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velarisdusk · 1 month ago

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Meant to Stand

Cassian x Reader

summary: Rhysand has one request: restore a half-collapsed cabin into something fit for veteran Illyrians. The catch? You'll be doing it with Cassian—and the two of you haven't truly spoken since that mission four years ago. word count: 15.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, borderline dub-con, rough sex, verbal degradation, praise, fingering, bondage, edging, orgasm denial, piv, no condom and no pulling out (me back on my bullshit :P) sexism/misogyny (minor characters), threat of violence (non-graphic, knives mentioned), injury (to the head, blood), explicit language ] author's note: please note that all sexual content is ultimately consensual, though the dynamic leans aggressive/intense. this is an enemies to lovers after all >:) ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ warrior's draught infused with a drop of heartstring enhanced with echo leaves stirred thank you for the request @avidromancereader!! your ask is gone from my inbox and i cant find your acc but i hope you'll somehow see this anyway. mwah <33

He had to be joking.

Rhysand leaned casually against the edge of his desk, as if this were no different from any other meeting, as if he hadn’t just unleashed the single most insufferable idea ever conceived within the borders of this Court. His arms folded across his chest, violet eyes deceptively calm, holding a polite smile that barely masked something sharp underneath. If he said, “I think this could be good for you two” one more time, you were certain you’d find something heavy nearby to throw at him.

Cassian stood to your left, a low, humorless huff escaping him—equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement. You refused to meet his gaze; looking at him risked egging him on.

“Say it again,” you demanded, keeping your voice steady, trying to rein in the irritation that prickled at your skin. “Just so I know I heard you right.”

Rhys’s smile didn’t falter. “The two of you are going to restore an old Illyrian safehouse. It’s been abandoned for decades—north of Windhaven, higher up into the mountain range. Remote, battered by weather, half-collapsed.”

You blinked, waiting.

“And you want us to fix it.”

“I want you to rebuild it,” he said, voice smooth and unyielding, like riverstone polished by relentless currents. “From the ground up, if necessary.”

You stared at him.

He pressed on, as if he hadn’t just sentenced you both to weeks locked away in isolation with nothing but rotting timber and cold stone. “It’s more than just a safehouse. I want it to be a retreat—a sanctuary where soldiers can recover. After missions. After war. Somewhere quiet. Off-grid, unreachable, but safe. Yours will be the first. If it works, we’ll build more.”

Your eyes flickered to Cassian.

His jaw twitched—the faintest flicker of muscle betraying his calm.

“A healing retreat,” you repeated, your voice flat, tasting disbelief.

Rhys nodded once.

“In the middle of nowhere.”

Another nod.

“For Illyrian soldiers.”

Smile. Nod.

You let out a breath through your nose—a sharp, bitter exhale. “What the fuck did we do to deserve this?”

Rhysand laughed, a rich sound that held a hint of something unrepentant. “Consider it a sign of my deepest trust.”

From beside you, Cassian muttered under his breath, voice low and dark, “Sounds more like a punishment to me.”

Your eyes flicked briefly to him—he looked as irritated as you felt, but he masked it with practiced ease, folding his broad arms across his chest, a silent challenge. Motherfucker.

You turned back to Rhys.

“Why us?”

Rhys’s smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Because no one else has your combined skill set. And because I think it would do you good to spend some time—”

“If you say ‘together,’” you cut him off, voice low and deadly serious, “I swear on the Mother, I’ll walk out of this room and straight off the edge of the Sidra.”

Cassian snorted.

You whipped your gaze to him. “This isn’t funny.”

He shrugged with maddening nonchalance. “I didn’t say it was.”

But that smug glint in his eye—the one he’d carried the whole way back from that disastrous mission four years ago—the one where everything went sideways and somehow you had been the one Rhys lectured afterward—was back.

