#cw captivity

you scurry to him, tripping over your own clumsy limbs in a hurry, leash constricting around your arms as you crawl. tears already dot your lash line as you settle in front of him on your knees, hands folded in your lap, bottom lip quivering in a mix of emotions. your eyes search his face for a glimpse of what he's feeling, and his tight jaw and twitching eyelid are more than enough to tell you that you're in trouble.

you're surprised when you feel a hand rub against your cheek, stroking your jawline so sweetly that your immediate reaction is to lean into it, eyes closing and a satisfied sigh leaving your nose. at first, toji was a cruel owner. brute force and beatings, he had no patience to train or reprimand nicely. he's of the mindset that pain is what teaches a dog, it forces them into submission and forces them to listen. he started to come around over time—and like this, you forget all the pain and suffering you've been through to be this good.

with your cheek still resting in his palm, toji uses his other hand to fix your collar and untangle your leash, turning it so the embroidering rests right against your jugular. his finger drags to underneath your chin, making your head nod up to look at him.

"wait here, don't move."

toji gets up with a groan, turning on his heel and toward the hallway. doors open and close at the other end of the house, and your head tilts in inquisition, wondering what he's doing without you. normally—and as long as toji's in a good mood—you are attached to him the minute he walks through the door, following him like a lost puppy because that's basically all you are to him.

minutes pass as you wait, but you aren't scared anymore, that sense of security having come back after toji pet you for a minute. footsteps begin to get louder as toji makes his way back to you, closer and closer until he's standing in front of you. his jaw is still closed tight, eyes narrowed as he looks down at you—he's got your leash wrapped around his hand before you can process what's happening.

toji pulls you hard enough you collapse onto the ground, unable to do anything but flail around as he drags you through the house. your collar crushes your trachea, your heels dig into the floor below you and you curse the hard wood because there is no traction. instead, your hips burn as you're hauled down the hallway and towards the bathroom, your fingers coming to your neck in a desperate attempt to separate the leather from cutting off your airways.

the door to the bathroom is broken down as toji slams it open, two of his fingers digging directly into your collar and pulling you into the space with him. he uses his leverage and pure strength to throw you into the bathtub, ice cold water plugging up your sinuses and freezing your skin. water splashes over the sides of the tub as you try to gain footing, arms weakly pushing yourself up and your knees coming under you, assuming your natural position on all fours.

you try and cough up the water in your lungs back into the puddle toji threw you in, saliva dribbling down your chin into the ripples. it mixes in with the water and the sweat from your earlier struggle, all a nasty soup of shameful things you did today. fear is the only thing you can process in your head, along with the guilt that already begins to rear it's ugly head in the back of your mind.

a pitiful whimper falls from your lips when you feel toji's rough hand right over your mound, calloused fingers feeling all between your sore folds. his touch is not loving or soft like he's become recently, that sweetness was only granted after a long while of discipline—and you've done more than just broken his rules.

toji's grumbling something to himself so quietly you can't make it out between the sloshing of water and the ringing in your ears. something, something, clean the fuck up, something, something, fucking digusting. rough digits begin to breach your hole, scratching against your sensitive insides and causing you to whine even more. it hurts.

it hurts more when you hear toji grouse something else as he fucks three of his fingers into your cunt, an insult obviously directed towards you.

"filthy fucking bitch."

your head snaps to look at toji, the sting in your chest outdoing the pain he's lashed upon you everywhere else. he's never called you that before, not even in the midst of your roughest training days—it was always bad girl or bad dog or something of the sort, he would normally let his actions do all the talking.

another scrape to your insides and you understand what your prized owner is doing, he's cleaning you, scraping out the evidence that another man was there. you let out a sob at the feeling of his blunt nails against your walls, digits roughly curling to scrub your insides from the filth of his friend, voice scratchy and small due to a long time of no use. pathetic tears are starting to roll down your cheeks, turning into full on blubbering the longer toji goes on.

filthy, digusting. bitch. the words repeat over and over in your mind as you cry into the depths of the tub, bad dog, bad dog, bad dog. you disappointed the one person that you always hoped to impress, the man who's best friend you supposedly are. you'll never be that again, you think, this mistake is a permanent mark on your record. truthfully, you'd rather be taken out back and shot rather than go back to the pound, but bad dogs don't deserve a comfy home and a loving owner like you've got.

the loss of toji's fingers brings you out of your guilt trip, then gently tugged back by your collar so he can take the stopper out the drain. you want to scream out, say no, clean me, please clean me, but your vocal cords can't push the words out. he stands up, watching the water drain and you curl back up into a ball, beginning to shiver from the cold, physically and mentally—but you'd never complain about that as long as he'd keep you.

