Practice On Me — Finale — Azriel x Reader
Summary: The grand Illyrian ball is here. Reader is more than ready to return to Windhaven and Azriel, but daddy Fin throws a huge spanner in the works. Life as they know it is about to change.
Note — I’ve tried to tag everyone who’s asked but there are some people that it simply won’t let me tag 🥲
Word Count: 10.6k (oop, sorry 😅)
Warnings: There’s a looot to unpack here. Depictions of violence and gore. Some light smut. 18+!
This place is cold and unforgiving.
The air in your lungs is constricted before you’ve even stepped through the giant gates. They call it the Hewn City due to its entirety being hewn from cold, hard rock.
But you get the feeling these walls are more than that. You can feel the horror in the cracks, the loneliness that screams behind its surface.
You don’t know how Mor has survived so long here. You’re already itching to get out.
A warm hand splays across your back, and you turn to face Fin. It’s not the first time he drinks you in so hungrily, but you could be forgiven for thinking so, by the way his eyes heat all over again. He glances quickly at your lips, and in this empty meeting room that he’s stolen you away to, you’re not at all sure that he isn’t bold enough to act on that hunger.
“Focus, High Lord.” You murmur, brushing the lapel of his tailored jacket. “You’ve an audience waiting for you.”
Somewhat of an infantile groan leaves him — one you’re not sure he’d share with many others. He dips down and allows his forehead to drop against your shoulder, slowly breathing in your scent.
“And if I said fuck the audience,” he murmurs, “and decided to stay here to dip under this gown and ravish you? What then?”
“Then I wager your subjects would be mighty displeased that you brought them here for nothing.”
“I could make you moan,” his nose nudges your neck, “loud enough to give them a show.”
“Later.” You promise falsely, and the lie is sour on your tongue. You step back and straighten yourself out. “You have a duty to attend to.”
The way his eyes sweep you tells you that you are the only duty he wishes to attend to. But he relents with a sigh and inclines his head.
“I do.” He admits. “And I will have to play my role out there. I’ll be mostly unavailable for the duration of this ball, so…I want you to go and have fun. Just don’t stray too far. I’ve organised the evening’s entertainment with you in mind, and I want you by my side when you see it.”
For a beat, you can only blink at him. You’re…touched, that he would do that for you. And your mind immediately starts swirling with possibilities of what that entertainment might be. Perhaps a show of professional dancers or a theatrical performance.
You study him, attempting to glean information merely from the expression on that granite-hewn face. “It’s Starfall.” You remind him. “Is that not the evening’s entertainment?”
He merely smiles. “I’ll send for you when it’s time.” He leans down, coasting his lips over one cheek and then the other. “Enjoy yourself.”
Without another word, he turns. Rolls his shoulders and slips into his High Lord roll. But before he can take a step towards the door, you're grabbing his hand.
“Fin—” You blurt, and he stops. You swallow as you stare up at him. “Just…please don’t let Tathaln Baralas ruin the camps.”
His gaze searches your face. You can’t get a read on his expression.
But then the corners of his lips curve up, and he’s squeezing your hand.
“I won’t let Tathaln become a problem.” He says, and then repeats, “enjoy yourself.”
The way he prises his hand from yours has an air of finality that stops you from pushing any further. You want to ask — beg, if you have to — for his reassurance. But he strides to the door, sleek black shoes clipping against the marble floor.
And left alone, you think you may have done all you possibly can do. That the rest is out of your hands.
So you attempt to shake off your relentless anxiety, and you go to find your friends.
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Weaving through the mammoth structure and the sea of Illyrians that fill it, you’ve already witnessed three fights and two couples damn near fucking in nothing more hidden than the alcoves carved into the walls. Pretty tame for your people, but alas, the night is young.
There are so many pairs of wings. There is such a thick air of arrogance and ego and brutishness. You’re not quite sure where you fit in here, but before you can find a refreshment that will dull that feeling, strong arms are wrapping around your waist and yanking you backwards.
You scream, and no one around you bats an eyelash. You thrash and buck, but the attempt is met with—
Deep, smooth laughter that you know so, so well.
You relax in the offender’s hold immediately, and their arms loosen enough for you to twist in them.
You glare up at Cassian and send a punch to his bicep. “Asshole.”
“Ow!” He chokes on another laugh, and then he’s grinning brilliantly, white teeth gleaming in the fae light. “Hello, Sweetpea. I’ve missed you.”
Fuck, you’ve missed him too. And that’s all it takes for you to throw your arms around him and squeeze.
He smells like Cass. That rugged scent of his that is such a comfort. And the way he hugs you back, firm yet gentle, warm and loving and present, tells you that any previous anger he had towards you is a thing of the past.
“Windhaven is fucking boring without you.” He pulls back, holding you at arms length — and blinks. “Holy gods, look at you.”
“Look at you.” Your eyes rove over him, from his tailored, maroon-coloured suit to his brushed, slicked-back hair. His wings are squeaky clean and flared proudly. He’s stunning. Breathtaking.
He cracks another Cassian grin. “Who knew we could brush up so well, hey, Sweetpea? You’re absolutely gorgeous. I’ll be the envy of all these Illyrian males, knowing I fucked you—”
“Cassian.” You land another hit to his bicep. “Don’t ruin the moment.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’ve actually been sent to collect you. A certain someone is waiting for you on a patio. I’ll give you a clue — he, too, has fucked you—”
With a roll of your eyes, albeit a fond one, you’re breezing past him with a feeling of…need. To see Azriel. To have him ground you in a place and circumstance of such unfamiliarity. You need that comfort.
Cass follows promptly, slinging an arm around your shoulder — not just because he’s missed you, but because the leering eyes of hundreds of Illyrian males follow your every step. Those gazes seem to drink in your dress bead by little bead. They’re hungry for sex and for violence.
“Out here.” Your friend steers you down a hallway, untouched by not only guests, but also the horrific brilliance of the rest of this place. This is an area that most aren’t supposed to see, with chipped concrete floors and peeling walls. It’s so cold, so ugly and uninviting, that you can’t imagine why Azriel would summon you here, of all places.
But then a door appears at the end of the winding hall, open just enough for a sliver of moonlight to touch the threshold. The fresh air has goosebumps spreading over your skin.
“He wanted some private time with you. Rhys and I said we’d keep watch.” Cass studies you and huffs a deep, dramatic sigh. “I’m trying really hard not to feel left out right now.”
“I’m sure you don’t really want to be the third wheel—”
“Sure I do. I’ve told Az that he wouldn’t even know I’m there, but no, he wants you all to himself. Selfish bastard.” He reaches out, pulling the door open wider for you. And then he calls, “I hope you heard that, fucker!”
Strong footsteps emerge from argent moonlight, and Azriel’s voice is a lilting shiver across your skin. “You know I heard it, you idiot.” He says. “You…”
His words trail off as he takes you in, and suddenly you don’t know what to do with your hands, your face, with any part of you.
His stare holds the weight of a very ancient love, so much older than the both of you. It somehow translates that you had his heart in a previous life, when you were different people entirely, and you’ll still have it in the next, when your souls begin anew.
He swallows, loud enough that you all hear it. And his voice is husky as he says, “There are no words worthy of you.”
And you’re hit with a strange urge to cry. Mostly because you feel exactly the same way about him.
He is…exquisite. He’s slicked his hair back, and that alone is a huge thing for him — to openly show each and every curve and line of his face, with no strands to hide behind. The curtain of his thick, dark lashes only accentuates the honey of his eyes and the gold of his skin.
And the suit he’s donned for the evening — that same maroon colour that Cass is wearing. You wonder if Rhys, wherever he is, is wearing the same. Whether the trio look as breathtaking together as you expect them to.
“No words.” Az repeats, shaking his head. “The Mother herself must have sent you to me.”
Cassian smirks and rests an elbow atop of your head, regardless of your perfected hair. “I said the same.”
You quirk an eyebrow. “No, you didn’t.”
“Well, I said something similar.”
“It wasn’t even close to that.”
“Be grateful of my winning charm—”
“Cassian.” Az cuts him off. “Why don’t you go and find Rhys?”
Cass lets out an infantile whine. “But he’s having private time with Zakai.”
“And I’d like to have some private time with Y/N, so. Run along.”
Your friend offers a great, dramatic huff that makes you grin, but he removes his arm from your head and turns.
“This whole coupling up thing is boring!” He calls, retreating down the hall.
And then it’s just you and Azriel.
Your love. Your heart.
You turn back to him with a coy smile, reaching up to fix your hair.
“Let me.” Az murmurs, and he steps closer, his fingers sinking into the strands of your hair. Up close, you drink him down even more, greedy and insatiable. You want to know every expression, every thought.
“There are no words worthy of you, either.” You whisper, and his eyes drop down from your hair to meet yours. “You’re a vision, Az.”
He studies you for a moment. And though his hands leave the strands, they lower only to cup your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.
“What I am,” he murmurs, “is yours.”
Your eyes shutter, and you drop your forehead against his. Every last bit of trouble and turmoil you’ve experienced has been worth it to hear those words. You want them to mark your skin.
You push up onto the tips of your toes, slanting your mouth over Azriel’s. He wastes no time in sliding his hands to your waist and hauling you close to him.
You kiss him like doing so here isn’t risky. Like you have the freedom to kiss him whenever and however you both want, and there are no outer forces getting in the way. You long for the day when that will be the case. When you can love, and love proudly.
Perhaps that luxury isn’t too far out of reach.
Az seems to think so, too, as he pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours once more, and he says, breathlessly, “Things are going to change — after tonight. I can feel it.”
