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jhyoos · 30 days ago

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Fight For You

boxer!abby x model!reader

summary: you meet abby at a high-end party.

mentions: fame au, modern au, everyone is alive, mentions of ed, smoking, drinking, romance, angst, smut, fucking in the bathroom, oral & fingering (r!receiving).

author note: suprisingly this was highly requested ! very long fanfic so get something to eat!

You were a model—not a household name, not a face plastered on every billboard in Manhattan or Paris—but you walked. You moved. You made it somewhere. You’d been in a few Vogue spreads, dimly lit behind the star of the page. You’d walked Victoria’s Secret runways, wings stitched to your back like borrowed dreams. You weren’t the centerpiece, but you were there, shimmering in the glow of flashbulbs and eyes that didn't always see you.

As much as girls romanticized it—modeling was war. Polished smiles in front of the camera, but behind the scenes? It was elbows out, lips stitched shut. A competition of bone counts and measurements, where praise sounded like “you finally look thinner” and love came in the shape of hunger.

When you first started, your manager had you on diets so strict they felt like rituals—punishment masked as discipline. Celery sticks for breakfast, water for dinner, shame for dessert. There were nights when your body rebelled, when you’d throw everything up until your vision blurred and your ribs ached. You smiled anyway, because that’s what pretty girls did.

Then came the miracle.

Victoria’s Secret reached out. They wanted you—a new Angel. And God, you flew. You cried in the back of your Uber, mascara bleeding into your palms. When the official post dropped on their Instagram, your phone lit up like a Christmas tree. Follows. Blue checks. Brands. People cared.

And yet... people commented.

Under the glowing announcement, buried between the fire emojis and “she’s perfect,” came the venom. “She’s too thick to be an Angel.” “She doesn’t have the face for it.” “Bet she slept her way in.”

You told yourself not to look. You did anyway. You always did.

And you tried to brush it off. You liked the positive comments. You reposted the good ones. You told yourself the hate came with the fame. That it was just noise. But even angels have soft spots under their wings.

You weren’t famous-famous. You were known. Seen. Not always remembered. But in a world that wanted you to be skin and air, you were something real. And that, maybe, was enough.

Abby Anderson was everywhere.

Her face graced the cover of every major sports magazine—ESPN, Women’s Health, Boxing Monthly—always front and center, gloves slung over her shoulder like royalty, like muscle wrapped in silk. When competition season rolled around, her image lit up city billboards like neon prayers. Times Square. L.A. Live. Hell, even Tokyo had her gritted smile above the skyline.

She wasn’t just known—she was inevitable.

Her Instagram was a force of nature. Millions of followers, all eyes on her knuckles, her callouses, her workouts, her smirks. The caption could be two words—“Try me”—and it’d break the algorithm. Her fans called themselves the Anderson Army, flooding every comment section with love, awe, thirst. Her fights sold out in minutes. Pay-per-view numbers shattered records. Even people who didn’t watch boxing knew who she was.

Abby was a beast in the ring. Some called her a bull—not because she was reckless, but because she was unstoppable. Every match she walked into, she didn’t just win, she dominated. Her fists moved like poetry written in blunt force. Her footwork was tactical, brutal, almost unfair. Opponents fell before the second round like they knew what was coming.

And she looked damn good doing it.

Viral TikToks caught her mid-punch, sweat-glossed and godly, jawline sharp enough to cut diamonds. There were fan cams edited like music videos. Tweets that said, “Abby Anderson could knock me out and I’d say thank her.” Gym clips turned into thirst traps. She didn’t try to be hot—she just was.

She had the fame, the fans, the money, the muscles, the girls who lined up for a chance to be close. And her team? Top-tier. Nutritionists, trainers, publicists, stylists. Everything about her life looked like it was curated for a champion, and it was—because she earned it.

Every scar, every bruise, every early morning and broken rib—it paid off.

Abby Anderson had the world in a chokehold, and the world loved it.

Your friend was the kind of model who didn’t just walk runways—she owned them. Her name alone got invites to the most exclusive parties in the city, the kind of places where no phones were allowed but everyone knew everything that happened anyway. You were surprised when she asked you to be her plus-one.

