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hyukascampfire · 5 days ago

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𝓐T 𝓢WA𝓝 𝓛AKE ﹐､﹒ c.bg ˏˋ੭ꠥ ¸ˎ

as both equals and opposites, white swan and black swan, it is paramount that you and choi beomgyu do not touch. the curse of your natures did not even make exception for incidental brushes. that was never an issue for you—not until the day the prince took it upon himself to break every rule you’d ever known. ⋆˛ ˛

⸺ listen to the playlist .ᐟ ‧˚

⸉⋆ ᧔ 🦢᧓ ･ 10.3k

𝒫airings ˒ black swan prince!beomgyu 𝓍 white swan princess!reader

𝒢 ‎⍪ smut ˒ fantasy ˒ forbidden romance

𝒲arnings ˒ smut, angst and longing, unprotected sex, lots of teasing, jealousy…, yearning and yearning, he cums on her, theyre both desperate, pathetically in love!beomgyu, shes all he wants, virgin!reader, loss of innocence, he talks her through it, he gets a little whiny… hmm i can’t remember if i’m missing anything. this is not proofread!! i’m gonna nap first.

✎୭ ashlynn's note @hmusunoo … baby you did your big one with this. i can not explain to you how excited i’ve been for this one. this is absolutely my favorite. it’s just so me, u know me so well and i think we should kiss. THANK U!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

Around you, mist and delicate flurries sit over white, fluffy blankets. Where it sits over the lake, it turns the horizon of the lake’s expanse into an obscured uncertainty. If you hadn’t spent so much time right here, you might think that it goes on forever.

It’s a beautiful, clear winter’s morning. Sparkling air wraps you in sweet and crisp tendrils, every breath to your lungs almost bitingly fresh. But in all its lightness, your chest only feels heavier. You had hoped that coming here would be a little, momentary respite. The air is so free around you, though, the weight doesn’t float away with it—it just leaves nothing but the feeling for you to contend with. No skittish wildlife rustle the foliage, and a thin film holds the crystalline lake from lapping at the bank. It seems that not even the wind moves. Just you.

It’s not your tears that you hide here. Sadness is a soft, gentle thing; an acceptable thing for a Lady like yourself to indulge in. It’s what the people expect of their princess. The demure and always prim White Swan. Always correct, always just how you should be.

Your tears are more like scalding, molten licks of fire than the slow, darling tears that are expected of you, though. They’re angry. It clashes up against the walls you’ve built up within yourself, against the role you’ve assumed.

That’s why you’ve come here. Coarser emotions are unbecoming of you, and it’d be a shame to feel them in front of others. It’s a shame that you’re letting yourself feel it now, even. You summon a thin sigh, funneling up all the tangy bitterness on your tongue to let it fall out into the air before you.

It doesn’t do much for you, really. This—feeling like this, so beyond the reach of your usual ways to shove down ugliness—is unfamiliar. Your entire life has been this, why do you struggle with it now? In the center of you, mingling with that anger, it’s as though a blackness blooms. Like a wretched flowering of some invasive plume, or perhaps the floating of inky black feathers through your bloodstream, you feel painted dark and unpleasant.

Holding the dappled fur of your shawl closer, you decide to watch chunks of crystal white ice float on the water’s surface. Or maybe the on-and-off snowflakes that float down around you. Even tracing the lengths of barren branches, lined with white fluff so still and serene, with your eyes. Anything but delving into what that tainted tug inside is, or what it might mean about you.

Snow crunches, or maybe a branch shifting, beckons your attention. But the foliage isn’t too thick, and trees are sparse around the lake, and there is always some small winged creature fluttering between branches out here. So, you brush it off.

A tingling about your person, some sort of whispering premonition, whisps and tugs just around your person. You straighten up at another thick step crunching in the snow from behind you. This time, you can’t explain it away.

A figure greets you. Dark, raven strands of silken hair fallen over eyes of the same, his skin so stark against it, black shoulder cloak on his shoulder flowing like velvet water against his billowing sleeves all ruffled and enamoring. He glitters like the frost, twinkling silver threads and black crystals sewn in to catch the light and make a show of him. Standing there, looking at you, he doesn’t look caught or frozen.

But you are. Wholly still, all of you like a sculpture of frost, you gawk right at him. You’d never interacted with the prince, the black swan. Never even seen him. It was never in the cards. Fear like ice curls clawed fingers over your heart and grasps it.

All your life, grand warnings of terrible things of him and what might happen should the two of you ever touch fell from the mouths of those around you. It was the constitution of who the two of you are—born to be the balance to each other, never to touch. Just an incidental brushing of fingers meant turning the world’s balance over on its head. They told you that the world would begin to fray at the seams, reality would warp, and that it’d be all your fault. And they also told you plenty about who the prince was as a person, too. Not only do you fear him for the curse of your nature, but also for all the nasty things you’ve heard of him. This, meeting him, was a thing of your deepest-cutting nightmares.

And, there, he stands in front of you.

��What are you doing out here crying?” Beomgyu says, curious eyes darting over your face. Under his gaze, you’re not sure how to feel. But you feel every last bit of it, regardless.

You wipe at your cheek, where he must’ve seen the wet streaks glistening in the light. Summoning some poise up from where you keep it in handy, you say, “It’s no matter. I was just looking out on the snow.” You fix up your hair and your dress.

The prince frowns, studying your face once again. Utterly unconvinced by what he finds there, he gestures toward you. “You’ve been crying, princess,” he says. “I didn’t think that lying was in the cards for you.”

Lying? Not in the cards for you? Lying is all you do. You lie to yourself and to others more than you are honest. “Maybe, but I’m well,” you say, and then you lift the soft skirts of your dress to step without treading it in the snow. “Really, I ought to get home before the snowfall gets heavier. It was lovely seeing you.” You try and make sure to keep a good and proper distance from him as you make for where you arrived here from.

Beomgyu reaches out for you, only pulling back from grabbing your arm at a frighteningly slim realization. “Wait,” he says, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he realizes what he’d almost just done. “You don’t have to leave. Why is it that you cry?”

He’d almost touched you. That close—you’d come that close to tragedy in only the first moments of your meeting. Your heart pumps out sizzling, frantic energy that has you looking at him wide-eyed and shaken. “I think you and I both are the most aware why it’s best that I leave,” you tell him, keeping it curt. You hold your arms to you.

Strong brows knitting, he shakes his head and stakes some big steps back. The snow, sat powdery and calf-high on the ground, creaks beneath them. “I’ll stay back here,” he says. “Just don’t go. Won’t you entertain me? It’s a gentleman’s duty to help a weeping Lady.”

You falter. The words might have you blushing and offering him a modest thank you, but the way he says it—it’s rather taunting. It’s taunting in a way that gets right up under your skin and ruffles your feathers. “And why does it bother you so?” you ask him, arching a dainty brow. You’re not even sure why he’s come out here in the first place. This is the one place that you ordain your own. It seems that not even here can you be totally alone. “They’ll have a fit if they know I was here with you.”

The prince, with his clear, ethereal features cracking into a wicked amusement that you’re not sure how to digest, says, “Perhaps they will.” He tilts his head at you, wispy strands of hair moving over his shadowed eyes with it. “But, princess, that’s the fun in it. That they will admonish you for it. Is that why you’re crying?”

Fun? Nothing about what your people, your parents, might do should they find that you’d not only been near but spoken to the black swan, is fun. You level him wary eyes. And, though sense tugs at your feet and asks you to get going, you do not. You do not know why.

“I think it is.” He’s got an obnoxious tilt to his lips. “I think that’s why you cry.”

A scoff, an abrasive and distasteful sound coming from you, falls out from your mouth. There’s that awful imprudence and temerity that you’ve heard of the black swan—everything you ought not to be. “You seem the type to know everything,” you say.

He laughs, delighted. “Is that snark?”

Pursing your lips as though confused, you spin spiced threads of patronization into your voice. “Not snark,” you say. “Just an observation.”

“Hmm.” Beomgyu slides his hands into his pockets to warm his hands. “Might I make an observation about you, princess?”

There’s interest written all over his face—you know he’s playing some sort of game. You also know that you shouldn’t indulge him in it. Still, you do. A slight raising of your brow, or maybe the interest twinkling in your eyes, too, tells him to go on.

“I think that you are too dutiful for your own good,” he says.

In a slight, testy step, he inches closer. Not so close that you worry, but the two of you are not even supposed to be in the same room. Anything is too close. You mirror it with a step back. “You don’t know me,” you say. Against your better judgement, though, your lips twitch into a soft smile. The kind of smile that is insistent, no matter how you refuse it. “So, I believe your wonderings to be entirely groundless.”

Hair blowing gently in the wisps of a winter wind and his nose and cheeks gone pink, he says, “Oh, princess. Hardly. I think we know a great deal about each other.”

Well, that’s true enough. All your life you heard of him and your curse. You’re sure it was no different for him, no matter your differences. “And what do you know about me?” you ask.

Beomgyu’s laugh falls out in a white puff of curling frost. “I know it’s been arranged that you’ll marry a superior Lord,” he says. He observes you. “Am I right?”

So fast, just with that, lightness falls from your face. You hadn’t wanted to be reminded. Your feet itch to be off, so that you can feel it elsewhere. Not here; not in front of him. Leveling yourself so that your voice doesn’t come out as stilted as you feel, you say, “Yeah. You are.”

With his eyes narrowing on you, he says, “You know, it’s weird. I’ve never seen a girl excited to be wedded look like that when it’s brought up.”

You reign in your face and shake your head. “I am perfectly excited. It’s a blessing to be married into such a family.” As much as you smooth over the furrowing of your brows, or make your expression pleasant, it’s not so easy to tame the picking of your fingers.

Anything other than excited, you might be. But absolutely not that. In fact, you are beyond yourself with anger, and you have nowhere to go with it. It bubbles hot just under your skin and demands a release that you cannot give.

Being who you are, it’s been a truth you’ve known your whole life. Someday, you were going to be offered like a shiny, silver pawn to the highest bidder. And you, as the world’s white swan, are quite the enticing thing to own. You thought you’d banished the hope for a union of love right where you’d left the sense of self behind: years ago. The time’s come now, but you aren’t as at peace with it as you should be. No matter how hard you try, you are more human than you’d like to be, and far too human to be what the world expects you to be.

If you’re going to be frank with yourself: you do not want to marry him. Living as something bought, expected to live forever as this mellowed out, poised version of yourself by the side of some man who you don’t even know or love... Of any fate you might be made to live, you think that this one is the worst.

Beomgyu begins working on taking off his jacket, a white and pretty thing with thick, winter fabric. He offers it to you. “You don’t have to lie to me about it. Maybe them, but not me.”

You look between him and his offering hand—his perfect features that are so elegant, and yet, there’s a wildness to him in those hard black eyes. If you didn’t already know so much about him, you might still be able to see the untamed in him. Who couldn’t? He wears it plainly; without remorse. You’re not sure how to interact with it, but, in a way, you envy him.

