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fayes-fics · 5 months

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To Know You…

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict knows you better than anyone. But does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

Warnings: none really… fluffy fluff. Childhood friends, class differences, marriage mart shenanigans, dancing, marriage proposals, Benedict being adorable while also a complete dumbass, unrequited to requited love, love confessions.

Word Count: 10.4k (yeah, it's a long one, folks)

Authors Note: this is a request fill for @curlsincriminology (ask HERE) about Benedict showing you all the wonderful things he sees in you, but will he figure out his own feelings before it's too late? Thanks to the complete trooper @colettebronte for beta reading this monster one-shot. Enjoy <3

I: To Know You….

“I would rather not, Miss y/l/n,” the young man clips, walking away from you at a brusque pace.

You sigh and look down at your feet. Mrs Parsons will be so very disappointed, is all you can think.

—

Benedict may not have heard the words spoken, but even from his vantage point at the other end of the ballroom, he could see the disdainful way the young man uttered his parting words to you. It makes anger flare hot in his chest, his fist forming reflexively at his side.

He watches as you look down, shoulders hunching, folding in on yourself physically, as if the rejection for a dance has manifested in a body blow. He feels a pang in his gut—of sympathy, indignance on your behalf and mainly at the injustice of it all. To him, you are a wonderful, intelligent, caring person worthy of a good match. Still, the circumstances of your upbringing seem to stymie your attempts to join so-called ‘polite’ society at every turn…

—

You look up with a defeated mien until your eyes land on one person who has always been able to ameliorate any of your more morose moods—Benedict Bridgerton. Instantly, you feel lighter. You give him a polite nod across the crowded room, and, to your delight, he returns it, a hint of a sympathetic smile tugging at his lips. It is just so very characteristic of him to offer silent support, to understand, from witnessing a moment of interaction, precisely what you are feeling. A large part of you feels so wistful that there is no other man quite as nice as him. Suddenly, your overwhelming need is to leave this stuffy ballroom and catch some air.

You grew up under the tutelage of the kindly doctor’s widow, Mrs Parsons, whose house is not far from the vast Bridgerton estate in Kent. The naturally born daughter of nobody quite knows whom, you were taken in as her ward when you were abandoned upon her doorstep at a mere two years old. Her reputation for kindness towards young waifs and strays is likely why you were left there. It is an event you were too young to recall, so all you have known your whole life is her generosity and kindness, raising you as if her own.

And now that you are of age, she takes you to events around Kent in the hopes of securing you a respectable husband, the most prestigious being tonight’s Hearts and Flowers Ball at Aubrey Hall. The Bridgertons have always been gracious enough to invite local families, those without the means to partake in the London season, to events at their country estate—a kindness that allows for your attendance tonight. It’s just such a pity that the one bachelor Mrs Parsons was so very keen for you to meet, one Mr Reeves, just rebuffed you so thoroughly.

You glance down at the remaining empty slots on the dance card tied to your wrist and sigh again. Now that you are out on the terrace in the fresh evening air, the light breeze is at least a partial balm, allowing you to recover from the sting of rejection away from the hubbub of the ballroom.

“I will never understand how the men of this county can consider themselves anything approaching mannered.”

You would know that refined voice anywhere. It haunts your dreams. Just the sound of it making your ribs tighten. You turn to see Benedict sauntering towards you, two drinks in hand, that sympathetic smile still in place.

“You are far better off without such rudeness,” he adds dryly as he pulls up beside you, arching an eyebrow for your entertainment.

“You are far too kind, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer, taking the glass he offers with a meek smile, trying not to let your ardent admiration for him be too evident.

“Mr Bridgerton?!?” he scoffs, “What happened to BenBen?” he teases gently, recalling your childhood name for him when you were a mere four and he was nine.

“We are at a formal event; I should address you as such, should I not?” you reply playfully, a warmth spreading inside as it always does when you get the chance to have a witty, convivial exchange with him.

By gosh, if there is one man to whom you would pledge yourself without hesitation, it is him. But, of course, he is the second son of an illustrious family. To think you would have any chance to win his heart would be as likely as a future king to marry a commoner. Still, you can dream…

“At least call me Benedict, Skylark,” he winks over his wine glass as he takes a sip, butterflies erupting in your tummy at the affectionate nickname he has used since you were small; you have to avert your eyes to avoid blushing deeply.

Just as he goes to speak again, his brother, the Viscount, materialises at his side. Looking to all intents and purposes as if he is trying to escape the ball as much as you are.

“Mother is best avoided tonight, brother,” Anthony warns sagely, taking a large gulp of his champagne. “She is under the erroneous impression I am suddenly in want of a wife.”

You can't stop the giggle that bubbles up from within at his wry observation of his predicament.

“Hello, y/n,” he greets warmly, just noticing you are also there, his face morphing into a youthful, playful grin. If Benedict is the husband you have always dreamed of, Anthony is the elder brother you have always yearned for. In fact, that is always how he has treated you, akin to Eloise and Daphne, who you grew up playing with, being of similar age.

“Hello, Anthony,” you chime back. “How was the hunt earlier? Did the infamous Bridgerton brothers kill another prized stag?” you inquire, keen to engage both of them for as long as they will entertain you. Just being around them always lifts your spirits to no end.

—

Benedict observes you as you listen intently to Anthony’s recounting of the hunt earlier that day, impressed by your resilience. He has no doubts any other woman would feign an attack of the vapours had a man rejected her so harshly. But here you are, politely listening to his brother’s boasting, even though he can tell you are hurting inside.

Perhaps it helps that your snub went primarily unnoticed. You are unknown to the Ton; any witnesses likely dismissing it as the business of ‘country folk’ unworthy of note. Which, frankly, he could scoff at, seeing as he holds you in higher regard than all of the other attendees combined.

“How about you?” Anthony ends his story with a question to you, interrupting Benedict’s train of thought. “How has your experience been at our fine event this evening?”

“Oh, the house is splendidly decorated and the music wonderful,” you obfuscate behind flattery. Anthony appears to buy it, but Benedict sees behind your facade, the flame behind your usually bright gaze dimming a little, making something ache in his gut to see it.

Damn that idiot for ruining your evening! This just won’t do…

—

You can feel Benedict’s eyes upon you as you respond abstractly to Anthony.

“Y/n here is too polite to say it, but she was treated harshly by that young Reeves chap from Tenterden,” Benedict edifies as you bow your head, embarrassed. “Let’s be sure to rescind his invitation to future events, brother,” he appends with a surly tone.

“Duly noted,” Anthony nods sincerely, a brush of confusion flitting over his face regarding his brother's vehemence.

“No, there is no need…” you begin to protest weakly but halt mid-sentence under the intensity of Benedict’s gaze.

“I bore witness. Believe me, He shall not darken our door again,” he states firmly.

It appears the matter is very much decided, and you don’t want to put up much of a fight, seeing as it ultimately benefits you. You do, however, want to bathe in the warm glow inside whenever Benedict defends you. It's wonderful to have someone looking out for you, especially one so handsome and kind.

—

Two days later, you are taking afternoon tea with Mrs Parsons at the local tea shop when Benedict breezes in, looking so majestic dressed in Bridgerton blues that you grind to a halt. Luckily, he has not seen you as he makes a beeline for the counter.

“‘Tis rude to stare, my dear,” Mrs Parsons lectures sotto voce, nodding to your teacup, frozen in mid-air.

You shake your head a touch and place said item back in your saucer as she turns briefly to look at what or who caught your attention. Then she reaches out, her lace-gloved hand gently patting yours.

“It would be prudent to set your sights a little more realistic…” she advises with a sympathetic air. “Not that I fault your choice,” she adds, so quietly at first you're not sure you heard her correctly, but there is a tiny playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Your mouth falls open fractionally, and you stare as she shrugs. “I may be old, my dear, but I am not blind.”

Well, I never, Mrs Parsons!

As you take a bite of food, Benedict twists around from speaking to the proprietor, and he sees you. There’s a jolt down your spine as he breaks into a huge smile that claims his whole face. And you almost choke on scone crumbs as he makes a beeline over to you rather than the exit.

“Good afternoon, Miss y/l/n, Mrs Parsons!” he greets effusively. “Would it be terribly impolite to ask to join you briefly?”

Mrs Parsons' face is a picture of surprise. “Not at all; the pleasure is ours, Mr Bridgerton,�� she responds affably, gesturing to the spare chair at your small round table.

As Benedict sits, Mrs Parsons shoots you an incredulous look. It's your turn to shrug fractionally.

“Mrs Parsons, I feel it necessary to tell you Mr Reeves was excessively rude to Miss y/l/n here at the ball, and I wanted to assure you that he will not be welcome at Aubrey Hall again,” he divulges sincerely.

Mrs Parsons looks taken aback and turns to you. “Why did you not tell me, my dear?”

“I-I did not think it necessary…” you twist your mouth into a bashful pout, biting your lip.

“Mr Bridgerton, thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I thank you for your generous offer, but that sort of action does not seem warranted,” she replies accommodatingly.

“That is what I said…” “That is what she said…”

You and Benedict speak in unison at the exact same moment, and your eyes ping to each other, both laughing then bowing your heads immediately. You know your cheeks are flushed.

—

Benedict loves the look in your eye sometimes. That spirited sparkle with glowing cheeks. In his opinion, that is the only look you should ever wear; no one, especially one as unworthy as Mr Reeves, should be allowed to rob you of it. He feels a strong compulsion to do everything in his power to keep you looking like that—carefree, happy, stunning. It’s what motivates his subsequent words.

“If it is not considered too impudent for me to do so, I have a suggestion for Miss y/l/n’s introduction into society,” Benedict offers sincerely. “I believe you should be able to find her an excellent, worthy match by casting a wider net.”

“What are you proposing, Mr Bridgerton?” Mrs Parsons inquiries, almost warily.

“That Miss y/l/n come to London and partake in the remainder of the season as a guest of my family. My mother seems to think it an excellent idea, and I know my younger sister Eloise is already a good friend. I do not see why they could not attend events together,” he shrugs genially.

Mrs Parsons's face is a picture again. “You have already spoken to the Dowager Viscountess of this matter?” she checks, unable to modulate the astonishment in her tone.

“Of course,” he confirms with a nod. “I made such a suggestion this morning when your names came up. She heartily concurs. Miss y/l/n here is too bright and good of a person to have her marital choice limited by geography or circumstance.”

His eyes fall on you, and his heart gallops at the searing look you are giving him.

—

You don’t even try to temper your doe-eyed expression as you look upon Benedict, him extolling your virtues to the audience of the tea room.

Even distracted by all the wondrous things he has to say, you can detect the noise level on the surrounding tables has reduced; everyone in town always keen to eavesdrop on a Bridgerton conversation. Especially one that contains such noteworthy gossip as a local young lady being invited to the London season at the family’s behest.

“My dear, I trust that Lady Bridgerton will look after you well,” Mrs Parsons professes. “I have no objections should you desire to seize this opportunity.” Her tone pointed, very much encouraging you to do so.

“That would be just wonderful, Mr Bridgerton,” you exhale with a grateful smile. “I cannot thank you enough for even thinking to raise such a petition.”

“Think nothing of it, Miss y/l/n,” he smiles, standing up and giving you both a brief, shallow bow. “I shall see you anon, no doubt.”

And with that, he sweeps out of the tearoom, your eye line tracking his concave outline through the curved glass as he rounds the corner out of sight.

“Well, well,” Mrs Parsons puffs out her cheeks. “I am not sure what you did to inspire such actions in a gentleman. But bravo, my dear, bravo,” she holds her teacup aloft in a toast.

You are a jumble of emotions and could not even begin to answer Mrs Parsons about what you could possibly have done. Mostly, you are just elated by the prospect of the chance to attend the whirl of the London season, even if there is also a small pang of regret that Benedict is so keen to see you matched.

II: …Is To Love You

The following Tuesday, as your carriage pulls up outside the grandeur of Bridgerton House, you have nothing but butterflies. And as Lady Bridgerton - Violet as she insists you now call her - and her lady’s maid show you to your charming guest room, you cannot temper your excitement.

“Get yourself freshened up, my dear. There is a soiree this evening at the Queen’s new residence no less, and there is no time like the present to begin your introductions,” the dowager viscountess warmly counsels.

You nod your thank yous, and after they take their leave, you twirl excitedly around the room, taking in the elegant furnishings and airy sunlight flooding in. You pull up in front of a large sash window and are delighted to see bounteous gardens beneath. The rear of the property is very much an oasis of calm in the heart of the city. But one sight in particular draws your eye: a majestic oak with two swings attached to a stately arm. It looks like a place of refuge, and you feel oddly compelled to take a seat there.

Three hours later, walking into the palatial Buckingham House, you are in a different world from the one you know in Kent. Candlelit crystal chandeliers glint like towering clusters of jewels, spraying thousands of shards of light around the room. Every railing is bedecked in hundreds of drooping flower garlands, and the walls groan with enormous portraits of royalty. The mellifluous strains of a chamber orchestra fill the air. Your grip on Eloise’s arm is tight as you try not to look agog at all the opulence surrounding you.

“And I thought Aubrey Hall was grand,” you murmur quietly, and she just guffaws.

—

Benedict arrives late to the soiree from his bachelor lodgings, bustling in as stealthily as possible, knowing he will likely catch his mother’s ire for his tardiness.

But then he sees a sight that makes him temporarily stop dead in his tracks. There, hanging on to his little sister, surveying the room utterly lost in reverie at its grandeur—is you. He has not seen you dressed up as you are now, made over with the full attention of the Bridgerton staff. And he isn't afraid to admit to himself, at least, that it catches his breath. How they have applied cosmetics and styled your hair, emphasising your already evident beauty. And the dress they have chosen… well, he is almost ashamed of the heat pooling low in his gut; he has never seen you in such tailored, refined silks.

Whosoever marries you shall be quite the luckiest man indeed.

He doesn't miss the way you inhale sharply when your eyes finally land on him, his chest swelling slightly with pride as your lips part in surprise before breaking into that winning smile which always seems to brighten every room, tonight being no exception.

As he pulls up to the family, he hears his mother opining to you about the men attending the ball.

“Y/n, I would like to introduce you to Lord Shelton; he is a fine young man with many interests, and he has a lovely estate near Hove,” his mother recounts as you listen intently.

“Oh god, no,” Benedict immediately intervenes, “Shelton has amassed significant debt at the Pudding Lane gaming hell…”

Violet looks up surprised, then raises an eyebrow. “Pray tell dear son, how do you have knowledge of such? Benedict Bridgerton, you had better not be frequenting the hells of the East End,” she threatens quietly, in that stern maternal manner that has any grown man quaking in their polished shoes.

“No, of course not, mother,” he bristles, his eyes cutting briefly to you, not wanting you to think such things of him. “It is an open secret at Whites’, and why he is currently banned from the card room there.”

—

You cannot tear your eyes off Benedict as his mother side-eyes him.

Violet hums sceptically before declaring. “Well, not to worry, there are plenty of other options available for Miss y/l/n…” She steers your attention towards another crowd of young men, all talking and sipping champagne. “Baron Corning, Lord Jennings, Viscount Tewkesbury,” she recounts, nodding subtly to each one. “Any would make a fine addition to your dance card, my dear.”

“We can do much better than any of them,” Benedict chides.

You are slightly taken aback at how very much he sounds like Anthony tonight; apparently very invested in curating who you should dance with. The problem is, with each additional suggestion his mother makes to you, he roundly dismisses them out of hand.

Is no one in attendance up to his standard?

“Benedict, dear, a word?” Violet states pointedly after a third round of his withering opinions. “Get yourself another lemonade,” she smiles at you, patting your hand before looping her arm in her son’s and dragging him away.

—

His mother’s arm is surprisingly strong when she needs it to be.

“Darling, may I remind you, while Miss Y/l/n is indeed a wonderful person, I do not think we can afford to be too picky for her prospects. Her background is rather… unestablished,” Violet points out diplomatically as soon as you are out of earshot.

“We can do better than braggards, bores and philanderers,” Benedict shoots back, raising a pointed eyebrow.

She looks up at him and sighs. “Well, that is true.”

“As I thought, mother,” he winks as she affectionately swats his forearm. “Why not benefit from my knowledge? In fact, perhaps it is prudent I assist in your search for a suitor.”

“Oh, is it now?” Her tone suddenly filled with intrigue, her face entirely too scrutinising for his liking. “And does not my second son wish to join their ranks?” She adds entirely unsubtly.

“I have no time for romance; I have my art. I am most preoccupied.” He waves a dismissive hand, but even he knows his answer is tellingly brusque.

“And yet, you do not seem too busy to assist with the search, dear…” she points out archly.

Benedict has no response to that.

—

The day after the grand ball, you are sat in the dappled shade in the gardens of Bridgerton House, attempting needlework. It's never been your strength, frankly. You would much rather be allowed to partake in more physical pursuits, like archery or fencing, a want to burn off nervous energy as you await the arrival of any suitors. You did end up dancing with a couple of gentlemen, both of whom were…. fine… in your estimation.

After messing up yet another stitch, you throw down the embroidery hoop and emit a deep sigh when a familiar chuckle rings out behind you.

“Not your favourite pastime?” Benedict correctly guesses.

“You can say that again,” you grumble, twisting to smile at him, a little frisson in your belly at his mere presence, alone as you are.

He rounds to take a seat opposite you, across the table.

“So let me guess,” his face charmingly skewed into a thoughtful mien. “You would prefer to be doing something, hmmmm, more athletic?”

You giggle and cast your eyes downwards briefly, abashed he seems to know you so well. “Correct again.”

“I remember you being a crack shot in archery,” he smiles nostalgically before continuing with genuine curiosity. “Why did you not continue it?”

“I was informed ‘tis unbecoming for a lady,” you rue, the mental image of Mrs Parsons deeming such things ‘unladylike’ flitting through your mind.

He scoffs. “Since when did fearsome little Skylark care one jot for societal expectations?” he teases gently, with a wink, as again he invokes the nickname he bestowed upon you a long time hence.

You smile briefly before you become more sanguine. “Since I have been informed I must find a husband…” you sigh.

He frowns a touch. “Any man would be lucky to have a wife who can keep him company on the archery field. I know I, for one, would greatly appreciate a spouse with whom I could share such a pastime.”

A bittersweet twinge in your gut that one day he will indeed be married to some deserving, no doubt elegant, lady.

“I would venture that you are not like most gentlemen in that regard…”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, looking thoughtful, “but then you are not like most ladies, Skylark.”

“I am not a lady…” your counterpoint softly-spoken, almost ashamed.

“You are more lady than any other member of the Ton,” he asserts, his gaze suddenly intense, as if he is willing you to believe his point. “And you should be free to pursue any pastime you wish.”

You say nothing, just smile wanly, wishing you could believe it was true.

—

How you constantly doubt yourself causes a little stab behind Benedict’s ribs. A sudden burning need to prove that you should do as you please. He slaps his thighs and stands up swiftly.

“In fact, I am going to go set up the archery targets right now,” he nods decisively, making a beeline for the far corner of the garden where he knows the targets are kept, hoping you will follow.

“Coming?” he calls, twisting to look back at you. “I won't tell anyone…” he adds with a conspiratorial wink, seeing from the involuntary bounce of your leg how much you wish to join in.

He cannot help the smile that engulfs his face as you jump to your feet with a mischievous giggle. Nor can he help deliberately aiming badly, letting you roundly defeat him at target practice, basking in the victorious glint in your eye as you tease him gently for losing.

He also pretends not to notice his mother watching from a high window, her expression riveted and so very telling.

—

Later that day, you are reading quietly with Eloise when Violet sweeps into the drawing room with her lady's maid.

“Y/n, Sir Denton is here to see you,” she smiles brightly.

“Oh, I…” you stutter, sitting upright, surprised.

“I can send him away, Miss?” The maid offers, intuiting your disquiet.

“No, no, it is fine… I am just surprised, that is all. ‘Tis almost 4pm. I was not expecting that anyone would be calling, given the late hour.”

Benedict suddenly materialises in the doorway. As ever, there’s that trademark flutter in your chest.

“Any reason Denton is lingering in the hallway?” he inquires airily, grabbing a teacup and pouring himself some.

“He is here for y/n,” Violet breezes as his eyes cut to you, a wave of irritation seeming to cloud his face.

“Well, we should dismiss him,” Benedict sniffs, pausing in his action, his face souring.

“Why?” Violet frowns.

“I had a chance to look into his past since I acquiesced to his dance with y/n last night…”

“Acquiesced?!” Violet scoffs, but Benedict ignores her interjection, save for a curt eyebrow raise.

“I have subsequently discovered he has vastly overstated his assets,” Benedict bristles imperiously.

“Who woke up and made you Anthony?” Eloise pipes up witheringly.

Benedict shoots her a look of irritation. “Anthony has deputised me to run family matters while he is away on business this week, sister,” he reminds pointedly.

“Yes, but you did not have to adopt his personality as well,” Eloise shoots back, disgust evident on her face.

“I take finding y/n here, a suitable match, seriously,” he volleys. “Do you wish to see your good friend married to someone unworthy of her?”

“Well, no…”

“Then kindly permit me to handle matters,” Benedict orders with finality, uncharacteristically forthright in his opinions.

“I do not wish to see her married at all…” Eloise mutters under her breath as he stalks away to dispatch Denton before anyone can argue.

You just sit there mildly dumbfounded, unsure what to make of it all.

—

The following evening, you are attending a music recital with the Bridgertons; Benedict is notably absent, which makes you a touch melancholic in a way you don’t want to dwell on.

However, the evening turns for the better while you are taking refreshments at the interval. A friendly-faced young man strikes up a conversation with you after an introduction from Violet.

“Are you enjoying the music tonight, Miss y/l/n?” he asks genially.

“It is very nice, Lord Glassborough,” you offer politely, trying to stifle your slight boredom. You enjoy music, but a two-hour concert is a little too much for you. You much prefer a short set of songs as they play at balls.

“I find it rather dull myself,” he opines quietly, leaning in. “I much prefer a lively song one may dance to.”

You know your face is a picture of surprise that his opinion is an exact mirror of your own.

“Have I offended you so?” he checks, looking mildly contrite.

“Not at all, my lord. I was actually just thinking the same myself,” you chuckle quietly.

He looks inordinately pleased and breaks into a friendly, toothy grin. He seems like a nice, agreeable sort. A pleasant, if not particularly handsome, face. Over his shoulder, you see Violet looking inordinately pleased you appear to be getting on so well.

—

“I am not sure I can do this...” you sigh as Ms West genially taps the metronome.

“You can, dear; just remember your finger placement,” she encourages as your fingers fall to the cool ivory keys.

And so you begin again. Attempting to master this tricky piece, your eyes tracing the lines of music as you play the pianoforte. Violet is so keen for you to brush up on your skills, given Lord Glassborough’s interest in you yesterday. You could not find an adequate excuse fast enough, and so here you are, in a slightly reluctant music lesson, trying your best to recall how Mrs Parsons taught you to play a few years ago.

“Men do so appreciate a lady who can entertain them with exquisite music,” Ms West nods approvingly as you play.

Mostly, you are relieved when you make it to the end with no mistakes, at least none glaringly obvious.

“I much prefer to sing…” you admit tacitly as Ms West shuffles the sheet music.

She looks at you surprised, then shoos you from the piano stool. “Sing for me then, my dear…” taking a seat and beginning the opening bars to a song that, fortunately, you know well.

You begin to sing along, growing more confident with every note, allowing yourself to get lost in the words, the story of a lady awaiting her true love.

“Exceptional!” she peals delightedly over the sound, and you feel bolstered to continue, her playing the perfect accompaniment.

—

Benedict stops short as soon as he enters the house. The most lilting, beautiful sound echoing gently down the marble hall.

“Who is that Jenkins?” he asks of the butler who takes his coat.

“I believe it is Miss y/l/n, sir.”

He draws inexorably closer, finding himself watching you through the crack in the doorway, listening to you sing a touching tale of love that sounds so hauntingly hypnotic in your mellifluous tones. Your eyes are closed, and you sway to the melody, lost in reverie, in the narrative you weave.

The piano stops abruptly.

“Can we help you, sir?” an elder lady calls crisply.

Benedict realises the door has crept open slightly before him, enough for him to be seen by your music teacher. He watches as you swing around and look horrified that you may have an audience. It makes him take a resolute step forward into the room.

“Do you need us to desist? Is it perhaps too loud?” the lady checks deferentially, likely assuming him to be the head of the household.

“No!” His reply is a touch too forceful. “Please continue,” he modifies. “I was merely drawn by the splendid sound I heard. I am not sure I have ever heard such a wondrous voice,” he adds, keeping his gaze steadfastly upon the lady, not able to look you in the eye as he confesses as such.

—

You are mortified when you realise Benedict heard you singing; you have always managed to keep it private, until now at least. But now your heart is suddenly pounding at his extolling words.

“She does indeed have a most excellent voice,” Ms West concurs with his sentiment, looking at you expectantly as Benedict walks further into the room, his face with the same hopeful expression.

“I am not sure I can…” you stumble, nervous for an audience, most especially him; his is the opinion that would matter to you the most—you would be crestfallen should he not like it.

“Sing more for me, please, Skylark?” His ask is gentle, beseeching as if it were just the two of you alone.

“Skylark?” Ms West sounds enchanted.

“My childhood nickname for Miss y/l/n,” Benedict explains as he takes a seat.

“Skylarks have a wonderful song,” she sighs wistfully.

“Indeed,” Benedict chimes, his eyes still upon you. “I never knew how appropriate it was until this very moment.”

Something warm cracks in your chest at his sweet words, making you courageous. At least enough to nod when Ms West looks to you again from the piano. And so you restart the song for your special audience, heart in your mouth. The words coming easily to you, an extra layer of meaning he will never know as you sing words of unrequited devotion, looking to him in your braver moments. His face is enrapt, leaning forward, his eyes soft and expressive.

As you reach a high note at the end of the song, holding it, Benedict bursts into applause, jumping up from his seat and taking you by surprise, grabbing your gloved hands in his.

“You should always be singing Skylark…” he pronounces. “Truly beautiful. Please promise me, no matter what happens, that you will always, always sing…”

You duck your head briefly, unsure how to deal with his effusive praise. Ms West’s face is a picture as you stand there, your hands still trapped in his, feeling a tingle where the warmth of his skin seeps through the layers to yours.

“I-I-I promise,” you reply meekly, a touch dazed as you raise your eyes again to meet his, the intensity making your lungs restrict.

“Thank you.”

Two words have never sounded so sincere or loaded with significance.

III: … And I Do.

A few days later, it is the Trowbridge Ball, a decadent affair that is usually the most talked about of the season, apparently. You share a carriage ride there with Benedict and Eloise, trying your best not to stare at him—so handsomely dressed in a white cravat and black velvet cropped jacket that clings to his tapered shape. But mostly, you fail. Your skin flushes hot the more you look at him. You could swear that his gaze strays to you, too, subtly sweeping the fine teal silk Madam Delacroix has expertly tailored for you.

“You look beautiful this evening, ladies,” he offers politely to both you and Eloise.

“What do you want?” Eloise cuts across your reply, narrowing her eyes at her older brother, instantly suspicious of his flattery.

“Can I not compliment without an ulterior motive?” he frowns, their usual sibling dynamic emerging.

“Not usually,” Eloise sniffs, with another suspicious glance, before looking out the carriage window.

You take the opportunity to mumble your thanks to him. His responding smile warms your entire being, his hazy eyes lingering in a way that makes your skin prickle. And when he offers a chivalrous hand to assist you down from the carriage, you could swear his hand lingers upon yours a few seconds longer than is necessary.

Around an hour later, as you go to partake in a refreshment, a sneering Lady Cowper utters something cruel under her breath as you pass, her sour-looking daughter smirking beside her. You do not hear all of the words, but you do not need to. One sideways glance tells you all that you need to know. It seems so unnecessarily cruel, never having even exchanged so much as a word with you, but even as you feel a lump in your throat, their attention is already elsewhere.

“Ah! Mr Briddgerton,” her entire demeanour changing to oleaginous charm, “my daughter looks particularly stunning tonight, does she not? I do believe you should secure a place upon her dance card before there are none left!”

You watch Benedict blanch at the very words.

“I do not dance, Lady Cowper, but I bid you ladies a good evening,” he responds, polite but firm.

You try your hardest not to giggle at the disdained look on their faces as he sweeps past them, and you feel light as air as, instead, he draws up to you and winks.

“That woman does not realise she is doing her daughter’s prospects more harm than good with her brashness,” he comments dryly as he grabs a glass of champagne from the stand next to you.

“I am not so sure the daughter would do much better without her; she seems perpetually furious about her own hairstyle,” you opine sardonically, making Benedict snort loudly into his champagne glass. A lightness fizzles in your being as he shoots you a look of unmistakable admiration for that remark.

“I daresay you are a much better dancer than her,” he contends, not breaking eye contact, placing aside his drink before leaning in and continuing in a hushed voice. “Perhaps you would do me the honour of a dance, Skylark, to confirm my suspicion?”

There is a vault in your chest as he employs your private nickname in public and, not only that, is offering you a dance when, just a moment ago, he declared publicly that he would not.

You can only nod, heart hammering, as he breaks out into the most handsome smile, offering you his arm and leading you to the centre of the room as you hear a ripple go through the nearby crowd. Apparently the sight of one Benedict Bridgerton taking to the dancefloor is a rare occasion indeed.

—

As he takes your gloved hand in his and curls an arm around your shoulder, he realises this was perhaps a mistake. An impromptu offer, the hollow thrill of petty revenge for the insult he observed the Cowpers sling at you. But now he realises it has rather backfired upon him.

He cares not a jot for the gossiping, people nodding and pointing to you both as you begin to dance. No, the problem is much more concerning than that.

It is how discombobulated he feels having you in his arms.

How your body seems to fit and move perfectly with his. How, when you dare to look up at him, his mouth goes a little dry. He has never truly noticed how striking your eyes are until seeing them this close. Indeed, the evident beauty of your face, the way you seem to glow from within, more tonight than ever. It makes his chest - and somewhere else on his body - feel entirely too tight.

—

Nothing could have prepared you for this.

The feeling of literally being swept off your feet. With Benedict's handsome face smiling down upon you as you seem to float around the dancefloor.

Surely, this is what dreams are made of?

You know it is a flight of fancy, but it seems as though the floor beneath your feet is a shower of diamonds rather than candlelight refracted through chandeliers. The warmth and strength of Benedict’s embrace caged around you, respectful but so close it makes your lungs feel too small to gasp the air you need to keep moving. But you never want to stop. A whirlwind of sensation as you twirl, carried away by the music, the man, the moment.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you breathe, knowing you are likely looking up at him far too adoringly but unable to mask it, a burning need for him to know how grateful you are for this dance, not even noting your over-familial use of his first name at a society event.

His eyes flash and you could swear they dilate a fraction before you must turn your back to him, following the steps.

“I was right,” he rumbles cryptically from behind you now, his large hands wrapped around yours as you hold them aloft together, following the moves of the dance. “It is indeed an honour to dance with you.”

Your belly flares as you turn in unison and realise that you are now dancing right in front of Cressida, her expression murderous. It makes you bolder than you have ever been, tilting your head sideways a fraction so your cheek almost brushes Benedict’s, fuelled by the envy you feel seething from within her.

You could swear he sighs ‘Skylark’ as his hot breath tickles your ear, your chest pounding, a flavour in the air you can taste, a powerful stirring low in your belly.

—

Benedict knows this is a dangerous path and yet is powerless to do anything but walk it. Breathing your nickname into your hair as he inhales your scent, heightened by the movement of your dancing. A light, sweet floral perfume but underneath the smell of you, familiar from many years of friendship but altered now, more decadent, an undercurrent of tart berries that thrills and stirs deep within him. Even while knowing his ever-vigilant mother is watching, an inscrutable expression upon her face.

He is almost grateful when the music ends before he does something foolish. But then you are staring up into his face, all doe-eyed expectant beauty and his tongue feels unexpectedly tied. He is almost grateful when an interrupting hand wraps around his shoulder.

—

You watch Will Mondrich whisper in Benedict’s ear, and before you know it, he is offering apologies to you with a shallow, polite bow before hurrying away. Coming back to reality with a bump, you drift awkwardly from the dance floor, feeling judgy eyes upon you, suddenly flooded with concern your behaviour was entirely too wanton.

Before your thoughts can spiral too far, however, someone materialises at your side.

“I do so hope your dance card is not full tonight, Miss y/l/n,” a newly-familiar, chipper voice cut in.

“Lord Glassborough,” you breathe; your relief at seeing his cordial face is palpable. “I am available to dance right now,” you smile politely, taking his proffered arm and letting him lead you back out to the spot you and Benedict had just vacated.

As the music begins and you move together, the difference is… noticeable. Gone is the frisson over your limbs, that excitement as if your skin could vibrate off your bones. Instead you feel comforted, almost a brotherly presence as he leads you in the dance. He is technically proficient, but it feels lacking—that tension, that heat burning in the space between you. It makes you yearn for Benedict even though he was just with you. It makes your stomach settle with a leaden weight you realise you will have to settle for less than what you truly desire.

Still distracted by your mental comparison, you absently acquiesce to his suggestion to take some air upon the terrace as the dance ends. You sense Violet, ever the vigilant chaperone, follow as he leads you into the cooler air outside.

“Miss y/l/n…,” Lord Glassborough begins cautiously. You sense a nervousness in his being, pulling your full focus to him. “I think us most compatible, would you not agree?”

“We make most excellent friends, indeed, Lord Glassborough,” you hedge, not wanting to appear overzealous.

“And friendship is the most appropriate foundation to build something more… tender,” he argues with a smile. “I do believe I could offer you a most agreeable life.”

There is a strange twinge in your chest as suddenly, you realise what this is. The moment everyone, except perhaps yourself, has been awaiting all season.

“I would be honoured if you would consent to be my wife, Miss y/l/n,” he humbly offers a sincere kindness shining in his eyes.

And there it is. An offer of marriage from a perfectly nice, respectable gentleman done in an appropriate manner.

To one side, you see Violet clutch a hand over her chest, face delighted, even as you form fists within your delicate gloves, wishing this moment were not happening so soon after a truly breathtaking dance with the man of your dreams. Who is not the same man as the one before you, nervously shuffling from foot to foot, awaiting your reply.

“I am honoured, Lord Glassborough,” you answer cautiously, bowing your head demurely. “This is a big decision to make. Please allow me time to give you my proper, considered answer?”

“Of course,” he bows chivalrously, his accommodating nature making this moment all the more bittersweet. He is indeed a lovely man.

He is just not the one you want with every fibre of your being.

—

That night, you cannot sleep. Knowing you have the most significant decision of your life to make. So, in the small hours, you find yourself drifting to the deserted kitchen of Bridgerton House to do what you do best when you need to think calmly—baking.

An activity you have grown up doing with Mrs Parsons. Many hours spent happily with flour dusting your hands, sun streaming into her grand but homely kitchen. A perhaps slightly maverick pastime for a lady of her social standing, with staff to do such things for her should she wish it, but so very enjoyable nonetheless.

Throwing a large, heavy baking apron over your nightdress and robe, you potter around, the flagstone of the basement floor cold underfoot, a grounding feeling that stops your mind from racing too much.

You have no idea how to respond to Glassborough’s proposal. On one hand, he is a seemingly nice man, certainly of a good family. You are sure he would be a perfectly acceptable husband, unlikely to be mean or untoward. It is just… a nagging voice is telling you to turn him down despite him being an imminently sensible choice, your heart wanting, well, the impossible. A man that excites you, not just a safe, practical option.

You are onto your second batch of lemon and rosemary biscuits when a voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“What on earth…?”

There in the doorway is Benedict, looking confounded to find you here. The very man who makes your heart skip, always. He is dressed the most casually you have ever seen him— also barefoot, in a white frilled shirt and dark trousers, brocade braces slung around his hips. You swear you may have to grab the bench before you to stay upright.

“Y/n! We have cooks you can call upon at any time should you need food!” he fusses, instantly concerned, moving to ring a bell on the wall.

“No! Please do not!” You exclaim, rushing to stop him, grabbing his sleeve in your haste. “I-I enjoy baking. It is relaxing; it helps me to think.”

His brow knits and his eyes flick down to your hold on his sleeve, a warm vein pulsing under your fingertips. You snatch your hand away quickly, a blush staining your cheeks, mumbling an apology as you scurry back to your biscuit-making.

