New chapter! we're getting close to the climax now.
If you haven't caught up yet, check out the MASTERPOST
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Read on Ao3
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Teaser:
“Looking for this?”
“Yes, thank you. You can go now,” I said with a shooing motion.
“I’m just here to help,” he smirked, biting the apple.
I sighed, grabbing an onion and the cutting board. “Where have you hidden the knives anyway?”
Caleb’s face phased just briefly before he shrugged. “How about I do that for you?”
“Oh my gosh, Caleb, can you not even trust me to use a knife?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice light-hearted and annoyed. “I’m a Hunter. I use a sword regularly.”
“Yeah, and yet, you would always cut yourself when you helped me cook in the past.”
“That was literally one time!”
Caleb swiftly took the onion from me, replacing it with his half-eaten apple. “Still, I don’t want you to have to cry onion tears. Let me take one for the team.”
If this had been a normal situation I would have kept pressing and probably punched him for good measure, but I let him have this. I realized he wouldn’t let me hold a knife.
So, he wasn’t entirely complacent after all.
I huffed and turned back to grabbing the pans. “Fine. I’ll make the meat balls.”
I mixed up the meat, forming them into balls as Caleb cut the onion, then washed the knife and carefully placed it back into a high cupboard that I saw him quietly lock. I bit back the fury and started cooking the meatballs in the hot pan.
Caleb gave me the chopped onions and then opened the tomato cans for me.
I poured the sauce in with the onions and some spices and put the lid on to simmer the meatballs.
I handed Caleb another pan. “Fill this with water, please.”
“Yes, chef.”
He handed it back to me and I put it on the other burner to boil for the pasta. My heart started pounding.
It was time. I had put it off too long and I wanted to get out of here before I lost all the light entirely.
I took a deep breath, then turned to Caleb as if I had just thought of something.
“Hey, Caleb, the other day I was poking around in the cellar and saw there was some wine down there.”
“Oh yeah?” he raised an eyebrow.
I forced a smile. “Mmhm. I think we should have some with dinner. Why don’t you go pick one out?”
“You sure that’s a good idea?” he asked. “You know how much of a light-weight you are…”
I punched his shoulder and gave him a shove. “Just a glass with dinner! Come on, it goes so well with pasta.”
“Alright, alright,” Caleb conceded and headed toward the door to the cellar at the far end of the kitchen.
I pretending to turn back to the stove, trying to keep my breathing even as I waited.
He left the door ajar and started down the stairs.
I waited a few seconds to make sure he had gotten to the bottom then dashed over and silently shut the door, latching it in place.
Warnings: None, just good ol’ fluff and some angst (don’t worry the ending is happy)
Summary:
As the crown princess, you're expected to behave every bit like a lady. Except you frankly don't care and live how you want much to the dismay of your parents. When Charlotte visits your kingdom, a banquet is held.
Somehow you manage to get yourself grounded a few days prior, but it's no big deal, you'll just sneak out like you always do. Except Griffith happens to foil your plans every time.
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"I am afraid your parents have ordered everyone to escort you back to your room should they discover you escaping."
"I wouldn't call it escaping," you mutter under your breath.
"And what would you call it, dear Princess?"
"I'm simply taking a walk away from my room and out of the castle."
"As far as I recall, walks don't usually involve scaling buildings."
"What can I say? I like to take the scenic route—
Note:
This was requested by @Bravo6_go_in_dark on Wattpad and I am so sorry for taking forever to write this. I've been writing this on and off for about a month and a half but it's finally done! (Note my username on Wattpad is @Parascythe- )
Request: "Can u do griffith with a fem reader who is Charlotte's royal best friend from another kingdom who is very chaotic childish bold and a trouble maker and once the king and queen of her kingdom has to drag her by the hair and keep her in her room but her multiple tries of escaping didn't work cuz griffith is outside her palace"
I will say that I do not like Griffith for obvious reasons, but I can respect who he was before a certain point in the manga/anime. I think some of my bias leaked into my writing, and as a result, this is not pure fluff. The realist in me demanded something more realistic.
I also never intended for this to be super long, but here we are at around 7k words. Maybe the long fic will make up for the amount of time spent waiting lol.
I hope anyone who reads this enjoys it. On with the fic! ( •̀ ω •́ )✧
─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───
You never were the ideal princess your parents wanted. Some find it hard to believe that you’re royalty and would say so if it didn’t mean treason. While your parents made every effort to raise you properly, there was always your brash attitude that none of your tutors could tame. Etiquette and grace were drilled into you. You acted like a perfect princess—diplomatic and reserved—at events and official settings. Outside, however, is an entirely different story.
“Princess! Please come back! Her Majesty says you must look presentable for your upcoming betrothal meeting!” Your maid shouts, failing to keep up with your running.
You toss your head back with a laugh and continue gleefully dashing through the castle. “If he really wants to marry me then he should accept me as I am,” you refer to your pants. “Having to dress up to impress some man I might not even like is foolish.” As you run, you pass by a familiar white knight—viscount now—and meet curious blue eyes. Griffith is here to guard Charlotte while she’s visiting your kingdom. Flashing a cheeky smile, you wave and continue on your path to meet your potential fiance, unaware of his lingering gaze.
You stand in front of the drawing-room and enter unannounced before any of the servants can stop you. “Princess! It’s a pleasure to meet—” a man immediately stands up to greet you, pausing mid-sentence when he notices your attire. If you remember correctly, he’s the prince of a neighbouring kingdom. You also recall that your parents were adamant about signing a trade treaty with them, hence the sudden need to join the two kingdoms through marriage. The slight furrow of his brow already puts you in a bad mood. “Is the princess not able to come? I must say that I have never seen such a rude maid barge into a room, let alone one dressed so inappropriately. Are those pants?” You swear you see red but the diplomatic voice in your brain begs you not to cave his face in to avoid instigating a war. Instead, your fingers curl into a fist and you can feel the sting as your nails dig into your palms. You school your expression into something neutral and not at all the seething rage boiling underneath your skin.
“You’re speaking right to her.” His face pales. “I wasn’t aware that they skipped lessons on proper etiquette in your kingdom. How barbaric.” You look at him with disdain, already deciding that you wanted nothing to do with this man. His complexion quickly flushes with colour. He takes quick, angry strides towards you and grips your wrists tightly. Where were the guards?? You glance around the room and notice that it’s only the two of you and that there’s no commotion from outside. Part of you is scared, but another part of you is furious—furious at this man who looks down on you because he thinks you’re an easy target.
“Listen here, Princess,” he spits out your title with venom, “I would watch my tone if I were you. Your kingdom needs mine, not the other way around. My parents have left the decision up to me whether the treaty is signed or not.” His other hand drifts uncomfortably low and you glare murderously. “You should smile more, otherwise you’ll ruin that pretty face of yours; after all, that is your only redeeming quality.”
“To hell with the treaty.” Deciding that you’ve had enough, you rotate your wrist and pull your arm out of his grip. Taking the efficient route, you deliver a swift kick between his trousers and he crumples to the ground like a puppet that had its strings cut. “Don’t you ever threaten me again.” You rest your foot on top of the area you kicked, noting how he winces. “Do you understand?” When you receive no response you add pressure to your foot. “Do. You. Understand?” You emphasize each word. The question of whether this man would be able to continue his family line lingers in the back of your mind.
“Fucking bitch!”
Before you can stomp your foot down, your parents enter the room.
“What is the meaning of this?!” Your father demands as your mother drags you away from your fiance—ex-fiance now.
“He started it!” You say, pointing an accusatory finger at him.
“Honey, we have talked about this,” your mother tries to soothe you, “you cannot keep making such childish excuses.”
“He threatened me! H-he tried to touch me!” you sputter, voice rising as your shoulders go rigid with tension. You whip your head and see his cocky smirk that immediately changes into a tearful expression when your parents glance over.
“She just suddenly attacked me!” He sobs pitifully, his acting even worse than that jester your parents hired. “I went to greet her and she kicked me without hesitation. What will my parents do when they hear their only son may never be able to produce heirs?” You feel one of your eyes twitch in annoyance, but the look on your father’s face keeps your mouth shut.
“We can still sort this out.” Your father sighs and turns to you. “You are grounded, young lady. You are to stay in your room until the upcoming banquet.” You open your mouth to begin protesting. “Not a single word from you. Guards!” At his command, a group of guards enter the room. Where were they when you needed them?? “Escort the princess back to her chambers.” His tired eyes look over you once more. “Drag her if you must.” The guards salute and nudge you out of the room. Eventually, they do end up dragging you because you insisted on going back and reasoning with your parents.
You spend the next day locked up in your room, grateful that you were at least allowed visitors. And so here you were, sitting with Charlotte as she listened to you over a cup of tea. She frowned when you mentioned the man’s rude behaviour, and her eyes nearly bugged out of her head when you got to the part where you kicked him in the balls.
