#the thunder beneath his ribs

[bakerstmel]

Fall Favorite Fic Festival, Entry 3

I’m not putting any pressure on myself to post these daily, just as the spirit moves. In case you’ve been keeping score or something.

This entry includes my absolute favorite love declaration of all time in any media of any kind anywhere. It also gives me an excuse to talk about narrative distance, so a double win for me!

the thunder beneath his ribs, by darcylindbergh

Darcylindbergh writes lyrically, as in their works are word music. They play with language to great effect, and as someone who pathetically paws at that kind of thing from time to time, I have the greatest respect for their efforts.

(This one got long, so I'm getting all fancy and installing a cut. The love declaration is at the bottom of the post.)

I'm talking about this kind of thing, the opening paragraph (blue text is darcylindbergh throughout this post):

The slap of feet echoes against the pavement, nearly drowned out by the crash of thunder and heavy rainfall. Neon lights glint off wet concrete, turn the night into a kaleidoscopic circus of noise and heat and confusion, and John twists into it, gets lost in it, running fast, breathing hard, elbows in, focus.

And just like that, we are running, and we are in the rain, and more than that, we are running in the city in the rain, and more than that, we are in John's head like we have a regular table there. We are agitated, anxious, scared- we know John is a veteran, and if we don't, that's about to become clear in other ways-and it's all via rhythm and word choice.

You can do that sort of thing directly, and it can also work:

It was a thousand year rain, the kind of rain London hadn't seen since six months prior. John had always thought of rain as cold, growing up in the council flats, but this was hot, steamy, the kind of rain that felt like a hiss, like a slap, like a bullet. It was hard to breathe in rain like this, hard to keep his terror under control, but it didn't matter; he had to keep moving, keep running, keep up.

That's just me screwing around, but I hope you can see the difference--Darcy leans into the rhythm of the running, TWISTS into it, GETS LOST in it, running FAST, breathing HARD. It's elevated language. This can cause issues, in that artistry can feel more formal. I would argue that's likely intentional here, because darcylindbergh is a master of narrative distance. In this case, we are swept along in this steamy rain, physically close to the characters and in John's head but lacking the full access pass. Part of this is that John is fully in this moment and not thinking about anything else, and Darcy is using the rhythm of this language to tell us that without having to tell us that. This kind of attention to detail allows a good writer to craft a world in 5,700 words and have it ring true.

Anyone who talks writing with me ends up hearing a rant about POV. First person, third person, third person close, it all has to do with how much we know. Right? And I feel as though it's pretty standard in fic to write a close third, since fic is above all a character driven genre, but in general, the best writing swoops in and out. You pull back and get the lay of the land, dive in to feel the tension and see the eye twitches, and then pull back up to learn the history of why the land matters in the first place. Like so:

Around them, London carries on, oblivious: the rush of steam from cheap late-night restaurants, the splash of cabs through puddles growing in the streets, the smell of soaked skips and dirty bodies infiltrating the labyrinthine alleys Sherlock leads them through.

A bit later:

John had walked these streets once and thought nothing of it. He’d been to the pubs and the post offices, the Tescos and the Bootses, in the backs of cabs and on the Tube, and scarcely gave it any consideration.

Now he’s constantly looking over his shoulder, skin crawling and mind prickling with the possibility of being watched or followed. Dangerous has lost its slick attraction.

If this were a screenplay, and that was camera direction, we'd start from an overhead shot and then draw in down a city street, Baker Street maybe, with the tube station and that Boots right there by Marylebone, and then settle on John's anxious face as he glances behind him. Likely, then, we'd pull back a bit to show John behind Sherlock, closing the distance, getting ready for what happens next.

OK, I know no one is reading all this. I've gone a bit meta-mad. I just like writing that makes me smarter, and this fic does that. Even after all this time, the breadth and quality of the writing of this fandom in general just knocks me out.

Anyway, I promised a love declaration.

"I’m going to love you now,” John says. “I’m going to love you the way I’ve tried not to since the very beginning. I’m going to love with you every single cell of me and every single breath, and I will follow you until you tell me to stop and then wait for you to come back, and when I die I’m going to die with your name imprinted on my very bones with how much and how hard and how long I’ve loved you.”

Across the pillows, Sherlock blinks. He takes a tiny breath that doesn’t seem to make it past his lips and blinks again.

Then he takes John’s hands in his own and studies them, as though looking for some proof written in John’s lifelines, and he presses a kiss down into John’s palm. “Okay,” he breathes, damp and warm. He kisses John’s other palm. “Okay.”

And you know what's crazy? Those aren't even the best lines in this fucking thing. This is the best line:

Sherlock offers John his cuffs.

I mean, for fuck's sake (in the best possible way).

[beloveds-embrace]

Until the Last Loop: the Execution

(How many times must you repeat the same song and dance before the curtain falls?

poly mercenaries 141 x princess reader, time loop

The crowd screamed for your blood.

Their voices rolled over the courtyard like thunder- sharp, frenzied, and hungry, sharks smelling blood in the waters. You didn’t flinch. You had stopped flinching a long time ago. Instead, you stood on the scaffold with your wrists bound in rusted iron and your knees aching from where you’d been forced to kneel, a once-proud back bent into prostration.

The cold bites through the thin silk of your dress. You feel the rough wood splintering beneath your knees, the way the wind stings your skin, the weight of the executioner’s shadow looming above you.

You were not allowed the dignity of a white dress, or a veil or a blindfold. You never were.

The wood creaked beneath you as the executioner shifted, sharpening his blade against a whetstone. Sparks flew, bright and vengeful. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t look at the crowd either, for they were all familiar scenes- so much so you were sure that if you were to be given a canvas and paint, you would be able to redraw it all simply from memory.

Instead, your gaze wandered.

You let your eyes drift across the sea of faces twisted in hatred, searching for the one thing that hadn’t changed in all these lifetimes-

And there he was.

You spotted him near the back, the man in the crowd. As always, standing just close enough to see the platform clearly but far enough to remain unnoticed by the mob. Hooded, broad-shouldered, and still. He didn’t yell. He didn’t jeer.

He just watched. He always did. The same stance, the same gaze.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to look away. He had been there in every loop, always standing in that exact spot, and you had stopped trying to understand why. Whatever answer you might have once craved had been buried under exhaustion and bitter acceptance, and the defeating knowledge of not knowing where to even start searching for him.

The executioner finished sharpening his blade and stepped closer, his boots heavy against the wood. The crowd’s roar swelled as the official stepped forward and began to read the charges- words you had heard so many times they no longer felt real. Were they here, you wondered, listening to your crimes?

“Treason against the Crown.”

Your nails dug into your palms.

“Conspiracy to overthrow His Majesty.”

You exhaled slowly.

“Attempted regicide.”

The crowd erupted at that, like oil meeting water, and you wondered- not for the first time- if they even cared whether the charges were true. It didn’t matter. They just wanted someone to blame.

And you had always been an easy target.

The executioner raised the blade. The sun caught its edge, and for a brief moment, you saw your reflection- tired eyes, hollow cheeks, and lips pressed into something that could no longer be called a smile.

The crowd roared louder. The executioner took his stance.

You closed your eyes.

And the blade fell.

You wake with a gasp.

The silk sheets cling to your skin, damp with sweat. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a wild animal escaping the clutches of its predator, and for one wild moment, you’re sure you can still feel the blade at your neck, the bite of steel against soft, tender flesh-

But there’s no blood. No pain.

Just sunlight streaming through the tall windows, warm and golden, painting the room in the soft golds and reds of the afternoon.

You stare at the ceiling, swallowing against the bile rising in your throat. The air smells like jasmine and lavender. It always does.

You force yourself to sit up even when your muscles ache, and your wrists burn with phantom pain from where the shackles had been. There are no marks, but the memory lingers, haunting every little move you make.

How many times now?

You stopped counting after twenty. It didn’t matter. It never changed.

The knock at the door comes exactly when you expect it, after you had forced yourself to clean away the sweat rolling down your skin and sat at your settee, begging your heart to calm down.

“Your Highness?”

Your maid’s voice.

You already know what she’ll say, what expression she’ll wear when she steps inside. But you don’t move.

The door opens, and she enters with a bow, her hands folded neatly in front of her, expression detached and polite. And behind her, four men follow.

You don’t need to look to know who they are. They’ve been with you every life, always the same tune and dance.

He stands at the front, broad-shouldered and commanding, streaks of gray in his beard and sharp eyes that feel like knives. You meet his gaze, by now fully used to him and his presence. Price- John, he’d said you can call him either in your last few lives, when your spoilt attitude had been stripped off you with each death.

“You ain’t so bad, princess. Not a hoity-toity piece of work.”

Slowly, the others trickle in after him.

The mask hides most of his face, but you don’t need to see it to know what’s underneath is Ghost. He watches you the way a predator watches its prey- calm, patient, and ready to strike, but you know that later, he will ever so slightly warm up to you.

“I don’t know what to do… I haven’t done anything! You have to believe me!”

“I know. But you’ll catch a cold if you stay out any longer, princess.”

Soap smiles when he steps inside, easy and disarming, but you see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rests near the dagger at his hip. That same dagger has saved you before, but not always. In some lives, he is not there with you when you get ambushed- you were such a hard thing to get along with before- and yet in other lives…

“Wee lass, tell me where ye’re goin’, and I’ll protect ye always, aye?”

Quiet, steady, and sharp, like a hawk out for hunting. Gaz’s eyes sweep the room, cataloging every detail before they land on you and he nods towards you. Polite, always polite, even when you’d been like a hissy, feral cat towards him in times. Gentle when you’d been a quiet, reserved version of yourself.

“…will you stay with me? Just tonight? Please, Gaz… I feel lonely.”

“Course, princess. You don’t have to ask.”

You exhale slowly.

They’re different from the crowd, from the nobles and commoners of the kingdom. Always have been, always will be. They don’t look at you with hatred, even if they have their own misconceptions of you. But they’re still here, still close, in this life and before and next and that makes them special to you.

And this time, you… don’t have the energy to keep yourself away from them.

Price steps forward first, always the leader.

“Princess,” he says, and there’s something heavy in the way he says it. Like it means more than just a title. Or maybe less; mercenaries care little for royalty beyond what they can offer them. “We’re here to protect you.”

You almost laugh. Hired by king for no knight wanted to work for you, the shameful stain no one wanted to acknowledge or favor too much.

Instead, you turn your head and stare out the window, heart still pounding against your ribs.

“You’re wasting your time.”

You expect them to leave, even if you shouldn’t. Most people do when you push them away. Though you told yourself you won’t keep yourself away from them, you also truly want to just exist quietly, unperceived, until the inevitable hour arrives and you return back to this point.

But Price doesn’t listen to you, unsurprisingly. You can see your maid scoff about his nonchalant manner out of the corner of your eye.

“We’ll see about that, Your Highness.” He says, unbothered by your attitude.

And when you finally look at him again, his eyes are lingering on you- steady and sharp.

And thus, the loop starts anew.

Part Two

Masterlist

[deepspacenova]

BEAUTY VERSUS BEAST

1000 words. Banter. Tension. Hurt/comfort. AU (not as much anymore, I guess).

Note: Had this ready to go and then our actual beast Sylus was announced so let’s just roll with it xx

"Ow. That hurts," he bites out, the lines of his forearms tensing against the pressure of her palm.

Rolling her eyes, she dips the blood-soaked cloth in water and wrings it out before gliding it over the same spot.

“Stop, I said that hurts.” Sylus snarls, yanking his arm from her grasp.

“Well maybe if you’d stop jerking your arm around it wouldn’t hurt so much,” she fires back.

Swiping her hair from her eyes, she ignores his warning growl, grabbing his arm back and holding it toward the icy white light filtering through the velvet curtains.

“You should’ve listened when I said not to go in there.” He repeats, the words grating like stones against each other. But there's something... softer beneath them.

As if she hadn’t heard him the first three times. She snaps, “Well maybe you should’ve listened to me, instead of unleashing your damn temper.”

She’s locked in a silent battle, anger and confusion and... gratitude swirling together like the snowflakes outside. She still can’t believe he’d saved her like that — so viciously, so single-mindedly.

“But, um—“ she trails off. She looks down, blowing another piece of hair from her face as she presses the cloth down once again.

There’s a sudden warmth against her cheek, brushing the offending strand from her face and tucking it away behind her ear. The care of the motion was entirely at odds with the sharpness of his tone moments ago.

The shell of her ear is traced by what could only be the heated pad of a finger for just a heartbeat longer than necessary before it vanishes, leaving cool air in its absence.

She looks up, eyes wide just as Sylus snatches his hand back. A faint pink tint deepens on his cheeks and he clears his throat.

“Thank you. For saving me.”

“Don’t mention it, kitten.”

Her lips part, a retort forming, but the words catch in her throat. The nickname lingers between them, heavy and electric, sending a flush crawling up her neck. She should roll her eyes again but instead, she finds herself holding his gaze.

“I really wish you’d stop calling me that,” she mutters, her beating heart pounding away the biting tone she’d intended.

His lips tipped up, eyes flicking to the heat she could feel spreading across her cheeks. “Why’s that?”

“Because it’s ridiculous,” she sighs, focusing back on the wound, though her hand hesitates mid-movement. “I’m not some— some pet, Sylus.”

“No, you’re not a pet.” He lowers down, the sudden proximity capturing her next inhale. He'd been sitting in his chair, forearm resting on the arm for her ministrations, but now his elbows are on his knees, and the faint scent of leather and smoke cloud her senses. “But you’re fierce. And beautiful. And mine.”

Her hand stills completely, the cloth slipping from her fingers and into the bowl with a soft plop. She looks up at him, her heart thundering against her ribs. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” he asked, his expression softening. He reaches out again, more confident this time, his knuckle brushing her cheek. “You don’t see it, do you? The way you throw yourself into danger without thinking."

His knuckle traces the curve of her jaw. "The fire in your eyes when you’re yelling at me."

"The way you make me feel like I’d burn the world down to keep you safe.” The knuckle comes to rest below her bottom lip.

“Sylus…” Her words get lost in the breath, leaving her lungs in a shaky exhale.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he reassures, her pulse thundering in her ears as his words wrap around her, thick and heavy. His gaze dips to her lips. “But if you want me to stop, you’d better say something now.”

She swallows hard, the air between them thick and meaningful and loud in the absence of her words.

His hand slides to the back of her neck with a firm, almost possessive grip. His thumb brushes against her skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Good."

Before she could reply — or protest, though she isn’t sure she wants to — he closes the distance, the space between them vanishing with a tension that feels like the air before a lightning strike.

The kiss isn’t soft or tentative; it's raw, consuming. A declaration as much as it's an action. His mouth claims hers with a fervor that leaves no room for doubt, his hand fisting in her hair to hold her exactly where he wants her. The warmth of his body radiates against hers, his uninjured arm wrapping around her waist and pulling her up onto the chair, erasing what little space had remained.

She gasps against his mouth and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss with an urgency that matches hers. His teeth graze her bottom lip, a teasing nip that makes her muscles loosen and she has to lace her fingers into his hair to make her remember he's hurt.

“Mine,” he breathes against her lips, his voice a husky growl.

Her mind spins, her heart racing as she tried to push back the swirl of emotions overwhelming her. But when her hands grip his shoulders, instead of pushing him away, she pulls him closer, matching his intensity with a fierceness of her own.

For a moment, nothing else exists — just the warmth of his touch, the softness of his lips, and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, she isn’t as alone as she thought.

[maskedbyghost]

Recovery

Summary: When Simon Riley is injured in combat and left temporarily paralyzed, his world is turned upside down. Forced to take time away from Task Force, he struggles with the loss of his independence and his own demons. His live-in nurse, hired to help him through his recovery, quickly becomes a point of frustration and comfort. Will Simon let himself heal not just physically, but emotionally—and open his heart to the one person determined to stay by his side? A big thank you to @daydreamerwoah for this idea <3 TW: Contains themes of physical injury, emotional distress, and recovery, as well as potentially explicit content. Reader discretion is advised. Word count: 3.5 k

The first thing Simon felt when he woke up was nothing.

A deep, awful nothing stretching from the waist down. A void that seemed to scream louder than any pain. He couldn’t lift his legs. Couldn’t feel them beneath the scratchy hospital sheets.

His throat was dry as sand when he tried to speak, and his hand instinctively went to tug the oxygen mask off. It didn’t take long for the rustle of movement beside him to sound—a chair scraping the floor, boots tapping forward. Familiar boots.

“Don’t do that, mate.”

John’s voice reached him before his blurred vision cleared. When it did, Simon wished it hadn’t.

Price sat at his bedside in that worn field jacket, arms folded, concern etched into every hard line of his face. It was worse, somehow, seeing the worry in a man who always had a plan, who never cracked when the odds were against them. Soap and Gaz hovered by the foot of the bed, not looking at Simon.

“Where…” Simon’s voice rought, catching in his throat. He managed one more word. “How?”

He meant the mission. The fire. The explosion—the light that cut across his vision before black. He remembered dragging Soap to cover while fire broke like thunder. After that... there was nothing.

“Doesn’t matter.” Price shook his head. “Mission got done. You’re here, and that’s the bloody miracle.”

Simon’s gaze cut toward his legs—or where his legs were supposed to be, covered now with too-crisp white sheets. He wiggled his fingers, feeling them clench around the fabric, rough against his palms. The hope flickered for only a second before it hollowed out completely.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

“Don’t pull that stoic shite right now,” Soap muttered suddenly. Gaz gave him a warning glance, but the words were already out there.

Simon stayed silent.

Pathetic.

The word stuck to his ribs like rust. The Ghost himself—useless. For a while, no one said anything. They couldn’t. What the hell was there to say?

By the time Price spoke up again, Simon had memorized every whir of the IV drip and every beep of the monitor at his bedside.

“Simon, listen to me.” Price straightened in his chair. “Doctors say the paralysis might be temporary. Not permanent. It’s the spinal cord—they think with physical therapy, you’ve got a chance.”

“A chance,” Simon echoed. He shifted the blanket over his lap, arms tense at his sides.

“Time and effort, that’s all,” Price replied. “We’re gonna get you back to yourself, alright?”

Simon wanted to scoff, to point out how that chair practically laughed at him from across the room. Back to himself? It sounded like a joke. The Ghost doesn’t limp into a mission—he damn well doesn’t roll.

Soap, who hadn’t spoken since earlier, scratched awkwardly at his buzzed scalp and managed a small grin. “We’ll chip in, mate. You’ll get tired of us pushin’ you around. Gaz already called dibs on who gets to drop you off curbs.”

Gaz sighed in irritation, shaking his head. “Jesus, Soap.”

And for a moment, Simon wanted to laugh. He didn’t, of course, but the heaviness settled just enough for him to reach for the water glass that had been set by the bed. Price moved faster, though, nudging Simon’s shaky arm out of the way before handing him the glass himself.

It pissed him off more than he could admit.

“Enough,” Simon muttered. He took one swig of water before practically shoving it back at Price. “Go.”

Price frowned. “Simon—”

“I’m fine.” Simon cut him off flatly, voice sharp. “Don’t you lot have a mission to fuck off to?”

There it was—thinly veiled venom that couldn’t hide what was really festering beneath it: shame, isolation. 141 still had their legs under them, the freedom to walk away without that mocking squeak of metal.

The silence dragged until Price finally stood. He stared hard at Simon like he wanted to argue but knew better. Simon was still Simon, and orders wouldn’t change how he felt.

“We’ll be back,” Price said as he tugged on his cap. “Behave.”

Soap hesitated before walking off, his hand landing briefly on Simon’s shoulder as he passed. Simon didn’t move. Gaz offered one more lingering look from the doorway before he shut it behind him.

Hours passed. Or minutes. Maybe days.

The doctors tried to explain his recovery timeline when they checked in, though Simon absorbed none of it. Words like spinal impact, therapy, and patience didn’t mean a damn thing when you had to stare at your own traitorous legs refusing to move.

By the time you, his nurse, arrived, Simon already had a bitter response loaded on his tongue.

“No.”

You raised an unimpressed brow at him, clipboard in hand.

“You don’t get to fire me,” you said, ticking something off the chart. “Captain Price hired me himself.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And yet here I am.” You tucked the clipboard under your arm, looking down at him like he wasn’t the intimidating Ghost that made entire platoons piss themselves. It was jarring—annoyingly so.

“Let me make something very clear.” Simon glared at you, before continuing. “I don’t need a fucking nurse.”

You stared him down like it wasn’t the first time you’d dealt with a man who thought himself stronger than he was. “That’s the pride talking.”

The conversation ended on that note—his glare, your silence.

Alone again, Simon sank lower into the bed, feeling rage crawl under his skin. No legs, no control. And now a bloody nurse babysitting him?

It wouldn’t last, he told himself. Nothing did.

But he had no idea then, not even a clue, that you would be the person who stayed.

-

Simon Riley hated you.

Well, not you, exactly. It wasn’t personal—not in the beginning. It was the idea of you that grated on him like nails against glass. The nurse—his nurse—represented everything he despised. His weakness. His uselessness. His loss of control.

You refused to let him sit in silence, stubborn enough to ignore the heat of his glares when you’d sweep into the room each morning, clipboard in hand and professional cheer etched onto your features.

“Morning, Riley,” you would greet him each time, and he swore you got some twisted pleasure out of pretending he wasn’t already scowling at you.

“Fuck off.” Was his only reply.

“I’ll write that on your chart—improving vocabulary.”

You always said something. Whether it was to push back, joke, or break up the air in the room.

Simon wouldn’t let you win, though—not at first. The harder you pushed, the colder he became. You tried to lift him out of bed? He did his best impression of a statue. You set up basic stretching exercises? He would be sarcastic until you folded your arms with the patience of a goddamn saint and calmly reminded him the exercises weren’t optional.

You gave him no ground. No pity. He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to strangle you, or on his worst days thank you.

One day, it had been a bad morning. Worse than usual.

Simon’s exercises were taking longer to yield even the smallest progress. He was so frustrated that he could hardly breathe. The phantom weight of his legs, his inability to move without someone’s damn help—it made his teeth grind and fists clench to the point of white knuckles.

You were there again, patient in the small room they’d converted into a temporary rehab area—white walls, artificial light, and the scent of disinfectant.

“You need to lift, Simon,” you said, standing in front of his wheelchair with your hands on your hips. “You’re improving. You just need to—”

“I need fuck all.” His voice was sharp. “Jesus Christ, you deaf? You’re wasting your time.”

You froze, eyes narrowing at him with something dangerously close to disappointment.

“You’re angry,” you replied, your voice calm. “But this doesn’t go away just because you ignore it, Simon.”

He laughed bitterly.

“Oh, spare me the motivational speech, sweetheart. What? You think a few stretches and cheerleading will get me crawling back onto a mission? Gonna teach me how to live happily ever after in this fucking chair?” He hissed the word—chair—like it poisoned his mouth.

His fists ground into the arms of the wheelchair.

Something flickered in your eyes. Before he could toss another bite of venom your way, you closed the distance between you and dropped to your knees—eye level now, your faces inches apart.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t flinch, but he stared.

“Don’t you dare talk to me like I pity you.” Your voice was low. “You think I haven’t seen men like you before? Men who think anger makes the world listen?”

Simon’s jaw ticked, his breathing slow.

“You think this doesn’t scare me?” you pressed on, your gaze burning straight through him. “The weight of what I’m asking? Pushing you past what your body wants? I’m terrified every day I’ll say the wrong thing and make you stop.”

The air in the room shifted. Stopped.

Simon froze—just for a second. It wasn’t the words, exactly, but the fear beneath them. This wasn’t pity. It wasn’t shallow encouragement either. There was something real tangled up in what you’d said.

He didn’t answer you—not because he couldn’t think of one, but because no words would fit. Instead, he dropped his gaze and pressed his palms hard into the chair's wheels, turning himself away.

“Enough.” His voice was low.

You sighed but didn’t press him further. That was the first day you called a truce.

-

Simon didn’t realize when the fights had stopped.

The nurse—your name slipped out eventually, though he’d never say it aloud—was still there, day after day. The arguing faded into tense silences, which somehow became your routine. Sometimes, when you helped him maneuver into his chair or reposition his legs, your fingers would brush against him. Just a second of touch. A heat curled behind his ribs before he shoved it down where he buried everything else.

He hated needing your help.

But, God forgive him, it didn’t feel as awful as before.

One afternoon, after yet another stretching session, you sat on the floor next to his chair, clipboard abandoned beside you. Your head tilted back against the wall, and with a faint exhale, you rubbed at your neck.

“You don’t seem tired,” he muttered.

The words slipped out before he could stop them. You lifted a brow, looking up at him curiously.

“What?”

“You act like all this doesn’t wear you down,” he replied, gesturing vaguely toward his legs. Maybe it was the post-exercise exhaustion. Or maybe it was the quiet between them now that wasn’t quite as miserable as it had been weeks ago.

“I signed up for this, Simon.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Silence again. When you glanced up at him fully, your smile wasn’t mocking or cocky this time.

“No. But it’s worth it.”

Simon didn’t let himself think about why those words echoed behind his ribs long after you left that night.

-

Their fights weren’t completely gone, of course. You would snap at one another like wolves when frustrations rose too high.

But one evening, when you helped him shift in his seat after his legs had been deadweight for hours, Simon froze. Just a second. Just long enough to feel your hands at his waist—steady and strong against his scarred skin—and notice.

The way you exhaled softly when you moved him. The way you looked straight at him when he stiffened—your eyes determined, never breaking like others did.

“There. Comfortable?”

He should’ve muttered a sharp, one-word reply. Instead, his voice came quieter than he meant:

“Yeah.”

In that tiny sliver of peace after the long-fought battles between you, Simon realized something strange. He still hated your presence in his life, hated needing you… but not in the way he used to.

And it terrified him worse than any battlefield he’d ever faced.

-

You noticed the change in Simon the moment the doors of the small house closed behind you. He might’ve been the same person—quiet, short-tempered—but here, outside the clinical walls of the rehab facility, something felt different.

This was his space. A glimpse into the life he'd kept carefully walled off from everyone.

Simon had needed help transitioning from the hospital, and somehow you were the one still here. What was meant to be a few nights stretched into weeks, your things tucked into a guest bedroom that was clean but cold, untouched like the rest of the house.

He didn’t stop you from unpacking or making meals or gently steering him through his day. But he didn’t make it easy either.

It had been a difficult day for him. You’d noticed it early—his shoulders tighter than usual, his movements stiff. Every attempt you made to coax him into his routine was met with an edge. You gave him as much room as you could until he made it impossible to leave things be.

Simon was in the living room, positioned near the window as rain slid down the glass in slow, uneven lines. You stood behind him for a moment, hesitant to interrupt the silence. He’d barely spoken all day, but his grip on the armrests of his wheelchair told you everything you needed to know.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you asked quietly, stepping into the space beside him.

He didn’t turn to look at you. “What’s there to talk about?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t owe you one.” His voice was sharp.

“Maybe not,” you said evenly, “but you’re miserable. It’s not helping either of us to ignore it.”

His shoulders stiffened, and his hands tightened on the armrests even more. He let out a long, rough exhale, tilting his head back against the chair.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” His tone wasn’t angry this time; it was hollow. “Every day, it’s the same. Same exercises. Same useless questions. Same people pretending I’ve got a fucking chance.”

You frowned, pulling a chair over to sit directly across from him. “Nobody’s pretending, Simon. Least of all me.”

He laughed bitterly. “Oh, come on. What, you think if you cheer me on enough, I’ll forget I can’t even move my own fucking legs?”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” you said calmly. “But it’d help if you stopped biting my head off long enough to actually make some progress.”

His gaze finally snapped to yours, full of frustration. “Progress? This is it. Sitting in this bloody chair, waiting for it to magically fix itself while the rest of my life just... stops.”

“That’s not true, and you know it.” You leaned forward, forcing him to hold your gaze. “It hasn’t stopped. It’s slowed, sure—but you’re the one keeping it from moving forward.”

He scoffed. “You don’t get it.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” you said. “But I’m here anyway. I’m not going anywhere, no matter how much you bark and growl.”

Simon blinked at you, clearly taken off guard by the bluntness in your tone. He sat back slightly, running a hand over his face. “Why do you care so much?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” you asked, surprised by the question.

His jaw clenched, and when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Because everyone else moved on. Left me behind. Doesn’t make sense why you haven’t done the same.”

“Because I’m not them,” you replied simply. “Because you don’t deserve to be left alone to rot in here like you keep convincing yourself you do.”

Simon didn’t answer right away. His expression was hard to read. Finally, he shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“You’re stubborn, you know that?”

You smiled faintly, relieved to see even the smallest crack in his armor. “And you’re a pain in the ass.”

That earned the barest hint of a chuckle from him, the sound low and rough but genuine. For the first time in weeks, it felt like neither of you were losing the fight.

-

It had been raining all day, and Simon was in his chair by the living room window again, staring out at nothing. His mood had been more tolerable after your conversation, but this—this next part—was bound to ruin that truce.

“We need to take care of your shower,” you said, keeping your voice as neutral as possible.

Simon shifted slightly, still gazing outside. “I can skip it.”

“Skipping it isn’t an option,” you replied, standing firm. You expected maybe another excuse, but he just sighed and pushed his chair backward with a sharp shove of his hands on the wheels.

He didn’t say a word as you guided him toward the bathroom, he hated needing help like this; he didn’t even bother hiding that fact. You tried not to think too hard about it, about how deeply it hurt his pride to rely on someone for this level of care.

Inside, the bathroom was small but practical. You had already set up the necessary equipment: a shower bench, towels folded neatly on the counter, and grab bars mounted on the tiles. But it didn’t change what was about to happen.

“You’ll need to take off your clothes,” you said, looking anywhere but at him.

Simon turned his head slightly toward you. “Figured that much out myself.”

You bit back the response sitting on your tongue. “I’ll help steady you once you’re ready,” you added instead, keeping the professionalism intact.

The rasp of his movements filled the room as he worked on shrugging out of his hoodie. When it got caught around his shoulders, you reached instinctively to help, freezing when he flinched.

“I’ve got it,” he muttered.

It was a slow process, his injury making even small tasks difficult. You busied yourself with adjusting the water temperature, but there was no way to avoid noticing when he finally managed to pull his hoodie and shirt off. His broad chest, riddled with scars and tattoos, caught your gaze for a second longer than it should have. You forced yourself to look away, biting down on the edge of your lower lip as your face heated.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself silently.

“Problem?” His voice snapped you out of your thoughts.

“No,” you said too quickly, busying yourself with handing him a towel to place over his lap before helping him move.

Simon caught the hesitation in your movement and raised a brow, his face shifting to faint amusement. “Haven’t you done this before?”

You refused to take the bait, stepping behind him to help support his transfer to the bench. “With far more cooperative patients, yes.”

He didn’t make a comment after that, leaning on you just enough to get himself in place. His skin was warm against yours where your hands pressed to steady him, and you found yourself hyperaware of every subtle flex of muscle beneath your touch.

Once he was settled, you adjusted the showerhead and stepped back, taking a moment to breathe while he wet his hair. But of course, the towel across his lap was already damp and clinging to the sharp angles of his thighs.

Stop. Thinking. About. It.

Simon was oddly quiet, letting you rinse shampoo from his hair without protest. His usual scowl was softened by the heat of the shower, and for the first time since you’d met him, he seemed... at peace. His breathing slowed, the lines in his face easing as your hands worked through his hair.

When you reached to adjust the handheld showerhead, your elbow brushed his shoulder, and you swore you felt him stiffen just slightly. You froze, heart pounding, and quickly stepped back, pretending nothing happened.

Simon’s eyes opened then, and he looked at you for a long moment before saying anything. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

Your lips twitched into the faintest smile. “Just trying to avoid you biting my head off later.”

His smirked. “You’re doing alright, nurse.”

The unexpected softness in his voice caught you off guard. You felt heat creeping up your neck and busied yourself again with rinsing his arms and chest. But the light in his eyes lingered, and you caught the faintest glimmer of... something.

Interest.

You couldn’t stay here too long—near his warmth, his edges softening just enough to draw you in. This wasn’t supposed to feel intimate, wasn’t supposed to make your chest tighten. But there you were, brushing damp hair out of his eyes, your fingertips lingering just a second too long before stepping back.

“All done,” you said quickly, grabbing a dry towel from the counter.

Simon let out a low breath and nodded, tilting his head back slightly. “Thanks,” he muttered.

You helped him move again, the warmth of his body radiating through the fabric of your shirt as he leaned on you. It wasn’t until you left him to dry off that you let yourself exhale fully, feeling the rapid thrum of your heart settle into something steadier.

You might’ve been the one helping him, but there were moments like these where it felt like Simon had all the control.

PART 2

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

There will be one more part to this story, so watch out for that :)

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic @identity2212 @tessakate

[ahqkas]

— gn!reader, assistant!reader, suggestive content

the office was quiet, save for the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall and the faint shuffle of papers beneath your fingertips. the air was heavy with the scent of coffee, leather, and him—BRUCE WAYNE, the man whose presence alone seemed to electrify the room. he sat across from you, his suit jacket discarded, the top buttons of his shirt undone, revealing a glimpse of strong collarbones. his sleeves were rolled up just enough to show his forearms, and his eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto yours as you finished your report.

“is there anything else you need tonight, mr. wayne?” you asked him, voice steady despite the way your pulse quickened under his gaze.

“call me bruce.”

your breath caught in your throat as he stood, the chair creaking softly behind him. he moved with a quiet intensity, his steps controlled as he closed the space between the two of you. your hands stilled on the papers, eyes trailing up to meet his.

“you’ve been working late too often,” he murmured in a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. “it’s not good for you.”

you let out a nervous laugh, the sound faltering when he leaned over the desk, bracing himself on his hands. his face was inches from yours now, his eyes scanning your features like he was memorizing every detail. and he probably was. “and you? you practically live here.”

his lips quirked in a small, knowing smile, but the warmth in his expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. instead, there was something else���something darker, more primal—that made your chest tighten. “i’ve learned to make exceptions,” bruce said softly, his gaze dropping to your soft lips for the briefest of moments before flicking back up to meet yours.

your pulse thundered in your ears as he reached out, his fingertips brushing against your wrist. it was such a simple touch, but it felt like a spark igniting a fuse. you froze, torn between pulling away and leaning into him, but bruce, ever so chivalrous, made the decision for you.

“tell me to stop,” he whispered and his voice was rough, almost pleading, as his thumb brushed over the back of your hand.

you didn’t. you couldn’t. instead, you tilted your chin up, lips parting as if drawn to him by some invisible force.

that was all it took. in an instant, his mouth was on yours, firm and possessive, his kiss a perfect balance of control and need. your heart slammed against your ribs as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you from the chair and against his solid frame. the desk dug into the small of your back as he leaned into you, gentle lips moving against yours with a hunger that made your knees weak while your hands found his chest and your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to anchor you in the whirlwind of him.

“you have no idea how long i’ve wanted this,” his voice was hoarse as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down to the delicate curve of your neck.

a gasp slipped past your lips as your head tipped back and his hands gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the desk. the cool surface pressed against your thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body between your legs.

“bruce,” you breathed, hands tangling in his dark hair as he nipped at your collarbone. his stubble scraped your skin in the most intoxicating way and you knew the burn would remind you of this moment later.

he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his breath warm and uneven as it fanned across your lips. his hands framed your face now while his thumbs brushed against the apples of your cheeks with surprising tenderness.

“say my name again,” his voice was barely more than a growl as he said this.

“bruce.”

his lips were on yours again before the word had fully left your mouth, his kiss deeper, more urgent. one hand slid to the small of your back, pressing you closer to him, while the other got a hold of the back of your neck, holding you in place like he was afraid you might slip away. the papers scattered across the desk crinkled beneath you, forgotten as he claimed you completely. every kiss, every touch, felt like a promise—one he couldn’t put into words but poured into every heated moment between the two of you.

[lymtw]

Weathering A Storm Together

Toji calling you over to his place because there's gonna be a storm and he wants you to weather it with him. If it gets too bad, you can't travel to each other, so you might as well shelter together before you lose the option to do so.

He didn't greet you in a fluffy manner, but when does he? Usually, when you greet him with a hug, it'll start out normal and then his hand goes down south towards your ass, where he'll squeeze until you break the embrace.

You expected him to be handsy and up in your space because he really can't last five minutes without touching you, but it was as if he was being powered by the storm. You were pushed to the edge of the couch by him, his body wedged between your legs as he ambushed your lips with his own. His hands firmly grounded your hips to the couch cushions as if he were silently telling you not to move. Most of the lights in his apartment were off, just a lamp illuminating the scene of you and him on the couch and occasional lightning strikes that would cast light on your face. It was pouring outside, the sound of heavy rain and thunder filling your ears.

"What would you have done alone?" He plays with the hem of your hoodie, picturing the body beneath it.

"Nothing, Toji. Absolutely nothing. And you?" You tilt your head, allowing him to kiss your neck. One of your hands settles on the back of his neck, the other makes a mess out of his hair.

"Mm..." he groans at the feeling of you scratching his scalp. "I would've beat my dick to the thought of you and those pretty pictures you send me all the time. 'M glad you're here so I can fuck you instead."

You giggle, digging your heels into the cushions as he keeps smothering you with kisses. His crushing weight is completely welcomed by you as you attempt to bring him even closer.

"This my sweater?" His hands use their privilege on your body, going under the sweater to run up and down your waist. The warmth elicits goosebumps from you, and you can't help but writhe in his hold.

"You said I could hold onto it until you remembered to take it back, and I sure as hell am holding onto it."

His gaze pins you down, lips curling at your playful sass. He knows the obsessive thoughts that go behind sharing his clothes with you. You take his sweaters and he tells you to "hold onto them until he remembers to take them back" but that's just his code for 'think of me when you get off to the scent of my cologne'. He only takes the sweater back once your perfume overpowers his cologne, and it's then his turn to fantasize about you.

"That's good, doll. It smells like you, now." He presses his face against your chest, inhaling your scent deeply. "Mhm, that's my girl."

You giggle, brushing down strands of his hair with your fingers. You swear you felt something poke you down there while Toji face was pressed into you.

He pushes the bottom of your sweater up, over your midriff, until he sees the bottom of your bra. He kisses up your stomach, sucking a couple marks above your belly button and on your ribs before reaching your bra.

"Fuck, I love that you go shirtless sometimes when you wear my hoodies."

You laugh. "Yeah, my boobs are constant victims to your manhandling."

You play with his hair as he continues to explore your skin, littering more marks on it as he works his way up to removing your bra.

"They call me, baby. Who am I not to answer?" He pushes up the cups of your bra, watching intently as your breasts are exposed. "So soft and pretty, could keep my mouth on them all day if you'd let me."

He squishes the underside of your right boob, mesmerized by its malleability. His lips latch onto your nipple, sucking on the soft skin while his hand paws at the other one. You sigh, wishing you could press your thighs together.

"Fuck," he groans. "So soft, princess. I wanna ruin you."

You look down at him, your fingers still tangled in his hair. "Who's gonna stop you, baby? Me?" You take in his lustful gaze before finishing. "Absolutely not."

You sacrificed yourself to Toji. Your words got to him in a way you didn't think they would, but because of them, he was thrusting in and out of you mercilessly. He enjoyed watching your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips into yours.

"Fuck... fuck, mama," he almost whimpers. "You did this to yourself," he pants. "Was gonna fuck you... all nice and slow this time," he chuckles, breathlessly. "But, you won't ever let me be romantic, so fuck that." His nails dig into your hips when you start arching you back off the mattress.

"Oh my- Toji, Toji, fuck!" You claw at the couch cushion, your fingers shaking as you quickly lose grip.

You see another lightning strike behind Toji, through the window. You have two amazing views combined into one, tonight.

Toji wraps your legs around his waist to keep that strict rhythm in his thrusts. He leans forward, his forearms beside your head like a cage. "Why're you crying? Pretty girl's gonna cum? 'S that what's happening?"

