mae-gi-writes

[mae-gi-writes]

second wind. 4 . xaden riorson (fourthwing)

Xaden doesn't believe in second chances until he meets you.

genre: slowburn, fluff, suggestive content, mentions of death, violence and abuse. Reader is a Healer. iron flame spoilers so don't read if you haven't read iron flame and if you do read it, don't blame me TT.TT

a/n: Happens after the fight at Resson. Don't come after me. I love Xaden and Violet and this is just for shits and giggles so if you don't like it please just ignore it. Also, let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! This one's gonna be quite a long one <3

taglist: @sorrybaeeeeee @lalameors @skxawngs @nesiris21 @ambivalence-is-me @fourthmarvel @kahlan170 @bubybubsters @shadowmarurader @acourtofmarvels @shadow-dancer37 @smileysunshinesworld @atukiyou @rv19 @sunflouer04 @wildmavs

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

It's warm.

Your eyebrows furrow into a frown. A small groan escapes your mouth as you turn and bury your face deeper into your pillow.

This feels like heaven.

It smells of mint and a hint of leather and pine.

You can hear the softest of voices. They echo in the distance, but you merely want to go back into that lovely, dreamless sleep that's hanging onto you like a soft cloud.

You drift away.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

"--not awake yet."

Voices again. This time they sound closer.

You let out a soft groan and nuzzle into the pillow, swearing that this scent feels eerily familiar. But the thought escapes just as it dwindles in when your muscles slowly relax. There's a blanket draped across your body, warm and fluffy, and it helps against the myriad of voices getting louder by the second.

"It's been more than a week."

"She needs time."

"You better be right about this Sorrengail, or I'm not going to be a very happy man."

You recognise that voice somehow. It's one that soothes you, but as soon as the memory sparks you feel yourself dwindling again like a leaf in the breeze.

Sleep consumes you once more into its open, friendly arms.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The next time you wake, there's a headache pounding through your head.

A groan slips past your lips as your eyes flutter open on their own accord, only to be met with a grey ceiling.

You blink, trying to rid yourself of the fuzziness that comes with having slept for what feels like centuries, as you try to comb through the last of your memories.

Where are you? What time is it?

And then, it hits you with full-force.

The dungeons. The interrogation room. Knives at your neck, getting slapped and kicked. Your arm dislocated, your knee, split in half--

A sob rips its way out of your throat and you shudder, forcing down the bile crawling up the back of your mouth as your hands find purchase along the bedsheets. It's almost impulsive, the way you find your hands and rub at your wrists, as if trying to see if the chains are still there. But all you feel are slow fading bruises that make you wince when pain lances up your arms.

That's when your eyes slide down, almost missing the figure sprawled across the single chair by your bedside. The recognition sends another jolt through you.

Xaden.

He's here.

And you're...safe.

Like he'd promised you.

It's like you've called him from sleep, for the said man slowly rouses, blinking a few times before realising that you've been staring at him like he's just grown an extra head.

"Tala," he straightens, leaning forward on alert.

"Hey," you reply weakly. Voice soft and broken.

Xaden doesn't hesitate to rise from his seat, striding over and grabbing the glass of water from your bedside. His hand comes to a rest at your jaw, the touch surprisingly gentle and tender, at odds with the emotions blazing in his eyes.

He tilts the glass to your lips, his other hand going around your nape and settling there to hold it still, "drink," he orders.

You do so without comment, gulping down the water upon noticing that you're parched.

You down the entire thing and Xaden puts back the glass before he finds a seat along your bed, closer to you, but not touching.

"You--" the words are tangled up in your throat. There are no words to explain the rush of gratefulness you feel towards him, "you came."

His face softens, "I did."

"You saved me," you whisper.

"And I would do it a thousand times if I had to," his eyes are intense on your own, almost like he can't stomach the thought of looking away. They trail over your features before he presses his lips together, "I'm sorry I--" his jaw flexes, "--didn't get to you sooner."

"It's not your fault," you shake your head, lean back against the pillow, "you did what you had to do."

"They took you because they knew I would come for you," his nostrils flare, voice dropping to a dangerous rumble, "I don't like people touching what's mine."

Mine.

You blink.

Mine.

Heat rushes to your cheeks at his sudden admission, "I--uh--I'm not an object." you try to wheeze out in a broken stutter.

His mouth curls up dangerously, "well aware."

Gods. It hasn't even been five minutes and already he's playing with your feelings. You look back down towards your hands flexing along the blanket and try to change conversation, "are you hurt?"

"A few wounds. All will heal," his eyes flicker down to your bandaged arm, "are you in pain?"

"A bit. I haven't tried moving yet, but..."

"It will take some time."

A soft breath rattles through your chest, "can you...tell me how injured I am?" and when he seems he's about to close down on you, you quickly add a soft, "please?"

Xaden's jaw ticks. He laces his hands together, elbows pressing onto his knees as he leans forward, closer to your space.

"You have multiple knife wounds," he starts, voice knotting with barely restrained anger, "your left arm is dislocated but Brennan set it back. Your leg's shattered in three pieces. They put a splinter to hold it together while the bone mends. That will probably take the most time to heal."

He makes a grab for the bowl you haven't noticed had been sitting by your bedside and holds it up to you, "drink it," he orders, his voice gentle yet as firm as a command, "it will help you heal."

You do as told, feeling a bit pathetic as he tilts the bowl towards your mouth. A small dribble escapes down your shirt and you pull away with a grimace, shame bubbling through your chest, "I'm sorry," you whisper.

But Xaden seems to pay no mind, grabbing onto a nearby hand towel -- one he'd been using to press along your forehead -- before gently wiping at your chin and neck.

His movements are firm yet light, with the kind of commanding certainty of a man who knows how to use his hands. The intimacy of his action renders you speechless, cheeks turning dusty rose at how close he is. That Xaden Riorson, the fearful man that commands shadows, is wiping up your mess like you're a six months old baby, and has nothing mean to say about it.

"You need to rest," he orders when he finally pulls away and lets you breathe, "I'll need to go. But I'll be back before you wake."

Your head dips into a nod, "thank you Xaden," you murmur.

He's already rising, pausing to take in your words. His eyes find yours and lock, deep onyx clashing with soft maroon, and for a minute your world hangs by a thread.

You can barely breathe.

Then, his head dips into that singular, assessing nod, and with a few strides, he's gone from your room.

Or his room, seems like.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Recovery is a slow journey, as you soon learn. And it's a pain in the ass when you're rendered useless.

Before, you'd already be scurrying around trying to help Brennan heal the injured riders with new balms, coming up with various healing ointments and remedies that could speed up recovery. But he's consistently shoved you out of the healer's room for over a total of six times before you've finally given up and decided to mope the halls of the Riorson manor instead. Liam and Rhiannon seem intent on keeping you by their sides at every second of the day when Xaden is not here to play babysitter, and otherwise you're focused by the man of shadows himself to sit and play barbie while the rest of the life moves on without you.

The boredom is killing you, and you soon find yourself taking longer walks outside just to get a whiff of that fresh mountain air. That, and to run away from Xaden's constant need to check in and remind you that you're a patient who's still recovering.

If anyone would've ever told you that Xaden Riorson was a mama hen at heart, you would've laughed in their faces and told them to go fuck themselves.

But now, not so much. You're finding it hard to believe he is the man that he is, considering how freakin' naggy he can be.

"You shouldn't be so harsh on the guy you know," Liam says one afternoon as you watch him and Sawyer toss a ball back and forth. You're seated along one of the rocks, keeping them company and stealing warmth from Liam's dragon who apparently seems to have taken a liking to you.

It helps that he isn't as big as Sgaeyl, also that his eyes seem kind and gentle. They remind you of Liam himself, mostly.

"He's acting like a mother with her first-born son," you scowl back, "tell him to ease off a little. I'm not a baby."

"He's just worried about you," Sawyer catches the ball in mid-air with a flawless jump and goddamnit if that didn't look cool.

You look down at your own stupid, useless leg and wonder how much longer will it take for you to be able to walk without having to hobble everywhere like a goddamn loser, "well maybe he needs other things to keep him occupied."

"He went mad you know, that day they took you," Liam says as he catches the ball with one hand. He tosses it back to Sawyer and adds, "he was considering burning down Basgiath just to get you back."

Embarrassment bubbles up your chest, "don't be ridiculous," you try not to blush, though you can't help but wonder if it's true. And if it is, then that's hotter than it should be.

"He's not lying," Sawyer says, "Thought Xaden was tough to deal with on a daily basis but, when we knew you were gone, he went batshit crazy. The only reason why he took so long was because General Melgren wanted us to help Basgiath against the venin."

That catches your attention, "what venin?"

They both frown at you, "the venin we fought," Sawyer's eyes dart back and forth between you and Liam, the ball now forgotten in his hands, "the ones we were up against at Basgiath. That's why Xaden took so long to get you out."

Liam, who'd been gauging your reaction from the start, asks gently, "you didn't know?"

"No," you whisper brokenly as realisation sets him, followed by the weight of guilt, "no I didn't know."

You find Xaden in the archives poring over a gigantic map along with Garrick and Brennan when you slam the door open with as much force as you can. That's enough to make the trio's heads swivel in surprise.

It's Brennan that speaks first, "Tala!" he rushes towards you, "you're not supposed to be walking alone by yourself!"

But you push his arms away and force your body forward despite the screaming protest of your leg. You hobble clumsily to the oak table, "I want to speak to Xaden," you scowl at the other two riders, "alone."

Is that amusement that flits across Xaden's face? He turns towards the other two before you have a change to register it fully, "leave us."

You wait until the screech of the double doors end with a final clang, your eyes dead set on Xaden's, your mouth pressed into a thin, annoyed line and your entire body shaking with repressed emotions about what he's done for your sake, about the lives he'd risked.

He watches, leaning back against the map table and crossing one leg over the other, and somehow that act alone feels unjustifiably hot.

You force yourself back into focus, "Liam told me about what happened in Basgiath."

"That so?"

"Yes," you hobble even closer, now just a few meters away from him so that you have no choice but to look up at his six foot four frame, "you risked your rider's lives all because of one little healer. I don't know about you, but I don't think that's the smartest decision you've taken Riorson."

"Oh, we're back to Riorson now, are we?" Xaden cocks his head at you and it aggravates you even more.

"Stop making fun of me!" You seethe, "why are you okay with this?! Why are you okay with sacrificing so many lives beyond the point of measure just so that you can--"

"Just so that I can save what's mine?" he cuts you off.

You blink in surprise. What?

Xaden straightens. His hand reaches out, grasping your forearm before he tugs.

You stumble against him when your legs give way, "hey!--"

His arm winds around your waist and he doesn't hesitate as you crash against his chest, pinning you down with a firmness that leaves you gasping as his other hand goes up to grasp the side of your face.

He tilts your chin up so that you have no choice but to look at him, and what you find in those onyx pools has your heart suddenly stuttering.

Oh shit.

"I'm only going to say this once," his voice is barely a growl, deep and rumbling through his chest. Heat sears down to your tummy in response, undeniably enjoying how he's caged you so easily against him, "I told you I don't like other people touching what's mine. I've made that pretty clear," his eyes bore into yours with intent, "do you understand what I mean, Tala?"

"I...uhm..." the words dissipate along your tongue with the way he's looking at you. Because in his eyes, in the molten inferno that's blazing through his gaze like a beacon, there is denying the feelings he's been trying to keep hidden all this time. He doesn't have to say it, you see right through him like he wants you to. Because he does want you to, what with the way he's holding you hostage like he can't bear the thought of leaving one millimetre of space between your bodies.

Xaden presses even further, hand tightening as you all but feel his line of muscles against your body, "do you understand, Tala?" he murmurs lowly, his thumb brushing across your jawline.

"I--I think so," you stutter.

"Good," and then, in a swift motion, his hands find your waist and the world spins so quickly you cry out until you find he's perched you atop the table, pushing his body against your legs that splay on either side of him so that you're now face to face.

The compromising position sends another wave of embarrassment and heat frolicking down your spine and you can't help but bite your lower lip as want suddenly bubbles through your chest.

Gods. Does he have to be that hot?

"Now," he leans in even closer, so close his nose brushes yours and you swear you see stars, "if you must know, I'm not a patient man, Tala. If someone takes what's mine, it is absolutely crucial I get it back as soon as possible. You're lucky I didn't burn the entire place down to find you."

His words rattle you in the best of ways and there's no other choice but to look at him as he says them, a mixture of warmth and lust that has nothing to do with your frustration blossoming through your chest. He cares about you, more than you can imagine, more than what's said, and if you'd been doubting it, there's your answer.

"I won't love you like I loved Violet. What happened with her--" there's a rock that forms in his throat, hands flexing along your hips as he pauses, takes a shaky inhale, "--was something else. We were connected, in more ways than you could imagine. So it takes time for that kind of bond to cease to exist. But don't mistake my past with Violet for my inability to feel anything towards you."

This is probably the most Xaden has ever spoken to you of his feelings. That in itself is a surprise. But now paired with the revelation that he does feel something for you, like you do for him -- it's like another wall of bricks slamming into you headfirst without warning.

"So..." your mind tries to piece together all the information, "so you--you feel something. For me? Am I--understanding that correctly?"

The side of his mouth quirks up in amusement, "correct."

"Does that mean you're not..." your words trail off as you try to make sense of this new reality, "you're not going to stay away. Like you said a few weeks ago?"

"No," he draws you even closer and you let out a soft breath upon feeling his firm muscles pressing against your curves. You can feel him, even through the thick layers of your Healer uniform and for once you feel like discarding the whole thing.

"Oh," you squeak out, "good," your hands, which have somehow found their way to his chest, cling onto his rider's tunic as if unsure what to do with yourself.

Xaden chuckles, the sound like a purr through his chest as he dips his face towards you.

The sight of him, so close and so unarmed for once, makes your heart skitter in your chest. You've never seen past Xaden's mask...until now.

Now, it's almost like he wants you to read into every crevice, every crease of his features.

There's an unspoken message in his eyes, a silent question that causes your eyes to flutter closed. You feel his breath, warm and seductive, fanning across your face and your entire body stills in anticipation, head tilting up as you wait.

And wait.

And then, you feel the softest of kisses.

Right atop your temple.

You let out a small yelp of surprise, eyes flying open as Xaden merely laughs low in his throat, "what, were you expecting something else?" his eyes twinkle with mirth.

Embarrassment floods your being and you wish the ground can swallow you up.

Right now.

"No!" you say a little too loudly.

He watches you, one eyebrow raised in growing amusement, "sure looks like it.”

And before you know it he’s leaning over to press another kiss along your jawline.

You suck in a breath, your muscles locking in frenzy as he continues a trail of open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat, down your neck, over your collarbone right where your uniform dips. Each kiss punctuated with a searing heat that blazes with hot, scorching fire, rendering your body limp and useless as desire clouds your judgement.

“Wha—what are you doing?” You stammer in what you hope is a strong protest. You body, on the other hand, seems all too intent on going limp in his arms, knees suddenly made of jelly.

Xaden hums in response, nose brushing against naked skin and sending thrums of desire in his wake. You stiffen in his hold, hands curling over the material of his tunic as he moves up to press another chaste kiss right by your earlobe.

You let out a soft, strangled sound. Part want, part embarrassment. It makes Xaden chuckle softly before he murmurs, “cat got your tongue?”

“I—I—“ you try to force some logic and reason but can’t seem to form full sentences when every thought is unwoven by the mere sensation of having his mouth trailing across your jawline, his hands pressing into your hips and grounding you to him with a touch of possessiveness that sends heat coiling through your tummy.

“Hm?” Xaden nibbles along your jaw, pressing another kiss at the corner of your mouth, “tell me, Tala,” he murmurs against your lips, “what do you want?”

“I—I—I want—“ you squeeze your eyes shut, though it’s hard when all you can feel is Xaden’s warnth, the way his hands cares you, the closeness of his body to yours, “Xaden. Please.”

“Please what?” He give your hip a squeeze, onyx eyes finding yours through the storm of emotion broiling through your head, “say the word doll.”

“I don’t—I just—“ but you know what you want. The desire thrums through you, crackle like a fire that needs a release. You’re just too shy to admit it, to stoop down and confess that you want him.

You’re not used to this, to being physically close with someone, to be vulnerable and open with your feelings when you’re in such compromising positions.

Tears prick the corner of your eyes as shame and embarrassment crash through you in dual disarray. Xaden notices, eyebrows kissing at the center as unexplainable emotion flickers across his face.

“Tala,” his tone is gentle, completely at odds with the silent intensity throbbing in his gaze. He clenche his jaw, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know you won’t,” comes your feeble whisper, “I just—I don’t know what to do and it’s—it’s embarrassing.”

Your words are like a slap. He reels back in a mixture of surprise and suspicion, “there’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he murmurs firmly.

“I know,” you clamp your hands along his tunic, tugging him closer so that you can all but bury yourself into his chest.

He’s warm and solid, and more than enough for you to feel safe. You unconsciously find yourself burrowing even closer if that’s even possible, and Xaden lets out a soft breath before he slowly starts extricating himself from your grip.

Panic seizes the back of your throat, “where are you going?”

Amusement dances across his lips, "while I would love to stay here forever, leadership is practically eavesdropping on us. Unless you want an audience for whatever we were about to do--"

"No!" you blurt out before he can finish, your face flaming bright red. You hate how easily he gets you riled up and he knows it too, for he lets out another huff of laughter before slowly sliding you from the table with a care that renders your heart to mush.

Keeping a hand braced along your waist, he ducks his head, brushing his lips across the top of your ear, "wait for me," he murmurs, "we're not done."

His words cause your heart to jump, skin flushing with goosebumps as you slowly stumble out of his grip, "I'll be going now," you announce, ignoring the fact that your face is a blazing red beacon.

You hobble out of the room as quickly as possible, knowing without looking back that Xaden's dark-eyed gaze is still on you, that infuriating smirk playing across his lips.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

"We need to evacuate this place," Brennan's gaze is glued on the map before him, his eyes tracing every road that twines through the Esben mountains, "the venin know where we are, it's just a matter of time before they come for us."

At the table are found Xaden, Garrick, Dain, Bodhi, Imogen and a few other rider graduates that had decided to join their cause. The grim faces around the table clearly reflect the dire matter at hand; how are they supposed to move a horde of dragons away from Aretia when they're practically a big, fat moving target for them?

"Moving will only make us more vulnerable to wyvern attacks. We're too big of a group," Imogen snaps.

"Not if we split up," Bodhi suggests.

"You want us to split up?" Dain scoffs and straightens in his chair. He shakes his head, "we can barely hold them off when we're all together. What makes you think we can actually survive if they come for us when we're all scattered?"

"Then do you have a better idea Aetos? Because I don't see you coming up with one," Imogen says.

"Splitting up is the right thing to do," Xaden cuts them all off. He rubs a hand across his face, feeling the edge of stubble against his fingers, "the question is: we need to be smart about our pairings."

"Put compatible signets together," Garrick says, "that could work, in theory."

"Where exactly are we headed?" one of the riders whose name escapes Xaden's memory, asks.

Brennan taps the furthest point on the map right along the northern border. It's a piece of land surrounded by high mountains and just the thought of climbing through that rough terrain has Xaden's stomach dip in apprehension.

"We're aiming for the north. The wards don't reach high up there, and the lack of grounding power makes it so that venin and wyvern cannot make it past the mountains."

"And what about our dragons?" Bodhi asks, "if there's no magic, no wards, will they be able to survive there?"

"Marbhe says it's not ideal but they'll survive," Brennan presses his lips together, "but it's important we move fast. We cannot waste any time."

So that's how it's decided that the riders of the rebellion will start moving away from the Riorson Manor. As much as it pains Xaden to leave his childhood home behind, he knows deep down that it's for the best, that staying here will only endanger all of the riders willingly sacrificing their lives to do something that thy feel is right.

He finds you in the early hours of the morning after hours and hours of careful, crafted planning with the rest of the riders, only to spot you by the window, legs curled up underneath with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You're so engrossed in gazing at the sunrise peaking over the mountains you don't notice him entering until he clears his throat.

"Xaden," your eyes widen in surprise. You straighten in your chair, the blanket slipping off your shoulder and showing off a slither of pale skin, "what are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you that myself," Xaden forces his eyes towards your face, blatantly trying to ignore how positively endearing you look swathed in too-big blankets that seem to drown you out, "why are you awake at this hour?"

"I couldn't sleep," you murmur as he crosses the room over to you, "I thought I might as well watch the sunrise. It's prettiest up here. Not the same as the one from Basgiath."

Sure enough, you know what you're talking about. The golden rays that glisten across the snow-tipped peaks is reminiscent of a victorian painting.

"It is," he agrees quietly.

But he feels your eyes on his face, as if processing the tiredness etched in his features, "why are you up till this early in the morning?" you ask quietly.

He leans against the wall, right at the edge of the window, and he feels the cold seep into his flight jacket, "had a meeting with the other riders."

"Did it go well?"

He bristles, looks away towards the view as his jaw clenches in thought, "we have to move soon."

"What?" your tone elevates in surprise, "what do you mean?"

"We're not safe here," his dark eyes find yours, "it's only a matter of time before the venin will find us."

"And where..." the words trail off along your tongue. You can only gape up at him, unsure of what to say, what to do, "where will we go?"

"Brennan found a place. It's not ideal, but it's necessary," he can't help but grimace at the thought, "we'll move tomorrow at midnight."

You stay quiet but he knows without a doubt you're positively thrumming with more questions. You're not one that is appeased by a few words, he's learnt that you're quite diligent in knowing all your sources before trusting the entirety of it. And he's come to admire that about you.

You may not have the strength of a rider. But your brain is just as smart as any tactician on the field, and that is something that isn't learnt.

"Hey," Xaden nudges your leg with his booted foot, and when your eyes flutter up to his, says, "think you should get some sleep."

You're about to protest, but then notice his pointed look -- the look that says you cannot argue with him -- before begrudgingly rising and moving towards your bed. Xaden follows as you crawl beneath the bed covers, propping himself along the corner of your mattress as you tuck yourself in.

"You should get some sleep too, Rider Riorson," you mumble against your blanket.

His hand reaches out without warning to brush a stray lock away from your forehead.

Your breath catches, body stilling.

His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, slowly moving down to trace the outline of your jaw--before finally dropping to your lower lip.

You swallow thickly, your body suddenly on full alert as your throat suddenly squeezes with nervousness.

"Xaden?" you breathe out.

His dark eyes are glazed over, almost like he's trapped in a daydream as he leans over and very gently -- taking all of the time in the world -- presses the softest of kisses against your temple.

You release a shaky breath you didn't know you were holding all this time.

"Goodnight Healer," his voice is a soft rumble, "I'll see you in the morning."

And then he stands and strides out without a backward glance, leaving you all hot and bothered underneath the blankets, with a racing heart and flushed cheeks as you are left staring at the closed door in a mixture of emotions you cannot quite define.

You had imagined it, you try to tell yourself. You had imagined the entire thing.

There's no way he'd been staring down at your lips like you're someone he wants to kiss.

It's all in your head.

It has to be.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The day that follows is filled with packing and trying to fit everything into a maximum of five small boxes per person. Brennan leaves instructions early in the morning for you to concoct as many brews and medicines as possible, which keeps you busy for the entirety of the day and most of the afternoon, until you look out of the window and realise that indeed, it is shy past six and you still haven't eaten lunch.

Thankfully, it seems that your rider friends have been thinking of you, for Liam and Sawyer pops in right afterwards with a sandwich plate and some cut up fruit, courtesy of Ridoc's ugly knife skills.

"The guy knows how to kill someone, but can't cut fruit to save his life," jokes Sawyer when you'd burst out laughing at the uneven squares of pear and apple lining the metal plate.

You take one last bath with one of the healing medicines concocted by yours truly, ensuring that you scrub your skin clean until you're tingling all over, before heading for your final dinner with the rest of the riders in the mess hall.

Rhiannon and Imogen are already present, wolfing down bowls of porridge as a huge plate of whole roasted chicken rests along the table, filling the table with its delicious aroma.

You approach uneasily, eyes darting between your bowl and Imogen. While you haven't exchanged many pleasantries with the said pink-haired rider, you're far from comfortable in her presence. She's more than a little intimidating. You swear you might cry if she looks at you wrong.

"Hey Tala," Rhiannon offers you an easy smile that you return quickly. You take a seat and start eating, trying your best to make yourself as small as possible.

"Are all medicines packed?" Imogen's sudden question startles you.

You jump, head whipping towards hers in surprise, "Y--Yes. I've just packed them all this afternoon."

"Good. I'll need a few boxes for my squad," Imogen resumes scarfing down her soup, "make sure they're sealed tight. We won't have any communication between squads when we move."

Something queasy tightens in your tummy, "do you know who I'm travelling with?"

"Not sure," Rhiannon shrugs, "we're all split up in terms of signets. I'm with Ridoc."

"They're putting offence and defence together, to make sure we at least have a chance," Imogen scoffs, "though I'm not sure how many of our squads will survive the crossing. It's practically suicide."

Her words do nothing to qualm the uneasiness building inside you, and that merely strengthens tenfold when you attend the final Battle Brief. You find a seat between Liam and Sawyer who both offer you kind smiles, ones that cause your stomach to curl with dread like you’ve just drunk spoiled milk. You hope against hope this isn’t the last time you’ll get to see them.

Brennan starts off the meeting by summarizing the route you will be taking for the next week, before he starts dividing squads into groups of five or six. You notice he is matching riders with diverse signets and that only makes the dread fill you up until it’s hard to breathe. Something— a little tiny voice at the back of your mind — tells you that you won’t be with Xaden.

The thought is enough to send fear skittling down your spine.

“—Liam, Abbigail, Richard, Penn, Tala and Garrick.”

You tense, stiff as a board.

Liam and Garrick. Definitely not with Xaden, then.

You can’t help but feel a bit disappointed by the choice.

“You have till eleven to pack all your things. We meet in the Mess Hall at eleven thirty. First group to depart at midnight on the dot. Then, we’ll keep intervals of two hours between each squad,” Brennan straightens from the dais where he’s been leaning all along then, “you may go. Bring only what’s necessary. Nothing more.”

Mind racing, you numbly follow the rest of the sea of riders scuttling out into the corridor and barely register walking back to your room until you push open your door—

Only to find Xaden standing there, back to you.

Breath hitching slightly, you frown at his silhouette, “Xaden,” you take a step forward, “are you done packing?”

He turns at your voice, dark eyes softening slightly and the sight renders your heart warm.

“Mostly,” he diverts his gaze towards your pack that’s almost keeling over from it’s weight, and his eyebrow perks up in question, “I think you might have overpacked.”

Your cheeks flush with embarrassment as you stumble to your pack, “I don’t have a choice. All the medicine is exclusively for healing riders in case of emergencies—“

But Xaden’s not listening. He snatches the pack out of your hands before emptying it out onto the floor in a mass of bandages and clattering metal pots and scattered books as thick as tomes.

“Hey! I—“

“You will not survive if the pack is twice your size,” he interrupts with a scowl as you watch how he deftly picks out less than half of your contents. He leaves all your books, all your journals about medicine and spices, and instead wraps rolls of bandages around small pots that will serve as first aid before shoving it all into your pack.

"But my books--"

"They're too heavy and from what I recall, you have a good memory," he sends you a pointed look, "you'll be fine."

Tying up the remaining knots of your pack, he gives the strings one harsh tug to ensure it's all in place before handing it back to you, "that should be better."

"I liked it better when you didn't meddle with my affairs," is what you mutter as you sling your pack over your arm. But in all honesty, Xaden's done you a big favour; your bag feels less like a walking brick and more like something that will not suffocate you in the span of an hour. You have to admire his thoughtfulness despite the brash way in which he presents himself.

"I liked it better when you were scared of me," he smirks.

Your head snaps to him, "I wasn't--"

"Tell me something I don't know, healer."

You can feel heat prick the back of your neck in growing embarrassment, "you are such a dick, Riorson."

"I am, yes," he steps closer, one hand reaching up to curl your hair behind your ear. His eyes darken with emotion and the tenderness found in his pupils makes your heart constrict, "but it seems you like that."

"I--I never said that," you can't think when he's so close like this.

If you reach out with your hand, you can touch his face. Just like he did with yours.

But will he pull away? It's Xaden Riorson after all, the commander of shadows. The man who doesn't let his mask fall for anyone, no matter what.

And you're not sure where you stand with him.

Unfortunately for you, what you blurt out is:

"I'm scared."

Xaden's gaze hardens.

You gape, eyes widening in shock at your own admission.

Idiot.

You feel like slapping yourself.

Of course you're scared. What does that make him?!

Idiot.

Oh gods, you wish for the ground to open up and swallow you whole right about now.

"Only fools wouldn't be," is what he murmurs in response. He takes another step closer, so close that his chest practically brushes against your healer uniform and you have to remind yourself to keep breathing, though all you do get in exchange is the subtle scent of mint and leather that renders your head dizzy.

"What if--Why were we separated?" you can't help but ask. Your voice is hesitant, fearful of what his answer might be. But it's important, it's been bugging you ever since the list came out.

"I have to be with Brennan," his jaw works. That beautiful sculpted jaw you wish to kiss, to touch with your naked fingers, "we'll close the rear. It's the only way we can make it out alive, if we're found by the venin."

"But I could be of help, if I--"

"No," his eyes flash with unmistakable emotion and you all but cringe back. Xaden softens then, as if he's controlling himself around you, to not scare you off, "no. I want you in front. I cannot have you close to me, not during battle."

"But I--"

"I've already lost important people in my life Tala," Xaden cuts you off, "I cannot lose any more."

You bite down onto your lower lip so hard that you draw blood, and he notices, for he lets out s soft hiss, hand lifting to touch your lower lip.

"Don't," his murmur is a rasp. He tugs gently onto your lower lip, "you're hurting yourself."

You swallow and nod, trying not to get lost in the way Xaden's eyes flicker from your eyes to your lips.

Your chest tightens. The breath catches in your throat.

"You promise me you'll be careful?" you whisper.

His head dips once. His hand slides up the back of your nape, head dipping down towards yours until your noses brush.

You let out a strangled breath, body stilling in growing anticipation.

The moment hangs in mid-air. As if the world has stopped, as if everything has fallen away for that one, little pocket of time.

Your world is suddenly reduced to Xaden, and Xaden alone. His imposing presence, his scent that invades your nostrils. His warmth that surrounds you, causing your knees to buckle.

But his arms are there, slipping around your middle to hold you up. And with one, swift motion, Xaden bends down to kiss you.

It's like fireworks.

They explode behind your lids. You gasp, your body practically stumbling against his as a satisfied rumble echoes through Xaden's chest. He kisses you softly. Once. Twice. More and more and more until you're nothing but a breathless heap against him, fists curling over the material of his riding leathers as you all but fall victim to everything that is Xaden Riorson.

His hand tightens around your nape, sliding up to cradle your jaw as he tilts his head to kiss you deeper. Longer. His tongue darts out, swiping against your lower lip in a tantalising request and you all but whimper against him, heart practically exploding out of your chest as you try to fight the overwhelming wave of feelings that crash through you like a tumultuous storm impossible to evade.

It's maddening. Addictive. And sexy, the way he kisses you like he knows exactly how to get you to respond to him. Pressing you even closer to his wall of muscle, a soft groan vibrates through his chest upon feeling you tremble in his grasp. As if he enjoys how you're unraveling for him.

He parts from you, murmurs against your mouth, "open up, doll," he rasps.

Then he's kissing you again, tongue pressing more insistently against your lips and letting out a stifled growl that vibrates through your very being when you finally part for him like melted butter.

"Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. You can only whimper in response, feeling his hand slide from your jaw, ghosting along your side to pin your hip to his. A possessive hold, a way to say you're mine.

It's hot. It makes your blood boil. It makes the world spin in all the best of ways.

His lips disconnect with yours at some point, traveling over your jawline as you all but tilt your head back in mercy. A soft gasp falls from your mouth, followed by a sharp whine that has you reddening to your toes, all because he's pressing dots upon dots of kisses along the column of your throat until he finds a patch of skin that he suckles on.

"Like that?" his murmur brushes against your skin, sending your brain into a haywire of lust and desire as he keeps on suckling at your sensitive spot.

You all but writhe against him, heat pooling in your tummy as you all but pant and breathe in staccato. You try to pull away when the feelings get a little too intense, but Xaden wants none of that, pinning you in an iron hold against his chest until you're a breathless heap.

"Xaden--" you stutter with ragged breaths. But he merely hums and proceeds to kiss his way back up your throat, nibbling along your jawline before finding your lips once more and kissing you with deep, passionate swipes of his tongue.

You're not sure how long you spend kissing Xaden like it's your last moment on earth together, but at some point he draws back, chest heaving and looking just as dishevelled as you feel -- which you're glad for, because honestly your brain is a scrambled mess of feelings and you're not sure where to place your heart.

His arms are still around you, thumb brushing along your hipbone through your healer uniform, and the heat of it causes you to flush bright red.

"That was..." you trail off, unsure of what to say, what to do.

What are you supposed to say in such a situation?

Clearly that means that he....he feels something for you?

He wouldn't be kissing you otherwise?

Or maybe--

Do riders do that?

Horror is an ice bucket that slaps you in the face.

Xaden, seemingly reading the shift in your features, can't help but chuckle before lifting his hand and flicking your forehead, "whatever's going on in that pretty little head, stop it now."

Your cheeks deepen with color, "sorry," you mutter, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze.

His thumb catches your jaw, tugs you up so that you have no choice but to look into those beautiful pools of onyx.

"You don't--do that right? With all the other riders...too..." you stammer, heart beating wildly out of your chest, "...or do you?"

Xaden stares at you for a solid minute.

And then, he bursts out laughing.

You gaze up at him, wondering if he's finally lost his mind. It takes him a moment to calm down, rubbing a hand over his face as he keeps on chuckling, "no little healer, I do not go around kissing every rider I see."

"I'm just asking," you protest with flushed cheeks, "Ridoc said you guys have sex all the time so--"

"So what?" his brow raises in that seductive, no--nonsense way of his and heat trickles through your tummy, "you think I go around fucking all my--"

"No!" You slap a hand over his mouth, mortified at his use of words, "Gods, you are so crude sometimes--"

Xaden just chuckles and kisses your palm. You yelp, jerking your arm away but he makes a grab for it, dragging it back to his lips before pressing another series of kisses along your knuckles.

You can't help but blush at the intensity in his eyes, at the seductive smirk along his lips, "stop looking at me like that," you mumble.

"Like what?" he grins against your hand.

You jerk your arm away once more and this time he allows it, grinning like a little boy while watching you make another grab for your pack and moving towards the doorway in an attempt to calm your flushed cheeks, the maddening beats of your heart.

"We're going to be late," you don't look at him for fear that you might run straight back into his arms. But before you can do anything else, you feel his fingers close around your forearm. He tugs you to him so that you all but fall into his chest, his arms wrapping around your frame in a gentle hug.

You're more than surprised. Xaden -- for what you've come to believe -- doesn't seem like the hugging type.

And yet, he's there, tucking his jaw atop your head and pinning you to his chest like he never wants to let go.

"You're safe with Liam," he murmurs against your hair, "I've given him strict orders to protect your life."

