Forever Hold Your Peace (Vol.1) (D.M)
Summary: Two feuding families with an age-old history of bloodshed are seeking to forge peace by unholy matrimony between the first borns. Only, she isn’t first born, per se….
Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Female!reader (I wrote this with Mob!Draco in mind)
Warnings: Mature language, mature themes, angst, Sexual Inuendos but no smut what so ever (as of now). Read at your own discretion, mentions of the higher power, mentions of alcohol, that about covers it.
A/n: I’ve been experimenting with various plots these days. This one is just came to me after listening to this song. I’d love to incorporate your thoughts into the second volume so Feedback is always welcomed. :))
Word count: 3200
Masterlist
When she imagined the day of her wedding, she did not imagine standing in front of a floor length mirror in her white dress, feeling like she is getting ready to walk up to the gallows.
But then again, this is not the wedding she wanted. Nor the husband.
One day she is lying on a patio swing, reading her favorite book and the next day, she is promised to some wealthy stranger.
Now, in a few short hours, she is going to have to take him as her lawfully wedded husband for as long as she shall live.
Two feuding families with an age-old history of bloodshed are hoping to forge peace by unholy matrimony between the first borns. Only, she isn’t first born, per se….
***
6 months ago..
Little less than an hour ago, she was nursing a glass of Gin Rickey at a speakeasy. Now, she is kneeling at a church, with her hands folded in prayer.
She wouldn’t call herself religious, only desperate. It is an ungodly hour of the night and she’s a little inebriated. Even her clothes smell of lime, sweat, sin and cheap spirit.
Ironic how life works.
She squeezes her eyes shut and concentrates on the reason why she came into these four walls in the first place.
In between what could have been her eighth glass of Gin Rickey, she had received a phone call from her mother telling her that her presence is required back at the house at once.
Even though her mum doesn’t say it, she knows this has something to do with her elder sister’s engagement.
No one dares to mention her sister’s name out loud after what had happened last month. Every mark of her had been scrubbed clean from the family tree after she was caught with her muggle lover.
Now that she thinks about it, being removed from the family tree is better than being plucked and put into another one. That is exactly what they are going to do with her when she gets back home, she is sure of it.
Bowing her head lower, she prays and she prays and she prays, hoping that someone—anyone answers.
“What are you praying for?” A rich baritone comes from the pews behind her. The sound caresses her skin and leaves her with a chill in her bones.
Panicked, she turns her head around to inspect.
The light from the flickering, almost dying candles cast an eerie shadow on his face. In this light, she can tell it's a broad shouldered man, wearing a three piece black suit.
She doesn’t answer him. Only, reaches for the waistband of her skirt for her wand.
“Let me guess.” The voice offers, almost taunting. “Wealth, fame, reverence…or is it world peace?”
The words sound so sinful and vulgar in the feline purr of his voice. She is drawn towards him and his gleaming silver hair like a moth drawn towards moonlight.
“None of the above.” She answers, curtly. “What are you praying for?”
He goes silent for a minute as if to entertain the idea. Then, he breaks into a quiet chuckle. “And why is it that you think that I’m praying?” He asks, drumming his fingers on the pew. Most of his long fingers bear rings.
“You are inside a church?” She asks, rhetorically as she pads her way towards him. Moths tend to forget that there is danger in being seen. It assumes the light is there to help it navigate home. Only when it gets crushed under someone’s shoe does it realize that there is great peril in false sense of security.
He hums. “Say, I was to pray for something. Let's assume world peace. What is to say, it will be answered?”
She can fully see him now. He has eyes made out of burning hot, molten silver. His features are sharp, cruel, beautiful as if set in stone and there is a slight divot at the corner of his mouth from his smirk.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs and points at the front of the church. “Maybe you should go over there and kneel. See if that works for you.”
He slowly rises from his seat and she takes a step back to keep a safe distance from him. He is tall to the point where he was to bow his head a little, just to look at her.
“I see.” He says, holding her stare. “Although, I might have some reservations about your suggestion.”
He is dusk fall in the way he smiles.Shadows blanketing light in a way that is alluring, dangerous..seductive.
She wants to reach for his shoulder blade, run her fingertips over to just to check if there are wings. She’s read the tales and has a basic idea of what the devil might look like.
“What reservations?” She asks, curious. Maybe he will burst into flames if he stands here long enough.
He raises his hands forward to capture a strand of her hair in between his fingers. He twirls the strand once and she sucks in a breath.
“I was taught to never yield, my love.” He answers, slowly letting go of the tendril, tucking it behind her ear. “Not in front of god, nor men—dead or living. I do not kneel before anyone.”
The man oozes with the promise of a thrill of a lifetime. She knows she should leave when she has the chance to. Instead, she inches closer and whispers in his ears.
“Then what of wealth and reverence?” It is her turn to smirk at the perfect stranger. He blinks, observing her with an amused look on his face.
“What of world peace if you refuse to even kneel for it?”
He opens his mouth as if to say something but no words come out. Satisfied that she has the last word, she whirls around and leaves.
From the corner of her eyes, she can still see his tall shadow looming behind her.
