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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 1 year

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Fic: Swim

Read on Ao3

Fandom: The Last of Us (HBO)

Ship: Joel Miller x you (cishet f reader)

Tags/warnings: Yearning, Joel is bad at feelings and doesn't understand hints (or just chooses not to), female nudity, ogling.

Summary: You take a swim in a lake while Joel watches. That's it, that's the plot.

Words: 2,046

There's something about moving through the forest where nothing is heard except for the wind in the trees and the birds in the sky. The smell of moss and resin fills your nose, and the air is so clean it's almost making you high. The ground yields slightly under your boots, making it seem like you're floating forward. This is a far cry from the crowded quarantine zone with its downtrodden pavements and smell of dirty people. If you didn't have this, you would probably have put a gun to your own head a long time ago. But you do have this, and you greedily grab each and every opportunity to experience it.

Joel's breathing heavily behind you. The two of you have been walking for hours and even here, in the shade of the trees, it's a little too hot for comfort. Your hoodie is tied around your waist and you're in your t-shirt and jeans only. Joel's still soldiering on in his flannel. No wonder he's boiling.

Between the trees, you see something glimmer. Water? You stop and stare, Joel almost walking into you.

"Watch it," he grumbles, perhaps more to himself than to you. When he realizes that you're staring off into the distance, his hand goes to the gun at his side. You hold out your hand to let him know it's okay.

"Is that a lake?" you ask, pointing in the direction you're looking. With a deep exhale, Joel wipes the sweat from his brow before squinting.

"Looks like it."

"Let's go there."

"We're making good time," he objects, but you can see he wants a break.

"We're not expected back yet, and we need to rest," you point out. "I'm getting hungry."

"Alright," he agrees, and you lead the way, your feet even lighter now for knowing they're getting rest.

The lake is just as lovely as you hoped for: clear blue water, surrounded by forest and with cliffs on the opposite side, a family of swans swimming in the middle of it. You find a spot where willows grow right by the water, and their crowns serve as giant parasols as you go down to the water's edge. The water is refreshing but not too cold, and you exhale in a satisfied sigh as you splash some in your face. A light breeze comes in from the water, and you close your eyes against it, smiling as you forget the state of the world for just a moment.

Behind you, Joel groans quietly as he sits down on a small, flat rock and picks out rations from his pack. Biting into the tough jerky, he looks as morose as ever when you turn towards him.

"Lighten up, Miller," you can't help but tease him, "when was the last time you went on a picnic like this?"

"Who says I've ever been to one?" he glares. You shake your head and pick up a piece of dry meat from your backpack.

"That explains so much."

You turn your back against him and look over the waters. The swans, two parents and four gray babies.

"Swan babies are called cygnets, did you know that?" you ask, admiring the graceful birds.

"No."

"My mom taught me that. There was a park near where I grew up... there were swans there every summer..." Your voice trails off. You and Joel never talk about the past. And although it's been so long, you still miss your mother terribly. Thinking about what once was can be dangerous. It can make you long for something better, and there doesn't seem to be any light on the horizon.

"Swans mate for life, don't they?" Joel asks in a low voice that makes the hairs at the back of your neck rise. Nobody can drop down as many octaves as Joel when he speaks about things he really doesn't want to share - or when he's trembling with held back rage, fists tightly closed, ready to start swinging.

"Yeah," you confirm, your tongue suddenly a little thick in your mouth. "They mourn their dead partners, too."

He grunts something at that, and for a moment you are at a loss at to what to say or do. It has been clear to you for a long time that Joel cares about you, although it's easy to miss if you don't know him. But you do know him, or at least know something about him, and you know for sure that he wouldn't have been with you for such a long time unless he cared. The easy camaraderie you share may not be physical or affectionate, but it is one of the few good things you have in this world.

That, and the forest. And this beautiful lake with its clear, fresh water that glitters in the sunshine.

You become aware of how sweaty and dirty you are, and it's very easy to make up your mind.

"I'm going for a swim."

"What?" Joel raises a brow at you, and his chewing stops for a second.

"I'm going swimming," you articulate, bending down to untie your boots. Joel gets up, frowning in discontent at you kicking off your boots. You straighten your back and meet his gaze.

"It's not a good idea," he tells you.

"We're too far away for infected, and we haven't seen anyone here for days," you shrug. "It's just a quick swim. We're far more exposed when we sleep in the forest at night."

Joel can't argue with that, but he tries.

"There's other things out here to watch out for."

"What, Jaws?" you scoff as you untie the hoodie from around your waist, and throw it on the ground. Joel's grim face lets you know he's not amused, but it's too nice a day for you to get into a scowling match with his grumpy ass.

You pull down your jeans, and he averts his eyes.

"It's not safe," he insists.

"You're here, aren't you?" you point out, your voice a little more subdued now. He glances at you before looking to the side again.

"We should get going." His objections are getting thinner and thinner.

"You are more than welcome to walk on," you shrug before pulling your t-shirt over your head. "I can take care of myself. You dont have to wait for me."

"I know - " He turns back to you and notices that you are, in fact, quite naked. Your panties are in a heap at your feet, and you're stepping out of them. His gaze is burning on your bare skin and you bite into your lower lip as you raise your chin.

"You sure you don't want to come into the water?" you ask him quietly. Joel tears his eyes from your body, finding your gaze again. He swallows, and that tiny crack in his composure is all the encouragement you need.

"Or maybe you want to watch?" you add, a little leery, but a tremble runs through you body as you realize that you are flirting. And Joel is not scoffing, not looking at you with contempt, not running away. He kicks a little at the ground, almost looking at you sideways, but his eyes are glued to the ground.

"Go ahead, then. But make it quick."

The water is wonderfully cool and you wade out slowly, testing your footing for each step. The bottom is rocky, but most of the stones have been smoothed flat, and almost slippery with seaweed. When your thighs are steeped, you lean forward, push off with your feet, and glide through the water. You gasp at the initial coldness but your body quickly becomes used to the temperature. Your strokes are first slightly clumsy, unaccostumed to swimming as you are, but your muscles quickly remember how to do it.

"Don't go too far out," Joel calls from the shore. So he is watching. You glance back to catch his eye, but he's busy scanning the surroundings.

The joy of taking a nice swim on a hot summer's day is not diminished, so you turn around, treading water, and call back: "Come on, Miller, don't be a landlubber! You can swim, right?"

He looks at you then, face resting in the shade of the willow, eyes scrunched up against the glitter on the surface of the lake. You wish he could let the his face relax, just for a little while, just for a moment so that you could see what he looked like before the world as you knew it ended, on a sunny day by a forest lake, with friends and family, maybe lovers, or by himself, perhaps fishing, just enjoying life...

"I can swim, but I won't if you get yourself in a situation," he now warns you, and you sigh. Sourpuss.

"The water is really nice..." you tempt him, floating on your back and wiggling your toes at him. He crosses his arms over his chest, gesturing a finality that you just don't feel like arguing with. There's a part of you that is angry with him for being so uncompromisable, but you can't blame him for being who he is. If he wasn't who he was, he might not be alive, he might not be the one who protects you, he might not even be here with you.

You dive, arms and legs carrying you back towards the shore, and resurface, drawing air into your lungs. Now Joel is staring at you, as if your disappearing underneath the surface wasn't of your own volition. His shoulders sink a little when he sees that you're okay. Your feet touch the rocky bottom and you stand up, the water reaching you to your chest. Slowly, you make your way to the shore, your eyes fixed on Joel's. Your nipples knot under his scrutiny, and when the water reaches halfway up your thighs, his gaze drops to the dark triangle fully visible above the water. Your skin has cooled off but heat begins to pool deep inside your belly, traveling up your spine before dripping down between your legs. You don't stop until you're standing right in front of him, blinking droplets from your lashes, lips parted to let your excited exhales escape.

Joel rakes his eyes over your wet body, takes it in like no one has in years, like you had never imagined him capable of, and you have often imagined him as a man of a significant amount of talents. You don't shrink under his scrutiny, quite the opposite: you relish it. You want him to worship you with his eyes, take his fill, feast on you until looking is no longer enough.

He raises his hand, that rough, large hand that has pulled countless triggers, hurt innumerable people. You're not afraid, you've never been afraid of him. Palm up and fingers slightly bent, his hand is moving almost in slow motion towards you, to touch your breast. You wait, heart skipping several beats, and you almost flinch when his calloused palm brushes against your soft flesh.

Something rustles in the shrubbery behind Joel, who reacts in a split second. With one smooth move, he has pulled his gun, spun around, and is pointing the gun at the edge of the forest. Your legs shake as you take a step back to get closer to your backpack, where your gun is. But before you get to take it out, the lower branches of a bush nod, and a rabbit hops forward.

You both stare at the damn critter like you've ever seen one before. Eventually, Joel lowers his gun.

"Fuck."

You exhale in a strained chuckle. "Shoot it, we'll have dinner."

The rabbit, however, has already fled at the sound of human voices, and Joel is clicking the safety back on his gun before he puts it away. Without turning around, he tells you in a tight voice to get dressed.

"I want to be back before nightfall."

Fighting to control your trembling hands, you slowly get dressed and grab your pack. Stomping past Joel, you swing the bag widely onto your back. It slams into his arm, but you don't apologize.

He never apologized for bruising your heart, so why should you apologize for trying to protect it?

#the last of us fanfic #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #my fic

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velidewrites · 10 months

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To get back what the Cauldron has taken from her, Elain Archeron makes a deal with Prythian’s most dangerous enemy.

Now, a servant of a cruel Death God, Elain must make sure her efforts are not discovered—especially not by someone tied to her darkening heart by a golden thread.

Someone like her mate.

Notes: My humble offering for @elucienweekofficial. This fic is a post-ACOSF story — and very close to my heart as it’s based on the very first one-shot I’ve ever written.

Tags: Post-ACOSF, Canon Compliant, NSFW

Read on AO3 || Chapter 1 || Masterlist

Chapter 4 - Fill Me With Your Poison

He came to her in a dream.

Every night, she would go to bed empty and wake up unchanged—would wake up to find out none of this had been some vile, cruel nightmare. It was simply…real.

The War had wrecked the last of it—her old life. For weeks after the Darkness, Elain wasted and wasted away—the visions consumed her, each one worse than the other. They pulled her back into the murky waters or burned her hands under a scorching fire; they cuffed her wrists in heavy chains or set her free, dirty and naked as she fell to the cold ground. She hurt, deeply and thoroughly, but the only lifeline that had ever appeared was that shimmering, golden thread as it offered to lead her into the light.

Elain had not once reached for it. Her hand felt heavy every time she’d lifted it, unable to reach the only thing that could ever save her. Something weighed on it, solid and cold—an iron ring wrapped around her finger, a reminder that she had lost and it was only fair that she’d lost herself too.

There was no going back. Rhysand had told her this gently shortly after they’d arrived, her nightgown still wet and clinging to her trembling body. To her limbs, longer and somehow more lithe now than they’d ever been. Even broken, she could feel the strength thrumming within her muscles, compelling her to move the mountains and shake the earth. To use it to fight, to set every last one of her instincts on alert, to get Feyre back and avenge everyone that had ever hurt Elain and her family.

Elain had never been a warrior. It’s what Feyre had become, though only after seeing her rampage in front of the King, Elain had realised that perhaps a warrior was what her sister had always been. Elain did not want to rage, did not want to avenge—she wanted to go home and live the life she’d been meant to live.

But that home hadn’t welcomed her back.

I am not marrying you, it had said. I will take whatever people occupy your lands. But not you. Never you.

With Father gone, and her fiancé despising what she’d become, Elain was left with no one—no link back to the life she wanted, only the visions showing her the life she would have. A bird soaring in the sky, its cries of pain carried through the wind. A lake, deep within the forest, dozens of swans floating atop it, all covered in the stench of rotten earth. A box, built from a hardened onyx, resting beneath the murky waters, singing an ancient, eerie song.

It was when she saw the box that he found her. He inhaled the fresh, salty scent of the tears she’d stained the pillow with night after night as though they were the sweetest nectar, a smile slowly curling the corners of his lips. He stood by her bed, but Elain knew he wasn’t there, not truly—her gaze was clouded by a fog, thick and oozing that dark, mouldy scent. Like he’d just stepped out of a lake.

Elain was not afraid—he was only a vision, after all—though she paled at the sight of him. He looked like a man—like a male, she reminded herself bitterly—but there was no denying the creature that must’ve lurked beneath his handsome face. He was handsome—his earth-black hair curling at the nape of his neck, a singular, silver streak swept back from his face. Sharp, high cheekbones and a thin mouth, as though perpetually tightened to keep his secrets inside where they belonged; pale skin, like a swan’s coat, and, finally, the most hypnotising of his features: his eyes, narrowed silently on her, shining a rich, mossy green.

She waited for him to speak—waited for his voice to dim into the fog, they way all voices had in her visions: always trying to tell her something, yet never patient enough to truly let her hear. But the male stood by her bed watching her curiously, head tilted an inch to the left as though he could not quite figure out how, exactly, he should look at her.

Elain sat up, pressing two fingers to her stinging cheeks, still raw from the salt she’d cried out before sleep enveloped her at last. “Who are you,” she whispered, the words not quite a question—as if, deep down, Elain already knew the answer.

His smile grew.

“Tell me your name,” she said louder, though her body shrank into itself as she realised that, vision or not, this male could probably kill her if he only pleased.

But then he stepped back into the fog, his figure melting back into the dark mist, leaving only that scent and the silky sound of his voice as he told her, “All in good time, my sweet.” The room sounded with laughter. “All in good time.”

After he’d left, Elain slept peacefully through the rest of the night.

The nightmares returned all too soon, though, Graysen’s face tormenting her ruthlessly as he repeated the words over and over in her head. I don’t want you. Not you. Never you.

He would not take her as she was—as the lie she’d become.

Gray, she sobbed back to him as she slept, it’s still me. This life, this body—I want you. It’s always been you.

Take that ring off, he said, not hearing her at all.

Elain refused him every time.

The rotten male returned when she was taken. They’d put her in chains, just as her visions had warned her but she never understood, too lost in the fog. The ice-cold metal—iron, she’d realised, an irony that nearly brought her to tears—burned her skin, leaving it raw and stinging as if she’d been put under the Cauldron’s lethal waters again. She kneeled, waiting for something—anything—to help her. And he listened.

“Look at you,” he murmured, as though the sight of her captured brought him pain. He dropped to one knee in front of her, a phantom knuckle brushing her cheek. Elain shivered. “Who dared?”

Elain rasped, “You know who.”

He hummed, her answer apparently what he’d been hoping for. “The wind may call you the Cauldron’s blessed, but earth whispers of your torment, Elain Archeron.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

He smiled sadly. “And I hear every word.”

Elain looked deep into his green eyes. “What do you want from me?” she asked, because there had to have been something. He’d sought her out for a reason, or perhaps her vision had invited him in—but, Elain realised as he calmly returned her stare, his reasons hardly mattered. He was here, when everyone else was not. She was no longer alone.

The male said, “I only wish to give your heart what it longs for.”

“I have no heart,” Elain whispered. “Not anymore.”

He chuckled, as if the horrible words amused him. “You think you died, Elain, but if there is one thing in this world I know, it is Death. And, I can assure you, it has not found you yet.”

Elain felt it, then—that thing thrumming under his skin, the creature she knew she’d Seen before but had never truly reached. It sang the same melody the onyx box had—old and yet familiar, something she knew she would greet one day at the very end.

A low purr sounded in his chest, as if he’d heard the snapping sound of her realisation in his own head. “Say it.”

“You are a Death God,” Elain breathed, a term she’d heard from her sister once but hoped she would never have to hear again.

He looked delighted. “My name is Koschei, and I am Deathless. I come not from this world, Elain, but all the worlds beyond it, and their powers flows through my veins.” He smoothed a hand over her wrist, the heavy chain around it suddenly light at his touch. “I can help you.”

Elain swallowed. “I am beyond help.”

“Perhaps to your High Fae friends. Or even your captivating sister,” he mused, briefly gazing off to the distance, as if all his plans laid there waiting. Then, Koschei looked at her again. “But not to me.”

Elain froze, the very air in her lungs hardening into ice.

The Death God smiled. “I can give you what you wish for, Elain,” he said. “I can give you everything.”

“How,” she managed to choke out.

His palm covered her own, and Elain’s chest fell with a breath, the touch resembling burying her hands into soil. There was a time when Elain had gardened—even in their time of struggle, in the most vicious poverty, she would find ways to plant seeds of hope in the small square of land by the cottage. But then Elain had drowned, the earth too damaged, too ruined to ever invite hope inside it again.

But now, Elain had this. Him.

Perhaps she could garden again.

“I’m going to need your help, little Seer,” Koschei murmured, his mossy eyes still fixed on the iron cuff on her wrist. “And when your destiny is fulfilled, I shall offer you all that the Cauldron has so brutally taken. I shall offer all that you deserve.”

Elain sucked in a breath.

Koschei met her gaze. “I shall give you your humanity back.”

He rose to his feet, that fog thickening around him again. “Wait!” Elain called after him, desperation building in her chest. “What must I do?”

He only smiled. “I will see you soon, Elain Archeron.” He looked over his shoulder, a flicker of disdain flashing through his features before he looked at her again. “Fear not, my sweet. Help is coming.”

When her sister stormed in with the shadowsinger, Elain realised Koschei was right.

Help was coming, she thought, looking at her wrist, free from its chains long before the two of them arrived.

And then, Elain could finally live.

———

Feyre studied the map, dread continuing to build in her chest. Her finger grazed the small mark pinned to the northern territory indicating Windhaven, the war camp well-hidden between the mountains, never to be spotted by the untrained eye. The tattoos atop her skin swirled at the touch, as though they, too, could somehow sense the unease building underneath the perpetually frozen ground.

