Hi Violet! I Just Now Remembered That I Was Going To Send In This Ask. Thank You For Taking This Request!

Hi Violet! I just now remembered that I was going to send in this ask. 😮‍💨🥴 Thank you for taking this request!

I would love some Princely headcanons for an insecure plus sized fem!Reader/MC. She just isn't feeling herself at the moment and doesn't feel like she's beautiful enough for her Prince. How would the princes react/comfort her?

Thanks so much, my dear! I already adore what you've shown me, I can't wait to see what you might add. 🥺❤

A/N: Thank you for the ask, L. Who doesn't need to feel loved? I hope I could do this justice.

TW: the f!reader is filled with feelings of self-loathing about her weight

Suitors: @randonauticrap 's favorite princes: Jin, Sariel and of course, Chevalier

WC: 1568

Due to the content, the writing is after the break.

Jin Grandet

You stand in front of the mirror, gold frames and plane glass warping into a blurry vision of smeared gold and streaked silver as you blink against the hot tears filling your eyes. You reach up with heavy hands, pulling on either side of the corseted dress for the upteenth time, struggling to make the ends meet. Again, they don’t and again that feeling churns inside you, like frothy foam on an ocean of self-loathing. The beautiful material falls from your fingers. You don’t deserve to even touch it. It's not meant for women who look like you.

At that moment, Jin steps into the bedroom you share, chattering something about Clavis and chili peppers and ice cream, but he stops short when he sees you, the inward slope of your shoulder, the way you turn your face away from him, the dark purple jeweled satin abandoned, now pooled at your feet. The flow of words stops abruptly, your body language as clear as a hand violently clamping over his mouth. 

He approaches you from behind, garnet eyes smoldering with emotion as he reaches out, his large hands resting on your shoulders for a moment. They slide down the soft skin of your upper arms and you force yourself to remain still, to resist the urge to pull away. One strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tenderly against the hard planes of his body. The other hand rises to capture your chin, urging you to lift your face. He murmurs your name, his dusky voice entreating you to look up and into the mirror.

You raise your eyes to look into the glass. He asks you what you see. Your voice is silenced by a mace of antipathy slamming into you and you almost choke on the spikes. You whisper something about a dress that won’t close and a body not worthy of anyone’s gaze, let alone his touch.

Jin glances down at the dress and with one foot, casually kicks it away from both of you, sending it sliding off into exile under the settee. His voice isn’t entreating anymore when he tells you, commands you, to meet his gaze in the mirror again. 

Instructing you to never take your eyes off of him, he bends his long body around you from behind, his lips touching your cheek, still tracked with tears. His hands move over your skin, over and under the linen shift you wear. With his body, his whispered words and heated mouth, his gentle but demanding hands, he touches all of you, gilding you  with his love, his desire, his need for you and only you. The ocean inside churns not with loathing but lust, not distaste but desire. The seas part and you rise, resplendent, buffeted by the winds of his devotion. 

Sariel Noir

He finds you curled up in bed, heavy velvet curtains drawn against the moonlight, against a full moon no less. Normally you would be snuggled up in the window seat, book in hand, allowing the argent light to pour over you, to bathe you in its glow.

The brevity of the few exchanged words as he enters, the monotone of your answers, the way you fight to disappear. He sighs heavily. This is not new to him. These demons are always within you, more often than not dormant…but sometimes, like now, they escape, clawing their way to the forefront of your mind, laughing maniacally in the face of your paper-thin self confidence.

It takes a demon to defeat other demons. Sariel prepares for battle, removing his clothing piece by piece. Austere jacket, dark pants, undershirt. He folds them all meticulously. Lastly, he lays his glasses on the nightstand before sliding under the blankets. Only you know the corded muscle that lies underneath the buttons and fixtures of his clothing. His skin is cool, familiar. An immediate balm to all the inflammatory thoughts rolling around inside your mind. 

