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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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Used to be yours 3

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The music pulses through the club, a deep bass that shakes the floor beneath you. The strobe lights flicker, painting the room in flashes of color, but your attention is only on Bradley, who’s got you pulled tightly against him, your body pressed up against his as you move together to the rhythm.

His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your back, your thighs—claiming you in every way as he drags his lips across your neck. His breath is hot against your skin, and every time he kisses you, it sends sparks straight to your core.

You lean back slightly, your head tilted to give him more access, and you can hear the low growl of approval in his throat. “God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with desire. You smile, feeling a thrill course through you. You’ve never been more sure of your place in this world than when you’re wrapped up in his arms, his hands on your body.

Across the hall, Jake watches through the haze of cigarette smoke and flashing lights, and sheer curtians. His gaze is fixed on you, on the way Bradley holds you close, the way his lips trace the curve of your jaw, the way your body moves with his. It’s almost too much for him to bear. You were never like that with him.

His own fingers grip the edge of his seat, his knuckles white, as he watches you press yourself closer to Bradley. There’s a sickening ache in his chest, something that twists inside him as he thinks of all the years he let slip by. The years when you could’ve been his, when he should’ve fought for you.

The girl, who he now realizes is a dancer steps in front of him, her body lithe and confident as she slides around. Her movements are slow and deliberate, her eyes locking with Jake’s as she moves, her hips swaying to the music.

He tries to focus, tries to look away, but his eyes keep drifting back to the way you’re entwined with Bradley. The way Bradley’s hand slides up your thighs as he speaks to you with those stupid big eyes of his.

You shiver at the contact, the warmth of his touch sending a wave of heat through you. He grins, his eyes dark and full of intent as he leans in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that’s demanding, deep, and full of promise.

“Bradley,” you breathe against his lips, your hands running through his hair, tugging him closer. You can feel his pulse thudding against you as you slide your body along his, matching his rhythm, moving in time with the beat of the music. Every inch of your body is alive with the feeling of him, his strength, his heat, the way he knows exactly how to touch you.

Jake’s eyes narrow as he watches. He can’t tear his gaze away, can’t help the way his mind races, imagining everything you and Bradley are doing. It’s like a cruel game of tug-of-war in his mind, the part of him that regrets everything, that wishes he could take it all back, fighting against the part of him that refuses to let you go.

The dancer in front of him leans in, brushing her body against his, but he barely notices. He’s still watching you, still feeling the ache in his chest as Bradley takes you deeper into the moment, pushing you both to the edge.

The semi-private room was dim, a soft glow from the overhead lights giving everything an almost intimate feel. The music from the club vibrated through the walls, a heavy beat that matched the thrum in your chest as Bradley held you close. You could feel the tension in his body, how tightly he gripped your hips, his breath shallow against your skin as he kissed your neck, his hands sliding over your body like he couldn’t get enough. But there was something else there too. Something subtle, yet palpable.

Bradley was aware of the eyes on you.

He didn’t acknowledge it directly. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and yet, you could feel him. Feel the way he adjusted himself, subtly but purposefully, shifting to put on a bit of a show—adjusting the way his hands moved, how his lips lingered just a little longer on your skin, making sure to draw attention without saying a word.

He wasn’t being reckless, no. Bradley had always been so deliberate. But tonight, there was an undercurrent of something different, something calculated in his actions. His thumb circled your clit slowly, pulling a soft moan from your lips. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, it felt like he was pulling you deeper into something private, something just for the two of you. But the reality of the situation was there, simmering just beneath the surface.

Jake was watching.

So kissing you wasnt enough anymore.

Bradley could sense it, even if he didn’t turn around to confirm. His movements were more deliberate, a bit slower than usual, as if to draw out the moment, to heighten the tension between the three of you. His fingers worked their way inside you, curling, pressing in a way that made you gasp, but his eyes never strayed from yours, and you could tell he was savoring this. Savoring not just your body, but the power dynamic—how Jake’s presence made everything feel more intense.

Your back arched as he found that perfect spot inside of you, your breath hitching. The music in the background, the soft pulse of the beat, seemed to sync with your rising pleasure, but you couldn’t deny the strange sensation that lingered—Jake’s eyes on you, watching from the other side of the room.

Bradley’s mouth found your ear, his voice low, but you knew it was meant for Jake. “You like watching us, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath warm on your skin. You could feel the subtle shift in his energy. The way he made sure his movements were exaggerated, purposeful—showing Jake that you were with him, in every sense of the word.

You felt your stomach tighten with a strange mix of embarrassment and excitement. You didn’t want to think about Jake right now. Not with Bradley’s hand working so expertly inside of you, not with the heat between your legs making your body hum. But there was something undeniably intoxicating about the idea of Jake watching you, helpless, on the other side of the curtain. And Bradley, knowing that, using it to fuel his own desire, to take you further, faster.

Your hands moved instinctively, gripping Bradley’s wrist as he added another finger, stretching you just enough to make you gasp. He smiled against your skin, as if savoring the power he held over you—not just physically, but emotionally. You could feel the way he owned the moment, how he’d adjusted his movements to ensure Jake was aware of what was happening.

Jake’s jealousy, raw and undeniable, filtered into the air, thickening it around you. It was almost like a third presence in the room. You wondered what he was thinking, what he saw through that curtain. Was he fuming? Or was it the quiet realization that he could never have you the way Bradley did? That you were here, with him, not him?

Bradley was so attuned to your reactions, his eyes flickering down to your face as he pressed in deeper, his thumb still working in perfect rhythm with his fingers. “Let go, baby,” he whispered, his voice tight with restraint as he held back from finishing, just to watch your body crumble beneath him.

You didn’t have to be told twice. You couldn’t hold back anymore. You let yourself go, your body tightening as the wave of pleasure hit you. Your breath caught, and as your moans filled the space between you, Bradley’s lips pressed to yours again, sealing your release with a kiss.

It wasn’t until the aftermath, when the last lingering tremor passed through you, that Bradley finally broke the quiet tension. He pulled back, meeting your gaze with a look that held something almost smug in it. He’d made sure Jake knew exactly where you belonged, hadn’t he?

The question hung in the air as he sucked his fingers into his mouth, standing up and helping you to your feet. As you caught your breath, your refused to look to the other side of the hall, imagining Jake on the other side, seething with jealousy and frustration. But you didn’t need to dwell on it. Not when you were with Bradley.

He slipped his arm around your waist, his hand resting possessively on your hip as he kissed your temple softly. You knew then, without a doubt, that Jake’s jealousy would only make your connection with Bradley stronger.

The night air felt crisp as you and Bradley walked into the house, the familiar hum of the quiet home welcoming you back after a night out. It was always a strange contrast—the chaos of the club, the energy, the heat of the evening—and then the peaceful comfort of your own living room.

When you walked into the living room, the sight of your daughter, Henley, sprawled out on the couch, caught you off guard. She was passed out cold, her little blonde hair tangled around her face, a few crumbs of pizza scattered around her. Maverick sat nearby, his feet up on the coffee table, shoving another slice of pizza into his mouth without a care in the world.

Bradley chuckled softly at the scene, shaking his head with a fond smile. “Mav, you’re lucky she didn’t wake up with all the noise you’re making,” he teased.