***
Her suspicions are right.
Right after apparating home from the church, she is informed that she will be taking her sister’s place in front of the altar in six months time.
They tell her she can pick the dress, the venue, the music and also the floral centerpieces. The only thing she can’t pick is the groom. How utterly considerate of them.
At Least she has six months to live out her life the way she wants to before giving everything up. She might as well devote the time into learning how to master the poker face.
She’s been losing consecutively, and losing half her money in the process. It’s not her fault the cards dealt to her are the worst possible cards—as if they were hand picked by fate for her and her only.
“Fancy seeing you here.” She hears the familiar drawl of his voice and instantly looks up. “Don’t have anything to pray for tonight?”
Today, he is wearing a black colored peacoat and a gray scarf, hiding most of his face. Pieces of white blond hair fall across his forehead and all that is visible are his piercing eyes.
“What is the point of praying if your prayers go unanswered, hm?” She retorts to his taunt and deals a set of cards for the both of them.
As he takes the seat across the table, he looks at her like he almost feels pity for her but doesn’t say anything else. He orders them a bottle of Romanée-Conti and pours her a glass with such casual nonchalance that she almost forgets how expensive a single bottle is.
“If I win, you have to dance with me.” He raises his glass and reaches for the cards in front of him.
She looks at the dance floor of people in glittering gowns and debonair suits swaying. There is something so freeing about letting the ebb and flow of music guide your every move.
“Fine.” She agrees and begins to think about her wager. “If I win, you are going to tell me what you were doing at the church.”
He only nods in agreement. Those silver eyes are busy focusing on the cards and she is busy focusing on him.
He is magnetic. His movements are smooth and easy. she can’t resist the pull of him. She is so distracted by his presence that she doesn’t even realize he’s already won the game.
It’s a royal flush. She should have known.
“Shall we?” He asks, reaching his hands forward and she nervously grabs it, letting him guide her towards the middle of the dance floor.
The previously playing glitzy, loud jazz song is replaced by a softer tune and his large palm secures itself on her lower back, taking the lead.
By his movements, it is clear that he knows his time signature and footing. By his expression, it is clear that he must have been a reluctant learner.
She looks around them to notice that half of the dance floor is clear, and people have stopped dancing to look at them.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” She asks, looking up at him.
He dips his head a little lower so he can whisper into the shell of her ear. “They’re not staring at us.” He says. “They’re staring at you.”
She looks around again, and notices their eyes on her. Green, hazel, blue, brown. Confused, curious, questioning, prying.
“They are?” She asks and he chuckles.
“You see that man in the white blazer?” He asks, spinning her in a circle. She catches a glimpse of the aforementioned man and nods.
“The dunce has been looking at you all night.” He explains. “He paid the bartender to flood you with complimentary drinks.”
“I didn’t get any complimentary drinks.” She points out and he only smirks at her, obviously having something to do with why she didn’t receive her free beverages.
“One of the drinks was roofied with sleeping draught.” He snarls before dipping her. She feels her insides roil at revelation and he twirls her around and into his arms when he notices. With her back pressed protectively against his chest, and his chin resting on her shoulder, he moves her with the hum of the chorus.
“And that man with the fedora, sitting with his friends over there?” He gestures to another man with distaste in his eyes. “He called dibs on you.”
She rolls her eyes at the fedora man before looking up at her dance partner for the night.
“So this is you, showing your claim?” She challenges, wrapping her hands around the base of his neck to draw him closer. He exhales sharply.
Knowing that she only has six months of freedom remaining has made her reckless. Her mind is spinning out of control. The glorious scent of fresh mint and cologne coming from him isn’t helping much either.
“If I were to ever claim you, you’d know you were being claimed.” The divot in his cheeks grows deeper when he smirks. His eyes lower down towards her lips and she feels the need to lick her lips.
She draws him closer and he doesn’t protest.
For a moment, it is just the sound of music and their heaving chests as she leans in closer, desperate to get a little more.
And when she closes her eyes finally ready, she doesn’t feel his lips on hers. She doesn’t even hear his breaths—only screams and the sound of glass shattering.
She is no longer swaying on the dance floor.
She is laying face first on the floor, his body weight covering her as sparks of light go off in all different directions.
“Portego.” He says, holding out his wand to cast a shield around them.
“What’s happening?” She asks frantically, as she reaches for her own wand, only to realize she’s left it in her purse.
He wraps his free hand around her waist and pulls her closer. “Stay with me.” He says sternly, trying to cover as much of her from the line of fire as possible. Every ounce of mirth is gone from his features.
She doesn’t even know this man, or his name but she somehow feels safe with him in a way she hasn’t felt around anyone else.
“I’ve got you.” He reassures her and she nods, closing her eyes as the sparks and spells continue.
She covers her ears and squeezes her eyes shut, focusing on his pulse. Steady against where he presses onto her.
If she were to reach for a shard of broken glass and press into his chest, she knows he’ll bleed. He is human after all. Not some other wordly entity she assumed him to be. He even has the heartbeat to prove it.