“I mean, honestly, Lottie. How could they expect me to marry such a pig?!” you exclaim indignantly. She pats your hand as a comforting gesture. “What’s with that look on your face?” You lean back in your chair and try to analyze her expression.
“I am surprised and envious of your boldness,” Charlotte admits. She is a lot more demure compared to you, something you assumed was a product of her father’s doing.
“And look where that boldness got me.” You gesture to your temporary confinement and the noticeable increase in guards around and in your room.
Charlotte laughs, and it’s what you would expect a princess’s laugh to sound like—melodic and light. “When has that ever stopped you?” She raises a brow and her lips lift softly into a smile.
You clamber out of your seat and rush to give her a hug, adoring the way she squeals joyfully in your arms. “This is why you’re my best friend.” You grin at her, already planning an escape in your head.
There are three more days until the banquet, which means three more escape attempts. On the first day, you decide to try climbing out of the window. Your room was only on the third level and you managed to gather enough silk sheets to form a rope. During the day there were guards inside your room, so you decided to wait until the evening to put your plan into action.
Once the pale moon rises into view, you walk to your closet and pull out the pile of ‘rope’ and quietly carry a chair to your door, wedging it beneath the doorknob. This way you could give yourself more time before they realize what you’ve done. Tiptoeing to your window, you secure one end of the rope around the lantern hook next to the frame and carefully lower the rest of it. A light breeze brushes against your face and you shiver as you stare at the dark abyss below. You’ve read in books about heroes and heroines doing this countless times. How hard could it be to execute in real life?
Not as hard as you thought, but a lot harder than you expected. You never considered what would happen if you were to slip or fall before reaching the ground. But to be honest, this is a fanfic and you’re feeling fairly confident in your plot armour.
With the fourth wall broken, you begin your descent towards freedom (hopefully). Thanks to all the horse riding and swordsmanship, it takes you less than half an hour to reach the ground. You internally sigh with relief when your feet come in contact with solid ground.
“I believe you are supposed to be under room arrest, Princess?” A familiar voice shatters the small moment of victory and your shoulders immediately tense up—your back straight as a rod. Lucky for you, there’s a layer of amusement in his tone, so you’re probably not completely fucked. Turning your head, a small gasp falls from your lips. You already thought he looked handsome during the day, but the moonlight did wonders for his ethereal beauty.
“Is your hair made out of moonlight?” The words escape before your brain has time to process them. Your eyes widen and it feels like you’ll snap in half if your body becomes any more rigid. “Shit—I mean, pardon me.” Your breathing quickens and heat flushes from the crown of your head to the base of your neck.
“I can practically see the steam rising off your head. And no, Princess. My hair is simply just hair. Although the colour seems to intrigue most people.” He comes closer and makes an attempt to grab your arm. His fingers send a jolt of electricity and you jump back, the castle walls trapping you from behind.
“I’m not going back, not yet at least,” you refuse, flinching away from his touch again. His lips turn into a small frown but it disappears when you blink again. His expression is more neutral now and that polite smile is back on his face.
“I am afraid your parents have ordered everyone to escort you back to your room should they discover you escaping.”
“I wouldn’t call it escaping,” you mutter under your breath.
“And what would you call it, dear Princess?”
“I’m simply taking a walk away from my room and out of the castle.”
“As far as I recall, walks don’t usually involve scaling buildings.”
“What can I say? I like to take the scenic route—
A squeak escapes from your throat as the ground suddenly vanishes beneath your feet. Instinctively your arms cling around his neck. You glance up and notice that Griffith’s face is significantly closer to yours now. When did he get so close?
“W-what are you doing?” you ask, unsure whether to faint from excitement or embarrassment.
“I am escorting you to your chambers,” he responds in a matter-of-fact tone, carrying you with ease.
“I figured as much, b-but I’m capable of walking. Y-you don’t need to carry me like this.” You stumble through your words, oblivious to the way the corners of his lips curl up.
“I believe you and Charlotte called this the ‘princess carry’ during one of your book discussions.”
You furrow your brows and think back to all your recent interactions with Charlotte. Had he been paying attention all those times? Your heart skips a beat and you begin to sweat. If he remembers this then he probably remembers how the two of you drooled over the male leads in the romance novels you’ve been reading.
“I didn’t expect you to eavesdrop, Sir Griffith.”
“One can hardly call it eavesdropping if the entire conversation consists of loud screams and squeals over fictional men.”
“Touché.” You look around and notice that he’s walking away from the main castle. You unconsciously tighten your grip.
“Not to worry, Your Highness. I am still under orders to escort you back to your room.” He squeezes you gently in reassurance. “The length of time, however, was not specified. We are taking—what did you call it?” He flashes you a dazzling smile. “The scenic route?”
Blood rushes back to your cheeks and you turn away bashfully, hoping he doesn’t notice the dopey grin on your lips. “And pray tell what the scenic route entails?” You ask, trying to steer the conversation.
“Through the gardens. I hear the flowers are lovely this time of year.” You reach the familiar archway with ivy woven between its frame. He sets you down gently and offers his arm. “M’lady.”
You accept and hope the lighting is dim enough to hide your glowing cheeks. “Thank you, for—“ you try to find the right words “—for everything tonight.” You admire the petals of the peonies nearby. “You could have taken me straight back to my room, but you didn’t. So, thank you.” Shyly, you tuck some hair behind your ear and smooth out your blouse.
“Terribly stuffy, isn’t it?” You tilt your head at him. “The aristocrats and nobility.”
“As difficult as it is, it’s a responsibility I was born with.” You shrug. “One I hear you hope to also carry?” Your question was innocent enough but his expression falters for a second.
“I do aspire for my own kingdom.” He looks down at you with a serious gaze; there’s a fire in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. “It is a lifelong dream.”
You nod thoughtfully. “Is that why you and Charlotte…?” On numerous occasions, the two of you have gossiped over Griffith and his godly appearance. Lately, you’ve noticed the two of them growing closer.
“Charlotte is lovely but I do not care for her as a lover,” he admits without hesitation.
“Are you sure you should be telling me—her best friend—this?” you tease, nudging him playfully.
He bends down and you can feel his warm breath tickle your ear. “Perhaps I wanted you to hear it.”
“Is that a confession?” You tease him, not expecting a serious reply.
“Would you accept it if it was?” His words cause your steps to falter and you have to tightly grip his arm to steady yourself.
“In your dreams.” You try to deflect your embarrassment. Griffith raises a brow; your flustered appearance does not go unnoticed.
“Well, in my dreams I would present a flower—“ he plucks a rose from the garden “—like this and—“ he tucks it behind your ear “—and proceed to claim how no other flower is more beautiful than the one blossoming in front of me.”
The blush on your cheeks puts the rose petals to shame. “I wasn’t aware you were such a wordsmith, Sir Griffith.”
“There are plenty of things you don’t know about me, Princess.” He flashes you a smile that borders on a smirk.
“And do I get the pleasure of learning about them all?”
“That depends.” He stops walking and you realize that you’re back at the main castle. Bringing your hand to his lips, he presses a gentle kiss against your knuckles. “Goodnight, Princess.” He leaves as swiftly as he appeared. You begin to process what just happened tonight and the familiar warmth returns to your cheeks. Shaking your head, you realize the only way back to your room undetected is to climb up again. With a sigh, you begin your journey back to your window.
─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───
The security is laxer the second day and there are no longer any guards inside your room. So when the guards rotate for their shifts, you pull out a spare maid uniform and change into it. For good measure, you put on a wig and remove any makeup you had on. Using the pretense that you’re a maid the princess called for earlier, you manage to walk right past the guards. You tell them that the princess ordered you to pick up her favourite pastries from the capital for tea later. With a solid excuse, you are free to venture into the capital. You even make it past the gates until you’re hit with a sense of déjà vu.
“We meet again, Princess.” You don’t dare look behind you, opting instead to increase your pace into a brisk walk. He matches your speed with ease since he’s on horseback. He tilts his head curiously. “Taking the scenic route again?” The grin in his tone is evident. “A walk through the capital this time?”
“If you’re here to stop me, it won’t work,” you stubbornly say. The fabric of your skirt bunches between your fists and you force yourself to let go before any damage is done. Griffith smiles and shakes his head slowly.
“I am simply here to escort you back to your room again.”
“Like you did last night?”
“Precisely.”
“Does this include a complimentary tour on your horse?” you cheekily ask. While the capital isn’t too far, riding a horse is much quicker than walking.
He extends an arm to you and hoists you onto his horse. You sit in front of him, caged between his toned arms. The rhythm of riding a horse is unfamiliar to you, but you quickly pick it up, comfortably swaying in tandem with Griffith. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the way and neither do you. You lean into his chest, missing how he tenses slightly, and close your eyes to enjoy the warm sunlight. In your oblivious state, you remain unaware when he brings his arms closer until they hover just beside your waist.