"He's not responsible for me," you mutter, "I can take care of myself--"

"You can barely hold a dagger," Xaden pulls back to look down at your face, eyebrows quirked up in that maddeningly attractive way of his, "I doubt you'll be able to kill anyone."

"Nobody said there had to be knives involved," you retort.

"Oh?" He smirks, "interesting."

You mumble out something along the lines of "stop making fun of me" before burying your face into his chest as emotion swells in your heart.

His arms tighten, lips finding the spot right atop your ear, "I'll see you on the other side."

You nod, not trusting your voice as you all but close your eyes and try to remember every crevice, every scent, every line of his body so that these memories can keep you company on nights when you feel like it gets a little too lonely.

For now, that will have to do.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“Fuck it’s cold out here.”

It’s been no more than two hours since you’ve departed from the Riorson Manor, and needless to say the scrawny-looking cadet named Penn has been complaining ever since.

From what you'd gathered from Liam, he'd still been a fresh first-year who barely made the cut up the Gauntlet when they decided to fly out and join the rebellion. And while his values were all in the right place, Penn seemed like a spoilt child who still hadn't understood the gravity of the situation.

Either that, or he's an idiot.

"Will you stop complaining?" the other first-year who you suspect is named Abbigail, snaps at him. Her wild, unruly hair is practically untamed with the harsh winds blowing from the mountaintops and her face is half-covered with her knitted scarf, "it's bad enough we have to travel in this fucking storm without you whining like a baby."

"I would shut up but I can't feel my legs!" he hollers back from a few paces behind.

"You two shut up!" Garrick bellows. He whips around from his front position and sends them a glare so scary that even you duck behind Liam just in case he might burn you alive, "unless you want me to throw you off that cliff, which I will if you keep going!"

That does indeed shut them up.

"Didn't know he had it in him," is what you mutter behind Liam's back.

That causes the blonde to chuckle, "oh if only you'd seen him on mat. Everyone's afraid of him. I'd say some even more than Xaden."

That surprises you. Xaden is --if you don't know him -- someone that instills fear just by being present.

The trek is long and the road uneven. More often than not you find yourself stumbling across loose rocks and if not for Liam's steady hand that shoots out to catch you every single time, your body would've probably been rolled off that mountain already. The dragons are nowhere in sight, though Liam reassures you that they're circling the area and trying their best to lay low so as not to attract any attention from unwanted visitors.

You finally cross your first peak at around six in the evening before Garrick announces that you will be setting up camp for your first night. Liam helps you build your tent, a supportive and warm presence that bathes your side everywhere you go and for that you're glad, despite the fact that he feels more like a babysitter than a friend. Multiple times you've apologised only for him to shake his head and tell you that he'd do anything for Xaden, and if that means protecting you, then so be it.

"Besides," Liam flashes you that dimpled grin that would make any girl swoon, "you're good company. Wouldn't have it any other way."

The next day is just as long. Tedious and slow. Penn rolls his ankle the wrong way during the first hour and you lose some time on foot while bandaging him and wrapping his injured limb in a healing balm made of mint and fresh aloe. That takes away your lunch break, with Garrick passing along some snacks that will keep you fuelled with strict orders that if you stop you'll be cooked meat.

But it's on the third night that you encounter your first problem.

It's already night time when you spot a flicker of a flame shining in the distance, a dot against the blank canvas of black. Garrick stiffens, causing everyone else to pause behind him.

He holds out a steady hand, eyes glued on the piece of flame shining like a beacon.

"Is that someone from the previous squad?" Penn whispers.

"Don't know," Liam murmurs back, "but they'd be stupid to light something in the dark like that."

"What if it's an ambush?" you mutter.

Liam throws you a glance, "not impossible."

"Liam, stay here with the squad," Garrick's eyes stay glued on the flicker of light, "I'll go see what that is."

"Got it."

You hold your breath, chest tightening with anxiety as you watch Garrick's form dissolve into the depths of the dark mountainside. Your heart beats like a hummingbird and you swear everyone can hear it, clamping your hands by your sides to stop them from shaking.

For once, it seems everyone is on the same side. Even loudmouthed Penn seems subdued as you all wait with bated breath.

And then, Garrick's voice breaks through the night.

"Run!"

All hell breaks loose.

You barely have time to register anything when Liam's arm snatches you against him. He tugs and you follow in a scrambling heap of tangled legs as he sprints for it. You follow, barely able to keep up with his long strides as bushes and leaves whack you across your shoulders and face.

Liam rounds the rocky edge and ducks through an opening, dragging you with him as a flurry of footsteps echo from behind. He finds a crevice and doesn’t hesitate to shove you into the hole so that you tumble straight into the rocky darkness before he follows suit, as do Penn and Abbigail. You hear Garrick yell out, followed by a dragon’s roar as a searing burst of flame projects through the midnight air and you cringe back, feeling Liam move in front of you in an attempt to shield you from whatever incoming enemy.

Finally, you spot Garrick’s frame as he slides through the opening. He grunts, grabbing hold of a huge piece of rock before jamming it into the hole and swathing you all in the dark.

“What was that?” Penn’s voice echoes from your right side, trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline and fear.

Your own heart is beating a hundred miles an hour, and you wince when a light suddenly blooms into the cave. It’s Garrick, holding up a conjured mage light from his magic.

“Think it was an injured wyvern,” he says, “the dragons sensed it. But there were no venin in the vicinity, which is weird considering everything.”

“That’s not possible,” Liam says from beside you. You notice he still as a protective arm in front of your body, “the wyvern can’t survive without the venin.”

“It was injured. Looks like it was left to die,” Garrick rubs at his jaw thoughtfully, “anyway, I asked my dragon to relay the message to the other groups. If there’s an injured wyvern around, that means they’re not too far. And if they get wind of this…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. It’s clear what might happen if the venin find their trial.

Fear, jet cold and icy, runs down the back of your spine and makes a grab for your throat, squeezing tight.

“So do we wait here? We’re losing precious time,” says Penn.

“Until the dragons say it’s clear,” Garrick replies, “we do not move.”

“But what if they find us?” Asks Abbigail, fear laced in her tone.

“They won’t,” Garrick says firmly, “we just need to wait it out. The next squad is not far off anyway. They can give us reinforcements if needed.”

The wait is long, and dark, and suffocating. You’re not a fan of the dark, and definitely not a fan of cramped spaces. But tiredness takes over and soon you find yourself drifting off until a hand shakes you awake a few hours later.

You realize, with a furious blush, that you’ve been snoring onto Liam’s back all this time. You straighten and splutter out, “I’m—so sorry!—“

“It’s okay,” he grins, “just don’t tell Riorson or he might actually kill me.”

You blush even more and he laughs before motioning you towards the opening.

The coast is clear and the squad resumes their trek. You push through silently despite the fact that your legs are literally screaming in protest. Abbigail is a little more vocal about her fatigue, complaining and moaning every time Garrick says “just a little more.”

It takes you another two days before you finally reach the edge of the mountain range and by then the air has warmed somewhat into a tropical breeze as you look out over the top peak and take in the silent magnificence of the landscape that splays beyond your vision, a colourful painting of green and brown and orange, a stark contrast to the snow-ridden peaks you've been seeing up till now.

It feels like summer, and already you can feel yourself relax amidst the low-hanging clouds drifting through the sky in pink-tinted hues.

"Well," Garrick's eyes are sweeping over the landscape as he poises his hands along his hips, "I guess we shall call that home."

Home.

You look back at the mountain range, the sea of trees, and a knot tightens in your stomach.

It doesn't feel like home yet. But it will have to do.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

[mae-gi-writes]

second wind . 3 . xaden riorson (fourth wing)

Xaden doesn't believe in second chances until he meets you.

genre: slowburn, fluff, suggestive content, mentions of death, violence and abuse. Reader is a Healer. iron flame spoilers so don't read if you haven't read iron flame and if you do read it, don't blame me TT.TT

a/n: Happens after the fight at Resson. Don't come after me. I love Xaden and Violet and this is just for shits and giggles so if you don't like it please just ignore it. Also, let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! This one's gonna be quite a long one <3

taglist: @sorrybaeeeeee @lalameors @skxawngs @nesiris21 @ambivalence-is-me @fourthmarvel @kahlan170 @bubybubsters @shadowmarurader @acourtofmarvels @shadow-dancer37 @smileysunshinesworld @atukiyou @rv19 @sunflouer04 @wildmavs

part one | part two | part three | part four

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

It's been a few days but still, your injury is still as bold as ever, a multicoloured bruise that ranges from yucky yellow to a seaweed green and which has now decided to start transforming into an ugly blue. While you're out and about puttering over Brennan's new medicine recipes and trying to keep up with the demands of the numerous fliers and riders alike, your spare time is reduced with you trying your best to heal your face so that no one can stare it down and wonder how in the world you got that on you.

Yes, you, who barely knows how to fight. Barely understands the concept of it all.

And Xaden, poor Xaden is feeling completely responsible for your newly-battered up look. You can tell from the way he visits you every evening after meetings, even when it's way past bedtime only to snark about the importance of ice compressions.

"I have too many things to deal with. A bruised Healer who can't heal herself is going to be a problem," is his biggest excuse.

He says it with the same bite, the same roughness of that of a Wingleader. But you know him now, or have learnt to know of his ways.

He cares. In that fucked up way of his, that's what he means.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Once upon a time you would have relished in the attention, your heart thumping a hundred miles an hour at the prospect of spending it with someone you care deeply for, someone who renders your insides to mush and causes butterflies to scurry along your tummy.

But truth to be told, it's more embarrassing than anything else to have big, strong Xaden concerned about whether you've been diligently applying your ice pack when he's out there practically battling for his life and mounting dragons like it's a rollercoaster ride.

You can't help but feel somewhat pathetic in comparison.

"You don't have to hover over me. I'll do it when I have time," is what you mumble out for the umpteenth time, keeping your hands busy packing up medicine pockets for each rider going on expedition.

"I don't trust you," Xaden replies simply, his own hands busy wrapping the said ice pack into a towel. Satisfied, he strides over and sits next to you before pressing the ice pack straight into your cheekbone.

You groan at the pain skittering across your temple, down your nose bridge, "I'm a healer. I can heal myself."

"Like you healed the wound you got from Liam?" Xaden scoffs, "which is, by the way, still here?"

"Okay well you guys aren't giving me a break with the sparring and all that."

"If you want to learn how to fight, you have to learn how to heal quickly and efficiently."

"If I recall correctly, Riorson," you narrow your eyes up at him, "I wasn't the one insisting on getting sparring lessons."

"I liked it better when you were scared of me," his brow lifts in a challenge.

"I wasn't--I was not!"

Xaden's mouth curls into that beautiful, charming smile of his and for a minute you forget how to breathe, "you were. Are you still?"

"I'm not," you insist and your hand slams down onto the crusher as if to prove a point.

Xaden lets out a laugh. It's natural, falling out of him so casually that you cannot help but stare because--is Xaden Riorson actually laughing?

That's new to you.

Up until today, you didn't even know he could laugh.

You don't realise how creepy you are being by staring him down like he's got a hole in his face, until his words snap you back to reality:

"What?"

"Oh--nothing," you resume your crushing, glad that you have something to do with your hands. You can feel your cheeks heating up with embarrassment, "I just--I think you should laugh more."

Shifting to get another angle of your bruise, Xaden's brow furrows, "should I be thanking you?"

"No," you chuckle, "but you can be a bit less...stingy. Not just grumpy all the time--"

"Who said I was grumpy?"

You can't help but bark out a laugh of your own at the sight of his offended face, wincing when it hurts your cheek, "you are a grumpy butt. Like, literally all the damn time."

He scowls but says nothing. His hold is firm on the ice pack, the cold finally numbing your cheek long enough that you can't feel a thing.

Your eyes slide over to his face almost impulsively, realising for the first time that this isn't just something he'd do for anyone. That this moment in itself is quite intimate. And he's close. A rush of warmth skittles down the back of your spine and your body shifts away on reflex, as though being close to him might make you do something unconsolable.

"How was the meeting?" you ask in an attempt to distract yourself from the wave of overwhelming feelings that threaten to tip you over the edge.

He turns to face you and you get a whiff of pine and smoke and mint. A deadly combination that causes you to suck in a breath, "it seems that the Wards are failing," he states in that clipped tone that suggests he is more concerned than he's letting on, "and we don't know why."

"What?" You blink, "but--that's impossible--"

"It's not," he cuts you off, "and with that, we have a troop of wyvern ready to attack us in two days' time. If we don't get them up quickly enough Aretia will be gone in a heartbeat."

Fear consumes your very being. You can only stare at him like he's grown another set of eyes, "but...how will--" you shake your head, "what happens now?"

"We find a way to fix the wards."

"And if you don't?"

His eyes lock on yours. For a moment, you forget to breathe.

"Then we're as good as dead."

Oh. Oh fuck.

He's serious.

The information crashes into you like a tidal wave as dread starts filling your stomach with knots that tighten the more you think about it. Staring down at the crushed medicine in your bowl, you can't help but wonder, in all of this, how Xaden manages to cope when there's so many things to take care of, so many responsibilities to shoulder. Surely he is going a bit mad, taking all of this in by himself?

He shifts, releasing the ice pack from your cheek and you turn to look at him in growing concern. His entire body is rigid with tension, jaw working as he stares at a random spot in the distance.

"Are you..." the question is tentative. Almost shy, "are you okay?"

His head snaps to you. Onyx eyes lock on yours.

You hold his gaze. Your heart thunders.

You're not sure if what you just asked was a big mistake.

But seeing Xaden so pent up with emotion has you wondering what else he's keeping underneath it all, when no one's looking.

No wonder he hurts himself, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers.

After what seems like an eternity trapped in silence, the shadow wielder's shoulders deflate and he looks away, "define 'okay'."

His voice is clipped. Cold.

But he's speaking. And that's better than you could've asked for.

You continue in a rush, wanting to keep him talking, to have him open up in some way, so that he doesn't go back to his room and does something unthinkable that might hurt him, scar him forever.

"Are you feeling...like you're able to cope with all of this?" your voice is merely above a murmur.

You don't want to push him. And yet, you feel like he might be holding on to so much. It might hurt him. And he might take it out somewhere undesirable.

He might take it out on himself.

"Someone has to," is his answer. His jaw ticks, "no one got anything done by moping."

"No," you search his face, try to read those stony features of a man that knows all too much, "but no one got anything done alone, either."

Xaden's eyes flit up to yours. It's almost like you've shocked him, though his expression quickly settles back into that cold nonchalance you've come to know, "we might have a way to lift the wards again," he says, "but that all depends on whether our translation is right."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a scribe. Jesinia," he leans back onto the bed, arm brushing your shoulder and sending a sizzle of heat along your limb, "Her and Dain— another rider— are trying to piece together information from one of the First Six."

"The..." the revelation has your eyebrows bolt up, "what?"

Xaden nods, "they found it from Basgiath's archives. Don't ask me how. It might contain useful information about raising the wards. We don't know what yet."

"And you're hoping they're right?"

He sucks air between his teeth, "yes."

"But— aren’t you scared?”

Xaden doesn't answer right away. He gazes down at you in that probing, questioning manner that makes your heart twinge. Like he's trying to unravel the meaning behind your words. And you fear he might find out all too quickly, too easily.

Your eyes dart back to your bowl.

"Why do I have the feeling that you're trying to make me talk about my feelings?"

You blink up at him through your lashes and, prodded by the amusement curling along his lips, say, "because I feel like you never do. And if you don't, no wonder these frustrations come out..." you motion towards his arm silently, at the unseen scars lining his forearms, "...in a different way. And...I don't want that to happen again."

"Why?"

You frown, "what do you mean why?"

His face flashes with emotion.

"Why do you give a fuck?"

Flinching at his words, you mumble, "because I...care...about you."

The words ring in the stillness of the room. It’s so quiet you can almost hear a pin drop. Your heart skyrockets through the back of your throat as Xaden stares at you like he’s actually never seen you before.

Clearing your throat and forcing out a laugh that sounds brittle in the sudden silence, you stumble through a series of words in hopes that you’re making sense:

“Obviously… like how a friend would care— about the other…” but your voice trails off when you meet his gaze and take note of the way his eyes have flared with realization.

He knows.

Oh shit.

He knows. Because you’re a bad liar and it’s written all over your face.

You want to run.

You want the ground to swallow you up.

Anything really. To get away from this.

Oh gods.

Your eyes flit to the other end of the room. Standing up abruptly and grabbing onto the bowl for dear life, you make quick work of creating some distance as you stammer out, “in any case, I don’t want it to happen again and it’s not good for you. Take it out somewhere else, on something else,” you put the bowl down at the other end of the room where all the medicine bowls are set, “Just not on yourself.”

You feel it first. Before you see it.

The shadow that unfurls at your feet.

It curls around the back of your calf, a soft caress that leaves your breath shaky.

Oh gods, and now he’s toying with you? He’s the kind of guy that would mess with you wouldn’t he? Just because it entertains him?

So caught up you are in your own delusions that you barely notice the said young man crossing the room, coming to a halt behind your frame.

That is, until he speaks.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

You jump, the yelp dying at the back of your throat at the closeness. You can feel his warm breath hitting your nape, and force yourself to stay still.

You turn slowly, breath hitching at the closeness of your two bodies.

“I—“ you gulp, “I know who you are.”

“No you don’t,” his voice drops lower. In the corner of your eye you spot his shadows drifting around him, restless, as if overtaken by too much emotion.

“I don’t need to know all of you to care about you, Xaden.” You say in a hoarse whisper.

He hisses in a breath. Face rigid, stormy, a mixture of emotions flitting across his face.

“You don’t mean that.” He says.

“I do.”

“No you don’t.”

You let out a frustrated breath, “I’m not here to argue with you if that’s what you’re looking for.”

He just stares you down, stormy rage in those dark pools of black as the silence fills the room with heavy tension. It’s almost too thick that you can’t swallow for fear of what will come next.

Not being able to stand it any longer, you’re the one to break away first, shuffling to the right to avoid brushing against him.

When he speaks next, his voice is heavy with a weight you can only identify as guilt.

“I cannot give you what you want.”

You cover the bowl with a plate, place it atop the shelf where all medicines are kept, “I don’t expect you to give me anything.”

“There’s too much shit happening for me at the moment for me to explore whatever the hell that is,” at the corner of your eye, you spot him leaning back against one of the beds, and feel the brush of his shadow tendrils along your shoulder. You don’t need to ask, knowing full well he’s referring to your situation, “so whatever it is you’re feeling, put a stop to it right now.”

You pause in mid-action, scoff, “I cannot just pause my feelings,” you shake your head slightly, “it doesn’t work that way. Like I said, I’m not expecting anything from you.”

“For Dunne’s sake,” Xaden mutters under his breath loud enough for you to hear and before you reply he’s already storming towards you and grasping your shoulder to swivel you around. His eyes are filled with too many emotions to decipher, mouth pursed into a beginning of a scowl.

“I mean it Tala,” his voice drops to a growl, “it’s only going to hurt. I cannot love you like —“

His voice breaks with emotion and your chest squeezes tight as you watch this man — this strong, cold and unstoppable man — practically unravel and break at your feet.

You want to reach out and hug him close. Your hands ache to trace his scar, to cup his cheek and tell him that everything will be okay.

But it’s not right. Not when he’s actively pushing you away.

And it’s the crushing realization of the weight of his words that do it for you. So you step back like he’s just slapped you — because he has, just not in the way that leaves a bruise. This wound splits open your heart — and try to force your lips into a smile.

“I know,” you feel the rush if tears stinging the corner of your eyes, force the rock that is suddenly lodged in the back of your throat, “like I said, again and again, I don’t expect anything," you look away, "can we just pretend this never happened?”

There’s a small pause on his part. Then he says in a clipped tone, “happy to.”

That spears another arrow through your chest but you try your best to smooth your features into an impassive mask. You nod and without another word — and for fear that you might break down in front of him — you hurry out of the healer’s quarters like fire is at your heels.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“Everyone already knows where they will be dispatched,” Brennan points towards the hand-drawn map — apparently one of the first-year’s signets is to recreate on paper whatever they’ve seen through sight — where the various mountain peaks are visible to those that are familiar with the land, “this is where we’ll have the best chance to corner them before they find the Manor. We don’t want them to get to that point.”

“And if they do?” Dain asks while crossing his arms, his face a mixture of worry and suspicion.

A few murmurs scatter across the hall. You fidget on your chair, Liam to your right, and silently wonder the same.

Because while everyone will be out there, you will be here. Alone. Inside.

Brennan presses his lips together a firm line, “we have barracks in the basement. They run deep, but there’s no escape outside of the Manor. Whoever’s inside needs to make sure they have a safe exit strategy.”

He’s obviously saying this for your sake as everyone will be on the battlefield that day. A knot forms in your stomach as you think of tomorrow.

Another rider raises her hand and Brennan motions for her to speak, “what about the wards? Who’s going to try and get them up?”

“Yeah, we won’t be able to fend them off forever,” another one complains.

“A few of our riders will be working on it,” Brennan’s eyes flit across the room and pauses for a second at the far back, and you don’t have to be a genius to know that he’s gazing at Xaden, probably sending him silent signals. That, too, sends another knot to curl in your stomach like you’ve eaten something terrible.

You and Xaden hadn’t spoken ever since that particular night. And while your entire being is dying to know how he is — you toss and turn and worry about his wounds, especially when he sends Liam or Imogen to fetch his ointment — you restrain yourself, knowing that this is what you’ve agreed on. Your feelings are yours to deal with, and you have to respect his as well. While that conversation has given you an insight on his own feelings towards you — which you are also doubtful of considering he’s never quite frank — you know, deep down, that you will never be able to replace Violet, nor be worthy of him the way she had been.

And that hurts more than you can ever imagine.

The meeting is finally adjourned and you follow Liam and Ridoc out in the corridor for dinner. It’s going to be a long day, so everyone seems keen on filling their tummies and going to bed early. The hall is filled to the brim by the time you grab plates, pick off various types of stew and rice, before squeezing in at the riders’ table.

“What will you be doing Tala?” Rhiannon asks with a furrow between her brows, “when we’re out tomorrow?”

“I’m supposed to stay here in case people are injured,” you reply.

“Alone?” Sawyer echoes in surprise.

You dip your head into a nod, pushing some food around in your plate, “it’ll be fine,” you offer them a quick smile, “they won’t get to the Manor. You guys will take them down before they do.”

“As much as I’m flattered, I think you should at least have one rider with you,” Ridoc retorts, “can’t we ask a cadet maybe?”

“Maybe one that has a protection signet,” Liam suggests.

“No, no guys,” you’re quick to interrupt, “I appreciate it, but you’ll need every single rider out there. I’ll be fine.”

Dinner is over too soon and you trudge up the stairs with Liam in tow, demeanor quiet and his brow furrowed in a permanent frown that makes you wonder what’s going on inside that mind of his.

You finally crack upon reaching your door and turn to Liam with crossed arms, “what is it?”

He looks down at you with guilt written all over his face, shifting from one foot to the other like a kid about to get scolded.

“Are you sure you’ll be fine?” Is what he finally asks, voice hoarse.

Your heart caves and you soften, “yes, I’m sure.”

“What if they attack you?”

“They won’t. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Yeah but—“ he presses his lips into a firm, tight line and averts his eyes towards the ground, “you never know what might happen.”

Your hand reaches you to grasp his forearm in what you hope is a comforting gesture, “just focus on staying alive, alright?” You try to be as firm as possible, “I have the basement. That’s what Brennan was talking about earlier. They’ll never catch me. And plus— Xaden’s been training me a bit.”

Mentioning Xaden turns your stomach sour and makes your heart ache. You shove all the feelings down where you can’t quite reach and force another smile onto your face as you look up at your blonde friend.

“Fine,” Liam’s throat bobs. There are no words as his arm wounds around your shoulder to pull you into a hug. You allow yourself to hug him back, arms tightening around his middle as his heartbeat echoes through your ear.

You pray to Malek that he doesn’t take any of them away, the people that have now become so familiar in your life. You can’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to them so soon.

You just hope he can hear you.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

You’re crying again.

He can hear it. Can feel it through the restless pulse of his shadows overlooking your room.

There’s no one to blame but himself.

Xaden Riorson stands before your room door and wonders whether he’s about to make a colossal mistake.

But no matter how much he tries to force his body away— it seems insistent to be here, as if walking away is not an option until he’s certain that the young woman on the other side of the door is okay.

Having dismissed your feelings has left a sour, bitter taste along Xaden’s tongue, and though he’s controlled himself so as not to visit you, made sure you’re at arms length whenever you two are in the same room, and forced his eyes away whenever he feels your own on his face, that doesn’t mean that his chest doesn’t twinge with guilt every time he catches a glimpse of the sadness in your eyes, the way your head bows like you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself.

The thing is, Xaden isn’t used to someone being so openly honest that it baffles him the first few times you do it. Almost like it’s second nature, like there isn’t anything to hide. And there isn’t, because your life doesn’t revolve around the revolution or the secrets and the lies that every rider keeps hidden beneath their flight leathers.

And that is jarring. Mentally, emotionally. But also, the fact that he cannot read you— and yet, it’s like he knows you. Maybe better than you know yourself.

The contrast is what makes him pull away. He cannot give back to you everything you do for him, and he knows — as per his prior experiences— that his relationships are always strained due to that very same reason.

You’re not like Violet. She is strong and resilient, a petite woman formed by grit and death and a fiery stubbornness to live. She acts on what is right, pushes his buttons in ways no one else can, and breaks him down like it’s a chess game for her beautiful scribe mind.

But you’re different. Gentle, kind — too kind — and flowing like water. You seep through the cracks in the walls he’s built around himself, your face an open book of feelings and thoughts. And — you talk to him. Actually talk. To him. Not at him. No through him. Confront him about his feelings, force him open with gentle fingers. It’s clear you’re used to taking care of people. But Xaden isn’t used to it. To be taken care of and nurtured. Handled like something that can break.

His fist tightens at his sides upon hearing you qualm your sob into a hiccup, the sound muffled against the other side of the door. He pictures you hunched over, alone in the room, filled with nothing but this overwhelming sadness and has the sudden urge to barge through. Maybe hold you so that your tears roll to a stop.

Anything, really, so that you stop hurting.

His hand flexes and he folds it into fists at his sides. Forces himself to turn away and walk down the corridor until there’s only the wind and his echoing footsteps that accompany him.

His shadows flicker, as if restless, but he pays them no mind as he continues on, propelling his legs forward all the way until he finds his room.

Xaden has made a promise to himself. Ever since that night, he’s promised himself that no matter what, he needs to stay away from you.

Because he doesn’t deserve you, if he cannot give all of himself.

And he’s selfish. But you mean too much to him.

Gods, he sounds so pathetic. A complete moron, surely.

The next day comes around all too soon and sure enough as the cadets file out into the cold morning air all around the Riorson Manor, he spots Sgaeyl amidst the flock of dragons landing atop the field a few acres away. All riders have been regrouped into teams and are now discussing strategies as Xaden strides towards his dragon. He spots Garrick and Imogen in a heated debate in the distance and— upon catching Bodhi’s eye — causes his brow to rise in question.

“Hey Riorson,” Bodhi says as Xaden moves closer while fiddling with his flight goggles, “wanna get in on this?”

“No thank you,” Xaden retorts.

“Garrick’s being an overprotective bastard, as per usual,” Bodhi continues despite his answer and Xaden has to crack a smile at the domesticity of it all. It feels nice to have a semblance of normal in this otherwise abnormal situation, “something about Imogen not having enough weapons—“

“—you are insane!” Garrick’s voice cuts through like a knife. He’s motioning towards the pink-haired rider with an aggressiveness Xaden seldom finds, “two daggers? Who in gods name goes to battle with two daggers?!”

“Calm the fuck down, Tavis,” Imogen snaps, “and it’s not two, it’s five. Get it right—“

“Five daggers!” Garrick’s face turns deep red, “don’t be an idiot. Just grab your swords—“

“Okay,” Xaden steps back, turns to Bodhi with a shake of his head, “definitely not getting into that.”

Bodhi’s laughter follows him all the way to where his dragon is perched atop the stretch of white snow, and her golden eyes blink down at him lazily in greeting when he approaches.

Pressing a hand to her front leg, Xaden allows himself to feed off her warmth as her voice echoes through the bond.

You have not resolved things with the Healer, Sgaeyl blinks in that very condescending way that somehow makes her resemble what his mother would’ve looked like, why is that so?

There’s nothing to resolve. She wants something I cannot give.

He doesn’t have to look up to know that his dragon’s eyes are on him. Measuring, calculating, as though trying to comb through his throng of thoughts and feelings.

But even he isn’t certain how to feel, when it comes to you.

You are too harsh on her.

Xaden lets out a loud sigh, you’re going to have to be pick a side here. One might start to believe you actually like her.

I never said I did not, Sgaeyl retorts, she is the kind of human that does not enjoy violence, and that’s hard to find these days. For that, I respect her.

His dragon is right. You’re too delicate for this world. His hand flexes as his thoughts flit back to you; to the sound of your sobs muffled on the other side of the door.

When he’d stood and did nothing.

Speaking of the devil, Sgaeyl’s rumble vibrates through her chest, causing the said rider to look over his shoulder and—

There you are. Squished between Liam and Rhiannon who seem all to intent on trying to keep you alive. And there, a few paces away, is a fierce looking Cat storming over looking like hell is keeling over.

I believe you need to go to her, comes Sgaeyl’s soft growl, before she gets eaten alive.

You’re right, Xaden responds. It’s never good news whenever Cat is concerned.

That's how he finds himself striding over to catch the last remnants of the conversation happening between the tall Gryphon Flier and the timid healer looking like she might just bolt at any given moment.

Needless to say, Rhiannon and Liam flanking your sides look like they might just burn Cat to death.

"—You think a man who commands shadows and armies wants a woman who only knows how to mend broken bones? Please." Cat is scoffing, her back to Xaden.

He crosses his arms over his chest and catches Liam's eye, raising his brows in mock amusement.

“He needs a force of nature by his side, someone with power in their own right, not—“ Cat’s gaze settles on Tala's hands. She sneers, “—Not someone with hands meant for poultices and bandages. You are not a partner, you're a damn distraction."

"I beg to differ," he says from behind.

The said flyer whirls around with a mixture of shock and surprise.

“Xaden," her neutral mask slides back into place. She straightens as the said rider steps closer, her nostrils flaring upon taking note of the hard lines of his features.

"Mairi," Xaden says, eyes still on the flyer, "do me a favour and accompany our lovely guest back to where she belongs."

"On it," and Liam's grabbing hold of Cat, dragging her by the arm despite her flurry of protests, "how dare you lay a hand on me! I was simply reminding her of her place—“

“Save it for another day Cat,” Xaden lifts a hand, cuts her off. His eyes find yours.

And you swear you feel butterflies erupt through your stomach.

Damnit. He's hot.

He takes a slow, steady step towards you.

"Mathias," his onyx pools are intense on your soft maroon as he continues, "I'll take it from here."

"Don't make her cry again, Riorson," comes Rhiannon's snarky reply before she's off, jogging towards her dragon on the other side of the field.

You don't protest as Xaden swivels and walks back to where he's come from, don't say a word when you feel the insistent tug of his shadow wrapping around your wrist like a firm, yet appeasing touch that sends skittles of warmth down the back of your spine. You stumble after him, fear pricking your brain upon taking note that he's walking straight into his dragon, and that the last time you have met Sgaeyl you'd almost gotten yourself cooked into barbecue.

"Uhm," you halt to a stop a few paces away from Sgaeyl. Gods, you should get used to it at this point. But she's massive, practically encapsulating your entire viewpoint, and you'd be an idiot to not fear her. You can feel the thrum of power vibrating off her body even from this distance.

"I think I'll just...yeah. I'll just stay back."

Xaden merely throws you a look over his shoulder and before you know it, the shadow tendril crawls up your arm, and yanks. You have no choice but stumble closer, watching with horror-stricken eyes as the brooding young man halts right underneath Sgaeyl's massive mouth.

“Tell me,” he orders. It’s a firm command, definitely coming from a Wingleader.

Your eyebrows furrow, “tell you?…what, exactly?”

“What she said.”

“You heard what she said.”

His dragon snorts as if to laugh and wet heat splatters your face.

Malek save you. You have no desire to be eaten today.

Xaden turns and pins you down with that hard, unyielding stare, “I want to hear it from your mouth.”

"Well if you must know word for word; she said that a man who commands shadows and armies wants a woman that--"

"Not. That." He growls.

"Oh, then she said that what you needed was a partner," your eyes lower then, "...not a distraction."

Even as you say it, you can taste the sourness of the words coating your tongue, and from the way Xaden's gazing at you with that hard, unbreakable stare that can make anyone run for the hills, you're certain that's far from what he'd wanted to hear, too.

"And you?" he takes a step closer. His figure swathed in shadows, muscle ticking in his jaw, "what do you think?"

"I--" your mouth opens. Closes with uncertainty as a pang of insecurity hits you, and you focus on a spot along his rider's vest, "there's nothing to think about. These are facts. She was just telling the truth."

"Really?" he takes another step closer and this time you can practically feel the warmth rolling off him in waves. This man's literally a damn radiator and almost involuntarily makes your cheeks flush with heat.

His voice drops to a murmur that has your stomach coiling with nerves, "that's what you really think?" his voice darkens with a dangerous lilt, "that she's telling the truth?"

"I don't...know."

Xaden merely stares you down. His height is intimidating, your head tilting up as you try forcing yourself to return his gaze despite the fact that every second makes you want to shrivel up, maybe crawl into a hole and disappear.

Every hard line of his body is taut with tension, the atmosphere thick with palpable heat that has your heart thundering for god knows what reason. You blink down and bite onto your lower lip, the fresh memory of his words back in the healers' room slicing through your heart like a sharp knife.

The truth is, you really don't know whether whatever words spouting from her mouth is a bluff. How can you? When the man standing before you has said out loud that he cannot give you everything? That he's still grieving someone else, that he's still in love with a ghost of his past, and that there's no way in hell his heart will be able to be whole, ever again?

It's almost tentative, the way his hand reaches out in the space between your bodies. It hovers right along your cheek, only for him to drop it at his side like he's thought better of it.

"Let me make one thing clear," is what he says instead.

His voice is soft enough that nobody else can hear him amidst the roaring winds and the huffing of dragons in the vicinity. And for that, you're glad.

"I don't like distractions," he moves a little closer until his boots touch your healer sandals. His voice is rough, thick with emotion, almost like he can't quite restrain himself, "I don't entertain anything that isn't useful to me. I break them and I throw them away."

Your breath catches. Soft maroon clash with dark onyx.

His hand slides up, pushing away a stray strand of hair from your cheek. You let out a shaky exhale, pinned down by his unwavering stare filled with so much unrestrained emotion it makes your head spin.

"You're not a distraction," he murmurs, "you're a problem."

You blink.

"A pint-sized problem who can't even hold a dagger right," his voice turns raspy when his hand finally cups your cheek, thumb brushing against skin, "a problem who's tending to everyone's wounds except hers, it seems."

His eyes flicker over the fading bruise he'd given you a few days ago, a testament to his words, and you're feeling more at a loss than ever.

"I--uhm..." your heart is pounding in your ribcage and you try to speak, only for your words to come out breathless, ragged, "I'm not sure what you mean."