Maverick looked up at the two of you, his eyes wide and a bit guilty. “She’s a heavy sleeper, right?”

“Clearly,” you said, grinning. “Thank you for keeping an eye on her, Maverick.”

Bradley rolled his eyes playfully and gave Maverick a small slap on the back. “Yeah, thanks, man. Your rooms open as always.”

Maverick, his mouth still full, gave a thumbs-up and continued eating, clearly unfazed by your gratitude. You both shared a laugh, and Bradley carefully scooped Henley up in his arms, cradling her gently, like she wasnt 10, as she stirred slightly in her sleep. Her hands gripped his shirt, and for a moment, you watched them, your heart swelling with affection.

Bradley carried Henley up the stairs, his steps quiet as he moved into her room. You followed closely behind, knowing it was his moment to show just how much he loved her—his daughter. She barely stirred, but when she did, her eyes fluttered open, and she mumbled in a soft, sleepy voice.

“Daddy?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Bradley paused, his gaze softening at the sound of her voice. “Hey, sweet girl. It’s me,” he murmured, brushing a lock of hair from her face as he settled her gently into bed.

Henley’s sleepy smile spread across her face, and her eyes flickered with just enough awareness to say, “Love you, Daddy…” before her eyes slipped closed again.

Bradley stood there for a moment, watching her, his hand lingering on her soft cheek. It was only a brief moment, but you saw it—a flash of something in his eyes. It was fleeting, but it was there. The briefest flicker of insecurity. It didn’t last long, but in that second, you could tell what was running through his mind.

Bradley had been Henley’s father long before you even knew she was a she. Since the day she was born, he’d been the one to hold her, care for her, and love her with every ounce of his being. And despite the fact that Jake was her biological father, Bradley had never wavered. He was Henley’s father, and he’d been there since day one, through all of the late-night feedings, the scraped knees, the first day of school—everything. No one else had ever taken that place in her life.

But still, in that quiet, vulnerable moment, you could see it: the smallest doubt. The quiet thought that maybe he wasn’t enough. That maybe, despite all he’d done, he wasn’t really her father in the way he wanted to be.

You stepped closer, your hand resting on his shoulder as you watched her sleep peacefully. "You’re her dad, Bradley. Always have been."

He glanced over at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, but then softened. He looked down at Henley, his gaze lingering for a second longer than before. He nodded, but there was still that quiet ache in his eyes, the one that never fully went away.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice thick. “But sometimes, I wonder if she knows. If she’ll ever really understand...”

You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him in for a brief, comforting hug. “She already knows, Bradley. She’s always known. You’ve been her dad her whole life. No one else could ever take your place.”

His arms tightened around you for just a moment before he pulled back slightly, giving you a soft smile. It wasn’t the kind of smile that was full of certainty, but it was a smile nonetheless, and it was enough.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

You both stood there for a moment, watching Henley sleep, the quiet of the house settling around you. It was a fleeting moment, but in that silence, you knew one thing for sure: Bradley was her father. He had always been, and no matter what secrets the world held, that would never change.

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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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Fearless 8

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Tris’s eyes roamed over the artwork adorning the walls. These days, artists seemed to exist only in Amity. Abnegation deemed art impractical and its appreciation as wasted time, time that could be spent serving others. Though she had seen pieces of art in textbooks, she had never been in a room like this, where every wall was alive with color and creativity.

Her gaze lingered on a striking image of a hawk, its sharp eyes fixed on something unseen, poised in motion. Beneath it, a sketch of a raven in flight caught her attention. The intricate lines made the bird seem like it could lift off the wall at any moment.

“It’s a raven,” a voice behind her said, breaking the silence. “Pretty, isn’t it?”

Tris turned quickly, her chest tightening at the familiarity of the voice. Tori stood there, her expression unreadable, like a shadow of their encounter in the aptitude test room. The memory of the mirrors and the wires pressed against her skin flickered through her mind.

“Well, hello there,” Tori said with a faint smile. “Never thought I’d see you again. Beatrice, right?” Her voice carried a note of feigned surprise, though her eyes betrayed recognition.

“Tris, actually,” she corrected gently. “Do you work here?”

“I do,” Tori replied, leaning against the doorframe. “I only took a break to administer the tests. Most of the time, I’m here.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully, her gaze sharpening. “I recognize that name. You were the first jumper, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Well done,” Tori said, her lips curving into a knowing smile. “You remind me of someone I know very well. In some ways, you’re so similar, and in others… you couldn’t be more different.”

Tris wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she simply said, “Thanks.” Her fingers brushed the edge of the raven sketch. “Listen, I need to talk to you about…” She glanced over her shoulder at Will and Christina, who were lingering nearby. “…something. Sometime.”

Tori’s expression shifted, the faint warmth fading from her eyes. She took a small step back, shaking her head. “I’m not sure that would be wise,” she said quietly. “I helped you as much as I could. From here on out, you’ll have to go at it mostly on your own.”

The words hung heavy in the air as Tori stepped away, leaving Tris to process them.

Later, Tris found herself seated in the chair, trying to make small talk with Tori as the tattoo needle hummed softly in the background. The conversation was awkward and stilted, and the room felt tense despite the bright artwork surrounding them.

“Mostly on your own.”

The phrase echoed in her mind, growing louder with each passing moment. What had Tori meant by that? And why had she said it so ominously?

Tris’s hands tightened into fists in her lap as she wrestled with the questions, summoning the courage to ask. She felt a creeping sense of unease, an almost certain knowledge that whatever she was about to uncover would change everything.

Finally, as Tori moved toward the door to let her out, Tris blurted, “What did you mean, mostly alone?”

Tori stopped in her tracks, her hand resting on the door handle. For a moment, she didn’t turn, her back to Tris. Then, slowly, she glanced over her shoulder. The weight of regret flickered across her face, but it was fleeting.

Her voice was low, steady, and almost reluctant when she replied, “Y/N. She can help you.”

And with that, the door opened, and Tori was gone, leaving Tris with more questions than answers.

"Since there are an odd number of you, one of you won’t be fighting today," you announce, stepping back from the board in the training room. Your voice is firm, but inside, you feel the weight of your decisions. Christina versus Molly. You knew it wasn’t a fair fight, but Christina needed to prove herself, and Molly, well, you doubted she belonged here at all. What better way to show that than Christina, half her size, knocking her down?

Still, what really bothered you was Tris’s upcoming fight against either Peter or Drew. That matchup wasn’t your choice. You’d spent thirty minutes in the control room earlier, arguing with Max and Eric, trying to push back against the unfairness of it.

“It’s not supposed to be fair,” Eric had said with a smirk. “It’s about who’s stronger.”

You knew they were testing you as much as the initiates. Could you sit there and let this happen? You didn’t like it, but you knew you had to.

Now, in the arena, Will and Al face off. They’re circling each other, their hands up as Four taught them, shuffling cautiously. Al towers over Will, taller by half a foot and twice as broad, but his hesitation is evident.

Then, to your surprise, Al throws the first punch, landing it hard against Will’s jaw. Will stumbles, clutching his face, but quickly recovers to block the next strike. Even blocking the punch looks painful. Al is slow but powerful.

