#satin and crinkle silk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jhyoos · 25 days ago

Text

Beauty And The Beast

beast!sevika x beauty!reader

mentions: dark content, romance, based on french version of beauty & the beast, wlw, mean sevika, angst, ambessa as gaston, reader is called beauty

summary : you scarfice yourself to live with a terrifying beast in order to save your father. overtime, you discover the beast is gentle and kind beneath her monstrous facade.

Once, there was a home filled with light.

It stood proudly on the edge of the sea, where salt met silk, and the scent of jasmine tangled with the wind. In this house lived a merchant—widowed, wearied, but not unkind—his shoulders heavy with age and grief. He had six children: three sons and three daughters, scattered like mismatched pearls across a velvet strand.

The youngest, the quietest, the one who wandered the gardens in bare feet and read novels by candlelight, was you.

And though the others had grown restless with ruin, you found solace in simplicity.

Your father, once the proud captain of ships, now walked with a limp and a heart softened by sorrow. Still, every evening, he would sit at your bedside and read aloud, voice dipping through pages of tales older than memory. Of girls with hair like night, of beasts with broken hearts, of love that bloomed like moonflowers in dark places.

It was never just fiction to you. It was a map. A key. A prayer whispered into the stars.

Then the sea turned cruel.

His last fleet sank in a storm of debts and salt. One by one, his holdings were stripped away, like leaves in autumn. And so, with nothing but a rusting cart and threadbare coats, your family fled the city’s grandeur and took root in the countryside—where the bones of trees rattled in the wind and the cottage was crooked with time.

Your eldest sisters—Mariette and Corinne—were furious.

"They expect us to live like peasants!" Mariette would hiss as she cleaned her fingernails with a broken comb.

Corinne cried when her satin gowns wouldn’t fit inside the single wooden chest she was allowed to bring. "This is barbaric," she declared. "Like being exiled."

The brothers, each in their own way, tried to help. Maxime, the oldest son, was brooding and bitter, speaking of debts he’d yet to repay. Tristan, clever but too soft-spoken, worked the soil with shaking hands. And Adrien, the youngest, tried to make everyone laugh, even when there was nothing funny left.

But you—you tended the herbs. You fetched water from the stream. You stitched old linen into curtains and sang softly to the geese. You did not complain.

"It suits you," your father said one morning, watching you gather wildflowers at the edge of the frost-laced orchard.

"What does?" you asked.

"This life. You look… peaceful here."

You smiled, placing a daisy behind his ear. "Peace isn't found. It's made."

He laughed then, eyes crinkling. And for a moment, he looked young again.

Then came the letter.

One of his ships, thought lost, had docked. There was a chance—slim, but real—that he might reclaim its cargo. Enough gold, perhaps, to pay off some debts. Perhaps even return to the city.

Your sisters burst into a flurry of demands.

"Bring back my sapphire earrings!" cried Corinne. "And my silk from Persia," Mariette added. "A music box," said Adrien. "A hunting knife," muttered Maxime. "New boots," said Tristan, though he glanced at you with guilt. "And a pearl comb, if you find one," whispered Adrien again, hopeful.

Your father jotted the requests down with a heavy sigh. When he looked at you, he didn’t ask.

But you stepped forward anyway.

"A rose," you said gently.

His brow furrowed. "A rose?"

"Yes. The kind that only grows by the sea. The kind you used to bring Mama."

His breath caught for a second. Then he nodded. “If I find one, you shall have it.”

He kissed each of you goodbye at dawn, his cloak too thin for the cold. When he reached you, he lingered. You took his hands—calloused, trembling—and held them to your cheek.

"You don't have to do this," you whispered.

"I do," he replied. "But I promise I’ll return."

He did not know that fate was already moving.

That the rose would bloom. That a curse would stir. That you, the softest of them all, would ride into the teeth of something ancient and wild.

But when the sun rose behind the hills and his figure disappeared over the ridge, you stood alone in the snow, one hand clutching your scarf, the other already aching with the weight of a promise not yet made.

The letter never came.

Not in three days. Not in four. On the fifth day, your father returned—ashen, soaked through from the storm, and whispering things you could barely understand.

“There was a castle,” he rasped, collapsing before the fire. “A rose… I only picked a rose… and then she appeared—”

You helped him out of his coat. The others listened, confused and horrified, as he stammered through his tale. A great hall filled with gold and wine. A bed of velvet. A table laid with all the gifts his children had asked for. And in the garden—a rosebush. Blooming, vibrant, in the dead of winter.

“I picked one,” he said, his voice cracking. “For you.”

A shadow had fallen over him then. A voice, deep as thunder. She had appeared—not a woman, not quite a monster. Cloaked in darkness. Eyes like dying stars.

“She said,” he swallowed, “I had one day to return… or she would come for you all.”

The others began to protest, to scream.

But you were already moving.

You packed before the sun rose. A single trunk, a woolen cloak, your mother’s locket. Your father cried when he saw you saddling the mare.

“I should never have asked—”

“You didn’t,” you said, hugging him tightly. “You didn’t have to.”

You kissed his forehead, and rode out into the frostbitten morning, wind stinging your cheeks.

You rode until your fingers went numb. Until the trees grew thick and strange. Until the path twisted itself into something uncanny.

And then, like smoke rising from nothing—there it was.

The castle.

Tall towers like spears. Ivy strangling marble. Frozen fountains, caught mid-song.

The gates opened as you approached. No guard. No voice. Just silence and snow.

You stepped inside.

The walls breathed. The chandelier flickered to life. A fire sparked in the hearth though no hand touched it.

A feast waited for you—hot bread, roasted roots, sugared fruit. Your coat vanished from your shoulders. Velvet slippers slid across the floor, as if guided by ghosts.

But she did not show herself.

Not yet.

Not until the mirror.

You found it after dinner, in a hallway of endless doors. It was tall, cracked, and framed in twisting thorns. And when you stepped before it—you saw her.

A reflection that wasn’t yours.

A woman—taller, broader. Cloaked in fur and shadow. One arm made of iron, gleaming faintly. Her face was half-hidden, but her eyes… her eyes burned.

You gasped. And just like that, she vanished.

Only the wind answered.

And still, the castle held you close.

And somewhere, behind the mirrors, she watched.

Waiting.

The days that followed felt stitched from dreams—beautiful, unsettling, and somehow not quite real.

The castle obeyed your presence like a loyal hound, yet its silence was sharper than any growl. Doors opened with a thought, fires flared when your hands trembled from cold, and music drifted from unseen places. But her—the Beast—was nowhere to be found. Not in the halls of crystal, nor the gardens shrouded in hoarfrost. Only in the mirror, sometimes. Only when you weren’t quite sure if you were awake or dreaming.

Still, the castle gave you what it thought you wanted.

A wardrobe bloomed with velvet gowns—midnight blue threaded with silver, pale green the color of moss after rain, crimson cut like fire against your skin. Jewels gleamed in boxes that opened themselves. Perfumed baths awaited, steaming and still, with lavender and rose petals floating like memories on the water.

And books. Shelves and shelves of them.

You’d stumble across entire libraries nestled behind hidden panels. Leather-bound folios of ancient poetry. Scrolls with pressed flowers marking forgotten verses. Children’s stories, maps of forgotten worlds, illustrated fables from distant lands. Books that seemed to rearrange themselves at night, offering you different wonders each morning.

They became your only companions.

You began to speak to them, softly, while reading by the tall frosted windows.

“If you’re listening,” you murmured one afternoon, tracing the delicate golden letters on a book’s spine, “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. But you can’t hide forever.”

There was no reply.

Only the snow outside, falling like whispers from the sky.

That night, you dreamt.

The same dream that had haunted you since your arrival.

You stood in a sun-drenched orchard, golden apples gleaming in the trees. A man—not quite a man—moved through the branches. Dressed in hunting leathers, hair falling in careless waves. He smiled at someone hidden from view. A woman. A princess. Her eyes mournful, her hands clasped.

She begged him to stop. He promised to change. He kissed her brow and vanished into the woods again.

And then, a golden deer.

Always the deer.

It leapt through the clearing, radiant and unreal, and the dream ended with the echo of an arrow not yet loosed.

You woke with a gasp.

And this time, you knew you were not alone.

She stood in the doorway—half-shadow, half-shape. Broad shoulders draped in a fur-lined coat. One arm silver, the other gloved in leather. Her hair fell in coarse, curling waves, streaked with gray at the temples. Her mouth, hidden beneath a scarf, didn’t move.

But her eyes did.

Steel and sorrow.

“Why won’t you speak to me?” you asked.

She tilted her head, then turned away, disappearing into the hall.

“Wait—please.”

You followed, barefoot, trailing your nightdress through corridors of black marble. Down endless staircases. Past portraits that watched too closely. Into the garden where the roses slept beneath a blanket of snow.

“I deserve to know who you are,” you said. “What you are.”

Silence.

Your breath caught in your throat. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears.

“Please. Show me.”

She froze. Then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—reached up and tugged the scarf away from her face.

You took a step back.

Scars, jagged and brutal, cut across her cheek. Her nose had once been broken. One eye, the left, was a pale shade of stormcloud, half-blind. And beneath her coat, iron plating disappeared beneath her collarbone, trailing down like vines of machinery across muscle and skin.

She did not blink. Did not flinch.

And neither did you. Not until the fear, raw and ancient, stirred in your belly.

You turned.

And ran.

Through the gardens. Across the snow. Toward the frozen lake that glimmered under moonlight like a mirror shattered into stillness.

“Stop!” Her voice, deep and rough as stone, broke behind you.

But your legs were faster than reason. Faster than mercy.

The lake groaned beneath your feet.

Then cracked.

Then gave way.

The cold was instant. Violent. Your lungs seized. You kicked, flailed, reached toward a surface that blurred into sky. The world turned to silence and blue.

And then—

An iron hand gripped the back of your corset.

You were yanked upward, sputtering, choking, hair slick to your face. She dragged you from the water like a storm dragging ships from sea.

You collapsed on the bank, coughing, shivering. She crouched beside you, her eyes wild.

“Why?” you rasped. “Why save me?”

She said nothing. Only unfastened her coat and wrapped it around your shoulders.

And for a heartbeat, a single heartbeat, her hand brushed your cheek.

Not with iron. With skin. Warm, calloused, trembling.

Then she was gone again.

And the snow kept falling.

The morning after the lake had swallowed you whole, you woke to warmth—a fire crackling in the hearth and the scent of rosemary wafting through the thick curtains. Your clothes were dry, your body wrapped in thick, luxurious blankets, and your skin tingled where the chill had once cut through you like a blade. You could barely remember how you’d gotten back to your room, or the wild gaze that had burned in her eyes.

But there was no trace of her in the room now. No hint of the woman who had saved you, whose touch still lingered on your cheek like a secret.

You sat up slowly, trying to push the shivers from your limbs. The castle felt colder today—darker, even though the sun had risen and its light slanted through the ice-covered windows. The roses outside seemed even more lifeless, the frost heavier. The air in the halls was thick with something ancient, an unspoken tension.

That was when you heard it—a low hum. A strange vibration in the air, as though the walls themselves were whispering. It tugged at the edges of your consciousness, pulling you toward something you couldn’t name.

With hesitant steps, you left the warmth of your room. The corridors seemed endless, colder, and yet they whispered to you, like a promise half-fulfilled. The mirrors, once distant and silent, seemed to hum with life today, their reflections warped and flickering, like echoes of a life that no longer existed.

You wandered, following the sound, your heart beat quickening in your chest. Eventually, you found it—the music. It wasn’t coming from a room. It was coming from a door—a door you hadn’t noticed before.

This door, unlike the others, was old. Ancient. Covered in vines of iron, the metal twisting around the wood as if it were trying to break free. There was no handle, only a faint indentation of a symbol that you couldn’t place.

You reached for it without thinking.

The door swung open with a creak that echoed through the silence.

What you saw inside made your breath catch in your throat.

It was a room of mirrors.

Dozens of them, stretching across the stone walls like portals to another world. They were all different in shape and size, framed with intricate designs of leaves, vines, and thorns that seemed to move as your eyes flicked across them. But what struck you the most was the center of the room, where a large mirror stood taller than the rest, its frame carved from the blackest wood you had ever seen.

This mirror… felt alive. It pulsed, its surface flickering with an eerie light. And within it—there she was.

The Beast.

She stood motionless, her body barely visible in the reflection. The scars that marred her face were harsher, more pronounced. The iron arm gleamed with an unnatural shine, and her gaze—her stormy eyes—were locked on you, as if she could see through the mirror itself.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Time seemed to stop, the silence between you stretching thin and tight.

Then, she moved.

The Beast stepped forward in the reflection, her figure distorting the surface of the glass like ripples on water. You couldn’t look away, even as a cold sweat began to gather on your neck.

“I thought you might come,” her voice echoed, deep and rich. But there was a sadness in it, a mournful sound that tugged at something inside you.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. Something about the way she stood, something about her presence, made you feel small and yet… strangely at peace.

“You’re not like the others,” she continued, her voice lower now, as if it were a secret shared only between you and her. “They wanted to leave. They all wanted to leave. But you… you stayed.”

You found your voice at last. “I didn’t know what else to do,” you whispered. “I don’t understand this place. I don’t understand you.”

Her lips curled into something like a smile, but it was more sorrow than joy. “No one ever does.”

The mirrors around you hummed louder now, the reflections of the Beast blurring, overlapping. You felt yourself being drawn into their depths, the world around you starting to slip away.

“Who are you?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath.

A long pause stretched out between you. She stepped closer in the mirror, so close that you could almost feel her breath on your skin. “I was once a noble warrior,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving yours. “A woman cursed by her own cruelty, by her own vanity. I was a fool. A selfish fool.”

The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, and your heart twisted. You felt a sudden pang of empathy for her, even though you knew you should be afraid. The stories you had heard—stories of wicked beasts and wicked curses—did not match the depth of sorrow in her eyes.

She took another step forward in the mirror, and your heart skipped. You could almost feel her presence, as if she were standing right in front of you, her form made of shadows and light. “I was given a choice: to die or to be reborn. But in being reborn, I became something less than human, something that haunts the edges of this place.”

The words were like a spell, curling around you, binding you to her.

“Why are you showing me this?” you asked softly. “Why now?”

“Because,” she said, her voice softening, “you are the only one who has ever stayed. And I cannot change what I am until I am seen for what I truly am.” She looked down at her iron hand, flexing it slowly. “I have waited for someone to see me, truly see me. Not as a beast, but as a soul broken by time. Someone who isn’t afraid.”

You were silent for a long time, the weight of her confession settling on you like a heavy cloak. You wanted to reach out. You wanted to do something, say something to ease the burden she had carried for so long.

But before you could speak, the mirror shimmered again, her image fading back into the glass, leaving you alone in the room of endless reflections.

The room fell silent. The humming stopped. The mirrors turned cold again, their lifeless reflections only showing your own figure, standing alone in the darkness.

But the feeling lingered—the echo of her words, her presence, her pain.

And as you left the room, a single thought clung to your mind: Maybe, just maybe, the Beast wasn’t the monster after all.

The next days passed in a strange, haunted rhythm. You couldn’t escape the pull of the mirrors—their silent whispers haunting your every step. The Beast’s presence lingered in your mind like a shadow, both distant and impossibly close. You hadn’t spoken to her since that moment in the room of mirrors, but her words had become like a mantra in your head: You are the only one who has ever stayed.

You spent your days wandering the castle, tracing the arc of its strange halls, your feet gliding over the marble floors as if you were drifting through a dream. But it wasn’t the beauty of the castle that held your attention. It was the emptiness, the overwhelming silence that clung to the walls like cobwebs. There was something deeply lonely about this place—something that seemed to bleed into the very air you breathed.

The only thing that offered any comfort was the library.

The library, vast and ancient, seemed to stretch on forever. The shelves towered high above, filled with books that smelled of dust and magic. It was here, among the stories of distant lands and forgotten kings, that you felt a fleeting sense of peace. The books, once so ordinary, had become your refuge—a space where you could disappear into other worlds, away from the heavy gaze of the mirrors, away from the Beast.

But still, her presence lingered.

One evening, as dusk fell over the frozen grounds outside, you found yourself drawn back to the grand dining hall. The fire flickered in the hearth, casting long, dancing shadows over the room. It had been nearly a week since you last saw the Beast, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, you felt an overwhelming urge to seek her out.