"dry up," toji demands, throwing a soft towel at you and reaching for the door, "and go get me a beer, make yourself useful."

that morning simon had been ripped from sleep, heart pounding against his ribs, eyes flying wide open.

for a few disoriented seconds he stared at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom, chest tight. then it hit him like cold water.

she's still downstairs.

still in his basement. still breathing. still alive.

he sat up slowly, elbows on his knees, dragging a rough hand down his face. he never keeps them overnight. ever. the job was simple: grab, play, dispose. clean. repeat.

efficient. safe. controlled.

but this one…

this tired, mouthy thing with the same dead-eyed exhaustion he saw in the mirror everyday - still sees, if he's truly honest with himself, which he rarely is. the one who’d chosen the alley like she was begging the world to end her, then spat in his face like a challenge when he put her on camera.

he’d meant to kill her last night.

he should have.

instead he’d put her in a cage like some fucked-up pet he couldn’t bring himself to put down.

“fuck.” he sighed, voice rough with sleep.

this isn't just breaking routine.

this is dangerous. the longer she stays alive, the more complicated it becomes. evidence. risk. and worse - the uncomfortable flicker of something human in his chest that he thought had rotted away years ago.

he didn’t want to feel seen. feel recognition.

he didn’t want to feel anything, particularly.

it was easier not to.

simon stood, jaw clenched, and forced himself through the familiar motions — mask on, gloves on, tea brewed, toast buttered. but his hands are tighter than usual. his mind louder.

he told himself he’ll finish it tonight.

he almost even believed it.

but first? breakfast.

ghost appears carrying a polystyrene cup and a paper plate - nothing you could turn into shards and use as a weapon. the skull mask is firmly back in place, hiding any trace of the man who had just been borderline panicking upstairs.

he crouches, knees creaking, shoving the items through the gaps in the bars of the cage: two slices of buttered toast and a cup of black tea.

you glare at the provisions, then at him, mouth pressed into a flat line.

“eat.” he says flatly. an order, not a suggestion.

you stare at the pathetic little meal again, then up at the mask. “fuck off.”

ghost tilts his head. “not very grateful for room service, are we lamb?”

he crouches down so he's closer to eye level with you, brown eyes boring into yours through the gap in the balaclava. "eat." he repeats, voice forced into something colder now. "you're going to need your fuckin' energy tonight, okay?"

you swallow. audibly. visibly. snatching the toast and eating it in angry bites while he watches. the tea was good which somehow made things worse - a brief glimpse of normalcy in hell.

when you finished, he took the mug back through the bars, tilting his head again.

"you need to piss?"

you flinch at the bluntness of the question - and at the realisation that yeah actually, you do need to.

you nod, a tiny jerk of your chin, eyebrows pinching into a frown as you wonder what exactly your bathroom situation might be.

ghost nods, disappears to the opposite corner of the basement, barely visible in the low light as he digs around for… something.

he returns moments later with a bucket.

a black, plastic bucket.

you stare, eyes flicking from his masked face to the bucket, connections firing in your sleep deprived and terrified brain, shame and anger twisting in your gut when you realise that is going to be your bathroom situation.

"scoot back. not havin' you try and claw my eyes when i open the fuckin' door." he mutters, reaching to unlock the padlock keeping the cage door shut. when you don't move, when you continue to stare wide eyed, his own eyes narrow behind the mask.

"i said fuckin' scoot back." his voice comes out colder this time, more of an order than a suggestion, harsh enough that your stomach clenches with fear. "fuckin' move, lamb. or i'm takin' the bucket away and you can just piss in your scrubs instead. leave you like that so chat's got somethin' to look at later."

chat.

later.

the thought of being put back in the chair was bad enough. the idea of being back in the chair covered in your own urine added an extra layer of humiliation that had bile crawling up your throat; a sharp acidic sting that makes you gag slightly.

you move. press yourself to the back bars of the cage, metal digging into your back, making yourself as small and inoffensive as possible whilst he yanks the door open and shoves the bucket in.

ghost turns, gives you a semblance of privacy, registering the sharp twinge of guilt that flares in his chest. guilt he shouldn't feel. guilt he hasn't felt before in this basement when he puts simon back in the box he'd built to contain him during his military service and let's ghost run free. he doesn't let it show. just stands rigidly near the cage, arms crossed over his chest, attention firmly on the wall and not you.

you notice.

the privacy.

but you don't know what it means.

this is ridiculous. this is your life. not some low budget horror movie. kidnapped by a man in skull printed balaclava.

pissing in a bucket.

you hate him. hate this. but most of all you hate that the tea tasted nice.

the basement is silent except for the sound of both your breathing and the stream of your piss hitting the plastic bucket that you've somehow managed to crouch over, scrub trousers and underwear pulled down to your knees.

eventually the silence becomes more unbearable than filling it.

