#Fiction - Retellings | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lunarbuck · 1 year

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Dumb Bunny (dark!winter soldier xf!reader)

a dark little red riding hood retelling

pairing: dark!winter soldier x f! reader (any race)

wc: 3.3k

summary: The Wolf sees you walking through the forest on your way to your grandmother's house, and he just can't help himself.

warnings: dark fic, knives, oral (f receiving), smut (p in v), pet names [bunny], degradation, primal play, predator/prey, fear, crying

a/n: this is my entry for @boxofbonesfic's fairytale writing challenge :) I hope you guys enjoy!

beta'd by the amazing @sgt-seabass <3

my masterlist

The sight of your home village warms your heart. You’ve been away for so long and missed so much. It’s good to be back. You pull the hood of your cape up to keep the sun off your face and venture into the heart of the village.

After gathering some sweets and a few loaves of bread, you bid farewell to the friendly faces you pass. As lovely as the village is, you can’t shake the feeling that something is just slightly… wrong.

The edge of the forest calls to you, the familiar sound of songbirds lulling you in. You’ve traveled this path hundreds of times; you know it with your eyes closed, even after all this time. Beautifully bright flowers bloom just off the beaten path. You gaze at them but don’t stop to pick any. Grandmother is expecting you. It’s been so long since you’ve seen her, you feel guilty you haven’t visited sooner.

As you walk, you hear footsteps crunch through the fallen leaves. You turn around, the hem of your cape fluttering with the movement. Behind you, you see a tall mountain of a man. Cloaked in black, the man stalks toward you. You’ve heard whisperings of him in town, the Wolf, they call him.

“Excuse me, miss,” he coos, voice deep and gravelly. “Where are you headed? A beautiful girl like you shouldn’t be alone in these woods,” he whispers. “There is danger around every corner.”

You know what people say about the Wolf, the things he’s rumored to have done. That he’s a killer, that he roams the woods hunting unsuspecting victims. He’s ruthless, coldblooded and animal-like in his violence. You’re sure the rumors are true as you gaze up at his bright eyes. Fear flashes through your mind as you stare at him. His eyes are a stark, beautiful blue. His hair, dark and inky, frames his face, though most of it is covered by a black mask.

“I’m visiting my grandmother’s house,” you tell him, smiling politely. You’ve always been taught to be kind to strangers, and this stranger, in particular, the way he’s looking at you, seems to scream danger. You don’t want to risk slighting him.

“Ah,” the Wolf replies, raising his eyebrows. “And what might you have there in your basket?” You move the cloth, showing the Wolf your various sweets and loaves of bread. You imagine he is licking his lips behind his mask. Images of his lips on you, of him kissing you deeply, of him tasting you, flash through your mind, and you quickly shut your eyes. You try to shake off the heat that’s settled in your belly. You shouldn’t think that way about a stranger.

“Well, I must be going. Grandmother is expecting me.” You nod to the Wolf and cover your basket, returning to the path you’d been following. Each breath feels tight in your chest.

“What a shame,” he calls. “The birds are singing so sweetly.” Your steps slow as you allow yourself to listen to the songs that float through the air, but you continue on. You can always listen to the birds as you walk.

“Ah, but the flowers are so beautiful this time of year. Wouldn’t your grandmother enjoy a bouquet?” The Wolf asks, again halting your walking. You glance at the flowers off the path, practically preening for you in the sunlight. Grandmother has always loved the wildflowers; maybe you could spare a few moments to gather a small bouquet.

“I suppose…” You glance back at the Wolf, finding that he has continued to follow you down the path. He’s so close now that if you breathed deeply, your back would touch his chest. Your heart stutters with fear. How did he move so quickly without you hearing? How did you not feel him approach?

“You don’t want to miss out on all the beauty,” he whispers, leaning down beside your ear. With two long fingers, the Wolf tugs your hood off your head, letting the breeze flutter against your neck. He breathes deeply, and your knees wobble as you feel the heat the Wolf emanates. Something sharp trails down your neck, a stinging pain following close behind, and your eyes widen.

Not even a breath later, he’s gone. You shudder at his sudden absence and quickly dart your eyes around, looking for the Wolf, but he’s disappeared into the shadows.

You try to calm your nerves, focusing instead on the flowers glittering just a few paces away. You kneel down, gathering your skirts to prevent them from getting dirty. The flowers are soft against your fingertips as you pick the perfect ones. All the while, the Wolf’s beautiful blue eyes burn in your mind.

The Wolf

Poor, poor grandmother, I think to myself as I drag the woman out of her woodland home and into the glade. She’ll wake up eventually, but not before I do what I want. Not before I take care of her sweet, beautiful little granddaughter.

I go back into the house and take in the empty space. Photos of my little bunny are everywhere, school photos and memories of vacations. She looks so delectable in her too-small bikini, her bright smile practically blinding me.

Next, I climb the stairs, finding myself in the room I had just dragged her grandmother from. The four-poster bed takes up most of the room, fabric hanging from the top of the frame like a canopy. I grin at the thought of taking my bunny here, her tears staining the blanket. Her screams filling the air. I feel myself hardening in my pants, and I adjust my cock.

When I saw her walking through town, my mouth watered. She looked so beautiful in her red cloak, the sun warming her skin. She looked good enough to fucking eat. I followed her from a distance, but once she entered the forest, I couldn’t hold back any longer. The smell of her when I got close… I could barely hold myself back. I wanted to grab her right then and there. I wanted to fuck her into the dirt. But good things come to those who wait.

I am not a patient man, and I always get what I want. Always.

So, I lay down on the bed, the canopy concealing me well enough, and wait.

And wait, and wait.

Until I hear the door creak open.

“Grandmother?” My bunny calls. I can practically hear the smile on her lips. I grin beneath my mask, fingers itching to touch her. To mark her. I hear her footsteps as she wanders into the house. My heartbeat speeds up, ready for the hunt.

“Grandmother?” She calls again, this time even closer. I see her shadow as she comes up the stairs, and a moment later, she pushes open the bedroom door. “Oh, Grandmother, are you ill?” Through the canopy, I see her set down a vase of flowers, the ones she picked in the woods, and her basket, full of sweets.

Her fingers gently curl around the canopy’s fabric and tug it aside. Her eyes widen, and her lips part on a scream, but I’m already moving. I lunge, grab her, and push her down onto the mattress. My hand presses over her mouth, absorbing her scream.

“So fucking beautiful when you scream, bunny,” I growl, dipping my head into the crook of her neck. I breathe her in, the sweet scent of fear mixing with the floral scent of her perfume.

My bunny writhes and struggles against me, but it’s no use. I’m bigger than her, stronger than her. She’ll never escape me. She heaves her breath behind my hand, so I take it off of her, not minding if she screams. No one will hear her anyways.

“What– what are you doing?” She whimpers, tears streaking down her face.

I don’t answer. Instead, I straddle her hips, pinning her to the bed. I run my hands along her torso and up to her breasts. She fits perfectly in my hands, and I flick my eyes to hers, watching her reaction. I can see the way she struggles with herself. The way she wants to give in to me, but something holds her back.

“Oh, bunny,” I whisper, my hands coming up to curl around her neck. “What a beautiful neck you have.” I squeeze her neck lightly, giving her just a taste of what I want, and I see the way her pupils dilate. Her hips jolt up into mine, and I grin beneath my mask.

She breathes heavily, lips parting into a perfect, soft ‘o’. “And what perfect lips you have.” I move one hand up, running my thumb across her beautiful mouth. I lean down close, cupping her jaw.

I want to taste her, I want to rip this fucking mask off my face and taste my little bunny, but I can’t. Not yet. I need to be patient. I sit up, slipping a knife out of my belt and flicking it open. Her eyes widen at the glinting blade.

“Please,” she whispers, tears brimming in her eyes again. “Please don’t hurt me.” I grin.

“My poor, stupid, little bunny. The more you beg me not to, the more I want to hurt you.” She tugs her bottom lip between her teeth, and I stifle a moan. I don’t know how I’ve lived so long without her, how I’m going to go on living if I don’t have her by my side.

“What did you do to my grandmother?” She asks, voice wavering.

“You don’t want to know, bunny.” Her tears stream down her cheeks, and she hiccups as she sobs. She’s fucking perfect. I take in the sight of her blood-red cloak stark against the white sheets. I run the knife along the side of her face, not cutting or scratching her but letting her feel the sharp edge.

I slide off the bed, dragging the knife down the center of her sternum between her breasts and down her torso. I see the thoughts running through her pretty little head. I know she wants to run. I hope she does. I step back and watch her fingers twitch before she darts off the bed. Her red cape flutters behind her as she saints down the stairs. I give her a head start before giving chase. My little bunny is more perfect than she could ever know.

After taking a steadying breath, I take off after my bunny. She left the front door open, and I catch sight of the hem of her cape as she dives behind a tree. She ran pretty far, I’ll give her that, but she won’t escape me. Never.

My feet pound on the ground as I chase her, adrenaline coursing through my veins. She keeps running, doing her best to hide as she goes deeper into the forest, but she’s not fast enough. I catch up quickly, making sure she knows just how close I am. Whenever she hears my boots snap a twig, she yelps, tripping over her feet. As we get further away from the house, she loses steam. I grin as she stumbles, constantly looking back to see me hunting her.

Bunny’s cape gets caught on a branch, and she falls, landing hard in the dirt. She tries to crawl away, but she knows it’s no use. I stalk toward her, loving the way she shakes with each breath, and sink to the ground by her head.

I grip her by her hair, lifting her face out of the dirt, and lean down. “You lose, bunny.” She gasps as I bring out my knife, holding it near her cheek as I turn her. Even though she ran and wants to think she’s afraid of me, I know what she wants. I can fucking smell it on her. Can taste it in the air.

“Please,” she whispers, fingers digging into the leaves on the ground. Her thighs rub together beneath her skirts, and my mouth waters. I know she won’t run this time, not when she’s so close to getting what she wants.

I remove my mask, tugging it from my face with my other hand. Her lips part as her eyes search my features. I move between her legs, running a hand along one of her legs. I push up her skirt, exposing her soft skin. With my knife, I run the tip along her leg, up and up, until I reach her panties. She can’t hide how needy she is. My bunny writhes in the dirt, begging me to touch her with her big beautiful eyes. I slide my knife beneath the waistband of her panties, slicing the fabric. I cut a matching slit near her other leg, tugging the material away. She shivers as the cool air hits her cunt.

“What a pretty pussy you have, bunny,” I growl, lowering my face to the crux of her thighs. She watches me with lust-filled eyes, nodding like the dumb little bunny she is. I bite her inner thigh, leaving an imprint of my teeth on her skin.

“What beautiful eyes you have,” she tells me, a small smile on her lips.

“The better to see you with, bunny.” I run my nose along her pussy, and she bites back a moan. My tongue laves along her clit, and I hear her breath hitch.

