"What Happens In Doggie Daycare, Stays In Doggie Daycare" Got It
@glenandbrisketpowellsdogpack
Lindsee, 44 Female, Dog Lover and Doggie Daycare Worker. Formally SebastianStansHungryBlueEyes, Fan Fic Reader & Writer, Second Tumblr Account I Created For My Sebastian Stan Bucky Barnes Follows and Following. Also Started To Get Into Glen Powell
Birthday Girl - Y/N Hates Her Birthday With A Passion. Will whoever sent her roses with a card saying: Does your Birthday Wishlist include “Sex”? Because that’s what I got you. Happy Birthday. I know that you like me, so why not act on it. Change the situation?
The Art Of College Research Desperation 101 Teaser - "I need a guy to help me be a study subject for my paper if you have a free minute or two I mean that is all I ask and want."
Bucky Barnes
RockStar - Y/N is a Stripper who is hired to do a personal house call for her favorite RockStar. What she doesn't expect after a bit of a misunderstanding with Bucky is him coming to Grovel for her forgiveness.
What Steve Rogers or Bucky Barnes Omega in heat hypothetically visually actually looks like in heat in the Alpha/Omega fan fics, one-shots - I don't think it matters if it's between two Aliens or Omega/Alpha human mates, I had this thought about how this clip is so related to what an omega must look, feel and behave like the moment her heat hits. Also, the first real reaction between her and her Alpha right before they go right at it into mating.
Henry Cavill
Obligated Burden Spotify PlayList: Spotify Page I Set Up For The PlayList
Obligated Burden Playlist: Keeps being Updated, so A Working Playlist in Progress.
Obligated Burden: Lindsee knows she and her Godchildren are damned if she doesn't agree to a proposed proposition of A Marriage Of Convenience to Mafia Boss, Charles Brandon, her Godchildren's Godfather. It being their Mother's Last Wish Made Clear in her Final Will and Testament. They Must Both Have Physical Custody and be Their Guardians Until They Are 18. An Obligated Burden that Cannot Be Avoided At All Costs.
Obligated Burden Story Blog
What going into heat over Henry Cavill or one of his characters might look like via Species II - Just some random idea I had that involved use of the plot from Species 2. - Part 1
What going into heat over Henry Cavil or one of his characters might look like via Species II - Part 2
What going into heat over Henry Cavill or one of his characters might look like Via Species II - Part 3
What a Strong Female Character Is Not
Fan Fiction Writer's Confessions
Fan Fiction Writer's Confession: When I Was Given My "What Would My Heroine Do" Moment As A Domestic Violence Survivor To Confront My Abuser Part One
Fan Fiction Writer's Confession: When I Was Given My "What Would My Heroine Do" Moment As A Domestic Violence Survivor To Confront My Abuser Part Two
All I Need In Life Is...: Things That Make Me Happy And Are My Happy Place. Warning: There May Be Doggie OverLoad.
⤷ things i DO NOT write for : anything underage, heavy smut, anything incestuous, non-con or semi-con, glamorisation of mental illnesses or self-harm and so on
⤷ thing i DO write for : anything else, really, as long as i’m comfortable and it inspires me <𝟑 .ᐟ
FANDOMS : currently writing for lotr, the hobbit, potc and troy
─── old drafts from other fandoms will probably be posted as time goes
CHARACTERS : (x reader) basically orlando bloom; legolas, will turner, paris of troy — but other characters from said fandoms are also appreciated, feel free to ask!!
SHIPS : i don’t usually write for ships but i like them so feel free to ask for one!!
be kind and patient! i’m a uni student doing this on my own free time so requests may take a little while to be answered; know i see them and am working on them if i do not tell you otherwise <3
my work ✎ᝰ.
*= smut
LORD OF THE RINGS
— legolas greenleaf
stories :
a heart for a kingdom ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Commercial alliances between Lindon and Mirkwood had always been common; and so was the dignified contempt both of their heir held towards each other. You thought of Mirkwood’s prince with a distinguished loathing regarding his arrogance and conceited personality, and he thought no different of you. It had never been a problem. But that was before there was mentions of reinforcing the bond between the two kingdoms with a strategic union. And not just any union: an heir wedding.
bloodborne ⋮ read on ao3
summary : For centuries your kind has lived hidden: unknown to the world, shrunk back in the shadows you belong in. The Great Ball is the only time you come out in the light, the only time you allow yourself to feast. Amongst moulded ceilings and cups of wine, Mirkwood’s crown prince finds an interest in you and your red velvet dresses. But Legolas doesn’t know you have teeth to bite him and an inherited bloodlust.
one shots :
the healer ⋮ read on ao3
summary : When you offer your life and your powers to the fellowship, calm and unperturbed Legolas feels his insides knot with themselves. There’s a promise at the tip of his lips and memories that rush through your fingers.
a quest for intimacy* ⋮ read on ao3
summary : A quest against a dark lord is never easy, but it seems worse when prying eyes are everywhere and you can’t seem to have a single moment of privacy. Especially when a certain hobbit keeps walking on you inconveniently, ruining your plans with the elf prince at the tip of your fingers.
wild mustang [part 1]* ; [part 2] ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Legolas could eat you whole and never be satiated. Except you are just friends and it’s never whole that he eats you, he always leaves your heart to the side.
by elvish customs ⋮ read on ao3
summary : With no regard for elvish standards, you are the only one Legolas is that affectionate with; it’s almost discourteous. Yet it seems the elf cares little for the opinion of others and you wonder where you stand with him.
meleth nîn ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Being a Ranger of the North meant you rarely had the luxury to spare yourself a bath, and it's a thought that does not sit right with Legolas.
[request] the cure to jealousy ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Two times Legolas swallows back his jealousy, and a third time he doesn’t.
[request] red wine berry kisses ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Not only the truth ferments in wine, doubts concerning your love life also do. Your birthday grows closer with each passing day, and during a drunken night with yours friends you realise something: you never had your first kiss. And you're the only one.
death is a cold bride [on its way…]
summary : A frozen cold death is what awaits for you before Legolas finds you in the forest and brings you back to his father’s halls. Only, he can swear he’s seen you before and in your fever you think death is a beautiful elf.
you’re still the one [on its way…]
summary : In which Legolas follows you everywhere like a puppy to make sure you’re alright, until he doesn’t just once and it’s all it takes for you not to be alright anymore. Forever.
— thranduil greenleaf
one shots :
et in arcadia ego ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Et in Arcadia ego ; « Even in Arcadia, there I am » is a latin locution expressing that even in the blissful, pastoral haven of Arcadia death still exists.
Your people are fleeing for Dale yet the city is nothing but ruins and war prepares. When the immortal king that comes to your aid has grief in his eyes, you realise that still in Arcadia there lies death.
— aragorn, son of arathorn
one shots :
nowhere girl ⋮ read on ao3
summary : “Nowhere girls“ is a Chinese neologism coined to describe women who have no money, no job, no education, no prospects, no looks, no friends and no sophistication. When Aragorn finds you in the middle of the woods, you have nowhere to go.
— frodo baggins
drabbles :
target on a deer ⋮ read on ao3
summary : In which you cannot look at Frodo anymore without feeling like there’s a permanent red target on his forehead when he’s back to the shire. In which you try to help him but fail. Miserably.
one shots :
a white rabbit ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Can a white rabbit be scarier than a balrog?
— faramir of gondor
one shots :
failing scholars ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Invinting Faramir over to “study” but he actually brings his books over and wants to review the material.