You entered the hall quietly, your footsteps muffled by the thick velvet of the carpet. The room, though beautiful in its own right, felt cold—empty. The long table, set for one, stretched before you, glistening with untouched silverware and delicate glassware. There, at the far end, stood a single figure, her back to you.

The Beast.

Her silhouette was a strange blend of shadow and form, her iron arm gleaming faintly in the firelight. She didn’t turn when you entered, but you could feel her awareness settle over you like a heavy weight.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire. You stood there, watching her, and she—perhaps sensing your gaze—did not move.

Finally, you could bear it no longer.

“I came to find you,” you said softly, the words slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

The Beast stiffened, her shoulders tightening as though bracing for something. When she turned slowly to face you, there was an unreadable expression on her face—something you couldn’t quite place.

“Did you?” Her voice was a low rasp, rich with something you couldn’t understand.

You nodded, not knowing what you hoped to find or what you could even say. All the words in your mind seemed too small, too fragile to break the space between you.

A long, tense silence followed. Then, the Beast’s iron hand moved, brushing against the edge of the table. She seemed to be considering something, her eyes narrowing slightly, as though weighing your presence in the room.

“Why do you stay?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone else leaves, but you…” She trailed off, her gaze flicking to the side as though she couldn’t quite look you in the eye.

“I don’t know,” you replied honestly. “I don’t have any reason to leave. And… I don’t know if I could leave, not without understanding what’s here.”

Her eyes flickered with something—recognition? Hope? But it was gone in an instant, swallowed by the shadows that clung to her form.

She took a step toward you then, her movement slow but purposeful. You held your ground, though your heart raced in your chest. She was near enough now that you could see the scars that marred her skin, the jagged lines where her human form had been twisted and broken, the strange, mournful sadness that clung to her eyes.

“You want to understand me?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost intimate. “Then you must see me. Truly see me.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “I’ve tried. I don’t understand everything, but I see you. I see more than just the Beast.”

A flicker of something passed over her face. For a moment, you thought she might say something—might finally reveal the truth of her curse—but then she turned away, walking toward the large, ornate door that led out into the courtyard.

Without turning back, she spoke again. “Then come with me.”

You hesitated, uncertainty gripping you. But something inside you stirred—something deeper than fear, a pull you couldn’t resist. Slowly, you followed her, your feet moving of their own accord as you walked through the long, silent hallways.

The castle was a maze, its winding corridors twisting like the threads of fate itself. But the Beast seemed to know where she was going, and you followed in her wake, drawn by something you couldn’t name.

Finally, she stopped in front of a grand set of double doors. The wood was old, worn, the edges softened by time. She turned to face you then, her iron hand resting lightly on the door.

“This is where it all began,” she said softly, her voice almost lost in the silence. “This is where I was made.”

With a creak, she pushed the doors open, and the room inside took your breath away.

It was a ballroom, grander than anything you had seen in the castle, but it was in ruins—dust-covered chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their crystals dull and broken. The floor, once polished to a mirror shine, was cracked and worn. But despite its decay, the room was still beautiful—haunting, even.

The Beast stepped forward, her iron-clad footfalls echoing in the vast emptiness. She walked to the center of the room, her back straight, her head held high.

“This is where I once danced,” she said, her voice filled with a strange, painful nostalgia. “Before the curse, before the monster I became.”

You approached slowly, your gaze scanning the room. The air felt thick here, laden with forgotten memories, lost time. It was as though the very room had been frozen in the past, suspended in some moment before the fall.

The Beast stood there for a long time, her eyes closed as though she were reliving a memory—one so painful that it caused her to tremble.

And then, to your surprise, she extended her hand toward you.

“I may be a monster,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “But I remember what it was like to be human. To feel. To dance.”

You stood there, unsure, as the invitation hung in the air between you. Could you? Could you trust her, take her hand, and step into the shadow of her past?

But something inside you whispered that this was the moment—the moment when everything could change.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, placing your hand in hers.

And as the music began to play—a soft, haunting melody—you danced with the Beast, the two of you moving together in a forgotten waltz, spinning through the echoes of time.

The shadows no longer seemed so dark. The loneliness that clung to the castle began to ease, replaced by something fragile, something delicate: hope.

And for the first time since you arrived, you felt like you weren’t alone.

The Beast had shown you a piece of herself—a sliver of the person she had once been. And in that moment, you realized something that both terrified and thrilled you: perhaps, just perhaps, she could be more than the monster she believed herself to be.

And maybe—just maybe—there was love hidden in the ruins, waiting to bloom once again.

Days turned to weeks, and though the air around the castle had lightened, there was still something heavy resting in your chest. The Beast—Sevika—had become your world, and yet, despite the warmth she had begun to offer, there was still a lingering emptiness. You couldn’t ignore the ache in your heart, the yearning for the life you had left behind. Your father, your family—how were they? Were they well? Had they missed you as you missed them?

Sevika must have noticed the weight of it in your eyes, the way your gaze would drift to the window at the first light of dawn, your thoughts clearly far away. One evening, as you sat together by the fire, her low voice broke the silence.

“You miss them, don’t you?” Sevika asked, her gaze unwavering as she studied the flames.

You hesitated. The truth was right there on the tip of your tongue, heavy in your chest. The longing for home, the ache of memories that hadn’t faded despite the years. You missed your father’s smile, his gentle presence; you missed the chaos of your siblings, the simple rhythm of life before everything changed.

“I do,” you admitted softly. “I miss them all. I miss how things were before…”

Before the curse, before the castle, before Sevika had become the center of your existence.

Sevika’s expression softened, a hint of sadness in her eyes. She had seen the depth of your love for your family, and though she never voiced it, you knew she understood what it meant to be torn between two worlds.

“Go,” she said, her voice a low murmur, almost as if she were granting you permission. “Go to them. Spend time with them. You deserve it.”

“But what about you?” you asked, feeling the weight of the words as they left your mouth. The thought of leaving Sevika, of walking away from this place that had slowly started to feel like home, unsettled you in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

“I will be here,” Sevika answered, her eyes dark but steady. “You don’t need to worry about me. Go, and when you're ready... come back.”

Her words stung more than they comforted. She was letting you go. No anger. No desperation. Just the quiet understanding of someone who had been alone for far too long and knew how much you needed this.

And so, with a heavy heart, you left the castle the following morning. The road that had once been so unfamiliar to you now felt like a pathway you could walk in your sleep. You traveled for days, the distance between you and the castle growing with each step. Every day, you reminded yourself why you were leaving. Your family needed you. You hadn’t seen them in so long. You had to make sure they were okay.

When you finally reached the familiar outskirts of your childhood home, it felt like a dream. The house stood tall in the distance, its worn walls and crooked roof the same as you remembered. You could hear the laughter of your siblings, the scent of your father’s cooking drifting in the air. The warmth that washed over you was a balm for your soul.

Your father, who had grown thinner since your departure, greeted you at the door with tears in his eyes. He enveloped you in a tight embrace, murmuring your name as though afraid you might disappear. Your sisters surrounded you, their laughter filling the space around you like sunlight breaking through the clouds. They teased you playfully about how much you’d changed, how different you seemed, but you didn’t mind. You were home. And for the first time in months, you felt at peace.

For a week, life seemed almost normal. The weight in your heart had lifted for a time, replaced with the joy of family dinners, shared stories, and the comforting familiarity of home. You slipped into your old life with ease, finding joy in the simple moments that had once felt so ordinary.

But as the days passed, the silence that lingered between you and your father, your siblings, grew louder. You missed the sound of Sevika’s voice in the still of the night, her presence in the rooms of the castle. You missed the way she had slowly become more than just the Beast in your eyes. You missed her strength, her vulnerability—everything she had become to you. And the more you allowed yourself to remember, the more you realized that your heart had never truly left the castle.

One evening, as you sat outside with your father, watching the stars twinkle in the sky, the conversation turned to old memories, to stories of his youth and the life he had once known. You listened, hanging on every word, until a sudden realization struck you like a wave.

“Father,” you said, voice trembling slightly, “I have to go back.”

He looked at you, confused. “Go back? Where?”

“To the castle,” you said softly. “To her.”

His expression faltered, his brow furrowing in concern. “But why, my child? I thought you were happy here. I thought this was where you belonged.”

Tears filled your eyes, but you blinked them away, determined to be strong. “I am happy here, Papa. But I am also happy there. And… and I love her. I can’t ignore that.”

He sighed, his weathered hand resting on yours. “Then go. Go to where your heart calls you.”

The road back to the castle felt longer than it had the first time. The air seemed heavier, filled with an unease that clung to the bones. The sky above you was muted, a pale gray that bled into the horizon, mirroring the heaviness in your chest. Every step felt like a distant echo, a reminder of the promises you had made to yourself, to her.

As you neared the gates, they creaked open on their own, as if the castle itself was beckoning you back. But the sight that greeted you was nothing like the castle you had left behind. The stone walls, once majestic, now stood cracked and weathered, covered in a thick blanket of moss. The ivy that had once adorned the castle like a beautiful gown now seemed to strangle it, twisting around the towers like a living thing.

The gardens, once full of life, were overrun with thorns. The rosebushes you had once admired were now wild, their petals wilting, their thorns sharp and unforgiving. The air was thick with a strange, stagnant smell—like something had died, but no one had the strength to bury it.

As you stepped inside, the warmth of the castle was gone. The hearths were cold, the great chandeliers that once shone with light were dim and brittle, their crystal shards hanging like dead stars. The halls were quiet, the silence oppressive, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wood beneath your feet.

Roses—dozens of them—lined the halls. Their vines twisted up the walls, their thorns sharp and jagged. The petals, once vibrant, were now dull, some already falling to the floor, leaving trails of wilted blooms in their wake. The scent of the roses was suffocating, thick with the weight of decay.

You walked through the corridors, heart pounding, as if you could hear her, Sevika, somewhere in the dark corners of this crumbling place. You followed the path, feeling the weight of time pressing against your chest, and when you reached the heart of the castle—the room where you had first found the rose—the air felt colder still.

There, at the center of it all, was the glass vase. The rose inside it, once vibrant and full of life, was now barely clinging to the last of its petals. It was sickly, fragile, its edges turning black, as though it too had been drained of life.

And then you saw her.

Sevika lay in the corner of the room, her massive form hunched, her iron arm resting at her side like a broken wing. Her once-proud posture was now a shadow of itself, her body weak, her breathing shallow. The vibrant glow that had once surrounded her was gone, replaced by an ashen pallor, a coldness that seemed to seep into the very walls of the room.

“Sevika?” Your voice cracked as you rushed to her side. You kneeled beside her, your hands trembling as you cupped her face, feeling the coldness of her skin. Her once fierce eyes were now closed, her breath coming in ragged, weak gasps.

You shook her gently, your heart breaking with every second that passed. “Wake up. Please… Sevika. Please.”

The words caught in your throat, your mind racing with a thousand questions. What had happened? Why was she like this? What could you do?

You looked at the rose in the glass vase. Its last petal was hanging by a thread, its beauty now a pale shadow of what it once was. And in that moment, you understood.

It wasn’t just the curse that had drained her strength. It was the curse of the rose—the curse of love that could never fully bloom, of promises that could never be kept. The beast inside her, the part that had been cursed to remain forever in this form, was dying along with the rose. She couldn’t survive without it, just as the rose couldn’t survive without her.

Your hands shook as you took her hand in yours, pressing it against your chest. “Please, Sevika. You can’t leave me. You can’t.”

Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away, holding her face gently in your hands. “I—I love you. I love you more than I ever knew I could. I never wanted to leave you. I should never have left you.”

Her eyelids fluttered, her weak breath catching in her throat. A flicker of something—of recognition—passed across her face, though it was faint, distant.

“Sevika…” you whispered again, your voice trembling, “I don’t care if you’re the Beast. I love you. I love you in every form, every way, no matter what you’ve been made to be. Please don’t go. Please don’t leave me alone.”

Her eyes cracked open slowly, weakly, the dim light catching the glint of the iron in her gaze. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips, though it was bittersweet, full of pain.

“I knew you would come back,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, barely audible. “I knew it, even when the darkness came… I knew you’d come for me.”

You held her tighter, desperate, your fingers clutching her arm like a lifeline. “I should have never left you. I should have been here. I’m so sorry, Sevika. Please…”

“Don’t apologize,” she murmured. “It was never your fault. It was always mine. I... was never meant to be loved. I was born from that curse, from that dark place. The beast I am… I’m just a shadow of what I could have been. The rose... it was all I had left.”

“But you have me,” you said, your voice breaking with emotion. “I’ll always be here. I’ll always love you, Sevika. Please, don’t die. Don’t leave me.”

The last petal of the rose in the vase fell, its delicate form floating to the ground, like a whisper in the wind. The rose was gone.

And with it, Sevika’s strength faded.

But as her body grew weaker in your arms, a glow began to emerge from within her, faint at first, like the dying embers of a fire, then slowly growing stronger. The thorns that once covered her body began to recede, like they were shedding their grip on her soul. The beastly form she had worn so long seemed to be unraveling, piece by piece, as though the curse itself was finally breaking apart.

“Sevika?” you whispered, your voice thick with tears.

And then, in a final, breathtaking moment, the transformation began.

Her iron arm, once a symbol of her curse, shifted and changed. Her body glowed with a soft, golden light, and the twisted vines and thorns that had once marked her skin melted away, leaving her bare and vulnerable. Her once-rough features softened, becoming something almost familiar, something that looked like the woman you had come to love.

Her eyes, now full of warmth, opened, meeting yours with a clarity that sent shivers through your soul.

“You came back,” she whispered, her voice still weak but full of love.

And in that moment, you knew that the curse had been broken—not just by the rose, but by the love that had bloomed between you both. The love that had been tested, torn apart, and rebuilt stronger than ever.

“I never left,” you whispered back, your lips trembling as you leaned down, your forehead resting against hers. Slowly, you closed the distance, your lips meeting hers in a kiss. It was gentle at first, hesitant, as if both of you were afraid to believe that this moment was real. But as the kiss deepened, a fire ignited between you, a burning passion that had been hidden for so long.

Your hands cupped her face, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath against you. She responded in kind, her fingers trembling as they brushed through your hair, pulling you closer, as if she too couldn’t believe that the curse had finally been broken.

For a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was no darkness, no curse, no fear. There was only the two of you, finally free to love each other without the weight of the past.

When you finally pulled away, your lips still tingling with the intensity of the kiss, you gazed into her eyes—eyes that were no longer filled with sorrow or regret, but with love. True love.

“I love you,” she whispered, her voice full of reverence, as if saying it out loud somehow made it more real.

“I always have,” you replied, your heart soaring. “And I always will.”

And as you kissed her again, you both knew that nothing, not even the darkness that had once held you captive, could ever tear you apart again.

It was said the castle never stopped blooming.

Even when snow blanketed the world in white, roses still bloomed on its windowsills, warm with the memory of a love that had defied the cold. Vines curled like lacework across marble balustrades, and petals drifted like silk through the air, eternal as breath.

In the heart of it all was you—and Sevika.

The ballroom where the curse had broken now held music every night. Not the mournful hush of enchanted halls, but lilting notes played on harps and flutes, accompanied by soft laughter and candlelight. The mirrors no longer reflected loneliness but joy, shared glances, and the golden flicker of love lived out loud.

You often walked the gardens in the twilight hours, hand in hers. Her iron arm, once feared, now shone with filigree and gold in the low light—etched with the vines of the rose you had once asked for. She had changed, yes. But not in the way stories warned of. She had bloomed, just as you had, and together you grew—a wild, wondrous tangle of what it means to be fully seen, and still, fully loved.

And every spring, beneath the grand arch of roses in the garden where the curse first cracked open to let love in, you renewed your vow.

“I love you,” you whispered, always the same way, forehead against hers, heart pressed to heart. “I love you,” she answered, every time as if she were still astonished by the miracle of it.

And the castle listened.

The wind carried your laughter. The roses remembered your names. The stars always seemed to shine a little brighter over that place—where a girl who asked only for a rose gave her heart instead, and in return, found a soul that matched hers petal for petal, thorn for thorn.

And so, the tale lived on.

Told by firesides, inked into songbooks, whispered by lovers in gardens and alcoves.