"I think you know exactly what I mean," he draws away then, drops his hand, and you feel the cold distance between your bodies more than you'd like to admit, "You're a problem to me and I have no fucking idea what to do with you. But I'm tired of fighting it, whatever it is."

Hope and doubt both crash into you simultaneously. Here is a man who's told you a few nights ago that he cannot give you his entire heart because part of that died with him, with his first love back in Resson.

And now?

"You're confusing me," you say, voice small.

There's a flash of unmistakable guilt in his eyes before he settles back into that cold, intense mask you're so used to seeing. Without another word, his hand goes to grasp the back of your neck and -- giving you enough time to pull away if you want to -- tugs you in so that you stumble straight into his chest.

He smells nice, like a mixture of riding leather, mint and something completely Xaden. You freeze, momentarily surprised by his sudden display of--of what exactly? But then there's the softest brush of his lips skimming your forehead and something in your heart caves at his touch.

"Now you're really confusing me," you mumble, blushing into his flight jacket and hating yourself for wanting to burrow even closer.

His chest vibrates with a soft chuckle before he pulls back just enough so that you catch the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, one that seems to be just for you and not anyone else.

"Wait for me," he murmurs, brushing your nape with one final touch before drawing back.

And then he's gone, sprinting up Sgaeyl's leg before the navy dragon launches up into the sky as they leave you in a blushing mess, trying to get your heart to calm down from what just happened.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

"She's gone."

Those are the first and last words that Xaden hears before everything gets drowned out with noise of protests and a flurry of discussions. There he sits at the table, knuckles still bloodied from the earlier battle and supposedly coming out victorious from it, while the rest of the riders argue back and forth about the best way to get back the ones that were kidnapped by -- dare he say it -- Basgiath themselves.

A distraction. The venin had been a distraction.

Nothing more. Nothing less. And those stupid Basgiath bastards had taken that opportunity.

His fingers curl into a fist atop the table while Brennan's voice cuts through the rest of the horde:

"How many of us have they taken?"

"Everyone that was here," Rebecca, the rider that answers him is on the other end, with platinum blonde hair and a stern mouth, "so about ten of us."

"They only took those that were useless, let's be honest." Yet another quips.

Xaden's eyes narrow as Brennan slams a fist atop the table, "no one is useless," he states with a pointed look, "let's talk about how we're going to get them back."

"There is no discussion. We cannot afford to sacrifice more lives. We've already lost more than we can count," Rebecca snaps, motioning wildly with her arms, "Or do you want to throw these babies out into the wild again? These cadets are barely above to pull their own weight. Some of them don't even have signets yet."

Xaden ignores her in favour of locking eyes with Brennan, "we go in a small team at dawn. I'll gather the people. You take care of everything else."

He's already standing up despite the flurry of angry protests and arguments that break out at his words, walking straight back out of the war room and into the dining hall where the rest of the riders are. His blood is boiling, simmering underneath his skin, and his shadows are restless as the flicker along the walls, crawl up the lights and curl around his legs with restless energy. His mind is still reeling at the endless things that they might've done to you while he wasn't present and guilt sits heavy in his stomach the more he thinks of it.

It is not your fault, shadow wielder. Sgaeyl's soft comment pierces through, a tiny salve to his wound.

Not that it makes him feel any better.

Xaden finally reaches his room and with one twist of his wrist unlocks the door. Inside, the air is stuffy and the cold is almost damp as he all but collapses into the nearest futon and allows his walls to crumble.

They have you.

They have you, and he hasn't done anything. Absolutely nothing.

There are so many questions that plague him: are you hurt? Have they tortured you? Are you going to be chained up in the investigation room? The thought makes him want to scream. To pull his hair out.

All the events that happened ever since flickers through like a broken movie; you tending to his wounds, the fear in your eyes when he saved you in Samara, the worry etched in your features as your eyes found the scars lining up his forearm, the way you'd touch him--soft and gentle and kind and without any judgement.

And the way you spoke to him. The honesty gleaming in your brown eyes, the transparency with which you told him anything and everything without hesitation. Like walls don't exist for you, like you don't have to hide behind them because there are no demons that haunt you. And maybe they don't, that's why you're like this, this fragile, breakable thing that still believes in humanity.

"Riorson?"

A knock brings him out of his reverie. Xaden's gaze sweeps back to the doorway where a concerned Garrick stands. Bodhi is right behind him, shifting from one foot to the other. They both have on sombre faces and it does nothing to help with Xaden's mood.

"Any updates?" Xaden straightens, watching his friends step into his room and close the door, far from any wandering ears.

"None yet. But if there's somewhere to be hidden in Basgiath, it's gotta be the interrogation room," Garrick leans against the wall with a sigh, "the problem is how to get into Basgiath without getting noticed."

"Yeah, because we can't just fly there," Bodhi says as he finds a space on the floor and crosses his legs to make himself more comfortable, "all dragons will know. There's no doubt about that."

Xaden's jaw ticks. Lacing his hands behind his head and tilting it towards the ceiling, he says, "the only way to get to Basgiath without our dragons is to go on foot. Unless we announce our arrival."

"That'll be like fucking suicide," Bodhi says.

"Not if we let them know we're here," Xaden straightens and swivels towards Garrick, "send a message to Varrish. Arrange a meeting."

"Xaden," urgency lines his younger cousin's tone, "that's like walking straight into the lion's den."

But Xaden isn't in any mood for arguments and Garrick, seeing that, lets out another breath before looking back at Bodhi with raised brows, "if we must, then we shall."

The meeting is arranged as quickly as possible for the day after the next, leaving Xaden reeling with all kinds of scenarios that involve you getting hurt or worse, killed. He doesn't eat, doesn't sleep, his mind constantly working and re-working plans if things don't turn out as they should, if everything erupts into chaos, if the Generals don't want to listen to what he has to say.

The ride to Basgiath is shorter than he'd expected, just a long day flight from the Manor. He's flanked by Liam and Garrick taking the front, while the rest of the riders fall back into formation as the day moves forward with the kind of stretch that makes him feel numb on the inside.

"What do they want from us, you think?" Garrick asks, "there's no way they just accepted our meeting, knowing who you are."

"They need us," Xaden's jaw works, his grip tightening onto Sgaeyl's pommel as the wind rushes past his face, cutting through skin and flight leathers, "for what, that I'm not sure."

Arriving at Basgiath, he spots General Melgren, Sorrengail and a few other riders he recognises as third-years clumped together like a group of scared sardines as Sgaeyl takes a wide berth and lands with a roar. Her claws grip onto the masonry wall, causing it to shatter underneath her grip and sending boulders flying in the process.

Dramatic, his mouth curls up with pride as his dragon settles along the wall.

I needed to show them we are not to be messed with, Sgaeyl rumbles from the navy ink and that connects them both. Her head swivels until her golden eyes find his face, regarding him with a look that seems filled with sympathy. Will you be alright, shadow wielder?

Why wouldn't I be? Xaden mentally scoffs.

Don't do anything stupid, Sgaeyl warns, blinking slowly as Xaden hauls himself down in one swift move. Landing right beside her leg, he gives her a final dismissive pat before focusing his gaze on the group of Generals a few meters away.

He doesn't wait for the rest of the group, doesn't wait before storming over as the last of his contained rage finally seeps through and flickers through the air in restless shadow whips.

"Good to see you here Riorson," General Melgren says, his beady eyes fixed on Xaden with a mixture of pure hatred and disgust.

He's used to it. He's lived through countless years of loathing, after all. Surely that is nothing in comparison.

"General," Xaden stares him down, hands finding the comfort of his knives sheathed at his sides, "I believe you have something that is ours."

"Something? Is that how you're referring to your own now?" the General's head cocks in that sadistic way of his.

But Xaden doesn't budge. He feels Garrick and Bodhi approaching, feels the rest of his squad having made their way over, and straightens slightly, "I don't think you're here to ask me how I am, not when you've spent the past three years trying to get rid of me."

"What a grave accusation," Lilith Sorrengail speaks up with narrowed eyes. Up close, she's an even more intimidating presence. Tall and commanding, with the same short hair that Mira boasts and the same air of warrior-like strength and indifference that Violet did not have. Seeing her sends another pang of pain through Xaden's chest, but he forces air into his lungs, forcing himself to blink away the sudden memory of Violet's face, of the memory of her broken body lying in the empty field, blood caked along her mouth--

Enough, Shadow wielder, Sgaeyl slams down his own shields with such force it rattles his teeth.

"We have done nothing but be decent to you, Rider Riorson," Lilith Sorrengail continues stonily, her eyes doing a minimal sweep of the group he leads, "I suggest that you choose your words wisely."

"Cut the bullshit. What do you want?"

"Straight to the point as always," General Melgren's brow knits. He crosses his arms and lets out a sigh, "we've called you here because we need your help."

Xaden's the one to frown now. He stares at the General, wondering what part of his sentence did he understand wrong.

But when no one else speaks and every General and rider seems intent to avoid his gaze, Xaden knows for certain he hadn't heard any stupidities.

He's actually serious.

Xaden's mouth curls up, "you need my help?" he echoes.

That's a first. The General shoving his pride aside to ask.

"It seems we've located a group venin about to head our way," the General continues almost reluctantly, like it pains him to admit it, "we are outnumbered. Basgiath will fall to ruins if we don't have extra hands."

He says the truth, Sgaeyl confirms, I've heard from his dragon. They are desperate.

That doesn't mean we need to help them, Xaden counters, we owe them nothing.

No, but you want the girl back yes?

"And you want us to help you fight," Xaden's head cocks to the side, "after everything you've done to make my life a living hell, you want me to fight for you?"

"In exchange for the girl, yes."

Fuck. That's right. The thought of you sends a chill down his spine.

Are you okay? Have you been eating well? Have they hurt you?

Xaden's blood runs cold. His grip tightens along his forearms.

"You give her back first," he orders, tone clipped and rigid, "and then we can consider fighting at your side."

"Unfortunately it doesn't work that way, Riorson," Sorrengail steps forward, eyes flared with silent seething rage at the prospect of asking for him, of all people, for help, "you either help us and get her back. Or you don't get anything at all."

In the end, he'd had no choice but to agree. They follow the General back to his office where discussions about the upcoming war is briefed and shared with all riders present. He tries to stay focused on the task at hand, tries not to think of you chained up in a prison cell, rotting away as they demand more and more questions of you. Garrick and Bodhi do their best to flank him, support him whenever they can, but even they can't understand the silent turmoil that goes through his head.

He finds his room that night. The one he'd left a few months ago when he'd been assigned to Samara. It's bare, unpersonal and cold, and memories of Violet are so potent that Xaden doubles over and almost throws up his dinner along the floorboards. Sweat dots his forehead as he presses a hand to the wall, taking a shaky inhale in an attempt to rid himself of all the memories.

Violet had been his past. She had been someone that could see the light despite the shadows, had pulled him out from the darkness only to be let him go right back where he'd started when she'd died and left him in this world all alone. She had been fire and lust and devotion and love and everything he'd ever dreamt of having, someone too good for him, a light that would surely hurt him if it burned too bright.

And then there's you.

He still doesn't know how to feel about you. On one hand you're the water he drinks after a day he spends starving, the salvation he receives after the torture, the calm remedy, the soothing ocean that lulls him to sleep when his heart is so overridden with emotion he cannot think. You're the comfort to his loneliness, the warmth that wraps around him on cold nights, the song he sings whenever desperation threatens to crawl past his defences and tear at his soul. Unfortunately, Xaden realises only now how important, how vital you've come to be, to him.

And he let you down.

Sleep eludes him that night, with only the thought of your face haunting his mind. It's not the thought of losing tomorrow, that renders him helpless, but rather the thought of never being able to see you again.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

"Where is she?"

Xaden stands, his knuckles bloodied, the taste of metal along his tongue, chest heaving as he strides over to where General Melgren lies on his back, a spear going through his side. No doubt the job of a venin.

The battle had gone on for ages. What felt like hours turned into night as more and more venin and wyvern came to attack their grounds like it had been a feasting party. Too many dragons had bee lost, too many lives stolen from them, and yet Xaden still stands, bruised and battered and scarred in too many places to count -- he might have torn a muscle in his calf, he's not quite certain. And his rib hurts from when he'd landed wrongly on Sgaeyl's back during an escapade -- but he's still alive. And that's what counts.

Liam has been taken to the healers to patch up his dislocated shoulder while Imogen had to be scurried off on a stretcher when she'd been burnt by another dragon in accident during battle. But other than that, Xaden is glad to say that most of his crew seems safe. And he can finally allow himself to breathe again.

Which is why he's here, looking down at General Melgren without an ounce of sympathy as he nudges his arm with his boot.

"Where," he punctuates each word with aggression, "Is. She?"

The General's mouth opens, only to cough up blood. He rolls onto his side and splutters out in a breathy gasp, "in the...interrogation...room--"

"Fuck you," spits Xaden. And then he's off.

It takes almost an hour to find you -- god knows how many interrogation rooms they need -- but after some incessant pounding and breaking down doors with Garrick and Brennan at his side, he finally finds you in the furthest room, all chained up like a rag doll and looking as lifeless as a corpse.

Xaden's blood runs cold as soon as he spots your body. Your clothes are tattered, matted with blood, and the stench fills his nose from where he stands.

Pure disgust and rage coil through him.

Fuck. Them.

He doesn't hesitate. Crosses the room in quick strides to crouch before you.

"Tala?" he whispers brokenly, his eyes flitting over the numerous lacerations along your arms, the cuts, the bruises swelling along your skin like purple flowers.

One part of your leg seems to be bent at an odd angle, and when Xaden reaches out to probe it gently is when you let out a sharp gasp.

Your eyes fly open and you wheeze, coughing up saliva and blood.

Chest shaking as you squint up at him through the dark, your chains rattle as you cower into the wall.

"I'm not--" your words are a raspy breath, barely audible over the echo in the room, "I'm not telling you--anything--" your voice breaks into a sob, no doubt from the pain consuming you.

Xaden's heart breaks. He moves a little closer, murmuring out a soft, "hey Tala, it's me."

Recognition sparks through your eyes. You gape at him, or the silhouette shadowed by the light and wonder if you're dreaming. That's it, you've officially lost your mind.

"X--Xaden?" you breathe out.

"I'm here," he makes quick work of unlocking your chains, stomach twisting with guilt at the blood smearing his fingers. Your blood, "we're getting you out. I'm here now."

"Xaden," you repeat. Quietly at first, body too numb to fight as Xaden unlatches the rest of the chains so that you all but fall against him, "Xaden. Xaden."

"Shh, I'm so sorry," he murmurs, feeling the wetness of your tears as you silently cry into his shoulder while repeating his name over and over again like a broken record player, "I'm so sorry, Tala."

"I--" you cough, your body a mere skeleton in Xaden's hold. You keep on blabbering as he scoops you up into his arms, "I didn't--I didn't tell them--anything--"

"I know you didn't," his voice has never been so gentle as he make quick work of carrying you out of the cell, "you're safe now, doll."

"I was...strong..." you mumble out.

"Yes," he holds you a little tighter against him, "yes you were."

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

[mae-gi-writes]

Methinks the worst crime committed by AI users in the FW fandom is how they portray Imogen. You’re trying to tell me that IMOGEN CARDULO, Ms. ‘Can go hand to hand with Garrick, who’s at least 6’5,’ resident earthbender, is a petite woman? Hell no! That woman is JACKED. Give me broad shoulders and thick thighs or give me DEATH.

[mae-gi-writes]

Kicking the sheets giggling and blushing. Sawyer is adorable to me and he deserves the world 🫶

Blurb: Waking Sawyer with Kisses

A/N: Just a blurb of you adoring Sawyer and waking him up the way he should be woken up <3 More suggestive, and probably the most suggestive I’ll ever get lol. Eat up, Sawyer girlies!

.

When you open your eyes, it’s well into dawn. You don’t even start to register your surroundings when you feel a very familiar arm tense around your waist.

You twist your head around, and your heart melts at the sight of Sawyer sprawled out on his stomach. He runs super warm at night, so he forgoes his shirt, leaving you staring at his back.

And…Wow. He may not be as broad as Garrick or Xaden, but his back muscles are 🤌

Especially in the waking sunlight…It casts shadows over his skin, lighting up little freckles that dust over his entire body. His relic of Sliseag comes to a head at the top of his spine, the wings expanding over his shoulder blades.

His eyes are closed and his back rises and falls with each slow breath he takes. His hair is messy and gorgeous, a bright russet in the light, and you sigh wistfully to yourself as your eyes follow the curve of his lips, the line of his jaw.

Your fingers itch to touch, to run your hands over his muscles and just explore his skin — even though you already do that whenever you have the slightest opportunity.

You have great self restraint — you and him both know that. But right now…You want to let go of your inhibitions, the cloudiness of sleep and the need to feel overtaking your senses.

With little hesitation, you swing your leg over his hips and straddle his waist, getting possibly the second prettiest view you’ve ever seen (the first is him on his knees, send tweet).

You lean down and press your lips to the small of his back, savoring his warmth and the smell of him: cedar and vanilla. You resign yourself to tracing your lips around the area softly, not wanting to disturb him, but rather worship his quiet beauty in the glory of the morning.

You’re able to do it without interruption for all of three minutes before you hear him sigh a little harder than usual, his muscles shifting slightly under your mouth.

If you were bold — like, Violet levels of bold — you’d probably bite down on his back out of sheer impulse. Come on. A back that good-looking deserves a few love bites.

You, however, are actually quite shy — which is why you and Sawyer are perfect for each other. You trace your lips around his back and brush them softly against his center, lingering there for a few moments.

You hear a quiet groan exit his lips, and his arm that was previously around you starts feeling around for you before going still, as if he suddenly registered what was actually happening. The sound makes your insides melt.

You lean forward a little, pressing your forehead against his back.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft for his benefit. “Sorry to wake you up like this. I was trying to be subtle.”

He hums, his morning voice lower, more throaty than usual. “Mm. You don’t…Need to apologize. Jus’ confused me for a sec.” 

Sweet boy.

You can only imagine his perspective right now — his girl straddling his hips, leaning over his back like some sort of inspector with your lips tracing over every inch of skin you can find. You probably look insane right now. 

(He’s into it).

“My bad,” you say, a tad more bashful. “You just look…Really pretty right now. Like, unfairly pretty.”

He snorts, the sound muffled by the pillow his head is buried in. “I’ll take it,” he drawls. “But it’d be pretty nice to see you right now.” He reaches back with one arm, half-heartedly searching for any part of you that he can grab on to. Eventually, he reaches you and lightly grabs at your thigh, tugging on you a little.

You allow yourself to be slid a little forward on his back as his one hand lazily gropes your thigh. It can’t be comfortable in the way he’s laying — he’s probably straining — but you know he wouldn’t ever complain.

You smirk lopsidedly. “Sorry, baby. I think that’ll be a little hard.” You press a kiss to the back of his neck, right at the head of his Relic.

The sound he makes is drawn out and shaky, something between a chuckle and a sigh. Whenever you touch his relic, it sends a spark of something down his spine that trails through his whole body, like you’re personally setting him on fire in the best way possible. His muscles ripple under his skin as he shifts again, his fingers softly stroking against the skin of your thigh. “…Feels good.”

You let out a faint laugh. “That’s the point,” you reply, switching from light brushes of your lips to open-mouthed kisses across his waist. His breathing becomes a little more ragged, the feeling of your lips on him enough to drive him crazy. He’d already give you anything for being such a wonderful person, but he’d personally fly into space and capture a star for you if you promised to do this every morning.

“You sleep okay?” you ask, bringing up your hands to knead mindlessly at his hips. It’s a soothing gesture — something you both do to the other when you’re in need of a little touch. But, with the position you both are in right now, it’s less soothing…At least, for Sawyer. It does the opposite of its intended effect, actually, making his heart race in his chest.

“I…Yeah,” he says after a few beats. “Although, I will say that for the first time in my life, I enjoyed waking up more than sleeping.”

Your laugh is like music to his ears, and he goes to make another quip before a groan rips its way from his throat.

You’d let yourself go a little further and let the tip of your tongue trace up his spine, all the way to the back of his neck.

His hips shift a little against the sheets. “What the hell is making you so daring this morning, huh?”

You pause, pulling back a little. “Not sure,” you admit. “I woke up and thought you looked really good, so I gave into my impulsive thoughts for once.”

You lean forward a little more, tracing your lips up his shoulders. “Be glad I have loads of self restraint,” you tell him. “I could be biting you instead right now.”

The whine he lets out sends a spark through your stomach. “Gods, you’re a tease,” he murmurs. “You wanna bite me at the crack of dawn, darling? Give your mouth something to do?”

Your cheeks flush pink. You hadn’t meant to admit what you actually wanted, especially not out loud, especially not to Sawyer. Maybe you weren’t actually the best at keeping your mouth shut.

You pause for a second. “Uh…” you falter, trying to think of something coherent to say so you’re less embarrassed. “I mean, I thought about it. It would suck to be woken up like that, though.”

He lets out another whine, and he sounds downright adorable like this, sprawled on his stomach, soft and sleep-warm and pliant.

"It’s not fair that you’re so good at making me melt, you know," he groans, his voice rough. "Gods, I want to look at you so bad right now."

Before you can open your mouth, the room spins, and you feel his hands seize your waist and flip your positions in the sheets. Once your vision clears, you blink a couple of times to focus your eyes.

What you see is a sight to behold. Sawyer leans above you, his breathing still a little harsh. His lips are quirked into a soft smile, though, and his eyes are gleaming with something reverent. The necklace he always wears under his flight leathers, the little metal dragon pendant you gave him for his last birthday, dangles above your face. You resist the urge to take it between your teeth.

His eyes search yours before he grins. “Hi there, pretty girl.”

One of your hands reaches up and cups his jaw, your fingers tracing absentminded lines on his sharp features. “Morning, baby,” you hum back.

His fingers trace over your face gently before he dips down and catches your lips in a kiss. It’s slow and warm, but you can definitely feel an undertone of something as he presses against you a little more firmly.

After what feels like forever and nothing, he withdraws, a single line of saliva connecting the two of you before he goes back in for another kiss, this one a little more confident. Your lungs burn from a lack of breath, but you don’t mind it. In fact, it actually makes something warm tingle down your back.

When it does get to be too much, though, you tap on his neck gently, and he immediately breaks it off, his heaving chest mirroring yours as he pauses.

You take in the sight of him. His eyes have darkness considerably, his pupils dilated with pure admiration and want. His pretty lips are swollen and pink, and you’re sure you look the same way.

Swallowing, you say breathily, “We should probably get ready for formation.”

Sawyer’s eyes narrow, and his head drops down to rest by the side of your head.

“Nah,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. “I’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

[mae-gi-writes]

hey!! do you have some idea of how long the second wind xaden series will be in the end? like how many parts you have planned or how many u’d write?

i love it so far though and i’m excited for more <3

Hello!!!

It was supposed to be a oneshot but turns out it’s turning out to be much more 😂 i’m hoping to finish it off in five chapter. HOPEFULLY!!

Thanks so much for the support and for reading 🥺🥹❤️

[mae-gi-writes]

I’m checking for part 3 LIKE EVERY HOUR even though that’s totally unreasonable I just can’t HELP IT

😂😂😂😂 im glad you’re just as excited to read it as i am!! I’m still unsure what will happen in part 3 but i’m creating it as i go. I’m so so so excited for xaden and tala’s relationship to evolve. Thanks so much for reading and for the endless support!!

[mae-gi-writes]

second wind. 2 . xaden riorson (fourth wing)

Xaden doesn't believe in second chances until he meets you.

genre: slowburn, fluff, suggestive content, mentions of death, violence and abuse. Reader is a Healer. iron flame spoilers so don't read if you haven't read iron flame and if you do read it, don't blame me TT.TT

a/n: Happens after the fight at Resson. Don't come after me. I love Xaden and Violet and this is just for shits and giggles so if you don't like it please just ignore it. Also, let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! This one's gonna be quite a long one <3

taglist: @sorrybaeeeeee @lalameors @skxawngs @nesiris21 @ambivalence-is-me @fourthmarvel @kahlan170 @bubybubsters

part one | part two | part three

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“Fancy seeing you out here all alone.”

You bury your face deeper into the coat that one of the riders had found for you within the depths of a closet somewhere inside the gigantic mansion in which you were calling home for a hot minute. It’s been more than a month since you’ve been brought to Aretia, a city that you once fought had fallen and were in ashes, only for the truth to be spilled by none other than Xaden Riorson, the one who’d brought you here when Samara was destroyed.

Needless to say that you’d gotten into somewhat of a routine despite the fact that here you feel pretty useless when there’s this new Mender— Brennan — around.

He’s the one that finds you kicking at snow with boots two sizes too big for your feet, his auburn hair disheveled and a two-day stubble adorning his jawline. It’s quite early for him to be out and about. What you’d learnt about Aretia is that the people here don’t actually stick to Basgiath schedule. It is something that throws you off slightly.

“I’m enjoying the peace and quiet while it lasts,” you murmur into the depths of your coat.

Brennan lets out a chuckle and a gust of smoke slips past his lips, “how are you liking it here so far, despite the cold?”

“It’s alright,” you kick at a few stray stones, “it could be worse.”

And you’re telling the truth. You’d rather be here than Samara. Even though there’s a lot of snow that covers the expanse of mountains surrounding you, it’s still warmer than Samara’s icy cold nights that had your toes freezing despite the double-layered socks you wore to bed every night.

“Still making up your mind about going back to Basgiath?”

Your face twists into a scowl, “how can I? Now that I know what’s really going on?”

“Yeah,” Brennan has the decency to grimace, flushing to the tips of his ears, “I’m sorry, Tala. We shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess.”

“No,” you shake your head, “no, you saved my life. It has nothing to do with that. It’s just…” the words fail you then as you try and gather some logic into your thoughts.

“Just that you don’t know what’s the truth anymore,” Brennan finishes for you gently, “am I right?”

You nod.

He lets out another puff of steam, “nobody’s forcing your hand. You’re free to go, just like you’re free to stay. As long as our secrets die with you, nobody has nothing against you going back, you know that right?”

And that’s why you love Brennan so, and if it weren’t for the fact that he is Violet’s brother — yes, you’ve happened to know her name — you would’ve definitely leaned onto his support without a backward glance.

But it’s not so easy when there’s too much information and so little people you can trust that kind of information with.

“If it makes you feel any better, I will not let Xaden touch a strand of your hair,” he adds on, “that surely alleviates some of the pressure?”

You crack a smile, “yeah, I guess so.”

It’s not that you don’t trust Xaden Riorson. But rather, you don’t know what to make of him anymore. He is always so in control of everything, so calculated, that it is hard to imagine him struggling to contain whatever is happening behind closed doors. Somehow it makes your heart curl with guilt. He shouldn’t have to shoulder all of this weight by himself and yet he is. God knows you would’ve already crumbled at this point.

The man is remarkable, and you hate that his actions render him even more desirable.

“Can I ask you something?” Your question makes Brennan pause. He looks over at you, hazel eyes focused.

He nods to spur you on, tilting his head at you like he’s listening on alert.

“Do you truly believe that this can work?” You bite onto your lower lip, “is it the right thing to do?”

"I don't know," he sounds raw when he answers, you're not going to get more honest than that. And there's one more thing with Brennan-- he doesn't sugarcoat it. He doesn't bother hiding the truth, and that somehow makes it so much easier to trust him, "but I know that whatever we do out here is right. We're fighting for what we believe in."

His eyes seem to find something in the distance you can't quite see-- or maybe it's his dragon talking to him -- because he turns to you abruptly, "the cadets are coming," he looks back towards the Riorson manor, "I'll tell Xaden."

Turns out that Garrick and Bodhi are not the only ones that you get acquainted to. Soon enough, you find yourself jostled around with names too unfamiliar on your tongue to remember, although the only string of recognition that does help is the fact that all these people seemed connected to the girl who'd died. The woman that Xaden had loved. And they all wear the same scars, the same faraway look in their eyes whenever they mention her, and guilt curls along your chest whenever they do because somehow, it almost feels like she's right here, this woman that had big plans to change the world.

You're more comfortable with the quiet blonde who apparently had been one of the main reasons for Violet's death. His name is Liam Mairi and unlike the rest of the cadets, has not said more than two words ever since his arrival. You find his silence somewhat comforting, a sanctuary amidst the other cadet's loud voices and arguments as they run through their daily plans. But the blonde just sits there, hulking frame hovering over what seems to be a carving that he works on, leaving little shells of wood everywhere he goes.

You find yourself reading through your book on medicinal herbs as you keep Liam company, and soon enough you feel his blue eyes boring into the side of your head.

"You're the healer," Liam states like it's a fact. His voice is rough, but lighter than Xaden's. Like pine.

You shift and draw your eyes to his face, "Yes, I guess I am."

"You were the one who flew with Riorson?"

"Yes," you bite the inside of your cheek, the memories playing behind your lids still so fresh. Sometimes, the nightmares plague you.

"And you are..." you trail off while motioning to him, continue on shyly, "Liam Mairi, right? I've ...heard a lot about you."

"Me?" the ghost of a smile dances across his lips, "do tell me more."

"Well, you've got quite a reputation among the healers," you say with a timid grin, "something to do with being a flirt."

"I'm impressed," he chuckles, "you healers seem to know a lot more about us than we do."

"That's because we're the only ones that history does not write down," you grimace, "we're irrelevant, after all, unless you're a mender. Like Brennan."

Liam's smile fades at that, "I'm sorry."

"No don't be," you're the one to chuckle now, "I didn't sign up to be a healer to change the world, that's for sure. I'm too much of a coward to be doing what you guys do."

"And yet, you're vital to whether we make it or not."

Maroon eyes clash with blue.

You blink at him. He gazes back, challenging you to bring yourself down again. It seems he can read right through your blunder, right through your insecurity. And for someone who's been brought up as a weapon, you find that his gentleness is more than surprising.

"I--thank you," the words stumble out before you can stop them, cheeks flushing bright pink when he grins back, "that's not something we hear often."

"Pleasure's all mine, miss...?"

"Tala."

"Tala," he tries out your name and cracks another grin, bigger this time, more natural, "cool name."

You blush again, "thank you."

As the cadets make themselves comfortable in the Riorson house, it's inevitable that they have questions about you that they seem intent on knowing. And since asking Xaden is not an option -- for he'll probably just tell them to fuck off and run laps -- they've all decided to try and get to know you.

Ridoc is more persistent than most, finding you as you walk along corridors and always making it a point to accompany you no matter the distance. He's chatty and easy to talk to, with a big barking laugh that is contagious and jokes that make double over and hold your tummy. Soon, he's the one dragging you out during mealtimes, forcing you to sit at the rider's table so that you have no choice but squeeze in-between gorgeous Liam and a scary-looking woman you think her name goes by Imogen.

"Riorson definitely needs to get laid," Ridoc announces like it's a completely normal thing to do and you almost spit out your hot milk.

You cough into your napkin and send Liam a grateful look when he thumps your back for good measure.

"Ridoc, it's just been a year. Can you not be a dick?" The pretty rider with the dark colouring and beautiful braids -- whom you think is called Rhiannon-- scowls at him.

"I didn't say he needs to fall in love! I just said he needs some distractions," Ridoc replies like it makes things easier, head whipping back and forth across his friends, "Don't tell me you're against the idea! You've seen the way he makes us train our butts off like he has a personal vendetta against us."

"I have to agree to that," Sawyer raises his hand half-heartedly.

"Sawyer!" Rhiannon slaps the said young man's shoulder.

"Don't be a pushover," Imogen glowers. Her eyes find Ridoc across the table, "and you," her glare intensifies and you all but shrink away as she leans towards Ridoc with narrowed eyes.

But she surprises you with, "I think you're right."

There's silence. Everyone stares at her like she's grown an extra limb.

"What?" Imogen shrugs, "Xaden's being an ass. Wouldn't mind him getting off my back a little."

"Thank you!" Ridoc thumps his chest like a proud kid.

"Are they always like this?" You whisper into Liam's ear as they keep on babbling about Xaden like he's not the most scariest rider in the room that can take out anyone within a second.

Liam's chest rumbles as he laughs, "unfortunately, yes,” his blue eyes crinkle with warmth, “You'll get used to it though."

All that talk about Xaden and has you flushing red to the tips of your toes. It is no secret within the rider quadrant -- as told to you by none other than Rhiannon one day when the squad had casually convened to talk about it so openly -- that riders are far more active in the sexual department. Unlike the Healers, the high-risk high-reward concept built into their training system and the fact that they never know when they might die results in a swarm of sexually-driven individuals who believe in having fun instead of preserving what Imogen labels as "prudeness."

By the manner in which you'd blushed a deep, bright red during that discussion, it had been clear as day that you were not used to being so open on such matters, hence where the teasing starts.

"Can't believe it. How do you de-stress, honey?" Rico's eyes are so wide they might fall out of his sockets. He stares you down like you're a new species of dragon he's never seen before. It makes you squirm in your seat and look away, shrugging it off to appease the heat rushing through your cheeks.

"Healers are very much like scribes in this respect," you say in what you hope is a half-decent argument, "we don't frolic amongst ourselves...as easily as you do."

"Well I don't blame you," Imogen rests her head atop her arms, "Riders are hot. And I suppose it doesn't help that you're dressed like--" she motions towards your body, covered up in swaths of white cloth, the standard healer uniform that once upon time you would've been proud of wearing, "--like this."

"Have you ever been to the rider's quadrant?" Rhiannon asks.

You shake your head, "not really. We only see them when they come to us."

"And you've never felt attracted to any rider that walked through your doors?" suspicion lines Imogen's tone.

You try not to think of Xaden despite the fact that he's the first that comes to mind. You can feel your ears going red as you blabber, "no. Not really."

"Aw come on Tala! Give us something to work with!" Ridoc whines and pounds the table with his fist, "what if I told you, you could have sex with any rider in here?" he makes a grand gesture to encapsulate the entire manor.

Your cheeks betray as they blossom with pink, "uhm...I don't--"

It's at this particular moment that Brennan walks by and Ridoc takes this as opportunity.

"`What about Brennan?" he waves wildly into the said rider's direction, who stops in mid-walk to look at the table with a confused frown.

"What about me?" he asks.

Ridoc ignores him, eyes focused solely on making you dig a deeper grave for yourself, "isn't he hot? Wouldn't you have sex with him if you could?"

"Ridoc, please for the love of all that is holy--" Rhiannon rolls her eyes at him, "ignore him Tala. He's the one who's sex-deprived. He's just missing his usual hookups. That's all."

"No no," Brennan merely sidles closer and you let out an exasperated squeak before proceeding to hide your face with your hands, "do continue. Now I'm curious."

"Nope. Alright. I'm going now," you blurt out, bursting from your seat and making a beeline for the dining hall exit as the group of riders gaze at your retreating form with growing amusement.

"She's cute," Rhiannon quips, taking another bite of a muffin.

"I agree with that," Liam adds.

The rest of the week goes by and as the riders settle into a routine, you scurry back to your Healer duties by shadowing Brennan as an assistant. He teaches you about the variety of herbs and medicine available in this kind of terrain, spends time to explain through theory and hands-on exercises which medicine is best used in urgent cases, and as the days go by you can't help but wonder that the Healers at Basgiath seem to be lacking of knowledge that Brennan seems to know of.

