#I hope you like it bestie

[mjfass]

Commision for: @wrestlezaynia

[streakyglasses]

Just got my period, so prompt #49 on your intimacy prompts seems fitting! Would love to see #stris with this prompt, too. Currently rotting away and needing something to read lol

Hello!! Unsure if you’re the same as the last anon, but thank you if you are! I’m missing writing, too, there’s just a ton going on at the moment making it hard to actually finish anything. (lots of half-written angst/hc in the drafts rn + being absolutely stuck on aost) I’m hoping maybe rewatching the show will help cheer me up and turn the gears. Definitely missing Chris and Street a lot :(

2. so insanely real about rotting—same (and for the same reason). that said, idk if you were looking for street taking care of Chris on her period, but that’s what my brain assumed and I was too far into it to change when I realized maybe you meant a general illness 😅 (shameless plug of the two stris sickfics I do have on my ao3 if you were). anywho, i did lean in and manage to whip up a lil’ something that I hope fills the void/makes rotting slightly more enjoyable. untitled atm 🩵 below the cut!

For as independent as Chris is, being in a healthy, loving relationship with Jim Street means she can no longer hide one of her biggest desires behind walls of steel and fiery eyes. 

To be held. 

She’s always been liberal with physical touch, having no problem hanging off any of her former 20-Squad members when they hang out, or slinging an arm around her family after dinner. Street caught on early and took full advantage. It was easy in Black Betty’s close quarters, their legs and shoulders often brushing, and he wedged himself into her space around the table in Command during important debriefs. Her effort had to split between paying attention and not showing him how calm his warmth made her. 

He only gets clingier after they get together and he has full freedom to. His arms snake around her as she stands at the stove or the fridge, and their hands fit like puzzle pieces whenever they’re out together. She indulges him, tucking away how happy it makes her, and their shared smiles tell the other that they both know what’s going on, but neither are going to call it out. 

But the old habit of independence is one that still flares whenever Chris doesn’t feel well. Be it a sniffle or a hospital stay, the last thing she wants is anyone to see her weak, beyond her own sensibilities. So when one of the worst periods she’s had in recent memory falls upon her, all her instincts scream at her to hole up alone in her room and ride out the waves in isolation. 

She wakes with a groan on the second morning of it. Her cramps are already attacking her muscles, making it hard to sleep even though there’s another half hour before her alarm goes off. Hot water provides some relief, though not enough to squeeze herself into jeans when her leggings are clean. Despite not having Street stay over, secretly glad he drew the short stick on babysitting a minor drug runner in interrogation, his hoodie is still there from a few nights ago, and she tugs it on like it’s hers. 

Have a good day, love you. She shoots off the text, downs two painkillers, and holds back a groan when her body protests the weight of her backpack on her shoulder. Sighing, she grabs her keys from the hook and heads to her truck, hoping it’s an easy day at the safe house. 

Between her physical discomfort, the stress of 20-Squad’s mission as it played out on the news, and Marcos deciding it’s the perfect day to test her patience with the ridiculous claim that she can’t defend the safe house by herself if need be, it is not an easy day. Chris’s last hope clings on changing into sweats and curling up in bed with her lavender candle lit and some of her secret chocolate stash. Maybe, if she’s still feeling this shitty by the time she gets home, a good cry and a comfort movie. 

Her plan crumbles when she spies Street’s bike in the parking garage. Suddenly, her anxiety spikes as her head starts spinning with ways to not show him how bad she’s feeling. 

Not that he doesn’t know—her mortification at having to ask him to get her extra box of tampons from the guest bathroom still enough to make her cheeks burn red and not—but it’s never been this bad. Under mounting exhaustion, she doesn’t have the energy to grant it too much thought, and settles for muddling through the night of her hormones wreaking havoc on her, with elbows and knees if she has to, quietly. 

“Hey, Babe!” Street calls from the kitchen as soon as he hears the door open. “Lasagna’s almost done.”

Glancing over his shoulder, he notices the tight set of her smile and the slight flush on her cheeks. He narrows his eyes but she’s down the hallway too fast for him to notice much else. His worry grows when she hasn’t returned five minutes after the oven dings, and the dish is abandoned on the stove while he quietly closes one of the cabinets, slipping something into his pocket, and knocks lightly on her door. 

