Work Text:
The Fallen Princess and the Fallen Star
AO3 Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Non-Con, Suicide Attempt
Category: F/F
Fandom: Original Work
Relationship: Veva/Estelle
Characters: Veva, Estelle, Darrus (mentioned), Chris
The first time Veva tastes blood, it is not her own.
Veva had been the paragon of celestial perfection for as long as the Celestial Realm could remember. Her chestnut-brown waves were always woven with starflower vines that curled into the soft pink tint at her ends, a rare, whimsical flaw her mother had once tried to bleach away before the court declared it “charming.” She wore gowns of blush silk, stitched with threads of gold that caught the sunlight and turned her halo’s glow into a rose-hued haze; her shoes were always scuffed at the toes from sneaking barefoot in the sacred gardens, but she polished them until they shone before any royal audience. She rose at dawn every day to tend to the realm’s crystal lilies, her fingers gentle enough to coax blooms from stone; she spent afternoons tutoring the realm’s orphaned angels, her voice soft as dandelion fluff when correcting their wobbly wing-flight forms; she dined with her parents every evening, her posture straight as a spire, her answers to their questions never straying from obedience. She was the princess who never frowned, never argued, never complained—even when the weight of the crown she was born to wear felt like it was crushing her spine, even when the courtiers whispered about her like she was a doll, not a girl. Her father called her his “shining jewel”; her mother called her “the pride of our line.” No one ever asked what Veva wanted.
Until the day her father announced her betrothal to Prince Darrus of the Shadowed Isles.
Darrus was tall, with ink-black hair and eyes the color of storm clouds, and he treated Veva like a fragile trinket from the moment they met. He’d brush his fingers against her cheek and call her “my sweet angel,” his touch cold as marble. He’d bring her bouquets of black roses that reeked of rot, and she’d smile and thank him, even when the scent made her gag. For months, she endured his clumsy attempts at affection—his too-tight hugs, his kisses that tasted like iron, his habit of tracing the pink tint in her hair like it was a mark to claim. Her father’s voice echoed in her head: This union will seal our peace. Her mother’s ring still burned on her cheek, a crimson welt left the night she’d dared to say I do not love him. The pressure built inside her like a storm, a swirling, screaming thing that clawed at her ribs every time Darrus touched her. She’d lie awake at night, her pink silk gown tangled around her legs, staring at the ceiling and wondering if she’d ever be allowed to be herself again.
The breaking point came on a moonless night, in the marble chamber where they’d been forced to live together. Darrus had cornered her by the fireplace, his breath reeking of wine, and grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise. “You will be a good wife,” he’d snarled, his fingers digging into her skin. “You will bear me heirs. You will obey.”
Something inside Veva snapped.
She reached for the gilded staff propped against the mantel—her birthright, a weapon disguised as a scepter—and swung it before she could think. It hit him square in the throat, a wet, crunching sound that made her ears ring. Darrus’s eyes went wide, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Blood bubbled up from his lips, spilling over his chin and onto her pink gown, turning the silk a dark, sticky red. Veva didn’t stop. She drove the staff deeper, twisting it until she felt bone crack. When he stumbled backward, gasping, she yanked the staff downward in a ragged, furious arc—carving a line from his throat to his stomach, the blade at the staff’s end tearing through flesh and muscle like butter.
Organs spilled out of him then, glistening and purple and wet, sliding across the silk sheets like crushed grapes. His blood soaked into her gown, into her hair, into the cracks of the marble floor. Veva stood over him, her chest heaving, her hands still wrapped around the staff. Darrus’s eyes were locked onto hers—wide, terrified, accusing—even as his breath hitched and stopped. Even as his body went limp. Even as the light faded from his storm-cloud eyes, he stared at her, like he was branding her with his gaze.