“Alright,” he concedes slowly, still appearing confused. “When I saw the sconces lit from the rear stairwell, I assumed one of the staff was still down here.”

You find it bemusing that he seems at pains to justify why he might also be in the kitchen, especially to you, a guest. This is Bridgerton House, and he is a Bridgerton. He may go wherever he pleases, surely? And yet here he is, doing so.

“I was rather hoping for some hot cocoa,” he explains with that soft, crooked smile that always makes your heart flutter.

“Oh! Well, umm, I could make you some cocoa?” you look down, wiping your hands upon your apron and moving to do so.

—

That you would make such an offer, as if seeing yourself as unpaid help, spurs him into action.

“No, you certainly will not!” He decries, moving swiftly towards the larder before you can. “I am perfectly fine with some cold milk,” he assures, re-emerges with a bottle and pouring himself a glass, leaning back against the sink to take a sip.

Despite the lateness of the hour, he finds your heretofore secret pastime strangely fascinating. A lady who bakes. By choice. So he watches as you return to making your biscuit dough, entertained as you begin to beat the mixture quite furiously with a wooden spatula.

“Have those ingredients caused you some sort of personal offence….?” he jests lightly, nodding to the bowl.

He observes a flit of contrition across your face before you answer.

“I, umm, have a decision that I must make; baking helps me think,” you explain vaguely, then appear to rapidly change the subject. “I am, however, sure of one fact - some biscuits are a must to accompany milk. There is a completed batch over there.”

“Genius,” he opines with a wink, enthusiastically moving to grab one from the cooling rack you signalled to, delighting in the blush that darkens your cheeks. But he decides to push the topic you abruptly avoided. Concerned there could be a topic you are genuinely wrestling with. If his opinion on the matter can ameliorate your burdens, he would be most honoured to assist.

“What sort of decision must you make?” he inquires before temporarily losing the power of speech. There is an explosion of tart lemon and earthy herb on his tongue that melts into a buttery sweetness, utterly divine. “Lord alive, these are delicious!!!” he exclaims around the mouthful.

“Thank you,” you answer softly.

You are always so modest about your talents; it sometimes makes him want to grab your shoulders and shake you gently. To make you see what he does.

“To answer your question, it is a perplexing matter that needs serious consideration,” you explain, stopping short of detail. It appears you are not yet ready to share the news with him. Something about that makes him a touch sad, but he also does not want to pry if you are reluctant to divulge.

—

Benedict swallows the bite he has taken, and you find yourself staring at the movement of his throat as he does. Knowing one thing to be true—if it were his proposal, you would not even hesitate for a split second. That wistful thought makes you suddenly melancholic, and you sigh, pushing aside your mixing bowl, realising this may be an issue baking will not fix.

“I do so hate to see you doubt yourself, Skylark,” he offers quietly after a beat, mien so earnest. “Trust yourself. You will find the right answer for your dilemma; I am certain of it.”

He is so remarkably supportive that, ironically, you almost want to scream at him.

“I should leave you to your thoughts,” his tone is gentle, reluctant.

“Please, there is no need, Benedict,” you try to assure. “To be honest, in all of this world, yours is the company I enjoy the very most…”

That truth is out of your mouth before you can censor it.

You sheepishly glance over to be met by a surprised look on his face. He takes a few steps towards you, probably without realising it, and suddenly, he is very close, faint wisps of his woodsy, citrus cologne tickling your nose.

“And I, yours, Skylark…” he rumbles, his gaze falling to your lips.

Time seems to stop, and you feel pinned under glass, staring up into his handsome face as he breathes slightly ragged, your body rioting as he engulfs your senses, definitely too close to be considered gentlemanly, polite…

…But then, he takes a sharp inhale and steps back as if coming to his senses. He turns heel with a hastily muttered goodbye, and before you know it, he is gone. Leaving you bewildered, your thoughts scattered.

—

The following day, Benedict is idly reading the paper, partaking in a leisurely lunch of tea and cake, when his mother swans in, reeling off a set of instructions for her lady's maid.

“Oh, and lastly, do not forget, we should secure an appointment with the modiste, in case Miss y/l/n should know her answer today…” Violet concludes breezily as she takes a seat.

“Yet another ball we must suffer, mother?” Benedict drawls drily, folding down his paper and taking a hearty bite of zesty lemon drizzle.

She shoots her son an exasperated look before neatly smoothing a serviette into her lap as she is served her usual afternoon Earl Grey by the butler. “Miss y/l/n will be in need of a wedding dress, Benedict, dear.”

He spits an array of crumbs onto his newspaper, coughing in shock. “She will need what?!?” he wheezes, barely recovering.

“Lord Glassborough proposed to Miss y/l/n last night, my dear, at the ball. She has yet to give her answer, but I am certain she will. They are a fine match,” Violet declares, taking a sip of tea.

“Why did she not mention it to me?” he mutters, more to himself than anyone, his forehead creasing heavily in a frown as he swallows the rest of his mouthful.

“Why would she have?”

“We talked last night…” letting slip perhaps too much in his perplexed state, lost in his own tumbling thoughts.

“When last night? We returned from the ball very late,” a suspicious tone in his mother’s voice, belatedly releasing he should know better than to think aloud; she is sharp as a tack.

“I-I found Miss y/l/n baking last night… in the kitchen when I went for cocoa… she told me she had a dilemma she was wrestling with…” he admits, looking down at the paper, the words now a jumble before his eyes. “Mother do you think it is possible she will say yes??” Benedict's head snaps up, his heart suddenly pounding in his ears.

“She would be a fool not to,” Violet points out, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. “Unless there was another, perhaps more wanted, proposal she could consider. Do you possibly know of one? Son?”

Even he can read between those lines.

“I-I am late,” he abruptly changes tack. “I promised to meet Anthony today to discuss the soil at Aubrey,” he bustles rapidly, standing and fleeing the room before he can allow his mother to see how much of a complete lie that is.

—

Benedict spends the afternoon at White’s, downing perhaps one too many whiskeys as he grills his fellow patrons upon the Glassborough family. Looking for any reason he can find to object to the betrothal while steadfastly refusing to examine why he feels so passionately about the subject. He also spends time checking the hefty tomes of Debrett’s the club holds.

He returns to Bridgerton House just as dusk settles in, the sky streaking red and pink as he enters.

“Where have you been, dear?” Violet asks as he rounds into the parlour.

“Researching,” he gruffs economically.

“What? Or rather whom?” Violet inquires, revealing she already has a firm idea of what she asks.

“I can find nothing wrong with him!”

Benedict paces, an energy emanating from his being as if he is rattled by that very fact.

“That is a good thing, is it not, son?” Violet reminds pointedly. “We want y/n married to a good gentleman…”

Benedict shoots her an exasperated look but relents. “I suppose…”

“Is not your reluctance perhaps for another reason, my dear?” Her question is gentle, if not particularly subtle.

He slumps into a wingback chair with a defeated sigh. “Go ahead. Say your piece, mother.”

“I have watched you, darling,” she begins gently, watching him tip his head back and screw his eyes shut. “I do not know exactly when, but your regard of Miss y/l/n has altered, and I am not the only one to observe it.”

Benedict's eyes fly open, and he tips his head down with a frown as his mother continues.

“Even Colin has marked a change in you. If you feel anything, my dear, then Miss y/l/n has the right to know. Before it is too late. The right to make an informed choice if you are bold enough to give her one. Son, I have only ever wanted my children’s happiness. And if your happiness lies somewhere that perhaps even you have not realised until now…. well then I encourage you to follow it. Follow your heart.”

Her impassioned speech suddenly makes the pieces of a jumbled jigsaw before his eyes arrange into a pattern, a way forward that is suddenly clear and sharply in focus.

It makes him leap to his feet, an urgency thronging in his being.

“Where is Miss y/l/n?” he almost barks.

“I do not know,” Violet confesses, “but I do know she has not yet seen or written to Lord Glassborough,” she adds.

“Good…” he rasps, headed determined out of the room to find you.

—

The verdant lush grass is cool between your toes as you curl them over, sighing heavily, the night now dark, a twinkle of silver among the navy sky, soon to be black. The swing under the big oak, a refuge you have sought many times since staying at Bridgerton House, feels a particularly poignant place to be tonight as an internal war rages within you, your decision swaying back and forth as much as the wooden seat you are perched upon, the rope digging into your cheekbone as you slump against it, flummoxed.

You know what your answer to Glassborough should be. Indeed, what it should have been from the moment he asked.

A resounding yes.

In every practical measure, this is the best possible outcome of your London season. A proposal from a thoroughly decent, acceptable gentleman, way above the station you were expecting, given your less than prestigious certainty of lineage.

And yet.

There is a large part of you, your heart, that wants to turn down the proposal, foolhardy as that may be. Wanting to feel akin to what you felt as you danced with Benedict last night. You are not so foolish as to believe he would ever propose, but perhaps there is someone else out there for you that may evoke something similar for you? Even if only half, it would be enough. Enough for you to build a future around and feel contentment in your heart, to not just settle for what your head knows to be a sensible choice.

—

Having searched the house, he rounds into the garden and stops short, heart leaping into his throat as he spies you, swaying gently upon the swing, looking thoroughly lost in thought. It makes his chest ache that you are so melancholic about a decision that should indeed be joyous. The selfish part of him celebrating, hoping that perhaps you are not. His memory recalls with perfect clarity how you have looked as lost as he now feels every time you have been close. The unbearable lightness of hope seizes his legs and draws him inexorably closer.

—

You whip around as you sense company and have to take a deep breath as your eyes fall upon Benedict. His face pinched with a restless intensity.

“I was hoping I would find you,” he exhales.

“You have,” you shrug, still confused by his crackling energy, him seeming in a rush to say something.

“Skylark, you deserve the very best of everything. Sincerely. And part of that includes that you should know the truth in the hearts of those lucky enough to know you…” a slight quake in his voice as he takes a step closer.

“Alright…” you respond cautiously, your brow creasing as you sense the nerves emanating from him.

You gasp as he rapidly drops to one knee before you, a hand clutched to his chest.

“I have been a fool to not see it before now. My own ardent admiration for you, for your talents, for your beauty. I realise now, perhaps too late, that you are truly the most wondrous, precious being in this world. You may not always see it, but it would be my greatest honour to show you, every day, if you will permit me, what I see when I look upon you. What I have always seen if I am honest with myself. A light that shines brighter than any other, a bird that soars higher and sings more sweetly than any other. A soul that it would be a privilege to be bound to. I know it is perhaps the worst possible timing, seeing as you already have a proposal from a perfectly acceptable gentleman. Still, I could not let you get married without letting you know the contents of my heart.”

You are stunned. Speechless.

Your heart pounds in your ribcage as you sit there stupified for what must be an age, Benedict looking upon you expectantly, breath slightly ragged from his long speech. Somehow, convincing yourself this could only be a dream. That the man you have adored since before you can remember has just made the most beautiful poetic confession of love you have ever heard. And it’s to you.

So, you do the only logical thing that comes to mind. Pinch your own leg. Hard.

—

Benedict is momentarily confounded at your actions.

“Owwww!” you yelp. “Not dreaming then…” is your muttered follow-up, rubbing your own knee as his face morphs into the most enormous grin, a lightning bolt of joy tearing through him as he realises what you are doing, that you can scarcely believe this is happening any more than he can.

“It is really me, Skylark,” he chuckles softly, seeing the way your eyes dilate rapidly as he can't help the lopsided grin that claims his face, a warmth behind his ribs that is just for you.

“I realise that now,” you sass back, and there is a stirring in his trousers at the tone you employ.

“I love you.”

It's a reflex; he doesn't even realise he says it. But as soon as it's out of his mouth, it's like an invisible burden has been lifted from his entire being. The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

—

You know your face is aflame as you snap back at him, entirely without meaning to, but then he says three little words that tilt your whole world even more.

“I-I-I love you too.”

You are bewildered when you say it aloud.

The truth. Plain. Simple. Honest.

“Marry me? Please. My darling, wonderful friend,” he implores, his bare hands grabbing yours, tingles shooting over you as your skin touches his.

“Yes!! I will!!!” you answer breathlessly, not even a second of hesitation.

He leans in and captures your lips with his. They are warm and soft as they move gently with yours. And when he opens your mouth with his and his tongue rolls delicately over yours, it feels as if all the fireworks you have seen in the sky live now inside you, popping and exploding in a riot of colour. A whole new world of sensual pleasure is promised in that one move.

“Are you certain?” you murmur as you break apart for air, a flash of insecurity that this is happening so fast, even as there is a strong pull inside, a want to keep kissing him over and over.

He smiles, tilting his forehead to yours, a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“To know you, truly know you, is to love you, Skylark,” he sighs, his words a blanket settling over your quaking heart. “And I do. I truly do.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @notanotheruniverse @iboopedyournose @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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spencerreidenjoyer · 2 months

Note

could you do some fluff about spencer and reader sitting together on the jet? maybe like a time where it’s late and they’re on the way home from a case, and they’re the only ones awake and just chatting and being all cute?

mile-high | spencer reid x reader

wc: 680, rating: everyone

tags: mutual pining, mutual crushes, idiots in love, best friends, (un)requited love (they just don't know it yet)

a/n: hello anon! apologies for taking a while to respond to your lovely request. i was thinking for a while about what would work with this request and got inspired when i was writing this extremely tired lmao. i hope this is fluffy and cute enough for u!! can be read as gender neutral reader too since i didn't specify any gendered pronouns hehe. do not be misled by the title for there is in fact no mile-high club type tropes in this lmaoo

Your eyelids are heavy by the time the jet takes off back to Quantico. The team had been working overtime with a particularly enthusiastic spree killer, with so little cooldown time between kills that you all had no choice but to keep working the case until you had cracked it, culminating in an early morning raid of the UnSub’s ranch house-slash-lair. Spencer had a particularly satisfying moment of cuffing the UnSub, after being perplexed by his erratic movement as he was crafting the geographic profile.

You had watched Spencer down mug after mug of coffee for the past couple of days, and now, amidst the rest of the team dozing off, a still-awake Spencer still flips through his book rather quickly.

“Not tired?” You ask softly, trying not to wake the team.

“No, there’s still caffeine in my system.” Spencer purses his lips as he looks at you.

“I’m surprised you haven’t developed a tolerance toward caffeine yet,” you grin, shaking your head.

“It takes about a month for your body to get used to caffeine and its effects, which makes your body basically perform the same as when you aren’t caffeinated. But abstaining from caffeine over a couple of days usually resets your body’s response to it.”

You tilt your head. “Dr. Spencer Reid abstaining from coffee? I couldn’t imagine that happening.”

“I just opt for decaf,” he smiles at you, grin growing when you giggle.

Your eyelids feel so heavy, but all you want to do is talk to Spencer. You don’t often get time alone with him, which is maybe a blessing considering your crush on him. Maybe Hotch can tell how much you like him and doesn’t end up pairing you two off too often because he doesn’t want his best agents distracted – that’s what Emily always tells you, but you always brush her off.

“You look tired,” Spencer states, matter-of-factly.

“I am, but I can’t really fall asleep. I don’t wanna fall asleep.”

“Why not?” Spencer asks.

“Wanna talk to you,” you answer, a little too honest, and you don’t notice the surprised look on Spencer’s face, like it’s surprising that you want to talk to him. “I also usually need something to cuddle when I sleep.”

“But you’re tired,” Spencer repeats, even though you’re painfully aware of the fact. “You should rest.”

“I like talking to you,” you huff, perhaps a little petulant, but you’re secretly preening at all the attention Spencer is giving you right now.

Spencer nudges you with his shoulder. You whine, and look at him. Spencer says gently, “You can hold onto my arm. And lay your head on me if you want to.”

You slip your arm around Spencer’s, and it feels so right to be holding him close like this. It’s a little awkward, since Spencer’s not totally used to physical touch, but you’re taking any chance you can get to be close to him. “You’re comfortable.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Spencer chuckles. “Especially if it means you’ll get some rest.”

“No,” you retort. “Just because you’re letting me cuddle you does not mean I’m going to fall asleep.”

Spencer snorts. “Sure.”

“I’m not going to fall asleep, Spence,” you say, snuggling closer to him.

Spencer just hums.

“I’m a drooler, just so you know,” you say, like you’re trying to scare him off. Frankly, you’re just trying to tease him.

“That’s okay.”

“I’m–” you cut yourself off with a stifled yawn, and you glare at Spencer when he casts you a knowing smirk. “I’m not!”

“Okay, you aren’t falling asleep,” Spencer echoes. “But do you want me to read you my book?”

You close your eyes, smiling as you nod. You don’t see the sweet way Spencer smiles down at you, and before he’s even done with the first two pages of whatever he was reading, you’re out like a light.

You don’t feel the way Spencer pushes your hair out of your face, and the way his thumb gently brushes your cheek.

Maybe one day, he’ll have the confidence to do that when you’re awake.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencerreidenjoyer writes

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nickfowlerrr · 1 month

Note

everything comes out teenage petulance

pairing: bucky barnes x curvy!reader

warnings: angst, fluff, talk of insecurities, talk of rejection, virgin!reader but no smut - just mentioned, mutual pining - requited love - leaning toward idiots in love, hurt/comfort, pet names (sweetheart, doll), happing ending per usual. if i’m missing something important, pls lmk!

words: 4.3k

aspen!!! it’s crazy you sent this bc i was just about to start writing a little bucky fic and what better gif to use than this 😌 lol seriously perfect timing! tysm 🥰🫶🏻

and another huge thank you to you, ray for helping me out with the final edit!! @whatever-lmaoo i appreciate you sm! 🫶🏻

notes: had an idea, saw this gif, and then bam! here we are. yes i was clearly listening to down bad while working on this, but i promise it is not as sad as the song! also this fic is insanely self indulgent and i’m not even a little bit sorry lol. i do hope you enjoy this, and thank you in advance for reading! as always, comments and reblogs are more than welcome and so so appreciated! let me know your thoughts 🩵

You’re holding in the emotions threatening to spill out of you as you step off the elevator to the living quarters of the tower. You know no one else is here, everyone out on missions or gone for some downtime out of the city, but still, there are cameras everywhere and you don’t need your impending breakdown to be recorded.

You pull your slipping bra strap up your shoulder and mindlessly pull at the hem of your dress as you walk further into the darkened living room, your heels clicking on the floor as you go.

Your head is down as you near the kitchen so you don’t see the light radiating from the open fridge, but you hear it as the door closes loudly. You startle and whip your head to the kitchen, finding the one person you really don’t need seeing you in your current state staring over at you.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you breathe as you have a hand over your heart. His mouth is open as his eyes scan your body, roving up and down and making you feel even more self conscious than you were before. “What are you doing, I thought I was the only one here for the weekend?”

“Little early for Halloween, isn’t it?” He asks, ignoring your question.

Your brows furrow in confusion, “What?”

“You’re dressed like a clown, aren’t you?”

You’re essentially frozen as you take in his words. The fear that came over you at his surprise appearance had your self pity and consciousness forgotten for a moment but now it was back. And it was worse. You don’t do anything but stare at him for a second, you’re afraid if you speak or even try to move you will break down in tears and - fuck - you can feel your eyes welling as they begin to sting. You take a sharp breath and swallow hard, nodding once as your lips purse and you blink. You turn stiffly and walk away without a response.

He’s right behind you, though and you don’t make it two steps before Bucky grabs your arm.

“Wow, hey, come on, I was joking,” he breathes a disbelieving laugh as he tries to turn you toward him.

You fight him and pull your arm away, “okay,” you huff, just wanting to get away from him before the dam really breaks.

He lets you go but trails behind you as you walk faster down to your room.

You push your door open and don’t turn around as the tears finally begin to fall, trying to shut the door behind you without having to look at him.

He sticks his foot in front of the door as you try shutting it and keeps it open.

“Go away,” you nearly growl through tears, your voice sounding tight and if he hadn’t already caught on to your crying, there was really no way to deny it now.

He doesn’t say anything but he does push your door open enough to slip through it. It falls shut as you stand with your back to him, sniffling and trying desperately to stop the flow of tears that are drowning you, arms crossed over your chest as you work to control your breathing. You just want him to leave you alone so you can cry in peace.

“Look, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings, I really didn’t mean it, I was just kidding,” he begins softly, “but you and I both know I’ve said worse to you before, so,” he hedges, “maybe it wasn’t what I said that made you cry…”

“I dont wanna talk about it, Bucky. Why are you even here? Just leave me alone,” your voice trembles despite yourself.

He sighs heavily and you see him from your mirror as he runs a hand through his hair and takes a cautious step closer to you, “Yeah,” he breathes, “I dont think I’m gonna be able to do that, sweetheart.”

You bristle at the petname and can’t help the sob that leaves you as the reminder of how your date went tonight plays in your head.

“Go away,” you whine as more tears fall and you try to turn further from him - as if that were possible. Your eyes squeeze shut in a futile attempt to stop crying, a pathetic pout on your lips as you try to stifle your sobs.

A gentle pull on your arms has you turning around, you don’t have it in you to stop him as Bucky gingerly pulls you closer. You’re too embarrassed to open your eyes as you cry harder and when you feel his strong arms around you, holding you to him, the tears only come faster. You feel yourself lean into him as you mindlessly bury your face in his chest, hugging him tight like he’s the only thing keeping you upright.

His warm hand is rubbing up and down your back as your walls continue to crumble around him.

“It’s not fair,” you blubber like a child into his shirt.

He doesn’t respond, waiting for you to continue as he keeps rubbing your back in an attempt to comfort you, his brows furrowing as he wonders what could’ve happened tonight to cause this.

He’s never seen you this way and he hates it - hates that you’re upset and crying, anyway. The way you feel in his arms, holding onto him like this, well that’s a different story…

He’s keeping his anger at bay until he knows exactly what went down, but he knows you had a date tonight, and the only reason he’s here when he had plans to be out of town this weekend is because you were going to have the place to yourself, and he couldn’t get the idea of you bringing your date back here alone out of his head. Immature, sure, but he didn’t know what else to do but wait around to scare whoever it was you were out with away before they had a chance to so much as see you out of your shoes.

He’s even more grateful now that he decided to change his plans last minute. He was surprised to see you coming in alone, and if he wasn’t so caught up in how damn good you looked tonight, he probably would’ve noticed your mood before he decided to open his stupid mouth. But that’s your thing; the teasing, the bickering, the tit for tats. He was expecting a jab right back, but when he saw your eyes watering at his words, he felt sick. He couldn’t let you walk away crying, he couldn’t stand to see you so upset. Especially because of him. But now, as you stand here in his arms, so uninhabited and vulnerable, he knows it wasn’t because of him. And when he finds out exactly what or who it was that made you so upset… god help them.

“It’s not fair,” you mumble your cry again, “I just,” you hiccup, “why can’t I be pretty,” you sob.

It’s takes a second for the words to register before Bucky can react. “What?” he questions harshly, pulling you away from him, his hands on your arms as your tear streaked face and bleary eyes peer up at him.

Your eyes squeeze shut again as your crying continues and you fall into him again, not wanting to look at him as you make your confession. “I just want,” you cry, “to be pretty. I want someone to like me. To love me,” you eke out, your heartbreak evident in your voice. “No one loves me,” you mutter defeatedly. “No one’s ever loved me and no one is ever gonna love me,” you sob, grabbing his shirt as you cry into his chest harder.

“What exactly did this asshole say to you?” Bucky knows he needs to calm down but what he’s hearing from you right now is going to drive him insane. Why in the world would you ever say or think this about yourself? Your date had to have done or said something, he’s sure of it.

“Nothing,” you dismiss, “I mean, nothing wrong or mean. They were nice about it, I just,” you can’t help but cry more. “I’m not their type. Which is fine,” you try to shake your head and rationalize yourself into stopping crying, “that’s fine, I know I’m not everyone’s type,” you gesture vaguely down your body, “and I wasn’t super into them, either, I was just trying to put myself out there for once and I just, ugh,” you bemoan. “I dont know why I was expecting anything different. It’s never been different, won’t ever be different. I’m just, me. And they said what everyone always thinks, I’m a sweetheart, I’m just not their type,” you shrug before your tears bubble up once more and you let your face fall back into Bucky’s chest.

“If I was skinny, or pretty, or nicer,” you babble before Bucky cuts you off.

“Doll, stop it,” he orders firmly, surprising you as he suddenly lifts you effortlessly off your feet and has you clinging to him as he walks the short distance to sit you on your bed.

You’re stunned silent as tears continue to roll down your cheeks and even more surprised as Bucky kneels before you, making sure you’re looking him in his clear blue eyes. His gaze is intent and penetrating and you couldn’t look away if you wanted to. He’s so close…he’s never been this close to you before and you feel your breath trapped in your chest as you watch him.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he says seriously, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and you’re an idiot for ever thinking otherwise.

His sincerity has your stomach twisting and your shame and disbelief has your tears falling again.

Your lips quiver as your pout remains, and you shake your head.

“Don’t do that,” he admonishes, hand gently grabbing your chin and making you look at him again. You swallow hard at the soft touch and the tenderness in his eyes. “Hear me when I say this, doll. You are absolutely beautiful. Exactly the way you are. Fuck ‘type’.”

You wince at his words, and you can’t help but look away again. It’s easy for him to say, he’s goddamn gorgeous and everyone knows it.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to say, but you really just don’t get it,” you shake your head. “You could walk down the street and get anybody you wanted with one look,” you smirk softly. “You’re everybody’s type.”

“You don’t need to be anyone’s ‘type’, sweetheart,” he says.

“Yeah, and I’m not,” you reiterate harshly before taking a breath, not wanting to work yourself up again. This is stupid and you know it and it feels even more mortifying to be talking about this with not only the most attractive man you’ve ever known, but also the man you’ve been down bad for for so long. Deep down you know you don’t really care what most anyone else thinks, there’s really only one person you care about not finding you attractive, and you’ve worked to get over that sting of unrequital for a long while now, but fuck, everything just feels so heavy tonight. It’s not even that it’s just not him, which still gets to you every time you’re reminded of it, it’s that it’s not anyone.

And it’s not that you even want anyone else… you don’t, but knowing there’s really no one interested in you, the very real prospect of being alone forever, it got to you tonight…

“You don’t know that,” he says lowly.

“Bucky,” you roll your eyes, not only in annoyance, but also to keep the threatening renewal of tears at bay.

“So what you’re not some random person you don’t even like’s type,” he dismisses, placing his hands on your thick thighs as he stays kneeled before you, and you aren’t sure if he even realizes he’s doing it as his thumbs rub there softly, “you’re my type,” he defends.

You could curl up into a ball right now and die, there is no way you’re this fucking pathetic you have Bucky Barnes on his knees trying to convince you he thinks you’re pretty. As if this night couldn’t get any worse or more embarrassing.

You’ve seen the people Bucky has brought back here before. He certainly had a type, and you are certainly not it.

“You don’t have to say that, Bucky,” you blink away from his gaze. “It’s nice that you feel bad for me,” you sniffle, wiping at your tears with the sleeves of your dress, “but you really don’t have to.”

“Why do you think I feel bad for you?” He questions, moving to look you in the eyes once more, his confusion clear on his face.

You shrug, turning your head to again avoid eye contact, “I’m pathetic,” you laugh sardonically, wiping at the tears still slipping, slower now but still evident.

“You’re pathetic?,” Bucky chuckles, his soft touches on your thighs ceaseless. He bites his lip as he glances down to his hands, spreading his fingers wide before he squeezes you a bit, and if you aren’t reading into it, you’d say he seems the slightest bit nervous, his hold on you as much to try to comfort you as it is to comfort him, “I’m the one who bailed on guys weekend just to make sure you didn’t bring anyone home tonight,” he admits, causing you to finally look him in the eye again. What did he just say? You’re baffled and it’s evident as your brows furrow and you frown. He continues, “Or if you did, to make sure they wouldn’t stay long,” he half smirks, half grimaces.

“What?” you breathe out.

“Not the most mature move, I know, but,” he says, running a hand through his hair before he rubs the back of his neck, having the decency to at least be a little embarrassed by his plan. “The thought of you with someone else…anyone else,” he shakes his head. “I can’t stand it.”

You can’t possibly be hearing what you’re hearing, right? You don’t move or speak for a long moment as you try to make sense of what Bucky’s saying to you because clearly you’re not hearing correctly.

“You can’t stand…” you process aloud, “the idea of me being with someone?”

He breathes a laugh as you stare at him dumbly, his nervous habit of pushing his long hair back from his face shines again while he chuckles. “Doll, I can’t stand the idea of you being with anybody who isn’t me,” he clarifies.

“What are you-?” you shake your head, “What do you mean?”

His big hands return to your thighs as he gently squeezes you. “I mean that if you had come home with someone tonight, I would’ve made sure they didn’t stay more than a minute to say goodbye.”

You snort a laugh, wiping another tear from your cheek. That’s crazy.

“Please. ‘M not that kinda girl anyway, Buck,” you say. “I uhm,” you clear your throat, clearly a little uncomfortable with what you’re about to say, but fuck, you’ve already embarrassed yourself this much tonight, what’s a little more confessing gonna hurt, “I’ve never…done, anything. With anyone.” You admit, looking down at your hands in your lap.

It’s a moment before Bucky speaks again.

“Never?”

You shake your head slowly side to side, lips pursed, “No,” you murmur.

“That’s impressive,” he breathes.

You quirk a brow at his response.

“Mean, you gotta be batting people off like crazy,” he says, his warm hand once resting on your thigh now thoughtlessly trailing down the soft skin of your leg.

“No,” you state slightly annoyed and ever embarrassed. “Not like anyone’s ever been interested,” you trail off.

Bucky laughs again, not so nervous now, more in disbelief, “You’re so blind,” he muses, “I feel so bad for everyone who has ever been interested in you.”

Your face shows your taken offense but Bucky keeps talking before you can say a word about it.

“If you really think no one’s ever been attracted to you, you’re fucking crazy, sweetheart.”

You gape like a fish for a millisecond, opening and closing your mouth as you blink down at your thighs, his metal hand holding your right thigh softly and the fingers of his right hand dancing along the exposed skin of your left.

“I’m not crazy,” you mutter as his hand slips higher up your leg.

“You are,” he argues lightly, “and you make me crazy,” he says softer, blue eyes gleaming up at you. “Have you not heard a word I’ve said tonight?” He pauses, debating on whether or not he wants to say what he’s about to say before he decides to throw caution to the wind and finally admit his true feelings to you, as clearly as he possibly can this time. “You’re all I ever think about. Not just because of how pretty you are, either,” he smirks, growing more confident now and loving the way you react to his touch as his hands smooth along your soft thighs, goosebumps rising in his wake as he hears your breathing stutter. “It’s so much more than that,” he breaths in, “it’s every single thing about you. Your snark,” he smiles, “your strength. Your bravery, your stubbornness. Your lame jokes,” he pauses to admire the slant of your lips as you fight a soft smile, “your laugh. Your kindness, your friendship. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. The whole damn package, doll. And that’s without even bringing looks into it, because fuck,” he scoffs, “it’s a real shame you don’t see what everyone else sees.”

You dare a glance back at his penetrative gaze, “…And what, exactly, is that?” you reply timidly, but desperately wanting to hear his answer.

“A real life goddess,” he admires as he leans closer to you, his hands now well under the hem of your dress as they inch further and further up your thighs.

Your stomach is in a flurry as a tingle sparks inbetween your legs at his touch.

He leans up to you slowly, testing your waters as he gets closer and closer to your lips. You’re barely breathing when his nose brushes yours and you take a shaky breath when his hands leave your thighs and come to gently hold your face.

“You’re insanely pretty, and likable, and lovable, and you don’t need to be skinny for anyone to find you attractive. You’re gorgeous, inside and out. And I don’t wanna hear you talking about yourself like you were ever again, you hear me?” He questions quietly, intent but caring as he holds your glistening gaze in his.

You nod lightly, knowing tonight you weren’t your typical self. You had a hard night, and you let those old mean, destructive and intrusive thoughts get to you. You really do know better, but you’re human. And everybody has those days. You’re suddenly feeling even more grateful for Bucky’s unexpected presence tonight. If he wasn’t here, you’re sure you’d have spent the night in a spiral of self hatred and pity and would’ve probably cried yourself to sleep.

Your tears are dry now, though. And Bucky is still so close, his touch so gentle as his brilliant blue eyes swim with his care for you. You’ve seen it before, but it’s never felt so real and intimate as it does now, knowing what you know now.

He’s here tonight because of you. For you.

He’s not expecting anything, and you’re not sure how much you’re ready to give, but as he smiles that lopsided smile at you, you can’t help yourself as you lean into him, too. It’s slow and cautious as your lips brush his, and then you let your eyes flutter closed as you finally kiss him. It’s almost embarrassing how many times you’ve dreamed of kissing Bucky, but none of them played out like this, none of them ever came close. His lips are soft, his hands firm as he holds your face and you readily let him lead you as he kisses you back.

It ends all too quickly as he pulls away slightly, his tongue slipping past his lips as he savors the taste of you, his forehead touching yours as he maintains your closeness.

“And just for the record, I don’t think you look like a clown,” he shakes his head while you let out a quiet laugh. “I think your makeup looks great, and this dress,” he sighs with a near groan, moving his hands to settle on your wide hips, squeezing ever so slightly, sending more sparks to light in your core as you almost mewl at his touching, “I know you know you look good,” he smirks. “I was just being stupid wanting your attention.”

“Well,” you start with a slight eye roll, “I mean, who could really blame you?”

He smiles brightly at that, his laugh warming you as he leans in to kiss you again. “There’s my girl,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Your girl?” You ask, a near whisper as his words have your heart skipping a beat, eyes still closed from the kiss before you slowly blink them open. He nods.

“If you wanna be,” he breathes, blue eyes bearing into yours. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to finally admit how crazy I am for you without making myself look like a complete idiot,” he simpers, his signature smirk on display, “obviously didn’t avoid that, but, now you know. I’m crazy about you, doll.” His thumb rubs your cheek softly as he keeps you close, “I wanna be with you,” he breathes, “in any way you’ll have me. So, if you wanna be my girl,”

You smile softly, nodding as you cut him off, “I wanna be.”

You see his toothy smile before Bucky kisses you hotly as he surges up without warning, hoisting you up with him as you squeak into his mouth, arms clinging around his neck as his own hold you under your bottom. His strength is so effortless it surprises you for a second, but in an instant you get more comfortable in his hold as he continues kissing you. His smile grows on his lips as you kiss him back in kind until you’re forced to break away for a breath.

“I’m not happy you were so upset earlier,” he says as he catches his breath, forehead pressing to yours as you tuck his falling hair behind his ears while he holds you, “but I’m so fucking glad you came back here alone.”

“Well, I’m not happy you were trying to ambush me,” you joke, “but I’m really glad you were here tonight,” you whisper the words as your hands play in his hair, noses brushing, you’re still so close.

You’re staring into each other’s eyes until your gaze falls to his lips. Bucky kisses you again, so much softer than he did before.

“Me too,” he whispers softly. You smile and then pat his shoulders. He gets your message and gently lets you go as your heels touch the floor.

“I know it’s late,” he starts, closing the small distance between you as he takes a step closer, not wanting to be too far from you, already missing your proximity, “but you were expecting a nice date tonight, and you didn’t get one,” he sighs, “I just don’t think that’s right,” he exhales with that ‘hear me out’ purse of his lips. You eye him expectantly, fighting a smile as you wait for him to get it out.

“What do you think about catching a movie and grabbing food at that place you like? With me,” he adds as if it wasn’t obvious, earning a bright laugh from you for the first time tonight. “It’s a Saturday, so you know they’re open late anyway,” he rambles.

You lean into him with your shoulder as you stand so close to each other, getting his attention back on your face as you smile. “I would really like that, Bucky,” you nod. “I’m just gonna,” you wave a hand around your face, “fix this up a bit.”

He laughs as he rubs a streak of black from under your eye, “still beautiful,” he simpers.

Your entire body warms at his touch and his admiration as you grab his hand gently in yours and pull him closer. He seems to read your mind as his arms circle you and he leans in to take your lips in his.

It’s sweet and so natural it’s hard to believe you guys hadn’t done this sooner. The friendship was always there, but you never knew the feelings were too. All this time you convinced yourself your harbored feelings for Bucky were unreciprocated, and all the while, he was trying to figure out how to confess his own to you.

You laugh quietly into the kiss, amusement playing on your lips as you think back on every encounter you’ve had with Bucky that had you falling harder and harder for him.

“What’s funny?” He asks as you part with a grin.

