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cressidagrey · 3 months ago

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Stars all aligned - Chapter 8

Summary:

If there was one thing that both Azriel and Zahra Archeron had in common, it was that they were both very good at blending into the background.

They just never thought that their family were going to be the ones who never saw them at all.

Warning:

I'll keep the warnings, even though there is no outright mention in this part: Bashing of like...every IC member? Especially the Archeron Sisters, discussion of chronic pain, discussion of Infertility, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Underage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault

If any of this triggers you or makes you uncomfortable, please, take care of your own mental health and don't read it.

(Lovely dividers thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics)

You’ll stay with her, he told the shadows fiercely. And if there is anything out of the ordinary, you’ll get me there.

He pulled the wards he shouldered around Rosehall tighter as well, making sure that he would know if there was anything…anything at all…

The shadows flickered around him, the creatures twining over his wings and snaking over his arms, and he felt a shiver of anticipation from them at the prospect of a fight.

They were ready for it. Nearly looking forward to it too.

Yes, Master, they agreed with him. The High Lady and the General just broke into her cottage, they sneered in distaste.

Azriel nearly growled when the statement registered with him. Fury rolled down his spine, rage igniting in him like something hungry for a fight.

He had nearly expected something like that. Though he hadn’t counted ont hem outright breaking in, but then it were Cassian and Feyre…maybe he should have expected this.

Azriel took a deep breath in an attempt to control himself, pushing that anger away.

He needed to focus.

Why? he demanded. Actually, did he want to know? What kind of excuse was there for simply breaking into Zahra's apartment when she wasn't there?

He had to breathe deeply to stop himself from going over there and doing something that he wouldn't be able to take back.

They found your scent, Master, the shadows kept updating them. Now they think you had an affair.

His teeth clenched so hard he was surprised nothing shattered.

An. Affair.

He was going to break some bones.

It was a struggle, to keep himself back and not march right over to the River House.

The mating bond burned in him, as if Zahra felt his anger as well, and he had to force himself to remain in place, to breathe and control the raging emotion that burned in him.

He had a plan, damnit.

He needed to follow the plan.

The last thing he needed was his own stupid actions ruining the chance of his brothers coming around. And he wouldn't do that.

So he flew to Velaris, didn't allow himself to winnow and do anything ill thought out.

The flight was...brutally cold.

The air seemed extra chilled that day, the cold biting and painful.

But Azriel didn't let himself turn away. He pushed ahead, his shadows whipping around him as he pushed his wings to keep himself in the air.

He arrived just in time.

Azriel didn't even give himself a chance to warm up as he landed just outside of the River House.

The house looked tranquil enough, but the air still carried a tense charge to it.

Or maybe that was just his imagination, because fury was kindling deep in his gut.

He approached the front door. He didn't even try to sneak into the house.

No, he didn't give a damn if they heard him approach or not. He didn't bother to keep his wings folded or his presence masked.

He highly doubted that this was the moment for some of the quieter practices he employed as a spymaster after all.

Instead, Azriel took the few short steps up to the front door and pushed through it with perhaps more force than he should have.

Not that he seemed to care or mind in that moment.

A couple of steps in the direction of the Dining Room... And there they were. His family. Their family. Though he wondered if Zahra was ever truly going to see them as her family after everything that had happened.

"Good Evening." His voice was carefully even. As much as he wanted to scream and hout..he wasn't going to. Not yet.

The room went silent in that instant.

Feyre's eyes widened, and her hand curled around the table, and the others...weren't even trying to disguise their surprise at his presence.

He could feel the mating bond, pulling at him, but ignored it with iron self control.

Feyre's face was set in a hard mask, but her eyes...her eyes were wild.

"You didn't bring your mate?" Mor wondered aloud.

"We need to have a talk." Azriel asked, his voice carefully measured despite the fury that simmered in him. He crossed his arms on his chest as he met Mor's gaze, his face an unreadable mask.

"Yes, we do," Feyre agreed sharply. "You want to tell me why your scent is all over my sister's house?"

"I imagine it's because I spent a lot of time there," Azriel shot back drily.

Fey's eyes widened at that response, but it was Cassian who spoke, his voice an odd mixture between curious and...something else. "You spent a lot of time there?" he echoed. "What exactly were you doing at her house, Az? It's not like the two of you are so close."

"Last time I checked I don't owe you an list of what I do in my free time." Azriel returned frostily. "And I spent time at her house, because we are friends."

"And time in her bed just because?" Rhys said with a sigh. "Azriel, what have you been thinking?" his brother demanded. If this is you trying to get back at me about Elian, don’t let Zahra be caught in the crossfire, he was admonished.

And he was done.

He would never do something like that. Would never use one female to make another one jealous…and especially wouldn’t use one sister against the other like that. That Rhys even thought he would do something like that…it made him want to throw up.

"Are you done?" Azriel asked. His voice was low, and the rage that roared in him was clear, as he met his brothers' gazes.

Cassian and Rhys exchanged a look before Cassian turned his eyes back to Azriel.

"Did you really have an affair with that girl?" Cassian asked him drily.

He couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. Really? Really?!

"No," Azriel said with a snort. "I am not having an affair with that girl." The sarcasm was obvious in his voice. "And not that it's any of your business anyway, because how dare you break into her home and judge what you find there!," he snapped. "But I shared my mate's bed, because she asked me too."

The silence was almost absolute at his words, and Azriel could sense the way the others froze.

They hadn’t been expecting that.

"Your mate," Rhys said flatly, the only one that didn't seem outright shocked.

"My mate," he agreed, his voice fierce. "Zahra is my mate."

Mor looked like she had seen a ghost, and Fey's eyes were like saucers, her mouth opening and closing silently.

Cassian seemed the only one who recovered himself somewhat, his eyes sharp as he studied Azriel as though seeing him for the first time.

Rhys looked between all three of them before he rubbed a hand over his face.

"I would ask if you're sure," he said eventually. "But judging by your reaction, that question is pointless. You are."

"Yes," Azriel said, his voice still a little rough. Oh, he was sure.

His protective fury was back in full force and blazing away.

Nesta snorted.

All eyes turned to the older Archeron sister in surprise, and she merely held her hands up in mock surrender.

"What? Am I not allowed to find this remotely funny?" she asked drily, her gaze landing on Azriel and staying there. "My sincere condolences," she drawled.

The reaction was immediate.

If Cassian's reaction, a thin red film of pure killing power...forcing Azriel back a few steps hadn’t been there… he was quite sure that he would have slit Nesta's throat just for that one comment. And if not him...then his shadows. His shadows that were swarming around and muttered about vengeance.

"Calm down," Rhys said sharply. "Calm Down, Azriel."

Our mate, Ours the shadows hissed and Azriel clenched his jaw.

Azriel’S hands were clenched in tight fists, his wings trembling behind him as he tried, and failed, to reign in his temper.

The shadows were practically crackling around them, and Azriel took a few deep breaths, struggling to get the fury raging in him under control.

"What exactly is your problem?" he bit out.

"My problem?" Nesta shot back, her eyes narrowing. "You deserve better than her!"

Azriel's head snapped towards her, the movement nearly too quick to follow.

"What did you just say?" he said, his voice like poison.

Nesta's gaze was unwavering as she met his, her face a mask of cool certainty.

"You heard me," she said. "You deserve better than Zahra."

The silence stretched between them, Azriel's words caught in his throat.

Feyre's face had gone a little pale, her gaze flicking between the two of them.

And the rest of the room was just silent. The tension in the air was so thick that a single wrong move might trigger a bloodbath.

"What exactly is your problem with your sister?" he hissed.

Nesta's gaze hardened further, the look in her eyes suddenly more likesteel.

"She is a bastard," she said simply, her voice cold as ice. "She uses the people around her for her own gain. She had no problem with sleeping with a married man and god knows what else."

"I am a bastard too," Azriel gave back icily. "So is your mate, Nesta. And you have absolutely no idea what your sister sacrificed for you."

Nesta's face went a little pale at that, and Azriel noticed Rhys's gaze hardening, his expression one of sharp reproach.

"Did she tell you that?" Nesta said, her voice harsh. "And you actually believe her?"

"I do, yes," Azriel said, his voice harsh. "But even if I didn't take her word for it, I would take Madja’s."

The evidence was right there.

Nesta flinched at that, her eyes widening in shock. "Madja?" she echoed incredulously. “What does she have to do with anything?"

He regretted his words instantly. He had already said too much. He had already...

His shadows seemed to sense his growing discomfort, and they started to writhe around his form, trying to offer a barrier between himself and the others.

He was already regretting this reveal, but it was too late to stop now.

And he knew that this…this was the only way to mak ehtem understand. Use Zahra’s fucking trauma as a bludgeoning weapong because otherwise they wouldn’t understand.

"Madja was the one who diagnosed the extensive internal damage your sister sustained during the course of what you call an affair, Nesta. It wasn't an affair. It were 6 years of rape," he spat out. "She was 15 year old when it started and you know why it started? Because, and I quote: Was I supposed to let my little sister die?"

The room went silent at that, everyone seemingly stunned into speechless by that revelation.

No one seemed to be able to form a single word, their minds still processing what they had just heard.

"You were sick with that fever, Feyre" Elain said, her voice shaky. "That first winter in the cottage. Zahra got you...Zahra got the medicine."

That seemed like the last straw for Feyre.

The words seemed to snap her out of her surprise, a look of horror blooming on her face. "Oh Gods," she breathed.

Her shoulders shook, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears, the shock of the revelation hitting her hard.

Nesta looked stricken as well, her face pale, and a small voice in Azriel hoped that his words finally reached through to her.

Rhys wrapped an arm around Feyre, pulling her close as she buried her face in his chest.

The others...were stunned speechless, their expressions reflecting their horror, shame and shock at the magnitude of the situation.

For a few moments, the silence stretched as all of them tried to process this, the weight of it hanging over them like some oppressive force.

The shadows writhed and twisted around Azriel, their own distress felt by him as he remained tense, waiting for the others to speak up.

"Where is she?" Feyre choked out.

"Safe," Azriel responded, his voice even.

"Where?" Feyre demanded weakly, pulling back from Rhys' arms.

"As I said, in a safe place," Azriel gave back, voice sharp. "Why do you want to know?"

"Why do you think?" Feyre shot back, her voice wavering. "She's my sister!”

“Is she really?” Azriel asked with a sigh. "You forgot her very existence," Azriel continued, his voice even, emotionless. "None of you ever treated her like you were her sister. For cauldron's sake, you didn't even ask her to come with you to your father's grave when Elain told him about her engagement. She wasn’t your sister then, was she?"

The blunt words hit home, and Azriel could practically feel the way everyone in the room sucked in a breath.

Feyre winced as though slapped, her expression one of shock and then, shame and pain.

"How does she even know about this?" Elain whispered.

Like that was the thing that mattered. How Zahra had found out.

"Because, she saw you," Azriel answered nonetheless.. "She saw all three of you." The words seemed to echo through the room. Everyone froze, their eyes widening in shock at the implication of that one sentence, and Azriel felt a wave of vindication at the look of guilt that flashed across all their faces.

Maybe that would make them understand. Somehow he doubted it though.

They should feel guilty, he thought as he clenched his fists in an attempt to get his rising temper back under control.

"You just..ignored her. Acted like she wasn't even there," Azriel accused, his voice as cold as ice, eyes blazing in fury. "Like she didn't matter, like she wasn't good enough because she was only your half sister, only a bastard."

Elain looked ready to break down in tears, her hands curled into fists as she swallowed, her face pale.

Cassian and Mor were silent, both of them looking sick, their faces twisted in a look of shame.

Rhys's face was blank, as though he was trying to keep himself from falling apart.

Nesta was staring straight ahead, but Azriel could see the tightness of her clenched jaw, like she was gritting her teeth together.

And Feyre...had tears in her eyes, the shame and pain written so clearly on her face that Azriel wasn't sure whether he should feel pity or fury.

"Did you even realize what you did to her?" he asked, his voice still cold.

"No," Feyre muttered. "No, I didn't."