─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───
This was not what he planned for, not at all. He had meant to take you back straight to your room, just like how he meant to last night. However, if someone were to ask him to explain why he didn’t, he would simply have no answer.
At first, you were just Charlotte’s friend—her obnoxiously outspoken counterpart. But something has changed during the past few weeks. It’s gotten to the point where even those around him have noticed a difference.
There was something refreshing in your behaviour. He was used to lowering his head, spewing false words of compliment to please the nobility. Despite being the crown princess, you were humble and kind, but stern and level-headed when necessary—someone fit to stand by his side. He always knew that he would need someone to rule beside, an equal if possible. However, from his many encounters with noble women, the chances were close to benign.
He honestly didn’t think there would be a woman who would catch his eye. Most of them reeked of perfume or were trying to sleep with him to bolster their husbands’ reputations. And on occasion, he would accept their advances if they benefit him enough. But you, you were different. The first time you met, you were dangling from a tree branch to get a laugh out of Charlotte, hoping to make tea shoot out of her nose. When he saw you scaling the castle wall last night with leaves littered throughout your hair, it reminded him of that time.
You’re honestly everything he would want in a partner, as difficult as it is for him to admit. Maybe it was your warm smile that sent his heart palpitating or your flustered appearance that made his chest puff with pride. Maybe it was because he found you so damn lovely that he unconsciously wanted to spend more time with you. And he didn’t know how to feel about it all. He was always in control, there was nothing he couldn’t sway in his favour, no person who could shake his calm exterior. Well, you came in and obliterated all those beliefs. Destroyed them with your sparkling eyes, the way your lips twitch when you hold back a laugh during meetings, and…
Fuck he had it bad for you.
A small movement breaks him out of thought. You were squirming in front of him, trying to match the rocking of the horse. He could have turned back and handed you to the guards. But he didn’t, and he doesn’t know why. If he moved his arms any closer, they would be resting directly on your waist. A small feeling of pride swells in his chest when he notices how you ride the horse with ease now. He tries to ignore how you’re at the perfect height for him to plant a kiss on the crown of your head. Impulsive thoughts like these scare him with their unfamiliarity.
The outskirts of the capital come into view and he decides to break the long silence.
“What brings a princess to disguise herself?” He asks, noticing how your wig is starting to slip off.
“Pastries.”
A deep belly laugh wracks through his entire body, and he feels you tense between his arms. “My apologies.” He manages to pull himself together after a few moments. “I wasn’t expecting such an answer.”
You giggle, snorting a little. The sound sends pleasant tingles through his body, and he ignores the urge to squeeze you tight. “You’ll find that my priorities are rather different than most princesses.” You turn your head back and smile in amusement. “What were you expecting?”
He shrugs and meets your eyes, mirroring your amused expression. “More scandalous novels about forbidden love and status gaps.” You let out a noise of indignation.
“I would never!” you deny, lips lifting into a smirk. “Not without Charlotte, anyway.”
“Yes, you have been a wonderful influence on her.” And he genuinely means it, but you seem to take it the wrong way when you snap at him.
“Look, I already know it’s disgraceful how my ‘unconventional’ behaviour has rubbed off on her. I don’t need another person to chew me out on it.” The bite in your tone stings, wounding him unexpectedly. Why did it upset him so much if you were upset?
Why did he care?
All he knows is that this growing affection for you will be the death of him.
─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───
The bakery quickly comes into view and you sigh with relief, desperate to get away from the awkward atmosphere. You feel Griffith flinch at your remark and dread instantly punches you in the gut; he meant it as a compliment. He was trying to be nice and you bit his head off after misinterpreting his intentions. You mentally scolded yourself for being the biggest idiot in the kingdom. Suddenly the space behind you is empty and you notice that Griffith has dismounted and is offering you his hand. You gnaw on the corner of your bottom lip and hesitantly accept his help, unable to look him directly in the eyes.
“Hey—” a million words go through your mind but none of the combinations you create are good enough “—I’m….” Whatever poor excuse you scraped together dies in your throat. “Shit, why is this so hard,” you grumble to yourself. Griffith remains the perfect gentlemen and waits patiently for you to say your piece. Running your fingers through your wig in an attempt to fix it, you clear your throat and flick your gaze up to his eyes. “I don’t know what else to say except I’m sorry. I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier; it was undeserved. I understand you were trying to praise me, but I misinterpreted your words.”
He smiles, although there’s now a warmth that you don’t normally see behind it. “Sometimes ‘sorry’ is all that is needed to convey what you mean.” Bringing a hand up, he hesitantly pats your head. His smile gently curves at your wide eyes. You were panicking. If you got this embarrassed with a wig on, what would it be like if he patted your actual hair?
“A-anyway. Shall we head inside?” You avert your gaze again, cursing yourself for acting like a love-struck maiden.
“Certainly, I hear that the princess is often impatient when demanding items from the capital. I hear she sometimes sends guards to storm the local bookstore to obtain new books that are popular amongst women.” His teases do little to rile you up.
“I’ll have you know that gossiping about the royal family can be seen as treason.” Your face hurts from smiling so much. “Besides, that only happened once and I would have had to wait another month if I didn’t do anything.”
“M’lady.” He offers his arm to you again. You become aware of the increasing attention the two of you—mostly Griffith—are drawing.
“I am but a humble maid, Sir Griffith.” The last thing you wanted was to have your identity exposed. Your father would most likely increase the duration of your punishment and then you would really die of boredom.
“You are a lady nonetheless.” To avoid further embarrassment, you grab his hand and tug him into the bakery. The timbre of his laughter sends your heart racing. Your hands begin to feel clammy and you release your grip, praying he doesn’t notice. “I underestimated your enthusiasm for baked goods.”
Your lips turn up into a wry smile and you wipe your palms on your skirt. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good tart.” You head to the owner, Sadie, and greet her. She’s one of the few people who know your true identity. When Charlotte isn’t visiting, you are often in the bakery helping Sadie. She has voiced her disappointment many times that you would be a great baker if you didn’t have a kingdom to run. While she heads to the back to retrieve the order, you tell Griffith that he can pick out anything for himself. “My treat,” you insist.
“I can’t say I’m a fan of sweets,” he admits, browsing the displays of various cakes and other desserts.
“Then how about a muffin? Or maybe some cookies?” you suggest, unsure of what he would like. “Of course, I can always offer you something else for your trouble?” Your bottom lip feels raw from the abuse it endures as you worry it between your teeth periodically. Flinching when a metallic taste fills your mouth, you swipe your tongue over the wound, hissing quietly at the sting.
“I sense that this is causing you distress.” His brows furrow and concern fills his gaze. He walks over to a shelf lined with bags of cookies and picks an assorted mix. “This will suffice.”
“Are you sure that’s enough?” There’s a tinge of doubt in your voice and the corners of your mouth tug down. Griffith ponders for a minute. You fidget under his calculating gaze.
“Then perhaps the privilege to call you by your name.” You suck in a breath; will you really allow this man to have such power over you? Your heart already nearly combusts when he calls you ‘princess’. Hearing your name fall from his lips will surely cause your heart to stop. On the other hand, you feel guilty seeing the simple bag of cookies in his hands. He offered you a ride to town and his protection instead of handing you to the guards.
“No titles?” You start biting your lip again, yelping when the forgotten wound reopens. Griffith rushes over to you and takes out a handkerchief, pressing the fabric firmly against your bottom lip. “I-I’m so sorry,” you stutter, the cloth impeding your ability to talk a little. Griffith’s face is close, his eyes are focused on your lips and you swallow nervously.
“You should be more careful, Princess.”
“You can say it.” You avert your gaze.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My name. I’ll allow you to call me by my name—but only in private. Father and Mother will kill me if they find out I let a man, especially one who isn’t my betrothed, address me informally.” Your eyes flicker back to him and they widen at the smile that spreads on his face.
And so he does. He says your name in a gentle whisper, testing it on his tongue. Hearing it sends fireworks exploding in your rib cage; your heart pounds loud enough that you’re afraid he can hear it.
“Then please just call me Griffith, I insist.” His kind smile sends the butterflies in your stomach fluttering.
“G-Griffith,” you hesitantly say. The pure joy in his expression is worth all the embarrassment you feel. Your lip has stopped bleeding by now and you stare guiltily at his handkerchief that you’ve stained. “It seems you’re always there in my time of need.” Before you can stop yourself, you ask him a question that’s been bothering you the past few days. “Why are you so nice to me?” His expression falters and the handkerchief scrunches up in his fist.
You aren’t stupid. You’ve seen how he interacts with other women besides Charlotte. Disingenuine. Similar to how all of high society socializes, where smiles hide sneers and insults are disguised as compliments. Sure you’re Charlotte’s best friend, but that shouldn’t mean anything to him. And so you tried to ignore the little voice in your head, telling you that he’s treating you nicely because he wants something from you.
