#you as his prima ballerina……… | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

no-144444 · 3 months ago

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'then we can'- o.piastri

summary: breaking up sucks.

pairing: oscar piastri x fem! reader

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

Waking up alone sucked, he’d learnt that in recent months.

You were gone. He’d fucked it up.

He dialled his mom’s number as the sun set over London.

“Osc?” she yawned. “It’s 2am, are you alright?”

“Mum, I fucked it up,” he cried, his eyes clouding as his voice broke. “I don’t know what to do.”

She sighed. She’d heard from Hattie that you and Oscar had broken up, and while she was heartbroken that she’d lost the girl she thought would become her daughter-in-law, she understood the reasons by which you two broke up. Neither of you had any time anymore. You were a Prima Ballerina and the Royal Ballet in London. He was a Formula One driver all the way in Monaco. He couldn’t make time for you in his schedule, and neither could you, yet you always seemed to, which led to him feeling increasingly guilty every time you begged him to come to London to see you, and he had to refuse. So he broke up with you. The girl he’d loved since he was 7 years old back in Melbourne. The girl who came to every single one of his remote control car races, the girl who smiled the brightest when she knew he was in the audience for one of her rehearsals, the girl who loved him more than he’d ever thought possible, the girl who he’d loved more than he’d ever known he could.

And it was his fault it was over. He’d sent the text, he’d dodged the calls, he’d blocked you, he’d pleaded with his family to block your contacts, going as far as to steal their phones to do it himself. It was all him.

“Baby,” she sighed, getting out of bed and walking to the kitchen, making herself a tea. She knew it was going to be a long conversation. “What happened?”

“I saw her,” he whispered into the phone, tears streaming down his face as he somehow stopped himself from breaking down completely. “I’m in London. I saw her dance.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “How was it?”

“It was beautiful,” he wiped his eyes. “She was beautiful.”

“I’m glad you got to see her,” she smiled sadly. “I know this is hard, Osc, but you have to let her go. That’s what you wanted.”

He closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face. “I don’t think it’s what I want anymore.”

Nicole took a deep breath. “Oscar, you can’t play with her like that. It’s been 3 months. If it’s been hard for you, imagine how she felt. The love of her life broke up with her.”

He nodded. “I know,” he spoke, his voice breaking. “I know. I just… I don’t know if any of this is worth it if I can’t have her.”

“I don’t know if you can have her anymore,” she said, her voice comforting but stern. He had to understand that he did this to himself. He had to understand that he had to make amends here. “She’s going through the same thing, Osc, I know it’s hard. Heartbreak is awful. It makes you feel insane. You feel like you’re drowning, and she’s the only person that can save you, I understand.”

“I just want to talk to her again,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I just… I want to apologise and I want her to take me back.”

He cried for a few moments, his mom comforting him as he felt his entire world fall around him, and he could only think of you. He was drowning, and you were the only person who would save him, but he sent you away.

“I just, I feel so alone, all the fucking time! I feel so empty all the time, because I know I don’t have her anymore. And Hattie and Eddie, and Mae, they all fucking hate me! They all hate me, and I get why! I’m not sure I don’t hate myself!” he sobbed. For the next hour, he cried to his mom about everything, how guilty he felt, how much love he had for you, how much he missed you, how incredible you were. Everything. When he finally called down, Nicole spoke again.

“I’m going to come to the next race, alright?”

“Thanks mum,” he sniffled.

“And the girls don’t hate you,” she told him. “They adore you because you’re their older brother. They’re here for you Oscar. We all are.”

He nodded. “Thanks mum.”

“I love you, go get some sleep, yeah?” she smiled.

“Yeah.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

His mom was in the paddock for Las Vegas, battling with her own jet lag, her 3 daughters, and a son who was not doing well. But, she had a trick up her sleeve. She had also brought Logan and Arthur, who would hopefully calm Oscar down, or at least let him forget about you for a while.

“Mate, what’s up?” Lando asked, staring at his satiated teammate. “You look dead.”

“Nothing,” he brushed him off. “Just tired. Ready for the season to be over.”

He nodded. “You sure? You seem… off.”

“I’m fine.”

“Alright man, well, if you want to you can talk to me,” he offered him a soft smile before getting up, not expecting an answer.

Oscar smiled softly as he watched his mom and sisters pile into the meeting room, bright smiles on their faces. Quickly, the room was a flurry of hugs and ‘hi’s’, then turned into a nice family conversation.

“How’s Y/n?” he couldn’t help but ask during a quiet part of their conversation. The air changed, grew thicker.

“She’s alright,” Hattie smiled. “Dancing.”

“Oscar went to see her,” Nicole informed her daughters and watched as they went wide-eyed and nodded, understanding the weight of their brother's heartbreak. “He said she was beautiful.”

“Did you talk to her?” Mae asked, he shook his head.

“I just went to see the show.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Eddie added. “It’s only been what, 3 months?”

“4,” he corrected. “And 12 days.”

Damn, it was bad.

“You should try to let her go,” Eddie sighed. “She’s happy in London, she’s happy being a dancer. She’s happy. Is that not enough?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s really helpful,” he said, just above a whisper.

“We’ll leave you to get ready for the race,” Nicole sighed, pressing a kiss to the side of his head. “Be careful out there.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

The girls left the room and their faces dropped from the fake comforting smiles they had plastered on.

“What the fuck is he going to do?” Hattie asked.

“Look, I know it’s hard for him right now, be he’ll work through it-”

“No mum, Y/n’s here.”

“Shit.”

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ

He went through his steps before a race, stretching, reaction exercises, and listening to the voicenote you’d left him 4 months and 4 days ago.

“Hey love, I just wanted to wish you good luck today. I can’t wait to see you in a few weeks, and I’ll be cheering you on with everyone here. I know you’re going to do well today, I can just feel it. I love you Osc, please be safe.”

Sometimes he wondered if he got hurt, you would call him. He wasn’t sure, and he was risking himself more than he already did, being an F1 driver, so he hoped he’d never find out.

“Come on Oscar, let’s get to the grid!” Tom called after him as Oscar caught up.

Two words, Las Vegas. Cold, dark, and unforgiving. The land of bad decisions. He was on the front row, finally qualifying in p5, but with his fifteen-place grid penalty, he knew the race was going to be gruesome. But all he had to do was drive. He was good at that, great at that. He liked being in the car nowadays, it was the only time he didn’t think about you.

He bumped into someone on his way to the grid and, as usual, apologised without really thinking about it. He looked up for a split second and he saw you. Stunning, kind, real, you. In the flesh. He stopped in his tracks, ignoring the way his team shouted for him, and he set off running after you. People whipped by as he knocked into person after person, desperately trying to grab ahold of your sleeve, or call your name loud enough to catch your attention, but he could barely speak. Somehow someone always got in the way between you two, and he was always just a little bit too far back to tap you, so he sufficed for being dragged back to the grid and being held in his car until the lights went out. He just had to drive and get to the finish line first, he had to see you before you left. Easy when he was starting from p20. A fifteen-place grid penalty for new components to his car. He just had to race.

The lights went out and what came after was 50 of a Piastri over-taking masterclass. Up to p13 in one corner, pitstop and fighting his way all the way up into p1. Oscar Piastri was a 3-time Gran Prix winner. He’d won Hungary, Baku, and Las Vegas. The King of Sin-City for a night, and yet all we wanted was to figure out where you were. He asked every driver, wondering if you were visiting a garage as a guest- no. He wandered into every motorhome, asking if you were a guest- no. He checked every single fan zone (even checking a few grandstands that also had paddock passes), nothing. With no luck, exhaustion, and the beginnings of convincing himself he was seeing things, he retired back to his driver’s room, his back aching, his head hurting, and his mind racing. Inside Nicole sat on the bed.

“Hey mum,” he smiled tiredly.

“Hey darling,” she smiled, taking his hand as he sat down. “Are you alright?”

“I’m tired,” he admitted, yawning as he lay his head in his mother’s lap. There was a knock at the door and Oscar was much too tired to open his eyes, getting up and opening it was out of the question.

“Come in,” Nicole called out. Then she gasped, and while it made Oscar’s heart rate go up, he didn’t open his eyes.

“Y’alright?” he asked.

“I’ll leave you two to talk,” she got up as Oscar shot up, coming face to face with you.

You looked so beautiful he wanted to cry.

“Hi,” you smiled.

“Hi,” he answered.

“You can lie back down if you want, I know you must be tired,” you urged him to sit down and he followed your instructions. “I just came in to say congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he smiled awkwardly. “I came to see the show,” he admitted. You nodded, looking slightly shocked.

“I-I had no idea,” you chuckled, speaking truthfully. “I didn’t think you’d ever come see me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, nodding. “You were incredible,” he pushed through the emotion piling in his throat. Was that really the bar that he’d set for the love of his life? You’d come to countless races, missed opportunities to see him, yet he couldn’t even make a small amount of time for you to come and see a 90 minute show of which you were the lead of? Was he really that pathetic?

“Thank you,” you said, sitting beside him. “You were incredible today.”

“Thank you.”

“Your mum called me,” you explained. “She said you weren’t doing very well.”

He took a deep breath. “She’s right.”

“Me neither,” you admitted. “I mean, I act like I’m fine but the second I see something that reminds me of you I just…”

“I’m so sorry,” he teared up. “I love you so much.”

You looked at him, putting a hand on his cheek. “I love you too.”

“Can we give it another try?” he pleaded.

“Can you promise me that I’ll feel like a priority?”

He nodded, trying not to break down.

“Then we can.”

3 words. 3 words of mercy. 3 words he loved more than hearing ‘I love you’ from your perfect lips.

୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅୨ৎ⋅

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

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thewritetofreespeech · 1 month ago

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Could I request the Itoshi brothers and Bachira with a ballerina reader?

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

Rin didn’t know a lot about relationship and girls, but he still knew when he said that, he crossed a line.

“Oh really.” [Y/N] snapped back at him. Arms crossed across her chest. Glaring at him with that fiery determination Rin usually respected, but now was a little scared of. “So you admit you think my training is BS compared to your training?”

The two of them had been on very intense practice schedules as of late. Rin training up to prepare for his next match and move up, and [Y/N] training for their upcoming performance and hopefully be scouted for prima in a company. They were stressed out, fried, and exhausted. And what do exhausted people do when they are exhausted? Compare their exhaustion so they make sure that their complaints are justified as they are the only one, in the whole wide world, who could be this exhausted.

“I didn’t say it was ‘BS’. I’m just saying you can’t possibly compare what I have to do to what you have to do. The weight training. The cardio.”

“The stretching. The vaults.”

“The practice matches. The strategy management.”

“Learning every step in the performance, even if it isn’t yours, to memory. Being lifted almost 8 feet in the air and hoping your partner can hold so you don’t break your leg, or your neck.”

“The ice baths.”

“Pointe shoes.”

“Having to deal with Isagi!”

The couple growled at each other before [Y/N] finally snapped. “Fine! You think it’s so easy, you do it!”

“Fine!”

Rin would live to regret that.

The next day, to foolishly prove a point, Rin went through [Y/N]’s whole workout schedule with them. The stretching, the vaults, the practice, the lifts. He wouldn’t let himself be lifted, nor wear pointe shoes, but by the end of the day his body hurt in new ways he didn’t even know were possible. “Still think it’s so easy?”

Rin looked up from the floor he was laying on up at [Y/N]. “Fine. I take it back.”

She smiled and knelt down beside him. “Well, I appreciate that. People think because ballet is all pretty costumes and fluid movements that it’s calm & easy. They don’t appreciate the work that goes into it.”

“I’m sorry.” He realized he was doing that. Belittling their hard work.

Rin sat up and took a sip out of his water bottle. “Are you going to do my training tomorrow then?”

“Sure. What’s fair is fair.” She agreed. “But no weights. I can’t bulk up anymore of Madam Costume Maker will murder me.”

Rin scoffed. “We’ll just do an easy day for you then. If you can’t handle it.”

She punched him in the shoulder, but Rin was too tired to even feel it.

One thing that people don’t tell you when you become a professional athlete is that it’s not just about the games anymore. It’s the press.

Sae sighed as he came back to his hotel room. Completely drained from having to deal with people all day and answer their silly questions. He just wanted to play football. Why did he have to tell everyone about his fitness strategy or what brand of saltines he liked?

As he was taking off his coat his phone rang and Sae answered it. “Hello.”

“Thank you for the flowers.”

A small smile tugged at Sae’s lips as he heard [Y/N]’s voice. “Of course.” With his game coming up, he was not in town for [Y/N]’s opening night. He felt bad about it, which was strange, but being professionals in their art sometimes they had to make sacrifices. That didn’t mean he couldn’t make an effort. “How was the show?”

“Good. Early critic reviews seem to be positive.” Of course they were with [Y/N] as the prima. “I wish you could have seen it.”

“I will.” Sae explains that he paid someone to film their performance. He had gotten special permission and everything from the company; with a hefty donation. “I’ll watch it later.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.” He confessed.

“Poor baby,” [Y/N] cooed. Even though she was the one that went through the grueling physicality of dancing, she still seemed more concerned for him. “Why don’t you take a hot bath and get some sleep then?”

“They don’t believe in baths here.” Or at least his hotel room didn’t.

“A shower then. I’ll see you next week?”

“Of course.”

Sae hung up the phone and sighed again. Still tired, but a little refreshed from talking to [Y/N].

He showered and went to bed as suggested. Getting a goodnight sleep for another press tour tomorrow before the game. When he woke up that morning there was a knock at his door and a delivery from room service. A hearty breakfast of an egg white omelet, fresh fruit, and salty seaweed tea. The kind of breakfast he needed but would never get for himself. After accepting delivery, Sae noticed a card on the silver tray and quickly read it.

:Do your best: was all it said, but Sae knew who it was from.

He sat in his hotel room and ate his breakfast in silence. Watching [Y/N]’s performance on TV. Just because they had to make sacrifices didn’t mean that they couldn’t make the effort.

Bachira had been obsessed with ballerina’s ever since his mother took him to see a show once at Christmas.

The bright costumes. The spins. The music. It always excited him.

Dating [Y/N] was almost like being in the show. Helping them with their choro. Coming to rehearsals to see them practice. Bachira had probably seen the show a hundred times before actually opening night, and yet he was as nervous & excited as the actual dancers.

“You’re going to do great [Y/N]-chan~!” He whispered to her backstage.

“I don’t know…it’s a much bigger crowd than I expected….”

“That’s ok.” Bachira told her. “They’re all just faceless blobs in a crowd. Don’t focus on anyone but me in the first row. Unless…I get removed for cheering too loud. That’s gonna be hard for more….”

[Y/N] chuckled, then kissed Bachira’s cheek. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have made it this far without your support.” The music changed, coming up on [Y/N]’s cue, and they get into position to dance out. “Don’t get kicked out.”

“I’ll try~!” Bachira promised, then went to his seat to watch the performance from the audience. In awe & rapture of the beauty of the show and his partner.

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chaoticfishie · 2 months ago

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Enemy: “Ha if isn’t the famous Sylus! Finally I can ki-..hmm?”

Sylus: “What?”

Enemy: “Sorry, I just didn’t expect you to be so..pink..”

Here he was, Sylus the boss of the N109 Zone standing in front of an enemy, that has been annoying him for the last month, in a pink tutu; 2 pigtails with pink bows in it and pinkish glitter nails. Why was he looking like this?

3h before:

Older daughter: “Daddy please play salon with us!”

Younger daughter: “Yes please! It’s your turn now. We just put on a chocolate mask on Mommy and need to wait for it to finish.”

Sylus looking over to MC, his wonderful wife and of course the love of his life

MC: “I think they melted real chocolate. It taste good tho”

Sylus: “You know Daddy can’t say no to his girls, do what you need to do.”

Daughters: “YAYYY!”

Back to present time:

So, Sylus forgot to change his appearance before going to the mission. But it was not like Sylus was embarrassed. His 2 daughters wanted to dress him up, he might as well show the whole world their talent. His only worry was to get a splash of blood on him.

Sylus: “Yeah, I won’t bother with you. My look right now is way too important to get dirty. Luke and Kieran will take care of you.”

Luke and Kieran: “YESS BOSS!”

The last thing the enemy saw was a Prima Ballerina Sylus walking away….what a way to go to the afterlife.

#love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lads sylus #sylus fluff #lds sylus #sylus imagine #sylus qin #sylus x mc #sylus x you #l&ds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lnds mc #lads mc

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2tarbell · 6 months ago

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introducing — KOOK!READER ೀ

masterlist

… rafe’s princess ; his brat ; “dollface”

kook royalty, proudly high maintenance, loves her g-wagon, smokes cigarettes, heartbreaker, wanted to be a ballerina, rafe’s best friend, ‘with the boys’, pink pink pink, bikini lover, forced to live up to her family name, ‘prima donna’, girls girl unless you cross her, lives in heels, finds it fun to flirt with the pogues, craves validation and praise, mani-pedis biweekly, lover of fleetwood mac, hates to share, doesn’t need a boyfriend when she has rafe, party girl, plays dumb to get what she wants ౨ৎ

#kook!reader #rafe cameron #fanfic #outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron fanfic #rafe fanfiction #rafe obx #obx fanfiction #obx x reader #obx smut

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gremlingottoosilly · 4 months ago

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Colonel!kőnig × Ballerina!reader where he accidentally watches a ballerina performance and of course falls in love with the reader who plays the role of the evil swan

Konig never understood going to performances. Yes, it's something about being more cultured, actually seeing good art instead of the same raunchy novels his whole squadron is reading instead of doing something useful. He can't believe that the higher-ups would really waste so much money to give his whole team a bunch of tickets to a fucking ballet performance - but he guesses that it was on a very good sale. Enough of a deal to force at least 30 men and women out of their usual uniforms and into something resembling the parade ones - as much as he fucking hated wearing so many signifiers of his rank. It would always bring too much attention from civilians and too much teasing from his squadmates. Their pet colonel needs at least one tactical Horangi to actually talk to the receptionist. Konig never understood art - and he continued to never understand it when the first row of dancing girls went on the stage. They were pretty, he supposed, with long legs and pretty muscles - but honestly, pin-up models interested him a lot more. Maybe if the ballerinas would actually show their legs a bit more instead of dancing like a bunch of- You lock eyes with him - a huge man sitting in the front row in the audience, it's not that hard to miss him - and everything changes. For him. Somehow, someway. He didn't even get into the performance plot fully, but once you changed from an innocent, boring, samey-looking white swan into your black dress and bold makeup, he suddenly understood everything there was to be understood. Konig is an art lover now. Even if he can't quite remember the actual name of the play you're in. He doesn't know the proper etiquette for sitting through a ballet performance, but he punches a couple of his guys when they are trying to whistle at every somewhat romantic interaction between you and the male dancer. A bunch of fuckers noticed how their colonel was looking at you - and he is pretty sure that if he isn't firm enough with them, they might as well kidnap you as a pretty little gift for their commander. A small trophy in this endless war, a feeble attempt at busting the morale by getting their boss a girlfriend. Konig thinks that he won't even be opposed to said gift if it was proposed right about now. After the performance, he eye daggers every pathetic fuck who is giving you flowers - and it's quite a lot of people since you are prima and play the main role - right before actually dragging one of the poor guys into a secluded room and lightly punching him on the face until he is out, so Konig could take the opulent flower bouquet for himself. Just for him to stumble over his words and barely even say anything as he gives you the flowers, not knowing how to elegantly say he earns more than your ballet salary and he is willing to spend thousands of euros on giving you your own dance studio if you could only accept his flowers and- You giggle awkwardly at the giant man standing in front of you - you accept the flowers with a light smile and apologize for getting a bit of heavy makeup on his hand(Konig considers never washing his hand again) Yeah, Konig is definitely a cultured man who is going to every one of your shows now. And if you'd fall out of the organizer's favor and stop playing the main role... It's never too late to ask his boys to get their colonel a little treat.

