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winterarmyy · 1 year

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Promise Me | Part I

When he was sent out for war, Bucky made a promise to his lover that might just last through several lifetimes.

Summary: Y/N kept being reincarnated into the world for seemingly endless of lifetimes with the lasting, vivid memories of her past lover during the 40's, Sargent James B. Barnes. While she thought this was a 'punishment' for her sins, she was also unknowingly oblivious to the fact that James was still alive somewhere, almost forever frozen in the time.

Navigation: Part I | Part II | Part III (end)

Words: 6.5k++ (hella long bc lots to cover in the story building part)

Pairing: 40s!bucky / eventually tfatws!bucky x female!reader

Warnings: just slow induced angst for your daily consumption (i guess?) It has a hopeful ending so don't let the first warning chase you away. reincarnation concept. an attempt to follow exact mcu timeline (forgive if i'm wrong at certain parts). slight religious contents. grief & loss. graphic violence. deaths. mention of suicide. a lot of reader's pov, story building > dialogs (sorry guys).

P/S: Another impulsive writing from me y'all. I hope you don't get bored of this tendency of mine lol. I just need to let the fantasies out before it consumes me. So... anyway, it's gonna be another 3 parts fic cause for the love of god, I cannot commit for more :') Also, my first attempt of writing 40's bucky!!! I'm honestly scared. I hope you like it!

Read my other works here: Masterlist

Italy, 1943 – His return

If it was one thing that Bucky should expect when he decided to be in a relationship with Y/N was that he had to accept her for who she was; stubborn, clumsy, bold, clever, sweet and most certainly the prettiest dame he ever met.

He might have unknowingly signed up for it the moment he quite literally fell for her at one of those Stark's science expo. Bucky had been stealing glances at this one pretty lady in the crowd, adored in soft mint dress that falls right below her knees.

It wasn't even a scandalous dress to wear in public but somehow Bucky was more than ecstatic to marvel at her beauty. There was no such thing as a too long of a stare, especially when she laughed like that; throwing her head in amusement, the loose strands of her curls fall back across her shoulders as they slightly shook to the rhythm of her laughter.

A careless misstep, that Bucky could see from a mile away, had caused her to stagger backwards and twisted her ankle into an inevitable fall. Somehow, Bucky managed to slither his way through the crowd towards her, almost jumping forward to catch her before she landed on the ground.

Not only that he was the one who fell first, but he also fell hard.

So, it was expected that Bucky knew what he had got himself into. At least, that was what Y/N had been repeating in her head to convince herself for what she had done. Now that she was sitting at the back of the wobbly military truck, the fear had slowly started to seep into her, causing shivers to crawl all over her nerves.

Y/N just knew it in her guts that Bucky would be absolutely furious when he sees her but what does he expect her to do when she hadn't receive any letters from him for months now. So, when she heard that they needed more medical helpers at the Italy base, she signed up without thinking twice about it.

"There has been a recent attack on the 107th. Too many casualties and much more whose heavily injured. You might have your hands full the moment you arrive to the base. There are few rules..." The lieutenant's voice was rigid just as his demenour when he continued to inform the situation to the troops of medical staff.

No matter how much she wanted to pay attention to his words, Y/N couldn't help but to tune in only at his first few sentences. Casualties, heavily injured. Her hands moved to search for the cross pendent hanging from the necklace around her collarbone, gripping it tight as she prayed that her lover was not categorized under any of those dire circumstances.

What the lieutenant said in that truck could never be more true as the moment they stepped into the medic tent, Y/N and the others were quickly pulled to assist the fallen men. It was truly heartbreaking and horrid to witness the dreading truth behind what the public posed as the "heros of the country'.

Surely they were proud to fight for the nation but then again no human being should ever had to suffer the consequences of war; not the civilians and certainly not the soldiers.

After seemingly hours of continuous stitching, wrapping and patching up; surrounded sound of groaning pain and the endless cycle of inhaling the distinct scent of fresh blood, burned flesh and the bitter of anticeptic odor; the injured soldiers were finally taken care of and had been put to rest.

Y/N looked around the tent, noting the unorganized mess around the patients; the result of the panic and chaos of the whole situation. A thought came to her mind, she might need to do some cleaning up before writing down medical record for each one of the patients.

That was when the lieutenant entered into the tent, and his stern gaze swiftly analyzed the much calmer scene, "Thank you for your service, everybody. I assume the soldiers are stabilized?"

"Yes, sir." One of the battalion doctor replied as he approached, while the rest of the team watched from where they stood.

The lieutenant simply nodded, "Good." He paused for awhile and looked around, "Now, have any of you met Captain America before?"

There were bunch of no's murmured around the medical staff, some of them just shook their head as an answer and the lieutenant nodded again as he informed, "Well, I guess you are all just darn lucky cause he's here to perform. You are invited to come and join the others to watch, if you want to."

"Steve's here?" She thought to herself.

As the lieutenant continued to explain some things about accommodation, food and medical supplies, Y/N's head were filled with thought that her dear friend, Steve was there too.

"I wonder if he gotten any words from James."

"Maybe he got letters from him?"

"Or could it be that he was here to find James too?

There were so many questions kept circulating in her head that by the time she snapped out of them, the lieutenant was already long gone and some of the medic staff went out to untangle themselves from the hours of stressful tension.

As a nurse herself, she felt the need to take care of her patients and finish her job before anything else. So, she started to clean up the shredded clothes, bloodied guazes and the other medical tools that needed to be sterilized and put away.

By the time she finished, it finally dawned to her that there was no trace of Bucky in the medic tent. Which means he didn't fall into the heavily injured category. So, there was two left; the one she prayed for and the other that dreaded her to even think about.

Y/N quickly made her way towards the tent where she can find the soldier in charge. However, if she was focused during one of the lieutenant's speech in the truck, she would've heard that she and the others were not authorized to enter certain parts of the base, which include the higher ups' tents.

When she was turned down by the soldiers, she sadly walked away towards the main area where Steve was supposed to perform. The drag of her feet across the dusty sand was heavy but no more heavier than the burden in her heart.

She watched as her black pump shoes gradually covered with light sand. Finding it odd that a few weeks ago she was standing on the shiny tile of a hospital in Brooklyn and now she was halfway across the world in the middle of the chaos of a war.

The things she'd do for love.

Soon enough, the dry ground was wet from the sudden down pour, turning it into a murky soggy path. Y/N quickly ran towards the main area where apparently the show was long over. "Did I missed Steve?" She thought as she stepped into the tent where the performers supposed to be.

The tent turned out to be empty and only the sound of drizzling raindrops above it was left behind. She looked around the area and saw the costumes for the performers were still there; the pleated white and red skirt hanging on the rack, white gloves clipped with them, the captain's shield with notes sticking at the back of it and the iconic blue helmet-mask thingy plastered with the obvious letter.

She peeked a little to the right only to see Steve hunched down on the floor, curling into himself just as he always did back when he was left beaten up in the alleyway somewhere in Brooklyn. She guessed that the upgrade of his size doesn't really change his habits.

Y/N walked closer to see him holding his sketchbook on one hand and another was a pencil pressing across the paper, lining the drawing of a monkey on a unicycle. "I guess the serum does not amplify your art skills huh Steve?" she teased as she approached the blonde man.

Steve lifted up his head as he turned towards the familiar voice, "y/n?" His face lit up as he recognized her face. He stood on his feet and pulled her into a tight hug, "It's so good to see you." He sighed, he haven't seen her since his departure when she insisted for him to stay.

But alas, Steve was also as stubborn as her.

It took awhile for him to process it but when it came to him, he gently pushed her away, "Wait.. what are you doing here?" His brows creased into a worried frown.

Y/N simply smiled as she responded, "They needed help, so I volueentered."

Steve shook his head in disbelief, "Bucky made me promise not to let you do stuff like this." In which Y/N countered, "And he also remind you not to do anything stupid until he get back so..." she purposely trailed her words for him to draw the conclusion on his own.

He let out a long sighed before concluding, "Bucky's gonna kill us."

Since, Bucky was in the topic, Y/N took the oppurtunity to asked Steve about him, "About that, have you heard--"

A woman's voice came from her back, cutting in between her words, "Steve?"

Steve nervously untangled himself from Y/N as he shyly greeted the woman, "Hi."

The woman continued to stare at Y/N trying to figure out her role and relationship with Steve but before she could get any strange idea, he quickly introduced her, "This is y/n. She's my good friend from home."

A spark of realization glint through her eyes "I see. I'm Peggy. Nice to meet you." She extended her hand towards Y/N, in which Y/N gladly shook it in hers as she reintroduced herself, "You too. I'm y/n."

After the brief exchange of smile between the two ladies, Steve continued to asked Peggy, "What are you doing here?"

Peggy sighed as she explained, "Officially, I'm not here at all." She paused as she picked her words, "I just came by to oversee the situation after the recent attack."

Although Y/N knew what Peggy meant, she was one of the medic staff that had been stitching up the aftermath of that attack after all. However, Steve on the other hand seemed to be lost.

Peggy further explained, "Schmidt sent out a force to Azzano, more than 200 men went up against him and less than 50 returned." She paused, "Your audience contained what's left of the 107th."

Steve's blues widen in realization that almost looked much like panic, "The 107th?"

"What?" Peggy prompt quickly.

Steve then turned his head to Y/N, "Bucky?" He questioned shortly.

But even she was hoping that he'll know something about Bucky, apparently she was wrong, "I tried to ask but I'm not authorized to enter the tent. I was hoping you heard from him."

Seeing the panic in Steve's eyes, she knew that her lover was no where near the safety that she prayed for. But before fear could set in, Steve sprinted out of the tent, "Come on!" he shouted as Y/N and Peggy ran closely behind him.

When they arrived to the tent, fortunately they had the permission to enter with the help of Peggy. "Well, if it isn't the Star-Spangled Man With A Plan. What is your plan today?" Colonel Philips greeted in a teasing manner.

Steve didn't even bother to greet the colonel as he demanded, "I need the casualty list from Azzano." In which the Philips responded, "You don't get to give me orders, son."

Knowing that arguments won't help the situation, he control his tone of voice and spoke, "I just need one name, Sergeant James Barnes from the 107th." He took a short breath and insisted, "Please tell me if he's alive, sir. B-A-R-"

Colonel Phillips stood on his feet as he walked towards a table behind him, "I can spell. I have signed more of these condolence letters today than I would care to count." He paused before turning around to eye on Steve and briefly on the very worried looking nurse next to him.

"But the name does sound familiar. I'm sorry." There was a flash of sincerity in his eyes when he looked towards Y/N.

The optimistic Steve continued to insist more about other possibilities than casualties, "What about the others? Are you planning a rescue mission?" They went back and forth about the what is the 'right' thing to do, "Yes, it's called 'winning the war'. "

And suddenly sound of the heavy rain fall was all Y/N could hear, then comes the booming of her heartbeat as the panic started to deprive her of any optimism, clouding her judgment to think of anything near to positive outcomes such as Steve.

It was getting harder to breath and the anxitey slowly choked her, forcing tears to pool in her eyes. Peggy swiftly took a hold on Y/N, before her knees managed to fall to the ground. The muffled sound of Peggy's voice managed to come through but not enough to wake her from the despair.

Before she knew it, Steve was already gone for an unauthorized rescue mission with the help from Peggy. And ever since, Y/N had spend every waking moment digging her knees into the uneven ground. Her elbows bruised from how hard she propped them on the steel edge of the army green cot. Her palms almost dented to shape of the silver cross as she desperately squeeze it between her hold.

She prayed and prayed for his return. For both of her dearest to be safe, to find their way home.

And for a moment Y/N thought her prayers were graciously granted by God, as the crowd was getter louder and the circle of soldiers were geting thicker when the survivors joined the rest of them. There were chantings of "Captain America" that echoed throughout the base and that gave her relief to know that Steve was safe.

But it was not enough to tame her anxiousness. Y/N's focus has never been sharper when her eyes scanned the crowd, she slithered her way between the jumping joy of the soldiers, grabbing onto some men who she mistook as Bucky until she saw him.

Her heartbeat ramped increasingly as she pushed through the soldiers, finding strength from the blood pumping excitement when she recognize those steel blues and that cheeky smile. Not long before she managed to grab onto his hand and pulled his attention to her.

It was brief but he knew that face anywhere; and suddenly his whole body was engulf into a familiar tight hug that he thought he could never be able to feel again. "James." her voice still stuttered even if it was just one word that came out of her lips.

"y/n?" Bucky called her name, almost in disbelief.

God, she never knew that she was able to miss his voice this much.

"Doll, what you doing here?" He gently lead her away, which she reluctantly followed, "I'm here for you." There was no need of lies now that Bucky was here in her arms.

His gaze soften with a mix of concern and joy, "What do you mean you're here for me?" Bucky couldn't help but to let out a short laugh, "Sweetheart, you do realized that you're in the middle of a war?" His brows quirked as he reminded.

Y/N rolled her eyes. Of course, she realized that. The moment she saw that form for enlistment, she knew. But, it didn't stop her to sign up, does it?

She laced her fingers into his, "I didn't come all the way here to fight with you, James." she whispered as she leaned closer, "So, please just shut up and kiss me."

Bucky might have just realized it now; what a stubborn, demanding, crazy little lover got himself. Though at the same time, she had never charmed him more.

Bucky sighed in defeat before running his tongue on his lower lip, "Well then, come here you little minx" he took her by the head and gave her the most desperate yet sweetest kiss she could never forget.

Brooklyn, 1944 – Promises, promises

It was the day that Steve, Bucky and the rest of the Howling Commandos were depolying to the Austrian Alps for one of the biggest mission since Captain's impulsive rescue mission in Italy last year.

Apparently, Zola was on the move and predicted to be passing though the location while travelling on a train.

This wasn't the first time she had sent Bucky away, but the fear of each always felt like it was her first; especially when she thought about the promise of death that's chained to a soldier's fate.

The closer the time of departure, the stronger her grip on Bucky's uniform becomes. And Bucky didn't need to say anything because he knows her too well; she won't take any of his sweet words as a cure for her distress.

Bucky slowly swayed her from side to side as their embrace tightens with need; her face hidden in the crook of his neck while his arms secured around her waist. He had to smile as it reminded him of their late night dance, barefoot on the kitchen floor of his apartment.

He could feel the teasing gaze coming from his back as well as the whistles of the Howling Commandos playfully making fun of him. Bucky was also well aware of the fact that everyone had made theirs bets on when will the Sargent James B. Barnes finally get down on his knees for his little nightingale of a nurse.

Unsurprisingly, Steve might just win the bet afterall. That punk just had know everything about him.

Y/N closer snuggled into him one last time, "Come home to me, James." She whispered against his skin before pulling away. Teary eyes threatened to spill its salty liquid as she looked up at him, "Promise me."

Bucky's charming smile lighten his features as he leaned to press a kiss in her forehead, "I promise."

Brooklyn, 1945 – Loved and lost

Months gone by, entered the new year, and it always felt like eternity for Y/N. She spent nights kneeling next to her bed and days on the church's floor; practically begging to God for the life of her lover, for keeping him away from death.

And the letters from Bucky also come and goes within those few months' time, with his promises of coming home that's laced in the words of his longing and love for her.

But, little did she knew, that promise met it's end of the bargain when the dreaded letter came to her hands. It came from the man she met back in Italy base, Colonel Phillips, sending the words of condolences for the death Sargent James B. Barnes during his honourable mission at the Austrian Alps.

But the first time she read to words, it didn't even register in her head. It was as if her brain failed to translate the message for her to understand. Y/N had been re-reading the same lines over and over and over until it finally clicked.

The usually bright eyes of hers were now slowly filled with tears, she was in the state of shock; that even if her brain knew exactly what had happened but her heart wasn't ready for it.

The tears started to fall down onto the letter. Drip by drip. And all of the sudden she lost every word that she could ever think of. Her silent scream; suffocating her with each breath she took desperately gripping onto the fragile piece of paper, holding it to her chest hold as if that would help to ease the pain in her heart.

Y/N could feel it in her ripping guts. How all the threads of every joyful memories she could ever once recall; they unraveled in a way that broke her to pieces until they were all but a rumpled of strings scattered about her feet.

A sharp fall had forced Y/N down to her knees, skin digging into the hard floor as her hands trembled silently, clutching onto the letter.

At first when she opened her mouth, there was not a single sound came out as her breath ripped from her lungs. Each left her with scars of loss and every waking minute in this reality was just pure pain.

Her body bend forward until her forehead meets the floor, that was when she wailed; an agonizing scream that left a haunting memory to the neighbours around her apartment.

She cried like there was too much raw pain inside that she could never contained. She cried like her soul needed to break loose from her skin, desperate to release a loathful rage on the world.

But it was more than just crying, it was the sobbing of a woman that drained of all hope. She sank on floor, willing herself to be swallowed by the dread and loss. Just screaming out the agonies that been dancing across her vulnerable veins.

Her chest violently quivered as she was desperately trying to catch the air. She collected every last energy that she had to call out the name of the lover she had loss, "James.." Her gasping breath whispered against the floor, "You promised."

A month later the nation celebrate to the announcement to the end of a war, but to Y/N it was just another wave of mourning grief to a loss of another precious person in her life; Steve.

Amidst the loud sound of cheering and laughter, she rushed away from the crowd to the place that she had put all her faith into. Stumbling through the empty church and falling at the feet of Jesus' statue, Y/N looked up at the face if God with loath, rage, despair, and tears.

The night was brighten to the flashing light from the firework but all she could think of was how similar the sound of it to a firing canon in the war. And the thought of Bucky and Steve run through her mind.

She had been nothing but faithful to the lord, religiously prayed for no more than saving the life of people she held dear to her heart.

But, God thought it would be merciful to let them die.

Y/N harshly ripped the cross necklace from her neck, tearing her skin apart in the process. She gripped on the cross in her hands, much like she would few month back but for completely different reason.

The crimson of her blood tainted her white collar of her nurse uniform as she she cursed the all mighty God for what he had done. Ever since, she swore to herself to never be naive to the illusion of God's mercy ever again.

Washington D.C., 2014 – An old friend

Fate is full with irony and God has his way of twisting them for his own pleasure.

When Y/N died in the 60's, old and unmarried, even if she doesn't believe in God anymore, her dying wish was to be able to meet her lover and friend again.

At least one more time.

But lo and be hold, God had different plans for her. Y/N's body did die that night on the hospital bed but her soul never did. It was as if she was woken up from sleep in another body with the same face as her, that's when she realized she has been reincarnated.

Apparently, she was only born in the same family lineage as her original life; whether coming from her younger brother or cousin or anyone related back to her bloodline. And sharing even the tiniest amount of blood of her own, triggers every single memory from her previous life.

This wasn't what she wanted.

She didn't want to live knowing she cannot be with Bucky.

So on the 2nd life, she did the unthinkable. She took her own life, thinking that she would finally leave the world behind but she didn't.

It happened again.

And again.

So, when she reached her 6th life, she realized that she will never able to meet James and Steve ever again; that was when she went rogue.

Her 6th life was filled with rage and vengeance that she took the idea of life very lightly. So, instead of living until the old days, she searched for revenge and got herself tragically killed in the process.

Now, the 18 year old Y/N was in her 7th life, with a new name that was given by her 7th parents, "Evelyn" , and the spitting image of her 1st life. From her dark raven hair to the light brown of her eyes. This time, she decided to try to accept the cruel fate; the cursed that God had placed on her for the sin that she made decades ago.

Y/N walked around the Smithsomian Museum, specifically at the American history section where they put up Captain America's exhibit. It's been how many lifetimes since she surround herself with knowledge of a past that she once lived.

This was the first time, since her first life. And most probably the last time since she was going overseas in a week to continue her studies in Asia.

She walked along the line up display of the Howling Commandos suits, remembering the living flesh of them as she took steps forward to each, stopping in front of Bucky's.

Flashes of him appeared to where the figure stood; the memories was so vivid that she could still feel fabric of his suit against her, the electrifying feeling on his skin on her own.

She ripped her gaze away just to be greeted by the portrait of Bucky, plastered so hugely on the memorial of one of the Howling Commandos section. Despite the cracking of her heart, her body move on its own; as they knew that deep down, Y/N's heart will always be yearning for her lover.

Her gaze soften with longing and nostalgic as she slowly blink at his features. His considerably messy hair, that little frown that he does to act mysterious for the ladies, and the thin layer of beard that she loved to leave her lipstick marks on.

Y/N's daydream were cut short when someone pulled her by the arm, startling her into a defensive mode. Her 6th life's habit almost broke through when she nearly flipped the man on the floor but thankfully she stopped herself as she recognized those blue eyes.

The man's face looked pale like he had seen a ghost, as he uttered a name that she haven't heard for decades, "y/n?"

"Steve..." she called his name wordlessly.

She knew he was alive. Everybody does, when the news came out in 2011, she was merely a 15 year old kid back then. Apparently, the super soldier serum helped him to survive the ice.

She remembered how her parents rushed to her room when they heard the sudden cluttering sounds of panic upstairs, only to find their daughter on the floor looking pale while her cup of iced coffee spilling in all over her study desk as the viral youtube video of Captain America running through New York city barefoot.

She remembered the feeling of both disbelief and joy that rushed through body as her parents helped her to sit up on her bed. The moment that it sunk into her head, she began to cry. Streams of joyful tears broke from her shaky body, each drop washed the painful burden in her heart as her parents lulled her to sleep.

Y/N never made an effort to meet him after knowing truth because who would've believe her words?

She wasn't Steve. There wasn't any super soldier serum in her blood. There wasn't any tank of chemical that drown her with power.

She was cursed and now she had to live with it.

Meanwhile, Steve seemed to be trapped in a spiralling confusion of his own. He examined each of her features and he had not a single doubt that she has the same face to an old friend in the 40's.

The same friend that he knew died of old age in the 60's.

But, how come the person managed to have the exact same face to hers. Now that he looked closer, she was younger than the last time he saw Y/N. She looked like she was in her teens, "Are you really y/n?" His voice was soft as he muttered.

Y/N bit the insides of her cheeks, holding back the urge of telling him the truth, "Sorry, I think you got the wrong person." she tried to untangle his grasp around the thin of her arm.

Even her voice was similar to Y/N, and she was looking at Bucky's photo like she knew him.

How could she say that she's was not Y/N?

Steve reluctantly let go of her arms and took a step away after seeing the distress on her face, "I-I'm sorry. You remind me of someone I know." He couldn't take his eyes off her.

She was just too similar looking to someone precious that he left behind.

"It's okay, sir." She smiled gently, like the way she usually does when Steve apologizes for his impulsiveness of picking a fight in alleyways. She looked up to the taller man as she continued, "Thank you for being alive..." she hesitated to call him by his name so instead she called for his other name, "...Captain."

She thanked him sincerely before walking away, leaving Steve to reminisce the memories of his life with Y/N and Bucky as he stared at Bucky's memorial.

The next week, she left the United States for Asia where she planned to spend 4 years studying at the National University of Singapore, leaving her past behind in hopes of moving forward with her life, refusing to care about the avengers shenanigans anymore, including her dear friend, Steve.

New York, 2018 – New norms

When half of the population was wiped out from the earth, two of them was Y/N's parents. And like every other people who had lost their loved ones during the blip, her parents sudden absence truly take a toll on her, especially when she was planning to live a long life with them.

After graduating and getting a decent job in Singapore, she was forced to go back to New York when it happened. Y/N couldn't just let her childhood house left abandoned, she simply can't let that happen.

You would thought a person who had multiple lifetimes would be used to losing someone they love but no. It only gets worst as the years go by.

The more Y/N tried to fit into the new norms, the more that she could feel herself slipping into old habits of her 6th life.

Until that one drunken night when she visited the Smithsomian Museum again after years of forcing herself to forget about him; it took her one look at the potrait of Bucky, she knew what she had to do.

Germany, 2023 – An old nemesis

Nearly 5 years into the blip and Y/N was already becoming a legend in the underground scene. They called her the Deathstalker. She never really knew the origin of it but nevertheless she chooses to stick with the newly founded identity.

With the skills she picked up on her 6th life, she easily became the most deadly assassin in the business, seemingly in a constant competition of reputation with the highly popular, black widow assassins.

Though she couldn't care less about who was winning the battle, she only cares about tracking anything or anyone related to Hydra.

After that fateful night at the museum, she couldn't to think that this must be her calling.

If the curse made her technically immortal, then why not became the hunter destined to slay the monster. They said that Hydra will never die, but so was she. And if anything good came out from this curse, then she might as well use it to avenge Bucky.

And bring the old nemesis to the ground.

Her 6th life was similar to this but she wasn't going to make the same mistake. The flaming greed to have her revenge was too strong back then, it lead her to be hasty and clumsy, which then let her to an early death.

But, she's grown out of those immaturity.

Nowadays, she takes her time and still get the job done flawlessly. Just like she is now, when the soft but dark sound of her chuckle, interrupted the silence that had claimed the room.

The poor man was sitting limp on the chair with his body tied with it. He had been like this for seemingly hours with a knife in one of his thighs, which trembled with the vibrations of his body.

More so, when Y/N twisted them, causing a keen of pain to clawed up his throat and spilled out a hoarse groan.

"Where is it?" Her fingers wrapped around the handle, as she watched the man tossed his head, more with fear than trying to answer.

"I don't like to repeat myself." Y/N slid the blade free, causing a noise he would not forget. The man sagged against his bonds, panting as he watched the blood surged and dribbled out of the wound.

But then he felt the prick against his other leg, wide eyes turning to watch as the knife was held above his skin, Y/N's hand flat against the top, ready to push in. "Where the fuck is it?" her tone was eerie as the voice changer in her mask produced an emotionless robotic effect on it.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The thick german accent seethed through his voice as he grunted in pain.

There was only boredom in Y/N's eyes as she gazes straight into his. A stab of the knife went through his thigh without a warning, until the tip of it almost met the flat surface of the chair beneath it.

The whole room echoed with the sound of the whimpering and cries of his struggle, "Please, I swear to God I don't know what you're talking about." He pleaded as fast as he can, when he felt the shortage of breaths in his lungs due to dealing with the excruciating pain.

"Playing dumb isn't going to help you, mutt." She twisted the knife, pulled out and stabbed it again causing him to fall into an almost delirious state, "Please, please please, I swear I don't know anything about the serum." He blurted out of misery.

There it was.

The thing she wanted to hear.

Y/N's eyebrow quirked in interest, "I never mentioned the serum in our conversation, no?"

He fucked up.

He knew that he fucked up.

But, does it matter when his body was searing in pain?

By the end of the intense interrogation, Y/N finally got the intel she needed to find and destroy whatever was left behind by Wilfred Nagel, who was recruited by the CIA to recreate the super soldier serum.

Those greedy fuckers just cannot stay away from things that shouldn't be meddled with. Even Y/N could see the potential threats of a successful recreation the super soldier serum; they were practically asking for Hydra to revive to its glory days.

And she would not allow that to happen.

She needed to destroy it before its finished.

A loud wail left the man's lips, almost sounded a little strained as he had been screaming in pain for hours. Y/N mercilessly grabbed him by his sweaty chin as she pried his mouth open. Knowing exactly what was coming, the man begged, "Oh lord, please please help me please."

Leaning closer she coldly spoke, "The gods doesn't care about you. Trust me I've been there." With a swift strike, she forced her knife down his throat, and a splash of red tainted her mask, nearly got into her eyes but she managed to blink before it does.

She stood still as she watched him gurgle on his own blood as death collected his soul. Wiping the blood away from her eyelid, she walked out of the abandoned building with a mission to finish; all the while blissfully oblivious to the war that the avengers were fighting to their death on the other side of the world.

Madripoor, 2024 – The most prized asset

The returned of her parents were as sudden as the lost. Though she was glad that they were back, however she had to live a double life now that they kept asking about her job and personal life as they wanted to catch up for the lost of time in 5 years.

Y/N felt bad for lying to her parents but it was for their own good. Now, that she had sent them to a honeymoon to travel all over Europe, she felt better in pursuing her mission without concerns.

Besides the joyful return there was also the awful ones.

Now, that Wilfred Nagel was back from the blip. The serum was perfected to its finest version. And was stolen by bunch of kids protesting for equal rights.

What a fucking mess that was.

But, she would deal with that later. The main focus right now was to find the man itself. There would be no more serums if the source is eradicated.

That was her priority.

With her face hidden behind her signature mask, Y/N walked through the messy crowd as she searches for Shelby's men. This should be a short meeting, since Shelby and her had history together; or more to a favour that she owns to Y/N.