He pulls away and smiles ruefully. “Indeed. Why am I nice to you?” Only one side of his lips curls up, and his tone is melancholic. You fold your arms and hug yourself, uncomfortable with the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
“I asked you first,” you whisper. The silence in the store is deafening. Now would be a really good time for Sadie to come back—
“Delivery for the princess coming up!” Sadie cheerfully strides back into the room with an elegantly wrapped box in her arms. “Apologies. I didn’t mean to take so long. It turns out that nobody packaged any of the sweets despite my reminders.” She shrugs her shoulders and sighs. “Here.” She presents the box to you and you thank her profusely—grateful for the interruption—and hand her the payment along with a generous tip. You look around and deduce from Griffith’s absence that he already left and is waiting for you by his horse. “He left a few minutes ago.”
Your head snaps back to Sadie and you smile sheepishly. “Am I that obvious?”
“Honey, you have no idea.” You consider Sadie as an older sister. When everyone scolded you for your unladylike behaviour, Sadie encouraged you to find healthy outlets to express yourself with. She is also incredibly perceptive much to your dismay.
You fiddle with a stray thread on your sleeve, unable to bring yourself to look her in the eyes. You already know that she’s looking at you with concern. “I like him—maybe a lot more than I want to admit.”
“But?” Sadie asks, sensing the hesitation in your voice.
“But I know his type and I know what he wants to accomplish.”
“And you think he might be playing nice to get what he wants?” Her blunt words sting with the truth. Your shoulders slump and she steps around the counter, taking the box from you and setting it aside. She gently grabs both of your hands and squeezes them, and it takes you every ounce of control to not break down in the middle of the bakery. You nod, unable to speak for fear of bursting into tears, and she wraps you in a hug.
“I’m worried, Sadie. I’ve seen ambition and greed corrupt souls before. What do I do if he becomes a monster? Or what if he already is one?” You feel Sadie tremble, but then you look down at your arms and see that it’s not Sadie. It’s you. When did you start trembling? These unfamiliar feelings scared you. You were always in control, the person with the highest status in a room. Hell, a few days ago you made a grown man whimper like a baby.
Sadie pulls away with a frown and her hands are on the sides of your face. “Then if you like him so much, you make damn sure that he doesn’t stray down the wrong path. And if you fail and he becomes a monster, I’ll break his damn kneecaps and we’ll run away together and start a bakery in another kingdom.”
You choke out a laugh, your vision becoming blurry. She tuts and brushes away your tears with her thumb. “I will never understand your obsession with kneecaps.”
“You don’t have to be tall to reach them.” She grins, relaxing when your mood noticeably brightens. “Listen, you don’t have to make anything official or label what you have with him.” She drops her hands to your upper arms and squeezes them affectionately. “Your decision isn’t permanent, so just see how it goes for now.” You soak in her words and nod slowly, your gaze drifting towards the door. “Hey.” Looking back at Sadie, her expression is solemn. “I mean it. I’m always available for some kneecap busting.” Her face breaks out into a grin and you start giggling. The two of you laugh until your sides ache and your lungs beg for oxygen.
“Sometimes I wonder how you’re not an adventurer or in some job that requires physical violence.”
The Cheshire grin on her face sparks some curiosity. “Who’s to say that I’ve only done baking my whole life?” Before you can ask questions, she pushes the box against your chest and steers you to the door. “Your knight in shining armour is waiting.” You stick your tongue at her over your shoulder and she returns the gesture before waving goodbye.
─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───
Griffith is beside his horse, feeding it a nice, shiny apple he bought while you were inside. You can’t help but notice the large group of girls admiring him from afar and the small few that gathered the courage to go up and talk to him. You lean against a wall and observe. His smile never reaches his eyes. His actions are all polite but he doesn’t go above the bare minimum. You could sense some irritation from his body language, which was so subtle that you almost missed it.
“Lord Griffith, what brings you here to town?” One of them presses up against his arm, purposefully sticking out her chest. He smirks and grabs the woman by her chin, brushing his thumb over her lips.
“To admire lovely ladies such as yourself.” You have to push down the bile rising in your throat as you watch the woman swoon and faint.
She literally passes out. It takes two men to drag her to the nearest doctor.
The group continues to gush over Griffith in hushed whispers, their incessant giggling begins to get on your nerves. Deciding that you were fed up—and most definitely not jealous—you push off the wall and walk over to Griffith. He immediately notices your presence and a more genuine smile appears on his face. “As much as I would love to stay and chat, ladies. I’m afraid duty calls.”
The group of girls glare at you. You beam a sweet smile at them, trying to convey with your eyes how little fucks you give. It seems to work as a majority of them wither under your gaze. “What would Lord Griffith have to do with an ugly harlot?” one of them says. If you weren’t holding a box of your favourite pastries right now, hands would be thrown.
“The princess urgently requires some desserts for her afternoon tea and I was sent to escort her maid to pick up the delivery,” Griffith replies, emphasizing your title. The girl pales immediately. Insulting a direct servant of the royal family was like insulting their master, and insulting a member of the royal family usually ends with someone’s head being lopped off. Without another word, he mounts his horse and helps you up. He grabs the reins and signals his horse to start walking, easing into a trot. A loud thud behind you signals that the number of fainting women today has increased by one. Although you would faint too if you thought you were surely going to be decapitated.
“Thank you,” you say, watching the scenery pass. “For standing up for me. I could have handled it—” you interrupt him before he can interject “—but I’m thankful for the assistance.”
“Well, I certainly couldn’t let them slander you like that.”
“Do you think I’m pretty, then?” you tease him, silently chuckling at how his chest tenses behind you.
“I won’t deny that you are,” he answers, his voice lilting. “I have to make sure my head remains on my shoulders.” You guffaw and smack his arm, leaning back harshly and ramming your head into his chest in hopes of winding him. He grunts and tightens his arm around your waist. “It’s dangerous to move around so much on a horse, Princess.” His warm breath tickles your ears and your face is ablaze. You simply huff and adjust yourself until you’re comfortable, trying to ignore the tingles running through your body. His arms are still around your waist, resting on them and almost holding you in an embrace.
You stare straight ahead, not wanting to see Griffith’s expression when you continue the conversation from the bakery. “You never answered my question.”
“If I think you’re pretty? I thought we already established that you’re exquisitely beautiful.”
“W-what! No, not that!” You smack his arm again out of embarrassment.
“Careful, Princess. I can’t swing a sword if you maim my arm.” You retaliate by smacking his other arm, but he grabs your hand before the blow can land. He doesn’t let go and you secretly don’t want him to, so you don’t mention it.
“I was talking about earlier when we were in the bakery,” you say
“Are you always so violent with men?”
You frown. “Why are you trying to change the subject?”
He squeezes your hand and flashes a smile. “I see my attempts to steer the conversation are futile.” He leans forward and sighs. His warm breath against your neck sends shivers down your spine. “You have become far more important to me than I intended,” he admits in a hushed tone. You struggle to process his words, the only thing grounding you is the brush of his thumb across the back of your hand.
“Is that a confession?” you squeak out, struggling to keep your breathing steady.
“That depends. Would you accept it if it was?”
The familiar response brings you back to last night in the garden. Your heart nearly leaps out of your ribcage and it takes you every ounce of self-control to not jump off the horse and run away. Could you really trust his words? Did he genuinely like you? Or is he just like that prince you nearly made sterile this morning?
“And if I did?” You turn around, looking up at him through your lashes.
He breathes in sharply and dips his head down, nose bumping against yours.
“Then I would say your standards are considerably low if you call that a confession,” he whispers. His eyes flicker from your lips and back up to your eyes. Feeling bold, you straighten your posture. Your faces are so close that you can feel his warm breath fanning against your skin.
“Then how about—” you brush your lips against his “—I show you a proper confession?” and you close the gap. He doesn’t move at first. He seems to freeze behind you and this makes you pause in hesitation. But he quickly reciprocates, moving his lips in tandem with yours.
Kissing Griffith is everything you imagined and more. His soft lips are gentle and he doesn’t try to push you further. But you want more. You want to feel more of him. He’s been the subject of many embarrassing dreams and you didn’t know if you would ever get the chance to kiss him again. Taking the initiative, you slip your tongue out and swipe it across his bottom lip. You hear him curse quietly as he opens his mouth and lets you explore. Before the kiss can get any more heated, he pulls away. There’s a soft blush dusting his cheeks and you stare. You stare until he ducks his head and buries it into the crook of your neck.
He laughs joyfully, and it sounds so carefree and happy. The butterflies in your stomach flutter in response. “You’re killing me, Princess,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss on your shoulder.
“I can’t help it. I’ve never seen you look so…” you trail off.
“Weak? Vulnerable?” he says and adds more suggestions, each word more venomous than the last. “Stupid? Effeminate?—” you cut him off with a chaste kiss.