“It’s just, all so obvious now,” you giggle. “I always thought I was reading into things with you, that you were just being nice, just wanted to be friends,” you trail off, swaying closer to him in your heels. “But, this whole time,” you blink up at him, lips parted gently as he keeps your body to his, holding you close.

“This whole time,” he simpers, a soft smile on his lips. “What the hell took us so long?”

“Uhm,” you muse aloud, “probably our combined stupidity,” you joke as he chuckles, his smile never wavering as he keeps his eyes on you, “but, let’s just call it fate,” you shrug on a soft exhale. You lean closer to Bucky even more, letting your lips brush his again, the feeling one you don’t think you’ll ever tire of, “no better time than the present, right?”

#bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky barnes x plus size!reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x curvy!reader #bucky x reader #bucky x plus size!reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes angst

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rqnarok · 14 days

Text

LINGER | 4,3k

old man!logan x fem!reader

SUMMARY: Being another mutant who survived Charles’ seizures, you are forced to live alongside Logan. The things between you and Logan goes on and off, fragile and indefinite—yet it always lingers.

TAGS AND WARNINGS: smut, mdni! mentions of blood, death, and grief (not logan), lots of angst but lots of fluff too, old man!logan x mutant!reader but unspecified mutation so it’s up to you! minor injuries, nightmares, miscommunication, kind of slow burning (?), pining, logan calls himself ‘old man’ several times, petnames, reader being called ‘kid’ by logan, unrequited love but actually requited (just angst all over…), logan howlett is bad at feelings, love confessions, virgin!reader, dirty talk, praise kink, p with little plot, fingering (f receiving), insecure!reader and insecure!logan, logan loves reader, unprotected p in v.

NOTES: not proofread! bello! ‘m not new to writing but new to writing fan fictions hehe! old man!logan is kinda my everything and this fic is kindaaaa self indulgent. listened to “linger” by the cranberries while writing this :0 feel free to send reqs and feedback to my inbox. this was mere my writing practice and my attempt to gain motivation in life. oh, sorry for the spelling and grammar mistakes, eng is not my first language! hope this isn’t my first and last fic.. see u all <3 or not....:p

'Shamed what happened back in the East.

A saying you heard but don’t know where. Even who said it. Still, you remember all of it—their cries of death, their pain, their suffering.

A haunting vivid memory in X-Mansion, where all of your friends are lying on the ground, in pain—and you could not do anything. You just watched. In pain, too. There was a thought which you think that it was the end. You were already accepting it with open arms, welcoming your exit.

Then your mutation saved you from your fate. Your survival, at the price of grief.

“You’re doing it again.”

Jolted by his comment, you dart your eyes away from the road and into your lap. “Do what?” You mutter quietly, not sure if he even hears it.

But he always does. “Never mind.” Logan sighs in the damp air. You both know it is better not to talk about what exactly happened back then. Talking is not what you two are best at either. “I asked you a question earlier, you hungry?”

“A little, yeah. Yeah.” Your gaze sways to his driving figure: how his right hand grips the steering wheel way too tightly, how his soft blue shirt is all wrinkled, how his tired eyes look with those heavy eye bags, and the grey hairs all over his untrimmed beard. He looks worn out. But so are you.

The two of you have been doing this for God knows how long. Wandering from one place to the other with Charles in the backseat. Looking for a place to settle but not really looking for it either. It’s simply a suicide travel.

He makes a turn towards a cheap-looking diner on your left.

Northern Mexico.

A place where you both decided to settle indefinitely. Alongside Charles, who lives in the abandoned smelting plant not so far away. Logan takes up a job as a limo driver in El Paso and every time you tell him you don’t want him to be so far away during the daytime, he always says: One of us has to earn the money, kid.

Kid.

To this day, after time living together, you aren’t sure of the nature of the relationship between you and Logan. Companions? Friends? Strangers?

Well, one thing you are sure of is you are not his adopted child and he does not see you in that way, either. He sees you in the same way he sees Charles, as his responsibility.

Before all this, you were aware of him: what he looked like, his mutation, his reputation. But you do not know him personally. You passed him once or twice in the hallways after your studies. That was it.

All of a sudden, he’s all you have. The only other sane mutant you are fully sure, survived Charles’ seizure. Still, you two weren’t friends before and sure aren’t friends now. In this shared house, you and Logan are strangers—forced to live together on the sole base of sentimentality.

Deep down, you know there is something more. Something vulnerable, down there. Something fragile. There are moments like where-

Your thoughts are frozen by the sudden creaking sound of the front door. The sight of Logan all bloody and bruised entered your wandering vision. The book you were reading is now abandoned as you get up from the comfortable sofa.

“W-what happened?” Rushing into him with quick movements, this is not the first time he returns all beaten up but it is still a blow to you every single time. You can’t stand the thought of losing another person in your life, even if you convince yourself that he is a mere stranger.

His white shirt has reds in many parts, and he’s bleeding all over the house, “Some fuckin’ kids tried to mess up with the limo. F-fuck.” With the blood smeared all over his hand, he managed to get into the shared bathroom, his breath coming out short.

“Wait!” You rushed to his figure with an aid kit in your trembling hands. He slouched forward, cursing himself. Gently, you wrap your arms around him before he falls and help him lean his back on the white tiles behind.

He shakily opened the buttons of his shirt and you could see everything. While you grab all you need and start cleaning his wounds, he looks at you with his half-lidded eyes. The intense gaze that always makes you want to shy away from him—you are not so sure why.

After a while, you kneel beside him and break eye contact, “Did you kill them?” you question him carefully as you tread his wounds. Not sure how he would answer tonight.

Logan grunts when you touch one of his nasty wounds, still looking at you, “No. But you should see them.”

You feel uncomfortable at his reply, retreating your hands and facing the mirror, looking down at the sink, “I don’t want to see them, Logan.” At some point, as you search around for more supplies to treat his injuries that still haven’t healed by his mutation, you break down crying. Out of your realisation, you have been holding back your worries and sobs since you saw him.

Logan, who notices this, pulls you abruptly into him and seats you on one of his thighs. “Hey, hey, why y’crying huh? Hm?”

You hate this. You hate how you suddenly cry at the sight of him, at the reminder that this is all finite. His big calloused hand starts rubbing up and down your back, gently shushing you. You hate how he knows you all too well by now.

“I told you to stop doing the job. I-I told you that this… this would happen. I’m always scared. I thought— ” You let out one big sob or whimper, you’re not so sure. Not when he’s cradling you in his arms like this. “You can’t heal like you used to, you can’t barely–”

“Hey, shh, pretty girl,” Pretty girl. You blush at that. “I’m here with you now, aren’t I? That’s all that matters.” He shushed you oh, so tenderly. Such a paradox could live inside a man like him. Logan forces himself to smile, “Aren’t I? Come on, feel me up.” Logan sits you up straight on his lap.

He always does this. Giving out, you delicately place both of your hands on the sides of his face, feeling him up. He watches you brush around his greying beard while holding your waist in place, drawing circles on your skin. “There ‘ya go. I’m here.”

When you feel calm down and tired, you rest your heavy head on his shoulders, “Maybe I should take a turn going to town–”

He cuts you off while lifting your chin, forcing you to look at him right in the eyes that you were trying so hard to dodge. Without him saying any words, you know he is saying no. Your assumption is confirmed when he shakes his head slightly, looking down at you sternly.

“It’s just me and you, Logan.” You say meekly and defeatedly.

“Exactly. That's why it’s gotta be me, baby.”

Moments later, you continue mending his cuts. And moments after that, you’re both lying together on the bed. Holding each other in slumber. Your head on his chest, his hands on your back.

Through these delicate moments, you know him. That he is not simply a stranger to you. That this means something more.

But he does not talk about those moments. Which makes you feel like your perspective is an illusion that you made by yourself, untrue. A false memory that you created in your head because you do feel something for him.

In the morning, you wake up alone. Logan is nowhere to be seen around the room. Only traces of his scent are left on the white sheets wrapping around your figure.

When you open the bedroom door, there he is. Sitting on the kitchen chair, his slouched back facing you while he sips on his black coffee which he secretly hates. He likes the coffees that you frequently make for him more. You don’t know that. He never told you.

“Logan?” you call out to him. But he didn’t budge away from reading the newspaper. As if you weren’t there at all. As if moments like last night never happened. As if it’s true that you are merely a responsibility to him. A burden, even. You hang your head low at his ignorance and retreat to your room.

Such a paradox could live inside a man like him.

Other moments happened too. One afternoon, his phone suddenly rings while he is out visiting Charles. With all the self-control you have, you try to ignore it, ignore everything that connects to him because it upsets you. But your curiosity gets ahead of your mind and you pick his phone up.

“Hello?” you place the thing on the side of your left ear. No sound, nothing, nada. Before you know it, you feel a presence behind you and Logan is looking down at you with that look again.

Snatching his phone away from you, not so gently, he mutters, “How many times do I have to tell you not to touch my stuff, huh?” The way he remarks and the way he looks at you makes you feel small and embarrassed. These are the moments where he is not going to cradle you in his arms–you know that.

Your eyes darted to the floor. The lines on the wood oak floor suddenly seemed very interesting, “I’m- Your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. So I thought–”

“You thought? What? You have the right to?” Logan cuts you off before you finish your poor excuse of explanation. “You have your own pile of shit and I have mine. Stay out of my shit. You understand?”

Sometimes there are sparks of rage inside of you that make you gain bits of confidence, “Well, we technically live in the same place, so–”

Though, Logan quickly dims off that spirit by not letting you finish, “Understand?”

You limit yourself to a nod in agreement because you don’t trust your voice. Confusion often fills up your body to the brim. These are the moments you hate. How he treats you differently at one time and another. You hate how he makes you so weak. You hate how he has you wrapped around his fingers. You hate that you don’t have the same effect on him.

“It’s not your fault, darling.” Charles reasons you one time when you visit him for weekly check-ups. “That man has issues! Even after all these years, I still could not fully understand him and his... complexities.” You force your lips to quirk up a little and pretend as if you justify that, too. But you're in so deep.

Weeks after weeks, it went on like that. You, confused. Logan, indifferent all the time. You miss his touches. Was it just a game to him?

Paralyzed, the color red clouded your vision. You see bodies lying everywhere, dead bodies. The room smells like dread. With what is left, your power manages to slow down the pain that rushes in you. Protect you from the incursion.

Here, there is no way to hide. Their cries echo through the halls. Their screams still haunt you.

If you could have saved yourself, you could have saved them too. But you watched them die.

You watched them die.

Inside the dark of your room, you did not realize that you had been thrashing and screaming in your sleep. The nightmare came to you again. Grief shows through in the form of tears, flowing into your cheeks as you open your eyes in fear, “I let them die, I let them die, I let them die–”

“Sweetheart?” a voice comes from outside your room. Near but so far away.

You kept repeating those words until a figure finally came up in front of you, Logan. He calls out your name, “Hey, no, no–” Now he is touching you all over, trying to stop you from moving rapidly and hurting yourself in the process. Sitting you in front of him and making you face him. Closing your eyes for a brief second, your chest heaving up and down, you remember again and you panic, “I-I watched them die–” your voice wavers.

“No, shh, keep those eyes open. You’re okay. I’m here.” His hands hold your face and his thumb brush off some of the hair in your wet cheeks.

“I could’ve saved them. They were dying, they were in pain–” You cry out as the scene on that day played out again. Daunting and haunting you without your consent. Always lingering around on the back of your neck. Only one person knows what it feels like.

Logan’s eyes soften while he remembers that bitter memory too, “So were you,” His voice coaks out, soothing you, “So were you. ‘s not your responsibility.”

At this, you put your arms around his neck and grip him tightly, finally comprehending what is happening. “Calm down, baby. Logan’s here. ‘M not leaving.” He hushed you back to your senses.

After minutes of him comforting you in silence, his eyes dart to your bleeding lips which you bite to stifle your sobs. With much surprise, Logan parts them and caresses them. Looking at them then back at your eyes, then at your lips again. Your foreheads are now touching and you find yourself nose-to-nose to him.

In your chest, your heart beats so loudly that you fear he may actually hear it. Then with that look that he gives you again, every logical thought and pride you were trying to build, collapses inside you, making you putty in his arms. As you always do.

But tonight, something more is happening, “Logan.” You managed to call out his name in a whisper, begging for something. He feels the same way too, “I know, baby. I know.”

Logan scans your face, searching for any signs of discomfort as he starts to kiss each one of your cheeks. He tells himself repeatedly in his mind, “No, not her. Anyone but her, you dipshit. You’ll lose her if you do this.” A belief that he has been telling himself every day.

What you don’t know about Logan, after all this time, is how he is afraid that if he touches you, if he shows you his feelings, you will be gone from this world. If he cares about you, he will lose you. He is in fear that the cruel world will take you away. As it always does to people he cared.

Bad shit happens to people I care about. And he managed to hold onto this thinking and compose himself every time.

Until now.

Your whimpers and pleads get to him–he cannot hold back anymore, he doesn’t want to hold back anymore. He peppers your face with kisses, everywhere but where you need him the most, your lips. “L-Logan…” you feel your face getting hotter every moment. “Ah, p-please–”, you greedily grind your lower body onto his thighs.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” He groans while breathing all over your face, “You have no idea what I would do to you, the shit I’d do for you.” One of his hands gets under your nightgown and he succeeds in squeezing your tit. “Ah!” you squeak in surprise and quickly get embarrassed when he chuckles at the noises you make.

When your gaze meets him, the force can no longer be stopped. What you both try to bury deep down, what you two were locking away in a box, is bolting itself abruptly. The thumps of his heart match yours. There is no going back now.

While breaking a promise, he makes a new promise to himself: that he’d protect you before all the bad shit happens. He will not let any of it get to you.

After a brief staring contest and lingering doubts, he loses himself, mutters ‘Fuck this shit’ under his breath, and locks his lips on yours, melting you completely into his embrace. You gasp into his mouth and tighten your hug around him. His tongue finds yours sensually as he cradles your head to deepen the kiss. It was the first time he kissed you.

“It’s just you and me, kid.” He blurted out against your mouth and you could not conceal your smile. Whatever you both were trying to suppress, it’s now roaming free in liberation.

His mouth grins at your reaction and before he can stop himself, he confesses, “‘M sorry for how I acted these days. This old man was so fuckin’ afraid of how things would turn out.”

You were about to say it’s okay but he continues, “But he will try his best from now on. What d’ya think? Hm?” Logan looks over at you hesitantly, afraid of what you’d reply. His ‘confession’ does sound way better in his head, when he practiced beforehand. You didn’t know that, of course.

A giggle went out of your lips, “I think I’d like that.” you say breathlessly before kissing him again.

Our brain is meant to be effective. It is not designed to be right at all times. Well, sometimes we are right, but we experience the wrongs more. What we thought we knew, we don’t. What we thought we didn't know–maybe we do. Especially about another person and their feelings. Similar to what you thought Logan Howlett feels.

Following that night, things had changed between the both of you. The ‘boundaries’ separating you two are torn into pieces, in a good way. Now you are reminded by the nature of your relationship through everything. When he comes back home to you every day, when he puts his arms around you while you are cooking dinner, when he kisses the crown of your head before sleeping, when he fixes your favorite kitchen chair, and many other whens.

Including now, when he kisses you so roughly and gently at the same time, fueled by the desire he kept while he was still stubborn back. Logan hiked up your dress until he could feel your breasts, pinching one nipple. “Missed you– missed you so much today.” He says while kissing down between your chest and your stomach, “Missed this,” somewhere in between. You are not so sure.

“Tell me, did you miss me too, Little Missy?” Logan, who is kneeling before, tilts his head upwards so he can see your face. You cover your blushing face, shying away from him and his question like you are used to, “You know the answer.”

He picks you up from the kitchen with one hand and puts you down on your shared bed, “Oh, you don’t wanna say it?” You shake your head in an attempt to tease him. Lying down on your back and with parted legs, you can feel his rough beard while he kisses your inner thigh. “Aight' then, we may just see it.”

By seeing it, he means ripping your white underwear, the one you adored the most and has a pink ribbon, “Shh. I’ll buy you another one.” Logan quickly says before he can hear your protesting remarks.

“Really liked that one... ah!” The tip of his tongue probes your entrance without much warning, lapping up and down your cunt. “See, baby? You missed me so much. She’s dripping here.”

You feel embarrassed with how he is looking at you down there as if he is inspecting you. Unconsciously, you try to close your legs slightly. Logan does not like this as delivers a soft spank to one of your butt cheeks. “So shy all the time when it’s just your old man.”

Now, his rough hands are gripping each one of your thighs and keeping you in place. His tongue lapped at your pussy—from your hole to your clit, circling and sucking until you can feel his beard slicked up by your juices. Whimpering, your hands desperately pull at his hair, pulling him closer and closer as if he isn’t already eating you up.

He chuckles darkly when you whine pathetically at the movement of his one thick finger entering your wet hole. “Such a pretty pussy, baby.” He huffed and looked up at you with pure animalistic need as his fingers worked your walls, hitting that gummy spot that had you crying.

“Please! P-please—Logan. Want you inside,” This plead makes Logan stop his actions and glance up at you, questioningly. You weren’t sure about a lot of things, but you are sure about this. “‘M ready, pleaseplease…”

Logan has been denying you his cock for who knows how long. All this time, he gets you off by his mouth, thighs, fingers, anything except his cock. He always has an excuse, “You’re not ready for me, baby.” Or “This ain’t about me, kid.” Or “My old bones are too tired today. Next time, yeah?” Each one of them frustrates you.

Your virginity is making him hold himself back. You know this, he knows this. Deep down, he still thinks he is a filthy man who does not fully deserve you and that he is ruining you. He thinks by not penetrating you by his cock, he gains some sense of decency but he really is just unsure. Not about you, no, never. About himself.

But when you look at him with those big eyes while sprawling yourself bare to him, how could he deny you? “Are you sure? Fuck. Can’t hold myself back anymore.” Logan takes off his crumpled white shirt, undoes his belt, and tosses them away, making a clinking sound that echoes through the room. His eyes grew dark with raw desire as he brought down his pants and fists his large cock in his hand. All while looking at you.

“Yes! Please, please, give it to me. ‘Can take it!” You snapped with excitement and lean up, pressed a kiss to a part of his greying beard—the older man grins at your eagerness. “You’re going to be the death of me, pretty girl.” Logan lifts both of your legs and puts his mouth on your mound once more, making sure that you’re ready and you haven’t changed your mind.

Between his hunger licks on your pussy and the probes of his thick fingers, he mutters, “I fuckin’ love you.” And that statement itself makes you cry out his name and come all over his fingers and tongue, “L-Logan!”

“Atta girl.” You arch your back in a euphoric state of your orgasm. He could smell you. Every part of you. “So beautiful. Can’t believe you’re all mine.”

He helps you remove every fabric you had on, your pretty white sundress, your bra, your socks—everything that is separating you and him. Now you and he are completely bare, “All this for your old man, huh?” He mumbles the rhetorical question into the chilly air, his hands ghosting over your perked nipples and pinching them softly, then kisses each one of them. He goes down on you again and kisses your clit one more time.

The sight of him makes your breath caught in your throat. You swallow your spit at the look of greying bread glistening with your cum, at the sight of his thick cock springing against his stomach. “Is my baby ready for me?” You nod your head eagerly at him, assuring him that this is what you want.

With one hand on his cock, he lowers himself between your bodies, “Use your big girl words, darlin’” He nudges at your already wet entrance, waiting for your response, taking his time with you.

“‘M ready..! I want this, want you.” You pamper kisses all over his face the same way when he comforts you during your nightmare. His forehead meets yours and he kisses your lips gently as a form of understanding your needs. “Hold on t’me, my sweet girl.”

Then his tip slips inside and you gasp into his mouth, “Good girl. My good girl. You can take it.” You tighten your grip around him as he pushes himself deep inside you, “D-Doing so good, baby. Just a little more,” down to the hilt—his cock bottoms out, “There ya’ go, princess.” Logan coos at your trembling state.

He swallows your moans with a hungry kiss, his tongue exploring the insides of your mouth. “Feel so fuckin’ good. I fuckin’ love you.” There he says it again while he pulls himself all the way out to just the tip, then all the way back in—making you throw your head upwards.

Logan growls and kisses your bare neck, leaving some marks on it but you don’t care, in fact, you want him to. “I love you too, Logan.” You utter those words to him as he rams into you, his thrusts going faster and faster as he loses himself watching you. The friction of his cock against the velvet walls of your cunt is addictive, the pleasure makes the older man grunts.

He thrusts harder, his hips slamming into home, the sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room, alongside your little ah ah ah's .

"Cum for me, baby. Come for your old man." With one final, powerful thrust, he releases inside your tight heat, his warm seed filling you as he curses and lets his head fall onto your embrace.

"Ah!" You shudder as you clench tight around him and milk his cock. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your body giving out of control as you experience another release of the night.

Logan lifts his head to scan over the scene before him. He had never seen anything like it and he had seen a lot of shit. Your figure is all fucked out and filled. He didn’t think anything could be more beautiful than what he has right now. And he says it again before bringing his lips into yours, “It’s just you and me.”

You tiredly return his kiss and look at him with a soft smile, “It’s just you and me.”

His meaningless and plain life becomes something again because of you. You are the anchor of his life and his reason not only to stay but to fight and protect.

Logan knows there are things that can be stopped, but then there is love.

He is in so deep too. This time, the both of you willingly let it linger. It’s just you and him.

439 notes · View notes

haztory · 2 months

Text

a matter of principles

— diluc ragnvindr x f!reader; arranged marriages, best friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, miscommunication trope, unrequited/requited love, lots of angst, fluff ending, she/her pronouns

— word count: 24k

— photo source: freminent hearth’s screenshot from hoyolab

— summary: Arranged marriages, Diluc finds, are the most atrocious of practices that Liyue has ever had the audacity to uphold in their commitment to contracts. Very much a Monstadt originated belief, but a sure one, he thinks. He heaves a breath, one that shudders at the slow cracking of his ribs and heart. “Surely, you don’t want me to make the decision for you?” “No… but advice would be welcome.” You say. “Fine.” He settles into his seat, noting with little amusement that he suddenly can’t get comfortable anymore, “Tell me.”

Prologue:

The number of friends Diluc has is often a point of teasing by many a drunkard who enter into Angel's Share. And while the banter would usually earn a simple glare and a cutting off of the drink, its lack of an answer has caused quite the festering of gossip in the tavern. Everynight it seems, whether the man is there or not, Diluc's social life becomes a topic of conversation.

Pestered and prodded upon with surgical precision, both in day and night. Names are thrown out, each person wondering if said individual would be considered a friend to Diluc, or even an acquaintance. And while Diluc would never outwardly venture forth to call a Knight of Favonius a friend, his lack of denial does little more than stir the flames higher.

Jean must be a friend, right? A reliable confidant, at least.

One did see Diluc conversing rather animatedly with Barbara at the Springvale Seasonal Gathering.

What about Kaeya? someone asks only to meet the unanimous and vehement shake of heads.

It isn't until Venti pries just enough that the answer is revealed.

"One," Diluc says with a sigh, wiping a glass down with a white rag and beyond tired of being the subject of this routine conversation. "I have one friend."

The whole tavern is suspended in silence, each member looking at one another with unsatisfied curiosity, silently nudging the other forward. All begging for the one question to be asked.

Until Venti takes the bait, "Who?!"

—

Diluc knows of you, in parts.

Remembers the separate fragments that make up the great whole of you— each moment stained in the wonderful tint of happiness, fitting together like a masterful mosaic that he pedestalizes in his head. Yellows, and pinks, and warmth spreading across his mind, all from you.

He remembers you in childhood, in the middle years, in the now; He reminisces on the happy parts of you and him, wistfully smiles at the sad ones, finds himself lost in thought at the great constellation of scattered fragments.

A child in the customary Mondstadtian colors of white and black, and another in the Liyue garments of dark reds and oranges, fretting across the span of closed eyelids and reliving the joyous memories.

He would never outwardly admit that you take up the great measure of his thoughts, but when he finds his gaze fixated on the flames of the dancing fire in his study, business ledgers strewn on his desk and exhaustion nigh, the colors ring eerily familiar and he swears, swears, that in the crackle of the wood that Adelinde has started, he hears a laugh oddly similar to yours ringing throughout the room; Sees your figure dancing in the swirling and heightening flames. As quick as he sees it, does it disappear. Embers crackling and images fading in the instant and it is then that he does come to terms with the circumstances at hand.

A friend he still considers you to be. One of the greatest to him. He isn't sure if the sentiment is reciprocated much these days as fall turns to winter; Oranges turn to white, liveliness turns to barren and with it, the fate of your treasured friendship.

His one and only.

Interlude: Fall

The friendship began before Diluc’s impeccable memory began to serve him.

An introduction through family, as all friendships are at such a tender age. Your father, one of the biggest exporting merchants in Liyue struck a good enough agreement with Diluc’s own about wine exporting to warrant a warm and frequent visit between the two businessmen, the children tagging along as all children do.

It wasn’t an immediate kindling, but one in the making, as the more he saw of you the more he grew to you and you to him. Friends, eventually; Playing in between the vineyards of Dawn Winery or exploring the cabins of your father’s ships while your respective handmaidens shouted and begged for your return. While his brother, a shadow of blue, followed close on your tails.

To no avail; Wherever it was that you wished to run to, it was hard to get Diluc to change his mind and do anything but follow you— stubborn, he is and was to a fault.

Even as the working relationship between your fathers’ came to an end with the death of Diluc’s, there were always the brief moments facilitated by the strength of the surviving bond itself. Letters and gifts, planned visits, ears attuned and pressed to the ground for rumors holding each of your names that crossed nations. The most entertaining of which being a whisper he heard during his time as a Favonius Knight as he patrolled the pathways right before Wuwang Hill, two elder women in their travels whispering of the esteemed Liyue merchant’s daughter finally receiving a vision!

Diluc, in that tender age in which he had hardly learned that the best way to learn details was to listen without looking, all but stared at these women— awaiting their tales. He soon discovered, just before being reprimanded by the two traveling passerbys, that you were suddenly granted the gift from the gods in the form of the Vision of Hydro.

A neatly written letter from you arrived in no less that one week after his hurried and hastily written one to you that would reveal that falsity behind the rumor. That you weren’t by any means gifted with such a vision, nor would you be granted one soon. It wasn’t in your nature, you wrote.

‘And how terribly offensive of you to think that the grannies of Liyue would soon learn of my gifts before you! For that transgression alone I will heartily withhold the details of my recent mythical learnings from my visit to Mount Hulao. That will certainly teach you.’

(The shame he felt was unlike anything he’s ever felt before, shame in being so invasive, but a subsequent visit from you a few months later would quickly quell such feelings. The sight of your smile and the sweet fragrance of you being more than enough to tame that which runs rampant within the flames of Diluc.)

There has never been a moment in which you weren’t at the forefront of his consideration; Of his time.

A friend, Diluc considers you to be— one of his most trusted.

You’ve arrived at his home today, the second week of the Fall season and the height of the vineyard sales, in what seems to be the finest carriage in all of Liyue— no spared expense for the only daughter of a wealthy Liyue merchant.

Diluc meets you at the end of the path trailing to his manor, a small smile on his face as he opens the door to your cabin and holds a hand out for you to step down with. Tendril of his red hair swaying with the breeze that has suddenly been brought forth on this day, no doubt by your arrival.

Elzer and Hartman are already at the back of the carriage, unloading your bags with smiles on their faces.

You take his hand, white silk gloves in his black leather ones, grip tight as his own and he feels the reflection of his own longing and deep yearning become electrified in the meeting of your palms. A feeling he swears must also plague you, one he only feels more compelled upon when you step down with the warmest of grips of your hand in his and the warmest of glints in your eyes.

An enchanting one, a sight Diluc can hardly tear his own practiced measured gaze from.

“Diluc,” You breathe out, grin erupting into a toothy one, voice airy and light and horribly, horribly, wonderful to hear after so long. The both of you are older now, clearly, in the way that he is no longer part of the Knights of Favonius, but the owner of Dawn Winery and you are no longer just learning the ropes to your father’s business but the actualized Ambassador to his overseas ventures. Seasoned and traveled, twenty-eight and twenty-five, adults still smiling at one another like children.

He says your name just as breathily as you have uttered his, followed with a gentle bow of his head.

“I hope you didn’t mind the late notice of arrival. This is all incredibly sudden and I’m terribly sorry for that. ” Your smile is overly apologetic, and Diluc scoffs. Come rain or shine, planned or otherwise, Diluc could never mind an appearance from you and you should know as much. Would be horribly blind if you didn’t. Diluc had less than a day of preparation for your arrival and yet Dawn Winery was ushered upright and ready for you by the pull of one thread by its master.

“Of course not,” He says. Mind, he never does, yet with his measured and calm tone, he cannot deny the fact that the abruptness of your visit and short notice itches within him. Something that, try as he might, he cannot scratch.

That nagging detail is quickly quieted by the latent realization that your hand has yet to let go of his, and, he begins to note, the danger of the creeping truth in the fact that he doesn’t mind it at all. In fact, he relishes it.

“Dawn Winery is always delighted to welcome you home, Ambassador.”

You smile brighter at both the sentiment and the title, if such a task was even possible. Warmth of the grin rivaling the rivulets of the sun, more blinding than the dazzling glow of cor lapis. The exact stone that sits on the corner of his desk after all these years and often finds itself the object of his fixation many an afternoon.

“I am glad to be home.” You respond in kind, a gem of amber brilliantly shining through the words and it takes every ounce of Diluc to return his attention away from your smile to the task at hand of guiding you into the home. His home.

Your home.

But he does, with the lightest of curls on his lips that he doesn’t even realize has made permanent residence upon his face now.

—

It is always a reunion when you manage to grace Dawn Winery with your appearance.

Adelinde shines with a smile that seems endless as she steps towards you in a warm embrace, a dramatic turn around from her very pointed sighs that are usually targeted towards the master of the house. Elzer is much the same, the older man alight with a jovial sparkle as he greets you, taking your bags in his hands without a second thought, and eagerly engages in conversations of matters other than business with you— a renowned feat that even the most skilled of conversationalists find hard to accomplish with the graying businessman.

Diluc, the master of the house and employer to his affable attendants, is all but pushed to the side the minute you’ve stepped foot into the threshold of the door, the congenial and loving welcoming imparted upon you in great Mondstadtian manner.

“Welcome back, dearest!” Adelinde exclaims, propriety thrown out in favor of obvious affection as she throws her arms around your shoulders and squeezes. “It is so wonderful to have you back. It’s been too long!”

“I have missed you greatly, Adelinde.” You say in kind, the same excitement and candor laced in the breathless laugh you exhale as the older woman smothers you in her embrace, swaying from side to side.

The head mistress all but shakes you vigorously when she pulls away from you, holding your shoulders in her hands as she addresses you. Mother henning instilled in the widening of her eyes.

“Have you eaten? Surely you must be hungry after such a journey to us. Come! I’ll prepare something for you. A Northern Apple Stew, perhaps? Or Sweet Madame! You were quite fond of that one last time!”

“Adelinde, please.” Elzer cuts in before either you or the neglected Diluc are able to intervene, a quiet scolding in his tone, “Let our guest breathe the air of nostalgia for just a moment rather than drown in the overwhelming one you are no doubt suffocating her in.”

He turns to you, bags in hand and a crooked elbow held out for you to grab. Gently smiling, “Come, my dear. We shall unpack and get you settled before Adelinde stuffs you to the brim with food and endless questions.”

Scoffing, Adelinde all but throws her hands down, slapping her palms against her apron-cladded thighs. “Oh, Elzer, how can you send a guest to their room on an empty stomach? After such a long journey, too! Liyue is a whole nation away and yet you would rather enslave her to the schemes of chores than a proper meal. Have you no shame?”

“I ask only for a moment, my dear Adelinde. If you can not even spare to be parted for one, then I must beg you to reconsider who should be shamed.”

And so begins the low clamor of a bickered argument, the two keepers of the manor diverting their devotions towards each other as they nip and poke at the other on the best way to treat you, their beloved guest. A frequent occurrence— exhausting, nonetheless. A look is shared between you and Diluc, one of annoyance from him and only pure amusement from you, that of which, turns Diluc’s own sour look into one of less acidity.

“Actually,” Diluc clears his throat, silencing the boiling argument. Your own delighted gaze darts to him in captured attention alongside the two head attendants of the house. Diluc folds his arms behind his back and gazes at his onlookers with little more than happy indignation— a feat only manageable by the likes of him. “Dinner preparations for our esteemed guest will be handled by me. I will also be seeing to the arrangements of the Ambassador's room, for old times sake. You both are dismissed for the evening.”

If life were a comedy, you were sure that this moment would be met with a thunderous roar of laughter. Elzer and Adelinde stare owlishly at Diluc, mouths open in stunned stupor as they stand almost a hair’s width apart, their fueled arguments replaced with something else entirely. Something more… bewildered.

“You… sir?” Elzer asks after a beat— a long, awaiting beat.

“Cook?” Adelinde follows, her voice raising in octaves as she takes in the master of the house, the boy she has raised.

Diluc rolls his eyes, “I manage a tavern, Adelinde. I can cook.”

“But can you cook… well?” Elzer questions after sparing a side glance to the graying woman.

“In all my years,” Adelinde mutters, more to herself than anyone, “I have never seen you cook, much less know where the kitchen even is—”

“Yes, that’s quite enough, thank you.” Diluc interrupts, eyes of garnet turned to slits, “You both have been of great help to us this afternoon, but I think it best we let our guest settle.”

“Well, if you’re interested in expelling yourself to such lengths for this arrival, maybe you would be interested in seeing to the manor’s gutters?” Elzer says with a knowing look and a teasing tone as Adelinde hides her laugh with a cough. “Now that you’re doing things you’ve never done before—”

Diluc’s eye twitches.

“You both are dismissed.” He hisses, but neither attendant takes much offense to it. Instead, they only let the playfulness of their smiles broaden on their faces. Their heads downward in acknowledgement to both you and the master of the house before exiting as prompted.

It isn’t until the sound of the door closing behind you two in the great entrance hall of the manor that the vibrant echoes of your laugh finally resound around the room. Diluc is quick on his heels to turn to you and point a finger in your face, a sternness to his voice and a furrow to his brow. Quick to halt the teasing before it begins.

“I will be pressed to remind you—”

And yet—

“Dinner?” You howl, and the sigh that escapes Diluc is enormous. Not that you could hear it, what with the volume of your fervent giggles masking it. He tuts, crossing his arms over his chest and watching with well-tempered amusement as you practically fold in half at the waist in laughter.

“Don’t flatter yourself. This is hardly out of the ordinary.”

“That is not what Adelinde says.”

“Adelinde does not know of my late night eating habits.”

“I would wager a guess to say that she knows more about you than either of us do.” As your laughter begins to peter out, you lift a finger to your eye to wipe a stray tear. “What is the occasion, my dearest Diluc?”

“Your arrival.”

You scoff, “I’ve arrived many times before and you’ve never demanded to cook for me.”

“I hardly demanded—”

“Insisted, then.”

“Then, there is no occasion. Only my wish to do so.” He says neutrally, hardly a rise or fall to his tone of voice as he says the words, but maybe that’s the tell all on its own. He doesn’t need the rhyme or reason in order to do as he’s never done before— no special date, no pertinent news needing to be shared.

Only ever really needs—

Your smile widens tenfold and you shake your head at the man before you. You're removing your gloves, finger by finger, then throwing them haphazardly onto the great dining room table that has been host to many of your great laughing fits. Hands of great elegance are revealed and soon placed onto your hips as you stand in the middle of his open foyer.

He should take offense to the gesture— should at least reprimand you for the lackadaisical way in which you make yourself at home. Prim and proper Diluc should not at all condone any kind of reckless behavior, especially in his own manor, but he hardly minds. Only huffs a breath through his nose at the sight of the gloves that now sit on the mahogany. The soft white of the fabric a stark, yet pleasant, contrast to the dark wood.

You stare at him, a slight shake to your head and the knowing smile on your face. “Well then, I shall insist that you allow me to be your sous-chef and assist you. Archons above know you Mondstadtians could benefit from some more spices in your life.”

You turn on your heel, leaving the great hall lined with the portraits of his family, of the great arts and literatures of Mondstadt, and enter into the kitchen held off to the right side of the manor.

