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ghostofbambifanfiction · 3 years

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Part 1 of ?????

Started writing this fic a while ago and then lost faith in it. Should I continue? Feel bad for not posting much lately so I thought I'd share this. Read on and weigh in.

COME OUT TONIGHT

You don't have to fucking shout?

Said the pot to the kettle?

Oh you grandmother The caps were an accidental by-product of voice-to-text Blame Siri if you're going to blame anyone

You have a Samsung Galaxy S20.

HAD. It got smashed. Worst luck. Listen, come out with me tonight.

Urghhhhhhhhhhhhhh I'm tired!

https://www.boots.com/wellness/vitaminsandsupplements/vitamins-supplements-shop-by-ingredient/echinacea

Hah (indifferent)

Just come out with me! Isaac has to go see some godawful student performance of the Antigone in wherever the fuck Chichester is and it's Sirius's flatmate's birthday party so I have to go and I don't know any of his weird mates

You don't HAVE to go.

Have to/want to Semantics

I'm not in a birthday party mood. I'm having a stressful week. My arse has been tense since Tuesday.

I will wade into the deep and massage your arse if I have to, just come It's a swank pad in Belgravia! I bet they'll have all sorts of expensive nibbles!

I read that as expensive nipples.

Those too!

Partying it up with the children of wealthy Tories. Sounds super fun.

Just come out with me, for fuck I'll pick you up at 7 and we can steal their silverware if it's boring as the grave

URGH I'll go but I'm NOT dressing up!

You don't have to dress up!

FINE!

take the drawings down please i'm begging you i'm actually begging you

Nah mate

siriusssssssss pleeeeeease

Nah

PLEASE

Nah

PLEASE ffs it's MY birthday!!!! there are going to be PEOPLE there! standing around! AT EYE LEVEL

I don't see what the problem is.

EVERYONE will see what the problem is! they literally will not be able to IGNORE what the problem is!

Sounds like a recipe for lively discussion to me tbh

that is NOT what i want people talking about at my birthday!

If I take them down, I'll have to take all the nails out and that'll leave nail marks all over the walls. It would be unsightly.

MORE UNSIGHTLY THAN YOUR DICK, SIRIUS?

My dick is bewitching.

DIE

She walks in expecting to find herself the infiltrator of a Made in Chelsea/Royal Ascot/Henley Regatta netherworld, filled with a gaggle of giggling, SW-postcode socialites wielding suspiciously powder-edged Harrods Amex cards in the place of horses and boats, but that's not what actually greets her on the other side of the lacquered front door.

What greets her is really quite ordinary.

Aside from the naked drawings of Kingsley's mate, which aren't.

Otherwise, the whole affair is pretty relaxed. People her age are clustered in their small groups, swigging beers. There's a table of oven-heated party foods, salty snacks and rapidly depleting ramekins of guac. She spies more band shirts than there are dress shirts. There's a round of Fortnite in full swing on the TV.

It's all just...startlingly normal. A normal birthday party.

And that's sort of embarrassing, really.

Where are all the visible Tory toffs, she wonders? Where is the braying laughter? The Eton alumni reunion? The glimpse of hunting-happy tweed and shotgun barrels as a coat cupboard door swings shut? Where's the indelible air of sneering superiority, of "we're richer and more privileged and better than you, so fuck the NHS and death to foxes!" that she'd been expecting? There's a fucking Henry Hoover in the corner of the hall, for Christ's sake. Lily came here to smile through her teeth at them all, to listen to the champagne problems privilege that bubbled from their lips and tell herself that she was the one who knew better, who thought better. Her plain white tee and skinny jeans and scuff-toed, high-top trainers were supposed to be a statement, a subtle setting-apart, but she's not even the most underdressed person in the room.

She pre-judged a house full of people. What's that about?

There's a lesson to be found in this. Perhaps.

James covered all of the dicks in Paw Patrol stickers that he bought from the newsagent on his way home from his mum's, but Sirius peeled them all off while he was taking a soothing lavender bath, so what's the bloody point in birthdays anyway?

It's early in the evening, and he's wedged—against his will—between the dining room bar and Shane Ruttle, who has just pointed at one of the many lamentable dicks and asked, "Is this one of yours?" which James kind of wants to thump him for. It's bad enough that he looks like a madman who stuffed his house with naked drawings of his brother, now people are actually assuming that he drew the damn things, even though most of the compositions are appallingly far beneath his skill level. He's a professional illustrator, for the love of god, and Shane is really standing before him like the posturing prick he is, asking him if he's the one who drew Sirius with one arm disproportionately longer than the other.

He knows that he should cheer up.

It is his birthday. There is cake.

Good cake, too, not the kind that gets buried in too-thick fondant that he has to pick off before he can eat what's underneath.

The problem is, there's also a party, and his friends are his friends, Peter and Sirius included, and Peter and Sirius can both get drunk much faster than James can. When Peter and Sirius get drunk, serious injuries tend to follow, Remus tends to fuck off in a flash and James tends to be the one who calls for an ambulance or mothers them back to health—physical, mental or otherwise. He has just turned twenty-six, and these repeated, drunkenly dramatic medical emergency scenes are starting to wear a little thin.

Can't a man get comfortably drunk and have a laugh at his own birthday party?

