#the feathers look like they might be more white white instead of the warm white/ivory i need

[thatrandombystander]

Cosplayers are so niiiiceee, a cosplayer I've barely spoken to (had a couple nice interactions on Instagram and said "hi" to each other but not much else when we ran into each other at a con) is super supportive of my current project and they saw me saying I'm probably gonna need a couple hundred goose feathers, they happen to have a LOT on hand and offered to give me a bunch of them 😭

Screw any other creative hobby, the community among cosplayers is unparalleled!

[yandere-daydreams]

Oh oh what about Diavolo with an angel darling? They accidentally met when the angel was mascarading as a human, and begged him to keep quiet about this bc no one’s been allowed to be so close to humans since what happened with Lilith.

It’s really nice to let Diavolo be the scheming antagonist he’s meant to be, sometimes, even if the odds are naturally in his favor. Still, he’d have *a lot* of fun with an Angel!Darling, to say the least.

TW: Black-Mail, Non-Consensual Touching, and Intimidation.

~

It must’ve been a kink. There wasn’t another possibility.

How couldn’t it be? Keeping another being, another person in a state of constant paranoia, constantly on edge and constantly waiting for some alarm to sound, some warning, something or someone to give them away... it wasn’t something people did without ulterior motives. If it wasn’t sexual, it was cruel. Angels were under no obligation to be innocent, not anymore, but it was still a privilege to serve a higher power in your entirety. You took pride in your self control, in your reservations. It was a self-imposed penance for your curiosity, a way of redeeming yourself to yourself. Maybe that was what Diavolo took pleasure in, ripping your ego to shreds, bit by bit. Maybe he just wanted to make something holy feel anything-but.

Or, maybe he just liked the way it made your squirm.

You shifted, subconsciously, not used to the way the cold wood felt against your bare legs. Today’s get-up was as bad as any other Diavolo had chosen, stainless white and form-fitting and short, the fabric soft but cheap, too thin in all the worst places. You wondered if he’d had it made, or if he found it hanging on the back-wall of the shadiest, most unsavory shop in the Devildom, just begging for someone shameless enough to come around and buy it. You pushed the thought out of your mind, but it held its ground, too disturbing to be released immediately. It didn’t help that you’d been perched on the edge of his desk, left to sit silently and look pretty, like a trophy he could admire whenever his paperwork grew tedious. You couldn’t bring yourself to look for a distraction, anymore.

Diavolo took notice, leaning back in his seat and stretching as he spoke. His sleeve brushed against your knee, and you forced yourself to keep from recoiling. You didn’t need to feel any more pitiful than you already did. “You’ve been quiet, my dove,” He began, bright eyes scanning over you gingerly. “Your wings are starting to curl.”

You hadn’t noticed, honestly. It was still an alien feeling to have such a vulnerable appendage exposed, two pairs of weightless wings seeming to wrap around your shoulders and fold over your waist, ivory feathers just starting to shake in the cold air. You pulled them back, swiftly, folding the dominant pair against your back and the secondary just above your tailbone, but that only left you more unguarded, more exposed. You couldn’t say you cared for the feeling. “It’s…��� You searched for an excuse, for a moment, but shook away the impulse. You didn’t need to justify yourself, not to him. “You know what it is, Diavolo. If I’m uncomfortable, it’s only because of you and your fucking costumes.”

At that, he laughed, stifling the noise quickly in favor of jutting out his bottom lip and pressing a palm to his chest, attempting to pout despite your refusal to do anything but glare. He reached out, aiming to rest a hand on your thigh, but you turned away sharply, ignoring the way the desk’s edge bit into your thigh. A protest less childish would elicit a reaction in-kind from Diavolo, and you knew better than to try and provoke him, by now. “Is it a crime to collect beautiful things? And the outfit is…” He trailed off, his gaze beginning to wander. You didn’t have time to pull away before his hand darted up, latching onto your waist and toying with the fabric. “It’s fun, isn’t it? Or do your kind only find your sense of humor after the fall?”

You couldn’t stop yourself, scowling, biting your cheek to stop yourself from saying something you’d regret. Your efforts were only half successful. “It’s extortion. All of this is extortion.” You paused, giving him time for a rebuttal, but Diavolo only nodded, his grin broadening. Rage, red-hot and righteous, simmered in your chest, boiling over despite your attempts to keep it contained. “I didn’t do anything wrong. If I went to Michael and confessed, he’d understand. You’re the only one who’d torture someone for being curious.”

There was a pinch to your side, a playful one. You gritted your teeth. “Am I, (Y/n)?”

“Yes, you are.” Half-heartedly, you tried to bat his hand away. “No one else would be so unreasonable--”

Your voice died in your throat as his nails drummed against your hip, hesitating for a moment before clamping down and burrowing into your skin, tearing through spandex and fabric easily. You flinched back, pushing yourself away from him and looking for a path of escape, but Diavolo only held you down, his free hand entangling itself in your scalp and jerking at your roots, pinning you to the desk yet pulling, tugging, ripping. It didn’t get better as he stood, rising to his full height, towering over you as soon as he was on his feet. Suddenly, you wanted to shrink back, to give in and surrender, but you couldn’t. Not unless Diavolo let you.

“Micheal might forgive you. Gabrial, too, and Raphael, all the Archangels. But, they’re not in-charge, are they? They can’t assign one of their petty, little ‘time outs’, or say you’re blameless and tell you to be more careful, next time. They don’t have the authority. They’re not rulers.” There was another wrench, this one straightening your spine and forcing the softest gasp through your lips. Diavolo enjoyed that. He reveled in it. “If one of my subjects left their domain without my blessing, without permission, I’d tear out their tendons and use the muscle as a leash for Ceburus, before dropping whatever’s left in the deepest trench I can find on their beloved human plane. I’d make sure they suffered, and I wouldn’t stop until their voice was too horse to scream.” He stopped abruptly, chuckling, making no attempt to hide the spark in his eye, the wild, darkened excitement slowly infecting his expression. It was almost worse than his anger.

Diavolo leaned towards you, settling into the crook of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin and his teeth so much sharper than they should’ve been.  

No, this was much, much worse than his anger.

“I doubt your Father would be any kinder. He’s always had a vengeful streak, hasn’t he?” There was another laugh before he pulled back, still bent over you, still surrounding you. As if you’d try to run, as soon as he was no longer close enough to rip out your throat before you could try. “Let’s save him the trouble of disciplining you, alright? Let daddy worry about your punishment, instead.”

You shoved at his chest, kicking and scratching and clawing, but Diavolo didn’t indulge you with another threat, only reclaiming his territory and sinking those fangs into your neck, as brutal as they were merciless. You couldn’t bring yourself to fight back, after that, too preoccupied with your prayers, with the unrelenting, desperate hope that this was just some fucked-up, psychopathic game to him.

You were too scared to consider the alternative.

[blossom-hwa]

Dawn - MINHO

LOOK I KNOW I’VE SCREAMED ABOUT THIS FOR LIKE A DAY BUT I’M SO FUCKING EXCITED I CAN’T BELIEVE I WROTE THIS IN LESS THAN TWO DAYS. THANK U ANON WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE THIS YOU PULLED ME OUT OF WRITER’S BLOCK (constellation is giving me ISSUES)

pls don’t let this flop i’ll be v v sad 

Pairing: Minho x fem!reader

Genre: fluff, angst, royalty!au, fantasy!au

Triggers: mild violence (nothing too graphic), death

Word Count: 9.2k

For many, twenty-one signals a new beginning. But for some, it only marks the end of freedom. 

SKZ Masterlist

Twenty-one. Minho hates that number. It signals the beginning of change, the beginning of the end of everything he’s come to know and love.

Twenty-one. How old he will be when he comes of age. How old he will be at his coronation. How old he will be when his parents will expect him to find a partner. A partner who is rich. A partner who has power. A partner who will rule with him until the end of their days.

A partner who will bear them grandchildren.

The door slams behind him and Minho doesn’t even bother to disguise his annoyance as he stalks down the hall, boots clicking loudly against the marble floor. He can almost hear the sighs emanating from his parents behind the wooden doors, but he pushes the thought of that out of his mind.

Twenty-one. For many, it signals something exciting. Coming of age. Becoming an adult. Setting out on a new life with someone they love.

But not for Minho. His coming kingship will only be an extension of all he’s been learning for the past twenty years. His parents have been asking for his input on running the kingdom for the past five. Now, he’ll just be fully taking the reins. Not much new.

Well, he gets a new crown. Minho rolls his eyes at the thought. Another useless and heavy ornament to make his head ache and his scalp itch.

His mother’s previous words echo in his head. “You must choose a partner over the next two weeks. If you do not, we will be forced to.”

“No one’s forcing you to do anything,” Minho grumbles under his breath. He dreads the next two weeks more than anything else in his life. The celebrations for the first week will mark his birthday. The celebrations for the next week will mark his coronation.

The thought makes him sick to his stomach. Not because he doesn’t feel ready to rule, but mostly because he isn’t ready for all of his (limited) freedom to be taken away in such a rush. Already he can feel the seconds ticking away, marking off every moment of his remaining time as a prince.

Minho sighs. His feet have taken him to the ballroom, his favorite place in the palace. He looks up at the doors and sighs again, even more heavily. He still has two weeks, Minho reasons. Might as well have some fun with it.

With that, he disappears through the large gilt doors.

. . .

Twenty-one. You hate that number. It signals the end of your life as you know it.

The literal end.

“Curses,” you mumble, tugging at the gem resting against your throat. It glimmers in the moonlight, a brilliant sparkle against the pure white feathers of your dress.

You wonder for the umpteenth time why your uncle chose you as the successor of the forest instead of his only son. Chan was strong and powerful – much more powerful than you, at any rate. Shouldn’t your uncle have seen beforehand what sort of destruction Chan would cause if he chose you over him?

But you know the answer why. Had your uncle chosen Chan, the demise of the forest would have come much more quickly than it already has. At least the years Chan spent hiding away, learning the dark arts, allowed you to increase your strength and magic. Had Chan been appointed ruler of the forest, he would have destroyed it much more quickly in his quest for power. At least now you can fight back.

Somewhat.

You wonder, also for the umpteenth time, what your uncle would say if he knew how Chan had cursed you.

Ruler by night, swan by day. If the graceful plumage of your dress doesn’t serve as enough of a reminder of your situation, the constant transformations at sunrise and sunset certainly drive you insane. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the awful transition between the two forms.

Well, in two weeks, on your twenty-first birthday, maybe you won’t have to.

Immediately you shake those thoughts away. It’s too terrifying to think of, being forced to spend the rest of your life as a swan.

The only way to avoid the permanent transformation is to break Chan’s curse. The “easiest” way to do that is by killing him. But Chan is careful, very careful. Despite your and your friends’ best efforts, you cannot find a way to corner him.

Your uncle once told you that you were far more powerful than Chan would ever be. He said this just two days after he appointed you his successor, the day after Chan disappeared. Terrified and confused, you’d only watched numbly as he clasped a necklace around your throat.

“This will protect you,” he’d said quietly. “It is imbued with a magic as old as time – Chan will not be able to fully surpass it, ever. However, its magic will expire on your twenty-first birthday. You must find your own power before then.”

“Twenty-one,” you murmur, clutching the gem tight in your fist. “The end of everything and the beginning of nothing.”

You stand up on the soft grass, feathers sweeping gently across your arms. Twenty-one or no, you are still the ruler of the forest, and you have a duty to aid those who live under your protection. Another night of patrol, of helping the wounded, of fighting off the growing threats Chan has been sending into your territory.

Another night gone by before the day you become a bird forever.

. . . . .

Throngs of people crowd the streets and Minho smiles behind his mask of pale green. He’s slipped away from the castle, only letting Changbin, Hyunjin, and Felix know where he’s going. Changbin and Hyunjin are somewhere in the crowd watching over him. Felix stayed in the palace to cover for his absence.

For a few precious hours, Minho has freedom. No one knows him behind his mask. No one knows him behind his forest nymph costume. Clothed in earthy green and brown, he looks like just another reveler in the streets, celebrating the coming birthday of the country’s beloved crown prince.

He used to think the costume concept was stupid. Now, he’s very grateful for the tradition.

The moon rises quickly into the sky as the last rays of the sun fade, and Minho finds himself pushed into a crowd of dancers. As the moon climbs higher into the stars, the cheery dance tunes dissipate, leaving behind cool, calm lyricism to honor the heavens who put the country’s kind rulers upon their thrones.

He dances with person after person, whirling from one hand to another as gasping laughter turns to serene smiles under the blanket of stars overhead. In between songs, he breaks through the dancing throng for a breather.

Then he sees a vision. That is what you must be – no human glows like that under the moon. No human is the vision of ethereal beauty that you are. You only sway slightly to the beat of the song, but even your simple movements are like a ripple of shining silk – graceful, ethereal.

As though in a trance, he finds himself walking towards where you stand on the outskirts of the crowd. You turn around as he steps closer and Minho has to fight for breath.

Even with an ivory mask covering your face, he can tell you’re a true picture of elegance. Your dress is made entirely of pure white feathers, and your mask protrudes slightly at the nose, like a beak. A swan, he thinks dazedly.

Warm, dark eyes stare into his – delicate, pure, but with a hint of fire that only increases his attraction to you.

“May I help you?”

Minho thinks he’s having a heart attack. Only that would explain his inability to breathe or think properly. Your voice only makes you more attractive.

“I apologize if I startled you, my lady.” He bows. “I could not help but notice you had no dance partner and thought that such a beauty should not only sway on the sidelines. I wonder if you would like to dance with me?”

The half-second of waiting is the most excruciating moment of Minho’s life so far. All the breath rushes out of him when you nod your head slightly and take his hand, a smile curving your lips. “I would.”

. . .

When Ryujin and the others encouraged you to go to the celebrations (read: shoved you out of the forest), you didn���t know why. Immediately you’d attempted to slip back between the trees, but Yeji’s and Jeongin’s glares were too scary.

“You’re spending all your time worrying about the curse and the forest,” Lia had explained. “We can patrol for one night. Take some time to relax at the celebrations – we’ll call you back if there is anything urgent.”

You weren’t sure at the time. But right now, clasped in the arms of a man in a green mask, you’re glad you came. You feel calm. Relaxed. His touch somehow soothes your skin and clears away the worries in your mind, leaving you with a smile on your face that is far easier and lighter than the ones you’ve been forcing recently.

It doesn’t hurt that he’s one of the most handsome men you’ve ever met. Having known Yang Jeongin, Han Jisung, and Kim Seungmin, most men you know have a lot of competition. However, even though most of his face is hidden behind his mask, you can tell your dancing partner can rival them all.

He’s ethereal. Graceful. He whirls you around in twists and turns and leaves you breathless with the utter elegance with which he moves. You haven’t danced this way in a long time, not since your uncle died. The last time you danced was on his birthday. Two days before Chan killed him.

You shove those thoughts away.

As the moon travels the night sky, you lose yourself in the dance again, in the warm brown eyes of your partner and the dizzying press of his hands against yours. Small talk and quiet laughter contrast with the raucous crowd, but you don’t care. For now, the world only consists of your partner and you.

Too soon, though, someone calls “Prince Minho!” and your partner’s expression deflates, his warm eyes dimming. “I must go now,” he says, holding your hands tightly. “You know my name now, but may I have one from you?”

“Y/N,” you reply, smiling sadly. You will likely never see the prince – Minho – again. Both because of your situation and his status.

“Will I see you again?” he asks, eyes sparkling with hope.

It breaks your heart to do it, but you shake your head. “Probably not,” you murmur. “I am not from here, and I must return to my home as soon as I can.”

There’s a little silence.

“May I at least see your face, then?” Minho finally asks. “I would like to remember the woman who so enchanted me tonight.”

You smile, bringing your hands to your mask. “If you will let me see yours.”

It seems to take an eternity for Minho to bring down his mask, but there isn’t enough time in the world to drink in the sight of his face. He’s beautiful – cat-like eyes, pink lips, a graceful nose. His features are even more enhanced by your knowledge of his ringing laugh and gentle character.

“You’re more beautiful than I ever imagined,” you whisper. A hand goes up to caress his cheek.

“I could say the same for you, my lady,” Minho says, raising a hand to cover the one you’ve placed on his face. He brings it down, holding your fingers tightly in his grasp. “If on the off chance I see you again, I hope you will remember me.” He presses a kiss to your knuckles.

You smile. “I could never forget.”

Someone calls Minho’s name again and he enters the crowd, giving you one last wave. You wave back and watch until he fully disappears into the throng.

If only you had time. If only you weren’t cursed. If only you could tell Minho yes, you would definitely see him again.

“If only,” you whisper, absently touching the place on your knuckles where his lips brushed your skin. “If only.”

. . . . .

“Has he been like this all day?” Felix asks in a stage whisper. He puts on an innocent expression when Minho turns around to shoot him an annoyed look, but it’s clear he meant for Minho to hear.

“Obviously.” Hyunjin leans against the wall, flipping through a book. “Want to know why?”

“Hwang Hyunjin, I swear to the all the stars –”

“He met a girl,” Changbin jeers, fake-swooning even as Minho throws a pen at him. He effortlessly dodges anyway, as would be expected of the head of the prince’s guard.

Memories of your gentle touch, your delicate face, and the spark of burning fire in your deep eyes flood Minho’s mind and not for the first time since your parting, Minho aches to see you again. But your voice and the despondent look on your face told him that such a meeting probably won’t happen again.

Still, though, Minho is glad he met you. Because if only for a few hours, at least, he felt completely relaxed. Free. And maybe in love.

If you’d seen her, you might understand, Changbin.

Felix gasps, as per his duties as the melodramatic younger brother. “A girl?”

Minho refuses to answer.

“But isn’t that a good thing?” Felix’s eyebrows furrow and he drops onto the seat next to Minho. “You know who you want to marry now! More or less, anyway? So Mother can stop beating you up over finding a wife?”

A deep sigh leaves Minho’s lips. That’s what he would have hoped too. But given your response from last night, he doesn’t think that will happen at all. “She lives far away from here,” he mumbles. “Said she probably couldn’t see me again. Plus, I have no idea of her social status. Mother might not even approve.”

“Maybe we can find her,” Hyunjin volunteers, closing the book. “What was her name?”

