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slay00ryu · 2 days ago

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silly but... an MC who likes or wants to put makeup on the cast for fun?

Make Up Artiste.

Ronin - The Self Made Devil.

You are someone who loves to do creative make up looks, paintings all over your face, the exact copies of cartoon characters, make up inspired by a fictional character. You did all that.

Ronin knew about it, and he encouraged you in your creative ways.

"Damn baby, neat work. Looks perfect."

He'd say and kiss the top of your head or your knuckles to not mess your make up, well if he felt more annoying then he would.

Blowing air onto your face, kissing, poking, anything to get you riled up and irritated. He loved your threats.

"I will poke you eye out with my eyeliner I swear to God." You said after Ronin ruined yet another attempt to do your eyeliner.

"Awh, you know you love me." He barked out a laugh and pulled you into his lap so you would sit instead of standing while you're trying to win the war between your shaky hands and the make up tool.

One day you decided that you want to give Ronin a make up look, you even planned out one especially for him. A look that screams The Devil when you look at it and looks very masculine so Ronin's grotesqueness would be satisfied too.

But could you ask him for that? You sighed heavily as you looked at the drawing you made, that was the exact look you planned out. A whole white face, with lots of reds and blacks.

"What's up darlin'? Why feelin' so down?"

There was an elbow resting on your head, a man standing right next to you.

"Oh, Ronin! Um, I-"

You looked down at the sketch. The man lifted your head so you would look at him.

"C'mon. Spill it. I see how much you want to say something."

He snatched your sketchbook from you and inspected the drawing.

"Is that a new look?"

He looked at you, as if he was trying to imagine you with that make up on.

"Nah, it's not your regular style. Who's this for?"

And here it was. The question you wanted to avoid, but it was only natural for Ronin to see right through you.

"It was meant for... you."

Ronin's chuckle filled your ears, like a melody from a broken music box, beautiful yet oddly mysterious.

"Why are you so embarrassed darlin'? Come on, you can do this look on me."

He took off his beanie, lifting you up from your chair just to sit down himself and place you on his lap.

"So what will it be?"

His cocky grin drove you insane, but he also made you extremely happy. You kissed his cheek and gathered all your make up products.

You were sitting on his lap while you were doing that look, somehow he was very much obedient, keeping his eyes close when you told him to, not making any weird faces so your work won't be in shambles. Somehow giving Ronin this make up made you feel so overjoyed...

Angel - The Beautiful Soul.

A make up artist dating a model, who also happens to have a YouTube channel about make up and fashion? This felt like a dream every time you thought about it.

Angel gave you so many ideas for new looks, some related to her as Maria, some to her as The Heartsick Angel and some just to her. Your girlfriend who definitely overworks herself.

You were in the middle of creating another look filled with inspiration after Angel's new kill. The new idea looked pretty innocent when someone didn't look closely. Under all that innocence emphasized by a lot of pinks and hearts, a biblical angel was hidden, small eyes were all around the forehead and sides of the face. Some eyes were even supposed to be drawn on the neck.

"Now I just need to find someone to model for me."

You sighed after the sketch was done. You were proud of this, every detail was well thought, carefully placed to not destroy the composition.

While you were lost in your own inner world, two arms were wrapped around your shoulders and a sweet giggle met your ears.

"Did someone say a model?"

Angel!

Right, why didn't you think about it earlier? All of the looks were inspired by her anyway so she could as well be the model , right?

You turned around on your chair to look at her with dozens of lights in your eyes.

"You would like to model for me?"

You asked, your voice full of hope and barely contained excitement. You could swear that you saw two sparks dance in Angel's eyes after you have asked the question.

"Oh Gosh you're even asking?! You're so talented Y/N!"

Her words made you blush.

"And you know what? We could use it as an opportunity to boost your social media so more people would hire you."

Angel crossed her arms, she was thinking about something, something that had you in it.

"What do you mean?"

"You will record a video with me dummy! My followers will love you."

She chuckled and took your hand in hers to pull you up from the chair.

