#will i be forced to marry and bear someone's child? IDK | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theyreonlynoodlesmike · 3 years ago

Note

i have a mad thomas x reader request where reader is forced to marry thomas (idk how just-) and is disgusted about it but eventually ends up liking him.(? idk how to explain myself:’)

No one look at me,,,,,,,,,,also this is heavily inspired by the Scarlet Letter and was supposed to be a tad darker but I copped out (also someone asked for a pregnant reader recently so this + that = this fic)

A Lie They Would Believe (Mad Thomas x Fem!Reader)

Warnings: dark themes, 1600 standards, values, and laws, affairs/cheating, ex-relationship with the pastor is mentioned, Thomas is Thomas, mentions of drinking, webs of lies, public humiliation, AFAB and Fem reader, pregnant reader, pre-marital pregnancy solved a la shotgun marriage, twisted win-win situation turns into love?, slow burn(?),

Word Count: 3.7k

You could accept your punishment with a turned cheek, you told yourself over and over again.

You could stare out at the audience of towns people, even as the sun beat on your face. You could stare out into the angry faces of the elders, into the pitying faces of your friends. Into the ashamed faces of your parents. But, you could not look at Cyrus Miller.

You'd missed your blood two months ago. You'd begged, prayed, everyday that it would come. But, the only thing that came was the morning sickness. You'd tried to hide it, tried to think of what to do. But, when you placed your hand over your stomach, you couldn't bring yourself to find the hag in the forest. And, when your mother held your spotless, white sheets in your face, you'd crumbled. You confessed in the privacy of your room as if you were confessing in church. You told her everything.

Well, almost.

"Tell us his name!" Cyrus said, a voice that you couldn't force to fall into the background. "Tell us the name of your accomplice and you shall suffer no more." He said, and you wanted to believe him. You let your eyes close for a moment, but your lips did not move. Your mouth did not open. "Tell us the father's name, so that your baby will not be born a bastard!" He said, and his hand reached out to grab your arm. His grip was strong and tight, unlike the caresses you'd become so accustomed to with him. While his words begged you to say the name, his name, the action spoke differently. You peeled open your eyes and looked up at him, at his raven hair and kind face. His dark, soft eyes. Tears pricked the corners of your own eyes, hard and glassy as you looked up at him. But, you were silent. Even as some of the townspeople yelled for you to confess.

But, how could you tell them that it was your persecutor who was the father of your child? That your pastor, the leader of this town, had sinned so egregiously? He had a wife, a daughter. You'd known both of those things when you'd fallen for him, but it was harder to ignore in the harsh sunlight. When both of them stood in front of you.

You knew you'd have to face punishment. Sex before marriage was a crime after all, completely forbidden. To think they didn't know you were an adulterer also. You didn't know what it'd be, but you knew you'd have no option but to accept it when it came. You'd already made your peace with it, made your peace with whatever God could condemn you to. Perhaps, you'd have to live alone, wear a scarlet letter on your breast. Perhaps, they'd cast you out completely, and you'd be shunned. Perhaps, they'd hang you. You touched your stomach at that thought. Perhaps, there were certain punishments you couldn't bear.

Your lips only fell open when a voice yelled,

"It was I." And a gasp fell from your mouth. Your head turned, snapped towards the voice. Towards the sea of faces that was the crowd. But, you knew that voice. "It's my child." He said, and your eyes fell on a face you knew all too well. And, at that moment, you knew exactly what type of punishment God had set out for you.

Mad Thomas.

***

The day had gone by in a blur.

Over and over in your head, one question repeated itself. Why? It was almost loud enough to drown out the constant whispers, the stories being spun by every person who seemed to have a tongue.

Union couldn't seem to stop talking about it. Of when it started, how long it'd been going on, when the pair of you had even had time to sneak off. You'd even heard a young Constance Berman whisper about how she'd always known something was going on between the two of you, only to be shushed by her older sister as you passed. As you'd been let free of the top of the church steps.

You'd been left outside, left out in the sun. Inside the church went your father, the pastor, and Thomas. You had no idea what Thomas was going to say, what lies he was going to spin.

You couldn't bring yourself to leave, to speak. You felt as though a blanket of white noise had covered your ears, covered your mind. You were surprised, to say the least. You'd thought a wave of devastation had washed over you the first moment you'd realized you were with child, but this? It made it seem like ripples in a pond. The only thing you could do was stare at the church door and wait for them to come out. But, you felt a warm arm wrap around your waist and you turned to see the face of your mother.

"Come," She said, and you looked back at the door blankly. You didn't want to leave. You wanted to be there when they came out. But, you couldn't find the words to say or the strength to keep your feet firm. So, you let her guide you away from the crowd, and towards your house.

It was only later that you were told you and Thomas were to be married by the end of the month.

***

You and Thomas were never allowed a moment alone. You didn't know whether to be relieved or not, but Thomas, a man who you quickly found was far more confusing than you thought, was playing a charade. He brought you flowers, carried your water pail for you, and even took you on chaperoned walks. You, however, were stony and stiff, barely able to contain your disgust for him. It was on your first walk that you whispered,

"Why? Why are you doing this?" And, for a moment, the incorrigible man seemed to pretend not to hear you. He glanced over his shoulder, as if the wind was at his ear instead, and you saw him cast a sly glance to the man behind them. It was one of your father's friends, walking only about two yards behind you. Finally, when he decided he was far away enough, he responded,

"Would you rather I had let them cast you out? Let you and your child starve in the woods?" Thomas said back, the most sober you'd ever heard him. It seemed that apart of your father's deal with him was that he cut back on the drink. He didn't even stumble as he walked.

"Don't pretend you did this out of charity. Why, Thomas?" You asked, and you, for only a moment, reached out to touch his arm. You pulled it back just as quick, hoping that your chaperone hadn't seen. Thomas looked down at the action, before he smirked and shook his head.

"Aren't we a perfect match?" He asked, and you gave him a look of confusion. He continued with, "You think I don't know what people say about me? Don't you see, girl? It doesn't matter if your father is the best woodworker, or the richest in Union anymore. No one would have you, or your bastard child. Except me." He said, and you almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. He continued, his words a whisper now, "Besides, it's a lie they would believe." You stared at him, flabbergasted by his words. Flabbergasted by how right he was.

Thomas had, well, a reputation. It wasn't out of character for his wedding to be one out of necessity, and perhaps it earned you some pity from the townspeople. How many women had Thomas seduced? And how many of them could truly judge you? Not to mention, his words left one thing clear.

So, it was my dowry, you thought. It wasn't an unheard of reason, and it made sense given the man you were talking to. Your father had been avoiding selling you off, even as you reached far into your womanhood. And, surely, your father would never have considered him under any normal circumstance, but now...You didn't seem to have much of a choice.

Thomas paused, picking up one of the wildflowers and handing it to you. You took it, knowing now that you had to play along. That you had to act as if he truly was the father of your child, and not someone as foreign to you as the land outside of Union.

"Your father was going to start building us a house. I was thinking right here," Thomas said, his voice only slightly louder for the chaperone to hear, but you barely paid attention. You were staring down at the yellow flower in your hands, before you glanced up at the man in front of you.

He was tall, but his hair was lighter. His cheeks were stubbly and his eyes- They were a clear blue. Almost the same shade as the sky above you. You watched as he talked, as he laid out his plan. And, while the idea of being married to anyone that you didn't love sickened you, you tried to tell yourself that it wouldn't be as terrible as you felt it would be.

***

You and Thomas sat out in the sun, where you were making a flower crown and he was rambling about one thing or the other. You'd gotten very good at pretending to be in love, even in the span of only a couple of weeks.

You gave him smiles and laughter, and he gave you gifts or stole a caress. It was enough to stir the people of Union so no one would be the wiser. And, with your father at his station a short way across the field, the pair of you could be somewhat alone. But, still within viewing distance.

"You're not listening." Thomas said, and you smiled to yourself for a moment. You looked at the finished crown, before you looked up and reached over to where he was laying on the blanket. He was half-sitting up, and you placed the flower crown atop his head as you said,

"Yes, I was." You replied simply as you adjusted it, and Thomas stared at you and gave a small scoff. He caught your hand as you went to pull it away, his grip loose. He held it almost gently, and said,

"Then kiss me." And your brows drew together. A quick,

"What?" Fell from your lips, and you watched how Thomas smiled. He laughed, letting your hand go as he said,

"So, you weren't listening-" But you were quick to interrupt him.

"Why would- Why?" The idea- the simple idea was preposterous. Why would you kiss him? In broad daylight no less? The suggestion made you nervous, made a weird feeling start in your stomach. And, you ignored how this feeling wasn't entirely unfamiliar.

"They're going to expect us to kiss on our wedding day, girl. Shouldn't we have some practice?" He said, and you thought perhaps the first time he proposed it had been kinder. You stared at him, thinking over his words. Thomas waited, reaching out to touch your skirt. It was only to pick at it for a moment, before he drew his hand away.

You couldn't tell if that was the only reason Thomas wanted to kiss you, if there wasn't some ulterior motive somewhere. You wouldn't put it past him. But, really, he was right. Not to mention, while the pair of you had been affectionate, had you been affectionate enough?

That's what was so aggravating about Thomas. He was always right. He saw clear through whatever facade anyone put up, and saw the truth. Perhaps, that's why he was such a good liar.

Perhaps, that's why he was staring at you.

"Fine." You said, before you looked over your shoulder. You were in the field, but you were more or less a public spectacle. You could hear Thomas draw closer, feel the warmth of his hand reach for your arm.

"Let them look." He said as he gave a tug on your arm, and you turned back to face him. It was strange to hear him say that, such a stark difference from what you were used to. To have him so close was different than before, but Thomas didn't close the gap. You supposed he was waiting for you to do that. He whispered, "Well?" And, finally, you did. It was a short kiss, a quick stolen one. Still, it made Thomas smile. "So chaste." He let out a small laugh, and it was your turn to scoff. "Are you sure-" And you could guess what he was going to say. You kissed him again, if only to silence him. It was deeper, firmer than your last had been. And you hated to admit that you didn't hate it. Thomas was well-practiced, and the feeling of his thumb grazing your cheek was nearly as warm as the feeling of the sun on your back. It made another feeling start, one that you tried to stamp out that very second. You pulled away again, cutting it short. Thomas, for just a moment, tried to follow you before he pulled back. He had a small smile on his face, one he didn't try to hide as he pushed his hair back.

"You're practiced." You said quietly, the closest thing to a compliment you could give him. You'd heard rumors of him galavanting with the likes of Abbi Berman and some of the others. Perhaps, there was some truth to them. Thomas glanced over, and returned the words,

"Aye, so are you." When he smiled and glanced down at your belly, you knew the jab had been intended. And, unfortunately, he'd managed to make you laugh.

***

You knew it was coming. You had prepared yourself for it. Before the wedding, the pastor would counsel both of you. And, he was going to counsel you first.

You stood in a dress your mother had made, with your corset done loosely as not to press on your stomach. You'd been staring out the window, at the cloudless day and the happy faces of your town. Why shouldn't they be happy? It was the day for a celebration.

You'd even caught glimpses of Thomas. Your mother was fussing over him, and Issac had swiped his pouch. He looked- Well, you could tell he'd been scrubbed down. Most of his teeth were still black, but in clean clothes and with a clean face...Perhaps, he didn't look terrible. You tilted your head, and, almost as if he could feel you staring, Thomas' head turned. He caught your eyes, and reflected your posture with a tilt of his own head. It made you smile, something you found was less forced the more time you spent with him. Your head turned from him when you heard someone come in.

"Wonderful day for a wedding." Cyrus said as he closed the door to the chapel, and you tried to manage a smile. "Sit." He said, and gestured to one of the pews. You did, and you both kept your distance. The chapel was dim, only lit by the light outside. The pair of you were silent for a moment, before Cyrus said, "The magistrate is here. He seems eager to start. Do you," He paused for a moment. "Do you have any doubts?" And you felt that the question was not quite as empty as anyone else would think.

You'd been staring at your hands, and you finally lifted your gaze to him. To his deep, dark brown eyes. After a moment, you found your voice.

"None at all. Thomas is- He shall be the father to his child, and he shall be my husband. I shall do my duties, and, I- I love him." It was hard to say, at least when Cyrus sat in front of you. "What is there to doubt?" You asked, your question equally as heavy. While none of you would say it plainly, you knew from the way he looked over your face that he understood you perfectly. The pair of you would never confess your secret, and you'd let the hatchet be buried. Forgotten.

"Does he know?" Cyrus asked, and you knew what it sounded like. In case any of the others were listening. Like he was asking if your soon to be husband knew you loved him. The question couldn't be more disguised. Really, his eyes said, Does he know about us?

"Yes. Or, I think he does." You replied, and you watched how Cyrus reached to touch his clean-shaven face. His face was half hidden by his hand, but you could see his eyes were disturbed. A secret was harder to keep the more people knew, but you said, "And he loves me. He'd do anything to keep this union." You told him, and you hoped he got your meaning. When Cyrus glanced at you, you guessed he did. Silently, your eyes said, If he does, Thomas won't tell. And, after a pause, Cyrus let out a sigh.

"Then, there seems little I have to counsel you on."

***

"Have you thought of a name?" Thomas asked you, and you hummed.

You were picking at your sheet, looking towards the window. It had been months, five if not nearly six. Your baby was due in only a few weeks now, and you still hadn't decided. Your husband, a word to describe him that didn't seem so weird now, laid besides you facing up towards the roof.

Thomas, well, he was not what you thought. He had a good, if not sometimes strange, sense of humor, and did not bruise easily from even the harshest words. He could take care of himself, after years of doing so, and, subsequently, you as well. Your mother and the mid-wife still came by to make sure you were in good health, but Thomas had most of it handled. He was a little lazy when it came to work, especially the work your father tried to give him, but he seemed to find that the work that came with having his own house agreed with him. The pair of you had become- Well, familiar. That was the word you would use. You couldn't say, nearly six months later, that it was still just pretending.

Still, Thomas didn't touch you in any way you wouldn't want him to, and you had to lift your head to throw a glance back to him.

"I have some ideas. Perhaps, if it's a girl," You paused, a sly grin coming to your face, "We could name her Abigail." And you watched him scoff and roll his eyes, even lift his head off of his arm for a moment as he said,

"Absolutely not." And you snickered to yourself as you went back to facing away from him. It was just a jest, a reference to an old dalliance of his, but Thomas, if anything, was fun to tease. The only issue was that Thomas was just as sharp when it came to his wit. "Y'know- Fine. Then, if it's a boy, we shall name him Cyrus." And you let out a noise of protest. You tried to roll over, declaring,

"No!" And now it was Thomas' turn to laugh. He placed a hand on your shoulder, trying to ease you back down. You let him, and even reached to hold his arm. To pull him closer. He followed, and you guided his hand above your bulging stomach as the pair of you adjusted. "Fine- Neither of those names. But, we must think of something." You told him, feeling as he stretched his fingers over where your baby grew. He held you, his warmth against your back. His hand rubbing your stomach lightly.

It made a strange sense of warmth fill you, one you couldn't blame from body-heat. And, it wasn't so terrible that you tried to push it, or him, away.

***

"She cries like no other child in Union." Thomas said as he climbed into your bed. You were supposed to be resting, healing, even weeks, nearly two months, after your child's birth. You felt like you'd been confined to your bed for so long that you were starting to become a part of it. Thomas was only here for the break your father gave him half-way through the day. Still, you smiled to yourself from where you laid on your side, and said,

"Perhaps, it is your smell that disturbs her." You said, your voice thick with sleep but a cheeky grin working onto your face. You shouldn't have prompted him, because he took the opportunity to drape himself heavily over your back.

"Oh, should I sleep outside tonight then?" He asked, and you giggled when you felt his stubble tickling your cheek.

It was already long into the day, and you'd become lazy from bed-rest. It felt far too nice to have his warmth wrapped around you, to where you nearly wanted to fall asleep. You had grown too used to it now, and you could barely imagine a night without it.

"I never said that." You responded, and turned your face back towards the softness of your pillow. You felt Thomas' hand raise, his fingertips brush against your cheek. He was being brave, especially when you felt his lips brush against your neck. It made you bite your lip, a twinge of something not so unfamiliar swirling in your belly. You wondered if he would continue. Hell, you wanted him to. But, it was nothing more than that.

Thomas, to your surprise, had more restraint than you would've assumed. He kissed your cheek, went to stand, and excused himself with,

"Your father will begin to wonder where I am." And you lifted your head to watch him step away, before you settled back down. He was clean, cleaner than he had been when he'd been sleeping in the outhouse. His hair was softer and longer, tied away from his face. And his arms seemed stronger, perhaps from the days of working with your father. He was, if you dared to think so, a kind sight to your eyes now. "Sleep. I'll be back by the time you wake." He told you, and, as he left, you found yourself hoping he was right.

#fear street #fear street 1666 #mad thomas #mad thomas x reader #thomas slater #thomas slater x reader

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peekaboongi · 4 years ago

Text

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Genre: historical!au, fluff, angst, smut

Warnings: (past) minor child abandonment, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, oral (female), yoongi can’t start fires, minor depictions of violence (someone gets kicked once), marking? kinda? yoongi lowkey has a consent kink, he says she belongs to him but he also says he belongs to her is that a kink? idk, a title kink? he likes when she calls him her king, pussy spanking, degradation/humiliation, name calling, cumplay ig? teasing, begging, one (1) titty slap, teasing, impregnation kink

Word Count: 16k+

Summary: Yoongi didn't plan to collide with you on that fateful day, but it's not long before you consume is every thought. As a palace maid, you weren't destined for greatness, but he seems to think otherwise.

↳ or, Yoongi wants to make you his queen

A/N: so this was supposed to be shameless pwp based on daechwita, but obviously that didn’t happen sldjfsldkj. this is the longest fic i’ve written to date, and it’s my baby so i hope you guys like it and give me feedback. i’ve honestly had so many people read this that i can’t remember all of them and i hope none of you take offense to that i just have the memory of a goldfish. BUT shoutout to @luffles424 for always encouraging me and supporting my ideas bc i really don’t think i would have finished this without you, and @wwilloww and @ot7always for catching all my mistakes (there were a lot of them) so that i didn’t have to go back and read all 16k

Vocab: Sangtugwan - the little crown thing on their tiny man bun Daenggi - the ribbon/tie hybrid that women used to put up their hair Jeogori - the top piece of the hanbok Goreum - the tie that holds the front of the jeogori closed Sillok - historical records Donggot - the hair pin that goes through the sangtugwan Hyung - an older brother Appa - dad

Your entry to the palace had been uneventful. Your father’s wife had sent you away to the palace to work as a maid. Whether the reason was because he loved your mother more than he loved his wife, or because he favored his illegitimate child over any of his other children, you weren’t sure. Perhaps it was both.

Catching the King’s eye had been a stroke of luck. You weren’t as pretty as his concubines, nor were you talented or skilled enough to garner his attention. You were a simple palace maid through and through with little knowledge of the outside world.

Having ascended to the throne at a young age, he was forced to grow up too quickly, having to learn the hard way who he could and couldn’t trust in order to protect himself and his younger brother, the only person who was an exception to his otherwise cold and uncaring nature.

Sweat beads on your brow as the summer sun bears down on you. Normally you spend your days cleaning the Royal Archives, but your friend Eunji had asked you to switch with her today so that she could watch the King’s younger brother who frequently spends his afternoons reading there. Had you known this would be one of the hottest days so far, you would’ve said no to her.

There is no denying that Prince Jungkook is handsome, but there are rules and regulations. Court ladies are not permitted to get married, and they certainly aren’t allowed to spend their days pining after the King’s younger brother. Still, as long as Eunji never acted on her infatuation, you saw no harm in letting her look.

You begin taking down the linens that had been hung up to dry earlier, folding them and placing them in the basket at your feet. A cool breeze blows through the palace causing your skirt to shift, and the goreum of your jeogori to flap slightly. When all the linens have been neatly folded and placed in the basket, you begin your trek back towards the maids’ living quarters.

Occupied by your thoughts, you fail to notice the man turning the corner before it’s too late. The sheets fall to the floor as you collide, muttering apologies as you bow to him. You look up when you hear no response and, had you not already bumped into him, meeting his eyes would have been a grave crime on its own.

Immediately you fall to your knees, and prostrate yourself before the King who, dressed in all his splendor, has you nearly shaking in your place. “Your Majesty! I beg your forgiveness!” You rub your hands together pleadingly. You can feel dozens of eyes on your form, but the King’s eyes seem to burn into you, causing the hairs on the back of your neck to rise.

“Stand up. What’s your name?” His voice is smooth like honey and despite the rumors that he is small in stature, he seems to tower above you.

“Song Y/N. Your Majesty.” Your voice quivers as you address him, hurriedly adding his title on to the end of your sentence. You keep your eyes trained on the wood floor, praying to the heavens that it might open up and swallow you whole.

His fingers, calloused from years of training with swords, grasp at your chin forcefully, but not without tenderness, almost as if he’s afraid he might break you. “Look at me.”

Hesitantly, you raise your eyes to meet his own. They trace the planes of his cheekbones and the delicate outline of his lips before settling on his eyes. You feel as if you are laid bare before him, his eyes cold and calculating as he takes you in.

Your eyes are drawn to the scar on his right eye, an result of an attempt on his life early in his reign. It was the only time he’d ever ordered for a public execution despite the various revolts against the throne since then.

“How long since you came to the palace?” he asks, the fingers that had been holding your chin now brushing across your cheek, leaving searing heat in their wake.

“Since I was a c-child, your Majesty.”

“How have I never seen you?” Perhaps if you knew him better, you would be able to decipher the look on his face before his eyes turn to steel again.

“I often clean the Royal Archives.” He was wrong. He had seen you plenty of times before but he’d never looked at you. Why would he when you were nothing more than a palace maid? If he remembers seeing you now, he makes no indication of it.

Later that night, a eunuch comes to the maids’ chambers, calling on you on behalf of the King. As you exit the room you can hear your peers mutter amongst themselves, likely wondering if you would return later that night. Or at all, really. You were no stranger to the harsh rumors that travel the palace grounds.

You have to hold your hands to keep them from shaking as you approach the King’s private quarters, wondering if perhaps this was the last night of your life. The rational part of you knows that if he wanted your head, he would have taken it earlier, but it does little to assuage your fears.

Rumors quickly spread about the king’s unusual infatuation with a palace maid, but whether he knew of them you were unsure. He told you right from the beginning that you were to address him by name in private, something that you are still getting used to.

The two of you would rarely speak to each other as he would often be working with official documents, but he always had food and drink on his table. Though, you hadn’t dared try anything until he’d taken the first bite.

Having been sent to the palace at such a young age, you were untrained in the activities ladies were supposed to know. While many girls of noble birth learned to dance, recite poetry, do embroidery, or serve tea, you had learned none of those things. Yoongi didn’t seem to care, though. When you asked him why he enjoyed your company despite being unable to accomplish such tasks, he’d simply said that it was because you were refreshing.