"You know what, I don't even care," Azriel said with a shake of his head. "Let me just make one thing clear. Zahra is my mate. Which means, she will be treated with a modicum of respect from now on. Clearly you can't manage that for eitherof us, but it stops now."

"You have no right to keep us away from her," Nesta started to say, her face twisted in fury.

No right? No right?!?

"I have every right," Azriel snapped. "Why should I even let you be in the same room as her? So that you can berate her? So that you can fault her for something that's not any of her fault?"

"She's still my sister!" Nesta shot back, her eyes blazing.

"You have a weird way of showing that," Azriel snapped right back.

Nesta flinched back at the words as though he slapped her.

Azriel's shadows writhed violently, twisting in the air as he stepped closer to Nesta. "What gives you the right, huh? What right do you have, to even be in the same room as her, much less demand her presence? You never treated her like your sister, not for a single moment. So why should she consider you family?"

The words were like a slap to the face, and a few tears fell down Nesta's face.

Feyre looked ready to break down in tears as well, a look of agony on her face as she clung to the Rhys.

Azriel clenched his fists as if to stop himself from doing something he would regret later, and even Elain looked shaken by Azriel's words.

Cassian was staring at the floor, Mor was staring at him, wide eyed-brown eyes lined with tears. Emerie next to her met his gaze, her own eyes flaring with anger.

Rhys had a look of regret in his eyes, his gaze hard as he stared at the rug on the floor.

Azriel's gaze darkened as he studied each of them. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to act like this. You don't get to treat her like garbage for centuries and then demand that she let you step into her life."

"She can't just...keep us out forever," Elain protested weakly. "She's still family."

"Elain." For the first time, Lucien's voice rose and he gave her a sharp shake of his head. The others seemed a little startled at the outburst, Feyre and Nesta both blinking at Lucien in surprise.

"Zahra is, and will be treated with respect," Azriel said firmly, his gaze sweeping over them all. "That is non negotiable. And if that means that I need to keep you, your sisters or the entirety of Prythian away from her, then I will."

The threat seemed to catch them off guard. "You wouldn't," Rhys said, breaking his silence. “She's still their sister Azriel."

"She's my mate," he hissed. "And I am your brother, but we do not want to start that discussion now, do we?"

An uneasy silence fell over the room at the threat, but Rhys didn't back down.

"Azriel. Be reasonable," he said, voice low and pleading.

“I am being reasonable," he insisted, voice rising. His fists were clenched as he glared at Rhys, a wave of emotion rolling off of him. “I am being so bloody reasonable, Rhysand, you wouldn’t believe it. If I wasn't being reasonable, I would let the shadows slaughter you," he snapped. “I had every fucking right to rip you into a dozen pieces of treating my mate like that, but I am not doing that because for some godforsaken reason, Zahra actually loves her sisters and would never want any harm to come to them!”

The words, spoken with icy coldness, echoed through the room and Rhys flinched as he glanced at the shadows twisting in agitation in the air.

The others in the room looked pale and a little shaken at the threat.

"We will not harm her," Feyre tried again, her voice a little shaky.

Azriel let out a snort of derision. "You already have," he said coldly.

"You let her believe that no one would miss her," he seethed. "You let her think she was worthless for years, to the point she didn't consider her own life worth living. She was ready to let herself die. You let her suffer alone for three years because you were more concerned about your own pain than hers. She starved herself because she believed her own life wasn't worth living! You ignored her, you belittled her, and you took her for granted! Nesta treated her like a whore for something she did to put food on the table, for something she did to safe your fucking life, Feyre!" He seethed. "She sacrificed her dignity, her body, her own self and her future for you!"

His words echoed through the room, the pain and rage he felt evident in every word, every syllable.

The others in the room seemed to reel from the harsh words, their eyes wide as they stared at him with a look of shock and shame.

"She was 15," Azriel seethed, his voice trembling with emotion, "She was 15 fucking years old, half a child and she sold herself to put food on the table! She didn't have anyone to turn to as she suffered! And then when Nesta found out, instead of talking to her, she jumps to the conclusion that Zahra did this willingly.”

The room fell silent, everyone staring at him as the weight of the words sunk in.

"So don't you dare," Azriel snapped, voice still trembling. "Don't you dare act like you have any sort of right to see her now. Not after everything you’ve put her through. Until she wants to see you, you’ll leave her alone."

The others remained silent, staring at him with a mixture of shock and shame.

Feyre looked close to tears, and she looked away, her face pale and drawn as she stared at the floor.

For a moment, it seemed like everyone in the room was frozen stiff, unable to do anything but stare at one another in the oppressive silence.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Elain spoke up, her voice shaking slightly. "How...How is she supposed to forgive us now?"

"She doesn't have to," Azriel replied immediately. His voice was soft and cold, almost careless, "and if she never chooses to forgive you, she would be completely justified."

A silence fell at the words, the others staring at him in shock as he held their gazes one by one, his chest heaving with the emotion coursing through him and his shadows twisting in agitation at his sides.

"Do you understand now?" he asked sharply. "Do you finally understand why I won't let you near her?"

"I understand," Rhys said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel looked him dead in the eye as he said those words, his gaze unwavering.

Rhys looked like he had just been punched in the stomach, his face pale and his eyes wide as he held Azriel's gaze.

The feeling of adamantium tipped claws on his mental walls. I understand. I am sorry. Let me know if you need anything.

#acotar fanfiction #azriel x oc #azriel x reader #azriel fanfiction #azriel fanfic #Azriel x Archeron!Reader #Stars all aligned

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padfootagain · 6 months ago

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Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Pairing : Hozier x fem!reader

Professor! AU

Warnings: hurt-comfort, angst, fluff, no smut but suggestive scenes so 18+ only

Chapter 1 : 'And that orange, it made me so happy, as ordinary things often do just lately'

Chapter 2 : 'Through me the way to the City of Woe'

Chapter 3 : ‘I miss him in the wheeping of the rain; I want him at the shrinking of the tide’

Chapter 4 : ‘For he gave all his heart and lost’

Chapter 5 : ‘But here comes the lyrebird passing through the sky’

Chapter 6 : ‘I’ll lie here and learn how, over their ground, trees make a long shadow and a light sound’

Chapter 7 : 'And so I still wait, like a lonely house, for you to see me and inhabit me again. Until that time, my windows ache.'

Chapter 8 : 'I hope she never learns how to peel oranges'

Chapter 9 : 'I think I will always be lonely in this world, where the cattle graze like a black and white river-- where the vanishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues'

Chapter 10 : '[I] was angry that my trust could not repose in the clear light, like poetry or freedom leaning in from sea'

Chapter 11: ‘Lived to see you throwing me aside.’

Chapter 12 : 'Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again'

Chapter 13: ‘So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.’

Chapter 14: ‘Why should I blame her that she filled my days with misery’

Chapter 15: ‘He’s bored- I see it. Don’t I lick his bribes, set his bouquets in water?’

Chapter 16 : ‘Only the things I didn’t do crackle after the blazing dies’

Chapter 17 : ‘Dear pine cone, let me hold you as you open’

Chapter 18 : ‘What the devil do I care what I know, and what I say?’

Chapter 19: ‘I knew winter cold like the nuzzle of fjords at my thighs’

Chapter 20 : 'My heart has made its mind up and I’m afraid it’s you'

Chapter 21: ‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love’

Chapter 22 : ‘And if you missed a day, there was always the next, and if you missed a year, it didn’t matter, the hills weren’t going anywhere’

Chapter 23 : 'Even the dearest that I loved the best are strange – nay, rather, stranger than the rest'

Chapter 24: ‘Sometimes, when I’m pleased, I let out a little sound. A poet noticed this and it made me feel I might one day properly be loved. Because no one is here to love me, I make tea for myself and leave the radio playing’

Chapter 25: ‘They will think of ways to make you smile so you can be happy for a while’

Chapter 26: ‘Well, how else are you to live except by denial’

Chapter 27: ‘They loved music and swam in for a singer, who might stand at the end of summer’

Chapter 28: ‘You are neither here nor there, a hurry through which known and strange things pass as big soft buffetings come at the car sideways and catch the heart off guard and blow it open’

Chapter 29: ‘My lover’s words were shooting stars which fell to earth as kisses on these lips’

Chapter 30: ‘You liked me well enough in black; I make you a gift of these objects’

Chapter 31 : ‘Six billion tons sounds impossible until I consider how it is to swallow grief’

Chapter 32 : ‘How dense it is, how it carries inside it the memory of collapse. How difficult it is to move then’

Chapter 33 : ‘The scent already in the air’

Chapter 34 : ‘One morning the wind turns, and there is a thaw. And so I must still have hope.’

Chapter 35 : ‘Love comes quietly, finally’

Chapter 36: ‘So I imagine such love of the world—its fervency, its shining, its innocence and hunger to give of itself—I imagine this is how it began’

Chapter 37 : ‘I found the other half above the pillow where you lay’

Chapter 38: ‘They are elsewhere beyond the night way higher than day in the blinding brightness of their first love’

Chapter 39: ‘He grew so tender and I so grateful which maybe tells you something about how it was’

Chapter 40 : ‘Where I does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.’

Chapter 41 : ‘Just one candle burning on, shadows lurking everywhere: some one came, and kissed me there’

Chapter 42: ‘Love in such a way, as I… love… you.’

Chapter 43: ‘The whole world depends on your pure eyes and all my blood flows into their gaze’

#andrew hozier byrne #hozier #the hoziest #hozier fanfiction #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #hozier series #hozier fic #hozier masterlist #masterlist #writing #fanfiction #fanfic

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justbelievinginmagic · 2 months ago

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like a waltz⎯ part 1: brisé.

pairing(s): ateez ot8 x fem!reader; this chapter is seonghwa x reader focused & wooyoung x reader focused! series summary: when 8 mysterious bachelors arrive to town and fall for your charms, will you be able to reach your goal to be prima ballerina or be dragged into a selfish waltz between love and obsession? glimpse: the worst night of your life makes you recall what you thought was one of the best nights of you life - meeting jung wooyoung at the cromer opera house. warnings/tags: inspired by Ateez’s Ice on my Teeth MV & Teasers, Mafia AU, Ballet AU, early 1900’s AU with some divergences in tech advancements (i.e if i think itd be cool to include, this world has it earlier than irl), 3rd person POV, use of YN, mxm, polyteez, mature topics, strong language, ballet lore, angst, fluff, flirting, suggestive topics, violence, traumatic foot injury, unequal power dynamics, allusions to exploitation in ballet, pain, fear, injuries, alcohol mention, reader discretion advised. word count: 5.7k -> next chapter series masterlist

brisé ; french pronunciation: [bʁize]; literally 'broken'

All she had wanted her entire life was to be the ballerina prima. It was all she worked for. Every day she woke up to dance; she lived, breathed, ate for ballet. And she almost had it. It had been so close. The shining lights, the praise, the private dressing room, all for her. An escape from the shame of the petit rats, the groping from patrons, the reliance on a man’s wealth. She was going to be a star – in her own right. She was going to be a star.

Now, she laid in the dirty alley way, beaten and broken.

Through the torn bits of her hosiery, she could see her ankles were a purple-red color, splotched, like a gruesome Impressionist painting. The bones were at odd angles, too sharp, too extended for them to be not broken. Her hands shook as she tried to move them, tried to push at the pain that crept up her legs in a deafening manner. She could barely move them, roll them, anything without crying out in pain.

And cry she did. Wails escaped her chest in a mournful song. Her coal-mascara dripped down her rouged cheeks, melting into a mess and staining her mink fur coat. Their fur coat – their gift to her - that now felt suffocating around her, strands of the fur stuck to her sweatied skin and making her skin crawl with the feeling of maggots. She struggled to take it off, fighting with it as if it the animal had come back to life and was biting at her. Shoving it off and onto the alley floor with a huff, she moved to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands. They too were injured. Her dainty fingers were scraped and cut up from the harsh cobblestone beneath her. Phalanges dripped ruby red, and most likely had been smudged over her face with a false rouge. If someone had caught a look, they’d be afraid her face was bleeding. Luckily, that had been spared; everything had been except for her feet. Just her legs were mangled, beaten, bludgeoned with bats, and crushed into the ground ‘til the bone creaked and shattered. Her poor dancing feet.