The great entryway is one that he’s seen many times before, yet derives little comfort from. It’s a farce, of sorts. A living mausoleum of all that was and all that could have been, left to him to haunt the halls with. He’s confided this to you before, many years ago when it was too late to be called night yet too early for morning. Detailed it to you over the slow heat of a dying fire and the steady pace of a chess game, with your rook creeping eerily onto his knight, he confessed how much he hates the darkness of his home. How trapped he feels in it at times, how despite the many candles he lights, and the windows that Adelinde cracks open, it always feels cold.

Funny that, he had said, a pyro-user lying frigid in his own home.

Does it ever not feel cold? You had asked curiously, softly, genuinely vying for the answer. Orange hue of the fire lighting the side of your face as you studied him.

When you enter the dark manor with dark hardwood walls, and dark curtains this time, just as the many times before, you glow. Bring indescribable life to the empty home that only awakens upon notice of your incoming arrival— stays awake as you float from room to room, knowing the home as it is your own, and lay pieces of you across random surfaces.

Shining, effervescent cor lapis in the great abyss of this manor.

Sometimes, Diluc remembers responding quietly. Engrained even further, he remembers the gleam of the smile you gave him as it's the same smile he receives now. The one thrown over your shoulder as you prance forward into the kitchen, another tease rolling off of your tongue.

“I offer my home and my services to you, and get repaid in insults?” He finally speaks after willing his tongue to renew itself from sludge to form words, a false scoff in his tone. His feet follow behind you, spurred on by the geniality of a core memory as you pad across the tiled floor and wash your hands within the basin.

“A helpful tip!” You rejoice, “Seeing as you’ve suddenly decided that today was the day for cooking—”

“I have a penchant for burning things, you know.” It’s a thinly veiled threat, one that falls flat as you both meet eyes.

You smirk, “All the more reason to let me assist.”

“You are a great nuisance, Ambassador.” He says, discarding his coat to the side and rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt, left then right, almost missing the fixating of your eyes on his newly revealed skin, and how quickly you avert your eyes; Face contorting into a quiet scold. As though you were punishing yourself for indulging, for losing propriety in just glancing.

He should enjoy it, find delight that you find the muscles that have been earned through years of claymore wielding strength and battles to be admirable— but something mirs your tone immediately after. Something secret, solemn. A slight twinge that no one but him would catch, would understand to know that something was amiss.

Quickly, you grab a handful of vegetables from a box placed on the rack against the wall and bring them to the basin to wash. Potatoes and carrots galore.

You forcibly smile, “Oh, you love it.”

The itch flares tenfold.

—

Barbatos Ratatouille takes approximately four hours to make. It’s a slow cook, the lengthiest portion of its preparation being the time needed for it to remain covered on the stove on low heat. However, the most arduous part of the meal is the design of it. Not necessarily due to difficulty, but in the way that the carrots must be thinly sliced and laid in proximity to the cubed potatoes and strips—decorated to perfection. It’s halfway between a stew and a casserole, but alive with flavor as it simmers on a low boil.

A herculean dish, an amateur culinarian’s nightmare; Diluc’s personal choice for your arrival.

Truthfully, he should’ve begun the meal before you arrived—should’ve had it ready for when you entered the manor. But, with the dish on the stove and three hours to kill, the suggestion of a walk around the winery as a means of relaxation and much needed catching up is hardly punishment for his error. Even though you have already been chatting throughout the duration of your meal preparation, discussing nearly everything and anything that comes to mind.

But, you both reason, there is much he must show you.

The sun sits just above the horizon as you exit the manor, the great sky of orange and pinks lulling you both into a gradual and steady trot down the paths of the winery. Through the greens of growing grapes, he walks to the right of you, pointing to the items that have been updated since your last visit. Namely, the irrigation system to the vineyards. The slow and onerous move from a drip irrigation to one of a pumping unit handcrafted by Wagner located a few miles behind the manor. A hassle to craft, install, and maintain, he tells you with a tired smile, but a necessary venture for productivity.

It reminds you to recount the traditional manner of tempered inundation that you witnessed when you finally obtained traveling papers to Inazuma. Farmers cultivating their crops to the cycle of the rivers, relying solely on its seasonal rise and fall to serve as a means of irrigation.

“And what happens when the rivers eventually decide to break tradition and flood?” Diluc asks with dumb amusement as your conversation leads you down the path that turns to gravel, winding away from the vineyards and down towards the lake. He means it as a rhetorical question, knowing in both science and anecdotal evidence nature makes a great fool of prediction.

A large rock obstructs the pathway, and while it doesn’t take much effort to climb over it, he nevertheless holds his hand out in assistance. Nevermind the fact that this trail and this particular rock is one that you and he have taken many times before, one that you are fully aware that contains a rocky terrain as you walk nearer towards the body of water, and yet, ever the gentleman he is as he offers his assistance, you take his hand.

“Inazuma is the land of eternity.” You tell him succinctly, “They would be more pressed to believe that the world would end before the land and its dutiful Shogun would disrupt tradition and predictability.” You step over the large rock with great ease. Diluc makes sure of it.

“How archaic.” Diluc mutters once he knows your feet are on stable ground once more. You shake your head with a smile.

“That is only a matter of perspective. To Mondstadt, it is limited. To Inazuma, it is nature.”

Diluc only hums, his eyes narrow as carmine irises dart across your face. Any opinion of the idea, if you even had one, is imperceptible. Hidden carefully behind a neutral gaze and the generality of your statement. Trained, you are, to be as open and peaceful with any and all walks of life. Barbatos knows Diluc would hardly be able to bite his tongue with something he strictly disapproved of.

“Born and bred for the role of Ambassador. I would've offended a whole nation if I were in your shoes.”

“Nonsense,” You smile as you link your arm with his, hand holding onto his bicep as you both resume your trek to the waters, “I think you would make for a wonderful advocate for the people. You are tough and unmoving. The kind of person everyone would be lucky to have on their side.”

He says nothing more to that, content to let the conversation die and allow nature to become the fixation of your thoughts.

Compliments have never rendered well for the likes of Diluc. He knows too much about himself, of his nature, of his own beliefs, of all that he has done to ever be convinced by another that he is at all a good man. Especially on the basis of one’s words.

They never mean much anyway. Words are never strong enough to be binding; They are the buffer between hope and disappointment, and oftentimes find themselves leaning to one side more than the other. It is why he never makes promises he cannot keep, it is why he hardly believes in things that come from another’s mouth unless he himself has experienced it. The sting of old promises and their frosted bite are too ingrained within Diluc to compromise on.

Add that to one of many things Diluc knows to be true of himself.

He is too prideful, too stubborn, too controlling, too set in his ways to believe in anything other than what he knows to be true about himself and the world. He is the stark contrast to you, and, not for the first time, he wonders how a friendship of such strength could remain when he burns too bright and you—oh, you—

Where you are amenable and compromising, he is rigid and sure; Where you are appeasing and complimenting, he is static and blunt. He does not care for the pleasantries as you do when he doesn’t feel them warranted. He’s entirely sure, as sure as the sun that sets every day and as resolute as you are on the charm of cor lapis, that he would make for a horrible dignitary considering how opposite of you he is and how well you fit into the role.

But… the way that you say it. The way that the statement rolls of your tongue with hardly a second thought, the way that you seemed assured of his nature as though it were truth— the way that you seem to believe him an honorable man despite being worldly traveled and knowing many of many honorable people—

Gravel turns to sand and a quick glance your ways reveals the brightening of a smile as you both near the lake and all the tumultuous thoughts, the internal fight over the slightest of compliments and the need to extract the lies from the truth within them, silences as he looks to you.

Diluc burns, and he burns bright, and you extinguish the flames of him that itch and ache to hurt. This isn’t a new realization, but it is a staunch one as it hammers away at the walls of his mind and heart.

Everything about this is as it has always been, and yet, the habit of cynicism so ingrained in him makes it feel as though things are different. That behind these immortalized affections from he to you and you to him hides something of greater importance. As though something lies in wait behind the florals and flowerets of your arrival.

As his mind thrums with his well known truths and his heart sings with the surprise of your presence, he can’t help but wonder when the other shoe is to drop— he tries to never be doubtful of your words, but he trusts his intuition more.

And it tells him that whatever he is waiting for, is coming.

—

“To the water, Diluc!” You call to him, already throwing your shoes off of your feet and hiking the skirt of your dress up as you inch closer to the crystal blue waters.

He shakes his head, tendrils of red strands displacing themselves from his ponytail as the wind blows gently. While his face remains stern, contorted into the serious disposition many a Monstadtian recognizes, his hands are slowly removing layers of his clothing— the boots, first. Then his socks and cuffing the pants of his slacks. All the while, following behind your prancing figure.

“I find water to be rather disagreeable.” He calls out after you and you bark a laugh. One that echoes around the empty space of the open lake and high mountains. It dances on the wind, pirouetting its way back to him, sticking to him like honey— sweet, warm, sticky honey. Slowing his thoughts down in the sinewy constitution of it.

“What isn’t disagreeable to the great Duke of Mondstadt?” You tease as your toes brush against the edge of the chilled water. Though the blue certainly isn’t as warm as many of the lakes in Liyue tend to be, the change in climate isn’t an unwelcome one. Refreshing certainly, and as the chill jolts its way through your bare toes and travels up your spine, it’s an appreciated embrace when in the presence of such a ferocious source of heat like Diluc.

Diluc who sets things ablaze with his stoicism and piercing gaze, Diluc who uses such talents to stare at you from afar— the flames of something sparking in his irises— and the urge to drown yourself in the cool waters grows tenfold.

A determined reminder of things that you have shoved to the side for too long, truths that you were hoping to dismiss for just a moment.

Not an uncommon feeling to experience whenever you’re around him. Latently, you can hear the whispers of a wry voice belonging to a Favonius Captain comment on how he too wishes he could drown himself when in the presence of the tycoon, and you laugh quietly. Anything to distract yourself from the feeling of a heavy stare on you.

Your question, as redundant as it may have been to you, hangs in the air unanswered, but it doesn’t bother you much. Find your brain too swayed by the heat of his gaze and the chill of the water to think much of even trying to find an answer.

But he does. Silently, in the train of his thoughts that never end, the answer is abundantly clear.

You are entirely too agreeable to the Duke, he thinks, as you wade further into the water with a joyful yelp. The water halfway up your shins with your skirt bunched in your hands and your face furrowed as you will yourself to move further into the lake. You are entirely too agreeable, he thinks, as he finds himself approaching the edge of the same lake and following in after you—even though he knows it probably isn’t the wisest decision, safety reasons, all encompassing.

Should something emerge through the treeline, something he wasn’t particularly anticipating, and he were soaking wet— there would be a late reaction, late preparation in being able to protect the both of you. Or, if a Fatui officer were to find their way here to you both, with you being visionless and him impacted by the counteracting measures of water against his pyro, it would be a hassle to say the least. While he vigilantly patrols the acres of his land in strict routine, there is always the chance of those bastards infiltrating his lands. He would be remiss to put his guard down, especially when they’ve been establishing encampments only a couple hundred miles from his home, as of late.

Or, what if—

“Something touched me!” You squeal suddenly, running away from your place almost knee deep into the water and back onto the shore. It happens faster than he’s able to comprehend, but the sound of your yell is enough to have him propelling forward.

He’s rushing to you in fevered panic just as you rush into him. His left arm encircling around your waist and lifting, a flame already erupting in his right hand, aimed at whatever enemy has made an appearance. Your legs fold upward into his chest, your own arms tightening around his neck as your unintelligible squeals erupt from your mouth and into his ear.

“Where?!”

“I can’t—“

“Who goes there?!”

“Diluc—“

“Show yourself!”

“I think it was a fish!”

Chaos quiets in a second, Diluc’s burning fury splashes cool as his senses catch up to one another and the realization of your words corroborates his vision. He sees no enemies, clearly one couldn’t have slipped by in the few minutes since your entrance to the water. He does, however, see the speeding trail of a Medaka swimming away beneath the water.

The flame then extinguishes in his hand, “I loathe you.”

He feels your head rise from its burrow in his neck, “It scared me!”

“It’s a fish—“

“I didn’t know that! It could’ve been the tendrils of a slime!”

A bitter retort finds itself on the tip of his tongue, an item he is ready to unleash just as he turns his head to face you, only to feel it die at the sudden realization that—

—You are in his arms.

Held tightly to him, your body melding into his and your faces hardly more than an inch apart. Your eyes wide in residual panic, sparkling with the blend of humor. And then…he’s drowning.

Choking on the feeling of closeness, suffocating in the swarm of feelings in his lungs as he realizes that as abnormal as the occasion is to have you in his arms, it feels pointedly normal. He’s startled at how quickly he had thrown away the makings of a gentleman the moment your arms wound around his neck; Lost—completely, entirely, unabashedly—at how the weight of your gaze buoys him in the tides of a long lived affection.

An image of eternity finds him, then; A quick flash in the stagnation of thoughts, a future he had never allowed himself to fantasize of before— a cinder of hope to wake up tomorrow, two days, two years, two decades from now, and have this.

Knowing that it is something that he can never have, however, fills his lungs with a choking fluid.

“Enough of the water.” He mutters quickly, his cheeks tinting red in what you can only surmise is anger. “We should return for dinner.”

He’s lowering you back into the water then, making a short effort to remove your limbs from him and turn his back towards you, trekking towards the shore at a brisk pace.

It’s whiplash; A ferocious brand of rejection heats your body even as your feet are placed back into the cool lake. You stare at his retreating figure in dismay, but shock isn’t a feeling that registers. When he’s bitten by the bug of his own tumultuous thoughts, it doesn’t take long for Diluc to turn cold despite all of his heat. It’s a tell tale sign, one you can predict, but have never been able to fix. You can only pretend to understand what went through the mind of the Great Duke of Mondstadt.

Whatever it was that made him so cold, made the lick of heat that you’ve always associated with the man disappear in an instant, clearly is one he’s not ready to share. He has always been stubborn; An adult he may be, but a child he frequently can become. That, however, is always something you have been able to meet with equal measure. With a roll of your eyes, you follow after him.

“But Diluc!” You protest, rather immaturely, hand finding his and tugging him back to the water. “We just got here!”

He hardly budges. “I dislike the water and clearly, you dislike the fish that reside in it.”

“An overreaction on my part! I wasn’t mindful of my steps.”

“You haven’t brought any extra clothing. You’ll be walking home soaking and cold.”

“Then you can just snap your fingers and make me warm again!”

Diluc sighs heavily, “Ambassador—”

“So formal, Diluc. Let go, for a second. Come have fun with me!”

He yanks his hand away from yours, turning to face you in a ferocious manner. “Is that what you came all this way for? To have fun?”

All joy seems stripped from you in that moment as you halt in place, “Do you… not want me here?”

“Of course I do.” He says, and while the statement is true, his tone is stoic and cold—almost making you wonder about the validity of his claim.

He watches your brows furrow, watches as the skirts of your dress dampen as you no longer care to hold them upward but instead stare deeply at him. Watch as something clouds his mind that he cannot seem to shake off.

Shame, mostly, for his anger. “I just… am curious. You’re busy these days, my friend.” He says, eyes softening as he meets yours. You give him a gentle smile.

“As are you, dearest Diluc. I just wanted to see you.”

His heart should flutter and soar at this measly proclamation, but it doesn’t. Because in all the years that he has had the pleasure to know you, he can’t shake the feeling that something is off. That your arrival isn’t for any reason, that your touch is lingering, and that there is something you aren’t telling him.

He doesn’t confront you about it even though his mind races and wars and urges for him to. You will tell him in your own time, that much he trusts. If he confronts you now, when no initiative has been taken to show that anything is awry other than his own confidence in knowing you, then you will lie. Tell him that everything is alright, nothing is wrong.

Diluc doesn’t trust words, despises lies more— even if they do come from someone as agreeable as you. So, he says nothing. Only insists that you return home lest the food burn. And you do as he asks; Walking beside him in silence and climbing over obstructing rocks without his assistance. Feeling both of your skins burn despite no longer being close enough to touch the other.

—

“Well,” you say, peering over his shoulder and onto the food that he neatly plates onto two white porcelain dishes, “It looks edible.”

He huffs in laughter despite himself. A scolding tone far from his realm of view as he spares a sideways glance towards your face hovering above his shoulder.

“I can still arrange for it to be burnt.” He says, without any real threat.

“It was a compliment.” You meet his gaze in kind— soft over the warmth of his creation, diluted in the wake of previous tension.

“I recant all previous judgements of your character; You make a horrible foreign dignitary. I am terribly offended.” He says flatly.

“I hardly think my skills in flattery uphold our relationship.”

“You’re right. They destroy it.”

“The Great Duke, Mondstadt’s very own Darknight Hero, in need of reassurance?”

“Would you look at that?” Dilic begins boredly, his eyes half lidded as he looks at you, his index finger held upward in the air and a flame dancing atop it, “I suddenly have lost control of my motor functions.”

—

Dinner, even in the simmering of side glances and veiled suspense, is much like it has always been between you two. Easy and warm, seated beside one another despite the great length of the table; Him at the head of the hall table, and you to his left, finding one another and enjoying the closeness in company with a surprisingly well-made meal.

You tell him as much, with a shrug, a raise of your brow, and a disbelieving nod of your head. “It’s edible.”

He glares, you smile, and the ire of before dissipates into nonexistence. Neither of you able to remember what caused it.

The company at the table extends beyond dinner. Plates scraped clean of their respective meals, yet you remained seated. Weaving through the ebbs and flows of bountiful conversation and comfortable silences. Diluc listens with quiet interest as you recount the mining operations, the new additions to your family, friends and their gossip, books you’ve read and you, in turn, let him interject his dry responses that then turn into debates on trivial items. Most recently, the introduction of a new card game that you can’t understand the rules of no matter how many times it is explained, much to Diluc’s mild exhaustion.

It hardly lasts long, before you’re mentioning something and discussion is renewed. It is the most Diluc has spoken in months. A surprise to everyone but him. The night ticks on, a fire stoked and the familiar orange hue cast on your person and all is right once more.

It is in discussing ledgers and letters that it happens. The itch is finally revealed.

“Have you received any?” You ask, head tucked downward as you swirl your glass of wine, avoiding his eyes.

Diluc stares, and can only stare, startled upon the realization that he’s forgotten himself once again. Got lost in the intricate tethers of commonality and the sanctity of long-awaited reunions that he forgot that at the basis of he and you, lies a fundamental difference.

Between upbringing and duty, between values and expectations, between daydreams and reality. He knows exactly what you are asking, girl from the land of contracts.

“No.” He lies, easily. Diluc dons the farce of nonchalance that strains against the lines of his face at this very moment. He doesn’t need you to know of the large box that he tosses the offers in at the end of every day, the box that Adelinde insists he keep. The box piled with letter after letter that he hardly spares a second glance at. “Have you?”

He knows the answer. Maybe it’s hoping otherwise that has him asking anyway. Such is a stupid, stupid notion.

“Yes. A few.” You say, eyes still averted, neutrality in your words. No excitement or dismay, no begging or joy; Just fact. He nods, emptily. A motion without purpose.

“Have you accepted any?” He questions further, and it’s then that the mask slips. The air of coolness he so expertly concocts suddenly grows hot with invasive curiosity, with burning bitterness. His jaw pulses and his knuckles blanche beneath the table. Your eyes meet his, honest and open and he finally sees it.

The teachings of prim and properness fade and you crumble with the weight of emotion, too. Something, in your eyes. Slight and small, but noticeable to him— for he’s seen these eyes in every shade and situation. In childhood, in mourning, in light, in dark, in duty, and in dreams. Diluc knows your eyes better than his own; Sees them in every phase of the moon and every Spring.

He knows of longing well enough to be able to see it surface in the pools of your irises. He knows you, girl from the land of contracts. And the itch, that blasted thing, starts to be scratched.

“A decision is expected soon,” You say with a thick swallow, placing the napkin on the table yet never losing his heady gaze. The air shifts, the stale politeness gone and replaced with something more ignited.

You adjust in your seat and he watches. Shoulders stiffen, neck elongating, posture righting itself as if you’ve now realized the revelation that came to Diluc only a moment before, regarding the stiffness of the air; Regarding the mutuality in the suppression of all things inherent and true, burning and blazing alight.

“I wanted to speak with you before I gave an answer.”

He wants to yell, wants to throw the plates off the table, shout to the gods above about the cruel and cynical games they make him play, but instead he does as he has learned to do and stares. Looks at you, soft and comfortable, entirely at home in his manor. The manor he has made to be suitable for you.

Arranged marriages, Diluc finds, are the most atrocious of practices that Liyue has ever had the audacity to uphold in their commitment to contracts. Very much a Mondstadt originated belief— a city of freedom— but a sure one, he thinks.

He heaves a breath, one that shudders at the slow cracking of his ribs and heart. “Surely, you don’t want me to make the decision for you?”

“No… but advice would be welcome.”

“Fine.” He settles into his seat, noting with little amusement that he suddenly can’t get comfortable anymore, “Tell me.”

“There’s Liu Fuey’s son, an aspiring noctilucous jade merchant—”

He hums discontentedly and you pause in consideration of it. You look at him, and he places his index finger against his temple. “You couldn’t possibly think that an advantageous match, could you?”

You lift your cup to your lips speaking into the glass and shrugging lightly. “His son is quite nice. A bit too young, however.”

“Nice is one thing; Prosperous is another.”

You tease a gentle gasp, a coy smile curling onto your face as you ask, “Whatever do you mean?”

Diluc rolls his eyes. Sarcasm, unfortunately, a color you wear too well in times where it’s less than appropriate. You must know what he is going to say, wouldn’t be the inheriting child of one of the biggest exporting businesses in Liyue to not know— your father would all but roll over in his eventual grave before he ever let you exist without the capabilities to be exactly as you are now. And still, the fact that you're even contemplating a match of this nature turns him acetic.

The fact that this is happening at all turns him more bitter than the drinks he makes nightly.

“I hardly meddle with Liyue affairs and yet even I know one cannot derive a great fortune from the noctilucous jade market. Too much supply, little demand.” Diluc says after a gentle pause.

“Controversial opinion.” You smile at him and he must turn his gaze away before the cracks of an ill-tempered scowl breaks out onto his face.

“Yet, you agree with me.” He mutters.

Your smile—it’s too ill-fitting for something like this. He can hardly stomach it, much less fathom how you can even muster the curl of your lips when taking the businesslike approach to this. To think of your potential spouse as a transaction than what it actually is: the tying of life and body. It’s archaic; It’s depriving; It is the death to the bloom of life; It is not befitting for his beloved of Liyue that shines brighter than the most carefully extracted gems and blossoms with the incoming warmth of the replenishing seasons.

This is not you—but it’s not as though he could really say more than that.

He meets your amused gaze with little more than a stoic one, “Continue.”

You detail, with fine-lined trepidation and mirth, a number of other suitors that have been presented before you. Isamu from the Yashiro Commission, a match considered for the strengthening of national ties and Diluc grits his teeth because that’s hardly a bad option. Shabandar, the Navbed of Sumeru for merchant dealings and exports and while it certainly isn’t a creative choice, it’s a solid one.

“And—” You pause and Diluc raises his gaze. Hesitation flashes for the briefest second before you gather yourself, etiquette kicking in to disguise the weakness with mere coincidence. But he sees it, he sees all of it.

And he waits with a sip of his drink.

“The second son of Tsaverich, who will soon be taking over the overseas branch of his father’s merchant operations.” His glass of grape juice stays perched against his lips, halted at the words and weighted.

“Mikhail?” He repeats seriously, once the words have settled— albeit thickly— and you nod. “Mikhail, the one that engages surreptitiously with Fatui officers and embezzles from lowly merchants when he can. Namely, merchants here in Springvale; That, Mikhail?”

There’s a sharp edge to his tone that digs and pierces you at every syllable. Try as you might to not physically cringe at what he’s said, you can hardly suppress the waver in your voice as you speak.

“They’ve offered a grand sum for a marital union—”

“He’s a criminal.” Diluc spits and you sigh. Fingers place themselves onto the center of your forehead and press, attempting to soothe the beginning pulses of a tension headache.

While you hadn’t expected this conversation to be one of ease, you certainly hadn’t anticipated the extent of which this pit of turmoil would lie in your stomach. This surge of angst that causes your shoulders to tense and your heart to thrum with exertion. You’ve had far more heated negotiations with merchants and political officials that did less damage to your psyche than this.

You should’ve known better.

A conversation of this nature with Diluc would not only be painful, but would serve to have you aching and longing for a different fate altogether. One where he looked at you with less contempt, one where the conversation around marriage was less centered around other men and more around him, one where your hands were intertwined with his rather than clenched and white-knuckled.

You discard such a fantasy with the release of a heavy sigh, and begin once more. “The only reason you know that is because you interfere with Fatui business in an equally surreptitious manner. To everyone else, he’s just a wealthy young man. To my father, he’s a handsome prospect.”

Diluc scoffs, flaming and burning, aimed directly towards your heart. “And you would agree to a marriage and condone such immoral behavior? That is not you.”

“It’s not like I can make such a claim without evidence, Diluc. Tsaverich is funded by a number of businesses across Teyvat. They all have an interest in him and your preventative measures for some of his endeavors have caused quite the stir.” You explain, leaning forward in your seat if only to put yourself further into his blazing eyesight. If only to make him see.

“I’ve had a hard enough time convincing merchants to not pursue the Darknight Hero on their own volition, it would be even harder to convince them of Mikhail’s bad behavior with Fatui. Especially when he is the one fueling the hatred for your alter ego.”

Your words meet the side of his angular face as he finds his body slumping into the wooden dining chair. This is nothing he doesn’t already know, nothing you haven’t already transcribed in your monthly letters to him as he dons his nighttime persona and you wield the mantle as his political protector in the daytime. Nothing you haven’t discussed moments prior to this.

“Would you rather I expose your nightly endeavors in the presentation of proof and have the consequence be multiple nations come down against you and Dawn Winery for interference in business?”

His averted gaze meets yours once more, quickly. But he’s even quicker in his reply, “If it means you don’t marry him, yes.”

It is your turn to roll your eyes, as you throw yourself back into your chair, “Oh, please.”

“What I am hearing is that you would be okay with marrying a murderous, thieving, criminal—”

“I am not. I just don’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice—“

“The Tsaverichs have been the most enticing opportunity that’s been presented thus far and my father’s never been much for politics anyway. And… hypothetically, if I were to marry Mikhail…” Your voice trails off, as though the mere mention of marrying the man were enough to have bile pushing up your throat, “Hypothetically, I would have more political leverage and be able to wield it in favor of the Darknight Hero and—”

“Do not use me as your excuse. I would never ask this of you.” Diluc adds, missing only the liquid of venom for his statement to be rendered poisonous. It stings nonetheless.

You shrug, defeated, “Your consternation is just a matter of principles, but you mustn't forget that this is just what it must be. I am just trying to consider all the positives here.”

“No. You’re wrong.”

“A contract is a contract—”

“One you haven’t willingly entered into yet.”

“Only because I was able to barter for some time of contemplation with my father. My time is running out.”

Diluc breathes out a wry breath of amusement through his nose, “Hence why you are here.”

His tone is bitter and disapproving, but you can only nod in agreement for it is the truth. “Hence why I am here.” You repeat, and Diluc turns his head to the side with a heavy sigh.

“How long?” He asks, eyes finding the window, watching as the wind sways the orange trees and leaves descend to the fading green grass. Silence encompasses the room and drowns in the undercurrent of his ire and bitterness. Thick and unrelenting.

“Until Spring.” You supply lowly, and he scoffs. His head shakes, fingers finding his chin.

The food that once brought great warmth to you now churns unpleasantly within your stomach. Maybe it would’ve been better to have made a decision in private with your father and inform Diluc through an invitation to the ceremony— it certainly would’ve saved you the exhaustion of the debate you now found yourself glued to. But such a thing is a matter that you would never find it within yourself to do.

There is too much respect for Diluc, too much admiration, too much love to do something so cruel to him. Maybe, it is even crueler to make him privy and liable to the decision you make here, too.

You had prepared early on for the day requiring this commitment— knew in the depths of young childhood and the blossoming of your role as Ambassador and heir to your father’s business that this fate was inevitable. It was easy to separate yourself from it when understanding it to be a part of your duty. There were no tears, no despair, no tantrums thrown when your father presented the candidates he deemed most viable to a marriage. You had anticipated such a resignation of yourself throughout the duration of your choosing and eventual betrothed.

Here, sitting before Diluc in the home you know too well, in the space of memories that belong to him and you, and drowning in the heat of his anger, does such a resignation wilt and the weight of your repressed feelings come forward.

“Tsaverich does not fit with your name.” Diluc mutters after a moment.

There is one man you would choose without a moment’s hesitation, but he is not a candidate. Has not made himself to be one, no matter how often you wish he would. Unsure if he has ever thought about you as more than a beloved friend.

That is something you could live with—being his beloved friend for years and years, if only to have him close to you—but, you fear, as this conversation grows more sour and the figurative space between you seems to increase in size, that the berth has become too wide and a bridge of reconciliation is too weak to span such a distance. There are few things you dislike more than Diluc being upset with you.

But you try for remedy, nonetheless.

“I… knew,” You begin quietly after a moment, and Diluc finds his eyes drawn to you without much more of a reasonable request other than the sound of your voice, “I wouldn’t be able to get your blessing. But I figured I could at least get your advice. Or comfort… in your presence.”

He takes a moment’s pause, voice only finding grounding once he’s able to temper the severity of his feelings to little more than a dull ache in his chest. He’s monotonous when he says it.

“Is that what you want? My blessing?”

“I want to make a decision. And I want you to be happy with it.”

He scoffs once more, vicious and mean, and unafraid to be so because it’s you. You, who knows him in and out, through years of flaming moods and dark lows, who knows what he thinks and says before he even gets the chance to. He, who sits astounded because how could he ever say, in the gentlest ways possible, that his happiness on your betrothal to anyone other than him is something that would never be granted? And more importantly, how could you not know that?

“My happiness?” He responds, no longer trying to hide any disdain, “And pray tell, of what use could my happiness serve in making that kind of a decision?”

You tilt your head in soft dismay, “Diluc—”

“Would you like me to choose for you the best man I see fit, is that it? Lay the offers out on the table and have me select which seems to reap the most monetary benefits for you?”

You shake your head, “No, that isn’t what I—”

His tongue grows more ire, the toxin that resided in the depths of his soul is now unlocked, and seeping through him. Gasoline to the flame, and he burns, burns, burns. “Oh, I see. You’d like to make me equal, if not worse, to the role your father currently plays in this hell of a mess. You’d like me to select in accordance with familial values. What would make father happy, is that right?”

“You forget yourself.” You spit at him, equal in the anger that he has pushed you to. “Not all of us were born in the land of freedom. Some of us have duties that must be seen through.”

Diluc leans forward, elbow braced on the table as he pushes his finger into the hardwood for emphasis, “This isn’t duty, this is atrocity.”

(Diluc has only ever known duty to himself and the Dawn Winery. Diluc only expects that your own duty would be so aligned— duty to yourself and the business you hold dear. A voice speaks from the recesses of his mind, the parts not addled by fire and brimstone, reminding him that he has always had a duty to you, too.)

“Arranged marriages are common!” You speak with a broken laugh, in disbelief as the red-haired man stands from the table with a violent push of his chair back.

“A violation against the wants of the person, in favor of what?” Diluc paces around the table, feet taking him towards the walls decorated with paintings yet hardly sparing a glance. He turns back to you, hands placed on his hips and brows furrowed in desperate anger, “Connections? Land? Wealth?”

He looks to you in charged silence, awaiting an answer. You shake your head at him.

“It isn’t a simple answer, Diluc. You know that. It’s culture, and duty, and—and the need for security. I want to—”

“This isn’t what you want.”

“And how do you know what I want?” You narrow your eyes and such a thing would be insulting we’re Diluc already not a few stops short of a blown fuse. “You’ve spent most of this conversation speaking over me to know what I want.”

“Because I know you.” He insists harshly. “This is your father’s doing.”

He takes a step forward, “And if it's money he wants then tell him I have more than enough that I know not what to do with. If it’s land, tell him I own acres of Mondstandt with the plans for expansion. Your children, your grandchildren, and their children will have land to their name, I will make it my life’s mission to make sure of it. Connections?” He holds his hands out, letting them drop to his thighs with a resounding clap.

“You bring more of that than I ever could.”

To anyone else, his words sound much like a proposal.

To you, it sounds like a proposal.

Your breath hitches, and the words are practically whispered. “...What are you saying?”

And the truth that you both know in your own respective manners, yet remains unknown to the other, comes forward on his tongue. It waits there, stagnated yet burning in his mouth.

He should just say it, make the feelings that survive deep within the depths of his soul actualized in this very moment— where you demand them to make their appearance. Tell you that he says these things for the sole purpose of making himself the contender for your hand in marriage. Tell you that he says these things not so that you could abide by duty, but so that you could have the freedom to choose.

So that you could choose him.

The words are desperate in their crawl up his throat, digging their nails into soft tissue and drawing blood. His mouth floods with the ichor, too stubborn to swallow and too scared to spit.

So, he does nothing but choke.

“Freedom… within the contract.” He says quietly, cowardly. “I will… sponsor whatever fee or promise may be necessary if only to give you what you want. The chance to choose whomever it may be that you wish to marry. This decision isn’t mine to make. Nor should you make it because of me. And to be frank, I don’t want to be a part of it.”

Silence encumbers the space.

A look of measured disbelief sits ill on your face, and in feats unlike him, he finds himself raging. At this, at you, at himself. His decision feels like brittled tar coming off his tongue, settles in the room like a death sentence, and yet the stubbornness within him threatens the burning flame of truth in his stomach like a hovering guillotine. The blade shining with the promise of an ill fate.

“...sponsor?” You murmur.

Behead the hope before it can take flight. The blade descends.

“Yes. Sponsor.” He bites, “Until you can rid yourself of that inane notion of duty.”

You stare at him, a heartbreaking silence filling the room as fragments of the friendship seem to crack and shatter in place. Baring your soul to him, open and honest, vulnerability displayed at the most monumental decision you could make, when you were desperate for comfort, and he spits at you. Treats you pedantically, insulting the very thing you care deeply enough about to ask for consultation on; Throws things as insignificant as money your way and tells you, more or less, to leave him alone.

This is a Diluc that you have heard of yet, seen on occasion, but have never met. Angry and distanced, cutting strings before they have the chance to vibrate against him. You don’t like it. It sparks something within you, something equally as vitriolic and vile.

“What is it about this situation that angers you, Diluc? Hm? Because I believe that you are misguided in directing your anger to me.” You return to him woefully digging for a futile truth that Diluc has already locked deep within him, key thrown into a fire and burned with no remorse. If only you knew how close you were to uncovering it, the root of his ire. How your hand almost brushed the cage of his heart, fingertips barely scraping along the bars of its confinement.

He yanks you away, “You sit there content with this, amiable as you always are. You always want to placate, you stand up for everything but yourself when you clearly must. Then, you bring this to me, seeking help in something I greatly disapprove of, something I do not wish to be involved in, and yet I am misguided for trying to save you—”

“I don’t need your money, Diluc. And I certainly don’t need saving.”

“Then what could you possibly be doing here, then?”

“I apologize for inconveniencing you with my need to seek the comfort of a friend. How burdensome of me, how juvenile. Because I forget that the great Master Diluc can handle these things on his own, so why should I do anything different!”

“I gave you my answer.” He says, eyes burning. An ashen field of the garden of your friendship reflected in his stare, “I suggest you take it.”

And for the second time today, you feel the hot brand of Diluc’s rejection.

He doesn’t need to spell it out, his words are as clear as day to you— the professional linguist in Diluc's veiled bluntness. He has no intention of respecting your decision, nor does he intend to be involved any further within it.

The room is silent once more, this time in a way that is entirely different from the other instances. This is a silence of heartbreak as Diluc embraces the characteristics of his nature that he knows well and fine to be true of himself. This is the silence of heartbreak that shatters your soul and clogs your throat as it comes to actualization that your long held resignation of this fate was not born out of duty, but of hope that maybe, Diluc had felt the same way about you as you did to him. That from this, maybe, survived the chance of an outcome unneeding of your intervention, but instead a mutual confession that would sweep you off your feet.

Such a thing will never happen.

He does not return your feelings, nor will he ever. He sees you only as a pitiful friend in need; A friend that he can help free from the shackles of inane duty like a good gentleman should. You aren’t sure what stings more— the unrequited feelings, or the insult against your capability.