"this is a shit hotel. wouldn't stay again."

ghost's back straightens, but he doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't turn away from the wall.

but the corners of his lips twitch under the mask. not that you can see.

when he doesn't respond you continue, "pretty sure the piss bucket is a health and safety violation."

this time ghost makes a rough sound in the back of his throat that could be annoyance or amusement but still doesn't turn.

you finish, tug your trousers back into place, push the bucket towards the door of the cage. "done."

he retrieves it in silence, locks the cage door, disappears back up the basement stairs wordlessly, leaving you alone again in the red tinged room.

you wonder if he's coming back or if you're going to spend however many hours until he hauls you back into the chair in lonely silence - and you're not sure which is the worse option.

you're not wondering for long.

heavy footsteps descend back down the basement stairs, followed by the screeching noise of metal dragging against concrete as he brings a small folding chair over, propping it open in front of the cage, taking a seat with his arms crossed over his chest like you're a particularly interesting exhibit in a zoo.

you glare up at him, waiting for him to speak first.

he doesn't.

so instead you do.

"one star." you say flatly. "'accommodation poor. staff hostile. bathroom facilities lacking.'"

ghost makes another rough noise in the back of his throat. you still can't tell if it's annoyance or amusement.

he's glad his mask hides his expression. he's glad you can't see the flicker of humanity that crosses his features every time you make a sharp little comment, every time you show more spine than he expected the woman who picked the alley to show.

"continental breakfast choices limited." you continue. "tea surprisingly good."

"...'s yorkshire tea."

you blink. "…what?"

"'s yorkshire tea," he repeats, like that somehow explains everything.

you blink again. "tasted like pg tips."

ghost levels a look at you through the mask, "tastes like yorkshire tea."

you stare at him.

"you're arguing tea brands with your kidnapping victim."

ghost shrugs one shoulder. "you started it."

"you kidnapped me!"

he pauses. stares back at you. then shrugs the same shoulder again. "...fair."

you blink.

that wasn't defensiveness. or justification. just a flat acknowledgement that yes, he had in fact kidnapped you, drugged you, locked you in a cage, and is now discussing tea brands with you like this is any other day.

you swallow. once again very aware of your current predicament.

"the bucket dragged the rating down." you add, but it's got more waver to it that before.

he sighs, glad you can't see the way his lips tilt downwards under the mask when he sees realisation flicker across your features, also once again reminded of his own role here. "it's a fuckin' cage. what do you expect, an en suite? christ, you're demandin' for someone locked up."

you fix him with a flat look. "i worked a fourteen-hour shift in the shitshow that's the NHS before you grabbed me," you snap. "i've earned the right to complain."

ghost goes still.

not dramatically. just enough that you notice.

"NHS?"the question slips out quieter than the others. less mocking.

you immediately regret opening your mouth. "...yeah."

his gaze settles on you properly for the first time since he'd shoved a bucket through the cage bars.

you have the uncomfortable feeling of being assessed. not as prey or entertainment.

just… observed. evaluated.

"nurse?" he asks, voice quiet, head tilted to the side.

your mouth flattens into a thin line as you look up at him. "if i say yes, are you going to let me out? freedom would be worth more than the fucking applause we got thursday nights during the panny d."

his lips twitch slightly at the fact you referred to the covid pandemic as a panny d but when he replies its flat, no room for argument: "no."

"then what difference does it make?" you snap back, hands curling into fists where they rest on your thighs.

he shrugs, "doesn't. but we might as well fill the time."

a lie. he doesn't just want to fill time. for some sick, twisted reason… he wants to know you. wants to know what made the woman in the scrubs choose the alley.

even if that makes the basement all the more dangerous for both of you.

his eyes flick down to your scrubs. to the trainers you'd still been wearing from your shift. to the dark circles carved under your eyes that looked permanent at this point.

"nurse." he confirms, almost to himself, before he glances away again. "should've guessed. you've got that look about you."

you huff out a humourless laugh, wrapping your arms around yourself against the lingering cold.

"rather be dealing with blood and shit and arsehole patients that this." you mutter, more to yourself than anything. "patients are usually less stabby."

"'aven't stabbed you." ghost cuts in.

"yet." you sigh quietly, lead lining your stomach.

ghost doesn't respond immediately.

but his gloved fingers tighten against his biceps where his arms are folded across his chest.

when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter.