“I was going to say lovely, Griff.” You tug on the necklace he never takes off to pull him down, resting your forehead against his. “I was staring because at that moment, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you because you looked so lovely.” The pink on his face flushes into a deep red that reaches his ears and down his neck. His eyes look over your face as if he’s searching for something. “What are you trying to figure out?” you ask with an amused grin, unconsciously watching his mouth when he licks his lips nervously.
“You,” he answers simply. “How a wonderful creature such as yourself can exist in this dreadful world.” His arm around your waist pulls you closer to him and he basks in your presence. For a rare moment, you see his mask disappear and marvel at how innocent his expression looks. A desire to protect this Griffith is born and you open your mouth, but the horse suddenly stops. You’re back at the castle.
You didn’t even notice that he had taken you all the way back to your own section of the castle. He dismounts the horse and you accept the familiar offer that follows afterwards. Clasping his hand longer than what your etiquette teacher would deem appropriate, you look up at him. His expression is back to that neutral smile that’s always plastered to his face like a shield. You shuffle your feet and look down at the ground.
“Thank you again for escorting me. I really do appreciate it.” You can feel your neck straining but you refuse to look up, to look up and see the mask on his face again.
“Princess,” he whispers softly. He gently tilts your head up and cups your cheek in one hand. Out of instinct, you nuzzle into his touch, eyes wide. “Can I kiss you again?”
“Well, that depends.” The corners of his lips twitch up in amusement.
“On what?” You hum and pretend to be lost in thought, unable to stop the grin spreading on your face.
“On whether you can catch me again.” Your grin quickly becomes smug. “The banquet is tomorrow evening.” Understanding flickers across his face. “If you can catch me escaping again before then, I will grant your request and you get to be my escort for the night.”
Mischief sparkles in his eyes. “Do my escort duties end at the banquet? Or are you requesting that I be your escort for the duration of the entire night?” You catch his suggestive tone and pull him into a passionate kiss.
You leave him stunned in silence, flushed with swollen lips; it’s a good look on him.
“Why don’t you find out?” You peck him on the cheek and skip merrily to your room with the box of desserts in your hands, eager to spill all the juicy details to Charlotte over tea. You giggle and glance back at him over your shoulder. “Catch me if you can!” He’s still rooted to the spot like a lovestruck fool, but you can clearly see the determination in his eyes.
You can’t wait for tomorrow night.
And neither can he.
─── ⋆ ｡ﾟ☆: *. ☽ .* :☆ﾟ｡⋆ ───
End Note:
Wasn't that a wild ride! I hope you all had as much fun reading it as I did writing. Originally, I thought three was a good number of escape attempts, but as I was writing the first one, I realized that three would end up being way too long and settled for two. The plot kinda developed on its own and became the giant fanfic you just read.
If you're ever reading one of my works and want to make a request, feel free to leave a comment! I can't guarantee I'll write or finish it quickly though if this request was anything to go by lol.
Could you do a fanfic on the following whump  scenario?
: whumpee in hospital - ER. Brought in for _____. Whumpee is in no mood for doctors, nurses and being touched. Whumpee find the right time and jolts from the medical room and down the hall towards an exit. Caretaker (psychologist, or someone with medical background) is coming back from _____, heading back toward whumpee’s room. Suddenly, whumpee  collides with caretaker.
Caretaker quickly grabs whumpee by the arm and gently demands an answer to why they are out of bed, even more so out in the hallway unsupervised. Whumpee, still in fight or flight mode says with a stutter “ba bathroom, all the while trying to shake and twist their arm free from caretaker’s firm grip.
Hey! At long last, here it is! I hope you enjoy this prelude to a psychiatric evaluation! ❤️
CW: Referenced self-harm, medical setting, (very lightly) implied police violence, implied mental health issues
Max made their way to the end of a hallway that had about a half dozen directions listed on the wall. The only one Max was concerned with was the one with the arrow pointing left with text reading EXIT. They limped toward it, ignoring the pain, hunger, and bone-deep weariness that was dogging them; they fought the urge to lean against a wall for just a second.
Move your ass, they thought. It can’t be that much further.
Or maybe the hospital was an endless, inescapable labyrinth of hallways and arrows that lead nowhere.
I’ve got miles to go before I sleep, they thought. Where had they heard that? A poem? Movie? DIdn’t matter. It had just popped into their head, and they didn’t have the luxury of letting something so trivial natter at them.
The memory of their treatment spurred Max on. The medical staff had been well-meaning (They were a far sight gentler than the cops who had dragged them into the ER. Max had barely managed to calm themself enough to avoid being cuffed to a bed.), but they had found themself flinching at every touch and snapping out answers or equivocations to their questions. They didn’t have it in them for anymore blood draws, or pen lights, or gloved hands, or someone telling them, “You’re just going to feel a bit of discomfort.” But they knew their physical examination was less damning than a psychological one would be.
They’d heard enough bits of conversation to know that once they were cleared medically, someone from psych was coming to evaluate them. Max understood the staff’s concern all too well, they did, but they couldn’t allow that to happen. So, Max had bided their time until the nurse was gone and security was distracted, then they slipped past the faded blue and yellow-striped privacy curtain, and limped away down the nearest hallway.
They never thought they’d be thankful for a hospital’s short staffing.
Their clothes had dried, but a stubborn, damp chill from the rain had sunken in and the too-cool air in the hospital was not helping. The deep lacerations on their right arm ached. They regretted that they had nothing to cover the bandages with. They didn’t want anyone to see it, didn’t want anyone to speculate what was beneath, and there could be no discussion of it. It’s not like they wanted to do it. Not like they wanted the pain. They hadn’t had a choice.
Just a little further, they thought as they lurched around the corner.
—
Doc turned over in their head the conversation they’d had with Max’s brother. He’d reported that Max’s behavior, in the limited time he’d seen them, had been erratic, and that he was worried, though he didn’t think he had any helpful information. Nevertheless, Doc hoped that the brother could be a part of Max’s recovery.
The officers who had dragged Max into the Emergency Department corroborated their erratic behavior and added “violent” and “delusional” to the list of concerns. (One of the officers was going to have a pretty good shiner come morning.) Doc compartmentalized the information as they made their way back toward Max’s bed. Hopefully a more complete picture would come together once they were able to talk to Max.
Doc turned the corner and
Oof!
The file, notepad, clipboard, and pen they were carrying under their arm went flying, but they ignored them in favor of grabbing the bicep of whoever they’d just collided with and tried to keep them upright.
“S…sorry,” they said as they continued to both stumble and pull away.
“No harm done,” Doc said with a slight chuckle in their voice. They kept hold of them and tried to steady them, but they seemed determined to fall flat.
“‘m good,” they said. They looked back toward Doc, then forward again. Eye contact had been fleeting, but Doc became aware of two things: The person whose arm they were holding was deeply exhausted, and that person was the one on whom they were supposed to perform a psychiatric evaluation.
They were a long way from “good.”
“Hey, okay,” Doc said, their voice even and their grip as assertive as it had to be. They didn’t want to cause Max anymore pain or agitation, but If they let go, they would probably topple. “Max, right?
Max didn’t acknowledge them, just kept straining away, even as they heavily favored their left leg.
“Max, hey. Max? Hold up, hold up.” Max paused, and looked askance at Doc. The patient calm Doc projected was more than a veneer. It was so complete that their coworkers speculated it was something intrinsic that couldn’t be taught. In truth, it had taken years of care, practice and cultivation to be the person their patients needed them to be. “What are you doing out of bed?”
“I…” Max dropped their gaze, and shook their head as though they’d reconsidered something. “Ba-bathroom,” they stammered.
Doc was sure the fact Max was heading toward an exit wasn’t a coincidence.
“I should probably tell you you’re going the wrong way, then.”
No response. No one liked having their bluff called. Or maybe Max hadn’t even heard them. Either way, Max continued to pull away and strain in their intended direction. Doc got the sense that, aside from their firm hand on Max’s arm, it was pure force of will keeping them upright.
“Max,” Doc said, their voice infinitely reasonable, but stern.
“What?!” Max turned and jerked their arm away and spun to face Doc, but they yelped, and lurched gracelessly to their side.
Doc reached for Max but pulled back when they caught themself on the closest wall. Crowding Max would gain them nothing.
“Easy, Max,” Doc said, the admonishment tempered with concern.
“I…I need to get out of here,” Max said. before they began shuffling along the wall. “I can’t, I can’t be here.”
“Why is that?”
Max looked back at them. Their eyes were tired and wide, but there was something honest and vulnerable there too, like they might tell them. Doc willed them to do so, but whatever they thought of saying went unspoken.
“I…I just can’t.”
At least they’re engaging with me, Doc thought.
“You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be out of bed, let alone wandering the halls.”
Max huffed out a breath that was a jumbled mess of weariness, annoyance, and derision. Doc supposed wandering implied the lack of a destination. And that destination was likely any place but the hospital.