Reaching out, you accept the jacket from his hand. Tentatively, with great care so as to avoid touch, but you do.

It’s nice and soft against your frost-kissed shoulders. But it’s not enough to fix the bite against the skin on your face, so you trudge through the snow over to the sparse tree line, where the trunks might protect you better from it than the flat expanse of the lake’s surface. You press your back to a tree, and he mirrors it on the tree opposite to you. Looking over the great lake, so very serene. It twinkles with an ice film like sugar crystals atop its surface. “I guess I’m just... scared,” you say. The words come out soft and uncertain.

He nods. Listening. So, you continue. “I don’t even know him. I haven’t spoken to my betrothed once. Maybe I’ll get to know him, and maybe he won’t be bad, but...”

“But he’s not who you want,” Beomgyu says. “Not who you love.”

Licking your winter-chapped lips, you eye him for a moment. You nod slowly and say, “...Yeah. I suppose it’s selfish, but...”

Ignited, Beomgyu pushes off the tree to say, “Selfish? You give your whole life to being their saint. Maybe they think they do, but they don’t own you.”

You, not us. Frowning, you ask him, “Are you not set for some marriage of convenience?” Marrying is different as a woman, but you don’t doubt that the prince’s family intends to strengthen alliances by offering his marriage up to some optimistic, lesser family with a daughter to bargain the way yours has done with you. Every last girl and boy born as you two have been—destined to a life bigger than yourself, a force in the world as much as you are a person—have lived just the same. All of them. Each incarnation of the white swan, and you’re sure every black swan too. The people of this world paint you as embodiments of balance and life, but use you more like power plays. Even your own parents. You were born from your mother all the same as all your siblings, but as much as it aches to admit it, you are not their child. In the back of your throat, hurt and bare anger wells up thick.

He half laughs, half scoffs. “They could try. It doesn’t matter to me. They’d have to kill me before I do their bidding. Is it our fault that we were born this?” he says. “I’m going to live my life how I want, no matter what.”

You tuck your hands into your sides, where they warm between the jacket and your body heat. His words and how he looks at your lives, it’s everything you’re not. Sense of self and determination to live for more than just your predetermined role—while you’d surrendered it all, he lives thrashing and fighting against it. A product of your mirrored and opposite natures.

“Why?” you say, teeth chattering a bit under the cold’s caress. “You have a girl in mind?”

That sounds nice. Being so hopefully devoted to someone, and them to you, that you might war against destiny for it. The thought only nurses hurt somewhere deep in your chest, though. Not for you. Never for you. You could be the prettiest on this Earth, the kindest, the most disciplined, or the least even. Still, that would never be yours. You know that, so why does it taste so bitter?

A quick look, something new, passes over him. In his eyes, you see it. He looks at you for a long minute, the morning so quiet that nothing but tranquility hangs in the air for a moment, and then finally says, “Yeah. Something like that.”

Entirely intrigued, you ask, “Who? Is she a Lady?”

Beomgyu nods his head, that strange look lingering. “Of sorts,” he answers, crossing his arms over his chest to lean back into the bark. “And your betrothed? Some well-off Lord?”

A smile ghosts over your mouth. “Probably. I haven’t a clue who it is; but I’m sure he’s got enough coin to spare, if my parents settled on him.”

The lines of his face gone playful, he says, “Not possibly more well-off than me.”

Your nose crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you say. A husband with money is nice. You can’t pretend that you don’t think of that, especially that none of your family’s wealth belongs to you, nor will it follow you into your marriage. Your heart revolts regardless.

Shrugging after a few beats of silent considering, he turns his attention on the lake. His face turned like that, you admire the straight slope of his nose and his eyelashes as they flutter with his heavy eyes. Like the rest of him, his side profile is a contradiction. Strong and noble, but elegant like hewn from marble. It’s perfect. With all the talk in your ears, you’d pictured something far off from the youthful, wry man stood before you. Why you’d come to imagine him brutish, you’re not sure; he’s as much swan as you. Different and mirrored all the same.

“I used to come here all the time,” he says.

“Here? To the lake?” You perk up. This had been your hideaway as a girl; where you’d come at times like this when you needed to bury something away. You thought it’d been just yours. “I wonder how we never ran into each other. I used to do the same. I guess, I still do.”

When his eyes fall back on you, they’re softer. More deep brown than black, but maybe it’s because you’re closer now. He says, “Well, I came here once or twice on my own, maybe when I was five. I didn’t really start coming back until I saw you. You were crying, all snotty, and throwing bread out for some ducks.”

Your face twists up, maybe at the memory or maybe with confusion. It seems like if he’d really come here so often, and had even seen you here, you’d have noticed. “You must have thought I was weird,” you say, the words coming out around a shiver.

“Maybe,” he says through a wry smile that’s cracked over his lips. “But mostly, I just wished I could talk to you.”

He’d watched you, because he couldn’t approach you? You were under the impression that the prince had never cared for the rules, not even one so paramount as that. But, it seems that his brashness came to him later. He stands in front of you now, doesn’t he? Maybe it was just that innocent trust that, as children, you levy out to those arounds you. Especially toward adults; and all of those had preached over moments like this. You imagine a young, curious Beomgyu, hiding himself away between bushes, itching to approach or play with you. But he never did; you hadn’t the slightest clue he’d even been there until now. Could you two have been friends, if not for the curse?

“You never came out,” you say. “Or introduced yourself?” It’s all you can really think.

His mouth twitches. “Would you have stayed?”

No. Then, you don’t think you would’ve. Even now, you’re stricken with the innate fear of touching him, no matter how surprised you are at how different he is. Different from what they said he’d be. You think you would’ve darted, should you have known who he was. For some reason, that makes your heart ache. A dark ebbing wave of ache that you are unfamiliar with.

A slight knowing smile danced over his features, eyes gone to sweet crescents that turn them, usually so dark, into something rounded. Not so abrasive. He tilts his head off to one side and says, “You’re freezing. How long have you been out here?”

Cheeks long been numb, you answer, “An hour. Maybe and a half?”

“I’ll walk you home.”

You grimace. Arriving with him by your side, the man you quite literally were not supposed to even speak with, is the very last thing you should do. An awful idea. “I wouldn’t bother you. It’s probably not the best idea to show up after disappearing, with a man by my side. Especially not as a to-be-married woman,” you say. “But, thank you. Really.”

He knows what you really mean, though. A muscle in his jaw feathers. “Alright,” he says. “I suppose we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

As he begins to turn, making for wherever he’d come here from, you call out to him. “Hey, wait. Your jacket.” You pull it off your shoulders and joust it out at him. Against your skin which it had warmed, the air is bitterly cold.

“Keep it, princess,” he says, giving you a parting nod. “Get home warm.”

❆

Today, you are to give your hand to a man that you do not know.

In the air, the rich nuttiness of fire-toasted chestnuts dance and mingle with the roar of chatter. Hundreds of familiar and unfamiliar faces line long tables with runners decorated by platters of plump, sugar-dusted plums and fruit pies. They’ve all come in their winter’s best—whites and reds and luxurious furs lining thick, velvety fabrics or embroidered with sparkling threads and studded with crystals that twinkle in the low firelight. It’s warm and lovely and all just for you.

But, you don’t feel any of that. All you feel is a heavy belly. Each smile you tug over your mouth feels like dead weight. You’re familiar with this—putting on the act. Smiling in faces that you know will turn around and have something else to say about you, pretending like you don’t know that it’s all false sweetness. You’d been trained in noble propriety since you could walk and talk.

But, considering that they’ve all come here to shower you with gifts and lovely words for a marriage in which they could really not care about beyond how they make it a profit, it’s all a bit more sour.

You’ve met your promised. The man you’re supposed to wed and spend the entirety of your life beside. You spoke with him for... what, two minutes? Two very awkward, very awful minutes. What should you have to say to each other? You’re meeting for the first time today. At your engagement feast. It’s a real conscious effort to not take your lip into your mouth and gnaw, or to not fuss over your hair, or honestly anything that might show these people that you are anything but pleased.

So, you relent to their gaudy pleasantries. You listen to them tell you that it’s such a blessing to be married to a man of high society—and a wealthy one, too. They tell you that they knew your marriage would bring a great dowry; that all the white swans have. That they were watching and expecting it. All you hear is the dripping of greed; all you see is hungry eyes and fingers crossed behind backs.

You relent to it until your stomach is sick and wrought with it. And then, the older lady ahead of you singing praises of your beauty, of how she wishes her daughter might catch the eye of a husband as advantageous as yours, does something out of the ordinary. Her eyes drift behind you, her snooty, pinched features twisting up into something new. You follow her gaze.

Dark and beautiful and his eyes trained right on you, the black swan prince stands beside you. He’s lazed, a heavy cup of some thick, spiced and wintery drink in one hand, as he does. In the clear light of morning, he’d looked so out of place. But here, soft and hard planes of his face illustrated by the flickering orange firelight, he looks so right.

You blink. And then blink again. Never once had Beomgyu made any sort of appearance at any hosted thing by your family. You just stand in place for a moment, registering his presence.

“You look lovely, princess,” he says. His eyes fall up and down you. The way he says it—it’s liquid smooth, but it’s taunting in a way. “The perfect image of a bride-to-be.”

He can’t be here. He can’t be here at all. When you look to the side, the woman is already gone. You have no doubt in your mind that she’s whispering in somebody’s ear right now.

“Prince,” you say, gritting your teeth while also dipping into an elegant curtsy.

“Do you feel that way?” He raises his eyebrows at you, his gaze heavy with underlying tension. “A perfect bride? Happy?”

Making the conscious decision to not look around you, because you can already feel the burning interest of the eyes that you’ll find on you, you say, “I do. Isn’t this quite the feast?”

“I told you that you don’t have to lie to me, princess.”

You shouldn’t even be standing here talking to him. They’re all watching. Stepping back to cut conversation with something witty, you stop in the onslaught of a chorus of surrounding gasps.

Beomgyu had reached out to grab you, and only stopped himself short the same way he had the first time you met him. A muscle twitches in his jaw as he brings his hand down, curling the fingers as if to wash away the urge to reach out.

He’s closer now, too. His breath smells sickly sweet with the liqueur he drinks. A sarcastic grin over his lips, he says, “Did he pay for all this?”

You do a dance of give and take. You step back, and he meets it with a step toward you, all the way until you find yourselves in a quieter corner. “He did sponsor the feast, yes.”

“Well, isn’t that just great,” he says, voice carrying over the many layered sounds of the gathering. “And that makes you happy? You feel fulfilled by that? Is that the purpose of the lovely white swan?”

You’re not sure what he’s getting at, or why your marriage is any of his business. For some reason, though, despite those rational thoughts, some faraway memory whispers that it makes every bit of sense. “He is a lovely man.”

Barking a laugh, Beomgyu says, “Don’t make me laugh. You don’t believe that, no matter how many times you tell it to yourself.”