If he finished his duties before it was time to retire for the night, he would read you poems or stories from the West. He didn’t trust you yet, but you can see his barriers falling bit by bit. You can see it in the way he tells you about his relationship with his brother, and when he tells you about what happened during his day. You noticed he visited the Royal Archives more frequently these days, though he always avoided your gaze.

A fortnight later, he summons you to his room for the fifth time. You are still afraid of him—only a fool would be fearless—but you are more at ease in his presence now, your shoulders not as tense as the once were in his company.

So lost in your thoughts, you realize that you have already made the journey from the room you shared with the other maids to his own private chambers. His eunuch stops in front of the doors, clearing his throat.

“Miss Song Y/N, Your Majesty.”

The maids that linger outside his room open the doors for you at the king’s invitation, closing them behind you as you enter. Even after being here several times prior, the room’s beauty is still overwhelming compared to both your own living quarters and what you remember of your childhood home.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” you bow politely.

“Did I not tell you to call me Yoongi?” His voice, while reprimanding, is gentle as he addresses you, looking up from the scroll in his hands.

“A-apologies, Yoongi.” You say his name softly, failing to keep your voice from wavering slightly.

The King gives a simple nod of acknowledgment before gesturing to the seat beside him, pouring wine into a cup for each of you. “Let’s drink tonight.” There are signs of weariness on his face, dark circles lining his eyes. He looks as if he’s lost weight since a fortnight ago, cheeks appearing slimmer than when you saw him last.

When he puts down the paper in his hands, you read the word “uprising” and are overcome with sympathy for the man before you. Despite the good he’s done for the country and its people, there are still people who believe he ascended to the throne too soon and they all too often caused problems for him.

Silently, you sit down next to him and accept the drink. Yoongi never says anything about how stiff you are around him, and he doesn’t make any unwanted advances on you, only ever interested in your company and your thoughts.

A few nights ago he had asked your opinion on the affairs of the kingdom. When you told him you were neither informed enough on the state of the kingdom nor educated enough to know what to say, he simply asked again, saying your level of education didn’t matter. You were his subject no matter your social standing. It was the reason that despite the uprisings, he rarely investigated despite being informed of them. Uprisings are the result of people who feel like their voices are not heard; of citizens who feel the government has wronged them in one way or another. No one deserves to die for trying to make their voice heard. If no one was accused of treason, no one would have to die. The only people he executed were those who were brought before him with incriminating evidence proving them guilty of treason.

“What’s wrong?” The words leave your lips before you have time to stop them. Briefly, a look of surprise flits across his face before his mask of indifference reappears.

“Nothing unusual,” he says self-deprecatingly as he pours both of you another drink. “Just some rebels causing trouble.”

You watch the way he raises the cup to his lips, admiring his elegant facial features, watching the way his eyelids flutter shut as he takes a sip of the alcohol. When he opens his eyes, they meet your own almost as if they are searching for something. Your eyes dart towards the painting behind him, avoiding the way they linger on your flushed face. You distract yourself by playing with the sleeves of your jeogori and refill your cup before drinking it all at once.

At some point during the night, you fall asleep with your head resting on your folded arms, watching as Yoongi draws something, though what, you aren’t sure. You’re only roused from your sleep when you feel strong arms wrap around you, lifting you from where you sit on the chair.

“What time is it?” you mumble as you raise a hand to rub at your eye.

“Late,” is the only thing he says as he lays you down in his bed. With the alcohol in your system and the exhaustion lulling you back to sleep, you can do little more than grab at his sleeve as he moves to leave.

Yoongi fails to mask his shocked expression on his face, but he sits next to you on the bed anyways. After a long day of working and then drinking with him, your hair has fallen out of place and he brushes it away from your face gently, the rough fingers tickling your cheek.

You fall asleep like that; with him tracing light circles into the back of your hand.

That night becomes a turning point in your relationship with the king. When you woke up the following morning, his eunuch—you’d learned his name was Jihoon—was setting out an extravagant breakfast. To his surprise, you’d told him that you would prefer to have rice and a bowl of stew. You also declined the hairpin left behind for you by the king.

Yoongi had asked you why you’d rejected his gift later that night when he called you back. After explaining that you didn’t want expensive or exotic things from overseas, something in him shifted. The king, who had a reputation for being cold and disinterested in just about everything, seemed less weighed down by politics in your presence and more sociable.

Months later, Yoongi enters your private quarters—one of his many gifts despite your objections. Despite being closer now, he still takes your breath away when you see him, though no longer out of fear. Dressed in the finest silks in all of Joseon, the black and gold robes make him appear untouchable, but the gummy smile he sends your way does little to deter you from snorting at him when he pulls a box from behind his back.

“What is it now?”

“You know, most women would think it a privilege to receive a gift from me,” he says, nonchalantly.

You smile saccharinely at him as he rolls his eyes. “What do I have the honor of receiving from you, Your Majesty?”

“Very funny,” he sits on your bed and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you towards him. Knowing that there’s no fighting him when he wants something, you resign yourself to whatever it is he wants, resting your hands in your lap as you turn your back to him, sitting across his legs..

With careful hands, Yoongi undoes the cloth daenggi that holds up your hair, folding it gently and setting it in your hands. Then, opening the small wooden box resting next to you, he pulls out a silk daenggi. The silk shimmers in the light of your room, the delicately embroidered flowers contrasting elegantly with the vibrant red of the fabric.

The king struggles briefly, unfamiliar with how to tie the strip of fabric to the end of your braid. However, it’s not long before he sits back to admire his work. “I think I did pretty well.”

Reaching behind you you bring your braid around to the front and inspect his handiwork. Despite being a little uneven and loose, it’s not bad considering Yoongi hardly ever dresses himself, let alone another person.

“I’m impressed,” you muse to yourself, turning it over in your hands, the old daenggi placed in the wooden box.

Silence fills the room but unlike several months ago, it’s not suffocating. With Yoongi’s arms wrapped around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder, you close your eyes. You can feel his breath on the sensitive skin of your neck and a pleasant shiver runs down your spine as fingers mindlessly trace up and down your arm.

It’s no secret that as the reigning king, he has a number of concubines—many who send hateful looks your way these days—and thus has plenty of experience. He’s no different from any other man who has physical desires. You can tell by the way he kisses you like he wants to savor you and devour you at the same time. You can tell by the way his hands caress your sides or how he brushes his knuckles over your cheek. You can tell by the way he looks at you like he wants to throw you on the bed and make you scream his name until you’re hoarse. Despite his obvious desire to bed you though, he has made no move to do so and you aren’t sure whether to be thankful or offended.

“It’s getting late.” You reach up to thread your fingers through his hair gently. “You should go back and get some sleep.”

You can see a lingering question in his eyes as he gets up to leave, and you find your heart sinking when he exits without asking it.

When Eunji appears in the Royal Archives giggling the next morning, you know you’re in trouble. You aren’t sure how she did it, but she managed to get the head lady to assign her to the archives not long after the first night Yoongi summoned you to his room.

“A little bunny told me you got another gift from the king,” you feel her pat you on the back approvingly, briefly brushing her fingers over the daenggi.

“Did you finally tell Prince Jungkook that you like him?” You roll your eyes at her nickname for the prince. After months of pining after the shy younger brother of the king, the boy finally said hello to Eunji, something that had her grinning from ear to ear for the remainder of the week.

“What if he doesn’t like me back,” your best friend exclaims, throwing her arms up.

You laugh. “If he says he doesn’t like you, then he’s a fool and a liar. He follows you around in the Archives like a lost puppy.” You see it when he pretends to be studying only for his eyes to flit towards your friend and the way he always makes sure to greet her when he comes in despite being well above either of your station.

You can’t help but wonder if Yoongi looks at you the same way when you aren’t looking, or if he thinks about you during the day the same way your mind often drifts towards thoughts of him. It’s foolish to hope that he might, but you find that you’ve been acting like a fool as of late.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulls you from your thoughts.

“Y/N, His Highness is looking for the sillok from King Sejeong’s reign, but I don’t know where they are,” Eunji says, gesturing to Jungkook who stands slightly behind her with his head bowed in a rather un-princelike manner. While they may be brothers born from the same womb, the two of them could not be any more different.

Where Yoongi appeared cold and calculating and always gave off an air of confidence, Jungkook is much less cut out for the noble life. The boy is shy and would much rather spend his days doing combat training for hours on end instead of studying scriptures and Confucianism.

“I told you to remember where things are,” you say through your teeth as you smile at the prince.

“I know, I promise I’ll memorize it soon!” she pleads with you, but it’s not as though you can reject a request from a member of the royal family.

“Follow me, Your Highness. They’re right this way.”

After showing Jungkook to the records, you begin your work reshelving the books he had previously looked at, rolling your eyes at the way Eunji stares, slack jawed at him.

The afternoon goes by quickly, as you help Jungkook find the things that Eunji can’t, and clean up after the scholars leave their materials strewn about. Before long, the setting sun casts long shadows, a sign reminding you that after dinner you might finally have a chance to see Yoongi. That thought has you rushing to finish reorganizing the shelves.

By the time you return to your room, Jihoon, is standing outside waiting for you. “His Majesty requests your company this evening, Miss Y/N.”

Silently, the two of you make your way across the palace grounds to Yoongi’s chambers. Despite seeing him frequently and being friendly with the eunuch, he barely spares you a second glance.

The night is cold, a strong wind blowing through the palace. Trees stir and your skirt rustles as your shoes clack across the stone paths. The night sky is filled with stars, something you remember your father telling you about when you were a child—about pictures in the sky.

Jihoon announces your arrival when you reach the doors to Yoongi’s room before you walk in. Upon hearing a crash, you rush into the room only to be greeted with the sight of a man that looks like the king, but with hair so blond, it looks almost silver in the dim lighting. There’s a bowl on the ground—likely the source of the crashing noise—with dark black liquid spilling out of it.

There’s a look in his eyes that you can’t quite decipher before he’s turning away from you. “Don’t look at me.” Despite the harsh words, his voice wavers when he speaks.

“I won’t look,” you reassure him, turning around.

When he’s sure you won’t look back at him, he goes back to what he was doing before you barged in. When he finally tells you you can look again, the blond hair seems to glow, contrasting with his warm skin and dark eyes. There’s still a black puddle on the floor, but he pays no mind to it, only looking at you.

“You aren’t scared.” Though it’s posed as a statement, there’s uncertainty in his eyes.

You cross the room to stand in front of him, looking up to meet his eyes. “You’ve never given me any reason to fear you,” you say, matter-of-factly. You can see the way his shoulders drop in relief at your words, and the knowledge that he feels the need to hide something like this out of fear sends a pang through your heart, the need to comfort him overwhelming.

You wrap your arms around his torso, looking up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The only people who know are my brother and Jihoon,” he says before adding, “and my parents, though they’re dead,” he chuckles. One of his hands rests on the small of your back while the other reaches up to gently stroke your head. “My parents dyed it the moment they knew it wasn’t black, though I never questioned why at the time. Now that I’ve grown up, I understand that people would probably call me a demon, or someone cursed by the gods. If something were to happen where I can’t protect Jungkook anymore…”

He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for you to understand. With half of the officials already hating him, he doesn’t need to give them any more reasons to think he’s unfit for the throne. It hurts you to know that people wouldn’t accept him like this.

“I like it,” you say before you have time to think about it. Yoongi holds you at arms-length, searching your face for any hint of a lie. When he finds none, he smiles. It’s something that you wish you could see more of.

“Thank you, Y/N. I mean it.”

You reach up and pat him on the head. “Now let me go so that I can clean up the mess you made,” you grin, trying to uplift the mood.

“You don’t have to,” he says, frowning as you turn away from him.

“I’m a maid, Yoongi. It’s what I do.” You laugh when he sits on the bed with a grimace. “If you let me do this, I’ll help you dye your hair again. If it’s okay with you, that is.”

“Usually Jungkook’s the one who does it, but it seems like he won’t be coming tonight,” the king scoffs. “Something about a girl, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Eunji finally sunk her claws into him,” you mutter to yourself before looking up and seeing the way Yoongi looks at you in shock. “Metaphorically! She’s nice, I promise.” She’d better be, there’s nothing the king wouldn’t do to protect his younger brother.

When the black liquid—hair dye, as you now know—is finally cleaned off the floor, Yoongi helps you prepare another batch. He sits in the chair as you stand behind him, massaging it into his hair, watching as the black dye seeps into the blond strands. The king hums contentedly as he lets you work, and you’re grateful that he trusts you enough to let his guard down like this.

You spend that evening helping him dye his hair again, and you’re a bit sad that the blond was so short lived. After the blond locks have been sufficiently doused in black dye, you make your departure for the night, leaving him to rinse his hair on his own despite his protests for you to stay.

You’re unsurprised to find Eunji waiting for you in your room, wanting to hear about the most recent development in your relationship with the king. It’s only when you enter your chambers and see the Cheshire grin on her face that you realize you yourself had a smile plastered across your face.

“Something good happened,” your best friend says and at her knowing look, you feel heat rise to your cheeks.

You try to brush it off, telling her it was nothing, but you should have known better than to think she would leave you alone. Still, you don’t feel right telling her that Yoongi’s hair is naturally blond, something that only two other people know. Not that you don’t trust Eunji, but Yoongi trusts you, and you don’t intend to take it for granted.

“We just did some trust exercises.” It comes out as more of a question, but she doesn’t say anything about it, simply nodding for you to continue. “We talked about his childhood,” you add on, rolling your eyes.

Eunji keeps you up into the early hours of the morning, but you don’t mind. It reminds you of simpler times when the two of you had entered the palace, just two girls against the world.

The next time you see Yoongi is a week later. Word of another uprising had reached the palace earlier in the week, and he had to settle the rebels, something that—despite having done so on several previous occasions—leaves the man stressed and exhausted both emotionally and physically.

When you enter his chambers, the king is sat in his bed, hunched over the small table in front of him. Stray hairs have fallen down around his face, the black strands casting shadows on the scar that runs across his eye. Seeing the dark circles under his eyes, you find yourself wishing he could get a break from his kingly duties, but you suppose that’s a bit much to ask for the ruler of an entire Kingdom.

Carefully, you remove the sangtugwan from his top knot, placing the round metal accessory on the table beside him. Yoongi’s hands reach up to let his hair down, the black strands framing his face beautifully. After seeing him with his natural hair, you miss the blond more than you’d like to admit, something about the way the light reflects off of it undeniably attractive.

The king pulls you in by the waist, causing you to fall next to him rather ungracefully. You focus on the sound of his breathing, trying to distract yourself from the way you’re pushed up against him, his hand rubbing circles into your hip. He smells like the earth after it rains, the pleasant aroma intoxicating.

You unintentionally make eye contact with Yoongi, his dark brown irises almost invisible in the dim lighting. He looks like he wants to devour you, and you don’t think you would stop him if he did.

Yoongi moves first. His free hand moves up to cradle the back of your head before he leans in, eyes still watching you. Your heart jumps in your chest and despite having wanted this for weeks, you find that you aren’t sure what to do. The senior maids never taught you anything about how to please a man.

He takes your lower lip between his teeth, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. Needing something to ground you, you fist at his robes, wrinkling the fine fabric. He tastes of mint and honey and mixed with the scent of freshly fallen rain, all of your senses are overwhelmed by him.

Despite having been visibly exhausted just moments earlier, he kisses you with renewed vigor. The hand on your hip moves up your side slowly, hesitantly. When you don’t move to stop him, he gently caresses the curve of your breast through your top before he takes the goreum between his slender fingers.

Yoongi pulls away from you and you reluctantly let go of his robes. “We can stop right now with no questions asked,” he says. “We can act like this never happened.” The hand on the back of your neck moves to cup your cheek, the thumb brushing over the soft skin almost lovingly. “Are you sure you want to keep going,” he asks again when you nod.

“Yes.” You answer him without pause. “Yes.” You comb your fingers through his hair.

The king looks at you for a long moment, searching for any signs of hesitation. You’re about to reassure him when he kisses you again. He’s rougher this time—like he can’t get enough of you—a stark contrast to the gentle way he undresses you.

With one hand he pulls loose the tie that holds your jeogori closed. The garment falls open before you shrug out of it, untying the strings of your skirt with practiced ease. He removes the straps of the skirt from your shoulders, followed by the cloth around your chest and your underwear.

With his other hand, he lets down your hair, the daenggi he gifted you falling to the floor with the rest of your clothes. Yoongi cards his fingers through your hair, loosening the braid and causing your hair to fall freely over your breasts before he brushes it aside.

Yoongi gently pushes you so that your back rests against the head of the bed. You bring your hands up to cover yourself, suddenly aware of how bare you are to him, self-conscious of your appearance. As king, Yoongi has plenty of concubines and feeling lackluster in comparison, your shy away from him.

He gently takes your hands in his own. Heat rushes to your cheeks, but he says nothing of it. Instead, he asks you again if you’re okay with this. “If you don’t feel the same, we can still stop,” he says, thumb rubbing circles into the back of your hand. There isn’t a hint of disappointment or anger in his eyes, only acceptance, if not a bit of fear, afraid that you might not care for him the way he does for you.

Your heart aches at the thought that he might think you don’t care for him. You can’t think of anyone besides Eunji that you’ve cared for to this extent. Not since you came to the palace as a child.

“I do feel the same!” The words come out rushed and louder than you intended, but Yoongi smiles at your outburst. “It’s just…” you take your lip between your teeth, trying to find the right words. “I’m not pretty like one of your concubines,” you say softly, looking away from him.

“Is that what you’re worried about? That I don’t find you attractive?” His words are gentle. “You might not be pretty like my concubines, but you’re pretty like you, Y/N—and I happen to think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.” One of his hands moves to your face, thumb brushing against your cheek.

Your heart soars at his words and you’re overcome by emotion. A tear slides down your cheek before you quickly wipe it away, causing Yoongi to chuckle softly.

“If you have any reservations at all, we don’t have to go any further.”

“Please,” you pull at his robes. “I want this. I want you.”

Yoongi leans back and removes his clothing, baring himself to you, eyes never leaving your own as he undresses.

When he is fully naked, you spend a moment just looking at him before either of you move again. Hesitantly, you run your hands over the smooth expanse of his chest, trying to memorize every hill and valley. Slowly, you move your fingers over the outline of his abdomen, the muscles rippling under your touch.

Yoongi stays still as you explore his body, seemingly content to let your hands roam over him. He only speaks when your hands dip below his navel and pause before going further like you aren’t quite sure what to do next.

Unmoving, he asks “Have you done this before?” At the shake of your head, his familiar gummy smile spreads across his face, causing your stomach to flip and your heart to skip a beat. “Then let me focus on you.”

“But I want to make you feel good,” you pout slightly.

“You can, another time,” he chuckles. “Making you feel good will make me feel good, too.” His fingers brush against the underside of your breast before lightly tracing circles around your nipples with his thumbs. “Can I?”

“Please,” you whine at the sensation.

Taking one of the buds into his mouth, he circles it with his tongue, sucking gently. You arch your back at the pleasurable feeling, searching from more. Yoongi takes this as encouragement, rolling the neglected peak between his thumb and forefinger until it’s hard.

Slowly, he begins kissing his way down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in his wake. When his lips wrap around your clit and suck, you buck your hips involuntarily as you bury your hands in his hair, crying out at the foreign yet pleasurable feeling.

His hands gently push your thighs apart before he settles in between them. Licking between your folds, his tongue prods at your entrance teasingly as he enjoys the broken moans that leave your lips.

“Fuck, Y/N. You’re so sensitive.” Yoongi drags his middle finger through your folds, collecting your arousal. Looking up at you, his tongue swipes across the finger, the digit glistening with your slick in the candlelight. The look in his eyes as he makes eye contact with you causes your walls to clench in anticipation.

“Please, Yoongi.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to touch me, make me feel good.”

“I am touching you. Does this not feel good?” He kisses your inner thigh, hands gliding over the smooth skin. Your hands pull at his hair hard enough to cause pain, but Yoongi simply continues teasing you, fingers lightly tracing designs across the skin. “You’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”

“Here, want you here.” One of your hands moves down to the apex of your thighs, spreading apart your lower lips. The unobstructed view of your cunt as it clenches around nothing elicits a growl from the king before he replaces your hand with his own.

Carefully, so as not to hurt you, he inserts a single finger into your heat. The discomfort lasts for only a moment before it’s replaced with pleasure. Seeing your face relax, he begins thrusting the digit in and out, slowly working you open. After several minutes, he speeds up, thrusting his finger into your warm walls.

“More, please,” you whine, one finger no longer enough.

Your moans of pleasure fill the otherwise quiet room when Yoongi adds another finger. Carefully, he begins to stretch you out with a scissoring motion, causing your hips to lift off the bed to meet his movements.

“Fuck, you’re so wet. Wanna watch your face when you come,” he groans.

You rarely have time to pleasure yourself, and when you do have time, you often fall asleep before you can. Still, you’ve fingered yourself a handful of times, but it doesn’t compare to the way Yoongi does it. His fingers are longer and thicker than your own, stretching you more than you’ve ever done yourself.

Never breaking eye contact with you, Yoongi’s tongue alternates between pressing flat against your clit and drawing circles around the bud, enjoying the pleasured moans he pulls from your lips. He repeats these actions until you’re trembling beneath him, the pressure in your stomach growing. It’s when his fingers brush against a certain spot and you see stars, that your high washes over you.

Your back arches off the bed as you moan the king’s name loud enough for the people outside to hear, but you’re so lost in the throes of pleasure that you don’t care. Never have you been able to bring yourself to such a strong climax, one that has you seeing white.

Yoongi laps at your essence greedily, fingers continuing to pump in and out of you through your orgasm until it’s almost painful. Your fists tighten around his hair, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t budge. Not until he’s cleaned you properly, leaving no traces of your orgasm.

“Fuck, you look so pretty when you fall apart for me,” he comes up, licking the residual arousal from his fingers, tongue darting out cheekily as you watch him, unable to look away in your pleasurable haze. Leaning forward, he kisses you, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.

When he pulls away, his eyes are soft, more so than they usually are. “You’re beautiful, you know that?” He grins, gently patting down your hair and brushing it away from your face.

“You didn’t finish.” Your words are mumbled and slur together, all your energy depleted. “I want to help you, too.” Reaching out to him, your frown when he pulls away from you. You hadn’t realized how cold you were until he lays the comforter over your naked body.

“We can do that next time.” He wraps his arm around you, pulling you close to him resting his chin in the crook of your neck. “You’re tired. Go to sleep, love.”

Were you more aware, you might have commented on the term of endearment, but you’re far too tired. Instead, you become aware of the way his breath tickles the skin on your neck, the way his chest rises and falls in time to your own.

Encompassed by his form and his comforting scent, it’s not long before you succumb to your exhaustion.

You wake up the following morning to the rustling of clothes. Slowly sitting up in bed, you giggle at the sight of the king fumbling around in his undergarments. There’s light streaming in through the screen windows, though it’s dim enough that you don’t need to worry about being late to work.

“What are you doing,” you step up beside him, looking over his shoulder curiously as he rummages through the pile of discarded clothes on the ground

“I’m looking for my sangtugwan and the donggot,” he says, not looking at you.