“Look,” Rhys said, voice dipping to something dangerously calm, “the house matters. It served as a midwinter refuge for mountain patrols, and I want it operational again. You’ll have all the supplies you need. Space to work. And if you’re smart, you’ll finish before the first frost.”

Cassian drawled, “And if we’re not smart?”

Rhys’s smile brightened, teeth flashing. “Then you’ll be cold.”

You glanced down at the map unfurled before you—tiny inked lines snaking through jagged peaks like veins. The cottage was just a speck, swallowed whole by towering mountains, tucked so deep into the range it might as well be a secret.

It was madness. You should have said no.

But Cassian straightened beside you, jaw set with stubborn resolve. He wasn’t backing down.

So neither would you.

“Fine,” you said, clipped and sharp.

Cassian echoed it with a curt nod. “Fine.”

Rhys clapped his hands once, far too pleased with himself. “Excellent.”

You bit back the urge to slam your fist into the desk.

That had been this morning.

Now, hours later, your boots crunched against the brittle snow crust that had settled thick inside what little remained of the front room. Your fingers were numb, clenching the rusted shovel you’d found half-buried in a corner, its handle rough and cold beneath your gloves. Rhys had winnowed you straight to the site just after dawn, telling you Cassian would fly in alone. Of course he had.

Rhys hadn’t said much before whisking you here—only the name of the family you’d be staying with. Good, solid folk from Windhaven, kind in a way that felt like the earth itself. Their eldest had built his own forge. The memory flickered briefly, warm as a candle’s flame, until you turned and saw the house.

Calling it a house felt generous.

Half the roof had collapsed, snow having crept inside through years of neglect and storms. One wall sagged inward, as if defeated by its own weight, barely holding on. The front door hung crooked on a single rusty hinge, creaking faintly in the biting wind. Inside, rot and ruin claimed everything—the acrid smell of damp wood and cold ash clung to your nostrils as you stepped over the threshold.

You’d expected this would be bad. It was worse.

This place was not meant to stand.

But you got to work.

By the time the sun clawed its way above the ridgeline, you’d cleared two rooms of snow, shoulders aching, fingers stinging despite the thick gloves. Your muscles protested with every shovelful of debris, your frustration growing heavier than the weight you hauled.

The wind whispered and howled through shattered beams. The house groaned under the assault of time and weather. And still, no sign of Cassian.

When his boots finally crunched through the snow behind you, the sky was already washed bright with late morning sun. You were midway through yanking a broken rafter free from what had once been a bedroom.

“Well,” he said, voice maddeningly bright, “at least it’s got character.”

You spun, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”

Cassian glanced around, hands on hips, wings flaring briefly as he took in the wreckage. “No. I’m honestly impressed it’s still standing.”

“I’ve been here for hours.”

“I told Rhys I’d fly. You chose the early shift.”

You dropped the rafter with a satisfying thunk. “You’re late.”

He shrugged. “You started without me.”

And just like that, the bickering began—fast and fierce. Over the beams’ state. The rot creeping through the floors. Who got which tools. Where to start first—though, as you reminded him more than once, you were already well underway.

“You cannot patch a roof with brute force, Cassian.”

“Brute force’s been good to me for five hundred years.”

“Not on a roof.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t lift the roof.”

You came dangerously close to hurling a hammer at his head at that. Why would you want to? Why would you even need to?

Eventually, grudgingly, a plan took shape.

The supplies Rhys had sent arrived: thick lumber, nails, shingles, canvas tarps. Throughout the day, women from Windhaven appeared with baskets of food and tightly wrapped bundles of dried herbs and cloth, leaving as quietly as they came—always with a knowing glance. One winked when she handed you a loaf of bread.

You didn’t ask questions.

Cassian took to the high work, wings carrying him effortlessly to the eaves and upper beams. You handled the details—the door frames, window fittings, and cuts requiring more precision than power. You worked in parallel, never quite together.

Outside, the wind sharpened, prying at battered walls as if intent on tearing the house apart for good.