You nod, gasping at his precision inside you. He's abusing his ability to find your sweet spot, torturing you with every roll of his hips. You hold back a sob, your heels digging into his lower back. Toji catches your tears with his lips, savoring the slight saltiness on his tongue. "Who else is gonna fuck you to tears like this?," he mutters into your jaw. "Huh? Who else?" He huffs against your cheek.

You let out a high pitched cry, your abdomen quivering against Toji's. "O-Only... you, T-Toji. Just, you...!"

"Uh-huh. Good girl." His nose drags down your cheek, leading his lips to your neck. "Absolutely no one else," he says before attaching his lips to your delicate skin. He knows you bruise easily so he uses this to his advantage.

"A-Ah... o-ow, Toji," your nails claw at his shoulder blades. You shudder at the sharp pain in your neck and collarbone.

"Hold still, just a couple more." His hips continue rolling into you, slower as he focuses on leaving hickeys on you skin.

"F-Fuck..." you inhale sharply when you feel his teeth on your shoulder.

"Mine," he mumbles beneath your ear. "These..." he presses on the bite mark and the litter of fresh marks on your skin, making you wince, "prove that you are mine."

He straightens his posture but keeps his gaze lowered to meet your dazed expression. Your brows are pinched, and though your eyes are lidded, he can make out tiny hearts in the slivers of your eyes that remain.

"Toji?" you moan.

"Yeah?" He groans, feeling your cunt clench around him.

"Can I," you shudder at the intensity of his green eyes focusing on you, "wanna cum."

He laughs. "How did that go from being a question to being a statement? Try again, doll face."

Your thighs quiver around his hips as he picks up the pace of his thrusts again. "U-Uh... Um..." your eyes roll back for a second. "Fuck, can I cum? Please?" It came out sounding desperate. There was a slight whine in your voice.

"Keep going."

"Toji, please? Please, make me cum. Please."

Your begging was working him towards his own peak, which is why he pushed for more from you.

"How badly do you want it, because to me it doesn't really sound like you want to cum. Convince me, mama."

You felt like tearing out your hair. You were going insane with this solid rhythm of his, holding you inches away from am earth shattering orgasm. Just a little more and you'll be tossed into a pleasurable void.

"Toji, please. Pretty please. Please, I need you to make me cum."

His hips pick up the pace the more you beg, his rapid breathing now audible to you.

"Please... daddy?" You plead, meekly.

That was it. That was enough to get whatever you wanted from Toji. His eyes widened, and for a split second, his soul was in your grasp. You willingly gave it back with twinkling eyes, and in return he made you cum so hard that you thought your spine would snap from how hard you arched off his bed. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, kissing it up as you cried his name out until it didn't sound like a real word anymore.

You felt Toji tremble against you, his hips pulling back before rocking back into you, languidly. All you could hear were little shaky breaths near your ear before feeling his warmth spew inside you. You could hear his strangled groans becoming soft moans as he slowed down.

"F-Fuck, fuck, Toji," you shuddered, tensing up at the sensitivity you felt in your cunt even when he slowed down. He groans, leaving a kiss behind on your shoulder before leaning back to look at you. His dazed expression mirrored your own. He leaned forward one more time to kiss you. It was lazy and sloppy, saliva coating your lips more and more each time they brushed his.

Toji released you, sliding his cock out to see the result of such an amazing fuck. He whistles, impressed by the sight of his cum dripping out of your pussy and onto the couch.

"God, really, Toji?" You can't suppress the smile forming on your lips.

"What? You look stunning, darling. Can feel my dick getting hard again." His hand finds your knee, stroking it gently with his thumb.

"Wait, give me two minutes. Still sensitive." You smile sheepishly.

"Take your time. You're stuck with me 'til the storm passes, anyway."

You smile. "Shouldn't be too long."

"That's cute. You're trynna be gone by tomorrow?" He hisses with fake sympathy, like he's about to break bad news to you. "Tough luck, doll. Forecast says the storm should last the next four days."

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.

[lupinqs]

SAFE AND SOUND (3/3) ━━ pazzi

☆ ━ summary: in which azzi fudd forms an unexpected alliance with paige bueckers as they fight for survival in the hunger games.

☆ ━ word count: 16.6K

☆ ━ warnings: violence, angst, death, really depressing ending

☆ ━ links: part one, part two, my masterlist, ao3 link

☆ ━ author’s note: hi!!!! so actually turns out that deleting this made me much more productive and motivated and i wrote this in like a day and a half be proud. it’s a very action packed chapter, lots of things happen, and i hope you enjoy it. might make you a little depressed but we all need some angst in our lives!

THE MORNING creeps in gently, sunlight slipping through the canopy of trees above, dappling the forest floor in soft patches of gold. Azzi stirs faintly, her awareness coming back to her in pieces. Her body feels warm, cocooned in a strange, comfortable stillness. When she opens her eyes, everything comes into sharp, startling focus.

She’s still lying across Paige’s lap.

Her first instinct is panic—her mind racing to all the reasons why this shouldn’t be happening, why she should’ve moved the moment Paige fell asleep. But then her body shifts slightly, and she feels Paige’s arm, the uninjured one, slung loosely over her side, her fingertips brushing lightly against Azzi’s ribs. Paige’s breathing is soft and even, her chest rising and falling against Azzi’s back.

Azzi freezes, unwilling to move just yet. Her head tilts slightly, enough to let her eyes flicker upward. Paige is waking, her body stirring beneath Azzi, her fingers twitching against the brunette’s side.

Then, Paige lets out a small, sleepy sound—something between a sigh and a groan—and rubs at her eyes with her free hand. She looks bleary but not broken, not like last night. The color has returned to her cheeks, and her features seem softer, less drawn. When she finally looks down at Azzi, she smiles, slow and dopey, her voice raspy as she murmurs, “Hey.”

The word is so simple, so casual, but it sends a terrible rush of warmth through Azzi’s chest, lighting her nervous system on fire. Her stomach flips violently, and she suddenly feels much more awake.

“Hey,” she replies, her voice a little quieter than she meant it to be. She shifts her body, sitting up so she and Paige are face to face.

As soon as she does, Paige’s smile fades quickly, replaced by a waterfall of surprise. Without warning, her hand comes up, cupping Azzi’s face. The motion is so sudden that Azzi flinches, blinking in confusion. “Holy shit,” Paige breathes, her fingers skimming lightly over Azzi’s cheek. “It’s so much better! The cut—it’s, like, completely gone!”

Azzi’s heart stutters in her chest, her breath catching. Paige’s fingers are warm against her skin, and she feels their faint pressure as they ghost over where the gash had been. She doesn’t feel any pain, no sting, no soreness. Azzi’s own hand flies up to her cheekbone, her fingertips brushing the spot where she remembers the cut vividly.

Smooth skin.

There’s maybe the faintest hint of a scratch, but that’s it. Nothing like the deep wound she fell asleep with.

“Oh my God,” Azzi whispers, voice barely audible.

She pulls away slightly, her mind racing. She looks at Paige again, who’s now staring at her with a mixture of amazement and something else—something unreadable. Paige’s grin stretches wider, lighting up her face in a way Azzi doesn’t know if she’s ever seen.

But Azzi’s not done yet. Her gaze darts down to Paige’s injured arm, her heart thundering with a possibility that maybe—just maybe—

Without thinking, she grabs Paige’s wrist, startling the blonde. Paige lets out a surprised, “Azzi—” but doesn’t pull away, watching as the younger girl begins peeling back the makeshift bandage of leaves.

Azzi’s movements are hurried, frantic, her hands shaking as she works the wrapping free. She’s not careful, probably pulling harder than she should, but Paige doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even wince.

When the last of the leaves fall away, Azzi freezes.

The gash that had once been so deep and gruesome, red and angry, is now reduced to something barely noticeable. The skin has knitted itself back together, leaving behind a faint pink line, the kind of thing you might slap a Band-Aid on and forget about.

“No way,” Azzi breathes, her voice breaking on the words. Her eyes dart up to Paige, wide and disbelieving.

Paige stares at her arm for a moment before laughter bubbles out of her, light and bright, filling the quiet air between them. Azzi blinks at her, caught between confusion and awe, before the sound tugs at her lips, coaxing a grin from her that she doesn’t even realize is there until it’s too late.

Their eyes meet, and Paige’s laughter softens into something gentler, warmer. The grin she gives Azzi is the kind that burns its way into her chest, leaving her breathless and weightless all at once. Azzi watches as Paige’s hood hand brushes lightly over the faint line on her arm as if to check that it’s real. The brunette feels her muscles tighten with something she can’t even name��relief, maybe, or something warmer, something deeper.

Then, Paige surprises her.

Before Azzi can process it, Paige shifts, leaning forward and wrapping both arms—injured one included—around Azzi in a hug that’s all at once clumsy, tight, and utterly genuine. It catches Azzi off guard, her body stiff for half a second before she melts into it. She shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, but she lets herself sink into the embrace, her arms coming up to circle Paige’s waist.

Paige’s face presses into her shoulder, and Azzi feels the soft puff of Paige’s breath against her neck. “I kinda thought we were goners,” Paige whispers, and her voice is thick, the words carrying more weight than Azzi expects.

Azzi doesn’t respond—not verbally. Instead, she tightens her arms around Paige, letting the gesture say everything she can’t. She hates how much she’s missed this kind of closeness, how safe it feels, how terrifying it is to want it.

Eventually, they both pull back slightly, though Paige’s hands linger on Azzi’s shoulders, her touch warm and steady. Azzi freezes as she realizes how close they still are, their faces only inches apart. Paige’s breath brushes against her cheek, and her eyes are impossibly blue, locked onto Azzi’s like they’re the only two people in the world, like there’s not a million cameras probably latched onto this very moment.

Azzi’s gaze moves before she can stop it, flicking down to Paige’s lips. Her heart pounds, her breath hitching audibly, and it feels like the air between them is crackling, charged with something she knows better than to name.

She can’t help it, though. She sees Paige’s eyes drop too, following the same path, lingering on Azzi’s lips for just a beat too long.

Azzi swallows hard. She knows how wrong this is. She knows what lines she’s already dangerously close to crossing.

And yet, when Paige leans in just a fraction, Azzi finds herself leaning too—

Abruptly, she pulls away, standing so fast that it startled Paige, who blinks up at her in confusion. Azzi’s pulse races, and she runs a hand across her face, her voice tight and shaky as she says, “Um, we should probably move. Y’know, we’ve been in the same spot for way too long now.”

Paige tilts her head slightly, her brows furrowing, and for a moment, Azzi’s sure she’s going to press the issue. But then Paige nods slowly, her expressions smoothing into soma thing neutral, though her eyes still carry a hint of something unreadable.

“Yeah,” Paige says softly, shifting to stand. “You’re probably right.”

Azzi busies herself with their things, not trusting herself to look at Paige again just yet. Her hands tremble slightly as she gathers the remaining supplies, her thoughts a chaotic tangle of relief and regret and something dangerously close to longing.

THE MORNING feels hopeful, almost bright, despite the heavy clouds overhead. They’re stocked on fruit, and their water supply is steady. Paige, miraculously, looks fine. She’s walking with surprising ease, considering what her body endured just last night. Her arm—while not perfect—is functional, and the exhaustion that clung to both of them like a second skin yesterday seems less oppressive today.

Azzi’s head, too, feels remarkably clear. No throbbing pain, no sharp aches to send her reeling. It’s almost enough to make her believe that they might finally catch a break.

And then the rain comes.

At first, it’s refreshing. The jungle is humid, suffocating even, and the coolness of the droplets feels like relief against Azzi’s overheated skin. But it doesn’t take long for the drizzle to evolve into a torrential downpour.

The rain is relentless. It pounds against the canopy overhead, slips through gaps in the foliage, and soaks them both to the bone within minutes. Azzi can barely see through the water streaming into her eyes, blinking furiously and swiping at her face every few seconds. Beside her, Paige does the same, muttering something under her breath that Azzi can’t hear over the sound of the rain hammering the leaves around them.

The ground beneath them turns treacherous quickly, the dirt path dissolving into thick mud. Every step is a calculated risk, and Azzi finds herself walking slower, her shoes squelching loudly with each movement. She glances over at Paige to see if she’s managing any better, but Paige looks just as miserable, if not more so.

The storm intensifies, thunder rolling through the sky in low, ominous waves. Lightning flashes briefly, illuminating their surroundings in stark, silver light. It’s unsettling, almost unnatural, and Azzi can’t help but feel a prickle of unease crawl up her spine.

It’s when Paige’s foot catches on something—a root, a rock, Azzi doesn’t know—and she goes down hard, that the tension breaks.

Paige lands with a wet, squelching sound, arms flailing uselessly as she tumbles into a thick pile of mud. Azzi freezes for a moment, startled, before the sight of Paige sprawled out on her hands and knees, covered head-to-toe in muck, sends an unexpected laugh bubbling up in her chest.

She tries to suppress it, she really does. But the combination of Paige’s indignant expression and the sheer absurdity of the situation—it’s too much. The laugh escapes before she can stop it, loud and abrupt, cutting through the sound of the rain.

Paige looks up sharply, her face a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “Are you serious right now?” she exclaims, her voice rising over the storm. She’s already clawing at her arms, trying desperately to scrape off the mud, but it only seems to smear further.

Azzi bites her lip, attempting to stifle another laugh, but it’s no use. Paige just looks so utterly disgusted, her mouth twisted into a grimace as she uses the rainwater to wash herself off. The more she tries, the less successful she seems, and Azzi can’t stop herself from snorting.

“It’s not funny!” Paige snaps, though there’s no real venom in her tone. She wipes furiously at the Capitol-provided suit she wears, which is now a patchwork of soaked fabric and dark brown stains. “This is disgusting. Disgusting!”

Azzi shakes her head, wiping at her eyes again as more rain streams down her face. “It’s a little funny,” she says, though her voice is tight with the effort of holding back her laughter.

Paige glares at her, but there’s no heat behind it. The corner of her mouth twitches slightly, and Azzi knows she’s close to cracking too.

The thunder growls again, closer this time, and Azzi feels her humor wane, replaced by a thread of worry. The storm isn’t letting up—it’s only getting worse. The rain is so heavy now that she can barely see a few feet in front of her, and the paths they’ve been relying on are rapidly turning into rivers of mud.

“We need to find some kind of shelter,” Azzi says, her voice louder than she intends. Paige nods, still wiping at her arms, though her movements have slowed. The disgusted look on her face has softened, replaced by something more serious.

They trudge onward, their progress painfully slow as the rain continues to batter them from all sides. The lightning flashes more frequently now, illuminating twisted trees and thick undergrowth that seem to press closer with every step. Azzi keeps her eyes on the ground, watching for roots and rocks, hyper-aware of how easy it would be to slip and fall just like Paige did.

She tries to focus on the practicalities—the weight of the fruit in her bag, the amount of water they have left—but it’s hard to ignore the growing unease settling in her chest. The jungle feels different today, more alive, more threatening.

Another flash of lightning lights up the sky, and Azzi catches a glimpse of Paige beside her, her hair plastered to her face, her lips pressed into a thin line. Despite everything, Paige keeps moving, her steps determined even as the mud sucks at her boots.

Azzi doesn’t know how she does it. Paige should be weak, drained, barely able to stand after everything that happened last night. But somehow, she’s still going, her stubbornness as unyielding as ever.

Azzi wipes at her face again, sighing heavily as she steps over another puddle. The rain continues to hammer down in torrents, so relentless that it’s hard to distinguish the sound of thunder from the pounding water. Every step Azzi takes sinks her deeper into the mud, her feet dragging like dead weights. Beside her, Paige is muttering under her breath, her words barely audible over the roar of the storm but unmistakably irritated.

“This is—fucking—” Paige grumbles, her arms flailing as she tries to scrape off more mud. “It’s like—ugh, it’s everywhere. On my arms, in my hair—I think it’s in my mouth now.” She spits exaggeratedly, her face twisted in dramatic disgust.

Azzi can’t help but laugh again. It’s short and quiet, but in a moment like this, where everything is miserable and soaked and uncertain, Paige’s melodramatic whining is almost comforting. The blonde glares at her without any real anger.

“Glad you’re enjoying this,” Paige says, shooting her a mock-offended look as she wipes at her arms again. It doesn’t help—her hands are just as muddy as the rest of her.

Azzi shakes her head, water dripping down her face and neck. “I’m not enjoying it,” she says, but there’s a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Paige just rolls her eyes, continuing to groan dramatically. Azzi snorts at her again. Leave it to Paige to care about mud when we might die out here.

The thought sobers her quickly. It’s true—if they keep going like this, they might die out here. The storm is bad. So, Azzi begins to scan their surroundings, her eyes darting through the dense jungle, searching for something—anything—that might offer them shelter. The rain is too heavy, the lightning too frequent. They need to get out of the open, and they need to do it now.

“Over there,” she says, pointing toward what looks like a hollowed-out tree, it’s wide base dark and inviting. It’s hard to tell through the rain, but it seems big enough for the two of them to crouch under.

Paige turns to look, wiping at her eyes with a muddy hand, smearing her face in the process. Azzi can’t see her expression clearly, but she hears the faint note of relief in her voice when she says, “That’s good.”

They move toward the tree, their progress slow and awkward. The mud sucks at Azzi’s shoes with every single step, and she has to fight to keep her balance. Her muscles scream in protest, but she grins her teeth and keeps going, focusing on the tree ahead. It’s closer now, just a few more steps—

And then the lightning strikes.

The world erupts in a flash of blinding white light, so close that it feels like the air itself is splitting apart. The crack of thunder follows instantly, so loud and violent that it reverberates through Azzi’s chest. She freezes, her arms instinctively flying up to protect her head as the tree they were heaving for explodes in a shower of sparks and flame.

The heat from the blast is searing, even through the rain. Azzi stumbles backward, her foot slipping in the mud. Her heart is racing, her ears ringing from the thunder. For a moment, she thinks she might fall, but then she feels a hand on her waist, steadying her.

“I got you.” Paige’s voice is close, low and reassuring. Azzi’s heart is still pounding, her breath coming in shallow gasps, but the solid weight of Paige’s hand against her side anchors her. She glances up, sees Paige’s face—mud-streaked, rain-soaked, but focused—and feels a flicker of calm.

The tree in front of them is burning, the flames licking hungrily at the wet bark. The rain hisses and steams as it clashes with the fire, but the flames don’t falter. Azzi stares at it, transfixed, her mind racing with the sudden, visceral realization of how close they came to being struck.

“Okay,” Paige says, breaking the silence. Her voice is shaky but steady enough. “Yeah, not here.”

She grabs Azzi’s hand without waiting for a response, her fingers sliding against Azzi’s in the rain. The contact is slippery and uncertain, but Paige’s grip tightens, refusing to let go. Azzi doesn’t resist. She lets Paige pull her forward, her legs moving on autopilot as her mind struggles to catch up.

They move quickly, the burning tree fading in the background as they put distance between themselves and the lightning strike. Azzi’s boots slide and stumble in the mud, but Paige’s hand remains firm, guiding her forward. She focuses on that—the feel of Paige’s hand in hers, the shared determination to keep moving, to find someplace remotely safe.

Eventually, they stumble upon a rocky overhang nestled between two massive boulders. It’s shallow but wide enough to sit under, the stone providing some relief from the relentless rain. Paige drags Azzi under it, both of them collapsing against the cold, damp rock with matching sighs of exhaustion.

Azzi leans back, her chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. Her entire body feels heavy, weighed down by the rain and mud, but for the first time in hours, she feels a sliver of safety. The storm still raged around them, the rain pounding against the rocks, but here, under the overhang, it feels distant.

Paige is a mess. Her suit is soaked, clinging to her skin, and the mud—God, the mud—is smeared across her arms, her face, her hair. She looks beat, her shoulders slumped and her head tilted back against the rock.

Azzi glances down at herself and realizes she’s not much better. Her suit is plastered to her skin, and her legs are streaked with mud, but at least she’s not actively dripping in it like Paige.

For a moment, they sit in silence, the sound of the rain filling the space between them. Azzi closes her eyes, letting the tension drain from her body. Despite everything—the storm, the mud, the fact that she’s currently an active tribute in the Hunger Games—there’s a strange sense of peace in this small reprieve.

She feels Paige shift beside her, hears her let out a low, frustrated groan. “This sucks,” Paige mutters, her voice heavy with exasperation.

Azzi opens her eyes and glances at her, watching as Paige wipes at her face again, accomplishing nothing. A quiet laugh escapes Azzi.

Paige turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “What?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says, shaking her head. The corners of her mouth twitch upward. “You’re just… a little muddy.”

“Oh, really?” Paige huffs sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “I couldn’t tell.”

Azzi doesn’t answer. Instead, she just shakes her head again, softer this time, still smiling, and pushes herself up, crouching low under the rock. Her legs are stiff and protesting after hours of trudging through the jungle, but she forces them to cooperate.

“Wait—what’re you doing?” Paige’s hand shoots out, her fingers curling around Azzi’s wrist in an instinctive, almost panicked gesture. “Azzi—”

“Relax,” the younger girl says, waving her off. “Stay here.” She gently shakes off Paige’s grip and ducks out from under the rock before Paige can argue further.

The rain is like a wall, slamming into her with unyielding force the second she steps into it. She just grits her teeth and ignores the discomfort. There’s a cluster of broad-leafed plants just a few steps away, their thick, wavy leaves glistening with water, and Azzi makes her way toward them.

She rips two of the largest leaves from their stems, the action quick and forceful, and then hurried back to the overhang. The cold of the rain is seeping into her bones by the time she crouches back under the rock, but she doesn’t care.

Paige is staring at her with a mix of confusion and mild exasperation, her muddy face tilted slightly in question. “Seriously, what—”

“Let me help,” Azzi interrupts, cutting her off before she can spiral into another round of complaints. She sits down across from Paige, their knees almost brushing in the cramped space, and holds up one of the dripping leaves like it’s some kind of peace offering.

Paige opens her mouth as if to argue, but whatever she was about to say gets lost somewhere between her brain and her tongue. She closes her mouth again and more, her movements jerky and unsure.

Azzi leans in, taking one of Paige’s arms in her hand, and starts to work. The mud is caked into the fabric of her Capitol-issued shit, streaked and smeared from hours of trudging through the jungle. Azzi drags the leaf along Paige’s arm in slow, deliberate strokes, watching as the dirt gives way to the dark, water-resistant material.

Her movements are careful but firm, focused entirely on the task in front of her. Or at lea at, that’s what she tells herself. But she can feel Paige’s eyes on her, following every motion, and it’s impossible to ignore the weight of that gaze. It feels like a spotlight, unrelenting and all-consuming, and Azzi’s stomach twists in response.

When she moves to Paige’s abdomen, dragging the leaf over the curve of her stomach, she feels the contraction of muscle beneath her hand. The reaction is instinctual, a reflex, but it sends a jolt of awareness through Azzi all the same. Her fingers tremble slightly, and she exhaled through her nose, trying to steady herself.

Get it together, she thinks, but her heart can’t seem to listen.

The tension between them feels tangible now, a living, breathing thing that presses against Azzi from all sides. She doesn’t look at Paige—not directly. She can’t. Instead, she focuses on the mud, on the leaf, on the way her hands move as she works.

When the first leaf grows too dirty to be useful, she tosses it aside and grabs the second. This time, she starts with Paige’s neck, wiping away the dirt that’s settled there. The curve of Paige’s throat is warm under her touch, even through the rain, and Azzi’s chest tightens painfully.

Their eyes meet, just for a second, and it feels like the world stops spinning. Azzi’s breath catches, her heart stuttering in her chest, and the intensity of Paige’s gaze is almost unbearable. She looks away quickly, her face burning, and focuses on the mud again.

She moves to Paige’s face next, ghosting the leaf along her cheek and chin, brushing away the streaks of dirt that have clung to her skin. Her movements are slower now, as if she’s afraid to press too hard. The mud doesn’t come off entirely, but she gets most of it, and the sharpness of Paige’s features emerges from beneath the grime like something carved out of stone.

When she’s done, Azzi tosses the second leaf away and leans back slightly.

The silence between them is deafening.

They’re so close now, their knees touching, their breaths mingling in the damp air. Azzi’s heart is racing, pounding against her ribs like it’s trying to escape, and she’s sure Paige can hear it. This moment feels like the one from this morning, after Paige hugged her. Azzi doesn’t move, doesn’t dare look up.

That is, until Paige shifts.

The air between them tightens, and before Azzi can think, before she can process, Paige leans in.

The kiss is soft, a tentative press of lips that feels more like a question than an answer. Paige’s mouth is warm against hers, and Azzi’s mind is screaming at her that this is reckless, dangerous, stupid, but it doesn’t feel like any of that. It feels…relieving, like the first deep breath after holding herself underwater for too long.

Paige pulls back slightly, her lips still hovering close enough that their breaths mingle. Azzi’s eyes flutter open, and she blurts the first thing that comes to her mind. “This is dumb.”

Paige’s hand comes up to the back of her neck, her flinders sliding against damp skin. Her voice is low and steady when she replies, “Yeah.”

Azzi exhales sharply, her chest aching with the weight of her own reckless feelings. “We’re so stupid.”

Paige’s gaze flicker to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Completely.”

The words hang between them, fragile and dangerous, and Azzi feels like she’s teetering on the edge of a cliff. She’s acutely aware of everything—the rain, the heat of Paige’s hand on her neck, the rapid thrum of her own heartbeat—and it’s overwhelming.

But then Paige says, “But we’re here,” and everything shifts.

The words hit like a punch to the gut, simple but profound. They’re here. Here. In the middle of the Hunger Games, in the middle of every kid’s nightmare, in the middle of something that shouldn’t exist but does. They’re competitors, but also allies, the only two people that have each other’s backs here even if that sentiment is precarious and might not last much longer. Azzi likes Paige, and Paige likes Azzi, and both of them are far closer to death than survival—that’s just the odds. And, yes, Azzi knows that this might all end up in flames and they may have to kill each other in the end—but Paige is right. They’re here.

And maybe that’s enough.

The kiss that follows is different. It’s deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that feels like diving headfirst into something you know will destroy you. Azzi’s hands find Paige’s shoulders, clutching at the fabric of her suit like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth, and Paige pulls her closer, her fingers tightening against Azzi’s neck.

For a moment, the rest of the world disappears. There’s no rain, no arena, no Capitol, no audience watching their every move. There’s just this—this moment, this connection, this fleeting, fragile thing that feels like both a beginning and an end.

THE GAMES wear on, and they don’t talk about it. Azzi tells herself it’s for the best. They’re still here, after all, still breathing, still surviving. A kiss isn’t supposed to matter when everything around them screams of death. It’s a distraction, a risk, a mistake. Even so, it’s hard to forget, and even harder not to do it again.

Paige doesn’t change. She’s still sharp-witted and too bold for her own good, cracking jokes in moments that should be far too tense for humor. She makes Azzi’s head spin sometimes, flipping from cocky grins to quiet, almost tender observations without warning. She pokes fun at Azzi’s serious nature, but it’s never mean-spirited. Somehow, it’s endearing. Azzi’s started noticing the way Paige’s lips twitch into a half-smile before she delivers one of her little quips. She notices a lot about Paige now, and that realization is almost as dangerous as the kiss itself.

Their relationship shifts, subtly. It’s in the way Paige seems to lean closer when they’re hidden away in the dark, their shoulders and sides pressing together. It’s in the way Azzi doesn’t pull away, even when her brain screams at her to keep her distance. They’re touchier, sometimes accidentally, sometimes not. When Paige’s fingers graze hers during the rare moments of silence, Azzi doesn’t flinch. And late at night, when Paigemd breathing evens out into the soft rhythm of sleep, Azzi sometimes catches herself wondering what it would be like to kiss her again.

But she doesn’t.

She won’t.

Because this isn’t a life where things like that make sense.

Sometimes, she lets herself imagine, though. Not often, but enough. In another world, they’re teammates, not tributes. Maybe they’re playing for some great basketball dynasty, Paige with her impossible confidence and Azzi with her perfect precision. Maybe they’d have a future, not this fragile thing that feels ready to shatter under the weight of the Capitol’s gaze and the threat of the other tributes. Maybe they’d have moments that aren’t stolen, conversations that don’t feel like whispers against the roar of inevitable death.

But they aren’t in that world. They’re here, in a nightmare where every breath is borrowed time, and any dream of a life beyond this arena feels laughable.

So, Azzi doesn’t let herself dwell. She focuses on survival—on the sharp edge of reality that keeps them moving, keeps them alive.

They’re good at it, too. A formidable pair. Azzi’s calm, calculated strategies balance Paige’s impulsive, quick-thinking instincts. Together, they’ve avoided the larger, deadlier alliances. They stay on the move, never lingering in one place for too long. Besides quick glimpses, they haven’t seen any of the other tributes since the boy from Eleven nearly ended them both. It’s odd, and the arena has begun to feel emptier, quieter, but not in a way that offers peace. It’s the calm before the storm, and Azzi knows it. Every night, the anthem plays, the sky lighting up with the faces of the dead. Every night, the number of tributes dwindles.

There are only a handful left now. Most of them are the ones everyone feared from the start—the stronger, deadlier tributes. The Careers from One and Two who have trained their entire lives for this. Other than them, Paige, and Azzi, there’s a couple other straggles, but not many.

The odds aren’t in their favor.

Paige doesn’t seem to care. Or maybe she’s just better at pretending.

One night, it was calm—not too hot, not too cold, no rain, no storms, no tributes. Just them, staring up through the foliage at the stars. Paige’s voice had cut through the silence, asking, “D’you think there’s any point in dreaming about it?”

Azzi’d glanced at her, frowning. “Dreaming about what?”

“You know.” Paige gestured vaguely, her fingers twitching like she’d wanted to grab something she couldn’t reach. “The after. If there even is one.”

Azzi hadn’t answered right away. She didn’t know how. The idea of an “after” felt—and still feels—laughable, like trying to picture sunlight while drowning in darkness. But Paige’s eyes were on her, waiting, and Azzi felt the weight of her gaze like a physical thing.

“I don’t know,” she’d said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I try not to think about it.”

Paige had hummed softly, tilting her head. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Azzi’s frown deepened. “What’s that mean?”

“Nothing.” Paige shrugged, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Just… you’re the smart one. Uh, like, practical. Always thinkin’ about what’s right in front of us. Makes sense you wouldn’t waste time on something as stupid as hope.”

The words had stung, even though Azzi knew Paige didn’t mean them that way.

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” she’d responded almost hesitantly. “Hope, I mean. I just—” She paused, glancing away. “I don’t think it helps. Not here.”

Paige didn’t respond right away. And when Azzi looked back, Paige was watching her, something soft and unreadable in her expression.

“Maybe not,” Paige said eventually, her voice low. “But it’s all I’ve got.”

The words sat heavy between them then, and they sit heavy within Azzi now as the sun beats down on her relentlessly, a furnace of heat filtering through the thick canopy of trees. The air is humid, suffocating, and Azzi can feel sweat trickling down her back, soaking into the fabric of her suit.

Paige is ahead of her, as always, sword in hand, cutting through the undergrowth with steady, practiced swipes. Azzi doesn’t know how Paige does it—keeps going like she’s made of something indestructible, some alloy that doesn’t bend under pressure. But then Paige glances back over her shoulder, her lips quirking in that half-smile that’s almost a smirk, and Azzi remembers: she’s just as scared as she is. Paige is just better at hiding it.

“Still with me, princess?” Paige calls, her voice light and teasing as she says that nickname that Azzi pretends to hate but secretly doesn’t mind.

Azzi doesn’t answer, just raises an eyebrow and gives the blonde a look that says keep going. She’s already tired, so she’s saving her energy for walking, for survival, because the more she thinks about it, the more she’s realizing that every step could be her last.

That’s when it happens.

A scream, distant but piercing, rips through the jungle. It echoes through the trees, sharp and desperate, before cutting off abruptly. Azzi freezes, her heart slamming into her ribcage, and she sees Paige go still, her grip tightening on her sword.

And then, Azzi hears it.

A low rumble, like the growl of some monstrous creature. It grows louder, swelling into a deafening roar that shakes the ground beneath their feet.

“Azzi,” Paige says, her voice tight.

Azzi turns, and her stomach drops.

Water. A wall of it, surging through the jungle like a living thing, uprooting trees and swallowing everything in its path.

“Run,” Paige breathes, and then they’re moving.

Azzi’s legs scream in protest, but adrenaline pushes her forward. She can hear the flood gaining on them, a relentless, crashing tide. Her feet slip on the muddy ground, and she nearly falls, but Paige grabs her arm, yanking her upright.

“Faster!” Paige shouts, and Azzi doesn’t waste breath responding. She pumps her legs harder, her lungs burning, her vision narrowing to the path ahead.

The water is impossibly fast. Even so, for a moment, Azzi thinks they might actually have a chance to outrun it. But then she hears the sharp crack of a tree snapping right behind them and knows it’s too late.

The flood hits them like a battering ram.

Azzi is thrown forward, the force of the water slamming into her back and knocking the air from her lungs. She tumbles, weightless and disoriented, the world spinning in a blur of green and brown and white. Her mouth fills with water, and she chokes, coughing and sputtering as she’s dragged under.

She thrashes, clawing at the water, trying to find the surface, but the current is too strong. It pulls her deeper, twisting her around until she doesn’t know which way is up. Her lungs scream for air, her chest tightening, and panic claws at her throat.

Paige.

She forces her eyes open, the sting of the salt water blurring her vision. She can barely see? but she reaches out blinding, her fingers scrabbling for anything, anyone.

Nothing.

Azzi’s chest feels like it’s about to burst, and she kicks harder, fighting against the current. Her head breaks the surface for a split second, and she gasps, sucking in precious air before she’s pulled under again.

She doesn’t know how long she’s in the water. It could be an hour, it could be twenty seconds. Every bit of it is a battle to stay afloat, to keep breathing. Her arms ache, her lungs burn, and she’s starting to lose strength.

And then, suddenly, the current slows.

Azzi’s head breaks the surface again, and this time she manages to stay up. She coughs violently, spitting out water, and blinks the sting from her eyes. She’s in a wide expanse of still water now, the flood having pushed her into what looks like the shallow bay area near the Cornucopia.

For a moment, all she can do is float there, gasping for air, her body trembling with exhaustion.

Then she feels it: hands, grabbing at her.

She flinched, her instincts screaming to fight, but then she hears it—a breathless, desperate gasp.

“Az.”

Relief floods through Azzi, so overwhelming it’s almost painful. She turns, and there she is—Paige, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes wide and frantic.

Azzi doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Paige’s arm, and together they start swimming, their strokes uneven and shaky but determined. The water is shallow enough now that they can touch the bottom, and they half-swim, half-stumble their way to the edge.

They collapse onto the sand, their bodies tangling together as they sprawl out, too exhausted to care about anything but the fact that they’re alive.

Azzi’s face ends up pressed against Paige’s chest, her lips brushing against her collarbone. Paige’s arm is draped across Azzi’s back, her fingers digging into Azzi’s shoulder as if she’s afraid to let go.

For a moment, neither of them moves. They just lie there, gasping for breath, their bodies trembling from the adrenaline and the cold. Azzi can feel Paige’s breath against her forehead, her lips ghosting over her skin.

It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.

Eventually, Azzi pushes herself up, her limbs heavy and uncooperative. She sits back on her heels, dragging Paige up with her, and they both sit there for a minute, staring at each other, eyes tracking their faces, because they almost just died.

Then, Azzi’s eyes catch on something in the water.

A body.

It’s floating face-down, the lifeless form a girl with dark hair fanned out around her head like seaweed. Azzi recognizes her—the girl from District Five.

Her stomach churns, and she realizes she must have missed the cannon while she was underwater.

“Jesus,” Paige mutters hollowly.

They stare at the body for a second longer, the weight of it pressing down on them. It could have been them. It almost was.

Paige shakes Azzi’s shoulder suddenly, snapping her out of her daze. She gestures across the water, her eyes narrowing.

Azzi follows her gaze and sees them—four figures moving along the shore. The tributes from One and Two—the Careers.

Azzi’s heart sinks. They’re too good, too strong. Azzi and Paige might be fighters, but they can’t take four-on-two, not against tributes who’ve spent their whole lives training for this.

“They haven’t seen us yet,” Paige whispers urgently.

Azzi nods, her mind already racing. Her bag is floating a few feet away, and she grabs it, pulling it toward her. She slings it over her shoulder, her movements quick but careful.

Paige holds out her hand, and Azzi takes it without hesitation.

They run.

Azzi’s legs scream in protest, her lungs burn, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t look back. The Careers might not have seen them yet, but they will soon, and Azzi knows they won’t get another chance to escape.

The jungle swallows them, the dense undergrowth closing in around them like a shield. They don’t stop running until they’re sure they’re far enough away.

When they finally collapse against a tree, Azzi’s legs give out beneath her. She slides to the ground, her chest heaving, her body trembling from exhaustion and fear.

Paige sinks down beside her, her head falling back against the tree trunk. She doesn’t let go of Azzi’s hand—in fact, her grip tightens.

For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

But Azzi can see it in Paige’s eyes—the same realization that’s clawing at her chest.

Their time is running out.

THE TWO DAYS since the flood have been maddeningly quiet, the kind of stillness that creeps under Azzi’s skin and refuses to leave. The arena is suffocating in its silence, the oppressive heat of the jungle seeping into her bones. She and Paige have walked the same endless stretches of sand, weaving between trees with the cautious precision of prey unwilling to draw a predator’s gaze. Seven of them are left now. The endgame is close enough to taste, and Azzi knows their strategy of running and hiding won’t be enough anymore. Not with the two pairs of Careers prowling.

The boy from Ten doesn’t concern her much. He’s a shadow, a rumor that exists only when the cannon fired for someone else. No, it’s the Careers that are the problem—their brute strength, their careful hoarded Capitol supplies stacked neatly at the Cornucopia, their unwavering confidence that they’ll outlast everyone else simply because they always do. Azzi and Paige have talked endlessly about it since they were nearly flooded right into them.

Azzi doesn’t want to kill. She knows she can, knows she’s capable. She’s done it before—once, the boy from Eleven. Every time she thinks of it, it makes her sick. The sound of the dagger slicing through the air, the way it dug right into his neck, the sharp taste of bile in her throat afterward. She doesn’t want to do it again.

Paige had argued the opposite, suggesting that if they just separated them, they could easily take them out and be done with them like that.

But Azzi had shaken her head, throat tightening at the thought. “They’ve got good. Water. Supplies,” she’d listed. “Take that away, and they’ll destroy themselves.”

It had taken hours to agree on the plan, both of them stubborn in their positions. It had only settled when the parachute came—a gift from the sponsors, with a sleek, silver explosive device tucked inside. The Capitol, it seemed, wanted a show. And, as much as Azzi hates being part of their entertainment, she can’t deny the relief she’d felt when she realized they wouldn’t have to improvise. Destroying the Careers’ supplies is the cleanest option, even if it means risking everything to pull it off.

The plan itself is simple in theory, far more dangerous in execution. Paige is the distraction, something Azzi hates the moment it was suggested. They’d fought tooth and nail about it, neither of them wanting the other to be the bait. But Paige was resolute, and she eventually won. She usually does.

Azzi knows Paige isn’t stupid—reckless, yes, but not stupid. But that doesn’t stop the knot of anxiety from tightening in her chest as they crouch in the jungle now, hidden by the thick underbrush that separates the sand from the Cornucopia. She can hear the Careers talking in the distance, their voices low and confident. It’s almost mocking, the way they laugh like this is nothing more than a game to them.

Azzi forces herself to focus on the task at hand. She’s got the explosive device in a pouch at her side, her daggers strapped to her thighs, and an ache in her chest she can’t shake. If this works, if they destroy their supplies and the Careers are weakened enough to fall… what then? Azzi knows exactly what then. It’ll be her and Paige, and the boy from Ten if he’s still hiding out there.