“Please come,” she’d said, voice syrupy over the phone. “Some other friends are coming, but you're the only one who doesn’t drink. Help me make sober choices, yeah?”

You laughed softly but agreed. You couldn’t say no—not just because you cared, but because deep down, you wanted to see it. That other world. That forbidden, neon-lit underbelly of the elite.

She helped you pick out a dress, too—that dress. A black, sequined slip of a thing that clung to every curve like it had been sewn on with whispers. The neckline plunged like a dare, held up by the thinnest black straps. A small silver clasp cinched the cutout just beneath your chest, the only thing keeping the whole thing from unraveling completely. It was short—dangerously short—and it shimmered with every breath, every turn, catching the light like stars stuck to your skin. Paired with simple black heels and your hair down in soft waves, you looked like temptation bottled.

The party was already in full swing by the time you arrived.

It was hot—humid with bodies and bass, sweat and perfume clinging to the air. The kind of party where everyone was somebody. The room reeked of status, of secrecy. Celebrities you once idolized were tucked into dark corners, drinking like they were trying to forget their own names. Others were laughing too loudly, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. The scent of weed, champagne, and something chemical lingered everywhere. A haze of smoke floated near the chandeliers like a ghost.

If only the paparazzi saw this. The unfiltered version of fame.

Your friend tugged you by the wrist to a booth she had rented out—elevated just enough to overlook the dance floor like a throne. You sat down, pressing your thighs together on the cold leather couch, the sequins of your dress crackling faintly. You nursed a single drink, barely sipping it as the others around you knocked shots back like water.

Laughter. Slurred voices. Someone snorted something off a phone screen. You stayed silent, posture poised, eyes scanning. Watching.

Eventually, your friend stood, swaying just a little. “I’m heading to the dance floor with them,” she said, already halfway gone.

You nodded, a little uneasy, but you understood. This was her scene.

Now it was just you. Sitting alone in a storm of sound and sweat, the only one not drunk, not high, not tangled up in the mess. Just quiet, calm, and breathtaking in your dress like a still frame inside a film reel spinning too fast.

You lasted longer than you thought you would—sitting pretty and still, the only clear head in a room full of beautiful chaos. But it was starting to crawl under your skin. The sound, the heat, the way the air felt like it was breathing you in. Your nerves were humming too loud for comfort. So, with a quiet sigh, you got up from the booth and decided to make your way to the bar.

Eyes followed you the moment you stood. Like hounds catching a scent.

You kept your gaze low, trying not to make contact. You weren’t here to mingle with the rich tweakers and chemically confident heirs of nothing. Every time someone tried to strike up a conversation, you gave them a single word—“No.” “Sorry.” “Taken.” Short. Sharp. Enough to cut without bleeding.

Then someone touched you.

A hand, too firm, closed around your arm. You stopped cold. Turned.

His face was familiar—he might’ve been in a movie, or maybe the son of someone who was. But his pupils were so wide they swallowed the color of his eyes, and the whites were streaked red like cracks in glass. He wasn’t just high. He was gone.

“Hey…” he slurred, breath sticky. “What you doing all alone?”

You flinched at his tone, at the sway of his body. Your stomach twisted, but you managed a polite, strained smile. “I’m not alone, sir. I’m here with my friends.”

“Mm,” he grinned, like he didn’t believe you. Like he didn’t care. He tugged your arm, pulling you closer like you were some party favor to unwrap.

Your heart skipped in fear and instinct—your fingers grabbed at your arm, trying to yank free.

“You got a boyfriend?” he asked, voice low and greasy.

“I—”

Before you could answer, you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. Solid. Protective. Warm.

“Fuck off,” a deep voice growled behind you. “She’s with me.”

The guy froze. His hand dropped like he’d touched fire.

You turned your head—and there she was.

Abby Anderson.

She stood tall, her shadow swallowing the guy whole. Muscles carved into her like she’d been sculpted, not born. Her jaw clenched just enough to say try me. The air shifted. The guy muttered something, barely audible, then backed off into the crowd like a kicked dog.

You exhaled for what felt like the first time in minutes.

“Thank you so much,” you said, voice still shaky with adrenaline.

“No problem,” Abby replied, eyes steady on yours.

