#convinced she owns jewel tones | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

targaryenluvs · 5 months

Note

Can you make a fic with a dark coriolanus x reader

Post Lucy running away where he stays a peace keeper for some time and he helped reader avoid being picked for the games and he abuses his power as peace keeper against reader whom he helped and holds it over her head (she has no family but her friends are like family) and he does all types of fucked up stuff to her sexually and he fetishizes her for being a woc (reader is a woman of color) and he fetishizes her skin or something and he keeps saying all creepy stuff and he then marries her (after convincing her no one would want her after him) and parades her around and shows off to capitol ppl who also fetishize her and she becomes basically his property with a creepy nickname and you pick the ending

BROWN JEWEL

pairing: dark!coriolanus snow x fem!poc!reader

summary: he was a lifeline and you’d grabbed on in hopes to avoid the reaping, but you were coriolanus’ obsession and he was not going to let you go.

warnings: obsession, abuse of power, nc touching, threats, forced marriage, fetishisation of skin color?? non-con (p in v), public sex, pregnancy, forced marriage, jealousy of infants? kisses, kinda stockholm/reader gives in

wordcount: 3.1k

a/n: audibly gasped reading this rq (i did change it around a bit since some of it i was unsure of how to write and if i felt comfy doing it) i went off track for sure

this was your last year for being involved with the reaping.

just tomorrow then you'd be in the clear for the rest of your life.

you had friends who relied on you, and their families which were practically your own. you’d been raised with them after your parents passed and you owed them your life. you were an amazing hunter and your game kept them going. you were skilled with hunting, medicine, literate because of your best friends mother. you helped them all in so many ways and you knew they needed you.

through your older years, you began to realise you weren’t exactly the same as your friends. their light skin and light eyes in contrast to your darker tones were always a reminder of your unshared bloodline. yet they never treated you any differently.

you had to live for them.

so it was how you ended up in the tree line by the peacekeepers barracks. hoping to bribe one into pulling your name from the bowl before it was placed infront of the justice building. what you didn’t expect was for a soldier to find you first.

“what’re you doing here?” he spoke from behind you as you stumbled to get up. “i... i wanted to talk to someone, to try and uhm, get them to do something for me.” he exuded confidence with his chin in the air and his grip on his gun. he obviously thought he was better than you. “what do you want me to do for you?” you sighed, “i was hoping, to get my name taken out of the reaping bowl.” he tilted his head, a smirk on his face and you wanted to peel your skin off with the way he was looking at you.

“come closer.” and you did, stepping into the moonlight. he found you to be gorgeous, glowing. “i’ll do it.” your eyes widened as you smiled, “thank you!” and he took a step closer to you, “but what will i get in return?”

and that’s when you should’ve run for the hills.

at the reaping ceremony, he coincidentally placed himself right next to your row. his stares were harsh on your back. your hands were sweating and you couldn’t think straight until that name was called, and it wasn’t yours.

“we’re safe.” your friend whispered into your ear as you smiled at her, “yeah, we are.” but for some reason you weren’t convinced. the peacekeeper was on you like a shadow ever since the day before. on the walk home he was following you and you knew it, but if you confronted him you had no clue what he’d do to you. so you felt it best to keep your head down, and get home. you didn’t expect for him to barge his way in.

“what’re you doing?” your voice was shaky and you could feel the perspiration on you, for someone reason this man made your body go haywire and you wanted to leave. “why? can’t i come see the pretty girl i saved?” your head was facing downwards as you began to mumble, “my names only in eight times, my odds were low anyways. a lot of people took tessera.” you heard him click his tongue, tutting and shaking his head in disagreement, “seven.”

he was right infront of you now, and as he bent down to whisper in your ear, you froze up, “i don’t do things for free y/n. when i want something from you, and i do, i will come to collect.” he held your face in his hand as you asked, “what’s your name?” he smiled, “coriolanus, but you can call me corio.” and he held you to it.

every time you saw him he’d be unbelievably smug.

even your friends noticed, “he keeps staring at you, that peacekeeper.” you were having a night out, your senses flooded with music and laughter. but not too far away was coriolanus, downing his beer. you shifted around before slyly looking his way. “it’s probably nothing. you know how these peacekeepers are. i think i’m going to head home.” you kissed her cheek before making your way out and to your home.

you were only a few minutes away when you took notice of the shadow behind you, lurking. “y/n.” you stopped in your tracks and turned his way. “corio.” he grinned at the nickname you used. his expression should've warned you, his words rung through your mind.

an intoxicated man was a dangerous one.

"when i want something from you, and i do, i will come to collect."

corio held you against the shabby wall as his hands held you in place. your pants swamped at your ankles as he rutted into you harshly. “stay quiet for me yeah?” your hands shoved at his chest but it seemed to be pointless.

“please, please corio not here.” coriolanus couldn’t bring himself to listen to you, and he sure as hell didn’t care if someone saw. what were they going to do? you were his, you needed to realise that. the quicker you did the easier it would be for you. your cries and protests went in one ear and out the other, “shh, i’ve got you. don’t worry.” he cooed, ignoring your pleas.

you felt humiliated, treated like trash. taken in an alleyway like a whore, as coriolanus continued on. your legs felt like jelly and your weight rested on the wall behind. his hands came up to lower your shirt, your breasts spilling out. “fuck, you’re made for me. all mine.” he groaned as he felt your walls tighten around his cock.

“come for me baby. come on.” you didn’t want to, you wanted to run away from him but your breath was laboured as your head lolled back. but even with that he wasn’t done with you. he wanted more. he wanted all of you and he wouldn’t stop until he’d had enough. you weren’t sure if he’d ever get his fill.

your cheeks burned as you walked back to your home, cum-stained panties and shame filling you to the brim. acquaintances walked past, you smiled and waved with fake kindness. your feet dragged along, your legs shaky and hands trembling. you wanted to drag the walk out as long as possible.

coriolanus could tell, but he couldn’t do anything yet. so he grit his teeth and walked with determination.

he’d punish you later.

and it was all you knew. almost every night corio crawled into your home, took you all over the house till dawn. and in return you were able to provide your family with everything they could want.

dana has a cold?

the medicine was at the front door hours later.

peter hurt himself at the mines?

a first aid kit was ready to be picked up by noon.

not a single person around you was hungry, sick or uncared for. all thanks to coriolanus. your friends were able to infer where all your resources came from, but you’d never asked for their aid.

you just wanted to help them, in any way you could.

what you didn’t anticipate was coriolanus in your home, tossing your nicest clothes into a suitcase. the jewellery he’d bought, shoes etc. “what’s going on? why are you packing my things?” he didn’t respond, he just kept packing, moving around the room and throwing in things he deemed important.

“we’re leaving, back to the capitol. you’re coming with me, now help me pack.” you grabbed his wrist in a moment of anger, forgetting your place. “let. go. now.” he demanded as you retracted your hand, “i’m sorry. but, you need to talk to me. i’m not going to the capitol corio, this is my home.” you should’ve known he was going to hate your words.

he grabbed your wrists, fingers digging in as you cried out in pain. “you are coming with me, otherwise i am more than happy to hurt you. all the supplies for your friends? gone. you know i won’t hesitate to hurt them. so if you want them to be taken care of, you’ll listen to me. now pack your things and shut up.” he spit out as you pulled away from him.

you didn’t even get to say goodbye.

the capitol scared you to no extent. the prying eyes, the excessive, almost wasteful, wealth and resources. you felt uncomfortable in your own skin. the people of panem viewed you to be a rare phenomenon. as if darker skin was unattainable. it was nothing like district 12, and you knew you’d never fully fit in. but corio wouldn’t let that be.

coriolanus thrived under dr gaul. overtime he’d been provided with an apartment and inheritance courtesy of the plinths and he was happy to indulge his sweet girl with whatever she could wish for.

the most expensive silks, finest jewels. you felt like a little porcelain doll, with multiple faces. you were bound to crack.

by the time coriolanus snow rose to be the president of panem, all the fight in your body was a distant memory, a shell of your former self. "you have everything you could ever wish for," according to your husband, "but you still think of them." his words were filled with disdain but held an ounce of truth.

your heart yearned for home. for peters terrible cooking. for dana’s flower crowns. nights out with your friends singing your heart out before sneaking out to the lake a certain covey had let slip on. a simple life.

but it all felt to be out of your grasp, far in the back of your mind.

presidential campaigns, parties, shopping, and super rich kids with nothing but fake friends. it was all your new normal. the residents of panem tolerated you for being the first lady of panem, admired you for your looks, and despised you for your background.

you’d never felt more alone.

you found solace in your children. ciron, your baby boy. only five years old but undeniably bright. he was ahead of most children his age in studies, able to remember so much in such a small mind. he was the spitting image of coriolanus. the old coriolanus. curly blonde hair, striking blue eyes. but his kindness, his care for others? that was all his mother. he was the perfect mix, and a huge mommy’s boy. the second he learned something knew he rambled on about it, only to you. he loved to play with your hair, curling it around his fingers.

“now we match mommy!” he smiled as you picked him up, resting him on your hip. “now i’m almost as pretty as you baby.” you teased as you attacked him with kisses on his face. he squirmed in your arms, small hands coming to cover his face. the noise seemed to wake caroline, her squeals and cries echoing through the home.

“shh, we have to be quiet okay?” ciron nodded as the two of you made your way to her nursery. it was caroline’s first birthday today, and coriolanus had spared no expense on your account. the celebration was to be held at your home, filled with people who couldn’t care less. but you just wanted to give her what you never had. a party at the presidents house was rare, and a lot of the hadn’t seen you in a while.

caroline was all you. darker skin than ciron, olive like. brown eyes and dark hair.

during your pregnancy with ciron, coriolanus showed you off to the people. you were regularly seen out and about, at parties, shopping, walking etc. coriolanus took any opportunity to parade you about to the people of panem. something out of their reach but so sweet, so beautiful. you despised it, being seen as nothing more than his property.

“she’s a fine girl you have coriolanus.” grandma’am spoke as she pinched your cheeks, “just have to take the district out of her.” as if you were an animal to be dissected.

“are there any more of her type?” the man joked as coriolanus’s hand tightened on your waist.

you’d always loved yourself, your hair, your skin color, your body. but it all seemed to be under coriolanus’s ownership the second you’d allowed him to take you to the captiol. no one cared about you. no one bothered to help. they just admired and touched when they could.

so you’d plead with him, begging him to let you rest for the remainder of your pregnancy. he surprisingly agreed, letting you confine yourself to your shared room.

and with cirons birth, you felt hope. his wide eyes, consuming all he could with his sight, his tiny fingers wrapping around your finger. your heart swelled with joy at his face, your saving grace.

coriolanus wanted to pry him from your fingers. for the next few weeks your attention was purely on the boy and coriolanus began to feel neglected. he was already traumatised from his own mothers passing, his sister taking her life. with the announcement of your own pregnancy the thoughts poured in.

would the baby take you too?

would he be forced to listen to your screams?

would he have to raise the baby he despised?

he hadn’t even met your child yet and he'd already made his mind up. the baby was no good, an heir was needed of course but at the cost of his wife? would he pay the price?

your screams of agony and pain clawed at his throat. he felt sick, bile rising as he forced it down. coriolanus would not be seen as weak. but he couldn’t help himself, your hands clutched onto his as a lifeline. your pleas for aid, and coriolanus could do nothing. helpless.

the finest doctors in panem, machinery and medicine yet it all seemed useless.

to you it was worth it, the second you held him in your arms. all the pain in the world if it meant you’d have him as the outcome. one of the nurses placed a pair of scissors in his hands, urging him to cut the cord as coriolanus masked his disgust.

snip!

tigris cooed over the baby as lethargy hung over you like a cloud. “isn’t he the sweetest coriolanus?” all he managed was a nod, his focus on you.

his strong wife, who’d given way to new life. your eyes were fluttering close as you murmured, “ciron.” the doctors and nurses gleefully agreed, “what a fine name!” the head doctor announced as he held him in his arms, a nurse taking him away to be cleaned.

and after all that, you were pregnant once more. another child for the happy family but another nuisance in his eyes between yourself and him.

all you ever cared about was the kids.

“has caroline eaten?”

“is ciron awake?”

“is his teacher here yet?”

“coriolanus, i think we need to take ciron shopping again. he’s growing so quickly!” he knew he should’ve been happy. but all he wanted was for you to be his again. you were always too tired for him, already asleep with ciron by your side, taking his place.

or you were breastfeeding caroline, meaning that he was sure he wasn’t going to get to feel you up that night. too sore, too tired, not in the mood. he couldn’t catch a break.

you’d decided to have caroline and ciron match. baby blue, how sweet!

it’d only been about an hour in and you’d had enough. these people never really moved on. the same comments about how special you were, how lucky you were. compliments stuffed down your throat you were sure you’d gag.

you grounded yourself with caroline, clutching onto her as coriolanus made the rounds. “anna!” you shouted out to one of your servers. “yes, mrs snow?” you refrained from rolling your eyes at the last name, “bring the cake out, now please.” she wasn’t sure, “mr snow said-” you smiled at her, “caroline’s getting fussy, better if we blow the candles out now so i can feed her and get her to bed.” she scurried away to get everything in order as coriolanus found you.

“sweetheart. you can’t hide the birthday girl at her party.” you chuckled, “i know, i know. she’s getting tired, we’re going to have to get the candles out early. cirons already sleepy too, he worked really hard today. i’m so proud of him.” you beamed as coriolanus took a sip from his glass, “oh did he?” he sneered. you were about to reply but the cake being carried out took your attention. “look sweetie! it’s your cake!” caroline lifted her head from your shoulder as you pointed at it.

“come on corio.” he downed his drink before following along. maybe if he was nice you’d fuck him tonight.

the four of you were a picture perfect family, cameras shuttered as everyone sang for caroline. she rested on your side as ciron stood in front of coriolanus, his hands resting on his sons shoulders. a smile plastered on his face. “happy birthday to you!” you bent down with caroline to blow the candles out as everyone cheered.

for once, you felt happy.

you sat infront of caroline’s crib, rocking it side to side. it was around 12 now, the party packed up, ciron in bed sleeping soundly, and coriolanus in his study. it’d been a while since you and coriolanus had been together. your pregnancy with caroline was risky according to doctors and you were told to take it easy. it’d been at least two months since his last time with you, and god he needed release.

once you figured she was asleep you made your way to corios study. “corio? you busy?” you peaked your head through the door to find corio writing away. “come in.” you closed the door behind you as he rolled back in his seat, patting his lap as you plopped down.

“you want something?” you rested your head in the crook of neck, roses infiltrating your senses. “m’ tired, wanna sleep with you.” coriolanus was taken aback for once, in his eyes you’d deprived him of your presence for so long and here you were wanting for him. coriolanus would have to settle for now. he caressed your cheek, “alright, come on.” his arm lifted your legs and you interlaced your fingers behind his neck.

over your time with coriolanus you’d learned to like things about him, since there was no point in you hating him anymore. his voice in the night, whispering to you. his soft hands washing your hair. when he was relaxed, the two of you would bask in eachothers presence, reading silently. baths together, his hands raking through your hair, trailing over your body with care. and as the two of you slept together, in a tight embrace, coriolanus felt at ease.

his brown jewel, all to himself.

#hunger games x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #dark!coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow x fem!reader #yandere coriolanus snow

1K notes · View notes

devoted-tiefling · 10 months

Text

a/n: my astarion brain rot has produced a thing. i've finally obsessed over this stupid scene to the point where i regurgitated this. have fun becos i certainly didn't

warning: allusions to spoilers, allusions to a lot of astarion's scenes, spoilers okay there's spoilers, mentions of mistreatment by others, no names or pronouns but this is my blind tiefling ranger oc, still in second person reader insert point of view though LOL

You sat almost stock still, your eyes looking like they were staring thoughtfully into the bonfire but, in reality, you saw only darkness. Your tiefling ears, though, heard everything. They twitched as you took stock of where everyone was.

Your bear familiar laid beside you, his fur brushing against your side, his head pressed to the outside of your thigh. You could hear the ever present grinding of Lae'zel as she sharpened her weapons for the dozenth time. You couldn't hear Shadowheart but she meditated so often that it was common not to know.

Wyll was somewhere near his tent, rifling through his things, preparing for the journey ahead. Gale was looking at himself using magic.

Of course, all of that didn't seem to matter because Astarion, as always, sat silently beside you, his calloused fingers making pleasant sounds against the parchment of the book he was leafing through.

"Astarion," you called out, your own hand still laid atop your bear's sleeping head "Can I ask you for a favor?"

Astarion stopped flicking through the book in his lap to hum, his red eyes darting to you in suspicion. "And what would your favor be, darling?"

You wouldn't have been able to tell, of course, seeing as you couldn't see, but he looked at you with a doubt that could only come from people who've been burned by others too much.

When he had hummed, you turned your head to face him, the jewels hanging from your horns twinkling. Your eyes were unseeing but Astarion always felt slightly unnerved by how it felt like they were staring straight into him.

Your hands lifted into the air, poised as if you were cupping some invisible thing in between them "Can I touch your face?"

Astarion was definitely taken aback. He even flinched a little, eyebrows scrunching, mind reeling.

You were asking to touch his face?

When you didn't hear a response, you smiled almost sadly, a pitying chuckle leaving your lips "Sorry, i-it's fine if it makes you uncomfortable. You don't have to. I know some people react badly when I ask."

"It's just. I'm able to find my way around through the noise and my other senses but I've never been able to put physical features to all of your names and voices." You explained, fingers curling a little, hesitating, hovering as if you weren't sure you could convince him "But out of everyone, I've especially wanted to know the face behind your melodic voice."

That didn't end up clarifying anything for Astarion.

First of all, though he'd been through his share of flattery and praise, he'd never heard his voice described as melodic before.

Second, he'd never told anyone but even he didn't know what he looked like. Astarion had a mirror he'd carry with him, something to peer into with desperation, but he always saw the same thing he'd always see: nothing.

That was, maybe, where his hesitation came from. He didn't know how monstrous he looked as a vampire.

Not hideous, of course. He knew he was handsome because he'd been able to lure many a woman and even a few men to their demises. No, he feared he looked monstrous the same way Cazzador looked monstrous; more than beautiful enough but always the cruelty bled through and revealed itself.

Still, Astarion couldn't find it in himself to deny you. You, who so graciously defended him against all the others in your little group. You, who bled for him every night and still looked at him like he had some humanity left in him. You, who intrigued him at every step.

"Perhaps you can tell me what I look like then." He decided to joke in that same pompous tone he used when he felt a bit too vulnerable "I haven't been able to see myself in hundreds of years."

You frowned at that but your expression immediately turned to one of curiosity "Really?"

"Astarion nodded before moving to place his face into your hands.

Your hands were almost unbearably warm against his almost chilling skin, your claws, as long as his, brushing against the apples of his cheeks.

As soon as you realised his face was in your hands, your face scrunched into an expression of concentration.

First, you brushed your thumbs over his skin, under his eyes, to his cheeks, up to his temples. You looked contemplating, like you really were forming a picture in your mind.

"Well, you have very nice laugh lines." You smiled, gently, sweetly, in a way that made Astarion's undead heart almost beat.

