Chapter Text
On the outskirts of Velaris’ city limits, where the roadsigns become sparse and the street lamps have long gone dead, is a dreadfully popular haunted maze. It’s not the quaint Halloween attraction Gwyn saw all over Instagram, but something just off-kilter enough to have her on edge. Each piercing scream causes her pulse to quicken. Stray, fallen branches crackle like embers beneath her boots, and the cloying smell of woodsmoke and pine overtake her senses.
Then there’s the uneasiness, pooling low in her stomach. The innate human instinct that prickles each vertebra of her spine, begging her to turn back.
“Nesta,” she begins, turning to her best friend. Where there fingers are intertwined, Gwyn tightens her hold on Nesta’s hand. “Maybe we could…”
“Leave?” Nesta asks without preamble. “That honestly seems like a good idea. I’ve seen scarier shit than this low-budget maze.”
“You—”
“I mean, come on.” Her free hand slices through the dense fog, gesturing across the space between them and the growing line at the maze’s entrance. “Definitely not scary.”
She studies Gwyn for a long moment, searching for any agreement to the sentiment. She must note Gwyn’s parted lips and ashen expression, because she switches gears.
“Or maybe,” she stretches out the words. “Maybe it’s too scary?”
A disbelieving laugh spills from Gwyn. “You just don’t want to do this!”
In fact, it took three long weeks of ceaseless persuasion to convince Nesta to come. Gwyn had thought she’d won, that her efforts had worn Nesta down.
Perhaps it’s the reminder of that challenge that gives Gwyn renewed strength.
“I know you’re not afraid of anything,” Gwyn continues, “but it’ll be fun. Hell, you might even scare some of the actors.”
Nesta’s eyes flash silver in the darkness. That alone is enough of a response, but she says, “Fuck yeah, I will.”
“And, if you’re really feeling bored, you could pretend you’re in a scary movie.”
“I don’t even like scary movies,” Nesta huffs in reply. But a single corner of her lips lifts with amusement. “I just find immense joy in watching you and Em cover your eyes and scream for what has to be a full two hours.”
Gwyn chokes on a sound. “You sadist.”
“You scaredy cat,” Nesta shoots back with a laugh. “But I love you, babe, especially when you’re my free source of entertainment.”
“Oh, shut up,” Gwyn mutters. Yet, her words lack any venom and are instead infused with a distinct warmth. A smile plays on her lips, fears temporarily cast aside as she pulls Nesta the rest of the way toward the entrance.
As they scurry along, they pass countless bloodied signs, telling them to “BEWARE!”, to “GO BACK!”, to “SERIOUSLY, TURN BACK NOW (OR ELSE)!” Gwyn briefly appreciates the absurdity of this tacky Halloween spirit, before shifting her gaze forward.
To the maze.
Again, the maze looks much more sinister than the pictures she’d seen online. Stacks of hay bales tower almost fifteen feet high, yet they seem to rise further skyward, to terrifying heights. At the entrance, the screams from within are louder, coalescing into a deafening sound. Beneath it, a low hum plays from speakers. A song, Gwyn thinks, although with the weight of each shriek, she can’t make out any defining notes.
“Welcome,” a rough voice greets them. The single word knocks through Gwyn until she’s squeezing Nesta’s hand in a near death-grip.
Because, fuck, that voice…
Gwyn blinks up, dazed, at the Grim Reaper—a man dressed impeccably in head-to-toe black. Not a sliver of the actor’s skin is showing, so she takes in the dark mask pressed against the contours of his face. It outlines the slopes of his cheeks and traces the sharp line of his jaw. It’s all she can see of his features beneath the hood of his robes and the shadows that partly obscure him from view.
“Do you dare enter the Maze of Madness?” he asks, loud and booming. It’s a rehearsed spiel, undoubtedly, but Gwyn takes it at face value.
As a challenge.
“We dare,” she says. The words echo, taking shape in the cloud of her breath. They come out bolder than she’d expected. And even though her teeth chatter in the moments that follow, she lifts her chin.
The Reaper’s attention catches on her then, finally taking notice of Gwyn. His head tilts in assessment and although she cannot see his face, nor his eyes, she can feel his gaze glide over her like the sharp caress of a knife. It’s a living, breathing thing between them. Something Gwyn feels so acutely that everything inside her shifts, until all she can focus on is him. From that mask to the black, leather gloves that span his large hands. To the way his grip tightens around the scythe held by his side.
“Excellent,” he says, voice dropping, momentarily abandoning all semblance of performance. He’s speaking to only her, and the way his low voice offers subtle praise is enough to leave Gwyn breathless.