A story of iron and softness. Of wild roses and velvet mornings. Of a girl who loved a Beast, and a Beast who learned to be loved.

Not the end. Never the end.

Only ever after. And always, in bloom.

taglist : @krilara @authenticaqua @chigichansgf @dreamylovelydove @ferxanda @morticeras @smaugayra @hell0-ki55y @abbyanderswife @azteriarizz @moodient @that0nyx @sleepycrybbylaiah @elleoa @koralinebox @torradeironic @furrytaesss @minaridior @importantllamawombat @ivorydevil @rhian88 @pink-ladybugs @femininefables @ancrygurl @vkumi @yaracampbell @foralltheprettygirls

an: i wrote this half-asleep ill fix anything that needs fixing in the monring

108 notes · View notes

phoward89 · 1 year ago

Text

Based on this ask

Angst factor for this is thru the roof! And guess what? It's a series! I'm thinking this is going to have at least 3 parts. Masterlist

Jealous!Coryo x Reader, Odair!Ancestor x Reader.

WARNING ⚠️ Coriolanus Snow is a warning in and of itself. That man is a walking blood red flag waving heavily in the wind! engagement (not reader), eventual smut, infidelity, love triangle, manipulation, stalking?, gaslighting, fluff, Head Gamemaker! Coryo, District 4 Cruise Ship Heir!Odair OC.

Chapter 1:

“I'm going home, find some other dumb whore to fuck.” You spat, flipping the blankets off your body and making to get out of the platinum blonde’s bed.

“Darling, don't be rash. Come back to bed.” Coriolanus told you, reaching his long arm out and wrapping his large hand around your wrist before you could truly move away from the bed.

“Come back to bed after you just told me that you're going to marry Livia Cardew?!” You screamed at him, feeling like you wanted to yank his pretty platinum blond curls right out of his head. “Are you nuts, Coriolanus?”

The man, whose beauty rivaled that of the Roman and Greek gods, narrowed his baby blues at you. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he told you, “Stop overreacting, darling. It's an arranged marriage that doesn't mean anything.”

You arched a brow and tilted your head at him. “Oh, so that's supposed to make me feel better? Make everything okay?” You sarcastically asked, yanking your arm out of his grasp and flying out of his bed.

His king sized bed with the luxurious crimson satin sheets that you'll never inhabit again.

“Y/N-” Coriolanus began, only for you to loudly cut him off with a shriek of, “Don't, Coriolanus. Don't say a fucking word to me.” Shaking your head, you ironically scoffed, “I should've seen this coming. After all these years of sneaking around with you, I should've known that you'd pick some rich bitch to marry and have a family with.” Gathering your clothes, that were scattered all over the room, you heartbrokenly spat, “Not your poor neighbor girl that's only good for a good fuck whenever you're bored or need to get some pent up aggression out.”

“You're not-” Coriolanus began, icy blue eyes softening with an unchecked emotion (perhaps guilt?), as he watched you toss your things on the white rose upholstered bench at the foot of his bed.

“I love you, Coriolanus.” You softly sighed, barely loud enough for him to hear, while tossing your ruined lace panties at him. What use were the lacey things all torn to shreds?

Not much.

You grabbed your matching lace bra, quickly putting it on, while muttering, "I foolishly fell in love with you and you don't give a shit about me.” You’re on the verge of tears as you grab your dress. While pulling on your dress, you sadly sighed, “Never did and never will, but I guess I was hoping that maybe you would, but I was such a dumbass.”

Your words hit Coriolanus hard, like a 2x4 in the head hard. He never knew that you felt like this. Crawling over to the end of the bed, causing his pure white silk duvet to pool and crinkle around him, he reached out and took your hand in his before you could turn away to grab your heels. He looked at your face, silently willing you to look into his icy blue eyes (but you refused to give him the satisfaction- that manipulative fuck).

But maybe if you would've looked at his eyes you would've seen that they weren't gleaming or shining. That his icy blue eyes were dead and empty, like those of a shark.

Giving up on you looking at him, the platinum blonde man (who had his political dreams within reach) began to tell you in a velvety tone, “My darling rose, you’re not a dumbass. I'm sorry you're hurt, but-'”

But before he could continue his lies (Are they lies? Who knows, but you think they are.) you cut him off with, “Don't even finish your sentence. Just shut the fuck up and let me leave with whatever little piece of dignity I have left.”, while forcefully yanking your hand out of his.

“I won't shut the fuck up because I don't want you to leave.” Coriolanus told you, scrambling out of the bed, his long legs nearly tripping him as he chased after you.

You’re grabbing your heels as he tries to reason with you. “Announcing my engagement with Livia and marrying her is so I can gain political allies and power. It has nothing to do with love, in fact I hate her.” While sliding on your black kitten heels, a pricey designer pair with red sole bottoms- a gift from him (probably for your services…), he placed one of his large calloused hands on your shoulder. Coriolanus’ baritone was softer than usual as he revealed, “I want to be with you.”

“You don't want to be with me, you just want me as your mistress so you can have your kinky fucks.” You told him, pushing his hand off of your shoulder. Marching over to his dresser and grabbing your bag (some imported designer leather tote bag- dyed a deep shade of crimson- he gave you, most likely because you let him do whatever he wants to you between the sheets), you told him the blunt truth of, “You don't love me and I'm not going to stick by your side as your mistress.” Shouldering your bag, that matched the color of the manicure you just had done (which he insisted on paying for), you declared, “I deserve somebody to love me with their whole heart, not just their dick, so I'm leaving and never coming back.”

“Please, don't leave.” You heard him say as you walked out of his room.

“Please, baby, don't leave me!” He frantically begged, his voice a loud shout, as he followed you down the hall in a run. Barefeet loudly slapping against the marble floor, sounding almost ominous.

Thank goodness his Grandma’am's hearing was starting to go bad, otherwise she'd be waking up and seeing one hell of a show. Also, thank goodness Tigress moved out years ago, otherwise she'd be a witness to a messy breakup.

A breakup that was long overdue.

You ignored him, only to power walk to the main entrance of the penthouse. You were almost to the door whenever you felt his cold, long fingers wrap around your wrist like an octopus’ tentacles.

“Please, stay the night. We can discuss this in the morning, just-just don't leave me, little dove.” You heard him beg, sounding so unlike his confident self.

A part of you wanted to give in; turn around and melt into his arms. But another part of you, the part that has grown up with Coriolanus and has seen him manipulate everyone around him knew that he was just saying whatever he has to in order to pull your puppet strings; make you stay.

You decided not to turn around, not to give into him. Instead you roughly pulled yourself free of his hold and walked out the door.

You knew that the platinum blonde wouldn't dare follow you, since running after you naked with his well hung junk swinging in the wind would be scandalous.

Unknown to you, after you walked out the door and slammed it shut in his face, Coriolanus quickly ran to his room and tossed on his diagarded pants and shirt from the evening. He ran out the door, barefoot and still buttoning up his wrinkled shirt, in hopes of catching you in the lobby.

Since you were in the only elevator the building has, he ran down the 12 flights of exquisite marble stairs to reach the lobby. Nearly slipping and busting his ass a couple of times too.

But when he reached the lobby it was too late, you were getting into the back of a cab you hailed. As Coriolanus ran to the door of the lobby, he felt his cold, dead, black, too small of a heart shatter into a million pieces as he watched you close the cab’s door with tears shining like diamonds in your eyes.

Seeing you crying in the back of the cab while leaving him, something he knew that neither of you wanted, made him determined to get you back.

If he thought that Lucy Gray betraying and leaving him hurt, well you leaving him because you felt that he couldn't reciprocate your feelings of love (because he was going to have an arranged marriage with Livia Cardew for political reasons) gutted him. Made him feel like he wanted to die.

Coriolanus wanted you; he always has. It's why you've been together, on-off, since your freshman year at the Academy.

He has to woo you back. He just has to.

Because the thought of you moving on with another man just doesn't sit right with him.

It doesn't matter that Coriolanus’ engagement with Livia Cardew will be publicly announced soon, he needs you back.

He can't have another bird of his flying away, can he?

Ending your decade long on-off situationship with the Head Gamemaker Coriolanus Snow hurt. Oh gods, it hurt so fucking bad! You felt like you’re just going thru the motions everyday after the breakup. Like you’re just surviving, not truly living, since you’re so sad.

So heartbroken.

And what hurts the most was that, even tho you knew you could never truly be with him, you still love him.

And you'll probably always love him in a way, even tho he'll never love you. Because he's your first love; they say you never forget your first love. That you'll always have a special spot on your heart carved out just for them.

So when you saw the engagement announcement for Livia Cardew and Coriolanus Snow in the social pages of the newspaper, you thought you were going to be sick.

The picture used for the announcement was professionally done; made the newly engaged couple look so lovely together. It made you sad to say, but they did make quite a match.

Two golden lions, regal with the world at their feet. Their blonde hair, her's a dirty golden shade and his a near white platinum blonde, styled impeccably set off their beauty. A beauty that was showcased in matching black outfits, hers a black tea dress with flowing sleeves and his a 3-piece suit with a red/black striped tie.

They looked every bit a couple of the old guard. A couple worthy of money, glory, and power. You're positive that Grandma'am’s proud of him.

If only you knew how she really felt. How Grandma'am Snow always thought that it'd be you and her grandson posting an engagement announcement in the social section of the newspaper. How she's so disappointed at Coriolanus for picking a heinous bitch instead of you, a girl who's soul reminds her so much of her beloved late daughter-in-law (Coriolanus' mother).

Then you couldn't help, but think that maybe Livia’s better for Coriolanus. Better than you are for him. Maybe he'd be happier with her than with you. After all, she came with the largest bank of Panem attached to her name and you came with nothing. You had no money or jewels to offer, just yourself.

And you weren't good enough for him.

Coriolanus Snow always craved power, wealth, and prestige. None of which you could offer him. None of which you gave a shit about.

All you wanted was to be loved, but he couldn't do that for you. All the cold hearted schemer could do was buy you fancy, luxurious, expensive things.

You had no idea that gifting was his love language. That he enjoyed seeing your face light up when he presented you with some gift that you'd never be able to afford on your own. He got pleasure out of spoiling you; taking care of you.

Unfortunately for him, you’re tired of being a kept woman. You don't want him to buy you a bunch of high end things. You want him and since he can't give you his love, you left. You decided to move on.

Which is why you blocked his number, because you had to move on and find somebody that you would be more than enough for. And you couldn't do that with him blowing up your phone constantly. You also started looking for a new apartment, because you couldn't keep having him dropping off roses at your doorstep all the time.

And since your mother to lived on the 8th floor of Corso apartment the Snow penthouse was in, it was a chore to avoid Coriolanus. So, to avoid any drama with him, you had to find a new apartment. You mother agreed; told you that to make a clean break you needed to leave the area. Move on from the part of town you were raised in; lived in.

You needed to fly on your own wings.

At least your job on the marketing team for Odair Luxury Cruises was safe from him. And that job did come with a sweet perk of allowing employees the opportunity of affordable housing in a select few luxury apartments near the downtown Capitol office building the company was headquartered in.

So at least your apartment hunting wouldn't be too hard.

You were right, your apartment hunt wasn't hard at all. In fact, due to your employment at Odair Luxury Cruises, you were able to secure yourself a 4th floor apartment at the Luxe, right in the bustling downtown of Capitol City, Panem.

Apartment #455 to be exact.

It was a lovely apartment with a courtyard view. It had 9 foot ceilings and white kitchen cabinetry in what could only be a top of the line kitchen. The open layout of the kitchen and living space has a modern feel to it. The lone bedroom in the apartment was very spacious and even had a walk-in closet; the apartment had a small study as well.

It was definitely an upgrade from your mother's apartment, which was nice due to the Plinths fixing it up after buying the building and moving onto the 11th floor roughly 4 years ago. (Unknown to you, Strabo Plinth did the bare minimum repairs to your mother's apartment and furnished it because Coriolanus asked him -more like nagged him- to.)

You're Luxe apartment wasn't as lavish as the Corso penthouse Coriolanus shares with his Grandma’am (the same penthouse he used to bring you to for all of those booty calls over the years) but that didn't matter. All that mattered was that you thought your new apartment was amazing.

And after moving in, you stopped receiving roses at your doorstep. Thank the gods. But since your new building had a doorman, you knew that was the reason you didn't have any more stalkery type floral arrangements waiting for you at your threshold.

And roughly a week or so after moving into your new place, you met your neighbor from across the hall.

#454

It was a typical morning, you had a travel mug of coffee in your hand and was dressed professionally in a pencil skirt and blouse (of course you're wearing those damn kitten heels he who shall not be named- as your older brother’s girlfriend calls your ex-fling of sorts- got you.) as you stepped out into the hallway of your apartment. Usually you never saw your neighbor across the hall, but this morning he rushed out the door- his shaggy bronze hair rustling around his shoulders- and his stunning sea-green eyes locked onto yours.

“Why, you must be new. I've never seen you before.” The tall and extremely handsome man smiles flirtatiously at you. Crossing the hall, to stand in front of you, he introduced himself. “Name’s Odysseus Odair.” Doing a little bow, he smiled a bit too brightly, “The pleasure’s all mine, my abalone pearl.”

Holy shit, is the heir of Odair Luxury Cruises your neighbor and flirting with you right now? No. No, it couldn't be. This has to be a dream.

Except it's not a dream and the heir to a large cruise company in District 4 that's based in the Capitol is really your flirty and handsome neighbor.

“You're Poseidon Odair’s son, heir to Odair Luxury Cruises?” Was all you could manage to get out.

“Yes, that's me, but your name would've worked better for your part of the introduction.” He laughed, the sound similar to the kree-ar call a seagull makes. Shaking his head, causing his bronze hair to skirt around his collared dress shirt (which has a few of the buttons undone to show off his tan and toned chest) he teased, “Usually that's how introductions work, pretty pearl, cause I already know who I am and want to know who you are.”

“I'm Y/N Halvir; I only know who you are because I work in the marketing department for your father's company.”

“Yes, your name sounds familiar.” Odysseus nods with a bright, closed lip smile that makes his cheeks dimple. “You need a ride to the office? I was heading there myself.”

You shook your head, quickly turning down his offer. “Oh, no, I don't want to bother you.”

“Oh, trust me, you won't be a bother.” He said with a flirty glint in his sea-green eyes. “In fact, we’ll go to the corner cafe; get some coffee, donuts, and call it our first date.”

You couldn't help, but giggle at his proposition. He couldn't be serious, could he?

But the way his sunshine like smile was aimed towards you made you realize that he was serious.

Which is why you smiled back and said, “Okay, let's have our first date before work.”

Holding his arm out, like a gentleman, Odysseus winked. “I'll even take you out tonight for seafood.” A sultry look appeared in his eyes as he told you, “I’ll make sure that the dessert's a mouthwatering, delicious one for our second date.”

Odysseus' innuendo didn't go unnoticed by you. And after everything you've been thru with Coriolanus, along with being single for roughly a month now, you decided that it was time to stop pouting over somebody that doesn't give a shit about you.

That it was time to let somebody new have a chance at loving you.

“That sounds like a plan.” You smiled, walking down the hallway arm in arm with the tall bronze man that was sculpted like a Greek god of old. “I'll make sure to wear a nice dress for the occasion.”

“Yes, please do. Even if I'm not one for dressing up, the place I'm taking you to does have a dress code.”

“A dress code similar to Avelina's?” You asked, assuming that whatever fancy seafood place Odysseus was taking you too would be similar in fashion sense to the restaurant Coriolanus took you to every year for your birthday, once you turned 19. (Would've been nice to go there more than once a year, but you figured your ex was just too embarrassed to be seen out in public with you too much since you weren't off the same pedigree as him).

“Ugh, I hate that place. It's so stuffy; reeks of old money.” Odysseus complained as the elevator came into view. Shaking his head, he explained, “Ocean Prime's not a black tie affair dress code, like Avelina's, but more of a nice cocktail dress and button up type of dress code.” Coming to a stop at the elevator bank, he pressed the call button for it and asked, “Do you own the classic little black dress? If so, it'd be perfect for dinner tonight.”

Nodding, you simply told him, “I own one.”