No, he can't, because Peter's already halfway to trashed, wobbling unsteadily towards the French doors that lead to the terrace, wearing that look on his face that says I'm definitely going to vomit or maybe even shit myself like I did on that one night we all spent in Munich with the Belgian handball team and the creepy tour guide who couldn't keep his sleazy hands to himself. For the sake of sparing the lawn such a punishment, James hastily removes himself from Shane, grabs Peter by the collar, shoves him in the direction of the downstairs loo and retreats to the safety of the living room, where there are, at least, no naked drawings of Sirius gracing the walls.

Most of the people in here are transfixed by Saffy Stephens, who is down to the last three in her Fortnite game and cursing like a sailor, but there are a small pile of birthday cards on the end table where James and Sirius normally keep their keys. He perches on the sofa arm, sets his half-drunk beer bottle on the carpet, pushes his dark, disheveled hair away from his forehead and begins leafing through them. It's a necessity when one lives with Sirius, who thinks nothing of swiping gift cards when the mood strikes him and he's had enough to drink.

They're mostly from his female friends, and all pretty standard, until he reaches the middle of the pile and finds a card bearing a picture of a moustached tabby and the caption: Have a Purr-fect Birthday!

The inscription inside is written in a lovely, swirling hand.

To Jasper/Jack/Jason/maybe Ja Rule?/J-something idk

(see above: everything I've learned about you from the friend* I came here with, verbatim)

(*who can't remember your name)

Happy Birthday! Thank you for (not) specifically inviting me, a stranger, to your party to celebrate this momentous event in your life. Please enjoy this festive card/social nicety/convention from me to you. My friend brought rum which you may prefer.

I'll be around. Not that you'll know.

James lowers the card and twists on the sofa arm at once, eyes darting around the room in search of its author, as if they might be laying in wait to watch him read it and see how he reacts. Nobody appears to have ducked behind the couch, however, so the situation merits further scrutiny.

Obviously, he needs to meet this person.

A mystery! At his birthday party!

He perks right up after that.

She's coming out of the downstairs loo when a short, blonde man in a garish Hawaiian shirt barrels past her and pukes all over the chequerboard tiled floor, narrowly missing her jeans.

"Oh no," he moans into his wet hands. "Oh no—"

"There there, mate," says Lily consolingly, never one to judge somebody for getting drunk early at a party. She pats him on the back before squeezing past him and rejoining Kingsley, who is standing in one of this meandering Georgian house's many hallways, chatting to a bloke in a houndstooth sweater vest and holding two glasses of something very, very sparkly that she must try at once.

"It's like...it's like everything and nothing at the same time," Houndstooth Bloke is saying when Lily draws close, gesturing to a huge canvas painting of a rain-soaked fairground at night.

"Is it?" Kingsley asks.

"Mmm. Very." Houndstooth shakes his shoulders like he's slipping out of a robe. "Meant to be esoteric, I suppose."

That sounds suspiciously like pretentious bullshit to Lily, who doesn't find the concept of a merry looking fairground all that difficult to absorb. Kingsley knows more about the art world than she does, but he must agree with her assessment because he grunts and shoves her glass into her hand when she stops beside him, and more roughly than she deserves, as if she's the one who landed him in this mess of a conversation to begin with.

Trust him to find himself stuck with the only dick (not etched by a 4B Steadtler graphite pencil) in the building, and trust her to be stuck with the person who got himself stuck with King.

"What are we talking about?" she asks brightly, just to fuck with him.

"Drink your champagne, there's a good little hen," King mutters, his teeth clenched together, hallway lights bouncing off the smoothly waxed dome of his bald head.

"We've been discussing this piece." Houndstooth nods to the painting, but his limpid eyes narrow on Lily's face. "Christ, you're very redheaded, aren't you?"

It's decided. She'll wait 'til Houndstooth is drunk and trip him up with Henry Hoover's hose.

"Ergo soulless, yes," she agrees.

"And you...enjoy that?" he asks, as if being redheaded is her profession.

"Very much, thanks."

"Hmmp. Well. I came here with Saffron," he announces, pronouncing it Sef-ron. As if Lily is supposed to know who that is. "Platonically, of course. Actually, we're some sort of cousins, I think. What do you think the artist is trying to convey?"

He's very pointedly asking her, so Lily blinks at the painting, her eyes on the outstretched arm of a child on the carousel.

"I like the pretty colours," she decides aloud.

"Right," says Houndstooth, "but that's not—"

"And the lights, too. The lights are really pretty."

"But—"

"I love funfairs, actually," she brightly continues, finding a strange satisfaction in playing dumb in front of Houndstooth and his overbleached fade. Although she does really like the colours. "Haven't been to one in years!"

"Yes, good, whatever, but what is the artist trying to convey?"

"What artist?" comes a voice from behind them.

Lily glances over her shoulder and finds herself looking up at the man whose penis she's spent the past thirty minutes avoiding eye contact with, though he is taller, better proportioned and infinitely more beautiful than any of those crudely drawn depictions could possibly convey. He is also beplumed and bejewelled like a pirate, wearing a sumptuous velvet jacket over a loose white shirt, numerous rings on his fingers and an assortment of silver chains around his slender neck, while his grey eyes and elegantly high-set cheekbones are framed by a tumble of black hair that genuinely looks like silk.