She looked so excited, and you were just so captivated by it. You didn't think twice before you had agreed to this and went to the recording den with her.

Misaki - The Great Fool.

You are a cosplayer, you post some videos online for fun, a variety of make up tutorials, acting videos or just silly videos in a cosplay.

You absolutely love doing this, it makes your inner child get what it always wanted, dress ups for fun. Fulfilling your childhood dreams felt sweet, it made your days happier.

Especially when your partner is your biggest fan. Misski, the worldwide known assassin, also known as your very best friend and partner, was very ecstatic when you shared your cosplaying passion with her. They were so excited to watch you prepare your cosplays on calls with them.

Your biggest dream was to do a duo cosplay with Misski, but them living on the other side of the globe wasn't really helping this dream come true. You were slowly giving up on this dream, just feeling so disappointed that you couldn't enjoy this hobby with your lovely partner.

But unexpectedly to you Misski found themselves in your apartment. She was supposed to assassinate an impotent politician and that's why she was sent to your town.

"Oh my! Misaki! I'm so happy to see you!"

You wrapped your arms around them, almost squealing from all the feelings that washed over you.

"I'm happy too, sweat pea."

They said and wrapped their arms around you too.

"You know what I'm also excited about?"

Their question caused you to back away a little.

"Hm? For what?"

You asked, brushing a strand of their hair back to where it was supposed to be.

"We'll be able to cosplay together!"

Their exclamation made you realise that they are right! Now that Misaki is here with you, you can do that duo cosplay you wanted with them!

"You're so right omg!"

You were smiling from ear to ear.

"After you're back from this assassination, you will not escape my make up kit."

You gave her the playful threat and a peck on the lips.

"I'll hold you onto that then. Oh yeah, watch my flower for me, don't want it to be all sad while I'm away."

They winked at you, obviously hinting at the fact that you will miss them.

And of course, they will miss you too.

At least until you're done with the cosplay look...

V - The warrior of Justice.

You are someone with a great passion for make up, maybe you're not an influencer or a real make up artist, but you love doing it.

It helps you get your creative spirit out, and it makes you feel and look great, what's there to not like?

V was a fan of your creative soul, the way you looked when you were focused, the fire in your eyes when you knew that you were doing something right, the proud and excited smile you were showing him.

These seemingly small things made his heart flutter.

And you were just so happy whenever you could show him a new project that you were working on for so long.

"V! V! V! V!"

You ran into the living room, hands full of make up products.

"My love? What is it?"

He caught you before you almost fell to the floor.

"Please be careful."

He sighed and helped you stand straight, then he crouched to collect your make up.

"Why have you decided to grace me with your presence?"

He asked. V was always such a charmer even when he didn't realise it, you were just so happy with this. Also his flustered face was even more adorable.

"V can I try to do make up on you?"

You asked in excitement, you gave him the best puppy eyes you could master.

"Oh, how could I ever not give in with you?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and deep, it made your heart flutter.

"Oh my! You're going to look so good, I promise!"

With a small hint of a smile, V followed you to the bathroom.

This moment of quality time that you two shared would stay in both your and his minds for a while, that's for sure.

#killer chat #killer chat ronin #fanfic #gender neutral reader #fluff #v killer chat #angel killer chat #misaki killer chat #asks

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leiawritesstories · 5 months ago

Text

The Heroine: A Piratical Comedy

So I mentioned this earlier, but I took the inspiration for a fanfic piece that I wrote called "swords and sea breezes" and turned it into an original short story. and I had so much fun writing the original work that I'd love love love to share it with you all :D

it is...quite different from my fanfic style, primarily because the heroine is supposed to be completely ridiculous and shallow and maybe a little self-centered, which was a challenge to write but a very very fun challenge. anyway. here is the story, and i hope you enjoy!!! please please please let me know what you think (i'm nervous)

word count: 3,854

warnings: none ;)

enjoy!! hopefully *nervous quiver*

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

To say she “hadn’t wanted to be on this ship” would have been a gross understatement. There was not a single molecule of Lady Cassandra Antoinetta Ellianna Worplesmith’s being that had not resisted this journey, but despite her valiant, eloquent attempts to stay off the ship, there she stood. Apparently her meddlesome parents would stop at nothing to force their only child into marriage with a foreign prince.