Then she looked you up and down—slowly, deliberately. Her gaze lingered at your dress, lips twitching in approval. “You want a drink?” she asked.

You nodded. “Yeah... I was on my way to the bar.”

“Perfect,” she said, her hand brushing your lower back. “Let’s go.”

The dance floor was a different world entirely—smoke in the air, lights strobing in pulses of red and gold, bodies packed so tight you could feel the music in your bones. It wasn’t dancing, not really. It was moving, grinding, existing too close and not close enough all at once.

Abby held your hand as she led you through the crowd like she knew exactly where to go. Her grip was firm, grounding. She stopped in the center, surrounded by heat and rhythm, and turned to face you with a look that was half playful, half something deeper.

You bit your lip. “So this is the part where you pretend to dance?”

Abby chuckled, hands already settling on your waist. “Nah. This is the part where I let you lead and pretend I’m doing something.”

The bass thumped through the floor, into your heels, your spine. You started slow, swaying your hips to the beat, your hands brushing up Abby’s chest to hook behind her neck. She followed your rhythm effortlessly, bodies pressed just enough to tease, but not quite enough to satisfy.

She was warm, solid, her scent sharp and clean beneath the smoke and sweat. Her gaze didn’t leave yours—not for a second. Not even when your thighs brushed, not even when your hips tilted forward in a soft, suggestive grind.

You felt her breath catch. Yours did too.

You tilted your head up, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Still pretending?” you whispered.

“No,” she breathed. “Not anymore.”

Her hands slid down to your hips, pulling you flush against her. Every motion was slow and deliberate, like she was trying to memorize how you moved, how your body fit into hers.

Your hands were in her hair now, fingers threading through the strands as your mouth hovered near hers, your noses touching, foreheads brushing.

And then—

She kissed you.

Right there on the dance floor, under a flickering red light, while the whole room spun and bodies crashed around you. Her lips crashed into yours with a heat that left no room for second thoughts. It was messy and perfect, her mouth tasting like whiskey and victory. Her hand slid up your back, cradling the base of your neck like you were something precious, and the kiss deepened—tongues brushing, teeth grazing, everything hungry and real.

You kissed her like you were tired of pretending. Like the night belonged to you both and everyone else was just noise.

By the time you pulled away, breathless and dazed, her forehead was still pressed to yours, eyes half-lidded, lips slick from yours.

“Still wanna call it one dance?” you asked, voice husky.

She smirked, lips brushing yours again. “Nah. I’m not done with you yet.”

“Come with me,” she murmured, her voice like gravel and silk.

She took your hand again—firmer this time—and pulled you through the crowd. Past the dancers. Past the bar. You barely noticed where you were going, but when she pushed open the heavy black door and the cool tile of the upscale bathroom greeted your heels, it hit you—

This wasn’t gonna be a quiet conversation.

The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the chaos outside. The room was dim, bathed in golden light from crystal fixtures on the walls. Too pretty a place for what was about to happen.

You turned around to face her, but Abby was already close again, crowding into your space in the most delicious way. Her hands found your hips, then slid around to your lower back, pulling you against her like she needed you there.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night,” she whispered, leaning down, lips brushing over your jaw. “Walking around like that in that little black dress…”

Your breath caught as her mouth ghosted along your skin—cheek to jaw to neck.

“I didn’t know I’d catch a boxer’s attention,” you teased, voice barely steady.

Abby’s teeth scraped lightly against your throat, just enough to make your knees wobble.

“You caught a lot more than that,” she growled. “You think I was just gonna let you sit there alone, looking like that? Not a chance.”

Her lips met yours again, but this time it was rougher—needy. Her hands explored your back, your sides, fingers grazing bare skin as she pushed you gently until your back hit the cool tile wall. The contrast made you gasp, and she took full advantage, deepening the kiss like she owned your mouth, like she’d waited too long already.

Your hands were in her hair again, tugging gently, nails dragging along her scalp. She groaned into your mouth, one hand sliding down to your thigh—lifting it so it rested against her hip.

You moaned softly as the pressure between you built, your bodies locked together in this stolen moment of heat and hunger and want.

“Say the word,” she breathed against your lips, her hand hovering, waiting.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I want you.”

That was all she needed.