Across the room, you catch Eric smirking at you, twisting one of the rings in his eyebrow. His eyes are still shadowed with the remnants of the fight he’d picked, and lost, not too long ago. The advanced tech here healed wounds faster, but the bruising was still faintly visible.

Will hooks a foot around Al’s leg and yanks back, sending him sprawling to the floor. Al scrambles to his feet, his face red with embarrassment.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Christina and Tris whispering. On the other side of the room, Peter, Drew, and Molly are snickering. When Christina sarcastically waves at them, you can’t help but chuckle softly. Wiping your face, you bark, “Everyone shut up and pay attention!”

The room goes silent.

“You’ll all have to fight each other eventually,” you continue, your voice firm. “Use this time to size each other up, not gossip.”

Will and Al return to circling, now more hesitant. They glance at you, as if hoping you’ll call off the fight. You remain still, offering no reprieve.

After a tense pause, Eric’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “Do you think this is a leisure activity? Should we break for nap-time? Fight each other!”

Al hesitates, lowering his hands slightly. “But…” He looks around uncertainly. “Is this scored or something? When does it end?”

Eric steps forward, his voice dripping with mockery. “It ends when one of you is unable to continue.”

You step in, your tone calm but authoritative. “According to Dauntless rules, one of you could also concede. But that will be recorded.”

Eric narrows his eyes at you, his smirk fading. “According to the old rules,” he says coldly. “In the new rules, no one concedes.”

You scoff, refusing to back down. “Unless the rules changed in the five minutes between me leaving the control room and you getting here, that’s not true.”

“A brave person acknowledges the strength of others,” you say, your words deliberate. You hope to throw Eric off, to defuse his attempt to provoke you. But you remind yourself, this isn’t Four. This is Eric. He thrives on confrontation.

“A brave man never surrenders,” Eric counters, stepping closer.

The room feels like it’s holding its breath as the two of you stare each other down. The air between you crackles with unspoken tension.

In this moment, it’s not just a difference in philosophy. It’s a battle of wills, a power struggle between the two youngest Dauntless leaders. The room is filled with two kinds of Dauntless, the honorable and the ruthless, but right now, it’s you and Eric.

Neither of you moves.

Beads of sweat dot Al’s forehead as he wipes them away with the back of his hand. “This is ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head, his voice tinged with frustration. “What’s the point of beating him up? We’re in the same faction!”

“Oh, you think it’s going to be that easy?” Will replies, grinning through his exhaustion. There’s a spark of determination in his pale green eyes, one that wasn’t there moments ago. “Go on. Try to hit me, slowpoke.”

The taunt works. Al, teeth gritted, throws a punch, but Will ducks effortlessly, his movements sharp and fluid despite the sweat dripping down his neck. Al swings again, and Will dodges, slipping behind him with surprising speed and landing a hard kick to Al’s back.

Al stumbles but recovers quickly, his face twisting with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Without hesitation, he charges at Will, grabbing his arm to stop him from slipping away again. Before Will can counter, Al throws a punch directly to his jaw.

The impact is deafening. You watch as the light fades from Will’s celery-green eyes, his body going limp. His head rolls back, and all the tension drains from his frame as he crumples to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

Al’s eyes go wide as panic sets in. He crouches next to Will, tapping his cheek with trembling hands. “Will? Hey, come on, wake up!”

“He’ll be fine, Al,” you say firmly, your voice cutting through the rising tension. “You just knocked his ass out. Let this be a lesson, sometimes cockiness gets you killed.”

You nod toward Eric, who barks for someone to drag Will out of the ring. Turning back to the board, you feel a flicker of excitement despite the lingering heaviness in the air. The fight you’ve been waiting for is next.

“Next up, Molly and Christina!”

Christina cracks her knuckles, rolling her shoulders as Tris leans in to whisper what you assume is encouragement. Christina glances at you, her expression determined but tinged with nerves. You smile, offering a reassuring nod.

“You got this,” you tell her, your voice steady. “Just remember what I taught you.”

Christina tucks her chin-length black hair behind her ears, the silver clips glinting under the fluorescent lights.

The fight begins, and Christina makes the first move, her leg swinging out to land a sharp kick against Molly’s side. Molly gasps, her teeth gritted as if she’s biting back a growl. A lock of greasy black hair falls across her face, but she doesn’t bother brushing it away.

Then, Molly smirks, a sinister, knowing expression, and lunges forward with no warning. She dives for Christina’s midsection, knocking her down with a thud. Pinning her to the ground, Molly drives her fists into Christina’s face, one blow after another.

Blood smears across Christina’s nose and mouth, staining her hands as she tries to shield herself. Molly doesn’t stop.

Your jaw tightens, but your confidence in Christina doesn’t waver. You can feel Eric’s eyes on you, likely expecting Christina to give in any second. You glance briefly at Tris, whose wide eyes betray her fear. She’s clinging to Al, who wraps an arm around her as if to shield her from the sight.

Christina screams, a sound of raw desperation, and manages to free one arm. With all the strength she has, she punches Molly square in the ear. The blow sends Molly off-balance, giving Christina just enough space to wriggle free.

Blood drips from Christina’s nose, thick and dark, streaking her fingers as she presses a hand to her face. She screams again, a guttural cry, and crawls backward, putting distance between herself and Molly.

But Molly doesn’t hesitate. She drives a kick into Christina’s side, sending her sprawling onto her back.

Al pulls Tris tighter against his side, his face pale as he watches. You glance at him and Tris, their fear palpable, and a pang of empathy washes over you. You remember this feeling, watching, waiting, knowing how brutal this world could be.

It’s hard, you think, but it’s necessary. You think back to your own initiation, the bruises, the blood, the fight that seemed impossible to win. You remember watching Four and Eric tear into each other. You remember stepping into the ring yourself, how the first punch that landed on your face changed everything.

Christina will learn that too.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay steady. “Get up, Christina,” you mutter under your breath, so low only you can hear.

And she does.

You can feel the phantom stinging in your cheek, the ringing in your ears had pulled the true Dauntless from you. You had beat that girl, who was now factionless, unconscious. Not even bothering to clean yourself off, or feel bad afterwards. You had grown since then obviously, you didn't really like watching them beat each other. But you knew they would need hand to hand in the field. And hitting bags wasn't going to prepare them for fighting in person.

"Stop!" wails Christina as Molly pulls her foot back to kick again. She holds out a hand. "Stop! I'm..." She coughs. "I'm done."

#four eaton x reader #four x reader #four eaton #divergent fanfiction #tobias eaton x reader

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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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Golden Lies 10

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You stand over Newt, your knife glinting in the dappled light filtering through the trees. His terrified eyes lock onto yours, wide and glistening with tears. You feel powerful, almost godlike, as your revenge comes closer to fruition. But as you raise the blade, your focus is shattered by a noise, a faint rustle in the underbrush.

At first, you dismiss it. Probably the wind. But the sound grows louder, and instinct takes over. Your head whips around, scanning the dense foliage. Someone, or something, is nearby.

Newt seizes the opportunity. His voice cracks as he screams, “HELP! HELP ME! PLEASE!” The panic in his cries fills the forest, echoing through the trees. You smirk, attempting to mask the uncertainty creeping up your spine. “No one’s coming,” you say, but the words don’t feel as sharp as they should. Your confidence wavers as the forest seems to close in, the arena alive with tension.