Rolling your eyes, you make your way to the table you set the headpiece on last night. “It’s over here,” you laugh lightly.

Turning to you, Yoongi’s breath catches in his throat at the sign of you naked, illuminated by the golden hues of the morning sun. He only stops staring when you clear your throat, a pink tinge visible on your cheeks.

“You look beautiful,” the king says, in awe of your beauty. Gentle hands brush against your collarbone as he admires you. There are no underlying sexual motives though. The affection he has for you is clear in the way he looks at you like you’re his entire world, and that thought causes your heart to skip a beat.

“Y-you wanted this.” You hold the crown out to him, trying to ignore the way your cheeks flush at his attention.

“Will you help me put it on?”

“Let me get dressed first.” You can tell that he wants to make a joke about your state of undress, but he keeps it to himself.

You pick your own clothes up off the floor and get dressed, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles that resulted due to lying in a pile all night. The daenggi that Yoongi gifted you lies on the ground, and you frown.

“I can’t believe you just dropped this on the ground,” you chastise the king. Bending down to pick it up, you brush it off, making sure that any dust or dirt on it is gone.

Yoongi pouts at your words, not liking being reprimanded by you. “It’s just a strip of fabric,” he says downtrodden.

“It’s a pretty strip of fabric that you gave me.” You won’t tell him this, but you treasure the gifts he gives you, always careful not to damage or break them. He frequently brushes it off when he gives you gifts, saying that it was the first thing he saw, or that he just had it lying around and didn’t want it anymore. Regardless of his excuses, you know that he puts more thought into his actions than he’d like for people to believe.

You see the way he agonizes over certain petitions, trying to come up with a solution that will satisfy everyone, and he always cleans his room himself so that the maids have less work to do. That’s why even when you know he’d offer to replace something immediately, you want to cherish the presents because you also know how much consideration goes into the gifts.

It’s odd, you think, to see the man known as coldhearted and uninterested in most affairs act so thoughtfully. It’s sad that people can’t see him the way you do, but there’s something comforting about being one of the few people to know him so well.

Ignoring the way he grumbles about you being overly sentimental, you continue to dress, trying to smooth out the fabric and ultimately failing. Yoongi spends the time looking over the pile of petitions on the table, glancing up at you occasionally with an indecipherable look on his face.

When you finish getting dressed, you ask him to sit in the chair so that you can more easily see what you’re doing. You pull his long black hair away from where it falls around his slender shoulders, tying it up into a bun. Yoongi has to help instruct you along the way since you aren’t sure what you’re doing, but he’s patient.

“You called me ‘love’ last night,” you say quietly, afraid that you heard him wrong, or maybe even imagined it. You help him with his headband, making sure that it’s secure.

“I did.”

Carefully, you place the metal cylinder around his sangtu, making sure that there are no stray hairs. “Why?”

After you slide the donggot through the crown and the bun, Yoongi stands up, turning to face you. He takes your face into his rough hands almost reverently, like he’s afraid of hurting you. Looking you in the eyes, you can see nothing but admiration, butterflies fluttering in your stomach.

“Because you, Song Y/N, are beautiful both on the outside and in here,” he points at your chest. “You’ve seen parts of me that few other people have, and you accepted them. You did not run when you saw my hair, nor did you condemn me for my differences.”

“Anyone would do the same.” It’s a lie, and you both know it. There are plenty of people at court who would jump at the opportunity to dethrone him and have him exiled—or worse.

“It doesn’t matter what other people would or wouldn’t do. They aren’t you.”

You can hear your heartbeat pounding, and you worry that he can hear it too. He looks at you—not for the first time—with uncertainty, something akin to fear accompanying it, resting his forehead against your own. His calloused thumb rubs gentle circles on your cheek and you find yourself leaning into his comforting touch.

“I love you, but if you don’t feel the same, I will not force you to stay any longer. All you need to do is say the word and you can leave the palace. Sell my gifts and live a life better than this one. I would not blame you.” There’s a sadness in his eyes that breaks your heart.

“I don’t know much about the affairs of the heart,” you start, one of your hands wrapping around the back of his neck. “But I know that I don’t wish to be somewhere you aren’t.”

The elated smile that spreads across Yoongi’s face fills you with joy, and you take comfort in the way he relaxes into your hold.

The two of you jump apart at the sound of Jihoon’s voice at the door. “Your Majesty,” he calls, waiting for the king to invite him in, maids with trays of food following him closely behind. It’s embarrassing, the way you practically drool at the food, unaware of just how hungry you are, and you can hear the king snicker softly.

Breakfast for you is short, as you need to get to work quickly. You send Yoongi one last look before leaving him to enjoy the rest of his meal.

The first time you say the words ‘I love you’ is no more than a fortnight later. It’s unromantic, an accident, and you barely remember it. They slip out after a night of drinking with Yoongi, which your tongue has been loosened by the alcohol and your inhibitions are gone.

You laugh at the way his eyes widen in surprise before his expression softens. He gently lets your hair down, making sure to place the daenggi he gifted to you in a mother of pearl box that sits on your dresser, the most recent gift he’s given you.

The king is careful not to pull on your hair when he slips your outermost garments off, struggling to do so with the way you cling to him in your drunken haze. When he has finally managed to evade your wildly waving arms and your hands that grab at him, it’s been a good twenty minutes.

Folding the clothes to keep them from wrinkling, he sets them on the dresser. When he turns around to face the bed, you are sprawled out on your back with your mouth scrunched up in a pout as you look at him.

“Come back here,” you slur, tongue unable to wrap around the sounds properly.

“I’m coming, love.” He chuckles, carefully tucking you underneath your blankets. “You’re a mess, you know that?” Yoongi brushes the hair away from your face, admiring the way the light flickers on your cheeks.

“‘M your mess though.”

“I suppose you are,” he kisses you on the forehead, getting up to leave.

“Don’t go,” you mumble, hand darting out to grab his robes before he can get too far. “Stay.”

“You need to sleep.” He knows there’s no use in trying to reason with someone as drunk as you are, but he doesn’t have the heart to leave you when you look up at him with unfocused eyes.

“But I love you.” The words come out as a whisper as sleep begins to overtake you, but Yoongi hears them all the same.

“I love you too,” he says, gently stroking your hair until you fall asleep.

It’s not long before the leaves fall from the trees and the days get shorter and grow colder. Eunji and Prince Jungkook spend many afternoons together, often shirking their responsibilities to do something ridiculous, but you see no harm in it as long as they’re both happy. You’re glad to see that your friend has finally stopped her flirtations with every man she sees.

The king and you grow closer as the days go by. It’s unusual when you don’t see him at all on any given day, even if only for a few minutes. You look forward to these small moments in between your daily responsibilities, whether you get to talk or just send him a small smile, your day doesn’t feel complete without seeing him at least once.

“Y/N, Y/N! It’s snowing!” Eunji’s excited yell from the courtyard startles you.

Sure enough, as you walk outside, the ground is dusted in white powder, more of it falling from the sky above. The cold tickles your cheeks and reddens your nose, and you shiver.

“It’s so cold,” you complain to your best friend who seems too preoccupied throwing handfuls of snow at Prince Jungkook to hear you.

Laughing and shaking your head, you turn to go back inside only for the entrance to the Royal Archives to be blocked by Yoongi.

“Your Majesty,” you greet him, bowing, You can see the slight downturn of the corners of his lips at your formality, but he says nothing of it. “Can I do something for you?”

Clearing his throat, he turns away from you with red cheeks, either from the cold or his embarrassment, you can’t tell. You have a sneaking suspicion it has more to do with the latter, though. “Would you like to join me for a walk, love?”

Even though it’s been a while since he first called you that, it still makes heat rise to your cheeks as your heart skips a beat.

You can see your fellow maids peeking out of the archives in the background, envy and curiosity in their eyes, but you’re only focused on Yoongi. His hair needs to be dyed again soon, you think to yourself at how light his hair has gotten.

When you asked him why he doesn’t use a more permanent dye, he simply shrugged and said that none of them took to his hair very well. You have your doubts about his explanation, but you didn’t push him further.

“I still have a couple of hours before I finish—”

“We can take care of it,” Eunji cuts you off. “Bunny can help too,” she pulls the prince over, fingers entwining. If either of the royals think anything of the nickname, they say nothing.

“I really don’t think it’s appropriate to ask him to h—”

“It’s fine, really!” You get interrupted again when Prince Jungkook speaks up. “You go have fun with hyung!” He sends his brother a knowing look.

“Then it’s settled,” the king says, leaving no room for you or anyone else to argue, not that anyone else would dare decline an invitation from him.

Yoongi pulls you away and towards his room, before turning down a path you’ve never seen before. Seldom used, plants grow between the stones laid out on the ground. Barren trees line the way before opening up to a clearing.

You can hear the sound of running water nearby but your attention is drawn to the gazebo at the edge of the treeline, blankets and food set out for the two of you. There’s a fire pit not too far from the structure, large rocks placed around a pile of firewood covered by a piece of fabric.

Beside you, Yoongi looks at you with nervousness, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet in a rather undignified manner. The sight makes your heart swell with joy, a big smile spreading across your face.

“Did you do all of this yourself?”

“Jungkook and Jihoon helped a bit, but do you like it?”

“I love it,” you squeeze his hand gently. “It’s beautiful.”

His shoulders sag in relief, as he leads you to the gazebo. Yoongi helps you step up onto the platform, making sure you’re settled. He pours you a cup of tea before going to start the fire.

You take in your surroundings, paying attention to the way nature seems to be reclaiming the small area. Vines grow up the worn wood of the gazebo, most of the paint chipped off by now. The sound of water appears to be coming from beyond the clearing on the other end, likely a small stream running through the palace grounds. You can make out faint animal prints near the treeline, but you can’t identify them.

The sound of Yoongi grunting pulls your attention back to him. Hunched over the pile of wood, he struggles to start a fire, and you can see his hands shaking slightly from the cold. His breath comes out in puffs before dissipating into the air. Covering your mouth to hide the laugh that escapes you, you get up and slip your shoes on again, ignoring how cold they are in contrast to your feet which had been tucked underneath the blankets.

“Do you need some help?” He startles at your voice, turning to look at you sheepishly.

“Do you know how?”

“I’ve worked in the kitchens my fair share,” you shrug. “I know a thing or two.”

Instead of doing it for him, you help him through it, instructing him on what to do. Though it takes longer than it would have if you’d done it from the start, the satisfied look on his face makes it worth it.

The snow continues to fall, but the fire burns easily enough. The two of you go back to the gazebo and huddle under the blankets together. The food grows cold in the time that it takes to get the fire going—something that Yoongi apologizes profusely for—but you don’t mind. The tea is still warm and you heat the food up by the fire.

“I’m sorry you’re doing most of the work,” he mumbles, chin resting on your shoulder as he holds you from behind, legs spread out on either side of you. “My tutors never really taught me how to do this.” His breath tickles the skin on your neck, and you lean back into him, raising an arm to gently stroke his cheek.

“It’s fine. This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Is there a reason for all this, though?”

“It’s the first snowfall,” he says flatly like it was obvious.

“I wasn’t aware that you knew what that means. Or that you’re a superstitious person,” you laugh lightly.

“I wasn’t.” The deep baritone of his laugh fills your ears, his chest shaking behind you. “Jungkook came running into my study yelling about it.” The mental image has you smiling fondly, envious of the sibling bond they have. “Jihoon also said that a lot of couples spend the first snow together. And,” he adds, “I’m not superstitious.”

“Then why do all this?”

“Because,” he pulls away from you, and you look back at him in confusion, suddenly cold where his arms once were. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“You’re scaring me Yoongi,” you turn to face him fully.

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do. How could I not?” Your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, afraid of where things are going. It’s rare when he’s this serious in your presence. The only other time you can remember being when he caught wind of palace gossip about you and how some of his concubines had been harassing you.

You’d never seen him that mad before. At first, you were afraid that he was mad at you before he calmed down enough to explain it to you, though he was still upset that you didn’t tell him sooner. You don’t know what he did, but those women stopped the very next day, and they hadn’t approached you since.

“And,” he starts, eyes meeting your own. “You love me, right?”

“I–Of course I do.” You stutter briefly, taken aback by how serious he’s being.

“Good. That’s good.”

“Yoongi?” You gently pry for more information. “What is this about?”

“Well, I was wondering if...that is, if you want to...maybe…” Usually well-spoken, the shy stuttering man before you would normally be rather endearing to you. You wait for him to find his words before he starts speaking again. Taking a deep breath, he continues. “I want to wed you, Song Y/N,” he says resolutely. “I want to make you my queen.”

For a long while, neither one of you says anything. You search his eyes for any hint of doubt or hesitation, but all you see is pure, unadulterated love and adoration. The only sounds in the clearing are that of your breathing, the crackling fire, and the stream. You don’t even feel cold anymore.

“Y/N?” Yoongi seems to take your silence as rejection, his face falling. “It was foolish of me to—”

Your lips are on his before he can even finish the thought, hands coming up to wrap around the back of his neck. The kiss is messy and impassioned, teeth knocking against each other as he slips his tongue over your own. His hands wrap around your cheek and waist, pulling you impossibly close to him. You can’t tell if it’s your own body you feel heating up, or if you can feel him through the layers of clothing, but you know that all you can see, feel, and hear is him. Neither one of you wants to pull away, but the need for air wins in the end.

The two of you pant, the cold winter air filling your lungs, the heat that was there just moments before disappearing as you watch your breath come out in puffs. Your clothes are wrinkled and the blankets fell off some time along the way, but you don’t care.

“Does this mean the answer is yes?”

“I’m just a palace maid, but if you’ll have me, yes. A million times yes.” You can just barely feel tears slide down your cheeks as your eyelashes freeze together, but all you care about is the man in front of you.

Cold hands come up to brush away the wetness, but it just causes you to cry more. “You’re so much more than that,” he says. “You’re the woman I fell in love with.”

You don’t see Yoongi for days after that, but news quickly spreads around the palace. Some people send you dirty looks or whisper things behind your back when they think you can’t hear them, but you pay no attention to them. Eunji barged into your room the next morning, and you feared for your eardrums with how loudly she was yelling.

You hadn’t quite understood what she was saying but you laughed all the same. Despite the news that the king was getting married, your life continued much the same as it had been going.

A fortnight goes by like this before you see Yoongi again when he calls you to keep him company in his study. It hasn’t been that long, but there are dark circles under his eyes and he looks thinner.

Immediately, you go to his side, kneeling beside him at the table in front of him. “What’s wrong? Are you sleeping enough? Eating enough?”

“Hello to you too, love.” He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your temple. “The court officials had some things to say of me marrying you,” he explains.

You try to hide the way your shoulders fall a little at his words, but he can tell, the hand on your waist squeezing gently.

“I don’t need to be queen,” you say. “It doesn’t matter to me as long as I get to stay by your side.”

“I know, love, but I want to be able to show the world how much you mean to me,” he stops writing for a moment to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. “I’ll find a way to placate them.”

You don’t know how much time passes like that, the two of you sitting side by side in silence as he works. Eventually, you lie down and rest your head in his lap, content to close your eyes. Yoongi’s hand gently strokes your head, and you fall asleep.

Jihoon wakes you up, announcing the arrival of someone, you think you hear something about the Royal Investigations Bureau, but you can’t quite catch it. The king waits until you’re sitting upright to tell the eunuch to let the man in, but you don’t hear anything after that.

Your eyes settle on the man being quite literally dragged in by the guard. His cheeks are cut and bruised, and the stray hairs not held by his headband are matted to his forehead. Blood is splattered on his clothes, and you hope it’s not his.

Even after all your years spent away from him, your father looks the same as the day his wife sent you away. If Yoongi notices the way you stiffen, he does little to acknowledge it.

“What is it?” You haven’t seen him act so cold and indifferent since your first encounter with him, and if you didn’t know him better, it would scare you how quickly he can change his personas.

“Your Majesty,” the guard looks to you, unsure of whether he should continue with you present until Yoongi motions for him to go on. “This man was found with documents planning an attempt on your life as well as Prince Jungkook’s,” He throws your father on the floor, and he can barely keep himself upright. It takes everything you have to keep from crying right there, and you fist at the fabric of your skirts, knuckles turning white.

Your father coughs, trying to sit up. “Y-your Majesty.” His voice is hoarse, nothing like the warm and comforting sound you remember from your childhood. Before he can say more though, the guard kicks him.

“These are the papers.” He holds papers out, and Jihoon takes them from him before handing them to the king, eyes meeting your own for the briefest of moments before he’s returning to his place off to the side.

Yoongi reads over the papers, looking at your father occasionally. You can’t tell what he’s thinking though, and you find yourself biting your lip hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste heavy on your tongue.

He opens his mouth to speak but before he has a chance to say anything, you interrupt him, a grave offense on its own.

“S-stop!”

For the first time since your father was brought in, the king looks at you, taken aback by how distressed you look. His eyes sweep over your form, not understanding why you’re so tense.

“How dare you interrupt His Majesty?” The guard steps towards you but stops when Yoongi holds up his hand.

“Please Y-Yoongi,” his name slips past your lips before you can correct it, but nobody says anything, least of all him. “Your Majesty, please—he’s innocent.”

“She’s clearly working with him,” the guard says.

The eyes that had softened when he looked at you harden once more, and it sends a chill down your spine. You can’t tell what he’s thinking or how he’s feeling, but the way he looks at you makes your skin crawl.

You prostrate yourself before him, voice coming out weaker than you intended it to when you speak again. “I beg of you. Please spare him!”

“Everyone. Leave us.” Nobody questions the order, not with how he sounds, the true embodiment of the coldhearted king everyone believes him to be. It isn’t until everyone has left, the sound of the doors closing behind them echoing in the silent room when he addresses you. “Look at me.”

The words are reminiscent of your first meeting with him but while that memory brings warmth, you feel empty when he says them this time, all traces of love gone. Hesitantly, you look up at him. There’s a range of emotions in his eyes, but the most obvious one is anger.

“I love you,” he says, though the ways he says the three words suggest the opposite. “I told you I wanted to make you my queen,” he says. “So tell me, Song Y/N, why you’re begging for the life of a man plotting to take not just my life, but my brother’s as well? Are you working with him?”

“No! I love you,” you cry, not bothering to wipe away the tears that stream down your cheeks. “How can you question my feelings for you? Do you not trust me?”

“The timing is awfully suspicious. I know nothing of your past. I thought my love for you was enough, but maybe I was wrong,” he turns away from you. “Guards!”

They come running it at his call, lining up in front of him. From your position on the floor, they look more imposing than they do when you pass them on the palace grounds. Some of them you even recognize. Jimin, the Captain of the Guard, stands at the front.

“Lock her up.” Yoongi doesn’t look at you even as he issues the command.

Jimin has the decency to wait for you to get up on your own before he grabs you by the elbow, leading you out of the room. You can hear the maids whispering as you pass them on the way to the jail, saying things like ‘serves her right for trying to seduce the king’ or similar things. You pass by Eunji and Prince Jungkook who stare at you with wide eyes but are pushed forward when you try to talk to them.

Somewhere along the way, Jimin was called away to deal with something more pressing, squeezing your arm gently before handing you off to his much more aggressive underlings who yank you harshly, before throwing you into a cell.

“Wench,” one of them says before walking away.

Scrambling to your feet, you frantically search for your father, eyes searching the nearby cells before you hear a cough come from behind you, seeing your father hunched over in the corner.

“A-are you okay?” You ask him through your tears, brushing his hair away from his face and gently dabbing at the cuts on his cheek with your sleeve.

“Do I know you,” he coughs out, blood splattering your jeogori though he covers his mouth in a weak attempt to contain it.

Your heart falls when he doesn’t recognize you, but you suppose it wouldn’t make sense if he did. The last time he saw you, you were a child.

“It’s me, a-appa,” you say. “Your daughter, Y/N.”

Your father’s eyes meet your own for the first time in over a decade, hands shaking as they hover over your face. He looks you over slowly, eyes watering as a look of recognition washes over him.

“Is it really?”

“Yes, yes it’s really me,” you smile in spite of everything, taking his hand in your own and pressing it to your cheek. “It’s me, appa.”

“Minseo said you were dead. I mourned you for years,” he cries, his shoulders shaking as words get stuck in his throat. “What happened?”

“She sold me to the palace,” you explain, falling into his familiar embrace. “I’ve been here ever since.”

The two of you stay like that for a long while, not caring about the looks the other prisoners send your way. By the time you finally stop crying, no tears left, the sun has set, though it can’t be too late, given you can still hear plenty of people outside.

“You’ve grown up beautifully,” your father leans back, finally getting a good look at you. His hand “What were you doing with the king?” He questions.

“I love him. And he loves me, I think.” You bury your face in your hands. “I told him you were innocent but he...he got mad at me,” you say. “He didn’t give me a chance to explain things before calling for the guards.”

Before either of you can say anything, Eunji comes running up to the wooden bars, Prince Jungkook not far behind.

“Y/N! What happened? We saw the guards arresting you, but nobody would tell us why.”

“How did you get in here?” You rise from where you were sitting with your father, meeting your best friend at the locked door.

Eunji jerks her head towards where Prince Jungkook stands next to her, smiling awkwardly at you. “Bunny here got them to let us in. But you didn’t answer my question!”

You explain the situation to her, starting with when your father’s wife sent you away. Eunji knows, already, but for the prince’s sake, you explain again. You tell them how your father was framed for treason and about how you begged Yoongi to spare him. When you tell them how he reacted, your best friend rolls up her sleeves.

“I’m going to go give him a piece of my mind,” she turns to march away before Prince Jungkook pulls her back, looking at you apologetically.

“Hyung doesn’t hate you,” he says. “He loves you so much it’s actually disgusting,” he wrinkles his nose. “I think he’s probably really confused and a little hurt. You have to understand that he had to learn the hard way how important it is that he trust the right people.”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” Eunji’s outburst earns her a poke in the side.

“I never said it was. I’m just trying to explain things from Yoongi-hyung’s perspective. I’ll try to talk to him, but we can’t stay here much longer.”

You say goodbye to the two of them and move back to sit next to your father again who, despite obviously being in worse shape than you, takes your hand in his as you rest your head on his shoulder.

That night, Yoongi plagues your dreams, forcing you to watch him to execute your father again and again.

It’s the third night in the cell when your father gently shakes you awake from where you lie on the cold stone ground.

“Y/N, wake up.” For a moment, it feels like you’re a child again, having fallen asleep on the floor in his study while he worked. “Wake up,” he shakes you again. “His Majesty wants to talk to you.”

You rub your eyes as you sit up, trying to get a bearing on your surroundings. Sure enough, Yoongi stands at the entrance to your cell, the door opened likely by whoever just turned the corner. You can’t read the expression on his face in the dim torchlight, but you don’t care. Seeing him again brings tears to your eyes, stomach twisting into knots wondering why he’s here.

“What,” you ask shortly, unable to keep your teeth from chattering in the winter, cold having seeped into your bones after the first night.

“Jungkook told me to come and talk to you,” he says, and you can feel his eyes bore into you even though you aren’t looking at him.

