She's never afraid to get her hands dirty. Time after time, she dips her fingers into the darkest corners of the souls. Maybe that's why she likes hands so much. Especially the big, strong hands that...
Ahem.
On the other hand (sorry... I just... it's stronger than me...), it's part of her job to help wraiths maintain the remnants of sanity in this ruthless and insane world.
But...
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
OC belongs to @malky-tea <:3
Oh, I almost forgot about the pictures again. I had a short summer vacation and tried not to melt at +38°C
The second image in the series is dedicated to Arcanos Castigate. Very useful Arcanos with completely different methods, which is what I wanted to show
"We have no need for military might. We wield two of the sharpest swords ever forged: Faith in our left hand, Wealth in our right." —Vuliev of the Ghost Council
Artist: Darrell Riche
TCG Player Link
Scryfall Link
EDHREC Link
summary: secrets have more worth than you gave them credit for.
warnings; swearing. GORE, INJURIES, FIGHTING.
wc; 1.8k
NOTES; I give reader a last name to fit the world.
–
Your head whips to the left, a sudden sharp pain exploding across your nose so loudly, that it forces tears to your eyes. Ignoring the new pain in your neck, your hands form a bowl beneath your jaw, catching the blood that’s beginning to run. It starts with a small dribble, growing into a steady stream, proving that your nose is far from healed.
And Finnick has just broken it again.
You look up at him, mouth falling open. Metal is all you can taste as you try to form the words to ask Finnick what the fuck he’s doing. You were just in the middle of telling him that you’re Divergent, so why would this be his first instinct? It all dies in your throat, your tongue the second you see the look on his face.
Finnick’s face is a bright shade of red, his jaw is clenched, eyebrows closed and pointed downward. His hands are, in fact, formed in the shape of fists. And you don’t miss the fact that he’s squeezing and releasing his palms, showing you that he’s not done with you just yet. He stands tall, over you, with squared shoulders.
You gape, not knowing what to say to calm him down.
He was fine just a second ago, was it something you said? Is it the fact that you told him you’re Divergent? Does he even know what the word means? You can’t imagine he does.
The more you stare, the more you realize that it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you get out of this room without pissing him off further.
“Please,” the word is hushed and meek out of your mouth, making your stomach twist. You feel sick, like this isn’t going to end well. A big part of you is telling you to run, “Finnick--”
“Don’t!” He shouts, you flinch. When he speaks again, it’s much more level, more controlled, “Don’t speak.”
This look in his eye is familiar, it’s the look he used to give others just before it began; the lesson to be learned. You saw him give it to snot-nosed Erudite kids, you saw him give it to the too-bold Dauntless kids, and now he’s giving it to you, as if you aren’t his friend. It’s enough to make you shudder. You wonder if he realizes that you know what’s coming.
“I’m so sorry,” you say anyway, backing away, “I’m--”
Each step back is another jolt of lightheadedness. You’ll be lucky if you don’t pass out before you reach the door, if you can even run, that is. Blood is beginning to coat your hands in a thick layer, the same way it covers your hands when you try to save Finnick in your fears. It’s funny how things change, how you’re the one that needs saving now.
You’ll be lucky if you can escape him. In this state, he is the predator, and you are the prey. And if he was smart to take out your one major weakness, you can’t imagine what other tricks he has up his sleeve.
Finnick is coming toward you at the same pace you’re going, “I told you not to speak.”
You hold your hands out to steady him, watching and listening as the blood in your hands spills onto the floor. You can see the static at the corners of your vision, dancing their way to take over, “Let me explain.”
“No!” His voice echos.
You have to leave.
You turn, going to run, but you don’t even get a full step in before a hand secures around your wrist, yanking you around to face him again. His other arm is already wound back, slamming into your cheekbone.
He lets you go briefly, almost allowing you to fall, before his hand is curling around your shirt, yanking you up and onto your feet. There’s a hard look on his face, all you can see is determination. You keep thinking that this is what he saw during your guys’ fight, the same amount of anger that had pushed you to win.
Which means that this is his payback.
His knuckles hit your mouth next, you can hear your neck crack from the movement. When Finnick pulls his hand back, there’s little indents from where your teeth had pressed into your skin. And with no time to recover, his fist aims for your eye.
Now he lets you go, watching you fly to the ground. Your hands go out to catch yourself, but the blood on your palms stops it from happening. You hit the ground at full-force, face knocking onto the wood below.
You gasp, hand reaching up to grab your nose as you look at Finnick.
The moment the two of you lock eyes, you realize why he brought you out here, instead of at the chasm corner, where you’ve been bringing him to talk. Out there, there is a slight chance that someone will hear your screaming echoing through the hallway. Here, no one is going to save you unless they accidentally walk into the training room, especially after hours.
This is the perfect spot for him to get his way.
You bring your arms up, covering your bloodied face, trying to curl in on yourself to reduce the damage as he pulls back his leg. White stars form on the black background behind your eyes. It was a mistake to let him bring you out here. You knew that there was something wrong when he chose the training room instead of the chasm. Why didn’t you trust your gut?