Nesta had just winnowed away, her usually guarded expression replaced by the same emotion Feyre couldn’t seem to shake. Cassian remained, his tall, broad frame leaned over the parchment as he looked up to meet her gaze. “Rhys?”

“He’ll agree,” Feyre said without a shadow of a doubt. “It’s not Rhys that’s the issue.”

Cassian grunted his agreement. “Will he be back by nightfall?” The Illyrian Steppes laid on the other end of their court—as far away from Velaris as possible, perhaps—but it wasn’t distance that posed the problem for her mate, but the warlords, seemingly as intent on a civil war as their counterparts in the mountains.

Feyre opened her mouth when she felt it.

The bond gleamed in her chest like starlight, twinkling softly as the sky began to darken. The scent of citrus and sea salt infused the evening air, and Feyre took in a deep, deep breath.

He was home.

“I hope you didn’t miss me too much,” Rhys said, entering the study, though the smile he flashed them both did not meet his eyes. Feyre reached out to squeeze his hand, and Rhys pulled her in to his body, pressing a warm kiss to her temple.

She placed a hand on his cheek. Are you okay?

Rhys brushed his fingers through her hair, watching as it fell down her back in soft waves. I am now.

Cassian offered them a strained smile. “Bad?”

“Bad,” Rhys agreed, stepping forward to examine the map himself. “But the good news is, they will not make the first move—unless Devlon provokes them, I suppose.”

The Night Court’s General frowned. “How did you manage that?”

Rhys only smiled, his thumb brushing the back of Feyre’s palm. “I wish I was able to do more.” Her chest hurt as he looked at her, violet eyes dim. “What did Nesta say?”

Cassian huffed a laugh. “She wants to go fight the warlords themselves.”

Rhys chuckled.

“I told her,” Feyre started, “to send Azriel instead.”

Her mate let out a long, long breath. “I see.”

“You don’t agree?” Feyre asked, more curious than anything else.

“Oh, I do,” Rhys said. “But it’s not my agreement you should be worried about.”

As if unable to help himself, Cassian chuckled. “You and Feyre seem to be of one mind.”

Rhys smiled at that, some of the usual light returning to his gaze. “That we are.”

Feyre turned to Cassian. “I think we should also send Gwyn.”

A glimmer of surprise passed down the bond. “Oh?”

Feyre explained, “She’s a Carynthian, is she not? And a Valkyrie.” Rhys nodded, something like understanding beginning to appear on his face. “I can’t possibly imagine a better fit.”

“I would agree,” Cassian said, his voice tight, “But Devlon despises her—and so do the rest of the warlords.” His eyes seemed to darken at that. “I don’t know if sending Gwyn could do us any good at this time.”

Feyre shrugged. “Perhaps she’ll see it fit to dispose of the problem, then. Good riddance.”

“Indeed,” Rhys said, his laughter shimmering down the bond. Feyre smiled.

“I will speak to her, then,” Cassian declared. “But if she doesn’t agree, Azriel will have to go alone.”

Feyre hummed. “Something tells me that she will. And if she does, I have no doubt Azriel will, too.”

Cassian snickered. “You have no idea how right you are,” he said, then looked out to the garden, already veiled in shadows from the falling night. “I’ll see you both tomorrow—unless…” he hesitated. “Unless there’s anything else?”

Rhys clapped his shoulder. “Go home, brother. We can worry about everything else later.”

Cassian nodded—and with that, he was gone, the sound of his wings cutting through the air echoing into the room.

Rhys stayed quiet until it faded. “Bed?”

Feyre sighed, a sudden wave of tiredness washing over her at the question. “Please.”

They walked upstairs hand in hand, Feyre silently inviting him into her mind, letting her mind drift as her mate watched her memory of the meeting. She could feel how tense he was from the way his back stiffened, powerful muscles shifting under a simple, black jacket. The one thing the Illyrian warlords had in common, it seemed, was the apparent distaste for unnecessary pomp.

What do you think? she asked him when he was done.

His chest heaved with a breath. I think I’d like to lay in bed with you and not think about it for a while.

Thank the Mother.

Rhys chuckled. After you, High Lady.

The night had not yet even fallen, but sleep threatened to swallow her whole as soon as Feyre’s back hit the soft blankets of their bed. How was your day? Rhys asked, lying down next to her, and she shifted to accommodate his large wings. Other than the civil war looming over our heads? she asked. It was fine. Although… she sighed, letting her eyes close for a moment. I worry about Elain.

Oh?

Finding a Dread Trove is no easy task, Feyre argued. And I know Nesta had managed it, but…I don’t know. She had training.

There are other ways to gain strength, my love, he said with an emotion that made her chest full. She rolled over to her side, finding Rhys already facing her, his eyes gleaming slightly as their gazes locked.

I know. After a while, she added, I’m glad she’ll have Lucien with her.

I’m not sure if either of them would agree.

Feyre huffed. Probably not. But this is more progress than any of them have made in over two years. Elain hasn’t even left the Night Court save for the human lands during the War. And Lucien…I feel like he’s everywhere, and yet somehow never where he’s supposed to be.

Rhys considered her words with a low hum that seemed to take root in her very bones. Playing matchmaker again, Feyre darling?

She traced a finger over his wing, making him shudder at the contact. Maybe.

He took her hand, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Don’t worry about Elain. I’m sure the Day Court will hold the answers we all need—and perhaps some of the answers she herself is looking for. He closed his eyes, as though sleep had begun to slowly tug at him, too. And when the Trove is found, we’ll be ready.

Do you really think the Trove will help us kill Koschei?

Gwyn said the ancient Seers used it to find answers in the future. I can’t imagine anything more helpful to us right now.

He was right—if Elain had somehow managed to find the Bone, there was a chance for this war to be prevented entirely. Stopping Beron would be one thing, but a Death God—not even Prythian united as one could stop Koschei with their weapons alone. There had to be something—anything—and perhaps the future held the answers.

She was so lost in thought she hadn’t noticed Rhys was staring at her again. I thought you fell asleep, she told him.

Rhys’s question surprised her entirely. Do you think we should tell Lucien?

Feyre stilled. You mean…?

Yeah.

I…don’t think so. No, she decided. Not while Beron is still alive.

Helion? Rhys asked.

He’d probably invoke the Blood Duel.

That’s an Autumn Court tradition, Rhys reminded her.

Feyre shrugged. I think he would see it fitting.

Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Beron needs to die—and quickly. He added, I’ll contact Eris in the morning. He should know—perhaps not the whole extent of it, but whatever we can tell him. His help might come in handy if… If there was another war. If all their lives were to be put at risk again.

Feyre sighed. I hope Elain knows what she’s gotten herself into.

———

Elain was breathless.

She had never seen a flying horse before—a Pegasus, as Lucien had explained to her on the way, though now that she’d seen one, Lucien’s description hardly seemed to do it justice. The beast was at least double the size of the horses she’d once ridden back home. With Graysen.

She quickly dismissed the memory, cataloguing it for later. She would often shuffle through them before she slept, allowing her mind to wander into the future when she could finally do it all again. She’d imagine herself on Graysen’s doorstep, her ears round and skin flushed, watching as his eyes widened in shock. You’re back, Elain, he would say, his mouth agape. You came back to me.

Soon, Elain thought, then looked back up to the sky.

The chestnut-coloured Pegasus was the High Lord’s favourite stallion’s, Meallan’s, mate. Elain watched as the beast proudly roamed the clouds, wondering how liberating it might feel to be so close to the sun. The horse neighed softly, as though in confirmation—as though it had somehow heard her words from above.

Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, she tore her gaze off the sky—only to find Lucien staring openly at her, his eyes shining and lips parted slightly as he took her in.

“What?” she asked, the question coming out a tad more rudely than she’d intended.

Lucien didn’t seem to mind. “You’re smiling,” he said quietly.

Elain smothered it quickly. “It is improper to stare, you know.”

He cleared his throat, as if a veil had just been lifted from his mind. “You will find in our time here, lady, that I am many things—and proper is certainly not one of them.” There was an insinuation to his words, an air of promise that made her heart quicken, the golden creature inside her stirring to life and begging to play.

Elain gritted her teeth. “Stop calling me that.”

Lucien, the bastard, ginned. “Seems to me like being improper might just be the one thing we have in common.”

“We have nothing in common,” she told him tightly. Lucien’s smile only broadened, and he opened his mouth, a retort no doubt ready on his tongue when a rich, smooth voice sounded behind them, wrapping itself around Elain’s skin.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” Helion Spell-Cleaver said, sunlight dancing in his golden eyes. “Emissaries.”

Lucien turned to face the High Lord, offering a brief nod. “Just guests,” he corrected, making Helion smile.

Elain had heard about the male from stories, but seeing him up close seemed to have even more of an effect. Helion Spell-Cleaver was, to be put quite simply, the sun personified, its light seemingly carrying his every step. She had no doubt those warm, golden rays coiled beneath his dark skin, thrumming gently with the kind of power that she’d only ever felt from Rhysand, ancient and passed down through generations, each one stronger than the other.

As welcoming as he appeared, the High Lord’s eyes remained sharp as they descended upon Elain. Her skin seemed to tingle under his assessment—and Elain stiffened as realisation slammed into her like a solid rock.

Helion’s power was the study of the very magic itself. There was little in his title to be left to interpretation—he cleaved spells, even those oldest and most complex, by feeling the various cords of magic lying beneath the surface and cutting through them, one by one. To Elain, it only meant one thing.

She was in danger.

If Helion could break the spells, he could surely detect them, too—which meant that the bargain she’d struck…

Elain stopped moving entirely.

“May I introduce you,” Lucien said to Helion, pulling her out of her haze, “to Elain Archeron.”

Helion stepped in closer, an easy smile still playing on his handsome features. “I’d be lying if I said I have not been waiting to meet you,” he told her, reaching to plant a courtier’s kiss on her hand, “Lady Elain.”

Lucien’s answering smile was a thing of mockery. “Oh, trust me—she is no lady.”

Helion pulled back, brows high with amusement and a somewhat incredulous expression. It was then that another fact she’d omitted came into Elain’s mind.

Everyone knew what Elain was to Lucien, and what Lucien was to her. An ill-fated match, two people tied to each other by some cruel joke.

Mates.

Lucien seemed to realise it, too, because he composed himself quickly, supposedly not ready to answer questions neither he nor Elain did not have the answers to themselves. Ever the emissary, he slipped into another topic with ease, “I assume you received my letter, then?”

Helion turned to him. “I did. My libraries are at your disposal, as they’ve always been for our allies at, ah…” His gaze swept over their unlikely pair, “the Night Court,” he finished with a smile.

It could not have been more ironic. The two of them looked nothing like Night’s envoys, none of the court’s usual sparkly fabrics and glinting jewels in sight. Elain had opted for a corseted dress—a terrible choice, she understood as quickly as she’d arrived—but it was so much like the gowns she’d used to wear back…back then. It only seemed fitting that, in a place meant to hold all the answers she was seeking, she ought to bring a piece of her old self with her. Now, though, with her hair pinned up and her gown making every single one of her breaths fall flat, Elain just looked…out of place.

Lucien, on the other hand, seemed to have prepared exceptionally well.

Had she not been avoiding him like the plague, Elain might have even asked him for advice. Lucien, to give him credit for something, had been dressed immaculately every time she’d seen him—which, by her own fault, had perhaps not been too often, but enough for Elain to decide if there was one good thing about the male she had no interest in, it was decidedly his fashion sense.

His usual fitted jacket had been replaced by a sleeveless tunic of a gleaming ivory, parts of it tucked in lazily into long, flowy pants of the same colour. The V-like shape cut the fabric down to his chest, revealing a golden-brown chest sculpted just as ridiculously as his arms—strong and muscled, and shimmering softly under the sunlight. His typical boots, modelled excellently for hunting, had been replaced too—a pair of golden sandals in their place, just barely visible under the pants flowing with his every step.

Combining comfort with elegance was clearly the fashion standard in Day—with its High Lord, too, draped in loose garments of white, the only difference being the hems lined with a vibrant, sapphire thread that brought out the shade of his kohl-lined eyes. She suddenly felt warm, a new heat rising to her cheeks—she’d never been known to fail when it came to such occasions. She suddenly felt like a little girl again, nine years old and overflowing with her mother’s too-long pearl necklaces as she’d sneak into her evening balls.

She wanted nothing more than to be shown to her chamber—where, hopefully, she could ask the staff if anything could be prepared for her last-minute—and go to bed in preparation for the day ahead.

Except, as she now noticed, the sun was still shining through the open archways carved into the walls of Helion’s palace, warm and golden, eager to play with her every step as the High Lord began leading them from the gates and through the main hallway.

“How is it still day here?” she asked him curiously.

Helion waved a hand, summoning the same bright light that poured in—a miniature sun of its own, glistening in the palm of his hand. She could’ve sworn she heard Lucien mutter a prayer to the Mother beside her—something about the High Lords and Cauldron-damned show-offs—though Helion did not seem to heave heard as he explained, “While the Solar Courts adhere to the laws of nature, we at the Day Court like to hoard our sunlight for a little longer.”

“You’re the one keeping the sun up?” Elain asked, unable to wrap her head around the magnitude of such power. Helion hummed, apparently thoroughly pleased with her surprise. “My ancestors have been doing it for millennia—it is only fair that I keep up the tradition. It’s quite simple once you get the hang of it, really. I’ve been able to hold the sun for about an hour longer before I ascended my father’s throne.”

Lucien rolled his eyes.

“You must hold great power,” Elain praised, if only to aggravate him further. Helion’s mouth curled, and he opened his mouth when—

“Thank you for having us in your home,” Lucien cut in, Helion’s golden eyes flickering to him curiously. “It’s been a while since I’ve last been here.”

“Indeed,” the High Lord angled his head, dark hair spilling over his shoulder. “I hear you’ve been keeping to the human lands. Such a shame your allies could not make it here today.”

“The Wall has not been down for long enough,” Lucien said calmly, though she’d caught a hint of a strain in his voice. “Their trust will need to be earned.”

Helion hummed his agreement. “Perhaps tomorrow will be a good start.”

The sunlit hallway of pale, luminous stone led them to what Elain could only assume was the guest wing, large enough to fit in the entire River House judging by its impressive size. It seemed only fair, she supposed, given that the palace was not only the High Lord’s primary residence—but the home to his grand library, where scholars from all over the world would travel to to seek the precious knowledge it offered.

They stopped in front of a tall, ornate door when Helion said, “I’ve taken the liberty of assigning you adjoining rooms. Though,” he added, his brows high as he looked between them, “if there are any complications, do let me know at breakfast tomorrow. If you’ll care to join me, of course.”

Lucien nodded, Elain parroting the movement. She supposed she had no choice.

Helion looked at Lucien. “I understand this is a matter of discretion—you were impressively vague in your letter, well done,” he added at Lucien’s arched brow, “so I did not request for a scholar to assist you in your research. I must say, though, that the topic of your investigation has piqued my interest immensely, and I would be more than happy to discuss your ah, findings afterwards.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Lucien added dryly, which, for some reason, had only made Helion smirk.

“Of course you will,” he said smoothly. “I think you will find, Lucien Vanserra, that my knowledge could be of great use to you. What’s a little trust among friends, after all?” winked.

“Are you suggesting you might have a lead for us, Helion?” Elain asked, the High Lord’s gaze twinkling at the question.

“I’m suggesting I might be able to help you get started—if you trust me enough to share what it is precisely that you’re after.”

“Alright,” Lucien said, resting a casual hand on the golden doorknob to their chambers. “Perhaps you could help me with a personal question of my own, then.”

Elain stilled.

“Is it pertinent to your current research?” Helion asked.

“No,” Lucien said, though there was something about the quickness of the dismissal that made Elain doubt the word. “I simply want to see if your knowledge truly is as…impressive as you lead us to believe. Trust goes both ways, does it not, High Lord?”

Helion smiled openly now. “I always knew I liked you.”

Lucien’s answering smile was tight. “Perhaps, after all of this, I’ll be able to share the sentiment.”

Helion shook his head with a chuckle. “Ask away, son. I am incredibly curious to learn the nature of your problem.”

Lucien frowned, apparently not entirely sure what to make of the nickname. Still, he continued, “There is…an object.”

Elain’s eyes widened slightly. Was he…?

“An old family heirloom,” he clarified, a lie so blatant Elain knew with unwavering certainty what, exactly, Lucien was talking about. Even Helion’s brow flicked up, perhaps surprised at the idea of the one and only Lucien Vanserra, Autumn son in exile, keeping a remnant of his family history.

Lucien continued, “It has been…charmed,” he said. “Sealed—and impossible to open.”

Elain’s heart thrummed in her chest. The box.

Lucien had the box.

The one thing she’d been after—the price Koschei had asked for all those months ago when he’d found her in Hybern’s war camp—the same thing that Vassa had stolen, was now in the possession of none other than her mate.

Why do you need it? Elain had asked once, her own visions unable to provide the answer.

It is the key to my power, Koschei purred into her dream, caressing. It holds the thing that’s most precious to me, locked away by my siblings in a pathetic attempt to stifle me. My very soul, he said. Take it from my firebird thief and bring it back to my lake—and I shall return what was once lost to you.

Steal? she breathed. You want me to steal your soul from Vassa?

My firebird took it from me as I liberated her from the bounds of my lake, he said, a new, pulsing anger creeping into his tone. It is how she had repaid me for my good graces. Bring it to me, little Seer, he added, that voice softening as he crooned, and you will be human again.

“Have you tried your fire magic?” Helion’s question took her out of the memory. “If it’s a family heirloom, I would imagine a magic specific to your ancestry to be the key.”

Lucien chewed on his lip, Elain’s eyes now trailing the movement as she waited for his next lie, “The magic that bound it is…different. Ancient.” He took in a breath. “I can only speculate, but my guess is that it was done by an external magic, done to spite whoever owned it at the time.”

