(reader is referred to as a princess, can easily be a swooning prince/swooning royal archetype. Only a little more princess centric because in the books princesses are known to swoon/faint easily)
Been thinking about this a lot recently. You know all those weird symptoms you have that make you various degrees of miserable and make basic functions way harder than they need to?? Maybe it’s eczema, psoriasis, generally having overly sensitive or acne prone skin. Or you have chronic pain. Or maybe your connective tissue is basically jelly. Maybe you feel like you were born with glass bones and paper skin. Or you get dizzy EVERY single time you stand up. Debilitating allergies. Immunocompromised. Digestive issues. Any and/or all of those. Throw in all the specific shit YOU experience that I forgot to even mention.
Yeah all that, the stuff you hate????
It makes it significantly easier for Tedros to find you in your world.
After struggling for months to find his true love, after combing through half the kingdom, searching far and wide for that one person who will just make it click, only for each maiden to be more shallow and pedantic than the last, he gets desperate.
He turns to Merlin. And he demands a quest to find his true love, wherever they may be, no matter how far or dangerous. And after weeks of forging through the unknown, defeating monsters and evil witches and blazing a trail through the most dangerous places no other heroes dare to travel through, he finds what he’s looking for. An ancient rune that can open a portal to his heart’s desire. So with his one blessed arrow, he draws his bowstring, and shoots. (Guess he’s literally… shooting his shot. I’ll see myself out lmao)
Which is how he ends up in YOUR world!!!! Probably right in front of you in your bedroom, weary from his journey but crackling with energy and adrenaline. He kneels, kisses your hand, there’s probably a little tongue in there too tbh.
Anyway you’re trying DESPERATELY to convince him that you’re not the princess or prince or royal or WHATEVER the hell it is he’s looking for, but he clocks your shit IMMEDIATELY.
“Not suitable for a prince? What on earth are you saying?” He chuckles, taking a step toward you, his armor glinting in the dull light of your room.
“You’re as beautiful as a swan, delicate as a rose… it’s clear as day that you belong adorned in silk, beloved by the people.”
His eyes are so raw, so honest when he says it (and also absolutely smitten) that you… hesitate. And then you start to get dizzy. But before you can even say ruh-roh, he’s already moving on instinct, pulling you into his muscular toned arms. His golden hair falls perfectly out of place as he catches you, picking you up bridal style with ease.
“You swoon like this, and expect anyone to believe you’re some sort of common folk?”
(don’t argue with me on this) (my qualifications? I drink coffee every day. that’s all)
steve: does not start drinking coffee until he meets you and finds out that morning coffee is part of your daily routine. he wants to impress you/make you happy so he buys a coffee maker for his place and only uses it when you stay over. he pretends he likes drinking it but can only get it down when half the mug is sugar and milk. by the time he’s in his mid to late 20s, he’s actually reliant on it, and you’ve gotten him to shimmy his sugar packet habit down from 7 to a semi-respectable 4.
teacake: definition of “I love a little treat”. this man loves a frozen coffee or a frappuccino, which is really more sugar than it is caffeine. he has a rainy day fund that he puts all his change aside for when he’s in a shitty mood so he can walk to the coffee shop nearby and get one. otherwise, he settles for regular keurig coffee via a hand-me-down machine he has in his kitchen.
keys: when he first starting working, he took advantage of the fancy espresso machine in the break room, especially on late nights when he was about to fall asleep at his desk. he’d force the strongest espresso shot down his throat and then get back to his computer with shaky fingers, even if he sincerely felt like he was on the cusp of a heart attack the entire time. he’s since ditched the late night espresso shot habit and instead opts for flavored lattes — vanilla is his go-to and almond milk is his preferred, but he doesn’t like to inconvenience the baristas too much if they don’t ask about a milk alternative.