She promised her family she’d come home. Jon and Jose had cling to her when she left, their eyes wide with fear she couldn’t soothe. And her parents looked at her with so much hope. She had promised to try to win, to try to survive, to try to do everything she could to return to them. But that promise feels like a weight crushing her now because surviving means watching Paige die. Or worse—doing it herself.

She can’t think about that now. Not when Paige is standing in front of her, close enough that Azzi can feel the heat radiating from her skin. Paige grips her sword tightly, her jaw set with determination.

“Please be careful,” Azzi says, her voice quieter than she means it to be.

Paige nods once. “I will.”

That’s not good enough, though. So, Azzi grabs her arm, forcing her to meet her gaze. “No, Paige,” she says firmly. “I’m serious. Please, be careful. Promise me you won’t do some stupid reckless shit.”

Paige’s eyes soften just enough to make Azzi’s stomach twist. She takes a long moment before nodding again, slower this time. “Okay,” she says gently, sincerely. “I promise.”

Azzi nods, exhaling a shaky breath. She feels Paige’s fingers brush against hers briefly, a fleeting moment of contact that lingers like a ghost. “You be careful too,” Paige murmurs.

“I will,” Azzi replies, sounding steadier than she feels.

Paige takes a small step back, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then, Paige straightens, the sharpness returning to her expression as she says, “C’mon. Let’s get this over with.”

Azzi doesn’t respond, her throat too tight to form words. She watches as Paige turns and bolts away, her blonde ponytail the last of her that Azzi sees before her form disappears completely into the dense jungle. Azzi’s chest tightens as she stands there, still, her eyes fixed on the spot where Paige vanished.

She doesn’t let herself dwell on the what-ifs. She doesn’t think about what could go wrong or the countless ways this plan could end in disaster. She just hopes—prays, even—that this isn’t the last time she’ll see Paige.

She takes a deep breath, and then locks in, though there’s not much to lock in on yet. Because she has to wait. The Careers need to be far enough away, taking Paige’s bait. If they’re not, this entire plan is dead on arrival—and possibly Azzi along with it.

She tells herself to breathe, but each inhale feels razor-sharp. Her mind flickers to Paige, somewhere out there, leading the Careers away. Azzi can’t see her, and she doesn’t dare imagine what might happen if Paige doesn’t pull it off. She pushes the thought down, locks it away. Focus.

Finally, after what feels like forever, she decides it time. The clearing appears empty; the only sound of the faint rustle of leaves in the warm breeze. Azzi steps out onto the sand, her shoes sinking slightly into the grainy surface. She moves quickly, but each step feels painfully exposed, the weight of the jungle at her back like a thousand watching eyes.

The supplies are piled high against the Cornucopia’s base: food, water, medical kits, weapons. The lifeline of the Careers. Azzi’s heart races as she pulls the small explosive device out of its pouch. Her fingers tremble slightly as she sets the timer, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She gives herself a good thirty seconds—enough time to get back into the cover of the trees. Her heart is a drumbeat of panic as she activates the device, the red light blinking like a countdown to chaos—which, it is.

She throws the explosive right into the pile and doesn’t wait around to watch it roll. Instead, she bolts, sprinting back toward the foliage. The sand shifts beneath her feet, slowing her down, but she reaches the edge of the jungle just as the timer hits zero.

The explosion is deafening, a fiery burst of destruction that lights up the clearing like a second sun. Azzi clamps her hands over her ears, the shockwave rattling her skull even through her precautions. The Cornucopia groans as part of its structure collapses, supplies reduced to flaming shrapnel and smoke. The air reeks of burning plastic and charred food.

Azzi crouches low, her chest heaving as she stares at the destruction she’s caused. Relief floods her for half a second until—

“No!” the word rips from behind Azzi, the voice of a boy. She spins around, and, sure enough, the boy from One is there, eyes flashing with anger and disbelief as his gaze shifts between Azzi and the destroyed supplies. He’s holding a spear, and it glints in the light of the sun and the flames. “You fucking bitch—”

And then he’s striking, lunging forward with the spear aimed at Azzi’s midsection. She twists her torso just in time, the blade grazing her side but leaving her untouched. She counters immediately, grabbing one of the daggers strapped to her thigh and slashing toward his exposed forearm. Her blade catches skin, opening a thin gash.

He grunts, and Azzi doesn’t wait for him to recover. She lunged, aiming a dagger at his ribs, but he anticipates the move and sidesteps. His elbow catches her temple as he pivots, a glancing blow that sends her stumbling back.

“That all you got?” he asks, his tone mocking but full of clear and raw anger.

Azzi ignores the sting in her head, forcing her focus back to the fight. He’s strong, she knows that. But she’s strong too, muscle built up from years of basketball and working in Nine. So, she moves fast, feinting left before striking right, her blade carving a shallow cut across his bicep.

His face hardens. He doesn’t respond this time, just swings the spear in a brutal arc aimed at her legs. Azzi leaps back, but the tip catches her thigh, ripping through fabric and skin. She hisses at the sharp pain but doesn’t slow down, tossing a dagger aimed at his chest.

He moves out of the way just in time for it to not be deadly, but it still slices his shoulder, blood staining his suit. And then she’s driving forward with her other knife. He blocks this blade with the shaft of his spear, the clang of metal reverberating in her ears.

He swings the spear again, aiming lower this time, a precise jab at her legs. Azzi shifts to dodge, but her injured thigh slows her down just enough. His foot catches her left knee with brutal force, a perfect strike to the vulnerable joint.

The pain is instantaneous, sharp and sickening. She feels a pop and a snap, the joint or muscle or something twisting in a way that shouldn’t be possible. She crumples to the ground with a sharp scream, clutching at her knee as waves of agony shoot up her leg.

She sucks in shallow, panicked breaths, her hands shaking as she grips her knee. It’s wrong, all wrong. It feels loose and tight at the same time, everything out of place. Her vision blurs with tears, but she forces herself to look up.

He’s standing over her now, the tip of the spear pointed at her throat. “Weak little bitch,” he spits. Clearly, he’s taken the supplies thing personal.

Azzi’s mind races, desperation clawing at her. She fumbles for one of her daggers, but her fingers feel clumsy, the pain overwhelming her focus.

“Fucking pathetic,” he continues, pressing the spear closer to her neck. “I almost feel bad for you.”

The sound of her own heartbeat fills her ears, drowning him out. She tightens her grip on the dagger in her hand, her fingers slick with sweat and blood.

With a burst of adrenaline, she twists her body, throwing her weight to the side and slashing upward with the blade. The dagger slices into his side, deep enough to stagger him.

“Damnit!” he shouts, stumbling back.

Azzi forced herself up, her injured knee screaming in protest. It feels like it could give out at any moment, but she doesn’t care. She can’t care. She lunges again, aiming for his chest once more.

He recovers quickly, batting the blade away. His other hand slams into her shoulder, sending her sprawling onto her back.

He doesn’t hesitate, taking the opportunity. He’s on her in an instant, pinning her to the ground with the weight of his body. Azzi struggles, her daggers slipping from her grasp as his hand clamps around her throat. His face hovers inches above here, his breath hot and ragged.

She can feel the spear’s tip pressing against her ribs, and panic claws at her chest. This is it. This is how she dies.

But something ignites within her—a desperate, furious refusal to give up. Because she can’t give up. She made a promise she’s not about to break. Her fingers grope blindly, finding the hilt of one of her knives. With a surge of strength she didn’t know she had left, Azzi drives the blade upward, burying it in his neck.

The boy jerks, his eyes widening with shock and horror. Blood erupts from the wound, hot and sticky, sprawling across Azzi’s face, her neck, her suit. He gurgles, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as the life drains from him.

A cannon rumbles through the arena as his body goes slack above her. She shoves him off with a pained grunt, rolling onto her side as her chest heaves. Her knee pulses with pain, her skin slick with his blood, and her ears ring faintly, but she’s alive. Somehow, she’s alive.

She lies there for what feels like forever, her chest heaving as she stares up at the sky. She can feel his blood drying already, itching against her neck and face and collarbone. The boy’s body is a dark, crumpled heap a few feet away, his lifeless eyes still open.

She forced herself to look away.

She can’t stay here. She knows that. The others will have heard the cannon. They’ll come looking.

With a grown, she pushes herself onto her elbows, her knee screaming in protest. The pain shoots up her leg and settles in her hip, making her vision swim for a moment. She grits her teeth, swallowing the cry that threatens to spill out. She can’t afford to be weak now, no matter how much her body is begging her to lie back down and give in.

Her hands tremble as she grips the ground, dragging herself upright. Her left leg barely bolds her weight, and she nearly topples back down. But she steadies herself, forcing her injured leg to bear just enough to limp.

The jungle calls to her, offering safety in its shadows. She just has to get further in. She can think about her knee later.

She’s only managed a few steps when she hears it: rustling. The sound is faint at first, like the wind moving through the trees. But it grows louder—faster—until it’s unmistakable. Footsteps. Someone is running.

Azzi freezes, panic gripping her chest like a vice. She doesn’t have it in her to fight again—not now, not so soon. Her hand flies to the hilt of her knife, tightening around it as she turns toward the sound. Her breath catches.

Of course, with her luck, it has to be another one.

She steels herself, setting her stance as best she can despite the throbbing pain in her leg. Her teeth grind together, and her muscles coil tight, ready to spring. She’ll die here if she has to, but she’ll take someone with her.

Then she hears it: “Azzi!”

The voice cuts through the jungle, desperate and raw. Her grip on the dagger falters for just a moment as the sound registers. She knows that voice.

Before she can fully process what’s happening, Paige crashes into view.

She looks wild, disheveled—her little braids and ponytail half-undone, her face pale beneath streaks of dirt. Her chest heaves as if she’s run miles, and her eyes dart frantically before landing on Azzi.

Everything in Paige seems to shift. The terror in her expression melts into something else—relief, disbelief, and something deeper Azzi can’t name. Paige’s lips part as if to speak, but instead, she staggers forward, her voice breaking as she says, “Oh my God.”

And then she’s running.

Azzi barely has time to react before Paige is on her, arms wrapping around her so tightly that Azzi can’t breathe. She feels Paige’s hands clutching at her back, her shoulders, her hair—like she’s trying to hold all of Azzi at once.

Azzi’s dagger clatters to the ground as she sinks into the embrace, too stunned to do anything else. It hits her then—the sobs shaking Paige’s body, the wet warmth of her tears against Azzi’s neck. Azzi realizes, distantly, that she’s crying, too.

Paige pulls back just enough to cup Azzi’s face in her hands, her thumbs brushing blood and tears away from Azzi’s cheeks. Her eyes burn blue with something so real, so raw, that it slices through Azzi like a knife.

“I—oh my God,” Paige stammers, her voice trembling, her words stumbling. “I—I saw the explosion, and I was so happy. And then—fuck—I heard you scream. And then the fucking cannon went off, and I thought—” She cuts herself off with a choked sob, shaking her hand as her hands tighten on Azzi’s cheeks. “I thought one of them killed you. I thought—I thought I lost you, Az.”

Azzi swallows hard, her throat thick with emotion. “I’m okay,” she says, her voice slow and soft, as if she’s not only trying to convince Paige, but also herself. “I’m okay.”

Paige stares at her like she doesn’t quite believe it. Then, suddenly, she pulls Azzi in again, her hands still framing Azzi’s face as she presses their lips together.

The kiss is nothing like their first. It’s desperate, messy, full of too many emotions for Azzi to untangle. She can taste the salt of their tears and the metallic tang of blood—hers, his, she doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter.

For a moment, all of the danger, the pain, the fear—it all disappears. Here, in Paige’s arms, Azzi feels something she hasn’t felt since the Games began: safe.

It’s stupid—so stupid. They’re in the middle of a killing field, and only a few people stand between them and having to kill each other. But Azzi can’t bring herself to care. She kisses Paige back just as hard, pouring everything she has left into it.

When Paige finally pulls away, her hands move to wipe at the blood smeared across Azzi’s face. “God, Az,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Where’s all this blood from?”

Azzi sighs, nodding toward the boy’s body a few feet away. Paige’s eyes follow her gaze, and her expression hardens for a moment. Then, she looks back at Azzi, her tone firm, almost protective. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

The question snaps Azzi’s brain back to the sharp, searing pain in her knee. She grimaces, glancing down at it. “My knee,” she says. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s bad.”

Paige glances down before kneeling slowly. Her hands ghost over Azzi’s leg as she inspects it carefully. The fabric of her suit is a little torn, but there’s nothing visibly wrong with Azzi’s knee. Paige nods as she stands back up, her expression steady despite the worry in her eyes. “Okay,” she says. “We can handle that. It’s okay.”

Before Azzi can respond, a cannon fires in the distance.

The sound tears through the air, sharp and defeating, and both of them jump. Azzi stiffens instinctively, her hand twitching toward her dagger before remembering it’s on the ground. Her pulse races, the adrenaline kicking back in despite her exhaustion.

“Who—?” Azzi asks, her voice tight.

Paige exhales shakily, her shoulders slumping. She doesn’t look surprised. “It’s probably the girl from One,” she says quietly, glancing toward the trees as if expecting someone to burst through them. “We were fighting.”

Azzi blinks, confused. “You didn’t—”

“No,” Paige cuts in, the words thick. “I didn’t finish her. I couldn’t.” She hesitates, pushing a loose blonde hair that’s escaped one of her braids out of her face. “I heard you scream, and—I left her. She was bleeding out already, and I just… I had to find you.”

Azzi stares at Paige, her chest tightening painfully. There’s so much weight in those words, in the way Paige’s voice cracks ever so slightly at the end.

“You left her,” Azzi repeats, slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Paige more, her eyes meeting Azzi’s with a raw, unflinching honesty. “Yeah,” she says. “I left her.”

For a moment, neither of them speaks. The jungle around them seems to press closer, the silence thick and oppressive. Azzi’s mind races, trying to process what Paige has just admitted. It’s reckless—so reckless—but also…

God, Azzi doesn’t even want to finish the thought.

“Paige,” she starts, but the words catch in her throat.

Paige shakes her head quickly, cutting her off. “Don’t,” she says sharply but not unkind. “Don’t say it, Azzi. I know. I know it was stupid. I just—I couldn’t. Not when I thought you—” She falters before looking away, her jaw clenching.

Azzi swallows hard, her hands twitching at her sides. There’s so much she wants to say but doesn’t know how. Instead, she leans closer, her forehead resting tentatively against Paige’s.

“‘M here,” she says softly but steady. “I’m here, and I’m okay. And so are you. We can figure out the rest later.”

Paige closes her eyes, letting out a shaky breath before nodding.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Okay.”

But even as she says it, Azzi can see the weight Paige is carrying—the guilt, the fear, the overwhelming relief. And she knows that no matter what they tell themselves, things will only get much harder from here.

EVERY STEP feels like a dagger twisting into Azzi’s knee. Her weight shifts onto Paige more than she’d like, and though Paige doesn’t complain—not once—Azzi feels the guilt pooling in her chest with every labored step. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, her body screaming at her to stop, to sit, to just give up. But Paige is steady beside her, one arm looped tightly around Azzi’s waist, murmuring, “You’re doin’ good. Just a little further, Az.”

Azzi wants to believe her, but each step feels like she’s dragging herself closer to fucking collapse. She’s not sure if Paige’s words are meant for her or Paige herself, and the thought makes her stomach twist.

When the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of purples and oranges, Paige stops them. “We can rest here,” she says, and Azzi doesn’t argue. She sinks to the ground with a quiet groan, letting her back rest against the rough bark of a massive tree.

They settle under a canopy of vines, a natural curtain that offers some semblance of cover. Paige drops down beside her, leaning back against the tree with a sigh. Azzi shifts, resting her head on Paige’s shoulder, too exhausted to fight the impulse. She half-expects Paige to pull away, but instead, Paige’s fingers find their way to her hair, gently tracing one of her braids. The motion is soft, almost absentminded, but it sends a strange comfort through Azzi.

They’ve stopped pretending. There’s no point anymore, no space left for lies or walks. Not when the whole world is pressing down on them, when every breath feels borrowed.

Azzi closes her eyes briefly, trying to will away the relentless throbbing in her knee. When she shifts closer to Paige, her knee protests, but Paige doesn’t move—doesn’t complain. She just wraps an arm around Azzi and holds her tighter. It’s selfish, Azzi thinks, to let herself take this comfort when she knows what’s waiting for them at the end of all this. But she’s too tired to pull away.

The moment is interrupted by a faint sound above them. Azzi’s eyes snap open, and she follows Paige’s gaze skyward. A parachute, small and shimmering in the fading light, drifts toward them.

“Thank God,” Paige breathes, sitting up straighter. She reaches for it as it lands gently in the dirt beside them, her hands fumbling with it’s the clasp before opening it.

Azzi leans closer as Paige pulls out a neatly wrapped piece of fabric, some sort of compression wrap meant for her knee. Relief washes over her, but it’s short-lived as Paige pulls out a slip of paper and hands it to her.

Azzi reads it silently, the words sinking in:

Not much longer now. Please take care of yourself. Hang in there, kid. —Cyrus

The word yourself is bolded for emphasis, and Azzi knows exactly what her mentor is trying to say. It’s a warning, a plea. He’s telling her to focus on her own survival, to stop letting caring about Paige’s.

Azzi swallows hard, crumpling the note in her hand. She knows Cyrus is right, knows that every second she spends leaning on Paige, letting Paige patch her up or fight her battles, is another second she’s getting closer to losing everything. But she just doesn’t know how to stop.

“Good guy, your mentor,” Paige says softly, breaking the silence. She gestures for Azzi to stretch her leg out. “Let’s get this on your knee, yeah?”

Azzi nods, not trusting herself to speak. She bites the inside of her cheek as Paige works, her hands careful but firm as she wraps the fabric around Azzi’s swollen knee. Every touch sends a jolt of pain through her, but she doesn’t flinch. Paige’s brow furrowed in concentration, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“This’ll help,” Paige tells her, her voice low and sure. She ties off the wrap with a small, satisfied nod. “It will. Just don’t push it too much, aight?”

Azzi exhales, leaning back against the tree again. “Yeah,” she murmurs.

Paige leans back, too, her movements slow and careful, as though every second spent near Azzi is precious. Azzi watches her through heavy-lidded eyes, the pain in her knee dulling slowly. Paige settles beside her, tucking Azzi close under her arm like she’s trying to shield her from the rest of the arena.

Boom.

Another cannon.

The sound splits through the silence like a gunshot, making Azzi’s whole body tense. She squeezes her eyes shut, her breath catching in her throat. Fuck.

Beside her, Paige lets out a sharp exhale. It’s not fear exactly, but something close to it. Something raw and pained. Before Azzi can even begin to process it, Paige pulls her tighter, her grip firm and almost desperate, as if she’s afraid Azzi might slip away from her—might decide to get up and leave (as if Azzi even could). Paige’s voice is low and taut when she murmurs, “Final four.”

Azzi’s head aches. She doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to consider what it means for them. For Paige. For her. But she knows Paige is right. They’re down to four.

They sit in silence, the weight of the cannon settling between them like a third presence. And then, as if the arena itself is mocking them, the anthem begins to play.

The two of them glance skyward, the shifting lights reflecting in their tired eyes. The faces of the fallen appear one by one, each accompanied by a grim silence. Today was a long day, clearly.

The boy from One flashes first, obviously. It makes Azzi’s chest burn a little, knowing she’s the reason he’s in the sky now.

Then, the girl from One—just as Paige suspected. Azzi spares a glance at Paige, who doesn’t flinch. Her expression is unreadable.

Finally, the last face: the boy from Ten. He’s the most recent, the cannon they just heard.

When the anthem ends, the night seems quieter than before. Oppressive. Azzi leans back against Paige’s chest, her weight sagging into her like she’s trying to press all of her fear into Paige’s body, hoping Paige can somehow bear it for her.

“That leaves us and the pair from Two,” Azzi says quietly. And then, after a beat, she adds, “They’re gonna work together.”

Paige nods, jaw set. “So are we.”

Azzi doesn’t reply, because what’s the point? She knows Paige means it, knows Paige will fight tooth and nail for her. But the sinking reality of their situation presses against Azzi’s chest like a vice.

They stay like that for a while, not speaking, just existing in the fragile quiet. Paige’s fingers brush over Azzi’s hair again, gentle and rhythmic, and Azzi lets her eyes flutter shut. She’s so soft, Azzi thinks, so careful with her. It feels cruel to indulge in this, but she can’t help it.

And then Paige starts talking, unable to keep the thoughts in her head, the words spilling from her like a dam breaking. “We’re gonna figure somethin’ out,” she says, her voice laced with a frantic kind of hope. “We’re gonna do it. ‘Cause you can’t die. And I can’t die. We gotta live. Together. So—y’know, maybe they can bend the rules or something. The Capitol and the sponsors love us. We’d give great publicity if we both won. Two victors. Some kinda Romeo and Juliet shit. It could work.”

Azzi’s chest burns at the desperation in Paige’s voice. She knows it won’t happen—knows it can’t happen. The Games don’t work like that. The Capitol doesn’t bend rules. But she doesn’t have the heart to tell Paige that. Not when she’s clinging so tightly to this fragile thread of hope.

So, Azzi stays quiet, letting Paige’s words hang in the air like a lifeline she can’t bring herself to grab. Instead, she tilts her head to, her eyes meeting Paige’s—brown on blue. The moonlight filters through the vines, illuminating Paige’s face in soft silver hues. She looks beautiful.

And then, without thinking—without over analyzing it the way she does everything else—Azzi leans in and kisses her.

It’s slow at first, tentative, as though Azzi’s afraid Paige might pull away. But Paige would never, and when she doesn’t, when her lips press back against Azzi’s with a tenderness that feels like it might shatter her, Azzi deepens the kiss.

She lets herself get lost in it, pouring everything she can’t say into the way her lips move against Paige’s. It’s not just a kiss—it’s an acknowledgment of all the things they’ve been too afraid to say aloud. It’s a promise, fragile and fleeting.

Paige’s hands come up to cradle Azzi’s face, her fingers brushing along her jawline and sending shivers down Azzi’s spine. She tastes like the berries they’d shared earlier, like desperation and warmth and something that—if they were absolutely anywhere else—Azzi might call home.

Azzi’s hands find their way to Paige’s shoulders, then her hair, tangling in the soft blonde strands as she pulls her closer, like she’s trying to memorize the feeling of her.

Because she knows this can’t last. She knows this moment is borrowed, that the Games will rip it away from them sooner rather than later.

But for now—for just this one perfect, terrible moment—Azzi lets herself believe in the impossible.

THE MORNING dawns heavy and gray, the air thick with an electric tension that seems to press against Azzi’s chest. She sits propped against the base of the tree she and Paige slept on, absently adjusting the wrap on her knee as Paige moves around under the vines, collecting their things. Even without any announcement from the Capitol, Azzi knows—this is it.

Today will be the last day.

She doesn’t know how she knows. It’s not like the Gamemakers have explicitly said so. But the weight of it is undeniable, a silent agreement between the arena and the remaining tributes. If they don’t find the pair from Two soon—or if the pair from Two doesn’t find them—the Capitol will force the confrontation. They always do.

Azzi knows Paige’s mind is still churning, trying to devise some kind of impossible scenario where the two of them make it out together. Where Paige’s relentless optimism wins out against the Capitol’s cruelty. Azzi wants to believe in it, hope for it. She really does.

But she can’t.

Her knee is a liability now, and she knows it. The wrap helps her walk without wincing, but she can’t run—not like she needs to if they’re ambushed. The odds were already slim before, but now? Now they feel closer to nonexistent.

Azzi adjusts the wrap one last time, fingers lingering on the fabric as a wave of guilt washes over her. She promised her family she’d try her best, that she’d fight as hard as she could to get back to them.

She wants to. God, she wants to see them again so badly. Her parents. Her brothers. But Paige wants to see her family, too—her little siblings, Drew, Ryan, and Lauren, whose stories have become so vivid in Azzi’s mind she feels like she almost knows them. Paige has talked about them so much during the long, quiet nights in the arena, her voice soft and full of longing.

And Azzi knows the pair from Two probably has families waiting for them, too. People who are praying just as hard as hers are. It’s a horrible truth she can’t escape: none of them deserve this. But the Capitol doesn’t care about who deserves what.

The sky grows darker as the morning drags on, the clouds thickening and swirling in ominous patterns. Paige notices it first, pausing mid-motion as she stuffs the last of their things into a bag.

“You see that?” she asks.

Azzi tilts her head back, squinting up at the sky. A storm brews in the distance, jagged lightning flickering at the edges. The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. Azzi’s stomach churns.

“They want it to end,” she says quietly. Her voice falls flat with resignation. “This is how they force us to face them.”

Paige glances at her, and Azzi sees something fragile in her expression. Fear, maybe. Or something close to it. She tries to mask it with a sharp nod, her jaw clenching as she grabs their bags.

“Then we’ll give ‘em what they want,” Paige mutters determinedly.

Azzi doesn’t say anything as Paige steps closer, looping an arm around her waist. She doesn’t really need the help today—not like she did before—but she doesn’t protest. Instead, she leans into Paige’s steady presence, letting herself take comfort in the closeness.

The first drops of rain fall as they set off, light at first but steady, and Azzi can feel the storm building. The wind howls through the jungle, pulling at their suits and hair. It’s not hard to guess where they’re heading, even without any explicit direction.

The Cornucopia.

It’s always the Cornucopia.

Azzi doesn’t bother asking if Paige is thinking the same thing—she knows she is. Anyone that’s watched the Games before knows that’s almost always where they end.

The pair trudge forward together, moving slowly to avoid putting too much strain on Azzi’s knee. Paige’s hand stays firm on her waist, her grip protective but not overbearing. The terrain grows harsher as they go, the jungle thinning out and giving way to open stretches of land that make Azzi’s heart race. She hates being this exposed, hates the idea of someone—them—watching from the trees, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Paige’s voice pulls her out of her spiraling thoughts. “We’ll make it,” she says, sounding more confident than Azzi knows she really feels. “We’ll find a way.”

Azzi doesn’t respond. She just presses her lips together, letting Paige’s words hang between them.

They walk for what feels like hours, the storm growing angrier with each passing minute. The rain comes down harder now, soaking through their suits and making the ground slick beneath their feet. Azzi’s knee protests more and more with every step, but she doesn’t stop.

When they reach the edge of the jungle, they’re immediately crouching low behind the underbrush, trying to stay as hidden as possible. The clearing ahead is a trap—they both know it—but there’s no other choice.

Paige drops their bags just inside the jungle’s cover, her movements hurried and sharp. She pulls out two of Azzi’s daggers, handing them over with trembling hands. Azzi takes them silently, the blades cold and reassuring against her wet palms. Her thigh straps and waist sheath are already full, but these feel different—more immediate. She grips one tightly and tucks the other against her belt.

“You ready?” Paige whispers, though her voice barely carries over the pounding of the rain.

Azzi nods, the gesture more instinct than thought. Her knee throbs beneath its tight wrap, but she does her best at ignoring it.

Ahead, the sand of the clearing is slick and reflective under the rain, the shallow saltwater lake churning with the storm’s fury. The Cornucopia, half-collapsed from yesterday’s explosion, looms like a broken monument of death. The air smells metallic, a mix of wet earth, blood, and the storm’s electricity.

“We don’t move til we see ‘em,” Paige murmurs firmly, despite the tremor in her hands.

Azzi watches the clearing, her heart hammering in her chest. The silence feels oppressive, broken only by the occasional boom of thunder. She doesn’t hear the arrow until it’s too late.

Suddenly, Paige cries out beside her, a sharp, startled sound that cuts through the storm. Azzi’s head whips around just as Paige stumbles backward, clutching her shoulder. An arrow juts out of her flesh, its shaft trembling as if mocking their failure to notice.

“Paige!” Azzi gasps, lunging to grab her before she collapses. But another arrow zips past, this one so close that Azzi feels the air shift by her ear. She ducks instinctively, dragging Paige down with her into the mud.

“Shit,” Paige mutters, her tone tight with pain. Her free hand digs into the wet earth, her face pale as she tries to steady herself.

“Let me take it out,” Azzi says. The words tremble as they slip past her lips.

Paige gives her a tight nod, biting down hard on her lip. Azzi grabs the shaft of the arrow, her hands slick with rain and mud. “This is gonna hurt,” she warns.

“Just—do it,” Paige grits out.

Azzi pulls, hard and fast. Paige cries out, her back arching against the pain as blood wells from the wound, staining the torn fabric of her suit. “Fuck,” she breathes raggedly.

Azzi barely has time to assess the damage before she hears heavy footsteps crashing through the jungle. Her head snaps up, and her stomach drops.

The boy from Two is barreling toward them.

It’s not just his size—it’s the way he moves, like a predator. He’s massive, easily half a foot taller than Azzi and built like a mountain, his shoulder broad and his arms corded with muscle. He’s carrying a long-handled axe with a wicked, gleaming blade.

Azzi doesn’t even have time to think. She and Paige are shoved out of the jungle and onto the sand, the boy’s sheer momentum forcing them into the open.

Immediately, Paige is scrambling to her feet, pulling Azzi up with her, her sword already drawn. Azzi grips her dagger and lifts it, about to let it fly towards the boy. But, before she gets the chance, another arrow is sailing toward her and she has to duck. Just as she does, the boy charges at Paige, his axe swinging in deadly arcs that carve through the rain. Azzi watches as Paige ducks and sidesteps, her movements sharp but hindered by the sand and her injured shoulder. The sound of their weapons clashing echoes through the storm, a violent rhythm that makes Azzi anxious.

She’s about to get up and help Paige before her eyes land on the girl. She’s smaller, wiry, but no less dangerous. She’s holding a bow, another arrow already notched and aimed directly at Azzi.

The girl releases her arrow once more, and Azzi dives to the side, her knee screaming in protest as she hits the ground hard. The pain is sharp, a lightning bolt up her leg, but she can’t stop. She rolls onto her feet, barely catching her balance before the girl is on her.

She’s fast, faster than Azzi expected, and her short blade flashes in the dim light as she slashes at Azzi’s midsection. Azzi parries with her dagger, the clash of metal sending vibrations up her arm.

Rain pours down in sheets, making it hard to see, hard to think. Azzi’s grip on her knife is slippery, her breaths coming in short gasps as she blocks another strike.

The girl is relentless, each attack more precise than the last. Azzi’s knee buckles as she tries to sidestep, and she stumbles, barely managing to keep her balance. The girl sees the weakness and presses harder, driving Azzi back toward the edge of the sand, near the water.

Azzi’s mind races, searching for an opening, a way to turn the fight in her favor. She ducks under a wide slash, her free hand grabbing a handful of wet sand and flinging it into the girl’s face.

Just as the girl recoils, momentarily blinded, a sharp cry from Paige draws Azzi’s attention. She turns just in time to see the boy pinning Paige’s sword against the sand, his axe raised for a killing blow. Without thinking, Azzi hurls one of her daggers.

It flies true, embedding itself in the boy’s shoulder. He roars in pain, stumbling back and giving Paige just enough time to regain her footing.

Azzi’s momentary distraction costs her. The girl from Two has recovered, wiping mud from her eyes as she lunges with a renewed ferocity. Azzi blocks the first strike but can’t avoid the second. The blade slices across her arm, hot pain flaring as blood mingles with the rain.

Azzi bites back a scream, her vision swimming as she staggers. Her knee is flaring, too, the wrap doing little to support her under the strain of combat. But she ignores them both, countering the girl with a sharp jab of her dagger, the blade now slicing across the girl’s own arm.

The girl hisses but doesn’t falter. She circles Azzi, her eyes cold and calculating, waiting for an opening. Azzi’s watching carefully as she hears a cry echo behind her—a sharp, desperate sound that cuts through the storm like one of her knives. It’s Paige.

Her stomach twists, panic surging through her veins, but she forced herself to focus. The girl is front in front of her, blade raised for a killing blow. If Azzi falters now, it’s over.

She takes a shaky step forward, raising her dagger. The girl hesitates, just for a second, and that’s all Azzi needs.

With a burst of adrenaline, she drives the blade upward, straight into the girl’s chest.

The girl gasps, her eyes wide with shock as Azzi’s dagger pierces her heart. For a moment, time seems to stop, the rain washing away the blood as the girl’s body goes limp, falling from Azzi’s grasp.

Boom.

Her cannon fires.

Azzi takes a long inhale, her chest heaving as she stares at the girl from Two’s lifeless body. The dagger is still in her hand, slick with rain and blood, but it feels like an extension of her arm now, part of her in a way that terrifies her. She forces herself to let go, the blade slipping from her grasp and landing in the wet sand with a dull thud.

The rain pelts her skin, cold and unforgiving, but she can’t move. She stands there, rooted to the spot, her breathing ragged and uneven as her eyes linger on the girl. The world feels muffled, like she’s underwater, and everything—the storm, the blood, the suffocating ache in her knee—fades into the background. It’s over. At least, this part is.

Her heart is still pounding in her chest, faster than it should be. She doesn’t feel victorious. She doesn’t feel anything at all, just numb. Her gaze flickers to the girl’s face—eyes open, staring blankly at the stormy sky. Azzi swallows hard and finally looks away.

She turns, her body protesting every movement, and just as she does, her eyes catch a shape through the rain. The boy from Two stumbles, falters, and then crashes to the ground at Paige’s feet like a felled tree. His own axe is lodged in his chest, buried deep.

His cannon booms, its hollow echo vibrating through the air, and Azzi flinches at the sound. Her eyes stay fixed on him, her mind struggling to process what she’s seeing. He’s dead. Paige killed him.

Leaving just the two of them.

It takes Azzi a moment to shift her focus, her eyes drifting to Paige. When she does, the sight hits her like a punch to the gut.

Paige is standing a few feet away, drenched from head to toe, her blonde hair plastered to her face. Azzi can tell she’s breathing hard, her chest rising and falling with each gasp of air, but there’s a dazed sort of smile on her face. She looks over at Azzi, and when she says her name, her voice is soft, almost tender.

“Azzi,” she murmurs, and for reasons Azzi can’t understand—because they’re supposed to be killing each other right now—she feels herself smile back, just a little.

But then Paige takes a step forward—or tries to. It’s more like a stumble, her foot catching awkwardly on the slick ground. Azzi’s brows knit together in confusion, alarm prickling at the edges of her mind.

“Paige?” she says, her name coming out sharper than she means.

Paige sways, her balance faltering, and Azzi forgets about the pain screaming through her knee. She moves toward the older girl, crossing the distance between them in a few long strides. her hands find Paige’s shoulders, holding her up before she can fall.

“Hey, you okay? What’s wrong?” Azzi voice is urgent now, her grip tightening as she peers at Paige’s face.

Up close, even through the pouring rain, she can see how pale Paige is—too pale. The sight sends a bolt of fear straight through Azzi. Paige’s breath is coming in short, shallow gasps, and she shakes her head, like she’s trying to form words but can’t quite manage it.

“Um, fuck,” Paige stammers. The words sound shaky and thin coming from her lips. “He, uh—”

“Paige, what?” Azzi interrupts, her hands moving to steady her further, to ground her, but the panic is creeping into her voice now.

Paige doesn’t answer right away, just sways a little more, trembling. And then Azzi’s eyes drop—she can’t help it—and that’s when she sees it.

One of Paige’s hands is clamped against her stomach, pressed tightly to her body like she’s trying to hold something in. Something red.

“Paige,” Azzi says again, quieter now, almost a whisper.

Slowly, carefully, she reaches down and pulls Paige’s hand away. What she sees makes her stomach twist violently.

Blood. So much blood. It’s everywhere, seeping through Paige’s suit and mixing with the rain until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. Azzi feels her knees weaken, the world tilting dangerously, but she forces herself to stay upright.

Her hands are shaking as she presses them against Paige’s wound, trying to stem the flow, but it’s no use. The blood keeps coming, warm and slick and terrifyingly real.

“I—” Azzi starts, stammering, as tears begin to well in her eyes. “What—how’d this happen?”

Paige leans against her heavily, her weight almost too much got Azzi’s weakened body to bear. But she doesn’t let go.

Paige’s breath is coming even quicker now, hitching painfully with every exhale. “He… he got me,” she says finally, her words halting and uneven. “With my own sword. Before I—” Her voice cuts off, her head drooping as another shudder racks her body.

And then Paige’s knees buckle. Azzi feels her heart seize as Paige slips through her grasp, the weight of her limp body pulling them both downward. Azzi swears under her breath, her bad knee flaring in protest as she sinks to the ground. She’s careful—so fucking careful—not to let Paige fall too hard, easing her down until she’s lying on the wet sand. The storm thrashes around them, the rain relentless, cold water dripping off Azzi’s face as she hovers over Paige.

Paige’s face is twisted in pain, her brows furrowed and lips trembling as shallow, ragged breaths continue to leave her chest. Her pale complexion looks almost translucent in the dim light, and it’s terrifying—like she’s already slipping away. Azzi’s hands shake as they press down on Paige’s stomach, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. But it just keeps coming, hot and thick and endless.

“Fuck,” Azzi mutters, the word slipping out as her panic mounts. Her hands are slick, her fingers stained red, and she can’t seem to get a good grip. She presses harder, but it’s like trying to hold back a flood with a dam made of sand.

Paige’s breath hitches, a sharp, broken sound, and then she starts coughing—deep, wet coughs that shake her entire body. Azzi freezes, her heart plummeting, and watched helplessly as Paige lifts a trembling hand to her mouth. When the coughing subsided, Paige lowers her hand slowly, almost as if she doesn’t want to see what she already knows is there.

Blood.

It streaks across her fingers, dark and unmistakable. For a moment, Azzi watches as Paige just stares at it, her chest heaving. And then her blue eyes widen, filling with big tears, her voice cracking as she stammers, “Shit. I’m dying. Shit, Az—I—I’m dying.”

“No.” Azzi shakes her head hard, too hard, the motion jerky and frantic. “No, you’re not. You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

But even as the words leave her mouth, they sound hollow, fake. She can feel the tears burning at the edges of her own eyes, hot and blurring her vision, because she knows. God, she knows coughing up blood isn’t just bad—it’s the worst. It’s internal, it’s critical, and it’s so far beyond anything Azzi can fix.

The rain pounds against them, soaking them both to the bone, but Azzi leans closer, her body hovering over Paige’s, shielding her as much as she can from the downpour. She can’t stop the storm, can’t stop the bleeding, can’t stop any of it, but she has to do something. She has to try.

“Paige, you’re okay,” she says as firmly as she can. “Just—just keep breathing, alright? Don’t stop breathing.”

Paige’s eyes find hers, wide and glassy and so heartbreakingly blue, and Azzi feels like she’s looking into a mirror of her own fear. Paige tries to speak, but her voice comes out thin and reedy, barely audible over the cracking storm. “Azzi…” She swallows hard, wincing as the motion seems to cause her more pain. “Tell them.”

Azzi friend, her hands still pressing against the wound, through her fingers are starting to cramp from the effort. “Tell who what?”

“My family,” Paige whispers. Tears spill over her cheeks, mixing with the rain as she stares up at Azzi with a kind of desperate determination. “Drew, uh, Ryan, Lauren—my parents. Tell them I love them. And I’m—I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Paige, stop,” Azzi pleads, her own voice breaking now. A sob lodges itself in her throat, thick and suffocating, but she shoves it down, shaking her head fiercely. “You don’t need to say that. You’re not—don’t talk like that.”

Paige shakes her head weakly as another tear slips down her cheek. “I need you to,” she insists, her words rushed and uneven, like she’s running out of time. “Please. Promise me.”

Azzi can’t take it. She can’t take the way Paige’s voice wavers, the way her body shakes under her hands, the way she’s looking at her like she knows this is it. Like she knows she’s not making it out of this. Azzi wants to scream, to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, to tell her to stop giving up.

But she doesn’t.

“Paige, stop,” Azzi says again, softer now, choked with tears. “You’re gonna make it. You hear me? You’re gonna win this, and you’re gonna go home and tell them yourself.”

Paige doesn’t respond, just stares at her with those tear-filled eyes, like she wants to believe her but can’t. Azzi swallows hard, her throat aching with the effort of keeping herself somewhat together for Paige.