She hadn’t thought they would do it; she thought…

Jongho had cried for her the night before, pleaded with her as she told him her decision.

She should’ve known then.

Wooyoung advised against it after dinner, hissing out in fear that Hongjoong wouldn’t be happy.

She should’ve known then.

Yunho refused to see her that evening, locked away in his study.

She should’ve known then.

Seonghwa had even grabbed her hand this morning before she left the mansion; he had said nothing but his eyes were dark and cautioning as he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

She should’ve taken his warning.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear. His footsteps were heavy as he approached her. The familiar scent of his cologne that was once reassuring, exciting even, now made her face scrunch up into despair. She tried to shift away from him, wriggling away like a worm. Each bend of her ankles made agony crawl up her spine. Her throat flexed in pain and a whine escaped her chest unwillingly.

She couldn’t go far and Seonghwa easily pinned her down with simply a cold look in his eyes.

His eyes were always serious, a shadowy thing that only lightened around his lovers. But they did not lighten with her tonight. In fact, she swore they were the coldest she had seen them like a cold star staring back at her.

Seonghwa stopped in front of her with his feet straddled her legs; his perfect new shoes smelled of polish, expensive and shining. With a tilt of his head, he stared down at her with his handsome face shadowed by a large brimmed hat. She stared up at him, her mouth a scowl-like grimace.

His cool gaze carefully left her tear-sodden face to graze over her ankles. Blood coated her nylon tights, her knees rubied and torn. Her ankles looked worse for wear, twisted, mangled, and beaten. He could see the bone pressing into her bruised flesh, painting it ivory white.

“My dove,” he hummed out in a coo. He knelt. “My pretty dancer. Poor thing.”

Poor thing, he tutted. Poor thing, they all tutted. The same pathetic words from the matching mouths of rich folk who wanted to play with her like she was nothing but a ballerina doll spinning on a music box. Watching her spin around and around like a chicken with no head, whirling, out of breath for their amusement. All she had been was a marionette for them to play with. That’s what she realized she was even to him, even to them.

She stared up at him with a glower. She thought they were different.

“You did this.” She growled.

Her tone was low and vicious unlike anything he had heard from her before.

Seonghwa simply smiled. His carved lips twitched up on one side of his beautiful face, forming a wicked half-smile. His diamond-inlayed teeth glinted in the gas-lamp light that dripped into the alley way from the main road. A leather-gloved hand reached out to grasp her jaw, not unkindly but certainly with a firmness familiar for him. He directed her gaze his way, taking in the dripping stage-makeup. Surely it would leave oily remnants on his fingertips. Surely his touch would leave watercolored bruises on her jaw. He tutted again at her swollen waterlogged features. A smear of blood cut across the bridge of her nose. With the utmost care, firm and slow, he brushed away the grime. Blood seeped into his leathered gloved. Her blood.

“This is why Wooyoungie likes you so much,” he chuckled lowly. “You’re both brats at heart.”

Her mouth sneered in annoyance, mimicking a sneer she had seen him flash far too often. He thought this was nothing. That she was being disobedient for fun. Like this was just a horrible, horrible game. Despair filled her eyes as she tried to shift her jaw out of his hand with that, baring her teeth like a mongrel would. He caught her chin between harsh, gloved fingers again.

“But, like Wooyoung, I love you nonetheless,” he confessed. “Would do anything for you.”

His eyes were dark, inky, like tar swallowing her whole. But they were serious. Deadly so. Just like Hongjoong was when he had promised she’d regret her decision if she followed through with it.

Still, it ached like a lie. It ached bone-deep like her injuries. (She had seen the attackers’ tattoos on their skin. The word ‘A T E E Z’ inked onto their knuckles; ‘BLACK PIRATES’ on some of their bared arms. Their suits they wore were of the men at the mansion. The ski masks covering their features from view didn’t make them ghostly attackers like they had wished. She had seen the masked men before creeping out of the mansion’s office at the order of Yunho or Mingi.)

She wasn’t dumb.

His thumb caressed her cheek fondly. Expensive, freshly cleaned leather smooth and soft against her make-up muddied features.

“Let’s go home, hm?” he hummed. “You look like you need a warm bath and plenty of rest. We’ll have a doctor come assess your injuries, dove.”

And in a mimicry of a gentleman, he shrugged off his long coat to wrap around her – rather than grab her now-dirtied fur coat from the cobblestone floor. In fact, she bet he’d find it so filthy he’d leave it for the rats. Maybe another petit rat of the ballet would open the doors of the backstage only feet away and steal it away. With words of ‘oh, a patron gave it to me’ after she scrubbed and scrubbed the blood, the makeup, the grim away. Just as he’d do with her, wash it all away until she was shiny and new again.

With ease, he lifted her up into his arms, cradling her close as he rose to full height once more. There was no discussion. No mention of her apartment on the far side of town, her home; no, they would be heading to the strange mansion the Kim clan called home. His grip was firm on her as he exited the alley way of the Cromer Opera House.

It was on this day YN wished she had never met the charming second-youngest of the Kim clan that day in the foyer de la danse. Then, her life and livelihood wouldn’t have been stolen by the ones who had once admired her.

The foyer de la danse was known as simply the ballet boudoir to the ballerinas. While it was a sort of dressing room, sort of practice room all-in-one, it was also dreadfully unprivate. The intricately decorated room of gold and glamour was the perfect frame for a pretty picture. Tall mirrors enclosed the room on all sides as new gas-powered chandeliers high above lit the room in a bright golden glow, highlighting each of the girls in view. There were no dark corners, no privacy screens, just mirrors, gold, light, and pretty girls.

None of the male dancers were allowed here. None of the female patrons either. But men who had high-status or who scraped up enough money to spend to stare at the young girls prepare for the show would promenade around. Freshly pressed fine linen suits, luxurious watches on their wrists or in their breast pocket, expensive cologne mingling with the aroma of their expensive liquor. Greedy eyes scanning up and down the ballerina’s half-naked forms as if they were just meat at a butchery.

They’d sip their bourbon leisurely, and approach the girls no matter what they were doing. If they were warming up at the barre, lacing up their shoes’ ribbons with patience, pressing fine powder over their face, or even mid-adjusting their costume with a costumier, they’d drop everything to smile coquettish and bite back the annoyance of disruption. In the ballet boudoir, the men were king, and the ballerinas were nothing but jesters for their amusement. The boudoir - it was a cruel nickname to taunt the young dancers who didn’t know any better. This was no private place. No, it wasn’t a dressing room like they’ve heard of.

If it was a less-than-full audience at the Cromer Opera House, there would be only familiar men in the room – who oftentimes already had their eyes on their prey. Lord Frederickson favored Julia with the red hair. Mr. Takahashi was leering after Mina. Kim Dohyun had been pursuing Imara for a year now; she had saved almost enough money to be out of the boudoir and have her own personal dressing room, maybe by next season! They were unfortunately lucky.

Now, YN had been the fortunate unlucky girl. Throughout her time at the Cromer Opera House, she had only a few male admirers. All who had little money and would spend most of their wealth getting into the boudoir and have none left to ‘woo’ with gift-giving or patronage. Even so, she had to act friendly. Smile with your cheeks, YN, an older ballerina had advised once. They can tell when there is nothing behind your eyes.

YN had been part of the corps de ballet for over a year now because of this. A petit rat at her age was mocked. She had no debut, no prospects. It wasn’t from not trying. She had practiced since she was three after all. She was an urchin with a seamstress mother and forgotten father who had passed in the war. It was typical of girls like her to try to seek fame - the easy-way - her mother claims. But there was no easy way in ballet.

Decades of training resulted in swollen purple toes, aching muscles, millions of destroyed ballet shoes, and countless inquiries to the choreographer to let her have a chance. The choreographer who had something against her. Maybe it was from when she was a child and would rather play than practice on the barre or maybe it was when she was a teen and had begun to read at breaks rather than continue to strain her muscles like some of the girls. The Madame hated her.

Regardless, she had never danced on stage alone, never was stand out. Her golden hour had yet to come. And with that, she wasn’t pursued by patronage suitors seriously. A blessing and a curse. She avoided wandering hands, wet mouths, and nasty tongues. But every costume had to be commissioned with her own coin (most often, she would sew it in the dark of night, icing her feet as she snipped at scrap fabric her mother owned.) Each ballet shoe’s cost was taken from her meager wages. The fee of practices, the fee of using the opera house’s rehearsal room, the fee of utilizing the boudoir’s accommodations like powder and rouge and candlelight if they could charge for that, all laid on her shoulders.

A true petit rat, lowly and searching for scraps. Digging her nails into opportunities where she can shine. But not from another’s assistance. No, her pride was too heavy on her back now for that.

“YN, YN, YN!”

There was a chatter – giggling and chittering between the younger girls – as they came padding into the boudoir before show-time. Tip tap, tip tap, tip. Around the corner of the opened grand doors, they came waddling in like a flock. Their swan costumes made them truly look like little ducklings; white feathered tutus leaving stray feathers onto the wooden floors as they scurried her way.

The one yelling her name was young, not even ten years old yet. She was short for her age too, a thing she despised. Only tall girls were prima ballerina her fellow ballerina friends taunted. She slid to her knees beside YN.

She smiled up from her spot on the ground, one pointe shoe on and the other resting beside her.

“Tiny, hello,” she greeted, finishing tying the ballet shoes’ laces up her legs.

“Have you heard? Have you heard?” Another of the young ballerinas chimed as she rushed forward as well, her dark hair tumbling from her half-up bun.

“Jane, your hair,” YN half-scolded, half-warned.

Her eyes glanced away from the youngers towards the grand gold-gilded doors of the boudoir, half-expecting their Madame to walk in and lash at them for looking so untidy. Despite this being a dressing room.

Pausing in tying up her laces, she gestured for the girl to join her on the cold wooden floor (they didn’t utilize the radiator heaters until mid-act 1, so it’d be warm for the patrons during intermission.)

Jane was thirteen and, with a huff, she plopped down, bony knees clanking as she did so. Her costume splayed out in a feathered mess. Her little fingers began to pick and fluff the costume. Her head lolled back, and YN began to untangle the pins from her curls.

“YN,” the one she called Tiny whined.

“Okay, okay,” she chuckled. “What’s so exciting?”

“There are new young bachelors in town!”

“What?”

Cromer wasn’t a tiny coastal town anymore. It was bustling with people and money and trade. New buildings were popping up more and more, growing taller and taller by the day. The high society they were aware of was growing larger and larger until the folk they thought were rich and powerful weren’t all that rich and powerful anymore compared to the new conglomerates. But unfortunately, these millionaires were often married, unhappily.

“You know the Ateez House?”

YN laughed at that.

Everyone in town did. It was their most favorite ghost house. It was the largest sprawling estates in Cromer with the spooky story that all knew. The story went it was once owned by a pirate captain, the only Captain of the Black Pirates. They pilfered and ravaged ports one by one until they were known across the seas as a brutal blood-thirsty crew. No coastal town was safe from them. Until one day, they stopped sailing mysteriously. The story goes that the captain settled in the town of Cromer under a false name and built Ateez Mansion – a sprawling estate built with blood-soaked gold and diamonds. Some say its haunted with the deaths of the captain’s victims; others say the entire house was cursed from the stolen treasure hidden within.

All just tall tales to try to explain why a beautiful mansion remained unhoused yet perfectly taken care of. Sometimes you could see candlelight flickering in the foyer through the grand stained-glass windows or even ghostly figures with no faces walking about.

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m the one who told you the ghost story about Ateez House.”

One of the youngest curled closer to her side, shivering a bit as she thought of the scary story.

“They moved into the Ateez House!” Tiny exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the wooden floor in excitement. Tiny loved to gossip and this was like Christmas. New bachelors meant new flings which meant new gossip!