"...yet."

your stomach twists.

the reminder settles heavily between you.

because that's the thing.

this - the tea, the bickering, the complaints - none of it is normal.

he's still the man who built this room. the man who bolted that chair to the concrete floor. the man who had stood under red lights while strangers paid to watch people suffer.

the man who could decide tonight that whatever hesitation had kept you alive so far had finally worn thin.

you glance towards the chair without meaning to.your pulse stutters, you swallow audibly. "how long?"

ghost tilts his head to the side, "what?"

your voice drops into something almost inaudible. "until tonight."

he doesn't answer straight away and for a moment you think he might simply refuse. "got a few hours. no point logging in early."

the words land like a lead weight in your stomach.

you nod once. "right."

silence stretches between you again before you decide to fill it - talking, even with him, is better than thinking. better than counting the minutes until you're put back in the chair.

a few hours. a few hours before the cameras switched back on. before the audience returned. before he remembered what this room was for.

…or maybe you just want to see if there is a man under the mask.

"what did you do before this?" you ask quietly.

ghost goes completely still. the atmosphere in the basement shifts instantly into something heavier, deeper.

ghost contemplates ignoring you entirely. or telling you to shut up. or lying.

instead, "military." it comes out clipped, like it's not something he thinks much about anymore.

your eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise. but it… makes sense. considering how comfortable he is around blood and guts and knives. "how long?" you ask quietly.

he shrugs, "eighteen years."

you blink. once. twice. "is the… military to murder basement pipeline a well established one?"

he freezes. and for the first time since waking up in the basement you hear it - a genuine huff of amusement from behind the mask. brief. almost reluctant. gone almost before you can register it.

but there.

ghost straightens immediately afterwards, like he can physically pull the reaction back inside himself. "no. the military to murder basement pipeline is not a well established one." he pauses, like he's weighing his words. "just didn't 'ave many options after."

you're silent. absorbing. wondering exactly what he saw in those eighteen years that meant he ended up like this. against your better judgement you hear yourself ask, "have you always been like this, or did the military do it to you?"

the silence that follows is longer this time. ghost doesn't answer straight away. doesn't look at you. his gaze settles somewhere over your shoulder instead.

when he finally speaks, his voice has lost some of its edge. "...bit of both." he finally meets your gaze again, a far away look lingering in his brown eyes - like he's not quite in the room with you anymore. he shakes his head, "'nough about me. why the fuck did you pick the alley, lamb?"

you freeze.

completely.

look up at him like he's asked you to solve world peace and not a fairly simple question.

but it's a simple question that doesn't have a simple answer.

you're quiet for a long time, staring down at the metal floor of the cage. the so quietly it's almost more a breath than words, "just… tired. i'm just so fucking tired."

he watches your lips press into a thin line, your shoulders curl inwards on yourself, hands tucked against your stomach like you're protecting your soft parts.

"tired." he repeats - hating how soft his voice is. "it's not really tired, is it. it's more like done, in't it lamb?"

you nod, once, without looking up. "yeah. more like done."

he hates the crack in your voice more than he hates the softness in his.

"get some rest, lamb. i'll be back for you later. you'll need your energy."

you don't look up until you hear the basement door click shut - when you do, you stare at the metal chair he was just occupying like maybe you imagined that whole interaction. that you imagined the fact his voice slipped into something almost gentle.

upstairs simon lights a cigarette, grits his jaw, tries to dampen the fire burning in his chest when he thinks about your voice breaking, and how he'd do anything to take it away.

he doesn't know you. not really. but he recognises a creature lost in their own darkness when he sees one.

maybe the kindest thing he can do is put you out of your misery.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The air in the cell was thick with moisture. Azriel’s chin rested against his bare chest, heavy eyelids half closed as he listened to the steady drip of condensation falling from the ceiling.

It had been almost a week.

A week of being strung up like a piece of meat; three ash arrows imbedded deep into the meat of his thigh, wings clamped and spread wide, and all his muscles quivering as they held up his body. He was clad in only a dark pair of bottoms, with bruises that littered almost every inch of his visible skin.

He was exhausted.

The shadows that usually danced around him were equally tired, pooling lifelessly around his ankles. A long squeak echoes against the stone wall as the door is pushed open. Azriel’s muscles tense unconsciously, but he doesn’t lift his gaze.

“Just make sure he doesn’t die.”

It’s quickly obvious that his captor isn’t addressing him. The door slams closed and soft footsteps move across the room, stopping in front of him. His ears catch the small gasp of a female, and he’s barely able to stifle the flinch that threatens to wrack his body when he feels hands on his chest. The hands seem to sense the tension in his muscles, because they quickly disappear.

“I… I’m not going to hurt you.”

