yazaleearchive

[yazaleearchive]

Oh, how I hated you. You were the world to me, and I couldn't wait to burn you to ashes. I missed you, I loved you, but oh, how I hated you. You are destruction - and under you, I come undone.

[yazaleearchive]

ANDREIL BIKER AU - SELF INDULGING ALTERNATIVE VERSION

Neil waits for Andrew to pick him up from university. The December air is freezing, and snow is gently piling up on the ground around him. He thinks he can feel the cold down to his bones. After a few minutes, Neil finally hears the familiar sound of a roaring engine and looks up.

Andrew pulls over and leans in for a quick, passionate kiss. Neil knows his boyfriend can taste the ice on his freezing lips, can taste it on his tongue. Andrew wordlessly pushes a helmet on Neil’s head and waits for him to climb on the motorbike.

Without turning around, Andrew reaches for Neil’s hands and removes his gloves. Andrew gives his hands a squeeze before roughly guiding them into his own pockets. Neil just hugs him tighter, and snuggles his head into Andrew’s scarf, finding comfort in the familiar smell.

Neil’s mouth meets uncovered skin and he smiles against Andrew’s neck, before gently biting him. Andrew does not need to ask, they don’t need words. This is their language; Thank you, I love you, I want you (even if I don’t want to).

They stay like this for a minute, locked in the intimate embrace, their hands intertwined in Andrew’s pockets and Neil’s mouth at his boyfriend’s jaw. It’s only when Neil’s body is racked by an uncontrollable shiver that Andrew steps on the pedal. The engine revs and then they’re gone, only leaving behind a cloud of soft snow dust.

[yazaleearchive]

PART THREE - THEM

Neil hops down the stairs of the university building and makes his way to the exit. He hears the whispers and the curious looks, but he shuts them out. He has to. He doesn’t have the time for this.

He wants to break into a jog and run away from the overwhelming chatter and the unwanted attention, but he keeps it under control.

He reaches the gates, and moves past a group of smokers. One of them hollers at him and the others laugh. Neil ignores them and that’s when he senses something. Someone, looking at him, intense, but this time it does not make his skin crawl.

A sleek motorcycle is waiting a few paces away, the rider’s eyes on him. Smouldering. Neil can barely stop the small, relieved smile that twists his lips, and stops himself an inch away from the biker.

“You came.”

Andrew is not wearing a helmet - he never does - and he is lazily perched on the seat of his bike, smoking a cigarette. He shrugs and lifts an eyebrow, but does not reply. He doesn’t have to.

You called.

Andrew just reaches for the helmet tucked under the seat and forces it onto Neil’s head, eyes still on his. Andrew’s face betrays no emotion, but there is violence in his gaze.

Neil does not know how long he’s been looking, how long he’s watched Neil get whispered about and stared at on his way out of the university. Neil can feel tension in the arm that brushes past his jaw to fasten the strap.

Neil pulls at the sleeve of Andrew’s jacket, careful not to touch skin, and with the other he slowly lifts Andrew's helmet. Just enough to free his mouth. Just enough so that he can lean in. And he stops. One breath away. One question away.

Yes or no?

Andrew’s lips meet his in a fierce kiss, but Neil knows the anger is not aimed at him. So he opens his mouth, and accepts it all. Andrew’s hand latches on his nape like a safeguard as the other guides Neil’s hand in his hair.

Neil’s mind is full of Andrew. He lets his fingers roam the other boy’s hair, tugging at the soft strands. He keeps the silent groans Andrew lets escape as secrets. He knows that Andrew does the same.

It’s their deal - a truth for a truth. And there is nothing truer that this.

He knows that everyone who’d been watching him has probably been shocked into silence: Outcast Neil Josten kissing a tiny, notoriously violent biker at the entrance of university?

They’re probably pissing themselves by the time Andrew breaks the kiss, replaces the helmet and throws Neil behind him on the bike. Neil hides his chuckle in the back of Andrew’s jacket. He is not looking, but he knows that right now, Andrew is throwing dangerous glares at the gaping students.

He recognizes the pause in his movement, recognizes the lazy tension in his shoulders (he has been on the receiving end of the thunderous stare so many time, he just knows).

And then, the engine roars and Andrew is taking him away, away from everything, from the whispers and the looks. Neil hums, tightening his arms around the bold, crazy man that keeps on coming for him when Neil calls.

(He’s the only one who’s ever done so.)

[yazaleearchive]

PART TWO - NEIL

NEIL has been running away his entire life. From his dad’s violence, from his mom’s ghost, from his own shadow.

He’d ran from city to city, from name to name and from pain to worse. He’d ran until he was numb to all of it.

(He tells himself he has to. He is tired - oh, so tired- but there’s something in him, a drive that keeps him alive. A voice in his head that tells him, always: run, Neil. Run.)