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #cod x reader #yandere cod #colonel!konig

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francixoxoxo · 6 months ago

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⋆.˚ Rose Gold ᡣ𐭩 ୨ৎ

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐗 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐲𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐭 𝟏𝟐 𝐭𝐨 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐭. 𝐇𝐞’𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭.

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲!! 🫶🫶

Ballet seemed to be the only way for you.

Your feet were molded to fit into slippers, never mind if your toes were bruised and broken. You were gratefully blessed with thick hair, because years of updos would have thinned it to a rag-doll’s amount otherwise. You grew used to the dull ache of an empty stomach. Your body was made to be tugged and bent and manipulated without so much as a complaint, you were made to push every comfortable limit. You were born to sacrifice comfort for greatness.

Coriolanus had recognized that greatness since you were children. He saw that immense talent, as he sat in the very back of the theater in a seat you’d begged your director to provide. You’d been so young, at the first show you brought him to. Perhaps just twelve. But so, so magnetically beautiful.

The stage was your Eden, Coryo could tell from the start. The dainty way you moved, the way your brows pulled taught in an expression equally as emotional as the dance. He couldn’t peel his eyes off you, clearly the company could see that was the overwhelming sentiment because you got most of the lead parts. You were their prima ballerina, and you deserved every ounce of the praise for your bone-cracking work.

Coryo, even in your academy days together when he could hardly afford a half-decent tie, never came empty handed to your shows (which he seemed to always find a way to attend). He always had a bouquet of flowers for you, the bright tulips you adored or soft pink peonies to match your tutu. It was always worth it to see the way your eyes lit up.

It was needless to say that Coryo fell in love with the beautiful-souled, elegant ballerina. How could he not, after years of being so close to you?

Tigress and you were the ones to teach him how to dance for his first prom, his cousin not-so-discreetly recording Coryo learning to dance the lead with his “little girlfriend” in the Snows’ apartment. (Coriolanus had protested to that nickname, claiming you were a “friend who was a girl.”) He still remembered the feeling of your waist under his hand as you gracefully moved, stark contrast to himself. More embarrassingly he still remembered you and Tigress had both broken into giggles at Coryo’s unrelenting stiffness. He liked to think he was a better dancer now.

You’d been the one to walk with him to the library, if only to check out classical dance magazines into your backpack while he studied. You’d always leave early for ballet lessons. He knew you were a hard worker, dedicated to your craft. But Coryo hadn’t known the half of it.

Once, he recalled, you’d gone straight to the changing room instead of coming to greet your father or Coriolanus. He’d been puzzled, holding his bunch of white roses in the crook of his arm and asking the other dancers what’d happened. They’d only shrugged. So he might have snuck behind stage, confident that the rest of the ballerinas were still taking photos and chatting with family, and knocked on the changing room door.

“Yes?” Your voice rang out, croaky and raw. His heart had dropped at the sound.

“It’s just me. Can I come in?” Coryo called to you, his ear to the door. You shuffled around before opening the door yourself.

Just as he’d expected, your eyes were red and blotchy, mascara running. You’d taken out the comb in your hair but not the updo itself. Your tutu, though you’d been raised and reprimanded to take extreme care of the company’s accessory, was discarded on the floor beside your ballet slippers. As Coryo stared down at you, hips brows furrowing in concern, you stood in your pale pink leotard and snow-white tights. Through the sheer fabric he could see the bandages around your feet, scabs reopened and bleeding through the gauze to your tights.

You’d sniffled. “It’s fine. It wouldn’t show under the slippers.” As if that was his cause of worry. You stepped aside to let him into the dressing room, stiffly sitting himself down on a mauve chaise. He set the roses beside him.

“Are you all right?” Coryo cooed, watching you as you sat beside him. You pulled your knee to your chest with your foot on the upholstery.

You shook your head. “I made a mistake on my pirouette en dehors.” You wiped your eyes, spreading more mascara onto your cheeks. Coryo just stared, so you swallowed down the lump in your throat. And yet still your voice was meek and raw. “The spin. I ended it far too early, made a fool of myself. Nearly fell over, too!”

Coriolanus shook his head, watching you tear your updo down and shake out your hair with a roughness all too aggressive for his liking. He reached for your hand. “I thought you did amazing.”

“Because you don’t know ballet!” You bawled, your lips pulling in a grimace as more tears poured down your rosy cheeks. It was evil of Coryo to think, but he couldn’t deny you were pretty when you cried. “Oh, Coryo, I’ve never danced so sloppy in my life! And there was a critic in the house!”

He didn’t get it one bit. You were lovely. Every ballerina adored your kind nature or was jealous of your undeniable talent. You’d entranced him, mind, body and soul, with every move you made— on and off stage. He hadn’t realized how much effort it took to look, well, effortless.

It was then that Coriolanus realized just how hard you worked, just how much of your life ballet consumed. And he adored you more for it, as he folded you into his arms and promised you were a born star.

For years, you flourished. Your grace was unmatched, the emotion you could convey in the simplest of movements spoke volumes in a medium that used no words. You had the loving care and support of your father, your mother long gone. Coryo provided a kind of companionship that was invaluable. You were, with no exaggeration, a star.

When Coryo became a mentor for the Hunger Games, you saw him a bit less. It was all right, you supposed. You were busy too. Though, it did sting when he didn’t attend your ballet company’s performance of Appalachian Spring. The only show he had ever missed. After the news of his cheating in the Games and his relationship with Lucy Gray got out, it was only salt in the wound.

You weren’t sure why you expected letters from him when he was sent to the Districts. Life went on, you supposed. Even though you sorely missed seeing his face in the crowd, which seemed to only diminish.

The company was failing. They were holding on, grasping at straws, under the immense pressure of closing. That just about ripped your heart to shreds. And, as if the world was endlessly trying to knock you down, your father fell fatally ill. Dead within the month.

Ballet was the only way for you. But without your father’s support, and (though your family name had never been particularly prestigious) no social standing, other companies were reluctant to take you on. Your talent didn’t seem to matter in a world that revolved around social status.

With the ballet company’s sinking, so was your career. You saw yourself walking languidly towards a cliff, your mind in despair, your eyes witnessing where the road ended, yet your feet betraying you— It was hardly their fault. The finale of your passion, your life, was impending and inevitable.

The theatre was putting on A Midsummer Night’s Dream tonight. Coriolanus’ platinum blonde curls were still cropped, he rubbed a now-calloused hand over his head as he sat in the back row. It wasn’t difficult to score a seat anymore, perhaps now that his new internship with Dr. Gaul put some money in his pockets the cost of a ticket seemed less steep. Perhaps his memory served him wrong. Or, more likely, the prices had lowered exponentially.

Coriolanus was stone faced as he watched the stagnant red curtain, inoffensive music playing before the ballet began. He’d expected there to be as much of a turnout as there had been the last show he attended; but he could only count fifty-six people finding their seats. He couldn’t see your father, who he usually sat with, anywhere.

He paid it no mind. The moment the performance started, his icy blue eyes were focused solely on you. You could’ve been the only ballerina on stage, though the program in his lap said otherwise. You were a magnificent Hermia, as the program listed you were dancing.

Even after years of watching ballet, Coryo wasn’t very cultured in it. But any fool could see you looked utterly stunning in a pale pink, flowing dress to your calves with a gold-trimmed bust. Your tresses were done in an intricate updo, topped with a decorated comb. Watching you move, daintily and freely yet practiced— he forgot to breathe.

Coryo was entranced.

In Coryo’s lap he held a bouquet of hawthorn, purple hyacinths, pansy and bluebells— wrapped in white, tied off with a dainty, baby pink ribbon. It was rather beautiful, he’d taken care in which he chose, double-checking the meanings of the specific flowers with the florist. He knew you’d understand them, he recalled your raving about a secret language hidden in petals. He’d never been able to afford such an intricate bouquet for your previous shows.

Coriolanus wondered what you would think of him now, in a crisp white dress shirt, a simple black suit to let his red tie and coat pop. Those blonde curls you loved shaved down. Bearing expensive flowers. And in his pocket, a rose-gold bracelet dotted with diamonds.

Oh, he felt like a little boy again, admiring your radiance on stage, blue eyes round and glimmering with adoration. You were exuding passion, an overwhelming and raw talent.

When the final curtain drew, he set about finding you. It wasn’t how it had been when you were younger; ballerinas no longer took photos with family in their little pink tutus. He followed the masses to the lobby of the theatre, hanging by the grand door he knew you and the other dancers would come flooding from. In his red coat’s pocket he rubbed a thumb over the velvet jewelry box for you. The other hand clutched the bouquet, the flowers that bared every feeling.

None of the ballerinas that slipped from the backstage were you, to his dismay. For a moment he thought you might’ve slipped out a back door. Coryo still hadn’t seen your father, there wasn’t a point in coming to the front if he wasn’t attending. He leaned his back against the marble wall, frowning down at your flowers, until the door creaked open, and his azure eyes flicked up to see if the girl was you, and to his delight—

“Coryo?”

Oh, you hadn’t realized how large the hole he’d left in your heart gaped until Coryo was standing in front of you. Your Coryo.

“You’re here.” You must’ve sounded so silly. You certainly felt silly. You were already out of your costume, in a loose white sweater, soft and short pink skirt over black leggings. And here he was, in a sharp suit and tie, a gorgeous coat.. Stark contrast to the young boy who couldn’t scrape together a decent suit-jacket for your shows. The young boy who had filled out and chiseled into a man.

Coryo smiled softly down at you, eyes twinkling fondly. He offered the bouquet to you, his voice gentle and smooth as silk. “I’m here.” You took the bouquet absentmindedly, admiring it for a brief moment before shifting it to the crook over your elbow and turning your attention to Coriolanus again.

He looked so different, yet all the same. Those soft blue eyes slightly sharper but not any less attractive. His hair, Christ, that was the thing you couldn’t keep to yourself.

“Your hair!” You breathed, reaching up to push a dainty hand through his grown-out blonde buzzcut. It caught him a bit off guard, but he leaned his head down and chuckled.

“It’ll grow.” Coryo shrugged, letting your hand slip from his hair but not without grabbing it with his own. He leans down to press his lips to your knuckles. You think you might be in heaven. “You were amazing up there. Just.. angelic.”

You wondered if the heat in your cheeks was obvious. “Thank you..” Suddenly you had no words. Well, you had plenty to say. Plenty of thoughts, certainly. But no way to say them just yet. Coryo must’ve been able to tell.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Coriolanus’ brows drew together hopefully. You got a faint idea he might actually be nervous. To your dismay he dropped your hand gently. “You must be tired, but..”

“No, no, I’d love to.” You blurted, cutting him off with a bright smile. You slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow.

Coryo couldn’t stifle his grin. He decided to save your gift for later, as he guided you through the grand doors of the theater and to his car. Your lips had formed into an “o” at the long, cream-white vehicle. It even had a hood ornament, the silver logo of the expensive brand. “Oh, Coryo, it’s beautiful.” You couldn’t stop yourself from gasping your next words, though you were mortified after uttering them, “Since when could you afford something like this?”

You thought he’d be offended, but he just chuckled and opened the passenger door for you. “We have a lot of catching up to do.”

Restaurants weren’t exactly open at this time of night— atleast not any that Coryo found good enough to bring you to. So he settled to bring you to a gelato place he recalled you loved, sitting outside with you and watching the people go by. The streetlamps cast the dark street in soft yellows, the city was still very much awake.

You felt awake. For the first time in months, you felt your heart beating, you felt an honest smile gracing your lips. Seeing Coryo again was a breath of fresh air you hadn’t realized how bad you needed.

Coriolanus told you about his time in district twelve, though he left out some details. You told him about your father’s passing. You were hesitant to mention how poorly the theatre was doing, though. You had a feeling he knew.

Your feeling was correct. While the two of you were walking home, your hand comfortable in the crook of his elbow, Coryo spoke up. He breathed your name hesitantly, waiting for your acknowledging hum. “Tell me the truth. Is the dance company failing?”

You frowned, eyes on your feet. Well. What was the point in hiding it? It wasn’t exactly private information. “It is.” You murmured, almost ashamed.

“But you’ll go to another one?” Coryo immediately jumped to you. He didn’t seem to care about the theatre, only whether your talent would be in one.

That was the issue. Your breath caught in your chest, your lips pressing nervously and your eyelids fluttering shut to avoid the sting of tears. “I haven’t gotten any offers.”

It seemed your hard work simply.. Wasn’t enough. Not without a family name. In the capitol, where everything depended on a girl’s parents, an orphan whose name hadn’t been prestigious in the first place didn’t stand a chance. The only reason you were with this theatre was because your father and the owner had been friends in the war.

That just didn’t sit right with Coriolanus. He found your hand in the crook of his elbow, resting his roughened hand over your soft one, squeezing. “But you’re a natural talent.” His brows pulled taut. You shook your head.

“It’s not that simple.” You sighed, using your free hand to dash away the tears wetting your cheeks.

But it could be, Coryo knew as he turned over the jewelry box in his pocket, but didn’t say. Oh, you’d hate the idea. You’d be furious. You were a hard worker, anybody could see. You prided yourself in making a career for yourself without nepotism or assistance, very few favors. Of course you’d deny the idea brewing in Coryo’s mind, you’d write it off as a shortcut.

But he saw your talent. He’d just make it so others would see it aswell.

Coriolanus would never be ashamed of his cunning mind. He should be. But he never could.

He was like a snake. The next socialite party he attended, he slithered his way into every sophisticated conversation, networking, whispering his agenda into men’s ears, men with the power he thirsted for.

Politics was exactly where a snake like Coriolanus Snow belonged.

Usually it was for himself. Coryo was climbing the capitol’s ladder, collecting pons at each rung and using them as he went. But this time, this particular snobbish event, he smoothly brought up the name of a beautiful, immensely talented young ballerina looking for a new theatre to perform to. A ballerina he would personally vouch for, a ballerina he insisted would bring pride (and fame, of course,) to any company she danced for.

Eventually Coryo pulled on the right string, his words reaching the right ears. He got acquainted with an older man, Darien Jeux. The owner of a very, very prestigious ballet company. Oh, he was skeptical at first, but wasn’t Coriolanus a charmer? By the time the glittering champagne in his glass was finished, a deal of sorts was sealed. Jeux had a grandson in need of work, an internship would be arranged for the dolt. In exchange?

Coryo was the first person you called when the letter came in the mail. You had just arrived at your apartment after a late-night rehearsal, a crisp envelope left in the slot in your door. Stabbing an ornate letter opener, a gift from your father, into the paper and tearing it, oh, the words printed almost brought you to tears!

“Coryo, you won’t believe it!” You cheered over the phone, the joy in your voice as you gushed about Yeux’s ballet company extending an audition, the possibility of a contract, the prestige of this company! “Oh, isn’t it wonderful?” You breathed, the hope in your voice washing away every qualm Coryo had about going behind your back.

“It is.” Coriolanus smiled softly to himself, his eyes fluttering shut in an overwhelming relief.

Ballet was the only way for you. Coryo would kill a man to keep you happy, to keep your career alive. It was only right, that if he had the capability to make everything easier for you, he should use every resource available. Anything for you.

“You deserve it.” Coryo cooes, leaning back in his leather desk chair and letting your lilted voice keep him awake for another hour.

Hope had been thrust into your life again, the air under your wings, keeping you afloat. It seemed like your life was brightening in every corner now. Coryo insisted on taking you to dinner to celebrate when your audition went smoothly. How desperately he wanted to lean over that table and kiss you silly. He settled for taking you to dinner the next week. And the week after that. And after that.

In his eyes, his help was just that. A bit of help. This society was idiotic and venomous, your immense talent would have been enough to bring you to the top if that was the sole factor. It would be such a waste of great potential if you were stifled simply because of your name. He couldn’t have that.

Once Coryo gave you that little push, simply just got your name out there, your ability spoke for itself. You really were a star, landing one of the large roles in the first performance the theatre put on since signing you.

Coriolanus also pulled some strings to get a seat in the gallery balcony of the theatre. The company was putting on The Sleeping Beauty, which in your delicately graceful nature you landed the role of Princess Aurora. Tigris sat beside him, she’d absolutely adored you even when you were young. He even had a little pair of opera binoculars to watch you dance, not minding his cousins giggles at how old he looked holding them up to his eyes.

Coryo felt waves of pride, seeing the seats full. All eyes were on you, your grace on a pedestal display— exactly where it should be. Oh, the smile it brought to his lips each time the crowd roared with applause and whistles for you. You deserved no less.

When you came out after the show, you donned a simple yet elegant white dress, a boat-neck A-line that fell to your mid thigh, accentuating your delicate figure. Coryo had specifically told you it would be perfect for the after party, which technically wasn’t solely for your first performance with the theatre, but you’d be on display no less. He was certain that your name would be in headlines by tomorrow, and he told you so, which you’d smiled shyly and shaken your head at.

You’d never been to such an extravagant party. Your old theatre was never this grand, and whatever luxurious events they held were distant memories by the time you were old enough to attend them. The ballroom was classically beautiful, marble pillars along the walls and a painted rotunda ceiling.

You hadn’t a chance to look up and appreciate the mural before you were swarmed with people wanting to meet you, shake your hand and congratulate your performance. Coriolanus was right at your side the whole time, a strong hand on your shoulder. It shouldn’t have made you feel such excitement, but your heart was betraying your mind at the protective gesture.

