Oh, To Be The Lady's - [A Lady Dimitrescu/Female Reader-Insert Story]

Chapter Twenty Six: To Be Marred - SEMI-NSFW

A/N: Hello hello! 💖🥰 I hope you all enjoy this chapter that was requested by the amazing @aavinova and @radioactivepaws on AO3! Thank you so much for all of the kind words and love and as always, please don't hesitate to let me know what you think! I love you! 💙💜💖

**TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of past domestic violence/abuse, scars and emotional manipulation**

__________

Through the mirror, you watch as your own eyes sweep across your figure.

Starting from your toes, you trail your gaze up, swallowing as you get to your middle. You're wearing a new dress. It was flowing and soft, the material had slid on you like water and at first, you adored it. You loved the way it matched your eyes, the way that Alcina's own golden gaze would catch on the sway of your hips as you passed her in the hallway.

"When did you get that, beloved?" She'd asked the first time you wore it, fresh from the box. Her lips were gentle against your neck, smoothing across your pulse point.

"Hmm?" You blink, setting aside your novel to focus your attention on your wife. She's above you, leaned over the side of the couch and you quickly rise, taking a step around the sofa and closer. Your lips pull up in a teasing sort of smirk. "Get what?"

"The dress?" Alcina's brows furrow before she laughs, nipping at your mark. "Silly minx."

"Only for you." You say, the words ending in a low moan as your Lady spins the both of you around, your back now brushing against the library's far wall. "Donna made it for me."

"Oh, really now?"

"Yeah, uh--" One of her warm hands smoothed down the fabric, squeezing at your thigh and you jerk against her. "As a get-well present. Do-Do you like it, M'Lady?"

"Oh, dove--" Alcina practically coos, dragging you closer with an arm across your waist. Her grin is sharp in the firelight, her honey-colored eyes gleaming. "You look absolutely divine, simply beautiful."

Now, however, you feel anything but beautiful.

Your scars are barely visible through the fabric. Deep red lines that go from your ribs, across to your belly button. A few across your shoulder. Some are larger than others, slices made by his hands when he was too drunk to remember how to hold the blade correctly.

When he was stumbling in the darkness, the whites of his eyes glowing, narrowed onto you like an enraged predator.

"Something to remember me by." He'd said the first time you'd threatened to run away. His grin had been blood-stained, reeking with beer and oozing with contempt. "Don't forget how you got to this place, bitch. Don't forget where you could be."

How could you ever forget?

It wasn't a secret that you had no home, no family. No money.

You'd taken the first offer shoved your way, stumbling out of the orphanage during the first few hours of your 18th birthday. Told not to come back, threatened with trespassing. He'd found you then, sitting at a bus stop with only the clothes on your back. Grabbed at your arm -- he was only gentle then, for both the first and the last time -- and offered you a ride home.

"I don't have one." You whispered, shivering. "Never had."

"Come with me, then." He had said, squeezing your shoulder. His blunt nails dug into your skin. "I can take care of you."

You remember the way his eyes had reflected the dim morning light, a sheen of baby blue against black. A new beginning, you thought. Something better, something bright. It wasn't until later that you realized you were looking at it the wrong way, had missed something -- something important.