Then you see her.

The girl from District 3 stumbles into view, her face pale and gaunt, her frame trembling from hunger. Her clothes are tattered, her weapon, a jagged metal shard, clutched tightly in her shaking hands. Her eyes lock onto you, filled with a wild desperation that sends a shiver down your spine.

The Gamemakers have done this. You can almost feel their hand in the air, pulling her strings, pushing her toward you like a lamb to the slaughter. They’ve separated her from the others, driven her to the brink of starvation, and now she’s here, a pawn in their game. But instead of feeling pity, all you feel is anger. Anger that she’s here, anger that she’s interrupted you, and anger that she had the audacity to think she could take you on.

“Well, look at that,” you sneer, stepping back from Newt to face her fully. “I didn’t even have to find you. You came to me.”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t need to. The way her grip tightens on the shard tells you everything. She’s going to fight you, no matter how weak she looks, no matter how hopeless her situation is. She’s already decided. It’s you or her.

Good. Let her try.

She lunges first, her movements wild and frantic, the sharp edge of her makeshift weapon slicing through the air. You sidestep easily, but she’s faster than you expected, spinning around and swiping at your side. The shard grazes your shirt, drawing a thin line of blood along your ribs.

The pain ignites something feral in you. You snarl and swing your knife, forcing her back. She stumbles, panting, her legs shaking beneath her. “You should’ve stayed hidden,” you growl, advancing on her. “Now you’ll die hungry.”

She screams, a sound filled with raw desperation, and charges again. This time, you’re ready. You duck under her attack and slam your shoulder into her chest, knocking her to the ground. The shard flies from her hand, landing in the dirt a few feet away. She scrambles for it, but you’re faster. You kick it aside and pin her down, your knife pressed to her throat.

Her eyes widen, and for a brief moment, you see the fear in them, the same fear you saw in Newt, the same fear you’ve felt yourself. But it doesn’t stop you. It only fuels you.

“You wanted this,” you whisper, your voice cold and detached. “You came to me.”

And with one swift motion, it’s over.

The fight leaves her body instantly, her arms falling limp at her sides. You sit there for a moment, catching your breath, the weight of what you’ve done sinking in. Her blood pools beneath her, staining the earth, the scent of iron thick in the air.

The forest falls silent again, the only sound your ragged breathing and the faint hum of cameras hidden in the trees. You know they’re watching. You can feel the Capitol’s eyes on you, their excitement palpable, their thirst for blood quenched, for now.

You stand, wiping the blade on your pants, and turn back to Newt. He’s gone silent, his face pale as he stares at the lifeless body on the ground. His lips tremble, but no words come out.

“See, Newt?” you say, your voice steady despite the chaos in your mind. “This could’ve been you, I mean it still will be.”

You walk over to the shard she dropped, picking it up and inspecting it before sliding it into your belt. Then you grab her bag, it’s light, but it might have something useful.

As you turn back to Newt, the power surges back into you. “Let’s see how much fight you have left.”

You smile coldly, the Capitol watching, as the games go on.

You untie Newt, the ropes falling away from his raw, bleeding wrists. He lets out a shaky breath, but his posture remains slumped, defeated. The blood from his hands has stained his skin, and the frantic, panicked energy that once pulsed through him seems to have faded. Now, it’s just exhaustion, a resigned acceptance of the fact that death is inevitable.

But you’re not quite finished with him. Not yet.

You stand over him, your eyes scanning him coldly as you hand him a bottle of water and a stale piece of bread, both items taken from the girl’s bag. "Eat," you command, your tone hard, cold, unrelenting. It’s not out of mercy; it's a game. A show. He needs to understand that, no matter what he does, he’s not escaping. Not yet.

You watch him closely as he takes the water, his hand shaking as he grips the bottle. He’s thirsty. He looks up at you, and for a brief second, there's something, some sort of understanding in his eyes. Maybe he realizes, too, that you're not just torturing him for pleasure. You’re toying with him because you want to break him. You want him to feel this slow descent into death.

But the bread, the last piece of food, he hesitates. The realization that he’s being forced to survive just a little longer, to linger, gnaws at him. The fear in his eyes shifts into something darker, something more desperate.

You begin pacing, your boots crunching on the dry leaves, the knife still gleaming at your side. It’s not that you need it right now. You want to break him with your presence, not just the blade. You need him to know that the real torture is in the waiting. The uncertainty. The slow unraveling of his mind as he watches the inevitable draw closer.

His eyes follow you, darting between your face and your movements. Every so often, his gaze drops to the bread, his stomach growling. But he can’t bring himself to eat it right away. He knows. You both know. It doesn’t matter how much he eats or how much he drinks; he’s still going to die.

But maybe, just maybe, it’ll take longer than he expected.

You stop, suddenly, turning to face him. There’s a brief pause. For a moment, you feel something shift within you, a flicker of empathy. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but it's there. You push it down, bury it beneath the cold fury that has driven you this far.

“Go on,” you say softly, almost mockingly. “You need to keep your strength up, don’t you? Not that it’ll make any difference.”

The words feel empty coming from your mouth. He won’t last much longer, but you don’t want it to be quick. You don’t want him to be relieved by death. You want him to wait for it. To feel the slow burn of every second.

His hands shake as he holds the bread, but it’s not from hunger anymore. His fingers tremble from the fear of what comes next. The bread is dry in his mouth, and every bite seems to taste like sand, even as the water cools his throat. He chokes on a piece, coughing violently, but you just watch him, impassive.

“You should be grateful, you know,” you continue, your voice lowering into something almost tender, but with an undercurrent of cruelty that makes the words sting. “Most tributes don’t get this kind of time. They don’t get the chance to suffer before the end. They die too quickly. But not you, Newt. Not this time.”

His eyes meet yours, and you see the shift, the flicker of something more than fear. Anger. Desperation. He’s fighting to hold it back, but the tension is clear. He wants to scream, to lash out, but he knows better. You’ve taken everything from him. His allies, his hope, his will to survive. Now all he has left is the last shred of his pride.

You step closer, slowly. He flinches, but it’s a useless gesture. He’s not going anywhere. Not until you’ve decided he’s had enough.

“You’re wondering why I haven’t just killed you yet,” you say, your voice low, almost a whisper. “The answer is simple. You’re entertainment.”

Your gaze doesn’t waver as you watch him. His breath quickens. You can almost hear his heartbeat echoing in the silence between you. Every second that passes drags out the pain. The unknown. He’s slowly piecing it together, he knows what this is. It’s not about revenge anymore. It’s about the show, the cruel dance you’ve drawn him into, and how long he can last in it.

You stand tall, your gaze hardening again. “And in the Capitol, they don’t like quick deaths. They like to savor it.”

As you walk around him, you feel the weight of his gaze on your back, the question still hanging in the air. Why are you doing this?

But you’ve already answered it. You don’t need to explain yourself. He’ll never truly understand.

“The game continues”

Haymitch’s stomach churns as he steps back into the trainers' center. The moment the door closes behind him, the weight of the decision settles on his shoulders like a lead cloak. He’s made a deal, a dangerous one, with Crane. The kind of deal that makes his insides twist in knots, that makes him feel like he’s selling off a piece of your soul.

