#shattered star chapter 8 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mahalachives · 29 days ago

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Part 8: The Soul That Fled

🕊️TW: This chapter contains graphic depictions of Non-consensual sexual violence involving multiple perpetrators, assault, forced magical suppression, torture, and psychological trauma.

It also explores the emotional aftermath of these events from both the survivor's and the witness's perspectives, including dissociation, soul trauma, and survivor's guilt.

This content is extremely intense and disturbing, even in fictional context.

If these subjects are harmful or triggering for you, please skip this chapter or engage with caution.

Your well-being matters. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The poison sang through Azriel's veins.

He had known many darknesses in his long life. The pitch of dungeons where he'd spent his childhood. The velvet of night skies above battlefields. The quiet absence in the spaces between stars that he sometimes thought might be the truest reflection of his own soul.

This was different. This darkness had teeth.

He fought it with the stubbornness that had kept him alive for centuries, each heartbeat a rebellion against surrender. Five hundred years of discipline demanded resistance, even as the toxin wound its way through carefully constructed defenses, dismantling the magic that made him immortal, that made him himself.

As his consciousness began to fray at the edges, Azriel became aware of your hands moving over his wound. Gentle, despite everything. Purposeful, despite what he deserved. He had carved rejection between you with the precision of Truth-Teller, and still, you chose to heal rather than harm.

Why? he wanted to ask, but his voice belonged to the poison now.

His body grew heavy, anchored to the realm by pain alone, while something deeper, something golden and ancient, pulled him elsewhere.

The bond that he had feared, that he had rejected, now wrapped around his failing consciousness like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

How strange, he thought distantly, that the very thing he'd run from would be his salvation. How fitting, perhaps, that it would lead him not toward light but into another kind of darkness altogether.

Into memory that was not his own.

Into yours.

Time fractured as he slipped between the layers of your shared existence. The shadowsinger who had cataloged centuries of suffering, who had measured pain in careful increments, who had learned to read agony in the minute expressions of his victims... that shadowsinger found himself suddenly, terribly unprepared.

For shadows recognized shadows.

And yours were vast beyond measuring.

He had wandered the darkest corners of Prythian's history. Had memorized the architecture of cruelty across High Fae courts. Had both witnessed and delivered precise suffering when Rhysand's plans required it. Had stared unflinching into abysses that would have shattered lesser beings.

None of it, not one moment in five centuries of darkness, had prepared him for this descent into the quiet catastrophe of your past.

A flash of light—soul-light, memory-light—pierced the veil between worlds.

Azriel drifted through time like smoke through shattered glass.

His shadows, those faithful companions of five centuries, reached ahead as if tasting a forgotten sweetness. They had known darkness in all its forms: the crushing weight of dungeons, the hollow void of night skies, the cold absence between stars.

Yet this darkness was different; it held memory, it held you.

The clearing materialized like a painting rendered in firelight. Autumn in its purest form, not the bitter political machinations of Beron's court, but autumn as it was meant to be.

Leaves burning gold and crimson in their slow, beautiful death; the scent of earth preparing for slumber; sunlight filtered through a canopy of fire.

And you.

Oh, you.

Azriel had witnessed beauty across realms.

Had seen sunrise over the Sea. Had watched starfall from mountain peaks. Had observed the deadly grace of Illyrian warriors in flight.

None compared to you in this moment, fingers trailing lazy patterns in water, face upturned to dappled light, humming a melody that reached inside him and touched something he'd thought long dead.

He moved closer, drawn by an instinct older than training. His shadows flowed toward you like water finding its natural course, stretching across time to cradle what they could not touch.

What was stolen from you?

What was stolen from us?

The question formed unbidden, startling in its possessiveness. He had rejected the bond, had severed connection with cruel precision. Yet here, witnessing who you had been, something ancient and nameless stirred beneath his ribs.

Recognition. Kinship.

The terrible knowledge that you had been carved from the same wounded material as he, gentle souls forced into weapons by others' cruelty.

A deer approached through sun-dappled shadow. You stilled, becoming statue-perfect save for eyes tracking its cautious advance. Your patience spoke of understanding that trust, once broken, must be earned again through consistent gentleness.

Hadn't he learned that same lesson through centuries of careful friendship with Mor, with Cassian, with Rhys? The parallels between you struck him with physical force.

"There you are," you murmured, voice soft as ember-light. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come today."

Your smile as the deer accepted your offering...

Mother above, that smile.

It transformed features Azriel had only ever seen hardened by calculated cruelty.

He knelt before you, shadowsinger become supplicant. His scarred hand reached through time to touch what could never be touched. If only he could have known you then.

"Sister! Are you talking to animals again?"

A younger Lucien emerged between trees, whole in ways Azriel had never witnessed: unscarred, unbroken, eyes matched and innocent of horrors to come.

You mock-glared at your brother. "You scared him away."

"He'll be back tomorrow," Lucien replied, dropping beside you with easy confidence that would later be beaten into watchful wariness. "They always come back to you."

"Not if you keep blundering around the forest like a newborn bear."

Your teasing carried genuine warmth. Another revelation. Another piece of a puzzle Azriel hadn't known needed solving.

During war councils, he'd seen only calculated distance between you and your brothers. Had assumed coldness innate rather than learned. How many other assumptions had he made, about you, about himself, about the bond that connected and terrified you both?

Lucien peered at your sketchbook. "More healing herbs? Father won't be pleased."

A shadow crossed your face, swift, suppressed, significant. The spymaster in Azriel recognized that concealment. He'd performed it countless times when Rhys or Cassian ventured too near buried wounds.

"Father doesn't need to know everything."

Secretive, even then.

Hiding gifts meant for healing rather than harming. The irony struck him like a physical blow, you, practicing concealment to protect tenderness; him, practicing tenderness to conceal deadly skill. Mirror images, reversed but matching.

"Your secret's safe with me," Lucien assured, bumping your shoulder companionably. "Though I still think you should show the healers. Your knowledge could help people."

Azriel's shadows stretched toward the sketchbook, trying to preserve that evidence of your true nature. They traced illustrations with the reverence of scholars discovering ancient texts, each careful line a testament to patience, to precision, to purpose beyond pain.

"Maybe someday," you said softly, closing the book. "When the time is right."

Lucien studied you, expression uncharacteristically serious. "You know, sometimes I think you were born into the wrong court. You have fire in you, yes, but not the kind Father values."

"Careful," you warned without heat. "That's dangerously close to treason."

"It's the truth," he insisted. "Your fire heals rather than destroys. There's no shame in that."

You smiled at him, gratitude warming your eyes. "Thank you for seeing me, brother. Sometimes I think you're the only one who does."

I see you now.

Too late. Always too late.

The memory shimmered, edges dissolving into golden light. Azriel's shadows stretched desperately, trying to hold together what was already fading. He recognized approaching tragedy with the intimacy of old lovers, had cataloged its patterns across five centuries of blood and battlefields.

But this was different.

This wasn't witnessing another's pain with professional detachment.

This was feeling the approaching horror as if it were his own, perhaps because, in some cosmic way, it was.

The bond connecting you had transcended time, had brought him to this moment not as observer but as participant.

"Get out."

Your voice, your subconscious, rippled through his consciousness. Not memory but imminent confrontation.

"These aren't yours to see."

His shadows recoiled instinctively. They recognized boundaries of pain; he had taught them such restraint over centuries. Never take more than necessary. Never violate another's suffering without purpose.

"Forgive me," he whispered to the dissolving scene, to the girl you had been, to the female you had become.

But the bond pulled harder, golden thread becoming golden chain. It dragged him deeper against both your wills, into darkness shot through with winter frost. The memory of what was lost gave way to the horror of its taking.

The golden bond between them trembled violently, a dying star collapsing in on itself.

Azriel had endured five centuries of war, interrogation, and depravity, but nothing—nothing—had prepared him for this.

The bond yanked his consciousness sideways, tearing him from the Autumn Court gardens. His wings instinctively flared to catch himself, but there was no physical space to navigate.

Only the golden thread connecting your souls remained, pulsing with ancient magic no shadowsinger's training could have prepared him for.

For a breathless, eternal moment, he was neither here nor there, suspended in a liminal space where time ceased meaning. His shadows curled protectively around him like children seeking shelter, sensing danger but finding nothing tangible to fight.

The disorientation was unlike anything he'd experienced... worse than winnowing gone wrong, more violating than even Rhysand's mind-walking.

Then, with violent clarity, the memory crystallized around him.

Winter Court's delegation feast, perhaps two centuries ago.

Azriel's soul wept before his mind could comprehend why.

Some deep, primal part of him already knew what awaited, even as his conscious thoughts scrambled to make sense of this displacement.

His shadows thinned and spread, seeking purchase in a reality that wasn't quite real, their agitation mirroring the frantic beating of his heart.

The Winter Court's great hall breathed frost with each collective exhale of its occupants. Ice sculptures depicting the hunt lined the walls: predator and prey frozen in eternal pursuit. Unlike most diplomatic celebrations, the atmosphere carried an undercurrent of tension that made Azriel's centuries-honed instincts scream in alarm.

His spectral form tried to reach for Truth-Teller, muscle memory responding to perceived threat, only to grasp emptiness.

His shadows writhed in distress, seeking the familiar weight of his blade and finding nothing but memory and mist.

The opulence was obscene.

The mingling of courts created a sensory tapestry too vivid for mere recollection. This wasn't simply remembering; the bond had made him a witness to something far more intimate than memory.

Each detail assaulted his senses with precision that bordered on torture: the warm copper-gold light of Autumn Court chandeliers battling the crystalline blue radiance of Winter Court magic. Heat and frost waged their ancient war in the very air. He could taste the conflict on his tongue: cinnamon and woodsmoke overwhelmed by the sharp, cutting bite of fresh snow.

His gaze found you immediately.

Like a compass finding true north, like a dying man seeking water, like a shadow yearning for darkness. As if his entire being had been calibrated to locate you regardless of time or distance.

You stood alone.

A rush of protective fury surged through him, shocking in its intensity. His heart stuttered beneath the phantom sensation of ribs.

Isolation in court gatherings was never accidental. Never safe.

Centuries as Rhys's spymaster had taught him to recognize patterns of predation across courts. His fingers itched for Truth-Teller, his oldest companion, his most faithful tool. Helplessness clawed at him, a suffocating weight pressing on his chest.

The shadows around him whimpered, actually whimpered, a sound he'd never heard from them before.

They sensed his distress and shared it, amplified it, until the feeling threatened to drown him entirely.

The golden gown you wore was a declaration of defiance, burnished amber and molten copper in a sea of Winter Court blues and silvers.

Your hair caught torchlight and transformed it, not merely reflecting but enhancing, as if you were the source of all flame in the room.

You were beautiful. And you were in danger.

His stomach twisted with dread, primal and overwhelming.

Was this what drowning felt like?

This crushing weight on his chest, this burning in his lungs?

Azriel's shadows condensed into dark ribbons that strained toward you, as if to warn or protect, before dissolving against the immutable barrier of time. His wings flexed, the phantom sensation of battle-readiness coursing through him. Every instinct screamed a warning his conscious mind was still piecing together.

"Please," he whispered to the uncaring void of memory. "Please let me be wrong."

The pattern revealed itself with terrible clarity: your position near the high windows, too far from Autumn Court allies; the subtle shifting of Winter Court nobles creating a barrier of blue and silver bodies; the way servants had stopped offering you wine, isolating you from even that minor protection.

You had been positioned precisely like prey before a winter hunt.

Separated. Isolated. Displayed.

The male who approached moved with a predator's grace that made Azriel's shadows coil and hiss. Snow-white skin with veins of palest blue visible beneath, like cracks in ancient ice. Eyes deeper than midwinter midnight. Lips curved in a smile that held no warmth, only the promise of devastation disguised as passion.

"Lord Kieraven," the name pulled from Azriel's spectral lips before he could stop it. Knowledge that wasn't his flooded his consciousness. Distant cousin to Kallias. Not powerful enough to rule but privileged enough to remain untouchable.

Known for his particular fondness for fire magic—specifically, for extinguishing it.

Memory fragments flickered through Azriel's mind. Intelligence reports he'd filed centuries ago about Winter Court power structures, snippets about Kieraven that hadn't seemed significant then.

He recalled, with sudden clarity, dispatching the Winter lord himself during the war with Hybern. The noble's dying expression flashed in his mind—shock that the shadowsinger had chosen him specifically from the battlefield.

A fierce, vindictive satisfaction blazed through Azriel's veins. His shadows danced with savage pleasure. He hadn't known why he'd felt compelled to end that particular noble, but the bond was showing him now. Some part of him had sensed a debt needing payment. His only regret was that death had come too quickly, too mercifully, for what Kieraven had done.

"Lady of Autumn," Kieraven murmured, voice like a frozen river, smooth surface hiding killing currents beneath. "Your beauty outshines even your court's legendary fire."

Azriel's shadows thinned to razor edges, stretching toward Kieraven as if to flay him where he stood. Rage boiled through him, ancient and terrible. His carefully constructed walls of control crumbled with each passing second, shadows twisting into unrecognizable shapes that reflected his growing horror.

You replied with practiced diplomacy, your voice carrying the measured cadence of someone raised in political battlefields. "You honor me with such words, Lord Kieraven, though I suspect you offer them to all visiting diplomats."

The words themselves were forgotten the moment they left your lips as Azriel cataloged what others would miss.

The infinitesimal tightening of your fingers around your goblet, nails pressing white half-moons into your palms; the barely perceptible shift of weight to your back foot; the subtle scanning of the room for allies. Fight-or-flight instinct already activated while your conscious mind still navigated court politics.

Azriel recognized your fear—had cataloged such micro-expressions for centuries. But never had another's fear affected him so viscerally. His own heartbeat accelerated to match yours, his muscles tensing in unconscious mimicry of your readiness to flee. The bond between you vibrated with shared dread.

"Not flattery if it's true." Kieraven's fingers, long and elegant, tipped with the faintest blue that spoke of controlled Winter magic, brushed yours as he offered a goblet. The touch lingered, a deliberate invasion of your space, possession disguised as courtesy.

Azriel's awareness expanded, taking in the entire room with the tactical precision five centuries of spycraft had honed. Five Winter Court nobles had shifted positions, creating a subtle perimeter. Two Autumn Court guards who should have been nearby had disappeared entirely. Eris was engaged across the hall, deep in conversation with three Winter nobles, his back deliberately turned.

Not coincidence. Planned separation.

Understanding slammed into Azriel like a physical blow. This had been orchestrated. The separation from protection. The isolation. The calculated approach. Eris's convenient distraction.

A wave of self-loathing crashed through him, bitter as poison.

Recognition hit him with sickeningly familiar weight.

How many females had he witnessed in the shadows as they were cornered by powerful males? How many reports had he filed on violations when information was deemed more valuable than intervention?

Acid shame flooded his mouth, bitter and burning.

The taste of complicity. He wanted to vomit, to scream, to tear Kieraven limb from limb—but most of all, he wanted to erase his own culpability in centuries of similar predations, all justified in the name of intelligence gathering.

"Perhaps we might speak privately," Kieraven suggested, hand settling at the small of your back, fingers splayed possessively over your gown.

Even through memory, Azriel could feel the winter chill emanating from that touch. Not physical cold but something darker, an intent that frosted the very air between you.

His shadows lashed toward Kieraven again—a futile gesture against a memory two centuries old. Yet the violence of his reaction disturbed him.

His breathing came in short, sharp bursts, his vision narrowing until all he could see was the Winter lord's hand defiling the gold silk of your gown.

You attempted retreat, voice maintaining the careful neutrality of court politics. "I'm afraid I must decline, my lord. My father expects—"

The transformation was instantaneous. Charm to cruelty in the space between heartbeats. Kieraven's face hardened, frost literally forming around his fingertips where they dug into your waist.

"Your father expects you to secure Winter Court's goodwill." His voice dropped to a whisper meant for your ears alone, but the bond carried it to Azriel with perfect clarity. "Don't you think it's time you fulfilled your purpose?"

Kieraven's meaning crystallized with terrible clarity in Azriel's mind. The specific way he emphasized "fulfilled your purpose" carried centuries of entitlement, of females treated as currency between courts. A transaction Beron had clearly authorized.

The question burned like acid.

Now, seeing you—feeling through the bond your rising fear masked behind diplomatic composure—made him realize how hollow those justifications had been.

You lifted your chin, summoning dignity that made Azriel's chest ache with unexpected pride. "You misunderstand my purpose here, Lord Kieraven. I represent Autumn Court's diplomatic interests, not its... hospitality services."

The refusal was measured, diplomatic, final. Delivered with the poise of someone born and bred to navigate deadly courts.

Something that might have been admiration flickered through Azriel. A strange warmth blossomed in his chest, so at odds with the horror of witnessing what he couldn't change.

Kieraven's face contorted with quiet rage, "You'll regret that choice."

The memory shifted, the great hall dissolving into a more intimate scene.

You slipping from the gathering, seeking momentary solitude in a corridor adorned with Autumn Court's sigils. A place where you should have been safe.

Azriel recognized your tactical error immediately and wanted to scream a warning across time. No diplomat should ever seek isolation during hostile negotiations.

His centuries of training screamed at the vulnerability of your position—alone in a corridor, away from witnesses, in hostile territory. The terror of foreknowledge clawed at his throat, wild and desperate.

Please, no.

The sound of footsteps echoed against stone walls. Not one set, but many.