And you only owned one because all of the cocktail dresses you owned were commissioned by Coriolanus- for his cousin Tigris to design and make- and they were all various shades of white, red, and pink. You only had one little black dress because you had bought it yourself, with your own hard earned money, off of a clearance rack. It wasn't anything fancy and you never wore it, since Coriolanus always wanted you to match him if and when he took you somewhere.

So, tonight your little black dress will finally get worn. Worn for your second date with a man who seems warm like sunshine with sea-green eyes that twinkle dreamily.

It's been nearly a month since you left Coriolanus and he's not taking it too well. He never thought that you'd truly leave him. He always just assumed that you'd be there.

He knows now that he took you for granted. It's something that he regrets everyday, whether he admits it or not.

And what gnaws at Coriolanus is how you ignored every single attempt he made to win you back. Blocking his number and moving to a new apartment, in his opinion, was an extreme way to avoid him.

Your bitch of a mother, who smoked more than a chimney and drank more than a fish, refused to give Coriolanus your new number. She also refused to tell him your new address. He literally had to pay off somebody in the HR department of Odair Luxury Cruises to get him your new info. Which turned out to be useless since the doorman at the Luxe apartments was very strict when it came to adhering to the wishes of the residents when it came to who was and wasn't allowed to visit or leave things for them and wouldn't let him pass the door. Even when he flashed a large wad of cash at the man, he still refused to budge.

Ugh, moral people were the boil on Coriolanus' ass.

Coriolanus was tempted to just show up and corner you at work, but he ended up deciding against it. But only because he had political ambitions and didn't want a scene to be caused (one that he feels you would cause) that could be damning to his image.

He was sacrificing so much for his political dreams. Listening to Strabo Plinth and getting engaged to Livia Cardew, to gain more wealth and some political goals. Because if he couldn't become a Senator and, of course, after that the President of Panem then wouldn't his greatest sacrifice- his loss of you, be all for nothing?

One afternoon Coriolanus was neck deep in work, but he found himself staring at a framed picture on his desk. It was a picture of the two of you. One that was taken at the Yule Ball during Senior year at the University. It was his favorite picture of the two of you, which is why he has it framed on his desk.

But before he could get lost in the memory of that night, a knock sounded at his office door. Tearing his gaze off of the picture frame, he looked up to the door and simply said, “Come in.”

“Sir, your fiance's here to see you.” Coriolanus' personal secretary, a middle-aged woman who's hot pink lipstick matched her pixie cut, informed him while walking into the office.

“About what, Marge?” Asked Coriolanus while blinking his eyes- attempting to soothe the pain in them from the hot pink overload he was experiencing.

His corneas couldn't handle looking at his secretary’s hot pink paisley print dress since it made her hair stand out more. He also tried not to stare at his employee too rudely while noticing her fuchsia dyed eyebrows and matching pink mascara- that oddly framed a natural eyelid.

Averting his eyes back to his computer, (*cough* his framed picture of you *cough*) Coriolanus told Marge, “I'm busy; I don't have time to deal with her petty antics today.”

“I know that, Sir. I even told Miss Cardew that you're very busy planning the upcoming games, but she wouldn't hear it. She's demanding that I buzz her in; let her see you.”

“Well, don't.” Coriolanus told his secretary because the last thing he wanted to do was talk to his fiance, Livia Cardew.

Gods, how he hated that woman.

“What do you want me to tell her then, Sir?” Marge asked.

“That I'm in a meeting and can't see her at the moment.”

“Okay, but what kind of meeting?” The secretary asked, knowing full well that the dirty blonde Tasmanian devil of a woman out in the lobby would ream her out if she didn't have any details to give her. Saying in a meeting wouldn't suffice that shrew.

“Tell her I'm networking with somebody about the mass installation of mandatory TVs in the districts.” The cold, callous, platinum blonde man said without skipping a beat.

“I thought you successfully had that meeting yesterday?” The secretary asked in a tone that implied she knew her boss was a cunning piece of shit.

“I did, but she doesn't know that.” Coriolanus smirked.

“No, I suppose she doesn't.” Marge giggled. A giddy look took over the middle aged woman's face as she told her boss, “I saw Miss Halvir last night at Ocean’s Prime. It's a seafood restaurant.”

“What's she doing there? She can't afford it with what she makes working in the marketing department of that District 4 based cruise line.” Coriolanus scoffed. Giving his personal secretary a curious look, he asked, “And what were you doing there? I know you can't afford a place like that either.”

Marge fought hard to keep herself from rolling her fuschia framed eyes at Mr. Snow's offhand remarks about money. What both she and you couldn't afford. With a fake and forced smile, she told the imposing platinum blonde, “I was there because my daughter and her partner just celebrated their one year anniversary; the reason for Miss Halvir being there was that she was out on a date.”

“A DATE?!” Coriolanus asked in a loud roar.

A date. How dare you go out on a date. You're not supposed to be going out on dates. You're supposed to be his.

Despite being separated for nearly a month, you still belong to him. Hell, he took your virginity when you both were green kids at the Academy. As far as he's concerned, he owns your pussy.

“Yes, a date.” The bright pink-haired secretary confirmed before telling her boss, “With Odysseus Odair, the heir of Odair Luxury Cruises.”

“WHAT THE FUCK!?” Coriolanus loudly cursed, his icy blue eyes blazing with white hot anger.

You went out on a date to some high priced seafood (Since when did you eat seafood, other than those oysters rockefeller appetizers he orders for you two when he takes you to Avelina's for your birthday?) restaurant with Odair- the biggest manwhore in all of the Capitol!

What the hell's wrong with you? You accuse him of not loving you, of just wanting you for kinky sexy, but here you are going out on a date with Odysseus Odair. The biggest fuck ‘em and leave ‘em guy in the Capitol. Hell, probably in all of Panem.

Marge was taken aback by her boss's reaction to finding out that you were on a date with Odysseus Odair the previous night. The middle-aged woman's never seen the cold and collective head gamemaker lose control before. And she didn't know how to deal with it.

All she wanted to do was spread some juicy gossip and to maybe tip him off that the Odair heir might be bringing a plus one to his upcoming engagement party; one that he's well acquainted with. Marge certainly wasn't expecting Coriolanus to start flipping his shit.

But what Marge didn't know was that Coriolanus is pea green with envy. That he wants to destroy Odysseus Odair because he's with you.

The woman that he's in love with, even if he won't allow himself to admit his feelings. Because he vowed to never ever fall in love after everything that transpired between him and Lucy Gray that summer he served as a peacekeeper in 12.

But love is something that can't be controlled. And that's something Coriolanus will learn first hand as he does everything in his power to get you back. To win you away from one Odysseus Odair, the bane of his existence.

Tags: @kuroosbby001 @purriteen @poppyflower-22 @meetmeatyourworst @whipwhoops @bxtchopolis @readingthingsonhere @savagenctzen @ryswritingrecord @erikasurfer @tulips2715 @universal-s1ut @thesmutconnoisseur @squidscottjeans @sudek4l @wearemadeofstardust0 @mashiromochi @gracieroxzy @belcalis9503 @shari-berri @aoi-targaryen @whiteoakoak @spear-bearing-bi-witch @gisellesprettylies @loverandqueenofdragons @qoopeeya @mfnqueen1 @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @v-love @swiftieblyth @joyfulyouthlover

434 notes · View notes

zaynessbeloved · 2 months ago

Text

A Duke's Promise

Synopsis: In a world of whispered expectations and carefully arranged futures, your life was meant to unfold quietly beside your sister’s—until the man promised to her began to look at you instead.

The Duke of Ravencourt was meant to be hers. Courted her with duty, danced with her out of tradition. But slowly—delicately—his eyes began to wander. To you.

Content warnings: Regency Era AU, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love, Arranged Marriage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Tender Romance, From Courtship to Marriage, First Time Feelings, Mutual Pining, Letters as Love Language, First Kiss in a Garden, Longing Across Ballrooms, Dancing as a Love Language, Love Confessions, Marriage Proposal, Wedding Night, Honeymoon Seclusion, Flash Forward Epilogue, Loving Marriage, Reader is Pregnant in the Epilogue, First Time, Consummation After Marriage, Fingering (implied), Oral (female receiving), Breeding Kink (soft & emotional), Table Sex, Library Sex, Bath Intimacy, Hand Kisses through Gloves, Stolen Glances.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 6.3

Chapter 6

The morning sun crept through your windows like a whisper. It kissed the folds of your bedding, tangled in your hair, brushed across the slope of your bare shoulder.

You stirred slowly, eyes blinking open to the familiar softness of your chamber. And for a moment—just a moment—you forgot the world. Then the memory came. Not just the act, but the feeling. The way your fingers had trembled. The way your breath had broken. The way your body had shattered beneath the weight of want.

A soft heat bloomed across your chest. But you rose. You dressed. You smiled at your sister over breakfast. And the world continued.

The week passed like mist. Half-formed. Fleeting. Days stitched together by the motions of routine—tea with your mother, idle strolls through the garden, light conversation with the few Lords who still came to call.

The Duke did not. And while your heart pulled toward the door at the sound of every carriage, you did not ask. You did not linger. You buried yourself instead in other things.

The modiste’s shop was quiet that morning. Soft golden light poured through the tall windows, glinting off pale satin and embroidered lace. Bolts of silk lined the walls—blush, ivory, storm blue, moss green. And then—violet. Subtle. Cool. A shade that leaned closer to silver when caught in the right light.

You touched it, fingers trailing lightly across the fabric.

“That one,” you said, voice calm, steady.

The seamstress raised a brow. “A bold choice, miss.”

You smiled faintly. “Not too bold. Just enough.”

The dress was to be worn for the upcoming ball. It would be simple in cut, but elegant in detail. A soft sweep across your collarbone. A deeper hue embroidered at the hem. No overt statement—but a whisper of something beneath. Something his.

When you returned home, your sister was waiting with a knowing smile.

“Did you choose?” Eleanora asked, folding her hands over the back of the settee.

“Mm,” you nodded, setting down your gloves. “A soft violet.”

Eleanora’s brow rose with mirth. “Violet?”

“Nothing scandalous,” you added quickly, though your cheeks already warmed. “Muted. Tasteful.”

“Still,” your sister said, grinning now. “That is twice now you’ve worn his colors.”

A pause. Then—gentle teasing: “If you wear anything bolder, Mother will think you’ve already eloped with the Duke of Ravencourt.”

You laughed—genuinely. A sweet, breathless laugh that crinkled your eyes.

“It’s not for him,” you tried to argue, though the color in your cheeks betrayed you. “It’s just… a shade I rather like.”

Eleanora tilted her head.

“And I suppose the way you keep staring into nothing, half-smiling like a girl writing poetry, has nothing to do with him either?”

You turned away, flustered. “I was thinking about… books.”

Your sister only laughed louder. “Of course. Books.”

But that night, when you looked at the dress again—half-pinned and waiting on the mannequin—you did think of him. Of how his eyes might follow the line of the embroidery. Of whether he’d notice the color. Of whether he’d know—somehow—that it was for him. Your stomach fluttered. Your thighs warmed. And you whispered his name to the empty room before blowing out the candle.

The violet dress waited for you like a secret kept in silk. It stood on the mannequin near your window, half-shadowed by the sinking afternoon sun, the embroidery along its hem catching just enough light to whisper his name in the quiet.

You reached for it slowly, fingertips grazing the fabric—soft, cool, barely daring. You had chosen it with care. Not to be bold. But to remember. And now, with the ball mere hours away, you could not stop thinking about how he might look at you.

If he even came. If he even saw. If he knew that this shade, muted and swept into soft folds, was for him. You dressed in silence. The maids moved around you with quiet hands and soft pins. But your mind was not here.

It was in a gallery—where your glove had fallen away, and his cheek leaned into your palm like a man offering confession. It was in your bed—where your hand trembled between your thighs, his name against your tongue. It was everywhere he’d touched, even if it had only been words.

You sat before the mirror while your hair was styled, gaze unfocused, cheeks already tinged with something warmer than rouge. And when Eleanora entered, pausing in the doorway in her pale green gown, she said nothing at first. Only smiled. You caught her reflection beside yours—both of you painted in candlelight, violet and moss, desire and patience.

“You look lovely,” she said.

You smiled faintly, smoothing a hand over your skirt. “Do I?”

“You do.” She stepped closer, eyes catching on the faint shimmer at your sleeves. “Though you look more like you’re dressing for one set of eyes, rather than an entire ballroom.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “It’s just a dress.”

“Of course,” she said, laughing softly. “And he’s just a Duke.”

You met her eyes in the mirror. She said nothing else. And neither did you. Because what could be said? Only that your heart beat too fast. Only that your fingers trembled when you reached for your fan. Only that you were about to walk into a ballroom with his colors on your skin. And if he was there—if he saw— What then?

The ballroom blooms before you in full, shimmering color. Light spills from chandeliers like golden rain, pooling across polished floors and silk-covered shoulders. The air is thick with warmth and perfume, with laughter threaded between music and the clinking of crystal. You step into it slowly, your gloved hand resting against your sister’s arm for a moment—only a moment—before you part ways, each swallowed gently by the sea of elegance.

The gown hugs you like a memory. Soft violet sweeping along the floor with every movement, silver thread catching just enough light to whisper along your waist and the inside of your sleeves. You feel watched—but not seen. Not by him. Not yet.

And so, you move through the room with grace and ease. Smiling. Conversing. Letting compliments roll off your shoulders like dew off velvet. But every time a gentleman asks for your hand in dance, you smile a little softer—a little more regretfully—and offer a gentle refusal.

“Perhaps later, My Lord.” you say, each time.

And inside—you know why. You are waiting for him. Even if you won’t admit it aloud. Even if you don’t know if he’ll come.

The music swells. The fire crackles in its golden cages along the walls. The scent of roses, champagne, and warmth clings to the air. You make your way toward the refreshment table at the far end of the room. You’re not hungry. You’re not thirsty. You’re only… adrift. Caught between longing and restraint.

You reach for a crystal glass of something cool. The condensation beads against your glove. And that’s when you hear it. A quiet shift in air behind you. The sense of being seen. Not watched. Seen. And then—

“My lady.”

You turn. He stands before you. Rafayel. The Duke of Ravencourt. Tall. Poised. Devastating in black and deep plum, a silver raven pinned to his lapel. His hair swept back with careless elegance. His gaze—Oh. His gaze is hungry. Not in a way that devours. But in the way that worships.

As if you’re art made flesh and he has just walked into the gallery again— only this time, you’re wearing his colors again and nothing else matters. You try to speak, but the air leaves your lungs. His eyes flick downward, briefly, tracing the curve of the violet silk along your arm. The way it dips at your collarbone. The shimmer at your waist.

“That color,” he murmurs.

Just that. Like a prayer. Like a promise. And when his gaze lifts back to yours, it says everything you’ve waited to hear. You feel the heat before you feel the words. His voice drapes across your spine like velvet—and despite your best efforts, your breath catches. But you turn with practiced ease. You face him fully. And curtsy. Just as you’ve done a hundred times before.

“Your Grace.”

Polite. Perfect. Measured. But your cheeks betray you. That soft flush spreads—first across your cheekbones, then down the curve of your throat where the violet gown dips low enough to tempt.

He sees it. And though a smirk curls faintly at the corner of his mouth— he does not lean into it. He does not tease. Not yet. Instead, he watches you for a moment longer, eyes drinking in the sight of you wrapped in silk and silver. And then—

“You refused every dance, My Lady.”

You lower your gaze, lashes brushing the tops of your cheeks as you lift your glass to your lips. The champagne is cool. Your skin is not.

“Not every dance, My Lord.” you reply lightly, your voice smooth but soft.

He tilts his head slightly. “No?”

You meet his eyes now. And that’s a mistake. Because his gaze pins you in place, threaded with heat and something gentler beneath—something that makes your knees go soft and your fan feel useless in your hand.

“I wasn’t… in the mood, I suppose,” you say.

Almost casual. Almost. His brow lifts just slightly.

“You? Not in the mood to dance?” he murmurs, voice low. “And here I thought the season was built for women like you.”

You blink. “Women like me?”

He leans in—just enough to lower his voice, not enough to make a scene.

“The kind who wear violet and steal the breath of men without trying.”

Your cheeks flare deeper. But you hold his gaze. You can’t not.

“That’s a rather bold compliment, Your Grace,” you murmur, the edges of your lips betraying the faintest curve. He straightens just slightly. His voice softens.