He pulls you against him, his body curling around yours. One knowing hand reaches to hold you around the waist and automatically the demons in your mind try to push him away. He shouldn’t touch you, not when you feel like this, unwieldy and unattractive, uncomfortable in your own skin. But Sariel is not one to be deterred from anything he wants. His arm wraps around you, like a band of iron, and pulls you even closer. His midnight voice pours words into your ear, how you belong to him, how you can never, ever escape because he will never, ever allow it. How all of you, every single pillowy curve, every handful of flesh, is his to hold, his to claim, his to worship.

You have no choice but to relent, your body bending to his will, to the pull of his palms and the insistence of his fingers. His touch scours the planes of your body, chasing demons, crushing them under the weight of his will and his love for you. 

And when you roll over in the circle of his arms, your expression is clear. All he sees is the moonlight in your eyes that counters his own dark shadows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then lower, kissing your mouth. He parts your lips and you melt against him, your mind and body wholly and completely his.

Chevalier Michel

You hear him come into the suite you share, the measured footsteps following the sound of the door closing. He calls your name and you swallow hard, forcing the thorny ball of self-hate down, down, down, down to the depths from whence it came. It leaves deep scratches in its wake, a pain that is at once shocking and terrifyingly familiar.

Bodily you sink further down into the large, claw-footed bathtub. You had poured a generous amount of the pink liquid into the water, birthing hundreds of soft bath bubbles not because they smelled good (although they did, like summer roses) but to hide your body from view. You didn’t want to get a glimpse of yourself even under the glassy, undulating cover of water. He calls for you again and you clear your throat, sweep away the ashes of loathing, before calling out that you are in the bath.

He steps into the room of white tile and gold trimming, looking as regal in this setting as he does in his office or in the throne room. You force your lips to move, to lift into a smile, hoping he is too tired from his meetings, from the heavy lifting of running a country to look too closely. Hope has a snowball's chance in hell because Chevalier Michel misses nothing, especially when it comes to the woman who captured his heart. 

“What’s wrong?”

Those words are your undoing. Burying your face in your hands, water and bubbles sluicing down your arms, you release the poisonous thoughts that have been corroding your mind. You are not beautiful enough for a man like him. You know people wonder what he sees in you. How could he be with someone who looks like that? How could a man as perfect as chiseled marble even want a woman whose body is soft, a body that spills out of clothing, that folds and bends and ripples like water. He deserves better. He deserves perfection. You are far from that.

Your words spill out of you, falling from your lips like teardrops. They feel slippery on the tongue. They sting like jellyfish tentacles. Chevalier does not interrupt. He does not offer words of comfort. He stands in his beautifully pressed clothing, pristine as angel song, and he listens. 

Eventually you run out of things to say. Your hands still cover your face, your breath warm, the air sickeningly sweet with the scent of rose-colored bubbles. The bathroom is quiet until you hear the susurrus of clothing falling to the floor. Your hands fall down as well, splashing into the water in surprise as a very naked Chevalier Michel lowers himself into the bathtub. Normally the disparity between the foamy bubbles and his serious visage would spark a laugh, but right now no spark stands a chance against the damp curtain of sadness hanging over your heart.

He leans back, arms resting on the rim of the porcelain tub, his head tilted as he regards you. And then he speaks, his tone rocksteady, as he reminds you that he accepts nothing but the best. That in no aspect of his life would he ever settle. Especially when it comes to where he places his trust. The person he chooses to love. He reminds you that once he commanded you to love him, an order from the king. Absolute.  Only a simpleton would believe that the reverse wouldn’t be true. He loves you too. Absolutely. 

“Come here.” He makes a motion with his hand and as with everything, the force of his will is undeniable. You slide forward, water displacing in gentle waves, and take his hand as he turns you and then pulls you against him, settling your back to his chest. 

His time, his words, his touch, his resolute declaration of love are the antidote you needed. Tension finally seeps from your muscles into the warm water as you settle back against him. His arms are your castle. Here you will always be safe and loved.

Exactly as you are.

💜

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing 

Dragon!Silvio

maybe not what you were expecting but welcome to the hoard

Deadass rendered coins to use

Keep reading

oh but just you wait...!