This is why Neil keeps running. He uses the money his mom had stolen, what remains of it, anyway. He keeps his head lowered, crafts a parade of masks he presents to people he’ll never see again.

No one knows him, no one knows the real him and that’s how he stays alive. It’s the unavoidable price tag on his survival: a life of utter solitude.

He can smile and laugh and pretend, but he does not let himself enjoy those moments. He is scared that if he does, he’ll waver. He’ll want to stay. He’ll crave for more.

More is dangerous, and that’s why, in the end, he always packs up and leave.

He does not necessarily enjoy life on the run, but it’s all Neil’s ever known.

A survivor. A fighter. A desperate teenage boy, scared and wounded.

At night, he lays in his cold bed, the absence of his mother’s warmth a constant reminder that he will never be safe.

So, he runs.

Neil became good at telling lies, had no choice but to. He hides his scars, conceals his past, dyes his hair and covers his fears behind opaque lenses.

Sometimes, when the loneliness becomes too suffocating, he’ll share one or two details that are real. But never more, never the truth.

Not if he wants to survive.

No, Neil does not necessarily enjoy life on the run, but he’s told himself a thousand times: at least it keeps him safe.

Until it didn’t.

[yazaleearchive]

PART ONE - ANDREW

ANDREW doesn’t like the feeling of being owned, he loathes it. He wears the leather jacket, but he burned the logo of the club long ago.

He is no fucking one’s.

(It landed him in trouble with the upper ranks, but they know Andrew, know he’s probably the best enforcer they’d ever have. The bloodiest, for sure. So they let him roam free like a wild dog. If they leave him alone, maybe Andrew won’t bite them.)

This is why Andrew stays. He crashes at the chapter’s home base, a dark bar crowded with members’ bikes and shrouded in a persistent cloud of smoke.

That’s where he keeps himself hooked up on booze and cigarettes. On the harder stuff, too.

This way, Andrew doesn’t have to think. He can enjoy the numb pleasure of the substances, and fight those who get out of line - and then some more. The blind violence keeps him going, another kind of high he craves; like feeding the vicious beast in him.

He does not necessarily enjoy the biker life, but it’s all Andrew’s ever known. So he takes his kick out of the drugs and the fights and the blood, out of the meaningless sex and the cold nights alone.

A numbing cycle of familiar, immediate gratification.

He does like his bike, loves the thrill of the race. The possibility of his life ending in a split second. The wind in his silver blond hair, the speed grazing his leather jacket and his black armbands.

For an exhilarating moment, it makes him forget that he wants to die.

No, Andrew does not necessarily enjoy the biker life but at least, it keeps people away. Keeps problems away.

Until it didn’t.

[yazaleearchive]

After: Rouge

Maeve makes her own rouge. She mixes expensive essences, crushed flowers and mysterious dark beans imported from across the western seas. She’d spend a long time blending the ingredients together, until the concoction turns into a smooth carmine tint.

Aziliz is lounging in a cushioned armchair, watching her. She doesn’t understand why Maeve insists on making her own products, when maids would be more than happy to prepare the fancy powders and pigments for her.

“It calms me down,” Maeve replies, her attention never leaving the continuous circular gesture of her hand. “If I have to wear a mask, then at the very least I want to be the one crafting it.”

Aziliz only shrugs. She keeps watching the dark red coiled braids undulate with each movement, and she lets her mind wander. When Maeve is done, she turns around and leans back against her desk, satisfied. A dark finger dips in the crimson ointment, and rises to her generous lips. Her eyes are dark, smouldering, and they are entirely focused on Aziliz. She applies the rouge languidly, her expression taunting. Aziliz wills every bone in her body to remain immobile. Analyse the situation first. Act later. Maeve’s newly painted lips curve up in an amused, enticing smile.

“Would you like some as well? You could do with some colour.”

She turns to put the vial back on the table behind her, her neck twisting and her eyes cast down in feigned innocence. Aziliz raises a controlled eyebrow. She hops off the chair and closes the distance between them. Her hand finds the vial on the desk, caging Maeve in. The smiling girl is towering over her. Aziliz doesn’t care. She rises on the tip of her toes, her left hand securing Maeve’s waist. Almond and something else, something exotic. Something addicting. So intoxicating, Aziliz thinks she might get drunk off Maeve’s lips. It is impossible to resist.

“I’ll help myself,” her whisper caresses the rouged lips.

The kiss is intense, their eyes locked in the passionate duel that accompanies each of their embraces. Aziliz closes her eyes, and lets herself be consumed by the fire, by the inebriating sweetness of Maeve. Maeve’s hands sink into Aziliz’ messy hair, as Aziliz’ fingers instinctively wrap around her nape. Maeve deepens the kiss and bites her bottom lip. The lip paint is smearing across their mouths, but they’re too lost in each other to care.