Azriel almost gasps in surprise at the warmth of the voice. His body tingles as the sound of it and the shadows at his feet begin to stir.

The voice is beautiful. Perhaps he’s dead. Maybe this is heaven.

He says nothing, but when the hands reach back out to his chest he doesn’t tense. He lets his gaze fall to the small hands in front of him as they prod at the broken skin across his torso. The female hums quietly as she begins to wipe blood gently from his chest with a damp rag. He holds his breath each time cool skin brushes against the hot, swollen flesh of his torso.

When there is only a twinge of red across his chest, the female lays her hands flat against his pecs— so carefully that they almost don’t touch— and a warm ember light flared from beneath her palms. It was faint, more of a glow than a light, but in the dim lighting of the cell it looked like a star on solstice.

Azriel sucked in a sharp breath as the light sank into him, threading torn muscle and flesh back together, knitting him together slowly. The light slowly dissipated and the shadows surged up, dancing around him to check on their master.

Then, her hands froze, slowly moving backward from his body.

Azriel nearly weeped at the loss.

“Oh… I—“

Her voice trembled and his chest striated painfully, despite just being healed, at the sound. The fear was evident in her words. She began to pull her hands back more, as if a fast movement would startle the shadows.

“They won’t—” His tongue shot out to wet dry lips. “They won’t hurt you. They know you’re helping.”

It took a lot of effort, but Azriel lifted his chin from his chest in an attempt to meet her eyes. He winced at the way his voice cracked, throat raw and dry from a week of holding back cries of pain. She didn’t meet his gaze, just sucked in an audible breath before moving down to the arrows that protruded from his thigh.

“I’m going to have to pull it out.” She says softly. “That’s why you aren’t healing.”

Before she does, she finally looks up at him. Hazel eyes meet deep pools of brown. Her eyes are wide, gaping at him through dark eyelashes as if she’d never seen a male before. He takes a beat to drink in the sight of her.

Chestnut brown hair is tucked behind her ear, and each curve of her face is soft. Her lips are a healthy pink and eyes are kind; gentle in a way that made her stick out like a sore thumb in the dingy cell.

She blinked once.

Then there was a sharp pull deep within his chest. It was not gentle or soft, no, it was violent and definite.

Azriel groaned as the string deep in his chest continued to pull painfully until it finally snapped into place. His chin dropped back against his chest heavily, world spinning and leaving him gasping.

Mate.

The pain of the beatings, the chains, and the ash arrows were suddenly dull, replaced by the throbbing his his chest.

“No,” She breathed, backing away as if he had struck her. Each step she took backward ached in his chest, he pushed forward despite being bound— his body begging her to stop retreating. “No, no, no, no, no.” The cell door slammed back open.

“What’s taking so long?”

Azriel watched as she flinched and the cloth in her hand fell to the floor, protectiveness swelled in his chest at the fear that glazed over her features. He could feel the terror shooting down the bond, so strong that it made him flex his wrists against the chains.

She met his eyes again, apology and shame swirling through the dark brown irises.

“If you can’t finish it, I’ll string you up next to him.” A male barked.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered, so soft that even Azriel’s fae ears almost didn’t catch it.

The backhand came out of nowhere. It cracked across his face, his head snapping to the side. It hurt, but despite the noise that bounced off the walls, there was no intention behind the blow.

The the agony that ripped through the bond was what made him groan.

Guilt.

Self-loathing.

Guilt.

“You’re lucky I’m even touching you. You’re filth.” She spit, reaching forward to grasp his chin in her hands. Her expression was fierce, but her grip on his skin didn’t match the fire in her eyes. “Stop moving, Illyrian.”

The male barked out a laugh, “Degraded to getting your next beating from a female. Fitting.”

The door slammed shut and they were left in the silence of the cell.

As soon as the wood of the door hit the stone wall, she released him like he was on fire. She didn’t speak as she reached down to his thigh, pulling out the three arrows in quick succession before quickly pressing her palm to the aggravated skin— wincing when he grunted in pain. He watched as one single tear slipped down her cheek.

“You had to,” she muttered. “If they find out, the will hurt him worse. You didn’t have a choice.”

The agony in his leg began to dissipate and he lifted his chin, “You had to.”

Her hands stilled before she pulled them back, shaking her head and wiping the tear from her cheek, “I do not deserve your comfort, Azriel.”

His chest clenched at the sound of his name on her lips. She looked up at him again, her eyes glassy and her bottom lip wobbled. She reached a hand up slowly, pressing palm to the hot skin of his cheek and let the warm light of her powers soothe the skin that she had damaged.

Azriel couldn’t stop himself from leaning into her touch and when the light faded, she left her hand there for an extra moment to rub her thumb across his cheekbone.