A hum is the Reaper’s only response, as if tucking away an important bit of information. He switches back to his script before Gwyn can make sense of it.
She only hears half of what he’s saying.
“The entry fee is eight dollars or your soul,” is what she catches. “Whichever you prefer, but I’ll need you to sign a waiver.”
Nesta lets out a dry, “Sure,” in response to his request and takes a clipboard from his gloved hand. “Because you wouldn't want to drag our souls to hell without a contract,” she continues sarcastically, seemingly unaware of the crackling energy between Gwyn and the man before her.
It feels like sparks. Like the type of wanting that could consume her.
“I can tell there’s fight in you,” the Reaper says. To Gwyn or Nesta, she’s not sure. But his attention remains fixed on Gwyn, and she can almost make out the faint curve of his lips beneath the mask. “We’ll see if that remains after you face your fears within the maze.”
Face her fears…
She knows she’d rather face him.
The thought is distracting enough that she doesn’t move until Nesta presses the clipboard and pen into her hands. Signing the waiver is a simple task, but she finds herself struggling to make sense of the carefully outlined contract. Instead, half of her focus stays on the lingering presence before her, the other half split across where her knuckles have gone bone white. In the hazy fog of her mind, she sees a stark line across the bottom of the page. She signs it, not knowing what she’s agreeing to.
She may as well be signing over her soul.
Completing the final loop of her signature, Gwyn gives her waiver to the Grim Reaper. Then she reaches for the sparkling pouch tied at her waist. The Reaper’s gaze is still on her, and now, he seems to take in her costume as well. Her cheeks warm as she feels his attention drift to the shimmering teal wings spread from her back. She burns beneath his appreciation as it trails the beaded bodice of her short dress and the ruffled skirt that barely covers her thighs.
Audibly swallowing, she digs out eight dollars in cash and swiftly places it in his upturned hand. Her fingertips brush against his stark black gloves in the process, against the leather that stings with the icy cold of the wind. A gasp threatens to escape her, but she bites down on her bottom lip to stifle the sound.
The Reaper is silent—for all of one moment—and Gwyn wonders if he felt it, too. The shock of electricity sparked by the barest touch, that leaves her wishing she could do it again.
“You may have seen it on the waiver,” he says finally, “but I must remind you of the rules.”
Gwyn leans forward until she’s perched on the tip of her toes, attracted by the gravity of him.
“No using electronics of any kind. No climbing the walls. No touching the actors.”
He tilts his head down towards her. As his hood shifts, Gwyn catches a glint of mischief in his darkening hazel eyes.
“And if you didn’t hear that, I’ll say it again.” He draws out each word in a gravelly rasp. Another dare, Gwyn can’t help but think, as he says, “No touching the actors.”
Gwyn nods absently, unable to stop herself from misconstruing his warning as an invitation. Erratic thoughts flood her mind in successive flashes: leather gloves digging into the skin of her thighs, that masked face panting harsh breaths against her neck, those beautiful eyes devouring her whole, pupils expanding until even the flecks of gold in his irises appear black.
But she signed a waiver, she reminds herself. The Reaper just said as much.
And yet…
And yet, it sounds like he needs her to touch him. Like he craves being the one to grant permission when she finds herself desperate to give in.
Gwyn lets a hint of that desperation show. That desire that he seems to match. She peers at him through long lashes, not bothering to hide the sweltering heat of her gaze.
Teetering on what feels like the edge of more, she watches as the Reaper’s fingers strain against the waiver he still holds. The paper crumples at the edges, one bad decision away from being torn to shreds.
Ever the professional, however, he clears his throat and continues speaking in an unwavering voice. “You’ll know you’ve reached the far end of the maze when you see a white ribbon on the gate overhead.”
He folds Gwyn’s waiver in half, then precise quarters. Then folds it again.
Stepping aside, he uses the paper to gesture towards the maze’s entrance. She’s met with another flash of his eyes. This time, paired with a wink.
“Good luck,” he tells her.
And then Nesta loops her arm around Gwyn, and pulls her inside.
Immediately, they find themselves cloaked in darkness, broken up at intervals with the faint glow of eerie red lights. Gravel grinds like shards of bone beneath their boots and although Gwyn knows she needs to be strategic about finding the white ribbon, she can’t help but dig in her heels.
“Nesta, I can’t—” she begins, but the sight of a fanged creature stalking towards her causes Gwyn to trade her words for a squeal.
It’s terrifying enough that she tugs back against Nesta’s hold, trying to turn around. Every part of her screams to go towards the Reaper, to ask for a refund. Waiver be damned.