Helion’s gaze drifted, the High Lord deep in thought. “It is cursed, then” he mused lowly, Lucien tightly nodding his confirmation. “Bring it to my study,” he told him. “I will have look at it first thing tonight.”

Elain wasn’t sure she was breathing. Had Lucien brought the box here with him? A new hope filled her chest, replacing the fear her ticking clock had installed deep inside her, even louder now that she’d been made to leave the manor.

But Lucien was already shaking his head. “Out of the question. The object is not with me at the moment.”

Shit.

“I’m afraid a curse like that could only be cleaved under my magic’s scrutiny,” Helion said earnestly, disappointment already shadowing his features. Something told her the High Lord enjoyed this—the research, the mystery—saw it as a form of art, even. “Ancient magic had been known to only react to the power my line and I have been fortunate to possess.”

Something lit up deep in the corner of her mind, the same one she’d been ignoring ever since she had become Fae. Something that pushed itself onto her tongue before she could even think to stop it. “That’s not entirely true,” Elain spoke up.

Both males’ gaze flickered to her in surprise.

“That night,” Elain explained, casting a quick glance at Lucien, who stiffened immediately—as though the bond itself had told him what she spoke of. “In Hybern’s castle, you freed yourself from his chains. To—” her throat strained. “To get to me.”

Lucien only looked at her, and Elain realised this was the very first time either of them truly spoke of that night. She returned his stare, wishing but unable to look away, like a light pulling a ship to shore.

She was going to retract her statement—tell them she’d simply gotten confused and disappear into the darkness of her chamber—when Helion spoke again, his voice strangely quiet, “Explain it to me.”

Elain peeled her eyes off of Lucien, seemingly frozen in that utterly Fae sort of stillness, and looked at Helion. “I…may be blurry on the details. But I remember the King leashing Lucien and Tamlin to the ground by a strange, white-hot magic. And then…” and then they’d dragged her under. Elain was not going to speak of this now. “All I remember is a loud snap—and a flare of light. And then Lucien was beside me.”

“What…did the magic look like?” Helion asked carefully, and Elain frowned.

“I—bright. Iridescent,” she added, feeling a little stupid at the lack of knowledge she’d just revealed. Feyre would’ve remembered the exact shape—the scent, the shape it had taken—and painted it afterwards. Elain loosed a breath. “It felt warm. It…it shimmered on his skin,” she added quietly, praying that, in his strange daze, Lucien did not somehow hear her despite standing a mere two feet beside her.

Helion’s face was unreadable as he looked at Elain, unblinking. Then at Lucien, his gaze resting on his scarred face for a long, long time.

“Is there…something wrong?” Elain asked slowly.

The High Lord of Day twitched—actually twitched as he turned to her again. “This…” he cleared his throat, shaking off a strange raspiness that had found its way into his throat. “This is more complicated than I thought. I’m afraid,” he gave her a sympathetic smile before glancing at Lucien again, “I’m going to have to…research this further.”

Elain looked at Lucien, who blinked as she met his stare, a similar clarity returning into his own. He coughed before he said to Helion, “Take your time.”

Helion nodded. “In the meantime…the library is yours to use. Have a pleasant evening—the sun will be setting soon.”

Elain watched with a frown as he hurried away, his steps echoing quietly through the corridor. Only when they faded away did Elain turn to Lucien. “What was—”

But Lucien had already disappeared into their chambers, he, too, seemingly eager to forget about everything and let sleep welcome him at last.

Elain sighed at the thought. It would appear sleep would not come for her as easily.

Not when, as she made way towards her adjoining room, her steps were carried by the sound of his heart, beating rapidly through the stone.

Elucien Week Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @labellefleur-sauvage @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

#elucienweek2023 #elucien #pro elucien #elain x lucien #elain archeron #elain acotar #lucien vanserra #lucien acotar #elucien fic #elucien fanfic #elucien fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #my writing

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santmat · 5 months

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We Are Heavenly Swans (Hansas) Journeying Back to the Beloved

"He, who carries on the practice of the true Sound, Beholds the Truth from the beginning to the end within his body. By realizing the true Sound with rapt attention, He attains the status of a pure swan. Such a devotee reaches the Immortal Abode, And there he sees mysterious and wondrous sights." (Sant Dariya Sahib)

My Commentary: The image of the swan is used in poetry and hymns of Sants to represent the soul, a heavenly being of Light, a hamsa. In Sant Mat Mysticism the hamsa or hansa is a soul that has been baptised in the Lake of Nectar and finds Its Original Nature restored — then it continues it’s upward ascent eventually reaching the Fifth Plane or Sat Lok. The Sants (souls have that reached the Fifth Plane or Above and are in Union with God) have composed, and continue to compose, descriptions of the Inner Regions, usually in the form of hymns (kirtans, banis, bhajans) and mystic-poems, including about hansas in Sat Lok or Sach Khand (True Eternal Realm of Timeless Pure Spirit). We are all hansas or hansas-to-be as we journey back to the Beloved, the Ocean of Love and Oneness.

We are destined to become Hansas — Birds of Heaven

A Hansa is…

Hansa: A white swan; esoterically, a soul purified by Shabd [the Holy Stream of Light and Sound]. In Indian spiritual literature, a hansa is symbolic of grace and purity; it is believed that the natural drink of a swan is milk or nectar (amrit), and its natural food is pearls, diamonds and rubies, which signify Shabd. It is further believed that the beak of a swan has the unique ability to drink milk (nectar) after filtering out the dirty water or poison of maya with which it is mixed. As long as a soul is conditioned by karma and dominated by mind and matter, it is an ugly crow. Its transformation into a swan begins in Daswan Dwar, where, in the process of its spiritual enlightenment, it sheds its gross coverings. The process culminates in Sach Khand, the region of immortality. Soami Ji generally refers to all souls in Daswan Dwar and beyond as hansas, but he has also occasionally used the term for devoted disciples who are on their way to becoming swans.

O Swan-Soul, Where Are You Going?

Swan, I’d like you to tell me your whole story! Where you first appeared, and what dark sand you are going toward, and where you sleep at night, and what you are looking for…

It’s morning, swan, wake up, climb in the air, follow me! I know of a country that spiritual flatness does not control, — nor constant depression, and those alive are not afraid to die. There, wildflowers come up through the leafy floor, and the fragrance of “I am He” floats on the wind.

There the bee of the heart stays deep inside the flower, and cares for no other thing.

-- Version by Robert Bly, The Kabir Book, Beacon Press

#sant mat #james bean #radhasoami #santmat.tumblr.com #kabir #birds of heaven #heaven #souls #spirituality

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gust-jar-simulator · 5 months

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Okay time to ramble about the Four Swords boys, their elements, and how I can narratively use that for fuckery.

My fast and dirty key based somewhat on Minish Cap:

Earth- the beginning and the end, the cradle and the grave.

Fire- hope and warmth, the lantern and the forge.

Water- nurturing and healing, the storm and the fountain.

Wind- adventure and growth, the road and the wild.

Vio, as earth, would be incredibly fun in a Hades and Persephone retelling. The myth is based on the reality of marriage in ancient Greece- your daughter might literally vanish into another man's house, never to be seen again, and in becoming a woman might socially and metaphorically be dead to her family. Shadow approaching and taking Vio to the Kingdom of Darkness reads a lot like that- and to some extent he does die by becoming a traitor.

Red, being fire, is a stubborn little guy. I've made more than one comparison to Minish Cap's intro having Pandora's Box, with only hope- the broken blade- left in the empty chest. He's also not a fan of fighting, so it'd be fun to experiment with one of Loki's myths since he's a god of fire and more prone to trickery or flyting than violence.

Blue's water, and there are So Many Options, but considering his ego I'd be tempted to retell a part of the Epic of Gilgameš. There's one enemy even a man two-thirds god couldn't defeat: the urge to take a comfy bath and thereby doom humanity. Green does that in the manga, but Gilgameš's whole issue is his rejection of death. He's the main character of the universe, he never learned how to lose. Until he has no choice.

Green, as is appropriate, deserves a callback to both the wind element and Link's general Peter Pan coding. In the manga if I recall right Link is even introduced fighting pirates. I'm not sure if I need to elaborate at all on that one, but retelling one or more folktales with him would be interesting.

To round it out, Shadow is the spirit/aether, and I could see fitting him into the Ugly Duckling or even Swan Lake. Considering my own interests, I'd be tempted to do something with the Ballad of the Mari Lwyd by Vernon Watkins, and its narrative of the hungry dead coming back once a year to beg attention from the living.

#my writing #vio link #red link #blue link #green link #shadow link

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venomfrombats · 2 years

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Hi:)) could you write a max x reader and the reader is cursed by vecna but her favourite song is a classical piece 🤍(Tchaikovsky swan lake🤞 came out in 76)

max x gn!reader

Swan Lake

After the death of Chrissy Cunningham, Fred Benson, the group wanted to figure out how to free anyone from Vecnas curse. Since Max had stolen the keys from Ms. Kelley, you all headed to the school where you looked through everyones files to find any clues and Max had figured out they all had the same symptoms. Headache's, Nosebleeds, nightmares.

After hearing this you froze. You had been having the same symptoms for a couple of days. It happened first in Math class then in the night you had nightmares about your father, Jim Hopper, dying a gruesome death.

"What are you looking for?" Max questioned as you searched through the files to find yours. You opened it and sure enough, there was a paper just like in Chrissy and Fred's with the same symptoms. Everyone looked at you in shock while Max's eyes began to water at the realization. "I'm next."

After leaving the school, Max wouldn't let you out of her sight. She wanted to stay as close to you as she could but you tried to distance yourself every chance you got. Now as you layed on your bed in your messy room, everyone sitting around you, you began to think about things you wanted to do. How you wanted to become a police chief like your father, serve and protect. You wanted to spend your life with this family you had and especially with the red-headed goddess named Maxine Mayfield.

She laid beside you as the others talked about their plan to visit Victor Creel. "Hey." "Hey" She propped her head up with her hand. "You know I love you, right?" You said to Max and she nodded. "I love you,too. I just," she paused, shutting her eyes as they began to tear up again, "I just don't want you to go. We don't have a clue what to do and this creep could just kill you any second. It's not fair." She spoke as the tears slid down her cheeks. You brang a thumb to her face and wiped the tears before kissing her. "Max, you know I'm not going to let some creep from a different dimension kill me, right? I survived the red army attack and billy, remember? I think I'm a little more durable than you think" You joked making her laugh. "We'll figure this out and after this is over, we'll go watch a movie together, okay?" You spoke softly and Max smiled wide and nodded. The two of you hugged eachother and just enjoyed eachothers company. "Y'know, I should be the one comforting you." Max said making you snort before laughing again.

Hours went by and Max had fallen asleep, Dustin, Lucas, and Steve were messing with your comic books so you stood and headed to the restroom. While washing your hands you looked at yourself in the mirror. You thought you looked nothing like your father, maybe more like your mother, and the image of him dying went into your head again.

"Y/n" You heard a deep voice behind you, one you could recognize anywhere. "Dad?" You turned to see your father, standing in that same dirty uniform he wore before he died. "How are you here?" You questioned. "I've always been here. You're not happy to see me are you? You just hoped I died that day didn't you?" You made a face of horror and confusion. Sure you didn't have the best relationship with your father but you didn't want him to die. Every day you blamed yourself for his death for not being able to get back up and help him fight but you had lost too much blood and were too weak to stand. "I didn't want you to die." "You're a liar."

Max woke up and noticed you were gone. "Guys, where's Y/n?" Steve looked around the room and saw you were gone. "They were here a second ago." Everyone stood and looked for you, but Dustin screaming your name made them run to the restroom. There you stood, eye's rolling to the back of your head since you were under Vecna's curse. "Y/n! Come on shithead, wake up!" Steve spoke as he shook your shoulder. He turned to Dustin and yelled, "Call Nancy and Robin! Now!" and Dustin ran to the room. Max stood beside Steve and called your name but it did nothing. While they called you, in your trance you ran, ran as fast as you could from Vecna, who pretended to be your father.

Dustin returned to the restroom with a record player in hand and box full of records. "What's their favorite song!?" He shouted, looking through the box. Max looked through them, looking for the one record that she knew you could listen to nonstop. She ran to your room, seeing that it wasnt there in the box.

As you wandered around red mist, you heard the voice of Vecna calling out to you as you looked around, spotting the body of Chrissy and Fred. Soon Vecna came into view and you tried to run but your leg was caught by a vine. Vecna pressed you up against a wall witht the vines and began to speak but your mind wandered to something else. Music. There was music playing. You looked to your left to see Max, Steve , Dustin and Lucas, all around you as you floated into the air. The sweet sounds of Swan Lake played into your ears as Vecna lowered his hand down to your face. You closed your eyes tightly, afraid of what was to happen but your fear melted away when you heard the voice of Max.

"Y/n please! Fight! Come back to me!"

You began to have memories of when you and Steve fought the Demodogs together, you El and Max getting ice cream, the snowball with Max, beating Lucas and Dustin at Digdug, and the perfect date you and Max had where the two of you went skating. Sure you got injured but it was worth it just to see that huge beautiful smile on her face. You opened your eyes and pulled a vine from Vecnas neck, him dropping you to grab at his neck. You took the opportunity to stand and run away. He quickly recovered and threw floating objects at you, them smashing on the ground as the rubble hit your face. You fell into a blood like substance but continued to run, wanting to reach Max and finally everything went black.

You gasped as you fell to the bathroom ground, everyone running to help you up then pulling you into a hug. Max kissed you to calm you down, just almost having to experience death scared you so you gladly kissed back. "I told you he wouldn't kill me, love." You said as you stared into her sapphire eyes. Max smiled and hugged you tightly, the others going to call Nancy and Robin it worked. " Please never do that again." "I'll kick his ass next time, don't worry." Max giggled and the two kissed once again, happy that eachother were safe.

#max mayfield imagine #max mayfield x reader

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contreparry · 1 year

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Heyo! How about a prompt from the sexual tensions list for Fenders or whoever you'd like? [ UNBUTTON ] : due to heat or stress or other reasons, sender unbuttons the top of their shirt to reveal their neckline.

Here’s some Fenders from the modern!Thedas roommates AU (a prequel to this fill) for @dadrunkwriting !

It was an unmitigated disaster.

Fenris called management when the kitchen sink backed up that morning. He watched the murky water swirl around in the deep stainless steel basin, scraps of potato and carrot peels lazily floating about like boats on a summer lake. As the automated message cheerfully informed him to “please hold” for the third time in ten minutes, Fenris’ gaze wandered over towards Anders.

Anders stood in the middle of the kitchen. He wore turquoise running shorts, slippers shaped like nugs, and a pale pink short-sleeve collared shirt covered in smiling, dancing cats. His hair was tugged back into a stubby tail, tendrils of dark blond hair slipping loose to curl at the nape of his neck. As the dirty water in the sink slowly rose, Anders would methodically dip a large bowl into the mess and deposit the dirty water into a giant plastic bucket.

“Please hold!” the automated voice exclaimed joyously before it cut back to a soundtrack that a charitable person might call smooth jazz. Fenris watched as Anders unbuttoned one button of his shirt, then another and another until it hung open on his skinny frame. Fenris’ mouth went dry. Anders wrinkled his nose dipped the bowl back into the water. A tendril of hair curled along the back of his neck, long and elegant like a swan.

Fenris wanted to bite that neck.

“Please hold! -dooo woooo do da wah wooo-“

Anders bent down, grasped the paint bucket handle, and rose up in a fluid (ha) motion. He shuffled past Fenris on his trip towards the bathroom, and Fenris couldn’t help but wonder when Anders got those shorts. Anders hated running. But they were… nice shorts. Made his long legs somehow longer, as if fabric held that power.

Might be nice to feel those long legs wrapped around his waist again. He was always more of a hands on type of man.

“I’d say we should call in Hawke, but she might tear out the wall to find the damned clog,” Anders called out from the bathroom, and in that moment Fenris wanted to hang up, call Hawke, and get this whole plumbing problem sorted so he could drag Anders into bed and fuck him until the man lost all control of his tongue.

“Please hold! -doo daaah wah waaaah-“

“Hawke,” Fenris croaked, coughed, began again. “Hawke will bring the apartment down around our ears. I want my security deposit back.”

“Cheapskate,” Anders retorted as he emerged from the bathroom. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and the curve of his cheek into his stubble.

“You’d do the same,” Fenris replied, and he obligingly stepped back as Anders passed by him to return to bailing out the flooding sink. Anders only snorted and returned to his work, lean muscles rippling as he moved. Fenris bit his lower lip until it hurt. This shouldn’t be erotic. They were exhausted, sweaty and miserable as they switched off between calling their apartment’s management and bailing their kitchen sink, but Fenris’ eyes remained glued to Anders.

Anders couldn’t be more seductive if he tried, and there lay the great irony: Anders wasn’t even trying to appeal to him. He was trying to fix their sink! But Fenris’ libido had other ideas, as usual, and Anders in his “laundry day” worst was now the peak of eroticism.

“We’re ordering out tonight,” Anders declared with a huff. “I refuse to cook.”

“You rarely cook,” Fenris pointed out.

“I refuse to make you cook after this,” Anders amended. “This is- Maker’s Balls! I’m texting Hawke. Just to see who answers the call first.” Anders grabbed his phone from the counter and texted furiously, his expression pinched with annoyance.

“… might as well,” Fenris agreed, because the sooner this disaster was solved the sooner he might manage to shuck Anders out of his clothes.

#my writing #da drunk writing circle #modern!thedas roommates au

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macaroni-rascal · 6 months

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Just caught up on the FD, and dare I say, the best-dressed event of the GP?