“Y/N. But don’t try to find her,” he says. “I don’t think she would take very kindly to that. We may or may not meet again. Neither of us knows.”

Silence.

“But even if you meet again, it might be too late.” Felix’s voice is unusually somber. Changbin and Hyunjin shoot him warning looks, but Minho’s far from blowing up. What Felix said is very true. He might very well have a wife picked by his parents’ hands by the time he sees you next. Assuming he ever sees you again.

Changbin’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle. “I think we need a break,” he says brusquely. “Your lessons are finished and everyone’s preparing for the celebrations tomorrow, so I don’t think we’ll be missed if we go on a hunt.” He grins.

“A hunt?” Minho echoes.

“Yes.”

“The ambassador gifted you a new bow yesterday, right? Why not try it out?” Felix’s eyes sparkle with excitement.

A small smile spreads on Minho’s face. “Why not?”

. . .

The sun has begun to sink in the sky as you circle over the lake, your maidens following behind. Soon, you’ll be human again, but you need to land before that happens so you don’t go crash-landing onto the ground.

You’ve just begun your descent onto the silvery water when Lia’s voice crashes into your mind.

Y/N, watch out!

You jerk upwards, looking behind you. Terror races through your veins when you see the huge hawk tearing through the trees.

Chan hasn’t appeared so blatantly like this in years, not since the day he cursed you into your current form. But the bird is unmistakably him – you can see it in the hatred in the hawk’s eyes.

What is he doing here? He knows he can’t kill you just yet – the magic on your uncle’s necklace will have to wear off first – so why is he here already?

Your wings flap faster and you shoot forward, spurred on by the raw terror you feel for your cousin. If there was once any affection between you two, it is now long gone.

Run, Y/N. His cruel voice echoes through your mind. Or should I say fly? That’s all you can do, isn’t it? Hide from danger instead of facing it like a true ruler?

You close your mind, the one thing you’ve learned to do perfectly since Chan left. When he first disappeared, his voice used to torment you for hours on end until your uncle taught you to shut him out. Your thoughts become blissfully empty for a moment until terror takes over again.

Greenery flashes beneath you as you soar through the trees, weaving between trunks and ducking under branches. You hear noises that suggest your maidens are attempting to help, but Chan has his own followers to fight them off.

The sun is just beginning to fade over the horizon. Heartened by the sight, you curve your path, attempting to make it back to the lake where you can defend yourself on solid ground. Your human form can do nothing in the air.

With a crow of joy, you dive down to the lake, heart beating wildly in relief as you paddle to the edge of the water. The sun finally sinks beneath the horizon, and you endure the agony of the transformation back to a human.

You hear Jisung screeching and Lia yelling. The voices of your other friends sound from various parts of the forest. You turn around to greet them but stop short when you see the man standing in front of you.

By all the stars, how could this happen?

“Minho?”

. . .

Everything happened way too quickly for Minho to process. All he knows is that he was aiming with his arrow, planning to strike down one of the birds in flight – preferably the swan, because what a prize that would have been for the castle – but he lowered his weapons, mesmerized by the bird’s grace even in the face of danger.

It reminded him of you. Pure, perfect, delicate, yet still a fighter. Fighting to survive. He couldn’t kill it.

And then the bird turned out to be you.

For now, he stands dumbstruck, staring at your perfect face.

I just watched a swan turn into a human.

Maybe if he blinks really hard, this will just be a hallucination. Maybe he fell off his horse while hunting and got knocked out and now he’s dreaming.

He blinks once, then twice. There is no doubt that it’s you. Your dress is the same. Your necklace is the same. Your warm eyes, wide with shock, are the same. So is your face.

Not a dream.

I just watched a swan turn into the girl I might have fallen in love with and it’s not a dream.

A shudder of terror and relief runs down Minho’s spine. He’s suddenly very, very glad that he did not release the arrow.

“Minho?” you whisper again, stepping slightly closer. “How… how did you get here? How did you get into the forest?”

Minho swallows hard. “I… just rode in? On my horse?”

“That shouldn’t have been possible,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. “Who…?”

Then the hawk lands and for the second time in less than five minutes, a bird transforms into a person. Minho thinks he might just faint right then and there.

This person has blond curls and skin as pale as the moon. Handsome, yes, but with a dangerously evil glint in his eye that sends fear spiking into Minho’s heart.

Your eyes turn dark. “You let him in.”

The newcomer raises his arms in a ‘what can you do?’ gesture, smiling coldly. “I might not be able to kill you yet, but a human with human weapons certainly can. I just thought it was a golden opportunity when I saw him on his horse.” His smile turns into a snarl. “But again, I overestimated how useful humans can be. Should’ve used the earthen elves.” The dark eyes lock onto Minho’s, rendering him frozen. “You were supposed to shoot her, you know.”

“Good thing I didn’t,” Minho snaps.

The cold laugh that echoes through the forest sends chills up his spine. “An amusing human. Too bad that you must die.”

“Enough.” You step in front of Minho and he’s a little ashamed to admit his relief, though it quickly turns to worry for your safety. “You brought him in here, Chan, didn’t you? So let him go. He has nothing to do with this anymore.”

“But why?” The man – Chan – cocks an eyebrow. “He knows about us now. He saw you and I transform. Shouldn’t you want him dead as well?”

“Is killing your only solution to everything?” The calmness of your voice astounds Minho, but the whiteness of your clenched knuckles gives your tension away.

“Oh, I don’t enjoy killing, cousin.” Chan smirks. “I only do it when necessary.”

And without warning, he raises an arm and a bolt of light shoots straight at Minho’s chest.

. . .

You never knew you could move so fast. All you knew in the moment was that Minho couldn’t die, not at the hands of your evil cousin.

Chan’s bolt of light strikes your shimmering shield with a crash that reverberates through the trees and sends ripples across the lake. For a terrifying second, the shield almost splits under the pressure of Chan’s power. But the knowledge that Minho will die if you don’t fight steels your mind and the shield shimmers brighter, stronger.

With a shout that’s more akin to a roar, you send the ball of light flying back at Chan. The momentary pride you feel at deflecting his attack fades quickly when you realize how drained you are. Chan, on the other hand, doesn’t even look like he’s broken a sweat.

Not fair.

“You’ve improved, I’ll give you that.” Chan smiles coldly. “We’ll see if it’s enough by next week.”

Your nails dig into your palm. “Get out of my forest.”

“It won’t be yours much longer, dear cousin. I’ll be back.” He disappears into a swirl of black.

“I don’t doubt it,” you mutter.

“Um, Y/N?” Minho’s confused voice breaks into your thoughts. “I’m sorry, but… what just happened?”

Right. Now you need to explain.

“Walk with me.” You give him an apologetic glance. “I’ll explain everything as I make my rounds.”

You thank all the heavens for Minho’s silence as you explain the situation. How your uncle chose you to rule instead of his son, Chan. How Chan came back and cursed you into your swan form but your uncle’s magic protected you enough to keep you from permanently transforming until your twenty-first birthday, which is less than two weeks away.

“You should not be here,” you say bluntly, eyes roving the trees for anything out of the ordinary. “The forest is only visible to those who live in it, unless someone shows you the way in.”

Minho nods. “That makes sense. I thought it was strange that I’d never seen this part of the forest before. Did Chan…?”

Your lips curl. “I suppose. He probably lured you here too.”

It’s a quiet night. When you and Minho fall silent, it’s as though the entire forest is waiting for one of you to speak.

“I almost released the arrow,” Minho says quietly. It takes you a moment to hear him, then another to comprehend his words. And when you realize what he means, all you can really say is “oh.”

Silence again.

“Why didn’t you?” you finally ask.

Minho shrugs. His eyes bore into yours. “The swan… as I watched you flying, it reminded me of you. Of our dance. I felt I couldn’t kill such grace.”

You feel your cheeks heat up slightly. “I see.”

“This curse…” Minho trails off, then takes your hand. “Is there any way I can help?”

If only.

“I wish you could.” You smile gently, trying to hide your own pain. “I’m afraid this is a battle between just Chan and I.”

One that he’ll probably win.

“Do you know how to defeat him? Any idea?” Minho presses.

You snort a little. “I somehow have to unlock my power. Once I find it, I should be able to overpower Chan. My uncle once told me I would be more powerful than Chan someday, but I can’t see how that could be true.”

The two of you fall silent again. Then Minho takes both of your hands in his.

“Y/N.” He forces you to look at him. “You have a reservoir of strength in you that I believe is only untapped. Once you realize your power, I have no doubt that you will be able to defeat your cousin.”

“I have less than two weeks, Minho.” You smile sadly.

Somehow, the two of you have made it through the forest and are back at the lake. Moonlight shimmers in the smooth surface and reflects onto Minho’s face, illuminating it in the night. He looks ethereal under the moon’s pale rays and your heart skips a beat.

“Don’t lose hope.” Minho smiles. “I believe in you.”

His words touch you in a way that nearly brings tears to your eyes. “Thank you,” you murmur.

“I should go now. My friends are probably worried.” Minho adjusts the bow on his shoulder. “Will… will I see you again?”

You want to say yes. You really, really want to say yes, but that could just put Minho in more harm’s way. But he already knows about the forest, and you don’t trust yourself to do a memory wipe on him.

There is a way to keep him safe.

“Yes, but wait a moment.” You remove your hand from his. “Don’t move.”

Breathing deeply, you muster your powers until the growing warmth in your heart manifests into a small, pulsating ball of magic in your hand. With a soft breath, you blow the magic onto Minho, watching as the sparkles settle and disappear into his skin.

“This will protect you from my cousin,” you tell him. “I may not be able to fight directly, but I am quite good at defensive magic. He won’t be able to easily curse you. But you must be careful not to let anyone know where you’re going and trust no one. Chan has many spies, both human and nonhuman.”

“Thank you,” Minho breathes. He reaches forward and squeezes your hand.

Bravery rushes through your veins and you kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you. For choosing not to shoot. For wanting to help.”

Minho looks slightly red under the moonlight, though he has enough sauciness left in him to press a kiss to your hand. “I will see you soon.”

The memory of his lips stays with you long after he’s disappeared.

. . . . .

Chan remains suspiciously quiet for the next few days, allowing Minho to come and go quietly. Every time you ask him if anything happened, he’s happy – but also worried – to shake his head and reassure you that he’s been fine.

The nights spent walking with you on the soft grass become the times when Minho feels the most at home in a way he could never feel in the palace. Surrounded by nature and greenery with the occasional burst of sparkling magic, a certain warmth fills Minho that he could never find in the cold, marble walls of the palace. Despite the terror he felt that first day in the forest, he finds himself grimly thanking Chan for the opportunity to come here.

For the opportunity to see you again.

Typically, Minho isn’t one to believe in romantic ideas like love at first sight. That’s more of Hyunjin’s job – whenever the guard isn’t on duty, anyone can find him in the library, reading yet another romance novel. Once, Minho took a peek at the pages. He almost threw up right then and there, and he’d teased Hyunjin for an entire week afterwards.

If Hyunjin knew what was happening right now – well, if any of his friends knew, really – they would be teasing him to no tomorrow. But Minho doesn’t care anymore. The feelings in his chest might have scared him at first, but after a week of coming to the forest, he’s ready to embrace them.

First love. Minho is sure this is what it is. He thinks about you at all times of the day, hoping that your swan form is safe from predators, praying that Chan doesn’t find some way to defeat you just yet. He lives for the times he gets to see you, glowing under the moonlit sky.

On the night of his birthday, he sneaks away from the palace and dances with you under a canopy of trees and stars, the still waters of the lake shimmering in the distance.

“I love you, Y/N,” Minho confesses that night just before he has to leave. “I know it’s only been a week, but I swear by the stars, I love you.”

Though a smile settles on your face, your eyes turn sad. You drop your gaze to his hand linked with yours. “I love you too, Minho.” You swallow hard and look up. “I really do.”

Neither of you say the words bouncing through your minds, but they hang in the air anyway, creating a thick blanket of tension that threatens to suffocate the two of you.

Minho ignores it. “Will you come to the palace next week?” he asks. His heart swells with hope. “It would be an honor to dance with you the night before my coronation.”

At that, you hang your head. “I cannot promise, Minho.”

It’s what he expected. His coronation is your birthday, and you need to break your curse before then. There was little chance, if any, that you could come. Even so, Minho feels a bit dejected. “I understand,” he forces out.

“I’m sorry.” You squeeze his hand. “If I could…”

“I know.” He presses a kiss on your cheek. “But just in case, I’ll be waiting for you.”

“On the day of, I will send a message to you.” You smile shakily. “You will know if I’m coming or not on the day.”

“So last minute,” Minho teases. “But no matter. I will wait.”

“We don’t think Chan will come into the open until that day, but all the same, I think you should avoid the forest for the next week,” you caution. “He’s been suspiciously quiet, which only means he’s planning something. I don’t want you to get caught in it.”

Minho furrows his eyebrows. He doesn’t like it – he understands the risk, but he wants to be at your side in case you’re in danger. There is little doubt in his mind that you can hold your own, at least for a while, but he wants to be there for you.

“Do you have a plan?” he asks.

You frown slightly. “He can’t hurt me until my birthday. He’s sure to remain in hiding until the day before, then strike at midnight. I will just have to be ready then.”

Minho frowns. He hates that plan. There’s so many variables and so little certainty of anything.

“I know you don’t like it.” You smile sadly. “I don’t either. I want to see you for the rest of my days. But it would kill me if you were hurt, so for my sake, please don’t come.”

“Not even tomorrow?”

“Don’t pout at me.” You reach over and straighten his lips into a line. “That’s better. And no, not even tomorrow.”

Minho attempts to smile. “If I can’t see you until my coronation, may I request one thing from you?”

“Within reason.” A bit of sparkle comes back into your eyes and Minho drinks in the sight, knowing he won’t be able to see it for at least another week.

“May I kiss you?” he breathes.

Breathlessly, he waits for your tiny nod of approval, then leans forward to slot his lips against yours. And in that kiss, he pours all of the emotions he feels for you that he could never put into words.

You sigh slightly against his lips and pull him closer. Minho feels heady with bliss at the pressure of your lips on his, the touch of your hands on his face. He holds your waist, rubbing soft circles against the feathers of your dress.

Finally, you break away for air. With pink cheeks and bright eyes, Minho thinks you look more beautiful than you ever have before.

“You should go,” you finally whisper. “It’s nearing dawn.”

Minho sighs. “I’ll wait for your answer on my coronation day. If you come, I might just give you another kiss.” He winks.

Cringing slightly, you turn away. “I guess I’m not going, then,” you mutter.

“Your smile tells me otherwise.” Minho swoops in and plants a last kiss on your cheek, then on your lips. “Good luck, my swan.”

It’s the first time he’s ever called you that. But the name slips from his mouth so easily that he knows, should he ever see you again, that that will be his name for you. His swan.

You reach up to kiss his cheek. “Thank you, my prince.”

. . . . .

One day passes without trouble. Then a second. And a third. And a fourth.

By the fifth, you’re a nervous wreck. As a swan, you flutter from tree to tree restlessly, just waiting for trouble in the form of Chan to appear. Tomorrow is the day before your birthday. Chan is sure to strike sometime then.

It’s also the night before Minho’s coronation.

You’ve decided not to go. Chan will follow you anywhere, so better you fight him in the forest than in a ballroom full of humans. Fewer deaths. Fewer casualties.

Though who knows how many of those there will be if Chan wins.

Hopelessness settles in your veins as the sun begins to set. You land on the lake, limbs heavy but head buzzing with adrenaline. Your fellow swan maidens land beside you, all peering nervously into the forest.

I have a bad feeling, Yuna murmurs.

We all do, Ryujin snaps.

You shush them.

Gliding along the lake, you wait for the sun to disappear, for night to take the place of day. So absorbed are you in the rays that you barely hear the slight whizzing of something flying by your beak.

Fly!

Immediately you flap your wings, attempting to lift off from the water. But something strikes your side and immediately you feel woozy. Wings limp, you drop back into the lake with a splash. Next to you, your maidens go limp as well.

Just as you black out, something tugs your unresisting body to shore.

. . .

Minho slips into bed, gazing out of his window at the full moon. He wonders if you’re safe, then remembers you must be. The jewel. Your necklace. You will be okay for now.

He has to believe it.

“Until tomorrow,” he whispers. Tomorrow, he will have word from you. Tomorrow.

He closes his eyes and drifts into a fitful sleep.

. . .

You wake, head throbbing and wrists tied, in a tiny room. Your five maidens lie around you in various states of wakefulness, ranging from mostly still conked out (Lia) to more or less alert (Yeji). All of you are human.

“They shot us with something,” Ryujin groans, uselessly trying to free her wrists.

You nod slowly. “Undoubtedly Chan’s work. He probably hired some of the earthen elves and their poison darts.” Your lips curl into a snarl. “Someone needs to get out of here and find Minho.”

“Right.” Chaeryeong fixes her gaze on you. “Let’s get you out.”

“No.” You shake your head. “Not me.”

Five pairs of eyes stare at you. “Why?” Yuna finally asks.

“I can’t be killed yet.” You grimly indicate the necklace against your throat. “I have one day left. If I go, Chan has no reason to keep the rest of you alive. If I stay, he does.”

“You know we would all die for you.” Yeji’s gaze, uncharacteristically serious, pins you down. The weight of her words settles on your shoulders.

“And I, you. But this isn’t the time for any of us to die.” You spit a piece of hair out of your mouth. “One of you needs to get out and alert Minho.” Your gaze turns to Lia. “You have the best sense of direction and you’re small enough to fit through that window in the corner.”

“Y/N –”

“No questions.” Steely-eyed, you stare each maiden down. “If you argue, I will command you. As your queen.”

That settles it. The four of you struggle to undo the bonds on Lia’s wrists, rubbing a rusty nail against the ropes until she’s free. She quickly tosses the rope out of the window and with a final look in your direction, she jumps out too.

You barely have enough time for a sigh of relief before the door slams open.

. . .

Minho paces his room, already fitted into his suit and crown. There’s no chance he can escape tonight – the suit will immediately give him away.

But tonight, he isn’t supposed to escape. He’s supposed to wait. For you.

The small clock in his room ticks again. He forces himself not to look – he’s been doing that for the past few hours.

