A/N: I've been reading Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk today, and I got this little gem in my head. It's something different—a ship I wouldn't normally do but I couldn't resist it today. Oh, and to answer a question I forgot to address: I'm going to sift through my short stories and novel snippets and post them. I'll add the link to my profile soon. :)

I do not own Ella Enchanted.


I exploit you, still you love me

I tell you one and one makes three.

Living Colour||Cult of Personality


She is, in a manner of speaking, a goddess.

He doesn't think there could be any other way to describe her. In his deepest despair in the wake of burning letters (fahrenheit 451) his eyes glaze over her signature, the largest flourish of all. It sticks out like a knife in the back of the ogre he killed just the other day. The Ayorthians always advocated for peace, for the elimination of war and violence.

Yet, look where he was now.

They say his name like a sneeze, and he doesn't want their debris.

The heel of his boot stomps out the ashes, and just like that Ella is gone, off to marry her old and dying Duke, to smirk at her jewels and laugh at him.

She was never what he thought she was.

But Hattie came without surprises, a kind of carriage wreck, the kind you stare at and can't seem to feel sorry for. You can't bring yourself to care about the people inside the carriages, instead, you scoff and roll your eyes because predictable, you knew they were going to crash and burn.

No surprises there, just like Hattie.

He wondered if Ella would miss him, if she was even giving him a second thought. He knew, without a doubt, that Hattie was. She was probably up in her bed, right now, touching herself under the covers, begging and writhing about like a little whore just for him.

Char inhaled deeply, ash and flames slipping up his nasal cavity and fuck he wondered how it would feel to touch her. As handsome a prince as he was, he hadn't found the woman to penetrate, to bed wonderfully and sprinkle rose petals upon. Certainly, he gripped himself tight in a fist and pumped pumped pumped until dozens of his future heirs spilled out onto the dirty ground.

He wondered if Hattie would bend down and lick it up.


The ball was not his idea.

He had begged and bargained with his parents, begged for them to just call off the stupid I'll-marry-anyone-in-this-room-ball. But they refused, patting him warmly on the shoulder, and saying that he needed to get over little obsession with the scullery maid from Lady Eleanor's funeral.

Eleanor was her mother.

She would always be Ella.

But she didn't matter anymore, he tried telling himself. She had moved on, and he needed to. The past was the past, and the present could be whatever he wanted it to be. It could be spent basking in the affections of the countless women who threw themselves at his feet, eager for a one-night stand in royalty. Or he could go out and slay ogres, draw monster blood from their swollen bellies.

Or he could spin about on the dancefloor, a pretty lady on his arm.

That was the Kyrrian dream, wasn't it? A woman attached to his hip, crooning I wanna be your dog. They were submissive little dandies, like the boys his father had warned him about.

But that was neither here, nor there, and all Char could think about was losing himself in the one girl he knew would be nothing more than a receptacle for his sexual frustrations.

Brushing tawny curls from his eyes, he strut about the floor, muscular legs encased in the finest satin slacks, his doublet just as form fitting. Who could resist him, really? Just because he made a fool of himself and confessed his affections to that silly tart Ella...well, that didn't mean he couldn't find someone who would appreciate the Prince's love.

It wasn't long before his eyes set on her.

As he expected, she was clad in the finest fabrics, from the finest tailors. Her golden blonde curls were cascading down her shoulders, and he knew exactly what he wanted.

He wanted to pull them, to throw her down and take take take.

"Hello, miss."

He bowed, looking up at her with a smile.

She blushed, curtseying, giving him her finishing school best.

"Your Highness." She smirked at him with all the bad intentions in the world.


She was soft and pliant beneath his fingertips.

A goddess, she was, with sickly pale skin hidden beneath all of those fancy fabrics. She was glorious and sinful, lips tasting of that magic white powder the Ayorthians swore would make you feel like you were flying. Like a dragon. Dragons were majestic creatures, weren't they? With beating wings and black hearts.

It was a wonder he lasted s long as he did.

Bucking hips, her nails digging into his back and leaving scratches—her lips were bruised and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt that she would get on her knees and lick the seed he'd wasted on the ground on those nights alone in a tent in motherAyorthia. She would do absolutely anything for him.

But she didn't love him.

Neither did Ella.

And he didn't even love himself.

How sad.