When she finally opens her eyes, the speakeasy is covered in smoke. Broken pieces of furniture, shards of glass from liquor bottles and amber colored liquid cover the white marbled floor.
“Are you okay?” He asks her and she gives him a blank nod, trying to process the last few minutes.
He looks at her cheeks and shakes his head.
“No you’re not.”
“I’m okay.” She says again, this time trying to sound more convincing. He seems to buy it even less because he coils his hand under her knees and with one swift movement, carries her up in his arms.
His arms are surprisingly muscular and his chest is well built. She wants him to never put her down, but life isn’t technically fair.
When they reach a room at the back of the speakeasy, he carefully sets her down on a Mahogany desk. He summons a healing kit and begins to dab antiseptic potion on the cut on her cheek. She hisses at the sting and he gently blows cool air on it.
“What happened out there?” She can’t help but ask.
“Let's just say I have a handful of people that don’t particularly like me.” He says absently, still dabbing at her cut.
“What is this room?”
“It’s my office.” He shrugs. “Well, one of them.”
“You own this bar?”
“I own many things.”
The more questions she asks him, the more confused she gets with his open ended, unclear answers. Deciding to come back here for answers with a clearer mind, she wills herself to shut up and focus on the cool air he is blowing to her face. His face is so close to her.
“Gods, you’ve also managed to injure your knee.” He sighs, gently parting her legs to inspect the damage extending up to her inner thigh.
She snorts at his words and he arches a questioning brow at her. “What are you smiling about?”
“You said you don’t kneel before any god and here you are, saying his name.”
He just glares at her for a hot minute before returning to her bruised knee. The shield was unable to protect her from the broken glass on the floor.
“Move back.” He says, and she obeys, shifting a little backwards on the desk. “This leg on the table. That’s it.” His voice is stern yet gentle as he instructs.
Her dress is a tad bit too short and sitting that way on the table is risky. One wrong movement and she will be exposing herself to him.
“I’m going to clean the bruise up with murtlap essence and put a healing salve on it. It might hurt a bit.” He warns and she nods, too frazzled by his proximity.
He moves closer, observing the expanse of her knee to her inner thigh before using one of his hands to push her legs further apart. He cleans the bruises first, dabbing the salve-dampened cloth over it. The pain of it shoots through her receptors and she is left clawing the table.
“Almost done, now.” He murmurs. “I need you to relax and take a deep breath for me.”
She nods and watches as he begins to pluck out a shard of glass still lodged in her thigh. He furrows his brows in deep concentration, assessing the best way to go about doing it. The angle of it seems inconvenient for him, so he gently pushes both her knees apart and sets them on the table.
When legs are far enough apart, he places both his hands on her waist, gingerly pushing her further back to the table before sinking down on his knees in front of her.
“Do you trust me?” He asks, looking up at her. His peppermint breath caresses her clothed cunt and heat pools in her lower stomach.
“I do..” She murmurs.
“Good girl.” He says, reaching forward and yanking the shard of glass out before the sharp pain can even settle in.
His face is so close to her dripping heat, she can feel her arousal threatening to dampen the gauzy fabric of her panties. Silver eyes find hers and she wants to squirm under the intensity of his gaze.
“Now the murtlap essence.” He clears his throat to rid himself of the hoarseness in his voice and looks away from her, summoning a glass bottle with a non-verbal spell.
She closes her eyes and tries to think of the six months she has left, hoping the dread will turn her off. The pain from her leg and the pain in between her legs is making her nauseous.
She can’t think of anything else. Not when the only thing she sees is his blond head between her legs. His fingers are caressing her flesh and he is whispering healing spells, all of which are tickling her in all the wrong places.
“So good, my love. You’re doing so good. Just hold on a little longer.”
He is saying those words to calm her, but fuck they sound like praises. They certainly do not calm her down.
“And…done.” He looks up at her and smiles. For the first time, the dent forming on his cheeks is not from a smirk and she can’t tell which one is more attractive.
“Thank you.” She says, propping herself on her elbows to look down at him. She can’t help but reach forward to trace the smile lines on his face and surprisingly he melts in her touch for a moment before standing back up.
Only when he his fully standing in front of her with light specks of dust on the knee of his pants that she realizes what he’d just done for her.
He seems to notice this too because he looks away.
***
“It’s time.” Her mother pokes her head in through the door and looks at her. This isn’t the first time her mother has seen her in her dress and yet, she still sniffles.
“I just need a moment.” She answers, sucking in a breath and fidgeting with her cathedral length veil.
Normally her mother is rigidly punctual. Today she just places a small kiss on the top of her forehead and leaves her alone with her thoughts once more.
If has one regret in her life, it has to be not asking for the silver haired stranger’s name.
There has always been this kernel of stubbornness wedged deep inside of her heart. It is quite an inconvenient feeling to have when her life is a collection of consequences of other people’s actions.
But in moments like this, the feeling reminds her that she is supposed to forge her own destiny. No good ever comes out of accepting difficult circumstances without a fight.
She’s better than that.
In the end, It is the same stubbornness that makes her bunch the hem of her ballgown and storm outside the door.
The wedding can’t happen unless she says “I do” right?
(To be continued..)