Diluc may be a formidable blaze that anyone may stand intimated by, but it is equally remiss to take you as something not equal in that strength. As a damsel in distress, as a child, as someone in need of a savior. He, of all people, knows better than that.

This is the silence of a heartbreak at the realization that a dear friend has misunderstood you horribly— romantically or otherwise. And born from its stillness is a blade of your own.

You rise from your chair. Vermillion eyes follow you with focused intensity, titillating as you waver not. Steel becomes you, and it is in the few moments like this that Diluc is astounded that the gods did not grant you a vision.

“That is an honorable offer, but I will not subject you to a stipulation of pity. This is not a horrid fate, it is a duty I have and will continue to embrace.” There is no amiability in your words despite the cordiality of them. Your tone is the embodiment of the negotiator that you have assumed completely in your adulthood.

Surely, he could back down now— apologize, admit his foolishness, but that would mean accepting the circumstances of the arranged marriage and that is something he could never do. He holds his head high.

Optimism lies decapitated most cruelly on the floor between him and you, two blades now stained with the blood of a lost union.

“A duty that I accept without remorse. Something I thought you of all people would respect. I see now that I was wrong.” You bow your head curtly to the gentleman of the home. “Thank you for the enlightening dinner and your hospitality, but I believe there is nothing further to be discussed. Good night, Master Diluc.”

You return to your bedroom without a glance backward, the sound of the bedroom door slamming echoing loudly throughout the manor. The mansion is soon thereafter submerged in a freeze that etches away at his skin. He stands there, the last witness of the murder.

If there was something to do, if he had an idea about it, maybe he would’ve handled the next moment more appropriately. But he doesn’t; he returns to his room a few moments later, stopping only to briefly glance at your door. No light peeks from underneath the door sill and no noise sounds when he leans his ear against it.

Sleep doesn’t come. Dawn breaks and his eyes ache with the need to fall yet his mind roams. It ambles around in so many directions he hardly notices the sound of movement in the hallway as the sun breaks the night and pinks and oranges become the day.

It isn’t until he receives silence when he knocks on your door that the thought of doing something becomes a tasteful thought. He knows it’s too late. Your room and all of your belongings are vacant by the morning and he does nothing but stand there.

—

Your sudden departure with a written note of goodbye on your neatly made bed inspired all of a twelve-hour huff and puff from Adelinde and a stern shake of the head from Elzer, but the deep scowl on Diluc’s face stops any further questioning cold in its place. Diluc is more than aware that such a response, particularly a nonverbal one, leaves much to be desired, but truth be told, he has no desire to explain himself.

Whatever transpired between you two rests solely between he and you, no one else; No matter how strong third party affinities may lie. He will honor the privacy of your friendship by keeping your argument under wraps and, subsequently, his rather… brutish behavior unknown to further scrutiny.

(Let it be known that that was hardly the deciding factor in his secrecy. His shame pride. No, of course not. Rather, he believes it pertinent to only describe a story if both sides are there to present it, lest any details become muddied by perceived rights and wrongs, transgressions and righteousness, little he said, she said’s. It is best to act accordingly, with honor to the other even if they aren’t there to defend themselves. Which is why he pledges his silence to the issue.

Even as he spends minutes, hours, days mulling over his words, reliving the argument and the kind of temperament that was exalted from him in response. He can hardly be ashamed by the genuinity of his anger, it is a direct reflection of his morals and to be dismayed by those is to be deceptive of himself.

So, no. He does not tell Adelinde and Elzer the intricate details of your battle, unsure as to whether he would omit certain phrases he had uttered or not, in honor of keeping the situation between the war of morals and opinion between you and he.

Or so he says.)

“You needn’t be concerned.” He tells the vexed headmistress, keeping his breath and stare as neutral as one could possibly muster when one hardly believes the words they say. “It was a minor incident. It will be nothing in two weeks’ time.”

The words do not placate Adelinde. They only serve to make the older woman shake her head in agitation and return to the kitchen in a brisk walk as she prepares breakfast. She mutters something underneath her breath, but Diluc is too concerned with pretending to focus on ledgers to listen intently to the words. If he did, he’s sure there would be some vernacular strung together to express the sentiment of “foolish” and “idiotic”.

And he’s likely to agree with them.

Winter

Fall exits Mondstadt with haste and winter follows on its heels with great delight. Nipping at skin and verdure mercilessly, the wind gusts powerfully from Dragonspine, expelling its subzero climate onto Mondstadtians as though it had been waiting for lifetimes for the chance to taste skin once more.

It has sparked many an overheard conversation. The weather being the heated topic of discussion, irony of the statement notated with a hearty laugh— even within the Dawn Winery.

Adelaide remarked to Elzer one frigid morning how unfathomable it was to even try to adjust to the suddenness of the cold as she wrapped a third quilted cardigan around her shoulders. Much too vicious, she screeched. Elzer nodded with little more than a mumble, trying to play off the chattering of his teeth as purposeful, pondering what could have brought forth such a merciless chill so quickly; So violently.

The answer seems obvious to Diluc, but that is a truth he keeps held tightly to himself.

Punishment, he thinks. You took the warmth from the manor and all of Mondstadt when you left. Absence of heat has left an arctic presence in its retreat. He tries not to focus too much on it; But the days grow colder, the days fall shorter, and life is ever more bleaker. Trees are barren, snow builds on the veranda, and the lake you once pirouetted and danced in freezes over.

Even worse, Ernst exemplifies himself as Mondstadt’s greatest mail courier in his commitment to delivery despite the freeze and danger. Diluc sees him every mid-morning, the man trudging through the blockage of snow with a wagon in tow.

Diluc nods courteously to the man’s gloved wave. Sometimes a greeting is verbalized, other times the two men meet eyes and continue on with the day, and yet try as he might to deny it, carmine eyes linger on the postman in repressed desire. Hoping even as the man treks past the deciduous trees and his figure becomes smaller and smaller in Diluc’s line of sight, that maybe, just maybe, the man will stop in his place. Maybe, he’ll look into the wagon that holds the great number of tied mail, and turn around in surprise. Run back to Diluc with paper in his hand and a hearty laugh, forgot your mail, Master Diluc! The phrase caught on the wind and swirling its way back to him. Your script on the front of the letter.

It never happens.

Ernst fades into the white blanket of snow and Diluc finds great difficulty in trying to take his eyes off of his figure. It is only when the chill finally catches up to him and Adelinde screeches a scold to him that he returns inside. No letter in hand. He can't say that he’s surprised.

It’s been a little more than two weeks and the incident remains frigid. Only, no longer is it a crime scene of stained blood, but a coffin buried in the ground. A headstone hidden under two feet of snow.

Reading: Here lies the friendship I once knew.

—

"Ah, Master Diluc. What a pleasant surprise."

"Kaeya."

It isn’t a surprise to see the owner of the Angel’s Share doing as he usually does behind the counter, but both men know that. To find Diluc in the sanctity of the tavern, away from the emptiness of the manor and in the warmth of the hearth is almost traditional. But there is a certain stink that circulates throughout the tavern this morning; A pitiful one, sour and rancid. It emanates from the bartender in a choking waft that is even more pungent than usual. Kaeya almost coughs.

Sauntering over to the counter, Kaeya seats himself with the kind of confidence that exists uniquely to him, hesitation hardly a recognizable shade in the man when asking for his usual. The request is met with a visible eye roll, but other than that, the two remain silent.

Angel’s Share is empty this morning, save for the owner— understandably. Seven feet of snow lines the buildings within the walls of Mondstadt and were it not for the official weather advisory granted by the Knights of Favonius, business most likely would have come to a standstill on its own. Not Diluc, though. Never the honorable Master Diluc.

His business stays open despite sending all of his workers home for shelter during the cold. How noble, how sweet. What a kind capitalist he is, one that knows exactly how to make Death After Noon just as Kaeya likes it.

Kaeya sips from the glass before finally deciding to break the silence.

“Lovely weather we’re having, wouldn’t you agree?”

Diluc grunts disapprovingly. Kaeya takes another languid sip. Despite being appropriately dressed for it at all occasions and all hours of the day, Kaeya knows rather intimately Diluc’s averseness to freezing temperatures and strikes of chills.

“There is something so beautiful in the snow. Shame that our neighboring nations don’t get to see it too often. I’ve recently returned from an expedition to Liyue,” The corner of Kaeya’s mouth curls upward as he swirls his wine around in his glass. A knowing smile in the fact that even as Diluc maintains a focused gaze on the glass that he is drying, he has his complete attention. Caught at the mention of the nation, of what resides there. “Whispers of an outgroup seizing trading merchandise a little ways beyond Stone Gate led me there, and I must say I am quite envious at how un-winter-like Liyue can be.”

“Fascinating.” Diluc drolls, placing one glass down only to pick another up. Kaeya plows on, hardly bothered by the man.

“The snow practically stops at the edge, right before the marker of the two nations. Pretty impressive, if you ask me. Apparently they will see the rare bout of snow pull in from Dragonspine in a particularly cold season, or so I’ve heard. From a… friend.”

There is no room for insinuation, it couldn’t squeeze into the damn place even if it tried. Your name all but shouted throughout the emptiness of the tavern. Diluc grits his teeth, and try as Kaeya might to find some smugness in this—sadistic joy in the way that the man grows uncomfortable and fights the urge to run— he cannot. For, try as he might to deny, Kaeya is and always remains his brother’s keeper.

And Kaeya knows a man in longing when he sees one.

He figures he might earn some deductions on his ledger of sins for ending the other man’s suffering early. So he begins again.

“You know, I was told a story during my time there. One, in particular, that I think you would find great value in.” Kaeya places the cup down, the sweet liquor of Death After Noon blossoming on his tongue, “Of course, it is a tale told to the children of Liyue to teach them certain morals, so I think you will be rather challenged in this story. Would you like to hear it?”

“I can’t imagine that I have much of a choice.”

“You don’t. Do try to pay attention.” Diluc gives nothing more than a bored glare at the man across the counter. Kaeya plows on.

“This story began with a question: When roads converge, do we assume them as fate, or do we impose our will upon them?”

And so he weaves a familiar tale of the target of two gods, Morax and Guizhong. The brawn and brains, the seal of a contract and the cursive words it comprises of written by plume, stone and dust; The firm and the wise. An unlikely partnership formed throughout the centuries, the makers of the era.

A tale of Morax, who has always been much too hard-headed, incapable of seeing the path laid before them, and Guizhong— sweet Guizhong, whose smile settled ashes and her wrath decimated stone to particles— finding herself as Morax’s advisor. The growth of wisdom from shouldered burdens and friendship, an unexpected term that hardened stone accepted in time.

A tale of growing affections, hidden smiles, and intertwining fates, lingering in the coiling of their lives together yet never voiced. Always dancing beneath the grounds of sand and stone. Until war ravaged their land of prosperity and brought an end to their union—Guizhong laying stricken upon the Guili Plains, her ichor forming into the rivers of the land, her flesh becoming one with the grass. Dying, in his hands, bemoaning their fate of all that was left unspoken.

“And Morax looked down upon the fallen god with what one could only describe as deep sorrow and asked, ‘Why has this happened? Why could you not have waited for me?’. Guizhong, taking her last breath, said to the god of stone, ‘I would if you had asked me.’”

Kaeya draws a finger around the rim of his cup, his one revealed eye flicking up to Diluc, knowing stare boring into the red-haired man. “A tragic story of missed opportunities. But of course, it is just a fable.”

Diluc says nothing, but meets his brother’s stare with a stoic one of his own. Cold and void, as it always is, but swirling in the iris of flames lies the starting spark Kaeya was looking for. The twinge of reminiscence; The flint striking against stone in the flicker of realized parallels.

“Riveting.” The barkeep says, tearing the windows of his soul away from the man who rivals him in skill of knowing all. But, is it really in the silent ability to read the room or is it in knowing Diluc well beyond any shadow of a doubt that has Kaeya acting as lighter for the wicker of ignition?

"I heard our friend came into town."

“You heard correctly.”

“I heard she came with a question.”

Diluc stills and Kaeya hums. As though he had nary a worry in the world and all the time for this moment, he brings the cup to his lips and takes a slow sip of the wine. Long and obnoxious and captivating for all the wrong reasons. Diluc can’t help but watch as terse silence settles between the two of them, the fire of frustration licking at the nape of his neck just as Kaeya seems to grow colder in his seat.

If only arrogant Kaeya would stop playing his mind games.

Detached and quiet and entirely too pleased, Kaeya sits at the fact that as much as Diluc tries to deny it, they both know he is dying for Kaeya’s next words.

If only precious Diluc would stop being so stubborn and admit that he needs help.

The glass is placed on the counter with a gentle clack, and neither man can deny the weight that escalates at that moment. “The poor girl practically offered herself on a golden platter. Well, as much as a dignified noble woman could.”

“She asked for my opinion on her suitors—”

“And she was hoping you would make yourself one of them.”

“That—you do not know that.” Diluc seems affronted, almost scandalized.

Kaeya sighs this time, loud and obnoxious, “No, of course I don’t. It’s not like she and I remain friends outside of you.”

Gloved hands place an ivory piece of paper on the wooden bar surface. Beckoned forward by unfettered curiosity, Diluc wastes no time in picking the item up, hardly remorseful even if a smirk settles onto the tanned man’s face.

“If you do not make yourself known, someone else will. Sooner rather than later, it seems.”

The paper reads: Kaeya Alberich, you are cordially invited to the wedding of Mikhail Tsaverich and —

Diluc tears his eyes away before he can make out the neat script of your name on the paper.

“I know that you have a tendency to make a fool of yourself, but do try to not waste the opportunity that is presented before you.” Kaeya raises a brow, leaning his head on his closed fist. “The gods have made the mistakes so that we do not repeat them.”

Vermillion eyes meet crystalline ones, perfect fragments meeting together.

“I am, unfortunately, rooting for you. I quite like our girl.”

The words linger within Diluc far longer than he would like to admit. They swirl around him even as Kaeya makes his teasing departure—Until next time, he said. They echo in the emptiness of the tavern, they trail behind him as he rides horseback to the manor. His boots are caked with the frost, and his ears are bitten with the freeze, but all that he can feel is the steady pulse of his Kaeya’s words.

Do not waste the opportunity before you.

Night falls but sleep eludes him. He sits in his bed and ponders, before deciding that he must do what he does with all of Kaeya’s keen words of wisdom and ignore it.

Imagine his surprise when he finds that he just can’t.

—

Rage finds Diluc in the guest bedroom a month later. Your bedroom.

The snow is at its thickest, wet and cold, blanketing all of Mondstadt in its frosty embrace and daring them to try to escape. No one attempts to compete with the force of nature, even the valiant Ernst throwing in the towel as blizzards obscure the pathways and the days begin to blur together in the white wall of relentless snow.

The manor is kept warm by the fires that Adelinde stokes, but it does nothing to soothe the deep and aching chill that settles within Diluc. It grinds his teeth, has him pacing the rooms. Unable to sit with the unease now in being so cold all the time.

(He remembers a time like this once before. When the shadows of blue and red converged so violently, only to part in equal fierceness. The kind of wintry bitterness that stings from the hollowness of a severed bond. The immediate aftermath of his father’s death.

Quietly, he wonders what Kaeya is up to.)

Adelinde, for all her mother henning, seems to understand that the discomposure that runs through him isn’t something she can solve. So, she keeps the fires warm, lights the candles in corridors and arched niches of the home, and keeps her distance. Although, if Diluc didn’t know any better he would think she’s keeping him out of her way. Annoyance and ire from the woman has been kept well fed and loved by her hand if her continued scoffs and mumbles are anything to bear in mind. It leaves her just one hair's width away from lecturing him once more—not that he needs anymore of it. He’s at the receiving end of his own indignation plenty.

Tonight, however, that familiar bite of his own self hatred is sparked by the flames.

In the crackle of the wood, he hears a laugh oddly similar to yours ringing throughout the room; Sees your figure dancing in the swirling and heightening flames. As quick as he sees it, it disappears.

He had been attempting to write a letter—an unfortunate consequence of Kaeya’s lingering words. At the very least, an explanation behind his behavior, a request for an update on your life, and maybe even, hidden beneath the flowery description of a cold Mondstadt and the dull season of the wine business, a quiet apology; A plea to reconsider. Each attempt is more pitiful than the last, the words becoming less poised and more of a mad man’s ramble as ink scribbles across the surface; Looking more jagged and unsteady than the previous. Paper after paper is thrown into the inferno and with it, his patience.

Frustration leads to the rage. He has no clue as to what parasite of uncertainty has bitten him so deeply, and that pushes him further. Hating that he has no idea where this has come from, why it is happening now after so many months, why this blasted thing won’t go away. Macabrely, he wonders what limb he needs to cut off to finally rid himself of its unabated punishment. It burrows so profoundly within him that he’s willing to take a gamble and partake in self-mutilation of all visible skin until he is fixed. Hack away at each joint of meeting bone with his claymore until the solution is found.

Until his mind is rid of your violent eyes and your corrosive goodbye. Maybe then he will find some semblance of sweet relief.

Diluc is proud fire and acidic sulfur. He does not and should not doubt himself. It is unbecoming of him to be so dubious of his own actions. Were you to stand before him now and pose the same question that you did in the Fall, he would have largely the same response that he did then. He’s sure of it. He would still be unmoving in his confidence that an arranged marriage was a barbaric idea; He would continue to rage at your disposition in being so accepting of it; He would maintain his morality in asserting that you need not be bound by such a restricting design. There was no need, no purpose.

But…if he was to be largely the exact same now as he was before, why does he keep replaying the memory in his mind? Running every look, every sigh, every word that comes off your tongue over and over and over. Wondering what could have been said differently to make you see what he meant; Wondering what he could have posed more nicely and less igniting to have made you stay.

He quickly shakes away the thought. No— there is nothing he could have done or said that would not have been a compromisation of his own ethics. He himself is not only to blame. You were equally as acidic, as defamin of his meaning in the height of the argument.

Such is the truth and the truth is final. The truth cares not about feelings. He has grown accustomed to that notion.

(Then why are his so hurt?)

His feet find himself in the bedroom before he knows any better. In search of… something. An answer, maybe, in an item left behind. Any sign of you that he can conjure up seeing as three months have passed since that wretched argument and he has nothing to show for the fate of the friendship other than its ashes.

No letter and no lingering scent of you; No gifted cor lapis and certainly no mundane detailing of day to day life, and thoughts, and jests, and imparted wisdom that he knows to only come from you. That he only listens to if they come from you. There is nothing left but a raging mind and the burning lacerated wound of a scorned memory.

It’s a fool's game, he knows. Adelinde had gone in and cleaned the room after her long stew of anger upon your departure, so chances are if there was anything for Diluc to find, it is long gone now. Having been taken away by Adelinde’s hand. The thought of that fills him with a quiet seethe that he knows is beyond irrational. It’s his fault he hadn’t entered the room after you left, much like it is his fault that he hadn’t entered when you were still here. Even with the light off, he should’ve entered, admitted his faults and come to a truce. If only to still have you.

The room is dark upon his entrance, lit only by the dying fire previously mended by the headmistress. The bed is made neatly, royal ruby covers folded with expert precision and the curtained posts drawn back to reveal the array of pillows that decorate its surface.

This room has, more or less, always belonged to you. It is where his father hosted yours and when you tagged along on business ventures, where you stayed. That tradition remained. The room becoming less of a guest room and more of your own room, right between Diluc’s and Kaeya’s. Playing in one or the other when either brother decided they wanted your attention.

Toys and Guoba plushies left behind remained in there, sometimes summer clothing and bathing suits would remain stocked and stored in the dresser drawers for your future arrivals. Remnants of you have always decorated the room beside his which is what makes its neat barrenness so much more jarring.

The room is practically wiped of any memory of you, due in part to the natural passage of time— where plushies were replaced with whatever task you brought that is seen as the new fad taken up by young socialites, and summer clothes were outgrown and changed with wear that are appropriate for maturing young women, everything in this room has aged just as you and he—

This is the natural progression of things, yet he remains resistant. This is what would have naturally happened; You would soon marry, arranged or otherwise, and this room that belongs to you would slowly become empty. Disused, void of you, unless you were to occasionally visit alongside your husband, whoever he may be. and your… children; because that too would be the natural progression of things.

Then this room would become theirs, and he would make sure it was known that it was theirs.

And maybe that is what bothers him the most. It never came to mind that this room would be empty because he had always assumed, one way or another, a part of you would always be in it—married or not. Ideally, it would have been you married to him. Or neither of you married. Together in the infinite in the ways and routines that are so known to you both, content with each other.

He would have been elated, beyond happy were that the case. It speaks volumes to him that he hadn’t realized that sooner or later, you wouldn’t be.

He is sat on the edge of your bed, lost in the thought of possibility, when Adelinde enters.

“Would you like me to start a fire, Master Diluc?” She asks, quietly, head poking into the room.

Diluc’s gaze is too fixed, too comfortable staring into the void, so he remains there. He says, “No, thank you. No need.”

“You are not cold?”

“If I was, I could surely start one myself.”

Adelinde hums noncommittally. She lingers for a second in the doorway before moving forward to him, sitting beside him on the bed. She heaves a great breath and Diluc prepares for the lecture.

He will take it, as he always does. He just hopes she’ll cut it short this time.

Instead, she asks only a question. “Are you going to finally tell me what happened or would you rather continue looking into the void?”

Quiet settles, in the same way that it has existed in this house for eons. Sobering, stilting quiet that aches and etches into the depths of bones. Weaving into the fabric of skin, unspoken truths tearing at the seams, begging for their voice.

It is through great misery and effort that Diluc is able to clench his teeth together and finally utter the wretched words. “She is… getting married.”

Adelinde’s face betrays no thought, unfortunately. There would have been great catharsis in being able to see some kind of validation seep into her face, but alas, wrinkled lines of wisdom remain soft. She hums. “To a good man?”

Diluc is quick. “No.”

“Does she know that?”

He grits his teeth, skin splitting further as the coal ignited deep in him simmers a low broil. “It was made abundantly clear.”

“Well, you have always had a way with words.” Adelinde folds her hands on her thighs with a sigh. “How do you feel about it?”

“Fine.”

“Hush now, child. Do not lie in this house. Your father taught you better than that.”

Offense should be taken at the reduction of age, but he cannot muster strength nor energy to deny the truth of the matter. The angst within him reduces him, grinds him, wears away the tethers of tendon to bone and makes him feel like the rageful child he once was years ago. Violent at the spring of growth, harboring resentment for a world that demanded so much from his father, from his brother, from him—

He is eleven, again. Furious at the news of his mother’s death at sea, Adelinde whispering in his ear to voice the tense feelings of grief that he could not yet name, feelings that you smothered with the feel of your hug. He is eighteen, blade stained with the ichor of his father, readying it at the throat of another and willing to stain it once more with that of his brother, stuck in the aftermath of a solitude interrupted only by the delivery of your letters—letters he could not answer, yet. He is twenty, swallowing the thirst for revenge with the blood of fatui, traversing through Teyvat in search of answers that will forever be inadequate, writing to you (finally) from wherever he lands, detailing no more than his safety and a promise to return home.

He is all of those at once, a child again. Sitting on this bed, feeling the emotion that turmoiled in his youth bubble once more within him.

“...Angry.” He grits out, finally. The ability to voice that which festers within him is less of an achievement of emotional intelligence but instead the identification of the familiar taste of a fire that simmers on his tongue.

“And why is that?” Adelinde probes. Diluc rolls his eyes.

“Because she should not marry him.”

Adelinde blinks calmly. “Because she should not marry him or because you do not want her to marry him?”

A mirthless laugh tumbles out of his mouth. “Is that not the same thing?”

Adelinde knowingly hums and he can taste wrath that settles like burnt tar, charred pieces of skin that rolls around in his mouth before he finally decides to spit them out. “If you have something to say, Adelinde, speak it.”

She waits for a moment, a solid and silent beat that weighs in the air before she asks. “Why did you not offer?”

“Arranged marriages are barbaric. She should be free to choose whoever she wants to marry—”

“And she had her pick to choose from. Why did you not make yourself one?”

“Selecting from a batch of suitors is not a free choice. That is asking to pick the lesser of two evils, where is the freedom in that?”

“There is freedom in the choice.” She says, simply.

“It is a forced hand.”

“One that only you are unsettled by.”

Diluc’s head snaps towards the headmistress, his eyes narrowed in a venomous stare that she meets with fortified steel. “What is it that you trying to say?”

Adelinde shrugs elegantly, as though this were a mere discussion about the weather, or dinner options rather than a fated conversation about marriage, and love, and you. “You are attempting to rewrite rules to a game that has existed long before you. You clearly want something, and yet, you are unwilling to navigate the game to get it—”

“You believing marriage to be a game affirms that my position is correct.”

“Diluc—” Adelinde says, suddenly serious. “Did you not offer yourself because you are afraid she would not pick you?”

Diluc stares widely into the woman, stomach dropping at the utterance of his great fear. Coal stifled in its blaze, water dousing the flame as he is realized in the words of actuality.

He stares, eyes of vermillion boring into the motherly figure. Adelinde takes his silence for affirmation and speaks with a heaviness that should take to mean her conviction in the matter, or, the extent of her confusion. “Why ever would she not?”

Words unable to string together, he is a child again. Figuring out how to piece emotions together through crafted hand cards made by the headmistress for moments when he could not voice what he felt, but instead could point. His finger, made bloody with how often he picked at the skin, pointing to the card written in purple ink, stained with juices of grapes for emphasis.

Humiliated.

He finds himself muttering, “You did not see how she looked at me.”

“As though she were angry?” Adelinde raises a brow, a quiet admonish to the man beside her that looks just like the boy she used to wipe tears from, “People are allowed to be angry at you Diluc and it mean nothing more than the fact that they were angry with you. Just as you were angry with her. It is not a statement of your character.”

“You do not understand.” Diluc begins again, self-hatred and reproach ready to be released from the confines of the mind that it has swirled around so viciously in for all of these months. He is tired. He is weary. He wishes he could wake up and have this be the end of the nightmare. “I am not a good match for her.”

“A decade of friendship would speak otherwise.”

“We cannot return from where we came because of how I acted. I was mean and insulting, and yet I had never been more true to my feelings. I could not hide my nature even for the one I love the most, how could anyone ever be deserving of that?”

“Did you ever think that, maybe, the severity of your feelings intensified your anger?” “That does not make it acceptable.”

“You are right. You are long overdue in issuing an apology, but my dear, you spoke without filter in the heat of a moment. It is but a mistake.”

“She deserves better.”

“Archons above, Diluc, one would think with your manner of speaking that you have violated her innocence! She is not a girl, she is a woman. Give her more credit to understand and make her own decisions—with,” Adelinde emphasizes, holding a finger up before Diluc could even think to interrupt her with a string of excuses explaining how you have, in fact, made your decision to marry, “all of the facts of the situation. Namely, how you feel about her.”

Adelinde scoffs. Tickled at her train of thought. “Besides, if either of you cannot handle one disagreement, then maybe marriage should be a tabled conversation.”

“This was a fight.”

“One you will overcome. Diluc, here you sit looking into a darkness that promises you nothing because you believe that is what you deserve. But I am telling you that you are deserving of a happiness that you may think is well beyond your reach, but it is right there. You need only to apologize and speak to her.”

“What if it goes wrong?”

“You have sat in rage for years, my dearest. Why not let yourself find joy in what you know will bring it?” Adelinde smiles. She steps closer, her fingertips brushing aside the stray crimson hairs that fall onto his face. “You forget, my darling boy, that I raised all three of you. I know each of you better than you know yourselves.”

And for a moment, Adelinde’s heart aches with a pointed swell. She sees a young boy once more, eyes glassy, fear holding tightly onto a long-held hope.

“When you decide to stop looking through your own eyes, and start looking through another, maybe then you will see that they want it, too. So instead, ask yourself, what if it goes right?”

Equinox

The Tsaverichs are an ambitious bunch.

Your father makes note of this characteristic to you in a low murmur, watching with little enthusiasm as your future father-in-law booms and bellows with audacious designs for the impending wedding. Gathered in your family’s office in Feiyun Slope, the Tsaverich Family sits opposite of yours as details of the union slowly begin to be ironed out—emphasis on slowly.

Despite the eager receipt in which the Tsaverichs acknowledged your acceptance of the marriage arrangement, their propensity for grandeur is oftentimes contradicting and irritating to your father’s own demands.

(“Cranes are a sacred animal to Liyue. We will not be detaining five-hundred of them for release at the wedding.”

“You wish to invite… how many people?”

“Out of the question! My daughter will not declare herself allegiant to the fatui in her vows!”)

Your groom-to-be sits quiet beside his father, silent to his demands and hardly makes any effort to look you in the eyes. Ten meetings so far about wedding preparations and your groom has done little more than provide a quick nod of his head and offer a surprised gasp at his father’s mentioning of future children. (Another detail attempted to be negotiated into the preparations: the immediacy of an heir upon your union. Your father—your hero, really—is quick to strike that from the table altogether.)

You do well to hide your smile as your father huffs another sigh of annoyance underneath his breath, but it remains a difficult task. Especially as your future father-in-law preaches incessantly about how important the venue to the wedding is for the sixth time, about what it means for the union, and other details that you try to listen to but repeatedly find slipping between the threshold of reality and thought.

Consciousness caught between the dismayed feelings of your reality, of the eerie creep of the winter chill that seeps through the floorboards despite the fire blazing in the corner; Thoughts linger on the remaining tasks for the day, impending ledgers to sign, travels to prepare for; Memories springing to the forefront of your mind, how you wish you were ten again, running through fields of open grass without a care or an obligation to a man who can hardly look your way.

How you wish Diluc were around to keep you company. How unassuming he would find these negotiations to be, how you would make it your life purpose to get him to crack a smile at that very moment. How angry you are with him.

You sip at your tea, bitterly.

“--and that is why we demand that the union take place in the Schneznayan Mountains, as a respect for our culture and a formal introduction of the bride into her new home nation.”

Your father heaves a great breath, rubbing the weariness out of his eyes with two fingers. “As mentioned before, Tsaverich, we do not oppose a celebration within Snezhnaya. This is a union of two families, we will have two celebrations.”

Tsaverich guffaws, his rotund stomach jumping with the action. “I will take a firm stance that two celebrations are preposterous! We are already spending a fortune on the one alone, two is simply making a mockery of the whole affair. And it must be in Snezhnaya, where the bride will live and where her children will be born.”

“I take this as a grand offense to my daughter’s nationality, Tsaverich. Do you wish to erase Liyue entirely from my daughter and my future grandchildren? These were not terms we agreed to upon acceptance of your arrangement.”

“Of course not, my good sir, but you must consider this from our perspective.”

“I have heard of your perspective greatly.” Your father sighs before standing to address the whole table. “I propose a different solution altogether.”

An array of pensive gazes follow his movements, your own included. Your father is prone to his eccentricities, the many of which have become great friends of his during his time as an entrepreneur. It has made for moments like this, a simple gesture coupled with a phrase having the entirety of the room still in anticipation of his next movement. Your father, a monolith, in a room full of mortal men.

“They marry in neither of our nations.”

Said monolith states his solution with little qualm, even as the entourage of advisors and planners emit a low gasp at your father’s suggestion and your own head snaps to him in earnest—beyond curious. It’s not an unheard of solution, but certainly a drastic one considering the company currently kept.

Your father bypasses the general din of unease with little more than a wave of his hand.

“If we cannot come to an agreement about either location, we shall find another means of compromise. Hence the idea. I believe I have sourced an appropriate and fair opportunity for this and I hope—” In perfect timing, a knock resounds throughout the office. The door behind your father being the spotted culprit. He turns towards it with comical eagerness, practically dancing on his feet. “Ah, right on time!”

He approaches the door with a giddiness that is hardly seen within a negotiation room— as though his victory lies behind the wooden divide. His trump card ready for presentation, willing to wipe the room and render everyone speechless.

There is much to admire about your father, but his ability to forgo proprietary notions in business meetings will certainly always be a top quality. It never fails to pull the corners of your lips, much like it currently does. A small smile crossing your face despite the horrendous nature of the planning so far, particularly when your father’s hanfu sways with his flippant movements. It is hard to deny that your father’s own excitement functions as a social contagion, your own interest beyond piqued.

“I present the solution to our venue issue!” With his hand on the knob, your father delivers a grand smile to the room of waiting attendants and a pointed wink your way. Opening the door, he announces his winning deal with grandeur and delight.

“Master Diluc Ragnvindr!”

Said interest shatters at the mere mention.

There is great fortune in the fact that the name of the individual is equally as egregious to your Snezhnayan counterparts as it is to you— your startlement quickly concealed by the furious uproar of your future father-in-law and gasps of his entourage.

A vision of red and black steps into the room, hardened boots deafening a hollow sound on the wooden floor as his presence fills the empty spaces of the room not contained by the shrieks of shock.

You stare in angered amazement; Three months of stilted silence and lingering wounds have obscured the memory of his face into something more treacherous, vicious, and unkind. But, as he stands in the room affronted with the great upset that his arrival has caused, in a room filled with people, his eyes find yours in a split second. And they hold.

You remember this face, even as your heart has tampered with recollection to protect you from the hurt, made him into something jagged and meaner. But you know this face, know the softness of his skin and the sharpness of his jaw; Dream of the breadth of his shoulders and the hauntingly beautiful warmth of his smile.

You have gone a great deal of time without seeing him before—such is the nature of a long distance friendship. But, this time, Diluc Ragnvindr stands before you exactly as you remember him to be— eyes still the same burning shade, sharp and narrowed and able to pick apart a person with little more than a quick flick up and down. He is dressed as intimidatingly as he always does and the air that surrounds him is much the same as it always has been, and yet— there is something entirely different about him.

He is not the same man that stood in the dining room staunchly opposed to you, alight with anger and a furrowed brow that creases the delicacy of his even face. He is someone new altogether; A renewed vigor. A sense of determination.

Handsome. Frustratingly so.

You do not dare to take your eyes off him, even as anger simmers beneath you and the memories of your argument fill the silence. He does not move himself either; He lets himself be scrutinized and the object of ire. Not a new position for him to be in, but it is clear from the direction of his gaze that he lets himself be seen—unabashedly, unwaveringly by the entirety of the room—for you.

A familiar language seems to speak in the meeting of your gazes. The words natural and inherent even in the gliding fit of anger. Bad habits finding themselves once more.

It is your future father-in-law that shatters the charged gaze.

“My, this is absolutely preposterous! You have invited a traitor to our familial conversations. He is not welcome here and I find your behavior to be most insulting to us and our great nation!” The Tsaverich patriarch boasts a face as red as jueyun chilis, his head shaking from side to side in search of validation in his entourage’s gaze.

Your father placates, his hands held up in surrender. “Please, Tsaverich. Hear us, for just a moment. Master Diluc is not only one of Teyvat’s greatest businessmen, but he is an upstanding gentleman and friend. His late father was my dear companion, and Master Diluc has come to be his exact likeness. He has been a most trusted advisor and also a dear ally to my daughter. Let bygones be bygones in pursuit of our children’s future.”

Only then does Diluc tear his eyes from yours, meeting the gaze of Tsaverich and his son with a polite bow of his head that you imagine he swallowed a great amount of pride to do.

It is only then can you finally exhale the breath you had not realized you were holding.

“I come only to offer a solution.” He says, low and even. Steadied, as if practiced. Sure, as though he truly believed the words he had said. “In favor of a friend.”

“Unbelievable.” Tsaverich mutters, and you can’t help but agree.

You find it difficult to believe, relatively unfathomable. You were made acquainted with a man blistering in fury at the prospect of your marriage to a Tsaverich and here he stands offering a solution.

Insult to injury, practically. A machination of divine intervention, surely, for only the gods would be so interested in seeing the mortals squirm with discomfort.

“I offer a venue in Dawn Winery.” Diluc begins again, his hands folded behind his back and his stature erect and poised. Standing beside your father, he appears the very picture of an intimidating man. The spitting image of his father, with the same sense of honor. “The couple can hold the ceremony on our grounds with the full assistance of the manor’s staff and complimentary wine to celebrate the event.”

“No. The couple will be married in Snezhnaya and that is final!”

“I offer Mondstadt not as a means to usurp your desire, but to find a middle ground. Mondstadt is a friendly and fair nation, it holds allegiance to both families. The couple marries on neutral lands and the families avoid a generational war of resentment. It is a fair offer, Tsaverich.”