With a jerky movement, Nesta’s hand slips away. Relief washes through Gwyn, but the moment passes when something else reaches for her. When sharp nails drag against her delicate skin.
She doesn’t think.
She simply runs.
Rapid steps guide her through the labyrinth. Around corners and down narrow passageways. Past finely etched masks and enough viscous fake blood to turn Gwyn’s stomach. It’s a dizzying sensation, of fleeting touches on her bare legs and phantom caresses against her fragile, fairy wings and the type of fear that only grows with each scream rather than being expelled in the release of her breath.
She realizes far too late that she’s lost Nesta.
By then, she’s taken one too many wrong turns and finds herself face-to-face with a stack of hay that marks this path as a dead end. She is cornered, awaiting whatever fate may befall her if anyone tracks her down.
Still, she settles a palm against her heaving chest and uses desperate gulps of air to fill her lungs.
That’s when she senses him.
The Reaper.
She feels him before he’s even in her line of sight. His presence stirs the hair at the nape of her neck, until each fine strand stands on end. As if he truly were the Grim Reaper, here for her soul. To carry her away to her untimely death.
Slowly, she turns to face him. Dread and desire flood her nerves, a dangerous mix as her gaze pinpoints where he’s nestled, half in the shadows, half aglow beneath the flickering, blood-red light. The colour washes over his features, painting a picture that instills equal parts terror and exhilaration. But, it’s the fear that wins out. It settles between them with a sharp gasp and a single, purposeful step back. It traps them, like Gwyn’s flimsy costume wings, easily crushed between her and the wall of hay bales behind her.
“Have you lost the ability to scream already?” he asks. He does not move towards her. Instead, he tilts his head, subtly angling it to better scrutinize her under his predatory gaze. “I’ve only just gotten here, Gwyneth, and I hardly think the rest of the maze is that scary.”
Gwyneth?
How did he…
The waiver, she realizes a moment later. He must have parsed out her name from her signature.
“I see,” he says, striding towards her. Until he’s close enough that Gwyn has to let her head fall back, just to blink up at him.
She cannot move.
Cannot speak.
“You’re a frightened little thing, aren’t you?”
She is, and that’s part explanation to why her eyes widen. The other leans more towards the ease in which it allows her to drink him in.
This close, she can make out the details of his black mask with more clarity. It’s thin, membrane-like, fused to his features like a second skin. Only his hazel eyes are exposed and the flash of his tongue behind full lips. She can’t see his face, but the contours are there—the slopes of his cheekbones, the shape of his prominent nose. She can make out the exact angle of his jaw, can see how it tenses as he deliberately sets his scythe against the wall behind her.
Then his gloved hands rise, fingers tensing as he pushes them against the hay bales on either side of Gwyn’s head. He cages her in with his solid frame and the intoxicating scent of cedar forests that lingers on his skin.
“Gwyneth,” the Reaper hums. She watches his mask reshape with the quirk of his lips. “What can I do to make you scream for me?”
He could touch her, for one, but his hands remain unmoving. A picture of restraint.
Yet his control falters when a single finger presses down on her fairy wings.
“These are killing me,” he rasps. “I’d do just about anything to make these pretty wings flutter.”
“You could touch me,” she breathes.
He angles his head downwards, closing the distance between them so he can speak in harsh breaths against her neck. A flush spreads across her skin with each bite of warmth; it deepens where she feels the brush of his words. “Now what would be the fun in that?”
“We—”
Clicking his tongue, he takes a lock of her copper-brown hair between his fingers. He takes his time, twirling it enticingly slow.
“How about…” he begins, trailing off when his nose traces the delicate tendon on the side of her neck. The cold of his mask is a shock to her system, but she holds still. “How about we play a game first?”
Her brows knit together, confused. “A game?”
“Yes, Gwyneth, a game. You wanted to see if you could get that white ribbon, didn’t you?”
She did, but now…
Now, she’s content in this darkened corner, trapped by a man who radiates power as much as he embodies the personification of sex. That alone is enough to spark temptation, so Gwyn shakes her head in a single, rough movement. She reaches for him, to pull him closer, but when her fingertips make contact with the material of his robe, he’s already stepping back.
Gwyn slumps in defeat against the wall, trying to keep pace of her rapid breaths.
The Reaper, too, is not unaffected. The back of his gloved hand sweeps across his lips. His pupils are supernovas, blown wide.
“I’ll give you a ten second head start,” he says.
Gwyn’s mouth falls open.
“You can’t mean…”
“One.”
A note of warning is laced in the low rumble of his voice. It forces her pulse to lose its rhythm, but then it returns—harsher and more erratic than before.
“Two.”
She barely grasps what he’s implying.