For a long time, Veva didn’t move. She just stood there, covered in his blood, staring back at him. The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackle of the fireplace and the drip of blood from the staff onto the floor. Then she screamed. It was a raw, guttural sound, a scream that tore her throat raw and roused the royal guards from their posts down the hall. She dropped the staff and ran, her pink gown flapping behind her, her wings burning as she tore through the veil between worlds. She didn’t stop until her feet hit the cold concrete of an Earth alleyway, her gown stained beyond repair, her halo cracked and dimmed to a faint glow that no human eye could see. She was a fallen princess, adrift in a world of neon lights and honking cars, and she did not know how to survive.
Estelle’s dark purple hair was the first thing the fans had fallen in love with. It cascaded down her back in loose waves, the color of crushed violets, and paired with her sharp, glittering eyes, it made her look like a fairy tale villain come to life. As the visual and lead singer of LUMINANCE, the biggest pop group in the country, she’d turned that image into gold—smiling for the cameras, waving at the crowds, her purple locks catching the stage lights like magic. Behind closed doors, though, she was a monster. She’d laugh at her groupmates for their chipped nail polish and off-key ad-libs, sneering that they “didn’t deserve” the spotlight. She’d brag about her solo lines and luxury brand deals, about the way the CEO called her his “favorite.” Arrogance curled in her chest like a cat, warm and lazy—until the day a staff member uploaded a video of her mocking the youngest member to every social media platform.
The hate came like a tidal wave. Death threats flooded her DMs. Fans burned her merchandise, her face crossed out with marker. The group dropped her faster than a hot coal. The company erased her name from their website, her purple hair airbrushed out of every group photo.
Before the world turned on her, Estelle had woven a secret with Chris—a fellow idol from a rival group, with a smile that could melt camera lenses and a voice that made fans scream his name until their throats were raw. The fans had shipped them relentlessly, stitching together their accidental stage glances and shared award show smiles into a fairy tale they begged to be real. Estelle had let herself believe it too, tucking her feelings for him into the quiet spaces between tour rehearsals and late-night convenience store runs, where they’d split a rice ball and pretend the company’s no-dating rule didn’t exist. They never kissed, never held hands in public, never said the words out loud—but the what if hung between them like a promise. Then the video went viral. Chris blocked her on his idol account first—no warning, no message, just a cold, empty space where his profile used to be. His personal account followed a week later, after the tabloids started calling her a “toxic diva” and his fans flooded her comments with threats to ruin her life. Estelle’s chest ached so badly she could barely breathe, like someone had carved out a piece of her and left the wound to fester.
Estelle’s first suicide attempt came a week later. She’d spent three days curled up in the silk sheets of her penthouse bed, staring at the ceiling, ignoring the stack of unopened fan mail that had turned to hate mail, the phone that had stopped ringing. She’d washed her dark purple hair until the color ran faint, scrubbed her skin raw in the shower until she couldn’t feel the ache of her broken ribs from a stage fall, the sting of a fan’s slap at a meet-and-greet. On the fourth night, she’d stumbled into the bathroom, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold the bottle of sleeping pills. She’d dumped the entire contents into her palm—small, white, bitter-tasting—and swallowed them dry, choking on the dust of them, tears burning her eyes as she slid down the tile wall to the floor. The room spun, her vision blurring into a haze of white tile and chrome fixtures, her lungs burning like she’d inhaled smoke. She thought of Chris’s smile, of the way he’d laughed at her terrible jokes, of the empty space where his profile used to be, and she wondered if anyone would even notice she was gone. Her neighbor found her an hour later, when the sound of her gasping for air seeped through the thin walls and prompted a 911 call. She woke up to the beep of a hospital monitor and Chris’s face hovering above hers, his eyes red-rimmed like he’d been crying, his cologne—the same sandalwood scent she’d loved—lingering in the sterile air. But he didn’t stay. He didn’t say I’m sorry or I still care. He just stood up, brushed a strand of her limp purple hair from her face, and walked out the door—afraid, she later realized, that being seen with her would taint his perfect image. Estelle was grateful, somehow. Grateful he’d saved her. Grateful that maybe, deep down, he still loved her. Grateful enough to ignore the way her heart shattered all over again when he left. She checked herself out that same day, signing the discharge papers with a hand that still shook, and moved into a tiny studio apartment on the wrong side of town, her bank account drained by legal fees and the cost of the penthouse she’d abandoned. She started cutting herself then, the blade’s sting a sharp relief from the numbness that had settled in her bones. She’d sit on her bathroom floor, her purple hair falling in her face, and drag the knife across her wrists and thighs—slow, deliberate cuts that made the blood flow, that made her feel alive instead of like a ghost of the girl she used to be.