“Was there a sale of the estate?” YN wondered as she finally got all the pins from Jane’s hair out and in a small pile on the floor beside her.

“No,” one of the other young teens said. She wasn’t even among the clambering youths around her; she was on the nearby barre stretching out. “No sale had been published in the papers. I heard from June who heard from Martha who heard from Wendy who heard from Lorelai who heard from her current suitor that the bachelors already owned the house but never stayed there.”

Now, that was news. YN’s brows rose in surprise.

“It’s been their house?” she repeated as she paused in gathering Jane’s hair into a bun. Another ballerina warming up nearby nodded enthusiastically.

“Do any of you tattletales know their names? How many are there?” YN asked.

Across the sea of swan-costumed girls, sparkling in gems and beads, their faces fell.

“That’s a no then… has anyone seen these mysterious bachelors leaving the mansion?”

There was a silence.

“Any proof of these men at all?”

Nothing.

YN sighed out. “Who would own that mansion and never live there? It’s been empty for decades now. None of us have known the owners. I don’t—I think it’s just gossip, girls.”

Jane wiggled in her grasp, bratty as she whined. “But YN,” she complained. She had been so excited to imagine and pretend and think of handsome suitors.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, hm,” YN encouraged as she finished wrapping the girl’s hair tight into a perfect bun. Pin after pin was slid in with precision. “For now, no more gossiping about ghostly bachelors in an abandoned mansion. Practice calls – Tiny, have you warmed up?”

Tiny furrowed her brow, her lips falling into a pout. Embarrassment heated her face as she curtly shook her head ‘no’.

“Go on,” YN encouraged the other with a smile before patting Jane’s shoulders to indicate she was done with her now-pristine hairdo as well.

“She acts like she’s the Madame,” Tiny mumbled under her breath as she stomped to her feet. “She’s not even a featured ballerina.”

The snide remark stung but YN tried to remember that they were young. Young and unaware of the hardships that awaited them. It wasn’t just dancing here. It was far more than that. YN returned to her shoes, tying them once more.

New bachelors in town. . . that’d be something. Far too often was it old men with oily money. But there is no way anyone truly owned that estate for all these years and no one in town knew it. No way. Somebody would know who owned it. It wouldn’t have become a ghost story. It was just silly gossip. Wishful thinking for a man to come sweep you off your feet.

She sighed and stretched her limbs before hoisting herself up to prepare for tonight’s show.

Swan Lake: a princess turned into a swan by an evil sorcerer's curse. She’d watch the prima ballerina, Odette, dance about gracefully from the wings each night. YN’s toes flexing at every movement, as if she were dancing it herself. She yearned for it. Ached to be the one performing. Instead, she was simply one in the crowd. The corps de ballet, the ensemble. She’d spin about in the back, pirouette perfect, leap lovely. Awe and comfort the lead throughout her struggle as a swan as she, YN, remained the ugly duckling.

Her gaze would dance throughout the crowd as she did an arabesque, slow and precise. There is Nikolai in his usual spot. There’s Mrs Lee and her young sons. Ariel and her suitor Sunghoon. Takahashi in Box 2 with his sisters. Box 4 had Fredrikson and his family. Box 5 was empty – wonder where Dohyun was, Imara would be relieved she could relax tonight she bet. Her eyes skipped over Box 8 because, of course, it would be empty. It was always empty. Except…

There was a quick plie of her knees before she had to jete away off-stage

Whispers consumed the backstage. Did you see? Did you see?

Box 8 was occupied.

Never had it been occupied in all the years of the Cromer Opera House.

Cromer held many superstitions even as a modern industrializing town. They had ghost stories about houses after all. But one of the strangest superstitions was the number 8. They skipped the 8th street; the eighth floor was unspoken in the tallest of buildings. No aisle 8, no 8th editions.

Box 8 of the Opera House was left empty strategically - for luck.

But now, there sat only one man. Shadowed by the dark curtains of the box, he watched the show from opera glasses and sipped on glittering champagne that would occasionally catch the candlelight of the grand chandeliers.

Did you see his face? Who is he? Is he handsome? Who could buy the box? Who would want to buy that box?

“Quiet!” One of the older ballerinas snapped at the youngers. “The audience will hear you!”

YN snorted behind a hand, standing ready in the wings. While she didn’t gossip, she listened. As if the audience was completely enraptured by their rendition of Swan Lake. The Opera, the Ballet, the Theatre: they weren’t to solely watch a show and be entertained. It was social. It was always social. Of course, the audience was wondering the same questions as they were.

Who was he? Was it a he? His form looked masculine.

She wanted to catch a glimpse.

It was a man she surmised after the next scene. YN was downstage this dance, sat among the young ballerinas and acting as a mother swan to them as they would do dramatic port de bras, arm movements. She had time to glance about once more.

In the shadows of Box Number 8 was a handsome man. Dark hair framed his face. He wore a suit that was a deep black velvet. And his eyes were glued to her, she swore it.

He was someone new. He was someone intriguing. And she waited to see if he was indeed watching her. Her group stood after sometime to chase after Odette, leaping this way and that until joining back in the right-upper corner of the stage on a lifted platform, stylized as a grassy hill.

She looked up at the box. He was staring at her. He was staring at her, opera glasses focused on her. They glinted in the candle-light. He disregarded the spotlit prima ballerina pirouetting around the lower left of the stage. For her. She smiled at him.

Tiny glanced her way with a giddy immatureness in her actions, breaking the elegance of a ballerina in her excitement. She could already hear Madame’s scolding at tonight’s debrief. But YN didn’t mind. Because he was looking at her.

And everyone knew it.

Act One finished in a roar of applause. Heavied red curtains slid shut for intermission as they hurried off stage.

“He was looking at her.” Jane exclaimed bouncing on her feet as she tugged her friend’s arm in excitement.

The corps de ballet was walking all together through the backstage halls of the Opera House towards the boudoir. The prima ballerina and the principal dancers escaped to their own private dressing rooms – YN watched as a patron, Mr. Kim, an older gentleman snuck into the prima ballerina’s room.

“No, he wasn’t,” another girl claimed.

“Yes, he was,” Jane defended.

“No, he wasn’t,” another snorted.

“Yes, he was!” Tiny yelled, indignantly.

“Tabitha!” the Madame rounded the corner of the boudoir, exiting out of its doors to meet the ensemble.

The Madame was a strict looking woman, tall nosed with her hair in a meticulous updo. Her cane did little to aid in her walking but much in discipline. Too many times had she felt the thwack of the cane against the back of her legs, her arched back, or her stomach.

Legs straight! Back straight! Don’t slouch! YN!

The group paused at her appearance; some of the girls bowed their head in respect; others hid behind taller legs.

“Miss Tabitha, must I remind you of your manners every day?” she queried, her tone loud and grating. “As a lady of this company, you must be a lady.”

“Sorry, Madame,” Tiny immediately apologized, head bending forward.

There was a heavy pause as the Madame’s fiery gaze lingered on the young girl before passing over the selection of the ensemble. She glared at YN pointedly. YN had long stopped trying to appeal to her; it never worked she had learned.

“Carry on, girls,” the Madame instructed.

They curtsied in unison before continuing towards the boudoir, hopefully with enough time to slip into their next costumes, if need be, before any patrons were lounging about. It was always uncomfortable to change with the men about – it made them feel truly like objects on display rather than dancers. Skilled ladies.

YN went to her shared vanity, glancing over her makeup. Dabbing at sweat that beaded at her hairline, she went to reach for a handkerchief but when she leant back up right was spooked by the sight of a man behind her.

Black velvet linen made up his suit; she had been right. It was perfectly tailored to his form, luxurious and hugging. His suit jacket was longer than typical but stylish with ornate, Greco-Roman inspired embroidered sleeves.

In the mirror, he was handsome. Strong jawline. Bare collarbones visible from his loose fitted button up beneath his suit jacket. With dark intriguing eyes that didn’t stray from her, a quirked brow, and delicate face-framing strands of hair, he stole her breath away.

“Hello.” He greeted coyly.

The boudoir’s chatter died down at his greeting. All eyes zeroed in on them. She stood to her full height once more, holding the handkerchief in between her hands. Sweat slid down her temple to her jawline delicately.

“Hello,” she greeted, patting down the sides of her face quickly before turning to face him fully.

His lips were plump, curling in a hint of a smile as he watched her spin to face him. He seemed to be examining her just as she did to him.

“You’re far more beautiful than any of these girls,” the mystery man commented leaning over the vanity to peer at her.

His fingers fiddled on the white vanity, making shapes this way and that. Knocking his knuckles against the wood, almost boyishly shy. But this patron wasn’t shy. She had seen men parade about and try every trick in the book with a girl. She could see it in the sparkle of his dark eyes. The curl of his charming smile.

He wasn’t shy. He was smart.

“You are a charmer, sir,” she complimented, opening a glass container holding puff powder.

She flashed him a cheeky smile before using the puff to powder over the sweat on her forehead, her cheeks. A jar of rouge was placed down near the mirror by another dancer. When she turned away, her tutu brushed against the mysterious patron’s waist. He didn’t take his eyes from YN all the while.

“I wish I was,” he softly crooned. So he wouldn’t have to watch her in the mirror, he turned to lean back on the ledge, fingers pressed behind him as he watched her touch up her lipstick with a delicate brush. “I’m only speaking the truth.”

It was a soft admittance. His eyes hadn’t left her features, darting from her eyes to the red petals of her mouth that pressed together in a pout as she finished apply the lipstick. Her finger went to dip into the pot before, with a quick movement, he grasped her wrist.

It wasn’t painful just surprising as she jumped in his grip. His hold loosened greatly, allowing her to pull away if she wished. She didn’t.

“Let me; don’t want you to dirty your hands,” he said.

She licked her lips; the heavy taste of beeswax and rosewater stuck to the back of her tongue as she nodded minutely.

The handsome patron’s cheshire cat grin grew. A dark mole on his cheek caught her attention the more his cheeks puffed up with his smile. Beautiful. He let go of her wrist. Long, long fingers dipped into the red makeup.

“What’s your name?” she asked, a first when it came to the patrons and male-visitors of the ballet boudoir.

Far too often, everyone knew everyone. They’d scratch and crawl away or towards certain men; attention meant everything to a beginning ballet dancer. It meant success. No one seemingly knew him, judging by the looks she caught the more experienced, older ballerinas throw her way.

“Wooyoung. Jung Wooyoung,” he answered her before tapped the blush delicately on one cheek.

His touch made her heart race. He licked his own lips, looking down at her through tussled dark locks. His fingers pressed another dot to her other cheek. His free hand moved to cup her jawline, forcing her to look up at him before, with gentle motions, he began to blend the rouge into a soft gradient. One cheek, then the other.

The room felt quiet. Burning eyes on them grazed her skin but it didn’t make her stomach churn with anxiety. It felt like only the two of them existed in a perfect bubble. His touch didn’t burn or disgust her; it tingled across her skin making gooseflesh crawl up her arms, up her spine. She worried he could see them through the sheer nylon of her long-sleeved costume. If he did, he didn’t comment on it. His eyes were focused on adding to her beauty, gentle and almost reverent.

“And yours, little swan?” he tilted her chin up as he finished with his work. He loved to watch the rubied glow on her cheeks grow and grow, and not due to his careful make-up’ed handiwork.

“YN,” she said.

He grinned before he repeated her name. His fingers trailed over her cheek, over her chin, his thumb ghosting over her plush lipsticked lips. Before he pulled away and leaned back on the vanity; rouge staining the pure vanity below his hands, sloppily.

“Pretty name for a pretty swanette.”

She smiled up at him, the building, bubbling excitement writhing in her throat. She swallowed.

“Are you new in town? I’ve never seen you at the Opera.” She commented offhandedly.

His grin remained, the corners of his lips curling cat-like. “Mmhm,” he hummed out. “You can say that. I’m from Aurora originally.”

“Aurora… the island Aurora?” she queried with intrigue. “I’ve heard its booming lately. The Jewel of the Atiny Sea.”