However, when she tried to tune in into the hushed conversations in the crowd, she noticed that the murmurs seemed to be divided into two hot topics; one about the sudden appreance of the Deathstalker, which was herself, and second was surprisingly about the return of another notorious assassin.

Then when the conversations died down, a fight suddenly broke out. Y/N hold on the handle of her blades from the side of her thighs, as she stiffed into a defensive mode.

While on the other hand, the crowd seemed to be more interested in recording the fight, than avoiding it.

She seemlessly weaved her way through the people, only to see that the action ended with a man choked onto the table of bar. The attacker's face turned away from her where she could only see his figure from the back.

Then, a gleam of gold caught her attention, Y/N squinted her eyes as she analyzed the man's left arm.

It was not the pattern of the sleeve from his suit.

It was his arm.

A black bionic arm.

Which reminded of her of someone she came across in her 6th life; but his was a tin foil silver with a red star on his upper arm. At the time, he was Hydra's most prized asset, they called him the Winter Soldier.

Part II >>

Read my other works here: Masterlist

A/N: yes, I am well aware that left y'all hanging but I still hope you enjoy this one. Tell me what you think so far, I'm curious if y'all cry at the part where she received the letter or maybe you can comment of something else, I'd still love to hear them ♡

#winterarmyyfics #promise me au #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #40s!bucky #1940s!bucky #tfatws!bucky

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heloisedaphnebrightmore · 4 years

Text

Childish Infatuation [Benedict Bridgerton x Reader]

Title: Childish Infatuation Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Female!Reader Word count: 2.9k Published: 27 February, 2021 Author: Heloise Daphne Brightmore Notes: My first ever Benedict fic :) Summary: [x] After 8 years you finally come back to London. Seeing Benedict intensifies all those feelings you have been harbouring for him, but the fear of rejection lingers in the back of your mind.

Bridgerton Masterlist | Masterlists

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“Eloise! You must come here,” Benedict shouted, running after his sister, circling around the sofa in a childish manner. You watched the two siblings acting in a way society would have judged them for, but in your eyes, they looked like a family filled with love. Benedict has grown into a dashingly handsome young man, one that you didn’t expect to see. His smile was like a little child’s, far from the grown man he was meant to be, but his features must have made women fall on their knees before him.

“Leave that poor girl alone,” you chipped in with an adoring smile as they turned towards you. Clear confusion sat across their faces, both debating your identity. Eloise was struggling, she was only a child when you left, but Benedict’s growing eyes reassured you of his realisation. However, before he could have even spoken a word, Anthony walked into the room with his head held high, his eyes demanding respect. Halting his steps, he carefully studied your features, before his initial shock quickly turned into a grand smile. You couldn’t stop yourself from returning his expression as he walked up to you and embraced you in a brotherly hug.

“I shall think you missed me, should you keep hugging me,” you giggled happily as you wrapped your arms around him, missing his brooding mood, sarcastic remarks and never-ending scolding. Although you knew hugging him was wrong and it could have been deemed inappropriate by many, but he was more of a brother to you than your own.

“I’m quite certain you were not a brat when you left. I’m unsure about the change,” he squinted, watching you with eager eyes, before his lips curved into a playfully smile, earning a gentle punch from you. The manners of a lady could not have been farther from you, but you didn’t mind, you loved yourself the way you were.

“I wasn’t a brat nor am I brat now. I’ll have you know, I’m a lady and I would like you to treat me accordingly, Mr. Bridgerton,” you replied with a slight attitude as you pulled away from his embrace. His reaction, a loud scoff was certainly not what you expected.

“I apologise, but you are still that tiny ankle-biter who left 8 years ago,” he chuckled playfully. You grimaced at him, once again defying those precious manners you have been taught by your dear mother.

“Ankle-biter? I’ll have you know, I was 16 years old, not a child, Anthony,'' astonished by his reply, you pursed your lips, sulking unlike a mature adult you were supposed to be.

“You will always be a little sister to me therefore I call you however I wish to,” he snorted proudly, but before you could have even thought of a smart reply, Benedict interrupted your conversation.

“Are you-? Is it-? I-,” however he tried to find the right words, Benedict was unable to form a coherent sentence.

“Should I understand?” you turned to Anthony, but he seemed as confused as you did, trying to figure out what his brother was trying to say.

“It really is you, isn’t it?” Benedict asked, his words hesitant as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.

“Might be. I am unsure about who you think I may be,” you chuckled playfully. However, your laughter died down as two strong arms sneaked around your waist and lifted you up in the air, holding onto you strongly, making you feel unexpectedly safe and secure. You wished to be in his arms for years, a simple thought of his smile made you keep going. Folding your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer to enjoy his embrace, heaving a deep sigh in comfort. You knew hugging him was inappropriate, but not for the same reasons as hugging Anthony. Having genuine feelings towards Benedict, thinking of him as a man, someone you could have imagined a future with made it wrong, but absolutely beautiful.

He placed your feet on the ground and cupped your face, kissing your forehead, starting your heart off in a dangerous race. From the corner of your eyes, you caught Anthony’s, trying to act as if he didn’t see his brother being more than slightly inappropriate. “Why didn’t you tell me in your last letter? Should I have known that you were to come home, we would have prepared,” he frowned, but his happy smile never faltered.

His hands wandered down your arms and held onto your hands, securing his fingers around them as he drew tiny circles with the tip of his thumb on your skin. Should you have removed your hands from his hold? Should you have created a space between you? Logically that would have been the right decision. But your feelings for Benedict were beyond logical. The man has had your heart since the very first day you met and whilst you never imagined growing genuine feelings from such a childish infatuation, now you stood in front of him with a beaming smile, looking at him as if he was the only man on earth.

“I wanted to surprise you,” you giggled, slightly shrugging your shoulders. “I did tell you that we might meet soon again,”

“I’m certain you have told me that for the past 8 years. Should I have believed you?” he asked, but you knew it was a rhetorical question and instead you just shook your head.

“Anthony, Benedict, I have heard news. Mr and Mrs-,” Daphne ran inside the room, holding onto her beautiful, light blue dress, her breathing shallow, her eyes wide in shock.

“It’s been a long time, Daph,” you smiled at the girl who has grown into a beautiful young woman.

“You are back,” she giggled happily as she ran up to you, holding onto your hands, squeezing them as if she was trying to make sure you were indeed present.

Reconnecting with the Bridgerton siblings felt as if you found a part of your life that has been missing for years. They were always close to you, even more so than your own brothers. In the past 8 years since you've been gone, you thought about them every single day, hoping to meet them again. Now that you finally did, you felt whole again.

As you sat at the dining table, right beside Benedict, you tried to concentrate on the delicious food in front of you, but he didn’t seem to share your priorities. He was a man on a mission, trying to distract you. Gently nudging your leg with his for the past 10 minutes didn’t seem to affect you. Or so he thought. You knew what he wanted.

When you were little, he always kept kicking you under the table as soon as he was done eating and he wanted you to follow him. It was an unspoken arrangement between the two of you and at first you were certain he didn’t remember, but the obvious indications and subtle messages reassured you that he knew what he was doing.

You have not been following the conversation between your parents and Mrs. Bridgerton, nor did you want to listen. Your complete attention has been occupied by Benedict and the man had the audacity to feel proud of himself.

“Mama?” you called out to your mother, waiting for her to halt the conversation for a mere second. When she finally looked at you, you continued. “May I please be excused?” your mother gave you a suspicious look before she turned to Benedict as if she knew what was going on. You expected her to say no, but instead a small smile spread across her face.

“Hurry back, darling,” she replied with a knowing look. You wanted to believe it was your own imagination playing a silly game with you, but your mother seemed unexpectedly happy to let you go.

You stood up from the table and headed towards the hall, before you walked behind the stairs and hurried your steps towards the garden. Standing beside the door, all alone, you let out a satisfied giggle. Looking at Benedict made you happy. The simple sight of him made your stomach fill up with thousands of dancing butterflies. But knowing he wanted to sneak around to see you in private just like 8 years ago, it made you feel like a foolish teenager again.

The door opened beside you, revealing a mischievously smiling Benedict. “I thought you didn’t understand,” he scoffed playfully.

“Indeed, I didn’t. I was confused. Surely, I thought you must have forgotten about our sign,” you explained with a wide, happy smile across your face.

“Would never,” he grinned proudly as he held onto your hand and started running with you to the other end of the garden, hidden away from the curious eyes. As soon as you reached a safe distance, he let go of your hand and continued walking ahead of you. However, you didn’t move. You watched his wide shoulders and narrow hips moving as he kept going forward. From a sudden urge, you walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, leaning your cheek against his back, enjoying the warmth radiating from his body.

“I missed you,” you whispered against his coat. A part of you wished he didn’t hear you, fearing rejection coming your way. But another part of you couldn’t hold your feelings inside anymore.

“Do you think I didn’t?” he turned around in your arms with a soft smile across his face, one that you could have easily mistaken for a loving one. “I have been exchanging letters with you for the past 8 years. I thought I would never see you again, but I never thought of ever giving up on you,” he cupped your cheeks, lifting your head up to be able to look into your eyes. Your cheeks heated up, under his intense gaze. You wished to be closer to him, to feel his body against you, but your racing heart and the fear of rejection stopped you.

“What did you think when I arrived, and you recognised me?” you asked curiously.

“Disbelief? Surprise? I couldn’t possibly believe my own eyes,” he chuckled at the sight of your slightly disappointed expression and hunched over back. You were ready to remove your arms from his waist, but he quickly got hold of them and carefully placed them back around himself, before he placed his hands back on your cheeks. “I’m sensing those aren’t the words you expected. Shall I continue?”

“Is there more?” you asked as you curiously straightened your posture again.

“Indeed, there is. I was shocked. I have not seen you, nor have you ever sent a photo for the past 8 years. I could not have imagined in my wildest of dreams to have you become this beautiful. You have always been pretty, but when you arrived and I first laid eyes on you, I certainly forgot how to speak for a second,” he chuckled awkwardly, making you giggle happily. His words could have been enough for you to confess your own love for him, but you stopped yourself.

You knew you weren’t lady-like, but that was you and Benedict’s growing smile reassured you that you could always be yourself around him. However, it didn’t reassure you enough of his own feelings. He certainly made you happy, might have even made you the happiest woman walking the earth. But confessing your own feelings without reassurance of his own, you weren’t that brave.

“Well, my dear lord, you have certainly become charming and handsome yourself,” you wiggled your brows playfully.

“Are you satisfied with my features?” he asked with a proud and confident grin.

“A little change here and there and I think we can work with it, Mr. Bridgerton,” you shrugged playfully, trying to hide your everlasting smile. He inhaled sharply, clear shock painted across his face, his mouth parted involuntarily, but he couldn’t hide the devilish smile in the corner of his lips.

As if your senses knew what he wanted to do, you quickly let go of his waist and started running away from him, expecting some form of a punishment. He didn’t have to run fast to catch you, your dress slowed you enough for him to reach you with one arm, gently pulling you down on the grass with him. He quickly changed position, hovering above you, his weight only held by his arms on each side of your face. The previously happy smile disappeared from your face, instead your complete attention turned to his dangerously close lips, his intoxicating cologne and his eyes that seemed to focus on your mouth.

“Benedict?” you whispered in fear of ruining the moment. “Do you remember our promise from when we were children?” a deep frown sat between his brows at your question.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Back when we were little, we promised to marry each other. Can you recall that?” your tone was more hopeful than ever before, and you were certain Benedict could hear it.

“It was a silly little game back then,” he smiled blissfully, but for you that simple expression which made you the happiest woman a moment ago now felt as if you were stabbed in the chest.

“It was not for me,” you furrowed. You wished he thought of that childish agreement as sincerely as you, but his rejection confirmed your worst fears. He didn’t. You felt your eyes fill up with unshed tears, your throat dangerously suffocating you, your chest becoming heavy as you tried to sit up. You wanted to disappear, feeling foolish about waiting 8 years for a man who couldn’t love you the way you wished he would. But Benedict didn’t move.

“It is certainly not a game to me now,” he added quickly as he realised your tears and distanced behaviour. “I wouldn’t have exchanged letters with you for 8 years should you have not been important to me. I have loved you long before you left, but I couldn’t offer you anything back then. I was a mere child. A foolish 19-year-old boy who was confused about his own feelings. However, now I know what I want.”

“What do you want?” you whispered in astonishment, his words awakening hope in you again, excited butterflies flapping around in your stomach.

“You!” he stated firmly and before you knew it, his lips met yours, kissing you for the first time feverishly. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you pulled him closer. You never knew how it felt to be kissed nor could you ever imagine it. But now that Benedict was kissing you, his lips against yours fitting perfectly made you quickly understand why they regarded kissing someone other than your husband a sin. If it wasn’t for Benedict pulling away, you would have never let him go.

Although slightly breathless, you giggled against his lips hovering above yours. “Shall we repeat that?” you asked boldly, earning a chuckle from him.

“I’d like nothing more, but-” he smiled at you with an adoring look in his eyes. “not now. Tomorrow morning, I shall talk to your father and ask him for your hand in marriage. I will not have anyone stealing you away from me again whether it be your parents or any possible suitor.”

“That vaguely sounds as if you were proposing to me,” you beamed at him, enthralled which earned you a loud laughter from him.

“As soon as your father gives us his blessing, I will propose to you in a way you could never imagine,” he replied proudly, before he pushed himself up and reached for your hand to help you up beside him.

“I can’t possibly wait to see that,” you giggled happily, biting into your bottom lip, trying to contain yourself as you walked back to the mansion. Reaching the entrance of the house, he quickly pulled you into his embrace, his arm holding onto your waist safely as he placed a small peck on your lips.

“Don’t bite your lips,” he heaved a deep sigh as he hid his face in the crook of your neck, slowly inhaling your scent. “Surely, I will not do anything until our marriage, but should I ask of you not to do something, please refrain yourself from doing it,” his tone was desperate, waking your curiosity.

“Would you mind stealing a kiss maybe on occasions?” you giggled playfully, earning a heartfelt laughter from him.

“I could never deny that from you,” he planted a kiss on your neck and gently nudged you towards the door. “You have to go back first, I shall follow soon,” he gave you the instructions.

“After you have talked to my father, will you come see me?” you asked hopefully.

“I wouldn’t miss it. Now go,” he ushered you in with a foolish smile across his face. As soon as you disappeared behind the door, his smile grew wider and defying all his maturity he happily jumped around in his place, laughing at the memories you left him with, giddy and slightly nervous about the next day. But for now, he could only think of you and the childish infatuation he once felt for you and over time grew into a strong love, he felt he could barely contain.

Notes: If you enjoyed reading this little piece, please don’t forget to leave a like, comment and/or reblog. Your opinion matters and gives us motivation. Thank you ^^

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petals-and-bullets · 3 years

Text

Monarch

Pairing: Izzy Stradlin x Reader

Word Count: 732

Info: Partner fic to this moodboard! King Jeffrey was the Tyrant King. He had no claim to the throne aside from his desire to own what was coveted by many others - and alongside it came with the desire for blood. A summons certainly meant death; or so it was believed.

Many a great monarch had taken their throne through blood. Of course, they were known more as a usurper than a monarch, but it made little difference. A crown was a crown, and whoever wore that crown ruled the country. It was just the way it worked.

Of course, that was how it was meant to be. Often, several claims to the throne would be announced - be it through someone who claimed to be a distant nephew or cousin of some long-dead royal, or someone who was promised the throne by a royal who had no son to carry on the line.

King Jeffrey was not one of those men.

Rather, he was the kind of man who saw something that others coveted, and he took it, as though it was as simple as that. He had no claim aside from his desire for the control, and his determination to win a war that had caused five years of bloodshed since he landed on the soil.

The screams of the widowers and the dying soldiers had haunted his dreams following that moment, and yet Jeffrey – or rather Izzy, as he was known to his closest advisors – had held his tongue, and had acted like it was part of common life. As if he had done that every day since he could walk.

And perhaps that was true. Nobody really knew.

So, whenever a summons was issued, for this person or that person to be presented in front of him, it would be presumed that they’d never be seen again. Wills were written, families were given final goodbyes, and they were off. It was rare for them to return, and your heart dropped when one of those familiar wax-sealed letters had been delivered to you. You wanted, with all your heart, to avoid visiting the King, but you knew that the second summons would come with an armed guard to escort you fully to the palace.

You weren’t prepared to be forced to your knees in the shadow-filled throne room, the only visible part of the king that you could see where his feet, the dark leather of his boot tapping against the marble floor. Though he had yet to speak, you knew that there was something that had displeased him – if anything, his silence spoke more than any words would have done. A quick glance around the room allowed you to see the rest of his inner circle; the tall blonde who was part of his personal guard, the curly haired man who had seemingly appeared from nowhere who was supposedly his own doctor. Though you’d heard enough to suspect that he did more than heal, but there was no evidence to prove otherwise.

The echoed sound of the boot tapping against the floor rang through your ears, and your heart leaped into your throat as the man before you stood. The lack of words between you were deafening, but the utter silence was even worse; even the sound of your own heart pounding in your ears was ignored as the King – the man who would most certainly demand your head, for some reason or another – stepped off the dais and into the light, his hazel eyes glinting in the dying sunlight that had pierced the room through the stained glass windows. Images of Christ and other biblical features cast coloured streams across the floor, and you watched as the brown leather of his boots approached you.

A finger under your chin guided you to look up at him, and you struggled to swallow the whimper that threatened to claw out from under your throat as he regarded you with that cool gaze. As he opened his mouth, you closed your eyes and braced yourself for the death sentence to be uttered, only to have your breath caught in your throat as he spoke the exact opposite of what you expected.

“You will be a good spouse. I expect you to understand your duties, hm?” He released your chin and left you kneeling in the centre of the room, the oak doors slamming behind him as the rest of his court watched you almost eagerly, as if they expected you to jump from joy and pure excitement at the thought you were to be married to the Tyrant King.

They obviously weren’t expecting the scream of terror that left your throat.

#izzy stradlin #izzy stradlin x reader smut #guns n roses x reader #guns n roses au #gnr fic #guns n roses fanfiction #tudor guns series #i'm back baby

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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 2 years

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Perfection, Chapter 9--A Perfectly Lovely Day

Aziraphale and Crowley live in a heartbreakingly perfect world. There is no sadness. There is no loss. Every day, the sun rises on an idyllic peace far beyond mortal imagination.

The end of the old world brought Salvation. Justice. Perfection.

But not everything is what it seems. And one angel learns that perfection cannot be bought without great pain.

In this chapter, Aziraphale's day begins to get better, while Crowley's continues to get worse...

(Fic is rated M for violent/disturbing/dark content. Please check the tags)

Now on AO3!

Aziraphale sat in the bed, drinking the last of the broth. Chicken broth, not even full soup, hardly something that one would find in any of his favorite restaurants, but it seemed to be the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted.

The woman—Dolly-Rose—came back into the room carrying something in her hands. “Here, I thought this would help—oh! Finished already? Do you want another bowl?”

The angel scraped up the last few drops with his spoon. He could have had twenty more bowls, but that seemed an imposition. He set it aside on the little table and smiled, folding his hands.

“I… I suppose that’s a no. Well, I thought we could try this.” She held out a pad of paper and a pen.

Aziraphale stared at them. He hadn’t been allowed writing implements in so long. His fingers shook as he reached out, but instinctively pulled back as he looked over his shoulder for Gabriel, for the guards, for those who would punish him for breaking his sentence.

“Oh. Can you write? I mean, I assumed… never mind, then.” She started to turn away.

Desperately, he reached out, managing to catch her wrist before she left. Frowning in confusion, she handed them to him.

“English, right? I know a little French, too, but that’s about it. Certainly no fancy angel letters.”

His handwriting came out smudged and scribbled, not the neat calligraphy he’d practiced for centuries. But there it was, four words: My name is Aziraphale.

Just seeing it there, words, his words, seeing the comprehension on another face was enough to bring him to tears again. Not as many this time, but he had to put aside the pad lest he get it wet, and press a hand to his eyes. Dolly-Rose stood beside him, hand on his back. “It’s alright. You just let it all out, er, Az… Aza… Azer-a-fell?”

It made him laugh, silently. Close enough, he wrote, words coming faster now. Some people called me Mr. Fell back before…

He didn’t quite know what to put, but she nodded, sitting beside him on the bed. “Mr. Fell, then. How is it you came to be in my guest room, drinking my broth?”

Seeing as you brought me here, my dear, I believe you would know better than I.

Dolly-Rose laughed as she read. “Oh, I see. You’re a clever one, then.”

Quite clever, if I say so myself. But it’s been rather a long time since I’ve had the opportunity.

“Then I should ask, how is it you found yourself sleeping on the mountainside, covered in blood?” His pen hovered over the pad. “And not all of it your own,” she added more softly.

Ah. You noticed. He’d pulled the blankets up to his waist, but there was no point in trying to hide it now. She was the one who had washed and bandaged his wounds, and despite his earlier panic there was still plenty of evidence of the night’s activities. His robe was covered in rips and deep red blotches, some of the larger cuts were still scabbed over, and the piercings that had held his chains hadn’t healed completely.

“Not the only thing I noticed.” Dolly-Rose tapped a finger on his bicep. Though it was covered by the blood-stained white of his sleeve, he knew exactly what she was pointing at.

Aziraphale folded a hand over his Prisoner’s Mark, though his mind was remembering another one, glowing on Crowley’s arm.

Read the rest on AO3!

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lambden · 3 years

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What better way to break in a new blog than by immediately posting fic? In honour of Nightmare of the Wolf, here’s some Vesemir and Filavandrel!

(read on AO3)

M, 2.9K words, no warnings, Vesemir recognizes Jaskier’s lute when he arrives at Kaer Morhen

Vesemir has been expecting this day for decades. It’s rare for witchers to meet a trusted companion out on the Path, and even rarer to find one who wishes to travel alongside them. But the reputation of witchers has changed in recent years, for better or worse. Their focus is no longer on maintaining the traditional practices of their schools, but on protection— of other witchers, and of helpless commoners. Perhaps the humans can sense that change.

More curiously, the folklore surrounding witchers has changed. Vesemir very badly wants to meet the man who has done so much to change the narrative, but years pass and all Geralt brings home every winter are stories. The younger witchers entertain (and tease) him but no one ever asks where the bard goes during the cold months that Geralt spends at Kaer Morhen. Perhaps even Geralt doesn’t know.

Finally, after hundreds of stories of Geralt-and-Dandelion, Vesemir receives a letter one autumn before he himself has even considered the journey home. His chest warms as he reads Geralt’s careful penmanship, noting how the ink blots at the start of each new sentence. The paper and wax are fine, suggesting that Jaskier used his academic connections to perhaps land Geralt a few contracts near Oxenfurt. Geralt’s lettering may be nearly flawless but his message is stilted, reminding Vesemir of when his pups were nervous children. Does Jaskier really make him act this awkward? Their relationship must be serious, then.

I am hoping you will welcome my guest with open arms, or I fear he may freeze over the coming months. Vesemir looks for a signature but there is none, save a very fancy G at the bottom. No returning address has been provided either, and while he could easily pen a missive to Oxenfurt, it’s probably best not to respond. Each day Nilfgaard only grows stronger, and crueler. Perhaps Jaskier has been caught up in their hunger for power. Vesemir folds the letter up and hides it in his saddlebag.

When the frost begins creeping in, the oldest Wolf begins his trek up the mountain. He’s almost always the first one to arrive; Coën had beaten him to it once and apologized for weeks, and Vesemir would do anything to avoid that again. And if he makes an effort to arrive early this year so that he can make the Keep look as important as it is, well… nobody needs to know.

It takes a week and a half before Geralt arrives, Jaskier in tow. Vesemir spends the time flushing out a bat infestation and dealing with the most perishable of his spoils from the past year. The White Wolf seems to bring the cold with him most years but Vesemir, cognizant of Jaskier’s inferior body, made sure to set out enough furs in advance. As soon as he hears Roach’s hooves approaching he starts a roaring fire, and when the inner doors of Kaer Morhen burst open, Vesemir is ready to make a great first impression.

Upon seeing him, Geralt smiles right away, crossing the room to greet him. Vesemir looks him over; no obvious new scars, no missing body parts. Must have been an uneventful year, but… Geralt is here, safe and alive, so Vesemir allows himself some private, selfish, unwitcherly joy. It’s the sort of thing Deglan would have lectured him for. He finds he doesn’t care.

“I got your letter,” he tells Geralt, who nods solemnly. “I thought it best not to reply. Is Nilfgaard on your trail?”

“Our trail,” Geralt sighs, stepping aside so that Vesemir can meet his companion. “Vesemir, this is Jaskier.”

The bard, dwarfed by a large fur coat, moves forward so that Vesemir can properly scrutinize him. He certainly doesn’t look his age, but Vesemir knows he’s travelled as far as any witcher has gone, and seen sights no human should really have witnessed. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you, Jaskier. I was wondering when Geralt was finally going to bring you along for the winter!” That makes Jaskier perk up, and Vesemir chuckles. “I promise that no harm will come to you here.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. “Geralt doesn’t like sharing much about the other witchers, but I’m sure you must have a wealth of stories for me to hear!” Sure enough, Geralt frowns. “And I don’t know how much help I’ll be with hunting or gathering, but I would be happy to regale you on the coldest nights—”

And before Vesemir can read into that unfortunate phrasing, Jaskier shrugs off his fur coat to produce a lute. He must have been wearing it strapped around his front on the journey through the mountains, not wanting to condemn such a fine instrument to being jostled around in Roach’s saddlebags. Vesemir squints at the red-brown wood and the golden details under the strings. They almost look like a particular elven design.

Oh. Vesemir’s realization nearly bowls him over. Geralt and Jaskier stare at him, respectively concerned and curious, but Vesemir can’t take his eyes off the lute. “My apologies, I… I forgot something in my chamber. Make yourselves at home, and… I’ll leave you to it.” He leaves without any further explanation, hastening to his quarters and abandoning the pair of them to their own devices. He can still feel their gazes drilling into his back but he suddenly feels weaker than usual.

---

“I heard there was a witcher skulking around this forest,” the spy says. Vesemir is almost relieved to hear them speak; he’s been glancing over his shoulder for nearly an hour now to try and reveal an invisible pursuer. He should’ve known he was right. Just because the spy doesn’t lumber like a human or reek of magic like a monster doesn’t mean he won’t be in trouble.

He stops in the middle of the path, still facing forward. He’s got a sneaking suspicion that the second he turns, a very unfriendly knife is going to introduce itself to his ribcage. Or perhaps an arrow, although he hasn’t heard the sound of anything and he’s been listening very closely.

His pursuer approaches. Fuck, they’re light on their feet. If Vesemir was just an average bandit, he’d be done for. He braces himself for an attack, balling his hands up into fists at his sides. The stranger continues, tone still pleasant enough, “Why not stay in town? A warm bed must beat trudging through mud in the early hours of the morning trying to find ground. I’ll give you some advice, witcher; there’s no dry ground. You’re heading towards a swamp.”

“They wouldn’t let me stay in town,” Vesemir admits, already grumpy. He whirls around and sees the stranger; a lean man, just slightly shorter than him. The long hood of their cloak casts a dark shadow over their face, blocking them from view. “If you’re here to rob me, I hate to disappoint, but you’ve followed me all this way for nothing.”

He holds up his empty coinpurse; not to prove himself, just to complain. The stranger titters, a lovely, high-pitched sound like glass clinking against glass, like chimes. Like birdsong. Vesemir’s eyes narrow. “That’s a shame,” they say. “You do love coin.”

There’s something disturbingly familiar about the words. Vesemir decides to gamble with his own life, stalking forward until he’s face to face with the stranger. Up close, his scent is even stronger. Frowning, Vesemir is about to reveal the man’s identity when he does it himself, pushing his hood back. His hair is tied up in complex braids unlike any Vesemir has ever seen, only a few loose strands hanging down over his forehead. But it would take more than a lifetime for Vesemir to forget that face.

“Fil,” he declares, delighted, and doesn’t think twice before crashing into the elf. Filavandrel laughs again and though it makes Vesemir feel a little silly, the sound still fills his heart with joy. He embraces his friend tightly, clinging to him for so long that both their boots sink down into the flooded dark soil of the forest. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s like I told you.” The elf pats the back of Vesemir’s neck, unwittingly sending a shiver down his spine. Vesemir’s grip tightens. “My scouts said I might find a witcher lost in the woods.”

“I’m not lost,” Vesemir grunts, finally pulling away. “I just… don’t know where I’m going.”

“Come to my camp,” suggests Filavandrel. As if he even had to ask.