Holly - our sexy Aussie mermaid - what a look. Absolutely stunning. The shape of the skirt? Perfection? It moved beautifully. The only thing I'd change is that little ruffle along the back. Jason, though. If this isn't a Shape of Water program, then why in the hell is he dressed like the Amphibian Man? Why the bolero with the awkwardly placed fins? Pretty boy done dirty. He is a Canadian novice champion, a title that famously not even VM have, so he deserves better. If he just had a dramatic shirt with flowing ruffles reminiscent of her skirt, it would've been stunning. Possibly the best program they've ever had, none of that Chaka Khan nonsense.

Hannah and Ye - perfection. Exquisite tailoring, fabulous colors and fabric, really accentuating their best features, like her gorgeous back. Stunning performance, I was completely carried away. Underscored.

I actually like Katerina's dress, it had a sense of drama, the skirt drapes and moves beautifully, maybe just the front could be a bit lower. She has the Bradie problem where she pulls her hair back too tight. The hair piece, if they're already going to use one, should've been lower on the forehead. I'm sure Oksana is delighted at the reference. His costume is barely even there, he needs to be in a lighter shirt, he completely disappears. The confusion here is why a brother and sister duo are doing Swan Lake. Like, what is the story they're telling? Big, dramatic music suits them but the choreo is just not ready for the big leagues.

The Browns again with perfunctory costumes and god-awful music. All I could think about was that moment in Clueless to this song, so I don't know why they'd give a sibling team a tune from a movie where step-siblings get together. It bothered me that the blue on her dress and his shirt didn't match. She's definitely a Gabi fan girl, she was literally doing her facial expressions. Great skating but they need a makeover.

Olivia and guy - oh, brother. This is less Elvis than Elvis impersonator. What is this man doing skating with this queen? He's not looking at her to connect with her, but to try to keep up with whatever she's doing. Even Chris called out the lack of chemistry. Again messy on some elements and at risk of getting them invalidated if the tech panel wasn't fucking asleep. They spent almost the entirety of the program in the middle of the rink, which was really confusing? There's no actual concept to this program, they even said themselves she doesn't have a character and they don't know what story they're telling. Maybe how this huge celebrity moved a 14yo in her house, married her, and then later raped her when she told him he was leaving him? Because that's the story of Elvis, and it's been out there for decades, so why choose this? Otherwise her bodysuit is a slay and just shows what Amber's could've been if just the waist was in the proper place, I just wouldn't have bedazzled the buttocks. His outfit is fine, the jacket is too big, but I don't even care what he wore, I like to pretend he wasn't even there. Find Liv a Partner on her Level 2024! I liked her hair and nose ring, what a star.

Brb with part deux: Czech bugaloo.

I'm just going to post this and part deux, because people deserve to see these reviews! <3

#fashionista nonny #konner talks skating

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sour-heart-treats · 2 years

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Cream Unicorn having to deal with the loss of Sugar Swan, and Whipped Cream having to deal with them lashing out? thank u! (i havent asked a rq for so long deng)

Whispered voices spoke to the empty lake. The crystal clear water, lit up by the gemstones that grew above and below, still felt so empty after all this time. By the lakeside, two soft and wounded souls would state their prayers. They were loud enough to hear one another, yet did not dare break into another's privacy. After all, the respect the two had for one another stemmed from the one that had brought this water body its shine. The shorter of the two, a ballerino by the name of Whipped Cream, would stand first. He looked down to Cream Unicorn, who had worn their mourning attire for today. Whipped himself wore the same clothes that he'd been gifted on his last birthday before the Swan had passed. It was a night of reverie, but no longer could such a night be replicated.

"Are you going to dance upon the lake again?" A voice with a hint of scorn was spoken, with the speaker- Uni- rising to their feet. "You always were one to dance out your emotions, even the bad ones." The humanized equine would look to Whipped, expression furrowed in the same mourning that the dancer had gotten used to seeing on every occasion the two saw each other. "You do not have to sound so bitter, you know. I dance in honor of them, not to ruin the ground they found to be home." There was a huff from Uni, eyes averting as they would turn and begin to walk along the lake's edge. Though Whipped wished to follow his older sibling, he… let them go. He knew that this day was hard on them. It was difficult for both of them, even if the pink one never truly felt much on the important days. It was always the days after that were the worst, not that Unicorn would ever see such…

With a quiet hum, Whipped would gently set a foot out into the water, taking one step… another… another… and letting his body begin to take itself through the usual song and dance. Quite literally. The hum would soon turn to song, and he'd let his inhibitions go to prance across the water's surface. Practice makes perfect, and he has certainly taken such to heart. The number of times he's practiced these performances for his dearest caregiver is practically countless. Plenty of other performances were practiced, certainly, but none of them held a candle to the ones that were to be held at this lake. For the Swan. With his sibling there to watch, as always- even if they were disparaged.

Though… When it came time for a great leap, Whipped felt the wind knocked out of his chest as he was tackled back to the water's edge. Coughing out the rest of the breath and attempting to suck in what he could, the dancer would look up to see his sibling with their lower half in horse form to hold him down. Hooves digging into his hands and wrists… It hurt. He certainly hoped his outfit wouldn't be torn. The silk was so light and fragile; he wouldn't know what to do if it was dirtied.

"You… You little…" A growl was laced in Uni's voice, one that finally got Whippie to register that their sibling hadn't done this on accident. They were angry. Scratch that, they were in pain. Anguish. "Why- How do you just dance this day away as if it's nothing!? Every year, you come here and dance… and you don't show a shred of tearfulness! In fact, you always are so flat on these days! What, did you not care for Sugar Swan!? Do you not care for our caretaker!?"

Blinking, still catching breath, the trapped one would only stare upward at his sibling. This… wasn't the first time he's been pinned for questioning. Usually, it was a playful gesture, but now? Now, this felt more threatening than anything else, though he knew that Uni would never harm him. It was against Cream Family Code to harm another family member unless they were corrupted or something of the sort. "I… I do care," he'd mumble, "I simply… It takes me some time for the emotions to properly come out. I'm… I'm sorry if I come off as hollow or something, truly, I-" "Sure, yeah, lie to my face, don't you?" Uni, clearly unsatisfied, would surprisingly let their brother go. The shorter would rub at his wrists as the taller let their lower half give a poof of Swan-gifted magic back to the two legs they were less used to. "Look. I really don't care if you do or don't. Just… stop dancing on their resting place. I… I don't know how to compete with that. I have nothing to do- nothing to give. It makes me feel… worse."

Whipped would readjust the crown on his head, sighing lightly. "I would say that you walking around the lake once per every year they've been gone is more than enough… but if you wish, I can stop and simply walk around with you." …He would continue to dance, but simply when Uni was not around. They have an entire park they have to attend to, after all; not to mention how short of a time they have to be outside of it under normal circumstances. The transformer would look to Whippie, then to the velvety sand beneath them both. "Y… yes. That will do. That will do for now, at least."

#whipped cream cookie #cream unicorn cookie #unicorn cream cookie #angst drabbles #mourning warning #death mention warning #ask to tag #sugar swan #// when you don't feel on the days of a person's passing but feel very much in the days after when the consoling window is already over woo

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thedearidiot · 3 years

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“I watch a man shoot a shot of whiskey into his mouth He prefers my mouth and the liquor blackening our throats Hours this blackening Suddenly we are two heaps of muscles Brackets Who heap and hunt Where did it all begin your obsession with touch I began as the root for black Dark spot in the pupil Dark layer of filth With my brother I say he touched me I said he touched me and the story goes elsewhere: I see a swan dirtied by lake water.”

- Luther Hughes, Barkless, Without a Fight.

#luther hughes #poetry #tw incest #am I my brother's keeper?#every touch is a modified blow

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krreader · 4 years

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black swan.

pairing: king!min yoongi x spymaster!reader fandom: bts warnings: non idol!au ; royal!au ; historical!au ; death ; blood genre: angst ; fluff word count: 1.9k+

summary: you’ve always been loyal to the king, ever since you became his left hand, but the amount of deaths resting on your shoulders get to you every now and then. you rarely allow yourself to be vulnerable, too afraid that someone might see.. but anyone would have been better than for king yoongi to find you in this situation.

a/n: now, I’m going to be honest. I had to change quite a lot of your request to make it fit the idea that I had, but I think I managed to write it in a way that you’ll still be happy with it @strawbaeree

If someone had told you as a child this is where you'd end up when you're older, you probably would have cried and then ran away from what was to come. The future and the consequences of that future would have scared you, so much that you wouldn't have been able to fathom it, much less see it become reality.

This life that you lived now wasn't a life that you had chosen willingly. If you have had the choice, you would have done what your mother had always wanted and found love, living a peaceful and content life with your family somewhere on a farm where you’d be bothered by nobody.

But you were never given that choice.

Soon after your mother had passed and you were left to fight for survival, you had stumbled over an ambush in the woods while trying to find some berries to eat. You had heard the screams of a woman who was begging her attackers to kill her and not her son.

Everyone else would have run back to the village and gotten help, but your instincts that you cursed in hindsight made you run towards the ambush, pick up a dagger that you found on the corpse of someone – most likely another attacker that was killed in the ambush – and ram it into the back of the attacker that was threatening the woman and her child.

The woman let out a scream, mostly out of surprise and not shock of all the blood, but you couldn’t scream, not even after you realized that you had just taken someone’s life.

All you could do was watch the man crumble to the ground, dig his fingers into the dirt below him as he tried to get back up, but he simply couldn't. Whatever you had hit when you had stabbed him, it prevented him from moving. All he could do was lie there and slowly bleed out.

It was only when the woman got up and grabbed your face to make you look at her and not at the man on the ground anymore, that you realized who it was that you had saved that day.

Queen Eun Jung and her son prince Yoongi had been on the way back to the palace when they had been ambushed by a group of radicals who thought that the future king wasn't a royal at all, but an usurper. They wanted a distant relative who had been preparing for war against your kingdom to become king.

“The rightful ruler” is what they called him.

If they had succeeded that day, who knew what kind of person you'd be now.

But you had killed that man without having given it much thought on what the consequences of that action would be. Back then, you had just wanted to help. But the queen... she had seen your... 'potential'.

“My son will need a left and a right hand once he becomes king. I want you to be his left.”

You were only a child when she had said that. Left hand had meant nothing to you until you had started your training with the left hand of the – then - king.

Left hand was just a nicer word for the truth.

The truth was assassin. Spymaster. The one who'd do all the dirty work that no one else was willing to do.

You had often thought about running away back then, being so scared about what kind of life was lying ahead of you as you were taken on countless of missions and watched your master kill dozens of people. But what if you ran away? What then? You had no family, no money, nowhere to go. At least in the palace, you had a purpose, a roof over your head and warm meals to fight the hunger.

So you had stayed.

And that is how you became the woman that you were today.

Living in the shadows, never to be seen by anyone or anything except for your – now – king.

When you had met Yoongi, he was a gentle child. Never wanted to hurt a fly and was more interested in playing catch with you than learning about the history of his kingdom. He often snuck into your room at night and told you made-up ghost stories that made you giggle. He stole the sweets that you liked so much out of the kitchens, just because he knew you’d smile once he’d give them to you.

But he had changed throughout the years.

His father had died in war soon after you had joined them at the royal grounds and his mother succumbed to a fever a few years later. Suddenly being all alone, he threw himself into the world of politics, his goal now being that of his parents.

Finally ridding his lands of the treacherous king that would see him lie dead at the foot of the throne that 'the rightful ruler’ so desperately sought.

Now, your conversations didn't revolve around your favorite animal or favorite colors anymore.

Now, all he talked about, was who you should kill to give him any advantage in the upcoming war.

At first, killing was something that kept you up and night. Something that made you sob your eyes out, weep for those that had fallen by your hand. You never forgot the first man you killed, but throughout the years, the faces of those lives that you had taken started to blur, mostly because it was simply too many to remember.

You had become a shell of your past self, a killing machine which only purpose in life was to do what her king commanded her.

Spy.

Kill.

Report.

But every now and then, that little girl that you wanted to hold on to so badly, showed herself.

There was currently a big festival held at the palace after the right hand of the king – his commander – had successfully pushed back a foreign army at the border. A reason for celebration, definitely.

But you had never been one for these festivities.

And so you started to walk towards the only place in here that you ever felt peaceful at.

The huge lake at the outskirts of the royal grounds that was only illuminated by the moon casting its shine down onto the water.

The sound of strings started to fade, slowly, leaving only a faint sound that made you close your eyes and take a deep breath, feeling all the stress, anxiety and sadness slip away for just a moment.

You took off your shoes, raising the skirts of your red robes as you dipped your feet into the coldness of the water.

It was these moments that made you feel most alive and that was unfortunately not a feeling you often had anymore. It was as if the more lives you took, the more you died yourself.

You were so far gone in that moment – something that a spymaster definitely shouldn't be – that you didn't realize the reason for why you were here at the palace approached you. Or rather.. the lake, it seemed. Because you weren’t the only one that pretended to be strong day in and day out, when in reality, they would love nothing more than to just give up.

King Yoongi stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you standing there, his lips parting, even more so when you let your hair down, a sight that he hadn't seen since he was a child.

It was easy to forget that you were a beautiful woman, but as Yoongi was staring at you now, he remembered.

He remembered how fond he was of you when you were still children. How he wanted you to like him so badly, but at a certain point, with the tasks that he gave you, he gave up on that dream. You could never be more than a left hand for him. He had made you do too many bad things for you to see him in a good light.

But every now and then, his mind wandered to a place in which you and him had become lovers, maybe in which you had run away and started the peaceful life that you had always dreamed of.

It was naive to think so, thoughts he’d never say out loud.

But they were loud in his mind when they came.

Yoongi watched you pull out your dagger from under your dress and lean down, dipping it under the water and gently washing it off despite there not being any blood on it. He watched you caress the blade, then hold it up into the moonlight to inspect it, before gently placing it behind you on the grass. And once the dagger was safely put away, you pulled up the sleeves off your dress and started to wipe your arms.

It was only then that he saw the scars.

Some fresh, some old.

You had come back from a mission only yesterday and while you had been successful as always, didn't mean that you didn't run into trouble at some point.

His heart started to do things to him that he didn't like. A king shouldn't feel what he was feeling now.

Regret.

It was his mother that had dragged you to the castle with them, but it was him that gave you task after task. It was him that sent you into dangers again and again. It was him that would ultimately be responsible for your death.

Despite hating it, the feeling was too strong to ignore and so he made himself known by finally walking over to you.

“(Y/N)? Are you alright?”

In your head, you cursed yourself for being vulnerable out in the open, for letting your guard down when others could see you. And it wasn't just anyone that saw you in that state, but the man that should have never seen that you were still a person. Because that would make it harder to give orders.

You quickly put your knife away, pushed your sleeves down and put your hair back up in the ponytail like you did every day.

Yoongi let out a heavy sigh when you turned around and bowed, no sign of the real woman that you were a moment ago left.

You were his left hand again.

Nothing more and nothing less.

“Forgive me, my king. It was a moment of weakness.”

But instead of walking away with a nod like he should have, Yoongi actually closed the distance until he was right in front of you.

“Let me see,” his voice was soft and he reached out for your arms, pushing your sleeves back up.

You should have walked away that very second, but the little girl that liked the little boy so much kept you standing still and watched his every move carefully.

The man that people were so afraid of, that had gotten the title 'the mad king' was standing so close to you, tending to your past wounds with the softest touch possible.

You knew him, you knew that he wasn’t what people made him out to be.

But being so open with you was not something you had expected.

“You don’t have to do that,” your voice was fragile, which rarely happened.

“I know I don't,” he looked up into your eyes, “But I want to.”

It was quiet for a moment, only the faint sound of the strings were still playing in the background. Yoongi gently pulled you out of the water so you were standing in the grass with him before he took another look at the scars. His thumb was brushing over them, so softly as if he was afraid he'd hurt you... more than he already has.

You could tell that's what he was thinking, because despite the relationship you now had, you knew him better than anyone else, maybe even better than he knew himself.

“What happened to us, (Y/N)?” you could see him gulp down hard after his question.

“We grew up,” your eyes never left his face and you weren't startled when he suddenly looked up into your eyes again, even when you realized how close you were, “Life does that to you.”

You could see him think for a moment before his hand came up to your face to brush over a scar on your cheek, a scar that you had gotten young, from a mission that he had sent you on. A mission that you had almost died on.

“I wish it hadn't,” you didn't move an inch now, your breathing even, even when he started to caress your cheek, “I wish we were still the carefree children from years ago. I wish I could still sneak treats into your room to make you smile.”

A thought that often crossed your mind too. It was comforting to hear that you weren't the only one stuck in that time that seemed to have been so much easier.

But unlike him, who seemingly forgot who he was for a moment and where you were, you didn't. You had already let yourself be vulnerable before, but you wouldn’t let him be. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist and smiled softly at him, “I think it'd be better for you to go back to your festivities, my king.”

What surprised you was the hurt look that flashed over his face for just a split second.

But you still saw it.

You didn't know what he had hoped would happen tonight, maybe for you and him to finally be honest with each other and not pretend like you were nothing other than his tool for killing, but apparently you didn't want that.

Or so Yoongi thought, when he cleared his throat and walked away without another word.

But it wasn't like that.

You were simply doing what you had always been doing.

Protecting him.

Your eyes wandered to the man standing in the shadows that had watched all of this. It was only when Yoongi was gone that he retreated back into the shadows.

“In another life, Yoongi,” you whispered to yourself as you slipped back into your shoes, before following him, “But it can't be this one.”

#bts imagine #bts x reader #min yoongi x reader #suga x reader #min yoongi imagine #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #suga imagine #bangtan boys #bts #bangtan sonyeondan #min yoongi #suga #yoongi #reader #requests

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matchamorphosis · 3 years

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𝐎��𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍

summary: Officially married, you and your husband start your honeymoon in Paris. The first night you arrive in the city of love, you are invited to watch the Russian ballet.

pairing: 40s!steve rogers × [black//woc]fem!reader

warnings: + 18 nsft || eating out. dirty talk. steve speaks french. implications and hints to sex, mentions of sex, honeymoon stage so they’re very lovey dovey. petnames: “ballerina, dear, darling”. BUCKY IS ALIVE AND HAPPY. happy crying. classism. poverty mention. death mention. war mention. word count: 8K

song prompts: the swan lake soundtrack ⟶ here

contents: m.masterlist. my taglist. library acc.