It’s only when they break away, panting and short of breath, that they finally get a proper look at each other. They drink in the other’s appearance, the ridiculous smudged lips, and it takes all the control Aziliz has left not to kiss it all away. She lets her head fall on Maeve’s collarbone as the other girl’ chin finds the top of her head. They lay in the comfortable embrace, and one last chuckle escapes Maeve’s not-so-red-anymore lips.

“That, Lady Kervran, was not your wisest decision, I believe.”

Aziliz’ eyes twinkle deviously.

“I’m sure I can do worse.”

[yazaleearchive]

After: Music

Soft, pinched notes echo in the bright salon. The tune is soothing, almost hypnotic. Elegant fingers pluck at the metallic strings, as a low hum accompany the melancholic tune. Maeve is lounging in a chair behind the musician, the tension in her body unknotting with each melodic chord. Her head lulls, and she feels her thoughts fade away as sleepiness slowly seeps into her bones.

The song suddenly picks up, the chords growing tumultuous as the music drastically changes into a stormy clash of harmonious notes. Maeve opens her eyes, lazily. She sees Aziliz’ slender figure, her graceful nape leaning towards the gilded harp, body tensed in focus. Maeve stays in the padded armchair for a moment, enjoying the increasingly hectic rhythm, and the way each note animates Aziliz’ body. She jumps out of the chair and positions herself behind the other woman.

Maeve’s finger hovers over the harpist’s neck, itching to touch. A raised eyebrow over gold pupils glance back at her. Almost… playful. No smile graces Aziliz’ lips, but Maeve can see it anyway. Aziliz’ attention is back on the heavy instrument in her arms, and Maeve uses the permission she was just granted. The pad of her index meets smooth skin, following veins strained with focus. Careful not to hinder Aziliz’ movements, she drops her chin in the fluffy cloud of undone, black hair, and pauses.

“Is that… A new product you used on your hair?”

Aziliz’ shoulders tremble slightly at the bothered tone in Maeve’s voice.

“Didn’t you gift me some of your very own brew?”

“I didn’t expect you to use it.” 

Maeve buries her face deep into the short dark waves, and breathes in. She’d offered the girl hair cosmetic she’d done herself because she’d wanted Aziliz to smell like her. The greedy part of her had wanted to see how it was to brand the other girl with her own scent.

“I don’t like it,” she concludes. ��Maybe I should try something else…”

Aziliz only hums in response. She is still playing, but the tempo has slowed back to a sensuous cadence. Maeve shakes her head, still playing with Aziliz’ hair.

“I like your usual scent better.” Maeve drops a kiss on her temple, and whispers. “Maybe I should try yours, instead.”

Aziliz steals a quick, biting kiss.

“Careful, you are giving me ideas.”

The wickedness in her tone is exhilarating and Maeve melts into laughter. She loops her arms around Aziliz’ shoulders.

“Dance with me, and I’ll do anything you please,” she murmurs in Aziliz’ ear.

They hum together for a few beats, as the last few notes of the tune spiral into a quiet conclusion. Then, Maeve delicately takes Aziliz’ hand, pulls her up, and they start swaying to the silent echoes of the harp.

[yazaleearchive]

After: Library

Rain is hammering down the wide glass windows of the library, in the familiar, frenetic cadence of the notorious An’Arvor turbulent weather. Aziliz’ eyes are fixed on the horizon, far beyond the window.

She loves the tempest. Something about the display of sheer natural abandon, its complete disregard for everything else in the world, made her soul yearn. Her gaze sweeps over the rocky shore, to the stormy skies raging over the tumultuous sea outside the mansion.

She had never liked the stuffy Kervran library. She instinctually associate the grand room, filled with obnoxious, dusty books and expensive family portraits with the Duke. With a vortex of bad memories she is desperate to erase. Aziliz detaches her gaze from the window, and glances at the small desk in the corner, where she used to hide out the storms of her childhood. Where fear had shaken her tiny frame, now only contempt rose, like bile to her throat.

She used to loathe the library.

A soft cough draws her attention to the centre of the circular room. A heavy mahogany bureau thrones in the middle of tall shelves full of various tomes and treatises. Maeve is hunched over a hefty volume, her eyebrows furrowed in an absorbed frown.

Aziliz leans back and follows Maeve’s fingers distractedly tap the page in rhythm with the impact of the raindrops on the glass. She watches the girl gnaw on her lips and hum under her breath, pushing up her reading glasses as she dissects the opus in front of her.

Aziliz does not need to ask to know it is a dissertation on a deadly boring topic. Still, the flash of excitement in Maeve’s eyes as she turns a new page, betrays the girl’s fascination for the probably overly-serious subject.

Aziliz is surprised by the sudden surge of satisfaction she feels at seeing Maeve, who always insisted on acting the part of the perfect Lady, fall into such comfortable habits behind shut doors. She should not be surprised - and she isn’t, really.