As hard as she tries, her walls tumble down the moment she’s in the comfort of her bedroom. She doubles over, gripping the vanity for strength, when a new wave of cramps crashes over her in the bathroom, and she can’t lie to herself enough to think anything sounds appetizing. Her intentions are still to change and go meet Street at the table, but she sits on the edge of her bed for a second to gather herself, and winds up under the covers before she can stop herself.

“Chris? Baby?” He says through the door. “Can I come in?” 

The groan-whimper that escapes as she curls into an even tinier ball is all the answer he’ll accept, pushing the door open. His face softens at the sight of her, laughing at how she tries to bury herself under the covers like that will keep her from seeing her. 

A big part of him wishes she could just let herself accept the comfort she gives everyone else, but he respects and loves the fighter in her too much to ever make an issue of it. Instead, he parks himself on the edge of her bed and pulls a small piece of chocolate out of his pocket, the crinkle catching her attention. 

“Think this’ll help?” He teases, smile growing at the furrow of her brows. “I may’ve hid in the hallway after the last grocery trip until I saw your hiding spot.” 

“You’re the worst,” she says gruffly, but rips open the wrapper and savors the sweetness all the same. It’s a salve on her heart. Nerves calming at his correct read on the situation, he drops a kiss to her forehead and stands. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

He keeps his promise, and brings a laundry list of items with him. A tub of chocolate covered almonds is set next to a mug of peppermint tea on her nightstand. Fishing around the drawer, he exclaims victory when his hand curls around the familiar plastic of a lighter that he uses to light the candle on her dresser so a light layer of lavender fills the space, enough to soothe but not make eyes water. Finally, he plugs in the heating pad and hands it to her to adjust it to where she wants, and then pulls back her comforter to drape the lush green quilt, something Helena knit before she was born that’s long been her favorite blanket, in its place. The comforter does cover that, but she fists the knit up to her neck, settling into it. 

Satisfied that she’s taken care of and sure she wants a few moments, he leaves her again, just long enough to eat. The lasagna is as delicious as he expected, and he’s glad she’ll have something hearty whenever she does feel like eating. With a bottle of water tucked under his arm, he heads back to her room, not even bothering with a knock this time since he heard the familiar dun dun come down the hallway. 

She’s half-propped on the pillows, the cord of the heating pad making it clear she’s situated it over her stomach. The empty bowl and mug are a relief, and he wastes no time sliding in next to her. Relishing the feeling of being in bed next to Chris, a feeling that will never get old no matter the circumstance, he lets the weight of his own day fall off into nothing. 

“Do you need anything else?” He murmurs, and kisses her head. 

“No, thank you.” Chris’s voice is small, an edge of shame to her tone, and he just pulls her from the pillows to lean against him, and meets their lips again. 

“Let me know if you do. Law and Order, really?” 

Nudging him, she gives up quickly in favor of crossing her legs over his. His arm around her is the nicest thing she’s felt all day, she realizes, and the only thing she wants to feel for the foreseeable future. 

“Don’t make fun of me.” She mumbles into his shoulder, eyes fixed on the screen. He finds one of her hands and intertwines their fingers, squeezing.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” When he tries to part them so he can draw tender circles on her stomach, she lets out a noise of protest and tightens her grip. He switches to grazing his thumb over her knuckles, a motion as constant as the waves. 

They make it halfway through the episode until a new knot forms inside her lower abdomen and she curls forward, struggling to breathe deep and slow. Street follows her body with his, as if he can form a wall of protection around her. 

“I’m sorry, Baby,” he whispers in her ear. “It’ll pass.”

She focuses on his voice and nods. Gritting her teeth, it takes a moment, but it does pass, and she straightens up with a low breath. His fingers rake through her hair while her bones creak back into place.

“Thanks.” She whispers, hating the tears in her voice but not enough to try to fight them. And then she adds, “for being here.” 

Cradling her face, heart swelling at how she leans into his touch, he finds her gaze and pours as much love as he can through his own. 

“I’ll always be here. I love you.” 

Their limbs tangle until she’s swathed in his embrace, his presence around her as soft a cloud that fills all her cracks and turns them to gold. She cracks a small smile as old habits start to thaw. 

“I love you, too.” 