“Then let me make an even bolder one.” He extends his hand. Palm open. Eyes steady. “Dance with me.”

You glance down at his offered hand. Not quickly. Not eagerly. Slowly. As though weighing the gesture. And then— you lift your eyes. He watches you. Unmoving. A single brow lifted, the corner of his mouth soft with something that’s not quite a smile. You tilt your head, voice quiet, silk-edged.

“Are you certain, My Lord? You might find yourself regretting it halfway through.”

His lips twitch—just slightly. Not a smirk. Something warmer.

“I’ve regretted many things,” he murmurs. “But not once have I imagined that dancing with you would be among them.”

You pretend to consider. A flicker of your lashes. A faint, knowing breath. And then—you place your hand in his. He closes his fingers around yours as though relieved. As though the space between your hands had been waiting to be bridged all night. The contact is brief—measured. But you feel it. In your wrist. In your stomach. Between your thighs.

The memory strikes like lightning. That night. That ache. That release. And suddenly the feel of his hand around yours becomes too much. But not enough. Never enough.

He leads you onto the floor. The music is soft now— a waltz that rolls like a heartbeat through the room, subtle and rich, each note blooming with candlelight. His hand finds the curve of your waist. His other clasps yours in the air. And the dance begins.

You exhale slowly, calming the flutter in your chest. You meet his gaze with calm precision. And you speak.

“The gallery still haunts me,” you say lightly. “Though perhaps that’s only because you insist on saying things in rooms full of portraits that can’t defend themselves, My Lord.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but doesn’t interrupt. You continue, words gentle, deflective.

“Or perhaps it’s your fault for walking so quietly. It’s terribly unnerving when you just… appear. I’ve never seen a Duke emerge from candlelight so casually. It’s almost theatrical.”

His eyes stay on yours, amused. But he says nothing. Not yet. His hand shifts just slightly at your waist. And it burns. Not from pressure—there is none. Just the barest contact. But you feel it down your spine, all the way to your knees. You keep talking. You have to.

“I was thinking earlier, actually, about having a small gathering—perhaps something with music and poetry. Something less formal. Do you ever attend such things, My Lord? Or is that beneath your station?”

He leans in, just enough to lower his voice beneath the music.

“Tell me—are you trying to distract me, or yourself?”

You falter. Just a breath. But it’s enough. His smile grows—quiet, reverent, burning beneath the surface.

“Because if it’s the latter, my lady…” His gaze flicks briefly to your lips. “I should warn you. It isn’t working.”

You falter. It is not dramatic. It is not a stumble. It is a breath. Just one—that hitches in your throat when he says it isn’t working. Because it isn’t. Your composure is a thread pulled taut across a flame. Your smile is a veil beneath which your skin burns.

And in the silence between notes, you remember it again— the heat of your hand, the ache between your thighs, the helpless whisper of his name against your pillow. You remember the way your hips arched. How your fingers trembled. How the world narrowed to that place—where no one had ever touched, where he touched only in memory.

Your breath catches. Your lips part. Just slightly. And his gaze—it flickers. Lower. Lingering. But you recover. Of course you do. You blink once—slow and regal—and the mask of grace returns, lips curling just enough to make him wonder.

“You give yourself too much credit, My Lord,” you say, voice smooth, only slightly breathless. “I’m merely trying to avoid saying something scandalous in the middle of a waltz.”

He smiles now. A quiet, devastating thing.

“Pity,” he murmurs. “I live for scandalous waltzes.”

You huff a breath—half-laugh, half-sigh. “And here I thought you were above such things.”

“My lady,” he says, stepping into the final turn, “I’m the Duke of Ravencourt. I’m never above anything that makes you blush like that.”

Your cheeks flare instantly. And his smile—his smile—deepens, eyes never leaving yours. The music slows. The final notes linger in the air like warm smoke. And still—he does not let go. His hand remains in yours. His fingers press just slightly tighter. As though he’s reluctant to break the connection. As though the silence between you is more enticing than the next set.

“You must be thirsty, My Lady,” he says casually, as he begins to lead you from the floor. “All that effort to pretend you weren’t thinking of me.”

You gasp. Not aloud. Not enough for anyone to see. But he feels it. You feel it too—between your ribs, between your legs.

“Your Grace—” you begin, horrified.

“Come,” he says, lips curved in smug reverence. “Let’s get you something sweet and cold. Your cheeks are absolutely glowing.”

And you—you blush. Deeper than before. Because now the glow isn’t just from the dance or the ballroom— It’s from your memory. Your body. Him.

The ballroom dimmed behind you as he led you toward the refreshment table. You felt the brush of air across your shoulders, cooler here—the flickering light of sconces casting golden patterns over cut glass and linen. You could hear the rustle of skirts, the swell of another waltz, distant now, detached from the flame still curling through your spine.

Your hand slipped from his. But the memory of it remained. Every part of you buzzed. And between your thighs—that ache you thought you’d soothed days ago—returned. Low and blooming, cruelly patient.

You reached for a glass. The crystal felt slick beneath your fingertips. And your breath… still hadn’t found its rhythm. You lifted the glass to your lips and sipped. Cool sweetness. Not enough.

“I fear your presence is rather disruptive, Your Grace,” you said, voice soft, trying to veil your trembling with civility. He turned to face you, one brow arching in mock offense.

“Disruptive?”

You kept your gaze on the tray of sugared plums beside you, feigning interest in candied fruit to keep from staring at his mouth.

“Yes,” you said primly. “And your commentary—during dances, no less—is rather… unfit for a ballroom.”

“Is it?” His tone was pure indulgence. “I thought I was being perfectly decorous.”

“Perfectly—” You turned toward him, eyes narrowing faintly. “You said I pretended not to think of you, My Lord. In public.”

“Ah.” He lifted his glass, tipping it toward you. “That.”

Your cheeks burned again, a slow, creeping blush that rose from your collar to your ears. You took another sip to steady yourself. It didn’t help. Not when he leaned just a breath closer and added, “You know… the more flustered you look, the more I believe I’m right.”

You choked on a quiet breath and turned slightly away. But this time—you didn’t run. You waited. You composed yourself with another sip, another careful blink. And then—you turned back.

“Well,” you said, voice lighter now, though still velvet-soft. “If you must insist on saying things that make a lady blush, My Lord, perhaps I should begin saying things that make a Duke sweat.”

He stilled. Just a fraction. The amusement in his eyes shifted. Darkened. Curved into something far more dangerous.

“Should you?” he asked.

You tilted your head. Offering a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes—but curled like smoke.

“Perhaps. Just to even the score.”

His smile deepened. Not wicked. Not wild. Just that same quiet curve that made your stomach flutter and your knees soften—because it meant he was enjoying this. Not just your fluster. Your composure. Your dance around the truth.

“A Lady,” he said, sipping from his glass, “should only say such things if she’s prepared for what a Duke might do in response.”

His tone was perfectly even. His posture utterly relaxed. But beneath it all—you felt it. The coiled tension. The soft smolder behind his words, like heat trapped under velvet. You raised your brows lightly, willing your cheeks not to flush again. They flushed anyway.

“Then perhaps,” you murmured, voice smooth despite the rising warmth in your throat, “you should stop saying such scandalous things in public, Your Grace.”

He inclined his head, feigning thoughtfulness.

“Is this not a conversation about candied fruit and polite dancing?”

You tried not to laugh. You failed. A quiet breath of a chuckle escaped you, and the corner of his mouth twitched again, pleased. But your heart was racing. Your fingers trembled faintly around the stem of your glass. The ache—familiar now—had begun to bloom once more, slow and full beneath your corset, between your legs, up the curve of your throat.

You couldn’t stay here. Not in this ballroom. Not with him standing this close, looking at you like he already knew how you tasted in moonlight.

“Excuse me, My Lord.” you said gently, turning away.

And without another word—you walked.

The ballroom faded behind you, music growing distant as you slipped past the tall doors and into the garden beyond. Not that garden. Not the one with hidden corners and rose-draped trellises. This one was wider. Neater. Tamed. Manicured paths of crushed white stone curled between hedges, and above you, lanterns flickered with soft gold light, their glow catching on the pearl pins in your hair.

You paused near a fountain, the water whispering quietly in the hush. The cool night air pressed against your heated skin. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. Because your pulse told you everything. He would follow. And he did.

The garden had no shadows sharp enough to hide in. Everything was soft here. Lanterns swayed in the breeze above you, painting amber across trimmed hedges and pale gravel paths. The water from the fountain trickled in the background like a lullaby. A few guests passed near the entrance, laughter floating faint and far. But no one lingered this deep.

No one but you. And soon—him. You didn’t turn when you heard his steps. Didn’t need to. You felt him the way you’d felt the breeze tug at your skirts—subtle and certain, drawn to you as if by nature. He stopped a few paces behind. Waited. Then—

“You look like you were made to be here,” he said softly.

You turned slightly, hands folded in front of you, head tilted toward the stars above.

“Alone in the dark?” you asked, lips curving. “Hardly a compliment, Your Grace.”

“Not alone,” he murmured. You didn’t smile this time. Because now you were aware. Of everything. The breeze slipping over your skin. The memory of his hand at your waist. The throb between your thighs that pulsed anew with every breath. He stepped closer. You turned fully, watching him.

“This is unwise,” you said, voice quiet but steady. “I’m unchaperoned.”

His eyes searched yours. “I know.”

Another step. Closer now. Your breath fluttered in your chest.

“You shouldn't be here,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the path behind. “Not with me. Not again.”

His expression didn’t shift. Only his voice did. Low. Even. Unshaken.

“And yet we always end up here.”

Your heart pounded. He stepped close enough that you could feel the warmth of him again, just barely— “I won’t do anything,” he said, softly now. “Not in public. Not here.”

“Not until I’ve proposed to you properly.”

The words were a promise. Quiet. Weighty. You swallowed. Because he meant it. And yet—your body ached. You ached. And when you looked at him, at the way his chest rose and fell, the way his mouth stayed still but his eyes burned—you couldn’t stop yourself.

You slid your hand from your glove. Slowly. The cool air kissed your bare skin. And then—you extended it toward him.

Palm down. Fingers open. An offering. A confession. You didn’t wait for him to take your hand. Not yet. Instead, you stepped past him.Your skirts whispered across the stone, catching on low brush and hemmed grass. You moved toward the deeper part of the garden, where lanterns grew sparse and the light no longer kissed the earth with gold.

Behind you, his breath caught. But he followed. Of course he did. You didn’t turn to see. You only let the path curve around a tall hedge—into a space where moonlight filtered through vines, and the fountain's song had dulled to a murmur. No more voices. No more eyes. Only the sound of two heartbeats and the hush of wild roses swaying in the dark.

You stopped. The hem of your gown fluttered with the breeze. Your glove—still held in your left hand—hung like a forgotten ribbon. And then, slowly, with trembling breath, you extended your right hand again. Bare. Open. Offered.

He reached for it. This time, without hesitation. His fingers wrapped around yours—warm, sure, trembling at the edges. And then—he bowed his head. And kissed your palm. Not softly. But deeply.

As if this touch mattered. As if your skin was the page upon which he’d been waiting to write every word he’d never dared speak aloud. Your breath caught. Your chest rose too sharply. Your cheeks flushed. The heat spread again—slow and wicked. It dripped down your spine, settled in your belly, bloomed between your thighs. But still—you didn’t move. You didn’t pull away. You only looked at him—eyes wide, heart aching.

“This is unwise, my Lord.” you whispered again.

Your voice barely reached the air. It trembled like a flame.

He didn’t respond. Not right away. He only held your hand tighter—his thumb brushing slowly across your palm like a vow made flesh. And then—he stepped closer. The space between you vanished. You could feel the heat of him. His breath. The tremble in his restraint.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice low, barely touching the air between your lips.

You didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Just that. Bare. Honest. Yours. And he moved again—closer still. Your joined hands now between your bodies. Your chest rising into the space his breath filled. Your skin ached. The memory of his kiss on your palm still seared into your bones. And when you spoke next— your voice was so soft, it barely made it past your lips.

“You said… you burn for me.”

His gaze snapped to yours. You flushed deeper. T

“I—I want to know what that means. When it happens. What do you do?”

It was bold. Too bold. But the curiosity had become unbearable. And you wanted to understand. Not just your own ache. His.

His reaction was instant. Like flame leaping to silk. His grip tightened just slightly. Not to hurt. To anchor. His eyes went darker—something raw unfurling behind the blue. He inhaled sharply, chest rising hard against his coat. You startled. Just slightly. But you didn’t move away. And he didn’t make you wait.

“I think of you,” he said, voice strained and quiet. “Of your voice. Your hands. The way you look when you’re flustered. The way you say My Lord when you’re trying not to fall apart.”

Your stomach dropped. Your knees threatened to soften.

“And I take myself in hand,” he murmured. “Until the ache stops.”

Your breath hitched—loud and helpless in the quiet.

“Sometimes it doesn’t stop.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe. Because now your body was throbbing. Between your legs—hot, wet, aching with memory and want. And then—his eyes searched yours. His voice gentled again, reverent, low. “Did you?”

You blinked.

“Did you take my advice? Did you touch yourself, My Lady?”

The world tilted. Your mouth opened—no sound came. Your cheeks flushed deep, blood rushing hot to your face, to your chest, down your spine. And he saw it. He knew. His breath left him in a slow, ragged exhale. As if the answer wrecked him.

The silence between you pulsed like a second heartbeat. His fingers remained wrapped around your hand, thumb brushing the knuckle, slow and steady. But his breath—you felt the weight of it shift. Waiting.

You turned your eyes away. The garden pressed close. Roses swayed in the dark. The air smelled of stone and dusk and violets. The ache between your legs throbbed—deep, low, wet. Your lips parted. And your voice came out soft. Not shaking. But barely there.

“I did.” His thumb stilled. “I touched myself.”

You swallowed, your cheeks already flushed to your collarbones.

“That night… after the gallery. I couldn't stop thinking about you, My Lord.”

You dared to glance up. His eyes were locked on you. Purple. Burning. Wrecked. You tried to speak again. Tried to breathe through the heat crawling beneath your stays, between your thighs, into the tips of your fingers.

“It felt—” A pause. “It felt like falling apart. And I… I said your name.”

The reaction was instant. His hand slid up your arm, just a breath. Not grabbing—feeling. His eyes closed, jaw clenched, breath trembling out of him like it hurt to hold it in.

“My Lady—” he exhaled, voice frayed. He opened his eyes. “You have no idea what you’ve just done to me.”

Your breath caught. He stepped closer. So close, your skirt brushed his boots. So close, you could feel his body radiating heat.

“Do you know,” he whispered, “what it does to a man—this man—knowing you touched yourself and said his name?”

You shivered. His hand cupped your jaw then—gentle, shaking. “I’ve dreamt of your voice saying it while I was buried inside you.”

Your knees weakened. A soft gasp escaped you. Not shameful. Only aching. Your body lit up again, throbbing between your thighs. And all you could do was whisper— “My Lord…”

You were trembling. Not from the cold. From him. From his voice—still low and trembling with its own restraint. From the image he painted so easily, so devastatingly—"Buried inside you."

You didn’t know. Not fully. Not in the way a man did. Not in the way a married woman might. You only knew that after vows were made and the papers signed, the union was… consummated. A word whispered between chambermaids. A word that made your skin flush, though you never quite knew why.

You knew it involved closeness. Skin. A bed. Him, maybe, on top of you, whispering my lady as you burned just like this—but you didn’t know. And that unknown—wrapped in the ache between your thighs, in the heavy air between your bodies—left you dizzy. You swayed. He caught you. Not possessively. Protectively.

His hand—warm and sure—slid gently to your waist. His other still held your bare hand.

“Miss Everleigh…” he murmured, voice hushed with concern, with reverence. “Steady now.”

You looked up at him. Eyes wide. Lips parted. And then—quietly, trembling— “I don’t understand, My Lord.”

His brow furrowed. Not in frustration. In care. “What don’t you understand, My Lady?”

Your breath hitched. Your fingers curled faintly against his. “When you said… when you said that, just now. What you’d dream of. What you’d do. I—”

You flushed so hard it nearly stung.

“I only know the… the term. Consummation. After marriage. But not… not how. Not what it means.”