Still, she is fascinated. It is like being invited to peek into Maeve’s private self, and Aziliz is more than fine being an observer. She catches herself hold her breath, as if to see if she can suspend this moment in time. She does not want to get closer, she does not want to ruin the moment.

Maybe it’s the storm, or maybe it’s a secret desire tucked deep behind the layers of the fortress she had built to keep a distance between them. Aziliz is not sure why her legs decide to quietly carry her over to stand behind the other girl. Maeve is so focused on her reading, that she does not seem to notice. Her head fit right under Aziliz’ chin, and Aziliz toys with the idea of getting even closer. Just a step.

“Bored of the rain already?”

Aziliz’ heart shouldn’t have skipped a beat. Maeve’s face is hidden by the cascade of dark tresses that escaped her messy chignon, but Aziliz knows her eyes have not left the book. Aziliz’ eyes caress the bare expanse of Maeve’s neck, and Maeve’s finger hover over Aziliz’ wrist in a silent question. They don’t touch, but Aziliz is satisfied to see a tiny shiver run down Maeve’s spine anyway.

Wordlessly, Aziliz gathers the braids that fell in front of Maeve’s binoculars, and tucks them back behind her ear, careful not to brush her cheekbones. The hair is smooth, its weight comforting in Aziliz’ hand, and she can’t help but run her thumb over the gold cuffs before letting go.

Maeve looks up with a scowl, and shoos her away. Aziliz shrugs and strolls nonchalantly to the massive double door of the study, before turning back. Her eyes meet intensely dark irises.

“Kicking me out of my own library, you just cannot help yourself, can you, Rohan?”

Aziliz does not wait for Maeve’s affronted retaliation before letting the door shut behind her. She still does not like the library; but maybe it is not as bad as she thought.

[yazaleearchive]

Sacrifice

Cassandra had always been in control. She had always plotted and manipulated events so they would turn in her favour.

Aliénor had been the same. A pretty, naive Lady, who had never seen the world. Someone easy to charm. Someone easy to use.

Cassandra had been livid when she’d realised that the very same Lady had been fooling her all along. She had been her secret informant. And now, she was gone. Jailed and ready to be made an example in front of a nation. 

Cassandra would not allow it. She had tried to get into contact with the few rebellion fighter she could contact, in vain. She had tried to appeal to Aliénor’s family, but their hands were tied. She had but one last resort.

The sun shyly peeked through the early morning clouds, as she presented herself on the Kervran city house’s doorstep. A smart butler looked her over and guided her to a drawing room.

Cassandra had to do this. Cassandra would hand the crown over to Maeve Rohan. Aliénor’s freedom against an in in Cassandra’s most secret, most powerful secret: her spying network, especially her elements in Valbion. In other words, a safe and discreet communication channel to Titania, the Dowager Empress of Valbion and Maeve’s so-called aunt. She'd risk everything she's ever built, everything she'd ever achieved.

All that for one damn girl who had played her heart.

[yazaleearchive]

The End of the Masquerade

Black robes slide hurriedly against the maze of cobbled stones, desperate to reach their destination quickly. She must warn them, before it’s too late.

She must warn her, so she can be safe.

Pants escape her mouth, forming desperate white clouds in the freezing air. She hears the shouts, and a sob catches in her throat. She swallows it down. She must not fail. She cannot fail. She keeps her attention on her feet, careful not to trip on the tricky road. Her body knows the way, and her finger instinctively go to the wall to guide her to the entrance of the hidden concave. She blocks out the sound of the hounds and of the soldiers. She can still make it.

When her finger catch on the unstable rock, she presses herself against the wall and recalls the knock. 

This time, though, she is not seeking entrance. She is signalling for an emergency. The sequence is different, and the moment her hand pushes the last brick, a low ringing shakes the wall as the guard on the other side scrambles for composure.

She cusses. They’re not going to make it. Almost instantly, the door on the other side of the street opens and other robed figures scurry out in distress. 

The dogs are close. The masked figures seem to realise it too because their panic increases. She points them to the other direction and they melt into the shadows.

Some of them will be caught, she thinks. It’s fine. As long as she can get away.

She pushes against the flow of people coming out, desperate to find the girl she is looking for.

It’s too late when she realises she can, for the first time since she’s found her way to this place, see her shadow dance on the stones. A strong hand closes around her throat and her hood is shoved away, as she stumbles backward. Air leaves her lungs as terror swamps her body.

“Do not move! Under royal decree, you are under arrest!”

Dread fills Aliénor’s eyes and then, darkness engulfs her.