Unsurprisingly, elves make their camps much differently than witchers do. When they arrive Vesemir doesn’t immediately see any sort of bedroll, and then he feels embarrassed for looking. He never feels this way around anyone else; he can make bawdy jokes with Sven or blatantly hit on Luka, but in the company of Filavandrel aén Fidháil, shame bursts through him so easily.

Maybe he just has a thing for pretty blondes who he leaves behind.

Except Fil is here, smiling indulgently as Vesemir gapes like a fool. “It’s nice,” he finally manages to say. “Want me to set a fire?”

“A campfire, sure. Not a big one,” Filavandrel teases. Swallowing, Vesemir turns to a firepit that the elf must have fashioned himself. He takes a bundle of wood that’s already been cut and easily ignites it, all the while trying to figure out why his heart is pounding so damn loud. Thank fuck that Filavandrel isn’t a witcher.

“Have you eaten?”

“No. You?”

“I was going to have some bread, and go hunting in the morning.” There’s a small noise and when Vesemir turns to look, his friend is holding out a large chunk of bread. It doesn’t even look that stale. Vesemir sees that Filavandrel has taken a much smaller piece for himself and growls about it, but the elf snatches the smaller piece away before Vesemir can lunge for it. “I don’t want to hear any self-sacrificial bullshit about how witchers don’t need to eat. Take the damn bread, Ves.”

“... Fine,” Vesemir relents, cowed. He accepts the bread, fingertips accidentally brushing over Filavandrel’s when he takes it. It’s fucking delicious, melting in his mouth almost instantly. Seeds and herbs have been baked into it too, and Vesemir savours every bite, moaning. “You should quit being a professional elf and start a new life as a baker, fuck.”

“I can do both. It’s an old recipe, needs a stone oven. And what does being a professional elf even mean?” Filavandrel reaches up to shove him, except they aren’t very far away from each other so the push nearly knocks Vesemir off his balance. Before he can tip over onto the grass Filavandrel grabs him by the collar of his gambeson and tugs him back, and, well. Vesemir may be a witcher, but parts of him are still human.

Neither of them has to say a word; he opens for Filavandrel like he’s been thinking of nothing but this since the second they laid eyes on each other. Honestly, he sort of has. Fil runs a hand over the shaved part of his head, pressing his palm against the back of his neck to pull him in closer. Vesemir moans, chasing the taste of something sweet and acidic and magic. It certainly isn’t the fucking bread.

Afterwards they lie together by the smoldering remains of the fire, both too spent to clean themselves or dress. Vesemir glances over at the cinders and thinks about making an exit soon. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to stay with Filavandrel. He’s comfortable here, especially right now, and his friend always makes his heart feel lighter. But the Path calls to him; lying here without his weapons or armour, Vesemir can nearly hear Deglan’s scolding. And that thought is enough to ruin anyone’s afterglow.

Before he can move, Filavandrel sits up, arching his back. Vesemir turns to watch him, nearly salivating at how he looks in the low firelight. His hair is radiant, and his skin isn’t nearly flushed enough. He’s beautiful. Ethereal. Selfishly, Vesemir wishes that he’d left more marks.

Fil climbs to his feet and crosses the campsite to retrieve something out of reach. Vesemir cranes his neck to try and peek, and Filavandrel laughs kindly at him. “I was just thinking that something’s missing.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Vesemir says, lowering his head back down onto the ground. “I should have kissed you more.”

The elf pauses at that before finally demanding, “Kiss me later.” A note resounds through the air, clear and beautiful; then a chord, and another. Very soon their little clearing feels more like a fairy circle than a campground as Filavandrel plays music.

He finally walks into view, still naked, still beautiful. Now holding a lute. Vesemir tries to sit up so that he can properly see the performance but Filavandrel is faster, moving over him and then sitting atop his stomach, resting his back against Vesemir’s thighs. He plays the entire time, fingers moving adeptly over the instrument.

It’s a beautiful lute, probably made of some holy dark red wood. The golden design etched into it is mesmerizing, and the strings could have been plucked from the mane of a unicorn. Vesemir hardly spares it any attention, too wrapped up in the sight of a naked Filavandrel straddling him and singing.

He’ll only realize decades later that the elf was probably trying to court him.

Someone knocks on the door to his chambers and Vesemir jumps to his feet, caught off-guard by the sound that plucked him from his memories. He finds Jaskier waiting outside his room, toying idly with the sleeves of his doublet. Vesemir shakes his head, holding the door open for Jaskier even as he apologizes. “I’m sorry for running out earlier. I meant to give you a tour of the Keep, hopefully Geralt will have stepped up in my absence, but I am sorry—”

“No— please,” Jaskier interrupts. Once more he pulls his lute from around himself, holding it out to Vesemir. “I just… Your countenance changed dramatically upon seeing this, so…”

Fuck. “Yes,” Vesemir sighs, staring at the lute. Jaskier has managed to keep it in good condition after all this time. “I… Filavandrel and I are old friends.”

The bard’s eyes bulge out of his head but he enters Vesemir’s chambers, heading straight to the desk to perch on the edge of the chair. Vesemir finds another chair for himself, moving its previous occupant— a stack of books— onto the floor. In his defence, he hadn’t expected the tour of Kaer Morhen to begin in his personal chambers.

“He didn’t mention knowing any other witchers,” Jaskier hums. “How did you meet him?”

“You’re sure you want to know? It’s sort of a long story.” The bard just nods, eager and polite. Instantly Vesemir can see why Geralt likes him. “Alright,” he obliges, reaching for the bottle of wine on the desk. They’re going to need it. “We met long before you would have been born…”

---

South of Kaedwen, the seasons are more aligned than any other part of the Continent. The winters are crisp, the summers lazy. Filavandrel likes to spend his summers here, where the canopy of trees is thick enough to provide shade but thin enough to provide colour. Everything is verdant, the flowers calling to him as he passes each one. When he was a child he had longed to visit towns and experience human delights like festivals but now he knows better. The elves live off the land well enough anyway.

Some of the younger people in his company these days have that same yearning, and some of them even manage it. One elf who resembles Toruviel always runs off to see some different show, take in some new performance. If Filavandrel thought that she could get away with it, he would pay for her to attend Oxenfurt— she’s very good. And the upside of her risking her life just to listen to music is that she’s got a very good memory, and she always brings the songs back home.

Today she’s singing some new ode to a witcher; not that bigoted anthem of lies that the bastard warbler from Posada somehow spread through the Continent, thank the Gods. This one seems to revolve more around making the right choice, and how a real hero does good deeds not for coin or his own profit, but just to be good. Filavandrel thinks about the few witchers that he’s had the misfortune of contacting over the years, and under his breath he scoffs.

Cheesy chorus aside, the lyrics seem to have some merit. The first verse is all about some terrible monster that was taking young girls, transforming them into half-beasts. The hero witcher’s judgement fails him and he blames himself for years, even losing a lover in the process. Filavandrel scowls; despite his own experiences with witches, he doesn’t want to listen to a song written by yet another prejudiced bard.

Then the third verse lands. The witcher grows old and wise and has children of his own, and he regrets his inaction and he tries to reach out to contact his lover. But at that point his lover, who devoted his life to protecting those in danger, was too busy being King of the Silver Towers. Filavandrel stops dead in his tracks as he realizes which witcher this must have been inspired by.

The elven king huffs, starting to compose a route in his head. He thinks a trip up north is long overdue.

#vesemir #filavandrel #nightmare of the wolf #the witcher nightmare of the wolf #geraskier fic #my writing #hey did anyone else see young vesemir talking to his friend fil in the bath and think we were gonna get a Bath Scene Part Two: The Remix?

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lollytea · 3 years

Text

Girl Talk

(ngl I hate this sm. I wrote this fic yesterday, the file corrupted and i lost everything, had a breakdown, rewrote everything the next day because I am obnoxiously stubborn. Anyways Hunter and Luz content. Bon Appetit?)

(READ ON AO3)

“Okay, but what am I even supposed to say to her? Oh! Maybe I could write down some jokes on the back of my glyph slips in case things get awkward. Wait, no, I don't want her to think I'm not taking this seriously. I don't need to be goofy all the time just to hang out with her. I need her to know that I'm serious about her and this whole...romantic thing. And I know she gets upset when she thinks I'm making fun of her so...”

“Alright, so, get this. It says here that there was once this old witch who lived on the outskirts of Latissa and his whole thing was experimenting by mixing paints and magic together. Apparently the stuff he created was like....super powerful.”

“I mean, she said she likes me 'cause I'm goofy and funny and lovable and...and...and I'm sure there's other adjectives I could use but I'm drawing a blank here. So, who am I to deprive her of what she signed up for? But I can't just....ugh, I can't even think right!”

“It doesn't have a lot of info on his specific technique but I'm sure if we did some more research, we could successfully replicate his experiments. We're pretty good at figuring stuff out. Woah, wait. I wonder what would happen if we created glyphs with this paint....maybe it would enhance the spell's level of power. Oh, that would be so cool!”

Luz stopped pacing, the floorboards practically burning after she thoroughly wore down the surface with her frantic footsteps. She set a hand on her hip and turned a withering look on her guest.

“Call me coocoo but I don't think you're listening to a word I say.”

Hunter lifted his head to blink up at her, chewing on the end of a pen. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, boxed in by towers of Eda's Wild Magic books.

There was a glassy look in his eye, as if he was trying to get his bearings after being abruptly yanked out of an alternate dimension.

He had been, in a way. Luz was inclined to call it “Booksville.”

When Luz first met Hunter, this sort of stuff was a big, huge No-No for him. She could've invited him to take a look at any one of those books, packed with information on that obsession of his and of course, he'd be crazy with intrigue but he would hesitate. If he even opened the book at all, he'd card through the pages with an almost jumpy sense of caution, as if the paper itself would sting his fingers.

Well, that ship had certainly sailed. It had taken him a while to get fully comfortable but nowadays, Hunter didn't ask twice before digging into the contents of Eda's books, soaking up every tidbit of every sentence until he had exhausted every page.

He had even brought his own index flags to mark his favorite passages. He had gone on a little rant earlier about how Eda was an outright maniac for dog-earring the page corners.

Luz made a mental note to never show him the state of her Azura books. He would probably cry.

Hunter had become so lost in the Wild Magic sauce, he didn't even seem to care about the fact that he was not supposed to be here.

Of course, Eda didn't mind that he was here. That is to say, Luz didn't technically tell her he was here. She and King were currently out, being menaces to society and all that fun stuff, as they usually were before Luz would sneak Hunter in.

So, to be fair, Eda had never specifically said that Luz was not allowed to let The Golden Guard of the Emperor's coven into their home.

It was probably fine, right?

Yeah, it was probably fine that Luz had been hiding The Golden Guard of the Emperor's coven in her bedroom like some kind of forbidden pet.

Speaking of forbidden pets, that precious red cardinal of his was perched like a Christmas decoration atop his shoulder. That little rascal did wonders for Hunter. He seemed so much cuter than he was when there was an adorable little palisman snuggling up to him.

Once Hunter had processed what Luz said to him, his features screwed up tight. He was offended.

“Whadd'ya mean I'm not listening? I bet you can't repeat anything I was just talking about.”

“Ugh! Yeah, Hunter, I heard you. Paints! You wanna start painting as a hobby and let me just tell you, I fully support your budding creativety and will hype up your work with my entire heart but please. Right now I am having a full blown Amity Calamity!”

“Yeah, okay, that is not what I was talking about. Also, I get that you're freaking out n' all but....what do you expect me to do about it?” He threw his hands about wildly, at a complete loss. “Man, I don't know anything about that stuff,”

“I don't knowww....” Luz groaned. “I just....ugggghhh.” She buried her head in her hands, ruffling her hair into oblivion, like it would miraculously stimulate her brain cells into action. It released some pent up frustration, at least. “I wish it was easier for us to just talk about girls together.”

Hunter perked up. “Talk about girls? Are you kidding? Of course we can talk about girls, dummy!”

“Wait, really?” Luz asked, taken aback by this apparent development.

“Yeah, for sure. One sec,” Buzzing with eagerness, Hunter dove into his stacks of books, emerging seconds later with a worn, dust encrusted volume. It was so ancient, the title had faded away but Hunter still put his finger to where the big letters should be.

“Notable Female Witches of The Savage Ages,” He rattled off delightedly. “They were considered the mothers of Wild Magic. Their style of spell was really quite advanced, see they--”

Despite her frayed nerves, Luz sill managed a weak laugh.

As insufferable as he could be sometimes, she really did like this nerd a lot.

“Okay, Hunter. Buddy,” She said gently. “This stuff sounds really cool and I wanna hear all about it at some point buuuut....when I say girls, I mean...y'know. Amity specifically.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.”

Hunter's face fell with disappointment but he was quick to snap back into a look of cool indifference. He shut the book in his lap with a soft thump, set it aside and turned his full attention to Luz.

“Sooooo...” he began awkwardly, scratching at his ear. It could not be more obvious that Hunter wanted nothing to do with this discussion. But Luz appreciated that he was trying. “Girlfriend problems, huh? Shoot.”

Luz's cheeks darkened. “Heh. 'Girlfriend'. Yeah, that's...uh...” She was suddenly very inconvenienced by the existence of her own hands so she clasped them together tight to keep herself from fidgeting. “That is.....a word for Amity.”

Hunter frowned, puzzled. “Okaaaay? So, what's the issue?”

“Ohhhhhh, boy.” An ironic, long suffering smile stretched across her face. “Let me just tell you that there is a lot goin' on up here, pal.” Luz tapped her finger against her temple. “So if I'm gonna give you the full unabridged version--”

“You could summarize it.”

“You know I don't know how to do that.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hunter sighed. “Figured it was worth a shot. Okay, let's hear it.”

“Alright but this is gonna be a lot so I suggest you strap yourself in,”

Luz sucked in a deep inhale, with full intent to let the entire flood of thoughts cascade out her mouth.

Hunter's eyes snapped to the floor, like he was actually looking for a safety harness to attach himself to. Then he seemed to realize that was ridiculous, as he scowled to himself. Little Rascal chirped and he irritably mumbled something under his breath in response.

And then Luz took off.

“Alright, so!” She announced, clapping her hands together. “So me and Amity have known each other fooooor...a while now? Yeah, it's been a while. And we've been pretty good friends ever since and then one day, she rescued me from her scary mom and she had this black flowing cape and her voice went all low and then suddenly, huh. Doki doki, y'know?” She thumped a fist against her chest. “I was gettin' all feelings-y up in here,”.

“And then a little later I figured out that we were both feeling kinda feelings-y and I was all like,” She mimed a brain explosion. “Pshww....”

“Pshww....” Hunter repeated quietly, testing out the little sound effect on his tongue. “Doki...doki....?”

“Yeah. Exactly. Doki doki. Pshww.” Luz nodded, as if he had made a valuable contribution. “So, now we're both here in the same boat, fully shish kebab-ed by Cupid's arrow.”

“Hold up. What language are you speaking?”

“And things are....great? Nice? Sorta hard to believe but stuff actually happens. We hold hands a few times, we...” The volume of her voice dropped to a bashful murmur. “we kiss a few times. There was so many beautiful, amazing romance-y moments that happened, just like in movies, y'know?”

“Movies....?” Hunter's bewildered stare turned from Luz to the bird on his shoulder, as if he was going to get any further clarification from either of them.

“Right! But here's the thing. It sorta feels like all that stuff just went by in a blur. I don't even know how I did any of that. The hand holding, the smooches the....ugh! It was like I was on autopilot or something and now I have no idea how to operate. Now, no matter how hard I try to get the vibe right, I can recreate those moments. So now it's starting to feel like...I don't know how to do anything!”

Luz's arms were whizzing around like an out of control windmill.

“I mean, Sure, Amity takes the lead sometimes but I can't make her carry this entire....relationship? Flirtationship? Whatever it is that's happening here! I gotta act or something! But I've been thinking about it waaaay too much. I never know the right time to hold her hand, I never know if she wants me to tell her she looks cute or if now maybe isn't the right time or...it's awkward, okay?! I've been making it awkward 'cause I don't know what to do! I-I don't even know for sure if we're dating! We've never talked about it!”

The last sentence came out as a squeak and Luz realized she had used up all her oxygen and needed to take a breather.

Hunter had not said a word but Luz did not know what to make of that dissecting stare of his, that studied her with a mixture of confusion and fascination. Like she was some kind of peculiar animal. A flushed, panting, peculiar animal.

“So.” He said finally, holding his palm out for Little Rascal to migrate from his shoulder to his hands. “Why don't you talk about it?”

He asked like it was the obvious solution. Luz was a little irked by it, but she kept her patience.

“Oh, Hunter. Sweet Hunter.” She heaved an exhausted sigh. “It is not that simple.”

He still didn't seem to understand. “Well, why not?”

“'Cause it's--.....Uh.” Luz trailed off, twirling her wrist around as if expecting to snatch an eloquent articulation out of thin air.

“Okay. Lemme put it like this. Amity is....really special. To me. Sometimes I still can't believe that she's real and she's friends with me and she likes me and....whew.” She pressed her fingertips to her cheek, surprised by the warmth. Even thinking that sort of stuff prompted a blush or two but it seemed saying it out loud made her face scalding.

“Anyway, now that we're going through....this, everything feels so much more....fragile?” Her voice rose in pitch, uncertain if 'Fragile' was even a suitable word to describe her feelings. It was just a vague, wishy-washy concept to describe.

“Like I feel like I could break it all so easy, just by....” Wait, she knew. She had figured out her handle on this.

“Just by being me.” She felt an ache just by admitting it, but it was the truth. Luz exhaled unsteadily to compose herself, clasping her fists tight into the fabric of her shorts and she continued...calmly.

“I can't risk doing anything that's gonna push her or make her uncomfortable or scare her away or...y'know, ruin this.” She held up her palms with a heavy shrug. “I-I don't have a plan and it would be way too reckless to wing it. Who knows what would come out of my mouth? She tells me a billion times that my weirdness is what she likes about me but...it can just as easily be the thing she hates if I overdo. I can't overdo it.

Luz was expecting Hunter to look at her like she was dumb again, but surprisingly, he nodded. A slow, thoughtful nod, as he absentmindedly scratched Little Rascal under the chin.

As the silence filled a little longer, she was starting to believe he had nothing else to add, which was fine. She had wanted to rant her heart out but realistically, she couldn't imagine Hunter having any advice for her. This wasn't exactly his area of expertise.

“Hey, Luz.” He said at last, voice surprisingly breezy. “You know those books that you really like? Uhh, with the nice witch Azuzu or whatever,”

“It's the Good Witch Azura!” Luz snapped, hands flying to her hips. “And I know you just pretended to not know her name. You're just trying to be cool.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The corner of Hunter's lip tweaked upwards. “And wasn't there that other witch that you liked to pretend was Azura's girlfriend?

Luz scoffed, finding it utterly unbelievable that this obnoxious little man had the audacity to be so dismissive towards her favorite book series, when she had been sweet enough to smuggle him in here.

“She was not her 'Girlfriend', she was her 'Soulmate' and if you even listened to me talk about it, you would know that. For your information, her name was Hecate and she began as Azura's rival but over the course of the series, they developed a beautiful, unbreakable bond that was jam packed with heavy romantic subtext. I mean, even their declaration of their eternal friendship in Book Five, which was really emotionally poignant by the way, reads so much like a love confession, it's a crime. And it's like...Ladies! Just kiss already!”

“Okay. Right. Sure. I understood some of that.”

“I mean, I guess I've read a ton of Heczura fanfics to tide me over. It's hard to find a fic where they don't kiss. Hold on, you know what fanfiction is, right?”

“Yeah.” The light in Hunter's eyes dimmed. “You made me sit through that three hour long slideshow presentation, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Luz popped a finger gun. “That was fun,”

It was fun, but a lot of work. Hunter was pouting over losing a measly three hours of his time. Well, newsflash, nerd, Luz spent two weeks working on that. Nobody is getting their hours back.

“And what usually happens in those fanfictions?” Asked Hunter, propping his chin up with his hand, as Little Rascal hopped over to a pile of books. “How do they end?”

“I told you, they kiss. A lot of the time they look deeply into each others eye and talk about how they complete each other like two halves of one heart. And y'know, moments of miscellaneous fluff.”

“Uh huh. Interesting,” He mused, tapping his pen against his bottom lip.

Luz knew Hunter could be a little...eccentric but was he really analyzing fanfiction right now? Where did the sudden interest come from?”

“So, uh, besides Azura and Hecate, are there any other...boats(?) that you--”

“Ships.” Luz corrected him.

Hunter snapped his fingers. “Right. Ships. Basically love stories that you really like.”

“We talkin' canon or non canon?”

Hunter squinted at her, lost. Seems somebody was not taking enough notes during the slideshow presentation. “Both? A-all...?”

“Oh, well, there's a bunch.”

Luz had no intention of listing every single ship that had captured her heart. They would be here all week.

“I've spent my whole life reading books, watching movies and anime and--”

“Anime...?”

“Hunter, please!” Luz squeaked as calmly as she possibly could, but she could not deny that she had started to vibrate. “You have no idea how excited you just made me at the thought of teaching you about anime but I'd need to dedicate a whole day to that 'cause I need to meet Amity soon and I'm still sorta in crisis mode. So, let's stay on topic.”

Her brow furrowed. “Whatever the heck the topic is! Why are we talking about ships, Huntifer?”

He waved off her question. “Okay but how does the story usually end for all your ships? The book ones, the anime ones, all of them,”

“We've been over this with the fanfiction discussion. They kiss, Hunter. Geez, you want a diagram or something?”

“But what else?” He prompted.

“What do you mean 'What else?'”

Now this was just getting ridiculous.

“They kiss!” Luz said with a huge amount of emphasis. “And again, miscellaneous fluff. They'll do stuff like pick each other up and swing around, hold hands and....walk off into the sunset, y'know?” She waved off all that extra padding as unimportant to the conversation. (Though Luz did really enjoy miscellaneous fluff.)

“Well yeaaaah,” Hunter was giving off vibes of a grade school teacher who gave her little nudges in the correct direction but ultimately wanted her to figure out the right answer herself. She wished he could just give it to her because honestly, she didn't know where this any of this was going.

“But when exactly do they ask each other if they're dating?”

“Whaa?” Well, that settled it. He had paid no attention to the slideshow whatsoever. “Nah, nah, they don't do stuff like that. They don't have to 'cause they're already perfect for each other. All they gotta do is look into each others' eyes and they just...” Luz shrugged, feeling lightness bubble in her chest at the very thought. She had a feeling her smile looked pretty dopey. “They just know.”

“Right. And why don't you and Amity just know?”

The bubbles burst and the lightness turned to dead weight.

The question speared through Luz's gut. Her entire body went rigid.

She had known but...

She had been trying not to...

Not to think about it.

Because if she thought about it, she knew she'd cry.

But there is was. A culmination of every coil of underlying dread that had been gradually writhing in her stomach in a monster of anxiety, summarized in a short and sweet collection of simplistic little words.

Luz did not just know when it came to Amity. She was constantly taking shots in the dark. That is, if she was even brave enough to take a shot at all.

The two of them together were not as seamlessly synchronized as couples in love were supposed to be.

Her throat stung.

Her vision went cloudy with blotted tears but she managed to catch Hunter's stony expression break into one of sheer panic.

“Wh-- Luz! Hey!” He yelped, scrambling to pick himself up from the floor. He nearly tripped over his books as he stood and hurried over to close the distance between them. He made to reach out to her but his hand stopped, just as it was about to brush against her shoulder. It hovered there for a moment, fingers curling and uncurling with uncertainty.

“Luz, listen, I wasn't....I-I mean, what I meant was...uhh. C-c'mon, cut it out!” Hunter's voice crackled with desperation and despite crying her eyes out, Luz felt the watery chuckle at the back of her throat.

“Aww, does crying make the Golden Guard uncomfy?” She tried to tease but her words came out all wobbly.

In fairness to the poor guy, it probably did. Luz couldn't imagine that dealing with tears in a delicate matter, was ever something he would need to handle in his line of work.

For all she knew, this was his first time having to comfort someone like this.

“You don't get to make jokes and cry at the same time. You gotta pick one.” Hunter snipped, but his tone was not nearly as cutting as usual. Luz was almost tempted to call it soft.

Clearing her eyes with the heel of her hands, she finally felt that warm touch on her shoulder, and then another rest against her upper arm.

Somehow the gentleness cracked all her remaining composure and she dissolved into ragged sobs.

Hunter did not speak nor did he let go out her until she got every tear out of her system. He waited patiently, tracing circles with his thumb into her skin.

Eventually, her sniffles fell silent and her eyes no longer blurred. She took a deep breath and the following exhale was shaky but manageable.

“Are you....good?” He asked cautiously.

Luz nodded.

Hunter removed his hands so carefully, you'd think doing so would cause her physical pain. He must have heard once that people were more prone to being hurt when they were already upset and assumed it was literal.

“Do you really think that...Amity and I....” Luz's voice was low and quiet but her jaw was set tight. She refused to let her words be whimpered. She looked up, meeting Hunter's eyes. “Aren't right for each other?”

“What? No! No, no, no,” Hunter looked positively alarmed at the accusation. “Luz th-that's not even remotely what I meant by that.”

“Well, then I guess you accidentally hit the nail on the head.” Luz managed a strained, bitter little smile. “'Cause it's true.”

“Luz, c'mon,” Hunter groaned, exasperated. “Don't talk like that, you've got it mixed up.”

“No.” Said Luz, tone quiet, polite yet strikingly obstinate. “You were right, Hunter.”

For someone who loved being right, he didn't seem thrilled at all.

“When it comes to Amity, I don't just know. I don't always know what she's thinking or what she wants from me. After all this time, I-I shouldn't still be trying to figure her out,”

Luz wanted to figure her out. Every time she was in her orbit, she wanted nothing more to turn over every last piece of that girl and find every hidden gem.

But now, it like she was barricaded. Something was keeping her from moving forward, from discovering Amity.

“I mean, we've kissed.” The memories of Amity were turning more and more bittersweet by the second “I told her I loved her! We had our happy ending already! A-at least I thought it was a happy ending. But we're not acting like people who are made for each other are meant to act!”

“How do you even know how people who are meant for each other are meant to act?!” Hunter demanded, as though it wouldn't reach Luz's skull unless he raised his voice. “In all the love stories you've read, it always ends with a kiss, doesn't it?”

“And--”

“And miscellaneous fluff. Yeah, I get it.” Hunter shooed the detail away before clearing his throat.

“Point is, they never talk about what comes after. You don't read about all those awkward talks where they decide if they're dating or not and talks about what they're okay with and what they're not. It always just cuts to the perfect, shiny romantic stuff, all tied up with a bow and because of that,” He clutched Luz by the shoulders.”You don't know how to move forward in a relationship 'cause you've never had a frame of reference to help you along.”

“Hey, that's not true!” She tore away from Hunter's grip. “I'll have you know that I imagine my favorite ships as couples all the time,”

“Yeah and lemme guess,” He droned, setting a hand on his hip and launching into a mockingly saccharine tone of voice. “They understand each other soooo well all the time, they can practically read each others' mind and everything is smooth sailing and peachy all the time.”

“Yeah, duh.” Luz didn't quite what he was making fun of. “That's what being a ship is all about.”

“Okay, fine, maybe, but I cannot stress this enough,” He ran his fingers through his hair before making a cutting gesture with the side of his hand, directed at Luz. “You are not a ship.”

“Well, yeah, obviously. I'm only one--”

“I mean that the two of you aren't a ship! Listen to me, you're not Azura and Hecate. You're Luz and Amity. You're real people. You've got like a million different emotions and they're messy and crazy and you don't understand most of them.”

“Okay, Hunter, I get it, I'm a hot mess. You don't have to rub it in.”

“We're all hot messes, Luz!” He exploded. “Every single one of us. 'Cause we're real and not book characters.” He was pacing back and forth now as he ranted and raved, gesticulating like a madman.

“We gotta handle all the awkward conversations that don't fit into books. You gotta talk to real people to get them and you can talk to them for years and years but you're never gonna entirely understand them. In your love stories, it's all kisses and happy endings and it's shiny and sparkly and perfect and nerds like you Eat. It.Up!”

Hunter emphasized his point by poking Luz's forehead, shocking a startled laugh out of her. As wound up as he was, the noise surprised him too.

Her laugh was contagious and soon the room was silent, expect for the sound of quiet, breathy giggles.

One of the knots in Luz's stomach had untangled itself. Hunter did make a point that she could understand. Yeah, okay, maybe she had been a little too wrapped up in fiction to successfully navigate through her own life. Luz had never been the most logical person so it was comforting for a levelheaded counter-argument to whatever was currently inflaming her anxiety.