You promised to send someone. So why hasn’t anyone come? Are you in trouble? Did Chan appear?

What if you’re dead?

No.

Minho shakes his head firmly. Your necklace will protect you until midnight. Chan couldn’t have killed you yet. Maybe you got sidetracked. It’s entirely possible.

Still, he wishes you would hurry.

. . .

With a final scream, your weak shield shatters. You hang your head, refusing to let Chan see the tears dripping down your cheeks.

It’s humiliating. When you turned to swans at dawn, he threw you all into cages. When you turned human again, he tied you up. You never had much pride to begin with, but it feels like half of anything you had left is gone.

You’ve failed. You can’t even keep up a simple shield to save your friends. With your hands newly tied with ropes imbued with Chan’s spells, you’re helpless against him.

Your cousin only laughs. “Pitiful.” You can hear the sneer in his voice. “I can’t understand why my father ever chose you over me.” He shakes his head, blond curls falling into his eyes. Tiredly, you think what a handsome and good man he could’ve been had he not fallen to the darkness.

“Have you ever heard that those who desire power the most are the ones who deserve it the least?” You blink the last of the tears from your eyes and look up at the person you hate the most in this world.

Chan’s eyes darken into something maniacal, something worse than evil. But despite the fear rushing through your blood, you refuse to look away.

“I deserve the forest far more than you ever did,” he snarls.

You brace yourself for the next hit and pray to the heavens that Lia made it.

. . .

Minho feels his heart dropping to his stomach as he gazes over the crowd. You’re not here. You haven’t sent any messages.

You’ve broken your promise.

Hyunjin side-eyes him. “Looking for someone?” he asks.

There’s no use hiding it. Minho nods.

Then the doors open at the top of the stairs. He looks up.

There, in a dress of pure white feathers, stands you. Your eyes catch his and you send him a shy smile.

Minho’s heart is about to beat out of his chest.

You’re here.

. . .

Lia swoops down into the palace gardens, bypassing the guards and their swords. The sun dips below the trees just as she takes shelter behind a large clump of bushes to transform.

She hopes that the dress her human form gives her is suitable for a ball.

Stealth has never been Lia’s best point, but she somehow manages to enter the palace without anyone seeing her. Once inside, she simply acts slightly wine drunk, allowing a tired guard to escort her into the ballroom.

But her sigh of relief is cut off when she realizes what’s happening at the center of the room.

Y/N?

She shakes her head. It can’t be her. How could Y/N be here, when she’s probably being tortured at this moment at Chan’s hideout?

This must be one of Chan’s tricks.

“Prince!” she screeches, shoving through the throng of people. “Prince! Prince Minho!”

He doesn’t hear her.

“PRINCE!” she screams, pushing the last person out of her way. Finally, he hears her and looks her way.

Lia’s heart drops. Something isn’t right. Minho’s eyes are slightly unfocused, and she’s never seen this dopey look on his face before. Not even after he kissed Y/N.

Enchanted.

“Lia?” Some of the dopiness melts away, replaced with confusion. “Why…?”

“Prince.” She stalks forward. “This is not Y/N. Chan sent this person as a fake. Changed their appearance. Made an illusion. I don’t know. She’s not Y/N because Y/N is being held this very minute in Chan’s hideout and you need to come with me now.”

The dopey, unfocused look comes back to Minho’s eyes. “But Y/N is right here?”

“Yes, I’m right here.” The look that the poser sends Lia is perfectly innocent, perfectly delicate, perfectly calculated.

It has to be an illusion. No human is that perfect. Least of all Y/N.

“Minho, listen to me.” A crowd has formed, but no one’s tried to stop her yet so she plows on. “This is not your real Y/N. Look at her face. Look at her eyes. She may look like Y/N but she’s an illusion. Wake up, Prince!”

The prince looks between Lia and the poser, confusion and doubt flitting over his face. Then someone grabs her arm from behind.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I will take her away,” a guard says over her shoulder. But Lia takes no notice, attention fixated on the dagger at the guard’s side.

She draws the blade with her free arm and the guard shouts, immediately letting her go. Ignoring the cries of fear, she aims.

“Watch, Prince.”

The dagger sails through the air right into the illusion’s chest.

Screams echo throughout the ballroom but no blood flows. The poser’s face registers shock, then blankness as her body dissolves into the air. The dagger clatters to the floor.

All the confusion clears from the prince’s eyes. His skin turns white. “Two horses,” he snaps at a shell-shocked guard. Then he turns to Lia. “Please take me to Y/N. Immediately.”

. . .

The clock in Chan’s room reads a quarter to twelve. At least, that’s what you think it reads. It’s hard to see through the sweat and blood dripping into your eyes.

Fifteen minutes or less. That’s all you have. The hope that Lia will come back starts to fade away.

“Why don’t you just kill me now, cousin?” You spit blood out of your mouth, wishing your friends were still here to bolster your confidence. Chan threw them back into the room after they made too loud a ruckus. But the sounds of them still banging against the door give you a little more strength.

Chan smiles easily, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you. It’s almost like you two are children again, sitting across from each other and playing games.

Then another drop of sweat stings in your eye and you get rid of any illusions of childhood.

“Oh, Y/N, you always knew I was bad with human weapons.” He laughs coldly. “And they’re all made of iron, you know? Wouldn’t want to burn myself.”

You spit in his face. “If you can’t kill me from this short range with a human weapon, I don’t know if you’re really strong enough to be a king. And I’m sure you could come up with a spell to protect your precious skin, if you’re as capable and powerful as you say.”

“Yet another reason why you shouldn’t rule,” Chan tuts, carelessly wiping away your bloodied spit. He hooks a hand under your chin, pulling your face closer. He tuts again, mockingly. “You were always the snippier one of us two.”

“Get off me!” You wrench your face away from his grasp. The lingering feeling of his hand on your chin makes your skin crawl.

“As you wish.” He smirks. “But as such, I think I’ll stick with watching you die slowly. It’s what you deserve, isn’t it? A human weapon wouldn’t provide as much pain. And who knows?” His grin grows wider. “Maybe, come dawn, I’ll make swan soup and feed it to the dogs.”

Fury blinds your vision and you open your mouth to scream –

And then the door bursts open.

. . .

The shock that blinds Minho at the sight of your bloodied figure nearly kills him. Literally. Had Lia not pulled him away, the blast of light would have killed him.

“Come to join the party?” Chan asks, looking as unruffled and terrifying as ever. He glances at a clock in the corner. “You have seven minutes left to say goodbye to your precious queen.”

Enraged, Minho draws a dagger from his belt and sends it flying at Chan. He doesn’t even blink an eye – with a flick of his hand, the blade dissolves into the air in front of him.

“I knew there was one of you missing.” Chan casts a disdainful look at Lia. “No matter.” He fixes his gaze on Minho. “So you figured out my little illusion, didn’t you? You should’ve stayed with her. The real thing isn’t as pretty, is she?” He jerks his head at you.

Rage fills Minho’s vision and he nearly leaps at Chan. But your voice cuts in.

“Stop.”

All the attention turns back to you.

You spit blood out of your mouth. “Isn’t your fight with me, Chan?” A ghost of a smile plays on your lips. “Why don’t you release these bonds and have us a fair battle?”

Minho wants to scream for you to shut up.

“A good suggestion, dear Y/N.” Chan pretends to think, then shakes his head. “But I’d prefer to watch you break first.”

“No showing of skill? No proving you are fit to rule?” Your eyes flit to the clock and Minho looks too, against his will.

Two minutes.

Chan grins, but Minho can see the repressed anger in his eyes. “I already know I am fit to rule.”

“Then are you afraid that I will find my strength and kill you first?” You tsk. “Coward.”

“What you call cowardice is what I call a strategy.” The smile turns animalistic as Chan directs it at him. “Say goodbye to your lover, dear cousin.”

A flash of light burns out of Chan’s palm, directed straight at Minho’s chest.

. . .

Chan has never seen anyone move so quickly. Much less if they were bound by magic ropes.

His magic ropes. The ropes imbued with the strength of every creature he’s killed.

And you…

You broke them.

His eyes widen as he takes in your outstretched hands, free of bindings, creating a shield. A shield that glows with more power than he’s ever seen you conjure.

The light fizzles from his palm. And as your darkened, furious eyes lock with Chan’s, he feels an unfamiliar emotion. So unfamiliar that he’s almost forgotten its name.

As the clock behind him chimes the hour, Chan does not gloat. Chan does not laugh.

For the first time in years, Chan feels fear.

. . .

How did I do that?

You stare at your outstretched hands and the shield of light they’ve created. Ragged breaths leave your lips but to your surprise, you don’t feel tired. There is no exhaustion. If anything, you feel exhilarated.

The clock chimes. Midnight.

You lock eyes with your cousin. For once, he seems to have nothing to say.

“Anything to say, Chan?” you snarl. You kick one of the torn ropes at your feet and he flinches. “Anything at all?”

“… How?” he finally whispers.

For a moment, you find yourself wondering the same thing. How could you have done this? How did you break from Chan’s bonds? How did you manage to surpass his power?

Your uncle’s words echo through your mind.

“You have an ability that Chan does not. For this reason, you are more powerful than Chan will ever be. But you must unlock that power yourself.”

And suddenly, you understand. You understand how you moved so quickly that first day you protected Minho. You understand how you withstood Chan’s torture for so long while waiting for Lia. You understand the magic your uncle left in the gem that rests against your throat.

You understand the magic that led you to break Chan’s bonds and protect the people you love the most in the world.

“My uncle – your father – once told me I had an ability you do not. And because of that, he told me I had more power than you would ever have.” Your words are slow, calculated, but for once, there is no race against time. There are five hours until dawn – plenty of time before your final transformation.

And with a little luck, that transformation will never happen.

“That day, he gave me this necklace to protect me.” You grasp the gem around your neck. “He told me it had a magic in it as old as time, and that you would never be able to overcome it before my twenty-first birthday. So I suppose it no longer works.” Slowly, you unclasp the chain from your neck, clutching the gem in your hand. “But I don’t suppose I need it anymore.”

No one speaks.

“How, you ask?” You step forward, and for once, Chan steps back. “I’ve found my power. It is a power far older, far stronger than your dark arts. Would you like to hear about it?”

Chan swallows, attempting a look of defiance. You wish you could tell him how stupid it looks.

“It is a magic as vast as the stars,” you whisper. “It is a magic as old as time. It is the power to feel a heartbeat from across the room. It is the power to speak volumes without a sound, without a word.”

You step forward.

“It is the power to protect.”

Another step.

“It is the power to love.”

As you stare into his eyes, real fear flashes over Chan’s face. But you take no pleasure in it, only feel sorrow that your cousin will never be able to feel as deeply as you.

In a movement as smooth as water, you grasp Chan’s arm with a strength you never thought you had. Your other hand presses against his chest.

“I’m sorry, cousin.”

Your power drives deep into his heart.

. . . . .

Minho’s parents were unsure of the union at first, especially since they found you in the same sorry state that Chan’s torture left you. But Minho had refused to let you return to the forest and practically forced you and your maidens into the castle to help you clean up and heal. Upon your request, he brought Jisung, Jeongin, and Seungmin over as well. Once the tattered dress of feathers was gone, your cuts and scrapes cleaned, and Minho had informed them of your magic and your status as queen, his parents became more receptive.

You sit in the front row at Minho’s coronation, your former swan maidens at your side. Pride fills your heart as you watch the priest crown your love, hand him the royal sword and scepter, and repeat the oath his father took so many years prior.

That day, you don’t dance with him, as per the doctor’s orders. But Minho stays by your side throughout the ensuing ball, only leaving for several ceremonial dances that he pouts the whole way through. But, as you remind him, “there will be many more dances together after we marry.”

And marry you do. All of your forest friends come to the ceremony, watch you walk down the aisle in a white gown devoid of feathers to recite your vows to the king.

(Jisung, Felix, Jeongin, and the girls all openly cry into each other’s arms. Seungmin, Changbin, and Hyunjin refuse to admit their tears but everyone can see through them anyway.)

The kiss that day is like your first, minus the sadness. Your hands cup his face while his rest lightly against your waist. Minho’s lips press against yours with a gentle insistence that you eagerly give in to, his fingers brushing softly against the fabric of your dress.

The festivities last until midnight, when you’re finally allowed to retire to your room in the palace. Minho finds you on the balcony, staring down at the throngs of celebrating citizens.

Weeks ago, you were terrified of turning twenty-one. You were terrified of the inevitable change and the inevitable death sentence that age would bring.

Now, you think that turning twenty-one wasn’t the worst thing you’ve done in your life.

“What are you thinking of, my swan?” Minho presses a kiss against your neck.

You smile. “Just… I don’t know. Turning twenty-one seemed so terrifying a few weeks ago. Now...”

“Ah.” Minho nods. “You know, I dreaded that age too.”

“No kidding.” You raise an eyebrow.

“I was terrified of losing my freedom, of being forced to marry someone I didn’t love and being forced to stay with them for the rest of my life.” Minho squeezes your hand. “But you know, it doesn’t seem too bad now.”

A snort bursts from your lips. “That’s an understatement,” you laugh, turning back to the scene beyond the balcony. There’s a little silence.

“What are you thinking of now?” Minho whispers.

The smile on your face grows wider. “The day we first met.”

“Oh, yes.” Minho turns you around to face him again. “I think I knew then and there that I was going to fall in love with you, you know.”

Shyly, you look down. “I think I knew too.”

He tilts your chin back up and presses a light kiss on your lips. “I love you, Y/N.”

One hand reaches up to rub the gem resting at your throat. Your uncle’s necklace still sparkles around your neck as a reminder of the duties you still have in the forest, but also as a reminder of the immense power he always knew you had. The power of that single, simple word.

Love.

You smile, dropping the gem to rest your arms around Minho’s neck. He smiles down at you with passion in his eyes and happiness on his lips.

“I love you too.”

[thebluesideofmyworld]

Unconditionally - A Leonardo Bonucci One-Shot

Hello Nix @iamnix :). Turns out that I am your Secret Santa :D. I hope that you enjoy this

Author’s Notes:

An Alternate Universe. Of the options that Nix has given me as prompts, I picked the Greek Mythology one. So basically it’s a very loose translation of one of Greek Mythologies. I have changed the names, except for the major deities. You might recognize which myth it is. If you don’t, you will at some point in this fic. I also changed some of the details but the major storyline is basically based on the myth

Word count: 6500 words || Rating: Mature (slightly NSFW but nothing explicit)

Anna had no choice but to jump.

So she jumped.

With her eyes closed, she could feel the rush of wind against her skin. Her ears heard the swooshing sound of her falling to her own death in her ears.

Anna kept her eyes closed, silently chanting a quick prayer that this sacrifice would at least, let the gods and goddesses of Olympus show some mercy to her parents.

She chanted another prayer, wishing that there was no other mortal girl that would have to sacrifice themselves like what she just did.

She was about to say another prayer when she realized something.

Why she hasn’t crashed on the ground yet?

She slowly opened her eyes, and blinked a few times. It took her a while to realize that instead of falling full speed to the ground, she was��floating. She was still moving downward, but much much slower. Like a feather slowly floating around before falling softly to the ground. Her black silk gown spread and moved around her, like the wind was holding the soft fabric.

This realization jerked her, as suddenly she got terribly confused about what was happening with her.

“There, there, easy there, my lady,” a voice from somewhere made her turn her head around, trying to find whoever it was talking to her.

“Now, just…stay calm, will you? I am trying to save you here,” the voice talked to her again, sounding more half-amused than annoyed.

Anna tried to stay as still as possible, but her eyes still darted around.

“Who are you?” She asked, voice trembled a little. “Why are you doing this?”

The voice chuckled. “I am Zephyros, my lady. And I am doing this because… ah, apparently your beauty has caught the attention of someone. So he asked me for some favor.”

A cold shiver ran through Anna’s spine. What Zephyros said just put another piece in its place in the puzzle. Just like The Oracle said, her fate was to have a monster, a beast, as a husband. And since The Gods of the North Wind himself was willing to do what the beast has asked him to do, this monster must be a very powerful one.

“Since I was literally saving you from a painful death, I thought a thank you would be nice.”

Anna gasped as Zephyros’ voice jolted her back to reality.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she said. “I apologize. And I am sincerely grateful that you have saved me.”

Zephyros chuckled again. The air in front of Anna shimmering a little, vaguely forming a figure of someone.

“Oh, it’s not me whom you have to be grateful to. It’s your husband,” Zephyros said.

“My husband?”

“I though The Oracle had spoken to you and your parents?”

Anna closed her eyes as a cold steel fist clenched her chest. There was no use denying the Fate.

“Yes, my Lord,” she said. “Please tell my…husband that I am forever grateful.”

Zephyros laughed lightly. “Oh, you can tell him by yourself,” he said, voice laced with amusement.

Anna bit her lower lip, thinking. It took her tow full second to brace herself asking one of many questions that she had.

“Do you know my husband, my Lord?”

“Indeed I do. He has been a good friend of mine.”

“Who is he?”

Zephyros laughed, and again, the air in front of Anna shimmered. “In front of mortals, he goes with some different names. You will know soon,” he said. “In fact, here we are now, in your new home.”

Anna looked around and surprised to find that she was now floating in some sort of a valley. Down below, just a few feet away, was a flower-decked turf. Three young women with simple gray tunic.

Anna glided down, landing smoothly on her two feet. Once her feet touched the lush green grass, she knelt and bowed her head down.

“Lord Zephyros,” she said. “I am forever grateful for you and your help.”

“Don’t mention it,” Zephyros said.

Anna kept her eyes looking on the ground.

“Now that you are safe in your husband’s home, my task is done. I bid you farewell, beautiful mortal.”

Anna nodded, trying to swallow the bitterness.

Beauty, she thought to herself. It was her beauty that brought her to this unwanted fate.

She felt the air around her swirled around, spiraling upwards, then suddenly, everything was still for a second. Like the air was frozen in motion, just for a second.

Anna looked up.

The women in gray tunics quickly made their way towards Anna. Anna slowly stood up, and the three women quickly went down to their knees in front of her, ducking their heads down.

“My lady,” the woman in the middle lifted her head up. “Welcome to the palace. I am Thalia, your maid-servant.”