You curl your fingers into the obnoxious, glittering material of your dress. “Seriously, what makes you so sure?” you say. “What makes you so sure you know? This is good for me. This is the way things are supposed to go. Not everybody in this world can get away with serving only themselves and doing whatever they want. Maybe it works for you, but not for the rest of us. I’m glad your life is fun, though. Really.”

His face doesn’t sharpen into offence, though you brace for him to. You’ve never spoken to anybody like that. Ever. Shaking his head, raven locks glowing warm around the edges, he says, “Because I know. I know. Are you listening to me? You don’t have to lie to me.”

Balking at him, you don’t know how to answer. That was nowhere near the answer you were expecting from the prince, known and notorious for his chaos and fire.

“I am listening,” you say, keeping your voice measured. Thick emotion slips through the seams. “Honesty has never done me any good. This is going to happen; all honesty is going to do is hurt me. So, I’m sorry.”

His mouth opens to fire something back, but you don’t hear it. Somebody digs their fingers into your upper arm, dragging you without a word away from your conversation. You stumble, letting them take you without a fuss. This was to be expected. You shouldn’t look back. If today was already going to be the last day you ever see him, it certainly is now that you’ve been caught not only in touching distance to him, but making conversation with him.

Tossing a self-betraying glace over your shoulder, you find his figure. Hand in pocket and his lips turned down, he watches you go.

You wish you wouldn’t have. You have no explanation for the emptiness it casts into your chest.

❆

Recently, you’ve been crying so much. You might believe that it’s because you’ve been letting yourself feel freely, but you don’t feel free.

Your palms are soaked against your cheeks, face fallen into them as you shudder with it. Their words pin and scrape in your head, forcing you to contend with them before bouncing off the walls and you hear them again and again until your stomach has gone sick. Your parents had given you an earful. That’s been your whole life; you can handle that. The moment you saw him there, intending to speak to you, you’d prepared for it. Instead, it was their contempt and sneering faces that bleed your heart like this.

In this life, you are alone. Totally, wholly alone. Who you are—your role in life—is not the blessing they claim it to be. Is it selfish to ask to be understood? For somebody to just understand, without your pleading or begging?

Maybe. It feels that way, anyway.

“Why is it that I always find you crying?”

His voice freezes you to where you sit sprawled on your floor. Spinning to him, you say, “What are you doing?”

Beomgyu shrugs, as though he hasn’t snuck his way into your room. “I felt bad for getting you dragged off. Wanted to come see how you’re doing.”

Maybe his insisting on being around you should be annoying, but right now… You think you appreciate the company, even from the forbidden likes of him. “You can’t be here,” you hiss. “How did you get in? They’ll… if they find you here…”

His boots squeak against the polished flooring as he approaches you, and then settles down on the floor with you. The fire flickering behind him, his back to it, casts an orange light around the edges of his figure. He looks terribly inviting, like this: strewn on the floor, no holier or better than you, his face not sickly sweet nor cold and devoid of love, and his eyes curious to know how you feel.

“I don’t care what they’ll do to me. I want to see you.” He tugs his jacket off, letting it fall on the dirty floor. Improper for a prince, but Beomgyu doesn’t care. That’s who he’s always been—that’s the one thing that was entirely true out of all the things you heard about him. “Who the hell cares about their approval? We don’t need it.”

You know what he means by they and we. Only a few days ago, you’d still believed that Beomgyu was other; that he was your total opposite, and that you should fear his darkness for all your lightness. All it’s taken is being around him the once or twice that you’ve been able to for you to realize the falsity that drips from that. When you’re around him, your soul, feathery and wispy in your chest and your veins and all the rest of you that constitutes you beyond what is physical, tugs. It’s impossible to ignore—it consumes you. Where your soul longs for him around the edges, like torn and searching for what’s been lost, you feel stuff that is beyond yourself.

Rather than your opposite, you think that Beomgyu is your other half. You think that they’ve gotten it all wrong.

“How do you do it?” you say, back up against a white, whorling table leg. “How do you not care? I don’t understand.”

Inky eyes shining, he says, “I did. When I was young, I believed everything they told me. It’s hard not to, when it’s all you hear. Them, telling us that our purpose is to surrender ourselves to be something Saint-like. But when you catch one lie, you begin to catch the others, too. I saw their excuses and reasonings peel. Princess, it’s all lies. Everything you know is lies.” He says it with such conviction. Each and every word reaches down into that part of yourself that is missing something. “We’re not their Saints. That’s never been our purpose. I hate that shit; I hate that they’ve made you think that this is all you’re for. Marrying him? Never doing anything, because you’re scared of what it’ll mean for you? It’s not fucking fair.” He pushes himself closer to you. Now, your criss crossed knees are so close that a stray move might mean the world’s end. This time, you don’t panic. There’s no room for that among the swarm of your other thoughts. “So, of course I don’t give a shit about what they tell me to do. I’m going to live this life the way that it’s supposed to be. I wish that you could join me.”

“This life?” you blurt. It’s the one thought that appears clear to you, so it’s what comes out. Frowning, you add, “What lies?”

Deadpanned and as though he’s not delivering something that changes the world’s fabric around you, Beomgyu says, “There is no curse. There’s never been a curse.”

Your room is silent for a few moments, and then you shake your head and laugh. “How would you know that?” you say, nose wrinkling. If you don’t laugh, you’ll begin to actually consider the possibility of that. Just the very surface of the notion makes you nauseous. You couldn’t handle exploring the thought deeper.

Beomgyu doesn’t laugh along with you. “The curse is a lie, and everything that comes with it. All of it is just excuses or justification for the hate for the other people. The whole reason that they ever decided on it was because of their hate. Maybe to the people alive now, it’s not a lie. But that’s what it started as.” His face, dark and soft as he reads your face, twists up. “Of course, we can touch. We are two halves of a whole. There is you in me, and I in you. Do you not feel it? The tug? That’s it. The black swan and the white swan were never meant to be apart and opposite. We are meant to be together. We’re meant to be the only ones that understand each other. It’s us against the world, princess.”

Your ears ring with the pierce of each word cascading out from his mouth. “Beomgyu, I don’t understand. That doesn’t… Make sense. How?” He can’t just make claims about that. Not something like this. It’s not fair.

“I know it’s hard to believe, princess. It’s all you’re ever made to believe. But you have to trust me. Do you trust me?”

Tongue darting out to wet your lips and your fingers stilling where you fuss at the fabric of your chemise, you take a good look at him. Roaming over his features, the contradiction in them and the strange familiarity that constitutes him no matter the fact that you’ve only just met, you consider it. Everything he says is absurd, and it does go against everything you’ve ever known. You should turn your nose up at him for even suggesting it; should suspect that he only has some sort of plan to coax you into bringing the world’s end.

But, you do. You trust him beyond explanation, as though intrinsically.

You nod slowly, holding his eyes in yours. “But I don’t understand,” you say. “How do you know?”

He smiles ruefully. “I saw something—had a dream when I was young. I saw us, in every last lifetime. We have lived again and again, as we are, in so many different ways. But the one thing that was always there was that they couldn’t keep us away from each other.”

The world does a few spins around you. Lightheaded, you try to stay up under the oppressive gravity of that. You want to stick your head in the ground and shake your head and yell no, but that deep tugging that has plagued you beginning the moment you’d met him, and all the emptiness before it, tells you yes.

How poetic is that? How tragic? You, two souls born to be one, made to live apart at the interests of the world around you. Made to do it across every lifetime, and yet, in each you meet. In each, the twinkling thread of fate prevails nevertheless.

“Do they all love?”

That soft smile still playing on his lips, his cheek to his knee as he looks at you with the veneration of somebody who might’ve loved you in a thousand lifetimes before, and perhaps in this one, too. “No. Some of us were secret lovers, but so many of those lived how you do for the entirety of their life. Halved,” he says. “And never did any of them touch.”

Heart fluttering with wings in your chest, you say, “So, how do you know that the curse is a lie? If it’s never been done before?”

“Let me show you,” he says. “That I can touch you.”

All the blood in your body pulls back. You trust him; you do. But is trust enough to risk a touch that could be the end of the world? Is trust enough to be so selfish to do so?

Seeing you blanch, Beomgyu’s eyes go glassy. “Please,” he says, voice breaking as if to touch you might mean more than just proving something to you. As if the weight of everything he’s ever wanted rests on the back of it working—that if this works, and the world does not fall apart around you, then he can love you how he does, and how he had so many times before. Inevitably. “I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Beomgyu,” you say, looking between his eyes and the twitch of his hand as it itches to touch you. “I don’t… I’m scared.” Your voice drops to nothing more than a whisper.

“It’s okay,” he says, bringing that longing hand up. Your heart jumps when he raises up by your face. “You can be selfish this once. I want to see you do something because you want to, not because it’s what you think others might want.”

Your throat burns and tightens. Every last sparkling bit of your being longs to lean into his touch—to do what you two have wanted to do so many times before, and finally bring your souls back together. “What if it happens?” you ask, your eyes soft and true like an animal turning its soft underbelly to receive affection.

“Then let it,” he says. “At least we would have touched. Just this once.”

Gritting your teeth and swallowing hard, your belly does itself up into knots. You don’t answer him, but your quiet speaks enough. His hand hovers beside your face with the weight of the world in it.

The first touch of the white swan and the black swan happens in a gentle cupping of your cheek. And, the world does fall down around you. The walls melt, air leaves, and the seams of everything that’s even been good or true are ripped out and sewn with something new and beautiful. It’s as explosive and cosmic as you imagined it, but it is not terrifying. It’s lovely.

Your breaths shudder, your lungs trembling as you look into his eyes and realize what this means.

“Fuck,” is all Beomgyu breathes. It looks as though that it’s all he can manage. His touch grows more solid as the both of you realize that the both of you are still very much here, and so is the world. Thumb pad grazing over the softness of your cheek, his throat bobs with a swallow. You think that if you were to press your hand over your chest, you might feel it thudding there to the same thunderous rhythm that yours beats to.

So, you do. Because you can touch him. His heart sings beneath your palm, even through fabric and flesh. You can’t help the wobbling of your lip and the hot tears that spill out past your eyes and roll down your cheeks.

The second touching is the bringing together of your lips. His mouth is soft and hard against yours, contradictory as the rest of him. He brings his other hand up to hold your face into his kiss. It’s not sweet and slow—it’s as ground-rumbling as the kiss between intertwined souls coming together after an eternity of being away. Each nip and lick and clash of teeth are like the claps of thunder of the storm that will end the world, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to card his fingers through the hair at the back of your head like the claws of a beast sent to ensure its end.

And, maybe Beomgyu is the beast that has come to end the world. You wonder how he’d waited so long to bring the truth to you, or if he was torn about ever telling you. What changed things, after so many years of him watching you from afar? Your engagement? Perhaps that’s what that drink in his hand had been: a thing to forget with.

It hadn’t worked. As he kisses you for all the lifetimes in which you couldn’t, you know that he couldn’t have accepted that and moved on. Of all the black swans that have lived and passed, Beomgyu must be the most stubborn and strong-willed. That’s why, out of every single life, this is the first that you touch. He would take the world on, or play with the existence of it, for this. Just for you. All for you—you’d found somebody who will do something just for you. Curling your fingers into the front of his tunic just over his chest, you pour the fire of that revelation into your kiss.