The man is so beautiful, in fact, that Lily immediately wonders why he's been taking sketches home from the life drawing class that he and Kingsley pose for—hence their acquaintance and Lily's presence at this party—when nothing she's seen tonight has done him any justice.

Most happily, his penis is tucked safely out of sight.

"Alright, Sirius?" says King.

"Alright, Marvel?" Sirius claps a hand to the taller man's massive shoulder. Kingley's muscles bulge in a way that cannot be hidden by modern habiliments. "What are we talking about?"

"Not much." Houndstooth looks put out by the arrival of yet another person. "We were just mesmerised by this piece."

Lily refrains from gesturing to the painting with both hands and a "ta-dah!" choosing instead to sip her champagne.

It's very good champagne. Mmm. Yes.

"Oh, yeah, it's really something," Sirius agrees. He brushes past Kingsley and runs a finger over the illegible squiggle of a signature on the canvas. His nails are beautifully manicured. "Local guy, young up-and-comer. I assume you've heard of Algernon?" he asks Houndstooth, fixing him with a steely-eyed stare.

"Er, yes." Houndstooth's gaze slides from Sirius to the painting. "I know him."

Sirius's eyebrows lift. "Know him personally?"

"Well—"

"That's so weird, I heard he never speaks to people."

Houndstooth chews on the inside of his cheek, weighing up the challenge. "How…funny."

"Funny?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just, I know I've spoken to him before, and since you've bought his painting I assumed that you'd have—"

"That is funny, actually," Sirius interrupts, "because the artist is my brother, and Algernon is the name of his cat."

Kingsley has been tugging on his earring and almost rips it out of his ear as his body convulses, champagne spraying from his nostrils, while an alarming red flush sweeps across Houndstooth's face and he begins to sputter on his own self-importance. Sirius has clearly decided that he's done with all of that noise, however, because he turns back to Lily instead, looking her up and down with great and sudden interest.

"Who's this then?" he asks Kingsley, cocking his head to one side. "James's present?"

The champagne glass swings down and Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. "Excuse me?"

Sirius slants a grin at Kingsley, a quick flash of teeth. "This one's queenly, isn't she?"

Kingsley wipes his nose with the back of his hand and laughs again. "Hardly."

"This is Primark, mate," Lily retorts, tugging on her t-shirt.

"Queenliness is a state of mind," says Sirius, "not a state of wardrobe."

"You had me marked down as a prostitute not ten seconds ago."

"Oh, that. I was only joking," he sighs, and grips her arm at the elbow, his long fingers cool against her skin. "But still, you're far too attractive to stand here talking to this clown. Come with me and I'll find you someone better."

James's friends are useless.

And drunk. Useless and drunk—or sort of drunk, in Saffy's case. Remus is certainly already pissed, but Remus is on meds so often that he drinks but once in a blue moon. One cocktail is usually enough to set him off, and he's been hard at the gin since he turned up with Peter at six.

"I don't know anyone with those initials," Saffy declares, once she has read, examined and even sniffed the birthday card for clues. "Except for Lisa Edelstein."

"Who's Lisa Edelstein?"

"Cuddy from House," says Remus, lowering the negroni from which he has been drinking deeply.

James pulls a face. "What the fuck is a Cuddy?"

"Oh, actually, it could mean le?" Remus suggests.

"Yes!" Saffy points at him like he might be onto something. "Like the French word for the?"

"Exactly, like—"

"It doesn't mean that!" James interrupts, unwilling to allow such profanity in his home. "That doesn't make sense, why would somebody sign their name as the?"

"Now you're asking me to explain how French people think?" says Saffy derisively, adjusting her bra strap beneath that burnt orange waistcoat she loves, the one that makes her look like she's directing a pornographic movie in the 70s when she pairs it with her tortoiseshell-framed aviators. It clashes wildly with her electric blue buzz-cut. "Am nooooo drunk enough for that."

"They could be one of those one word moniker pop stars, I suppose," Remus pipes up, smiling slyly. "You know, like Madonna?"

They think James doesn't realise that they're taking the piss out of him, but neither of them are sober enough to attempt their gambit with any kind of subtlety or grace.

"You know that's actually her real Christian name?" says Saffy.

Remus turns towards her with interest. "What, Madonna?"

"Yeah!"

"Really?"

"Yeah!" Saffy repeats. "I thought it couldn't possibly be her real name because, I mean, Madonna, yeah? But then I looked it up and apparently that's the name her mummy gave her, just goes to show—"

"I'm sorry," James interrupts, "but is Madonna relevant to this conversation?"

"Yes, always," says Saffy.

"She's an international pop megastar," Remus seconds.

James stares at his friend incredulously. "Drinking really chips away at your wit, y'know?"

"Does it?" Remus grins lazily and jiggles his cocktail in the air. "Oh, well, I'm negronly joking."

Saffy does a spit-take without the spit and clings helplessly to Remus's shoulder as she laughs, knees buckling, bangles tinkling, but James fights his own urge to start snickering.

"It's not that funny," he lies, and Remus eyes him with an alarmingly teacher-like shrewdness, despite the tellingly intoxicated flush that has crept into his thin, freckled face.

James's love of puns is tragically well known.