Whatever logic could be perceived at the suggestion at this moment is thoroughly clouded by the vindicating sulfur of rage. Tsaverich ignores Diluc entirely, his gaze and finger aimed directly at your father. “This is an insult to our very name. You could not be honorable enough to suggest it yourself, you had to be in cahoots with an enemy to our great nation—”

“Not an enemy. Just banned from entry.” Diluc clarifies stoically and, finally, you find reason to interject within the conversation. Albeit, involuntarily. A huff of laughter escapes your mouth, one that you quickly try to mask lest you fuel fires further. (Either, the branding fire of anger belonging to Tsaverich or the slow burning flame in the eyes of vermillion that are waiting, begging, for the catch of wind to breathe life into it. You wish to avoid both. A glance upward reveals that you’ve stoked one.

Familiar eyes flicker to yours again and a corner of his mouth is pulled upward. For only a second.)

“For heinous behavior!” Tsaverich bellows again, finger wagging in the air.

Your father begins again, tone soothing. “Once more, I beg you to let things remain in the past—”

Tsaverich points a finger accusingly at your father, “This is all very odd on your part, my good sir. Are you intending to sabotage this wedding?”

“Why don’t we defer to the couple for their opinions on the matter?” Your father says, quieting the murmurs of the room. Eyes fall quickly to Mikhail for answer but you feel the flaming burn of a particular pair land on you.

Mikhail seems startled that things have landed on him. A cold sweat seems to emerge upon his brow as his hands wring together. “Me?”

“Yes, you! Out with it, boy!”

Mikhail hesitates, his eyes bouncing from his father to the other members of his party. His mouth opens, his own thoughts and words coming to the forefront—the first to have ever graced the many convened sessions of wedding planning so far— before they disappear entirely at the closing of his mouth. His father bores a heinous glare into him and, briefly, you see the rest of your life in this moment.

Set forever to be sat at a table on the discussions of your marriage between three people. You, Mikhail, and his father. It is a desolate image and, not for the first time since this all began, do you feel the bile of dread push up your throat.

Finally, Mikhail decides to voice an opinion. “I-I believe my father is right.”

“That settles it!” Tsaverich begins quickly thereafter, his hand clapping his son’s shoulder so hard it jerks the boy forward. “The couple wishes to be married in their future nation. Let us put an end to this nonsense—”

“There are two people to be married and one of them has yet to speak.” Diluc’s tone is that familiar bite, the kind that was aimed at you three months ago. It is a gentlemanly gnash of his teeth, but his intent is verbose. Poisonous as he tears his deathly glare away from Tsaverich before finally falling onto you.

Eyes softening, only then.

“You have not spoken.” He says to you, gently.

And you’ve never been one to need anyone to offer you the stage—you’re a negotiator, an Ambassador. You’ve learned how to command things when necessary. This is not Diluc being a savior, but instead, him being earnest—interested to know your position, determined to hear your thoughts. Which makes this all the more confusing.

He did not want to hear your opinion three months ago. Diluc was wholeheartedly, completely, and violently uninterested in any conversation surrounding arranged marriages— and yet, here he stands. Asking for your opinion on your own.

You hate how easy it is to give it upon being asked by him.

“Forgive my silence,” You begin after a long beat. Sparing a glance to the number of people in the room, you compose yourself as quickly as you can. “I meant only to consider all positions before offering an opinion.”

“Heartily forgiven, my darling.” Your father beams, sweetly. “This is your wedding, you are allowed to do and ask as you please. Forgive us for forgetting that detail. Tell us, what are your thoughts?”

You nod, fingers fiddling with themselves as you find the correct words to tell.

“It… is as Master Diluc says. Mondstadt is not only friendly territory for the two families that have conducted business there, but it is also my second home. Let us abide by a matter of principles. If venue is the object of contention, then I vote for the compromise.”

Tsaverich looks heartily annoyed by your words while your father beams a perfect picture of a proud man. Entirely too pleased to see that his plan has worked, thus far. You find your attention, however, drawn to someone else entirely.

Diluc stares at you as though fate were predicated on you entirely.

And it is. The words are heavy coming from your mouth, an admitted desire at the revelation of your long held truth. It is breathy and uneven and the unearthing of truths that shatters the foundations of carefully built walls.

“Let us begin a marriage with peace and trust. End the stalemate. I wish to be married on Dawn Winery.”

He looks at you, a burning flame in his eyes. And for a moment you can see the unspoken language, you can hear the whisper of what he means to say ring in your ear.

Your father claps, its startling sound resounding throughout the room.

“Well! There’s our answer! It is the bride’s big day after all, I believe we should defer to her wishes on this matter. Let’s put this down as a tentative idea. I will gather with Master Diluc to discuss more of the finer details of the venue, but for now let us all break for a much needed dinner.”

—

He is quick to follow you, right on your heels as you lead a path from your father’s office into the upper pavilion. Past the lingering staff and into the seclusion of your own personal office where high windows overlook Liyue Harbor and the sun casts its setting hue into the room. The warmth of orange bathes the quaintness of your personal items in a settling glow. Your desk is filled with papers, and ledgers, and charming trinkets given to you over the years; Pictures of your family, a childhood dog, and even him, scattered on surfaces. The room is hardly fitting for the arena in which your emotions threaten to spill onto the man before you, but you suppose neither was a dining hall.

You and Diluc certainly are aiming to have a knack for disagreements emboldened in the safety of personal spaces.

“Is this your way of mocking me?” You turn quickly on your heels as soon as the doors to the office close. The question is pointedly aimed and his face contorts into a furrow.

“No, this isn’t that at all—”

“Then petty revenge, is it? A final ‘I told you so’? Even if my father did come to you for assistance, you should not have involved yourself—”

“He didn’t.” Diluc interrupts quickly. He holds his hand up in gesture and you notice briefly that in the duration of the walk back to your office, he has removed his gloves. They remain folded in his hands. “I offered to your father the Dawn Winery as a venue for your wedding.”

Your head pulls back, confusion etched on your brow. “...You offered?”

“Yes.”

You blink owlishly and despite the discomfort, Diluc has never stood more surely on his feet. “I do not understand. You oppose this wedding.”

“I do.”

“You said you did not wish to be involved.”

“I did.”

“Then why would you offer?”

The question does not catch him by surprise. It is one he knew would be asked and yet it still renders him quiet. All that which he had rehearsed, fortified as explanation when sleep evaded him and his attention waning as he rode horseback between the trail leading to Liyue, falls through at the moment of demand. He is speechless despite having much to say.

The only words able to fall through his mouth at the sight of your furrowed gaze and waiting figure is: “I was a complete fool—“

“Of epic proportions.” You interject, and he nods absently. Deservedly.

“Yes. And, in my foolishness, I realized that I do not wish to be right. I care only to have you speak to me again. I was wrong to dismiss what was so important to you, and it was wrong of me to treat you so coldly. That is not how one treats their friends, and it certainly never should have been how I treated you, especially not when you had come to me for comfort.” He grips the gloves tightly in his hands, fingers wrenching over the leather material. If you look hard enough, you can see the blanching of his knuckles. “I was prideful, and angry, and that is my nature that I am ashamed I could not hide, even for you. But, I had to come. I had to see you.”

The space between you two—where he stands by the door and you by your desk—feels like the proverbial sea splitting apart lighthouses. Both of you, lamps circling and splitting through the fog, just barely missing alignment with one another.

"I am not, nor will I ever be, proud of the man I was that night." He says and there is no shyness to his tone. He almost seems to grow taller, more emboldened where he stands, displaying his seriousness to the words he speaks. He means to make no mistake with his words.

He stands before you replacing the man of rage you saw all those months ago with an apologetic one. Believing everything he says.

The hue of the setting sun wafts across his figure pristinely, softening the sharpness of the features that your angry mind made him out to be. The sculpted physique that has turned him from boy to man. An honorable man, always and still.

The fortified walls of your sorrow crumble at the sight of him. Three months of built steel and rage crumbling in an instant and it is pathetic, and pitiful of you. Your beating heart tears at the sinews and seams as the truth confronts itself once more. You are and will always be in love with a man you cannot have.

You will live your life in union with another, and still think of the tenderness of his gaze and the honesty of his words. Of his care for you. To cross a nation and offer his home in something that he despises, solely for the sake of an apology. For you.

For his friend.

You pull your gaze away, looking instead to the gold inlaid hourglass on your desk. You spin the object, more content to watch the sand spin than to look at the man before you. "I am not foolish enough to think that I am blameless in this disagreement. I cannot fault you entirely for your response. I knew it would draw forth an argument and still, I sought your counsel. And then, I ran when I was hurt by your feelings that were the fault of my actions. But, it was not your temper that hurt me."

The floorboards creak with the shuffling of his feet, his nerves once safely concealed by the steadiness of his figure suddenly betrayed by the squeaking wood. "Then…it was what I said?"

You sigh, sadly. "It was what you didn't say."

Diluc swallows, almost stuttering. "What... what did you want me to say?"

Your eyes are drawn to him, then. Something burns there, something that was burning once before in your father’s office. Your mouth opens and closes, hesitancy shuddering through you like a frigid chill.

It comes forward, the truth, "...Diluc." You exhale it away, softly, before shaking your head.

Diluc steps forward, crossing the sea and approaching the gravel of your shore. “No, no. Please. Tell me. I would like to be better. I would like to have my friend back.”

He takes your reticence to mean ways in which he can be a better comfort, a better friend in times of need. It isn't what you mean at all. You know what you wanted him to say, what you wished he would do.

Sensing you pulling away further, Diluc begins again. “I… do not know how to express myself so freely like you. I do not know how to express myself so freely to you. But in that inability I realized that I was at risk of losing one of the most important people in my life. So, please, tell me how I can be better and I will.”

It would be pathetic to tell him that you had hoped that he would declare a love for you that he has never given an indication of. How stupid of you would it be to admit that the love you held for Diluc is not in the way that friends do, but something deeper, something more consuming.

“Maybe we are no longer meant to be friends. Maybe this was meant to happen.” You whisper. There is a tightness in your throat, a stone forming in the depths that your voice cannot overcome. “I am to be married soon and off to another nation. The nature of our friendship will surely change. Maybe this is for the best.”

Diluc steps forward again, a desperate hurry to his movements as he draws himself ever nearer. “I do not believe that. And I do not believe that you believe that.”

“I cannot live with a crumbling friendship, Diluc. Let us end it, be done with it. This is too big of an obstacle, we cannot be as we once were.”

In a turn of efforts, it is Diluc then who is forcing himself into your eyesight. A sharp contrast to months ago when you were the one pleading to be seen by his avoiding gaze. He bends his head down, boring his eyes into yours as you try to lean away. “You mean to tell me that only I have lived in the misery of our silence for these past three months?”

And you want to lie, if only to further avoid the ache and the drawing out of this, but you cannot. Your heart does not allow it. Not with him.

“No.” The sharp threat of tears line your eyes. Diluc’s hands move quickly. They cast his gloves onto the surface of your desk and rest on the sides of your arms, gathering you into his hold. Squeezing you softly.

“You cannot live with a crumbling friendship, but I will never be able to live without you. Your company, your voice, just thinking of you keeps me sane. My words cannot be easily forgotten, I know, but I beg you, come back. Be angry at me, treat me coldly, I do not care. So long as you are here. I cannot live without my friend.”

“But can you live with a friend who has made a decision that you disapprove of?”

Slow moving and rolling fog of silence clutters the room. Diluc swallows. The answer is obvious in the wavering of his stare, in the tightening of his hands on your arms. You wait.

His voice is a low and a desperate plea. “Do not marry him—”

“Diluc—”

He remains determined. Words picking up in speed, in desperation.

“You deserve more than him. You deserve someone who knows you like I do, knows your heart—not your fortune. You deserve to be in a marriage that is happy, and true, and of your choice—”

“Some people are not meant to marry for love. Some concessions must be made. And that is my choice!” You argue, again. Shaking your vehemently. His hold on you remains fixed and in this battle you realize that his face has become so much more closer to yours.

“You can. We can.” He insists. “Make a choice with all facts presented before you.”

“I have—”

“Marry me.”

Your mouth widens, falling open and shut in a foolish manner. Your heart stops beating altogether. “...What?”

It is only then that he seems to realize what he has said. It flashes across his face in a masterful play of emotions. Surprise, fear, disbelief all replaced soon thereafter with a blazing determination.

It can no longer be denied. Diluc has run from this for too long. Words fall before he can catch them, truth and the resounding levity taking over him. His hands slowly move from grasping onto your arms, to cupping the underside of your jaw. Holding, gently, within his palms.

“I raged against the imposition of an arranged marriage because it forced me to confront the fact that I am a coward in not making my affections for you known. Yearning for your presence, your heart, your mind in every waking hour and yet having to discuss your future with another… A future without me. I could not bear it and so I was reduced to a child. Helpless, and angry, and afraid to lose you. But it has only pushed you away, because that is what I know best.”

Tendrils of loose hair fall onto his face, painting the perfect image of raw sincerity. He’s beautiful and it crumbles the remaining walls of your heart. “Three months without you have been agony. I wake thinking of you, I sleep dreaming of how you are. I would rather be near you than to ever be right about something, again. And I must tell you that I have been in love with you since I first saw you on your father’s ship all those years ago.”

His thumb sweeps against your chin, sweetly and you find your own hands being drawn to grabbing onto his wrists. He continues, his head dropping and finally tearing from your gaze, “I love you enough to hope for the return of your affections, but I will love you enough to put your happiness above my own. Even if your final decision is to marry him, with all the facts.”

You breathe out, disbelief and incredulity stiliting your words.

“Diluc, I don’t want this if you feel as though this is your last obligated effort to save me from something. I don’t want this if you don’t feel this.”

He shakes his head vehemently. Dispelling your thoughts before it could even take flight. “No. It should have been my first effort. I should have told you my feelings long ago. But, I hadn’t thought it possible. And, I was blinded by rage.” A humorless laugh tumbles out of his mouth, “Kaeya and Adelinde were quick to inform me otherwise.”

It is your turn to cup his face, his face falling gently into the touch of your palms. “You are everything to me, Diluc, and have been for so long. How could I not be affectionate for you?”

He shrugs, “Because I am prideful, and stubborn, and you deserve… much more than that.”

“You say that as if I am perfect.”

“To me, you are.” He says quickly.

“I am not. Our disagreement made each of our faults abundantly clear.” You insist.

“You are to me.” He says again, resolutely. “Even your faults are everything good. You are intelligent, kind, and beautiful and… the good things of me, what little there are, are because of you.”

His hands, strong and ungloved, calloused from years of labor yet soft to the touch, grab onto yours, then. Gently holding your palms to his, fitting together as though they were always meant to. He brings your hand to his lips, a gentle kiss to the surface as he utters his words. “And I do not deserve your forgiveness, but… if you will allow me to try, I will spend every waking moment of this life and the next hundred, earning it.”

And it is everything you had hoped and more. Eyes of vermillion boring into yours earnestly as he descends onto one knee and procures a ring. A single stone of cor lapis shining in the center of an embezzled design.

“If you will have me.”

Epilogue: Spring

It is finally accepted, the idea that was presented and discussed so feverishly once before. A ceremony will be conducted at Dawn Winery—with complimentary wine and the assistance of the full staff, as was promised. Which, fortunately enough, didn’t take much negotiation this time around, further doubling your father’s excitement. His sense of propriety and restraint was thrown out the window the moment you informed him of the change in plans.

Or rather, the change in groom.

No event could be more worthy of grandiosity than this. His daughter’s wedding— the long awaited union to the man they had all hoped it would be; had prayed to the gods to enact their divinity in making it happen. And in their blessed favor, it had finally come true.

Your father gleefully informed the Tsaverich family of the broken arrangement while shoving a drafted wedding invitation into their hands — one that crudely scratched off the Tsaverich’s last name beside yours and messily wrote ‘Ragnvindr’ atop of the strikethrough— and shouted from the rooftops in Liyue Harbor of the great news.

His beloved daughter was marrying the love of her life!

You had been more than content to have a small affair, and Diluc had been at peace to do as you pleased, but when your father in his great glory had appealed to your senses and emphasized how important it was to honor the union of your families and their respective nations—how great of a duty it was to respect the ancestral lines!— you both had acquiesced with little issue.

It would end the same whether the ceremony was performed in the great peaks of Mount Hulao or in the ravines of Windrise, whether there were two hundred guests or two people.

You would be married to Diluc, and he to you.

(And Diluc—

Poor Diluc who found himself at wit’s end with how elated is, who has found himself lost for words despite never trying to speak. A kiss from you, of which have they become more frequent these days, quells the simmering rage and forges a new fire in him; One of great joy, of great desire that he hadn’t even thought possible.

Poor Diluc who lays beside you on your shared bed in the manor as you peruse a booklet of different colors for table linen, offering a sweet yet lazy opinion whenever you ask for it, his fingers trailing slowly up the curve of your spine. Exposed skin the fodder for his eager touch, brushing over splotches of red, revealed only after the intimate moment of the night prior.

—realizes rather latently and with great awe that Adelinde was right.)

“This is a good look for you, my boy.” Your father had told him when it was just the two of them. You, having been stolen away by Adelinde and a few older women of your family to plan, plan, plan!, just a few moments prior.

Diluc raises a brow. “Hm?”

“Happiness. It does wonders for a man.” Your father says simply, patting Diluc on the shoulder, “My dear late friend would be proud of the man his son came to be.”

It’s a warmth he hadn’t realized he was waiting to hear. An affirmation he hadn’t realized he wanted. It strikes him rather deep in his chest. Has his throat closing and a sharp prickling irritating the corner of his eyes.

That is until your father, for all his eccentricities, pushes the matter further.

“He would, however, be humiliated to know that he now owes me ten-thousand mora.”

“Ten-thousand?” Diluc questions after swallowing the ball in his throat. “What for?”

“I wanted to formalize your union when you were children but your father insisted that you both would eventually find your way. Ah, the scruples of men from the land of contracts and freedom. We bet the amount on it.”

Diluc pauses, “Forgive me, sir, but it sounds as though you owe my father. We made the decision on our own accord.”

Your father hums, a twinkle in his eyes. “You’re right. It does sound that way. But it would not have happened without a little push.”

Your father gives a knowing glance to Diluc, patting him lovingly on the shoulder. Diluc huffs a mirthless breath, realization falling onto him.

"She was never going to marry Tsaverich."

"Archons above, no. Me? Tied to that man? Puh. I thought she was going to finally confront her ‘secret’ feelings when I informed her of the need to decide. Or, that you would have made your sentiments known when she brought that wretched boy to you as a candidate. But, you two have always been a stubborn pair, so I was hardly surprised when she came home early slamming doors. I decided to take matters into my own hands and push. With a little help from some friends, of course."

Diluc huffs a breathless laugh. Speechless. Curious how he hadn’t seen the two strategically placed agents in Kaeya and Adelinde before. “Ten-thousand, it is. I don’t suppose you have a preference on cash or check?”

Your father laughs heartily, “Keep it. Invest it in my grandchildren. Now go, your bride is calling you.”

You are married, twice, in the Spring. With the sun setting on the horizons and the cranes returning to the land from their winter migrations, blessing your union with their homecomings.

It’s a beautiful event, one that habitants of Liyue and Mondstadt are sure to discuss for the rest of their lives. Unable to forget the melodious romantic hymns of a joyful bard, and the profound prose of a well-versed director who insisted that this was the most harmonious wedding he had ever seen.

Now, that life has settled and the routine has become normal— your life being lived between Liyue and Mondstadt, in the warmth of the manor that was always yours and in the arms of the man that always belonged to you—when bar attendants jokingly ask Diluc these days how’s that friend of yours?

He tells them the truth with a roll of his eyes and a small smile.

“My wife is very happy.”

And when the manor is soon thereafter honored to welcome another guest to the home the following Spring—a swaddled bundle of joy with the scarlet hair of her father and the warm eyes of her mother that the gaggle that is your conjoined families can’t keep their hands off of—

Well, Diluc is all too pleased to admit how happy he is, too.

a/n: if you made it here, thank you. i have been working on this fic for four years now. its taken up so much of my heart and space. kind of in disbelief that its finished.

#genshin x reader #diluc x reader #diluc ragnvindr x reader #diluc genshin impact #diluc ragnvindr #diluc <3 #tw: genshin #my writing #i expect exactly two notes on this fic lol #thats okay though! im finally DONE

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thriftedtchotchkes · 11 months

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happiest day

pairing: mike schmidt x reader

summary: when you least expect it, mike surprises you with a confession

warnings: 18+ MDNI, established relationship, hint of angst, smut, unprotected piv, creampie, mentions of rough sex, requited feelings

word count: <1k

Mike tells you he loves you for the first time the way no one ever should. Balls deep, while he's cumming inside you.

It tumbles out, a quiet moan at first, then a louder realization that takes both of you by surprise. His hips slam into your ass once, twice, and then he's filling you up, his admission hanging heavy in the air.

You're almost positive you imagined it until he repeats it again with a little more conviction.

"Fuck. I think I'm in love with you," he pants heavily, his hands intermittently squeezing your waist in time with the heady pulsing of his cock.

There's a beat of silence while you struggle to process his words, torn between the warring sensations of his release leaking down your thighs and shock tugging at your ribcage. He slips out of you as he softens, and once your connection is broken, it hits you like a ton of bricks.

"...What?"

He freezes behind you, and you immediately regret your gut response. That's not what you meant to say at all. Of course, it's not. You're just...confused. You hadn't expected it from him, not when you've only been together for a few months. Part of you wants to wait and see if he takes it back, just in case. But he doesn't.

"If...it's okay, you know. If you don't feel the same, it's okay," he mumbles, folding over you to rest his forehead between your shoulder blades.

His breath is warm and humid against your skin as he peppers soft, lingering kisses down your spine. Strong arms wrap around your waist, clinging to you like this might be his last chance, and suddenly it all feels so real. You've been too quiet for too long and now he's afraid.

You haven't told him yet, but there's no need to be. You just can't figure out how. How can anyone possibly cram the immensity of months of pizza nights on the living room floor watching James and the Giant Peach with Abby, and days off work spent tangled in bed, fucking and fighting and forgiving, into three little words?

You try anyway, but what comes out isn't a response. It's a plea. You don't know what you're asking for—you just know you need him.

"Mike," your voice shakes with it. He holds you tighter, and now there's so little space between you, you can't tell where he ends and you begin.

"You don't have to say it. It's okay, I won't be mad. I just...I need you to say something. Anything," he whispers, his day-old stubble rough and grounding as he speaks.

He nuzzles into you, breathing unevenly—nervously—and you realize he's comforting you. Regardless of what you decide, you're still his first priority.

You find his hand where it rests, splayed across your stomach, and lace your fingers with his. Just say it. Just tell him, say it back. There'll be plenty of time to show him how much you mean it.

Because they're not just words. They're not even a feeling. Love is a promise, and you'll keep it.

Taking a steadying breath, you turn in his arms and pull him down on top of you. It's the first time you've seen his face since he got home and wrestled you onto your hands and knees, all searing touches and deep, frantic thrusts. Since he told you he loves you.

His eyes meet yours, darting from one to the other, desperate for an answer, but yours, instead, follow the freckles across his nose down to the curve of his cupid's bow. There is so, so much to love about Mike Schmidt, and he deserves to know it.

"Of course, I love you," you promise, tilting your chin up so your bottom lip just grazes his top.

His face lights up with an unrestrained smile you see so rarely, the one reserved only for you and Abby on his happiest days. You lean forward to kiss him, softly and open-mouthed, and he inhales sharply, his hands shooting down to your waist.

His grip is a little too tight, and you think maybe he's scared you'll take it back, so you wrap your legs around him to hold him right where he is. Then, the kiss deepens and, when his hands start to roam, you realize what he needs.

Mike has always found solace in you, inside you, whenever he's struggling to express or accept what he's feeling, and right now he's asking for reassurance. Hooking your heels behind his back, you tug his hips into yours, and he groans into your mouth as he slips through his release still dripping from your heat.

He's already hard as a rock and bucking into you as if he didn't fuck you into his mattress less than an hour ago, except this time you can see him. The tension between his brows and in his shoulders visibly loosens, and he exhales a sigh of relief the moment he's buried to the hilt.

Enveloped by your warmth and security, it falls from his lips again, over and over—an increasingly sure declaration as he continuously fills you up and hollows you out.

You repeat it back, and it feels good. It feels so good to love Mike Schmidt.

thanks for reading!

#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt imagine #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt #fnaf imagine #fnaf smut #fnaf movie #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #more hidden lore references YEP

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rose-tinted-kalopsia · 3 months

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≡;-꒰ 𝑿𝑨𝑽𝑰𝑬𝑹 ꒱₊˚ ପ⊹ I 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓

╰┈➤ ❝ xavier x afab!reader | smut nsfw 18+ mdni

tags : 5+1 trope, pwp (porn with plot), porn with feelings (a. LOT.), poetic descriptions, fluff, with slight angst undertones, references to cards “moment’s respite” “close feelings” “fragment of time” "lightseeking obsession", unrequited but actually requited love, yearning, miscommunication, love confessions, reader is drunk in scene 5, kissing, heavy petting, grinding, fingering, clit play, slight nipple play, multiple orgasms, first time sex (with each other), vaginal sex (raw), needy sex, creampie, praise, dirty talk, use of pet names “angel” “my starlight”. lmk if i missed any tags !! ((slightly unedited))

wc : 13.4k (😭)

an : PHEW OK. i'm going back to my roots guys ... this is LONG, embarRASINGLY LONG but. if you want to skip to the Fun Part, that's in scene 6 (which is like. more than half of the entire thing really) !! also, play the song as you read i promise you won’t regret it <3

taglist : @spotted-salamander @darlingdummycassandra @milkandstarlight @thoupenguinman @valvinny [sign up here!] / +tyty @unluckywisher for beta reading a part of this the other day 🥺

AO3 LINK 🔗

Five times he couldn't say “I love you”... And one time he actually did.

—ᴏɴᴇ.

“Do you think Lemonette will finally stop bothering us for a while?”

You stifled a yawn as you walked up to your apartment, Xavier’s own footsteps following not too far behind you. The yellow wanderer had been roaming the city causing trouble, and you thought you’d gotten rather sick of seeing its face around—especially now that it had kept you both awake, the threads of sleep having slipped from you both the instant your watch went off. In that moment, a glance at the time told you that it was well past midnight. The sky surrounding the building was darker than dark, light from neither the moon nor stars enough to bring you out of it, the only comfort being the dim gleam of the hallway lights.

“We gave it a good beating, at least…” came his reply, and you shouldn’t have been so surprised to hear the grogginess present in his voice—as if he hadn’t been a large part of the reason Lemonette was rather… annihilated, for lack of a better word.

You smiled.

“Yeah, and no less thanks to you for it,” you chuckled, stretching as the door to your apartment finally came into view. You realized that you’d never once thought you wanted to be in bed any more than you did in that moment.

A momentary silence fell, and you stood by the doorway, turning around to face him.

Xavier remained still.

He seemed contemplating, scanning over your figure, fingers reaching out tentatively… only to fall back to his sides.

“Xavier?”

The call of your voice prompted a shake of his head, and a hint of embarrassment flashed briefly in his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he mumbled.

It wasn’t nothing.

“You’re not… injured, are you?”

A smile spread on your lips, then.

So he was worried.

“It’s just a scratch,” you shrugged. “You know how it is. Just the usual stuff, I don’t even need first aid for it. It’ll be fine.”

Still, he didn’t move.

“So… Will you be able to sleep okay?”

It was almost comical how he said it, what with how obviously sleepy his own gaze had turned. Eyelids heavy, slow blinks in your direction, as if everything he was doing in that moment was with the intention of conserving as much energy as he could… He was tired. Just as tired as you were. Just as jolted out of his sleep as you had been.

You nodded your head, and reached over to give his shoulder a pat.

“I’ll be okay. Really. Maybe it’s since I’m tired from all of that, but I feel like I could get some pretty good rest! I don’t want to keep bothering you with my sleeping problems, anyway…”

Your eyes met, then.

Xavier’s searched yours, as if trying to ascertain that you weren’t just brushing it off. And this time, he seemed to let impulsivity win—or, whatever it was that made him reach out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

His touch was soft. Gentle. Much like it always was; much like he always was, especially when it came to you. It lingered, the feeling of his skin against your ear, settling to rest by your cheek—and perhaps that was what made it feel more intimate, and soothing, than it otherwise would have been.

You didn’t know it could be so comforting just to look at someone like this.

To share a pause in thought, to enjoy the presence of each other… to have a little bit of your worries melt away the way that they did…

The moment offered more solace than you thought it ever could.

But Xavier tended to have that effect on you.

He always made you feel safe.

“Xavier?” You mumbled, your hand reaching up to rest on his wrist.

“Mh?”

“Um… Thanks. It’s not so bad, even if Lemonette had to bother us tonight. Since… I have you, after all.”

And at that, you watched him smile.

Somehow, the dim lighting around his figure made him appear all the more ethereal than he usually did.

“I think the same,” he nodded.

His hand dropped back to his side, then. His mouth opened and closed for a moment, as if trying to weigh what to say next, before he took a prompt step backwards.

“...Goodnight.”

It was soft, the way he said it. You could have missed it if you weren’t paying attention, and something told you that it wasn’t quite… what he had meant to say.

Still, you smiled.

“Goodnight, Xavier.”

In the end, it wasn’t so bad, like this.

—ᴛᴡᴏ.

How many days was it, now, that you’d found yourself in such a situation?

You stood in his kitchen, hands on your hips, looking at the tray of cookies in front of you. Much to your dismay, they were mostly charred, or otherwise deformed, or otherwise… much too expanded to be considered presentable. Your gaze raised to meet a very expectant one, blue eyes nearly twinkling, and you thought—how could he be so confident?

“Xavier,” you started, and you crossed your arms for emphasis.

It was in an instant that you saw him deflate. If he had ears like a rabbit—a thought you’d had for quite some time now—you were certain they would be folding over his face in near-mortification.

Or guilt, perhaps.

You weren’t quite sure which one it was.

You were sure, however, that it was difficult to scold him properly with the kind of expression he was giving you.

You reached up to scratch your cheek; “It’s not terrible… I mean, you’re getting better…”

“...I followed your instructions, though…” You watched him lean over the counter to take a look at what had become of the cookies, and then he, too, found his nose wrinkling in distaste. “They don’t turn out very well, do they?”

“On the plus side… They don’t taste bad!”

To make a point, you held up a cookie and took a cheerful bite.

“...Well, you know. Aside from the burnt ones, I guess…”

A pout formed on his face with ease, and with the way he’d been leaning over, you were able to notice the slight flutter of his eyelashes with every blink.

For a moment, your heart skipped a beat.

“How are you so good at baking?” he sighed. “I know you’ve been trying to help… But is there something you’re not telling me?” His voice sounded a little dejected, more emotion seeping into it than usual, and you could see his desire to learn reflected cleanly in his gaze. Xavier wasn’t often this expressive. You knew he was genuine with all of this, and especially with all of the impromptu baking lessons that he’d dragged you into.

Not that you ever complained, of course.

To you, any moment you got to spend with him was one of comfort; an opportunity you could never bring yourself to pass up on.

Even if these moments often ended up in…

You took another look at the cookies.

Well, burnt things.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

You knew you weren’t supposed to, and you watched his expression change from one of gloom to that of bewilderment. His eyebrows furrowed slightly as if trying to understand your sudden outburst—and with Xavier, you found, it was this expression that you so unabashedly adored. The confusion made him seem akin to a lost puppy, innocence in his eyes unveiled, a sincere glimpse into the person he didn’t often let you see.

This, with the way the sunlight streamed in through the window, the placement of his kitchen aptly weaved into the path of the sun, made the moment all the more heartwarming.

This was why you could never decline his invitations.

If only to see a little bit more of him the way that you were…

Your laughter settled into a grin, and you shook your head.

“Nothing, it’s just… Xavier, you’re so… So…” You made vague gestures with your hands, trying to find a suitable word. “So cute.”

The confusion in his face no less settled at that, but he crossed his arms. “...Well, so are you.”

You paused.

Your eyes widened.

In retrospect, it wasn’t as if this was anything new. Quips like this would often come out of nowhere; you’d learned to get a little bit used to it. That was the Xavier you were familiar with.

But there was something about the way he said it this time that made your heart skip another beat.

It had been doing that quite often in his presence, as of late.

The softness, perhaps; the directness, perhaps—or maybe it was the way the depth in his eyes made it seem a little more real. He met your gaze head-on, never wavering, never taking back what he’d said.

But in another split second, that moment was gone—and just as you had meant to tease him, now it didn’t seem like the words held much weight for him. There was an easy smile on his face, his eyes softened ever so slightly, but then he reached out for his own cookie to taste. And it was almost as if he hadn’t said anything at all. It was so typical of him to act so nonchalant about it.

Perhaps, part of you wished that he had said something more.

You cleared your throat.

“A- anyway,” you dusted some crumbs off of your clothes, “you can just—you know, try again later? You could follow along with a demonstration, or something… Maybe it was a little much just to recount the recipe to you. But, I really still think you’re improving! This’s a lot better than the last time we baked already, so with more practice I think you—”

Your words felt swallowed down in your throat, his eyes watching you with such intensity that you nearly had to take a step back.

“You’re amazing.”

Huh?

“You’re good at a lot of things. I don’t think I know what I’d be doing with all of this if you weren’t here.”

Again he spoke, with the follow of silent words that, to you, seemed like they never really made it out of his mouth. Like there was something more, something else he would have loved to say out loud, but he… didn’t.

As if he were holding back.

He took the tray from you, setting it aside, his eyes following the sunlight. You noticed him squinting slightly when he found its source, acting, as always, as if he didn’t just say something that could get the butterflies in your stomach acting up. As if the push and pull that had consumed most of the days you’d been spending together as of late didn’t… exist.

You almost didn’t know what to make of it, until he opened his mouth to speak again.

“Can we do this again, sometime?”

“I—huh?”

“I like baking with you.”

His head turned back to face you, and there was a small smile playing on his lips—one that mirrored the one you’d had just moments ago.

“Let’s do this again sometime.”

It wasn’t a question anymore, but a statement.

You swallowed down the fluster in your throat, feeling as if the implications of his words were a lot more than just… This.

But you offered a smile. “O…okay. Yeah. I… I would like that, too.”

It was so difficult to say no to him.

…Not that you’d ever want to say no, anyway.

—ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ.

He would do that quite often, you found.

Your eyebrows knitted together as you glanced up from your textbook, only to find him, chin in his hand, not at all paying attention to the book laid out in front of him. Blue eyes bore into your own, and though that selfsame flurry of butterflies whirled around in your chest, you only crossed your arms at him in response.

The library was quiet.

You were the only ones here at this hour, quite early into the morning, save for a few people scattered in their seats here and there. The only sounds were a few hushed whispers every now and then, the rustling of paper, perhaps the sound of a book closing, a chair scraping. Menial sounds, if only to add to the environment.

Sure, it was a perfect conduit for thoughts to wander, for sleeping to be induced, but—but he promised. He promised to help you study for this exam, or at the very least, that he would study with you so you wouldn't feel alone in it.

Yet here he was, not taking it as seriously as you'd hoped him to.

“What are you even looking at?” you nearly whined, your voice lower so as not to disturb the people around you that were reading. “A library is made for reading, you know…”

You didn't know how to feel at the expression he gave you, rather relaxed and unconcerned, head moving in a little nod. He gestured towards the open book before him; “I have a book,” he spoke matter-of-factly.

You gave him a pout.

“Yes, but you're not reading it…”

“I'm… doing more important things.”

“...Like what?”

“Studying.”

You couldn't tell if he was being serious, but his words definitely made it seem like he was playing around. In fact, had his tone not been so direct, you could have thought he was mocking you.

“Are you making fun of me?” you huffed. “If you didn't want to come here with me, you could've just said so, you know.” You made a face, and then promptly rolled your eyes. “You're not even looking at your book. What are you studying, then?”

And then he smiled.

And it was less irritating to you than it was worrisome, for there was something about that smile that made you feel caught.

Though in what, you weren't quite sure yet.

“Xavie—”

“You.”

You blinked, your words cut off, your brows furrowed in confusion. “...What?”

“You, I'm studying you.”

He reached over and brushed against your hair, knuckles just barely grazing over the side of your head, nearly akin to a slight flutter of the wind. In an instant, you felt a faint trace of dust fall down onto the table. Your eyes followed it, the moment passing in silence.

You bewilderedly blew it away.

You couldn’t bring yourself to speak just yet, only quite having the mental fortitude to look back up at him, the confusion on your face ever more evident.