"Preposterous. I'm a vampire, not your homely grandmother. I do not age." He answered you, rolling his eyes, and you could feel the way his expression contorted into an exasperated one underneath your very hands.

You just laughed "I like it. You know, you sound very handsome when you laugh."

Another exasperated noise but you ignored it in favour of brushing your thumbs over his eyebrows "I can tell you furrow your eyebrows often."

"You can tell something like that?" Astarion sounded disbelieving.

You nodded "I lived in Baldur's Gate but we didn't have a home really. We moved from place to place. But I had my own little ragtag family and they would let me practice on their faces; they'd let me touch as they laughed and smiled and grew angry or sad."

Astarion almost wanted to ask you to continue but, from your expression, he felt as if it wasn't the time or place.

"My mother always fretted over everyone; she'd have wrinkles right here because she furrowed her eyebrows so much." You pressed in between Astarion's eyebrows, thumb running over it as if trying to flatten away his worries, before moving back to the corners of his eyes "And whenever my friend smiled, her eyes would upturn right here."

"I bet you look gorgeous smiling, Astarion."

Then, you moved on, moving back down his face, down to his lips. You traced the corners of his mouth, feeling for something that Astarion couldn't understand.

All of it was beyond Astarion's comprehension. He wasn't a stranger to compliments but it felt like yours reached somewhere deep inside him and brought it peace.

Something about it all both tranquilized him and unnerved him all the same.

"You must smirk a lot. I bet you look boyishly handsome when you do. Your voice always sounded so mischievous to me." You huffed, sounding jokingly tired of his antics before running your left thumb over his lips, feeling both the softness and the roughness of it under your fingertip "And you bite your lips a lot. I can feel the scars of it. Though I doubt it would be noticeable to anyone else. Your lips are soft either way. It's a very pretty shape."

Astarion recalled all the countless nights of him biting away cries of pain, cries of agony, the way he'd always bite his lip in frustration and anger. Nobody had ever noticed that, not until you, and it felt like sharing a secret.

Then, as suddenly as your request had come, you pulled away, that gentle touch that soothed a part of Astarion gone as soon as it had been offered.

"Sorry." You looked sheepish, embarrassed "I know a lot of people don't like others touching their face, especially a Tiefling."

Before you could truly pull away though, Astarion pulled your hands back to his face, sandwiching them in between his cold calloused palms and the soft chill of his cheeks.

"It's fine, darling, I don't care." He tried to build his walls back up and, at the same time, let you in "I, for one, always welcome compliments, no matter what the type."

Your thumbs hesitantly, slowly, reached his eyes. You felt his eyelashes flutter close before you were feeling his eyelids, velveteen and twitching. Your thumbs mapped over it, over the shape and the dips of his eyes.

"What color are your eyes?" Your thumbs moved on, again feeling the corners of his eyes, brushing over them in circles as if comforting Astarion somewhat.

"Red, like any vampire's." Astarion answered easily enough, swallowing down a memory of Cazzador's striking red eyes.

"I can tell they're very kind; sharp around the corners but round everywhere else. I bet your stare is very enchanting." You laughed a little in that breathy tinkling way you always did.

Astarion frowned a little, still disbelieving, unable to accept words like 'kind' to describe him.

Then, finally, your hands moved away from his face entirely, your fingers suddenly combing through his hair, feeling it in between your fingers and with your very fingertips "Oh, you have such curly hair!"

"It used to be something else, I think." He tried to recall but quickly grew frustrated when the information didn't come easily "But now it's white."

"Oh, Astarion." You sighed, hands finally coming out of his hair to cup his cheeks "You're so handsome. I'm so glad to finally know what you look like."

Astarion nodded, trying to brush your painfully sincere words off but, instead, they struck him, buried deep inside him.

If you felt a slight bit of wetness in the corners of his eyes, you didn't mention it.

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x reader #astarion baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 #oneshot #x reader

975 notes · View notes

corpsebasil · 1 year

Text

Exes Do it Best

Nikolai never expected for his wife to be a privateer in disguise.

Y/N groaned internally, forcing a friendly smile onto her face, when prince Nikolai Lantsov walked into the throne room. She held it together better than he did—his eyes widened, and he halted in his tracks, then quickly kept moving, ignoring the odd look his mother gave him upon his approach.

"Princess Y/N Vorontsova." The Queen told him, nodding to the beautiful girl.

Y/N turned and gave him the widest, most sarcastic grin of her life and, when he grabbed her hand to kiss the back of it, she squeezed his fingers hard enough to break. He grunted but smiled when he stood, bowing in a mockingly regal manner to her.

"You are as beautiful as they say, Your Highness."

"And you," she countered, her tongue soaked in venom. "just as..." Her head tilted. "What is it they call you? The puppy prince?" She laughed. "It suits you. You're just so adorable."

The Queen seemed satisfied with the exchange and bid them farewell, encouraging them to get to know one another. After all, the arranging of a marriage between their two kingdoms had been an ongoing process for years. And if the two of them had known who each other were before now, perhaps, maybe if Nikolai wasn't such an arrogant asshole, and he didn't think she was a spoiled brat, they would've been married before now.

"Prince Nikolai Lantsov, huh?" She asked, tone honey-sweet and promising violence. "Lovely to meet you Your Highness." She whirled around and strode towards the door, her entire body vibrating with the urge to punch him.

"You lied too, Y/N." He snapped, chasing after her. "Don't act like you're innocent."

"At least I didn't kiss a barmaid before dumping me and fleeing the continent." She hissed, leaning in close enough to jab a sharp-fingered nail into his chest. "Sturmhond."

"You weren't honest either," he argued. "remember when you threw my entire chest of jewels into the ocean?"

"Oh please, you deserved that."

"That was worth more than a hundred horses you brat."

When she stepped forward and hit him, back-handing him so hard her own skin burned, he stumbled back several feet. Then he stared at her in shock, holding his cheek as he rotated his jaw, his eyes flashing with pain.

"What the—what the fuck, Y/N?" His tone had the audacity to sound hurt, and she glared.

"That's the least you deserve." Her voice was deadly as she stepped forward, so close he could've grabbed and kissed her. "Next time you want to cheat on someone, think twice about who you do it to. I am just as royal as you are, my love. Now fuck. Off."

This time, when she spun to leave, he didn't stop her, just watched her as she walked away. Saints, she was just as stunning as she was the last time he saw her. But she was wrong. He hadn't kissed anyone. He didn't know where she'd heard that from, who had lied, but when she wouldn't listen to reason and dumped his money into the sea, he was so furious that he told her he'd rather date a hellion than her and left.

A she-devil, that's what she was. She'd always been a force to be reckoned with, and the fact that they were both royals pretending to be privateers suddenly made a lot more sense. Y/N was just as hot-headed and confident as he was. He chuckled under his breath, then sighed when he remembered what it had been like to be with her. They were passionate and wild together—they fought like demons when they were angry with each other, but they loved each other with the same fierceness.

A flush reddened him from his chest to his face when his mind strayed to the sex, to the savage lovemaking that made his heart pound. He remembered the noise she—

No. No.

He wasn't going to go down that road. She clearly hated him, and there was no convincing her that he hadn't actually done her wrong.

***

She came to their rooms at around three in the morning.

He was sitting awake, unsure of what was wrong with him. They had been married for months now and she still refused to treat him better than dirt under her shoe, and he was beginning to go insane.

He knew she had lovers, men who she snuck out to see in the night. Maybe she wasn't bedding them, but he was almost certain she was, and the thought made his blood boil to the point where he wanted to hit something—anything.

When she walked in, slightly drunk and holding her shoes in her hand, he looked up from the couch where he'd had his head in his hands. She didn't speak to him, only began undoing the laces on her dress as she walked towards their bathing chambers.

"Where were you?" He called after her, listening for several seconds as she ran the tub. She stepped into view, raising a brow as she took out her earrings and pins in her hair.

"Why do you care?" She asked, then rolled her eyes when he just glared in silence. "Fine. With a friend."

"Which. Friend." He bit out, and a smirk pulled at her mouth.

"The fun kind. More fun than you, Mr. Possessive."

"I am your husband." His voice rose and he stood, his chest heaving as he fought for air. "Me. And you—you disrespect me every time you bed another man. You are my. Wife."

"Sure." She purred, sliding her dress down her shoulders until she stood only in her undergarments. "But only in title, Your Majesty."

Chills raced down his spine as he followed her into the bathroom, watching as she poured oils and sweet-smelling tonics into the bath water. He was so angry he could hardly think—could hardly breathe. She practically spat in his face every night, leaving to screw nobodies and get wasted. If she was caught it would be the scandal of the fucking century and put a stain on their just beginning rule.

They had just been crowned, for god's sakes. And she was already pissing on their marriage.

"Don't do it again." He ordered, and she snorted in amusement, reaching back to unhook her bra. "Y/N."

"Don't boss me, Nik." She scoffed, and shimmied out of her underwear, moving to step into the tub.

"I can't take this." His voice cracked, and he pressed the back of his hand against his mouth, unwilling to cry. He wouldn't. He would not embarrass himself further. But his mouth worked before he could stop it and he added, "I can't keep loving you when you fuck other men. You married me. We are married. You are—" He felt his vision swim and inhaled sharply, turning around and striding back into the Livingroom.

He had to get out.

He was practically tripping over himself, hunting for his coat, when soft hands touched his waist, and Y/N propped her chin against his shoulder. He bent forward, gripping the edge of his dresser, a loud gasp ripping through him. He was shaking and, to his disbelief, he could actually feel his heart breaking in his chest. It hurt so bad, his throat squeezing with his effort to breathe past the rock in his throat, that he almost fell to his knees.

"Nikolai." Y/N whispered, and her lips pressed against the back of his neck, her arms slipping around his waist to press him against her chest. "Nikolai, please."

He turned his head slowly, his head pounding, and her face twisted up in an expression of pain when she saw his face was wet with tears. Her fingers reached up, hesitantly, as if his skin would scald her, and brushed his tears away in vain. They wouldn't stop, and he realized with vast disbelief that she was tearing up as well, her breath hitching in her throat as she looked at him.

"You never acted like you cared." She breathed, staring up at him. "I thought you—I thought you didn't care what I did. You haven't shown a single fraction of love to me since we were married."

"Neither did you." He swallowed roughly and tried not to notice that she was completely naked, and they were both crying, and she'd just witnessed him visibly break down. "But I haven't slept with anyone. No one."

"Neither have I." She admitted, her face collapsing in shame, and he froze. His heart paused.

"What?" he asked, and his voice was so quiet he wasn't sure he'd spoken at all.

She looked away, feeling mortified, embarrassed at the unneeded pain she’d been causing him. But damn him, he had broken her heart, too.

“I’ve been hanging out with Alina. Or Genya. Or visiting the city. Jesper and Wylan are in town right now, and I was with them tonight.”

He stared at her for a long moment, just breathing, before he blinked up at the ceiling and moved towards the bed. She watched as he pulled his shirt off and sat down, running a hand over his face. When he looked at her, looked at her with that raw need in his eyes, her heart stuttered.

“I never cheated on you.” He said, his voice calm, and she inhaled sharply.

“But they said—“

“Who? Who said? Because you’re way too damn important for me to risk you over a kiss.”

She stepped towards him slowly as his eyes drank her in, finally allowing himself to soak in every inch of exposed skin, his cheeks beginning to flush as she neared him. She stopped an inch away and grasped his face in her hands, pulling his stare away from her breasts and…lower…to her eyes.

“Do you swear it?” She asked, her voice weak, and he nodded. His eyes still shone with sadness, and he reached out, gripping her hips with his hands.

“Do you still love me?” He countered, expression hopeful, and she sighed, running her hands through his hair and down his neck.

“Nik.” She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them. “Let me show you.”

Nikolai’s chose rose and fell as she helped him out of his pants, then pushed him gently down on top of the blankets. She climbed into bed and kissed him, and for the first time since they’d been married, they truly became husband and wife.

#shadow and bone #nikolai lantsov #nikolai lantsov x reader #shadow and bone imagine #fluff #nikolai x reader

852 notes · View notes

viennacherries · 3 months

Note

First of all I love your work!! I keep rereading kiss the cook. I have a request God! Gale/Tav. A spicy fic about Tav and God Gale’s first time since he’s turned into a god.