Chris was using drugs by then—pale, chalky pills that made the world spin and the pressure of fame feel like a distant hum. He’d started small, a pill here and there to get through back-to-back shows and 18-hour practice sessions, but it had spiraled fast, until he was swallowing handfuls just to make it through the day, just to quiet the voices in his head that screamed he wasn’t good enough. The night he overdosed, he’d stumbled out of a seedy club, his vision blurry, his hands shaking so badly he could barely stand, and wandered into the alley behind Estelle’s studio apartment. The rain soaked through his hoodie, cold and sharp, but he didn’t feel it—didn’t feel anything, not the concrete scraping his knees, not the rain hitting his face, not the way his heart hammered in his chest. His mind was a blank, static-filled void; the drugs had turned the world into a fuzzy, meaningless blur, and he moved on instinct alone, a puppet with no strings.
He didn’t recognize her at first—not with her hair matted to her face, her clothes torn, her eyes swollen from crying. She didn’t recognize him either, not with his hood pulled low over his face, his features slack and empty from the drug’s haze, his hands rough and unsteady.
He attacked her before she could scream.
He slammed her against the brick wall, the impact knocking the breath out of her lungs, and grabbed her throat hard enough to make her gasp. Estelle’s blood turned to ice. Terror coiled in her chest so tight it felt like she would split open, a cold, clawing fear that burrowed into her bones and made her limbs go weak. She thought of the fans screaming her name, of the groupmates she’d mocked, of Chris’s smile before he’d turned his back on her—and none of it mattered, not when this stranger’s fingers were digging into her throat, cutting off her air, making her vision darken at the edges. She kicked at his shins, clawed at his arms until her nails broke and blood welled under them, screamed his name until her throat was raw and hoarse, but he didn’t hear her—didn’t hear anything but the roar of the drugs in his veins, the static that filled his head. His touch was like fire and ice at once, burning her skin where his fingers pressed, leaving cold, clammy prints that made her want to vomit. When he forced her body to bend to his will, the pain was searing, a sharp, tearing ache that radiated through her hips and ribs, a pain so bad she wanted to black out, wanted to disappear into the rain and the dark and never come back. She stopped fighting eventually, her arms going limp at her sides, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stared at the sky, at the rain pouring down, at the homeless men huddled in the shadows who didn’t move, who didn’t help. The fear didn’t fade—it just settled, heavy and cold, in her chest, a weight she knew she would carry forever.
When it was over, he left her there: naked, bleeding, trembling on the concrete, as the rain washed the tears from her face and the blood from her skin. A homeless man with a crumpled coat and kind eyes called an ambulance, his voice soft with pity. Estelle spent three days in the hospital, her body a map of bruises, her purple hair tangled and dirty. She didn’t tell the doctors who’d done it. She couldn’t.
Chris woke up the next afternoon with a splitting headache and a gaping hole in his memory. He stumbled home, his clothes stained with mud and something darker, and when the fragments came back—her screams, her tears, the way she’d looked at him like he was a monster—he vomited into his bathroom sink. Panic clawed at his chest. He tracked down the security guard who ran the alley’s CCTV, handed him a wad of cash thick enough to make the man’s eyes widen, and made him delete the footage. He found the homeless men too, slipped them envelopes of money, and told them to keep their mouths shut—for his sake, he said, but also for hers. He couldn’t bear the thought of the world seeing her like that, of the tabloids tearing her apart all over again.