You study him, searching for deeper meaning. And as though they can sense your anxiety, his shadows snake around your ankles in a soothing caress. “A good change, I hope.”
“Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. Me and you. I’m yours.”
You peck him once, twice. “And I am yours.”
Those words alone are enough to make heat blaze in his eyes. With adoration making way for passion, lust, he allows his gaze to rake over you, and he swipes his tongue over his bottom lip.
“So fucking gorgeous.” His voice is guttural. “If we didn’t have to attend this ball right now, I would—”
The door flies open behind you, and Az looks more than ready to throttle Cassian as he prances back into sight and announces, “Found Rhys!”
“And we brought booze.” Rhys swiftly follows with a smirk. “Raided personally, by me, from my asshole father’s stash.”
Sure enough, his suit matches the other two. And seeing the three of them together like that, looking so beautiful, so proper, so…matured—
A lump forms in your throat that you force down. You furiously blink away the tears that sting your eyes.
Because it hits you, just then, how much you’ve missed this — the four of you, just being together, like old times. You were always such a strong unit, always driven by your love for one another, and the dysfunctional, unconventional, beautiful family you became. It’s been a long while since you looked upon these three males without burdening thoughts always remaining a step away. You miss the ease. You miss the love.
But here it is, right in front of you, just like it always will be. And in that moment, nothing else matters but your little unit. Just you, Azriel, Cassian and Rhysand.
As you shake out of your thoughts, you realise Rhys is staring at you just as intensely. Strong emotion swims in his eyes.
“…What?” You ask, smoothing your hands over your dress.
“You just…look incredible.” He smiles softly. “Every single star that soars above our heads tonight will have nothing on you.”
Just as you think you’re about to get choked up all over again, Cassian smirks and declares, “I said the same.”
You scowl, reaching out to swat him. “No, you did not. Just accept you’re bad at compliments and move on.”
“I’m a master at compliments, thank you very much.”
Az slides an arm around your waist and quirks an eyebrow. “You took Sacha for a drink and complimented her by saying you look like you bathed. You’re hardly a poet, Cass.”
It’s Cassian’s turn to scowl then. “Well, what I may lack in poetry, I make up for in the bedroom. As Y/N clearly knows.”
A snarl rips from Azriel’s throat. “Watch yourself.”
Rhys rolls his eyes and smacks Cassian upside the head. “Don’t wind him up, dickhead.”
“Who are you calling dickhead?”
“I’m calling you dickhead, dickhead.”
The bickering becomes background noise as you prise the bottle from Rhys’s hand and take a generous swig — none of which he even notices, as he and Cass continue taking swipes at each other.
And as the liquid burns your throat, you meet Azriel’s gaze. Both of you grin. He takes the bottle from you.
In that moment, all you feel is happiness. Beautiful familiarity. Rhys and Cassian tearing chunks out of each other while you and Azriel watch and laugh from the sidelines. It makes your heart feel heavy with such warmth that it may just burst.
You do not need lavishness or luxury. Your life is nothing special, but you do not want for anything.
Just this. Only this.
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“Who knew so many Illyrians could dance?”
Rhysand’s steps are swift and flawless. It’s situations like these — ones of strict propriety and, dare you say, class — that you’re reminded he’s only half-Illyrian. The other males around you may be trying their hand at dancing, but Rhys flows through each number with barely a thought.
You smile up at him, secure in his hold. A dance floor full of Illyrians is a temperamental and, quite frankly, stupid idea. Anyone who gets too close to another’s wings is asking for a punch. Or five.
But so far, it’s been surprisingly uneventful. And you might even begin to relax and enjoy yourself — if not for the images you keep glimpsing in your periphery.
Every now and then, a flash of bright red will pass you by as Kaeda is spun from one set of burly arms to another. Her dress is the same shade as her hair. It’s alarming. Makes you think of blood.
And even more alarming, perhaps, is the pair of eyes that follow you from the dais. Fin spares only cursory glances to the rest of his guests, from where he sits on his throne in pensive silence, but his eyes linger heavily on you. Hungry, flaming eyes that follow your every move. And standing at his side — Tathaln Baralas.
The Lord of Fenlaros is even bigger than you remember. In a tailored suit, he looks…all wrong. That kind of finery will never work with him. He’s rugged, and cold, and something tells you that while Fenlaros is considerably more civilised than the majority of Illyrian camps, Tathaln Baralas feels most at home with the bare necessities. Luxury is nothing but a fly buzzing in his ear.
But he will tolerate that fly, you know — can tell, precisely from the way his dark, frightening eyes watch the room with more intensity than any single person should harbour. And that intensity is directed solely at one person. Azriel.
Tathaln watches the shadowsinger as though he’s weighing up whether he can kidnap him from this event and force him to Fenlaros. It makes your stomach turn.
“You seem on edge tonight.” Rhys’s deep gaze studies you. His hand presses firmer against the small of your back. “I won’t let anything happen to you, don’t worry.”
You’re not sure if he’s referring to his father, or to Kaeda, or to her father. Or even just to the evening in general. But you squeeze his hand, all the same.
“You’re the best.” You tell him. “And you should be dancing with Zakai.”
His eyes glimmer with his signature charm. “Oh, I will. But I always intended to save the first dance for my best girl.”
The sentiment is so…Rhysand, so comforting, that you almost — almost — start to think that everything will be alright.
But he spins you under his arm, and it’s like being spun straight back into reality. Because as you turn, that gaze from up on the dais meets yours again.
And this time, it’s not just hungry — but possessive.
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You dance and dance until your feet feel like they might fall off. Although, you’re not sure how much of that can be attributed to Cassian stepping on them throughout his uncoordinated prancing.
But the more the night wears on, the more your stomach churns with deep, unrelenting anxiety. You feel sick. Like a shadow of doom is looming over your shoulder and waiting to pull you into its thrall. By the time Cassian hands you over to Azriel, you’re not entirely sure that you won’t be sick.
Az studies your face with clear concern on his own — concern that doesn’t make his steps falter. He’s a natural dancer, taught and honed by Roza. Almost as good as Rhys. He moves as swift as flying, but his expression doesn’t hold the same ease.
“What is it?” He asks, and his thumb sweeps a stroke over your hip. “You don’t look well.”
So badly, you want to lean into his touch. But…not now — not with Fin watching. You dare a quick glance at the dais, and sure enough, his eyes stalk you. They follow everywhere Azriel touches your body. Strangely, the hunger in them intensifies. The hickory shade of them has darkened until it’s almost a stark black. He licks his lips and watches Azriel’s fingers caress you through your dress.
“I’m just…ready for this night to be over. You know all this luxury isn’t my thing.”
His hands press firmer against your skin. “I must say, as much as I’m loving this dress, I’m equally excited to rip it off—”
“May I?”
Two seconds. You look away for two seconds, and Fin is suddenly off the dais and behind you. The guests around you all watch with curious eyes.
Azriel pauses, his lingering touch letting you know just how reluctant he is to let you go.
But ultimately, he is wise. And ultimately, he concedes.
“Of course, High Lord.” He inclines his head. “She’s your special guest, after all.”
“Yes.” Fin’s eyes don’t stray from you. “She is.”
You know it’s deliberate — the way he makes sure everyone is watching as he scoops you into his arms with a small lift off the ground. And then he begins dancing, and everyone else resumes.
As you follow his steps, you allow yourself the chance to look at him. Look at him, and wonder if he’ll hate you after all this is over. You…you don’t want him to hate you. That complicates things, but gods above, it’s true.
He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, and you may as well be the only two people in the room as he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear, “When you look at me like that, Y/N, it makes me think I’m not such a bad male as most would think.”
“You’re not.” You respond almost immediately, and you mean it. “I think it’d surprise you to know how highly you’re regarded. Everyone in this room who is looking upon you—”
You yelp as he suddenly dips you, his lips at your ear.
“Everyone in this room,” he says, “is looking at you. And rightfully so. You’re a masterpiece — my masterpiece.”
The compliment — the possessiveness — all seems extreme. But then, you think everything about Fin might be a bit extreme. He doesn’t do anything by halves. The blush that dusts your cheeks seems to please him.
“You like it, don’t you?” His voice is like gravel. “That not a single male in here can take their eyes off you. You are the envy of every female. Stripped of wings, but not of raw, natural beauty.”
He straightens you out before you can reply, and your head spins — with the sudden movement, and with the whiplash of the comment. It both pleases you and reminds you how exposed your back is — the trauma that everyone can see.
“Charming as ever.” You swallow, hope the smile on your face is convincing. “I don’t quite know what to say.”
“Words are not necessary — not tonight.” The song you’re dancing to fades to an end, and he steadies you gently on your feet. His gaze sweeps you again, and he remarks, “The stars will begin their journeys soon.”
In the strange headiness of the evening, you almost forgot that this is, essentially, two events wrapped up in one. Starfall, and Fin’s lavish ball. Perhaps seeing those stars will bring you some semblance of peace — make you feel less lost than you do right now, as they travel somewhere unbeknownst to you, and perhaps unbeknownst to themselves, also.
“Will you be joining us outside to watch them?” You ask.
A strange smile curves his lips. “Indeed I will. It’s a magnificent sight to behold.” He steps back, bowing to press a kiss to the backs of your fingers. And then he straightens up. Retreats.
“However,” he says, “I do believe the entertainment I’ve arranged for you may just outshine those stars this year.”
He saunters away, back to his dais. And as he lowers himself into his throne, he meets your gaze.
That same old thirst in them is unquenchable.
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The males are treating the stardust like it’s the snow that so often coats your respective camps.