The diamond street lights of Paris flood the night, capturing your irises.

People in fine silks and velvet tailored in their suits and dresses walk up the carved stairway of the grand cathedral like theater. Many continue walking through the cement sidewalks powdered in snow and laced in ice.

It’s ancient white stone is also powdered in snow and ice sheets reflect beautifully against the golden street lamps and the silver of the moon. Such an ethereal scene makes you more breathless then the lips of your lover at your neck.

Steven Grant Rogers, after having drunken a bit too much of the complimentary rose bottles of whispering angel the service provided was getting hands with you. Although, you indeed feel the choir of winged and halo’d beings gracing you.

Blessing you with your lovers roaming fingers meeting your warm skin as the polished charcoal Bentley drives through the alabaster stone of pont au change. A gasp slips from your mahogany painted lips when Stevens teeth bite your skin and begin to suck down on it.

“How are you feeling, ballerina?” Steven rasps into your neck, knowing you he knows that you get anxious about particular large events like this.

Your eyes are captured by the crashing silvery blue water below the motioning vehicle, glistening in a magical gloss that eases your worries a bit.

“I’m afraid i’ll make a fool of myself. I’ve never been to something like this before.” your voice is small and shaded in worry, Steve’s eyes soften in understanding, for he himself hasn’t been to anything like this before.

This is a dream, a dream they themselves who grew up sneaking into theaters and Broadway plays would never think of being apart of. Steve holds your gloved hand in the warmth of his, and you squeeze it as the car passes from view.

“Making a fool of yourself isn’t possible in my book, sweetheart. Everyone will love you, if you get to anxious I’ll hold you close. I’m here as your husband and your best friend, I’ll never let you worry about humiliating yourself.” Steve whispers as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

Kissing him back just as sweetly, you both sit and hold each other as your eyes follow the glowing outline of the theatre. Your rushing mind racing to see it with your very eyes, such excitement pulls your sweet bottom lip between your teeth out of giddy delight.

Steven seems to go back to kissing your neck, though your focus on the nearing buildings draw out of focus. “Steven! Dear, don’t bite to hard. People will notice the marks when I take my coat off.” your hushed remarks are only responded by his low laugh.

“Someone needs to know that I take great care of you, ballerina. I take a great joy in having you as my wife.” Steven whispers and still playfully biting the skin that’s hidden under the pearl necklaces that adorn your neck.

It’s quick to arrive at the napoleonic bridge that acted as a pearly fortress to the west water bank, your heart chambers thrum and vibrate at a pair of lips and fingers.

“And I take great joy in being your wife, darling.” your whisper encourages more raspberry liquor kisses to paint your neck.

The rosy aurora of your words dripping in adoration has a spellbinding effect on your husband, maybe it’s the underlying fact that the two of you are starting off the first day of your honeymoon. Steven cannot keep his hands and lips of your body, his large hands charm the smooth skin the slit of your dress gave him access to.

A hand cups his face, drowning in each other’s glances gifting a warm homage to each other as Stevens fingers wander up your thighs. “Spread your legs ballerina, lay in my arms and let me take care of you.” your blond beau whispers in your ears dangling with diamond cuts.

You hope your chauffeur cannot hear him and you hope he doesn’t hear the way you shuffle back against Stevens chest as his fingers stroke your panty clad pussy.

“Vous êtes une, ballerine. Tellement humide, pourquoi ne m'avez-vous pas dit que vous aviez besoin de mes doigts?” — you’re so wet, ballerina. why didn’t you tell me you needed my fingers?

A moan escapes your lips, softly pleading for his fingers to slip under the waistline of the silk panties and not play with the lace that covers your clothes.

“As-tu besoin de mes doigts ? Ou avez-vous besoin de ma langue ? Dis-moi ballerine, c'est mon devoir de te plaire.” — do you need my fingers? Or do you need my tongue? tell me, ballerina. it’s my job to please you.

Steve makes you beg as his teeth lightly play with the dangling diamonds that hang from your lobe then to the outline of your ear. His nose nuzzling into your newly done hair that took you hours to curl in the space of your hotel room vanity.

“Please Steven, I need your fingers and tongue. Please dear I need you.” oh how you made him weak, those words have him on his knees as his grasp spread your thighs.

“Bien sûr, ma ballerine. Laissez-moi prendre soin de vous, vous êtes tous les mines ce soir.” — of course, my ballerina. Let me take care of you, i’m yours tonight and forever.

Those words swim in your ears and they hitch your breath when Steven moves the lace and rubs your clit. The golden locks of his hair so prefectly combed are traced in between your fingers as he swoops his lips to gift your wet pussy an even wetter smooch.

“I’m yours tonight and forever.” you breathlessly whisper, trying your hardest to not moan loudly or whimper as his finger pumps into your warmth.

Oh, your Steven truly is a gentleman. Even if his carnal lust that’s hidden under his boyish chivalry of polite and soft mannerisms, Steve would always pleasure you no matter the circumstance. He smirks as he licks your clit till you tremble, loving the tiny sounds that slip from your lips like silk.

Observers and strangers would call it too much or unrestrained, this affair of lovesickness that is devotedly spoken and acted upon with fiery passion. Although, no matter what you called it, it wouldn’t matter to the cosmic lovers.

Doesn’t matter to Steven as he sucks onto your puckered hole leaking and clenching on nothing but his two fingers that bare his golden ring of marriage. It doesn’t matter to you as you spill your pleasure into his tongue, and lick it off his fingers after being handed a breathless kiss.

Your fingers comb through his hair and his hands pull you into his lap, “Can I return the favor, darling? I hate to let you socialize with something in your pants distracting you.” you smirk against his lips and he playfully gives your bum a smack, making you both laugh.

What can two lovers, newly married at that, do when they desire and wish to feel each other's unconditional love? Well, they do just that.

“Don’t you worry about me tonight. I have a surprise waiting for you by the end of the night.” he speaks and smiles with the way your eyes shine.

Steven helps you apply your lipstick back on and you clean your fuchsia kisses from his moonlight skin. You both know that you could not risk opening the car door to the flashes of photographers and their cameras at you both. Capturing your sex craved bodies and lust blown faces as your lipstick kisses cover his face and neck and traces of it and a particular shiny dew gloss on his mouth.

The newspapers would indeed have something to put on their covers but of course you two had to stay positively mannered in public. You two cannot risk any bad publicity, especially when you two were on your way to an event of ballerinas dancing for charity.

Once done with taking care of your appearance and Stevens, you couldn’t believe your eyes when you turned your head to the side window. Your eyes immediately fluttering wide as they finally meet sight of the theatre you only saw in newspaper clippings tucked away in a ratty scrapbook and textbooks of your childhood.

Steven smiles, kisses your temple because he knows you’ve been infatuated with the fine art and sport of ballet since he was a boy and saw a girl twirling on the brownstone porch of their apartment. Promising her that when he married her he’ll take her to see the ballerinas, mind you both were ten and childhood friendship is stronger than any war that would soon separate you both apart.

There stood the Théâtre du Châtelet. An opera house near a grand palace that was built in the prime of France's youth.

Even in the heavy winter of swirling winds and powdered snow, the grand theatre looked more ethereal and magical than any picture in any book. The beauty making you take Stevens hand and squeeze it tight.

“It’s so gorgeous, I can’t believe we’re going to see the ballet! Thank you Stevie, you remembered our little promise.” you giggle and your excitement makes a wide smile spread on your husband lips.

“What kind of best friend would I be if I forgot my promise? You’re my wife now, my promise is my word. I would give you all the treasures in the world, ballerina.” tears flood your eyes and you hold his face closer, your nose rubbing against his.

“And I would give you all the love and splendors your heart asks for Steven. I love you, I love you so much Stevie.” your little airy breaks in your voice touch his heart, just as much as it touches your heart when Steven kisses your tears away.

The window separating you and Steven to the driver winders down, “Nous sommes arrivés, capitaine,”— we’ve finally arrived, captain.

That announcement from the chauffeur and the soft purring from the vehicle coming to a soft stop make you pull your coat of thick faux furs over your bare shoulders. A childlike glee coasting through you, sure there is fear and worry but the excitement of seeing the ballet clouds it.

Steven quickly gives you a kiss, a little shining star twinkling in lovestruck wonder. “Merci Pierre. Mais Steven ferait très bien, je vous l'assure.” — Thank you, Pierre. But Steven will do just fine, I assure you.

Steven responds and he takes his dress hat over his golden hair and opens his car door, not waiting for Pierre to do that job. For Steven was flattered at the attention and appreciation he received when becoming Captain America, he was still happy to do those little pleasures.

Something as simple as opening a door, refilling his glass and even escorting his wife were absolute pleasures and no tiring attributes that were absolutely not expected by someone else to do for him.

“J'espère que vous apprécierez tous les deux le spectacle, Monsieur et Madame rogers!” — I hope you both enjoy the show, Mr. and Mrs. Rogers!

Pierre exclaims before Steven waves a goodnight and steps out into the slightly crowded yet lively snow sprinkled street.

“Merci beaucoup, Pierre,” — Thank you very much, Pierre.

You smile, using the little lessons of French Steven taught you when he was in between your legs in your use. The door opens, and to your surprise and worry it isn’t your Stevie who opens it but a doorman.

Steven smiles to the crowd of people behind him before glancing down at you, the cold weather of France’s January takes a hold of your body. The invitation of snowflakes entering the toasty Bentley and onto the pearly cashmere tights that wrap your feet and legs.

Bundling up tighter, you giggle at the cold and your smiling husband lightly chuckles along. The white flashes of cameras are in the distance and peak behind Steven’s figure.

A swirled rush of snowy wind wraps your body when the door opens wider and Steven is quick to take your extended swarovski gloved hand into his. With the gentle pull, your legs leave the comfort of the black vehicle, your low heels hitting the concrete of the sidewalk feet away from the theatres entrance.

Rising up, Steven wraps his arm around your waist. Allowing the doorman to handle the parking with Pierre, Steven guides you through the wide stanchion path with a locked hand hold. Behind the red velvet roped posts stands bustling paparazzi and cheering fans that crowd the avenue with questions, praises and cheers.

Both you and Steven smile and wave for the flashing cameras, happy to give handshakes and hugs to the wide eyed children, woman and elderly as he leads you to the entrance.

News of Captain America and The Howling Commandos Messenger arriving at the theatre are the cause of this lively interaction. You stare in awe as other singers, actors and actresses and celebrities arrive. Whispering to Steven your awe that makes him smile wider and heart fool of how much you enjoy this little present.

The praetorians stutter on his welcome when Steven spoke his name, the theatres pamphlet and the invitation in his hands as he passes it to the warden who ecstatically takes it with an admirable smile.

"Capitaine d'amérique! Le capitaine amerique! Bienvenue!” — Captain America! It’s Captain America! Welcome!

“Oh, Captain America rien. C'est juste Steve, bienvenue à ma femme! C'est le diamant que la France n'a jamais vu.” — oh Captain America, nothing. Call me Steve, and welcome my wife! She’s the diamond France has never seen.

Steven lightly response with a laugh that makes the two gentlemen burst in laughter. “Of course Of course! Welcome to the Théâtre du Châtelet Y/n L/n Rogers.” the partier introduces as you thank him.

Walking through the wide entrance of the doormen holding the theatre doors open for you, Steven’s arm around your waist tightens as you two set foot inside the large venue.

You couldn’t believe your eyes at the sight, if the theatre looked grand on the outside it was a prestige chef d'oeuvre of architecture and craftsmanship on the inside. Wide rows of ivory columns frame the opulent space into divided sections, the arbor windows sparkle in their molded stone outlines. Glimmering chandeliers glowing honey like light, they shine below the marble titles covered in carnelian carpet.

Excitement radiates off of each guest, filling the space of walking bodies and nonstop chatter of the theatre with an ecstatic commotion. Each passing person, pairs or groups reaching from political ambassadors to famous singers congratulate you and Steven on your marriage.

Striking up conversations in French mixed with the hint of English here and there to you and Steven on numerous topics. From any future plans that your marriage that made him look down at you in adoration to current issues that he was eager to lend a listening ear and give his input.

Or even complimentary praises towards you both that Steven was too bashful and humble to receive and you flattered but graciously thanked anyway.

Although, to both your individual dismay, the more you and him walked through the pillars and stared up at the glorious painted ceilings of archangels and cherubs, the more sultry stares and flirtatious remarks became common.

Since the inside of the theatre was more toasty and warm than the Bentley you and Steven thought it best to disregard the outside wear. Taking off his hat with his coat, Steve assisted you in disregarding your thick fur coat.

Those articles of clothing taken away to be tucked in a coat closet by porters in white dickey tuxedos, leaving your shoulders bare and the lavish pink silk dress you decided to wear for the night on full display for all enchanted and envious eyes to see.

The pink satin gown envelopes the curves of your body, shiny and flowy as the gold l band that decorates your husbands hand. It’s sweet and tender as the kiss that he presses onto your lips when he notices a bit too many male glances towards your way.

A sharp notice of your rich skin showing as the skit in your dress reveals your calf’s. A bit scandalous but not too scandalous for the French who will not know it will end in delicate lace of your garter belts and panties.

That little fact is a little secret you keep hush hush, even with your husband who’s trying to figure out the glint of mischief in your irises. Although. he knows he can always persuade the clandestine bit out of you when he’s alone with that dress.

An amusing story about the dress was that it was a gift from Steven the first night you and him arrived in Paris. Figuring you’d wear it when you and him would have a private dinner out but you’re instead wearing it in front of hundreds of political pedigrees and royal blooded entities.

Steven, he doesn’t mind one bit, you never grew up with the riches of fine silks, pearls or gems your body now bares and neither did he. Both of you being born in poor struggling families in the cold streets of Brooklyn.

It was harder back then keeping up with rent and getting food on the tables for both your families and even harder during the war when he sneaked off to the battlefield and you shipped to help care for injured soldiers in France.

Of course, the two of you were getting used to the stares and flirtations but not quite. Steven was used to men flirting with you in front of him before the serum and you were used to women flirting with him afterwards when he came home from the war. But still, there wouldn’t always be no sign of jealousy or anger.

In this case, it’s rather amusing.

Smirking to him from across the room as crowds of eager French actors, singers and aristocrats circle your insatiable figure. Desperately reciting broken English poems to sweet talk your married heart. Sultry, lust laced eyes latching onto the visible strips of skin the dress accessed, from your bare shoulder to the bare skin of your thighs when the dress moved accordingly.

Taking in the sweet aroma of you when you walked past them, lightly answering to their conversations and compliments with the subtle French Steven taught you when he was in between your legs devouring your fountain of youth.

Only your husband, Steven Grant Rogers; knows how to make you melt into a stuttering mess.

These dashing young men with their burning thick cigars and glasses of pink champagne couldn’t uphold an ounce of your interest, cannot make you feel the ichor of the galaxies your hushes could.

Speaking of your husband— he’s smirking back right at you when the many young women ranging from elite models to foreign princesses wander their blue blood hands over his dress suit.

Trying to steer him away from you and personally speak to him but all their conversations seem to jumble into each other in an incoherent mess. They even attempt to feel the muscle beneath his uniform that you perfectly memorized from being underneath and atop him for nights on end.

In the moment, you crave you him to sweep you away. Take you to a golden framed room and slam you against the wall and smash his lips to yours, you’re both absent-mindingly thinking of it.

Until your time of fun comes to a pleasant end when your paths cross, Steven taking your arm in his and the followers and admirers behind the two of you stand and stare. Joining the numbers of people walking up the stairs to get to the second story auditorium of the theater, you seemed to make everyone stop in their tracks.

Your heels glued to the floor as they stare at you walking up each Oriental rug step of the stairs.

Men with their backs against the carved marble railing coming to attention when you pass them and women taking note of your posture and grace. The beauty of everything seemed to surround you, a inhabitant you seemed to feel in the baroque staircase rising and closer that you can touch the extended winged angels fingertips that are painted in detail onto the ceiling.

As if you didn’t belong amongst the mortals, a descendant of Aphrodite situated on a devoted pedestal of riches and followers. In a unspoken manner, you proclaim the theatre as yours.

Steven couldn’t believe the magical effect you had as he runs up to you and holds your waist, holds you hand and guide you and him into your private theater box. Shutting the door shut behind you, and now with the two of you being alone Steven takes your body into his arms.

“See ballerina? I told you would enchant everyone.” Steve smirks and he bundles the layers of pearl satin in his hold, your pink silk opera gloved arms wrap around his neck.

“Oh, how you flatter me, darling. I’m sure you must have the hearts of many woman tonight. I’m not the only one who stopped people in their step.” you giggle, as he twirls you around in his arms.

“That may be but my heart will belong to one woman. And I will flatter her every second I can share with her.” Steven kisses butter your mouth as he does with your heart.

He drops you down on a small plush antique, holding his collar of his Italian fabricated button down closer as you kiss him with a fervor. Both you laughing bodies and scrunched faces strung in contentment entrance a painted portrait of love, more valuable and dear than the rococo ones that are hanged on the walls.

What drives your attention away from the kisses is the thick curtain near your sitting bodies, behind it you know reveals the domed balcony that overlooks the open theater. It signals Steven where and what you’re staring at, the curtain captivating your eyes and your curiosity has your blond beau grinning.

Ever since you were young you wanted to travel to Paris, wanted to attend as an audience member and marvel at the glorious, sophisticated and wondrous ballerinas. Of course you wanted to be one but with a past and history of yours many things stood in your way, but oh your dream is now sitting outside that curtain.

waiting for you.