“Can you kiss me?” Paige whispers softly. Her lips are near blue at this point, still lightly streaked with her own blood, her words weak and shaky, but her gaze is steady, locked onto Azzi’s face. “Please?”

Azzi stills, her breath catching. The world feels suspended, like time itself has stopped to old this moment between them. Paige’s worde echo, and Azzi’s chest tightens with the sharp ache of knowing why she’s asking. Paige thinks this is the end. Paige knows it’s the end.

Azzi stares at her for a long second, the rain pounding against her back, soaking her to the bone. Her hands are still pressing down on Paige’s wound, futilely trying to stop the blood that keeps slipping through her fingers, but her eyes are locked on Paige’s face.

And then she leans down carefully, her heart breaking with every inch that closes the distance between them. When her lips finally meet Paige’s, the rain, the pain, the fear—it all falls away.

Paige kisses her like it’s the only thing keeping her alive, like she’s pouring every last shred of strength into this one act. Her lips are soft but insistent, moving against Azzi’s with a desperation that makes the younger girl’s heart shatter. Azzi tastes the rain, salty tears, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Paige’s hand slides up the back of Azzi’s neck, her fingers trembling a little as they tangle in Azzi’s wet hair, holding her close like she doesn’t ever want to let go.

Azzi kisses her back just as desperately, her own tears streaming down her face and mixing with the rain. She presses closer, her hands forgetting the blood and the wound for a moment as they cradle Paige’s face instead, her thumbs brushing over her cold, rain-slicked cheeks. She doesn’t care about the Hunger Games, the Capitol, the fact that the whole country is probably watching this—there’s only Paige, only this kiss, only the cruel reality that this will be their last.

When Azzi finally pulls away, it’s because Paige’s body starts shuddering harder, her breath hitching with sharper, uneven gasps. Azzi’s eyes snap open, and she sees Paige struggling to breathe, her chest rising and falling in shorter, more frantic bursts.

“Paige?” Azzi whispers anxiously. She cups Paige’s face, tilting it up toward her, her thumb brushing lightly over one of Paige’s closed eyelids. “P, keep your eyes open. Please, look at me.”

Paige does as she asks. Her eyes flutter open, just barely, her lashes damp with rain and tears. She gives Azzi the faintest smile, her hand still resting weakly on the back of her neck. “‘M still here,” she murmurs.

Azzi exhales shakily, her vision still swimming. She leans back down, pressing her forehead against Paige’s, listening to her short, shallow breaths that make her stomach twist. Then, between gasps, Paige whispers, “If we both could’ve won… I woulda made them let us play ball together.”

Azzi’s throat tightens at the words, a fresh wave of tears spilling over. They both had that stupid, unrealistic dream of playing basketball in the Capitol, with the pros, of being known for something other than violence and survival.

“Yeah?” Azzi chokes out, brushing a strand of wet hair from Paige’s face.

Paige nods weakly, her lips twitching into the smallest smile. “Yeah,” she whispers. “We’d be, like, stars. Everyone would know us as basketball players instead of… kids in the Hunger Games.”

Azzi bites her lip, hoping that pain might ease some of this pain. “I’d like that,” she says softly, the words breaking.

Paige’s face scrunches up in pain for a moment, and Azzi watched helplessly as she forces herself to speak again. “Me too,” Paige breathes, voice much quieter now.

Paige’s hand trembles as it clutches Azzi’s neck tighter, like she’s trying to hold on to whatever strength she has left. “I would’ve taken you on a real date,” she says in between quicker gasps. “We’d… we’d have a great life together, Az. You’d meet my siblings. I’d meet Jon and Hose. We’d—” Her words cut off as her breath hitches violently, and her eyes fall shut against the pain.

“Hey, shhh,” Azzi says as soothingly as possible, though at this point, her tears streaming are unchecked and uncontrollable.

But Paige’s eyes are still closed, her head lolling slightly to the side now. Azzi tightens her grip on her a little, cradling her face more, her thumb brushing against Paige’s cheek. “P,” Azzi pleads. “Hey, come on. Don’t do this. Don’t—don’t go.”

It takes a second but then Paige’s eyes flutter open once more. Azzi lets out a choked sound that’s half relief, half anguish. Those blue eyes, usually so bright and full of life, are dull now, unfocused, like Paige is looking at something far beyond Azzi.

Her lips part slightly, but no words come out at first—just the faintest sound, like a sigh carried off by the rain. Then, in the weakest voice Azzi has ever heard, Paige murmurs, “‘M tired, Az.”

Azzi starts to shake her head frantically, her grip tightening even more as though sheer willpower might keep Paige here. “No. No, you don’t get to be tired, okay? I can’t—I’m not ready.” And she knows how selfish she sounds, because she’s not dying, Paige is—but it’s still true. Even though she had this whole time to prepare for it, she’s not ready to let Paige go.

Paige blinks slowly, her expression softening as her gaze drifts toward Azzi. “You’re the winner,” she breathes. “You… you get to home.”

“I don’t care about winning!” Azzi snaps, her voice breaking as a sob rips through her chest. “What’s the point if you’re not there. It doesn’t mean anything anymore. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Paige’s lips twitch into a faint smile, one so small and fleeting that it only makes Azzi cry harder. Paige’s hand falls from Azzi’s neck, half-limp as it brushes against Azzi’s wrist. It doesn’t hardly even feel like a touch—it’s too light for that, too fleeting—but it’s enough to make Azzi stop breathing for a second, her entire body frozen as she clutches Paige’s hand in hers.

Paige’s fingers twitch weakly against Azzi’s. “You’ll be okay,” she whispers, her words slurring now, her voice slipping further and further away.

“I won’t,” Azzi whispers back, sounding raw and desperate. She shakes her head. “I won’t be okay without you.”

Paige doesn’t respond. Her hand goes limp in Azzi’s grip, and her head tilts further to the side, her eyes falling closed again, lids covering Azzi’s favorite shade of blue.

“No. No, no, no, no,” Azzi stammers, her voice rising in pitch as she shakes Paige gently, then harder, her heart pounding in her chest. “Paige. Paige, open your eyes. Please. Just—just look at me—”

She’s crying so hard now she can barely see, her tears mingling with the never-ending rain as she grips Paige’s body, her voice breaking over and over again. “Don’t do this to me, Paige,” Azzi sobs, her forehead pressing against the older girl’s. “You don’t get to do this. C’mon, please…”

The rain continues to fall, relentless and uncaring, as Paige grows colder in Azzi’s arms. For a moment, Azzi refuses to believe it—refuses to accept it—but then she hears it.

Boom.

The cannon.

The sound is defeaning, sharp and final, cutting through Azzi like she’s being stabbed. It’s over. It’s all over.

Azzi’s body collapses over Paige’s, her sobs muffled against the stillness of her chest as someone on an overhead speaker starts talking, congratulating her for being the victor of the Sixtieth Annual Hunger Games.

But she doesn’t care that she’s won. She doesn’t care about the Capitol or the crowd cheering somewhere far away. In this moment, all she cares about is the girl in her arms—the girl she couldn’t save.

And, for the first time in Azzi Fudd’s life, victory feels like the worst thing in the world.

[comatosebunny09]

light as a feather | sylus

summary: your lashes dance. you screw your eyes shut, offering him your wrists. “gonna tie me up?” he hums, entertaining the idea in his mind. “tempting. but not tonight, sweetheart.” you flinch when something cold, crisp, and silken grazes your cheek. sylus chuckles, the sound akin to distant thunder rolling over the horizon. “i won’t hurt you. i promise.” genre(s): romance, erotica warning(s): female reader, gendered terms, silliness, blindfolds, sensation play, praise, pet names, profanity, sylus may or may not be in his demon form throughout now playing: layin’ low - hyolyn

“Do you trust me?” he asks one night on a whim.

You set your book aside, straightening on the settee in the center of his study. “You know I do.”

Why is that even a question?

He smirks, a softness to his eyes as he takes your hand, acquainting his lips with each of your knuckles. He wordlessly draws you from the loveseat. Bewildered, you follow, lead through the stilled, winding corridors of his manor towards a room you’re all too familiar with.

“Nap time?” you jest with a humored look, bouncing on his bed.

“Hmm. Not quite.” There’s a tease in the low rumble of his voice. A promise of something more. You feel like a teenager, a hot rush of adrenaline spuming through your extremities.

He turns his back to you, rifling through his dresser. You maneuver this way and that, trying to get a look over his burly shoulder at what he’s up to.

In an a-ha moment, he finds what he seeks. Returns to you, aura bleeding bad intentions whilst he briskly shoves something into his pocket. Your breath hitches when he zeros in, and he pitches himself forward, caging you between his arms to murmur against the outskirts of your ear.

“Close your eyes.” You’re dizzy from the sound of it. From the heat he exudes, the heady scent he carries. Your mind colors with possibilities. Blinking drunkenly, you obey.

Your lashes dance. You screw your eyes shut, baring both wrists to him. Does he plan to subdue you? “Gonna tie me up?”

He hums, entertaining the idea in his mind. “Mmm. Tempting, but not tonight, sweetheart.”

You flinch when something cold, crisp, and silken grazes your cheek. Sylus chuckles, the noise akin to distant thunder rolling over the horizon. “Won’t hurt you. I promise.”

You nod, and he slips something over your eyes. Ties it over your ears, behind your head. The knot is secure yet loose enough to tear off if need be.

“Lie back,” he instructs, smoothing the flat sides of his fingers along the jutting bones of your wrist. You could get used to being ordered around like this.

Your lips twitching with a smile, you acquiesce, falling onto the cloud-like, lush comforter adorning his bed. You prickle with anticipation, your breath held at the crest of your ribs.

Give a little start when cold, idle finger pads slip beneath the hem of your blouse, touching the molten skin of your belly. You’re caught between a gasp and a laugh. Clench the comforter to ground you, your body reacting to the exploratory glide of his palm.

He chuckles again, dark like red velvet and smooth like whiskey. Voice abrasive as he bunches your blouse up beneath the swell of your tits. “Relax,” he soothes, and you shudder whilst his digits venture southward torturously slow.

He curls a thick hand around your thigh. Squeezes until flesh craters between his fingers, and he hums with a quieted satisfaction.

He’s by your ear again, dragging distended lips along the shell, nosing along the space behind. Fingers tip-toe up the inner trajectory of your thigh, smoothing along the plump, honeysuckle skin just shy of where your panties lie.

“What’s your safe word?” he husks.

Your breath catches, hips rucking up off the bed to chase the feeling of his palm on you. “Mary Poppins.”

Sylus snorts, nipping your earlobe in retaliation. “Too many syllables. You sure you’ll be able to get that out in time?”

A bout of vertigo crashes into you. You pulse. Laugh breathlessly, excited. Burn hot. “I’ll be fine. Promise.”

He taps your thigh once, twice. Mulls over your answer, and suddenly, his warmth no longer cradles you. You whine like a brat when he leaves your side. Pant, every nerve in your body exploding like solar flares beneath your skin.

He doesn’t leave you cold and wanton for long.

Something fluffy touches your skin, replacing the gentle stir of his fingers. You giggle, the sensation akin to tickle bugs crawling over your stomach.

Did he conjure one of his feathers just to tease you?

He chuckles alongside you, dragging it up the ripple of your ribcage. “How does it feel?” he queries, mouthing along the angle of your jaw. Nips your neck, breathes hot against your carotid.

“G-good. Real good.”

“Mmmm. Good girl. Stay still. Yes, just like that.”

He makes several expeditions over your body, paying special attention to the space shy of the line of your bra. When you’re thoroughly teased and gasping for air—sighing his name so pretty, arching your back for more—he drags the feather further south.

Encourages your legs to widen by smoothing it over your inner thighs, and you shudder when it grazes the seat of your panties.

He releases an appraising sound. Throat clicks, and he exhales slowly. Shakily. He does it again, dragging the feather along your slit, and your hips leave the mattress in pursuit of that sparkling feeling again.

“Like that?” he purrs low in his throat, thoroughly entranced.

You nod, hot in the face, reaching blindly across the bed for something of his to hold onto. He smiles into your ear, setting a steady pace with the feather against your slick pussy. And it’s embarrassing how quickly you fall apart. How your panties darken with gossamer beads of slick, and he hasn’t even done his worst.

Toss your head side to side, desperately clinging to him. Whispering his name like a broken mantra, undulating your hips like the lazy drag of a tide against a fucking feather.

“Sylus,” you breathe, not sure what you’re begging for. “Sylus, please.”

“Want me to stop?” he croons, not once relinquishing his pace. Agonizingly slow, the tip of the quill agitating your swollen clit.

You shake your head, your lip swollen and tucked between your teeth. He takes your cue, tugging your blouse the rest of the way towards your neck. Your bra follows, and you exhale slow when sweltering lips close around a pebbled nipple.

He throbs through the thick layers of his clothes, twitching against your hip, begging to be set free. His focus is on you, however, and he laves at your nipple, sending pleasant tingles throughout your body, crashing into your center.

“Fuck, Sy. I’m gonna-I’m gonna—”

“Cum?” he breathes against your tit, the sticky, wet sound of his lips suckling on your nipple making your pussy clench. “Cum for me, sweetheart. Please. Need you to.”

You pant, pushed near that slurry edge. Home in on that feeling brewing between your legs. On the sensation of the feather bumping your clit, the pitch of his voice, his ragged breaths intermingling with yours.

He’s in your ear again. Hot, muttering a litany of praise. “Pretty girl. So, so good for me. Let it go. Give it to me, sweetheart.”

And you do just that.

Your back arches, eyes screwed shut behind the blindfold. A cry lodged in your throat, and the world slides into white. Tremors of satisfaction tear through you. Ripple from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes. Your fingers tingle. Ears ring.

You laugh all breathless as you come down, shuddering. Overstimulated whilst Sylus continues to ease the feather up and down the milky mess of your cunt.

“Delicious,” he hums, angling your face towards him with tender fingers beneath your chin. Draws you into a languid kiss, milking vulgar sounds from betwixt your lips.

masterlist | banner by @cafekitsune.

[n0tamused]

Hi! Could I request Jiyan, who didn't realise he was in love with his best friend!reader until he almost lost them. The moment he held them unconscious in his arms everything just clicked.

Angst with a happy ending, please.

A/n: sorry this took some time to write! I initially planned to write this as some short drabble/scenario but as you can see, things went out of control lol I do hope you enjoy this :) Also a small note - I initially wrote this with you/yours stuff, but I wanted to experiment this method, so I do apologize if there is some mistakes left here regarding that. Do tell me which one you guys prefer more? You/yours or they/them/she/her.

Contents: Jiyan x GN!Reader, they/them pronouns, blood and injuries, angst but turns to bittersweet at the end, fluff? They both live at the end so we can count it as a happy ending.

Words: 3867

'I can't do this without you'

Holding the weight of a body in his arms never felt heavier before. The gradual added weight on his heart and lungs kept getting heavier and heavier by the moment, he was sure it would make his ribs burst from the pressure. And he wouldn’t be surprised if the next time he looked down he saw his own heart beating outside his very body. (Y/n) was pale, bleeding and giving no response to any action he took. “Please..” His lips muttered, but to what extent his plea stretched out, no one could tell. 

His dragon came crashing through the waves of TDs like a storm, breaking apart their limbs and turning them to ash before he himself emerged from its glowing maw, jumping in front of (Y/n) with spear in hand. Jiyan’s face twisted in a fierce scowl, his sharp eyes hooded beneath his knit brows as he plunged into the remaining monsters that lurked around. But not even after he dealt with them did he achieve the quiet that usually followed a concluded battle. The buzzing in his ears did not stop. His heart beat still thundered between his ears, and the sound only multiplied once his golden eyes landed on the falling body of his dearest companion.

There was no time, he told himself, gathering all the courage and patience he found within himself, gathering them in his arms and fleeing from the charred fields as if fire was threatening to lick up his heel. The buzzing sound was deafening, so akin to silence yet it was everything but. He heard nothing else, but he heard it all. As he pushed his way past the soldiers at the front, eyes wide and staring into the void, trusting only his feet to find the path for him. He needs nothing else but to hurry and scold himself for not being able to go faster.

He carried them into the first medical tent his eyes landed on, the flap of the tent slapping out of place and before his form and before he could process the light slap the material did to his cheek, he was placing them down onto one rolled out mat in the corner. He saw the lips of the medical staff move, but no words reached his ears, and for all he knew he could’ve been barking or whispering at them to do something - to help them. He joined in the efforts, plucking out the gauze and the antiseptics from  the corners of the tent and gathering them next to the mat as one healer already began to cut away their dirty clothes to gain better access to the wound. 

The bare skin glistened with blood, the only shade of theirs that could make Jiyan feel sick to the stomach. Other healers in the tent looked at him in bewilderment as his breathing was yet to calm down, labored and ragged, but his hands held utmost care and precision as he started on the gauze, already keeping steps ahead and waiting until the healer next to him peeled the clothes away. Each layer unfolded like a wet petal, revealing the yawning gash underneath. Jiyan’s golden eyes turned a shade darker under the pressure and the light in the tent, turning a shade of olive instead, sick with worry. Were they gone already? He looks at their face, glimpsing their peaceful expression, dotted with splatters of blood and grime. They’re still bleeding, he notes as his fingers become slick with blood whilst he worked on their wound, there was still a beating heart inside of them, and that meant life. His mind spun prayers on repeat, prayers he thought he had long since forgotten the words of, favoring battle chants over putting his hope into something he couldn’t see or touch. How long till (Y/n) wakes?

Long time has passed until his mind has reeled back around to the present. He was alone now, aside from (Y/n), huddled on a small wooden chair in the opposite corner from which he could see them, patched up and under the light. His hands, once so calm and steady, had begun to shake as realization settled within him. How he could have so easily lost them, with so many words yet to be spoken, hurt more than any wound he sustained. Blood caked on his fingers, falling off into dust as he flexed them into a fist before releasing again. All the worry made him angry, and anger never suited him. It made him think badly, irrationally, and in the silence that followed the medical emergency of their state, all thoughts took root deep within his mind and soul, festering like a neglected cut. (Y/n) shouldn’t have been allowed on the front lines, he should have set them back, or even better - he should have misused his position and sent them home, risking to humiliate them for being sent home for seemingly nothing, other than his selfish need to keep them safe on all accounts. 

Sighing, Jiyan shuddered at his own mind’s skilled ways of wearing him down. It played out his image and character in ways he knew he’d never act. He’d never do those things, but in such a state as he was in, he nearly believed it all. Pressing his forehead into the clean heels of his palms he stared at his own boots until the silence became a soft comforting buzz. Sleep had tried to pull himself down his eyelids, but each time he refused it, eventually finding himself sitting at their side again, instead of the faraway corner. Long hours had passed, and Jiyan felt the camp go to bed with the night settling in the corners of the world. But he couldn’t, it would be a disservice to you if he left you alone, but his duty called - and he internally begged for forgiveness as he stepped out of the tent to check up on all the others, cleaning his hands while he was at it. 

There was blood on his hands.

And it was theirs.

And he’d never be able to wash it away, no matter how hard he scrubbed, or how many times he washed his hands. 

Morning came chill and misty, but Jiyan’s body felt none of it. The cold clung onto him like a second coat, greeting him like an old friend and embracing him as the same. He only hoped the cold did not embrace them too. The night was sleepless for Jiyan, and after he had ensured the safety of others and checked in with his Captains, he had found his way back to the medical tent he left (Y/n) in. 

“There’s a lot for me to say, my dear…friend..” Jiyan’s pale lips formed the last word hesitantly, treating it as an impostor instead of the usual warming endearment in which fashion he used it years ago. The word had long since become strange to him, yet he wished not to risk disrespecting them in this state, heavily considering the fact they may not even share in his sentiments.  “Yet you seem so eager to cut your life short.. “ he sneered lightly, not at them, but rather at himself, blame always within reach to be pulled towards himself by his very hand.

“What would  I do without you..? Who would I be without you?” The world around him seemed to quiet down in silent sympathy.  “You mean so much more than you believe, more than you know.. I’ve wished to tell you, but all you force me to do is scold you and weep over you like some child… like when we were kids…” 

A twitch, and then the fingers of (Y/n)’s hand grasped into a fist, making his eyes widen at the sight he barely glimpsed with his head hanging low, staring at the ground. His golden eyes snapped to their face, seeing the corners of their lips curl downward into a pain filled scowl. 

“(Y/n)!-” he beamed with all the softness his surprise would allow him as he kneeled beside them in one swift swoop. His hand came over their eyes to shield it from the light once he saw how their nose scrunched and brows knit together. Relief filled their eyes as the intrusive light no longer tried to pry them open so cruelly. Dizziness was still huge, feeling as if it split their blood apart, making it as light as clouds, and making them float on top of the mat. 

“What’re you.. rambling about…?” (Y/n) muttered, throat dry and voice coarse and wincing, their face once more ended up in a painful twist. Jiyan didn’t need all his medical knowledge to see they were still out of it, his frown deepening, but his heart raced up to climb into his throat. 

“I was saying how reckless you can be..” he whispered, blinking away the nervousness from his eyes. His other hand hovered over them, refusing to touch them in fear of hurting them. But his eyes drank in everything, looking for any anomalies that he may have not noticed before, although the chance he missed something was astronomically low with how keenly his eyes kept vigil over you throughout the night.  “Are you in pain? Tell me, I’ll help make it better” he told them, shuffling as he loomed over their body. 

(Y/n)’s eyes still refused to open after they fluttered shut, their throat bobbing, but swallowing nothing with how parched it felt. “Water..” They croaked, and suddenly light was kissing their eyelids again as Jiyan moved away in haste to fetch a bottle of water. 

He returned as quickly as he left, swift as the wind and helping them drink with one hand stabilizing their head and the other holding the bottle to their chapped lips, watching them carefully as they languidly took sips to drink. The gloved iron claw on his finger faintly scratched against their scalp, tangled between their hairs. Letting out a small sigh, thirst finally quenched, they finally opened their eyes to see just how disheveled and worried Jiyan looked. 

“Jiyan..” (Y/n) called him, watching as his face both hardened and mellowed at the drop of his name in that worn out tone. Their face looked confused to see him like this, not that they ever doubted he’d worry if they got injured, but the tension within this space felt like a maw of a beast, ready to snap its jaws shut. Something was amiss, something they couldn’t quite place.  The aching throb in their side didn’t subside, but they were able to somewhat ignore it for now, worry poisoning them into thinking of the worst - whatever could be worse than their own life nearly being taken away. The question remained unsaid, but it appeared as if Jiyan didn’t need the verbal communication to respond. 

“Nothing- don’t worry about it.. Please, lay down and tell me how you feel” He urged as he placed his palm onto their sweaty forehead, pushing it back onto the small pillow below. (Y/n) blinked, confused and scared and exhausted as he pawed gently at their skin, only pulling away after he ensured there was no rising heat. 

“I’m.. aching.. that’s all.. and sore all over”

“I believe that to be an understatement, this isn’t some small scratch.. You nearly..” Jiyan looks at the bandages, splotches of red already having bloomed through like little poppies in a faraway field. “I’ll get you something for the pain now… Don’t move.” It was a command, that last part, and left no room for any question or rebuttal as he lifted himself away, painfully severing the moment in favor of searching the place for painkillers and herbs. If there was a way to remain glued to their side and heal them in that way, he wouldn’t have ever left, and that option would have done his heart many favors.

“When will you start listening to orders?” he asked as he walked back to the mat, his hand grasping the gorge shaped pill box his mother gave him, his tone now heralding the lesson he was about to drop on them. His eyes refused to meet theirs as he crouched down again, popping the lid of the gorge open and letting two pills fall into his open palm. 

“Whenever you... decide to be less dense..” (Y/n) responded with a small cough that rippled the pain from their wound, and wincing they forced themselves to stay still. He did not take sweetly to the jest, his eyes focusing on them like a target, a beloved one at that.

“You should have called out.. I was there, I could have helped you out. You didn’t need to get hurt, and all because of your faulty sense of independence” Jiyan kept going, urgency for them to understand his side coloring his voice. He helped them sit slowly, apologizing for making them move in a husky and quiet tone, apologizing for making them sit and be here and be in pain, swallowing the big tasteless pills. 

Keeping their silence, (Y/n) looks down, guilt seeping through their veins and weary body which seemed to know no rest now. 

Sore and worried and dizzy and ever forgetful in this half slumbering state they could only grasp at the thin strings of consciousness as Jiyan loomed over them like a hawk, restless in his pursuit to help, yet he remained in the dark as to how else to do so. What else could he do except think of healing magic he had no possession of. His teeth grinded together, golden eyes flickering over them and then up to their face, meeting their bleary gaze.

“I’m sorry…”

(Y/n) whispered, one hand over their chest as they took breaths in, slow and weak, but good - they were not the shallow breaths you took when he was racing back to the medics and other healers with them in his arms. This was better.

Jiyan’s heart stuttered at the low tone that broke under the pressure he had placed upon them, unwilling yet it was no less necessary if he wished to have them understand. Too many times he had sat down with them, told them to be careful, to follow protocol and all the talked about strategies, to value the teammates at their sides, yet it all seemed for naught. What did those conversations mean, they could not heal you now and make you whole again. 

A shaky sigh drops from Jiyan, pulling all the weight from his shoulders and making him sag in his spot, head hanging low and heavy. What was he supposed to say?  He had words too many to share.

“It’s… fine.. What’s done is done, and we can’t change what happened.. It’s alright..”

“You’re mad at me..”

Of course he is. Grief has never bitten him so hard as in the moment he saw them stagger in the field, it made his stomach churn and his sides tickle as if wind passed through the hollows between his ribs. And he grieved as if he lost them while patching you up, so much so it poisoned him and made him mad, angry. 

“I.. I am not mad at you.. ” ‘I love you, why can’t you see?’ - a part of him wanted to say.

Blinking at him, tears bubbled up to their lash line, listening to him huff, unknowing of the inner turmoil he struggled through, the answer to close yet so far, holding you in suspense. Like a word about to be spoken.

“Why can’t you just listen to orders.. You throw yourself into danger as if you have lives to spare” Jiyan began, finding their eyes in a stern glare which mellowed out quickly. “You are not valued only as a soldier to be thrown across the board but as a human, someone’s companion.. (Y/n)..”

There’s a plea in his tone, and another in his eyes, and his fingers itch with the need to hold onto them, to let the venom of his grief seep into them too, to make them see, understand. It’s like a beast he’s hardly keeping at bay. When was the last time he felt so strongly about someone? Anyone? And to the point he’s shedding his general persona to give way to a man desperate to keep the few people he holds dear alive. Jiyan couldn’t name anyone.

“I understand that, but Jiyan.. how many nights have we spent talking about the day of peace? When there’s going to be no wars to fight? I know-” A cough interrupts them, but Jiyan does not jump at that opportunity to cut them off and scold them - he waits. “..I know it’s a childish dream, a hope, but peace is achievable. And if it means getting battered and bruised and hurt along the way, then so be it  - the road to peace is not paved in a bed of flowers..” (Y/n) frowns, nearly pouting, and in some absentminded state, their hand flails in the air in search of his, a purchase he gladly grants without a thought. 

Shaky fingers curl around his gloved ones, a tinge smaller, and more fragile than his own with the state now. They lack the grip they usually possess, yet they grasp and hold and he holds back, squeezing a bit tighter. God knows, he shares their view, their childish hope, but he can’t agree with it, not now.  “(Y/n).. Peace will mean little if you’re dead to see it..” It’s a whisper, as fragile as the wings of a hatchling, and as soft as the summer breeze. 

“That all will mean nothing to me either, it won’t be peace if you’re not with me to see it..” he added, his other hand grasping over their own, thumbing at their soft skin. He swallows thickly, hoping to wish away the tears that threaten to come up to his eyes.  “I lo-... I love …you…” 

Realization is slow to settle, but he sees it in their face, their eyes that fail to blink as they take him in, deciphering his words one by one, failing, at first, to understand their weight from the usual affections they shared before. Parting their lips, they fail to respond, their eyes flickering to the surroundings before they return to him, and it was as if all air had been knocked out of their lungs.  The meaning is written all over him, communicated through all ways but verbal and it was enough. They were children together, growing up and exploring the world, plucking strange berries from nature and sharing them together, they grew up together.

Now they are grown, and (Y/n) focuses on the thought that has appeared in their mind countless times before - growing old together. It was just out of reach, and it was not guaranteed and their actions on the battlefield nearly made it certain that the future would not embrace them together. Trying to blink the tears away, they look at Jiyan, apologetic and ashamed, but where they wished to seek forgiveness was unneeded, as Jiyan had already forgiven it, no matter the hurt. 

“I love you too-” The words were accompanied by a stray tear wetting their cheek. 

Hushed breaths and shuffling of clothes flutter, and in a blur, Jiyan had pulled himself ever closer, sitting at their side and ever so carefully drawing them to his chest. His movements are slow and calculated even in the face of such strong emotion, too fearful to hurt them. 

He lets them rest their face into the crook of his neck, eyes fluttering closed as they both simply hold onto one another, and it was in that moment he felt them squeeze him back, full of blooming life and energy. His fingertips itched for a stronger embrace but he controlled himself. 

“I love you..” he repeated, even more quiet and directly beside their ear. “Please.. listen to me.. I only wish to keep you safe.. alive most of all.. Understand me..” They nod their head against him, their fingers clawing at his back with a little more strength, holding on as if he was a ghost ready to vanish.  “You’re my candlelight leading me through the darkness.. I can’t do it without you..”

“Oh, Jiyan..” They crack their voice over his name, eyes seeing a mosaic of colors through tears ready to be shed. “I only wish to help you.. Under all this armor and uniform, I can see you struggling too.. How can I not become a little desperate when I see all my other attempts to help you have failed?” They sigh, their breath tickling the skin underneath this chin and he shudders to think of this mutual tug-of-war. They can’t win, neither can. 

“You leave my struggles to me.. I do not withhold them for no reason, but I see that has done me, us, more harm than good..” He says but fails to make another sentence, knowing he’d rather not burden them with his own worries, and he’d much rather hear of their own. 

“Just.. promise me this” he begins, pulling away and making them face to face. “You will not jump to take any more blows for me, in no amounts at all. I’m the one that should guard you, and not the other way around” He is firm in his case, and even if (Y/n) had the strength to argue, they wouldn’t. This was final.

Closing your eyes and giving a little bow of their head, they profess their agreement to his words without a word of their own. And sinking back into his embrace felt like sinking into a bed of feathers, soft, warm and welcoming. “Fine..”

“We’ll talk more about this once you’ve healed..” Jiyan muttered, his lips ghosting their brow and feeling them nod against him again. His hand rubs up and down their back, and his lips land on their cheek, lingering there in a gentle expression of his love that knew no bounds.

The flickering light and the sudden silence made his mind wander, and his body began to rock back and forth slowly, hoping to ease you into slumber. He wondered how it would feel to hold them again, when they were healed and not even a scar remained of their injury; how it would feel to kiss their brow and hold their cheek in his palm, to see those lights stare back at him from within their eyes, full of mirth and devoid of pain; he thinks how comforting it would feel to feel you flush against him each morning, holding your warm body close and tucking them under the covers when they shift in their sleep… So many images run through his mind, and he prays he gets to see them materialize in reality. 

For now he was fine with holding them, serving their needs until war reeled its ugly head again, and he had to leave once more. For his people and (Y/n) he’d grow great miles to achieve peace, even if it meant losing his own peace. 

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[dumbbitchgalore]

Old man!Price wants his birdie to fly away 🕊

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Moans and groans are emitted from the confines of your shared bedroom.

A room reserved for love, loyalty and lust between the two souls once again entrap all emotions of togetherness. A sense of closeness between two entities that one would have though to be impossible.

The neatness of the space now poisoned with the frangrance of sex and passion with not so much of an ounce of adoration to be found in the crevaces of the place. Clothes hastely thrown on the floor without much care, the bedsheets wrinkled losing it's prefectness.

She laid there sprawled across the mattress, her hair tousled, her lipstick smudged as its once pristine application now mirror onto John's face.

Salacious touches exhanged, their voice brittle and breathy. Contaminating the serenity of the grand vacinity, their vile performance manifesting within every perimetre.

John looks into her eyes, searching for a semblance of his little birdie within them. However, all he found was an amorous desire spilling out of her spirit for him, a momentary pleasure. He knew this well, the reason why he chose her to warm his bed. His face scrunches up with lust, release and condemnation.

She warmed his bed too well, the cotton beneath them felt like the scorching vehemence of hell donning on the pair. Despite such sentiments, his pace never faltered. Ramming into her like the bastard that he was, in heat and with a simple thought in his mind; he needed to finish this before the affects of his viagra came to an end.

His momento hastened as he goal was in sight. Littering her jaw with short, fleeting kisses, he buries his face between her breasts. Her greddy heart thundering against her ribs at it echoed against John's ear.

With one last thrust, his nympholepsy came undone as the familiar feeling returns once again. He pulls himself out of her and rests next to the woman before taking off his condom and throwing it to the side neglectfully.

In these moments, his mind would finally come to a close. The loudness of his counscious dying down dilatorily but today, his mind was very much so talkative. Without taking a single breath, it spoke and spoke and spoke, its heart not being content with the words it said.

The woman next to him smiles softly reaching out to caress his cheek.

"Damn, did you really take viagra?" She questions, unable to understand why someone who exudes the opulance of virility needed such a drug.

He grunts in response, affirming her inquiry and simply closes his eyes trying to tune out the voices that plague his being.

On the other side of the room, footsteps are heard approching near but John does not make fuss to hide his undignified state. Rather, he allows for the the hinges of the door to creak open.

Her eyes widen at the scene in front of her. Is the truly reality or did her vision betray her?

She steps into the desolate sleeping quarters, taking in the pungent smell of adultery that she thought was impossible to conjure. Tear well, blurring her sight as she tries to convince herself that what she is seeing is untrue.

John simply stares at the intruder before sighing heavily and laying back down into the bed.

"Can't you see I'm busy here, Birdie? Why don't you come back later when my friend here is gone, hm?" He says without an ounce of regret visible, as his heart tore to pieces.

Surely this will at last make her leave and find someone better than him, yes?

[thedancingcostumeyoungadult]

Lucius Verus x wife!Reader

A blissful evening with your husband Lucius gets heated

Content: smut 18+, porn with very little plot, oral (f receiving), unprotected piv (wrap it irl but this is about a fictional Roman so 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️), overstim, breeding? Maybe?, if I forgot anything lmk!!

Words: 3k

~~

You return home just steps ahead of Lucius, pausing on the doorstep as his horse thunders into the courtyard and comes to a restless halt in front of the young man that had jogged out to meet him. He spies you in the threshold in the same moment he swings himself off the mount, his smile warming you even at your distance. You allow yourself the indulgence of watching him as he checks over the animal, his broad shoulders flexing easily under his simple white tunic and the late afternoon sun washing his arms in gold. He’s quick but thorough, leaving one last pat on its nose before turning his attention back to you, calling up the short pathway as he moves towards you with easy strides.

“A beautiful beast, isn’t he?” He’s close enough now to see his eyes illuminated in the blaze of the setting sun, the sensation of being under his gaze just as intense as the day you’d met him, soft even as they’re pinning you to the spot. 

“I wasn’t watching the beast.” He huffs out a low laugh, taking the last few steps to bring himself into your space and crowding you gently back until you’re leaned against the doorframe. Your chest barely brushes his, but you’re sure he must be able to feel your heartbeat with the way it’s trying to hammer itself straight out of your ribs. The air grows thick between you as he leans down to hover his face merely a breath from yours, just a hair from brushing your lips with his. At your back you feel his hand come to rest on the wood of the doorframe, the touch and the proximity forcing a deep, shuddering breath into your lungs. He watches you closely, his eyes flitting down to your lips and back, the wisps of his smile still dancing in his expression. You wait for him to say something, but he stays quiet for a long moment just admiring you. Slowly, he closes the gap to press his lips to yours in a heady, lingering kiss that shoos away your thoughts like fish from the line and causes your eyes to flutter shut. The hand bracing him on the doorway shifts instead to your face, tilting your chin into the kiss as an intensity grows behind it. Your own hands rise to his sides as you return his fervor, his sturdy frame steadying you even as his kiss tilts the earth beneath your feet. 

You part as slowly as you had come together, sharing a breathless moment before his lips curve into a teasing smile.

