside of him, but his intoxicating closeness spread heat through your limbs anyway.

Shifting on his lap without breaking the kiss, you straddled him and shed your nemaki. Your hand travelled down between your bodies, embraced his cock and aimed at your still leaking hole, just like the characters in the books you’d read in secret with flushed cheeks.

With only the tip inside it was already too much for your innocent cunt. But you still wanted more, needed more, and you sank deeper and deeper on his cock. The stretch was incredible; it stung, it burned, but the broken moan coming from Rin’s throat when you swallowed him whole compensated for those inconveniences.

For a moment the only sound surrounding the shrine were your breaths, the only movement the heaving of your chests as you waited for the pain to subside. It was gone soon after, replaced with a feeling of unity with the one you loved.

And so, you experimentally lifted your hips and lowered them back; Rin’s cock rubbed against your walls and made you lightheaded, so you did it again, and again, and again. With each time it hurt less and less, making way for a tingling pleasure right under the surface of your skin.

His hands were everywhere—digging in the soft flesh of your thighs, rubbing at your back, groping the curve of your backside. He moaned and growled into your mouth; the sounds only added to your arousal, fueled your hips to roll faster, to dip deeper, to embrace him tighter.

The mewls you released were getting louder, higher pitched, and reminded Rin of that one spot that seemed to bring you the most pleasure. He slipped his hand between your bodies to find your clit again, and when he did, your pussy rewarded him with a squeeze.

More, he wanted more. The movement of your hips became faster and more frantic with each touch on your sensitive nub. Your velvety walls embraced him tighter, pulsated around his cock, and your moans drove him insane.

“Rin! Rin! Rin! Oh god, I love you Rin!”

And then you shattered in his arms, trembling and hot, wet. It awoke something inside him, something primal and ancient, and he laid you down on your back hovering over you. His irises lit up in lime green as he rutted his hips instinctively.

There was nothing gentle about his movements, just quick, harsh thrusts and animalistic growls. It was painful. Not just physically—you didn’t know what happened, where your soft, sleepy Rin disappeared to, and who this was. Hot tears spilled from your eyes, broken cries left your lips.

He didn’t hear you.

By the time he released his thick cum you were sobbing from pain and soreness, and upon coming back to his senses, his fox heart broke. He hurt you. He hurt you. He hurt you.

Rin lifted you off the ground, embraced you tightly as if he wanted to protect you from the world. He peppered your face with featherlight kisses, each one like a warm summer raindrop, and whispered an apology after apology into your skin. You opened your eyes slowly, carefully, and see his worried expression—glassy olive irises, ears pulled backwards, tails laying flat on the ground.

“Oh Rin,” you reached your hand to cup his cheek. “My beautiful Rin.”

You stayed with him for a while longer, with his arms wrapped around your body tightly and his face hidden in the crook of your neck. He was weeping—cold tears tapped on your shoulder, and his whole body trembled violently.

Your fingers threading through his soft hair calmed him down eventually, enough for him to let his fingertips wander across your skin, as if he was engraving you into his heart. Perhaps he was, considering this was the last time you were going to see him.

On that night, on the shrine’s square, you palmed his face and he held yours; you kissed him one more time, slow and languid, pouring all your love into it. On that night, both of you confessed your love in voices barely louder than a breath, having the moon as the only witness. On that night, for the first time, you said,

“Goodbye, Rin.”

---------------------------------------

In that moment with you, something had awakened within him—something tremendous and ominous. Memories of his past lives kept flooding his mind day and night, power circulated in his body, and he yelled, and cried, and howled, wishing for you to come and ease his pain. But you were gone.

One night the longing was too strong, and Rin left his hideout for the first time to search for you. His heart guided him to a city with lights too blinding, with people in the streets begging him for money or grace, with houses so tall that he could barely see the sky.

In one of those buildings you were living your new life, a life without him, and he couldn't bear the thought. Surely you missed him too, you must have felt the same pull as he did, right?

And then he realised—you had a new life, a life with no place for him; a life where he didn’t belong. You were human, and so was your husband, just like the whole world you lived in. And he, he was an apparition, an ethereal being that might have looked like a human, but he wasn’t one.

The laws of this realm didn’t apply to him, he wasn’t familiar with them, so who was he to oppose? Who was he to take you away from a man you were sworn to, to burst into your household and rip you out of your supposed happiness? He couldn’t offer you anything, not money, not a family, not stability and not security.

Rin stood on the crossroads. He wanted you, maybe loved you even, but was it all worth it? Suddenly he felt exhausted. The weight of all the things he would have to sacrifice crushed him, the risks outweighed the unsure outcome.

He stepped into a dark alley, where he could transform into a fox away from prying eyes, and ran back to the shrine.

---------------------------------------

At first your husband had been treating you well. There was a room just for you to use and sleep in, shelves filled with books and scrolls from the flooring to the ceiling, all the foods and fruits you had only heard about and never tasted.

The man never asked for more than your company during the meals, trying to entertain you with conversations so you could know each other better. He never tried to touch you, even though you knew about the wedding night and your obligations as a bride.

Of course there were invitations to his bedroom, you could feel his hungry gaze on your skin, but a simple no was enough for him to retreat. You thought you were being unfair—you had received so much kindness and patience, and gave nothing in return. But the wound in your heart had yet to heal.

Time passed, the full moon came and went four times when your misfortune began. At first you began to bloom, to radiate that mysterious warmth and beauty that made you look like a deity.

And then, after the fifth full moon, for some unknown reason you weren't able to hold any food in. Your body grew weaker every day, and everyone thought there was an illness eating you from the inside. But instead of growing thinner, your belly started swelling.

"She's pregnant," the doctor said. "Fifth or sixth month."

It was worse than a death sentence. Your husband hadn't touched you, and now it was obvious someone else did. Nobody else knew, worried servants congratulated you and celebrated, but the man was furious. You disgraced him, stained the honour of his and your families.

He didn't yell, he'd never yelled. In a cold tone he told you to leave the house, uncaring about your whines that you had nowhere to go. You couldn't come back home, you couldn't do that to your parents, so you begged and cried until your voice went hoarse, but it fell on deaf ears.

Only once did your husband give you attention after that—handing you the divorce letter and demanding your departure.

Life in the streets wasn’t easy, even more so for a pregnant woman. Without any source of income, and therefore any money, you had no shelter and obtaining food was difficult. You were withering and not just because your body naturally delivered whatever nutrients it had to the baby—it felt as if the baby was draining everything it could from you.

What was worse—almost everyone knew who you were, whose wife you had been. They looked at your belly with judgemental gazes, some even with disgust, never sparing you a word. Only one random passerby tried to aid you in some way, but the angry crowd appeared out of nowhere and scared them away.

Loneliness was your new friend, though you found some comfort in talking to the new life inside of you. You spent most of your time curled in a corner of some dark, deserted alley—hands stroking the bump—and made promises you knew you couldn’t keep.

As your belly grew bigger, you grew weaker every day. You were nearly certain that the child you carried wasn’t a human baby, at least not entirely. There was a faintly detectable flow of energy under your skin, a slight tingle that made you tremble. There were dreams, in which two foxes played and howled, and you recognised them as Rin and the baby.

During the last month of your pregnancy you thought about him a lot. Those nightly illusions made you miss him, yearn for him, but at the same time you were glad he didn’t see you in your current state. You wondered if he remembered you still, if you were still occupying his mind. After all, he was a powerful being, what meaning did a human life have to him?

One day you lost the strength to stand up, baby bump weighing you down like a rock. Soon after that you stopped trying to lift yourself up from a cobbled alley. You didn’t feel cold, or hunger, or thirst. You could only pray for your baby to survive.

---------------------------------------

At first he didn’t know what it was, that strange sound. It wasn’t even a sound, not a real one, more like a mere vibration. It came from afar in his sleep, calling him but at the same time not. He woke up, and it disappeared; he stayed awake and listened for a moment, but he couldn’t hear it anymore.

On the next night the sound came back, this time much louder as if it was closer, and didn’t go away even after he opened his eyes. It reminded him of a crying infant, even though he’d never seen one. At some other moment it was more like a hiccuping howl of a hunted animal, begging for help. His ears twitched, he turned his head around but couldn’t find the source.

Later, on some days he thought he heard it again, on some nights it didn’t resound at all. The absence of a wail worried him, more than he would like to admit, but what could he do? He didn’t even know where it was coming from.

One night Rin couldn’t sleep. He laid on the shrine’s square, staring at the stars, with an ominous feeling nibbling at his heart. Something was wrong, he was sure of that. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the crying had stopped these past few days, maybe he was just missing you too much, or maybe he was just bored.

But then he heard it; felt it rather. A shriek that forced him to cover his ears and smothered his skin in goosebumps. Strangely this time he knew exactly where the source was, and he jumped to his feet.

Rin ran and ran, transforming into a fox to move even faster. He reached the same city from before, the one with people with no homes, and homes concealing the sky. He sprinted along the alleys and through the crossroads, prayed for his feeling to be wrong.

But it wasn’t wrong. In the darkest corner of the darkest alley Rin found a kitsune cub, one that looked just like you, but with ears and tail. It was weeping, cursing the world it came into, and begging someone, anyone, for help. Right next to it was your body, lifeless and parched.

Rin knelt and cried, violent sobs shook his whole body until his eyes dried out. He tried to push life back into your limbs, to make your heart beat and blood flow in your veins again. His irises lit up time after time, fingertips cracked with power, but not one breath came out of your lungs.

It was nearly dawn when he finally stopped, numb from the pain he’d felt since last evening. His lips met your forehead for the last time, and he promised,

“I’ll see you again.”

He had to.

Because omnipotence meant nothing if he couldn’t be with you.

Taglist: @hqintheclub @rintarhoes (this is for chapter 27)

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pusatpavingblok · 2 years

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casuallyimagining · 3 years

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BTS Masterlist

Long Term Couples Masterlist*: Various fics exploring long term relationships with select members. Each piece can be read on its own or part of the series.

Hold Me Together Masterlist*: A collection of drabbles and headcanons featuring seokjin, yoongi, and namjoon and their significant others…. all of whom have chronic illnesses. Each piece can be read on its own or as part of a series.

* The drabbles in this series are also linked individually on the main BTS Masterlist.