Obviously, this didn't fix everything. Now, she understood why this wasn't easy but that didn't mean she magically knew where to go from here.

Once the shadow of Luz's smile had finally faded away, she looked up and studied Hunter for a long while. Her gaze may have been a bit intense as nervousness began to creep into his features.

“H-hey. Uh. Sorry if I was a little too--”

“Huntifer, I think you might be on to something with this one,”

He blinked at her before brightening with relief, shrugging it off. “Oh. Yeah, maybe. I dunno, I guess it's worth some thought.

Astonishing how Hunter could switch from the cockiest, most obnoxious kid in the Boiling Isles to a remarkably humble guy. Maybe it depended on context. Or he was just embarrassed that he sorta lost control of himself in his impatience.

Luz nodded. “I'd say a lot of thought. But..I think things are still gonna be awkward. With Amity. I still don't know how I'm supposed to talk this stuff through with her.”

Hunter snorted, loosely folding his arms over chest and resting his weight on one hip. And just like that, with that simple change of posture, he looked full of himself again “You wanna know a secret that's probably not much of a secret?”

He beckoned Luz to lean in closer and said in a stage whisper. “Amity probably doesn't know either.”

Huh. Yeah, Luz knew that. She knew that at the back of her mind but...she hadn't really thought about it much. She was a little too preoccupied with her own inexperience.

Hunter's lofty grin softened. “So, it's a good thing neither of you are doing it alone, right? Don't you think you could figure out how together?”

Figure out how together....

The realization sank from the surface of her mind, and everything was processing very fast then suddenly, everything clicked.

Amity.

Luz knew Amity. Luz trusted Amity. Luz loved Amity. If there was any person Luz believed would stumble alongside her through things they didn't quite understand yet, it was Amity. And it occurred to her that Luz would help Amity in return without hesitation.

With enough notches and trimming and smoothing edges, if they worked through this together, Luz and Amity could click too. Maybe not perfectly, not for a while just yet.

But enough that they could make each other happy.

A swing of confidence so strong flooded Luz's system, she swore she nearly collapsed. She felt the grin tugging at her mouth.

She could try. She could absolutely try. They could both try.

“Is...that a yes?” Hunter asked, gauging her expression.

Luz nodded so speedily, it made her head hurt. But then she realized something else and she turned a very specific look on Hunter.

But before he could ask if she was about to attack him, she held up two fingers on each hand and then placed them on either side of her head so they jutted out just behind her ears.

“Man, I don't know anything about that stuff,” Said Luz, in what she believed to be an uncanny imitation of Hunter's voice.

He frowned. “What are the theatrics for?”

“You lied to me!” Luz was delighted.

“I-I didn't lie!” He loudly objected, pointed ears scorching bright pink. “That was just common sense, you doofus. You know, that thing you lack.”

“You know, that thing you lack.” Luz parroted, swinging her hips from side to side. Once again, her impression remained flawless.

“Don't do that!”

“Don't do that!

“Stop, you weirdo!”

At the peak of riled up, Hunter floundered for a retort that Luz wouldn't shoot back at him with childish mimicking. But then he cracked and wound up sticking his tongue out at her.

Luz simply mirrored him and Hunter huffed indignantly, turning on his heel and stomping back towards his books.

He had barely made a few steps when Luz lunged at him from behind, draping her long, lanky arms around his shoulders.

“Wha—Hey! Get off!” He squawked, struggling to pry her off him as Luz squished her cheek against his.

“Huntifer~” She singsonged. “Can you please calm down for two seconds and let me say thanks already?”

Hunter knotted his arms and his scowl didn't soften but Luz didn't miss how he stopped trying to squirm out of her grip.

“Even though you were kinda rambly and all over the place, what you said helped. It helped a lot. I know this is something I can handle and I know that 'cause of you. Thanks, nerd.”

She waited patiently until she felt his shoulders loosen. And then he glanced back at her and there was a smile. A small, tight, subtle smile but it was good enough for Luz.

And then with a burst of adrenaline, she gripped him tighter and planted a big, wet raspberry on his cheek.

Predictably, Hunter blew his top. He screeched furiously and his hands went wild to push her off but Luz was stronger than she looked. And so help her, she would give Hunter this affection or die trying.

Dying trying did not seem unlikely, actually. Hunter had told her once before that if he ever murdered her, it would probably be her own fault. Luz could not argue with that.

“That is so gross!” He griped, once Luz had finally released him.

“You're gross~” She chirped, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Hunter wiped the spit off his cheek with his palm before looking up at Luz with narrowed eyes

Luz did not have time to brace herself and suddenly she was tackled to the ground. She kicked and she screamed as Hunter dragged his disgusting wet hand across her face.

“GrossGrossGrossGrossGrossGrossGroooooss!”

Hunter cackled maniacally the whole time.

They carried on like rowdy toddlers for a while until Luz had to go meet Amity, leaving Hunter and his palisman to themselves.

It was too weird to admit out loud but he was disappointed that she was gone. Hanging out with her like this wasn't that bad. Talking with her, arguing with her, wrestling with her. It all made Hunter feel....so much like a kid.

Something that he had realized recently was that he still liked being a kid.

In spite of the doom and gloom of white of gold, of the clawed scars in his shoulder, of the spear that grazed his hair, a spark of childishness remained in Hunter that had never been entirely snuffed out.

It wasn't until he met Luz that he began actively trying to keep that spark alive.

The sun had long since fallen asleep by the time Luz returned and the moon was pooling in the sky. A little after sun down, he heard the downstairs door slam shut and the loud exuberant voice of The Owl Lady boomed from the floorboards beneath him. By the sound of it, she was celebrating a successful day's work. Hunter wondered what she and the cute little demon had managed to steal today.

His snoozing palisman was tucked snug in the crook of his neck, a pleasant warmth against his skin. It was a good idea to keep the bird close. If someone other than Luz came barreling into the room, he'd better have his staff on hand to magically conceal himself.

But once an hour passed and the chatter of the witch and the demon below gradually faded into loud snoring, Hunter presumed they had passed out on the couch. For the time being, he should be fine.

Hunter hoped that creepy owl tube thing wouldn't rat them out. Fortunately, Luz had promised that Hooty was willing to take a bribe but unfortunately, gossip spread fast in the Boiling Isles. Now The Golden Guard had a reputation for being a lunatic who visited the night market several times, buying dead mice in bulk.

He snorted to himself, combing through 'From Bones to Fire: A Study of Wild Magic Volume 2'. Everything he went through just to get his hands on knowledge.

Well, also to be young with Luz.

Yet another hour passed and somehow, being surrounded by his own obsession, Hunter got a little overstimulated. To give his brain a rest, he was now flipping through some tattered old magazine that Luz brought with her from the human realm. Some of the articles were practically gibberish to him but overall, it was okay. He learned he was a Scorpio. He didn't know what that entailed but it sounded cool.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as Luz burst into the room, announcing her return.

Startled, his palisman flew into a fluster, cheeping like crazy before it settled down atop his head. Hunter, meanwhile, had flung the magazine away so fast, it was like it had contaminated him, and snatched up the closest book to pretend he was reading it the whole time.

Thankfully, Luz didn't notice.

“Hey there, Little Rascal,” She cooed, prancing across the room and plopping down next to Hunter. “And hey, you little bookworm, you.”

“Bookworm?” Hunter knocked his shoulder against hers. “You looking for a fight, kid?”

“Whaaaat? Hunter, you wound me, I was just....Ohhh, my bad. I always forget that our bookworms and your bookworms are two waaaay different things.” She paused thoughtfully before shaking her head. “Actually, I don't retract anything. You look like a bookworm.”

“Yeah, well, you smell like a selkidomus.” Hunter smirked.

“Hey!” Luz bumped their shoulders. “Can you blame me? I've had one heck of a day with lots of nervous sweating!”

He was surprised that got him laughing but that tended to happen around her.

“So, how'd it go?” Hunter asked, even though he already knew the answer.

Luz's beam was as bright as a dozen of her light spells. The corner of her lip was twitching, as if she wanted to smile wider but it was physically impossible.

“We're dating.” She stated, no more than a whisper.

It obvious since the moment she entered the room, far bouncier and bubblier than usual but Hunter still grinned.

He had expected her to scream it from the rooftops, to grind his ribcage into powder with the force of her hug, to set off a riot of firework glyphs, spelling it out in lights.

No matter how she could have chosen to tell him, he would have been just as giddy as she was.

And yet, despite the lack of fanfare, somehow, it still felt so much like Luz. Though he knew that in the morning, she would tell the entire Boiling Isles, right here, right now, only Hunter knew. Something about that felt nice.

But the quiet serene scene was momentarily ruptured when Hunter spotted Luz re-adjusting herself out of the corner of his eye and he was immediately on high alert. Another raspberry, he could sense it.

“Luz, don't you d--”

It wasn't a raspberry.

The feather-light peck against his cheek was gone before he fully processed it, as Luz drew away with that big stupid smile still plastered on her face.

Hunter blinked away the surprise, looking to her with a raised eyebrow.

“What's that look for? In this family, we give each other hugs and kisses~”

He felt his lip quirk upwards as he scoffed, turning away with a shake of his head.

“That was so gross.”

“You're gross.”

“For real, it was even more gross than the raspberry.”

Luz burst into giggles and Hunter could understand why everything was suddenly a million times funnier to her. She will still fizzling with that giddiness that Amity had kissed into her and now it was all spilling out.

To be honest, listening to a teenage girl gush and squeal about her girlfriend did not seem like something Hunter would ever willingly subject himself to.

But this was Luz. His friend, Luz.

He lightly pinched the pudge of her cheek. “Heeeey. You wanna tell me all about it, don't you?”

Luz snapped her head over to gawk at him, astonished. And then the excitement took hold and her hands started flapping and she looked about ready to explode with delight. Her mouth was already flying open to give every solitary detail of her evening with Amity Blight.

But then she stopped, a crease forming on her brow. He caught that unreadable look she gave him and the way her eyes skimmed over the books that scattered the floor around them.

“Hmmm.” She stroked her chin with an over dramatic 'thinking' face. “Y'know what? I'll think I'll keep it all to myself.”

“Oh, really~?” Grinned Hunter. “I can only imagine all the romantic schmaltzy sickening stuff that occurred tonight. Miscellaneous fluff, right?”

Judging by the blood that stained her cheekbones, he must have been correct.

“Hey, Hunter.” She said quietly, resting her weight against his side. “You've been lost in your books for hours now. Would you mind telling me all about the most interesting you read about today? Reading myself is fine but it's way better to hear all about it from a bona fide nerd.”

Frankly, it was embarrassing how fast the giddiness practically electrocuted him and suddenly he found himself rambling. He rambled until his voice gave up but it didn't bother him at all because it was just Luz.

Luz hung on every word he said.

#the owl house #toh #luz nozeda #the golden guard #toh Hunter #lumity

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secretkeeper13 · 3 years

Text

Name

A year ago today, after a few months of lurking on Ao3 and Tumblr and reading without an account, I posted my first fic. I don’t know what possessed me to start writing. I think I was so desperate for some sort of creative outlet in the monotony of quarantine life that when I got an idea, I wrote it down. And here I am a year later, still writing, though not as frequently as I’d like. Thank you @thedistantdusk, queen beta, for all your help. To all the funny, lovely people I’ve “met” on Discord, thanks for brightening the past year. And thank you to everyone who read and commented on my fics. I truly appreciate you all!

A little (belated) Harry birthday fic below the cut or on Ao3

For many years, Harry hated summer. Summer was loneliness and boredom, monotony punctuated by growls from his stomach or his aunt’s shouts. Summer was endless daylight that stretched and languished well into the night, mocking him, a prisoner in his bedroom with barred windows. Summer meant isolation, locked doors, tossing and turning alone under damp, sticky sheets.

But what he once loathed had now become his favorite season, when three weeks ago, on the terrace of their garden, under the orange glow of the evening summer sun, he’d dropped to one knee, and with shaking hands, asked Ginny to marry him. She’d said yes, of course, yet part of him still couldn’t believe it- that after everything, horcruxes and hallows, Voldemort and the Forest, she would be walking down the aisle not to a faceless stranger, but to him.

In their bed later that evening, after a round of private celebration, the sheen of sweat still clinging to their bodies, she’d told him of her idea. A wedding at the Burrow, just family and close friends, and a surprise to all but a handful, planned under the guise of her birthday party. It would keep the press from getting wind of it, she’d said, and with the ink barely dry on Rita Skeeter’s latest “expose” (Ginny plying Harry with love potions in an effort to force him to propose), he’d thought it was a brilliant plan. And secretly, Harry thought that the limited window for Molly to fuss over wedding preparation was a bonus.

“Do you think it’s crazy?” she’d asked, as her fingers traced gentle patterns over his chest. “I know it’s barely a month away.”

“No,” he said, turning his head to kiss her bare shoulder, “I’m chuffed that you can’t wait to marry me, actually.”

She grinned at him, her smile bathed in moonlight. “Afraid I’ll change my mind if we wait too long?”

“Well, love potions don’t last forever, you know. And one of these days I may slip up and forget to put it in your tea.”

“No, no- you’ve got it all wrong,” she teased, jabbing him with her finger. “I’m the one who's dosing you, remember?”

“Ah, but Rita Skeeter never gets it right, you know that,” he replied, smirking at her through the darkness.

She’d thrown her head back as she laughed, that beautiful sound echoing in the stillness, then kissed him again, and he wondered, for the thousandth time, how he’d gotten this lucky.

And now, three weeks later, on the morning of his birthday, still enjoying the glow of their secret engagement, he sat on the sofa leafing through the sports pages of the paper when Ginny’s voice rang out from upstairs.

“Harry, will you come up here for a moment?”

“Be right up,” he called back. Assuming it was something to do with the wedding, he climbed the stairs and entered their bedroom. The sight that greeted him stopped him in his tracks.

Ginny stood near the foot of the bed, wearing only a Harpies jersey, her long hair swept over one shoulder, the bare skin of her other shoulder peeking out on the other side. The jersey was clearly his, as it hung on her like a dress, ending just below her bum, revealing almost all of her legs. At the sight of her, his eyes went wide and his jaw slackened instantly.

She grinned at his reaction. “Happy birthday.”

“I’ll say,” he replied, his eyes trailing down her legs, the creamy skin peppered with freckles.

She took a step closer, closing the gap between them. “I’m wearing your present,” she said, and he could tell that she was trying to sound nonchalant as she ran her hand lightly down his chest, pausing tantalizingly over the waistband of his joggers. “But I thought you’d prefer to unwrap it this way.”

“You thought right.”

He kissed her softly, his lips sliding over hers, his hands cradling her face. “Thank you,” he murmured, his lips moving to graze the shell of her ear, “I’ve been needing a new one, the old one is looking a bit worn.”

Before he could begin to move his lips down her neck, she pulled back slightly. She looked up at him, still grinning, her eyes glinting in the soft morning light. “That wasn’t why I got it for you.”

“Well, you know I’ve got a thing for you in your uniform,” he replied, leaning down for another kiss, but she put her hand lightly on his chest to stop him.

“I know- but that isn’t why either.” Her smile was so wide that her eyes crinkled at the corners. She was clearly enjoying this.

“I got it because…” She paused as she took a step back, positively beaming at him now. “You’ll be needing a jersey with my new name.”

At that, she turned so her back was facing him. And there, in bold, gold letters, the name POTTER was emblazoned above Ginny’s number.

He was stunned. They’d never discussed Ginny changing her name. He hadn’t even thought about it in the whirlwind weeks of their engagement. He’d simply assumed, given her career (not to mention her fierce sense of independence) that she would keep hers. It certainly didn’t matter to him- she’d said yes to marrying him, that was all that was important.

“Surprised?” Ginny asked.

“I, erm… yeah,” he replied, unable to form a coherent sentence as his mind raced to try to process it all.

For the first eleven years of his life, his name was delightfully ordinary. His aunt once said his name was common , the word dripping with disdain, as if it was the most grievous insult she could bestow. Her implication aside, it was true that his name wasn’t unusual. There was another Harry in his primary school. He’d seen other Potters, too. Once in the clinic, the nurse called out for “Mr. Potter,” and an elderly man rose as Harry stood. After the man smiled kindly at him and shuffled into the corridor, he’d asked Petunia innocently if the man was a relative. In response, she’d scoffed and told Harry that if he had other relatives, he certainly wouldn’t be living with her.

When he entered the wizarding world, his name ceased to be ordinary, transformed, like everything in his life, on that fateful day of his eleventh birthday. From then on, his name was notorious. It was whispered unsubtly as he walked down the corridors of Hogwarts. It was splashed across headlines in the Prophet. It was jeered by Death Eaters. Far too often, it was said with a reverence that made him exceedingly uncomfortable.

The thought of Ginny taking his name, and all that came with it, overwhelmed him. A lump began to form in his throat. He swallowed quickly, trying to compose himself, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“Love- are you all right?” she said, turning back around to face him.

“I… yeah,” was all he could manage, his voice cracking.

She placed her arms around him gently, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m just s-surprised,” he stammered. “We hadn’t talked about it, and Hermione’s always going on about how it’s sexist that the woman is expected to take the man’s name. And you’ve worked so hard to make a name for yourself in Quidditch. And you know, er, feminism and all…” He trailed off, aware he was rambling.

She smiled, pulling back slightly so she could look up at him. “Well first, Hermione’s right. It is sexist that it’s assumed that a wife will take her husband’s name. But I think it’s quite clear from your reaction that you didn’t expect me to or assume I would. Right?” She raised her brow.

“Of course I didn’t. It’s fine if you want to keep yours, really.”

“But I don’t,” she said, her voice firm and clear. “Plus, I think there’s plenty of Weasleys to carry on the family name without me, yeah?”

“I know, it’s just…” He swallowed, the lump in his throat growing larger. “My name- it’s a lot. And I’d understand if you didn’t want to take that on.”

She slipped her arms around him again, pulling herself to him until she was flush to his chest. “Harry,” she said, her tone soothing, her voice reverberating on his chest, “we’ve been together since I was fifteen. I understand everything that comes with the name Potter. And that’s why I want to do this, why I’m choosing to do this- I thought it might be nice if you had someone, family, to share that with. I think that sometimes it's lonely for you, being the only Potter, and I never want you to feel alone.”

She hugged him tightly. He inhaled, his breath shaky, as he let himself sink into her embrace. Seeing her in that jersey, knowing that she wanted to take his name, that they would be united together, permanently- he was overcome. He blinked rapidly and bit his bottom lip, squeezing her back tightly, determined not to spoil the moment.

As his racing heart slowed and he composed himself, he gently tipped her chin up to look at her.

“Gin,” he said, his tone soft and earnest, “I’d love nothing more than to share my name with you. I just don’t want you to feel obligated. We could double-barrell, if you wanted-“

She rolled her eyes, “I’d prefer if our children didn’t sound like posh twats every time they introduced themselves, thanks.”

He laughed, then realized- “Our children?”

She nodded and looked up at him through her lashes. “We have talked about that, you know.”

He felt as if he would burst from happiness. He leaned down and kissed her, trying with all his might to put into the kiss what he couldn’t find the words to say, to tell her, with his mouth and the trace of his tongue, how much this meant to him.

She sighed as they broke apart. “I take this to mean you’re happy that in a week I’ll be Ginny Potter?”

“Yes. Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it, really. Honestly, I’m so thrilled that you’re marrying me, it wouldn't matter what name you’d chosen.”

She smirked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “In that case, I take it all back. I’m going by Ida.”

“Ida?”

“Yes, Ida Shaggem.”

He burst into laughter.

“No?” she feigned, mirth evident in her tone. “What about Anita Hardone?”

He was laughing so hard now that his shoulders shook.

Her smile grew wider and she bit her lip (he could tell she was trying very hard to keep from laughing). “Well then, I guess Ginny Potter it is.”

She burst into laughter and he pulled her to him, holding her tightly as he walked her backwards towards the bed, both of them still laughing, nearly breathless.

As they reached the end of the bed, her hands grasped the hem of the jersey to pull it off.

“Oh no,” he gasped, still trying to stop laughing. “You’re definitely leaving that on.”

#harry potter fanfiction #hinny #hinny fanfic #hinny fluff #one year writing anniversary #ginny potter

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piscmione · 2 years

Text

Sunday Brunch- Chapter One

pairing: dramione

coming back from hiatus for a long term dramione fic. i wrote a small drabble on tumblr that me and a lot of people ended up really liking! i’m uploading it here, on twitter, and ao3. i’ve got the same username on all three! enjoy.

warnings/summary: draco is a little angsty and a simp

word count: about 850?

masterlist

Draco had earned his respect back. He had endured a year in Askaban and another four climbing his way out of the hole he put himself in. He even got a job at the Ministry. He was set.

He had this grand plan and so far, he had performed it well. He spent time learning to talk without…negative infliction in his voice. He donated money to charities that he had hand picked and even cared about. He figured out what muggle coffee machines were. He found a way to stop depending on his fathers approval. He found a therapist. He apologized to quite a few people. He made friends. He certainly lived up to his name as head of the Dragon Research an Restraints Bureau at the ministry. All he had to do was work his way up the department ladder. All he had to do was find someone willing to marry him so that his mother would get off his ass. And then he was set.

Except for the atrocious, nagging, infuriating disturbance that was Hermione Granger.

He couldn’t escape her. She was everywhere all the time. She was always around Draco’s friends, but he couldn’t complain about that because they were hers first. She was always sitting next to him when they went out for drinks after work. She was always in his office asking questins for work. He supposed he counldn’t blame her for any of these things much. But he could blame her for being beautiful and distracting and making him laugh and believe that maybe he has some redeeming qualities left. She was holding him back from finding any woman that could live up to her and if he was honest, she was keeping him from climbing the corporate ladder. If he changed offices, would she visit him still? Would she stop by to clarify the wording in his letter if she had to walk all the way to the department offices? Would she still ask him for coffee breaks? He didn’t want to take the chance of losing what he already had and Draco wanted to entertain the hope of more for as long as possible.

She was ruining his plan.

-/-

“I just don’t understand why goblins running the bank is a fine idea but Merlin forbid any other creature decides to be a productive member of society,” Hermione stabbed a peice of her salad, “They say I’m too radical every time I bring up expanding voting rights.”

“Well it is,” Hermione shot him a glare, “Let me finish, Granger. It is radical to them, it’s the only way things have been done for the past few centuries. It’s going to be a slow process of overturning opinions.”

“I know, I just…” She didn’t finish her sentence, shoving salad into her mouth.

Draco glanced up to the clock near the door, deflating when he realized it’s been half an hour. Hermione followed his gaze and he cursed at himself for drawing her attention.

His eyes flickered to her as she ate one last tomato and then covered the to-go bowl with a plastic cover.

“Well,” She gave a small smile as she stood, “Time for work.”

“So it is, Granger.”

-/-

Draco’s days went by excruciatingly slow. It seemed like a single day lasted 70 hours. He used to be very energetic as a child. He had loved climbing the trees surrounding the manor and would put his energy into reading and studying during hogwarts. He felt like there was never enough time to learn and write essays and make potions. In his 6th year, he was so very parched for time. He was running from it constantly trying to fix that cabinet in time for…

But when she leaves after lunch every day, he is left in the silence of his office. He is left doing paperwork and debating if he should invite her out for drinks again. They went last week. Is it too much to go two weeks in a row? Or does it make it a thing and will they continue to go out every week? Should he ask for coffee tomorrow? Brunch on Sunday? What qualifies as a date? He shook his head, she was taking over his thoughts. She wouldn’t go on a date with him. He knew that. He repeated that inside of his mind, enforcing it again. Maybe he’d stop longing for her if he could force it into his brain that he would never get her.

Draco didn’t end up inviting Hermione to anything. No drinks, no brunch, no coffee. The next day she returned for lunch. She enthusiastically informed him on how to use a muggle coffee machine through bites of a club sandwich. He was happy with this. He could live with this. He was okay being friends. Just friends.

#dramione #draco and hermione #draco/hermione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #harry potter fanfiction #dramione fanfic

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13atoms · 4 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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kerie-prince · 4 years

Text

daisy cafe

Harry Potter x Muggle!reader

not a request

warnings: mentions of death, ptsd?? (in the form of nightmares)

summary: Harry starts his healing journey after the Battle, and a rainy night after a counseling session brought him into your café

a/n: hope y'all like this random imagine i wrote <3 i was meant to post it last night but i got into a heated debate about ww84 and i don't queue posts so here's this. no lie, i had a hard time writing this lol it's a whole 4k long imagine (whoops) also, when i say 'football' in this fic, i mean soccer lol

(gif cred)

The Battle of Hogwarts.

There was a lot to say about that day. So many perspectives and interpretations from different people. And today, Harry would talk to his counselor about his. At first, he opposed the idea of having a counselor but Hermione insisted that he talks to a professional. Well, insisted probably isn't the word. If anything, Hermione probably forced him into it and made the appointment herself.

So here he sat in the waiting room, sitting awkwardly in an uncomfortable chair. Even the chairs in the Hogwarts classrooms were more comfortable than these. The room was small and had tacky sunflower wallpaper. Harry sat by himself and internally cursed his best friends for just leaving him there and drove off. ‘Call me when it's over!’ Hermione had yelled out through the window.

“Mr. Harry Potter?” a young man called out for him. Harry followed him into the counselors office, noticing that the room was much nicer than the waiting room and the chairs looked more comfortable. And if he was going to be stuck here for over an hour, he better not walk out with back pain.

Harry sat patiently as he waited for the counselor to come. He noticed the golden name plate on the desk with a name written in black letters. Jon Osborne. Harry’s leg was unconsciously bouncing in rhythm with the ticking of the clock on the wall. He didn't think he'd be nervous about it as he was now. He immediately stood up as he heard Dr. Osborne come in. “Mr. Potter, it’s an honor to meet you,” he stretched his hand out to greet Harry.

“Pleasure’s all mine, sir,” Harry said with a shy smile. Once they sat down, Dr. Osborne went straight into it, “So tell me, Mr. Potter, how have you been?”

“Great. I've been busy planning a wedding,” Harry stated like it was a normal conversation. “Congratulations. Yours, I'm assuming?”

“No, it's for my two best mates,” Harry corrected. “They're getting married pretty soon and I offered to help pay for it. Not really doing much of decoration planning, Hermione thinks Ron and I would pick something stupid,” Harry wasn't looking at Dr. Osborne directly, but he had a faint smile as he explained the details. “And are you with anyone?” Dr. Osborne asked.

It made the young wizard think. Ron and Hermione were getting married, Neville and Luna were having fun on small dates, and Ginny was still going back and forth with Dean. “No, I'm not with anyone at the moment.”

His counselor wrote something down quickly before going forward with the next question. “Do you think about it often?” Harry knew what he was insinuating. His breath hitched a bit. Harry certainly didn’t expect to be asked this question so early on. From Hermione’s explanation, he wasn’t expecting to talk about the Battle for maybe another couple sessions. And that was if Harry even wanted to do other sessions.

“You don’t think you need to be here,” it was like he read Harry’s mind. And it was true. “Well, I do have a pretty solid support group. We all went through it together.” Harry rubbed the palms of his unusually sweaty hands against his pants.

“So because you and your friends went through it together, you're okay? Nothing about it bothers you?” had Dr. Osborne’s tone altered just a bit, he would've sounded condescending. He sounded a bit empathetic. It made Harry actually want to talk. “Do you and your friends actually talk about it?”

The answer was clear to Harry. No. If he was being honest, he didn't think there's even a reason to talk about it. The worst had been over, and now that him and his friends and family – and by family, he meant the Weasleys – were finally in peace, Harry figured that he wouldn't have to think about it again.

But the nightmares were relentless. It wasn't like the ones he had when Voldemort was in his mind and showing him things he wanted to show Harry. These nightmares were worse. They consisted of the worst that could have happened that day. Watching his friends die, his professors, his peers. The worst of the worst. And there's one that he hated the most. Being in Voldemort's point of view and killing Harry successfully and for good this time.

Hermione tried to get Harry to talk, but he's too stubborn. So she figured the only way to get him to talk was to schedule this appointment. He was promised confidentiality and listening ears with no judgement. Harry accepted because he knew that even though Hermione would always be there, she would probably say something like ‘You're not alone in this, we're all here for you and with you.’ Ron would listen to the whole thing and suggest getting a drink and food. Harry loves his friends, but it's hard to talk about such things when they've gone through it too. He wondered if they felt the same.