The first specks of it showering down on you were surprising, beautiful. But in true Illyrian fashion, what started as a cordial gathering to observe the soaring, luminous beings, has been reduced to little more than a drunken bust up.
You don’t know which camp launched the first clump of glimmering dust at another, but that was all it took for chaos to break out. The fray jostles you away from your friends until you can no longer feel Azriel pressed to your side or hear Cassian’s constant chattering. Try as you might to locate them, it’s impossible to see past giant, burly males with alarming wingspans. It’s a sea of dark hair and tan skin.
You push and push your way through, looking for a small exit through the gathered bodies. Your gown is trampled on, and you’re shoved this way and that, taking a few handfuls of stardust to your face and neck and arms. The feel of it is a cold contrast against your hot skin.
Just as you spot an opening to squeeze through, a male is careening into you and taking you down with him. It stuns you so much that you forget to brace yourself for impact. You’re about to tear your skin open against the sharp ground—
But huge, warm hands from behind catch you beneath your arms and keep you upright. Set you on your feet.
You turn, smacking straight into a broad expanse of chest. And a little higher up — long hair and wicked eyes. A taunting grin. Too-sharp teeth.
Tathaln Baralas seems to command the area around him so much that the fighting moves away from you both. A fact that makes him so incredibly smug.
“You’re welcome.” He sounds as rough and rugged as the mountain rock.
You clear your throat and incline your head in reluctant thanks. You’re not too keen on the idea of lingering for a chat with him.
But before you can so much as turn, his hand is fastening around your wrist. It’s not a tight grip, and yet it’s a warning — that it could become tighter if you tried to move.
“I’d like to go and find my friends—”
“I’ve been wracking my brain trying to work out why the High Lord is so taken by you.” He angles his head, and his eyes travel down, a smirk toying with his lips. “Besides a magnificent pair of tits, of course.”
Gritting your teeth, you attempt to rip your arm away. “You do him a disservice by thinking him so shallow—”
“Does Rhysand know you’re fucking his father?”
“You’re mistaken, my lord, and I’ll thank you to let go of me.”
“My daughter’s warning was clearly of no use. Perhaps I’ll be able to drive the message in harder. Whatever you’re planning—”
“There you are.” Out of seemingly nowhere, Rhysand’s voice saves the day. “I’ve been looking for you.”
The most minuscule, tiny beat passes — but Tathaln Baralas is no damn fool. With such blatant reluctance, he lets go of your wrist and takes a step back.
Rhys presses himself against your side, slinging an arm around your shoulders. He stares at Tathaln as he says, “My father wants everybody rounded up. It’s time for the entertainment he has planned.”
It’s a cloaked order, and you can see how much the Lord of Fenlaros wants to grit his teeth against it. But again — no damn fool.
“I’ll help gather everyone up.” He relents, and then he turns and pushes through fighting males as though they’re not there.
Rhys turns to you, concerned eyes taking you in. “Are you alright?”
“I will be.” You respond vaguely, linking your arm with his. “When this is all over, I will be.”
Little does he know, it’s not only the ball that you’re referring to.
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Like petulant children, the bustling males don’t want to go back under the mountain for the remainder of the ball. They want to stay outside and frolic in the fallen stardust and maybe fight or fuck in it, too.
But somehow, Fin commands their return. And the silence with which they now all stare up at the dais has you wondering if there’s anybody he can’t get to obey him.
Roza, probably. The thought brings a smile to your face.
Gods, you’d love to be with Roza right now, Spending quiet, quality time together. Blocking out the world in its entirety. You’re glad, so heavily pregnant as she is, that she’s not here tonight — but still, you can’t help wishing she was—
A loud clap sounds through the room, jolting you from your thoughts. You force your eyes into focus once more, and though you’re buried a few rows back, Fin finds your gaze immediately. He smiles.
“I wanted to thank each and every one of you for coming here tonight.” He addresses the room. “I understand that Illyrians have a way of life that you like to keep loyal to, and that integrating with other camps is not normally a done thing. I appreciate you keeping your minds open and straying from your traditions to honour this event.”
The crowd stirs and murmurs, and every person packed within it must be wondering why Tathaln Baralas is the only camp lord up on that dais with the High Lord while the others all congregate on the floor, common as muck. They are not privy to the things that you are. You have a horrible feeling that that is all about to change.
“While there have been a few…hiccups, this evening, I have mostly been impressed by how well you were able to interact.” Fin goes on. “That is exactly what this little experiment was intended for. Because that’s what this ball was — an experiment. I address each and every Illyrian when I say this: change is coming.”
No.
Your stomach bottoms out. Hands turn clammy in an instant.
Surely…surely he hasn’t just ignored everything you’ve said. Surely this hasn’t all been for nothing.
“You may recognise the male behind me.” He’s not looking at you now. His eyes skim the room, but they don’t stray in your direction. “Tathaln Baralas — Lord of the Fenlaros camp.”
At that, a small burst of cheers breaks out from one section of the room. Fenlarions, you can only assume. You’re too panicked to care.
Tathaln takes a step forward, not quite in line with Fin, but almost. He seems to be fighting back a smirk. And as you feel another heavy set of eyes on you, you look to your left — to a few steps down, where Kaeda stands. She eyes you with what must be triumph in her eyes, and she doesn’t bother to hide her smirk.
This…this has all gone very, very wrong. You’ve fucked up — failed. Perhaps even doomed the lives of countless people. Fin may have poured sweet sentiments into your ear and boosted your confidence, but you so clearly weren’t enough. Weren’t enough to appeal yourself to him, and weren’t enough to save Illyria as you know it.
You’re not at all certain that you aren’t going to faint. Whatever is about to be said or done, you don’t want to be here for it. You want to gather up Azriel and Cassian and Rhys and get the fuck out of there, far away from this, from him. You look frantically around for them, but you’ve lost them again. Can’t even glimpse the backs of their heads.
“A short while ago, the Lord of Fenlaros came to me with a suggestion. A proposition.” Fin slides his hands into his pockets; a strangely arrogant gesture that tells you just how at ease he is. “But before I tell you all about that, I would like to speak to you about somebody else. Another one of your own who I have recently had the delight of spending my time with. Getting to know.”
It takes a delayed moment for you to realise he’s staring at you once more.
Staring firmly, unflinchingly at you.
He extends a hand in your direction, and everybody — every single fucking person around you — turns to get a look, also.
“Sweet Y/N,” He cocks his head. Smiles. “Would you join me up here, please?”
You falter on the spot, forgetting entirely how to move. Every pair of eyes…the attention…it’s all too much. Everyone is looking at you. Everyone can see you, your scars.
“Y/N.” Fin repeats. “This is for you, after all.”
Someone shoves you in the back, and snickers titter around you, the sounds swimming from one ear to the other. On shaking legs, you slip between bodies. Bodies with faces attached that won’t stop looking at you, staring at you, wondering why you, of all people, have caught the High Lord’s attention. A lowly Illyrian female without any wings.
Numb from head to toe, you climb up onto the dais. Fin takes your trembling hand. Pulls you to his side.
Only then do you find Azriel, Cassian and Rhys in the crowd. All staring up at you with alarmed, horrified expressions. They can sense something very terrible is about to go down, too.
“For all of you who haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her — this is Y/N.” Fin speaks loudly, clearly, his tone clipped. “She hails from the Windhaven camp. She is Illyrian in her own right. She has a brain wise beyond her twenty years, and a heart of solid gold. She cares for Illyrians — for all of you. Cares for your futures.” A very, very potent pause. His expression changes — darkens. He purses his lips. “But you all do not care for her, do you?”
Silence. Nobody knows where this is going. There’s a slight movement in the crowd, and out of the corner of your eye, you see your friends pushing closer to the front.
“You cannot claim to care about her — about your own females — when you are willing to do this.”
So quickly, Fin’s hands are gripping your arms, and he’s wrenching you around on the spot. Forcing your back to them. Forcing them to swallow down the sight of your ruined back.
But your scars poking through the sheer fabric is not enough for him, it would seem. Those hands of his, gentle at times and dangerous at others, skate over your shoulders. Stop at the top of your back, where you hate so profoundly to be touched.
And he rips the fabric open like he’s cleaving air.
The cold air hits your exposed back, and surprised murmurs ripple through the room. Each and every one of them will have seen clipped wings before — but not this. Not the brutal hacking you were subjected to.
On instinct, you’re fighting against Fin, trying to turn, trying to hide. He holds you steady.
“Her own father did this to her.” He announces. “As so many of you intend to do to your own daughters, no doubt. Look at her. Look at how she suffered, and believe me when I say, again, change is coming.”
“Father.” Rhysand’s voice reaches you from behind, severe, outraged. “Stop this.”
It surprises you that Fin immediately turns you back around. But you are under no illusion that he’s listened to his son’s plea. He simply isn’t finished.
There is not one part of you that isn’t shaking. You stare firmly at your feet, refusing to meet any of the gazes pinned on you. Some may be pitying. Most will be delighted.
“I understand that Y/N may not appreciate what I just did. And rightfully so.” With a theatrical wave of his hand, the rip at the back of your dress is mended. But the damage is already done. “She has a right to those feelings. A thing I believe you Illyrian males do not understand. That your females feel. That they can rightfully be hurt, and they can rightfully want to be avenged. Y/N?”
You know he’s addressing you, asking you to look at him. But you can’t move. You can’t…can’t stop shaking. Can’t stop feeling like you want to throw up.
“Y/N.” He repeats, softer this time. “Look at me please.”
You pause.
And then you do.
You turn, and you look at him with an expression that will never promise forgiveness.