gator: wouldn’t be caught dead with anything other than black coffee in a mug that’s at least 10 years old. he owns the same coffee machine that’s at the police department because he doesn’t know anything about kitchen appliances and he didn’t care to do any research when he moved out and bought one of his own. you, however, find this gross, and ask him if he even really likes drinking his coffee like that, to which he answers, “does it matter? ‘s just to get me movin’.” you decide that you need to introduce him to the sweet treat agenda asap, and it’s only then that you convince him to take little sips of your afternoon flavored lattes (he likes some of those), matchas, (“tastes like dirt”), and mochas (“darlin, this is just chocolate”). bonus: you also buy your favorite flavor of creamer to have at his house for when you stay over, because there’s no way in hell you’re drinking your coffee black like gator. he’ll never admit it, but he may have tried it once or twice and been pleasantly surprised by how delicious it made his morning coffee.
♥ ominous, known, wind, sounds ♥ but the sea is wide, and I can't swim over / neither have I wings to fly ♥ All my stories are about being left, / all yours about leaving. So we should have known.
A great storm roared outside the Havens, the winds making her little home shudder ominously. The twins slept in a basket of shore reeds at her feet, wrapped in blankets stuffed with the down of shorebirds, blissfully unaware of the danger nature posed to them. She worked by candlelight, the sounds of her loom clacking rhythmically. This fabric would become a tunic, she thought, for Eärendil, away at sea. How she wished to sail again, wished for the winds to be useful again, instead of frightful. She understood why he left, again and again. She wished he didn’t have to.
thinking about venting to Leo. You call him while he's at his workshop and he answers with some little quip like he always does. you can hear the smile in his voice.
"sexy mcshizzle industries, this is Leo, how can we help you today gorgeous?"
and you're already laughing in spite of yourself. Even if it's weepy or angry or soft, he's always able to do that. to drag those little moments of joy out of you no matter how bad things are. depending on how you respond, the tone of your voice, the cadence of it, he knows immediately what ballpark you're in emotionally, how bad it is. He knows if you're pissed off, or about to cry, or hurt. he knows if you're annoyed or irritated, but most importantly, he knows you need to vent. get whatever it is off your pretty, pretty chest. and you hear a clatter of his tools getting set down haphazardly, the sound of his wheely board thing he's lying on scooting out from under his most recent project. you hear him wave someone else off as he walks out of his workshop into the alley outside.
"what's on your mind, mami? Leo's listening."
and you know in that moment that despite his raging (probs only recently medicated) adhd, despite the million things rushing through his head at any given moment, you have his absolute and total full attention.
Salvador pauses, in the midst of tending to his garden. The flower petals resting lightly on his fingertips (ungloved, for this is a rare moment of solitude, a rare time when Salvador need not fear any seeing the scars upon his hands and being repulsed by them) are soft, and have a slight give beneath gentle pressure. The scent of them is faint, something delicate — Salvador crouches down (carefully, carefully, tail pressed against the ground to brace), and lowers his face to the petals. There's a slight earthy undertone to the scent, something sweet and floral and hauntingly familiar.
He hums to himself, softly. Where has he known that scent from? Perhaps he should ponder it further, but there are other plants to tend to in the garden — and, though he may be an Awakener now, Salvador's knees do still somewhat ache with age. Best to get off the ground. He goes about the watering and checking various plants — other flowers, bushes, and shrubs are all carefully tended to. It's not particularly hard, but it is calming. A steadiness, a gentle sigh of an afternoon. He thanks the Father for these moments of calm — they are much-appreciated, and Salvador is always grateful for times when he can simply be.
Clicking, muffled through walls. The soft creaking of the garden door as it opens, and the sound of footsteps — soft tramping upon the earth — growing louder. There's an accompanying noise of the soft rustle of fabric, and a noise that Salvador has learned is that of long hair, swaying in motion.
"My dear Bishop." A familiar voice purrs, cultured and even. Ah, it's Doresain. The voice alone would have given the other man away, but the brilliant pearlescent soul makes his presence unmistakable.
"Lord Doresain." Salvador acknowledges, turning to face the king as he tucks his hands into the wide fabric of his sleeves. (Best not to let the man see his scars, quiet yet. Salvador would not want to upset him.) "Did you have need of me?"