“Did you need a closer look?” Your laugh bubbles up unbidden, the tension of the moment eased as he steals another kiss from you. He takes a step back as you swat at his shoulder, gesturing for you to go ahead of him over the threshold and stepping in after you. At the small washbasin in the corridor he pauses, dipping his hands in the perfumed water as you continue up the stairs.

~~~

The soft clink of hairpins landing in your little dish sounds through the air as Lucius comes through the door of your shared chambers, finding you standing by your vanity, loosened hair falling about your shoulders. He takes a few steps into the room, his eyes trailing leisurely up and down your full figure, the delicate fabric draped over you in a tantalizing haze, just teasing the shape of your breasts under the gathers as you turn and catch him. 

“Did you need a closer look?” A teasing lilt colors your voice as you toss his words back to him, fully facing him now, giving him a new perspective of the faint silhouette of you, now backlit by the lamp on the vanity behind you. His gaze traces up to the lovely contours of your face, a face that has come to feel like home to his heart. Gently, he reaches across the remaining distance to slip your hand into his. 

“Kiss me.” The tilt of his head is all charm, all sparkling eyes and a lovesick smile as you take a few steps nearer, letting him draw you in. He raises the back of your hand to his lips, holding eye contact for a charged moment as he dots a constellation of kisses up your forearm. 

“Ask me again.” Your request is met with deep hum as his arm slides neatly around your waist and he drops a soft kiss to your cheekbone before leaning in to brush his nose against yours.

“Kiss me,” His hand runs up your back, cupping the back of your neck tenderly, his deep whisper rumbling in your chest “mea vita, please.” You don’t make him wait, tipping forward on the balls of your feet just enough to press your lips firmly to his. It’s almost immediate the way he melts into you, your own arms wrapping around his shoulders as he lets out a small sound of appreciation from deep in his chest. The kiss feels like a dance, flowing this way and that until you break away for want of air. In the moment of pause Lucius jumps on the opportunity to lift you easily into his arms, taking a gratuitous handful of your ass as he does, your legs wrapping around his waist as a rush of warmth rises in your belly. He carries you to the bedside, tossing you down with a lack of ceremony that makes your body flush with heat. His gaze turns to something primal and ravening as your body bounces against the soft bedcover, his hands already working to free himself of his clothes as he towers over you. Fabric rustles to the floor and you can’t help your hands as they reach out to run up his stomach, fixated by the feeling and sensation of the muscles flexing under your touch. As you reach his chest, gold rings glittering on your fingers as they splay over the broad expanse, his own hands come to cover yours and he sinks to his knees before you. Goosebumps prickle up your arms in the wake of his palms as he slides them up to grip your waist, leaving your own palms still resting on his shoulders. A flash of some mischief lights his eyes and pulls you sharply forward, sending you toppling backwards with a surprised squeak at finding yourself all of a sudden on your back and staring up at the frescoed ceiling with your husbands rough hands rucking your stola up around your hips to expose your already shining pussy to him.

“Lucius!” You half protest, met with only a low hum as he inspects you, holding your thighs open with a decisive grip. His thumbs spread you further, the sight of your pussy practically begging for him driving away all thought but the need to taste you, to devour you, to take your pleasure into himself like the nectar of the gods. The only thing sweeter to him than the taste of you that washes over his tongue as he licks a long stripe through your folds is the lovely sound that bubbles from you as he does, the hands once resting on his shoulders practically flying to tangle in his hair. Your body responds to him so easily, arching and needy under him as he does just as he knows you like, skilled tongue lapping up the mess. 

You’re swept away by his intensity, head reeling as his ministrations rocket you all too quickly towards your release. Pleasure burns through you as you rock your hips into it, catching your puffy clit on his nose for an electrifying split second that pulls a cry from your chest. Distantly you worry that your grip on his hair might be hurting him, but he seems not to even notice, too focused on his mission to wring as many of those sweet little sounds out of you as he possibly could. He’s promptly rewarded as you unravel on his tongue, your voice a cresting symphony as your body bucks and writhes then falls into soft pants and whines as you go slack under him. He leaves the warmth of your thighs with one last suckle of your clit, smiling to himself at the way you twitch as he sits back on his heels, admiring the mess he’s made of you for a moment before rising again to his feet. His cock strains for you in a way that’s become nearly impossible to resist or ignore, made even worse by the image of you splayed out before him, chest heaving and eyes soft and unfocused as you blink hazily up at him with a lazy smile. 

One step forward brings him between your legs again, the hot length of his cock pressing against you, slipping through the slick to grind slowly down against your clit. The pressure glows through your belly and into your chest like a flood and the low, lascivious sound it draws from you rocks through Lucius like an impact. It sets his bones on fire and he’s on you like a man possessed, his mouth desperate as he sweeps you into open, sloppy kisses still slick with your essence that wander from your lips down your throat and back, meanwhile he’s working the pins holding your stola at the shoulders open and discarding them. You lift your hips for him to drag the fabric away and let it fall atop his own garments. Your hips lower just as his hands slide beneath them. A primal grunt rips from his chest as he heaves you bodily farther onto the bed, tossing you with an ease that makes you clench your thighs against the throb between them. 

Lucius takes only a moment to watch as you land, the way your breasts bounce and your thighs jiggle rendering his straining cock downright painful. His chest feels as though it will burst for want of you and he wastes no more time in climbing up to hover above you, catching one of your nipples in his mouth while the opposite hand slides with just enough pressure to make you squirm up your ribcage to cup beneath the other. 

Your head is spinning, from both your very recent orgasm and his manhandling of you all combining with the way he’s lavishing attention to your sensitive nipple, overwhelming you but also stirring in you the demand for more. Your hands grip desperately at Lucius’ shoulders for some kind of relief just as he drops some of his weight onto you, his hips pressing you deeper into the mattress. This, to you, is one of the sweetest sensations of life, to have him above you, focused on you, his weight comforts as though it was something of yours being returned after too long. 

“Please-“ you don’t have to finish your plea for Lucius to understand, leaving a sweet kiss to the swell of your breast as he aligns himself, the smooth flex of his shoulders as he does giving you a mouthwatering view for the split second before he’s sliding the tip of his cock inside you. At the intrusion your body reacts viscerally, squeezing your eyes shut as a salacious moan falls from your lips, pressure and pleasure choking you as you take him in inch by inch. The sound he makes in answer is low and relieved, his cock now buried as deep as you can take him, your body welcoming him easily into your sweet warmth. He holds himself just above you on one elbow, the other hand engulfing the side of your face to turn it to his and once again the nearness steals what breath the weight of him between your thighs had left you.

“Is that what you needed, carissima?” His voice brings a fresh round of butterflies to your stomach, sweet and rich like dates and honey, tender in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. The roll of his hips drags his cock along your walls, a head-spinning sensation that you had still not quite gotten used to and bubbles through your veins like molten iron from the forge of Vulcan himself. Instead of an answer you catch his lips in a searing kiss, one hand tracing up the back of his neck to tangle your fingers once again in his curls. The intensity rises within seconds, crackling between your bodies as your tongue slides along his lip, teasing and inviting in one. He smiles into you, basking in the soft curves of your hips and belly where his body meets yours, the silken curtain of your hair and the faint scent of Jasmine flower that lingers on your skin. His hand leaves your cheek, dragging slowly down your body, groping and clutching with a reverent lust until he reaches your thigh. Hiking your leg higher around his hip he hits a new angle within you that draws a cry from you that only spurs him on. 

Your fingernails draw little red lines down his sides as you clutch at him, your whole body burning for release as the pressure in your belly mounts as he fucks into you with all of his power. All you know is the feeling of him as your head spins and your hips buck mindlessly as best they can under his weight, the delicious burn of the thick patch of hair at his base as you rub your clit against it pushing you just to the edge. The hand not holding you open for him slides behind your head, tilting it so that he could lean in close to your ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs there just enough to send a shiver through you as he speaks to you low and dark.

“I think this is what you needed, sweet thing, hmm? You just needed me to fill this beautiful pussy.” An almost pathetic whimper sounds from your chest and Lucius can feel the clench and flutter of your pussy around him as you again fall over the precipice. He stills as you tremble, pressing small tender kisses to your cheek.. “There you go, mea vita, good girl.” The aftershocks still rock through you, causing you to clench on his cock where he still sits nestled in you. The sensation makes him hiss, his own release tantalizingly close as he lets you catch your breath. You make a small huff of protest as he lifts himself up, echoing his low moan as he slips out of you. He keeps himself close above you even as he guides you gently onto your stomach, kneeling next to you as he rubs his hand up and down your back. Lucius marvels  as you settle into the pillows, your eyes fluttering closed with the sweetest look of content and a lock of hair falling across your face. He ignores the throb of his cock where it still sits hard and aching between his legs to reach out and tuck the errant strands away behind your ear. 

“You should finish.” Your slurred mumble makes him chuckle, which quickly turns to a deep intake of breath as you open your thighs, lifting and tilting your hips just right to give him a perfect view of you, a strand of desire dangling between your thigh and your messy folds. He throbs at the sight of it, his hand unconsciously coming to grip the back of your thigh in such a way that opens you enough for him to see the way your pussy gapes open just barely as though begging for him to return to you. The draw of you is so powerful he can’t resist, his fingers digging into the soft plush of your hips as he hoists your backside into the air, putting your back into a pretty arch for him and further exposing the way your pussy pleads for him at the same time as he moves to kneel between your legs. He guides himself back into you with a steady thrust and you fuss softly under him, squirming as he glides through the thick mess of your release. The sound of him fucking into your soft warmth echoes in the room, mingling with the sweet sounds that fall from you.

“Shh shhh, hold on,” Lucius’ voice rumbles in your ear, hushing you as you whine under him, the slow roll of his hips almost torturous to your sensitive pussy as your cheek smushes against the plush pillow. “Hold on, my heart, just a little more.” He drapes himself carefully over you, driving himself to a new depth inside you in a way that pins you beneath him almost helpless from the intensity. You gasp as he drives the air from your lungs, just barely managing to choke out his name as he presses hot kisses to the back of your shoulder, not missing the way you flutter around him as he does. One of his big hands comes up to carefully brush the hair away from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear and tracing his fingertips down to cup the back of your neck as he presses a few tender kisses to your cheek. Your fingers twist in the fabric beneath you as your oversensitive pussy throbs around his heavy length, just on the line between pleasure and pain as he fucks into you. 

“So good, carissima, fuck-” His hips lose their rhythm, stuttering and stilling as a rough sound that borders on a growl rips from him while the heavy warmth of his spend spills into your belly. You're boneless under him as you both remain suspended in a soft moment, the warmth of his body at your back and the tender kisses he dots along your shoulder melting you still further.

“You with me, mea vita?” All you can manage is a small hum and a shift of your hips, drawing a hiss from Lucius at the friction where he's still buried in you. With a soft laugh he leans forward to capture your lips with his, swallowing the whine that falls from you as he slips out and the next from the feeling of him dripping from you. After a few seconds he breaks from you, running his hands reverently down your form as he sits back on his heels, taking in the delicious picture of you, fucked out and blissful as you bury yourself in the pillows with a contented hum. He finds his place behind you, gathering your relaxed form against him with careful tenderness. 

You search blindly, eyes too heavy to open, until you find his hand and twine your fingers with his, bringing his knuckles up to press a kiss to them before tucking both yours and his hands against your stomach and nestling deeper against his chest. Sleep drifts at the edge of your mind, your body warm and tingling in the afterglow of satisfaction that blankets the both of you. 

“Love you.” Your little murmur is so soft Lucius almost misses it, his own warm sleepy haze dragging at him. A smile pulls at his lips and he presses one more kiss to the back of your head. 

“I love you.”

~~

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are very appreciated I'd love to hear your thoughts!!

[moonlitstoriess]

The Heir and the Outlaw-Eris Vanserra x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: In the shadows of the Autumn Court, where betrayal is currency and power is survival, Eris Vanserra has finally had enough. To dethrone his tyrannical father, Beron, he strikes an uneasy deal with Y/N, an outsider with her own vendetta against the High Lord. Their alliance is fraught with tension, mistrust, and a dangerous chemistry that threatens to burn them both. As plots unravel and secrets come to light, Eris and Y/N must decide if their fragile bond is strong enough to survive the inferno—or if they’ll both be consumed by it.

see masterlist

Warnings: just a mix of everything really lmao, also its really long guys😭

The throne room was suffocating.

Heat radiated from the great stone hearths lining the walls, their flames licking upward as if they too bowed to the High Lord’s wrath. Yet it wasn’t the fire that burned Y/N’s skin—it was the weight of a hundred gazes, each one eager to see her fall. The Autumn Court was a den of wolves, and she was the wounded prey dragged into their midst.

She stood in the center of the room, wrists bound with rough iron, the metallic tang of blood on her lips where one of Beron’s soldiers had struck her. The crimson trail was drying now, stiff on her skin, but the defiance in her eyes hadn’t dimmed. Not even as Beron stared down at her from his throne of flame and iron, his cruel smile a weapon sharper than any blade.

Beron tilted his head, studying her like one might examine a particularly irritating insect. “You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble, haven’t you?” His voice was low, smooth—a predator’s purr before the strike.

Y/N didn’t answer. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Her silence drew a ripple of amusement from the courtiers gathered in the shadows. The sycophants, the schemers, all perched like vultures awaiting the kill. Among them stood a tall male with red hair that caught the firelight. She barely glanced at him, her focus fixed on the High Lord, but somewhere in the back of her mind, a thought lingered: Another one of his cruel sons. Eris? Maybe one of the others. Does it even matter? To her, they all looked the same—arrogant, sharp-edged, and entirely untrustworthy.

Beron’s smirk deepened. “Nothing to say? I suppose that’s to be expected from a filthy little outlaw.”

The word hit its mark, but Y/N refused to flinch. Yes, she was an outlaw. A ghost in the shadows, a thorn in Beron’s side. Her work had earned her plenty of enemies in the Autumn Court, in both the human and fae realms really, but she hadn’t been reckless enough to get caught. Not until now.

“You’ve been trespassing in my lands, stealing from my stores, and stirring trouble among my people,” Beron continued, his voice growing colder with each accusation. “And here you are, bold enough to stand before me and think you’ll leave with your head still attached.”

A flash of fear sparked in her chest, quickly buried beneath a rising tide of anger. She had known the risks, but Beron’s accusations weren’t entirely true. Not all of them, at least. Yes, she had stolen, had trespassed, but she hadn’t done it for herself. The people of the villages—Beron’s own subjects—had suffered under his greed, his neglect. Someone had to help them. Someone had to fight back.

But that wasn’t why she was here. Not entirely.

The vendetta that burned in her veins had nothing to do with stolen goods or ruined crops. It had everything to do with the family she’d lost, the lives Beron had taken in his endless quest for power. She had come to this court with a plan, with revenge etched into her bones, and now it was crumbling before her eyes.

Beron rose from his throne, the flames at his back surging higher. “I should kill you here and now. It would be a fitting end for a little thief.”

She braced herself, even as her heart thundered against her ribs.

But instead of a blade, Beron waved his hand dismissively. “Lock her in the dungeons. I’ll decide her fate when I feel like it.”

Rough hands grabbed her arms, and Y/N didn’t struggle as they dragged her from the room. The red-haired male—Eris, she was now certain—watched her go, his expression unreadable. She told herself she didn’t care. He was just another piece of this rotten court, another predator in a den of monsters.

Still, his gaze lingered, and for a moment, Y/N thought she saw something flicker in his amber eyes.

She didn’t have time to wonder what it was. The heavy doors slammed shut behind her, sealing her in darkness.

The dungeon was everything she expected of the Autumn Court—cold, damp, and reeking of decay. Iron bars lined the narrow corridor, their rusted edges gleaming faintly in the dim torchlight. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and despair, and somewhere in the darkness, water dripped in a slow, mocking rhythm.

Y/N was shoved into a cell without ceremony. She stumbled but caught herself before she hit the stone floor. The door slammed shut behind her with a metallic clang, the sound echoing through the empty halls.

The guard sneered through the bars. “Enjoy your stay, thief.”

She didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him. Instead, she backed into the far corner of the cell, the damp stone biting into her palms as she sat down. The guard lingered for a moment longer, as if waiting for her to break, before finally retreating down the corridor.

Silence settled like a heavy blanket, broken only by the occasional drip of water.

Y/N let her head fall back against the wall, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply, trying to steady her racing thoughts. This wasn’t the plan. She had been careful—every move calculated, every step planned to avoid detection. She hadn’t expected Beron’s soldiers to find her, much less drag her into the heart of his court.

Her hands curled into fists. She had let her guard down, and now she was paying the price.

The hours crawled by, each one stretching into eternity. Hunger gnawed at her stomach, but she ignored it. The iron cuffs around her wrists made her skin itch, their magic suppressing the faint hum of power that always thrummed in her veins. She was trapped—physically, magically, and in every other way that mattered.

But she wasn’t done. Not yet.

Her eyes flicked open at the sound of footsteps.

They were light, measured, and deliberate. Not the heavy boots of a guard, nor the hurried steps of a messenger. These footsteps carried purpose.

Y/N sat hunched in her corner of the cell, her knees drawn up, feigning indifference as she stared at the cracked ceiling. She didn’t look up when the footsteps stopped outside her door.

The familiar scent of burning leaves hit her before she heard his voice.

“Still alive, then?”

Y/N’s head turned, slowly, to the source of the voice. The red-haired male from the throne room—Eris, she recalled now. She didn’t bother hiding her disdain as her gaze swept over him. He stood just beyond the bars, his arms crossed over his chest, his stance deceptively relaxed.

“I’d hate to disappoint,” she said dryly, her voice rasping from the damp air.

Eris’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. His sharp amber eyes flicked over her, cataloging every detail—the bruises on her wrists from the iron cuffs, the dirt smudged on her face, the rigid set of her jaw.

“I expected more from someone with your... reputation,” he said, his tone light but laced with something sharper.

Y/N shifted, stretching her legs out in front of her, pretending she didn’t care about the scrutiny. “And I expected more from a prince, but here we are.”

That earned her a genuine smirk, fleeting but real. Eris crouched down, his hands resting on his knees as he leveled her with a look. “You’re bold for someone in your position. It’s almost admirable.”

“Admirable,” she echoed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Coming from a Vanserra, I’m sure that’s a compliment.”

Eris tilted his head, unbothered by the jab. “Perhaps.”

The silence stretched between them, taut and heavy. Y/N’s gaze didn’t waver from his, though every instinct told her to stay on guard. Eris wasn’t here out of boredom—that much was clear.

“What do you want?” she asked finally.

Eris tapped a finger against his knee, his expression thoughtful. “Curiosity, mostly. My father seems quite taken with the idea that you’re a threat. I wanted to see if he was right.”

She scoffed, leaning back against the wall. “And? What’s the verdict?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. “The jury’s still out.”

Before she could reply, he rose to his full height, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat. “Enjoy your stay, outlaw,” he said, his voice dripping with mock courtesy.

Y/N’s jaw tightened as he turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor, his footsteps echoing into the distance.

He’s testing me, she realized, her fingers curling into fists. But for what?

The hours bled into days, or maybe it was the other way around. The oppressive darkness of the dungeon made time feel meaningless. Y/N had nearly convinced herself that the prince’s visit had been a one-time nuisance when the sound of footsteps echoed through the corridor again.

This time, she didn’t bother pretending not to notice. She sat cross-legged in the center of the cell, her sharp gaze locked on the shadowed figure that appeared outside her door.

Eris stopped just shy of the bars, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Still breathing, I see,” he said, his tone almost bored.

“Disappointed?” she shot back, her voice steadier than she felt.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his head tilting as he studied her. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Keep saying that, and I might start to believe it’s a compliment,” she said dryly.

Eris ignored her remark, his sharp gaze cutting through the darkness like a blade. “What were you doing in Autumn, Y/N?”

Her spine stiffened. “Shouldn’t your father have figured that out by now?”

“My father has his own theories,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “I prefer to form my own conclusions.”

She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “And what conclusion have you come to?”

“That you’re stubborn,” he said with a faint smirk. “And reckless. But perhaps not entirely stupid.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Glad to know I’ve met your high standards.”

Eris’s smirk widened, but his amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me something, Y/N. Do you enjoy playing the part of the martyr, or is it just second nature by now?”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she didn’t let it show. “What are you talking about?”

“You came here for a reason,” he said, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You didn’t stumble into Autumn by accident. So, what is it? Revenge? Spite? Or something bigger?”

Y/N’s stomach twisted, but she kept her expression neutral. “What makes you think I’ll tell you anything?”

Eris stepped closer, his fingers curling around the bars. For a moment, his mask slipped, and she caught a glimpse of something darker beneath the surface.

“Because,” he said softly, “I have a feeling you and I want the same thing.”

And then, just as quickly as he had come, he was gone.

Y/N hadn’t slept. Not properly, anyway. Every creak of the dungeon, every distant sound of boots on stone, kept her on edge. She couldn’t shake the memory of Eris’s last visit—the way he had looked at her, as if he already knew her secrets. As if he was just waiting for her to confirm them.

She sat against the cold wall, her legs stretched out in front of her, when she heard the footsteps again. Slower this time. Measured.

She didn’t move, didn’t bother looking up as the familiar scent of smoke and autumn leaves drifted through the air.

“You’re persistent,” she muttered as he stopped outside her cell.

Eris chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. “And you’re predictable. I’d have thought you’d be halfway to trying to escape by now.”

She finally looked up, her gaze sharp. “And give you the satisfaction of watching me fail?”

He didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, wrapped bundle. He tossed it through the bars, and it landed with a soft thud at her feet.

Y/N eyed it warily before unwrapping it to reveal a piece of bread and a small bottle of water. Her stomach twisted painfully, but she refused to let him see her gratitude.

“Generous of you,” she said dryly, taking a small bite.

Eris leaned casually against the bars, watching her with a faint smirk. “I need you alive, not starving.”

The words caught her off guard. She froze, the piece of bread halfway to her mouth. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, his tone light but his eyes serious. “Alive. Useful. That’s what you are to me.”

She set the bread down slowly, narrowing her eyes. “Care to elaborate?”

Eris stepped closer, his fingers wrapping around the cold iron bars. “I’ve been watching you. Listening. You’re not just some petty criminal with a grudge against my father. You’re smart. Resourceful. Dangerous, even.”

Y/N snorted, leaning back against the wall. “You’ve got a strange way of giving compliments.”

His smirk didn’t waver. “Call it what you want. The truth is, I need someone like you.”

She tilted her head, feigning disinterest. “For what?”

“To help me take him down.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. Y/N stared at him, her mind racing.

“You’re joking,” she said finally, though there was no humor in her voice.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” he shot back, his tone sharp.

Y/N crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. “Why should I believe you? You’re his son.”

“And you’re his enemy,” Eris said smoothly. “We have something in common.”

She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “And what? You just expect me to trust you?”

“No,” he admitted, stepping back from the bars. “But I do expect you to think about what I’m offering. You can rot in this cell, or you can help me take down the High Lord of Autumn.”

Y/N’s lips curled into a cold smile. “And what’s in it for you, Prince Eris?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His amber eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of something deeper—anger, resentment, maybe even pain.

“Freedom,” he said simply, his voice low. “For both of us.”

And just like that, he was gone again, leaving Y/N with more questions than answers.

The hours bled together, the oppressive silence of the dungeon broken only by the occasional drip of water or the scurry of unseen vermin. Y/N sat hunched in the corner of her cell, her fingers tracing patterns in the grime on the stone floor.

She should’ve been planning her next move, calculating her odds of survival. Instead, her mind replayed Eris’s words: "Freedom. For both of us."

The absurdity of it made her scoff under her breath. A son of Beron—freedom? The words didn’t fit together, not in any version of reality she’d ever known. She knew what the Autumn Court stood for. Knew what Beron and his ilk did to people like her.

And yet...

A faint rustling sound pulled her from her thoughts. Her eyes darted toward the source—a small, scruffy rat creeping under the bars of her cell. She tensed, prepared to scare it off, when she noticed the tiny scrap of paper tied to its leg.

Her heart skipped a beat.

The rat stopped just out of her reach, its black eyes glinting in the dim light. Slowly, deliberately, Y/N extended her hand. The rat flinched but didn’t run. She whispered soothing nonsense until she could untie the scrap of paper and the creature scurried away into the shadows.

She unfolded the note with trembling fingers, her eyes scanning the jagged, hastily scrawled words: "Stay alive. You’re not done yet. Trust no one."

The last line sent a chill down her spine. It wasn’t just a warning; it was a reminder of why she was here in the first place. The people who had sent her knew how much she had to lose—and how much she still had to gain.

But how?

Her thoughts raced as she stared at the note. The organization hadn’t abandoned her, but they didn’t seem to have a plan to get her out, either. And then there was Eris. His offer wasn’t trustable, not by a long shot. But it was a way out.

The sound of boots on stone shattered her thoughts. She crumpled the note in her fist, shoving it into her sleeve just as the familiar scent of smoke and autumn filled the air.

She didn’t need to look to know who it was.

“I see you’re still alive,” Eris drawled, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather.

“Disappointed?” she shot back, leaning against the wall.

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Not yet.” He stepped closer, his amber eyes flicking over her, searching for something. “Have you thought about my offer?”

“Have you thought about giving me a reason to believe you?” she countered.

Eris tilted his head, his smirk vanishing. “I’m giving you a choice, Y/N. Rot in this cell and hope your friends care enough to come for you, or work with me and ensure Beron pays for what he’s done.”

“Work for you, you mean,” she said, narrowing her eyes.

“No,” Eris said, his voice soft but cutting. “With me. We want the same thing. You know it.”

She stared at him, her mind a storm of doubts and possibilities. The note in her sleeve seemed to burn against her skin, its warning echoing in her head.

“Why me?” she asked, her voice quieter now.

Eris leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “Because I’ve seen what you’re capable of. And because I need someone who hates him as much as I do.”

The words hit her like a blow. He wasn’t lying; she could see it in his eyes. The hatred there wasn’t for show. It was deep, consuming, and real.

She let out a slow breath, her decision forming like a blade being sharpened. “If I agree to this... you’d better keep your end of the bargain.”

His smirk returned, sharp and dangerous. “You have my word.”

“Forgive me if that’s not worth much,” she said dryly.

Eris chuckled, stepping back. “Wise of you. Now eat something. You’ll need your strength.”

With that, he was gone again, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Y/N leaned her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. She had made her choice. Now, all she could do was wait for whatever came next.

The days blurred together in the prison’s suffocating darkness, the stench of damp stone and rotting food mixing with the cold bite of the air. Y/N had been left alone for what felt like an eternity, only the echo of her own thoughts to keep her company. But she had never been one to let solitude break her resolve. It was a harsh ally, but one that had kept her alive this long.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, the silence was shattered.

The faintest flicker of movement in the corridor, barely perceptible even to her trained eyes, was the only warning before the door to her cell creaked open. She tensed instinctively, her senses on high alert. Was it Beron’s guards? Had they come for her, to finish what they’d started?

But no.

The figure standing in the doorway wasn’t a guard.

It was Eris.

His amber eyes gleamed with something unreadable, but his posture was calm, controlled. Too controlled. He was trying to hide something, she realized, but not quite well enough.

“You’ve come,” Y/N said, her voice low but steady.

“Did you think I’d leave you in here forever?” Eris asked, his voice laced with a sharpness she couldn’t ignore. “You’re not the only one with a plan.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What’s your plan then?”

Eris didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached into the shadows beside the door, and a small, intricately carved box appeared in his hand. He set it down on the floor with a soft thud and knelt beside it.

“I’m getting you out,” he said, his tone more serious than she’d heard it before. There was no mockery now, no games. Only the weight of his words. “But you need to trust me.”

Y/N’s instinct was to step back, to keep her distance. Trust was a currency she hadn’t traded in years. She had learned that lesson the hard way. But she knew the reality of her situation. She was running out of options.

Eris opened the box. Inside, there was a set of carefully arranged tools—thin, metallic wires, a set of blackened knives, and what looked like a small vial of liquid.

“An escape plan?” she asked, her skepticism creeping in. “You think you can just waltz in here and pull me out like it’s nothing?”

Eris’s lips curled into a cold, almost cruel smile. “It won’t be easy. But it’ll work. That’s all that matters.” He lifted the vial, swirling the contents in the dim light. “This will mask our scent. It’ll make sure we’re not tracked.”

Y/N watched him closely, still unsure. But as he worked, as he moved with practiced efficiency, she couldn’t help but feel the faintest stir of something—a fragile hope, maybe.

“You know,” she said, her voice quieter, “I didn’t expect you to come through for me.”

“Why’s that?” Eris asked, glancing up at her from his task.

“Because you’re Beron’s son,” she answered sharply. “I don’t exactly have a history of trusting people like you.”

Eris didn’t flinch. Instead, he merely offered a small, cold smile. “And yet here we are.”

Y/N wanted to push him again, wanted to question his motives further, but something in the way he moved—so sure, so confident—made her pause.

As he worked, he spoke again, his tone casual, but there was an edge to it that made her pay attention. “This isn’t just about you, Y/N. I have a score to settle, too. If you’re going to help me, I need you to keep up.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “And why would I help you?”

Eris met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Because you want Beron to pay. And because you’ll need someone like me to get close enough to make that happen.”

She remained silent, her mind turning over his words. Trusting him felt like throwing herself into a storm, but was there really any other way out? The chains that bound her here were made of more than iron. They were made of fear, of power, of a system that held her down. But maybe—just maybe—Eris could be the key to breaking them.

A rustling sound pulled her from her thoughts. Eris had finished his preparations and was standing, holding out a dark cloak in her direction.

“You’re going to need this,” he said.

Y/N hesitated, but then the inevitability of the situation hit her. She grabbed the cloak, the fabric heavy in her hands.

The cloak weighed heavier than it should’ve, its fabric slipping over her thin shoulders like an anchor. She winced slightly, the bruises across her ribs protesting even the smallest movement. Her body felt foreign—frail, weakened from days of confinement, malnutrition, and exhaustion. But she didn’t let that show. She couldn’t afford to.

Eris, having finished his preparations, glanced over at her with a sharp eye. His gaze lingered for just a second too long on the hollowed cheeks, the sunken skin beneath her eyes, the bruises that covered her arms and legs. He was quick to mask the flicker of concern—if it had ever even been there—but Y/N caught it. His amber eyes sharpened, calculating, before he stepped toward her.

“Take it slow,” he said, his voice low, but with an authority that made her stop, turning to face him. “You’re not going anywhere if you collapse the moment we move.”

She shot him a look, irritation flickering across her face. "I’m fine."

Eris didn’t respond to her protest. Instead, he gave a sharp motion toward the small step down from the cell’s threshold. He was already behind her, close enough to catch her if she faltered. "You need rest before anything else. Trust me, you won’t last long if you push yourself."

Y/N bristled, but the fogginess in her head, the dull ache in her limbs, told her he was right. She straightened, but the dizziness made the world blur for a moment. Her stomach twisted with hunger, but there was no time for that now. She gritted her teeth, steadying herself, and finally nodded.

"Fine." She couldn’t afford to waste more time arguing.

As she took the first shaky steps toward the corridor, she barely made it two feet before her legs buckled beneath her. The floor rushed up to meet her, but before she could hit the cold stone, Eris was there, catching her with surprising gentleness for someone so accustomed to cruelty.

“Careful,” he muttered, his hands firm around her arms. She felt the heat of his touch seep into her chilled skin, and for a fleeting moment, she let herself lean into it. The steadying grip of his hands was a strange comfort in the overwhelming weakness that gnawed at her body.

She didn’t say anything, but the frustration simmered under her breath. How could she have let herself fall apart like this?

Eris didn’t let her dwell on it, though. “You’ll be stronger soon,” he added, his voice oddly soft. “But we need to move. The longer we wait, the more chance they’ll find out.”

She managed to nod, swallowing the growing lump in her throat. Slowly, she rose with his help, feeling the strength of his hold on her—he wasn’t going to let her fall, not yet. Her legs wobbled beneath her, like they hadn’t quite remembered how to carry her.

With a steady, calculating look, Eris motioned again, this time a bit more forcefully. “One step at a time. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Y/N shook her head, stubbornness flaring. “I don’t need to be carried.” But it was a struggle to stay upright. She forced her legs to move, forcing her muscles to obey even though they were trembling beneath her.

Eris studied her for a moment longer, his eyes narrowed. Then he sighed, apparently conceding. “Alright, but if you fall again, I won’t hesitate to pick you up. Understand?”

She didn’t respond, too focused on making the next step. It was hard to concentrate through the fog of hunger and weakness that clouded her thoughts, but she willed herself forward. The corridor stretched on endlessly, the faint glow of torchlight casting long shadows on the stone walls.

She could feel the weight of Eris’s gaze behind her, watching, assessing, ready to catch her if she faltered again. And it was when she took another step, her knees shaking with effort, that the world tilted and spun violently.

Without warning, Eris was there again, his hand firm at her back, pushing her upright. "Stop. We rest here."

She wanted to protest, wanted to tell him to let her try just a little longer, but the cold truth was undeniable. She needed to rest, and Eris was right—he had been watching her, keeping track of the limits her body had reached, knowing more about her than she cared to admit.

The next few moments were a blur. Eris didn’t rush her, though his impatience was evident. He guided her to a small alcove just off the hallway, where she sank against the stone wall, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

“You should’ve taken better care of yourself,” Eris muttered, his tone a mixture of irritation and something else she couldn’t quite place.

Y/N glared up at him, but the fire in her eyes was dimmed by the sheer exhaustion flooding her system. “Not all of us have the luxury of being well-fed and pampered,” she snapped back, her voice raspy from days without proper hydration.

Eris didn’t respond, but the faintest tension in his shoulders told her he understood. He pulled a flask from his belt, offering it to her. “Drink,” he said simply, his voice softer now. “I’m not in the mood for a fight. Not now.”

Y/N hesitated, but then, her parched throat betrayed her. She took the flask, uncorking it with trembling hands. The cool liquid slid down her throat, the sensation almost painful, but welcome. It was nothing like the usual bitter, foul water they had given her in prison. This was clean, and it left a cool trail down her chest as she finished the last drop.

The flask was taken from her hands, but before Eris could say anything more, she spoke again. “I’m not going to be a burden.”

“You won’t be,” Eris replied, his tone more certain now. “You’re just... getting back on your feet. And we have a long way to go.”

The words hung in the air between them as they both looked at the dark corridor ahead. Y/N couldn’t help but wonder how much farther they would go before the walls closed in on them again. But for now, she took a steadying breath, feeling the smallest fraction of strength return to her limbs. And as she slowly pushed herself up, Eris was there, steadying her once again.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said, as though reading her mind. “Just keep moving.”

Y/N nodded silently, her gaze steady on the path ahead. She had no other choice but to follow him, to trust this strange arrangement—for now.

The journey from the prison cell to wherever Eris was leading her felt like an eternity. Y/N’s legs burned with each step, the effort of walking still too much for her weakened body. Her stomach growled, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She had no idea where they were going—only that she couldn’t afford to stop.

They passed through narrow corridors, the walls cold and silent, as if the stone itself had been drained of warmth. Eris walked beside her, silent but watchful, his hand never far from her arm, ready to steady her if she faltered again.

The journey was slow, but eventually, they reached the end of a hidden passageway, a small wooden door tucked in the corner of a forgotten hall. Eris produced a key from inside his coat, turning it quickly in the lock and swinging the door open.

Inside was a small, dimly lit room—much like the cell, but far more comfortable. There was a bed with thick blankets, a sturdy chair by a low-burning fireplace, and a small table cluttered with remnants of food. The scent of wood and smoke filled the air, faintly mixed with the sharp tang of herbs.

Y/N barely had time to process the warmth of the room before she collapsed onto the bed, her body too drained to stand. Her head spun from the sudden movement, and she could feel the exhaustion pulling at her, the desire to rest fighting with the cold weight of reality pressing on her shoulders.

Eris closed the door quietly behind him, his footsteps light as he moved to the fireplace and stoked the embers with practiced ease. His movements were deliberate, as if he had done this many times before. For a moment, Y/N watched him, her thoughts tangled with confusion and frustration. He had helped her escape—he’d kept his word, but there was a strange tension between them now, something she couldn’t quite place.

“Sit,” he said, his tone sharp but not unkind. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

Y/N opened her mouth to protest, but the words caught in her throat. She had been given nothing but scraps for weeks, and the thought of food, even the simple fare he might offer, made her stomach twist. But she was too weak to argue, too exhausted to do anything but obey. Slowly, she leaned back against the pillows, her limbs heavy, her body craving sleep.

Eris moved with quiet efficiency, taking a small pot from the table and adding some dried herbs and a few vegetables to a broth. The smell of it wafted through the room, and Y/N's stomach twisted again, the hunger gnawing at her.

He handed her a bowl after a few moments, the steam still rising from the liquid. “It’s not much,” he said, as if trying to downplay it. “But you need something in you. Just a sip for now.”

Y/N accepted the bowl, her hands shaking slightly as she brought it to her lips. The warmth of the liquid was a comfort, and she drank slowly, savoring the taste, even though it was nothing special. It was food, and that was enough. She didn't care about anything else in that moment.

Eris watched her carefully, his amber eyes flicking from her face to the bowl. She could feel his gaze, but she refused to look up, pretending not to notice how intense it was.

Once the bowl was empty, she placed it on the side table and finally met his eyes, her voice quiet. “You never did tell me why you’re helping me. Why this? Why now?”

The question hung in the air between them, and for the first time since she had met him, Eris hesitated. He stood by the fire, the crackling sound filling the silence. He was calculating, as if considering how much to reveal.

“You’re right,” he said finally, his voice steady, but with a slight edge. “I didn’t owe you anything. But Beron’s... missteps have cost me. And I don’t take kindly to people trying to control my actions.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So, this is about you?”

His lips curled into a small, sardonic smile. “Partially. But I can admit when I see a cause worth supporting.”

“You don’t strike me as the type who supports causes,” she muttered, her eyes narrowing. “More like the type who crushes them under his heel.”

He looked at her, a faint chuckle escaping his lips. “I don’t crush things that aren’t worth my time.”

There was an undeniable challenge in his words, but Y/N didn’t flinch. She leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes for a moment. Her mind was starting to clear a little—at least enough to process her situation.

The tension was palpable between them. There was a quiet understanding that they both had agendas, but neither one was ready to reveal all their cards. The silence stretched on, but Y/N felt herself slipping deeper into the warmth of the bed, the exhaustion lapping at her like waves.

“You’re stronger than you look,” Eris said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “I’ll give you that.”

Y/N opened one eye, catching him off guard as he turned back toward her. “I’m still here, aren’t I?” Her voice was rough, but there was something in the way she said it that conveyed both defiance and exhaustion.

Eris’ gaze softened, just for a moment, before his usual coldness returned. “You’ll make it,” he said simply, though she couldn’t tell if he was speaking about the immediate future, or something much longer.

“You’re sure about that?” Y/N scoffed, though the words felt hollow. “How much longer do I have to trust you?”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Eris stared into the fire, as if weighing her question carefully. Finally, his voice broke the silence, low and serious. “As long as it takes for you to get stronger.”

Y/N swallowed, the weight of his words settling over her. This was more than just an escape—this was a way to get to Beron, a way to make him pay for what he had done. And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Eris was her only chance at seeing that through.

She closed her eyes, the weight of her body sinking deeper into the bed. “Then I’ll get stronger.”

Eris didn’t reply. But when she opened her eyes again, she saw him watching her, his expression unreadable.

And for the first time since this whole mess had started, Y/N allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—she might survive this.

Eris stood by the fire, his posture stiff, his gaze fixed on the flames that danced in the hearth. His mind was focused—too focused—to let his thoughts wander too far. But they kept straying back to her.

Y/N.

She had barely said a word, even as she sipped the broth he had given her. She was weaker than he’d expected, but there was something in the way she held herself, even in that state, that kept pulling at the edge of his mind. It wasn’t pity—he didn’t have time for pity—but there was something undeniably interesting about her. She wasn’t the usual sort of prisoner.

She was a legend, a name whispered in every shadowy corner of the realm. A figure of rebellion and whispered rumors, loved by the lowlifes, hated by the highborn. Y/N, the outlaw, the one who had evaded capture for years. A thorn in the side of every tyrant. And yet, here she was, a broken shell of that legendary figure, lying in front of him, barely able to lift a finger.