[in-your-dreams-vn]

I am in a playful mode rn so here comes a spicy question 😳😳😳 (I'm asking this before I get calmer and decide not to ask this MDMEMFFM) What's their reaction to them about to fwop fwop ;))) with MC and finding out MC is a virgin lol

ehehehehe. This is gonna be fun

18+ below the cut

Traum

They are surprised once you tell them. They are already on top of you, onesie hanging down below their hips as the confession left your lips between kisses. "but....what about..." Traum bit their tongue, not wanting to reveal how much they have been stalking you in your dreams. What was confusing to them was all the wet dreams you have been having. If you were a virgin then why did you have so many? Was that just a human thing? They shook their head to clear it. "No matter. I will make sure that you feel good alright~ Let's take it slow~" They smiled at you and began kissing down along your neck to your collarbone and chest. "I will take my time preparing you~ And once you feel comfortable we can go all in~" with a soft kiss on your bellybutton Traum's head sunk below your abdomen and the lext thing on your mind what their tongue on your sex and white hot pleasure.

Lynde

He is also surprised knowing what Traum knows about the wet dreams. However he is more than okei with it. "I...you know I am too actually" His cheeks turned a bright pink and he looked away. "So that means we can learn together right?" He gave you a shy smile before lying down and pulling you on top of him. "We can just go slow. I won't do anything you aren't comfortable with alright?" His hands run up along your thighs, one going up to rest on your hip and the other exploring your abdomen. "Just let me know alright?" And with a nod from you his slender fingers find your sex and began preparing you for what the night had in store.

[an-established-butt-dent]

Dorian Pavus, present age

Over a period of 10 years I imagine Dorian to have collected quite the library.

[dropofsoup]

Based on this post by @malaierba !!

Modern AU but Shuro has short hair and Namari mistook him for her dad: the aftermath

[silverformymonsters]

MESSMER + 🔥

[bluebeesknees]

commission 💤

[neo-kid-funk]

A scene from and if I stare at you, baby, will you stare right back? Written by the most amazing @rafyki

Note: FYKI this one for you!!! Your writing is sosososo good and this fic literally made my brain fuzzy so thank you thank you for being awesome!!! Hope you like it 🥹💖

[mafuyuh]

asa mitaka ✦ 三鷹アサ

happy belated birthday Angie! @okkottsus

[haveihitanerve]

The idea, surprisingly, came from Batman. “I just…” Clark sighed. “It’s getting harder and harder to keep up my facade. Clark Kent is who I am, but I can’t not be Superman yknow? And well, I’m running out of excuses.” Oliver nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I get that.” “Why don’t you just tell them.” Batman interrupted. The two heroes looked at him in surprise. “Tell them?” Oliver asked incredulously. Batman nodded, looking at them as though they were daft. “Yes, tell them.” He sighed, running out of patience when they didn’t understand. “It’s the perfect excuse and if you really stress it then no one will believe you.” Oliver made a face. “Yeah sure Batman.” He drawled sarcastically. “Like you actually do that.” Batman stared at him for a few seconds, then snorted, turned, and walked away. “See?” Oliver muttered, victorious. 

“Clark you have that interview now with Bruce Wayne, he’s one of our biggest sponsors- why aren’t you gone yet?!?!”Perry half screamed as Clark half hazardly packed his satchel and made sure he had enough paper, his tape recorder had enough storage and his pens were working. “I know I know.” He muttered back, slinging it over his shoulder. “Sorry, I’ve never had an interview this late.” He half growled, heading out to grab a cab and head over to Wayne Enterprises, their meeting spot. The taxi driver seemed to sense Clark’s anxiety because he most definitely did not follow the speed limit but Clark was too panicked to tell him to slow down and tossed him a few bills before sprinting up the stairs to WE. “Mr. Kent!” Bruce Wayne greeted warmly, opening the door for him. “Hello Mr. Wayne,” Clark greeted politely, taking his offered seat. “Sorry for being late.” Bruce waved him off, pouring himself and Clark a glass before sitting himself. “It’s no matter, really, your payback for my cutting our last interview short eh?” He winked, handing the glass of water to Clark. Clark sipped it in thanks, opening his notebook. “Yeah… why did you by the way?” He asked. Bruce chuckled. “Clark, darling, didn’t you know? I’m Batman, Justice called.” Clark chuckled, clicking on his pen. “Yes, right, of course.” His eyes caught movement from the corner of his eye and he spotted a woman in a beautiful red dress walking past the window. Before he turned his attention back to his interviewer, a light illuminated the sky. Bruce stood. “Sorry to cut it short again, old friend, but duty calls.” He gestured to the light in the sky before rushing out, coincidentally after the woman. Clark rolled his eyes, packing together his things. “Once a playboy always a playboy.” He murmured, slinging the bag over his shoulder, but before he could walk about Bruce arrived again, hair disheveled, and shirt askew. “Sorry about that,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his face. “Gordon needed some aid but Robin had it handled.” Clark let his eyes drift only a second over Bruce’s appearance before looking away and taking a seat again. “Robin…” he agreed. “Right. Is that her name?” He muttered quietly, smiling to himself as he dug through his satchel for his pen, missing the smug look the playboy sent him. 