"Nothing so grand, I assure you." Doresain moves closer, enough that Salvador is achingly aware of how short the distance between the two of them is. "I merely wished to enjoy your company."
"Is that so?" Salvador replies, evenly. Beneath the heavy fabric of his cassock, his tail curls around his leg, gripping almost tightly. (He would not want Doresain to trip on the limb, after all, with the way the man seems to walk on his. . . toes? Salvador is not entirely certain of the shape of the man's legs, only that they seem to have holes, and are long and tapered. Heels, perhaps?)
"It is." Voice curling in what Salvador would call affection were he brave enough to dare — Doresain's voice is low, and quiet. Fitting, for the space they are in, and matching Salvador's own. "Shall we sit? I ensured there would be food — tell me, Bishop Salvador, have you yet eaten?"
Salvador allows Doresain to gently grasp him by the arm and guide him towards the table nestled further within the garden. It is. . . comforting, that Doresain would guide but not force — that Doresain, aware of the limitations of Salvador's gift from the All-Father (for, though his sight of souls is strong, it cannot capture everything that Salvador's vision had held, when he was living stil), is considerate enough to allow Salvador the choice of when to rely on outside aid. "I have not eaten in some time." He admits, tail curling just a bit tighter.
Doresain hums, clearly displeased, but no admonishments spill from his lips, nor any sighs of upset. He merely reaches, pulls something from the basket he had taken with him. "I had planned for such." He says lightly, setting a plate and some pleasantly-scented meal upon the table. "The choices of food will be kind to your stomach, my dear Salvador, so please do eat." The man leans forwards, just slightly, and though Salvador cannot see, he still feels the weight of Doresain's gaze upon him. "I do so enjoy seeing others partaking in meals I've made for them."
". . . If you insist, Lord Doresain." Salvador does not give voice to the apprehension within him (though the man had denied it, surely there was something he wished from Salvador? Was it truly so simple as watching him eat and enjoying his company?) and instead reaches forward. It's a simple sandwich, he discovers with some light exploration, and Salvador will admit . . . he does enjoy the flavor of it, simple as it may be.
The mist swirling around Doresain thickens, waxing and waning like a strange tide. Never enough to overpower Salvador's sences, or be unpleasant, but present nonetheless. He pauses, in the midst of eating. Ah. That is why the forget-me-nots had been so familiar — it is that very same scent that is held within the mist made from Doresain's soul. (How fitting.)
"Bishop Salvador?" A note of concern in Doresain's voice. "Is aught amiss?"
"My apologies." Salvador shakes his head, slightly. "I merely recalled something." He resumes his meal, and Doresain resumes his watching. (It would feel off-putting, for any other to rest their gaze upon him for such length — but somehow, with Doresain, it merely feels peaceful.)
It is only after Salvador has finished eating that he recalls that his hands have been ungloved this entire time — scars on display. Ashamed, he moves to return his hands to within the cassock sleeves, so as not to burden Doresain with the sight any further — but Doresain's hands reach out, one grasping each of Salvador's. Lightly, but the cold is enough to bring Salvador pause.
"May I?" Doresain asks, low and quiet, almost hushed. "Forgive me, but I find your scars to be rather beautiful."
It takes moments to find the words, choke down the blood and memory of smoke filling his lungs. "I am. . . grateful that you would be kind with your words." He makes no move to pull away. If Doresain believes such — if he truly believes such — then Salvador. . . well. It is not being selfish, to allow the other man to look, to let his hands rest within that cool embrace. It is a kindness, to allow Doresain that sight, to grant his request. (It is Salvador's duty to alleviate the suffering of others, under the All-Father's teachings, and if allowing Doresain to hold his hands will aid the other man, then any comfort it brings Salvador is merely a secondary aspect of such a thing.)
Though he cannot see it clearly, Salvador imagines that Doresain is smiling when next he speaks. "Thank you for your kindness, my dear Salvador."
And so. . . they sit like that, in the garden. The soft afternoon slowly melting around them, scent of forget-me-nots ever-present, as they exist in quiet companionship.