To his credit, he studies your face. It’s like he’s searching for an answer as to whether his little stunt was irredeemable. His eyes swallow your expression, and a moment passes between you. One that doesn’t include everybody else in this room.
You imagine you look hateful. You imagine you are sneering, and clenching your jaw, and allowing him to see that you will not stand for such disrespect from anybody, including him.
And he…he looks upon you like he wants the rest of the room to disappear. Like he wants nothing more than to steal you into his arms and spirit you away, far away from this.
You take a small step back.
“I got you a gift.” He says, too quietly. Extends a hand again.
You feel yourself shaking your head. You cannot speak. But this does not deter him. He retracts his hand and murmurs to somebody — somebody you can’t see around the roaring in your head — “The box, please.”
As blurred movement stirs in front of you, you angle yourself towards the crowd — towards your friends. You search their terrified faces without seeing them, and you know that they are just as powerless as you are. Even Rhysand. That throwing themselves in the mix may just make the situation worse.
And you don’t even know what the situation is. All you know is that your heart is thudding and your ears are screaming. All you know is that you feel…betrayed…by Fin making a spectacle of you like this. That your body and mind are having such violent reactions because your vulnerabilities, insecurities, may just be the evening’s entertainment that you’re supposed to somehow enjoy—
“Y/N.”
Your eyes snap back to the High Lord, and a tear escapes the corner of it. You pretend it doesn’t exist, even if Fin’s gaze tracks it and softens.
“For you.” He holds a box out to you.
For a moment, you weigh up the likelihood that you could just dart off the stage and make a run for it. Find somewhere to hide and cry. But as your hands extend outwards without you telling them to, you know it’s no use. You’re seeing this through, however reluctantly.
Your trembles are violent as you take the box into your hands — and almost drop it. It’s heavier than you’re expecting. Fin smiles.
Every single person in that room watches you slide the lid off the box.
Every single person in that room watches you peer inside — and drop it. Stagger back.
“What the fuck is this?” You choke. “What have you done?!”
There are murmurs, people angling to get a look, as Fin casually strolls over to that box. As he reaches in.
As he lifts your father’s severed head by his hair and holds it up like it’s a fucking show and tell. And grins at it.
Steeled Illyrian warriors who have been bred for violence scatter back, curses and noises rolling off their tongues.
“Allow this to be a lesson to each and every one of you.” Fin speaks loudly, entirely unperturbed by the head dangling from his fingertips. “That while your camps are overseen by your camp lords, I am still your High Lord, and I am always watching, and listening, and waiting to act, if necessary. This male wronged somebody I care for. The only fitting punishment was this.”
Without a care, he drops your father’s head back into the box and kicks it away. You stumble back, back, toppling off the dais. Somebody catches you.
“I am your High Lord.” Fin repeats, seemingly unaware of the panic roiling in his audience. “I do not take kindly to being used or manipulated. I do not take kindly to somebody presuming to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do with my court. And Illyria is part of my court — no matter how much you try to distance yourselves. You are under my jurisdiction. What happens to you is my call to make.”
For a split second, you can only hear certain words; used, manipulated, presuming to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. You think he’s addressing solely you, but he isn’t.
People are moving around you. Arms wrap around you. It takes a moment for you to register that it’s Azriel. That he’s tucking you between himself and Cassian and Rhys. They’re shielding you.
Fin is now pacing the dais, hands behind his back. “The Lord of Fenlaros spent months concocting –and perfecting — a self-serving scheme that he then presented to me, as though he has the authority to do so.” He stops, turning to Tathaln — a very pale Tathaln. “And while I agree there would be some benefits to what you proposed, your methods have pissed me off. And I don’t like being pissed off.”
Tathaln squares his massive shoulders. Steps forward. “I—”
“What gives you the right to delegate your daughter and sons to rival camps to do your bidding, without bringing your case to me first? I should have been your first port of call. I should have decided how this plan of yours should play out. Yet you schemed behind my back and tried to build power and gain favour in case I disagreed to your plan. So you could then build a cause against me.”
“My Lord, I assure you, that is not—”
“Yes — your Lord.” He reiterates.
And then quick as a flash, he’s drawing a sword.
Quick as a flash, it slices through the air and hacks Tathaln Baralas’s head clean off his neck.
It drops to the dais with a wet-sounding thwack. The rest of his body crumples to the floor.
You can’t breathe, or think, or hear. Can only stare at Tathaln’s open, glazed eyes, peering off into nothing. There are gasps and curses and panic. Hands claw at you. You can’t move.
And then a high-pitched, wailing scream rents the air, like nothing else you’ve ever heard. So loud, it snaps you out of your shock.
You turn, despite the hands that hold you firm and still. Through tear-blurred eyes, you glimpse Kaeda on her knees. Her beautiful face is screwed with despair. She stares at her father’s head, and she wails.
“Change is, indeed, upon us.” Fin says calmly, as though a river of blood is not pooling at his feet. “But it will be dealt by my hands, and my hands only.” He sheathes his blade once more. “This ball is over. You can all leave.”
Sliding his hands into his pockets, he strolls off the dais, tracking blood with each step. He disappears through a door without looking back.
And then chaos is erupting. Kaeda is still screaming. People are scrambling to book it out of there. You turn back to Tathaln’s head. Turn to your father’s, still in that box. You think you might be sick—
“Y/N.” Hands grasp your face tightly. Azriel is staring into your eyes, pleading with you to stare back. “We need to get out of here, okay? We’re getting out of here.”
You open your mouth, and a strangled noise escapes you. “I…I can’t…move.”
“You can. You can. Come.” His arms band around you. And though he holds you strong, you can feel that he’s shaken, too. “We’re leaving before the High Lord comes back. I’m getting you out of here. Hold onto me.”
You have no choice other than to comply. But your grip is as weak as you are. You can’t stop yourself fucking shaking.
You don’t hear the words that Azriel speaks to Cassian and Rhys. All you can hear is Kaeda’s screaming. All you can do is stare over Azriel’s shoulder at your father’s lifeless face. That face didn’t once look upon you with love in twenty years. Now, it certainly never will.
You keep on looking until Azriel spirits you both out of there, and the coppery tang of blood follows you all the way back to Windhaven.
✧: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚
“Please try to drink some of that.”
Azriel perches before you, his eyes fixed upon the steaming cup between your hands. You can’t remember how long ago he handed it to you, or how long ago you made it back to Roza’s cottage, or how long ago you watched Fin cleave Tathaln’s head from his body.
The fire is roaring, and more than one blanket is draped around you, but you can’t get any warmth to seep into your bones. You shiver from head to toe.
“It’ll warm you up.” Az reaches out, pressing a hand to your cheek. “I added a drop of whiskey to take the edge off.”
“I need more than a drop.” Cassian’s voice comes from behind the sofa, where he’s been pacing pretty much since he entered. “What the fuck was that? Your father is insane, Rhys.”
Rhys hasn’t breathed a word — that you’re aware of, anyway. Just sat in the armchair and stared into space.
But his eyes shutter now, and he murmurs, “I know.”
“Absolutely insane.” Cass repeats. The pacing continues, up and down and up and down. “I didn’t realise you’d gotten so close to him, Y/N.”
As if you need reminding.
Fin had made it clear that in some fucked up way, everything he did tonight was for you. He’d slaughtered two people for you. You’d wanted to stop Tathaln, but not like that…never like that.
A tear rolls down your cheek, and you hear Azriel utter a quiet warning to Cass. Cass stops his pacing.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He says, softer. “I just…didn’t realise there was so much going on while you were in Velaris.”
“I was trying to help.” You whisper. “I didn’t mean for…I didn’t mean—”
“None of what happened tonight was your fault.” Azriel moves to your side. He pulls you close against him, arms soothingly wrapping around you. “Don’t you dare start thinking that. The High Lord does what he wants.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. What if he’s coming for me next? I was scheming, too.”
Az growls quietly. “He can try. He won’t get close.”
“My father doesn’t want you dead.” Rhys rests his head back against the chair. He doesn’t open his eyes, and you’re wondering if he’s replaying the picture of bloodshed as much as you are. “If he did, he would have killed you there and then, alongside Kaeda’s father and…yours.”
Cassian spits on the ground. “And may your father never know a shred of peace.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, allowing yourself to slump fully against Az’s body, be supported by it. You’re not sure you can hold yourself up right now.
And it’s not that you disagree with Cass’s statement…you’re just not sure what to feel right now.
You hated your father. Despised him. But—
But that kill was supposed to be yours.
Fin had taken that from you in some fucked up display of…of affection, you supposed. Maybe even of ownership.
“He may not want me dead,” you whisper, “but I don’t think he’s finished with me. He’s surely not going to let me come back to Windhaven as if nothing happened. And what of Roza and the babe? Are they safe with him?”
Rhys gives a slow, meditative shake of his head. He’s exhausted. You’re all exhausted. The smell of blood clings to you. “I checked in with her. Despite what he did, they’re always safe with him. As for everything else…I don’t know what he intends.”
“Change is coming.” Finally, Cassian sits down. “That’s what he said. Over and over again.”
You don’t want change. Not the kind that Fin is probably thinking. You don’t want extravagance or luxury. You just want…this.
This little cottage. Your friends. Your love. Your simple, quiet life.
It feels like it hangs in the balance more than ever.
Eyes open, you’re staring at everything you may just lose. But the second you squeeze them shut, you see such thick, alarming red. Hear the thwack of Tathaln’s head falling. Hear the carnal scream that rips from Kaeda’s throat.