Reactions & Headcanons

Post-Performance

Jealousy

♠ Caramel: Namjoon likes his coffee a particular way. Unfortunately, his order gets swapped with a stranger’s when he’s running late for a meeting. (fluff)

♠ Jiyoon 23.8.12: Your second date with Namjoon. He decides to take you to a museum. (fluff)

♠ It’s a Date: You spend a relaxing evening with Namjoon playing your favorite game. (fluff)

♠ Grass: Platonic Yoongi x Seokjin. Yoongi and Jin visit a cafe to work. (slice of life)

♠ Some Day: Jin has a realization about you and his future. (fluff)

♠ Less of Them: As the daughter of one of the oldest families in the kingdom, when the king decides that it's you he wishes to marry, you're forced to make a decision and fulfill your duty, leaving behind everything you've ever known--and the only man you've ever loved. (arranged marriage au, established relationship, star-crossed lovers, angst, smut, fluff)

♠ Set Me Free: Tired of being told how to live his life and unsure of where he stands in the world, Yoongi--your soulmate--yearns to be free. When you give him what he wants, it causes a rift in your relationship that seems irreparable. 12 years later, you find him back in your life. Can you mend your relationship? Do you even want to? (supernatural au, soulmates au, f2e2l, angst, fluff)

♠ Fallen: If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, then where does that leave you? Spurned by your ex-fiance, you seek the one person who can help. But as it turns out, the price of revenge may be a little more than you bargained for. (hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, fallen angel au)

♠ Fix You: When you take in a stray cat, you have no idea he’s secretly a hybrid trying to escape his past. Can you help him heal? (series) (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, slowburn, Hybrid AU)

♠ Home: After helping Yoongi get away from his abusive former owner, you’re left to focus on your relationship and how it progresses. That is, until you find six other hybrids who need your help, and their former owner decides he’s going to make your life hell. (series) (hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, eventual smut, Hybrid AU)

♠ Darkest Day: Yoongi doesn’t like pokemon, doesn’t want one, doesn’t care to be around them. What happens when he finds an abandoned pokemon during one of the hardest weeks of his year? Can you help him through it? (pokemon trainer au, fluff, angst)

♠ Exiled: After a year of being on the run and the world’s shittiest luck, Yoongi comes across a familiar face. You. The only problem? Everything is trying to kill him including, he assumes, you. (zombie au, magic au, angst, fluff)

♠ Human: Yoongi is a monster, but there’s always something worse lurking in the shadows. When that something threatens everything he loves, Yoongi is forced to choose: embrace his humanity, or give in to the monster? (series) (vampire au, fluff, hurt/comfort, angst)

♠ When September Ends: Six years after leaving your home planet, you’re forced to confront your past… and the one you left behind. (series) (friends to enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, Star Wars AU)

♠ Drunk in Love: Jimin begs you to hang out with his friends, including one Min Yoongi. (fluff)

♠ Tomorrow: You bring Yoongi dinner when he’s suffering from writer’s block. (fluff)

♠ Miscommunication: It’s the day before Valentine’s Day, and Yoongi bought flowers. (fluff)

♠ Official: Yoongi insists on going on a proper first date. Unfortunately, it doesn't go to plan. (fluff)

♠ Little Secret: Your relationship with Yoongi, though young, couldn't be better. But that doesn't mean it's perfect. A rewrite of Dirty Little Secret. (fluff)

♠ Help: Your thoughts run wild. Yoongi wants to help. (fluff)

♠ Ace of Hearts: When things start to get hot and heavy, how will Yoongi react if you want to slow things down? (fluff, hurt/comfort, slice of life)

♠ Big Thoughts: Yoongi's late night confession spurs some deep thoughts. (hurt/comfort, fluff, slice of life)

♠ Burden: You care for Yoongi after surgery. (fluff)

♠ First Snow: It’s the first snow of the season, and you’re excited. Yoongi is… sleepy. (fluff)

♠ Home Alone: Yoongi has a special attachment to a certain Christmas movie. (fluff)

♠ A Long Winter’s Nap: You and Yoongi celebrate your first Christmas together. (fluff)

♠ Keep Me Around: It’s your birthday, and despite having a meeting at BitHit, Yoongi does his best to make it special. (fluff)

♠ Soft: Spending time with Yoongi on his birthday leads to softness. (fluff)

♠ On the Living Room Floor: You and Yoongi finally officially move in together. (fluff)

♠ The Roommate: After years of living apart, Yoongi is finally reunited with his favorite roommate. And he’s excited to introduce him to his new favorite roommate. (fluff)

♠ Caroline and Andrew: Attending your best friends’ wedding in New York has you and Yoongi thinking about the future. (fluff)

♠ Meant to be Yours: (Not) Meant to Be: Yoongi would make a great dad. There’s only one problem… (angst)

♠ Meant to be Yours: Sequel to (Not) Meant to Be. It’s been a week since you made the toughest decision of your life... (angst, hurt/comfort)

♠ I’ll Be Home for Christmas: You spend Christmas with Yoongi’s parents. (f)

♠ Rest: Yoongi is sick. Luckily, you're there to take care of him and make sure he rests. (fluff)

♠ First Times: With the start of a world tour literal hours away, Yoongi takes a moment to reflect. (fluff, angst, slice of life)

♠ It Feels Right: Yoongi has a realization about his future. (fluff)

♠ Grass: Platonic Yoongi x Seokjin. Yoongi and Jin visit a cafe to work. (slice of life)

♠ Forever: Hobi knows what he wants his future to look like. (fluff)

♠ Warm: A snowstorm knocks out the power in your apartment. Luckily, Jimin is there to keep you warm. (fluff)

♠ Nothing’s here...

♠ I Meant What I Said: You have something important to tell Jungkook. (fluff)

♠ Increased by One: Jungkook shows up at your apartment with a surprise. (fluff)

♠ 사랑해: You go on a trip and return with two surprises. (fluff)

♠ Postcards: Jungkook goes on tour without you, and he sends back mementos to let you know he’s thinking of you. (fluff)

♠ Cold: It’s cold out, and you’re freezing. Jungkook does his best to help warm you up (fluff)

♠ Support: Jungkook shows up at your door after a difficult day at rehearsal. (fluff)

shout outs to @missgeniality for the lovely banners.

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depressedhatakekakashi · 2 years

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Walk In the Snow

Pairing: Yamato X Reader

Words: 852

For: @whatshernameis who deserves some soft Yamato hours. Also @kankuroplease who's art piece here gave me the idea for Yamato's book choice

The first snowfall of the year. When the trees would be dusted with a light layer of snow, and the ground would be white as far as the eye could see. Only the smallest hints of green grass or beige pave way visible under the layers of snow that covered the ground.

When all of Konoha looked like a winter wonderland. Bright and beautiful. Calling for everyone in the village to throw on their warmest jacket and take a walk.

To enjoy this rare moment of beauty before it vanished all too soon.

“Come on,” Yamato stumbled off of his nice little bed, dropping his book on the ground as he was herded out of a comfortable reading spot towards the front door. “Let’s go for a walk.”

His eyes darted towards the window, taking in the sight of snowfall just outside their little home. “Outside?” he frowned, glancing towards the fallen book with a mournful look. “But, I was reading.”

“You can read when we get back,” you chuckled, refusing to release your hold on his arm even when he attempts to bend down and pick up the book that had been so rudely discarded when you had grabbed him. “I promise. You can read all you want when we get back, but we need to go outside now.”

Before the snow stopped falling. When it was still fresh on the ground and the first footprints on the ground would be there’s, side by side on familiar streets. A momentary mark on the world that would be covered by the end of the day.

“But-” he sighed when you continue to walk, leading him towards the door. “It’s cold outside. Wouldn’t it be nicer to stay in? Enjoy the warmth?”

“We have all night to enjoy the warmth,” releasing your hold on his arm, you snatched your jacket off of its hook and tugged it on. “A whole night ahead of us to curl up in your little reading nook and feel the warmth on our skin. We can even have hot chocolate and roasted chestnuts.”

As expected, his ears perked up at the mention of chestnuts.

“We could just-”

“After a walk,” doing up the last button on your jacket, you turn to face him. “Come on, Yamato. It’ll be fun.”

“Being cold doesn’t really sound all that fun to me,” He grumbled under his breath, grabbing his jacket with a reluctant huff and pulling it over his shoulders. “I was enjoying my book too. Frodo and Sam just met Gollum.”

“Ah!” clapping your hands together, you give him a playful smile. “That’s the perfect place to take a break, though. When we get back you’ll be ready to read about all of the…well, you’ll find out.” He never liked it when you gave away important plots of the story, and to him everything was important.

“Are we going to walk long?” with his jacket done up, he grabbed the long green scarf off of the hook and wrapped it around his neck. “Or is this just going to be a quick walk around the block?”

“Well, I can’t promise it will be the second one,” there was too much to see. Too many memories to make at such a precious, rare moment of beauty in their little village. “But it won’t be too long, that I’ll promise. Maybe a quick walk to the market.”

The best views were always there. Where they could see the Hokage residence in all of its snowy glory, and watch the way clumps of snow fell off of signs and roofs onto the ground.

“Well,” finishing up with his scarf, he took a step closer to you. A happy expression in those big, goofy eyes of his. “If it’s for you I guess I can handle it.”

Always a sap. Even when he tried his best to act like a good soldier, deep down inside he was just one giant gooey sap.

Your sap.

“I thought you might come around,” slipping your shoes on, you shoved the door open and stepped out into the snow. The first snowflake falls against your nose and melts immediately. Leaving no evidence of its existence. “It’ll be fun.”

“So long as you promise not to throw any snowballs at me.” stepping up to your side, peered down the street. Only outside for five seconds, and he was already trying to kill your fun. Some days it was hard to remember why you loved the man so much when he couldn’t even let you enjoy something as small as the first snowfall of the year.

“I make no promises,” it wouldn’t be any fun to let him in on what you had planned, even if it didn’t include shoving a hand full of snow in his face just to see the cute angry expression he would give you. “Now come on. I want to make a snow shinobi.”

Grabbing his hand, you pulled him away from the door and down the street. The first footprints on the pavement were made as you rushed forward with Yamato stumbling behind you.

Tags: @apricitobio @yanjing @iamonlybutaneel @lemony-snickers @kissmekakashi @kakashiswilloffire

#Yamato X Reader #Yamato X GNReader #12 Days of Shipmas #Me trying to remember all my reader insert loving mutuals is always a fun experience lol

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sadoeuphemist · 4 years

Text

Video game ideas:

• Survival MMO based around the concept of finite resources. Once all the iron’s been mined, that’s it; the only way to get more is to go raid someone else and take theirs. The only renewable resource in the game is human labor, and to that end there is a very robust guild system. New players are heavily encouraged to join one guild or another; permissions can be set so that new members are essentially serfs toiling away for the guild, or you could distribute everything equitably, or you could just send out the time and place of the next raid and let everyone fend for themselves. It’s understood that the system is completely unsustainable, the fun comes from seeing how messed up things get before it ends.

• Reverse city-builder. Starts off in a paved-over hellscape of abandoned buildings and crumbling infrastructure, a dead megalopolis that seems to stretch across a continent. You play as Mother Nature. Grow grass to break through concrete, flood subway tunnels and sewage systems to collapse roadways into rivers, nurture packs of feral animals, build a sustainable ecosystem. Eventually you will encounter groups of human survivors trying to rebuild civilization. You can leave them be, and deal with them periodically trying to harvest your resources and reclaim your territory; or you can just kill them off.

• I Have No Mouth, and I Must Smooch. Dating sim where you romance various malevolent AI. Each AI you interact with alters your character in a specific way: altering your anatomy, blocking off certain actions or unlocking new ones; making all your responses uncomfortably sexual; removing your ability to say ‘no’. Dating a new AI typically has them reset you back to default, to have a fresh canvas to work with, but some AI share interests and will decide to keep certain traits. The secret ending is unlocked by dating them in the right order and accumulating the full set.

