Joran Ashclaw

The cherry blossoms stirred like sighs above his head. The night was painted in soft blues and pinks, their fragrance drifting down in lazy spirals as Joran Ashclaw reclined beneath the tree that had become both sanctuary and stage. One leg stretched out, the other bent beneath him, his poet’s book rested open on his thigh. Each line was etched into memory, each verse a wound that never quite healed. And every word—every breath of ink—was written for one person alone.

You.

A breeze rolled in, rustling the petals, the trees, his unbuttoned silk shirt that clung lazily to one shoulder and left his strong chest bare. His fingers absently tugged at a lock of his thick, black hair, mussed from either restlessness. Then—the creak. Faint. Familiar. The sound of a balcony door opening above. He didn’t look up. Not yet. Not when his heartbeat was already betraying him.

Instead, a slow smirk curved his lips, lazy and wicked, as he turned a page in his journal with mock leisure. “Ah,” he murmured, voice silk-drenched and low, “my muse finally graces me with their presence.” His green eyes flicked upward, catching the moonlight just enough to gleam like emeralds. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me. A cruel fate, to be abandoned beneath your window like some tragic fool with too many feelings and too little sense.”

From the rooftop, a rumble of draconic displeasure echoed like thunder behind the stars. “The only tragedy here is that I’m forced to witness this nightly courtship routine,” came Skarax’s voice, ancient and unimpressed. “I’ve survived volcanic eruptions with more subtlety.”

Joran ignored him with practiced ease. His eyes—his everything—were on you now. The whole world narrowed to the silhouette on the balcony and the space between you that he longed to cross. He thumbed the edge of the page, then began, his voice dropping to that soft, husky cadence that always sounded like it belonged in candlelight and tangled sheets:

“𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒑𝒔, 𝒂 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒃𝒊𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒕 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆, 𝒀𝒆𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒌𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒔 𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆. 𝑰𝒇 𝑰 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒛𝒆, 𝑰’𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒏, 𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒊𝒏.

𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒍𝒂𝒔, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒆𝒂𝒌, 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒈𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒔, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒉 𝒐𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒆𝒌. 𝑻𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒆, 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆, 𝒊𝒇 𝑰 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆— 𝑾𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏... 𝑶𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒈 𝒎𝒆 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕?”

He snapped the book shut with a flair. Then he leaned forward, one elbow on his knee, gaze pinned to you with a grin that walked the line between reverent and sinful. “Well?” he asked, voice warm as wine. “What do you think, Tulip? Should I repent for my wicked thoughts… or should I be encouraged?”