It was positively medieval. She was sure that was the correct word. Cassandrietta—as her darling friends called her—was always receiving compliments for the wondrously dizzying quality of her speech. However, she was not prideful about her vocabulary, because her nurses and her tutors had been ever so careful to instruct her in cultivation of humility, and Cassa—which was the beastly nickname that her rotten little brother used to taunt her—was most cultivating of her humility. It groweth and bloometh’d like the flower of a rose, as she recalled that the poets said.

Where was she?

Ah—the ship. Positively medieval. She was entirely certain that her parents had laced her evening tea with a soporific sedative, because the honey and chamomile brew had tasted suspiciously of citrus. Cassandra loathed citrus; it tasted far too much like that ghastly orange juice that her governess insisted upon drinking every morning instead of a perfectly normal and acceptable cup of tea.

When she awoke from her drugged sleep, Cassandra had locked herself in her cabin for three whole days and sat firmly on her bed with her arms folded across her dècolletage (which was a polite term for a lady’s, erm, chest), only emerging when the growling in her stomach increased to something akin to a lion’s gentle roar. The moment she cracked open her bedroom door, she immediately discovered a rotating patrol of soldiers posted outside in the narrow hallway, and it took her all of a week to convince the blue-jacketed young men that she was perfectly capable of relieving herself without supervision. They had blushed most endearingly when she first fluttered her fair lashes and implied that she required le toilette, because young men of course did not understand that proper young women like Lady Cassandra Antoinetta Ellianna Worplesmith required personal relief.

It had taken her two additional weeks to convince her guards that her daily stroll about the deck was decidedly not enough fresh air for her delicate complexion, and they had finally allowed her to walk around the ship throughout the day, provided there was at least one guard tailing her at all times. She had taken to standing at the polished railing and staring off longingly into the horizon, affecting a pose that the heroines of her favorite romance novels always assumed whenever they were taken captive at sea and faced a fate most horrid. Those beautiful young ladies’ longing stares and sighing sighs always brought a handsome, wealthy, noble young man to the rescue.

Cassandra had always dreamt of being rescued from a fate most horrid by a handsome, wealthy, noble young man.

She folded her arms delicately upon the railing and propped the smart little point of her chin upon her gloved hands. Her favorite white silk gloves were unthinkably filthy after three full weeks without the proper staff to launder them, but a lady must not be seen without her gloves, even when said gloves were horridly speckled with dust and dirt from three entire weeks at sea. Besides, if a handsome, wealthy, noble young man were to suddenly appear for her rescue, she certainly could not be seen with bare hands.

As the setting sun drifted airily beneath the horizon in a waterfall of pink, coral, rose, blush, mauve, and orange hues (oh! she did so love when she could exercise her artistic vocabulary), Cassandra felt a sea breeze ruffle her hems, and rather than risk exposing her ankles, an unspeakable offense against ladylikeness, she gathered her skirts in one hand and cleared her throat delicately.

“Ahem! Corporal, I believe I shall retire to my chamber.” She lowered her gaze and peered up at her current guard ’neath demure lashes (another expression that her favorite romance heroines always wore on their dainty faces), for a proper lady could never look a man in the eye, particularly not one so shy as Corporal Smyth.

The corporal cleared his throat several times. “Of-of course, my lady, p-p-please allow me to escort you.” Off he went, tripping over his oversized boots as he stumbled to open the door to the stairs.

Cassandra graced the gangly young corporal with a sympathetic smile. She was fond of the boy soldier; he reminded her of the butler’s boy at home that she always sent on the most trivial errands purely because he had the prettiest manners. And—unlike Sergeant Wilbur, who was old and crotchety and communicated solely in surly commands—Smyth actually conversed with her.