Her lips brushed yours—not a kiss yet, just the idea of one. Soft enough to make your breath catch. Her nose nudged yours, foreheads touching. You could smell her—warm and clean beneath the sweat and cologne, with a faint trace of whiskey still on her breath.

Her hand slid up your thigh, knuckles grazing the hem of your dress. “This is driving me insane,” she whispered. “You in this little thing, walking around like you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You grinned, high on the rush. “Maybe I do.”

Abby groaned, a low sound in the back of her throat that lit you up from the inside out. Her mouth met yours in a kiss that melted all the air between you. Her lips were soft but firm, her hand gripping your waist, dragging you into her as if she couldn’t bear even an inch of space left untouched.

You whimpered into her mouth when she pressed you harder into the wall, thigh slipping between yours, nudging upward with steady pressure.

“You’re already warm,” she whispered against your lips, voice thick and ragged. “And fuck—you’re shaking.”

You were. It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation, trembling like your body already knew what was coming.

Her hands moved with purpose—sliding up your sides, over your ribs, finding the zipper of your dress and pausing. “Can I?” she asked, voice low.

You nodded.

The zipper purred down, slow and deliberate, as cool air kissed the skin of your back. Your dress slipped from your shoulders like it was made to fall. Abby let it, guiding it down your arms until it pooled around your feet.

The way she looked at you then—

Like she was starving. Like you were everything.

Her hands roamed up your thighs, trailing goosebumps in their wake. Her palms were rough, used to wrapping around gloves and landing punches, but they touched you like silk. Her fingers splayed across your stomach, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra as she leaned in and kissed the base of your throat—slow, reverent.

“You’re unreal,” she murmured against your skin.

You tilted your head back, a soft moan escaping you as her lips traveled down your collarbone, every kiss a promise, every pause a test of restraint. She took her time, building you up with touches and kisses so gentle you felt like you were going to come apart before she even got there.

She dropped to her knees, lips ghosting over your stomach now, her hands gripping your thighs again. You looked down at her—this powerhouse of a woman, a boxer with bruised knuckles and fire in her eyes—kneeling for you, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Abby…”

“I got you,” she whispered. “I want to take care of you.”

And the way she said that?

It didn’t sound like a pick-up line.

It sounded like a promise.

Her mouth pressed a kiss to your hipbone. Then another. Then lower.

You threaded your fingers into her hair, back arching as you felt her breath where you needed her most, every nerve ending screaming awake, your whole body aching for her.

When her mouth finally met your skin, hot and slow and deliberate, you gasped—and that was when you stopped thinking altogether.

You were hers. In this moment. In this heat.

Your breath hitched, when you felt her mouth on your heat, exploring you.

She picked up on every whine you made in certain spots and attacked them with her tongue.

"Fuck you're so sweet," she mumbled against you which made up moan.

She was slow, at first. torturously soft licks and kisses on your clit that made your knees buckle. Then deeper—pressing and sucking in a rhythm that felt otherworldly. You gripped her hair, fingers tangling in her golden strands, moaning shamelessly as she devoured you like it was the only thing she needed to survive.

She worked you open like a prizefighter dissecting her opponent—calculated, relentless, skilled. She knew exactly when to add pressure, when to ease up, when to slide her two thick fingers inside you and curl them just right, making you yell out her name in pleasure.

She sucked on your clit as she continued to finger you. The sound of your arousal filled the bathroom as she fingered you. "Fuck Abby," you moaned out.

The sound of your voice moaning out her name only made her more determined to make you cum. Her fingers got faster and your moans only got louder.

You heard loud knocks on the bathroom door and a few voices, but that didnt stop Abby as you grew closer to your climax.

Abby pulled her mouth away and stood, her fingers still inside of you as she kept a steady pace. Her thumb rubbing your abused and swollen clit making you tremble. She used her other hand to grab your throat, gripping it with just enough pressure. "Are you gonna cum?," she whispered.

"Yes...fuck yes. I'm so close," you whined.

"Be a good girl and cum all over my fingers," she commands.

After a few more pumps of her fingers inside of your cunt. You came and hard. Abby kissed you muffling your moans as she slowed her pace, helping you calm down from your high.

The silence after the storm was thick and golden.