Azriel's body tensed, shadows coiling around him like armor as he braced for what he knew would come. He found himself at your side, unable to affect events yet unwilling to abandon you to face this alone.

Every sinew in his spectral form strained against the constraints of time and memory, his very essence rebelling against his role as helpless witness.

"Did you really think you could embarrass me before both courts without consequence?" Kieraven's voice carried a chill that frosted the very air between you.

You turned to find Kieraven blocking the corridor. Eleven other Winter Court males emerged from adjoining passageways. Surrounding you. Cutting off every escape route. The precise formation spoke of planning, of premeditation.

Azriel's spymaster mind calculated odds with the detachment of centuries of training—twelve against one, a female without combat skills, in a hostile territory with magic designed specifically to counter her natural abilities.

No possibility of victory. No chance of escape. The clinical assessment made him hate himself all the more.

"What is the meaning of this?" Your voice remained steady despite the fear-scent that filled the memory-space, so potent Azriel could taste your terror on his tongue. "My father will—"

"Your father," Kieraven interrupted, frost patterns forming on the walls around him as his control slipped, "sent you to us as a gift. One you refused to properly deliver."

The words hit Azriel like a physical blow, confirmation of his worst suspicion. This hadn't been opportunistic predation. This had been arranged. Sanctioned. Sold. The brutal truth of it cleaved through his composure, leaving raw, bleeding fury in its wake.

He fought against the memory's pull with everything he had, shadows lashing wild patterns against the constraints of time and space.

He cried your name, the sound tearing from his throat with such force it should have shattered the memory-walls around them. The scream echoed in the void between past and present, carrying five hundred years of rage and helplessness.

"STOP!"

Your voice, your subconscious, tore through the memory-space, desperate and raw.

Shadows that were not Azriel's surged between him and the memory, trying to block his view. The bond trembled violently, the golden thread connecting you stretching so thin it seemed it might snap.

"I don't want you to see this."

The memory surged forward, implacable as fate itself.

What followed unfolded with merciless clarity.

Kieraven struck first.

He grabbed you by the throat and slammed you into the wall so hard the stone behind you cracked. The impact forced the air from your lungs.

Your vision spun. Cold rolled off his skin in waves. Not the ordinary chill of Winter Court nobility, but something deeper. Something ancient. The kind of cold that settled into marrow, that crawled into the soul.

"The Autumn Court bitch thinks herself better than us," he spat, leaning close, his breath frosting the air between you. "But look how easily she burns."

You struggled. Your hands sparked, the fire in your veins instinctive, but it flickered once, then vanished.

A second male seized your wrist, another your ankle. Cold hands.

Magic laced through their fingers as they dragged you down, tearing your gown as they did. The fabric shredded under them, silk splitting like skin. Your scream followed, a raw, animal sound, but it was cut off too quickly. Kieraven's hand clamped over your mouth.

Azriel fell to his knees.

His shadows scattered like startled birds.

His heart didn't beat, it convulsed.

The bond pulled taut, a golden thread soaked red with what was coming.

His mouth opened to scream. Nothing came. Not your name. Not his own. Only air. Only silence.

Only memory that wouldn't stop bleeding.

Your body thrashed in their grip, but already you were surrounded.

Four males. Then six.

Then more.

Their bodies a cage of silver and blue. Their eyes glittered, not with lust, but with domination. With power. With ritual.

Ice magic bloomed across your bare skin, slow and creeping like frost over glass. It wasn't just suppression, it was invasion. It slipped beneath your skin, laced through your blood, calcified your flame. You writhed as your magic betrayed you, collapsed inside you, turned brittle and useless.

Your screams froze in your throat before they could even leave.

The silence wasn't still.

It screamed.

Azriel clawed at his chest, as if he could rip the bond out of his ribcage. As if he could stop feeling your bones break through his own skin.

His hands trembled. No grip. No ground. No breath.

Even his shadows refused him. They huddled in corners, flickering with grief. No blades. No barriers. No salvation.

Your limbs were forced outward. Your wrists pinned to cold stone. Ankles held wide.

Every inch of you exposed to their cruelty.

The chill on your skin was more than winter, it was shame. A shame so visceral it burned hotter than your fire ever had.

You tried to fight, gods, you tried, but they were prepared.

Each hand on your body was placed with precision. Each move choreographed. Your power suppressed. Your limbs restrained. Your mouth silenced.

One male took your face in his hand and turned it toward him. "The fire's gone now," he said with a grin. "Now we see what's left underneath."

The others laughed. That laughter echoed off stone walls like the shattering of glass.

Azriel's shadows clawed at the barriers of time until they bled smoke.

His skin split open in sympathy with yours, invisible wounds mirroring every violation. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard someone calling his name.

Rhys? No, it was you. Not present you, but the girl you were before they ruined you. Screaming, sobbing, begging, whispering his name like a prayer in a language he didn't know how to answer.

He reached for Truth-Teller, for wings, for any weapon, any strength he had ever possessed. His hands passed through memory, through time, grasping nothing.

Sweat beaded on his skin despite the cold. Bile rose in his throat. The room spun, reality fracturing around him while you suffered in perfect clarity.

He was a boy again. Hands nailed to stone. Blood in his mouth. But it wasn't his. It was yours.

His memories collapsed in on themselves until there was no line between past and present, between who had suffered and who was suffering now.

They touched you. Violated you.

Passed you from hand to hand like a thing. They didn't speak after the first, no taunts, no questions, no pleasure. Only duty. Only cruelty. As if this was a rite. A purge.

Each of the thirteen took something.

One crushed your fire.

Another twisted your arm until it snapped.

A third forced Winter magic into your mouth, through your teeth, until your tongue blistered.

One dislocated your hip.

Another froze your feet to the floor until your skin split open when you were torn free.

There was no dignity in this. Only desecration.

Pain was constant.

It had no beginning, no crescendo, no mercy.

And through the bond, Azriel felt it all.

As if it were happening to him. As if his own body were being torn apart while his mind remained intact, forced to witness, to experience, to understand.

Azriel's scarred hands trembled uncontrollably against the memory-floor. Sweat drenched his body, his leathers clinging to his skin as violent tremors wracked his frame. Blood filled his mouth where he'd bitten through his tongue, metallic and sharp. He couldn't feel his wings anymore, they'd gone numb with his horror, hanging like dead weight from his back.

The guilt wrapped around his throat like a rope, each second dragging tighter.

He should have known. Should have seen. Should have been there. He hadn't. And now it was carved into him, a sin that would never stop bleeding.

Your body shut down. Your mind tried to flee. He felt that too, the disassociation.

The split.

The moment when you began to float outside yourself, watching from somewhere above. The only defense left to you.

He could feel your soul splinter.

A thread snapped.

Something sacred was torn.

And he mourned.

His body convulsed. It wasn't a sob, but something more primal, a physical rejection of what he witnessed.

His stomach heaved, emptying itself onto the memory-floor. Shadows poured from his mouth with the bile, twisting into shapes of such anguish that they became unrecognizable.

His face contorted, veins standing out on his temples as he fought for breath against the crushing weight of your trauma.

He, the great shadowsinger. The killer of kings. The nightmare in the dark. On his knees in a memory he could not stop, unable to do anything but scream into the void and feel your suffering as his own. Five centuries of training.

Five centuries of killing. Five centuries of power. All meaningless in this moment. He could not save you. He could not even look away.

One noble bent to whisper in your ear. "This is what you were born for."

Azriel's shadows exploded. Darkness erupted outward from him in a tidal wave, tearing through the memory like a silent storm. He knew it would do nothing. He knew the past could not be touched.

But it didn't matter.

He would not let it go unanswered.

The scene shifted, a jarring transition.

Autumn Court guards discovered your body, their shock at finding you still breathing evident in their careful handling. Their whispers reached Azriel with perfect clarity.

"How is she still alive?"

"No one could survive this."

"Her pelvis is completely shattered," one guard reported, voice shaking. "Both legs broken. Five ribs puncturing her lungs. Her right shoulder and elbow dislocated. Three fingers on the left hand missing entirely. Frost magic in her bloodstream. And the... the internal damage..." He couldn't continue.

But you had survived. Somehow.

You survived.

Azriel fell forward, pressing his forehead to the memory-floor. His wings draped over you both, a shield against horror he couldn't escape. His shoulders shook with silent reverence. The survivor in him recognized something in you that transcended the breaking, a core of steel that even torture couldn't reach.

Where I might have surrendered, you endured.

Then Beron, standing over your healing table, face twisted not with fury at what had been done to his daughter, but with contempt at the political complication your assault created.

"Foolish girl," he hissed, flames erupting around his clenched fists, casting ominous shadows across your broken body. "Did I not tell you to behave appropriately? To represent this court with dignity?"

Something in Azriel broke.

A sound erupted from him, part growl, part scream, all predator. His lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral snarl.

His shadows solidified, taking physical form for the first time in memory. Truth-Teller appeared in his hand, conjured from pure hatred. His pupils dilated until his eyes were black pools rimmed with gold fire.

"I will end you," he promised Beron, the words a vow written in blood. "Father or not. High Lord or not. For this alone, you die."

The killing rage that surged through him transcended anything he'd experienced in five centuries of battle. His shadows lashed out with such violent force that the memory itself seemed to waver.

"She was found at the border," one healer reported quietly, hands shaking as they hovered over your wounds. "Impaled on a Winter Court tree."

"And the perpetrators?" Beron's voice held no concern for you, only calculation.

"No trace, my lord."

Beron's expression hardened further. "Say nothing of this. To anyone. Not even her mother or brothers."

"But my lord, she requires—"

"She requires discretion," Beron interrupted, voice deadly soft. "Heal her body if you can. But this incident never happened. Is that understood?"

The healers nodded, terror evident in their trembling hands as they resumed work on your shattered body. No one dared speak against the High Lord, though their expressions betrayed their horror at his callousness.

"You failed her," Azriel snarled, the words meaningless to ears that could not hear him. "You all failed her."

Azriel could only watch with mounting horror as the healers worked over your broken form.

Something in your eyes began to change.

The light dimming, the spark of the woman he'd glimpsed by the forest pool fading into nothingness. Blue frost patterns remained beneath your skin where Winter magic had taken root, refusing to dissipate despite the healers' efforts.

And then came the transformation that truly chilled him to the bone.

Over the following weeks, as your body healed but your spirit remained shattered, Azriel witnessed it.

The memory timeline accelerated, showing flickering moments across months, then years, to centuries.

Your eyes, once warm with compassion, grew cold and calculating. The curve of your lips, once quick to smile, hardened into a permanent sneer. Your hands, which had once healed with gentle touch, now dealt pain with mechanical precision.

You became what trauma had forged. A weapon.

Your first kill came three months after the assault. A servant who spilled wine on your gown during a feast. The room fell silent as you placed your hand against his chest and channeled fire directly into his heart.

His body crumpled to ash before it hit the floor. You didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Just returned to your meal while servants hastily swept away the remains.

Beron's smile that night was one of sick pride.

Azriel recognized the hollowness in your eyes. His own stared back at him from countless reflections after his own torture. The void where something vital once lived. He had almost become this, would have become this without his brothers. The knowledge settled in his gut like stone.

The second kill followed a week later. A courtier who dared mention the Winter Court in your presence.

His screams echoed through the castle for hours before he finally died, his body a testament to your newfound creativity with flame.

By the time another year had passed, your reputation had spread throughout Prythian. The Lady of Autumn, they called you in whispers. Cold as Winter but burning with Autumn's fire. A contradiction wrapped in cruelty. Beautiful and untouchable. Those who approached too closely vanished in screams and ash.

Through the bond, he felt it happen.

Your soul fracturing, tearing, one piece clinging desperately to your body while another fled, seeking escape from unbearable pain.

Azriel reached forward with trembling fingers, trying to hold the pieces together. His shadows joined his effort, stretching toward the breaking golden light of your essence. His face contorted with desperate concentration, as if by sheer will he could prevent what had already happened.

It wasn't instantaneous. The fracture began that night in the Winter Court corridor, widened during the hours on the tree, and continued to split during the weeks of physical healing.

Each new callous comment from Beron, each dismissal of your suffering, each night of untreated nightmares widened the crack.

Until finally, during a particularly horrific flashback, something broke completely.

One remained tethered to your Fae body, calcifying into something cold and lethal. The other fled, across worlds, across realities, seeking refuge in a form untouched by Prythian's horrors.

It felt like his own soul was being torn apart.

His shadows split into two distinct groups. One remaining with his spectral form, the other flowing toward you on the healing table, instinctively trying to hold the pieces of your soul together.

But they couldn't. Nothing could. The tear was too profound, the wound too deep.

His consciousness followed the fleeing half of your soul, pulled by the golden bond that connected you. The memory-vision blurred, reality dissolving into golden light that surrounded him, buoyed him, carried him across the boundaries between worlds.

The experience was nothing like winnowing, which merely folded space within Prythian. This was a shattering of cosmic barriers, a journey across realities that shouldn't have been possible.

The hospital room materialized around him with shocking clarity.

Sterile white walls, strange beeping devices, tubes and wires connecting the still form on the bed to machines he couldn't comprehend.

Your human form, so similar to your Fae body yet subtly different. Softer. More fragile. Untouched by the horrors your other half had endured.

Around the bed, human figures, family, he supposed, maintained their vigil. A woman who shared your human features wept silently, holding your unresponsive hand. A male, perhaps a father or brother, stood by the window, face haggard with grief.

"Come back to us," the woman whispered, and Azriel felt the words reach toward your soul across the void that separated conscious thought from wherever you had retreated.

But he could see what they could not, the golden thread that connected this human vessel to a Fae body in another world entirely.

You found a way to survive.

When there was no escape, you created one.

Azriel lurched awake with a strangled gasp, wings flaring violently in the pre-dawn darkness.

Shadows exploded from his skin, not with their usual controlled precision but in chaotic bursts that plunged the room into impenetrable night. His scarred hand seized Truth-Teller before his eyes had fully opened.

Then he felt it—wetness tracking down his face.

Tears. In five centuries of nightmares, of reliving his own torture and the weight of countless deaths, he had never once cried in his sleep.

"You were crying."

Your voice cut through his darkness like the first light of dawn. His senses, always razor-sharp, had failed to detect your presence—he'd been too consumed by the visions the bond had forced upon him.

His eyes found you standing at the foot of his bed. Morning light filtered through the windows, limning you in amber and gold, turning your hair to living flame. The sight of you stole what little breath remained in his lungs.

"Bad dreams?" you asked.

Something in how you said it—the understanding that only comes from walking through nightmares yourself—made his shadows curl back protectively around him.

"The bond shows me things," Azriel said, watching your reaction carefully. "Your world. The hospital room where part of you still dreams. The machines keeping watch with their steady, metallic heartbeats."

Your sharp intake of breath seemed to pull all oxygen from the room. Fear flashed across your face, not of him, but of truths you weren't ready to face.

"You've seen... my other life?" The words barely formed a whisper.

Azriel nodded once. His shadows coiled tighter, though rebellious tendrils still strained toward the answering golden light beneath your skin.

"I've seen your human family," he said, gaze never leaving yours. "Their vigil at your bedside. The prayers they whisper over your unmoving hands. Their refusal to surrender hope."

The color drained from your face as you stepped back. "How much do you know?"

His shadows reacted to his inner conflict, painting the walls with frantic, jagged patterns.

The bond had shown him everything, your assault, your soul's desperate flight from unbearable pain, but he could see those memories remained locked behind walls your mind had built to protect itself.

"I know enough," he said finally, voice gentling despite the rage still simmering beneath his skin. "I know you exist between worlds, suspended between lives, belonging fully to neither."

He watched your face for signs of distress, of memories threatening to surface. But he saw only confusion and wariness, and beneath that, desperate hope that someone finally understood.

"There are...gaps," you admitted, so quietly only Fae hearing could catch it. "Times I can't remember. Feelings that appear from nowhere, like I'm borrowing someone else's heart."

The admission seemed to surprise you as much as him, a vulnerability you hadn't meant to reveal. The bond pulsed in response, acknowledging the trust such words required.

"Sometimes the mind shields us from what we're not ready to remember," Azriel said softly. His wings shifted unconsciously, creating a sheltered space that included you within their span. "There's no shame in that."

Your eyes widened, understanding dawning like stars appearing one by one. "You know more than you're telling me."

Azriel's silence was answer enough.

A single tear escaped down your cheek. The mating bond flared in response, golden light seeping through both your bodies like twin flames fed by the same source.

"Why won't you tell me everything?" you whispered.

"Because some truths should be followed to their source, not poured into unprepared vessels," he said, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. "And because choice was stolen from you once. I won't be another thief."

Something in your expression shifted at his words, a wall crumbling, a door creaking open. Your fear softened to cautious wonder.

"You really mean that," you said, half statement, half question.

"I've had five centuries to learn the sanctity of choice," Azriel replied, the ghosts of his own trauma briefly visible in his eyes. "Of agency. Of deciding one's own fate when all other freedoms have been stolen."

Ember and Sizzle materialized beside you, their pink flame forms crackling protectively. They studied Azriel with suspicious intensity before Ember cautiously approached. The tiny creature hopped onto the bed, then settled near Azriel's scarred hand. Not touching, but close.

"I should go," you said finally. "The healers are expecting me."

Azriel nodded, making no move to stop you.

But as you turned to leave, something broke inside him, some final barrier between duty and need.

With a wince he couldn't hide, Azriel pushed himself from the bed. His movements betrayed the wounds still healing beneath his leathers. Shadows curled around him as he crossed the chamber in three swift strides.