Imm putting this at the top of my masterlist, scratch that. My whole blog.

First of Many - Chapter 1: First Prince

Chapter List

Word Count: ~3900

Chapter Content Warnings: None

A/N: It finally begins! This isn't quite a birthday fic, but having the deadline really pushed me to finishing this chapter. Introductions are not my strong suit, so I'm hoping the following chapters will be easier now that this hurdle has been cleared.

For more details and spoiler/content warnings, please refer to the chapter list (linked above). Glad to have you along for this journey!

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. After all, there are only so many ways an assassination attempt could end up. Either the target is dead or alive, and the assassin captured or home-free. Jin didn’t focus much on the middle details because only the ending really mattered. But as he stood in front of the still-living king, tears spilling down the throne instead of blood, he couldn’t help but wonder at what point it all went wrong.

Minutes dragged on in awkward glances and involuntary fidgeting, but Jin remained rooted to his spot. Perhaps he jumped too quickly to conclusions. Sunset spilled through the high windows like a fiery flood, blazing every surface in the room a deep red, from the scarlet walls to the ruby throne to the king’s crimson hair. It was entirely possible what he saw before was only a trick of the light. If he could get one more look into those eyes, he’d see it was all his imagination. Then he’d pick himself up and leave this place forever.

But the king’s face was still buried in his hands, and he was sobbing harder than ever. 

Why was he crying? If anyone should be crying it was Jin. Jin, who spent the past year scraping by on the scraps of tithers without a second glance. Who worked at the mercy of scum and cheats pulling the weight of men multiple times his age. Who lost his entire world in an instant, and scoured mountains and valleys on foot just to answer why. Why had this all happened to him?

“Your Majesty!” called a deep voice. The doors burst open with a clamor of metal and swishing of robes. Men barreled over the threshold, pushing past and knocking into each other in their advance on the throne. Stunned, Jin covered his head and ducked away from the stampede.

“We heard yelling!” 

“What has happened, Your Majesty?” 

“Where is the child?” 

The voices carried across the high ceilings as Jin crawled into a corner. He lost his chance. These men, they surely have come to dispose of him like the criminal he was.

But he had to know. He needed to know the truth before they took him away. Clutching his heaving chest, Jin craned his neck as high as he could manage, though he could barely see above the swords adorning the men’s hips as they besieged the throne. He slowly pushed his quivering knees to stand, heart rattling against his palm, and approached the congregation. He could just make out sunlight glinting off the crown when a voice screeched from his side.

“There he is!”

And many things happened in quick succession. All eyes turned on him, and aside from the king’s renewed tears and a ringing that sprouted in Jin’s ears, the room fell deathly silent. A man in dark plum robes barked orders. The company parted, creating a path between the throne and Jin. Through it, six armored men approached, extracting their swords from their sheaths.

The ringing intensified as the soldiers grew closer. Jin’s feet were glued to the blood-red carpet. He hugged his chest and crouched, burrowing his face in his knees. His eyes stung and he shut them tightly. He was not like the king. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him cry when they ended it. It would be quick and over with. Then they could forget about the orphan boy who ever dared point a blade at royalty.

But the blade never fell. Blinking through the blinding light, Jin slowly raised his head. The soldiers stood in a circle, backs towards him, pointing their swords at the now dispatched bystanders. 

“Can you stand?” a soldier to the right asked. He looked over his shoulder, armor flickering in the sun. Jin opened his mouth but no sound came out. Instead, he tightened his taut legs and stood. The soldier nodded to the others, and as a unit they began to march. Jin had little choice but to follow in their procession toward the door.

This made sense; why sully the illustrious throne room with the blood of a lowly crook? They were taking him to a second location, far away from the prying eyes of those highbred hoity toits. 

The hallways were steep and cavernous. They reminded Jin of the caves he slept in on his journey; cold, and stiff, and echoing. But unlike his dark, desolate caves, these halls were gleaming and littered with eyes.