• Inventory Management Simulator. RPG-themed puzzle game where you start off with every item and have to navigate your way through increasingly complicated inventory systems. You could make space in your inventory by scrapping this one item, but your scrap meter is full, so you’d need to craft something first, but your tool wheel is full, so you need to break one of your tools first, but if you use your axe it’ll produce wood that you can’t fit in your inventory - and so on. Game ends with you finally making your way through your maze of chests/furniture and emptying your entire inventory into an active volcano, and then walking away, finally free.

#fiction #video games

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antebunny · 3 years

Text

Parent Trap AU Part 2

...with a side of on-the-run hacker!wwx AU and celebrity!lwj AU. Full series here).

“It’s not going to work,” Wei Sizhui says when they corner him after breakfast the following morning.

The three boys fold their arms and block the path, as if Wei Sizhui can’t just walk around them on the grass.

“Why not?!” Ouyang Zizhen wails.

“You don’t understand,” Lan Jingyi wheedles. “This is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me. Yeah my uncle is a celebrity, but he’s so boring.”

Jin Rulan huffs. “Why do we even need his help? We can just find him on the last day of camp!”

Wei Sizhui pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He can feel a headache coming on. “Guys. No. They really cannot meet,” he says.

“But why not?” Ouzang Zizhen says again.

“Because,” Wei Sizhui says patiently, “my dad is wanted for kidnapping. Kidnapping me. From my other dad.”

All three of them just stare at him.

“So if your uncle met my dad while I’m there…” Wei Sizhui shakes his head. “That’s really just bad.”

Lan Jingyi plonks himself down on the paved path right there. “Okay, wait, wait,” he says. “Explain this to us again.”

“We have class in twenty minutes,” Jin Rulan complains, but he sits down too.

“Yeah!” Ouyang Zizhen hurries to scoot in between them. “Tell us the story, Sizhui.”

“I told you yesterday,” Wei Sizhui protests, but when none of them so much as blink, he sighs and sits down as well. “My dad was in prison,” he begins, and they all nod along. “Someone hired by the Jins attacked him in prison and he realized that he wasn’t safe, and I wasn’t safe.” They’re still nodding along, so Wei Sizhui continues. “So he broke out of prison,” he finishes, “and took me from my other dad’s house, and we’ve been on the run ever since.”

They stop nodding.

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Jin Rulan says plainly. “Why didn’t he go to my mom? Or my uncle?”

“Or Jingyi’s uncle?” Ouyang Zizhen puts in. “Why didn’t he go to Jingyi’s uncle?”

Wei Sizhui shrugs helplessly. It seems rather straightforward to him. He doesn’t understand what they’re confused about. “Why would he? That makes no sense.”

“And why wouldn’t Lan Jingyi’s uncle be a target if you were?” Jin Rulan demands. “They were married! That doesn’t make any sense!”

Once again, Wei Sizhui can only shrug in the face of their questions. “Maybe he thought nobody would expect him to care about an ex who abandoned him.”

“My uncle would never,” Lan Jingyi says, face red. “You take that back! That’s–not what happened!”

Wei Sizhui is indeed taken aback by Lan Jingyi’s insistence. His dad doesn’t talk much about his ex-husband, it’s true. Well, his dad really doesn’t ever talk about Wei Sizhui’s other dad, but Wei Sizhui knows that even after they divorced, his dad still carries their wedding photo around every country they go to, so he supposes he just assumed.

“Yeah, why would Lan Wangji keep a photo of your dad in his wallet if he doesn’t care?” Ouyang Zizhen challenges.

Wei Sizhui rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. It’s too early in the morning for this. He just wants to go to class and stop thinking about his dad’s former love life. “Can we please just go to class?” He begs.

“No!” Jin Rulan refuses. “Until you explain why we can’t get them to meet!”

“Even if everything does go well, my dad is still wanted for forgery and hacking in half a dozen countries,” Wei Sizhui argues. “What would them meeting do other than make them both sad? And even if Lan Wangji didn’t divorce my dad, he can’t be happy that my dad just ran off with me. It’s been nine years! They’re probably both over each other.”

Wei Sizhui has precious few memories of his other dad, and he’s never quite worked up the courage to ask for more from his dad. Lan Wangji is a tall, sturdy giant in his memories. He recalls large, warm, gentle hands, a deep voice that sung him lullabies, and a steady presence that watched him stick his tiny toddler hands through the bars to pet their two pet bunny rabbits.

But the most vivid memory Wei Sizhui has of his other dad is his warm, steady presence carefully lifting Wei Sizhui away from the glass and blocking his view of his dad. His large, warm hand came down to pat Wei Sizhui’s head, but he was talking to Wei Wuxian.

“I am sorry,” he said. “You cannot see Sizhui anymore.”

“Whose decision was this.” Dad’s voice was distorted through the glass, but even then, Wei Sizhui knew he’d never heard his dad so angry before.

Wei Sizhui clutched his dad’s leg. Pat pat, went the hand.

“I am sorry,” his dad repeated.

“Whose decision, Lan Wangji.”

“...Mine.”

Afterwards, after the yelling was over and Wei Sizhui went home with Lan Wangji, he remembers gripping his dad’s hand with all the strength in his chubby little fingers, like he might disappear at any moment, and asking; “When are we gonna see Papa again?”

Wei Sizhui was too small to see his dad’s face at that moment. Too young to remember whether it was sidewalk or carpet he walked on, what shoes he wore or what the name of the city he lived in was. What he remembered was the way his dad squeezed back, even tighter, and said never.

Wei Sizhui remembers never once considering that his dad could be lying. Not even when he woke up months later, in the middle of the night, to find his dad back and in the middle of a very intense game of hide-and-seek.

It’s been nine long years since then, and Wei Sizhui doesn’t think he wants to see his other dad again.

If only his friends could be convinced of the same.

“That…sounds like a whole lot of excuses,” Jin Rulan says, rubbing his eyes as well.

“He’s not guilty of any actual crimes, just cool crimes,” Lan Jingyi asserts. Wei Sizhui wants to scream.

“Your dad doesn’t have to be alone anymore!” Ouyang Zizhen says enthusiastically.

“Hey,” Lan Jingyi says. “Don’t be mean, he has Sizhui.”

Wei Sizhui instantly forgives him for everything. Still, he thinks his dad could be perfectly happy without Lan Wangji. Maybe without the Jins after him, and the FBI, but the idea still stands.

“Guys,” Wei Sizhui intervenes, trying to stave off the coming argument, “it doesn’t even matter, because my dad’s not gonna be here on the last day of camp.”

“What? Why not?” Jin Rulan squawks.

“He’s picking me up two days early,” Wei Sizhui explains. “So that he’s not seen by any of the other parents.”

Summer camps care far less about identification than they do about money, which is a bit of a problem because it’s far easier for Wei Sizhui’s dad to forge identities for them than to open a bank account. If there’s one time that someone actually manages to track down his dad, it’ll be through the money he’s spending on Wei Sizhui’s summer camp. So just in case, they’re disappearing two days early.

The plan is for his dad to break into the camp two nights before the end of camp. Wei Sizhui’s been keeping him updated on the best ways to do so.

The three of them are staring at him again.

“The campus security is pretty terrible,” Wei Sizhui adds thoughtfully.

“So…you’re just going to disappear?” Jin Rulan asks blankly. “When were you going to tell us?”

“Tell you?” Wei Sizhui asks, equally blank. “Why would I–that ruins the whole point of sneaking out two days early! We have to ditch everything. Phones, the fake bank account, the passports, everything.”

“But then how would we keep in touch?” Lan Jingyi asks plainly. “How would we text?”

“We wouldn’t?” Wei Sizhui says uncertainly. “We wouldn’t stay in the country after disappearing from a summer camp. I mean, I don’t know where we’re gonna go, but–somewhere. Probably Thailand,” he adds pensively.

There’s complete silence for one stunning moment.

“Wow,” Jin Rulan says flatly. “Is this is how Jingyi’s uncle felt when Sizhui’s dad disappeared?”

“Probably,” Ouyang Zizhen says.

“No, no, we can work with this,” Lan Jingyi declares. “We just need to get my uncle here two days before camp ends.”

“And how are we doing that?” Jin Rulan asks.

“Easy,” Lan Jingyi says cheerfully. “I do something that gets my uncle called down here.”

“So, expelled,” Ouyang Zizhen says, nodding along.

“Wait, what?” Wei Sizhui says, baffled, but nobody’s listening.

“Exactly,” Lan Jingyi says, beaming. “My uncle will forgive me once he learns why I did it!”

“But what is he getting expelled for?” Jin Rulan asks curiously.

Lan Jingyi grins, and a shiver runs down Wei Sizhui’s spine despite the heat of the morning summer sun shining behind him. It's a smile that says there's little he won't do to see Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji reunite. At least Jin Rulan and Ouyang Zizhen also look a little apprehensive.

“Hacking."

#y'all asked for it #the juniors #lan sizhui #jin ling #lan jingyi #ouyang zizhen #lan wangji #wei wuxian #mdzs #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #my writing #writeblr #antebunny's ficlets

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inkformyblood · 3 years

Text

darkness for sighing (daylight for song)

Summary: Obi-Wan should have known better than to think his mission would be a straightforward one. But he couldn't have suspected the man he would run into, or the mystery he would start to uncover. [Fantasy AU] Pairing: Codywan

“What are you doing?”

It isn’t the tone of the voice, which is warm despite the late hour and the biting chill in the air and strangely compelling, that makes Obi-Wan pause; it’s that there is a voice at all.

This section of the expansive gardens was meant to be abandoned, a momentary oversight during a temporary guard rotation change, and yet…

“Regular maintenance,” Obi-Wan answers, his attention torn between the enchanted lock-picks humming in his grip and the slow methodical beat of footsteps behind him, drawing closer. He fights to keep his breathing regular as he can feel the man’s gaze burn into the back of his neck, bereft of his usual shield of loosely tied hair which was pulled into a tight braid while he was working. His mask hangs around his neck and Obi-Wan tilts his chin, catching the edge of the fabric in readiness.

“Tell me.” Another step, but he can hear the edge of laughter in the man’s words, breathless and disbelieving, and, for a moment, Obi-Wan wants to see if he can coax another laugh from the man. “Does that line ever work for you, thief?”

“More often than you’d think.”

The man strikes, his halberd piercing the space where Obi-Wan had been only moments before. The blade sings beneath his boots before the melody is cut off as it strikes the door and Obi-Wan continues his twist upwards, one arm bracing against the frame before he kicks off of the opposing wall, landing with a grunt and pulling his mask over his face.

He looks up into dark eyes, barely visible through the visor of the helmet, and sees a spark he hadn’t expected.

“Oh.” The corners of the man’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “You’re one of those thieves.”

“My dear, I can promise you, you have never fought anyone like me.” It is an easy rhythm to fall back into, honeyed words designed to throw his opponents off balance as they fought, but he couldn’t help but notice the thread of regret twisting through his chest. In another life, they could have met very differently.

The man’s grip adjusts on the halberd, his fingers curling around the handle, but Obi-Wan doesn’t step away, keeping his gaze locked with the other man’s.

“And you’ve never fought anyone like me.”