Then, before you could react, he knelt at your feet.

The gesture was so unexpected, so contrary to everything you knew of the feared shadowsinger, that you stepped back. But Azriel remained where he was, head bowed, shadows spread around him like wings darker than those folded against his back.

"I make this vow to you," he said, voice raw with emotion he'd stopped trying to hide. "Not because the bond demands it, but because I have seen all that you are across worlds and cannot bear the thought of your light dimming."

Your breath caught in your throat. The weight of his words pressed against your chest, not crushing, but anchoring you to this moment.

He looked up, meeting your startled gaze with eyes that burned with such fierce devotion it stole what little breath remained.

Five centuries of controlled fury now focused solely on you with the precision of a blade crafted for one purpose.

"I vow that no one, not Beron, not the courts, not reality itself will ever again inscribe your destiny but you." His voice shook with the effort of laying himself bare. "Your choices will be yours alone."

His hands trembled at his sides, the effort it took not to reach for you written in every line of his body.

"Even if—" His voice faltered, and for the first time in five centuries, the shadowsinger struggled to master himself. "Even if those choices lead you away from me."

The bond between you flared, golden light bleeding through both your skins, responding to truth where pretty words would have fallen short.

The shadows around him deepened, no longer the calculated extensions of his will but raw manifestations of his soul laid bare. They created a living circle of darkness that surrounded you both, intimate as a whispered confession.

"I vow to stand between you and harm," he continued, each word carved from his very being, "not because you lack strength, but because you've already carried too much alone."

His voice dropped lower, until each word felt like a caress against your skin.

"I vow to be the silence that listens when you speak," he said, "the darkness that shelters when light wounds. To learn your silences, to honor your spirit in all its broken, beautiful glory."

His scarred hands—instruments of centuries of death—remained at his sides, making no move to touch you.

His fingers curled into fists, as if physically restraining themselves from reaching for what they had no right to claim.

"I vow to be patient as mountains, steadfast as stars." The tendons in his neck strained with the effort of offering everything while asking nothing. "To wait centuries if needed, to accept only what you freely give."

The chamber around you seemed to hold its breath as his final words took form.

"I bind myself not to you, but to your freedom," he said, the vow settling around you both like a constellation newly born, "your right to determine what you become."

You stood frozen, overwhelmed by what he offered. No male in your experience had ever placed a female's sovereignty above even a mating bond's demands.

"Azriel, get up," you finally managed, the word barely audible.

Azriel obeyed immediately, returning to his full height though he remained close enough that his scent—night-chilled stone and cedar—enveloped you like the promise of shelter in storm.

"Why?" The question escaped before you could stop it.

His gaze did not waver. "Because in five centuries of darkness, I never knew I was blind until your light showed me my own soul."

The simplicity of his answer, the raw honesty of it, nearly undid you.

"Can you..." you began, then faltered. Taking a deep breath, you tried again. "Can you help me find my way back? Home, I mean. To my real body."

For a heartbeat, everything showed on Azriel's face—the devastation of your request, the selfish desire to refuse. The bond between you spasmed as if in physical pain. His shadows recoiled, then coiled tighter as if protecting him from a blow that had already landed.

But then, deliberately, he mastered himself. His expression smoothed into something that cost him dearly to maintain.

"If that is your heart's true desire," he said, each word a river of emotion carefully channeled between banks of control, "then I will tear apart the fabric between worlds with my bare hands if it would grant you peace."

The promise clearly flayed him alive—you could see it in the tightening of his jaw, the subtle tensing of his wings, the way his shadows trembled, but he made it anyway. Honoring your choice even as it carved pieces from his soul.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words inadequate but all you could manage past the tightness in your throat.

Azriel inclined his head, accepting your gratitude though it must have felt like swallowing fire.

You took a step back, needing space to process what had just happened. The flame bunnies followed, though Ember cast one last look at Azriel before reluctantly joining you.

At the door, you paused, looking back. "I don't know what I'll choose in the end."

The hope that flared in his eyes was quickly banked, carefully controlled, but unmistakable as sunrise. "Whatever you choose," he said, voice steady only through centuries of discipline, "I will honor it as I would honor my own heartbeat."

Something that might have been a smile ghosted across your lips before you turned away. The sight of it made his heart clench in his chest, a glimpse of possibility where before he had seen only walls.

The door closed behind you with a soft click that echoed in the hollow space of your chest.

Azriel remained perfectly still for several heartbeats after you left.

The memory clung to him like smoke, seeping into his skin, his lungs, his bones. His scarred hands trembled uncontrollably as he tried to breathe through the aftershocks.

He made it three steps before his knees buckled. Truth-Teller clattered to the floor.

Then came the sound, not a sob, not a growl. Just something breaking.

Your screams still echoed in his ears. The cold of that corridor. The laughter of those males. The smell of your blood on snow.

The room was too quiet now. Too still. A silence that rang louder than your screams.

He lurched toward the bathroom, barely making it before his stomach emptied itself. His shoulders heaved as he retched, tasting bile and fury and impotent rage.

When there was nothing left to purge, he slid to the floor, back against the cold tile wall. His wings dragged awkwardly, joints refusing to cooperate.

The first tear fell then, sliding silently down his cheek. Another followed. Then another, until his face was wet with grief.

Five centuries of discipline shattered like glass as sobs tore from his throat. Each one painful. Each one raw. His shadows recoiled from him, terrified by this display of emotion from their master who had taught them control above all else.

I failed you.

The thought crushed against his ribs like a physical weight.

Mother above, I failed you.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to stop the violent trembling that had overtaken his body. The scars on his palms caught on the leather of his fighting clothes as he clutched at his own shoulders.

He had never broken like this. Not during his imprisonment in that lightless cell. Not in the centuries of blood and battlefields that followed. He had built his reputation on control, on emotionless precision, on perfect, deadly calm.

I should have been there.

I should have known.

Gods, I failed you.

The thoughts repeated, blades twisting deeper with each iteration. The tears wouldn't stop. They flowed as if an ancient dam had finally broken, carrying centuries of suppressed emotion. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the force of his anguish.

His shadows finally approached cautiously, curling around him like concerned children. They had never seen their master like this, utterly broken open, utterly vulnerable.

They will pay.

The thought formed with perfect, crystalline clarity amidst his grief.

Every one of them still living.

Every one who touched you.

Every one who watched.

He saw it again, the moment your soul tore in two. Remembered the sound, like silk ripping, like a star dying. The terrible beauty of that golden light splitting, one half fleeing across worlds, the other calcifying into armor around what remained.

This understanding only made him crumble further, made his chest heave with sobs that felt like they might break his ribs. He tried to regain control, tried to force the tears to stop, but they continued to pour down his face, dripping onto the tile floor beneath him.

In this moment, he wasn't Rhysand's shadowsinger. Wasn't the Night Court's most feared assassin. He was just a male, kneeling alone on a bathroom floor, heart breaking for suffering he couldn't prevent.

The shadows tried to comfort him, wrapping around his shoulders, his wings, his trembling hands. But they couldn't reach the wound that had been torn open inside him, the raw, bleeding awareness of his failure to protect something precious.

I'll guard what remains.

The vow formed somewhere beneath the tears, solid as stone.

I'll never fail you again.

He rested his forehead on his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, making himself as small as possible, as if he could somehow contain the devastating grief that poured from him.

For the first time in five centuries, Azriel, shadowsinger of the Night Court, cried until there were no tears left to shed. Until his throat was raw and his eyes were swollen. Until his shadows had gathered around him in silent vigil, witnessing this transformation, this breaking, this rebirth.

His shadows, once wild and frantic, began to still. As if recognizing the shape of a vow. As if honoring it.

Finally, when the tears subsided into occasional shuddering breaths, he lifted his face. His eyes were bloodshot, his features swollen with grief.

I will find them all.

The oath settled in his bones with cold finality.

And when I do, death will seem a mercy.

He pushed himself up, movements stiff and pained. In the mirror, he barely recognized himself, face ravaged by tears, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, shadows still curling protectively around his shoulders.

He looked like what he was: a male who had witnessed something unholy and been forever changed by it.

He splashed cold water on his face, the chill a shock against his heated skin. Then he straightened, squared his shoulders, and faced his reflection. Not to check the damage, but to look himself in the eyes.

To bear it. To earn the right to one day bear your gaze again.

I am yours, as you are mine. Whether you want me or not.

The vow settled in his bones with finality. This was his purpose now. Not Rhysand's missions. Not court politics. Not ancient vendettas.

You. All parts of you.

The broken and the healing. The cruel and the kind. The fragments across worlds.

His to protect. His to avenge. His to guard.

He picked up Truth-Teller with unsteady hands.

Not a weapon tonight. Just a reminder.

He opened the bathroom door, shoulders set with new determination.

The grief would come again, he knew. The images would haunt him. But they would also drive him.

He wasn't healed. He wasn't whole. But something had cracked open. Like stone split by frost. And through it, something new might one day grow.

His tears had washed away something old to make room for something new, a shadowsinger with purpose beyond court and war. A male who had finally found something worth fighting for beyond duty and brotherhood.

You.

You stumbled back to your chambers, Azriel's vow reverberating in your mind. Each word had carved itself into your memory with the precision of Truth-Teller's edge.

"Is kneeling and swearing eternal oaths what passes for flirting in Prythian?" you muttered, pressing fingers to your flushed cheeks. "Whatever happened to awkward small talk over wine?"

The bond pulsed in response, a golden thread beneath your skin that sent warmth cascading through your veins.

Ember and Sizzle materialized in twin pops of flame, immediately launching into a dramatic reenactment. Ember dropped to his tiny knees, paws clasped in supplication, mimicking Azriel's intensity with such ridiculous devotion that you snorted despite yourself.

"I'm glad someone finds this amusing," you said, collapsing onto your bed. The mattress sank beneath you, cradling your exhausted body.

Your fingers brushed against the leather journal in your pocket. The worn cover felt warm against your skin. You hesitated, then pulled it out.

"I shouldn't read this," you told the bunnies, already turning pages. "Major invasion of privacy."

The first entry made you choke on a laugh.

"What is a submarine? Some underwater house? Why would anyone put a door with holes in it underwater? Filed under: Makes no sense but I understand completely."

"He's been documenting everything!" you exclaimed, fingertips trembling slightly as you flipped through more pages.

A knock interrupted your reading. A servant bowed when you opened the door.

"My lady, Lords Eris and Lucien request your presence in the eastern gardens. The meeting with Lord Thesan and the shadowsinger has concluded."

Your heart stammered against your ribs. "What meeting?"

"I believe it concerns the Autumn Court," she replied carefully. "They asked for you specifically."

You hurried to the gardens, journal still clutched in your hand. The eternal dawn cast long shadows across the carefully tended paths. As you rounded the final corner, you spotted Eris and Lucien standing with Azriel beneath a blooming tree.

The shadowsinger's back was to you, his wings folded tight against his spine, but his posture changed the moment your scent hit the air.

Lucien looked grim, his metal eye whirring faster than usual. Eris's face was a mask of cold fury, lips pressed into a bloodless line, until he saw you. His expression softened instantly.

Azriel turned, and the raw emotion in his eyes knocked the breath from your lungs. His shadows stretched toward you before he reined them in, but not before one tendril brushed your ankle.

"What's happening?" you demanded, heart pounding. "Why wasn't I included?"

Eris's gaze flicked to Azriel, sharp as a blade. "Shadowsinger, leave us. This is a family matter."

A muscle ticked in Azriel's jaw. His shadows darkened, coiling tightly around him. For a moment, you thought he might refuse, but then he bowed his head in a gesture of surprising deference.

"As you wish," he said quietly. His voice was midnight stone, cool and impenetrable. The words were for Eris, but his eyes found yours. "I'll be nearby if needed."

With that, he dissolved into darkness, though the bond tugged insistently in the direction he'd vanished.

Once he was gone, Eris's shoulders dropped a fraction, the knife-edge of his posture dulling just enough to reveal something more human underneath.

"I've declared the northern territories of Autumn Court in rebellion against Beron," he said, his voice precise as a surgeon's blade. "Dawn Court has granted sanctuary and military aid."

Cold shock washed through you, the bond trembling with your fear. "You're starting a civil war?"

"A war that's been brewing for centuries," Eris replied, each word cut from ice. "Beron's time has ended."

"Why now?" you asked, stomach twisting into knots. "What's changed?"

Lucien moved closer, his expression gentling. Before you could respond, Lucien closed the distance between you. His arms wrapped around you in an embrace so unexpected that you froze, the journal pressed awkwardly between you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, voice breaking. You could feel him trembling. "I'm sorry for failing you. For not being the brother you deserved."

You stood shocked, uncertain how to respond. Over his shoulder, you saw Eris watching, his amber eyes burning with an emotion you'd never witnessed there before.

"I'll protect you," Lucien continued, pulling back to meet your gaze. His metal eye whirred, focusing with fierce intensity. "I swear it on the Mother, on my blood, on whatever remains of my honor."

"We protect our own," Eris echoed. Unlike Lucien, he maintained his distance, but the vow in his voice cut deeper than any blade. "Whatever the cost."

You looked between them, Lucien's open emotion, Eris's restrained intensity, and felt something shift inside you. Not the mating bond, but something equally profound. The bond of family, forged in shared purpose.

"Beron will retaliate," Eris continued, voice hardening until it could have shattered stone. "You can't stay in Dawn Court. It's not defensible enough."

The bond reacted to your rising concern, pulsing beneath your breastbone. It felt like warning, like protection.

"The Night Court has offered sanctuary," Lucien said, his metal eye gleaming with determination.

"The Night Court?" Your voice rose slightly. The bond flared, golden warmth spreading through your chest. "With Azriel?"

Something that might have been amusement flickered in Eris's eyes, there and gone like a spark from a fire. "Despite my personal feelings about the shadowsinger, his protection is... formidable."

"You'll have choices there," Lucien assured you, warmth infusing his words. "You'll have freedom."

The word resonated within you. Your fingers tightened around the journal, its leather warm against your skin.

"Do I have a choice now?" you asked. "Or has this already been decided?"

The brothers exchanged a look laden with centuries of understanding.

"The choice is yours," Lucien said, his voice gentle. "Always."

"But we strongly advise Night Court protection," Eris added, amber eyes never leaving yours.

Ember and Sizzle materialized on your shoulders, sensing your uncertainty. Ember nuzzled against your cheek, his tiny flame form surprisingly comforting. Sizzle puffed herself up, growing to twice her size as if preparing to defend you from your own brothers.

"I'll go to the Night Court," you said finally. The bond hummed in approval, sending warmth through your veins. "But this isn't forever. When Beron is dealt with, I decide where I belong."

"Agreed," Lucien said immediately.

Eris nodded once, the gesture somehow more binding than any oath. "We'll send word when it's safe."

As arrangements were made around you, a shadow tendril briefly touched your hand. Azriel, listening from the darkness, acknowledging your choice without intruding.

The bond responded instantly, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin where the shadow had touched. Not rejection. Not possession. But recognition.

Looking at your brothers, one openly protective, one fiercely reserved, you felt something you hadn't expected. Belonging.

Whatever awaited in your future with a certain shadowsinger, you wouldn't face it alone.

The Dawn Court servants had packed most of your belongings. All that remained were your personal items and deciding which of Azriel's gifts to bring. You stood over the drawer containing them, his journal warm in your hands, your fingers tracing the worn leather cover.

A whisper of darkness gathered at your balcony, like night itself had taken form. Shadows curled and danced in invitation before Azriel himself appeared, moonlight silvering the edges of his wings.

"May I enter?" he asked, his voice deep velvet in the twilight. He remained outside, waiting with a patience that seemed etched into his very being.

You stiffened, heart betraying you with a quickened beat. "Why are you here?"

"Your brothers asked me to check final arrangements," he replied, but something in his eyes, a vulnerability that belied his warrior's stance, suggested another reason entirely.

You nodded, placing the journal back in the drawer. "Fine. Come in."

He stepped inside, wings tucked tight against his back, not the predatory male you'd first met, but someone humbled, careful. You moved to the opposite side of the room, pretending not to notice how the bond between you brightened at his nearness, golden light briefly visible beneath your skin.

Silence stretched between you, fragile as spun glass. Ember and Sizzle materialized, their tiny flame bodies casting warm light across your face. They stayed beside you, but their eyes remained fixed on Azriel with unmistakable longing.

"Are you prepared for tomorrow's journey?" Azriel finally asked, shadows betraying his nervousness, reaching toward you before he pulled them back.

"As prepared as one can be when shuttled between courts like a parcel," you replied, your tone softer than intended. Something about the night, about his presence, made your carefully constructed walls seem suddenly transparent.

He didn't flinch, but his shadows curled inward, as if absorbing your words. "Your world," he said unexpectedly, eyes finding yours across the distance. "What was it like?"

The question caught you off guard. "Why do you want to know?"

His gaze didn't waver. "Because it made you," he answered simply. "And that makes it important."

Your breath caught, the raw honesty disarming you more effectively than any practiced charm. "Is this small talk? Because you're terrible at it."

A smile, rare and beautiful, touched his lips. "Is it working anyway?"

Despite yourself, warmth bloomed in your chest. "Maybe."

"Tell me," he said, voice falling to an intimate murmur that seemed designed for secrets shared in darkness. "Please."

You moved to the balcony, gesturing for him to join you beneath the stars. His scent, night-chilled stone and cedar, enveloped you as he drew near, careful to maintain the space you needed.