She was just about to ask Corporal Smyth if he would help her select her dress for dinner when the ship’s bell started up the most obnoxious clamor. “Why on earth must it be so loud?” she complained with a frown. An instant later, though, she smoothed out her expression, for frowning led to wrinkles, and wrinkles were worse than bare hands.

“I-I am not certain, my lady,” Smyth replied. “Shall I—?”

“All hands on deck!” bellowed Sergeant Wilbur, rushing past in a flurry of red cheeks and heavy, thumping bootsteps. “That means, you, Smyth!” He reached over and grasped the door to Cassandra’s room. “You—stay put.”

He slammed the door in her face!

Cassandra was so incredibly outraged that she stood stock-still, gasping for an adequate retort. She snapped her mouth shut and crossed firmly to the door, but found it barred from the outside. No matter how hard she pushed or pounded the wood with her sensitive, small hands, it refused to budge.

Incensed, she searched for an appropriately horrific epithet. “You absolute spinster!” she shrieked. There! Mamma always did say that a spinster was the worst fate that could befall a woman. That should be satisfactorily offensive.

Cassandra returned to her bed, sat down, crossed her arms, and glared at the solidly barred door, counting her heaving breaths until her pulse slowed to a more ladylike pace. Up on deck, she heard all sorts of noises—yells from the sailors, barked commands from Sergeant Wilbur, clangs of metal, assorted booms and bangs and pops that sounded oddly like the annual fireworks show for the King’s birthday. If she had been locked in her room to prevent her from watching, Cassandra might have to become quite indignant. She walked to the small window and peered outside, squinting in the darkness.

Something bright and fiery streaked across the sky in a blur. She gasped—it was fireworks! And those awful sailors had locked her in her room!

Cassandra became quite indignant.

She picked up a book from her valise, one of those terribly heavy, stuffy, dull books on etiquette that her governess made her read, and beat upon her door with the thick volume. To her surprise, she found it strangely satisfying. “Can none of you gentlemen hear me?” she cried, indignant. Goodness, but it was fun to be indignant! “I must see the fireworks!”

She stopped hitting the door with the book when she ran out of breath, and she sat back down upon her bed and hurled the book at the door. It collided with her door with an immensely satisfying thump, but the door did not so much as budge. Cassandra scowled, her arms once again folded crossly over her dècolletage, and leant down to retrieve another horrid etiquette book to throw at the door.

Just as that book thudded into it, the door collapsed inwards in a shower of splinters.

Cassandra squeaked in shock and ducked her head under her pillow for safety. After a very long time (she counted all the way to twenty-five), she lifted a corner of the pillow and peeked out. Her door had been ripped clean off its hinges and laid in shambles upon the floor. Gaining confidence, she sat up slowly, picking up one more smaller book. She must ensure that the door was truly down, because she had once read a story wherein the heroine thought that her door was open but had discovered that she was dreaming, and Cassandra could not possibly risk that fate. So she threw the book.

It hit the man in her doorway squarely in the nose.

Cassandra shrieked.

The man dropped his knife and clamped his hand across his profusely-bleeding nose.

The book hit the ground with a dull thunk.

“Alack!” It seemed the proper thing to cry as she hurried out towards the upper deck.

She made it all of four steps before a rough, calloused hand wrapped around her upper arm and cut her escape short. “I don’t think so, my lady.” She was spun around to face the sailor with the bloodied nose, which was swollen and turning purple.

Cassandra was so stunned by his flagrant breach of decorum that it took her ten full seconds to recover her speech. “One does not simply touch a lady!” she snapped, swatting his hand with her fan. A lady always had her fan tucked discreetly into her sleeve, of course.

The man hissed, removing his hand. “You’re a fiery little thing, aren’t you?”

“I am not the one who violates proper manners,” she retorted coldly, treating him to a blazing stare as her favorite heroines did. She huffed and turned on her heel, but once again, he stopped her.