Your chest was rising and falling fast, dress wrinkled and hanging low on your hips, hair a wild halo around your flushed face.

You both stayed like that for a few heartbeats—no words, just the sound of your breathing and the muted thump of the party outside, miles away from the moment you were in.

Then, slowly, Abby's big hands gently slid up your sides.

“You good?” she asked, voice hoarse and low, her thumb brushing along your jaw.

You nodded, still breathless. “Yeah,” you murmured, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Very good.”

She let out a soft laugh, something cocky and proud warming her expression. “Yeah? Scale of one to ten?”

You leaned back against the wall, eyes twinkling. “Ten. Maybe eleven.”

“Damn right,” she said, grinning now, stepping behind you to pull the straps of your dress back over your shoulders.

Her fingers moved deftly, pulling the zipper up in a slow, smooth line that sent a fresh shiver down your spine.

Then you turned around to face her and—

“Oh my God,” you giggled, pressing a hand to your mouth.

“What?” Abby blinked, instantly alert. “Did I mess up the zipper?”

“No,” you said, biting your lip to stop from laughing. “You’ve got lipstick all over your mouth. Like… everywhere. You look like you fought a tube of MAC and lost.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That bad?”

You nodded, laughing now, reaching up to wipe her face gently with your thumb. “You look ridiculous. Hot, but ridiculous.”

Abby grinned, totally unfazed. “Badge of honor.”

Then—bam bam bam—a sudden knock on the bathroom door, followed by the obnoxious giggle of some drunk stranger.

“Yo, hurry up in there! We gotta piss!”

Abby rolled her eyes and looked at you with a smirk. “And just like that… the moment’s gone.”

You both burst out laughing, quietly, like a shared secret. She reached for the door handle, pausing just before she opened it.

“You wanna get outta here?” she asked. “We can go somewhere quieter. Talk. Or… not talk.”

You tilted your head, smiling soft, still feeling the fire she left behind glowing low in your belly.

“Yeah,” you said. “I’d like that.”

The bathroom door swung open and the two of you stepped out, back into the chaos.

The music hit first—thick, heavy, vibrating through your chest. Then came the blur of heat, perfume, weed, strobe lights flickering off mirrored walls. People pressed in from every side, some dancing, some spilling drinks, all of them moving like they were floating through honey.

But you weren’t really paying attention to any of it—your focus was still wrapped around Abby, your skin still buzzing where she touched you.

Then—

“Baaaaabe!” your friend slurred, suddenly appearing from the crowd like a glittering, unhinged fairy. Her dress was sliding off one shoulder and her mascara had migrated halfway down her cheek, but she was grinning ear to ear, holding a bottle of something pink and dangerous.

She threw her arms around you in a sloppy hug. “We’re leaaavinggg,” she declared, then looked up at you with wide eyes. “I want Whataburger. Like now.”

You blinked. “You’re hungry?”

“I’m starviiing,” she drawled, stumbling a little in her platforms. “I want fries. And a honey butter chicken biscuit. And you’re drivinggg.”

Of course. You should’ve known. Mom friend mode: activated.

You turned back to Abby, who stood there watching you with that low smirk that made your knees weak. Her hair was tousled now, lips wiped clean, but her eyes still held that same heat from the bathroom. That want.

You hesitated. “I’m sorry,” you said, stepping closer, keeping your voice low. “I gotta take care of her. But I’ll—um—I’ll add you on Instagram. And we can text. Set something up. Soon.”

Abby nodded, the smirk shifting into something softer. “Yeah,” she said. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t leave me on read.”

You smiled, heart fluttering a little. “I won’t.”

And even though it wasn’t a kiss goodbye, there was something electric in the way your eyes lingered on each other just a second too long, like the universe wasn’t done with this yet.

Then your friend yanked on your hand. “WHATABURGER, BITCH.”

You laughed, throwing one last look over your shoulder at Abby before diving into the crowd, one arm wrapped around your intoxicated bestie, guiding her like a lighthouse through a sea of chaos.

Your phone buzzed in your purse.

A follow request from Abby Anderson.

Your friend was still tearing up her Whataburger like it was a competition and she was winning gold. Honey butter chicken biscuit? Gone. Fries? Vanishing. Drink? Half-empty and clutched in her glittered claws like she was fighting dehydration and heartbreak.