“What–” she gasps when I press a finger inside her tight cunt. “What a perfect mouth you have.” I groan against her pussy, devouring her like my last meal.

“The better to eat you with,” I mutter into her pussy. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling me closer. She tastes so fucking sweet, practically dripping against my lips. I knew my bunny would be perfect, but she’s better than I ever could have dreamed.

“Please, please,” she whimpers, begging for her release. I curl my finger inside of her, looking for the spot that makes her squirm, and brush my teeth over her sensitive clit. My little bunny is so responsive for me, writhing around in the dirt.

“So fucking sweet, bunny, my own little treat.” Her whimpers get higher pitched, and I know she’s close. I’m practically humping the dirt, I’m so hard, but all I can think about is how good my bunny is being and how fucking perfect she’s going to feel wrapped around my cock.

I work her right up to the edge, and when she’s gripping my hair so hard she’s about to pull it out, she breaks. She comes all over my tongue and finger, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I crawl up over her, my tongue running over my lips, gathering her taste. “What a good bunny,” I whisper, taking in the sight of her blissed-out expression. She wants more, though, I can tell.

Her eyes roam over my face, her hands tracing over my features. Her lips part, but she can’t seem to find the words. “Tell me what you want, bunny.” My finger circles her sensitive clit; she jolts.

She shudders but doesn’t speak. “Come on, bunny. I know you’re afraid. I know that you don’t want to admit it. You want my cock? Is that it, bunny? You want me to fuck you here in the dirt?” Her eyebrows pinch together, and fear flashes in her eyes. She knows I’m dangerous; she knows I am unpredictable.

“You wanna be my dirty bunny?” I ask her, nipping at the soft skin of her neck. “You’re my dumb fucking bunny, you know that? You’re gonna let me fuck you into the dirt, and you’re gonna love every second of it, isn’t that right?”

“Oh my god,” she moans, hips bucking against my fingers. “Please.”

“I need to hear you say it, bunny.” I bite her shoulder hard enough to draw blood, and she gasps. “Tell me that you’re my dumb little bunny. Tell me what you want me to do.”

I see the way she hesitates, the way her mind runs through all the reasons she should fight me, but then I see the shift. I see the moment lust takes over, and she succumbs to her primal desires.

“I’m your dumb little bunny,” she whispers. I slide two fingers into her pussy, scissoring my fingers to stretch her. “And–” she sucks in a breath. “And I want– need you to fuck me.”

“Such a good bunny.” I settle back between her legs and pump my fingers, working her up again. I use my other hand to take off my belt. When my pants are down far enough, I palm my cock, moaning. She watches me with hooded, lust-drunk eyes, and I smirk. My dumb little bunny looks so pretty taking my fingers, but she’ll look even better taking my cock.

I take a long look at her pretty face before I grip her hips and turn her over. Hooking my hands underneath her, I position her with her ass high and her head in the dirt. This is how she was meant to be; she was fucking born for this.

I line my cock up with her perfect pussy and tease her clit, loving how she jolts each time. My little bunny has never looked better with her skirt shoved up on her waist and her face pressed against the earth.

“What a perfect bunny for me,” I tell her, spanking her ass. I press my cock into her, groaning as she squeezes me. She’s so fucking tight, so perfect, like she was made for me. Made for this. I slide in, loving how she stretches around my dick. Her face screws up the deeper I get, but I don’t give her time to adjust.

I set a brutal, deep pace, and electricity shoots up my spine. The sounds she’s making, the way her fingers dig into the dirt, are nearly too much for me to handle. The smell of sex and earth floods my nose, and I feel it flood my bloodstream.

She moans and whimpers with each thrust, pressing back with each thrust, egging me on. My little bunny wants me just as much as I want her. I lean down, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and haul her torso up so she’s kneeling, arching against me. I run my tongue along the spot I’d cut earlier when I’d first spoken to her, tasting the sweet tang of her blood.

My little bunny has tears streaming down her dirt-streaked face. Her eyes are screwed shut as she takes my dick.

“Such a good little bunny,” I groan into her ear. “You were fucking made for this. You were fucking born to be my dumb bunny, to take my cock.” Her cunt flutters around my dick, and my hips stutter.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chants like a prayer. I drop a hand to her clit and circle it in a way that makes her throw her head back, and bite the cut on her neck. The combination of sensations throws her over the edge, and she convulses on my cock.

I press her back into the dirt and pound into her, slamming into her over and over again. I come on a moan, both of us collapsing. “Good bunny,” I whisper. “Such a good little bunny.”

She falls asleep, drained from the way I used her body, and I grin at the sight. She should know better than to fall asleep next to a predator like me. I brush the dirt from my pants, tucking my cock away, and pick her up. I carry her back to her grandmother’s house and lay her on the four-poster bed.

Next, I retrieve poor old grandmother. She’s still asleep. The drug I gave her will wear off soon. I place her on the couch in the front room. I’ll let my bunny find her when she comes to. I return to the bedroom and stare at my beautiful little bunny.

I don’t clean her up; I don’t even put her dress back. She looks perfect, dirty, and used against the bone-white sheets.

Just the way I like her.

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umblrspectrum · 29 days

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go read Memento Nori and Like the Stars and What Friends Are For and just generally all of Ad Astra Per Aspera by LadyDaybreaker on ao3

#peak fiction #two of these are like 3/4th retelling of the actual episodes #but they add so many little details and changes and i love it #little things that explain why characters act the way they do later and all that #its all good its like 341k words total if you ignore parts 6 7 and 8 #best part is #of course #lizzy and uzi and thad fucking around with a laser pointer #idk im just obsessed with murder drone fics its more of all my blorbos #opacity is my best friend i love opacity i love fucking with it #non anti aliasing is also my best and worst friend. i love the pixels but its terrible when trying to draw small #art #murder drones #murder drones uzi #murder drones lizzy #murder drones thad #murder drones n #murder drones v #serial designation n #serial designation v #is that the most characters i've had in a single post? who knows #also for you fuckers in the last post. if i connected those letters i would have been rendered incapable of reading my own fucking post #i cannot read it if i cant tell where one letter ends and the next begins

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the-modern-typewriter · 6 days

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If anyone wants to read a free sapphic short story I wrote about Medusa :)

Here's the opening:

With hindsight in mind, if I was ever turned into stone again I would definitely pick a different pose. Though, with hindsight in mind, I don’t think she’d have turned me into a rock either. Not then.

I’m on my knees.

She was on her knees too, the last time we officially spoke. She’d just raced out of the temple, heaving sobs so shattering I thought she might choke on them. She raked her hands over the writhing mass of her hair, but for each hungry mouth she covered, another twisted past her fingers like a story thread refusing to be cut.

“What happened?!”

“Don’t look at me.” She curled crumpled on the grass. “Just go away!”

“They’re not so bad,” I said. “They’re – pretty.”

“They’re hideous! I look hideous.”

The serpents hissed their indignation. They really were glorious, those snakes. They weren’t just one colour or one type, but a vast explosion of mottled blues and yellows and greens. They were resplendent in the light – just like her.

“I like them.” I stepped forward, despite the uncertain hammering of my heart. I knelt down in front of her; determined to prove that, no matter what happened, I wasn’t afraid. Not of her. Never of her. “Hey. Hey. C’mere.”

“No.” She reared back. The snakes shifted too, flaring, fanged. “No, don’t – I don’t – the snakes—”

“—They’re you. They won’t hurt me.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I know you.”

She gulped, snorting a slightly hysterical sound that might have been a laugh. She dragged the back of her hand trembling over her eyes.

“I know you,” I said again, softer.

I reached out, gently brushing the tears from her damp cheeks. Her skin was cracked and almost unrecognisable beneath my touch, but the snakes did not attack. They settled like I was the sun and they were basking. I felt their tongues flicker across me, felt the nuzzle of their many heads, craning for me in the way that she never would as a priestess of Athena. It made my chest ache. It gave me courage to match all of the great heroes.

“I know you and I love you,” I said. “So whatever’s happened—”

Her head snapped up to look at me.

“You love me?” she echoed.

Then she realised what she’d done. Then she realised what she could do.

The rest, as they say, is untold history.

#medusa #greek mythology #creative writing #writing #fiction #sapphic #first person for once which was interesting #my writing #writeblr #short story #retelling

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caffeinewitchcraft · 1 year

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Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt 7)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

This, Cinderella thinks, is a fairytale.

The nobles are bowing to the Prince, to her, and the air smells like the desserts on the table to her left. The music is still going, a sweet flute that serves a placeholder until the greetings to the prince are done. Over the bowed heads of the dancers nearest them, Cinderella can see her stepfamily curtsying to the arrival of the Prince.

Curtsying to her.

“I am glad that my tardiness did not hold up the festivities,” the Prince says. He inclines his head to the dais where the Queen and King sit. “We should resume.”

The Queen and King.

The Queen is as beautiful as the rumors say. Her long, black hair, streaked with grey, falls around her shoulders like vines, pinned into curled shapes against her violet gown with pins that sparkle like the night sky. She wears a simple gold circlet that glitters in the candlelight. Is it encrusted in jewels?

The King wears a heavier crown in burnished copper. His eyes remind her of the Prince’s, hawkish and knowing when he looks at them. He’s dressed completely in black except for the sash that crosses his chest. That is the same violet as his wife’s cape and his son’s jacket.

Cinderella is prevented from curtsying by the way the Prince presses her hand against his arm. She bows her head as best she’s able, heart thundering in her chest. Somehow looking at the Queen and King reminds her of the rainbows in the meadow. They swim in her vision as if obscured by power.

“Hold your head high,” the Prince whispers to her. His breath is hot against the shell of her ear and when she glances at him out of her peripherals, his eyes are warm. “You’re with me.”

Cinderella has never been with someone. She’s always been trailing behind, packages in hand, or at their knee with a hairbrush and sewing kit in hand. Even as a little girl she was never with her parents. She always felt like she was a step behind them, watching as the distance between them grew into an ocean.

She doesn’t feel like that now. The Prince’s arm is warm under her fingers and the gaze of so many people makes her face hot even if she knows the Prince’s magic protects her from being recognized. Cinderella has never felt so keenly in her own skin as she does in this moment.

Cinderella pulls her shoulders back and looks right over every noble to the blooming mosaic on the other side of the hall.

Well done, the voice in the back of her head purrs. There’s satisfaction curling in Cinderella’s stomach that feels foreign and heavy. She likes standing tall. She likes feeling bold and confident. Very well done.

“I know I promised you champagne,” the Prince says. He waves his hand and the music begins to play again. The nobles don’t resume their dance right away, their eyes fixed on the Prince’s every move. Expectant? Hopeful? Envious? The Prince only has eyes for her. “But I am jealous your first dance wasn’t with me.”

“Perhaps if someone had been on time it would have been,” Cinderella says. The Prince snorts and Cinderella’s smile widens. “Your highness.”

