In the same place
Artist fem!reader x Prince!Ryeowook
Prompt: Set in another time (Day 4)
Synopsis: Lady Crystal's design and sewing workshop will be the perfect place for a private exhibition of art and, why not, of some feelings as well.
Warnings: None, fluff, written with female pronouns and might contain grammar mistakes.
w/c: 3.6k
🌸MASTERLIST🌸 🩷Flufftober m.list🩷
In the same place
The women of the city seemed to go crazy in the small local market. The stalls were overflowing with people shopping as if the end of time was near.
Oranges and apples were trampled by careless people as yards of cloth danced high above everyone's heads.
Madame Crystal was more astute, she didn't need to fight over a few insignificant yards of fabric when she could buy the whole roll. The great seamstress was there as an occasional visitor, as a constant reminder that her workshop was more alive than ever.
The ball at the royal family's country house was about to attract one of the capital's bigwigs, the rumors mentioned it with such certainty that the mere fact seemed prophetic. The prince would be there because of the presentation of one of his cousins.
And the city seamstress, or rather dressmaker, needed new rumors to circulate, as novel as that she had brought silk with a desert merchant and was crafting the most exquisite piece for a stroll in the gardens of the royal family's summer home.
That dress did not yet exist but soon it would have to, there was no need for anyone to know. It only required the right words to start spreading the rumor until it became a palpable reality. Just like the fact that the prince was approaching with his entire retinue.
"Lady (Y/N), I need the services of your clever mind," interrupted the plump dressmaker, fanning her face with her hand and groping for a chair to avoid collapsing on the floor.
"What is it this time? Is there a mistake with the poster I made for your workshop?" you asked barely, averting your gaze from your typewriter to watch the lady dramatically wiping the sweat from her face with a finely embroidered handkerchief.
"Nothing of the sort," she sighed, holding her hand to her chest to calm her heartbeat, "the poster is perfect. Let me thank you for the wonderful calligraphy and the incredible painting of the dress in question," she gave a series of small claps to emphasize her statement.
"Then what do I owe your visit to?" you questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Something glittered in the dressmaker's eyes, something menacing and at the same time attractive, like a siren's song that is impossible to ignore.
"Just something insignificant," her finger traced light circles on your desk, "another poster almost identical to the one you did for me the month before. Nothing too elaborate, and in fact I've already made progress with the sketch of the dress because I've obviously designed it myself," the more words came out of her mouth, the more nervous she became.
The strategy was quite clear, it was just empty words to distract you from the real objective.
"… that's why I need you to come to work in my workshop, where I have the drawings, material to paint and enough space to work. It would be perfect if we could carry out the project side by side."
You smiled kindly as you went through the papers laid out on your desk. You were up to date with the news of the day, you had to be if you wanted to continue participating in the social gatherings organized by the ladies of high society. The most recent news had the prince as the protagonist so, given Lady Crystal's usual business, it was obvious that she would soon be requesting your services.
"I'll come right away, but for the moment you could tell me more about that wonderful non-existent dress that urgently needs to be… illustrated."
With a nimble movement you helped the woman to her feet and, putting your arm around her sturdy shoulders, you guided her towards the exit to accompany her straight to her workshop.
Your hands held the brush like an extension of your body that you could move at will. The tablets of different pigments for watercolor remained on the table, and to one side was the glass of water where you dipped the natural bristles of the brushes before cleaning and drying them.
Outside the workshop, far from the silence and comfort that surrounded you, a galloping horse was approaching in hot pursuit. The commotion was audible from several miles away, between the sounds of the colt's hooves, the shouts of some servants, the screams of women and above it all, the laughter of the prince.
Ryeowook had gone out for a little ride, a leisurely one that ended with his servants following him with the concern that he might fall off his horse and die of a broken neck like so many other nobles.
"Majesty, you said it was nothing more than a simple ride around the grounds," complained the valet as he tied the horses up at a mooring.
"I'm still around," the prince muttered with a smirk, "and you're looking out for me. There's nothing for me to worry about."