"Submarines are vessels that travel underwater," you explained, watching wonder transform his severe features. "Like ships, but beneath the surface."

"And screen doors?"

Your answering laugh surprised you both. "They're mesh doors that keep insects out while letting air in, useless on submarines, hence the saying."

"Your world sounds fascinating," he said, gaze lingering on your smile.

"Says the immortal shadowsinger," you countered, noticing how starlight caught in his eyes, turning them to liquid gold.

His attention fell to your mouth. "What about...yeeting?"

"Oh god." Heat rushed to your face.

Laughter bubbled up from some long-forgotten place inside you. Ember and Sizzle suddenly formed tiny flame balls and flinging them while squeaking what could only be their version of "yeet."

"No, no!" you exclaimed through giggles. "No yeeting fire indoors!"

Azriel's shadows darted out, catching the flame balls before they could cause damage. What happened next stole your breath, darkness and fire merged, spiraling together in a dance of opposing elements that somehow created something new, something beautiful.

"I didn't know they could do that," you whispered, momentarily forgetting the distance you'd imposed.

"Neither did I," Azriel replied, watching the interaction with wonder. "Looks like we create something beautiful together."

The implication hung in the air between you, not a challenge, but a truth offered without expectation.

"What do you miss most about your world?" Azriel asked, his voice a caress in the darkness.

"Coffee," you admitted, leaning against the balcony rail, face tilted toward stars you were beginning to recognize. "And the people who'd make it for me on bad days."

His hazel eyes lit with genuine curiosity. "What is this coffee? I've heard you mention it before."

"It's a drink made from roasted beans. Bitter, but in the best way possible. People get addicted to it."

One of his shadows curled forward with interest. "Your world has recreational poisons?"

You laughed, the sound startling in its genuineness. "We have so many. Coffee, alcohol, sugar, social media..."

"Social... media?" His brow furrowed, shadows mimicking his confusion in swirling patterns.

"Imagine if everyone in Prythian could instantly send messages to everyone else, at all times of day, and also show pictures of their breakfast."

A rare smile tugged at his lips. "That sounds..."

"Horrible? It absolutely is," you grinned. "I was completely addicted."

"You miss things that are horrible for you?" His shadows danced with amusement.

"Humans are complicated like that." You gestured to the night sky. "We also had metal contraptions that flew without wings. Cars that moved without horses. Tiny devices that held all the world's knowledge in your pocket."

Azriel leaned closer, completely enraptured. "Tell me more about these... cars?"

"Metal boxes with wheels and engines. They go really fast, but also kill thousands of people every year."

"Your world sounds terrifying," he said, but his tone conveyed fascination, not judgment.

"We also had medicine that could cure most diseases. Buildings that touched the clouds. Devices that let you talk to someone across the world instantly."

"Yet you say 'yeet' when throwing things," he noted with unexpected dry humor.

You burst out laughing. "Did you just make a joke? The terrifying shadowsinger made a joke!"

For the next hour, you described smartphones, internet, airplanes, and television. Azriel listened with increasing amazement, his shadows occasionally forming shapes that resembled what you described—tiny cars, miniature airplanes, even a crude approximation of a smartphone.

"Your world sounds interesting," he said finally. "Creative. Innovative."

"It's also polluted, overcrowded, and constantly at war," you admitted. "No place is perfect."

His expression grew serious as he reached into his leathers. "I have something for you."

From within his leathers, he produced a small object wrapped in midnight blue silk. His scarred fingers barely grazed yours as he placed it in your palm, but even that brief contact sent warmth cascading through your veins.

Inside lay a delicate silver charm—a tiny flame crafted with remarkable detail, suspended on a fine chain. Within the flame swirled what looked like living shadow, dancing and pulsing with quiet life.

"I asked Amren to bind your flame to my shadow," Azriel explained, his voice rough with emotion. "It'll grow warmer the closer I am."

His shadows caressed the charm as if reluctant to part with this piece of himself.

"And if you ever need me," he continued, eyes meeting yours with fierce intensity, "break it. The bond will bring me to you, across any distance."

You held the charm against your heart, understanding the gift's true significance—not possession, but protection. Not demand, but devotion.

"I know your path is yours to choose," he said, voice breaking slightly. "But if you ever need someone who will come without question, without hesitation..." His scarred hand hovered near your cheek, not quite touching. "Let it be me."

Before you could respond, a commotion erupted below. Azriel's shadows instantly darkened, stretching toward the sound as his body tensed, warrior replacing poet in the space of a heartbeat.

Lucien appeared at your door, face grim. "We have to leave. Now. Beron's forces breached the defenses."

"How?" Azriel demanded, wings flaring protectively around you.

"Betrayal," Lucien answered. "Someone inside let them through."

The charm burned warm against your skin, its promise suddenly vital.

"Get her to Velaris," Lucien commanded. "I'll hold them here."

"And Eris?" you asked, heart pounding.

"Captured."

Azriel moved toward you with predatory grace, the tender male of moments ago transformed into living shadow. His fingertips finally brushed your cheek, the touch so gentle it made your eyes burn with unshed tears.

"Stay behind me," he said, voice midnight steel. "Always."

As he cradled you against his chest, you felt his heart beating in perfect rhythm with yours, the bond between you no longer a chain but a lifeline.

Through the windows, orange flame bloomed in the distance. Velaris lay ahead, but behind you, everything you'd begun to trust was burning.

As Azriel launched into the night, wings unfurling like destruction made beautiful, you slipped the necklace over your head and pressed the charm between your bodies, where fire and shadow already danced together, creating something neither of you had imagined possible.

Author’s Note: This was one of the hardest chapters I have ever written. It deals with trauma, helplessness, and the echoes of pain that linger in love. Nothing here is for shock value. It is about survival, silence, and the grief of watching someone you care for break.

If you have lived through something like this, or love someone who has, I see you. This story does not claim to define that pain, but it does seek to honor it.

Please take care while reading. Step away if needed. Your peace matters. 🕊️

Taglist: @circe143 @lunarxcity @willowpains @messageforthesmallestman @lreadsstuff @evye47 @lovely-susie @moonfawnx @tele86 @moonlitlavenders @darkbloodsly @ees-chaotic-brain @smol-grandpa @auraofathena @lottiiee413 @minaaminaa8 @claudiab22 @moonbeamruins @shewolf1549 @crimsonandwhiteprincess @a-band-aid-for-your-heart @kathren1sky-blog @alimarie1105 @masbt1218 @topaz125 @falszywe @randomdumsblog @sophia-grace2025 @okaytrashpanda @thegoddessofnothingness @unarxcity @svearehnn @suhke3 @galaxystern08 @ivy-34 @hellsenthero @nayaniasworld @raccoonworld @bobbywobbby @evergreenlark @greenmandm @shinyghosteclipse @catloverandreader @the-onlyy-angie @bunnboosblog @i-like-boooks @ashduv @kayjaywrites @lovelyreaderlovesreading @badbishsblog @vera0124 @i-am-infinite @scatteredstardustt @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @chaotic-luvrs @etsukomoonbeam @justtryingtosurvive02 @dianxiaxiexie @annaaaaa88 @mortqlprojections @quiet-loser @shamelesswolftheorist @vanserrasimp @lovelyflower7777 @probendingwords @allthatisbuck1917 @thejediprincess56 @forvalentineboy @romwyz @plowden @jada-lockwood @traveling-neverland @wanderwithmex @magicaldragonlady @makemeurvillain @justswimm @saltedcoffeescotch @rafeecameronsbitch @sherhd @stainedpomegranatelips @ayohockeycheck @yourdarkrose @taurusvic @illyrianshadow @s-h-e-l-b-e-e @ly--canthrope @star-chaser1 @dormantzzzs

#acotar #azriel #azriel x oc #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x you #rhysand #feyre acotar #cassian #nesta acotar

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cressidagrey · 7 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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salemrph · 3 months ago

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"Let the World Burn"

Chapter 1: A not so well planned night

Summary: A night of celebration ends in chaos—you vanish without a trace. The ransom demand arrives, but Sylus knows this isn’t just about money. What should’ve been a simple rescue mission unearths secrets far more sinister than anyone ever imagined.

Character: Sylus x MC; Luke and Kieran, Caleb, Zayne

Genre/Warning: descriptions of violence and blood, hurt/comfort, injuries, grief, romantic, drama, action, slight sexual content, angst

Word count: 8,135 | Reading Time: 32 min | AO3

taglist: @voidsylus @thechaoticarchivist @syluscrows @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme

Chapter 1: A not so well planned night

The burning building groans under the weight of its own collapse, crumbling piece by piece. The flames rage uncontrollably, swallowing the entire complex, leaving nothing but charred ruins. In the heart of the main part of the wearhouse, the scene is a nightmare. The floor is slick with blood, bodies scattered in unnatural poses, bullet casings gleaming like twisted confetti in the dim light. The air reeks of gunpowder and death. This was no battlefield—this was a massacre.

Under the eerie glow of the red moon, such a sight might seem familiar. But tonight, something is wrong. This wasn't supposed to be the end. This wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Not after everything.

Gunfire echoes, sharp and relentless. The screams of the fallen mingle with the guttural roars of the Wanderers, their twisted forms wreaking havoc as they tear through what remains. It’s a cacophony of violence, a hellish symphony that cuts through the night. And through the madness, there he is—the man in the suit. The one who has conquered with nothing more than his calm demeanor and his cold, calculating presence. The one they all feared. But now, as he stands in the wreckage, there is no cool detachment. There is no indifferent strategist. His expression is tight, his jaw set with a fury that has never before surfaced. His usual composure has shattered like glass, replaced with darker, dangerous rage. His right eye, glowing like a dying star, reflects the turmoil inside him. It burns with the kind of intensity that could scorch the very earth beneath him.

In his arms, the body of a woman, limp and lifeless, hangs like dead weight. Her blood stains his clothes, seeping into the fabric, marking him with a reminder of the choices he’s made, the consequences of those choices. The plan was never supposed to unfold this way. This was not the outcome he had imagined. The walls of the building continue to groan, buckling under the weight of the flames, the weight of everything collapsing. It had been a trap. Of course, it had been. But he had no choice. The risk was necessary.

And now he has paid the price.

Few days before

Gradually, routine returns to your life. The festivities are over, the beginning of the year has been wonderful. Going to the New Year's market with Sylus has been a good way to see how your relationship has changed. The feelings you have for him have been consolidated. You accept them and welcome them, letting the beautiful and sparks fill your chest with warmth, tenderness and love.

As you made the lanterns together you remembered every adventure you've shared with him. The search for the lost gem, being sucked into a protocore to a far away place. The trip to the mountains or to the lost oasis. You smile in a daze. You've spent so much time with Sylus, that returning home alone is strange. Lying on the bed, you remember how he struggled to shower at your place. Making a mess in the bathroom. That was just the first step to letting him into your territory, not only speaking about your apartament. Your holy sanctuary. That night of secrecies. You couldn't let him go, that night your whole body and mind wanted to make him stay. You sigh as you remember his lips, the heat between you two, the melting feeling to become one. You hug the big crow plush laying next to you on the bed, it smells like him. So comforting. Now, without him around, you’re deeply sure that being with him makes your life funnier, kind of dangerous but strangely full of new emotion.

However, not everything is honey-coated and perfect. Your face changes, your stomach hurts, and you lay on your side as you remember your mission in Skyhaven. Caleb. You want to throw up. He lied to you, in the cruelest way possible.

Although you wish with all your heart that Caleb had his good reasons, something doesn't add up. The explosion definitely happened. The Fleet and everything around it is a black box. A void, like Caleb. He came back so different… You haven't talked about it at all. He must have a reason to hide things from you, locking you up in his apartment. That wasn’t nearly how you had him in memory. Worst of all, you can't just go to Zayne and tell him: “Oh by the way Caleb isn't dead”. You can already picture his face, not sure if he should prescribe you pills or send you to psychiatry. Making maybe at the beginning a dry joke or something. Zayne would pinch his nose before removing his glasses. Trying to figure out if you’re really serious about it or you haven't fully accepted Caleb's death. Either way, if Zayne believed you, his reaction would be just as stoic as ever. What you can't know is that beneath that icy, overly professional manner of dealing with you, he feels a deep affection for you. Ever since you met. That affection would make him get into a big fight with Caleb.

Oh, and how about explaining this to Sylus? He would believe you right away but at the same time, he would be probably looking for a way to make Caleb pay for his action. If those two ever met, it could be the end of the world. Seeing how Caleb is now and how overprotective he is with you. He would probably not like it one bit that you're dating the most wanted man in the galaxy. And thinking about how much Sylus doesn't like people messing with you…and how he usually treats his enemies. Very bad idea, very, very bad idea. Honestly speaking that would be a fight to see who has the biggest cock. The Farspace Fleet's Colonel vs Onychinus's Leader. Place your bets on who will be the last one standing.

You are tense, tired and helpless. The whole thing just gives you a headache. Caleb has texted you a few times after New Year. He showed up a few times but it was still weird. That's it. You sit up on the bed, you look out of the window, it’s raining. Somehow he always brings a storm into your life. It doesn't matter if he comes back or if he is leaving. You truly wish you could trust him, like you used to. A tear rolls down your cheek. You breathe in deeply, trying to hold back all the emotions.

A notification pops up on your phone. You wipe the tears from your face.

“How are you doing? We haven't seen each for a while” You smile at Tara’s message, quickly typing a reply.

“Good, just trying to survive this weather. Feels like it’s been forever since we last spoke. You back from your family’s place yet?”

She responds almost immediately.

“Yeah! Just got back yesterday. It was nice, but chaotic as always. What about you?”

You hesitate for a moment before replying.

“Nothing too special these days”

Tara, of course, sees right through you.

“Nothing? Girl, that answer is screaming ‘I’m hiding something.’ Spill."

You roll your eyes, but your fingers hover over the keyboard. You could tell her about Sylus—about how you ended up together, the teasing, the tension, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. But you feel like it isn't the moment.

"There’s nothing to spill 🥱"

“Mhm. Sure. You definitely didn’t spend time with someone who makes you all flustered and stupidly heart-eyed♥."

You: "I don’t get flustered😖"

Tara: So you were with him!!!

You groan, rolling onto your stomach and burying your face in your pillow before typing back.

You: "That’s not what I said."

Tara: "You didn’t deny it either."

She’s relentless. You can practically hear the smugness through the screen.

Tara: "Oh, pleaaase. You are so gone for him. It’s painful to watch. Let's have fun this Friday, and share the tea with me. Girls Night!😘

A distraction. That’s what you needed. Something to pull you out of your own head, away from the tangled thoughts of Caleb and the mess that had been occupying too much space lately. Maybe just enjoying the fact that Tara is back, you have Sylus and work isn’t too stressful since your mission in Skyhaven.

You exhale tiredly, relaxing your body a little and you type back a quick "Fine, fine. Girls’ night it is."

You toss your phone aside. If you keep this up, your thoughts will consume you. You need to rest, relax and disconnect, even if it's just for one night. You know full well that if it becomes too much, you can always return to the base. Lose yourself in assembling and disassembling illegal weapons, listen to the stories behind each stolen gem, or simply sink into the sound of a classic vinyl record.

But that would mean pretending, and you don’t have the energy for that either. So you stay. You stay in the solitude of your apartment, listening to the spring storm getting closer, raindrops tapping against your window.

The nightmares keep coming—fragments of memories slipping through your mind, haunting you in the quiet hours of the night. You toss and turn, drenched in cold sweat, your chest tightening with an unease you can’t shake.

That day, you walked behind Caleb. Why does he always look at you like that? Like you’re some helpless animal.

“We’ve been outside for too long. Gran’s going to be worried” he says. You sigh, arguing with him a little longer. He worries too much. You’re an adult now, you can handle yourself. You’re one of the best in your squad—you don’t need protection.

Caleb shakes his head. “Since you’re grown up now, I won’t cover for you this time” he closed the door and with that a huge explosion knocked you off.

You wake up gasping. Your hands tremble as you press them to your face, trying to ground yourself in reality. But the memory is so vivid now, more than it ever was before. Because he’s alive. But he shouldn’t be. You went to his funeral. You grieved. You cried for weeks, drowning yourself in work, chasing leads that led to dead ends. Searching, desperate, for any explanation that made sense. You were lucky to just have a few bruises and scratches, but you still don't know how you survived that.

Is still raining outside.

Friday arrives, and with that, the bass thrums through the air, a hypnotic pulse that sinks into your bones. The music is loud, almost overwhelming, but it pulls you in, makes you move without thinking. The crowd around you sways in sync, bodies pressed close, some dancing, some lost in their own world. Flashes of blue and red lights sweep over the dance floor, catching glimpses of flushed faces, sweaty skin, and wide, dilated pupils. Laughter and shouts mix with the heavy bass, but it’s all just background noise. You let the rhythm take over, moving to the music, feeling lighter with every beat. The shots you took earlier are kicking in, smoothing out the tension in your mind, making everything feel a little more distant, a little easier.

You're not here to drink yourself into oblivion, this isn’t about forgetting. But Tara knows you too well. She’s been sliding shot after shot of tequila your way, a knowing glint in her eyes. She’s not being subtle. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

Tequila loosens your tongue.

And Tara? She’s waiting. Watching for that moment when your guard slips, when the alcohol smooths out the edges of your thoughts just enough for you to say what you wouldn’t sober.