“You didn’t want to talk three days ago,” you say angrily, glaring at the disapproving look your father sends your way.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the way his tongue pokes at his cheek, mulling over his words. “I was mad. And hurt. I know that’s no excuse for my actions but—will you please look at me, love?”

“Oh, so now you love me again?”

“I never stopped. I was just mad. More at myself for thinking I couldn’t trust you anymore, than you.” he explains. “You’ve given me no reason not to trust you but even still, I lashed out at you.”

“It really hurt, you know, when you didn’t trust me.”

“I know.” Yoongi’s eyes sweep over your form, taking in the way your eyes are sunken in, and how you seem thinner. You’re shivering, he notices, and he’s mad at himself for allowing this to happen to you. Hesitantly, he steps towards you, relieved when you don’t move away from him.

“Jungkook practically yelled at me,” he chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Told me if I didn’t fix things that he would assassinate me himself, the little brat.” His words pull a quiet laugh from you, the corners of your mouth tugging upward ever so slightly.

“That sounds like him,” you say, still not meeting his gaze.

“It does, doesn’t it.” He sits across from where you sit on the floor, not minding that the stone is cold, or that he’s dirtying his robes, though he knows that were things how they normally were, you would chastise him. “Won’t you look at me, love?”

Slowly, you turn to face him, eyes meeting his own. Your resolve begins to crumble when you see how tired he looks, and you wonder if he’s slept at all. His robes are wrinkled and his hair is in disarray, much different from the put-together Yoongi you know.

“Jungkook explained things to me,” he looks to your father who watches him carefully from where he’s seated. “I’m sorry for my rash behavior,” he gets on his knees, bowing to your father.

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he turns to you, still bowing. “I hurt you, and I can’t take back what I did, but if you’ll let me, I want to make things right.”

“W-wait,” you shuffle forward, trying to push him so that he’s sitting upright again, but he doesn’t budge.

The rest of the people here begin to stir from their sleep, and nothing good would come from them seeing Yoongi, the king, bowing to a palace maid on the floor. You try again to get him to sit up straight, whispering harshly in your distress.

“Will you get up? Please?”

“Only when you promise to let me make it up to you.”

“Fine! Fine, you can make it up to me, but please, will you get up?”

“Promise to come with me.”

You look to your father who looks way too amused at the scene playing out in front of him, all things considered. “I can’t just leave him here,” you say.

"It would look suspicious if I let him out after the whole court knows what happened, but I promise I’ll make things right,” he looks at you intently.

Only after your father waves you away, ensuring he’ll be okay, do you leave the cell, exiting the building with Yoongi. You make a promise to get your dad out of there, looking back to see Jimin waving encouragingly as you leave.

Yoongi brings you to his room, ordering servants to draw a hot bath for you and bring a clean change of clothes. You try to get him to stop fussing over you, but he doesn’t listen. Soon enough, you’re sitting in the king’s bath with several changes of clothes available to you, Yoongi pacing behind the screen.

The silence between the two of you is deafening. It’s so different from the comforting quiet that falls over the two of you when you’re simply content to be in the other’s presence. This time though, it’s clear neither one of you is quite sure how to move forward from here, and you say the first thing that comes to mind.

“I still love you.” Though quiet, Yoongi’s silhouette freezes on the other side of the partition, the rhythmic sound of his feet stopping. You busy yourself by playing with your hair, dragging it through the water.

You hear the king take a deep breath before speaking. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t, you know. You can still leave if you want. After we clear things up with your father. I won’t stop you.”

“Will you help me wash my hair?”

The request catches him by surprise, and he hesitates before stepping around the screen. He pulls a stool up behind you, rolling his sleeves up before he gently begins to massage the soap into your hair.

“I’m still mad,” you say. “And I’m hurt, but even now, the idea of leaving you makes me sad. But,” you continue, “I need to know that you can trust me. I’m sure you have some questions about what Prince Jungkook said.”

Yoongi’s hands slow, trying to figure out what to ask. “Why didn’t you tell me about your past?”

“It’s not exactly something I enjoy telling people about. The only person that knew was Eunji, and even she doesn’t know much.”

“But he’s a nobleman, surely you could have reached out to him?” His hands have stopped all together now, but you don’t mind. In spite of everything that’s happened, his presence still calms you.

“Maybe, but I was young, I didn’t know what to do. When I finally understood what happened, I thought it would be better if I stayed out of his life. I’m an illegitimate child, there’s not much going for him in a household like that.”

Though the silence is still heavy, it’s more bearable this time. He helps you get out of the water, draping a towel over you as you shiver. Yoongi doesn’t know what lines he can and can’t cross, so he goes back to sit on the bed to wait for you.

When you step into his room, you immediately sit beside him, leaning against him. His familiar scent comforts you as you listen to his breathing. His body feels hot next to your own, and you move his arm so that it rests on your shoulders.

“Let’s go to bed, I’m tired.”

“Of course, love.”

You fall asleep before you’ve fully lied down. Yoongi gently wraps his arms around you, almost as if he’s afraid you’ll have disappeared into the night when he wakes up in the morning.

Both of you sleep better that night than you have the past several days.

It takes a while for evidence suggesting your father’s innocence to surface, and even longer still for them to find the person who framed him in the first place. During those weeks there’s a brief period of uncertainty between Yoongi and you, but things returned to normal not long after.

Evenings that were once spent in his arms became occupied by visiting your father and making sure he’s okay. With some assistance from Jimin, sneaking food to him was easy and he looked to be faring much better now that he was getting proper sustenance.

Eunji and Prince Jungkook are the first people you talked to the day after being released and though they assured you that you didn’t need to thank them, you did so anyway, promising to help them with something whenever the need arose.

Now, several weeks later, you stand outside the prison, waiting for your dad to come out. Despite having met with him multiple times already, you can’t stop the way you shake with nervousness and anticipation.

Noticing this, Yoongi wraps his hand around your own, fingers intertwining as he squeezes reassuringly. “Take a deep breath, love.”

“What if he decides he doesn’t want me anymore?” You wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. “Or he doesn’t care about me anymore?” It’s been years since you last saw each other, after all.

“Did you not see the way he was glaring at me when I went to talk to you that night?” A breathy chuckle escapes him as he recalls the mistakes that lead to that moment. “He looked like he wanted my head on a pike for making you cry like that.”

You don’t remember any of that, but you suppose you were too distressed to pay attention to anything other than Yoongi at that moment. You don’t remember much of that night, to be entirely honest. Your emotions had been overwhelming, and you blocked most of them out.

The two of you turn towards the sound of approaching footsteps, Jimin leading your father out to where you’re waiting. “One Song Jiyeon, as requested” he says with a bright smile on his face, eyes crinkling into crescent moons before he turns and goes back to his post.

Were you not so on edge right now you would have stuck your tongue out at the Captain of the Guard, but you’re at a loss for what to do. You take a step towards your dad before stopping. Is hugging him still acceptable? You are no longer the little girl that clung to his robes whenever he had to go to work in the mornings. Thankfully he makes the decision for you, wrapping his arms around you.

It’s strange, no longer needing to crane your neck to look up at him. He doesn’t need to bend down to hug you anymore, either. Even though it’s been more than a decade, he still smells like ink and parchment, and you realize now why the Royal Archives had always felt so familiar to you.

The cuts and scrapes that littered his face are gone, and his hair is no longer in disarray. Now that you see him in the sunlight, you can see the signs of aging at the corners of his eyes when he smiles at you, and in the greyed hairs that can be seen growing in his beard. He looks good though, like he’s lived well these past years.

“Let me get a good look at you,” he steps away so that you’re an arm’s length away, hands resting on your shoulders as he takes you in. His eyes soften as they sweep over your face, his mouth spreading into a gentle smile. “You look so much like your mother,” he says fondly. You think he’s about to cry before he blinks the tears away.

“Really?” You never met your mother who died shortly after giving birth to you, and you think that Minseo, your father’s wife, was glad for it, though she would never say it outright. She would treat you like her daughter in her husband’s presence but would ignore you otherwise.

“Really. I’m so glad that I can see the beautiful woman you’ve grown up to be. I’m proud to be your father.”

Though the scene in front of him is touching, Yoongi coughs awkwardly from where he stands a little ways away, avoiding making eye contact with either you or your father. “I’m glad that the two of you have crossed paths again,” he says, “but perhaps we can move this to somewhere a little more private?”

You become aware of the dozens of eyes on the three of you and step away. “Maybe that would be for the best, appa.”

Wordlessly, the three of you make your way to the king’s study. You haven’t been back since your argument with Yoongi, and your stomach knots at the unpleasant memories. He sits behind his desk, you and your father sitting across from him.

“Despite the unique circumstances, I want to thank you for bringing Y/N into the world.” Yoongi looks at your father with sincerity, eyes flitting to your own only briefly. “And,” he continues, “I would like to formally ask for your permission to marry her and make her my queen.”

For the second time in less than a month—and likely in all his time as king—he prostrates himself before your father who looks at him in bewilderment.

“Why should I let her marry you if you just turn your back on her every time someone says something against her?”

“Appa,” you glare at him, but he keeps looking at the young man before him.

“Your father’s right, Y/N.” Yoongi sits up, looking the man in the eyes.

“Being queen isn’t easy, Y/N. People will try to hurt you either through words or actions. I need to know that he won’t turn on you so easily.”

You know what Yoongi meant now when he said your father was glaring at him. You have no doubt that, were he not king, he would be dead where he sits. It’s strange though, seeing your father, who has never been anything but kind, look at someone so sternly.

“I promise, sir, that from now until the day I die, I will always be on her side.”

Your father looks at him long and hard, and you can see the way Yoongi’s knuckles turn white with how tightly clenched his fists are. His shoulders stop rising and falling as he holds his breath, worried about what your father might say next.

“Very well, son. Make her happy.”

Yoongi’s shoulders sag in relief, and he releases the breath he’d been holding. The gummy smile that you’re so fond of makes an appearance, and you let out a sigh before turning to your father.

“Can you stop acting so scary now? If you’d gone on any longer I think he would have passed out.”

The indignant scoff the king lets out doesn’t go unnoticed, but you chose not to torment him anymore--at least for the time being. The three of you make small talk over tea for a while before your father says he has to return home for the night.

You invite Yoongi to send your dad off together but he lets you go on your own, allowing the two of you some privacy. Now that word of your parentage has gotten out, there was sure to be less opposition to your marriage, though you doubt anything could stop the king.

“Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer?” You turn to face your father when you reach the palace gates.

Laughing warmly, he nods his head. “I have to go back home to your younger brother,” he says fondly. You’d learned that Minseo gave birth to a son not long after she sent you away, and you’re glad for it, happy that your father still got to see one of his children grow up. “You should come meet Taehyung sometime. I think you’d like him.”

He says nothing of his wife or if he’ll confront her about it, but you don’t care at the moment. She has no power over you anymore, and you’d prefer not to revisit the past again.

When you return to your room, Yoongi’s arms wrap around your waist from behind as he trails light kisses along your neck and collarbone, before his fingers deftly begin removing your clothing.

“I just got back!” You laugh, trying to squirm away from him.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he asks, voice deep and husky. “How long I’ve wanted to hear your pretty little moans as I make you come on my cock?”

You blush at his obscene words, heat pooling in your core as he turns you to face him, pulling him into a kiss, trying to show him how much he means to you. Putting all of your love and adoration into the action, you drag your hands over his chest, feeling the toned muscle beneath the silk fabric.

Moaning into the kiss, you fist the material of his robes as he finally rids you of your last article of clothing. His hands immediately find your breasts. The way his fingers twist and pull at your nipples mixed with the frigid winter air causes them to harden as goosebumps spread across the sensitive skin.

“God, you’re so beautiful.” He moves his mouth down along your jaw, nipping at your collarbone and earning a yelp of surprise from you. Pushing you up against the wall, he moves down even further, marking the supple skin of your chest. Wrapping your hands around the back of his head, you arch into him as you feel the familiar clench of your walls as they search for stimulation. Light pink blooms decorate you all the way down to your navel before he finally stops and looks up at you from where he kneels before you.

“F-fuck, Yoongi.” He smirks at the way his name falls from your lips, red and swollen.

“I’d love to feast on you again, love, but I’m afraid that will have to wait for another night,” he says as he looks down at the tent in his robes. “Will you give me all of you?”

You nod your head vehemently. When he stays on the ground even when you try to pull him up into another kiss, you whine, hips shifting in his hold before he pins them to the wall with more force.

“I need you to say it, love. Need to know that you want me just as badly as I want you.” Thumbs rub circles into your hips as he holds you there, looking up at you with hooded eyes, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Yes!” The word comes out louder and more desperate than you meant but you continue all the same, voice softening into a whine, desperation evident. “Yes, please, Yoongi. Make me yours.”

The words barely leave your lips before he lifts you up and deposits you on your bed, hastily removing his royal robes and letting his hair down, dropping the sangtugwan on top of the discarded clothes.

His hair falls down around his face, framing the delicate features and emphasizing the scar that runs over his eye. He pushes your legs further apart, settling between them as his fingers trace patterns up your legs. Despite the cold, the digits leave searing heat in their wake and you whine in need.

“I’m going to make you mine,” he growls, “going to make you my queen. Do you want that? To belong to each other not only in name, but to know that nobody but the king can pleasure you like I can?”

“Yes, please,” you cry out as he circles your clit, hips rising to meet his ministrations before his unoccupied hand pins you down to the bed.

He pinches the bud harshly, a pained cry leaving your lips. “Whose are you, Y/N?”

“Yours! I belong to you!” Your hips fight against his hold, wanting more than what he’s giving you.

“That’s right,” he affirms, one of his fingers swiping through your folds, glistening with your arousal in the dimly lit room. “And who am I?”

“My king!” You don’t miss the way his cock twitches at the title, a bead of precum leaking from the angry red head.

Fingers continue to tease your entrance, your pleas echoing in the room. You swivel your hips to try and increase the pressure applied to your clit, but Yoongi pulls away entirely before his hand lands on your exposed cunt, a harsh slap sounding throughout your room. The pain spreads quickly but is replaced by pleasure just as fast, a long drawn out moan escaping you.

“A-ah, fuck,” you whine, trying to close your legs to get away from his grasp.

“Behave for your king,” he commands. Your walls clench when he brings his hand down again, the reaction not going unnoticed by him as he chuckles. “Do you like it when I hit your pretty little clit?” When you fail to answer him his hand comes down again, as your back arches off the bed. “Answer me.”

“Yes! I like it!”

Yoongi scoffs at your answer, almost like he’s disgusted with you, but the way his length shifts between his legs says otherwise. “What do you think the people would say if they knew their future queen was nothing more than a common whore,” he poses the words as a question, and humiliation burns through you. “Look at you, you’re soaking wet after just a couple of hits to your little pussy.”

Fingers drag through your folds, collecting your juices before smearing the digits across your lips. “Taste yourself, love.”

Your tongue darts out from between your lips as you moan. The heady taste of your essence coats your taste buds as Yoongi collects more of it before he rubs it into your nipples, pinching and pulling at the peaks as you whine in need.

“Please, Yoongi, make me feel good.” Your mind wanders to the night he spent eating you out, something that feels so far away now.

“You said that last time too,” he chuckles, feigning confusion as he continues toying with your breasts, a pout on his lips. “Do I not make you feel good?”

“I-I want more.”

He smacks his hand against your chest, admiring the way the mound bounces from the impact. “You’ll take what your king gives you and be grateful for it, slut.”

The way he spits the last word at you makes you clench in need, desperate to be filled. You brush your hips against his erection, whining at the contact before he pushes your hips back down onto the bed.

In contrast to his words though, he slides two of his fingers into you. Slowly, Yoongi begins moving them in and out of your entrance, fucking the digits into you shallowly as you squirm against his hold. It’s not enough to bring you to the edge, but it’s more than enough to have you pleading for more.

“Be quiet, love. If I hear you moan, I’ll stop.”

You can feel your arousal drip down onto the bed and you can hear it when the pads of his fingertips brush against your walls, pushing against the spot that causes your back to arch up every once in a while to keep you on your toes.

True to his words, Yoongi continues like this for what feels like hours. Somewhere along the way he adds a third finger to the mix. He speeds up only to slow down when you moan too loudly for his liking, keeping his fingers still inside you until your walls stop tightening around the digits.

“Please,” you beg, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers when he stops moving them. Tears pool in your eyes in desperation, needing him to give you more. “Make me yours, my king.”

“Fuck.” Faster than your lust addled mind can comprehend, he flips you over on to your hands and knees, palming at the soft flesh of your ass. He slides his length through your sensitive folds, relishing in the moans you reward him with. “I’m going to make you mine. Gonna fuck you so hard that all of Joseon will know it’s me who pleasures you.”

For all his haste, he still has enough sense about him to remember that you have not slept with a man before, and so he sheathes himself in your heat slowly, hissing at how tight you are. He almost loses himself right there, with your cunt squeezing around him in a vice like grip.

Your walls burn as they stretch to accommodate him, not used to having more than two or three fingers. You whine at the discomfort, Yoongi gently stroking your hair and whispering words of reassurance. He stays there, hips pressed firmly against your own waiting for you to adjust to him.

When the pain subsides and the stretch becomes pleasurable, you hesitantly pull off of him until only the head remains, pushing back onto his cock slowly. Gradually, you increase your pace, fucking yourself on him as he allows you to get accustomed to having him inside of you.

“Please,” you whine, shimmying your hips against his pelvis.

“What do you want, love? Tell me how I can pleasure my queen.”

You aren’t sure what you want, but you know you want more of whatever it is. “More,” you whine, looking back at him over your shoulder.

He looks like sin, hair falling over his forehead, scar shining like gold in the warm candlelight. His hands grip your hips bruisingly, as he pulls out of you until just the tip remains buried in you, looking at the way your juices coat his length, dripping onto the blankets beneath you.

“I want more, my king. Please, I need you”

No more is needed before he roughly yanks on your hips, pulling you to meet his own thrusts as a strangled moan claws its way up your throat. He sets a fast pace, balls smacking into your clit every time he forces his member into your wet heat.

“I’m going to show the whole court that you’re my queen. Would you like that?”

You cry out in pleasure when his fingers brush against the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs, rubbing tight circles around the bud. “Yes!”

“Fuck, turn over. I want to see your face when you come apart on my cock.”

Yoongi pushes your thighs up against your chest in the new position, torn between the way your breasts bounce with each of his thrusts, and the way his member disappears in your walls. In the end, his eyes settle on your chest, admiring the curves of your body as he fucks into you.

“I’m going to put a baby in you,” he grunts. “Would you like that? To know that you’re carrying your king’s child in your womb?” He hisses when he feels your heat clamp down around him. “What a filthy queen I have,” he chuckles condescendingly at you, loving the way your face scrunches up in pleasure. “You’re just a little slut, aren’t you? Desperate to have my cum leaking out of your cunt for days.”

“Yes! I want you to fill me with your seed.” The words leave your lips before you have time to think about what you’re saying. “Put a baby in me, my king.”

“Fuck. Come for me love, let me see you come on my cock.” He releases one of your legs to circle your clit, toying with the bud as you feel your climax wash over you. Your vision goes white as all the strength disappears from your body, Yoongi chasing his own high as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm.

The pleasure borders on pain from the oversensitivity when he finally comes, painting your walls white as you continue to spasm around his cock, milking every last drop from him. Slowing his thrusts until they eventually come to a halt, he lets your legs down and brushes the hair away from your face.

Your eyes are glassy as you look at him, a satisfied smile on your face. Yoongi looks at you reverently, burning the image of you into his mind; flushed cheeks, hair sticking to your forehead, your lips parted in a sigh.

“I love you, Yoongi. No matter what.” You reach a hand up to tangle it in his hair, playing with the strands as they fall and brush against your neck, tickling the sensitive skin.

“And I love you, Song Y/N,” he looks down at you, cupping your cheek in his hand with nothing but love and adoration in his eyes. “With every fiber of my being and every fragment of my soul, I love you.”

#bangtanarmynet #btswritersguild #mygsnet #ficswithluv #bangtansmutcentral #bts fanfic #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #yoongi fanfic #yoongi fluff #yoongi angst #yoongi x reader #bts x reader #idk how to tag it's been so long since i posted something

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plan-d-to-i · 3 years ago

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1-people forget that in the universe MXTX created it is stated that YZY's situation is not normal, it is a patriarcal society so wives don't keept their names nor do whatever the fuck they want and they certainly don't humiliate their husband without even being told off, she's uniquely horrible and JFM is uniquely spineless. i always think JFM did love and worried about WWX but that last interaction he threw him under the bus to appease JC so his last memory would cement that he did love him

2- bc he didn't have more time to keep trying to make him understand and i always wonder how things with JC could have been fixed, easiest would be having had the balls to get rid off YZY early but if he divorced her (or got her killed lol) would JC have been different? or would he resent him even more for not protecting his mother? idk i feel like JFM was cursed from the moment he accepted to marry her and i can't help feeling bad for him

LOVE THIS. So I agree w like 99.9999% only my feelings over JFM change every five minutes. I never hate him but I vacillate wildly between i feel like he could've done more and ig he was himself a trapped in that situation so it's unfair to hold him fully accountable.

Madam Yu is an undeniably violently abusive woman who has married a kind, non-confrontational man. Most of JFM's flaws are only seen as 'flaws' instead of qualities because they framed as ineffective against someone as rank as her. I wouldn't even say he's spineless, because he does cancel YanLi's engagement for fear that it will make her as unhappy as his own marriage made him & effectively stands against his wife's demand on top of also passing on a very beneficial alliance w Jin Clan. (In fact Jin GuangShan is way more reluctant at the thought of taking this news to Madam Jin.)

Abusive relationships have their own dynamics so it's hard watching from the outside how JFM's resignation to his circumstances and avoidance are ineffective against, someone like YZY who materializes like a storm cloud to rain her venom down on everyone, especially WWX. Because WWX is not only bearing the scars piled on his back from YZY's whippings/'discipline' but he's trapped in a perpetual balancing act between JFM, YZY, jc and to an extent Yanli. He has to make JFM proud/see the value in keeping him around & at least in the beginning of his stay with the Jiangs we know he always tries to eat/take less than he needs, but he can't be so good & talented that jc feels threatened or set Madam Yu off. At the same time Yanli rewards him with soup and affection when he takes the fall for jc his first day there. This definitely establishes a pattern wherein WWX sees his usefulness within the Jiang sect in diverting punishment for the failings of those around him, especially jc, to himself. She also repeatedly asks him to just accept jc’s shifty behavior as a representative of his affection... bc she's a huge fucking enabler, which probably doesn’t bode well for how she’s come to interpret affection.

As for YZY she's the only one who paints herself a victim, when it's clear she's the instigator of the conflicts!!!! She’s literally the bad guy, boss, fly in the ointment etc. There's a lot of gaslighting in her interactions with JFM so I'm confused as to why people think that of everyone she's the reliable narrator or some poor sad victim of an uninterested husband??? She clearly does as she pleases in Lotus Pier, yells at JFM in front of Servants, accuses him of fathering a child with his friend's wife, she whips the head disciple for imagined infractions with a spiritual weapon! and pretty much just chills w her ladies when she isn't busy spewing venom wherever she goes. WITH NO REPRECUSSIONS. If JFM had been a woman and YZY the man I'm sure all her cringe stans would be frothing at the mouth to drag her(yzy) to hell by the balls.