anon. anon im so sorry. this turned into angst. please forgive me <3

NSFW

read it on ao3

~~~

Tav hasn't seen Gale since he left in search of the crown, promising to find her and bring her with him to Elysium. She'd believed him, but she thought he'd have come to her by now.

It's been 6 months. She's starting to lose faith.

She isn't completely convinced that he's going to come to the party. Withers insists he sent Gale an invite, but she's trying not to hold her breath. 'Trying' being the key-word here.

The truth is, she's desperate to see him again. She aches for him. He completes a part of her that she didn't even know was missing. He's soft and gentle with her in a way no one ever has been before, he's all light touches and tender caresses. He smells like old books and cinnamon, and he brings her more comfort than anything else could. She'll do anything for him. She just wants him back.

Withers is encouraging everyone to raise their glasses, finishing his toast, and her heart sinks at the realisation that Gale won't be turning up.

She wishes he would turn up.

Shadowheart is midway through saying something to her, clearly trying to take her mind off of him despite it being a fruitless cause, when a blinding beam of light flashes down from the sky.

It's like a bolt of lighting, the speed at which it descends, and there's a long pause where the light persists as if frozen in time, before it slowly fades away. Gale stands in its place and she runs to him, ecstatic, before her footfalls slow as she takes him in.

He did it. He found the crown. He became a God.

He looks so different. His whole body shimmers chrome, catching the light like an errant jewel in a necklace. His hair, once soft and flowing, seems sculpted to his head and body like a statue, every hint of his natural colour replaced with the same otherworldly silver as the rest of him. His eyes are glowing pits, no longer the soft warm brown she so loved looking into. They seem to create their own light, which wisps and curls around his eyebrows like ink through water. He looks glorious.

He looks new.

He spots her, smiles, and crosses the remaining distance. He stops a foot away.

"I had hoped I'd see you here." He says, and his voice. It's so different now. It echoes and reverberates as though he's stood in a vast cave, it screams of power and strength. It's his voice, still, but it doesn't sound like him anymore. There's something missing from behind his words that makes them feel slightly empty.

"I..." She feels shellshocked, "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."

"Forget you? Never." His words make her heart sing, but his tone is all wrong. She knows he means it, but it just sounds so... lifeless.

He keeps talking, "I'm afraid time works quite differently in Elysium. I didn't realise how long I'd been gone, until I received Withers' summon."

All the time she spent, the months dragging on, missing and longing for him, had felt like mere moments to him. It makes her feel a little bitter, but she pushes the feeling down.

He's still talking. Something about 'the finer points of divine ascension' and how 'mortal comprehension' isn't enough to fully understand. He found the crown, he reforged it, he took control of it. The Karsite Weave has become the Galarian Weave. He commands it.

Tav swallows around the lump in her throat, "well, I'm ready to come with you."

His face twists into some sort of amusement, as if he finds her eagerness endearing. When he speaks, his tone is that of a teasing reprimand. "I see you won't be claiming the dominion of 'patience' in the heavens. All in good time, my love. For now, mortality has one more night of enjoyment in store..."

He takes her hand in his, and her skin tingles where they make contact, as though molten electricity courses through his veins. He leads her away from the party, and she hears the woops and catcalls of the rest of her friends as they fade away from view.

When he presses his lips to hers, it feels like static shock. When he runs his hands down her arms, it feels like the air right before lighting strikes. When he slowly undresses her, ready to worship her body as if she's the immortal being, not him, her skull tingles and her eyes water. It's so intense. He's barely even touched her and it's so, so intense.

He strips her slowly. Reverently. He has nothing but time. He has no need to rush, no need to worry. Everything is so different now. There's no hiding in tents trying to be private, there's no sneaking off in the night and tucking themselves back into their clothes before they get caught, there's no stolen kisses when everyone's looking away. He has eternity. They have eternity.

When she's laid on the ground, stripped bare for him, he lifts her legs over his shoulders and descends on her core with his mouth. He moves his lips like he's sending a prayer through her body, like she's the conduit to his devotion. His tongue ghosts over her nerves and she feels like a lighting rod the way his energy travels through her, as though seeking to ground itself through her fingertips as she digs them into the dirt.

And when he lays his body across hers, enters her with one smooth thrust, it's blinding pleasure. Every stroke he takes has lights blinking behind her eyes, every thrust like a jolt of power travelling up to her throat. When she finds her release it crackles through her like an exposed wire touching water, and when his follows shortly after her vision goes white with ecstasy at the feeling, as though his very essence is spreading through her marrow.

They lay together for a while, staring at the stars. He tells her of Elysium, of the endless ocean of constellations and the rivers of pure light. He speaks about his domain, how the Crown of Karus is kept safe at the centre of it, how he protects it with his immense newfound power. He waxes poetic about the shrines that have already been erected in his honour; several in Thay, and a grand temple under construction in Amn.

It dawns on her, all at once, that he hasn't asked how she's been.

She feels a pit open up in her stomach.

He tells her about the fathomless power at his disposal. He tells her about dragging the crown from the Chinonthar. He tells her about his disagreement with Mystra, when she learnt of his ascension, and his plans to challenge her further in time.

He doesn't ask about his mother. He doesn't ask about Tara. He doesn't ask about her.

It feels like she's ripping in half.

All too soon they're standing at the edge of the river.

"So, it's time for me to return to the heavens. The question is - do you wish to join me? To become a God at my side?"

Her stomach lurches.

She wants to. She wants to remain at his side, for all of eternity. She wants to go with him and build a home with him in the sky, a domain of magic of their own creation.

But she also wanted to create a home with him in Waterdeep. She wanted nights together curled up next to the fireplace, while he played piano with his magic and read arcane books to her. She wanted to sit on his balcony with him, watching the water, holding his hand in the evening breeze. She wanted the date night he promised, with his homemade hundur sauce. She wanted to meet his mother, have tea with her, call her 'mother-in-law'. She wanted to marry him.

And as she stands with him, as he is now, she takes him in. His eyes are luminous trenches, no longer a warm chocolate brown. His skin, once tanned and soft, is cold and silver. He doesn't smell of old books, or cinnamon; he smells like petrichor - like earth soaked in thunder and rain.

She stands with him, hand in hand. But he doesn't feel like home anymore. It feels like he's a million miles away. Like he's already gone back to the heavens.

"I can't"

When he leaves, she wishes she went with him. Then she wishes he'd stayed. Then she wishes he'd never found the crown.

She wishes he'd chosen her.

She sits, knees clutched to her chest, and she sobs.

A small ball of fur and feathers curls into her side. A tressym.

They mourn together.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 smut #bg3 fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 requests #bg3 tav #bg3 gale #galemance #gale bg3 #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #baldur's gate gale #god gale

83 notes · View notes

gatheringbones · 1 year

Text

[“I started calling friends, asking if they would like to pose for the first feminist pornography. The response was positive and about twenty women plus two women photographers met at my apartment. It was a fantastic gathering. The lights and camera were set up in the bedroom, and in the living room, the women chatted while they trimmed and shaped their pubic hair in preparation for their cunt portraits. We took turns posing with our genitals in a natural position, the outer lips held open, and one exposing the clitoris. Then each of us was given a mirror and asked to arrange our genitals in the way we thought they looked most appealing.

There were “oohs” and “ahhs” and other comments such as, “How beautiful,” “Look at the pretty mother-of-pearl texture,” and “What exquisite coloring.” Occasionally there would be a spontaneous round of applause when a woman displayed herself artfully. We began to see designs, shapes, patterns, and made associations with nature: a shell, a flower, a fig, an orchid, and yes, even those dangling wattles (I now think chickens are sexy). I saw styles emerging: there was a Classical Cunt with symmetry, a Baroque style with complex folds and drapery, a Gothic Cunt with archways, and a Danish Modern with clean lines. There were many Valentine Cunts. When we realized the heart design was the shape of a woman’s genitals when she held her outer vaginal lips open, St. Valentine’s Day suddenly had a new meaning.

We discovered that when the hood was pulled back and each clitoris appeared, the variations were astounding—ranging from tiny little seed pearls to rather large protruding jewels. In the dictionary phallus refers to both the penile glans and the clitoral glans. We were changing our image from the Female Eunuch to the Phallic Woman.

The distance of the clitoris from the vaginal opening also varied greatly. One woman with a clit close to her vagina said she could have orgasms with intercourse alone. I thought I’d discovered a new theory until a woman with the same configuration posed, and she said she always needed direct clitoral stimulation to have an orgasm. Another woman couldn’t get her clitoris to pop out. She was convinced she didn’t have one until she pressed a finger on either side of the clitoral shaft. We could just see the tip of her shy clit. Technically called an “embedded clitoris,” it was difficult to see, but it was easy to feel and worked just fine.

The vaginal opening wasn’t a hole at all, but rather soft little pink folds that created different patterns in each woman. We became aware of the differences in pubic hair and genital coloring. Some women had dark, thick bushes and others fine, wispy hair. One woman shaved off her pubic hair, and she was our Futuristic Cunt. The form of her genitals was stark and beautiful. Our colors ranged from pale pink to dark brown, and one woman had a two-tone cunt. Her inner lips were dark brown surrounded by a delicate peach. Another woman who had very dark brown genitals and black pubic hair said her lover called her “The Black Orchid.” Throughout the evening there was animated conversation. There were also moments of silence as each of us became lost in our own thoughts. Toward the end, I closed my eyes and saw one exquisite cunt after another pass before my mind’s eye. We were creating our own genital imagery.”]

betty dodson, from orgasms for one: the joy of selfloving

#betty dodson #lesbian literature #bi literature #currently reading

299 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Text

Imagine being the one who releases Morpheus. - Part 3 A/N: I've got other WIPs and requests but Emo Brooding Morpheus and Gentle Warm Reader is a brainrot I welcomed a little too warmly

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4] [Part 5] [Part 6] [Part 7] [ENDING] [ALT. ENDING] || Sandman-inspired playlist

🫀REQUESTS ARE OPEN🫀

"Have you found them?"

Your voice was hardly audible over the sound of crashing waves and screaming seagulls. The wind kept tugging at your clothes, gnawing at your skin and soon you found yourself feeling cold. The warm sunrays, sporadically emerging from behind the grey clouds, were a pleasant relief as they gently brushed against your face. Spring never comes soon enough...

"What exactly do you mean?" Morpheus asked.

The reason why he accompanied you on your walk back home was a lovely secret - one that might be ruined the moment someone tries to learn it. To your satisfaction, he never questioned why you were walking on the sand and not the bricked boulevard, which would have been a lot more comfortable. Despite the sheer pleasure that it brought you, your choice of route was motivated by something more profane: the loneliness that you shared. Morpheus would never admit that himself, you could already tell but he needed to talk to someone as much as you did. In that moment he was about as human as an entity can get and yet he was never going to realize that; when people recognize each other's loneliness as their own they form a connection a little too deep to be captured by a language and far too strange for the mundane world.

"Your belongings, naturally. The jewel, the pouch..." you counted as you recalled the wonderful and strange trinkets he had with him that day, "the creepy mask," you added as your face involuntarily turned into a grimace thinking about the unnerving bone contraption he wore. "Father seemed very content with his, well, theft."

Morpheus suddenly stopped. His eyebrows furrowed slightly and those cold, blue eyes stared into yours with astonishing intensity. The cold wind pulled at his hair as it brushed against his forehead. Looking at his face, you could see the small moves of his jaw as he clenched its muscles.

"Do you know anything of them?"

His voice didn't waver and considering his alarmed appearance, it was an impressive feat. The longer you admired his otherworldly composure the more you grew convinced that you had misinterpreted it the first time you had seen him: what painted his expression blank was not the lack of emotions behind it but rather a certain reluctance in feeling sensations that were already there. Such a disconnect was strangely human for a king of dreams, not to mention horribly forlorn. If one desires no relation to their feelings, how could one ever relate to another being?

"I'm afraid I don't," you answered in a mild tone. "I've only heard rumours among the manor staff as though your gem had been stolen by my father's mistress. But, unfortunately, I cannot speak for the reliability of that hearsay. Even if that were true, I haven't the foggiest where she's gone."

"What of the pouch and the helmet?" he coexed. It seemed as if the remnants of his hope long gone were being washed away with each wave that crashed against the white sand of Southend-on-sea.

"Hard to say," you said with a shrug. Digging your hands further into the pockets of your coat, you began walking again. "Perhaps they're locked away in the deepest dungeon underneath the mansion or maybe they were sold on the black market. In any case, I'm afraid I can't even try to inquire about that. My letters were never answered."

"You have written letters to your father?"

"No, not to Rodrick," you said quietly as you absentmindedly shook your head. There was another for whom your heart broke - someone who might never know the amount of love you once had for them. "I wrote to Alex. I know he hasn't been exactly kind to you but he's an exceptional boy. He will grow up to be a great man, I'm sure of that. Although, I'm afraid I shan't get to see that..."

Morpheus silently studied your somber expression as you looked at the faraway horizon. Somewhere there, where sky dipped his toes in the endless waters, you saw all the magnificent possibilities of Alex's future. A sad smile appeared on your face as if those fantasies made you both proud and completely heartbroken. For the second time, Morpheus began wondering why humans were capable of feeling such contradicting emotions at the same time.

A tear fell from your eye. It glistened in the afternoon sun with a myriad of colours as if misery could once be breathtaking. As the teardrop run down the curve of your cheek, Morpheus instinctively raised his hand but only slightly like some anxious thought at the back of his head prohibited him from moving his arm further. It was the very same hesitation that had decided about the fate of the world more than once.

He thought something you had told him all those years ago when you said you wished your brother never had died. Back then he didn't quite understand the difference - the small difference, a change of perspective - that made your choice different from your father's. But now, watching the glistening tear on your cheek, Morpheus felt a fraction of understanding due to nothing more but his selfishness: instead of wishing to brush away your tear, he wished you never had cried.

"I'm so sorry, I just miss him a lot," you whispered. A sniffle and a deep sigh left your lips. "Oh, only now do I realize my utter lack of manners," you resumed the conversation. With a frantic move of your hand, you brushed away the stray tear. You forced a gentle smile on your face and Morpheus grew angry, although he couldn't quite explain why. "You're a king, are you not? Should I not call you 'your majesty'?"

"There is no need for that." The cold tone of his voice never once revealed the silent affections he had pondered just before. "You are not one of my subjects."

"As you wish, Dream of the Endless. I may not know where to look for your belongings but I do have a burning suspicion that we will not find them among those cold sands and murky waters. As much as it pains me to say so, we should leave this lovely town as soon as we can."

"My affairs are not of your concern."

You stopped walking only to look at him. For a moment, your kind face stared into his eyes - they were such an exceptional shade of blue. Their cool hue was both haunting and dazzling, perhaps serving as an adequate showcase of their owner's nature. It was a wonderful thought that no other but Morpheus inspired the saying that 'eyes are the window to the soul'.

"I want them to be," you confessed before continuing to walk towards your house.

Morpheus couldn't follow your step. He wasn't sure what to make of your words or most of all - whether you actually meant them, at least in the same way he understood them. The longer he listened to the echo of your confession inside his head, the more the realized that only the reasonable part of him desired to dismiss your decision. Yes, deep inside Morpheus wanted you to be concerned with his affairs. Maybe one day, when he lets that intimate thought resound in his mind, he'll realize he wanted to be your concern.

Looking over your shoulder, you noticed that Dream hadn't moved from his spot. His dark attire was a startling contrast to the white sand under his feet and the greyish-blue water behind him. The cold wind kept nipping at his hair and clothes and yet his skin was just as pale, not a shade of red or purple revealed that he could be cold in that weather.

"The world is spinning, your majesty," you yelled over the crashing of waves and seagulls' calls. "We can't just stand on it."

___ Tagging people who were interested in a follow-up: @rosaren2498 @jessiboobdbdb @chantzmar @lexi-anastasia @bisexualunicronrunningloose

#dream of the endless imagine #dream of the endless fanfiction #dream of the endless x you #dream of the endless x reader #dream of the endless #morpheus imagine #morpheus sandman #morpheus x you #morpheus x reader #morpheus #the sandman fanfic #the sandman imagine #the sandman netflix #the sandman fanfiction #the sandman #the sandman x you #the sandman x reader

417 notes · View notes

jomiddlemarch · 4 months

Text

I loved and guessed at you, you construed me

It was not that he was waiting for her as much as that he was most often in the faculty sitting room at this hour and so was she and the staff knew to leave out a full tea service and also a magically chilled bottle of very dry amontillado, the color of her eyes. And then to tell anyone else that the room was occupied and that they were not to be disturbed.

It wasn’t that he was waiting for her, but he did look up when she came into the room, letting the ancient, rare and precious book he held slip out of his hand, an instinctive, wandless spell keeping it from clattering onto the floor.

“You cut your hair,” Draco said.

Any pretense to eloquence, savoir-faire, or intellectual rigor associated with achieving his Potions Mastery and Mwandamizi kemia had been decimated by the four words, uttered in a tone of complete shock, which given his Pureblood upbringing meant flat, with a hint of scorn. He had spent the past twelve years working to convince Hermione he wasn’t that man anymore, the one who would have meant the scorn, the fault-finding appraisal, cold and superior and not terribly clever underneath it all.

(The one he’d felt doomed to become before the chandelier fell in his family’s ballroom. Before she’d testified to keep him out of Azkaban. Before she’d returned his formal letter of apology with a brief addendum You were a child, Draco an absolution he didn’t deserve.)

Blaise always said he was his own worst enemy. Theo always nodded and offered a glass of single malt Scotch. Neville always shrugged and tried to reassure Draco, meandering through some nonsense about how they’d all had to grow up too soon, let down by the adults, forced to experience trauma that they’d been lucky to survive and a plate of buttered toast would soon set him to rights.

Luna changed the subject and talked about some possibly fictional chimerical creature to take his mind off his shortcomings. It never worked but he appreciated her effort and consistency.

“I suppose that’s better than ‘Bloody hell.’ And “Holy fucking Christ.’ Harry reverts to Muggle obscenity when he’s really surprised,” Hermione replied. “You only told me what I already know, as I didn’t accidentally fall into a Mongolian silver scissor-bush.”

“Is that a thing?” Draco asked.

He had to keep talking but there was a lot to take in, the startlingly gorgeous line of her bare neck, the angle of her jaw, how her eyes looked enormous, luminous. How her chestnut hair was swept across her brow and came to a delicate little point on the nape of her neck, all these hidden aspects suddenly marvels revealed. Suddenly, astonishingly breath-taking and erotic and also heart-breaking, because he’d wanted so to run his fingers through her loose hair, to stand behind her and draw a brush through her curls. Watching her eyes get drowsy in the dressing-table’s looking-glass, resting a hand on her bare shoulder and feeling the tickling silk of her hair. He’d wanted to cast the spell that ended the charm securing her chignon, to pull out the jeweled pins she used to keep her braids in the coronet around her head.

“No. It sounds like something Luna would mention though,” Hermione shrugged. It was as if he’d never seen the gesture before.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said.

“It’s actually not. It’s both literally and figuratively not,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Snape being a double-agent in love with Harry’s mum was a lot to take in. Any Sunday lunch at Molly Weasley’s table is a lot to take in. War and Peace in the original Russian without a translation charm is a lot to take in. I took off a few inches—”

“A few inches?”

“Fine, I got the first professional, Muggle, haircut of my adult life because I was fed up with my hair and charms and Sleekeezy and glamours, so many glamours, and you would think I have announced I am Grindelwald’s secret lovechild,” she said in a tone of complete exasperation, pursing her lips in a matching moué he felt an impossible urge to kiss very thoroughly and until she was gasping his name.

He was fairly certain that action would not be requited, not now, and potentially not ever.

But definitely not now.