— bagginshield
one shots :
how deep is your love? [on its way…]
summary : In the great halls of Erebor, the king under the mountain feels sick; with gold and with something else entirely. Something that knows no cure and is worth far more than all the treasures he possesses. The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.
PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN
— will turner
short stories :
lost at sea ⋮ read on ao3
summary : People dream they’re lost at sea until they really are; but when you vanish to her it’s on the trail of a blacksmith you so dearly love. Only, you don’t intend to return and Will refuses to acknowledge his aching heart. Still he comes back to you every time, lost at sea but never to him.
one shots :
a bottle in the ocean ⋮ read on ao3
summary : You are an odd thing to the captain of the Flying Dutchman, like a scratch at the roof of his mouth that would heal if only he could stop tonguing it. To his good luck, he discorvers that sharing a bottle of rum on a ship in the middle of the ocean unties tongues faster than imagined. It seals lips, too.
TROY
— paris of troy
one shots :
baker’s daughter ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Under the crushing heat that ravishes Troy, young prince Paris thinks he hallucinates you; the slip of a dress past a doorway in his mind. Yet, you sing him lullabies at night and since then he longs only for you.
night off* ⋮ read on ao3
summary : In which your work as a healer takes up most of your time and Paris just wants a night off with his wife.
tales of troy ⋮ read on ao3
summary : A greek princess is bound to marry for politics rather than for love. When war slips in the back of a mind between your kingdom and Troy, the only way to tame it is an arrangement; you cannot be this pretty for nothing, and prince Paris cannot waste his charms to flitting romance forever. Quickly, tongues untie among the court and Paris understands he’ll need more than a honey mouth to gain your trust.
THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS
— jax
one shots :
headache ⋮ read on ao3
summary : This digital headache is going to be the death of you. Or the purple bunny who keeps on annoying you.
NARCOS
— javier peña
one shots :
dry as bourbon, fiery as gin [part 1], [part 2]* ⋮ read on ao3
summary : Javier Peña had everything and everyone he wanted, except you. You seemed incorruptible, immune to his charms. But what could you do when between desk-work days, overly sweet coffees and drug cartels stranger blood boiled in your veins at the idea of him.
summary : Under the crushing heat that ravishes Troy, young prince Paris thinks he hallucinates you; the slip of a dress past a doorway in his mind. Yet, you sing him lullabies at night and since then he longs only for you.
pairing paris of troy x fem!reader (no use of y/n)
content warning : none, pure fluff and paris being the yearner he is, maybe mentions of smut
wc : 8,263k
author’s note : idk i love him and this was very fun to write
➢ nini’s masterlist
➢ read on ao3
Heat is clinging at everything that is alive in Troy, everything that is dead too. Summer months are a dread and a beauty for the trojans, crops finally thrive but the only break from the burning sun is at nightfall, late in the evening. Young prince Paris needs not fear the heat in his royal palace; he needs not fear anything for it seems wealth buys everything. Boredom is a luxury he engages in gracefully during the hot months.
His toned naked body is limp with relaxation under the clear lukewarm water he bathes in, wet locks of dark hair clinging to his forehead. His arms are sprawled on each side of the edge of the interior pool, serving as both an arm and backrest so that his head is hanging upside down. A sigh passes the barrier of his moistened lips as he closes his eyes, shoulders easing once again when he feels a bucket of new warm water dropped by a servant refilling the pool.
Suddenly, Paris’s calm haven is cut by the sound of footsteps down the hall and giggling. He can’t help but open his eyes and smile at the sound, his smile widening when he catches a glimpse of a blue dress flow past the archway and the face of its owner, bread basket under her arm. The curly haired prince swiftly turns around in his place and is now facing the opening with a smile, chin resting above his crossed arms on the rim.
“Who was that?“ he asks, though so softly the wind may have carried his words away. His brother Hector sleeps on the other end of the pool, cheek pressed against his forearm. The older man rouses a bit and grumbles, eyes still closed.
“I don’t know, a servant probably,“ he replies half-heartedly.
The young prince says nothing more, he is now too engrossed in his vision of the split second he caught beauty out of a dream to speak. The smile on his lips remains but the beautiful muse does not return.
It is only weeks later that he sees her again. Troy is still plagued with a burning sun and its youngest prince with the incapability of settling down. By now, Hector thinks all the pretty servants made at least one trip in royal beddings. Midday hits and the royal family is languidly eating at the remnants of fruits in their plates, mouth sounds filling the room for it is too hot for anyone to have the will to speak; time even seems to have slowed down for their liking. But Kronos never slowed down time for the common people, it flew by in an instant everyday, and you knew it far too well when you hurried your steps down the hall of the royal domain. Basket under your arm, you passed in front of the dinning hall without paying attention to its inside. You had to gain the kitchens.
But the long awaited flash of your face past the open doorway did not fall unnoticed by the prince who had wished only to see you again. The sound of a chair scratching the floor announces his hurried departure to follow you down the hall. The lingering taste of grapefruit in his mouth gives him the impression that you smell like it when he finally reaches you. When you notice someone is walking by your side you quickly stop to look at the stranger. But it is not a stranger, far from it, it’s the prince: Paris.
He is your age or so, but has no equal match in beauty among the boys you know. Sun-kissed skin teases at your paler complexion, his dark curls fall along his neck and above his forehead like he intended them to do so, and hazel eyes underlined with black kohl bore into yours with a glint of playfulness in them. You quickly regain your composure and bow to him, head low, looking at your feet like they’re the next best interesting thing.
“Please, straighten up, there is no need to bow,“ he prays you, and the smile that blooms on his lips you quickly return. “May I help you with this?“ he asks, looking at the cloth-covered basket beneath your arm.
You chuckle and shake your head, dismissing his help.
“Oh, no, don’t worry, it’s not heavy. Besides, the kitchens are just a turn away,“ you reply, already resuming your walk.
The prince follows you still, walking beside you with that charming smile you assume he uses on everyone.
“But I insist,“ he emphasises.
“Then insist I must too.“
This time he does not add anything; mainly because he does not have time, you are already at the kitchens door. You turn around and smile to him one last time before bowing, having forgotten his demand already, and disappearing into the hot inferno of the cookhouse. Paris stands here for a moment but never sees you coming out again. It seems wherever you go it imprisons you and only releases you when he begins to think all chances of seeing you again are lost.
Though it does not take long before he sees you for the third time. Strangely: he didn’t ask anyone for your name. Stranger: no woman seemed to interest him as you did anymore. None visited his bedsheets since your last encounter and the servants of the palace seemed disappointed every time they crossed path with the handsome prince. Rumours even had it he was settled at last; and seeing his brother’s fidelity to his wife, surely Paris was no different when it came to love. In truth, his young age made him even more passionate in love; more reckless too.
In Troy, the sun is high again but seems to allow mortal minds a bit of rest, fresh marine breeze engulfing the city behind its walls. Paris walks without goal in the cooled down city, his hood covering his face from the people in the streets who would recognise him in a beat. Abruptly, he turns at a corner onto a deserted avenue: it is narrow and smells of fish and oil, but at the end of the avenue a pool of sunlight draws the prince. He follows the sounds of birds chirping, hood slipping on his back, until he reaches the end of the tiny street and is met with a luxuriant clearing. Right in the heart of Troy, yet away from its buzzing sound, stands a small yard bathed in sunlight patches filtering through the leaves of the palm trees and bushes. Flowers grow from the bushes and the young prince’s gaze follow their petals on the ground to an elevated altar in a niche. There, he recognises the statue of the goddess Aphrodite standing tall and sensual. The young man reckons the artist must have really loved the goddess to dedicate her such a place, such a sculpture. But what Paris recognises too is not only the goddess of love, it is the woman kneeling at her feet in silence.