Eventually, you grew a bit tired of all the introductions and stale small talk. Coryo could tell, he bowed his head and murmured against the shell of your ear, “I think it’s time for a dance. If you aren’t tired of it by now?”

“No! I mean, yes. I’m not tired of dancing. I’d love to dance.” You stumbled over your words, feeling the flush come to your cheeks. Oh, you weren’t tired, quite the opposite. You were restless. You were infinitely grateful for Coriolanus as he guided you by the hand, pulling you into a dance. He was a better dancer than you remember, you told him so. He’d only chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he lifted his hand to twirl you.

Coryo wore a boyish grin while he watched your dress flower and billow as you twirled. “I’m glad I’m not embarrassing myself, then.”

Perhaps it was then that you truly realized the boy you’d grown up with had turned into a man in the blink of an eye. A man who laid a strong hand on the small of your back, blonde hair combed neatly, cheeks roughened with stubble and eyes sultry. A man who was staring at you in a way that nearly made an expert ballerina stumble in her dancing.

You weren’t sure what moved you to lay your ear against his chest, feeling the solid and comforting warmth of him. You hoped, though, that he didn’t hear the soft sigh you released as he nosed your hair. You imagined that he dropped a kiss to your scalp. Why, Coriolanus, your Coryo, was cradling you as you languidly danced like you were made of porcelain.

In fact, as the song’s lulled to an end, Coriolanus leaned away from you just barely. Just enough for you to lift your head, eyes raising to meet his sapphire ones. Sapphire eyes filled with a soft affection, a kind of tenderness that you were beginning to wonder if you could live without. For a moment you dreamed he might kiss you.

You watched as his icy gaze flickered over your face, before he murmured lowly, “I’ll go get you a drink.” Wordlessly you nodded, watching as a tantalizingly sincere smile curled Coryo’s lips. He slipped away from you carefully. Expertly stifling the white-hot anxiety burning a hole in his chest under that clean-cut suit.

With a soft sigh, and rubbing both of your palms over your burning cheeks, you sought out your new friends. The circle of ballerinas, done up in simple and classically beautiful dresses, welcomed you happily. Eager to listen about your flustered retelling of the whole interaction with Coriolanus. Gasping girlishly and relishing in that sisterly bond. Slowly that exciting knot in your stomach came loose.

Just as you had collected yourself, your ears perked to the dropping of your name. You looked over your shoulder, finding the source to be two older men, one pudgy and one gaunt. They both had cold eyes, sharp and knowing. That would’ve been enough to make you shiver, if it weren’t for the words slipping past their thin lips.

“I heard Yeux was paid off.” The thin man hummed. Your stomach sank. Surely they weren’t talking about you?

The fat man shook his head. “No, more of a favor, I heard. That boy Dr. Gaul funded? Crassus’s boy.” The other man sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with the hand not clasping a champagne flute.

He sneered, “So, the company ‘star’ only has a contract because the Snow boy pulled strings? What a disgrace this theatre is coming to!”

Oh, the marble floor was spinning under your feet. A frustration, a fury was boiling in your heart, dull and painful as you clenched your jaw. How many times had you told Coriolanus that you didn’t want any nepotism? How many times had you mentioned your pride in how hard you worked for your career? All for him to pull the rug from under you!

How could he? How could he go behind your back and snatch your values away from your hands, make an absolute fool of you?

Feigning a smile you excused yourself from the ballerinas, walking aimlessly through the ballroom. Slipping through the crowd with a kind of bleariness in your eyes. Color had been brought back into your life, but at what cost? Your morals. You hadn’t even been given a choice of whether to keep them intact or trade them for glory. You wouldn’t have chosen this, certainly.

You moved on autopilot. You hadn’t even realized Coriolanus was trailing after you until he clasped a strong hand on your shoulder, gently turning you. You shrugged your shoulder away from his grip, your wild eyes meeting his. Oh, the betrayal swelling in your stomach threatened to swallow you whole.

Coriolanus breathed your name in an awkward chuckle. His brows drew together as he offered a fruity drink to you in an ornate glass. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t talk to me.” You hiss, turning from him and storming away with a purpose in your feet.

Coriolanus only follows after you like a lost puppy. “What? What happened?” He called your name, but bitter loathing was toiling in your mind too strong to so much as cast him a look.

Damn him for feigning innocence! Damn him for coming back into yourself, sweeping you off your feet and having the balls to think he could just fix all your problems with his connections! Damn him for taking all that you prided yourself on away, just to make himself feel better. Charity, that’s what you were.

“I’m not stupid!” You cried, calling over your shoulder and blinking away hot tears. Nevertheless they streaked down your cheeks. At last you found the walls of this cursed ballroom, turning down a grand hallway. Gratefully, only a few people hung by the pillars and potted plants, disgustingly old men and beautiful, young women, some of them ballerinas from your new company. Your company that Coriolanus got you into.

Speak of the devil, he was still on your heels. Perhaps he even broke into a run after you, because before you knew it he was grabbing you by the shoulders, cornering you between a marble pillar and the wall. You shook him off you, staring blazingly up into his buggy and nervous eyes.

“Darling.” Coriolanus breathed, exasperated and terribly confused. He stopped reaching for you, gratefully, but he was still looming over you. Trapping you in.

You wiped the tears from your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

Coriolanus sighed. He murmured your proper name gently, his brows pressing together. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ll fix it for you, just tell me what’s wrong.”

“You would, wouldn’t you!” You cried, throwing your hands down. “Try and fix everything, just swoop in like a knight in shining armor and fix my poor life!”

His face fell at that. His azure eyes darkened, lips parting and his chin tilting further down to you. He knew he was caught, you thought bitterly as you huffed. Coriolanus dragged his hand down his face, trying to rub the situation off his skin. “Tell me what you know.”

“I know that you disregarded my wishes! I didn’t want any nepotism, I didn’t want any shortcuts, and that is exactly what you did, Coryo!” Tears were flowing uncomfortably and warm down your cheeks, ruining your pretty makeup. You rubbed the skin around your eyes raw. If only you could see the distraught look on Coriolanus’ face.

He shook his head, murmuring breathlessly, “But… I did it for you. You needed some help, you needed someone to get your name out there.” You shook your head, but your silence gave him a chance to go on. “I knew you’d be upset, but your talent—“

“I am upset!” You bawled, “You knew I’d be upset and you still did it, Coriolanus! You did it for you, not for me, if—”

“You couldn’t even afford to eat!” Coriolanus snapped, barking at you with buggy eyes. His jaw tightened, his chest heaving with a deep breath. His eyes slip closed, he pinches the bridge of his nose and grimaces in exasperation. He never wanted to yell at you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell.” Coriolanus murmurs, rubbing a hand over his mouth as he watches the way tears come to your eyes stronger than before. He watches the way you cross your arms, looking to the wall and chewing on your lip. “You were struggling. You… You’re a talented woman. The most talented. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you fizzle just because you don’t have someone to vouch for you.”

“But now all this isn’t because of myself. Where I am today isn’t because of my talent or my hard work.. It’s because of a man pulling some strings.” You murmured, rubbing your eyes again. Your voice is raw and low, you look down at your dress and smooth down the material. Such a quality, beautiful dress. You would’ve liked to say that you were wearing it because of your own work. Coriolanus took that away from you, you reminded yourself.

Coryo pushes a hand through his hair, sighing softly. His lips press, he looks away at the others in the hall. He’s scrambling for a way to resolve this. “I had to help you. Because…”

You eye him expectantly, turning your wet cheek. Coriolanus reaches forward to tenderly thumb away a loose tear, and you don’t pull away. Perhaps you’ve tired yourself out. “Because I love you. And I can’t let a woman so special fail for such a stupid reason. Special to the world, of course, but special to me.”

Oh, the world was spinning around you too fast for your mind to keep up. You felt the floor giving out from under you, you had to cover your eyes with a palm. He loved you? This is why he did all this? This is why he felt the need to lift you from the mud? Not for his own selfish gain, but for you? For love?

“Coryo, you can’t just...” You began, the words dying before they could pass your lips as you shook your head desperately. He seemed to understand, nodding a bit and watching you with wide and buggy eyes. You finally looked up to meet that penetrating gaze, feeling your chest heave with deep breaths.

Without a word you moved into Coryo’s arms, pressing your wet cheek to his chest. You felt his breath hitch, his arms immediately wrapping closely around you. He nosed your hair, smelling deeply your rose-scented shampoo. God, the things he would do for you. This barely scraped it. He knew you’d be hurt, but he also knew what would be best for you in the long run. He knew he’d rather let you hate him than regret a passion left dry in the sun.

A long while passed like this, Coriolanus murmuring sweet words of consolation and diligently drying the tears on your rosy cheeks.

“My love, this world is cruel.” Coriolanus cooed, his eyebrows drawing together and forehead creasing as he smoothed down your hair. “Talent without a name is nothing. If talent was all that mattered, you wouldn’t need my help.”

Coryo dropped a kiss to your forehead. “I wish you didn’t need my help.”

Coryo brought you home that night. Neither of you breathed a word the whole ride there, Coriolanus casting you longing glances constantly and you fidgeting with your rose gold bracelet. A gift from him. Your most prized jewelry nowadays.

Feelings just toiled and swam in your heart, threatening to spill and taint your whole body. You were furious with him. But oh, how you loved that man.

The man who is not pressuring you any further, not shouting, not condemning your anger with him, just silently holding your hand over the center console, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles slowly. Tenderly. The man who loved you. The man who would kill for you, much less call in a favor for your sake.

When his car rolled to a stop in front of your apartment, you leaned away from him. You shifted in your seat to face him, but he never let go of your hand. In fact, he’d squeezed it a bit tighter.

Coryo was watching you with wide, you’d dare say puppy dog eyes as you opened your lips to speak in a whisper. “I don’t want you to do this again.”

He nodded seriously, dragging his thumb across the backs of your fingers. His sapphire eyes never dropped from yours. “I promise you.”

“And I don’t need your altruism.”

“Of course.”

“I’m not a child, I’m not a poor thing.”

“Not even a little bit. Kill me before I suggest it.”

You found yourself leaning over the center console, your nose brushing his. He found his hand slipping to gently cradle the back of your head. “I forgive you.” You murmur quietly, Coryo nods a bit, mind like a runny egg. He’s having a bit of trouble focusing on your words, as important to him as they are.

Coriolanus draws you closer, planting a tender kiss onto your lips. The cool metal of your bracelet pressing into his nape drew a sigh from his mouth, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders. Kissing him felt like a comfort. Kissing Coryo felt right, your lips moving on his as if your soul knew before your mind had even considered it.

He didn’t interfere with your career again. He respected you with every bone in his body, with every string in his heart. He let your talent, your ineffable passion for your craft speak for itself. You were a prima ballerina of your own work, he’d often murmur to you late at night. In a bed he had somehow managed to coax you into, in a bed he couldn’t imagine sleeping in without your warm form beside him. You were a star.

No matter how independent you were, he would never stop protecting you. Caring for you. Providing you the best he could. Until the day you died, he would break his own bones to bend to your whims.

Coriolanus would kill for you. Without qualms, he would carve his own bone and flesh, if you asked him to. You didn’t even need to ask. If it made you happy in the slightest, Coryo would engrave your name into his heart.

It had always been written there, hadn’t it?

468 notes · View notes

bussyslayer333 · 8 months ago

Text

‘cause you’re so smooth

summary: phoenix invites the boys to her salsa class, big mistake.

pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader

word count: 3k+

warnings: swearing, alcohol mentions, suggestive nature lols, me not knowing anything about salsa

my return to writing with a fic i teased over a year ago!! i hope you all enjoy

ps requests r open :p

“Nix, if you think I want to spend my Sunday evening learning to salsa dance with a bunch of soccer moms then I think your concussion hasn’t healed properly.” Jake sasses in response to Nat’s invitation.

“Yeah, I’m sorry Nat but Sunday is my chill out day, when else am I gonna beat Fitch’s ass on cod?” Fanboy reasons.

Natasha knew it was a stretch asking the boys to join her salsa dancing class, but she thought it was important for them to get out more. At the moment, seemingly all they did was trudge from work to the Hard Deck over and over again.

She sighs, “it would be good for you guys to get out more, y’know?”

“I’ll go, Nat,” Bob smiles, nodding to her from where he is perched on a stool behind her.

“Thank you, Bob.” Nat nods back to him, “the rest of you can suck it.”

“Hey!” Bradley yells as he appears back from the bar, beers in tow, “what did we say about using that type of language?”

“Shut up Dadley,” Nat rolls her eyes as Bradley flicks his tongue out before handing her a beer.

“As much as I’d truly love to attend that class ‘Nix, I’m already a salsa pro and I wouldn’t want you to feel embarrassed about your skills,” Bradley declares, before taking an obnoxious sip of his beer.

“Yeah fuckin’ right, and my dad is prima ballerina,” Jake snorts.

“Let’s not discredit Papa Seresin, I saw him tear Boogie Wonderland up at your sister’s wedding.” Coyote nods.

“Yeah and even that shit was better than what Rooster could pull off,” Jake decides.

Bradley only shrugs at the jibe, a lazy smirk plastered onto his face, which serves only to piss Jake off more.

“Dance off?” Fanboy proposes, standing to head to the jukebox.

“No?” Jake frowns.

Fanboy drops back to his seat with a sigh, “was worth a shot.”

Nat shakes her head with a snort and brings the conversation back to the matter at hand.

“Look it’s fine, I’m just saying I think you guys would enjoy it!” She reasons.

“I’m sure it’ll be fun!” Bob adds happily.

Nat can only sigh at the lack of response.

Bob is already waiting outside the community centre when Nat arrives, looking down and nervously picking at a thread on the bottom of his gym shorts.

“You ready?” Nat questions, trying to alleviate his nerves.

When Bob looks up his brows unfurl and he lets a small smile sip onto his face.

“Yeah, sure, let’s do this!” He pumps his fist a little awkwardly.

Nat can only chuckle in response as she makes her way to the room at the left of the reception where the class is held. You’re stood by the door chatting with one of the older women in your class when Nat comes into your view.

“Natasha! How’s my best student?” You tease, stepping towards her.

“I’m great, thanks!” Nat blushes before gesturing to Bob, “I hope you don’t mind, I brought a friend.”

Bob sucks in a breath as you finally lock eyes with him. Shit. You were beautiful and those leggings were doing you an undoubted amount of favours.

Sadly, Bob had an incredibly annoying habit he was unable to shake. It was known as “embarrassing himself in front of beautiful women” and that seemed to strike him just as you stuck your manicured hand out to shake his own.

The breath that Bob had sucked in caught in his throat which was drying up increasingly as he took you in, leading to an unprecedented coughing fit doubling him over. What seemed to make it worse was your shocked gasp and immediate move to lean over him and pay his back gently. Bob tried not to focus on your cleavage directly next to his face and instead on regulating his breathing. It was proving difficult, especially when he could hear Nat cackling at his misfortune from behind him.

Once almost fully back to normal, you squeeze his bicep and chuckle,

“I don’t think I’ve ever quite literally taken someone’s breath away!” You giggle, voice oh so sweet.

Bob can’t even let himself feel embarrassed with the way your soft hand feels on his arm.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he cringes.

“Don’t worry about it,” you smile reassuringly.

Nat is growing seemingly agitated by Bob’s lingering near the door so she steers him forwards away from you.

“Best get set up!” She announces, dragging him into the room.

The classroom is spacious, a high ceiling and large windows on the left wall. The wall facing the door is covered in mirrors that amplify the light in the area.

Before Bob can speak up again, two men who look to be in their late 40s rush over towards Natasha. They’re the complete opposite of one another, the first who reaches for Natasha is tanned and has dark curling hair with flecks of grey throughout.

“Natasha! Darling it is so great to see you!” He exclaims with a slight accent, holding her hand in his.

The other has embraced the grey in his hair, he’s relatively pale but has clearly kept his physique, he nods towards Bob with a glint of something in his eye, “I thought he wasn’t your type?”

Nat snorts, clueing Bob in finally on what the two men were hinting at.

“My best friend, boys don’t worry,” she teases.

“Thank God, I’ve been trying to set you up with my niece for how long now?” The dark haired man smiles.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’m always busy at the moment,” she shrugs apologetically before turning back to Bob, “Bob this is Marco and Luke.”

They both shake his hand and size him up as they do so, the grey haired one (Luke) declares.

“He’s cute, Nat, where have you been hiding him?” He prods.

Bob exhales at the approval and watches as Nat breaks out into laughter. “Away from you!”

Marco and Luke break into laughter alongside Nat and Bob can’t help himself but join. Just as they’re all catching their breath, Bob jumps out of his skin again as he feels his hand on his shoulder.

“Boys, we’re being welcoming to our newcomer aren’t we?” You hum.

Your hip is touching Bob’s and the soft skin of your hand on his shoulder has him malfunctioning, luckily he isn’t forced into replying (or choking) this time.

“Of course we are beautiful, what do you think of us?” Marco gasps in faux shock.

“I think that I know what you two are like,” you roll your eyes before making your way to the front of the room.

You send Bob a sly wink before finally beginning, “It’s so great to see you all again!”

Everyone in the room blurts out greetings at you as you begin, “We’ll continue on from last week,” you strut over to the stereo in the corner and a latin pop track floats out into the room and Bob vaguely recognises the tune.

Marco and Luke are quick to start fluidly moving around the floor space and Bob notices that others in the room are doing the same. You make your way quickly over to him and place your hand on the small of his back, straightening his posture.

“I don’t expect you to get it immediately,” you smile into his ear, “we’ll start off with some basics and turn variations.”

Bob hopes you can’t see the nervous perspiration already forming on the back of his neck and nods a little too eagerly at your words. He looks back to Nat for some encouragement but she’s already dancing and chatting with a group of women next to the tall windows.

“I don’t bite,” You giggle, shocking Bob who looks back to see you holding your hand out for him to grab onto.

“Sorry, I’m not the best dancer-” Bob’s self depreciation is swiftly disrupted by you placing his hand on your waist and the other in your own.

“All the more for me to work with,” you smile, and Bob feels himself smiling back.

Although a tad clunky, Bob manages not to step on your toes and has some surprisingly fluid hip movement which intrigues you ever so slightly.

By the last ten minutes of the class, Bob is twirling Marco around as Luke and Nat chat to you about technique.

“What were you nervous about?” Marco probes Bob, “you’re a natural!”

Bob can only chuckle shyly in response and he glances over at your frame. Marco seems to notice Bob’s longing glances and slowly stops their dance.