Anna smiled at her. “Hello, Thalia. I am Anna,” she said.

“This is Kassandra,” Thalia gestured with her hand to the woman on her right side, who looked up at Anna only to nod politely before ducking her head again. “And Ophelia,” she said, introducing the other girl. Just like Kassandra, Ophelia also nodded at her, but she had a small shy smile on her lips before she ducked her head down again.

“Kassandra, Ophelia,” Anna said. “Pleased to meet you all.”

“Lord Leonardo have ordered us to serve you, Lady Anna,” Thalia said. “Please do let us know whatever it is that you need. It is our job to provide you with anything that you want.”

Leonardo, Anna thought to herself. So that was her husband’s name.

Anna smiled at her despite feeling slightly nervous.

“Thank you very much, Thalia,” she said. “Probably we can start with…showing me the place first?”

“Certainly, my Lady,” Thalia said. She quickly stood up, along with the other two girls.

“Now if you follow me this way, my lady,” Thalia said, gesturing with her hand for Anna to follow her.

Anna gazed at the direction that Thalia showed her and gasped. In front of her, a huge building stood in silence, waiting for her. The gold columns supporting it a striking contrast over the white marble. Anna closed her eyes as she took a shaky breath.

She opened her eyes slowly. She knew that she could do nothing but to face her destiny. But at least, she could still do it gracefully.

So she smiled as she lifted her chin up a bit.

“Show me the way, please,” she said calmly.

Thalia walked next to her, Kassandra and Ophelia following a few steps behind them.

Leonardo, Anna quietly thought to herself as she made her way to the palace.

Leonardo.

The beast.

Her husband.

***

The palace was a grand one not just in its size, but also in its architecture. It was not just built, the palace was beautifully crafted, where carefully carved silver lined up the wall. All the rooms had high ceilings with flawless marble floor, with citron-wood and ivory furniture.

But Anna could not fully marvel on the beauty of the place, as she couldn’t stop thinking about this mysterious Leonardo, the beast that was her husband by fate.

Thalia refused to say anything more other than Lord Leonardo would see her this evening.

After a tour around the palace, Anna had dinner in the large dining room. Sitting by herself on the long wooden table, she could see the amber sky slowly turned darker and darker before all the color finally dissolved into black.

After the dinner, Thalia led her to the master bedroom. Kassandra and Ophelia already waited there, standing on each side of the door to the bathroom. The two girls drew her a bath, and helped her undress before Anna stepped into the tub. The milk and aromatic oil that they added into the warm water managed to relax Anna for a while. But after the maids dressed her with a silk purple gown, and left her alone in the room, Anna felt the nervousness creeping in again.

She sat on the bed. She absently ran her palm against the soft fabric that covered the plush mattress, hundreds of thoughts were running in her head. Suddenly a breeze of wind whirled in the room. The fire in the oil lamps that light the room flicked, and went out.

Anna inhaled sharply darkness surrounded her.

“Please don’t be afraid, my darling,” a voice broke the silence in the room, followed with the sound of footsteps coming closer to the bed.

A cold shiver ran through Anna’s spine. Her heart thumping inside her chest as she unconsciously grabbed the sheet, trying to hold on something as her body started trembling slightly. The footsteps coming closer and closer…then stopped.

Anna took a shaky breath.

“My love,” the voice called her again.

“Who are you?” Anna asked, voice quivering.

Anna heard a soft chuckle, followed with the voice answering her question.

“Who else do you think would be here, my love?”

The soft sound and how the mattress dipped down made Anna aware that someone, or something, sat next to her on the bed.

“I am your husband, Anna.”

Anna wished that the darkness was not this thick. She wished that the moonlight was not blocked by the velvet curtain on the window, so at least she could see her husband.

The Oracle had spoken, that it was a monster, a terrible beast that would be her husband. But how could a monster have such a warm voice, calling her with such a sweet tone like that?

“Lord Leonardo?” Anna asked. “Is it you?”

Anna could hear a soft sigh.

“Yes, my darling. It is me.”

“My Lord,” Anna said, bowing her head down, even though she doubted that Leonardo could see it.

But then she could feel a finger under her chin, gently lifting her head up.

“Don’t be shy, love. Hera has blessed our weddings.”

Anna bit her lower lip. She could see nothing but a shadowy figure, barely visible as it almost completely blended in with the darkness blanketing them. She felt a hand cupping right cheek. Anna let out a gasp, surprised by not just by the warmth of the hand, but also by the softness of the skin touching her cheek.

“You are so beautiful,” Leonardo whispered.

“But my Lord,” Anna said. “How could you say so, with this darkness between us?”

Leonardo chuckled again, and he gently rubbed her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Anna closed her eyes, wondering what kind of monster would have this kind of warm, yet soft and gentle touch.

“Darkness is not a problem for me, like it is a problem for mortal, my darling.”

“Anna opened her eyes. “What about me, then my Lord? How would I see you, my own husband, if my mortal eyes were nothing of use in the dark?”

Leonardo sighed again, and this time it sounded more like a sigh of regret.

“Oh, Anna, my beautiful wife, I am so sorry. But we could only meet like this, in the dark, where you cannot see me.”

Anna furrowed her brows down in confusion. “My Lord? I don’t think I understand?”

“Anna, I have known that my heart belongs to you the first time I laid my eyes on you,” Leonardo said. “I have begged the gods and goddesses for their mercy. And as merciful as they are to let you live, I shall not let you see me, or the life of us both will be doomed by greatest misery.”

Anna opened her mouth, about to ask why. But then she remembered that there had been so many tragedies just because some people trying to question the gods and goddesses. Mortals never had a voice to say anyway when it came to the deities.

“Very well, My Lord.”

Anna felt a soft finger carefully tracing her lip. She closed her eyes again, wondering what kind of expression that her husband had now. A sad smile? A regret?

“Now, Anna,” Leonardo called, making her open her eyes. “Can you lie down on our bed?”

Our bed.

Something about the way Leonardo saying it as our instead of his bed somehow made her heart fluttered a little.

Nevertheless, she still shuddered as she laid down on the plush mattress, fully aware on what was about to happen. She felt the movement, how the mattress moved and dipped down along with soft shuffling sound of someone lying down on the mattress.

Anna closed her eyes, trying to calm down the beating of his heart. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder, holding it firmly, but gently.

“Now, my darling, can you lie on your side, so I can see your beautiful face?”

Anna opened her eyes. She nodded, and carefully flipped herself so she was now lying on her side. Again, she could see nothing but vague shadowy figure in front of her.

Leonardo tucked a strand of her hair to the back of her ear.

“Now, tell me about yourself.”

Anna raised her eyebrows, half-surprised, half-confused at the request.

“My Lord?”

“Anna, love. I have been watching you from far way, so many thing has made me unable to reach you, while I long to know more about you. Little things that make you who you are. Small thinngs that build your life. Tell me about it, love.”

A foreign but not unpleasant warmth swell inside her chest.

“Where should I start, My Lord?”

“Tell me where you were born. Tell me about your parents. Your siblings.”

Anna had a small nostalgic smile on her lips.

“Well, My Lord. I am just the youngest of three girls in my family,” Anna said, starting to talk about her childhood.

And as she continued talking about her life, Leonardo kept on stroking her hair, raking his fingers through black strands of her hair.

***

“I’m sorry, My Lord, have I bored you?” Anna asked, suddenly realized that she has been talking for quite a while now.

Leonardo chuckled.

“No, darling. I love hearing you talk. Your voice is lovely, it almost sounds like you were singing me a lullaby.”

Anna could feel her cheek warmed. “A lullaby supposed to make you fall asleep, My Lord.”

Leonardo laughed. After a while, the laughter subsided. But his laughter still lingered as the warmth lacing his voice when he cupped Anna’s cheek.

“Anna, my darling wife,” he said. “You are so beautiful.”

Anna didn’t realize that she had a small shy smile. She was so used of hearing people saying about her being beautiful. She was so sick of it. And ironically it was her beauty that has become a curse for her, bringing her into this kind of fate where she had to be separated from her parents and her sisters.

But it was different when she heard Leonardo saying it. Even without seeing him, she could hear his voice was dripping with adoration. And somehow, it just made her hear beat faster and the rush of blood in her vein warmer.

Leonardo placed his other hand on her shoulder, then delicately pressed his lips against her forehead. He left his soft lips lingered there for a little while before carefully pulled away, but still holding her cheek with one hand.

Anna forgot the fear that she had a while ago. The way Leonardo treated her with so much gentleness changed the fear into something completely different. A strange curiosity mixed with a desire to feel more of the warmth that Leonardo has been giving her made Anna shifted closer to him.

“Anna, my love” Leonardo whispered lowly, pressing their forehead together.

“My Lord,” Anna whispered back at him, breathing heavily.

Leonardo’s hand that was on her shoulder slowly slid down on her arm, lighting up sparks on her creamy skin. The air suddenly felt hotter around her, but Anna wanted more of that warmth from Leonardo’s skin.

The desire inside of her finally won over her nervousness as Anna awkwardly trying to reach out for Leonardo. She carefully placed her hand on Leonardo, her instinct telling her that her hand was now on his shoulder.

A heavy breath, at the border of a small moan escaped from Leonardo’s lips, and it made Anna shiver just to hear it. To know that it was because of her.

“Anna, my sweet love.” Leonardo’s voice was husky. Anna tried to do the same like what Leonardo did, carefully let her hand gliding softly over Leonardo’s skin. Her instinct was the only one guiding her as it was total blackness around them.

“Let me love you, Anna. Let me show you how love can make you go higher than you’ll ever be,” Leonardo said as his hand went down to her hip.

“My Lord,” Anna whispered, could barely recognize her own voice. Something swirling inside her stomach and it was like her blood was carrying sparks of fire in her vein.

“Take me, My Lord,” Anna said. “I am yours.”

Leonardo let out a small groan as he grabbed Anna’s hips, pulling her closer.

Anna could not help but to let a small moan escaped her lips as she felt her breast pressed against a strong chest. Without thinking, she slid her hand from his shoulder to his chest, feeling the defined muscles.

The next second, Leonardo flipped their position, so Anna was now lying on her back. She could feel Leonardo’s figure hovering above her, barely touching her skin.

“Anna, my love.”

Leonardo’s breath was warm and damp, ghosting the skin above Anna’s lips.

“My Lord,” Anna whispered, realizing that she no longer feared him. “My husband…”

Once the last word slipped out off her lips, Anna felt Leonardo’s lips over hers, making her inhale sharply.

Without thinking, Anna wrapped her arms around his neck, as she tried to catch his lips with her own, trying to get more of that tempting warmth. Leonardo let out a sigh, half-moaning as he deepened the kiss.

Anna stopped thinking.

His skin and lips against hers, igniting heat and desire that she never thought she had.

Anna stopped thinking.

Sweet words of praises and adoration, gentle caresses that magically turned into passionate touches, whispers and moans and heavy breathing, all mixed into a sensation that Anna had never even dreamed about.

Anna stopped thinking, and let Leonardo take him to a place higher than Olympus.

***

Strangely, Anna enjoyed her new life in the palace. The palace is enormous with so many rooms to explore. If she didn’t feel like being indoor, the palace had s a gorgeous garden, where Anna could just sit there under the shade of the tree or walked around, looking at beautiful flowers, some of them were the kind of Anna have never seen before. The three servants that she had also kept her company during the day.

Leonardo came to visit her every night. And his visit was probably the highlight of Anna’s daily lives. She found herself looking forward until night fall. In the late afternoon, she would bathe herself, trying different kind of scented oils. Despite the fact that they would met in the dark, Anna still chose her gown carefully. As she put on her gown, brushing her long hair that went passed her shoulders, Anna saw her own reflection on the mirror blushed every time she thought about how Leonardo always treated her with so much gentleness, talked with her so sweetly and touched her so passionate, and yet, full with tenderness. A thousand butterflies danced in her stomach whenever she remembered the way he kissed her, like the world has reduced into nothing but the two of them.

Leonardo had told her that the only time he would be visible to mortal eyes was when he fell asleep. He had made Anna promised that she would never try to see him, telling her that if Anna ever saw him, it would only destroy them.

At first it was not difficult for Anna. Maybe it was because the comfortable bed, or perhaps it was more because of the feeling of safety that she had to be next to him. But it was always easy for Anna to fall asleep before Leonardo. And by the time she woke up at dawn, she would find the space next to him was empty already, leaving nothing but the citrusy musky scent in the sheet.

Then again, after a while, Anna could no longer deny that she terribly missed her parents and her sisters. She started to think that she heard her parents and her two sisters were calling her name, crying and asking her to come home. And their voices sounded so distressed, so heartbroken, it made Anna’s heart ache.

She tried not to show it. She tried to keep the conversation with Leonardo went as normal as possible. Yet, Leonardo could still sense that something was off with her. Knowing that telling him probably the best thing that she could do, Anna told Leonardo about the voices that she had been hearing. It took a few nights of conversation and negotiation between them, but finally they agreed that Leonardo would ask for Zephyros to help the carrying her sisters to the palace.

***

The day when Anna met her sisters again finally came. She excitedly waiting for them at the turf where she landed at the valley for the first time. Once the North Wind carefully brought down her two sisters, Anna half-cried in joy, pulling them into her arms and hugged them.

She excitedly take them to the palace, showing them around, totally oblivious with the way Thalia’s suspicious eyes watched her sisters as they walked from one room to another room in the palace.

The thing was, Anna had always been a nice girl. Too nice, she became too naïve to see the fake sweet smile that her sisters wearing. She failed to recognize the insincerity in their praises about how lucky she was. And most of all, she was blinded by her kindness to realize that instead of offering some advice, her sisters were just messing up with her mind.

Later in the afternoon, after Zephyros brought away her sisters, Anna sat in front of her mirror in her private bathroom, brushing her hair. Moving her hand in an autopilot, she stared at the mirror blankly. The voices of her sisters replayed in her mind.

What do you mean you have never seen your own husband? Oh, dear Anna. Dear poor Anna… He probably was a monster, Anna

Anna shook her head. No. She had touched his face. She had run her palm against his cheek, she had traced the curves of Leonardo’s face with her finger, trying to imagine how Leonardo looked like from what she could feel through her touches.

And no, of course he was not a monster.

He was not, was he?

Was he?

Her sister’s voices came back again. Louder. More insisting.

Oh Anna, if he was not a monster, why wouldn’t he let you to see him? You said he loved you Of course he loves you. But why he wouldn’t even let you to see him? Not even once?

Anna stopped brushing her hair, but her grip on the hairbrush got tighter.

But he could see you? Oh Anna, you poor girl. My dear sister, don’t you think it was so unfair that he could see you but you could not see him? And you said he loves you? Of course Anna, of course he loves you.

Probably he loves you too much. Probably that’s why he doesn’t want you to see him. Maybe he thinks once you see the real him, you would not want to be with him anymore.

Anna bit her lower lip. The voices in her head were so loud now, so loud and Anna could no longer know which ones were the things that her sisters had said, which ones were the things that was merely her own thoughts.

But you love him, right, Anna? You would still love him no matter how he looked like. You’re a good girl, Anna. We believe in you. We know you wouldn’t leave him no matter how ugly he looked like.

Maybe that is the disaster that he meant. Maybe you leaving him was the disaster. Of course you leaving him would be a disaster for him.

But if you stayed with him, then what disaster could happen? You two could even be more in love with each other.

“My Lady?”

Anna gasped as she jumped a little on her seat in front of the mirror. She quickly spun around, finding Thalia standing a few steps away.

“My Lady? Are you alright?” Thalia asked, eyeing her carefully. “You look…distracted,” she said, taking a step forward.

Anna blinked, and then she forced herself to smile.

“Yes,” she said, attempting to sound as her usual self. “Yes, I am alright, Thalia.”

Thalia kept her eyes on hers, like she was not really believe in Anna.

“Is there… anything that I can do for you, My Lady?”

Anna shook her head. “No, I am alright.”

Thalia nodded but did not seem to be convinced. “Very well, then, My Lady. I just want to let you know that the sun is about to set.”

Anna turned her head to the window and surprised to see that the day indeed, about to be over. Leonardo would be here soon.

She looked back at Thalia and smiled.

“Thank you, Thalia,” she said. “I should get ready for my husband, then.”

“Have a good evening, My Lady.” Thalia bowed down before she turned around and walked away.

After Thalia disappeared, Anna glanced at her vanity, where a small oil lamp lied around.

It took her a few minutes to think before she finally decided.

She took a deep breath, and took the oil lamp. Anna stood up, walking to the bedroom with the oil lamp in her hand. Her heart was thumping like crazy as she put the oil lamp under the bed. She covered the lamp with a jar, putting a small piece of wood under the jar so there was a little space to let the oxygen in, then she covered the jar with black fabric. She made sure that the bed sheet covered the side of the bed completely, so the light from the lamp was unseen from outside.

Anna let out a shaky breath, then she sat on her bed, waiting for her husband to come.

***

Anna did not know what time it already was. Probably it was already late after midnight. Didn’t really matter anyway. What matter was, Leonardo was already deep in his sleep. At least if his deep constant breathing was something to go by. Anna took a deep breath, and slowly sat up, keeping her eyes at her husband to make sure that she did not wake him up. Carefully, she got off the bed, and crouched down. She took the lamp from where she hid it. Her hands were trembling when she stood up, holding the lamp in her hands. The lamp only provided a small light but with all the tension that she felt, the small light felt too bright.

Leaning forward carefully, Anna brought herself closer to his sleeping husband. The light from the lamp uncovered the darkness, revealing the true form of his husband. The sight made Anna gasped as her heat stopped beating for a moment.

Her husband was gorgeous. Even the light from the small lamp shone a bit brighter, like the light also cherished the sight that it was unrevealing.

Leonardo had flawlessly chiseled jawlines, pointed graceful nose that compliment the strong features of his face. His skin was a warm olive tone, softly gleaming under the light from the lamp that Anna was holding.

Anna could feel from her touches that her husband had a short hair. And when she traced his face during the nights they spent together with so much passion, she could feel the facial hair of her husband. But now, now she could see how that facial hair perfectly complemented the sharp defined features of his face. Then again, with his eyes closed like that, chest moving up and down slowly and steadily, there was something so soft and tender about him.