When you ask him about it, he merely shrugs and says, "most books found at Basgiath are relevant to an extent. But these conditions, this environment is different. That doesn't make them wrong, though."

"How did you learn all of this by yourself?" you ask while your fingers focus on tearing apart each herb leaf and dumping its stems into the medicine bowl.

"Trial and error, I suppose," his lips quirk up into a knowing smile. He sends you a look from the book that had his focus this entire hour, its contents splayed across the granite counter, "but you're a quick learner."

"Thank you," your head ducks at his compliment. Coming from him, it means a lot.

Xaden doesn't make an appearance until later that night. And at this point you haven't seen him for days, with rumours that he was out flying and checking over the perimeter. You hadn't bothered asking for more when you had managed to piece together the information by yourself.

But you are more than surprised to see him waiting by your doorway as you shuffle through your bathroom door, cheeks pink from your shower and hair still wet.

His dark eyes flicker over the wet strands curling along your collarbones, before darting back up to your face.

"Oh--hi," you stammer over your words in a mixture of shock and surprise, "what are you doing--did you need something?"

His jaw ticks. Wordlessly moving away from the door, he tugs his shirt upwards and turns to show you his back.

At first, you can only see the dragon relics curling along his skin, the design a beautiful onyx tattoo that crawls up his spine and ends just shy of his jawline. A man made of steel and muscle, that's what he is.

Your mouth dries up as his arms bunch. Gods.

He's beautiful.

And you're pathetic.

You spot the gash along his left side. It runs along his left shoulder blade, the blood so dark it looks black.

It’s not that, though, that makes your breath stutter.

Your heart sinks in your chest and you just stare.

It’s the multiple slashes, the scars that line his back with such uniformed precision that it’s unfathomable to think of someone at the other end of this terrible, horrifying act.

Cruel. Inhuman. That’s what it is.

It’s Xaden’s voice that brings you back.

“You’re staring.”

He’s right. It’s been years after all. And it’s not your place to have an opinion. So you silently re-direct your gaze towards his wound and feels your shoulders deflate.

“Again?" you can't help the worry that laces your voice as you step closer, head cocked to inspect the wound, “why don't you go see Brennan?"

Xaden's jaw clenches once more, as if there are words he can't quite formulate. It takes a long moment for him to say, "he's occupied."

"Surely not occupied enough that he can't mend you?"

"I did not come here so that you could question me, cadet," it's clear from his last word that he doesn't want you probing.

Fine. You won't. But that doesn't mean he can disappear for days on end without at least telling you what he's up to.

You wordlessly motion for him to sit on the couch -- the couch that he'd slept on just a month ago. Sometimes, you get a whiff of his scent (or maybe it's just you) -- before you find your emergency medical kit from your nightstand. He sits, back to you, as stoic and as stiff as a statue while you prepare the disinfectant and press it to the base of the wound.

A small hiss falls from his lips.

Though there is a wink of satisfaction that at least there's a reaction from the shadow-wielder, you mutter out a soft, "sorry."

It’s routine at this point, one that you can do with your eyes closed. The wind howls, rattling the window at the other end of your room as a lone dragon roars in the distance.

Xaden doesn’t offer any conversation as you clean his wound, nor do you entertain him. You’re tired from training and you’re more than happy to collapse into bed at this point, and it’s merely the thought of owing him your life that keeps you from snapping at him because god he can be so moody.

You’re almost done, pressing on a linen gauze to ensure he doesn’t infect it when you catch a glimpse of something that makes you frown.

You grab his arm without warning.

He hisses and yanks it back.

But you’re sure of what you’ve seen.

Xaden’s eyes are dark with rage. But you hold his gaze, locking your chin so that it doesn’t tremble.

Your words come out shaky when you murmur:

“Show me.”

But Xaden’s already grabbing onto his tunic and striding for the door so that you have no choice but scramble after him, “Rider Riorson I am asking you officially as a Healer—“

“It’s nothing,” he throws over his shoulder.

You catch his forearm at the door, “please,” you breathe out in desperation, “is this why you’re not seeing Brennan—“

“Out of your rank, cadet—“

“I am not from your quadrant,” you snap, “do not order me like I am,” anger and worry flare through you as you jerk his arm up and sure enough, much to your suspicion, you notice the multiple lacerations, still fresh like they’re days old, that line up his arms in scarlet lines.

You swear you hear your heart break a little.

Throat tightening, your eyes slowly flutter up to his.

His are averted towards the far wall, jaw locked, and if you don’t know better you’d say he looks guilty.

“Xaden,” your voice breaks slightly, “tell me…this isn’t what I think it is.”

It’s probably the first time you’ve used his actual name, which is probably why he finally tears his gaze from the wall and looks at you. Really looks at you. His eyes are lined with some kind of overwhelming sadness, the kind that you’ve never quite seen on his face before.

Guilt and remorse curl into your stomach, “tell me,” you plead. And then, like it’s not enough, “please.”

Still, he opts for silence and the moment drags out slow and filled with tension until it gets a little hard to breathe. After a while, you tug at his forearm— the one lined with scabs that can only be done by a human—and say so softly you’re not sure he can hear you:

“Let me treat you, at least.”

You wait a beat. Then another. And another.

Finally, his head dips into a nod.

Letting out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, you quietly walk back to the couch and wait until he follows before grasping his forearm and pressing an ointment-filled cotton swab to the red, angry skin that seems to sizzle with heat. You do it quickly and efficiently, then mutely motion for his other arm and do the same, trying not to panic at the number of injuries scattered across his skin, trying not to focus on the thought of this young man doing this to himself on purpose.

Your heart aches for him.

“Done,” you finally pull back with a soft sigh. It’s past midnight at this point and god knows you’ll need the sleep when Brennan has you waking up to a strict routine.

Xaden doesn’t say anything as he stands and walks back out of your room. You follow closely at his heels, halting only when he pauses by your doorway, back to you, as though he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.

“Can I—“ you swallow thickly, “can I say something? You don’t have to answer me. You don’t even have to acknowledge it. Just…”

Trailing off, you find that he stays still, an indication for you to continue.

So you do after another deep breath.

“I don’t—know exactly. What you’re going through,” you start slow, unsure and hesitant, “the riders told me…about you and your past lover. It’s not like I was probing or anything, but I guess word gets out.”

You know he’s listening because he doesn’t move an inch. So you continue, “I don’t know what it means to love someone this much. Gods, I’ve only been in love once, but not like they describe it, not like you. So… so who am I to talk right?” You let out a small laugh that cracks like broken porcelain in the gaping silence of the room, “but you cannot—please don’t hurt—please don’t do this to yourself. There are other ways, I don’t know what yet but I can help you and I will help you if you just tell me and I—“

Your voice breaks at the last set of words as emotion lodges the back of your throat, “— just please don’t do this to yourself again, Xaden. Please.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Loud and still, with the ghosts of your words still ringing like an echo. You don’t dare look up at the rider, not when you might have accidentally crossed a line that might cost you your life, and your hands quickly find each other, fingers wringing in growing nervousness as the weight of his gaze settles upon your figure.

You hear him letting out a soft breath, and you bite your lip when you feel him shuffle away. He allows the silence to fill the room in his absence, the only sound being his receding footsteps across the marble floor as you hold your breath for what seems like a lifetime.

And when you’re certain that he’s gone, you allow yourself to fall to your knees as tears silently trail down your cheeks.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

He shouldn’t have let you in.

He shouldn’t have allowed you to be near him. Should never have allowed his instincts to hover over you like a protective figure when you’re clearly more of a nuisance, a thorn in his side.

Xaden’s knuckles are bruised and battered, but that doesn’t stop him from beating the hell out of the sand dummy in the training room. One the remaining few, it seems.

The rest lie in a broken heap around him. A testament to his growing frustration, no doubt.

She’s smarter than she looks, I’ll give her that, Sgaeyl drawls.

I don’t need this right now, Xaden growls at her.

You’re the one who was so keen on trusting her, on keeping her close, she huffs in annoyance, and now you’re pushing her away? Do tell me how that makes sense shadow-wielder.

The thing is, you’re too close. And you’re too smart.

And Xaden— Xaden allowed his walls to slip.

He never breaks. He never bends.

But that night, he had.

Maybe it had been circumstance— a result of knowing that this particular day officially marked one year since Violet’s death and that had left him more vulnerable. Alone. Torn from within by the sadness that threatened to consume him. He hadn’t been in his right mind when he sought you out to clean up his wounds that night, too overtaken by the gaping hole in his chest to care. And when you’d found the lacerations, the result of the countless nights he’d blame himself and let the pain consume him so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the guilt, the remorse of still being alive while Violet is dead, he hadn’t had the energy to fight you when your own face seemed to echo the pain he felt deep within the grooves of his heart.

In your eyes he’d found comfort. Tenderness as you handled him like a broken bird. Like he was fragile.

And Xaden was not— is not— fragile.

A mistake. That’s all that it was. That is all it is ever going to be.

And he’s made it clear the days that followed, never bringing up conversation, not even acknowledging your presence, walking out of rooms as soon as he saw you walk in.

It’s for the best. Because he’s a monster. A walking, living monster. And with you, he feels vulnerable and cracked and open.

He cannot allow it. He won’t allow it.

Of course, you’re too fearful of him to approach on your own and for that he is grateful. Which is why he opts to send Liam to check up on you during your shifts so that he has the peace of mind, makes it a duty to avoid your eyes at all costs and only reply in one-word answers if needed. He knows without looking at you that you’re more than hurt from his lack of communication, of the fact that he’s already broken your promise from that night. But it’s easier to pretend that nothing happened rather than admit that there is something that keeps on hurting from within. Something he cannot simply solve.

And because when he’s with you, for some reason, it dulls the pain. It makes it easier to breathe.

He hates that.

“Did you and Tala have a fight?” Asks Garrick one day as Xaden accompanies him on a flight trip around the perimeters of Aretia. Word from Basgiath sources state that the college still isn’t certain about their location, giving them extra days— weeks even— to be prepared once Basgiath does send their troops out to battle.

There’s an upcoming war in the vicinity. Talking about you is completely irrelevant to that war.

“Why would you think that?” Xaden tries to pass it off as nonchalant, though he can’t help but clench his teeth.

Idiot, Sgaeyl rolls her eyes.

“Because you're usually very uptight about who she talks to and where she goes. But you haven't been asking about her for a while,” the broad-shouldered rider spares him a look from underneath his flight goggles, bracing his weight against his dragon while Xaden steadies his gaze on the landscape beyond, “So what did you do, Riorson? Because I can tell she’s not doing good.”

“What makes you think I did something?”

“Why would she be upset then?”

"How should I know?"

“Why are you like this?” Garrick throws a hand up in exasperation, “if you didn’t care for her, mate, you wouldn’t have saved her. End of story. So— tell me, should I be worried about her or not?”

Damnit. Garrick has a point. And it hits a little too close to home.

The shadow-wielder rocks back on his feet as his arms go up to cross over his chest. He surveys the landscape, onyx eyes flickering past the clouds in attempt to locate anything out of order. That, and to bide his time about what to say to his friend when clearly there is a bit of truth in Garrick's statement.

"Define 'not doing good'," He finally turns to look at Garrick.

"I mean, I'm no expert but I think I can tell when a girl's been crying."

Shit.

If there's anything that Xaden hates more than having to take all the hard decisions and the brunt of it -- it's girls crying. He loathes it. It's weak. It's terrifying. And it's pathetic all at the same time.

But for some reason. For some undulated, strange reason, his chest tightens like he can't breathe when he hears you've been crying.

Because of him?

Surely not.

Surely it must be because you miss your home, or the comfort of Basgiath. Or the fact that life will never be the same for you, if you don't choose soon.

His suspicions are confirmed a few nights later when you appear outside his room with the medicine box in hand, looking up at him through red puffy eyes like he'd personally attacked you and you have taken full offence for his actions. He lets you in and silently does as told when you hold out your hand for his arm, doesn't say a word, doesn't even ask how you're doing while you dab the ointment at his scarring injuries lining his skin. He just watches, dark eyes focused on every flicker of your eyes, every downward tug of your mouth, every time you flinch and look away when you think he can't see.

But he sees you. He knows. Because he's learnt to read your mannerisms and your ticks, whatever information he can find to make up for the fact that he cannot pick your brain.

Still, not knowing what's going through your head leaves room for suspicion and doubt. And Xaden doesn't enjoy picking apart puzzles he knows he won't figure out.

It's only when you finally draw away -- when Xaden feels your absence in the cold that sweeps through the tiny distance you put between your bodies-- that his hand shoots out and grips at your arm.

Solid. Firm.

A silent order.

You look up at him. Shock flitters across your face.

"Were you crying?"

His question comes out more like an accusation of sorts. He himself would've winced at his tone. It's not the most friendly.

He catches a glimpse of pain before you mask it with a dull nonchalance that only weeks in Aretha have managed to ingrain in you.

"No."

His grip tightens. He stares you down.

You stare right back unflinchingly and slowly lift your chin, a small act of defiance.

"Is that all?"

Xaden searches your eyes for anything else. But all he finds is simmering anger that you don't bother hiding, laced with the pain that you bear in your heart. And maybe...is that guilt? For the secrets that you know?

He releases your arm.

You stumble back, cradling the limb to your chest as you hurriedly pack your stuff and scurry out of his room. The deafening bang of the door signals your departure and in its echo Xaden sits with his shadows, trying his best to ignore the way his heart lodges in his chest at your reticence.

She is hurting, Sgaeyl confirms from the other end of the dark bond.

Xaden presses his mouth into a tight line before he gazes out of the window overlooking the silhouettes of the snowy peaks that surround his manor, so now you're sympathetic?

I am merely stating a fact, she growls.

And how would you know that?

Because I see her crying every night, shadow-wielder. You might not be able to read her but I see what you riders don't just by being a little more observant.

A pang of guilt so intense rushes through him that a small exhale escapes his lips. Leaning back against his chair and pressing a hand to his nose, part of him wonders whether he should've pressed you earlier, maybe he should've been more insistent about your personal feelings towards everything that's been happening around you.

Damnit. He really is getting a little too soft.

You are already too far gone, Sgaeyl lets out a sigh that caresses his mind, more gentle than she had been. Clearly you are concerned for the girl. What is stopping you?

Don't be ridiculous, Xaden snaps as his hands tighten along his thighs, I am concerned because she's part of my responsibility. Nothing more.

If you say so.

The rest of the week passes by and Brennan makes plans to fly out of Aretia to find more ammunition and food that can carry them over for the rest of the winter. With the new arrivals and plans to make more space for more riders to come, they're bound to run out of resources if they don't find any backups to ensure that everyone is well-fed and well-kept for.

The rest of the cadets are busy preparing their armour along the field where all their dragons wait, when Sgaeyl's voice rushes through the bond in a border of panic:

Shadow-wielder, I think you need to go to the healer.

Xaden frowns, still in mid-conversation with Bodhi and Garrick about their plan, something wrong?

She is unconsolable, it seems.

He dismisses them quickly and swivels to stride back into the manor, where is she?

I spotted her along the turret when I flew over.

Gods, you can be anywhere. In your room, in the dining hall, the healer's quarters that you and Brennan have made your own--

But he follows his gut, forcing his shadows through the rooms before him before he senses a glimpse of your presence down the corridor that leads straight to your room.

He doesn't hesitate, twitching his knuckle to unlock your door only to spot you atop your bed, your back to him and hunched over, a small figure that seems all too fragile amidst the room that seems to swallow you whole.

Something twinges in his chest. He swallows thickly, making sure that his booted feet clatter over the marble floor to make his presence known as he approaches your hunched form.

You must've heard him by now. And yet, you insistently keep your back to him like he's not here.

It irks him, how stupidly strong you think you're being.

You don't have to be, not when you're not like him; made to be a weapon that kills without question.

Xaden's patience finally thins out when he snaps out, "what's wrong?"

You don't answer, though your back stiffens like you've just received a blow.

Closing the distance between the two of you, he rounds the bed so that he comes back to face with your hunched figure. And what he sees makes him suck in a breath.

Your eyes flit up to his, red and swollen. Puffy. Tear stains mark your cheeks, turning them pink as your chest rattles with every breath you take.

The sight causes his chest to squeeze tight. He cannot quite breathe, seeing you this way.

All bite leaves his tongue, dissipates along with any remarks he would've said as he stares at you with growing uncertainty.

But you turn away and avoid his gaze, "go away," you whisper brokenly, your words stinging the air like bees.

Xaden does the contrary, steps forward until he's just a few millimetres from you before he bends down so that he's the one having to tilt his face up to look at yours.

"Tell me," he commands.

Your lips wobble but you turn your head, "go away," you repeat with a little more conviction.

A warm hand comes up to cup your cheek. You still, eyes blowing wide, body freezing from his sudden touch.

But Xaden seems unconcerned as he slowly turns your face towards his, until his eyes lock on yours. Dark onyx clash against soft maroon with such intensity that you have an innate urge to squirm.

"Tell me," he repeats, voice dropping an octave.

Your stomach curls deliciously in response, a traitorous move when you're more than angry with the said man.

"I--" you swallow thickly, "I have nothing to say to you."

Xaden merely searches your gaze for a moment, "I think you have a lot to say to me."

"I don't." you persist.

"Why are you crying?" he fires back.

"I'm not--"

"Don't lie to me," he snaps.

"Stop yelling at me!"

Your voice cracks like a whip and Xaden sucks in a breath as it bounces off the walls of the room, the air heavy and laden with thick walls of tension that can only sting from the aftermath of your words.

He pins you down with his gaze, waiting for you to say something else, anything else, really.

And then, when he notices the fresh set of tears at the corner of your eyes, a sting reverberated through his chest.

Before he knows it, his arm is winding around the back of your head.

He pulls you to him without warning.

Your gasp is enveloped by his arms as your hands shoot out in attempt to stop his actions. But Xaden is stronger, forcing you into him until you're practically buried into the material of his tunic, arms winding around your frame within a matter of seconds to halt any kind of escape.

"Wha--let me go!--"

"Stop it," Xaden growls.

You try to speak but your words dissolve into a soft squeak when he tightens his grasp. Your nose is practically shoved into the crook of his neck and his is lodged at your temple.

What the fuck does he think he’s doing?

What the fuck is this?

Xaden feels like losing his mind.

It’s almost like he’s not here, because he’s acted before he can think and now—

Now he waits for the guilt to crash into him like a tidal wave and pull him under—

Except— there is no guilt.

Just the smell of vanilla and citrus, and something else. Something soft and dewy that makes him want to bury his face into. Like fresh laundry sheets on a Sunday morning.

And you’re— soft.

Soft and small and tiny, so breakable—

He might just break you if he’s not careful.

It takes a long moment, but your body finally gives in to his warmth. You melt slowly, leaning into him as all the fight drains out of your body. Your hands curl over the dark material of his tunic like he's the one that can ground you when your head feels full with too many thoughts, and Xaden almost dissolves when he feels your head cuddle closer almost unconsciously.

He shouldn't be enjoying this as much as he is. But he cannot bring himself to care.

When he speaks next, his voice has dropped to a soft murmur:

"Tell me."

He doesn't have to look at you to know that more tears are trickling down your face. He can feel the wetness of them caking along his shirt and he cannot bring himself to care about how inevitably weak of a reaction this is, how in any normal circumstances he would've scoffed at the pathetic picture you make.

His arms merely tighten around your waist instead, a silent comforting act of tenderness. A cue to keep going.

"Don't laugh at me," is what you whisper against his shirt.

A beginning of a smile starts to curl at the corner of his lips. His murmur brushes over your hair, "I won't."

You shift slightly and lean back so that your brown eyes flutter up to meet his. In the dim light of your room, he spots the caked trails left by your tears and clamps down onto his hand so that he does not do anything he might regret.

"I--" you start, pressing your lips together with hesitation, "everything is different here, and I'm not sure--I mean, knowing what Navarre has done, knowing all their secrets...it--it scares me."

Your admission to the truth is somewhat refreshing. Nobody talks about fear behind those walls. Nobody dares utter the words that everyone believes to be true because admitting to it is weakness. And riders do not show weakness.

But you are not a rider, and your humanity is a strength that takes him by surprise.

"I'm not like you. I don't think about not living to tomorrow, or about this being my last day here, or about--I don't know. I'm a healer, I'm meant to just heal sick people," your lower lip trembles with effort, "and I'm sorry if that's not--I know you hate weaknesses. I didn't want to tell you because I suppose that for you, this--me being like this -- is kind of pathetic."

Xaden gazes down at you unflinchingly as he tries to piece together every single piece of truth falling from your mouth. That had been...surprisingly easy to know and part of him thinks back to his discussions with Violet about trust and communication.

To you, it seems communication is definitely not a problem.

And for you to admit all your secrets like that, provide it to him like it's a gift...

Xaden is not used to that.

His heart stirs, but he shoves it at the very back of his mind as he tries to find words.

"It's not pathetic," he says, eyes blazing down with such intensity that you cannot help but look away. His thumb reaches out though, grasping your chin to tug you back insistently, "don't look away from me."

His words cause a troop of butterflies to explode through your tummy. You nod and swallow, half-intimidated, half-impressed by his sense of authority.

No wonder he was a Wingleader.

"You are not a rider," Xaden continues, "and I don't expect you to act like one. So when things get tough, I expect you to tell me. Cry, fight, kick--whatever you want. These are not normal circumstances, and trust me, whatever's coming next is just as scary."

He holds your gaze for a minute too long as your heart flutters. You nod, quickly turning your face away so that his hand drops, your skin still tingling from the aftermath of his touch.

"There's..." your hand finds a stray thread from the edge of his shirt and you start picking at it to distract yourself, "there's another thing."

Xaden's brow cocks in that seductive way of his and a thrill of adrenaline zips down your spine.

"Well, like you said, I'm not a rider," you bite down onto your lower lip, keeping your eyes along his chest, "so I won't act like one. The truth is that--these days, well, I know I shouldn't be because you're Xaden Riorson and you're like, maybe the strongest rider in here but I--" your gaze falls onto his scarred arm as if on impulse and you feel the said shadow-wielder tense underneath you when realisation dawns, "I am worried about you."

"It's not your job to worry about me," he snaps.

You flinch, "you're the one that told me to be honest," your whisper is a shaky exhale.

Xaden's eyes are dark and stormy as he watches you with an expression you cannot quite place, as though he isn't certain whether he should be angry or concerned or guilty about how he has treated you. But you keep your eyes on his face despite the fact that your body starts trembling with the growing fear that this man can do whatever he wants and you likely won't be able to outrun him.

No. You trust him.

If there's one thing he's taught you about being around him these days is that no matter what, he will not hurt you without reason.

"If it's any consolation," Xaden starts, "there have been no new injuries as of that night."

Surprise flashes through your gaze. You stare at him, and then, quickly look down to analyse his arm.

"You're telling the truth?" your voice is hoarse, tentative.

He nods and before you can question him, extends his arm out to you.

Your fingers grasp at his elbow and you turn his arm this way and that, humming in satisfaction upon noticing that most wounds are almost gone, the scarring practically invisible with the ointment you've given him. You beckon for his other arm which he gives after a slight scoff, the one with the tattooed relics swirling up his skin like a beautiful midnight artwork that seems to glimmer in the shadows of the dark.

Finally, you drop his tattooed arm and a small smile curls along your lips when your eyes flutter back up to his.

"Thank you," you say, "for being honest with me."

Your words are like a slap as Xaden watches you, heart twisting in his gut at the way this thankfulness easily slipped past your lips like water.

It makes his heart waiver. It makes his throat constrict. There are things he wants to say, things he cannot say because he's not used to being so open.

But you're different. You tell him whatever comes to mind and despite the fact that he cannot read your mind, he realises that he can read you because he knows you.

It's time to go, Sgaeyl's rumble echoes through the back of his mind.

Xaden lets out a soft sigh. Slowly, he starts pulling away. His hands fall to your hips, not missing how you look up at him in confusion.

Fucking adorable. His jaw tightens, "I need to go."

"Ah," your head dips into an understanding nod, "okay, yeah."

"You--" his thumb unconsciously brushes over your hipbone through the material of your healer uniform and heat sizzles through your skin, but you keep your wide eyes on his dark ones, "you'll be fine as long as you stay inside the manor."

"How long will you be?"

"Can't say," he straightens and you feel his absence a little more than you would like, "could be a few hours. Could be a few days."

"Okay," you quickly wipe at your cheeks and stand to follow him, "I'll come say goodbye."

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Ever since then, it seems that you have come to an unspoken agreement with the shadow-wielder.

Oh don't get you wrong. He's still the same snappy, grumpy grunt that roams the corridors like a shadow about to bite anyone's head off for breathing wrong, always walking about with a scowl on his face and a glare at the ready to anyone who might displease him. And withe the new training regiment they've been implementing for the cadets and the new arrivals of Gryphon Fliers that are supposed to be present in a few days, it is no secret that Xaden Riorson has a lot on his plate.

But still, he makes a very conscious effort, as you have noticed, to seek you out in the evenings when everyone has fallen asleep. Sometimes you're still working, cleaning up the healer's quarters so that it is fresh and ready for the next day. Sometimes, he walks up to your room with the excuse that he's checking up on the crybaby of the group (an inside joke that makes you blush every single time he says it, though from the way he chuckles you're certain he doesn't seem to mind the fact that you're easily sentimental).

"Do you trust the Fliers?" you ask one night while sitting atop your bed and brushing your hair. Xaden is sprawled along the couch, his brows furrowed into a frown as he busies himself analysing a map of god knows what.

"Unfortunately I have no choice," he glances up from the tinted papers, "it's either that or we let them die."

His sharp words are a contrast to the kind nature of his actions. You stifle a smile as you comb the brush through your strands, wincing when it tugs on a particular knot.

"What?" he scowls at you.

"What?" you blink at him.

"You're smiling," his scowl deepens, "is there something funny?"

"Not funny at all," you grin now.

He straightens, attention now fully on you as he grinds out, “tell me.”

“Well,” your grin widens tenfold before you can control yourself, “you’re kind of like an anti-hero, aren’t you? The kind of guy who saves everyone despite being a total jackass.”

“I’m a jackass?” His eyebrows fly up to his hairline.

“I—I mean,” you stammer upon realization of what you’ve said. Oh shit, “in a good way, right?”

He scoffs, unimpressed, before going back to his map. A silent indication that he is done with the conversation.

Life is not all that bad in the Riorson Manor, not when you’re finally comfortable enough to hang out with the cadets in-between duties. Liam is more than willing to teach you a few moves one day when you gape at the sparring going on between riders and soon a circle forms around the pair of you as he teaches with the patience of a scribe, as gentle and as kind as one could be.

You, on the other hand, suck at fighting.

“No no, balance on your back leg—“ Liam’s words cut off mid-sentence when you flail and practically tumble onto the mat, butt first and face flaming red. Out of the corner of your eye you spot Imogen and a tiny blonde — Sloane?— snickering and your embarrassment deepens tenfold.

“Nevermind,” you stammer out and brush his helping hand away as you straighten, “I think I’ve had my fill for today.”

“We barely got started,” Liam responds, “come on Tala. Don’t be a coward.”

“Come on princess!” Ridoc squeals from the bleachers, “you can do it!”

“I say knock him dead!” Rhiannon calls out next to him.

You definitely do not knock Liam dead.

On the contrary, you’ve lost count of the number of times he’s swiped his leg under your feet and caused you to tumble to the floor in a heap, or the amount of times he’s punched you (albeit lightly, though you can already feel the bruises forming along your arms). By the time you are done and he’s had his fill of butchering you into little pieces, you can barely feel your legs as you trail them off the mat.

Xaden is definitely not impressed when he joins the riders for dinner that evening, practically choking on his food when he spots the yellow bruise along your cheekbone.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” He snarls like an enraged beast, Garrick’s hand restraining him into his seat.

“No one! I was—uhm, sparring with Liam,” you explain with a smile, wincing when it causes your bruise to ache.

Xaden’s dark eyes fly over to the blonde cadet as a scowl forms on his face, “you did that?” His voice turns low, dangerous.

“She wanted me to teach her,” the blonde splutters.

“I did,” you add in a rush, “it really is nothing—“

“You’re a Healer,” Xaden’s eyes narrow, “heal yourself.”

“I—yes—I will,” heat rushes to your cheeks and you turn away, trying to ignore how Rhiannon and Ridoc’s gazes are darting between the two of you.

It’s a few hours later, in the Healer’s Quadrant, as you are crushing a few herbs for next day’s assignment, that Rhiannon finds you.

She steps in as quietly as a shadow, so silent you barely notice her presence until she speaks.

“Hey.”

You jump and almost spill the contents of your bowl, swiveling in panic and wide eyes, “oh hey. Hi,” you send her a small smile.

To be completely honest, Rhiannon is probably one of the only cadets you hadn’t had the chance to speak to, mainly because you know she’d been closely tied to Violet before her death.

“Is there anything you need?” You ask tentatively.

“No,” she hovers by the doorway, her black riders outfit a stark contrast against the white canvas of the healer’s quarters, “well, yes. I do.”

You pause amidst your grinding, “are you hurt?”

“No I’m fine,” she takes a few steps closer before her eyes flit down to your bowl, “what’s this?”

“I’m just preparing a few medicinal herbs for tomorrow,” you say, “Brennan might need them.”

Rhiannon hums but provides no answer. She still lingers as though unsure of what to do with herself and amidst the silence that grows awkward like curdled milk, you bite the corner of your cheek and ask:

“Is there… something that I can help you with?”

Rhiannon’s beautiful face pauses. She opens her mouth. Closes. Opens it again.

Finally, she says, “can I ask you a question?”

You pause and take in her seriousness, “sure,” you reply warily.

“Do you like Riorson?”

You blink at her.

Heat flushes through your face. You swallow, “no— it’s not like that.”

Rhiannon scoffs, “I can read you like an open book. You don’t need to lie to me.”

Her gaze makes your skin prickle with fear and you look away.

“It doesn’t matter,” you tell her quietly as you resume your task, glad that your hands have something to do, “how I feel.”

Surprise lines her tone, “what do you mean?”

A small smile dances across your mouth, “I’m not like her,” you look up to see the bronze skinned woman now getting comfortable against one of the spare beds, arms crossed and measuring you with her dark-eyed gaze, “I never will be like her. And I know that he can only love someone who’s just as strong. I’m anything but, so I don’t have any expectations. Not from him anyway.”

Your words ring with truth and it hits hard, reverberating through the space with an unforgivingness that rattles you to your bones. Something in your stomach curls and knots, but you stow it away and clamp down on your lips so that you retain some sense of control— the little bit of it that you have left.

“So whatever you wanted to say— to defend your friend, to keep her honour— it’s okay. I get it,” you give her a shaky smile, “I won’t steal him. He wasn’t mine to begin with.”

Rhiannon’s dark brown eyes bore into yours like she is trying to read through your words, decode any lie you might be hiding. But it’s not just that— you swear you spot a flash of sympathy in those dark irises, probably the memory of her dead friend playing at the back of her mind.

“Thank you,” is what she finally murmurs out.

She turns to leave but then hovers by the door with hesitation.

“I—“ she shakes her head slightly before looking back at you over her shoulder, “I wasn’t going to defend her honor though. I was just going to ask you to take care of him.”

Your mouth dries up. You can’t help but stare.

What is she saying?

But Rhiannon merely shrugs and leaves. Her words ring through your ears and you look down at your crushed leaves, wondering if you’ve understood that wrong.

Surely she hasn’t just asked you to— what? Take care of him?

Like you have a chance? Like Xaden Riorson could love someone like you?

No way.

Tossing and turning that night does nothing to help when sleep escapes you nevertheless, and you’re a little groggy-eyed you’re woken up by a few knocks at your door a little shy past six in the morning.

Your eyes widen when you come face to face with none other than Xaden Riorson.

“What are you doing here?” You rub at your eyes in growing confusion.

“Get dressed,” it’s clear from the way he eyes your bedhead that he is more than amused by your countenance, “we’re training.”

“Excuse me? Training? But I—“

He shoots you a scowl.

You flinch and mumble out a soft, “fine.”

The sparring gym — or the makeshift area that cadets have now converted into a small training arena— is void of people as you step into the grand hall, palms sweaty and heart fluttering with nervousness.

Xaden strides over to the row of chairs scattered along the far wall and places down his bottle and flight jacket while you watch, flexing your fingers as your eyes dart around to take in your surroundings.

He’s not going to bash your face in, is he? Or worse?

But you’ve seen the way he fights. The ruthless grace, the deadly precision in which he strikes.

Fear races up your spine and goosebumps rise along your skin. You shiver.

“Shall we begin?” The shadow wielder steps forward onto the mat while rolling his neck from side to side.

“Do we really have to?”

His eyes narrow, “I thought you wanted to learn how to fight.”

“I did,” you bite down onto your lower lip, “but…with you?”

“I trained every single one of them,” his eyebrow cocks up in that sultry way of his and your stomach flutters at the way his eyes scan you down, “are you questioning me?”

“No,” you say reluctantly.

He’s seemingly satisfied, body extending into a fighting stance before he makes a “come hither” motion with his fingers.

You were right. Xaden is a force to be reckoned with.

And not just that, he literally kicks your ass.

Not in a nice way.

You sprawl out onto the floor with a groan, butt screaming in pain from the heavy fall and the way you’d skidded right off the matt that you’re bound to have a few burn marks. The rider stands before you without even breaking a sweat, looking like he’s having too much fun messing around with you and not even calling it his warm up.

“Come on,” he motions for you to stand up. You do after a few seconds of hesitation, muscles screaming in pain as you struggle to straighten your spine.

He comes at you again; fast agitated movements that make you dizzy as you spin in an attempt to block him out. You pathetically try to do as he’d told you from the beginning, reigning in your core and focusing on tracking his movement patterns. But he’s too strong and no sooner have you started that Xaden lands another blow that sends you sprawling over the floor with a cry.

You curl up on yourself as tear prick at the corners of your vision, wondering why on earth you thought this would be fun.

“Stand up,” Xaden commands.

But you can’t. Your body shakes and you scream at yourself inwardly to do as you’re told.

It doesn’t cooperate. Your muscles are locked in place, a small sob falling from your lips.

A shadow falls over you and Xaden crouches, brow furrowed, “hey,” he says it roughly, though his touch is gentle when he prods your shoulder, “you okay?”

“I—“ you gasp out in a stammer, “I can’t— move—“

In one swift motion he’s swept you up into his arms before carrying you over to the corner of the room. His hold is strong and secure, his scent a lovely whiff of bold flowers and something you cannot quite place. Something smokey. You want nothing more than to curl up into him and the thought is enough to set your cheeks on fire.

He sets you down onto one of the spare chairs with a gentleness that makes your heart stutter before he crouches, face levelling to yours.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble with downcast eyes, “I did warn you though. I’m really not good at—“ you motion towards the mat, “all this.”

Xaden lets out a soft chuckle, “yeah, you are terrible.”

Throwing him a scowl, you straighten, “it’s not fair. You’ve been learning this your whole life. I’ve literally never battled before last week.”

“Which is why you were crying,” he shoots back, “sore loser.”

“I am not a sore loser,” you huff.

He sends you a pointed look, eyebrows raised, “you are.”