—

Harry was leaving his fourth session with Dr. Osborne. Unexpectedly, he enjoyed these meetings. It felt good to talk to someone outside of his friends. Hermione noticed how he was returning to his old self, joking around and enjoying playing quidditch at the Burrow.

Harry decided on taking a small walk around the Muggle London street before calling Hermione and Ron to pick him up. After ten minutes, though, sprinkles of rain were falling down. And sprinkles turned into hard falls. Harry covered his head with his hands and looked around for someplace to run in. Next to him was a dental office, but to his luck the door was locked. He kept looking and looking for some place to stay inside until finally, he saw a building across the street with a lit up ‘Open’ sign.

Harry looked both sides of the street before running across. He was getting soaked by the second and when he ran inside, his jacket was dripping onto the mat. The place was warm and smelled lovely. Harry took his glasses off and wiped it with the driest part of his shirt. The cafe looked as warm as it felt. There weren’t any guests inside and he didn't find anyone working there. Harry saw the bell on the bread display and pressed on it a few times. After a couple of minutes, a girl came to the front. “Sorry for taking so long, how can I help– oh are you alright?” You saw the puddles of water that were splattered all around the floor. But your worry was with the stranger that was most likely freezing. “D-do you happen to have a phone around?” Harry asked you. He was shaking where he stood and all he wanted was to go home and get into some warm clothes. You nodded your head and went in the back to get the phone. Harry wanted to sit down, but he didn't want to make more of a mess than he’s already done. You came back quickly with a phone and a few rags so he could dry himself.

Harry dialed Hermione’s number and waited for her to answer. She didn't answer the first or second time which made Harry frustrated. They better not be in the middle of it right now. Finally, she answered on his third call. “Hello?”

“Hermione, what the bloody hell have you been doing?” Harry sassed. When he looked up, he saw how you stood awkwardly to the side, surprised that in contrast to his sweet demeanor, he sounded like the opposite. But that was just your assumption.

“Harry? Is that you? Why are you calling from this number?” In the background, he could hear Teddy joyful coos. “I was just giving Teddy a bath, I couldn't hear the phone.”

“Oh. Well, it’s raining really hard, can you come pick me up?” Harry felt your eyes on him still and he smiled awkwardly.

“Of course, are you still in the office?”

“No, I’m– hold on” he stopped mid-sentence and lowered the phone down, “where am I?” It took you a couple seconds to process that he was talking to you now, “Oh, uh, Daisy Cafe.”

“Daisy Cafe,” Harry repeated back to Hermione. “Alright, I’ll be right there.” And she hung up. Harry handed the phone back to you, “Thanks.”

Your hand was warm against his, a warmth he wished he had instead of the cold that enveloped his body. Harry’s legs were getting tired from standing so long and you noticed the shift in his position. “Please, take a seat,” you had gestured to a table. Harry insisted that he didn't want to ruin the chairs, but you didn't mind.

You checked the time on your wristwatch and ran to the back leaving Harry alone. He wondered what you were doing until he saw you come back slowly dragging a large heating machine. Harry stood from his seat and rushed to help you, “Where did you want this?”

“I was going to put this in front of the table so you can warm up. Don’t want you to get sick,” you spoke softly. You felt yourself warm up on your cheeks, somehow shy in this moment. On a daily basis, you talk to loads of strangers and some of them were quite attractive. But something about this stranger felt different.

Harry blinked with an indescribable look in his eyes as he stuttered a ‘thank you’. You turned on the large heater after Harry sat back down and slightly shifted his chair so he could be in range of the heaters’ direction.

You grabbed your keys from your back pants pocket to lock the door and turned the ‘Open’ sign off. “Would you like some coffee?” you offered him. Harry nodded and searched his pockets for his wallet before you stopped him, “Don't worry! It's on the house.”

There was a pot of coffee that was still hot on the warmer and you grabbed a tray, filling it with a mug, creamer, sugar, and a small plate of assorted biscuits in case he was hungry as well. You walked to his table and sat them down. He was in awe of all the things you brought out for him and felt grateful that you would do this for a stranger. “Thank you,” he nodded his head at you with a genuine smile.

“It’s no trouble,” you smiled back. You sat across from him with a mug of your own and sipped on the hot beverage you made. Harry took a sip of the coffee he finished preparing and nearly sighed at the feeling of it warming him up inside. Mixed with the heat that was coming from the heater, he felt brilliant as he usually says.

“Do you live around here?” You started small chat to get out of the awkward silence.

“No, I live just outside Ottery St. Catchpole.” Harry stated. He noticed the confused look on your face, you had probably had no idea where that was. “It’s kind of in the middle of nowhere.”

You nodded in response. Harry then asked if you lived around. After a while, you had gotten to know each other pretty well. He learned about your two cats that are always fighting, you learned about his friends always pulling pranks on each other in the house. As Harry waited for Hermione to pick him up, he was enjoying talking and laughing with you. You two were having such a good time getting to know each other in what felt like thirty minutes, but was actually an hour.

Once Hermione was in front of the cafe and beeped the horn of the car, Harry felt a bit disappointed to leave. This was probably the first conversation he had with someone who he didn't already live with or paid to listen. And it was a bonus that he found you quite attractive. “That’s for me. Thank you… for letting me stay.”

“Oh it’s no trouble. Safe travels on your way home! I hope you don’t get sick,” you waved off as you opened the door for him. Harry ran through the hard rain to get into his friend's car, but once he opened the door to the front seat, he turned back to you. “I never got your name!” Harry yelled out.

“Y/N! What’s yours?” You voiced with the same energy.

“Harry!” You smiled and waved one last time before closing the door and got yourself ready to go home. Harry fastened his seatbelt and held a small smile nearly the entire ride home. Hermione cleared her throat to get her friends’ attention. “How was the session today?”

Harry nodded ‘yes’ in an attempt to not have to talk. Not because he was gloomy, but distracted. He then processed what she said and replied back to the bushy haired woman, “Oh, i-it went fine. Good, great.” Harry was stuttering over his words. It was something that Hermione instantly noticed what was going on. The last time he was like this was when he first met Cho in fourth year. It was nice, she thought, that Harry was not only getting back to normal, but was also focused on something - or rather someone - other than his nightmares.

—

Harry goes to your cafe now after every session with Dr. Osborne. He finally went for his drivers license so he didn't have to depend on Hermione anymore. Ron and Hermione apparate to work anyway, so it granted him more access to the car.

Every Monday and Thursday, you would wait for him to walk through your doors. You would set aside a small box of warm biscuits for him that he seemed to enjoy and remembered how he took his coffee. After a couple of weeks, the people you worked with would give you a smirk and tease you with ‘He’s here~’. One of them, Jo, would constantly ask you if Harry has asked you out yet. And every time, you'd say ‘No.’ only for him to reply back ‘Well, why don’t you ask him out?’

You’ve definitely thought about it, but you didn't know how to ask him. There would be times that you thought Harry would do it before he left, but he’d just be a stuttering mess and leave. So, tonight before he leaves, you planned to just be straight with him and ask him to dinner.

Harry came later than usual today. After he stepped out of the counselors’ office, he checked his hair in the mirror he saw in the hallways. Tonight, he was also planning on asking you out. He likes you and he was pretty sure you liked him too. Once he stepped outside, he saw a flower cart in front of a local bank. Harry debated whether or not to buy you some, but opted out. What if she says no? What do I do with them at that point?

After an hour of having a mental pep talk, he entered Daisy Cafe. He didn't see you behind the bread display like he always had. Jo had recognized him immediately and watched as Harry looked around the small cafe for you. “She’s in the back, would you like for me to get her?”

“I-I can wait. She’s probably busy,” Harry stuttered. He didn't know whether it was a good thing or bad thing that your co-worker instantly knew what he was there for. Is it really obvious? Harry thought. He saw as Jo walked to the back anyway, probably announcing his presence to you. As it turned out, you were in the back checking yourself out in the small mirror that was hung on the inside of your locker. You ran out as soon as Jo said "He’s here" and dusted the flour off onto your apron.

“Hi, Harry,” you greeted.

“Hi,” Harry greeted back. “How are you?”

“I’m doing good, just cleaning up. Did you have a good day?” you asked. Harry nodded his head. He was about to order before you stopped him, “Your usual today?” He gave a sheepish smile and scratched the back of his head, “I come in that often, don't I?” You chuckled and began making his coffee. “It’s alright, I enjoy your company.” The both of you blushed, more so you after the sudden confession.

You couldn't see him, but Jo was listening to your conversation and wanted to laugh. You looked at Harry for any signs of possible rejection and just as quickly looked away to finish his order. Jo came out from the back with his bag and keys in his hand, “I’ve counted the safe for you. Have a good night, I’ll head out.” You nodded your head and thanked god for the interruption, “Thanks hun, see you tomorrow.” He winked at Harry once you looked away as to say ‘Good luck’ and walked out.

Harry became nervous and thought about just grabbing his coffee and going home. He hadn't dated anyone in a long time and didn't know where to even start. Merlin, he didn't even know what to do in a relationship. And especially with a muggle. Harry nearly forgot what it was like to be around muggles after the Dursley's left their home on Privet Drive and Harry moved in the Weasley’s in the Burrow. He certainly couldn't bring you there anytime soon. Especially when Arthur would ask you loads of questions. Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Neither of you knew how to get a conversation going. You took your time stirring his coffee and grabbing the small box of biscuits before turning back to him. You made yourself tea instead, having drank too much coffee throughout the day to calm your nerves. He took the styrofoam cup and box from your hands and purposely brushed his fingers against yours but made it seem like an accident. Your neck stiffened at the sudden physical contact and pulled your hands back. He felt electric and if he let you, you'd grab his hands and keep them intertwined with yours.

It’s now or never you thought. “Do you want to go to dinner sometime–”

“Would you like to go out with me–” you and Harry spoke at the same time. You hadn't processed what he said so you questioned, “Huh? What was that?” Harry thought he heard you correctly, but he asked you again, “Would you like to go out with me? For dinner, maybe?”

YES, YES, YES you chanted in your head. Your heart was warm and you felt a butterfly flutter about inside you. On the outside, you were cool and collected. But your smile could have spoken for you. “Yes, I’d love that.”

—

Hermione helped Harry with looking for nice places in muggle London. George offered his best suit to the raven-haired boy, but Harry declined because he was significantly smaller in stature than the tall ginger, and also because he feared that George would have hexed the suit to either squirt out water, or have random objects falling out the sleeves.

George, Ginny and Ron would tease Harry about finally having a girlfriend, only to get scolded by both Hermione and Molly to stop. “Harry is a perfectly handsome young boy, he should be dating as much as he can,” Molly would defend.

“Ah, but mum, Harry isn't a boy anymore,” George joked. Molly hit her sons’ head with a cleaning rag and returned to what she was doing. Harry had picked a small restaurant that Hermione recommended that was inexpensive but not shabby. He never really liked expensive places or things even though he can absolutely afford them. She suggested that she helped him pick out something to wear, but he stopped her right there. “I can dress myself, thanks,” Harry sassed.

“The one you should be helping is my hopeless brother,” Ginny joked about Ron. He didn't find it all funny as Ron had a sour look on his face and whispered under his breath, “Bloody menace.”

“What did you say?” Ginny stood straight up from the couch and chased Ron throughout the house. She may be the youngest in the house, but it didn't make her any less scary when mad. George laughed at the sight of his siblings fighting while Molly yelled at them to be careful.

Harry finally put everything together – but if he was honest, he was putting together whatever Hermione said – and went to his room. There was still a couple days until the date, but he was nervous. He’s never really gone on a date. There was the night with Patil at the Yule Ball, but that didn't end well. There were a couple hang outs with Cho in the library, but never an actual date. So he hoped that this would turn out well.

—

Harry's breath was taken away when he saw you. You looked absolutely beautiful in the sundress you wore. Looking ethereal, you hadn't noticed Harry across the street parking the car. For a split second, he almost rear ended the car in front of him.

He walked towards slowly after taking a deep breath and held a single daisy in one hand. Hermione said roses were ideal, but he figured he should come up with at least one thing on his own. Your e/c eyes met his green ones and your heart did somersaults in your chest. Once he stood in front of you, you both said ‘Hi’ at the same time. Harry handed you the daisy and you were flattered by the gesture. It was a beautiful flower and you couldn't wait to put it in a small vase and display it at the cafe.

“Shall we go inside?” Harry had one of his hands pointed towards the door of the restaurant. You nodded and walked into the place with Harry holding the door open for you and another elderly couple behind him. He’s so sweet you thought.

The night was perfect; Harry had felt comfortable in your presence. Much like the first night you had met and the times after, you both spent the dinner talking and laughing. This was the most normal, but also best Harry had felt in a long time. He hadn't realized how he never really got to be a young person due to all the insane things he’d gone through his six years at Hogwarts and then before with his aunt and uncle. But here he was with you, doing the most normal thing. Harry’s troubles were lifted off of his shoulders. There was no threat of Death Eaters terrorizing the streets, there was no Dark Lord out to get him; it was just him sitting down and having dinner with a woman that he really liked.

He learned more about you tonight. For one, you were also an only child. Other than your cats, you also liked dogs. And you occasionally played football with some of your cousins. Harry had never played football, but if it was anything like quidditch, he was sure that he'd love it as well.

At the end of the date, he took you to your underground tube station. You walked side by side, hands slightly brushing against another. You walked a bit faster to stop in your tracks right in front of him. “I had a lot of fun,” you confessed.

“Me too,” Harry expressed. You looked down at your fiddling hands while Harry couldn't take his eyes off of you. He was about to say ‘good night’ before you built up the courage and kissed him on the cheek. “Night, Harry,” you beamed at him. Harry was turned into a blubbering, love-struck fool as he saw you walk further and further away. Finally, he yelled out, “I’ll see you on Monday!”

Before turning away into the tube, you waved and repeated his words back at him, “See you Monday!”

—

“Well you're certainly in a bright mood today, Mr. Potter,” Dr. Osborne observed Harry from his seat. Since the date, he’s been talking a bit brighter and his smile is more genuine than when he first came in. “Could it be because you’re seeing someone after you leave?” All Harry could do was smile. “Well I’m very happy that you now have a companion aside from your friends.”

Harry nodded before he replied back, “Thank you, sir.”

“No need to thank me, Mr. Potter. You did this on your own,” Dr. Osborne stated. “Will you bring her to the wedding?”

“No, I don't think we’re ready for that,” Harry informed. This wedding would definitely include magic and you hadn't been close to any exposure of it. “Of course.” Dr, Osborne added. There was a bit of silence after that, which gave the counselor an opportune moment to ask about some of the things that were the reason for his weekly visits. “Do you still have the nightmares?”

Harry’s smile lowered. “Yeah, I do. But not as frequent as I used to have them.” It was true, it went down from him having them about nearly everyday to only get them once every couple weeks. He thanked Merlin you were kept out of his nightmares. He didn't need to see something traumatizing.

Dr. Osborne took notes and set his notepad down. “Well, Mr. Potter. I have seen excellent progress since day one. I think we can move down to just one session per week and work our way down to once every few weeks. I'll see you next Monday.” He opened the door for Harry and shook his hand as Harry left. Harry went to your cafe right after. The daisy he gifted you was on display above the glass bread display in a small, white vase. He hoped that you regularly watered and fed it so you wouldn't notice that Harry actually hexed the flower to never die. You were currently helping someone out when Harry stood in line. Once the customer you were with left, you noticed your boyfriend – at least you assumed he was, now – standing behind a couple of people. He waved at you, and you pointed to the usual table he sat at. It was almost like you reserved the table only for him. He nodded and sat down, patiently waiting for you to finish the line of customers.

Harry was mesmerized watching you work, the beautiful, kind smile you had when talking to customers. Some of them were obviously regulars as you asked one elderly man how his grandchildren were. Once she finished helping everyone, she started working on the usual coffees and tray on biscuits for the two of you.

Harry loved hearing about your day and he wished he could tell you more beyond what happens at home that didn't include magic. He didn't know when he'd tell you about him being a wizard. Ron and Hermione told him that if he were to tell you, you're more than welcome to attend their wedding which was still a few months away now that they have all the time in the world to plan it. He didn't know what to say, but there was one thing he was sure about. He really liked, maybe even loved, how comfortable he felt around you. He liked the way your hands felt in his, your eyes shying away when you looked at him for too long. And he loved the feeling of your warm, soft lips against his at the end of the night when you had just locked the doors and he just went for it. Because in that moment, he wasn't the famous Harry Potter who saved the wizarding world, he wasn't Harry Potter who was recovering from the aftermath of the Battle. He was just Harry, and he really liked being your boyfriend.

At least he assumed he was.

—

requests open!

#harry potter #harry potter imagine #requests open #harry potter fluff #harry potter angst #harry potter x reader #harry potter x y/n #harry potter x you #harry potter x muggle!reader

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bloody-bee-tea · 4 years

Text

On the other side

Asadbatman over on Twitter wanted to see the other side of the Clan Swap fic, where Jiang Cheng gets transported into Lan Wanyin’s body and where he meets Jiang Xichen. You can find “In every timeline” here and you should probably read that one first. This comes in at 12k.

Lan Wanyin is reading over a particularly insulting letter on his favourite pier, but even that does nothing to soften the frown on his face.

Sect Leader Yao really has a lot of nerve to send this letter to Jiang Xichen who—for all intents and purposes—is a goddamn war hero now, not even to mention the Sect Leader of one of the most powerful Sects out there.

Lan Wanyin takes a deep breath and decides to deal with that letter later—much later, if he can get away with it—before he turns his attention towards the lake in front of him.

It’s a rather calming sight, and one of the reasons why this is his favourite place in Lotus Pier. The lake stretches on for longer than the eye can see, and this close to the piers, there are dozens of lotus heads gently bobbing on the water and it’s so calming and relaxing that Lan Wanyin could totally drift off here.

Except that he still has work to do, because Jiang Xichen trusts him to deal with the paperwork and this part of running a Sect even though they are not married. Yet.

But Lan Wanyin will not allow anyone to say that he’s slacking off, and even though this is a private pier there is still a chance someone might catch a glimpse of him, and so he lets out another sigh as he picks up the next letter from the stack to his side.

He wonders if the stacks always get so high, but then he remembers fondly that there is almost nothing more Jiang Xichen hates doing than paperwork and with how victorious Yunmeng Jiang came out of the Sunshot Campaign it’s understandable that everyone wants to gain a favour with Jiang Xichen.

Lan Wanyin is very pleased that Jiang Xichen allows him to be the one to formulate very polite “Fuck off” replies to them, he’s not going to lie about that.

“What are you doing?” Jiang Xichen suddenly whines from behind him and drapes himself all over Lan Wanyin’s back.

“Doing the work you pushed off on me?” Lan Wanyin gives back without even putting the letter in his hand down.

He has gotten rather used to Jiang Xichen being as tactile as he is, and Lan Wanyin is enjoying it immensely, even though he would never admit it. He would blush his way through every single word of that sentence, he just knows it, and then Jiang Xichen would tease him about it, and Lan Wanyin would blush even harder.

He knows that from experience.

“But I didn’t mean you have to do the work immediately,” Jiang Xichen sighs, but he stays where is, with his arms around Lan Wanyin’s waist and his head hooked over his shoulder.

“I’d rather get it out of the way,” Lan Wanyin says, patting Jiang Xichen’s hand on his stomach.

“You’re all work and no fun, lately,” Jiang Xichen complaints and Lan Wanyin’s mouth twists with his words.

He knows that he hasn’t been the most fun to be around lately, but one of them has to take the task of leading a Sect seriously and it certainly isn’t going to be Jiang Xichen, no matter how effortlessly he still seems to fall into the role as Sect Leader.

Lan Wanyin puts it down to his rigorous training and Lan Wanyin did not receive the same training. He was never meant to be Sect Leader, so he has a lot to catch up to, he knows that. Especially since the wedding is still a few months away.

He just doesn’t want to embarrass Jiang Xichen with his ignorance before they are even tied together.

“If you keep this up, I’ll give you something to complain about,” Lan Wanyin says with less bite than he intended to, but then again he never can be really mad at Jiang Xichen.

To underline his threat he reaches out for Sect Leader Yao’s letter and waves it in front of Jiang Xichen’s face, who makes a grimace at that, but then hides his smile in Lan Wanyin’s neck.

“Feisty. I like it,” he mutters, and Lan Wanyin doesn’t mean to, but he freezes up completely.

With how Jiang Xichen is still pressed close to him, he notices it immediately of course and Lan Wanyin can almost hear him frown.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice low and soothing, and Lan Wanyin hates that he is still like this—that the doubt is still a niggling bud in his mind—but he also can’t help it.

“If you like feisty so much, you should probably go look for my counterpart again,” Lan Wanyin says, and this comes out much more bitter than he thought it would.

It’s too telling, he knows that immediately, and Jiang Xichen pulls away for long enough to make Lan Wanyin panic before Jiang Xichen simply turns him around and pulls him into a hug.

“I don’t want your counterpart,” Jiang Xichen tells him, his voice controlled and even, and despite the way Lan Wanyin clings to Jiang Xichen he lets out a bitter laugh.

“Yeah, right,” he mutters. “You wouldn’t even have noticed me if it wasn’t for him catching your eye,” he goes on, hiding his face much more firmly in Jiang Xichen’s chest, because he doesn’t want to know what kind of face he makes at that.

But Jiang Xichen is not letting him hide; he pushes Lan Wanyin away, so that he can look him in the eye when he next speaks.

“He might have managed to catch my eye, but it’s you who kept it for years now,” Jiang Xichen tells him and Lan Wanyin blushes at his words.

Jiang Xichen has never made a secret out of the fact that he fell head over heels in love with him, but his actions speak very loudly too.

Like the fact that he not only allows Lan Wanyin into his home and family, but that he also trusts him to lead the Sect together with him. Lan Wanyin knows how much Yunmeng Jiang means to Jiang Xichen and it regularly warms his heart to know that Jiang Xichen wants to share this with Lan Wanyin.

“Shut up,” Lan Wanyin grumbles slightly, but he’s very pleased by Jiang Xichen’s answer.

“Only when you stop being stupid,” Jiang Xichen gives back and brushes a kiss over Lan Wanyin’s cheek.

“I’m not stupid,” Lan Wanyin protests more out of reflex than anything else and then he sighs. “I know you love me and it’s stupid of me to still be jealous of my counterpart,” Lan Wanyin admits.

But knowing that he is unreasonably jealous and not being jealous are two completely different things and Lan Wanyin is not doing well with the latter part.

Jiang Xichen hums at his words and manhandles him around again, until Lan Wanyin sits with his back to Jiang Xichen’s chest and Jiang Xichen hugs him close.

“You never did tell me what happened in that other world,” Jiang Xichen lowly says and Lan Wanyin shrugs.

He doesn’t think anything that happened to him in that world is worth mentioning, but he guesses that Jiang Xichen has burned to ask this question for a long while now.

“Fine,” he sighs and pulls down Jiang Xichen so he sits pressed up to his back and he puts his hands over the arms around his middle. “I’ll tell you.”

~*~*~

Lan Wanyin wakes up to someone frantically calling his name.

“Jiang Cheng? Jiang Cheng, wake up right this instant! Jiang Wanyin! Don’t make your poor brother fret like this, come on. A-Cheng? Chengcheng?”

Okay, someone calling a semblance of his name, anyway.

Lan Wanyin groans slightly, before he blinks his eyes open, and his vision is immediately filled with a mop of unruly hair and a worried face of a person Lan Wanyin has never seen before in his entire life.

“Jiang Cheng?” the person asks him and Lan Wanyin pushes him away as politely as he can.

“No,” he says, immediately startled by how deep his voice is.

He looks down at himself, to figure out if there is a visible clue as to why he was unconscious, but when he sees dark purple robes he frowns. His frown only deepens when it feels like something vital is missing.

“What is going on?” he asks the other person, who is clearly not at all reassured now that he’s awake.

“Jiang Cheng?” he is asked again and Lan Wanyin shakes his head.

“My name is Lan Wanyin,” he gives back and watches as the person goes pale at his side.

“Lan Wanyin,” he mutters and then he scrambles up to frantically gather a few papers.

Lan Wanyin watches him study them, seemingly more desperate the more he reads and when the guy looks at him Lan Wanyin can see something close to panic on his face.

“Oh fuck,” the guy mutters and then plasters a smile on his face so quickly it gives Lan Wanyin whiplash.

“I’m Wei Wuxian, nice to meet you,” he says, adopting a cheery tone that’s so obviously fake that Lan Wanyin cringes on his behalf.

“Where am I?” he asks, but when he looks around he can tell that this is the Jingshi, so he changes his question. “Why are you in my home?” he asks instead and watches as the smile on Wei Wuxian’s face falters dangerously.

“Your home, of course,” he mutters. “You’re Lan Wanyin and this is your home,” he goes on and Lan Wanyin bristles at his words.

“Yes, I am and yes it is. And I demand an explanation from you now!” he says, trying for a stern tone, but he knows it comes out much more wavering than he’d like.

“I’m sorry, this must be really stressful for you,” Wei Wuxian says, and he sounds so sympathetic that Lan Wanyin immediately has to bite back some tears.

“Just explain to me what’s going on,” he tries again and Wei Wuxian sighs, clearly about to give in, but before he can do that, someone slides open the door.

“Jiang Cheng? Wei Wuxian?” the newcomer asks and Wei Wuxian gives a fleeting smile to Lan Wanyin before he gets up and turns around to the new man that stepped into Lan Wanyin’s home uninvited.

He’s wearing the customary Lan white—he even has a forehead ribbon—but Lan Wanyin has never seen him in his life and he frowns at him. All that does though, is making it startling clear that he’s missing his own forehead ribbon, and suddenly Lan Wanyin feels entirely too naked.

“Lan Xichen,” Wei Wuxian says with a nod of his head. “Meet Lan Wanyin,” he then goes on with a nod towards Lan Wanyin, who is still on the ground, and Lan Wanyin scrambles to get up.

It’s a little bit strange, this new body; he seems to be taller and broader than he’s used to being and he fumbles around for a second before he falls into an appropriate bow.

“What is going on?” Lan Xichen wants to know, his expression bordering on outright pained and sad, and Lan Wanyin turns expectant eyes on Wei Wuxian because he is still expecting an answer to that very same question as well.

“It seems that my spell did not work as intended,” Wei Wuxian says with a wince and Lan Wanyin watches as Lan Xichen’s eyebrows rise on his forehead.

“What spell?” he asks with the voice of a man who is too used to dealing with mishaps and problems and keeping his own feelings on the matter very far removed, and Lan Wanyin frowns.

“Are you the Sect Leader?” he asks, because he has seen his brother make a very similar face when he’s faced with one of the junior disciple’s shenanigans.

“Technically I’m—it’s complicated,” Lan Xichen finally settles on, but when Lan Wanyin keeps his baffled expression he goes on. “I used to be,” he finally admits.

“Xichen-ge,” Wei Wuxian whispers, clearly a lot of history behind that one sentence, but Lan Wanyin is too stuck on the informal way with which Wei Wuxian refers to him.

“Where’s my brother? And how dare you refer to your elder as disrespectfully as that?” Lan Wanyin suddenly asks, filled with the desperate need to see someone familiar, to have his brother look out for him like he always does, and he doesn’t even care that his tone is very close to whining but he also has their Sect’s rules ingrained in his bones and he cannot let disrespectful behaviour like that stand without even trying to correct it.

“Lan Wangji?” Lan Xichen asks, clearly only guessing and Lan Wanyin nods frantically. “He’s out on a night hunt. It should still be a day or so before he comes back. He’s accompanying the juniors.”

“I want to see him,” Lan Wanyin says, knowing that he shouldn’t be making demands of people he doesn’t even know, but he needs to see a familiar face.

“We can’t call him back,” Wei Wuxian gently says. “We’ll have to wait until Lan Zhan returns on his own.”

Lan Wanyin freezes when he hears that name, because even he doesn’t dare to call his brother that and he can feel his temper spike again, before he takes a deep and calming breath.

“Could you please not refer to my brother like this? You have no rights to do so,” Lan Wanyin says in what he thinks is an appropriately calm voice.

“What should I call him then?” Wei Wuxian asks, a mischievous smile on his face. “Lan-er-gege?” he asks and Lan Wanyin goes hot under the collar.

“How dare you call me that?” he hisses out and watches as Wei Wuxian’s eyes go big and how Lan Xichen presses his lips together.

Lan Wanyin is not sure if it’s in an attempt to hide a smile or because to keep some words in.

“Wei Wuxian,” Lan Xichen reprimands him and Wei Wuxian does seem appropriately chastised, if only for a second.