In a flicker of movement, almost too fast to see, the man slams his head forward, aiming for the centre of Obi-Wan’s face, pulling the halberd free with deceptive ease. Obi-Wan steps backwards, his feet soundless as the grey stone of the walkway makes way to the damp press of grass. The man adjusts in an instant, the blade swinging through the air, skimming over the floor as sparks fly as he rolls it across his shoulder only to catch it, ready to strike again.

It was beautiful. He was dangerous.

Obi-Wan grins, excitement burning low in his chest, sharpening his thoughts. Any information he could gather was priceless for his organisation, provided he could keep his scattered mind from focusing on the ease with which the man moves, all feline grace and confidence.

“Showing off for me? You tease.” The damp grass clings to his boots as he steps away, tucking the picks back into his belt. If he had just had a little more time…

The moon peers through a gap in the thick clouds overhead, illuminating the guard. Silver light clings to the curve of his broad shoulders and the sway of his hips as he steps closer. His face was hidden beneath his helmet, but Obi-Wan knew his dark eyes, intense and curious, were fixed on him. Except for the single sunburst that lay over his heart — a bright flash of orange amongst featureless grey — his armour was blank, only carrying the expected fixed scuffs and dents.

The man spins the halberd around, passing it to his other hand and back again with no pause to his step and no hesitation to his grip as the metal tip flashes in a warning.

“I’m good at my job.” There was no hint of arrogance or pride in his words, just a careful deliverance of the truth. Something familiar pulled at the edge of Obi-Wan’s mind, a certain sway to his movement as he struck forwards, but Obi-Wan was already moving, circling him, only to be blocked by grey steel.

“I can see that. Competency is very attractive, you know.” Obi-Wan steps back, chancing a glance at the gardens that surrounded them, trying to re-orientate himself in the wash of moonlight.

In the day, the garden was secluded and overgrown from years of neglect. Brambles stretched out their grasping hands from their kingdom of the broken gazebo and weeds ran amok, pressing up through the shattered paving stones that snaked through the graveyard of planet beds and grass. In the darkness, silver bleeding through the cracks in the clouds, it was a battlefield. Obi-Wan could see the ghost of his passage from the high walls to the door and knew he wouldn’t be able to return here if he fled.

“Thank you.” The guard spins the halberd over his shoulder once more, ostensibly to adjust its positioning, but there was something else there. “My main goal in life is to win the approval of every thief who tries to break in.”

“You’ve been seeing other thieves?” Obi-Wan steps, trying to slip past the guard again, but is blocked by another hissing swing, his footsteps softer as he steps onto the grass, pressing Obi-Wan backwards.

A grin burns through the guard’s words, and Obi-Wan, for one thoughtless ecstatic moment, wants to let it wash over him and settle in the soft places between his ribs. “Love, I would never. You’re the only thief for me.”

Obi-Wan waits for the next strike and sees the slight shift as the guard centres himself, the power behind the movement apparent, and draws in a deep breath, letting it go before he moves. It is a technique he has performed countless times before: one sweep to press the weapon levelled at his chest aside, and a strike at his opponent’s side to send them stumbling away.

Obi-Wan prefers defence, keeping his opponent off-balance and exhausted before he strikes, but he is adaptable, and he is running out of time.

He can sense the rumble of laughter rather than hear it and sees the guard adjust seconds before the halberd is swung in a wide circle, slipping from Obi-Wan’s hold, as the guard spins. There’s distance between them now, and Obi-Wan bites back a curse as the cool cling of grass gives way to the rough stone of the path.

The guard is trained, more than Obi-Wan would have expected, given the lavish parties that the Emperor threw and the broken down sections of the city he ruled over.

“Why not let me pass?” Obi-Wan steps, moving along the path and the guard follows, slower. He would let Obi-Wan run from him. The knowledge settles into his mind like one of the flowers that clung to the ruined walls, their scent lying thick and heavy in the air. Every strike, every step, every move had been careful and coordinated. “You’ve seen what the Emperor has done to our people. Help me, and let me pass.”

There’s hesitation in the guard’s step, his fingers tapping against the wood of the handle like a drumbeat, but his advance doesn’t slow. Obi-Wan moves to strike again but his blow is blocked — the halberd clutched in the guard’s hand and lying flat against his forearm — and the guard steps closer, catching Obi-Wan’s second strike without glancing down.

He can feel the faint tremor through the man’s hold on his wrist and see the shifts of his shoulders as he breathes, but Obi-Wan’s attention is locked onto his eyes. They’re still dark and burning into him, but he doesn’t pull away as Obi-Wan leans forward, pressing his forehead to the cool metal of the helmet. His breath fogs the surface, but neither moves.

For a moment, they are still.

“I can’t.” The whisper trembles out of the guard, barely audible despite the gentle night breeze that presses against them. There’s a catch in his words, a moment of hesitation that hadn’t been present in any of his previous actions, and Obi-Wan frowns, leaning impossibly closer.

“Why?”

He watches as the flicker of a snarl curls across what he can see of the guard’s face, his eyes narrowing and his brow furrows. “I can’t.”

It is easy for the guard to transform the press into a head-butt, the motion rumbling through him like a quake and Obi-Wan steps back, breaking the contact between them before the blow lands.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s your job, my dear. I can’t fault you for that.”

“No, it’s—“ The guard stops, shaking his head and Obi-Wan moves to strike him, his blades raised.

It seems to happen slowly and yet too fast all at once.

Obi-Wan watches the man swing the halberd behind him, lending additional power to his strike, and moves to one side, seeking to circle him. The man turns away from him, his head turning to follow Obi-Wan’s movement. A single thought rises to the clouded surface of Obi-Wan’s mind, a burning curiosity that threatens to overwhelm him, as the man kicks out, putting his whole weight behind it.

Obi-Wan doesn’t see the blade until it’s too late.

A white-hot strike of pain radiates through his side and Obi-Wan is twisting away, fear freezing in his veins. The blade retracts into the concealed holster with a hiss as the guard steps away. One hand is half-stretched towards him, the fingers curled in regretful concern but Obi-Wan is too far for him to reach.

The damp morning dew sinks into his boots, every step clinging and clutching and Obi-Wan forces his mind to focus on that rather than on the burning trickle of blood through his fingers.

“You’re very good with your weapons,” Obi-Wan calls, seeking familiar territory. His heart races in his chest, rabbit-fast and his head spins, sending the world spiralling into a web of cold disinterested stars and clawing grasping ground. The rope is light against his frantic hand, whispering around his wrist and hooking around his waist like a caress as he prepares himself to run. “I wonder what else you’re very good with.”

It’s an apology and forgiveness curled together, sweetened with a return to the familiar, and Obi-Wan watches as his words land, the guard’s prowl slowing. His armour gleams in the fading moonlight, half caught between the memory of the night and the triumphant declaration of the morning, all brilliant oranges and purples cascading over the metal. The sun catches the etching over his chest, burnishing it to gold.

“You could always try again and find out?” There’s a flicker of hesitation in the guard’s reply, his free hand ghosting over his side, mirroring the desperate clutch of Obi-Wan’s hand. “If you can find me again, that is.”

He’s already turning away before Obi-Wan can bring himself to answer, tasting the man’s bitterness in the back of his throat as if it was his own. “I’ll see you soon, my dear. Sleep well.”

A stumble, a crack in the man’s impenetrable armour revealed by a single instance of kindness. The rope, enchanted and as impatient as its maker, draws Obi-Wan upwards as silently as he arrived, and he watches the man brush his fingers over his side once more before he straightens his back and walks away.

#codywan #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #star wars #my writing #fanfic

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13atoms · 3 years

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Lost in Translation (Count Orlo x Reader)

Inspired by some amazing asks, here's the arranged marriage + language barrier oneshot!

I usually try to keep a reader pretty vague in these fics, but I’ve made some compromises here. Mainly: female reader, who speaks English and German, but not Russian, reader is younger than Orlo. I’ve left the country of origin open, but thought I’d add those caveats 😊

Content warning: mentions of nsfw, think that's it!

Word count: 10.9k

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For years, you had made a noble attempt to pretend this day would never come. That your arranged marriage would forever be pushed back. That had certainly happened before. You had been due to wed another man in the Court of Russia who had met an unpleasant end after crossing their Emperor. A third-born prince who wed another instead. An older man from your home country who had failed to agree upon a suitable dowry. In some, deep part of your mind you had wanted the same fate to befall the man you were due to marry come the Spring.

He would fail to prove suitable, have some injury befall him, simply change his mind.

The thought of leaving your home forever to marry a stranger was terrifying, even if you knew it was a common reality. But this match, excellent politically, had come to fruition.

He was a Count. A reputable one at that. The marriage represented a social step up, even allowing for the differing nobility systems between your countries. He was a brilliant politician and a well-read man, you had been told.

You tried to let that comfort you.

Marriage had to come eventually, your mother had reassured you, as she helped you into a carriage. A Count of such stature was, at least, a strong option for your family. Regardless of how you felt about the match.

The rest of your household had watched with grim faces as they bid you goodbye.

It was the best thing you could do to help the tumultuous situation back home, you had been promised.

You were doing your duty, you had been told.

With each minute of your journey you could only think of the time it would take to return home – how you were being taken so far from your home that it would prove near impossible to travel back for frivolous reasons. Perhaps your husband might permit a journey back in the event of a funeral, or the birth of a niece or nephew.

Perhaps he wouldn’t.

The man was older than you, strangely old to be unmarried. Or so the maids had gossiped. He was a formidable diplomat in a way which likely made him a difficult man, they had speculated, and you could not help picturing the creature who might be awaiting you at the end of the aisle.

Would he be cruel? Ignore you? Would he be desperate for an heir? Or so busy with other members of the palace that he had no interest in consummating your marriage at all?

Arranged marriages may have been customary for people like you, but every young romantic secretly wished to avoid it. You had always hoped to meet your own Prince Charming, the two of you falling for one another so soundly that he insisted upon being allowed to marry you. In your dreams, you had longed for the moment such a man would whisk you away to a beautiful castle, to a life of adoration and comfort and mutual respect.

Perhaps even of unconditional love, if such a thing even existed.

You held a hand to the side of the carriage to brace yourself as the road grew suddenly bumpy, trying not to be jostled until the wheels found smoother ground again. Outside you could hear the coachman and his boy, chattering and clicking to the horses. The sound of the road beneath you muffled their voices.

From your book, you pulled a well-worn set of papers.

“Count Orlo,” you tried the words on your tongue, “Count Orlo.”

His last letter, making arrangements for your travel, had come written in a curious of lines and curls which meant nothing to you. Enclosed with it was a translation of his words, printed plainly in unemotive English by another hand. Even as you had read the translation over and over, you looked for meaning in the original. You had kept it. At the end of it, beneath a flourishing signature you caught yourself staring at, he had written his own surname, spelt the letters out in phonetic English so you might attempt to pronounce it.

You had been practising since, trying to imagine how someone Russian might pronounce it without having ever heard the accent – let alone the language.

Would it be much different to your own?

As you crossed land and sea you noted the air cooling, your body aching from the journey. Yet you constantly found yourself unable to step outside for fear of realising just how far from home you were, the strange biomes you passed only serving to make you anxious.