Eyes peering from behind gloves and fans and books and hats and folded sheets and boxed goods and emblazoned shawls and fur coats and people… all pointed squarely at Jin. He could see faces behind those eyes, some were whispering to each other or gasping as he passed, but none looked human. They all towered above him, like beasts trying to catch a glimpse of the latest prey on the chopping block.

Even though he couldn’t hear what they were saying, their piercing gazes clambored in his head like bells. He turned away and stared out the colossal windows lining the opposite wall, desperate to refocus his thoughts. The sun dipped lower now, casting uniform shadows crawling across the floors. Window panels and valances and curtains stretched along the floors as homogeneously as the soldiers surrounding him, and Jin timed his breaths with each repeating pattern.

Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe. Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe.

It seemed to be working. The sounds of the soldiers’ stomping were clearing up.

Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe.

He lowered his arms from his chest and rested them at his sides. His knife sat comfortably in his pocket. They hadn’t taken it from him.

Curtain, valence, panel, curtain, breathe.

There were six of them and one of him. Not a single one was facing him, they were too busy pushing the audience to the sides and keeping them at bay. They passed by various branching corridors, many of which were empty.

Curtain, valence, panel… bump?

Jin halted his steps and whipped his head to the last set they passed. Where the other curtains hung immobile and wrinkle-free, this one had a tiny fist clutching onto its edge. Directly below its tasseled holdback, a small head stuck out from behind the fabric, though against the early rays of twilight Jin could only make out the eyes. Two protuberant eyes, as golden and resplendent as the setting sun behind them.

They were most unlike the eyes of the other onlookers. While those were invasive and grim and glaring at him from high above, these were soft and curious and at his level. For a reason he couldn’t explain, Jin wanted to call out to them, but the soldier positioned in the rear knocked into him as he backed up.

“Keep moving,” the soldier commanded as they untangled from each other. Jin tossed a final glance at the curtain and watched it sway unoccupied before continuing to walk. He could not fall into the breathing pattern again.

As soon as the soldier returned to formation, Jin extracted the parchment sitting in his back pocket. Sighing in relief it wasn’t ruined, he unfolded the paper and read the words now permanently etched into his brain:

Jin, you must never go anywhere near Rhodolite Palace. If you go near that place, they might kill you.

He ran his fingers across the fading script, taking extra care not to crease it any more than it already was. Hundreds of times he’d folded and unfolded the paper to the point where he feared it would tear even if he so much as looked at it the wrong way. But he would never let that happen. It was the only proof of her existence. He could claim she raised him and hugged him and loved him, but recitals could only travel so far. Someone here had to know about her. And even if they took his life before he could meet them, at least her words would still be preserved. He slipped the parchment back into his pocket.

But what good would that do after he was gone? Would they know he was her son? That he braved across kingdoms in search of answers? Of the trials and tribulations he endured on his quest for the truth? The thought that he would be forgotten didn’t worry him as much as if she was. Of all the stories she told about Rhodolite, of its grandeur and nobility, he could not understand how there could be anything or anyone more deserving of such titles than she.

A soft click from behind broke him out of his thoughts. Panic stabbed Jin’s limbs anew as he turned and latched on to the door handle, jiggling it frantically, but to no avail. The door stood stubborn and unmoving, just as his mind had been. Why had he let himself get so caught up in his thoughts when he knew precisely the danger he was in? Now he was paying for his buffoonery; they’d gone and thrown him in a dungeon until they figured out how to get rid of him.

Would they get it done quickly? Those guards certainly didn’t seem shy about splaying their weapons. Or would they leave him to starve? The terrifying gazes of the people in the hallway resurfaced. Did nobles get a sick sense of satisfaction watching their prisoners descend into madness? They were certainly puzzling with their execution. Who puts a gilded door knob in a prison cell?

Jin pried his sweaty hands off the brass handle and turned. The room was dark, save for the final bursts of sunset fighting through thick window curtains. In their faint rays he could make out tiny specs of dust scattering through the air as he caught his breath, and he wiped his fraying sleeves across his forehead while his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Definite objects soon swam into view. Nearest to him stood a tall brown cabinet, easily three times his size, with handles that sparkled even more magnificently in the dim light than the one on the door. On the opposite wall near the window sat a short writing desk with nothing on it except a wide oval mirror, a half-melted candlestick, and a visible layer of dust. Taking up the majority of the center of the room was a bed, a large white cloth draped over its entirety. 