Your voice broke on that last word. And he—he exhaled. Long. Careful. Pained. As though your honesty undid him more than any touch ever could.

“You don’t know,” he said gently, “what it means to have a man inside you.”

You shook your head, just barely. The pulse between your legs throbbed harder. Your throat ached from the tightness of it. He swallowed. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist.

He held you. Not tightly. Not demandingly. Just enough to keep you steady as the garden seemed to sway beneath your feet. His fingers splayed against your waist. His other hand still cradled yours—bare, offered, sacred. You stared at his chest—unable to meet his eyes just yet. And he let you. The silence between you thickened, soft and heavy like a velvet curtain. Then—his voice.

“When a man and a woman are married,” he began, slowly, “it is expected that they consummate the bond.”

You nodded faintly.

“But it isn’t just a ritual,” he said. “It’s… it’s physical. And intimate. And if done with care—” He paused. His thumb stroked the back of your hand. “—it can be beautiful, Miss Everleigh.”

Your breath stuttered in your chest. He drew in a careful breath of his own, gaze lowered to where your hands rested between you.

“When a man loves a woman, he longs to be close. Closer than words, closer than breath. He wants to touch her skin. Taste her sighs. Feel her body open to him.”

You shivered. You didn't mean to. Your thighs pressed closer together. He noticed. His voice didn’t change. Didn’t falter.

“He lays her down. Gently. With her permission. And then he lays himself over her.”

A pause. Your lips parted. You looked up at him. He met your gaze.

“And if she is ready… if she aches for him as much as he aches for her—he enters her.”

You gasped softly. Your hand twitched in his. His thumb circled your wrist. Slow. Patient.

“It doesn’t happen all at once. Not the first time. Her body needs time. Softness. Guidance.” He stepped closer. “And when he’s inside her, My Lady… it is not just an act of claiming. It is a joining.”

Your knees nearly gave.

“He moves,” he continued, voice nearly trembling, “not to hurt, but to bring her pleasure. To ease the ache. To worship her.”

You stared at him. Eyes wide. Cheeks aflame. Your body throbbing.

“Does that… hurt?” you whispered.

“Only if rushed,” he said gently. “But if she’s ready…” He exhaled. “Then it can feel like… nothing else.”

Your thighs clenched. You could feel the heat there now, stronger than before—soaking through layers of fabric, pressing against your corset, your breath, your soul. And then—he asked again. His voice nearly undone.

“Are you ready to understand… what you do to me when you say these things?”

The world had fallen silent. Only the garden breathed around you now—roses trembling in the breeze, stone warm beneath your slippers, moonlight pouring silver through the leaves. And him. So close you could feel his breath brush your forehead. So close your body felt like it was reaching for his without permission.

Your thighs pressed together again—tighter. The ache between them had grown unbearable. Not painful. Just… hungry. So full. So warm. So wet. And still—he only held your hand. Spoke. Steadying you. Ruining you. Your voice trembled. Your eyes were wet—not from sadness, but from the sheer, unbearable want pulsing through you like a second heartbeat.

“My body…” you whispered. “It—hurts. When you speak like that.”

You gasped softly. Shocked by your own honesty. But he didn’t flinch. His grip on your hand tightened. His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with something that made your knees weaken again.

“Here?” he asked, his voice low, reverent.

He didn’t touch you. But his gaze dropped—just for a moment—to your lower belly. Your thighs. You nodded. Unable to speak.

“That ache,” he said gently, “is the need I spoke of. The one your body now knows.”

You bit your lip. Your cheeks were hot. Your pulse thundered. “And if…” you began, breathless. “If we wed…” Your voice broke. You swallowed. “If I became your wife…Your Duchess… is that what would happen?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. And his voice—his voice was nothing but truth.

“If you became my wife,” he said, slowly, carefully, “I would lay you down and make love to you until you no longer remembered what it meant to ache.”

You gasped. A sound half-sob, half-sigh. Your knees nearly gave. One hand shot out, gripping the lapel of his coat just to stay upright. He didn’t pull you in. He didn’t take more. But his hand curled around yours at your waist, steadying you with fingers that trembled.

“I would take my time,” he whispered. “Teach your body what pleasure means. Show you how it feels to be worshipped. Filled. Over and over again.”

Your mouth opened—no sound came. Tears pricked your lashes. Not sorrow. Only the ache of longing, sharpened now to something shattering. You tried to breathe. Tried to speak. But your lips barely formed the words.

“My… My Lord—”

Your hand fisted in his coat. Not to pull him closer. To stay upright. Because your body felt weightless, trembling, burning. Your knees too soft. Your chest too tight. The space between your legs pulsing in desperate, liquid ache. And he—he stood so still.

His hand steady on your waist. His eyes dark, jaw tense, throat shifting with every breath he fought to control.

“My Lady…” he murmured. His voice had changed. Still warm. Still deep. But softer now. Like silk drawn across skin too raw to touch. You looked up at him—eyes wide, lashes wet, lips parted with the ghost of words you couldn’t form. He saw it. All of it. Your desire. Your ache. Your unraveling. And he—he ached too.

But he would not take. Not here. Not now. Not when he’d promised himself he would not touch you again until you were his, truly. He exhaled.

“This is no place for such fire,” he whispered. His thumb brushed your knuckles, nothing more. “You deserve more than garden shadows and half-lit confessions.”

You swallowed. His voice calmed you—not the heat, not the ache, but the storm of it. He was grounding you again. Steadying you with words the way he might cradle a fragile flame between his palms.

“When the time comes, Miss Everleigh,” he said gently, “you will not tremble like this from not knowing. You will tremble because I’ll teach you, slowly, how it feels to be adored.”

A quiet breath left your lips. You leaned, just slightly, into the warmth of him. Not touching. Just existing. Close. “But not now,” he said, firm but kind. “Not in a garden. Not at a ball. And not until I’ve taken your hand in front of God and all the world.”

Your chest ached. But in a different way now. Full. Held. Protected. “Is that… a promise?” you whispered. He smiled. Not with pride. With reverence. “It is.”

You nodded once, slowly. You let him guide your hand back into your glove, his fingers brushing yours only when necessary. And you breathed. At last.

You walked back together. Not arm in arm. Not hand in hand. But with something else between you now. A quiet pact. A bond sealed in breath and restraint and trembling, sacred fire. The garden disappeared behind high windows and pressed glass. The warmth of chandeliers replaced moonlight. Music swelled again around you, golden and bright.

And still—he stayed. At your side. His hand lightly at your back as he guided you toward the refreshments, his touch careful now—no longer burning, but grounding. The way a promise feels when it's whispered and meant. He handed you a glass of something chilled. You thanked him softly, lifting it to your lips. And when your eyes met again, a smile bloomed between you—genuine, gentle.

“I remember you enjoy poetry, Miss Everleigh.” he said.

You blinked. A small, surprised smile tugged at your mouth. “I do, My Lord.”

“Then tell me your favorite line,” he said, “and I’ll tell you mine.”

And so you talked. Not of desire. Not of trembling bedsheets or aching bodies. But of verses. Of authors. Of garden paths and favorite seasons. Of books read in sunlit windows. Of childhood memories tucked behind laughter. He danced with you again—twice. Once for the rhythm. Once just because. And each time, you felt something new beginning to grow. Not in place of the fire. But alongside it. A slow unfurling.

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

side note: credits for two pictures used for the banner go to their original creators.

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

next part

#love and deepspace #lads #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x you #rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x mc #love and deep space #lnds #loveanddeepspace #qi yu #rafayel l&ds #rafayel regency era #rafayel duke #regency era au

103 notes · View notes

yandere-yearnings · 5 months ago

Text

It Comes On Red Dragons (Male Yandere!Mafia Boss x GN!Reader)

feat. Laurent Sanchez

♡ oneshot, approx. 1.6k words

♡ post-specific warnings: mentions of blood and injury

♡ a/n: the promised christmas fic requested in this ask, i hope you enjoy it nonnie!! i'm super glad laurent is getting love, can you tell he's my favourite haha😭🩷 i had a lot of fun w/ this,, i might just make a part two next year. unedited, not proofread.

♡♡♡

“Take your pick.” Clover’s shoulder nudges yours as she walks past you to the balcony. You catch her eyes and melt a little at the gentleness in the amethyst. On the bed, there’s a few outfits splayed out for your choosing, tailored to a custom-fit that you’ve quickly come to learn is a formality specifically adopted by this mafia. You recalled hearing it was a teaching of the former head, one’s garment was one’s pride — or something of the sort.

The sheets on the mattress crinkled when you sat down, thumbing through layers of silk and satin, trying to make a choice between the cherry reds and chartreuse that stole your attention away from all the other various shades surrounding. Every piece was impeccable. Every piece was made especially for you, so whatever you settled on, you were sure to look good; that’s what Laurent had told you before he’d rushed out.

Three hours to the start of the party, and he still hadn’t returned.

Through frosted glass, you watched Clover’s silhouette lean out and shout muffled directions to the men below. Laughter floated up and the tones fell into one another, a symphony far from the nature of its source. Fabric wrinkled under your palm, you looked down, clenched your teeth and decided you’d just go for this one. What was the point of putting your energy into something you weren’t sure would even be seen by the person you wanted it to be?

When you stood, it was the mirror on the other side of the room that stared back at you. Trefoil-woven, solid dragons carved into a golden frame, so grand you instantly lost your reflection in it. Swallowed up in the quiver of your bottom lip, and the sting that no amount of blinking could soothe. Nails leaving angry red scratches in their wake whilst you stripped, putting on the clothes for the occasion was wrapping back the chains around your heart you were not supposed to let loosen. You had been told time and time again, if you continued to wait with flowers you would inevitably be bringing them to a grave. Even then, it wasn’t something you could help — being worried — you felt you had the right to be.

Behind you, Clover clears her throat, closing the sliding doors with her back turned to them. There’s a light dusting of snow dispersed in her neatly styled curls, half-melted, looking like glitter when she tilted her head at you. “You’re tense,” she assessed, advancing to you and smoothing out a crease on your sleeve, “still afraid?”

Her demeanour was ever graceful, and you took it in like it could ease your nerves. Wondering how Clover could remain as calm and unperturbed as always when her best friend was out there, when she’d watched him leave and knew his life would be hanging up as the largest target on the front lines. You supposed the uneasiness that was eating you up inside was something she had long been desensitised to. Somewhere, you were envious. If only you could have as much control as she did.

“I just…” your gaze fell to the patterned rug beneath your feet, and you licked your dry lips, “heard the gunshots.”

“Ah.” Clover returns your concern with a rare expression, akin to surprise. “The music’s not loud enough.”

You raised a brow. “You were trying to drown them out?”

“No,” she answers swiftly, “I was trying to make good use of the far-too expensive speaker system we had installed for tonight. This is Juan’s fault. Mariah Carey should’ve had everyone’s ears bleeding out by now.”

For the first time since noon had rolled around, you found yourself cracking a smile. “You’re not gonna chew him out, are you?” You followed Clover out to the landing where she tipped her head over the balustrade in search of the man in question. “I’m starting to think Juan might quit at this rate.”

“Please,” Clover dismissed the comment with a wave, “he likes Laurent too much to even consider it. Oh— speak of the devil.”

“What, did you find him already?” the laughter in your tone died when you finally caught sight of who Clover was pointing at. Rather than a frazzled Juan who you were expecting to see, it was Laurent — clutching his side and greeting the members on the lower floor with a smile as he entered the building with his entourage.

You’d run down the stairs so fast, Clover hadn’t even finished taking a headcount.

“Laurent!” Out of breath, your fingers grasping at his shoulders to pull him to his full height, then for leverage when your focus zeroed in on the blood seeping through the torn fibres of his suit.

“It’s nice to see you too,” his clean hand cupped your face, voice airy when he leaned closer to you, dimples making themselves known. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m alright. It’s just a graze.”

Chest falling, throat tight, reaching out to touch him and hearing him hitch on an inhale. “Don’t lie to me.” You bit your lip. “Don’t fucking—”

Laurent took your wrist. “If it’s more than that, I will still live,” he said, and brought it up to leave a kiss that smeared his lips in his own tinge of red, “we have some talented guys. Álvaro is always happy to see me.”

“I am not.” A tired voice cuts in, and you turn your head to see the mafia’s most trusted — and feared — doctor shining a torch into another member’s eye. “What? A chariot won’t fall out of the fucking sky for either of you,” he sighs as you remain rooted in the entryway, “haul ass to the med wing, I’m behind you.”

♡♡♡

You’d never seen tenderness on an angry man, but contrary to his own complaints, Álvaro had patched Laurent up meticulously. Thankfully, no one had been gravely injured on the job, and as much as your heart remained surging over Laurent’s wound, it had been largely nonfatal. He was lying down shirtless, trying to get you to concentrate on him rather than the injury — calling out your name, increasingly apologetic each second you went without responding.

“We’re so lucky it wasn’t a major evolution,” you sighed finally, when you’d snapped to, and stifled laughter had your sights turning to glare at the cause of your distress. “What?”

“I think—” Laurent curled away from you, and you almost mistook it for pain before he finished his sentence, giggling, “I think you meant avulsion.”

“Wow,” your brows rose in disbelief, “who died and made you medical professional? Actually, who’s fault do you think it is that everything Álvaro said went through one ear?”

Knuckle wiping a stray tear from the corner of his eye, he answered: “mine,” and then apologised softly. Genuinity that could not be mistaken pooled in the way he reached out for you, in warm skin and a pulse you never wanted to feel change pace. “Hey,” Laurent whispered, “don’t you wanna go join the party?”

“Not unless Santa himself comes and drags me away on his sleigh,” you huffed. “I’ll stay by you, can’t have you getting lonely here while everyone enjoys themselves, can we?”

“Are they?” he perked; had you cradling his face from the magnetism of his sincerity.

“Of course they are.” There was no doubt about it. Beyond the walls, Christmas festivities were in full swing amongst the members. It was almost strange, to hear Jingle Bell Rock being sung as loudly as it was by the mafia of all groups, yet, you supposed this was what Laurent worked so hard for. Any sacrifice for these small securities, so that under his roof, everyone could return to their roots — simply people trying to survive amongst people. You admired that.

Carding through his hair, soft brown locks kissing back at your fingertips, you tracked the tension deliquesce and run off his shoulders easy. “Anyway,” Laurent lurches when you skim over the reddened skin peeking from his bandages. His dragon has colour bursting from it now, it looks alive. “There goes our outfit coordination plan.”

“We can still do that.”

“Yeah,” you snicker, gesturing to yourself, “let me just take this off and we can both match.”

“Why is that the first place your mind goes?” sitting up with a chuckle, he shakes his head. “I’ll go change. We should spend the night celebrating with everyone.”

Trailing behind him needlessly with the intention of, likely unsuccessfully, catching him if he fell, you found yourselves stopped at the doorway in little time, exchanging looks. Outside, there was quiet shuffling and a not-so-quiet clash of badly hushed profanities. Some of the voices you could recognise instantly; Juan’s ever apprehensive commentary undercut by a group dismissal, Diego’s snickering and a tired sound of bewilderment from Clover. From your peripheral, you caught Laurent’s eyes crinkle, hiding brilliant emerald as he let his weight rest on the frame, waiting in patience for the crowd to disperse on the other side.

“They never let up, do they?” Laurent’s expression was entirely endeared when he opened the door at last, staring up at the mistletoe that hung overhead, and then at you.

“I like that about them,” you confessed, drawing closer, “works in my favour.”

Your lips touched, delicate, unknotting all the agonising thoughts bundled up inside of you. Careful where you rested your palm, the pads of your fingers brushed up against gauze and you let it be. Taught your heart that it could hold its silence — that all it was is that your gift this Christmas came on red dragons.

79 notes · View notes

sorceresssundries · 1 month ago

Text

Forget-Me-Not

Dorian Pavus x Male Lavellan (Kele)

SFW

Word Count: 1.7k

I wrote a piece for my beloved friend @alsoika featuring their Lavellan Kele and his love, Dorian.

Their art of this pairing is always so incredible!

Moral of the story... Never stop yapping about your blorbos! Someone may become inspired by the characters you dream up.

Kele didn’t see Dorian as often as he would like.