“Ollie!!!!” Oliver Queen grinned, turning to face the overly high pitched male voice calling his name. “Brucie!! It’s been too long!” Bruce laughed, falling into his arms in a hug, voice dropping back to his normal baritone. “It really has been, glad to see you.” Oliver smiled warmly. “I am so pleased to see you too, these Galas get so boring.” Bruce chuckled, eyes scanning the crowd of party goers. “Well, you’re always welcome to seek me out at these sorts of things bud, except when I’m working to save the city.” Oliver chuckled, taking a sip of his champagne. “So true.” He agreed. “You’re doing a great job at it too, man.” Bruce smiled wanly. “Thanks. It’s hard work though. Wayne Enterprises in the mornings,” his voice dipped low. “Saving the Gotham citizens as Batman at night.” Oliver choked on his drink, laughing. “Exactly!” Bruce grinned back, almost triumphant. His eye caught some movement at the corner of the dance floor and both men turned, spotting his third oldest son, flicking his wrist in a certain movement. Bruce’s eyes darkened. “Alright Ollie, it was nice catching up, but Justice calls: Gotham needs me.” Oliver chuckled. “Right on.” 

A week later Oliver and Clark once again found themselves chilling in the main den, complaining about the difficulties of keeping their secret identities secret. Batman walked in, listened for two seconds, and promptly groaned. “I told you,” he complained. “Just tell them!” “It’s not that easy! And that defeats the whole purpose of keeping it a secret!” Oliver argued back. Batman looked at him. “I did it. To both of you actually.” Clark snorted. “Yeah right.” Batman turned to him. Suddenly his voice changed pitches. “Mr. Kent! So pleased to see you, sorry to have run out on you earlier, but well! Justice calls, oh, but Robin handled it!” Clark paled. Batman turned to Oliver. His voice went even higher. “Ollie!! It’s been too long my friend, but we’ll have to chat some other time you know how it is, Justice calls!” Oliver turned a strange shade of white. “See?” Batman- no Bruce Wayne said with a smirk. “Easy.” Back at home in the Batcave, the batkids were losing their minds. 

(Yes they placed bets)

[laylakeating]

ELSBETH'S 2K CELEBRATION ↳ 🩶 for @tabithatate

[doctorwhommm]

I hsve an idea. Could u draw rose and ianto as besties

absOLUTELY I CAN

they’re chatting shit (lovingly) about their tall, long-coat-wearing, time-travelling, death-cheating, alien boyfriends who have spikey hair

[dendroaspis-viridis]

I'm begging you, BioWare... Learn from the mistakes of Baldur's Gates past...

[utterlyazriel]

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: not gonna even acknowledge the time break between chappies... all i'm gonna say happy cassian chappie ! <3! i hope u all enjoy it mwah thank u for reading

word count: 3.8k

synopsis: Adjusting to life in Velaris means learning to train with new, friendly faces. A tentative friendship forms. Azriel keeps his distance.

CHAPTER NINE :: FRIENDS (IN OTHER PLACES)

Whoosh.

Training staff gripped tightly in your calloused hands, you swing with a muscle memory built over decades, the stick whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard.

You're going through the motions. A simple warm-up, running a drill that you've done enough times you could probably do it in your sleep. The movements are familiar, easy. Routine.

If you close your eyes, you could almost imagine you're still in Exordor.

Except... there's no familiar wind current to perform its melody in the early morning, dancing through the mountainside trees. No frozen chill to the air around you. No crunch of snow beneath your feet to throw your balance. No bound chest to chafe your skin.