Though the furniture was all comfortably well distanced, Jin still cautiously wound his way across the room, taking care not to knock into anything, and ripped open the curtains. As he suspected, the ground lay what seemed like a mile below, and the sun cradled back against the horizon as though goading him to try and jump. 

What was the cause of the delay, he thought again. Stubbornness started to take over as his mind calmed down in the quiet. Were they postponing his end in favor of something else? Jin understood children were prone to impatience, but making him wait for his own death seemed excessively rude. 

He pressed his hand on his back, the familiar warmth of the oily parchment seeping into his back. This wasn’t the end. There had to be a way out. He refused to stay put waiting for them to make the first move.

Jin pulled on the curtains until they ripped free from their hangings. Coughing out the dust that fell, he tied the two ends together and triple-knotted one end of the extended curtain around his waist. He tossed the unused remains of the curtain away from the windowsill and pushed on the glass. The wooden frame creaked loudly with a crunchiness indicating it hadn’t been opened in years, but Jin managed to wrench it open with several well-timed shoves. He grabbed the other free end of the curtain, tossed it out into the cool night air, and watched it lazily fall about a quarter of the distance to the ground.

Chuffing angrily, Jin reeled the curtains back in and began searching around the room for more fabric. One touch of the cloth covering the bed was enough to tell him it wouldn’t work; the material was so flimsy he could rip it apart without much difficulty. And the bed itself was free of blankets and bedsheets. The desk proved little use as well. It was too wobbly to tie a base too, and he couldn’t manage to open its drawers no matter how much he shook it. 

This left the cabinet, which Jin partially hoped he wouldn’t have to search. He hadn’t feared monsters hiding in the closet for sometime now, but he’d never looked inside the closet of a rich person, much less a palace. Could this be where they hid the remains of those poor souls they imprisoned? Shuddering slightly, he grasped the cold metallic handle and pulled.

It wasn’t filled with monsters or bodies. It wasn’t even filled with severed limbs or bloodied weapons, which Jin considered briefly. No, the cabinet was overflowing with dresses. A veritable rainbow of the poofiest dressed Jin had ever seen. Gentle lilac and bold cobalt and striking olive assaulted his view as the compressed gowns expanded to full width in their newfound freedom, and Jin madly swung his arms to cut through their fluffy embrace. Once his hand whacked against wood, he climbed inside and continued his search, blindly groping the contents until he at last located a pile of folded sheets. 

Cheering internally (the plush skirts muffled his voice), Jin clambered out of the closet and extracted his knife. He sliced the sheets into shears, not caring how neat the cuts came out, and quickly began tying the ends together as he did before. Night fell rapidly around him, and Jin wished his captors would have had the decency to leave a candle in his cell. Not that he was afraid of the dark. He wasn’t that young. But he didn’t complain about the steady rise of the full moon either, even knowing it would make concealing his escape more challenging.

He stopped counting after fifty knots, adding extra ones in between slips for added reinforcement. A fabric snake wormed its way around the floor, growing until it reached each corner of the room. When he at last used up the final shear, Jin grabbed the free end of his cloth serpent and secured it to a bedpost with multiple knots. He did what he could. He only hoped it was long enough.

He pocketed his knife, double-checked his mother’s letter was still on him, and returned to the window. Putting his weight in his arms, he began hoisting himself over the windowsill, but knocked his knee against a corner and tripped. The windowsill splintered and broke clean off the wall, and Jin nervously wound his makeshift rope around his fingers as it crumbled to the floor. Would the knots be strong enough to support his weight the entire way down? 

Footsteps sounding from the hall froze him on the spot, but they soon passed the door without stopping. Scrambling back up, Jin grabbed the side of the writing desk and pushed it in front of the window. He tried to ignore the way the legs shrilled against the wooden floor.