[yazaleearchive]

In the Storm

Arthur is on the verge of death, and it was her fault. He might not live out the night, the doctor had said. Aziliz had spent the entire time on his bedside, as he laid unconscious, in the throes of the poison-induced fever. Still, when she’d felt the tears come, she’d escaped to a hidden corner of the Kervran Castle to shatter.

As much as she hated the Kervran’s legacy, their foolish, boundless pride still flowed abundantly through Aziliz’ veins. She’d never show her little brother, even unconscious, any weakness. She wouldn’t show him her guilt, her shame, her sorrow.

Aziliz wouldn’t show anyone. Maeve knows that but still, she tiptoes into the round office, the sound of her steps muffled by the heavy carpet. Faint light filters through the sheer curtains, reflecting off a glass full of amber liquor. Little poodles of liquid around the bottle indicate that it had been poured in a careless manner, and worry grows in her. Aziliz is not careless. Maeve finally sees her. Aziliz has already noticed her presence, but she looks too numb to react. She is simply sitting by the window, slumped against the transparent surface, as her entire body is turned away from Maeve.

There is something agonising in the defeat carved into the slant of Aziliz’ shoulders. Her tears are silent, but they echo loudly in the quietness of the room. There is something heartbreaking in the absence of anger in her eyes. The sharpness Maeve is used to is twisted into pain and immeasurable sadness. It slices her like broken glass.

Maeve is compelled to touch, to cut herself on the barbed pieces, to share Aziliz’ wounds. She came because she’d wanted Aziliz to scream at her, to blame her too. Anything but the dull, absent pain in the dim and distant gaze.

Maeve has no right to be here. She has no right to see this, when it’s her fault, too. But she can’t help it, she is desperate to make it a little less worse. She’d do anything to ease the misery on the beautiful girl’s face. But she is powerless. She is nothing. Nothing but ashes. So Maeve stops in front of the chair, and lets her hands reach down. Her palms find cold, icy skin. The contact is electrifying, shaking her to her very core. She lets the pads of her fingers slide along Aziliz’s cheeks, as if to drink away her tears, her agony and her regrets. Any of it, all of it. She’ll take it all. Aziliz doesn’t budge.

Maeve steps even closer, making sure to leave the familiar sliver of a distance between their bodies. Her hands cup Aziliz’ jaw and angles it upwards to make their eyes meet.

Recognition barely registers in her eyes, as Maeve peers down at her. Amber is shimmering, drowning in tears and moonlight. The fear is plain to read, with the same destabilising honesty stained by bleeding anguish. It’s excruciating, and something in Maeve grows greedy. Aziliz’ eyes close, but the unshed tears are now running freely, soaking her cheeks. It was the first time Maeve had seen her cry. Captivated by the tears, she traces their trail with her eyes.

Her mouth ghosts over the corner of Aziliz’ left eye, tasting the salt and the despair. Her heart is thundering, and her fingers wipe at the wet skin of her face, hoping to dispel it all. To make Aziliz come back.

There is no thrill in seeing her laying broken like this. This is not who she is. That is not who she is to Maeve. She closes her eyes and wills everything in her into complete stillness. If this was a storm then for once, she’d be the rock. For now, she cradles the weeping girl’s face, she kisses away her tears. She’d atone for her mistakes later. After the storm’s passed.

[yazaleearchive]

I'll Just Have To Make Sure

When Aziliz finds her, Maeve is sitting in an armchair in her room, her face empty and a glass in her hand.

“That’s my drink,” Aziliz deadpans, and grabs the cup to swallow some of the amber liquor, before putting it back on a small reading table by the window. “Why is the princess sulking, now?”

Maeve responds with a scathing look.

“Don’t,” her voice is choked by raw, venomous anger. “Don’t call me that again or I swear I will kill you in cold blood.”

“I’d love to see you try,” Aziliz shoots back, dead-serious.

Maeve does not move from her position, but she shakes her head. “Are you here to play with me, Kervran?”

No answer.

“You can hate me-”

“And I do,” Aziliz pipes in.

“But don’t you think that’s a little low, even for you?” The unveiled jab at Aziliz’ birth status is crude, but Maeve just wants to strike back. To hurt back.

The other girl shrugs, unaffected and Maeve’s fury tugs at her fiercely.

“You still look like a princess to me.”

Bewildered, Maeve motion to her messy night gown, her half-drunk glass of spirits and her worn-out complexion. “I’m nothing, and surely not a princess any more.” She scoffs, “Actually, I was never one.”

“Bratty, commanding and proud.” Aziliz’ smooth voice explains without any hint of mockery. “You fit the part so damn perfectly, though.”

“Stop it.”

“I don’t remember you being so fucking fragile, Rohan.”

“I said stop it,” Maeve is slowly spiralling out of control.

Aziliz is propped against the window, watching her with cold interest.

“Ah, yes.” she says, a hint of savage satisfaction tainting her words. “Here she is.”