“Go for it.”

“What?” Bob splutters.

“She’s been making googoo eyes at you the whole time mister, don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”

Bob reels for a moment at Marcos admission before straightening up. “You think?”

Marco rolls his eyes. “I know.”

Before Bob can reach you you’re already strutting back towards the stereo to lower the volume of the music and gather everyone’s attention.

“Thank you so much everyone! You’ve all been brilliant today and I can’t wait to see you next week!” You beam at everyone.

People begin to gather to chat and start to disperse and you begin to gather your own belongings, stopping to make conversation with others as you do so. Luke and Nat join Bob and Marco with sly smirks on their faces.

“So…” Nat begins, “You’ll be coming back next week I presume?”

Bob flushes at Nat’s knowing look. “Yeah,” he looks to you, “definitely.”

Bob didn’t mean to let it slip. Like seriously, his lips were so sealed. Air tight.

“But HOW hot are we talking?” Mickey slurs over the nth shot he’d done with Bob at the Hard Deck’s happy hour.

So maybe not air tight.

It was Thursday evening and the rest of the daggers had politely declined drinks with Fanboy, but Bob (the ever dutiful friend) had accepted, hoping to be in and out within the hour. But alas, here they were.

“Fuckin’ smoking,” Bob mimes an explosion with his hands as Mickey nods enthusiastically to his answer.

“I choked on air when I saw her and almost popped a boner during a Justin Timberlake song,” Bob continues to ramble, once given the chance to talk about you he clearly wasn’t going to stop.

“And when is this class?” Mickey slumps closer to Bob, tequila breath hot on his neck.

“Ummmm, Sunday evening at 6 I think?” Bob nods, remembering the details Nat had sent him in a text the week previous.

“Good to know,” Mickey hums, reaching his hand forward to signal for another round, knocking someone’s drink over in the process. “Oops.”

Bob is quick to drag Mickey away from the bar top after that, realising they’d probably overdone it a tad for a weekday evening.

As the cool sea breeze hits Bob’s flushed face whilst him and Mickey wait outside the Hard Deck for their uber, he can’t help but let his mind drift to you, what you were potentially up to, do you teach other classes during the week? Do you dance professionally? God, you definitely could, the way your hips moved-

Bob shook his head, as if to get the image of you stuck in his mind out. He looked to Mickey hanging off of his arm, he was looking to the ground and shaking as if to stave off the imminent vomit that was about to leave his mouth any second now.

“Let’s get you home man,” Bob pats Mickey on the head, dragging him towards their Uber pulling up.

“Hey, Bob!” Nat yells across the parking lot, catching the back of her friend’s tall frame leant against a pillar near the front of the community center.

When Bob turns around, Nat notices two people next to him who she was not expecting to see.

“Fitch? Fanboy?” Nat cocks her head to the side. “I thought you guys were too busy to come?”

Nat’s accusatory eyes meet Bob’s sheepish expression as he awkwardly clears his throat.

“We heard the teacher was hot as fuck.” Payback shrugs.

Fanboy giggles next to him in excitement, “I’ve been practicing-”

“Bob I swear-” Natasha begins, finger pointing right into Bob’s chest.

“Sup, biatches!” Jake yells, alerting everyone of his and Javy’s presence. “Who’s ready to get their salsa on?”

Nat spins around on her heel, eyes shooting daggers into Jake and Javy.

“Bob, I’m going to kill you.” She states, eerily calm.

“Oh come on Phe! You wanted us here just last week!” Jake exclaims, walking round to slap Bob on the shoulder and greet Payback and Fanboy behind him.

“Yeah! When I wanted you guys to get out and do something productive! Not fuck my lovely salsa teacher, who by the way, was not socialised by wolves! So will absolutely not be charmed by any of you fools!”

With that, Nat turns and walks into the community center, leaving the boys to sprint in after her.

“At least this can’t get any worse,” Nat mutters to herself, pulling the door to your studio open.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Nat stills in the doorway, the rest of the boys behind her peeking their heads in.

“What now?” Bob asks guiltily.

Nat opens the door fully and allows the men behind her to file into the studio, where her fellow classmates are stood in a semi circle whooping and hollering at you dancing in the middle with none other than Bradley Bradshaw.

“Fucking Bradshaw,” Jake scoffs, pushing his way ahead whilst checking himself out in the full length mirrors that line the opposite wall of the room.

“Chicken never told us he could dance!” Jake yells over the latin music filling the room, successfully interrupting your dance with Bradley.

Bradley’s head whips to the side at the sound of that familiar ear grating voice. He gives you an apologetic look as he walks over to begin squabbling with a man you presume he knows. The commotion between the boys alerts you to the presence of Natasha and Bob as well as three other unfamiliar men. When Bradley had introduced himself with a smirk and a drawling voice as a friend of Natasha’s you had to wonder whether all of her colleagues were so handsome and by the looks of it, they were.

Nat is quick to walk over to you with an apologetic smile. “I want to apologise in advance for the next hour. They are insufferable.”

You look behind her to where the gaggle of men she calls her close friends are stood, you can see Marco and Luke itching to get their claws in and you have to giggle. This should be interesting.

After instructing the rest of your class to continue practicing the routine you had been working on, you figure it was only fair to come and personally consult your newest joiners.

As the boys (and Nat) notice you wandering towards them, they all begin to elbow each other like school boys giggling amongst themselves. Bob and Nat can only keep their embarrassment internal for so long.

When you come to a stop in front of them, the man you’ve come to learn as Jake smiles dazzlingly and stretches his arms above his head,

“God it is hot in here!” He begins to reach for the bottom of his shirt, aiming to impress you with his toned stomach.

“The A/C is on full blast dumbass.” Nat swats at the back of Jake’s head, causing him to drop his shirt again and rub at his temple. “Ow!”

Snickers fall from Javy and Mickey, who quickly straighten themselves up when they see you casting your eyes over them.

“As I said to Bob last week, with all my new starters I’ll begin with some basics for you guys and then we can ease into a routine,” you smile, heading towards Bradley and Nat.

“Since you two already have some experience you can help me teach!”

Bradley preens under your praise, already assuming the role of teacher’s pet, whilst Nat looks mildly irritated at having to teach her imbecilic friends how to dance.

“Alright guys! let’s partner up!” you shout at them, giggling as they all rush towards you, you note how Bob lingers back behind his more extroverted friends and grin.

“I should clarify, I meant with each other.” You shoo them backwards and watch as they couple up.

Mickey and Reuben clap each other on the back and Javy and Jake nod at one another leaving Bob, stood on his own. You saunter towards him and grab at arm, dragging him to the front with you.

“Looks like you’re with me,” you tease.

“Uh, who do you want me to partner up with?” Bradley scratches at his head obliviously.

You cock your head to the side with a confused laugh.

“I hate you so much right now,” Nat spews, gripping Bradley’s arm and pulling him into position with her.

“Oh, yeah. Right, sorry Nat.” Bradley chuckles.

Your lessons continues with explaining how someone will have to take the lead and the other will follow, and you wander around positioning their hands and postures correctly.

“Javy, you are like a brother to me, but your hands are too fucking low right now.” Jake grits through this teeth.

“Right! Ha, sorry man,” Javy’s hands shoots back up towards the middle of Jake’s back.

Bob is still apprehensive when he places his hands on your waist, but you’re quick to affirm him in his position. Leaning towards him you whisper, “don’t worry you’re still my favourite.”

A smile graces his face at that and he relaxes in your grip.

“Right guys! We’re gonna start with some turns and variations now!”

You quickly learn that trying to wrangle these men is proving difficult, as Payback almost spins Fanboy into a wall after zoning out stating at how your hips moved.

“I’m good bro, don’t worry,” Mickey is quick to readjust himself, hoping the room stops spinning soon.

You can’t help but laugh when Javy attempts to dip Jake to the floor in a move he thought would impress you, but it seems he forgot to account for how tall and heavy Jake is, as he goes toppling down with him.

“Fuck dude! You’re heavy!” Javy groans, rubbing his knee. Jake clearly didn’t take kindly to his words as he shoves back at Javy childishly.

“Boys! Come on get up!” You snap, trying to sound stern but still fighting off giggles.

Jake and Javy are quick to get back on their feet, but you catch them in your peripheral poking and pinching each other when they think you aren’t looking.

Even Bradley who was so light on his feet when he was showing you his moves earlier, is clearly distracted, constantly stepping on Nat’s feet as they practice variations.

“If you step on my toe one more time, Rooster I swear to God, you will not see daylight again,” Nat threatens.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! She’s just so…” Bradley trails off as he watches you dance slowly with Bob, stopping every now and then to correct him kindly or answer questions from others in your class.

“I know! And you guys are scaring her off by acting crazy.” Nat sighs, moving back as she senses Bradley’s feet heading for her toes again.

“I mean I wouldn’t say crazy…” Bradley scratches the back of his neck.

“Well I walked in to see you spinning her around like you’re a pro on dancing with the stars so maybe you should reevaluate.”

“You think I’m that good?” Bradley smirks to himself.

“Oh shut up,” Nat rolls her eyes and looks back to the rest of her friends around the room.

Payback and Fanboy were continually stumbling around in circles as they each try to catch your eye, pissing off everyone else in the room as they bumped and knocked into others. She caught Marco and Luke’s judgy eyes flicking back and forth between her and her friends and groaned.

Jake and Javy looked either one wrong move away from fucking or fighting, Nat couldn’t really tell.

God this was embarrassing.

Luckily, your voice rings out across the room, interrupting her moping.

“Thank you guys for today! And Thank you to my newcomers!” you gesture to the group of men stumbling over each other and stifle a laugh.

“I’ll see you all next week!”

Your regular attenders start filing out slowly, some coming over to chat and collect their things. You can see Nat trying to drag her friends away out they seem intent on lingering long enough to catch some time alone with you.

“You guys might as well go, she clearly wants me.” Jake shrugs, pulling the front of his shirt up to wipe his face.

Mickey is quick to dispute, “Are you kidding me? I twirled like a ballerina, I’m so in.”

Nat is moments away from body slamming her friends who she once loved when it goes silent around her. She figures you finally made you way over.

“Hey guys, thanks so much for joining today! I’m really sorry I’ve got to get going but um- ”

You pause and sense eyes on you.

“Bob, I was just wondering if I could get your number?” you smile, walking towards him and squeezing his arm. “You know, to talk about how we can improve your technique,” your reasoning clear as day even with your coverup

“Yeah! Yes, of course I mean,” Bob composes himself, taking your phone with shaking hands and typing in his number.

“Great,” you wink, retrieving your phone, “I’ll text you.”

You end with that, sauntering past the group and waving goodbye to Nat with a knowing look.

Everyone seems stunned by your words, but mostly Bob who blinks slowly, seemingly still in shock by your acknowledgement.

Nat finally breaks into laughter, doubling over at the confused faces of her other friends.

“Man!” She shouts through her giggles, “you just cannot make that shit up!”

The grumbles around her don’t even phase her as she goes to pick up her bag and head for the door, a group of downtrodden looking men following her and Bob with a newfound pep in his step.

“By the way Rooster, how come you actually are so good?” Nat asks as they make their way into the parking lot.

Bradley stills, silent as he contemplates answering.

“If I tell you, you have to promise to not go searching for anything.” He looks around at his friends.

Following their nods he continues, “I used to compete professionally, when I was like 13, my mom forced me to.” Bradley cringes at the memory of his tween self in sparkly shirts his mom always hand picked out for him in the most hideous colours.

Bradley looks back up to see Jake grinning mischievously at his phone, and his stomach drops.

“Is this you?” Jake smirks, turning his phone around to show everyone an old video on youtube titled.

SALSA NATIONALS 1999 - BRADSHAW / DONNA SUMMER HOT STUFF

Bob suddenly felt as though his coughing fit over you wasn’t the most embarrassing thing he had to witness anymore.

a/n: it is great to be back gang xx i’ve missed writing and ofc i had to bring back the bob agenda!! it’s what i stand for :) i’m thinking mayhaps a part 2 where i explore the dynamic between sexy salsa teacher and bob bc atm this was just a chance for me to make fun of the daggers 😣

i hope you enjoyed reading and tysm!!

pls reblog, comment or drop me an ask and tell me what you thought!! feedback means sm to me considering i’m a lil rusty

anyways thank u again for reading!!!!

- honey xoxo

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justbelievinginmagic · 2 months ago

Text

like a waltz⎯ part 1: brisé.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She should’ve known then.

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

She should’ve known then.

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

She should’ve known then.

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

She should’ve taken his warning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did this.” She growled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wasn’t dumb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN, YN, YN!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN,” the one she called Tiny whined.

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

“There are new young bachelors in town!”

“What?”

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

“You know the Ateez House?”

YN laughed at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a silence.

“Any proof of these men at all?”

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Box 8 was occupied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted to catch a glimpse.

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

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

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

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

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

And everyone knew it.

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

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

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

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

“Yes, he was,” Jane defended.

“No, he wasn’t,” another snorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Carry on, girls,” the Madame instructed.

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

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

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

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

“Hello.” He greeted coyly.

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t shy. He was smart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YN,” she said.

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

“Pretty name for a pretty swanette.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Soon,” she replied simply.

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

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

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

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

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

“Call me Wooyoung.”

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

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kiryoutann · 1 month ago

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Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

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The decision to start your busy day with a 20-ounce coffee from the local coffee shop instead of your usual brew bites you in the ass as you hunch over in one of the bathroom stalls ten minutes before rehearsal begins. It exacerbates the already twisting sensation of your period cramps, sending a cold sweat down your temples. But it’s not like you have a choice—it’s only a week until the big performance, and you really need that extra boost to get through the day.

Knowing hands reach into the duffel bag at your feet, searching for the familiar edges of your phone. Pulling it out, the screen comes to life, unimportant notifications displayed. The clock revealed you only had five minutes left before you needed to leave.

You open the text app, not expecting anything really—you always know if he’s texted or not. The last few messages between you had all been initiated by you – a thank you, a hopeful “Hope you’re doing okay.” But his replies remained void, the "delivered" text staring back at you, mocking your attempts to reach out.

Switching to the “Find My” app, you searched for your other device. The last known location, before the device probably ran out of battery, was somewhere outside of London—a different city. A simple Google search reveals it to be a street lined with pubs and apartments, and his consistent coordinates say that’s where he lived.

This means you’ll have to wait a little longer for him.

Without further thought, you put your phone away, shouldering your duffel bag then. The reflection in the mirror greets you as you exit the stall, following your movements as you neatly arrange the loose strands of hair that had escaped your bun.

Just as you are about to turn away, the sound of a stall door clicking open catches your attention. Through the mirror, you meet Claudine's gaze, her lips automatically pulling into a smirk.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the ‘Miss Robot Queen’ herself,” she drawled as she sidled up next to you to wash her hands. You watched her, biting the inside of your cheek like you always do when you’re holding back words stuck in your throat. “How’s practice going, hm? The show’s in a week, you know.”

Shame crept up on you, threatening to consume you before suddenly giving way to something new—something that shifted inside you. The sensation was foreign—a burn that seemed to emanate from the center of your chest, radiating outwards. Your knuckles paled as you clenched your fists. The words turned sour, irritating your tonsils and—

You felt the urge to spit them out. At Claudine.

The woman carelessly tossed her paper towel into the bin. Looking in the mirror again, looking at you. “Break a leg, prima ballerina.” She blew you a mocking kiss, then walked towards the door to leave the bathroom.

“If it’s true what you said,”

Your voice echoed through the four walls, stopping Claudine in her tracks. Turning to face her, she did the same but looking quite shocked, for reasons unknown.

“If it’s true what you said, that I’m just a ‘robot ballerina’… then what does that make you?”

How uncharacteristic of those words to come out of your mouth. Claudine could hardly believe it—she continued to furrow her brows in disbelief as she tried to make sense of it all. A flicker of uncertainty crossing her features as she processed your bold sentence. Were you expecting silence instead, Claudine? Like before?

And then, there it is—hurt laid bare beneath just one thin layer of her skin, her insecurities swimming to the surface. For someone who constantly underestimated you, she was a fragile one. If the roles were reversed, she wouldn't have survived for nearly as long as you had.

Claudine tried to gather her composure, playing the tough girl, but her efforts were derailed as her breath began to stutter. “D-Do you think you’re all that now? Just because you got the role, you think you can talk to me like that?” Listen to that; even your voice is shaking.

“Do you always think you’re all that? Is that why you act the way you do?”

There was a crack in Claudine’s scoff. She pulled her lips into what she attempted to be a mocking smile, but the single tear that fell acted as a contrast. Hastily, she wiped it away, taking a heaving breath.

"Don't you know?" she started. “They made me your alternate. So if something happens to you, I'll be the one dancing as the Swan Queen.”

Everything went abruptly silent.

Alternate? What did she mean by ‘alternate’? You knew what an alternate was—you knew there was always an alternate. But why Claudine? Why did it have to be Claudine? It felt like a betrayal, but you also knew it was part of the norm. But they could have chosen someone else—Mary, Sophia, or anyone else who wasn’t Claudine. All this time, she had been waiting, hoping for you to falter, to fail—just so she could swoop in and claim the role that you had worked so hard for.

If anything happens to you, she’ll be the Swan Queen.

If anything happens to you.

“There won’t be anything happening,” you say, voice full of conviction as if the future is already guaranteed. “I can make sure of that.”

Without waiting for a reply, you snatched up your things and walked past her. The door slams behind you, drawing the curious gazes of other dancers who lined the walls. You lengthened your strides to reach the rehearsal room.

You push open the door, greeted by the familiar sound of the piano and the director’s voice guiding the corps de ballet. Henri notices the new arrival, turning his gaze to you.

“Ah, here’s our Swan Queen!” He exclaims, clapping his hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Let’s take our places!”

Swallowing hard, you try to calm your pounding heart. The other dancers start running to take their places, tutus swaying like water lilies. The pianist turns the sheet music to the front page. You take a deep breath before approaching.

Yes, you thought to yourself.

I am the Swan Queen.

The dark, dramatic notes of Black Swan Coda fill the air as you launch into the 32 fouettés. You continue to stretch your extension, fixing your eyes on one spot to anchor your spinning. The burn in your calf muscles intensifies, but you must keep going.

As the music comes to a close, you end the sequence with a finishing pose. The rehearsal crew erupts into thunderous applause, but you barely register any of that as you collapse to the floor, body succumbing to the cramps. You let out a hiss of pain, your fingers digging into the taut muscle.

“Are you alright?” Henri’s French-accented voice rings out as he approaches you.

You nod, brushing him off with a wave of your hand. “Just cramps.”