“There was something in your hair,” he smiled.

Your face flushed, then, and you weren't unaware of the particular gleam in his eyes. He might have been stating the truth, but he was obviously still… teasing.

“Xavier—!”

A finger to your lips, this time, and there was no holding back the smile that formed on his own.

“Shhh,” he spoke quietly, “it's a library. You have to be quiet.”

You couldn't help the way your cheeks bloomed into shades of pink, and you lowered your head back to your book, defeated.

He didn't know the things he made you feel.

There was little sense left in you to find some kind of retort.

—ꜰᴏᴜʀ.

“You have kind of a funny interest in all of these legends,” you mused, following him with more careful footsteps.

Your eyes focused on the cone of ice cream in your hands, delighted at the appearance that you were promised. Though you had to plod through such a touristy place such as this for it, you were glad to have the bunny-shaped sundae cone finally right there in front of you. Holding it up a little, you tilted your head to compare the side-by-side image of the vanilla ears with Xavier, and smiled to yourself.

It kind of looked like him.

Little white ears matched the shade of his hair, and you figured it was maybe just missing those blue eyes you loved so much.

The person in question, on the other hand, seemed to have other ideas on his agenda.

He barely noticed your little self-satisfying antics, brows furrowed as he tried to make sense of the navigation app you’d installed on his phone. It was endearing how adamant he’d been on sticking with an old-fashioned map; this was a side to him you found that you adored dearly. Moving to circle around him, your eyes shone at his expression of concentration, his eyes narrowed, lips jutted out slightly into somewhat of a pout.

God, you really…

The thought remained uncompleted, and you cleared your throat.

“Xavier,” you reached up to lower his phone, shuffling closer to him to take a peek. “I really don’t think it’s that far… If you’re having trouble with it, just give it to me and—”

The phone screen shut as his finger moved over the lock button, and he promptly put it back into his pocket. A little smile, and a shake of his head, and then his arms were steering you forward as if nudging you along to continue walking.

“Nope,” he said, with a shake of his head to emphasize it. “I’ve studied it enough. We just have to walk a little bit in that direction. We’ll see the lovers’ bridge, then.”

Your eyebrows raised in amusement.

You let him steer you, felt the way his hand moved from over your shoulder to back by his sides, your hands brushing every so often. The only way you could distract yourself from it was to stare intensely at the ice cream in your other hand, one that had endured a few little kitten licks from you, but had its shape more obviously affected by the warmer temperature around you. You wondered, in the back of your mind, if it would last before you got to the bridge at all.

“Why do you want to go there, anyway?” You risked a glance back up at him as you spoke.

This little trip, in and of itself, had been planned on very much a whim—or, you supposed, not very planned, at all. But you could recount the few times you had been out with Xavier, and they had often been on your invite. This time, it was he who had insisted on dragging you out along with him, all to find the so-called Lovers’ Bridge that was infamous for its ‘good fortune’.

The white pedestrian bridge, stretching over the river in a sleek, sophisticated figure, had been used as a filming location for a number of romance movies. Of course, these were films that you had seen… But ones you knew Xavier had yet to, especially with the way he usually avoided all those sappy titles in the first place.

It was odd enough that he'd want to visit the bridge for such a reason… Yet there was more.

And you had found out about those reasons not more than a day before you’d left.

Because more than filming locations, was the superstition behind the bridge—a bridge that had completed its construction on Valentine’s Day, thus earning its name. And it had been swirling with promises and legends ever since, ones that reached the ears of even those outside the area. According to what had spread online, crossing the bridge with the one that you loved would ensure a long and happy life with them as a couple. And something churned in the pit of your stomach as you mulled over the thought, tongue darting out for another few licks on the treat that you held.

The taste of vanilla was cooling on your mouth, a welcoming rush of sugar that served as a means for you to ground yourself a little.

Because you and Xavier were not a couple.

In fact, you were far from it.

You were friends; yes, neighbors; yes, colleagues; yes.

Lovers?

The thought brought a blush to your cheeks, because you wished that you were. And you were aware that sometimes, the both of you tended to act like you were. You spent nearly every moment that you could together, the lingering warmth of his touches and his presence near you whenever he could be near you were burned into your memory. The rumours at the Association didn’t fall on deaf ears, either. You knew what people were saying about the both of you, and you oftentimes wished them true—you did. The affections you held for him were undeniable.

But that was quite frankly not the reality you lived in.

Xavier had never been clear about it with his signals, nor direct about his feelings, nor—nor anything else. Nothing official had ever occurred between either of you, not in this oddly-structured game of tag, so shrouded in this push and pull, where the rules remained ambiguous, and where the outcomes presented just as vague.

And it was a terrifying thing to assume.

Yet, without properly explaining why… he had been adamant all day to walk straight into it—the bridge, its surrounding legend, all of it.

“When good luck is involved, it’s better to believe they exist. You have nothing to lose.”

Those were words he was fond of saying, and the only words he would ever use to give you a reason.

The same could be said for this moment.

You found yourself being thoughtful as you fell into step with him, eyes scanning your surroundings, watching the couples that seemed to float in and out of your peripheral vision. There weren’t as many of them as you thought there would be—the bridge was now in your line of sight, its pearly-white structure jumping out against the backdrop of the setting sun. At the very front of its steps was a little bed of flowers; blue, you noted, tinted ever so slightly with the swirl of cotton candy from the clouds above.

The river below it rippled with a darkening pinkish hue.

The sun would be below the horizon in just a few moments.

And at the same time, in perhaps a minute or two, the bridge would be lit up in an equally captivating display of beautiful colors.

Even without the legend, you wouldn’t have minded getting to see something so pretty.

“...Your ice cream is melting.”

You blinked at his voice, your eyes drawing away from the scenery and back to him.

It could have been the shadows of the sunset that made him shine a little brighter in your eyes, now, that you couldn’t quite bring yourself to formulate any sort of response.

His eyes softened, the gentle breeze brushing through his hair.

Sometimes, you thought, there was something about him so inexplicably out of reach. Yet here he was, giving you attention, reaching for your hands, allowing for the heat from his skin to linger upon your own for even just a moment…

And then in these moments, you couldn’t help but think of how lucky you were.

“Aren’t you going to finish that?” he mumbled. There was a slight shift of his gaze towards the cone in your hand, before he looked at you again. “It might make your hand all sticky if we go and walk on the bridge right now…”

He was right, of course.

Your own gaze drifted down to the hand with your ice cream, now less of a rabbit, and more of the standard scoop of ice cream for all that it had melted. Parts of it had even begun to drip down onto your hand, but you had barely noticed the feeling.

“Oh, I… I mean, we can wait for the lights to turn on first, so…”

Blinking again as if to snap yourself out of your reverie, you lifted your hand—

Xavier beat you to it.

He had his thumb and index finger wrapped around your wrist, slowly pulling it towards him.

A smile.

You didn’t miss that smile, how could you? Slight, and perhaps, barely visible otherwise, but your breath caught in your throat—Something had you gravitating towards him, nearly entranced in the heat of his stare, sucking in a sharp intake of breath as his tongue darted out to lick at the stains of vanilla that ran over your palm.

You were blushing, probably.

You couldn’t even tell, at that point.

Soft, tiny little kitten clicks at your skin, almost as if to clean up the mess—you couldn’t really have bothered to focus on the expression you were making, feeling your own heart beat so loudly out of your chest that you were certain he could hear it.

“Xavier…” you mumbled.

His eyes twinkled, and he moved his mouth to the treat in your hand, taking a bite of his own.

“Can’t let it go to waste, right?” he licked at his lips.

The clusters of people, then, long-forgotten in the moment you had dared to share with each other, let out a resounding exclamation at amazement, as a click resounded in the air and the bridge before the both of you erupted into dazzling colors. Yet, your skin still tingled at the feeling of his touch, and you felt dazed as you turned your eyes back to him.

“I guess we, um… We should finish this before we go…?”

He chuckled, and then he nodded—“I… Think vanilla isn’t a bad flavor.”

—ꜰɪᴠᴇ.

The spin in your head made your vision hazy. You couldn’t remember, anymore, what time it was—only that your system had become intoxicated long past coherence, and the grass you sat on had a strangely soothing texture to it. And in front of you, right then, was that red, empty solo cup you’d brought with you outside.

You vaguely made out some loud music, and a voice in the background—Tara’s, probably. But you couldn’t be bothered to decipher what she was saying. You didn’t register that she was actually right beside you, trying to keep you engaged in conversation, a hand over your shoulder.

How long it had been like this?

You weren’t quite sure, either.

What you could remember was that Tara had planned a little girls’ party of her own, and it had gotten bigger than anticipated… And you supposed you’d ended up drinking more than you’d expected to. Eventually, you found yourself out in her front yard. It was the night breeze that felt comforting, despite the cold. There were stars out that night—a few of them shone brilliantly above you, and though you weren’t looking at them anymore, their presence made you smile.

It was only when a shadow passed over your figure that you looked up again, head lolled a little to the side, rapid blinks trying to steady on the person in front of you.

“There you are!” Tara stood up from beside you, dusting off some of the dirt from her pants. With a grunt, she managed to pull you up, though your weight naturally rested on her shoulders. Unbeknownst to you, she let out a pleading sigh. “Sorry, Xav… I didn’t notice how much she drank until she went wandering out here…”

Oh…

Xav.

The nickname registered in your head, and your vision, a little less blurry at the snap the information had given you, managed to form Xavier’s figure in front of you. His hair was a little unruly, the white hoodie so familiar on him a little more disheveled than you knew it to be—his eyes, too, held a certain level of concern that you were able to make out.

He had probably been sleeping.

There was a twinge of guilt that lapsed over your face, but it didn’t last—his presence brought on a giddiness you couldn’t have thought to control, and a lopsided grin easily came to prove it.

You slid off of Tara to fall straight into his arms; the scent of his laundry detergent had you sighing. It was almost by instinct that your arms wrapped around his waist.

“Xavier…”

A nuzzle against his chest had Tara clearing her throat then, and she made a pointed gesture.

“Well! She couldn’t stop talking about you, so I figured you were the person I should call! Sorry, really! I didn’t realize it would get this out of hand, but I do need to get to the other guests, too, so I hope I can leave her in your hands! Thanks, Xavier!”

You didn’t notice her leave, not until you felt a warm hand on your back, a familiar, soothing voice speaking softly into your ear.

“Hey… Let’s get you home. Let me just… Call a cab, and—”

“...But you’ll just leaveeee…”

He paused.

“I’m… Taking you home, so you can get some rest.”

“T’my place?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’ll stay w’me?”

The silence that followed only had you clinging to him tighter.

“Seeee…! You’re not answering! You’re gonna leave me ‘gain… N’I dunno when I’ll see you ‘gain, n’theenn…!”

Your voice trailed off on its own, resorting to nuzzling against him, feeling as if parting from him in this moment would never give you another to hold him so close like this.

But it didn’t last.

The fact was: Xavier was gentle with you; still.

Patient.

Enough to pry you away from him, enough to get you to comply to get in the cab with him, enough to usher you up to your apartment and unlock the door… until the familiar warmth of your couch had you happily sprawling out, hugging the pillows close to you.

You barely had any recollection of what had happened; it was enough for you to know that he had been with you.

That he was still with you.

“Xavie…”

Your hands reached out for his, registering late that you’d been reaching for the glass of water he was holding rather than the hands themselves.

And you frowned.

“Huh? C’mere… Wan’ hold you…”

You made out the shake of his head, gentle gestures to sit you up properly on the couch.

“You have to drink water first,” came his reply.

His voice was so soft.

You could let it get to your head, the mere sound of it bringing a silly grin onto your face, a giggle bubbling past your throat. “Oooh… Can you say it again?”

It was clearly nonsensical, and you noted yet another shake of his head, the patience in his eyes ever evident despite all of your antics. It could only make you giggle even more, your hands falling to your lap, expression clearly very much out of it.

Until—

“Angel… You’re too drunk. You really need to drink this.”

Angel.

The giggles, the laughter, all stopped abruptly. You felt your expression shift into that of wonder, your eyes wide and blinking curiously. Somehow, the nickname sent all kinds of flutters into your stomach—ones you couldn’t bring yourself to understand, especially in the state that you were in.

You leaned forward:

“You’re right… You’re like an angel…”

Your voice was light and airy, nearly akin to a gasp, and perhaps you might have giggled it off again had Xavier not reacted with a sigh. Because before you could do anything else, he moved his hand to rest gently over the curve of your spine, bringing the glass up to your lips.

It registered, then.

Your response was immediate, as if nearly conditioned, allowing him to tilt the glass upwards. You found yourself eagerly gulping at the water as it flowed down your throat; you hadn’t realized how much you needed the water. You were suddenly all the more grateful he had given it to you, gasping for air once the glass had been drained empty, and then blinking to look at him through hazy eyes.

“Better?” he murmured.

The hand on your back gave you soft, gentle rubs as he set the glass down, and then he reached up to brush the strands of hair from out of your face.

Immediately, you stilled. All traces of your giggles seemingly washed away with the water you’d drunk. You certainly didn’t feel any less intoxicated than earlier, but his touch through your shirt, and the soft caress on your cheek, felt all the more heightened that this moment felt nearly surreal to you. It was then that you could notice those favorite blue eyes of yours, staring into your own, searching your own, soft, and full of worry, and—

And something else.

Something you weren’t coherent enough to put a label to.

But something that caused tears to well up in your eyes.

“Xavie,” you pouted, though you kept relatively still nonetheless, if only to lean more into his touch. “Why’re you lookin’ a’me like that?”

You caught the faintest trace of a smile on his lips, but he didn’t move away.

“Like what, angel?”

That nickname again.

You groaned as you fell back against the couch, grabbing a pillow to bring it up to your face.

Something about that nickname was driving you insane.

You felt your cheeks flush a cherry red, not just from the alcohol, and more likely from whatever else he was making you feel. You couldn’t quite tell what expression you were making, hidden behind the pillow, fighting some sort of giddy urge to let out a squeal. You didn’t even know how you had the space to overanalyze it. But the questions swirled in your head before you could stop it—has he said it to anyone else before? Was it just… you? Was it supposed to be… Common, and you weren’t aware of it?

The possibilities that plagued you only allowed another groan to sneak past your lips;

“Wh- why’re you callin’ me that, too! A-an’ being all soft with me, s’like… like you mean something…”

You felt the couch shift beside you, and although you still refused to look at him, you felt yourself naturally gravitating into his warmth.

“Do you… want me to mean something?”

This time, you sniffled.

Saved from his gaze, you quickly moved to bury your face back into his hoodie, allowing yourself to focus on his scent, on the way he held you like this, on the way—for even just a moment—he felt… yours.

“Dunnoooo,” you whined. “I’unno what you’re thinking… I never knowww what you’re thinking! Always so nice to me n’then you leave me all alone the next, then I’unno where to find you anymore… Say all these things n’keep me all close t’you, then you act like nothin’ happened…”

You rambled into his chest, your voice slurred and muffled into the fabric, gripping at his hoodie as if he could disappear in any next second. They were similar words to what you’d said by Tara’s front yard, similar feelings of refusing to let him go. But speaking them out with more clarity—whatever clarity you could muster the way you were speaking now—felt like twisting a knife into your heart.

Because all your thoughts had been clouded with him.

They were all-consuming, deliberately buried down into the pit of your stomach only to resurface with an intensity you could barely fathom yourself. How he’d been treating you, the words that he’d say… For the past days, for the past weeks, just—just him. Him, and his eyes, and his hair, and his voice. His touch. His presence. His comfort.

The Xavier you knew you’d come to love.

A hiccup bubbled in your throat, and you let out a quiet whimper in attempts to quell it.

Love.

Was that the emotion you couldn’t pinpoint?

Was that what you were feeling?

The visceral grip that he had on everything that you were; was that what you could call… Love?

“This isn’t the kind of time we should be talking about this…” You felt him murmur into your hair, a soft kiss placed on the crown of your head. Yet he wasn’t pulling away. He kept his hand on your back, soft, gentle caresses, trying to soothe you from the outpour of emotions you had barely the consciousness to control. “You’re not going to remember this tomorrow. How about we talk about it then?”

“B-but… But you always make excuses!”

“Angel…”

You looked up this time, sniffling in irregulated breaths, eyes watery with tears that were threatening to spill.

“You can’t call me that!” you insisted. Your hands balled into a fist. “D’you know what that means?! W-what if it’s making my heart all restless? N’you can act all calm like it’s nothing!”

“...I’m sorry…”

“An’—an’ you’re… You’re so warm… You’re like a fluffy cloud… N’what if you leave? What if you’re only here ‘cause m’like this, and then the rain passes n’you just leave me all alone again, an’... A-an’ then the sky won’t have any stars, either, n’I’ll be all alone—”

You could register the mix of confusion and concern on his face, your words barely making sense even to you, but your grip on his hoodie remained tight. You felt it, the way your tears rolled down your cheeks, your own expression a mix of desperation and a confusion that likely mirrored his own.

“Just… Just don’t… Don’t leave, Xavier…” you felt your lower lip tremble. “I’on wanna be left all alone… M’scared… I’on wan’ you t’leave…”

Your voice became smaller and smaller with each word, and you were left there, sniffling for a moment, looking up at him with a certain kind of hopelessness.

You were aware, at least, that you likely looked pathetic in his gaze like this.

“...M’sorry, Xav, I-I’unno what…”

Your words swallowed back into your throat when he reached out, brushing his thumb over your cheeks, over the corners of your eyes, wiping away your tears. His touch, as always, felt like a gentle caress. Patient, despite the incoherence of your thoughts and your actions; kind, despite the way you were keeping him here with you very likely against his will.

But he squeezed your hand.

You knew what that meant.

You gulped, looking up at him again, allowing his touch to lull you into a calm as it often did.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled. “I won’t leave. You have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

Through the haze of your eyes, half blurred from the alcohol and half from the tears, you caught the softening of his gaze. He moved closer, a little bit—slow, steady movements. And then he pulled your arm back over him, his own moving to rest in your hair… Until you were encased in the warmth of his embrace.

Almost just as earlier, except this time more… real.

He didn’t feel like an afterimage, not now.

Not in this moment.

His head dipped down, nuzzling against your neck, and he sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way, I’ll… I’ll do better. I’ll stay with you. I’ll be right here.”

His breath tickled your skin when he spoke. And, to you, these were words that you felt were more genuine than you had heard from him in a while. It was enough to have you comfortably settling into his hold, eyes falling closed, breaths beginning to even you out.

Your head still throbbed.

It was a combination of everything; all of these feelings, and the alcohol that had planted itself into your system far past any level of sensibility.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe you wouldn’t recall any of this when you woke up the next day.

You tended not to remember things when you got like this, after all.

But still, your arms wrapped around him, returning the embrace.

“...I love you, Xavier,” you whispered.

Maybe he wouldn’t remember anything, either.

—ꜱɪx ... xᴀᴠɪᴇʀ.

The soft clinking of spoon against the mug was all he could hear.

It was late in the afternoon, leaves rustling gentle against the kitchen window. The atmosphere was quiet, and peaceful—enough for him to let out a little yawn, eyes blinking slowly in the golden rays of the light.

The tiredness was catching up to him.

Fluctuations had been far more unsteady than usual these past few days, and it only meant another morning full of missions for the both of you. Now, here, where in his apartment the both of you decided to relax in, was the first moment of pause the two of you had been granted in a while.

He recalled, too, the complaints you’d muttered on the way back. Though you’d done so on the premise he wouldn’t hear you, he did, anyway. It brought a little smile to his face thinking of the tone of voice you had taken.

For though headstrong and dedicated to your job as you were, you, like all Hunters in the Association, had the right to feel weary. You deserved moments of rest, such as now. Xavier couldn’t blame you for your complaints. He wouldn’t dare.

Like a distant whisper in his mind came words that were familiar to him; words that he wished he had another moment to comfort;

“I’m tired, Xavier… What if I can’t brandish my sword one day? What then?”

The memory made him close his eyes, jaw tightened in a grind of his teeth.

What he’d said, then, were words he had never gotten the chance to fulfil—words he could never take back. He could remember them, still. It was of the last few times that their conversations had been cordial.

And it was the moment he realized that words were not enough; they never would be. Not if he couldn’t live by them. Not with all the promises he had easily broken.

He wondered, then, how many things of the past he’d come to regret.

With a shake of his head, Xavier carried the mug carefully out the kitchen, sure not to let its contents spill. This was your favorite flavor of tea, and it always had been. If he couldn’t make up for lost hours and missed opportunities then, he would make up for it now.

He would try to.

“Hey, Xavier?” Your voice called out, getting steadily clearer to him as his footsteps padded the wooden flooring of his living room. It was his apartment, one he’d know the layout of like the back of his hand—yet he found, instead, that his path had moreso been mapped out by the sound of your voice. “I realize I never got to ask what these are. Is this… Are these what I’m thinking they are…?”

He blinked.

You weren’t where he’d left you, just earlier.

You’d stood up from the couch, the soft rabbit plushie now out of your hands and since left to the side, looking a little dazed. His own gaze flitted from the toy up to your figure, crouched beside a little wooden stand by the corner of the room. In a manner he’d always found familiar, your head was tilted to the side, pure evidence of your own curiosity. And on top of the stand lay a case, beige as most things in his home, raised slightly open to reveal the touches of a little turntable.

Immediately, his eyes softened in understanding.

“It’s a record player. And those are vinyls.”

He walked up behind you to tap on your shoulder, and the way your eyes lit up at the sight of the mug in his hands nearly made his heart skip a beat.

“Really?!” you exclaimed, taking the tea into your own hands. Your shoulders lifted, whether by the warmth of the drink or your own excitement, Xavier wasn’t quite sure. But he smiled, nonetheless.

“Really.”

“Aren’t those from… Incredibly long ago? I mean, I’ve always known you were old-fashioned by nature, but I didn’t expect you to have things like these, too… I don’t think I’ve ever seen them outside of those little antique shops we pass by sometimes.”

You were rambling, almost.

He knew you got like this when you were excited.

Your expression became more animated than usual as you spoke, leaning in to get a closer look, and he almost laughed.

For all the times you’d call him adorable, he almost wanted to say it back to you, this time.

He almost did.

But when you looked at him next, there was a certain plea to your gaze, the corners of your mouth then turned down into a little pout. “Please can we play something?” The hopefulness laced into your voice didn’t go unnoticed by him. “I’ve never heard you use it before! What’s the use of having it sit around if we don’t get to hear what it plays?”

It felt ironic, looking at the image presented before him. The stand the player rested on had two shelves lodged within it, the bottom hosting a set of vinyls, the one above it hosting none other than a stereo. And suffice to say, the stereo had been used a lot more. The case of the player was well-kept, cleaned and shined every now and then… But it was obvious it had barely been used. It might as well have been new. Xavier himself couldn’t recall the last time he’d used it.

But that you were asking him to, only meant that he would give in. It was difficult to say no to you.

He could hardly dream of it.

“Okay,” he said finally, nodding his head in the direction of the vinyls.

The both of you crouched down to look at the titles, Xavier watching intently as your fingers traced over the record sleeves. They were soft, slow, contemplating motions. You took each one out of its place to look at the cover, eyes skimming the title, before putting it back down—rinse, and repeat.

This time, he did laugh. There was a confused sort of wonder on your face; he was sure that these titles were anything but familiar to you.

“Are you having trouble choosing?” he offered, leaning in closer to look at the records themselves.

Here, sitting so close to you, he could feel the warmth from the tea that you had only taken a few sips of, the scent of your perfume equally as notable in the space between you. Part of him, perhaps, wanted to prolong the moment.

He liked being close to you.

“Mmh… I’m not sure what to expect from either of these,” you admitted, your face scrunched up in concentration. Still your hands trailed over the jackets, and without thinking, he reached over to rest his own hand over your wrist.

When you looked at him, he was pleasantly surprised to find the faint traces of a blush over your cheeks.

You truly were adorable.

But he shook his head.

“Well… They’re a lot different from what we’d be used to now,” he leaned in closer to you to give you a little nudge. “I could choose for you, but I want you to experience it for yourself, too. So, maybe… Choose something you feel drawn to?”

He stood up, then, willing his heart to calm enough for you not to notice how your proximity was affecting him. Instead, he busied himself with the case, lifting up the lid completely to reveal the knobs and switches not otherwise visible just earlier. He tried to remember the last time he’d cleaned it, but it seemed to be in a condition good enough to be able to work, anyway. There was a part of him that let out a sigh of relief at the confirmation; the last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you with it.

“Katharine McPhee…” you mumbled, then.

“It’s a pretty name. The cover looked interesting, too, and the song title is… Well…” Your voice trailed off with a shrug, and he looked back at you, blinking at the vinyl you held in your hands.

Slowly, his lips turned back into a little smile.

Oh. That song.

You handed it over to him, expression expectant, as you took another sip of your tea.

“I actually… Don’t really remember how to use it.”

The soft admission fell from his lips, an honest warning that only earned a scoff from you in reply. He didn’t look at you this time, as he gently slid the record out of its jacket and placed it on the turntable. He didn’t need to, after all. He’d memorized enough of your expressions—the mirth in your eyes, the tugging of a teasing smirk against your lips that would eventually spill into a grin… He was sure you had your head tilted in quiet observance, his own hands moving to push the needle flush against the record.

After he reached over to flip the power switch on, he straightened, arms crossed, a hope in his eyes that could have mirrored your own. In a similar manner, you peeked out from behind him.

And then the first notes of a song flouted out from the box.

Mellow tunes wafted around the living room, a different kind of fullness to it compared to the music that both of you were used to hearing from the speakers. The gentle strumming of the guitar, the soft hums that started off the song—he breathed out a sigh of relief, while you, on the other hand, let out an exclamation of amazement.

In his head, he would have likened your behavior to that of a puppy who’d gotten a new toy. The mere thought of it had him glancing away for a moment, the back of his hand covering his mouth to hide his smile.

Yet, he—couldn’t quite look away from you.

It was hard to look away.

It always has been, when you had since filled his heart with a song of its own, and he’d always been so vividly aware of your presence ever since.

As if you were the only thing that truly mattered to him.

And perhaps, you were.

He could think back to these past months, every little glance the two of you would share, every brush of your hands, every caress he dared to initiate, every hold on you he’d be greedy enough to take for his own.

One of the earlier nights he’d let his self-indulgence get the better of him, he almost said those words—always on the tip of his tongue, always surging through his heart with an intensity he had to fight back so as not to scare you. And I love you became goodnight; I love you became stay; I love you became come back; I love you became come with me.

It became a glance. It became a touch, it became the tug of your hand. It became gentle ruffles of your hair, it became smiles, it became laughs, it became—you.

Love became you.

And now, the crisp noise emanating from the player seemed to wrap you in its embrace, smoothly, as you began to sway. Your feet shifted side to side as you let your head bob in time with every step, every little shuffle. You’d tucked your hair behind your ear, and your eyes closed. And he couldn’t help but notice—admire—the warm cascade of sunlight over your hair, shrouding you with a glow more ethereal than he’d ever seen… even with you. You were brighter than the sun. Brighter than the stars. Brighter than anything else, brighter than whatever light his Evol could possibly conjure, and just enough to match the warmth that being here with you, unfiltered and peaceful… filled him with.

“You know… I really like this song!” Your voice echoed through the music then, more noticeable to him than any other sound in the room. You turned your head, eyes meeting his own—”You’re right, it doesn’t sound at all like the kind of music we’d listen to these days, but the melody is really catchy, and her voice is really smooth, and—”

“Dance with me?”

Xavier spoke before he could stop himself.

In the next second he felt a sudden surge of heat at his own statement, nearly retracting his words to look away in embarrassment…

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached out his hand.

He was sure the tips of his ears were near-glowing red.

He tried again.

“May I… Have this dance?”

And for all that his heart rate had always been naturally slow, he could hear the steady thrum of it in his ears. Louder than usual, quicker than usual, more anticipating than usual. If there was anything that could get him nervous, it was you.

Always you.

But you took his hand.

Your palm in his was small, but just as warm as you always were to him. Just as beautiful, as you always were to him. And perhaps, the world began to fade away, then. It often did, when he was with you. Only, now, in the confines of his home, symphonies echoing in the background, he knew that he was free to hold you as close as he did.

Neither of you spoke for a while as he pulled you up against him, his arms wrapping around your waist, your head against his chest. This was the closest the two of you had ever been in a long, long while, and he realized, then, that the pulse of your heart seemed to beat readily in time to his.

“I didn’t peg you to be a collector type, huh,” you mumbled.

You weren’t looking at him, eyes focused on the shuffle of your feet. He took the opportunity to rest his chin on the top of your head.

“I’m not,” he said quietly. “It was… A gift from a friend, but I haven’t gotten to use it much. It’s… been sitting around.”

He felt you laugh softly against him.

“Yeah? But you’ve kept it around, anyway. Who knows just how old this thing is…”

“...But, it works.”

“Mmh… yeah, it does. Thankfully. And… You know how to use it.”

“I hoped that I would.”

This time, you raised your head, and his breath hitched in his throat. Seeing your eyes, so up close like this, brought on a wave of emotion that he found he had to choke back.

It didn’t stop him from speaking.

“I… thought it might be something you’d like. I’m glad that you do.”

The smile that spread across your face in response to that nearly made his heart jump out of his throat. And the tug of your body closer to him was all he could do to keep those words from spilling out of his mouth.

I love you.

He could say it with a look.

And, sure, you had said it.

He remembered that night.

He’d barely gotten a wink of sleep, holding you in his arms as he had, but you weren’t—You weren’t sober.

And neither of you had talked about that night.

It was as if your relationship had meant to continue for as long as it could without addressing it, and it was driving him insane, and—

And if he could, he would have this moment drag on forever, just you in his arms, a slow dance to the music, as far as he could lie to himself that you were already his without either of you having to say it.

But he knew that was not the case. It couldn't be. And he knew that you knew it, too. He saw it in the way your expression flickered into one of apprehension, and your lips parted to speak.

“Xavier… What are we?”

Your voice came as a soft whisper, with a question he found that he had no immediate answer to. He searched your eyes, brows furrowing, trying to ascertain what it is you were expecting him to say.

He knew what he wanted the two of you to be.

He didn’t know what you were. He didn’t know what… you wanted.

So that was what he said.

“What do you… want us to be?”

It was as if all he knew how to do in that moment was deflect the question back at you.

And you frowned.

“Xavier, that’s not… I don’t…”

The turmoil that made itself obvious in your voice had his heart dropping almost immediately.

Because that was it.

You weren’t sure.

Those words you’d uttered to him just that night were nothing more than a drunken ramble, and he was right—this wasn’t the same as all those years back. Here you were, in his arms, yet every time he’d think you wanted him just as much as he did you, you’d pull back.

How cruel that you would think the same of him, when you could barely be receptive to what advances he could make.

Then, perhaps, he realized there was a limit to how much he could take.

“I know what I want,” he mumbled, then.

His hands moved up to rest against your cheek, a gesture that had become familiar to you, despite the emotional charge behind it, despite the way he could only wish to hold more of you in exactly this way.

And there was so much of you that he held in his heart.

He didn’t even know how to place it anymore. So many years of feelings he’d harbored for you, always, all this time, yet he never knew how to explain it. Neither to you, nor to himself. Because he’d never felt this way with anyone else. To be so full of contentment in someone’s presence; to be so hopelessly enamored by every little thing—even after all this time, this was new to him. New, and profound, and—

And terrifying.

To love you so wholly, so insurmountably, so… so much.

It almost felt foolish how terrifying it was.

His heart felt as though it had lodged itself in his throat, and he was sure that his voice would falter as a result, but this—this was it.

How could he move forward any longer without letting you know?

And it was the way your eyes remained steely on his that allowed him to speak again, determined—

“I want you.”

The music had since been long forgotten. Familiar, yet faded within distant memory, as the world, once more, became filled with you. It had always been like that. In his mind, there were many things that had since receded into cloudiness; a grey abyss of things that once were. Now, the only thoughts that ever seemed to hold clarity to him were thoughts of you.

How much he wanted you.

How much he needed you.

How much he… loved you.

Perhaps, he couldn’t say those words just yet.

Instead, he swallowed them with a kiss.

A chance; a risk—an obvious display of the bounds of longing that he’d reached, that had filled to the precipice, that had tortured him beyond an anguish of waiting.

It was an anguish that only you could fill.

The touch of your lips against his, soft and supple, the way you craned your neck for more of it, the way your arms tugged him closer, closer, pressing him into you if he should dare pull away…

“Again,” you whispered.

And he had his answer, then.

You wanted this just as much as he wanted you.

So he kissed you again.

And again.

“More,” you pleaded, and each and every time you parted with one another, he could only think, perhaps, that there was no place else he would rather be than here with you. The quiet, crackling tune faded into your heedy breaths against each others’ lips. Right then, the music came to its own end, bringing with it a different kind of symphony that now danced within the depths of your eyes.

He felt your hands slide down from his neck back to tug at his sweatshirt, and his forehead moved to rest against yours.

“Satisfied?” he smiled, his voice lighter than it had been today.

“When it comes to you? Never, really.” Your noses bumped together, the slightest nuzzle filled with an insurmountable kind of affection. ”Because I want you, too.”

Those were simple words—but a direct revelation of your feelings, a direct reciprocation of his own, and—naturally, they spoke volumes. Enough for his heart to fill with warmth. Enough for his shoulders to relax, with a sort of relief he wouldn’t be able to explain to you if you asked. And he held you in his embrace, arms still wrapped comfortably around your figure, knowing that he could let go, but… he didn’t quite want to. Not at all. Not when you felt so right with him here; not when the implication of your words settled deeply into his chest.

So instead, he let out a slow, heavy breath, and perhaps he couldn’t help it anymore. His lips gradually inched back impossibly closer to yours, his gaze straying down from your eyes, dizzying, almost, at the way you were barely touching—

“How much?” he mumbled, because an agony of waiting couldn’t possibly be resolved in a single moment.

You let out a soft laugh.

“For forever,” you rolled your eyes, but you smiled. “If having you forever could ever be enough.”

His breath hitched.

Forever.

Forever sounded like bliss with you. Forever sounded far more wondrous than whatever fantasies lived in the pages of those books on his shelves; far more than anything he had ever, ever wished for. And he had wished for this for a long, long time. For you had always been in his heart. He knew, now, that he was in yours.

And forever was as long of a time he was willing to spend with you.

“I’d like that.”

Then his hands gripped your waist tightly, desperately, as his lips came crashing down once more—and this time, the desperation that had coiled itself in the depths of his heart found freedom in the way that he kissed you. Like clawing; almost, as if afraid he could never get another moment like this, as if afraid you could disappear from right in front of him, right then and there.

As if he wouldn't let you.

He couldn't.

And the longer the kiss continued, the hungrier it became.

There was the scent of your perfume, the scent of your shampoo, the taste of your lipgloss… All-engulfing, more, and more, until all he could feel was you. All he could taste was you. You, and you—so warm, and so right, and—his.

All his.

All while he felt your hand tangle into the roots of his hair, and you panted hazily into his open mouth, desperately wanting to breathe, and yet—neither of you wanted this moment to ever end.

And the both of you had an inkling of exactly where this was intending to lead.

Feet shuffled against the floor, a few steps backwards, but neither of you got very far before Xavier was lifting you up into the air. His arms supported the weight of your body through your back and your knees, positioning you into a princess carry—he noted the squeal that you let out, your eyes finding his in search of confirmation. It was, perhaps, instinct the way you clung to his waist next.

But he had never been more grateful for the straightforward layout of his apartment, keen to lay you down on his bed with a promise of much, much, much more. The weight on the mattress shifted, and his figure crawled over your body, the faintest brush of his knuckles against your skin. From this angle, you caged between his arms, legs slotted between yours, his weight holding him up by his forearms—you were beautiful.

More beautiful than you always had been.

The redness that surrounded your lips, lipstick askew, swollen from your kisses… Your hair was splayed out against the pillows, disheveled than things had started with. And there was a certain longing in your eyes that, he was sure, quite vividly reflected in his own.

He could feel the way his hair had likely gotten just as unruly, the sting in his scalp still tingling from where you had tugged and scraped just moments before. Yet he made no attempts to fix it, the annoyance of his hair nearly in his eyes of no importance to him in this moment. Not when you were here. Not when the tension in the air left him feeling dizzy, the prospect of having you closer making his head spin.

“My starlight,” he whispered, then.

He watched, fondly, at the blush that covered your face—and he came to the realization that the midday glow had melted into skies of velvet.