“What do you want from me?” Maeve answers hotly. “I can’t give you anything. Not power, not money, not even a pretty little accessory you can show off.” Her tone turns wry. “Our deal is off.”

“I don’t care for pretty,” Aziliz’ expression does not change, but her gaze grows impossibly more intense. “I want real.”

“I can’t do that either.” A resentful, broken whisper. “I don’t even know if I am real.”

Aziliz drops a knee next to Maeve’s hip and leans in, her eyes holding Maeve’s. Maeve stares back, eyebrow raised in defiance.

“Then I’ll just have to make sure.”

And then, burning hot lips are seizing hers. Maeve has been kissed before, but never like this. Nothing about the kiss is gentle. Aziliz kisses the same way she breathes: demanding, merciless, and vicious. It’s all bites and fight, and Maeve feels herself responding with the same desperate violence.

She is aware of how close Aziliz’ body is from hers, but she wants more and she makes to grab the girl’s hip, to keep her there. It’s only when Aziliz freezes that Maeve’s hand changes its trajectory, landing on the soft fabric of her sleeve before slightly tugging at it. Their mouth separate in an instant, as a loud gasp escapes Aziliz, or maybe it’s hers. She doesn’t know. 

Maeve hears wood crackling in the fireplace, can smell the ashes on Aziliz’ skin, can taste the smoke on her tongue. Bare fingers close around her nape and Aziliz pulls her head higher, deepening the kiss. Maeve hums in the girl’s mouth and the moan that answers her sends irrepressible shivers throughout her entire body.

As if shaken awake from a daydream, Aziliz pulls away and takes a step back. Her lips are red and swollen and her pupils are blown out. Maeve is breathing heavily, her hooded gaze trailing over Aziliz’ sloppy appearance in delight - she had never seen the girl looking anything close to bothered, but now she was positively dishevelled.

Aziliz’ face returns to its cold impassivity, and she storms off. Before crossing the door, she turns and her golden eyes crash into hers. 

“You don’t get to cut off our deal on a whim, Rohan. We will be talking about this later.”

The door slams close, and Maeve is once again left with the fading warmth of the embrace. She takes the mental note that one day, she will be the one leaving Aziliz Kervran behind, hot and wanting. She might not be a vengeful princess any more, but she had not lost her taste for payback.

[yazaleearchive]

Do Not Call Me That

All the strength rush out of her body, as the words tumble out of her mouth, unwanted. Unwelcome.

“I’m not a princess,” the word almost a growl, “so you can stop calling me that.” Maeve’s tone is laced with anger, an uncontrollable anger targeted at herself, not at Aziliz, and the other girl knows it. “You can stop with the condescending tone, and the mocking remarks.”

“I have never mocked you.”

“Don’t lie to me!” She’s had enough of those.

Maeve’s eyes shoot to Aziliz’ and she grabs her by the soft material at her neckline. She tugs, roughly, desperate to inflict even but a fraction of the pain clawing at her throat. Rage is burning through her veins, boiling. The world around her is twisting, and she can barely hold the amber gaze that peers back at her. Gold, full of devastating, feral honesty.

Aziliz’ hand grasp hers, not letting go as her fingernails dig into Maeve’s palm. She maintains the painful grip, as Maeve slowly releases her hold on the other girl’s neck, dropping her head on Aziliz’ shoulder.

Maeve tries to regulate her breathing. She breathes in, to stop heavy pants and relax her clenched fist. She breathes out, to banish the anger she feels, the burning fire that consumes her every time she faces the disruptive Lady Kervran. She expects to be sent flying away after this pitiful show of weakness, but a cold hand wraps around her nape, and slowly guides her head in the hollow of the smaller girl’s neck.

No word, nothing but this one hand firmly securing her body in a strangely comforting embrace. A single tear rolls down Maeve’s cheek, reaching the very point where Maeve’s lips met Aziliz’ neck. Maeve softly bites into the porcelain skin, to rid her tongue of the taste of her own tears, to replace it with something, anything else - even the salty tang of Aziliz Kervran’s skin.

Awareness slams into her, and she pushes back, ashamed. She takes a second to steady herself, as feline eyes follow her every movement in cold scrutiny.

“Forget it,” Maeve knows her curt tone betrays the million of feelings battling in the pit of her gut.

Maeve also recognises the burning flash that crosses Aziliz’s intent stare. Then, it’s gone. Maeve only narrows her eyes, shooting the girl a damning glance, as a languid smile slowly transform across Aziliz’ usually stern features.

“As you wish, princess.”

[yazaleearchive]

Dance in The Moonlight

It’s dark. So terribly dark that Maeve cannot discern anything in the secluded drawing room. She can feel Aziliz’ presence, but cannot pinpoint where she is standing.