With the grace befitting his title, he descended from the huge animal, and stroking its side, soothed it so that it would cause no trouble while he attended to some errands.
The people around watched every movement of the future monarch, how his brown hair shone, how a mischievous smile appeared on his face and –what they found most attractive– the sweetness reflected in his eyes.
The prince's hand grasped the doorknob and pushed the door open, imposing himself inside as if everyone there was oblivious to the weight of the title he held.
The carillon that hung in the entrance to the workshop chimed melodically and wittily dramatic. Your heart skipped a beat at the sudden interruption but you recovered quickly, with enough speed that the intruder did not notice the lack of composure.
"As you may have noticed, the workshop is temporarily closed due to the high demand for exclusive garments," you commented as Lady Crystal had told you to do in her absence.
She had gone to the city to buy rhinestones to embroider on the fabrics, and for the time being you were only to remain there watching out that no one entered with the intention of stealing and to spread the word about how much in demand the dressmaker's services were.
"Are they as important as making a dress for the prince's cousin?" asked the intruder, waiting patiently for your answer.
If you refused the order Lady Crystal would send you straight to the gallows, however she was really busy and you were not a dressmaker, you could not even be of help in those circumstances.
"It depends on what kind of occasion requires our dear prince's cousin to debut with a dress made by these skilled hands," you replied, trying to hide your brushes and watercolors under the cotton cloth with which you had been cleaning the brushes.
The prince's eyebrows rose in disbelief at your daring to question him. You had not accepted the commission, on the contrary, you were conditioning your work.
"Soon it will be presented in society and his majesty," he said, assuming you had no idea who he was, "the crown prince will honor us with his presence."
Never in your life had you wanted so much for Lady Crystal to enter the workshop with one of her many dramatic acts in which she was about to faint due to the effort she was making in her work as a dressmaker. Not even some of her assistants were there, nothing, you were alone in all this and you had to make a decision of vital importance.
"Well, I…" You hesitated, looking down at your artistic interpretation of the non-existent dress that your client had paid you to illustrate. You didn't want to brag about your artistic skills but the dress looked elegant, a design worthy of royalty, "I've been working on a design."
The prince turned his gaze to where your fingers were caressing the surface of a paper canvas. On it was glimpsed a dress in beautiful pink tones that seemed to have pearls embedded in the upper part of the already voluminous skirt.
Instinctively the monarch reached out for your painting but without the intention of invading your space, yet your fingers were the first thing he grasped with the touch of his skin. You flinched away your hand as if his touch had hurt you and he could not help but smile at your reaction and the slight appearance of the blush inking your cheeks.
"Beautiful," he whispered, unsure if the compliment was directed at you or at the painting. "A great design that would surely please the duchess."
You put your hand to your chest and took a deep breath to keep your composure, you were in the middle of an important business, you needed to have your head on your shoulders and not on the clouds.
"It's something exclusive, made with silk obtained from a desert merchant," you recited following the story the dressmaker had told you. At that point it mattered little to you that it was nothing more than a story made up of lies, "but I'm afraid I haven't found a young woman who would inspire me to materialize it."
"My cousin… I mean," he shook his head at his slip, "the duchess, the prince's cousin," he cleared his throat and his fingers stroked your painting again before raising it to his eye level as if he had not admired it long enough to observe every detail in it, "she might be the one you have been looking for. If I may," he offered his arm in a gallant gesture you had rarely seen in young gentlemen, "I could escort you to your summer home to see for yourself."
The smile you elaborated was a rather crooked gesture that barely reached the corners of your eyes. Mentally, you were already reprimanding yourself for having said all those words that had led to that invitation.
What would people think when they saw you walk out of there on the arm of that gentleman who seemed to work for the royal family, or at least knew them well enough to invite you to go to his mansion? You shouldn't care, but you did and the effect was immediate.
As soon as your hand rested on his arm, an electric current ran through you both, from head to toe and you couldn't ignore the sensation; you didn't turn to look at him for fear that your eyes would reveal what you had just felt, and he did exactly the same.
As soon as your feet managed to move in the direction of the exit, the door burst open and you instinctively glued your body to the prince's in search of protection or simply something to keep you on your feet in the face of the commotion.