“Max?” Another voice came from the end of the hall. Doc didn’t take their focus off of Max, but they spared a glance in the direction of the advancing orderly. (The relief on the ordery’s face was plain.) Max whipped their head toward him, then came a whimper and the harsh squeak of shoes’ soles on the white and green tile. Doc tried to stop their fall, but it was too late. Max thudded to the ground, and Doc winced in sympathy at Max’s pained groan.
The orderly’s pace quickened, but Doc put up a staying hand.
“We’re good,” Doc said. “Could you go get a wheelchair and bring it back?”
The orderly looked back at Max, who was trying to push themself back up. Their arms were shaking and blood, brilliant and red on the fresh white bandages on their forearm, was beginning to seep through. The orderly arched an eyebrow, but didn’t argue before nodding and turning to go.
Max had stopped trying to lift themself from the floor, and slowly managed to prop themself up so that they sat with their back against the wall. Their left leg was stretched out in front of them and they held their right arm stiffly at their side.
Doc thought to pick up the papers they’d dropped, but that would mean getting closer to Max than Max would likely have been comfortable with, so they seated themself across from Max in a loose approximation of their posture. Max looked them over and ran their tongue over their split lower lip.
“When was the last time you had something to eat?”
It was as good a tack to take as any at that moment. Regardless of their answer, Doc would go to the cafeteria and get some food for Max before they officially began their evaluation.
Max shrugged their left shoulder. Either they didn’t know, or didn’t want to say.
Then Max surprised Doc by speaking.
“You think I look crazy.”
Max’s expression was direct, but the way it was underscored by deep, dark circles, and the way their fingers picked at a tear in their jeans painted a picture of someone who could no longer run, but desperately wanted to. (Doc didn’t think the damage on the jeans had been put there with a mind toward fashion.)
“No,” Doc said. They shook their head slowly and earnestly, as something partly self-conscious and wholly mistrustful flickered behind Max’s eyes. “I think you look like you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.”
Max’s chest jolted with bleak humor.
“You could say that,” they said as their attention listed to their left and settled on one of the papers on the floor; it crinkled as they picked it up with unsteady fingers. Doc didn’t protest as Max read over the notes they’d taken during the phone conversation with Max’s brother.
“You’re going to put me away.”
It was a statement, not a question.
There was no accusation in Max’s voice, but there was resignation. That should have given Doc reason to breathe a small sigh of relief, perhaps, but instead it needled at them.
“Nobody wants that,” Doc said. “But it is my job to evaluate you, to find out if hospitalization is necessary.”
—-
Necessary.
If Max told even half the truth about the things they’d learned, or the events leading up to their apprehension, the doctor would find it very damn necessary to lock them up, and to throw away the key for good measure. Max looked over the paper in their hand where their brother’s concern and unwitting betrayal was documented in a stranger’s handwriting. They couldn’t be too hard on their brother, but they regretted trying to find some sort of solace or understanding with him.
What did you think was going to happen?
They wanted to keep going, to do what they had to do, but their body was a traitor, and there was no way out. That fact was driven home when two orderlies, one of which was pushing a wheelchair, rounded the corner. Max could drag themself maybe several feet before they would be corralled. They would struggle, and they would lose. Their heart beat faster in their chest and tears stung their eyes.
They met the studious eyes of the shrink sitting across from them. They didn’t look like the sort of person to accept “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you” as an answer to their questions.
Max let out a sigh. It was a stilted, defeated thing.
The suppression bands is going to kill him before the chains do.
He slams the metal against the wood again, ignoring the shakes that pulse through his arms with every hit against the bark. He whispers apologies to the Tree every time, can’t help but feel guilty for causing the wood so much dented splintering.
He pauses for a moment, looks at both the chain that keeps him trapped and the branch that still holds strong despite his best attempts. Nothing has changed and he glances towards the suppression bands that trap his wrists. His stomach flips hard as he notes the skin under the bands already starting to turn black. Stained wrists, reaching over his palms and slight onto his arms.
His Magicks, just as desperate as he is, are trying to break the bands and let themselves loose on the chains.
He wishes they had just left him without the bands. It might have meant a shorter fate, his Magicks attracting the Monsters, but that would have been better than the Corruption that awaits him if he doesn’t get them off in time. He shakes the chains again, tries to think through another avenue of escape, calming himself down enough to listen.
But then something snaps in the Forest and the noise drives him right back into slamming the metal into the bark with more desperation. He can almost hear shrieks of the Witches, can almost feel everything around him dying off into withered decay.
Can almost feel his body twisting and turning until he is one of the Monsters to roam the Forest.
He chokes on tears as he hears more sounds, more rustling, and he yanks on the chains harder and harder, barely noting the skin and bone breaking from the manacles that keep his hands locked together with no give. He curses, begs for the Three for forgiveness, whispers melting into nonsensical words before he notes a louder snap just behind him, his blood running cold as he stills. It’s a poor attempt to think that the Witch wouldn’t notice him and he just closes his eyes, choking on his sobs as he readies for his Death.
And then something touches him.
@kim-poce so i’m sorry in advance for the incredibly short length but,,,, I still wanted to write smth,,, Kris with her first owner :3c
CW: Lady whump, hair pulling
***
“Come here!” The man snapped, grabbing her by the wrist.
“Oh fuck off!” She snapped at him, “You’re not my fucking ‘owner’ or whatever the fuck, I’m not doing this!” She tried to jerk her hand away from him but he was holding so tightly his grip was sure to leave bruises, which only made her more angry. He roughly pulled her closer to him, close enough to get a hand tangled in her dark hair, causing her to swear in pain as he attempted to manhandle her back into the room. She had stormed out the second she saw the array of weapons in there, this was absolutely ridiculous in her opinion.
“I don’t care how long it takes, this attitude of yours can be beaten out of you sooner or later.” He snarled, pulling harder on her hair as she was pulled into the room.
“I’d like to see you try, asshole!” She shouted at him. He only let go of her hair when he was pushing her against a table, trying to keep her in place, the edge of the table digging into her back. She wasn’t even thinking, in the split second she had when he let go of her, she balled up her fist and swung, hitting him hard in the center of his face, knocking him away from her. He hit the floor, his nose gushing blood, and she took off, running out the door and down the hall, she didn’t care what she had to do to make it happen, but she was getting out of there.
The whumper enforces a new thing: invisible fences. Think about it: if the whumpee ever tries to escape, sharp pain ensues. After enough escape attempts, they soon learn that escape is even out of the question.
Rated T for language and graphic descriptions of injuries.
Also on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12937105/1/A-Captain-s-Heart
Tagging @therooksshiningknight & @killian-whump by request :)
Marvel’s well-meant warning was not nearly enough to deter Killian from trying to get free. As soon as she was out of sight, his wrists were up by his mouth, the ropes between his teeth despite the ache from a heavily bruised jaw. For having had less than a fortnight’s practice with her hands, Marvel had managed frustratingly admirable knots. Long centuries of observing, it seemed, had taught her the theory, and a clever brain allowed her to replicate her memories.
The tangle of knots was out of range on the undersides of his arms, so Killian set to work trying to tighten all but one strand that encircled him. He hoped to find enough slack to slip his hand through: that would significantly simplify the rest of the process. No such luck, though. Despite Marvel’s concern for his well-being, she’d had no qualms against tightening the ropes too securely.
The most obvious course of action would be to slip his stump free from the brace. Then there would be enough room to free the other arm. But Killian hesitated. For one thing, the leather was concealing the increasingly-sore wrist’s end, controlling the bleeding and allowing him to pretend, for the most part, that nothing was wrong. The other thing, though, was the inevitable pain of the procedure, and he just wasn’t desperate enough to bring that upon himself. Yet.
He still had the ropes between his teeth when Marvel returned, carrying bandages and a glass of water. Her frown at his position was less angry than sad.
“Love, please,” she whined. “Just rest.”
“Not my forte,” Killian reminded her between tugs. She knelt beside him and grasped the knot. Sighing, Killian didn’t resist her as she pulled his arms downward.
“Your lovely Swan would ask the same.” She lifted the water glass and helped him to drink half.
“Were she here, we wouldn’t be in this predicament,” grimaced Killian. Another lash mark was opening up on his back, and it was growing progressively more uncomfortable to be resting against the wood, even through a pillow.
Marvel made no reply, resolute in her decision. She unhooked the remainder of his shirt’s buttons, then paused, at a loss. With a shrug, she pressed a large gauze pad over the saturated bandage covering his Excalibur wound, holding it in place with one hand while she unrolled a long linen strip with the other. Killian fidgeted uneasily, not thrilled with the idea of what she was intending to do.
“Marvel, darling, perhaps this isn’t-”
She slipped an arm around his side, then wormed it behind his lower back, below the ropes binding his torso. He snapped his jaw shut and hissed as she inadvertently brushed against several inflamed cuts. Killian arched his back as much as possible in an effort to allow her arm passage. Despite her caution, she also bumped his tender ribs, and he cringed away. Marvel winced right along with him.