No looking over your shoulder in pure panic at every unexpected noise.

Well, not quite that last one. It's a habit you're dedicated to breaking for the sake of your shot nerves — but evidently failing, considering how you straighten up and whip around when the door leading out to the training ring shudders open.

You hold your breath on instinct and clutch the training staff tighter.

Stepping out into the early morning air, the dawn still unbroken, is another Illyrian warrior.

Mother, how many of them were there around here?

You hadn't got to meet anyone else after that encounter on the balcony, almost exactly one week ago. Hadn't exactly wanted to either.

You hadn't even wanted to see Azriel again so soon after the churning, sickening twist of emotions you had barely managed to stumble through after your severe reawakening.

He hadn't come to see you.

You hadn't asked.

Besides Madja, Rhysand was the only new face you had come to know. He had taken to coming by your room a couple times over the week, checking on the progress of your healing, particularly sympathetic on the state of your wings. Revealed his own with a polite flourish.

He was... different than you were expecting. Perhaps you were learning that rumours are not everything — certainly it's clear that there is more to Rhysand than what first appears.

As Highlord, he had to discuss your potential living situations once you were healed enough to leave the infirmary.

I meant what I said. He had said, violet eyes kind as he hovered at the end of your bed. You're no prisoner here. You'll be free to go wherever you wish, even back to Exordor if that's what you decide.

And if I don't? You had whispered, your gaze fixed on the fine sheets of the bed. If I decide that... I have no home there anymore?

Then you'll have a home here. For as long as you would like.

And though it overrode every single instinct you had learned to trust, everything that had kept you alive this long, you chose to take his word for it.

Rhys said no harm would befall you in Velaris and you would be welcome here for as long as wanted.

But... that didn't mean you were exactly looking to make new friends.

Staring the newcomer that enters the balcony with much less grace than that of usual Illyrians, you watch him closely, not quite daring to take a breath.

At a first glance, you had thought it might be Azriel—heart leaping up your throat—but that was quickly washed away. Something in you knew from the hair standing up on the nape of your neck, before you even saw him properly, that this male was utterly unfamiliar to you.

He's taller, you realise. His hair is a longer and he doesn't quite move with the grace of the Shadowsinger — though, perhaps you are just so unused to seeing a male so relaxed. So caught off guard, in fact, that when he turns he gives a little yelp in surprise.

"Fuck!" He says, one of his large hands jumping out and clenching into a fist —his whole body switching to a fighting stance, you realise— before he relaxes again. His fist uncurls into a less threatening open palm.

"I- sorry, just didn't realise anyone else was out here." His fighting stance melts away, open palm still extended. He gives what you think might be a friendly smile.

You don't respond, only gripping the training staff a little tighter. Every hackle is raised, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, and your entire body winding itself up to prepare to fight, if it comes down to it.

The male seems to realise this as his next move is to raise both hands, palms out, the universal signal for surrender. They're large, tanned, and void of the scars you've come to know on Azriel.

However, where there are usually shimmering cobalt blue siphons, this newcomer has dazzling ruby red ones instead. You count each of his. Seven.

Your throat tightens — like all of Illyria, you've heard of this warrior too. The Lord of Bloodshed.

He doesn't exactly look so fearsome at the moment, his expression easy-going, even friendly, from behind his raised hands.

He seems to be waiting for you to make a move or to speak but after a moment, he realises neither are going to happen.

"Rhys said there might be another Illyrian around." He says, taking a tentative step forward, in the direction of the training ring, letting his hands drop to his side. You notice how he tucks his wings in a little more, like he might be trying to be respectable. Polite.

He's watching you closely. "Didn't mention you were a female, though."

Instinct makes you want to sneer in response — the only time Illyrian males bother bring up the differences in sex is to make some nasty comment about the biological weakness of females.

Not born to be warriors. They spit. Fragility is bred into them from the moment they're conceived. Breakable. Less than. A female in the training ring has as much place does as a male does in the kitchen.

But this male... says female in a way you've never quite heard before. As though he's somewhere closer to awe.

"My name is Cassian," The male introduces himself, his tentative steps becoming more of a stroll as he wanders across to the weapons stand. He eyes them halfheartedly, his focus still on you.

He turns lightly, tucking in one of his wings to peer back at you. "And yours is...?"