He roams his hands all over you, mapping your shape. You kiss and kiss, lips tugging and twisting against each other, and still it isn’t enough. Bracing a splayed palm over your lower back, he does not stop kissing you even as he lays you back onto the ground. The flooring is cold against your burning body. He supports his weight on one hand beside your head and straddles your hips to do nothing but run his fingers through your hair and just kiss you.

Only when your lungs are too hungry to ignore does he free your mouth. His soft black hair dangles over his starry eyes as he looks down at you with them. Lips swollen and smeared with you, his chest heaves. Bringing his free hand up, he wipes your wet cheek.

“Oh my god,” you say, breathless. “Beomgyu.”

Pressing his forehead to yours, he laughs. “I like when you call me that. I think I want to make you scream it—scream it until they come breaking down your doors and see that we are each other's. Until your fiancé hears it.”

Body bursting at the seams at the prospect, you nod frantically and dip your face into his neck to dust starry kisses there, too. He shudders. “I want it so bad. Can you please?”

“Of course I can. I’m going to make love to you, okay?” He pushes off you, crawling back so that he’s sat squatted just before your knees as you pin them together. “Open your legs, princess. Show me how pretty you are—I’ve waited so long for it.” He pats on the outer side of your knee.

Thrill spiraling up from between your thighs like sparks, you oblige slowly. You let your legs fall open for him, and choke on your own heart as he begins to slowly work your dress up the expanse of your legs, and then your thighs, baring to him the plush and unseen skin there. He eats it up wildly, his eyes gone ravenous and even blacker.

“I’ve never done this before,” you say, voice trill and unsure. “I don’t know what to do.”

A wicked grin cracks over his features. “I know, princess.” The fabric bunches at your thighs, now. You tremble with the stifling anticipation. “I’m going to take care of you. It’s going to feel so good—I’m gonna make you feel so good. I have so many things I want to do to you. Lifetimes of things I want to make you feel.”

Doe-eyed and laying your trust in his hands, your thighs twitch and you nod. He reveals your cunt at last, finally catching the glistening sight of it for the very first time. And, he does not disappoint. The look that washes over his face—the twitching of his lips, the tightening of his jaw in a flickering muscle, and the fire razing your cunt in his eyes—is something so dreamlike, but lucid nonetheless.

“You just lay down and let me help you. Treat you how a princess should be treated.” He works on his pants, silver belt clinking and then loosening, and then he’s just as exposed as you when his length pops free. It’s hard already, tall and pretty like the rest of him, but pink and obscene at the tip. He leaks from the little slit at the top. “Look at you. You look like you want to taste it,” he says, laughing while collecting the liquid to pump himself a few times. “Next time, baby. I’d love to see the proper mouth of the world’s princess choking on my cock.”

The air is cold against the mess between your legs. It sends a chill up your spine—or maybe that was the crudeness of his words. You suppose you should’ve expected nothing less from him. When he goes to climb back over you and line himself up with you, your thighs twitch and try to snap shut.

He pins your hip to the floor. “Don’t be shy, baby. I wanna see that pretty pussy. It’s not fair to hide it from me.”

“Sorry,” you say, cheeks burning.

Taking that hand and sliding it up behind the back of one of your knees, pressing that thigh up to your torso, he laughs a teasing laugh down at you. “Don’t say sorry,” he says. He holds his length adjacent to your slit and then begins to slip up and down the length of it. “Just let me fuck you. I need it so bad.” He hisses in tandem with you. The drags of his length, harder than how you thought a cock might feel, is like undiluted liquor. “I can’t believe this… shit, princess. I’m about to fuck you. I thought I was going to have to sit here and watch you by his side.”

You take your lip into your teeth when he pushes in. It stretches. You bring your hand up to cup the back of his neck and the other to dig into his tunic, mewling softly.

“It’s okay, princess. Hold on to me, you can take it, right? You cunt was built for me. Everything about you was made for me. Your heart, your pretty hands for me to hold, your sex, all of it. Do you feel how I fit right into you? How I was made to?”

You do. When he finally is balls-deep, his cock nestles exactly where it should. Not an inch too deep or an inch too scarce. The two of you were sculpted by something holy, fit just for each other. “Yes,” you breathe.

He can’t even linger sitting still in you. He begins pulling himself out, all the way until the tip of him threatens to pop out lewdly, before shoving back in right up against that spot. He doesn’t even have to search for it. Head falling into your chest, he licks and bites. “The taste of you,” he says. Then, he presses his tall nose right over that spot in your neck where your heart’s gone wild. “The smell of you.” Wincing, he lays into you with more vigor, hips slapping against your skin. “The feel of you. You drive me up the fucking walls. How was I ever supposed to live without this?” he says. “I refuse.”

Your belly begins to tighten in a way that you’ve never known. Tears prick the corner of your ears, clinging to him as he fucks you into the floor like he’ll never have to opportunity to have you like this again. The wood cradles your back and the back of your hips, receiving each of his thrusts. You curl your toes and will back the lewd cries that threaten to spill over with each.

His voice is taut and wobbly. “Feels good, huh? I know. It feels… so good.” Dropping your thigh to cup your face, he says, “Cry. Cry for me. I said I wanted you to scream.”

Face burning and squirming against the hardwood behind you, you shake your head. “I can’t, gyu…”

“Yes you can,” he says, face twitching. “I want you to start letting it out, or I’m gonna stop. Do you want me to stop?”

Covering your face, with the back of a forearm, you grit your teeth through each punctual and yet sloppy grind up into you. Your bodies sweat and meld, and you’re sure that anybody walking by your quarters would know just by the hollow smacks of skin and grunts that you’re fucking a man. You, an engaged woman, are letting the prince turn your brain inside out.

But, there is nothing you want less than for him to stop. So, you let your mouth drop open and allow the sweet mewls to come with each rut.

“There we go. Louder.” He braces himself, digging his feet into the floor, and then he really starts driving into you. Sparks fly in your belly—each yellow and glowing and scalding. “Do I need to fuck you harder? C’mon, louder, princess.”

Thighs squeezing his hips so tight that they ache, you squirm. You struggle against your sounds—turning from sweet moans and mewls, you groan and gasp and your voice breaks. Each collision of your bodies breaks your sounds.

Curling your fingers into his silken hair, you grit out, “H—hoooh fuck, Beomgyu, Beomgyu, I feel… like…”

Bangs sticky and his eyes growing wilder, he knows something you don’t. The knowing, taunting grin on his mouth says enough. “Let it happen. Don’t fight it. Just stay—stay right there, and I’ll give it to you. No running from it; it’s gonna feel so good.” His muscles go taut, and he doubles down on his efforts, panting through his nose and his neck sheened. He drops his head into your chest. “Fuck. Fuckkkk, I love you so much, princess. Thank you—thank you, so much.”

You don’t know why he’s thanking you. You don’t have the cognitive function to worry about that. Your mind has gone to two things: the growls and whines that rumble and tear from his chest, and the frightening tightness that only goes more dangerous. Your chest tightens—it feels as though, if he feeds that hungry beast gnawing deep down in your belly with any more of what he’s doing now, it will snap and take you down in its wake. Warbled cries crawling up your throat, you arch your back up into his chest to try and dig your hips into the floor, away from the bliss and the power of it.

“No,” he says, cursing. “No—don’t run from it. Don’t… Baby, please take what I’m giving you. It’s gonna be alright.”

Pushing back on the dark throes of the tide as it creeps up over your shoulders and sends shocks through your body, the hair on the back of your neck rising with the effort, you choke. Beomgyu takes a hand down the seam of your bodies and rolls your aching clit. They’re succinct and intentional—pressure right on the sensitive underside, sending your belly rippling as he pairs it with a few more sharp, more meaningful thrusts.

You see white. It’s white and hot. You are the sun, beaming and writhing like stardust. You curve off the floor once more, raking nails down the lengths of his back. Are you even making sound? You don’t know; you can’t hear it past the ringing piercing sharp in your ears. You shake beneath him, cunt gripping him frantically with flutters of your walls.

He grunts, voice strained and shaking as he begins to follow his own release. “Holy shit—look at you. You’re so f-filthy. So pretty, cumming on me.”

You bare each brush of his cock against your still twisting walls, trembling as he fucks you through your orgasm. Your thighs jump and your toes curl, and it’s all too much, but not enough. He needs to come tumbling over the edge right along with you—if he comes with you, it doesn’t seem so hard. You chant his name, smooth voice gone hoarse.

Stilling inside you, he whines, “Shi—it.” A war wages behind his eyes for a long second before he slips his cock from you with a wet, squelching pop, strings of your release breaking as he lays his cock on your belly. His stomach goes tight, and with one last slide of his length, slick with your mess and staining your belly, his cock jumps. He shoots all over your skin, pretty glistening spurts like ribbons a milky white.

He sits back on his haunches, slowly rubbing himself off to give you some more and come down. Your room is quiet now, aside from your heaving chests and the buzz of something new in the air. Letting his head fall back, wet strands of spiky black hair dangle around his neck, a bead of sweat catching light as it rolls down it.

“Feel okay?” he says, looking down on you with softened eyes. He pulls cloth from his pocket, unfolding the fine fabric, and he wipes himself off your belly.

“I’m okay,” you tell him, leaning into the palm he cups your cheek with. “I’m okay.”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “The world didn’t explode, did it?” he says.

You share a stolen laugh with him, feeling every last honey wave receding from the spot between your thighs. The world hadn’t ended, and yet, in every way, it had. Savoring the abated rises and falls of his chest and the content sagging of his shoulders, your belly tightens anew.

What happens now, when everything else has been a lie? When you don’t believe that you can survive that lie for any longer?

❆

So many hands work on you. One of your ladies in waiting laces you up in the back, and another works on your hair even while you stand, and one bounces a wintry, snow-kissed rouge over the plush of your cheeks.

Yesterday, your world changed. And today, you’re expected to go on living in it.

When Beomgyu slipped out from your room last night after hours of holding each other under the covers, indulging in your ability to touch, you let your heart crack in two. You shouldn’t have. Why had you let yourself think that it was going to end up anything other than like this? You, getting prettied up to be sent away with your expecting husband, and the dreams you’d let build up to the clouds in the prince’s arms all shattered on the floor at your feet.

What else can you do? Loving Beomgyu freely is out of the question. Your parents would laugh right in your face, or maybe lock you away and make even more sure that you never get to see him again.

You try to burn the image of his eyes into your memory. Black, big and round and cunning all the while. You commit the broadness of his shoulders, and the pretty straight line of his nose in profile, and the pink plushness of his lips, and the little freckles you’d discovered yesterday, and the sound of his voice in your ear, and the feel of his touch on your skin, too.

“We’ll leave you until it’s time to come collect you,” a Lady says, bowing at the waist to you as the others finish up, tying the fastening of your dress up quick and sprinkling their final touches over you before following her out.