"You didn't get it." Remus points at his drink. His speech is starting to slur. "This is a negroni, what I said was—"

"Yeah, I got that part, I just—"

"Jesus fuck, look at her!" Saffy suddenly hisses, staggering sideways into Remus and sending him into the wall in a flurry of giggles—Remus giggling?—her voice hushed and urgent. "Who the hell is that?!"

James does look, following the direction of Saffy's gaze. Sirius has just entered the living room, casually clutching the elbow of a……

……goddess.

An actual. Like. Goddess.

A goddess. In James's house. In his living room. In the place where he eats his chocolate boulder cereal and rewatches Scrubs (even season 9, which is hilarious, and very unfairly disparaged by Joe Public) on Saturday mornings.

She's a goddess. A real one, and cleverly disguised as a mortal, sure, with her slouchy white t-shirt and her big hoop earrings and her light blue jeans that are torn at the knees, wearing her shoulder-length red hair half up, half down and slightly messy, but that doesn't hide what she is.

"Oh my god," he murmurs. His heart is pounding all of a sudden, which is so...utterly bloody stupid, but Saffy's right, bloody look at her, Jesus fuck.

"Surely she can't be with Sirius?" Saffy murmurs back.

"No, she—" He watches Sirius lean down to mutter something in the redhead's ear. A ghost of a laugh flits across her beautiful face. "She's not his—he isn't—"

"D'you think—"

"No, I—"

"Good," says Saffy firmly. She lets go of Remus and rises, lengthening her spine. It is a battle stance of some sort, presumably. "Because I saw her first."

"No!" James cries, wounded, and the redhead shoots him a curious look with a pair of eyes that are startlingly emerald green, even from all the bloody way over here. He spins to face Saffy and lowers his voice, face burning. "It's my house!"

"What are you arguing here, ownership rights?"

"No but it—it's my birthday!" James retorts, jabbing at his own chest. "And, actually, and—"

"It's in the bloody post!"

"—you didn't get me a present!" he finishes in triumph, not that he knows what he's arguing for, because the likelihood is that his tongue will glue itself to the roof of his mouth if he even dares to look in her direction one more time. "Plus I set you up with Vanya Petrich, with whom, as I recall, you enjoyed four years—"

"Stop throwing that in my face!"

"—four blissful years—"

"Is it my fault that you've never fancied any girl I've set you up with?!"

"—promised me an Easter ham for setting you up with her and I never got it—"

"So now you'll trade a woman for a ham?" Saffy accuses, though her face is too lit up, her brown eyes too crinkled at the corners—she's having fun with this and she isn't going to fool him and she knows it. "That's so low, even—"

"Don't start with that," James scathingly cuts in. "You offered me Sean Connery's autograph for Bonnie Grogan's number—"

"Which you never gave me!"

"Because you forged the bloody signature!"

"And now she's bloody married!"

"Yeah, well, Isabella wouldn't give me a counterfeit present, would she?" he retorts, and Saffy lets her shoulders drop, smirking. "This is pointless, Saf, we can't—"

"She's just left with Sirius," Remus informs them, and burps.

#Jily #Part 1 #Of 3?#Honestly I just wanted to give you guys a treat

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expensiveglasses · 4 years

Text

Charming Chapter One

Summary: Prince Jungkook was as infuriating as he was beautiful. In line to one day be king, he requested your guidance in the ways of his people. In turn he will make you laugh, give your family fine gifts, and become an invaluable friend. Unfortunately, he will also make you fall in love with him. But the most unfortunate thing of all was his betrothal…to Snow White

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Fantasy, Angst, Snow white/au

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 4538

Warnings: None for this chapter. Future warnings are TW: Major character “death” TW: Thoughts of suicide TW: Attempted suicide. Nothing is graphically described. Chapters will be noted when these things take place.

It was during the spring that you felt the most content. Everything was reborn, blossoming from the frozen winter. The village came to life with music, new animals, and the sweet smell of fresh bread.

It had been this way since you were a child, no taller than your mother’s hip and only aware of how acutely you spurned the winter. With chapped fingers and lips, you watched bitterly as your friends, Peter and Else, played, squealing loudly as they threw snow at one another.

The three of you, friends since you could remember, filled to the brim with laughter, scraped knees, and all as plain looking as could be. This suited you fine, and there was little to disappoint you but short moments of impassioned arguments with your two best friends and a brief encounter with the very silly king and his very silly son.

As the only daughter (and indeed, the only child) of the villages master tailor, you found yourself often around the regal and ridiculous. So it was of no surprise when the king himself requested your father’s services and you were required to help him carry his materials to the castle where the king greeted you with his only heir, a son, wearing the silliest hat you’d ever laid eyes upon, a red feather sticking from the top.

You were as different as two people could be and with your simple manners and upbringing, you could not begin to understand the pomp and circumstance of such a silly little boy with rounded cheeks and a chest puffed much too high.

He strutted and flounced about the castle as a peacock would its park and the sight was all together ridiculous for your 9 year old eyes to behold. He’d called you peasant girl and remarked on your general lack of beauty and at 13 years old himself, you felt he had little to offer either, aside from a sizeable kingdom to trump the bed of straw and sheep’s skin you called your own.