Her beauty was not what he was used to, not the polished perfection of the court, not the subtle seduction of his family’s alliances. Hers was a rough sort of beauty, sharp and untamed, like the wilds she no doubt called home. There was an edge to her—one he couldn’t quite place. Her strength, despite her fragile state, had been apparent from the very beginning. He’d seen it in her eyes when she fought to stay conscious, even after being starved and tortured.

And yet, as she drifted into unconsciousness, Eris couldn’t help but notice the vulnerability in her that she kept buried deep. The curiosity of her origins, of the secret organization she served, of her own ambitions and secrets tugged at him in ways he quickly dismissed.

Focus.

This was not the time for distractions. His father had no knowledge of the real reason Eris had decided to bring Y/N into his plans. Beron had simply ordered the capture of the fugitive, and Eris had executed that order, which is ofcourse how that sneaky little mouse who had never been caught fell into Eris' perfectly thought out trap. But that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered was the bigger picture, the one his father would never see.

Eris had his own secret agenda. Y/N wasn’t just some weapon to him—she was the means to an end, the key to the power he sought. She could help him dismantle his father’s grip on the Autumn Court, help him carve out his own path, one where Eris alone stood as the High Lord. His father had always underestimated him, used him as nothing more than a tool in his schemes. But Eris wasn’t going to let that continue.

He had his own plans. And Y/N? She could either become an ally or an obstacle. But for now, she was useful. And that was enough.

As he watched her sleep, breathing slow and shallow, the bitter taste of their arrangement lingered in his mouth. He didn’t care what she thought of him. He didn’t need her loyalty—he needed her skills, her connections, and her rage. And in return, she needed him too. She was running from something, using him as a stepping stone to whatever end she sought, just as he was using her to gain the power he deserved.

It was a simple exchange. Nothing more. No room for distractions. Not yet, at least. But something about her—something dangerous—pulled at him. He quickly erased the thought. He had no time for curiosity. He had too much to do.

But as he stood there, the faintest trace of doubt tried to creep in, and he stamped it down hard. Y/N would play her part. They both had their roles to play. Once they had what they wanted, the game would be over, and they’d move on.

For now, though, it was all about the plan. And the plan would make him one of the most powerful Fae in the realm.

It hadn’t taken long for Beron to notice her disappearance. A matter of hours, perhaps, before the guards started to come to him with news of the empty cell. They had all seen her locked away. But no one had seen her leave.

Eris could already hear the furious shouting echoing from the halls, his father’s rage pouring out like a tidal wave.

“Where is she?” Beron’s voice had thundered through the manor. “She cannot simply vanish. Find her, and bring her back, dead or alive!”

Eris remained silent, his face a mask of impassivity, even as he listened to the chaos unfold. His father was a fool if he thought it would be that simple. No one escaped the dungeons of his stronghold without help.

But then again, Beron had never been known for his intelligence. He was a beast—brute force and violence were his go-to methods. Subtlety was not his strength. It had always been Eris who managed the quiet manipulations, the behind-the-scenes dealings that ensured the Autumn Court stayed in power. And now, with Y/N gone, Eris knew it was his job to keep everything under control before his father tore the entire palace apart looking for her.

Eris made his way to the throne room, the air thick with tension. Guards scrambled, shouting orders, their voices raised in panic as they searched the castle. His father’s voice was the loudest, but Eris could sense the undercurrent of fear, of uncertainty, running through his father’s normally domineering tone. Beron was furious, but there was something else there too—a touch of something deeper. Something he’d never admit.

Eris didn’t need to worry about that. His role was simple.

“Father,” Eris said smoothly as he entered the room, his voice calm and controlled, as if there wasn’t a care in the world. His cold eyes flicked over to the soldiers rushing past, the frantic looks on their faces. “I’ve already sent out a team to handle it.”

Beron whipped his head toward him, his anger radiating off him like a storm. “A team? We need to find her now, before she gets away!”

Eris’ lips curled into a slight, almost imperceptible smile. “You overestimate the threat she poses. Y/N is a problem, yes, but she is also a legend—there is more to her disappearance than a simple escape. Whoever is helping her will make a mistake. They always do. We just need to wait.”

His father was not convinced. His thick brows furrowed, and he opened his mouth to argue, but Eris cut him off.

“We’ll find her, Father. But we’ll do it with precision. Not brute force. You’ll just make things worse.” His tone didn’t rise. It was a quiet, almost detached warning, but it was enough to make Beron hesitate.

Eris’ gaze flicked to the soldiers gathered around, still frantically searching for any trace of her. There was no need to rush. He knew exactly where Y/N was—and he wasn't about to rat her out.

Eris turned to his father, who was still seething. “Calm down. We’ll get her back, but we need to be strategic. I’ll take care of this.”

Beron’s face twisted in frustration, but he relented, nodding sharply. “Fine. Do what you must. But if you fail, it will be you answering for it.”

The threat in his father’s voice was unmistakable, but Eris didn’t flinch. He had long ago stopped fearing Beron. In fact, he used it. Everything had its place. And Y/N? She was a tool—a means to an end.

With a final glance toward the doorway, Eris turned and left the room, his cold mask firmly back in place.

As he walked through the halls, his thoughts turned back to Y/N. He still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to her—a deeper layer to the rebel who had fought for the lowborn and outrun every other High Fae in the land. But he couldn’t afford to care.

Not yet.

He would use her. And then, when the time was right, he’d destroy her. Just like everyone else who had been foolish enough to stand in his way.

But for now, he would play the game. Keep things calm. Keep the mask intact. And when the time came, when the last piece of this puzzle fell into place, he would have the power he sought.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d learn exactly what kind of legend Y/N really was.

The small room had become her refuge. For the first time in weeks, the dim light of the torch didn’t feel like a threat, but a sign of safety. The bruises on her body were healing, though the pain still lingered, reminding her of the endless days in that wretched prison. Her muscles ached as she slowly stretched her limbs, trying to ignore the tightness of her chest.

Eris had sent food every night—fresh bread, fruit, and meat—though she never once saw him deliver it himself. Perhaps, he felt like he had shown enough of himself the first time he brought her here. Sometimes she wondered if he even cared that she ate or if it was all just part of the plan, a move to keep her alive long enough for whatever game he was playing to unfold. She’d been fed, rested, and given a place to breathe, but she never let herself forget the price she was paying for all of it.

She had no illusions. Eris wasn’t helping her because he cared. He was helping her because he needed her. But in that moment, with a half-empty plate of food resting beside her, she couldn't help but let her guard down just a little. She had been alone for so long—torn between running and staying, trapped in a cage of her own making. Eris, with his cold, calculating eyes and cruel smile, had forced his way into her life in a way no one had before.

But now… now, she was stronger. Not fully healed, but enough to stand on her own. She could feel the strength returning in her bones, the fire that had burned within her when she first started this fight slowly rekindling. She was no longer the broken fugitive hidden away in the shadows. She was Y/N, the outlaw with a name that made people tremble and the power to bring kings to their knees. And it was time to put that power to use.

The door creaked open, and she didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Eris entered without a word, his presence filling the room like a dark cloud. He was silent as always, as cold and controlled as the iron in his veins. She could hear the faint sound of his boots against the stone floor, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

“Feeling better?” His voice was low, calculating. His eyes studied her carefully, no doubt searching for any sign of weakness. But she didn’t let him see it.

“Does it matter?” she replied, the edge of defiance creeping into her voice. The truth was, she didn’t care if he noticed how fragile she still felt. She was done with pretending.

He paused for a moment, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “It matters,” he said quietly, his eyes flicking over her with something almost like… approval. She quickly dismissed the thought. She wasn’t here for his approval.

“Your plan,” she said, breaking the silence. “What’s the next step?” Her tone was cool, but she could feel her heart hammering in her chest. She wasn’t entirely sure she was ready to hear what he had to say, but the sooner she did, the sooner she could make a decision.

Eris stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers. She could see the glint of something dark in his eyes, a quiet power that sent a shiver down her spine. “You’ll be a part of it,” he said. “The key to everything I’m planning.”

She met his gaze, her own expression hardening. “I’m listening.”

He didn’t speak immediately. Instead, he simply watched her, his thoughts unreadable. Then, at last, he spoke again. “We both have a common enemy: my precious father, Beron.”

Her jaw clenched at the mention of Beron’s name. The man who had ruined everything. The man who had taken her family from her. The one who had put her in that damn prison in the first place.

She swallowed the bitterness rising in her throat, forcing herself to focus on Eris. “You want to kill him?” The words tasted like acid in her mouth, but she kept her gaze steady.

Eris’ eyes gleamed with something dangerous. “Not just kill him. I want to take everything he has, strip him of his power, his title, and make him see who really deserves the throne.”

A shudder of unease ran down her spine, but she refused to show it. She had no love for Beron, and she would see him pay. But Eris? He was a different kind of monster, one she didn’t fully understand. She had learned to trust no one in her time as an outlaw, but this—this was more than just revenge. This was a game, a dangerous one where neither of them could afford to lose.

“And you think I’ll help you?” she asked, her voice hard, though there was a small edge of uncertainty beneath her calm exterior.

Eris’ smirk widened, dark and knowing. “You’ll help me because you need me, just as much as I need you.”

Y/N remained silent, staring into his eyes. She didn’t like it, the way he was so certain of her. But deep down, she knew he was right. They were both using each other—she just hadn’t admitted it yet.

“So,” he continued, voice smooth and deliberate. “What’s your answer?”

Her fingers tightened into fists, her nails digging into her palm. She could feel the weight of the decision settling over her, but there was no hesitation in her mind. She had nothing left to lose, and Eris—despite all his cruelty—was offering her a way to finally take control of her life again.

She looked up at him, eyes cold. “I’m in.”

The plan Eris laid out was very complex. Add to it some of the ideas Y/N thought of, and you had yourself a large pot of... well, everything. A complex and risky, but also very structured and specific plan.

Eris stood before her, his dark eyes calculating as he laid out the foundation of their scheme. Every move, every word had a purpose, a role to play. But as Y/N listened, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of the whole thing—the risks, the challenges, the unspoken consequences. Nothing about this was easy. And it wouldn’t be until Beron was dead that she could truly breathe.

"Let’s start simple," Eris’ voice was steady, giving nothing away. "We’ll use your connection to the common folk. They trust you—more than anyone realizes."

Y/N didn’t need to hear the rest of the plan to know where this was going. Her reputation had spread like wildfire in every village, town, and city. She was a ghost, a whisper in the shadows, always just out of reach of every venomous tyrants grasp, including Beron. The lowlives, the outcasts, the ones the high courts ignored—they revered her. She had once stood for them, fought for them. And now, in her hidden exile, they still remembered her name.

"And how do we use that?" she asked, leaning back in her chair, her fingers tapping against the stone tabletop. Her thoughts were a whirlwind. "I’m hiding from Beron’s men, Eris. And you think a few whispered words from those filthy peasants are enough to move the needle? No offense, but that’s a shortcut I’m not willing to take."

Eris didn’t flinch at her criticism. His smirk remained, cold and unreadable. "We need allies. People in the right places, ready to fight when the time comes. It’s not just about what you did in the past, Y/N. It’s about what you can get them to do for us now. A rebellion, a force ready to rise, led by those you trust."

A rebellion. A revolt. It was just a word, but it carried the weight of an entire revolution in its syllables. Y/N narrowed her eyes. "And what do you expect from me? A few promises and speeches? I’m not about to throw my life away for another failed cause."

Eris’ eyes locked with hers. "I’m not asking you to. But you’re more than a symbol. You’re the spark that will ignite this fire. A revolt is meaningless without someone who has the courage to lead it. Someone who has already proven they can outsmart Beron’s forces at every turn."

Y/N studied him, the weight of his words sinking in. He wasn’t wrong. The common folk wouldn’t follow just anyone—they’d follow her. But leading them into a rebellion against Beron wasn’t something she could take lightly. She’d seen the kind of devastation his wrath could bring. She would need more than just words; she’d need a plan that couldn’t fail.

"I’m listening," she said, crossing her arms. "What else?"

Eris glanced around, as if making sure no one was listening, then began to lay out the next part of the plan, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"We start by infiltrating Beron’s inner circle. I’ll get close to him—closer than anyone realizes. He trusts me, perhaps too much." A dark glint flashed in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "We’ll gather information, figure out where he’s vulnerable. We expose his weaknesses—his alliances, his secrets—and we use them against him. We have to break him from the inside."

Y/N raised an eyebrow. "And how do we do that? You’re talking about walking into the lion’s den, Eris. What makes you think he’ll let you so close?"

Eris gave a small shrug. "He doesn’t have a choice. I’m his son, and I’m the one who will inherit his power. He won’t suspect me—not until it’s too late. I’ve been biding my time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike."

Y/N’s thoughts whirred as she processed the information. The idea of Eris using his place as Beron’s son to get close enough to take him down wasn’t a bad one—if it worked. But there were too many unknowns, too many variables. She wasn’t about to bet everything on a chance.

"You’re underestimating the danger here," Y/N said, her voice low. "You’re playing with fire. Even if you get close to him, that doesn’t guarantee we’ll have a clean shot at him. Beron is dangerous. And you’re not the only one who’s waited a long time for this."

Eris stepped closer, his gaze sharp, unwavering. "I’m not underestimating anything, Y/N. But you’re right. We need to be strategic. I’ll play the role of the dutiful son for now, keeping Beron distracted. Meanwhile, you’ll move in the shadows, gathering support. You know the people, the ones who are sick of Beron’s reign. Find them, recruit them, and keep them ready. The moment Beron falls, the rebellion will rise with him."

Y/N frowned, thinking carefully. "And where do we go from there?"

Eris didn’t hesitate. "Once we have Beron in a vulnerable position, we strike. We take him out, publicly. We make sure it’s loud, impossible to ignore. We destroy his reputation, expose his crimes. And when his power crumbles, we move quickly—cutting down his supporters, his key figures, anyone who can replace him. We leave no room for anyone else to step into his shoes."

She absorbed this quietly, still not convinced. "And you expect me to do all of that while hiding from Beron’s men? You’re asking me to risk my life for your game, Eris. You know how this goes. The moment they realize I’m back, they won’t stop until they have me."

Eris didn’t flinch. "We will make sure they don’t find you. You will be our shadow, Y/N, hidden in plain sight. If they don’t know where to look, they can’t find you."

Her mind raced. There were too many steps, too many risks. But there was no turning back now, was there? She had already walked too far down this path. Beron was her enemy, and if this was the only way to get close enough to destroy him, then she would have to play along.

"I still don’t trust you," she said, her voice biting, though she knew it was mostly for show. "But I’ll play your game. For now. Don’t get comfortable, though, Eris. I don’t answer to anyone."

Eris gave her a cold smile, the faintest glimmer of something dangerous in his eyes. "You will answer to me, Y/N. Eventually. But for now, let’s just get the job done. After Beron’s gone, we can sort out the rest."

Y/N stood at the edge of the makeshift camp, the firelight flickering across her face as the shadows of the rebels gathered around her. The weight of the task ahead pressed down on her chest, the constant hum of fear and uncertainty gnawing at her. She wasn’t sure what she expected when she first set out to rebuild this rebellion, but it wasn’t this. Not this.

"Who are these people?" she muttered under her breath, glancing at the ragtag group of disheveled faces before her. Some looked hopeful, some terrified. Others just seemed like they were here out of necessity, their eyes glinting with a mixture of desperation and defiance. Y/N had never been a leader, had never wanted to be, but here she was, thrust into the role by sheer circumstance.

A young man, no older than twenty, stood at the front of the group, his hands twitching at his sides, looking every bit the part of a soldier who had never seen battle. "You told us we were going to fight Beron," he said, his voice wavering with uncertainty. "But we’re not prepared for this. We don’t have the strength. We don’t have the resources. And—" He cut himself off, eyes darting to the others as if gauging their reactions. "Some of us aren’t sure it’s worth it."

Y/N’s eyes narrowed as she studied him, her mind racing. She hadn’t expected this much resistance, but there it was, in the raw form of human doubt. "You think I don’t know that?" she said sharply, stepping forward to meet his gaze. "You think I’ve been waiting for this moment, for years, with nothing but hopes and dreams?" She shook her head, bitterness creeping into her voice. "We’re not waiting for a miracle. We’re making one."

The young man’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t reply. His hesitance was the same as the others’—an undercurrent of fear that Y/N knew all too well. It was the same fear that had kept her hidden for so long. The same fear that had kept them all under Beron’s thumb.

But there was no time for that now. Not when every second counted.

She turned away from the group and walked over to one of the quieter rebels, a woman with a scar running across her cheek, a battle-worn look to her eyes. "I need to know who else we can trust. Who’s ready to move."

The woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the others, her voice low. "They’re not all ready to act. Some are too scared, others… some have family in Beron’s courts. They won’t risk everything just to see him fall."

Y/N clenched her fists, frustration boiling beneath her skin. "Damn it. This is our only chance. If they’re not with us, then they’re against us."

The woman’s eyes softened with sympathy, but she didn’t argue. "I’ll talk to them. See who’s willing to join your cause."

Y/N nodded, though doubt lingered in the back of her mind. She needed more than just the willing; she needed those who wouldn’t hesitate, those who would see this through to the end.

And that’s where Eris came in. Back at the palace, Eris was playing his own dangerous game. He’d become adept at walking the fine line between being the son his father wanted and the traitor he had every intention of becoming. For weeks, he had been spending more time with Beron, attending meetings, walking through the halls of his father’s estate with the air of the loyal heir, while secretly sowing the seeds of rebellion.

But as the days passed, Eris could feel the pressure mounting. He could feel Beron’s eyes on him more often, could sense the unease growing in the air around them. Beron was a cautious man, and for all his arrogance, he wasn’t blind. He could see the cracks in the façade, and Eris knew it wouldn’t be long before his father began questioning his loyalty.

"I know what you’re doing, Eris." The voice, low and venomous, broke through his thoughts as he sat in the grand dining hall, pretending to savor his meal. His father’s voice was always like that—sharp, full of hidden threats.

Eris didn’t flinch. He didn’t let his gaze waver from his plate. "I have no idea what you’re talking about, Father."

Beron’s eyes narrowed, his voice lowering. "You think I can’t see it? You are my son, Eris Vanserra. You’ve been distant, more so than usual. You’ve been... careful. Too careful. What are you hiding from me?"

Eris forced a smile, keeping his posture relaxed, but every muscle in his body was tense, ready for the slightest sign of danger. "You’re imagining things, Father. I’m as loyal as I’ve always been."

The silence between them stretched for a heartbeat too long. Eris could feel the weight of Beron’s gaze upon him, and for a moment, he feared the mask would slip, revealing the truth behind his carefully constructed lies.

But then Beron simply grunted, dismissing the conversation as though it were nothing more than a passing annoyance. "Don’t disappoint me, Eris. You have the world at your feet. Don’t squander it."

They met at some random tavern in the lowest part of Autumn. Y/N’s patience was wearing thin. The male she was supposed to meet was late, a complication she didn’t need. Every passing minute felt like a risk. She had to keep moving, keep finding people she could trust—if they existed at all.

Then, finally, the door creaked open, and a tall figure stepped inside. The hood of his cloak was pulled low over his face, but the way his eyes scanned the room told her everything she needed to know. It was Eris.

“Do you always like to make an entrance?” Y/N asked, her voice laced with sarcasm as she moved toward him. She was irritated, her patience already stretched thin with the weight of her mission.

Eris gave a small shrug, his lips curling into a half-smirk. “I like to keep people on their toes.”

She didn’t return his smile. "You’re late.”

“Not by much,” he said, dropping into the seat across from her. “And I’ve brought something that might make up for it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn’t speak. She was tired of his games, but the truth was, she needed him. As much as she disliked it, they were tied together by necessity.

“What’s the news?” she asked, leaning forward, her fingers tapping on the table impatiently.

Eris glanced around, his voice lowering to a murmur. “Beron’s becoming suspicious. He’s watching me more closely. The façade is wearing thin. But I have a plan. We need to move quickly.”

Y/N’s interest piqued. “Move quickly? Why? What’s your plan?”

Eris leaned in, his gaze sharp. “We need more leverage. I’ve been playing my part, keeping Beron distracted. And through getting closer with his inner circle, I managed to manipulate them into saying some things that I never even knew about. There’s one thing he holds close—something he’s kept hidden for years. I need to get to it. We’ll use it to put him in a position where he has no choice but to fall. But to do that, we need to leave the city. We need to get close to the human lands.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed in confusion. “The human lands? What does that have to do with your plan?”

Eris hesitated for a moment, his eyes calculating. “Beron has kept a secret. Something he’s been hiding even from me. It’s in a remote location, not far from the border. I can’t afford to let anyone else get to it first. Once I have it, I’ll have the leverage I need to make my move. But getting there will be dangerous. We’ll need to stay off Beron’s radar. That’s where you come in.”

Y/N considered his words carefully. “You want me to help you get this… whatever it is? Why should I trust you?”

Eris met her gaze, unwavering. “Because this is bigger than both of us. If we don’t do this now, we lose our chance. You’ll get the rebellion you want, and I’ll get what I need to bring Beron down.”

There was a heavy silence between them. Y/N’s mind raced, weighing the risks. She didn’t trust Eris, not entirely, but she had no other choice. The rebellion needed action, and this could be their opportunity.

“Fine,” she said finally, standing up. “But we do this my way. We stick to the plan, no deviations. I won’t risk my people for your secrets.”

Eris stood as well, his lips curling into a faint, almost amused smile. “Agreed. But don’t forget—this is as much about you as it is about me. We leave right this second."

Y/N didn’t respond, her mind already shifting into action. They had a long road ahead of them, and the stakes were higher than either of them could imagine.

As they stepped out into the night, the tension between them was palpable. They weren’t allies—they were tools, using each other to reach their separate goals. But for now, it was enough. And with that uneasy understanding hanging in the air, they moved toward the wilds, where the next phase of their plans would unfold.

The Wilds loomed like a beast on the horizon—dense, untamed, and brimming with the unknown. The sun barely pierced through the thick canopy, casting everything in shades of green and gray. Y/N adjusted her cloak, her sharp gaze scanning the path ahead. Every step they took felt heavier, as though the forest itself wanted to swallow them whole.

“This better be worth it,” she muttered, breaking the silence.

Eris, a few paces behind, gave a low chuckle. “Do you think I enjoy trudging through this forsaken wilderness? I assure you, I’d much rather be sipping wine in my father’s halls, pretending to care about his ridiculous court.”

Y/N shot him a sharp look over her shoulder. “You mean pretending to care while you’re plotting his demise.”

He grinned, unbothered by her barb. “Exactly.”

The tension between them hung thick in the air, unspoken but always present. This was no partnership of trust—it was an alliance of necessity. And yet, despite her better judgment, Y/N found herself begrudgingly impressed by Eris’s unshakable composure. Even out here, in the heart of nowhere, he carried himself as if the world still revolved around him.

“Quiet,” Y/N whispered suddenly, her hand shooting up to halt him.

Eris frowned but obeyed, his sharp ears straining. At first, there was nothing but the rustle of leaves and the distant call of some unseen creature. Then it came—a faint, rhythmic sound, too deliberate to be the wind.

Footsteps.

Y/N crouched, motioning for Eris to do the same. They pressed themselves against a moss-covered boulder, their breaths shallow. The footsteps grew louder, accompanied by low voices.

“They’re close,” one of the voices said, gruff and laced with urgency. “Keep searching. They couldn’t have gone far.”

Beron’s men.

Y/N’s grip tightened on the hilt of her dagger. She glanced at Eris, whose expression was unreadable, save for the faint tightening of his jaw. He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “We can’t let them find us.”

“No kidding,” Y/N shot back under her breath. “Got a brilliant plan, or are we winging it?”

He gave her a thin smile. “Follow my lead.”

Before she could argue, Eris stood, his movements impossibly silent for someone so tall. He raised a hand, and the air around him shimmered. The faintest flicker of flame sparked in his palm before extinguishing. A diversion.

The forest came alive in an instant. Flames burst to life in the distance, licking at the trees, crackling and snapping. The guards’ shouts turned panicked as they rushed toward the sudden inferno.

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N hissed, tugging at his sleeve.

“Giving them something to worry about,” Eris replied smoothly, his voice calm even as chaos erupted around them. “Now, move.”

They slipped through the underbrush, their steps quick and precise. The smoke was thick, curling through the air and masking their escape. Y/N could hear the men yelling, their voices growing fainter as the fire drove them farther away.

They didn’t stop until the sounds had faded completely. When they finally paused, Y/N rounded on him, her face flushed with frustration.

“Are you insane?” she demanded. “You could’ve burned the whole forest down!”

Eris shrugged, utterly nonchalant. “I controlled it. You’re welcome, by the way.”

She glared at him, her chest heaving. “You’re reckless.”

“And you’re dramatic,” he countered, brushing ash off his sleeve. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

Before she could retort, a deep, guttural growl cut through the air. Both of them froze, their eyes snapping to the shadows ahead. Slowly, the figure emerged—a massive, wolf-like creature with glowing yellow eyes and razor-sharp teeth. It snarled, its hackles raised, and Y/N felt her blood run cold.

“Tell me that was part of your plan,” she murmured.

“For once,” Eris said, his voice tight, “I’m as surprised as you are.”

The beast lunged.

Y/N rolled to the side, her dagger flashing as she slashed at the creature’s flank. Eris summoned fire, his hands blazing as he threw a wall of flame between them and the beast. But the creature was fast, far faster than either of them anticipated. It circled them, its movements fluid, predatory.

“Great,” Y/N said, dodging another attack. “First your father’s goons, now this. You really know how to pick a route.”

Eris didn’t reply, his focus on the beast. He lashed out with another burst of fire, forcing it back. “Stay close,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious.

Y/N’s eyes narrowed, but she obeyed, falling into step beside him. They moved as one, circling the creature, their movements coordinated despite their earlier bickering.

Finally, with a combined effort—a well-placed dagger strike and a surge of fire—the beast fell, its massive form collapsing with a final, guttural snarl. Y/N leaned against a tree, catching her breath, while Eris extinguished the remaining flames around them.

“Next time,” Y/N said, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “remind me to let you take the lead.”

Eris smirked, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’d be lost without me.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. The truth was, as much as she hated to admit it, they worked well together. Begrudgingly well.

As they continued deeper into the Wilds, the tension between them remained, simmering beneath the surface. They had a destination—a secret to uncover and a kingdom to upend—but the road ahead was treacherous, and neither could predict what awaited them in the shadows.

Eris pressed forward, his boots crunching against the leaf-strewn path. The Wilds were relentless—uneven terrain, thorny underbrush, and no sign of civilization for miles. He glanced back briefly to make sure Y/N was still following. She was, though her steps had grown slower, her movements heavier.

She muttered something under her breath—likely another colorful insult aimed at him.

Good. If she still had the energy to be annoyed, then she wasn’t entirely falling apart.

He kept his focus ahead, ignoring the uncomfortable twist in his gut. Guilt was a foreign feeling, one he wasn’t inclined to entertain. This alliance wasn’t built on kindness, and Y/N knew that. She was a tool, just as he was a tool to her.

Or so he told himself.

Behind him, her footsteps faltered.

“Eris,” she said, her voice sharp, though tinged with exhaustion.

He didn’t stop.

“Eris.”

This time, there was a distinct edge to her tone, one that brooked no argument. He sighed, coming to an abrupt halt.

“What now?” he asked, turning to face her.

Y/N stood a few feet away, her hands braced on her knees as she glared up at him. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“That’s dramatic, even for you.”

“I’m serious,” she shot back, straightening. “We’ve been walking for hours without a break. My legs are staging a rebellion. Either we stop, or I collapse, and you can carry me the rest of the way.”

Eris raised an eyebrow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

She scowled, but the corners of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement. “Your choice, red.”

Red. The nickname grated on him, but there was something oddly endearing about the way she said it—like she wanted to annoy him but didn’t quite hate him enough to mean it.

“Fine,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. “Five minutes.”

“Ten.”

“Seven, and not a second longer.”

She smirked, clearly pleased with herself, and plopped down on a nearby rock. Eris leaned against a tree, watching her as she pulled a flask from her cloak and took a long sip.

“You’re not as invincible as you like to pretend,” she remarked, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.

Eris folded his arms, his gaze narrowing. “And you’re not as delicate as you pretend to be.”

“I’m not pretending.” She grinned, stretching her legs out in front of her. “I’m openly complaining.”

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. She had a way of disarming him, of slipping past the walls he kept so carefully constructed. It was infuriating.

“You’re impossible,” he said.

“And yet, here we are,” she replied, her tone light but her gaze lingering on him.

Eris looked away, focusing on the distant trees. The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable but charged with something unspoken.

He didn’t want to acknowledge the way her presence affected him, the way her laughter seemed to carve cracks into his carefully built facade. She was a means to an end. That was all.

But then there were moments like this—quiet, unguarded moments that made him question everything.

“Why do you keep going?” Y/N asked suddenly, her voice soft.

Eris turned back to her, startled by the question.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “you could’ve found someone else to help with your little rebellion. Someone easier to work with, less… annoying.”

Eris smirked. “True, but where’s the fun in that?”

She rolled her eyes, but he caught the faint flush of color on her cheeks.

The truth was, he didn’t have an answer for her. Or rather, he had an answer, but he wasn’t ready to admit it—not to her, and certainly not to himself.

Instead, he pushed off the tree and extended a hand to her. “Break’s over. Let’s move.”

She eyed his hand suspiciously. “You’re being awfully nice. What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he said, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. There was always a catch.

Reluctantly, she took his hand, her touch warm despite the chill in the air. He pulled her to her feet, her balance unsteady for a moment before she found her footing.

“Careful,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended.

She looked up at him, something flickering in her eyes that he couldn’t quite place. For a brief, maddening moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them.

Then she smirked and let go of his hand. “Try to keep up, red.”

Eris watched as she strode ahead, her steps light despite her earlier complaints. He shook his head, a wry smile playing at his lips.

She was going to be the death of him.

And for reasons he couldn’t yet understand, he didn’t entirely mind.

Y/N trudged along behind Eris, her patience worn thinner than the soles of her boots. It had already been a day! “How much longer, red? Or are you leading us in circles to enjoy my delightful company?”

Eris didn’t glance back. His stride remained purposeful, his shoulders set like iron. “Keep up, Y/N. Complaining won’t make the journey shorter.”

She threw her hands up in frustration. “You said we were heading to the human lands, Eris! But this doesn’t feel like the direction of any border I’ve ever heard of. In fact, it feels like we’re headed straight into a trap. Are you sure you’re not trying to kill me yourself?”

His sharp laugh echoed through the trees, though it held no warmth. “If I wanted you dead, darling, you’d already be feeding the crows.”

“Charming,” she muttered, her legs burning from the unrelenting pace. “Seriously, where are we even going? Or do you just enjoy keeping me in the dark?”

“Enough, Y/N,” Eris snapped, his voice low but laced with a rare bite. He suddenly halted, turning to fix her with a glare that could’ve seared through stone. “We’re here.”

Y/N froze, blinking at him. “What do you mean we’re—” Her words trailed off as she took in their surroundings.

The dense forest had parted to reveal a lake that seemed to shimmer with an unnatural stillness. Mist curled above its black surface like fingers reaching toward the sky. The air felt colder here, heavy with an ancient weight that pressed down on her chest.

And then it hit her. The stories. The whispers of a place where no mortal—or immortal—dared to tread.

“This… this is Koschei’s lake,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Her gaze snapped to Eris. “What the hell are we doing here? I thought we were going to the human lands!”

Eris smirked, though his golden eyes glinted with something darker. “Plans change.”

“You arrogant ass,” Y/N hissed, stepping closer to jab a finger at his chest. “You dragged me all the way out here without so much as a warning, and now you expect me to just—what? Stand here while you make a deal with a god?”

“Precisely.”

Her jaw dropped. “You’ve lost your mind.”

“Perhaps,” Eris said coolly, brushing past her to approach the edge of the lake. “But unlike you, I have a plan. So, if you’re done whining, stay quiet and let me handle this.”

Y/N opened her mouth to retort, but the air shifted—an icy ripple that sent shivers racing down her spine.

From the depths of the lake, a figure began to form. Black water dripped from his skeletal frame, his hollow eyes glowing faintly as he emerged. Koschei’s presence was suffocating, his voice a silken whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

“Well, well,” the Death God said, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The fox prince graces my domain. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Eris’s mask of calm didn’t falter, though Y/N could see the slight tension in his jaw. “I have come to ask for your assistance.”

Koschei chuckled, a sound that sent ripples through the lake. “Assistance always comes with a price, princeling. Are you prepared to pay it?”

Y/N tensed, her hand drifting to her dagger as she cast a wary glance at Eris. Whatever he’d brought her here for, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

And as Koschei’s gaze slid to her, cold and calculating, she couldn’t shake the feeling that they were walking a very thin line���one wrong move away from ruin.

The cold bite of Koschei’s presence wrapped around Eris like a noose tightening by the second. The Death God stood motionless, his hollow eyes fixed on Eris, assessing, calculating.

Eris forced himself to maintain a calm demeanor. The mask was second nature by now, even as his instincts screamed at him to turn and run. But there was too much at stake—his plans, his court, his people’s future.

And then there was Y/N.

“I seek information,” Eris said, his voice steady but firm. “A secret held by Beron Vanserra. I believe you have it.”

Koschei tilted his head, his lips curving into a cruel smile. “Many secrets pass through my waters, fox prince. Why should I part with one so precious?”

Y/N, standing just behind Eris, shifted uneasily. He could sense her discomfort even without looking.

“Because,” Eris continued, his tone sharper now, “you’d benefit from Beron’s downfall. A weakened Autumn Court is a weakened Prythian.”

Koschei chuckled darkly. “You think I care for your petty court politics?”

Eris clenched his jaw. “I’m offering you an opportunity to tilt the balance in your favor.”

Koschei stepped closer, his presence oppressive. “And what do you offer in return? Surely you didn’t come to my lake empty-handed.”

The god’s gaze flicked to Y/N, who froze under his scrutiny.

Eris’s heartbeat quickened, though his face betrayed nothing. “What I offer is my business. Name your terms.”

Koschei’s smile widened. “Oh, I’ve already decided. Give me her.” He gestured to Y/N.

The world seemed to tilt. For a moment, Eris’s mind blanked.

“What?” Y/N breathed, her voice barely audible.

Koschei ignored her, his attention on Eris. “Wasn’t that why you brought her here in the first place, princeling? To trade her for the secret you so desperately desire?”

Eris felt his stomach drop. The god’s words pierced him like a blade, and for once, his mask slipped.

Y/N’s gasp cut through the silence. “You—what?”

Eris swallowed hard, his thoughts racing. “That wasn’t the arrangement.”

Koschei’s laughter echoed across the lake. “You’re lying to yourself, Eris Vanserra. The girl was always a tool, wasn’t she? But now…” The god’s smile turned mocking. “Now you hesitate. How quaint.”

“I need time,” Eris said quickly, his voice sharper than he intended.

Koschei raised a brow. “Time? You want me to wait?”

“Yes,” Eris said, his tone firm despite the chaos in his mind. “Twenty-four hours. I’ll return with an answer.”

The Death God considered him for a long, agonizing moment before finally nodding. “Very well. But if you fail to return, know this: I will find you both.”

With that, Koschei disappeared into the mist, leaving the air cold and suffocating in his wake.

Eris turned to Y/N, but before he could speak, she glared at him with such fury that he almost flinched.

“What the hell, Eris?”

“Not here,” he snapped, grabbing her arm. “We need to move. Now.”

The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the small clearing, but it did nothing to thaw the icy tension hanging between them. Y/N paced back and forth, her movements sharp and frantic. Her hands trembled, the fury in her blood barely contained. Whether her trembling was from rage, fear, or a mix of both, she couldn’t say.

“You lied to me!” she spat, her voice cutting through the still night like a blade. She didn’t stop pacing, her steps growing faster with every word. “You—you brought me here as some…some bargaining chip?” Her laugh was sharp, humorless, a sound borne of disbelief and betrayal. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you. I knew it. I should’ve known better than to trust a Vanserra.”

Eris sat on a fallen log, his usual regal posture diminished as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. His fiery hair glinted in the firelight, a crown of embers atop a face twisted with frustration and something dangerously close to guilt. When he finally lifted his head, his golden eyes met hers with a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, shame, and something else she couldn’t quite place.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, his voice low, almost too quiet to hear over the crackle of the flames.

“Oh, so you admit it then?” she shot back, stopping in her tracks to glare at him. “You admit you were planning to trade me to that monster?”

“I thought I could do it,” Eris snapped, the intensity in his tone enough to make her flinch, though she refused to show it. He shot to his feet, his height and presence suddenly looming as he closed the distance between them. “At first, I thought it would be simple. But now…” He faltered, raking a hand through his hair. His voice dropped again, rough and frayed at the edges. “It shouldn’t have been this hard.”

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, her rage was overtaken by the sting of betrayal. “I hate you,” she said, her voice breaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady.

Eris recoiled as if she’d struck him, but his recovery was swift. His jaw tightened, and his expression twisted into something cold, almost cruel. “You’re blaming me?” he hissed, his golden eyes burning with a new kind of fire. “You’re blaming me when we both know this isn’t one-sided? We were both using each other, Y/N.”

“Excuse me?” Her voice rose, the incredulity and anger in her chest threatening to burst.

“What about your little organization?” he continued, each word sharper than the last. He took a step closer, his gaze locking onto hers. “Were you planning to rat me out to them the second this was over? Or were you just going to kill me under their orders?”

Her breath hitched, and for a brief moment, she froze. That hesitation was all he needed to press on.

“That’s not—” she started, but he cut her off.

“You’re no better than me,” he said, his voice colder now, though she caught the slight waver in it. “So don’t stand there and act like you’re some righteous martyr when you’re just as manipulative and ruthless as I am.”

Something inside her snapped. “You don’t know anything about me!” she shouted, her voice cracking with the force of her anger. “You don’t know what I’ve been through or what I’ve sacrificed to even be here.”

“Then tell me,” Eris demanded, his tone softer but no less intense. He took another step closer, towering over her now. “Because all I see is someone who’s as willing to play dirty as I am.”

The fire between them seemed to dim, the tension thick enough to choke. Y/N clenched her fists at her sides, her body trembling with a mix of emotions she couldn’t even begin to untangle.

“You are impossible,” she muttered, shaking her head as she turned away from him.

“Impossible?” he repeated, his voice rising with disbelief. He threw his arms out, his control slipping as his emotions finally broke through the carefully constructed mask he wore. “Do you think this has been easy for me? Do you think I haven’t cursed myself for every step I’ve taken toward this gods-damned mess?”

“Why should I care how hard it’s been for you?” she shot back, spinning to face him again. “You lied to me. You brought me here to trade me like some pawn on a chessboard!”

“I thought I could do it!” he roared, his voice echoing through the clearing. His chest heaved as he struggled to rein in the storm of emotions swirling inside him. “I thought it would be easy. But now…” He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the ground as his voice softened. “Now it’s not.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, she thought she saw something break in him, something raw and unguarded. But the moment passed, and his walls went back up.

“I will never forgive you for this,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the lump in her throat.

Eris’s expression hardened, but his eyes betrayed him. There was something vulnerable, something desperate lingering in their depths. “Good,” he said, his tone sharper than a blade. “Because I’m not giving you to anyone.”

Her brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

“You heard me.” He straightened, squaring his shoulders as if steeling himself for what was to come. “I’ll find the secret myself. I don’t know why or for what reason, but I can’t trade you. I won’t.”

She let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Yeah, sure. You’re smart, but not smart enough to outwit a god.”

Eris didn’t flinch. Instead, his lips curved into the faintest hint of a smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “If Rhysand and Feyre can do it, so can I.”

Y/N gaped at him, her mind racing with a thousand questions, but before she could voice any of them, Eris was already moving.

“We’re leaving,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding. “Now.”

For a moment, she stood frozen, her emotions warring within her. Then, with a muttered curse, she grabbed her things and followed him into the dark forest, the fire behind them burning lower and lower until it was nothing but embers.

The camp materialized in the forest’s depths like a secret whispered too loudly. A smattering of tents and crude wooden structures sat nestled among the trees, almost imperceptible until you were standing in the middle of it. Eris stepped through the wards without hesitation, his sharp gaze sweeping over the area.

Y/N trailed behind him, her silence more ominous than any insult she might have hurled his way. Her hood was drawn low over her face, her footsteps deliberately quiet.

“You’ve been here before,” Eris noted, glancing back at her.

Y/N didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes were fixed on the nearest tent, where two figures huddled close, their conversation halting as they spotted her.

“Y/N,” one of them said, stepping forward. A tall, wiry man with piercing gray eyes and a knife strapped to his thigh. His voice was clipped, suspicious. “You weren’t supposed to come back here.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, but her tone was light, almost mocking. “Missed me already, Lioran?”

The man—Lioran—didn’t return the smile. His gaze slid to Eris, narrowing. “Who’s this?”

“Eris Vanserra,” Eris said smoothly, his tone polite but edged. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

Lioran’s hand drifted to the hilt of his knife. “We don’t take kindly to his kind here.”

Eris arched a brow. “My kind?”

“The scheming, backstabbing kind,” Lioran shot back, his voice sharp as steel.

“Then you’re in luck,” Eris said, his smile a razor-thin line. “I only scheme when it’s worth my time.”