Your hair cascades down your back and curtains your lowered face, yet he would spot you among a thousand people. The prince observes you in silence until you motion to stand up.
“You again,“ his voice carries to the other end of the temple.
You jump and a shriek escapes you before you have time to press your hand against your mouth. You turn around quickly, your other hand to your heart, and calm down when you realise who walked in on you. Your heart beats too fast in your chest still but you relax, chuckling to compose yourself. The moment you laugh, Paris wishes you’d never have to stop, and the young prince’s mind drifts in unknown territories where he is the one making you laugh again and again until daybreak.
You look at each other for a moment, in silence, before the prince crosses the yard and climbs up the stairs to the shrine you are still standing in. Up close his skin looks smooth like butter and brings with him scent of monoï and myrrh, a mix of earth and smoke. You dwell on the sheer fabric of his royal blue loose-fitting sleeveless shirt, golden lining runs along it and it is tied at the waist but open until then, toned abs you can trace out taunting at you. Men’s naked chest were not uncommon in Troy, only here you could not help but fluster.
“I am beginning to think you are following me, my prince,“ you joke, letting his deep brown eyes stare at yours.
“I would like to say I am, but it is a coincidence we always end up crossing path,“ he smiles, a charming, inviting smile you know he uses too much around any girl.
You giggle and look at your feet, then back at the shrine.
“I was praying Aphrodite, you see,“ you explain, though evident.
His smile grows and he cocks his head. “Are you praying for love?“ he asks.
“For love?“ you cannot help but laugh at the question; at him. The prince frowns at your reaction but the smirk pursing his lips never drops. “Oh, no, I do not wish for the gods to grant me love; love must find me on its own,“ you explain. “I’m wishing for beauty.“
Paris restrains himself from laughing too, knowing it would be unwelcome, but cannot conceal the amused tone in his voice.
“Your prayers are for nothing then. I’m afraid she granted you that wish already.“
“I find you very opinionated in your choice of words, young prince,“ you say, smirk now equally spreading across your face.
“How so?“ he asks.
“I may pray for whatever I like.“
“You may,“ the prince grants.
An instant passes without any other word being exchanged. You look at the prince as if he was an average boy to be taunted, and he looks at you like he is begging to be humoured. You catch his eyes analyse your face, your cheekbones down to your lips before quickly darting back to your eyes, aware you noticed.
“Thank you, good day now,“ you finally say to close the discussion, steps going down the stairs already.
An interjection cuts through the heavy silence and a strong hand wraps around your wrist. Your head turns to look at the tanned skin burning against yours. “The king is holding a feast this Saturday; will you come?“ he asks, desperation clear in his voice.
Yet, you know better than to let yourself be charmed by frivolous princes. As dashing as their smiles can be, you know to resist a broken heart.
“I’m afraid the people are not usually invited,“ you state.
“Then what is your name?“ the prince persists, knitted brows and puppy eyes.
“My name you can have no use for, my prince.“ you end before he releases you, allowing you to escape the clearing followed by your shadow and the clasp of your sandals on the ground.
You let the young prince stand here, looking back at Aphrodite wishing she would have done something for him. He passes a hand over his face with a sigh but smiles nonetheless as images of you plague his mind. The only time he really wanted a woman for more than a night she was resisting him; the gods really had strange ways of working.
But his brother had taught him not to rely on the gods too much, to work against their judgment sometimes to prove them he was deserving of their help. That is why this very evening, while eating dinner with his family, he proposed to expend Saturday’s feast into the city. Why would royalty be allowed a moment of rest and not the people who have worked hard through the summer heat without failing? It would also revive the moral of the troops and the admiration for the king, the prince stated. Everyone looked at him silently for a moment, a long unreadable silent moment, until his father smiled at him and expressed how good of an idea it was: let celebrations set ablaze the whole town for a night!
Hector’s arm landed heavily around his younger brother’s shoulders and he pinched him in the ribs, earning himself a shove and a laugh.
“I don’t know who gave you this idea, brother, but don’t leave her like you know how to, yeah?“ the oldest advised with a smirk. Of course he knew that everything his little brother did was for women, but he would have been surprised to learn it was for a woman in particular.
The woman in question he searches for days later among the packed crowd of the city. Finding her proved to be easier said than done with everyone out to celebrate and the sun setting slowly, bathing Troy in a perpetual state of blindness. Nevertheless, the prince felt great looking at his city like that: music played at every corner and banners decorated every house. Joy weighed heavy like the warmth of the sun in the streets. He slipped past people dancing, mothers greeting him, a glass of wine in hand. Paris’s eyes roamed every corner in search of the one woman he had made the feast come to, but could not see anyone. After a while, the prince leaned against the wall of a house, beginning to despair, only for a voice to make his eyes fly open.
“I thought the feast was in the palace?“ you asked, hint of irony under your words.
Paris opened his mouth to reply but no sound left it. Instead, he stared at you dumbly like you were a goddess made human. The prince couldn’t help himself, for the white dress and satin shawl flowing over your curves made him wonder if dropping at your feet would be enough reverence. He stops himself though, only reaches for the fabric of your shawl to feel between his fingers.
“So you came, eventually,“ he jokes, finally daring looking in your eyes.
“I’m afraid you didn’t give me much choice,“ you laugh. You knew for sure expending the party in the street was his idea, because who else could have changed the substance of the gathering in days if not him?
He laughs back and scans you absentmindedly. You suddenly feel weightless under his kohl-underlined gaze. Like a feather prone to the fancies of the wind.
“Has Aphrodite granted your wish already?“ he asks with a coy smirk.
“She seems to make me want to wait,“ you explain, bound to the caprice of the goddess.
You see it in the way his eyes shine that the remark the prince is about to let go is beyond dumb, but you have no time to stop him.
“Or maybe you don’t need her blessi-“ he begins before you cut him abruptly, jumping on him to press your hand against his mouth in a rush.
You are but mere inches away now, and Paris certainly doesn’t seem to oppose it. His nose fills with wind-brought breezes of your scent, his eyes land on yours, then on your lips, and his hands find their own way to the hollow of your hips. The smile he so proudly wears only widens by feeling you almost flush against his chest.
“Shhhh!! Reckless prince, how could you say that? Don’t you fear and respect the gods?“ you exclaim, eyes wide, unaware of the daring position you’re in. You don’t even register the prince’s hands on you.
“I do,“ he breathes against your hand. “As much as I do you, my lady.“ A squeeze tugs at your hips, slight but here nonetheless.
To that, you suddenly gain consciousness and step away from the prince, face red from the situation you were in. You turn your head away from him, hopping to hide your blush long enough for it to die down, but he laughs. He laughs and coughs to regain composure; did nothing embarrass him? Your pride grows deep in your belly at the idea. Why should you feel embarrassed if he isn’t? You turn your head back to him.
“And what god do you pray to?“ you ask.
“Apollo. And Hermes occasionally,“ he answers, and it’s everything you would have thought.
“Yes, Apollo certainly bestowed upon you your beauty,“ you begin. “And Hermes your hasty temper. You should learn to be more careful.“
“I should and I shall, if that is what you wish of me,“ the prince complies.