For his 13th birthday, Prince Jungkook of Löhrenstein, would have a party, in which all the nobility and sovereigns of the land would be in attendance with their young princesses, and little duchesses, hoping to secure a treaty with his father, a contract between two kingdoms; a betrothal of a prince and a princess.

Of course, you would know nothing of this sort of formality or indeed the contracts of marriage. Your education was as broad as tending a home, carrying your father’s supplies, making flower crowns, and helping to herd the cows during the Viehscheid.

So, while the prince was living in a castle and throwing parties and sneering down his nose at near everybody, you were busy helping your father to sew his clothes. At least you could still play in the fields when the sun was high and warm and the flowers were just beginning to bloom.

And this was how you spent your years, watching as Else became beautiful and elegant, long brown hair thick and wavy, tied back in braids as she went to work in the village at her father’s bakery and you watched in quiet envy as all the boys took notice, bringing her fine milks and cheeses as tokens of their affection while you stayed plain. Even Peter had become mildly handsome as he grew into his gangly limbs, erasing the once mousy appearance for a broad shouldered, sun freckled young man.

You told yourself you didn’t mind so much that you were still plain while she was beautiful, but of course you did a little. To be poor but beautiful afforded you more than being poor and plain. Peter often told you that you were just as beautiful as Else, and while you were happy with the compliment, you knew it was because of his childhood love and devotion to you.

You believed that was why he chose to become apprentice to your father, to someday seek your fathers blessing for your hand. While you did not love Peter the way that he loved you, you could not deny the appeal of continuing with the comforts that you were already accustomed to. After all, you were the only daughter to the king’s tailor…that did afford you some small comforts. You supposed someday when he asked for your hand, as he inevitably would, that you would accept.

When you turned 18, however; there was a small gift from the gods, in the form of a late blooming. A glow to your cheeks and a blossoming of beauty. You were, of course, no Else, but you could certainly hold your own and found that you had more than just Peter as an admirer; much to his chagrin.

Perhaps that’s why you feared that any day now he would ask for your father’s permission to court you because then your path as his future wife would be decided. You were in a strange position as the daughter of the king’s master tailor. You were neither peasant nor nobility so while your ability to choose your spouse was more under your control, you were still held to the standard of your father and who he deemed fit to represent his family, and in turn, the kings.

The sun had just risen to its fullest height, waxing hot as it commandeered the sky, blue and shivering with the heat. It was sweltering and crowded in the square; noisy with life. The baker’s wife was out shouting, calling attention to the freshly baked rolls sitting just passed the door of the bakery. Else stood beside him, batting her eyelashes and looking pretty; using charms her father could not to entice more customers and you smiled.

The sheep were drinking from the water trough in the center, surrounded by red and yellow poppies in full bloom. The clock tower struck one and you glanced up, eyeing the time wearily. You stood under the archway of a building painted green as a melon, hoping to escape some of the day’s heat.

A woman chased a boy from her garden, chickens flying around in aggravation and you peered after the child as he sulked down the lane, feet dirty and bare. “You hungry, boy?” You called and he looked to you, face caked with dirt from playing and a nod as answer. “Here.” You tossed him the apple you held in your hand and he thanked you, running back into the bustling of the town.

The crowd quivered with conversation and your attention was suddenly captured by the gossip of two young ladies as they passed you. “Yes, the king’s carriage has already left the castle. Apparently, the prince is to be fitted for a ball.”

“I wonder if we shall see him.” The other remarked and your eyes swung to the road, spotting the carriage, scarlet curtains billowing from the windows as it made its descent into town. You gasped, grabbing the skirts of your dress and dashing mad towards your home.

Your father would whip you if you were late. You ran through the fields, cutting through tall shrubs and across dirt paths. A childhood spent playing in this winding village afforded you the intimate knowledge of all its byways.

You arrived at your home, gasping and covered in dirt and your mother came out, fussing loudly over your appearance, bustling you into the home and towards your room. Your father sighed loudly as you passed, eyes scanning your dress, soiled with the toil of your morning.

“This is no way to greet your king.” He remarks as your mother pulls you behind the wooden room divider, helping you to strip from your clothing and wiping you down quickly with a wet wash cloth.

“My dear, you are not fit to be seen!” Your mother scolded, washing roughly at your face and you grimaced, shivering in the chill of the room. “You knew they were coming today.”

“They are early.” You complained and your mother’s lips smacked in irritation.

“A king is never early. He always arrives exactly when he means to. You would do well to remember that, Y/N.”

Your mother helped you to dress in something new quickly, repining the last piece of your hair just as the crunch of gravel from the royal carriage wheels could be heard rounding the corner and the two of you rushed from the room and to the front door to wait with your father.

You took a deep breath, head bowed into your chest as you heard the carriage come to a stop in front of you. It was abnormal for the king to come to your home, far too busy with his royal duties to condescend to see a peasant, but his son and only heir had recently returned from…well, to be sure, you did not know where he actually had been, but rumor said he was poorly behaved and had gone somewhere far away to teach him the ways of a king.

This would not surprise you, were it true; he’d been a ghastly child. You could only imagine him now, in adulthood. Upon his return, his father had announced his desire to reacquaint his son with their kingdom and your father being his master tailor would receive the special privilege of his presence, it seemed.