Even with their ‘borrowed’ Eluvians, his visits had become less frequent, stolen moments threaded between council meetings, rogue Fade rifts, and the endless demands of a world still mending itself. Tevinter was no easier to love now than it had ever been, and Kele had long since made peace with the fact that his heart belonged to a man tangled in its politics.

Still, he came. To ease Dorian’s burdens, to share his own, or just to spend an hour wrapped in his arms. He always came.

That afternoon had been indulgent, in the way only rare and private hours could be. The kind of slow-burning intimacy that left Dorian’s hair delightfully mussed and Kele’s back lightly scratched. They had barely made it to the bed, laughing, breathless, Dorian undoing the clasps of Kele’s armour with greedy fingers the second he slipped into his chambers. The ever-spinning world had slowed for a little while, and they’d taken full advantage of its mercy.

Now, hours later, they were dressing again. Layering themselves back into duty, into decorum, into the roles expected of them.

"A little on the nose, don't you think?" Dorian murmured as Kele fastened a small boutonnière of forget-me-nots onto his robes, the blue petals mirroring those on Kele’s own lapel.

Kele kept his face serious as he took in Dorian’s outfit: Tevinter silks in hues of midnight blue and crimson, with tight cuffs threaded in gold and bindings along his waist that were more for drama than structure. His manicured chest was framed by a low-cut design that was sure to scandalize at least three noble houses on sight. And atop his perfectly styled hair sat a circlet of burnished gold, imperial and intentional.

Kele brushed a stray thread from Dorian’s sleeve, and said with exaggerated solemnity, “Apologies, my love. Your devotion to subtlety must have slipped my mind.”

Dorian’s lips curved, and his eyes crinkled at the corners as a genuine smile escaped him. Dorian hated his ever-deepening wrinkles, but Kele cherished them. They were the lines of a life well-lived. Pages in a book still being written.

“You know you don’t have to come to these things.” Dorian sighed, “I can handle the sycophants and assassins just fine without you.”

Kele rolled his eyes and adjusted the leather straps at his side. “And miss an evening of backhanded compliments and barely veiled threats? Unthinkable.”

He reached for the mask resting on the edge of the dressing table, a sleek creation of black satin and silver detail, its beak elegantly curved in the shape of a sparrowhawk. He slipped it on, adjusting the straps behind his head with ease.

Dorian raised a brow, “How mysterious.”

“Well, no one can know the Inquisitor is in attendance. Maker forbid the Archon invites his lover to his own ball.”

Dorian’s laugh echoed gently through the chamber. His expression became briefly unreadable. “Thank you. For coming. For this. I know how much you hate being at these things.”

Kele’s gloved fingers brushed over Dorian’s wrist, lingering. “I hate what they stand for. I never hate being with you.”

There was a beat of silence between them, thick with the restless and unspoken. Then Dorian nodded once and extended his hand. The Ring of the Ferryman glinted at his finger.

The Archon of the Tevinter Imperium stood at the heart of the ballroom, the axis around which a hundred ambitions spun. Masks of ivory and gold blurred beneath the lyrium-glow chandeliers. A string quartet played something orchestral and ostentatious. Magic and mutterings stained the air like sticky perfume.

Dorian moved through it all with the ease of someone born to be watched, and only Kele saw how he longed to be hidden. Every bow he received was either too deep to be sincere or just shallow enough to be insulting. Compliments given bountifully curled like poison in honey. Questions arrived barbed and smiling, and still…Dorian Pavus showed the strength of a ruler with the iron tenacity to incite change. A man raised in the shadow of decay who now bore the impossible weight of dragging Tevinter, kicking and screaming, toward something better.

Kele knew Dorian would endure every barb, would drink down every drop of poison, if it bought even the thinnest thread of hope. If it meant one less chain, one more child raised without fear, one brick placed in a foundation that could outlive them both.

Kele also knew how tired he was.

He watched him, standing like the final flame in a room engulfed by smoke, and loved him all the more for it. He lingered in the periphery dressed in black and silver, his mask sleek and birdlike. Arms folded, the very picture of noble detachment. Motionless. Observing. Daring anyone to approach and interrupt his vigil. He watched and waited, until neither he nor Dorian could bear the monotony and the artifice any longer.

“Forgive the intrusion, Ambassador,” came his calm, clipped voice, carrying just enough authority to override etiquette. “The Archon’s presence has been requested. Urgently.”

Dorian turned, arching a brow in feigned displeasure, to find the sparrowhawk standing at his side, extending an arm with all the solemn dignity of a royal bodyguard.

The Orlesian ambassador narrowed her eyes behind a mask that glittered and hid her disdain. She sipped her wine slowly, then tilted her head toward the masked man.

“But of course, Inquisitor,” she said, every syllable biting.

Dorian let out a quiet snort as he left their conversation on Kele’s army.

“So much for anonymity,” Kele sighed.

“Amatus, you have a magical arm, a frown that could frighten an ogre, and have been watching me unflinchingly all evening. It hardly takes a detective to figure out who you are.”

He didn’t answer. He just led him away, unhurried, through the parting crowd and into the quieter dark beyond the ballroom doors.

“This way,” Kele whispered.

Dorian raised an eyebrow, letting himself be tugged down a shadowed corridor. “Is this the part where you kidnap me for political leverage? Because if so, I must say, your timing is impeccable.”

“Tempting, but no.”

They moved quickly, slipping from the velvet jaws of the ballroom before the final note of the quartet faded. They moved silently through corridors flanked by looming statues of past Archons - Mages immortalised in marble with stern brows and sterner reputations. They passed beneath frescoes of bloated and exaggerated triumphs. Histories written by the victors.

They stopped before a door long disused, its hinges heavy with dust and wards faded to a whisper. Inside, the Eluvian stood dormant in the dimness - its glass surface dull as moonless water, its frame veiled in cobwebs and the kind of silence that only ancient things know. Magic stirred faintly as they approached, in hopeful recognition of ones who had used the mirrors before.

It’s light bloomed as they neared, slow and soft, like a moonrise behind clouded glass.

“Amatus…” Dorian began, his voice quieter than usual. Cautious.

But Kele only smiled, said nothing, and stepped through the Eluvian like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dorian sighed. “Of course.”

He followed, as he always would.

Gone were the towers and sharp silhouettes of Minrathous. Gone was the weight of a thousand eyes, of alliances forged and betrayed and forgotten all in the same night.

In their place: a hush of green and gold.

They emerged beneath a canopy of ancient trees, their trunks wide and silver-veined, their leaves a shifting shimmer of blue and green. The air was clean and warm, and hummed with lazy magic. Moonlight filtered through the branches in soft beams, striping the mossy floor in starlit ribbons.

The remnants of Arlathan lay quiet beneath moss and root, broken stone and buried memory. Half-buried columns, cracked mosaics, vine-strangled glyphs in a language the world barely remembered. Veilfire moths drifted lazily in the warm air, their glow catching on petals that bloomed in impossible colors. Vermillion poppies. Dusk-lilies. Wild fade-touched orchids. Forget-me-nots constellated the forest floor.

Dorian stood still for a long moment, drinking in the silence.

“You always find the quietest of places,” he eventually said.

“You always forget you need them,” Kele replied.

They wandered beneath boughs that had once swayed to Elvhen songs, their hands finding each other without thought. They Slipped past broken arches and ancient relics - carvings of faces so worn down it was impossible to tell what their expressions once were. Kele liked to think they were smiling.

The further they walked, the more relaxed Dorian’s shoulders seemed to become. Kele watched him from the corner of his eye. Watched the way his stride loosened. Watched the lines at the corners of his mouth soften. Like years-hardened wax melting beneath a fresh flame.

They chatted. About the mundane, about each other, about ridiculous, frivolous little things that made Dorian laugh and Kele grin. They talked of their friends. Of each other. Of everything and anything except politics. There was no archon here, nor any inquisitor. Just Dorian Pavus and his love walking through the welcoming forest.

“You realise,” Dorian murmured, “if word gets out that the Inquisitor abducted the Archon in the middle of his own ball, there’ll be outrage. Scandal.”

“We’ve survived worse. And besides - ” he lifted Dorian’s hand to his lips, “ - you deserve a break from the sycophants and assassins.”

Dorian let out a breath that was almost a laugh and looked down at the forget-me-nots still nestled against the silk of his robes.

“I don’t know how you always manage to find exactly what I need before I even know I need it.”

Kele shrugged, “Because I love you.”

The Eluvian shimmered behind them, waiting with quiet impatience, but the lovers paid it no mind. They lay together among the forget-me-nots, beneath a sky dusted with stars, content in the hush of a world that, for a few gentle hours, asked nothing of them.

#dorian pavus #dorian x inquisitor #dorian dragon age #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age inquisition

31 notes · View notes

nicnak20 · 2 months ago

Text

Only half off:

*Nicholas takes Yn shopping for sales on good lingerie for their special evening.*

The fluorescent lights of the mall hummed a familiar tune above you, bouncing off the polished floors and reflecting in the glass storefronts. The weekend crowd buzzed around you, a cheerful chaos of shoppers and laughter, but within it all, you felt a comforting bubble of calm with Nicholas at your side. He held your hand loosely, his thumb stroking the back of yours in a rhythmic, reassuring way that always seemed to ground you.

“Ready for this adventure, love?” he asked, his voice warm as honey, his brown eyes, the colour of rich earth, crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

You squeezed his hand, a genuine smile blossoming on your own face. “As I’ll ever be. Lingerie shopping. I still feel a little… awkward.”

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through you in the best way. “Awkward? With me? After all this time?” He feigned hurt, but his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Besides, think of it as… strategic planning. For a very important mission.” He winked, and a playful heat flushed your cheeks.

“Strategic planning for what mission exactly?” you teased, already knowing, already feeling a flutter of anticipation in your stomach.

He leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Operation: Seduce You Senseless. Tonight.”

Your breath hitched, and you couldn't help but laugh, a delighted, breathless sound. “You’re incorrigible.”

“But you love it,” he countered, his smile widening, certainty dancing in his eyes. He knew you did. He knew you loved his playful nature, his unwavering affection, the way he always made you feel seen, cherished, and utterly adored.

He guided you towards a department store, the familiar logo of a well-known lingerie brand catching your eye. “They’re having a sale,” he announced, like a knight revealing a treasure chest. “Up to 50% off. Perfect opportunity to… enhance our arsenal.”

You laughed again, feeling the initial awkwardness melt away in the warmth of his enthusiasm. Walking inside, the air shifted, becoming softer, laced with the delicate scents of perfume and fabric softener. Racks of lace, silk, and satin shimmered under the softer lighting. It was a little intimidating, a world of delicate fabrics and suggestive designs, but as you looked at Nicholas, his gaze steady and reassuring, you felt brave enough to explore.

He didn’t rush you, didn’t pressure you to pick something instantly. He strolled through the racks with you, pointing out textures he thought would feel amazing against your skin, colours he knew would complement your complexion. He asked your opinion, genuinely interested in your preferences, making you feel like your comfort and desire were paramount. That’s just who Nicholas was – endlessly considerate, always putting your needs first.

“What about this one?” he asked, holding up a delicate slip in a deep jewel tone, the lace intricate and the fabric flowing. “This colour would look incredible on you.”

You took it from him, the fabric cool and smooth against your fingertips. It was beautiful, undeniably so, but a little… tame. You glanced at another rack, your eyes drawn to something bolder, a set in a vibrant crimson, the lace more daring, the cut more revealing. But you hesitated, suddenly feeling a flicker of self-consciousness.

Nicholas watched you, his understanding gaze missing nothing. “Something catching your eye?” he prompted gently.

You nodded, pointing tentatively. “That red one… it’s… a little much, isn’t it?”

He followed your gaze, his eyes lingering on the bold red set. A slow smile spread across his face, a different kind of smile, one that sent a shiver of excitement down your spine. “Much?” he repeated, his voice deepening. “No, love. That is… perfect.” He stepped closer, his hand resting on your hip, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “That red… it’s fire. It’s passion. It’s you.”

His words, the way he looked at you with such unwavering desire and admiration, dissolved your hesitation completely. Suddenly, the bold red set felt not intimidating, but empowering. It felt like a reflection of the fire you knew flickered within you, a fire he always seemed to ignite with just a look, a touch, his very presence.

“Okay,” you breathed, a newfound confidence rising within you. “Okay, red it is.”

He beamed, his eyes sparkling with delight. “I knew you had good taste.” He winked again, then guided you towards the fitting rooms, his hand warm and possessive on your back.

Back home, the mall noise faded into a comfortable silence, replaced by the soft glow of lamps and the gentle rhythm of your footsteps on the hardwood floor. You felt a nervous energy thrumming through you as you carried the shopping bag upstairs, the bold red lingerie nestled inside like a secret promise.

Nicholas followed you, his movements relaxed and purposeful. He went straight to dimming the lights, lighting a few candles, and putting on some soft, instrumental music that filled the house with a sensual ambiance. He was creating a mood, a space just for you both, a haven of intimacy and desire.

You went into the bedroom, the bag feeling suddenly heavy in your hands. You could hear him moving around downstairs, probably finishing up some small details, giving you space to prepare. Taking a deep breath, you opened the bag, the vibrant red catching the soft light. You carefully unfolded the set, admiring the delicate lace, the daring cuts, the way it whispered of confidence and allure.

Taking another deep breath, you slipped out of your clothes, the air suddenly feeling cooler against your bare skin. The lingerie felt like a second skin as you put it on, the lace soft and sensual against your body, the fit surprisingly comfortable and yet undeniably provocative. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you felt a surge of something powerful – confidence, desire, and a thrilling anticipation for Nicholas’s reaction.

When you came downstairs, he was waiting for you in the living room, leaning against the mantelpiece, a glass of wine in each hand. He looked up as you entered, and the air in the room seemed to crackle with electricity. His eyes widened, locking onto you, and for a moment, he was completely still, as if stunned.

Then a slow, breathtaking smile spread across his face, a smile that reached his eyes and made them glow with pure, unadulterated desire. He set the glasses down with a soft clink and pushed himself off the mantelpiece, moving towards you with a slow, deliberate stride that sent shivers down your spine.

“You…” he began, his voice husky, almost breathless. “You are… absolutely breathtaking.” He reached you, his hands cupping your face gently, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. He looked at you with such intensity, such adoration, it made your heart swell in your chest. “That red,” he whispered, his gaze tracing the lines of the lingerie, “it’s even more perfect than I imagined.”

He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a soft, tender kiss that spoke of love and appreciation. The kiss deepened slowly, becoming more insistent, more demanding as the desire between you ignited. His hands moved from your face, tracing the contours of your body, lingering on the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the delicate lace that barely contained your curves.

The gentle kiss transformed into something hungrier, more passionate as he pulled you closer, molding your body against his. His lips left yours to trail down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. You gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting more, needing more.

He lifted you into his arms effortlessly, carrying you towards the bedroom, his eyes never leaving yours. The world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you, wrapped in a bubble of intense desire and overwhelming love.

He laid you gently on the bed, the soft candlelight casting dancing shadows around the room. He knelt beside you, his gaze burning into yours, his hand tracing the line of your thigh, sending electric jolts through you.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire, “you are so beautiful, so incredibly desirable, you make me lose my mind.” He leaned in, kissing you again, this time with a raw, unrestrained passion that set your senses ablaze.

The gentleness of his touch shifted, becoming more demanding, more urgent. His kisses became deeper, more possessive, his hands firmer, exploring every inch of your skin, sending waves of pleasure washing over you. He was still kind, still caring, still loving, but beneath it all, a primal fire had ignited, a need that mirrored your own.

He traced the edge of the lingerie with his fingers, his eyes darkening with an intense hunger. “May I?” he whispered, his voice thick with desire.

You nodded, breathless, unable to speak, your body humming with anticipation. He began to slowly, deliberately, remove the lingerie, each touch sending shivers of excitement through you. As the last piece fell away, he looked at you, his eyes filled with such raw desire, such possessive adoration, it took your breath away.

He moved over you, his body pressing against yours, heat radiating between you. His kisses became rougher, more demanding, his hands exploring with less restraint, more urgency. It wasn't the gentle, tender Nicholas you always knew. This was Nicholas unleashed, driven by a passion that was both exhilarating and slightly intimidating, in the most thrilling way possible.

You met his passion with your own, your nails digging into his back, your body arching against his. The world dissolved into sensation, into the feel of his skin against yours, the taste of his lips, the sound of your mingled breaths, the rhythmic movements that built and built, carrying you higher and higher.