You chuckle and shake your head, earning another one of his dazzling smiles.
“See, this is what I meant by hasty; you run into people’s expectations only to please them.“
“You’re mistaken: only yours,“ he adds proudly and you can’t help but laugh again. The attractive prince certainly had a way around words. He wets his lips before speaking again. “Tell me, where can I find you if not in the city?“
“On the beach, my prince.“
“Unattended?“ he asks, brows furrowed.
You tilt your head to the side, quizzical look on your pretty face.
“Are you one of those who think a woman cannot walk her own way?“ you inquire, taunting evident in the underlying judgment your question casts.
Paris is quick to shake his head. “No, I only worry for your safety,“ he justifies.
Your grin expands at his words and you look around you; people are paying no attention to you, too preoccupied with their own party to wonder about yours, as princely as it is.
“Don’t. My safety is in good hands,“ you assure, right hand splitting open the slit in your dress at your thigh.
Here rests a dagger, pressed against your skin in its open sheath, glinting to the decreasing light of the ever-dropping orange sun. But Paris does not pay much attention to the weapon, only to the plush of your thigh he now dreams of burying his fingers in. The young prince bites at the inside of his cheek and is slapped back to reality when a voice carries through the crowd a name, which makes you turn around at the mention.
“Excuse me, I am called upon,“ you say before taking your leave, a small sorry smile on your lips.
In the motion, an end of your dress flies close to his hand and Paris catches it between his fingers before it slips amidst them as you draw away. Few meters farther, a man stands waiting for you; he looks at the prince for a second before you jump in his arms and he encircles you back. Paris’s heart pulls at his chest and he bites his tongue, looking away. Jealousy, he knows it, is a green wicked thing to feel, but the youngest heir is unapologetically too close to his feelings to know how to do anything about it. And as he looks at his people dancing and drinking and chatting cheerfully, he remembers the world keeps spinning even when you are not there.
For days, the young prince thinks only of you in your white dress and whispers your name to himself at night. He whispers it to the city from his balcony, finding solace in knowing you sleep under the same moon. But he also wonders about the man whose arms you jumped in so eagerly last night: was he your friend, your husband?
Paris, for the first time, feels the excruciating pain that everything does not belong to him nor can be bought with one of his smiles. Royal palaces and hedonistic lifestyle had used him to an easy life, one where the gods seemed to favour him, and now he was struggling to be great for someone.
His mind tortures him with images of you sharing another’s bed, never his, yet always so close. He longs to see you, too behold you again and to hear you laugh so the sound will echo in his head for as long as long can be.
Paris suddenly stands up from the couch he is sprawled on and hurry down the corridors, satin pillows falling in silence onto the ground at the movement, like chasing after him. The servants he crosses look at him, smiling even though they are yearning to know why did the prince not bring one of them to his chambers for weeks now? He pays them no mind, half not seeing them in his rush. Eventually, he reaches a corridor that ends with a massive wooden door, but right when he reaches for the handle, the door opens and his heart stops beating.
Here you are for a split second, beautiful and joyful, sending goodbyes behind you with a smile before you bump into the prince and yelp. Hands fall to the side of your shoulders to stabilise you and worry etches in the traits of the man before you. Worry is however quickly followed by his usual smile; you’d describe it as lovestruck if you didn’t know better. Princes are not lovestruck for bakers’ girls, they are constantly surrounded by princesses. Yet, in Paris’s mind, nothing works the same now that he sees you. Words go lost in his throat. He had almost no hope that you would be here.
“Hi,“ you greet shyly. The party didn’t leave you empty minded either, and it’s the remnants of the weight of his fingers on your hips you fall asleep to every night.
You know you shouldn’t delve in the idea that the prince’s feelings are real, but his eyes speak everything that he cannot say and you like to think you can read them. You would have imagined royals were trained to be secret in their feelings, but your prince speaks freely and with genuineness like the teenage boy he is; it encourages you to think his intentions are good. However, you had long heard the noises running in the palace about his chambers and who slept in them; the servants described them so much you were sure you could picture them with great accuracy if you closed your eyes.
You feel a squeeze at your shoulders and the look in the prince’s eyes turns serious, a hint of distress behind them.
“I must beg you to end my agony and tell me if the man you were with last night is your husband,“ he rushes, chest heaving up and down with apprehension.
Your eyes open wide and for a moment you cannot speak nor think properly, only look at the hopeless teenage boy in front of you for whom each passing second seems to be a nightmare. And then comes your laughter. But instead of easing him down, it only makes him more anxious.
“My husband?“ you laugh. “He is my brother! I am not wed nor courted,“ you finally relieve him.
It is not a second before a smirk blooms back on his lips. Lips that are taunting at you the more you look at them; did the gods agree to such kissable lips?
“But courted you are,“ he rectifies.
You shake your head, not looking away nevertheless. “Except by a prince who seems to find great amusement in torturing me,“ you say.
“You torment me first, my lady,“ and the coy look on his face makes you roll your eyes.
You are all back and forth now, property long forgotten when his hand slips from your shoulders and the back of his index and middle finger trace the shape of your arm on their path, his eyes seconding them.
“I apologise, surely you cannot expect it to be the intention of a poor merchant’s daughter,“ you jest, head tilting to the side and gaze never tearing from his hazel one.
“I have my doubts,“ the prince grins, looking down on you.
“Oh! Really?“ your hand goes to your heart in faux-indignation. “How uncharming of you! Me who was beginning to find you pleasant,“ you tease.
“You have to allow me to prove myself and take you to the beach for an afternoon then,“ Paris immediately asks.
You ponder for a while at the sudden proposal. Your gaze softens on the youngest heir’s features. His curls stick to the nape of his neck with the heat but the ones at his forehead look like you could run your hands through them and find no knot. You understand now what all the servants were so sad about over the last weeks; losing the privilege of intimacy with the prince and of running their fingers in his hair to untangle them, naked in his bed. Or maybe Paris wasn’t such a romantic, you didn’t know anything about him after all. You see your distorted reflection in his eyes staring back at you and she seems to mock you for thinking this was more than a fling, for thinking you were worth more than all the other ones who came before you.
You finally speak, readjusting the sleeve of your himation. “I shall think about it. I will meet you at the gates in two days if my heart is set.“
Paris’s heart catches in his chest and he doesn’t have time to register your reply that you are already gone, steps echoing in the hallway. The young prince turns around to watch you leave and scratches his neck, pulling on a couple of strands here to remind him this is real.
“Two days,“ he whispers to himself like a prayer.
Two days later, there is a young man waiting anxiously at the gates. Everyone looks at him because they recognise him and because he is looking around frantically like waiting for a blow that will never hit. What is prince Paris doing here, nobody knows except you. But you are nowhere to be seen. It seems to Paris that every single inhabitant of Troy is walking before him, that he has seen everyone but you, and there is no way for him to tell if you’ll ever show up.
From where you are in the distance you see him. His eyes are everywhere except at the right place, waiting like you’re bringing with you the issue of a war. It makes you laugh silently: how a wealthy man who has everything and everyone he asks for can be so distressed at the idea of meeting you. The look of barely hidden panic in his eyes only disappears when his gaze finally lands on your form, holding no secret because it is now obvious how soft he is for you. You walk to him with a smile that he mimics without thinking, too busy roaming the curves of your ocean blue dress in awe. When you’re close enough, the wind brings to him the scent of you he came to cherish, your scent that he wishes to drown in and soak every piece of linen and cotton with.