“You’re the younger brother?” Wei Wuxian asks, clearly embarrassed for a moment and Lan Wanyin nods.

“I’m sixteen,” he answers and now both of them pale.

“Oh fuck,” Wei Wuxian answers and even though Lan Xichen doesn’t look like he would ever utter such crude words he nods with emphasis.

“Lan Wanyin, Wei Wuxian is Wangji’s husband,” Lan Xichen gently tells him and Lan Wanyin goes still.

His brother is way too young to marry but he guess that’s not the case in this world.

“How old is he?” Lan Wanyin carefully asks and Wei Wuxian shrugs.

“Over thirty. You are too, in the body you’re currently in,” he explains and Lan Wanyin needs to sit down for a moment.

This is not what he expected.

“I want to go home,” Lan Wanyin whispers, suddenly feeling small and young despite the body he is in, and he watches as Lan Xichen and Wei Wuxian share a look.

“I’ll work on reversing the spell, but I don’t know how long it will take,” Wei Wuxian finally says and Lan Wanyin deflates.

“It’s probably best if we leave him to it,” Lan Xichen chimes in, giving Lan Wanyin a reassuring smile. “How do you feel about staying with me for the time being?”

Lan Wanyin is not feeling anything about that despite the aching urge to go home, so he simply nods.

“I’m sorry about imposing,” he says with a small bow and Wei Wuxian makes a startled noise at his side.

“If anyone’s imposing, it’s us, since we dragged you here against your will,” he says and Lan Wanyin wants to snap at him that he’s damn right about that, but he only nods.

Snapping would be rude, after all.

“Wei Wuxian will get you back home,” Lan Xichen promises and Lan Wanyin pretends that he doesn’t see how Wei Wuxian winces at that.

It doesn’t spark confidence in Lan Wanyin, but then again Wei Wuxian did drag him here, so he should be capable of sending him back too.

Neither of them comment on Wei Wuxian’s slip of face though, and when Lan Xichen motions for Lan Wanyin to follow him, he does so without another word.

The trek to Lan Xichen’s home is silent, but it’s not long before Lan Wanyin recognizes the path they are taking and unease grows in his gut.

Logically it makes sense that Lan Xichen would live in the Hanshi if he is the older brother, but Lan Wangji is very protective of his space—always has been—and so Lan Wanyin hasn’t set foot into the Hanshi more than a couple of times in his life.

The thought that he’s going to live there for the time being makes him feel slightly sick and he tries to subtly reach out for the trailing ends of his forehead ribbon, but of course his hands come back empty.

“It’s not much, but I hope you can relax here a bit,” Lan Xichen says as he invites him into the Hanshi, and Lan Wanyin hesitates a moment before he follows him inside.

“This is not where you usually stay,” Lan Xichen mildly observes and Lan Wanyin shakes his head.

“My brother lives in the Hanshi,” he explains and Lan Xichen nods.

“I suppose that would make sense, if he is the older one this time,” Lan Xichen says with a shrug and then busies himself with getting some tea ready.

Lan Wanyin observes him, and he takes note of the slightly shaking hands and the way Lan Xichen avoids looking directly at him.

“I’m—I shouldn’t be here,” Lan Wanyin finally whispers, and Lan Xichen jerks with his words.

“Wei Wuxian will work very hard to get you back to your world,” he promises. “You’re occupying his brother’s body, he’s personally invested. It’s a good motivator,” Lan Xichen whispers and Lan Wanyin frowns at his tone.

“His brother,” he mutters and then walks over to the mirror in Lan Xichen’s home.

Lan Wanyin takes a long moment to simply look himself over and he’s not sure he likes what he sees. Jiang Cheng’s body is older—of course it is—but it’s also a lot broader than Lan Wanyin is used to. It seems battle hardened.

His face at least is much the same—even though it looks empty without the forehead ribbon—though of course he seems more mature.

“Jiang Cheng doesn’t usually smile like you do,” Lan Xichen suddenly says from behind him and Lan Wanyin thinks that over for a moment before he schools his expression into a frown.

“That’s more like it,” Lan Xichen says with a wistful chuckle and Lan Wanyin keeps the expression for a while longer.

Jiang Cheng is still handsome, even with a frown, but it also makes him look fierce and unapproachable and Lan Wanyin doesn’t like that at all. He quickly drops the frown, watching as his features smooth out into his much softer ones.

“Do you want a forehead ribbon?” Lan Xichen suddenly asks him and Lan Wanyin whips around.

“What?” he asks, though he can’t deny that the answer would be a very resounding yes.

“I noticed you keep reaching out for it,” Lan Xichen explains and Lan Wanyin flushes when he realizes that he must have done it unconsciously.

“I can’t take your forehead ribbon,” Lan Wanyin says, appalled at just the idea of it, but Lan Xichen shakes his head.

“I have some spare ones,” he says and walks away to retrieve one of those. “I used to look after this one rowdy kid,” Lan Xichen says with a smile when he sees Lan Wanyin’s confused look. “He needed a few new ones every day and I didn’t have the heart to throw them out once he grew up.”

“I see,” Lan Wanyin whispers and takes the offered ribbon with shaking hands.

He does quick work with tying it around his forehead and he has to admit that he does feel better once it’s tied snugly.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely to Lan Xichen and after one last look into the mirror—now much more familiar than before—he turns away from it.

“If Wei Wuxian is my brother in this world, then where is he in my world?” Lan Wanyin asks Lan Xichen, mostly to have something to talk about.

“I don’t know,” Lan Xichen answers with a shrug. “If Wangji is your brother in your world, then where am I?”

“I don’t know,” Lan Wanyin whispers. “I don’t even know Wei Wuxian.”

“You’re sixteen?” Lan Xichen wants to know and he hums when Lan Wanyin nods. “Did you participate in the classes already?”

“No,” Lan Wanyin mumbles. “They are about to start in less than two weeks. I’m going to miss them, aren’t I?” Lan Wanyin asks, and he feels strangely despondent at that thought.

He’s going to miss out on so much.

“Wei Wuxian will do his hardest to send you back. The classes last the whole summer, right? You’ll probably have some time to get to know the other students,” Lan Xichen tries to reassure him, but Lan Wanyin is not convinced.

Wei Wuxian hasn’t looked all that confident before; he’ll probably be here for longer than either of them cares about.

“Jiang Cheng,” Lan Xichen suddenly says and Lan Wanyin tenses before he realizes that Lan Xichen doesn’t mean him. “Do you think he’ll be alright in your world?”

“I think so,” Lan Wanyin says without hesitation. “My brother will look after him.”

“That’s good then,” Lan Xichen says with a small smile and then he busies himself with the tea again.

They spend the rest of the afternoon with soft conversation, comparing notes on the different worlds, but it becomes clear to Lan Wanyin pretty quickly that Lan Xichen is skirting around a lot of topics.

Lan Wanyin is honestly too scared to ask and so he allows the topics to be shallow and safe.

Night has already fallen by the time footsteps approach the Hanshi and both Lan Xichen and Lan Wanyin perk up.

There’s a polite knock on the door before it slides open and Lan Wanyin has to fight the rush of relief to see his brother.

“Xiongzhan,” Lan Wangji greets, and the word sounds exceedingly strange on Lan Wangji’s lips.

Lan Wanyin doesn’t even have time to process the fact that Lan Wangji is looking at Lan Xichen instead of himself, when he’s already bowing.

“Xiongzhan,” he says, too, and then he shrinks back when Lan Wangji gives him a bone-chilling glare.

“Wangji, this is Lan Wanyin,” Lan Xichen explains but Lan Wangji’s look only gets darker at that.

“If you have to marry anyone, why does it have to be him?” Lan Wangji asks and Lan Wanyin reels back as if he has been hit.

“Wangji,” Lan Xichen snaps, stepping closer to Lan Wanyin. “Do not forget your manners. This is Lan Wanyin from another world. One of your husband’s experiments went very wrong, and you would do well to be polite to our guest. To any guest.”

Lan Wangji doesn’t lose his hostile look, but he at least bows to Lan Wanyin, even if he doesn’t apologize.

“I’ll be checking on my husband then,” Lan Wangji says, immediately leaving the Hanshi and Lan Wanyin can do nothing but stare after him.

This is not how he imagined meeting his brother would go over and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself now.

“I am so sorry,” Lan Xichen says. “There’s some history between Jiang Cheng and Wangji.” Lan Xichen winces at his own words and then goes on. “It’s still no excuse. He should at least remember his manners.”

Lan Wanyin can’t even nod at that, because he is still too shocked. He has never heard his brother sound that cold, not even when dealing with people he doesn’t like. To have it directed at himself is certainly an experience Lan Wanyin could have done without.

“I think I would like to sleep now,” Lan Wanyin eventually whispers and Lan Xichen’s face falls.

“Should I send for some dinner first?” he asks, already half up, but Lan Wanyin shakes his head.

“I just want to sleep,” he mumbles and Lan Xichen sighs.

“Alright,” he thankfully agrees and setting up a second bed is short work, so soon enough Lan Wanyin is laying down.

He doesn’t fight the urge to pull the blanket over his head and he also can’t help the few tears that escape, but he’s proud that he doesn’t outright sob, even though he absolutely feels like it.

He tries to convince himself that tomorrow will be better and that he will be back home soon, and Lan Wanyin falls asleep clinging to that hope.

~*~*~

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Lan Wanyin understands that it’s not quite acceptable for him to go to the communal breakfast, even though he would like that. But outsiders are not allowed and for all that Lan Wanyin is very much a Lan, Jiang Cheng—whose body he’s currently inhabiting—is most definitely not and so Lan Wanyin can’t go there.

Lan Xichen stays with him though and breakfast passes quickly like that.

Lan Wanyin is still thinking about his meeting with Lan Wangji—more like fretting over it—when they hear another set of footsteps approaching the Hanshi.

“Oh no,” Lan Xichen whispers, before he gets up, clearly recognizing the steps, but before he can reach the door someone knocks on it. Very insistently and loudly.

“Lan Xichen!” that person yells and Lan Xichen is quick to slide the door open, but he tries his best to block the person from looking inside.

“How dare you?” the person hisses and Lan Wanyin sees Lan Xichen wince.

“Jin Ling—” he starts, but Jin Ling doesn’t let him talk.

“You call my jiujiu away on urgent business and now you refuse to let him leave again? How dare you? Let me see him at once!” he demands and Lan Wanyin gets up, because he figures it’s kind of inevitable that he’ll have to introduce himself.

“Listen, Jin Ling, there’s been an accident,” Lan Xichen starts and Lan Wanyin thinks this might not be the best way to break the news to Jin Ling about his uncle.

“If he got hurt on your watch I will make you regret it,” Jin Ling says, and Lan Wanyin is surprised at the confidence with which he says it.

Lan Xichen shakes his head, but before he can figure out how to explain this to Jin Ling, he pushes his way into the Hanshi.

“Jiujiu!” Jin Ling calls out but when his gaze falls on Lan Wanyin he freezes.

“If you married Lan Xichen without telling me I will never speak to you again,” he then says, voice deceptively calm and Lan Wanyin rushes to clear the situation up.

“We didn’t marry,” he says and he’s proud that he only flushes a little bit.

A side-glance at Lan Xichen reveals that he’s doing much worse, because his face is bright red.

“Then what the hell is going on?” Jin Ling demands to know.

“Language,” Lan Wanyin says out of reflex and he is surprised at the pained look on Lan Xichen’s face at that.

“I’ll watch my language if you explain to me what you’re doing here, in Lan Xichen’s personal quarters, with what seems to be his forehead ribbon.”

“It’s a spare one,” Lan Xichen chimes in. “And he’s not actually Jiang Cheng,” he then belatedly says and Lan Wanyin thinks that maybe he should have led with that.

“What do you mean? It’s clearly my jiujiu,” Jin Ling says, already puffing himself up as if he’s gearing up for a fight.

“My name is Lan Wanyin. I’m from another world,” he rushes to explain but the frown on Jin Ling’s face only gets more pronounced.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he decides then and crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“One of Wei Wuxian’s experiments went wrong,” Lan Xichen says and it seems like that makes much more sense to Jin Ling because his face falls.

“What?” he whispers and now Lan Wanyin can finally see that he’s just a teenager.

“I’m really sorry,” Lan Wanyin says but Jin Ling shakes his head.

“I want my jiujiu back,” he says and Lan Wanyin can understand that feeling—he wants his brother back, too—but there’s not much he can do about that right now.

“I wish I could just swap us back,” Lan Wanyin says. “But we have to wait until Wei Wuxian figures out how to switch us back.”

“How is my jiujiu? Is he alright?” Jin Ling wants to know, but it’s again something Lan Wanyin can’t tell him for sure.

“He should be. I was at home when it happened, so he should have woken up safe and sound. And there’s not much that can happen to him in the Cloud Recesses.”

“Does he have someone to look out for him?” Jin Ling asks, and his voice is small.

“Of course he does,” Lan Wanyin tells him, frowning when he sees Lan Xichen shaking his head at him. “My brother will make sure that he’s alright.”

“Your brother? Lan Xichen?”

“No. Lan Wangji,” Lan Wanyin says, smiling slightly when he remembers just how protective his brother can be and so he nearly misses the way Jin Ling’s face falls again.

“What?” he hisses and then whirls around to Lan Xichen. “He’s alone with him?”

“As far as I understand it, there is no Jiang Cheng in his world. Wangji has no reason to hold a grudge against him.”

“But you don’t know it,” Jin Ling bitterly says and then turns back around to Lan Wanyin.

“How can you be this calm? My jiujiu is missing and you’re not even doing anything” he asks them, but Lan Wanyin shrugs.

“There’s nothing much we can do,” he says, even though he wishes it were different too. “We just have to wait for Wei Wuxian to reverse the spell.”

“And you’re just okay with that?” Jin Ling asks, now turned towards Lan Xichen again.

“Like he says, there’s not much we can do,” Lan Xichen apologetically says but it seems to have been the wrong thing, because Jin Ling huffs.

“I hate you,” he hisses. “I hate you both and I want you gone,” he then adds towards Lan Wanyin and promptly storms out of the Hanshi.

His words sting, even though Lan Wanyin understands that his emotions are most likely running rampant right now.

“He doesn’t mean it,” Lan Xichen tells him after a long moment of silence. “He just loves Jiang Cheng more than anyone else in this world and he’s clearly not doing well with his absence.”

“I see,” Lan Wanyin whispers and he gets it.

He isn’t doing well without Lan Wangji either, but at least his manners prevent him from breaking down or lashing out like Jin Ling just did.

“He’ll probably be back soon to apologize,” Lan Xichen prophesises but Lan Wanyin doubts it. “His parents died and Jiang Cheng raised him. I know he taught him more manners than this, but Jin Ling is a very emotional boy.”

“You seem to know them very well,” Lan Wanyin says with a small frown and watches as Lan Xichen’s cheeks go slightly red.

“We are—were fellow Sect Leaders. It’s only natural that we got to know each other.”

Lan Wanyin doesn’t want to ask about his correction there, though he can’t deny that he is curious what could have possibly made Lan Xichen step down from that position. But Lan Wanyin is too polite to ask about something that so very clearly still brings pain to Lan Xichen, and so they fall into silence again.

It’s not uncomfortable—at least not entirely—but Lan Wanyin finds himself fiddling with the ring around his finger more than he probably should.

He didn’t yet have a chance to look at it clearly, but he figures there’s nothing else to do for now, and so he raises his hand closer to his face, so he can take a better look.

The motion gets Lan Xichen’s attention immediately of course, but he stays silent for now.

Lan Wanyin inspects the ring with the utmost care, and he realizes soon enough that it’s a spiritual tool, but he’s not sure how to use it or if he even wants to.

“It turns into a whip,” Lan Xichen eventually chimes in and Lan Wanyin startles slightly, he was that engrossed in the intricate details on the ring. “It’s the Yu family heirloom. Jiang Cheng got it from his mother. It’s called Zidian.”

“What form does the whip take?”

“Purple lightning.” Lan Xichen hesitates briefly. “Would you like to try it out?”

“I—" Lan Wanyin starts, but then he doesn’t know how to finish that.

It’s likely that he will have more than enough time on his hands here, since he doesn’t have his usual classes or chores to attend to, but right now Lan Wanyin doesn’t feel like doing anything.

“I would like to meditate,” he finally says, allowing himself one day off in all this madness.

Lan Xichen doesn’t seem like he minds that much, because he very earnestly offers to accompany him to the cold springs, and Lan Wanyin would love to tell him no, but he knows that he’s in the body of an outsider, so seeing him at the cold springs without proper supervision would probably upset other Sect members.

There is nothing for Lan Wanyin to do but to agree.

It’s not so bad, in the end, because Lan Xichen has a very reserved nature it seems—not unlike Lan Wanyin’s own—and meditating next to him is easy.

Easy enough that the day goes by quickly and before Lan Wanyin knows it, he’s back in the Hanshi, with only Lan Xichen as his company during dinner.

Lan Wanyin finds himself wishing that he could see more of his brother, but then he remembers the tense atmosphere and Lan Wangji’s cold stare and Lan Wanyin figures it’s better that Lan Wangji doesn’t come around more often.

He kind of wonders over Wei Wuxian’s absence—since he’s apparently inhabiting Wei Wuxian’s brother’s body—but when Lan Wanyin brings it up to Lan Xichen he simply shrugs.

“Wei Wuxian is most likely doing his level best to send you back,” he explains and Lan Wanyin can’t quite hide the bitter twist of his mouth.

It has nothing to do with returning him to where he came from; it has everything to do with getting Jiang Cheng back.

“He would do the same for you if Jiang Cheng was still here,” Lan Xichen says, clearly reading the thought right off Lan Wanyin’s face and not for the first time does Lan Wanyin wonder if he is just that easy to read or if Lan Xichen is that familiar with Jiang Cheng.

“He made a mistake and he’s rushing to fix it. Not to mention that it’s probably driving him insane that he can’t figure out why his original spell went so wrong,” Lan Xichen says but the exasperation in his voice tells Lan Wanyin that this isn’t the first instance of Wei Wuxian going mad over something he caused himself.

Lan Wanyin wonders how Wei Wuxian can possibly fit into the Lan Sect, but if he and Lan Wangji are married, then at least Lan Xichen must have approved of it.

That thought spirals into imagining if Lan Wanyin’s own brother would approve of him marrying someone like Wei Wuxian—not that Lan Wanyin can imagine himself doing so—and he gets hit with a wave of homesickness.

It ruins his appetite rather thoroughly.

“I’m tired,” Lan Wanyin says as he puts his bowl down, trying not to notice Lan Xichen’s worried gaze on him.

Lan Wanyin doesn’t wait for a dismissal, and simply gets up to retire to bed. He hears Lan Xichen rummage around, but the noises are quiet and unobtrusive and Lan Wanyin quickly drifts off, even plagued by worries as he is.

~*~*~

The days don’t pass quickly enough for Lan Wanyin’s taste and soon enough he feels trapped inside the Hanshi. He’s not used to being so idle; in his world he has duties to fulfil and classes to attend but here there is nothing for him to do but sit and wait, and he has never been good at either of those things.

“I think I want to practice with Zidian,” Lan Wanyin says apropos of nothing one morning and Lan Xichen doesn’t seem as startled by that as Lan Wanyin expected him to be.

“Of course,” he quickly agrees and Lan Wanyin narrows his eyes at him, watching as Lan Xichen smiles slightly.

“You’re not as different to Jiang Cheng as you might think,” he says with a shrug. “Both of you don’t deal well with just sitting around; I was just waiting for you to get bored enough to say something.”

Lan Wanyin blinks at that.

“I had duties in my world,” is what he finally says.

“And I’m sorry you can’t carry them out here. You can help me with some of the paperwork later, if you want. It’s nothing important, but it would give you something to do.”

Lan Wanyin doesn’t comment on the nothing important part, but he can’t deny that he’s curious. Lan Wanyin is absolutely sure that Lan Xichen used to be Sect Leader and to hear that his paperwork is nothing serious just feels wrong. Even if he no longer is Sect Leader, if he stepped down for whatever reasons, people should still seek him out for his expertise and knowledge.

Lan Wanyin is on the cusp of asking, when Lan Xichen abruptly turns away from him, walking out of the Hanshi and clearly expecting Lan Wanyin to follow him.

Lan Wanyin swallows his questions down and trails after Lan Xichen to the training grounds.

“Do you have a spiritual tool?” Lan Xichen asks him and Lan Wanyin nods.

“I play the xiao,” he says and Lan Xichen looks startled.

“You—of course you do,” he finally says and Lan Wanyin frowns at him until he explains. “I do, too. It truly does seem like you have my place in your world. Maybe I do have your place, then, in Yunmeng Jiang,” he muses and Lan Wanyin promises himself to find out about Lan Xichen’s whereabouts, once he’s back in his own world.

“How does this help me with Zidian?” Lan Wanyin wants to know, and shakes himself out of these useless thoughts.

He can do nothing as long as he’s here, in this world, so there’s no point in making plans for now.

“If you already know how to use a spiritual tool, channelling energy into Zidian will be easier,” Lan Xichen explains and Lan Wanyin flushes, because he should have realized that himself.

Lan Wanyin takes a deep breath and pushes his embarrassment far away, because it’s never helpful while practicing and instead he concentrates on channelling energy into Zidian, just like he usually would with his xiao.

It doesn’t take long at all for Zidian to spark purple and then suddenly it’s no longer a ring, but a whip in Lan Wanyin’s hand.

“Very good,” Lan Xichen says with a smile and then steps away from Lan Wanyin, clearly giving him space. “Try it out,” he encourages him and Lan Wanyin does just that.

Controlling the whip is much harder than he imagined it to be, though. He can feel some confused resistance from Zidian, and Lan Wanyin is surprised to find that the tool notices that he’s not its usual master.

Jiang Cheng really has quite the priceless weapon at his disposal.

During the course of the next hour Lan Wanyin whips himself on accident more often than he really cares to admit, but it only plays into his stubborn streak; he is going to master this tool, and if he comes out of it bloody, then so be it.

“I think you need to arch it further over your head,” Lan Xichen suddenly says from the side and Lan Wanyin startles so badly he nearly whips himself in the face.

He completely forgot that Lan Xichen was there.

“Sorry,” Lan Xichen says with a grimace.

“How would you know how to use Zidian?” Lan Wanyin asks him, frustrated by his lack of progress so far, so his voice comes out more biting than it should. He takes a deep breath to calm himself before he goes on. “Have you used it before?”

“No,” Lan Xichen rushes out, blushing at the suggestion. “But Wanyin and I fought in the same war; we have been on some night-hunts together as well. It’s hard to miss how he uses Zidian,” Lan Xichen explains and Lan Wanyin frowns at him.

He still tries to do what Lan Xichen told him to and to his surprise it works out quite well. Lan Wanyin is aware that his posture is not perfect, but he’s getting there and he thinks with a bit more practice he could master Zidian, especially now that it seems to have accepted him.

Lan Xichen continues to give him a few more valuable tips and while Lan Wanyin does try each and every single one of them out, he can’t help the nagging thought in his head when Lan Xichen keeps talking.

“You’re in love with him,” Lan Wanyin says out of the blue after yet another successful manoeuvre and Lan Xichen freezes on the spot.

“You are,” Lan Wanyin says, taking Lan Xichen’s reaction as confirmation and then he watches as Lan Xichen goes red, before all colour drains from his face.

“I am not,” he tries to deny, but it’s a little bit too late for that. “Why would you think that?”

“You don’t learn these kind of tricks by picking up on a few things during night-hunts,” Lan Wanyin says, calling Zidian back and returning it to its ring form. “To notice the things you notice you’d have to watch him pretty closely.”

Lan Xichen opens his mouth as if to argue, but he can’t seem to find his words and so in the end he simply closes his mouth again.

“Have you ever told him?” Lan Wanyin wants to know and is surprised by the bitter laugh Lan Xichen lets out.

“Of course not,” he whispers and then looks away from Lan Wanyin. “I’ve been in love with him for so long, but I never dared to say anything. And now it’s just—” he trails off with a shrug and Lan Wanyin wonders just what the hell happened for Lan Xichen to think like that but before he can ask anything else, Jin Ling approaches them.

“You can wield Zidian,” he says, and it sounds so accusatory that Lan Wanyin flinches.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes and has half a mind just offering the tool to Jin Ling for safekeeping when Jin Ling lets out a rough breath.

“I’m here to apologize,” he says, not looking at Lan Wanyin directly, but he seems very determined.

“There’s no need for that,” Lan Wanyin says, because he can understand why Jin Ling freaked out when he realized that it wasn’t his jiujiu he was talking to.

“There is. It’s not your fault you’re here and I don’t hate you. I’m sorry I said it,” Jin Ling says, clearly uncomfortable with the apology, but he’s still doing it and Lan Wanyin thinks that Jiang Cheng really did a great job, raising him.

“It’s alright. Thank you,” Lan Wanyin says and once that is out, Jin Ling looks at him.

“I just miss my jiujiu,” he says, voice small, and Lan Wanyin notices yet again that Jin Ling barely looks older than Lan Wanyin is.

“I miss my xiongzhan too,” Lan Wanyin admits and Jin Ling nods.

“I’m sorry I can’t be around too much, but I have a Sect to lead, too,” Jin Ling says, and Lan Wanyin aches for him because no one that young should ever have to shoulder that kind of responsibility.

Lan Wanyin knows he couldn’t.

“It’s alright,” he says, because he guesses it’s only partly that, and mostly the fact that Jin Ling can’t bear to look at him and know that it’s not actually Jiang Cheng, and he’s not holding it against him.

Jin Ling nods brusquely at that, and then turns to Lan Xichen.

“I expect a proper courtship afterwards and you damn well better ask me for permission,” he hisses at Lan Xichen and then he simply stalks off again.

“Everyone seems to know you’re in love with Jiang Cheng,” Lan Wanyin mildly observes, thinking back to what Lan Wangji had said too and he watches as Lan Xichen blushes slightly again.

“It doesn’t matter. Jiang Cheng doesn’t know and he doesn’t feel the same way, and there’s no chance that will change now,” he gives back and he sounds more composed than Lan Wanyin expected him to.

“How would you know if you never confessed?”

“You’re not wrong. I have watched him a great deal. So trust me when I say that he doesn’t. Jiang Cheng is never subtle with his feelings and especially not when he loves.”

“Is he in love with someone else?”

“I don’t think so,” Lan Xichen admits.

“Then there’s hope for you,” Lan Wanyin shrugs, even though he can’t be sure of that at all.

He doesn’t know Jiang Cheng after all, but if he came here on Lan Xichen’s request—in a rush nonetheless, too, if he didn’t properly explain things to Jin Ling—then he must at least treasure their friendship.

“Thank you for saying that,” Lan Xichen whispers though he doesn’t sound convinced at all and Lan Wanyin turns away from him.

He doesn’t feel like practicing with Zidian anymore and the encounter with Jin Ling just reminded him who he is missing as well.

“I wonder how xiongzhang and shufu are doing,” Lan Wanyin mutters and startles when Lan Xichen puts a hand to his shoulder.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go see Wangji, but we can go visit shufu,” Lan Xichen says and Lan Wanyin turns towards him, his eyes wide.

He hadn’t dare to ask after Lan Qiren, too scared that he wouldn’t like the answer, and since no one had brought him up either, Lan Wanyin had half convinced himself that Lan Qiren didn’t exist in this world at best or was dead at worst.

He never dared to contemplate this.

“Can we?” he asks and Lan Xichen nods with a smile.

“Of course,” he agrees and then leads Lan Wanyin away from the training grounds.

Lan Xichen doesn’t act like Lan Wanyin has to pretend with Lan Qiren, so Lan Wanyin guesses he must have been told about what happened.

His suspicions are confirmed when Lan Qiren greets them.

“Xichen, Lan Wanyin,” he says with a nod and they both bow to him.

“Shufu,” they say in unison and despite the tight feeling in his chest Lan Wanyin has to hide a smile.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Lan Xichen says and promptly leaves Lan Wanyin alone with Lan Qiren who motions for him to sit.

“How are you doing?” Lan Qiren asks him and Lan Wanyin has to fight against the tears.

His uncle is exactly the same here in this world and Lan Wanyin feels so homesick, it threatens to overwhelm him.

“Good,” he somehow gets out, even though his voice is all choked up.

“I see you got a forehead ribbon,” Lan Qiren says, and while he doesn’t say it with any form of judgement Lan Wanyin rushes to explain.

“It’s not Lan Xichen’s! It’s a spare one! Nothing inappropriate happened.”