She was now almost glaring at him, waiting for a response.

If this was ever to become something beyond hopeless pining, if he were ever to be allowed to call her sweetheart and coax her back to bed, he couldn’t get the next part wrong.

“Are you happy with it?” he said. It was a gamble, saying anything would have been a gamble, but there was a chance he’d gotten it right.

He’d surprised her, that he could tell instantly, though her face changed very subtly. It meant no one else who’d seen her had asked and considered she might be. No one else had thought about why she’d done it, only what they thought of it. Evidently, both Weasley and Potter had indicated a negative response, Weasley likely driven by his own unrealized Pureblood upbringing, where all witches wanted the long hair associated with power and Potter never wanted her to be anything other than she’d been in their youth, when her unruly hair was her most obvious signifier.

“Yes, I think I am,” she said.

“That’s good. That’s what matters,” he said. He was supposed to reference the book he’d been reading or follow-up on their most recent conversation about geopolitics or whether Chopin was a Squib or at the very least offer her something to drink, the tea first and then, when she demurred, the sherry. But all of those would require him to look away from her and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Not quite yet.

“I ought to have done it a long time ago,” she said. She spoke without her usual forthright confidence, but also without any of the regret the statement might have implied. She sounded hesitant, as if she wanted something from him she felt she shouldn’t. Or shouldn’t ask for.

It was tempting to make some sort of declaration, offer reassurance or an argument. But he’d gotten this far by asking her a question.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. It would have been a way to move on. Grow up. Make my life easier, decide it for myself,” she said. She was watching him very closely as she spoke. She liked that he’d asked, though she wasn’t smiling. “It wouldn’t have been grief or some kind of, I don’t know, unhinged trauma response.”

It would very much have been a response to the colossal trauma she’d experienced if she’d hacked it all off after being tortured, and it wouldn’t have been unhinged when one considered the myriad extremely risky alternatives she might have chosen, but Draco wasn’t about to ruin everything. Even as his own worst enemy, he could keep from doing that.

“It could have been just something you do when you’re in your twenties, trying something out. Like, going to the Maldives or studying Norn. Learning earth magic from tribal elders in Namib.”

“Only you would saying learning earth magic in Namib is something you do in your twenties,” Draco said wryly. “Most people just go to the pub and fret a lot.”

“You didn’t,” she said.

“I think it’s well established I’m not most people,” he said.

“No. You’re not. You’re the only person who didn’t tell me cutting my hair was a terrible mistake,” she said. “As if it could even remotely compare to the other terrible mistakes I’ve made.”

“It’s not a terrible mistake,” he said. “And you’re the person I know best whose made the fewest terrible mistakes in her life and we can sit here drinking sherry talking about it because of it.”

“My parents wouldn’t agree,” she said.

“Neither would mine. I wonder how people grow up when they don’t have to discover their parents were deeply, entirely wrong about something absolutely crucial to survival,” Draco said.

“We could ask Blaise Zabini,” Hermione said after very clearly Thinking About It, a little crease appearing between her eyebrows.

“Too risky,” Draco replied. “It’s only the husbands people talk about but people have a way of disappearing when they ask questions about his mother.”

“No one would comment on her haircut,” Hermione said wistfully. “What a bloody icon.”

Draco laughed, startled.

“You’re enchanting,” he blurted out. Stupid, gauche, impulsive—he could go on (and on) about how ill-considered it had been.

“Well, I am a witch,” she said. She did not seem put off. In fact, she smiled at him, a little shyly. “Goes with the territory—”

“You enchant me. Bewitch me,” he said, throwing caution to the winds. “You don’t want anyone to comment on how you look, so I shouldn’t but you’re exquisite—”

He broke off, fearing he’d broken it all. She was still in the room and he still had all his bits and bobs, when he knew she was a dab hand at wandless curses. It was rather late to decide discretion was the better part of valor, but better late than never.

“I didn’t do it for you,” she said.

“No,” he replied.

“I didn’t do it only for you,” she clarified. “But I was curious to see how you’d react.”

“Did you have a hypothesis? You usually do,” he said.

“Yes. You’ve exceeded it slightly,” she said. There was a gleam in those sherry-brown eyes and when she tilted her head to the side, he understood the vampire’s insatiable lust.

“I can do better than slightly,” he said, half-dazed with the realization that she was requiting far more than he’d ever imagined. And that she’d imagined his response to seeing her bare neck, had wanted his admiration. He got up from his chair and crossed the room to her, standing close enough to take her in his arms. “I can do a wide margin. Prodigious. Overwhelmingly—”

“I like prodigious,” she said and he leaned in and kissed her parted lips softly, then deeply, one hand at her waist, the other cupping her cheek. The urge to possess her was tremendous, held in check only by an immense and constant tenderness, the moon that could pull the devouring tide back from the shore.

“Can I see overwhelmingly?” she whispered. “For comparison—”

“Of course,” he answered and moved to kiss her neck. He tasted the pulse of her carotid, sucking gently where he wanted to nip her. He moved back up to the hollow behind her ear, grazing her lobe with his tongue, then murmured,

“You cut your hair. I love it.”

#dramione #hermione x draco #draco POV #post-hogwarts #epilogue what epilogue #hermione gets a haircut #romance #pining #always some extra worldbuilding #references to lots of characters #had so much fun I wrote a second part #that one's hermione POV

38 notes · View notes

aspiring-writer-hidden-voice · 1 year

Text

BOTW Link X F!Reader ~ Pt. 3

You blinked as the doctor checked you over for the seemingly hundredth time despite your assurances. A grunt sounded from the far corner, where a blonde stood with his back all that was visible, a sign that you should simply let the examination continue without complaint. If it was the last one then fine. With a sigh, you forced your body to relax while keeping a close eye upon the medical practitioner’s hands when they drifted across your being. A warning glare was sent as the wrinkled hands made to go for your chest once more and earned an eye roll.

“Come now, I have conducted plenty of exams upon your figure during the recent illness. You have nothing to be shy about, my dear, especially when your beauty could make the goddess envious.”

It had taken nearly a whole four days for you to fight off the fever, unknowingly meaning Link had been torn between caring for you and searching for Epona. Waking to find him at your bedside brought you more relief than the medication when finding the swordsman to be wiping away salty beads of sweat with a cloth. What you didn’t know was how he had refused to sleep so as to better care for your needs the entire time resulting in the developing shadows beneath his eyes. Palm fruit though, thanks to the local women, had worked wonders in making them disappear without him having to sacrifice leaving your side for rest. Which had felt necessary since this particular doctor seemed to have wandering hands.

“By the goddess—explain yourself!” The elderly man suddenly snapped, making you jump and Link to nearly turn around when you exclaimed due to wrinkled fingers roughly removing the bandages upon your fingers. Azure eyes briefly shone with warning when they locked upon the doctor’s gaze which had moved to fixate upon him. “Are you responsible for these?! How dare you force such a fine young woman as she to such difficult manual labor! Delicate flowers such as her should be treasured and gifted the finest of clothes, jewels so bright even the Gorons may want to taste them. I’ll even venture a guess that you somehow convinced her to travel with you by false promises! Or possible blackmail!” Horror filled his weathered features. “And here we are supposed to believe that you are—!”

“Apologize.”

Those blue eyes widened when you quickly withdrew your hands and fixed the loosely opened blouse back into place while standing. A strange shadow had fallen over your eyes at the man’s tone while addressing him. It didn’t bother the blonde one bit that the doctor had jumped to conclusions, for it was true that he was to blame and had been resolved to take whatever consequences would come along with the rigorous training. He had warned you at the beginning that it would not be easy yet he’d still allowed you to overexert yourself under his watch.

“Right now.”

Both of his brows furrowed at the cold tone dripping with anger that came from between your lips. His arms uncrossed when your upper lip twitched, concern filling him when your gaze suddenly resembled twin embers worthy of the Dinraal’s wrath. Never has he seen you this upset as you glared down at the elder. More often than not, like himself, you were silent and expressive in your own special way with your body language the biggest giveaway; relaxed muscles and clear eyes meant you were content, that bright star fragment rivaling shine meant you were in awe of something, gentle swaying of your body while humming or performing a task meant absolute focus was occurring, then there was when your gaze met his that earned a small smile sometimes accompanied by a playful wink if the situation called for it. This right here was completely new territory for the Champion. However it left him filled with interest intermingling with anticipation and unpredictability.

“I most certainly will not! Your fingers may very well have no prints left upon their pads!”

Fire was boiling within your veins as the doctor turned his full attention upon Link. You didn’t physically touch the elder but it was your Great Fireblade worthy gaze which caused his spectacled face to swivel back in your direction to reveal beads of sweat forming upon his brow. Repeating yourself wasn’t a habit of yours and it wasn’t about to become one as he slowly cowered underneath your glare. “Not that its any of your business, but I’m with him by choice. So don’t insult him anymore than you already have.” Seconds ticked by as he stumbled for words until, after nearly ten minutes, an apology finally wormed its way between his wrinkled lips.

All tension within the room magnified when you wordlessly gathered your things then departed after placing some rupees upon the examination table that you’d vacated. The swordsman noticed there was more than the doctor’s fee but chose to not address it as he followed your steps. He found you sitting upon a cliff overlooking Lurelin Village, the faintest traces of moisture clinging to your lashes. It hadn’t rained so that left only one conclusion. A soft sigh slipped from between his lips as he settled to your left, leaving a few inches of space between where his knee was and yours, most of his weight upon the palms of both hands extended backwards while legs were tucked beneath him. Against your shoulder came the briefest of brushes courtesy of his shoulder, Are you alright?

Humiliation threatened to bubble within your chest, filling you with the want to hide.

Calm azure eyes briefly flashed amusement when you groaned lowly while leaning until the ground met your back, turning his head so as to keep you within sight. Here was yet another new facial expression and exhibition of emotion from you. Shyness was not one of your frontal personality traits so seeing the attempt to hide a clearly burning blush was oddly entertaining, and fascinating, to him. That was when he noticed what had earned the doctor’s reaction.

Your fingers were scared heavily from swinging swords much too heavy and notching feathered arrows on strings with too much tension within the wood. Smooth skin was now heavily calloused, almost more than his own, splits within the pads that looked incredibly painful. It was a wonder that you’d been able to use them at all.

So distracted had he been that the Hylian failed to notice you’d shifted onto your side facing him fully, tilting your head when his gaze darkened slightly. This time it was your hand that reached out to tap his bicep. I’m okay, the lingering touch portrayed, but it looks like you’ve got something on your mind.

The touch, though gentler than a crane’s feather against his skin, earned an expression that left you nearly breathless as his hand cupped your own. It raised your hand until the tips of your fingers were eye level. Too much, he directed your gaze to them then pointedly bore into your eyes with his azure, don’t push yourself like this again. Though his gaze was stern it also held genuine concern for your wellbeing, as did the gentle hold he had upon your hand. Sun dried leather alternately teased your skin when it wasn’t brushed by his own as each finger was individually showcased until every digit was aligned with one of Link’s own. The span of your palms met fully as his much more calloused fingers spread yours as far as they could.

Who did that racing pulse belong to which could be felt: you or him?

Every second that the two of you remained like this it felt as though something was taking hold in a warming grasp, impulsing you to sit up and him to fully face you.

What appeared to be shards of sapphire subtly reflected the sunlight as gravity seemed to pull at you both, coming closer until slivers of aquamarine and flecks of nightshade could be made out as duo rings around each pupil. They were more breathtaking than the ocean itself, as endless as the sky above, far more mysterious that the fabled Satori. Never had you seen such eyes that spoke in such a way. Words could never hope to be near as expressive than those eyes but it didn’t mean they weren’t necessary. “I’m relieved that you’re better.” He slowly, softly, said, as if whispering any louder would disturb the spell-like atmosphere that had fallen, his free hand rising to tuck a cluster of tresses behind your ear. If not his gaze than that voice of his was enough to bewitch Wizzrobes. Like the finest cloth, it wrapped around you in an invisible embrace promising protection from all possible evil.

An apology made to rise up your throat but was prevented from becoming voiced as his hand once more cupped yours and brought it to his lips. They were much softer than expected, let alone thought possible, the hairs across your body rising slowly the longer his lips remained against your skin. Electricity sparked down your spine when they traveled downwards until every fingertip had met the junction of his mouth. All moisture was wicked from your throat as he continued onwards to the other hand, continuing to be gentle in bestowing near Summerwing butterfly gentle kisses to each finger.

Like your hooded gaze, the lids of his eyes had gradually fallen ever so slightly with each brush of your flesh against his lips. Deep within his bones rose a warmth that made every drop of blood vibrate. And that was before he caught sight of your once flabbergasted expression now turned into something borderline intimate appreciation interwoven with affection and something he didn’t recognize. Did he dare call it akin to desire? No, it was much more special than that. A slight tug on your hand brought you even closer, this time close enough that your breaths intermixed to waft the other’s face, initial fascination and curiosity giving way to a completely unfamiliar emotion as your gaze, just for a second, dropped to his mouth.

Both of you parted in unison, moment interrupted, when the sound of laughter came from nearby. A figure dressed in red with a white mask raised a sickle that promised to fatally wound whoever met its blade. “You will pay for what you’ve done to Master Koga!”

A Yiga! The several stories of unfortunates who had encountered such formidable enemies rang loudly within your ears as they readied to attack. You made to stand and accept the challenge when Link took a protective stance, the same hand that had been in contact with yours briefly rising to tap his eye’s corner while glancing over his shoulder to meet your gaze.

Watch and learn, those azure eyes of his conveyed as the smallest confident smirk raised his lips, even you can beat these guys if you know their weaknesses.

…

Night had fallen, leaving the two of you to find shelter within the village once more at his insistence. However the current predicament made even the swordsman’s ear tips tint pink as you nervously stepped through the single entrance of the room. Most of the rupees within either of your possessions had been used to replenish supplies or replace clothing ruined by the ocean’s salt.

Meaning that there was enough leftover which could be used for a room where the two of you were required to share.

He remained focused upon organizing of inventory as you went about preparing for bed. Of course there was only one bed, meaning that he assumed you would lay claim to it and was fine sleeping beside the window in case of intruders. Very rarely did he ever sleep soundly within an inn anyway. Or sleep at all for that matter. Traveling alone had practically robbed him of any possible rest because he was so on edge about attacks and such. Azure eyes widened in surprise when instead of settling within the bed your arms appeared from over his shoulders to lay flat against the span of his chest. The heat of your breath tickled his ear as you eased him backwards until the chair’s back met his, both arms that had been busy falling still upon the table.

Interesting choice of action on your part.

This position was bizarre to Link. He’d seen several of Zelda’s personal servants or closest friends do similar with the fair Princess of Hyrule. Is that what the two of you had become? Were you two more than simple traveling companions?

It was when he prepared to remain in this position that he felt it, a warm droplet, splatter across the bare skin of his collarbone.

“What happened never should have,” he said in that soft voice which made your chest warm, “and I apologize for putting you in danger once more.”

Anger flared within your being at his words. Before you’d even realized it, your arms retracted and the air rang with a loud smack that was your palm meeting the back of his head. The Champion was flabbergasted at your exhibition of strength when turning him, and the chair, around so that he faced you. What he had thought to be a tear was actually leftover moisture which had trickled down from your hair if those blazing embers that were your eyes were anything to go by. “Tell those inner personas of yours that this is your lifetime, not theirs, and they should back off before I find some priest or hooodou person to force them out!”

He could only blink up at you in utter shock as you continued to rant. This was a different kind of anger than earlier. You weren’t necessarily angry at him but for him. This whole scenario took a humorous turn when you grabbed hold of his shoulders while practically yelling in his ear as if those said past phantoms of heroes could hear you. “(Y/n), stop, you’ll wake—”

“I don’t care if I wake the Poes or undead monsters!”

A smile made to lift his lips when your determined eyes bore into his own.

“They have to respect that you’re the current hero, not them! It’s your life, Link, and they need to let you experience it to the fullest! That means you get to stub your toe on the table leg, run into a tree when you’re focused upon something else, take the time to enjoy a field of flowers!”

Blonde brows furrowed. “What about jumping off a cliff in a hurricane?”

Your hands shook him. “Yes! Exactly! Do what you want to do!” You paused, stilling when his words echoed within the room. “Wait, no, maybe not that.”

Laughter filled the air as you paused to take a breath. All smoke and steam that had been bubbling within you during the quick bath evaporated when seeing that it sourced from none other than Link himself. Tears were gathering within the corners of his closed eyes but there was no mistaking that the laughter was coming from deep within his being as he attempted to regain control. All of the hard lines within his face were disappearing the longer he struggled, as if each laugh was erasing one, until it was as if you were looking upon a Link who never knew the weight of worldly responsibility. This aura that threatened to blind you with how brilliant it shone was purely his.

There were no traces of those other personas.

Silence fell after nearly a minute, laughter leaving him breathless, the tears remaining as he didn’t fight when your arms returned around his neck in an embrace. His arms rose and wrapped tightly around your smaller frame until you were nearly seated within his lap. Every passing heartbeat shared between the two of you resulted in his hold increasing little by little.

Scarred fingers belonging to you found their ways up into his messy hair where they gently combed the wheat hued locks after removing the band, wordlessly accepting your fate when hearing broken apologies. “I’m sorry for yelling,” you whispered with sincerity, “and please don’t beat yourself up about what happened. They weren’t your fault, Link. You came back, remember?”

His breath hitched at your words.

It was as good an indicator than anything for you to continue. “I knew you were there, I could see you attempting to regain control, but it’s not easy fighting inward battles when facing such formidable adversaries. Wisdom comes from learning of the past and forging your own experiences. Only looking forward can we truly grow as individuals. However…” your fingers brushing against the nape of his neck encouraged him to raise his head of your chest so that your gazes met, “…no one said it had to be done alone. You’ve fought for survival all this time by yourself that maybe the goddess herself wanted to reward you for the accomplishments. I have no one either. Would it be wrong to seek comfort within each other?”

Those wide azure eyes glistened within the minimal candlelight dancing with the pale moon visible through the window. Each word that came from your mouth rang with truth that reverberated deep within his bones, as if all of the personas he’d come to know were feeling their affect, leaving him nearly tingling. Such a profound display of strength was admirable.

A forced exhale blew out the candle as you gave a slight wiggle, silent permission to be freed from his hold that was granted, and stood with a blush beginning to bloom within your cheeks. He too stood courtesy of your hand giving his a tug. Not a single protest, spoken or physical, came from the blue eyed Hylian as you led him towards the bed where you coaxed him to lay beneath the covers then climbed in beside him.

Your backs were touching, meaning neither could see the other’s face, however that didn’t stop either of you from realizing something: his head had been resting directly upon your breast.

For you there was a damp spot within the night wear you wore which had soaked up his tears.

For him there was the lingering scent of you within his nose that eventually carried him off to the realm of dreams.

Both of you slept heavily that night, only waking once the sun’s dawning light kissed your faces.

That was how you found yourself being cradled upon your side within his hold; one arm within the crook of your neck and pillow, the other around your waist that kept you near. Though a blanket had been draped over your beings it had somehow fallen to the floor; not that you needed it with how much heat had accumulated between the two of you. Both of your legs had managed to become trapped between his own while your arms were neatly tucked beneath your chin. The tunic he’d worn last night had come lose, meaning its neckline was now low enough to reveal lean muscles that spoke of rigorous training and filled your mind with the hazy memory of being carried along the shoreline to the village. Every slow breath he took caused his chest to rise then fall, his breath tickling the top of your head. Your senses were filled with the scents of musk and leather but now it seemed as though there was something else attempting to lure you closer.