The thrill fills your body, jumbles and encases each atom and laces within each breath you take in and exhale. It’s making you just as nervous though, your hands tighten in Steven’s hold as they slide up to cup his cheek for protection.

“Something upsetting you, my ballerina?” your eyes gloss from the curtain to Steven, you can’t exactly answer but you can’t exactly put your finger down on what’s troubling you.

Those nerves melt away when Steven stands up, twirling you around making your eyes crinkle in joy and a squeal erupt from you as he twirls you faster. Nightingale eyes twining with yours as the room around you becomes a blurry swirl, carrying you just as he did when the two of you both stepped out of the chapel and into the awaiting Royce awaiting for you both.

you and your Steven were married now, no longer playing pretend in your patched clothes and worn out shoes.

“I think I’m ready now.” You whisper and the spinning stops, Stevie kisses your temple.

“I’m happy to hear. C’mon, let’s take our seats.” he responds and moves the velvet curtain, settling you into your seat on the little balcony as he takes his. You lean over and press a kiss to his lips, not caring about your lipstick anymore.

Clashing background music of the guests hundreds of feet below you, a few feet besides you and above you outside of the curtain as they take their velvet red seats. The faint rustling of the orchestra setting up and starting their repercussion silences the guests and it makes you separate your lips from Steven’s.

Completely in awe overlooking the small bodies underneath you, the large strings and waterfall of glowing diamonds attached to the colossal glittering chandelier lighting the velvet darkness. Highlighting the painted figures of cherubs, archangels, thorned roses and Virgin Marys painted in shades of powdered blue, crimson cardinal and alabaster silver.

Steven could stare at your astonished eyes and taken breath casted away forever. You gesture to the stare the ballerinas in their elegant silver laced corsets and ruffled snowy feathered tutus.

The play starts and Steven takes your hand in his. Yours squeezing his warmth on the occasion by the climaxing ballet in front of you, nestling closer into the Victorian velvet piece of the seat. His wife’s eyes glossed with the unfortunate tragedy being described in arched pirouettes, swayed arabesques and eminent grande jetés.

The ballet was difficult to not cry over because how tragic is the story of a lover confessing his pure of heart love to the wrong girl. A little sniffle escapes from you when the Swan Princess collapsed onto the lake of martyr tears, broken silver wings bruised and torn as her heart.

Steven takes the moment as an opportunity to lean his chair closer to yours and squeeze your hand, pulling you closer to his comfort. It was so easy to be tucked away in the emotions gliding effortlessly on the primadonna’s face and bodily sways. Making you grip Steven’s hand tighter when the music numbers dramatically heightened.

Both your attention clashing on the swans, the prince and finally the prima ballerina when she shifts from her moonlight vow of Odette to the starstruck trickery of Odile. Putting the prince under her spell with each of the thirty two fouettés, graceful twirls, midnight plié’s and audacious tor en’laires.

Dramatizing and pronouncing the devastations of love and highlighting the heart-rending confusions of blind devotion that marks the story of Swan Lake.

The ache encompassing ones benevolence when forgiveness graces them both calms your plummeting heartbeats. And oh how your tears fell like glass ornaments when loyal Prince Siegfried declared his love for Odette. Declared to rather die by drowning in the lake of tears and swan feathers than marry the sorcerer's son, Odile.

The heightened violins make your heart jump in your throat, bringing more tears in your eyes when precious Odette’s loyal prince took her by the hand and guided her to the lake. Jumping into the water where they both drowned, their bodies in their heavenly spiritual form creeping up to the heavens and the swans that have turned back human dance around their bodies.

Steven brings his warm hands to your face, brushing away your tears with the swipes of his thumbs but as they are erased more replace them. Your heart hammers in his chest, he leans his head closer to your face and kisses the tears that trace down your cheeks.

“It’s okay ballerina, it’s just a play. It’s only a play.” Stevie whispers the affirmation into your ear, reminding you of the ending to the tale you know by heart but you seem to be swept into that world of heartbreak.

It won’t stop your tears but it doesn’t stop Steven from sweeping you away from the balcony. Your body tucked in his strong arms, your head lays in the crook of his neck but it lifts up when he enters the room.

“Are we going to leave?” your voice bubbles, the crowd of paparazzi and flashing cameras might be waiting for the both of you yet you’re confused when he continues to roam the room.

“No we aren’t, not yet. I still need to show you my surprise.” Steven smiles a schoolboy smile filled with boyish charm, his hand grasping onto a lamp alcoves into the wall.

With a twist of it, your eyes glisten in astonishment when Steven reveals to you the hidden door tucked away. The golden frame against the white molded walls makes you look up at your husband, your wide eyes that were once riddled in tears are crystal clear and filled with curiosity.

Absolutely having no idea of knowing this little detail yet your husband does, opening the door with the simplest of ease and confidence and it reveals a pitch black hallway.

“Do you wanna see something magical?” Steven whispers, your brows scrunch in confusion and you’ll look behind your shoulder to the balcony were the ballet still commences.

The music continues to play, the last dramatic music number filling the air and your mind but you look back at your husband, your dearest Stevie.

“I’ll follow you to the end of the earths, Steven. Anywhere is magical with you.” you don’t expect your lovers eyes to swell up and you melt with the feverish kiss that graces your lips.

Glancing through the secret corridor, you begin to notice how furnished it is and the sight of burning candles lighting a path. A sense of adventure makes your atoms and nerves shake and vibrate a heavenly glow. It could be the champagne taking its toll on you and it could be the dizzy effects of the ballet where you witnessed the deaths of two lovers.

It could be any of those things, but the love that radiates both your bodies seems to have a mind of its own.

Taking your husbands hand in yours tightly, you both begin to take your first steps through the secret corridor. The smell of dust and the faint scent of vanilla and coffee grounds fills your nostrils but you take comfort in Steven’s cologne.

Shyly hiding your figure behind his large frame, your interlocked hold tightens every few passing seconds and your fear riddled face brushes softly against the fabric of his sides. Darkness encases your body, if you were to put a single arm up you wouldn’t be able to see the shininess of your gloved hand and the jewels on your fingers.

“It’s not that scary, ballerina.” Steven tries to convince you.

The corridor is so pitch black you couldn’t even see Steven’s face, not the clarity blue of his eyes and not the strong sharpness of his jaw. The dark took away the gift of sight and with it all the beauty and comfort, you were scared of the dark.

Not just the dark sinister abyss that bared all unpredictable outcomes and sudden life hindering tragedies but you feared going through dark times. How unfortunate and dark both your pasts were, you found no comfort in it since only misery and struggles were befallen.

Steven was your beacon, your holy golden beacon guiding you through the rigid twists and turns of a stone labyrinth riddled with monsters of disease, poverty and death. Steven was your hero then and he is your hero now.

Here he stands holding you close to him, a shining knight sworn to protect you and slay any terror that comes across your path. The fact comforts you along with his hushed whispers of encouragement, “We’re almost there. I’m right here, there’s nothing to be afraid of.” you two continue walking, the melting candles in scones glowing in burning shades of lemon and tangerine.

“Can I get a hint on what my surprise is?” you ask, beginning to feel reassured that no danger is to befall on the two of you.

They light a way for the both of you and Steven leads you through the seemingly endless hallway like it’s second nature. The only things you could see were the ancient dust covered portraits and mirrors in ancient gold frames that aligned the walls.

“No can do, ballerina. And no cheating with kisses, it won’t work.” Steven says and you pout, the soft pink satin of your heels and the shininess of Steven’s loafers step on the stained carpet as you both took your careful steps.

“Can I at least get an idea on what it is?” you press on and Steven chuckles, without sight, it only left you to find reassurance with the other helpful scences.

“That’s still a no sweetheart. I keep forgetting how persistent you are when you’re impatient.” he smiles and laughs when you give his shoulder a slap.

“You should know mister, you married me for heavens sake.” you smile, his touch bonding you two together into a parted heart mold.

“And I don’t regret that decision. No matter how impatient and bratty you could be.” your dearest husband speaks as he rubs soft circles onto your back and his pulls to your body bringing you closer and closer.

“And I don’t regret saying no to you when you asked me to marry you. Sure I was scared of becoming a wife but you have a gift of taking it all away.” you speak, leaning your head against his bicep, your arm hooked with his and your thumb tracing his in expedition.

“And the sex was fucking good that night to.” you both speak in sync, speechless yet laughing at the fact you both were thinking the same thing.

A sudden serenade of loud chatter shakes the hidden hallway. It makes you jump and your body tremble against his body, thoughts of ghosts and possible spirits haunting the hall clash is a possibility in your mind.

“Steven.” you whisper his name, the fear alerting Steven and the little whimper pulling at his heart strings.

Halting to hold you, he starts to question if you both should turn back and if the surprise isn’t worth it but he knows how these fears result in memorable happy memories when you break through. How proud you are of yourself, Steven adores it when you break a limit centered around your fears and anxieties.

Steven pulls you close his chest, “Sweetheart, we’re right underneath the hallway of reporters. It’s no Phantom of The Opera I promise you.” his reasonings easily diminish the fears that your mind easily conjures up.

Nodding your head into into his collarbones as you both still listen to the faint arguments in French, “They’re arguing why they still haven’t gotten a picture for you to feature in the paper.” Steven smirks when you bashfully smile, loving that he’s making his wife a little celebrity.

It calms you a bit but what makes you at ease are the tender kisses Steven presses against the temple of your head and knuckles. Pursuing to guide you through the dimly lit hallway with the advancement of his vision, his body heat another given comfort you lean against.

“I love you Steven, I love you more than I can say and explain. I love you so much.” you whisper into his ear, with more steps and the darkness becoming less lifeless.

“I’m in love you with you Y/n L/n, you’ll always be my girl.” The beauty within those words astounded you, it makes you question your fear, bringing you to a soft realization that conflicts it.

Back then, when you were just a struggling young woman providing and working hard for your family, you were in the dark. The scary pitch black dark that made you cry yourself to sleep every night, tired of working every muscle and ounce of energy in your body to just lead you to the same spot you were working on leaving.

Steven was always so inspired of how strong you were and impressed with how you hid your tears behind closed doors. But he managed to open your shell and there revealed your glimmering pearl.

Steven swore then and still swears now— that your heart, your soul, your mind was the brightest than any diamond.

The brightest beam that lite up the dark of New York, eyes wondered your waking hour and marveled at how you were a sparkling star in the cluttered rubble of Brooklyn. You two were kids living on the dark side of the American dream, not knowing how you would be the image of a dynasty once you two got out.

you were his beacon, just as he was yours

The conclusion creates a shift in your body and the separation Steven feels of your body leaving away from his takes him by pleasant surprise. Observing your behavior in your facial features and body, you take more steps and with each step you seem to become more confident and effortless.

A smile graces your face when you extend your arms and twirl around, beautiful song like laughs adorn the hall. Making protective Steven chuckle and crack a smile when you start to run through the corridor.

“Bet I can beat you to my surprise.” the childish challenge declared with a cheeky wink makes a childlike smirk cross his lips and a brow lifting upwards and he scoffs when you race away.

“I highly doubt that!” Steven chases after you, laughter breaking through his chest as he begins to rush to keep up with your giggling figure, twirling in the soft darkness.

As much as he wants to stay near you side by side he stays behind you, not because you are too fast but because you seem to fall once again within your world of enchantment. Falling in the position of an observer, what he was witnessing was more magical than any surprise he had in store for you.

Golden yellow scones starred the color of your irises as your body loosen and your fears began to be casted so far away to reach you. The only thing that can reach you is the glowing tender candlelight that surrounded you, the dark paradise that wasn’t so dark at all as you danced your fears away.

Even your heels being forgotten behind you when the littler ballerina in you engulfed your thoughts and actions, Steven just continues to smile as he picks them up. Marveling at you as if he’s in a dream and he’d wake up in his cold bed in Brooklyn but he’s looking at you just as Prince Siegfried set sights on Odette for the first time.

When she transformed from the graceful swan to the beautiful women he died with. Steven remembers the vows he spoke so tenderly to you at the grand chapel and how you repeated them back to him with the same blooming love in your voice.

—and just like Odette and Prince Siegfried, you and him were destined to become one and hopefully battle any darkness threatened to break your love. Maybe not with perishing you both in a lake of tears but with the blind care free steps your twirls and skipping steps take you through.

To be young and in love. To have a ring on both your hands to mark your promise. To have an absent minded soul telling you his every divine thought of you.

Steven drinks in your face in the candlelight, takes in this divine memory for when he’s old and fragile like the dusted portraits on the walls. Savoring this memory and ingrain each detail like the colors of his pallet, each second in his mind as he strokes his brush against the canvas.

He’s more than likely to sketch this moment later in the pages of his sketchbook but you two are nearing the outskirts of the theater, getting nearer to his surprise. The air getting colder fills your chests, Steven takes his dress coat and wraps your bare shoulders in it.

The warmth and scent of him enveloping your body, making you feel soft and melty like a bittersweet chocolate bar in the steaming pink cups of mocha you sip each morning on the hotel balcony. Your interlocked hands stronger than ever, you can tell you are coming near to his surprise when he takes a step ahead of you.

“Is this it Stevie?” you say, a door is finally within view, making your body cease from its fae nature. Slightly panting and giggling, your body cold but raging in a crackling fireplace pitting at your belly as you examine the end of the corridor. Candles burn brightly at the sides of the door frames, ancient wood and copper brasses keeping it intact.

Steven looks over at you and with a eager smile, tightening his hold on you before pressing a kiss to the space between your brows.

“Are you ready for the surprise, ballerina?” Steven’s soft voice breaks you away from your thoughts.

“More than anything Stevie.” you whisper and Steven’s hands at the curled handle, taking in a breath as the dark of night envelopes you both.

Hesitation slips away as you feel the winter cold encase you, brush your lips against like a soft kiss while Steven gently takes your gloves hand in bare one. Walking along side with you, your eyes dash to the paradise garden in the apple of your eyes.

The stone figures of gargoyles and angels standing on high columns, their wings, instruments, and horns dusted with fresh snow. It was a different world, a seam in a separate universe you and your Steven fell into and no one could reach you here.

Tears glossing over your eyes as the snow fell from the cloudy and starry skies. Intricate snowflakes falling onto the frozen marble fountain that rests in the center of the winter garden. Frozen water that filled the moat is covered in a white blanket of snow, the molded white stone base laced with soft blue ice.

“Remember when I first danced with you at Junior Prom and you spilled the punch bowl on Mary Elizebeth?” Steven began, and you laugh at the memory playing on the spindle of your mind.

Pink satin steps come near and near to the magical fountain, body floating through the white stone gated portion of the theaters hidden property. Steven and you were trespassing, it only encouraged you to twirl through the grey mossy tile stone.

“Yeah I remember, she called me a bitch because I wouldn’t come to her afterparty. I mean, she didn’t invite you, so why would I have gone?” you talk, feeling a sense of youth that came hand in hand with looking for a sense of adventure.

Nostalgia coursing through the clouds of your mind, a little scream erupts through your lips when Steven picks you up from behind.

“But you were Prom Queen, you could do absolutely anything you wanted and you just danced with me and Bucky all night.” he said, missing his best friend who is settled comfortably with his family in New York.

“You guys are fun people to dance with and Benjamin didn’t know how to dance no matter how much that Prom King crown inflated his ego. I would dance with you over anyone any day Stevie.” you speak, lightly waltzing hand in hand in the center of the open dome garden.

Coordinated feet falling in their alleviating steps through the powdered snow, you two dance to the second coming of the ballet proceeding. Steven holds onto your waist and you his shoulders as he guides you through the simple four step dance he only knows but you never get tired of.

“Good, because I was beginning to worry you were getting tired of the four step.” Steven admits and you laugh into his shoulder.

“That’s not possible Steven. I never get tired dancing with you.” you confess, humming along to the deep violincellos, softening clarinets, and booming trombones.

The music is different than the usual jazzy trumpets and upbeat piano you and him dance to in the comfort of your home. It makes you hold onto him tighter as he memorize the planes of his face.

The dark freckles that dot his skin and the blue ice in his eyes that can melt from your love as snowflake like stardust falls in his golden hair.

“That’s relieving to know, because I never get tired of dancing with you.” with those words that carve into his heart, he thinks that maybe it is possible to fall in love over and over again.

Steven dips your body till your hairs is touching the snow below and your giggling at him to pull you up. Crinkled eyes open and are immediately captivated by a pair of eyes so foreign yet so familiar.

Maybe it’s on the account of your position but when the stretch of your arched back rises in his large strong arms your eyes still latch on them. The pair of eyes following you softly as you leave Steven’s embrace, following them that stand alone besides the moon and star clustered sky.

The thick material of your husbands jacket slips past your shoulders, the cold stark as your steps get closer and closer to the fountain. Following those eyes makes you stop at the foot of the molded stone, your gloved hands resting on the carved railing that must’ve took years to perfect with simple scalpels and chip wedges.

It always astounded you how mankind could do godly things with the craft of their minds and the tools in their hands. Leaving you in absolute wonder as you awe the marble statuettes of swans laying at the bottom portion of the large reservoir.

Their white wings either angled as if they are positioned to take flight and some tucked to their detailed bodies with their necks angled in a parted heart. Satin pink fingers touch the frozen beak of a marble swan, the white stark against the shiny material that reflects off the moonlight.

Ivory vines showcasing white roses and lilies floating in the faux water. The perennial petals decorate the feathers of the swans and in the marble locks and flowing stone dress of the marble figure you’re marveling.

The very reason why you’re so speechless, the very maiden was a marble replica of you. A beautiful maiden surrounded by swans and roses as well as accompanied by the moon and stars above.