The Prince leads her onto the dance floor. The band is gently coming together again, string instruments rising underneath the lonely flute, the pianist adjusting on their bench in preparation. The nobles part for them like water, sliding back into their places without a word.

The Prince comes to a halt in the center of the dancefloor. If he notices the way the nobles stare, it doesn’t seem to bother him. He slides his arm out from under Cinderella’s hand, but doesn’t relinquish it. He kiss the back of her hand and asks, “May I have this dance?”

Cinderella must be beet red. She breathes in through her nose and smiles on the exhale. “Yes.” Then, because he is her friend, “You’ll be the first to have a dance from me, if that makes you feel better. The rest only shared one with me.”

Does the Prince’s gaze soften? Candlelight catches in his eyes, setting them ablaze. “Having or sharing, it doesn’t matter,” he says. “As long as it’s with you.”

Cinderella is speechless. The Prince takes the opportunity to sweep them into their first dance together, one hand on her hip, the other still holding her hand aloft. She’s not ready or at all prepared for it and has to rely on his grip for support when she stumbles.

“Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?” Cinderella hisses. She kicks at his shin and scoffs when he evades it easily. “Ugh.”

“I’m fairly certain that’s not how this dance goes,” the Prince says, tone mild. He’s smiling when she turns her glare on him. He whispers, “You’ll need to be faster if you want to kick me.”

Laughter bubbles in her chest. Cinderella fights it down. “You’d better show me how this dance works before I give into the temptation.”

“My pleasure.”

Dancing with the Prince is better than any of the other dances, though she doesn’t think she can bear to tell him that when he’s grinning like he knows it. He doesn’t guide her like Cy, her first masked partner, pulling and navigating her through the steps like a teacher might. He doesn’t make it a competition like Iz did, doesn’t change the rhythm whenever she manages to catch up to his pace. He isn’t considerate like Morrigan, waiting for her to catch her breath after a particularly tricky step.

Dancing with the Prince is like…it’s like being in the meadow. It’s like laying underneath the oak tree and watching the sun through the leaves, his gentle voice in her ear and the feeling of his magic chasing the chill away. It’s the feeling of being together where anything she says or does will be welcome or celebrated.

She doesn’t know when the other dancers join them, but she notices when the Prince nearly runs into a pair. She neatly takes the lead, spinning them to avoid a collision. The Prince startles and then scowls.

“I would have noticed,” he says. His gaze is dark on the dancing couple as if he’d like to curse them for the near accident.

“But you didn’t have to,” Cinderella says. Somehow she knows he isn’t that irritated. She thinks about spinning him but decides against it. She’s never tried spinning her partner before and is afraid of throwing him into the swirls of skirts and tailcoats that now surround them. She follows him away from the couple who nearly collided with them, surrendering the lead easily. “I did.”

“You did,” the Prince says, an inscrutable look on his face. It only lasts for a moment before he’s quirking an eyebrow at her. “Another song?”

Cinderella doesn’t feel tired at all. “Yes.”

They dance.

-----.

The night is a dream.

Cinderella holds onto it even after the Prince escorts her back to the Emerald Castle, after Helga pulls the pins from her hair, after she gulps down water and fruit before climbing into bed. They never did manage to have a glass of champagne. Cinderella can’t bring herself to regret the missed opportunity.

I’ll just have to try it tomorrow, Cinderella thinks with a thrill. Tomorrow. She’s going to the ball tomorrow.

She danced with the Prince all night. He delighted in each song with her, always keeping up with her mood and inviting her into faster steps or higher leaps. They talked and they laughed and, looking back, they must have seemed like children to everyone else. Cinderella felt like a child, free and excited in a way that she hasn’t been allowed to be in a long time.

She closes her eyes and can’t wait for the Prince to come pick her up for the ball tomorrow.

-----.

The carriage lurches and jumps as it transitions from the smooth Royal Road to the rougher cobblestones of the royal town. The silent occupants seem to wake up from their stupors all at once, the jostling as good as cold water on a dreamer.

“Mother,” Drizella whines. She doesn’t understand what went wrong. She did everything her mother said to do! She curled her hair and wore her lilac dress and didn’t dance with anyone other than the Prince. Except— “He only danced with her all night!”

“I have never been so embarrassed,” Anastasia says. She bites her thumb. Visions of the woman in green spin across the back of her eyelids every time she blinks. “We wore the same color! How dare she?!”

Baroness Ramsey doesn’t answer her daughters. She promised herself when she married the Baron that she would never allow anyone to guess at her non-noble past through her conduct. So she lets her face remain impassive and thinks carefully before she speaks.

Inside she is seething.

“That woman was in the wrong,” the Baroness says at last. She lays her hands daintily over her lap. “A ball like this – well. It’s for all noble ladies, isn’t it? The Prince was meant to dance with others. I’m sure the King and Queen will talk with him tonight. Tomorrow…”

She trails off. Her girls misunderstand as she meant them to. They perk up at the mention of tomorrow and the idea that the Prince will be different then. Anastasia begins debating what jewelry she will wear to compliment her gown tomorrow, going over the pros and cons of each one (“That woman wore gold tonight and won’t tomorrow, so the gold necklace might be the safest choice. But the prince wore silver tonight and might again and if I wear silver we could match.”) while Drizella pulls at her curls, lost in the daydream of what tomorrow could bring.

Inside the baroness is not so sure.

“A second invitation will be sent to those the Prince has taken an interest in. Expect news by dawn.”

They are not high nobility. It is only through the baroness’ hard work and clever deals that they’re nobility at all. Perhaps it would be different if her husband were better at networking like her, but he’s not (if he’s still alive at all) so they have no advantage through title alone. Their only advantage lies in her daughters’ beauty being recognized and – thanks to that woman – that didn’t happen.

Maybe I was hasty to leave Cinderella at home, the Baroness muses. Cinderella would have caught the Prince’s eye. There’s always been something…unsettlingly compelling about that girl. To be honest, the Baroness has always been a little afraid of Cinderella. Even as a child she always seemed to look through the Baroness rather than at her. With her golden hair and odd, light eyes, Cinderella would have been enough to compete with the woman who had captured the Prince’s attention. Then, when the second invitation arrived, the baroness could have kept Cinderella away to leave the real work to her girls.

She eyes her daughters. No. She could not have chosen any differently. It’s been hard work ensuring her daughters never grew afraid of their strange stepsister. Imagine if they were forced to watch the prince be bewitched by her? The baroness was right to leave Cinderella at home, dressed plainly, rather than allow her daughters to see through the soot and rough clothing to the strange, menacing woman beneath.

“We will stay up all night until the invitation arrives,” the Baroness announces. She won’t be able to sleep anyway. “I want each of you to go over every detail of tonight. Who did you notice? What could you have improved on? We will need to be even better tomorrow.”

Anastasia and Drizella complain, but the Baroness tunes them out. She knows what’s best for her daughters. If she says that they need to go over noble greeting they say, every pin, every broach, every conversation, they will.

It will come, she tells herself. The Prince may not have noticed her daughters, but the Queen was certainly interested in them. She seemed particularly interested in Drizella. Perhaps she will be the one to choose the prince’s bride. Yes, that must be it. She was too attentive to my daughters for that not to be the case.

The second invitation will come. The carriage squeaks to a halt outside of their inn and the baroness waits impatiently for the coachman to open the door. Yes, her earlier concerns were born from anxiety. Obviously the Prince won’t choose his own bride. Clearly! He’s a prince and princes must marry based on their parents’ wills. She, a baroness, wouldn’t allow her daughters to choose their husbands. Certainly the Queen, a fellow noble mother, feels much the same.

Cheered, the Baroness doesn’t yell for the coachman to hurry up helping her daughters down from the carriage. Anastasia does it instead and her Capital accent is even beginning to sound convincing! Drizella nearly falls when the coachman supports her step down too weakly, but her recovery is much quicker than it would have been two years ago.

Yes, the baroness must not lose herself to anxiety. She’s raised her daughters well and that will all pay off when she sees one of them married to the prince. Perhaps she should talk to the Queen herself tomorrow? Mother to mother?

Yes, that’s the best plan. She’ll leave her girls to the business of catching the eye of the prince. If they prove successful, wonderful. If not?

The Baroness hides her smile. There’s a reason she came to the ball despite the invitation not including mothers of the potential brides.

-----------.

Three important invitations are delivered at dawn.

One is snatched by the Baroness who breathes a sigh of relief that she must hide from her daughters.

The second is handed to Helga who rolls her eyes at the redundancy and promises to deliver it to her charge once she wakes.

The third is delivered via raven to a lone man on the road on horseback. He holds his arm above his head as soon as he recognized the purple ribbon tied around the bird’s neck, barely flinching when its talons cut through his thin, traveling shirt.

“A summons?” the man asks. The bird does not answer. It takes off as soon as he unties the message from its leg. He flips the letter over to examine the seal. His stomach lurches. “From the Queen?”

He can’t ignore a letter from the Queen. With a sigh, the man turns his horse gently before even breaking the seal. The Queen only accepts replies in person. A bitterness coats his tongue.

Another letter has brought him back to his ancestral home. A very important letter from someone he’s been forced to leave alone too long. And now, barely four days’ ride from the sender, he’s forced to ignore her once again.

I’m coming, Cinderella. Just a little longer.

Baron David Ramsey has been away from home for too long.

If you’d like to read more parts of Cinderella a week earlier, please consider checking out my Patreon (X)! On top of posting all my stories a week earlier there, I also post Patreon Exclusives.

#Cinderella fan fiction #my writing #cinderella retelling #this is turning into a full novella #this is why i write short stories #BECAUSE BOOKS GET SO LONG #long post

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bookshelf-in-progress · 13 days

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Jack and His Wife: A Retelling of "Jack and the Beanstalk"

Jill raced through the giant’s kitchen, clinging to Jack’s hand. A table towered over their heads. Chair legs stood like a forest of trees. Footsteps like thunder pounded beyond the walls of the room.

Before today, Jill had thought herself fearless, but those footsteps made her quake with terror. Jack, meanwhile, had never looked so capable. Was this tower of strength the fuzzy-headed dreamer who’d left their farm this morning?

Jack helped Jill to climb inside a cupboard taller than their cottage, then dragged the door closed behind them.

“We’re safe,” he breathed, holding Jill close in the darkness. “He won’t find us here.”

Through a crack in the door, Jill saw a giant enter the room—a coarse man, taller than any tree she’d ever seen. His face was red and knobby, his hair mostly gone. He threw himself into a chair with a noise like a thunderstorm and bellowed for his wife.

Jill whispered, “What are we going to do?”

“We wait,” Jack said. “He’ll eat his lunch, then he’ll sleep, and we can leave.”

Jill looked in awe at her husband. He was so steady. So sure. Where was the incompetent fool she’d married?

“You’ve been here before,” she realized. “All those days you disappeared and came back with food.”

Jack nodded. “I had to provide for you somehow. Everything else I’ve tried has failed.”