As they say “curiosity killed the Chuchu”.

The sensitive skin of his neck met your nose with a slight shift of your being. Was that mahogany? Cedarwood maybe? No, both were too earthy. Perhaps…whetstone? Alarm filled you when a low grunt sounded just a split second before his larger frame completely rolled atop of yours.

Unbeknownst to you, Link was biting back a smirk as you attempted to shove him off for several seconds until giving up and laying limp beneath him. A yawn clearly for show stretched his jaw as he for a moment snuggled into your much softer being, feeling every curve of your body mold to accommodate his much leaner frame, until the faint beating of your heart could be felt. The gentle wafts of your breath against his sensitive ears threatened to send tingles down his spine if not for the slight quivering of your lips that brushed against his jaw. Your breathing was shallow thanks to his added weight, meaning it was faster too, but that wouldn’t explain why it hitched when one of his legs that had somehow found its way between your own shifted. He rose up onto his elbows while donning an expression of amusement when finding you on the verge of pouting. Forgive me?, his raised eyebrow asked.

Arms crossing, your eyes rolled dramatically. As if there’s anything to forgive, your gaze answered while a foot wiggled from where it was pinned by his leg, but I will kick you in the shin if you don’t get off me. No movement or motion suggested he was going anywhere after a few seconds. Your own brows rose when his wiggled threateningly with mischief while bending at the elbows as if about to cave. “I have a new recipe to try out but you gotta let me up first.”

No sooner had the words left your mouth that he vanished to reappear beside the bed with wide eyes full of hunger and practically bouncing on his heels with anticipation.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pt 1: Blood Moon Encounter

Pt 2: Distant Howls

Pt 3: Identities Unknown

Pt 4: Rupee Troubles

#loz #botw link #link x you #link x f!reader #link x reader #link x y/n #the legend of zelda #botw!link #breath of the wild

105 notes · View notes

tetsupeach · 2 years

Text

All Must Descend

prince bakugou x f!reader

summary - you pass an eventful night in the dungeon as bakugou reckons with what your appearance means for stability at court. sir kirishima shows his hand.

cws - game of thrones au, same tone as the show. murder, violence, political intrigue, smut, magic, old gods, new gods, choking, true love, lore, allusions to torture, prophecy, reader has brown eyes. dom!bakugou. sub!reader.

chapter 1 | chapter 2 - updates on fridays

please have an age in your bio and be 18+ before interacting with this fic. reblogs/comments appreciated, and encouraged.

_____________________________________________________________

Prince Bakugou kicks the dusty path in the garden, frowning so hard that deep caverns are forged in his brow, when Kirishima finds him.

“That bad?” He asks quietly.

“I don’t even recognize her.” Bakugou says in a low growl. “She says it won’t rain until we have the churches blessing, and we can’t get gods grace without Amathar’s heir, without her true power my power is fuckin’ useless apparently.” Kirishima nods. “She just repeats it over and over again, Gods Grace,” he mutters, “It’s every fuckin’ word out of her mouth. Maybe my whole family’s crazy, maybe the stories are true, that every leader who sits on the throne of Yuuei is destined for goddamn madness.”

He kicks the gravel path again, the dust gathering at the bottom of his more court appropriate clothing, simple for a prince, but still obviously made of the finest materials, a pair of dark brown trousers, a loose white shirt and leather boots. There's a ceremonial jeweled sword at his hip that he doesn’t take his hand off of while he paces.

“You aren’t.” Kirishima says fiercely. “I’d stake my life on it. And your power is more than enough, you’re unmatched on the battlefield, even when you’re not wielding holy fire.” Bakugou shrugs off the praise, not meeting his friend’s eyes.

“What does it say that I don’t want to walk around my own fuckin’ castle without bein’ armed,” he looks up at the sky, dappled with diamond twinkling stars. Kirishima sighs.

“Court’s dangerous, right now, but not for you, Bakugou-”

“I’m not worried about me,” he says, pain creeping into his voice like ivy up a wall, “I’m worried about you, about the people I love, and the people,” he gestures to the city, “The people out there. They’re starvin’ and the only thing I can get the Queen to say about it is that when we find Amathar’s bastard things will get better.” Bakugou spits on the ground. “And now I gotta face that girl, from today. My men killed her family. What the fuck am I supposed to say to her about that?”

“All you can do is tell the truth.” Kirishima reaches out and touches his friend's upper arm. “All you can do is tell her you’re sorry, which you are, and that you’ll do what you can for her.”

“How is she?” Bakugou asks and Kirishima thinks again of the sound of your aching dry sobs, bouncing off the walls of the dungeon.

“Afraid.” Kirishima says quietly. “She’s terrified.”

“My mother wants to meet her.” Bakugou says very quietly. “I convinced her to wait until we’d conducted the ritual to see if she’s a descendent of Nahelenia.”

“I talked to her,” Kirishima says, “I don’t think she’s a spy, or anything at all even. She was probably just lashing out at us because she’s afraid.” Bakugou nods, a hand coming to rest over his heart.

“I can still feel the way she was holdin’ onto me as we rode into the city. I can’t,” He presses his lips together, “I can’t, I don’t know what to say to her. Of course she fuckin’ hates me, but I, I feel like I owe it to her to make sure she lives through this.” He looks out across the moonlight garden, white flowers practically growing in the blue light.

“Well, you do.” Kirishima shrugs. “She’s just not making it easy. I’ll take her down to see what might await her, if she doesn’t behave, and that’ll help. But you could always try being,” Kirishima searches for the right words. “Being kind, to her.” Bakugou groans.

“I can’t accommodate her mouth,” He shakes his head, “Or it’ll get her killed. I gotta break her for her own safety.”

“Well and,” Kirishima grins, “As far as problems go, at least she’s one with a pretty face huh?”

“Don’t wanna hear shit about it,” Bakugou starts and Kirishima flashes his palms.

“I’m just saying, maybe once she understands her place here, she’ll be able to show you a little gratitude-” Bakugou swats at his friend. “Bakugou, forgive me, but I’ve never seen a woman ride on your horse.”

“I’m not talkin’ about her.” Bakugou snaps. “I didn’t want her holdin’ your sorry ass at knifepoint again, speakin’ of, if you think we’re not gonna talk about how some peasant girl got the drop on you you’re out of your goddamn mind.” Kirishima blushes.

“I,” he thinks about it, “No there’s not way around it I uh, I underestimated them. None of the women have ever resisted us before. I wonder where she learned to fight.” He pauses, surveying the gardens, attempting to change the subject. “It’s so green here in the palace , it’s easy to forget the troubles of the outside.” Bakugou nods, then an a cloud crosses his face.

“None of the guards touched her?” He asks, and Kirishima nods, teasing smile back on his face.

“She’s not a virgin though, said she’s a widow. Not that you’ve ever shown a preference for virgins, as long as a woman is well behaved.” Bakugou spins on his heels, eyes ablaze with anger and Kirishima flashes his palms, “My king.”

“Yeah that’s right,” The prince snaps, “Remember your goddamn place just in the nick of time.” Kirishima giggles. “S’not funny, you tease me about that shit in front of Queen Mitsuki and she’ll order me to behead you right there.” Kirishima shakes his head, shivering.

“I never speak in front of the Queen.”

“Probably a good move these days.” He stretches a little. “Prophecy said no children, didn’t mention virgin. But uh, I think-”

“Prince Bakugou,” a cool voice breathes, cutting through the silence, Kirishima jumps but Bakugou contains his surprise at being snuck up upon.

“Primogen Tobita.” Bakugou says gruffly, and the older man bows to the Prince and nods to his knight. “Not very priestly of you to be eavesdroppin’.” Kirishima keeps his face neutral, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but the tall, grey haired man just laughs warmly.

“I’m far too old to be overhearing conversation that isn’t happening right in front of my eyes.” He’s a tall man, though both Bakugou and Kirishima have a few inches on him. His long grey hair is parted down the middle, and despite his claims of age his eyes sparkle with the youth and mischief of a young man. “Though I did hear you had quite an adventure today.” He presses. “I’d love to meet the young woman you liked so much she earned a spot on your saddle.”

“She was trouble.” Bakugou growls. “I needed to keep an eye on her.”

“Well either way, you caught me on my way to the dungeon to pay her a visit.” Bakugou and Kirishima exchange a glance.

“I’ll accompany you.” Kirishima offers. “Someone of your age shouldn’t be wandering the maze of the dungeons, you’ll need an escort.”

“Certainly you’re not worried,” he touches his chest, “About the intentions of a man of the church, who the gods have chosen, are you?”

“I can assure you his only concern was for your safety.” Bakugou says, practically spitting the words. “How fares my mother, Primogen?” The primogen sighs theatrically.

“Overtaken by visions and headaches. Hopefully we’ll find Amathar’s heir soon.” He clasps his hand together. “Perhaps it will be the girl you found today. Excuse me.” He pushes past the group and Bakugou sighs deeply, gesturing to the redhead.

“Follow him.” Kirishima nods, and slips into the darkness. Bakugou re enters the castle, servants scurrying out of his way, determined to see his mother in private. The throne room is filled with the usual lords and ladies, post dinner they’re dancing and drinking to tinkling music, warbling out from a drunken flute player. His mother is in the thick of them, long blond hair braided down her back, cup of wine in her right hand, eyes glassy and far off as she sits on her throne, ignoring the nobles speaking to her. She waves them away at the sight of her son.

“Katuski,” she breathes, reaching for him, “I’ve had the most horrible dream,” he nods, allowing her to hold him close as she stands, leaning heavily against his solid form, “About snakes,” she whispers, “First the wells will dry and then there will be snakes, if we cannot bring peace between our nations. We must find Amathars daughter, please, Katsuki, promise me you won’t stop looking.” He glances around, there are several fountains spitting clear cool water in just the throne room alone, but he couldn’t help but remember how dusty and dry the city had been while riding through it earlier. He nods.

“Of course.”

“And the girl, the girl from today?” She asks, “When can she be tested?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Bakugou replies. “She’s in the dungeon for tonight.” His mother shudders, taking another sip of wine. “I could get you some water?’ He offers gruffly, but she shakes her head, sitting back on the throne, nearly falling asleep immediately.

“I want to meet her.” She says absentmindedly. Bakugou nods again.

“Tomorrow.” He turns abruptly and leaves, not wanting to witness his mother passing out, drunk on her throne.

The moon is high in the night sky when the Primogen makes his way down the steps to the dungeon, moving deep within stone hallways. You’re finally completely dry and asleep against the wall, breathing softly, when the clang of your cell door opening wakes you.

“Hello, there.” Primogen Tobita greets you, and you cower, remembering the Knight’s warnings. He’s tall, about the same height as the prince, with grey hair slicked back from his face, and cool dark eyes. His facial hair is neat, trimmed into a tiny little moustache and just a bit of beard at the end of his chin. His robes are dark and billowing, completely obscuring his silhouette. “No need to be afraid.” He says smoothly. “My name is Primogen Tobita, heretic.” You avert your eyes instinctively. “I understand that you may not want to be disrespectful,” he says, “But I would prefer you look at me.” You lift your head to him, and his breath catches in his throat, your dark eyes clearly visible in the torchlight. “That,” he mutters, to himself, “Is concerning.”

“Sir?” You say quietly, picking the honorific you think is least likely to get you in trouble. You scoot away from him, pressing your back against the stone wall.

“Do you have a name?” You nod. “You have my permission to speak.” He says and you shrug.

“I do have a name.” You answer instinctively and he reaches down and slaps you hard across the face, his rings scratching your skin as stars bloom behind your eyes.

“Try again.” he says, still completely composed.

“F/n.” You choke out, now completely crumpled in the corner. “Please I-” You stop yourself, noticing how he wipes his hand after touching you, your blood on his white handkerchief.

“A follower of the sea goddess.” He mutters. “I should have known, they don’t train their women properly.”

“Do not touch her again.” A voice from behind him makes you both jump, as Kirishima strides into the cell. “You could have just struck royalty, Primogen.” He kneels next to you with a clean rag, dabbing at the blood on your cheek with a tenderness that makes your heart ache in your chest.

“I’m simply wondering what kind of witchcraft she used to bewitch the prince!” Primogen Tobita stutters, his pert nose crinkling. “I’ve never seen Prince Bakugou so, distracted, in court today when I suggested she be put to death for threatening your life he was,” he pauses, dramatically resting a hand over his heart, “Beside himself. He’s clearly besotted.”

“Prince Bakugou was troubled by the violence our soldiers demonstrated against the townspeople of her small village.” Kirishima says, an edge to his voice, “He knows this kingdom owes her a debt.” There’s a brief pause as he stands facing the Primogen.

You’re struck again by how large he is, the wide span of his shoulders might at a different angle completely obscure Primogen Tobita from your view.

“Thing is, Sir Shinsou spoke with some of the soldiers, who have been regularly attending the masses you lead for the common people.” He takes a step forward, but Primogen Tobita doesn’t step back, “And they told him that you’ve been encouraging soldiers to grant heretics salvation,” he says, his voice now low and threatening, “At the end of their swords.” Primogen Tobita doesn’t miss a beat.

“Clearly, it was a metaphor.” He says, crossing his arms, “For rebirth in death, in the light of the gods.”

“Clearly,” Kirishima takes another step towards him, and this time the older man has the grace to scoot backwards an inch across the stone floor, “That metaphor cost many lives. I trust you will correct this this weekend at service.” The Primogen swallows. “Or,” Kirishima’s fist closes around the hilt of his sword. “I will correct it, for you.”

“Are you threatening me, Sir Kirishima Eijirou?” Primogen Tobita gathers his robes, performatively scandalized, but the knight just chuckles, a slow grin spreading across his handsome face.

“I am, Primogen. I thought you were educated enough to understand that without explanation.” There’s an awkward pause.

“You forget yourself, Sir Kirishima.” Tobita leans forward. “Aeds good favor, once lost, is difficult to regain.”

“I think me and my sword will do just fine.” At that the Primogen sweeps off in a huff and as soon as his back is turned Kirishima looks back at you.

“Was that smart?” You whisper. “Threatening him?”

“It would take a hundred men to take me alive, and more to kill me.” Kirishima says grimly, inspecting you. “I was gonna do this tomorrow, but I need you to understand what can happen to you if you mouth off to men like him.” You swallow, mouth pressing into a tight line.

“I’m not afraid of death.” You whisper, and he frees one of your wrists, handing you his skein of water. You drink quickly, and he helps you to your feet.

“There are things,” he says, leading you out of the cell, “Worse than death.” He offers you his arm, and you take it, your feet bare on the cool stone. He leads you deeper in the dungeon. “I’m not asking for your cooperation anymore.” He says, as you turn a corner, a note of desperation in his voice. “I’m demanding it.” He pushes open a heavy door before you can respond, and the smell of blood and smoke fills your nose. It’s a torture chamber, odd twisting metal, heavy leather whips, a wheel with leather straps on it, turning slowly over a fire. It’s unoccupied. He lets you step forward, your eyes like saucers as you inspect the space, running your hands over the metal spikes that come away with flakes of red dried blood. “I wouldn’t touch anything.” You nod, withdrawing your hands back into your body, genuine fear returning to you.

“You want to help me?” You ask, your voice soft.

“I’m in your debt.” He says simply, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “No harm should have come to your family.” You swallow nervously.

“I would like to, avoid this.” You step back towards him. “I’ll work on um, my demeanor, I can cooperate, if it keeps me from this room.” He notices your hands trembling, and it tugs at him.

“My lady,” he says, reaching for you, pulling you into his chest and rubbing comforting circles in your back, feeling you tremble. “We will protect you, alright if you just-”

“You shouldn’t be alone with her like this.” The purple haired knight from earlier steps into the room from a side door, sending your heart into a sprint.

“I’m not-” Kirishima sputters, “Shinsou you know I wouldn’t-” He grins, waving away the protests.

“You’re trouble.” Shinsou says, inspecting you with a clinical air. His eyes match his hair, and they flick from your waist to your chest, and then back to Kirishima, without stopping at your face. “You didn’t put her with the others, did you?”

“She didn’t have a group so I locked her up alone in the overnight cell.” Kirishima says defensively. “Bakugou likes her, he wouldn’t want her to-”

“So bring her to his bed,” Shinsou interrupts him. “Or follow orders. You’re too soft on them.” You open your mouth, remember the room you're standing in, and close it. Shinsou breaks into a wide smile, “Oooh did he scare you into submission?” You don’t respond, skin prickling with goosebumps in the cool of the dungeon. “Poor little mouse,” he growls, “First time in a trap?”

“Don’t play with her.” Kirishima pushes himself in front of you, he’s got a few inches on Shinsou, and he squares his shoulders, “She’s not either of ours.”

‘That’s right.” Shinsou counters. “So I’m going to take her up to where the other women were held, rather than the comfortable overnight cell.” He rolls his neck. “Get out of my way.” Kirishima flashes his palms and steps aside, letting Shinsou take you roughly by your upper arm, leading you out of the torture chamber, back the way you came. You try biting them back but you can’t stop the words that flow from your lips,

“If that wasn’t supposed to be where I was being held, then how did that priest find me?” Both men freeze, and turn to you.

“A guard showed him where you were, right?” Kirishima says, “I had to keep my distance, so I didn’t see but,”

“No.” You confirm. “He came alone.” Shinsou laughs darkly.

“Trouble.” He half whispers, half sings. “Shall we check on her cell?” Kirishima nods, and the two men draw their swords. They walk in a defensive formation, Shinsou’s eyes narrowed, Kirishima’s jaw set. He rounds the corner before your cell and you hear the clang of metal against metal. Kirishima’s sword collides with another man’s blade, leaping behind Shinsou, hiding your face in his back. Kirishima quickly disarms the assailant, who is dressed fully in black.

“What is the meaning of this?” Primogen Tobita strolls out of your cell, “Unhand that man, the gods have chosen him for a purpose!’”

“What might that be, Primogen?” Shinsou asks casually, leaning against the stone.

“I had a dream,” he says, gesturing with his jewel encrusted hand, “Nahelenia herself came to me, and said I must speak with that woman,” he points at you, “Alone, that she had a secret to tell.”

“So you sent someone with,” Shinsou glances down at the man on the ground, clutching a dark blade, “A poisoned dagger, to speak with her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Primogen huffs. “And I’ll speak with the maiden now.” He holds out a hand, but you don’t take it. “Are you going to defy an order of the church?” He purrs, and you look up at Kirishima, asking for help, but it’s Shinsou that comes to your rescue.

“Actually, we’re here to take her to the castle. Royal Order.” His voice is a low gravel. “You may speak with her tomorrow, after the ritual.” The Primogen scowls.

“If Prince Bakugou requires company, there are a number of courtesans-”

“Actually,” Shinsou cuts him off. “It’s the Queen who asked to speak with her.” If the Primogen is surprised, he doesn’t show it, simply bowing deeply. “And if you’re lucky, I won’t tell her what you said about her son, and,” his lips curl into a sneer, “Courtesans.” He turns to you, offering you his arm. You take it, avoiding eye contact with the Primogen and his man. When you get out of the dungeon, into the night, Kirishima lets out a long breath.

“Fuck,” he says, “Holy fucking shit.”

“You're welcome.” Shinsou sheaths his sword, shaking his head at the other Knight. “One of these days you’re going to have to learn how to play politics.” He says to the redhead who looks sheepish, leading you up the stairs out of the dungeon. Shinsou walks behind you, one hand tightly enclosed around your upper arm.

“I just,” Kirishima sighs, “I get nervous, about church stuff.”

“Was that man going to kill me?” you cut in, eyes wide, and the two knights look at you.

“Almost certainly.” Shinsou says, as if it was stupid that you asked. You nod slowly, and Kirishima opens the door, letting you out into the garden. It’s so early in the morning that the sky is lightening in the east.

“Do we need to take her to the Queen?” Kirishima asks, and Shinsou snorts.

“Queen’s passed out drunk. Just get her ready for the ritual.” He stretches a little. “If the church is worried, maybe she’s the one?” Kirishima nods, looking you over again. “You sure you know who your father is?” You consider, teeth closing on your lower lip.

“Fairly sure, Sir.”

“Sir,” Shinsou cackles, repeating you. “Credit where credit is due, Kirishima, seems like you did a good job scaring the girl. Kirishima rolls his eyes.

“Give her here,” He says, and Shinsou releases you, letting you walk, bare feet in the dirt, over to Kirishima. “We’re headed there.” He points to a tower, “It’s important that you don’t speak to anyone who doesn’t speak to you, alright?” You nod emphatically, and Shinsou scrutinizes you.

“She’s gonna get herself executed in less than a week.” He turns his back on the two of you, “Try not to go down with her.” You swallow a bitter taste, your stomach growling, and let Kirishima lead you through another big pair of double doors, through what must be servants' quarters, people are just starting to wake up. He takes you up a back staircase, it’s narrow and rickety, you nearly trip over the hem of your dress a few times, but he just catches you, large hands closing around your waist and lifting your body into an upright position. You’re tired, your head is buzzing, your stomach aching but you can only assume the lack of food has been intentional. He pushes through a door, and there are squeals.

“Kirishima!” A woman with long dark hair, dressed head to toe in white, “Out, out out,”

