This isn’t a fairy tale. There are no princes or princesses.
They don’t fall in love at first sight, She doesn’t catch his eye and he doesn’t catch hers.
She’s short and slight and dark-haired. He’s tall and muscular and light-haired. He’s loud all the time, she isn’t. He uses swords, she uses knives. He’s loyal as fuck, she really isn’t. They’re both assassins, she suits it more.
They don’t start to pay attention to each other until later, until he sees her fight off several armed men with a dislocated wrist, until she sees him cut through an army for his boss’s honour.
They don’t talk until he watches her remove a bullet from her shoulder, until she glares at him with bloodshot eyes and tangled hair, and swears like a sailor. They don’t talk until she watches him polish one of his many swords, until he looks at her with a smug smirk and a glint in his eye, and he challenges her to a fight.
They don’t become friends until he finds himself pinned beneath her, with her arm against his throat and his sword arm incapacitated. They don’t become friends until she smirks at him, challenge clear in her eyes as she offers him a hand up.
The first time they kiss, there’s adrenaline pumping through their veins and the slight taste of iron in their mouths. They look at each other, a silent conversation going on between them, and do it again.
He can see the faint freckles that dot her cheeks this close and she can see the faint scars that cross his face.
This isn’t a fairy tale. There are no princes or princesses. There are, however, a pair of assassins, and that’s good enough.
cheshireinunderland 