So this is the surprise Steven planned, you thought as you rose to the tips of your toes. Arms lifting up to touch the stone fingertips of your stone self, the feeling of cold marble hitting your warm flesh so sharp yet so tenderly.

“Do you like it, ballerina?” Steven’s voice broke behind you, his hands hooked at your waist as his face nuzzled in your hair.

This dream just couldn’t be anymore magical, you have no idea you said that aloud because now your feeling the earing lips of Steven’s at the back of your neck.

Those pink lips traveling around till they brush past the softness of your cheek. Pulling your back against his chest as his arms wrap around your waist to twine your hands in his.

“This isn’t a dream, sweetheart. Maybe it’s me who’s dreaming ‘cause I still can’t believe you’re mine.” his whisper is louder than the orchestra playing but softer than the light of the sky.

“Say you love me, say it please,” you plead as his hands cup your face, and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“I love you Stevie, I’ve loved you the moment I first set my eyes on you and I will love you until the last time I do,” your voice dripping in tearful happiness, it brings tears in Steven eyes and he presses his lips to yours.

Finishing the story with a midnight kiss, closing a chapter of a whimsical fairytale to open to a new beginning.

thank you for reading! ♡ i’d appreciate it if you reblog and comment down your thoughts! links for my library acc, taglist and masterlist are above! ♡

#50s!steve rogers × black!reader #50s!steve rogers × woc!reader #50s!steve rogers × reader #50s!steve rogers fluff #steve rogers × black!reader #steve rogers × woc!reader #steve rogers × reader #steve rogers fluff #chris evans × black!reader #chris evans × woc!reader #chris evans × reader #chris evans fluff

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loadingrat · 3 years

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⿻ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 → 𝐤. 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐣𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐠

🏻 ⃟⿻ 𝐠 𝐞 𝐧 𝐫 𝐞 → angst; retelling; fantasy

🏼 ⃟⿻ 𝐬 𝐮 𝐦 𝐦 𝐚 𝐫 𝐲 → with the burden of a crown on his head, Hongjoong finds himself forced to get a bride before he turns twenty two, yet he finds himself struck by love with a cursed young woman named Odette, who's body turns to swan at dawn. it all should be as simple as snapping your fingers to break the curse, when all it takes is three little words, yet, when spoken wrongly, they may do more harm then good.

🏽 ⃟⿻ 𝐰 𝐚 𝐫 𝐧 𝐢 𝐧 𝐠 𝐬 → this awfully written i apologise; based off the ballet, so suicide; dark magic; violence; mention of a curse; the usual swearing; hunting; instant love; drowning; overprotective parents and another shitty ass parent if you ask me; forced marriage; the reader is referred to as "Odette"

🏾 ⃟⿻ 𝐰 𝐨 𝐫 𝐝 𝐬 → + 5.5k

🏿 ⃟⿻ 𝐦 𝐚 𝐬 𝐭 𝐞 𝐫 𝐥 𝐢 𝐬 𝐭 𝐬 → main masterlist ⦚ retellings

Hongjoong always enjoyed watching as the wind bent under the will of his arrows, obeying them and letting the weapons find their way right in the middle of the red target. It brought pride in his chest, and helped him feel more like a boy stuck with a crown on his head than a prince stuck with the future of a kingdom on his back. He loved to see how flour would purr out of the sacks full of the snow like powder that stood in the royal yard, and so did his friends, as they always cheered him on, despite getting their expensive clothes all dirtied up.

Saying that Kim Hongjoong's life was anything but exiting would've been the understandment of the year, that only if the words wouldn't have reached his mother's ears. However the queen was always aware of anything and everything going on in her kingdom, as if the old woman with her hair like silver had eyes in every corner of the territory. The prince always disliked that in her as he himself was never allowed to even leave the palace without one of his parents following. Of course, he was grateful that the queen and the king were the most understanding royalties he's ever met, and he got to speak to a lot on a daily, however, when it came to actually understanding him, sadly they were left lacking. The prince hated the way he pictured himself in this situation, but he couldn't do much and just accept that he was like a swan trapped in a dove's cage, and it made him feel completely hopeless.

"You'll try getting out this evening, won't you?" The words slipped prince Wooyoung's lips as if he asked the same thing over and over. The smile on his lips had always faded during previous days, as the answer would've been a sad shake of the head, but the said day it only bloomed as Hongjoong turned his head around, looking at his bow as if it was the most interesting thing he's seen in his lifetime. "Holy shit, he didn't deny it!" Wooyoung spoke, a loud sound like a hyena's laughter ringing from his lungs as he repeatedly slapped his best friend's back. The other prince tried moving away, his abused body protesting with each hit Wooyoung delivered, but deciding that he'd fail anyways, Yeosang resorted to catching the younger's hand and delivering a harsh hit back. "But he did not agree to it either."

It took only two more hours for the man to find himself sitting at a lavish dinner table, all kind of foods placed before them, yet the anxiety growing inside his heart made it easy for his appetite to stray away. "Hongjoong?" His father's voice was harsh as he demanded the prince to give him his attention. His mother's words followed right after, tone dripping with honey and Hongjoong knew something was in her mind. "The date for your birthday ball is approaching." She stated, and the man couldn't help but try to anticipate what she would've said next. "And we thought that it would be a rather perfect time for you to find a bride."

The prince sucked in a hard breath, not trusting his voice to speak up his mind as it could've cracked, and he was not a teenager anymore, so he feared the way it could've made him look weak in front of the King. Hongjoong had met many princesses, duchesses, nobilities of all kinds, even country girls with exceptional talents, but none ever intrigued him and he surely wasn't going to choose a bride just yet. Hongjoong liked to believe he was too you for marriage, but his two friends always nagged that if he'll dare pass twenty five by himself, no princess will ever marry him for his heart, but for his crown instead, to which Hongjoong only scoffed as he dispatched another set of arrows. "I don't think anyone's marrying me for my heart now either."

"So what do you say?" He felt as if his words were stuck in his throat and he was unable to get then out, but even if he would've answered as he truly believed, he knew his pleadings would've fallen on deaf ears. Hongjoong knew this day was going to come sooner or earlier, he just didn't expect it quite yet. "I agree, mother," the prince didn't know what gave him the courage to stretch his words, or to arch his eyebrows upwards, or smile like he did, all the while still looking in his plate. "However i also have a proposal.."

Truly, Hongjoong doesn't know what came over him that evening, yet it was because of his boldness that he found himself mounting one of the finest mares in the stables. The prince had taken care of the horse since it was barely standing, he himself being only a child, enchanted by the pure white little fur on it. He's called her Zoya, a fitting name for a mount like herself, and despite leaving the palace only a couple of times, alongside of his father or mother, he considered the creature loyal enough to not abandon him when he'll most need her.

With his bow resting in at his hip, the prince started following a rather small river, which eventually brought him in town and down the valley the palace rested on. Hongjoong wearily adventured himself in the wide forest that spread before him, the darkness of it making him shiver slightly as his mind finally wrapped around all the danger that could've hid around. Wolves, bears, mountain lions, all kind of creatures lurked in the forest, however the silver haired prince advanced nonetheless, clutching his bow tighter as if it could've made him feel secure once more.

Just as he was about to urge his horse to start running, the sound of rapid wings flapping in the air made his skin crowl and his head shoot back, his eyes snapping rapidly on a flock of birds. Their fathers were as white as you could've imagined and as pure as it could've gotten, their bodies long, majestic and elegant, and Hongjoong couldn't help but let his mouth hang open as he stared at the beautiful swans that took over the sky. Within seconds, the brave prince clutched his bow and aimed skillfully, ready to let his arrow pierce through what he nominated as the prettiest swan, but Hongjoong wasn't as hard hearted as his father believed him to be, his eyes saddening and his chest burning as he asked himself how could he kill such a beautiful creature.

The prince sighed deeply, putting his bow back and giving the horse a gentle nudge as a sign to follow the flock and Zoya took off obediently, rushing Hongjoong through the woods. He enjoyed the way wind blew through his silver locks, caressing his cheeks harshly and he love the adrenaline that came with riding this fast and thinking about how free one could be, thinking about what he's missed his whole life. Hongjoong knew that where there was a smaller river, there had to be a wider water source near by, and the swans that seemed to start heading down only gave him more reasons to believe he was right. The only problem was that he was not expecting the woods to end so quickly, his horse coming to an abrupt halt as it hooves planted in the mud as harsh as it could.

He jumped eagerly from his horse and there, right before him and barely at two steps away from where his horse stopped, a grand body of water spread itself so widely that the other side of the lake was barley visible through the thin mist. The water sparkled in the shy sunlight of the evening, the sound of a small cascade barely audible in the back and the prince felt his jaw drop slightly one more time. If his mother would've been with him, she wouldn't even look at the beauty in front of her, but would scold him about how unmannered he looked and how that wasn't suitable for princes like him, not even in a million years, but as he spotted the swans floating happily around, everything about manners felt long forgotten.

The boy in him had the urgent need to sit down in the slightly damp yet soft grass, eyes wide on the beautiful birds before him, yet the mature side in him wanted to mount back on his horse and move forward. There was so much more to explore and so little time, his mind wrapping around the fact that his father had gave him one single day to ride around the kingdom, with the condition that he'd return the evening before the horologe rang three in the morning. Therefore, the prince clutched on the horse's reins ready to mount, sparing one last glance at the lake, who's water started reflecting the rosy color of the sky.

Hongjoong sucked in his breath, feeling how air left his lungs as he swore he started imagining things. His head whipped back, the forest remaining the only sight for a while, and he took his time thinking about what came into his sight seconds ago. Not long after, he turned around and came to the horrifying conclusion that he was indeed watching as the small bodies of the swans, that now rested calmly on the shore, morphed and twisted, becoming mere humans. Their build was more than just elegant, bodies long and delicate, nothing short of pure beauty. Each wore long gowns, as white and pure as their dazzling wings were, little silver necklaces with one sapphire gem decorating their necks, yet he quickly took notice of the one swan that stood in the middle of them all, sitted on the old trunk of a tree, her eyes glimming with happiness while a silver tiara rested on the top of her head.

The prince watched them with amazement, as if they had put him under a thick spell like sirens would do to the poor sailors adventuring in the deep waters. Yet the more he watched, the more he couldn't help but feel like an intruder. The women danced and laughed when younger swans tried to impress them, then ran quickly to hide under an older swan's wing. The innocence of the moment was making his own heart fill with happiness, lips curling upwards gently and eyes turning in crescents as a squeaky giggle rolled off his throat.

The moment all the laughter stopped and a cutting silence settled in, the prince knew he had done something wrong. He felt the warmth that had built in his chest being stripped away from him, eyes growing wide and startled, just as the swans had became. It didn't take long for Hongjoong to see how every pair of eyes rested on him, making him feel anxious. Should he leave? Or was he supposed to stay now? Either way, the answer would've been to not panic, which he's failed the moment one of the youngest of the creatures approached him, yelling loudly the name of who he supposed was the swan with the tiara.

"Odette! Odette!" The small girl yelled happily, grabbing the prince's hand and jumping up and down while giggling. "It's prince charming! He's come to save us!" At her words, Hongjoong's cheeks started flaring pink, his heart beating faster as each pair of eyes rested on him, and he completely forgot about his tight grip on the bow in his other hand. The mare let out a loud cry, startled by the poor girl before slamming it's hooves harshly in the ground multiple times. In alert, Hongjoong let go of his bow, grabbing the girl's body in his arms and hurrying further away from the horse, who angrily took off back towards the town.

"Yuna, dear!" The swan quickly run to the prince, her hands coming to grip Hongjoong's arms, which were still holding tightly onto her. "Are you alright?" His voice sounded unsure as he let the woman gently take her in her own hold, hand placing the younger's head again her chest. When a little laughter came from Yuna's lips, everyone sighed in relief, smiles painted on the swans' lips when the smaller swan jumped back on the grass and began twirling around the royalty as she giggled loudly. "Yuna, where are your manners?" Another swan called out, her lips pulled in a thin line and her eyebrows furrowed, and she most definetly was the oldest of the group, her aura holding a maturity that amazed Hongjoong, despite her youthful features.

"Don't tense yourself, Yongsun." The youngest girl however rolled her eyes at the authority in Yongsun's voice, her own lips pulled in a pout as she bowed slightly in front of the silver haired man. He gave her a polite smile before bowing right back, sending the women in awe. "Come sit with us." The girl next to him offered, and he couldn't help but let his eyes wander over her striking features. She was an unique type of beauty, something he's never seen in anyone before, not even in all the princesses that's come to court him. He loved her voice as well, her tone being like honey to his ears and he couldn't even bring himself to care about the sudden drop of formalities when his orbs found hers.

"I would hate to make such beautiful ladies uncomfortable with my presence." He acknowledged humbly, felling a shy smile tug at his lips while hearing how the woman, who he assumed was named Odette, let out a wholehearted laugh, her eyes turning to crescents as one of her hands came to hide her mouth. "Bother us? It would be a crime to not enjoy your presence." She assured, nodding her head towards him like encouraging him to take a step forward, and so he did. One step at a time before he found himself sitting in the grass besides a couple of children, who playfully pulled at his clothes and wowed at the fine material.

"What's your name, son?" The oldest inquired, making Hongjoong's cheeks become pinker again, however this time, his eyes fell on the ground, where his ring decorated fingers gently pulled at the damb grass. "Kim Hongjoong." He spoke softly, not expecting any grand reactions form the group, who only nodded their heads in adoration. "We'll would you look at that, it really is prince charming." Another swan laughed, making Hongjoong himself let out a shy giggle, his eyes involuntary traveling to the swan with a tiara. It felt like hours that he stood there and just watched her, her skin bathing in the golden light of the sunset, and her eyes glimmering with love as she looked at each swan, before her eyes settled on him as well.

"Do you like to dance?" One of the younger swans looked at him curiously, her small hand coming to grasp at Hongjoong's with excitement as she awaited a reply, and when the prince nodded his head in agreemen, he girl softly tugged him after her, bringing him to his feet. Together, they marveled at the way the forest started lighting up as soon as the sun went under, mushrooms and strange plants glowing in the dark, along with the moss on the trees, it was absolutely beautiful. However Hongjoong didn't have long to observe the landscape, his attention being brought back to the small girl that began dancing with him as the others started singing along, and it didn't take a while for the swans to join in as well, a chorus of laughter spreading trough the rather dormant forest as they all had their fun.

Yongsun smiled happily as she took Odette's's hand, bringing her closer to the silver haired prince, who bowed deeply and offered his hand, an invitation, the girl concluded as she accepted happily. Perhaps only for tonight, she could forget about her curse, see herself as an actual princess and lose herself in the idea that Hongjoong would be the one to break the curse. However nothing like that happened as they began dancing, a tough wind starting to pull at their bodies, darkness spreading like a plague. The youngest girls found coverage behind the elders, while Hongjoong placed his arms around Odette and brought her closer to his chest, protecting the swan from whatever danger eas awaiting them.

"Well well.." the sharp voice of a girl that came with the calmness of the weather startled the prince, who felt reluctant to let go of the swan in his arms, yet still let go of her and watched as disgust painted over Odette's features and anger over the others. Just on the shore stood another woman, her gown way shorter and messier as well as dotted with darker shades of black. Her features were just as graceful and as striking as the others, her own features making her look like a devine, but something about her tone made the prince feel sure that she wasn't just as beautiful on the inside.

"The swan princess found herself a rescuer." She taunted while getting closer, her thumb and pointer wrapping around Odette's chin and bringing her closer. The princess, as the stranger called her, let out a scoff before pulling away, making the black swan laugh as if she was in hysterics. "Hoping you'll turn human again, little one?" She fumed, letting her eyes fall on Hongjoong, who stood stiff and angered, eyes on her like, if he had his arrows, he wouldn't have hesitated to let one of them pierce her heart.

"It'll never happen, we'll make sure of that, little Odette." The stranger cocked one of her eyebrows while shaking her head and her fingers glazed over the necklace she was proudly wearing. With a last laugh, the black swan took a couple of steps back before her body quickly morphed in the one of a swan, yet her feathers looked disturbed and unhealthy, her body, small, too weak for a creature that was supposed to look as beautiful as a swan.

"Who was that?" Hongjoong found himself asking, his own eyebrows arched upwards in confusion. His hand found Odette's and gripped it lightly a reassuring smile tugging at the girl's lips as she found comfort in the prince, who was still a stranger. "Odile.. Her father tried casting a curse on the town, however it did not go as planned and it ended up backfiring." She began explaining, choosing carefully her words as she took a glance at his chocolate warm eyes. The prince himself let his gaze meet hers, observant eyes curiously investigating her for a while before he spoke out loud. "Then why are you trapped as swans as well?" Silence washed over the group, the tension growing so thick that Hongjoong could've cut it with a knife. "I didn't say that it didn't work."

Not much passed before Hongjoong excused himself, getting up and fetching his bow that stood patiently in the grass. He's dropped it earlier when Zoya took off and completely forgot about it, however, in his favor, his loyal mare had found her way back to the lake, thirst driving it back the way it's come. After the prince found himself back on his mount, thanking all of his lucky stars for bringing it back to him, he finally let his eyes fall on the woman with a little crown on her head. He swore he felt his heart beating faster than ever, swirling with the desire to take her with him and keep her to himself, to make her his, and at that moment he knew that there was no one that could ever become his queen, except her.

"I must head out, however my family is hosting a ball tomorrow, at dusk, in order to find me a bride. It would be a honor to have you as a guest." He spoke softly, taking in the surprise on Odette's face, who only nodded before waving elegantly. With a polite nod from himself, the prince saw himself off as Zoya started galloping as fast as she could towards the palace.

"You must go." a cold and harsh voice spoke, making the girl's shoulders fall, she put so much hope that perhaps this time, she'll be able to find love by herself, and hearing her father speak like that made her whole world shatter. With a long sigh, the girl turned her head around, in order to hide her glassy eyes, telling herself that it all starts being unfair the moment even her father had turned against her. "I shall not, father." Was all Odile said before she lifted her chin high, eyes becoming sharp as she told herself that it was time to pull free from his strings, yet she had a feeling that it will not be as easy as denying his orders.