“A shame,” Lan Qiren mutters. “And here I thought the only nephew with taste would also finally be man enough to do something about it.”

Lan Wanyin presses his lips together, because apparently really everyone knows about Lan Xichen’s feelings for Jiang Cheng but when he sees the twinkle in Lan Qiren’s eyes he allows himself to smile.

“Maybe they will figure it out eventually,” he says and Lan Qiren sighs.

“Maybe,” he agrees, though it seems like he long ago gave up hope for that.

“Do you like Jiang Cheng? Would you approve of him?” Lan Wanyin asks, even though the answer seems pretty clear.

“Yes,” Lan Qiren easily admits and he doesn’t explain anything, so he really must hold Jiang Cheng in very high regards if he thinks it should be that obvious.

“He will come back to you all, soon,” Lan Wanyin whispers, hoping that he is missed in his own world just as dearly as Jiang Cheng is being missed here.

“He no doubt will,” Lan Qiren agrees but then he reaches out and cups Lan Wanyin’s cheek in his hand, stunning Lan Wanyin into stillness.

“But until then we’re all very happy to have you,” Lan Qiren says and Lan Wanyin swallows against his emotions. “Now,” Lan Qiren says and clears his throat. “How do you feel about a lesson?”

“I feel very good about that, shufu,” Lan Wanyin admits and when Lan Qiren falls right into explaining something Lan Wanyin feels settled.

It feels a lot more like home this way.

~*~*~

Lan Wanyin continues to spend his days training with Zidian before he goes to Lan Qiren for a lesson. Like this it doesn’t feel like he’s missing out on so much back in his own world, and the Lan Qiren of this world is just like the Lan Qiren of Lan Wanyin’s world.

Strict, but loving and Lan Wanyin wonders if he ever thought to appreciate that before.

He doesn’t see much of Lan Xichen for a few days, because he leaves Lan Wanyin to his own devices more often than not, but when he returns to the Hanshi in the evenings Lan Xichen seems troubled and stressed but he won’t talk about it, no matter how often Lan Wanyin asks.

Jin Ling seems to be staying in the Cloud Recesses, too, because he sees flashes of his golden robes more than once, but Lan Wanyin is in no rush to bother him again.

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian continue to be evasive, but it’s not like Lan Wanyin saw much of them before so their absence doesn’t seem all that strange.

Until he walks back into the Hanshi, almost three weeks into his stay in this world, and everyone is there waiting for him.

So this must be what had Lan Xichen so stressed over the past few days, Lan Wanyin thinks as he settles down at the table, expectantly waiting for someone to say something.

“So,” Wei Wuxian starts, nervously fiddling with Lan Wangji’s fingers. “Here’s the thing. We decided to tell you a few things, since it seems like they might still happen in your world and we don’t actually want you to have to go through them,” he says and Lan Wanyin frowns.

“Does this have to do with all the topics you keep glossing over? Like why Lan Xichen is no longer Sect Leader and the history between Wangji and Jiang Cheng?” he asks and everyone nods at him.

So this is not going to be fun then, Lan Wanyin thinks and he is right.

It’s a nightmare, if he’s being honest, and his mind is reeling when everyone finally falls silent again.

“We’re sorry about simply dropping this on you, but we think it’s better if you know these things,” Wei Wuxian says with a wince and Lan Wanyin cannot believe that he was dead for sixteen years.

“I—” Lan Wanyin starts, but he doesn’t actually know what to say to any of that and so he falls silent again.

He compares the things they talked about to the political landscape of his own world, and he realizes that they are probably steering towards the same war. The Wens are trying to reach for power; Sect Leader Nie’s father already died and no one believed Nie Mingjue when he said that Wen Ruohan had a hand in that.

There will be a lot to do for him, once he gets back to his own world, Lan Wanyin realizes and he grows cold with horror at the thought that maybe he cannot prevent any of it.

“I need to talk to him alone,” Jin Ling suddenly says and glares at Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji, before his gaze goes a little bit warmer when he looks at Lan Xichen. “Would you allow us to talk here, for a moment?” Jin Ling asks, suddenly all polite, and Lan Xichen is quick to nod.

“Of course,” he says, as he gets up, doing his hardest not to meet Lan Wanyin’s eyes but before Lan Wanyin can say anything he, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian have left the Hanshi.

Jin Ling walks after them, making sure they really leave, before he puts up a silencing ward on the Hanshi.

“What else?” Lan Wanyin asks, rubbing his head, because this cannot be good.

If Jin Ling send everyone else away, this cannot be good at all and Lan Wanyin is not sure if he wants to hear it. His mind is already reeling and he still feels faintly sick from all the things he just heard, but Jin Ling fixes him with a hard glare.

“Jiujiu did not go back to Lotus Pier to retrieve his parent’s bodies,” he starts with, simply diving right in as it seems and Lan Wanyin frowns.

“But that’s what Wei Wuxian said.”

“Because he doesn’t know better. He thinks that’s what happened. But it’s not true. My jiujiu got captured because the Wen soldiers were about to capture Wei Wuxian and jiujiu distracted them,” Jin Ling says and Lan Wanyin is glad he’s already sitting down.

Jiang Cheng sacrificed himself to keep Wei Wuxian safe, only to have it all ruined when Wei Wuxian gave him his core.

“They don’t know?” he asks, even though the answer is obvious.

“No. Jiujiu never wants Wei Wuxian to know that and so you’re not going to tell him either.” There’s an underlying threat in his voice and Lan Wanyin is quick to nod.

“Of course not,” he agrees. “But why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want the same to happen again,” Jin Ling says. “I don’t know about your relationship with your brother and I don’t know if there’s a Wei Wuxian in your world and if he has a brother, but maybe you should keep an eye out. They seem to think things are going to be the same in your world, and this is something you need to know as well.”

Lan Wanyin nods, his mind still spinning, and this new information does nothing to calm him down at all.

“Did he know he would lose his core?” Lan Wanyin asks and he watches in horror as pain flashes over Jin Ling’s face.

“He expected to lose his life,” he whispers and Lan Wanyin can’t even imagine how much Jiang Cheng must love Wei Wuxian to do something like that, expecting it to cost his life.

“I see,” Lan Wanyin whispers and wonders if he would be strong enough to do the same for Lan Wangji.

He hopes the answer is yes, but he also hopes he never has to find out.

“Thank you for telling me,” Lan Wanyin mutters and Jin Ling nods, before he destroys the talisman.

“I’ll get going then,” Jin Ling says, suddenly back to his awkward teenager self and Lan Wanyin musters up a smile for him.

“Have a safe trip,” he says, praying to all the gods he knows that the next time Jin Ling will see his jiujiu again.

“You too,” Jin Ling says, clearly not doubting for a second that Wei Wuxian will figure out how to send Lan Wanyin back and then he’s out of the door.

It’s not long before Lan Xichen comes back, but he’s still avoiding Lan Wanyin’s gaze and Lan Wanyin frowns.

“What is wrong?” he wants to know and watches as Lan Xichen flinches even as he plasters a smile to his face.

“You can request to be housed somewhere else until Wei Wuxian figures out how to send you back,” Lan Xichen says, his voice stiff and formal and Lan Wanyin’s frown only deepens.

“Why would I do that?” he demands to know and Lan Xichen shrugs.

“You heard what happened. I gave A—him the tool to murder my sworn brother and I never noticed a thing,” Lan Xichen says and Lan Wanyin pretends he doesn’t hear how his voice breaks over the almost uttered name.

“As did no one else,” Lan Wanyin hotly gives back. “So everyone else is at fault, too. And besides. He was your sworn brother, too, was he not? You should have been able to trust him.”

“I should have noticed,” Lan Xichen insists again, but Lan Wanyin shakes his head.

“He shouldn’t have done it,” he counters, but now it finally all comes together.

If Lan Xichen thinks he is guilty—an accomplice, almost—then of course he would step down as Sect Leader. Of course he would think Jiang Cheng could never fall in love with him.

“You said Jiang Cheng and I are quite similar, right?” he demands to know and Lan Xichen jerks his head in a nod.

“Then he must feel the same about this. It’s not your fault. You were all deceived. I doubt he thinks of you like you seem to fear.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Lan Xichen says and it rankles Lan Wanyin to be spoken to like that. “It’s more personal for him. He lost so much because of what happened, because of what I allowed to happen.”

“Everyone allowed that to happen. Everyone who didn’t say a thing and simply followed. Do you think he’s angry at the whole world?” Lan Wanyin wants to know and he is almost relieved to see a small smile on Lan Xichen’s face.

“He’s angry a lot,” he whispers but then he grows serious again. “Our relationship changed quite a bit once the truth came out.”

“Could that maybe be because you went into seclusion and withdrew?” Lan Wanyin wants to know and Lan Xichen looks startled by that suggestion.

“I don’t—” he starts but Lan Wanyin shakes his head.

“He came here when you wrote him, right? Didn’t he visit you before, too? I certainly wouldn’t do that with someone I hold responsible for a crime of any kind,” Lan Wanyin says, because he does feel pretty confident about that.

Lan Xichen swallows heavily before he nods once.

“Thank you for saying that. I will give it some thought,” he whispers and while it’s not exactly what Lan Wanyin wants to hear, it’s better than nothing.

Small steps.

~*~*~

Lan Xichen and Lan Wanyin have just settled down for a relaxing breakfast when Wei Wuxian barges into the Hanshi without properly announcing himself.

“Wei Wuxian,” Lan Xichen says, not as biting as Lan Wanyin would have expected, but then again Wei Wuxian seems too excited to properly remember his manners.

“I figured it out!” Wei Wuxian yells, disregarding yet another one of their rules and with every time that happens Lan Wanyin understands the pinched lines on Lan Qiren’s face more and more.

“You figured out what?” Lan Xichen asks, clearly practiced in wheedling out the necessary explanations of an excited Wei Wuxian.

“How to send you back, of course,” Wei Wuxian says with a maniac grin as he looks at Lan Wanyin. “Come, come, we gotta get started right now,” he rushes out and darts forward to take Lan Wanyin’s hand and drag him out of the Hanshi.

“Xichen-ge, you better wait here for now,” Wei Wuxian calls back when it becomes clear that Lan Xichen intents to follow them and when Lan Wanyin looks over his shoulder he sees the lost look on Lan Xichen’s face.

“Don’t worry,” he calls back, trying to sound more confident than he really feels, but Wei Wuxian’s manic energy doesn’t inspire trust at all.

Lan Xichen nods at him and doesn’t make a move to come after them and Lan Wanyin finds himself wishing that he could have said a proper goodbye to him.

Provided that whatever Wei Wuxian figured out actually works.

“Are you sure about this?” Lan Wanyin asks as he’s being dragged after Wei Wuxian, who nods so frantically that his hair goes flying.

“Of course I am! I never make mistakes,” he cries out and Lan Wanyin raises a very judging eyebrow at him. “Okay, maybe I do make mistakes, sometimes, rarely, but I promise you this will work out just fine. Don’t worry.”

Lan Wanyin of course still worries—how could he ever do anything else—but he also follows Wei Wuxian more freely.

He’s not surprised to be brought back to the Jingshi, but he is surprised to see that Lan Wangji is obviously missing.

“Can’t have any other qi mess up my careful planning,” Wei Wuxian cheerfully explains when he sees Lan Wanyin’s searching look and then he simply pushes him into the centre of the room.

There are papers strewn all over the Jingshi and Lan Wanyin’s fingers twitch with the need to tidy up in here, but then Wei Wuxian whirls around to him.

“Now, channel your energy into Zidian,” he demands just as some dark mist starts to swirl around Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wanyin has never seen demonic cultivation in person and it takes him a moment to shake off his instinctual horror but then he does as Wei Wuxian asked of him.

When Wei Wuxian’s and his energy come together the papers around him start to glow and Wei Wuxian lets out an excited yell.

“Yessss,” he hisses and then gently guides Lan Wanyin to lay down. “Tell your Lan Zhan hi from me,” Wei Wuxian says with a wink and it’s the last thing Lan Wanyin sees and hears before everything goes dark.

~*~*~

“You know the rest,” Lan Wanyin says, and sinks deeper into Jiang Xichen’s embrace, content to feel his heartbeat through his back, as he tightens Jiang Xichen’s arms around his middle.

Lan Wanyin can’t help but to appreciate his own forehead ribbon wrapped around Jiang Xichen’s forearm, but when he reaches out, Lan Wanyin fingers stray towards Zidian.

“That’s why we did so well in the war,” Jiang Xichen mutters and presses a kiss to Lan Wanyin’s head. “Because you knew what was going to happen.”

“Enough things were different that we still struggled,” Lan Wanyin says, feeling yet again like he failed everyone who died in the war.

He always gets upset over that, and his fiddling with Zidian gets stronger.

“Can you still wield it?” Jiang Xichen asks and swiftly slides the ring off his finger, before he puts it on Lan Wanyin’s.

“Xichen!” Lan Wanyin yells out in surprise, because it’s a family heirloom, and he really shouldn’t be holding it.

“Don’t you know that you can use it?” Jiang Xichen mutters in his ear and when Lan Wanyin tries to direct some energy into the ring, it promptly responds to him.

“Xichen,” he says, much more softly this time and Jiang Xichen noses at his cheek.

“What belongs to me also belongs to you,” he whispers and presses a kiss to the corner of Lan Wanyin’s mouth. “You should know that.”

“You should know that as well,” Lan Wanyin says and puts his hand over his forehead ribbon on Jiang Xichen’s arm.

“Oh, believe me, I do,” Jiang Xichen suggestively says and Lan Wanyin lightly slaps his arms, even as Jiang Xichen pulls him closer.

“But you know, I’m actually kind of upset now,” Jiang Xichen finally says after a while and drags Lan Wanyin out of his comfortable doze the soft murmuring of the lake lulled him in to.

“About what?” he whispers and turns his head so he can kiss the underside of Jiang Xichen’s chin.

“It’s clearly not me who caught your eye. You didn’t even know me. But from the way you talked about him it seems like Lan Xichen caught your eye.”

“Well, just like Jiang Cheng caught yours, right?” Lan Wanyin says and untangles himself from Jiang Xichen, just so that he can turn around and straddle his lap instead of sitting with his back to him.

“But it was me who managed to keep your eye, remember?” Lan Wanyin whispers into the space between them and he cannot believe how lucky he is when Jiang Xichen looks up at him with nothing but love on his face.

“Yes,” he whispers but when he strains up to get a kiss from Lan Wanyin he slightly leans back, just enough to stay out of reach.

“And you are the one who managed to keep my eye,” he tells Jiang Xichen and only when he sees the possessive happiness on his face does Lan Wanyin lean down and meet him in a kiss.

They get lost in it for a while, and when they finally part, Lan Wanyin moves around so he sits sideways on Jiang Xichen’s lap and can tuck his face into his neck more comfortably.

“I just hope that Lan Xichen and Jiang Cheng figured it out on their end as well.”

“Well, Jiang Cheng seemed pretty flustered with me. I’d say chances for them are good,” Jiang Xichen says with a small laugh and Lan Wanyin hopes he is right.

Lan Xichen deserves to be just as happy as Lan Wanyin is right now.

~*~*~

Lan Xichen stares out over the water, thoroughly enjoying the silence at his favourite pier, even though the cold is slowly creeping in.

It’s been years since he came to call Lotus Pier his home, but there are days where he can barely believe that he got this lucky at all.

That Jiang Cheng came to love him back, even though Lan Xichen doesn’t deserve it. And he’s pretty sure that Jiang Cheng’s stay in the other world has something to do with it, even though Jiang Cheng never really told him exactly what happened there, always blushing furiously before changing the subject.

Lan Xichen wonders if they would be here like this, today, if that experiment hadn’t gone wrong and then he wonders if Lan Wanyin also managed to get this lucky in his own world.

He definitely deserves it.

“My light, what are you doing?” Jiang Cheng suddenly asks from behind him and Lan Xichen cranes his neck to look up at him. “It’s too cold still for you to sit like this,” he berates Lan Xichen, but Lan Xichen can see the blanket in his hands and he knows that Jiang Cheng is simply worried.

“Maybe you should keep me warm then,” he gives back and he feels entirely too indulged when Jiang Cheng immediately settles down behind him, putting the blanket over his front and pulling him into his chest.

“You’re going to get sick like this,” Jiang Cheng grumbles but he presses a kiss to Lan Xichen’s hair as he says it. “What are you doing here, though?”

“I was wondering about Lan Wanyin,” Lan Xichen admits and snuggles into his husband’s chest. “Do you think things on his end turned out okay?”

“You told him what to look out for, right?” Jiang Cheng asks and strokes his hand up and down Lan Xichen’s stomach in a soothing motion. “And I doubt he was stupid enough to disregard everything you said to him. It should be fine.”

Lan Xichen hums at that, because he hopes Jiang Cheng is right.

“Do you think he got as lucky in love as we did?” Lan Xichen asks after a while and he doesn’t even have to look at Jiang Cheng to know that he’s blushing again.

“No one is as lucky as we are,” Jiang Cheng says but then he sighs. “I would think so,” he then finally admits. “I might have been a bit careless with his forehead ribbon,” Jiang Cheng finally admits and it’s surprising enough that Lan Xichen turns around to him.

“You what?” he wants to know but he’s smiling giddily when he sees how embarrassed Jiang Cheng is about this.

“I met your counterpart,” Jiang Cheng admits. “Jiang Xichen.”

“Ah, so that’s where I went,” Lan Xichen nods, finally being able to put that nagging thought to rest.

“Yeah. You had your hair in Yunmeng braids and you were wearing purple,” Jiang Cheng admits and he reaches up to tug on Lan Xichen’s braided hair and then he smoothes his hand over Lan Xichen’s side, clearly appreciating the deep purple that his robes are.

There is still some blue mixed in, but it’s subtle enough that one might miss it on first glance, and Lan Xichen doesn’t mind it as much as he once might have thought.

His heart belongs to Jiang Cheng and that means his everything belongs to Yunmeng as well. It’s only fair that his look reflects that.

“And?” Lan Xichen probes when Jiang Cheng falls silent and then he can’t help himself because he simply has to kiss the blush on Jiang Cheng’s face.

“I was in a sixteen-year-old body,” Jiang Cheng says as if he needs to defend himself and his actions upfront. “There were a lot of hormones I wasn’t used to anymore.”

“And?” Lan Xichen asks again, a smile curling around his mouth because he might see where this is going.

“And Jiang Xichen was smuggling in alcohol past curfew and he was being a little shit and he looked so strange without his forehead ribbon. And I wasn’t used to mine,” Jiang Cheng mutters, clearly embarrassed beyond words and Lan Xichen laughs.

“So you gave him yours?” he snickers and Jiang Cheng pinches his side, before he chases away the sting of pain with a kiss.

“Maybe,” Jiang Cheng whispers against his lips and Lan Xichen hums.

“I thought you were different when you came back,” he admits and a tiny part of Lan Xichen can’t help but to wonder if they would be here at all if Jiang Cheng wasn’t forced into that other world.

If he ever would have come to love Lan Xichen on his own.

“Stop it,” Jiang Cheng chastises him and cups Lan Xichen’s face in his hand. “I love you,” he firmly states. “And I would have come to love you without those three weeks as well. I was already falling for you,” Jiang Cheng promises him and Lan Xichen has to blink back his tears.

Jiang Cheng does know him too well.

“And besides, you don’t have room to judge,” Jiang Cheng finally huffs out. “You gave me your ribbon as well, after all,” he says and tangles his hand in the trailing ends of the slightly purple ribbon Lan Xichen is wearing.

It’s not his Lan ribbon, that one is braided into Jiang Cheng’s hair like it should be, but it still sends a shiver down Lan Xichen’s back when Jiang Cheng lightly pulls on it.

“And you accepted it,” Lan Xichen gives back, because he still can’t believe that some days, but when Jiang Cheng smiles at him, all thoughts flee his mind.

“I love you,” Jiang Cheng whispers, straining up to kiss Lan Xichen, who happily leans into the contact.

He’s too busy kissing Jiang Cheng back to say the words as well, but Lan Xichen figures since he’s wearing purple, proudly displaying Jiang Cheng’s braids in his hair and with his forehead ribbon forever in Jiang Cheng’s possession, it should be more than clear.

He wholeheartedly belongs to Jiang Cheng.

Link to my ko-fi on the sidebar!

#bt writes #the untamed #mdzs #xicheng #doubly so #clan swap #lan wanyin #jiang xichen #hurt/comfort #family feels #fix-it of sorts #cuddling and snuggling

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loversamongus · 4 years

Text

Controlled Emotions | Zuko x Reader

a/n: all these fics end up being the reader as an advisor, I have zero creativity. anyways this is inspired by the song “every single night” by computer games because I was listening to it one day and the first lyric just screamed zuko to me idk so here it is. also i didnt proofread this oops

word count: 1.5k

fic taglist:

Advisor meetings have been tense lately. While a mixture of advisors in age, gender, and political leanings was ideal for gaining multiple perspectives on an issue, it also led to frequent arguments about what was best for the Fire Nation and deadlines being pushed back until the majority of advisors have come to an agreement. Though rewarding at times, the job was certainly frustrating. But all that paled in comparison to the most recent audiences with the young Fire Lord.

Frustrated by another deadline requested to be pushed back, the Fire Lord’s temper had surged throughout the throne room. You didn’t disagree with him either. People in a small fishing village were becoming seriously ill and many signs seemed to point to the mutations and disease in some of the fish from the river as a result of years of pollution from war efforts.

“It is not your fault the regime before yours was so ignorant of the people’s needs and other environmental factors.”

“In all honesty, who in their right mind would eat a fish with two heads anyways?”

“The river had been supposedly cleaned by the Avatar and his friends shortly before the end of the war, shouldn’t the responsibility lie with them?”

One after another, an advisor countered the Fire Lord’s efforts to financially back abundant medical aid for the fishing village. One after another, flames grew higher and higher nearly scorching the ceiling as the Fire Lord sat quietly. You noticed his scrunched up expression and knew it was only a matter of time before--

“Am I not, as Fire Lord, responsible for everyone living in the Fire Nation? Am I not, having been Prince of the Fire Nation during the war, responsible for how the war had affected our people? How can we sit here and deny help to our own people who are suffering?!”

After an uncomfortable silence, only one advisor stood up to speak. “And what, Fire Lord Zuko, do you plan to do about those injured in the fights breaking out in the colonies? Or the troops returning home from war injured and jobless? Or the villages in the Earth Kingdom burned down by our nation’s doing? There are many responsibilities this nation bears but solving these problems must be done with appropriate organization and objectiveness, not youthful bullheadedness.”

And with that, the audience was dismissed.

With no clear resolution in sight, you had made your way to the advisors’ chambers to work on new proposals despite the late night. Getting down the business is usually easy but the otherwise empty and quiet workspace was not as calming and focused as you had hoped. It may have been well past sundown, but bright bursts of light kept erupting and peeking through the windows of the chambers, distracting you every time you went to read or write a new sentence. Having been an advisor for some time now and becoming familiar with the layout of the palace, you knew exactly where the light was coming from.

Abandoning your work, you walked the grounds until you reached the gates of the training space. Sure enough, your suspicions had been correct as you eyed Zuko in the center of the pitch running through different firebending forms. It was a surprise however that only the fire blasting from his fists and feet was what distracted you from your work. You hadn’t heard the angry grunts and yells from the advisors’ chambers.

The sound of the gate closing behind you was enough to make Zuko stop and look up at you. But he simply acknowledged your presence with a nod before continuing into the next set of firebending forms. You took a seat to watch on the sidelines. The silence did not bother you. In fact, it gave you time to relax from your role as advisor to the Fire Lord into friend. Or something more. The details of your relationship with Zuko have not really been sorted out or discussed but either way, you knew your role right now was to be supportive yet honest.

“He was right, you know.”

Zuko let out a low grunt as his response before letting more fire blast from his fist.

“It’s not that the other advisors don’t want to help the village. It’s that we have to divide our resources and aid equally. If we send all our healers to the village, none will be left to take care of the returning troops or the colonies or the elderly in the capital city.”

There was no grunt this time but more flames spat from his fist as he punched it forward through the air.

“And it’s incredibly admirable to see you so compassionate about your people but it would be nice to get through one meeting this week without scorching the ceiling tiles.”

“So am I supposed to rule without a conscience?” he asked coldly without looking at you, the anger he was restraining palpable in his voice.

“No,” you replied levelly. “You heard what Ji said. Objectively does not necessarily mean without a conscience. Actually,” a bit of laughter bubbled up into your conversation. “He suggested you talk more with Katara. ‘Now that’s someone who can keep their emotions in check,’ he said.”

“Having been on the receiving end of her wrath, I beg to differ,” Zuko sighed and released his fists before joining you in the stands. “And I have talked to her. She just laughed at me. She said, ‘Now you know what it’s like not to be taken seriously because you’re too emotional.”

You shifted your body when he sat down beside you so that you could still face him. He did not face you, however, and continued to stare forward at the training grounds and into the night sky. “No one is telling you not to feel or have emotions, Zuko. Just that they shouldn’t control you so much, or cloud your judgment.”

“You sound like Uncle,” he groaned before flopping backwards onto his back. In moments like this, you really realized how young the Fire Lord was. He was still mature and doing his best with such a large responsibility, but despite being five years into his reign, that moody teenager still presented himself at times.

Leaning onto one arm so that you were closer to Zuko, you laughed softly, “I’m wondering if I should find that flattering.”

Zuko ignored your lightheartedness and continued. “People are always telling me, ‘don’t let your emotions control you.’ But why? Without them, I never could know you.”

“What do you mean?” Your eyes remained fixed on him as you tried to sort out your confusion.

“Do you remember one of the first advisor meetings you were a part of?”

“The one where we were discussing having the Kyoshi Warriors acting as your bodyguards over well-trained firebenders much more familiar with the palace and the land? Absolutely. That was when we discovered your throne wasn’t fireproof.”

“Right. And I came here to blow off some steam and you followed me to say that you were on my side and would work on getting the other advisors to agree to letting the Kyoshi Warriors be my security.”

“I didn’t follow you...”

For the first time that evening, Zuko looked at you with a knowing and pointed grin. You rolled your eyes and urged him to continue making his point. “Anyways, go on.”

“If I hadn’t been feeling so angry, I wouldn’t have come here and you wouldn’t have followed me and we wouldn’t be... I don’t know... us.” He sat up and was so close now that your shoulders brushed against each other.

“It’s not just through anger that I’ve gotten to know you either,” he continued. “When I was anxious about a speech, you were the one who volunteered to work on it with me.”

“You made fun of the way I clapped and said people don’t clap that enthusiastically for common budget updates,” you drawled.

“When I was excited about Uncle coming back to visit, you helped to make sure everything was arranged to his liking.”

“You told me never to tell your uncle that my taste in tea may be superior to his,” you proudly added.

“And when I was sad that you had to leave on a trip to the Earth Kingdom, your letters made me smile because I thought at last someone who has worse handwriting than I do.”

“You take that back!” you gasped, pointing your finger menacingly at Zuko.

“My point is,” he grabbed your hand in his. “If I was cold and stoic as some of these advisors seem to want me to be, I wouldn’t have gotten to know you. So I’m not going to change the way I feel.”

You smiled softly, happy to see this side of Zuko. The nature of your relationship still felt undefined and you were sure the two of you would figure it out. Eventually. It was a discussion to be had, but one for another day, as this day was nearly over.

“That’s nice,” you playfully patted his hand. “But the next time you decide to feel something, maybe you could do so without destroying the ceiling. Or distracting me with your firebending while I’m trying to do my job.”

You stood up and began to walk away from the stands and out of the training grounds, leaving a smiling Zuko behind you.

“You’re the one who followed me!” he called out.

#atla #avatar #avatar the last airbender #zuko x reader #zuko x you #prince zuko x you #prince zuko #zuko #fire lord zuko #fire lord zuko x reader #fire lord zuko x you #zuko fic

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sfb123 · 4 years

Text

Sapere Aude - Part 8

Book: The Royal Heir

Pairing: King Liam Rys x Queen Riley Brooks

All characters belong to Pixelberry.

Catch Up Here

Series Description: I developed a theory of what I think will happen in TRH Book 4, and I was encouraged by some very lovely people to turn my theory into a fic, so here it is. Basically, Riley is recruited to join the Via Imperii, this series will follow her as she joins them to try and bring them down from the inside, and all of the drama and bombshells she learns along the way. Sapere Aude is Latin for “dare to know” it seemed like an appropriate title.

Rating: PG-13 Adult language, allusions to smut (but nothing graphic), discussions of death, conspiracy, blackmail, and other adult themes.