Your heartbeat picks up, and tears prick in your eyes — but Azriel’s arms tighten around you.
“Easy.” He murmurs, pressing a kiss to your head. “I’m right here. All three of us are.”
You know he can’t possibly be as calm as he’s making out. But he’s doing it for you — staying strong for you.
“You should try to sleep, my love.” He murmurs into your hair. “We all should.”
You focus on his warmth, his scent, but the tears keep coming. “I’m not sure I can.”
“Try.” He kisses you again. “For me.”
All you can manage is a relenting nod. And that’s all it takes for him to slide down and pull you with him. He holds you so tightly, as though he’s terrified of letting go. He bundles you against him, wraps a blanket around you both. It can’t be comfortable for him, his wings, but he lays there like it is.
A soft snoring from the armchair tells you that Rhys has already succumbed to exhaustion. You bunch your fingers in the front of Az’s shirt and force your eyes to close, even despite the horrors that await you behind them.
But after a while, you’re aware of the sound of Cassian traipsing to the kitchen. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey that sits mostly drained on the side.
And you realise that in Azriel’s arms, you’d started to drift off, too.
✧: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚
You wake with a gasping start.
It’s pitch black in the room, besides the dying embers of the fire. Their muted orange glow illuminates the space enough for you to glimpse Rhys, still fast asleep in the chair. Cassian is sprawled out and dozing on the floor.
Any one of you could have stowed away upstairs in the privacy of a bedroom, but…you need each other right now. Each other’s comfort.
You don’t know what the time is; the middle of the night, judging by how dark it is. But there’s a lot of noise and foot traffic that’s carried past the house. You assume it must be Illyrians who have attempted to drown the night’s events in alcohol and are now skulking home.
You try to block it all out. Roll over. But as arms tighten around you and pull you flush against a warm body, you glance up to find Azriel awake, already staring at you.
You stare back.
That’s all you do for a while. Just…stare. Drink each other in. He is so beautiful. So brilliant. Your friend, lover and so much more.
“Hi.” He eventually whispers.
You scan his face. Murmur back, “Hi.”
“You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.”
A small shake of his head. Strands of hair fall from where they were earlier slicked back. The grandeur of the ball seems like eons ago, now.
“I can’t.” He says. “I’m worried about you.”
It’s rare…for him to lay vulnerable thoughts and feelings out like that. You study him again. And you want to reassure him, tell him you’re doing okay — but you’re not. Not right now. And don’t you owe him honesty in return?
“I’m scared.” You admit. Keeping your voice hushed doesn’t stop it from cracking.
Azriel leans down, dropping his forehead against yours. His hand rests at the small of your back, rubbing soothing circles.
After a moment, he asks, “What went on in Velaris?”
You don’t know what to say. It was so easy, in the City of Starlight, to pretend to be someone else. Someone that Fin would desire and eventually trust. So easy to follow a plan unflinchingly.
But back in the frozen grips of Windhaven, you do not feel like that person. You do not know her.
“You said you were scheming.” Az presses. “What went on?”
“I told you…I was trying to convince Fin to reject Tathaln’s idea—”
“Convince him how?”
You swallow. Because you hate the truth. Back in the ordinariness of your Illyrian environment, your behaviour seems so, so bad.
“Did he touch you,” Az breathes.
“No.” You immediately shake your head. “I made him want me. I made him want me so badly that he would trust me and listen to me. I never wanted him to kill for me. And I never wanted him. Every single second I spent there, I just wanted to come back to you—”
His lips fold over yours, and he breathes deep and slow. You waste no time in kissing him back. That kiss is truth, and it’s love.
“Only you, Az.” You whisper as you pull away. “I’ve only ever wanted you.”
But he’s not done with you. His mouth is on yours again, and he promises into it, “I’ve only ever wanted you, too.”
Not merely wanted, but needed. And you need each other now. It doesn’t matter at all that you’re not alone in the room — that Cass and Rhys are sleeping mere footsteps away.
Your hands are on each other, grasping at each other, and your bodies come together. It’s unhurried and quiet. Azriel’s eyes don’t leave yours once, from the second he slides into you and you both gasp onto each other’s mouths.
Every slow thrust is one of love. Every one of them is a promise.
“Whatever happens,” he pants quietly, pleasure straining his voice, “whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”
“Together.” You vow. A tear escapes the corner of your eye, and Azriel leans in to kiss it away.
He holds you as both your climax and his build together. He holds you as you bury into his shoulder to stop you from crying out. He holds you as you clench around his cock and he spills every last drop into you.
And he holds you as you catch your breaths and press your foreheads together, exhaustion beckoning you once more. He’s held you through so much, and he’ll continue to do so to whatever end.
Only when your eyelids are threatening to close does he brush his mouth against yours once more. And he says again, “We’ll face it together.”
There’s a stirring behind you. Cassian rolls over. Croaks out, “Can you quit fucking?”
And then he snores and he’s back to sleep, the fire warming his wings.
You and Az stare at each other and pause. And despite it all — everything that’s happened tonight — you both break into laughter. It vibrates through his chest and into you, the feeling pleasant, reassuring.
He kisses your forehead, a smile still ghosting his lips.
It stays there as he drifts to sleep.
✧: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚✧・゚: *✧・゚
“What the fuck is that?”
Your groggy eyes wrench open and squint at the weak daylight that filters through the cottage. Both Rhys and Cass have bolted upright. Az, too, is jerked awake.
A thumping lands on the front door, urgent, panicked. Anxiety floods your gut.
“I’m coming, fucking hell.” Rhysand clambers to his feet. He’s dishevelled and uncoordinated as he clambers to the door and rips it open.
“Rhys,” Zakai pants from the other side. “What the fuck is your father playing at?”
“What—”
It’s then that the sound hits you all. The sound of authoritative voices calling out. Of people shouting — arguing — back.
Rhys follows Zakai out of the door. You, Azriel and Cassian share a glance before the three of you are also following.
And what you find outside is…chaos.
The sight of Illyrians fighting is nothing new, but males are being ripped from their houses. Children and wives watch, tears staining their cheeks. Paper and clothes and belongings litter the ground as if they’ve been stolen and discarded. The sky is shadowed by the temporary night of soaring Illyrians
Your wide eyes swivel to a roof a few cottages down — where a male stands upon its tiles, his voice bellowing out. He’s leather-clad and puffed up by his own importance — one of Devlon’s cronies, you think.
He seems unperturbed by the pushback on the ground — the gathering, angered males, as he addresses anyone and everyone around him.
“If I call your name, you’re coming with me! You pack the bare necessities — we leave for Steelshore in thirty minutes!” He announces. “Rahu Sepheron, Venia Char, Falkon Galos, Telarion Krin—”
“He’s lost his damn mind.” Rhys grits his teeth, shaking his head.
“He’s actually doing it.” Ice shoots through your veins, nothing to do with the brisk spring morning. “The High Lord is actually splitting everyone up.”
“Zakai Athalar—”
“Fuck this.” Rhys grabs Zakai’s hand, turning to you, Az, Cassian. “Everyone get back inside. None of us are doing anything or going anywhere until I’ve spoken to my father.”
You don’t hesitate to turn on your feet and pull Azriel with you. You want nothing more than to hole yourself up inside the cottage and pretend that none of this is happening. That anxiety and panic isn’t turning your stomach—
But the second you step foot inside, you’re halting in the doorway so suddenly that Cassian smacks into you from behind.
Fin sits at the table, cleaning his nails with a dagger.
He drinks in the sight of you greedily. Glances down at yours and Azriel’s joined hands. Smiles.
“Do you want to tell me what the fuck you’re playing at?” Rhys pushes past you, storming over. “What the hell is all this?”
“This?” Fin sits back. “This, Rhysand, is the reality of war.”
His son grits his teeth. Clenches his fists. “What.”
“War is upon us. Days, weeks, months away. People will have to fight and people will have to die. It is my duty as High Lord to take necessary action to ensure we come out victorious. If I have to sever some relationships for that outcome, then so be it.”
Cassian barrels forward, nothing but anger given flesh. “And what is this supposed necessary action? Tearing families apart?”
Even he, with his quick temper and loose tongue, would never normally address the High Lord in such a way. But Cassian cares. He’s passionate about what’s right.
And what Fin is doing is not right.
But Fin vaguely smiles and picks an invisible piece of dirt from his jacket. “If need be, Cassian, yes.” He says. “I’m delegating Illyrians where they will serve me best in this war. That includes your cosy little unit here.”
“If we are truly at war,” Azriel says quietly, dangerously, “now is not the time to play games.”
“Who’s playing games, shadowsinger?” Fin shrugs. “Not me.”
You don’t think it’s accidental, the way the High Lord’s eyes slide to you in that moment. You look away, refuse to hold his gaze. You could swear he chuckles quietly as he stands up and tucks his chair in.
“So here’s how it’s going to be.” He rests his forearms atop of the chair. “Rhysand — you will be commanding a legion in Camp Theriel.” He glances — barely — at Zakai. “I do believe your lover has already received a summons to leave for Camp Steelshore, so he should probably run along, lest he gets left behind.”
“Father—”
“Cassian.” He interrupts. “You will remain here, in Windhaven — as a common foot soldier in this war.”
“A foot soldier?” Cass spits. “That’s beneath my rank and you know it. You’re only doing this because you’re threatened by Az, Rhys and I being together. How powerful we are. Everyone knows that.”
Fin simply tsks. “Watch yourself, foot soldier. You don’t want to slip further down the ranks, now, do you—”
“Fin.” Finally, you find your voice. You step forward, despite Azriel trying to yank you back. You stare pleadingly at the High Lord.