A game, he’d said, followed by a question about the white ribbon marking the maze’s exit. Her thoughts race as she tries to piece together bits of information.
And then it clicks.
She can’t find the words, but she guides herself away from the hay bales, side-stepping the Reaper and putting more space between them. Run, her body tells her. The push is part due to fear, part due to his request.
She indulges in a final look at the Reaper. His eyes flash red under the flickering light above them.
His grin is wicked.
“Three.”
Once again, Gwyn starts running.
Her feet slam against the earth beneath her, stirring up dust with each hurried step. No longer alone, flashes of terrifying creatures block her path. Severed limbs reach for her. Echoing shrieks chill her to the marrow of her bones. When her wings catch and fall to the ground, she doesn’t look back.
Despite the chaos of it all, she can still feel him. In the shadows several paces behind her, long even strides matching rapid ones of her own.
The Reaper follows her, setting the terms of their chase.
And perhaps it’s the wrong sentiment, but it thrills her.
So she continues, hands outstretched to help her navigate. Her palms press against tufts of hay, against someone’s shoulders and then what is unmistakably a face. There is no strategy she can use to make sense of direction. She sprints and loses track of how many times she’s forced to turn around. Her recalibration is always met with the huff of her breath, and further beyond her, a low, echoing laugh.
Finally, she turns a corner and catches sight of a wrought iron gate. It creaks at its hinges, trembling with the force of the wind. And there, around the topmost bar, is a thick white ribbon, tied loosely enough that it billows like a beacon.
With her remaining energy, Gwyn closes the distance between her and the maze’s exit. She lunges forward, leaps just as her heartbeat skyrockets. Euphoria floods into every inch of her being the moment her fingers clasp the thin fabric.
She grabs onto it, taking it easily into her hands. Just as a muscular arm hooks around her waist and tugs back.
“Not fast enough,” the Reaper hisses. His hard chest presses firmly against Gwyn’s spine, singeing her skin through the delicate material of her dress. Every point of contact between them catches aflame. Until only ashes seem to remain in the wake of his touch.
“I was so close,” she huffs out, indignant. The words come out choked among laboured breaths, even as she nestles further into the heat radiating off him.
At least she’d found the ribbon. Her fingers intertwine with it, toying with the tapered edge. It’s a minuscule distraction as the Reaper guides her backwards into the maze.
“What was that?” he asks, a low sound against the shell of her ear. Finally in their deserted, dark corner again, his large hands find her hips and he spins her around. “Something about being close?”
“I…” She tries to string words together, but she breaks off. Instead, she finds her tongue gliding across her lower lip, her own soundless response.
The Grim Reaper’s gaze darts down. His attention shifts, his focus settling on her mouth.
“You want to be close again, don’t you, Gwyneth?”
She’s lost in the way his gloved fingers press into her skin, the way his mask tugs with each rough word. But she lifts her chin so her face nears his.
Her fingers grasp the edge of his hood, guiding it off.
“It’s Gwyn,” she says softly, mere millimetres from his lips. When his gaze fills her with heady intoxication, she lets her eyes flutter shut. “For short, I mean.”
He hums her name back to her. The single syllable coaxing on his tongue.
“Azriel,” he says finally.
Azriel.
“Or Az.” A hint of dark amusement is evident in his tone. “For short.”
A laugh bubbles out of her, but the sound is fleeting. Azriel leans forward, his nose brushing hers in a tender caress. His mouth ghosts over her parted lips, slow, savouring, with not nearly enough pressure.
Azriel must think so, too, because a strangled moan builds low in his throat. His hands clutch the base of her neck, leather gloves smooth against her feverish skin. Yet his touch warms as his fingers weave into the fine strands of her hair, angling her head so that when his lips meet hers again, he can kiss her deeper.
And he does.
His tongue tangles with hers, as if engaged in battle. Rough sweeps and messy, wet glides steal all of Gwyn’s remaining composure, leaving her needy and letting out panting breaths.
Then the ground shifts, and her back is pushed up against the wall of hay bales.
This time, Azriel’s body is sandwiching her, infusing her with a burning pleasure. It’s only natural, then, that her fingers crave him. That her hands shift from where they clasp the ribbon at her side and towards him. Her palms almost take hold of his masked face when large hands span her wrists.
He jerks her arms up roughly and pins them above her head.
“Az,” she gasps.
He indulges in their kiss for another heartbeat, taking on a frantic energy. His mouth nearly bruises her and, when he bites down on her bottom lip, it’s sharp enough to draw blood.
“Fucking hell, Gwyn,” he spits out, forcing himself to pull away. The black eyes of the Reaper himself greet her. One hand holds both of hers in place, the other tugs on the dark ends of his hair. “You’re going to end me.”