Henri regarded you for a moment, a faint frown on his forehead, before nodding slightly. “Okay, you take a break then. The rest of you, let’s take 10 and we’ll continue!”

The rest of the crew dispersed to their respective breaks, leaving the once bustling rehearsal room in a comfortable silence. You gently massaged your calves, trying to loosen the tense muscles underneath. Turning to the empty seats, you thought of the plush velvet version of it—the one in the grand hall where you would perform. In your mind, you had imagined those seats occupied by an eager audience, the balconies filled with those who had been fans of this kind of spectacle since their youth.

In the audience, there will be the dancers’ families and lovers—which means yours too. You’re sure your mother won’t be there, but Simon will be, just as he promised.

Making your way to where your duffel bag is, you sit down right next to the mirror. You reach for your water bottle, gulping it, closing your eyes as the cool liquid washes down your parched throat.

Untying the ribbons of your pointe shoes, you couldn’t help but hiss as the satin brushed against your skin. The relentless hours of practice, classes, and rehearsals revealed results you thought you’d grown accustomed to over the years—peeling skin, friction blisters on your pinky toes, the once-fresh Band-Aid now worn.

Rummaging through your duffel bag, you retrieve the burn pads, carefully peeling off the adhesive backing and applying them around the worst one. The cool, soothing sensation against your skin was a welcome relief; the throbbing ache numbed. You grab the duct tape, wrapping it around to secure everything in place while also effectively substituting for toe pads. Satisfied, you slipped back into your pointe.

Rehearsal resumed in ten, just as Henri promised.

And you’re home by eight.

The door closed with a heavy thud behind you, the familiar sound of mud crunching under your shoes as you stepped out onto the wet streets. But your attention was focused solely on the lifeless notification of your cellphone; your fingers scrolled through your unanswered messages.

Still nothing from Simon.

You type another text: “Simon, it's been weeks. I'm starting to get worried. Are you okay?” and hit send. Both frustration and worry start to color your brain. Is he busy? Didn't he read your messages? Or is he ignoring you on purpose? But everything is fine even after he drops you off—no arguments, nothing. Did he lose his phone, then? Is he in trouble, trapped, or being held hostage—

Stop. You've watched too many movies.

But now that you think about it—about the possibilities of why he hasn’t responded to any of your messages or even given any sign that he’s alive—your chest tightens.

Where are you, Simon?

The sound of raucous laughter from a group of men nearby causes you to shove your phone back into your coat pocket. Quickening your pace, you make your way down the familiar route to the subway. You went down the stairs with the sound of your boots stomping. The rumble of the approaching train echoed through the station, and you stepped onto the car, sinking into an empty seat.

Leaning your head back against the cool window, you feel the weight of exhaustion settle over you. Your calves ache, and your shoulders pop as you roll them. You know better than to close your eyes from fear of missing your stop, but everything feels heavy.

Where are you, Simon?

Lately, the days have been a blur, like a hazy dream you're not really a part of. When tomorrow turns into today, you go on with your routine based only on muscle memory that's been forged over the years.

Learning from your mistakes, you go back to your usual brew – two teaspoons of instant coffee. Sitting at the dining table, you gather your wits, letting your body adjust to the morning chill. Once you’ve reached the bottom of your cup, you stand up, make a beeline to the bathroom, and turn on the shower. Stepping out, you slip into your tights before sitting on your yoga mat and starting to stretch.

You bent forward, fingertips brushing the floor as you stretched your hamstrings. Holding the pose, you focus on your breathing rhythm, feeling the expansion of your lungs and the gentle pull in your spine before releasing and transitioning into the next movement.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your arms high, feeling the tension in your waist and—ding!

You quickly snatch your phone, hoping, praying, that it was finally Simon. But as you stared at the screen, your hopes were dashed; it was from a fast food restaurant promoting their latest deal. Not a message from Simon. Your chat room is still the same as you left it yesterday, the day before that, and the weeks that preceded it. No message from Simon, again. The same absence greeted you. Again.

The big performance is just a matter of days away. On that day, all the hard work, the fruits of your practices, all the blood, sweat, and tears that dripped will be unveiled on the prestigious opera stage that you've always dreamed of dancing on as a prima ballerina. You have grown out of the corps—in this Swan Lake, you will be Odette. You will be Odile. Her 32 fouettés will be yours. But—

But, why?

Simon didn’t reply to your text. Is he not coming? Does that promise mean nothing to him? Was it just one he knew he would break, but he gave it to you anyway because it was the least he could do to a woman he just had sex with?

No, why would you think of him that way? You berate the voice in your head. He always comes back in the end, so stop saying that about him.

The need to satisfy the nagging uncertainty inside you was overwhelming, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you typed out a new message. It didn't matter if it ended up sitting unread among the pile of unseen messages. The important thing was it was out there, that you had sent it. He would read it once he was done with whatever occupied his time.

As you hit send, the whoosh! sound of the message being sent is heard. Just as you’re about to put your phone back down and continue stretching, a small icon pops up next to the green chat bubble. A red exclamation mark in a circle.

“Not Delivered” is displayed underneath.

Your eyes darted frantically to the top of the screen, taking in the full signal bars and the indication that your service was working properly. So what happened? Why isn't it delivered? The questions swim around like restless organisms at the forefront of your mind. Gluing your eyes to the screen until it hurts, you keep waiting, hoping, praying that the status would change. But that dreaded exclamation mark remains, mocking you, taunting you with its presence.

Why? Why wasn’t it going through? Had something happened to Simon? Was he okay?

You tried to rationalize it. If it's not from you, it's definitely from his side then. Maybe he had wandered into an area with poor reception, or he had traveled somewhere with spotty service. Yes, that had to be it. Isn't that what military wives are always complaining about?

Despite knowing that wasn’t how it worked, you persisted. It was always easy to turn away from reality. Not the first time you’d settled for the comfort of a ruse.

Putting your phone aside, you demanded your focus return to your stretching routine. You tried to push the "Not Delivered" notification to the back of your mind where you could avoid facing it. But a girl in love could only do so much—to pretend it wasn’t forming a hole in your skull, questions forcing their way in despite the lack of answers.

Hours later, you find yourself back in the same rehearsal room, with the same Black Swan coda playing in the background. Your muscles burned with the strain of the same 32 fouettés, but you kept going, kept pushing yourself because that’s all you knew.

Because you are the Swan Queen.

You are the Swan Queen, and yet you’re slipping away. Your body moved through the steps, but your mind was a million miles away. In the background, Henri’s voice is almost drowned out by the orchestra—but the second time, he screams louder. Both fall on deaf ears. He screams about how you’ve fallen into the same old hole—

But you're not sure which one he means: your soulless dancing—the robot ballerina making her comeback once again—or your bad habit of tightening your grip on something you can’t keep?

Each spin, each leap, each extension of your limbs should be proof of how far you’ve come. But this? This looks like a restart—Henri lets out a ragged breath.

The piano stops playing. The whole room is silent.

You know you should be worried—your heart should be pounding in dread of what he has in store. Henry is going to orchestrate public humiliation against you in front of your fellow dancers and crew members, but then again, you can’t find it in yourself to blame him. In fact, he has every right to be. He has risked so much for this play, only to have the prima ballerina he personally chose to dethrone him into the abyss.

Without a word, Henri waved his hand, and the crew knew to immediately clear the room. They shuffled out, some in relief for the sudden short break, some casting curious glances over their shoulders, probably eager to witness your downfall.

But you felt nothing. Just this dull, numb sensation that almost made you unable to feel your own heartbeat. Even when you knew you should be scared of Henri’s berating or even the threat that he would replace you with someone else, you felt nothing.

Henri stepped closer, his brows furrowed in anger. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas? C'était quoi ce bordel?!” What’s wrong? What the fuck was that?! he demanded, the French coming out thick and heavy. “You were doing so well! The play is tomorrow and you’re falling apart!” He threw his hands up in exasperation, fingers tangling through his salt-and-pepper hair.

“GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!! We can’t afford to lose, not now! Not when we’re so close!”

Something inside you suddenly snapped into focus. Your eyes widened as a realization fell.

So close. After all this time—all that you two went through—you couldn't afford to lose him now. Not when you two are so close to being together, to finally have a chance. You couldn't afford to lose him now.

After the disastrous rehearsal, you waste no time. You are already on your phone, searching for Simon's name before pressing the call button. With heart pounding in anticipation, you waited, but it wasn't a long wait until a voice answered.

A voice that wasn't Simon's.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

Instantly, the numbness lifted before it all crashed. Your heart plummeted to the pit of your stomach, and you felt something acidic creeping up your throat, threatening to choke you. Hands trembling, you lowered the phone, staring at the screen in disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. There had to be some mistake.

You quickly dialed the number again, praying it was just an error—a temporary disconnection that you’ve been having problems with since this morning.

“We’re sorry; the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.”

The world around you seemed to tilt and sway. Pain coursed through the back of your neck, making its home in the nape of your neck. Taking ragged breaths, your mind raced as you tried to make sense of it all.

What happened?

The ache reaches the back of your head, and you reach up to grasp the tight bun that contained your hair. Your rough grip undoing the pins in one pull. You grab a fistful of your strands and yank, hoping to relieve the tension.

What happened? You keep asking yourself. The unanswered message, the failed one.. And now, the number was out of service? Your heart pounded in fear, a thousand scenarios playing through your mind. What happened?

Did something happen to him?

Was he on deployment, and the worst had happened?

Had he been hurt, or worse?

Simon has been an enigma since the moment you met. But not this, don’t let this be. Please, I need you to be okay. I can’t lose you, not now, please.

Crouching on the side of a London street, you don’t even notice the headlights of the cars that blind you. To the casual observer, it would look like you had become enamored with the stone pavement beneath your feet. But in reality, you’re just trying to slow down time, to find your footing once again, to stop the torrent of thoughts racing through your head.

But time waits for no one, as they say. And before you knew it, tomorrow turned into today, just as it had before. Now, on the big day, standing on the stage, you stare at that lonely, empty chair that had been reserved for your special audience.

Simon Riley.

The Swan Queen dances, but looks more like a ghost trapped in a body operating solely on muscle memory. The leaps, the extensions, even the infamous Black Swan 32 fouettes—they all feel mechanical. As if danced by…

A soulless ballerina.

But it doesn’t matter, right? Not when someone has made a promise to see you perform, only for them to not show up. Even when the show is over (and you survived Henri’s berating, saying that it can’t go on like this—“we’re replacing you.”), all you find is your failure.

Your failure in finding him.

Your failure in—

(Why did you let that man walk away?)

No, you insisted, he didn't walk away. Something must've happened to him—something that was keeping him away from me. He wouldn't... he wouldn't have just disappeared, not when he knew how much I needed him, not when we're so perfect for each other.

Not when he promised you.

But you also know that promises are the easiest to break. Besides, this wasn't the first time, was it? Something similar happened a long time ago.

Where are you, Simon?

Where. Are. You?

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. A city outside of London. The location coordinates were given by your other phone before the battery died.

A city where Simon is likely to be.

Realistically speaking, this is a shot in the dark. A wild guess you've made based on the screenshot of the "Find Me" app and the address you googled. There’s no guarantee that he lives in one of those buildings like you assumed—there’s no guarantee that by setting foot here, you’ll meet him.

However, a girl in love is nothing but hopeful. Too hopeful, sometimes. And you cling to that like a lifeline—praying there will be a clue leading you to him.

As you emerge from the train station, the fresh air greets your face, a welcome change from the stuffy confines of the underground. Glancing down at your phone, you re-read the address, eyes following the arrow on the map that gauges the distance between your current position and your destination. You start walking, navigating the unfamiliar sidewalks.

You sweep your gaze across the faces of the passerby, heart beating in hope—in desperation to find a familiar face, to catch a glimpse of Simon among the sea of strangers.

The outcome proved to be consistent with the weeks that preceded it—nothing. Doubts begin to take root, seeking an abode within you to poison your thoughts. Maybe this is all just a stupid chase—one that won't yield anything no matter how deep you dig.

Then, your eyes land on the quaint little café—the very same one you had seen on Google. It’s striking enough, perfect for a guidepost that could lead you to the address you’ve been searching for. With renewed determination, you know you must keep going.

You pushed through the café’s door, deciding to get your caffeine fix before continuing your mission. The aroma of freshly brewed java enveloped you, accompanied by the busy voice of the barista behind the counter. You entered the queue, sweeping your eyes over the menu board despite knowing you were only loyal to one type of drink.

“What can I get for you today?” the barista asked as soon as it was your turn.

“A large caramel macchiato, with an extra shot of espresso, please.”

The barista nodded, tapping away at the cash register. He stated your total, and you quickly fished out a few bills from your wallet and placed them on the counter. After mumbling a thank you, you stepped aside to let the next customer order.

You sat at an empty table, drumming your foot anxiously and biting your lips as you waited for your order. The jittery feeling in your stomach grew more intense with each passing second. You continued glancing down at your phone, at this point expecting nothing, but doing it for the sake of acting busy.

Taking a deep breath, you try to still the trembling in your hands. You turned your gaze to the window—

And your heart nearly stopped.

There, parked on the street, was the very car you’d been in multiple times. It was the car Simon drove to the countryside when you went to Sabrina’s wedding. The same car that drove you home before he disappeared into thin air.

You pause for a moment but don’t take your eyes off it—a lurking fear that if you do, it will evaporate like a daydream. But the car is still there. Real. You feel your palms begin to sweat.

What started as a wild guess—a wild, aimless chase—now seemed to be bearing fruit. Simon’s car was parked right there, which means there’s a good chance he’s somewhere around here. Even if he isn’t, then at the very least, this is a neighborhood he frequents—a high-probability location to find him.

You can almost see him now. The black woven polypropylene mask he often wears, beneath it a smile he tries to hide but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes always give it away. Maybe he's clad in the leather jacket he usually wears. Is he upstairs in one of the apartments, just out of sight? Does he really live around here?

If you do bump into him, will he suspect you—see through your lies? Or will he think it’s a coincidence—a meeting planned by the universe? Signs that you were truly meant for him.

Signs that you’re perfect for each other. Soulmates.

A voice called your name, snapping you back to reality. You realized it was the barista; you quickly got up and collected your drink with a grateful nod. Looking back out the window, the car was still there. Waiting for you.

What had started as a simple to-go order quickly transformed into a leisurely sip as you found yourself sitting at a table outside. You settled in, trying to blend in without seeming suspicious with the other patrons—some reading, others tapping away on their laptops, and a few chatting with their friends over their coffee and baked goods.

Time and again, your gaze drifts back to the car. You study it intently, as if looking for a difference—for it to reveal secrets to you. Perhaps Simon would emerge from one of the buildings, or he might even stroll to this café. Is he a regular here too?

The temptation to survey the area grows stronger with each passing second. But you resist the urge, knowing full well that such a bold move could backfire. What would you say if you ran into Simon? Coincidence is one thing, but running into him in his own apartment?

Hours ticked by. The patrons around you came and went; you stayed, your body still angled at that car. You finished your coffee but refused to give up your post. Despite your waiting, there was still no sign of Simon.

The sky was getting darker, probably close to dinner time—you confirmed this after checking the time on your phone. A rational part of you knew that you should leave, at least to get something to eat instead of subsisting solely on caffeine. But you denied yourself. What if he shows up when I leave?

If you leave now, you might lose your chance—the scattered clues and breadcrumbs you’ve been trying to scavenge for the past few weeks. All of this would be nothing again, and what are you supposed to do if that were the case?

The barista pushes open the door of the cafe, collecting the empty cups from the table across from you. He turns, then pauses. Something about you brings pity into his expression, and he offers if you’d like him to bring you something to eat. You accept the offer, order a plate of Danish pastry, and pay and tip.

Another two hours of waiting, and the hope in you begins to fade. You sank deeper into your chair, staring at the empty cup of your second coffee that had gone cold. Maybe you should just call it a night. There's a hotel just a few blocks away—you can settle in there, get some rest, and pray the phantom himself will make his long-awaited appearance the next day.

You begin to gather your things, making sure everything is in your bag. Standing up, you tighten your coat, preparing to leave.

A movement caught your eye.

Across the street—right in front of the building where the car was parked, a movement made you stop in your tracks. You waited for confirmation.

A tall, familiar shadow emerged, and your breath caught. The car lights flickered—the figure is unlocking it and preparing to get in. Your heart throbs both in excitement and trepidation. And then, just as another car passed by, its headlights illuminated the man’s face.

Simon looks exactly the same as he had the last time you saw him.

As if he had never been away, never disappeared. As if he had gotten up in the morning, gone about his day, and fallen asleep peacefully at night, and all of this anguish and turmoil was one-sided-

Simon’s car engine roared to life. Before you could process it, it started to drive away. You quickly hailed the nearest taxi, hastily climbing inside. The driver was about to open his mouth, but you beat him to it by pointing at the car in front and commanding, "Follow that car!" He didn’t ask any questions. The cab pulled out onto the street, just two cars behind Simon’s.

And so, here you are, sitting alone in a tucked-away booth of a pub, lacking friends when everybody else meets theirs. You retrieved your compact powder, discreetly aiming it toward where Simon was seated at the bar, probably ordering his usual drink. Sweeping a quick glance around, you wonder if this is the place he haunted while vanishing from your presence.

When the bartender returned with his order, you watched them exchange a few words—a short conversation, typical Simon. The bartender left him to serve another, and Simon enjoyed the quiet alone time with a sip of the amber-brown liquid.

Simon was… well, the same. You didn’t expect these times to change a man like him, but watching his unaltered demeanor—lost in his own world, focused only on his own business—felt like a soothing balm on your longing. He was wearing the same leather jacket, but you couldn’t help but notice that his hair seemed shorter—he had recently gotten a trim.

Everything about him seemed so… unchanged, so constant, that it was almost jarring when he suddenly shifted his head and gazed at someone you hadn’t noticed before.

“’Ello, there. Mind if I sit with you?”

It was a blonde woman, lips drawn into a flirtatious smile. Your throat tightened, your heart began to race as you heard Simon’s response.

“’Course not.”

The woman beamed. Your breath hitched, yet the woman beamed, sliding onto the barstool next to him with her shoulders open—her body language inviting him in, as if whispering to him to come closer, closer, closer—and he will find a fruit sweeter, riper than—

You.

The two of them exchanged a conversation too quiet for you to hear. You pressed your spine against your booth chair, straining your ears to catch even the slightest snippet of their conversation. Simon’s words barely reached your ears, but you managed to hear his response to whatever the woman said.

“’s my usual spot.”