It’ll only be a sec. I’ll jump out right away, he thought to himself, hoping whoever strolled outside was too far away to hear the commotion. The desk was the perfect height to perch by the window, and Jin occupied his mind with thoughts of weightless birds and floaty dresses as he climbed. 

He secured his hands on the window frame and peered down. The moon shone brightly against the cloudless sky, illuminating the pointed dewy grass below like a bed of spikes. Jin stepped back and wiped his palms on his shirt—when did they get so sweaty? It must have been from all the knotting, a natural reaction to a day’s hard work. That was probably why his vision was going all swirly too… from all those hooks and loops…. And his shaky legs… a perfectly reasonable response to—

Crash!

Jin instinctively curled into a ball the moment the desk snapped. His back collided with the ground first, and his legs wedged in place where a floorboard popped loose. The desk collapsed in front of him, its mirror exploding into hundreds of flying  sharp slices that scraped his knees, and the force of the landing knocked the previously locked drawer out, its contents cracking and rolling and scattering across the floor.

Jin sat still for a while and held his breath. He was listening for sounds of anyone approaching from the hall. When it seemed no one heard the crash, he pulled himself out from the hole and inspected the damage. Aside from some minor cuts and bruises, he was unharmed, but he still hissed scornfully at his blunder. He wasn’t afraid of the dark, never. But of all times to maybe pick up a fear of heights…

He moved to check the desk debris. It consisted mostly of papers, quills, and several ink bottles which all shattered in the fall. Black liquid flowed from the wreckage, staining the wood and parchment around it, and Jin began throwing them off to the side as he thought of a new plan. 

The bed was much too large for him to push, and there wasn’t anything solid in the cabinet. He could probably pile all the dresses and climb over them, the skirts seemed sturdy enough, but he might end up slipping in all those soft garments. As he pondered the possibility of death by fabric suffocation, something familiar caught his eye. He held one of the fallen papers and scanned the header; it was the same script that adorned the letter in his pocket. 

My prince,

Thank you for showing me the rose garden today. All my life I’ve lived in Rhodolite and never have I seen such beautiful flowers! I didn’t even know roses could be those colors, we truly live in a blessed kingdom. It seems a shame we cannot share it with everyone.

And speaking of which, thank you for listening to me today as well. I’m really sorry to have troubled you with my problems. We each have our assigned roles to play, and yet I’m already flubbing in the first week. I am sure Lord Magnum is second guessing my appointment as I write this, I’m supposed to be studying trade relations with Benitoite right now, but I am still overwhelmed at the thought that I’ll be choosing the next king. Me! It is like a fairytale that I am even in the palace. And to have met you and the others, nothing could be more

Numbness took over every part of Jin’s body except his hands, which clamped even harder on the paper as he read it a second time. The blotches of ink tarnished the rest of the paper, but he could still make out the important bits. His mother had been here, he knew it.

He shuffled through the rest of the pages, but most were in even worse conditions than the first. He finally plucked one with a date in the header reading seven years prior.

My king,

Perhaps it is a bit premature to call you that, but I suppose I wanted to be the first. Belle may have a pure heart, but even she falls to her whims if they present themselves strongly enough. I am only human, after all. As are you.

But once I sign the proclamation tomorrow, I will cease to be Belle, and you a prince. I feel an exciting change is upon us, both as individuals and as a kingdom, and you taught me that. This past month has opened my eyes to many things, both wonderful and saddening, and while I know now that it is unreasonable to expect all our troubles can be solved in a single reign, I believe wholeheartedly that you are our greatest chance of achieving peace and prosperity. I say that not as Belle, but as myself. The woman who has fallen in love with 

Jin struggled with the bigger words of this letter, but felt he got the gist of it. Not only was she here, but she knew the king. Supposedly our “greatest chance of achieving peace and prosperity.” She could not be talking about the same man he left crying on the throne, was she? And love? To his knowledge, Jin was the only person she ever said “I love you” to.