Him sleeping so peacefully like that looked almost like an angel, especially with those feathers behind-

Wait.

Feathers?

Anna inhaled sharply when she realized that there were feathers, real feathers behind Leonardo’s back.

Could it be-?

Anna’s heart was banging in her chest as she leaned even closer to him. She gasped. There was a pair of wings attached to the back of Leonardo. A pair of wings from white, soft feathers, gleaming under the light.

Anna traced the wings with her eyes, from his shoulders down where the wings ended almost at the middle of his thighs. Then the corner of her eyes caught some things that Leonardo had put at the foot of their bed. Anna’s head quickly turned to have a better look at the items.

A bow, along with a quiver that was half-full of some arrows.

Suddenly, it became clear for her, who her husband really was.

Leonardo might be his mortal name. The name that he wanted Anna to call him.

But now Anna knew who he really was.

“Eros,” Anna whispered.

Her husband was no other than Eros himself. The God of Love. The son of Aphrodite.

The sudden realization of this became so overwhelming, she quickly took a step backward. Too quick, too recklessly, a splash of oil splattered from the lamp on her hand, fell on to Leonardo’s feathers. The hot oil burnt a spot on the feathery wings along with a thin trail of smoke that quickly disappear into the air.

Leonardo’s eyes snapped open. Anna’s hand shook so hard, the lamp fell from her hand. The small light in it went out once it hit the floor. But suddenly all the other lamps in the room just lit up as Leonardo jumped off the bed, standing by the opposite side of the bed from Anna.

Gone was her husband who was gentle and full of tenderness.

The one who was standing in front of her, separated by their bed was the man with a pair of eyes that were fuming with anger.

But it was not just anger in Leonardo’s eyes. Pain, disappointment and agony were all mixed up in those dark eyes. And it hurt Anna so much to know that it was her causing all those emotions.

“You!” Leonardo’s voice was so full of rage. “I thought I could trust you!”

Anna fell on her knees.

“My Lord! My love, please, please let me explain. I was just-“

“You were just trying to see me! You were just trying to do the only thing I ask you not to do!”

Leonardo’s chest moving up and down rapidly as he glared at Anna. And it was just so painfully hurt for Anna to realize that it was her fault.

“I thought I could trust you,” Leonardo said again. This time with a lower voice. But it hurt even more, as his voice was so heavy with disappointment.

Gathering all her strength, Anna stood up. She reached a shaking hand out to her husband.

“Leonardo, my love-“

“Don’t you even dare calling my name. Don’t you even dare call me, you ungrateful woman,” Leonardo spewed his anger out. He grabbed his bow and quivered, and stormed out of the room.

Anna could no longer hold it. She shrank to her knees by the bed where they have spent so many nights together. Burying her face in both hands, she cried alone.

***

Anna might be blinded by her own kindness. She might be naïve. But she was also a determined one. She knew that she had screwed up. She knew she had made a mistake. A horribly terrible mistake. And she also knew that she was the only one who could fix the mistake.

She left the palace, wandered around trying to find her husband back. During her wandering, she met Demeter and Hera in their shrines. Despite their wishes to help Anna, both of the goddesses could do nothing but vaguely said that her search might end where Aphrodite lived.

Her determination to win back her husband’s love along with those words from the goddesses were the ones that brought her to the shore of the Adriatic.

She stood in front of the massive golden doors, and bracing herself to knock.

It didn’t take long before the door slowly opened, revealing a woman with pink silk gown. The young woman looked at Anna with a disgusted look.

“I am here to see Lady Aphrodite,” Anna said. Somehow, despite the nervousness that was creeping in, she managed to voice the words steadily.

“Oh, of course you are here to see her,” the young woman said. “Although I do not know whether my mistress would want to see you.”

“Please,” Anna said. “Just take me to see her. Whatever that’s about to happen after that, it will all be in her hands.”

The young woman snorted. “Very well, then,” she said. “Come on in and I’ll take you to see the mistress,” she said, stepping aside to let Anna walk in through the door.

Anna followed the woman a few steps behind, going through a long corridor. Beautiful paintings were gracing the walls, but Anna did not even notice them. She kept her eyes on the floor, quietly rehearsing the words that she would speak in front of Aphrodite.

The sound of a door creaked open made Anna lifted her head up as the woman stopped walking.

Anna froze when she saw the one standing by the half-opened door, still holding the door knob.

“Ah, Consuento, could you ask my mother whether-“

“My Lord?” Anna’s shaky voice cut Leonardo’s mid-sentence.

Leonardo’s head turned to where Anna was standing, his lips parted in shock.

“Anna? Love?”

Hearing the words was enough to make Anna ran to him.

“My husband!” She half-cried as she wrapped her arms around Leonardo. She started sobbing against Leonardo’s chest when she felt Leonardo’s arms around her waist, holding her.

“I have been trying to find you, to ask for your forgiveness.”

“Anna, I.. I was-“

Whatever it was that Leonardo was about to say, he was cut by Consuento who harshly pulled her away from Leonardo.

“You puny, dirty mortal!” She hissed at Anna. “You are not going to touch him with your filthy hands! You were the one who caused the wound of his wings!”

Still gripping Anna’s robe tightly, Consuento turned her head to Leonardo.

“Forgive me, My Lord,” she said. “But I can’t let you see this useless mortal-“

“Consuento,” Leonardo cut her with the kind of tone that no one would argue with. “Just…let me talk with her for …for just a while?”

Consuento frowned, clearly hating the idea. “Lord Eros, I don’t think that-“

“Please? Just one minute?”

“Lord Eros-“

“Please?”

Consuento sighed. “Fine,” she said as she let go of Anna. “One minute. Not even a second more than that.”

Anna quickly stepped forward again, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“Is it true, my love? Your wings are wounded? Because of me?”

Leonardo held Anna’s waist. He smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I miss you, Anna. Oh, dear. I miss you so much, my love,” Leonardo half-whispered. And it was just so heartbreaking that his smile was not just a longing smile, but also carried sadness along with the pain in his eyes.

“Oh, My Lord. Please, tell me that you forgive me. Tell me what I can do to fix this.”

Leonardo swallowed.

“I have forgiven you Anna. I love you too much, I can’t stay mad at you. But…” he took a deep, shaky breath. “It’s… It’s no longer depends on me, Anna. It’s all on my mother’s hand now.”

Anna closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

She knew what it means. She had heard enough stories how the gods and goddesses like to play around with mortals for nothing but their own entertainment.

But Leonardo still loved her.

He still loved her, and it all that mattered.

Anna opened her eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll do whatever Aphrodite wants me to do.”

A small gasp fell form Leonardo’s mouth. “But Mother will only give you impossible task, love. She would give you impossible quest that is-“

“I’ll do it,” Anna said. She said it with so much determination and kept her eyes at Leonardo’s.

A mix of emotion flashed across his face, but then his eyes got softer. His lips trembled a little, but they curled up into a small smile.

“And there’s nothing that I can say that can change your mind, I suppose?”

Anna smiled back at him as she shook her head.

“No, My Lord. Nothing can change my mind.”

Leonardo bit his lower lip as he closed his eyes for a second. He opened his eyes back and nodded. “You won’t change your mind, even if I tell you that I still love you no matter what?”

“It won’t change my mind, but it will make me even stronger,” Anna said.

The smile on Leonardo’s lips got a little wider, and there was a light in his eyes that spark up some hope inside Anna’s heart.

“I love you,” Leonardo said, holding Anna’s waist tighter. “I will always love you no matter what, Anna,” Leonardo said, and leaned forward to place a soft, tender kiss on Anna’s lips.

Leonardo pulled away from her, and tucked some loose strands of her hair behind her ear.

“May the gods and goddesses of Olympus be with you, love,” Leonardo said, looking at her with so much passion in his eyes.

Anna nodded at him.

“Wait for me, My Lord,” she said.

“I will. Because I love you,” Leonardo said.

Consuento grabbed the back of her robe. “Come on,” she hissed as she pulled Anna away. “Time’s up.”

Anna glanced at her. She nodded curtly.

“Very well,” she said, then held up her chin. “Take me to Aphrodite.”

She turned her head to the door, to have one last look at Leonardo. Her husband still stood by the door, and their eyes met.

Leonardo smiled softly at her, and his lips moved in silence, whispering I love you without voicing it.

Consuento yanked her robe, forcing her to walk away from where Leonardo was still standing.

Anna let Consuento lead her to walked through the corridor. But this time, with much steadier steps.

They stopped at the end of the corridor, where a pair of polished golden door stood in silence.

Anna straightened her back as Consuento let go off her arm.

“Take me to Aphrodite,” she said. “I am ready.”

*** THE END ***

Additional Notes:

Yes, it’s based on Psyche/Eros myth. And yes, I know that the myth didn’t end that way but if I go with the original plot it will be like...20k words

I leave it as some sort of open ending with some sort of hope at the end. Because let’s be real, there are only a few Greek myths that have a happy ending (Perseus is the only Greek hero that had a happy ending, I think?). Most of the myths end with some sort of a tragic death or someone being turned into a plant and I don’t think my recipient will appreciate Leonardo being dead or herself being turned into a new species of flower.

At first I want to go with Mats Hummels but then I realized that Leonardo sounds better as a Greek name :p

Comments and feedbacks are always welcome :D!

[poeticsandaliens]

A Pirate’s Life for Me Ch. 6

Here be swashbuckling and heavy smut.

AO3 Link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11405793/chapters/27611445

Scully woke to the rhythmic slap of waves against the port wall and sharp prod at her waist.  The Dutchman rocked, rolling loose objects across the floorboards. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, blinking at the harsh gleam of sunlight streaming through the porthole. Another prod against her ribs, and she turned around to find Stella Gibson pressing handle of her own flintlock pistol to her ribs.

“Today you learn to shoot,” Stella declared, dropping the pistol in her lap. “Not worth carrying a pistol if you can’t use it.”

Scully picked up the pistol and hefted it in her palm, stretching as she got to her feet. “Fair enough.” She hoped to God she wouldn’t have to use the pistol and clung desperately to the possibility of rescuing Mulder without a drop of blood shed. Board the ship, break him free, return undiscovered to the Dutchman.

She followed Stella to the deck, where a favorable wind billowed every sail and broke white-caps at their stern, and the owl that had latched onto the Flying Dutchman perched contentedly atop its front mast, sunning its wings. “How close are we?” she asked, eyeing the horizon as if rocky cliffs could emerge any moment.

“A couple days, if the wind keeps,” said Stella, taking off her hat. It wasn’t the red-feathered hat she wore every day, but black tri-cornered hat that’d clearly seen better days. She climbed to the upper deck and hung it from a spoke on the wheel. “Start with this,” she ordered briskly.

Scully nodded and cocked her pistol, aiming carefully at the hat. She’d shot her father’s pistol before, as a child, but she hadn’t been aiming at anything at particular. She’d tromped with her wandering seven-year-old feet into her father’s office and asked if she could shoot his gun, just so she knew how it felt. He had taken to her the edge of the white cliffs and placed the pistol in her tiny hands, clasping them in his own and cocking the gun. Then he’d aimed it at the horizon line and pushed her finger down on the trigger. She had stumbled backward, knocked off her feet by the pistol’s pushback, clasping her hands to her ears as the shot went off.

She blew her hair out of her face, narrowed her eyes, and pushed the trigger. The bang still took her by surprise, but to her disappointment, the hat remained untouched. Instead, her bullet struck the steering wheel, lodging in its base. She looked to Stella, wondering whether her bullet would affect the ship’s course. Stella arched one eyebrow indifferently.

A gust of wind splayed her hair over her face, sticking red curls to her lips and blocking her view. She tucked it back again, and once the wind died down, she raised the gun again until the prow of the ivory-carved ship lined up between her eyes. This time, she would aim higher, further left. She took the shot, and a sorrowful whooshing sound informed her the bullet had soared past its target and beyond the stern.

She wrinkled her nose—she’d secretly expected shooting to be an easy skill to learn. It looked easy enough when other people aimed a gun. She focused on the hat, pointing the barrel just above its patched tip, cocked and shot the pistol in one deft movement like Stella had done when she fired a warning shot at the HMS Beatrice. The hat burst open and dropped from the wheel, smoldering at the crown.

Scully grinned triumphantly and jogged up the stairs to retrieve the target. It was warm to the touch, with a gaping hole in its very center that smelled of leather and foul ash. She tossed it over the rail just as Stella made her way to the upper deck, offering her a wry smirk.

“Next lesson,” Stella announced without preamble.  “Human targets.”

“Human targets?” How in God’s name did she aim to achieve that?

Stella nodded. “I stand by the wheel; you try to make a kill shot from below me.”

Scully’s jaw dropped. Absolutely not; Stella Gibson would not be the first person she put a bullet in. There was no way of knowing what might happen if she missed and shot Stella’s face, or stomach, or leg; Davy Jones already defied the laws of nature, and she was not about to gamble with curses she didn’t understand. She crossed her arms defiantly. “No. I refuse to shoot you.”

“Scully, you will most likely have to shoot a man aboard the Claudius if you ever want to see your friend Mulder again, much less bring him home with you. Sometimes you have to take a life in order to survive. To shoot a person, you have to practice on a person.”

“I know that,” Scully snapped. “But forgive me if I can’t swallow the idea of using you for target practice. By reason, you shouldn’t even be alive, and just because you’re comfortable with having no beating heart in your chest doesn’t mean I am. Have you considered the consequences if I miss thathole in your body that shouldn’t be there? You may be a scientific anomaly, but everything I’ve read and learned says the bullet’s still going to hurt, and I’m still acquainting myself with the notion that shooting someone in the chest won’t necessarily kill them. I’m not naive, Stella. But I don’t feel like aiming a pistol at your body to remind myself how dead you are even as you stand alive before me,” Scully finished with a huff. She flipped the pistol in her hand so she was gripping it by the barrel.

For a moment, Stella was as silent and stoic as if she were carved from wood. Her eyes were hard, her expression unreadable. She took a step toward Scully, and Scully stepped back, still squaring her shoulders for an argument.

“Scully,” she said softly, and Scully couldn’t tell whether she was furious or trying to reassure her. “Kind as it is of you to consider my safety, death and pain mean more to you than to they do to me. Firing your pistol at me unnerves you, and it used to unnerve me as well, Scully, but the only way you know you can be better on the draw than your enemy is if you’ve a person to practice on. You cannot hurt me. I swear to it, cross my—”

“Cross your damned heart, right,” Scully growled and marched down the stairs. She had come to terms with magic ships, and god-given curses, and the disappearing trifecta of bullet holes along Stella’s collarbone, but she want to face them as if they were normalcy. As if every day science casually made exceptions like Stella’s.

She positioned herself by the main mast and pointed her pistol at Stella, who stood on the upper deck with her hands on her hips. “What happens if I shoot you in the face?”

“Inconsequential!” Stella called back.

She cocked the gun and aimed decisively toward Stella’s chest. Just above where her vital organ should have been, high enough to account for gravity just as she’d done when she finally hit the hat. She pulled the trigger, and opened her eyes to see the billowing sleeve of Stella’s shirt sprout a smoking hole.

“Further right,” Stella shouted.

Gritting her teeth, Scully shifted her pistol to the right and gave two more shots before furiously reloading. When she looked up, Stella was strolling calmly down the stairs, two holes in her chest.

“You learn fast. You’re as precise as you’ll need to be, for now, and any more distance would make the shot almost impossible.” Then Stella drew her sword.

“I know how to spar,” Scully insisted sharply. Her father had taught her well, and after his death she had practiced religiously. Lieutenant Scully had always pressed upon his daughter that a duel by sword was the most honorable way to take a life and the most honorable way to die in combat. It took skill and fairness, and it always left an intact body for burial, unlike the cannons of a ship.

“Of course you do,” said Stella. “But you must learn how to shoot in the midst of a fight.”

Scully raised her brow, recalling what Dani had said about Stella dueling Spector by the pirate’s code. How she could have shot him but refused, because it would violate the Pirate Code as well as the code of a proper duel.

“That’s not a fair fight,” Scully protested. “It’s cheating, against everything a duel stands for, and beside that it’s against the Pirate Code.”

Stella sighed. “Sometimes, in the midst of a battle, no code of fairness is worth abiding by. As for the Pirate Code, since when did pirates heed the rules? We’re all scallywags, eccentrics and pragmatists serving our own brands of honor. You’re a pirate too, Scully, dressing as a sailor man and buying your goods from Tortuga.”

Pirate Code, she scoffed. Of course the honor in swordplay meant nothing to a pirate; of course death meant nothing to a woman who couldn’t die, and pain meant nothing to a woman who was literally heartless. Part of her had considered the Dutchman an adventure, but really, it was only a means to Mulder’s rescue. A way to bring him back so they could live out their lives in peace on Port Washington, studying legends of their own accord instead of having those same legends forced upon their lives. To travel with a pirate was infinitely valuable; to become a pirate was something very different. An unlawful act for the sake of justice versus an unlawful life, raiding ports and digging up gold for only selfish purposes.

“I am not a pirate,” Scully insisted, stamping her boot on the deck and shoving her pistol back into its holster. “I will not be lumped in with the criminals who killed my father, and I don’t invent my own morality as the need arises. Damn you!” she spat. “Damn you and your death-heralding organ and your bullet-holes and your callous disregard for human life.” She spun on her heel and marched across the deck, arms tightly folded.

“I am not callous,” she heard Stella say behind her. Her voice was cold and low and dangerous. “Every man and woman aboard my ship had been grievously mistreated by the British Crown. For how they looked, for what they believed, for who they loved. Black men who escaped from enslavement, young women ostracized for taking lovers before marriage, scholars who dared question their governors, a young woman sentenced to hang for being unwilling to marry a man.”

“Dani,” Scully murmured under her breath, her step halting momentarily.

She felt the tension rise before Stella spoke, thick with accusation. “You know Dani Ferrington?”

“I met her in Tortuga,” Scully said curtly. “What of it?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

Scully turned to find Stella staring her down, with drawn brows and a set jaw. “Why should I? I didn’t know a goddamned thing about you until I met Dani. I didn’t know who you were, where you came from, what you even did before you were a walking corpse on this haunted ship.”