You? You were in another world, sipping your diet coke and staring at your phone like it had just whispered something sinful.

[1 notification] abbytheanderson sent you a follow request.

You blinked. Already? You hadn’t even left the damn parking lot. She was good.

You tapped accept, and no lie—your stomach flipped like it was performing stunts. Not even thirty seconds later, another buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: hey beautiful

You bit down on a smile, typing back before your brain could overthink it.

you: hey you :)

Buzz.

abbytheanderson 🥊: couldn’t let you disappear like that. you left me wanting more.

You swore your pulse skipped. This woman had a black belt in flirting.

you: good thing you found me then

abbytheanderson 🥊: definitely. hey, random—but you free this weekend?

Your heart sped up. You took a quick sip of your drink to cool down your face, fingers dancing over the keyboard.

you: yeah, i think so. why?

abbytheanderson 🥊: there’s a film showcase downtown. some sports doc screening, bunch of celebs. got an invite +1, and i figured it might be more fun with you.

A movie showcase. That was not casual. That was dress up, flashbulbs, maybe a red carpet territory. Your stomach turned into champagne bubbles.

you: you want me to be your date?

abbytheanderson 🥊: unless you’ve got another famous boxer in your dms rn 👀

You laughed into your drink.

you: nope. just the hottest one.

abbytheanderson 🥊: damn right. i’ll pick you up saturday. wear something that’ll make me stare the whole night.

You locked your phone with a sigh, brain short-circuiting. Your bestie looked up from her fries with ketchup on her cheek.

“Why do you look like you just got proposed to?”

You smiled into your straw. “I’ve got a date.”

Your best friend stood behind you, clutching a makeup brush like it was a wand. "Sit still or I’m gonna make your winged liner look like a lightning bolt."

You giggled, sipping your iced coffee while she dabbed a warm highlight onto your cheekbones. “If Abby sees me and combusts, I blame you.”

She winked. “That’s the goal.”

The dress was hanging up on the door like it needed its own spotlight.

It was the dress—like Aphrodite and red carpet royalty had a baby and named her “divine.” A shimmering champagne gold that sparkled under even the faintest light, clinging to your curves like it was sculpted just for your body. The fabric was sheer but layered in all the right places, ruched along the hips and gathered at the waist in a delicate knot that accentuated everything. Strapless and sensual, the neckline cupped your chest softly and dipped into a subtle sweetheart shape, drawing the eye upward—no necklace needed, just collarbones and confidence.

The choker was a sheer mesh ribbon, soft and romantic, tied in the back like a little secret. And in your hand? A small velvet clutch that looked like luxury.

"Okay," your friend said, stepping back and crossing her arms like a proud stylist. "You look like you're about to walk into a movie and walk out with the star."

You turned to the mirror and exhaled. You looked… expensive. Golden. Ethereal.

And somewhere out there, Abby Anderson was probably trying to tie a tie and not think about your lips.

“Okay,” you said, smoothing your dress down, trying not to ruin your makeup by grinning too hard. “Let’s go melt her brain.”

The car door clicked shut behind you, heels clicking on the pavement like your own entrance music. The showcase was already buzzing—paparazzi lights flashing in bursts, guests in tailored designer looks pouring into the venue like liquid silk and velvet. Your driver looped back around, and your friend gave you a quick squeeze on the hand.

“You got this. Go make that boxer wish she had a mouthguard.”

You grinned, rolling your eyes and walking toward the entrance, that golden dress shimmering with every step like you were dipped in honey and starfire. The fabric clung just enough to whisper with movement, catching the camera flashes even when they weren’t aimed at you. Heads turned. People stared. And somewhere near the doors—

She saw you.

Abby was standing near the carpet, talking to some guy in a sports jacket, but the second her eyes landed on you? Conversation dead. Her jaw? Slightly dropped. Like someone had just uppercut her with Cupid’s fist.

She looked… good. Too good. A tailored black suit, no tie, but the first two buttons of her shirt open to show a bit of her collarbone and that stupidly strong chest. Her hair slicked back like she stepped off a Vogue Homme cover, one hand in her pocket, the other holding a drink she no longer remembered existed.

You saw her lips move—"Holy shit."