“I’ve got the next girl, though!” He protests, “And this isn’t your room, it’s just the tower's antechamber.” You step out from behind him and find yourself engulfed in a warm hug. The woman smells like cedar and patchouli. She takes you by the shoulders, ignoring him.

“I heard you had to bathe in the knights quarters,” She shudders, “How positively dreadful.” Kirishima rolls his eyes.

“It was fine. But ah, if you could be nice to her, that would be excellent.” He says, “I’m afraid she’s only seen the worst of Yuuei so far.” The woman nods, still inspecting you.

“So, girl, singular?” She raises her eyebrows. Kirishima presses his lips together, considering.

“Yeah, you know what Momo,” His fist closes around your upper arm hard enough to bruise. “Can you do what you’re gonna do with her bound?” Momo frowns, blinking a few times. Clearly she woke up only a few minutes ago, there’s still the glassy look of dreaming in her dark eyes. You look around, taking in your surroundings while she considers. The room in the tower is light and airy, large windows allow for the shards of sunlight to paint the oak wood floors with warm golden patterns of sunrise. It seems a uniquely feminine space.

"I don't know," Momo looks troubled, "Is she dangerous?"

“I’ll be good,” you interrupt, looking up at him, “Sir.” Kirishima still looks troubled.

“They’re priestesses of Aed,” he explains, turning to you, “They’re not warriors.” He rubs his chin. “You’ll behave?” You nod emphatically and Momo’s dark arching brows knit together.

“What did she do?” She asks, and a grin blooms across Kirishima’s face, he runs his fingers through his coarse red locks.

“Oh, held me at knifepoint, among other things.”

“That’s it!” You squeak, turning around to look at him, “That’s really the only thing I’ve-”

“She’s committed verbal treason and blasphemed about every five minutes, don’t listen to her.” Kirishima says, thinking, but to your surprise, Momo giggles.

“I can understand a little treason. Prince Bakugou is,” a little smile plays on her lips, “He takes some getting used to but he’s a good man.” Kirishima winces, and Momo watches the joy drop from your face as you give a little shake of her head.

“I won’t,” your teeth close on your lower lip. “I don't think-”

“There was an unfortunate incident yesterday.” Kirishima says quietly. “Some of his soldiers burned down her village. Her father is dead.” You bite back your immediate responses, an unfortunate incident, your father wasn’t dead, he was murdered. Murdered. Killed. Taken from you. Momo's shoot open, understanding immediately.

“You’re powerless here,” she says quietly, and the change in her tone takes you by surprise. She inspects you again, your unkempt appearence, the pain she can see deep in your eyes. “You and I have that in common. You’re a smart woman.” You realize it’s one of the first times you haven’t been called a girl, despite being well past your twentieth winter. “I can’t do anything for you. You won’t be able to escape the castle by hurting me, or any of the other priestesses. You know this.” You nod. “No need to bind her.” Momo says smoothly. “Now get out. Men aren’t allowed in our tower, not that the Kingsguard doesn't flaunt our rules at every opportunity.”

Kirishima ducks back through the door way apologetically, waviing a farewell and Momo sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“You’re powerless?” You ask, interrupting her annoyance with the Knight. She nods.

“Priestesses of Aed surrender their lives to the god of flame.” She says. “I’ve given up my entire future to be here, to serve him and the old magic of Yuuei.” You swallow. “It means I’ll never have to marry, I can refuse summons to court, I can travel, it comes with a measure of freedom. But no power, politically speaking.” You nod and she leads you further into the tower, into a room lined with fragrant cedar. There’s a tub, she turns a spigot and it starts to fill with water. “I’ll give you some oils and whatnot, you can take a bath in there,” she gestures over her shoulder, “And I’ll give you a ceremonial dress.”

“One powerless person to another, then,” you ask. “What happens after the ceremony, if I’m not royalty?” Momo looks pained.

“Right now the women are being held in the tower after we determine that they aren’t King Amathar’s daughter. I understand you spent the night in our overnight cell, it’s not um,” she opens a door, “The tower is a touch less comfortable. But not so bad!” You nod and she opens a cabinet, handing you a glass bottle. You unscrew the lid, it smells of freesia and lavender. “Clean yourself to the best of your ability and then some of the priestesses of Aed will be by to style your hair. She leaves then, closing the door behind her, you hear it lock.

You wiggle out of the dress Kirishima gave you and step into the warm water, luxuriating in it. The bath is soft and pleasant, and lying in the warm water is the most comfortable you’ve been in days. You clean yourself until the water gets tepid. Then you cover your body with your hands and knock of the door.

The rest of the preistesses, Jirou and Mina, wrap a clean linen dress around your body and work a comb through your tangled hair, styling it and braiding flowers that you recognize from the garden on the grounds into the braids. The flowers themselves smell soapy and clean and between that and the bath you imagine you must be thoroughly perfumed. The preistesses speak around you for the most part, talking about court gossip, about a few vassals who were late on their taxes, a few wives cheating on their husbands, a few mistresses, what the newest clothing trends were.

“What about you,” Mina asks cheerfully, and it takes you a second to realize that she’s speaking to you. “Did you have a sweetheart, or lover, in your village?” You clear your throat.

“I’m a widow.” You say quietly, and her kind dark eyes fill with concern. “It’s ah, it’s alright.” You say quickly. “I didn’t love him. But, I,” you sigh, “I’ve never been in love, I suppose.”

“Why did you marry him, then?” Mina chirps, and Jirou looks at her reproachfully. “What, arranged marriages aren’t common among peasants, no offense.” You swallow, flashing back to your wedding, the white dress in the drafty chapel, to the smell of ale on your husbands breath.

“It was an uncommon situation. But yes, it was pre arranged.”

“Maybe you’ll come out of this ritual engaged to Prince Bakugou!” Mina says, with a little laugh. You shudder and there’s an awkward silence. “That’s not so bad,” Mina protests and Jirou speaks for the first time.

“She’s going to end up in the tower, Mina, so if you could not-”

“What’s so bad, about the tower?” You ask, more sharply than you mean to.

“It’s just crowded.” Jirou says quickly. “We’re not supposed to talk about it. And,” She looks at Mina, “We’re not supposed to talk to the women at all.” Mina sighs.

“I’m bored, though, this is boring.”

“Can I ask,” you try to capitalize on this silence, “Can I ask how women become preistesses in Yuuei?”

“Women in Yuuei can’t refuse an engagement.” Jirou explains. “But we can choose the church over marriage.” She adjusts a flower in your hair. “It wouldn’t be an option for you, regardless of the outcome of the ritual, because you arent a citizen.” You nod, and

Jirou helps you into a deep red dress, that dips between your breasts. When you see yourself, in the ceremonial gown, in a crown of red roses and white gardenias, in front of the first mirror you’ve ever seen, you hardly recognize yourself. You bare only a passing resemblance to the girl whos face looked back at you from her pail of well water just a scant few days ago. There’s a soft knock at the doors.

“Oi.” They hear, and scramble get up, “Lemme talk to her.”

“Prince Bakugou,” Momo cries loudly, striding in from another room at the sound of the Prince’s irate voice, “Men aren’t supposed-”

“Really?” He cuts her off, raising his voice. “When my mother dies, I’ll be king. You don’t say no to me.” She blanches, and unlocks the door. He pushes it open and then does a double take. There’s something about the life of the flowers in your hair that matches the expression on your face, his heart beats in a strange new rhythm. “Get out.” He says and the women scatter, darting deeper into the set of rooms. “Kirishima told me an attempt was made on your life.” You shrug.

“Yes, sir.” It’s a pity he’s an oaf, you decide, because Prince Bakugou Katsuki is decidedly handsome, cutting a sharp silhouette, an elegant profile. A pity, that he was cruel, a pity, then, that he was stupid. You eye the sword at his hip, wishing you could drive it into his ribs. “I came to see,” he looks frustrated, dressed in simple clean clothes, hair parted to one side. “I came to make sure you were alright.”

“You feel badly for me.” You move towards him, slowly, trying not to ruin the complex hairstyle and perfectly laid gown. The prince rubs his eyes, the sun is directly behind you in the window, it hurts to look at you too long.

“I feel responsible for you.” He says, shading his red brown eyes with his hand, blinking the the brilliance of the sun. You sigh deeply.

“You know, in the books, Princes have honor.” Your mouth sets in a hard line. “They’re chivalrous, they care for their people.” He looks away. “What are you doing, for the people of your country, out there?” He shrugs, brows knitting together.

“I’m doing what I can. The fuck is it to you?” Annoyance colors his response. You shrug.

“I’d like to know what kind of man I’m at the mercy of,” you say softly. He reaches for you and you instinctively flinch just before his hand brushes your jaw. He traces the outline of a bruise from where you’d been shoved onto the ground the day before.

“I'm not the kind of man who hits a woman unless he's really gotta. I don't do that shit cause I'm angry, or for fun. Don't flinch away from me, and I won't give you a reason to be afraid of me.” He orders and you do your best, trembling under his touch, remembering that his men had said he was descended from a god. “Kiri really scared the shit outta ya, huh?” He rumbles and you turn your head to meet his gaze, realizing how close his face is to yours. He takes the end of your chin, tipping your face up towards his.

“What’s going to happen to me?” You whisper.

“I can’t tell you anything about today.” He holds your gaze.

"What about after?" You breathe, and in the golden light of the early morning you are so breathtakingly beautiful that all words fly from his mind, he opens his mouth to respond and no words come out.

“Excuse me,” It’s Momo, peeking her head back in, saving him. “You have to take her down in a few minutes, and so help me Aed, Prince Bakugou if you’ve undone our careful work-”

“Calm down,” The prince rolls his eyes. “She’s fine”

“I’m, um, I'm sorry,” you chirp, and both of them look at you, “Wait I’m, I apologize, what do I call you? Not sir?” He smirks.

“Your highness, your grace, your majesty,” he shrugs, “Pick. My full title’s pretty long, you’ll hear it when we get down there.” You take his hand and he impulsively pulls you into his body. Standing like that, pressed up against him, it’s a reminder of how physically intimidating he is. You can feel the muscles on his chest through his shirt, and you get the sense that once he’s wrapped a thick, tanned arm around your waist that you wouldn’t possess the strength to free yourself. He crushes a few of the flowers in your hair with his rough movements and Momo scowls.

“Enough manhandling her.” Momo says, shooing him away.

“No,” He turns to Momo angrily, “I'll do what I want with her, she belongs to me-”

“I belong to you?” You retort instinctually, “You think you’re entitled to my body, because your men murdered my family-” You stop yourself, realizing that everyone is staring at you, that Momo looks terrified, that Bakugou looks aghast. “Y-your grace.” You finish, looking down at your hands as he releases you.

“I told you,” and the pain cuts through his bravado, tipping the tone of his pitch higher, “I feel fuckin' awful,” he takes a shuddering breath clearly steadying himself. “It wasn’t on my orders, but it was on my watch so I, I'm sorry.” He mutters. “I won’t be able to make it up to you.” There’s a pause. “Momo stop shakin' like that, I’m not gonna cut ‘er fuckin’ head off in front of ya.” She lets out a long breath and he watches your bravery dissolve into fear.

“Sorry, I,” you bow your head. “I’m sorry, your grace, I just, it’s been difficult, and I'm sorry.” The tears that you’ve been fighting for days prick at your eyes and you wipe them away, “I’m sorry,” you say again. “I'm just alone now, and I'm afraid.” You lift your eyes to him, the last word comes out like more of a whispered plea than an apology. “You can, you can have whatever you want, obviously,” you babble, “You’re royalty, you can take-” He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, scowling and speaking sharply, in a timbre you recognize as a direct order.

“You gotta keep your mouth shut or it’ll get you killed. I'm bein' patient because I owe ya one. But anyone else at this castle woulda seen you whipped for talkin' to them like that, and bein' common.” You bow your head and he softens. “We’ll head down if uh,” Momo hands you a handkerchief and you dab at your eyes.

“Thanks.” He offers you his hand for a second time and you take it. This time he gives you your space, letting the gown drag behind you as you both walk down the stairs from the priestesses tower into the main body of the castle. There’s a few minutes of silence.

“Why did you let me on your horse?” You ask, the curiosity burning away at you. He doesn't look at you. “You could have thrown me on the wagon with the things you,” you stop yourself from saying stole, “Acquired.” He lets out a heavy breath.

“I didn’t want any of the soldiers to touch you. I needed to make it clear that you were mine. Or they would have taken you when I wasn’t around.”

"Taken me?" You start, and that gets his attention, the honest surprise in your voice.

"You uh," He takes in your face, reading the genuine surprise. "You ever get out of that village before this?" You shake your head.

"Not often. But I, I'm always shocked by the cruelty humanity is capable of. No matter how many times the fates try and teach me, I never learn." He nods at this, understanding.

"Well, I had ta let 'em know you were mine."

“I’m yours?” You repeat, voice echoing down an empty hallway. The castle is nearly deserted but for a few servants. You can hear what sounds like a large gathering of people ahead of you. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I decided when you held a knife up to my best friend's throat.” He clears his throat. “So when the ritual today is over, you’ll be mine. The other women in the tower will stumble their way back to what’s left of their villages when we find the descendent of Amathar, which we will eventually or my mother will die and I can abandon this useless crusade. But s’not like you have a home to go back to.” He watches pain well in your eyes and kicks himself.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “It hurts, to think about, having nowhere,” the pitch of your voice rises, “Nowhere to go back to.” You stop walking, and lean against the stone wall, closing your eyes. It’s cool against your back.

“No I,” he searches for words, for a phrase, some kind of incantation meant to soothe, but he doesn’t have access to such things, it’s an unwieldy weapon he’s not trained in yet, heavy in clumsy hands. Instead he leans in and presses his lips to your forehead. One of his large hands rests on your waist, rubbing a comforting pattern. He can feel your pulse racing beneath your skin. “It won’t be too bad, bein’ here.” He says in his low rasp, and it might be his imagination but you seem to soften at his touch.

“What’s gonna happen when I go in there, your grace?” He starts to lead you down the hallway again and you follow. He looks away from you before speaking again.

“When nothin’ happens, they’ll be some kinda uproar, they’ll take ya to the tower with the others, and I’ll come getcha.” He glances at your trembling hands. “What, marauders in your village no problem, but a little fake ass magic bullshit and you're scared?”

“I was willing to die,” you explain, “To free the others from you, but for myself, now I think I’d like to live, if that’s an option.” He chuckles, catching you as you stumble on the hem of your gown.

“Well don’t try anything that stupid here and you just might live to see winter.” He pulls you through a door into a large main passageway in the castle. The hallway has vaulted ceilings and it’s lit by torches. There are detailed tapestries hanging on the wall, and it must be well ventilated, because you can smell the sweet summer air, the fresh cut grass of the lawn. Your feet are still bare against against the sweet hay scattered on the grey stone. Bakugou’s footsteps echo here, his sword hanging at his hip. He puts one hand on a heavy wooden door, carved with the insignia of his house, a knight carrying a torch. “Don’t say anything.” He growls and you nod. In one fluid movement he opens the door. You jump a mile when trumpets blare, and someone calls loudly.

“Crown Prince Bakugou Katsuki, born under the shattered star, Son of Queen Mitsuki, The Unkneeling, The Great Phoenix, The Dragon Knight, The Lightbringer, your lips twitch as you fight off a smirk at the sheer length of his titles, and he squeezes your hand, a warning. “And F/n L/n, from the village of Damona.” There are chuckles, but you barely hear them. The throne room is huge, arching ceilings hundreds of feet in the air, candles burning, flickering gold and yellow off of the grey stone and the jewels of the gathered courtiers, making every shadow in the room dance.

The throne itself is carved from the mountain's stone, glittering cool grey. The queen is the spitting image of her son, blonde hair threatening to burst loose from her long braid, in a deep red dress, adorned with gold and silver. The crown on her head is heavy and gleaming, with fiery rubies that catch the low light of the flames. The kingdom of Yuuei’s house symbols were everywhere, the knight is on banners and hangings, embroidered onto dresses, woven into the carpet that serves as a pathway to an altar at the center of the great hall. It’s nubby on your bare feet. You can read their house words on a banner over her perch. House Bakugou, From The Ashes, we rise.

please have an age in your bio and be 18+ before interacting with this fic. reblogs/comments appreciated, and encouraged.

#katsuki bakugou #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo #bakugou smut #bakugo smut #katsuki bakugo smut #bakugou katsuki smut #mha smut #bnha smut #bakugou x reader #katsuki x reader

427 notes · View notes

clari-writes · 1 year

Text

The Prince

[ A Cinderella Retelling | Wordcount: 4006 Words | Estimated Reading Time: 20 minutes ]

A sovereign ruler must be, above all, a man of duty and reason. Prince Dominic knows this, and lives heart and soul by the edict. Grasps full well the consequences of what could happen if he didn’t.

So why is it that when he asks the Captain of the Guard if they found her, his voice catches with hope?

“No, Your Majesty,” Captain Bernard says. “We managed to track her as far as the Bridge of the Diwata, but after that, it was as if her carriage turned into thin air. We can only suspect it was magic.”

There is a warning laced into the word magic, both in the captain’s tone and Dominic’s own instinctive understanding. The fae folk were unruly; unpredictable; dangerous. While they had marked themselves as enemies only to nation’s former colonizers, the Spanish, Dominic knew better, as the heir to the Islands’ third-generation monarchy, to count on them as friends. He should feel relieved that the lady cloaked in their torrid enchantments vanished without a trace.

Better, he tells himself and his sinking heart, in the long run.

He clears his throat. “Thank you, Captain. Is that all?”

“Well,” Captain Bernard says, and then hesitates.

Prince Dominic barely restrains himself from pouncing on the man. “What is it?” he asks with deep patience.

“We found what we believe is something of hers, Your Majesty. A slipper.”

“A slipper?”

“Made of glass.” The captain nods at one of his men, and a guard liveried in green and gold moves forward to place a glimmering object in front of the prince. “It was at the base of the bridge. We cannot know for sure it was hers, but-“

“It’s hers,” says Prince Dominic hollowly. He remembers now, in one of the more lively dances of the ball, when the lady kicked her feet in the air he’d noticed in an instant how they sparkled.

Do you have jewels encrusted on your toes? he’d teased.

She’d replied with a dazzling smile. Something like that.

“If you forgive me, Your Majesty,” Captain Bernard says. “May I inquire as to the urgency of finding this girl?”

“Pardon?”

“If she’d stolen something significant, perhaps, during the hours you were alone,” the captain prompts. Dominic flushes, even though there is no rebuke in the captain’s words. “If so, I’ll organize a search party straight away.”

Do it, Dominic’s heart sings. The prince bites his tongue. Takes another deep breath.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says. “She isn’t important.”

_ _ _

So why is he paying a visit to the royal glassmaker, shoe in hand?

“No doubt about it, Your Majesty,” Doña Rosaline says, after taking a close look at the slipper through her famed magnificent magnifying glass. She places the pristine object in front of him with a mixture of awe and fear. “That’s the fae’s work. No human hands could have produced something as fine as this.”

“Is it cursed?” he asks. He’s half convinced himself it’s so.

“Gifted, more like,” she replies, stopping his errant wonderings in their tracks.

“What do you mean?”

“Your lady seems to have won the favor of a fairy,” the artisan replies.

“I’ve never heard of-“

“Neither have I, Your Grace, but the proof is right here in front of us.” She gestures to the slipper. “You cannot force the fae to create. You have heard of the case of Count Floribel-“

“I have,” Dominic says with the wince. It was years ago, back when the Islands’ revolution still consisted of whispers in the dark. Count Floribel, their appointed ruler, had actually managed to capture a fairy – rumor has it, with a desperate native’s help, after the noble promised to curb his family’s debt – and he had demanded of the creature to provide the secrets of the yet-unconquered mountainfolk’s intricately woven designs.

In response, the fairy blew themself up. There is still a crater where the count’s mansion had been.

“Well, there you go. We’d have to rule that out. The other option, then, is to strike a deal with the fae, and of course there are records of that, such as the royal crown. But, Your Majesty,” Doña Rosaline says with the shake of her head, “I cannot imagine what your lady could have traded for a fairy to craft something so unique, it would only find its fit and perfection in her wearing it.”

“How could that be so?”

“The glass,” Doña Rosaline says, “Is not still. Not when you look at it closely enough. It ripples and bends at one’s touch—it is truly quite remarkable. I can only imagine what it would look like on the feet of the one it was meant for. And if rumors are to believed,” she continues, “the shoes’ beauty weren’t even the most marvelous aspect of the lady herself.”

Dominic can’t help himself. He smiles. “I can confirm that.”

“Oh?” Doña Rosaline voice takes on a teasing lilt. “And how would you describe the young lady, dear prince?”

“She was kind,” he says, almost unthinkingly. There are many things he could have said of her, but her kindness is what lingers in his mind the most, is what made her beauty more revelation than ornamentation. His first breathtaking sight of the lady was her descent down the staircase in all her gorgeous glory. His second was her approaching him with a platter of food and not a whit of guile in her eyes, saying shyly that he looked like he was hungry. She’d been right; he hadn’t had a bite to eat all day out of nervousness.

“Will you look for her?”

“What?” he says, snapping out of his reverie.

“I assumed that was why you were asking,” Doña Rosaline says. She is grinning. “I wasn’t at the ball myself, Your Grace, but I’ve heard what others are saying of you, and I’m glad, if you forgive the presumption. After everything that happened with your sister, I am truly happy that you’ve found-“