Then, she sucked in a deep breath and took a step back, turning on her heels and making her way to the door to knock on it twice. It swung open and the Hybern soldier on the other side pushed through.

“Took you long enough.”

She moved to scurry around him to leave but he grabbed her by the bicep. Azriel gritted his teeth at the sight of the male’s fingers wrapped around her small arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He didn’t wait for a reply, just shoved her roughly into the corner of the cell before waving in a few more soldiers.

The sound of her body hitting the stone echoed in Azriel’s ears.

His vision went red.

Cold fear crashed down the bond. His shadows were frantic, circling around him— waiting for a command from their master.

“The general will be not be pleased if you break his healer.” One of the soldiers chuckled.

“There are more healers in this court,” the other sneered. To make his point, he pushed forward, gripping her by dark hair to pull her up then shove her back down.

The pang of pain shot down the bond and his chest twisted.

“Stop.” He rasped. The words were raspy and raw, but the soldiers still heard him.

“Did you say something, filth?”

Azriel flexed his arms until the chains groaned as a response, “Weak males put their hands on females to feel strong.”

The metal squeaked and his shadows continued to bounce around until they came to rest next to her feet. Big brown eyes darted between the shadows that licked her heels and their master.

“I wasn’t able to heal him all the way. He’s delirious. Maybe if I try again—”

The backhand she received cracked against soft skin, and she didn’t hold back a small cry of pain— hand coming up to her cheek to ease the sting.

Azriel roared.

A feral noise ripped from his throat before he could stop it. The shadows that laid at her feet exploded toward the soldier, wrapping around his ankles and yanking his legs out from under him. The iron that bound Azriel’s wrists cracked where it connected to the ceiling and small pieces of stone rained down around him.

Her eyes flew to his.

“Stop!” She cried. “Don’t!”

He felt it again, the tugging at his chest— the fear. But this time, the fear was directed at him. Not at him— for him. The soldier recovered from his spot on the ground quickly. He drew the blade from his side and in two strides he was next to her, one hand twisted in her hair and the other with the blade pressing against the soft skin of her throat.

“I’ll open her from ear to ear, Spymaster.” He said calmly.

Every angry muscle in Azriel’s body slowed to a stop— even the shadows that had been darting around froze. Hazel eyes still shinned with rage, and the chest that was now littered with fresh pink scars heaved.

When he meets her gaze, she isn’t looking at the soldier or the blade; she looked at him. Her eyes pleading with him.

Don’t.

The word sliced at his chest through the bond. Azriel sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to go slack in his bonds and pulling his shadows back into himself.

The soldier withdrew the sharp metal from her throat, “See? Much better.”

He released his grip on her hair, shoving her down once again. He chuckled when her knees smacked against the stone.

Azriel’s shoulder muscles contracted slightly, but he quickly forced the tension out.

“You keep him alive— that’s it. I won’t hesitate to put you in his place.”

She nodded quickly, averting her eyes down. The soldier turned on his heel to face Azriel, a sinister smile on his lips. The blade that had been pressed against her throat moments ago hung loosely in his hand still. He shifted it up, pointing the tip of it at the base of Azriel’s neck, where throat met collar bones.

“You have far too much fight left in you for my liking.”

Then, he pulled his hand back and drove the blade into Azriels side. He didn’t make a sound as the cool metal slipped into his skin. Despite the burning pain, he couldn’t help but be grateful that the weapon was no longer pressed to the female.

“You healed him too much last time— just enough to keep him alive this time. Do you understand?”

She swallowed hard, not making eye contact with the shadow slinger.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I understand.”

“Good, clean him up when we’re done.”

They don’t waste another moment.

One soldier drives a fist into Azriel’s ribs, only a few inches above where the blade had jut beaten. White-hot pain stole the air from his lungs, and he sucked in a slow breath. Another strike followed, this time on the other side of his torso. The raining of blows seemed to be never ending— fists, the hilts of daggers, boots all cracking against flesh that had just been healed.

He refused to scream.

This time, as they beat him, he didn’t let his chin drop to his chest. Instead, he kept it raised with his gaze on her.

Her body was crumbled in the same corner, knuckles white as they clenched at the fabric of her skirt. With each blow that landed, the emotion that pulled on the bond hurt more than the abuse to his body— he felt her horror, her helplessness, her anger.

Look away, he sent down the bond— once, twice, three times.

But she didn’t.

Blood from his mouth and nose dripped over his chin, spilling onto the stone floor. His wings twitched, throbbing as they pulled against their bonds. Blood streaked down his forearms where iron bit into the skin.