You still haven't moved, only tracking his movements with a slight shift of your eyes. Part of you wonders if he already knows your name and he's simply being polite.

Cassian nods as though you've spoken, despite the fact you haven't made a sound.

"Okay, not a big talker, I get it." He dips his head in a little nod, giving you an easy smile, then a quick wink. "Promise I don't bite."

No reaction. You’re not entirely sure if that’s a joke or not.

Either way, Cassian turns and focuses on his selection, pulling one of the training staffs off the weapons rack into his strong, sure grip.

Despite Rhysand's promise, your heart begins to rabbit wildly.

You wonder if this is some sickening game of cat and mouse—if he's perhaps going to tire you out before he selects his true weapon. If he wants you to know he can best you, even without a blade at his disposal.

You're a decent fighter—hell, a great one even—but you know better than to expect to come out on top against the Lord of Bloodshed.

You finally force yourself to move; shifting your feet to face him, you sink into a fighting stance, staff poised to face him, prepared to bare your teeth.

Cassian blinks. It takes another moment for him to realise that none of his friendliness is working to thaw your iciness. He quickly sets the training staff back down with a clatter, raising his hands once more.

"Woah," He says, giving a small shake of his head. "Not looking to fight. Unless you and I are in that ring—" He gestures to the training ring behind him. "I will never try to fight you. And... I hope you can say the same for me."

You don't even realise you've released your breath until you deflate a little, relief coming in small, incremental waves.

He doesn't want to fight. There's no proving yourself, at least not today.

Maybe some day in the near future, he'll demand you get in the ring to earn your space here—because that was the first thing you ever learned as an Illyrian warrior. But not today.

Reluctant and relieved all at once, you lower your training staff.

Your hesitance or silence doesn't seem to hinder Cassian. In fact, he smiles at the motion.

He's quite handsome, you note. In that rugged way, not quite so classically handsome as Azriel. The unexpected thought makes you flush. You shake it away with a shiver.

"You have your reasons for your unease I bet," Cassian continues, his hands drifting back to his sides. His wings have begun to spread out a little more, as if relaxing.

"And if you want me to piss off, I certainly will. My goal is not to make you uncomfortable in the slightest. But... well, I do have just one question."

He pauses, as if waiting for something. Permission, you realise faintly, which surprises you enough that you give a rather jerky nod, permitting him to ask his question.

A brilliant smile spreads across Cassian's face. "Did you really stab Azriel with a fork?"

The question takes you by utter surprise, fresh bewilderment rippling across your features. You shift back almost awkwardly, stepping out of your fighting stance. The memory from months ago rises up inside, the first meeting in your lonely shelter.

How did he know that? He could he know that?

"I—" You trip over the words, not entirely sure how to answer the question. You can't quite tell why he's asking—is he assessing you as a threat? Your voice is tentative and guarded as you murmur out, "...yes?"

You don't think it would've mattered how you answered truly, as the moment you confirm it, Cassian roars in laughter, his head thrown back and his hand clutching his belly. He laughs loudly for a moment, shaking his head with a fond smile.

"Holy shit, I thought Rhys was kidding! Cauldron, what I would've given to see that." His hazel eyes glitter brightly, as though he's excited. "Was he surprised? I bet he was. Where did you stab him?"

His easy tone, like he's talking to an old friend, takes you back. You find yourself responding with an unexpected ease. Looking back on it now, it is a little funny.

"He was," You nod, nearly smiling at Cassian's enthusiasm. Your lips twitch and you gesture to your neck, somewhat awkwardly, miming the motion. "In the neck."

Cassian laughs again. "Oh, and I bet he'd deny the whole thing if it ever came up."

You don't know quite what to say to that—Azriel hadn't ever brought it up and you certainly weren't going to remind him of it. You tilt your head to the side a bit, an unknown feeling making itself known in the pit of your stomach. An anxiety of an entirely different kind.

The male before you is not an enemy. He's not an ally either... and you can't understand what he gains from talking to you.

You can't even fathom the idea that he might just want to be your friend.

So, you turn. Tighten your grip and resume the exercise that had been interrupted. Muscles groan as you work through their achiness, slowly becoming warmer as the hot blood pumps around your body.

Despite what Madja had said a week ago on that balcony, today was actually the first morning you were allowed to train.