The woman nodded, curving her smile wider. “Well, lucky for me, then,” she purred, voice dripping with suggestive tone. “My girls ditched me, so I was hopin’ to find someone to keep me company.”

You hear him snort. From the side profile, you can see Simon smiling at her words—and it burns your chest. He raises his glass, taking a long pull of his whiskey as if he’s preparing to entertain her more. Stop. Take your eyes off her. Don’t look at her like that. Don’t look at her at all.

“’s that so?” he replied, tone laced with a hint of amusement and something else. “An' you thought I'd be the right person to come to, did you?”

“Well, I certainly ‘oped so,” she said. “You’re not married, are you?”

Simon shakes his head. “’M not married.”

She leans in a bit closer, and your fingers turn pale around your compact powder. “An’ not with anyone? Anythin’?”

Like the woman, you still your breath waiting for his answer. Perhaps he will say yes and reject her proposition entirely. Or at the very least, he will consider you to be a near-answer before responding. The air you’re holding in begins to choke you like a boa constrictor, causing your eyes to water and your lower eyelids to moisten.

Far from your expectations, Simon finds his answer quickly and without hesitation, “Nope.”

Everything in you shrinks into what it once was—nothingness. You feel yourself slowly unraveling, like a thread being pulled apart. The world around you is blurred—Simon’s reflection in the mirror of your compact powder blurred. You take a shaky breath, brow furrowed as you burn holes in the stranger you now despise so much. The liquid smooth you brought to this city has been turned into a scalding, caustic torrent, burning mercilessly even to its master.

When you came back to reality, they were both already standing, Simon closing the tab and making his way towards the backdoor with her. You turned your head, watching them disappear behind the old wood.

With all that's been presented before you, it should be enough for you to get up and walk away—to spare yourself from another twist of the knife. Somewhere within, a voice seems to whisper that you don’t need this—that you have suffered so much, that you don’t need to do this to satisfy whatever found amusement in your own heartache. That you can walk away, let him slip away if necessary.

(Why did you let that man walk away?)

But you are nothing if not obsessive. The urge to uncover the truth, to confirm everything even at the cost of your own destruction. You will push your sanity to the brink where you will find the end.

Summoning what little courage is left, you stand up and begin retracing their invisible footprints, making your way towards the backdoor. As you pushed it open, you were greeted by the sight of a dark, empty alley, with your ragged breath as the only sound.

But when you reached the other end of the alley, the silence faded away as hushed whispers and soft sounds filled the air. Alarms went off in the back of your head—it only meant one thing—but you ignored it. Instead, you slowed your steps, hiding behind the crumbling brick wall, and peeked around the corner.

There they were. Simon and the woman, locked in a deep, passionate kiss. His body pressed against hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist in a way that made your stomach churn. The hands you knew so well cupped her jaw like he did to you as he dragged his lips down her exposed neck. Just like he did to you.

A strangled sound escaped your mouth; you covered it to prevent another. You felt your eyes burning, yet you couldn’t tear your gaze away from the show. Spare me, your heart begged, yet you let your ears continue to listen to them.

The sound of a zipper being lowered cuts through the air. Simon lifted her dress, and you watched in morbid fascination as he snapped his hips forward. She lets out a loud moan. Your head throbbed, the pulsing pain matching the rapid beating of your heart. The burn inside you was almost unbearable, and you felt your breath shortening, vision blurring as you grew lightheaded.

You couldn’t bear to watch anymore. With shaking limbs, you walk away from them. The acid reaches your throat—the next second, you're hunched over, vomiting onto the cold, hard concrete.

And suddenly, everything feels like a fever dream—a repetitive loop that leaves you feeling both light and heavy. You exist, but you don't really exist; you're breathing, but you're not really breathing. The cobblestones stare back at you, their edges thickened, spreading like black blood. Beside them, your hands are shaking, and when you turn them over, you realize they’ve always been this way—open, fingers stretched to their maximum.

Like they're grasping for something out of reach.

Here you are.

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city. Yet, the hollowing abyss within you is anything but a stranger. In truth, it's probably all you've truly known throughout your entire life before you dared to believe you could become something beyond this yawning emptiness—the chasm where every ounce of love and all the things you've held dear have been mercilessly flushed away.

When you sob again, you choke. Gravel scrapes your skin as you kneel down, resembling a devout soul pleading to the heavens. It isn't devotion that drives your supplications, but rather fear—and perhaps that's why your fervid entreaties never find an answer.

“Why did you let that man walk away?”

Change the prophecy, change the prophecy, you beg. Make him love me, let him love me.

(But, is it his love you truly seek, or simply the proof that it brings?

Or is it a bit of both?)

Surrounded by unfamiliar buildings in an even more unfamiliar city, you taste the saltiness of your own tears on your lips. Release me. Release me from this pain—from this curse. Make him love me. Prove me right, prove her wrong. All these demands, and yet, the voracious pain continues to spread like an all-consuming malady.

It gave you an open eye.

How pathetic you must’ve looked—like a crumpled, wretched thing, curled on the dirty sidewalk while Simon was still there in the alley, digging his fingers into the hips of another woman. You could almost feel it—the phantom of his touch, the sounds he used to make. You knew he would kiss her just as he had kissed you—he would make her feel good, the way he had always made you feel.

And you knew—you just knew—that she would fall for him, just as you had.

But this time, he would love her back.

Because she wasn’t you.

@strawberrygato @aprosiacperson @chipsbuttercream @arrozyfrijoles23 @pastel-devil-06 @rroseskull

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barefoot-joker · 11 months ago

Text

Dancing with the Devil and His Wife in the Pale Moonlight

Yandere! Lucifer Morningstar X Reader X Yandere! Lilith Morningstar

Hey, guys! Welcome to another Lucifer story, this time with his wife Lilith! An Anon had asked for a longer fanfiction, so I did my best to do that ask justice. I'm thinking of making a part 2 but let me know what you think. As always enjoy and have a great day/night!

Words: 5612

Warnings: Kidnapping, Non-Con Kissing, Swearing, Slight gore near the end, Slight Possessive Tendencies, Slight drug use at the end

I hummed as I stretched my legs on the bar in the dance studio. Today our class was rehearsing for the ballet Three Virgins and a Devil which was going to be performing at our local theater. We had been practicing for months now but today was special. Today some of our patrons who financially support our ballet company were coming to watch us. It was quite a surprise as nobody really knew who the mysterious couple was, so gossip amongst my fellow ballerinas was high. The talk continued even as we prepared our bodies for our demonstration. “I heard that our patrons are very wealthy and looking for somebody they can throw their money to.”

“You mean they are looking for a third?”

“Possibly!”

“Well if they are looking for a third there’s no way any of you would get it,” Jessica the prima ballerina stated.

“Girls, please,” our director, Maria, clapped her hands, “let’s get to work.”

We formed our line and started to do some warm up exercises. After about ten minutes of warm up, we ran a couple of our numbers. Suddenly the door to the studio swung open to reveal a man and a woman. The man was on the shorter side and had paleish skin, blonde hair, red tinted cheeks and red eyes. The woman was tall and had long blonde hair, purple eyes and a paleish complexion. We all stopped to stare. Their skin tone and eyes really threw us off but maybe they wore contacts to intimidate people. Our director let a big grin form on her face as she ushered the couple in. “Ah, Mr and Mrs Morningstar! Welcome! Please come in.”

The couple stopped in the middle of the room and surveyed us. I bowed my head and fiddled with my shirt hem. Their gazes felt fiery and made me feel quite uncomfortable. “This is our Corps de Ballet. We were just practicing for our upcoming production when you both walked in. I’m sure you would be interested in seeing some material.”

“Absolutely! My wife and I would like to see what our money buys after all.”

“Of course, Mr Morningstar. Girls.”

We all got into our places and Maria pressed play on the CD player. We performed an ensemble piece and one with the three leads: Jessica, Savannah and Tessa. Our patrons just watched us with curious eyes and applauded when we were all done. “That was quite the show you ladies put on. I think my husband and I can agree our money is being well spent. However, we'd like to talk to you, Miss Maria, if we could.”

“Of course. We can go to my office. Girls, keep rehearsing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

We all watched as the three of them left and as soon as the door shut gossip was at an all time high. “Oh my gosh, did you see the way they looked at Jessica? If they are looking for a third I’ll bet they’ll choose her!”

“No way! They were totally staring at me!”

“Girl, that’s not possible. If anything they were staring at your fumbled footwork at beat five.”

“Shut up! That’s not true!”

“What do you think, Y/n? Who were they staring at?”

All of the girls in my circle turned to me. I let out a huff. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was too focused on my steps.”

“At least one of us was,” Jessica stated.

We all turned to stare at her. “Like I said before, I’d be their first choice for a third.”

The smirk that played on her lips made me quite angry. Because she was the prima ballerina she always thought everyone was interested in her. While it may be true, her pride was too boastful. “Oh please. Stop lying to yourself. I saw where their gaze was during your performance. It was at the back.”

“Yeah right! All eyes are always on me.”

I rolled my eyes. God she was so annoying.

“Ladies, you heard what Maria said. We need to practice. This discussion can continue later.”

“Alright, party pooper.”

We fell into our positions and began another ensemble routine. Jessica called out counts as we danced and about twenty minutes later Maria returned. “Good job today, girls. You deserve a break for the rest of the day. Jessica, Y/n, please stay behind. I’d like to talk to both of you.”

I looked at my friends in confusion. Why was I needed?

As my fellow dancers passed to get changed, Lily grabbed my shoulder. “It’ll be okay, Y/n.”

She quickly walked off with the others. I sighed and walked to the mirrors where Maria stood. Jessica side eyed me and then focused back on our instructor. “Good job today, both of you. The Morningstars were very taken aback by your performances. In fact, they’d like to get to know you both on a more personal level.”

I felt myself stop breathing and my eyes widen. They what?

“They’d like to take you both to dinner tomorrow night. A car will come and pick up both of you so no need to worry about rides.”

“Miss Maria, are you sure Y/n was an interested party? After all she’s just an ensemble member-”

“Yes, Jessica. They were quite. Interested. They said their car should be there around 6 pm to pick up our prima ballerina and 7 pm to pick up Y/n. Please dress nice, you are representing Carmilla Carmine’s Ballet Academy after all.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, mistress.”

“You’re both excused.”

The two of us took our leave and as soon as the door closed behind us Jessica snarled at me. “Listen here and listen well. If you were a team player you’d refuse to come to this dinner tomorrow.”

“I’m just not showing up. You heard Miss Maria! The Morningstars were interested in both of us. How do you think that’ll reflect on our Academy if I just don’t show up?”

“Just don’t embarrass me tomorrow!”

She huffed and stormed off. I sighed and went into the locker room. I sat on one of the benches and traded out my pointe shoes for my regular tennis shoes. Throwing on my hoodie, I grabbed my backpack and headed out of the studio. The rest of my day went fairly well. My friends from work texted me asking if I was alright. I told them what had happened and they blew up my phone. They couldn’t believe an opportunity like this was being given to a backup dancer. I chuckled at their antics in my text messages and responded to them throughout the night.

The next day I had gotten up fairly early and ran some errands. When I got back to my apartment later I did some cleaning. I noticed it was getting closer to the time my date was so I finished and ran into my bedroom. I chose a nice long, flowy, favorite color dress and a pair of black flats. In my bathroom I added some light makeup to my face and attached a silver necklace to my body. After I was done I looked at my phone to see it was 7 pm. Grabbing my keys and a small purse, I locked my door and took the stairs to the lobby. I walked out to the street and saw a short man getting out of a black Mercedes-Benz. “Miss L/n?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“Follow me please.”

He walked to the back of the car and opened the door. “Thanks.”

I slid in and he shut the door. He returned to the driver’s side and got in. Starting the car, we headed out. I looked around as the man drove. I had never been in such a fancy car before so this was truly a new experience. The interior was all black leather and the windows were tinted. Jessica sat next to me texting on her phone. I watched as the nightlife of my city passed by in amazement. It felt like a different ride. The car suddenly came to a halt and the driver got out. He opened the door for Jessica first and then he opened my side. I stared at the restaurant and nearly collapsed. We were parked in front of Melbourne’s, a very fancy and well known place. Rumor had it that the wait list was three months before somebody could get in. “Ah, Jessica, Y/n! So glad you could make it!”

I looked over to see the Morningstars approach us, each of them giving us a kiss on the cheek. The Misses wore a long, sparkly, purple dress while the Mr wore a white outfit with red accents. “You both look lovely. Come, our table is waiting for us.”

Mr Morningstar wrapped an arm around Jessica while Mrs Morningstar wrapped an arm around me. They led us inside to a table that was hidden by a wall and some red velvet curtains in the back of the restaurant. We all sat down and I gazed over the menu. My heart nearly stopped. The prices were way out of my range. Jesus.

A waiter came over and introduced himself as Jeff before asking for the table’s drink choice. The three other occupants said some fancy wine or a fancy cocktail. When it got to me I just muttered, “Water, please.”

Jessica snorted and Mrs Morningstar looked at me. “Are you sure, Y/n? You can have anything you’d like.”

“I’m sorry I don’t drink. I honestly don't know where to begin.”

“I see. How about we start you off simple. She’ll take a brandy old fashioned.”

“All good choices. I’ll be back with those in a short bit.”

Jeff left and I felt extremely awkward. I mean I was trying my first alcoholic drink in front of practically strangers. What if I didn’t like it? I didn’t want to offend the Misses.

I picked up the menu to try and avoid small talk. Jessica and the Morningstars were discussing something and I was just trying to decide what least expensive item to get. “-ou, Y/n?”

I set the menu down and looked up. “What? Sorry.”

Mr Morningstar just smiled across the table at me. “It’s quite alright, dear. I asked what got you into ballet.”

“Oh, um, I don’t know. I guess I just find it relaxing and something to occupy my time with. I had started off as a child and just loved it ever since, Mr Morningstar.”

“Oh no need for formalities! We’re out of the studio. Please call us Luci and Lilith.”

The two smiled at us. While I felt out of place, their smiles sort of comforted me. It was almost like a parent soothing their child. “So why don’t you tell us about yourselves? We’re very interested to hear,” Lilith said.

I was about to say something when Jessica started. I just leaned back in my chair and watched other customers. There were many couples in the restaurant with a few groups scattered here and there. It was odd to see everybody dressed to the nines with their fanciest garb, but I suppose you have to live up to the dress code. “And what about you, Y/n? Anything you’d like to share,” Luci said.

The entire table turned to look at me and I could feel my skin crawling with heat. I wasn’t used to this much attention on me. Even when I was younger my siblings had always gotten the most of mom’s time. “Well, I’m uh 25 and the oldest of three. Like I said before I love ballet and I moved out here to try and make a career of it.”

“Anything else? Do you have any hobbies,” Lilith asked this time.

“I guess I like the arts in general. I participate in some art classes here and there. I read when I get the chance. Walks in the park or just around town are nice too.”

“That sounds lovely. You seem like a very creative girl.”

I gave a small smile. Just then Jeff returned with a tray and set all of our drinks down in front of each of us and asked us for our dinner choice. I just went with a simple pasta dish. I looked down at my drink and swirled it with the small black straw it came with. I was entranced by how the mushed cherry swirled with the ice in the orange drink as Jessica chatted. Lifting the rocks glass, I took a sip and hummed. It was quite good, especially for my first alcoholic drink. Setting the glass down, I observed the people at my table. Lilith was engaged in a conversation with Jessica, however Luci’s eyes were set on me. I gulped and averted my gaze to my lap. I could hear him chuckle. The table went silent for a moment, so I took the opportunity to ask something. “So do you guys have any family around here?”

“We have a daughter. Her name is Charlie. She’s a bit older than the two of you, but she’s quite the spirited girl. She doesn’t live here, more down under,” Lilith replied.

“I see. So she lives in Australia then?”

The couple glanced at each other and smiled. “You could say that.”

“She actually runs a hotel, funny enough. It’s to rehabilitate people.”

“Oh wow. That sounds like a lot to take on. You must be very proud of her.”

Luci stepped in. “Oh yes. She’s our little duckling!”

I could feel a rigidness coming from my fellow dancer. Maybe she didn’t like kids?

The rest of dinner went off without a hitch. I admit I was nervous but that dissipated the more the night went on. We all shared stories and laughs between us and the food was really good. I had offered to pay my half but the Morningstars were quick to shut the idea down. “It’s our treat. After all, we wanted to get to know you,” Luci had said.

After the bill was paid, they led us out to the car. The couple leaned in and gave me a kiss on both cheeks and did the same for Jessica. As they pulled away, Lilith spoke. “Thank you for a lovely night, ladies. We hope you have a great rest of your night.”

“Thank you for inviting us. We really appreciate it,” I replied.

The driver opened the door for us and Jessica and I got in. As he started to drive away the Morningstars waved at us until we were out of view. “I think that went well.”

“No duh. They were all over us, especially me. You think I can take more money out of them?”

“Is that the only reason you went? Their company was a nice treat. Besides, don’t you have other people wrapped around your finger you can take advantage of?”

“Of course. Those are some of the perks of being the prima ballerina. I’m surprised you even had a good time with all that attention on you. You should just stick to the back.”

I frowned. I was not about to let her ruin the night. “Whatever. I had a good time regardless of how much attention was on me.”

I turned away from her and focused on the passing cityscape. Eventually we reached my apartment and when we did the driver opened the door. I got out hastily and thanked him. I walked into the lobby and went up the stairs to the third floor. Getting out my keys, I unlocked the door and slipped my shoes off. I shut the door and went into my bathroom. I rinsed off my makeup and took my necklace off before going into my bedroom. I got out of my dress and put on my pj’s, throwing the flowy garment into the laundry hamper. I sat on my bed and went through my notifications on my phone. I grunted in annoyance when I saw my ex-lover’s name pop up. I clicked open their text and rolled my eyes. Once again it was them proclaiming they made a mistake for leaving me and they wanted me back. I didn’t reply, just backed out of it to the hub. I texted my friends from work about the night and they all congratulated me. We talked for a few minutes before I decided to log off. Putting my phone on the charger on the nightstand, I got under the covers and attempted to fall asleep.

The next day I rose at around 8 am. We had rehearsal today at 9 am so I quickly got dressed in a gray tank top and black leggings. I slipped a navy hoodie over top, slipped on my tennis shoes, grabbed my backpack and was out the door. It took me about twenty minutes to walk the several blocks to the studio, but when I made it I greeted the receptionist. “Good morning, Ricardo!”

“Good morning, Y/n! How are you today?”

“Average, I guess. And you?”

“Fabulous. I’ve got my coffee so today should go smoothly.”

I chuckled. He always liked his caffeine.