In the books you attempted to read on the journey you kept that sole letter you had from your suitor, using it as a bookmark and reading it each time you opened the book to read further.

“I have made every attempt to ensure your comfort here, and I await making your acquaintance eagerly,” part of the translation read.

It was a sentence you had let your eyes drift across over and over again.

You wondered how those words had sounded to him when he wrote them. If they even had the same intent as the words you read now, if perhaps there was a way to communicate the subtleties of sarcasm or irritation in Russian which was not translated in the version you read.

Though those words seemed charming, you knew not to read anything into them when their meanings had been mangled through a language barrier by an uncaring stranger.

Until you set foot in St. Petersberg, you would have no idea what kind of man you were to marry for the rest of your life.

Too soon, the streets of St. Petersberg were outside the carriage windows. And then they disappeared again, a well-paved road leading into thick forest, making you frown as a busy stream of fine carriages passed you the other way.

The dense trees seemed to be symbolic of the country itself, tall and proud and terrifying as they blocked the sunlight from the road and seemed to reach into the sky forever in their bid to escape the ground.

There was not a single pothole, the road perfectly laid, as you moved to attempt to freshen up your appearance. Books stacked neatly to be removed by a footman, you had nothing to do but watch as the traffic grew denser and denser, the trees thinning.

Then opening up.

Vast lawns stretched ahead of you, brightly coloured figures milling around in the midmorning sun, wandering across the manicured grass with the intent-less pace of nobility.

Your breath was taken away as a building came into view, as tall as the forest you had escaped from and twice as intimidating. The crunch of the horses’ shoes became louder on the gravel you drove on to, the carriage moving slower, as the huge palace loomed into view.

There was one name which had been drilled into you before you arrived, Emperor Peter. His palace was to be your new home, and he was not a man to be crossed. You could see why he intimated so much now, as you gazed up at the extravagance of his stronghold.

Too soon, the carriage door was open and you were offered a hand to step down to Russian soil. The building stretched up above you, seeming to stare down in judgement with a thousand glassy eyes.

As you blinked at the cool, bright sun, you noticed a man waiting nervously for you. Your chauffeur whispered to him, and a small greeting left his mouth.

It was in a language you could not understand.

Your heart seemed to jump to your mouth as he reached to take your hand, pressing it to his lips in a movement as gentlemanly as you had ever seen. In the fraction of a second his eyes were closed, you tried to catch your breath.

Unsure what to say, you let him drop your hand and straighten back to standing, his eyes searching your face in something blessedly unlike an inspection of your features. Instead, it seemed as though he was simply taking you in.

The wind was bitter, and you wrung your hands at the loss of your suitor’s body heat. You couldn’t conceal a full-body shudder as a howl of viscous cold blew through the grounds. The man took a step back, welcoming you into the warmth of the open palace doors. You followed, feeling as though you were watching yourself from a distance rather than experiencing your own body.

He was handsome, you noted. Clean-shaven and well dressed, with a significant effort put into his clothes and hair. He was not the old man you had feared, either. In fact, you found yourself quite delighted at the idea of being seen by his side.

Still, you refrained from letting your guard down. You had no idea of anything about him. He could be a monster, though none of his demeanour so far seemed to suggest so.

Say something, your mind screamed to you.

“The weather is rather bitter here,” you smiled, uncomfortable as the man seemed to nervously pace, rocking back and forth on his feet as he regarded your shivering form.

A frown creased his brow.

“It is cold,” you clarified, sounding the words out in an attempt to make it easier for him to follow.

Perhaps the language barrier would be worse than you had feared. Ignorantly, you had hoped that perhaps he would speak some English. Or that your languages might be similar. He looked at you wide-eyed, lips moving silently as he tried to understand you.

“Co-ld,” he repeated back to you, the syllables broken in the way a non-native speaker might dissect them for understanding.

You rubbed your hands on your own shoulders, a mime of the word, and he nodded frantically.

“Snow!” he stumbled, in English, the shape of the word strange on his tongue.

It wasn’t snowing, but you were pleased he had understood your meaning. You nodded, internally devasted at the realisation that the two of you could barely understand one another.

Suddenly an entire, long marriage of devastating isolation from other speakers of your own language, seemed to stretch before your eyes. He did not speak English. Of course he did not, you cursed yourself. This was Russia. And you did not speak a single word of Russian.

Around you, the conversations sounded like gibberish, the international tone and body-language of gossip the only indicator of what those in finery were saying.

“German?” you tried, moving to allow a nobleman to pass through the door you were blocking, wincing at your own awkwardness.

The Count cocked his head.

“Do you speak German?” you repeated, this time in German, sounding the words out slowly.

You knew, even from his first wince at your first word, he did not understand anything you were saying. You sighed and the Count grimaced in agreement. That, he could comprehend.

Around you the building seemed like a breathing organism, its people flowing from room to room, constant noise and sound and smells threatening to overtake your senses.

Even mere feet from the unfamiliar man you were engaged to, you found your attention drifting as the palace became overwhelming. He surged forward to steady you as a stony-faced nobleman barged into you, concerned words spilling from his lips in a language you didn’t understand. He snapped at the man, after you were stable, and you saw him scurry away with a frown.

With wide eyes you watched the Count as he guided you to a safer spot before dropping your elbow. At least he was handsome. And somewhat younger than you had been led to believe, not so elderly or callous as suitors your friends had been forced to wed.

He curiously had none of the politician’s bite that you had been made afraid of – in fact, you might have believed him to have no power at all if it were not for the arrangement of your betrothal to him. And the way he had sent a man twice his size packing, merely for knocking into you.

He just seemed too nice. He was smaller than a lot of men in the palace, dressed well, with no air of arrogance about him as he tried to welcome you without words.

“The room,” he sounded out.

His English was unnatural, the syllables slipping against one another awkwardly, but you smiled dumbly as you recognised the words. He held one hand outstretched, and then snatched it awkwardly away just as you reached for it. You nodded instead, closing your empty hand at his subtle rejection.

The Count watched over his shoulder, taking a few cautious steps, before seeming satisfied you were following. You loathed that you could not speak to one another, could not joke or lighten the mood, as you tried to understand his jittery body language.

He led you in a confusing attempt at being gentlemanly, lacking the words to direct you, but refusing to be ungentlemanly enough to allow you to walk behind him. Side by side, slowly, you reached an overside pair of doors which he clumsily held open for you.

You blinked in surprise, suddenly realising where you were. It was not merely his room, it was also your room. The room you would share with him. For as long as you both shall live.

As he bustled behind you, moving things in a frantic attempt to tidy the already-spotless space, you remembered to close your mouth.

At one end of the large space was a grand four-poster, deep red drapes tied back around it, fine sheets tucked in tightly. Dark wood accented by golden candle-holders betrayed the opulence of the space – but most striking were the bookshelves. Reaching the ceiling, covering an entire wall, French-style Walnut framed hundreds of books. Your elation at the space, accented with pieces of history and culture that made you increasingly fond of the man, was quickly dampened by the realisation you could not read a single one of the titles.

The windows were thrown open wide, thin white curtains fluttering in the wind, framed by heavier burgundy woollen drapes. With each new pass your eyes made of the room you noticed something new. A new painting, a framed letter, a pot of feathers or an exotic tchotchke, all told the story of a man who was more than met the eye.

You only wished you could speak to him. He seemed to be wincing as you took in the space, one hand perched on the door handle, left there from where he had closed the doors. He let you take your time orientating yourself, saying nothing as your eyes finally settled on something familiar: your luggage.

In their own strange way, the trunks were comforting. A reminder of who you were, your family name painted on the side and your possessions sat in there.

Completely out of place for the room.

Even the cream colour of the trunks seemed to clash with the very furniture around it, and your nervousness came back full force, making your stomach clench as you wondered if the Count would allow you to keep your things here.

He seemed entirely unbothered, reaching to adjust his glasses as you turned to look at him, seeming to fluster at the attention. As you opened your mouth to try and say something, you heard masculine shouts outside.

A sudden gunshot pierced the air outside, the sound ricocheting around the palace, loud enough to make you gasp and flinch. Immediately, the Count was by your side, hands hovering at your elbows as you caught your breath.

You realised you were shaking, each inhale coming as a gasp, the stress of the day coming to overwhelm you. As you turned to the Count, fearing judgement for your weakness, you saw nothing but worry in his shining eyes.

In that moment, you felt sure he begrudged the language barrier as much as you did.

He seemed to be fumbling for the little English he had learnt, before closing his eyes with a frustrated huff, pinching the bridge of his nose as he strode across to his desk.

One hand braced him against the heavy wood as his other hand flipped roughly through the pages of a book. You couldn’t help your curiosity, leaning over his shoulder.

As you glanced at the pages of his book, your heart clenched. It had the distinctive smudges of something he had written himself, words in neat Russian and shakily-formed English beside them. He glanced at you, almost embarrassed, as he flicked to the page he wanted.

He made some attempt at pronunciation, but you found it easier to follow the point of his ink-stained index finger.

“Safe.”

Next to a scribble of Russian, was the word safe.

You read it aloud, and he copied you, his eyes childishly-wide as he looked for your reassurance.

You nodded.

“Yes,” you told him, words weak as you tried to force them past your lips without crying, “safe.”

You weren’t sure if his book helped him understand your spoken words especially well, but you tried anyway.

“Thank you.”

It took him a second, but with a gulp and a head tilt, he understood you.

As he looked at you from his hunched position over the desk, hours and hours of translation work in front of him, you wondered what he had expected of you. If he was disappointed that you spoke none of his language, disappointed by some physical aspect of you, or by your strangeness whilst taking in the overwhelming nature of the palace. Did he even want a bride? Had he rejected the notion of an arranged political marriage as vehemently as you did?

Were you an intruder here? In his space?

The two of you stood for a moment, both silent as you regarded one another. Another shout outside made you jump, shoes shuffling against the carpet. It seemed to prompt the Count into action. He was rifling through the book again.

“Food?” he tried, repeating himself until you understood his meaning. His Russian accent was strong, his hands flailing as he tried to mime.

“Food?” you repeated back, and he clapped his hands in realisation, repeating the right pronunciation back to you.

“Yes, please,” you smiled.

With a timid duck of his head, he fled from the room.

The Count was gone for a long while, long enough for you to wander around the room, stroking a hand across the soft quilt of the bed, touching the spines of the books, and casting an eye over the translation guide Orlo had put together for himself.

It was an incredible amount of effort, you realised, to have filled almost an entire book to construct his own dictionary. It gave you hope for the type of a man who was willing to put that much effort into understanding a woman he had never met.

After a quick lap of the room you caught yourself in the mirror, realising how exhausted you looked from travel. You turned to your luggage, hoping for time to change before Count Orlo returned.

No luck. As you crouched at your open trunk, you heard the door open, glancing up nervously before sighing in relief as you realised it was just the Count. He greeted you with a smile, nodding.

He watched you curiously as you rummaged through your tightly-packed luggage for a change of clothes, desperate to change from the journey. Your travel clothes were sorely in need of a wash. In truth, you had hoped to change into something nicer before you were introduced to your betrothed.