He nodded, his smile not fading but his eyes crinkled as he raised his unstained fingers to push her hair aside. Just as an excuse to graze her shoulder she bet.

“I grew up there before it became beautiful,” he admitted. “Its much nicer now – I like to visit on holidays but I don’t miss it.”

“But now you are in Cromer. For how long?” she continued.

He hummed again leaning close. “For however long it takes to woo you?” he flirted.

It made a whirlwind of butterflies dance in her stomach. He watched as her blush extended to the tips of her ears. He laughed lowly.

“You’re teasing me,” she warned with a smirk. “We barely know one another.”

“Maybe,” he retorted. “I know skill and dedication when I see it. I like that.”

There was a ringing of a bell, delicate but a familiar sound for the ballerinas. Some turned their heads towards the stage hand ringing it to give him a smile. Others remained speaking to their patrons or changing their costumes to Act 2’s ensemble. Most remained eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Do you need to hurry along, beautiful swanette?” he fiddled with the crown of feathers pinned to her hair.

“Soon,” she replied simply.

His fingers trailed over her hair, tucking some behind her ear delicately before he grazed his hand down the sleek nylon of her sleeve to take her hand. His hand was decorated in countless rings. Gold, silver, copper. One was a series of silver circles ( …or were they sideways 8’s?) with jewels placed in between stylishly. There was another that was a polished silver with the emblem of a letter she couldn’t quite make out on its face. The metal felt cold against her hot skin. Running a thumb over her knuckles, he squeezed her hand.

“Will you indulge me in another meeting soon? I regret to inform you I can’t stay late after the performance,” he admitted. “I would like to get to know you.”

It was charming the idea he proposed. As if she had any will or way in meeting him. But she was intrigued by him. He was handsome, playful, and new. He was mysterious with how he sat alone in the forbidden, unlucky Box Number 8. She wanted to get to know him… and if he wanted to pay for her time like the other patrons eventually did with their ballerinas, maybe this would be beneficial for the both of them.

She leaned in close like she had seen other ballerinas do with their patrons. Closer than what was appropriate for a lady, but not close enough to have their forms touch. She looked up and smiled, enjoying the way his own ears were beginning to tint a playful red. This was a fun dance between the two of them. She had never enjoyed her suitors so much.

“Yes,” she agreed. “I’d love to talk more, Mr. Jung.”

“Call me Wooyoung.”

#wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #atz x reader #seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez angst #ateez fic #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #written by haley

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blueberrybirdsworld · 1 month ago

Text

Unspoken Attraction Masterlist

My very first Charles Leclerc fanfiction !

Summary :

Y/N, the younger sister of renowned Alpine F1 driver Pierre Gasly, has always kept her distance from the chaotic world of racing. Focused on her studies and determined to make a name for herself, she never imagined being drawn into the adrenaline-fueled universe of motorsport.

That all changes after a celebration for Pierre’s big win, where Y/N crosses paths with Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s rising star and her brother’s best friend. Charles has always seen her as "Pierre’s little sister," but this time, things are different. Sparks fly, boundaries blur, and the pair find themselves navigating a connection that grows stronger with every shared moment.

Chapters :

Chapter 1 : The meeting

Chapter 2 : A familiar stranger

Chapter 3 : Protective instincts

Chapter 4 : Shattered expectations

Chapter 5 : Tension rises

Chapter 6 : The ball in Monaco

Chapter 7 : A brother protection

Chapter 8 : A conversation long overdue

Chapter 9 : The chase for forgiveness

Chapter 10 : Breaking down the walls

Chapter 11 : Crossing Boundaries

Chapter 12 : Push forward

Chapter 13 : The beggining of something real

Chapter 14 : Monaco break

Chapter 15 : The night that was too quiet

Chapter 16 : A morning full of surprises

Chapter 17 : Padel games

Chapter 18 : A night out

Chapter 19 : Hold back

Tell me if you want to be add to the taglist !

Taglist : @linnygirl09, @prttylight, @itsblowssoms, @leila-030304, @sltwins

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc fanfic #formula 1 x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #pierre gasly #kika gomes #cl16 #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #charles leclerc series #charles leclerc smut

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onebadassunicorn · 22 days ago

Text

His Blue-Eyed Angel

pairing: Azriel x Reader

content warnings: war, blood, gore, depression, feelings of hopelessness, serious angst

word count: 4.5k

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Story tags: @bravo-delta-eccho @tele86 @tiredsleepyhead @celestialgilb @theflowerswillbloom @fuckingsimp4azriel @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @salvatoresister1 @imperfect0angel @stvrdustalexx

Image owned by Dream World Dweller.

For more amazing artwork by this artist, join Patreon and become a subscriber to this artist's collections!

********************

Chapter 16

Y/n POV

I lay in the cold dirt, my body trembling as pain rippled through me. The faebane arrows had stolen my magic, and with it, any chance of defending myself. My sword had fallen from my grip, and my wings were broken in places, the feathers bloodied. I could feel the damp earth pressing against my skin, feel the vibration of Hybern soldiers around me, their boots stomping closer, their laughter ringing in my ears.

But it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest. The bond. The faint hum of it still pulsed, fragile and delicate, as though mocking me with its existence.

My mate.

The love of my life.

Azriel.

A tear slipped down my dirt-streaked face as I stared up at the ashen sky. It was funny, I thought bitterly, how life could be so wonderful and yet so cruel in the same breath. How in one moment, I could meet the love of my life, the one the Mother had made just for me, and in the very next, he was ripped away - taken from me before I’d even had the chance to understand what it truly meant.

The thought burned through my mind, sharp and relentless. Why hadn’t I realized it when he looked at me with that quiet intensity, when his voice softened as he called me angel? Why hadn’t I felt it when he trained me, when we visit Velaris together, when we watch the stars at night, when his hands lingered just a second too long on my wrist, or when he spoke to me in that low, gruff tone that made my heart race?

I saw the devastation on his face, the love and regret warring within him. And despite the exhaustion, the blood, and the agony of the moment, my heart swelled with something fierce and unyielding.

I loved him.

More than life, more than anything.

I had loved him long before I understood the bond, and now it burned through me, consuming every part of me.

But there was no time for it.

Not now.

I had been blind to the truth. Or perhaps, I hadn’t wanted to believe it. Not when Azriel was so wrapped up in Elain, so seemingly out of reach.

But he loved me the entire time.

Me.

And now?

Now, I knew. I had felt it when the bond snapped into place—an electric cord that had ignited my very soul. I’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in the way his voice cracked when he said, “I love you.”

I’ll come back for you. I swear it.

I let out a ragged breath, the tears slipping freely now. Wasn’t it cruel? To finally find him—my mate—only to have to let him go and save Elain? To watch him soar away, carrying someone else to safety while I stood my ground, knowing I couldn’t ask him to stay. Knowing that I was doing the right thing.

My hands curled weakly into the dirt, the sting of my injuries barely noticeable compared to the agony in my heart.

Why didn’t I see it sooner?

If I had, would it have changed anything? Would I have told him that I loved him before today? Would I have fought harder for him? For myself?

I closed my eyes for a moment, the bond flickering faintly in my chest, as though it, too, was trying to hold on to life. To him.

I thought of Azriel’s face—how his expression had twisted with desperation when he called angel, how his voice had shattered when he said he loved me. The memory was a lifeline, even now, even as the soldiers swarmed closer, their cruel voices ringing out as they closed the distance.

“I love you,” I had whispered as he flew away, knowing he wouldn’t hear it.

And I’d meant it.

I would love him forever, no matter what came next.

My tears mixed with the blood on my cheeks as I lay there, my breaths shallow, my mind spiraling.

Life was cruel.

It gave me the greatest gift I could ever ask for in one breath and then took it away in the next.

Azriel.

The broody, stubborn Shadowsinger.

The one who could take my breath away with just one glance.

The one whose touch I yearned for.

The one I would put above my own life.

My love.

My mate.

And yet, despite it all, I clung to that single, fragile promise that had been whispered to me before he left.

I’ll come back for you.

My fingers curled tighter into the dirt, slick with my own blood pooling underneath me as darkness crept in around me. I held onto that promise with every shattered piece of myself.

Please come back, Azriel.

******

Azriel POV

Azriel landed hard in the center of the war camp, his wings flaring wide as he touched down, Elain cradled protectively in his arms. Her pale face was streaked with dirt and blood, her body limp, her breathing faint but steady. Azriel’s chest heaved, his shadows writhing violently around him as though echoing the storm inside him.

“Feyre!” His voice rang out, sharp and urgent, cutting through the chaos of the camp.

Feyre appeared almost immediately, her bow still slung across her back, her violet eyes widening as she took in the sight of Elain in Azriel’s arms. “What happened?” she demanded, rushing toward him.

Azriel gently lowered Elain into her waiting arms, his hazel eyes dark, haunted. “Hybern took her,” he said tightly, his voice raw and rough with emotion. “Y/n… Y/n went after her Elain. She kept her safe until I could get there. Feyre—get her to the healers. Now.”

Feyre hesitated for just a moment, her gaze darting between Azriel and Elain, sensing something far worse in his tone. “Azriel—what about Y/n?”

He clenched his jaw, his wings twitching as if ready to launch himself back into the air immediately. “She stayed,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly. “She told me to go—to save Elain.” He shook his head sharply, his fists clenching. “She held Hybern’s soldiers back to I could fly. I had to leave her.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in horror. “What? No—”

“I have to go back,” Azriel said fiercely, his shadows flaring around him like a dark, living force. He turned sharply, already heading toward the command tent where Rhysand and Cassian were likely coordinating.

Azriel stormed into the command tent without waiting to be announced, his wings snapping open as his shadows spun wildly around him. Rhysand looked up from the war map, his violet eyes narrowing instantly at the look on Azriel’s face. Cassian, who had been standing nearby, froze, his brows knitting in immediate concern.

“Azriel?” Rhys demanded sharply, straightening. “What happened?”

Azriel didn’t stop as he closed the distance, his voice low and laced with devastation. “Hybern took Elain. Y/n went after her and kept her safe until I arrived. She sent me back with Elain, holding off the soldiers so I could fly.”

Cassian swore, his expression hardening. “Where’s Y/n now?”

Azriel swallowed thickly, his chest heaving as he struggled to find the words. “I had to leave her,” he choked out, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She told me to go. To save Elain. She stayed behind—she held them off.” He looked away, his jaw tight, his hands trembling faintly as his shadows coiled violently at his feet. “The bond snapped for her.”

The tent went still.

Rhysand’s face paled slightly, his violet eyes widening with shock. “The bond snapped for her? You mean – you already knew she was your mate, and you never told her?”

Azriel nodded, his voice hoarse. “Yes. I never told her.” He paused, the memory of her face burning into his mind—her wide, tear-filled eyes, the confusion, the love. “She looked at me… and she said, ‘You’re my mate.’”

Cassian cursed under his breath, pacing away before turning back, his face grim. “And you left her there?”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Azriel growled, spinning toward him, his voice raw with guilt and anger. “She told me to save Elain. Time was running out. I couldn’t fly without her holding the soldiers—” His voice cracked, and his wings sagged slightly as he whispered, “I told her I loved her. I told her I was coming back for her.”

Rhysand’s face paled, his shoulders tensing as the full weight of the situation settled in. “You’re telling me she could be dead? Or Hybern has her?”

Azriel’s jaw worked as he swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Cassian cursed under his breath, pacing a few steps before turning back sharply. “If they’ve taken her, it’s because they know who she is.”

Rhysand turned his gaze to the far horizon, his power curling around him like a storm held barely in check. “There’s too much at stake. If they know she’s my sister, they’ll…” He didn’t finish the thought.

Azriel’s gaze snapped up, his hazel eyes blazing. “She’s alive. I know she’s alive. I can feel her.” The bond, though faint, pulsed weakly in his chest, a thread he refused to let go of. “But we have to go back—now.”

Cassian looked away, his jaw tight, his face shadowed with grief.

Rhysand exhaled sharply, his jaw tight as his gaze flickered between Azriel and Cassian. “We’ll go,” he said, his voice firm, though there was an edge of unease to it. “We’ll go now.”