“I’m sorry, dearest,” she murmured. As quickly as she could, she snagged one end of the linen and tugged it through. When she saw the streaks of blood on her arm as she pulled it out, she paled.
She could curse with the best of them, and it was almost enough to draw a chuckle from the anguished pirate.
Marvel tied a tight knot to hold the gauze in place, then straightened. She looked scared. “Your back. How bad is it?”
“The concern is probably less the severity, more the sheer number,” he grunted candidly.
“A flogging?” she guessed.
“More than one.”
“What should we do?”
“Assuming an immediate return to Emma is out of the question?” He raised a wry eyebrow and she nodded firmly. “Untying me would be a good start.”
Marvel looked thoughtful and completely ignored the suggestion. “Perhaps I could attempt to heal you. Her Holiness Eris may have taken away your natural ability to heal, but she said nothing of magic use by another.”
“Give it a go,” Killian told her, though he doubted it would work. It seemed too simple a solution for Eris to have overlooked it.
“Problem is… I haven’t the foggiest how to even begin.” She placed a hand over the short slash on his cheek. Maybe starting small would give her confidence. “How does your Swan manage?”
“I’m… a bit clueless, myself,” Killian admitted. “Something to do with emotion, I gather.”
Marvel made a face. “I’m not exactly an expert in emotion.”
But she closed her eyes, and after a moment, so did Killian. The pirate sat as still as he could for a long while; he didn’t wish to distract Marvel from her efforts, however unlikely she was to succeed. He would gladly take any relief from his multiplying pains, in whatever form it took.
With the human ship in such close proximity and distracted by a state of deep concentration, Killian could easily overpower her. Lift his tied hands over her head, manipulate the rope to block her airway. He had no wish to do so, of course, but his reluctance was arguably in a similar vein to her own motives: placing her well-being above those that could be harmed by Eris’ mischief. Wouldn’t it be hypocritical of him not to make the attempt?
The logic didn’t make it any easier to follow through, and his irritation with her earlier decision quickly faded. Why did the right path always have to be so damn difficult to take?
Just as Killian was bracing himself for the physical and emotional pain that would accompany his attack, Marvel suddenly lunged forward and locked her lips over his. Killian’s surprise chased away all thoughts of his plan. He sat stunned for several seconds, passive, with the unfamiliar and awkwardly unpracticed kiss happening to him but not with him. And then the shock dissipated and left him feeling only pity.
Gently, Killian turned his face aside and placed his hand on her midsection, pushing her away. She was immediately searching his face, chest, and shoulders.
“Marvel, what-”
“Did it work?” she asked, breathless.
“Work?” So thrown by the unexpected kiss that he was having trouble keeping up, Killian shook his head in bewilderment.
“You said True Love’s Kiss could reverse the curse. So, are you cured?”
Killian blinked at her. And in that instant, the cut from Gold’s cane, just below his left eyebrow, split and oozed blood down the corner of his eye. Marvel’s face fell.
“It didn’t work.” The crestfallen woman took a square of gauze and patted away the blood, and Killian’s heart ached for her. He couldn’t bring himself to explain the reason, the mechanics behind True Love’s Kiss. He didn’t doubt the sincerity on her part; the trouble was on his end. But even though he would only be speaking the truth, he just couldn’t remind Marvel that he didn’t love her. Not like that, anyway.
“Do you see now?” asked Marvel. Her tone was desperate, almost angry. “We can’t go back to Emma. She can’t help you. To save you, we must travel to the island. It’s the only way.”
“I don’t… it’s still…” He sighed. “Oh, love… it may be different. With Emma, I mean.”
She looked confused at first. Then her expression hardened as his meaning began to sink in. She got slowly to her feet, avoiding his gaze. “I ought to… confirm our heading. Please stay here.”
Killian closed his eyes and let his head sink back against the pillow. But he couldn’t escape the sadness he’d witnessed. The muting of her spirit, the dulling of her sparkle. From the moment he had truly accepted her identity, he had wished only contentment for her. He never wanted her to have to experience what a human life meant. How hard it was. And now here she was, in the thick of it. Absorbing blow after blow, while he sat powerless to protect her.
And unless he allowed her to turn over the damned potion to Eris, and the goddess removed the curse in thanks, Marvel would experience the hardest lesson of all: loss.
By the time Marvel returned, Killian had fallen into a light doze - the best he could manage with the methodical tearing of his flesh in different places every few moments. At first, he didn’t react to her kneeling beside him. But then he felt the ropes around his chest twitching, and he dragged a weary eye open.
“Decided to release me, did you?” His heart wasn’t really in the banter, but old habits. Marvel wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I need to see your back.” The coils of rope gathered at hip level, still encircling the mast but significantly more loosely. “Perhaps you could turn and lean sort of sideways against the mast?”
Killian understood what she was asking, but questioned his ability to assume the position without significant pain. At the very least, the wriggling about would pull at the open wounds littering his skin, possibly hastening the curse’s effects. Gingerly, he shifted his weight more toward his left hip, then bent his knees slightly, inching his heels back until his feet rested flat against the deck. There he paused to catch his breath: the increased pressure against his back was agonizing, and every twitch of his abdominal muscles tugged at the searing Excalibur wound in his gut. It was still superficial, centimeters deep at most, but Killian harbored no illusions. As the curse continued to act upon him, the wound would follow its original course straight through him. Opening muscle, viscera, blood vessels… finally resulting in a chasm as fatal as the first. He could already feel the exit wound stinging, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the lacerations on his back. But Killian remembered. He could differentiate.
Wincing, he allowed his knees to topple to the left, at the same time twisting his upper body in short lurches until all of his weight rested against his left hip and shoulder. Marvel nodded encouragingly, unsure how else to provide assistance. Killian growled through an intense wave of pain that left him shuddering and nauseated. He fidgeted again in a vain effort to make himself more comfortable.
“This would be significantly easier if you were to untie my arms,” he panted, the flesh surrounding his eyes tight with pain. Marvel looked sympathetic but held to her resolve.
“I’m sorry, dear; you know I can’t do that.”
Killian centered his weight once more. “Ah. Well, in that case…”
His sudden lunge up onto his knees definitely took the woman by surprise. A second push hurtled him sideways toward Marvel. Lifting his bound arms, he reached for her, intending to wrestle her to the ground and force her to release him. Or maybe knock her senseless until he could regain control of the situation.
He didn’t anticipate the terrifying dip in vision resulting from his head wound. Or how much his equilibrium would be thrown off by blood loss. Or how stiff his joints were, how swollen his injuries, how diminished his capacity for movement. As Marvel ducked by instinct, Killian’s blow missed completely. He managed to vault most of the ropes piling around his lower legs, but that only meant he ended up sprawled on the deck, feet entangled, arms uselessly outstretched. The impact knocked the breath from him, ratcheted his anguish noticeably higher... but somehow didn’t cause him to lose consciousness altogether.
As Killian struggled to pull a breath, he was already writhing into a position more amenable to pushing himself up. But he kept slipping on the blood spattering the wood beneath him.
Marvel’s whine of consternation drove into his dazed brain. Killian pulled his arms inward, attempting to put at least one elbow beneath him. His blunted wrist sparked with agony as he rested weight on it. A quieter twinge in his shoulder echoed the sentiment.
Only seconds had gone by, and Killian felt as if he were trying to swim through honey. And breathe it, too; though his lungs burned, he could get no air. Halfway up on to his elbow, he felt a cool hand cover his eyes. His mind grew remarkably more muddled, his trembling muscles went limp. With one more thrash, Killian vented his frustration at the situation and then surrendered.
Marvel caught him just before he struck the wood again, and his eyes closed in magical slumber.
The next time Killian woke, it was to find himself in almost the same position as before: bound to the mast, more ropes than previously. Feet and legs secure. This time, though, his mummified right wrist was attached to his side by several coils of rope around his waist. Bandage linen extended over his hand, freezing his fingers into a fist and obstructing his ability to worry any of the knots loose. Wasted effort, really, given the reawakening wrist fracture that would seriously hinder such attempts anyway.
Killian couldn’t prevent a tiny groan at all of the pains trickling back into his awareness. Every one of them worse than before… and fated to grow worse still.
A gentle hand was holding his aching stump. Another blotted the raw end, ruthlessly removing blood and trying to assess the seriousness of the wound. Fighting his instinct to pull back from the tortures, Killian finally forced his eyes open.
The usual disorientation was not at all alleviated by how dark it had gotten. Had he slept the whole day away? That would infer that they had already been to the island and left. Blinking, Killian slowly tilted his head to get a better view of the sky.
Not dusk. Ash. A hazy plume blanketed the sun, swirling bits of pulverized rock looking like sand and bubbles caught in a breaking wave. And now that he could see it, he realized he could smell it, too. Sulfurous menace; boiling, burning rock; toxic filth not unlike the scent of the Underworld itself.