Jin desperately clawed through the remaining letters. His hands stained with splattered ink as he shuffled tarnished page after page, only managing broken fragments and half-words. He splayed the ones he could save on the floor away from the flowing blackness, picking up anything he could salvage.

My love…

…they don’t like me…

…fear I am a burden…

…send me away…

…for our baby…

…I will always lo…

“As sensible as she was benevolent,” said a deep voice.

Jin snatched all the pages he could reach, clutched them to his chest, and turned around. Standing in the doorway was the tall plum robed man from the throne room, his grainy wrinkles and graying hair illuminated by the candelabra in his hand. The man bent low and snatched one of the pages Jin could not reach in time. Holding the single stainless corner in his fingers, he brought it up to the candlelight and read. Jin watched, horrified every time the fire swayed close to the paper.

“She was a free spirit, your mother. I could see her in you the moment I laid my eyes on you,” said the man, releasing the paper. It gently floated to the floor as he stepped past it and bent in front of Jin. “Of course, we are delighted to have her son back in his rightful home. We have been waiting many long years for your return, my prince.”

The man lowered the candelabra to the floor and bowed his head. Jin scooted backwards until he hit the wall. It couldn’t be true. Yet, a part of him deep down knew it was true. He didn’t want it to be true. He wanted to get out of this place. He wanted the ringing ears to come back, to drown out everything this man was saying. He was Jin Grandet. Six years old, orphan boy. Not a prince. Not in a million years.

“A wise decision on her part, you are still so young.” The man placed a hand into his robes. Jin automatically reached for his knife and stuck it out in front of him, panting heavily as he watched the man pull out a tightly rolled document.

“But legacy is everything here. We are sworn to protect and nurture it, generation after generation. For the greater good of the kingdom and its longevity.” He unfolded the paper and Jin stared at the gilded border and fancy penmanship that adorned the sheet. Most of it was too scripted for him to understand from afar, but again the familiar handwriting marked the bottom of the page. Two names; one he shared, and one he’d been searching for.

“Welcome home, Jin Grandet. First prince of Rhodolite.”

You guys have no idea how exhilarating it is seeing this chapter that I've been cooking up since last March finally written out. Here's to hoping it doesn't take till next March for me to finish it all!

Tagging: @atelieredux @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus @thewitchofbooks @leonscape @rhodolitesrose @venti-tangents @dear-sciaphilia @ikesenwritings @myonlyjknight

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message.

I hope I'm doing this right!

Luke / 5 / adventure / second 💜

Character: Luke Randolph

POV: 2nd person Genre: Adventure

Prompt #5: “Do you want to talk about it, or do you want a distraction from it?”

Wordcount: 998

A/N: Hiya Violet, thank you for the request! I was super duper close to turning this into Luke's Pokemon journey, but maybe we'll leave that for another day.

Sand immediately seeped into the tears in your pants as you collapsed onto your knees, coarse and grainy against raw flesh. You heaved breath after breath, clutching your searing chest with quivering fingers, as briney salt invaded your nostrils, the scent unfamiliar and painful.

You peeled the heavy pack off your sweaty back just as another figure collapsed beside you. Luke landed eagle-spread in the sand, green hood obscuring the top half of his stung, sunburned face, giving him the appearance of a sliced watermelon shriveling under the sun. 

You inhaled a final shaky breath and pulled the map out of your shirt. Several new creases had formed since you hastily stashed it away, but Rio’s markings still showed clearly. Verdant Jungle: fire ant, tic, bee infestation. Avoid green-bark trees. Salt water good for stings.

Something buzzed nearby and you swatted your neck. The smushed remains of a fuzzy black bee, and purple venom oozed down your fingers when you pulled back. Great, that made seven stings. That you knew of. Of course they wouldn’t be honey bees, you thought, shooting a contemptuous glare at the panting Luke. You hadn’t seen a single living flower in days. 