And this was different, now, from any past sunsets he had ever watched with you.

Now, it streamed in through the window in skyburst reds and yellows. vibrant hues painted over your face, your body… A skyward hearth reflecting the solace he could only ever find in you.

And you were his sky.

You were his home.

You were his… everything.

It was these words that were swallowed back as his lips descended past your cheek, past your jaw, down your neck. He would let actions speak louder than words, this time; the words uttered instead into your skin. His fingers worked deftly to undo the buttons of your blouse, hips rolling into you, a friction that had his breath tremble against your neck. And then a suckle over the soft flesh on your shoulder made you gasp—he’d do it again, and again, lips trailing your skin in search of every mark of you he could finally, finally make his.

His eyes closed.

He could savor the sensation—hot breaths against you, the drag of his hands across the smoothness of your skin, those slow, loving circles he rubbed into your waist before he could tug your clothing off of your body.

Not a word was spoken; not yet.

Only hushed gasps and shaky breaths, every roll of his hips, the friction of his erection against the outline of your sex nearly driving both of you into a quiet dance of insanity.

You broke the quiet first.

“Xavier.”

A shaky whisper as his fingers trailed downwards, pressing flush against your lips, feeling the desperate cling of the fabric against you.

Another stroke of his finger, lewdly accompanied with the wet, sticky sound of your arousal—

“Xavier.”

He looked at you, then. Dragged his gaze from over your figure to the haze in your own.

And he whispered; “Beautiful.”

His strokes against your cunt had your bottom lip quivering, hands slipping from over his back to the mattress below. Little taps against your clit, finger dipping the fabric nearly inside, your wetness seeping through with ease… He could feel every pulse of your pussy, your need for stimulation never more clear to him than in that moment.

And—

“Xavier… Xavier.”

You sounded so sweet.

Every utterance of his name had hip drawing in a breath; he had never before in his life heard it called out with so much… love.

He wanted more of it.

Lips moved to mouth at your breast, as your panties were pushed aside. Slow, open-mouthed kisses, dangerously close to your nipples but not quite—

His finger, then, slid directly over your folds, and you caved.

“Xavier—!”

A louder, uninhibited moan of his name, your back arching into his touch.

And there, displayed in his eyes, was a look of wonder. A look of love.

Your legs spread in response, inviting, daring. You were baring yourself to him so willingly, that you didn’t need to say anything else. The plea in your eyes was enough.

The plea in your voice was enough.

“Xavier…” you spoke again, barely a whisper, your hands moving back to thread through his hair.

And how could he ever deny you?

You shuddered immediately as his lips moved to wrap around your nipple, the heat of your skin against him pulling the corner of his lips up into a little smile. Every flick of his tongue had your body twitching beneath him, and he felt every little jerk with a certain sense of pride.

It was so easy, then, for his finger to push inside.

You gasped, and he pushed deeper—the gentle probing of your hole had you pliant and starved for his touch, his name falling out from your lips in a chant.

“Xavier… Xav—Xavier— Xavier—!”

He groaned against your skin. Your sounds were like music to his ears, a jolt straight down to the tent in his boxers that was almost painful.

Yet still, his eyes never strayed from yours.

He let his teeth graze over your bud as his finger curled inside you, pressing against your gummy walls, just slow, easy thrusts to guide you into the rhythm. And he could see it in your eyes. He searched them, equally as lost in the swirl of haze that had you drowned in the pleasure he gave you—and it was beautiful. Almost heart-wrenchingly beautiful. How he had always wished, yearned, to belong to the inner world behind your irises, and now he—he could.

He only pulled away from your breasts to rest his head by your ear, a low chuckle resounding. He felt the effect of it almost instantly as you clenched over his finger, but he didn’t stop there—a second digit found its way in.

“Shh, I know, angel, I know.”

Quiet, soothing whispers against your ear, his other hand moving to brush the hair out of your face.

This time, the light from the window was bathed in twilight—

He smiled.

That even the moon and the stars would smile upon you, would cover you in their light… The sky itself would speak of love. Of you.

He watched, as your hips, illuminated by the evening glow, began to make more desperate motions. You drew his fingers in deeper, guiding them to rub against the spot that had you crying out another chant of his name. His thumb brushed up against your clit, then, and your hand reached out to grab his arm.

Another smile.

“Is it there, angel?” he murmured. His hair fell over your face as he moved to face you, lips ghosting over yours. And he caught every gasp, every moan, ever drone of his name and every shudder of pleasure he could elicit by repeating the same actions.

Again.

And again.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, wanting him close, his ministrations unrelenting. Long fingers dipped in and out of the heat between your legs, sounds of slick and arousal emanating from your cunt in time with the murmurs you keened into the crook of his neck.

“Close?” he whispered.

Whimpers fell from your mouth as he kissed at the corners of your lips, gently coaxing you closer to your high. Each pump of his fingers had your body arching higher, higher off the mattress, the soft cooing of his voice a catalyst to the climax you were so close to.

“Please,” you begged. “Please, Xavier… Please!”

Your words nearly made his throat close up, eyes closing momentarily as his cock twitched in response to you.

“I know,” he mumbled, “I know, starlight. You can do it, just a little more. Focus on me. Does it feel good?”

He leaned up to kiss the little beads of tears that formed out of the corner of your eyes, whispering against the flutter of your eyelids as the only coherent response you could give was a feeble nod.

“Then cum for me, angel.”

You gasped, and he felt it. Your walls constricted, your body arched, and his words, his voice playing into the heat in your core, so much so that it was much, much easier for you to let go. The coil snapped, and your hips bucked upwards, his name mixing with curses upon your lips that he found… delightful to his ears enough to smile.

“That’s it. There we go. You’re so good, angel, look at you…” He let out a slow breath as he withdrew his fingers from you, watching as your body twitched in the aftermath of your orgasm. Slowly, he slid down your body, hands gripping your thighs to spread you apart, and he placed a soft, barely-there kiss against your clit.

Your body jerked at the contact, and he immediately rubbed soothing circles into your skin, cheek resting against your thigh as he looked up at you with a smile.

“I know,” he whispered, again, “I know. You’re sensitive. I won’t do too much.”

But you shook your head.

His eyes blinked slowly, carefully, as he felt your fingers in his hair, coaxing him back up to you.

“Angel?”

“You’re an angel.”

Your breathing had calmed enough for you to speak this time, the familiar words falling from your lips in a way that made his heart skip a beat.

“You…” he breathed out in disbelief as your foreheads touched, taking in the slightest hint of mirth that became visible in your eyes.

And after all this time—through all the doubts that swirled in his head, through all the desperation to get the timing perfect, in manner with the perfectionism that had been instilled so deeply into his heart—

It was you who spoke the words first.

“I love you.”

And the lump in his throat had prevented him from responding immediately, but you knew.

Your hand reached up to cup his cheek, and like all the years he had felt such a familiar gesture, he allowed himself to surrender. The weight of his head fell into your palm as he nuzzled closely into you, his own eyelids fluttering, as if savouring every bit of affection that you held in that caress.

“My starlight…”

A feeble rasp of the little nickname he’d made for you was all he could muster in the moment, and you, in return, could only chuckle.

Perhaps, it made the moment feel more real.

A soft sigh fell from your lips as he pressed back up against you, as your hands worked to pull down his boxers, as the throbbing of his cock pushed against folds.

“Starlight, I…”

His words melted into a groan as it was you who moved your hips against him, the slide of your sexes coating his member in your slick. And the quiet of the night could not have rang in his head any louder than the wetness between the both of you, evidence of the desire that rang true in your bodies as his hips seemed to move with a mind of their own. His eyes closed as he dragged his length along your folds, breath stuttering as the head of his cock would catch on your entrance with each withdrawal of his hips.

Your breaths were shaky as you hugged him closer, receptive of his slow grinds into you and against you, and he realized, then, that this was real.

Your words were real. There was no alcohol laced into your words this time. Instead, you nodded your head, and he noticed it—a different kind of intoxication, the reflection of his figure stirring in your eyes with unspoken need.

“Xavier…” You whispered again, and it was a plea.

Such a multitude of ways that you could say his name.

“Xavier… please, take me.”

And with one slow thrust, he was there.

Closer to you than ever; as close as the two of you could be.

A moan fell from his lips as the tight passage constricted around him, the thickness of him stretching your walls to accommodate the feeling of being so full.

And it was enough.

“I love you…”

His head fell against your chest as he felt himself tremble, the sensation overwhelming. You were so snug and warm around him, so… perfect. There was no stopping the words from falling out of his lips. He would say it again.

“I love you.”

He felt your breath stutter against the crown of his head, and he buried himself deeper into you, nuzzling into your chest, his body alight with a heat that he could barely begin to fathom.

He loved you so much, it ached.

And you moaned as your head threw back, hands clawing into his back, as his hips began to move. Slowly, at first, the languid pacing of his hips allowing you to feel the drag of his length against your walls, allowing him to soak in the way your cunt would suck him right back into you.

“Xavier, Xavier, Xavier…”

Your sounds were soft from your lips, a melody that had him rhythmically moving in the tune of, only picking up the pace ever so slightly—because he could hardly get enough of you. You drank each other in shamelessly, savouring the taste of your skin, every inch of your bodies colliding with every movement, and it was—enthralling. Breathtaking. Every snap of his hips as he breathed heavily against you had you shuddering. You would meet his grinds with needy little humps of your own, and he—

He could lose himself in this.

And all he could focus on was the endless litany of his name upon your lips, the quiet sound of skin against skin, the near-filthy squelch of your cunt with each dance the two of you would play in.

Until he could barely breathe.

Until his lips were back on yours, and you would hold each other close, hold each other tight, never letting go because this—all of it—was exactly what the both of you needed.

Xavier felt it, then. The squeeze of your walls, the flutters, the pulses—he lifted his head.

His vision was hazy.

All he could think of was you; all he could feel was you; all he could see was you. The flush of your cheeks, the way your eyes looked back at him with a darkened, half-lidded gaze, the way your mouth held open in desperate pants for air.

And he moved harder, harder, faster—

“Angel,” he choked out, holding himself up by his elbows on either side of your body.

“D-don’t stop, Xavi, please, don’t—don’t—”

“M.. M’not stopping, angel… I know… I know, feels s’good, doesn’t it…”

He angled his hips, deliberately pushing his cock against the spots inside of you that he’d memorized, and—

“X- Xavier…!”

His teeth grit as you clenched around him, legs drawing over his hips and keeping him flush against you enough to trigger his own release.

“Take it… C’mon… take it, angel, take it, take—it—”

His head dipped to bury against your hair, tucking you under his chin, keeping you caged in his arms for as long as he could. His hips stuttered as he pumped inside of you, spilling his load with a wave of euphoria that had you both letting out a cry of pleasure. And he pulled out just the littlest bit before sliding in again, shallow thrusts making a mess of his cum, the throb of his cock pulsating against your walls…

Muffled groans turn into trembling breaths, heavy pants as the atmosphere gradually relaxed into contentment.

“I love you.”

He peeled off of your body only to gently stroke at your cheek, taking in the glow in your smile at his words.

So he said it again.

“I love you.”

And he leaned in to pepper kisses over the side of your face, like little specks of stardust, a gather of constellations that could only fill his universe full of you.

You laughed, softly, nuzzling your nose against his.

“You make my heart smile,” you sighed, and he placed a kiss at your eyelids in response.

“And you make mine. Always.” An honest reply. His hands found yours, fingers intertwined, a soft, gentle massage into your palm. “...I love you. I’m sorry I took so long.”

And you smiled.

“You did take long,” you hummed. “But now that you’re here… It’s worth it. Just... Make it up to me and cuddle for a little. Okay?"

His eyes fell closed.

This time, he felt—this was a promise he could make for you. This time, knowing he had you, he thought… Perhaps, he could.

“...Mhm. Rest now,” he whispered. “And I’ll be by your side. Always.”

“You said it again, my heart's in motion; every word feels like a shooting star. I'm at the edge of my emotions, watching the shadows burning in the dark, and I'm in love—and I'm terrified."

[Terrified ; Katharine McPhee]

⁺₊ / an: first of all scene 4 was inspired by the tamsui bridge in taiwan, second of all can you believe this is the first time i used 3rd person pov limited (non-reader)?? and it was such ??? a challenge??? and third of all DID YOU NOTICE… that i used the slow dance trope in direct contrast to sylus’ "once upon a december" drabble hehe i’m smart sometimes <3

ANYWAY my thoughts on this is that writing this made me realize why xavier/mc has always felt so special to me, and why the 21 days card made me so emotional :'> this took reallyyy long to finish because i reaally wanted to convey the gentleness in their relationship (through a reader insert, no less!) while also keeping all that fear and desperation and uncertainties of falling in love still very much real and present 🙏 writing the outline and scenes 5+6 made me cry a little,,, i hope reading this fic has allowed you to feel the depth of their love, too <3

also : mention for @sadfragilegirl for that one request you sent a while back! since you requested "passionate loving smut" with xavier i'd think this fits in with that hehe

© rose-tinted-kalopsia. all rights reserved. do not: steal, copy, repost, reupload, modify, or claim any of my works as your own, regardless of credit given. absolutely do not use my works for AI training and other related purposes.

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loveindefinitely · 9 months

Text

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

01 — TOO YOUNG TO KNOW IT GETS BETTER

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

You almost worshipped him.

It wasn’t because of his status – although, that certainly played a role in it all – and it wasn’t because of his bank statements.

No. Phillip Graves was one of the best men you’d ever known.

Or so you had thought.

Turns out, no matter how well he looked after his men – his ‘girl’ – and no matter how charismatic he was, that wouldn’t, couldn't change his roots. And, at those very roots, was decay. Evil in its most purest of forms; a tantalisingly devastating mix of every sin.

The most prevalent one?

Greed.

He was a greedy, greedy man, and he would stop at nothing to have it all. Even if he knew the fall out; even if he knew that he could never go back to the man he once was.

Phillip Graves didn’t care. Not in the slightest.

And it was you that would pay the ultimate price.

Rain beats down your back in heavy sheets as you stand, the harsh night littered with flashlights and car sirens.

It’s cool, just this side of too cold, and it has the hairs on the back of your neck rising with the temperature.

The temperature, and…

“Yup-yup,” the two men to your right call into their comms. You remain silent, but it goes unnoticed. Your eyes are trained to the paved street, rippling with the rainwater, littered with streaks of red.

Blood stains this town, and you haven't done anything to stop it.

“Let’s go.”

Raising your head, you meet the eyes of the operative who, ranks-wise, is below you. Really, you should be reprimanding him for his quip, but you understand the annoyance. You’re being quiet – something quite unusual for your normally direct and authoritative nature.

Tightening your grip around the shiny, water-slicked gun in your hand, you give him a sharp nod in response.

Seemingly satisfied, he turns, and you follow him along the sidewalk of the narrow, stone streets. Shops line either side of the area, their front-windows smashed and the products inside thrown about.

It’s like your heart has launched itself into your throat, the constant thrum of it setting your nerves alight.

“Three-zero, I want you and your two to find those Brits. We’ve got the cops. Copy?”

That once reassuring, adoring voice is now cold, void of any emotion he used to have. It makes tears burn at the back of your vision – if you were a weaker woman, they’d have fallen. Instead, you press down the button for your comms.

“Copy, Sir. Three-zero out.”

The fact that you manage to get those words out is a feat in and of its own.

It feels as though you’re lost at sea, with nothing to hold onto. Buoyant, but barely – every wave threatening to pull you under for good. To smother your silent cries for help, for guidance, for something to keep you grounded.

But there is no sea, and there is no support.

“You two go up ahead, I’ll search the house here,” you say, voice thick with demand. You didn’t have to decide anything right now. You just had to be the leader you were, and do what you’ve always done.

“Copy,” your two subordinates say, moving up further.

With their absence, you find that you can breathe – as if a weight has been lifted off of your chest, and you can finally fill your lungs.

You’re alive. You’re alive. You’re alive.

The mantra helps, surprisingly, and you hold onto those two words like they’re your only lifeline.

Through the thick of night and rain, you can see the door to the house on your left. It’s been left open, which means that either it’s already been searched – which you doubt – or… Someone else has been in there.

Gun secured in your grip, you move to the door with soft footing, quiet enough to not be heard over the shouts of other shadows just a few ways away. The constant pattering of the overhead storm clouds slow, just the slightest, allowing for a bit more sight.

Using your shoulder to further open the door with a creak, you take note of your surroundings immediately.

There’s a flickering light to the room on your far right, a living area, most likely. To your left is a short hallway, but none of the doors alert you of any occupancy. The place has been torn apart, pictures scattered along the wooden floor, shards of glass decorating the space along with it.

It sends a pang of guilt through your chest.

These were families being torn apart by your commander, your company. And for what? What was Graves’ angle here?

You’d been left on base to keep things running smoothly while Graves and unit one worked with the 141 and Las Vaqueros. You knew very little about any of this, and when you’d been called out to Las Almas, to aid with this?

This wasn’t what you fought for. This wasn’t what you would ever support, not in a million years.

But going against direct orders was going against your commander, and your livelihood. Shadow Company was all you’d known since your childhood. Having been hired when Graves was merely a young-upstart with big dreams, you were quickly swept up in the community of it all. They were your family, and Graves was the only semblance of a ‘loved one’ you had.

And now?

Now, he was sending you on a bounty hunt, for two men who, from your limited knowledge, didn’t deserve death. They were the good guys, and although most of your existing bias towards the two was due to rumours back on base, your intuition said that they were good men. And your intuition had never steered you wrong, not once.

Your mind feels like a never ending turbine as you move through the house, eyeing the barren walls and smashed vases.

Exhaling a low, deep breath, you tighten your hold on your weapon. It’s more of a comfort, at this point. Which is odd, considering that its sole purpose is to kill and destroy.

Through the dim light, you manage to find a set of stairs. They’re dingy, and the patterned carpet is mildew-riddled as you make your way to the next floor with slow, careful steps.

You’ve decided to keep your flashlight off, just in case it brings any extra attention to you.

As soon as you make it to the last step, a sense of… wrongness settles in your system. Something’s off, and it’s almost as if there’s an alarm ringing in your ears at the realisation.

Someone’s here.

Grounding yourself, both mentally and physically, you prepare to push through the hallway.

Setting aside your mental dilemma, you remind yourself that the physical battle is far more vital to your life right now. If you lose that, you lose your life.

If you lose your morals?

You just suppose you lose yourself.

The sound of a radio switching on has your senses alerted like a switchboard completely alight.

Stepping into the hallway, your chest constricting, you snap your gaze to both of your sides. With the little-to-no light, you can barely make out your limbs, let alone your surroundings. Your spatial awareness was solid, but with conditions like this? Near impossible.

The entire corridor is shrouded in shadow, the incessant rain outside and the screams of the cartel’s policemen ringing in your ears.

It reeks of death and despair, and your skin is coated in a thin sheen of chilled sweat.

The third door to your left is creaked open, just the slightest sliver, but it catches your attention like a moth to a flame. Keeping your frame encased in the darkest of the shadows, you move with patient, skillful steps towards the door.

A moment passes, tense and nerve-wracking in a way no other mission has ever been.

A breath in.

A breath out.

You push open the door, gun raised, ready for anything –

Nothing.

Quickly checking over the room to your right, you see nothing but bashed up mattresses and blood-stained carpet.

Just as you’re about to turn to check behind the door, two things happen at once.

One, you get slammed to the ground, your head knocking against the hard flooring and sending a burst of pain through your temple, your gun skidding across the floor to your left.

Two –

“Fuckin’ Christ!”

A man – scottish, that much is prevalent – whisper-shouts. You squint, the pain of the sudden fall throwing you off.

Not a second later, however, you manage to roll, shoving him off of you with a grunt. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the darkness, but you manage to make out the impossibly muscled frame of the man who’d just fallen on top of you.

He’s tall, not as giant as some of the men you served alongside with, but tall nonetheless. That’s all of the visual information you manage to gain before he sends an elbow to your gut, evoking a hiss through your gritted teeth.

You wriggle away, kicking out with your right foot and hitting what you think is his chin, considering his pained grunt.

“You bloody bastard,” he snaps, hand wrapping around your ankle and pulling you.

Your responding squeak is likely the most undignified sound you have ever made in your life, but it gives the man pause. Enough of one so as to allow you to wrench your leg back and careen it back into his face.

“Shut the fuck up!” You hiss back, all too aware of the likelihood that your men will show up and shoot first, ask later.

“Are you feckin’ stupid, lass?” He retorts, although his tone is dutifully lower as he scrambles to grab your legs once more, his fist finding your belt and pulling you towards him.

Your attempts to dig your heels into the ground to prevent yourself from being pinned by him are fruitless, his strength undoubtedly superior to yours. That was a fact all too common when it came to your hand-to-hand fights, but luckily, it was just one factor of many.

“Are you?” Your shock is palpable as he gets his other hand around the other side of your belt, using the grip to pull himself over you.

His torso is pressed against your own as he goes to pin your hands, but with one quick manoeuvre, you wrap your legs around his waist and turn.

Utilising your lower body strength, you’re able to reverse the position, your hips pinning his to the ground. In one sweep of your hands, you collect both of his wrists and force them into the carpet. The room fills with your harsh, panted breaths, the outside commotion only a distant soundtrack.

“Yer supposed to kill me now, Shadow,” he says, a torment, a threat.

You swallow, once, an unsure thing.

He’s right, of course. He should be dead by now, bleeding out onto the floor. You should be comming to your fucking Commander, and telling him that one of the men he’s after has just been reported KIA. That’s what should be happening.

So how come it’s not?

“I know,” you say, the words falling through your lips despite the internal conflict in your head. “You should be dead.”

He mirrors your confusion with raised brows, and it’s then that you can feel the blood trickling onto your hand. He’s bleeding down his arm, you realise with a start. He’s wounded.

Flitting your gaze to the floor up ahead, you catch sight of your gun, only a few steps away. One shot is all you’d need. One second, and that mouth of his would never open again.

The sole window in the room flashes with a burst of lightning, and that short second of light lets you catch sight of his features. Blood coats his jaw – from your kicks, maybe – and he’s got dirt caked onto his cheek. His stubble has clearly missed a few shaves, and his mohawk isn’t gelled.

“Still waiting, Shadow,” he says. And although he’s quiet, the words feel like a yell in the tense room. Like a shout directly into your soul, screaming for you to sort your shit out.

You go to respond – with what, you’re not sure – when the man underneath you manages to rip his hands from your grip and swing them around the back of your neck. He pulls you forward, your neck fitting into the crook of his elbow as he squeezes.

When you try to inhale, you end up choking on a cough. He’s strangling you, you realise, with his fucking biceps.

There’s mere moments for you to make a decision before you pass out, or he breaks your neck. Moments for you to decide what the fuck you can do.

Balling your right hand into a tight fist, you punch into his nose, a sickening crack making your teeth slide together. He swears, rapid-fire, a few Gaelic-sounding words slipping out along with them. It’s enough of a distraction to let you wrench out of his hold with a cough, wincing when you claw at his arm and draw blood. Thank fuck for fingerless gloves.

Crawling forward as he brings a hand up to his now-bleeding nose, you’re just a breath away from reaching your gun when his hand grabs into your hair and pulls, eliciting a cry from you.

It’s a dirty move, but this is a dirty fight.

“Fucking – let go!” You grit out, the pain of the tightening on your scalp unique and not at all tolerable.

He just pulls tighter in response, and as you try and reach the gun, your fingers fall just millimetres short. It’s maddening, your emotions out of whack and your mental compass skewed beyond belief.

He should be fucking dead. He should be fucking dead.

So why wasn’t he?

You realise that he’s using his grip on you for leverage, to move himself closer to the weapon. Reaching towards his bare arm, you manage to catch your hand around it, nails digging into his wet skin.

He lets out a pained groan, and it becomes quickly apparent to you that he’s been shot in that arm. Moving your fingers, your index finger pushes into the open wound.

His grip on your hair goes lax, and he stops moving towards the gun long enough to allow you to move on top of him once more, pinning him underneath your weight. You’re both evidently weaker than the last time you were in this position, and you’re about to do something, something, something –

“Johnny? How copy?” An urgent, oddly panicked voice echoes around the room. It’s crackled, in only the way a radio’s can, and the two of you stun yourselves into freezing. His communications have been dislocated, and now they’re loud and clear for both of you to hear. “Johnny, what the fuck is happening?”

“Shit,” Johnny curses, head falling back against the ground in exasperation.

You’re not sure when you’d laxed your grip from his wound, your hand loose around his arm. You’re not sure when you’d subconsciously started avoiding fatal moves.

At this point, you’re not sure about anything at all.

Although it’s hard to see, you’re sure that the two of you make eye contact.

Neither of you make a move.

“Soap!”

Slowly, Johnny moves his hand to the communicator in his vest, pressing the button to allow for his voice to carry over to the man on the other end.

“A little occupied, Sir,” he murmurs, tightly.

If you move your hand to his throat, or use this as a distraction, you could have him dead before the other man could even register his words.

“I can’t get a visual on you,” the other man quips back, voice laced with thinly-veiled worry. “Johnny, if you die, I’m fuckin’ killing your ass.”

You bite back a slightly crazed chuckle at that statement, and by the shift in Johnny’s chest, he does too.

Johnny doesn’t turn off his communicator. The other man – Ghost, if you’re correct – will be able to hear everything you say.

Ghost and Soap.

Jesus H. Christ. Soap – Johnny MacTavish – the 141 operator you heard whispers about throughout your unit – he was underneath you. He was on the run from your commander. He was the man you were assigned to fucking kill.

He’s alive.

You’re alive.

“Shadow Three-Zero, what’s your status?”

Oh, fuck. Fucking hell.

Both you and Johnny’s eyes dart to your own communicator – the earpiece scattered along the floor just as his had been.

Graves’ voice. It sends a shiver down your spine for all the wrong reasons, and the lump in your throat doubles in size. If it’s at all possible, the rain outside grows louder, and more gunshots echo in your ears.

“Shadow Three-Zero. Have you got ‘em? Don’t go two-timing me now, babe.”

How he’s – how he’s being so light, so carefree while storming these streets and murdering fathers, brothers, sons in cold blood – it cements a thought in your head. Out of the storm of them, the endless noise of them all, one becomes concrete. Factual. A single truth in your world of lies.

You press down your communicator button.

“Haven’t found them yet, sir. Wouldn’t dream of going against you.”

“Atta girl,” he responds, a light chuckle carrying over the radio. “After this is all done, we can have a celebration of our own, hey?”

Your mouth is barren of moisture, your tongue a heavy weight that feels all too useless as you reply once more. It doesn’t go unnoticed how neither Soap, or Ghost over the comms, say a word.

“It’ll be my pleasure, sir.”

You rip off your communicator, throwing it across the room. It sets the course of the rest of your life, you’re sure. You still do it.

All the while, you hold Soap’s gaze.

He hasn’t killed you. He could’ve, you realise, he really could’ve. He had the opportunity. Still does.

But.

You’re alive.

And so is he.

“What’re you doin’, Shadow?” Johnny finally asks, equally suspicious and curious. His tone is tight, almost as much as his body is against your own.

You’d almost forgotten that he’s underneath you. Weaponless, and bleeding out. Wounded.

On the run.

Your eyes are wide, manic, maybe, as you say with shaky breaths;

“This isn’t right. I – I don’t fight for this. You guys, you,” squeezing your eyes shut, if only for a brief moment, you continue, slower, “This isn’t the Graves I know. I’m not going to be on the wrong side of history. I’d rather betray him than stand by his side with blood on my hands.”

Soap must sense your conviction, your wobbly words holding such truth and capability in them, because he nods, sharply.

“Johnny,” the radio chimes in again, the man’s tone a warning. “Don’t.”

Soap works his mouth, a crease forming between his blood-stained brows. If you were at all a poet, you’d akin his blue eyes to a storm-brewed sea. But you’re a soldier, so they’re merely obvious in the window’s scarce light, a stark contrast to the reds and darkness all around you both.

You’re not sure what’s wrong with you. You’d clearly hit your head too hard when Soap had crashed into you, or you’d been drugged earlier.

“I have intel,” you blurt out, like a crazed lunatic. That description is, unfortunately, a little too fitting to your current state. “I’m – I’m a fucking good fighter. You help me, I help you.”

“We don’t need your help,” Soap quickly, almost automatically, retorts. But his words seem weak, his certainty nowhere on your own.

“You’re shot and on the run with no weapons,” you reply, slowly. Words. You were good at words, at debates. You could survive this. Maybe. “I know Graves. I know my men. And I know that I’d rather be a traitor than a war criminal.”

That’s maybe the most true thing you’d thought, or said, since you’d first been asked to head to Las Almas with an order to kill.

There’s silence.

A few beats pass before you open your mouth once more, tone just this side of pleading, “I’ll help you guys survive this. If you help me take down Graves, and support me – if you give me the assets I need. That’s all I’m asking.”

“We don’t trust you,” Soap says, and you nod.

“I don’t exactly have faith in you either. But it’s this or we all end up dead.”

Ghost inputs something, this time. “If you two make it to the church, we’ll consider it.”

That’s the most you can ask for. The best possible outcome from you being the biggest fucking idiot to walk this earth. You were lucky that Soap was… merciful. Which was, all things considered, the weirdest component of this entire, messed up equation.

It seems like agreement passes through you all, like a sort of handshake. An invisible one, but a symbol of truce nonetheless.

“Get yer ass offa me,” Soap groans, breaking the tension of the room.

Scrambling off of him, but keeping your wits about you, you realise that you’d virtually been laying on the man your entire conversation. Your ears burn in embarrassment.

“...Right. I’m taking my gun,” you murmur.

Which is, obviously, the worst thing to say.

“Are you feckin’ serious? Dinnae wanna work with an idiot, Jesus,” Soap immediately hisses out, getting up with a hand on his knee, bringing his other to press against his bullet wound with a wince. You think that Ghost says something similar, but it’s drowned out by Soap.

“I’m best with close-range, and I’m not the one wounded,” you immediately bite back, hand wrapping around said weapon and holding it to your chest, checking over the room for any more supplies. Luckily, unlike the man in front of you, you still have all of your supplies and gear. His top is thin, you think, and soaked through with both rain and blood. Your standard Shadow Company uniform still fits you like a second skin, and although wet, doesn’t soak into your bottom layers. Your tactical knife, still strapped to your thigh, is secure and perfectly in place.

How you’d not used it in that fight was a testament to your mindscape more than anything.

“How do I know ye won’t just shoot me when my back’s turned?” Soap shoots back, his tone a weapon in its own right.

You raise a brow, and you hope that he can see it. “I would’ve done that already if that was my plan. And you’re calling me an idiot.”

“You’re a right ass,” he retorts, not unlike a petulant child.

“And you’re a right dickhead.” And, alright, you realise that you’re not much better, but it’s deserved.

“And you both need to hurry the fuck up.”

You and Soap both have the decency to wince at the man’s words, and you both shut up as you finish checking over yourselves. You, focusing on checking your straps and belt, and Soap, hissing about his wound.

…If this camaraderie lasted the night, you’d think about apologising for that move.

Checking over your gun, you move to slowly open the door as Soap fixes up his radio, putting his earpiece back in its place. You are, admittedly, a bit annoyed that you won’t be able to hear Ghost’s callouts, but again, you had a gun.

“Let’s go,” you softly say, tilting your head towards the door. Soap nods, clearly ready to meet back up with his Lieutenant and get out of here.

As you slowly open the door, guns raised and eyes alert, you let the reality of your situation settle over you like the world’s coldest blanket. You’re going against everything you’ve ever known, all because of your morals that had always been slightly off-centre. Came with the job, you supposed.

But this was uncharted territory. Directly betraying your unit, your men, your Commander, and helping the men you’re assigned to kill? Asking them for their help in return?

“Clear,” you softly report to Soap, who acknowledges your order with a low noise. Following you with silent steps down the stairs, you keep your gun raised as you check over the bottom floor, before signalling for him to exit through the front door with you.

As the two of you enter the laneway once more, your breath catches in your throat as you assess the damage.

You spot several bodies littering the streets as rain hits you once more, the presence of it oddly comforting throughout it all. A truck up ahead has its lights on, the red of the brakes shining against the wet pavement like the pools of blood not three metres away from it.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” Soap murmurs from behind you, and you can’t help but agree with his sentiment.

This was pure bloodshed, at the hands of the one man you thought you could trust.

Betrayal tastes oddly sour in your mouth. Betrayal like this, on all sides, it’s like being suffocated by two cloths at once. Two very bloody, very assaulting cloths, at that.

Soap seems to be communicating with Ghost as the two of you make your way down the street, considering the back-and-forth whispers from Soap. He seems almost. Flirty. Which is a stark realisation, and truly, the least of your worries right now.

“If you can find bandages, or something close to it, I’ll get that arm of yours fixed up.”

You keep your tone low, careful of your surroundings as you see Soap nod, albeit almost in shock, in your periphery. Keeping your gaze forward, you move along the sidewalk.

The beauty of these shops, and this community, has been tarnished by the massacre of your Shadows. Your heart aches, seeing it all – the smashed windows, the blood, the distant sound of screaming and crying.

You and Soap make it about a block in silence, before flashlights ahead have you grabbing onto Soap’s shirt and pulling him into the open door of the shop to your left, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

“Shadow Three-Zero’s gone silent,” you hear a familiar voice say. Your subordinate – one of the two you’d sent to check the houses up ahead. “Reckon she’s dead?”

Soap, for his part, is silent where he’s been pushed up against the wall, your head meeting his collarbone.

“Nah. She mighta slept her way to the top, but she’s good. Probably gone dark so she can suck Graves off on the side or something.”

Your breath comes out in a sharp exhale, your fists tightening unknowingly onto the fabric of Soap’s shirt. He doesn’t even breathe in response.

The other chuckles. “Fuckin’ slut. Can’t believe she gets to order us around when we all know why she’s here.”

And, oh, does that make your stomach turn. You were many things, but you were not one to abuse a position like that. They knew nothing of your struggles, or your relationships, or –

“Fuckin’ cocksuckers,” Soap grumbles, and that shocks you. For a man in the military to recognise misogyny like that was, really, unheard of.

You ignore that thought.

“Shut up.”

He does.

The two Shadows continue walking down the street, and you quickly peer out of the front window to watch them head down another sidealley, taking their thoughts with them.

“Come on,” is all you say, and Johnny follows tightly behind you as you continue down the way you were heading.

You find an alleyway to your left, and you decide to follow it. You can see a flashlight scanning over the street further down. Shadows were everywhere, but they were pushing forward like a tsunami over a coastal town, leaving nothing but destruction in their wake.

Soap follows you without question, which is odd, but you’re not about to complain.

“Ghost says that there’s underground tunnels – we can get to the church through ‘em,” Soap murmurs as he taps your shoulder. You nod, not looking back as you search for any telling of where the best route would be.

After a few minutes, the two of you find yourselves nearing the tunnels Ghost had spoken about.

It’s when you’re about to head into the deep end – quite literally, considering the flooding – that an all too familiar and bone-chilling voice yells out from the right of you both, down another street.

“She’s gone dark – you will find her alive, and if she’s dead, you will be too!” Graves roars, and your heart skips a beat. “She could be hurt, or captured – she is your top priority now, Shadows!”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and if you look down, you’re almost certain that you’ll find your stomach laying at your feet.

A greedy, greedy man. That was what Phillip Graves was – now, more than ever.

If you were a weaker woman, a civilian, maybe, instead of a seasoned soldier, you’d have vomited by now.

Instead, you shoot Soap a look.

“Ghost still at the church?” Is all you ask.

Soap nods. “Yeah. Lt’s talkin’ my ear off,” he says with an eye roll, but his lips quirk into a half-tilted grin more resemblant of a satisfied pup.

“Didn’t think the 141 was so close,” you reply, and you could slap yourself for how nosy you sound. You’re not, not in the slightest – all you cared about was surviving both Graves and them.

Soap’s eyes hold an indecipherable gleam to them when he responds, a touch domestically, “You have no idea.”

You itch to delve deeper, to unpack that statement that seems to hold so many layers, but you keep your mouth respectfully shut.

And you prepare to meet Ghost at the end of the tunnel.

a/n. cutely drops this and hides!! jk but umm idk man this fic idea has been nibbling at my brain and GAWDDD smth about it just. got the juices flowing. this is my personality now thanks gn. if you guys enjoyed please comment or reblog or follow!! ty so very muchly ily all <3

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