“I think you misunderstand, Doña,” he says, holding up his hand. “I was concerned about her, is all.”

“Concerned?”

“When it occurred to me that the fae might have had her in their thrall,” he says.

There were other things, as well. Little things, like how she flinched at the chamberlain’s loud voice, how she startled when he first raised his hand to lead her through a dance, as if she expected to be struck instead. Like how she recognized his hunger because she was clearly starving just the same.

“But that’s no matter,” he says. “The lady must be fine, if she has a fairy looking after her.” That ought to quell his persistent little anxieties over whether she is eating enough.

“Perhaps,” Doña Rosaline says, but she looks doubtful.

“You disagree?”

“If the fairy isn’t tricking her,” Doña Rosaline says, “then they are gifting her something that she needs.”

“She needs little, then, if all that they gave her was access to a party all noble families are invited to,” he points out.

“Perhaps,” she says again.

“She did not ask for help,” Prince Dominic says.

“Did you offer?” she asks pointedly.

“Of course.”

The old artisan raises her eyebrows. “And she refused?”

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. He is fairly certain that running away counted as refusal. “Aside from that, she had every opportunity to ask for assistance and she did not. Coupled with what you’ve told me, I can only conclude that there is no imminent threat that looms over her.”

“Danger can take many forms, Your Grace.”

“I know.” Oh, how he knew. He can feel the judging eyes of the Spanish from beyond the seas, staring greedily at him and his kingdom. “Yet I cannot drop everything to save one damsel, Doña. Not if she didn’t ask for it.”

“True enough, young prince,” Doña Rosaline allows. “But aren’t there other reasons why you would wish to look for her?”

The way she made him laugh uproariously, while remaining utterly unmoved by his puns. The warmth her presence and conversation brought him. The hours they spent, the first time he could remember he felt truly carefree since his parents died and his relationship with his sister turned sour.

“None that matter, Doña,” he says finally.

_ _ _

So why is it that, three weeks after the ball, she is all that he can think about?

He refused to let it show, of course. He had councils to attend—ambassadors to welcome—marriage contracts to assess. He needed an alliance with a country large enough to keep Spain at bay – a grand task, considering the few countries who were willing to even recognize the Islands as a nation, rather than a land full of savagery and witchcraft – and his hand in marriage is the simplest way to ensure the fidelity of that alliance without putting his kingdom in danger of another invasion.

Though who is he fooling—they are always in danger of another invasion. Which is why you must redouble your efforts in finding allies, he tells himself.

Which is why he cannot shirk his responsibilities, cannot lose one of the most precious cards he has to play in the game of politics, even for the beautiful, kind, fae-favored girl.

He is trapped.

“Brother?”

He starts, sending the papers he’d been staring at scattering across the floor. If he was not Crown Prince, he thinks he would have liked to swear like a sailor.

Instead, he inhales deep through his nose and stands up, all decorum. “Sister Regine,” he says. He makes sure his tone is firmly under control. “Why were you not announced by my chamberlain?”

“I was. You were the one still gaping at your papers like an idiot,” she replies bluntly.

Not for the first time, Prince Dominic wonders how the sisters of Saint Sofia – an order that was known to prioritize gentleness, peace, and humility – deal with his sharp-tongued older sibling. He supposes there are a lot of prayers for patience involved. He sighs, rifling a hand through his long hair. “The papers…”

“I’ll help you organize them,” she says, already stooping to the ground.

“You’re not supposed to be able to read them anymore,” he says tiredly.

“Or what? You’ll clap me in a tower again?” She smirks. “I guarantee that would be more comfortable than my room at the priory.”

“Only because you could convince Captain Bernard to bring you anything you wanted.”

“He always had a sweet spot for me,” she preens.

It is more than that, both of them knew. There is no etiquette in how to deal with a queen turned prisoner turned novitiate, especially since she is still technically the queen until she takes her final vows.

But they do not talk about that.

Her long habit makes a pool of coarse blue cloth around her as she bundles papers into her arms. “Anyway, Your Majesty,” she says, all razor-sharp exaggeration at the honorific, “That is not why I am here.”

“You didn’t just want to see me?” His hurt is not entirely feigned. He grabs a receipt that has somehow lodged itself between Pinuno: From Datu to Constitutional Monarchy and 1670: La Revolución de Las Islas.

“Heavens, no. Do you understand how hard it is to get here?”

“I had taken pains to ensure you always have access to me,” he says. Despite everything.

She shoots him a look. “You are not the problem, brother. The prioress loathes having me leave the grounds—for good reason, I suppose. No matter.”

“Yes, matter,” he says. He is fighting to keep his breath even. “You’re supposed to be able to-“

“Not the reason I’m here,” she sings.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine. Why are you here, Regine?”

“Haven’t you heard, dear brother?” she asks. “My sisters are a-buzz with the rumors, and you must know how difficult it is to get them to gossip—which means the entire kingdom must be talking it. Apparently, our very own honorable, practical, darling Prince Dominic is in-“

“I am not in love!” he snaps.

Regine pauses, her jaw slackening. Then a truly evil grin spreads across her mouth. “I was going to say,” she says, “in search for a mystery girl. But that works, too.”

Prince Dominic’s cheeks burn. “I am not in love,” he enunciates carefully, though he knows it’s hopeless. As far as Regine is concerned, he has already dug his grave. “And I am not looking for her.”

“Why not?” she asks airily.

He splutters. “Why not?” he repeats. “Why not?”

When it comes to duty, they have always been so many worlds apart.

“You still haven’t grown out of babbling when you’re confused, hm?”

“Because I am required to marry a princess!” he yells. He stands up, papers forgotten, even breathing be damned. “Because I am the de facto ruler of this kingdom and whether I like it or not, whether I want to or not, every aspect of my life must be devoted to ensuring its security! Because I am the only one left,” he says, and his voice breaks, “and if I don’t do it, no one else will.”

Then he sobs outright, a hand covering his eyes.

_ _ _

The first and last time he’d spoken this truth that he had long buried in his heart was the night of the ball.

He hadn’t meant to unbridle his tongue. It hadn’t been his parents’ fault that they’d died, after all, and his sister—well, it was hard on her, turning from the blithe heir to the burdened head of the family overnight. It had been understandable, that she hadn’t wanted to face it. He had been the one who had chosen to act. He had taken the responsibility, and so consequently had to face it forever alone.

So why did he find himself spilling his guts to this beautiful stranger?

It was unseemly. It was embarrassing.

But she was so very easy to talk to; and when he began to apologize for his impropriety, she stoppered his flow of words with a gaze full of understanding. “I know what it’s like,” she said, “to be the one left behind and alone.” Her eyes lowered, her cheeks pink. “To be angry about it, sometimes.”

They were out on the balcony—far from the prying eyes and ears of the court, though he knew there would be whispers once they noticed his absence. For once, he hadn’t a care about that. Just as he hadn’t a care or thought about anything when he took the lady’s hand. “Not alone anymore, I hope.”

“Not right now, at least.” She twined their fingers together.

“Not ever again!” he declared recklessly, though he knew he wasn’t in any position to make promises like that. “Tell me about yourself now, lady stranger. We’ve spent so long in each other’s company and you’ve refused to tell me a thing. Though to be fair, I suppose I’ve barely asked.” He shook his head at himself. “What kind of prince am I?”

He’d expected a bump of his shoulder, a roll of her eyes. Instead, the lady’s smile faded. “Prince?”

“Yes?”

“You’re the prince?”

“Yes, of course—you didn’t know?” She had arrived late and had missed the proclamation, and they had dispensed with calling each other by any name as a game, but he hadn’t believed she didn’t know who he was that entire time. Hadn’t known she was getting to know him as Dominic, rather than the prince. He was flabbergasted.

And she looked devastated. She pulled her hand away from his. “If you were just a noble, maybe,” she murmured to herself. “But a prince…”

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

She forced a smile on her face. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t give me that,” he begged her. “Something’s wrong. Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I-I just…I had hoped to see you again.”

“Whyever not?” He made to take her hand once more, but restrained himself at the last second. “I would very much like that as well.”

“I don’t think you would, Your Majesty. Not if you knew who I really was.”

“I know who you are.” In the weeks to come, he would doubt this; he’d put it down to his chronic sleep deprivation, the heady night air, enchantment. But in that moment, he felt as close to her as someone he’d known all the days of his life.

“You do?” She sounded afraid.

“Yes. You, my dear lady stranger,” he says, “are the funniest person I’ve ever met.” This, finally, got the fond eyeroll. “Really, you are hilarious. Yet you’re honest enough to tell me when I’m not.”

“It was only the puns,” she protested.

“You are determined,” he continued. “You said you would finish the platter of stuffed pan de sal and by God, I have never seen anyone eat so much so fast. That’s a compliment, by the way,” he said to her reddening cheeks. “It was a marvel.”

“You had it right the first time, Your Majesty. For a prince, your manners are deplorable.”

“You’re also extremely kind,” he added.

“Deplorable!” she exclaimed.

“Really.” He stretched out his hand, giving her the choice, and after a beat she laced her fingers with his again. “When you see someone requires assistance, no matter who they are, whether or not they themselves know it, you take action. Even when you clearly need help yourself.”

“I don’t-“

“You have not told me much of your family, my lady, but from what I’ve gathered you are in a rather unhappy situation. Please,” he said, “let me help you. I promise to stand by you no matter what happens, wherever you come from, whatever your name is. Just say the word.”

The lady seemed torn. In the bright, pale moonlight, away from the glitter and ornaments of the ballroom, her masterpiece of a dress seemed to be just a shade more quotidian, her elfin features less otherworldly and more tremendously human as she bit her lip and decided. It made him fall for her all the more. “I,” she said, and stopped herself. She cleared her throat. “My name is…I mean. I-I’m-“

“It’s alright,” he said gently.

She squeezed his hand, as if asking for courage. He squeezed back. “My name is-“

Then the clock struck midnight.

_ _ _

“She’s a commoner, isn’t she?” Regine asks.

For a moment, Prince Dominic did not answer, lost for a time in the way his sister stroked his hair soothingly. She had strode across the room and insisted he sit down on the plush couch, and then laid his head on her lap, just as she did when the doctors gave them the news that their parents died of the plague. When he finally found his voice, he says dully, “Yes.”

It is the logical conclusion. Why had it been such a miracle for her to go to a party? Why did she need a member of the fae to magic her improbable glass shoes, and perhaps the rest of her lovely attire?

Why was she so afraid to let him know who she was?

It would take another miracle to see her again, let alone to offer her what he wished. “So why am I still hoping?” he whispers. Then he curses himself, realizing that he spoke out loud.

But Regine does not tease. She gives a soft, almost resigned sigh. “Because, dear brother,” she says, “you are a person who loves deeply and truly. You are that, as well as a good and kind king.”

He snorts.

“It’s true,” she says, rueful. “You’re a much better ruler than I ever could have been. You knew from the start that being a leader was more burden than privilege, and I—I never completely grasped that. Not until I was called by God and realized how selfish I’d been.” She ruffles his hair again. “You were right to stage that coup against me.”

“Sister,” he says, but she shakes her head.

“But even if I was selfish,” she says, her eyes bright, “I still know enough about statecraft to comprehend the state of our kingdom, both when I ruled and even more so after the stability you brought to the Islands. And what I know is that we are not in peril.” She looks at him. “You do not need to give your hand out of desperation, brother.”

“But Spain is still watching us-“

“They will always be watching us,” she says disdainfully. “Their precious former colony that rose up against them, foolish and still in need of their oh-so-enlightened help and guidance. Whatever we do, they will always be looking for a chance to snatch us up again.”

“So what do we do?” he asks. His voice sounds small.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “And, selfishly, I am glad that burden is no longer on my shoulders.”

“Thanks, Regine,” he mutters.

She flicks his nose.

“Huy!”

“I have not abandoned you,” she says. “I will not abandon you. I am here beside you, Dominic, and from now on I promise to give you whatever advice you need.”

“And what advice is that, dear sister?”

“That you remember we cannot, as a nation or as people, live on fear alone. And that you must remember you are a leader as well as a ruler, Dom. Your kingdom is watching how you make your choice, and will be led by how you make it.”

“What choice?”

“What to do,” she says, “when love beckons you.”

_ _ _

He goes with them, of course. It would have been out of the question to get a significant portion of the guard to go through this wild goose chase without him at the helm, albeit in plain soldier’s clothes so as to obscure his identity. To begin with, they were to fit the glass slipper on every maiden within each invited household.

He felt like sinking into the floor when he made this proposal in the council room, even with his sister by his side. And indeed, they had all looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

None of them protested, though. Even when he told them of his intentions.

Some of them even looked—excited. As if they were genuinely thrilled their future queen was going to be chosen in this way.

“It’s because they trust you,” Regine said after the meeting. “And they want you to be happy.”

“If you say so,” he said, still bemused.

And so they went.

Household after household, family after family, maiden after maiden until Dominic had seen more than enough feet he had ever wanted to encounter in his lifetime.

Then they get to the capital city's outskirts.

The two young ladies residing in the last mansion before the gates try and fail. Their mother, of grand bearing and clad in even grander skirts, glares at them as if it is their fault. He and the company of guard bow, take their leave, when—

“Wait.”

Prince Dominic turns.

And there she is. Clad in dirty old rags, hair in disarray, fists clenched and bare feet looking half-ready to bolt any minute. But her voice is steady, calm and familiar, when she says, “I would like to try the slipper on.”

The lady of the house hisses, “You are nothing but a scullery maid! What right do you-“

“Every right,” Prince Dominic says, stepping forward. “The prince proclaimed every maiden in each invited household.”

When he turns his gaze at the lady, she has paled. She recognizes him, too.

She glances at the door. He swallows at the lump in his throat, knowing that if she runs, he must take the rejection for what it is.

But she does not run. Instead, she gives him a short, polite curtsy, walks forward, and seats herself delicately on the coach. She is taking long, calming breaths.

He kneels down. “It’s alright,” he tells her again, even more gently than before.

“It’s you,” she whispers. Her eyes are bright with tears.

He smiles at her. “What’s your name?”

Her mouth twists a little. “Cinderella.”

He notices the spray of ashes on her cheeks. Remembers how she never did like puns.

“My stepmother was right,” she says in a sudden rush. “I am nothing but a scullery maid—worse than that, really. I have no status in life, no claim to anything or anyone. I have nothing worthwhile to offer you.”

“Alright,” he says.

“Alright?” she repeats with an incredulous laugh. She lowers her voice. “You are known to be a wise ruler, you know. They say you never make a decision without considering it twice, thrice, and once more for good measure.”

“I don’t think I’m as hesitant as that,” Dominic protests lightly. “But yes. I do like being sure of my choices.”

“So why, my dear, famously pragmatic Prince Dominic, are you here?”

He slides the slipper onto her foot. It’s a perfect fit.

“Cinderella.” He says her name with so much soft reverence she cannot help but blush. He offers her his hand. “I think you know.”

/ / /

A/N: Written for the @inklings-challenge's Four Loves Fairytale Challenge! I'd love to know what you think of the story, if you have time to comment/tag. Either way, I hope you enjoyed, and I look forward to reading everyone's entries!

Also: Because I didn't outright say it in the story (and because it's very important to me), this story is set in an alternate history/fantasy Philippines <3

#The Prince #inklingschallenge #theme: agape #theme: eros #theme: storge #Cinderella #Cinderella retelling #story: complete

198 notes · View notes

chemicallywrit · 7 months

Text

It’s Audio Drama Sunday and this week was full of bangers! This list is not comprehensive but it is what stuck out this week. Let’s goooooooo

🔥 The Heart Pyre continuously leaves me with the perfect impression of being in middle school reading under my desk. It’s so good it feels like I’m getting away with something. Maybe it’s because Rena is such a relatable protagonist. She’s just a normal girl! She’s just a little teen! What is she supposed to do! And that makes her even more heroic. As always, the choice this week was impossible and I can’t wait to see how it shakes out. Also, Logan And Finn Should Kiss 2k24. @theheartpyre

🗡️ SIDEQUESTING 😭 This episode is so SWEET. I love when Rion grows a little—Sidequesting is episodic and doesn’t lend itself to like, substantial character development. That is fine; it’s not the point of the show. It makes the moments Rion does grow, though, stand out like little jewels. This episode shone. @sidequestingpod

🗝️ Palimpsest is doing its slow burn thing, referencing itself over again as its name suggests it will do, and in this story, I am Very Concerned About That Man Lenore Married. He is condescending and dismissive and he is isolating her, and I DO NOT TRUST HIM.

📼 Within the Wires—oh my gosh, I literally screamed when the canned noises stopped. What is your game, Tony? What do you want with Brian?

🅿️ Podcube was short this week—Podcube is always short—but this episode had me cracking up at work. I love that this team manages to find new conflicts somehow. Man vs man, but they’re assassins and one of them is convinced the other is in love with the target. Why does this work? Why is this so funny? Please listen to Podcube. @podcube

🩸 Hemophobia continues to make my skin crawl. This episode reveals that the characters are Church of Christ, which, for those who don’t know, means they have a really specific set of beliefs about baptism that I KNOW are going to be perfect fodder for the Horrors. And yet it’s all so normal so far. Creepy. Oh, another thing this episode does is portray with perfect gut-wrenching clarity how strange and awful it us to be a devout teenager, and in like, four different ways. Incredible work.

🎣 Eeler’s Choice has some FANTASTIC sound design this episode as Ran comes into their own as a storm chanter—FRICK. I am worried about them. And their new ship. Please be careful and don’t get eaten by fungus. @eelerschoice

✨ Stories from Ylelmore is brand new and SO GOOD, oh my gosh, I am in love with the earnest delivery, the characters who are absolute BABIES, the genuine fascinating mystery. I can’t wait for more. @storiesfromylelmore

🍔 Midnight Burger’s THREE HOUR FINALE brought us home with Clementine. It wasn’t what I expected, and I think that’s kind of Midnight Burger’s MO. The fact that the tone of the dialogue, that the characters themselves, are so cynical and hard—it will trick you into believing that it’s a cynical show. Maybe it is! But it also fights over and over again for the idea that things can be fixed, that love matters, that you can save people and you have to try, you always have to try. And sometimes you win. And that’s how the universe is meant to work. It kills me every time. Also, shoutout to Alan Burgon, always the best, who I love to hear doing his actual accent. @midnightburgr

🐦‍⬛ Leaving Corvat. Oh my word. It’s a wellness cult. Sleeper’s in a wellness cult. I am really pleased with the development his character’s showing, being decisive and brave.

🍵 Gastronaut is going some places and I am OBSESSED. The relationship between Oscar and Polity is everything to me, and the fact that Oscar has gotten to the point where he refuses to ignore his responsibilities, he refuses to leave people behind—he is sometimes stupid, but he is trying and I’m proud of him.

🧟‍♂️ We are getting to the final episode of Precious Cargo in the Dead and y’all….it’s gonna get juicy. I’m not exaggerating, one of the zombie actors used watermelon to get things sounding juuuuust right. Our next story might be even better, too, I can’t wait to show you.

Thank you for reading! If you like what I do, buy me a ko-fi!

#audio drama sunday #audio drama #audio fiction #fiction podcast #freaking podcasts

43 notes · View notes

deadlyflames · 8 months

Text

Day 7: Free Day

Born to Run ~ Swanfire Enchanted Forest AU Fic

Ao3

Based on this post

xxx

The Swan Princess

xxx

In the private royal gardens, one lone swan floated on the man-made pool. King David had several similar pools made throughout the castle within the past 10 years. Some were inside for the winter months, while others were in the private gardens so the swan could enjoy the warmer months outdoors.

The pool was made of white polished marble, with tall pillars and a roof to provide shade from the hot summer sun, along with an ornate fountain in the centre. Lily pads and coy fish had been added to the pool for stimulation and atmosphere, but the swan became less and less impressed with these additions as she grew older. These days, she lived for the day’s end and the approach of sunset. She ruffled her snow-white feathers in anticipation as she watched the sun slowly sink beneath the horizon.

When the last remnants of sunlight faded away, a bright glow enveloped the swan’s form. Water splashed up on its own accord and swirled around the swan, and in a shimmer of light, the white feathers melted away to reveal a young woman standing in the pool.

Princess Emma took the silk robe that was waiting for her at the side of the pool and wrapped it around herself as she emerged from the water. For the sake of her privacy, her parents would give her this period of grace after the sun had set. These few minutes of solitude, when she could soak in the twilight and breathe in the fresh night air with her human lungs, were minutes that she treasured.

But she couldn’t stay out there forever. A princess, even one with her affliction, had responsibilities. Especially on this particular night.