Warning: The Royal Heir Book 3 Spoilers all over the place.

Word Count: 2,314

Notes: Sorry. This was such a draining chapter to write. I tried to throw some fluff into the beginning, but overall it's a heavy ass chapter. Just remember, this is what you all asked for!

Shout out to my pre-reading possy, @texaskitten30 and @txemrn, and @twinkleallnight for my moodboard!

Tags: Meh, they're down there and in the comments. Maybe you'll get them, maybe you won't. Who the fuck knows anymore. If you want to be added or removed, let me know.

The royal family had a wonderful couple of hours together, after Riley and Eleanor returned from Valtoria. Eleanor gifted Liam a picture that she drew for him while she was away. Liam loved it, he loved all of the pictures his daughter made for him. This one would join the others, proudly displayed in his office so that he could brag about Eleanor’s talent to every person that wanted to meet with the King. Some royals made you ‘kiss the ring’ if you wanted something from them, Liam made you look at a gallery of his daughter’s artwork. He was such a proud father.

They sat on the couch together as Eleanor told stories about her adventures with Uncle Drake over the weekend. Liam sat, listening intently with one arm draped over Riley’s shoulders, occasionally pressing a kiss to her temple. Not only did he know that she was suffering in silence with all of the information she had gathered over the weekend, but he had missed his wife. He missed looking at her, touching her, just being close to her. She missed it too, and made sure to stay snuggled as close to his side as she possibly could, they always found comfort in each other, and comfort was something that she desperately needed in that moment.

Before they knew it, Drake had returned and picked up Eleanor to spend the night in Ramsford. Riley and Liam said their goodbyes to the pair and returned to their living room to talk. Riley took a deep breath to center herself.

“So I take it, you told Drake?” Liam turned to face her.

“I’m so sorry Liam, I know you wanted to wait until we had more information before we brought anyone else into it. I just left that party, and everything was so horrible, and I couldn’t call you, and I was all alone and I…”

Liam pulled Riley close, placing one hand on her cheek, brushing it with his thumb. “Hey, calm down, deep breaths. It’s ok, I’m not upset with you.” He kissed her lips gently. “If there was anyone we could trust with this, it’s Drake.”

She silently nodded and pulled out of Liam’s embrace, taking a seat on the couch and motioning for him to join her. “You’re going to want to sit down Liam. Please sit down.” Liam sat next to her, and she immediately took his hands in hers. Just rip off the band-aid. Get the big stuff out of the way first. “Liam, your mother, she’s alive.”

She felt Liam’s hands clench in hers, and saw his body stiffen. Silence filled the room, and Riley let it happen. He needed to process this his way, in his time, she was just there for support. “That woman,” Liam refused to refer to her as his mother, and he certainly wouldn’t use her name. As far as he was concerned, there was only one Eleanor worth anything in his life, and she had just left with Drake. “died a long time ago. She was poisoned. You were given misinformation.”

“Liam, she’s alive. I met with her.” She watched his face go through every emotion possible before finally settling on hurt and sadness.

“You met my moth...her?” A single tear fell down Liam’s face, he looked like a heartbroken child, and it tied Riley’s insides in knots.

She looked down and nodded her head. “She’s in charge of the Via Imperii in Cordonia. She’s their president.”

Liam shot up from his seat and began pacing the room. “She brought me into this world, deceived me, and used that deceit to plot my downfall? This will not stand. She has committed treason, she needs to be taken into custody immediately.”

“Liam, you can’t…”

“I don’t give a damn if they release the tape!” He bellowed, interrupting her.

Riley had never seen Liam this angry, this hurt. She knew telling him was going to be bad, but there was no way she could prepare herself for the sight before her. She approached him tentatively and took his face in both of her hands, stopping him in his tracks and forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Liam, we can’t arrest her because then everyone will know she’s alive. We can hold Barthelemy because of everything else that was on that hard drive, but Godfrey would be released. We can’t let that happen, he’s clearly an enemy of the crown, a cell is the best place for him.”

There was another long silence, and then, Liam’s emotional dam broke. He collapsed to the floor, sobbing. Riley followed him, getting on her knees and collecting him in her arms, holding him close, and letting him cry. They stayed that way for several moments, Liam sobbing while Riley rubbed soothing circles on his back and pressed kisses to the top of his head, hoping the embrace would help relax him.

He finally broke the silence, speaking through sobs. “I spent...my life...grieving her.” He pulled away from Riley, looking in her eyes. She felt her heart tighten at the sight of his red eyes and tear stained cheeks. “I spent my life thinking she loved me, but I clearly meant nothing to her.”

“Liam, she loved you...she loves you. I could see it in the way she spoke about you.” She gently wiped the tears from his face. “Those letters, those journal entries we found, they were all real. She genuinely felt all of those things for you.” She watched the confusion in Liam’s eyes, he was clearly torn on how he should receive this information. She knew there was more she had to tell him, but she wasn’t sure if he would be able to handle it. “Liam, there’s more. I can wait if you would rather…”

“No, that’s alright. Please, continue.” He switched on his stoic royal facade and stood from the floor, extending his hand to help Riley up.

Riley took his hand and stood, linking their fingers together before he could pull away. “You have a younger brother.”

Liam’s grip on Riley’s hand tightened as the tears again began to fall. Riley guided him slowly back to the couch, helping him sit down. She sat down next to him and stroked his hair as he sat in silence, staring off into the distance. “Is he…?”

“He was raised in the Via Imperii by your mother. He’s currently working in the Palace.” She took a deep breath to prepare herself to make the next statement. “Thomas is your brother.”

Liam’s head dropped forward, his breath hitching with every attempt to calm himself. There was a long silence in the room. Riley continued to rub Liam’s back in an attempt to comfort him, silently wishing he would say something. Anything. Yell, scream, break a vase. Then she could at least get an idea of what he was feeling, and do something to try to help. Suddenly, he stood from his seat and started walking toward the door.

“Liam, where are you going?”

“I need to take a walk. Gather my thoughts.”

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, I need to be alone right now. You stay here, I’ll be back shortly.”

He never turns down my company, he always wants me with him. Is he mad at me? Should I not have told him?

She heard the door slam shut and she looked up. He was gone.

No goodbye, no kiss, no I love you. He’s never just walked out like that. What am I supposed to do?

She picked up her phone off the table and dialed Bastien, asking him if he was with Liam. He informed her that he was told to stand down. Riley ordered Bastien to follow him and keep an eye on her husband. She never gave Bastien a direct order, usually she would just ask politely, so he understood that this was a serious situation, and complied.

Riley fought every urge she had to follow him out that door and stay by his side, regardless of him telling her not to. If this was how Liam needed to process, she wasn’t going to get in the way of that. She tried not to take his actions or words personally, given the atomic bomb she just dropped on him, but part of her felt like he was upset with her, and she didn’t want to be in his face to make him more upset, that was the last thing either of them needed. She had sent Bastien, and he would keep her looped in if something were to happen.

It had been well over an hour since Liam had left their quarters. Riley had tried calling a couple of times, but his phone was going straight to voicemail. She had passed the point of letting him process, and crossed into worry and mild panic. She sat in bed trying to read a book, but what she was actually doing was reading one sentence over and over again. There was no way she would be able to concentrate on anything until Liam got back.

Riley finally let out a long breath when she heard the front door open and close. She put down her book and prepared herself. Liam entered the room with his head down, even though she couldn’t see his face, she could tell how tired he was. He walked straight to his closet without looking up, or saying a word to her. She wasn’t sure what to do or say, so she figured it would be best to let him come to her first.

A few minutes later, Liam walked out of his closet and headed for the bed, not making eye contact with Riley. He silently pulled the covers back and got into the bed. Riley was sitting up, watching his every movement. She couldn’t take it anymore, she had to break the silence. “Liam…” She said barely above a whisper, he turned his head and looked at her for the first time since arriving home. “I’m sorry.” She placed her hand gently over his.

“Riley, you have nothing to apologize for. I am the one that wanted you to do this. You did nothing wrong. None of this is on you.” He smiled a sad, soft smile at her.

“Fine, but you’re not allowed to blame yourself either.” He looked at her with a confused expression. “What you just said, telling me you were the one that wanted me to do this. I know you Liam Rys, better than anyone. You’re thinking about how you brought all of this on yourself.” Liam started to look down, but Riley wouldn’t let him. She held his chin between her thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “This is all on them, it’s the Via Imperii’s fault. That’s why we’re going to take them down. Together. Just like Anton, just like Auvernal, just like Barthelemy, just like any other enemy that has ever, or will ever come our way. We are the King and Queen of Cordonia, Liam and Riley Rys. We are a force to be reckoned with.” She never broke eye contact with him once, ensuring she got her point across.

Liam took a deep breath, removing his wife’s hand from his chin and bringing it to his lips. “You always know just what to say, love.”

“Years of diplomatic training. I need to be prepared for every possible scenario.” She winked at him, and he chuckled. She was relieved to see his mood lift ever so slightly. It was a start. “C’mon, let’s try to get some sleep. We can circle back to this nightmare in the morning, start working on a plan.” They both laid back onto the bed, and into each others arms.

In the middle of the night, Riley’s eyes fluttered open. She was laying face to face with Liam, who was looking at her with worry in his eyes, gently running his hand up and down her arm.

“Hey, are you ok?” She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Please don’t leave me, Riley.” Liam’s voice trembled as he looked at his wife with pleading eyes.

Riley sat up straight in bed, confused by Liam’s statement. “Liam, never. I love you, you’re stuck with me for life.”

He gave her a sad smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “I just...there have been so many people that said they cared about me, and then left. Losing them was so hard. But if I lost you Riley, I don’t know how I would be able to continue on. You are the most important part of me, my everything. I don’t exist without you.”

Riley’s heart broke at Liam’s confession. After the way they left things before she fell asleep, she never would have thought that this would be a conversation they would be having. And it definitely wasn’t a conversation she was expecting to have at 3AM. She cupped his face in her hands and stroked his cheeks with her thumbs. “Liam, I promise you with all my heart, and everything I am, that there is nothing on this earth that could take me away from you. My husband and my daughter are the greatest joys of my life. A world without the two of you is not a world I would ever even want to think about.”

Without another word, Liam leaned forward and kissed her. He used that kiss as an outlet for all of the emotions battling inside of him. He gently guided Riley to lay in her back as he rolled on top of her.

“Show me.” He whispered.

“Yes, my king.”

Riley and Liam spent the rest of the night getting lost in each other, finding the comfort they so desperately needed.

Tags: @txemrn @texaskitten30 @kingliam2019 @anjanettexcordonia @twinkleallnight @mile9213 @kittypryde-bipride @motorcitymademadame @kat-tia801 @bebepac @gkittylove99 @khoicesbyk @jessiembruno @queenrileyrose @athena-penrose @pixie88 @eadanga @choicesficwriterscreations @iaminlovewithtrr @hopelessromanticmonie @annarenee355 @burnsoslow @shewillreadyou @imturaxamara @gabesmommie1130 @cordoniaqueensworld @hopefulmoonobject

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neuvillette · 3 years

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Paperwork - FrUK Fic (18+ish)

During the industrial boom in England, someone in particular has been working himself to the bone.

Fuck... There it was again, that near-painful pang in his ribs from thinking about that bastard. That arrogant prick had whispered to him so closely that day so long ago that the memory of the hot breath from his lips still seemed to be lingering on his ears-- or was that just his own fiery blush? Either way, it wasn't going anywhere. Whenever he was alone his thoughts would instantly crack back to that insufferable shit. How his lips were so plush and too naturally red to be decent... How those blue eyes drifted lazily along wherever they pleased, often up and down his body. How he hoped that they one day would look back at him so pleadingly, begging for something almost too shameful to fulfill. He knew approximately how the man looked under his clothes, since he was prone to low cut shirts, high hems, translucent fabric. He had a tight waist and broad shoulders, he had hips that almost could be considered too wide, ones that would probably be good to hold onto tightly and grip red marks into. His chest, like much of his body, was soft, not flabby exactly, but plush enough to squeeze and nibble at. Fuck, FUCK, that pang came again, searing through his chest as he battled to think of something else. He had work to get done, and a lot of it. These kinds of thoughts were not only immoral but incredibly inconvenient, and the toll they took on his body meant he had to go through an arduous process to relieve himself, if only for a little while. His teeth all pressed down together as his jaw clenched, he could feel the pressure all throughout his face as he tried to just get on with it. There wasn't that much paperwork left, right? Just a bit more. A small distraction would do him some good. He only realised he was tapping his mostly-dry dip pen against his desk when he noticed how the rhythm was starting to seep elsewhere into his mind; tap tap tap, thrusts against a document, against something soft, warm, moans echoing in arches over the staccato beat, and--- He dropped the pen unceremoniously onto his desk, caked-on ink splattering down as he pressed his forehead into his hand. He had been slipping too hard recently. His bosses hadn’t been pleased with his work as of late; though he had been toiling during similar hours and put in the same effort he always had, they said he needed to rise up to meet changing standards. He used to do work with his hands, but that wasn’t needed anymore. He used to be their guard dog, or at least their work horse. For everything it was, at least the action of his youth was invigorating. At least he wasn’t monitored, and had time to do things for himself, instead of being their tool all hours of the day. He had time to work with his hands, his hands. To create things that were valuable, that were helpful to the, to his, people around him. Now he was… well. He was expendable. But not so expendable that they would waste his capacity to do paperwork. Industry was booming, one couldn’t just expect to stand by with what had been accepted in the past. Labour was becoming more standardised, more efficient, more impersonal… Not that he had ever been the most personable chap. While he enjoyed working with his hands, making things one by one, the gritty way, the difficult way, he made efforts to internalise what they had said to him. They needed his mind, his edge, to work on this stuff. That’s what he was for, after all; not forging swords, not stringing bows, not tilling soil or growing things; but intellectual, gentlemanly, removed work. Detached, necessary, proper. It suited him, he tried to tell himself. He wasn’t one easily inclined to the personable, nor to saccharine slop… Not when communicating with others, anyhow. Buried and smeared while being hidden amongst mounds of paperwork were brief scribbles of poetry, of sketches of mistily reimagined silhouettes, flowing romantic prose incapable of coming out through his own halting speech, of faintly grasped memories of torrid expressions he needed to recall through flowing strokes of a figure, but those all were secrets even he wasn’t meant to have access to. Shameful, that’s what it was. Inefficient, ineffective, and shameful. An outlet for his needs to make something, perhaps, but… Certainly they sated other desires as well.

The distance between them should have helped; should have given him time to correct and corral his feelings, mold them back into form briskly, scaldingly, sharply--as one does when shaping copper. Instead he had gone too soft, too half-hearted, and his self-inflicted blows to his psyche had been too gentle. The metal of his desire had set and crisped up before he could steer himself back on track, and now he had to re-anneal, to subject himself back to fiery disavowal and guilt before the exacting measures of self-restraint would be effective. Yes, he quite liked that idea. He couldn’t have his metallurgy back but he could certainly think of his rehabilitation as such. He had forged many a sword, an arrow tip, an axe, before. His personality would be the same. Scalded and quenched and hammered into shape. And with his skill he could tap incessantly, exactingly, forcefully thrusting against the teasingly giving metal and-- blast it, again! It was achingly difficult to ignore. The distance only seemed to make his delinquent misgivings have more courage to rise up again out of turn. When he was face to face with those capricious blue eyes long enough to remember the wretched personality that tagged along with them it was easier to keep his goal in mind, but the longer he went without a glimpse of the sour man himself, the more alluring the rest of it seemed. Had they even written letters? Well, he hadn’t sent any. He had received a fair handful until they had run dry. He had almost convinced himself that he was glad of it. A few lines in the others flowery script were too laden with implications to be safe; he had already resigned himself to the idea of his correspondence being read at his supervisor’s discretion, so it was best if the letters wasted away entirely rather than risk the uncovery by his betters of whatever hintingly depraved thing would find itself penned inside a perfumed envelope. Near the end of their dispatchment, the notes had gotten quite irritated it seemed, demanding reply. His excuse for his silence was that he simply didn’t have time to dally on such things, but in truth he wanted to show himself that he could deny the temptation. It was easy to tell himself that he had enough to worry about with dozens of signatures to scrawl, appeals and drafts to write, documents and proposals to uncritically approve. With considerable effort, he plucked the intricately carved ivory dip pen off of the desk before blotting it back into his blue-glass inkwell. Just a few more of these documents and he’d be able to wallow in his own home instead of his suffocating office. The half-hearted, half-present signatures left a streaky trail of black as his newly inkstained hand trailed across the page, though the final few letters were jaggedly interrupted with a rapping at the office door.

“Yes, sir, I’ve already said I would finish them by today,” his calling tone was harsh but clearly deferent; he was a lively one, but part of being a man was knowing his duty and thusly his place. Even so, he didn’t bother glancing up from his efforts to correct the broken signing at the tail end of the page as the door slowly opened, creaking unceremoniously.

“If it’s really necessary I can work past my contractual hour, though I must note that your well-intentioned checkings-in aren’t conducive to getting any actual work done.” This comment was much more pointed, though not so much so as to be crossing a line. Still, the silent presence above his desk, looming, made him rethink his words for a slight moment before he got the better of himself. No need to look up as if they can dole out some sort of punishment! To you, of all people! No, you’re working together under the same sense of duty… Right? Keep your head down and show them your dedication and vigour. If they’ve got a problem they can bloody well deal with it, that’s not something that’s important enough to interrupt this work.

« Ah. Scribbling pen names has stopped you from writing back ? You are a much more petulant boy than before, their puppy-dog training is not working on you. » The two sentences were connected not in theme but in the rolling, keen tone they were carried by. The former was a lazy observation and the latter was crafted solely to rile him up. The door quietly shut behind, and there was a graceful and soundless moment afterwards. In a second of skillful self-control, he did not drop the pen but instead cooly placed its nib back into its proper receptacle, as much as he was inclined to throw it at his guest. For a flitting pause, a scorching rage surged through him. What about no reply hadn’t gotten through that dense skull, and what made him think, after it all, that he could flicker back in, no doubt impermanently, just to ruin all his progress, and--

God he needed to see him.

He would not ever, never, let him know that.

“As spineless and will-less as ever, then, Bonnefoy. Resolute enough to travel across the channel to be a nuisance but not enough to do any work or get any admirable aims in life.” Fuck, that hadn’t enough venom, it was transparent and flimsy. Traceable. He made sure his glower was deep enough to offset what he was certain was too-soft a rebuttal. It hadn’t done enough, though.

« So you have missed me ! Yes, you know, I do enjoy to come here and to anger you. » A quick beat passed.

« You know I had to come and-- mmm… scorn you for ungentlemanly not replying to my letters. » Well, it seemed he was being equally as transparent. He almost shivered. It was one thing to have his feelings discovered, but if they both were in agreement over what was happening, it was much more difficult to steer away from what was coming.

“Scold. You mean scold.” He added curtly, taking his pen back up as he glanced back down at his paperwork. He had been staring at his face up until then, he just realised. Blue eyes as infuriating as ever, that new obnoxious french hairstyle, the unneeded tightness in the waist and legs of the waistcoat and trousers, the volatile expression of something genuine.

“Your english still hasn’t improved.” He continued with a comment he knew would be ignored, but he needed to get it out there. Keep up the guise of nagging conversation.

« Your office is so away from the rest in here. Isolated like always. And no windows, a prison ! Poor little sad Englishman, and of course no time to write letters, not one bit. » They were talking by, not to, each other, though they were saying the same things. He had decided to sit upon the edge of the bureau, clearly an excuse to stir up some fabricated bile for their equally as convincing argument.

“I’m working upon this desk, thank you! And I’ve been working for months now. You were not invited and are not wanted; you’ve found your way in and can find your way out. Good day, Bonnefoy.” His pulse was hammering now, if only he could direct it at that copper-- beat his will into place, keep it straight and unmarred, stay determined. The Frenchman was simply smiling away with that look of acute, cutting, though well-intended observation. He was not going to leave on his own. With a return of the pen to its place, he stood, making an attempt to usher his unwelcome guest out. Francis rose as well, and as he did so the Englishman made no further attempt to get to his office door. Instead they stood together, steadfast.

« Say hello to me. It’s been so long, and I want to hear it and you want to say it. Just hello. » It was a tender plea as much as it was a command. The fool really thought he was entitled to it, but only in the way two who have known each other a long time are entitled to hear the news of someone’s workday or what dreams filled their last night’s sleep. They weren’t touching, but they could. His own face was beet red as he decided whether or not he should deny the request, angry and upset at more than the situation and himself. It was boiling over, the tapping beats in his chest and throat weren’t subsiding. He had to do something. He wished he had a bloody window so he could toss the intruder out of it, grasp him by his ruffled collar and throw him out the door, or against a wall, or over his desk, or--

“You-- I can’t believe you--” He was cut off by a look, and maybe Francis had moved forward slightly with his deep gaze, bridged the gap a little to make it easier, but maybe he hadn’t, and maybe he had grabbed at the nicely pressed wool jacket of his own accord, pulled at the stupidly styled french coif to reach for a kiss, to stumble into the wall behind them all on his own. He certainly was the one pressing them together, at least preliminarily. Bonnefoy, having planned something along these lines, was quick to fill in the needed friction after a blink.

« That’s-- hmm… one way to say hello. » The teasing tone was almost enough to make him stop entirely and snap him out of it, possibly stear himself back onto a more proper path, but Francis was smiling again and it was just too earnest as he craned his neck back in anticipation to be kissed there. They both knew this was the only hello he’d be able to manage. Any further acknowledgement of a budding warmth between them beyond the physical was more than he could honestly bear. For now, the more openly flagrant refusal of the two to meet gentlemanly expectations would have to be their letters that were few and far between, punctuated by occasional tysts like this, though the sentiment always lingered, and he was afraid it was growing. He had a period in his youth, with no supervision on open seas, when he didn’t hold himself to such a high standard in these matters. It had taken a fair amount of diligence to push himself back on track, but now--... Well, he could feel himself slipping again, but this time he knew better. Somehow the refutation of his desires of it all made it all the more difficult to deny. But Francis wasn’t giving him much pause to think more deeply about these things, and the wretched glint in his eye made it seem like he knew just what was on his mind. Why did he always know!? It hurt, to be so well understood in a shame the other refused to acknowledge. When had Francis ever been shameful of anything? He pretended to be, but only to be irritating. Every so often when they’d do this, he’d resort to saying such horrible things about how he relished his sanctity being soiled when they both knew perfectly well that no such thing was ever there in the first place. Francis made no signs to do so tonight, not as impatient hands were fiddling with buttons and edging him over to sit back on top of the desk. That pansy French fashion was great for enticing the eye but by god, the buttons! Warm, manicured hands met his and Bonneyfoy grinned.

« You do not need to open my shirt. » What a stupid assumption.

“Just because I don’t-- stop that! I can do it on my own, you’re not making it any easier. I could just rip the damn thing if you prefer-- I don’t have to but. Well, I get to,” His huff was met with an expression that looked sickeningly soft. Was this not injustice enough? To acquiesce to desire, but now his carnal lusts were being interpreted as tenderness! Maybe it was a bit of that, but blast it, Francis could at least pretend he didn’t know. It wasn’t like this was something special for him, anyway. That fop was getting it on with anything that moved and looked his way, and now Francis was lording it over him that he liked him! He was probably smug, pleased that he had ordained to come down and give him the pleasure of a single, solitary fuck while he was off cavorting with--

« Please, let me. You’re tense, I can help. » There he went with that tenderness again, too visceral to be faked. The beat in time of the two sharing a glance was raw and it shut him up quite well. Francis kept chatting as he placed the Englishman’s hands under his shirt as he nimbly undid his own buttons. The other was content to grab about underneath as he waited.

« You need to learn to say no to them. Get more time away. They make you feel worse inside, and that is not very handsome at all. » And there he went with the sap. It was easy to slide his hands around to the small of Francis’s back and hold him steady as he kissed him to shut the man up. Surprisingly, Francis pushed him away to finish opening his buttons. The Englishman did not appreciate that.

« Despair is becoming on you, but even you need to be patient. I’m not going anywhere. » They both knew that wasn’t true, but he wasn’t complaining when Francis plucked his own cold hands out of the back of the Frenchman’s trousers and placed them on the man's freshly revealed chest. He could feel Francis shiver under him, his own hands were much colder than the other’s hot skin. A moment of impulse made him squeeze possibly a bit more roughly than he should have, and Francis did that little gasping moan of his he always did. It had been so long that he hardly remembered it anymore, but it was quite the experience to hear it again. The more he groped the chest, the tighter the legs around his waist would get. Oh, his poor paperwork, it was only slightly out of the way of being crushed and pushed about… Maybe he could move it before they got on with it all, it would only take a--

That familiar warm hand grabbed his jaw tightly and pulled his gaze back away from the documents on his desk, the both of them pausing only for a moment before they kissed again and all thought of paperwork was forgotten in favour of instant gratification. He could feel Francis smile triumphantly as he kept up his slightly desperate grabbing and squeezing, his hips starting to move up against the open legs resting on his desk. It was rather ungraceful, Francis’s legs snaked tight around him as he pressed their bodies together. In the one moment before he would no longer be able to resist himself, a clutching shock of guilt crackled through his chest. Unbeknownst to him, his face contorted slightly, a grimace of pain and reconsideration. Francis didn’t see, or, at least, didn’t pause. Instead, the hot, slender fingers that still held his jaw were keeping the pair kissing as a rhythm not dissimilar to one that the Englishman was familiar with was hammered out against the solid office desk. If only he could say he forgot the expectations of his bosses and the world at large for those moments, but he couldn’t. His will was stronger, however. At least, his will when combined with his desires. Besides, it was difficult to pause when his pervasive nuisance was sitting its fat arse on his desk, when they were clutched and and hugging together as tightly as his wax seals pressed to his paperwork that was currently watching the display. His hands were suddenly disordered-- after months, years even, of writing when told to, shaking hands properly, adjusting ties, now they had free reign to fly wherever they fancied. Tangled in bouncing blond locks one moment, then back squeezing his partner’s chest, then slipped down the back of the loosened trousers upon his bureau. There wasn’t much time until the nonsensical French interjections fizzled into dripping moans, and even less of a beat until a quicker, tense breath of air joined in. Chests still together, their hearts raced. He was the first to pull away and face the wall with a few curses as Francis was left sitting. Realising the fruitlessness of any attempt to clean himself there, he circled around to tend to the ever-patient papers awaiting his return as he dutifully stacked them in his carrying case.

“I should be going, then. These need finishing. Ta.” Miraculously, he found the coldness he had been attempting to muster up upon his companion’s arrival, though it was a tad too late. Francis wasn’t altogether pleased with the change in tone, although he understood the haste required after their torrid encounter.

« But I need a-- Angleterre, you-- ! » His shirt unbuttoned and tousled, and his trousers hanging off of his hips, Francis slipped to place himself in front of the door.

« You are bringing me to your flat, or your kennel, or wherever it is they keep you when you aren’t here. »

“Not if you’re going to speak French, I won’t.” A raised eyebrow came with the easy, chilled reply.

« Do not get smart with me. » Francis shot back, deft fingers working to button his shirt and press down his clothing as swiftly and naturally as bird preening itself. The other’s stern expression and eyes looking elsewhere told him as much as he needed to know. He softened, if only slightly.

« Look, I’m just as presentable as you. It’s a business trip, would that make you feel better ? I won’t bother you as you do your paperwork. I’ll even make you tea and something real to eat as you finish up. Hein ? »

Another few beats between them, and, ever the gentleman, he opened the door for Francis after giving them both a once-over.

“We’ll need to be quick, alright? These pants are already uncomf--... Go.” He gestured briskly out the door, and followed after the other man who seemed far more pleased with himself and the situation. What was he doing? Why was he-- well, that didn’t matter. All he had to worry about was getting back to his own room and not being seen by anyone in so disheveled a state… Besides, Francis seemed to be making no effort to be inconspicuous-- loudly asking for directions to his living arrangements because it had just been so long since he had seen them, and in French, no less. Though determined not to look at him, what made it worse was that he could just sense that sickening grin creeping up Francis’s face, spreading more and more by the minute. If only he had just remembered how irritating and inconvenient, unprofessional and repulsive the Frenchman was… Being apart for so long made him more alluring when he really knew what the bastard was like. If he had been prepared, why, he wouldn’t be bounding after him, through dirty, smoggy streets; his heart racing, his stern glare only slightly beating out the flutter in his chest and the small twitch at the corner of his lips. Incorrigible.

#fruk #ukfr #england/france #france/england #hetalia fic #hetalia fanfiction

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