Your room goes utterly quiet. More quiet than it’s ever felt.

Dragging your limbs over to your bed, you let yourself fall onto it despite all the care they’d taken to get your skirts right. Resting your cheek to your palm, you let your eyes fall closed as you memorize the feel of your own bed, too.

When you flutter them open, there’s something peeking out from the pillow across from you. You furrow your brows and reach for it.

The paper is folded up with haste, torn from the edge of somewhere else and scribbled on with a quick hand. How long has that been there, without you noticing? Pushing yourself up from the bed, careful to at least maintain the smoothness of your hair, you unfold it.

ℳ𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝓉 𝒮𝑤𝑎𝑛 ℒ𝑎𝑘𝑒.

Your soul comes back to life and seeps through your bloodstream. Sitting there for a few moments, idle at the largeness of what you’re about to do, you loose a breath.

And then, you curl your hand around it, shove yourself up in a flurry of white, crystalline skirts, and you go.

The curious faces of the palace hands you pass do not stop you, nor does the morning’s bite as you find your way outside, nor does the almost-slip over ice, and absolutely nothing else stops you as you run. Is he still going to be there when you make it?

God, please let him be there. Don’t let this be almost.

Fists full of the abrasive fabric of your skirts and darting by barren bushes and trees, you do not stop until you clear the little tree line and the lake stands vast and frosty ahead of you.

When Beomgyu spots you, and you spot his figure against the background of the lake crisp in the morning, the sweet cooing of the birds and the rest of the bustle falls away. None of it compares.

“You came,” he says, dragging his feet through the snow until he’s right in front of you, his features elegant once more in the clear morning haze. “I didn’t think you would.”

You reach up to dust away snowflakes resting on his hair. It’s an excuse to touch him—that’s all you find yourself wanting to do, now. Brows pinching, you say, “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just… was scared.”

“No, no, I came,” you say, feeling now the bare expanse of your arms. You run your hands up and down them. Heart in atrophy all the while feeling full just being here with him, you add, “Why did you want to meet here?”

The world is serene for a few long moments as he just looks at you, his gaze searching. “Don’t marry him. Don’t leave with him.”

You know where he’s going with this already. Letting your dress fall from your hands, the one they’d fashioned you in to do exactly that, you say, “And do what?”

“Be with me. Marry me. Be my wife,” he says, the lines of his face solemn. “Let’s elope and find a corner of the world that’s just ours, so that we will never have to hear another word from them again. Let’s just… be together. Finally.”

Chest swelling with something so hopeful that it’s painful, reality comes with its pin point and pop it. “Is that really what you want? You’ll take me, even though I’m promised to somebody else?”

His lip curls as though the thought were detestable. “What the fuck is a dowry to this? To the approval of the fates? The world could try snuff that fact out with whatever they’ll try, and a man could offer your parents a dowry of all its money, and still, you’d be mine. No matter what, our souls belong to each other.” His hand is frozen against your cheek. He’s been out here waiting for you for so long. “I’d take you, promised to another man. I’d take you no matter how you are; in a thousand different lives, I’d have you each time.”

That’s all you need to hear: that you are cherished for more than just your nature, but for yourself. That he loves you unendingly and undyingly, and all you have to do is leave by his side. You’ve already left it all behind—thrown any attachment to the wind, because truly, what is that to this? You don’t know where you’ll go, and you think Beomgyu hasn’t a clue either. But you’ll find that somewhere together.

Together, your half sings. His answers with a thrilling beat.

“This time,” he says, eyes blazing with conviction. You know he feels the tug, too. “We got it right.”

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mini-kids-clothing-shop · 6 days ago

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saberlight1 · 1 year ago

Text

— oaths & songbirds, coriolanus snow

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

warnings: slight tbosas spoilers, mentions of violence and ptsd, trauma, slight toxic and possessive snow, Y/N usage, standard hunger games warnings.

authors note: hiii!! i’m glad you all enjoyed part 1 to this story, it is linked here, and part 3 is here. i loved the ballad and coriolanus & lucy gray’s chemistry and relationship was so beautifully displayed, i had to write about it. also, the song Y/N sings is linked here, the girl singing is how i imagine her to sound. anyways, i hope you enjoy!

masterlist

The bright blue sky had faded into orange and pink, you and the Covey all now scattered around the land. Maude and Lucy Gray sat on the dock, feet in the water as they sang random melodies they came up with, Issac sitting behind them drumming along with a beat.

That left you and Coryo, who were laid together on a blanket under a tree, in each other’s arms. You laid in his lap, his arms wrapped around you, a warm feeling in the both of you chest’s. You softly sang a song to him— one you had recently came up with.

In the time of the harvest, the leaves fallin’ down.

I held what my true love could reap from the ground.

But the bounty of a garden can all rot away,

Without love and protection and a hard will to stay.

I’ll never have a garden again.

Where I fall to my knees and work with the land.

Now I’m just prayin’ with two dirty hands.

I’ll never, no, never have a garden again.

You finished the song with a breath, your hands going to nervously fidget.

“Your singing is beautiful.” Coryo whispered. “Did you write that?”

“Yeah, I did.” You softly smiled. “It’s not done, but I came up with it the other night.” You looked up, hearing the mockingjay’s repeat the melody you had sang.

Coryo followed your gaze. “I’ve never seen those type of birds before.”

“Mockingjays, as we call ‘em, or as Lucy Gray does.” You explained, smiling at the thought of your beloved cousin.

“Well, I like it so far. Your songs are always beautiful.” He smiled, leaning down to kiss your nose.

You giggled, your hand going up to grab him to connect your lips. You exchanged a passionate kiss, the boy always kissing you like you were his air. He slowly broke apart, leaving small pecks on your lips before he pulled you closer.

“I wish it could be like this all the time,” You sighed.

“Me too, baby.” He brushed some hair out of your eyes, studying you for a moment. “It could be… if you came to the Capitol—”

“No, Coryo.” You cut him off with a wave of your hand. “I mean out here. In nature, away from it all. I don’t want to go back to the Capitol ever again. I don’t belong there.”

He deflated, shaking his head. “Y/N, you know I have to go back eventually..”

A breath of air left your lips, his words leaving you frowning. “I know,” your eyes casted downwards, away from his.

He bent down slightly, leaving a kiss on your lips. “I’m not gone yet, my songbird. I’m still here,”

His actions brought a small smile to your face, as your hands came up to grip his lovingly. “I.. I’m sorry I make things difficult. I’m torn, Coryo. I don’t want to be without you, but I refuse to live that life in the Capitol.”

“You don’t make things difficult, my love. I understand. You were brought up out here, it‘s your home.” He muttered, staring into your eyes with a loving gaze. “I will figure it out— We will. Don’t worry, baby.” He left another kiss on your lips, this one longer and washing all of your worries away. When you pulled back for air, the boy turned to dig in his bag, turning back to you with an orange shawl in his hand.

“What’s this?” You asked, sitting up and turning to him.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, passing it to you. “It was my mother’s, and I’d like for you to have it.”

“Oh, Coryo,” You smiled, clutching it. “Thank you, really.” You brought up to your nose, inhaling deeply. “Mm, still smells like roses.”

He smiled down at you with adoration.

“I’ll take good care of it, I promise. Thank you, sweetheart.” You said, your accent showing. “You must miss your family so much out here.”

“I do.” He answered. “I worry about them all the time.”

“…Would you really go back, though?” You met his eye again. “If you could,”

“I have to, it’s where I belong. Like how you belong out here.”

You nodded, breaking your eye contact. “Yeah, I get it. I’m sorry.” Your gaze turned back to the water in front of you.

“Hey..” He scooted closer to you.

You shook your head. “What if this was our life, Coriolanus?” You asked, and his attention was immediately on you with the use of his actual name. “Out here, waking up whenever. Catching our own food, living out by the lake— I mean, would you still feel the need for the Capitol even then?” You further went on, urging him to listen to you.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Lucy Gray called with a giggle, causing the pair of you to break apart. “C’mere! CeCe and Issac caught dinner!” She waved, as Issac held up some fish they had caught.

You sighed, shaking your head once again at Coryo before you stood up to join them, Coriolanus on your tail.

As the night went on, the previous worries were now in the back of your mind as you sang a song with Lucy Gray, a smile on your face.

However, as Coriolanus watched you, the same worries were front and present in his mind. In fact, he couldn’t think of anything else. He knew somehow, someway he had to convince you to come with him. He couldn’t leave you behind, not again.

He didn’t know if you’d still be here when he got back.

‘What if this was our life, Coriolanus? Would you still feel the need for the Capitol, even then?’ Your past words ringing in his ears as his smile dropped. If he didn’t lure you in soon, you’d fly away with the mockingjays into the wind, never to be his again.

He couldn’t have that.

#coriolanus fanfiction #tbosas #coryo snow #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x reader #coryo x reader #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow fluff #the covey #corio snow #coriolanus angst #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #lucy gray baird #y/n #coriolanus x you #coryolanus snow

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veronicaphoenix · 1 month ago

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zutto — chapter twelve | wc: 3k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Noah finds an old family album in Grandma's living room. Noah and Lia explore a nearby village that leads to a guarded sanctuary.

Reading time: 12mins aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings: established relationship, very slight angst, mostly fluff and happiness, no trigger warnings, just lia and noah being the cutest couple ever. (This chapter is mainly a filler, but do let me know if there's sth that definitely needs to be added here).

‼️ THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING OF MY OTHER FIC THE UNMAKING OF A WARRIOR ‼️

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

Noah stirred awake with his face nestled in the tousled cascade of Lia’s hair, which lay strewn across their pillows. Still foggy with sleep, he brushed her hair back, freeing himself from the comfortable knot of her arms and legs. Lia’s face, serene in slumber, bore the same gentle innocence she’d had since childhood—soft features and a hint of a smile that made her look so small, almost fragile.

As he shifted to leave, she murmured something in her sleep, and all he caught was the word “cold”. He reached for one of the fluffy blankets Emi had handed him the day before and tucked it around her and over the duvet, leaving only her eyes, nose, and a tuft of hair peeking out. He knelt on the futon and leaned down, pressing a light kiss to her forehead, and was rewarded with the sight of her nestling deeper into the blankets, her contented smile widening slightly. The sight made him chuckle.

A few minutes later, Noah found himself downstairs in the dimly lit living room, where the quiet of early morning was still present. The world outside was barely touched by dawn, and there was a chill lingering in the house. Deciding that coffee could wait, he sank into the couch, raking a hand through his hair as he reflected on the events of the previous night. He and Lia had stayed up late, mulling over his grandmother’s words, everything she’d said and shared with them, all she’d known for years—the connection he and Lia shared and had been skirting around for so long. This morning, waking up beside her, limbs tangled, he couldn’t help but regret the many sunrises they’d missed together.

Sighing, Noah let his gaze drift across the room until it landed on an old chest of drawers, cluttered with various albums and keepsakes. Curiosity getting the better of him as he crouched down and slid open one drawer. He pulled out a couple of albums, their corners worn with time and use. As he lifted them, a gentle voice broke the silence.