People love to accuse JFM of favoritism towards WWX or showing him more affection. To me it's clear that for JMF, WWX is simply an extension of his father/friend & ultimately a subordinate in the Jiang household. JFM clearly cares about jc, it's not his fault that jc doesn't get it, and it's not his fault that YZY is always poisoning their relationship. JFM for his part is still trying to guide jc towards how he's meant to occupy his future position as Clan leader, quite gently too considering jiang cheng was berating WWX for saving their allies... I’m sure if anything JFM hoped WWX’s morality and sense of right and wrong would rub off a bit on jc & why wouldn't you want someone immensely talented and loyal and devoted to the well being of your son and family around?? JFM did a nice thing getting WWX off the streets but that doesn’t mean he also didn’t think WWX could be a good friend to jc who when WWX is first brought to Lotus Pier has ZERO friends, and was likely to remain with zero friends considering his personality. Only someone like WWX who is forced by circumstances, & his kind nature & gratitude to the Jiangs would be in a position to befriend him. So I think it's laughable to say JFM favors WWS when WWX was the sacrificial lamb friend/pet JFM gifted his son. Not to mention that the only person who says JFM doesn't properly value jc is again YZY. Ofc jc takes to like a duck to water because he's cut from the same cloth as his rancid mother and it's much easier to blame WWX for all his failings and misfortunes than to take a good hard look at himself or ever take responsibility for anything. jc doesn't do self reflection. There isn't any scenario where jc would have been a good person. He's lacking basic human empathy. His view of the world has him as its center. He can only relate to things as they concern and affect him and he doesn't even possess a modicum of honor that might keep such selfish impulses at bay.

To conclude, I totally agree. JFM cursed himself the moment he let himself be coerced by YZY and her Clan into marrying a person whose character and values he knew ran so deeply counter to his and his Clan's own. Sure enough under the control of jiang cheng, the original spirit in which Jiang clan was established is gone. It's a place devoid of warmth that people are scared to visit lest they be confronted w the screams of people being flayed alive.

#mdzs #jiang cheng #jiang family #yu ziyuan #madam yu #jiang yanli #the jiangs suck #WHY DID I MAKE THIS SO LONG FFFFF #I tried to edit it down 138431 times #this was edited 2000 times #I obviously consider YZY to be the shittiest shit to ever be shit on the face of the earth #and I think this is v JFM favorable at least it's meant to be but as always I cast a lot of shade all the way around

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wangxiangiftexchange · 4 years ago

Text

Lunar New Year Gift for vedrividia!

Pairing: Wei Wuxian/Lan Wangji; past Wei Wuxian/Other (implied) Rating: Mature Warnings: brief depiction of sexual harassment, brief instance of misgendering, implied/referenced past suicide attempt, implied/referenced past sexual assault (off-screen), implied/referenced past forced pregnancy (off screen), implied/referenced underage sex & pregnancy (off-screen), alcoholism, coming out, implied/referenced homophobia Other Tags: trans male character, disabled character, gay male character, open ending, unreliable narrator, angst, tender, chance meeting, confession, reunion, character with incomplete spinal cord injury, iSCI, it probably sounds darker than it is

Summary: On the last eve before spring Wei Ying finds himself at the end of a road. What awaits him on the other side depends on the steps he takes to cross it. Someone walks beside him.

Disclaimer: I am neither Chinese, trans nor disabled. All of the portrayal in this fic is based on research. It's not my intent to offend and I'm open to critique as long as it's respectful and constructive. Wei Ying's journey is his own and does not represent all of the disabled or trans community. The fic is set in a world that closely resembles ours, but where corona never happened and maybe China's laws are just a little less restrictive (but still very phobic), so bear that in mind. I do not own any of the characters.

Notes - Beginning: The idea of trans male Wei Ying had been stuck in my head for a while now, and I've been wanting to try my hand at a trans story, because I've never done that before. This assignment was an opening to do that in a darker, more serious setting. I have also wanted to explore Wei Ying's suicidal issues while translating his story into a modern setting for some time (it was supposed to be a coffee shop AU, only the coffee shop never appeared hah). It was simultaneously hard and fun to write, and I'm grateful for it. @vedrividia, I hope you like it!

In the past I didn't feel like I could do a good job at representing anyone of an identity I couldn't quite empathize with. Since then I've surrounded myself with trans inclusive media, and followed transgender blogs and channels, and I hope that this fic does right by all of them.

I am aware of some of the potentially problematic topics, but I also didn't want to ignore all the challenges and abuse and trauma that trans folk are forced to endure on a daily basis. (Did you know that trans people have some of the highest suicide rates, and likely to have alcohol issues? Making everyone happy and nothing hurt felt all kinds of wrong knowing that.) I believe that representing both - an ideal world alongside the real and flawed one - is important.

Positive stories are also important - this is one. Or at least I hope I was able to make it one.

On a more cheerful note, there are pictures that served as an inspiration for this story, namely this photoset (especially the pic in the leather jacket, the one on the couch and the close up) done in faceapp by a genius, this brain-frying picture, and of course this picture from the Harper's Bazaar Photoshoot that none of us are over. I completely blame Xiao Zhan's androgyny.

Last but not least, I owe a massive thanks to Laura for the amazing beta they did on a rather short notice and brought this fic to another level. Thank you for your hard work!!! :)

End notes: Wei Ying has an incomplete spinal cord injury in the lumbar area (at L1 or L2). I didn't realize that I played myself when I gave him an incomplete injury, because the lack of references and information is in terms of quantity a total opposite to everything available on complete SCI. Which in turn made the telling of such a story feel even more important. If any of you know of a good resource for the daily life of people with iSCI, I'm all ears.

Even researching the walking aides was a challenge, since most information is on wheelchair dependent people, which Wei Ying is not. He has a wheelchair but he refuses to use it, for several reasons, one of them being image, another being worry of atrophy. He likes a good walk, and there's progress thanks to physical therapy, most of which is covered by insurance. I was debating an exoskeleton/brace for him, but from what I gathered they aren't really useful for SCI (I welcome any additional info about this), and those that would be cost a ton and aren't covered by insurance - which is a big factor for Wei Ying. The toss ended up being between forearm crutches and a walking frame, but in the end I decided on crutches, because it seemed like Wei Ying would prefer them? For now? With crutches he can pretend, and I also didn't know to what extent a walking frame would be insurance covered (in China), and whether he'd be at a point where he would accept one. (I imagine the simple ones would be covered by insurance, the question is whether they make a huge difference to crutches, and whether a rollator - with wheels and a seat is something that would count as 'necessary' in this case.)

However, once again, I am not adequately educated on all that goes into the decision making here. No one ever mentions things like these in success stories. In the end I left it as a room for future development. I'm pretty sure Wen Qing is trying to convince him to get one.

I was debating whether to tag dysphoria. While it is not explicitly stated in the fic, Wei Ying does experience it, although this has gotten better since he realized being trans, came out and started testosterone. His decision to not transition fully is one that many trans people make at a point in their lives, for any number of reasons. This does not mean he'll never change his mind, or won't explore other forms of expression. It's a choice that the current Wei Ying is making, completely independent of future Wei Ying.

It's possible in China to get a gender confirmation surgery, but the requirements sound like a nightmare. The first thing you have to do is get diagnosed with 'gender disorder', be five years in (unsuccessful) therapy for it, at least 20 and unmarried. If he decides to transition fully to a male presenting body he can only marry someone who is biologically female in the future, under Chinese law. (Imagine having to divorce your significant other in order to be who you are. Imagine having to make this decision. It makes me want to write fic about it.)

It also costs a ton, as none of it is covered by insurance. You can only start hormone therapy in order to get surgery, which leads a lot of trans people to acquire hormones illegally and without medical counseling. I purposefully did not decide where Wei Ying gets his T from. I didn't want him to not have it, but I left the how undecided. For the most part I headcanon it as one of the things that make my world a little different, since hormone therapy is a thing that exists outside of transitioning as well. E.g. many female athletes use testosterone to boost their performance, and many other women take it for various medical reasons. I feel like WWX could find ways to acquire some. Now, whether this would be legal or not is left open.

By the way? Never, EVER deadname. Just don't. The moment someone comes out to you as trans, tells you their pronouns and name, that's what you use. You forget everything that came prior to that, wipe it out of your memory, it's ashes on the sands of time unless stated otherwise BY THEM, got it?

Now, Wei Ying's case. I was hesitant about how to approach this, but from the start I knew two things. I wanted the same kind of intimacy of WWX & LWJ calling each other by their birth names as in canon, but I also didn't want to go the way most authors go in this case i.e. splitting the names to pre- and post- transition. It is my understanding that most Chinese names are unisex (if anyone has more info on this, I'd love to have it), or can be used for all genders, and I didn't want to force a gender issue where there wasn't one. However, I also wanted something parallel that could be used in a similar way. What I came up with is what you see in text. While Wei Ying did change his name, the only reason why it's still somewhat okay to use 'Wuxian' is because he explicitly says he likes it. In fact, in my head somewhere in the imagined future of this verse, he and JFM have a conversation about it where JFM tells him if he wants it, it can still be his name - he didn't give it to an image, but a person. IDK how well any of this works, or translates to actual trans or Chinese (or trans and Chinese) people, so if you have words for me, let me know.

On a side note, in 2015 China lifted the one-child policy in favor of a two-child policy. A-Yuan was born in 2017.

Wei Ying attempted suicide between the 4th and 8th week of his pregnancy. During the early weeks the probability of a fetus surviving a major fall (even a fall from stairs) is significantly higher than later in the pregnancy, and the scaffolding he jumped from wasn't actually that high. I'm also considering that there might have been something to cushion the fall that he hadn't noticed (a stray rope, or a net) or been aware of (like padding on the stage), but that's a detail I decided to leave to your imagination. On the other hand, sustaining a SCI during early pregnancy is likely to have fatal consequences, as I found out a week before the deadline. In the end, they both got very lucky. Wei Ying spent the next 3 months in a coma. When he woke up it was too late to terminate. Jiang Fengmian had been adamant that the decision not be made without Wei Ying's consent, which was nice of him, but also ended up making the decision for Wei Ying regardless.

Last but not least, if you've read this and feel like you have something to add, I love any kind of comments, whether you wanna review the fic, have some useful information for me, would like to discuss a point or just like to say hi! :)

*****

Transverse

If asked, Wei Ying wouldn't have remembered how he had gotten to the bar. He didn't remember taking a different route on the short walk back home, he hadn't even been aware there was a bar in the first place. He only remembered suddenly standing in front of it, aching to his bones, limbs leaden with a familiar exhaustion, morose and longing for nothing more than a little break. His back was on fire, his leg was throbbing, the skin underneath his binder wouldn’t stop itching and to top it off his stomach had been cramping in a way it wasn't supposed to anymore. His body had decided to give him a wonderful gift for the holiday. Wei Ying wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy, and that spoke volumes to anyone who knew who occupied that position.

Needless to say, he was desperate for a drink.

The bar was almost empty so early in the afternoon, and shortly before the holiday, all the regulars had likely gone home to see their families. It was the time of reunions, the golden week of spring knocking on the door. The whole town looked empty, seemingly asleep and abuzz at the same time, a strange kind of liminal space born in the atmosphere of the coming celebrations, quiet with contained impatience. He had been painfully aware of it the entire week, the turning of another year leaving him nothing to do but watch people go where Wei Ying couldn't return anymore.

The Lunar New Year always made him hurt worse than usual, in more ways than purely physical. Wei Ying had felt that strange air peak today, even in the confines of his tiny office at the back of the Pacific Coffee branch he had been working at for a little over two months. It was a tiny thing on the busiest street of their small town, smelling of comfort in the wee hours of the morning and of salvation late in the evening. The staff had needed support with handling the supply chain, so that they could focus on serving the staggering amount of customers that came in all day.

It had seemed perfect when Wei Ying had first limped inside on his forearm crutches, with a letter of recommendation, feeling smaller than an ant but significantly less tough. The reintegration program had been a lifeline thrown to a drowning man when he had first heard about it. It had been the opportunity to restart his life. Earn an income. Be independent. In time maybe even repay his friends for the kindness they had shown when he had nowhere to go. Now? Now he wasn't sure that he'd still have a job after the holiday was over.

"This really can't go on," his boss had said, midway through the most gruesome shift the shop had ever witnessed. "Half the supplies came in wrong, for the third time this week!"

Sometimes, Wei Ying wondered why he still bothered. He could probably survive on aid and love for himself, and the Wens made enough to take care of the rest. It just… It could have been nice. To be the one to take care of the people he cared about, for a change.

He really needed that drink.

The whiskey looked enticing from where he was half-sitting, half-leaning on a stool, crutches stashed between his legs. He could almost taste it, the phantom of the sharp flavor burning his tongue.

"Hi, darling." An unfamiliar voice startled him out of his thoughts, causing him to tense. He had been aware of the middle-aged man at the counter, but he hadn't been paying him much attention until now. "Can I buy you a drink? How about Sex on the Beach?"

It was difficult to control himself at that tasteless, juvenile joke. Wei Ying could almost taste the bile rising in his throat and the beginnings of what would no doubt become a pounding headache throbbing in his temples. Great. Just what he had needed.

The whiskey bottle called out to him again, beckoning him to the bitter burn.

A drink. That was what he needed - a drink.

Do you really? Need it? The voice of his therapist came to his mind, sudden and uninvited.

"Hey bartender!" The man called out in the most unwelcome case of accidental telepathy in the history of mankind, sneaking one arm around Wei Ying’s waist, a sweaty hand settling on his hip. "One Sex on the Beach for the miss, on my tab!"

There was the rising bile again, tension squeezing his muscles, and the flash of a haughty smirk at the furthest back of his mind. This wasn't what he wanted. None of it. Neither the touch nor the drink, no matter what his mind wanted to convince him of.

It's easier to need than the things that take hard work, the ones you have to earn. It had taken him a long time to admit that.

"I don't drink." Wei Ying said, angling his head as much as the muscles of his neck permitted to look at the guy invading his personal space squarely. "Remove your hand now."

The guy bristled.

"Hey, chill out, sweetheart." He was quick to regain his composure with an awkward laugh and not enough common sense. Wei Ying supposed he must have been used to rejection. Too bad. "You're so tense… Maybe a virgin cocktail then."

His crutch shot up before the full sentence was out.

The man stumbled back with a startled yelp as the rubber point connected with his chest in a sharp jab.

"Hey! What's your problem?!"

"I said I don't drink." Wei Ying was completely unapologetic, still holding his crutch like a sword, but the guy was already walking away, muttering ‘fucking bitch’ under his breath.

"You alright there, girl?"

His gut clenched at the words.

He looked up to meet the only slightly worried, but otherwise unbothered gaze of the bartender and told himself it wasn't her fault. She probably wasn't even aware. He knew he didn't… There was no way for him to pass. There was nothing he could do about that, had already decided not to, not at this time, not in this country. Wei Ying didn't expect people to know on sight. He didn't. It didn't change the fact though that every single misnomer felt like someone was peeling his skin off.

"I'm not a girl," he said to her almost too quietly, but he knew she heard when he met her gaze. A strained silence passed between them in which Wei Ying watched her frown in confusion, then sputter with the loss of words, before awkwardly shuffling off. He smiled wryly. How funny. It really wasn't anything complicated, and yet… So few were able to comprehend.

Wordlessly, Wei Ying slid off the stool and made his way out of the bar as quick as his crutches let him be.

Once outside, the crisp air mercilessly purifying, he realized how close to the edge he had gotten once again. He had to stop doing this. He couldn't afford another fall, another spiral back down the drain. Not when he had just clawed his way out. Not when he had people depending on him now. Tiny people with curious gray eyes, so much like his own. Waiting for him at home.

Something icy touched his face and instinctively he looked up only to find it snowing.

That explained the ache.

The cold always made him feel sore, although he knew at least some of it was phantom pain. He hadn’t retained a whole lot of feeling in his left leg, beyond a tingle that had become almost constant and the occasional twitch. His right leg was fine, it just tended to ache a lot, to a point where Wei Ying sometimes found himself wishing it wasn't better off than the other one. But then he wouldn't get away with 'forgetting' his wheelchair at home, so he quickly dismissed that thought. Besides, there were plenty of people who had it worse. He, at least, could still walk. He could still stand. Kinda. He had no room to complain.

After all, he had done this to himself.

'It's better this way.' He remembered thinking, standing on the top of the catwalk stairs backstage of the high school auditorium. 'A-jie, Jiang Cheng,… Lan Zhan. I'm sorry for the trouble I've caused you. I love you. I'll get out of your hair now.'

In the end it had been easy to tip backwards and let himself fall.

Waking up had been the hard part. Not only had he failed, but every reason that had pushed him to end it all had only been made worse. Worse still, after. He had lived though, so that was that. There was no utility in regret. He couldn't go back. The only way was forward now, step by painful step. Standing around and staring at the snow falling was nice, but it wouldn't make the walk shorter. Home wasn't far away. He'd take it slow. He'd be there before he knew it.

He barely took three steps before he felt someone's broad shoulder bump against his, his equilibrium yanked roughly from under his feet.

He remembered falling.

Not the act of it, nor every thought and feeling that preceded it, but he remembered the soft pressure at his skull as he tipped backwards, the endless instant of the free fall, a moment frozen in time. Not the impact, but the inevitability of it, coming, coming, almost there. The loss of control. The frightening, exhilarating realization of his absolute surrender. Not the oblivion that followed but the fragments of muddled awareness afterwards. Disorientation, rock bottom and the overwhelming sense of failure.

It had felt nothing like now.

He felt the loss of ground beneath his feet, the scrape of concrete against his palms, as he all but starfished onto the pavement. A sharp pain. The frustrated annoyance of another thing gone wrong in the long list that made up the day.

Only the failure felt the same, funny that.

"I'm sorry!" Said a deep voice. "I wasn't looking."

"Yeah, no shit." He chuckled, because really, who could have guessed.

"Here, let me help." There were hands on his arm, just as he propped himself up, but he yanked it away.

"I'm fine!" He wasn't helpless. He wasn't, dammit! He had his arms, his abdominals, and most of his legs. Getting up from the ground wasn't such a herculean task for him as for those who depended on a wheelchair. He didn't have to call an ambulance just because he starfished. He didn't need any help at all here, especially not the help of some ditzy stranger with their head in the clouds…

"Wei Ying?"

Wei Ying froze.

Few people on this Earth called him that, and none of them had a voice like that. He looked up to see glowing amber on a face carved out of a dream.

"Lan Zhan?"

Of all the people to be in town today of all days, the least likely would have to be Lan Zhan. Lan Zhan, his former senior, Lan Zhan, his best friend. Lan Zhan, whom he had told his secrets, Lan Zhan, who he… who he…

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan… Can I kiss you? I understand you don't like me that way, and it's fine, I'm fine, really, but… uhm… It's supposed to be special. The first kiss. I… I want it to be yours. Just one kiss." A child he barely remembered had wanted and wanted, never satisfied. "Ah, it's okay if you don't want to. I get it. It's fine. I'm just being selfish."

But that had been a long time ago. A person he didn't know, a past life that had never truly been. Not for him in any case.

Lan Zhan was looking at him like a ghost had appeared in front of him.

Although, ghosts didn't need crutches. Honestly, Wei Ying did wish he could float quite frequently.

Face twisted in sardonic amusement at that childish wish, he pulled himself up with some maneuvering and a lot of effort. This seemed to wake Lan Zhan from his daze as he quickly followed. Wei Ying didn't miss the sweeping gaze as his once friend took him in, wondering what he saw. A stranger, perhaps? A new person? Him? Wei Ying knew he hadn't changed much on the outside, aside the obvious and maybe in his weight distribution, but Lan Zhan had always had the ability to look past the surface. Was he still able to do that? Or was he just taking in his appearance, assessing his matted, worn out body that seemed to show every year that had passed multiplied by ten? Wei Ying was aware that time had not been the kindest to him, but he was hanging on. He was past the worst now. He was doing better. He was!

He wondered if Lan Zhan still could see that too.

"Wei Ying." His name again, spoken with enough wonder to give Wei Ying the courage to meet his gaze. There was an unspoken question in it.

"Yeah," Wei Ying answered and felt the cusp of a smile pull at the corners of his lips. "Long time no see, Lan Zhan. Fancy meeting you here."

"I really like you, Lan Zhan," the person he didn't know had said, red faced with embarrassment and a shaking voice. "I mean like… like like."

Back then he had believed that moment to be the most nerve-wracking experience he was ever going to survive. Today he missed his naivety.

Lan Zhan gave him a look like he just realized it was really Wei Ying standing in front of him. Like he still could barely believe it. It unraveled a completely different ache in Wei Ying. They had been close once, and though they had always shared their secrets, Wei Ying had seen him so open and unguarded but once.

"I...like...boys," had been the answer. The refusal so, so gentle, unable to accept, thus giving something of equal value in return instead. A truth for a truth, a secret for a secret. "Wei Ying, I'm gay."

Lan Zhan, always figuring things out so quickly, always willing to accept reality no matter how hard it was. Wei Ying hadn't known back then. If he had known… Who knew what would have been then. It didn't matter anymore. It was a life long gone. What remained of it were a few good memories, some of them he wasn't sure were real.

Now, chance had made them cross paths once again, at a liminal space transversing through time.

"Are you hurt?" Lan Zhan's voice brought him back from his thoughts, and Wei Ying looked where he was reaching for his scraped hands and knees.

Lan Zhan, always the same Lan Zhan… "Not selfish."

So wonderful and kind and warm.

"Eh, I'm fine. Nothing Wen Qing can't fix." He brushed his former friend off, noticing how Lan Zhan's eyebrow seemed to go up infinitesimally at the mention of his old classmate and promptly changed the subject. "What brings you to Yiling, Lan Zhan? Shouldn't you be with your family for Chun Jie?"

"I…" Lan Zhan looked away. "Didn't get an earlier flight."

That sounded suspicious, especially since the Lan Zhan Wei Ying knew liked to plan ahead. But Wei Ying wasn't the same he had been, maybe Lan Zhan wasn't either. People were allowed to change. It also didn't answer what he was doing in Yiling in the first place, but Wei Ying wasn't forcing him to tell. Wei Ying had never wanted to force Lan Zhan into anything, he wasn't going to start now.

"Wei Ying." Lan Zhan looked at him again, this time meeting his eyes squarely. He paused. "How have you been?"

Wei Ying felt the loom of a shadow over him, and his gaze dropped to the ground for a second.

"As you can see." He put a reassuring smile on his face as he summoned enough will to hold Lan Zhan's gaze. "Still alive and kicking."

Which was probably much more than the last time Lan Zhan had heard of him.

"I was looking for you. I wanted to see you. After." The what remained unspoken. Lan Zhan's kind heart hadn't changed. Wei Ying sought comfort in it, warmed by the thought of his best friend trying to get in touch even after everything went to hell. "I was told you… left."