You absentmindedly flicked the carcass and scratched your neck as you studied the map again. Scribbled just below the jungle, right on the bottom edge of the paper, was a pair of the goofiest faces smiling up at you. Sapphire Shores: hideaway paradise. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked up. The sand extended a fair way ahead then stopped abruptly to be replaced by the largest slab of blue you’d ever seen. You knew it was water, of course the ocean was full of water, but the stillness of the air and the trees against the roaring waves turned the scene into a semi-living being. Like an unfinished painting and you had front row seats to each new brushstroke. 

Flecks of warm ocean spray hit your tingling cheek as you opened your pack. You produced the rose stalk, what was left of it anyway, and slipped off your boots. The sand scalded your blistered feet as you approached the water, but the moment you stepped in the glistening puddles, it was as though a silencing spell had fallen. Cool, slippery foam pushed and pulled between your toes, and though your exhausted body threatened to collapse into its depths, for the first time in a month you felt strangely balanced. At peace. In control.

You plucked the final scarlet petal, let it fall, and watched the waves drift it out to sea. A tiny crab scuttled along the shallowest part of the shore, and you trained your eyes on its precise movements as it expertly maneuvered around pebbles and shells. 

Leon would make a good king. He already had experience as a leader and the people really liked him. Plus he was sincere, earnest, and easy to talk to… a little too easy. But you couldn’t count Chevalier out. He could command a room just by entering, and his actions were based on decades of knowledge and calculations. He was dominating and honest… but perhaps too much so.

The crab encountered a cracked pink shell. It could easily pass around it, but for some reason it halted and stared, as though transfixed by the chipped swirling patterns. 

Any prince would be excellent. And it’s not like the ones who weren’t chosen would simply cease to exist; of course they’d remain and help their brother. That was something even young children could expect. Yet they still expected you to make that choice.

The crab remained in place. Farther out at sea, the rumbling of a new wave burbled.

One month was hardly enough time to learn about a person, let alone eight. And select from among them a king? They were asking the impossible from you. A miracle. It’s like they expected you to fail. It’s like they anticipated a fail safe.

Rushing water enveloped your view as the wave crashed, soaking you up to your waist. Your hair frizzed as airborne froth stuck it out unevenly, but you still managed to locate the poor crab, rocking and kicking its limbs madly in the air. You crouched and tipped the crab back onto its legs with the tip of your rose stalk. It hurriedly scampered off without a backward glance.

“Amazing,” whispered a voice. Luke now stood beside you, bare feet submerged, staring at the horizon.

“First time in the water?” you asked. It was at that moment you realized that though you spent the past month traveling together, this was the first question you asked of him. All the golden opportunities to know more about this competitor for the throne, and you wasted them insisting on this perilous journey south. Truly, Sariel made a mistake selecting you as Belle. 

Your mind drifted to Rio and how he slipped you the filled pack with the map and rose the very night you were brought to the palace, and how he insisted he stay behind for “damage control” despite your protests. You’d encountered Luke at the city gates with nothing more than a broadsword and his own pack. You thought of the nights spent in dubious inns where you were sure Luke barely slept a wink. You thought about how that wasn’t his most peculiar behavior; about the time he’d fallen off a stool when an old man in an eyepatch drunkenly collapsed on your breakfast, or how he’d somberly whisper names in the few instances he did sleep, like a sinner possessed. 

“No,” Luke replied, “I used to visit a lake with my mom and stepdad.”

“And Leyla?” you asked hesitantly, and Luke’s gaze sharpened on the sea. You watched the welts on his face throb as you swirled lazy circles in the water with your hands, feeling at last the pain starting to quell.

It was almost comical; two outcasts escaping the crown, hopping the border, surviving a perilous journey usually only accomplished by highly-trained adventurers, and yet you still struggled to look each other in the eye.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you started, cupping some water in your hands, “Or do you want a distraction from it?” You splashed Luke and took off deeper into the ocean. He shook his head and began to follow, only to trip and fall face-down into the water. He picked himself up, removed his coat, and tied the sleeves and ends to a spherical shape. Your hearty laughter turned to squeals of panic as he scooped water into his makeshift bowl, a triumphant grin spreading across his features.

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