“I am not,” your scowl deepens even more, “I’d rather Liam teach me. You’re horrible.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” with one final prod at your forehead, Xaden straightens up and moves towards his discarded jacket, throwing a set of words over his shoulder, “get cleaned up. Breakfast is in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait, how do you know—“

He’s gone like a whisper, too fast for you to track, and you want to bonk yourself on the head for being a total nutcase around him.

It’s almost as though he takes it as his personal mission to train you; catching you during early mornings only to have you run drills across the arena until your lungs threaten to burst, snitching you away during late afternoons when he has nothing better to do and showing you the art of self-defense. When you protest that you will probably never use such skills in your lifetime you’re rewarded by a white hot glower from the said shadow-wielder.

“I am teaching you how to defend yourself, if ever something happens,” he shoots back, “be a bit more grateful.”

“Oh thank you mighty Riorson for being so kind,” you mutter under your breath as you squat down for what seems to be the millionth time.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” You send him a fake grin.

From the litter of bruises and scars you carry along with you after every training session, the cadets can’t help but worry that he's going a little bit rough on you.

“Are you sure you’re fine?” It’s probably the fifth time Liam has asked you that.

“I’m really fine,” you wince as you reach for some more curry to add to your rice. Your arm has been aching and sore for days now, “really.”

“You don’t look fine,” Rhiannon’s brow furrows.

“I am. He’s training me to defend myself,” you try to sound as convinced as you think you are, “I thought you guys were used to his … brutal ways.”

“Yeah we are,” Ridoc says, “and the fact that you’re still standing is a miracle.”

They’re not wrong. Xaden is probably the toughest teacher you’ve ever had. Not that you have any to compare with, considering that Healers are pretty much tame. But still, him taking time out of his busy schedule to train you does mean something and you try not to question the warmth buzzing in your heart every time you think about it.

Things — unfortunately— take a turn for the worse when the Gryphon fliers make it to the Riorson Manor. They’re angry and bitter, with sharp tongues and hungry eyes that can devour you with a single glance. You make sure to stay the hell away from them, but that doesn’t mean they do the same.

Together, Fliers and Riders have no other choice but to bridge the barrier they’d once built so high that it’s going to take a lot of rough work to destroy and put it the past. You linger on the sidelines, watching with fearful eyes every time a narrow-eyed glance is sent towards the riders.

But it’s not their interaction that renders you uncomfortable. It’s not the fact that the air is now thick with tension that you can cut with a knife straight down the middle. It’s definitely not the fact that your training sessions have ceases in favour of meetings and plans leading up to the so-called revolution.

It’s the way this particular Flier has her eyes on you.

They’re hazel, unsure whether to settle on brown or green. And her lips tug into a snarl whenever she spots you. Almost like you did something personal to her when you barely even know her at all.

“Cat,” Rhiannon’s voice drips with disgust, leaning towards you so as not to be heard over the dining table that same evening, “she was apparently Xaden’s betrothed when he first got to Basgiath. They spent some time together back then, as lovers.”

Every word on your mouth turns to sawdust. They taste sour along your tongue.

You can only stare at her.

“You’re joking,” Ridoc is the one to speak, “how come?”

“Well she’s a princess. Riorson’s the heir to the Tyrrendor throne. She would’ve been invincible.” Rhiannon lifts her shoulders in a shrug, “you do the math.”

Sawyer whistles, “bet she’s regretting it right about now.”

“Ain’t gonna argue with that,” Imogen pipes up from the other end of the table.

From then onwards you make sure to steer clear out of her path, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention when all you want is peace and quiet. Alas though, it seems that fate doesn’t have the same plans for you, for you bump into her a few days later when you’re out training with Xaden.

He’s currently fixed on your form, prodding and pushing at your spine, “back straight. Face forward,” he instructs with his Wingleader voice on.

He rounds your silhouette until he stands before you. Then, without warning, his arm lashes out.

You block it, a small yelp echoing past your lips when it almost slams into your cheek.

“Good,” he steps back and pushes up his shirt sleeves, “you’ve gotten better.”

He strikes. Again.

And again.

And again.

And you block him. Every single time.

You grin. You can’t help yourself. This is exhilarating. No wonder riders are addicted to it—

A fist comes flying and slams into your face.

Pain explodes across your nose, sending your body sprawling to the ground as rapid fire consumes your very being.

“Fuck. Tala!” Xaden’s hands grab at your shoulders in an instant. He pulls you up, brows furrowed as a small hiss escapes his mouth once he catches sight of the newly formed bruise blossoming across your cheekbone.

It’s pulsing. Practically vibrating.

Your hand goes up to press against the skin and you wince when your cheek throbs, bouncing all the way up to the back of your skull.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” Xaden’s turning you so that you have no choice but to face him, onyx eyes filled with worry. One of his hands grasp the back of your elbow, the other turning your cheek this way and that, “I’m so sorry. Why the fuck didn’t you evade? I thought I taught you better than this.”

“I’m sorry,” you mutter through the stinging burn now spreading through your entire face.

He lets out a loud sigh, “that’s gonna form a nasty bruise.”

“I'm sorry," you repeat once more. Like it might make it better.

That is when you spot a figure in the distance, body instantly tensing in Xaden's arms when you notice that it's none other than the Flier Cat, with her dark mane tumbling over her back and her hazel eyes currently narrowed as she takes in the scene in front of her.

Fuck. You're screwed.

Xaden notices the look on your face, for he quickly swivels, his entire body turning to stone.

"Cat," he says her name without warmth. Devoid of emotion.

And yet, you can feel the tension, simmering underneath your skin.

You quickly scramble up and blubber an excuse as you scurry away, not wanting any part of this and leaving Xaden to fight his own battles. Your legs burst into a sprint as soon as you find the staircase leading to the Manor and you run for your life until you manage to round a corner, chest heaving with effort as you double over right beside one of the victorian columns lining the edge of the doorway.

Maybe it's the fact that Xaden has had a past that he'd shared with her. That she got to know him how you didn't. And how you never will know him that way.

That's why there's a terrible knot in your stomach, some kind of queasy jealousy that leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Because you actually like him. This dangerous, cruel monster. You like him.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

a/n: things are heating up and xaden and tala are getting closer! Any ideas on what's going to happen next? comment your thoughts down below! xx

[mae-gi-writes]

“This is just for shits and giggles” and then writes the most BEAUTIFUL HEARTWRENCHING BEGINNING OF A 200k FANFIC EVER aHHHH

GAAAAHSP I really thought this was going to be a hate message from the preview I saw and I was like "oh no" and then I read it and I GOT ALL GIGGLY

Thank you so much for appreciating and most of all, for supporting my work <3 It means a whole dang much to me because all my emotional well-being has been used in this plot ngl. I feel for Xaden and honestly he's like the best boi lets be real

[mae-gi-writes]

i love how they made huntrix absolute losers off stage like yes give me more girlfailures give me more girls being CRINGE and it was like turning red and my friend said thank god for kpop demon hunters bc it shows that you can grow up and still be cringe. i love them i love them so much GOD

[mae-gi-writes]

Period.

Okay, but I actually adore the romantic arc in KPop Demon Hunters. There's so little time to tell this story and to focus on all its nuances, but the way the movie gets us there is absolutely amazing and doesn't feel cheap at all. And I think part of the reason why is the fact that Rumi and Jinu never really develop past what technically counts as just a crush.

It doesn't try to convince us that what they shared was something unbeliavably deep or like some kind of soulmate bond. It doesn't act like they were perfect for each other and how their love could make it through everything. It works precisely because it shows the tragedy of how little time they had together and how they never got to explore that on their own terms.

And we can all relate to that feeling of loss of something that could have been more. All of the elements of a great romance are technically there but all these other outside elements are working against them and all we get to see at the end of the day is the unexplored potential.

Rumi and Jinu connected on a very human level, that's true, but the tragedy of their relationship is that it couldn't really become more and what we end up mourning is the potential they had, the fact that they could have been so much more if given a chance.

So often stories try to convince us of these stronger-than-anything romantic arcs, but since a lot of the time romance is the B-plot at best and there's no time to develop it properly, we end up with the characters basically skipping all the stages from attraction and straight to pure and unadulterated love.

KPop Demon Hunters doesn't do that.

Instead, it focuses on the connection that was broken too fast and that's precisely why it resonates with us. It doesn't try to pretend that their romance is something that it isn't and that fact, more than anything else, makes it feel authentic.

I feel like a different ending would have cheapened the story somehow. We got a happy ending, yes, but it doesn't make it all good. It doesn't erase all the pain that we had to go through to get there.

And at the end of the day, it's not some grand love story.

No.

Instead, it's two broken people who connect, who feel attraction and who never get to explore what it means. The romance itself isn't some kind of be-all and end-all kind of thing.

It still matters, though.

Why? Well... because they still got to meet each other. They still got to heal, in their own ways. And that matters, too. Even if it wasn't meant to be the way we wish it was. Sometimes, that's just how it is.

[mae-gi-writes]

Rumi & Jinu from Kpop Demon Hunters

[mae-gi-writes]

second wind. 1 . xaden riorson (fourthwing)

Xaden doesn't believe in second chances until he meets you.

genre: slowburn, fluff, suggestive content, mentions of death, violence and abuse. Reader is a Healer.

a/n: Happens after the fight at Resson. Don't come after me. I love Xaden and Violet and this is just for shits and giggles so if you don't like it please just ignore it. Also, let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist! This one's gonna be quite a long one <3

part one | part two

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Broken heart. That’s the only thing that hurts.

Surely it must be that.

Because that’s all he can feel.

Xaden Riorson stares out into the beautiful green valley, the lush lands of Navarre filling up his peripheral in shades of green and brown and orange. Navarre has always been magnificent to set eyes upon, had always been a land filled with crackling magic that he can taste in the air. If one had to describe this land, they would simply not find the words, for this landscape was impossible to describe with words. So many times people have tried, and yet no one has ever been able to capture it the way Xaden believes it to be true.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the love of his life is gone. And he wishes to be gone too.

Do not dwell in your grief, Shadow Wielder.

Sgaeyl’s lush tone is a caress against the back of his mind. A soothing lullaby that makes him tilt his head up to the sky.

You are grieving just as much as I am, he replies.

Yes, but unfortunately I have someone to take care of, she huffs gently, the sound non-committal, barely aggressive. Totally unlike Sgaeyl if he has to be honest, she needs me.

How is she?

She does not want to talk to anyone. Has been hiding inside the Vale ever since.

Understandable.

Yes, Sgaeyl chortles once more, but I feel like it is high time I drag her out.

It’s only been three weeks, his lips curl up slightly.

Precisely my point, Shadow Wielder.

Her presence leaves his bond like the softest shadows giving way to sunlight and Xaden lets out a soft sigh, leaning back on his hands and tilting his head up to the bright blue sky. A few dragons are flying overhead, the sight surprisingly peaceful amidst the tormented waves of his heart.

It’s been three weeks since he’s seen Violet die in his arms. And yet, he still cannot fathom it, cannot believe that it is real. He must be dreaming; wrapped up in a horrible nightmare that seems to last forever. That’s what he hopes this is anyway. But every step forward, every injury that twinges at his movement makes him realize that this, indeed, is reality.

And that he’s still alive, somehow, even despite it all. That his dragon had made it, no matter how broken she was.

“Hey, they’re ready.”

He turns to find a red-eyed Dain with his arms crossed over his chest and looking ashen grey. His lips were turned down into a firm line and even at this distance Xaden can spot the bruises under his eyes.

Dain lifts a brow, “are you coming or what?”

It takes him a moment. But Xaden finally hauls himself up from his spot, dusting off his pants as he looks at the brunette.

“So?” He asks gruffly.

Dain’s eyebrows dip into a frown, “well, I suppose that’s the best they could do for her.”

“Meaning?” Xaden prods as he strides past, not glancing back to check whether Dain is following. The crunch of his boots join him in the muddy courtyard.

“That Violet would’ve hated all the fuss.”

A small smile tugs at the corners of Xaden’s lips despite it all, “you’re right,” he croaked out, “she would’ve hated it.”

It hadn't been in his plans to bury the love of his life so early on. He imagined a wedding, living in his birthplace with her to rule by his side, having a myriad of children and learning how to let his heart love again after so long, after years of hiding and painfully facing the people that have hurt him and called him a monster.

Violet was the one that had chosen him, for who he was. Not for who he had been before, not for who he will be. But for what she saw in front of her eyes.

"And he'd lost her. It's like a curse, to still be living on this earth after she's gone, like Malek is laughing his face, scolding him and scoffing at his stupidity. Like, really? Did Xaden really think that he had a chance at a happy ending?

"Hey," Dain's voice brings him back to reality. He feels a warmth of a hand landing on his shoulder and stiffens automatically.

"It'll pass," says the brunette. He sounds less certain than he ever did, and for once Xaden doesn't feel like fighting with him, "it will hurt. But it will pass."

Bullshit, is what Xaden wants to say.

Because how in the world will it pass when every step he takes, every waking moment is haunted by Violet's absence?

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

... 3 MONTHS LATER ...

"You again?"

You don't even try to mask the surprise in your voice at this point. There stands the raven-haired man with the multitude of tattoos and the dark, onyx eyes that makes you want to grab your things and make a run for your life with one mere glance.

That's probably the third time this week that he's made his appearance at the Healer's Quadrant, and fuck knows you're tired of having to patch him up only for him to go and play swords so that he could re-open them once more, wasting all of your efforts in the process.

The dark-haired Rider steps in, dark gaze flickering past the empty beds as if assessing the area, before he finally makes his way towards an empty bed. You sigh, following after him and grabbing onto one of your first-aid kits on the way as you watch him settle onto the hard mattress without so much as a sound.

A man of such strength, and yet, looks like he's been broken from the inside out.

He doesn't speak. Doesn't bother acknowledging you. You've come to terms with his rudeness, but it still irks you, that he can waltz in here and ask for your services without batting an eye.

"So," you plop the first-aid kit atop the bed table next to him and cross your arms over your chest, giving him a once-over, "show me. What is it this time?"

The dark-haired rider flicks his gaze towards your face, a brief moment of assessment passes through his eyes. He then reaches for his tunic and in one swift movement, tugs it over his head.

You gasp.

There's blood everywhere.

On his neck. Along his collarbones. Slathered down his chest that you can barely make out where the wound starts and ends. You gape at him for a full five seconds. And then, your mouth snaps shut and you shake your head incredulously.

"What--" you stop yourself. What good will it do to ask him if he barely acknowledges you? "Gods, why in the world would you do this to yourself?"

You don't wait for him to respond before getting to work on his injury, not even flinching under his dark stare. He's been doing that a lot ever since he started coming here more frequently; staring you down as if he wants to make sure you know what you're doing, silently monitoring your progress and judging your skills.

It's almost like he has a lot to say. But doesn't.

And you want to ask. Except...he's a rider.

And riders...well, they always have secrets.

Secrets that you prefer not to know.

His gash is big this time, bigger than you've ever seen it to be. It runs all the way from his right shoulder blade down to the middle of his chest, almost like someone had slashed at him with a knife. You take your time to clean it up, wiping down the blood and disinfecting the wound as best as you can with some alcohol. At some point, you have him bite down onto a towel as you start sowing the skin closed and he grits his teeth under your ministrations, grunting with every poke of needle that pierces through skin.

“Sorry,” you mutter out when he swallows up what you feel might be a groan of pain. You’re not unfamiliar with its sensation and nod your head towards the bottle of whisky on the nightstand.

He does as told, swiping up the bottle with his good arm and taking a huge gulp.

Finishing up the last of the stitches, you cut off the rest of the thread and straighten up all while trying to avoid his very naked chest. The scent of blood is almost nauseating that you have to turn away.

“Right,” you feel awkward, his dark eyes are unsettling. They cause goosebumps to rise up along your arms and you continue on in a blunder, “no training for you until the stitches are out. It’s going to take a week unless you come in for mending. But Nolon’s a bit busy at the moment.”

“What’s his earliest slot?”

Your eyes snap up in surprise.

You’ve never actually heard him and his voice takes you by surprise. Rich, gravelly. With a depth that sends a fuzzy feeling down to your stomach.

“Uhm,” you can’t help but stammer when he’s looking at you with those deep, infinite onyx eyes, “early morning, I suppose. He’s up at five.”

“Fine,” the rider straightens up, grabbing ahold of his tunic while striding towards the entrance. He calls out over hos shoulder, “tell him not to be late.”

“Wait—“ you follow after him, “I need a name.”

And that’s when he pauses by the doorway, glancing back at you over his shoulder with furrowed brows and you swear you spot the slightest curve of his lips.

“Tell him,” he says, “it’s for Xaden Riorson.”

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“You need to find another hobby other than getting yourself beaten up.”

You let out an annoyed sigh as you swipe at his brow. Once again, this rider — Xaden Riorson— is here so that you can patch up his wounds and honestly, it’s starting to get a little infuriating.

Xaden lets out a sound between a huff and a laugh, and you take it as progress. Between the two of you, he hasn’t bothered speaking to you again. But that doesn’t deter you from telling him off when you can.

This time it’s his face. Bruised and battered in so many places that you can’t count that he looks like a walking artwork. Not that he seems to mind though. On the contrary, it’s almost like he revels in the fact that he hurts himself, as if he does it on purpose just to fall victim to the pain. As if it’s the only way he can feel alive.

Not that you’ve asked. You’ve healed too many riders to know that asking questions is not something that you can do. Not with him, not when they’re always so filled with secrets like they’re the ones solely responsible for the success of Basgiath and the powering of the wards.

Pompus jackasses, that’s what your friend Kaede would say.

Finally clean of all the blood splattered over his face, you dab some healing ointment onto a cotton paid and gently dab it along his cheek, the bridge of his nose, all the way down to his jawline where you can still see the scrape of a wound.

Xaden hisses, his beautiful face turning away on impulse.

You tut, “don’t move.”

He tenses, but does as he’s told until you are finished.

You let out a soft breath as you pull back and throw away your cotton pads, “alright. You’re done,” tiredness lines your voice. It’s been a rough week and you’re inclined to dump yourself in your bed for the rest of the weekend, “I’d hold off on sparring for now.”

You pause then, eyes flickering back to his and trying not to gaze at his beautiful, broad set of shoulders, the muscles cording and rippling whenever his arm bunches.

“But what I say doesn’t matter…does it?”

His dark eyes lift to yours.

Something in his jaw locks. He averts his gaze.

“Look,” a soft sigh escapes your lips as you proceed to disinfect your tools, “I don’t know why you’d want to do all this—“ you motion towards his body then, “—to yourself. But it’s not helping.”

He stays quiet.

“And this is my quadrant. It’s my duty to mend anyone who walks through these doors,” you continue, “but you’re doing this to yourself on purpose. And I can’t just keep mending you.”

Xaden’s eyes lock back onto yours.

You flinch. Look down.

Because dear gods, he is terrifying.

Slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey, he stands and it’s only then that you notice how tall he is, how imposing. Because you keep on craning your neck and— bless Malek, what in god’s name is this man made of?

He takes one step towards you.

Then another.

And another.

Until you’re forced to look up into his eyes and all breath ceases you at the intensity in his dark pools of onyx.

When he speaks next, his voice is rough and deep, striking a chord through your tummy.

“Do you know who I am?”

You blink, “uhm—no?”

You wonder if it’s your imagination that plays tricks on you— the way the corner of his lips curl up to the side.

Not a smile. But close enough.

“I’m not going to repeat myself,” he leans in close, so close that you lurch back on instinct. Dark, black onyx glimmers with gold as they clash with your brown ones, “stay away from me.”

You swallow. Clamp your lips together but hold his gaze in defiance, “you’re the one coming to me,” your voice falters at the coldness in his eyes, “…if I remember correctly.”

He makes a sound, low in his throat, like he can’t quite believe you, before swivelling around and striding out the door without another word. You’re still clutching at your medicine, the vials clustered against your chest, and let out an exasperated huff.

What a jackass, you can’t help but think to yourself.

And you’re stupid enough to mend his every whim, just because he’s got a cute face.

He doesn’t come back for the rest of the week, which is good because you’ve seen enough of him to last you a lifetime. The weekend finally comes around and you take this moment to scurry out into the courtyard on Saturday afternoon, enjoying the way the summer breeze cools off your sweat-slicked skin while munching on some fruit you’d carried out from your dining hall.

That’s when you see them. The riders.

They’re dresses in all black as usual, like bands of shadows moving across the field with the kind of silent confidence only reserved towards their kind. You huff and look away, but glance back in realization that you know one of them.

It’s Xaden, in all his six foot four glory, striding through the courtyard and looking pissed as hell.

The conversation increases to distinct voices as they approach and you quickly turn your face away, proceeding to stuff your face to distract yourself from the fact that you’re not technically supposed to be eavesdropping on whatever they say.

But to be true, you were here before them. So surely they should be the ones moving, right?

“—cannot just abandon them. We’ve worked too hard for this,” one of them is talking. He’s smaller in build, but still as impressive, with young features and a trimmed beard along his jawline, “we must find another way.”

“You’re being very loud Bodhi,” the other one, with the broader shoulders and an easy smile, quips up, “need a microphone?”

The younger one, Bodhi, just scowls at his friend, “we’re far from the Riders. No one will understand anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean you can scream it at the top of your lungs—“

“I wasn’t screaming—“

“Both of you shut up,” Xaden finally snaps.

You flinch from where you sit, sneaking a raisin into your mouth and hoping against hope that he walks straight past you.

He does, and you wait with bated breath until the three figures disappear behind the stone bridge that will lead them back to the Rider’s Quadrant before finally allowing yourself to collapse against your picnic mat, heart galloping so fast you swear you can feel yourself having a heart attack.

Gods. Whoever he is that Xaden Riorson, you decide that he’s not good news and that you should stay away from him. As far as you possibly can.

Alas though, it seems like Malek is out for your soul today, for as the evening sun slowly slips away beneath the shadows of the castle, you’re about to pack up your things when you feel a restraining pull against your arm.

You look down, letting out a sharp yelp upon noticing that there’s a tendril of black halting your movements.

What in Malek’s name—

“I thought I told you to stay away.”

His voice prickles with anger. The kind that rumbles through him, causes your breath to stutter in a gasp.

You turn your head— very slowly— until your eyes skid up to find Xaden leaning against one of the trees.

You tug on your arm but the tendril of black is more resistant, weaving around your entire elbow, “let me go,” you try to sound firm.

Xaden pushes off the tree in one swift motion before closing the gap between your bodies. His eyes are hard and steely as they search your features for any kind of tell that you’re lying.

“You’re going to tell me exactly what you heard,” he murmurs softly, “and I’ll consider letting you go unscathed.”

“I’m not bound by your rules,” you stammer out, heart banging wildly inside your chest, “you cannot just order me around—“

The shadows surge up and make a grab at your neck. You yelp as it tightens around your throat, eyes widening with panic.

“I can,” warning lines his tone, “so speak.”

“I didn’t hear anything I swear,” you stutter through words, helplessly fighting against the shadows pinning you in place, “I just— I was having a picnic and I saw you guys coming from the forest. That’s all, I didn’t hear anything of substance. And—And anyway, I wouldn’t even understand half of what you’re saying—“

The vines crawl up your nape and tighten even more, causing you to gasp out as fear trickles through you.

You struggle desperately as tears line your eyes, “please please, I promise I’m not lying, I—“

And then, the shadows fall away.

You crumble to your knees and gasp for breath, chest heaving as logic and reason make it back to you like finally breaking through cold icy waters after being deprived of oxygen. You don’t notice Xaden approaching until you spot his booted feet just mere meters from yours and you quickly shoot, stumbling and falling onto your backside as you do so.

How pathetic. You wish for the ground to swallow you up right there and then.

“Why are you out here alone?”

Your eyes snap up to his face, taking note of the rigid line of his jaw.

You swallow thickly and measure your words carefully, “I have some…time off.”

You realize how lame it sounds that you’re out here alone, enjoying what you call a picnic when it’s basically just you and your sandwich. And from the cocked brow that Xaden gives you, it’s clear he’s thinking of the same thing.

“Alone?” He echoes.

“Alone, yes.”

A pause. Then, his eyes narrow.

“Why?”

You blink up at him, slowly stumbling to your feet as you do so, “what do you mean— why?”

Keeping hold of his onyx eyes, you don’t fail to miss the flash of pity surging through his gaze. You quickly look away, a rock forming in your throat at the pathetic picture you probably paint for him.

“Don’t think that the Riders’ quadrant is the only place they call hell,” is what you finally murmur out after a long, prolonged silence, “the Healer’s quadrant is not as nice as it seems to be.”

“I never said that.” He said, tone clipped.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

For a second, you spot the surprise on his face. That quickly disintegrates into forced neutrality as he replies, “it sound suspicious, is all.”

You can’t help the exasperated sigh that escapes, “honestly, can you just give me a break? Are all riders such dicks?”

The corner of his mouth tugs upward, “apologies, on behalf of the rider’s quadrant.”

“I’m not here to kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking,” you huff, “otherwise I would’ve done it already.”

He hums, cocks his head, “fair point.”

“So…am I off the hook?”

“For now.”

“For now?” You frown, “what does that mean?”

“It means I’m still keeping an eye on you,” he steps back then, throwing a hand up in a casual wave as he turns away, “don’t make me regret it.”

“Regret what?” Annoyance bristles through you as you call after him.

His next set of words send a chill down your spine.

“Not killing you.”

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

“You did not say that to him.”

You’re halfway through spearing your chicken with a knife while your one and only friend, Kaede, looks at you like you’ve just told him you’d set the riders’ quadrant on fire.

“What?” You frown at the way he’s looking at you, all horrified eyes and a look of utter disbelief in his eyes, “he was annoying.”

“Tala, do you even know who this man is?” Kaede’s eyes are as wide as saucers, which keep on growing bigger and bigger with every word that leaves her mouth, “he’s Xaden Riorson. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”

Should it?

“Fen Riorson’s son?!” Kaede waves his fork around with barely restrained frustration, “the one who practically brought war to Basgiath?! He led the Rebellion?!”

It doesn’t make sense at first.

Until it does.

The pieces fall into place and you suck a breath as panic barrels into you without warning.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Fen Riorson ‘s son.

You’ve been insulting Fen Riorson’s son.

“And if that isn’t enough to scare you away, this guy is practically bonded to one of the most ferocious dragons Navarre has ever seen,” Kaede continues in a flurry of words, “you cannot just casually address him— scratch that, just don’t talk to him full stop unless you want to be charred to bits.”

There are countless rumours regarding the youngest Riorson and you’ve heard of too many to count ever since your conscription. But it hadn’t clicked back then, that the rider with a broken heart and moping around the Healers Quadrant would be the same merciless, flesh-killing vagabond that would be spoken of in hushed murmurs down the corridor.

But the dark eyes. The cold, clipped tone in which he spoke. The way he held himself, like a weapon and as though ready for any surprise attack. As though he was born to kill.

A shiver runs up your spine as dread slowly curls into your stomach.

“Oh my god,” Kaede is looking at you like you’ve grown an additional head, eyes wide, “oh my god,” he breathes and starts fanning himself as he shakes his head, “you—you didn’t have a clue, did you?”

You bite your lip, trying your best to force your dinner down even though you feel like it might come right back up at this rate.

"Stay the hell away from that guy, Tala," Kaede tuts, "he literally screams danger."

You hum in response, ducking your head and hoping against hope that Xaden Riorson doesn’t appear before you ever again after that last encounter.

Alas, for some unknown reason, he seems to turn up at the exact time your shift starts. You see him standing the double oak doors and quickly slip behind one of the makeshift curtains for privacy, motioning for one of your classmates to take him instead with the excuse that you need to re-arrange the medicine box.

But she comes to fetch you ten minutes later in the storage room.

“That rider is looking for you, Tala,” your classmate, Ariel, says as she props open the door.

Your grip tightens on the bottles in your arms, “why?” You mutter aloud more to yourself than to her.

She shrugs, “only Malek knows. But he’s got a nasty bruise on his lip. It’s split open.”

You all but storm back into the Healer’s room with barely restrained anger only to spot the said Rider decked in his flight leathers still, his onyx eyes finding yours like he’s been waiting for you all along.

“You’re avoiding me,” he states when you come close enough to hear. His face is a cold, impassive mask that makes you want to run for the hills.

You swallow thickly and avert your eyes, focusing on the wound instead, “I was busy. Someone else could’ve tended to your wound.”

It takes a long moment for him to answer. His eyes are so intense they practically bear holes through your face, “I don’t trust anyone.”

You blink in surprise, “and you trust me? After what you’ve done to me in the courtyard?”

Amusement curls at the corner of his lips and something in his gaze lightens, “had to make sure you weren’t bluffing.”

Anger simmers through your stomach, but you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood as you set about fussing over his injury. Before he has time to process, press the cotton pad filled with disinfectant to his split lip.

Xaden tenses but makes no noise, though it’s clear that it hurts as much as it should. Satisfaction curls through you at his lack of response, glad that it’s gotten him to shut up at least.

You hate people like him. Who walk around with all the power, knowing that others fear him just because of his goddamn name.

You hate people like him, who believe that everyone owes him the truth just because.

It’s not until you’re almost done with his wound that Xaden speaks. By then, most people have left the Ward in favour of grabbing dinner, leaving you alone with Navarre’s most impressive warrior and your fingers are shaking as you force yourself to finish up as quickly as possible.

“You’re afraid of me.”

He says it like a statement. Not a question.

You freeze underneath his stare. Hating how your heart does a small flutter at the intensity in his eyes.

“No I’m not,” you let out a small laugh, trying your best not to sound shaky, “why would you say that?”

He sends you a look that says he’s not convinced, “is there another reason why you sent someone else to clean my wound?”

“Like I said— I was busy. Packing up the medicine.”

“And yet, you look like you’re ready to bolt.”

Your eyes snap up to his and flinch. Your heart drops to your stomach at the cold, calculating way his features are set in stone.

You’re literally seconds away from bolting.

“Why—“ you bite at the inside of your cheek and forced your hands to keep going, to not let yourself fall apart underneath his stony countenance, “why are you doing this to me?”

Your voice is shaky. It gives away to the fear you feel but you can’t help it. You are scared of him. Because these hands can kill you. Can practically rip your throat apart if he wanted to.

You stumble back on impulse but you realise you can’t go any further when there’s a shadow curling around the back of your calf.

The hold is firm. Not tight, but it keeps you there and your horrified eyes go back up to Xaden as you try to squirm against whatever magic trick he’s doing.

“What— let me go,” your hands go up to try anything, but shadows are there too, gripping your wrists and caging you on the spot. Fear curdles your stomach like spilt milk, “what are you doing?!”

Xaden still sits. He leans forward, hands clasping together as his elbows press against his knees. He’s searching your face, it’s clear he’s trying to figure out whether you’re still against him or on his team.

“I’m having a hard time,” he says it low, slowly so that you hear every word. His tenor is laced with danger, the kind that makes you want to shrivel, “believing that you told me the truth back then.”

“What?! No! I told you the truth!”

“And yet you avoid me.”

“Because you scare me!”

The words roll off your tongue before you can stop them. He looks at you with mild surprise, your wide, terrified eyes meeting his as dread coils in your stomach.

Fuck. You’re fucked.

Cooked for good.

He’s going to feed you to his dragon.

He’s going to burn you to ash.

Oh who are you kidding? One twist of this weird dark vine thing around your neck and snap it in half.

You’d be dead in a heartbeat.

And then, just when you think he might pulverize you with a flick of his fingers—

The shadows fall away.

You gasp.

Fall to your knees, chest heaving from the aftermath of this near-death incident. It takes you every ounce of self-restraint not to throw up on Xaden’s boots.

He leans down so that you’re face to face with him, dark eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite figure you out. Like he’s trying to read you.

“I’m not the one you should be scared of,” he says coldly, “I don’t know what you’ve heard. About me, who I am. And truthfully, I don’t give a damn. But you will trust me when I say this—“

“Trust you?” You gasp for breath, heave and stammer. Sweaty strands of hair stick to your cheeks, your lip. You forcefully brush them away, “trust you? When all you do is—is threaten me?”

“Yes,” he answers flatly, “because you don’t want to know what’s outside these walls.”

He doesn’t give you time to reply, already straightening and walking out from where he’d come from. You wait for his footsteps to recede until there’s nothing but the empty walls that ring with silence, and that’s when you slowly get to your feet and try not to let your fear consume you whole, shaky legs and all.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

What is wrong with him?

That's all that's been running through Xaden's mind the moment he's left you behind, gasping and reeling, on the Healer Quadrant's floor. He strides forward without looking back, calling for his shadows to mask his footsteps so that he blends into the night and does not stop, not until he reaches the Rider's Quadrant, all the way to his room.

It's only when he locks his door and seals it with a silent locking spell that he falls back against its surface, letting out a staggered breath that he's been holding all along.

Why is he being like this?

She torments you, Sgaeyl's lazy drawl curls around his bond, a midnight shadow shimmering past his closed lids, why is that so, Shadow Wielder?

"I can't read her," he whispers, jaw clenching at the thought.

Maybe there is a reason for that, Sgaeyl answers.

What if she's a traitor? Or a spy? Xaden's thoughts reel to a stop as panic takes over, what if she's one of them?

She is too clueless, too human to be even considered a worthy opponent, Sgaeyl huffs as though the idea is laughable, she can barely stand on her own two feet.

Something’s off, Xaden tells his dragon.

You are overthinking it.

You underestimate my instincts.

She is just a girl. A naive, stupid girl.

And what if she's not? He walks over to his window and peers out into the darkness. With no one in sight and only the lamps shining over the courtyard, the place almost looks peaceful. A pang of sorrow washes through his heart at the memory of the blissful nights he'd spend by Violet's side.

He would give anything to bring her back.

Gods, he'd sacrifice himself to Malek if that's all that it took.

But life unfortunately does not work that way. And he's left to suffer alone. Maybe it's fate, it's to atone for all the sins he's done. After all, he's not a hero. Just someone who wants to make things right despite being branded evil.

And yet, he would’ve spilled all of his secrets, just because he can’t seem to read you. Just because whenever he tries to probe your mind all he gets is a massive brick wall that seems unsurmountable.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he gets a whiff of your emotions whenever they’re strong enough to overwhelm your control. But most times, most times it’s as though he’s talking to an invisible wall.

And that frustrates him to no end.

So preoccupied he is with his own mind that he doesn’t hear the soft knock on his door. Until Garrick’s voice echoes from the other side:

“You in there, Riorson?”

Xaden’s head tilts up. A moment later, he unlocks the door to find the other young man sporting an expression he cannot quite place.

“What is it?” Xaden asks roughly.

Garrick pushes past him and enters the room, hand carding through his hair as he does, “there’s been an attack from venin. Another neighboring village close to our borders.”

Xaden instantly straightens, alert, “how many dead?”

“Don’t know yet. The Fliers didn’t reach in time. Village was already in ruins when they got there," Garrick presses his lips together to draw a thin line, "they need more weapons. It's the only way."

"And how do you suggest we do that when we're already stealing as much as we can?" Xaden snaps, "You saw what happened at Resson. They know we're up to something. They just don't know what."

"So we're just going to let them die? Is that what we were doing all this time? Is this the reason we're risking our lives to smuggle weapons out?" Garrick's voice rises and Xaden clenches his jaw in response, "we need to get away from here, Xaden. I say we sneak out and disappear before they even realise it."