For the last seven days, the exercise you were restricted to was mere stretches; only enough to ensure each of your wings could extend fully and that your limbs could move without serious cause for concern.

It had driven you stir crazy.

The only time you ever skipped so many days without training was during your cycle—something you had mercifully missed the end of this time around, hidden away in your unconsciousness.

So, at the first opportunity, when you rose from your bed this morning and Madja hadn't given you that pointed stare and instead gave you directions, you had found the training area. Began with old routines, if only for the fact you don't know who you are when you're not training.

Inhaling now, the wood of the training staff creaks beneath your iron grip. You're trying desperately to use it as a tether, to some semblance of normal for yourself. It's difficult when there's so many changes lurking.

The solid stone makes you sturdier than before. There's no snow beneath your feet to sink your boots into, to find your balance on. But your injuries aren't entirely healed either.

The pain is not fresh but it's still hindering enough to be a nuisance. Your left ear still twinges from time to time—sometimes it seems to hum so loudly you can't hear clearly, others it dulls altogether. Neither are particularly pleasant to experience.

Pain, however, you have plenty of experience in. Gritting your teeth and pushing through it is practically standard for the Illyrian way; especially when you know your body. You know how much it can take. You know it's been through worse.

But the pesky problem with your ear keeps you off balance, just enough that it shows in your motions.

You keep stumbling around like a goddamn fledgling with every new attempt, footing clumsy, which makes you burn in humiliation because that's what you learn first. It's impossible not to feel unendingly frustrated as decades of training all get shifted slightly to the left.

It doesn't help either that there's still those holes in the edges of your wings.

Fae healing is incredibly advanced but even so, there is only so much magic can do.

Lacerations can be healed, stabs and slices stitched up with ease — but a hole, torn forcibly in and through the delicate flesh of Illyrian wings? You know that you should be thanking the Mother that they even still work in their complete capacity.

The skin around where the stakes had been forced is puckered and stiff, whitened by the scar tissue and trauma. It had been sickening the first time you had curled them close around you and realised with a faint horror that you could technically see through them — a irregular circular gash preserved in either wing of how you'd been pinned down.

The air passes through them as you shift, causing an uneasy shiver. They don't catch on the wind quite the same as they did before.

You haven't taken to the skies yet. You're torn between your eagerness to fly again, to prove to yourself that they can still, and the sinking fear that that's something new you'll have to relearn as well.

So, instead, you run through the training drill for the nth time, trying to get back in sync with your own body. Trying to push past where it seems to falter and trying and failing to not care that your wavering movements now have an audience.

Watching him subtly out the corner of your eye, Cassian appears to be running drills of his own, a gentle warmup. He stretches his toned arms above his head, the motions limber and easy. Briefly, your mind wanders to Azriel's own morning training —never mind that you did have experience training with him over many mornings — and the most peculiar fluster flows through you.

You bite your cheek and rein in your drifting thoughts, gripping the staff tighter.

Strike. Twist. Bend. Strike, twice as hard. Your left eardrum squeals, jumping abruptly in volume at the motions, and though you manage to contain yourself to a wince, your twist goes off kilter.

Your wings stretch out to counterbalance but they don't catch the wind as well as you're used to. Your feet stumble to realign and all you can think is how fucking easy it would be decimate you in a fight in that second.

Something awful starts to grow in your throat and it takes a full moment to realise its the urge to cry, clawing up your throat.

You inhale shakily, eyes fixed on the stone beneath you, and will them away. You weren't a crier — but then again, never had you ever felt quite so utterly hopeless as you were right now.

You've always had this—always had the fight from within your bones, always had your body, always relied on your dexterity to push you forward.

Shadow covers the stone before you. Your head shoots ups, that same panic you can't shake jolting in your chest.

"Hi." Cassian says, giving a little two-fingered salute. He smiles kindly. "Cassian. We met maybe, uh, 5 minutes ago? Remember that?"

You blink at him, not even noticing how the distraction sends away the urge to cry. Swallowing thickly, you give a tentative nod.

"Fantastic. Great memory." His smile melts into a grin and though it sounds like he's teasing, you don't exactly feel like it you who's being made fun of. "I— I have no doubt you're an excellent fighter, especially considering you managed to land a hit on a warrior such as Azriel."