Wei Ying made a soft sound of affirmation through the small smile that had spread on his face. "I moved out on my eighteenth birthday. Aunt Yu… I was supposed to stay till graduation, but... ah. I fucked up. Colossally."

"Wei Ying." Lan Zhan remained the only person Wei Ying knew who managed to frown without a single crease on his face. "You were recovering."

"It was fine, Lan Zhan." Wei Ying chuckled even as he held back a sigh. Lan Zhan didn't know half of it. "I moved in with the Wens."

There was a pause.

"With Wen Qing?" Lan Zhan asked and Wei Ying realized that small detail wouldn't have been immediately clear to him, all things considered.

"With Wen Qing and her family." He nodded. After a moment of thought he added. "Not Wen Chao. I know nothing about that douchebag."

"Mn," Lan Zhan agreed and it sounded so wholehearted that it startled a laugh out of Wei Ying.

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan," Wei Ying said, feeling truly light for the first time in a long time. The smile he gave Lan Zhan felt warm and genuine. He hoped Lan Zhan saw it too, and didn't think Wei Ying was trying to shake him off, when he spoke next. "It's so good to see you. You're the best thing that happened to me today. I would love to catch up, but they're waiting for me at home and I'm already late."

"Mn." Lan Zhan nodded. There was a pause. Then, just as Wei Ying was about to ask for his number, "I could. Walk you. If you like."

"I thought you had a flight to catch." Wei Ying wanted to smack his mouth for how hopeful he sounded.

"Mn," Lan Zhan said. "In the evening."

"Lan Zhan!" He startled, amused and surprised at the same time. "And here I thought your bedtime was nine! Don't tell me you crossed to the dark side."

"It is Chuxi." Lan Zhan's voice was soft with a playful note, and Wei Ying felt his heart turn all over again even as he laughed.

"Aiya, Lan Zhan…" A smile spread on his face. "Alright then. I'd love to have your company. If you're sure."

"I am," Lan Zhan answered. "I would… very much like to… catch up with you."

"Well then." Wei Ying's smile broadened and started again in the direction he was heading earlier. "Right this way, sir. But I'm warning you. I'm basically a snail now."

For a beat there was silence, in which Wei Ying figured that Lan Zhan was probably looking for a proper response. He still didn't know how to handle self-deprecating humor, then. Wei Ying chuckled quietly to himself. The more things change…

"That is alright," Lan Zhan finally said. "I have time."

"Oh, do you? That's great!" Wei Ying grinned from ear to ear, marveling at how easy it suddenly was. "Aah, Lan Zhan I really missed this!"

"Mn," Lan Zhan agreed but didn't say anything else.

For a few moments silence reigned again, of a comfortable kind. One that allowed Wei Ying to bask in the startling, almost miraculous presence of his best friend. Or it would have been, had Wei Ying not been keenly aware of Lan Zhan's intense stare.

"Do I really look that bad?" He teased, hoping to give Lan Zhan the opening he probably needed to ask whatever questions he had. "I've actually gained weight over Dongzhi you know."

Lan Zhan blinked, as if startled to be called out. Wasn't he aware that he had been staring? Or had he not expected Wei Ying to say something?

"You look…" he started, then swept his gaze over Wei Ying.

"Tired?" Wei Ying offered, keeping the humor in his words. The last thing he wanted Lan Zhan to think was that he needed to sugar coat his words around him now. "Stressed? Battle worn?"

"Different," Lan Zhan finished.

"Ah." Wei Ying breathed out, something in his chest tightening. "Good different, or bad different?"

Lan Zhan looked at him for a long moment.

"Different you," he finally answered. A pause. "More you."

Wei Ying's breath stuttered, a small questioning sound dragging itself up his throat.

"Wei Ying…" Lan Zhan hesitated for a brief moment, unsure. "May I know your pronouns?"

Always so straight to the point.

"Pro… Pronouns?!" Wei Ying chuckled but even he could hear the nerves buzzing through that sound. "How did you figure that?"

Lan Zhan just kept looking at him. Wei Ying swallowed.

"I…"

He had to know. Since he actually asked, he had to already know. Or at least suspect. Be aware. In general, or about Wei Ying? Had he realized in their years apart, or was there something about Wei Ying now that made him guess? No one has ever been able to tell upon glance. No one.

Something fluttered deep in his chest, like the jingles of a tambourine reverberating. It gave him courage.

Wei Ying took a deep, steadying breath. "He, him, Lan Zhan. It's he, him."

He managed to swallow the thousand words that dragged themselves up his throat instead of that one, simple truth. To his credit, Lan Zhan let him, waiting patiently and with complete silence for Wei Ying to say his part.

"I'm trans," Wei Ying added, finding it easier to say after the initial confession. "As in full time, on actual testosterone, trans male."

Their eyes met. A heartbeat of silence.

"Mn." Lan Zhan nodded. "Makes sense."

Wei Ying had not expected that.

In his defense, no one had ever replied like that to him coming out.

"What?" He choked out, bewildered. Lan Zhan was giving him a gentle look, a diametrical opposite of Wei Ying's wide eyes. "Why does that make sense, Lan Zhan?"

"It didn't before." Lan Zhan's gaze dropped. "Now it does."

"What? Why?" Wei Ying repeated, not comprehending a single word his friend had said. At the back of his mind he knew he should be happy and relieved that as dear a friend as Lan Zhan accepted him, and he would be later, but now he was just confused. "Lan Zhan, what are you saying?"

"You confounded me. Before. I didn't understand. It didn't. Add up." He didn't even expect an answer beyond a shrug and an 'It just does', and yet Lan Zhan gave him one, trying to explain like he wanted Wei Ying to understand something important. Important enough to bring it up at their first chance meeting in years. It still didn't clear anything up. The way he was dragging his words out seemed odd too, for how upfront Lan Zhan usually was.

"What didn't add up?" Wei Ying asked again. What about him had confused Lan Zhan?

"I didn't know you were a boy. So it didn't make sense," Lan Zhan answered without looking up and Wei Ying felt dread tighten his stomach into a knot. "But now it does."

"What?" He frowned, the rush of blood pounding in his ears. "Lan Zhan, what are you talking about?"

Lan Zhan finally looked up at him and Wei Ying suddenly felt light headed. The grip on his crutches must have gone knuckle white from how firmly he was gripping the handles. It couldn't be…

"I was confused why I liked you," Lan Zhan whispered, dropping his gaze again. "Why I enjoyed kissing you."

Wei Ying's brain was white static.

No. No, no, no, no, no, no, "No!"

His whole body wanted to recoil with shock.

"Wei Ying," Lan Zhan pleaded but was cut short.

"I confessed to you! I told you I liked you!" He saw the bob of Lan Zhan's throat, how his eyes fell shut as he swallowed. Wei Ying despaired for words that could express the entire scale of emotions he felt, from betrayal to hope, but mostly just... shock. "You said you… You've never… And now, after everything… Do you even… Lan Zhan!!!"

"Wei Ying," he said his name like it was all he was capable of saying, with a hitch of sudden hesitance on the last syllable, a minuscule frown around his eyes, like he realized something important. "Do you still call yourself Wei Ying?"

The quiet question conjured up another memory, of an occasion much kinder.

"It's my birth name," he heard his youthful voice, still too high although most had described it as low. Lan Zhan had raised an eyebrow at him, even more puzzled than before. Wei Ying had laughed as he went to explain. "Same character as in 'infant'. Wuxian is the name uncle Jiang gave me so that I have a better name than, you know, 'baby'. It's a cool name! I mean, 'no envy' come on! Like I have no match in the world! Totally rad, you know, uncle Jiang's naming sense is A+."

"But you prefer Wei Ying." Lan Zhan had looked at him then, searchingly and Wei Ying had looked away with a snort, to hide his swallow.

"It's a terrible name. Who the hell names their baby 'baby'?"

Lan Zhan hadn't replied anything to that, and Wei Ying still remembered his next words, and how they had burned on his tongue, how he couldn't hold them back.

"It's what the people who loved me had called me."

In the present, Wei Ying found himself laughing in spite of the utter shock. Only Lan Zhan. Only Lan Zhan would give him a heart attack first then go make sure he wasn't deadnaming him on top of everything.

"Lan Zhan!!!" He cried out. "That's so not the point right now! But, yes, I do. I changed it back, actually. Officially, I mean."

"You dislike it." It sounded more like a question than a statement, so Wei Ying answered.

"Don't get me wrong, I still think Wuxian is way cooler, and my siblings still call me that, but…" His gaze fell away from Lan Zhan to something more distant, beyond his focus as he struggled over his words, drawing them out only with great difficulty from where they were rooted deep inside of him. "It's the name given to the image of a person that never really existed. Like… the painting of a person you met in a dream. And I sorta… I like to imagine that, regardless of who I am… They would still love me."

They. The people who gave him that horrible, unimaginative name.

"Mn," Lan Zhan agreed like there had never been any doubt about it. Wei Ying snorted.

"Wei Ying," there it was again, his name, spoken so kindly, if not hesitantly as Lan Zhan too seemed to be struggling for words. "I would like to apologize. I hurt you. I have been looking for you to tell you this."

All at once, Wei Ying felt his shock settle into something more profound, like the wave that had swallowed him revealing the depth of the ocean. There was nothing Lan Zhan had to apologize for. Not for the lack of awareness, and certainly not for his feelings. Even their conflicts had always stemmed from a place of deep care.

"No." Wei Ying shook his head. "Not more than I hurt myself, Lan Zhan. Even when you scolded me, you never hurt me."

Had Lan Zhan broken his heart? Yeah, he had. So what? Did that mean he could be held accountable for it? Wei Ying's feelings were his own shit to deal with, not Lan Zhan's. Returning them wasn't Lan Zhan's duty. Even if he returned them, would it be fair to fault him for running away from them? For feeling insecure and anxious about his own attraction? For not knowing these things weren't as clear cut as all the adults around them had wanted to make them believe? It wasn't like Wei Ying had known either back then. He had, perhaps, understood himself even less than Lan Zhan. Most importantly, it was all in the past now. It couldn't be changed. What they made of it now was what mattered.

"None of my bullshit is your fault," he added. "You didn't go and tell me to fuck up my life. That was all on me."

"You wrote," Lan Zhan started, then paused, hesitating, then started again. "In your letter, you wrote…"

Wei Ying picked up on the question immediately.

"Not you," he said, the same words he had penned all those years ago in what was one of only two letters. "Never you. I had my reasons, but none of them were about you. In fact, I thought of you as the last good thing in my life at that point. The one true friend I still had left."

Lan Zhan's gaze fell on his crutches, but he didn't ask. Wei Ying was grateful.

"Come on, I need to get a move on," he said, starting to walk again, smiling at the surprised expression Lan Zhan had given him, when he realized he was still welcome to accompany him. Maybe it was something about that look that made Wei Ying add, after another second of thought, "There are people waiting for my return."

"Mn," Lan Zhan hummed, falling back in step next to him. "That's good. You should have people waiting for you at home."

Wei Ying couldn't help but smile.

"Say, Lan Zhan,…" he said after a few seconds of silence, when all what Lan Zhan has confessed slowly sunk in. "When you say you've been looking for me… You mean all this time?"

"Mn." Lan Zhan nodded. Wei Ying watched him gather his thoughts, the snow fluttering all around them. "I wanted to see you. Ask how you were doing. See if… If you needed support. Apologize. For not being a good friend to you before."

"Lan Zhan…" Wei Ying listened to him, and when Lan Zhan finally looked up at him his gaze was so sincere that his heart ached with it.

"I wanted to tell you the truth." Lan Zhan didn't let himself be interrupted. "That I liked you back. Without any expectations. That I didn't understand, but that it didn't matter. That I could like you without understanding why. That I wasn't asking for anything, just wanted you to know. That I wanted to help, in any way you'd let me."

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan…" Wei Ying sighed, vision suddenly blurred. He drew a deep breath. "But I wasn't there."

"Mn." Lan Zhan nodded. "I asked your sister where I could find you…"

"But she didn't know," Wei Ying finished for him. No one knew, except one person. "And Jiang Cheng wouldn't give you my address if you held him at gunpoint."

"Your brother knows you're here." It had the structure of a question but it was spoken as a statement, the same kind of incredulous as the look Lan Zhan was giving him. All things considered, it was kinda fair, Wei Wuxian thought as he barked a laugh.

"Yeah," he said, shoulders shaking a little as he snickered. "He's the designated secret keeper."

Lan Zhan just stared, wordlessly.

Wei Ying's smile gained an edge at the unspoken question. He had to clear his throat before he answered. "We're… not quite alright yet, but… Ah, how do I say this? He's the better judge of the situation? With, uhm, aunt Yu, I mean. It's… complicated."

Honestly, when wasn't it?

"I… see." Lan Zhan really didn't sound like he did, but didn't press, continuing his story instead. "Your sister was able to tell me which city you were in. So I… applied for a job."

Wait. Pause. Rewind.

"You work here?!" Wei Ying felt his jaw go slack.

"As an attorney. At 'Xiao and Song'," Lan Zhan confirmed, then looked back at Wei Ying. "Civil law. With focus on LGBTQ+ rights. I passed the bar last year."

"You…" There was so much to unpack in that statement that Wei Ying couldn't quite get the words together fast enough. At the back of his mind he was aware he should probably congratulate Lan Zhan on his degree but he was too stunned by the other, more important implications. "You've moved here? For work? All because… Because… You were looking for me?"

"Mn."

"Lan Zhan!" His amazing friend who, for some reason, in spite of having a great new life had been desperate to find him. "But you… But I…"

"Wei Ying," he spoke so, so softly, but with clear intent to stop any protest Wei Ying might have wanted to utter. It worked. Wei Ying's mouth fell shut, taking his friend in with a bright, wide gaze. "I missed you. I have no expectations. I just… missed you."

Warmth spread in Wei Ying's chest over the tender words, like a dying flame rekindled.

"Lan Zhan..." He didn't quite know what to say, oddly touched. "It's how you knew, isn't it? I'm not the only trans person you've met."

"There was a client," Lan Zhan admitted. "They made me think of you. I have wanted to ask you since. I wanted to know if… If I made a mistake."

He didn't specify what mistake he feared being guilty of. He didn't really have to.

For a while Wei Ying just looked at him.

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan…" He sighed, a small but genuine smile stealing itself onto his lips. "You… you're something else, you know that?"

Lan Zhan didn't reply, but there was something vulnerable in his expression.

"I missed you too."

Lan Zhan's eyes snapped back to Wei Ying's face, full of naked hope and a surprise so honest and pure that Wei Ying's heartstrings almost snapped. He could accept it. He could accept a friend longing for his company, even as his heart hammered against his chest like it was trying to escape its utter desolation.

"I couldn't have expected you to know something I didn't realize until much later." He hadn't realized there was tension around his friend's eyes until it relaxed.

Wei Ying took him in, his entire appearance and noted that although perfectly poised and immaculately dressed, beneath it all there was an exhaustion, a tension he didn't recognize. He thought about their meeting – the collision of two bodies launched out of their orbit – and everything else Lan Zhan had told him and a question dragged itself on his tongue that refused to be swallowed back in.

"Say, Lan Zhan… Since we are being so honest..." He asked before he could have thought better of it. "Why aren't you in Suzhou yet, for real? You always went home at least two weeks ahead of the festival. Did something happen?"

If there was something happening with Lan Zhan's family… Well, Wei Ying had missed enough opportunities to be a good friend in all the years they had been apart, or even before that. If Lan Zhan wanted to be his friend, Wei Ying was returning that tenfold. A secret for a secret, a truth for a truth.

If Lan Zhan wanted, that was.

For a second Wei Ying wasn't sure, but then the broad shoulders slumped, heaving like a weight was being lifted off them.

"I didn't always intend to go," Lan Zhan admitted. "Brother convinced me at the last moment. I wish he hadn't."

Their eyes met and Wei Ying felt a sudden heat spread through his cheeks at the intensity of Lan Zhan's gaze. He didn't take the bait, waiting patiently instead.

"I came out to my uncle. After the bar." Lan Zhan's gaze fell to the ground again, and Wei Ying already knew what he was about to say, aching dread settling painfully in his chest. "He did not… react well. He tried to set me up immediately afterwards."

"Aw man..." Wei Ying tried to sound both gentle and sympathetic without being too pitying. In his experience that never helped. "Yeah, I get that you didn't want to go home after that."

"Mn." Lan Zhan nodded, but said no more.

"Was she at least pretty?" Wei Ying tried to joke, unable to bear that forlorn expression on Lan Zhan's face and incapable of thinking of anything better to cheer his friend up. It would have been easy in the past, but now, with years containing entire lifetimes between them he didn't know anymore how to make Lan Zhan laugh.

But then Lan Zhan's lips twitched a little, so maybe not all was lost.

"Luo Qingyang," he answered, like Wei Ying was supposed to know the vaguely familiar name. Lan Zhan responded to his confused frown with his own and went on to explain. "You were in the drama club together. She was… Juliet. To your Romeo."

Very few guys had been in the drama club at that time, so Wei Ying had usually gotten the main male protagonist. He had loved it. It had been one of the reasons why he had joined the drama club in the first place. His co-star in all of that...

"Mianmian!" He exclaimed, eyes bright with delight. "It's been ages since I've last…"...Seen her. Seen anyone, he didn't say, schooled his expression and laughed instead. "I can't believe they tried to set you up with Mianmian! How is she?"

"Mn," Lan Zhan made a small sound out agreement that amused Wei Ying, before he answered. "She is well. Studying. Also law. She will take the bar next year."

"All of you are so smart…" Wei Ying chuckled, fond with more memories. "You know I made out with her once?" He promptly laughed at Lan Zhan's expression. "Relax, it wasn't as good as with you."

Their eyes met again and Wei Ying saw something like hope spark in Lan Zhan's eyes, which…

Wei Ying stopped. He let his gaze wander around, collecting his thoughts. He startled as he realized he was almost home, the agonizing minutes he usually needed reduced to nothing in the presence of his friend. The ache that had gnawed at his limbs earlier had all but disappeared, replaced by a longing ache in his heart.

"Lan Zhan," he found himself speaking without the input of his mind. "You said you liked me, so you should know… I don't intend to have surgery." He saw Lan Zhan open his mouth, probably to assure him once more of his pure intentions, which Wei Ying didn't need to hear. "I know, I know, you have no expectations, and I'm not saying we have to, but… My feelings for you never changed. I still like you, but I'm also… I'm a man Lan Zhan, but I'm not adjusting my body. Not to that degree."

"Is it a financial issue?" Lan Zhan asked after a pause and Wei Ying cut him off before he could continue with something ridiculous like an offer to pay.

"It's… not not about money, but…" He thought for a moment about how to say what he wanted to say. "Regardless of that, I refuse to go through all the legal hoops that this government would demand of me, like I'm supposed to beg them just to be who I am. And... Besides that…" He took a deep breath. "I think I'd like to have another child."

"Another…" There was a strangled sound, which he ignored, forcing himself to voice what he'd been struggling to put into words for a while now.

"I want to give it one more try. Voluntarily," Wei Ying found it difficult to say, despite the thought of a baby in his arms filling him with a warmth he wouldn't have expected mere years ago. "With someone I actually like this time."

"This time." There was something very wrong with the tone of Lan Zhan's voice, and as Wei Ying looked up at him, realization hit him with the force of a freight train.

"Oh! Oh no!" Lan Zhan's eyes were akin to saucers, and Wei Ying vaguely thought he had never seen his friend express shock so openly. "Fuck, I'm so dumb! Of course you don't know! How would you know?!"

Of course that very same moment, before Lan Zhan had any chance of collecting himself, a cheerful shout echoed through the street in an all too familiar, youthful voice. "BABA!!!"

Wei Ying winced. In the way life usually was – his life in particular – before Wei Ying could come up with a single word of explanation, there was the flurry of movement, and a warmth enveloping his leg – the better one.

"Baba, baba, you're home!"

Wei Ying's eyes fell down to the source of the excited noise to have two mischievous gray eyes reflected back at him. An unbidden smile spread on his face.

"A-Yuan!" He shifted around a little until he could safely run his fingers through the child's hair, even as he was keenly aware of the man next to him. "Have you been waiting for me?"

There was a twinkle and a nod, his very own baby's face beaming up at him with unabashed adoration. A tiny hand wrapped itself around his wrist and just like that the last of the day's stress fell away. He looked back at Lan Zhan. It was difficult to describe the expression his friend was giving him, frozen with disbelief, shock and something too close to horror, as his mind seemed to be rearranging and reevaluating every piece of information known to him. Finding no point in delaying the inevitable, Wei Ying braced himself and went for it.

"Lan Zhan, this is a-Yuan. He's mine. Gave birth to him and all." He made a point to smile, although Lan Zhan's expression remained unchanged. Deciding to give him the space he needed to get himself together, Wei Ying turned his attention back to his child. "A-Yuan, this is Lan Zhan. He's an old friend of mine from school. Want to introduce yourself?"

"Hello!" A-Yuan said before Wei Ying even finished the sentence. "I'm a-Yuan and I'm already four years old! I like butterflies and bunnies! Baba gave me Radish and a coloring book for my birthday. I was four last month! I love my baba bestest! But I love xiao-shushu und Qing-guma and granny and uncle Shi lotsa too!"

It was an altogether perfect introduction, and Wei Ying felt pride and love thrumming through his heart with a strength he hadn't believed to be possible. He watched the mental math behind Lan Zhan's eyes, a complicated expression spreading on his friend's face. He decided to give him another moment to complete the mental calculations and focused on something else that a-Yuan had reminded him of.

"Speaking of, where's your xiao-shushu?" Wei Ying looked around, then with growing suspicion back at the child still wrapped around his leg. "Did you ditch him again?"

Mischief spread on a-Yuan's face as he hid in Wei Ying's thigh.

"A-Yuan." Wei Ying narrowed his eyes at him, gently scolding. "We've talked about this. No walking around on your own. What if something happened?"

"But I'm with you," came the simple answer. "I have to help you walk. You said! To help you walk I have to take your hand. I saw you and gege wasn't holding your hand, so I came to help."

"Ah, so filial, a-Yuan…" Wei Ying looked up to the skies, silently begging the heavens for strength while fighting a ferocious blush. This child of his was as much a blessing as he was a huge trouble. The best kind of trouble, if Wei Ying was honest.

"A-Yuan!"

He was still busy trying to change his smile into something more stern, when as if on cue the uncle in question appeared around the corner, calling for his nephew, looking just as frantic as Wei Ying expected him to be. He waited for Wen Ning's eyes to find them, before he looked back down at a-Yuan.

"See how worried Wen Ning is? You can't do this, a-Yuan." The child's expression fell. "Go tell him you're alright and apologize for running away."

A-Yuan didn't waste a single second, rocketing towards his uncle with an excited call.

With his child safe in the most dependable arms that there were, Wei Ying turned to Lan Zhan again. His friend's eyes were closed, face pulled into a tight expression, lips pressed into a thin line, all of which told him what conclusion Lan Zhan had reached.