"They're going to send me away soon," the dark-haired shadow wielder leans back against his desk, his muscles aching from the tiredness of sparring for three whole hours before this. He rubs at his jaw in thought, "they're watching me very closely. I cannot move against them. Not right now."

"So then?" desperation lines his friend's voice, "what do we do?"

Xaden settles his dark eyes over his friend and his tone suggests that whatever he says is final, "we lay low. I'll scout for information once I'm sent to the outpost. For now, don't do anything that might attract attention."

Garrick is clearly not convinced, but who is he to fight his leader when all Xaden has done was for the good of his people?

It's only when his friend leaves with a soft grumble of approval that Xaden finally allows himself to breathe. He washes away the grime and dirt from his earlier training before collapsing onto his bed, trying not to think too much about the missing warmth that used to welcome him in the form of his lover.

Do not blame yourself, Sgaeyl murmurs from the other end of the bond, go to sleep, shadow-wielder. You'll need it.

He isn't the type to listen to his dragon. Under any normal circumstances, Xaden would find himself pacing his bedroom floor as he tries to piece together solutions and strategies the next few moves.

But he finds he cannot find the energy to. Or maybe that isn't it. There's been something off with him ever since Violet's death and he's pretty certain it's his broken heart.

And so he closes his eyes and allows the shadow to wrap him up in its arms.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

A month goes by. Then two. Then three.

Before you know it, you've placed Xaden Riorson at the back of your mind and hoped that he wouldn't appear before you again like a nightmare you'd rather forget.

Soon enough the weather turns cold, the air crisp with the north winds as fall takes its place. The trees turn beautiful shades of orange and yellow and russet brown, the foliage transforming the land into an array of warm colours that always manages to catch your breath. You barely get glimpses of it though, in-between study sessions, theory courses and being on shift at the Healers' Quadrant for Infantry and Riders, there is barely any time to rest, the urgency of having Healers deployed all along Navarre a rumour that only seems to expand tenfold as the weeks go on.

You're dispatched to one of the outposts of Samara as part of your Healer Theory module, in order to shadow the third-years that are currently stationed there, and it is no surprise that you have no other choice to get to that outpost other than on the back of a dragon. That is, unless you want to take the travel route which takes more than enough time for the entire outpost to be torched to pieces before your arrival.

Needless to say, the dragons make you want to run for it. That, or pee your pants.

"Don't worry," one of the riders whose face seems eerily familiar, steps forward with an easy smile, "they won't bite. Unless we ask them too. Or if you piss them off."

"No eye contact," says another blonde rider, "don't squirm. Don't move until we tell you to, unless you want to be charred for this night's dinner."

You swear you can feel your heart pound when the familiar-looking rider steps towards you, an arm outstretched in a friendly gesture, "Come on then," his voice is deep and rich, like that of gravel, and it's quite the torture how handsome he is when the beast that huffs behind him is more than ten meters tall and has teeth as big as your entire body.

You stretch out a shaky hand, eyes darting to the ground and gluing there the entire time he helps you climb the scales. They are smooth and warm under your touch, not a sensation that you had expected. You reach the top seat and the rider practically hauls himself up with the ease of a monkey before reaching out for your hand.

You take it, breath stuttering when he hauls you up like you weigh nothing before instructing you to sit right behind him, hands locked around his waist.

"Hold on tight. You don't want to fall off," he says, sneaking a peek at you from behind his shoulder with another grin, "my name's Garrick Tavis. This is Chradh. He's usually nice, though I doubt he likes strangers."

You can't help but flinch when you feel the dragon rumble a growl from deep inside its belly.

Garrick tips his head back in laughter, "I'm joking. He's telling me off for frightening you."

And with a final wink, his dragon launches into the sky.

Your scream is lost within the winds that howl through your ears and on impulse you just hold onto Garrick for dear life. Your arms are an iron grip that don't cease, not even when you finally spot Samara from the distance.

He helps you down like a gentleman, holding onto your hand and grabbing your waist to lift you from his dragon and settling you on solid ground.

You blush, stumbling back while you mumble out, "th--thank you."

"Pleasure's all mine," he grins with sparkling eyes, "what's your name again? Sorry, I didn't even ask."

"Tala Huang," you mumble out. You can still hear your heart pounding inside your ribcage, and you're surprised he cannot hear it too.

"Well, it was nice to fly with you, Tala Huang."

It isn't until evening time, after you're all showered and glowing from the warmth of the baths, settled into the Healer's common room while you wait for your shift to begin, that you come face to face with none other than the one person you were trying so hard to avoid.

You practically jolt up from your seat, eyes wide, "wh--what are you doing here?"

Xaden cocks a brow and god does he know it makes him hot. Your face flames as he strides in, dark brows furrowed as his eyes look you up and down like he's not quite sure what to do with you here.

You back up unconsciously, the back of your knees hitting the soft mattress. Words dry up at the back of your throat.

He cocks his head to the side, "I'll have you know that I was the one dispatched to Samara."

"You're--" your brain reels with shock at that information, "you're a graduate? You--You've been here all this time?"

"Why?" he takes a step closer, "miss me?" his lips curl up into a smirk.

You frown and hope he can't spot your soft blush, "no."

Turning away to busy your hands with the medicine box, you wait for him to sit atop one of the beds before treading over to him with more reluctance than necessary.

"So, what do you need?" you ask while taking out your disinfectant and finding your cotton pads. A mere habit now, one that you've developed because of him.

Xaden's eyes are still on you, flickering across your features as though trying to read you.

Then, he turns away slowly. Almost hesitant as he lifts the edge of his shirt to show you his back.

You gasp at the huge, gaping wound sizzling with blood. It's ghastly, like a creature has chomped onto his skin and wrenched it away. And it must hurt like hell, surely.

"What in Malek's name..." your words trail off as your eyes find his face. But his is set in stone, jaw ticking and body tense.

"Don't ask," he grumbles.

You take his advice and get to work, the silence enveloping you like a gentle hum as the wind— muffled by the windowpanes — echoes through the stone walls.

It’s impossible to to admire the said rider when he’s sitting right in front of you; his chest is broader than most men you’ve seen, not to forget that he’a built like a goddamn fortress. Every single muscle in him cords and bunches with every movement, like a sinuous dance that makes your mouth water. You breathe out through your nose and grip the cotton pads a little tighter as you clean around his wound, trying not to blatantly stare at his abs despite the fact that they’re right there.

You’re not immune to men, and you’re not all that innocent either. Throughout your first-year it was safe to say that you had a flirtation going on with one of the cadets from Infantry. But that had soon turned to dust the moment he’d told you he hadn’t wanted any kids and that women should stay in the kitchens where they belonged, just like his mother had. After all, you’re here for the long ride, not for a vacation hookup, as amazing as it sounds. That, and the fact that you did not work your ass off just to be stuck home while your husband is out making a career for himself.

With all the Healer preparation exams, the late nights, the continuous shifts in the Infirmary, you’d practically closed yourself off to any romantic adventures lest you failed to pass your exams.

But by gods, just one glance in Xaden’s direction makes your insides turn to mush.

“Like something you see?”

You’re so caught up in your own head that you don’t realize you’re staring blankly at the said six-pack in question, until his voice snaps you back to reality.

Heat blazes through your cheeks. You whip your head away, focusing on treating his wound as you curse at yourself inwardly, “you wish, Riorson.” You mutter.

“I didn’t know Healers were dispatched before graduation,” Xaden shifts to the side so that you have better access to his wound.

You grab another cotton pad and soak it up with healing medicine; a crushed mixture of natural ingredients that speed up the healing process and would dry it off, “it’s part of our term grade. We shadow graduates and receive hands-on training,” you spare him a glance then, “but this is the first time they’ve sent someone this far.”

He hums, “are you the only one dispatched here?”

“To Samara, yes.”

When your eyes flit up next, they lock on his own. You notice, for the first time, that his pupils are dark, flecked with golden.

“This is Navarre’s cruelest outpost,” Xaden searches your eyes with that same, poised mask that makes you want to shrivel up, “why would they send you here, if not to die?”

The word death reverberates through you and you flinch back on impulse, “what? What are you talking about?”

“We're practically on Poromiel's border, making us the primary target for our enemies," something that looks like half-amusement flickers across Xaden's features, "did they not tell you that before you volunteered?"

"I did not volunteer," you try not to let the panic take over, instead focusing on dressing his wound and putting on a plaster so that it won't get infected. Your hands are shaking at this point, and it's definitely not from the cold, "I was assigned to it without choice."

He doesn't say anything. But he doesn't have to. It's as clear as day that being stationed here is literally like a guillotine hanging over your head. You might die tonight. Or tomorrow. Or in the days to come.

"Stay away from the guard towers," Xaden speaks, his voice somehow softer. Or maybe it's just your imagination, though you do flinch when his gold-flecked dark eyes meet yours next, "lay low and don't bring any attention to yourselves. The riders here are not like the ones in Basgiath. They're..." he presses his lips so tight they form a thin line, "they won't hesitate to kill you if they think you're a nuisance. Just stay inside the Healer's quarters as much as possible, unless you have specific reason to be out."

You blink at him, "why..." you hesitate, not knowing exactly what to say. This is the rider that had practically threatened to end your life and now, he's being all protective? "why are you telling me this?"

His brow lifts in that very seductive way of his, the corner of his kips curling up, as though amused by your display of confusion and nervousness.

"Do you want to die?" he asks.

"No."

"Then do as I say."

Smartass, is what you want to yell. But you don't. What if he's the one that kills you for being out of line. You clamp your lips together and finally draw back, motioning towards his abdomen, "you're all set," you say in a grumble, "I would tell you not to spar, but you won't listen anyway, so what's the point?"

"Feisty," he smirks, "didn't know you had it in you."

"Oh shut up Riorson," you roll your eyes, move away and start to pack the medicine bottles, "and don't let it get into contact with water. if you have to clean it, come see me," you say over your shoulder.

You almost yelp when you feel the warmth of his breath along the back of your head.

You freeze, eyes widening as you realise that he's standing millimetres from you and could practically thrust a knife into your chest and be done with it.

And when he speaks next, his tenor practically rumbles through the walls in a vibration that has your skin sizzling.

"I never asked for your name."

"Uhm..." you scramble for a response and have half a mind to lie about it, but decide that maybe it might bite back at you later, "Tala," you murmur out with a defeated sigh, "Tala Huang."

You don't have to look at him to know that there's another growing smirk on his face when he says, "try not to get yourself killed, Tala Huang."

He's gone before you can turn around.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, gazing at the emptiness that now surrounds you. Funny. When Xaden was here, his presence had filled the entire room and you'd felt safe. Now, with the cold walls and the soft howling wind your only companions, the Healers Quarters isn't looking the most friendly.

Great, and now I'm becoming used to him, you mutter inwardly to yourself.

That is definitely something you don't want to get accustomed with. Because, for all you know, Xaden Riorson is a monster.

A very handsome monster.

But a monster nevertheless.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Xaden's life soon becomes routine at Samara, whether he likes it or not.

He spends the early morning inside the sparring gym training with whoever is available at the moment, faces and names that he doesn't quite know yet recognises all too well by the shapes of their blows and their signet abilities manifesting on the mat. Then, he grabs a quick breakfast before heading out into his first patrol of the morning. He flies all the way till mid-afternoon, sometimes more, rotating around the perimeter until his superiors are satisfied with his work and dismiss him for the night. He then either eats his dinner inside his room, entertained with none other than his dragon that exchanges comments and pleasantries as he wolfs down his food, or finds himself searching for any kind of rooftop upon which he will sit and watch the night sky unfolding before his very eyes.

Sometimes. Just sometimes, he'll tread down to the Healing Quarters and allow his shadows to reach for you. Gently. Out of sight. But still there.

It's merely his amusement. His curiosity, at the incredible innocence that seems to drip from your countenance. You're a walking rabbit into a lion's angry den and you don't even realise it. Your wide eyes are always filled with the fear of being eaten alive and the only time Xaden sees you actually comfortable in your skin is when you have a medicine box in your hand, or when you're diligently stitching up someone.

And that's fascinating. Because despite the shy, reserved nature that is you, the girl that keeps to herself and doesn't usually speak her mind, is a quiet confidence as you work through horrible wounds, burns, scars that can traumatise literally anyone in this Outpost. But not you. Never you.

The contradiction is a miracle. And one that fascinates the said raven-haired shadow-wielder.

That, and the fact that he can't read you no matter how much he tries.

So he settles for watching over you from afar. Reading into your mannerisms, understanding every tick, every tell that you have; like chewing on your lip whenever you're afraid of saying something. Walking with your eyes downcast like you fear anyone that might approach you. Scratching your jawline when you're in deep thought. You're always ready to help, so eager in your movements that sometimes you get clumsy. And that small, humanistic aspect renders you...what? Cute? Adorable? Sure, that can work. As adorable as a five-year old kid at a Carnival fair.

That's what Xaden tells himself. You're like a sister. A sister that he can't see as anything more.

Hell, he's still not over Violet. He will never be.

Because he's the famous Xaden Riorson and because you're you, he doesn't want people to notice someone as defenceless as you are. And so, sends out his shadows to do whatever he cannot. For instance, hiding behind the doors during your night shifts and allowing his shadows to support your feet whenever he senses that you're tired, or letting the darkness accompany you back to your room until you're safe and locked away. You don't take notice, or maybe you don't even know that this is him. Maybe you can feel something different, something more than just the air. But somehow, your inability to recognise his power makes you even more...endearing. In a way.

You are getting soft for this girl, Sgaeyl chuffs at him when he meets her along the tower's border one morning.

Nonsense, Xaden replies flatly as he climbs up her midnight scales and settles along her back. Sgaeyl lets out a grunt, launching into the air a beat later as her wings expand to catch the morning drift.

Then what is it with your little escapades down to the Healers' room? Why are you so insistent on keeping her safe?

She's defenceless. I'm just doing my job.

And who told you to do that for her? Last I heard, you were not responsible for anyone but yourself, shadow-wielder. Do not forget why you are here, why the Marked ones depend on your survival.

He clenches his teeth together, leaning to the side when his dragon suddenly banks left, "you don't need to remind me," he snaps.

Sgaeyl is right. He doesn't need any more distractions. The civilians around the border are getting attacked and the wards are slowly failing with every day that passes. Now is not the time to be looking for any sexual escapades in the form of any kind; rider or healer or infantry alike.

But when he finds another rider trying to get his hands on you a few nights later, all those thoughts go straight down the drain.

He's gotten you pinned to the cold stone wall of the corridor, practically caging you with one leg lodged between your thighs and his hands glued to your hips. It would've made for a romantic picture of two lovers meeting in the middle of the night, if not for the whimpers and the helpless "please don't" that escapes your lips at intervals as he tries to litter your skin with marks and bruises.

Xaden steps out of the dark, his shadows curling around him in a threatening manner.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

His words come out as a growl. Raspy and menacing. Filled with danger.

The rider freezes in mid-action and from where Xaden stands he can see the tears caking your cheeks.

That makes him want to tear this fucker's throat apart.

"Oh hey Riorson," the rider, a graduate a few years above him whose known as Clence Killig, has the audacity to send him a sickeningly sweet smile, "look what I found all alone in the Healer's room. Nice, ey?"

"Get your hands off her," Xaden snarls. He steps closer.

"whoa hey, we can share. Bet you need a bit of release yourself, after what happened with--"

"I said," Xaden punctuates every word, "Hands. off."

A beat passes. Then two.

Xaden holds Clence’s gaze. His own features a hard stone mask.

Finally, Clence releases you from his grasp. You stumble to the floor, catching yourself with your hands as you heave in ragged, relieved breaths.

“Leave,” Xaden growls.

Clence doesn’t need to be told twice, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath as he disappears down the corridor.

Xaden is at your side in an instant, arms gripping your elbows to pull you up.

His touch is gentle, unlike the tone of his voice, “are you okay?”

You nod, though don’t trust yourself to speak.

Pulling you up with minimal effort, the rider ensures you’re on your feet before he asks if you can walk back to your room. You say yes, though no sooner have you taken a step that you’re stumbling face first into the cold cobblestone beneath.

Shit. That hurts like a bitch.

“Need a little help?”

You scowl at the ground, hating that you can practically hear the amusement in his tone. Quickly pushing yourself up to your feet while ignoring him, you force your shaky legs forward as his chuckle echoes through the corridor, all the way up to your room.

He follows you. Not far behind, but far enough that it gives you space to breathe. His eyes locked on your dark silhouette, his shadows seem to have a mind of their own as their curl over the walls around you almost protectively. The thought of what might have happened if he hadn’t interrupted the scene earlier flashes through his mind and disgust reels in his stomach. He curls his fists and clamps them in by his sides as the dark bond with Sgaeyl resonates with her small growl.

Get a grip, shadow-wielder. You are not here to play hero.

Thank you for your wonderful contribution.

She chuffs in what sounds to be annoyance. A second later, the bond dissipates with her absence. She’s probably gone to sleep. Or feed on sheep.

Xaden only comes to a stop when you swivel around just outside your doorway, “are you—following me?”

“No,” Xaden states.

“Then…” you make a shooing motion and his eyebrow quirks up. Really? You’re acting like he’s a horse. Or worse, a pest, “you can go now.”

He snorts, "thanks for the dismissal."

"I did not--" you purse your lips, the sight surprisingly adorable as your eyes narrow up at him into a glare, "look, thank you. For tonight. But I'm fine now."

Xaden can definitely take your words as fact and walk away.

He can definitely try to pass this off as an accident, some kind of weird coincidence that he'd been roaming the halls at the same time that you got attacked. That this will probably never happen again, especially when he's fucking Xaden Riorson and everybody is scared of him.

There's no way that rider will mess with you ever again, unless he wants a good punch in his face to wake him the hell up.

And you've practically dismissed him. Technically, he has all the right to walk away. Right now.

He can.

But his eyes catch your lips.

They wobble.

As if you're holding on.

Your eyes flicker past him. Filled with uncertainty. Fear.

Xaden's resolve breaks.

He doesn't hesitate. Pushes past you despite the overflow of protests from your lips about what the fuck is he doing but he strides into your room without remorse before sending you a look that might cause anyone to shrivel under his gaze.

In all honesty, you do flinch back like he's burnt you.

When you speak next, your words are barely above a murmur, "what are you doing?"

"You're clearly not fine," Xaden states matter-of-factly. He finds your closet, opening it up to pull out the spare duvet and pillow that every room has, and starts to lay it out next to your bed.

"What--Yes I am. I'm fine, see?!" you wave your arms about in growing concern of what he's currently doing, eyes flitting back and forth between him and the now spread-out blanket, "honestly--what are you doing?! And this is--this isn't even allowed! They said--"

"Fuck what they say," Xaden cuts you off, looking up to lock eyes with you and when you take note of the silent anger etched onto his face, words die in the back of your throat, "do you want to stay here alone and risk getting taken advantage of? Just tell me the word Tala, and I'll be gone."

His admission causes something to tug in your heart. You just look at him, jaw parting as you blink. What in the world is he saying?

"Why..." you find your voice after a few beats of silence, "why are you doing this?"

I wish I knew, is what goes through Xaden's head.

This is a dangerous game you're playing, boy. Sgaeyl warns.

I'm not leaving her defenceless, Xaden snaps back.

His jaw ticks, tongue poking at his left cheek, "a Healer getting killed is not on top of my list of priorities at the moment."

"Who says you won't attack me in my sleep?"

"Smart. I'll give you that," he smirks, "if I'd wanted to, you'd already be dead."

True. That doesn't make it any easier.

Seeing you won't relent, the shadow-wielder lets out another annoyed breath, "I'll be out before you wake up. You won't even know I'm gone," then, sensing as if that's not enough, he quickly unsheathes the four daggers hidden at his thighs and throws them to the ground before you. They clatter onto the stone floor and make you wince, the noise bouncing off the walls of the room. Too loud in the small space.

"These are my daggers," he meets your petrified eyes and softens slightly, "riders win them through sparring. The more daggers, the better the rider. We usually sleep with them as a precaution, mostly from other riders," he releases a soft breath, "you keep them, if it makes you feel any better."

“Me?” You echo, “keep your…daggers?”

Amusement flickers across his lips, “yes. So that you’re sure I don’t kill you in your sleep.”

He watches your chest heave. Once. Twice in small rapid succession.

You blink at him, press your lips together as the silence envelopes the room. In the distance, the softest howl of a dragon is heard.

After what finally feels like eternity, you slowly bend down and— keeping your gaze on his— gather up his daggers against your chest.

His chest tightens.

He’s never seen anyone hold his daggers this way.

And that… is surprisingly cute.

He blinks, looks away before he finds himself in deeper troubled waters. What is he even thinking?

“Fine,” you tilt your chin in defiance, a contrast to the fear reflected in your maroon pupils, "only for tonight. But you stay--" you point a shaky hand to the duvet that serves as a mattress pushed against the windowpane overlooking the outpost, "you stay in your corner. Or that dagger's going to end up where it doesn't belong."

"Are you threatening me?" he can't help but let out a chuckle. He shakes his head, "relax, cadet. I'll stay on my side of the room."

You mumble something incomprehensible under your breath but it seems that his words satisfy you, for you quickly disappear into your private bathroom as Xaden tries to get as comfortable as possible with his single-layer mattress that doesn't even count as a mattress in the first place.

You are being an idiot, states Sgaeyl like she is reprimanding a five-year-old dragon. He can practically see her roll her eyes at him, you are wasting your energy on a girl that does not deserve any of it.

Maybe I am, Xaden curls up on his side to stare at the stone wall, but leaving her alone does not feel right. Even for me.

You could've just warded the place, Sgaeyl retorts.

That's true. He's not going to deny that. Instead he stays quiet.

He hears you shuffle back in, your footsteps hesitant and padded, like you've changed out of your work shoes for something comfier. Maybe slippers. He wonders briefly if your sleepwear is mismatched, whether you wear a nightgown or opt for large t-shirts and shorts. Riders usually sleep with their riding tunic, sometimes with their armour in an attempt of protection. He remembers all too well the nights Violet would roll around in her own dragon vest and something akin to guilt curls up inside his stomach.

Violet. He wonders how she'd feel about him sleeping on a stranger's floor.

Tensing upon hearing your footsteps approach, he closes his eyes and tries to lay still, a semblance of sleep, just to see what you do.

There's silence. You're probably watching him, probably gaging his every move, his alliance. What his actions mean to you.

And then, something heavy and warm settles across his body.

It's warm. And comfortable. It makes him want to bury his nose into it because goddamnit it's so soft he wants to let out a sigh of bliss.

But he holds completely still, waiting. Wondering what the hell you're doing.

Your fingers are icy when they reach for the edge of the covers you've settled across Xaden's body, and you make sure not to brush them against him as you tuck the blanket a little more firmly against the rider's sides.

A moment later, he hears you retreat. A weight settles upon the bed and a few beats later, the lights go out.

Xaden has grown to be a weapon. To be used for killing, violence, for everything that is dark and cold and lonely. Growing up had been harsh, the scars lining his back is good enough evidence of that, and the responsibility of the marked ones' safety pushes down on his shoulders every single day he wakes. He doesn't do kindness, doesn't want to have anything to do with it. He's made of steel and violence, of destruction and efficiency, a cold river that never shows its true facade.

And yet, the cold-blooded shadow-wielder can't help but feel his heart soften, at your small act of kindness.

Because to him, it speaks volumes.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

It doesn't surprise you the next day when you go back to being practical strangers. Xaden barely acknowledges you, and it's probably for the best, considering that relationships between each district quadrant are highly discouraged for the mere sake that each quadrant believed it to be better than its counterparts.

But you still remember waking up the morning after, groggy and eyelids heavy with sleep, before realising that the blanket you'd thrown around his figure last night was now curled around you in a cozy cocoon. You still remember blushing furiously at the idea of Xaden Riorson tucking you in like you're something worth keeping safe before stepping out to resume his deadly rider duties, a stark contrast to the boy who slept inside your room.

Nevertheless, you realise soon that for him, that night had been a small blip. A tiny bump in his otherwise successful dark rider reputation. God knows he wouldn't want to destroy that when every rider, infantry or healer alike skitters away from him wherever he moves, like a shark through water. And you're content on keeping it that way, a mere escapade that if you pinch yourself hard enough you'd think it had to be a dream. Or a nightmare.

The next time you see him is during one particular sparring battle that had been organised a weekend after the incident. The riders somehow enjoy tearing each other apart like it's an itch they can't quite scratch unless they see blood and missing teeth flying over the arena. You were assigned in case of any medical emergencies that were to happen, and that's when you truly got to see how riders fight.

Because they don't fight like any normal humans. They don't fight to defend, to be safe, to win.

They fight like they want to kill.

You stop watching after the third--or is it the fourth?-- opponent is kicked back into the steel fence that lines the sparring area, flinching back on instinct as your hands curl into fists, hidden in your lap.

One of your healer mates -- you believe her name is Peyton-- notices, leans over to whisper, "are you alright?"

"I'm fine," you say through gritted teeth.

"It's always a bit gruesome to watch," Peyton says. Her eyes, golden amber flecked with emerald, sparkle with what you want to say is not excitement, but is, "but I find it quite fascinating. It's definitely not for the weak hearted."

"You can say that," you're about to throw up your breakfast. How does she look so normal?

"Don't worry. You get used to it," she replies just as one of the men slumps in defeat, his wrist tapping the mat hard.

"Look," she prods your shoulder once more and points towards the sidelines, "I think Riorson is up next."

Sure enough, she's right. There he stands, chest bare in all its glory, tattoo marks winding up his neck and down his back as his arms clench and unclench as though he's mentally preparing himself for what's to come. He is built like a god and you knew that, having patched him up more times than you could count in your healer career. But with the dim lights of the arena shining on ever sinuous curve and toned muscle of his body, it's hard not to stare. You swear you're drooling.

His eyes catch yours.

You look down, a burst of heat coiling through your chest as butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Gods. You hope he hasn't noticed that you've been staring.

Next to you, Peyton lets out a loud, dramatic sigh, "Oh my gods," her eyes glimmer with longing as she allows her chin to rest atop her palm, "he looks absolutely delicious."

Absolutely delicious is right.

Absolutely terrifying is --also-- right.

Because the way he moves, the way his eyes track his opponent like a well-trained wolf about to go for the kill, the speed at which his body contorts and skids and avoids blows like he's actually made out of water, is like a shadow that you cannot catch no matter how fast you try to be. That, but the grace with which he dances along his opponent has you gasping and holding your breath. Wanting more. Like a performance that you don't want to end.

He's beautiful and so, so terrible at the same time. Like a beautiful nightmare come to life.

He wins easily, and just as he exits the arena, you swear you spot him glancing back at you, the beginning of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

A few days go by, and you bump into him one early morning. The entire outpost is still asleep and, unable to keep dozing off due to the horrible nightmare about your recent abuser that had pinned you in the corridor, you decide to head out early to catch the tiniest glimmer of the sunrise.

You are more than careful as you find one of the staircases leading up the tower, fallen snow and ice crunching under your boots as you make your way up the turret and slide through the opening. You balance yourself quite steadily, holding on to the edge of the wall as you find a nice spot on which to sit.

You plop down with a loud sigh, tilting your head up to watch the sky painted in hues of midnight purple to pink.

"You're not supposed to be up here, cadet."

Your head snaps up.

You see him, a mere shadow in the darkness, standing a few meters away.

"Are you insane?!" is what falls out of your mouth first as you take in the closeness of his feet to the edge, "what are you doing?! Get off there!"

Xaden lets out a huff that sounds more like a chuckle but does as he's told, jumping off the ledge and joining you on the wall, "you didn't answer my question."

"What? Oh--" you stumble over your words, unsure what you can say, "I was...taking some air."

"At five in the morning?"

"Yes. Why not?" you scowl at him, "and--you're here, aren't you? Doing the same thing?"

"Fair point," he sits more comfortable and dangles his legs over the tower, "but I'm here to check up on Sgaeyl. Unless you have a dragon that you need tending to."

"Pardon? I--" The word dragon registers in your mind a little too late, because no sooner does panic slam into you and you yelp in terror, "e--excuse me?!"

You spot a humongous shape moving in the dark, scales glinting like moonlight, and you can't help but scream, feet slipping as your first instinct is to get the hell away from it as possible--

But you lose your footing and practically teeter, gasping out a, "No!" as you feel your body rocking back with gravity towards the ground--

A hand shoots out and snatches you right back--

You crash into Xaden's chest headfirst, his other arm locking you around the middle as you all but tumble into a breathless heap against the wall edge.

"You--" Xaden breathes out raggedly, "--have the worst--" he takes a choked breath, "-- instincts."

But you're not focused on him. Not on the warmth of his chest against your cheek. Not on his body practically glued to yours.

No.

You're focused on the giant, golden serpent eyes that watch you.

Prey.

You're like prey.

The dragon's head is huge. Massive in comparison to your height, practically half the size of the turret. You can't even imagine how tall or long its body is, though it being shrouded in darkness does not help.

The dragon chuffs and hot, steaming air blows against your face.

Jesus. It can practically incinerate you.

But it won't, right?

Not when you're practically hanging onto Xaden for dear life.

"It's--It's not going to eat me, is it?" you can't help but whisper, words stuttering on your lips and your heart beating like it has wings.

You feel Xaden's warm breath against your temple, "no," amusement lines his tone, "Sgaeyl isn't particularly fond of human flesh. She does, however, torch them."

"T--To--Torch them?" bile rises at the back of your throat.

The said dragon lets out another huff of steam and water sprinkles along your face. You squirm and plaster yourself against the taller rider like your life depends on it. Because it does.

"Play nice," he tells Sgaeyl, "it's probably the second time she's seen a dragon this close."

Sgaeyl's chest rumbles and you flinch back, not caring that you’re practically cuddled into Xaden as you eye the dragon’s set of glimmering scales. Up close, it ressembles more of a shimmering ocean and dare you say, it is absolutely mesmerizing.

As though sensing your gaze, Sgaeyl’s golden eyes settles on your own. It’s almost like a challenge, the way she stares you down unflinchingly as though you might be the unwanted distraction that needs to be taken away from her rider.

And then, just like that, the dragon’s features soften. She turns away, her long neck almost brushing against you as she settles against the edge of the wall.

If you extend your arm, you can almost touch her.

“What—What is she doing?” You croak out to Xaden, your words barely above a whisper.

“Nothing that concerns you, it seems,” it is then — when Xaden’s arm slowly loosens around your frame — that you take note of the way you’ve been pressed up against him all this time. You’re quick to scurry out of his arms and you’re glad that the cold is enough to cool the heat flushing your cheeks bright red.

“I—probably need to get back,” your hand scrambles for something to hold and you decide to grip the wall edge despite the rock digging into your palm, “thank you. You know— for not— well, I guess burning me to ashes. Or feeding me to your dragon.”

You’re off before he can say anything and Xaden merely gazes after you with a grin threatening to tug at the corners of his lips. That is until Sgaeyl’s giant form turns to face him with what looks to be disapproval.

I guess I should’ve seen it coming, her words echo through the bond link, she looks like she could be eaten in one bite.

“Don’t even think of it,” Xaden mutters. Behind his dragon, the smallest glimmers of gold pierces through the landscape to welcome the dawn.

What exactly do you find so fascinating about her? And why in God’s name do you trust her now when she hasn’t done anything to earn it?

Disapproval rolls of every tense line of her body in waves but the shadow-wielder merely leans back against the edge and lifts one shoulder in a shrug.

She’s too fucking gullible to be considered a threat, he says simply,

Oh really? That’s not what you said a few months ago.

You seem to hate her.

Shadow-wielder, I have lived for centuries. When you live for that long, you learn to trust when it’s clear to you that betrayal is not a possibility. Not when nothing was proven.

Do you trust me? Xaden’s jaw ticks.

Sgaeyl hesitates, yes. I do. Unfortunately.

Well, I trust her, Xaden says, so you will too.

He just hopes that he isn’t wrong on this account.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

The next time you find the said shadow-wielder, he's sitting atop the roof before you, legs swinging into nothingness and face etched with a faraway look in his eyes. The sight is devastatingly beautiful, like he's a god carved out of marble, and your fingers twitch with the desire to run your hands through those dark strands that fall across his face, until he senses your approach and cocks his head towards you.

You jump, startled, "hi." you say lamely.

"Are you spying on me?"

"No," you say through flushed cheeks, glad that it's still dark out so that he can't see and --

And what? Make fun of you for it?

No. Xaden would use it as bait. Or as a way to get something out of the situation.

You tiptoe the rest of the way in silence so as not to disturb in peace, plopping down just a few meters away as the wind picks up and swirls through your hair, catching at your cheek as it does.

It is always so much more pleasant to watch the sunrise without the constant pressure of having people depend on you. These were the rare times of solitude that you had for yourself, and you weren't about to give that up. Not even for the grumpy Riorson.

"Can't sleep?" Xaden murmurs.

Your eyes narrow to his in surprise, "no actually. I usually wake up at this time."

"How so?"

He's being chatty today. You decide to entertain him, “I guess I’m not used to this place yet. And it’s colder than Basgiath.”

He gazes down at you with a look you cannot quite read, which prompts you to ask a, “what?”

He looks away, “where do you come from?”

His question perplexes you for a minute, “I’m from a small village next to Callydyr. Pretty isolated, we don’t get much company.”

When Xaden stays silent, you ask, “why?”

He avoids your question and asks another, “why become a Healer?”

“Why not?”

His dark eyes are steely. As if demanding a better answer than a rhetorical question.

You sigh, “my mother was a healer. Showed me pretty much everything I know about it. I guess I just wanted to be like her,” you let out a small laugh, “it’s a stupid reason, and not an honorable one. Not like you riders—“

“I wasn’t given a choice.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, “right.” You croak, “sorry.“

“Not your fault,” Xaden leans back and you catch a glimpse of muscles lining up his forearm. You swallow thickly, heat permeating your skin as you look away.

“Anyway,” you try to change the subject, “how was it? Where you grew up?”

You think that maybe you’ve struck a chord too close to home. But Xaden surprises you by answering, “most Marked kids were put in foster homes. Wasn’t great, but it was manageable. As long as we recited what they wanted to hear, they left us alone.”

“Was it hard? Living without your parents?” You murmur hesitantly, tilting your head towards him.

He dips his head in a singular nod but does not say anything more.

There are parameters with him, you soon learn. Depending on his mood, he is either open to light discussion until it falls into territory he’d rather ignore, and that’s when he closes off like a brick wall. Or he’s straight up in a foul mood and refuses to speak even a word. You’d tried numerous times when you spot him in a permanent dark cloud, once even losing your temper when he’d snapped at you for something completely irrelevant.

“Gods Riorson, you are incorrigible when you’re like this,” you finally snap in growing irritation because goddamnit you’re not his babysitter. In fact, you might just have called yourself his friend, if not for the defensive way he keeps his walls up with you.

“You want a two-way honest conversation? Then stop acting like a baby every time I bring up something you don’t wanna talk about,” you continue on in a flow of anger, “and if you don’t wanna know, then stop asking me questions about myself then expect me not to ask you the same.”

Since then, he’s been a little more responsive to your advances. Though it’s clear that sometimes his grumpy ass cannot be fucked. But the fact that he is even trying for your sake is somewhat of a miracle, so you don’t complain.