Stella hissed, “It was not your business. You don’t know half of what I did before the Dutchman. This haunted ship is in my charge, and I reserve my right to keep secrets aboard it.”

“No, I don’t,” Scully snarled. “Perhaps you gunned down my father’s vessel. Perhaps you flew your precious skull and crossbones over his body as he drowned.”

“Fuck you,” spat Stella, pale eyes ablaze. “The Jolly Rodger was my freedom. It allowed me, as a woman, to do as a I pleased for the first time in my fucking life.”

“Well now you have eternity to do it, Davy Jones.” Scully whirled around and stalked toward her cabin. “Bloody pirates,” she muttered under her breath, descending the stairs with a clunking stomp until she was far enough below deck to close the trapdoor over her head. She slammed the door to the officer’s quarters and collapsed onto her cot.

She lay on her back, staring at the wooden ceiling. She could hear Stella’s boots pacing above her head, in time with the Dutchman’s steady rock. A pang of guilt struck her—not even Burns had managed to wind Stella up so tightly. Stella had broken his nose and banished him from her ship, but she had calmed as soon as he was out of sight. Clearly, Scully’s words struck a sore spot.

She had no right to call me a pirate. She can’t ask me to abandon my moral judgement a live a pirate’s life whilst at sea. She’s careless of death and discretion. But what had she expected from Stella Gibson—a deathless pirate captain who saw other people but once in ten years? When she’d set out for Los Barriles, she had sought a ferryman to bring her to Mulder, a shaky ally at best. Somehow, she’d wanted more from Stella—companionship, honesty, human connection, and she came to care for the Dutchman’s grim captain. She felt bad, accusing Stella of murdering her father; Stella would not take lives at random, and it was a stinging blow after all Stella had done to save her own father from Pagett’s curse.

She touched her sword and linen shirt. Nearly everything she was wearing belonged to Stella, and not only did it fit her perfectly, she enjoyed romping about in clothing intended for men. She had always imagined the look of a weathered sailor would not suit her, and when her sister had swooned for the young soldiers returning from sea, she had seen battered young men with wounds to be healed. She was always a doctor in her mind; even if the town practitioner would not take a woman as his apprentice, she had pictured herself tending to wounded soldiers and curing afflictions—saving lives. She supposed she was still saving Mulder’s life, by the sword and the sail instead of by medicine.

Watching Stella climb boldly to the Flying Dutchman’s mast in billowing coat sleeves and a captain’s hat seemed so far removed from those thin-stubbled young men hurrying off Navy ships and merchant vessels, eager for alcohol and courtship. Time had lent Stella an attractive confidence which the men’s dress, the gritty tales, the lines and scars of her experience only magnified. Like the unreachable horizon, Stella only grew more inviting with every moment spent at sea.

She rolled onto her side and watched a metal bit roll across the floor. The other day, when Stella had come off the mast with her coat undone and sweat on her brow, Scully had heard her mother’s voice in her head. It was something Maggie Scully had said years ago, when it first became apparent her daughter had grander plans than a strategic marriage— now I know you have the sea in your blood Dana. I know you won’t just find yourself a decent man and settle down, lay your archives to rest… but darling, don’t spend your whole life hoping for more than you can reach. If you can’t be a doctor, that will be that. Be happy. And maybe then you’ll meet a man who draws you in, who you love dearly like I did your old father, and he’ll not begrudge your dreams.

It had been days after she broke off courtship with a visiting practitioner. He was older, and charming, and arrived in Port Washington to bestow upon its local doctor the most recent medical advances. She’d been utterly taken with him. In hindsight, she had never been in love with him, so much as suffered an unfortunate infatuation—he was the first man who took her want to study medicine seriously, and he’d obliged her dreams with unofficial lessons. She had given him her virginity and to this day did not regret the choice, but the affair had proved short lived. Summoned back to England, he asked her accompany him and be his wife, under the condition she not continue her studies. Being married to a lady doctor, would tarnish his reputation, he’d informed her. She had curtly told him to go to Hell, and her mother had found her standing by the sea, glaring at his ship as it left the bay, wondering what to do next.

It was Stella’s utter self-assurance that reminded Scully of him. It was not the same quiet certainty with which Scully spoke her convictions, but a bluntness and way of carrying herself as if nothing would smite her or get in her way. It was as attractive in Stella as it was in her former lover, perhaps more so because as a woman, propriety expected Stella to do the opposite.

“Ready the guns!” Stella’s voice cut sharply into her thoughts, followed by the rumble of cannons rolling toward the gun ports and an unnerving creak along the ship’s starboard wall.

Scully rushed up the stairs. “Why are we firing?” she demanded.

Stella met her gaze coldly. “Kraken,” she hissed, jerking her chin to the starboard side. A suctioned tentacle had just crept over the railing and clung there discreetly.

Scully shook her head, hoping a splash of seawater might escape her ear. “I’m sorry, did you say kraken ? As in the kraken that doesn’t exist?”

“A kraken, Miss Scully. The deep sea is an unknown world; is a kraken so implausible? These monsters spawn legends for a reason—krakens do to ships what sharks do to unsuspecting swimmers.” Stella cocked her pistol and fired at the tentacle. It flinched and retreated.

Two more slimy tentacles snaked over the rail, wrapping around the Dutchman’s foremast. Scully scurried backwards, horrified. They were grey and muscular, leaving an oily sheen in their path, and the wood creaked beneath their grip. The girth of them was all of Scully’s height. Well. A kraken. She huffed aloud and pursed her lips. Perhaps after Davy Jones it isn’t so implausible.

“Nothing can sink the Flying Dutchman, correct?” She looked to Stella for affirmation.

“If the ship sinks it only repairs itself and re-surfaces,” said Stella, “but we don’t want that with you on board.” She fired two more bullets into the tentacles, but these were thicker, and they only squeezed the mast tighter. “Fuck,” she growled under her breath. Then, pointing her sword at the starboard hull. “ Fire!”

The flash and boom of cannon fire broke the ocean air as one by one, the Dutchman’s cannons emptied their load. Scully saw a triangular head erupt from the waves, and the tentacles released their ship. A splash, two more cannons. Then, as though the seafloor itself had risen, a low, thunderous rumble. Scully grabbed ahold of the netting to keep herself steady as the boat began to tremble.

Six tentacles crept over the starboard side, sliding across the deck and toward Stella. She deposited bullet after bullet into them, but they only spread like tree roots and curled over any surface they could. Scully pulled her gun from its holster and shot a tentacle coming toward her; it drifted to her left and wriggled about the floor, searching for something to grab onto. The bullets didn’t seem to deter the kraken’s thicker tentacles, so she put away the gun and took out her sword.

“Fire!”

Another round of cannons, and one tentacle distatched completely from its owner, spraying brine and salty flesh about the ship. Pieces of fish splattered on Scully’s shirt, and she gagged at the stench. Finally, the rumbling and shaking ceased, and Scully sliced at the Kraken’s closest arm. As soon as her sword broke its skin, it shivered and retreated, its severed tip shriveling and wiggling about the ship. She shivered in disgust.

“Fire all!” Stella shouted, and Scully spied her briefly on the quarterdeck. Two sets of cannons rang from both flanks, and the Dutchman shook in fury. It seemed the kraken was retreating as twenty-four bombards blasted into it. An alarmed coo from above her drew her attention to the owl circling her head and crying out. Another coo sounded, and a prickling sensation froze her in her tracks. It felt as though her feet had fallen asleep, like the life was being squeezed out of them.

She looked down with a gasp at two tentacles creeping up her ankles, suctioning to her boots. She sliced at one desperately, and then she was flailing helplessly as the remaining tentacle dragged her toward the rail. She tried to reach it with her sword to no avail, until her body hit the wall, and her foot, still in the kraken’s arm, was above her head. She stuck her blade into the wood, chopping the tentacle around her ankle.

Wincing, she got to her feet. The deck was a disaster, barrels and splinters strewn about, and its surface was coated with a vomit-inducing slime, the smell of which reduced Scully to repulsed gags.

Where is Stella?

“It’s gone,” an exhausted voice sounded behind her, and she turned, astonished, as Stella’s face appeared over the rail. She was soaked from head to toe, and she still carried her pistol in one hand. A bruised suction mark blossomed on her wrist. “Damned creature knocked me in,” she groused.

Scully breathed a sigh of relief. She knew Stella could not perish, but her concern was perfectly rational. “I thought it was going to sink us for a moment,” she said with a tired laugh, offering Stella a hand.

Stella nodded and accepted the assistance gratefully, hauling herself back on board. “That was quite an ordeal.” She wrinkled her nose. “Swab the deck!” she called, and a mop and broom bust through the cabin door to begin the tedious process of wiping the ship clean of slime. Then Stella pulled the bandanna off her head and trudged toward her cabin, beckoning Scully to follow. “Fresh clothes for us both.”

“How do I get this off me?” Scully grumbled, shaking the ooze from her hands. She dropped her sword and pistol on the deck. Her shoulders ached, and her knees felt as though they might give out from weakness or worry.

“The clothes will never stop smelling,” Stella replied, “but you’ll want to go for a swim.” Then she disappeared into her cabin and returned with a slightly rough cut of rock. “This will scrub it from your skin, and the salt will help. We can use a barrel of fresh water from the brig as well.”

“How did you escape the slime?” Scully muttered as Stella wrung the water from her shirtsleeves.

“Did most of my fighting in the water,” she said with a chuckle.

Scully took the stone and headed for the plank. Then she stopped, remembering how they’d left things before the fight. “I’m sorry I said you lacked honor.” She ran her hands over the soapstone and looked Stella in the eye. “And I’m sorry I accused you of killing my father.”

Stella glanced up from where she stood, stoking the furnace with an iron rod. “Forgiven,” she said simply. “I swear to you I did not kill him, if you need assurance. I am sorry I pushed you beyond your moral limits.”

“Forgiven.”

* * * * * * * *

It was nearly dark by the time Scully had ridded herself of the kraken’s slime. It had required hours of scrubbing and a full barrel of water to wash away the salt and fish-stench. She walked back to the captain’s cabin dripping and shivering, wearing a clean but damp shirt and breeches.

Smoke poured from the port-hole, and Scully sighed in relief. The furnace was burning. Hoping the heat might dry her hair more quickly, she walked into the cabin. Stella was hunched over the furnace, her bare back to the door and her shirt tied about her waist.

“Here’s your rock,” she said, trying not to stare.

Stella poked the coals with an iron rod. “Just put it on the table,” she said. Scully set the rock down on the dining table and inched back toward the door. “Miss Scully—”

“Just Scully,” she interrupted.

“Scully.” She stood up, the firelight flickering over her chest, casting the scar along her breast in a golden glow. John Jack’s bullet holes had completely disappeared, but there was a new white spot, two new little holes where Scully had shot her in the morning.

“What?”

“I don’t begrudge you talking to Dani. She wouldn’t have said a word if she didn’t trust you.”

“She saw me wearing your father’s sword.”

A pregnant pause. “I see.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “To be honest, I didn’t think you would board the Dutchman when you saw what I was. I didn’t think you want to know me, and I was comfortable with that. Perhaps, from tonight on, we speak openly.”

Scully dipped her chin in ascent. “I’d like that very much.” Her eyes drifted from Stella’s ice to the hearth-glow on her freckled skin, the lines of a sailor on her face and the wiry muscles along her arms that could only come from working on a ship. The shirt around her waist and the knees of her breeches were stained with soot; her stomach was firm, her posture staunch. Her silhouette appeared on the hardwood graceful and severe. She was a woman, a death-herald, a pirate.

“Do the walls come down now?” she asked.

Stella breathed deeply. “Yes.”

“Dani said you escaped the same death in England from which you rescued her. Why were you charged?”

Stella cocked her head, and Scully felt extremely exposed. “I had many a pleasurable night with many a traveling sailor, and I heard every fisherman’s tale imaginable. For that, I was nearly charged with prostitution,” she said plainly. “Then I was caught sleeping with a married woman, a young woman named Tanya. I was charged on penalty of death in part because I’d had sexual relations with a woman, in part because Tanya was not a white woman, and mostly because she was married—however unhappily.”

Scully stepped toward her. “How did you escape?”

“I got lucky. There was a large scale prison break; I escaped with the multitudes, and hearing plenty of pirate stories from my previous liaisons, I paid for passage from rum-runners and joined the first buccaneer crew I met.”

“Now you’re a pirate,” Scully finished.

Stella lifted her chin proudly. “Never shall we die.”

Scully gulped, but hard she tried, she couldn’t swallow her attraction. She wanted Stella Gibson; God, how she wanted her, this elegant deathless pirate. How her heart came to desire a woman whose own heart beat in a wooden box she could not say, but her stomach fluttered. She knew it was doomed; after all, Stella was immortal and ocean-bound. But, she thought, glancing at the furnace’s pale yellow glow, she ought to enjoy the fire while she could.

“Scully.” Stella’s voice roused her once more. Her vision felt warm and hazy, everything in the cabin blotted out except for Stella’s body drifting toward hers. “Join me in my bed tonight?” There was no pretense in the invitation, no wiggling of eyebrows or coy innuendo. A sordid, irresistable offer.

“God, yes,” she breathed, and Stella’s hand slipped over her waist, and her body pressed against the pirate’s bare torso. With only thin linen separating them, she felt every muscle flex beneath Stella’s skin. One callused hand cushioned the back of her head, the other resting on the small of her back, and she clung to the nape of Stella’s neck as she met her for a kiss.

Stella Gibson tasted of salt, perfume, and fine liquor; her lips were chapped and rough, but her tongue was gentle. Stella’s teeth nipped at her lower lip, then drifted downward, trailing kisses along her jawbone.

Scully traced her fingers down Stella’s back, fluttering over every scrape, muscle and freckle as if following a map to buried treasure. She leaned into the table and arched her back, bringing Stella into her until her legs clung to the shirt on Stella’s waist. It was an apt use of a shirt, far more appealing than wearing it. She welcomed the cool surface of Stella’s bare skin, smoother and colder than most living souls, but still flushed with lust. Stella’s cheeks were still rosy, and when Scully nibbled and sucked on her shoulder, it still left a blooming purple mark.

When Stella’s lips left her skin, the absence was like a splash of freezing water. “Perhaps we move—” Stella began breathily, cut off as Scully’s teeth drifted to her breast with soft kisses. “To somewhere” —a gasp— “more comfortable.”

At last tearing her mouth from Stella’s taut nipple, Scully nodded. She huffed, a high, ecstatic sound escaping her, as Stella’s hands slid under her ass and lifted her off the table. Stella’s lips met hers once more, and Scully held desperately to Stella’s hollow cheeks. They fumbled past the cramped dining space and into Stella’s personal quarters, where Stella lay her on a firm mattress. The bed was lavish, and it took up almost the entire room. The walls were bare and the ceiling low, but ornately embroidered pillows decorated half the bed, and the comforter upon which she lay was a rich scarlet.

Stella knelt before her, sweating a bit but utterly breathless. “Are you certain—”

“Positive,” Scully growled, reaching for the button Stella’s trousers and wriggling free of her shirtsleeves. Then Stella’s knees were on either side of her, and the pirate’s hands pushed her shirt over her head. She pushed Stella’s breeches away and rid herself of her own, and as soon as they bare, she pulled Stella’s weight on top of her. Skin on skin, scars on scars, breast on breast, Scully tangled herself wildly in Stella’s body. She felt a hand drift toward her aching center, and she grew wetter by the second. She curled into Stella’s teasing caresses, her teeth toying with Stella’s taut nipple and reveling as muscles clenched beneath her touch.

As Stella’s fingers inched between her legs, her own hand searched blindly until she trailed it down Stella’s stomach and toward her swollen center. They maneuvered in the crimson sheets, misaligned and knotted together like mangroves slowly weaving their roots together and sapping their lives from the sea, until finally they could be inside each other. Scully thrust and curled, rocking against Stella’s legs in time with the ship, at the same time experiencing the rush of Stella moving expertly within her. Her breath hitched; she let out a needy whimper. She thrust faster as Stella’s walls clenched around her fingers, and she knew her own body was doing the same, climbing with Stella, and the knowledge that she could bring such a grave, formidable woman to such unrestrained pleasure only excited her further.

She came first, crying out primally as if announcing their courtship to the sea. The rhythm of her hand grew ragged, but it was more than enough to push Stella over the edge, as moments later, a high-pitched moan and a ragged sigh passed Stella’s lips. Scully fell back beside her, admiring the ticks of Stella’s face as she descended back to reality. Her lower lip trembled slightly in orgasm, and it made Scully smile.

There she lay with Stella, reckless bodies on sweaty red sheets, entwined in the heart of the Flying Dutchman, bound beneath the fluttering Jolly Rodger. Scully’s copper hair lay splayed over Stella’s bare chest, wrapping around the mark of Davy Jones. Her muscles quaked, and she feared if she tried to stand she might collapse. So there she stayed, encased in Stella’s arms, until the ocean lulled her to sleep.

[sosorryyall-blog]

Part 1: The Phantom of the Opera. One.

Paris, 1887

Christine Daaé closed her eyes as the heavy, sumptuous silk billowed down over her laced form. She’d never dreamed she’d wear a costume of such finery, with the glitter of so many gems and the gushing fall of lace from every edge and flounce. The silk was pale rose pink and the jewels a rainbow of crimsons, fuchsias, and peridot green. Lace of all tones of white—pure snow, blue white, eggshell, aged ivory—dripped from the sleeves and brushed the floor. Tiny rosettes of pink and red silk grew in the holes of the lace pattern.

The costume was heavy and smelled like Carlotta’s cloying rose perfume, and when it surrounded her, it clogged Christine’s nose and caused her eyes to water. The aroma was not the pure scent of roses sent by her Ange de Musique, the scent that she gladly buried her nose within and drew deeply from. The smell from Carlotta’s discarded costume was rank and overpowering, just as Carlotta herself was.