“You told me you’d hired yourself out to some local farmers.”

“He is a local farmer—directly above our cottage. I’ve done some odd jobs for his wife.”

“You never said they were giants!”

“Would you have believed me?”

Jill blushed. She’d have thought her idiot husband had turned lunatic as well.

She’d thought Jack climbed the beanstalk out of idleness—enjoying the view rather than working the land. She had followed him today out of frustration, thinking to drag him back to earth with scoldings and nagging. Instead, she’d found Jack braving a land of giants in the clouds.

In the oversized kitchen, the giant’s wife cooked a feast for her husband—entire cattle, flocks of chickens—but she never came near their cupboard. This hiding place was dark, cluttered with buckets, and smelled faintly of vinegar, but for now, it seemed safe.

Jack made a seat in a massive pile of rags, then settled Jill into it. “Rest while you can. We’ll need to be ready to run.” After making certain Jill was comfortable, he curled up on a thin patch at the edge of the pile.

He was so considerate. He was always considerate, Jill realized, but down on the ground, it annoyed her. His small courtesies seemed like pitiful apologies for the larger ways he failed as a husband.

Jill had fallen in love with Jack’s dreaming ways. He’d been charming and convincing, overflowing with grand hopes for their future. Unfortunately, in twelve years of marriage, none of his dreams became reality. Crop after crop failed, livestock died, and Jill became bitter. Jack never did, and she hated him for it. No matter how desperate they became, he was always sure that next year’s crop would fix everything or his grand new scheme would make them rich as kings.

The beans had been his worst blunder. Jack had traded their last sickly cow for a handful of seeds guaranteed to grow a forest of vines. He’d spun visions of a bumper crop, a better life. Jill had raged and thrown the seeds out the window.

The seeds did grow massive vines practically overnight, but they were a menace. The beanstalk took up half their garden. The inedible vines showed no signs of bearing fruit. Every day, they hacked at runners and roots that threatened to destroy their cottage. Jack put a cheerful face on it; Jill had only complained.

Outside their cupboard, a shout from the giant sent shivers up Jill’s spine. “Did he just ask for ‘man-flesh’?”

Jack sat up and nodded grimly. “Fortunately, his wife objects.”

“You work for this monster?”

“I’d be his next meal if he saw me. His wife has a softer heart. She hides me from him and gives us food.”

“I’d rather starve than know you risk yourself this way.”

Jack gave Jill an astonished look that made her insides twist with shame. Had it been so long since she’d expressed concern for his well-being?

Jack stepped closer to the door. “If it were only me, I wouldn’t risk it. But we could save the whole valley. He’s been hoarding the water somehow, keeping it here in the clouds. If I could find a way to release it, it could end the drought.”

The giant slammed down an empty glass, leaned back in his chair, and called for music.

Jack said grimly, “We’re also not the only humans here.”

The giant’s wife carried a golden cage into the kitchen. Huddled in the center, looking small as a canary, sat a crying eight-year-old-girl.

“Farmer Gidding’s youngest,” Jack explained. “Sings like a nightingale. Not big enough to eat. He keeps her as a pet.”

“How horrible," Jill whispered.

As the little girl piped a tearful song, Jack said, “I had hoped I could rescue her today, but now that you’re here, plans will have to change.”

As Jack gazed through the crack, a ray of light illuminated his fearless form. Jill had thought her husband’s optimism made him a fool, but there was another word for a man who didn’t let defeat discourage him, who looked at impossible odds and dared to try anyway.

Hero.

How had she ever stopped loving him?

Jill stepped to Jack’s side. “Let me help you, my love.”

Jack looked at her with surprise. “Truly?”

Jill took his hand. “Truly.”

Jack grinned.

When the giant fell asleep, they moved as one.

The child came with them down the beanstalk.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #jack and the beanstalk #another of my flash fictions #probably the second most-polished #wrote this one after reading elizabeth goudge so that's where the 'woman learning to appreciate her holy fool of a husband' comes from

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leannareneehieber · 1 month

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GOTHIC & DARK ACADEMIA ENTHUSIASTS!

DARLINGS! Just noticed the double-volume revised edition of STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL via @torbooks is on super-eBook-sale right now. 684 pages! For only $3.99! Via Kindle, Kobo & Apple Books! Includes THE STRANGELY BEAUTIFUL TALE OF MISS PERCY PARKER and THE DARKLY LUMINOUS FIGHT FOR PERSEPHONE PARKER + extra scenes & content.

This book of my heart is: GOTHIC. It's Jane-Eyre-Meets-Dark-Academia+Hot-For-Teacher+GHOSTS+Greek-Mythology+Jack-the-Ripper+Found-Family

YES, there is a paperback omnibus edition, available via Bookshop.org (my favorite link to send folks to, it supports local bookstores!), B&N and any physical store can order it in. It's on sale too!

Please share? Thank you!

Kindle - Kobo - Apple Books

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fictionadventurer · 4 months

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Have I mentioned lately that creating AUs is the most fun thing ever? You get to take a story you love and then mash it against another type of story you love and fit all their pieces together like they're a jigsaw puzzle. You get to find all the unexpected points of similarity where the stories fit together really well, and see the places where their differences change and make commentary on the original stories/genres in really interesting ways.

And then once you fit the pieces together, you get to look at the new world you've made and see how these characters in this specific world have different conflicts and explore new themes, and you get to play with another level of puzzles as you figure out what this means for this story.

It's the most fun ever. It's my favorite game.

#random thought of the day #adventures in writing #this goes for both fairy tale retellings and for aus of specific shows/novels #this last week was a week for aus #between the north and south sci fi au coming up again #making up a northanger abbey fantasy au #coming up with a new angle for retelling maid maleen #and having tons of new insight in how to rework a story that's a retelling of cinderella and three different austen novels #plus looking back on the powers and prejudice au #this is just such a great game #the moment when the pieces click into place in a way that makes both elements make sense #there's nothing quite as satisfying #to some extent this applies to plotting original fiction #but it's a different feeling when you're making an au of something #because you don't just get to work with malleable clay #you have specific pre-formed pieces #so you get the challenge of figuring out how to fit them together without damaging either one too much #and when you find the way they fit together it makes you appreciate both stories in a new way #plus it makes you feel clever for making the connection #astounding superb wondrous past time

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sadeyedlady-writes · 2 months

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I’m doing a thing! It’s a retelling of the plot of The Brothers Karamazov from Grushenka’s perspective. You can read it on ao3.

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lou-wilham · 9 months

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It’s title reveal time….

If you love: Time Travel ✓ A satisfying end ✓ Deals with a devil ✓ Doctor Who but make it Shakespearean, Queer and add Cher ✓

You’re going to want to keep an eye out for more news on @ellebeaumontbooks and @lou.wilham’s Benvolio & Mercutio Turn Back Time!

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greekmythcomix · 4 months

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I am having IDEAS:

(This is my personal Twitr btw)

Fantasy Cast list: https://www.tumblr.com/greekmythcomix/725162898352128000/fantasy-odyssey-cast-im-working-on-the

What do you reckon? Could this work?

(Signup: https://laurajenkinsonbrown.co.uk/you-are-odysseus-signup/ )

#greek mythology #tagamemnon #greek myth #homer #odyssey #odyssey retelling #greek myth retelling #odysseus #epic #interactive fiction #greek myth retellings

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fakeyellow · 10 months

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“I would give gladly all the hundreds of years that I have to live, to be a human being only for one day, and to have the hope of knowing the happiness of that glorious world above the stars.” - "The Little Mermaid" by Hans Christen Anderson

You are the youngest child of the Sea King and you have just killed the prince.

(it was never about the prince. not really.)

FEATURES

"...And I Am Undone" is a short interactive story based on the traditional fairy tale, "The Little Mermaid."

Play as The Little Mermaid (m/f/nb)

Deal with the rippling consequences of your actions

Be plagued by the ghost of the man whose life you took

Get closer to the woman who stole your life, in more ways than one

Face difficult truths and decide your fate

CHARACTERS

The Prince: You loved him or perhaps you loved the idea of him. It matters not when his blood soaks your hands.

The Princess: You held up her bridal train but you know very little of the woman who unwittingly condemned you to your fate.

LINKS

demo (tba)

#interactive fiction #interactive story #interactive novel #choice game #interactive game #interactive fiction wip #and i am undone #the little mermaid #the little mermaid retelling

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vanweezer · 1 month

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that type of person who you think you'd be friends with in every universe - expressed through jim & corey - id/transcript in alt text

so this is a kind of not-so-surprise for my friend @sinclarsupremacy , bc they were the first person i showed this two and was on the phone with me the whole time while i made it. didn't give a single thing away until everything was scanned and done. five dead pens and one reliable sharpie later, i show him this. wanted to get used to drawing the slipsour guyz more but also wanted to articulate something i have troubles saying to important people. this is kind of an ode to all my close friends ive made who i definitely wouldve hung around some graveyards with, and an ode to some bands i didnt know id like as much as i do 🫶

#corey taylor #jim root #also based on that one jim page where they called him the 'group ghoul' and talked about how hed get nightmares #of a flaming head telling him he was gonna burn in hell #ill tell you one thing. having dorks like nate in my life wouldve saved ME some melodrama #however i am always melodramatic (eg: this very post) so maybe it just wouldve made things melodramatic-er #slipknot #stone sour #<- again purely organizational i dont wanna step on anyones toes #artings #nate tag #dunno if i should tag this as #rpf #but considering this is a story ive growth'd from my dome. fictional retellings of irl doofuses & whatnot. whateva #prolly gonna go on a sideblog soon. you know how it goes #also im sorry jimberly i made you have the silhouette of a yugioh character #if this is rpf in the traditional sense call it the au where jim and corey are able to shoot the breeze like this #in a way that isnt insanely passive aggressive or terribly jokey or downright explosive. yknow how they be #drinking game: take a shot each time jim says yknow or coreys fucking HAT deteriorates in quality #tell your friends that you would be friends in every universe

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the-modern-typewriter · 11 months

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The Gallery of Broken Things

“Don’t you get it yet?” Victor’s voice cut cruel with pity. “They are never going to love you, not like I can.”

Adam swallowed against the lump in his throat. He willed himself to say something, anything. It didn’t even have to be snappy and clever, just something. Nothing would come out.

Lightning flashed above them, illuminating Victor’s handsome features in the storm, and their eyes met. Victor’s voice grew softer as the wind howled louder, but Adam heard him all the same. “After all,” he traced a cold fingertip along the scar on Adam’s cheek. “How could they?” Victor clicked his tongue. “Look at you...”

Adam didn’t want to look, he never wanted to look. His shoulders hunched in protectively.

Victor waited too, eyebrow raised, for Adam to say something.

“I—” Adam didn’t finish. He couldn’t pick out the right words from the maelstrom.

Victor’s lip curled, and he dropped his hand. Adam felt colder than ever, and he didn’t think it was the chill of the rain soaking through his clothes.