“Pathetic,” One soldier sneered at him, taking in his beaten body.

The soldier in charge laughed, reaching forward to grab his jaw. Azriel still didn’t look at him, his eyes locked on the female in front of him.

“I’m going to relish in your death,” He spat. “But for now, I must keep you breathing.” They stepped back, looks of boredom on their face— despite the cruelty they just dished out.

The soldier turned to her, but similar to Azriel, her gaze didn’t even bother to meet him.

“If he dies, you die.” He said as he turned to head for the door, filing through with the other soldiers and slamming it shut behind him.

The cell was swallowed by silence once again.

She stayed on the ground for a a long moment, knees pressed up to her chest and her head bowed in shame. Azriel could see the way she trembled, the bond humming low in his chest— aching to reach out to her.

Finally, she lifted her chin and rose to her feet. Her legs were as shaky as her breathing as she crossed the cell, stopping in front of him.

Her hand reached up to touch the side of his face, soft fingers brushing along damaged skin. A low whine threatened to pull itself from his throat, but he pushed it down.

“I’m okay,” he rasped, feeling the way guilt radiated off of her. She looked at him for a long moment; head tilted to the side slightly. “It’s alright.”

“You comfort me when it’s you who is hurting.” It wasn’t a question, rather an observation whispered absentmindedly. Her hands didn’t hesitate as they settled against his chest, the pressure was firm but still gentle. Purposeful. Warm glowing light bloomed beneath her palms; the light was bright— brighter than the dim shine that she had used earlier.

Power poured into him.

Azriel gasped as torn skin burned, mending itself back together. The relief was sharp and overwhelming as much as it was reliving. The bond flared with satisfaction as she felt his pain slowly easing.

It was when his wings shuttered, the ache of days being forced spread apart dissipating and feeling coming back into the sensitive membranes, that he realized that she was doing more than the bare minimum of keeping him alive.

“Stop,” he demanded, his voice still hoarse. “Stop it.”

She shook her head, jaw clenched with determination as the light under her palm pulsed brighter.

“Please, stop,” he repeated. “They will know.”

Her eyebrows knit together in concentration, “I don’t care.”

“You have to,” He grunted, trying to pull himself from her grasp to no avail. “They will see. If they see they will—”

“They will either way,” She snapped.

“They will hurt me either way. Let me do this for you. Let me help you, Azriel… Please.”

His jaw snapped closed, and he relaxed against her warm hands. The color began to return to his skin, the dark circles under his eyes disappearing and the torn skin of his side sealing cleanly.

He felt strength begin to follow, as if the poison of the arrows that had been stunting his healing was being drained from his body. She watched him carefully as the hollowness of his cheeks began to fill themselves back in, and the bond sang with relief.

Not his own, but hers.

She was smaller than him, significantly so, and when she pressed herself forward her forehead came to rest on the center of his chest. She breathed in slowly, taking in the scent of him.

Night-chilled mist. Cedar.

She allowed herself another moment to listen to the strong thrumming of his heart, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her own before she stepped back.

Azriel could have sobbed— begged her for a few more moments of closeness. But she wasted no time moving her hands up towards his wings, stretching as far as she could to reach the iron clasps that bit into them with cruelty. He groaned when her fingers slid against the sensitive membrane, resting there for a beat before heat radiated from them again. There was a loud crack as magic flooded into iron and the clasps fell apart, smacking loudly against stone as the dropped to the wall.

“What are you—”

She didn’t give him time to finish, shifting her hands to his wrists— determination and effort taking over her features. Her teeth gritted as she forced more power into the shackles.

“Don’t.”

A drop of blood made its was from her nose, dripping over her top lip. Her tongue darted out to swipe away the metallic liquid. She grunted with frustration, swaying on her feet as the chains refused to break. The iron creaked with effort as they weakened.

He sucked in a breath, “You’re risking everything.”

The chains finally popped, dramatically falling to the walls like the clasps on his wings had. His arms dropped to his sides, and they stood there for a beat— chest to chest. She swayed again, and this time he reached out to steady her gently. His grip on her was firm, as if he could steady her enough to stop the exhaustion sending tremors through her. She looked at him, finally truly meeting his gaze. Dark brown eyes bore deep into him,

“I have nothing. They’ve taken everything,” She whispered. “They won’t take you from me.”

She looked at him for a long moment, trying to etch the sight of him into her mind. He grimaced, a grunt finding its way out of his mouth, as he folded his wings in and she reached out a hand to ease the ache, but he caught her wrist before she could.

“Don’t.” He breathed. “They are just sore; I’m not in pain.”

“Go.”

The words were whispered, as if she was trying to convince herself to send him away.