The king stepped from the carriage first, and you watched his feet move towards your family.

“Your majesty!” Your father bowed and pleasantries were exchanged as the prince himself disembarked from the carriage.

You kept your eyes trained fast on the ground; the bottom of your dress already smudged with dirt from where you stood.

“My son,” The king announced and your father bowed once more, both your mother and yourself curtsying deep.

“You remember my wife and my daughter?” Your father said and it was now that you felt it was safe to lift your eyes from the ground.

“My, yes,” Said the king turning his gaze towards you, “you have grown well, girl.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” You replied, soft; bowing your head and he smiled, pleased.

“You remember my son?” He asked, pointing his hand to the figure by his side and you allowed your eyes to slide over to him.

It is unfortunate, in this life; that some people are just born with everything the heart could desire. Good fortune, health, money and comfort and to have all that and still be handsome? Well, truly life was unfair.

He stood tall, face angular with deep set brown eyes and rounded lips. You were under no illusion that he was anything but blessed by the gods. They must have looked upon him very favorably, indeed.

“Yes, your highness.”

The prince looked at you curiously, head curved to the side as your father beckoned them into your home and you watched the king and prince follow after him. You heated with shame as you entered after, watching the prince survey your home while your father and the king conversed.

He must think this was so beneath him; to stand in the home of a pauper. The floor, though it had been swept, was still covered in a layer of dirt and the furniture was old and matted, worn with use. You had more than others in your village, but compared to a king, this was true poverty. It must have seemed you had nothing at all.

“Florian, come look at these colors.” The king beckoned and the prince was quick to walk to his side, looking over the fabric your father had assembled as options for his ball.

“These are exquisite.” He remarked, voice low and serious. “I wonder, sir, my father says you will come to the castle tomorrow to prepare my clothing.”

“Yes, your highness, with my apprentice in training, Peter.”

The prince’s eyes flickered to you in surprise and you looked back down at the floor. “Not your daughter? I remember she used to join you when I was a boy.”

“Yes, my daughter would come to help me carry my things, but since I have acquired an apprentice, I have found that quite unnecessary.”

“I would very much like if you would bring her tomorrow, along with your apprentice, of course.” The prince smiled and you couldn’t help but look up in surprise.

“A woman?” The king laughed, loud and joyful and you bowed your head once more, flushed with shame. “What purpose would a woman have in a man’s business? She should stay here and help tend the home, Florian. Don’t be unreasonable.”

“I should very much like to have her return to the castle, for reminiscence sake, father. That is, if her mother can spare her.”

“Of course, your majesty.” She bowed.

“She can carry some of the fabric.” The prince smiled, eyes flickering to your bowed head, “like when she was a child.”

“You have a very strange sense of humor.” The king chortled and you closed your eyes, willing the humiliation from you. “Very well then, we shall see you on the morrow with your apprentice and your daughter. You know the time, I presume?”

“Yes, of course, your majesty.” Your father smiled, escorting them out the door and your mother and you stood in the kitchen, eyes trained on the floor.

So, it would seem he had not changed. Like a dog at his table, you had been summoned. So amusing, was it, to watch a woman carry fabric and needles for a man and stand in the background. Always to be seen, but never to be heard.

Your heart bled with the thought and you listened carefully as the carriage resumed its journey. Your father stepped through the threshold of your home and you could feel his eyes on the crown of your head.

“Now come, girl, there is no need to be so downtrodden.” Your father remarked lightly and your throat burned with emotion.

“Y/N.” Your mother said softly and you shook your head, turning to walk away.

“I wish to be alone.” You murmured, fleeing to your room.

The window was open, soft breeze fluttering through the soft white curtains, now dirtied from the dust of the road. You closed your bedroom door softly behind you, walking towards the window where you sat at your stool.

Laying your arm across the lip of your window, you rested your chin in the palm of your hand and sighed. To feel like a bartering chip in the world of men was difficult. To never be in charge of your own destiny. Destiny, for you, was to be nice to look at and the ability to spread your legs. You wanted more than that; wanted to be heard, wanted your thoughts and feelings to be considered.

A knock at your door called your attention and your mother stepped through the door, smiling softly. “It is an honor to be called back to the castle.” She remarked and you sighed once again, returning your gaze back out the window.

“Mother.” You frowned and she sat down on your bed. “You should understand…as a woman. We’re not objects to be played with.”

“My dear,” she tutted and you looked over at her. “Men are simple creatures, if they’ve nothing to look at, they don’t know what to do with themselves.”

You chuckled, sitting up straighter, hands dropping into your lap. “Then what are we to do with them, mother?”

“We guide them, darling. They like to feel useful, so we help them feel so. We know our worth, we don’t need to be reminded. Men, they need to feel powerful; what else do they have? They may be the head of the family, but we are the neck and they turn where we will it.”

“I have the feeling a prince would be harder to guide.” You smiled and she shrugged.

“Perhaps. It just makes it more fun; more of a challenge.”

You frowned, staring back out the window and into the forest just beyond your gate. The air rippled with heat and you watched as a rabbit hopped from your garden and into the shade. “I don’t want to go, mother.” You admitted.

Your mother’s fingers closed around your hand at the window and you turned to look at her. “My dear…I’m afraid you’ve no choice.”