“You’re here,“ he breathes, almost inaudible under his full-teethed smile.
“I am. I wouldn’t dream of making the prince wait, after all,“ you reply, playful.
“Believe me, I dreamt you did. It was more a nightmare, in fact,“ Paris said. “Shall we go?“ he then asks, leading you to the outside of the gates.
From here it’s a few minutes walk to the beach, but the moment you step out of the walls of the city you feel liberated. Deep breath in, you engulf every smell of the outside world: the burning hot ground, the salty Aegean sea, the freedom of the outside world. Paris looks at you softly, lovingly even, before asking:
“Don’t you go out often?“
“I do. But every time I come back in the city I feel trapped, as if my only peace is by the sea,“ you explain sadly. You wish you could love your city more, delve in her streets and rejoy at every new day passing, but you don’t. You can’t.
“I like Troy, but she reminds me too much of myself, I fear. Giantess of stones standing proud and alone, doing her chores everyday while everyone around seems to have an exciting life of their own. In Troy I work, I eat, I sleep all over again; outside her I live,“ you say, eyes to the ground, ashamed of thinking that way of the city who brought you up.
Paris frowns and looks in the distance; you didn’t like Troy. Surely you thought this would infuriate him, but it does the opposite. He likes that you don’t love Troy unconditionally like his brother does, that your loyalty doesn’t end at a city; perhaps you can understand his feelings better, then.
“As a prince I probably shouldn’t say that but Troy is not my one and only,“ you look at him, surprised. Your walk had brought you closer and now your arms brushed at each step. “My family would like me to be more like my brother; the love of his life is Troy, mine is not. Troy may be the mother who raised me and I am forever in her debts as a prince, but she is also my greatest fault. But lately I met you and she’s been my blessing,“ he concludes, melancholic smile drawing red at your cheeks.
You can’t find anything to say to the prince, and you’re afraid talking would break the spell between you. Words are not nearly enough to say the right thing at this moment, so you let them go lost in the inside of your stomach. Here they simmer and they rot, waiting for the right moment to spur, but never betray you. Instead, you grab his right arm with yours, opposite hand resting on his forearm. The young prince doesn’t look at you, you exchange nothing but the warmth of each other’s body, still he can’t help but bite at his cheek and extend his fingers before balling them in a fist to release the tension coiling in his lower stomach. In yours, there is a rope that is stretching impossibly, like a bow. So close, you want to bury your nose in his neck where his pulse point gathers his scent and never leave, mark his skin with remnants of you to be sewn into his for eternity.
In the distance, you catch sight of the sea you so dearly love, hot waves crashing onto the shore, seagulls screaming in the sky as if to scare away the sun. She calls to you forevermore and her invisible tentacles that wrap around your ankles make you tear away from your prince to run to her, long lost lover at sea. Your feet sink into the sand and you almost trip before finally reaching her blue bed, wet linen soaking the hem of your dress with its white foam. Your laughter breaks the silence and you shriek when a hand wraps around your wrist and drags you forward, naked-chest prince drawing you to the water now only wearing his loose-fitted pants, shirt long gone behind in a pool of blue in the sand. You laugh and yelp all the same, pulling back uselessly, for Paris is much stronger than you.
“Please, I shouldn’t,“ you beg mid laughter.
“Why? Don’t you know how to swim?“ he asks, amused by your reluctance.
“No, I know how to swim!“ you state, faking vexation.
The prince suddenly stops pulling, his hand still holding onto your wrist, dangerously slipping to your own hand. Your laughter dies with his, caught by the tide, and his shining eyes veil like he already knows the content of your heart.
“Why then?“
“Because… You’re the prince, I couldn’t…“ you stammer, words hurting your throat because you know it’s exactly what he doesn’t want to hear.
“So pretend I’m not the prince,“ he exclaims, almost begging. “At least for now.“
The water at your shins seems now of the greatest importance, preventing you from having to look at his disappointed eyes. You know if you glance at the puppy look his brown eyes change into so easily, you wouldn’t be able to resist him further.
“How could I when you have the beauty of one,“ you breathe, ashamed.
Paris tries to look at you though your head is low, you see him bend to try and catch your gaze.
“Not only princes are blessed with beauty,“ his thumb drags along the inside of your wrist.
To his pleading tone and gentle touch you look up, unable to hurt him further. You breathe out and shake your head, finally walking to him in the water. The smile of the young prince reaches his eyes as soon as your body clashes with the waves to reach him; the more you move forward, the more he steps back to pull you farther. You can’t help but laugh uncontrollably when the water reaches your stomach and you have to suck it in to counter the faint coldness that seeps through your bones, even more when your companion lets go of your wrist to plunge underwater and come out soaked, curls sticking to every part of his skin now. You jump and scream in your frenzy when he deliberately shakes his head to splash you with drops of water, screaming his name eyes closed to prompt him to stop.
The hot sun sizzling on your skin is but a mere cold memory moments later, when something grabs your legs in the depths and makes you fall in its cold void. When you surface again and loudly breathe in by the mouth, both hands pushing the hair out of your face, you’re met with the author of your misfortune, proud smile on his face. For a second, you ponder if killing him is a good idea, but you eventually revert to shoving him playfully. As your hands reach for his chest to push him, they’re stopped in their race by two handcuffs wrapping around them. Paris’s hands hold you back again, except now much closer.
There is a pause in time, an instant without sounds or words where only your eyes speak. They lock and suddenly you feel hyper-aware of your proximity with the naked chest of the prince, with his handsome face that seems to grow closer with each manic beat of your heart. Your gaze wanders on his features, emphasised by the water running along them in droplets, and every word you wish to say is lost in translation in the burning inferno of your throat. Soon, his wet curls brush your forehead and you feel him so impossibly close, his grip on your wrists loosening. There’s a push at your torso, it’s your belly grazing his, outline of muscles through the fabric of your dress. A lighting of consciousness strucks you when you notice his lips are full and red with the tiniest bit of blood from how much he bit them in the last few minutes. It makes you want to jump at his neck and kiss him until you’re out of breath, kiss him into the gag of losing your breath, crescent marks of your nails on his skin.
Of this plaguing thought you do nothing, only take advantage of his loosened grip and disappear into the water, leaving him dumbfounded. But the goddess of love quickly catches you back for having played her and in the water a prominent rock slices your leg. You hiss and come back to the surface, holding at your leg that draws blood.
“Are you alright?“ Paris asks, concerned frown now painting his face, the tentative moment you escaped long forgotten.
“Yes, I just hurt myself with something down there, nothing serious,“ you reassure, but the prince hears only what he likes.
“Let us go back to the shore, to take a look at it,“ he says, though it is not a request.
You smile through the stinging pain and follow him out of the water onto the beach where he lays down his shirt for you to sit on. You don’t fight his heeds, knowing it would be for nothing, and do as you’re told. You sit down and gather your dress to your knees; there, in a streak of red, lies a small gash in your skin. You hiss when you try to touch it, it’s deeper than you imagined.
“Don’t touch it, let me do it,“ the young prince orders as his gentle fingers find the curve of your ankle.
You look at him in silence, observe his cautious handling of your injured leg as he pours clean water from a flask he had taken with him above your ankle to clean the cut. The water runs along your leg, it stains with red down the tip of your foot and you follow its race absentmindedly. You’re soaked, the fabric of your dress clings to your skin everywhere and your hair drips on his shirt on the ground, but so is he; the sun already erases the droplets rushing down his faintly traced abs.