You slightly stumble into the bathroom, Tara right behind you. The pounding bass from the dance floor fades into a dull thrum. You grip the edge of the sink, taking a deep breath, using the cold water to clean the sweat of your neck.

"So," she starts, dragging out the word. "Are you going to tell me?"

You blink at her. "Tell you what?"

Tara tilts her head, exhaling like she’s dealing with a particularly slow student. "Skye. That ridiculously handsome fruit entrepreneur you’re definitely fucking aaand… you’re in love with?" She smirks. "That. Talk to me."

You hang your head in shame. Tara can read you like an open book. She’s not stupid. Sweet? Sure. Cheerful? Most of the time. But when she wants the truth, she has a way of digging it out of you, whether you like it or not.

"Fine, fine…" you mumble, rubbing your temples as if that’ll somehow erase the tequila-induced haze clouding your brain. "I have…" You trail off, searching for the right word like it might magically appear on the bathroom wall. Tara arches a brow, waiting. "...Something with him" you finally admit, the words tasting both bitter and sweet.

"I knew it" Tara says triumphantly, a smirk spreading across her face. But then, her expression softens. "But… there’s something more, right? Is he treating you well?"

Your instinct is to brush it off, to tell her everything is fine. Perfect, even. But you hesitate, and that tiny moment of silence is enough for Tara to catch on. Her smirk fades as she studies your face.

"Hey," she says gently. "What’s wrong?"

You shake your head quickly, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. You don’t want to cry. Not here. Not now.

"I’m fine with Skye, really. I’m fine." you insist, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. "Emm… It’s not about him… I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it."

Tara doesn’t look convinced.

"You can always talk to me, you know that?" Tara says softly, her voice free of judgment, just warmth.

Before you can respond, she pulls you into a long hug, wrapping her arms around you tightly. The kind of hug that makes your chest ache, like it’s holding together all the cracks you’ve been ignoring. For a second, you let yourself sink into it. Eyes closed, fists gripping the back of her jacket. You don’t say anything because if you do, you might break. You just want to forget for a moment, so you put on your best smile.

You step out of the club with Tara, your laughter spilling into the crisp night air as you imitate the ridiculous guy who’d tried—laughably—to hit on both of you at the same time. The absurdity of it still had your sides aching. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed this, the chaos, the rhythm, the freedom of letting go. Your feet ache from hours of dancing, but it's the kind of satisfying pain, the kind that comes from having fun. You glance down at your feet, sighing a little, but when you look back up, Tara's already pulling out her phone, tapping away at a text with that familiar, sly smile.

"Good night! Come home safe, you hear? she says, giving you a playful wink before stepping back with a wave.

You smile back, tilting your head to the side. "Night, Tara. We need to do this more often."

Her laugh rings out, light and warm, as she taps out one final text before slipping her phone back into her bag. She spins on her heel, her stride confident as she calls over her shoulder, "Oh, trust me, we will."

You decide to walk a few streets down, hoping the cool night air will help ease the alcohol still remaining in your system. The city around you buzz with the low sounds of late-night life—cars passing, distant conversations, and the occasional siren. You pull your jacket tighter around you, enjoying the peace after the chaos of the club.

As you walk, you briefly think about calling Sylus. It’s late, though, but you figure he’s probably busy with his usual late-night reading or, more likely, handling some shady business—being the leader he is. A smirk tugs at your lips.

You glance down at the bracelet with the cursed gem, remembering the hunt in the N109 Zone. The gem had caused so much trouble, but you couldn’t help but laugh at the memory of Sylus swearing he had "lost" it. He really has no luck when it comes to keeping things, does he?

The thought of him—his unwavering confidence, the rare softness he reserves only for you—warms you from the inside out, like the memory of his hand brushing against your hand, your cheek and finally all over your body.

You shake your head with a quiet chuckle, a mixture of fondness and comfort washing over you. Sylus has a way of consuming your mind without even trying. It’s maddening, really. But in moments like this, you don’t fight it. You let yourself savor the pull he has on you, that magnetic connection you both share.

Maybe you’re finally ready to tell him how you feel. You haven’t said those tree teeny-tiny words that are always on your lips. Is undeniably to say that what you two have is certainly a relationship. The thought sends a flicker of nervous energy through you, but it’s one you can’t push away any longer. After all, you’ve declared it already—in your own, complicated way. The matching bracelets might as well be a couple's tokens, a declaration sealed by the ominous phrase you both had exchanged: “Live together and die together.”

Your fingers graze the gem on the bracelet, its surface cool against your skin. The memory of the moment flashes brightly in your mind. Sylus’s eyes, deep and endless like the gem itself, holding this mix of tenderness and affection. He had looked at you in a way that made your breath catch, and though he hadn’t said much, the subtle shift in his expression told you everything you needed to know. He was happy. Happy to share the „curse“ and whatever else might come with it, as long as it was with you. At that moment, you wanted to kiss him so bad.

You laugh softly to yourself, shaking your head again. Nothing about Sylus is ever quite normal—not the way he plans, not the way he cares, not even the way he agrees to wear such trinkets like it’s a love note. But that’s okay. In fact, it’s more than okay. It’s him.

So much has changed since that snowy night. Despite the low temperature outside and the way the snow piled heavily on the ground, you felt warm—warmer than ever on a winter night. Your territories merged into one, his skin became yours, and yours became his. The cold was forgotten as his touch anchored you, the world outside fading until only he remained.

During the festivities, creating lanterns for the New Year, in your new complicity. You have almost forgotten the mission you both went after that snowy night.

„I don't need to mention that you always surprise me, sweetie.“ Sylus smiles at you from the passenger seat.

You smile back, the satisfaction of your plans falling into place shining in your eyes. "It’s what I do best" you reply confidently, earning a soft suppressed laugh from him.

Sylus shakes his head lightly, his sharp red eyes glinting with intrigue. "Go on, tell me what you’ve figured out, my bold hunter" he prompts, leaning back in his seat, clearly enjoying your moment of triumph as much as you are. Your fingers tighten slightly around the steering wheel as you prepare to unveil your findings.

It’s only when the faint scuff of a step echoes behind you, too close to be ignored, that the spell of your thoughts breaks. The warmth in your chest cools instantly, replaced by the sharp edge of awareness. You glance over your shoulder, the street seems empty. Either way, you pick up the pace, your footsteps quickening on the sidewalk. That nagging feeling won’t go away. Someone’s definitely following you.

You keep your pace steady, trying to stay calm, but your hand instinctively moves towards where your weapon would be. It’s not there. Dammit. You left it at home. Of course, the security guy at the club wouldn’t have let you in with it. You click your tongue in frustration. You wanted a simple, easy night. Instead, you're walking through dark streets, being stalked like some damn prey. Surely that moron from the club is stalking you now, for letting him down. This drunk dipshit has no scruples whatsoever. The last thing you need is a confrontation. You can’t help but feel the adrenaline start to pump, trying to spot whosoever tailing you.

You whip around into a side street, your heart pounding. You peek over your shoulder again, the unease turning to full-blown anxiety. But as you turn to face forward, a hard, sudden impact knocks you off your feet. Pain erupts across your face, and you stagger back, knees buckling as the world tilts dangerously. Blood trickles down your cheek, hot and sticky.

A low laugh follows you, cruel and mocking. "We got you, honey... Be good, and don’t make any sound."

Before you can even react, something heavy slams against the back of your head, your vision spins out of control. The darkness takes over, pulling you under like a wave. Sylus... Hardly able to hold onto the thought as everything goes black for a moment.

"Hey! Are you stupid or something!? The boss said she should arrive in one piece" The big guy that punched you, swings out to hit the other guy in the face. "You!" He turned to the third man in a raincoat "Throw her in the truck, we're leaving".

The big guy spits on the ground, wiping his knuckles with the back of his hand, his face twisted in irritation. He shoots a glare at the third man, who's standing off to the side, clearly unsure of what to do.

"Get moving, asshole" the big guy growls. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Raincoat guy, a little skittish but obedient, steps forward and grabs your arm, yanking you to your feet with surprising strength. You barely register the movement, your head spinning, everything still hazy from the second blow you took. The world around you seems to blur and twist as they drag you along the alley, the sounds of their voices muffled as if coming from underwater.

"It wasn’t easy to get you" the big guy mutters, his tone low as they push you toward a black truck parked at the end of the street. "But.. It seems that today is our lucky day." The cold metal of the truck presses against your face as you slip completely into unconsciousness. You feel your hands being tied roughly. It hurts. You don't even have the strength to scream. The world fades away, leaving only the faintest whisper of the crow's caw ecos in your mind before everything goes dark.

Under the red moon in the N109 Zone, in one of the many locales under Onychinus's control, stood an opulent lounge hidden within the skeleton of an old industrial building. Polished black marble floors gleamed under the warm glow of crystal chandeliers, their light dancing across walls adorned with intricate carvings and rich velvet accents.

A long bar of dark wood stretched across one side of the room, lined with bottles of the finest spirits from across the world. Plush leather seating circled low tables, each arranged for privacy and comfort. The faint hum of classical music played in the background, a stark yet intentional contrast to the lawless chaos that marked the rest of the zone.

Sylus glanced at the cards in his hand, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he discarded one and leaned back in his armchair. On the table in front of him, cards, chips, and a half-full glass of whiskey were laid out in a casual arrangement that belied the tension in the air. The dim lights of the room flickered over his sharp features, creating shadows that only accentuated his calm, confident demeanor. His eyes flicked briefly to the clock on the wall. It was late, but that didn't matter. The game had its own rhythm, its own flow. Time was just another tool in Sylus’s arsenal.

The men —business associates, lackeys, and rivals alike— around the table exchanged words about profits and threats, the usual back-and-forth of business. Sylus sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet commanding, fingers loosely gripping the edge of his glass. To anyone watching, he looked completely in control, nodding at the right moments, his sharp eyes betraying nothing. But the truth is, he wasn’t really listening. His mind was elsewhere.

He’d just finished dealing with a potential problem in one of the sectors—nothing that couldn’t be handled by the twins, but still, it had required his attention. Normally, his focus would remain on the next move, but tonight, his thoughts wandered.

He knew you’d be out tonight, enjoying yourself. Mephisto is taking an eye on you, even if he shouldn't be monitoring every time. But it is the best for both. And besides, you don't need to know everything he does to keep you safe. His jaw tightened slightly, and he forced himself to relax. The thought of you laughing, genuine and carefree, eased the tension in his chest. He wanted you here, with him. The room’s dim light, the murmur of voices, the ever-present hum of danger, it all felt less significant compared to the idea of you.

He imagines you sitting on his lap, dancing in the shower, looking at him with that sweet smile laying next to him…makes Sylus want to leave immediately, setting everything on fire. Burning the whole fucking planet down if that’s keeping him from going back to you. Especially after that sublime night when you finally fell into his arms, when you finally said yes to him. The memory of your sweet whimpers replayed in his mind, again and again. The way you called his name in soft whispers is a melody he couldn’t forget.

The lascivious sound that emanates through the silence of the room, the rustle of the sheet under your skin, the slight creaking of the bed as Sylus thrust his cock inside you, a symphony that he wishes would not stop.

“Sy..Sylus” you moan. “More...”

“As you wish."

Each movement, each shift of his body against yours, sends a wave of heat through him, making it harder to stay composed. His muscles tighten with every gasp and every whimper that comes from you. Your fingers pulling at his silver hair, it's like adding fuel to the fire.

Sylus took a discreet, deep breath, forcing himself to keep his composure. His dick is already reacting to the thought of your naked body. That night and all the others he has spent with you, have been the ones in which he has slept most peacefully. In his built fortress where he can have you all to himself, away from the dangerous world, where every second person wants to kill him. And in those moments, the chains of anxiety, loneliness and fear vanish with every smile you give him. He still doesn’t understand how, despite everything he did to you in the beginning—kidnapping you, forcing you to resonate with him—you still choose him.

He would never have imagined that in this opportunity that the universe has given him, he would actually have you for himself. He doesn’t want to be selfish or let greed consume him, but it’s not enough. He waited so long, so painfully long. Every second he doesn't spend with you is another second wasted in his semi-mortal life that he has. The desire to feel your love forever, your hand gently caressing his hair, drowns him.

He needs to call you after this—no, perhaps he would come to you instead. Maybe pick you up wherever you were or better yet, slip into your apartment and fall asleep beside you, where he belonged.

His phone vibrated, a notification lighting up the screen. His gaze flinched to it briefly, a part of him wondering if it was you. Perhaps you wanted to share some late-night thought or even indulge in one of those rare moments of vulnerability you let slip with him. The idea of hearing your voice, even through the static of a call, pulled all his attention.

As soon as he unlocked the screen, his smirk faltered just for a fraction of a second. His eyes narrowed as the footage played. The image on the screen was unmistakable: you, stumbling, disoriented, your silhouette outlined in the harsh glow of streetlights. A group of bastards surrounded you, their movements quick and methodical as they shoved you half unconscious toward the back of a truck. His fingers tightened around the phone, the faintest crack of pressure whispering through the room as his grip betrayed his calm exterior. For a moment his Evol expands around him, the crimson mist charged with energy could have killed everyone in the room in an eyeblink.

Sylus’s expression turned dark, cold and lethal. A surge of bloodlust coursed through him—the calculated rage that always ignited when someone dared to lay a hand on his treasures. And in this moment the greatest treasure is you. The men at the table, sensing the shift in the room, grew tense. The air felt heavier, thick with the wordless fear of being in Sylus’s presence when his mood changed. The conversations died down, and even the bravest of them hesitated to make eye contact with him. Everyone in this room knew Sylus’s reputation. They’d seen or heard stories of what happened to those who crossed him. And they knew very well that, while his vengeance is swift, it is the aftermath that was truly terrifying. Feeling the weight of his anger was to face something worse than death itself.

Sylus tapped his fingers against the table like a countdown to doomsday. His mind raced through possibilities, contingencies, and plans he’d already set in motion to ensure your safety. He’d anticipated countless threats, prepared for a hundred scenarios. But this? This wasn’t business. This was personal.

Taking you couldn’t be just an arbitrary coincidence. You weren’t an easy target, not with the layers of protection he has placed around you. No, this was intentional. Someone had been watching, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Finally, he broke the sepulchral silence making the men feel the air grow colder around them. “Excuse me, gentlemen. It appears I have… more urgent matters to attend to.”

He stood slowly, his eyes scanning the room one last time. None dared meet his gaze, their fear as tangible as the tension in the air. They knew Sylus wouldn’t merely retaliate—he’d destroy whoever had dared to piss him off. Making them pay the price in the most painful, unforgettable way possible. They had unknowingly signed their own death warrants.

As Sylus reached for his coat, his phone buzzed again. He glanced at the screen—coordinates update of Mephisto position. He stepped out into the dimly lit hallway where Luke and Kieran waited. Both men straightened immediately, their usual confidence replaced with a cautious tension. They could sense it.

Luke spoke up, cautious, "Boss..."

Sylus didn’t even spare him a glance. He didn’t need to. Sylus shoved his phone into Luke's hand, the grainy clip of you being hauled into a truck playing in grim silence. His voice was low and cutting as he stepped forward.

"It’s hunting season," Sylus said coolly. Both stiffened. "I want a name. I don’t care who you have to hurt to get it." His eyes flicked between them, daring either of them to question him. They knew exactly what it meant: no one was safe. Every shred of mercy Sylus might have offered was off the table.

Kieran gave a sharp nod, already in motion. “We’ll find out who’s behind this, boss.”

Sylus’s lips curved into a smug smile. “Make sure you do. If anyone’s stupid enough to get in the way…” He let the threat hang in the air.

------------------

Your mind slowly clears, but the pain in your head and the taste of blood in your mouth make it hard to focus. You try to move, but something isn’t right. A sudden panic flares inside you as you realize your hands are bound. You attempt to shift your position, trying to find a way to free your hands, but there’s no give. The bindings are too tight biting into your skin, and your fingers are numb from the position they’re forced into. A curse escapes your lips.

A dim light flickers beneath the door, throwing unsettling shadows across the cold, concrete floor. The emergency light above you hums softly, its steady drone amplifying the oppressive silence that surrounds you. You swallow hard, the metallic taste of blood lingering in the back of your throat. It’s hard to think clearly with your head pounding like this, but one thing is certain: you need to get out of here.

Frustration rises inside you, the feeling of being trapped and powerless threatening to drown you. Your body hurts, each movement is an aching twinge through your limbs, but you refuse to stay down. You try to sit up, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision while your head is spinning. For a moment, the world tilts dangerously, and you think you might pass out again. You take a shaky breath, forcing your body to obey. Slowly you manage to sit up against the wall.

With all the training you have had, even the session with Sylus or Xavier, nothing has prepared you for this. Being in pain and injured makes every mission hundred percent more dangerous, that's for sure. Now your body feels heavy and weak. You don’t know how long you’ve been out, but every minute you stay here, the situation gets worse.

“Where the hell am I?” you mutter to yourself, voice hoarse. No windows, no clues. No phone, no gun. The possibility of being found... It will be hours before anyone notices you've disappeared. Your breath catches as the realization hits: whoever brought you here isn’t planning on letting you go anytime soon. The thought makes your stomach churn. You shake it off. You can't afford to panic. The nice clothes you had put on for this trouble-free night are dirty, your socks torn. They've even left you barefoot. You try to hold back your tears. It seems that life loves to see you in these situations. Like seriously, how many times have you been so kidnapped already? This is the third time, if you count Caleb looking at you in his apartment and Sylus three days in his basement. Even if you believe you should have been stronger, this isn’t on you.