The morning was hotter than usual and your dress stuck uncomfortable to your back. Peter was thrilled at the prospect of meeting the king and you realized belatedly that he’d never met him before. As the daughter of the king’s master tailor, you were in a unique position within society; neither pauper nor noble.

You’d had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting both the king and his son and you didn’t particularly care for either. “Imagine the palace, Y/N.” Peter sighed, eyes distant and smile pleasant as he threw an arm around your shoulder.

“I don’t need to imagine it.” You huffed, pushing his arm from your shoulder and readjusting the wrappings of fabric in your arms. “I’ve been there, remember?”

“Yes, I do. You never told me much about it, though. Always so secretive.”

You watched as he paused, tucking the edges of the tarp back around the rest of the fabric on the cart before resuming the journey. Your father walked steadily in front of the two of you.

“It was never a secret; I just didn’t particularly enjoy my time there.” You said carefully, eyes focused on the back of your father’s head. He’d beat you if you misspoke of the king.

“Yes, you did mention the prince was rather…interesting.”

“It seems nothing has changed.” You hummed softly, staring down at your feet, dusted yellow from the road.

“Then why are you coming today? If you dislike the prince, why come?” Peter questioned. The castle came into view, large and imposing against the backdrop of the mountains. White brick stood tall, the spires topped with a deep blue and for a moment you allowed yourself to admire the view.

Though the people within the castle were not to your taste, the palace itself was beautiful. Draped on every side by the mountain range and a large lake nestled in its cove, it was one of life’s true pleasures, gazing at its majesty.

“I think you will find, Peter, that I don’t have much of a choice. The prince requested his dancing monkey.” You replied, the words bitter on your tongue.

Your father called Peter forward and you spent the rest of the walk in silence, listening to the creak of the cart’s wheels as they cracked over rubble and dirt. Your mother had attempted to make you look pretty today, though you could not think why; presentable should be good enough for any man who wasn’t looking to choose a wife.

Your hair had been done and pinned beautifully, your most beautiful dress resting against your skin. It was certainly nothing to a noble, to be sure, but it was not unpleasant to look at and flattered the shape of your body.

It was hot, though, unbearably so, and you suffered dearly under the harsh rays of the late spring sun. Your mother insisted beauty had a price, but you weren’t quite sure why you were being asked to pay it.

The shade of the drawbridge was a welcome relief and you pulled a handkerchief from your bag and mopped at your face and neck. You didn’t need to offer the prince anymore reason to mock you.

You were escorted to the kings fitting rooms where you gently placed the fabric from your arms on top of what your father and Peter had carried from the cart. You patted at your neck once more as you watched Peter’s eyes scan the room excitedly. Absently you wondered if your father had taught him how to behave when the king was in the room.

Your father motioned you over and you slipped your handkerchief back in your bag and went to stand by his side. It wasn’t long before the king entered and you curtseyed deep, eyes trained on the floor.

He and your father spoke loudly as introductions were made and you could practically feel Peter vibrating from where he stood. He was excited, at least. You resisted the urge to pat at your cheeks, flushed with heat from the walk. Your throat felt like sand, dry as you swallowed and you wished more than anything for some water.

The men spoke noisily as they congregated around the fabric and it was decided that the king would be fitted first. You waited quietly as your father began his measurements, your fingers bunching tight in the fabric of your dress.

The room was overly warm, large windows allowing the sun to enter liberally and you felt yourself wilting in the heat. Voices muffling like you were under water, you watched as the gold, cerulean and cobalt of the room became nothing more than puddles of grey before fading into black.

Your brow felt cool, wet with the brush of a damp cloth and your eyelashes fluttered open, taking in the surrounding room.

Deep mahogany filled your vision, blue and white canopy drapes traveling the length of the rail. Walls painted in beautiful scenery drew your gaze and you reached up to feel the cloth against your brow.

“You’re awake.”

You inhaled sharp, turning to find the source of the voice. You were surprised to find the prince sat beside you, a basin of water resting on a table next to him and a small smile as greeting.

“I’m sorry to have startled you.” He said softly and you lowered your hand, attempting to sit up. “Please remain as you are, Y/N. You need just a moment to recover.”

“What happened? Where am I?”

“You are in one of the spare bedrooms in the palace. It seems you over heated and became faint.”

You closed your eyes tight, shame filling your breast. It was one thing to faint in general, but in front of the king and his son. Mortification was a bitter friend.

“Where is the doctor?” You asked carefully, peaking one eye open and glancing around the room. The prince smiled watching as your gaze flittered everywhere but him.

“I asked him to step outside for a moment. I wanted to make sure for myself that you were well.” He replied, watching your brows furrow in thought.

“Why is that, your majesty?” You pondered, looking up at him and he removed the cloth from your head, soaking it back in the basin before wringing it anew and placing it back against your brow.

“We are old friends, are we not?”

He stared down at his lap, seemingly unsure himself of his statement and your mouth parted in surprise. “You would consider us friends, your highness?”

The prince smiled, wry, before chuckling with a shrug. “Perhaps friends is too liberal of a word. I know I wasn’t the most…pleasant to be around when I was a child. I was selfish and cruel and it’s why my father sent me away. I’m very sorry to have ever been cause for discomfort.”