But he knows it’s the only way. The only way you can survive this.

He glances at the two other mentors, Finnick and Chaff, who are watching you on the screen. You’re still toying with Newt, and it’s almost painful to watch. Their eyes flicker over to Haymitch as he enters, both of them knowing something’s off. They can tell by the look on his face that he’s been forced to compromise, that something darker has happened while they were focused on you. But none of them speak. They don’t have to. The weight of the moment is clear.

The commentators’ voices blare from the TV, their excitement buzzing in the air. “What a spectacle we’re witnessing, folks! A goddess in her prime, breaking her enemies down with such ease… There’s no one quite like her. The Games are about to get even more thrilling now that we know she’s here to stay.”

Haymitch swallows hard as the word “goddess” echoes in his ears. The Capitol loves you. They worship the power, the violence, the game you’ve become. He can see it in their eyes. They’re hooked. They want more. And they’ll get it, with or without Haymitch’s help. But helping you? That’s something he’ll never stop regretting.

He knows what Crane wants, he wants a date, a night with you after the Games. And in return? Whatever you need. Sponsors. Weapons. The chance to win. And Haymitch knows, deep down, that without this kind of assistance, you’ll never make it. The Capitol is already watching, waiting for the next bloodbath. And if he doesn’t give in, you might end up like the others who faded too quickly, who never made it past the first few days.

But it’s still a betrayal. Haymitch feels it like a weight pressing on his chest. The Capitol doesn’t care about you. They only care about the spectacle. And if Crane gets his way? You’ll be another prize to be fought over, another broken person in their collection.

“You alright, old man?” Finnick’s voice breaks through his thoughts, his eyes sharp, scanning Haymitch’s face.

Haymitch doesn’t respond at first. Instead, he watches the screen, his mind drifting back to the deal he just made. He can still feel Crane’s cold hand on his shoulder, the slick words of the bargain hanging between them.

Finally, he grunts, “I’m fine.”

Chaff chuckles dryly, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t look fine, Haymitch.”

Haymitch grits his teeth. He doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t want to explain what he’s done, not when he knows deep down it’s wrong. But the clock’s ticking. The Games are still going on, and you’re still alive. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

The commentators continue, “What will our Goddess do next? We’ve seen her break spirits. We’ve seen her crush her enemies. But is she truly invincible? We can’t wait to see what happens next!”

Haymitch can’t help but wince at the giddiness in their voices. The Capitol feeds on the pain and fear of the tributes. They can’t get enough of it. And you? You’re giving them exactly what they want. It’s terrifying. The kind of terror he felt all those years ago, watching other tributes fall before him. But this… this is something darker.

A shift happened in Haymitch. He sees the glint of your knife in the reflection of the TV. He sees how you stand over your victims, how you orchestrate their torment like it’s a symphony, and hes wondered, a few times in the last couple days, if you even realize what you’ve become.

But no matter what, he knows one thing: this is your game to win. And with the deal he’s made, you might just have a shot.

“We can’t lose,” Haymitch mutters under his breath, his hand curling into a fist. He forces himself to turn toward Finnick and Chaff. “Whatever it takes.”

But even as he says the words, he feels the sting of his decision, the weight of the bargain hanging heavy between them.

“Yeah, whatever it takes,” Chaff says grimly, his eyes flickering down to Finnick whose eyes are glued to the screen. “But I don’t know if that’s a price we’re all gonna be willing to pay.”

The air is thick with tension as you circle Newt, your eyes narrowed, every movement deliberate. He’s struggling to breathe evenly, his chest rising and falling in shallow, erratic gasps. His muscles are tight with fear and exhaustion, but there’s a flicker of defiance still left in him. It’s there in the way he watches you, waiting for the next move, the next moment where his life might end.

You stop in front of him, eyes boring into his as you slowly exhale. He’s ready to fight, but so are you.

“You really think you can take me on?” you taunt, your voice cold and dripping with amusement.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His eyes tell you everything: he’s desperate. He’s looking for any opportunity to break free, to make this stop. But the truth is, he doesn’t stand a chance. Not against you. Not now.

Without warning, he lunges at you, throwing a punch in a last-ditch effort to make you back off. It’s sloppy, desperate, but it has enough power behind it to make you sidestep and grab his wrist, twisting it behind his back. He lets out a pained grunt as you pull him closer, forcing his body against yours, trapping him in a hold that gives him no space to escape.

You move quickly, twisting his arm farther behind him, pushing him to the ground. He lands hard, the breath knocked out of him, but you’re already on top of him, using your body weight to keep him pinned. His legs flail, but you move faster, sliding your knees over his to pin them down.

“Is this all you’ve got?” you taunt, pressing your knee into his chest, watching as his breath quickens. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight.”

Newt’s face is flushed, his jaw clenched as he struggles beneath you, trying to twist his body, trying to shove you off. But you’re stronger, more determined. His arms move uselessly beneath your grip as you slowly tighten your hold on him, the feeling of his heartbeat beneath your hands becoming more frantic.

His voice cracks as he gasps for breath, and it sends a wave of satisfaction through you. “Please… stop…”

You lean down, your face inches from his. You can see the fear in his eyes now, the real fear, not the desperation of someone who thinks they can still win, but the fear of someone who knows they’re about to die. It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for, the moment you can savor the power you’ve taken from him.

“No,” you whisper softly. “I’m not done yet. Itll be fun if you die slowly. Its more of a show for the people. Isnt that what you said..”

You lean closer, your body pressing harder against his as you lock your hands around his throat. The fight leaves him in an instant, replaced by panic. His hands move to your wrists, trying to pry them away, but it’s futile. You can feel his pulse quicken beneath your grip as you tighten it further, watching as his eyes widen in terror.

His breath becomes more desperate, his body thrashing beneath you, but you don’t let go. You watch as his face changes, colors fading, eyes starting to bulge with the strain, his chest heaving for air that doesn’t come.

With each second that passes, you feel more powerful. More in control. You can see the life slipping out of him, the final moments of his resistance fading away as he gasps for air, clawing weakly at your arms, his hands trembling.

And still, you don’t stop. The life drains out of him slowly, and the fight goes out of his eyes. He’s broken. His body finally stills beneath you, his chest no longer rising with each breath, his pulse slowing to a faint, weak thump beneath your fingertips.

You hold him there, just a moment longer, letting the silence settle around you like a blanket. The forest, the arena, they’re all watching, and you’ve given them a show.

When you finally release him, it’s as though a switch has been flipped. You stand, looking down at his lifeless body with nothing but cold indifference. You don’t feel satisfaction. You don’t feel victory. You just feel… done.

The battle’s over for him. But for you? The real fight has only just begun.

The fire crackled and popped, casting long shadows on the faces of the remaining tributes from District One, Vaughn and Ilya, sitting across from the boy from District 3, Rover, and the girl from District 4, Kira. The warmth of the flames did little to ease the coldness creeping into their bones as they huddled together, the night air still and oppressive.