There are two things she is sure of, though. That Aziliz is lazily propped somewhere, and that she can see her perfectly. Maeve blindly reaches for the velvet curtains and throws them open, casting silver moonlight on the nonchalant figure by the fireplace. Light shines on dark strands of hair and bright, cat-like eyes. Maeve takes a step forward.

She can still hear the orchestra downstairs but it’s muted, as if it was miles away from them. Years away.

The round chamber is almost bare of furniture, just heavy wallpapers and thick carpeted floor, as well as a big marble fireplace and a couple of old armchairs lined up against the wall. Maeve stops in the centre of the room and pauses.

A question, hanging in the air.

Expectant.

The lack of response plunges the already quiet room into an eerie stand-still, as if they were frozen in a moment suspended in time.

Then, Aziliz joins her and mockingly curtsies, her defiant gaze never leaving Maeve’s. They stand an inch away from each other, in breathless silence.

The previous dance ends and as the flickering notes of a new tune fill the air, Aziliz moves her hands. They hover around Maeve’s waist, Aziliz’ eyes still holding hers.

Maeve tilts her head, calculating. She knows how averse the other girl is to skin-to-skin contact and in this moment, she is craving any closeness Aziliz can offer. She needs Aziliz to keep her grounded and warm. She lets her gloved hands link behind Aziliz’ neck, careful not to touch, not to give into the temptation of her skin.

They’re standing even closer, now. So close that the heat of their bodies mingles when they start swaying to the rhythm of the music.

Aziliz’ glowing eyes are steady, amber melting into hers, giving her the confidence to move just a fraction closer. Each tantalizing brush is a temptation and each look, a searing brand on Maeve’s mind. Every step brings them closer, but never close enough.

They keep toeing on each other’s boundaries, never crossing them but never giving in either. They’re testing the other’s limits, revelling in the recoil, in the strategic avoidance of contact and more. They’re play-fighting with the intensity of a full-blown battle.

Their faces slowly lean into each other, and Maeve can feel Aziliz’ hot breath caressing her collarbone. Her face is fitting right into the nook of Maeve’s neck and she can smell smoke and orange blossoms in her hair.

Everything about the situation is so foreign, so intimate it sends a rush of weightless exhilaration down Maeve’s spine, and she shivers.

Aziliz raises an eyebrow, but does not budge or miss a beat, as she steadily leads the dance. She lets Maeve connect with each emotion, each sensation, and Maeve is grateful for this moment of peace. For being given a place where she does not have to fight and pretend and lie.

She lets her fierce partner guide her through steps she knows by heart, comforted by the familiarity of the dance and by the bold golden gaze watching her every move.

This is perfect, Maeve sighs wordlessly.

And catches herself.

Perfectly unreasonable.

Maeve knows that this - whatever this is - is forbidden. It is wrong. But right now, only one feeling matters to her: she belongs. She fits. The dim light of the night sky softens the air between the two women, making the scene seem like a secret.

A promise.

So Maeve indulges a bit more, convincing herself that she has just been captivated by a moon fairy.

When the clock strikes midnight and Maeve breaks away, it feels like being wrenched away from a dream.

She can not bring herself to utter a single word, reluctant to break the absolute silence that has coated the air since the moment Aziliz had shut the doors of the small, remote salon. Maeve throws one last look at Aziliz, who hasn’t moved, before rushing out into the twisting corridors of the large castle.

The anxiety thrumming in her veins as she enters the crowded ballroom is a constant reminder that Maeve is not free.

She is subjected to so many rules, imposed by the kingdom, by society and by her family. Shackled by rules she’d made to protect herself. She can’t afford to stay away from the party for too long. She doesn’t want to raise questions. She can’t risk it.

So she leaves the golden stare, the aloof posture and the soft, unsmiling lips behind. Resolute, she heads back to her world, the only one she can ever belong to - politics and lies and manipulation and helpless, inescapable hatred.

When she coyly bows and accepts the hand of yet another nobleman that evening, her skin crawls and the intense look she feels from somewhere at the edge of the ballroom is enough to make her sick.

But her smile does not drop, her facade still holds strong as a fortress.

Nothing can ever get in her way. No one ever will. No burning eyes and secret dances and stolen moments will change her mind. She won’t let them. Can’t let her make Maeve waver.

Because this is her duty.

This is her revenge.

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Festival

A glove tightly hold onto her hand, guiding her around crowds of boisterous children and bartering sellers. Maeve’s other hand touch the smooth flower tucked in her braid, and she replays the day in her mind. She ate the skewers, danced to the songs and twirled by the fountain. She paid her respects to Gwezenn Milvedel, to the Saints and to the stars of her ancestors. She recalls the soft, uncharacteristic smile and the careful touch, the furrowed eyebrows and the observing gaze.

Her hand unconscionably squeezes the other’s and piercing golden eyes turn up to hers. Maeve shakes her head, and lets herself be led through the happy festival, for the first time in her life.