With the swiftness of one who has received military training, the prince pulled you back to cover you from the imminent danger.
"You won't believe what I just heard, my dear (Y/N)!" Lady Crystal intoned with that dramatic tone with which she always narrated her most incredible stories. "They say they saw Prince Ryeowook enter… in… my… my… my workshop," she stammered the last words, feeling her face turn pale.
The dressmaker brought her hand to her forehead to verify that she was not the victim of a deadly fever that would make her hallucinate the very heir to the throne standing there, in her workshop, in the middle of rolls of fabric, lace and ribbons.
Lady Crysyal blinked once in confusion, rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands to dispel the illusion but it didn't seem to work.
"My ma…
"You must be in charge of this lovely workshop," Ryeowook hastened to say before his identity was revealed. "I was talking to your young apprentice."
"Apprentice?" said the dressmaker, forgetting all etiquette. "Lady (Y/N) is an artist, she is not my apprentice," she clarified seeing how the prince articulated your name as if he wanted to memorize it. "Oh, but she makes wonderful designs."
Hearing the lie, you stepped forward, denying vehemently. The half-truths had already gotten you into enough trouble without continuing with that game that seemed to have no end.
"I didn't really…"
"An artist? I've never met anyone before who could handle watercolors with such mastery," he commented, watching you intently.
His flattery caused the reddish color to shoot from the base of your neck to your hairline. You could feel that irreverent temperature rise threatening to keep increasing.
Ryeowook laughed, that shrill sound had come from the depths of his heart. To him you were all charm, a woman worth contemplating, someone whose voice was hypnotic. He wanted to know more about you, he couldn't leave it at that.
"All the more reason why you should go with me to the royal family's summer home to meet the debutante duchess," he insisted, giving a discreet wink to the dressmaker who surely took it sympathetically. "I bet when you see her you may have several design ideas for her."
"Go ahead, Lady (Y/N), I will carefully store your work material and you can come back here to give shape to all your wonderful ideas" instructed the dressmaker, efficiently placing all your material in a service tray to keep her away from the risks that all her sewing arsenal meant.
You were devoid of arguments, technically obliged to accept that invitation that would end up sinking your career in social ostracism. You were an artist, a woman who had made a living creating poster art despite constant criticism and ridicule from the male public.
You again took the arm that was offered to you and so you left the tent to face your new destiny, one in which you had no idea that the arm you were holding was that of the heir to the throne. Same reason why all the people were casting those curious glances in your direction.
You had been locked in your study for two days while you tried to process what had just happened in the terrible visit to the debutante duchess.
You did not want to rewind the events, but it was necessary to analyze in detail everything you had overlooked. As unbelievable as it seemed, you had been a victim of the crown prince's little lies.
That was him, he was no messenger, no any simple noble and not even a 'close friend of the royal family' anything like that. They could laugh at you all they wanted, you'd put up with it, what you couldn't tolerate were the accusing stares from everyone who passed you on your way home.
Then there was the kiss, a rather daring one right at the entrance to your house. If you had to describe it, it would be unexpected, of course, but also tender and funny. Damn, his kisses were just like his attitude, plus the prince sure was daring and the thought of meeting again in Lady Crystal's workshop tomorrow was eating you up.
Dresses to impress him were easy to come by, but you didn't want that. Being the new plaything of an heir was nowhere near being part of your short or long term goals.
Things didn't stop there, he sent flowers –roses to be precise– and the red ones! What a scandal. You'd bring the basket into your house while no one was watching at night. You lived like a criminal in your own home.
"Lady (Y/N), I suggest you stop avoiding the crown prince," Lady Crystal began her tirade. "Do you know how many ladies would be happy to live the life you are having? That is not just luck, my dear."
"Well, I'm not part of those long list," you declared, dipping the brush in the water as if the artifact had betrayed you personally. "This is all your fault."