“Come inside,” Victor said, “and stop being ridiculous. Before someone sees you.”

He turned and walked back into the house.

And, as always, Adam followed him.

***

The first time that Victor left him, Adam wrote out a list of broken things that he thought were beautiful. He’d only ever learned how to love something beautiful, after all, and it was inconceivable to consider himself as whole.

The initial list contained: stars, in all their dying light; mosaics in their fragments; glowsticks that only shone once cracked; kintsugi; and stained glass windows. It was not a perfect list – but it would do, in a pinch.

London, in the year 2094, was a perfect enough sort of place already. A Victor sort of place. Everything was smooth shining lines of glass stripped of any unsavoury edges, and neatly lush gardens for those who wanted to enjoy wildness without the danger of anything too unruly ruining the view. Adam could admit it was lovely, idyllic even.

It had never once felt like home.

The first time that Adam left Victor, he found The Gallery of Broken Things.

A woman, who he later learned was Margaux, had been handing out flyers on a street corner.

She’d been tiny enough that Adam felt like even more of a freak of nature than he usually did around Victor, and Victor was six foot of lean muscle and magnetic presence. It had almost been enough to make Adam apologise (for existing) and shrink back.

People could be threatened by height, by bulk, Adam knew.

He was not the kind of man that anyone wanted to meet in a dark street, or possibly even a well-lit one. Margaux didn’t seem to notice that.

She’d marched up to him with a pretty wicked smile, like they were in on some private joke together, and an air of whirlwind determination. She shoved the flyer in his hand and asked him to come.

She hadn’t flinched at his face once.

The Gallery of Broken Things was not, Adam learned, a traditional art gallery. It was more of a support group for people trying to figure out how to put themselves back together again.

They rented out one of the more ramshackle buildings on London’s outskirts, and met on Tuesday and Thursday evenings to drink copious cups of tea, chat, and make art. The day Adam went, curiosity tugging at him despite his best efforts, they were working on patchwork quilts.

“I know the name is weird,” Margaux said, plonking down onto a chair next to him. “I don’t mean, like, that none of us have anything to fix. Or that we’re something to be gawked at, though people do. Or to, like, you know, romanticise being broken.” She set the sewing kit down on the floor, along with the unwieldly tower of mismatched fabrics she was holding. “I just…” she bit her lip and looked at him, finally going still for the first time since he’d arrived. “I just got so sick of people saying there’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I will never be like everyone else, and maybe, just bloody maybe, that’s fine.”

Adam blinked at her, not sure what to say.

Margaux grimaced.

“I’m messing this up. I just mean, if we were broken, would that be so bad? Would that mean we had no value? Other people telling me I wasn’t broken didn’t make me feel less like there was something wrong with me. It just made me want to, I don’t know, love myself anyway. Screw them.” She tried for a smile. “All this to say, really, broken things deserve love and it doesn’t have to be good. Your quilt. Just, uh, try and have some fun making it.”

Adam found himself smiling back, shyly, as he sifted through the odd ends of material. He had never made a quilt before.

Victor always said that crafts were a woman’s hobby; the lowest branch of art when art was already a pursuit only suited for people not serious or clever enough to pursue science instead. Still, as the weeks turned into months with no sign of Victor, Adam learned two things:

Not everything beautiful was worthy of admiration.

He really loved making quilts.

***

“It’s this idea,” Adam said, “that you can take all the bits that nobody else wanted and still make something good.”

Victor looked at the quilt on their bed, and there was something so unbearably sad in his expression. He said nothing.

“Some of them get really intricate.” Adam shifted on his feet, mouth starting to go dry. “And they have a lot of historical value too. They’re sometimes passed down through families, with every generation adding a patch, until they have this massive blanket. It can tell us a lot about values, tradition, community.” He wanted to punch himself in the mouth, because he could hear that ‘desperate, kicked puppy, please love it please love me’ edge creeping in and he hated it. “I like it.” There, he’d said it.

“You would,” Victor replied, and his expression was unreadable once more. “Patchwork for a patchwork person.”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

Victor’s gaze snapped to him. “What did you just say?”

Adam sucked in a sharp breath, fingers tightening around the edge of his quilt.

Margaux had encouraged him to make it as ugly and cheery as he liked, but Adam hadn’t wanted that. He didn’t think he could do that, not yet and maybe not ever.

It was one thing relishing in ugliness when one was already beautiful, and was spitting in the expectation of it all, and another when Adam had never got to be beautiful in his life. At least it felt that way. Was it shallow to want that for a second?

The quilt resting on his and Victor’s bed was small, but Adam had spent hours on it. He’d learned how to embroider, and stitch, and yeah – yeah maybe it was patchwork for a patchwork person. But it was the prettiest damn bit of patchwork Adam could come up with, and maybe he didn’t know how to love himself and maybe Victor was right and no one else ever would after everything, but Adam could love the stupid blanket. Screw Victor.

“I said,” Adam’s teeth gritted, “that you don’t have to be a dick about it. At least I did a better job on these stitches than you ever did on me.”

“I saved your life! You wouldn’t even have a body to whine about if it wasn’t for me.”

Except, well, it was never Adam complaining. The realisation hit him low and sour in the pit of his stomach. He may not have liked what he’d become when he woke up to new life in Victor’s medical wing, but he wasn’t the one who made such a point of it. He tried to remember when Victor had first made a point of it. It hadn’t always been like that, had it?

Adam squared his shoulders.

“I don’t know, Vic. Maybe if you’d spent some more time on arts and crafts you wouldn’t hate your own creations so much.”

Victor stiffened.

“That’s it, right?” Adam pressed.

He watched as Victor’s dark gaze travelled up him, lingering on the places beneath Adam’s clothing where the stitches lay. The pieces of Adam clustered together from everything that the esteemed Doctor Victor Frank had once thought ideal.

“You were supposed to be my perfect thing,” Victor said. He picked the quilt up off the bed, folding it with care. “I know it’s my fault,” he added, with a small bitter sort of smile, “for not stitching you together well enough. But I bloody well tried, alright? You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“That’s not—” That wasn’t why he’d made the quilt. Did Victor really think Adam had done this to rub it in his face or something? “I didn’t mean—you started—I like the quilt.”

Victor scoffed. “Do you know what you get when you put together things that no one else wants? Something that no one else wants. If they did, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

The room felt airless.

Adam reached to take the quilt from Victor, because he clearly didn’t think it was worth anything, or at least not worth enough. To Victor, the quilt could only be a broken thing making some lame attempt at pretending otherwise, couldn’t it? He couldn’t see the love of making, of creating, anything anymore.

Adam’s ears were ringing.

Victor shifted the quilt out of reach.

“Would you?” he repeated. “You’d leave me in a heartbeat if you could. Even after everything I’ve done for you.”

“And what about you!?” Everything in Adam wanted to crumple, to retreat, to mutter apologies until he didn’t even know what he was apologising for anymore except for – well, everything. “As if you’d still be here if you hadn’t made me this.”

Victor’s silence smothered every corner of the room.

They’d met before the accident, Adam had seen the pictures and heard stories, but he couldn’t remember any of it.

They’d been together for two years apparently. Then, the accident happened. His body had been in pieces, the shrapnel of a person, when Victor stepped in. It had been an incredible feat to ensure he survived, some miracle of modern science, but…

Adam straightened to his full height and snatched the quilt from Victor’s hands.

It seemed to occur to Victor then, for the first time, that Adam was a head taller than him and much, much stronger. No. It wasn’t the first time, was it? It was something someone at the gallery had mentioned, once: if they actually thought you were small, they wouldn’t spend so much time reminding you of it.

Victor’s eyes narrowed.

The silence stretched, and stretched—

And then Victor laughed, shaking his head. He closed the gap between them, and wrapped an arm around Adam and the quilt.

“You know what?” He pressed a kiss to Adam’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.If you want to spend your life collecting things that nobody else wants, then that’s just fine. It’s even sweet. You’re sweet. I think it’s an admirable hobby.”

The breath, the everything, deflated out of Adam.

“Thanks,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that was entirely what he wanted to say. He didn’t think Victor meant that as a compliment.

“But maybe let’s not keep it on the bed where people will see it, yeah?” Victor took the quilt once more and moved over to the wardrobe, cramming it into the storage space at the top. “We’ve got that dinner later this week, remember? It’s an important opportunity for me. A chance to get everything back on track. You know how judgy people can be.” The wardrobe door closed. “It can stay in here, just until after that.”

“Right.”

“Don’t be mad, I like it! I do. It’s just - it has to be perfect, you know?” Victor stopped in front of him again, cupping Adam’s face in his palms. “I have to be perfect.”

But we’re not perfect. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation if we were perfect.

Adam didn’t say that though, because the viciousness had sucked out of Victor and left only pleading.

Victor could already see the hurt, the unsaid things and broken edges, couldn’t he? Then Victor looked away, as if scalded by the reminder, and busied himself smoothing out the bed sheets again. Without the quilt it looked like it was still straight out a home catalogue, pristine and colourless.

“It’s just a hobby, Adam,” he said. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m doing this for us.”

Adam said “right” again, even when the word tasted like blood in his mouth.

It was a hobby. Of course, it was only a hobby, so it didn’t matter. Not as much as Victor’s job at any rate. If things got back on track again, then maybe…

***

When Adam told Margaux that he wanted to make the gallery a, well, gallery, Victor had just left him for the fifth time.

It seemed to be their pattern, weaving in and out of each other’s lives. Victor left, and Adam trailed after him. Adam left, and eventually Victor hunted.

Margaux had lit up at the idea, though there were considerations to bear in mind. Space and time and what could be called the law against hideous things. London 2097 was perfect. It stayed that way by excising anything that didn’t fit. A Gallery of Broken Things was not the kind of exhibition that city council would approve of. Still.

The gallery space they managed to grab was a small, cluttered room which they all filled with an assortment of different objects and artworks.

There were patchwork quilts along one wall, of course. Some of them told stories, others were simply pleasing in colour and texture. Then there were other pieces too - a list full of ‘broken things’.

There were the shattered pieces of pottery glued back together in new forms, only more lovely for the fracture. In the corner, by the window, a shadowy ghoul made of garbage bags haunted the breeze.

Adam drifted around the space, adjusting lights, only to put them back. It had taken several months to get everything ready but they would be opening the gallery to the public tomorrow. Everything was set. There was nothing left for him to do.

He didn’t know if anyone would come. He didn’t know if anyone else would find value in broken things, or maybe they’d come but they wouldn’t get it. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

“You okay?”

Adam turned to find Margaux standing in the threshold of the exhibit, grey rain clouds blustering behind her before the front door swung shut.

It was late, and everyone else had long since gone home. He’d thought she had too, though it didn’t exactly surprise him that she hadn’t. She’d clocked in as many hours and pieces to the gallery as he had, if not more.