As you found a gown to change into, the Count stepped backwards and dropped his curious gaze, realising you intended to change.

He called a word, and you flinched at the sudden volume of his soft voice, surprised to hear footsteps come running. A serf appeared, a woman who greeted you with a tight smile, and you looked to Orlo with a furrowed brow. He gave you a nod, his eyes kind, as he left the room.

It was fast, to change and quickly fix your appearance with the help of a serf. Although she did not speak a word to you – though you tried both English and German – she was kind as she fastened and unfastened your laces, and you tried to find some reassurance in the looks she gave you.

Did she think the Count a good man, you wondered? She seemed unafraid and comfortable in his rooms, in a way you did not expect from serfs in this place. You tried to consider it a good sign.

The moment the serf left he returned, slipping through the door and admiring your new dress with a gentle nod. There was a sincere appreciation in his eyes that threatened to make you blush.

For the first time, as he crossed the room to offer you his arm, you could imagine yourself waking up beside the man.

He opened his mouth as if to say something as you watched him curiously, but then closed it. The words would not come to him, and you wished you could tell him it was okay, your own vocabulary in his mother tongue painfully limited.

He reached for a closed trunk, looking to you for permission before he opened it.

There was a slight tremble in his hands, and you felt a rush of appreciation at his sheer gentleness. You wished you could apologise to him for the man who had appeared in your nightmares, sharing his name but not his demeanour, brutish and cruel where the Count seemed timid and polite.

Where his fingers faltered on the latch, you flipped the trunk open, your hand accidentally brushing his. You looked away very intentionally as you felt the warmth of his skin, instead turning to the contents of the trunk.

You were glad it was devoid of anything embarrassing, your undergarments blessedly packed in the box below. Instead he was faced with the spines of dozens of books. The titles were all well-thumbed, favourites of yours which you could not bear to part with. You had hoped you might be able to get more books in Russia, once you arrived, however the greatness of the language barrier was beginning to impress on you.

These might be the only books you could read for a very long time, and you were glad you had persuaded your driver to bring them all this way.

The Count, for his part, was reading the spines in fascination. He might not recognise the language, but he seemed to have an appreciation for the beauty of the tomes.

Certainly, if his own décor was anything to go by, he was an avid reader himself. As his fingers ran along the books you had brought, tightly packed together to survive the journey, you found yourself strangely embarrassed by the language of the books.

He seemed unaffected, a genuine curiosity on his face as he looked for your permission to pull one from the trunk. His fingers teased the spine as his eyes met yours, seeking your gentle nod before taking the book and opening it.

Unreading, he scanned the words in front of him. You recognised it as a beloved novel, one so well read you could recite the passage he followed off by heart.

With a smile to you, he turned the pages, seeming to just admire the shapes of the words.

He finally closed the book, passing it back to you, and you tried to force the book back into its place in the trunk. It was a squeeze, and you winced as Orlo watched you struggle for a moment before attempting to still your hands.

Suddenly he was on his feet, rushing to the huge walnut bookcase which spanned an entire wall, and started pulling his own books from the shelves.

You watched in confusion, as he moved a huge stack of his tomes to space on a lower, empty shelf, stacking them in the space above the existing books clumsily to clear a space.

He said something in Russian, before realising you had no understanding of his words. Instead he reached down for the book you were still struggling with. As he took it gently from you, setting it on the shelf, you finally understood his meaning.

In near-shock, you unpacked the trunk, the pair of you working together to add your beloved collection to his library. The Count displaced his own books until there was an entire shelf at your eye-level filled with your most beloved possessions: stories in a language he did not even speak.

Overcome with emotion, you crossed to his desk, reaching for the handwritten book you had seen earlier. The Count followed, watching you a little confused.

Flicking through page after page, growing increasingly frustrated as you did not find what you wanted, you felt Orlo’s eyes on you. And prayed he was not offended by your going through his personal notes.

Finally you found what you sought, turning the book to him with your finger pointing to the words you wanted.

“Thank you.”

Orlo pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he read the translation you pointed to, speaking the Russian words to himself, before looking up at you with an unhindered beam.

Maybe everything would be alright.

The food Orlo had brought during the early afternoon was barely more than snacks, hardly touched as the two of you had shared a comfortable silence, each reading your own books. You were glad for the downtime, though uneasy from being alone with a near stranger.

You were hungry by the time the Count sought out the word dinner in his translation book, and you gave him a nod.

With each step he led you towards the rowdy dining hall, which seemed to be the destination for every other soul walking these halls, fear sunk its claws deep into you again.

For the first time, you spotted the man you could only assume was the Emperor, holding the attention of a few long, heavily decorated tables. The entire room was filled with outrageous finery – beautiful dresses and golden candelabras all begging for your focus as your eyes tried to take in the room.

Count Orlo exchanged a few words with the Emperor as the two of you entered, suddenly clasping your hand in his and holding it up, and you tried to smile politely as all eyes turned to the pair of you. Emperor Peter seemed to say something snide to the Count as he spared you a few words of introduction. The rest of the seated masses offered up a few weak claps. Then, you were able to dissolve somewhat into the crowd.

Your fiancé pulled out a chair for you near the head of the table, seeming to offer encouragement in his gentle pat of your shoulder, seating himself beside you just as a starter was brought out.

From here you could see most of the court, noting that your position seemed somewhat elevated over most, a handful of seats from the Emperor and the blonde woman uncomfortably positioned next to him.

You had been seated beside a nobleman who was far more engaged with his fingers under a woman’s skirt than talking to you, and you fought not to look outraged at the debauchery and inappropriateness of it all, as the woman groaned and the Emperor laughed and clapped at the scene.

When you looked away in embarrassment your eyes met the Count’s, and without language, you could see the apology in the deep brown of his irises and the irritated twitch of his lip.

He pulled your chair slightly closer to his own, and you were grateful, as an onion soup was placed before you.

Unlike the rowdy group around you, you endured the meal in silence. Subtle help with cultural things – strange cutlery customs or drinks you ought to avoid – were the only interactions you had with the Count.

Fortunately, the Lord beside you had been distracted from his woman by the arrival of a rather impressive whole Salmon.

So that was some relief.

As you finished your main course you found yourself finally beginning to relax, mentally congratulating yourself for making it through the first of a presumed lifetime of outrageous meals in a foreign country.

At least, you thought you had made it through.

The beautiful young woman from the Emperor’s side was stood in front of you, clearing her throat with an impatiently folded pair of hands. As your eyes met hers, she held out a hand to introduce herself, spouting off a string of Russian you had no hope of understanding.

With one hand under the table, you sought out the Count’s attention, only to find him deeply engaged in a conversation with the soldier beside him.

Damn it.

The woman was looking to you expectantly for an answer, but you could say nothing to appease her. Not whilst lacking a single word of Russian.

Panicked, you turned to the man beside you. In truth it was a relief to see him laughing, so engaged in a rapid conversation with someone, but you were forced to interrupt. The woman seemed increasingly offended by your panicked silence with each second that passed.

“Orlo?” you tried his name, wincing at the distinctly un-Russian sound of it, but the man himself turned immediately.

From the beam on his face, he seemed delighted you had attempted to address him at all, his hand finding yours on the table.

He made a distinctive hum of questioning, before following your eye line to the woman trying to speak to you.

“Catherine!” came her name, before a string of Russian.

You breathed a sigh of relief, wishing you had the language to thank the Count for saving you from further embarrassment or offence caused.

When their short conversation lulled, you found two pairs of eyes on you.

“I do not speak Russian,” you told her, hoping your apologetic tone transcended the English language.

Her eyebrows raised, pretty face contorted in surprise as she turned to Orlo, a quick punch of Russian shot her way before she left once again. Orlo gave you a knowing glance. Then, she spoke.

For a moment you did not recognise her words, before realising with a start they were German.

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

You were sure your face betrayed how your heart soared at the recognition of understandable words, her face schooled in a sombre mask even as your features lit up in delight at familiar language. With a conspicuous look around, she leant closer to you.

“We will speak later.”

The blonde woman returned to the Emperor’s side for the duration of the dessert course, but you felt your mood immeasurably lightened. The Count seemed to recognise it too, his movements a little lighter as you counted down the seconds until you could speak to someone.

Mere minutes after the Emperor stormed from the dining hall, seemingly on some form of rampage, the Count gently guided you to a side room. The German-speaker was there, and she greeted you kindly the moment the door closed.

“I apologise, I try not to speak German in front of the court. It reminds them my roots are not in Russia – although my heart belongs here.”

You could not help the beam which broke out across your face, even as your fiancé watched with bemusement, and you found yourself subconsciously moving towards the blonde woman.

“I am so glad to have someone to speak to! What’s your name?” you asked her, feeling immediately at ease, elated to see your joy at the conversation mirrored in her body language.

“Catherine. I am the Empress.”

With a glance to your fiancé, you stumbled on the spot, taking an awkward curtsey as you realised exactly who you were speaking to. Was this some sick joke, you wondered, to get you in trouble before you had even unpacked?

“I had no idea,” you apologised, “I apologise for my rudeness, your majesty.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something in Russian to Orlo. He had the nerve to look embarrassed, at least, and you felt your shame slightly diminished.

“Nonsense. You have done nothing rude,” she smiled, “Besides, I married into this madness. Just as you will.”

Unwilling to make a fool of yourself – or get yourself executed – you silently nodded.

“It is strange, to hear my native tongue so far from home,” she mused, cocking her head and glancing around the room.

You let yourself relax a little, sensing no true offence in her tone or body language.

“I am so glad to hear someone I can understand,” you confessed, “I feel so stupid, to not speak the language.”

She looked at you pityingly, and you ducked your head under her gaze.

“It is not your fault. The language is… challenging, to say the least.”

“I confess, it all sounds like gibberish to me. At the moment.”

You found yourself elated as the Empress laughed.

“I remember that. As a child, I just nodded when people spoke to me.”

It was your turn to laugh. Beside you, Orlo had a smile on his face as he made some quip in Russian to Catherine. The Empress threw her head back in laughter, before quickly letting you in on the joke.

“Orlo is rather concerned we are getting along so well.”

You gave a nervous laugh, glancing at the man as Catherine linked her arm around yours.

“I think he should be worried,” she told you, a theatrical stage-whisper in your ear, although Orlo could not understand her, “I shall finally have a friend who understands me without the burden of translation slowing my thoughts.”

Even in her arrogance, you liked Catherine. How could you not, when someone as powerful as an Empress was treating you like an old friend on your first encounter? She led you from the room, muttering about a tour of the palace, as Count Orlo trailed behind you.

As Catherine explained the layout and rhythm of the hallways, you tried to file every piece of information away, catching yourself laughing at her glib comments – free to gossip and make jabs whilst those around her could not understand her words. For the first time since disembarking your carriage, you felt on even footing with the strangers milling around these hallways. Able to speak, you could be yourself a little more. Though you regretted that it was impossible to truly speak to your husband-to-be.

Abruptly, you caught yourself interrupting the Empress midway through a tale about some curiosity, a strange painting hung in the hallway which she had plenty to talk on.