"It was part of the reason," Wei Ying said, because he knew Lan Zhan would never ask and he wanted his friend to know. "But it wasn't all of it."

Lan Zhan's eyes opened, his look agonized but not pitying, Wei Ying realized.

"There were many things going on," he said. "It was all so fucked up… I knew I couldn't keep him, and somehow I figured… Might as well go together. In the end we both survived, funny that."

"The father. The father is…" Lan Zhan trailed off, couldn't bring himself to say the name, but he didn't have to. Just as Wei Ying didn't have to answer other than with a rueful smile. After all, there was only one option. Lan Zhan drew a deep breath. "Was it… Did he…"

Here too, Wei Ying knew what he was asking, felt it like the edge of a knife against his skin.

"I don't want to talk about it." He swallowed, a prickling at the corners of his eyelids. "Not yet, at least. I'll tell you the story another time."

Lan Zhan nodded. Worried his jaw. Wei Ying waited.

"Was that why you… left?" His voice was so quiet that if Wei Ying wasn't paying attention, he probably wouldn't have noticed he had said anything at all.

"To put it in the words of aunt Yu, whores aren't welcome under her roof. She threatened to leave uncle Jiang, if he kept supporting me. It's fine," he added quickly when he saw Lan Zhan's face darkening. "Uncle Jiang gave me the trust fund he had for me, which wasn't little, I have a job and I get some aid from the government too. There's also granny's pension and everyone else is working. You don't have to worry, Lan Zhan, we get by."

Lan Zhan looked like he wanted to say something cutting, but luckily they were interrupted by Wen Ning joining them, a-Yuan in his arms. He was probably getting too big for that, but he knew first hand that Wen Ning could lift a full-sized adult without breaking a sweat so he wasn't very worried for either of them.

"Wei-ge, welcome home," Wen Ning greeted him. His eyes wandered to Lan Zhan for a brief moment, then to Wei Ying's hands which were still scraped. "Is everything alright?"

"More than!" Wei Ying ignored the look, grinning and watched a-Yuan beam at him. "Everything's perfect, look who I met in town! You remember Lan Zhan, right? He was in the same class with Wen Qing. Turns out he works here!"

Wei Ying managed to say all of that in one breath before he even realized he was doing it, yet consciously leaving out the bar and without bothering to detail exactly how the 'bumping' went down. Wen Ning took it all in, then gave Lan Zhan a polite smile, his dark eyes meeting Lan Zhan's squarely.

"I know of Lan-xianbei," he said slowly, cautiously polite, before his expression settled into a smile and he inclined his head in greeting. "We've never met officially."

There was a brief round of long overdue introductions, which Wei Ying was happy to ignore in favor of watching a-Yuan grow increasingly fascinated with Lan Zhan. It etched the lines around Wei Ying's smile deeper into his features, in a way he hasn't felt for a long time.

"A-Yuan." he couldn't help but pinch one of the chubby cheeks, after a little shifting of weight. "You keep looking at Lan Zhan like that, he'll think you like him."

"Pretty gege," was all a-Yuan had to say to that, a smile splitting his face, while Lan Zhan's ears turned red. Wei Ying laughed, alight with surprise that the one tell-tale sign of his shyness still remained. Lan Zhan was looking at a-Yuan with increasing curiosity, that pained line from earlier disappearing from his features, slowly replaced by wonder instead.

Wei Ying only looked away when he felt a tiny finger poke at his cheek, angling his head towards a-Yuan to listen to whatever secret his son wanted to share.

"Will pretty gege stay for dinner?" A-Yuan whispered through his hands, causing a complicated set of feelings to run through Wei Ying's chest.

"Sorry, sweetheart, but Lan-shushu can't stay." Wei Ying mock pouted at his son. "He has a flight to catch later."

"Why?" A-Yuan asked, as he did all the time.

"He has to visit his family," Wei Ying answered.

"Oh…" A-Yuan's face fell. There was no doubt in Wei Ying's mind had the answer been anything else, he would have kept asking, but if there was one word a-Yuan understood better than anyone, it was 'family'. It didn't mean he liked it. "But… But I heard! I heard that we will have a party tonight! I cleaned my room, and I did a picture for teacher, and helped granny bake! I was the bestest and uncle said I could stay up extra long tonight 'cause then baba would live forever!"

"I didn't say forever," Wen Ning corrected him timidly, but neither of them paid attention to him, the poor soul. A-Yuan only heard what he wanted to hear, and Wei Ying was too busy making sure his heart didn't burst. He still sometimes couldn't quite believe how much he loved this child.

"Me too." It came unexpectedly from beside him, and when Wei Ying turned to look he found Lan Zhan looking almost as surprised as he felt. "I mean, I also usually stay up longer on Chuxi."

A-Yuan's smile eclipsed the sun. Lan Zhan returned it with an expression so impossibly soft that Wei Ying's heart almost did burst then.

"Pretty gege can stay, and his family can come too, and I will draw everyone a picture!" A-Yuan all but vibrated with bare excitement that Wei Ying felt bad that he had to chide him.

"A-Yuan, do we tell people what they can and can't do, or do we ask?" He had picked the gentlest way possible, but his son still hid his face in his uncle's neck, utterly dejected.

To be fair, Lan Zhan looked rather stricken himself. It was adorable to watch and Wei Ying… Wei Ying knew that no matter whatever feelings he might be harboring, he only came as a set with his son. There was no possible way of heaping that responsibility on another person from the get go, on top of everything else, and yet. And yet. Lan Zhan was regarding a-Yuan with such fondness that it did strange things to Wei Ying's heart, and just like that courage bloomed in Wei Ying's chest.

"How about a compromise? Lan Zhan," he asked carefully. "You still have a few hours left until you have to be at the airport, don't you? Would you… Would you like to come inside?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Please, pretty gege, pretty please." A-Yuan loved the idea, immediately reaching his arms out in silent demand to be held. Wei Ying could only watch as Wen Ning oh so carefully leaned forward and tightened his hold so that a-Yuan could safely launch himself into Lan Zhan's open, waiting arms. He bet Lan Zhan hadn't even noticed how he held them out in a response that had seemed completely automatic.

"A-Yuan," Wei Ying reprimanded him gently, doing everything he could to ignore the adorable pout that pressed into Lan Zhan's shoulder. It was difficult to do with his heart singing like that.

"I would hate to intrude," Lan Zhan replied hesitantly, his eyes not leaving a-Yuan for a second and Wei Ying felt his heart constrict.

"I don't think anyone would mind," Wen Ning said, smiling gently.

"It won't be an issue, Lan Zhan, really." Their eyes met. "We still have a lot to… catch up on."

There was a spark that darkened Lan Zhan's eyes briefly, something heavy settling in the air between the two of them. Chance had brought Lan Zhan back into his life, and Wei Ying wanted to hold on. In any way he was allowed to. As long as he was allowed to.

"And you could meet… You could meet my family." Warmth spread deep in Wei Ying's chest as the word 'family' echoed in his mind, before he added in a whisper. "If you like."

"Wei Ying…" Finally, after what felt like an entire eternity, Lan Zhan spoke, the softest of smiles spreading on his face, gentle as the first rays of the sun on a misty morning. "I would very much love to meet your family."

"Great!" Wei Ying felt the smile split his face from one ear to another and amidst the cheers of his child that echoed the ones in his heart and started towards the door that Wen Ning held open for him. "Come on in then! Let's give everyone the shock of their life that I brought home such a handsome man!"

"Wei Ying…" It was spoken as a reprimand but it sounded like a chuckle.

"Hi, handsome! You're Lan Zhan, right? I've heard all about you!" Somewhere in his memory a cheerful voice greeted the most beautiful youth that there ever was. "I'm Wei Wuxian. I'll let you call me Wei Ying."

The door fell shut to the sound of Wei Ying's laugh.

#vedrividia #wangxianLNY21 #*LNYfic21 #*LNYgifts21

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uwuowotf2waslife · 4 years ago

Note

How would they react to their S/O either being pregnant or wants a child? (You can ignore this if you already answered it)

Im a sucker for parent mercs headcanons

tw: mentions of abortions, miscarriages and a very sad ending

Scout -will have an aneurism, but also will also hug you and spend a whole day just run around announcing to anyone he sees that hell become a dad -given the fact he never had a perminant paternal figure throughout his life, except his older brothers or his moms boyfriends from time to time, he will be at least insecure and nervous about the whole procedure. He has seen pregnant women yes, but he has never been the one who impregnated them. He loathes hell end up like his dad and become a deadbeat, but he also knows how much life sucks without a dad so he’ll man up and with some reasurrance from S/O he will become a much, much better than his. Soldier -proudly announces to the whole base than a new recruit will be arriving in approximately 9 months and prepares accordingly. -he makes a crib with the help of Engie and makes blankets and clothes with the help of Heavy, even asks medic for advice on how to treat common baby sicknesses or just tips to how make their arrival/ first year on the world easier. Will help you around but will insist you take it easy. Will spend lazy nights or evenings talking to your belly, telling his adventures/ stories from the war or just american history ( his version tho).

Pyro

( idk how to write about them sorry chief)

Engie

-this texan will pick you up and pepper you in kisses, It isn’t a secret, his biggest dream since he was a young man was to become a father and now itll finnaly become a reality. Hell become emotional ngl, he will cry and just hold you as tight he can without hurting the baby.

-he will make from scratch everything youll ever use for the baby up to their college graduation( Engie why we need a crib with a mini-sentry?) and will baby proof the whole house/ base/ workshop. Lowkey will baby you during the pregnancy, especially the last months before the birth, he can’t believe his child will finnaly come in his life and he can’t stop spoiling you because he feels somewhat bad for the hardships of pregnancy ( morning sickness, back pain, the bby being a wannabe rodeo horse, the ussual)

Demo

-drinks a whole barrel of scrumpy after you announced that to him and passes out.

-wakes up and basically has both a panic attack and just so much joy, he has never felt that way in all of his life. Will try to stay as sober as he can druing the pregnancy, can’t have you laboring while he is vomiting like a cat in the hospitals bathroom. He can’t say he had a happy childhood neither that he was dying to become a dad, but he isn’t one to back down from the challenge. He is given the chance to make amends with his poor upbringing and ensure that the next generation of his bloodline won’t suffer like he did. Will buy lots of plushies and maybe ask advice from the people of the orphanage he was raised on how to raise a baby since his mother didnt raise him until he was a much older kid.

Heavy

-nearly dies on the spot. Family meant the world for him and now, he is finnaly able to start his own. For the first time in your relationship, he will openly cry in front of you and hold you while he is shaking with so many emotions

- phones his mother daily and basically creates a series of notepads filled with advice/old wives tales for caring for children. He already knows some basic stuff from raising his sisters but he wants to be 100% sure he will ace it. Having his father dying at a young age puted a lot of pressure in him to “grow” up and mature, so he makes his existances goal to make their childhood everything his wasnt. Que daily visits to the medic and being practically only allowed to breathe and eat, he really doesnt want anything to happen to you or your child, especially if you belong on the smaller/shorter type of people. He spends hours of his daily reading books in russian or talking to your belly and is ready to do everything to make your life easier, he will even knit baby clothes and cute blankets with small bears on them or small ines from poems on them, a bearskin baby blanket/coat is a must.

Medic

-he is no that happy tbh, he thinks hes far too old and his sperm isn’t as “strong” as itd be ifhe was younger, he has a nagging fear because of his age youll have a miscarriage or a difficult pregnancy.

-but once he saws the joy in your eyes and realise that hey, better late than never, he will try his best. He makes sure your pregnancy is smooth and does daily checkups on you and the baby, he is almost paranoid. You should help him relax or he will have a breakdown during the later months, because he is beyond terrified that somehow he will fuck up the birth and either permantly hurt you or the baby ( headcanon he will create twins, just imagine his silent mental freakout while he feels around and feels/hears two heartbeats). He needs comfort, but he will spend hours just talking to the baby about medical stuff or his experiences ( yes you will hear the skeleton story, multiple times). He isn’t a stable man, but he strives to make you and them happy so he is down to sacrifice everything he can.

Sniper

-faints when he hears the news, but scoops you up and spinns you around when hes over that initial shock.

-he is terrified and he is pretty open about it. He has barely enough social skills to speak with adults, he fears how useless hes around children.He needs constant reasurance or he will have the biggest mental breakdown he will ever have in his life. He can’t say he had shitty parents, but he also isnt a paternal man. He needs you to be the more hands on so he will feel comfortable with the idea. Engie and him will renovate the Van to have a built-in crib/bed and he will consult Medic for almos anything/ pick you up and run to medic if you feel the smallest hinge of pain. Once he feels the baby kicking or sees them on the machine ( idontrememberthenamesorry) he will cry and kiss your belly. He knows he wont be the best dad buthe will try his darnest to be the best dad he can be and provide all the love and the support for his child or children ( i lowkey see him as the type of guy who starts very insecure and then breed like a rabbit)

Spy

-oh mon fuck dieu, will faint and need medical assistance to wake up

-he thinks hes wayyy too old to have any more children, he believes ( a very common belief among the era/although somewhat debunked nowadays) that his sperm after so many decades its deffective and he doubts the pregnancy will even last that long to result to a child. But also he knows that he can’t leave another woman behind anymore, been there, done that, he’s a deadbeat many years now. He pays child support tho, but he knows all the money of the world can’t replace a father in a childs life. Furthermore his terrified of having a public family tree ( i think even if hes a fuckboy, he might was raised pretty hardcore catholic so in his head if you are to have his child and him being there for the both of you, it means he must also marry you). He has many enemies and he knows they are waiting for a chance to sink their teeth into someone that is dear to him. So he presents you a choice, either abort the baby and hell forget the whole situation happened and force medic and Engie either to create the most effective birth control, or to give him the most effective vasectomy there can be, or that you must understand he can’t stay because he doesnt want his enemies to hurt you and your child. He will come and go in your life , if you choose to keep them and send you a fat child support, but he can’t be seen with his child or have any legal documents with them. If you choose to abort, well better prepare to hold his hand while he gets his peepee pipe cut.

#tf2 #tf2 x reader #tf2 imagines #tf2 headcanons #angst #family

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underwaterdogballs · 3 years ago

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The Birth House - Ami McKay

[ im only a new reader, so im still working on the reading daily thing ]

time it took me - 2-3 days (i was really into it lol)

published - 2006

pages - 368

TW for book: physical abuse, sexual abuse, sex scenes, sexism, violence, teen pregnancy + birth

chapters - 47 + epilogue, and there are notes from the Willow Book at the end (i actually typed the whole thing up lmao ( x ) )

genre - historical / realistic fiction

5/5 stars (but my standards are really fucking low, so don’t trust me)

honest opinion - I loved it. It was a great book for me. I loved the MC (stands for Main Character), and it was just a great book all around. I can't put my opinion into words, but I'd highly recommend it, but if you've faced sexual abuse and/or teen pregnancy I might pass it up, as it may be triggering.

basic summary (no major spoilers) (im writing this 3-4 months after reading the book, so sorry if a bit inaccurate) -

Takes place in 1910s-1920s (WWI), Nova Scotia. Basically Dora Rare (first daughter in 5 generations of Rares), is drawn to Miss Babineau, a midwife and eventually after a few years becomes a midwife herself. But soon Dr. Gilbert Thomas, comes by and brings promises of quick, painless birth, and now many people start to question Babineau’s methods. Miss B disappears, and now Dora has to fight for her traditions.

in depth ‘summary’ (spoilers. and a whole lot of them) !!CW!! physical abuse, sexual abuse(?), few sex scenes -

Alrightie, buckle up.

“On the evening of a full moon in June, Silent went out in his canoe to catch the shad that were spawning around the tip of Cape Split. As the night wore on, Annie began to worry that some ill had befallen her love. . . . She walked to the cove where they had first met and began to call to him, promising her heart, her fidelity and a thousand loves to his name. The moon, seeing Annie’s sadness, began to sing, forcing the waves inland, strong and fast, bringing Silent safely back to his lover. Since that time, every child born from the Rare name has been male, and even now, when the moon is full, you can hear her voice, the voice of the moon, singing sailors home.” < why all Rare children have been men (for past 5 gen) >

Dora Rare is the only daughter in 5 generations of Rares. When Dora is first mentioned, she is 17 years old, and has 6 older brothers. Marie Babineau drags Dora to Mrs. Experience Ketch’s 13th kid, which would be a very prominent memory. Anyway if she didn’t give birth to this child today, she’d die. So she did, but she did not want her child. She pushed him away. So he died. Mr. Ketch is not deserving to be called a father, but here we are. Being the 1910s, he was a sexist wanker. “’I don’t trust nothin’ that can’t piss standin’ up.”’ like bitch who the fuck do you think you are??

Mrs. Ketch is a victim of serious domestic abuse, if the amount of children didn’t tell you otherwise (women can choose to have this many children, but... holy fuck.)

Archer, someone who Dora is sorta fond of (its been a while, dont remember her feelings), didn’t wish to fight in the war, but Grace and Precious really didn’t fucking like that. “’If I could, I’d march through Europe myself, killing Huns right and left, gutting them with a bayonet and crushing their skulls with the heel of my boot. But I can’t, and neither can any other woman who might wish for victory over evil... and neither can these boys who are too young to serve their king.’ She glared at Archer. ’But you can’” Mate. Take notes from Mulan. Masquerade as a man and beat them all. Fucking coward.

After Archer drags Dora to an empty room, Dora starts to become a horny fuck, and he begins undressing her, she mentions that that was her first kiss, and this Archer hoe backs off, and leaves.

Dr. Thomas comes bearing promises of quick and painless births. He makes Miss B and Dora seem like they’re using wooden tools and sawing a woman in half to get her baby out and taping her back together. Like stfu.

Well, a chapter or 2 later, Dora learns that she is marrying Archer, and she can’t refuse it.

A couple pages later, on the start of chapter 18, B orders Dora to get her 2 long-handled spoons and to grease them up with tallow, to get a teacup cover out from Grace Hutner’s sweet spot, cause she’s a horndog.

On the day before their wedding night, Archer wants Dora to give him a bj. A motherfucking blowjob. As a thanks for the permission to marry him.

“Come on, Dorrie. Just get on your knees. It won’t take long, no one needs to know. Now open up that mouth and take me in.” im not even going to say anything.

Anyway, the day before Dora has to marry Archer Bigelow, Miss B dies. :(

Archer wants Dora to give up the midwifery stuff (i think its sorta cool tbh, but k mate). This horny fuck wants sex every damn night. The book mentions the ‘supposed to hurt the first time’ and ‘breaking a woman in’ and just to let you know, the book talks like this bc it’s set in the 1910s-1920s, but irl, it doesn’t have to hurt the first time, i don’t think (but i havent fucked yet, and i dont plan to so idk), and breaking a woman in makes it sound like an object of some sort.

On page 174, Archer attempts to punch her, but he misses and makes a hole in the wall.

Dora gives in to sex when she doesn’t want to, and bc of her ‘obligations as a wife’ he treats her more like a sex toy than a human being. (not every guy is a piece of shit in this book, just most of them)

She heads to Dr. Thomas through a friend or her familys advice, and is diagnosed with hysteria, which is probably just ignored horniness, or a high libido or smth, the Doc basically uses a vibrator thing on her and the book states it’s better than what she’s felt in the arms of her husband.

(im wrapping this up cause my fingers are cold)

Influenza starts to pop up, and after Dora is outcasted for her practices, she goes to one of her older brothers.

Brady Ketch, husband of Experience Ketch, dumps his beat up and bruised pregnant 13-year old daughter on Dora’s doorstep, she dies, but delivers a perfectly healthy baby that Dora adopts as her own, and names Winnie/Wennie or whatever the fuck her name was.

After she comes back, she turns back to midwifery, and bars Dr. Thomas with a pitchfork after he attempts to interrupt a delivery (not Ketch’s daughter, as she died in childbirth) (obvi)

Archer dies out in sea, after Dora didn’t give him a thing known for protecting sailors from drowning and to bring them home safe and sound. But Archer has a brother, Hart, and claimed that he always had feelings for her, and he was disgusted at how he treated her. Dora doesn’t marry him, but stays as his lover. Also, the epilogue is about electricity coming to Scots Bay.

#The Birth House #Ami McKay #McKay #book #review #recommendation #rec #books #genre #historical fiction #fiction #realistic #realistic fiction #medical fiction #summary #book summary #book summaries

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jeyned · 4 years ago

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heya everyone ! i wrote a really long intro / backstory which i’ve linked below, but in case you’re lazy like me i’ve also put a little tl;dr under the cut with the cliffs notes. there’s also a bunch of plot ideas in case anyone is interested ! like this, drop me and IM, or message me on discord ( do you like yuice ?#6373 ) if you want to plot !