You floated up to her like you were gliding, heels clicking like punctuation to her stunned silence.

“Hey,” you said, giving her a smile that would’ve won wars. “I clean up alright, huh?”

“‘Alright’?” Abby shook her head slowly, eyes never leaving you, and damn if there wasn’t a glint of something primal in them. “You look like a damn goddess.”

You blushed, biting your lip just a little. “Not bad for a plus-one?”

“I’m upgrading your title. You’re the main event now.”

She reached out, offering you her arm like some old Hollywood gentleman, but the smirk on her face was all Abby—cocky, smooth, a little dangerous.

You took it.

The two of you walked the carpet together, and the cameras noticed. Photographers subtly turned toward the tall boxer and the glowing mystery girl on her arm. Whispers floated like perfume: “Is that Abby Anderson’s date?” “Who is she?” “She looks like a star.”

Inside, the lights were dimmer, the ambiance expensive and dramatic—velvet seats, champagne trays, and a giant screen waiting for the showcase to begin. Abby guided you to your seats, but not without sneaking glances at you like you were illegal and she wanted to get arrested.

“So,” she murmured, leaning close once you were seated. “What are the odds I get you to be my plus-one again? I was thinking… a real date. One with dessert and less paparazzi.”

You looked at her, still glowing from the lights, the crowd, the adrenaline.

“I’d say the odds are pretty high,” you whispered back.

She grinned, and you swore your stomach did a little backflip.

The movie hadn’t even started, but you already felt like you were living in one.

The afterparty was on the rooftop of the venue—elevators opening to golden lights strung like constellations, sleek white lounges, and a panoramic view of the city glittering below like a spilled jewelry box. The music was mellow, expensive-sounding. People sipped cocktails like they were made of stardust and name-dropped producers like prayers.

Abby got swept into a circle of suits and sharp smiles, people clapping her on the back, toasting to her latest win, asking questions with ulterior motives. She smiled through it, charming without trying, but you could feel her eyes flick to you every few minutes.

You wandered off to the ledge, the wind teasing your hair, your dress still glowing faintly under the rooftop lights. You leaned your elbows on the glass railing, the city stretching out like a promise, the hum of nightlife pulsing below you like a heartbeat.

Your drink was cold in your hand, but your skin still buzzed from earlier—her arm on yours, the way she looked at you like you were art in motion.

“Hey.”

Her voice came soft behind you, lower now, free of the public version of herself. You turned and found her there, hands in her pockets, her suit jacket open just enough to make your pulse trip.

“You done charming the VIPs?” you teased.

She gave a low chuckle, stepping up beside you. “They were boring as hell. I missed this view.”

You raised a brow. “The skyline?”

“No,” she said without hesitation, her eyes dragging down your profile like a caress. “You.”

That earned her a quiet laugh from you, heat rushing up your neck. “You’re really laying it on tonight, huh?”

“I’m just saying what I’m thinking.” Her shoulder brushed yours. “So… what do you do when you’re not breaking hearts in golden dresses?”

You hesitated for a second, still looking out at the city. “I model. Victoria’s Secret.”

That made her blink. “Wait—seriously?”

You nodded, a little sheepish. “I mean… I’m not like, one of those Angels. I’m usually backup. Fill-ins. Commercial stuff. They don’t exactly put me on billboards in Times Square.”

Abby looked at you for a long moment, her head tilted. “That’s wild.”

“What is?”

“That there are people out there who didn’t put you on a billboard. I’d hang a photo of you in every damn room of my house.”

You turned to her with a laugh, playful and warm. “Wow, romantic and a little bit stalker-y. Impressive.”

She grinned, closing the small space between you. “Tell me where the line is, and I’ll try not to cross it.”

You looked at her. Really looked. The city lights caught in her eyes, and something about her felt safe even in the middle of all this chaos. You smiled, heart softening.

“There’s no line,” you murmured.

Abby’s smile shifted, gentler now. She looked at you like you were something to be unwrapped slowly. “Then I’ll keep standing right here.”

You turned toward her fully now, leaning your hip against the railing, one hand cradling your glass while the other played with the condensation on the side. The wind tugged gently at the fabric of your dress, making it shimmer even more in the light. Abby was looking at you like you were unreal, but she blinked when you spoke, brought back to the present.