“I better head on up. I’ll see you later. Have a great day!”

“You too!”

I walked upstairs to the locker room where I placed my backpack and shoes in my locker. I slipped off my hoodie and then sat on one of the benches to put my pointe shoes on. When they were secure, I walked into the studio. I saw the girls hounding Jessica for information so I just went to my corner and stretched. As I was doing so, Maria came into the room. She looked around and when she noticed me, she came over. “Good morning, Y/n. I hope your dinner was enjoyable last night.”

“It was actually. The Morningstars are very nice people.”

“I’m glad. Was Jessica nice to you?”

“With them, yes. In the car, not so much.”

“I see. I’m sorry that happened.”

“It’s no big deal. I’m used to it.”

She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Well I’d better get to teaching. Shall we?”

“We shall.”

Maria clapped her hands and we fell into our rows. We did a few warm up exercises and as we were doing this, Ricardo came into the room holding a bouquet twice the size of my head and the phone. We stopped to ooh and ah. “Yes?”

“These just came for Y/n.”

“What,” I muttered.

Ricardo came over and handed me the plastic wrapped flowers. Upon closer inspection I saw my favorite flower mixed with roses. I could feel heat rising to my cheeks as I found a card amongst the petals. Pulling it out, the heat burned brighter. “What does it say, Y/n?”

“To our dearest Y/n, thank you for a wonderful night. Call us anytime. From the Morningstars. And then there’s a phone number.”

All my friends squealed in delight and Jessica stepped forward rudely. “Was there anything for me, Ricardo?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ll keep checking. Oh also there’s someone on hold for you, Y/n.”

He handed me the phone and I looked at Maria. She gestured for me to answer it. “Hello?”

“Good morning, Y/n!”

“Who is this?”

“Ah, how rude of me! It’s Luci.”

“Mr Morningstar?”

At the mention of the name, Jessica glared at me. I gulped.

“What have I told you about formalities, darling?”

“Sorry, bad habit. What can I do for you?”

“The wife and I were wondering if you’d like to go dancing tonight.”

“T-tonight? But we just saw each other-” “Lilith and I have taken quite a liking to you, my dear. You’re such a sweetheart and we’d like to be with you again. You just radiate a beautiful energy. What do you say?”

“Oh, um, uh…I guess. Sure.”

“Great! We’ll pick you up at 7 o clock! See you then, dear!”

“See you then.”

I pulled the phone away and ended the call. Lily spoke first. “Well?”

“I guess I have another date tonight with the Morningstars.”

The girls erupted into screams of joy and surrounded me in a hug except for the prima ballerina. She gave me a heated glare, stomped her foot and stormed off. I gave the bouquet and phone back to Ricardo. “Could you put them in my locker please?”

“Of course!”

“Thanks, Ricardo.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He left the room and Maria tried to calm everybody down. “Girls. Girls! GIRLS!”

They stopped and stared at our instructor. “Let’s get to work. We don’t have much time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” we all responded.

The rest of the morning and afternoon was spent practicing. Around 3 pm, Maria let us go. When I went into the locker room, I stopped abruptly. All over the floor near my locker were flower petals and the destroyed bouquet. My hoodie lay on the bench as well as my backpack. I went over and picked both up only for my things to fall from the bag and my sweatshirt to have tears in the material. I looked at the bottom of my bag to see a large hole had been cut. Both were beyond repair. I sighed and threw both items in the trash. I had a feeling it was Jessica. I just couldn’t believe she was that angry at me when it wasn’t my fault the Morningstars called on me. Grabbing my stuff, I put it on a bench and then went to grab the broom and dustpan. Retrieving both from the supply closet, I returned to the locker room and cleaned up the flower petals and tore up card from the carpeted floor. I threw that and the plastic wrapped stems in the trash before returning the cleaning supplies to the closet. I walked back to the locker room, grabbed my stuff and made my way home.

When I got home I had taken a small nap and then got ready for the night. I chose a dark blue floral blouse, black pants, black boots and a denim jacket. Grabbing my keys, phone and purse, I headed down to the main street. The same Mercedes-Benz sat in front of my building and out stepped Luci from the car. “Over here, Y/n!”

I walked over and slid in, only to realize when he got in that I squished between the husband and wife. Oh boy.

“Derek, you may go.”

The car drove off. It was silent for a minute and I bit my lip when both Luci and Lilth’s hands came to rest on either one of my legs. “So my darling, did you enjoy our flowers? Lilith and I combined our efforts to come up with it.”

“Uh, I did. Before they got destroyed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I had them put in my locker and when I got back from practice my hoodie, backpack and flowers were lying on the ground ruined.”

My eyes widened when I thought I saw horns come out of Luci’s head and his eyes go from red to white. I blinked and they were back to normal. “And who do you think did it?”

“Well…I can’t say.”

Lilith put a finger under my chin and made me face her. She brought her head so close our lips almost touched. “Love, you can tell us anything. We’re here for you. Was it that pesky Jessica? I knew we should have sent flowers so she didn’t feel left out but Luci was very determined not to.”

“She was soooo boring! All she did was talk about herself. At least our little apple was nice and polite.”

I felt him trace a pattern on my thigh but I couldn’t see as I was stuck staring at Lilith. “Luci…”

“It’s true! You can’t deny that, honey.”

“Alright, yes. She was a bore. But maybe our lovely’s bouquet would still be intact.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that one.”

“Anyway, was it Jessica?”

I could feel their eyes bore into me and I felt compelled to nod. They glanced at each other and then back to me. “Don’t worry love, we’ll get you as many flowers as you’d like.”

“Yes, but let’s focus on tonight. We’re going to dance the night away!”

My body tensed slightly when Luci put his head on my shoulder and I could feel his breath on my neck. “I-is hot in here or is it just me?”

They both chuckled rather loudly. “Oh dear. I think our little apple is heating up, Lilith.”

“Yes I think so, Luci. Perhaps we should aid her?”

“Yes. Yes we should.”

I gasped when I felt Mr Morningstar start to suck on my neck. I tried to pull away but Mrs Morningstar brought me into a kiss. My eyes widened and I attempted to hit either of them, but each of them had grabbed one hand and held it. I squirmed as they took their sweet time kissing me and just as I brought my legs up to kick them the car stopped. They pulled away with giant grins on their faces. The door opened and I clawed my way over top of Luci to get out. I figured he left a hickey so I did my best to raise my jacket collar to hide it. Just as I finished, I felt an arm wrap around my waist and the other around my shoulders. “Shall we go in, my love?”

I nodded and the two scooted me inside the club. It was very loud when we entered, the music making the walls and floor shake. The three of us sat in a private booth and Lilith went to go get us some drinks. I tried to put past how they had both kissed me, but I just couldn’t for the life of me. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to like it or not. Sure they were nice people but something about them unsettled me. “Whatcha thinking about, my dear?”

I looked up at Luci, his brow furrowed. “Huh? Oh nothing.”

“I don’t think it’s nothing. You’re very quiet.”

“I guess…nevermind.”

“Come on, you can tell me. You can tell us anything.”

His hand reached across the table and it laid on my knee. It reminded me too much of their kiss so I slid it off. He seemed very surprised by my retaliation. I looked at the hardwood floor as I spoke. “I guess I wasn’t expecting you guys to kiss me. I thought we weren’t quite there yet.”

“Oh, is that what’s got you bothered? I’m sorry. My wife and I are very forward when it comes to love.”

“Love?”

“Yes, you heard me.”

“What are you two talking about?”

Lilith had returned with three drinks. She set them on the table and sat by her husband. “Y/n doesn’t think we love her.”

“It’s not that, I just think it’s too early. I mean we met yesterday for crying out loud.”

“Aw, but you’re so fascinating, my love! How could we not fall in love with you!”

“Look, I’m not ready to take it to the next step-”

“You will in due time, little apple. It’ll just take some getting used to.”

I felt like I wasn’t being heard and I just needed a minute to breathe. “I, I need to go to the bathroom.”

I abruptly stood and speed walked to the nearest restroom. Just as I was about to enter, I bumped into somebody. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No please, it was me-Y/n?”

I looked up and felt my heart stop. Oh great, my ex. Just what I needed. “Hey.”

“Hey…how have you been?”

“Um, good I guess. Look, I was just heading to the bathroom-”

“Well now that I got you here we might as well talk.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n, I know we got off on the wrong foot-”

“You left because you found someone else. That’s that. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

They grabbed me by the shoulders and I stiffened. “You always do this when I try to talk to you. You shut me down. I just want you to fucking listen.”

Their grip tightened and I wished I was more at the table with the Morningstars then here. “Let go!”

I shoved my ex away and ran out the front door. I took a sharp turn and leaned against the alley wall. I leaned my head against the brick and let out a sigh. I heard rushing footsteps and I internally groaned when I saw Ex-Partner’s Name round the corner. “There you are! What part of I want to talk to you do you not fucking understand?!”

“The message is clear, but I just don’t want to talk. When you left me, that finished the matter.”

“But I want you back! I made a mistake alright, but I realize that now! Come on, what do you say?”

“I’ve said no and I’ll say it again. NO!”

They growled and I saw a glint in the moonlight. My eyes widened when I realized it was a switchblade. They rushed at me and I quickly closed my eyes and curled inwards, waiting for pain. It never came. I opened my eyes to see Luci with completely red eyes and long red horns sticking out of his forehead. A floating apple and a golden snake wrapped around the top of his horns and a fireball hovered above his head. Lilith was beside him, her eyes completely white and reddish purple curled horns stuck out of her head. He grabbed my ex by the wrist, twisting the knife out of their hand. They screamed in pain and I gasped seeing the bone stick out. Oh my God…

I stepped back as Luci twisted harder and more bone came poking out of the skin. “Don’t even think about going near her! YOU UNDERSTAND ME, YOU LITTLE BITCH!”

I watched in horror as the knife levitated towards Lilith and she stabbed my ex in the shoulder. They howled and she brought the knife up and stabbed again. Their nails grew into claws and they started to dig into my assailant’s skin, blood rushing down from their wounds. I backed away and then sprinted out of there. My ex’s screams rang in my head as I continued to run. What the fuck? What the fuck?!

I suddenly slammed into a chest and shrieked when arms wrapped around me. I realized it was Luci, his eyes now white with a red background. Six red and white wings stuck out of his back and they slightly curled around us as I beat on his chest. “Let me go! LET ME GO!”

He nuzzled into my hair and I kept flailing around. Lilith magically appeared beside him, my ex’s body dragging on the ground behind her. “Shh. You’re safe now, little apple. We’ve got you.”

“Get the fuck away from me! Get! Away!”

“Lucifer, don’t hold her too tight now. We don’t want bruises on her precious skin.”

In my struggle I slowed. Lucifer Morningstar. Lilith Morningstar. Horns. Wings. Wait a minute…

“Are you the Devil and his wife,” I asked timidly.

The two looked at each and sighed. “I guess the duck is out of the bag, Lilith.”

They turned to look at me and I shrunk in his tight hold. “Yes, we’re the Devil and his wife.”

It all made sense now. The red and purple eyes. The pale complexion. The reason they were such mysterious patrons. Their daughter being down under.

I shoved Lucifer and he let go for a second before his bloody claws grasped hard on my arms. His talons dug into my skin as I struggled. “Let me go, please! I, I won’t tell anyone what happened here! We can just go about our lives! Just, just let me go!”

By now tears had started escaping my eyes and I quickly kicked Lucifer in the balls. His claws slid down and caused four gashes to appear on my forearm. He let out a groan and I turned to flee, only for him to fly in front of me. “Y/n! Stop!”

They cornered me to the wall and the brick dug harshly at my back. “Everything’s alright, my love. You’re alright.”

Lilith brought her hand up and I slapped it away. My chest was heaving to try and gain air into the lungs, but I couldn’t get any in. I mean how are you supposed to react when you find out that the patrons of your ballet academy who are in love with you are the Devil and his wife?

“Y/n, dear, breathe. Breathe.”

“I, I can’t! I c-can’t!”

I just broke down. I slid down the brick and wrapped my arms around my knees. I began to hyperventilate as tears rushed down my cheeks. I heard Lucifer and Lilith say something to each other but I couldn’t make it out. As I cried I felt something gently hit my head and arms. I looked up to see golden dust raining down upon me. I looked up even further to see it coming from Luci’s fingertips, a gentle smile on both his and Lilith’s faces. Suddenly I felt very tired and calm, too calm. I could feel my muscles go slack and my body limp as Lucifer picked me up bridal style. “Just close your eyes, lovely. We’ll be home before you know it.”

“H-home? W-whose home?”

They both looked at me and smiled brightly. My eyes closed and my breathing steadied.

“Ours.”

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gh0stbeeee · 19 days ago

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Thinking about ballet dancer Light.

Preteen Light choosing a sport and taking up ballet because he's always loved the grace, the power, and the emotion in the way the dancers move, because maybe this could be a momentary freedom for him, from the pointless competition that is his life.

Light being asked hundreds of times if he's sure, if he wants this, if this will distract him, if he can work hard enough to catch up to the other kids that have been doing this for years.

Light walking into a ballet class for the first time, one of the few boys, and leaving at the end ashamed at how clumsy he was in comparison.

Light working himself to the bone to catch up, for the first time determined to finish his homework as fast as he could because he found something he wants to really do, staying for hours at the little studio every day and leaving with screaming muscles and blisters on his feet.

Barely able to feel the pain in comparison to this burning passion he felt for the first time.

Quickly catching the attention of the teachers, they tell him if he keeps at it he will have a very promising future ahead of him.

He never tells Soichiro this might be more than just an extracurricular for university.

His first recital goes spectacularly, even though he was only a supporting role, he caught the eye of a recruiter from a prestigious ballet company who told his mother they would keep an eye on him, as his future was bound to be successful (his father was too busy to come.)

The drive home his silent, his face rubbed raw from removing the stage makeup in the bathroom before leaving, when Sachiko says she can talk with his father, if this is what he really wants to do.

Light smiles, saying he'll think about it more before they commit in the future.

The girls start learning on pointe, and Light is intrigued. His instructor says the boys can learn as well, and it would make them better dancers for it.

Light and one other boy agree.

It's an extra layer of work, the stiff shoes feel somehow too much and too little as he stands in a pair for his first fitting, alone as he hadn't told his parents.

But he feels a warm flutter in his chest when he sees himself in the mirror, on his toes like Odette in Swan Lake, his first ballet.

He takes to it even faster than when he'd started. Even when the basic lessons ended, he continued to dance on pointe in his own time. He learns the girls' lead choreography alongside the boys, who were mostly supports for the lead ballerina.

He adds his own twists on it, every movement he makes sharp yet graceful, makes it look effortless yet full of power.

His instructor is amazed, watches as he dances better than the girl who got the lead.

"It's such a shame," she says slightly regretfully, "if you were a girl, I think you would've had a real chance at being made a prima ballerina. That being said, at this rate, if you get picked up by a professional company, I'm sure you'd make premier danseur in no time." She laughs as she says it, a kind joke to highlight his incredible skills and potential, and Light laughs too.

When Light is fifteen, his school is putting on a production of Swan Lake.

And for a brief moment, his heart is over the moon, it has always been a dream of his to dance the ballet. It sinks immediately the next moment, when they call only for girls to audition for Odette and Odile.

He still puts his name in to audition for Prince Siegfried, he learns the choreography, but he can't stop himself from putting his pointe shoes back on and dancing Odettes parts when he is alone. Male point dancers were only used as a joke in classical ballet, he had no hope for the part, but for a while, he dreamed.

He danced Odette, and he danced Odile's Variation, twirled with more grace than a human should have, and he felt like he was flying.

It was after he'd perfected Prince Siegfried's parts to know, and danced Odette's death as his last run for the night, that as his fluttering wings stilled for the last time, he felt trapped again.

The audition was in a day. If he got the part, he was nearly guaranteed a spot in the nationally top company. And he would dance as a man was expected, and he would never dance on pointe on a stage.

He packed away his pointe shoes for the last time.

The next morning, the day before the auditions, he handed them his resignation from the school. He would never forget the despair on their faces when they looked into his eyes and saw that his passion had died. (He'd murdered it in cold blood.)

"Good." His father had said. "A healthy phase, but it was time to get serious about school. You made the right choice."

Light just smiled blankly. His mother pretended not to notice the tear stains on his face when she brought him some apples that night.

(It wasn't until midnight eyes, raven hair, and a chain that he danced again, twirling gleefully to hide the blood stains on his feathers as he showed the detective his old passion.)

#haha swan lake x death note symbolism go brrrrrr #this is how light became so dead inside #im probably adding this into death becomes him. danseur light is actually one of my favorite things #hi yes i do have dance trauma how did you know?#death note ballet au #ballet au #death note #light yagami #lawlight #implied at the end #drabble #plot bunny #fic idea #death note fic #death note fanfiction #death note drabble

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piedinthepiper · 11 months ago

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Prima Ballerina ˖ ⊹

Yandere!Jimin x ballerina!reader

Summary: What’s the difference between a great ballerina and the greatest ballerina? The answer is Park Jimin. And he had his eyes on you in more than a professional way.

Warnings: heavy dubcon, Jimin is super cocky and thinks he knows everything (misogyny?), cursing, corruption, Jimin is also a creep, age gap (reader is of legal age), stalking (non descriptive), smut

Wc: 4.3k

A/n: Written for this request. I love black swan and ballet so I had to do this! Hope you enjoy! Don’t be a silent reader! Like, repost and comment!

Disclaimer: This is 100% fiction. I am in no way saying that this is how any member of bts would act. Nor do I condone the actions detailed in the story. This is purely for entertainment purposes only. If any of the warnings trigger you, or you’re under 18 ¡do not read! I’m not your mother, and I don’t take any accountability for what you decide to read online!

Another disclaimer: I know nothing about ballet except for whatever ballet they show in the Barbie movies. Everything is off Google, so some technical terms and such might be incorrect.

You did a final jump before the dramatic music came to an end. His eyes were piercing through you. Watching your every movement, your every step, your every breath. But he watched you all, you thought to yourself. Everybody had to be perfect for the premiere of Swan lake. The hardest and most demanding ballet you had ever danced in your career. The choreography was almost impossible. So Mr. Park had yet again kept you there for hours overtime, and all of you were exhausted.

“Agh, my feet hurt. I hope this was the last round.”

Your friend, Maria, whispered to you. You smiled at her and was about to answer, when a loud clap was heard throughout the room. It silenced everyone.

“Ms. Sanderson, do you have something to tell the company?”

Mr. Park locked eyes with her. Staring her down from across the room like a predator. She looked a bit tongue tied for a second.