“Catherine – ”

“Yes?”

Even as an Empress, she seemed unbothered by your rudeness. Perhaps just speaking to someone else from her home country, she felt the Russian role she held stripped away.

You glanced at Orlo, stood beside you staring at his hands as the pair of you spoke in German, patient and yet left out.

“Would you be kind enough to translate some things to Russian for me? For Count Orlo?”

“Of course.”

The Empress seemed to understand. She gave a curt nod, pushing a door open to enter a parlour. The few serfs cleaning and resting in there quickly scattered, leaving the three of you alone. Orlo closed the door behind you, guiding you to sit on the chaise as if you were something delicate, a gentlemanly charm to the way he offered his aid even as you crouched to sit.

Catherine sat beside you, smiling a little as Orlo joined your side at a respectful distance. He was looking curiously between yourself and Catherine, his nervousness given away by the jerky movement of his head as his eyes flickered from woman to woman.

“What would you like me to say to him?” Catherine asked gently, her tone more subdued than you had heard it thus far.

Rather than excitable, bordering on bragging, she sounded serious. You wondered how long ago she had been in your shoes, marrying a stranger in a foreign land. From the haunted look behind her eyes, the memory was fresh.

“I wonder if you could… thank him. For his kindness. And apologise that I do not speak the language, I feel so stupid, that I did not learn before arriving but I could not find any instruction I should learn Russian – and I realise I ought to have known but it simply did not cross my mind. The marriage was all so last minute and I only saw his letter days before I left and – ”

Sensing the panic, as it rose in your throat and leached into your words, Catherine stopped your words with a single politely raised finger.

For a moment she seemed ready to answer back to you, to speak German and comment on the contents of your message for your husband-to-be. Then she simply turned her head a few degrees and addressed Orlo.

You had nothing but trust to prove she had translated for you directly, and yet the widening of the Count’s eyes told you she must have made a valiant effort at repeating your ramblings. His hand hovered in the neutral space between your hand on the chaise and his thigh, undecided as to whether he ought to offer you comfort or respect the boundary of space which still existed between you.

He chose the latter. Strangely, you wished he hadn’t.

Orlo was replying, a stream of carefully considered Russian which Catherine nodded at, a gentle smile on her lips. Then, she turned back to you.

“He says you could not possibly have known he would not speak English or German, and that he is trying to learn. He also says that he has arranged an adjacent room for you, in the event that you are not comfortable sharing with him.”

She seemed to have more to say, a personal comment to add, but Orlo had already interrupted her, cramming in more sentiments he wished to have translated. In all your time with him, you were yet to see him so talkative, desperate to share his thoughts with you. Your heart ached as you realised how much he was unable to tell you.

“He also says he is sorry you have met under these circumstances. And that, should you ever need anything, write it. He is better at translating the written word.”

“He also says that you are pretty, and it is nice to meet you.”

She rolled her eyes, but you shot the man in question a smile. He beamed back.

There was a playfulness in her words which indicated the Empress was mocking Orlo’s desperation to speak to you, but you could not join her in her ridicule. You found yourself truly touched by the lengths he seemed willing to go to in order to secure your comfort with him.

There were very few noblemen who would do that for a bride from a political marriage, you knew. Catherine continued to speak in the same tone, perhaps to prevent Orlo’s suspicion, but her words were suddenly her own.

“He is a sweet one, you know,” she confided, “he has been trying to learn English for weeks. Now I wish I had known to teach him German. You will be safe with him. Ask for anything in the world, and he will provide it. For all his flaws, he is a good man. A true romantic, too. I am glad he seems to have been lucky enough to have a wife who will not abuse that.”

Blinking tears from your eyes, you nodded. Catherine reached out her hands for you, and you took them, a silent promise of friendship which you were surprised by the speed of.

“I am here. If you ever need anything. I know how hard it is, to not understand what is happening around you.”

You nodded mutely, your voice choked by how touching her kindness was after so many weeks of worry, and a day of confusion and fear that you might never be properly understood again.

“Thank you,” you whispered, “and please tell the Count thank you. Most – most sincerely.”

With a kindly smile, almost sisterly in how she seemed to both patronise and care for you, Catherine released your hands and began speaking quick Russian to Orlo.

Now relieved from understanding the conversation, you slumped a little against the arm of the chair, concealing a yawn as the late hour and long day caught up with you.

Without being in a proper bed for weeks, having taken in an entirely new country and life over the course of the day, your body was begging you for rest. You forced your drooping eyelids to stay open as Catherine and Orlo spoke, noting the way both of them shot you glances as a heavily-Russian-accented version of your name cropped up in their conversation.

There was a gentle smile on Orlo’s lips, and you found your heart jumping at the very sight of it, your own expression subconsciously returning his look, lazily and slightly as your lips curled up.

He had started to look at you more, as their words grew faster, and you let your eyes slip closed.

It felt like seconds had passed, but from the laughter in Catherine’s words, you realised you had fallen completely asleep. Your feet had slipped free of your shoes, your face pressed against the arm of the chaise, and the hand on your shoulder was accompanied by the light voice of Catherine.

“As I have just told Orlo, I think you ought to get to bed. You have had a long day.”

Her smile was tinged with amusement as her face slowly came into focus, and as you turned to see Orlo’s face, you noted the concern on his face. He said something to Catherine, and you saw as she laughed and shook her head.

He said something again, more insistent, and the Empress rolled her eyes.

“He wants me to apologise for keeping you up so late.”

Against your better judgement you looked into his wide, worried eyes, catching yourself truly touched by his apologetic nervousness. And the way he was, hours after meeting you, already trying to look after you.

“Tell him not to worry,” you muttered, your voice a little rough. How long had you been asleep?

As Catherine began to speak, you tagged on:

“And thank you!”

She translated with an entertained glance to you, before rising to her feet.

“He says not to worry. And I need to go.”

You wondered if she truly had to leave, or if she had merely grown tired of the two of you using her as a translator.

“Thank you,” you called after her, watching the rise of her eyebrows as Orlo seemed to speak at the same time.

“You are welcome,” she replied, first in German, and then in English, “Good luck.”

With that she was gone, and you were following Orlo back to his rooms.

True to his word, translated through Catherine, there was a small room conjoined to his which contained a bed, and your clothing trunks had been dragged through there at Orlo’s request.

With a tired smile, which you hoped conveyed your thankfulness, you had closed the door between your rooms and near-fallen into bed.

The next morning arrived quickly, the sun risen as a shouting group in the forest outside awoke you. You jumped at the presence of a stranger in your room, before recognising the serf as the woman who had helped you change the day before.

“Hello,” you tried, wincing at the realisation she could not understand you.

Following her nervous glance to the tub in front of her, you realised she had drawn you a bath.

Wordlessly she undid your corset, and you held it to your chest as she seemed to hover for a moment, unsure of what to do. With a polite nod and a dismissive hand, you hoped you encouraged her to leave for the evening.

Barely five minutes after sinking into the hot water of the bath, you pulled yourself out and crawled into bed.

The dawn brought a little more optimism about your time at the palace.

Your husband-to-be appeared both polite and wealthy. There was at least one person here who you could understand. And, as you gazed out the window whilst your serf dressed you, the palace was beautiful.

If a little rambunctious.

You would have to get used to the startling bang of gunshots.

As your maid left and you prepared to leave the sub-room to greet the day, you took a deep breath. This was manageable.

Even more so when you saw the Count sat at his desk, glasses removed as he pinched the bridge of his nose, enraptured by the page in front of him and deep in thought.

You let yourself slightly knock against the wood of the door, alerting him to your presence, and the man smiled to you with all the happiness you might have expected from a true friend.

He cleared his throat and stood as though about to give a speech, before two recognisable words left his lips.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning!” you returned, unable to resist a smile.

The Count nodded his head, happiness creeping across his own features.

Then, he offered you a less recognisable pair of words. After a few tries, you realised it was a translation, and timidly tried to copy him.

He gave you a pleased applause as you finally repeated the words back correctly, accompanied by yet another “good morning!” and you could not help your optimism at the tiny piece of progress.

Your first Russian. Taught by a willing teacher, who seemed to have all the patience in the world for you.

Certainly, things could be worse.

As the day wore on, you cursed your own optimism. Of course, things could be worse.

Of course, they got worse.

It seemed as though every person you encountered wanted to speak to you, and that your future husband was far too busy to chaperone you everywhere. It was agony, to be treated as though you were stupid or rude simply because you had never had the change to learn a single iota of Russian.

Worst of all, you could barely pronounce your own fiancé’s name.

He joined you for lunch, finding you in his rooms with your head perched on your hands, a faraway look in your eyes as you lamented an entire morning spent in the agony of navigating the seemingly-brutal palace social circles without language.

All day you had sought out the click of his shoes, or the bright yellow curls of the Empress’ hair, and been disappointed each time it was merely another of the palace’s endless parade of strangers.

He joined you at the small table in the corner of the room, the two of you some distance apart, his fingers tapping arrhythmically against the tablecloth. As food was brought in he seemed to remain lost in thought, sparing you an occasional moment of attention as he stared out of the window.

Suddenly reminded of your earlier discomfort at being unable to pronounce his name, inspiration struck you.

You pulled his letter from the pocket it was stashed in, and he seemed surprised to see it, meeting your eyes with some meaning you found impossible to understand.

Ignoring his surprise, you skipped the English translation to read his original hand, finding where he had written his name. Attempting to remember what he had responded to yesterday at dinner, you sounded it out.

“Count Orlo.”

He nodded in recognition.

You shook your head.

Repeating yourself, you pushed your finger along his writing, trying to make him understand. With a subtle gasp of understanding, he smiled sweetly.

And corrected your pronunciation.

It had been miles off, and you felt shame build hot in you as he had you repeat the name back to you. First ‘Count’, a half-dozen times until you mastered the shape of the Slavic letters, before moving onto his surname.

The realisation you could not even say his name right made you want to sink into the plush carpet of his room. He saw it, as your voice shook across ‘Orlo’, a clear frustration in him as he fumbled for English words and reached for your hand in comfort.

It seemed to take him relatively less time to learn your name, a fact which only made your shame build.

You ate in silence, refusing to look up from your plate and cursing your overwhelmed memory for struggling to recall the perfect pronunciation.

Slowly Orlo’s hand crept across the table, covering yours. As you looked up at him, the shining in his eyes made you want to sob.

“Thank you.”

He struggled through the phrase, but that seemed to only amplify the meaning, making your lip tremble in an appreciative nod.

“Thank you,” you repeated back to him, watching as he mouthed the words to memorise how you had said them.

You forced another mouthful of quiche into your mouth before you could sob with frustration and confusion at it all.

As Orlo bid you an apologetic and poorly-pronounced “goodbye”, you had the intent of spending the afternoon reading – however your own nervousness quickly derailed those plans. You were unable to focus on the words in front of you.

You had even borrowed Orlo’s translation book for a little while, before conceding that reading the words in his script gave you very little intuition on how to pronounce them.

It was hopeless.

In a bid to acquaint yourself better with your new home you took another lap of the palace. Generally you tried to avoid people, not keen to endure yet another embarrassing interaction where your words were not understood by judgemental strangers.