Yet, and yet…Christine would wear it, for tonight she was to take the prima donna’s place in more than her gown. She would sing the aria of Juliet, from Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette, in front of the entire Opera House because Carlotta, the Opera House’s star, had stormed off in a great snit earlier today. During rehearsal, one of the backdrops had fallen from its moorings a bit too close to the very costume Christine was now donning, but which at that time had been worn by the diva Carlotta. She had just had the pleasure of meeting the Opera House’s two new managers, Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, when the wooden pole clattered to the stage. It brushed the edges of her gown, landing in a loud thump at her feet,

Carlotta bolted away as quickly as her generous form would allow when the length of heavy canvas tumbled to the ground, her bosoms and jowls bouncing and her outraged screams echoing in the sudden silence. She clapped her hand to her chest, sending off a puff of white powder from her bosom. “How dare it! How dare it!” she shrieked, yanking off her tall, feathery headdress and tossing it at one of the costumiers. “La Carlotta is ill! La Carlotta shall not sing!”

She stalked off the stage and disappeared in a froth of skirts and feathers, the new managers staring after her in shock.

Horrified whispers skittered around the stage and pit in her wake.

“It is the Opera Ghost!”

“He has done it again.”

“She could have been killed!”

“It was he who stole my powder puff,” hissed one of the dancers.

“He moves like a shadow,” added another.

“An evil creature he is,” chortled Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, bugging his eyes out to frighten the young dancers. “His eyes are like coals! His teeth blackened and rotted. His face is stretched tight, and yellow, and his black clothes hang from his bones. He will hunt you down and eat you for dinner!”

Madame Giry, the mistress of the corps de ballet, silenced the gossip with a sharp snap of her fingers and the glare of her jet-bead eyes. “Do not speak of what you do not know,” she ordered, looking sharply at Buquet, who had not troubled to keep his voice to a whisper. “Now, to work! You also, Sorelli. You might be our star dancer, but you must still focus on your practice!”

She directed the dancers behind the steel curtain that separated the ballet foyer from the rest of the stage. Mairie, the lead choreographer, bade the performers to continue their practice. If whispers and undertones continued, Madame Giry did not hear them… or, at least, did not acknowledge them.

It was surely a most unfortunate occurrence to happen on the very day the two new managers took over the reins of the famous Paris Opera House. The outgoing managers, Debienne and Poligny, had been respected and feared by the performers. But these new managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who came from the trash-removal business, looked merely wide-eyed and full of consternation.

“Opera Ghost?” Christine, who had been standing near enough to hear their conversation, overheard Monsieur Moncharmin ask his companion. “Debienne and Poligny mentioned nothing about such a thing when they turned over this Opera House! What can be meant by this?”

Monsieur Richard, the taller and more dapper of the two men, tucked his hands in his waistcoat pockets and tipped onto his toes, murmuring in response to his companion, “Likely it is nothing but some bizarre legend, Armand. We are now in the theater business! They have many superstitions and stories and we shall learn of them as we progress. I’m sure it shall prove to be quite entertaining, in more ways than one.” He chuckled indulgently, then sobered. “More importantly, how shall we replace La Carlotta for tonight’s gala performance? There is no one else who can sing with such grace.”

“We cannot cancel the performance,” Moncharmin muttered. “Chagny shall be attending and everything must be in order.”

Then, before Christine could blink an eye, Madame Giry had whisked over from her management of the dancers and pulled her forward, thrusting her in front of the managers. “Miss Daaé will be a more-than-adequate replacement for La Carlotta this evening. Her singing has improved enormously in the last three months.”

Monsieur Richard looked down at Christine, arching one brow as he scanned her simple chorus costume, patched where it had been burned by a careless hair-curling iron, and frayed at the skirt’s hem. Christine’s palms dampened as she clasped her hands together, uncertain whether to dread or hope. It was the chance she’d never thought she’d have. “One of the dancer girls? I do not see how—”

“Come, Richard, it cannot hurt to give the girl a chance,” Moncharmin prodded. “After all, who else is there?” He made a sweeping gesture for Christine to step forward onto the main part of the stage, then turned to the maestro and snapped an order for him to play.

Her throat was so dry she wasn’t sure any note would come forth, Christine walked to center stage, her full, calf-length skirt bouncing with each step. The platform, which pitched at a gentle slant from the back down toward the gaslights along the edge, seemed vast and frightening, despite the fact that the seats in the stalls were completely empty.

A few awkward notes as the violinists found their chairs again, and the cellist readied his bow, for the orchestra had left their seats when the accident with the backdrop occurred and had to get re-settled…and then, as if she had waited an eternity, the melody.

She knew the music, and opened her mouth to sing, pushing her breath out as her angel had taught her, keeping her mouth rounded and her notes long and true until the end. As her song poured forth—hesitant at first, then a bit wobbly, then soft, then louder and clearer—Christine basked in the wonder of the most exciting moment of her seventeen years.

She closed her eyes, every detail of the beautiful Opera House printed on her memory, but in her imagination, she added people filling the rows of stalls that curved in an easy arch in front of the pit, and in the gallery beyond. The high, domed ceiling of the auditorium was painted with Lenepveu’s colorful rendition of the Muses, dancing gracefully in a circle of clouds. In the center of the painting stretched a long chain from which hung a magnificent crystal chandelier.

Boxes with crimson interiors adorned the walls of the auditorium, the closest ones near enough that Christine would be able to see the detail of any female spectator’s gown. Massive gold columns separated the boxes, and the front of each balcony was decorated with an ornate design of flowers, fleurs-de-lis, and cherubs. Above Christine’s head, over the proscenium, trumpeted more angels with their elegant instruments.

Even if the managers did not let her sing tonight, she was standing on the stage and doing it: doing the thing she had dreamed of, fantasized about, since she was young.

If this was to be her only chance, he had prepared her well for it, and she would enjoy every moment of it. Christine had learned that things changed much too quickly in life, and to seize joy when it was offered…for it was much too rare and precious.

When she finished singing, Christine could not resist making a grand curtsy, though there was no audience to see her. When she straightened up, she glanced first at Madame Giry—whose stern face held the barest sketch of approval—and then at the skeptical Monsieur Richard

He was smiling.

Now, as they prepared for the evening performance that was to celebrate the Opera House’s two new managers, as well as its new patrons, Madame stood behind Christine and surveyed her in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“You look beautiful, Christine,” she told her, critically examining her from the fall of the gown to the pile of dark hair at the top of her head. Their eyes met above the three busy costumiers that poked and prodded at Christine’s headdress, her shoes, her flounces. “He will be very pleased.”

At the mention of him, Christine felt the air stir in her small dressing room. It became warm, suddenly, yet the tip of her nose cooled; the hair on her arms lifted. Her cheeks burned while the shift in the air felt like a caress over the back of her bare shoulders and neck. If only her angel would show himself to her…come to her in person, instead of just in that hypnotic, pulling, beautiful voice he used when tutoring her in her singing.

“It is my greatest hope that I shall do so.” She was looking at the mirror directly in front of her, the item that dominated the small, narrow dressing room. The room he had insisted she use now that she was no longer in the chorus, according to Madame Giry.

“Come, now, you have done with the fussing!” Madame snapped at the frithering girls, who seemed to have noticed a change in the air and were casting about in fright. “Out!”

She shepherded everyone out and, with her hand on the door, turned to look at Christine. “He wishes a moment with you before you sing.”

Christine was startled. Their lessons, where he taught her to master her untutored voice and to feel the music throughout her entire being, occurred in the chapel, where she prayed for her father and mother, and where he had first spoken to her, or in the conservatoire. But never had he communicated with her at any other time. Would he speak to her now?

Madame was gone, and Christine stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself and the long expanse of empty chamber behind her. The light burned low and warm, yet the shadows loomed tall into the curved ceiling.

She felt him. He was there, her Ange de Musique, her Angel of Music. The air trembled and the gas lamps blinked out with a soft pop. Her heart fluttered in her chest; her palms grew damp just as they had done this afternoon. Yet she did not move, but watched as what had been her reflection in the grand mirror slid into nothing but glinting shades of silver, gray, and black.

And then…something light and warm, heavy and gentle, brushed over the back of her shoulders, along the curved edge of the back of her dress. She released her breath, and the warmth closed over her skin. Her heart beat rapidly; he was there! He was in the room with her!

Leather—smooth, cool, pliable—fingered over her skin, the dip of her delicate bones, brushing the long bareness of her neck. Heat rushed in the wake of his touch, sending sharp pleasure down into the depths of her belly. She closed her eyes, drew in a shudder, and reached out for the cold glass of the mirror in front of her. Her hand imprinted on its unyielding chill, an anomaly from the warmth that burned against her back.

He breathed, standing behind her, and she felt his height, strength, darkness wrapping around her. “On the stage, you will sing for me this night.”

As always, the timbre of his voice frightened her with its intensity, warmed her with its smooth cadence, teased her with its hint of mockery. It embodied the beauty of the music she loved so, with its rhythm and tone and its cool, unforgiving command. And tonight, instead of coming to her from some disembodied location, it was there, behind her, next to her. Touching her.

“I will.” She started to turn, to face him, desperately wanting to see him…but his hands on her shoulders stopped her. Firmly.

“No.”

She had never seen her ange, had heard him speak to her only in darkness such as this, or even in the low light of the conservatoire when she visited there alone to practice…in the chapel, when he sang in a low, ghostly murmur whilst she prayed for the soul of her lost father, and that of her mother, who’d died so long ago. Perhaps once she had felt him touch her, as he did tonight, but she had been sleeping and was not certain if it had been a dream.

This—his leather-covered hands smoothing over her shoulders and around to cup her neck, curving around her throat, leaving delicate shivers in their wake—was no dream. She’d often wondered if he was a spirit or a ghost. But the warm solidness behind her answered her question: He was no ghost.

He was a man, perhaps more…but he was no specter to dissolve into thin air. The Opera Ghost was an angel, with a darkly rich voice.

When he sang, a tenor.

When he coaxed, velvet smooth.

When he raged, cold and cutting as a stiletto.

“Christine…,” he breathed in her ear, his mouth close and warm. The syllables of her name were a deep, ringing well of elegant, coaxing tones.

The fingers of her right hand, splayed on the glass of the mirror, slipped a fraction from the nervous moisture beneath her palm. Her other hand reached up behind her head, collided with soft, sleek hair that did not belong to her. She dug her fingers into the heavy strands, felt the shift of his scalp under her finger pads as something behind her moved, pressing into the back of her hips. Hard, solid, hot, he was, and she felt it even through the layers of silk and crinolines. It caused a burst of warmth to flood to the place between her legs and Christine removed her hand from the mirror.

Her fingers were cold and moist, and they sought back behind her, brushing over the top of his head as her left hand had done…and then slid down over his temples, and touched something smooth and unexpected where his forehead would be—lifeless, cool, and yielding. Not flesh, not hair—

He shifted away from her touch, grabbing her hands and pulling them down behind her, between them, trapping them at the base of her spine, where the folds of his cloak billowed about. “Your boldness surprises me, Christine.”

“Why can I not see you?”

“When it is time.” Something hot and warm, faintly moist, touched her neck and sent shivers down to the base of her belly; she tried to turn toward him, but his hands gripped her wrists too tightly. “When it is time,” he repeated, his mouth against her delicate shoulder. “Now…you sing for me tonight. And if you please me, you shall be rewarded with my devotion.”

And then he was gone.

The lights fluttered back to life, and Christine was alone in her room. The only sign of what had occurred was the streak of fingerprints on the mirror…and a glistening trail of moisture along her neck.

The sea of faces, the heat from the hooded gas lamps at the edge of the stage, the strange constriction of the heavy costume…the blur of light and sound and the deep breaths that she needed to take…the mosaic of sensations swam in Christine’s mind as she sang. She felt the music tear from her body as if released by some pent-up energy. She heard the reverberation as the clear, high notes swelled and filled the stage alcove. And then she drew in her last breath and expelled the last note, and the sea of rapt faces turned into a mass of thunderous applause, cheers, shouts.

L’Ange de Musique would be pleased.

And over the shouts and whistles, she heard it, deep in her heart.…“Brava…bravissima…”

And in the wings of the stage, she saw Madame Giry, nodding and beaming with clear, studying eyes.

Christine was left in the midst of the stage to make a careful curtsy in her heavy, formfitting gown, over and over. Flowers, gloves, even hats, were tossed onstage at her feet.

From the box in which they were sitting, the Comte and Vicomte de Chagny watched Christine Daaé’s bowed head as she made her third curtsy. Still the crowd roared and applauded.

“Quite a lovely woman. Very lush,” mused Philippe, the comte, settling back in his seat. “It is no wonder the dancer La Sorelli never cared to introduce her to me during our attachment. Miss Daaé is her name? I wonder where she came from and how long she has been here. I have never seen her in the dancers’ lounge, nor in the singers’ lounge. I wonder where she has been hiding.”

“Her father died some years ago,” replied Raoul, his younger brother. “I do not know how long she has been here at the Opera House. I only learned she was here this week. I have not spoken with her in years.”

“So it is no wonder that you insisted that you would attend tonight, without your regular companion of Mademoiselle Le Rochet.”

Philippe noticed that Raoul had not taken his eyes from the dark-haired figure below. “I met Miss Daaé at the sea near Perros-Guirec some years ago.…Do you recall that summer? You were there too, that first day I met her and her father.”

“I am sure I would not forget such a lovely form if I had seen it before.” No, indeed. He was not accustomed to passing by such lovely womanhood without finding a way to sample it. And an actress, of course, would be simple and easy for the picking…despite the growing strength of the bourgeois, who believed that with the Third Republic and the rise of their class, the actresses had miraculously become modest and moral.

A laughable assumption.

“We were younger then. She was but a girl. I saved her scarf from being blown away by the surf—oh, look at her! She looks as though she might faint!” Raoul stood from his seat as if to rush to her side.

Philippe grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Sit, dear brother. It is not fitting for a Chagny to make a fool of himself over a singer or dancer, even one as beautiful and gifted as she. And see, the others have caught her. She is not about to crumple to the floor in front of an entire opera house without someone else noticing.” Indeed, several of the dancers had rushed to her side and caught her as she began to sag. Her face did look pale. Philippe turned and considered Raoul thoughtfully. “You appear quite taken with her.”

“I’ve never met a more lovely, endearing woman. It was an unforgettable summer, and I spent a great deal of time with them. You were too busy with your own affairs to notice. I met her father, a great violinist, who would play for us…and she would sing. Only passably then, but with great promise. She sings more beautifully now than she ever has. Before Monsieur Daaé died, he would tell us wonderful stories about the Angel of Music and Little Lotte…tales from Sweden, where they were from. He never came to love it here in France, and often told us stories from their homeland, for which he was strongly homesick.” Raoul seemed lost in his memories, a fact that greatly annoyed Philippe, who preferred to live for the moment.

Philippe stood. “Then I would imagine you must hasten to congratulate Miss Daaé on her lovely performance. She will be delighted to renew your acquaintance, whilst I make my way to the dancers’ lounge, where La Sorelli is waiting to renew mine.” A smile played about his lips. This could be quite interesting, Philippe thought. When at last she came offstage, Christine was surrounded by the girls of the ballet corps, of which she had been a member until just this afternoon. Even if her new role was only temporary, the entire day had been like a dream. The girls squealed and clapped and bore her like a hero in their midst back to her dressing room, for what she had accomplished was in the heart of every one of them as well. Still light-headed from her experience, her fingers trembling and her knees weak, Christine nevertheless felt as though she could be no happier. She’d sung perfectly, clear and true, dressed in the heavy, gorgeous gown that looked as though it belonged to a queen. The applause had been for her, and her alone. The enraptured faces, rows after rows of them, had been in her honor.

It was as if she’d traveled back in time to the moment when as a very young child, she’d seen the beautiful lady…dressed in a glittering golden gown, seeded with pearls and rubies, her honey-colored hair coiffed in whorls and braids and little puffs around her ears, with more jewels and slender golden chains woven throughout…and she, little Christine, gazed up at her in adoration.

She would never forget that beautiful woman opening her lovely pink lips, so soft and plump and shiny, and the incredible sound that came from them. She remembered how her voice made Christine’s little heart expand in her chest, and how she wanted to touch the lady’s skirt where its scalloped hem brushed the stage directly in front of her eyes. How, looking up in awe, she had wanted to be up there herself, like a splendid bird, capable of making such sweet, pure sounds, and looking like a faery princess.

And she was certain that standing on the stage, in the midst of all the adoration, garbed as richly as a queen, the woman was happy. Joyous. Loved. She had to be. One could not be that beautiful and that adored and not be happy and secure.

Eventually, young Christine somehow convinced herself that the beautiful woman was really her mother, who had died when she was five. She used the memory as a talisman, as an aspiration and an escape from a life that was as colorless and bland as the woman’s gown was brilliant and warm.

Her lonely life, spent with her father, who still swam in his own grief for the loss of his wife, had few pleasures. Master Daaé was a famous violinist who traveled and took Christine with him everywhere; thus, she had no home, nor friends, and merely saw city after city from coaches and small hotel rooms. It was not until that long-ago summer by the sea at Perros-Guirec that her father decided to stay in one place. But that was years after Christine had seen, and fallen in love with, the beautiful lady.

And tonight, with shaking knees and churning belly, she’d become that beautiful lady of her dreams.

And now all would be well. She would be happy and loved and safe.

Now, as Christine reached her dressing room, a deep, masculine voice penetrated the high-pitched tones of her girlish companions. “Miss Daaé?”

The voice, not the disembodied one of her ange, but an earthly one, was close behind her and drew Christine from the task of unlocking the door of her room.

As she turned, his name came to her ears, hissed in the under-tow of voices from the excited girls.…“The Vicomte de Chagny! It is he! The new patron’s brother!”

She turned and saw him, recognition following immediately. “Raoul!” she exclaimed without thinking, for he was a friend from her childhood, one whom she’d come to know for a short, happy time during that summer by the sea.

How handsome he had grown, how tall and chiseled and elegant he was, from his slender fingers to his small, clipped mustache. His long blond hair, clubbed at the back of his neck, gleamed golden and tawny in the light. Clear blue eyes smiled at her, taking her back to those days when they’d played together and listened to her father’s stories about the Angel of Music. She recognized that he was wearing a naval uniform and was not surprised, for he’d loved the sea, even all those years ago.

She wondered what Raoul would say if she told him she’d been visited by a true ange, and that he’d been tutoring her for months. And that it was because of his tutoring that she had become the beautiful lady.

He stepped forward and the sea of girls parted before him like he was Moses. He removed the tasseled key from her hand. “Allow me, Miss Daaé.”