Azriel didn’t move other than a small grimace at her words. Rejection twisted in his stomach, and she must have felt it, because she reached a hand up to cup his cheek,

“I want you to be safe. I need you to be okay.”

He looked at her for a long moment. She looked smaller than before. Her skin was pale and her chest rose and fell quickly with effort. She didn’t repeat herself; she just grasped his hand in hers and pulled him toward the door. She pulled it open slowly, peaking her head out briefly then opened it wider and dragged him through the threshold to the end of the hall until they reached a window.

“Go, Azriel.” She said again.

The bond pulsed, taught with tension, as he met her gaze. She brought a hand to his still bare chest, not to heal him this time but to remind herself of the rise and fall— to remind herself he was alive.

“If you don’t leave now,” she said quietly. “I don’t know that I have it in me to ask you to go again.”

His chest tightened painfully and he murmured, “You’re still shaking.”

She breathed out a laugh, her palm still spread out over tight muscle, “You were strung up for a week and beaten, and you’re worried about me being tired?”

He didn’t reply, just looked at her for a long minute. The bond screamed at her to melt into him, to allow him to take her from this wretched place— she knew he would, that his eyes were practically begging her to let him. But with a deep breath, she took a step back.

“You don’t get to choose me over leaving—” she said. “Over living.”

“And what, you get to decide that you’re disposable?” His voice was low, but she could feel the pain in his words. It made her shudder harder, almost breaking her resolve.

Almost.

“Don’t make this about me.”

He stepped into her space, craning his neck down to force her to meet his eyes again, “Why break the iron for me if you intended to stay?”

“Because I couldn’t bare to watch anymore.” She whispered. “And that’s what it would have been, until your court found you.”

“Let me take you,” He murmured. “They won’t catch us.”

“They will,” She clenched her jaw with finality. “They will and they will string you back up and they will beat you worse.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to deny it— to tell her that he would take a million beatings for just a chance to not have to leave her here.

“…and next time they won’t let me help you.” Her voice cracked.

And for some reason, the tug of the bond— the pain and the fear— hit harder than any blow or blade.

His jaw tightened.

She took a large, deliberate step back, prying herself from the warm comfort of his space.

“You’re asking me to leave you in this place.”

“I’m telling you to live.” She shot back.

The bond flared with violent disagreement, the raw refusal threatening to take the breath from her lungs. She reached out a soft hand to grip his hand, squeezing gently in an attempt to provide some comfort.

On the far side of the hallway, boots echoed against stone and her heart stuttered with anxiety. She reached into the pocket of her skirt, pulling out a small roll. It looked like it may have been there for a day, slightly flattened. It was nothing. Plain. A servant’s portion.

She held it out for him. His gaze dropped to it and then up to her.

Understanding flickered and the bond tightened.

“For your travels, Azriel…” She whispered. She lifted her chin, even as her hand trembled, she reached out to grasp his.

She placed the roll gently into his palm, pressing his hand closed around it.

An offering.

Her throat worked once but she didn’t break his gaze. It wasn’t a request. It was acceptance. The bond flared, the tug of it pulling at both of their rib cages as the string between them settled.

Certain.

“You understand what this means,” he murmured.

“Yes.”

The sound of boots was now joined with barks of laughter and loud voices. He grasped his other hand around her wrist, pulling her forward and resting his forehead against hers as his wings engulfed them— granting them privacy in this moment.

“You’re choosing this?”

“I’m choosing you.”

His fingers closed around the bread as if it were something precious— not as if, it was.

“Promise you’ll wait for me,” he breathed. “Promise you’ll live for me.”

“I will.”

He shifted slightly, moving to press cool lips to the warm skin of her forehead. She closed her eyes, sighing as she tried to drink in every second of comfort.

Then he stepped back, his shoulders were squared and his face determined, but his eyes soft.

Pleading.

As if he might beg her to go with him again. She hoped to Gods that he didn’t because she didn’t know if she had it in her to deny him.

“I am Y/N.” She breathed, filling the silence that stretched between them before he could.

He repeated her name, tasting the way it felt on his lips. The bond pulsed again, pulling her to melt into him again. But she clenched her fists instead, giving him a soft smile.

He didn’t speak again, stepping back toward the window and disappearing into a swirl of darkness as the shadows seemed to swallow him whole. By the time the soldiers rounded the corner, she was alone at the end of the hall. She didn’t even register it as they glanced between the open door of the cell, their missing prisoner, and her. Standing calmly with her hands folded in front of her, trying to bask in the feeling of him. She didn’t flinch as they rushed toward her, rough hands on her arms and loud voices demanding answers. The bond just burned steady in her chest.

He would come back.