Cassian seems to hear his words only after he's said them and gives a minuscule frown. "Wait, don't tell him I said that. He'll never let me live it down."

When you don't react in amusement as he was aiming for, Cassian changes his tone again, more serious this time.

"Look, I might not be exactly sure what happened that meant you ended up here. I know it might not seem like a welcome change of pace but— well- and what I mean to say is— I can see your missteps."

The admittance of your failings makes humiliation swell up within you. You avert your eyes. Cassian, aware of his awful blunder, barrels on.

"But I can see you're getting your feet again." He adds, softer than before. "After whatever happened to you and your wings, I can tell you're already doing better than most Illyrians would. I also know that everything is easier with a little support."

Your gaze tugs back to Cassian's face as his sentence ends, the offer within it leaving you momentarily dazed. He wants... to help you?

You open your mouth to say just that—but instead, say, "They... didn't tell you?"

Something foreign yanks on your heartstrings. You can't say you had expected privacy, not when Rhysand was already generously providing you with both medical aid and a place to lay low and recover. You were in no position to ask for more.

Suddenly, you become hyper aware of your wings and their gaping, obvious scars to pair with the thin white lines of the lashes adorned across them. You rein them back self-consciously, keeping them tucked close against your back. There's relief in that simple motion alone.

"It is not their story to tell." Cassian nods, grave and serious. "And, just as important, sharing it is not a requirement to be allow yourself a little support."

You don't have to tell him, if you don't want to.

Before you, an Illyrian male, like so many that you've detested all your miserable life, and he doesn't know a thing about you. He doesn't get to know what happened unless you decide to tell him.

You taste his words, mulling them over in your mind as you try to figure out what he means. In the heart of it, you can't understand what he truly stands to gain from this offer of support.

"What... kind of support?" You question warily.

Unthinkingly, your grip tightens on the training staff once more—a knee-jerk reaction to the idea of baring your vulnerabilities. It had been well-trained out of you. Connections of any kind risked exposure... and well, the one time in your life you had given it a go, it had only been proven true.

"Whatever you wish." Cassian grins, as if pleased you had asked that exact question. He tucks a stray piece of hair behind his ear and rattles off his list easily, with a slight shrug of his armoured shoulders. "Friendship? Training? Someone to listen when you need it or to drink your sorrows with? I've had plentiful practice with all."

He sends you another wink, teasing and easy like everything else about him. It's disarming actually, just how different he is from what you had been expecting from only the rumours around Exordor. Lord of Bloodshed. He's so...casual.

After another beat of silence, Cassian clears his throat when it becomes clear you aren't exactly jumping onto any of his initial offers. The caginess you exude is palpable and something ragged in Cassian's chest tears wider at whatever his mind conjures up about what might be lurking your past.

True to his word, Rhys hadn't delved into your story or how you came to end up here at the House of Wind.

All Cassian knew for sure is that Azriel had talked of training with a bastard some months ago and now, you were here. A female warrior from Exordor.

Cassian thinks that Azriel likely would've mentioned it if the bastard he was working with was female—but he hadn't. There's much more to your story, he can tell, and it seems to ripple from the edges of your wary, dangerous form at just a glance. Almost a full picture for him to realise, to see clearly.

But... these things were earned.

If Cassian wanted to be your friend, to know your story, he would do it the honourable and hard way.

He would become someone that you could trust in this new, unfamiliar place and he knew it was possible because what Cassian knew lay within him was reflected in you. The one clear part of the picture.

A warrior who knows themselves best when they're fighting.

"Train with me. Please." Cassian tries once more, ready to relent if it was too much, too soon. "There is a lot we can teach each other, I'm sure."

That seems to catch you by surprise, your brows jumping a fraction up your face. You school the expression away quickly but not before Cassian catches it. He nods.

"What do you say?" Cassian grins again, holding out his hand, palm up. Nonthreatening as can be. "Friends? Allies? Reluctant rooftop sharers? I'll take any happily."

You eye his hand, that still cautious air in your gaze, but Cassian can see as something settles within you. Tentatively, you reach forward and put your hand in his, giving it an awkward, stilted shake.

"I'll take allies for now," You say, somewhat demurely. It's taking a mountain load of trust for you to do so, Cassian knows. He does not take that trust lightly.

Cassian grins. "Allies it is."

[NEXT PART: SHADOWS]

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