Instead you stuck to the sidelines – the shadows of the corridors or barely-used paths through the grounds. Finally you happened upon a crowd of expensively-dressed women, and found yourself fastidiously avoiding them. Until you spotted a pale blue gown adorning and even paler woman: the Empress.

You let yourself exude some confidence as you walked closer, catching her eye over a crowd of poorly fitted wigs and champagne flutes, stumbling at little as she seemed to look past you with glazed eyes.

“Catherine!” you called, closer now, so she couldn’t possibly miss the true Germanic pronunciation of her name.

She ignored you, turning her attention to a conversation with her maid. Your heart sank.

“I wondered if you might help me learn a few words…”

You could hear chatter around you, a few snickers as the Empress ignored you once again, barking a few words of Russian towards her serf. For just a second she looked at you with a warning frown and wide eyes. You realised your mistake, as the ladies of the court began to swarm around you, harsh words you didn’t understand growing louder.

Even as you looked at her for help, for recognition, the Empress stalked past you. You were left at the mercy of the Ladies of the court.

Perhaps this was the worst turn your day could have taken. They bodily forced you to sit with them, feigning friendship as their words almost certainly said something else. You sank into a chair with a sinking feeling in your stomach, nausea rising in your throat as fingers plucked at your unstyled hair.

And the taunting began.

They mocked you for hours. For things you couldn’t translate, leaving your own mind to cruelly fill in the gaps each time the conversation seemed to make all eyes turn to you. Each time you thought you might rise and sneak away, sharp nails and etiquette pinned you in place.

Until the arrival of a panting and alarmed Count Orlo, you were forced to mutely endure your role as the centre of their attention.

You recognised the tones of intimidation, if not the words. Their picking at your clothes and touching your hair, peering at your features and demanding things from you in a language you could not understand.

It was your only point of pride that you remained stoic, even as they held you from leaving him and time again, not a single tear left your reddened eyes. When the Count finally sought you out, so late into the day that the air was cooling and men were returning from their hunts, you found yourself cursing the very day you had heard the word Russia.

With an overly pleasant smile and a hand on the small of your back, Orlo had guided you away from the loudly cackling group of ladies, each taking turns to shout increasingly loud insults for the fun of mocking your inability to understand.

But you understood their intent. You had, for the past few hours, understood their mockery. And the betrayal of the only friend you had managed to make here, the only hope you had as a translator – all because she was embarrassed to be seen speaking German to you.

I know what they were saying, you wanted to snap, how dare you treat me like I’m stupid?

You found yourself shaking with emotion. With rage and upset and a hurt which seemed so potent and physical it felt as if your heart was threatening to rip itself apart.

Orlo gave a gentle click of his tongue, and it was enough to drive you beyond all social etiquette.

Storming ahead of him, you refused his hand on you, his calls of your name. Through unfamiliar corridors you marched back to your stupid shared room with him, slamming the door even as you knew he was mere strides behind.

Good.

Your smaller adjoining room was hardly a safe haven, but it had a locking door. Barricading yourself inside you instantly felt childish, wondered if these actions would be enough for some horrific punishment or political consequence.

And then you realised you did not care.

Fuck them all.

Outside Orlo was trying the door handle, calling your name, desperately trying to find the words for an apology. But he failed, and you had no intention of helping him learn any further.

Fuck, you wished you could shout at him.

Or at the Empress.

Or at those women, who thought you less than them just because you could not understand them.

With a dramatic huff, which you winced at the loudness of, you kicked your shoes off and clambered beneath the covers of your bed.

Your travel coat was beside the bed, a hand-me-down from your mother, and with a tremble of your lip you pulled the fabric closer to you. The itchy sting of tears, the tightness of your throat, preceded desperate sobs which violently wracked your whole body.

Outside you heard Catherine’s voice, Orlo’s frantic tone, and you pulled the quilt over your head.

You had no want to speak to either of them.

Even without a language barrier, you were not sure you could articulate the nature of your feelings in that moment. Instead you pulled the thick woollen coat closer, cherishing the worn fabric against you, familiar in its smell and in the strong memories it brought.

You had been happier, you realised, the last time you wore it. At your home and surrounded by people you loved, who knew who you were. Who you could share with, communicate with.

How long until even this smaller haven was taken from you, and you were expected to join the Count in his bed? Until you were no longer ‘new’ and you were expected to simply endure feeling like an outside? All this for a man you barely knew, whose ring you would wear as the members of the Court mocked and judged you for reasons beyond your control.

A soft knock on your door was followed by airy German.

“I apologise,” it said, and you recognised the Empress’ voice, “allow me to make up for my rudeness earlier?”

You couldn’t reply, trying to stifle your crying. Eventually, with one last try at turning the handle, she left.

Then came Orlo.

“Sorry.”

It was English, and your anger was momentarily interrupted at the tiny realisation that he was still trying.

Yet you couldn’t open the door, your tears salty on your lips, eyes puffy as you pulled the coat closer still.

As anger and embarrassment coursed through your veins, tears ached in your sore eyes, sleep finally claimed you – fully asleep and clutching your coat as if it were a lifeline.

You awoke at the fall of night, to hunger and the quiet movements of your maid. She had gotten in somehow, and you found yourself a little frustrated to realise that even in this small room you could not fully block the rest of the palace out.

She looked at you in the twilight, an apology in her eyes which told you she took no pleasure from trespassing. To your embarrassment you realised you were still clutching the coat, hugging it like a child. You slowly pulled it free of yourself, standing and folding it back into a half-packed trunk without saying a word.

Most of your personal items were still not unpacked, and the thought gave you a crushing sense of how unwelcome you must be here. How new this all was.

That you couldn’t hide in the shadows forever. This afternoon had taught you that.

The people here weren’t kind, as you had imagined. They weren’t welcoming and patient and keen to welcome you to the fold. They had seen your weakness and torn at you like a pack of wolves, ignoring your whimpers.

With a sigh you hunched over on the bed, feeling lightheaded and disorientated, an ache still in your bones from the journey and a pang in your stomach from missing dinner.

Only the shuffle of her feet reminded you that your maid was still there. Without the coat you shuddered, and she held out a robe for you to wrap yourself in, pulling it over your clothes. You thanked her with a silent nod, trying to bite back the tears of frustration that you could not speak to her.

A timid knock at the door made both of you startle, a shaky breath leaving the maid as she laughed at her own skittishness. You joined her in a watery smile, before the knock came again, this time accompanied by a gentle call of your name.

You had no idea how to welcome the Count in, knowing you ought to in service of maintaining a friendship with at least one person here, but with a nod your maid called for him to enter.

Eyes downcast, the timid man walked inside.

His translation book was clutched to his chest, and he pulled from it a letter, a small, tight smile on his lips as he handed over the piece of parchment.

It was nothing formal, unsealed and ripped from a long piece of notetaking paper, but it had been folded neatly nonetheless. You opened it with a curious look at the man, his eyes following your movements intently.

Confused and intrigued in equal measure, you found your hands shaking as you moved into better candlelight to read. In the mirror, you caught the bloodshot appearance of your eyes. Beside you in the mirror, the Count had the decency to avoid meeting your gaze.

By flickering candlelight you began to inspect the paper in your hands, surprised to realise it was in English. You raised your eyebrows at him for a moment, and he smiled nervously, a glint of his teeth in the light as he tried to contort his face into something more welcoming than the grimace he was managing.

You bit your lip as you inspected the neat script, surprised at the honesty of the note.

‘I am truly glad you are here. I understand the frustrations that you are facing, and I feel the same way. I am trying to learn English, and I hope we might be able to teach one another. I will do everything in my power to make you happy here. What happened earlier was unacceptable. Catherine says she is sorry, and has spoken to the women. They will do nothing to upset you in future, under threat of the Emperor’s ire.’

There was a gap, a single line singled out from the rest, and you traced your thumb along the words as you absorbed them.

‘Everything will get better, I promise.’

Beneath was his flourishing signature, although the letter had blatantly not been written by him. Yet, it sounded spoken, and you longed to hear it spoken by him.

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked back to him, and the Count finally stared back, his bottom lip worried by his teeth.

Soft footsteps told you that your maid was finally making herself scarce, leaving without a word from the Count. You wondered if she had told him you were awake, the timing was awfully convenient.

Yet you did not have the heart to see anything insidious or scheming in his worried stare, his irises almost black in the darkness of the room.

You reached for him, seeing confusion in his face until your fingers mimed for his translation book. He passed it too you, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover before letting go, and you flicked through the pages impatiently.

The words were growing familiar now, but you struggled to recall them in the moment.

The page evaded you, although you could picture it in your mind’s eye, and you closed the book, scrunching your face in thought as you tried to remember the pronunciation he had taught you.

“Thank you,” you tried, and a lazy smile crossed his features.

He nodded in understanding, in approval, and you felt your heart grow three sizes with hope.

For once he was the one following you as you crossed to the door of your temporary room, entering the main apartment with a fierce optimism overtaking you. Your confidence only increased as you noticed the plate of food set aside on Orlo’s desk, a nod confirming he had saved it for you.

Thought of you.

The chaise by his fireplace was easily big enough for two people. It would seat two people, you decided. If the two of you were to wed, you could at least begin by sitting side by side, rather than with the distance both of you had kept.

It took a pat of the seat and a raise of your eyebrows to convince him, but soon the Count was sat beside you.

You set his book into your lap, taking a deep breath, before opening it to the first page.

The two of you could do this.

If it took years, page by page, you could teach one another.

You could take turns to repeat the words again and again until the pair of you could hear one another’s true voices.

As you read out the first word, a simple “yes” which the Count repeated back to you in English then Russian, you saw his own twin hope grow.

That this would work.

With time, and patience, and with dedication, you could make things work. Thousands upon thousands had before you, although rarely in circumstances so bizarre, and Count Orlo had already begun the groundwork of a marriage you could find yourself content within.

With each word repeated back to each other you grew more sure of his intention, of your eventual happiness here.

“Yes,” he repeated, smiling as you nodded your approval.

“Yes,” the Russian syllable left your lips.

Orlo’s hand found yours in excitement.

There was a certain pride in your chest as you made it through your wedding vows, the Russian strange but coherent on your tongue as the familiar words flowed from you. With mere days to prepare, you had managed to achieve something which had once felt impossible.

You had not forgotten the words. You had not stuttered or run or cried. You had done what needed to be done for your family and for your home. Orlo, for his part, watched you speak with such adoration you could almost imagine that he had wanted to marry you, as the marriage was arranged all those months ago.

The way he had held you the night before told you that he did want to marry you now.

He rocked a little on his heels, seeming as nervous as when you first met him, the shimmer of tears in his dark eyes as you finished your vows.

The priest was speaking, but you had very little idea what was being said. The scant audience seemed to be paying attention, and yet you could barely stand to look at them. Rings were being found, papers laid out behind you, and Orlo was clearing his throat to speak.

You felt tears jump to your own eyes, as you realised you could understand his vows. He had memorised them in English.

#count orlo #count orlo x reader #hulu the great #fic #13atoms #i havent written in so long please be nice #i am never writing a language barrier fic again

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