“Eris,” Y/N hissed, stepping between them. She turned to Lioran, her voice low. “We’re not here to fight.”

“Then why are you here?” Lioran demanded, his gaze darting between her and Eris.

Y/N hesitated, her shoulders tense. “We need a place to rest. Just for a few hours.”

“Not here.”

“We don’t have a choice,” she snapped, her tone harsher than intended.

Lioran’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a choice, or he doesn’t?”

Eris stepped closer, his presence somehow both casual and imposing. “I appreciate your hospitality,” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. “Truly. But we’re staying.”

“Over my dead body,” Lioran growled, his knife halfway out of its sheath.

“That can be arranged,” Eris replied, his hand hovering near the sword at his hip.

“Enough!” Y/N’s voice cut through the rising tension like a blade. Both men froze, their gazes snapping to her.

“This isn’t your fight, Lioran,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm raging in her eyes. “Let us stay, and we’ll be gone by dawn.”

Lioran hesitated, his grip on the knife tightening. Then, with a muttered curse, he stepped back.

“You have until sunrise,” he said, his tone icy. “After that, you’re on your own.”

The tent was small and sparsely furnished, with little more than a pile of blankets and a flickering lantern. Y/N sat on the ground, her arms crossed over her chest, while Eris leaned against the canvas wall, watching her with an inscrutable expression.

“You’ve been here before,” he said finally, breaking the silence.

Y/N didn’t look at him. “What gave it away?”

“The way they looked at you,” he said, his tone annoyingly perceptive. “Like you were one of them. Or maybe like you weren’t anymore.”

She flinched, but her voice was sharp when she replied. “What’s your point?”

Eris tilted his head, studying her. “My point is, you’re full of surprises.”

“Coming from you, that’s almost a compliment.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

Silence stretched between them again, heavy and uncomfortable.

“Why did you bring me here?” Y/N asked finally, her voice low.

Eris hesitated, his golden eyes flickering with something she couldn’t quite place. “Because I needed to buy time.”

“For what?”

“To figure out what the hell I’m doing.”

His honesty caught her off guard, and for a moment, she didn’t know how to respond.

“I thought you always knew what you were doing,” she said, her tone softer than before.

“So did I,” he admitted, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other, the tension between them shifting into something quieter, more uncertain.

Then Eris straightened, his usual smirk returning. “Get some rest,” he said, his tone turning brisk. “We leave before sunrise.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, settling onto the pile of blankets with a huff.

As Eris extinguished the lantern, the darkness seemed to press in around them, heavy and unrelenting.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N wasn’t sure which of them she trusted less—the tyrant High Lord's arrogant prick of a son, or herself.

The dim light of the lantern flickered one last time before going out, plunging the tent into darkness. Y/N lay motionless for what felt like hours, her breathing slow and even, feigning sleep. She could hear the soft rustle of fabric as Eris adjusted his position, the steady cadence of his breaths eventually signaling that he had drifted off.

Quietly, she pushed herself up, careful not to make a sound. Her boots barely scuffed the ground as she slipped out of the tent, the night air cool against her flushed skin. The camp was silent, save for the occasional crackle of a dying fire or the distant hoot of an owl.

She found Lioran near the edge of the camp, seated on a stump with two others—Elira, a sharp-eyed woman with a scar slicing through her lip, and Darin, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual frown etched into his face. Their hushed conversation ceased the moment they saw her, their expressions shifting to guarded wariness.

“Y/N.” Lioran’s voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness. His gray eyes burned with a mixture of anger and something that almost looked like betrayal. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Y/N crossed her arms, her jaw tightening. “I needed help. I thought this place could offer it.”

“You thought this place could—” He stood abruptly, his fists clenching at his sides. “We thought you were dead, Y/N! For months, we worried, planned, searched. And then you show up out of nowhere, with him? What were we supposed to think?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she snapped back.

“No choice?” Elira interjected, her tone biting as she stepped closer, her dark eyes narrowing. “You’re standing here now, aren’t you? Looks like a choice to me.”

Y/N’s hands curled into fists. “Do you think I wanted this? To be dragged into his mess? To be used as leverage and then left to figure out how to survive?”

“Used as leverage?” Darin’s deep voice rumbled as he leaned forward, his arms still crossed. “What does that mean, Y/N?”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to Lioran, then Elira, and finally Darin. “He sold me to Koschei,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap.

Elira’s expression hardened into something cold and unreadable, but Darin’s eyes widened in shock. Lioran’s jaw dropped slightly before he recovered, his voice rising in disbelief. “He what?”

“Keep your voices down,” Y/N hissed, glancing nervously toward the tent where Eris slept. “He’ll wake up.”

“You’re telling me,” Lioran said, his voice low but no less cutting, “that Eris Vanserra sold you to Koschei, and now you’re just... traveling with him? Are you out of your mind?”

“I didn’t have a choice,” she repeated, her voice rising slightly before she caught herself. “I escaped, and he needed my help. We’ve been stuck together ever since.”

“And you didn’t think to tell us this sooner?” Elira demanded, her tone sharp as a blade. “You disappear for months, let us think you’re dead, and now you show up dragging him into our territory?”

“I didn’t even know you were still here!” Y/N shot back. “For all I knew, you’d packed up and disappeared.”

“We wouldn’t have had to move if someone hadn’t led him straight to us,” Elira retorted, her scarred lip curling into a sneer.

“I didn’t lead him here!” Y/N shouted, her frustration boiling over. “Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I’d risk you all like that?”

Elira took a threatening step forward, but Lioran held up a hand to stop her. “Then why are you here, Y/N? Why now?”

Y/N straightened, her voice steady and fierce. “Because Beron needs to be stopped. Because Koschei is a threat to all of us. And because I can’t do this alone.”

“And you think we’re just going to trust you?” Lioran’s words were laced with bitterness. “After everything?”

“I don’t care if you trust me,” she said, her voice firm. “I’m not here to beg for your forgiveness. I’m here because I know what’s at stake. Beron won’t stop until he’s crushed everyone who stands in his way, and Koschei is more dangerous than any of you realize.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with truth.

Darin glanced at Elira, then Lioran. “She’s not wrong,” he muttered reluctantly.

“Shut up, Darin,” Elira snapped, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

Y/N pressed on, her voice growing stronger. “I need allies, not enemies. If we don’t stand together, we’ll all fall separately.”

Elira scoffed. “And we’re supposed to believe you haven’t told him anything about us? How the hell did he find this place?”

“I don’t know!” Y/N’s voice cracked with exasperation. “Do you think I’d risk all of you like that? Do you think I’d risk us?”

Lioran stepped closer, his gray eyes boring into hers. “Did you?”

“No!” she said fiercely. “Are you mad? He’s the last person I’d trust with that kind of information.”

The tension crackled between them like a live wire, neither willing to back down.

Finally, Lioran sighed, running a hand through his hair. “This is going to cause problems,” he muttered. “She isn’t going to be happy about this.”

Y/N frowned. “She?”

Lioran hesitated before answering. “You know who I mean. Do you think she’ll just let this slide?”

“She’ll understand,” Y/N said, though her voice wavered slightly. “She has to.”

Lioran’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll see what I can do. But you’d better hope you’re right.”

With that, he turned and walked away, Elira following after him. Darin lingered for a moment, his gaze softening. “Be careful, Y/N. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

“I know,” she murmured, watching him go.

When she returned to the tent, Eris was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. She lay down carefully, staring up at the canvas above her, her mind racing with the implications of what had just transpired.

The battle wasn’t just with Beron or Koschei anymore. It was with the people she had once called allies—and the thin thread of trust that might be their only hope of survival.

Y/N woke to the low hum of voices, the kind that filled the camp with life but carried a weight of unspoken words. The sun barely peeked over the treetops, casting soft golden light on the forest floor. She blinked, groggy but alert enough to notice Eris wasn’t lying in the other makeshift bed anymore.

He stood a few feet away, crouched low as he packed their meager supplies. His shoulders were taut, the golden hair at the nape of his neck catching the early morning light. Y/N observed him for a moment, trying to gauge if he suspected anything. The tension in his frame was a constant, but there was no immediate sign that he’d pieced together her late-night conversation with Lioran.

Good. For now, at least.

Lioran’s laugh carried from near the campfire, followed by the murmur of other voices. Y/N shifted her attention there, noticing how the others in the camp were moving more leisurely this morning. They didn’t look at her with the same outright hostility as before. Suspicion lingered in their glances, but there was something softer in the way they interacted.

Pushing herself to her feet, Y/N walked over to the fire. Lioran stood on the opposite side, ladling out a hearty stew into small bowls and passing them to the others. He froze for a second when he spotted Y/N approaching, but her expression smoothed almost instantly.

“Breakfast?” Lioran offered, his tone clipped but civil.

Y/N took the bowl, her fingers brushing against Lioran’s briefly. The touch was enough to convey her silent plea: Don’t tell him.

Lioran's gaze flicked toward Eris, who was now leaning against a tree, his eyes darting between Y/N and the rest of the camp. His brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“Thank you,” Y/N said softly, breaking the silence.

The others in the camp shifted awkwardly but seemed to relax when Lioran handed Eris his bowl without a word. For a while, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the quiet clinking of spoons against metal.

After they’d eaten, one of the camp members approached with a small satchel. “For your journey,” he said, handing it to Eris.

The male looked surprised but accepted it, his lips twitching into a brief, almost reluctant smile. “Gratitude,” he said simply, though the tension in his voice hinted at deeper emotions.

Y/N caught Lioran'ss eye one last time as they prepared to leave. There was a flicker of something there—an unspoken truce, or maybe just mutual exhaustion. Either way, Lioran's curt nod told her he’d keep her word. For now.

The forest stretched endlessly around them, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Eris walked ahead, his posture rigid as ever. Y/N trailed behind him, her mind racing with questions she couldn’t ask aloud.

“You’re unusually quiet today,” Eris remarked, not turning to look at her.

“Maybe I’m tired of hearing your voice,” she shot back, quick and sharp.

He stopped abruptly, forcing her to stumble to a halt. He turned, his golden eyes narrowing as they locked onto hers. “We’re barely an hour into the day, and you’re already insufferable.”

Y/N crossed her arms. “I could say the same about you.”

Eris took a step closer, his height casting a shadow over her. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be running for their life, you have a remarkable talent for wasting time.”

“And for someone who’s supposedly saving my life, you have a remarkable talent for being unbearable,” she countered.

Their argument carried on for several more minutes, each barb sharper than the last. But eventually, the tension fizzled, replaced by the quiet rhythm of their footsteps.

Hours passed, the forest growing denser, the air heavier. Y/N watched Eris from behind, his movements graceful but purposeful. His shoulders were broad, his steps measured, and for a brief moment, she wondered how someone so infuriating could also be so... captivating.

Her thoughts were interrupted by his sudden halt. “We’ll stop here for a while,” he announced.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who said we don’t have time to waste.”

“Do you ever stop complaining?”

“Do you ever stop talking?”

He ignored her, kneeling to inspect a patch of moss on the ground. His indifference only fueled her frustration. Before she could think better of it, she darted forward and jumped onto his back, her arms locking around his neck.

Eris staggered, his hands instinctively grabbing her legs to steady her. “What the hell are you doing?” he growled.

“Making a point,” she replied smugly, tightening her grip.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, twisting to try and shake her off.

They tumbled to the ground in a chaotic heap, Y/N landing on top of him. She straddled his waist, pinning his arms down with a triumphant grin.

“Admit it,” she teased. “You’re impressed.”

Eris glared up at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “Get off me.”

“Make me,” she challenged, leaning in slightly.

His golden eyes flicked to her lips for a fraction of a second, and the world seemed to slow. Y/N felt her heart stutter, her breath catching in her throat. For the first time, there was no sarcasm, no hostility—just raw, unfiltered tension.

But then, as quickly as it came, the moment shattered. Eris shoved her off him, his movements abrupt and almost panicked.

“Childish,” he muttered, brushing himself off as he stood.

Y/N stared at him, her cheeks flushed. “You’re the one who started it,” she retorted weakly, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

The atmosphere shifted as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The once-warm light grew colder, the shadows longer.

Eris’s pace quickened, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Y/N struggled to keep up, the unease in her chest growing with every step.

Then, without warning, she doubled over, clutching her chest as a sharp, searing pain shot through her.

“Y/N?” Eris was at her side instantly, his hands steadying her.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, though her trembling fingers betrayed her words.

The air around them seemed to thrum, an eerie energy crackling in the silence. And then, a voice—silken, cold, and dripping with malice.

“Running from me, little fox? Did you really think you could escape so easily?”

Koschei’s voice reverberated through the forest, wrapping around them like a vice.

Eris’s jaw clenched and he muttered a curse before saying, “Show yourself,” he demanded.

The laughter that followed was hollow and bone-chilling. “Not yet. But know this: your defiance will not go unpunished.”

Y/N felt the pain intensify, her vision swimming as Koschei’s words burned into her mind. Eris' grip on her tightened as he suddenly pulled her to his chest.

“Her life is tied to your choices now, princeling. Fail me, and she will pay the price.”

The voice faded, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake.

Eris tightened his grip on Y/N, his face pale but resolute. “I won’t let him win,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.

By the time they resumed their journey, night had fallen, draping the forest in shadows that seemed to reach for them as they passed. The moon hung low in the sky, its silvery glow filtering through the canopy to illuminate the narrow, winding path ahead. Eris walked a few paces ahead, his movements sharp and purposeful, the tension in his shoulders impossible to miss.

Y/N trailed behind, her mind a tangle of questions and doubts. Every step felt heavier, the weight of Koschei’s words still pressing against her chest. She watched Eris’s profile as he moved—his jaw set in determination, his golden hair catching the moonlight like a crown of fire. He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the clearing, and the silence between them was thick enough to choke on.

Finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. “Are you going to tell me what this brilliant plan of yours is?” she asked, her voice hoarse but steady enough to cut through the night.

Eris didn’t so much as glance back. “No.”

Her footsteps faltered. “No?”

He stopped too, turning to face her. The moonlight carved sharp lines across his features, making his expression impossible to read. “I told you to trust me,” he said, his tone low but firm.

“Trust you?” Y/N repeated, the words dripping with disbelief. She scoffed, crossing her arms as her voice rose. “After everything that’s happened? After everything you’ve done?”

“Yes,” he said simply, his golden eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that stole her breath.

The calm certainty in his voice only fueled her frustration. She took a step closer, her fists clenched at her sides. “You can’t just demand trust, Eris. That’s not how it works. Not after—” Her voice cracked, and she quickly turned away, hiding the tremble in her hands. “Not after everything.”

Eris stayed silent, watching her as she fought to regain control. The only sound between them was the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of some nocturnal creature.

When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost gentle. “I know I’ve given you every reason to doubt me.”

Y/N’s head snapped back toward him, surprise flashing across her face. She hadn’t expected him to admit it.

“But if you don’t trust me now,” he continued, his gaze unwavering, “you’ll only make this harder on both of us. I have a plan. I’ll see it through. And I’ll keep you safe.”

“Safe?” she repeated bitterly. “You think this is about safety?”

“What else could it be about?” he asked, a flicker of irritation breaking through his calm facade.

Y/N opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. Because it wasn’t just about safety. It was about the lies, the manipulation, the way he always seemed to keep her one step behind, forcing her to rely on him when she wanted nothing more than to stand on her own.

“It’s about control,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about you never letting me have a say in my own damn life.”

Eris’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away. For a moment, she thought he might argue. Instead, he took a slow step closer, closing the distance between them.

“I’m not doing this to control you,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I’m doing this because I know what’s at stake. And whether you like it or not, I’m your best chance at surviving this.”

Y/N stared at him, torn between fury and something she couldn’t quite name. The truth of his words only made her angrier, but there was something in his eyes—something raw and unguarded—that made it impossible to look away.

Finally, she let out a long, shaky sigh and turned back toward the path. “Fine,” she said, her tone sharp but resigned. “But if this goes sideways, I’m blaming you.”

Eris let out a soft huff of laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in what could almost be called a smile. “Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said, falling into step beside her.

The silence that followed was different this time—not quite comfortable, but no longer suffocating. As they walked, Y/N stole a glance at him from the corner of her eye. For all his arrogance and infuriating confidence, there was something steady about Eris, something that made her wonder if maybe—just maybe—he really did know what he was doing.

She quickly shoved the thought aside. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not when so much was on the line. But for now, she’d follow him. For now, she’d pretend that his plan was enough.

The night stretched on, the moonlight guiding their way as the forest seemed to close in around them. And though neither of them spoke again, the tension between them lingered, simmering beneath the surface like a fire waiting to ignite.

By the time the first rays of sunlight broke through the thick canopy above, Y/N’s legs ached, and her patience was nearing its limit. They had walked for hours, the night stretching endlessly, with only the sound of rustling leaves and Eris’s steady footsteps to break the silence.

He hadn’t told her where they were going, and the vague promise of a plan did little to soothe her growing frustration. She bit back the questions that kept rising in her throat, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his secrecy irked her.

Instead, she focused on her surroundings, noting the shift in the forest’s atmosphere. The air had grown cooler, the trees older and more gnarled, their roots twisting across the ground like veins. There was a sense of ancient power here, something that made her skin prickle and her steps falter.

“Keep moving,” Eris called over his shoulder, his tone clipped.

Y/N scowled, quickening her pace to match his. “You could at least tell me if we’re getting close.”

“We’re close,” he said simply, offering no further explanation.

She glared at his back, tempted to hurl a rock at his head. But before she could voice her irritation, the forest opened up, revealing a clearing bathed in golden light. At its center stood a stone archway, weathered by time but still imposing. Strange runes were etched into its surface, glowing faintly as if alive.

“What is this?” Y/N asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Eris didn’t answer. Instead, he strode toward the archway, his movements more deliberate now, as though he were stepping onto sacred ground.

Y/N hesitated before following, her gaze darting around the clearing. The air felt heavy here, charged with a magic that made her heart race. She didn’t trust it—and she certainly didn’t trust Eris.

But curiosity won out, and she approached the archway, her eyes narrowing as she watched him trace his fingers over the glowing runes.

The runes were exactly as he remembered them from the stories his father used to tell. Tales of a hidden passage, a place where the secrets of their bloodline were guarded, waiting to be uncovered by those bold enough—or foolish enough—to seek them.

Eris’s fingers trembled slightly as they brushed against the cold stone, though he quickly steadied himself. He couldn’t afford hesitation now, not when they were so close.

“Eris,” Y/N’s voice broke through his focus, sharp and demanding. “What is this place?”

He glanced at her, taking in the way her arms were crossed defensively, her eyes narrowing as if she were trying to read his mind. A part of him wanted to explain, to ease the suspicion etched across her features. But the other part—the part that had been shaped by years of manipulation and betrayal—held back.

“It’s the key to our survival,” he said finally, his voice low but resolute.

Her scowl deepened. “Could you be any more cryptic?”

He ignored the jab, turning back to the archway. With a deep breath, he pressed his palm against the center rune, feeling the surge of magic as it reacted to his touch. The runes flared brighter, casting the clearing in an otherworldly glow.

A low rumble echoed through the ground, and the air around them seemed to ripple. The space within the archway shimmered, transforming into a swirling portal of gold and crimson.

Eris stepped back, his chest tightening. He’d spent years wondering if this place truly existed, if the stories were more than just myth. And now, standing on the precipice, he felt the weight of what lay ahead.

Y/N stared at the portal, her heart pounding in her chest. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “You brought me all the way out here for a portal? What even is this?”

Eris turned to her, his expression unreadable. “It’s a passage to the truth,” he said, his voice steady but filled with a tension she couldn’t quite place.

“Truth about what?” she demanded. “Your father? Your grand scheme? You can’t just keep dragging me along without answers, Eris.”

He hesitated, and for a moment, she thought he might actually open up. But then he shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You’ll see soon enough.”

Before she could argue, he stepped through the portal and disappeared.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. She glanced at the swirling magic, dread pooling in her gut. She had every reason to turn around and leave, to abandon him to whatever madness lay beyond. But she also knew that whatever this was, it was bigger than both of them.

With a muttered curse, she stepped into the portal.

The air on the other side was colder, sharper, and filled with the hum of ancient magic. Eris landed gracefully, his boots crunching against stone as he surveyed the chamber before him. The room was vast, its walls lined with glowing symbols that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal, atop which rested a small, intricately carved box. It was unassuming at first glance, but Eris could feel the power emanating from it, a power that called to him like a siren’s song.

He stepped toward it, his breaths coming quicker. This was it—the key to his father’s secrets, to the truths that had been kept from him for so long.

Behind him, Y/N appeared, stumbling slightly as she adjusted to the new surroundings. “What the hell is this place?” she asked, her voice echoing off the stone walls.

Eris didn’t answer. His focus was solely on the box as he reached out and lifted it from the pedestal. The moment his fingers closed around it, a wave of energy surged through the room, causing the symbols on the walls to flare brighter.

“What did you do?” Y/N demanded, panic creeping into her voice.

Before he could respond, a figure materialized from the shadows—a tall, cloaked man with eyes that glowed like molten gold.

“Eris,” the figure said, his voice deep and resonant. “You should not have come here.”

Eris froze, his grip tightening on the box. “Who are you?”

The man stepped closer, his presence radiating authority. “I am the keeper of the Vanserra bloodline's sins. And you have just unleashed them.”

The sudden appearance of the cloaked man caught Y/N off guard, her hand instinctively going to the dagger at her waist. She knew better than to trust anyone who emerged from the shadows, especially someone who seemed to know far more than they should.

Eris tensed beside her, his posture straightening. “I don’t remember inviting you.” His voice was cold, calculating, but there was a flicker of something—fear, maybe—beneath the surface.

The figure’s golden eyes, glowing with an ethereal light, fixed on Eris. “You don’t need to invite me, son. I’ve always been here, watching.” He stepped closer, his movement slow and deliberate, his feet never touching the stone floor. “You think you can just walk in here and uncover secrets that were meant to remain buried?”

Y/N exchanged a glance with Eris, her gut twisting with unease. The air around them had thickened, suffocating, as though the very room was alive with tension. The glowing symbols on the walls pulsed in a rhythm that matched the frantic beating of her heart.

“What do you want?” Eris demanded, his voice a bit sharper now, but his hands still gripping the box like his life depended on it.

The figure’s lips curled into a twisted smile. “What I want? I’m not the one who has come looking for answers, Eris. You’re the one who wants to peel back the veil of the past, but be careful. Some truths, once uncovered, cannot be undone.”

The words were heavy, ominous. Y/N felt a shiver run down her spine.

Eris’s grip tightened on the box, but his expression remained unreadable, almost like he was steeling himself for something worse. “I’m done being kept in the dark. Whatever you are, whatever my father has hidden from me… it’s time for the truth.”

Y/N watched the interaction between them closely, unsure of how much she should trust Eris’s confidence. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this man—this figure who seemed to appear from nowhere—was more than he let on.

The cloaked figure laughed, a low, mocking sound that reverberated around the chamber. “You think you’re ready for the truth? You’ve been living in your father’s shadow for so long, you have no idea what you’re about to uncover.” He reached out, but his fingers stopped just short of touching the box Eris held. “That box contains not just your father’s secrets but his sins. If you open it, you open the door to everything he’s done. Everything he’s become.”

Eris’s jaw clenched, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes now.

“Isn’t it better to leave things in the past?” Y/N asked, her voice low and tense. She could sense Eris’s hesitation, and it unnerved her. Was he truly ready to face what lay beyond this point? She wasn’t sure.

The cloaked man tilted his head slightly, considering her words. “Wise, but futile. The past has a way of coming for you. Especially when you’ve buried it so deeply.”

Eris didn’t back down. “I don’t care. I need to know.” He opened the box.

The air seemed to hold its breath.

Inside the box, there was a small crystal, no larger than a stone, but its light was blinding. A bright, pulsating red.

Y/N squinted, shielding her eyes from the intensity of the light. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but she stood frozen, unable to look away. The power radiating from the crystal felt familiar but twisted. Like something that had once been pure had been corrupted by darkness.

The moment he opened the box, a wave of energy slammed into him. It was as if the world around him buckled and shifted, pulling at his very soul. His vision blurred, his knees buckled, and for a split second, it felt like he was falling into an endless abyss.

The cloaked figure smiled knowingly, watching Eris struggle to maintain his composure. “I warned you.”

Eris clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright. He had expected something—maybe not this intensity—but he hadn’t prepared for the physical weight of it. The crystal in his hand pulsed with malevolent power, and the symbols on the walls flared to life.

For a moment, he thought he saw shadows move within the symbols—whispers that seemed to beckon him. He felt a pull, a magnetic force drawing him deeper into the room, deeper into whatever this place was.

Y/N reached out instinctively, her hand brushing against his shoulder. “Eris… what’s happening?”

He turned to her, eyes wild, the golden hue of his gaze dimming as he fought to regain control. “It’s my father… he’s hidden this here for a reason. This crystal is—”

Before he could finish, the ground beneath them shook violently. The air thickened with the smell of burning metal and decay. The runes on the walls were no longer just glowing—they were alive, twisting, writhing like snakes.

The cloaked figure raised his hands, his eyes glowing brighter. “It’s already too late. You’ve unleashed something far worse than you can imagine. That crystal binds you to your father’s will. It always has.”

Y/N moved closer to Eris, her hand brushing the back of his as she tried to help steady him. “We need to leave. Now.”

Eris shook his head, determination flooding his veins despite the rising panic. “I can’t… I need to understand. I can’t just turn back now.”

The cloaked figure chuckled darkly. “You will never understand. You are just a pawn in his game. You always have been.”

Y/N’s eyes flickered between Eris and the figure, her thoughts racing. There was more to this than either of them knew. She could see it in the way Eris struggled, in the way the cloaked figure seemed to savor every moment of the pain they were experiencing.

Eris’s grip tightened on the crystal as the room seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. Then, without warning, a voice echoed through the chamber, cold and detached.

“You should have never come here, Eris.”

Y/N’s heart froze. The voice was unmistakable.

It was his father.

The voice that echoed through the chamber sent a chill crawling down Eris’s spine. He had heard that voice in his dreams, in his nightmares, in his everyday life—the cold, emotionless tone of a man who had never cared for anything other than power.

The crystal in his hand vibrated violently, and the world seemed to warp around him. The air thickened with the weight of his father’s presence, though he could not see him.

“Father,” Eris breathed, his voice hoarse.

“You’re foolish, Eris. You always have been. Thinking you could change the past, thinking you could erase the sins you’ve inherited. You can’t escape me. Not now. Not ever. And now, I know exactly where you and that little birdie of yours are.” The voice sounded nearer now, echoing in every corner of the chamber.

Y/N stepped forward, her eyes flicking between Eris and the source of the voice, her hand still on his arm. “Eris, this isn’t you. Don’t let him—”

But before she could finish, the cloaked figure raised a hand. “Do you think this is over? You’ve only awakened a fraction of what lies ahead. Your father’s reach is far greater than you know, Eris. You’ve only scratched the surface.”

Eris shook his head, the weight of his father’s voice still pressing down on him. He could feel the truth of it gnawing at his insides. His father’s reach—his control—had never really ended. It was still pulling at him, tethering him to a past he couldn’t escape.

And then the realization hit him like a blow to the chest: He was more like his father than he’d ever wanted to admit.

His eyes met Y/N’s, and in that moment, something shifted. The hatred he had felt for his father, the anger, the rage—it seemed almost insignificant in the face of the storm that was coming. He couldn’t change the past. But maybe, just maybe, he could do something different now.

Y/N saw the moment Eris broke. It wasn’t physical—there was no visible crack in him, no sign that something had shifted—but she could feel it. She could see it in the way his shoulders slumped, the faint tremble in his hand as he held the crystal.

He was facing something deep within himself. And Y/N knew that whatever it was, it was more dangerous than any enemy they’d ever fought.

The cloaked figure laughed, a low, bitter sound that echoed through the chamber. “You’re too late, Eris. You’re already bound. Your fate has already been decided.”

But Y/N wasn’t done. She stepped forward, pulling Eris’s arm to stop him from retreating into himself. “We’re not done,” she said firmly. “Whatever this is, we face it together.”

For a moment, there was no response. Then, slowly, Eris met her eyes, his gaze shifting from uncertainty to something more determined.

“Together,” he muttered, as if testing the weight of the word.

And for the first time since they’d met, Y/N believed it.

The ride back to the capital was a blur of motion and urgency. Y/N didn't even know from where Eris got the horses. The forest around them seemed alive with the weight of Beron’s presence, the shadows stretching unnaturally long as if the High Lord himself were watching their every move.

Eris had barely spoken since the chamber, his jaw clenched and his eyes fixed straight ahead. Y/N had tried to pull him out of his silence, to remind him they needed a plan, but his focus was razor-sharp, and she knew better than to press too hard.

Still, the tension between them was unbearable. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig, set her on edge. They were being hunted—she could feel it in her bones.

“We’re not going to make it to the capital unnoticed,” she finally said, her voice cutting through the oppressive quiet.

Eris didn’t turn, didn’t even glance her way. “We don’t have a choice.”

“And what happens when we get there?” she pressed. “Your father isn’t just going to let you stroll into his court and accuse him of treason.”

His lips curled into a humorless smile. “He won’t have to. The court’s already in chaos. This will just tip it over the edge.”

Y/N swallowed hard. She didn’t doubt Eris’s ability to lead, to inspire loyalty in those who followed him. But Beron had ruled for centuries with an iron fist, and loyalty to him ran deep, even among those who despised him.

He could feel the weight of Y/N’s doubts pressing against him, though she hadn’t voiced them outright. She was right to be cautious. This wasn’t just a gamble—it was a death wish.

But there was no time for hesitation.

The information he’d uncovered in the chamber was enough to destroy Beron’s reign, enough to rally the court against him—if Eris played it right. The crystal now hidden in his saddlebag pulsed with a faint warmth, a constant reminder of what was at stake.

“Keep your guard up,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “If Beron sent someone after us, they won’t be far behind.”

Y/N snorted softly, though there was no humor in it. “Good to know you’re finally acknowledging that we’re being hunted.”

Eris didn’t reply. His attention was fixed on the horizon, where the first faint outlines of the capital’s spires were visible against the darkening sky.

The attack came just before dawn, swift and brutal.

One moment they were riding through the dense undergrowth, the next, the air was alive with the sound of arrows slicing through the air.

“Down!” Eris barked, throwing himself from his horse and dragging Y/N with him just as a volley of arrows thudded into the trees where they had been riding moments before.

The horses screamed and bolted, disappearing into the forest as a group of masked figures emerged from the shadows, their movements silent and precise.

Eris drew his sword in one fluid motion, the blade catching the faint light of dawn as he placed himself between Y/N and the attackers. “Stay close,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Y/N didn’t hesitate, pulling her own dagger free as the first of the attackers lunged toward them.

The fight was chaotic, a blur of clashing steel and snarled commands. Eris moved with deadly precision, his strikes quick and calculated as he dispatched one attacker after another. Y/N fought with the same ferocity, her smaller blade flashing in the dim light as she defended herself against the onslaught.

But the attackers kept coming, their movements coordinated as if they were being guided by an unseen hand.

“Eris!” Y/N shouted, her voice sharp with warning.

He turned just in time to see a massive figure charging toward him, a wickedly curved blade glinting in his hand. Eris barely managed to deflect the blow, the force of it sending him staggering back.

Y/N lunged, her dagger slicing across the attacker’s thigh as she moved to cover Eris’s side.

“Nice timing,” he muttered, his breathing ragged.

“Don’t mention it,” she shot back, her own chest heaving as she scanned the trees for the next threat.

Just as it seemed they were being overwhelmed, a sudden burst of fire lit up the forest.

Eris’s flames roared to life, consuming the nearest attackers in a blaze of heat and light. The remaining assailants faltered, their carefully coordinated attack breaking apart as panic set in.

“Run or burn,” Eris growled, his voice carrying over the crackling of the flames.

The surviving attackers didn’t need to be told twice. They vanished into the trees, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

Eris let the fire die, the light fading as quickly as it had come.

Y/N slumped against a tree, her dagger still clenched tightly in her hand. “Well,” she panted, “that was fun.”

Eris shot her a look, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes now, despite the tension still coiled in his frame. “We need to keep moving.”

She nodded, forcing herself to her feet. “Next time, maybe warn me before you set the forest on fire.”

The camp they set up was crude but sufficient. A circle of stones held a small fire, its flames snapping against the cold night air. Eris moved efficiently, his every motion sharp with frustration. Y/N leaned against a tree, her arms crossed, watching him with a frown.

The tension between them had been simmering since the attack in the woods, the unspoken words and mounting pressure finally reaching a breaking point.

“We shouldn’t stop,” she said, her voice cutting through the crackle of the fire.

“We have no choice,” Eris replied without looking at her. “The horses are gone. We’re lucky we made it this far on foot.”

Y/N pushed off the tree, her arms falling to her sides. “We’re wasting time.”

Eris rounded on her, his golden eyes blazing. “And what would you have me do, Y/N? March us straight into the capital half-dead and unprepared?”

“Yes, if it means we’re one step ahead of Beron,” she shot back, her tone sharp. “He knows we’re coming. Every second we spend out here is a second closer to him tightening his grip.”

Eris let out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel the weight of it every damn moment?”

“Then stop acting like you’re the only one with something to lose!”

The words hung in the air, sharp and raw. Eris froze, his chest heaving as he stared at her.

Y/N didn’t back down, her voice trembling with the force of her anger. “You’ve been holding onto this plan of yours like it’s the only thing that matters. But guess what, Eris? I matter. My people matter. The things I’ve fought for—bled for—they matter. And I won’t let your pride or your fear jeopardize everything.”

Eris’s gaze darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine. You want to talk about what matters? Let’s start with you. Who are you, Y/N? Really? Because every time I think I have you figured out, you throw another secret at me.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, but she squared her shoulders. “You want the truth? Fine. I’m from the Eastern Wastes. My family was slaughtered when Beron’s soldiers raided my village, claiming we were harboring rebels. I survived by sheer luck—or maybe because I was too young to fight back.”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. “I was taken in by the Blackspire Alliance—a group that fights against tyrants like your father. They trained me, turned me into a weapon. I’ve spent my entire life dismantling regimes like Beron’s, piece by bloody piece.”

Eris blinked, the firelight catching in his eyes. “The Blackspire Alliance... They’re a myth.”

“They’re real,” Y/N said bitterly. “And they’re the reason I’m still alive. But they’re also the reason I’ll never have a normal life. I’ve done things—terrible things—in their name. And I’ll do more if it means taking Beron down.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

When Eris finally spoke, his voice was low, almost a whisper. “Do you think you’re the only one with scars?”

Y/N’s head snapped up, her gaze locking with his.

“I’ve hated my father for as long as I can remember,” Eris said, his tone filled with quiet venom. “He’s cruel, manipulative, and he’s ruled our court through fear and bloodshed. I’ve spent my entire life trying to find a way to stop him. But every time I got close, he reminded me of just how powerless I was. How easily he could destroy everything I cared about.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides. “And then there’s my brothers. Do you know what it’s like to stand by while they suffer under him, knowing you can’t save them without damning yourself?”

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off, his voice rising. “I didn’t think it would be this hard. I thought I could handle it. But then you came along, and suddenly everything became so much more complicated.”

He took a step closer, his golden eyes burning into hers. “Because now, when I think of you in the slightest danger, it feels like my chest is being ripped open. And I hate it. I hate that you make me feel this way when I can’t afford to be distracted.”

Y/N stared at him, her heart pounding. “You think I don’t feel the same?” she whispered.

Eris let out a frustrated growl, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. “Then why do you keep pushing me away? Why do you act like this is just some mission to you?”

“Because it has to be!” Y/N shouted, her voice cracking. “If I let myself feel anything more, I’ll lose focus. And if I lose focus, we both die.”

Her words seemed to pierce through him, and he stopped pacing, his gaze locking with hers.

“You’re a coward,” he said softly, the accusation like a slap to the face.

Y/N’s eyes blazed with fury. “How dare you—”

“You’re afraid to let yourself want something for once in your life,” Eris continued, his voice rising. “Because if you do, it’ll mean admitting that you’re not just a weapon. That you’re a fae. And that terrifies you.”

Y/N took a step forward, her hands clenched into fists. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” he said, his voice steady now. “I know you’re strong. Fierce. Loyal. But you’re also so damn scared of being vulnerable that you’d rather push everyone away than let them in.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she couldn’t find the words to respond.

Eris closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hands cupping her face as he kissed her with a fierceness that stole the air from her lungs.

Y/N froze, the shock of it crashing over her like a wave. But then the heat of his lips, the raw desperation in his touch, pulled her under. She kissed him back, her hands gripping his tunic as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the world.

The kiss was a battle in itself—fierce, messy, and filled with every unspoken word they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard, their foreheads pressed together.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Y/N whispered, her voice trembling.

“No,” Eris agreed, his thumb brushing against her cheek. “But it means something.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her chest aching with a mixture of fear and longing. She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, in this moment, she let herself feel.

The kiss lingered like a phantom between them, neither willing to address it, both too stubborn to break the uneasy silence. The tension was palpable as they packed up the camp, their movements sharp and deliberate.

Eris’s usual sharp remarks were replaced with clipped instructions. Y/N, for her part, kept her replies short, her mind a tangle of confusion and frustration. The awkwardness gnawed at her, but she refused to be the one to crack first.

The forest thinned as they neared the outskirts of the capital. Smoke curled on the horizon, faint but unmistakable—a sign of the chaos that awaited them.

Y/N broke the silence, her voice quiet but firm. “You’re sure about this?”

Eris didn’t look at her, his golden eyes fixed ahead. “I have to be.”

Her stomach twisted. She hated how much she cared about his answer, how much the thought of losing him made her chest ache.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the capital, the sun was rising, casting an eerie orange glow over the smoke-filled sky. Y/N’s steps faltered as she saw the figures waiting for them.

At first, she thought it was an illusion. But as they drew closer, she recognized the faces—fighters from the Blackspire Alliance, rebels she hadn’t seen in years, and even a few she’d thought long dead. Among them were the familiar silhouettes of their leaders, the very people she thought would never forgive her departure—yet they had answered her call.

Her gaze landed on Lioran, standing at the front, his expression grim but resolute.

“You...” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

“We answered,” Lioran said simply.

Her throat tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides as memories of their last meeting rushed back. The argument. The betrayal. The way she had left, believing she would never see any of them again.

“I didn’t think—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

Lioran’s tone sharpened, though there was no malice in it. “You didn’t think we’d come?” He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “You’ve been leading us for years, Y/N. Did you really think we’d let you face this alone? That we wouldn’t fight for the cause we all believed in?”

Behind him, others began to move closer, their faces illuminated by the growing light of dawn. Karys, the fiery-tempered weapons master, adjusted the massive axe strapped to her back. Her expression was as stern as ever, but there was a flicker of warmth in her stormy eyes as she nodded at Y/N.

Beside her stood Elira, the Alliance’s healer, her long silver hair tied into a braid that fell over her shoulder. Though her soft features bore the lines of worry and exhaustion, her lips curved into a small, reassuring smile.

And then there was Garran, the tactician whose sharp mind had kept them alive through some of their darkest days. His dark eyes gleamed with intelligence as he stepped forward, giving Eris a curt nod of acknowledgment before turning his attention to Y/N.

“You didn’t just call us,” Garran said, his voice low but carrying weight. “You called everyone. Word spread faster than wildfire. And this—” He gestured to the crowd behind him. “This is only the beginning. More are coming. More than you ever imagined.”

Y/N’s eyes swept over the gathered rebels, taking in the sea of faces—new and old, scarred and hopeful. Among the common folk were blacksmiths still wearing soot-streaked aprons, hunters clutching bows and quivers, and even children barely old enough to hold blades but standing tall with determination.

“I never expected...” She trailed off, unable to find the words.

Elira stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “You gave us hope when we had none. You think we’d forget that?”

A lump rose in her throat, and she blinked rapidly to push back the sting of tears. “I thought I lost all of you,” she admitted, her voice barely audible.

Karys snorted, her tone dry but not unkind. “We’re tougher than that, girl. You should know better.”

Eris had been standing a few paces behind Y/N, his amber eyes keenly observing the exchange. His expression remained unreadable, though his posture was unusually stiff. When Garran’s gaze flicked to him again, something unspoken passed between the two men—acknowledgment, perhaps, or the silent beginnings of trust.