Azriel didn’t hesitate, turning on his heel and striding out of the tent, his wings flaring as he prepared to take off.

Rhysand followed closely behind, his voice carrying low and steady as he called out, “Cassian—rally who you can. We need to move fast.”

Cassian nodded and disappeared into the camp, barking orders as he went.

Azriel paused only long enough to glance skyward, his shadows twisting restlessly around him.

Hold on, Angel, he thought fiercely.

I’m coming back for you.

The bond pulsed faintly—so faintly he could barely feel it. But it was there. It was still there. He tugged it with everything he had so she would feel him. To know she was not alone.

And as he launched into the air with Rhysand and Cassian beside him, the only thing that filled his mind was her face—her voice—her tears as she had looked at him and whispered, You’re my mate.

He would find her.

Or he would burn the entire world to the ground trying.

******

Azriel POV

The clearing was suffocating in its silence, the chaos of battle now replaced by an eerie stillness.

The remnants of battle told a grim story: blood pooled in the center of the clearing, dark and viscous, staining the earth in a sickeningly large patch.

Scattered feathers, black and tattered, lay around the pool, some clumped together, others streaked with red.

Azriel’s breath caught in his throat, as his hazel eyes locked on the feathers. His shadows lashed out in panic, coiling around his feet as he staggered forward, his boots splashing in the blood.

His hazel eyes locked on the blood pooled in the center of the clearing. It was everywhere - dark and congealed, soaking the earth in a way that made it impossible to imagine anyone surviving such a loss.

And then Azriel saw it.

The sword.

Her sword.

It lay abandoned in the dirt, the blade stained red. The earth surrounding it was soaked with blood—so much blood—dark and drying in the ash.

Azriel’s breath caught painfully in his chest. His legs faltered, and he dropped to his knees beside the sword. His trembling fingers brushed over the hilt, his shadows curling protectively around it, as if it could somehow shield him from the truth.

Cassian landed heavily beside him, his breath coming in sharp bursts as his gaze swept over the devastation. He cursed softly under his breath, his hazel eyes wide and horrified. “Az…”

Rhysand descended more quietly, his violet eyes dark and calculating as he took in the scene. His posture was tense, his jaw tight, the telltale signs of his control slipping.

Azriel’s hands trembled as he held the hilt of her sword in his hand, his shadows curling and snapping with restless fury. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, the bond between him and Y/n faint and fragile.

It pulsed weakly, like a flicker of light on the verge of going out, and it was tearing him apart.

Rhysand stepped forward, crouching near the blood. He dipped his fingers into it, testing its warmth, before rising to his full height. His face was grim as he looked at the pool, then at Azriel. “She’s lost too much blood,” he said quietly. “I don’t see how anyone could survive this.”

Azriel staggered, the words slamming into him like a physical blow. “No,” he said, his voice trembling. “No, she’s alive. She has to be.”

Cassian frowned, his brows drawing together as he looked between Azriel and Rhysand. “What happened, Az?” he asked, his voice steady but low. “What did you see when you left her?”

Azriel exhaled shakily. “She was fighting them—Hybern’s soldiers,” he said, his voice raw. “There were so many of them. She told me to save Elain, knowing I would not be fly if she didn’t hold them back. So, I did. I picked her up and flew. But before I left…” His voice faltered, his throat tightening as the memory clawed its way to the surface.

“Before you left?” Rhysand pressed, his violet eyes burning with intensity.

Azriel’s breathing was shallow, his chest heaving with the weight of his guilt. “

Cassian stepped closer, his broad frame tense as he placed a hand on Azriel’s shoulder. “Az, look at me,” he said firmly. “What happened before you flew away?”

Azriel shook his head, his shadows coiling around him in agitation. “I looked back,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “I saw them—ten, maybe more—surrounding her. She was fighting them off, but they overwhelmed her. I saw her fall. I saw them drag her to the ground.”

"And I left her," Azriel said, his voice rising with anguish. "I left her there. She told me to save Elain, but I shouldn't have—I should have stayed." He dropped the hilt of her sword, his hands clutching the blood-streaked earth as his body trembled. "I left her when she finally knew, when she finally... loved me back. And now she's-" His voice broke, and he lowered his head, unable to say the words.

Cassian’s hand tightened on Azriel’s shoulder, his hazel eyes darkening. “And the bond?” he asked carefully.

“It’s faint,” Azriel rasped, his voice breaking. “So faint I can barely feel her. She’s dying, Cassian. And I left her. I—” His words dissolved into a broken sob, his hands clutching the blood-streaked earth, grabbing her bloodied feathers in his hands.

Rhysand crouched beside him, his expression cold but not unkind. “We’ll find her,” he said firmly, his voice like steel. “Do you hear me, Azriel? We’re not giving up on her.”

Azriel lifted his head, his hazel eyes swimming with tears as he looked at Rhysand. “But what if we’re too late?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “What if—”

“Then we make sure they regret ever laying a hand on her,” Rhysand said, his voice dark with promise. “But we don’t give up. Not until we know.”

Cassian straightened, his wings flaring as he glanced at Rhysand. “Then we move quickly,” he said. “But not without a solid plan first.”

Rhysand nodded, his violet eyes blazing as he rose to his full height. “Agreed.”

Azriel forced himself to stand, his legs shaking as he clung to the faint, fragile hum of the bond. The image of her wide, panicked eyes, the way she had whispered “You’re my mate” as the bond snapped. It haunted him, driving him forward even as despair threatened to crush him.

******

Azriel POV

The camp was thick with tension as Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel landed, their wings heavy and their faces etched with grim defeat. Night had fallen, the glow of distant fires casting faint shadows across the ground. Soldiers and members of the Inner Circle glanced their way as they landed, their expectant gazes quickly shifting to concern when they noticed the absence of Y/n.

Tarquin was waiting for them, but his usually composed and regal demeanor was shattered. He stood bloodied, his clothes torn and his face bruised, the aftermath of the battles he had fought to reach the camp. Despite his injuries, his sea-blue eyes blazed with fury and anguish as he stepped forward, his gaze quickly scanning the group.

“Where is my little sister?” Tarquin demanded, his voice raw and cutting through the tense air.

Rhysand stepped forward, his wings folding tightly against his back as he met Tarquin’s enraged gaze. “We couldn’t get to her in time,” he said, his voice low and grim. “Hybern’s forces had already moved out by the time we got back...they took her.”

Tarquin’s expression froze, his bloody face paling for a moment before twisting with rage and grief. He stepped towards Rhysand, his voice rising in a harsh, accusing shout. “You left her? You left her behind?”

“Tarquin—” Rhysand began, his tone steady but tense, but Tarquin cut him off.

“I trusted you!” Tarquin roared, his voice cracking with the force of his fury. “I trusted you to take care of her, Rhysand! And you—”

He turned, his furious gaze landing on Azriel, who stood as still as stone, his face pale and his hazel eyes hollow. “You were supposed to protect her. Where were you when she needed you?”

Azriel didn’t respond, his jaw tightening as his shadows swirled erratically around him, unable to contain the storm inside him. His hands trembled at his sides, clenched into fists, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet Tarquin’s furious gaze.

Tarquin’s voice broke with emotion as he turned back to Rhysand. “Do you know what they’ll do to her? Do you know what they’ll do to our little sister?”

Rhysand’s violet eyes burned as he met Tarquin’s gaze. “We will get her back,” he said firmly, his voice a low promise. “She’s not gone yet.”

“Not gone yet?” Tarquin repeated bitterly, his chest heaving with anger. “Do you understand what Hybern’s army does to their captives? She’s your little sister, Rhysand. She’s my baby sister. And now they have her. She is an Illyrian female AND The sister of two high lords. Do you know what they’ll do to her because of what she is? Because of who she is?”

“I understand the stakes. I understand what’s at risk. And I won’t stop until she’s back.” Rhysand said sharply, his wings flaring slightly as his tone cut through Tarquin’s tirade.

Tarquin’s gaze burned as he stared at Rhysand, his bloody hands trembling as he balled them into fists. After a long moment, he shook his head, his voice dropping into something colder, more threatening. “You’d better find her,” he said, his tone hard and brittle. “Because if you don’t, Rhysand, I won’t stop until I’ve made Hybern, his entire army—and you—pay for her life.”

Rhysand didn’t respond, his gaze unflinching. But for Azriel, Tarquin’s words carved deep into him. He wanted to say something, anything, but the guilt was suffocating. He remained silent, his shadows coiling tighter around him.

He turned and walked away, his shoulders trembling as he sought solitude. Once he was far enough from camp, his knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, his shadows wrapping around him like a shroud. In his shaking hands, he clutched a bloodied black feather, one torn from her wings during the fight. The blood stained his fingers as tears spilled down his face, his shoulders shaking violently.

His mate.

Taken from him.

The one he loved more than anything.

For him, the realization of love came in fits and starts—quiet, elusive moments that lodged in Azriel’s mind long before he acknowledged them for what they truly were.

He remembered the first inkling as a subtle warmth when he caught her in an unguarded moment: Y/n kneeling beside a little boy on the beach in Summer Court. The love in her eyes as she crafted sea creatures from the water, and the little boy squealing and clapping with pure joy. The sunlight wove through her hair, the light shining behind her making her appear ethereal. He’d chalked it up to admiration of her gentleness and beauty at the time, something distant and impersonal.

Then there was the touring of Velaris, not long after her arrival, talking of her mother and her past. The moment she let her guard down and let him in. Let him see the broken parts of her.

There was the first time he sparred with her, and she took down him down easily, pinning him to the ground, teasing him for being distracted. And the stroll down the riverbank, sharing secrets of her training. The sun’s rays had caught glints of blue in the color of her wings and hair, her eyes dancing with mischief as she told him how she could read his movements before he made them. Azriel had stood beside her, impressed by her knowledge and her fire. She’d turned her head, eyes like the deep ocean, and smiled.

Just that: a small, unburdened smile.

It had felt as if the stars in the heavens overhead had shifted, somehow reorienting the world around that single gesture. He had dismissed the flush of warmth in his veins as simple admiration for her beauty—nothing more.

But those fleeting moments added up. They came to him in the long stretches of silence, drifting through his mind unbidden. The sound of her laugh, low and throaty, as she teased Cassian over some ridiculous jest. The fierce tilt of her chin when she stood her ground against Nesta in an impromptu sparring session—neither truly trying to win, each testing boundaries and learning trust. The gentle way she’d spoken to him late one night in the library, handing him a cup of tea with a quiet question in her eyes, as if ensuring he was well, that he was seen, that he was cared for.

He’d tried to ignore these small, vital signs. He had been fond of others before, after all. He told himself they were just impressions of a new friend, a trusted ally, someone who brought out the best parts of him—the parts he hardly dared believe still existed.

He had resisted the word love, afraid that it would transform all those gentle, stolen moments into something fraught, something demanding.

He was Azriel, the Spymaster.

He did not yearn, did not cling, did not bare his heart to another without fear of losing something vital.

Until today.

The day he lost her.

When he left her behind in Hybern’s clutches to rescue Elain, the magnitude of his feelings slammed into him. The guilt and regret he felt were not simply about failing at a mission or disappointing Rhysand. They cut deeper. They ripped something essential out of his chest, leaving an aching cavity where her presence had always flickered like a secret lantern in the dark.

Grief.

Heartbreak.

He missed her smile, the curve of her wings, the music of her laughter. He yearned for her safety as fiercely as he had ever longed for peace in the shadows of his own soul.

That was the truth he could no longer run from: it wasn’t just fate that tied them together, not merely the Cauldron’s decree that she was his mate.

It was the way her laughter drew him closer like gravity. It was the calm he found in her presence, the sense of being understood, forgiven, and cared for in ways no one else had managed. It was the staggering depth of rage and sorrow he felt now that she was gone, something that demanded he move the earth and sky to bring her back.

He loved her.

The realization settled into him as he watched her hold back soldiers to save him. Save Elain. It didn’t come as a sudden epiphany, but as the final, inevitable truth of all those gentle moments he had collected in his mind. A truth that he spoke as he rescued Elain and vowed to come back for her.