What is this shit about!?

After a while, the door swings open and a big guy comes in. The light from the hallway is bothering your eyes, making it hard to see the man clearly. He's not very tall, rather broad, wearing a shirt that's too tight for his body. He looks like some rich idiot's lackey. God, how you hate this. The smell of tobacco is definitely coming from him, but the smell of disinfectant comes from somewhere else. You try to pick behind the silhouette who is approaching you.

"Wow, wow, look at that. Did you sleep well, princess?" he says with a mocking tone making your skin crawl. You press yourself harder against the cold wall, instinctively trying to make yourself smaller.

You glare up at him, forcing your voice to stay steady despite the surge of anger and fear in your chest. "Who are you?" you ask, but your words are tinged with more insecurity then you want to admit. “What do you want?”

He grins, kneeling in front of you like a predator sizing up its prey. The mockery in his smile is unbearable, and his words only make the situation worse.

"Oh, nothing" he says, the smell of your mouth makes you nauseous. "We just needed a bait." You manage to spit the rest of the blood on the floor, your eyes locking onto him with defiance. "Even with your damaged face you look beautiful. I understand why he has you around.” Your stomach turns, but you fight the urge to recoil as he reaches toward your face. “I'm sure you suck him well off with that little mouth." You twist your head away, shaking his hand off with a quick, forceful movement. You breathe heavily and the pain in your head hits you again.

His malicious laughter has a sickening sound. "No need to be shy, princess. We know all about you."

You laugh trying to hide every piece of fear in you. “Oh... Entlight me”

“The untouchable Leader of Onychinus has a weak spot, his Achilles heel…” The man sneers. “A sexy hunter. ”His eyes glint with amusement as he leans in. “In other words... You” The words hit you hard, like a punch to the stomach.

“Achilles heel?” you ask with sarcasm. “I wish. So, you just know that I'm a Hunter trying to imprison him? Wow, great job, big boy. You really cracked the code, didn’t you?” You let out a soft, mocking laugh, leaning back against the cold wall as if his words mean nothing to you. Your heart is hammering in your chest, your ears are ringing because of the anxiety you’re feeling. Let him think you’re a regular Hunter. Nothing more. Let him underestimate you. The more he thinks you’re helpless, the better your chances of escaping this twisted game they’ve dragged you into.

He doesn’t seem amused. "Oh, I see," he sneers, his eyes narrowing as he leans in closer, his breath hot against your face. If he gets any closer, you might just throw up on him. "Playing dumb little girl, huh? Cute." He pauses for a moment. Checking your expression. "You think we don’t know who you really are? You’re not fooling anyone."

“Do you always talk this much, or are you just enjoying the sound of your own voice?” you counter, your words sharper now. It’s a gamble, but anything to keep your composure.

His eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn't seem fazed. If anything, his smirk widens at your resistance. "You’re a tough one. I like that. You are one of those that are more fun to break" he says, his tone makes you shiver. He stood up and grabbed you by your hair, throwing you into the middle of the room. You scream. He approaches you while rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. "Oh, yeah, I will have fun with you before the others can." He kicks you in the stomach, and you scream in pain. "Don't worry I won't kill you."

You just feel bumps all around your body, you don't know how much time passed but it felt like an eternity. The pain is everywhere, you try to protect yourself somehow but there is no way. You are completely at its mercy. The taste of blood fills your mouth and finally when he stops you throw up: the tequila shots, the drinks and your dinner. The deep laughter tells you it's over. The door swings shut behind him, the sound of the lock clicking into place echoing in the room and with that the silence follows.

Sylus...

You fall unconscious again, everything hurts.

------------------

"Speak" Sylus commands, his voice low and clipped, as he stands in the armory, carefully selecting the weapon he'll need. Luke and Kieran finally return after two hours.

"There’s a man, goes by Rudy," Luke begins, breaking the silence. "Seems he’s been conspiring against you for a while."

Sylus exhales sharply, a frustrated sigh escaping him. "Not that jerk," he mutters under his breath. Rudy was one of those insufferable enemies you can have. At best, you could ignore him and hope he didn’t get too out of hand, but it was always a risk. He was a horrible man—too much alcohol, drugs, and cigarettes, with more money than sense. A nobody with delusions of grandeur. His greatest desire was to dethrone Sylus and take control of the N109 Zone. The last bastard who tried that, is dead.

However, the last time Sylus had to deal with that human waste, things went a bit awry. Rudy tried to interfere in a protocore transaction a few months ago, where Sylus gave him a first and last warning, not to interfere in his business. Rudy didn’t take it well, of course. That mission was when you managed to get the plane tickets to go with him. Despite all his efforts to keep you safe, you always found a way to stand by his side. During the mission, Rudy must have memorized your face. Sylus never brought anyone but the twins into his business. He tries to keep out of the mess but… You taught him a good lesson, kicking Rudy’s ass when he tried to attack you, you managed to dodge and knock him to the ground with ease. His beloved is such a fierce hunter.

"And...?" he placed some weapons on the table and the ammunition boxes.

"He’s the one who kidnapped Miss Hunter," Kieran adds, his tone tense. "It’s definitely a trap. He must know that you... have feelings for her."

Sylus’s eyes narrow, his jaw tightening at the mention of that fact. He knew exactly what Rudy was capable of, but to dare mess with him directly—kidnapping you... He should have killed him right then and there. But now, hearing the confirmation of what Rudy had done, Sylus’s grip tightens around the weapon in his hand. The anger surging through him is sharper, more dangerous than it had been before, and no amount of control can suppress it.

The hours of waiting was almost a waste of time. Sylus knows that the twins surely tried his best to bring the information to him, as soon as possible. You could be dead by now. He tried to erase the idea from his head. Mephisto lost track of your kidnappers in a remote area, it seems there is an electromagnetic field. However rushing in blindly, without the proper intel, would be reckless. Sylus was never reckless. He won’t let this go. This time, he’ll make sure Rudy learns the true cost of crossing him.

“There’s something…” Luke started. Sylus’s phone buzzes, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. He picks it up without hesitation, his voice cold and dismissive as he answers.

"Mister Sylus! My old friend!" The voice on the other end is smug, dripping with false camaraderie.

"Cut the crap, Rudy" Sylus snaps, his patience already wearing thin. He leans against the armory wall, his hand gripping the phone with the same tension he holds his weapon.

"Oh, come on now" Rudy laughs, his voice thick with arrogance. "That’s how you greet an old friend? Don’t be so harsh..."

"I don’t have time for this shit" Sylus growls, his eyes narrowing as he listens to Rudy’s infuriating tone.

"Ah, ah, ah… Be nice." Rudy continues, almost gleefully "I have something of yours. I wouldn’t mind giving it back, but... I want something in return."

He straightens, his posture sharp as steel. "Where is she?"

Rudy chuckles, clearly enjoying the tension. "Impatient as always. She’s... fine." There is a pause. "Say something sweetheart." Sylus freezes as he hears your voice, faint but unmistakable in the background.

His mind flickers with a clear dark scenery: Rudy’s lifeless body, each limb meticulously severed, his blood-streaked remains scattered in the ocean to be forgotten by the world. He doesn't usually take the time to torture any of his enemies, but he would take all the time in the world for Rudy. Disintegrating his body with his Evol wouldn't give him the satisfaction he needs. He can already picture the slow, torturous death he’ll deliver, every cut precise, every moment a lesson in regret.

"Don't touch me you asshole—!"

There’s a scream, followed by a sharp scuffle, and then the sound of you biting him. Rudy curses under his breath, but Sylus can’t help but smile—if only for a split second. At least you still have some fight left in you. It’s a small victory in the middle of a much larger storm.

“Rudy” he says, his voice dropping to an almost deadly whisper. “You really don’t understand what you’ve done.”

On the other end of the line, Rudy laughs again, the sound grating against Sylus’s nerves. “Oh, but I think I do. You see, Mister Sylus, I’ve been watching you for a while now. You’ve got a weakness, and she’s absolutely delightful. I’m just making the most of it.”

Sylus doesn’t respond immediately. “I’ll give you one chance. Tell me where she is, and maybe I’ll make your death quick.”

“Always so violent,” Rudy replies mockingly. “You think I’m stupid enough to tell you that? No, no, no. This isn’t a negotiation. You give me what I want, and I’ll consider giving her back. Whole, even.”

The sound of your muffled voice cuts through the conversation again, and for a brief second, Sylus’s mask of control slips. His teeth clench, his jaw tight, as he stares at the weapons lining the armory wall.

“You’re running out of time,” Sylus growls, the dark promise in his tone chilling. “Do you know what happens to people who touch what’s mine?”

Rudy laughs, though it’s tinged with a nervous edge. “Oh, I know exactly what happens. But... You’re not in control this time.”

Sylus just smirks, his free hand brushing over the handle of a blade.

"What do you want?"

Rudy’s tone shifts, the mockery giving way to cold calculation, his words laced with greed. “You know what I want. The Aether Core. I want it delivered to me, and if I don’t get it... well, let’s just say things will get very uncomfortable for your precious little bird.”

Sylus’s jaw clenches at the mention of the Aether Core. That cursed artifact—the very thing he’d gone to great lengths to bury, to keep out of the hands of people like Rudy. It wasn’t just dangerous; it was catastrophic in the wrong hands. And he? He was the embodiment of “wrong hands.”

For months, Rudy had been sniffing around for it, pushing boundaries, threatening allies, but Sylus had always stayed one step ahead. Now, it seems he has finally found the leverage he needed to force him into a corner. He knew the Aether Core couldn’t fall into Rudy’s grasp. The devastation it could unleash wasn’t just Sylus’s problem—it was a threat to everyone. The thought of you... Sylus mind paused for a moment. Is true that he has it, you both rescued that thing in the last mission. If Rudy is just asking about that one, it means he doesn't know about your Aether Core in your body. Sylus click is tough, that would give him more time but you're still in danger.

“Tick tock, Mister S.” Rudy teased, breaking the silence. “I give you, let me think, ten no... eight, let's do four hours to decide. Bring me what I want, or I’ll start sending you little pieces of her. Maybe I’ll start with a finger... or should I play a bit with that mouth she has? I haven’t decided yet.”

Sylus’s vision blurred for a second, red with rage. He took a slow, steadying breath, forcing himself to stay composed.

“You're dead by tomorrow.”

“Oh, I'm shaking.” Rudy replied smugly. “Don’t make me wait.”

The line went dead, but Sylus didn’t lower the phone right away. His hand trembled, not with fear but with the force of his restrained ire. He turned toward Luke and Kieran, who had been standing silently, their expressions grim.

“We need the location” Sylus barked, his voice sharp as a blade. “Now.”

Kieran nodded, already pulling out his device to track Mephisto. Luke looked at Sylus, his face tense. “Boss, what's the plan?”

Sylus’s eyes darkened, a murderous glint in them. “Tonight, we’ll put on quite the show. Bring everything—I’m going to destroy that worthless bastard and the filth he calls his empire.”

He picks up his leader jacket from the back of the chair and slips it on, his mind already running through the details. There’s no room for mistakes. Not this time.

"We’re going to meet him." Sylus says finally, his voice is colder than ever. "Get ready.”

“Yes, boss!” They say in unison.

Luke paused for a moment before speaking. “But there is something else you need to know…”

A/N: To be honest, I was nervous about releasing this. I hope I could live up to expectations and give you a good show. I had a lot of fun writing this. It's complex, as I've already mentioned, and I'm not used to long stories—let alone ones in this category. Next chapter in 2 weeks.

If you have the time, leave me a comment. I would love to hear your feedback.

#love and deepspace #lads sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lads #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads caleb #love and deepspace zayne #sylus fanfiction #sylus fic

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padfootagain · 10 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’

Chapter 44 : ‘I go up to the stone wall for a friendly visit.’

Chapter 45 : ‘Nobody, but nobody can make it out here alone.’

Chapter 46 : ‘Both of us, of the love which makes us one.’

Chapter 47: ‘To whom I owe the leaping delight that quickens my senses in our wakingtime and the rhythm that governs the repose of our sleepingtime’

Chapter 48 : ‘It’s love almost too fierce to endure, the bee nuzzling like that into the blouse of the rose’

Chapter 49 : ‘I am the blossom pressed in a book, found again after two hundred years’

Chapter 50 : ‘And I’d wonder sometimes if I’d ever find you.’

Chapter 51 : ‘Here begins a new life’

Chapter 52 : ‘I love you. I’m glad I exist.’

#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 · 6 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 read on ao3!

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 · 5 months ago

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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

Chapter 20 : Morning of desire (smut)

Chapter 21 : High above love (smut)

Chapter 22 : Monza Magic

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

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

#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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aethon-recs · 9 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 @marrythemonstersao3

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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gravity-between-us · 2 months ago

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Gravity Between Us Chapter Masterlist

Summary: Caleb and I have known each other for as long as I can remember. We were once childhood friends, our bond as natural as the stars in the sky. But now, everything has changed. What used to feel like a safe, familiar orbit between us now pulses with unspoken desire.

Our friendship is no longer enough to keep the tension at bay, and the distance between us feels unbearable. Secrets, lies, and unhealed wounds stand in our way. I don’t know if we can survive this new gravity pulling us together... but I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to try. Pairing: Female MC x Caleb

Spoiler Alert: Potential spoilers for Caleb's Myth's as well as memories. Read at your own risk for these. Lore spoilers. Warnings:

Unlikely to be canon.

The other love interests will not appear in this fic. I consider this more of an AU where it's only Caleb in this timeline.

We will revisit memory scenes, but they will be somewhat different from the memories in-game.

MC is named. MC is socially awkward. MC can be depressed at times.

Very? Slow Burn.

Explicit smut (eventually). Chapter 12 onward.

Awkward blend of darker moments, angst, fluff, and humour.

Drinking. Questionable life decisions. MC spirals.

Protective Caleb - Both MC and Caleb are a little obsessive and overly protective of each other, which could be considered an unhealthy relationship.

Limited plot - most focus is just on their relationship and interactions. More warnings could be applied, but as a general rule of thumb, please read at your own risk and do not continue if you find the content triggering.

Chapter 1: Redshift Chapter 2: Tidal Forces Chapter 3: Cosmic Ruin Chapter 4: Dark Matter Chapter 5: Lagrange Point Chapter 6: Ghosts in the Machine Chapter 7: Stellar Crossroads Chapter 8: Breach Chapter 9: Orbiting You Chapter 10: Event Horizon Chapter 11: Between Two Suns Chapter 12: Beneath the Sleeping Sky Chapter 13: Cosmic Entanglement Chapter 14: Constellations Never Tell Chapter 15: Shattered Light Chapter 16: Orbital Decay Chapter 17: Zero Gravity Chapter 18: Command Me, Colonel

A story I started for myself because I got inspired to write a more socially awkward MC (like myself, because we can't all be badass) and thought others might enjoy some of the silliness, angst, fluff, and the eventual smutty goodness. A huge thank you to everyone who's read, reblogged, or left comments! Your support means the world to me and keeps me inspired. 💕

#lads caleb #love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x mc #caleb fluff #caleb smut #caleb love and deepspace #lnds caleb #first person pov #lads fanfic #caleb lads #lads smut #loveanddeepspace #named MC #gravity between us

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monstersandgenderqueers · 2 months ago

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Amaranth (Prologue)

You never thought that the criminal who crash-landed in your garden would become your everything.

Chapter 0 of ?

Chapter summary: After Ragnarok, Loki is saved.

Word count: 1323

Pairing: Loki x gn!reader (he/him pronouns for Loki in this chapter)

Chapter warnings: Themes of death, light gore

Next: Ch. 1 | Ch. 2

A/N: This is my first fanfic in... 8 or 9 years. I thought I should probably share my wonderful mind movies with the rest of you Loki lovers.

It was cold. So damned cold. And that was coming from a frost giant, and one who couldn't even feel the cold.

"Your fingers are frozen, Loki!" Though said in jest, this phrase and others similar managed to worm their way into Loki's heart. To have people shy away from his touch for a thousand years only ensured he was never affectionate. It made sense why, after he found out his heritage. He wasn't drastically colder than other Asgardians, but the difference was enough to cause them to gasp or yelp in surprise if he dared touch their bare skin. Only his mother could stand holding his hands for very long, but even she would let go.

What a waste. A life without warmth… by the Norns, have I always been so pitiful?

He couldn't help it. The negative thoughts whirling in his mind, that is. He had nothing else to do after all, floating in space for what felt like an eternity. Again.

After yet another heroic sacrifice, he found himself dead and yet not. His corpse — if he was indeed dead — drifted within the debris and shattered remains of what once was an interstellar ship and its passengers. His people. The Asgardians. At least some of them. He had no idea how many had survived, or how many clawed their way into escape pods, or had small vessels of their own. Not many. Not enough.

Loki cursed in his mind. Over and over and over. What sort of sick joke was this? How many deaths would it take for his life to end? Surely, it would have only taken one. When he let go at the Rainbow Bridge… yes, that should have been the end. But he fell for what felt like forever.

It didn't take long for the sick feeling of falling to fade, since there was no air in the void of space. No gravity to pull or yank him any which way. He cursed then, too. Cursed his heritage, his magic, anything he could think of that kept him alive in a place where things should not live. It had kept him alive until Thanos had scooped him up, and…

No. No. Loki couldn't think about it for a moment longer.