“We’re ready,” Lioran said, his voice steady as he stepped closer, his presence commanding. “But you should know: Beron’s forces are already tearing the city apart. The fighting’s started, and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. If we’re going to strike, we need to do it soon.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened, her resolve hardening like steel. She looked at the rebels—at her people—before turning to face the city, where smoke and ash painted the horizon.

“Then we’d better get to work,” she said, her voice resolute, though her heart thundered in her chest.

Behind her, the Blackspire Alliance roared their agreement, the sound rising like thunder over the chaos of the burning capital.

The capital was unrecognizable. Smoke choked the air, curling into the dawn sky like dark serpents. The acrid stench of burning wood, charred flesh, and spilled blood was suffocating. The streets, once bustling with life, were now a graveyard of shattered debris, overturned carts, and the lifeless bodies of those caught in the crossfire.

Fires raged unchecked, devouring homes and businesses alike, their flames crackling and hissing as they leapt from building to building. The inferno painted the sky an angry orange, casting jagged shadows that seemed to dance across the carnage below. Shouts and screams echoed through the streets, mingling with the clash of steel and the guttural cries of the wounded.

Y/N moved through the chaos like a storm, her iron sword flashing in the firelight. Her movements were precise, almost graceful, as she cut down anyone who dared to stand in her way. Behind her, the rebels of the Blackspire Alliance fought with a ferocity born of desperation, their weapons gleaming as they clashed against Beron’s forces.

Every step was a battle. The royal guards were relentless, their polished armor splattered with blood and soot as they surged forward in tightly-knit formations. They fought with the discipline of trained killers, but Y/N and her rebels matched them blow for blow.

At one point, as she turned a corner, her sharp gaze caught sight of a group of civilians huddled against the wall of a crumbling building. A mother clutched her sobbing child to her chest, her face pale with terror. An elderly man leaned heavily on a wooden staff, his knuckles white as he tried to shield a young boy with his body.

They were surrounded. A squad of royal guards closed in on them, their swords gleaming with deadly intent.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Fury surged through her veins, white-hot and unyielding, as she launched herself into the fray. She moved like a blur, her weapons slicing through the air.

The first guard didn’t even have time to react. Y/N’s sword tore through his chestplate, rending steel and flesh as he crumpled to the ground. The second swung his blade at her, but she ducked under the arc and drove her axe into his unprotected side. He fell with a strangled cry, his sword clattering uselessly to the ground.

The remaining guards turned to face her, their faces a mix of shock and rage. One of them shouted an order, and they charged as a unit, their swords aimed at her heart.

Y/N snarled, her fangs bared, and met them head-on. Her swordcaught the blade of the first guard, sparks flying as steel met iron. With a powerful twist, she disarmed him, her hand slashing across his throat in a single, lethal motion.

The next guard lunged at her with a spear, but she sidestepped the thrust with inhuman speed. Grabbing the shaft of the spear, she yanked it free from his grasp and swung it like a staff, knocking him off his feet. She didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—as she drove her bare hands into his chest, ensuring he wouldn’t rise again.

The last guard hesitated, his grip on his sword faltering as he stared at her. Y/N advanced on him, her steps deliberate, her hands dripping with blood.

“Run,” she growled, her voice low and menacing.

The guard’s nerve broke. He turned and fled, his armor clanking as he disappeared into the smoke-filled streets.

Breathing hard, Y/N turned to the civilians. “Get to safety!” she shouted, her voice sharp with urgency as she wiped blood from her brow.

The mother stared at her, wide-eyed and trembling, before nodding quickly. She grabbed her child’s hand and bolted toward a nearby alley, the elderly man and boy following close behind.

Y/N watched them go, her chest heaving with exertion. Relief flickered through her, but it was short-lived.

“Commander!” one of the rebels shouted, running toward her. “More guards are coming from the west! We’re outnumbered!”

Y/N clenched her jaw, her hands flexing as she scanned the street. The fires had grown, consuming entire buildings and forcing the rebels to funnel through narrow, smoke-filled passageways. They couldn’t hold this position much longer.

“Fall back to the eastern square!” she barked, her voice carrying over the chaos. “Regroup there and hold the line until we can push through!”

The rebel nodded and sprinted off to relay the order. Y/N took a moment to steady herself, her gaze lingering on the bodies of the guards she had killed.

She turned back toward the fight, her resolve hardening. There was no room for hesitation, no time for fear. They had a city to reclaim, and she would see it through—no matter the cost.

The throne room was a gilded mausoleum, its ornate gold-and-red design bathed in the flickering glow of Eris’s flames. The suffocating weight of power, corruption, and decades of unspoken resentment seemed to pulse from the walls. Eris stalked forward like a predator unleashed, the fire in his palms mirroring the inferno blazing in his chest.

Beron sat on his throne, his expression a twisted mix of disdain and amusement, as though he couldn’t believe Eris would dare challenge him. Flanking him were Eris’s remaining brothers, their faces betraying a mix of fear and loyalty, their swords already drawn.

"Back to grovel, boy?" Beron sneered, his voice oozing contempt, but there was an edge of uncertainty in his tone.

Eris didn’t bother replying. Words had long since lost their meaning in these halls. Instead, he let his flames roar to life, casting monstrous shadows across the room as he hurled a blazing inferno toward his father.

Beron barely moved in time, the blast of fire scorching the side of the throne and sending shards of molten gold flying. The room erupted into chaos as Beron’s sons lunged forward, their weapons catching the firelight in deadly arcs. Seems like Eris would have to fight his brothers, oh well, he would get them healers after all this mess is over.

The fight was brutal, every strike carrying the weight of buried history and bitterness.

One of Eris’s brothers, swung his sword in a vicious arc aimed at Eris’s neck. Eris ducked, his movements fluid and precise, and countered with a sweep of flames that engulfed Caleb’s arm. The brother screamed, dropping his weapon and stumbling back, but Eris didn’t stop. He spun, using the momentum to drive his fist—wreathed in fire—into the face of another brother, the impact echoing through the chamber.

“Enough of this!” Beron’s voice boomed, and the High Lord raised his hands. A surge of raw, fiery power rippled through the air, colliding with Eris’s flames and extinguishing them in an instant. The oppressive weight of Beron’s power bore down on the room, choking and hot.

“You think you can kill me?” Beron snarled, his eyes narrowing as he stepped forward. “You think you’ve earned that right?”

“I don’t think,” Eris said, his voice like steel. “I know.”

With a roar, Eris reignited his flames, the inferno hotter and brighter than before, defying the cold weight of Beron’s power. He surged forward, his blade flashing in the fiery light as he clashed with his father. Sparks flew as their weapons met, the force of each strike reverberating through the walls.

Beron’s attacks were relentless, fueled by years of cruelty and dominance. He lashed out with blasts of fiery magic that twisted and coiled like living things, seeking to ensnare and crush Eris. But Eris was faster, his flames burning away the dark tendrils with each strike.

“You’ve always been a disappointment,” Beron hissed, his face contorted with rage. “Weak. Sniveling. Unworthy of my throne.”

Eris laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that cut through the clash of steel. “And yet here I am, standing where you thought I never would.”

He pressed the attack, his blade moving like liquid fire. He drove Beron back toward the throne, each strike fueled by the years of pain and humiliation he had endured. But Beron was no weakling; he had ruled for centuries with cunning and strength. He parried Eris’s blows with precision, his magic coiling around him like armor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eris saw his last uninjured brother attempting to flank him. With a quick flick of his wrist, he sent a jet of fire spiraling toward the man, forcing him to dive for cover.

Beron seized the distraction, sending a blast of fireballs toward Eris’s chest. The force of it knocked Eris off his feet, slamming him into a gilded pillar. Pain lanced through his back, but he gritted his teeth and rose, flames already igniting in his hands again.

Beron smirked. “You can’t win, boy. You’ll never be more than a shadow in my legacy.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Eris growled. His flames erupted in a brilliant cascade, setting the drapes and banners ablaze, turning the throne room into a fiery hellscape.

Beron lunged, but Eris was ready. He sidestepped the attack and drove his blade deep into Beron’s side. The High Lord gasped, his power faltering for a brief moment.

“Still think I’m weak?” Eris spat, twisting the blade and pulling it free.

Beron staggered, but his eyes burned with defiance. “You’ll regret this. You don’t have what it takes to—”

Eris didn’t let him finish. With a roar, he drove his blade straight into Beron’s chest, the force of the blow driving them both to the ground. Flames erupted around them as Beron’s power surged one last time before fading entirely.

For a moment, the room was silent, save for the crackling of fire. Eris stared down at his father’s lifeless body, his chest heaving with exertion. The High Lord of Autumn was no more.

But the victory felt hollow, the weight of what came next settling heavily on Eris’s shoulders.

As Beron crumpled to the ground, his lifeless body hitting the marble with a finality that echoed through the throne room, Y/N screamed.

The sound tore through the chaos outside the palace, raw and guttural, cutting through the clamor of battle like a blade. She stumbled, clutching at her chest as a searing, inexplicable pain radiated through her body. It felt like fire licking at her veins, consuming her from the inside out. Her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the blood-streaked ground.

Lioran was at her side in an instant, his face pale with panic as he caught her before she hit the stone. “Y/N! What’s happening?” he demanded, his voice tight with fear.

She couldn’t answer. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps as the pain worsened, an invisible hand tightening around her ribs. Her vision blurred, the sounds of the battle around her fading into a muted roar.

“I don’t know—” she choked out, her hands trembling as they gripped Lioran’s arms. “I—can’t—breathe.”

Around them, the fight seemed to stall as their people noticed their leader faltering. The fighters of the Blackspire Alliance closed ranks, forming a protective circle around Y/N and Lioran.

“Get back! Give her space!” one of the rebel leaders barked, their voice shaking despite their attempt at authority.

Lioran gently eased Y/N onto the ground, his hand pressing against her clammy forehead. “Stay with me, Y/N,” he urged, his voice softer now, betraying the raw edge of fear he couldn’t hide. “You’ve faced worse. Whatever this is, you’ll fight through it.”

But she wasn’t so sure. The pain wasn’t like any injury she’d ever felt. It was deeper, rooted in something intangible. It wasn’t her body breaking; it felt like her very soul was unraveling.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to focus on Lioran’s face, his familiar features anchoring her in the storm. “It feels like—like something’s tearing me apart,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Lioran swore under his breath, his gaze darting to the others surrounding them. “We need a healer. Now.”

“There aren’t any left,” one of the rebels said grimly. “The palace guard took them out first.”

Y/N shook her head weakly, her lips twitching into a faint, humorless smile. “It won’t help,” she murmured. “This... this isn’t something a healer can fix.”

Lioran’s brow furrowed, his frustration boiling over. “What the hell are you talking about? You’re bleeding internally or—”

“No,” she cut him off, wincing as another wave of pain coursed through her. “It’s not physical.” Her voice broke, her hands trembling as they clutched at her chest. “It’s something else.”

Before Lioran could respond, her body convulsed, her back arching as a sharp cry tore from her lips. The pain reached a crescendo, so overwhelming she thought she might lose consciousness. Darkness crept at the edges of her vision, and for a terrifying moment, she thought this might be it.

Through the haze, she heard Lioran shouting orders, his voice a desperate thread pulling her back. “Get her out of here! Cover the retreat!”

“No,” Y/N gasped, her hand weakly gripping his wrist. “Don’t... leave the fight. This war—”

“This war doesn’t mean a damn thing if you’re dead!” Lioran snarled, his composure cracking. “We’ll win, Y/N, but not without you.”

Her grip on him faltered as another wave of agony wracked her body. The world seemed to tilt, the colors and sounds blurring together into an incomprehensible mess. Somewhere in the distance, the roar of fire surged—Eris. He was still in the palace, still fighting.

“Eris,” she whispered, the name slipping past her lips before she could stop it. “He... I...”

“What about him?” Lioran demanded, shaking her lightly to keep her awake. “Y/N, what’s happening to you?”

But she couldn’t answer. Her thoughts were a tangled web of pain and confusion, her heart a drumbeat of desperation. The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Lioran’s terrified face, his voice fading into the abyss.

The battlefield was a hellscape of fire and ash, screams and chaos, but all of it faded for Eris when he saw her.

Y/N lay motionless amidst the wreckage, her face pale, her body unnaturally still. His breath caught in his throat, his heart freezing in his chest as if time itself had stopped. The world dimmed; all he could hear was the sound of his own footsteps pounding against the scorched ground as he ran to her.

“No,” he whispered, the word torn from his lips as he dropped to his knees beside her. His hands trembled as he cradled her lifeless form, pulling her into his arms. “No, no, no.”

Her head lolled against his chest, her body limp and unresponsive. Blood streaked her skin, mingling with the soot that coated her. Eris’s flames, usually so controlled, flickered erratically around them, casting harsh shadows on her face.

“Y/N,” he choked, his voice raw and broken. He pressed his forehead to hers, his hands cupping her cheeks as if he could will her back to life through sheer force of will. “Please. Don’t do this. You don’t get to leave me now. Not now.”

Around them, the fighting raged on, but none of it mattered. Lioran and the others had stopped, their gazes fixed on their fallen leader and the man holding her as if the world had ended. The rebels looked on, their faces etched with sorrow, their grief palpable in the air.

“Y/N,” Eris begged, his voice cracking. “Wake up. Please, wake up.”

Nothing.

His flames surged higher, the heat searing the ground beneath him. Despair clawed at his chest, threatening to consume him whole. He pressed his lips to her forehead, his tears dripping onto her skin. “You can’t leave me,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You can’t. I... I need you.”

For a moment, he thought he heard something—a faint beat, a whisper of breath—but it vanished as quickly as it came. The weight of her absence crushed him, the realization settling like a blade through his heart. He let out a strangled cry, his fire roaring around them in a wild inferno of anguish.

“Damn it!” he roared, his voice echoing through the broken streets. “If anyone’s listening, bring her back! Take me instead, just... bring her back!”

His magic surged wildly, uncontrolled, as if answering his desperation. Golden flames erupted around them, illuminating the battlefield. He pressed his forehead against hers again, his voice a whisper now, filled with a quiet, breaking despair.

“Take it,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “Take everything I have. My fire, my life, my soul—take it all if it means you’ll stay.”

The flames surrounding them began to shift, flickering and curling as though alive. A strange, ethereal energy rippled through the air, weaving between Eris and Y/N. His magic, golden and blazing, intertwined with something darker—something shadowed and ancient that seemed to rise from her very essence.

The ground beneath them trembled as the energy grew brighter, stronger, their combined power forming a connection that pulsed with life. Eris gasped as the magic surged through him, binding them together in a way he couldn’t explain. It was more than power—it was lifeblood, fate, and eternity, all merging into one.

Y/N’s chest rose suddenly, her lips parting as she drew in a ragged breath. Her eyes snapped open, wide and panicked, before locking onto his.

“Eris?” she rasped, her voice weak and trembling. “What... what’s happening?”

Relief crashed over him like a tidal wave, so overwhelming he thought he might collapse. He cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks as his tears continued to fall. “You’re alive,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “You’re here.”

She blinked at him, confusion mingling with the lingering pain in her eyes. “What did you do?” she asked, her voice shaking. “I... I felt like I was gone.”

Eris managed a weak, lopsided smile, his fingers trembling as he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I gave you everything,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “I couldn’t lose you.”

Around them, the rebels watched in stunned silence, their disbelief evident on their faces. Lioran’s eyes darted between the two, his mouth opening and closing as if he couldn’t find the words.

Y/N’s gaze softened, though tears welled in her eyes. “Eris,” she whispered, her fingers brushing against his cheek. “You didn’t have to—”

“Yes, I did,” he interrupted, his voice firm despite the tremor in it. “You think I’d stand by and let you go? After everything we’ve been through?” His jaw tightened, his flames flickering weakly now as exhaustion began to weigh on him. “We’re connected now, Y/N. You’re not allowed to leave me—not ever.”

She stared at him, her lips parting in shock as the weight of his words settled over her. Around them, the chaos of the battle seemed to fade, the flames of destruction giving way to an eerie, fragile stillness.

Then, Lioran’s voice broke the silence, hoarse but filled with awe. “They’re bound,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Did you... did you just save her by tying your lives together?”

Eris glanced at him, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “It doesn’t matter how,” he said, his voice low but steady. “What matters is she’s here. She’s alive.”

The rebels began to stir, murmurs spreading through the crowd as they took in the scene—the High Lord’s son, the fiery commander, cradling their leader as if she were his entire world. It was a sight none of them could have imagined, yet it filled them with a strange, unexpected hope.

Y/N’s hand tightened on his, her eyes glistening as she searched his face. “Eris... thank you,” she said softly, her voice breaking with emotion.

He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against hers, his voice a whisper only she could hear. “Don’t thank me,” he murmured. “Just promise me you’ll stay.”

As the fires of battle began to fade, the two of them remained at the center of it all, bound by magic, by fate, by a love neither of them had fully understood until now.

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

[girl-next-door-writes]

Landslide

Characters: Loki x reader

Summary: After a brutal mission leaves you battered and bruised, Loki’s protective side flares up as he confronts Tony for putting you at risk. Amidst the tension, Loki’s fear of losing you surfaces, and he reminds you just how much you mean to him.

Word Count: 1327 words

A/N: My wonderful and dear friend @iwillbeinmynest sent me this request an age ago. I am sorry it took me so long, but hopefully you will enjoy it.

The Quinjet hummed beneath you, an unsettling contrast to the agony throbbing through your entire body. Every breath ached, your ribs protesting with sharp stabs, and your knuckles were raw from the fight. You stared at the ceiling, forcing yourself to stay conscious as the adrenaline slowly ebbed away, leaving nothing but exhaustion and pain.

You had won. Barely. The mission had taken more out of you than expected, but you’d managed to hold your ground, even as the odds stacked up against you. It had been messy, and you’d paid for it with every punch and kick that landed. Tony’s voice crackled over the comms, congratulating you on a job well done, but you could only muster a weak grunt in response.

The jet’s landing gears extended with a metallic thud, and the familiar lights of the Avengers Compound loomed outside the small window. You exhaled shakily, preparing yourself for the walk down the ramp. It would be fine, you told yourself. Just make it to the med bay, get patched up, and then you could collapse in your room and sleep for a week.

But as soon as the ramp hissed open, you saw him. Loki stood at the base of the ramp, his face bright smile morphing into deep frown the moment he laid eyes on you. In an instant, he was there, his hands gently but urgently running over your shoulders, neck and face, his piercing gaze scanning over your bruises and cuts with a mixture of fury and concern.

“Who did this?” His voice was sharp, but you could hear the tremor beneath it. He was on edge, trying to mask his fear for you.

You winced as he tilted your chin up to inspect a particularly nasty cut near your eye. “It’s nothing, Loki. I’m fine.”

His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “You are not fine,” he hissed, his touch a mix of tenderness and barely restrained rage. “Tell me who did this.”

Before you could even begin to form a response, Tony sauntered over from the other side of the hangar, tossing a helmet onto a nearby table. “Good work out there, kid. Mission accomplished. You’ll heal up quick, don’t worry.” He smirked, clearly satisfied with how things had gone.

Loki’s attention snapped to Tony, his gaze darkening to a storm. “This—this is your doing, Stark?” His voice was low, menacing. “You sent them into that chaos alone?”

Tony raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Loki. “Whoa, whoa. Let’s pump the brakes there, Reindeer Games. They volunteered for the mission, and they handled it. The kid’s tougher tougher than they look. And we were a team out there.”

“They should not have had to ‘handle’ anything that will result in- in… THIS!” Loki’s voice thundered through the hangar, startling some of the nearby staff. He took a step towards Tony, his whole frame vibrating with anger. “You were in charge. You let this happen.”

You reached out to grip Loki’s arm, but the movement pulled painfully at your side. “Loki, it wasn’t his fault. I—”

“I don’t want excuses,” Loki interrupted, his gaze boring into Tony with an intensity that made even the billionaire genius seem momentarily at a loss for words. “You’ve got to do whatever it takes to protect the ones you love. You—”

“We’re a team,” Tony cut in, his tone growing more serious. “We all take hits sometimes. You know that.”

“Not like this.” Loki’s voice was a low growl now, almost feral. “They—” He stopped himself, his expression twisting with a pain that seemed to echo in your own chest. He took a breath, trying to steady himself. “They’re important… to me.” he said, more quietly now, but no less fiercely.

Tony’s expression softened slightly. He gave a small nod toward you. “Then make sure they’re okay, okay? I’m not the enemy here.” With that, he turned and walked away, leaving the hangar echoing with an awkward silence.

Loki watched him go, his fists still clenched at his sides. You reached up again, this time with more resolve, and tugged on his sleeve. “Loki. It’s over. I’m fine. Really.”

But he wasn’t listening. Not fully. His hands moved back to your face, his fingers lightly brushing over your cheek, and then slid down to your arm where a nasty bruise was forming. “You need to lie down,” he said, almost to himself, as if trying to control the frantic pace of his thoughts. “The healers should look at you immediately. That bruise—”

“I’ve had worse,” you murmured, offering him a small, strained smile. “Come on. Let’s just get inside.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist, supporting your weight as you walked. Each step jarred your aching limbs, but you couldn’t help the flutter in your chest at the way his touch lingered, his fingers gently pressing into your side as if reassuring himself that you were still there, still alive.

As you reached the med bay, you slumped onto one of the beds, stifling a groan as your ribs protested the movement. Loki hovered over you, not willing to take a step back until the medical staff came to start their assessment.

He paced as they worked, restless and anxious. Every time you winced or drew a sharp breath, his eyes darted back to you, narrowing with an unreadable emotion. When the healers finally stepped away, having done all they could for the moment, he was at your side again, taking your hand in his and pressing it to his chest.

“You shouldn’t scare me like that,” he whispered, his voice thick with something that bordered on desperation.

You squeezed his hand. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Loki. I just—” You hesitated, glancing at him through tired eyes. “I just did what I had to do.”

“That’s what frightens me,” he said quietly, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You always do what you think is right, even when it means risking your life. I’ve seen landslides do less damage than you.”

A small laugh escaped you at that, and you leaned your head back against the pillow, exhaustion finally pulling you under. “You’re so dramatic.”

But his expression remained serious, his gaze fixed on you as if committing every bruise and scrape to memory. “It’s not drama,” he murmured. “It’s truth. You mean more to me than you can possibly understand. And seeing you like this… it undoes me.”

His words hung in the air, wrapping around you like a warm blanket, soothing some of the ache that still lingered in your bones. You met his gaze, saw the honesty there—the raw, unguarded emotion that he rarely showed anyone.

“You’ve got to do whatever it takes to protect the ones you love,” you repeated his earlier words softly. “And that goes for both of us.”

He bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin. “Indeed, it does,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “But I would ask you, dearest, to not give me so much practice.”

You smiled faintly, your eyelids growing heavy. “I’ll do my best.”

As you drifted into sleep, you felt his hand still wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing gentle circles on your skin. And though you were battered and bruised, you felt a comfort that ran deeper than any healing spell or serum—a reassurance in knowing that, no matter how high the stakes, you would always have him to catch you when the ground shifted beneath your feet.

Loki watched you for a long time, his heart swelling with both relief and fear. He had come too close to losing you today. But as he looked at your peaceful expression, he felt a steely resolve harden within him.

Whatever it took, whatever battles lay ahead, he would keep you safe. He would not let you fall again.

[infamous-light]

You Belong to Me Ch. 10

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

Ch. 1 Ch. 2 Ch. 3 Ch. 4 Ch. 5 Ch. 6 Ch. 7 Ch. 8 Ch. 9

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior

The sharp bark of a dog jolted you awake, the sound cutting through the oppressive stillness of the forest like a blade. For a moment, you remained frozen, your breath caught in your throat. Then, faint voices began to reach your ears, their murmurs growing steadily closer.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you pushed yourself up from the damp, mossy ground, crawling on trembling hands and knees toward the hollow tree's narrow opening. You peered outside, your heart pounding like a war drum. In the dim moonlight, faint figures moved between the trees, their outlines illuminated by the flickering glow of their torches. Squinting, you strained to count them. Too many. Far too many. They were spread out, meticulously sweeping through the forest.

“I saw her head this way earlier!” A man’s voice rang out, loud and certain, carrying through the trees.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, each beat louder than the last.

They were looking for you.

The realization clawed at your mind, icy and relentless. Had she sent them? Was this Lady Dimitrescu’s doing? The thought alone was terrifying, but as fear pooled in your chest, another possibility surfaced, far more chilling: if she had sent them, she might be out here too – searching for you herself.

Another bark – closer this time.

Your hiding place was no longer safe. If you stayed, they would find you; it was only a matter of when. You needed to move – fast and quietly. Gritting your teeth, you backed away from the opening, carefully gathering your belongings. Crouching low, you crawled out from the tree, the chill of the night brushing against your face. You slipped into the underbrush, moving as silently as possible, taking care with each step to avoid snapping branches or leaving tracks in the fresh snow.

You veered away from the direction the torches were coming from, navigating through the densest areas of the forest, hoping its thick cover would mask your escape. Snow began to fall again, blanketing your footsteps as you moved. Another bark echoed through the trees, sharper, nearer, and a cold dread settled over you – you didn’t have much time before the dog picked up your scent. Desperation clawed at you, urging you to move faster but you had to be careful not to make a sound that could give you away. You tread lightly, carefully maneuvering around brittle twigs and ducking beneath low-hanging branches. Whenever possible, you stepped along exposed roots to avoid leaving footprints in the snow.

In the distance, a small, rocky outcrop caught your eye – a cluster of jagged boulders encircled by a dense tangle of brambles and ivy. It wasn’t much, but it offered enough cover to hide if you could slip inside. Keeping low, you crept toward it, forcing your way through the thorny branches, wincing as it scratched across your cheek, but you pressed on. Finally, you wedged yourself into the narrow gap between the two rocks. Tucking your limbs tightly against your body, you held your breath, willing yourself to be as small and silent as a mouse.

You froze, breath hitching as the crunch of footsteps pressed closer. The dog barked again, its growl more focused, more certain now. You could almost picture it pulling its owner forward, paws scraping against the snow as it dragged them closer to your hidden spot.

A flicker of torchlight emerged through the brambles, and you stilled, watching as a villager stepped into view, gripping the torch firmly in his gloved hands. His breath misted in the frigid air; his face set with tension. He stopped abruptly, squinting into the darkness, and for one horrifying moment, his gaze seemed to settle directly on you.

“Nothing here.” He muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

The torchlight flickered unsteadily as he turned to regroup with the others, but the dog stayed rooted, its nose twitching with sharp, deliberate sniffs. The owner murmured something under his breath and gave the leash a firm tug, but the dog resisted and focused intently on your scent. Its muzzle dug into the snow, pawing furiously at the ground.

You pressed your body as close as possible to the rocks, the icy chill leeching deep into your bones.

“What is it?” The man asked the dog, his voice low as he moved back in your direction.

You held your breath, willing yourself to be invisible. He crouched low, his eyes scanning into the crevice. A heartbeat later, his eyes locked onto yours.

“I found her!” He bellowed as he turned to alert the others.

Panic surged through you, propelling you forward. You continued to force yourself through the narrow gap, leading out to the other side. Adrenaline rushed through you as you bolted out into the open, your feet barely touching the ground as you ran.

“Get her!” The man shouted.

You pushed yourself harder, lungs burning, eyes fixed ahead. The sound of the dog's paws crunching through the snow grew louder behind you, but you refused to slow down. Your legs screamed in protest, yet you willed them to move faster, ignoring the burning ache in your muscles.

Just as your foot struck on uneven ground, the earth beneath you suddenly gave way. You lurched forward, arms flailing in a frantic attempt to catch yourself, but it was too late. You plummeted down the steep edge of a ravine, rocks, and debris tearing at your skin as you fell. Pain shot through your limbs, but you barely registered it as you reached out wildly, fingers grazing the air, searching for anything that might stop your fall but there was nothing.

Finally, you came to a rough stop at the bottom, gasping for air. The pain in your legs was intense, a searing throb that pulsed through your joints, but you couldn’t afford to linger. You forced your head up, your vision clouded, and caught a flicker of light above – torchlight, swaying with each step. A man’s figure appeared; his silhouette was framed by the glow while the dog stood beside him.

You pushed yourself upright, gritting your teeth against the wave of dizziness that threatened to drag you back down. You couldn’t afford to stop – not now. The dog’s barking rang out through the ravine, and with no time to spare, you stumbled forward once more, legs unsteady but fueled by sheer determination.

The ravine seemed to stretch on forever, each step sinking into the thick, cold snow as your breath quickened. The landscape began to change, the trees thinning, and then, you finally stumbled into an open space. The ground here was softer, scattered with patches of green and yellow flowers that seemed to glow faintly under the glare of the moon. The air, oddly warm, wrapped around you, but you couldn’t focus on it. A wave of haziness washed over you, blurring your vision as the world swayed around you. The ground tilted beneath your feet, and your legs buckled, unable to hold you upright any longer.

Your knees hit the earth first and then the rest of your body followed, collapsing onto the soft grass below. You tried to blink, to clear the fog from your vision, but your body refused to respond. Just before you lost consciousness, a shadow flickered at the edge of your vision. Their silhouette sharpened against the glow of the lantern they held and then the darkness swallowed you whole.

***

You slowly stirred awake; your head weighed down by disorientation. However, awareness began to seep in a few moments later. The first thing you registered was the soft creak of the couch beneath you – comforting, yet unfamiliar. With some effort, you eased yourself into a sitting position, your gaze sweeping over your surroundings. It appeared to be a living room.

The warmth in the air was soothing, the kind that wrapped around you like a gentle, comforting blanket. Faded paintings, their edges softened by age, adorned the walls, and the air was thick with a mix of dust and a faintly sweet fragrance, reminiscent of dried flowers. It was peaceful here, yet a subtle unease began to coil at the base of your spine, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. Something about this place, though inviting, caused a massive amount of discomfort to build deep inside of you.

You frowned as your gaze landed on a feminine-looking doll. She sat perched on a shelf; her porcelain face marred by cracks that twisted her features into an unsettling half-smile. Her dark eyes, unnervingly still, seemed to follow you – too aware, too watchful. Then, as if defying all logic, she moved – her head turning slowly to face you.

“Awake at last.” The doll crooned, her voice surprisingly clear, yet laced with a childlike, taunting edge.

Your heart leaped into your throat, the blood in your veins turning to ice as your mind raced to comprehend the impossible scene before you. No, no, no, you thought, shaking your head in disbelief. This isn’t possible. Panic flooded through you, and you tried to rise from the couch, but your limbs felt like lead. You gripped the edge of the cushions, desperately trying to steady yourself, but your body betrayed you, forcing you back into a slumped position, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

The doll’s laugh rang throughout the living room, high and eerie, sending an involuntary shiver creeping down your spine.

“You should see the look on your face!” She exclaimed, delighting in your terror.

Before you could freak out any further, a new, darker presence filled the room. A woman draped in black appeared, her features obscured by a veil. For reasons you couldn't explain, the silence that accompanied her felt oppressively heavy. Without a word, she glided into the living room, and a cold, chilling realization dawned on you just then – this had to be Lady Beneviento. The interior of the house was far more opulent than anything you'd seen in your home village. Plus, the stories whispered about her being a reclusive figure, always hidden behind a veil, never speaking a word. It made sense.

A long pause followed before the doll abruptly straightened, her movements quick and jittery.

“I know you’re wondering how you ended up here,” the doll’s gaze remained fixed on you, those dark eyes never blinking, never shifting. “Our gardener found you unconscious and we had him bring you to us,” then, leaning in closer, a wide grin spread across her face. “We know you’re the one the big lady is looking for.” Her voice took on a singsong quality.

Your lips parted, eyes widening in shock. Before you could question how the doll knew, she cut you off.

“She called us a few hours ago – what a surprise that was. You must be really special if Lady Dimitrescu is willing to go to such lengths for a pet.” The final word was spat out with venom, clearly intended to degrade you.

The doll tilted her head with a soft creak, the grin on her painted face almost stretching wider, as though it might split her porcelain face in two.

“Oh, and guess what?” she cooed, her sickly-sweet voice dripping with mockery. “The big lady is already on her way here. I sent our gardener to go fetch her. She’s been out there looking for you,” she giggled, a high-pitched, grating sound that made your skin crawl. “She’ll be so pleased to see you.” Leaning in again, her unblinking glassy eyes seemed to pierce right through you. “Or maybe not. That depends on how much trouble you’ve caused her, doesn’t it?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse spiking in fear.

“She’s coming?” You whispered, your mouth dry as dust.

The doll laughed again, sharp and unsettling, like shards of glass scraping together. “Oh yes!”

Lady Beneviento remained motionless, but you could feel her gaze on you. The thought of returning to Lady Dimitrescu washed over you like a cold wave of panic.

“No…” You murmured, the word trembling from your lips, barely more than a breath.

You tried to rise from the couch, but your legs buckled beneath you, sending you crashing to the floor. The lingering effects of whatever had been forced into you in that garden still clouded your senses, leaving you weak and dizzy.

“No, I can’t go back to her... I can’t!” You yelled, your breath coming in frantic, shallow bursts. The fear of what she might do to you, what she would do, twisted in your stomach, nearly suffocating you.

The doll let out a cackle. “You’re so silly!”

Lady Beneviento suddenly appeared in your line of sight, bending down to slip her hands beneath your arms. Her touch, unexpectedly gentle, steadied you as she carefully lifted you off the floor and placed you back onto the couch.

“Stay.” Her voice was low and husky, like it hadn’t been used in some time. Yet, it still carried a commanding weight.

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat at the unexpected sound of her voice.

Just as the silence settled, a sharp knock echoed throughout the living room, startling you. Lady Beneviento’s posture stiffened for just a moment, her head snapping toward the door. Wordlessly, she rose and walked toward it. When she opened it, you caught a fleeting glimpse of who you assumed was her gardener – a tall, older man, his face etched with years of labor. He muttered something, but the words were lost to you from where you lay. Lady Beneviento gave a subtle nod in response, her demeanor as stoic and detached as ever.

This time, you definitely heard what the gardener said as his voice lifted just slightly. “She’s in here.”

The instant those words hit your ears; a wave of pure dread shot through your body. Your heart thundered in your chest; each beat fueled by terror. Then, as if summoned by your fear, a long, white fur coat swept into view. You couldn’t believe it. She was actually here.

It wasn’t fair. You had barely escaped Lady Dimitrescu’s grasp, and now, somehow, you found yourself back in her clutches once more.

Tears stung your eyes as you instinctively shrank back, the reality of your situation sinking in. You pressed your lips together, trying to hold back the wave of emotion threatening to break free. You were going back. Back to the castle, to the nightmare you had desperately hoped to leave behind. Lady Dimitrescu ducked under the doorway, then rose to her full, imposing height.

And in that moment, her golden eyes zeroed in on you.

The gaze she fixed upon you was laced with fury, a simmering anger that seethed beneath the surface – but there was more, something deeper, a quiet, unmistakable disappointment. She closed the distance between you in long, purposeful strides, her presence growing until she towered over you.

“You truly thought you could leave me?” Her voice was deceptively calm, though the edge in her words sliced deep. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t find you, pet?”

You tried to muster something to say – an excuse, a plea – but no words came.

Lady Beneviento lingered in the background, silent and unmoving. You stole a glance at her, and for reasons you couldn't quite grasp, you found yourself hoping for some sort of intervention. But she merely watched, as if she were observing the unfolding scene with the detached calm of someone waiting for an inevitable storm to pass.

Lady Dimitrescu crouched slightly, her long, sharp nails grazing your chin as she guided your face to meet her penetrating gaze. Her eyes narrowed as they locked onto the small cut marring your cheek. A flicker of something dark passed through them, an intensity so fierce it threatened to steal your breath.

“You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice low and rich, vibrating with menace. “And I don’t take kindly to losing what’s mine.”

The tears you had fought so hard to suppress finally slipped free, and she smirked, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then, Lady Dimitrescu's strong arms encircled you, lifting you effortlessly as though you weighed nothing at all. You let out a small squeak, struggling weakly against her hold, but it was no use. She cradled you in her arms like a helpless child, your body pressed against hers in a way that was both unnervingly intimate and suffocating. The scent of her – lavender mingling with some sweet orange – clung to you and your stomach churned in protest.

“No... please.” You whimpered.

“Be quiet.” Lady Dimitrescu hissed, her words sharp and cold.

Her grip tightened, her long fingers digging into your back, as though she feared you might vanish again if she loosened her hold even slightly. The sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoed in the tense silence as she turned toward Lady Beneviento, inclining her head in a rare gesture of respect.

“Thank you, Donna. As always, your assistance is greatly appreciated.”

Lady Beneviento didn’t respond but the doll piped up. “You’re welcome!”

Lady Dimitrescu gave a brief nod to the gardener, who stood rigidly by the doorway, his gaze fixed on her with unease. Without sparing him another glance, she turned and ducked through the doorway, her grip on you unwavering as she held you close in her arms.

The cold night air hit your skin as she stepped outside, and you shuddered involuntarily.

“You had me worried sick,” Lady Dimitrescu's voice came, low and tight with frustration, yet tinged with something else, something softer. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. You’re far too important to me for that.”

Her concern left you disoriented. You had never imagined she was capable of such worry – not for you, at least.

“I –” You started, your voice cracking, but she silenced you with a glare that left no room for argument.

“Don’t,” Lady Dimitrescu interrupted, her tone icy but no longer furious. “You’ve already said enough by running.”

Her hold on you tightened even more.

“I’ll deal with you properly once we return,” Lady Dimitrescu stated flatly. “For now, you will remain silent.”

As she carried you through the forest, you couldn’t help but feel like a prize being returned to its pedestal, trapped once more in the gilded cage you had once fought so desperately to escape from.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Crash Course

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3

Word count: 708

Pairing: Lando Norris x diver!reader

Summary: Two fierce rival drivers, Y/n and Lando Norris, find their intense competition on the track evolving into something deeper.

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The roar of the Singapore crowd still echoed in Y/n’s ears as she clambered out of her wrecked car. She felt a surge of anger and frustration, her pulse racing with adrenaline as she tore off her helmet, tossing it aside with little care. The final lap had been hers—until that moment when she miscalculated, clipping Lando's car. Now they were both out of the race, and her championship hopes lay in shambles.

She didn’t care about the bruises or the pain in her side; her mind was laser-focused on one thing—Lando. He had every right to be angry, but so was she. She could already see him stalking toward her, his expression thunderous.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Lando’s voice was low, laced with fury. “You could’ve—”

But before he could finish, Y/n staggered, the world around her spinning. She blinked, trying to steady herself. The heat and exhaustion of the race clung to her, but something else was wrong. Her side ached more than it should have. The adrenaline that had been keeping her going was ebbing away, and her vision blurred. She stumbled again, reaching out blindly.

Lando’s hand shot out, catching her just before she collapsed completely.

“Hey—Y/n?” His anger vanished instantly, replaced with concern as he held her steady. She clung to him, trying to focus, but her body wasn’t cooperating. Pain flared up her side, and she gasped, finally realizing how badly she was hurt.

“I’m fine,” she muttered, her voice weak, though even she didn’t believe it.

“No, you’re not,” Lando said, his voice tense as he looked down at her. “You’re bleeding.” His eyes flicked to her side, where blood soaked through her race suit, the fabric darkening beneath his hand.

The pit lane had descended into chaos around them, but Lando didn’t seem to care about anything else. His grip on her tightened, worry etched into his features as he guided her gently to the ground. He kept her propped up against him, his arm supporting her shoulders.

“You need help,” he said urgently, shouting over his shoulder for the medical team.

Y/n winced, finally feeling the sharp, throbbing pain in her ribs. Her breaths came shallow, and she felt herself leaning more heavily into Lando’s chest. “It’s not… that bad,” she protested weakly, though her body betrayed her, trembling as the pain surged.

“You nearly fainted, Y/n,” Lando replied, his voice softer now, yet filled with intensity. “Stop pretending you’re fine.”

Despite everything, she wanted to argue, to push him away and insist she didn’t need his help. But there was a softness in his tone she hadn’t heard before, and the warmth of his arms was oddly comforting.

The medical team finally arrived, and Y/n felt Lando gently hand her over to them, though his hand lingered on her shoulder a moment longer than necessary. As they assessed her injuries, he knelt beside her, watching closely, his anger now a distant memory.

“You scared me,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely audible over the commotion.

Y/n blinked up at him, confused. “Why do you even care? I thought you hated me.”

Lando’s gaze softened, his jaw clenched as if struggling with what to say. “I don’t hate you, Y/n. I never have.” He hesitated, his expression vulnerable in a way she hadn’t seen before. “You push me. You make me want to be better. And yeah, sometimes you drive me crazy, but… I care.”

Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. Before she could respond, the medics lifted her onto a stretcher, cutting the moment short. Lando stood up, walking alongside as they moved her toward the medical center, his eyes never leaving her.

As they reached the entrance, Y/n grabbed his hand, stopping him. “I didn’t mean to take us both out,” she whispered, guilt and exhaustion weighing heavily on her.

“I know,” Lando replied, his thumb gently brushing against her knuckles. “Just focus on getting better. The championship can wait.”

She gave him a weak smile, her mind spinning—not just from the injury, but from everything he had just said. As she was taken inside, Lando’s words echoed in her mind, shifting everything she thought she knew about their rivalry.