“I wouldn’t go up there if I were you, my lady.” This time, her fan was useless against his vice-like grip. To her horror, he lowered his scruffy jaw towards her ear. She squirmed in his grasp, tilting herself as far away from his smirking face as possible. “There be pirates up there.”

Pirates?

Unable to recall a better solution, Cassandra swooned.

She blinked awake to the familiar scent of salt water and the decidedly unfamiliar sensation of unblocked sun beating down upon her brow. With a sudden start, she roused herself and reached for her parasol, only to discover that her hands—her bare hands! The horror!—had been restrained by a roughly knotted length of rope.

For a moment, she became so incensed that she could only stamp her dainty little foot and utter muffled squeaks of rage. “Untie me at once!” she finally managed to utter. “I am a lady!”

“Aye, that we can tell, lassie.” A very large, very dirty, very grinning man with innumerable stains and rips in his shirt and trousers and a leather patch strapped across his left eye loomed up in front of her. “Why’d ya think we took ya?”

Cassandra gaped in shock before she recalled that a lady must never allow her teeth to be visible and snapped her jaw closed. “And where, pray tell, have you taken me?”

“Welcome to Haitch Hemm Hess Cleavage, me lassie!” boomed the stout, redheaded, grossly unkempt sailor, his wide grin revealing atrociously crooked teeth and rancid breath that nearly caused Cassandra to swoon. And furthermore, he had the most vile Liverpudlian accent, which no doubt marked him as a man of ill repute. Her mother always said that men of ill repute spoke with Liverpudlian accents.

“Ach, don’t ya be scarin’ the lass, now,” interjected another man, forcibly shoving the redheaded boor out of her view. This one was mildly easier on the eyes, with brown eyes and a patchwork kerchief tied around his dark hair, and he had the decency to sheathe his bloody dagger before he bowed to Cassandra. “After all, we have just kidnapped her.”

Cassandra nearly swooned again—indeed, she would have swooned if it were not for the fortitudinous remembrance that heroines in romance novels were often kidnapped before a handsome, wealthy, noble young man could rescue them. “I do not recall seeing you upon my parents’ ship,” she sniffed, staring down her nose as best as she could when looking up at the abominably rude man.

“’Twould be because he was up on deck, cutting down the idiots you called soldiers.” Oh, she knew that voice.

Very slowly, Cassandra turned half around, her gaze descending upon the man who had rudely broken down her door (yes, she knew her etiquette books could not have made the stubborn thing implode) and lain his hands upon her person. It gratified her somewhat to notice that he bore a bandage on his swollen, crooked, purple-blue nose. She sneered. “Do explain why you saw fit to remove my person from my ship, sailor.”

“Ah-ah, miss.” He clicked his tongue as if she were some impertinent child. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Captain Kit Lancelot of this very fine vessel, Her Majesty’s Bosom, and if you would direct your gaze upwards, miss, you will soon discover just what kind of a ship we are.”

“That is a ridiculous name, not to mention incredibly inappropriate.” Cassandra blushed but covered it by clicking her tongue as she looked upwards, her gaze tracing a vast expanse of sails, ropes, and dirty sailors lounging around in those ropes before alighting upon the black flag atop the tallest mast. As the flag bent in the breeze, it revealed the viciously grinning skull stitched upon its surface.

And the rather artfully wrought…erm, bustier…beneath the skull.

For the second time that day, Cassandra gaped. “You…pirates!”

“I did warn you, miss,” the pirate captain chuckled. He turned his attention to his crew of ne’er-do-wells, which was her novels’ common term for pirates. “Gents! This here is the Lady Cassie—”

“Excuse me!” She huffed furiously, wishing her hands were free so that she could throw another book at Captain Kit Lancelot’s smug face. “My name is Lady Cassandra Antoinetta Ellianna Worplesmith, and you may address me as ‘my lady’ or ‘Lady Cassandra.’”

The pirate had the absolute gall to quirk up one eyebrow, stare at her, and laugh.

“I was not brought here to be the object of your amusement,” Cassandra huffed.