This felt terrifyingly similar, though he was certain he was 'dead' for much longer this time. Weeks, maybe months. He wouldn't know. Last time, he stared at the stars. The galaxy was bare before him, nothing impeded the view of its majesty. They blinked and danced, swirled and burst in a glorious death. He had kept his eyes open, watched as they moved… he kept track of time that way. But now, he couldn't see from his own eyes. Couldn't move, or breathe…

Well, something was keeping him 'alive.' Something, or someone, had made sure his consciousness remained in his abandoned corpse. He gave up trying to figure out why long ago. Loki had nothing to do but think, and ruminating only served to cause phantom aches in his still heart.

A glorious purpose… Ha. I have no purpose. I am nothing but a glorious fraud. Glorious traitor, monster, hor-

His self-loathing was interrupted by an odd sensation. Loki's body was being moved. But who—

why? He tried desperately to feel something, but the only thing he could register was the slight disarray of his innards as gravity took hold. Voices drifted around him, but they were so faint, he could have mistaken them for air currents.

Air?

Bright light. Scorching heat. Pain, pain in every nerve and it was cold and hot. So intense was the pain that he might've pissed his pants if his bladder was functioning. Small victories, he supposed.

It took many more bursts of pure, raw sensation for his vision to come back. His eyes slowly focused on oddly shaped figures. They looked like fat, gray worms with an unnerving amount of pupils and arms. Perhaps some of those arms were legs, but Loki did not want to look. They held tools in their hand-like appendages, pressing them against his skin.

The sound came back. It must've been language, but it was closer to a chittering sound than anything Loki had ever encountered before in space-faring species. He figured they somehow reanimated him, and for a moment he was grateful, but then he very quickly became annoyed. He would rather have been left drifting in space. It was what he deserved.

It only took a few more hours for his nerves to work as they should. He sat up, slowly, with the help of one of the worm people. He knew he should've attempted to speak to them, to thank them and whatnot, but he had no idea what their intentions could have been. Sure, he's alive, but that last entity to bring him out of the void tortu-

Not going there. Stop thinking about it.

After another few hours, and a very gray and gloopy bowl of 'food' that he hoped with all his existence was not actually a part of the gray worm people, he was able to move around the sterile medical bay. One of them led him down an equally bright and sterile hall, chittering as it went. As wet as its skin looked, it did not leave behind a trail of slime as Loki would have assumed. So, calling them slugs or worms or anything of the like was probably not the most appropriate thing to do. He wondered what he should call them, then, if not giant bugs, but then the doors whooshed open and he saw true horror.

Asgardians. Pieces of them. Pieces of their ship. He didn't want to count, or even estimate how many bodies lie in the cargo hold. But based on the size of the mound, and that the cargo hold was hundreds of meters across… it might've been the entire debris field. They must have taken it all in, and found Loki whole among the many scattered parts of people he knew.

He didn't remember how, but the creatures had walked him back to the medical bay. It was a different one, unlike the surgical bay he was in. This one was bare of instruments or monitors, only rows and rows of benches. A morgue? Dozens of bodies. Some seemed whole, some mostly whole. All Asgardian. The aliens had tried to reanimate all of them, and had not succeeded. This only furthered Loki's suspicions that someone kept him from death, but he found it hard to follow that thought all the way through to any logical conclusion. He felt more numb, standing there in the morgue, than he had when his nerves were dead and his brain stem severed by Thanos.

He stood there for a long time.

Three days passed. Yes, Loki was able to keep track of time once more. In that time, he ate gray sludge, listened to the chitter and chatter of his saviors, and managed to fix one of the broken escape pods that sat with the rest of the cargo. Mostly with magic, of course.

He then oversaw the cremation of his people, and decided that should he ever wish to discard memories, the smell and the feeling of the smoke in his lungs would be the first to go. Loki briefly wondered if he should have given them a more honorable funeral, but the bitterness from being banished from Frigga's funeral was still strong.

Loki thanked the aliens by demonstrating some of his magic. Casting projections was easy, and they seemed excited to see the images dancing on the blank walls, if their "tktktk" sound was anything to go by.

He decided to call them Weavers, for reasons unknown to him. It had simply felt right.

Without even a final glance backwards, Loki slapped the controls in the pod until the lights came back on, and then he set a course for Midgard.

#loki x reader #loki x gn!reader #loki x gender neutral reader #loki fanfic #ff: amaranth #loki x you #loki x female reader #loki x male reader

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farmergirlimagines · 4 months ago

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MASTERLIST~~~~ Through Static & Shock

Prelude : June 15th 1977

Chapter 1 : Sunday, November 6th 1983

Chapter 2 : Confessions Under The Stars And A Mysterious Car

Chapter 3 : Some Rules Are Meant To Be Broken

Chapter 4 : Two Blinks of the Porch Light

Chapter 5 : Different Dynamics and Disappearances

Chapter 6 : A Bumpy Way To Start The Day

Chapter 7 : Kisses, Complaints, and Confrontations

Chapter 8 : Questions, An Answer and A Reconciliation

Chapter 9 : Castle Byers

Chapter 10 : Bicycles, Bitterness & Buttered Bread

Chapter 11 : Lost and Found

Chapter 12 : A Storm of Worry and Disbelief

Chapter 13 : No Plan, Just Trouble

Chapter 14 : Where We're Needed

Chapter 15 : Searches and Secrets

Chapter 16 : Invitations and Confrontations

Chapter 17 : Tangled Truths

Chapter 18 : Unspoken Bonds

Chapter 19 : Splinters of Truth

Chapter 20 : The Breaking Point

Chapter 21 : When The Lights Go Out

Chapter 22 : Something's Not Right

Chapter 23 : Unseen and Unspoken

Chapter 24 : The Night Still Haunts Us

Chapter 25 : Tangled Wires

Chapter 26 : Threads Unraveling

Chapter 27 : Shattered Lenses

Chapter 28 : Fears Confronted

Chapter 29 : A Mothers Worry

Chapter 30 : The Weight of The Missing

Chapter 31 : Scared Little Rabbits

Chapter 32 : Broken Between Worlds

Chapter 33 : Between Fear & Faith

Chapter 34 : Dragged From The Dark

Chapter 35 : Not All Loss Is Final

Chapter 36 : Secrets Ascending To The Surface

Chapter 37 : A Bed, A Dog, & A Kickass Record Collection

Chapter 38 : Contradictions & Decisions

Chapter 39 : A Test of Faith

Chapter 40 : The Fault In Our Facts

Chapter 41 : Holding It Together (Or Trying To)

Chapter 42 : Not Another One

Chapter 43 : Death By Deception

Chapter 44 : Holding It In

Chapter 45 : Could Today Get Any Worse?

Chapter 46 : Broken Drywall And Burning Realizations

Chapter 47 : Not Angry---Just Waiting

Chapter 48 : False Things, Real Consequences

Chapter 49 : Daddy Issues And Delusions

Chapter 50 : Already On Thin Ice

Chapter 51 : She Knows Too Much

Chapter 52 : Preparing For A Funeral

Chapter 53 : The Funeral of Will Byers

Chapter 54 : The Calm Before The Bend

Chapter 55 : Spinning Needles

Chapter 56 : Gotta Get Out

Chapter 57 : You Didn't Even Try

Chapter 58 : Shattered Perspectives

Chapter 59 : Don't Say Anything

Chapter 60 : The Cost of Knowing

Chapter 61 : Available on Monday May 19th

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discoscoob · 7 months ago

Text

⋆⭒˚.⋆ 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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endursent · 6 months ago

Text

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note sorry this is also late i had to redo this chapter like 3 times cause i wasn't happy with it, i should stop re-reading a song of ice and fire while writing this 'cause i keep comparing my dialogue skills with fucking george rr martin and feel sad ｡ﾟ(*´□`)ﾟ｡ | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.016 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 8 - Consumption

You barely recognise life anymore—or anything for that matter. You feel sick, sticky and heavy, as if your body is full of liquids in every crevice. The world around you feels lighter than you yourself do, like you’re sinking below it and perpetually struggling to reach upwards to grasp at the people staring down at you from around the cot.

Ming Hui sets her hand on your stomach, and a pain so consuming you thrash and scream overrides any thought or consciousness. Hands hold you down to prevent you from hurting yourself or anyone else as the smaller girl tears (at least that’s what it feels like to you) blackened liquids and blood from the lacerations on your belly.

You throw up every day, most of the time several times a day, nights are filled with shivers and huddling under blankets when you try to close your eyes to sleep—and wake in the middle of the night, soaked with sweat and fever.

One night, you had a terrible dream—you’ve been having many bad dreams, terrible, suffocating dreams. Nightmares. You woke up to two pairs of hands shaking your shoulders, clapping your cheeks lightly in hopes of waking you before you hurt yourself.

Another night, you couldn’t sleep, you kept seeing dark snakes slither between beds—you told yourself that they aren’t real, there are no snakes so high in the mountain of Liyue… they are far more common between the mountains, in thick forests with plenty of opportunities for food for their size.

They never approach your bed, one circles around it before disappearing behind a shelf of ointments. Later the same morning, exhausted and dozing from a sleepless night, you thought you saw a white snake under the bandage around your left arm looking at you, you reached out to pet it, but it slid back inside. Into your bandages. Into your skin.

The week drags on for what feels like several of them. Every morning, Ming Hui would perform a cleanse and try to purify parts of your body to keep the miasma from spreading into it, but you weren’t sure how much it was helping, at least, you didn’t start feeling better until a week and a half after the seven days of cleansing.

With a groan, you prop yourself up and get into a sitting position, fumbling to grab one of the seven or so books on the table next to the cot, you let it fall open onto your lap. Staring at the ceiling is impossibly boring, and you hope your body is giving you some energy to use your brain at least a little. The book doesn’t have a name on the cover, nor does it look like a printed book—it’s full of handwriting and for a moment you thought Guizhong might have accidentally lent you a diary… but as you squint and read further, you see that it’s something of a logbook.

Documentation of a crew’s trip on the sea, the management of resources and the direction of the winds… it’s a surprisingly soothing read, you craft the ship in your mind and imagine the soothing brush of waves against the wood, sun beating down and warming the skin.

You open your eyes again as a healer touches your shoulder and asks to see your left arm again, you didn’t even realise you fell asleep. The prickly sensation of their fingers prodding at your arm is strange, like it’s felt through a few layers of clothing… you can feel it, but just kind of. You feel like you used to be able to tell what texture was touching you—a finger or a glove, the grass or floor. But now it all feels like the same kind of poking. You feel trembling, like the bed is trying to shake you off, but you're not cold.

You feel a fragment of dread every time Ming Hui comes up to your bed, but thankfully the last few times, she’s just been bringing you things. Doughy snacks from the capital, some sesame balls from the kitchens, papers and ink to draw on, anything. Unfortunately none of the foods or snacks stick in your belly for long… but it’s nice to taste them, if only a small nibble with the front of your teeth and a poke of your tongue.

It has been a long morning, you had woken up early due to your back starting to hurt because you’ve been laying down for so long—you really wish you could start to walk around, but even just sitting up feels like you’re leaving half your organs behind on your mattress… you look up as you hear footsteps approach and see a familiar face, though not one you expected.

Cloud Retainer—rather roughly—takes your arm and lifts it up vertically, you make a strange startled, as well as surprised sound and try to tug it back, but she holds it firmly. Ground Mender follows behind and sighs. “Be gentle,” she scolds.

“Hmph, a sound of pain merely shows there’s still feeling in the limb,” she moves it horizontally and squeezes the sides of your elbow, you have no idea what she’s doing. “Squeeze into a fist for me.”

You do as she asks, curling your fingers as much as you can—it’s not a very good squeeze, if any, but you manage to curl them into a fist with trembling fingers, your fist twitches from the effort. “Like this?”

“Hm, good enough,” she nods and begins to undo the bandage. You look at Ground Mender, but she doesn’t seem to stop the other adeptus, so surely it’s okay… the bandages have been changed many times, but you’ve always been either been half-asleep or too out of it to pay attention to it. The white cloth falls away from your skin and reveals a rather uncomfortable sight—your arm looks like it’s been through the ringer. The skin is uneven and looks more like crumpled parchment stretched over bone than the arm you’re more familiar with, the deep wounds were beginning to close but you could still clearly see the raised edges where it separated, having been knit together twice.

It’s a mangled, uncomfortable thing, your fingers twitch and a dull tug pulls at your senses where you think your joints should be—as if the entire arm was misaligned, off-kilter.

Cloud Retainer turns your arm wrist up and then wrist down, looks at it with a scrutinising eye behind those red-rimmed glasses. You wonder if adepti need glasses or if it’s just fashion.

“What are you searching for?” you ask, your arm is tired, being raised like that for so long. You want to let it lay down and rest.

The adeptus pokes your palm with a sharp nail and your fingers twitch again, your eyebrows furrow in mild annoyance… you can only tolerate being prodded at without explanation for so long. Finally, she graces you with an answer. “The miasma is concentrated heavily in your arm, most of what was in your stomach has been pulled out… but there is little to do with this part here.”

You look down at your arm… it doesn’t look as rotted as you recall others’ bodies would become after as long as it has stayed in your arm. A bit discoloured, maybe… just, different. “Little to do? Extraction has never failed… can’t we just dig in and drag it out…?” you don’t have the energy or capacity to recount a lengthy process, but cleansing has never failed you—you have yet to find an object or person who was too far gone.

And surely, you are not…?

Cloud Retainer wraps your arm again carefully, you see the golden eyes of a snake staring at you from between the bandages.

“Then… what do we do?” you ask as if there was something for you to do. You can barely hold your arm at chest-height for too long.

Cloud Retainer holds her hand out to Ground Mender, who hands her the familiar wooden board someone is always holding when standing by your bed. “Observe for now, the miasma is contained below your elbow—” you look at the ink on your arm, locked. “—and it doesn't seem to be rotting the skin, it’s stagnant.”

You were better for a while, and got worse again.

You could imagine the ship, high tides and low, rocking among the waving ocean—a peek of sunlight. Two suns, warmth and stability. A calm sea surrounded by raging waters.

The perpetual taste of bile stings the back of your throat, it’s a wonder if you aren’t in danger of malnourishment—you’re unsure you’ve kept down a meal in three weeks. Your head swims and you get nauseous if you lie down, you’re nauseous if you sit up. The world spins when you try to stand, even with attendants insisting you move your legs and body to prevent clotting from forming in your feet. You are practically hauled onto a cart of some sort that holds only your upper body, when strength slips between your fingers and you slide off—only just barely caught by the attendants and brought back to bed, they decide to just assign someone to apply pressure to your feet instead to promote blood flow.

It’s strange… it’s all treatment and techniques you’ve familiarised yourself with over the last months you’ve been working for the capital. But it feels so foreign to be on the receiving end.

Like a rocking ship, you managed to down some foods one morning—and kept them down over lunch time, for the first time in… how long has it been? You feed some of the congee to a smaller snake by your bedside.

Everyone around you seemed very excited, but you didn’t have the energy to return it—you know in your heart and gut that it could change at any moment… your day moves slowly as you flip the page of a rather difficult book Cloud Retainer gave to you, it’s only about half writing and the rest is just numbers. Your eyes rise when you see Morax approaching your bed, and you straighten instinctively—he has something in his hand, a bamboo food basket with a long handle. “Good afternoon,” he greets evenly and takes a foldable table that’s used to prop on the bed to allow patients to eat there. He sets the basket on the table over your lap—over your book—and steps away again… Morax has been very quiet recently, and you’re unsure why. You would never say you know him well, you are just barely on greeting or chatting terms, but you still feel a sense that something weighs on his mind.

He returns again with a spoon. “Zhou’s son recently made travels to the west, and on my walk through the streets, the old man demanded I try some cuisine his son had studied there. This is supposed to be easily digestible,” Morax takes your right hand, despite it being very much healthy and mobile. His slender fingers slide below your wrist and lift your hand where he lays the spoon against your upturned palm, your fingers instinctively curl around the cutlery despite the fact that your eyes aren’t watching it. His expression is firm, stiff and stony.

“It’s not dinner time yet,” you’re not sure why you said it, perhaps the silence was uncomfortable, or you want his gaze to leave your torso and rise to meet yours.

He blinks, there are so many things on his mind that it gets pulled away even in the respite he’s taking in bringing you food. “Yes, my apologies. Master Zhou was rather insistent that I stop by and taste his son’s food no matter the time of day, he said finding me during meal hours is too complicated,” Morax lets go of your arm and his hand goes to the basket, he takes the top off and the dish out.

While the congee you ate this morning was nice and light on your stomach—this dish was a pale yellow as opposed to the white of the congee. It smelled warm and comforting but mild, like a stone left under the midday sun, a hot spring on a cold winter’s day in the mountains where the flakes melt against your cheeks, but your body and shoulders are enveloped in a warmed watery blanket.

You stop staring at the dish and stick your spoon into it, it’s soft and moist, the rice separate easily as you scoop a small bite past your lips, careful not to have too much at a time—your stomach has traumatised you over the week by acting up over the smallest thing.

“Ground Mender and Cloud Retainer surmised that though initially we thought enough of the miasma had been cleared from around your organs, your body is still too weak to push out the rest by itself,” Morax finds a stool to sit on next to your bed, not wanting to intrude on the mattress itself. In your convinced state, the bed is your only privacy space that only feels more confined when the curtains are closed around it.