“Ehm- no. No, Mr. Park.”

He nodded at her answer.

“I do think I heard complaining back there, are you sure you didn’t say anything?”

She looked down to the floor and carefully shook her head.

“I don’t believe you, you’re pathetic. Out of my studio!”

He yelled at her and pointed a sharp finger towards the exit. Her eyes continued to stay on the floor. Accepting her fate.

“I said it!”

You yelled back and raised your hand. His eyes turned back to you.

“Bold of you, Ms. y/l/n. Thanks to you all the swans have to practice for another hour. The rest are dismissed.”

The room was filled with sighs and groans.

“Ok, let’s make that two.”

No one uttered a single word, afraid that the time would get longer.

“That’s what I thought. You, come with me.”

He briefly pointed at you, before he started to walk out of the practice room.

“The rest of you can take a 10 minute break.”

Maria looked at you with a apologetic look.

“Thank you, y/n.”

She said and grabbed your hand. You gave her a small smile. Of course you would stand up for her. She was your best friend in the company.

“Yeah, thanks a lot y/n.”

One of the other girls said sarcastically. You didn’t pay it any mind, you would also be furious if someone made you stay two hours overtime when you already were on overtime. You grabbed your leg warmers.

“No worries, you know I got you.”

You comforted Maria, before you started walking towards the exit. You knew Mr. Park went to his office. It wasn’t your first time being scolded.

“Sit down.”

He said once you entered. He was already sitting behind his desk. You sat down opposite of him, leaning down to slide into your leg warmers.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Park.”

You started off with. Trying to sound as apologetic as possible. He sighed.

“Do you think I do this for fun, y/n?”

You got up from your crouched position and looked him in the eyes.

“No I don’t.”

He was one of the best ballet teachers and directors in the whole world. It was obviously an honour just to be able to dance for him. But you knew he had a soft spot for you for some reason. That’s why you were comfortable taking Maria’s place.

“I would much rather be at home as well, relaxing and eating a good meal. But there would be no Swan lake, and there would be no good ballerinas without me.”

He pulled his hand through his black hair in stress. It was slicked back like usual, but throughout the day a few strands had loosened.

“If everyone stopped practicing at five o’clock like scheduled, the premiere would be nothing but chaos. Do you understand that, y/n?”

You nodded. He looked you up and down for a second. Taking in your form. He slowly got up and walked towards you. He grabbed your chin harshly, making you look back up at him.

“I’ve been observing you for the last days, you truly are far too beautiful and talented to be just a swan.”

You raised your eyebrows at his sudden compliment.

“You’re prima ballerina material, for sure.”

His hand slid to the side of your face, cupping your jaw.

“Too bad I have to fire you.”

“What?!”

Your eyebrows crossed as you shook your head out of his grip. His hand went into his pocket, making him look surprisingly relaxed.

“The two of us, let alone the entire company, knows that this isn’t your first time being sent to my office.”

You looked at him in shock. You couldn’t believe what he was saying.

“If I don’t give you the consequences, it’s going to look suspicious.”

You shook your head. He was going to fire you just because something as simple as complaining?

“You can’t do that.”

“I’ll do whatever I want with my ballerinas.”

He smirked again, before walking to stand right in front of you. You looked up and down his long body. Before looking back at him with your most innocent, but still sultry eyes.

“Please don’t fire me, Mr. Park. You wouldn’t do that to me would you?”

He cocked his head at your plea. Scanning you up and down yet again. He had a puzzled look on his face.

“Don’t test me.”

You grabbed his hand as you fell down to your knees. You knew he liked it when you begged. And since this was a life or death situation for your career, you didn’t mind being a little extra.

“I’ll do anything. Please just let me continue to dance for you. I’m nothing without you. I can’t- you can’t-”

You knew what buttons to push. His ego was too big to not take the bait.

“You’re right. It would be a shame to waste your potential.”

He lifted your head up again by your chin. A sudden sexual tension hit you, once you saw the outline of his bulge. You knew your actions had an effect on him, but not to that extent.

“It would be a shame to waste such a pretty face.”

You tried your best to look him in the eyes. It was hard to not shy away at a situation like that, even for you.

“Please, Mr. Park.”

He inhaled sharply, before he broke out in a smile.

“I forgive you, y/n. I can’t live with myself if I don’t give you another chance.”

You smiled up at him as well, preceding to get back up on your feet. But his arm found your shoulder and stopped you in your ascend.

“Wait.”

He warned you, and you quickly sat back down on your knees.

“I like seeing you like this, it’s not often you look so- submissive.”

Chills ran down your spine at his words. You definitely did not take that as a compliment. You were quite fiery, yes. And in any normal situation you would never let a man speak to you like he did. But the fear of losing your job, combined with the reverence you felt towards him, made you defy yourself.

“After this season I want you to take private lessons with me. Every Tuesday and Thursday.”

You nodded carefully, not looking up at him.

“Don’t look so down, darling. I’ll make you my next prima ballerina.”

“He said what?”

Maria half whispered in shock.

“Ms. Sanderson.”

Mrs. Petrova, your instructor, who was so old she probably was alive when swan lake was composed, hushed her. Maria looked at her before looking down at her moving feet. The company was warming up, standing in clean lines against the railing, moving to the rhythm of the slow classical music.

“Not only did he not fire you.”

She whispered once Mrs. Petrova was at the other end of the room.

“But he also said he would make you a prima ballerina?”

You nodded.

“Switch to third position!”

The two of you switched.

“Wow, you are so lucky. Mr. Park hasn’t had a prima ballerina in years.”

You smiled at her, and lifted you head higher when Mrs. Petrova walked by. You remained silent until you knew she was far enough away.

“I’m happy of course, it’s just- I don’t know. There’s something weird about him.”

“Yeah he’s like really cocky.”

She answered and held back a laugh.

“That too, but he’s just eerie. Like I don’t know if I want to spend so much time with him alone.”

“Ms. y/l/n! Would you like to share something with the company? Or do I have to send the two of you to Mr. Parks office?”

Mrs. Petrova suddenly bursted out. You locked eyes with Maria. Not knowing what to answer the old hag.

“We were just talking about-“

“Boys, just boys.”

You interrupted Maria. Not wanting her to say anything about you or Mr. Park. Mrs. Petrova gave the two of you a strict look, before the music started playing again.

“Please focus on your movements, not the opposite gender.”

She scolded before walking away from the two of you.

“And fourth position!”

“He just kept looking at me weirdly, and telling me that I’m beautiful and shit.”

You said as the two of you were walking down towards the cafeteria for lunch.

“Oh my god! He probably has a crush on you or something!”

Maria said a little bit too loud. You poked her in her side with your elbow.

“Please, keep it down.”

She started laughing, and you quickly followed. As you turned a corner you crashed into something. Or rather someone. A hand snuck around you waist, keeping you from falling. You looked up, finding the familiar brown eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Park. I didn’t see where I was going.”

He looked at you for a second, before smiling. He didn’t let go of your waist, and when you became aware of that you awkwardly stepped away from him.

“No harm done.”

He simply said and walked away. You looked over at Maria.

“I get it.”

She simply said as you started walking again.

“Right?”

You asked, looking back at her as she tried to keep up with you.

“What ever look he just gave you was not the look you give to someone you have a crush on.”

The season had ended, for a minute you felt relief. Knowing you had time off now to just relax before the next season. But as you read the message on your phone, you felt that relief fade away.

“Studio 5, next Thursday at 07.00 am. Don’t be late.”

You sighed, was this really what you wanted? Of course it was a dream come true to potential become Mr. Parks new prima ballerina. But you couldn’t help but feel weird about that time in his office. It seemed like he had other intentions in mind. Mr. Park was an attractive man yes, but he was way older than you and you didn’t want his attention in that way. He was your teacher, your mentor. Not a potential hook up. You didn’t see him in that way, and you hoped against all odds that he didn’t see you like that either.

What you didn’t know was that in that moment, outside on the dark street. He was there. Looking at you through your window. Watching your puzzled look at his text. He didn’t know his intentions fully yet either. But he did know they were not good.

“Higher.”

He simply said as he watch you dance to the music. It was your fifth lesson together, and everything was going well. You hadn’t seen the side of him that you saw when he proposed this idea. And you were enjoying yourself, getting these private lessons had really helped you improve. In the next second arabesque, you lifted your leg even higher. Showing him that you listened. But he still shut the music off. You stepped down from your tips, looking at him as he walked up to you.

“Turn around.”

He said once he reached you. And you did as instructed. You looked at him through the big mirrors.

“Do your second arabesque.”

You stood back up on your toes, and gracefully bent into a second arabesque.

“Look at yourself in the mirror.”

He said, and you did. You instinctively pushed your leg even further up, once you saw your own reflection.

“Now back to full position.”

You moved your face upwards again, looking away from the mirror. You felt his hands touch your waist. He straightened your back, before one of his hands went to your lifted leg.

“Look back at yourself.”

He almost whispered in your ear, now with one hand on your waist, and the other holding your leg higher than what you were comfortable with. You smiled once you saw yourself. Your arabesque looked different, more sophisticated.

“When you do your second arabesque, or any arabesque for that matter. Remember this. Straight back and high leg.”

He said in a low comforting tone once he saw your smile. You nodded, and stepped down from your tippy toes. He let go of your leg, but moved that hand to the other side of your waist.

“Think of me holding your waist, it’ll help you stabilise.”

He whispered now, you felt his warm breath on the back of your neck. You turned to look at him.

“Thank you.”

You muttered. His eyes immediately fell to your lips, and in a split second his lips were on yours. You were caught off guard, and didn’t respond at first. But once it dawned on you what was happening you quickly moved your face away from his. You felt his hands on your waist tighten.

“Please don’t ever do that again.”

You looked up at the mirror, wanting to see his reaction. He was looking you dead in the eye, with anger written all over his face. He leaned down to kiss your bare shoulder, still maintaining eye contact. Before he deeply whispered.

“I’ll do whatever I want with my ballerinas.”

His hand moved up to your face as he turned to kiss you yet again. You pushed him away, and tried to make a run for it. But he snaked his arm around your chest.

“Let me go!”

You struggled against him, now scared of what would happen if you didn’t get away. Your fight or flight instinct kicked in and you elbowed him as hard as you could in his side. His hand loosened and you ran. But not quick enough. He grabbed you by your arm and threw you into the big mirror. It was pure luck that it didn’t shatter. His body locked you in.

“Hush, I won’t hurt you.”

He said, and for a second you stopped fighting. You were out of breath, but still managed to give him a death glare.

“Let me go!”

You tried once again. He shook his head.

“Do you think I just give away free lessons? Don’t you think you need to repay me?”

You felt something hard against your abdomen. You wanted to cry, you didn’t know what to do. His face shifted once he saw your eyes watering.

“No, no. I’m not a rapist, y/n! God no. But if you want to be my prima ballerina. You have to get your priorities straight.”

You clung onto the little bit of relief you felt from his words.

“I’ve tried my best to stay away, y/n. I really have. But there’s just something about you.”

You felt his hips grind against yours.

“You make me fucking crazy. I can’t wait any longer. I need you.”

He let out a small moan at the friction. A tear fell down your face.

“Please, Mr. Park. Let me go.”

You sobbed. He hushed you again.

“I’ll let you go. Just listen to me.”

You took a deep breath, collecting yourself as much as you could.

“By next Thursday I want an answer. Either you show up or you don’t. Don’t be late.”

He pushed himself off the wall and gave you one last look before slowly walking out the studio. Leaving you alone in the big dance room. What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

“I don’t know what to do, Maria. This is like a fucking nightmare!”

You said sobbing onto Marias lap as she comforted you. You called her the minute you got home, knowing that she already knew most of the backstory. She immediately came over to your place, wanting to be there for you in a situation like this. You were forever great full for having a friend like her.

“You have to report this. Surely the police could do something about him.”

She said in a calm voice, stroking your hair lightly. You sat up in your bed, wiping your tears away from your swollen face.

“Would they though?”

You asked defeated. Mr. Park was a rich and famous man. You wanted to believe Marias theory, but the hard sad truth was that you didn’t stand a chance against him. Especially with no proof.

“Either I don’t show up and give up my career or-“

You paused, collecting your thoughts.

“Or you give that bastard what he wants.”

Maria finished for you. Knowing exactly what you were thinking.

“Look, being Jimin Parks prima ballerina is huge. It really is, but- I don’t know, is it really worth it? Is it really worth loosing your dignity for a life of fame?”

She asked you with a worried face. You blinked away your tears, not wanting to cry anymore.

“What else would I do? I’ve been dancing my entire life, everything I’ve ever done has lead up to this moment. I can’t-“

You shook your head, not letting the emotions take control over you again.

“I have to show up, I have to talk some sense into him. I can’t give up now. I just can’t.”

You looked down at your hands in your lap as you felt a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“You could go to college, get a degree, get a nine to five. Anything but this, please I can’t watch you go through with this. It’s not safe to see him again.”

You looked up at her again.

“And be a complete failure? Not only to my parents, to you, to the company, but also to myself. This is all I’ve ever dreamed of, Maria.”

“You won’t be a failure! You’re an amazing dancer, you have real talent. But it’s not worth it.”

You shook your head. You had already made up your mind.

“I’m sorry.”

You mumbled. Maria sighed and got up from the bed.

“You do you, girl. But you better not call me crying next Thursday. I won’t feel bad for you.”

She said before walking out your room. You were alone with this now. But like you told her, you couldn’t give up on your dream. No matter the cost.

Thursday. You were sweating. A lump had formed itself inside your stomach, and it was impossible to to ignore it. You took what felt like your last breath before you opened the door to the studio. He stood in the other end, hands crossed over his chest, with a smirk plastered on his lips.

“You’re late.”

His voice rang through the big room, leaving an echo. You stepped into the room, the door shutting behind you. Another echo filling the otherwise dead silent room. You didn’t walk towards him, you stayed by the door. The silence making the lump in your stomach grow even larger.

“What are you doing?”

He asked, still with a slight smirk.

“Come here, we have dancing to do.”

You didn’t know what to do. Your entire body was screaming for you to run out the door and never look back. But your brain didn’t let you move.

“Come over here, y/n. Right now!”

He said in a strict tone, once you didn’t listen. Your own feet moved against your own will, as you slowly started moving forward. You put your bag down on your way.

“Good girl.”

He said, barely audible. But you heard it. All your senses were sharpened. He watched you like a predator, as you can closer and closer. You stopped at a reasonable distance. Close enough to have a conversation with him, but still just out of reach.

“Why so gloomy? You’ve made the biggest decision in your life, baby.”

He stepped closer to you. Every single muscle in your body tensed as his hand met your face in a loving embrace.

“I’m going to make you a star.”

He whispered. You shook your head.

“I don’t want to have sex with you, Mr. Park.”

His smile faded at your words. You straightened your back, trying your best to seem confident and not afraid of the man standing in front of you.

“This is all I’ve ever dreamt of. It’s all I’ve ever worked for. But I refuse to think that this is the only way I can get what I want.”

You said as you tried to conceal the shaky breath escaping your mouth.

“Please, I don’t want to sleep my way to fame. I want to earn it. So tell me, do you see a true and genuine prima ballerina in me. Or am I just a piece of meat?”

He looked at you directly in your eyes. You didn’t break eye contact. You were not giving up, not yet. He broke out in laughter after a few seconds of staring into your soul.

“Oh, y/n. Please.”

He continued laughing, as if this whole thing was a joke. You stayed as serious as ever.

“This is what I like about you. You’re so stubborn, so strong. You don’t see that often around here.”

He turned serious in a split second.

“Why would I be lying to you? Huh? I can sleep with whoever I want. If I wanted just a one night stand I’d pick one of the other girls. Someone easier to manipulate.”

His hand slid around your waist, pulling you close to him.

“I’m a man of my word, y/n. I see potential in you, I wouldn’t just say that to anyone.”

His eyes flickered down to your lips. You instinctively turned your head away, opting to looking at the two of you in the mirror. He looked back at you in the reflection.

“I see my next prima ballerina.”

He said and pointed at the mirror.

“You’re not just beautiful and talented, you have a strong mind. You’re perfect.”

You sighed, looking back at him.

“Why would you waste it all?”

He asked and softly caressed your chin. Your gaze flicked down, wanting to look anywhere but him. He was right, why would you waste the opportunity to have everything you’ve ever wanted?

“It’s honestly a package deal. You get fame and fortune, and good sex. I don’t see what the problem is honestly.”

You looked back up at him again. Trying to conceal the ick you just got.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

His face turned into a devilish grin.

“Join me in my office.”

He hastily got rid of your bollero, throwing it onto the floor. The second you stepped into his office his lips were on yours. Your fate was sealed, there was no return now. He grabbed at your hips harshly, digging his fingers into you with desperation and lust. He lifted you up, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He walked over to his desk, leaving your lips for a moment to push whatever was on it onto the floor. It all hit the floor and made a loud crashing noise. He placed you onto the desk, continuing his heated attack of your lips.

“I’ve been waiting for this for so long, baby.”

He said in between kisses. Working on your wrap around skirt and tights. You lifted yourself off the desk so he could slide your garments off. Leaving you in your underwear and tank top.

“You have no idea how crazy you’ve made me. How many sins I’ve done in your favour.”

His lips crashed back onto yours. You started thinking of your career as you heard him removing his belt. Preparing yourself for what was to come. He pushed your upper body down onto the desk, making your head dip over the edge of the desk. You looked at his office upside down, staring at the expensive painting hanging on the wall. You felt him sliding your underwear to the side.

“What a pretty pussy you have, baby.”

He said before sliding himself into you, making you moan as you felt yourself being filled up.

“Better than I ever imagined.”

He groaned as he started to slowly move. You continued to look at the painting of the ballerina with a bouquet in her hands bowing down in a gracious pose. Your hands found his forearms, digging your nails into his skin. Your breath got heavy as you felt his speed increase.

But still you focused on the ballerina. You imagined it was you. Maybe that would be you after this. Bowing deeply to the applause of hundreds, maybe even thousands of people in the audience. They all applauding you. You moaned loudly once he hit a good spot.

“You like that? You want it, huh?”

“Yes.”

You said in a shaky voice. You wanted this, you wanted this more than anything. This was all worth it in the end. You would be a star, a prima ballerina. Someone little girls looked up to, and adults wanted to be. You would be like that ballerina in the painting. Gracious and beautiful in every way. Everything you ever aspired to be. Everything you were meant to be.

“God, I’m gonna-“

You belonged here. On that desk. In that studio. Alone on a stage, bowing to the audience after the greatest performance of their lives. You were Mr. Park’s new prima ballerina.

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