Hours later, you left the site, the day’s labor etched into your muscles and mood. The chill lingered, stubborn as ever, even when you reached the small home where you would stay.

Illyrian, of course—rough-hewn in both manner and build, but not unkind.

Harran, the father, stood tall and broad-shouldered, coal-dark hair threaded with silver, a jagged scar slicing down his jaw. His eyes were sharp but not cruel, and he moved like a man who’d seen enough battle to stop pretending it glorified anything.

His mate, Vesa, was smaller and wiry, her clipped wings folded tight behind her. Her gaze was steady and clear—missed nothing, endured everything. Her hands, scarred and chapped, were always busy—kneading dough, mending clothes, smoothing a child’s hair.

Their sons, Miran and Corven, were nearly Cassian’s height—broad-shouldered and muscular from long hours training in the mountains. Miran, the older, carried himself with a practiced swagger; Corven was never far behind, eager to match his brother’s pace. They elbowed and argued, squabbled over the first bowl of stew, and ignored you with the effortless indifference only Illyrian boys could master.

Their daughter, Nali, was younger—ten, maybe twelve—difficult to tell beneath soot-smudged skin and fraying braids. Her wings were untouched, not yet clipped. At first, she watched you warily—quiet, observant—before offering a tentative smile and a crust of bread, weighing you carefully as if deciding whether you were threat or fleeting stranger. When she spoke, her bluntness mirrored your own too closely to be coincidence.

Vesa met you at the door with a smile and warm hands. Inside, the hearth roared like a promise of safety. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the room, weaving through the low murmur of quiet conversation.

You ate without much thought, muscles loosening with each bite as the cold finally released its grip.

Later, wrapped in thick woolen blankets lent by Nali, you lay awake, the mountain wind howling outside like a mourning song, the creak of old wood and scrape of ice against stone your only companions.

Your mind drifted—as it always did after too many hours spent circling Cassian’s orbit—back to that day. The day everything twisted between you.

You could still hear the shouted orders, feel the crushing weight of every mistake like shards of splintering wood pressing down, drowning you.

It hadn’t been just the mission going sideways.

It was everything that followed—the flicker of grudging respect, the sharp words, the cold distance. The silent apologies neither of you dared voice.

You closed your eyes and let the wind howl its grief through the mountains, the sound folding over you like a threadbare lullaby.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A week had passed. Probably. You’d stopped counting somewhere around day four, when your fingers went numb midway through hammering a frost-stiffened plank and you’d seriously considered torching the entire cottage just to make a point.

Still—progress. Measurable, even. The worst of the rot had been cleared. Floorboards in the front room were sanded and patched. Rafters, once bowed and brittle, had been reinforced with new timber. Slowly, stubbornly, the bones of the house had begun to realign themselves beneath the weight of your shared labor.

Cassian had even rehung the front door—though not without three stripped hinges, several increasingly irrational arguments, and one wholly gratuitous flex of his biceps.

The worst part of it all? The hike.

And gods, it seemed to get steeper with each passing day.

Rhys had dropped you directly at the doorstep when he first winnowed you in, but ever since then, the journey from the foothills to the cottage had to be done on foot—an hour of merciless incline, uneven footing, and air thinned just enough to make your lungs burn.

Every morning, without fail, somewhere near the quarter mark, you’d hear it: the slow, rhythmic thud of wings overhead.

You didn’t know where Cassian spent his nights, but there he was each dawn, cutting a high path across the ridgeline like a shadow peeled from the rock. He never looked down. Never hovered. Never taunted. For that small mercy, you were grateful.

And yet—

Some traitorous part of you, breathless and aching and cold, found itself wishing—just once—that he’d stop. Offer to carry you the rest of the way. Just once.

The moment the thought formed, you slapped yourself in the face with your own glove.

You would rather collapse in the snow than ask. You were not that desperate.