The bite of food fills your mouth—and though your taste buds are extra sensitive now with not eating a lot of foods for so long… licking a sesame ball doesn’t count for much, it tastes very much like the warm embrace the smell and temperature brings. The rice is soft and nearly dissolves on your tongue, the creamy texture of the bite spreading in your mouth and down your throat—it’s five times more warming and powerful than a sip of warm water to smooth out your scrunchy stomach. It gets to work and you instantly feel a sense of ease.

Morax watches you as you lick your lips, dipping the spoon again. “What is it? It’s very nice,” you ask as you take another—now a fuller spoon—of the surprising dish.

“Khichdi,” Morax says the word carefully, as if he were trying to mimic a pronunciation. “After master Zhou’s son returned, a lot of the dishes he learned to make have become very popular in the neighbourhood.”

You hum, you can see why—the flavour is very unique, even if it’s not very strong, it’s likely made with ingredients not found in the Guili Assembly. “Some vegetables could add to it,” you muse to yourself, but quickly try and correct yourself. “I-I mean, it’s very good like this, thank you—”

Morax, however, seemed sheepish for a moment. “Ah… there are vegetables in it… but master Zhou asked for your preference and I couldn’t answer, I deemed it safer to ask them to chop a chosen few of them into… miniscule pieces, in case chewing would be discomforting, or you didn’t like the taste.”

You look down at the bowl, sure enough, there are specs of green and red—how small can you even chop a vegetable?! This looks like a crumb of salt, you think as you squint at a tiny flake of red on your spoon between two grains of rice… your taste buds are in shambles, even just the flavours of this was making it difficult to tell the ingredients, though there are some you have never tasted before. “Ah, thank you for your consideration,” you say before setting another—now spoonful—in your mouth. You almost wish you had bread now, when even two days ago you couldn’t even think about food without your stomach curling up.

Another silence lingers, but it’s not uncomfortable—not waiting or hesitant. You slowly eat while Morax sits, he looks around the calm ward, it’s usually only used in dire circumstances—when the usual infirmary tucked on the first floor on his side between the palaces is full, you’re the only patient being tended to now. “Perhaps you will soon be ready to go above ground,” Morax says absently, not turning his head to you yet.

“Hm? Someone could surely carry me there now, I can try walking again,” you say after a swallow, realising you were eating a bit too fast, you slowed down; your grandmother wouldn’t have you consuming a meal made in kindness at breakneck speed without appreciating the flavour and effort.

“Though I’m glad you feel confident, I would rather avoid you hurting yourself,” Morax shakes his head slowly. “We will see what Ground Mender says in the morning, if you keep this down.”

You better, you tell yourself.

Morax stuck around until you finished, and he helped put away the wooden board as well as placed the bowl back into the basket which had been set aside. You expected him to leave, but he walks around the bed to the side of your injured arm and extends his own right hand. “May I?”

Raising your arm slowly, it stutters and jerks slightly, as if you were fighting against your own muscles for them to listen to your commands.Morax takes your arm kindly, treats it with a gentle touch you would expect from a seasoned healer… a soft glow emits from his hands and you feel their warmth seep into your skin, for a moment it is comforting, a taste of the khichdi from his hands to your skin.

But suddenly, it’s too hot—it burns.

You yank your arm back instinctively, as if you had laid it on a raging fire and not realised until the flames licked your skin. “Ah—” your right hand fingers dig into the bandage of your left arm, trying to squeeze away the pain, to inflict it differently and drain it out.

Morax tenses at the sudden reaction, his eyes flashing with a strange emotion you didn’t see long enough to discern. “What is it?” he asks with urgency, but he doesn’t touch you again. Not if it was his touch that was the cause of your startling. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-No,” you say quickly, but you’re not sure—it only happened because his fingers rested on your arm, but they were gentle, like leaves brushing against cobblestone in a drifting breeze. “What were you doing?”

You don’t mean for your question to sound accusing, you hope Morax doesn’t take it as such. He looks from your eyes down to your clutched arm, eyebrows pinched in thought. “Does it still hurt?”

“A little…” you mumble. Your arm tingles and your fingers tremble slightly, it has felt strangely cold—as opposed to the warmth that always emanated from corrupt skin, the miasma displaying symptoms of infections, because one corrupted is being infected.

“I was merely examining your energies, but as soon as I touched them…” he looked at his own hand. Your body had rejected his energies before—but they had not simply evaporated now, he was pushed back.

He does not like it.

You rub at your arm gently, nails scratching at the bandage now that you had the excuse. The bandage is wrapped so densely, your skin is moist and itchy. “Don’t scratch it,” Morax scolds as you do, and with a defeated sigh you look up at him again and tense.

There is an unmoving silence before you quickly look away again, but Morax saw the surprise and—fear? Concern?—on your face before you turned back to your arm. He says your name firmly, firmer than you’re sure you’ve heard before. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. There was a snake around his shoulders. Writhing and wrapping around his throat.

They’re not real. You must just be malnourished, sick. Hallucinating.

Morax doesn’t react when the snake squeezes his neck.

It’s not real.

You pant, heart racing and pounding against your chest—you feel it so vividly you’re sure you could lay your fingers over your chest and pinch it when it presses between your ribs. You feel dizzy, and disoriented, eyes looking down to your left arm, it’s there—all fingers attached as usual.

Just seconds ago it had been red, open, you could reach out and touch the bone, you could wrap your fingers around it while your skin and muscles slipped off your arm and landed with a wet squelching sound on the floor.

You’ve been having nightmares again.

It doesn’t have any comprehensive or predictable patterns, one night your head is in the maws of a beast, another you’re drowning under a tidal wave of iron-tasting water, unable to breathe or see as it stings your eyes and burns your lungs. You squeeze your eyes shut, running your right hand over your face tightly, squishing your nose slightly with your palm.

It’s exhausting. The day is tiring enough already, and you find no solace in sleep. You don’t even have the luxury of turning from one side or the other, any position other than flat on your back feels like your intestines are going to spill out through your belly button.

You glance at the breakfast laid out for you, sitting on the bedside table as it cools. Congee and some bread… but you don’t feel hungry. Not for what feels like the hundredth bowl of congee, you haven’t returned your meals in a few days, but yet Ground Mender denied you when you asked if you could be brought above ground.

“We don’t have much space in the palace infirmary.”

“Did something happen?” you had asked, you hadn’t heard of anything, but you haven’t heard much of the outside world in a while.

Ground Mender changed the subject without telling you, and you were starting to feel that you were being kept alone in this massive hall for… what? You’re getting better, slowly, you managed to walk around your bed with some support, but you would never make it up the endless staircase leading to the sun-touched hallways.

It’s been a month and a half, according to an attendant that brought your breakfast. Your muscles have atrophied terribly and even just standing so someone can help you bathe is exhausting.

A hand touches your breakfast tray and you look up to see Moon Carver. It feels like every person you’ve met in the last months has been coming around to check on you… it’s strange. You’ve never stayed in one place for long enough for anyone to notice absent days of sickness, to inquire why you close your home off for cleansing for a week.

You had returned to a small village that specialised in silk weaving and no one had remembered your face, despite the fact you had discovered the foul energies poisoning a part of the nearby forest, which caused a devastating number of lost silkworms over the span of three years.

You had seen your reflection recently and didn’t recognise yourself either.

“Time to stretch your legs, come on,” the adeptus tilts his head for you to get up. “The more you skimp out, the longer it will take to build those muscles up again.”

If you don’t move, he’ll continue to pester you… you move the blanket off your lap and Moon Carver takes under your right elbow to help you stand. You’re steadier on your feet than you were before, but you always feel like your legs’ sense of balance is different from your mind’s.

“Starting to think you ask for babysitting duty,” you mumble, a poor attempt at humour as you take careful steps. You feel exhausted, but not like you would after running—there’s no burn, there’s no ache or cramp. You just feel like you’re going to slink down onto the floor like a dropped paper, swaying back and forth before gliding under a cabinet.

Moon Carver huffs, his grip is strong. “It’s not easy to say no to this one’s Lord.”

“Would you if it were?” you wonder why Morax would ask Moon Carver to check on you, surely he has more important things to do.

He doesn’t answer, changing the subject. You’ve started to notice that when an adeptus doesn’t want to tell you something, they will just become quiet or dodge your question. “Let us go towards the stairs and back.”

You frown. “All the way? It’s far…”

It’s barely thirty steps, sixty in total there and back. You’ve walked this distance without a thought several times, so many you can’t begin to imagine how often. Light on your feet, walking briskly with tools, trays or heavy baskets you are sure you couldn’t try to lift up now.

It seems so far, yet you know it’s not. You just have to put one foot in front of the other, not think, not look at the distance, look at your feet, the floor.

You’ve had different nightmares.

Strange, different.

Sinking below the claustrophobic, choking earth. Deeper into the iron water. Sinking. Watching the surface of the world like a reflection of sunlight from above the sea, blinding.

They’re vivid, but not scary.

Just strange. Different.

Not nightmares.

You wake and feel the warmth of the sun on your cheeks, it filters through oiled paper and you shift to your side. You don’t feel pain laying on your side anymore, but it’s not comfortable either… but you want to sleep, and the sun—though filtered—is in your eyes. You prefer to lay on your right side when you rarely roll, it’s easier if you have to sit up.

“Hmm, I would have thought you would be happy to see the sun?” Guizhong sets her hands on her hips, standing next to your bed suddenly—you didn’t hear her approach, but her preference to forgo shoes makes her footsteps very quiet.

You are happy to see it, Moon Carver helped Ground Mender carry you up the stairs last night. There’s less quiet in the palace infirmary, more patients coming and going and attendants rushing about… but as you don’t feel as sick as you did even just a week ago, it’s not as overwhelming to hear people wandering about, if anything, it’s comforting.

“I am,” you mumble, giving up on your prolonged rest to turn back on your back. “It’s warm.”

“It won’t be for long, summer is coming to an end soon,” Guizhong approaches your bed and makes room for herself on the side of it next to you. “You should try and enjoy the warmth while it’s still here, do you want to go outside?”

You do, you want to feel the warmth of the sun on your skin, to breathe in the fresh mountain air and feel the breeze ruffle your clothes.

But you don’t trust yourself to make it alone, even if you were to just stand by the walkway and hold onto the railing. “Will you help me?”

“Of course,” Guizhong moves off the bed and straightens. “Let’s greet the fishes in the gardens.”

You want to squat down and let the carps nibble on your finger, but you worry you might not be able to get back up easily, or you might pull on something. Instead, you merely stare longingly while Guizhong kneels down and feeds them from her hand.

There’s not much wind today, barely the breeze you longed for—but even just the soft brush of air is more than you’ve had for weeks. You squint up towards the sky, a few clouds lazily drifting across the vast expanse as the sun hangs high above your heads.

You hear the waters of the pond and small stream that cuts through the back gardens, a usually peaceful ambiance that makes you slightly uneasy now. You can’t imagine yourself stepping into a river anytime soon… you know that rationally, there is no danger in the small waters of the gardens, but the thought of touching the waters makes your skin crawl.

Footsteps approach the two of you and Cloud Retainer stops next to you—she has a floating bird crafted from bamboo and paper next to her, you hope it doesn’t shoot darts at the fish—with a flourish of her hair. “Your breakfast is waiting for you.”

Ah. “I’m not hungry,” you turn your gaze away from the eccentric inventor, looking down to the Lord of Dust that pets every fish that comes to eat from her hand.

“You said the same thing last night,” she folds her arms over her chest. “You need energy.”

She’s right, of course. “... okay, I’ll try.”

You sit on the side of the road, a weary log under you and soft grass beneath your feet, the sun slowly sinks below the treeline as you stretch your legs and raise your gaze to the pink sky, your surroundings are peaceful and silent—a captured moment in time where you get to be alone with yourself.

Long, high trees line the road behind you and shield you from the rest of the world, the view before you is a comfort and home. Rolling hills, distant farms and fields of flowers spread over the land, coloured orange and pink with the reflective sky.

A child runs past you, they trip on a rock and tumble to the floor—but no sounds of pain leave them, giggles and snickers as an older sibling runs past them, grabbing their shirt and hauling them up on their feet as they continue their sprint.

You don’t recognise them, but they feel familiar.

You feel no wind nor the heat of the sinking sun, the sky is clear of clouds and birds, there is nothing but the wide scroll of the heavens furling across the air, opening up to reflect their blessings of fertile lands and fresh produce. You stretch your arms above your head and stand up, patting your clothes down to rid of any grass or dirt before continuing on your way.

You see him in the distance, and your pace increases. A flow of white robes and long brown hair, he turns off the gravel road and walks towards the thick treeline. Where is he going? You only see his back, the golden lines glowing in the darkening surroundings—as if beckoning you to follow, a guiding light.

But before you can leave the road and follow him into the forest, a hand grabs your elbow and stops you.

You hear your name and blink—there’s no trees in front of you, there is a deep crater that is centred with a pool of water. Dry dirt crumbs fall down from below your foot and roll to the body of water, creating ripples in the still waters.

Suddenly, you feel as if all the weight of the world is bearing down on your body, you’re cold, your feet hurt—you’re not wearing shoes. You stand at the edge of a crater, one step from tumbling down, and in the battered state you’re already in, it wouldn’t be a good tumble. You look back and see Morax staring at you, his hair is tousled and eyes strangely wide—you have never seen his face make such a vivid expression, one of surprise and concern. He tugs you backwards and you fall into him, your legs give out and tremble with strain. There’s a dull, agitating throb in your arm and stomach, a pulsing throb in tune with your heartbeat, in tune with the sway of the grass around you. Back-forth. Back-forth—

You hear your name again, his arms hold you up and prevent you from sinking down to the ground. “Can you hear me?”

You can, but you find it difficult to voice your confirmations. You’re cold, it’s nighttime—how is it night already? The stars dot the sky with bright flickers and you try to stand, but your feet feel like heavy weights, a thrumming prick of needles rushes through them when you try to put pressure on them.

Why does it feel like he is always seeing you at your worst?

Sick. Injured. Hurting.

You would rather fall into the crater, he must think you a burden on—

“You’re trembling,” his voice is louder than the brushing wind, louder in your ear than the sway of branches and rustling of leaves. “How have you found yourself here? In the darkness of night, alone and so far from the city?”

He sounds different, urgent and more pointed—as if a front has been reached through, a hand through fog holding your arms as he steadies you against him. Morax’s body is warm. “You… it was you, I was following you,”you finally manage. But when did you start chasing him? You don’t remember starting a journey.

“Me?” he hesitates for only a beat of your erratic heart. “Are you certain?” Morax reins in his urgent tone, carefully choosing his words. “Word was sent to me that you had disappeared from your bed, it has been two days—do you know where you are?”

“No,” it’s an easy question to answer, despite it being so difficult to think of what had just happened mere hours ago, days ago—a week ago. Your tense of time is ruffled, what had been the last thing you had been doing? Were you asleep before or after finishing the book Guizhong had left you?

“The energies in your arm have spread again,” he moves—tugging your rather limp body along with him as he kneels on the soft ground. You feel the tickle of grass on your calves and realise you’re still wearing the short pants and shirt you were put in and made to use by the medical ward. Morax tilts you towards him as he unfurls the bandage on your arm, your side and right arm rest against his chest and torso, your head falling rather lamely against his shoulder—it’s a strangely intimate position that neither of you consider given the circumstance, it doesn’t feel intimate, it only serves the purpose of not having you fall over while his hands are occupied.

The ink that had been sealing the miasma below your elbow was smudged—this type of ink doesn’t smudge for this specific reason. Blackened veins travel up your arm, so stark against your skin that they might as well be drawn on. They rise up your bicep and fade just below your neck. Morax’s eyes are focused and firm as he turns your throbbing arm palm up to examine it further. “The seal has been torn,” his fingers ghost over the blackened veins on your arm, you’ve only felt his gloved hands before, you wonder if his fingers are softer than the texture of his clothes. “You said you were following me.”

You were… or, you thought so. “It looked like you,” you say it more so to yourself than him.

“Did you see its face?” he asks as he wraps your arm again, your skin is ice cold to the touch—the weather has cooled as summer is coming to an end, and with the Guili Assembly’s elevated land, it gets colder faster.

“No,” you mumble, shoulders raised as a cool breeze brushes past your neck, raising shivers on your skin.

Morax doesn’t ask further questions, but it doesn’t leave his mind either. He believes what you say, what you saw… real or not, it only serves to drive his concern for your well-being, physical and mental.

His hand raises, and you feel something touch your head. You squint your eyes open—you didn’t even realise you had closed them—and tilt your head to look at his face. Morax’s face is so close you can feel the warm brush of his breath on your cold chin, it blooms over the bottom half of your face. “What are you doing…?”

His fingers halt and lift from your head, Morax blinks down at you. “I… heard it is a sign of comfort.”

He was patting your head, trying to comfort you—it was… rather cute, that he tried even while struggling to grasp whether it would be appreciated or not. “Oh… thank you, it’s okay,” your torso doesn’t feel as cold anymore. Morax seems to take your waiting eyes as permission, and his palm rests on your head again, carefully. He doesn’t stroke or scratch like one would do with a pet or animal, his palm and fingers lift slightly and touch back down a few times.

You never thought you would be petted like this by a god, had you told yourself a few months ago, you would have found it funny—silly maybe. But… now that his warm hand touches your head gently, you find that it is comforting.

#⭒ - gss #genshin impact x reader #morax x reader #rex lapis x reader #zhongli x reader #genshin x reader #morax x you #rex lapis x you #zhongli x you #multi-chapter #fics #my writing #afab reader #genshin impact

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blueishspace · 10 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]