⤷ the courts offer bread and salt to jeyne whent née lannister of house whent. many say that the twenty - seven year old ruling lady of harrenhal is known to be lively and insightful, though ill tongues whisper that she is condescending and selfish when her name is uttered , one is reminded of a pretty smile hiding bloodied teeth; the hiss and raised hackles of a cat that thinks itself a lion; a languid and velvety darkness; heartbeat made of war drums. may she be blessed and protected in this war of crowns. ( fc: caitlin stasey )

full backstory / statistics page / development tag .

trigger warnings for ; death & murder, illness, forced marriage, misogyny & misogynistic slurs (1), war.

basics.

name. jeyne whent née lannister. nicknames. the little lioness. age. twenty-seven. traits. + clever, intrepid, lively, protective, insightful, tasteful. - hypocritical, cruel, condescending, proud, selfish, spiteful. titles. ruling lady of harrenhal, heir apparent to lannisport. loyalty. [ lana del rey vc ] money, power, and glory. also the starks of winterfell, i guess.

tl ; dr .

jeyne is the youngest child and only daughter of the lord of lannisport and his wife. well - raised, courtesied, if admittedly spoiled. even as a little girl she plays pretend at being a king. her father teaches her what words like wartime and loyalty and ambition mean ; the sacrifices she must make for their family name, for gold and glory.

the ironborn raids come to the shores of the westerlands and both her brothers are sent to fight. the younger dies first ; there is no body to bury. her mother falls ill with something they can only call grief.

jeyne is married not long after, a rose in bloom at nineteen. when she first hears, she weeps and begs and rages. her father reminds her of her duty, of the joy it would bring her ailing mother. jeyne knows then what must be done, and plans.

when her first husband dies just shy of two years into their marriage, jeyne is irreproachable. he dies in winter, already ill ; goes to sleep coughing and doesn’t wake up. jeyne isn’t even in the castle when it happens, although unfounded rumors fly of witchery and murder.

nine months pass, and she plays the part of mourning widow exceptionally well. it helps her mummer’s farce that news comes from the war : her remaining brother is dead now too, and her mother’s health is failing. without her brothers, she’s the ostensible heir to lannisport ; her father’s displeasure with this is made quite clear to her. he even suggests she isn��t his ; bearing too many of her mother’s features, not enough of his.

she is remarried quickly to lord lucas whent, without a fraction of the pomp and circumstance of her first wedding ; now a widow, with a reputation tarnished by unproven but incessant whispers, the newest match is rushed, necessary but insignificant. she doesn’t cry or beg this time, just goes coldly.

she hates him before she even meets him, hates the harrenhal the moment she sets eyes on it, hates the cold and the rain and the gloom of the castle and its people. spends all her considerable energies complaining and making life generally miserable for anyone around.

word arrives that her mother has died ; her father remarries quickly in the hopes of a new male heir, and draws in his nephews and nieces. weighing his options. jeyne prays to the stranger to take them all.

she resents the lot of them ; her father for using and betraying her, her brother and mothers for leaving her, the ironborn for killing her brothers, the starks for suing for peace and making their deaths worthless, her husband merely for existing. mostly, though, she resents herself, not clever enough to find a way out of the cages she’s been locked in.

plots.

enemies. the very best plot type and you cannot convince me otherwise. gimme intimately plotted hate-your-guts-smile-to-your-face frenemies who overthink everything the other says and press each others buttons incessantly. gimme ‘our houses have fought each other and i blame your family for this or that’. gimme petty jealousies and annoyances and people too much like her for them to get along. gimme people who think she’s a traitorous, murdering bastard and a whore to boot, and aren’t even wrong to think so.

close friends. i don’t imagine she has a lot of these ; those not deterred by her reputation often are dissuaded by her personality. still i love the idea of her having a few lords or ladies with whom she gets along quite well, the kind of people you only need to meet briefly to know you understand each other. can be from pretty much anywhere ; stuck at harrenhal i imagine jeyne to be an avid letter-writer.

cousins. i’m also considering sending in a wc for this, but gimme all the family plots ! could be paternal cousins, potential contenders for inheriting lannisport, & probably childhood companions. could also be maternal cousins ! i listed her mom as being a westerling but i’m more than happy to change that to another house for plot reasons, it doesn’t really matter ! her father could’ve also had sisters who married into other houses, there’s lots of options.

failed betrothals. i can imagine her father made a lot of offers, both when she was first getting married and after she was widowed. and i can imagine a lot of reasons why someone might reject that ; she’s a lannister, she’s not .... great as a person and her reputation isn’t phenomenal either. after the death of her first husband, too, i can imagine her prospects were pretty slim. still, the lannisters are ambitious and would have sought out as good as match as they could have.

family of her late husband. yea, i specifically didn’t pick a house for her first husband to be from because i wanted to leave ‘em open for other applicants but also because i wanted to leave it open in case it’s a plot anyone would like to take up ! most of the story around that is also very vague so as to fit with pretty much any ideas/plots someone has going on. would be really fun, tho ; possibly they can even have been co-conspirators and this person inherited jeyne’s late husband’s title and lands ? or they absolutely hate jeyne and think she’s a murderer which .... she very well might be.

sister in law. the widow of jeyne’s older brother, irwyn ; i hc that they had a daughter but tbh that’s just flavor text and i am open to changing pretty much anything i’ve got going on. i may send in a wc for this at some point too ? anyway, whether she stayed at lannisport or returned to her family home or anything, idk. seems like an unlikely connection to get picked up but it’s definitely out there if it happens to fit for someone.

brothers’ connections. again kind of vague ? would probably work best for men from the northern kingdom who may have known them or trained with them, or else fought alongside them against the ironborn. could also be ladies with pretty much any kind of attachment to either of them idk ; jeyne doesn’t have a whole lot of family left so this is my way of trying to have connections thru her family anyway.

childhood friends. idk how many characters from the westerlands there are around rn, but bring them to me pls. would love some childhood friends for jeyne ; whether they fell out of touch, or still write each other monthly letters. them being a ward at lannisport, or jeyne being a ward at theirs for a time is also a neat option !

allies. not quite friends, but potential partners whose ambitions align with hers. she has connections to the wealth of lannisport and the might and strategic position of harrenhal ( though harrenhal is truly weaker than she’d ever admit ) and honestly would support just about anyone if it meant she got lannisport. she’s power hungry what can i say ?

former flings / secret lovers. firstly these can be of any gender as jeyne is ... peak evil bisexual tbh. yes i’m queercoding my villain and i think that’s very sexy of me. these are also just pretty vague ideas, and absolutely do not need to be particularly romantic ; they could have had a more lengthy affair or just hooked up at a wedding or a tourney or something.

travellers. both lannisport and harrenhal are pretty common places to pass through. on a sea journey on the western coast one is likely to stop by lannisport, and harrenhal stands practically at the center of westeros, which is a fun opportunity for jeyne & your muse to have met even if they live very far way or are unlikely to have met in other ways ! especially considering harrenhal’s size it’s a good stop over for travellers with a larger retinue. idk i just want an excuse to plot with everyone.

#broken.intro #⧽ always half hidden ∖ development .

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mo-nighean-rouge · 5 years ago

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You Can Call Me- IV

About a million years ago, @ianmuyrray asked for “FAKE MARRIED AND PREGNANT DO IT” based on the trope prompt below. This is what you get, friend. Some characters show up that you might like, idk.

I didn’t really know when I would have this ready, but then I caved to some writing peer pressure from @lady-o-ren recently, and asked @whiskynottea and @isitgintimeyet for some beta TLC and here we are.

Modern AU: Inspired by a Fanfiction Trope Mash-up prompt - Bodyguard and secret relationship. A look at the life of Prime Minister Claire Beauchamp behind closed doors.

Previously: Part I | Part II | Part III | AO3 | Masterlist

Claire reached for him, hands trembling as she swept her thumb across the cut under his eye.

He hissed at the contact against the open wound, but couldn’t find the energy to truly mind. He basked in her touch, preserved for him after all.

“Oh, Baby,” her voice wavered.

Before Jamie could answer, Claire went limp in his arms, dead weight held up only by her oxters draped over his elbows.

Part IV

Jamie felt like he was swimming through the thick and sterile air as he strode purposefully down the endless hallway. It wasn’t Claire’s weight in his arms that slowed him, but the hollow agony in his chest each time he glanced down at her still form sprawled in his arms. Her limbs swung uselessly with his hurried gait. He couldn’t even protect her head properly as it thumped against his shoulder.

Murtagh had guided the yacht to shore in only minutes, but time had stretched mercilessly ahead as Jamie waited, exhausting the possibilities to coax a response from Claire.

The back-up officers they had radioed had been waiting on the dock in full force, more than equipped to drag the barely stirring forms of Randall, Wolverton, and their bloody goons into police cars.

“Let’s go,” Jamie had commanded the first unoccupied officer he passed.

“But Agent…” the man had squabbled, eyes darting around for someone of higher authority to disagree.

“Drive, damn ye,” Jamie had insisted. He wouldn’t wait for an ambulance to push through the growing crowd when they had been only streets away from the hospital.

Jamie had ducked into the back of a patrol car with Claire stretched over him, Murtagh having promised to report back once he resolved matters at the scene.

He had patted the perspiration from her face and felt for her weakened pulse as the car’s sirens drowned out the mad thoughts rushing through his head. As his fingers had run through her gnarled curls, they had come into contact with a harsh knot on her head, the swelling worsening as time passed.

Jamie’s rapid thoughts matched the pace of his steps as he finally burst through the last set of doors.

Several faces looked up as they entered the confined space. “Please,” Jamie rasped without taking a new breath.

Registering the pallor of Claire’s countenance, an orderly turned to pull a hospital trolley forward.

Much as he didn’t want to let go of her, Jamie laid Claire delicately on the trolley as the staff around him rolled off questions and phrases he couldn’t process.

“By Christ!” The young man’s eyes widened as he examined Claire’s face while fastening a blood pressure cuff around her bicep.

The nurse taking her vitals followed his gaze, her own face going a shade paler. She stepped to face Jamie as the rest of the party rolled the bed down the hall. She stepped in front of him, her badge reading “Phaedre Cameron, Staff Nurse” prominent.

Jamie allowed an infinitesimal nod as his feet set into motion underneath him. “Alexander Malcolm,” he responded over his shoulder as he made his way past her.

The nurse held him back before his steps could quicken to the pace of the trolley as it carried Claire beyond double doors. “Are you family?” she asked briskly.

“Please,” Jamie said again, barely sparing a glance at her as the attendants pushed his heart away from him. “She carries my child,” he said softly, rising to his toes to keep track of her curls through the miniscule windows as they disappeared further down the hall.

“So you’re her husband?” Her voice returned, warily following his gaze through the glass. She surely had recognized the leader of her country by now, but would know of no such relationship.

Jamie grunted, but did not argue. She wasn’t altogether wrong.

The nurse hesitated, nodding before finally leading him beyond the doors. They caught up with Claire and the other nurses just as they rounded the corner into a secluded area.

She left his side to confer with the doctor leading operations, each stealing glances at Jamie as their conversation grew more serious.

Chaos. Monitors flashing, machines beeping, more wires attached to Claire than he could count. He wished he could touch her, hold her. Was she in pain? Or worse, beyond registering the sensations tethering her to life? He folded sloppily into a nearby chair as his legs gave way.

He yearned for her eyes to fly open and for her to give them all a tongue lashing for focusing on her and not checking on her child.

Christ. The bairn. Jamie pitched forward and put his head between his knees, balancing precariously on the edge of the chair. That she be safe, she and the child.

He fell to his knees and raised his chin to the heavens, the motion around him falling away.

The room held its breath in anticipation, creating a silence broken only by the steady pulsing of the heart monitor.

The beat sounded steady, for all Jamie knew. But after a few minutes it was rivaled by the echo of a faster, fluttering rhythm, nearly stopping Jamie’s own heart.

It was the first time their child had made its presence known. There’d scarcely been time to schedule a scan as of yet, though they had estimated how far along Claire might be.

Taing dhia.

The roomful of people trickled out of the door, leaving only three occupants. Four, Jamie scolded himself absently.

The lead doctor snapped his gloves off and turned to face Jamie as he waited in the corner in agony.

A sheen of perspiration glowed over the man’s dark skin as he drew closer. An easy smile rested on his face. “Alex, is it?”

Jamie’s hand rose instinctively to grasp the other man’s. He nodded, focus not trailing away from the chest rising and falling across the room.

“Joe Abernathy.” The doctor stepped into Jamie’s line of sight to hold his attention.

He tried to take in the news the kind American doctor relayed to him, making sure to nod when appropriate. Everything sounded fine, but he couldn’t allow himself reprieve until she set her eyes upon him once more.

Severe dehydration, he said.

“I can guess how troublesome her morning sickness has been. We’ll get her caught up on fluids and monitor things from there.”

Minor concussion, he said.

“I’m sure you know she’s been knocked around pretty thoroughly, Mr. Malcolm.”

It’s up to her now, he said.

“We’ll have to wait for her to wake up. Their heartbeats are both strong, which is our main concern for now.”

Jamie had done his best to follow along and swallow his emotions, but couldn’t control the sob that escaped him at that simple statement.

Abernathy gripped his shoulder. “You did well, man. We might be telling a different story if not for you.”

As Jamie stood and pulled his chair behind him, the doctor clapped him on the back, then pulled the sleeve of his white coat up to glance at his smartwatch.

“I’m told the Doctors Beauchamp are stuck in parade traffic.” Dr. Abernathy’s finger swiped smoothly across the small screen. “There’s also a small crowd in the waiting room that’s anxious to see the two of you.”

Goistidh. Jamie unlocked his mobile. Eight missed calls from Murtagh. Five from Claire’s assistant, Mary McNab.

“I’ll tell you now, but will also be sure to let the persistent young lady in the waiting room know, that no one on our staff will speak a word.”

Abernathy looked up to meet Jamie’s eye once more, seeming to finally take a closer look at him. “That’s a nasty cut you’ve got there, man.” The doctor gestured toward Jamie’s eye. “I’ll send someone up to see that it gets taken care of.”

Jamie shrugged the doctor off. “‘Tis nothing to fash over.”

“The stitches might help take your mind off things,” Abernathy suggested.

“Dinna want to ‘take my mind off things,’” Jamie mimicked. Another bout of guilt flooded him. “I’m sorry, Doc.” He swallowed deeply. “This is almost more than I can bear, myself.”

Abernathy fixed him with a look. “She was in good hands, Mr. Malcolm. She still is.”

The doctor exited the room and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving only Jamie’s thoughts to fill the silence.

Jamie didn’t spare space between his chair and Claire’s bed. He reached for one of her cold hands and rubbed it between his own.

“Wake up, lass,” he whispered. A surge of feeling rose in his chest. “If ye’ll ever obey anyone in your life, let it be me, now, Claire.” He scrubbed his dirty, scuffed palms across his eyes. “Please, mo chridhe.”

Motion at the door stirred him from his greeting. A blonde blur sped in and hit him squarely in the chest. “Nunkie!”

“Germain Henry!” drilled a stern feminine voice. “Give yer uncle some space.”

Jamie squeezed the toddler against him and ghosted his own lips over his forehead before Marsali swung him up and settled him against the swell of her belly, patting Jamie’s hand soothingly. Her expression became disapproving as she took in the damage to his face.

He looked up as his future brother-in-law squeezed his shoulder as he circled the bed, pulling forward the chair on the other side.

Fergus leaned forward to brush his lips over Claire’s clammy forehead. “Milady,” he whispered, the light French lilt from his university and medical school days in Paris echoing in the sentiment. He gripped her hand with both of his, eyes not leaving her still form.

Jamie’s heart twisted. The moniker had been bestowed on a prim and proper young Claire by Uncle Lamb when she struggled with culture shock during her first trip to the edge of the earth. Soon after she’d gained her bearings, her passion for the world she lived in had established itself, along with her heart for helping its people.

Marsali allowed Germain to roam once more with a warning to ‘nae get underfoot.’ She washed her hands at the corner basin and slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, helping herself to the cotton swabs and peroxide stored in a high cabinet.

Jamie winced at the sting as she swabbed the wound under his eye.

Satisfied, she ruffled his hair and helped herself to the medical chart fastened near the bed. She surveyed the information with her experienced obstetrician’s eye, her observations undetectable until a gasp emitted from her and her gaze landed on Jamie.

He immediately knew what the file had revealed to her, and nodded his permission for her to speak it aloud.

“Did ye know, a bràthair?” Marsali whispered.

Fergus snapped to attention, both his hands still grasping Claire’s.

“Aye.” Jamie breathed, the barest of grins tickling his lips. “She was – is – sae excited to tell ye both at Thursday night supper.” He clapped his hand over his mouth, unable to stifle the sharp intake of air that followed. He met Fergus’s eye. “Ye should know, man, it’s driven her mad to keep it from ye…”

Fergus nodded slowly, stroking Claire’s wrists. Jamie suspected he was seeking her pulse points himself. “She will,” he said firmly. “She’ll tell me.”

Jamie sniffled hard in an attempt to regain his composure. “I’m sorry I didna protect her,” he whispered.

“You have, ye dolt,” Marsali cut in. Her steady hand smoothed the wrinkled bed covering over Claire’s belly where Germain had tugged it, attempting to check on his aunt for himself.

“I met Claire when she was but 15, a gangly wee thing gettin’ in her uncle’s way. She’s always been headstrong and determined. But I’ve never seen her so passionate, so content. Not until ye came along.”

“You couldn’t have expected this,” Fergus added, boosting Germain to his lap.

Marsali’s mobile vibrated.

Jamie could hazard a guess at how many times it had sounded that day based on the weary expression that crossed her face as she answered it.

She began speaking in rapid Gaelic, making it clear who was on the other end of the line. She could give Jenny a clear update without worrying Fergus unnecessarily.

Jamie flinched as he overheard rough translations for ‘still out’ and ‘hard knock to the head.’ She kept their big news to herself for now, and Jamie couldn’t help but imagine the sheer joy that would cross his sister’s face when she heard. Not to mention the bizarre hints he’d heard about their father today. How could he drop something like that on her, especially if it wasn’t true…

But he could puzzle all of that out later. As long as his stubborn lass woke up, all would be well.

The moment Marsali switched back to English, stepping toward the door and whispering into the receiver, Jamie knew she was talking about him and his own haggard appearance. There was no language the women shared that could conceal their worries from him.

As Germain’s impatient questions and complaints of an empty belly increased, Fergus and Marsali finally escorted him out of the room and to the cafeteria, promising to bring something back for Jamie. He doubted he’d have the will to eat it.

And so he was alone with his desperate thoughts once again.

________________________________________

Claire struggled against her heavy eyelids as awareness came back to her. Her immediate line of sight was blurred, and she ached all over. Gone was her torn pantsuit, a starchy white gown in its place. Her sorry state was apparent, almost as if she were taking account of her injuries from outside her own body.

She tried to recount what had happened in the last few hours… days? She had a vague recollection of a gun being drawn and shots firing, and someone going down painfully. Jamie?

Claire jolted at this thought, her vision adjusting to recognize the profile standing at the window across the room from her, with dazzling afternoon light refracting off his cinnamon waves as his head hung low and shoulders drooped. Though she could barely make him out in the shadows, she knew she loved him. He appeared healthy and strong, uninhibited by ballistic injury. So how much of what she remembered was actually real?

Could she trust her own tender feelings, anything besides the pull she felt toward him in spite of the weight of her limbs gluing her to the bed?

Had they truly shared all the things she thought she remembered, or was it all just lovely images her mind her created to comfort her as her body healed?

________________________________________

Jamie lifted the corner of the curtain with just the tips of his fingers. The car park was littered with news vans, camera bulbs flashing as hospital officials created a barrier between the crowd and their front doors. In the hours that had passed since he carried Claire in, it was clearly no longer a secret where the prime minister was recovering, nor how she had fallen victim to betrayal and neglect. He dropped the flimsy material in disgust. Just once, if they would leave her alone…

He barely registered the rustling on the other side of the room, but spun to attention. Claire was moving.

Her head flopped across the pillow as she sniffled, then moaned.

Jamie released a startled cry, just watching in relief as she flexed unused muscles.

Claire stilled, eyes focused on him. She looked awkward and unsure.

He cursed himself for putting distance between them. She should have woken with her hand in his as he watched her closely for any simple comfort he could provide.

Jamie raced back to her side. “Thank Christ,” he whispered, kneeling to adjust the pillow under her as she sat up.

Claire tensed and leaned back into the pillow as their eyes met. Jamie wished he didn’t see it, but there was fear in her expression.

“C—Claire…” he soothed. “It’s over. You’re whole.” His mouth curved into what might have been a smile, but it apparently had no calming effect.

She gulped and took shallow breaths, wild eyes looking anywhere but at him. A panic attack.

Understanding dawned on Jamie. She didn’t remember. Dr. Abernathy’s term returned to him: Concussion. He wondered briefly how bad it would be, whether she would remember him at all. He wouldn’t be able to bear hearing her call him “Alex” or “Agent Malcolm” without a hint of the flirtatious banter or sultry tone of jest that usually accompanied the nicknames.

He couldn’t bear not to know, either.

“Seas, a leannan,” he cooed. He curled his fingers under her jaw. “Breathe with me, mo ghraidh.”

Her eyes locked on his as he spoke the language of his heart. “… Jamie?” Her face lit with hope.

Jamie’s nerves unknotted themselves. “Just me.” His other hand smoothed her tangled curls from her glistening face.

Claire’s breathing slowed as she leaned her cheek into his palm, grimace giving way to peace.

He boosted himself into the bed beside her, relief flowing through him as she curled into him, careful of the IV running between them.

“I’ve been having terrible dreams, I think…” She shook her head. “I was worried I’d dreamt it all.”

“Nay, mo nighean donn.” He kissed the side of her head, her sweaty neck, anywhere he could reach as his palm stroked down her side.

Claire’s hand flew to her middle, features crinkling once more. “Our baby, is everything...?”

“A braw one like ye,” he managed to choke out. “Has a good wee heart, I’ve heard it myself.”

________________________________________

The door squealed open again just as Dr. Abernathy finished setting up the ultrasound machine.

Claire exhaled as her extended family piled through the door.

Amid the bustle of activity in the crowded room, she and Jamie had barely managed to speak discreetly about all that had occurred that day.

Claire had insisted on letting Jamie squeeze her hand as Nurse Cameron had placed five stitches under his right eye. His grip had been mild, but he had let her see him wince as the nurse had tied off the final suture. They had no secrets, and if she could bear a bit of his pain, she would.

She had stroked his curls as he recounted all the possibilities that had raced through his mind at the mere suggestion that Brian Fraser was alive. Much as he wanted to find out for himself, Jamie couldn’t risk investigating if it meant leaving Claire and the baby behind.

His tears had soaked into her gown as he apologized for not suspecting Frank sooner and taking care of the problem himself.

“Shh, shh,” she had whispered. “You had nothing to go on. I can just imagine it, ‘Metropolitan Police Protection Officer breaks into the House of Commons to tackle Home Secretary to the ground.’” She had scratched his stubbled chin. “You’d still be in gaol now.”

Jamie had snorted against her shoulder, shaking with the force of her own laughter. “It’s no’ funny, Claire.”

“Are you quite sure?” she had asked, lips curled. “I’m looking forward to the joy of seeing both those characters put away for awhile.”

“Aye,” he had rasped. “I’ll see to it, a nighean.”

Claire had tilted his chin to lock eyes with him. “We will.”

Jamie had sniffled and nodded firmly, grasping her palm to place a kiss there.

Fergus set Germain at the foot of her hospital bed, but her nephew jumped onto her sore legs instead. “Auntie Bear!” he cried.

She tried to withhold her groan as she gathered him to her. “Gracious, but you’re getting big, my lad.”

Claire got a lovely whiff of his lingering baby scent as her sister-in-law stooped beside her bed and took her face in both hands. “How are ye, a chridhe?”

Claire grasped her hands over Marsali’s. She had never been able to hide anything from the other woman’s intuitive gaze, so she shouldn’t have been surprised when Marsali glanced down then met her eye knowingly. She darted a glance to Jamie, who shrugged helplessly in the midst of feasting on his newly delivered hamburger and chips.

“My wife read your chart,” Fergus’s voice sounded as he closed in on their huddle to ruffle her curls. “Congratulations, ma cherie.”

Claire laughed and took a wonderfully full breath. “I don’t suppose I could have kept it from you for long. You might have been suspicious otherwise when I booked an appointment with you.” She squeezed Marsali’s hand before leaning into Fergus’s arm around her shoulders.

“Alright, Ms. Beauchamp,” Joe interrupted the lovingly chaotic scene.

Claire smiled up at him. In the half hour since he’d walked in to find her conscious, she had already grown to like the young doctor for his wit and gentle manner.

Nurse Cameron gestured that she was ready with the cool gel.

Fergus swept Germain out of her lap as Jamie nestled closer on the edge of her bed, shielding her as she wrestled the thin hospital gown up over her hips.

A few minor adjustments later and Claire’s eyes filled with tears as she watched a tiny form swim on the screen in front of her. She held onto Jamie – perhaps not as tightly as he clutched her – to make sure it still wasn’t a dream.

She had no idea how she’d do it all, but knew she could with the support of those around her.

#You Can Call Me #Claire Beauchamp #Jamie Fraser #Joe Abernathy #Marsali Fraser #Fergus Fraser #Germain Fraser #alternate universe #outlander fanfic #My fic

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