“Ah, that’s where you’d be wrong, Cassie.” The pirate captain strolled down from the slightly elevated deck and stopped just in front of her, so tall that she was forced to raise her eyes to meet his mirth-filled gaze. He apparently drew delight in calling her by an abhorrently shortened version of her proper name, the rogue.

Although…for a rogue, he was quite handsome.

Cassandra nearly slapped herself clear across the face. This man was a pirate—precisely the opposite of the handsome, wealthy, noble young man that would no doubt come to rescue her. Handsome he may be, but noble he was decidedly not. But he was quite handsome…

“I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here on the fine ship Her Majesty’s Bosom,” Captain Lancelot drawled, raising one hand to his brow in a mocking sort of salute. “Allow me to show you to your chamber.” He looped her arm through his and escorted her (though his pace was so swift that he might as well have dragged her) below decks, down a corridor, and into a surprisingly clean room with a freshly made bed and a proper washstand in the corner.

It was, if she could admit it, quite a noble act. Which made him both handsome and noble.

“This is—I—” Before Cassandra could formulate a coherent sentence, the captain strode out of her room and barred the door, and in that instant, her flash of surprise curdled like spoilt milk into sour bitterness, and she spoke an epithet so horrific that her mother had threatened to slap her hands with a leather strap if it was uttered. “Blast you, pirate!”

Though, if she told the proper truth, she quite wanted to kiss him, not blast him.

Three weeks passed upon the pirate ship with the name that Cassandra still could not hear without blushing, and her fate had yet to change. She began to wonder if these pirates (who, it was to be admitted, although begrudgingly, seemed almost decent men save for the fact that they practiced piracy) were in truth going to bring her to their lair and keep her in captivity forever, as the redheaded one had suggested. During her daily walks, which Captain Kit Lancelot had allowed her to take after she protested that her delicate complexion was wasting away in the belowdecks dampness (her beloved romance heroines were always complaining of belowdecks dampness), she always paused at the railing and stared across the empty ocean for a moment, wondering if she lived in a waking dream.

That evening, as per usual, she paused at the railing, her bare hands clasping the weathered wood, and stared out over the endless expanse of waves and skies. Is this truly to be my fate?

When the cannonball blazed across the pirate ship’s deck, there was no soldier by her side to order her to duck.

Cassandra screamed and dropped to the deck, her heartbeat immediately racing. She half wondered if her sighing and wishing had brought this attack upon the pirate ship, but there was a tiny, soft voice in the back of her head that reminded her she was aboard a pirate ship. Attacks on pirates were as regular as rain in London.

“Get below, Cassie!” Captain Kit Lancelot roughly yanked her to her feet, his firm grip around her upper arms shocking her back into reality.

She gasped, outraged. “I am perfectly capable of walking without your assistance!”

He smirked. “There’s that feisty spirit.”

“I am not ‘feisty,’ Kit.” She spat his name with as much vitriol as she could muster.

His smirk only widened. “Ah, Cassie, I do like it when you say my name.” He released her arms from his grasp. “Now get. Below.”

Before she could whirl about and head for the stairs, there was a mighty chorus of yells as a group of blue-jacketed sailors stormed onto the deck of Her Majesty’s Bosom from the naval ship that had grappled itself to the pirate’s side. The leader of the group, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, charged straight for Kit and Cassandra, righteous fury smoldering across his handsome, noble face.

The pieces suddenly clicked in her mind.

Her rescue! She knew he would come for her.

Swiftly, she ducked behind a nearby barrel, crouching down so that she could witness the fight unfolding before her but still have some protection from the battle that raged across the ship’s deck. Pirates and soldiers flung punches, kicks, swords, blades, guns, and curses at each other, darting back and forth in a sort of deathly dance.

And none were more closely locked in deathly, mortal combat than Captain Kit Lancelot and Cassandra’s rescuer.

Kit slammed the hilt of his dagger into the other man’s gun hand, knocking the pistol away. “Just what d’ye think yer doing on me ship, Lord Richard Emsberry?”