When he is finished he looks back at you, hoping to read your mind for a flash of your approval. As you look down at him, you feel your leg raise to level with his face, soft hands still glued to your ankle to motion you as he likes. His breath fans upon your skin, sending goosebumps in their wake, and before you can process what is the prince doing, his lips press right next to your wound, his gaze still seeping right through yours. It’s soft and moist and the feeling sends your heart roaring like a thousand dams, heat creeping up your neck to colour your cheek. The tension in your guts coils further, taunting evermore, pooling south a bit more every time he looks at you with those eyes; those damned beautiful brown eyes.
In your core you know no other reaction than laughter, mainly because the growing stubble on his chin tickles you. Your leg extends to its maximum, foot lending flat on his chest, pushing him back to hold up on his elbows. You can feel the shaped muscles rolling under the sole of your foot, toes pushing past his sternum that rumbles with his own laugh. Eventually, it dies with the gliding of your foot down his chest until your leg is back to your side, his fingers hoovering over it.
“You’re dumb,“ you breathe under your smile, growing shy now.
“Every man is dumb in love,“ he replies, fingers now tracing patterns upon your shinbone. His eyes are soft, lovesick for a girl he met twice, and you realise how absurd this is.
“You’re not in love with me, Paris… You don’t know me,“ you reason softly, heart aching in your chest. Your hand finds his on your leg, resting above it like a cloak, like a prayer. At your words, he leans over to you.
“You’re mistaken, I’ve known you all my life. You’re the curse the gods casted upon me,“ he says, seriousness etched in his traits, straining his voice.
You say nothing, because you know nothing will reason him. Because you know nothing will stop his heart from beating in his chest only to spring out of it and graze at yours through tissues of flesh to match its pace. You know it because yours is of the same complexion; it lodges itself in your throat and threatens to spill to roll in his hands, because they hold you and the world with it, it seems. Your fingers reach for the damp curls falling on his forehead, they push them aside and brush through them tenderly, back of your index and middle finger soothing over his cheekbone, his head tilting to better relieve in the feeling. His eyes search for yours, pleading and half-lidded —maybe you’re just a dream awake, before he turns his head to the palm of your hand and buries his nose in it, mouth pressed firm to the base of your thumb. He holds your hand here, his hot breath trapped against your skin.
Your mind is incapable of rationality, it feels flooded by the sea behind you. You see only him, you feel only his skin pressed to yours and the growing fire in your guts that quickly spreads to your chest screams to feel more of it, to melt in his flesh impossibly. In your fever you shifted on your knees before him, now your hand had slid along his neck to rest here and you could feel his breath mingle with yours, hot and steamy, half-lidded eyes looking at you like you were unreal. A hand slipped to the dip of your waist and the cord in your belly needed nothing more to slap already, lips pressing against his like chasing the end of the world.
The moment you kissed him, Paris’s arms wrapped around you to press you flush against his body, his hands roaming every possible centimetres of skin that lied under the fabric of your dress. The young prince couldn’t feel his brains, only your presence everywhere and his lips against yours; kissing you like a beast who hadn’t eaten for months, like a man starved who needed his fix. Easily, his mouth dropped to your jaw, catching your lower-lip between his teeth in his path. It found a place in your neck, at your pulse point, and stayed here for a while, out of breath like a man at sea crawling for the shore. Your hands got lost in dark his curls, pulling at them ever so slightly when his teeth grazed your skin and made you bite down a whine.
The royal apartments of the prince you had heard a lot about but couldn’t stop to admire them when you entered, pulling the prince in question by the back of the neck to the first thing that seemed like a bed in the mess of your mind. He followed, almost stumbling on his own feet because his body was too busy leaning forward, chasing your lips in vain. Vision clouded, you weren’t sure anything made sense now except him and him again, impossibly close yet always too far. The hiss he ushered when your nails dug in his back made you giggle in his neck, the ablaze red streaks covering his skin a discovery for later. Paris nuzzled his face in your chest, burying his nose in the gap between your breasts, and here he could hear the damage he did to your heart. He heard it beat so loud it reminded him of the sound of drums in a parade after coming back from war, yet it also reminded him of war itself. The cling of spears clashing and the roar of soldiers were trapped in your heart, past your ribcage, but in your skin you held the rocking of the waves softly washing down the dread and bringing back the men to their family. The pace of your tide he wanted to know by heart, to learn when it was best to stay away from your wrath so he could do the opposite and plunge in it. He figured now was the best time, and the uncontrollable moan that escaped you when he finally released your tension where you needed him most was not a sound for any goddess of love, it was one for Eros only.
Later, when the storm had passed and the night was finally calm again, you laid in bed next to him like you had imagined in your dreams. The sheets were only tangled at both your naked waist, warm breeze filtering through the open window to dance in his hair which you brushed gently. Paris was still holding you close, arm around your waist to keep you soundly against him, like if your chest didn’t press against his you would’ve vanished in a dream. You felt his chest heaving up and down with yours, his muscles roll beneath your skin, and his breath fan softy on the bridge of your nose. The moonlight enhanced your lover’s features, it hit upon them like crystal glass and sharpened the cut of his jaw, the frown on his lips. The air between you was still hot and heavy, it probably smelled like sweat and your core, just like his glistening neck smelled of him and of you both, now. Damp curls sticked to his face, you pushed them back as you played with them. Paris’s gaze weighted on you so much it almost felt featherlight, and his strained voice breaking the empty silence made you look up at his eyes.
“Can I tell you a secret?“
You hummed, fingers now gliding to trace his cheek, the outline of his jaw.
“When I was a little boy we used to play pretend we were Heracles with the other princes. And I used to crawl to my brother’s feet and cry because I would always lose and end up bruised. I’m not brave like him. You like a prince who’s coward,“ he said, eyes down in shame.
Your brows pulled together and you cupped his face with one hand, the other resting on his arm, thumb drawing circles over the tanned skin.
“I like a prince who is soft and dreams big, that’s who I like. Either, I would have pinned for your brother,“ you explain, seriousness etched in your voice. When Paris’s eyes look up to you, it’s with a frown kissing his lips. Yours turn to a playful grin. “I mean, I do pine for Hector. Unfortunately, he is so loyal to his wife… Unlike his little brother,“ you tease, index ghosting past his neck.
A shiver runs through him and he grabs your hand, levelling it to his lips that press gently to your knuckles.
“But I am loyal to my wife,“ he argues, hint of a smirk in his tone.
“We are not married yet,“ you warn.
“The keyword is yet, my love.“
You can’t help but breathe out a laugh at his antics, pressing a peck to the bridge of his aquiline nose before nuzzling into his neck, eyes closed without a word. When his arms tighten around you it’s like the world is closing up on you, like even the gods can’t reach you here and Troy is finally a city to call home.
A cold rush of the breeze stirs you from your sleep, goosebumps ornamenting your arms. You stretch an arm to your left, expecting to find a warm body to crawl back to, but are instead met with the nothingness. The bed is cold and empty beside you, its owner lacking. Slowly, you sit up on the mattress, blink the sleep out of your eyes, and scan the room to find a silhouette standing alone on the balcony past the open windows. You grab at a shirt near you and your feet hit the cold tiles of the floor quietly, bringing you to the man outside, sticky sounds accompanying you in the dead of night and making your presence known by the man. Yet, he doesn’t turn around, just looks at the horizon still, city dead-like at his feet. Your arms wrap around his naked back and you pepper kisses along his shoulders, nuzzling your cheek against his arm.