His kick lands on your right side, stinging pain spreads over your ribs, worsening the nausea that has swept over your body. You hold your breath, gritting your teeth harder. You don’t think Finnick realizes just how smart it was for him to knock out your nose, because now there is no chance that you’ll fight back.
The following kick is higher, his foot sweeping into your nose, reinforcing your thoughts. He then aims for your ribs again, in the same place, causing a sharp pain this time.
You let out a garbled sound, a scream dissolving into a moan. You suck in air, tears appearing in your eyes.
The hits keep coming, over and over. Your face, your abdomen, your chest, your ribs over and over. Each time you catch a glimpse of him, he looks like he’s just getting started, nowhere near done. The few tears have turned into sobs by the time he’s finally slowing his pace, sweat pouring off his forehead because he’s exhausted.
Not because he’s ready to move on.
Finnick brings his leg back again, you shield your face with your forearms, “Stop!” you cry, “Please, Finnick, please.”
The hit doesn’t land, you don’t want to move your arms, afraid that the moment you do, he’ll finally go through with it. You settle for peeking through a small gap you make, and you’re met with two faces, instead of just one.
Thyme is standing behind Finnick, her head tilted slightly. She has something in her hand, you’re not able to catch it in the first glimpse. Once you move your arms, your eyes find the object.
It’s one of the guns off the table.
“I warned you.” Thyme says, looking over the gun in her hand, “I told you what would happen if you went near Finnick.”
You rest your head against the hardwood floor, eyes rolling to the back of your head, “Go fuck yourself.”
Your gums are bleeding, you can feel the exact spot where it’s coming from beneath one of your front teeth. You thought the flow would steady by now, but it doesn’t show any signs of relenting. Just like these two in front of you.
Thyme isn’t bothered, raising an eyebrow without even looking at you, “What was it that you said to me? I would ‘end up in a body bag’?” she’s amused, eyes landing on you. There’s a particular smile hinting at the corners of her mouth, “Oh how the tables have turned, right?”
You sneer, gathering the blood in your mouth before you send the spit flying at their feet, “Fuck you, I know all about you. My brother told me how they celebrated your leave when you fucking transferred.”
Thyme’s eye twitches, leaning forward, “Brave of you to talk to me like this.”
You give her a smile back, “You think I’m scared of you just because you have a gun in your hand?”
Thyme’s face straightens, hand holding out the gun, pointed at you, no longer playing, “Beg.”
The laugh that peels out of you is sudden and loud, making the pain in your ribs worse. You can’t help it, you can’t help the tears that appear in your eyes, either. She wants you to beg.
What a joke.
You deadpan, “I’m not begging you for shit.”
The last thing you see are the eyes of Finnick, detached and faraway.
--
“Come on, (Y/n).”
There’s jostling, sending blossoming pain across your body. You can feel air on your left side, like you’re being rushed somewhere. And there’s a solid pressure on your back, behind your knees.
“Is she awake? Is she alive?”
“Grab that door.” Is the answer the other person gets.
There’s a sound of metal being pushed in, a long creak, and a couple seconds later, a slam to your right.
“Open your eyes,” the first voice says, jerking your back upwards a couple of times, “Just a little, please.”
He sounds like Reed, the deepness is a normal giveaway that it’s your oldest brother. He’s the only person who used to hold you bridal style, Mox would always throw you over his shoulder if he was being playful. If it’s Reed, that means that this has all been just one long nightmare, right?
“(Y/n)?” the voice says again.
It’s not Reed, he doesn’t say your name with intensity, no matter how awful you’ve been.
“Caspian, please, tell me that she’s okay.”
Silence.
“Cas--”
“I don’t know!” he shouts, you flinch at the tone, face twisting.
Your eyes fly open, gasping for air as if you’ve never breathed a day in your life. Your hand flies, securing on Caspian’s shoulder, hand squeezing tightly to combat the truck of injuries that are hitting you at once.
Caspian doesn’t slow his pace, not wanting to stop to look you over. He must be heading to the infirmary, because you can’t imagine him taking you anywhere else. He eyes your face first, relief flooding him when he realizes that you’re okay, not dead after all.
At your feet, on his right side, is Blaire, who has bloodshot eyes and a swollen face. He presses a hand to his mouth when he can, eyebrows inward. He must’ve been crying, you can’t see Finnick and Thyme sticking around long enough to see if you’re alive.
“Blaire, door.” Caspian says.
“Yeah--” his voice wavers, “--I got it.” Blaire pushes open another door, “You’re okay, you’re okay.”
“(Y/n), who did this?” Caspian asks, “You have to tell me.”
Your nails dig into his shoulder slightly, throat hurting when you go to speak. When it finally comes out, it’s only a whisper, “Finnick.”
You’re done protecting him.
“And Thyme?”
You nod.
There’s a long stretch of silence, filled with only Caspian and Blaire’s shoes against the floor.
Blaire’s voice doesn’t belong to him, “We’ll handle it.”
And without missing a beat, “Leave them in the Pit when you’re done.”