He turns to you. His eyes sweep your face. His expression seems to go somewhat…quiet.
You had begun to respect this male in some roundabout way. You don’t think you’d ever have fully trusted him, but…there was an understanding, for a time. An allegiance of sorts.
You’d seen a side to him that so few did. And though it’s nowhere to be seen now…you have to believe that it’s still under there somewhere. You have to.
“Please don’t do this.” You whisper, your eyes filling with tears. “Please. This is our home. Our family.”
At the first sight of a tear rolling down your face, Fin swallows — hard. He clenches his fists at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to reach out and wipe it away.
It seems like so, so long that he stares at you. So long that he seems to be fighting something internally.
So long that a small glimmer of hope ignites in you that perhaps he cares enough to listen.
But then his eyes are shuttering, and he’s looking away. He says, stiffly, “We all have to make sacrifices in war.”
“Fin—”
“Rhysand will go to Camp Theriel. Cassian will stay here.” His eyes open again. He looks from you, to Azriel, back to you. “You and the shadowsinger are coming to Velaris with me.”
“What?!”
“You’d better say your goodbyes.” He squares his shoulders, not looking at you at all, now. “It’ll be a very, very long time before you all see each other again. If you see each other again.”
You open your mouth — to say what, you don’t know.
But Fin disappears before your eyes, leaving you — your family — alone.
What sounds far, far away is Cassian’s outraged ranting. Rhysand cursing his father. Zakai trying to talk to him, calm him down.
You and Azriel are the only two who don’t say a thing. Just stand there in silence.
Because you know you can curse all you like. You can shout and throw things and damn Fin to a miserable existence. It may bring you some temporary reprieve.
But it will not change a thing.
Fin is your High Lord. His mind is made up. This is just the next round in his game.
Your family is being cleaved apart. You stand in that cottage where you all slept in each other’s company — not realising it might be the last time, ever.
Your head roars and your tears keep on coming. But you can do nothing but stare at Azriel. He stares at you, too.
You and the shadowsinger are coming to Velaris with me.
It makes you sick to your stomach. Probably makes Azriel sick to his stomach, also.
But your locked, silent, crestfallen gazes communicate one sacred promise to each other.
Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.
Authors note: Oooooof how are we all feeling? Good? Bad? Sad? Mad? Tempted to commit arson?
I just wanted to say thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. What started out as a fun little smut piece turned into a whole story I didn’t even know I had in me, but I’ve enjoyed every bit of it — especially hearing from all of you. Your likes, reblogs, comments and asks have meant the world to me through this. Thank you so much for the wonderful responses 🫶🏻
For anyone who didn’t see my answer to an ask regarding this last part — I understand it might not be the ending everyone wanted or expected, but I felt there was still so much potential in the story that I wanted to leave it open to — perhaps — write a sequel at some point. I have so many ideas, and I’m totally willing to talk about it and answer any questions about it you have any!
Thank you, again, for all the support, darlings. And I truly hope you enjoyed Practice On Me. 💕
pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-a-girlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl
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I didn't accidentally love you | Hwang Hyunjin
Genre: Hopelessly romantic fluff, angst, poetry, a little comedy
Pairing: Hwang Hyunjin x gender neutral reader
Word Count: 3.1k
Warnings: reader is an insecure poet, heartbreak, bad self esteem, poetry clubs, Hyunjin is dripping charisma, shameless flirting, reader thinks hyun is a jerk for like a second, reader.exe stops working multiple times, reader gets shy, i just HAD to be funny at the end OKAY
Synopsys: Your friends forced you to become part of a poetry club, and when you receive a task to write a poem about sadness, you realize you accidentally write it about Hyunjin, the guy you had a crush on and tried to forget about. And he finds out.
A/N: I promised @astraystayyh to write this, here you go sugar <3
Artists have many moments of weakness.
Those moments when you start to question your craft, whether you're even worthy of being called an 'artist' or you're just a fleeting talent that is going to wash away with time, just like the hobby or interest of a preschooler. You inquire if you're worthy staining pages with ink, using the words of the dictionary just to feel the high of belonging - the high of doing show and tell with your emotions like it's a new toy your parents gifted you; or you should just remain a consumer, and observe the beauty that lies in others, the beauty others can create. Could your craft ever rise to all these expectations?
But what else is there to life, if not making art?
Perhaps you've always been clinically insane, but you've only truly felt alive when you felt the beauty of the world - dark and bright alike - conveyed through you in the form of poetry and words, sent by the angels above for a mere human to toy with. So you pick up the pencil again.
The paper before you is blank, and you're frankly uncomfortable in the position you are in, notebook on your thighs, back curved over the page as if you're shielding unwritten words from the sun itself to not read them. But you've always felt more at ease writing outside, under the natural light of the sky, with the clouds passing by carelessly, like they don't have doubts about their worth like a human would. But the stares of the students passing by are not exactly comfortable. You take a breath and urge yourself to focus; they don't care about what you're doing, they're just heading to their classes, living their lives (hopefully) with that same hunger you have for art, for their chosen subjects.
You face your paper again and remember the prompt you were given - writing a poem involving the feeling of sadness - that you're supposed to hand over to the club in a couple of days. Insecurities and procrastination led you to keep putting it off, but the dread of a deadline has always been a great motivation for humanity. Your friends urged you towards this, to join the poetry club of your university - it's a small, non-profit club put together by a bunch of random art and literature students. It's so non-profit in fact, that it barely has any funding at all. They had to fight tooth and nail to be allowed to host the club meetings every week in the sculpting room - and that, late in the day, when the cleaning staff unlocks the doors for their cleaning sweep. You sit on awkward, stained chairs, and make sure to raise your feet up one by one to not stand in the way of the mop and brooms. But the club members would withstand anything, and would pretty much commit homicide to keep the club running. One more reason why, when faced with the passion and fighting spirit your club mates have, you wonder if you even have a space with them. You had to be shoved - one could say even blackmailed - by your friends to take the step forward and join, so you could be able to share your craft with others. You were perfectly happy letting your poems stack up in endless notebooks on top of your dusty bookcase. You didn't feel the need to share them, per se - but everyone else insisted it would have been a crime to keep them to yourself selfishly like that.
Sadness, sadness. You need to embody sadness for this prompt. You look around for inspiration, but there is no sad sight to see. The sky is clear, in colors of baby blue and soft whites, the branches of the green, young trees are barely even swaying in the wind, and there's college students laughing all around. Has anything sad happened in your life lately? Not really, nothing to inspire poems at least. Not that you are bursting at the seams with happiness, but you believed no one really is. There's a lot going on behind the cover of every human passing by, and even if all you can feel is the slight shoulder brush of a stranger, you do know those shoulders carry as much, if not even more weight than yours.
That's it. You start writing, and word by word they flow, one line, two lines until you have seven of them - you even managed to rhyme! It's not much, but it's honest work. Since there is no one close by, you begin to read the poem out loud softly. Hearing what you wrote always helps you perfect the rhymes, the punctuation and change around words if they sound too awkward. After erasing, rewriting and erasing again just to end up redoing the whole last two lines, you finally thought it was good enough.
---
Here and now, I must take a vow:
You'll never hear me confess, that in the depths of my weary chest
Underneath the smile I wore, there's a sadness in my soul;
Nothing's wrong - it's my biggest lie, hiding a muffled cry
Just behind a giggle and a laugh, acting is my biggest craft;
I loved you - but heard the ticking of the clock and thought
No more. It's time I stopped and gave you up.
---
You smile, because for a split second you actually think your poem sounds really good. But then, the insecurities crash on top of you again. Your club mates are probably writing long, heart-wrenching poems that are going to make you cry when you read them. Your idea will surely seem shallow and rushed in comparison to theirs. With a sigh, you wish to be able to just give yourself this one. Tell yourself you did good enough by trying and move on - brush it off and think progressively, that your next poem is going to be even better than this one. But you don't truly feel that way, so you begin to beautify the first letter of every line with calligraphic letters to overcompensate for the lack of skill you feel you have. The capital H at the beginning of the first line, the capital Y at the beginning of the second line and so on; you turn them into beautiful, aesthetic calligraphy as much to your ability. In the end, you just think you've made a mess, and that there is simply too much ink on the page now.
---
Here and now, I must take a vow:
You'll never hear me confess, that in the depths of my weary chest
Underneath the smile I wore, there's a sadness in my soul;
Nothing's wrong - it's my biggest lie, hiding a muffled cry
Just behind a giggle and a laugh, acting is my biggest craft;
I loved you - but heard the ticking of the clock and thought
No more. It's time I stopped and gave you up.
---
Oh no.
Your eyes open wide and you can't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
The first letter of every single line, from top to bottom, spell HYUNJIN. The name of the boy you swore to yourself you've moved on from.
Hyunjin, who spoke about life as if it was art itself and spoke about art as if it was life itself.
Hyunjin, with the calm and warm voice - quiet and observant and yet, from the ocean in his eyes, bathed in a soft moonlight, it always seemed like his mind was in faraway lands, dreaming, humming, sighing before a field of lilies in the middle of the night.
Hyunjin, who seemed like through every song he listened to and sang, every poem he read and wrote, every painting he saw and painted, he dicovered all the secrets the universe had. As if human life was a melancholic, nostalgic memory to him, life experiencing itself all over again - he seemed so kind, so unfazed, so utterly in love with existence.
Hyunjin, who read every single one of your poems and told you he'd never allow you to leave the club. He was always so warm, you could hardly believe he wasn't doing it out of habit, spreading his magical touch over the wounds in your heart just like he would with anyone else. But it wasn't his fault you always questioned your worth.
