* . °•★|•°∵🔥 ∵°•|☆•° . * Eris x y/n
summary: You were never meant to see his scars. But when you do, will he let you in, or will the ghosts of his past keep you both in the dark?
TW: Scars. Mentions of nudity.
note: English is not my first language, so if there are any mistakes - I’m really sorry.
The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar, steam curling from within, carrying the scent of cedar and something faintly spiced—Eris. She hesitated, hand hovering over the worn brass handle, intending only to grab the book she had left on the windowsill earlier. She didn’t know he was in there.
Didn’t know what she was about to see.
She pushed the door open without a thought, stepping inside just as Eris turned, towel slung low on his hips, water dripping from the ends of his damp auburn hair. His back was to her, and for a moment, she only registered the broad expanse of him, the defined lines of his muscles, the way the candlelight flickered over his golden skin.
A jagged collection of them, cutting deep across his back, some old and silvery, others newer, raw and cruel against the smoothness of his skin. They crisscrossed like a story carved into flesh, a history of pain etched into the man she—
The world around her blurred. Her blood turned to fire.
She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Eris stiffened, sensing her presence, his hands tightening against the edge of the sink. He didn’t turn, didn’t speak. Perhaps he was waiting for her reaction—the pity, the whispered apologies, the gentle, careful words that so many had likely given him before.
Her chest tightened, not with sorrow, not with the urge to weep, but with something far more violent. Rage. A fury so deep, so all-consuming, it clawed through her ribs, a wildfire threatening to consume her from the inside out.
Who had done this to him?
Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. She felt the heat building beneath her skin, as if her very soul had ignited. And then—then she felt it.
A band of fire, shimmering gold and auburn, wrapping around her heart. A tether, unbreakable, undeniable.
The realisation came as swiftly as the fire itself, as undeniable as the air she breathed. Eris was hers. Not just in the quiet moments they shared, not just in the glances and touches that had always lingered a second too long—but in something deeper, something written into her very soul.
A growl built in her throat, low and dangerous, as her nails dug into her palms. Whoever had done this to him, whoever had left these scars—they would burn for it.
The word whispered through her, settling into the marrow of her bones, as if it had always been there, waiting for her to see it. To feel it.
Eris turned then, muscles tensing, his eyes widening in alarm. “You shouldn’t be—” His voice caught as he saw the way she looked at him.
Not with pity. Never with pity.
But with a fury so sharp it could slice through steel.
“You are mine,” she said, the words slipping from her lips before she could stop them. Her voice was steady, but there was fire in it, a promise, a vow. “And whoever did this to you—I will burn them to the ground.”
Eris sucked in a breath, his golden eyes darkening, unreadable. But she saw the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides, as if he wanted to reach for her but didn’t dare.
He must have seen it—the fire in her, the fury, the raw, unrelenting need to destroy anyone who had dared to hurt him. And for the first time, he looked at her not with the careful restraint he so often wore, but with something closer to wonder.
“You’re angry,” he murmured, almost as if he hadn’t expected it.
She stepped forward, her voice low, shaking with the force of her emotions. “Tell me who did this to you.”
Eris let out a breath, something like a sad, knowing smile curving his lips. He reached out then, fingers grazing her wrist, grounding her, pulling her back from the fire that threatened to consume her entirely.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said softly.
She let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “It matters to me.”
Silence stretched between them, thick, heavy. Then, slowly, carefully, she stepped forward. She lifted a trembling hand, not to touch the scars, but to cup his face, her thumb grazing his cheekbone.
He closed his eyes at the contact, exhaling a breath as if she had undone something inside him.
His thumb brushed over her skin, and for a moment, they simply stood there, the golden glow of their bond pulsing between them. He didn’t push her away. He didn’t deny what had formed between them in that instant.
Instead, he whispered her name, as if he had known—as if he had always known.
She had never meant to see his scars. But now that she had, now that she had felt the truth of what he was to her, there was no turning back.
And the Mother help whoever had hurt him—because she would make them pay in blood.