When Chris visited her in the hospital, Estelle didn’t know it was him. She told him about the man in the alley, about the way he’d hurt her, about the shame that made her want to disappear. She told him through tears, her voice breaking, and he held her hand and lied to her face, his heart breaking with every word. I’m so sorry, he said. I’d never let anyone hurt you. He didn’t tell her the truth. He couldn’t.
They moved into his small apartment after she was discharged—a cramped space with peeling wallpaper and a leaky faucet, but it was better than her studio, better than being alone. Estelle thought she’d finally found her safe place. She thought Chris was her salvation, the one good thing left in a world that had turned on her. She dyed her purple hair a darker shade, hoping to hide from the tabloids. She cooked for him, cleaned for him, tried to pretend the empty space in her chest wasn’t still there.
The lie unraveled on a rainy Tuesday night. Chris had left his phone on the kitchen counter, and Estelle picked it up to answer a call. A text message popped up before she could decline: The homeless guys want more cash. They’ve got photos. Pay up or we leak it.
Estelle’s blood ran cold. She read the message again, her hands shaking. She remembered the way Chris flinched when she mentioned the alley. The way his hands shook when he talked about that night. The way he never looked her in the eye when she told him what had happened.
You did it, she said, her voice quiet enough to break.
Chris froze. Estelle—
You raped me, she said.
He tried to explain, his words tumbling over each other: I was high, I didn’t remember, I’m sorry. Estelle didn’t listen. She slapped him—hard, her palm stinging—and ran out the door, her dark purple hair flying behind her, the rain soaking her to the bone.
She stumbled back to her studio apartment, her old one, and locked the door. She drew the curtains tight, blocking out every sliver of streetlight, every reminder of the world outside. The apartment smelled like dust and rain and old regret, and she didn’t care. She turned on the faucet in the tiny, chipped bathtub, letting the cold water fill it to the brim—cold enough to make her skin prickle, cold enough to numb the ache that never went away. She pulled the blade from her nightstand, the same one she’d used a hundred times before, its edge sharp and familiar against her palm. This time, she didn’t hesitate. She dragged it across her arms first, deep, clean cuts that made the blood well up fast, bright and red against her pale skin. Then her thighs, her stomach, anywhere the pain could drown out the memory of the alley, of Chris’s hands, of the fear that clung to her like a shadow. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just stared at the blood swirling in the water, turning it pink, turning it red, until it was too much to see. She climbed into the tub, her clothes still on, her dark purple hair sticking to her neck and shoulders, and lay down, sinking into the cold, bloody water until it covered her chin, until she could barely breathe. The numbness came slowly, creeping up her limbs, dulling the pain of the cuts, dulling the ache in her chest. She closed her eyes, she let the dark take her, let the water fill her lungs, let herself drift away—until the sound of breaking glass jolted her back, until warm, golden light wrapped around her like a blanket.
Veva stumbled into the alley behind Estelle’s building at that exact moment. Her chestnut hair was matted with blood, the pink tint faded to a dull rose, her pink silk gown torn and stained. Her wings were tattered, her staff cracked, her halo flickering like a dying candle. She’d been wandering for hours, lost, scared, alone, when she saw the light through the window—the faint glow of a lamp, casting a shadow on the curtain. She saw the tub. She saw the girl lying in it, her dark purple hair floating in the pink water, her skin pale as snow.
Veva didn’t think. She raised her staff, and the last of her celestial magic surged through her, a warm golden light that wrapped around her like a blanket. She smashed through the window, glass shattering around her, and fell to the floor, her hands shaking as she scrambled to the tub. She pressed her palm to Estelle’s wounds, and the magic flowed from her—golden, warm, alive—sealing the cuts, slowing the bleeding, as Estelle’s eyes fluttered open.
Veva stared at her. Estelle stared back, her dark purple hair sticking to her cheeks, her eyes wide with confusion. Outside, the rain kept falling. Somewhere, a car honked. Somewhere, a clock ticked.
In that tiny, messy bathroom, two broken girls looked at each other—and for the first time in a long time, neither of them felt alone.