He was rougher than usual, his touch more demanding, his movements more primal, but it was never unkind, never forceful. It was passion untamed, desire unleashed, still underscored by the deep love and respect that always formed the foundation of your intimacy. He was protective even in his passion, ensuring your pleasure, your safety, even in the intensity of the moment.

When you reached your peak together, the release was explosive, shattering, leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms. He held you close, his heart pounding against yours, his breath ragged against your neck.

Slowly, gradually, the intensity subsided, leaving behind a lingering warmth, a deep contentment, a profound connection that went beyond words. He kissed your forehead gently, then buried his face in your hair, holding you close, his body still heavy on yours.

“Wow,” you breathed finally, your voice still shaky.

He chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound against your ear. “Wow indeed,” he echoed, his voice still husky with passion. He shifted slightly, supporting himself on his elbows, looking down at you, his eyes filled with tenderness. “Did you like my strategic planning?” he asked with a playful smirk.

You smiled, a slow, languid smile that stretched across your face. “Mission accomplished,” you whispered, reaching up to trace his jawline. “Operation: Seduce You Senseless? Successful. Highly successful.”

He leaned down and kissed you again, a soft, lingering kiss that spoke of love, devotion, and the promise of many more passionate nights to come.

#nicholas chavez fanfiction #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas chavez #nicholas chavez x reader #lavender baby #nicholas chavez imagines #nicholas chavez fics #nicholas chavez x y/n #nicholas chavez imagine #nicholas alexander chavez one shots #nicholas chavez fic #nicholas chaves blurbs #nicholas chavez x female reader #nicholas chavez x reader smut #nicholas chavez smut

29 notes · View notes

leiawritesstories · 8 months ago

Text

When We Think of Love

Rowaelin Month 2024, Day 11 & 12: Song Fic & Forbidden Love @rowaelinscourt. inspired by "Soul Tied" by Ashley Singh

Word count: 3k

Warnings: angst. and pain. the song is quite sad. i'm so sorry.

A/N: this is a sort-of Regency era AU, so the language might be a little weird hahaha. also, Frederick got out of the basement. enjoy...?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Even though the gown was the latest fashion and only had two layers of skirts with a single underskirt and lightweight wore structure holding up its shape, Aelin felt weighed down by the fine silk that draped her frame, its rosy pink color completely at odds with the grey numbness clouding her mind.

“You are a vision,” her mother announced, sweeping elegantly into Aelin’s dressing chamber. Evalin Ashryver, Duchess of Orynth, never walked. She floated, and she had taught her only daughter to do the same from the time she could stand. “But why are you pensive, my dear?”

“Simply lost in thought, I suppose.” Aelin painted a soft smile onto her lips. “Mayhap I am a bit nervous for tonight.”

“As it is well you may be.” Evalin touched her daughter’s satin-gloved hand with her own. “I recall clearly the day my own parents announced my betrothal to your father. I declare I may not remember anything else from that evening.”

Aelin gave the skirts a gentle shake, letting the fine silk drape more fluidly over the subtle hoops rounding out its shape. “Let us hope His Majesty is pleased with the arrangement, yes?”

“Of course he is,” Evalin said, brushing away Aelin’s underlying concern. “The prince is the most advantageous match we could have made for you, Aelin dear, and Orlon has long been looking at the benefit of a military tie with Anielle. I know the two of you have only met a handful of times, but there will be ample time for you to become acquainted during the wedding preparations.”

“I suppose there will be.” Aelin shifted her gaze back to the mirror, resisting the urge to reach up and rip the delicate silver tiara from its perch atop the coils of her hair. She was fourth in the succession for the throne of Terrasen, and she had grown accustomed to the ways in which her family demonstrated their royal position, but there were ever so many moments when she wanted nothing more than to abandon the crown and its weight and flee into the depths of the Oakwald.

There, parted from society, she could be with her love.

A soft knock rapped on the door, and Aelin’s lady’s maid entered, curtsying politely to Evalin. “Pardon, milady, Your Grace, but His Grace is ready.”

“Thank you, Kaltain,” Aelin said. She turned to her mother. “We likely should not keep Father waiting; we know how quickly he disappears into his study if he does not have to make an appearance.” Evalin laughed softly and led Aelin out into the hallway and down the stairs, finding Rhoe waiting at the base of the sweeping staircase, fidgeting with his gloves.

“Ah, there you are,” he said, looking up. “You look so lovely, my Fireheart.” He squeezed Aelin’s hands and leaned in to whisper into her ear. “I would embrace you, but your mother might strangle me for crinkling your dress.”

She snickered. “She very well might.”

“None of that unladylike noise,” Evalin hissed, prodding Aelin with her paper fan. She nodded at the pair of footmen by the double doors leading to the ballroom. “Shall we?”

“I am as ready as I can be,” Aelin whispered as she placed her hand on her father’s arm. “Only help me not to fall.”

“Of course.” Rhoe let Evalin glide into the ballroom, nodding and smiling and exchanging greetings with the swarm of beautifully dressed nobility gathered there, and at the swell of the small orchestra in the corner, he led Aelin into the throng.

She fixed her smile firmly in place but coasted her gaze over the sea of blurred faces, seeking an anchor in the pair of pine eyes that seared into her soul. Catching Rowan’s gaze, she let loose a fraction of her anguish, silently crying her grief to him across the sea of elegantly clad gentry.

Please forgive me.

Rowan Alexander Whitethorn, heir to the Duchy of Doranelle, had known Aelin since they were both small children. His family estate bordered her family holdings, but his father had only recently been elevated to the title of Duke, honored for his many years of service to King Orlon. Rowan vividly remembered the day he had first met Aelin—he was ten and she was seven, and she was a golden-blonde blur of motion on the back of a silvery mare galloping through the forest between their lands.

“Whoa, there!” he cried in his childish voice, and he caught up with her as she managed to rein in her horse. “Are you quite alright?”

She gave him a stare far too imperious to be coming from a young girl and tossed her hair with a sniff. “Kasida and I are perfectly fine, even though we are alone. I do not need to slouch along at a snail’s pace like my governess insists.”

Rowan couldn’t hold back a giggle. “Pardon me, but I can’t imagine you…slouching along like that, miss…” He trailed off. “Um…”

Her stare melted into a bright smile. “I’m Aelin. My papa is the duke of Orynth.” She held out her small hand, and he shook it.

“And I am Rowan. My father is the duke of Doranelle.”

“So we’re neighbors!” Aelin beamed. “I ride away from my governess very often, and I like this forest quite a lot.”

“I like the forest too,” Rowan admitted. “It’s quieter than the manor.”

“Sometimes I dream about living in the forest forever,” Aelin said, an odd kind of yearning flickering across her face. “But anytime I even mention it, my mama scolds me for reading too many faerie stories.” She shrugged. “I still like riding here.”

“Miss Aelin!” The high-pitched cry echoed through the trees, and Aelin sighed.

“That’s my governess. I ought to go and find her before she gets lost.” She smiled at Rowan again, and he felt the warmth of it in his soul. “It was nice to meet you, Rowan!”

He managed to mumble some kind of farewell as she turned her horse around and rode off, only forming proper words once she was out of sight. It was nice to meet you too, Aelin.

She had told the truth about riding in the forest often, and it became a habit of theirs to ride through the woods together, trading stories of what they were doing and wondering what the Oakwald, the near-mythical forest that spanned western Terrasen, would be like. As they grew older, Aelin’s stories turned from school lessons to etiquette lessons, and she had such a knack for imitating the stuffy old people at her family’s banquets that she made Rowan cry from laughter. Still, he allowed her to practice her lessons and her dancing with him, ignoring how frequently she trod on his toes when she was learning a new dance.

And their childhood friendship turned into a partnership of sorts, a series of stolen moments of freedom and secret glances across a ballroom or dining room when their families were at a gathering together. Since she was not yet out in society, she was still largely overlooked during those events, and she was free to send him into stitches of laughter with her impersonations of the visiting nobility. He even asked her to dance several times, and she pretended to be a simpering debutante but still counted the music under her breath. He caught her any time she stumbled, and he caught each of her smiles too.

He was eighteen when he realized he had fallen in love with her.

But she was only fifteen, so he kept it to himself, forcing himself to stay within the lines of friendship yet falling more in love with her every time she flicked a hidden glance at him during a long, boring dinner. She grew a bit more distant over the next few years, caught up in her mother’s constant lady lessons and working so hard—too hard—to be the portrait of a perfect lady, but at her eighteenth birthday ball, he worked up the courage to ask her for a dance.

The smile that broke across her face, as bright and warm as it had been since the day he met her, kindled a wildfire in his heart. And late that night, hidden in a little-used gazebo in a corner of the Galathynius estate’s gardens, Rowan Whitethorn kissed Aelin Galathynius for the first time, and his heart surged towards hers.

Aelin made her debut at twenty, a few years later than traditional, but her parents had wanted her to wait a while longer so that society would be anticipating her debut. After all, she was fourth in line for the throne, and her marriage would undoubtedly be a topic of gossip and news from the moment she became eligible. Rowan longed for the day when he could bring her flowers and walk beside her in public, when he could finally bring the years of his love for her into the light of day, but he hesitated at the thought of exposing that delicate piece of his heart to the scrutiny of society and of Evalin Ashryver. For Aelin’s mother was a well-respected duchess, but he had seen the effects of her demanding nature on her daughter, and he feared the repercussions of her disapproval.

He suspected, as he knew Aelin did, that one day their secret courtship would either have to be brought into the light of day or be torn apart by circumstance, but neither of them had wanted to address it. The unspoken bond between them was too precious, too beloved to be so shattered.

Since her eighteenth birthday, he had courted her in secret, stealing precious moments and pieces of her heart beneath starry skies, foggy mornings, and shaded corners. He guarded every tiny bit of her with his life, from the letters in her tidy script that he kept tucked into his jacket pocket to the faint trace of her perfume that lingered on his collar when she kissed him. Although he could not shout his love for her from the rooftops, he reveled in their masked touches, in the flicker of humor in her eyes when she caught his gaze, in the echo of her laughter when he took her to the empty greenhouse on his family’s land and danced with her there under the sunset. With every encounter, he felt his soul drawn more and more towards hers, felt more and more as if his life were irrevocably tied to hers.

And when he saw her across the ballroom that evening, when he caught sight of the tiara in her hair and the proud smiles on her parents’ faces and the man in the military jacket standing beside her mother at the front of the ballroom, when her eyes caught his and an ocean of anguish opened in them for a brief, wrenching moment, he felt that tie fracture.

Aelin’s first kiss had been Rowan.

Her first everything had been Rowan, the only one close enough to her heart to hold its fragile pieces and treat them with tenderness rather than callousness. From laughter-filled memories of her childhood to secret, stolen moments in the gardens during banquets and balls before her debut, to the all-too-few snatches of time she had been able to steal with him after her debut, when she wanted nothing more than his kisses and his gentle, reassuring words.

She’d known for a long while, deep in the back of her mind, that her marriage would be a political one, for she was high in the line of succession. While it was unlikely that she would ever inherit, since Orlon could just as easily name someone else as his successor, her parents still strategized over which eligible noble could marry their daughter. They had settled on Prince Chaol Westfall of Anielle, the third son of the Prince of Anielle and a well-respected military officer. For him, marriage to Aelin was a massive step up, because he was so far down in the succession for the throne of Adarlan that he’d probably never known he was in line. For her, the marriage would secure military ties between Terrasen and Adarlan, a powerful alliance of nations.

She did not know the man save for a few cursory meetings.

At least, she supposed as she walked up to his side, he was not terribly hard on the eyes. He was even passably attractive, if a lady was drawn to brown-haired men in military uniforms with all the apparent personality of boiled potatoes.

“Your Highness,” Aelin murmured, dipping in a graceful curtsy to Chaol. “It is an honor.”

“The honor is entirely mine, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, bowing low.

With a flourish, Rhoe and Evalin turned out towards the assembled crowd, Aelin still with her hand on her father’s arm. The crown quieted, and Rhoe smiled warmly. “We have delightful news for all of you this fine evening. Our daughter, Aelin, has accepted the hand of Prince Chaol Westfall in marriage, and with all good hope, they shall be married in two months’ time!” Applause rippled through the ballroom, and Aelin mentally prepared herself for an evening of simpering congratulations. Beaming at her, Rhoe lifted her hand from his arm and placed it ceremonially into Chaol’s hand, linking the hands of the young couple.

“Would you like to dance?” Chaol asked, polite but also perceptive—he’d picked up on her unwillingness to be faced with a string of saccharine compliments from the noble ladies.

She flicked him a crooked grin. “I would love to.”

He led her onto the polished parquet floor and swept her into a waltz, his steps sure and practiced, quick and light on his feet. She must have murmured in surprise, because he grinned, the expression almost boyish. “I took dancing lessons too, once upon a time.”

“I almost forgot you were nobility under all that military regalia,” she teased. To her pleasant surprise, she found it easy to make conversation with Chaol, albeit mostly small talk and nothing about important issues. As the dance drew to a close, she skimmed her gaze across the ballroom and, once again, caught Rowan’s tormented eyes, his look a caress of her heart.

Determination sparked suddenly in Rowan’s expression, and he meandered through the crowd, joining the queue of congratulatory nobility, but when he reached Aelin, he bowed like any other eligible gentleman and reached for her dance card. “Might you have a dance for me, my lady?”

“I believe I do,” she said lightly, pretending this was just another ball and he was just another man who had asked her to dance. Chaol, who had no idea who Rowan was, simply shook Rowan’s hand and accepted his civil words, not noticing the well-concealed grief beneath the congratulations.

Rowan escorted Aelin onto the dance floor, and he placed one gloved hand at the curve of her waist and took her hand in his free one. As he led her through the sweeping, intricate curves of the dance, he subtly tugged her just a fraction closer than appropriate, just an inch nearer to the unsteady pulse of his heart. “Did you know?” he murmured, and her fractured heart cleaved further at the anguish that pierced his words.

“No,” she whispered, and she looked into his eyes, baring the depth of her own anguish to him. “I did not.”

His gaze flicked out the open windows, glancing for an instant towards the expansive gardens, knowing the privacy they could steal, if only for a moment, out there. “One moment?” he asked, turning her smoothly in a circle so her skirts flared out in a perfect arc.

“One moment,” she agreed, and she folded the mask of happiness back across her face. Rowan bowed over her hand as the dance ended, his lips just barely skimming the satin of her glove. He let her walk back towards Chaol, towards her parents, and he took an opposite course, stopping to dance with another young lady before he covertly stepped out a side door and disappeared into the gardens.

Aelin waited a few more minutes before she touched Chaol’s shoulder and whispered to him that she needed a moment for relief, and she quietly slipped out a different side door, one that led directly to a refreshing room. Before she could reach the powder room, though, she turned down a different hall and went outdoors, entering the gardens through a little-known side gate. Her heart guided her down the familiar paths of the labyrinth, and she found Rowan in an alcove near the center, seated on a stone bench cast half in shadow by the faint sliver of moonlight.

“Rowan,” she breathed, heart thumping unsteadily.

In a rushed blur, his lips were on hers, his arms firm and strong around her waist, supporting her as her legs buckled. She cupped the back of his head and kissed him hard, desperate, the ache in her heart poured into the press of her lips, the curl of her tongue. When she drew back, tears shone in her eyes, but she tipped her head back so they could not fall.

“I love you, Rowan,” she whispered. Simple, true, broken.

Tenderly, his thumb stroked the line of her jaw. “I love you, Aelin.” Simple, true, ruined. “But you are betrothed.” He took a single step back, wrenching himself away from the woman who had brought warmth and healing and love into his life. Wordless, she could only nod, every regret and wish that shone in her eyes tamped down by the force of duty.

She straightened her skirts, righted the dainty tiara in her coiffure, adjusted her gloves, and with one final lingering heart-searing gaze, she left the alcove, heading back into the manor, back towards her family and her betrothed and her duty. So too Rowan turned and walked out of the gardens, but he circled the side of the manor, went into the drive, and signaled his coachman. He climbed into his carriage, closed the door, rapped on the roof, and set his course for home.

Where his own arranged betrothal awaited him.

~~~

TAGS:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@mariaofdoranelle

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia