"Jeanne"
Title: Jeanne
Author: stapledolphin
Characters: France, Jeanne D’Arc (Joan of Arc), England
Pairings: France/Jeanne
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None!
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.
Note: Just a short piece that I wrote for the Hetalia anon meme a while back. This is basically copypasta with a few changes made to it. It may stem into a longer fic later, if I can find the time. I won't crosspost it to a community yet, since I really want to expand on it.
Jeanne first sees him here, in this abode of sweaty, disgusting men with grime on their armour and in their hair and stuck to their skin. She sees him, beautiful despite his own dirtiness, his eyes holding a certain wry playfulness that nobody else's has. She can't recall ever seeing him before, and some of the men are glancing at him warily, but somehow she's not worried. It's just intuition that keeps Jeanne so calm- some kind of soothing feeling in the pit of her gut that's telling her there's nothing to worry about, that things will be fine. She briefly wonders if this is her imagination, swayed and charmed by this man, or if it is God.
It does not matter anymore once he looks at her and begins to speak.
"Jeanne," he begins, "I can't thank you enough for what you've done. You-you will be a miracle for this country. We really will reclaim Orleans."
Jeanne doesn’t have to try to brush off the compliment. She is, after all, used to it by now. "I am only doing what God wants me to do." She pauses, looking unsure, before giving into her curiosity and asking, "I have not seen you here before. Are you part of this army? Did the Dauphin send reinforcements?"
"Just a volunteer." He seems thoughtful before continuing, "And I am somebody who, ah, loves his country as you do."
"Your name?"
"Ah- pardon my rudeness. I am Francis, Mademoiselle Jeanne." And then flirtatiously, he adds, "At least, I would hope that you are unmarried."
Jeanne is glad for all the practice she's had at keeping her composure around men, because it takes her a lot not to flush innocently like some carefree girl. Luckily, there is not a hint of red on her cheeks- not even when he takes her calloused, bruised fingers and briefly kisses her small hand.
Author: stapledolphin
Characters: France, Jeanne D’Arc (Joan of Arc), England
Pairings: France/Jeanne
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None!
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Himaruya Hidekaz.
Note: Just a short piece that I wrote for the Hetalia anon meme a while back. This is basically copypasta with a few changes made to it. It may stem into a longer fic later, if I can find the time. I won't crosspost it to a community yet, since I really want to expand on it.
Jeanne first sees him here, in this abode of sweaty, disgusting men with grime on their armour and in their hair and stuck to their skin. She sees him, beautiful despite his own dirtiness, his eyes holding a certain wry playfulness that nobody else's has. She can't recall ever seeing him before, and some of the men are glancing at him warily, but somehow she's not worried. It's just intuition that keeps Jeanne so calm- some kind of soothing feeling in the pit of her gut that's telling her there's nothing to worry about, that things will be fine. She briefly wonders if this is her imagination, swayed and charmed by this man, or if it is God.
It does not matter anymore once he looks at her and begins to speak.
"Jeanne," he begins, "I can't thank you enough for what you've done. You-you will be a miracle for this country. We really will reclaim Orleans."
Jeanne doesn’t have to try to brush off the compliment. She is, after all, used to it by now. "I am only doing what God wants me to do." She pauses, looking unsure, before giving into her curiosity and asking, "I have not seen you here before. Are you part of this army? Did the Dauphin send reinforcements?"
"Just a volunteer." He seems thoughtful before continuing, "And I am somebody who, ah, loves his country as you do."
"Your name?"
"Ah- pardon my rudeness. I am Francis, Mademoiselle Jeanne." And then flirtatiously, he adds, "At least, I would hope that you are unmarried."
Jeanne is glad for all the practice she's had at keeping her composure around men, because it takes her a lot not to flush innocently like some carefree girl. Luckily, there is not a hint of red on her cheeks- not even when he takes her calloused, bruised fingers and briefly kisses her small hand.