Margaux’s main installation was a whole bunch of glowsticks painstakingly tied together into the shape of a human skeleton. The body glowed poison green and bloody red. Margaux had liked the thought of a chemical reaction being the base of her piece, even if it was different to where she had started out.

Adam shrugged, because, well. “Getting there.”

Margaux moved to stand next to him, overlooking their work. She buried her hands deep into the pockets of her trench coat and swayed a little with the same restless energy that Adam could feel twitching in his own bones.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, next. “You did a good job.”

“You hate beautiful.”

“I hate that we live in a world that sometimes priorities beauty over kindness, that’s not the same thing.”

Adam laughed under his breath at that, shaking his head. Even though she undoubtedly meant it. They exchanged a glance; Adam’s smile a little less shy now than it had been when they first met.

“Come on.” Margaux held out a hand, waggling her fingers in offering. “Let’s go for a drink. We’ve been much too busy. I’m now terribly deprived of chocolate biscuits.”

“You don’t have to be at group to have chocolate biscuits.”

“It’s not the same on my own.”

He hesitated, but took her hand.

Outside it was drizzling, a noncommittal grey that slicked the streets and left the world hazy. The forecasts said that by tomorrow it would be storming. Adam couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad omen – his new life had started with a storm, or so Victor had always told him. Would there be a time when everything didn’t make him think about Victor?

Margaux squeezed his hand, bringing him back to himself.

She wasn’t looking at him so he didn’t know how she knew. She always seemed to, though. Not just with him, but with everyone who had come to her gallery. Maybe she knew what to look for or maybe she simply paid attention. Maybe both. They’d talked a lot in the years they knew each other, sometimes about the big things but mostly about the little. It was nice.

“You invited him,” Margaux said. “Victor.”

“How did you—”

“It’s what I would have done, once.”

Adam quietened at that. He stroked his thumb along the backs of Margaux’s knuckles, and it was her turn to snap back to the present. They shared another smile.

“Yeah.” Adam turned towards one of the pubs they sometimes went to, eager to escape the rain before it got worse. “I wanted him to see. To – I don’t know. Maybe he won’t show.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to him.”

“I know.” Adam did know that, now, at least in theory. In his guts was always a different matter, but it was a start. “I still want to feel…to feel like he did right by saving me. He lost his job over it, you know? Lost everything. It wasn’t ethical what he did. But I lived, probably when I shouldn’t have done. I guess I want him to know it was worth it. That I was…”

“Doctors don’t only save people who go onto do amazing things. It’s not their place to call that.”

Adam grimaced at her.

She snorted, sitting down in one of the more shadowy booths in the corner, for his comfort. She studied him from beneath a fiery fringe, drumming her fingers against the table, before she seemed to make an effort to stop.

“Besides.” Her voice was deliberately casual, in a way that from Victor might mean an oncoming barb and from her meant – not that. “You’ve done amazing things, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’re…amazing.”

Adam swallowed hard, and resisted the urge to clear his throat. She cleared hers, scrambling to pick up the menu. Heat rushed to both of their faces.

“Yeah,” he said. “You are too.” It seemed like a dumb, too pale thing to say, because she was so much more than amazing.

Their eyes met.

The rain outside began to pour.

“So,” she said. “Fancy splitting some nachos?”

***

“Adam.”

Somehow, Adam really hadn’t been prepared for the possibility that Victor would come. He thought he’d look at the invite, not bother to show, and then either way Adam would have done his part. He turned to face the other man, standing alone by the entrance of the exhibit.

Victor looked as impeccable as he ever did; more impeccable if that was even possible, as if even the swelling storm didn’t dare to touch him.

“Victor.”

Adam’s heart hammered in his chest, ever a reminder of what Victor had done, what Adam owed him, the blood that tied them both.

He watched as Victor pivoted on the spot to examine his surroundings.

They hadn’t officially opened yet. Margaux was in the backroom somewhere and the others would be on their way.

Victor paused by the wall of quilts, one hand rising as if to touch but stopping halfway. Dropping. Victor stuffed his hand into the pockets of his expensive coat.

“A gallery of broken things.” Victor hummed, swinging to face Adam once more. “You could do better.”

“Maybe,” Adam said, softly. “Maybe not. But I don’t want to.”

Victor’s brow furrowed at that, his head tilting to the side.

“You’re early,” Adam said. “We’re not opening until 11. I said that, right?”

“Are you really going to invite people to come and look at…this.” Victor stepped closer. “At you. Shouldn’t you at least be in the backroom or something? I’m just worried,” Victor added, quickly, taking his hand. “People can be cruel.”

“Yeah.” Adam looked down at his hand, huge and patchworked in bits of skin and sinew, strong but hideous in comparison to Victor’s. “People can.”

“So don’t do this.” Victor squeezed his fingers. “Come with me. That’s why you invited me, right? You mess up, I fix things.” He took a step back, as if to tug Adam out of the door.

Adam didn’t move. Victor may as well have tried to tug stone.

“I invited you because this is something I’m proud of.”

Victor stopped tugging.

Adam let go of Victor’s hand.

Maybe, it clicked, it finally clicked, that there was never going to be a point where he was good enough for Victor.

Because it was him.

Because if Adam did something for himself, then he wasn’t doing it for Victor.

Because he wasn’t some controlled experiment, eternally grateful for what he’d been given, but something – someone – alive. Victor had admitted himself, once, that when he saved Adam he’d wanted to know that he could do it. It had been scientific, not heroic. And when it worked too well…

Well, Adam was alive. Living people were not perfect, they messed up all the time.

Victor talked about their past relationship like it had been something wonderful, like they’d been the happiest people on the planet, like they’d had been perfect.

Once upon a time, Adam had believed it. He didn’t anymore.

Victor stared at him.

“That’s what people do, Vic.” Adam’s voice cracked. “Don’t you get it? When they want someone in their life, they invite them to the important things. They support each other. They say they’re proud, even if they think the art’s a bit rubbish.”

Maybe Adam had reasons, other reasons, which all seemed stupid now. Had he really thought Victor would approve? That he might have changed? Maybe he’d hoped.

“I support you,” Victor protested. “I’m supporting you now, even if you’re too—”

“No.”

“…what do you mean no?”

“I really hope you know what no means.”

Victor folded his arms. “I’m trying to help you. If I’d known this was what you’d been up to, I would have come sooner.”

Adam shook his head. He almost wanted to laugh, except it wasn’t really funny. Maybe it hadn’t been funny for a long while. “You’re trying to help you, like you always do, because you think what I do reflects on you.”

“Oh, come on!” Victor sighed, like Adam was being ridiculous. “So, what, you invited me here to lie to you? I don’t lie to you. Tell me one time that I’ve ever lied to you.”

“You said this was only a hobby. It’s more than that to me.”

Victor rolled his eyes.

Adam released a shaky breath, and part of him still wanted to wilt. He forced it down. “This was clearly a mistake.”

“This is a mistake, yes.” Victor’s expression grew colder, and he seemed to regroup himself. “They are going to hate it. They are going to hate you, and then you’re going to break, and then I’ll have to derail my life to put you back together again because that’s what I do.”

“No, you won’t.”

“What, because this time is magically different to all of the times before when you thought you could survive without me?”

Adam’s mind flashed back to Margaux, to the group, to nachos and – if not peace, then belonging.

People who wanted him around, who liked him, who didn’t act like if he got hurt it was his own fault for not being careful enough. People who didn’t say ‘the world is cruel’ as just another excuse for cruelty.

“Yeah.”

Victor outright snorted.

“So,” Adam said, “I think you should go. For good.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly.”

Victor blinked at him, like he couldn’t comprehend what exactly was happening, like he didn’t recognise Adam anymore.

“Adam,” he began.

“Is there a problem here?”

The two of them both turned, to find Margaux had appeared from the back office. Her eyes were cold in a way that Adam hadn’t seen before, murderous even, as they fixed on Victor.

“We were just leaving,” Victor said.

“No,” Adam said. “We weren’t.”

“Is this gallery yours?” Victor held a hand out to Margaux, charming smile pinned back on his lips. “I’m Victor, Victor Frank. I’m Adam’s—”

Margaux ignored Victor, coming to stand by Adam’s side, studying him. “Are you okay?”

Adam managed a nod.

Victor’s dangling hand curled into a fist. He looked between them, at the way they stood close and comfortable with each other, as if he expected Margaux to be shrieking and reaching for a pitchfork.

“Is there a particular reason,” Victor’s voice was much too light, “that he would not be okay with me? Because, you know, this was a private conversation. I care about Adam a lot, and if you’re encouraging him to—”

It was Adam’s turn to take Margaux’s hand gently in his own.

Victor faltered for only a second.

“I can’t believe this.” His gaze flicked down, scalpel sharp, and then back up. “I really can’t believe this. Are you bloody well kidding me, Adam?”

“I’m sorry,” Adam said. “that you think everything has to be perfect, because you’re never going to be. And I’m sorry you think the world is full of people like you, because it’s not.” He squeezed Margaux’s hand and Margaux squeezed back. “I’m not sorry for leaving you.”

Victor’s mouth clicked shut. He opened it again, but didn’t speak. For once, he really seemed to have nothing to say at all. Then he walked out.

Adam felt like he could finally breathe.

It was time to break the cycle.

***

The opening of The Gallery of Broken Things was not a stupendous success, but as far as Adam was concerned it was a moderate one.

There was a steady stream of traffic and conversation throughout their opening hours, and while some people were less than complimentary about what real art was supposed to look like, others were…different. Maybe lots of people felt a little broken, sometimes, even if they didn’t appear that way.

The lot of them celebrated after hours, with cups of tea and chocolate biscuits. Eventually, again, it was only Adam and Margaux left.

They sat together on the floor, between the installations, the glow of Margaux’s skeleton beginning to fade. She’d have to remake it every so often to keep up the look.

It had been a busy day, so there hadn’t been too much time to talk if talking was even required. Still, he’d felt her eyes on him every so often.

“Thanks,” Adam said, eventually. “For, you know. Helping out with him.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You did enough.” More than enough, even if Adam still didn’t quite know how to wrap his tongue around all the words.

Beyond the gallery doors, the storm had finally broken.

Because, maybe Victor was right about thing, maybe no one would love Adam like he did.

They would do it better.

#The Gallery of Broken Things #frankenstein #retelling #writing #fiction #some of you will have seen this before #I live in fear of my computer finally breaking on me so this is going here for now I guess #my writing #story #creative writing #frankenstein retelling

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caffeinewitchcraft · 1 year

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Cinderella Doesn’t Believe in Fairytales (pt. 8)

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3). (Part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7)

Cinderella wakes to birdsong.

It brings her to tears. She tangles her fingers in the soft bedcovers, pulling them up and over her face. Her tears blur the gentle light seeping through the fabric so that she feels like she might still be dreaming. Her body is pleasantly sore from dancing, but not hurting like it does after a day of chores. Her hair smells of the gentle oils Helga patiently brushed into it rather than fireplace soot. The gnawing loneliness that’s accompanied her for so many years is wonderfully quiet, soothed by the long evening spent in the arms of her friend.