“Come back to bed…“ you pray, voice worn from sleep. Paris turns his head to you and smiles, his arm reaching back to encircle you and bring you forward. When you face him, you have to cup his cheeks to make him look at you.
“Tell me, what plagues the mind of my beautiful boy?“ you whisper in the dark only for him.
“Nothing, I was thinking about the moon. When we sleep at sea she seems to be the only thing from home accompanying me,“ he explains, stealing a glance at the satellite before resting it back on you. “The moon sings me lullabies sometimes,“ he says.
“And who sang you lullabies tonight?“ you muse, hands sliding down his chest to rest on his waist, thumbs running over the muscles they find here.
Paris’s melancholic smile turns into a smirk as he grabs you by the waist and plays with a strand of your hair.
“The baker’s daughter. Lovely creature,“ he chimes, eyes raking your form. Your giggle rumbles in your chest, it echos in the empty streets of Troy.
“Don’t be dumb, Paris,“ you incline.
“I’m not, you’re fascinating.“
His words follow his hands to the buttons of his shirt you’re wearing; skilled fingers undo them before pushing the fabric away, leaving you bare-chested to his starstruck gaze. You say nothing, only reach for his hair to undo the golden jewelries lost in his locks, and the young prince can’t help but look at you in awe, hands mapping down your back like it holds the trail back home from lands far away. When you’re finished you let your arms wrap around his neck, standing on your tiptoes to try and match his height.
“Bring me back to bed now?“ you whisper against his lips, against him whole.
And the prince doesn’t need to be asked twice when you hover over him like that. His arms circle the back of your thighs to lift you up against him, skimpy legs now wrapped around his waist. His mouth meets yours again, gentler this time, not rushed because he knows he has you where he wants you. They meet and they part again in the late hours of the night as your lover brings you blindly to his bed. Sheets of Egyptian cotton glide under your bare skin and you bring him impossibly close, hoping to drown in his body, hoping the silence will drag you in its depths and drown you both.
And here they are: Your sixty-six prompts. They're sorted into different categories and I hope there's something in here for everyone. Feel free to pick, choose, mix&match, combine and of course: write!
Four years of ferrying those who died at sea, and the captain of the Flying Dutchman still hasn’t gotten used to this macabre voyage.
As Bill Turner manned the helm, William watched as souls climbed aboard the Dutchman, their wraith hands grasping onto her barnacled wood like claws. Souls would roam, some would ask questions, others knew the stories, and some stood at the railing, watching as they made their voyage to the afterlife. It was a long and otherwise boring voyage. There was not much to see through the endless stretch of souls who died at sea.
Nonetheless, Will joined his father and rested his elbows on the port railing, looking out into the eternal waters of the in-between.
“You’ll get used to it one day, William,” Bill Turner muttered in his son’s direction.
“How long will it take, I wonder?” Will questioned. He cast a glance at his father and quipped, “You’d think I would be a natural at this, being the son of Bootstrap Bill Turner.”
Bill chuckled. “Everything takes time, son. And we have an eternity.”
William nodded and turned to face the Dutchman’s deck. His father was always full of prickly wisdom.
He turned to the open deck of the Dutchman. It swam with souls, yet it retained a certain quiet and serenity. William used to bid hello to every soul boarding the Dutchman, take in every soul’s condition, age, and stature. Not anymore. All souls were the same. To William, every soul was equal to another.
But one soul caught his eye, drawing William by a sheer sense of familiarity. Tension knotted his brow, and he wondered who of his loved ones he would be ferrying. As if I have any loved ones beyond Elizabeth, William thought.
As he neared the port ladder, he saw that, clamoring onto the deck of the Dutchman, was none other than Commodore James Norrington. Wig askew, uniform disheveled, and chest gaping with a long, red streak where his heart once was beating.
William gave the Commodore space to orient himself and become familiar with the finality of things. Clearly, Norrington was facing a difficult time at that.
Norrington slowly spun around, taking in his surroundings, the sound of chattering souls, the cool mist that hung above the eternal waters––and the familiar faces that stood behind him.
In a flash, the Commodore lunged at the captain of the Dutchman, aiming to grapple and charge him to the deck. But the poor soul fazed through the captain, and Norrington fell sprawling on the deck of the Flying Dutchman, a grunt escaping him as his shoulder impacted the ship’s hull.
Bill descended the stairs, leisure and amusement in his every step. “Not bad for a lost soul who faced Jones with nothing but the sword that killed the Dutchman’s successor.” He extended a hand to James, who was turning on one elbow.
“Get away from me, pirate,” James growled, distancing himself from Bill Turner.
Bootstrap shrugged and turned away. “The least I can do for you,” he said. “But looks like you’re no man to accept goodwill from pirates.”
James collected himself and stood warily.
“Commodore,” William greeted James cordially.
“Turner,” James said, breathless. Gazing around, he asked, “Are you dead, too?”
William stepped closer to Norrington, shaking his head. “Yes and no.” James’ confusion beckoned William to elaborate. “I’m captain of the Flying Dutchman, now.”
“So it was actually you who felled Jones in the end,” James muttered.
William sauntered to the stairs, making his way to the helm. “You seem surprised,” he called out over his shoulder.
“Hardly,” James responded. “If Jones were to die, it should have been by your hands.”
Bootstrap cast an amused glance at his son before he busied himself with shipwork.
“Ferrying souls to the afterlife. I’m sure Elizabeth must be proud seeing you come home every night,” James jeered.
Silence stretched between them as William thought on his next words. He was the captain of the Flying Dutchman, and whatever words left his mouth would have no consequences. But he was still an honorable man, and he couldn’t lie to the Commodore, not before his passage to the afterlife. He fixed his gaze on the endless horizon and addressed James, “Cannot step foot on land but once every ten years. That’s my curse as captain of the Flying Dutchman. Or perhaps you already knew that, Commodore?”
James’ head snapped to the captain of the Dutchman, his eyes incredulous and his lips parted with heavy words. He swallowed and said, “I suppose we’re both doomed to be tantalizingly close to her, but never close enough. How long has it been?” He asked finally.
“Four years,” William returned.
James cast his gaze down, appearing crestfallen, or perhaps ashamed. He stood still, like a statue aboard a ghost ship. William left him there, standing, thinking, and watched as the Commodore took off his wig and wrung it in his hands. James stumbled over the railing and gazed out into the eternally stretching waters and souls of those who chose the sea. Blinking slowly, wringing the wig in his hands.
“What has become of Elizabeth?” He asked. He wasn’t sure the captain heard him.
“She’s safe,” the captain responded. “Beckett’s gone. We ambushed him.”
“Good.” The word left James’ mouth before he could think of it. “I chose my side.” He gave the wig one last glare before he came to throw it overboard. He stopped himself and turned to face William for the captain’s permission.
“Do as you please,” William affirmed. “The waters are an illusion, anyway.”
James threw the wig overboard, releasing a breath of relief. “Where are we going?” He asked, keeping his gaze out to the waters.
“To the gateway,” Bootstrap responded. James turned to face him, amicably beckoning him to elaborate. “To the next life. You’ll have to see it with your own eyes. It’s beautiful.” He turned to face William at the helm before adding, “Many a soul whispers a prayer before they step into it. It’s a privilege for any pirate to see.”