“Good morning, dear.”

Startled, Noah nearly lost his balance, clutching the albums as he turned to see Hana standing by the doorway. She was wrapped in a beige shawl, her hand clasping it at her chest as though savoring the warmth.

“Morning,” Noah replied, regaining his composure and standing to his full height.

“You’re up early,” she observed, stepping into the room with her gentle, knowing smile.

“Yeah, my sleeping schedule is still a bit all over the place.”

“Lia?”

“Still asleep.”

Hana’s eyes dropped to the albums in his hands.

“Have you looked at those yet?” she asked, gesturing for him to sit beside her on the couch.

Noah shook his head no.

She took one of the albums from his hands, opening it on her lap. The first photo that met their eyes was a candid of Noah as a toddler, his cheeks chubby and his eyes wide. He didn’t recall ever having that hair, but now he hoped he’d never find himself with that haircut again.

As they turned the pages, Noah glimpsed snapshots of his childhood—him at home, for Christmas, for his birthday, scenes from parks, zoos, even a shrine his grandparents had taken him to in Los Angeles. Then, there was one of his mother, Eve, cradling him as a baby. Hana traced her fingers over Eve’s face, her daughter. Her expression immediately softened with a hint of sadness.

“Your grandfather took this just a few months after you were born,” she murmured. “There aren’t many more of her, I’m afraid.”

Noah stared at the picture in silence, feeling a quiet pang of loss. But he simply shook his head, flipping to the next page.

“It’s okay,” he said, as though reassuring himself.

Then a photo of six-year-old Lia appeared, her small hands clutching a bouquet of flowers picked fresh from Hana’s garden, her bright smile and eyes full of wonder and joy. That day, she’d insisted on helping Hana with the gardening, and Noah’s grandfather had decided to document the occasion. Noah remembered his own enthusiasm, persuading his grandfather to let him try out the film camera, capturing that exact photo of her he was looking at right now. Lia looked so cute, offering the bouquet to him with so much excitement and innocence. Noah made a mental note to have a copy made of the picture to keep it in his wallet.

They continued flipping through memories, watching him grow from a boy to a teenager. The photos became scarcer as they reached his teenage years due to digital storage slowly replacing printed albums. Near the end, something slipped from one of the plastic sleeves, fluttering to the floor. Noah picked up the yellowed paper, examining it. It was a drawing of a family: Two adults and two children standing side by side, flowers drawn in colorful scribbles around the figure of the mother. Noah thought the drawing was pathetic, for the supposed adults looked more like children (only taller), and the choice of colors was quite horrible. He imagined what Lia would say if she saw it; she’d probably be horrified.

Hana, peeking over his shoulder, said, “You did that.”

“I did?” He asked, raising his eyebrows.

Hana nodded with a hum of confirmation.

Noah studied the drawing for a moment before a smile tugged at his lips.

“Let me guess. It’s me and Lia, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” she confirmed, her eyes twinkling. “You drew a little family. You, Lia, and two kids.”

He held the drawing, a pang of nostalgia hitting him as he thought about what it might have meant back then, even if he hadn’t understood it. Lia had always meant home, even from the beginning. He glanced at Hana.

“Is this related to some folklore story, too?” He asked, giving the paper a little shake.

“I’m afraid not,” she replied with amusement.

Noah hummed thoughtfully, a soft chuckle escaping him.

“I guess I’ve always been a little obsessed with her, haven’t I? Surprised she didn’t run away from me by now.”

Hana chuckled, patting his shoulder. “Oh, she’s always enjoyed your attention. Still does.”

Noah looked down at the drawing once more, then carefully slipped it back into the album.

“Well, I don’t think we’re ready for this yet,” he said lightly, though the thought of a future with Lia brought a warmth to his chest.

“There’s a time for everything,” Hana countered, her hand resting on his shoulder with quiet reassurance. “I’ll go prepare some coffee and get breakfast ready.” She stood up with a stretch.

She adjusted her shawl as faint footsteps creaked above them, drifting down the staircase like a quiet echo. Pausing, Hana raised an eyebrow and smirked.

“Looks like Miss Flowers heard the word coffee,” she teased, her eyes crinkling with joy.

“She’s probably been dreaming about your tamagoyaki.”

“Well then, I’d better get started with the cooking.”

She turned to head for the kitchen, but Noah’s voice stopped her.

“Hey, Grandma?”

“Yes, darling?” She looked back at him, sensing something thoughtful lingering in his voice.

“I was thinking of taking you and Lia out for lunch today. Is that nice restaurant still open? The one owned by that fisherman downtown, by the river?”

“You mean the one by the harbor? Oh, yes! Kaito still runs it with his family. Wonderful man, that one. He’s been there as long as I can remember, serving the freshest catch you’ll find for miles.”

“Perfect. I figured it might be nice… Spare you and Emi from doing the cooking and spoiling us. We’re going to be here for two weeks so…”

“So?” Hana raised an eyebrow, daring him to continue. “Noah, you’re my Grandchild—and so is Lia. I’ve been waiting to have you back so that I could spoil you day and night. Taking us out for lunch sounds wonderful, but having you here, seeing you and Lia so happy… that’s all I need. No need to be so decorous, all right?”

As he nodded, Lia appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing her eyes with a sleepy smile. She was wearing one of Noah’s hoodies and leggings, her hair messy and still carrying that softness from sleep.

“Did someone say coffee and tamagoyaki?”

After lunch at the chosen restaurant by the river’s harbor, the three of them strolled through town. The cobblestone streets bustled with life: shopkeepers arranging their displays, locals chatting by the open-air markets, and the occasional cat winding lazily through the clusters of legs. Noah and Lia lingered here and there, pointing out shop signs and admiring the architecture, their joy and excitement filling the quiet spaces between Hana’s stories about the town.

But after a while, Hana slowed her pace, her steps growing more deliberate. She paused at the corner of a small park, resting her hand on a wrought-iron fence.

“I think my legs are ready for a good sit,” she admitted with a warm smile. “But you two go on—explore a bit.”

Noah stepped closer, concern flickering across his face.

“Maybe we should head back together. Don’t want to tire you out.”

Hana waved a hand dismissively.

“Nonsense. Just walk me home, and you two can go off on your adventure. I’m perfectly fine, dear.” She adjusted her shawl and motioned to the familiar path leading back to the house.

They fell into step beside her, walking in silence until they reached the front gate.

Before heading inside, Hana turned to them.

“If you’re up for a nice walk, you should head over to the neighboring village. There’s a path that winds through a small forest—lovely at this time of day.” She pointed toward a narrow road leading away from the town’s main street. “If you don’t mind the hour’s walk, it’s a cozy place I think you��ll enjoy. And just outside the village, up in the hills, there’s an old sanctuary. It’s guarded, so you won’t be able to go in, but the approach is breathtaking and it’s full of deer roaming around. Lia will enjoy the variety plants and flowers growing here and there. You’ll see the torii arches leading up to it, painted bright vermillion. They stand like quiet guardians on the hillside.”

Lia’s eyes sparkled at the mention of the animals and flowers. She exchanged an excited glance with Noah.

“That sounds beautiful. Let’s go!”

With Hana safely settled at home, they retraced their steps down to the town square, setting off on the road she had pointed out. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, the light over the fields and forested hillsides warm and comforting. As they walked, the noises of the town faded behind them, replaced by the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of cicadas.

Noah and Lia set off down the winding path toward said neighboring village. After ten minutes of chatter, Noah plucked a small flower from the roadside and held it up in front of Lia.

“Alright, Miss Flowers. Let’s make this hour-walk count,” he said, walking backward with a mock-serious expression. “Identify this specimen, and tell me something interesting about it.”

Lia’s eyes sparkled with the thrill of the challenge, her smile growing big.

She barely glanced at the flower before answering, “That’s Hepatica asiatica, commonly called Japanese anemone. It’s known for thriving in early spring, but has a kind of magic because it also flowers in autumn. It symbolizes endurance.”

Noah pursed his lips, pouting slightly as he assessed her answer with approving nods. Then, he placed the flower in her hair and continued the game, snatching up every wildflower he found, confident he could stump her with at least one.

He spotted a cluster of yellow flowers by the edge of the path, their delicate petals stretching toward the sunlight. He plucked one and held it up for Lia to see just like he’d done with all the previous one that now adorned Lia’s hair, making her look like a woodland spirit.

“I bet you don’t know this one. Yellow, cute, uh… squishy-looking. What’s it called?”

Lia glanced at it, raising an amused eyebrow.

“That’s Ranunculus japonicus, the Japanese buttercup. They usually bloom in spring and early summer. They’re actually mildly toxic, but they represent charm and attraction in Japanese flower language.”

Noah’s jaw dropped in exaggerated astonishment.

“Toxic and charming? Sounds like a dude from a dark romance novel,” he commented, letting the flower slip from his fingers. He wasn’t about to place a posinous flower in Lia’s hair. “How on earth do you know all of this?”

She laughed, catching up to him and brushing his shoulder.

“I read a lot about flowers.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s see if I can stump you,” he muttered. Walking backward again, he eyed the path until he spotted a patch of dainty white blossoms, their clusters hanging delicately on thin stems. He picked one. “Okay, smarty-pants. Bet you can’t name this one.”

Lia was enjoying this too much. She licked her lips before answering.

“Galium odoratum, also known as sweet woodruff. They used to use it for tea and perfumes. And it’s supposed to bring good luck.”

Noah threw his head back in defeat, groaning loudly.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me! Good luck, she says,” he mumbled, sticking it in her hair. “Alright, now I’m officially impressed… but also determined.”

“Bring it on."

He narrowed his eyes, scanning the path and its surroundings as they walked. He spotted a stem of tiny purple blossoms swaying in the breeze. Plucking one, he raised it high with a triumphant flourish.

“Ha! This one. There’s no way you’ll know it,” he declared, lifting it dramatically like he’d found a rare gem.

Lia giggled, trying not to laugh too hard at his enthusiasm. She squinted at the flower and smirked.

“Veronica persica, or Persian speedwell. Common around here, and often seen as a sign of spring. They’re one of the first flowers to bloom in the year. They symbolize loyalty and friendship.”

Noah gaped, flopping his hand over his heart in mock despair.

“Are you kidding me, Lia? Persian speedwell? Is that even a real flower?”

She only laughed, nodding.

“Completely real, I promise.”

He sighed dramatically, defeated, as he placed the speedwell beside the other flowers in her hair.

“How are you this smart? Who just casually knows Persian speedwell?”

Lia shrugged, feigning innocence. “A dedicated flower nerd, apparently.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Noah groaned, though he couldn’t hide his smile as he adjusted her floral crown. “It’s like your brain is a flower encyclopedia. You could’ve made something up, and I’d have been none the wiser. I’m almost afraid to try again.”