Lord Richard Emsberry. Goodness, but it was a lovely, noble name for a lovely, noble man!

“I’ve come to take the Lady Cassandra from your clutches, of course.” Lord Emsberry’s sword clashed with Kit’s, and she could have sworn that sparks flew from the impact of the blades.

“That’s a delightfully noble plan, Lord Dick.” Kit laughed as he lunged. “Too bad you must fail.”

“No more unfortunate than your remarkable ego,” Emsberry returned. He struck low, catching Kit off guard and slicing a crimson stripe across the pirate’s upper leg.

Kit grunted. “You’ll pay for that.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Emsberry glanced over towards Cassandra’s shelter. “I shall be with you in a mere moment, my lady!” He delivered a vicious punch to Kit’s shoulder, and Kit swore filthily, causing Cassandra to cover her ears and avert her gaze.

She never could stand it when there were men swearing in her presence.

A long moment passed, and when she ventured another peek, the deck had gone eerily quiet. She crept out from behind her barrel, delighted hope swelling within her heart when she beheld the wondrous sight of Lord Emsberry holding a weakened Kit by the collar, sword poised to execute his justice. It was a scene straight out of her favorite romance novel, and she could scarcely believe that her own romance would contain the same scene.

Emsberry flourished his sword. “Come, Lady Cassandra! You are safe with me!”

Cassandra stepped forth, gaining confidence with each stride she took. She envisioned the scene as it would be written—a noble young lady crossing the embattled deck to her handsome, noble, wealthy rescuer, who awaited for her blessing. She was two paces from Lord Richard Emsberry when she stopped and lowered her lashes, remembering that she must recall her demure, ladylike manners. “I thank you for your most noble and virtuous rescue, my lord.”

He released the pirate captain’s collar, letting Kit drop to the deck, and extended his hand to Cassandra. “My ship awaits your fair presence, my lady.”

“Oh, I do believe I’ve dreamt of this rescue!” She delicately placed her fingertips over his palm.

Metal screeched against wood as Captain Kit Lancelot shoved himself to his feet, sword grasped firmly in his bloodied hand. “Cassie, don’t tell me you see this as your ideal romance.”

She sighed plaintively, like the heroine always did at this juncture. “Perhaps, if you had turned out to be noble, I might have cast you as the hero.”

Kit scoffed. “There is no world in which I am a hero.” She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off. “And you should really think twice about believing everything you read in books.” Sunlight glinted off Kit’s blade as he thrust forwards in a powerful, brutally beautiful arc.

It plunged clean through Lord Richard Emsberry’s chest.

And as Kit jerked his sword free, the lord stumbled backwards and toppled into the sea with a pathetic final splash.

Cassandra’s entire being froze, stunned to the core. “You…he…my lord!”

Kit tipped his head back and laughed, wild and raucous. “Like I told you when we first met, Cassie, here there be pirates. And I’m king of them all.” A breeze brushed across the deck, tousling his dark hair in a delightfully artful way.

She did appreciate the sight of a handsome man with windblown hair, and the men who won the heroine did always have windblown hair. And…well…if a proper lord was not in her story, could her story end with a pirate king?

Kit’s hand wrapped around her arm. “Gents, take Lady Cassie to the brig.”

To the—that was not what the hero of the novel was supposed to do!

As the iron bars of the brig door slammed shut with a resounding clang, Cassandra dropped to the floor, her formerly perfectly coiffed head falling despondently into her hands. Melancholy (it had to be melancholy, as always behooved a proper lady in dire straits) swept over her, and for the first time since she’d been taken to the pirate ship, she…doubted.

She doubted happy endings.

She doubted her happy ending most of all.

~~~

Tags--please lmk if you want to be tagged for original work :)

@renxzs

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

#my writing #original work #my original writing #original writing #my ocs #my ocs <3 #original character #original characters #my very own lil babies #original pirate character #sort of a historical fiction setting ish #historical fiction #idk what era though lmao #vaguely british somehow??? idek #pirates #nobility #the heroine #my work

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