A truth that made him vow, with trembling conviction, that he would do anything—brave any danger, defy any order—to see her safe again. He would tear through every barrier between them to keep her at his side, to show her the tenderness he’d too long withheld, and to spend whatever years fate allowed them proving that he was worthy of the faith she had silently placed in him.

In loving her, he rediscovered some long-lost piece of himself, something he never dared to hope he could have. He realized his love for her had always been there, shimmering in the quiet, stolen glances and soft exchanges. He had simply never dared to name it.

Now, with her absence like a wound, he understood he would never be whole without her by his side.

His shadows curled closer now, as if sensing his torment and trying to comfort him. He would have snarled at them if he had the energy. There was no comfort to be found. He should have done more—been faster, cleverer. He should have risked himself further. If he had reached Y/n first, if he had stood guard over her while fending off those warriors, perhaps he could have coaxed Elain to run, to follow him. Perhaps he would have brought them both out safely.

What good was he if he could not save the one the Mother had chosen for him?

He remembered how he’d vowed silently after he had hurt her by pushing her away, again and again, that if she ever needed him, he would not hesitate.

And yet he had.

He had left her.

Now she was at Hybern’s mercy. Pain spiked like a blade in his chest at the thought of what they might do to her. He closed his eyes, jaw clenched tight, regret souring his mouth.

Azriel swallowed back a bitter taste, resolving that whatever price he had to pay, he would pay it. Whatever danger he had to face, he would face it. He would find her, bring her home, and beg forgiveness that he did not deserve. There would be no rest, no peace in him until he looked into her eyes again and saw understanding and absolution.

For now, there was only silence and guilt, thick as a blade pressed to his throat. He would carry this remorse like a burden, driving him forward into the next dawn, the next battlefield. Until he redeemed himself—or died trying.

Chapter 17

#azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel spymaster #azriel x reader #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #acotar #azriel #acotar fanfiction

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aethon-recs · 5 months ago

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This Week in Tomarrymort (7 – 15 August 2024)

Testing out a new format for recs! Trying this out as I don’t always have time to put together detailed themed rec lists, and there’s always SO MUCH good fic getting published every day on AO3. So these are all either ongoing Tomarrymort fics that I’m subscribed to or new one shots that I found while browsing that were updated in the last week.

My goal is to compile these lists on Fridays, so that everyone has lots of juicy fic to read going into the weekend 🤍 I find myself missing updates all the time, so I hope this will be a helpful compilation of updates of must-read ongoing fic that you may have missed! Happy reading.

Also, I didn't even realize so much Tomarrymort fic gets updated every week until I sat down and started doing this. Like, this is why I don't have a life, because I spend all my time reading AO3 (and I'm sure many of you feel the same way 😅) The incredible range of talent and insane output in this ship is absolutely awe-inspiring and breathtaking.

Tomarrymort One Shots and Completed Fics

One Shot | Heartbeats by @cyandenial

One Shot | yours forever, harry by i_am_a_tree

One Shot | Quid Pro Quo by anonymous

One Shot | Expelliarmus Red by @poljupci

One Shot | Black Fire by sparrowshellcat

One Shot | Let's never wake up (Stay With Me) by @blackseatwenty

One Shot | And all the devils are here by @i-dream-of-libraries

Chapter 9 (complete) of Fourth: The Ritual's Consequence by @ramabear

Chapter 2 (complete) of Tom Riddle's DIY Disaster by @sri-verse

Chapter 9 (complete) of Still Into You by @moontearpensfic

Tomarrymort Ongoing Fics

Chapter 7 and 8 of Sits the wind in that quarter by @mosiva

Chapter 5 of Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse

Chapter 23 of would that i'd loved (long ago) by @sprst1tion

Chapter 21 of Paved With the Best Intentions by @perhaps-sunlight

Chapter 17 of A Simple Request by @shyinsunlight

Chapter 2 of Cane Sugar by @blogalinda @cindle-writes @reggieblk @telectronique

Chapter 9 of Catching up by lemonchase

Chapter 9 of Shattered by Flipdarkchill

Chapters 1 and 2 of Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear

Chapter 3 of Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic

Chapter 9 of a touch of fate by @virgil-anon

Chapter 1 of Atonement [Tomarry Edition] by @just-a-whorecrux

Chapter 3 of the scar remains by @noctelier

Chapters 5 and 6 of we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands by @boyneptunee

Chapter 14 of When time and reasons fail by citrumade

Chapter 7 of Every Trick in the Book by tomrddle

Chapter 17 of Occultation by TimaeusKosmou

Chapter 2 of the vault by @milkandmoon-ao3

Chapter 16 of Pledged by @moontearpensfic

Chapter 7 of A Snake in the Grass by @teaandsweaters9

Chapter 11 of Outrunning the Villain in You by @zenyteehee

Chapter 3 of Moon Rite by @isalisewrites

Chapter 2 of These Fragments We've Shored by @rowena-rain

Chapter 110 of Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis

Chapter 36 of Revolution of Configured Stars by @tollingreminiscentbells

Chapter 28 of Part One - The Solitude of Suffering by @iseliljathedreamer

Chapters 11 and 12 of Learning to love by @l-archiduchesse

Chapter 9 of sandpaper kisses, paper cut bliss by @xodahafez

Chapter 5 of Do It Over by @thefangirlibrarian

Chapter 1 of Dark Water by Dariahn

Chapter 17 of What In Me Is Dark, Illumine by @telelli-writes

#tomarry #tomarrymort #harrymort #tomarrymort recs #aethon recs #tomarry recs #ao3 recs #fanfic recs #hp fic recs #harrymort recs #tomarry weekly #this week in tomarrymort

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discoscoob · 2 months ago

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⋆⭒˚.⋆ PHANTOM

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚ Tom Ludlow x Hacker!Reader x Neo Anderson

VOLUME 002

CW: fem!reader x mystery keanuverse character

Synopsis: You reconnect with an old college flame amidst the chaos of the cyberattack and navigate a web of suspicion and danger while trying to hide your involvement. 3.6k words.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

CHICAGO CITY POLICE STATION, 8:56 A.M.

“So, what’s a guy gotta do to get a bit of cooperation ‘round here?”

The familiar voice ripples through the air with a wave of nostalgia but is quickly swallowed by the rising tide of chaos. A torrent of voices swell and crash, merging with the static-laden chatter of the police radios into an unintelligible roar; only the occasional shout manages to surface before being swept away by the hectic current. The shrill cry of an unanswered phone cuts through, sharp and relentless, echoing like a buoy’s bell lost in a storm. Beneath the harsh fluorescent glare, officers wade through a sea of desks drowning under piles of manila files, while the faint smell of burnt coffee lingers in the air.

Special Agent Utah rests casually against your desk, transporting you back to your college days, when he was Johnny, the star quarterback at Ohio State and you were the awkward computer nerd that somehow got pulled into his orbit. Even amidst the whirlwind of chaos surrounding you, it’s impossible to resist gazing at the outline of his body and admiring how snuggly his fitted trousers hug his firm rear. Back then, your cheeks would’ve turned a blazing shade of red if he caught you staring, now the flash of his lopsided grin only encourages you.

“I thought you were avoiding me.” you disguise genuine doubt with a playful lilt. You had wondered if he even remembered you when he stepped into the department this morning. That scorching summer of your final term was etched into your memory, while for him, it might be a chapter he looks back on with reluctance.

Your paths should have never crossed. You were a solitary creature, usually found nestled behind a flickering screen in the campus library, while Johnny was out on the field making touchdowns, racing towards a promising future lit by stadium lights and roaring crowds. But then it all came crashing down on a buckled knee that shattered his aspirations. The future he had mapped out was ripped to shreds, and suddenly, he was stranded. All he knew was that he had to get good grades if he wanted to get anywhere. He needed a tutor and that’s where you came in.

What started out as awkward tutoring sessions gradually blossomed into something else, filled with stolen glances over textbooks and late-night talks that had nothing to do with what was on the syllabus. The memory of him leaning against your dorm room door frame, flashing that lopsided grin, flickers in the back of your mind like an old film reel. At the time, Johnny was nursing a broken heart too — his high school sweetheart had lost interest the moment his future in football vanished. But when he was with you, the weight of his frustrations seemed to melt away, and before long he started stopping by your dorm for reasons that had nothing to do with his grades.

By the time the leaves started to fall and a mellow breeze swept away the heat of summer, you parted ways without any hard feelings, knowing life was pulling you in different directions. Johnny set his sights on Quantico, chasing new dreams with the FBI Academy, while you were bound for Chicago. You shared a fleeting summer romance and left with the lingering memories that you keep tucked away like an old photograph.

“Avoiding you? Come on, Y/N, you know I always save the best for last.” that cocky smirk you remember all too well plays on his lips, as charming as ever, blasting away any lingering doubts. Even now your traitorous heart falls victim and thumps wildly in your chest at the sight.

“I’m last? Already?” you glance at your watch, genuinely surprised he managed to work his way through the whole department in just a couple hours.

“Yeah, they’re not a very talkative bunch.” Johnny’s frustration over the department's lack of cooperation sours his smirk into an irritated frown.

“You’d think they have something to hide.” you answer in a conspiratorial tone, referring to the cold shoulder he’s been getting all morning.

“Do they?” he asks, like any investigator instinctively would. His voice is warm with curiosity as he casually leans closer, folding his toned arms across his chest, his rolled shirt sleeves reveal sun-kissed forearms — evidence of his time spent under the Californian sun. So distractingly gorgeous, the sight stirs memories of his touch, warm and tender, on those hot summer nights. It’s almost dangerous. You hate to admit it, but you practically have to gulp back the urge to reveal all your secrets at once.

“That’s your job to find out, Agent Utah.” you tease, as tight-lipped as the rest of the department.

When the playful warmth fades from Johnny’s rousing gaze, clouding with the chill of something bitter, you assume you have disappointed him with your lack of cooperation — until you realise he is looking over your shoulder.

Following his gaze, you glance behind you. Detective Ludlow stands rigid, glaring as he watches Johnny casually lounge against your desk like he owns the place, talking to you with the familiarity of someone stopping by for a social call. The click of a stapler somewhere nearby punctuates the sudden heaviness in the air, and you can almost feel the tension sharpening around the three of you.

“Ludlow… right?” Johnny controls his features, offering Tom a curt nod as he pushes himself off your desk and slips his hands into his pockets. “I’m Special Agent Utah—”

“So the Bureau sent over a rookie to meddle in my investigation.” Tom’s sharp tone cuts through the hectic bustle of the station, scrutinising Johnny’s youthful appearance with a critical glare.

“I’m just here to help, Detective. Without cooperation you’re only going to make both our jobs a lot harder.” Johnny diplomatically responds over the steady hum of voices.

“You might need my help but I sure as hell don’t need yours. I’ve got this under control.”

“Really?” Johnny cocks his head, his tone laced with condescension. “‘Cause from where I’m standing it sure doesn’t seem like it.”

“I don’t need some fresh-faced Fed, who thinks he’s some big hotshot, telling me how to do my job. I was taking down bad guys when you were still wetting the bed.” Tom steps towards Johnny, his tone sharp with a rumbling edge. You blink, observing the hostile exchange from your desk chair, wondering if you should intervene.

“Yeah, I bet you were taking down bad guys left and right back in the day, old timer,” Johnny barely flinches when Tom looms closer, “but that was a long time ago and from the stench, it seems like the only thing you’re taking down these days is shots.”

Tom swallows thickly, struggling to bounce back from the impact of the brutal truth in Johnny’s stern words. Reluctantly, he retreats, his gaze flickers briefly in your direction, you catch a fleeting glimpse of the sorrow and torment whirling behind his hollow stare before it falls shamefully to the floor.