He unlocked her dressing room door, sending it open with a flourish. She brushed past him, noticing how the heavy gown dragged against his shiny boots and cuffed jacket.

He closed the door and they were alone.

Lamps glowed, and the shadows that seemed so often to be dramatic were now low and brown, and did not lurk in the corners as they were often wont to do. Flowers had already been brought into her room, and vases rested on every surface—the floor, the dressing table, the tea table, even the sitting stool. Roses, daisies, gillyflowers, lilies…filling the air with their perfume.

“Christine, you were magnificent.” Raoul came to her side, clasping her hand with his and drawing it to his perfect lips.

“Raoul, how lovely to see you again,” she replied, slipping her hand from his and brushing her fingers over his fine cheek. It was warm and smooth.

“You have grown up so. I could not believe it was you, my little Christine, singing like an angel.”

An angel.

Christine stepped back, suddenly nervous. “Raoul, I am no angel.”

But he did not seem to notice her apprehension. “You are, you are, beautiful angel. I shall have to make a point of returning to the opera every night, now that Philippe and I are the patrons and now that you are to be the new star.”

“I hope that I shall see you often,” she replied, and felt a change in the air. It was him. For some reason, she didn’t want him to know about Raoul, that she had an admirer. “Raoul, shall we leave here? I must speak to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, and I am hungry, and we have so much to talk about. It has been so many years.”

“Yes, indeed, I would be happy to escort you to dinner.”

She opened the door, and was greeted by a throng of admirers clutching flowers and waiting eagerly. “Oh, my,” she said, pleased and warm, but very, very aware of a barely tangible shift in the room’s mood behind her.

Raoul pushed past her. Blocking the door, as if to keep the others from seeing into the room, or, perhaps, seeing much of Christine, he turned toward her. “I shall bring my carriage around and come back for you shortly. Shall I call someone to help you change?”

“No…no, thank you, Raoul. I shall be able to take care of it myself.”

He closed the door and she was alone.

And then she realized that she wasn’t. “Madame Giry?”

“You did well tonight, Christine. But he will not be pleased if you neglect your rest in favor of social activities.” Madame Giry had moved behind her and was working quickly at the buttons that lined her spine.

The heavy costume fell away, and Madame’s warm hands moved over her shoulders and down her arms to push the silk to the floor. “Take care not to anger him, Christine. His wrath is not to be borne. Are you certain it is wise to go with the vicomte?”

So Christine’s worry that her angel would not be happy to know she already had an admirer was correct. “But…I must eat, madame. And he is nothing but an old friend, and the brother of the new patron. It can only be good for the success of the theater if he wishes to dine with me.”

Madame’s face, aged but still beautiful, turned hard with concern. She bent close to Christine’s ear, her breath warm and moist, sending prickling shivers along the edge of her neck. “Have a care, Christine, for as his pupil, you have the chance to be great, with or without the favor of the patron’s brother. If you please him, you will be cared for beyond your imagination. If you displease him, his wrath will be immense. He is brilliant and kind, but he is selfish and would not be willing to share you. Note well what I say, Christine. With him as your tutor, you need not worry about finding a protector, as the other girls do.”

Did she mean that her angel would be her protector? Or that he merely wished to be certain that she did not forget about her lessons?

Instead of asking, for Christine felt a strange squiggling feeling in her middle at the thought that he might hear, she twisted the subject. “A protector? Raoul? I do not think he has such an idea in his head. He is only an old friend, pleased to see me again. Nevertheless, I will heed your warning, madame,” Christine replied earnestly. She did not forget that it was her ange who had tutored her to this wondrous night. “It is only a dinner, to celebrate my debut.”

“I hope that you shall remember that, my dear. And it is fitting that you should celebrate. Now, quickly, let us change your clothing and get you prepared for dinner. It must be a short meal, so that you sleep well tonight. Look, I have brought you a gown to wear.”

Surprised, and embarrassed that she hadn’t thought for herself of what she would wear to dinner with a vicomte and the theater managers, Christine turned. “It’s beautiful. Where did it come from?”

It was striking, and very stylish, and nothing like any gown Christine had ever owned, or even seen up close. Certainly the opera costumes were all beautiful and bejeweled and ornate—the better to be seen from the boxes and the stalls—but they were too heavy and fancy to wear in the real world.

“I bullied Tiline into letting you borrow it,” Madame explained. “Her Monsieur Boulan has gifted her with many lovely gowns as of late.”

It was a dinner gown of deep garnet satin trimmed with gold lace that gathered in soft folds at the tops of her arms. The lace made a narrow vee from shoulder to shoulder in front and back, and where the dark red bodice gathered over her breasts, more gold lace hung along its lower edges.

The skirt was nearly as heavy as the costume Christine had been wearing, and fell in generous folds that were gathered up into a bustle at the base of her spine. A wide swath of gold satin draped from each side of the front of the skirt and was fastened over the bustle with a huge bow made from more gold lace festooned with white and red satin roses.

When she saw herself in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself as shy, lonely little Christine Daaé.

“Thank you, madame,” she said as she left the room at last.

Outside of her dressing room, the passageway was empty. Still, shadowed, silent…so unlike what Christine was used to, with the comings and goings of actors and costumiers and musicians, prop hands and stagehands…it was quiet and lonely. As she had been, it seemed, forever.

But now, tonight, she was a star. Everyone wanted to see her, speak to her, be with her. No longer the shy mouse of a girl, she was sought after by a vicomte! Even if he was an old friend, he would not have sought her out if he did not wish to see her.

She was no innocent girl. Madame Giry had seen to it that none of her little dancers—called rats de l’opéra for the fact that they often came to the theater young and straggly, and were seen as always being underfoot—were innocent ingenues, though they might appear to be. She instructed them in more than simply ballet. Madame felt each of the young rats was her responsibility, for many of them had chosen the profession over being a schoolmistress or working in manual labor, upon being orphaned or because their family became destitute.

The theater was a profession, Madame told them, that allowed a woman quite a bit of control over her life, including her choice of lover or protector—if she was young and pretty, or at least if she was talented both onstage and in the boudoir. Thus Madame had ensured that none of her charges were waiting to be deflowered and left with nothing to show for it. Her rats were taught how to take advantage, rather than be taken advantage of. She instructed them how to attract and select a good protector who would not be physically cruel in the boudoir and who would otherwise treat them well.

But Christine could not fathom that Raoul—good, handsome, polite Raoul, who had dashed into the surf to retrieve her scarf when it blew away—would dare have the thought of being a protector. It made her warm to even think of it.

Raoul did not fit the image of one. Christine had met the older gentlemen that took care of the two former dancers Tiline and Regina when those two began to have solos of their own and thus attracted attention to themselves. Their protectors had bloated cheeks, were pompous, and had squinting, beady eyes that seemed always to be looking right through the girls’ costumes—yet they patted the girls on the heads and brought them gifts and trinkets whenever they visited. If one did not look in their eyes, one might think they were no more than a father or favored uncle. But of course, that was not so, and Christine, who had not been a virgin since her sixteenth birthday, recognized all too well that the looks in their eyes were anything but paternal.

Now the two girls, who hardly had time any longer for the other dancers in the corps de ballet from which they had so recently graduated, complained of having to juggle the attentions of the older men, who paid for their costumes and jewelry and for their own small flats, with their interest in younger, more attractive and virile men who did not have the pocketbook…but had other amenities.

Christine herself had never been in a position to attract the attention of a possible protector. Even if she had, she would have taken care before doing so, for she was known as one of Madame Giry’s most virtuous girls. She was one who did not flirt, who did not make promises with her eyes, who took care that her bosom didn’t show and her ankles didn’t flash.

But perhaps tonight had changed everything. Now she had attracted great attention! Perhaps that was why Raoul had made his way so quickly backstage, and barricaded them in her dressing room. Perhaps he was merely trying to protect her from any other men who’d found her sudden, triumphant debut of interest.

No, she did not place Raoul in the same category as those pudgy, false-fatherly gentlemen who scanned the dancers and singers and actresses as if they were clusters of horseflesh…but neither did she dismiss him. Not at all. For he had been handsome and charming, and quite obviously pleased to see her.

Now, Christine should have been hurrying along the passageway toward the back door that led into the side alley, where Raoul would be waiting for her…but instead, she found herself moving back toward the stage. The place of her triumph.

She had rarely had occasion to be on the stage when the room, with its vast rows of seats and high, domed ceiling, was empty of everything but…echoes. Echoes of performances past, echoes of smoke from the doused lights, echoes of perfume and applause.

She wasn’t sure what drew her, but she heeded the innate call and walked out onto the stark wooden-planked stage. Her footsteps, nearly silent in slippers, took her to the monstrous stage’s center, and Christine stood, facing the invisible audience.

A whisper of air stirred, raising the hair all along her arms and at the base of her neck. She resisted the urge to look behind her; instead, she smoothed one hand up along her arm, then down, over her long glove, and then back up again. Waiting.

A sudden beam of limelight shot down from above, circling her in its white glow, cutting her off from the darkness around her. The sphere was compact, just large enough that she might walk two small steps before moving out of it and back into the empty black if she chose. It was warm; even though it had not pounded on her for long, the heat from the light above played across her bare shoulders and bosom, and over the upper parts of her arms that were not covered by her gloves.

The light dulled her eyesight as it did when she performed. She could not see the shadowy seats in the theater, nor could she see the red velvet curtains swagged at the edge of the proscenium. All she could see was the white beam of light; all she could feel was its increasing warmth.

“Christine…”

The sound of her name, faint, hollow, erotic, came from behind. Or perhaps above. She wasn’t sure.

“Ange?” she managed to ask. Her heart was suddenly thumping madly.

Before she could turn to look, she felt him behind her again, just as he had been in her dressing room. He had spoken to her, taught her, sung with her…but he had never appeared to her before. And now twice in one day.

His hands closed over her shoulders, the supple, tacky leather of his gloves grabbing at her delicate skin as he moved his palms down over her arms, pulling at the low, sweeping neckline of her gown. The fabric tightened over her breasts, uncovering her suddenly hard, sharp nipples, baring her skin to the heat of the light above.

“You pleased me greatly tonight,” he murmured in that low, melodious voice. It burned in her ear and sent waves of sharp prickles along her neck, down her arms, over her breasts and nipples, to her belly, and lower.

Christine dared to look down, and she saw black, gloved hands dark on her white shoulders and the deep, dark vee between her breasts lifted and pushed together by her corset, and the hint of pink from her areolas above the dark crimson gown. “Thank you,” she breathed, reaching up to cover one of his hands with hers. She felt the faintest tremor in his fingers, beneath her own, and wondered suddenly…was it from anger?

Or was it the same sudden trembling she felt over her body?

Now her white-gloved fingers splayed over his wide black ones, and she could feel the heat from him burn into her skin beneath. His free hand moved, threading fingers up into the back of her coiled hair, combing gently through it and then grasping to pull her head back. The beam of light struck her gaze and blinded her; she closed her eyes as sudden tears stung them.

From behind, his face moved against her; she felt warm flesh brush against her right jawline and then hot, soft lips press against her skin. Her head held immobile, her eyes closed against the searing light, Christine struggled to draw in a breath and succeeded only in shuddering and faintly sobbing as pleasure burned where he kissed her, drawing on her flesh, slowly, insistently.

His lips, warm, moist, gentle, inched along her jaw, down the side of her taut throat. Her neck ached; her lips parted; her knees weakened. Her fingers closed around his hand at her shoulder, while her other hand reached up to touch him behind her. She needed to feel him, to know him.

“No,” he snarled against her skin, and, releasing her hair, snatched at her questing fingers and pulled them away from his face. He moved quickly and imprisoned both of her wrists in one leathered hand, above her head.

He moved. She could feel him reach up, behind her, and then suddenly she felt something wrapping around her wrists. She gasped, and tried to pull her arms free, but he was too strong. Before she knew it, he’d secured her hands above her head, wrists crossed, elbows bent gently.

“Did you not know that curiosity killed the cat?” he murmured gently into her ear, his sudden anger seeming to have defused. He circled around so that he stood just next to her, but still slightly behind so that she could not see any part of his face…only the gloved hand and the long, black arm to which it was connected, the strong black leg that crossed in front of her skirt, and the shiny black shoe that stepped in the pool of light below.

She tried to move her hands down from the top of her head, but something held them there, something from above. She could do nothing but tug and pull and feel the sway of the rope as it swung from the catwalk above. Her heart beat faster; she could not seem to draw in a full breath.

“Now…,” he sighed, moving close to her, one hand in a vee at the front of her neck, cupping her throat, the other at her nape. “I shall show you how well your performance pleased me tonight.”

“Ange, please…” She could scarcely form the words…and for what she was pleading, she did not know.

His chuckle was quiet, but he did not respond with words. Instead, she felt his hand moving down her spine. The heavy weight of her gown loosened, gapping and falling away in the back where his nimble fingers undid the buttons Madame Giry had fastened only a short time ago.

His other hand slipped under the steel ribbing of her corset, sliding under her left breast and to lift it from the cup of her stays. His leather-covered thumb moved over her stark, hard nipple and she felt a jolt of pleasure spear into her belly, and then to the place between her legs. It flooded moist and hot there, and she pulled, trying to bring her arms to touch him, forgetting that she could not. The rope held, and she succeeded only in straining her arms and causing her ange to chuckle again.

“Relax, ma voix,” he murmured, his voice rougher than before. His thumb continued to rub across the sensitive part of her nipple, while the other hand slid down beneath the open buttons of her gown, down and around her buttocks.

Christine jerked when that hand found its way under her chemise and down into her drawers, cool leather fingers slicking down stickily, spreading the cleft of her rear. She tried to buck away, but he only pressed harder, his fingers sliding to cover the underside of one round buttock while his front hand slipped to the vee of her legs. His palm pressed there, into her sex, through her gown, and moved in a circular motion over the silk and lace that covered her.

Wrists bound above her, she was trapped between his hands, one set of fingers pushing her skirts down and between her legs, and the other urging her forward from behind, into his palm that cupped her. Her breasts were tight, her nipples painfully hard. Her arms were cold and prickly from lack of blood. The beam of light burned down on them and sweat dampened her face and shoulders and breasts, making her skin slick and heavy. She bucked her hips, trying to get free, or closer, or away—anything to relieve the pressure building inside her.

As he massaged her with his hands, pressing her between them, one warm leather finger slipped from behind, sliding through the wetness that pooled between her legs. Christine moaned when that finger, impersonal in its black case, slid inside her. He pushed her back, his other hand still in place at the juncture of her thighs, massaging just where the edge of her mound was.…How could he feel it, through all the reams of cloth?

Such thoughts fled when he removed his hand from her front and yanked hard at her corset, pulling it down and away from her heavy, tight breasts. She was poised, balanced, on the finger deep inside her, and her breasts were bare in the hot white light, pink nipples hard and pointing, aching when he brushed his hand over one, then the other. Mon Dieu, what if someone came upon them?

He pinched, tweaked, rubbed, and she moved her hips, swimming on that leather finger, trying to find something, some relief, some end. “Ah, yes,” he breathed into her ear. His voice was thick and deep. “You open yourself to me.…Yes, ma voix, yes, you may shudder and moan. It is a beautiful music you make now, on this stage. Performing only for me.”

Christine was no innocent when it came to pleasure of the body, but she had never felt the hot rush of lust combined with the inability to move as she wished, touch as she needed to. She’d never felt this rage of need she now felt, standing—no, dangling, for her knees sagged and she could no longer hold herself upright.

When he bent his dark head and closed his mouth around the nipple nearest him, Christine could hold back no longer. She cried out, felt the weight of her body straining on the rope above, dangling with her wrists held high and helpless. Wetness, moisture, liquid everywhere…between her legs, on her breast, sweat from the heat of the light—she was dripping, throbbing, panting.

She cried out, unable to hold back the frustration that built inside. His lips sucked at her nipple, drawing it so tightly into his mouth that she thought she must scream from the pain, and cry from the pleasure.

The finger inside her slipped free, rubbing over her engorged pip, straining between her nether lips, as she circled her hips, trying to move it closer, harder, faster, in the rhythm she needed. He lifted his mouth. “Come for me, Christine.…Come…now.”

His other hand again pushed back on her, holding her hips in place as that nimble finger worked from behind, round and round, slipping and gliding through her, until at last the pleasure peaked and she shuddered, crying out her orgasm from deep within.

Then there was only the aftermath: silence, but for their twin breaths, harsh and needy. The dull throb between her legs; the ache at the breast where he’d sucked so hard. His warm leather hand as it glided up and over her ass, bringing her wetness along with it over the round swell of her buttocks. He drew away from her breast, moving back behind her before she saw more than the gleam of dark hair. His hands settled on her shoulders and he pressed into her from behind.

She felt his erection; it pushed into the base of her bare back, through his trousers, insistent and promising. Hard, and it sent a renewal of lust through her middle, stabbing into her stomach.

“I trust that your pleasure was as great as mine,” he murmured, back at her ear again and safely out of her view. His voice was not smooth; it was uneven but low, as though he struggled to keep it steady. He moved his hands up along her arms, moving from her bare skin to the fine cotton gloves that stretched from elbow to wrist.

“I believe mine was the greater,” Christine replied, her own words shaky. “But if you will untie me, ange, I would like to touch you…and see you.”

“My name is Erik. You may call me that, but now is not the time. Behave yourself this night, ma voix, and I will come to you again soon. Your tutelage has only just begun.” She felt his chest lift and press against her from behind as he drew in a long, deep breath, held it, then released it.

His gloves, fingers spread, ran down from her wrists, over her face, jaw, and neck, smoothly over her bare breasts, pausing to massage them…then close and hard over her belly and to her throbbing sex. Heat followed the leather, and she sagged again under the weight of desire, closing her eyes and tipping her head back into the blare of light.

And then suddenly, he left. He left her burning and aching for more, her nipples hard and pointed, one redder than the other from his mouth, and sore. Her sex throbbing again, in memory and need. Her back cold without him behind her, her gown sagging from her uplifted arms.

And then, before she could fathom that he’d left her stranded and half-naked on the middle of the Opera House stage, something fell from above. Her arms dropped, still tied, to her waist, the rope slapping onto the hard wood at her feet.