The Prince.

Cinderella huffs a laugh, disbelieving, and pulls the sheets away from her face. Her room is pleasantly cool, the air brisk though the windows aren’t open. She breathes in deeply. Her friend is the Prince. Her impossible, magic-wielding friend who saved her life and listened to her worries and always made her laugh is the prince.

And he’s a hell of a dancer too.

Even the memory of their dances thrills her. Cinderella jumps out of bed , unable to bear the sudden surge of energy coursing through her, and braces for the shock of cold stone against her bare feet. It never comes. Instead, the floor hums with the sort of warmth she’s begun to associate with magic. Cinderella laughs and sways to the window, humming portions of the previous night’s songs under her breath.

The people! The music! The colors! Her memory is a kaleidoscope of everything beautiful she’s ever seen in her entire life. At the center of it all is her friend and his gentle smile, his hand outstretched for hers.

Cinderella eases the window open. She’d been too nervous to take a proper look outside yesterday, but today is a different story. For all the elation she feels, there’s also something settled inside of her. A sort of contentment that sits at the bottom of her stomach where it won’t be easily swayed. So she opens the window without worrying if she’s allowed to do so and takes in a lungful of fresh morning air.

“The late Queen’s gardens,” Helga says from the doorway. Cinderella turns to find Helga with a breakfast tray balanced on one hand and a letter held in the other. Helga’s eyes sparkle. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

They are. Cinderella was listening to the birds and not looking at the garden, but she knows it’s true. The greenery is lush and well-maintained, the flowers blooming big and beautiful along a carefully swept path. She can hear water from beyond a row of hedges. A fountain?

“Everything is beautiful,” Cinderella says. The Prince’s green eyes against the night sky comes to mind and Cinderella’s heart flips. She clears her throat. “The grounds. The castle. It’s all very beautiful.”

Helga hums and closes the door with her foot. “Would you like to sit by the window then?”

“Yes,” Cinderella says. The idea of eating the croissant and eggs Helga brought while listening to the birds and watching the flowers gently sway in the breeze is so wonderful that Cinderella doesn’t see the problem right away. She frowns and looks around the bedroom. Besides the bed and the vanity, there’s not much more furniture in the room. “I can help you with some chairs…?”

Helga laughs and waves the hand holding the letter. “Don’t be silly, dear. It will only take a moment.”

Cinderella has to bite her tongue to keep from yelping when Helga lets go of the tray suddenly. It doesn’t fall. Instead the food hangs in the air as if set on an invisible table. Helga whips out her wand and flicks it at the stone near the window.

A chair and a small garden table rise from the floor, melting in reverse. The table is set with a series of dainty forks and a crystal glass. After a moment’s thought, Helga waves her wand again and a bottle of orange juice appears.

“Wow,” Cinderella says.

Helga is frowning. “Yes, well, it will do. Somehow, I always conjure garden furniture even when I had the loveliest tea table in mind…” She busies herself setting up the breakfast tray. “Come now, sit, sit, sit. Before everything gets cold.”

Cinderella doesn’t move. She’s never noticed it before because of the low lighting at night, but Helga’s magic looks a little like her friend’s magic. There aren’t as many colors and it’s very faint, but when the sunlight catches it just right, the air shines. As she watches, the shine sinks into the floor until the chair and table look as mundane as can be. Cinderella is fascinated. “How does that work?”

“How does what work?” Helga asks absently. She holds the orange juice up to the light, squinting at it. “I swear I meant to conjure peach juice…”

“The conjuring magic,” Cinderella says. She waves her hand to the table and chair. “That looked different than the floating magic you do.”

That gets Helga’s attention. Her gaze snaps from the orange juice to Cinderella. “Looked?”

“The magic came up from the stone,” Cinderella explains. She waves her hands in a vague approximation of it. “Then, when you finished, it went back.”

Helga doesn’t answer right away. She stares at Cinderella very hard, her gaze piercing, as if trying to see if Cinderella is being serious or not. She chews her cheek and finally says, “You’ve seen a lot of magic?”

Deny it. It’s not a voice, not really. It’s an ancient instinct and Cinderella works very hard to make sure that none of it shows on her face. Carefully, Cinderella shrugs. “No. But my friend uses a lot around me. Sometimes I can guess where it is.”

Slowly Helga’s shoulders relax. “…from exposure makes sense,” she murmurs under her breath. Then, louder, “You shouldn’t look at magic, dear. It can hurt your eyes.”

It doesn’t hurt. Cinderella smiles. “I’ll try not to.”

Satisfied, Helga says, “To answer your question, it looked different because that wasn’t a spell. I don’t have magic, remember?” She twirls her wand. “I use this to direct what my Lord lends me. What I did just then was—well. This castle is very old, yes? It’s got magic of its own that I can ask for help from time to time.”

“The castle did this?” Cinderella asks. She studies the table and chair with renewed interest. They look solid and well-made and the food seems edible. She thinks about the way the magic rose from the ground. “I wonder…”

“Pardon?”

But Cinderella is already extending her hand. The single chair next to the window looks lonely. It would be so wonderful if there was another chair for Helga to sit and have breakfast with her… “If you would?” she asks the castle.

Where the magic curled and bent to Helga’s will, it explodes under Cinderella’s. Another chair springs into existence faster than Cinderella expected. The table extends another foot with a pop! and a second bottle of orange juice appears next to a second glass.

“Oh my,” Cinderella says. She flexes her hand. The magic twines around her fingers before slipping back into the stone floor. She grins. “How wonderful!”

Helga blinks very quickly. “Yes…yes, wonderful.” She studies Cinderella, almost speaks, and then seems to reconsider. Finally, she says, “I take it the second chair is an invitation?”

“Yes,” Cinderella says. Perhaps she should have asked Helga before she acted, but she didn’t feel as if she needed to. Like Helga said, the castle was right there to help. “I would enjoy the company.”

They settle at the little table, Helga pouring juice and serving the breakfast pastries she brought. Cinderella’s feet are warm from the magic sitting so close to the surface of the stone and her heart is warm when, unthinking, Helga spreads jam over a croissant for Cinderella.

“Oh,” Helga says when she notices. She’d been staring into space as she prepared Cinderella’s breakfast and, now, jolts back to herself. There’s a light flush on her cheeks when she says, “Excuse me, my mind was elsewhere. Do you like strawberry jam? I can go to the kitchens for fresh pastries—”

“It’s perfect,” Cinderella assures. She remembers her mother’s hands around a crystal jar of jam, a whisper of just a little before dinner. She takes a bite of her croissant and feels a thrill at the sweetness of the jam. Just like she remembers. “Delicious.”

“An invitation came for you at dawn,” Helga says after a few moments of silent eating. Her eyes sparkle as she draws the envelope out from her skirts and holds it so the sunlight reflects off the golden seal. “I wonder who it could be from?”

The second invitation. The Prince told her it was coming, but Cinderella’s heart flips when she sees it anyway. She takes the envelope from Helga as if it were made of butterfly wings and opens it carefully. The faint smell of oranges drifts from the card inside.

The Baron’s Daughter is hereby cordially invited to the Castle on this day for a continuation of festivities…

Then, at the bottom, her friend has written I’ll pick you up in his own handwriting.

Cinderella strokes the letters of her friend’s writing. Each one is elegantly shaped and perfectly placed. She can imagine him as a boy sitting politely during his lessons, quill clutched tightly in hand, and brow furrowed as he practiced each letter.

“What was he like?” Cinderella asks.

“Pardon?”

“I want to know how the Prince was as a boy,” Cinderella says. When the silence stretches, she looks up from her invitation to see unease on Helga’s face. “Helga?”

“That’s…difficult for me to say,” Helga says.

“Were you not with him as a child? I assumed from the way you spoke…”

“No, I was,” Helga says. She tucks her hands under the table and looks out the window. The sunlight falls across the older woman’s face, highlighting the way the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth deepen when she frowns. “The Prince now and the Prince then are two very separate people. I don’t want to scare you away with stories of a person who no longer exists.”

Cinderella waits for Helga to say more. When the silence again goes on for too long, she prompts, “What do you think would scare me away?”

Again, Helga hesitates. There seems to be a war going on behind her pale eyes. Cinderella thinks that she must be twisting her apron under the table.

“He wasn’t kind,” Helga says at last. She busies herself wiping a stray smear of butter from the table. “Anything more, you’d need to ask him.”

Helga means to end the conversation there. Cinderella could let it end – should let it end – but the words echo. He wasn’t kind.

Cinderella’s first thought is good. She’s glad that her friend wasn’t kind. Cinderella has lived her entire life being kind and she’s seen what rewards are at the end of that road. Good that her friend knew better than to let others extract kindness from him like blood, good he didn’t sleep next to an empty hearth praying for the ones who put him there to return kindness with affection, good that he protected himself in a way Cinderella never could.

Cinderella’s second thought is why? Why did Helga sound apologetic? Did she think Cinderella would think less of him?

“When I was a little girl,” Cinderella finds herself saying, “I spent many hours in the garden.” She looks out the window and sees a different garden than the former Queen’s. She sees roses and sprigs of lavender as far as the eye can see. Her mother’s garden. “My mother had quite the green thumb. The things she could grow! I was so young then and didn’t have much reference, but it seemed as if every flower bloomed bigger and every bush grew fuller under her touch.”

“That’s quite the gift,” Helga says.

Cinderella hums. She loved her mother best in the garden. When her mother waited for her father by the window, she seemed colder and more distant. In the garden, her mother smiled. “It was. If we lived anywhere else, we would have had butterflies all year round. But being where the estate is, we only had a few weeks in spring and a little in fall when the butterflies would pass through the garden on their way to the Capital.”

“I didn’t realize you come from so far west,” Helga says.

Cinderella nods. “Near the mountains.” She finds her gaze being pulled toward the west as she talks. How far away is her home? At least a week’s ride by carriage. “I always waited for the butterflies to visit. One day, when I was very young, I woke up to see they’d come during the night. I raced outside to see them up close. There weren’t many of them yet, just a few, and I had the good luck to spot one resting on the ground.” Cinderella’s lip curls. “Only it wasn’t resting any longer. It had the misfortune to land on an anthill. The ants were hungry, I suppose. They were tearing the butterfly apart piece by piece.”

Even now she remembers the sick horror that filled her at the sight. The vicious hold the ants had on the blue wings, pinning the poor thing to the ground. The way the butterfly’s antennae waved in panic. The smell of the ants as they poured from their mound to feast.

“How awful,” Helga says. She’s watching Cinderella carefully, her hands still in her lap. “What happened then?”

“Nature,” Cinderella says. She feels as if her mouth is not her own when she says, “There’s nothing awful about nature. The ants needed food after the harsh winter and the butterfly was unlucky. It wasn’t the ants’ fault that they killed the butterfly. It was simply nature.” Cinderella breathes in through her nose and stiffens like a woman freed from a trance. “That’s what my mother said when she caught me killing the ants.”