“I wouldn’t get too close to him,” Peyton once tells you during your shift. You’re currently wiping down the medical counters as she puts away the medication, “he had a girlfriend, you know. Like, a serious relationship.”

“Wait—really?” You frown. It’s somehow surprising to think of Xaden as a serious relationship type of guy.

“Yeah. Apparently their dragons were mates. The relationship was strong, almost like they were mates in a way. But then…”

“Then what?”

“She got killed during battle in Resson,” Peyton shakes her head, “a pretty bad kill, apparently. He never got over it."

Oh.

It feels like a slap to your face.

For some reason, the notion of Xaden being so intensely attached to another woman has your stomach churning like you've eaten something bad for breakfast. No wonder he's so cold, so ruthless, so uncaring towards every single person he interacts with. His heart got broken once. He's definitely not going to try that again.

It makes it hard to look at him in the face after that. You can't seem to hold his eyes for more than a heartbeat and though you sense that he knows something must be off, he doesn't comment on it. Because he doesn't have to care. You're just someone he comes to when he needs patching up. Nothing more, nothing less.

So you do the only thing you can; busy yourself within the Healer’s room. Thank god for the piling number of injured people, for that keeps your distracted thoughts at bay as you focus on doing your job right instead.

Peyton chatters by your side as the days go by. She teaches you everything about the Outpost; the secret passageways, the extra food that would be stored in the kitchens once lights go out, the flowers at the back in a small alleyway right beside the Outpost wall— the one that faces the mountains and is actually off limits to you.

But peace never lasts long in a place like Samara. You’re jostled awake a few nights after by one of the Healers stating that enemies have breached your territory. You don’t hesitate, flinging yourself out of your bed and scurrying out— shoeless feet and all — towards the closest exit you know of.

You hear snarls and growls and clanging metal that suggests people are fighting but you don’t dare look, not when your heart feels like it might fall out of your chest, not even when a scream pierces through the turret and makes your own heart plummet like stone.

“Come on Tala! Quicker!” You can hear and make out Peyton’s figure by the doorway, a dark silhouette in contrast to the blinding light of the moon overhead.

But no sooner have you reached that a sharp talon strikes her from behind. She falls, her eyes still wide with terror as a scream tears past your throat, “Peyton!”

You throw yourself onto the open doorway, the wind and rain battering at your face as you gaze down in horror at Peyton’s lifeless body a few meters down.

“No,” you whimper out, lips trembling and backing away from the edge, “no…no, no, no.”

And that’s when you hear it, the softest hiss. A menace that causes a terrifying shiver down your spine. The man steps out from the swaths of darkness, eyes tinged with red and skin ashen grey, gnarly fingers curled in on themselves.

He’s filled with magic. The kind of magic that you can feel — from the bottom of your gut — is not of the good kind.

You back away, step by step, a silent prayer echoing through your head, “st—stay away from me,” you croak pathetically.

The man just laughs and keeps striding towards you like he doesn’t care. You keep moving back until you’re left with nothing but the stone wall at your back. You’re trapped with nowhere else to go, and he knows it.

“Please,” you can’t help but let out a broken whimper, “please don’t—“

Your words break off as the man’s arm shoots out to grab at your throat. You shriek and try to bat him away, but his hold is made of iron as you shamelessly squirm in growing panic that this is it.

You might die here.

No.

You will die here.

“Look at you, so weak. So pathetic,” the man hisses.

Everything stops for a second when his hand crushes your throat.

You gasp, eyes blinking as black starts to swarm—

And then, his hand’s gone.

You fall to your knees and gasp like your life depends on it, practically heaving your insides out as a figure steps out of the shadows and doesn’t hesitate to slice the man’s throat with one, smooth arc of his arm.

It’s Xaden.

Of course it’s him.

You’re still trying to reign in some oxygen when he strides over to your crouched form and bends down to face you.

His eyes are branded with a mixture of panic and anger, totally at odds with the gentle way he asks, “are you hurt?”

You shake your head no, not trusting your voice when your lips are practically trembling.

“Come on,” he tugs you up, grabbing onto your elbow before making his way out of the tower, the shadows blending the two of you into the wall as more cries and dragon howls slice through the night that reverberates through your ears, a terrible nightmare come to life.

You don’t even recall half of the journey out of the tower, only that Xaden manages to get you out onto the field before he practically throws you up onto Sgaeyl’s back and joins on a moment later. And then, you’re airborne, flying through the thick cloudy sky and leaving the mess of fire and ash behind as what’s left of Samara is destroyed by the remaining creatures you can’t even start to name.

All you know is that whatever you’ve seen that night is not human.

At some point you feel your lids press together, feel your head roll forward as sleep threatens to overtake you only to be nudged awake by the shadow-wielder.

“Eyes open,” he says, though his tone is tinged with barely concealed amusement, “we’re almost there.”

“Where are you bringing me?” You try to turn your head to look up at him, but can only see part of his chiseled jawline, “what happened? What are they? These—creatures?”

You notice the tension in his jaw, “Wyvern.”

“What’s a—wyvern?” The word sounds oddly familiar on your tongue. You’ve heard of that name before—

Wyvern.

“Wait,” realisation is an ice-bucket piercing straight into your skin, “you mean— the creatures from the fables?”

Xaden spares you a glance, “you catch on quick.”

Is that surprise and a little bit of pride you hear in his tone?

“Wyvern don’t exist,” you gape at him, “they’re—they’re like fairytales. Only meant to scare children—“

Xaden cuts you off, “they’re real.”

“But—“

“But nothing,” he snaps, “you’re not supposed to know this. Gods know what they’d do to you if they knew you were involved,” he tips his head forward, “we’re almost there,” he says, “I’ll tell you everything— when we land.”

You don’t argue. You find it’s easier when it concerns Xaden.

A few hours later and you've set foot into another house that looks by far like the grandest manor you've ever stepped foot into. It's dark marble floors are spotlessly clean and the victorian columns lining the centre rotunda reach for the skyline, an impressive architectural feat that you can't help but admire as you all but stumble after Xaden down one of the long-winded corridors.

He reaches a door ornate with a gold bangle and twists the knob open without hesitation. Inside, the room is simple enough; grand, without seeming too pretentious. With a grand bed and grey covers and too many pillows to count.

"You can stay here for the night," Xaden says without sparing you a glance, "lock your door. Don't let anyone in."

"Wait--" you reach for his arm, hand dropping to your side when he turns to you with that cold, impassive face that would've made you shut your mouth and run away if it were any other time.

But this is not like any other time. And Xaden has proved time and time again that despite what he wants people to believe -- that he's a soulless, merciless weapon used for the kill -- he is nothing but a man with a good heart that seems to have been disappointed too many times to count.

So you don't look away when those onyx storms lock on yours, glistening with golden flecks of emotions that causes something to stir in your lower belly.

"Where--" the words catch in your throat, "where are you going?"

He turns his body halfway towards you, swallowing up the whole doorway with his figure, "to my room?" he cocks his head like its a question.

"I--" you bite down so hard on your lip you can taste the metallic tang of blood, "well, I don't--can I--"

Xaden merely waits. Expression like stone. His gaze intense.

Your heart shudders as you force the words out before you can chicken out, "can you--stayhereplease?"

He stills.

You search his eyes. And then blink down.

What are you even thinking?

He's a rider. A merciless one at that, he doesn't do weaknesses, probably hates them with his entire gut. The woman he fell in love with, she was the one he'd bear his soul to, she was strong and bold and fierce and just as ruthless as he was. Not like you.

Never like you.

Why would he throw away his comfort just for the sake of making you feel safe?

"You want me--" he repeats low in his throat, keeping his eyes glued on your face as though to search for any kind of misunderstanding, "to stay with you?"

"Yes," you reply quickly, and then add, "please."

There's a beat of silence.

You don't dare look at him, don't even dare breathe as you wait for him to turn you down and walk away because he doesn't owe you anything. Not after just saving your life.

Warm hands reach for your shoulders.

Xaden moves you out of the way. He brushes past your figure into the room. For the second time, you watch in a mixture of surprise and a rush of gratefulness as he rummages through the drawers of the closet in the far corner. He pulls out a spare blanket and a pillow that he throws onto the battered couch resting on the opposite side, right beside the bed and wordlessly starts unbuttoning his flight jacket.

Your cheeks can't help but burn at the notion that this man has done more for you than anyone has ever done in your lifetime.

"Take a picture. It'll last longer."

Your eyes snap away from him as his words cut through you like ice.

You stammer out a soft, "thank you" before scurrying towards the washroom, glad that you have the distraction of running water to ease the anxious knots now forming in your stomach.

Xaden merely watches, brow cocked and head tilted, a smile curving along his lips as your figure disappears through the door. It's not like he wants to find anything amusing. On the contrary, whatever has happened at the outpost has shaken him to his very core and now that you're here, there's a lot of questions he has to answer; about him, about this place, about how his secrets will either make or break your trust.

Why don't you take a picture? Sgaeyl huffs, if you keep staring at her like that, you might scorch her to death.

Her voice is a reminder to keep moving. He fluffs the pillows and settles on the ground. In the distance, he hears the softest squeak of the bath running. She's scared. It's a normal reaction. She is not a warrior.

You baby her too much, Sgaeyl snarls in a clear display of anger, she needs to know how to stand on her own two feet without you coddling her.

I'm not coddling her, he scowls at the opposite wall.

Keep telling yourself that, Shadow-wielder. But I see past your mask. You can lie to anyone but me.

And then, the bond goes silent. As though Sgaeyl has shut the doors in his face.

Xaden lets out a breath and runs a hand along his face. His muscles are aching from the flight and the remnants of battle, and still he can only think about the moment you might've died in front of his eyes if he hadn't been there on time.

Because he knows, deep down in his heart where there's a small cage of unspoken feelings that rattle through his chest like an echo of a reminder, that Sgaeyl is right. He is soft on you. Too soft, despite the fact that he can't even read your mind, read your intentions.

But the genuine fear in your eyes. The rush of gratefulness that swam through your face the moment you spotted him, like he was your saviour, your superhero. He cannot just ignore it.

People lie all the time. He's a master at it, deception and feigning nonchalance are his strong suit. But not you. You wear your heart on your sleeve, your face displayed like an open book, and that somehow makes Xaden want to protect you, to ensure that nothing-- no one -- can touch you.

And that thought is the single reason as to why he should stay the hell away from you.

Not just for his sake. But yours.

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

a/n: thanks for reading! next part will be up soon! <3

[mae-gi-writes]

Why couldn’t you love all of me?

k.b. // rumi - kpop demon hunters

[mae-gi-writes]

would you consider writing a jealous xaden riorson? please andd thank youuu 🥹🥹

I thought about writing this into a spicy scene, but I am so out of practice that I didn't want to mess it up. x.riorson x reader

You hadn’t thought to bring it up. Not because you were hiding anything—but because it just... hadn’t mattered. It had been before becoming a rider. Before the Gauntlet. Before Threshing. Before Xaden Riorson had started looking at you like the world might crack in two if you didn’t make it through the next challenge.

You and Septon Izar had ended things cleanly, amicably, and left it at that. He’d been a friend before, and somehow, he still was—one of the few people who hadn’t flinched when you first started sitting with the marked ones. Honestly, his support during that time had meant more than you'd ever said aloud.

And honestly? Since Xaden? You hadn’t thought about Septon once. And maybe, maybe, you had mentioned it to Xaden. In passing. At most.

But judging by the sudden silence that swept through the dining hall—and the way Xaden’s head snapped toward you the second Septon opened his mouth—you definitely hadn’t mentioned that part.

"I think we only had sex twice," Septon said casually, sipping from his cup like he hadn’t just tossed a live drake into the center of the table. “And both times we were pretty drunk.”

You blinked.

What?

Your fork hovered above your plate as the table fell into a mixture of choked laughter and stunned silence. Garrick muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like oh shit. Nyra was already dragging her hands down her face. Bodhi looked delighted. Of course he did—this had his meddling written all over it.

You squinted up at Septon. “Man, that was so long ago, I barely remember.”

Xaden didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

Not when you could feel the way his gaze landed on you—deadly calm, unreadable, and very, very still.

Someone coughed. Garrick kicked Bodhi under the table. Septon, gods bless his complete lack of self-preservation, raised an eyebrow.

“It’s not like it meant anything,” he added, glancing between you and Xaden with a shrug. “We were just—”

"Don’t," Xaden said, voice low and even, but it carried like a cold front.

The entire table froze.

“Anyway,” you said quickly, forcing a smile as you turned your attention down the table, “Nyra, I don’t think I’ve ever heard about your physical escapades. Please, if we’re airing things out, do share.”

There was a pause.

Then Nyra leaned back with a knowing small grin. “Which year?”

And just like that, the conversation shifted. Nyra launched into a truly unhinged story involving a third-year from Rider’s Quadrant, two years ago and a storage closet full of training gear.

Everyone moved on.

Except you.

Because while the rest of the table erupted into laughter, Bodhi caught your eye and gave you a subtle salute—good luck with that—and Xaden’s shadows curled around your calves in a slow, possessive climb.

You had really thought that would be it. Completely and utterly it. There was nothing there.

You and Septon were barely a footnote, a hiccup in your timeline. But clearly, someone at the table had missed that memo—and that someone was now walking three paces behind you, silent, shadows brushing the edge of your steps like a warning.

You turned the corner just past the gym hall, fully intending to head toward the dorms, but a hand caught your arm—not rough, but firm—and suddenly, you were being pulled into a recessed archway you hadn’t even noticed.

Xaden didn’t speak at first.

Just looked at you.

That onyx stare that made it feel like he was peeling back your skin to see what was underneath. His jaw was tight, shadows curling restlessly around his boots.

“You’re mad,” you said flatly.

“I’m not mad,” he said. “I’m…” He exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to force the word back in. “You never told me.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you shot back, arms folding. “It was nothing, Xaden. It was before.”

His brow twitched. “I watched him look at you like he still wanted something.”

“He was talking to Bodhi!”

“He was talking to you.”

You stared at him, pulse thrumming harder than it should’ve been. “Are you seriously jealous right now?”

His shadows surged, crawling up your spine like a storm about to break.

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m possessive. There’s a difference.”

Your back hit the wall.

His hand came to rest beside your head, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him in waves. His voice dropped lower, into that gravel-smooth edge that made your knees a little unstable.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, eyes flickering down to your mouth, “and I don’t like being surprised.”

Your heart tripped over itself.

And because your pride had a death wish, you arched a brow and said, “Well, maybe I do.”

That was apparently the final straw.

He kissed you like it was a declaration, like he had to remind you—remind himself—that he knew every part of you better than anyone ever had. His hands found your hips, grip just shy of rough, and your fingers curled in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto before the ground gave way.

“Tell me again,” he said against your lips, voice thick with something that wasn't just anger, “how it meant nothing.”

Your breath caught—because you couldn’t. Not with the way he was looking at you. The only thing that mattered.

“It didn’t,” you whispered, barely audible. “It didn’t mean anything.”

He lingered there, just for a second, his forehead brushing yours as if he was searching for the truth in your skin. And then, with no more warning than a flick of his shadows, he pulled back just enough to say, “Come with me.”

You followed him without thinking.

Past cadets loitering in the halls, past flickering sconces and low murmurs, up flights of stairs that you barely registered because your heart was thundering in your chest. Xaden didn’t look back once—but his shadows stayed close, curling possessively around your wrist like a tether, a silent mine whispered over and over again in the dark.

By the time you reached his room, your pulse was high in your throat.

He opened the door, stepped inside—and then, just as you were about to follow, his hand shot out.

And pulled you in.

Hard.

You stumbled, but only for a heartbeat—because he was already there, catching you, pinning you back against the closed door with a thud that echoed in the silence.

“You think I care that it happened before me?” he murmured, his mouth brushing along your jaw, your neck. “I don’t.”

You shivered.

“I care that you didn’t tell me,” he continued, his hand sliding to your waist, hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. “I care that he thought he could say your name like that. Look at you like that.”

“Xaden—”

“I’m not going to be polite about it,” he interrupted, voice a low rasp. “I’m not going to pretend I’m okay hearing another man talk about what’s mine like it’s some casual memory.”

His lips found the corner of your mouth again, softer this time. A contrast to the words that came next.

“You’re not his story to tell.”

Your breath hitched.

“You want to tell me it meant nothing?” he asked, gaze catching yours with such intensity it felt like a command. “Then let me show the world who you belong with.”

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him down.

And he did.

[mae-gi-writes]

next up in the Empyrean series is Xaden. Writing a fic of him x OC (spoiler! but Violet's dead in my universe because I cannot fathom seeing someone else with him if Violet's still alive). But also, can we try to forgive the fact that he's not dead when she is (it's all explained in the fic so don't come after me pls its all just for shits and giggles and to make myself happy).

If you're interested to be tagged in the taglist pls let me know! xx

[mae-gi-writes]

eyes closed.(2). liam mairi (fourthwing)

Unlike the other marked ones, you despised having that symbol branded along your back and spent your entire life running away from it. But the charming smile and the captivating blue eyes of a certain cadet going by Liam Mairi might just convince you otherwise.

genre: slowburn! rivals to lovers (ish), Liam is smitten. He fell first but she fell harder. Suggestive (18+) content. Happens before the fight at Resson. Reader's name is Kaelle Loo, a first-year.

———part one | part two ———

Things are different.

More so different than you’d have expected to be.

But not bad. Just different.

Winter comes at full force; the snow barreling through the land and rendering the Flight Field a living nightmare. Every step outside the College Walls feels like torture has placed needles in your path, and with the War Games still hovering over your head, there are a lot of things to worry about.

Unfortunately, these things seem completely distant to you when all your mind has been focusing on — or rather, whatever’s been eating away at you for the past months — has been none other than Liam Mairi.

After that little moment in your room a few nights ago, it’s been practically impossible to get him out of your brain. Like a worm wriggling its way into your memory until he’s all you can think about. It drives you crazy, makes you want to flip over a table at the mere thought of you unravelling like a morose idiot at the idea of a boy.

A boy with blue eyes and dimples that make your heart hurt in all the best ways.

“Are you still working?” Liam says over your shoulder a few nights later. You would’ve never imagines him to take refuge in your room ever so often. But turns out he gets quite invested into building himself a space in your bed, under your sheets, and if it weren’t for the fact that he leaves his scent lingering behind him for you to fall asleep into after he’s gone you would’ve kicked him out by now.

Instead, you just huff out a, “not everyone’s a prodigy like you Mairi.”

“It’s just calculus. That’s logical,” you hear him shuffle and moments later, warmth bathes your back as he peeks over your shoulder.

You tense at the closeness. Still not used to him. To being held. To being so physically vulnerable with someone else.

But Liam’s been really good with that too. And honestly, it makes your heart swell.

“That goes there,” he points to the function in question and slides his finger over the page, “you have to even them out before you start solving the problem.”

He’s right. As he usually is.

You throw him a glance over your shoulder, “why don’t you do my homework?”

Liam’s eyebrows rise in surprise. He takes a moment to answer, tilting his head to the side to look at you with a teasing smile.

“What do I get in exchange?”

"My--" you air quote this with your fingers, "friendship."

"That's not a fair trade."

"I think it's an absolutely fair trade."

"We're already friends, Kaelle."

"Yes, but I could be a better friend to you, if you just do my homework."

"Oh really?" he leans in close until his face is bare millimetres from yours, the dimple in his cheek deepening as his eyes glisten with mirth, "and how, exactly, will you be a better friend?"

You want to reply with a witty comeback, but the way he's looking at you has the words die along your tongue. Suddenly, you feel a little too vulnerable, a little too exposed. And you blink in rapid succession, trying to piece together how the hell he's gotten so close to you without your realisation.

Without warning, your arms shoot out to push him away. But Liam is faster, hands whipping around your waist so fast that you all but topple against him with a yelp. You screech bloody murder as you both collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and knees and it takes all but five seconds for the blonde to have you pinned under him, arms locked above your head and his thighs locking you in on either side.

"Got you," he breathes out with a grin.

"Shut up Mairi," but your words don't have bite. They rarely do these days, when it concerns Liam.

"I thought Xaden was training you," he presses a little harder against you so that you grunt, "can't get out of this one?"

"I let you win," you scowl at him.

"No you didn't."

"Yes I did."

His head dips, face coming alarmingly close as your noses brush, "prove it then."

You're on him in an instant.

Kicking him in the stomach with all the power you've got, Liam's hold loosens just enough that you manage to pry yourself out. You roll over and quickly tackle him before he can do anything, shoving all your weight onto him and pressing one elbow to his jaw, just enough that he lets out a pained groan.

You can cut off his air circulation if you want. But you don't. Instead grinning down at him with newfound adrenaline, "not so chatty now, are we Mairi?"

But Liam's grin only widens.

His hands seize your waist. He yanks.

You go down with a cry, hands splaying out in front of you just as you crash into his chest.

"What the fuck, Mairi?!" you snap and flail but he's holding onto you like his arms are made of iron, pinning you to him so that you feel all the muscles underneath, "Just--Let me go!"

"No," he mumbles into your hair as he shifts to be more comfortable. You have no choice but to relent when it's clear as day he's not moving anytime soon. You slump against him, hearing the soft beats of his heart echo against your ear. It's a deep, grounding rhythm. One that automatically makes your muscles slowly melt into goo the more you listen. And it's actually nice when you slowly get used to this; to the way Liam's body feels against yours, his scent invading your nostrils as your body slowly succumbs to the comfort of his arms.

He's warm and solid and firm. And just about so comfortable you feel your eyelids getting heavy--

No.

Your hand lifts, a pitiful attempt to hit at his chest, "let me go," you mumble out.

How in the world are you even letting him handle you this way?

You've been running from people for so long. This--feeling, whatever Liam is bringing out in you--

This isn't right. It shouldn't be.

"Liam," your words are muffled against his chest, "I'm serious. Let me go."

"And I'm serious," he replies and tightens his hold, practically burying his face into the side of your head. His thumb brushes along your waistline, the act surprisingly intimate and so embarrassing you feel yourself heat up, "I'm not letting you go. Not when I finally have you."

Let yourself rest, child. Your dragon rumbles from the other end of your bond, you deserve it.

But what if he leaves too? the thought escapes your brain before you can stop it and you feel like slapping yourself. You sound pathetic.

Dionne replies before you can overthink, a quiet grumble that you cannot argue with, look at him, child. He will never leave you at this rate.

But what if--

Kaelle, your dragon growls, stop it.

It's probably the first time your dragon has ever used your first name when addressing you.

So you listen. You stop.

And actually fall asleep in his arms.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It becomes more frequent. The nightly visits. The sleepovers. The residual warmth that follows you around like a blanket every morning despite you having to crawl out of bed because of Xaden's morning training. Liam barely spends any time in his room anymore and while you've had your fair share of comments from the rest of the Marked ones about you and the blonde about "fucking" and "safe sex" and "no kids before you graduate", you've gradually learned to ignore them altogether, throwing them the middle finger every chance you get.

You spend the rest of the week babysitting the youngest Sorrengail when Xaden has to leave for another mission -- probably one that involves gryphon riders-- and for once you don't complain, for his extensive training has you limping for days on end. Soon, you find yourself exchanging more than just two words with Violet, reluctantly having to share conversations because she seems all too keen to build a friendship with you despite the fact that you're like an angry cat and reply in monosyllables.

"You can be nicer," Liam says to you one night as he walks you back to your room after practice with Imogen.

You scoff, "why should I?"

"She's trying," he throws you a look, 'at least be civil enough to ask about her day."

"I don’t give a shit about her day."

"Kaelle."

“What?” You roll your eyes, though stumble slightly when his hand grasps yours out of the blue.

He brushes his thumb against your knuckles, “for me?” He prods your shoulder, “can you try?”

Your scowl deepens. You don’t enjoy being told what to do.

A cold wind blows over and he reaches out, hand pushing away stray hairs from your face before he tugs you closer against him, “please?”

You hate how easily he makes you all putty into his hands, grumbling out a soft, “fine.”

At this point, it’s completely humiliating to have a human dictate so much of how you feel. One might think you’re developing feelings for the Mairi boy and it’s no lie that you’ve gotten quite close ever since he’s confessed his feelings a few days ago. But you are more than surprised at how easy it is, to bypass the fact that Liam might love you, might look at you in a way that’s not necessarily how you feel about him. And yet, as promised, he doesn’t ask for anything more. Doesn’t push you no matter how hard sometimes he must find it.

Because you feel it; in the way he gazes down at you sometimes, in the way his eyes flickers over to your lips — barely, but still there — or the way his touch lingers long after you’ve decided to say goodbye.

And the worst part is that you like it.

You want it.

You look forward to it.

The rest of the week goes by in peace. But that doesn’t last long, for you hear knocks raining down on your door on Sunday morning when the sun is barely out. You practically worm your way out of bed, only for a glare to settle across your features when you realize it’s none other than Xaden Riorson standing at your door.

“What?” You spit out venomously, “it’s fucking six in the morning Riorson. Shouldn’t you be with bleached hair?”

It takes him by surprise, “who?”

“Sorrengail,” you open the door a little wider, “what do you want?”

“Her hair isn’t bleached. It’s silver. Get it right,” Xaden sneers, “and good morning to you too, cadet Loo.”

“What do you want?” You hiss.

“It seems like I’ve been hearing stories,” he crosses his arms and leans against the doorway, cocking his head in that infuriating way of his, “about you and Mairi. Just wanted to fact-check.”

“Why? Are you on babysitting duty?”

“No, I’m asking because I’m concerned,” Xaden’s face tightens, “Liam is too good for you. Don’t play with him. He doesn’t need you breaking his heart.”

“First of all, that’s none of your business—“

“First of all, it is,” he cuts you off sharply, “he’s my responsibility. So take it as a warning, cadet. You either stick it out with him or you don’t. But don’t go taking advantage of his kindness. I will know. And I will feed you to Sgaeyl if that is the case.”

You reel back like he’s punched you in the face, “I don’t take advantage of him,” you snap back, rage simmering in your belly. The audacity of this man to question your integrity has you boiling, “who do you take me for?”

“It’s a warning,” Xaden’s eyes flash with emotion, “don’t fuck with him.”

The Wingleader’s words act as a wake up call. Who were you, to be so smitten with Liam anyway? There are so many other important things to prepare for, one that includes not giving yourself a death sentence at the end of this semester. The words turn over in your head like a broken record player, haunting you whenever you spend time with the blonde cadet like an echo at the back of you brain every time you’re lucky enough to be graced with his dimpled smile.

Xaden is right. You don’t deserve Liam. He’s everything that you’re not; kind, gentle, and so easy-going he reminds you sometimes of a golden retriever. You’re the complete opposite. Like a stormy grey ocean that always strikes at the wrong time, the kind of dark waters that nobody wishes to venture into. You scare people off before they get a chance to know you, make them walk away by force like you’re a hedgehog with poisonous spikes. So it shouldn’t hurt so much to hear Xaden say it out loud.

But it does. It does sting, because for some reason you’ve started to believe that maybe you’ve become a little better, a little more human, ever since you’ve met Liam.

Who are you kidding? You have too many sins to count. There’s no way you can make that up to Malek in your lifetime.

If you know what's good for you, you'd stay away from the blonde cadet, make it your mission to stop interacting with him altogether as Xaden said. Because in truth, you are -- in a way-- taking advantage of his kindness.

Meanwhile, the fact that the War Games are coming up soon means that it leaves little to no free time, and as the days unravel at your feet too fast for you to keep track of, it gets easier to brush off Xaden's words in favour of training and making sure you won't die in the upcoming events.

It's six in the morning when the alarm bells ring for formation a week later. You stumble out of your room, your hoodie half-perched along your head as you tug it over your sleepwear, still yawning and rubbing your eyes while following the rest of the cadets out in the courtyard. Finding your squad is easy and you fall into formation with a loud sigh, trying to tame your hair. There are three professors up on the dais this time, and your heart starts to pound beneath your hoodie. You know exactly what's coming up next, but that doesn't mean it prepares you any more knowing that this might be the last day you breathe.

You underestimate yourself, child. Dionne's words brush, as gentle as the wind, I did not choose you for your weakness.

No, you tell him, you chose me because I'm broken.

Indeed, he sounds certain, though his words are gentle, as am I.

But you're okay with that, something knots at the back of your throat. You spare a glance to your right, eyes finding a familiar mop of blonde spiky hair and blue eyes. Liam is listening intently, face focused, brows furrowed. He looks utterly kissable like this and the urge takes you by surprise.

You are soft for the Mairi boy, Dionne muses.

I am not.

You do not need to lie to me, child. It is as clear as the rivers of the Vale.

He does not need me like I need him, you bite down onto your lower lip as the Professors drone on about the rules of the first War game. He is everything I am not. That's unsettling.

Or maybe he is exactly what you need, Dionne murmurs gently.

"The first War Game is going to be Capture the Flag," the Professor announces, "each squad will need to find their flag at various Athebyne outposts. First Squad to find it wins and gets an advantage for the next War Game. You have twenty four hours. Not more. Good luck to everyone.”

The sea of formation breaks as soon as they are dismissed and you follow the rest of your squad towards the back of the courtyard, only to be stopped by a hand along your elbow.

You swivel, dagger at the ready, only to find Liam blinking down at you.

“It’s just me,” he murmurs, his voice drowned out in the noise and commotion of movement.

It’s dangerous to be talking out here in plain sight, especially for two marked ones. You’re well aware of this, but you can’t seem to find the strength to pull away. His touch is warm. Comforting. You almost relish in it.

“What?” Your words come out sharper than intended.

But if Liam seems affected by it, he doesn’t show. Instead, his other hand finds your wrist and he tugs it towards him, placing an item in your palm as he closes his fingers over yours.

“That’s yours,” he says gently, releasing his hold so that you turn your hand over.

It’s a ring, one carved out of the most beautiful, smooth wood, with a few symbols engraved along its ridge. A frown dips between your brows and you look up at him in growing confusion.

“It’s made out of Alpine wood. Known for it’s magical healing properties,” a hand goes up to rub at his nape, “but from where I come from, it’s also known for it’s protection properties. Something about its core being able to withstand natural disasters. So…” he trails off then, as if he’s unsure of what to say, “so yeah. I thought maybe that— that might keep you safe.”

“I don’t need anything to keep me safe,” you snap, “are you implying I’m weak—“

“No!” He answers a little too quickly, “no no, that’s not— that’s not what I meant. I just—“ he breathed out a soft exhale and you spotted a muscle in his jaw tick, “can you promise to wear it?”

The way he says it, a string of words spoken so tenderly like fragile glass, as though everything relies on whatever you will say next, as though he fears of what you might do.

“It’s … a ring,” you say, realization dawning, “Oh,” the words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them, “it’s a ring.”

“Yeah,” Liam croaks, “but—I mean— you can wear it like a necklace,” and he gestures faintly towards the thin rope attached to it. As if that might help.

Heat licks at your face and suddenly you wish winter would go on forever, “right,” you mouth feels dry, “yeah. Of course.”

“So you’ll wear it?” His eyes light up.

You can only nod, not trusting your voice. And before he can say anything else, turn around and proceed to walk away so that he can’t hear how hard your heart is pounding.

You’re going to leave him like this? Dionne chides from the other end of the bond, you might regret it, child.

One step forward. Another. And another. You focus your entire body on finding your squad as Dionne continues, he is still looking at you.

I can’t, Dionne. He’s not good for me.

Yes you can. He’s yours. He was yours before you even knew it.

Dionne—

Go to him.

It’s like instinct. To jerk back towards Liam who’s been — as Dionne had said — gazing at your retreating back. You don’t give him time, striding back towards him with purpose with your arms at your sides, ring pinned to your palm.

"Kaelle--" he starts just as you grab hold of his black shirt, tug hard enough that he stumbles, and press your mouth to his.

Liam’s breath chokes against you. He freezes.

You kiss him. Softly. Hesitant. Unsure.

And yet, it feels so right.

Fire bursts through your chest. Your throat feels tight.

His mouth is warm. Softer than you could’ve imagined. He smells of wildfire and cozy sheets, of waking up wrapped up in his scent on cold mornings.

You pull back slowly, heels finding hard ground and palms settling against his chest.

“That’s for the ring,” you mutter, ducking your head and lowering your gaze so that he can’t see the redness spilling over your cheeks like wildfire, “and for… everything else.”

Eyes fluttering up to meet his wild blue ones filled with confusion, you take this chance to drink in every detail, every scar marring his face, every freckle along his nose and the curve of his lips.

“Please,” you whisper hoarsely, “don’t fucking die on me, Mairi.”

You don’t wait for him to answer. You make a bolt for it without looking back, trying your best to keep your breaths steady as your heart pounds in your ears like a drum.

This changes everything. But it leaves a small smile at the edges of your lips.

You will not die today, not when you have someone you need to return to.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

“Where is he?”

“Calm down cadet—“

“Where the fuck is he?!”

Xaden grabs at your forearms, his grip firm and tense, “I said calm down before I throw you out of here.”

Your breathing is unsteady and your chest rattles with fear with every breath that you take. Your thoughts are permanently swirling and there’s a ringing in your ears that you cannot stop no matter how much you try. Your body hurts in too many places to count, but the only thing that’s keeping you from collapsing to the ground is the fact that there’s a particular blonde cadet behind these closed doors that’s apparently fighting for his life.

“I need to see him,” you tell Xaden, hating the fact that your voice comes out like a shaky murmur.

“No one can until the mender gets to him,” Xaden holds you down, as though he fears you might just run off. His onyx eyes are assessing your features, calculating what you cannot understand, “he’s fine. He just got hurt during the War Game.”

"I need to see him," you repeat like you haven't heard a word he said. To be truthful, you haven't. Your voice breaks when you add, "please."

"I can't do that."

"Yes you can, just open the fucking door Riorson!"

You surge against him but he blocks you, arms caging you in his hold before he tugs you into his chest and you all but collapse against him as the tears threatening to fall finally burst like an exploding dam. You slump against his huge frame, crying silently into his tunic as every single moment you've spent with Liam flashes before your eyes.

You had barely made it to the ground when Dionne had given you the news about Liam. You haven't understood any of it; other than a few words such as hurt and something about Jack Barlowe and falling off his dragon. But you hadn't waited any longer, dashing through the courtyard like fire was at your heels and barely making it to the Healer's quadrant where you'd bumped into none other than Xaden. Fury had blazed through your chest as you'd made a grab for him and yelled bloody murder because he was supposed to be his Wingleader. He was supposed to protect him.

And yet, he hadn't. He'd let Liam get hurt. And now, the latter was busy fighting for his life.

You'd never forgive Xaden for that.

And you will kill Jack Barlowe, if it's the last thing you do.

"He will make it," Xaden whispers against your hair. His hold tightens ever so slightly, as if holding you might help him believe that, "he will not die today."

"You don't know that," your words are muffled against his chest. For once, uncaring about who's holding you because you swear if he lets you go you might collapse and crumble to the ground.

"Yes I do," he pulls back slightly so that your brown eyes lock on his onyx ones, dark and fierce with emotion, "Liam is a fighter."

"You better be right about that Riorson," you hiss, "or I'll cut your neck off and feed you to Dionne."

Amusement flickers across his face, "think you'll make it past Sgaeyl?"

You growl, shove him off and storm over to the Healer's entrance.