She gapes at him, which he meets with a dangerous chuckle.
“Oh, baby,” he continues, “do you really not know how tempting you are?”
His gaze sears the intricate beads woven into the bodice of her dress, as if emphasizing his point. A single finger maps the same trajectory, dipping lower and lower so he can trail his hand between the curves of her breasts.
“Tempting enough to make me want to tear this flimsy little dress off.” Clenching his jaw, he wedges a knee between her thighs. “But you’d like that, wouldn’t you? To spend your eight dollars on a quick fuck?”
“What if I would?” she asks, straining against his hold. She wants to move, but the only thing that shifts is the white ribbon wrapped tightly in her fist.
Clicking his tongue, Azriel overtakes Gwyn with his touch. Fingers dig into the smooth skin of her wrists. His other hand claims her hip, gliding downward in a possessive movement. He only pauses when he reaches the short hem of her skirt.
“Don’t be cute,” he tells her. His palm spreads across her thigh, squeezing the flesh in his massive hand.
She angles her chin upwards. “Or what?”
“You don’t want to find out.”
Gwyn knows that she feels quite the opposite
She does want to.
Azriel must read the defiance in her expression. The need for more. The want. His eyes flit over her features—from her pinched brow to her swollen lips. Then his gaze slides up her arms, to where they’re held in place over her head. His intentions become known when he lets go and Gwyn’s hands fall to her sides with an arch of her back.
She watches that white ribbon stir with soundless grace. Watches as Azriel’s fingers latch onto it.
“I’m beginning to think you don’t know how to behave,” he says, voice rough. He loops the ribbon over his knuckles, yanking it from Gwyn’s grasp. The ivory colour shines in stark contrast against the leather of his gloves. Pure white laid across black.
“No touching. Remember, Gwyneth?” he continues. “Or did you forget that you signed a waiver?”
“I didn’t forget.”
Those masked lips lift into a smirk. All as Azriel pulls the ribbon taut, like the growing tension between them, manipulated by his hands.
“So you’re purposely being a brat?”
“No, sir,” she says, batting her lashes. “I’m trying to be good for you, Az.”
Lips parting, he curses under his breath. And since Gwyn is trying to be good, she lifts her hands up to him, angling them forward to display her wrists.
“You are… unbelievable,” he tells her. Awe spills into his words, mirrored by the surprising gentleness that overcomes him as he takes her hands.
With a careful precision, he drapes the ribbon across her pale skin. He taps the pads of his fingers atop several of her freckles before redirecting his efforts to guide the soft material so it lays flat around her wrists.
Making a final loop, Azriel draws the ribbon into a knot and pulls it tight. The movement forces her hands to come together, to lock into place. When she’s sufficiently bound, he directs her arms to where they’d been before—pressed against the hay bales, spanning the space above her head.
“Good?” he asks.
Gwyn can only nod, keeping her arms in place. Ever obedient.
“Good,” he says, nipping at her jaw. “So fucking perfect for me, Gwyn. You have no idea.”
Her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks. “Show me.”
And then she adds, “Please.”
In response, Azriel groans into her mouth, lips finding hers in a desperate kiss. That same desperation guides his hands, lifting up the hem of her dress so cold air rushes to meet her exposed legs. Yet, it’s a relief when a gloved hand splays against her inner thigh, stealing away the biting chill and infusing warmth in its place.
He teases a finger over the smooth cotton of her underwear, coaxing a shock of pleasure between her legs.
She whimpers, needing more.
“You’re absolutely drenched, aren’t you?” With only an inch between them, he takes her in. He must be seeing her pupils expanding, darkening the teal colour of het eyes to a rich blue. As his gaze sweeps her cheeks, she knows he’s noticing the evident pink-red blush there. That he’s getting emboldened by it.
“Was it the mask that did it for you?” he asks her.
She gasps when his finger circles her with more pressure, forcing her to throw her head back.
“Yes.”
Clasping her chin with his free hand, he tilts her face so she meets his dark gaze again. Once hazel, now pitch black, it’s still the only part of him that his costume allows her to see.
His voice dips to a dangerous level of quiet. “Do you want me to take it off?”
Her answer comes to her mind easily. It thrums like an imitation of her pulse. It only solidifies with her need, evident by the growing ache between her legs.
But, surely, she can’t say it.
“Mask on or off, Gwyn?” he repeats.
Perhaps it’s the resolve in his expression that gives her courage. The way he looks at her, eyes sparking in the low light as he awaits her response.
He wants this as much as she does.
So Gwyn gives in. Completely.
”On.”