The next touch against his amputation had extra bite to it, and Killian jerked his arm back, hissing in pain. Marvel’s grasp faltered, but she didn’t release him completely.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. Then she shifted her grip and once again extended his arm. Killian looked away. The sight had too many associated nightmares for him to stomach just then. As Marvel lay a gauze square over the bleeding scars, she added, “It must be difficult, reliving those horrible days. It hurts me, as well.”
Killian said nothing, only swallowed. She began winding another bandage around the stump in order to secure the dressing in place.
“I was so certain you would die. You made such awful noises that first night. And then later, when the fever set in and even Mister Smee was doubtful, and there was no medicine because we were already trapped in Neverland…” She tied the bandage neatly but did not release his arm, beginning instead a delicate massage of quivering muscles. “I wanted so badly to help, yet all I could do was try and remain gentle in my rocking while I prayed to all gods of the seas that you would live.”
At long last, Killian turned his face back toward her, meeting her melancholy gaze with his pained one.
“I would not have thanked you then,” he admitted. “But I do now.”
Marvel smiled softly and continued her comforting massage. “Would you have guessed, back then, how adept you would become at using the hook? How well you would adapt?”
Killian thought back to those first clumsy months and cringed; the memories were made all the more real by the myriad of accidental nicks in his skin - particularly his leg - reopening. “Not at first, no. But it does have its uses beyond the mere weapon I had intended it to be… When it hasn’t been confiscated by a mutinous sentient ship.”
He tilted his head meaningfully toward the discarded brace, as the actual hook was nowhere in sight. Marvel released his stump then, saying,
“I’ll return it after we’ve succeeded in our mission. Not before.”
Killian sighed, wracked by a sudden chill despite the almost-tropical heat in the air. “How much longer?”
Marvel looked past him to the island of their destination. “Less than an hour, I’d say. Are you cold?”
Killian gave a shake of his head, but the shivers in his jaw told a different story. Marvel quickly searched their surroundings and spotted his leather jacket, which had been discarded at some point - he couldn’t quite remember when. She hurried to collect it from its heap near the hatch.
“I could always retrieve a blanket from below, if this isn’t enough.” She returned and draped the leather backwards over his chest, tucking the lapels behind his shoulders. Too exhausted to do much beyond sit passively, Killian did not make any attempt to follow up on his earlier attack.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “And… apologies for earlier. You know I don’t want to hurt you, I just…” He trailed off. He’d made his position clear. She may not agree, but she must understand by now.
Marvel blotted blood from his forehead. “I know.”
Killian dug his blunted arm from beneath his jacket. Marvel had not yet bothered to secure the limb, and though its use caused all sorts of complaints from wrist to shoulder, the pirate appreciated that small bit of freedom. He gently but insistently pushed her arm away as he began to speak.
“I don’t demand or expect your loyalty, love. I can’t say that I even understand it. Long years together doesn’t necessarily equate to devotion.”
“Perhaps not. But a good captain does.”
“And that’s your honest assessment of me?”
“How could it be otherwise?”
With a grimace, Killian raised an eyebrow at her. “I traded you away. To bloody Blackbeard, of all people.”
Marvel shrugged. “And then got me back.”
“By chance, not through any persistence of my own.”
“Even so. You far outvalue that ridiculous oaf. Captain Blackbeard isn’t even deserving of the title. He hemorrhages crew and squanders his wealth, and is a pompous prat to boot.”
Killian managed a tiny smile, but it didn’t last. Earnest, he searched her eyes for any hint of falsehood. “Did he at least treat you well?”
Her response was noncommittal. “More or less. Mostly the bare minimum; the occasional extra care if he felt like throwing orders around. His sailing lacks all finesse, though. It’s a wonder I came through as unscathed as I did. Both times.”
“Thank the gods,” agreed Killian. He tucked his stump beneath the jacket again, wincing. “Well, rest assured, darling, you’re quite safe from that git now. Even if he was still in possession of a magic bean, he would have had to use it to flee Neverland.”
“Neverland?” She sounded both surprised and amused.
“Aye. Damn fool was trying to escape in a row boat, last I saw him.”
“That’ll never work,” she scoffed.
“Indeed not.”
Killian couldn’t bring himself to tell her that he would never regret the trade that had enabled him to bring Emma back.
Neither did he want to impart that the other pirate believed himself to be her rightful owner now. Again. He grimaced through another round of shivers, then said,
“Well, in terms of loyalty, you unquestionably have mine. Wholeheartedly. There will never be a vessel your equal, not even the ludicrous fire-eating contraptions in our adoptive home. And let me also add: I got the raw end of that deal. One measly bean is hardly worth even one of your lovely sails.”
Marvel grinned, pleased with his compliments. “Why, thank you, darling. But there’s no need for flattery. I already know my true value.”
She winked at him. Then, a low rumble in the distance drew her attention to the horizon, and she stood. “I should take a sounding. Are you comfortable enough?”
“I’ll survive,” Killian replied ironically. There was no guarantee of that, even if they did hand the potion over. Eris herself had admitted to her unpredictability. And if he was in rough shape now, he couldn't imagine his state after several more hours had elapsed.
Unaware of his pessimism, Marvel scurried away to attend to the business of sailing. And, left to his own devices, Killian could finally get to work on the plan that had been formulating in his mind ever since the first moment his jacket had been laid upon him. Poor Marvel - her act of compassion would turn out to be her downfall.
Of course, wiggling his sore and heavily bandaged stump into the pocket containing his rescued hook was far more easily imagined than accomplished. Especially without drawing attention to himself. Killian disguised his movements as attempts to seek a more comfortable position, complete with winces that were only slightly exaggerated. He eventually had to take the leather between his teeth in order to keep it from sliding down his shoulders; he also trapped the other edge between tied hand and torso. And then it was simply a matter of inching his way inside.
The pocket was just wide enough to accommodate the bandages, although the top layers were pulled back as his wrist slipped deeper. Through the lining, Killian could feel the hook’s outline against his ribs and used that as a guide. He would have to snag either tip or locking mechanism under a strip of linen and then draw it out without dislodging it.
Another booming rumble shook the mast; Killian was a tiny bit grateful that he couldn’t see the volcano ahead. It was sure to be an awesome and terrifying sight. The ash polluting the air had grown thicker, flakes and tendrils of char curling on the breeze, coating the deck, staining the sails. He thought of the toxic gases mentioned by Eris: how was one to know where the boundary lay? Whether the window of respite had truly begun? When they sailed past the point of no return and collapsed into a choking, dying heap?
The hook shifted in his pocket, resisting Killian’s efforts to catch it with a stray strip of linen. He cursed softly and pressed harder than he wanted to. A shock of pain from the aggravated nerves nearly convinced him to give up. The steel tip was positioned perilously close to the lacerated wrist, and he cringed at the thought of puncturing the throbbing flesh. But with extreme caution, he managed to tilt the weapon by degrees until it posed less of a threat, and then he inched his stump forward. Success. He could feel one strip of bandage tighten around his arm as the hook was pushed beneath. Killian added a slight twist of the wrist before attempting to withdraw it, hoping to add security to the captive hook.
Pulling his stump from the pocket was just as difficult and painful a process, especially once the steel neared the seam. Afraid it would catch and be pushed out of the bandage, Killian twisted his arm further, which set off explosions of pain in the old spear wound through his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to move slowly and patiently while maneuvering past the pocket’s opening.
His caution was rewarded. The hook slipped through the hole, one intense moment of pain occurring when the tip dug into his inner wrist, but he was fairly certain it did not break the skin. With a discreet glance at Marvel to be sure she was still distracted, Killian removed the rest of his arm from the pocket, hook dangling obediently from the wrapping. Casually, the pirate adjusted his arm until it disappeared beneath the jacket, then bent his elbow and rested his stump across his abdomen. There was just enough give in the rope securing his hand that he could reach up and retrieve the prized weapon. Even tied into a fist, even with a sore-as-hell wrist, his hand was strong and flexible, and he had no difficulty gripping the base of the hook between thumb and palm.
Killian let his head fall back and relaxed his shoulder, releasing a sigh of relief. More struggle lay ahead, but he believed the hardest part was over. Or… the hardest part of freeing himself, at least. What came after would be a different story.
AN: Decided to combine what used to be two chapters here so that we don’t end on an unconscious Killian AGAIN :P So if you noticed a change in estimated chapter count, that’s why!
On this day in history the "Battle of Alcatraz" took place at Alcatraz prison, located in San Francisco Bay. May 4, 1946.
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Image: Bodies of Hubbard (left), Coy (center), and Cretzer (right) in San Francisco morgue
On this day in history, May 4, 1946, five deaths (three inmates and two guards) and fourteen prison guards were injured when a two-day violent escape attempt ended with the help of the marine corps at Alcatraz…