He paused to gauge your reaction but at the moment you weren’t sure what to think. It had seemed so unlikely to ever receive an apology and now that you had it, you weren’t quite sure what to make of it.

“I was hoping we could begin again…become real friends.” He admitted.

“Please pardon my confusion, but I find myself very surprised. Why would you wish to be friends with a pauper, your majesty?” You finally asked, looking over at him and his smile was gentle, gaze shifting to the open window, the afternoon’s breeze composing a dance among the curtains.

“You are not a pauper, YN” He said, watching as a small starling landed on the balcony, head twisting side to side as it chattered excitedly. “But even if you were, I would still wish to have your friendship. It is my father’s intention to make me king someday and after so many years as a selfish child, I am ashamed to admit that I know nothing of the people in my kingdom. The sorrows, the trials, the joys…I want to be a good king. I want people to know they can depend on me to help, even if I’m not perfect or don’t always have the answers. I want my people to trust me.”

You watched the starling yourself now, hopping across the wood of the balcony, a song puffing his chest wide. “And you think I can help you with that?” You asked softly, watching as the bird resumed flight and soared into the distance.

The prince looked back down at you, reaching his hand out to press against your cheek and you flinched. “My apologies, I only meant to see if your skin was still flushed. May I?”

You nodded, watching as his fingers extended back to your face, the back of his hand pressing gently across your cheek and neck. He hummed, retracting his hand and smiled. “Your temperature has reduced. How are you feeling?”

“Better.” You admitted, “Though I would love to have some water.”

“Yes, of course, I will have some fetched for you. Can I help you sit up?”

He held his hands out for you and you allowed him to pull you gently into an upright position. The world spun for a moment before settling and he moved to the door, calling for a water.

“As an answer to your earlier question,” he said, coming to sit across from you once again and you watched as he set the cloth and basin further away from the bed, “Not only do I wish to make amends, but I want to learn about my people and my kingdom and I believe that spending time with someone who knows the kingdom so well could only benefit that cause.”

“Spending time with me?” You questioned before pausing as a maid entered the room, handing the prince the water before leaving the room once more, door closed tightly behind her.

“Here,” he said, handing you the water which you took happily, clear and cool to the taste. “Yes, spending time with you. Getting to know all about you and my people.”

He paused to allow you a moment to think and you took the opportunity to finish your water, staring down into the cup once you’d allowed it to settle in your lap. It seemed unreasonable to refuse his offer if he really was trying to make a change.

The kingdom could only benefit from having their future king know them and care for their wellbeing. Perhaps the prince would make a very decent king after all, not the tyrant you’d assumed as a child.

“What say you?” He asked gently, holding his hand out for your glass and setting it on the table with the basin.

You looked up at him with a nod, smile tucked in the corner of your lips. “Very well. I can’t see how it would hurt. I will do as you request, your majesty.”

“Wonderful.” He smiled. “And please, call me Jungkook.”

You guys! Welcome to my page. I’m so happy you’re here and I’d absolutely love to know what you think of my new series! Go ahead and leave a cheeky comment, my loves 😘 See you soon!

Chapter 2

#jungkook scenarios #jungkook fluff #jungkook series #jungkook angst #jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fantasy au

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taeken-my-heart · 4 years

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Charming Chapter 1

(Banner by the incredible @xjoonchildx ! Thank you so, so much. I love it!)

Summary: Prince Seokjin was as infuriating as he was beautiful. In line to one day be king, he requested your guidance in the ways of his people. In turn he will make you laugh, give your family fine gifts, and become an invaluable friend. Unfortunately, he will also make you fall in love with him. But the most unfortunate thing of all was his betrothal...to Snow White

Pairing: Seokjin x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Fantasy, Angst, Snow white/au

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 4538

~~</3~~

For his 13th birthday, Prince Seokjin of Löhrenstein, would have a party, in which all the nobility and sovereigns of the land would be in attendance with their young princesses, and little duchesses, hoping to secure a treaty with his father, a contract between two kingdoms; a betrothal of a prince and a princess.

So while the prince was living in a castle and throwing parties and sneering down his nose at near everybody, you were busy helping your father to sew his clothes. At least you could still play in the fields when the sun was high and warm and the flowers were just beginning to bloom.

~~</3~~

The sun had just risen to its fullest height, waxing hot as it commandeered the sky, blue and shivering with the heat. It was sweltering and crowded in the square; noisy with life. The baker’s wife was out shouting, calling attention to the freshly baked rolls sitting just passed the door of the bakery. Else stood beside her father, batting her eyelashes and looking pretty; using charms her father could not to entice more customers and you smiled.

“This is no way to greet your king.” He remarks as your mother pulls you behind the wooden room divider, helping you to strip from your clothing and wiping you down quickly with a wet wash cloth.

“My dear, you are not fit to be seen!” Your mother scolded, washing roughly at your face and you grimaced, shivering in the chill of the room. “You knew they were coming today.”

“They are early.” You complained and your mother’s lips smacked in irritation.

“A king is never early. He always arrives exactly when he means to. You would do well to remember that, Y/N.”

Your mother helped you to dress in something new quickly, repinning the last piece of your hair just as the crunch of gravel from the royal carriage wheels could be heard rounding the corner and the two of you rushed from the room and to the front door to wait with your father.