Rothbart, the black swan's father, smiled triumphally, as if the crown had already been placed on his head. He let himself turn around and face his only daughter and with a hushed voiced he whispered. "You'll go.. oh you'll go." Odile wanted to protest, to yell and say something, but the second her father touched her necklace, the poor girl knew it was too late. It took her a quick moment of thinking, preparing herself for what she might see, before she finally turned to the mirror that stood patiently on a wall. It was then that complete sorrow engulfed her heart, failing to find her own reflection. Instead, a familiar face started back at her, Odette's features looking so beautiful and so graceful, yet so ugly to Odile, as she was left to deal with her pain before she could've stopped it. "You do not have a choice."

"But what should i wear?" Odette sighed, bringing her hands in her lap as she eyed nervously the ground. Her crown was resting on her head, sapphires sparkling in the gentle moonlight. "I cannot show up to a royal ball in this gown.." as much as she loved her dress, it's material softer than silk and whiter than the pearls found in the ocean's depths, she feared it was nothing short of what noblewomen wore to sleep. The more she thought about it, the more Odette found herself trapped between her own thoughts. What if her hair was was not as elegant as the other princesses', what if her little white slippers were to dirty up the expensive carpets around the castle. Worse, despite knowing how to dance, Odette had little knowledge of etiquette, as she's grown up as a simple village girl. She was going to make a fool out of herself and the prince for inviting her.

"Worry not, Odette." A soft voice came from behind her, but before she's gotten the chance to turn around, a pair of cold hands rested on her bare shoulders, making her gasp at the sudden feeling of chilliness. Shivers traveled up and down on her back, eyes becoming wide in surprise as the speed she turned her head around could've given her a whiplash. Yongsun giggled softly, amused by the fact that she actually spooked the younger swan. "You look beautiful, and your gown is magnificent. Made with soft material like your wings, pulled together by a thread of magic. My dear, you look breathtaking."

Odette stood a second just looking at her friend, a long sigh leaving her mouth when she understood that Yongsun was right. All she had to do was to have fun, she'd be dancing and talking to people, nothing she hasn't done before, so why was she worrying now? "You should leave, it's getting late." Was all the older woman said as she bent down to kiss the top of her head like a mother would before sending off her child off. A couple of younger swans insisted of going with her, clinging on her gown and her hands before she agreed in defeat. A chorus of laughter and giggles following her the deeper she walked into the forest and the closer she's gotten to the palace.

Hongjoong stood sitting on the throne, a crown on his head while his parents stood at both of his sides. His rather small body seemed to shrink more and more with every second and with each nod he gave to the young women that would come to bow before him. They were all wearing beautiful gowns, feminine features painted by a thin layer of makeup, jewelries decorating their necks, ears and hair, he had to admit that they were all beautiful, but none of them where Odette. His Odette. He waited patiently for her to make her appearance, eyes running back to the spiral staircase in hopes that he'd spot her, and his observant mother did not take long to notice. "You're waiting for someone." She announced, a hand resting on her son's shoulder in a way of assuring him that it will all be fine.

Hongjoong nodded, his lips parting slightly as he pondered on his thoughts, however, before he's even gotten thr chance to speak, a familiar face made his heart beat like it never has, and his breath got stuck in his throat. A wave of heat crossed his cheeks, feeling as a strong blush took over his face. From one of the corners of the grand ballroom, he noticed Yeosang smirking his way, Wooyoung whispering something to him before they both snickered.

"Your highness.." when she arrived in front of him, Hongjoong quickly has gotten up on his feet, refusing to let her bow before him. One of his hands gently taking one of her own as the other traveled to her side in order to bring her body closer to his own with a shy embrace. At the action, a couple of gasps could be heard throughout the room, everyone surprised at the prince's action, yet he did not care, and it could've been the reason why he completely looked past the vile smile that played on the girl's lips. "Odette.. will you dance with me?"

"We've arrived too late!" One of the little swans warned as she peeked trough the closest window, huffing in defeat at the sight. Odette waisted no time in following her closely, face crumbling in defeat as he watched how her dear Hongjoong waltzed around the room with no one else but Odile. His eyes were so fixed on her that it seemed like she was his whole world, hands gripping her close like she'd parish if he let go, and everyone around them saw it. How in love he was, how much care he put in every step they made together, and that made Odette's stomach churn in pain. Her eyes began watering, heart screaming at her to do something yet her body remained frozen in place.

"Odette..?" The little girl asked, her tone wobbling as her own eyes began to water as she watched the princess of the swans. The young woman's skin began morphing, little fluff and white feathers growing from her arms and shoulders at a slow peace, like she was to turn in swan once more. With each second she spent looking at her beloved dance with another woman, looking so smitten by her, the little sapphires on the crown she wore began to crack more and more, and panic took over the three children when their own necklaces followed closely and as Hongjoong's voice rang trough their ears.

"So, Your Highness, would you say that you love me?" Odile questioned as she made eye contact with the prince, who giggled shyly before sighing deeply. He felt caught red-handed and all he could do now was nod his head slightly before speaking softly. "I love you." Yet something didn't feel right, deead filling his heart as he said his words, like a kid that's done something wrong and waited anxiously for his parents to scold him. It was then that he began to fall out of the spell he had been put under, noticing how the woman in front of him did not wear a crown yet a necklace, amber decorating the gem that rested patiently on her neck. The white gown that the swan once wore was not completed jet black, eyes harsh as a voice so cutting he began feeling dizzy.

"You're not Odette." He stated, stopping from dancing and taking a couple of harsh steps back. The prince's hand flew to his sword, threatening to take it out and use it, yet Odile's smile never faltered. "Even if you harmed me, my mission here had ended." She explained, giggling once more before turning herself in the same swan she morphed in when they first met and before anyone could do anything, she flew past him, soaring trough the open window where four little figures stood at.

"Odette..?" He asked, feeling his hear break as he noticed how heartbroken she looked, how her skin began turning in feathers and how tears cascaded over her cheeks like they couldn't be stopped. "Odette!" He yelled louder, rushing to jump over the window, yet failing to do so in time before the woman began running back towards the forest. "Hongjoong!" His father warned, yet the prince was far gone, already chasing after the swan with unshed tears blurring his own vision.

It didn't take long for the two to reach the lake, scratches from little branches decorating their skin as neither had been careful while running, yet that did not matter to them, the heartache burning every bit of ration they had. "I did not know, Odette!" He tried explaining himself, taking a step forward towards the woman, who only took one back, her feet so close to the shore that it made Hongjoong's heart freeze in place. "I thought it was you.."

Yet what was done was done and both of them knew it, the sapphires finally shuttering as Odette took her crown off, breaking it in two. Without even thinking about the outcome, the swan threw it into the lake, a muffled sob leaving her mouth as she herself took a step closer to the edge. "No! Odette please! I love you!" He shouted, yet it was all in vain as he knew that the curse will get to her before his words will.

The second he noticed what she intended, the prince rushed to her side, gripping her waist tightly and pressing a soft kiss to her lips, eyes deeply staring in her own like their hearts spoke to each other, and it all felt more than ethereal as both of their bodies hit the water, sinking slowly as they held each other like not even death could do them apart.

And perhaps it couldn't, as the second the sun began rising, the women that stood next to the lake and mourned the passing of their princess did not turn back to swans, and their gowns turned back to the clothes they once wore when they were running errands around the village. On the other side of the forest, Rothbart felt his powers leave him, a sudden weakness taking over his body as it slowly began turning to ashes. "No!" He yelled like a mantra, yet it was all in vain as ths moment the shy sunlight peeked trough his window, all that remained of him was an amber ring and his daughter, who only stared at the cracked mirror on the wall, ashamed of herself and mad at the world like never before.

And even years after, deep down, on the bottom of the lake, the two lovers stood embraced, untouched by the time, as if they were simply sleeping. So perhaps, the curse that once plagued the young women became a blessing, as not only has she found peace, but love as well.

#ateez #ateez imagine #ateez imagines #kpop #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez oneshots #kpop imagine #ateez hongjoong #ateez reaction #ateez retelling #ateez reactions #ateez smut

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defenderrosetyler · 3 years

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Chapter One

A/N: No real triggers this time!! WC: 1.9k Chapter 1:

“So every person in this book is a fairy tale character?” Emma Swan says to her ten-year-old son.

The boy had introduced himself as Henry, had brought his mother to Storybrooke. Of course, Emma had given Henry up for adoption when she gave birth to him. But to have her son seek her out made Emma uncomfortable. He had come to her claiming to be the savior of the storybook world. Henry spun a tale about a curse and how all of the characters of the Enchanted Forest were stuck in a town called Storybrooke, Maine.

Henry had with him a brown leather storybook that was thick but didn’t appear to be heavy. Henry seemed to carry around with no problem. One thing Emma found off when they arrived into town was the clock tower. As she observed it, she couldn’t help take note of how it never seemed to move. She led Henry back to his mother’s house. Henry’s adoptive mother, Regina Mills, was the mayor of the town. Henry claimed she was the Evil Queen from the story Snow White. Emma found this silly. Then again, Emma wasn’t one for fairytales anyway. Fairytales are for kids.

Inside Granny’s Diner, Sam Winchester sat inside waiting for his brother Dean. Granny’s was usually closed at night since Granny went to work at her bed and breakfast in the mornings, but Ruby was always there at night to serve the night owls who couldn’t sleep.

Ruby wasn’t the only one working the night shift. She worked with Y/N Y/L/N. Hardly anyone saw Y/N working in the morning. This usually led to rumors that Y/N was hiding something. The story was Y/N stayed locked in Rowena’s shop.

Rowena MacLeod was a private woman. However, she was a businesswoman, a loan shark, if you will. Rowena was very good at getting what she wanted through these tactics. She would let her client borrow money with the promise of paying it back fairly and on time. However, many clients don’t read the fine print in her contract. Resulting in them having to pay double or triple what they borrowed. Rowena had helped Sam and Dean’s parents with a large sum of money to keep their business, Winchester Mechanics, afloat. Leaving their two sons, Sam and Dean, to foot the bill. Dean paid her as much as he could, but with not many people coming or going from Storybrooke, business was slow.

This left Sam to find a way to help Dean find a way to help pay Rowena back too. But he wasn’t having great success either. Sam had started working in Mr. Gold’s Pawn shop until he found himself interested in Law. Under Mr. Gold’s tutelage, Sam had become well versed in the laws created by the town council. This led him to also find work in the Sheriff's office as a prosecutor. Often being a rival for his own boss at the Pawn Shop. It only made Mr. Gold admire Sam more.

“Ruby, can you please help them?” Y/N begged, trying to hold back an eye-roll at the two men that walked in together, sitting across from one another. Having a conversation amongst themselves and trying to not get in an argument, again, over the amount of money they owed to Rowena. Their next payment was due within the week, and they didn’t have the funds.

“Sorry, Duckling, it's your turn. I helped them the other day.” She says, giving her a sentimental look.

Ruby had been watching Y/N and Sam’s exchanges cringing internally whenever they walked in the door, knowing Y/N would try and pass her along to either herself or Granny. Ruby heard rumors about why Y/N and Sam had disagreements, but their arguments were getting harsher with each passing day.

Y/N scoffed, rolling her eyes, grabbing her order pad, heading over to greet Sam and Dean.

“Evening, Y/N,” Dean says pleasantly.

Sam muttered under his breath a greeting, and it sounded like he muttered a nickname only her friends gave her, earning a glare from Y/N in Sam’s direction.

“What is it now, brains?” Y/N says. “Too buried in your debt to Rowena to speak louder and call me a name in front of my face?”

Dean sighed. Here they go again. “Just our usual if you would please,” he says, trying to cut the tension between the two.

Y/N nods glaring at Sam before she heads back to the kitchen.

“You didn’t need to butt in like that,” Sam scoffed. “I had it completely under control.”

“Oh sure, that’s why you and Y/N seem to fight or have some sort of disagreement every time we come in here?” Dean huffed, “Who knows whatever the hell happens when you bump into her while she’s alone at Rowena’s,” Dean sassed, “Oh wait, you’re too busy working at Gold’s shop, fighting for a chance to work a case in his place, or at the jail with Graham,” the elder brother snapped calmly.

“Says the man who works in a shop with no cars to work on,” Sam snapped back, “How’s Amaya? Did you ever fulfill your promise to help her out?

“You keep that bitch out of this,” Dean growled. “I’ll figure something out. For now, I’m gonna see if I can get a second job somewhere.”

“What do you mean? What other job could you get here? Think Granny can hire you as a short-order cook? At least she gets business!”

“It’s something to get the debt paid back to Rowena, Sam,” Dean muttered as Y/N brought out their meals. Both were polite, and their bickering died down, and they went back to talking about their days. As uneventful as they were, they had a lot to talk about.

Y/N sighed as she went back behind the counter, “Ruby, I’m gonna head to bed. Dawn wake-up call comes early.” She says with an eye roll.

“Goodnight, Duckling,” Ruby says, smiling kindly to her, “I’ll clean up.”

===========

Enchanted Forest

“Dean, is target practice really necessary?” Sam says, looking at him. “I need to be looking for Odette, not shooting powdered arrows over at the servants’ asses.”

“And what are you gonna do when you can’t hit your mark?” Dean questioned, “What of Odette needs saving from some Ogres, and you miss?”

“Is that before or after the fact that you're catching fireflies at all hours of the night?” Sam asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Are they for you or to feed the frog that follows you around and hides on your dresser?” he snaps, glaring at the older brother.

“I do not go out at night to catch fireflies for Amaya,” Dean scoffs, “besides, she goes out and catches her own meals.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam grabbed his red powdered covered arrows, game face on. Assuming the probability that Dean would let him win, again. Sam took an arrow from his quiver, sliding it into place. Pulling back the string once he nocked it, aiming it at his first mark, the butler, Crowley. Whom the brothers affectionately dressed up as a brown moose. The arrow left the nocking point, hitting its destined target in the center of his rounded ass.

“Hey!” Crowley muttered, rolling his eyes. He brushed off the powder as he glared at both of the brothers.

Dean was finding this amusing. The exercise was primarily for Sam. Why couldn’t he have fun too?

Just as Dean was about to take his shot, Castiel, the head advisor to his father, walked out onto the grounds. He intended to stop the game before it fully began. “Your Highness?”

Startled by the sudden interruption, Dean whipped around, the arrow released from where it was nocked, hitting Castiel square into his chest. Before he could even react, a second followed by a third engulfed Cas in a powder of blue.

“If you children are quite finished,” he huffed, dusting the powder off himself, “my liege, you have a visitor. Something about a poisonous toad needing collecting?”

Dean fired one more arrow before stalking towards Castiel, “it better not be a waste of my time. My brother and I are training.”

“Training for a lost cause if you ask me, Sir,” Crowley says, observing the body language of his employer. “For all, we know the Princess is dead as well, just like her father. God rest his soul.” He adds, making the sign of the cross.

Sam’s head turned quickly at the Butler’s words echoed in his ear. Eyes flashed in anger, rushing over towards the pair. “Take it back! You don’t get to talk about Odette like that!”

“Forgive me, Samuel. However, I truly believe this to be a fool's errand,” Crowley says, standing closer to the trio gathered in the middle of the courtyard.

“I will find her, Crowley,” the younger prince declared, “I have to find her.”

Shaking his head, Dean followed Castiel inside to handle the visitor.

Needing an actual outlet for his anger, Sam walked with a fast pace over to the stables. The staff tended to the horses, but Sam usually liked taking care of his mare. It gave him a sense of responsibility.

Sam’s mare, Onyx, was a beautiful black Friesian. Her height was just above 18 hands, given his six foot four stature, she was just as tall as he was. Sam was okay with that though. Grabbing a body brush, Sam slowly brushed out her black coat. It had become dirty from the loose dirt flying around.

Meanwhile, as the sun set on the edge of the trees in the forest, a beautiful white swan flew across the canopy. Odette had grown accustomed to the dawn and the dusk. Knowing she had to be on the lake’s surface as the moon touched it before she would become a woman again.

As per her usual routine, Odette flew over Winchester Castle. Wondering if Sam would be looking for her. Who was she kidding? Sam only wanted to marry her for her beauty. Prince Samuel Winchester didn’t care about her.

Dusk approached, the swan moving to make her graceful descent down into the crystal colored water. “Was wondering if you were gonna be on time tonight dearie.” Rowena says, hands placed on her hips. Odette gave Rowena as much of a glare as a swan possibly could. The princess was always on time and never late. The other party that was never late was Rowena’s incompetant son Crowley.

“Evening Mother, Odette,” he greets, giving his mother a nod of acknowledgement. Crowley’s appearances had begun to be a routine over the past week. Rowena’s son came every evening, giving Rowena the opportunity to ask her the same proposition in order to remove the curse. Marrying her son.

Much to the annoyance of Rowena, Odette answered her the same as she had every single time she’d asked. One single word was her reply, but not the one the sorceress was looking for.

“No.”

“Oh for the love of Dagda” She scoffed, rolling her eyes skyward. Eyes focused back on the maiden that stood before her. Hair glowing in the shimmering moonlight. “Need I remind you, I placed this curse on you, and I can just as easily reverse it. All you need to do, is agree to marry my dear Fergus. Once you're wed, I can give you all the riches a Princess could ask for.”

“Far better than the Winchester’s that's for sure.” Crowley adds as a comment.

“I’d rather be a swan over marrying your childish, pathetic son.” Odette snapped.

“That can be arranged.” Rowena snapped, allowing the princess to mull over her choices.

#APAHS #a prince and his swan #sam x reader #OUAT crossover #ouat fic #crowley #rowena macleod

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