Vaughn, his jaw clenched tightly, stared into the flames, his thoughts elsewhere. Beside him, Ilya was quiet, her sharp eyes flicking between Rover and Kira, who were sitting close together, their shoulders brushing. It had happened quickly, almost like a slip of fate, Rover and Kira had begun to find comfort in each other’s presence. Something more than just survival had grown between them, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

Rover, despite his stoic nature, couldn’t keep the softness from his eyes when he looked at Kira. He offered her a small, almost hesitant smile as she adjusted the blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Kira, who had spent so much of her life learning to keep her emotions hidden, had let her guard down around him. Their connection was undeniable, and in the bleakness of the Games, it was the only thing they had left that made them feel human.

The silence hung heavy over the group as they watched the sky. The lights of the fallen tributes blinked above them, another round of death delivered to the Capitol's insatiable hunger for violence. The names of those lost tonight, names they all knew, felt like a weight on their chests. For Vaughn and Ilya, the reality had begun to settle in. This wasn’t a game they were winning. It was a countdown to their own deaths. The odds, once in their favor, were shrinking by the minute.

Even the Careers, who had come into the arena with their typical arrogance, were feeling the pressure now. Their confidence had shattered. The fear was creeping in slowly, turning their stomachs, stealing their sleep.

“It's not supposed to end like this," Vaughn muttered, his voice low, the frustration evident. "We should be the ones standing, not.. " He motioned toward the sky, where the faces of the fallen tributes stared down at them.

Ilya looked at him, her gaze hard but tired. “It doesn’t matter what it was supposed to be. It’s not about what we want anymore. It’s about what they want.” Her voice, flat and bitter, was full of truth.

Rover and Kira exchanged a look, both of them knowing what was coming. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but it was there, in the way they held each other just a little closer. Survival meant everything, even if it meant hurting someone else.

“You think they’re watching us?” Kira asked softly, her voice barely audible over the sound of the fire crackling.

“They’re always watching,” Vaughn replied, his eyes darting toward the trees. “They never stop. Always waiting for us to slip up. To lose.”

“And then they get their show,” Ilya said, her words sharper now, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “The Capitol gets exactly what it wants.”

Another long silence stretched on, each of them thinking of the same thing: that the inevitable was closing in. The alliance that had once seemed like a path to victory had turned sour, fractured by the realization that only one of them would survive. Even the Careers were beginning to understand the grim truth, that there would be no final victory without a price. And it would be a blood price.

As the stars glimmered overhead, they all tried to sleep, but the weight of the night pressed down on them, unrelenting. There was no comfort in sleep anymore, no escape from the nightmare that was unfolding. Fear settled deep in their bones as they realized that their deaths would come not with a heroic charge, but in the quiet moments between breaths.

And as the hours passed, they all wondered if they would be the next names etched in the sky.

As you lay back, staring at the dark sky above, the lights blinked in the air, marking the end of another day in the Games. The images of fallen tributes drifted through the night, each face a reminder of the brutality that had brought you here. Each death weighed heavier than the last, and tonight, you couldn’t ignore the crushing weight that was threatening to break you.

The first face that flashed in the sky was the tribute from District 11—the one the butterflies had consumed in their grotesque way. You’d known that kid wouldn't survive, but there was something haunting about seeing their face, knowing the slow, painful death they had faced. Then came the three you killed—the boy from 8, Newt—and Beck. Your stomach twisted as the memory of their deaths rolled over you. You’d done what you had to do. But it didn’t mean you could escape the violence, the guilt creeping in as you recalled their faces, their struggles.

And then, River.

Her face appeared last. The girl from District 6. She hadn’t even made it as far as you thought she would, but there she was, her image frozen in the sky. The emotion that hit you was raw—fury mixed with sorrow. You hadn’t expected River to make it far, but to see her face there felt like a slap in the face, a reminder of everything you had been through, everything you’d lost.

You thought of her struggles, the way she had fought to survive, the way she’d tried to make sense of the Games, but in the end, it didn’t matter. The Capitol took them all, one by one, until they were all gone.

A pang of something bitter twisted in your chest. You wished for her sake it had been quick, that she hadn’t suffered in the way so many of the others had. But in this place, what was quick? What was fair? You didn’t know anymore. The feeling of being trapped in an endless cycle of violence, the endless pain, made you feel like you were suffocating.

You had been preparing to make camp for the night—gathering what little you had left, finding shelter, taking stock of your supplies. But as you stared up at the sky, watching the faces fade one by one, you felt something inside you snap. This wasn’t just about surviving anymore. It wasn’t just about winning.

It was about ending this nightmare before it consumed you completely.

You stood up abruptly, your mind made up, and started digging through your bag, your hands moving almost mechanically. The hunger gnawed at you, but you didn’t care. You were done scavenging for scraps. Done trying to force a future that wasn’t meant to be. With each movement, the weight of your decision felt heavier, but it was also a relief. There was no more running. No more pretending. This was the end.

You found the last few crumbs of food left in your bag—some dried meat, a stale piece of bread, a bit of water—and you pulled it out, forcing yourself to eat. You didn’t know if it would be your last meal, but it didn’t matter. You’d made peace with that.

The night felt colder now, and as the firelight flickered, you sank to the ground, your resolve growing stronger with every passing second. You could feel the weight of the world pressing down on you, but it didn’t feel like a burden anymore. It felt like freedom, the kind that only came when you finally accepted that nothing could save you.

You had made your choice.

It was time to end it all.

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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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Hi I don’t know if you’re still active anymore but if you are I wanted to know if you had plans to update your Finnick story? It is ssoooooooo good, and I think I might die lol if you don’t finish

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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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aesthetic

this is for the interviews.

styles i used for the dress in my head

HAIR

MAKEUP

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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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Golden Lies masterlist

Aesthetic

#finnick imagine #finnick odair

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multifan2022 · 3 months ago

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Fearless 7

heres the years awaited parts.. good god I am so sorry, the loss of my grandfather was seriously crippling to me. its been so hard to get back into reading or writing. i was just working and working taking care of my kid and grandma trying to get through. thank you so so much to those of you who have stuck around and hello to those of you who are new.. i hope this is decent!

My Masterlist

Previous part <<<

Skipping dinner, you storm into the control room, the door slamming shut behind you. You throw yourself into your chair, kicking your legs up onto the desk, leaning back further than you should. The room is still, unnervingly quiet. No one here to badger you with questions: How’s training? How’s Four? How’s Tris?

Just silence.

At least, that’s what you think until the door creaks open. The quiet is shattered, and your jaw tightens when you see him. The pierced asshole you can’t seem to escape. The one who makes your skin crawl.

"Ah, Princess. Just the person I was looking for," he drawls, his smirk setting your blood boiling.

You don’t bother looking at him. Instead, your eyes drop to your nails on one hand, your whole posture screaming indifference, even though you’re gripping the armrests of your chair so hard your knuckles ache. You hear his footsteps close the distance, and soon enough, he’s perched on the edge of your desk, waiting for you to acknowledge him.

You don’t want to give him the satisfaction. But ignoring him won’t make him go away. It never does. So, you raise your head, locking eyes with him, your expression cold enough to freeze fire.

“I caught the tail end of your session today. You’re doing a good job with the initiates.” His tone is fake, condescending, the compliment poisoned. You force a tight smile, letting out a hum instead of dignifying him with a response.

He doesn’t stop. He never does. “Just wanted to let you know—I’ll be present during the fights. I’ll be taking over for Four. Just me and you.”