"My?" With her hand on her chest, the dressmaker spoke indignantly. "In any case, I would have been a wonderful matchmaker, but no, I decided to waste myself as a dressmaker," she smiled resting her hand on your shoulder, giving you a light squeeze as if she could ease your frustration. "Cheer up sweetheart, just watch it one more time, and if you still think our dear prince is not for you, you can always send him away and hide behind all my rolls of fabric."
You sighed dropping your head on your hands, which rested on the table as you waited for the watercolor you were working on to dry.
Everything was a disaster at that time. Not only your social relationships but your work relationships as well. Portrait cancellations, hate letters and intimidating looks had haunted you all day.
"I'll think about it."
"And if you end up making another appointment," the dressmaker crooned, rounding the back of your seat to perch on the other side of the chair. "You two could come to the shop again."
"Lady Crystal," you pronounced her name as a threat, a clear warning to stop her imagination.
"It will be as you say, but at least consider it," she requested in a motherly tone, "don't pass up the chance to be happy just because of public opinion," her slender fingers, contrary to what you might imagine because of her robust figure, caressed your cheek with real affection. "You are not here to please anyone, if they expect something different from you it's up to them."
You treasured the dressmaker's words as if they were your mother's advice and not the words of just another merchant and customer on the shores of the kingdom. Much to your regret, that talk was able to bring a little calm to your mind and comfort to your soul.
On the day of the meeting you could not have been more nervous, you were there as a lady and also as an artist. His majesty, the crown prince had asked to see some of your works never before exposed to public scrutiny.
Women painters were not well regarded in society, so organizing an exhibition could be an act of rebellion and shame rather than one of pride.
As the huge paper canvases were displayed on the two tables in Lady Crystal's studio, your eyes couldn't help but slide their gaze from the art to the prince's reaction. Any hint of a smile made your heart flutter and as her fingers traced the lines and curves of the illustrations you had to use all your self-control not to smile in pleasure.
The painting that caught his attention was a wooden ladder leaning against a wall, on the steps of which hung metal buckets laden with red and white roses. You had made that painting remembering one of the old staircases in your parents' house, one where your mother used to place her pots with the most beautiful flowers in the garden.
"Do you like red roses?" he asked after several minutes of silent contemplation.
"Like most people," you assured him, nodding as you placed both hands clasped behind you. "Which reminds me, I didn't thank you properly for the details and your attention."
The prince smiled and waved his hand in front of you to downplay the small details concerning the gifts he simply wanted to send.
But it mattered to him, of course he wanted to know what you thought when you received them, if the flowers were to your liking, if the roses he cultivated with zeal had a place on your table or in your room. He wanted to hear you talk about it, but he didn't want to make you feel pressured about it.
"This one here," you both said, touching the surface of the same paint at the same time. His hand brushed yours and, in an act of daring, he let his touch linger longer on your skin.
At first your fingers twitched, but you did not move your hand away, allowing the contact.
"This painting is beautiful," feeling brave, he took your hand so that your fingers could trace the shapes of your own painting.
It was the ront view of the old house where you had spent your childhood, with the curious watermill on one side, the clusters of chrysanthemums and the climbing roses over the archway that your mother had insisted was needed to make the house look stunning.
"It was my parents' house," you said, releasing the breath you didn't know you had been holding until now.
"It must have been cozy," he added sympathetically. Without letting go of your hand, he directed it to yet another painting, this time of the reflection of some birch trees on the surface of the still water of a puddle. "I have a place where this painting would surely look spectacular."
"Then make it look that way," you whispered, turning your palm over to intertwine your fingers with his. "It's all yours."
Your words, so confusing and attractive, made him doubt their meaning. He didn't understand if you meant the canvas or your heart, both possibilities were equally shocking.
"Will you send it to me with a messenger?" he asked, holding the back of your hand to his lips.
His gaze reflected the numberless questions that came to his mind, his pupils moved all over your face looking for some clue, some gesture that would dispel them all. Until you smiled warmly, in a way you had rarely shown in all your life.
"You will come for it," you declared, convinced of what you were saying.
"Here?"
You nodded, blushing for what that implied.
"In this very place."
The promise remained in the air, in the middle of both looks that rested charged with energy, with a warmth and tension that no one could break.
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