“A privilege to be ferried by he who showed care and respect in every aspect of his life,” James said over his shoulder to the captain.
Though he was not conscious of it first, a sensation of relief passed over where William’s heart was. He nodded a smile to Norrington. Quietly, he sailed his course, watching as James gazed out into the open waters where souls drifted and climbed aboard.
James wondered how many souls the Dutchman could carry at once; how many voyages back and forth the Dutchman had to make; did William get any time away from this dreadful and hefty job? All manner of thoughts drifted in his mind, but he felt no connection to them. He was aboard the Flying Dutchman, being ferried to the afterlife. Nothing else mattered. Perhaps, not even Elizabeth. He caught himself thinking that uncharacteristic thought and remembered who Elizabeth was: she was a pirate.
“Say, Turner,” James turned and called out to William, “Did you happen to get married?”
William grinned, “Aye. Married mid-battle with the Dutchman. Barbossa married us, too.”
James cackled, spreading mirth and lightheartedness across the dreary atmosphere. “What a wedding it must have been. Would have loved to see it.”
Time was a fable in this liminal space, and in the blink of an eye, or perhaps the swath of an eternity, a low, and distant gushing sound heralded the gateway.
Bill Turner joined James Norrington at the railing and said, “We’re here.”
James and many of the souls aboard the Dutchman turned to face the source of the booming sound. As the Dutchman drew nearer, James could make out the form of a waterfall, stretching immortally on either side.
It was a lofty waterfall, of which one could see no beginning. Water crashed against water in a display of awe and tranquility. Tears made it behind Norrington’s eyes. “Is that it, then?” he asked, his voice coming out broken and shaky.
William stepped to him, whispering, “Aye. This is it.”
Souls made it into longboats, and Norrington hesitated to join them.
“You can’t stay here forever, mate,” William said behind a grin. “Many have tried.”
Norrington still didn’t move. He merely gazed at the waterfall, taking in the gateway's grandeur and splendor.
“I could take the ship down into the waters if you please,” William playfully threatened.
Norrington faced William, finally whispering, “There’s no need for that.” He made his way and stepped into the longboat among his fellow departed souls.
The sheer force of the fall’s water should have crushed the boats, but they glided through, peacefully unharmed. James stood up on his feet as his boat approached the gateway. Water crashed on him, washing away blood, dirt and all manners of material things. A smile made its way onto his lips as the waters bathed him, disintegrating his soul and reintegrating it with the eternity of the fall.
Hi! How are you? I'm here again with more Troy requests as I said i will be because i loved what you wrote 💕May i ask for Paris x female reader dating headcanons? Thank you so much in advance, I love Orlando and crave for more content about this film. Finding your blog has been awesome and I'm enjoying your work.
♡︎𝐃𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞♡︎:
Pairing: Paris of troy x fem reader
Warnings: cuts
Thanks for sending another request , I really appreciate it! I'm ok, could be better. I hope that your doing well. Your so nice and I hope you enjoy! 💗
Let's say you moved to troy from Greece to make things easier (because we don't need another trojan war)
I think it would be sweet if you were a common girl , ya know not super wealthy or highly ranked.
Maybe Paris' dad convinced him to get married or hed cut him off
So he'd anxiously and unwillingly go through the city with his brother looking for a girl he could tolerate and that his father would approve of
That was the difficult thing, every girl that Hector and his father would approve of was stuck up, boring, or didn't want to marry him due to his reputation with women
And every girl he was into was well- would not fit in well with the pompous Royals he was used to. Or they were married.
They spent 9 hours looking for a possible bride. Nine hours. It was sunset by the time they were done
Paris decided to go into the woods to practice his archery to take his mind off the day, he knew he'd have to do that cycle again tomorrow morning.
While shooting his arows he noticed a girl picking flowers not far away, what was a a young lady doing in the woods after dark? It could be seriously dangerous.
And as if the fates heard his thoughts he noticed a wolf crawl towards you and by the time you noticed it had already jumped on top of you.
You screamed out but the wolf suddenly went limp , it had been shot with multiple arrows.
You had been so stunned that Paris had to push the wolf off you and help you up
"are you ok?"
All you could do was let out a high pitched hum
He noticed you had skratches and cuts on you and ripped his tunic to wrap around your arm
You talked and explained your mother was ill and you had been taking those flowers to offer them to Asclepius (god of healing).
He had told you of his upcoming marriage and how archery helped calming him down
You were eternally grateful to him saying that you owe the prince a lifetime of debt
Paris laughed and walked you home
The next morning after giving your mother some healing water and saying your prayers you heard loud knocks on your door.
On the other side were two trojan soldiers, prince Hector and Prince Paris
You were very very confused but also very happy to see the prince again
He had told you that to pay off your debt you only had to do him one favor, you eagerly agreed saying you would do whatever he asked
" be my wife"
Hah , what? Marry a prince you only met yesterday. You had to sit down to think about it. He seemed very sweet, he was quite handsome and you had almost no money to support you and your mother. And there had definitely been weirder engagements under a shorter amount of time. Besides every girl wanted to marry a prince
Paris could sence you were hesitant and pulled out a golden ring with the biggest shiniest pearl you had ever seen
He told you that he knew he was in love with you and that Hera herself had blessed your engagement, and he pulled out a second gift : a golden apple.
A golden apple from the garden of Hesperides AND was gifted by Hera , goddess of marriage was the greatest gift any bride could ask for.
After they left your ran into your mother's room
" who was at the door? Why do you look so happy?"
" I'm going to get married, mater"
To say you were terrified of meeting your soon to be father in law was a understatement. But both the princes told you that Priam thought it was a brilliant idea that Paris marry someone as hard working as yourself.
And a week later you were married in the small temple of Hera troy had, as thanks for the kindness she showed you.
The city was not pleased about you a common girl marrying prince Paris but seeing as the marriage was blessed by Hera and the king , no one said anything.
Now instead of working all day and worrying about your sick mother , you would spend the time in the gardens with Paris, and youd watch him with his archery
Paris loved to spoil and shower you with riches, veils, dresses, wine,jewelry,anything, you ask and he shall give it to you.
But his favorite thing was sitting in the forest listening to you read him stories, you told him of all the great Greek stories you had learned as a child. The stories of Deadalus , Heracles, Prometheus, and Jason.
But his favorite story was that of Orpheus, the man who traveled all through hades to get his love back. He told you he would do the same if you were ever lost to him, because he's a hopeless romantic and a total drama queen.
And of course you had to deal with jellous looks day and night, but you knew Paris would never give a second look to anyone but you.
Although some days you would be stuck in your room, alone when Paris had to attend meetings and conferences. The days would stretch out longer than it seemed possible but it was all forgotten when he would come home, a bouquet of daffodils.
On those days, when you were alone you would visit Briseis , Andromache, or give offerings in the temple of Hera , you would always feel less lonely with her.
Ok this guy as a father would be hilarious- mans would be too scared to touch the baby incase he hurt them and too scared to fall asleep in case hades decided to take your child.
He'd teach the baby archery boy or girl, and how to be a proper prince/princess.
You and Andromache would laugh about how funny yet amazing father's Hector and Paris are.
But all in all, your days had been a absolute blessing since you had met Paris, thank gods that wolf didn't eat you
This is so sweet, it made me smile while reading 💖💖
I loved it! Your characterization of Paris was perfect and the whole piece was so cute. Awesome, reading this was the perfect way to end my day because i’m feeling great now.