By the time they arrived at the village, her hair was crowned with flowers of every shade, making her smile as radiant as she looked. They strolled through the village, stopping to explore charming little shops that sold everything from handmade pottery to delicate fans painted with mountain scenes. They bought a few trinkets, small souvenirs of their day, and stopped to sample the village’s street food—sweet roasted chestnuts, steaming dumplings, and crispy fish skewers that Noah insisted on trying despite Lia’s comments on how spicy they looked.

As they continued up the main street, the scent of sakura blossoms in full bloom greeted them. The path led to the entrance of the sanctuary that Hana had mentioned, marked by the striking vermillion torii gates rising from the hillside. They paused in awe at the sight, but just off to the side, beneath the wide branches of a sprawling sakura tree, stood a weathered memorial stone, its base framed by clusters of fresh wildflowers left by visitors.

Intrigued, Lia leaned in to read the inscription, tracing the carved characters with her finger. “It’s a collection of stories from the people that’s lived in that sanctuary for years and centuries,” she murmured, her voice quiet with reverence. “Hear this one,” she mentioned, calling to Noah by sending a look to him over her shoulder.” It’s about a Samurai who fell in love with a Princess…”

Noah rested his chin on top of her head, listening as she read aloud, her voice weaving the tale of the samurai who had defied his fate to protect the woman he loved. Once a noble warrior, he’d become a ronin, a masterless samurai, after fleeing with the princess in order to save his life and to protect her. They’d come to the sanctuary for refuge, and in return, they had dedicated themselves to it, helping it flourish. Together, they built a life there, raising three children and even adopting a wolf who guarded their family and the sanctuary with fierce loyalty.

When Lia reached the end, a smile played on Noah’s lips.

“Hmm,” he mused, his chin still resting comfortably atop her head. “Sounds like something I’d do for you.”

Lia tilted her head back to look up at him with a glint of amusement. “Protect my life with a katana, slicing down anyone who dares threaten me?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, attempting a noble tone as he puffed out his chest. “Honor above all else.” He tried to imitate a stoic samurai expression but couldn’t help the grin breaking through.

Lia giggled. “I’d love to see that. Would you wear the armor too?”

Noah placed a hand over his heart, feigning deep consideration. “Only the best armor for you, Princess. And when I finally wield my katana, you’ll see—no force could keep me from keeping you safe.”

Melting at his sweetness, Lia took his hand and pulled him back to her as her eyes went back to the memorial stone.

“The names of their three children were Levi, Sakura, and Jasmine. How cute is that? They named their daughters after flowers!”

“That’s something you would definitely do,” Noah remarked.

She held her breath as Noah’s warm breath brushed her face, a sequence of images running through her mind before she quickly dismissed them.

“Do you think they’d let us bring a katana home through airport customs?” She asked, changing the direction of the conversation.

“Oh, of course,” Noah replied, completely straight-faced. “I’m sure it’s considered a cultural souvenir.”

“We’ll have to see about that,” she replied thoughtfully, “but let’s go check the ones on display in that shop we saw on the way up.”

“I’ll follow your lead, ma’am.”

A tiny sneak peak at chapter 13:

Her words trailed off as she entered the bedroom, only to freeze in place. She stood there in her bra and panties, and Noah, instead of holding her sleeping shirt, had something else entirely in his hands: the pair of kitty ears and the choker she’d impulsively bought in Osaka. One in each hand, he lifted them slowly, inspecting them with raised brows.

“What... is this?” he asked, looking up at her, intrigued.

Lia’s shoulders slumped, her cheeks warming with embarrassment. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

— prev. chapter | chapter thirteen 🌶️

Taglist:

@somebodyels3 | @respectfulrebel | @thecoyotescry | @bluestdai | @lma1986

@sweetwombatpizza | @missduffsblog | @shilohrosechicken | @jilliemiw86 | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

@chey-h | @ferduttini | @dominuslunae

#noah sebastian x ofc #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah x lia #the inevitability of love at second sight #noah sebastian fic #bad omens #bad omens fic

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vulpes-fennec · 2 years ago

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Meddle About

Summary: A birchin sounded like a good idea to Elain...that is, until she finds Lucien Vanserra already occupying it in nothing but a towel.

This was inspired after seeing @krem-does-stuff's amazingly HOT art of Lucien (NSFW version here) | Read on AO3

WARNINGS: SMUT

“Achoo!” A loud sneeze tore out of Elain’s lithe body. Being sick had reverted her back to human-level senses, which was absolutely abysmal. At least her particularly violent sneeze cleared her nose a bit. Elain sniffled, wiping her nose with a handkerchief.

Elain had been fine, two days ago, when she and her sisters visited their father’s headstone. Now, she felt like she was at death’s door. She couldn’t smell anything. Her ears felt clogged. She sneezed every other minute, and had curled up into a ball under thick blankets in hopes of feeling warm again.

Gods, she had carried Nyx for a good portion of the outing. Elain was nearly in tears when she informed Feyre and Rhys of her illness, so afraid was she of passing the sickness unto her newborn nephew.

“Don’t you worry, Elain. Nyx will be fine,” Feyre had repeatedly told her. “Fae children are far more resilient than human babies.” After Feyre’s assurances calmed her down, Elain only hoped she would recover in time for Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony next week.

Aside from her sickness, another reason Elain was holed up in her room was because Lucien Vanserra was visiting with new reports. The Winter Solstice had been the last time her mate had visited Velaris. What was Lucien up to outside of emissary duties? Elain could hardly say. If her mate inquired about her, Elain wasn’t aware of it either. Every other day, she half-wondered if Lucien’s prolonged distance was because he knew of what happened between her and Azriel during Solstice.

Not that it mattered. She had barely acknowledged the shadowsinger in the months since, the hurt of being called “a mistake” still raw in her heart. Graysen had offered her his hand, then rejected her. Azriel had given her a beautiful necklace, then rescinded his kiss.

Two rejections in a row.

Men—males—truly sucked. Elain didn’t have much faith in “third time being the charm” with Lucien…no matter how many times her thoughts lingered on the handsome cut of his jaw, the striking slash of his scar, and the brilliance of his long hair over the last few months. She reminded herself that she barely knew Lucien, and he seemed content to keep it that way given how far away he stayed.

Elain shivered more violently, her body racked with chills. At that moment, her eye caught the newly-built birchin in the budding River House garden. The wooden structure beckoned her, promising hot air that would clear her congestion and warm her up in no time.

Chills were her body’s way of fighting fever, but Elain’s muscles and joints were aching so, so painfully. She glanced out the window again. A brief respite from the suffering wouldn’t hurt her, right? Elain clambered out of bed, wrapping a shawl around herself.

Surely Lucien would have left already—it had been two hours. The River House was utterly silent when she opened the bedroom door. She ventured down the hall on tip-toes, avoiding the route that would take her past Rhys and Feyre’s study. Elain exhaled a sigh of relief when she made it to the garden without seeing that tell-tale flash of red hair.

With its quaint size, thick wooden panels, and steam drifting from the small chimney in its thatched roof, the birchin was the most inviting thing she had ever seen. Elain stepped through and she sighed contentedly, the warm embrace of the air already working magic on her chills.

It was dim inside, for the only light came in from small glazed windows on the roof. There wasn’t much she could see in front of her. Elain had never been inside a birchin before, but vaguely recalled Feyre saying nudity was necessary for the optimal experience. So she took off her shoes, placed her wool shawl on the bench, and fumbled with the buttons of her linen dress in the low light.

Elain turned her head around furtively, a casual act that was second nature before taking off her undergarments, and froze. Her sharp gasp came half a second later.

Lucien Vanserra was in the birchin, utterly naked save for a towel draped over his lap.

Elain whirled around fully, her eyes adjusting well enough to take in tousled Lucien’s hair. How could she have missed it earlier? Shoulder length strands hung loose, glowing orange like hot coals. Lucien sat on the stone bench at the opposite wall, his broad shoulders elegantly slanted as he leaned back on one hand. Another noise of surprise slipped out of Elain’s mouth when she glimpsed the sculpted lines of Lucien’s chest on full display.

A corner of Lucien’s full mouth curved upwards slowly, his mismatched eyes shamelessly drinking in what was in front of him.

“Please, don’t stop on my account,” her mate chuckled lowly.

“Y-you!” Elain sputtered, backing up until the backs of her knees hit her bench. Her heart pounded. “How long have you been in here?”

Lucien shrugged irreverently, his foxy smile deepening.

“Only a couple minutes. How kind of you to join me today.” He’d always spoken to her in a reserved tone, but today, his voice had taken on a sarcastic edge. Was this Lucien’s true personality?

“You need to leave.” Elain crossed her arms across her chest. She was still wearing a plain white pair of panties, and a strappy undershirt over her lilac bra, but she might as well be naked. Lucien was actually naked. She felt faint, like she couldn’t quite catch her breath at how much of his alluring brown skin was exposed.

“I don’t recall this being your house,” Lucien raised an eyebrow. His arrogant expression grew more infuriatingly beautiful with each passing second. “Besides, I was here first.”

“I am sick,” Elain shot back, “and I require some time in the birchin to recuperate.”

A brief expression of concern flashed across her mate’s handsome face, before being replaced by a gleaming smile. It was all teeth, no friendliness to be found. It was a struggle to maintain eye contact with the male, especially when his form invited attention elsewhere.

“Well, maybe you need to learn to share,” Lucien retorted, gesturing with his free hand. “There’s plenty of space in here. Make yourself comfortable.”

Elain glared at him with all the heat she could muster in her sickly state. To put her clothes on and walk out would be admitting defeat. She needed the birchin, and would not be made to leave! Besides, part of her was intrigued by the brazen attitude that seemed so far removed from the reserved, polite courtier she knew. So Elain stubbornly sat down.

Lucien’s eyes gleamed with no small satisfaction.

“You are a pervert,” Elain accused, “watching a lady undress from the shadows. You wouldn’t have said anything until I caught you.”

Lucien snorted. “When you walked in, you looked directly at me and began to undress, no? You also should have been able to scent me before you even entered the birchin. All signs pointed to your enthusiasm—”

“Do not put this on me,” Elain snapped. “It is dark in here, and you know it. And must I remind you again that I am sick? My senses are dulled…besides. How vain of you to assume I would know your scent—because I don’t.”

That was a lie. She knew Lucien’s scent like the back of her hand, with the notes of crisp apple and sun-warmed skin that lingered in her memory long after they faded from the jacket he’d given her.

Lucien smirked, “if you’re unfamiliar with it, you could come closer to find out.”

Elain’s heart skipped a beat. No male had ever been so forwardly flirtatious with her before. Perhaps Lucien had fallen ill himself, if he was acting like this.

“I am perfectly fine where I’m at,” she muttered, scooching until her back leaned against the warm panels.

“Suit yourself.” Lucien stretched his arms up slowly, breathing in deeply. Elain’s wide brown eyes followed his every movement, entranced by the fluidity of muscles and brown skin.

Lucien shifted to the side and propped a leg up on the bench, revealing a chiseled calf and length of muscled thigh. Elain held her breath when the towel over his lap moved accordingly.