Before you can react, his hand moves. His fingers trail up your leg, starting at your ankle. Your stomach twists violently as a wave of nausea hits you. You lash out, trying to kick him off, but his hand clamps down hard, bruising your skin.

The pressure sends a sickening jolt through you, and this time, it’s not just rage—it’s fear. He’s too close. Too much. You bite back the urge to scream.

He leans closer, his other hand brushing over the marks already on your skin, his lips curling with disgust. “Who gave these to you? Was it Eaton? You let him touch you, but not me? Pathetic.”

Your chest burns, a mix of shame and fury clawing its way up. Somehow, you manage to shove him off, planting both feet against his chest and pushing with everything you have. He stumbles back, his ass hitting the floor with a loud thud.

He’s on his feet again in seconds, eyes gleaming with amusement, like this is some kind of game. “Clearly struck a nerve,” he sneers, voice dripping with malice. “What’s wrong? Don’t like it when I talk about baby Tobias? Aw, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the robot!”

Your vision blurs with red, but you force yourself to stand tall, arms crossed tightly over your chest. You won’t let him see you break. You won’t give him that.

“Who I sleep with is none of your goddamn business,” you snap, your voice like steel, cutting through the tension. “Unless you’re planning on going around and asking everyone for a status report, I suggest you mind your fucking business.”

You take a step toward him, your movements controlled, deliberate, daring him to push further. “I told you—you’re not welcome in my training sessions. If Four approves you taking his place, fine. I’ll deal with it. But until then, stay the hell out of it.”

The venom in your words is enough to make even him hesitate for a fraction of a second. You don’t wait for a response. Spinning on your heel, you storm out of the control room, slamming the door behind you.

Your chest heaves as you march down the hallway, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. Lately, it feels like all you’ve done is storm around, anger and stress eating away at the calm you usually pride yourself on.

You used to be laid back—focused, capable, in control. But now? Now it feels like you’re drowning, and no matter how hard you fight to keep your head above water, someone’s always there, waiting to drag you under.

And if you don’t get a grip soon, you’re afraid the stress just might kill you.

All you want to do is find Zeke and Shauna, ask them to go to the cenote. Try to make some time to relax with your friends, you wouldn't even mind if some of the other Dauntless came. You make it all the way to the cafeteria, swinging the doors open and looking for your friends. Once you spot them you start towards their table. You're half way there when the doors swing open again and Eric yells your name.

"Yo, man, where's Y/N? I thought she was with you today?" Zeke asks, his voice carrying just enough edge to cut through the low hum of the dining hall. It’s the fifth—or maybe the sixth—time he’s asked, and Four doesn’t bother looking up from his plate.

He doesn’t need to. He already knows something is wrong. Something is always wrong lately.

His shoulders lift in a halfhearted shrug, the motion stiff, weighed down by the same knot of guilt that’s been sitting heavy in his chest since this morning. He doesn’t need to say it for Zeke to know—the answer hasn’t changed. He doesn’t know where you are. Again.

Zeke sighs, louder this time, before turning back to his girlfriend, muttering something Four doesn’t catch. Four barely registers it anyway. His mind is a thousand miles away—or, more accurately, wherever the hell you are.

The four of you had always been close. You and Zeke had pulled him into your little circle the day you met. You were relentless about it, making it impossible for him to retreat into his usual solitude. Back then, it had nothing to do with love—at least, not the kind that kept him up at night now.

But now?

Now, it was everything.

And right now, all he knew was that he had somehow managed to upset you. Again. The burning need to fix it clawed at him, relentless, even as he forced himself to stay seated, to not run off searching for you like a lovesick idiot.

Behind him, the recruits’ voices rose and fell, a chaotic mix of chatter that he only half-listened to. They were discussing their progress, speculating about who might fail, comparing him to you. As always.

He clenched his jaw at the last part. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how the initiates saw the two of you. You were the wildfire, the one who inspired awe and fear in equal measure, your sharp words cutting them down and building them back up stronger than ever. He was the steady hand, the quiet storm, the one they came to when they wanted guidance without the sting.

But lately, it felt like they preferred you more. Or maybe that was just him, projecting his own feelings.

His attention wavered, catching on Al’s announcement that he wanted a tattoo. Four had to bite back a chuckle at the thought of the gentle giant sitting in the chair, trying to look tough. Sure, Dauntless tech made tattoos nearly painless, but still—Al getting inked? He belonged in Amity, not here.

He shook his head, his gaze shifting as Tris and Christina started talking about haircuts and piercings. Tris wanted to cut her hair short, maybe dye it, something bold. Something Dauntless.

The words made his chest tighten unexpectedly. He wanted to tell her she didn’t need to change a thing—that she was fine just the way she was. But he kept his mouth shut, unwilling to draw attention to himself. Or worse, to risk upsetting you more if you happened to show up and see him talking to her.

That was the problem with Tris, wasn’t it? She was a reminder of the life he’d left behind, the one person here who truly understood what it meant to come from Abnegation. There was a familiarity there, a connection that made it easier to talk to her about things he couldn’t explain to anyone else. Not even you.

But no matter how much Tris understood him, she wasn’t you.

And it was you he was pining after, you who occupied every corner of his thoughts, you who made him feel like he was both drowning and breathing for the first time all at once.

He just wished he knew how to fix this—how to find you, how to say the right thing, how to make you see that it’s always been you.

But instead, he stayed rooted to his seat, staring at the uneaten food on his plate, waiting for you to come back. Hoping, praying that when you did, he’d have the chance to fix what he had broken.

His heart lifts—just for a moment—when the doors swing open and you step inside. Relief rushes through him at the sight of you, even if you’re still a little too far away. Zeke notices it first, nudging Shauna, and the two exchange a knowing look. But then your expression registers, and the air between them shifts.

“Oh shit... for real,” Zeke mutters under his breath, already halfway to his feet before he freezes in place.

You don’t notice them at first, too focused on crossing the room with purpose etched into every step. But just as you get closer, the doors behind you slam open again.

“Y/N!” Eric’s voice cuts through the room like a blade. The sound alone is enough to make every conversation stop, every pair of eyes turn toward the source of the commotion.

The trio sees it before you even turn—your face twisting into something that borders on rage and exhaustion. Then you whip around so fast that your ponytail snaps against your face.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT, ERIC?!” you scream, your voice echoing off the walls before you even think to lower it.

You know Zeke is behind you somewhere, along with Four and Shauna, the recruits huddled near them. You know Tori and Max are in the room, too—plenty of people who could step in, stop this, before it spirals too far.

But none of that matters when Eric starts moving toward you, his heavy boots echoing like a countdown to something inevitable.

He doesn’t stop until he’s standing inches from your face. You can feel his breath on your skin, warm and suffocating, and it only fuels the fire roaring in your chest. Your fists clench at your sides, trembling with the effort it takes to keep them there.

You know his game. His only advantage is size, and even that’s barely worth mentioning. He’s an inch taller than Four at best. That’s it. That’s all he has. And yet here he is, leaning down, his cold, dead eyes locking onto yours, daring you to flinch.

But you don’t flinch. You don’t back down.

Because backing down now would mean letting him win. It would mean letting him believe he’s superior, and there is no reality in which you’ll let that happen.