A sense memory: her shiny black shoes coming down on the damp, red dirt as she collapsed the ant hill. The flecks of mud that splattered her ankles when she crushed their exoskeletons under her heel. Her mother’s hand hot on her shoulder. The percussive force of her mother’s shout ringing in her ears.

“She told me that I needed to try and understand the ants,” Cinderella continues. Her feet aren’t cold and muddy now. They’re warm from the magic coating them, tucked neatly under her chair. “She understood I was upset about the butterfly, but being upset was no excuse for the violence I responded with. I shouldn’t have punished the ants for what was in their nature to do.”

“A wise woman.”

Cinderella smiles with closed lips. The sun is well and truly risen now and its harsh rays feel hot against Cinderella’s cheek and collarbones. “A kind woman.”

“Ah,” Helga says, understanding.

Cinderella wonders what it is Helga’s understood. “Hm?”

Helga weighs each word carefully. “If I may offer my two cents, my lady?” When Cinderella nods, she says, “Your mother was right that it was in the ants’ nature to kill.”

Why is she disappointed in Helga’s response? Cinderella sips her juice to hide her frown. “That’s true.”

“However,” Helga says, “nature does not protect one from another’s nature. Yes, it was in the ants’ nature to eat the butterfly. But perhaps it is in your nature to kill ants for tormenting butterflies.”

Cinderella sets down her juice and gives Helga her full attention.

“Considering that,” Helga says lightly, “was it so wrong to kill them for hurting something that meant so much to you?”

Oh. Cinderella swallows, desperately willing away the ache in her throat. Her lip trembles. Helga is looking at her with such deep understanding that Cinderella feels shaken to her core.

All these years and she understands now why her mother’s words bothered her so much. Her mother always seemed to think Cinderella should behave as if nothing affected her, not her mother’s absence, not her father absence, and not the violence of the ants against the butterfly. Helga is saying the opposite. Of course, Cinderella acted that way. Of course! Like the ants, Cinderella also had a nature. Cinderella, like the ants, also had a right to act the way she did.

A knot she didn’t know existed unravels in her chest. Cinderella doesn’t need to sit quietly when an injustice is being done to her or others. She doesn’t need to make excuses for the aggressor or understand their motives. She can act. She can defend. She can protect herself.

(It was never about the ants at all.)

Cinderella clears her throat. “Yes.” Thank you. She can’t bring herself to say the words. “I’d like to wear the blue dress tonight.”

“We had to rush getting ready last night,” Helga says. She reaches across the table to place her hand on top of Cinderella’s. It’s cooler than the sunlight but warms Cinderella all the same. “Why don’t we take out time getting ready, hm?”

“I’d like that,” Cinderella says.

--------

Thanks for reading!

If you’d like to read more parts of Cinderella a week earlier, please consider checking out my Patreon (X)! On top of posting all my stories a week earlier there, I also post Patreon Exclusives.

#long post #my writing #Cinderella fan fiction #cinderella retelling

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bookshelf-in-progress · 10 months

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Length of Years: A Rapunzel Retelling

The woman in the tower brushed her hair. It had long ago turned white, and had grown to cover most of the floor in her little stone room. She braided it with lightning speed, her gnarled fingers confidently completing the familiar task.

Her gaze wandered through the chamber filled with the works of a lifetime. Tapestries she'd woven. Books she'd read and written. Dresses she'd designed. Plants she'd carefully tended until flowering vines framed her one window to the outside world. Evidence of arts she'd mastered, skills she'd developed--once sources of pride and joy, and now simply the remains of an empty life.

Now that her mother was dead, what did she have to live for? She'd sacrificed her life out of loyalty to the woman who'd given her everything; she'd never dreamed that someday she'd be the one left alone. This tower room had been her world; now that world seemed pathetically small. A dismal showing for so many decades.

She sang to banish the thoughts--song was her only weapon in her war against the hostile silence. The song was a light ditty from her younger years, about a bird in a cage, flying free. She'd sang that song often, once upon a time, to an awestruck audience. The only visitor this tower had ever held.

Unbidden, he appeared before her mind's eye. Young. Strong. Dark-haired. Square-jawed. With scarred hands and a dimpled chin and laughing eyes. He'd come to see her, day after day, and filled her world with a joy she'd never before known.

He'd asked her to leave with him; she'd refused, for Mother's sake, again and again, until he'd spoken so abusively against Mother that she grew offended for her sake, and told him to leave and never return. He'd obeyed her wishes, as he always had, and now she had nothing left of him but memory and regret.

She sang all the stronger as the memory turned to sorrow. She'd had her chance and thrown it away. Time had devoured any hope she'd ever had. What was the use of wishing otherwise? She was, and would be, now and forever, alone.

Even the song couldn't change that, so she stopped singing.

And in the silence, she heard a voice.

"Rapunzel! Rapunzel!"

An illusion. A hallucination. A phantom voice conjured by an abundance of memory and solitude and a lack of anything else.

The voice persisted. "Let down your hair!"

The voice was weaker than the one she remembered. Graveled. Worn. Aged.

But beneath it all, a familiar tone that brought her mind back to a time when she was fair-skinned, golden-haired, slender, willowy and oh-so-young.

She raced to the window with a speed she hadn't been capable of in years. Her joints creaked as she leaned far out the window, clinging tightly to the ledge to maintain her delicate balance as she looked down.

At a man in well-worn travel clothes marked with the royal coat of arms.

"I heard your singing," he said.

His hair was shorter than she remembered, gray and frazzled but still remarkably thick. His square jaw had grown jowls, his face had grown lines, his eyes had grown dimmer. But his smile as he gazed upon her was as bright as the one she saw in her memories each night.

With a bow that was slower but no less elegant for the passing of years, he asked, "My lady, might I ascend?"

With a joy she hadn't known she could ever possess, Rapunzel gathered up her endless white lengths of braid and let down her hair.

The climb took longer than Rapunzel remembered, but at last her visitor reached the window, and Philip Peregrine Bertram, prince of Whitbay, entered her chambers once more.

He bent double as he caught his breath. "Has your window always been that high?"

"It hasn't moved," Rapunzel said.

And neither have I.

Philip heard the unsaid and more valuable words. His gaze, when he stood straight and looked at her, held the compassion she'd always admired. "I heard of your mother's passing."

"It was very sudden." Mother had collapsed in the middle of a conversation, just after a climb up the tower in the rain. Rapunzel had buried her body beneath the stones of the tower's lowest level.

"My sympathies," Philip said.

He was the first to offer them, in all these weeks. Despite the hatred Rapunzel knew he had for her mother, she knew his words were genuine.

That, more than anything, brought the tears to her eyes. "Thank you."

Philip offered a handkerchief, which she took without shame. "Do you have food? Supplies?" he asked.

Rapunzel nodded, glad for the switch to more practical matters. "There are garden boxes here in the tower, and a boy comes every week with supplies."

"And you've stayed?"

She shrugged. "I had nowhere else to go."

No one else to go to.

He heard these unspoken words, too, and his face, as he sighed, seemed to age another ten years. "Rapunzel," he breathed. "I am so very sorry."

His voice held such depth of regret that she knew he apologized for far more than her mother's passing.

Despite herself, Rapunzel's words of response sounded far younger than the girl he had known. Like a child's--small, delicate, broken, plaintive. "Why did you never come back?"

"You asked me not to," Philip said. "And I had my pride. I might have returned, when my temper cooled, but then there were the wars, the diplomatic missions, the voyages, the marriage treaty, the children..." He sat wearily on her window ledge. "By the time life slowed down, I assumed you'd long ago moved on, and it would have been disloyal to seek you out. I only came to the village by chance and heard the locals speaking of the woman in the tower. Then I came to the woods and heard your song..."

He trailed off as he gestured to the room around them.

"I see," Rapunzel said, though she could barely even imagine it. An entire life full of war and travel and conflict and change happening quickly enough to obscure the passage of time, while she'd stayed here in the same set of rooms as the long, slow seconds marched lazily by.

"Did no one else ever come to the tower?" Philip asked, sounding almost desperate to hear some hint of joy from her life.

"No one," Rapunzel said simply. "Mother made certain of that."

Philip's jaw clenched, and there was a spark of the old fire in his eye, but he did not speak ill of the dead.

"I never mentioned you to her," Rapunzel said, "but she must have been suspicious--I wept so often in the weeks after our argument. She set barriers and traps in the woods after that. Spread rumors that I was mad and violent. The only outsiders who ever came were the boys who delivered supplies, and Mother always hired slow-witted lads who didn't ask questions."

"And..." Philip swallowed back some emotion. "And she was your only company?"

"She was never unkind to me," Rapunzel said, for she hadn't been, whatever her other crimes. "She made certain I never lacked anything I wanted."

"Except for freedom."

Rapunzel shook her head softly. "For a long time, I wasn't sure I wanted that. If I left, how could you find me? And by the time I believed you'd never come, I knew enough of the world to know I was safer here."

"Friendship, then."

"I did want that," Rapunzel admitted. "You don't know how much." Her fists clenched and her words quavered. "Sometimes, I thought it would break me."

Philip rose to his feet and caught her hand between his. "But it didn't," he said, with soft reassurance.

"Not yet."

"It won't," he said, with the firm compassion of age. "Not while I live." He raised her hand between their faces and looked deep into her eyes. "We've lost so many years, Rapunzel. I can't begin to atone for what you've been denied, but I can make certain that you're denied it no more. Come with me. Leave this place."

Rapunzel felt as though the tower had crumbled beneath her, leaving her no firm place to stand. It was more than she had dared to hope for, not for years and years and years. "How can I?" she whispered. "Your wife and family..."

"My wife passed nearly ten years ago. My children won't deny me the comfort of your friendship."

She gazed out the window toward a distant world glowing with a purple sunrise. "It's been too long," she said. "Too much life wasted. So little time ahead."

Philip's eyes, when she looked back at him, were as bright as those of the boy she'd once known. "Then we'd best not lose another minute."

Her head felt impossibly light. Her hair felt strange where it brushed against her shoulders. She secured the long, long braid to the pulley outside her window, then let down her hair one last time.

Philip secured her in the braid like a harness, and slowly lowered her to the ground. When her feet were firmly on the grass--it was so much softer than she'd imagined!--he climbed down and landed beside her.

Philip took her hand in his. "Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded, too full of joy to speak.

"We'd best be on our way, then."

With her face toward the sunrise and her hand wrapped in his, Rapunzel strode forward and left the tower behind.

#the bookshelf progresses #fairy tale retellings #rapunzel #a flash fiction image that came to me and demanded i write it #even with so little description you'd be astonished at how long this took to write #even the easy ones are never as easy as i hope #i could edit this more but also i just need to throw it out there because i don't want to spend more time on it

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