It was a dangerously small towel. The edge of it had slipped slightly, revealing a thin trail of hair that extended from his navel past the hem. If she had just sat one more foot to the right, she might be able to see…to see—Elain’s blood thundered in her ears. She realized a split second later she was holding her breath in anticipation.

Lucien laughed softly, and Elain tore her eyes up from his lap to meet his mirthful gaze. The roaring in her head only grew louder when she realized he had adjusted his position on purpose. Cauldron boil and fry her.

“Lech.”

“You seem to enjoy it.” Her mate inclined his head, russet and gold eyes glittering with amusement. Elain met his gaze with equal parts challenge and indignation. Unfortunately, it became the perfect opportunity to notice how the scars running down the left side of his face were a shade paler than his brown skin. The raised marks were so brutally beautiful that Elain’s breath hitched slightly.

It was only now that Elain realized her chills had evaporated, thanks to a combination of the birchin’s temperature and the growing tension between her and Lucien. For her mate sat across the all-too-small birchin with the casual grace of a god, all sharp lines and powerful stillness.

Having never seen Lucien shirtless before, Elain absent-mindedly chewed her bottom lip as she drank in the rounded biceps, corded forearms, and chiseled abdomen. To think those muscles had been hiding under fine clothes the entire time!

She wondered if Lucien had ever considered unbuttoning the top three buttons of his shirts come summer. The style would expose a nice patch of his chest for her appreciation. And he had to be training regularly to maintain such a physique…her mouth watered at the thought of his powerful thighs flexing and pumping as he exercised.

Elain’s attention was drawn to Lucien’s chest rising and falling more deeply, his nostrils flaring. Her arousal. He could scent it. Fuck. Her cheeks grew hot.

“Do you mind?” he grinned at her again, sharp teeth gleaming. “Who’s the pervert now?”

“I think you need to get your nose checked,” Elain bit back, feigning nonchalance even though all she wanted to do was run her hands across his bare chest. “Because I don’t feel anything for you.”

From the moment she stepped into the birchin, Lucien sought to fluster her. Two could play this game: Elain was determined to gain the upper hand. Her fingers shook slightly—this time from nerves—as she tugged her strappy undershirt off. Would Lucien like what he saw? Her pale stomach, her small breasts?

From the way his russet eye darkened, he certainly did.

“Is that so?” Lucien murmured, his eyes trailing down her body with blatant hunger. “The removal of clothing usually precedes…other…activities.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve just b-been feeling a bit—a bit h-h-hot,” Elain stuttered as Lucien spread his thighs a tad wider. Gods, when was that towel going to fall off?

It was half-true. Small beads of perspiration were now forming at her temples, mugging her exposed skin. The air was also visibly shimmered from the heat. Perhaps staying in the birchin for a prolonged period of time was messing with her good sense.

Elain leaned back, quietly observing her mate. He mirrored her as well, blinking slowly with a satisfied twitch of his lips. The flame of desire in his eyes tingled her skin with anticipatory goosebumps as his gaze traveled down her body.

With a discreet sniffle, Elain’s nasal passages finally cleared up. Lucien’s arousal hit her like a tidal wave. Oh fuck. The musky scent, mixed with his signature warmth, brought forth a series of reprehensible urges. How the hell did Lucien still sit there, all nonchalant, even after scenting her arousal? Elain was ready to jump his bones after one whiff of his. Wanted to lick the gleaming rivulet of sweat on the side of his throat, wrap her legs around his sculpted waist, and nip the tip of his pointed ear.

The Mother herself would blush at Elain’s unholy thoughts.

She needed to see Lucien more visibly affected. Perhaps more drastic measures were needed to elicit a stronger reaction from him. Elain had never been particularly skilled in the arts of seduction, having relied on proper courting behaviors with Graysen and the other human men. But she had to try.

Praying she didn’t look like a fool, Elain slipped a bra strap off her shoulder.

Lucien blinked rapidly, straightening with renewed alertness.

Elain slowly moved the other strap down, fluttering her eyelashes for an added measure. She paused her fingers before she unclasped the hook.

Lucien growled, almost inaudibly.

Elain unhooked her bra but didn’t remove it yet.

“Don’t be a tease.” His voice was nearly guttural.

“You think that’s teasing?” It was Elain’s turn to smile as she dropped the garment. Lucien’s loud groan at the sight of her bare breasts thrilled her with its brazenness. “Just wait.”

She had lifted those lines straight from a smutty book, but if Lucien found them cheesy, he did not show it. Elain trailed a hand up her stomach, up the valley of her breasts, around their curves. She squeezed the soft mounds and sighed, like she always did in the privacy of her own room. Except now, she was putting on a show for Lucien.

A male she hardly knew. Yet, the sheer reverence in his eyes and the sensual parting of his mouth made it seem as if they’d been intimate many times before. Elain felt no oily shame in expressing herself like this—in fact, his smoldering expression only emboldened her to show all the parts she’d hid away before.

“Yes.” Lucien’s voice was little more than a low rumble. “Touch yourself for me.”

Elain tipped her head back, exposing her smooth throat slightly, and let out a moan. Lucien’s golden eye turned molten at the sound. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“Fuck,” Lucien growled. “How rude of me, to only watch and not offer anything in return.” He reached for the towel in his lap, slow enough for Elain to deny him if she wanted. Elain’s heart cracked a little at how Lucien held himself back. As if he did so because of all the times she’d spurned him before.

So she reached deep within her, to where that golden thread lay coiled around her, and sent a small pulse of encouragement. A willing signal to her mate.

The towel was fully off now.

Elain’s doe eyes widened into saucers. The v-shaped grooves of Lucien’s hips narrowed into a trimmed thatch of red hair, and then a fully erect cock. Her mate leaned back, running his thumb over his cock’s rounded head, swiping the glistening precum.

Her mouth parted slightly, when she realized his already large hand did not quite cover the entire length of his shaft as he moved his fist up and down. Gods…he was truly beautiful.

It was hard to believe that this wasn’t a dream. hHer mate, sitting mere feet away from her, was stroking his cock while watching her. Slowly, luxuriously, as if he had all the time in the world to do this. And she was the reason for his arousal. Wetness pooled at Elain’s core, dampening her underwear.

She’d gotten Lucien to groan and swear. Had seen him entirely naked. Had him pleasuring himself to her. But Elain still selfishly wanted one thing: to hear her name on his lips. Elain shoved down her pride and got up, quickly crossing the distance between them before she could change her mind.

Lucien’s brows raised in surprise when she stopped a half-step away from him, brown curls cascading over her breasts, her cheeks flushed prettily. Elain glanced down at his cock and swallowed nervously. Later. She could touch him later. Right now, she wanted Lucien to say her name.

“Come here,” Lucien murmured, his voice soft. Elain didn’t move, so he reached out, his large hands encircling her waist. She shivered at her mate’s solid touch, the small circles he rubbed with his thumbs making her impossibly heady.

“This could be part of my grand plan to get you sick,” she said breathily, her knees weak.

“Mmmm, well aren’t you being cruel?” Lucien’s fingers hooked her panties at the hip and gently tugged her closer. “I don’t think I would mind.” His finger brushed her slit through the fabric of her underwear.

“You’re so wet for me.” Lucien sounded a bit dazed now, as if he couldn’t believe he was touching her. Elain blushed. “Come here, Elain,” Lucien said again.

That was the final straw. Elain obligingly lowered herself then, spreading her legs to straddle Lucien’s muscular thighs. Lucien’s erect cock rested against her bare stomach, precum smearing across her skin. But she didn’t mind, instead, she snaked her arms around his neck to pull closer.

Elain found herself having to look up at Lucien’s chiseled features, the charged mix of emotions in his russet eye. “I want to kiss you,” she breathed, her rosebud mouth just inches away from his. “I want to kiss you, Lucien.”

Her mate shuddered underneath Elain when she uttered his name.

“Who am I to deny you, my lady?”

Their kiss, fraught with years’ worth of longing and built-up tension, was the release Elain never knew she needed until now. It was like coming home at last. She let out a small noise—a mixture between a sob and a moan—and pushed up against him for another one.

“Shit, Elain,” Lucien groaned. “Your mouth...gods help me.” He pulled her closer by wrapping an arm around her, fingers grazing the underside of her breast. His other hand supported the back of her head, tilting her up to kiss him better.

Elain only threaded her fingers through his silky locks, shifting her hips rhythmically to grind against his thigh in response. The noise Lucien made was unapologetically obscene.

She felt like she was burning up now, the birchin’s steam and the little breaths they shared blurring the passage of time. How many times did she kiss him, did his hands brush her body sweetly? Elain couldn’t remember. She arched her back, brushing her peaked nipples against his broad chest. They both groaned.

Her core tightened deliciously, like a band ready to snap.

“Elain,” Lucien rasped, pulling away. Elain ignored him, trying to meld herself to the heat of his body.

“I want you, Lucien,” she mumbled, rolling her hips against him. “Please…I’m so close.” Elain craned her neck up and made a disappointed noise when her lips failed to find his.

“Elain, Elain,” Lucien repeated, his hands tightening around her waist with some urgency.

The fact that he wasn’t kissing her anymore was like a splash of cold water on her face. “I’m sorry.” Elain stopped, disentangling her arms from his neck. She braced herself for rejection again.

“No, don’t be.” Lucien’s face was pained, his breathing still a bit ragged. Color had stained his high cheekbones, his mouth now swollen from her kisses. He still held her in his lap, a bit possessively, and Elain took some comfort in that fact.

“Believe me…I want to keep going. But our first time shouldn’t be in a birchin.”

Elain’s heart quickened, the reality of their situation sinking in. Gods, what was she doing? She had stripped until nearly naked, and proceeded to ride Lucien’s thigh in the River House birchin, of all places.

His cock grazing her navel was considerably larger than Graysen’s, yet…Lucien seemed to have full confidence that it would fit. Her core tightened again at the possibility of what he intended to do with her.

“I was so close,” was all Elain could say ruefully, still staring down at her mate’s cock.

Lucien tilted her chin up. “I know, Elain,” he replied, voice laced with remorse. “But…soon.” His long fingers absent-mindedly trailed up and down her waist, sending tingles down Elain’s spine.

“You’re not helping,” she said faintly. Lucien’s hands regretfully stopped moving.

“Sorry, sweet pea.” Sweet pea. Her heart swelled at Lucien’s pet name for her.

“Will…will you be at Nesta and Cassian’s mating ceremony?” Elain asked after a moment’s hesitation. “What…what about then?”

“Is my lady inviting me to her bed?” Lucien teased with a roguish grin. “Or do you wish for me to take you in a more unconventional location?”

“Don’t be so scandalous.” Elain scrunched her nose at him.

“And riding me in a birchin isn’t? My, my, I look forward to seeing what you consider scandalous.” Elain grumbled with annoyance and tried to shove his shoulder, but Lucien quickly caught her hand and pressed a chaste kiss against her inner wrist. His soft smile was like the sun breaking through rain clouds. “I’m a flexible male. We’ll continue our fun next week.”

#elucien #elucien smut #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #acotar #acotar fanfic

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