Hyunjin, with whom you've fallen in love with gravely. For every smile he showed around you, for every squeal-like laugh he gifted you, for every time he held your hand gently to calm your nerves, you added one more day to the delusion of hanging on to him.
Hyunjin, who was merely a pipe dream.
He is the co-leader of the poetry club you're in. That's why you've always considered his compliments and encouragements to be just him doing his job - and yet they continued to fuel that foolish fire of yours for far too long. You never confessed to him, of course. But there would be nothing wrong with you two dating, from an ethical point of view. This is just a poetry club ran by students, it's not like having a crush on your boss. But still, the title of co-leader put him above you in a way you couldn't describe. Maybe it's the fact that he has more experience in art. Maybe it's the fact that he's more skillful. Maybe it's the fact that he's taught you many techniques and actually became a figure to rely on. Therefore he was still above you in a way, and so was the leader.
The leader of the club, she resembled Hyunjin in an almost eerie way. People do say, someone who is beautiful on the inside will always radiate beauty on the outside, too. That was a clear description of both of them. She too, was a romantic and an artist, she had a feather light laugh, star like freckles dusting her face, and eyes that could hold galaxies. She was the end of Hyunjin's sentences and the beginning of his thoughts. They made an incredible pair and their teamwork was impeccable as leaders. They weren't dating, but your heart kept telling you, that one day they will. It would be simply impossible for two souls so perfectly woven for each other to simply separate and go their different ways. And yet, you still foolishly had fallen for Hyunjin and every single week, the pain in your chest grew.
Oh, it hurt. It shouldn't have, really. You were just a newcomer being silly and they were fit for a lifetime. You had no chance nor the courage to hope and dream a miracle would land you in Hyunjin's loving arms. She wasn't to blame, he wasn't to blame, your pain was fully your fault. You fell in love and you had to fix it. So you made an oath with yourself to let it go, get those heavy rocks off of your lungs and allow yourself to breathe. There will be other boys in your life. They will not be Hyunjin, but other boys will exist.
You thought you were done with the tears, with the heartache and the love-sick poems. But it seemed you did have one more poem left in you, and it bubbled to the surface.
If the sun wasn't that bright, you wouldn't even have noticed the shadow of someone looming over you. You heard a melodic hum above your head and when you looked up, your heart dropped.
"What do we have here?" He teased, snatching your notebook right out of your hands. You couldn't even react in time, he was already standing up before you, reading the contents of your poem. His lips hung slightly open and he let out a gasp, and you really thought poetry was perhaps the only way to describe the look on his face. You watched his eyes travel the page, his chest deflating very rarely as if he was holding his breath. He looked surprised, but it wasn't an anxious type of bewilderment, nor an excited one either. He was looking at your notebook as if it was some sort of mythical creature, something that shouldn't possibly exist-
And then his eyes found yours. They wrecked you from the inside out, a brown so blown out, so dark, unalike what you've seen before. There was no more serene skies and calm seas in his eyes, there was a storm, a hurricane - a complete blackout. He looked frightened. Maybe he was in fact, still shaken by the secrets of the universe. Maybe humans are not supposed to know what mythological creatures actually look like. Maybe denying their existence would be easier on the collective-
"I can explain!" You jump up from the bench you were seated on. "That was an accident - it's not what it looks like!" He's not listening to you. His mind has gone to those faraway lands again, and he's dreaming while he glances at the page. You move to take the notebook away from him, but he raises it above his head. He's too tall to reach, so you don't even try.
"Well." He speaks, softly, anxiously, awkwardly. He softly lowers the notebook, but he holds it tight to his chest. He won't let you take it back. "I think now it's only fair I dedicate my poetry to you as well." Now it's your turn to remain with your mouth agape. You're blinking at him, and you don't realize you're looking at him exactly the same way he looked at you a minute ago. You're both scared and yet in marvel, and he takes a step closer. You inhale sharply, but it gets stuck in your throat. You can't breathe, your stomach is tense, and a shiver is shaking the fingers of your hands. His eyes are transfixed on yours, and he moves even closer, he's too close - and he asks for permission. "If you'll allow me?"
He's asking you to become his muse.
But you couldn't answer him even if you wanted to. It's embarrassing, but the only thing you can muster is a whimper.
He continues to stare at your face, until slowly and gradually a smile tugs at the corner of his lips and he lets out a giggle. He waves a hand in front of your face and cocks an eyebrow, in an attempt to bring you out of your daze. You're so confused you could die.
Was the last few minutes just a joke? Was he just mocking you-? He must have been. Nothing is as good as it seems, and Hwang Hyunjin couldn't be any different. Maybe he was just a self centered jerk under the dreamy romantic aura he carried. It would be easier to start hating him than to continue helplessly liking him, right?
You barely register Hyunjin putting your spiral notebook down on the bench to gently rip out the page with the poem. He folds the page in two and then hands you your notebook back.
"As the co-leader of the club, I reject your entry. You must write another poem, I'm confiscating this one." You cock your head. What is he saying? Is this still, all part of the joke?
"What- what are you- what are you gonna do with it?" You manage to spew out a sentence, not that it was the most important question to ask. Hyunjin raises his shoulders.
"Put it on my wall? Tape it in my journal? I'll find a place." He answers nonchalantly. You see his eyebrows dance on his face as he thinks for a second, then his expression tells you he got an idea. "Or... I could give it back to you... If you visit the seashore with me."
You side eye him and furrow your brows. "To do what?" He raises his shoulders again.
"I need inspiration for all of the poems I'm gonna start writing about you." He's calm, almost too calm as he says it, and he begins to smile once more as he watches your mouth hang open again.
"Are you making fun of me?" You finally ask, and Hyunjin looks downright offended. He raises his eyebrows, and comically cranes his neck back, pointing a finger at himself and then at you.
"ME? Make fun of YOU? Why? I'm... asking you out on a date..." And you're somehow supposed to process that information without finding a million excuses why this shouldn't be happening and wouldn't be happening. But it is happening.
"So you're not joking?"
"No?" He replies shaking his head.
"You're being serious."
"Yeah.." He replies, this time nodding his head.
"Seriously?" He laughs, finding you adorable.
"Seriously." Suddenly, the situations is a little too real and too much to take. Your hopelessly romantic and yet heavily insecure brain almost ruined a moment you could have only dreamt about, and you almost thought Hyunjin was a jerk. You hide your face in your hands and let out a muffled whine. Hyunjin is extremely amused, and feeling a little playful, he comes closer and cocks his head close to your face. You can't see him, but you peek through your fingers when you hear him speak again. "So is that a yes?" You watch glimpses of his face between your fingers and nod back at him. "Great then!" His face is so bright, and you can't hide your eyes from his anymore. Today, you saw how his eyes looked with a storm in them, but now they look different once more - like a sunrise above a beach, it's all so golden and full of life, sweet like honey and rich like gold. Warmth spreads through your chest, and he places a hand gently on your arm. His thumb caresses your bicep for a few seconds. "I'll text you the details."
You feel drunk, as his touch leaves your body but still lingers. He walks away to his next class, but he turns around briefly to remind you of your task.
"And don't forget you have to write a new poem until Thursday!" He waives the page he stole from you between his fingers and laughs his ass off at the exasperated sigh you give in return and the angry squint and pout.
You're pretty sure he didn't believe you when you said that poem was an accident. And he never will, even when you try to explain it to him on your first date. And on the second date you swear it wasn't on purpose, and on the third date you tell him for just how long you've liked him and how you tried to let him go. And on the fourth date he tells you he knows your poem wasn't an accident no matter what you think or say. And on the fifth, you agree with him.
--------------------------------------------------------------
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im sorry, i know you are looking for some request from other fandoms, but this one just seemed so perfect :(
from piano sessions, my tears ricochet by taylor swift with finnick?
i promise i will send another request with a different fandom, and it's totally ok if you don't want to write this ❤️ and of course, CONGRATULATIONS!
☼ my tears ricochet pt1 (Finnick Odair) ☼
warnings; swearing, death mention.
wc; 2.5k
prompt; Piano Sessions: songfic, my tears ricochet by taylor swift.
part two.
—
When you briefly met Commander Paylor in District Two before the Capitol invasion, she struck you as more of a leader than President Coin. Which was odd, considering that Paylor was a textile worker, burdened with the responsibility of organizing rebel attacks.
She’s a polite person to be around, confident in the way she holds herself, speaking with unwavering authority. You didn’t feel the need to lower your voice in her presence, because she wanted to know what you had to say. It was a nice change from where you’d been under Coin in District Thirteen.
There, you felt like if you breathed too loudly, it would get back to her. The amount of times she called you into Command simply because you were badmouthing her to the former residents of District Twelve was a little ridiculous. You aren’t entirely sure who heard you and reported it, or why Coin cared so damn much.
She must’ve assumed that you had an influence on the people, which she was wrong about. The only times you brought up her flaws was when someone else asked you what you thought of her. Oftentimes, it was because they were too afraid to be the one to say it first.
You could see right through her, like a sheet of tracing paper. The steps she’d taken in order to preserve her own self-image were done out of insecurity. She was afraid that if someone rose too high, they’d sweep the power right from underneath her. That’s why she was so willing to let Katniss go into danger.
All she had to do was win the rebellion, and she’d get control over Panem. And once she did, she showed her true colors. You knew the moment she suggested a symbolic Hunger Games that she wasn’t the right person to be in that chair. Even if a few of the others agreed to letting her do that, you knew they were resentful that she wanted to punish the Capitol in the same way they’d punished the districts for seventy-five years.