“So…” you tilted your head, curiosity playing in your voice. “Why boxing?”

That made her smile, and not the kind she gave the higher-ups—this one was smaller, more personal, like a story lived too long in her chest.

She shrugged a little. “I used to watch it on TV with my dad. Every Saturday night. He was always busy at the hospital, but when there was a fight on, we were synced. Like… we got each other.”

You nodded softly, listening.

“I started wrestling in school—figured it was the closest I could get. Got recruited, did alright. But it never felt like mine, y’know? Then I tried boxing. First time I landed a punch clean, everything clicked. I was like—this is it. This is the fire.”

You bit your lip, something warm blooming in your chest. There was a sparkle in her eyes now, not from the city lights, but from the weight of meaning behind her words. Passion always looked good on people—but on Abby? It was devastating.

“That’s hot,” you said, softly but truthfully. “Like, actually hot. You knowing who you are like that.”

She huffed a little laugh, rubbing the back of her neck, suddenly sheepish. “You’re the first person I’ve told that to in a while.”

You shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Well… you picked the right person. I’m an excellent secret-keeper. They don’t let just anyone model underwear, you know.”

That made her grin wide, her eyes roaming your face like she was trying to memorize it. “You really gonna keep talking like that and not expect me to kiss you again?”

Your breath caught a little, heartbeat fluttering as the tension curled tighter between you like a string pulled taut.

“I mean,” you whispered, leaning in just an inch, “I wouldn’t be mad if you did.”

She didn’t rush. Abby leaned forward slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted—but you didn’t. You leaned in, too, until your lips met in a soft, barely-there kiss. Not like the heated one from the club. This one was warm and lingering, like a question you already knew the answer to.

When you finally pulled back, both of you smiling, you rested your head lightly against her shoulder, looking back out at the glittering skyline.

“So…” you murmured, “You planning on knocking anyone out tonight, champ?”

She smirked. “Only if they try to take you from me.”

The car ride back was quiet in a good way. Abby drove with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing your thigh like she just had to remind herself you were really there. The city outside the window melted by in a blur of neon and soft shadows, and the gentle beat of the music wrapped around you like a lullaby.

By the time you reached your apartment, the air had cooled down to a soft breeze, lifting the hem of your dress and brushing over your skin like a whisper. Abby parked and got out before you could even reach for the door handle. She walked you to your door like a proper date, her hands in her pockets, her steps slow—like she didn’t want the night to end just yet.

You turned to face her at your door, heels clicking softly against the concrete. “Thank you for tonight,” you said, your voice warm and low, your smile a little sleepy but no less sincere.

Abby looked down at you with that easy grin of hers, one side of her mouth curling higher than the other. “No problem, angel,” she murmured. The nickname settled on your skin like velvet, making your cheeks heat in the soft moonlight.

You turned to unlock your door, keys jingling—but something stopped you. A quiet little nudge in your chest. You turned back around, heart kicking up a notch. She looked surprised at first when you stepped toward her, but she didn’t ask questions.

You leaned in and kissed her.

This one was slower. Softer. There wasn’t any club music thudding behind you this time, no crowd, no chaos. Just the two of you and the buzz of the porch light. Her lips tasted like the mint gum she always chewed, yours like sweet gloss and maybe a little bit of stardust.

When you finally pulled away, her eyes fluttered open like she’d been floating somewhere far off.

She smirked and licked her lips, clearly feeling the gloss residue.

You laughed quietly, hand brushing her chest as you stepped back toward the door. “I put on just lip gloss this time… so it’s not hard to take off.”

She grinned, something a little cocky flickering behind her lashes. “You planned that?”

You winked. “Maybe.”

“Smart girl,” she murmured, biting her bottom lip before taking a slow step back. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

You nodded, your fingers resting on the doorframe, reluctant to let the night end. “Okay. Drive safe.”

“Always do,” she said, and then—one last look, one last smirk—she turned and walked back toward her car, the night gently folding around her.

You leaned against the door with a quiet exhale, smiling to yourself like a fool.

an : i don't want it to be too long...so part 2 coming soon!

351 notes · View notes

jhyoos · 1 month 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.

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

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