Stepping into her slippers, Emma begrudgingly made her way towards the castle, just as her mother came out to greet her.

Snow White was still regarded as the fairest in the land. Even after years had passed since she had become queen, her beauty and grace were untouched. The elaborate gown she wore was encrusted with jewels which shimmered in the night, and it whispered along the floor as she walked towards her.

“Emma!” Snow wrapped her arms around her daughter, squeezing her for a bit too long and a bit too tightly. “How was your day?”

Emma skewed her lips into a pout as she pulled back from the embrace. “Same as any other day.”

Snow’s bright smile didn’t falter, but it did seem to crack in response to her daughter’s dismissive tone. Not to be deterred, she turned back and motioned to someone behind her. A servant stepped forward with a large present in his arms, artfully wrapped and adorned with a bright red bow.

“Well, I know I already told you this in the morning,” she said, and her hopeful expression made Emma feel a twinge of guilt for her curt words. “But happy birthday!”

Emma looked at the gift and could already guess what it contained based on its size and the timing. Her parents had given her a new archer’s bow before the sunrise, meaning this present was something connected to tonight’s festivities. Not wanting to hurt her mother’s feelings any further, she offered a hesitant smile before untying the bow. As she expected, the wrappings revealed a splendid periwinkle gown. One she was likely expected to wear tonight.

Despite the dread that was rising in her gut, Emma plastered an ecstatic grin on her face. “It’s beautiful mama,” she replied, running her fingers along the fine gossamer fabric. “Thank you!”

Emma’s attempt at covering her unease hadn’t been as convincing as she had hoped. Snow was many things, but delusional wasn’t one of them. Taking her daughter’s hands into her own, she gave her most imploring look. Not many could resist the earnest compassion and sweetness of those big green eyes, not even a girl who shared those same eyes.

“I know this isn’t how you wanted to spend your evening,” she said with understanding. “But I hope you can enjoy yourself tonight. There will be dancing and a feast. I’m sure you’ll get more than a few offers to dance.” Snow White beamed while Emma resisted the urge to grimace. “It’ll be fun.”

Emma sighed heavily before swallowing her apprehension. Nodding along to her mother’s assurance, she took the present from the servant’s outstretched arms.

“I’ll try,” Emma promised as she and her mother made their way through the entrance that connected the ballroom to the expansive royal gardens. When she entered, her face was bathed in the warm glow of a thousand candles. She turned to her mother and performed a quick curtsy. “I’ll go get ready.”

Emma made her exit from the resplendent ballroom, where the final preparations for her 17th birthday celebration were being made.

It was a celebration that Emma was not looking forward to in the least.

For her, these balls were events where she would be paraded before a mob of gossiping aristocrats and nobles. Their curiosity would be assuaged when they caught another brief glimpse of their mysterious princess. The sheltered girl never appeared at court or even during the daytime, but when they saw her at the ball, they would know she was still alive and not being held in a tower somewhere.

Queen Snow White and King David did an admirable job of hiding their daughter’s curse from the world, aside from the most trusted servants, guards and some close friends. However, rumours tended to sprout like weeds in spite of best-laid plans.

Whispers had spread throughout the Enchanted Forrest about the Cursed Princess. The heir to the throne, who had been put under a spell when she was a babe. Her step-grandmother Regina, known as the Evil Queen, had exacted her revenge on Snow White by cursing her only daughter to be a beast during the day and a girl at night.

Emma wished those rumours were true. Being a beast would be much more interesting than being stuck as a swan. Maybe that’s why Regina made her a waterfowl. Somehow she knew it would be painfully boring.

“They’ll gawk and stare. I’m sure some might make awkward small talk,” Emma complained, adjusting the sleeves that were patterned with silver roses and vines “‘What have you been up to?’ ‘When will we see you at court?’ ‘Have you been well?’ Not that they care, I think they just want to confirm their theories or dig for more gossip.”

Emma had been laced into her corset and had her long blonde hair pulled back into an elaborate bun, with a few sweeping curls framing her face. A more subtle tiara had been placed on her head since she couldn’t stand wearing a heavy crown of jewels, especially tonight.

“There’s going to be some scheming duke or count or whatever who will try to seduce me. That’s always fun,” she sneered. Potential suitors had been lining up to claim her since she was 13. After all, as heir to the throne and the daughter of the ‘fairest in the land’, she would make a glorious prize. She’d have to endure simpering noblemen of all ages vying for a dance and bragging about themselves in an attempt to enthral her. It would make for an exhausting night. She turned to her baby brother with a wry smirk. “I’m just saying, you’re lucky you’ll be asleep.”

Leo looked up at her from the plush rug where he sat surrounded by toys with his mouth slightly agape. His baby blue eyes were wide and curious and showed that he was completely oblivious to her plight. Emma found her little brother to be a great listener when she needed to vent, which seemed to be all the time. It was helped by the fact that he couldn’t repeat anything she said to their parents, since he only knew how to say ‘mama’, ‘dada’, and occasionally ‘Em’.

Emma was stalling by hanging around her brother’s nursery, wanting to avoid the ballroom full of guests who were awaiting her arrival. But her mother or her father were bound to come looking for her if she made them wait much longer.

“I guess I’ll have to face them sooner or later.” The princess heaved a sigh before offering the little prince a playful smile. She curtsied daintily before plucking her brother from the floor. “May I have this dance?”

Leo babbled happily as she twirled with him in her arms, the layers of shimmering fabric swirling about her heels.

“That’ll be my favourite dance of the night,“ Emma stated as she placed the baby back into his crib.

“Well, I hope that’s not true,” a familiar voice called out behind her. Emma whipped around to see her father standing in the doorway. “The night just started.”

“I was just about to come down, Daddy,” she said hastily, smoothing out her dress.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” her father laughed, coming up beside the little prince’s crib and tucking the baby in. “I think the princess gets to be fashionably late to her own party. But, we should let Leopold get some sleep.” He straightened and held out extended the crook of his arm for her to take. “Shall we?”

Emma nodded, ducking her head to hide the frown on her face as she looped her arm through her father’s.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” David said as he led her out of the nursery and towards the ballroom. When Emma didn’t give a response, he chose to prod her rather than ignore her melancholy. “You don’t seem very excited.”

That was because she wasn’t. When she was little, she had been so thrilled to attend her first ball. Since it was held after sunset, for once she could actually meet people, instead of being hidden away as she was during the day. But she couldn’t stand the way people stared at her like she was some sort of pitiable wretch or some oddity on display. It didn’t help that everyone was so uptight and two-faced. Someone would be complimenting her one minute before snickering behind her back the next. The parties had become a chore to get out of the way before she could spend her night as she wished.

With Emma’s stubborn silence, her father was prompted to try again. “I know you don’t always like these things, but-“

“Then why do we keep throwing them?” Emma huffed, fed up with pretending to be happy. “It’s my birthday. So, why can’t I celebrate how I want?”

“I understand, Emma,” David said calmly, slowing his stride as they continued their walk. He didn’t want to enter that ballroom without an attempt at lifting his daughter’s spirits. “I didn’t grow up with all these extravagant balls. I’ve never gotten used to all the pomp and circumstance. But I think it’s good for you to go to parties like this. It’s a chance to meet people. To make friends.”

“Friends I would only get to see if there’s a ball,” she grumbled under her breath. “Or if there’s a hunt being held at night for some reason.”

David stopped in his tracks, causing Emma to jolt to a stop as well. He turned so that he faced her head-on, gently placing his hands on her shoulders. Emma met his searching stare with a pout and her arms over her chest, sensing that she had earned a lecture with her comment.

“Emma, I know living with this curse isn’t easy,” he said, his normally light tone shifting into one of earnest solemnity. “Every day, I wish I could find a way to make things better for you. But we can’t just shut you away from everyone while we look for a solution.”

Emma’s gaze shifted to the wall, pointedly avoiding her father’s searching gaze. She knew he was right. As much as she disliked these parties, being hidden away indefinitely like a secret shame would make her feel even more like a freak. At least on a night like tonight, she could pretend she was an ordinary girl. Well, as ordinary as it was to be a princess having a ball thrown in your honour.

“Besides, tonight could give you the answer you’re looking for,” he continued cryptically, causing Emma to scrunch up her nose in confusion when she met his eyes again. “A ball is the perfect place to find your true love.”

An unladylike snort passed through her lips at that statement. The deadpan look she gave her father caused a smile to twitch on his lips. “Somehow, I doubt my true love is down there.”

That particular hope had been extinguished after years of disappointment. Emma had been wishing to find her true love since she was a child. She grew up hearing stories about the unstoppable power of a ‘true love’s kiss’. Before she was born, her father woke her mother from a sleeping curse with that powerful kiss. Emma dreamed that one day she would find the person who who help her break her own curse.

However, love had alluded Emma despite her best efforts to find it. Her parents would describe this instantaneous connection that they developed within a few days, this spark of attraction that ignited a blaze when they saved one another on the troll bridge. Emma never found that connection.

“You’ll never know if you don’t look,” David responded. He offered his arm once more, blue eyes sparkling with amusement in the candlelight. “Maybe someone will surprise you.”

Emma doubted it, but her father’s optimism still brought a grin to her lips. Squaring her shoulders and puffing out her chest, she looped her arm through his again and mentally prepared for a night of misery. “Let’s get this pony show over with.”

David smiled as they marched into the ballroom. “That’s my girl.”

xxx

The Runaway Theif

xxx

There were pros and cons to sneaking into an exclusive royal ball.

Pro. There were plenty of unsuspecting wealthy nobles, who would be occupied with the festivities and wine. It made them easy prey for the nimble fingers of a seasoned pickpocket. No one expected to get robbed while rubbing elbows with the monarchs.

Con. Being caught meant being thrown into the stocks or worse. The severity of punishment depended on who caught you. Queen Snow White was widely regarded as kind and just. The worst she would do to a humble thief would be to throw them out of the castle. Other aristocrats would sooner take a hand or a head rather than let a pickpocket get away unscathed.

Pro. The food was mouthwatering and abundant. After living on stolen scraps for the past few days, having access to a royal banquet would be a nice relief for a hungry man’s aching stomach.

At this point, the pros outweighed the cons.

Neal Cassidy was a man of few means, but he was also an opportunist. As difficult as it would be to sneak into a royal ball, the payout would be worth it.

The effort was made simpler by some premeditation. The whole kingdom had been abuzz with the news of Princess Emma’s birthday and the ball that would be thrown in her honour. It was good business for the high-end tailors, as plenty of nobles had money to burn on new dresses and doublets for the event. Posing as a delivery man, Neal managed to get his hands on a nice set of clothes that would be suitable enough to help him blend with the other attendees.

Looking the part of a noble didn’t guarantee his entry, since no one would make it through the front gates without an invitation. So he wouldn’t be entering through the front gates.

Less than four years had passed since he escaped from Neverland, and the skills he had developed in that centuries-long nightmare were still engrained in him. Scaling a castle wall was nothing in comparison to climbing a jagged cliff face with lost boys laughing and hollering from above and below as you tried not to fall to your death. And that had been just a part of Pan’s twisted obstacle race.

After the sun had gone down, and the castle was aglow from within, no one paid mind to the dark shadow crawling its way up the outer walls.

Slipping into the ballroom from a back door in the castle gardens, Neal was taken aback by the sheer splendour around him. The room was lined with large white columns accented with gold. The massive chandelier that hung above glimmered like it was made of diamonds. Noble women in beautiful gowns, being swept across the marble floor by their dance partners.

Neal took a steadying breath, soaking in the opulence that was not meant for lost boys or thieves before he got to work. Sleight of hand was a skill that you had to pick up quickly on the streets of London, in Neverland, and in the slums of the kingdom. With a careful misdirection, you could swipe a diamond ring or a golden broach and the owner would be none the wiser.

The difficult part was not getting carried away and not stealing too many items in such a short amount of time. That was something Neal had trouble with, especially when surrounded by so many stuffy blue bloods covered in jewels that would help keep him fed for a month.

Neal spent the night flattering inflated egos and pocketing treasures that were sure not to be missed in the long run. He was loitering around the buffet and sampling the strange foods that the upper class enjoyed (Who would eat a peacock?) when his eagerness came back to bite him.

“My necklace! It’s fallen off!”

A younger woman whom he had charmed a few minutes ago was shrieking in despair as she felt her bare neck. An older man marched up to her as she panicked, with a dour frown that brought out the wrinkles in his face.

“By gods, Carissa! You would lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders! Heavens know that would cost me less! Why are you always so careless?!”

“It wasn’t my fault, daddy! The servants here have sticky fingers! One of them must have taken it!”

Neal thumbed the golden string of emeralds in his pocket as he covertly shuffled away from the commotion. He slipped behind a pillar into a hall untouched by the torchlight, meanwhile, the Lord and his daughter continued to bicker and roped some poor servers into searching for the necklace. With the fuss they were kicking up, others were bound to notice that they were also missing jewelry. That would drum up a manhunt and he didn’t want to be around when that happened. Neal kicked himself for not taking more of the ridiculous and abundant food when he had the chance.

He looked frantically for the nearest exit when a blur of golden curls caught his attention.

The din of music and people's voices faded into a quiet hum. After that, he couldn’t look away if he tried.

A girl in a silver gown raced behind another pillar, pressing her back flat against the stone. She was a few yards away from where Neal was pressed against his own pillar, but she didn’t seem to notice him. Her eyes were tightly closed and her chest rose and fell with heaving gasps as if she had been trapped underwater and was now finally coming up for air.

She was young, maybe a few years younger than him. Done up in a silver corseted dress, embroidered with roses that glittered in the dark hall. Her blonde hair was pulled into a bun aside from a few strands that framed her face.

And it was one hell of a face. Neal would swear she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

Neal was transfixed as he watched her entire body seem to sag in relief against the pillar. She released the deepest sigh he had ever witnessed. Extending her neck, she rested the back of her head against the stone pillar and turned her face up to the ceiling. Slowly, her eyes opened and the smallest breath of laughter passed through her lips.

For the first time in a very long time, Neal wished he could sketch. He hadn’t drawn anything in years, but he wanted to capture that feeling on a page. That moment of freedom.

Neal’s breath was caught in his throat when her attention was finally turned towards him. Despite the urge to look down in embarrassment, he continued to stare. The girl peered at him for a brief moment, before pointedly turning her gaze back to the ceiling. She didn’t ignore him for very long, but it felt like hours until her eyes slid back towards him. After a beat, she gave him a glare that seemed to say ‘What the hell are you looking at?’. That was enough to bring Neal’s attention to his shoes.

When he had the nerve to look up at her again, the girl was still staring at him. Neal felt bare beneath the intensity of her eyes, and he wondered if she could tell he didn’t belong there. Or maybe she was just as intrigued by him as he had been by her. Maybe they were both outsiders in this place.

They stood in silence, both watching the other while the bright ball continued at their backs.

The girl kept her eyes on him as she pushed herself from the pillar and started walking towards him. Neal was certain his heart would burst in his chest when she actually reached him. But she never got the chance to get that far. A hand latched onto hers, whirling her around and pulling her attention away from him.

And just like that, the spell he had been under snapped like a string pulled taught.

Some young aristocrat had a smarmy grin on his face and had the girl’s hand pressed to his lips. Neal couldn’t hear what he said, but he could see the muscles in the girl's back becoming tight and her free hand was balled up into a fist. After a brief exchange of words that Neal couldn’t make out, the noble dragged her toward the centre of the ballroom.

She didn’t look back.

Strangely, all the other dancers dispersed as the couple went straight for the centre of the dance floor. The young noble snapped his fingers to get the attention of the musicians and demanded that they play a waltz. The girl looked like she wanted to ram her elbow into his teeth.

“Who is that?” Neal asked aloud as the girl was pulled into a stiff dance. He hadn’t asked anyone in particular, but people in this type of crowd were always eager to impart gossip.

“The young Lord LeGume,” an older woman answered from behind her ornate fan. “A scheming little upstart who thinks he can charm his way into the royal quarters. He’s a scoundrel from what I hear. He deflowered the daughter of the Duke of the Frontlands, but he left the girl pregnant and disgraced. I suppose he has his eyes set on a much bigger prize.”

“What about the girl?” Neal asked the woman. She seemed knowledgeable and loose-tongued enough to give him the answer he actually wanted.

The woman seemed aghast by his question, looking at him as if he had grown another head.

“That is Princess Emma!” She said with her hand pressed to her bosom, shocked by his lack of awareness. “Were you raised out in the woods?”

The princess.

Neal felt his body seize up with mortification. He had been gaping at her like an idiot and had been stupid enough to think they had some sort of kinship. She had probably been marching over to him to slap him or order that he leave the castle or have him thrown in the dungeons for his rudeness.

“Well, it’s not as if she’s ever at court,” a different woman said in his defence. “No one ever has the opportunity to see her, let alone the ability to recognize her.”

“She’s quite a lovely thing,” an older man chimed in, watching as the princess was pulled in close by the Lord Legume. Neal could see her grimace as the young noble’s lips came close to her ear. “I wonder why the king and queen hide her from us.”

“I’ve heard that she’s is quite mad and they can only take her out for occasional outings.”

“Well, I’ve heard she was cursed by the Evil Queen.” The woman beside Neal whispered. “She becomes so hideous under the light of the sun that no one can stand to look at her.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll make a fine wife all the same,” the older man said, leering at the princess as the hand at her waist began to slide lower. “Plenty would take a mad or cursed princess for a kingdom this great. Besides, there’s no need to see her in the day. A wife’s main purpose is fulfilled in the bedroom after sundown.”

“Reginald! Honestly!”

Neal decided that he had his fill of the gentry for one night. He might as well escape this place while all these vultures were distracted by the princess and her groping suitor.

However, before he could take a single step towards the door, the music screeched to a halt and a collective gasp erupted from the crowd.

The princess had shoved the lord away from her, so hard that he stumbled back several steps. Whatever he had been whispering in her ear, it was enough to have the princess stop the dance before the song had ended. She was gritting her teeth and casting the boy with a livid glare so fierce that he flinched away from it. However, Princess Emma’s ferocity was not enough to stop Lord Legume from putting his foot in his mouth.

“They should keep a thing like you in a cage!” He screeched. “You're practically a rabid animal?”

Apparently, Neal had been right about one thing that night. Princess Emma really had wanted to ram her elbow into the other man’s teeth. There was a heavy thud as she forced the sharp corner of her elbow into Lord LeGume’s face. Blood gushed from his mouth as he fell back to the floor, while the princess rubbed her reddening arm.

In the heavy silence that fell over the ballroom, the sharp laugh that came out of Neal’s mouth seemed to echo.

Princess Emma paid no heed to the nobles, servants, and guards that stared at her in shock. She didn’t even look at the king and queen, who were sitting gobsmacked on their thrones. She simply marched out of the ballroom with her head high, shoving her way past the other guests.

Neal figured this was as good a time as ever to slip from the ballroom unnoticed.

xxx

The Serpent in the Garden

xxx

Emma didn’t stop running until she reached the palace gardens. Falling to her knees at the side of her favourite pool, she gathered the gossamer skirts of her gown into her fists. She wanted to rip the dress to shreds or punch more of those snotty sycophants in the teeth. Hot tears burned at the corners of her eyes as a scream of frustration ripped its way through her throat.

“Oh dear. Seems it’s not a very happy birthday to you.”

Emma whipped around to see who had invaded her place of refuge. Her heart jumped in her throat when she saw the lizard-skinned figure that stood behind her. The wide blackened grin and serpentine eyes caused a shiver to crawl up her spine. Emma had only seen him once when she was a child, but she would recognize him anywhere.

“Rumplestiltskin.”

#swanfire #ouat #swanthief #emma swan #baelfire #neal cassidy #sfweek2023 #nealfire #once upon a time #i completely missed swanfire week #but ive had this on the backburner for a while #worked hard on those gifs #Just a one shot for now cause writing is hard

26 notes · View notes