She missed one important factor, though. There was a reason why you were following behind Katniss Everdeen and not her. You trusted Katniss to make the right choices, and she never failed you. That’s why you knew that she wouldn’t let Coin announce the proposition.
That same evening, Snow’s execution was to take place. Instead, she found herself humiliated, with an arrow through her cold heart. Katniss took out the only evil left in a position of power, knowing full well that she could’ve gotten killed by the rebels for it.
Chaos followed this, an emergency election took place, where Paylor was given the position of President. In the weeks that followed, there was a televised trial, where everyone that was close to Katniss, was called to the stand to give statements on her character.
During this time, you weren’t allowed to go home to visit. You were forced to stay in the Capitol, because they could call for you to speak at any moment. And even worse, they’d placed you in a room with Finnick, because they were still under the assumption that you were together.
You weren’t. You and Finnick had been broken up for at least two and a half weeks, since the day that Boggs had died in the apartment complex courtyard.
The argument wouldn’t come until hours later, when you’d made it several blocks down the street, holed up inside of a different apartment to catch your breath and sort out a plan. After you watched the Peacekeepers destroy the building on live television, announcing you all dead, Finnick said that he wanted to take a walk to get some fresh air.
You went with him, mostly for safety in numbers, but also because you knew he secretly wanted the company. You went halfway around the block without an issue, but when you were about to turn the corner, the armed vehicle pulled up beside you, and the Peacekeepers started flooding out.
As you’d begun to curse the idea, Finnick started talking to the Peacekeepers, calmly, hands raised in the air. He told them that it would be a bad idea to kill you two on the street, because it would alert the others, and they’d run. However, he told them that if they tried to take you two by force, they’d find themselves in the same position.
You were morbidly curious on how Finnick would charm his way out of this one, when you realized that he wasn’t going to. He was giving them the information on how to catch you. He told them that the squad had off-handedly mentioned going into the sewers to evade the Pods. The best way to catch you guys would be, then.
And as long as the Peacekeepers let you two go, and didn’t interfere between the time you got to the apartment and into the sewers, he wouldn’t tell the squad about this encounter. To your surprise, the Peacekeepers agreed, letting you go.
The way back to the apartment was quiet. You were too stunned to say anything, wondering how Finnick had gone from the person to sacrifice himself, to doing the opposite. He knew your silence wasn’t anything good, which is why he told you that he wouldn’t let anything happen to you.
You weren’t upset by that. You weren’t scared that the Capitol was going to throw everything at you to either kill or capture you. You knew that when it came down to it, you’d keep yourself alive. It was the part after, when he told you not to say anything to the squad, did you finally crack.
You broke up with Finnick on the street.
To his credit, he upheld his promise of keeping you safe. The issue is that courtesy wasn’t given to any of the other squad members. Half of them died. Messalla, Jackson, Leeg, Castor and Homes were lost in the sewers. Something that didn’t need to happen, if he’d let you two get taken.
Whether or not he wanted to admit it out loud, Finnick was terrified that the topic would somehow get brought up in court. It was all he ever talked about when he got the chance. That there was a chance that the people you’d trusted for the past year could find out he betrayed them.
And against your better judgement, you told Finnick that what happened with the Peacekeepers would stay between the two of you. If it meant that he would stop worrying about it, you’d never breathe a word. Besides, if it did get out, it would destroy the both of you, not just him.
He’d get it because he’s the one that told the Peacekeepers, and ensured that you all went into the sewers. You would go down because you didn’t say anything about it, despite having a whole hour to do so.
You should never have told him this, because it’s what sparked the idea for his stupid decision in the first place.
Finnick got questioned before you did. It was simple, straight-forward. They wanted to know Katniss’s mindset during your journey through the Capitol, if there was anything out of the ordinary. When he got to the part of the story after Boggs had died and you holed up in the apartment, he tried to completely skip over your walk outside.
The man that was asking the questions, didn’t let this slide. He knew the two of you had taken a walk. You think he was trying to make smalltalk, now that you’re looking back at it. But Finnick must’ve panicked, because he let everything spill, the same way he had when he exposed Snow for the victor prostitution.
The issue is that he spun the story.
Finnick turned the blame around entirely, and he did so effortlessly, as if he’d been rehearsing it for days in a row. He told the court that yes, you had gone on a walk together so he could clear his head. However, a Peacekeeper truck pulled up, and that’s when you talked your way out of getting captured, by offering Katniss up as a sacrifice.
The entire courtroom filled with silence when that word left his mouth. Dozens of pairs of eyes landed on you, but you were looking at Finnick. There was only one word that chanted through your mind, getting louder as the seconds ticked on.
Wrong.
Even the man that was questioning him was confused, asking him to elaborate. That’s when Finnick repeated the events, twisting the truth to put you in the hot seat. You were the one that calmly spoke to them with your hands raised. You were the one that told the Peacekeepers about the sewers. You were the one that threatened Finnick if he spoke about it.
He was the one that broke up with you out of fear.
“Wrong.” You breathed, getting to your feet. “You’re the one that did all of that, Finnick!”
The judge had you removed from the courtroom, while they wrapped up the trial without your statement. You were supposed to go on stand that same day, but they ruled you out, because you were too emotionally unstable to be seen.
Reasonably so, because it was only thirty minutes later, did you realize that the entirety of Panem had just watched Finnick lie straight through his perfectly white teeth. And you’d never get the chance to explain yourself to anybody, because they wouldn’t see you.
Finnick was removed from your mansion bedroom, leaving you here alone. No one saw you for several days on end, except to leave food at your door. You were stuck watching the trial from the television, and it ended yesterday, with the conclusion that Katniss was under so much pressure the day that she killed Coin, that she was deemed not mentally sound.
And of course, you’ve received blame for that, too. If she hadn’t witnessed so many people get murdered in the sewers because of your actions to sell the squad out, she would’ve been able to think straight during the execution. In this situation, you’re the monster, and Finnick has been deemed the hero for coming forward with the truth.
You think that you can come back from this, though. The people around you just need time away, to cool down from the trial. Once it’s been a few months, you’ll come back with a proper explanation, appeal to Paylor, because she’s the level-headed one, after all.
Right now, you want to get home.
There’s a hovercraft waiting in the City Circle for the victors. It’ll be a long trip as you drop off the others on the way to District Four, but you don’t mind. You’ve been craving your bed ever since you got to District Thirteen. It’s been months since you’ve had proper time to relax.
Paylor is waiting in front of the front door with a couple of rebel guards. Once you get close enough, they move to block the way. Your eyes switch between them and her, confused.
“What’s happening?” You ask.
“I regret to inform you that you will not be able to go back to District Four.” Paylor tells you in a measured voice. “There were quite a few complaints regarding your actions, and the general consensus is that they wouldn’t feel safe if you were to arrive in District Four and choose to stay there.”
“They wouldn’t feel safe?” You ask, face contorting. “How many times do I have to tell you that Finnick is the one that told the Peacekeepers about the sewers?”
She closes her eyes. “We have no proof that you weren’t the one that told them. They want to be safe, rather than sorry.”
You side step, trying to see over the guard’s shoulders. You find that Finnick has stepped foot off the hovercraft, standing at the bottom of the ramp, hands in his pockets. You begin to shake your head at him.
“I want to speak to him.” You tell her, ignoring what she’s said. “I want to speak to Finnick before he gets to go home and I don’t.”
“Step back.” She orders you.
You listen to her, watching as she slips through the gap between the guard and the door. She walks down the runway, with Finnick meeting her in the middle. The two of them talk for a brief moment, where it ends with him nodding. Paylor motions to tell the guards to let you through.
They move aside, you go down the steps, heading straight for Finnick. He doesn’t move, allowing you to go to him. Paylor leaves to go back to the mansion, allowing you to speak privately.
“Finnick.” You snap, slamming your hands against his chest, hands gripping on the front of his shirt. You pull him forward. “You set me up. You son of a bitch. They’re not letting me get on!”
Finnick presses his hands to your shoulders, pushing you away. “I know.”
“Tell them you lied.” You shake him. “You don’t have to tell them it was you, just tell them you fucking lied.”
“I’m not.” He tells you. “This is your own fault, (Y/n).”
“How is this my fault?” You demand. “I promised you!”
“You broke up with me.” He’s calm, which is making you agitated. “After I made sure you got out of the sewers safely, you didn’t think to apologize. It was the right move to make.”
“Why would I?” You hiss. “Your actions murdered people.”
He makes a face. “Let go of me.”
“Everything I have is in District Four. My home, my pictures, my belongings. My entire life is there, and you’re the only thing standing in the way of me going. Just tell them you lied, and I’ll leave you alone.”
Finnick pulls your hands off of his shirt. “You have District Two, didn’t Paylor tell you? They said that they’d take you and Gale in.”
Gale, a bitter name in your mouth.
“I don’t belong there, and you know it.” You say.
“It doesn’t have to be there. You can go anywhere you want, (Y/n).”
“Anywhere I want.” You echo, as if it’s a cruel joke, blood boiling. “Just not home.”
“Maybe they’ll let you back sometime in the future.” Finnick begins to back up toward the hovercraft. “I can’t promise you that your house will be there. I heard from Annie that they set it on fire the same night I told them the truth. You’ll be lucky if there’s still ashes.”
“You’re going to regret this, Finnick.” You don’t move from where you stand. “This is going to haunt you for the rest of your life. Each time you look at the other side of the street, it’ll kill you knowing that you did this to me.”
“We’ll see about that.”
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this was part of my 3k celebration! thank you anon!!
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