The music fades away, a pleasant background to the rushing current of thoughts and sensations that have taken over her. Her hand is still tightly entwined with Aziliz’ and it takes her a moment to realise that they’re already far away from the crowds.

But just in case, she holds on still.

It’s just when they reach the Kervran’s gilded gates that Aziliz lets go, the neutral expression on her face unwavering. Not a hint of the fond smile and the crinkled eyes are left. The dream has shattered, they’re back to their reality now. Back to their game of revenge.

[yazaleearchive]

In the Rain

Maeve does not know how long she’s been standing outside under the stone arch overlooking the garden. The usually magnificent garden, full of bright flowers, now reflects the colourless sky full of heavy, rainy clouds.

The lantern hanging on the side of the door sways, as the little flame inside cowers under the heavy wind. The porch did shield Maeve from the rain, but the gusts were so strong that it made her tremble against her best efforts. Still, she doesn’t budge, she just looks at the small figure standing a few paces away, in the middle of the field.

Aziliz has not moved since Maeve first caught sight of her, on her way back to her rooms after supper. She had eaten alone, something that happened quite frequently in the large house. She had discovered that the Kervran siblings were just as elusive in their own home as they were in polite society.

After spending a few weeks here, Aziliz had started developing her own habits. Her breakfast was served in her rooms, at sunrise. She had her own designated seat at the dining table, spent her afternoons in the library, sitting at the one spot that allowed her to bathe in sunlight when the weather allowed it. She liked to spend a few minutes staring at the gardens after dinner, late at night. She was grateful to the Kervran siblings for accepting to shelter her after her whole life had been thrown into complete chaos, but her situation was still precarious. Aziliz and Maeve had bound themselves by a promise built on blood and lies.

Now, after baring their souls in a dangerous deal to survive, they were stuck in a limbo, tip-toing around each other. Never too far to lose sight of the biggest threat to their secrets, never too close to lose sight of the real purpose behind their pact. They didn’t fully trust each other, yet. Navigating these new, unknown waters was like walking on a fine line, and the routine she’d built here had become a welcome anchor for Maeve.

That is how she ended up under the porch, as the moonlight, obstructed by a veil of rain, paints the garden in melancholic, faded greys. Maeve knows she should ignore it. Ignore her. She should turn around and go back to her bedchamber. But the slant of Aziliz’ shoulders, her short black hair dancing in the raging wind, and the rain dancing on the pale skin peaking out of a thin crimson shift; the scene, no, she’s magnetic and Maeve can’t take her eyes away.

She is used to Aziliz’ deliberate aloofness. She knows that Aziliz, just like her, relies on building walls to keep people at bay, but this is different. She has never felt the woman so distant. So far away. The overwhelming urge to close the distance, to check if the Aziliz is breathing, if she’s fine, makes Maeve want to run away.

The rain is icy, as it rolls down her nape, soaks her heavy dress and weighs on her lashes. When Maeve finally reaches Aziliz, she can see that the girl is shaking. At first, Maeve thinks she’s crying, and she barely contains a gasp. She must’ve let out a sound, because Aziliz turns around, her neutral expression betrayed by the hard glint in her eyes. The numbness, battling with feral honesty is gutting, almost desperate.

Maeve doesn’t dare move, pinned in place by the unyielding stare. She feels like she is taming an animal. She stares right back. There is a thousand things she wants to say, but she knows she doesn’t need to. The words dance in the air between them, bouncing on each raindrop before shimmering away in the eerie silence.

Maeve shivers. She blames the cold. She forces herself not to notice the way Aziliz’ dark, dripping hair contrasts with her pale skin, almost silver in the moonlight. How the thin material of the sleeping garment enticingly clings to her bare legs. Maeve is going mad. It must be the rain. She wants - needs - to banish all the vexing thoughts away forever. Her eyes collide with the cold, golden glare inspecting her back intently. Thunder roars in the distance as the sky flashes purple, but Maeve is overly aware of the sudden touch of glacial skin against hers.

Aziliz entwines her pinkie with Maeve’s, and the shudders wracking Aziliz’ body resonate through her own. After a moment, Maeve finally tugs on Aziliz’ finger. Making sure they’re still tightly linked, she slowly starts guiding the freezing girl back to the warmth of the residence.

For once, Aziliz does not fight back. She looks down, letting wet strands of hair cradle her numb face, focusing her attention on their connected pinkies. Maeve knows that tomorrow, she’ll be back to her prickly self. For now, she gives herself up to the care of Maeve’s gentle lead.

Yes, she can regret it all tomorrow.

[yazaleearchive]

Canaria's Lament

I will give you all my love,

My wisdom and my strength

So stay strong

Just a little longer

Until the storm passes

Until the rain ceases

Until the night ends

Until we are reunited again;