The tension is unbearable, stretching out in a suffocating silence as the two of you stand there, locked in a battle of wills. Then, you laugh.

It’s not the kind of laugh that makes people smile. It’s sharp, cutting, and maybe a little unhinged. It probably sounds insane to the people watching, but you don’t care.

“If you don’t have anything to say, Eric, I’ve got things to do.”

You don’t wait for him to respond. Your body moves on autopilot, spinning away from him, determined to put as much space between you as possible.

But before you can take even two steps, his hand shoots out. His grip is vice-like, wrapping around your arm and jerking you back with enough force to leave a mark.

The room goes deadly silent.

“I’m not done talking to you!” Eric growls, yanking your arm back harshly again.

For the second time tonight, his touch burns, not just your skin but something deeper. Fury coils in your chest, and for a moment, you forget about the people watching, about Zeke and Four and Shauna and Max. You forget about everything except the searing need to make him pay for it.

The force nearly spins you off balance, but you catch yourself, planting your feet firmly on the ground. Around you, the room feels like it holds its breath. Tori stands somewhere in the distance, her eyes wide, and you know Four and Max are watching, too. But none of them could’ve moved fast enough to stop what happens next.

Maybe if Zeke had already been on his way toward you—but not now.

Later, when Christina and the others would ask, you’d break it down for them, using this moment as an example. You’d explain the technique you taught them, the way every movement flowed together: where to place your feet, how to shift your weight, the mechanics of a proper fist. You’d tell them it was all in the momentum of the twist.

But in this moment? You didn’t think about any of that.

It was second nature.

So when the loud CRACK of Eric’s nose breaking echoed through the room, it wasn’t just satisfying—it was perfect.

His hand fell away from your arm immediately, blood pouring between his fingers as he staggered back, clutching at his face. You stood there, chest heaving, a triumphant smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

Zeke and Tori were at your side in seconds, their presence grounding you, while Max pushed past you, moving to stand beside Eric. His expression was unreadable, but the slow shake of his head spoke volumes—disappointment aimed squarely at both of you.

“I told you in the control room to keep your FUCKING hands off me, Eric,” you said, your voice cutting through the stunned silence like a blade. Your tone was sharp, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Touch me again, and I’ll break every one of your fingers. Knuckle by knuckle.”

The sheer venom in your words made Max’s head snap toward Eric so quickly it looked like it might spin. His disappointment was no longer aimed at you—it was fully fixed on the bloodied, staggering mess in front of him.

Everyone knew what Eric was like. Grabby. Overconfident. A man who thought he was God’s gift to women, never bothering to ask permission—just taking what he wanted. Maybe some fell for his act, but you? You’d had enough.

You wanted to say more—to warn him that if he ever laid a hand on any of the transfers, you wouldn’t stop at his nose. You’d kill him. But for once, you held back, biting down the words.

The tension stretched thin again as the two of you locked eyes. Eric’s face was twisted in pain, but the fury burning in his gaze was enough to match your own. You didn’t care. You wouldn’t back down.

Zeke’s arm came around your waist, a firm but reassuring grip, as he began pulling you toward the cafeteria doors.

Even as he led you away, you never broke eye contact. Your glare stayed locked on Eric’s until the very last second, until the doors finally swung shut behind you.

As Zeke guided you out of the cafeteria, the door shut firmly behind you, leaving a room full of wide-eyed initiates in stunned silence. For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, a ripple of chatter began, followed by scattered cheers. The sound grew louder, spreading through the room like wildfire.

“Dauntless is such a weird place,” Christina muttered, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to her plate.

Tris nodded absentmindedly, her gaze drifting across the crowd. The cacophony of cheers and laughter felt out of place to her, almost jarring. When her eyes landed on Tori quietly slipping out of the cafeteria, she pushed her half-eaten food away.

“We should go get ready if we’re still doing tattoos,” she said quickly, standing up.

Christina shrugged but followed, along with Will and Al, leaving the noisy cafeteria behind. Tris felt a mix of emotions bubbling in her chest—discomfort, curiosity, unease. The violent confrontation she had just witnessed was still fresh in her mind.

But it wasn’t just that. It was everything—Myra and Edward taking any opportunity to make out at the table, Will and Al teasing her for blushing at their jokes, Christina relentlessly pointing out her awkwardness.

As they made their way through the dorms, Christina turned to her with a teasing smirk.

“What are you going to do when you see two people really going at it?” she asked, laughter in her voice. “I get that you grew up all modest in Abnegation, but if you’re going to stay here, you’ve got to get over it. One of the Dauntless-born told me he caught a couple having sex in the hallway once.”

Tris felt the blood drain from her face. The very idea made her stomach twist uncomfortably—not just because of her strict upbringing, but because of how foreign it all seemed. She had never even kissed someone before, let alone considered anything beyond that.

Meanwhile, Christina carried on, nonchalantly describing the things she used to do with her so-called “guy friends” back in Candor, the boldness in her tone making Tris feel even more out of place.

Carrie, a Dauntless-born girl who had offered Christina some makeup for their free night, joined them partway down the hall. She was kinder than most of the Dauntless, her laid-back demeanor putting Tris slightly at ease. For a moment, they made light conversation, the tension in Tris’s shoulders loosening just a little.

That was, until they heard it.

The noises began faintly, muffled by the walls as they walked past the dorms. Tris frowned, unsure what she was hearing, but the others knew instantly. Christina and Carrie exchanged amused glances, barely stifling their giggles, while Al’s face turned redder than his shirt.

“Well, someone’s getting some,” Will said, his voice dripping with amusement as they kept moving down the hall.

But just as they were about to pass, the sound of a voice cut through the muffled noises. Deep, steady, and taunting, the words were unmistakable:

“Guess I didn’t fuck the attitude out of you last night like I thought. I’ll have to try again.”

The group froze.

Christina raised her eyebrows, trying to cover her shock with forced laughter. Will glanced awkwardly at the floor, Al looked anywhere but the door, and Carrie shifted uncomfortably, clearly unsure of what to say.

Christina's jaw drops, she can't believe what she's hearing. "Oh my god.. Is that.... Is that Four?" She whispers aggressively at Carrie, who just nods confused by the reaction. She went to say something but an equally strong and clear feminine voice spoke next. One that they all knew just as well as Fours.

Tris, however, couldn’t seem to move. The voice chilled her to her core, and while the others reacted with awkward giggles or nervous glances, her stomach churned uneasily. Her mind raced with questions she didn’t want to think about, and a sense of wrongness crept over her.

"It'll never be enough.."

The jaws of the boys drop this time, Christina's is still on the floor. Tris's stomach is in knots, her dinner feeling like it's going to come up. "This is wrong, we shouldn't be listening." Even though she has no clue where she's going she walks off.

Carrie just looks between them all, "It's not a big deal, they do this all the time.. Like almost every night. Lots of us do. You'll learn to just sleep through it." Carrie isn't into the drama, but she found Tris's reaction amusing. It would definitely be something she shared with Shauna later.

Christina gave her a small nudge. “You okay?” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Tris lied, her voice barely audible as they moved past the door. But the words still rang in her ears, lingering long after they had left the hall.

#tobias eaton x reader #four eaton #four x reader #divergent fanfiction #four eaton x reader

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