Time loses meaning when you're focused on willing Liam to be better. You sit, sprawled on the floor as Healers walk in and out, and would've starved to death if not for Imogen and Garrick bringing you stashes of spare food and water. You eat because you have to --well, because Imogen almost shoved it down your throat that one time you'd refused her -- but otherwise you're mostly dozing on and off, catching any stray healers to ask about Liam's condition.

All you get is "he's stable. But we know nothing more yet. The Menders will know better."

Fuck stable. You haven't seen a Mender in the past three days. So what? Is he just lying there like a vegetable?

The healers are not lying, Dionne murmurs gently. The Mairi boy will live.

How are you so sure about that?

His dragon is confident, Dionne says, he trusts his rider. As should you.

But it's impossible. The idea of losing him makes you want to throw up.

Unconsciously, your hand drifts up towards the ring attached to your neck. You grasp at the wooden piece, fingers running over the designs that Liam had carved out for you, and a little part of your heart breaks when his dimpled smile flashes through the back of your lids.

You probably drift off at some point because the next thing you know Garrick is shaking your shoulder as his voice comes into clarity, "--wake up, Loo. They say we can see him--"

"Liam," you bolt up with widened eyes, "is he--"

Garrick just nods, "come on."

You don't need to be told twice.

You practically bolt.

The Healer's quadrant is quiet, filled with rows upon rows of beds housing injured cadets from other wings as people talk in hushed murmurs. A completely different atmosphere from the chaos that inhabits the Riders' quadrant, and with a pang you realise you do miss it. Eyes searching the area until you find who you're looking for, your breath catches at the back of your throat as you stride towards the blonde cadet.

He's still asleep, chest heaving up and down in calm succession as your eyes rake over his figure. He's lost a bit of weight since, his cheekbones marred by lack of food and tired aprons lining his eyes. But he's breathing. He's alive.

You all but collapse against his bed, relief barreling into you like a truck.

"Mender says it'll take a few days," Xaden states as he approaches and crosses his arms over his chest, "but he should be up and about In no time."

"And his dragon?" you ask.

" Impatient. But fine," Xaden's eyes flicker over Liam's sleeping form and you cannot describe the look that fills his face, though you can suspect it's a mixture of concern and relief.

He turns to you suddenly, "you should go."

He's speaking like a wingleader, with the authority booming from his tenor. But you stand your ground and narrow your eyes at him, "I'm not leaving him."

"That's an order, cadet." Xaden says. He turns to Garrick, "take her with you."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not there--"

"Then act like a fucking adult and maybe I'll start taking you seriously," Xaden cuts you off with a scowl, "now go before I drag you out of here, Loo. It's not going to look pretty."

"Come on Kaelle," Garrick motions towards the exit, the tiredness in his eyes evident. He's done fighting, and something in you softens slightly at his countenance, "I promise I'll tell you if anything changes. If he wakes you'll be the first to know."

You hesitate, eyes glancing between him and Xaden, "you promise?"

"I promise," Garrick nods, "Now c'mon, before I fall asleep with my eyes open."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It's the warmth that wakes him.

Liam groans, brows furrowing upon feeling the light dance across his face. One palm comes up and he turns his head away, blinking slowly as sleep slowly loses its grip and consciousness returns to him. He spots a huge white room at first, confusion flitting through him as he takes in the rows of bed, the injured sleeping cadets dispersed across the room, the tinkering of Healers as they check upon their patients.

And then, the memories snap back.

As clear as yesterday.

The War Games. Athebyne. Kaelle's lips on his--

Kaelle.

Your face fills his mind. Doe eyes, freckled cheeks, with hair as thick as vines falling down your back. Liam yearns to run his hands through them. That is quickly replaced by concern and panic upon realisation that he'd left you -- last seen you -- before the War Games. His head fills with questions as panic takes over.

Are you okay? Did you make it through the War Games?

Are you alive?

Dread seeps into his stomach and he hears a familiar rumble.

The stubborn one lives, Deigh growls, focus on yourself, Mairi boy.

The relief that floods him is instantaneous and he looks up at the ceiling with a soft breath, closing his eyes for a minute as he pictures your face, the final words uttered from your mouth, the way you'd kissed him goodbye--

His hand flexes against the sheets.

Gods. He can't wait to see you again. Can't wait to show you how much he's missed you, how much his heart beats for you.

"Good to see you back, Mairi."

It's Xaden, perched at the end of Liam's bed. So still that he almost appeared as a shadow.

Liam opens his mouth to speak, only to cough. His Wingleader is quick to give him a glass of water that he hungrily gulps down.

"What happened?" Liam rasps out when he finds his voice.

"Jack Barlowe happened," Xaden's eyes go dark, "I would kill him. But it seems that someone's already onto it."

"What?"

"Your girlfriend," an amused smirk dances across the Ringleader's lips, "is a force to be reckoned with."

Girlfriend. The word sends warmth up his chest all the way up to his face and he feels himself sizzle, so much that he has to look away with a cough, "we're not..." he trails off as Xaden lets out a laugh.

"Oh come on, Mairi. Don't give me that shit," his smirk only widens with mischief, "she's been moping around the Healer's Quadrant for the past week, waiting for you to wake up."

That does not help with the embarrassment. Liam swears he can feel his face go fire engine red at this point.

"Where is she?" his blue eyes dance across the room, "and the others?"

"Everyone's fine. Violet was pissed," Xaden pauses, "she almost got Jack killed. He got away at the last minute."

Indeed he has, and I believe that's a good thing, Deigh sighs against his mind.

Why's that?

Because your girlfriend, as the shadow wielder has mentioned, is out for his blood.

The thought of you polishing your knives makes him smile for some unknown reason. He loves seeing you all riled up, with fire dancing in your eyes and that satisfied smirk upon your lips. It's hella attractive, if he's honest to himself.

The Healer announces that it'll take a few more days of rest and of healing broken bones before Liam has the chance to take his first few steps out of bed, and asks that he gets as much sleep as he can. Liam does as told, dozing in and out of consciousness as the day goes by, for once taking the opportunity to heal his body as much as he can, for he knows that once he's back in the Rider's quadrant, there's no such thing as enough sleep.

The next time he wakes though, he spots your sleeping figure by his bedside. Your head rests along his body, your hand clasping his like you’re never letting go and a perpetual frown on your face. Even in your sleep, you never look peaceful and Liam has the insane urge to smoothen out your wrinkles.

His heart swells with emotion as he watches you sleep. It’s unsure when he really did start falling for you. Developing feelings had not been in his plan when joining the quadrant. To be strong was his motto, to be the best of his year, to be strong enough that he wouldn’t be pushed around by others. Because power was what got you far, that was his biggest lesson ever since he’d watched his parents burn before his very eyes.

But then you’d came along. All guarded, your tongue a sharp weapon and your countenance always rigid. Tense. Always looking around as if danger might jump out at you. Almost like a feral cat ready to pick a fight no matter what the circumstances. It had pricked his curiosity, had made him wonder what lied beyond that dense wall you put up for everyone to see.

But then things changed. Your mask slipped, that one time he’d asked you about your hatred for the marked ones. He’d seen you falter slightly, had noticed the way your eyes had brightened at the notion of dropping everything to run away from this world. And he’d wanted more.

As if on cue, a soft grumble falls from your lips. You shift, eyes fluttering open wearily as Liam watches with the softest smile gracing his face. Cute.

Your eyes find his. They widen with a sharp inhale.

“Hi,” Liam whispers.

“I—“ the shock is what makes you jump, before you realize you’re holding onto him and quickly let go like he’s burnt you, “you’re awake.”

“Were you holding my hand?” He can’t help but let out the smallest chuckle at your deer in the headlights expression.

“I—no. No, no,” you huff out with flushed cheeks. Liam’s grin just widens because gods you are so adorable he really wishes to kiss you.

But he knows it’s still very fresh. Still new. And that you’s probably run away if he comes on too strong.

So instead he lifts his hand slightly, winces when ache spreads over his limbs, “I want you to.”

There’s a bit of hesitation on your part. A few seconds of stunned silence before you move slowly, your fingers brushing tentatively over his before he clasps yours in a firm grip.

“Next time, don’t let go,” his murmur is raspy, sending skittles of heat down your spine.

You bite your lip and look away, brows furrowed, “I thought I told you not to die,” you spit out.

“I didn’t—“

“You almost did,” rage laces your tone as your eyes lock on his, words shaky with emotion, “you were hanging on by a fucking thread, Mairi.”

Liam lets out a sigh, “I’m sorry.”

“You better be!” You yell out, “I was worried sick! Do you know how long I sat outside that fucking Healer Quadrant wishing to Malek he wouldn’t take you?! After everything you said about keeping myself safe?! You should’ve kept that bloody ring yourself, damnit! I—“

You choke on your own words then as emotion bubbles up your throat. And when your eyes flutter back to his as tears burn the edges of your vision, Liam’s heart breaks a little at the sight.

“Hey,” his thumb smoothes over your knuckles, “I’m here now.”

“But I thought you were dying,” you shot back, voice wobbly, “I thought you were gone—“

“But I’m here,” he repeats it gently. Then tilts his head, “come,” he whispers.

You need no more encouragement, shuffling over as Liam makes some space on his bed and motioning for you to join him. You do, after another few beats of hesitation and looking around, sliding carefully until you’re nestled into the crook of his shoulder and trying to ignore the fact that your face is probably the colour of a ripe tomato.

Liam’s heart is a steady beat pounding against your ear, one that reassures you, slowly eases you into comfort as he nuzzles into your temple before pressing a chaste kiss there.

You hiss in a breath, not used to him being so affectionate. And yet, you’re tired of fighting it. Whatever it is between you and Liam. You want this as much as he does.

You’re tired of running away.

“You smell good,” he nuzzles against the side of your head.

Your heart stutters. Gods. He’s barely touching you and butterflies are already roaming your stomach.

“Also,” he adds, voice brushing the side of your head, “don’t think I forgot that kiss you gave me.”

You flush bright red, “wh—what?” You splutter, head swiveling to look at him with wide eyes.

He hums and leans closer. His nose brushes yours, causing your breath to hitch, “don’t worry,” he grins, “I’ll bide my time.”

Bide his time?

Bide his time?!

Calm down, child. Dionne can’t help but cackle in the back of your mind, it is just a kiss.

Oh shut up Dionne, you snap. Though you don’t mean it.

It takes almost a week for Liam to get back on his feet. It drags by slow, tedious, as you juggle the resumption of classes and all the assignments that you had been excused for tardiness, all while keeping the blonde cadet company in your free time. After what had happened, it's almost like second nature to go check up on him whenever it is deemed possible, something that Imogen and Garrick both have been rattling your head off about.

"Going to see Liam?" Imogen calls out after you when she spots your hunched figure scurrying out of the Mess Hall.

You turn, knowing that you're caught, before throwing her the meanest scowl you can muster.

But this is Imogen. She never gets scared of people. She's the one scaring people away, if anything.

"Is that a problem?" you growl.

"So have you two fucked yet?" she grins sadistically.

"No!" Your face reddens, "and even if we did, that's none of your business!"

"I'm pretty invested in your love story at this point in time, Loo. So better make it worth it. Just put the boy out of his misery. He's been pining for you for over six months now."

That only helps to darken your blush even more, "it's not like that at all and you know it."

"What isn't?" he brow disappears behind her pink hairline, "that he doesn't want to fuck you? Or that you're dragging this out longer than you should?"

"It's not just the sex. So drop it," you snap.

"Oh," she pauses. Her smirk widens when she reads your face, "oh," she adds as emphasis, "I see what you mean."

"What?"

"You love him, don't you?"

You almost choke on your spit.

"Nothing to be ashamed about, first-year. But romance isn't for the Riders Quadrant. As you've guessed. You never know when we might die, so that's not a good idea. Not even for you."

Garrick, on the other hand, has been dying to know details of how you and Liam have apparently confessed your undying love for each other. So much so that he's gotten Bodhi and Xaden involved, meaning that you have to suffer through a round of questioning ever time you spot the trio in the corridor.

"Heard you kissed Liam," Garrick commented as you brushed past him that one time during Sparring, "how was he?"

Your head snaps up to his, "what?" venom drips from your voice.

Garrick lifts his hands in mock surrender, though his grin betrays his actions, "don't kill me. Xaden's the one that told me about it."

"How the fuck would he know?!" You growl a little more aggressively than you should've. Fuck Xaden. You're really going to rip his head off.

"Xaden knows everything," Garrick counters, "so are you going to tell me? Or should I bother poor old Liam about it?"

"You are not--" you seethe, "telling any of this to Liam."

"Who says I won't?" Garrick grins, eyes dancing with mischief, "maybe I should."

"No! Argh," you wish you can rip your hair off, "why are you all so invested?! Just --leave me alone!"

You almost bump into Xaden as you storm off with barely restrained anger, leaving a laughing Garrick behind.

Xaden's brow lifts in assessment as his eyes dart from his friend to your retreating back, "should I be concerned?" he asks Garrick.

"I'm just pulling her leg. Kaelle is suprisingly adorable whenever you talk to her about Liam," Garrick says.

"Careful Garrick," Xaden throws him a pointed look, "you're starting to sound a lot like a girl."

"Says the one who told me about these two."

"Fair enough."

As Winter slowly trickles away to leave Spring in its wake, Liam finally emerges from the Healers' quadrant all patched up and ready to resume his Rider's duties. Things slowly fall back into place and go back to normal, almost that it's easy to forget whatever had happened between you and Liam a few weeks ago had been part of a reality you'd stuffed at the very back of your mind.

But that doesn't mean Liam has forgotten. You're pretty certain that his growing sense of touch towards you has increased tenfold over the past few days.

Like somehow always finding your eyes across a room full of cadets, for instance. Even in battle brief, if you're sitting all the way across the room, Liam would find a way to lock eyes with you and send you that dimpled smile that renders you weak at the knees.

Or when there's a swarm of riders down the corridor in-between classes. Liam would then find you, pressing a huge palm along the back of your spine to guide you through the crowd. His touch is firm, almost possessive, and no doubt leaves trails of blazing heat in its wake that sends desire straight down to your belly.

And as if hugs aren't enough, he's progressed to leaving short, chaste kisses everywhere he goes. Like when he bids you goodnight for example, hanging around your doorway until you forcefully kick him out with the excuse that there is training with Xaden the next day.

"It's just past ten," is what he would whine like a kicked puppy.

"No," you narrow your eyes, "just because you don't train with Xaden and have slow mornings, doesn't mean everybody is the same."

"Fine," he grumbles, and before you know it he's grasped your shoulder, tugged you into his chest before pressing a soft kiss to your temple, "goodnight then."

Or when he walks past you during sparring sessions, for instance. Like that one time you'd gotten your ass handed over to you by Imogen and was sitting by the bleachers with a dark cloud hanging over your head, so much so that everyone avoided you that day.

"Hey," Liam trudges by as he sheathes his daggers along his thighs, "you okay? You look like someone just murdered your dragon or something."

You growl at that, "no. Fine. I just lost."

"Against who?"

You sneer, "Imogen."

Liam can't help but grin because to him you're just so fucking adorable and no one sees it the way he does.

"Well," his hand pushes a few strands of hair away from your face, "you're getting her next time."

"Mairi! You ready or what?" A voice hollers from the other end of the training gym.

"Yeah alright!" Liam turns back, leaning over to drop a chaste kiss to the top of your head, "I'll see you later," he taps upon your nose fondly, "stop sulking."

And he's off, leaving you a blushing mess with a racing heart.

It would be a lie to say that you're not getting used to it, because if you have to be honest with yourself, you quite enjoy it. You try not to think about his words from that one day he'd reminded you of the kiss you gave him -- though could that count as a kiss when you had initiated it and it hadn't been reciprocal?-- it had been more a peck really. So does it count?

You find your answer a few days later during one of your Flight manoeuvres.

You're already on the field with Dionne, one hand along your dragon's chest to smooth over his scales as the midday sun beats down the back of your neck and causes sweat to pool inside your flight jacket. It's impossibly hot for early spring, though it's no doubt icy cold when you'll be up in the air on Dionne's back.

"Kaelle."

You turn to see familiar blue eyes, that dimpled smile and those spiky blonde strands.

His smile deepens when he finds your necklace, "you're wearing it." he says softly.

You nod and impulsively finger the ring along your neck. it rests against your collarbones, its weight a reminder of Liam's presence, "I forgot to take it off," you bluff.

He reads right through your lies, for his smile breaks into a grin.

"Mairi!" his name causes both of you to snap towards the sound, where Professor Kaori sits upon his dragon, "you need an official invite or what?!"

"Sorry Professor," Liam calls back, gaze darting between you and where his dragon is situated along the field, "I'll see you later yeah?"

"Yes," you watch him start towards the field, "uhm--wait, Liam?"

"Hm?" he turns to look at you over his shoulder. It's clear he knows he needs to get to his dragon fast, perturbed by the fact that Kaori might give him extra duties for being tardy.

"I--uh, can we talk?" you chew your bottom lip, "later? In my room?"

"Yeah, yeah of course, I--"

"Mairi!"

"Yes sir!" he hollers and before you can register what's happening Liam's thumb has grasped your chin and he tugs your face up, "talk to you later, yeah?"

And he drops a peck to your lips, shutting you up, and walks away like nothing has happened.

And it might have been nothing, if not for the stares that follow his back. Then trail right back to you.

You gape. Your jaw parts. You're not quite sure what has happened.

He kissed you.

He kissed you like...

Like...

Like he's been doing it all his life.

Like he can. Anytime. Anywhere. Everywhere.

The thought rams into you at full speed.

For a moment you forget how to breathe.

That is, until you hear Imogen snicker behind you, "I knew it. They're fucking."

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What in the world was he thinking?

The reality slams into him the moment he reaches Deigh's legs. That, paired with his dragon's suddenly veered interest towards his love life.

Bold of you. Deigh chuffs a cloud of steam along his back, I'm not sure the stubborn one had seen that one coming.

Liam is barely making sense of anything as he climbs numbly onto his dragon's back. He stares into the distance, resisting the urge to touch his lips and he feels like he should hit himself with something. Anything.

He hasn't even kissed her properly. Not even once!

Oh gods. His father would be so ashamed of this lack of chivalry.

Liam buries his face into his hands. I'm fucked.

You are going to do better than that, his dragon rumbles, aren't you?

I know I know. I fucked up. That was not how I intended it to go, Liam groans inwardly while Professor Kari's voice booms across the courtyard, giving a debrief of their Flight manoeuvre for the day.

Liam barely remembers anything that happens during the Flight session that day, his thoughts consumed by your reaction to his actions as he plays the scene over and over in his head. An idiot, that's what he is, for acting out of character and relying on pure automatic instinct without thinking twice. That's what's gotten him into this mess anyway, one that he's not sure he can crawl out of no matter what excuse he decides to pull out.

It gets even clearer to him when you decidedly avoid his presence for the rest of the day even when Liam tries to seek you out at your usual spots. Alas, he's forced to spend the afternoon inside his own head, wondering what you now think of him and whether he's just ruined his chances of finally being able to love you like he actually wants to. Not with the kind of restraint he exercises on a daily basis. It's becoming increasingly hard to keep focus when you talk, or when you glance up at him in a certain way that has his heart folding over and exploding with butterflies. He's not quite sure where this flurry of feelings is coming from, but what he does know is that you are the source of it. No matter what you're doing, it's clear to him that he's smitten. Truly, honestly, smitten by you.

You are testing my patience with this girl, Deigh lets out a rumble through their warm, sunlight-coated bond, you better not disappoint me tonight.

Liam doesn't respond. He stares down at his plate of food, not hungry, allowing the conversation to flow across the table.

All he can think of his you. And how you haven't even turned up for dinner.

Is it because of him?

He gets his answer two hours later when he walks to your room and knocks upon your door, a few buns in hand in case you're hungry.

It swivels open after a few seconds and your face pops out. Liam takes in the wet strands cascading around your face, your dewy skin straight from the shower, and the way the heat has turned your cheeks cherry pink.

An adorable sight that almost makes him coo.

He swallows thickly and clench his jaw, "hey," he murmurs out, "can we--talk?"

Your dark eyes flit to him. Down to the plate in his hand. Back to his face.

It takes a few moments for you to respond. But you open the door a little wider and he takes it as an invitation to follow you inside.

"Here," he passes you the plate, "figured you'd be hungry."

The look you give him is one of pure confusion.

"You didn't come down to dinner," Liam explains.

"Oh," you bite your lip, look away, "thank you."

An awkward silence fills the air, turning it heavy and crisp with tension as you both avoid looking at each other. His heart is pounding against his chest, so loud he swears you can hear it from where you're sitting, and he shifts from one leg to the other, unsure of how to begin.

He takes a slow breath, a muscle in his jaw twitching, "I'm sorry," is what he starts with, "for earlier. I shouldn't have..."

"shouldn't have what?"

"The kiss," he bites the inside of his cheek. looks away, "it shouldn't have happened."

A frown dips between your brows, "I see."

"No, not like that," Liam quickly responds, "I did--want to kiss you. Just not--Just not like this. Not in front of everyone. And definitely not--- this way."

He's flustered and blubbering a lot of nonsense that doesn't click, and from the growing confusion on your face it's clear that you are just as lost as he is. With a soft groan, he rakes a hand through his spiky blonde strands, "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"

"I don't understand," you start off slowly, "what you're saying."

"Sorry," Liam mutters. He moves closer to you, finding a seat on the ground before his hands slide to the back of your calves so that he can part them to make space for his body.

Tilting his head up to gaze at you, you're stuck by the intimacy of this scene and heat permeates through your cheeks at his closeness.

"Look," his tenor turns raspy. Dips even lower. Your tummy tightens deliciously, "what I mean to say is that I didn't want our first kiss to be in flight leathers and in front of everyone to watch. I was stupid and it was an accident. Because --" his voice dips even lower as one of his hands caress the back of your calf, "--you deserve better than this."

You gaze down at him in silence as the room buzzes with unspoken feelings.

That's what he's worried about? That you deserve to be kissed somewhere other than on the flight field?

It's cute. And frustrating at the same time, how good he wants to be for you. How romantic he wants to be.

But he doesn't have to try so hard. You're already wrapped around his little finger. Or does he not know that?

"Didn’t take you for a romantic," you finally reply, throat knotted. Your'e glad that your voice doesn't betray how giddy you feel.

"I'm not," he murmurs. His hands slide up the back of your calves, brushing against your lower thighs and leaving hot trails in their wake, "I just love you."

Bold words for someone who's barely lived to know what they mean.

But it still makes your heart skip a beat.

You flush bright red, "stop that. You cannot just--"

"I can," his arms wound round the back of your legs, "and I will."

He tugs.

You yelp, all but falling into his lap as his arms lace around your waist to pin you to his chest.

And before you can protest, his mouth covers yours.

He kisses your next breath away.

You inhale sharply as Liam takes over everything; his scent clouds your judgement and it's on impulse that your mouth slowly moves along with him in a dance that only he understands. He kisses you with intent. Not like the first time you'd kissed him, a tentative and slow and hesitant. Not like on the flight field, fast and efficient in a way that lovers did when they ran out of time.

This time, Liam kisses like he wants to savour you. His mouth stains yours as he presses his body closer like he wants to consume you completely. Your head tips back on accord as his teeth goes to suckle on your lower lip, drawing out a soft gasp from your throat. Liam's chest rumbles in response, taking this as his cue to slip his tongue into your mouth all while his hands slide under your pyjama shirt and leave a hot, scorching trail of heat along your spine.

You shiver, your own hands finding purchase along his tunic like he's your only anchor and when your tongue slides along his with such innocence, Liam lets out a moan low in his throat. He presses close, closer to you and liquid heat zips down your stomach to pool between your legs.

“Gods,” he growls against your mouth, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

Your heart flutters.

His voice. There’s so much emotion. It almost vibrates through you.

Without warning, big hands grasp your hips and you're suddenly picked up and thrown onto the bed. You yelp, but Liam follows soon, huge, firm body sliding along yours before his thigh nudges your legs open. You whimper and he kisses your noises away with a soft growl, one of his hands trailing along your abdomen before sliding under to skim past your naked stomach as you all but fall apart underneath him.

Hands sliding up the back of his neck, you gently card your fingers through his locks, shivering upon hearing the blonde suck in a sharp breath at your ministrations. He nibbles along your lower lip, suckling upon your mouth as you writhe against him and melt in his hold. Stars fill your vision and you swear you feel like floating on cloud nine from all this stimulation, so much that you gasp when you feel the softest brush of fingers against your lower breast.

Liam lets out a groan so feral that butterflies explode through your stomach, his grip tightening ever so slightly as his hand ghosts over your chest. He hums in satisfaction at what he finds there, lips parting from yours with a gasp so that he can trail a rain of kisses along the column of your throat.

You’re so wrapped up in your cocoon of bliss you barely take note of his other hand sliding down to your ass until he squeezes the flesh and causes another moan to spill from your lips.

Embarrassed and red in the face, you try to turn away from Liam’s mouth so that his lands along your jaw. He nibbles on it fondly as you try to scramble for words, “Liam—“

“Hm?” He grumbles it out, completely entrapped by all that is you. His thumb ghosts over your nipple and you suck in a sharp breath, body shuddering at how good his touch feels.

Gods. It’s pathetic. How putty you are in his hands.

Your face flames, your brain scrambling for composure despite the fact that Liam is now kissing his way down to your collarbones, “I…uhm… I’m not…”

It’s hard to speak when you’re squirming at the feeling of his palm sliding up the back of your thigh, trailing up underneath your shorts and drawing soft patterns around your panties.

You can feel the ache trapped between your legs. It’s practically shaking with want, dripping with the desire to let this man do whatever he wants to you because you would, it it comes down to him. Because that’s how goddamn bad you have it for this man.

But there are things you need to discuss.

Sensing the sudden change in composure, Liam draws back ever so slightly, nose still brushing yours and hands stilling along your body.

“What is it, princess?” He murmurs with a rasp, brows furrowed.

Your stomach coils at his pet name, “I—I’ve never…done it.”

Liam pauses. Blinks.

“And?” He prompts.

“Well, I…I don’t know.” You turn your head away when embarrassment flames through your cheeks, “what to do.”

There’s a pause. Silence falls over the room. Your eyes glue themselves to the wall in the corner, to the soft dent you’ve made once upon a time with your dagger, all so that you don’t have to look at Liam as shame slowly fills you up.

And then, Liam’s letting out a soft breath.

Lips suddenly flutter over your forehead.

You turn to face him in surprise, only to find him already gazing down at you with a tenderness that causes a rock to lodge at the back of your throat.

He leans in close, and when he speaks next, his voice is so soft you barely hear him over the pounding of your heart:

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispers against your lips, “if you let me.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Waking up next to Liam is a surprise.

But that’s not what concerns you.

It’s the fact that you’re void of clothes.

Soft rain pelts along the windowpane, the clouds gathering over Basgiath as you rub sleep away from your eyes with a soft, tired groan. There’s a delicious ache spreading over your legs and pulsing around your pelvis, and it takes you a full five seconds to realize why you’re feeling so comfortable and so warm you barely want to move.

But then, someone nuzzles into the back of your neck and you freeze.

Realization splashes over you like cold water.

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

This cannot be happening.

Oh fuck.

Liam’s here. Liam is breathing down your neck. Literally. And Liam is also—

Very, very naked.

Fuck.

You need to get out of here.

Actually, you need to get Liam out of here before Xaden walks in and sees the two of you.

As if summoned by your thoughts, there’s a loud knock that resounds upon your door and you jump, heart going to your throat while you feel soft movement behind you.

Liam groans, burying his face into your back as you hear Xaden’s voice from the other side:

“You have five seconds to get dressed before I blow this door down, cadet.”

“No!” You yell out before you can stop yourself before trying to nudge Liam awake. The blonde barely moves, mumbling incomprehensible words as he burrows even deeper and causing warmth to spread through your cheeks, “uhm— give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you there!”

There’s a pause. Then:

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes! All dandy!” You reply a little too quick.

Another pause. Your heart is thundering through your chest. You swear you hold your breath.

“Fine. Don’t be late. Ten minutes.”

Footsteps echo across the stone floor as Xaden walks away and you slump in defeat as relief washes through you like a tidal wave. For fuck’s sake, what you do for this stupid blonde with that fucking dimple—

“All dandy? Really?”

Yelping, you jerk back and make a grab for the sheets, twisting over to see Liam grinning like there’s no tomorrow, blue eyes gleaming with amusement as he regards your flustered self.

“Get out of my room,” you snap, “you overstayed your welcome.”

“I did?” He cocks a brow, slides closer as his arms cage you by the waist. He tugs and you fall against him, red cheeks and all as he nuzzles into your neck, “that’s not what you said last night.”

Flushing to the tips of your toes, you try to shove him off the bed but he’s having none of that, holding you hostage against him before kissing his way up your neck.

“Mairi,” you warn, though your tone falters as he nips at a particular spot along your jaw, “stop it.”

His head lifts. He grins at you and leans in close, “make me,” he whispers.

And before you know it, he spins you so fast you gasp when your back meets the mattress. Liam towers over you, one arm next to your head, the other ghosting down your body to grip your hips, his nose brushing yours with a soft smile.

You can’t help but watch him. Admire the way his muscles bunch under his skin. Watch the marks roaming up his arm and cording up his bicep.

He’s utterly beautiful. Mesmerizing. And you feel your heart sputter just by looking at him.

But when your eyes find his face, you notice him doing the same thing; admiring you like you’re a piece of art.

Your breath stutters.

You’ve never been looked at this way before.

Not like this.

Not like you’re the definition of beauty.

But in Liam’s eyes, you can feel it.

And when he leans down to part your lips, the moan that leaves you causes his own chest to rumble.

You melt like a pliant leaf and he grins against your mouth, kissing you over and over again like he hasn’t had enough from last night. Your hands cradle his cheeks, traveling over to his back and digging your nails into his skin when his tongue twines with yours with a skill that leaves you breathless. He groans at your actions, his own hands roaming down to grab your derriere.

He squeezes and you gasp. Your head tilts back against the pillow, lips parting with his while he busies himself scattering butterfly kisses along your collarbone.

“Beautiful,” is what he murmurs against your skin. He bites at it playfully and you gasp, the sound turning into a soft whine when his tongue darts out to lick at your breast.

You try to find logic and reason. Though it’s a tough feat when all you want to do is let Liam get his hands on you.

“Right,” your arms come up to push gently at his chest, “I need to go—“

But Liam kisses you, as if drunk on your presence. As if he can’t quite stop himself.

“Mairi,” you mumble against his mouth, feeling his hands grip your hips a little tighter, “Xaden’s gonna kill me if I’m not there on time.”

A growl erupts from the blonde’s chest, but he finally parts from you with a soft sigh, forehead resting against yours as thumb rubs soft circles along your hip.

“When you come back,” Liam’s murmur is tender, almost hesitant as he searches your gaze, “promise me one thing.”

You search his eyes for an answer you can’t quite find, “what thing?”

“Nothing will change between us. That all this—“ his beautiful jaw ticks, “all this was real.”

“It was real,” your voice comes out shaky.

“Good,” and with that he presses one last chaste kiss atop your temple, “it is real.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

[mae-gi-writes]

Not With Me | Garrick Tavis

Garrick Week Masterlist

Summary: Everyone knows Garrick Tavis is all sharp edges and discipline—until they witness the quiet tenderness he reserves for the one person who sees through it all.

Note: For Garrick Week Day 2: Gentle Giant - @empyreanevents

Pairing: Garrick Tavis x reader

Warnings: light mention of injuries and soft domestic fluff

Word Count: <1k

“Is he trying to kill us?”

“Pretty sure I saw my soul leave my body after that last hit.”

“I dream of the day Xaden puts him through a wall instead.”

The complaints echo through the sparring gym like the aftermath of a battlefield. One by one, your squad stumbles off the mats, groaning and limping, clothes sweat-soaked and pride thoroughly shattered. Garrick stands in the center of it all, arms crossed, looming like a monolith with judgment carved into every hard line of his face. He doesn’t say a word—just surveys the carnage with the same deadpan glare he’s worn since sunrise.

You try not to laugh.

Try being the operative word.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you call out, biting back a grin as one of the cadets cradles his ribs like they’ve betrayed him. “You’re all still standing.”

“Barely,” Sawyer groans, dropping onto a bench like he’s been shot. “I swear, does he even like us?”

“He’s like a wall,” Violet mutters. “With knives.”

“And an emotional support dagger collection,” Ridoc deadpans.

That makes you snort. Loudly.

“He’s not like this with me,” you say, far too casually.

Several heads snap toward you at once.

Sawyer narrows his eyes like he’s solving a riddle. “What do you mean he’s not like this with you?”

You shrug. “Exactly what I said. He’s… different. Kinda like a teddy bear.”

The silence that follows is laced with suspicion and disbelief.

Then Ridoc crosses his arms, smirking. “Yea, alright. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

You just smile. “You don’t believe me?”

“We are talking about the same person, right?” Ridoc raises a brow at you and you just shrug.

“Okay, Gamlyn.”

Later that evening, second squad takes over most of the common room, grumbling, and milking the soreness of their muscles for all it’s worth. Every now and then, someone winces from laughing too hard. You’re curled into your usual corner of the couch, feet propped up on the table before you with a book resting on your knees.

The door creaks open.

Garrick enters, still in his training gear, sleeves rolled up, sweat-damp hair curling at his temples. 

Instantly, the room shifts. Every back straightens. Conversations die mid-sentence. It’s as if just existing near him carries a threat level.

Except for you.

You don’t even lift your head as he walks in.

He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t say a word, just crosses the room with long, purposeful strides, sinks to one knee in front of you, and starts undoing the straps of your boots like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The room goes deathly quiet.

Sawyer’s jaw drops. Ridoc makes a sound that might be a whimper.

Your heart tugs in your chest at the familiar tenderness in Garrick’s touch—rough fingers moving carefully, methodically, brushing your calf with more reverence than you’d ever expect from a man who made half your squad tap out by lunch.

“How’s your ankle today?” he murmurs, thumb ghosting over the spot you tweaked last week.

“Better,” you say softly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his temple. “Still sore.”

He frowns, and that tight line between his brows deepens. “You should’ve sat out. I would’ve covered for you.”

You arch a brow. “You literally made Sawyer do laps for blinking wrong today.”

Garrick doesn’t even flinch. “He did blink like he had a secret.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m only impossible with them,” he says, voice dropping to something low and intimate. “Not with you.”

That’s the moment someone chokes.

You glance up.

The squad is frozen in stunned disbelief. Like they’ve just seen a gryphon juggle.

Ridoc is gaping. “Did he just—Are you—Did he smile?”

Rhiannon hisses, “He knelt. He literally knelt like she’s a fucking princess.”

“I think I’m going to pass out,” comes from Ridoc again.

Garrick lifts his head—slowly—and glares at them. “You all have something to say?”

A chorus of head shakes follows, immediate and frantic.

“Nope.”

“Not a word.”

“Carry on, Section Leader.”

Your smirk is all teeth as you thread your fingers through Garrick’s hair, dragging your nails gently along his scalp until his eyes flutter closed. He leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.

“Teddy bear,” you say sweetly.

He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, ears tinged red, but he doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t even deny it.

And that silence? That unspoken, stunned reverence echoing from your squad as they watch the coldest man they know kneel at your feet and massage your sore calf with calloused hands?

That’s better than victory on the sparring mat any day.

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