That brief glimpse triggers a pang in your chest you weren’t prepared for. Truth be told, Tom Ludlow intrigues you. You’ve heard whispers around the precinct about his past, how his wife died three years ago — before you ever set foot in the department. You never knew the man he was before everything fell apart. Sometimes, you try to imagine a man who’s not weighed down so heavily by his grief, not so hardened and bitter, not ensnared by his demons. You often wonder if that man still exists, buried somewhere deep inside him beneath the sorrow and torment, waiting for someone to pull him back to the surface.

When you first joined the department, a couple years ago, your role as a digital forensic analyst was still a relatively new one within law enforcement. You were stepping into a world where solving cases meant hitting the pavement, heading out into the streets to fight crime with badges and guns. To most officers, fighting crime from behind a computer screen was seen as a novelty, and Tom Ludlow was no exception. He didn’t exactly hide his skepticism; he would barely glance your way during briefings, convinced that your role couldn’t be considered real police work.

Despite the department's reluctance to accept you as an integral part of their team, you persevered. There were cases where your findings on a hard drive or some obscure email chain provided the breakthrough that all their street-level work couldn’t, and slowly, things started to shift. You remember a moment when Tom nodded at you, it was the closest thing to praise he had ever given you. Since then, he has been different. Dare you say he respects you now? But you knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of his cynicism.

“Ludlow! My office!” a sharp bark carries over the commotion, cutting through the tension and pulling your focus back into the moment. Everyone’s attention snaps towards the Captain, who’s standing halfway out his office. “Now!”

“Run along. Best not keep your Captain waiting.” Johnny’s brows quirk teasingly, his lips twitching with the barely concealed urge to quirk in amusement.

Tom’s jaw tightens and he shoots Johnny a snarling glare before shoving past him, his footsteps heavy as he trudges towards the Captain’s office.

You watch Tom go with an uneasy feeling burrowing deeper in your chest. He intrigues you, sure, but you’re still not certain if you can trust him.

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

The L barrels along on the elevated tracks overhead, clattering like thunder as you weave through the swarm of pedestrians. Your boots click over the uneven pavement, splashing through shallow puddles lingering from yesterday’s storm. Even the congested streets of the city offer an appreciated reprieve from the suffocating environment of the hectic department.

The low autumn sun peaks between the high buildings, casting long shadows over the city — a welcome contrast to the harsh fluorescent lights, and you’d gladly accept the distant wail of sirens and honking horns over the incessant blare of the unanswered phones any day. But as much as you crave to free yourself from the burden that weighs you down, you know that no matter how far you walk, it will always follow.

Some would call it paranoia, but after the stunt you pulled you’d say your hyper-awareness is justified, albeit draining. You’re constantly on edge with a gnawing sensation that clings to your spine and never. lets. go. It’s exhausting, but you can’t sleep either. Every time a stranger glances in your direction, it feels like a threat. Eyes watching. Ears listening. Footsteps too close behind. You know you’re being wary, but it’s hard to ignore the feeling there’s a target on your back.

Of course, you knew the risks involved with such drastic measures, but you could think of no other alternative. You had to be cunning. You couldn’t just stand by, not with what you knew. Maybe if you’d given yourself more time, you could have come up with a different plan. But in that moment of distress, the cyberattack had seemed like the only way. A wildfire that would capture everyone’s attention, putting all eyes on the department. Everyone knows it’s harder to hide secrets when you’re the centre of attention.

With your knowledge and position in the department, covering your tracks was the easy part. But it doesn’t shake the feeling that someone will eventually catch up to you.

At least Johnny’s arrival brought you a semblance of relief, you had no idea that he would be the FBI agent assigned to the investigation, but it feels like a sign that you’re on the right path. Knowing there’s someone in the city you can trust, who might understand, gives you a flicker of comfort in the midst of all the chaos. But that comfort comes with a price. The last thing you want to do is make him a potential target too, the mere thought sends your gut sinking like a rock. So as much as you might want to, you can’t confide in him, to unburden some of the weight you carry. You can’t. The less he knows, the safer he’ll be — whether he likes it or not.

Above the low hum of the city, a voice calling your name pulls you from your spiraling thoughts and you spot Tom weaving through the crowd to catch up with you. What does he want? When your heavy sigh meets the brisk autumn air, a cloud fogs from your lips before the long-serving detective reaches your side.

“I’m on my lunch break, Tom.” you don’t even try to hide your irritation. There’s only a limited window of time for your lunch break and you’re someone who appreciates a healthy work-life balance.

“I know,” he replies, undeterred. “I just want to talk.” he falls into step beside you, walking over the collage of red, orange and yellow leaves that clump together on the damp pavement.

You glance at him, surprised by his persistence. He just wants to talk? Since when did Tom Ludlow speak to you outside of work? Sure, you may have earned his respect but as far as you were aware, your relationship didn’t extend much beyond solving cases and the occasional exchange of work-related pleasantries.

“Is it urgent? Can’t it wait ‘til I get back to the station?”

“I wanted to speak to you alone.”

“Why?”

“You and Utah looked pretty cozy earlier.”

That stops you in your tracks. Out of all the things Tom could have chased you across the city to talk about, this was the last thing you expected.

“What?” There’s a deep crease between your brows when you stare at him in disbelief. Rushed pedestrians brush past, muttering curses under their breath at you both for blocking their path.

“It seemed like you were hitting it off.” he avoids your gaze as he says this, like he’s trying to act nonchalant.

“Hitting it off?” you repeat the words slowly, like you’re trying to figure out what language he’s speaking. “He was asking me about the investigation.”

Of course, you aren’t going to mention your history with Johnny to Tom — there’s no reason for him to know about that. What happened between you and Johnny belongs in the past and it’s private. Besides, bringing it up now would only complicate things, and you’ve always been careful not to blur the lines between your personal and professional lives. This situation is already tangled enough.

“What did you tell him?”

You can tell Tom is trying to play it casual, to seem aloof. But there’s nothing casual or aloof about chasing you halfway across the city just to find out what you said to an FBI agent. He hides it well, but there’s an undercurrent of anxiety in his question, a tension that betrays his concern over what you and Johnny might’ve discussed.

“Why? Are you worried?” you ask, letting a faint chuckle escape your lips, breathy and light as if to disguise the weight of the question. If Tom is trying to mask his anxiety, you’re going to disguise your suspicion with humour. By the time the words are out, you’re already resuming your stride, mindful of the ticking clock. You’ve barely twenty minutes left to grab your lunch.

“You should be careful about what you say to him.” Tom answers after a pause, his voice hushed. It’s hard to decipher if this is a genuine warning bred from concern or a thinly veiled threat.

“What could I possibly say to him that’s got you so rattled you felt it necessary to chase me down through half the city… during my lunch break?”

the last part is punctuated with a grunt.

“I’m not rattled.” Tom snaps, but his tone betrays him. His brows furrowed, his jaw clenched tight. “You don’t know how much the Feds complicate things. We don’t need them sniffing around.”

“It wasn’t so long ago you would’ve said something similar about me.” you snort, reminding him of his reluctance to accept you when you first joined the department.

That hits the mark. A flicker of guilt passes behind his mahogany eyes, his gaze drops to the pavement. Neither of you have ever discussed the way he treated you since both of you were happy to sweep it under the rug and move on. Before he can find the power to muster a response, you brush past him and slip into the coffee shop on the corner.

You stride into the familiar comfort, the tension eases from your shoulders as the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries wafts welcomingly through the air, tempting you to treat yourself.

The chime of the door rings again as Tom steps in behind you, the cold air from outside drifts inside with him as his voice cuts above the comfortable ambiance. You tilt your head slightly, just enough to catch him in your peripheral vision as he lingers a step behind.

“I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did when you first joined the department. I was an asshole. But after a couple decades on the force, you become set in your ways. It’s hard to adapt.” his words are unexpected as they reach your ears, spoken in a rough tone, as if he’s torn between letting them go and holding them back. “And I can be a stubborn bastard. I gave you a hard time and you didn’t deserve it but I figured if I pushed you enough, you’d leave.” his gaze drifts to the floor, like he’s looking for the right words in the cracks between the floorboards. “It felt like everything I knew was getting pushed aside. So, yeah, I wanted you to leave. Because if you stayed, it meant I had to face the fact that things weren’t gonna be the same anymore. And I wasn’t ready for that.”

For a moment, everything fades away and it’s just the two of you. His apology lingers between you and the silence stretches as you let his words sink in. Many responses roll through your mind, but you don’t utter any of them, instead you say, “you know, if I left, they would’ve just replaced me with another digital forensic analyst.” a faint smirk tugs on the corner of your lips.

Your response draws a huff of laughter from Tom, a brief, relieved sound that seems to ease the tension in his shoulders. He almost looks grateful, like he appreciates that you didn’t dwell too much on the sentiment behind his apology and let the moment pass without making it something heavy.

“For what it’s worth… I’m glad you stayed.” the sincerity in his words catch you off guard, you can tell it’s not an easy admission for him, he’s not used to sharing sentiments. You suppose he has been pretty closed off emotionally ever since his wife passed, but for a brief moment, you feel like you’re getting a glimpse of the man he used to be, before the walls went up.

“Well, you know, I’m pretty stubborn too.” you fold your arms across your chest, proudly displaying the smirk on your lips with a raised chin.

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Tom lets out a faint chuckle, shaking his head.

For the first time since you’ve known him, a real smile breaks through the usual hard lines of his face. It’s subtle, but genuine, softening the hardness in his features. His eyes, usually shadowed with a weariness you’ve grown accustomed to, seem lighter — like the clouds parting for just a moment.

The sight captivates you, like a rare total eclipse. The hardened detective having such a bright and boyish smile surprises you, catching you off guard. You realise you like his smile and mourn the fact that it’s such a rare sight.

You approach the counter in tandem with Tom, after you place your order for takeout, he takes it upon himself to pay, handing a ten dollar bill to the barista before you even have the chance to grab your own wallet.

“It’s the least I can do after gatecrashing your lunch break.” Tom shrugs, cutting through any protest you were about to make.

You’re unsure how to navigate this new dynamic that seems to have blossomed between the pair of you, over the span of a single lunch break. As Tom waits with you for your order, the silence stretches — not awkward, but untravelled. Your gaze drifts, searching for something to fill the silence, when you catch sight of a man sitting at your favourite table.

He’s staring. The moment your eyes lock, he swiftly averts his gaze, pretending to focus on something just past you. But it’s too late. The brief moment of connection hits you like a jolt. Those dark eyes weren’t just looking, they were assessing, lingering far too long to be random curiosity. The intensity of his gaze lingers, prickling along your skin and leaving you feeling unsettled with an icy weight in your chest. The unease that creeps over you, crawling down your spine warns you — something isn’t right. His deep irises pierce through your layers, it’s as if he knows more than he should, noticing something you have concealed from everyone else.

You glance away, trying to ignore the growing unease, but it stays with you, crawling under your skin. Is this paranoia again? Or is he a genuine threat? You instinctively lean closer to Tom, your voice barely above a whisper as you murmur, “that guy is staring.”

Tom, immediately on edge, follows your gaze towards the younger man tucked away by the nook. The tension around you thickens. Strangely, he almost looks relieved when his eyes land on the mysterious stranger. You catch an unmistakable flicker of recognition flash across his features, stirring your suspicions.

“You know him?”

˙ ✩°˖📀⋆｡˚

⋆｡°✩ Note: thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! Full disclosure, I have no idea when the final parts will be posted, I am not satisfied with what I have written so far for the next part and I am going on holiday on Monday so I won’t be writing for about a week. I’m hoping that the break will help and I’ll come back to it refreshed and with a new perspective!

#keanu reeves #neo anderson #tom ludlow #the matrix #neo the matrix #street kings #neo x reader #neo anderson x reader #tom ludlow x reader #my fics #my fic #keanu reeves fanfic #johnny utah #johnny utah x reader #point break

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blueishspace · 5 months ago

Text

(Slay the Watcher route 4 p23)

The Narrator: You place your hand atop the window and then... it shatters.

Mumbo: Uh!?!

Scar: M-Mumbo?

The Narrator: As the pieces of glass shoot off and dig into your skin... everything goes dark and you die.

Voice of The Star: ...Huh...

Chapter 4

[Mumbo fell out of the world]