Today’s task: one of the larger ceiling beams had to be repositioned before the rest of the support frame could go in. It was easily twice your weight and stubborn as hell, and you knew without even trying that getting it in place would be a losing battle. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t try though. It was going to be a long day.

You adjusted your grip on the timber. Morning frost still clung to the surface, and the grain bit into your palms like it could sense the tremor in your muscles.

Through the ragged hole where a window would eventually sit, you caught sight of Cassian outside.

He’d hauled half the new roofing up the slope before sunrise. Now he was anchoring the lean-to’s frame—bracing a support beam with one hand, hammering with the other.

Snow crunched beneath his boots each time he shifted. His breath curled silver in the cold. The steady rhythm of nails driving into wood echoed through the half-finished walls, punctuated by the occasional muttered curse when one bent wrong.

It was the kind of work that demanded his full attention—

—which meant, unfortunately, that your job for the moment was this stubborn, gods-damned beam.

You turned back to it with a sigh. Dragged the step ladder from the corner. Braced it against what remained of the western wall. Climbed slowly, joints stiff from the cold, from the climb, from a week’s worth of bruises you hadn’t bothered to tally.

One hand on the beam. One on the top rung.

You pushed.

Nothing.

You shifted angles. Shoved again, jaw locked tight.

Still nothing.

Your breath scraped in and out like it had to fight for space.

You braced your shoulder into the timber, legs straining. Something groaned—either the ladder or your spine—but the beam didn’t move. Or maybe it did. A hair. A tremble. Enough to fool yourself.

Your vision sparked at the edges.

Then your boot slipped.

Your shoulder clipped the top rung, too slow to catch yourself—

—and your head struck the beam, hard, a sudden, blinding thunk.

The world pitched.

Then the floor rose to meet your spine.

A flare of white. Then nothing at all.

Something tugged at you eventually.

Light, at first. Insistent.

—light, insistent.

Then sound—distant, distorted, like your name being called through stone. A scraping wind. The dull, percussive drum of your pulse hammering behind your eyes.

You blinked.

The world listed sideways. Skewed edges. Sky, timber, a shadow leaning over you. It moved—broad shoulders, dark hair—and resolved, slowly, into a face much too close to yours.

Cassian.

His palms framed your face, steady and warm, anchoring you like you might float off otherwise. There was tension in his jaw, a furrow carved deep between his brows. He looked—

Panicked.

Why?

You blinked again. Tried to speak. Nothing emerged.

His thumb passed gently along your cheekbone. You felt it. That, at least, reached you.

Then the pain came.

Blinding. Sudden.

The throb behind your eyes flared white-hot, and you could only gasp, curling reflexively as the world slammed back into place—floorboards cold against your spine, rough beneath your coat.

Cassian’s voice cut through the fog. “Hey. Look at me.” Firm. Quiet. “You’re okay. You hit your head, but you’re okay.”

But his tone didn’t sound certain.

You tried to sit up. A jolt of pain arced down your neck like a whip. Cassian’s hand rose without thought—light on your shoulder, more brace than barrier.

“I’m fine,” you rasped. The lie felt hollow in your throat. You pressed your hand to your temple, willing the room to steady. “Just slipped.”

“You fell off a ladder,” he said tightly, crouching beside you. “You could’ve cracked your gods-damned skull. What were you even doing?”

He was too close. Too warm. He smelled like cedar dust and sweat and early morning frost—and his hands, even in their urgency, remained heartbreakingly gentle.

Steady.

He was always so steady. You hated him for it.

“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, shoving weakly at his shoulder. It was like pushing a boulder.

He didn’t budge. Just exhaled, slow and measured, as if dragging the breath up from somewhere deep in his chest. Then, softer, “You’re bleeding. Let me help you.”

You should’ve refused.

Should’ve snapped something sharp and final.

But your head throbbed like it was caught in a smith’s vice, and the floor kept tilting beneath you in queasy waves, and your knees—gods, your knees were shaking now.

So when he eased you upright, guided you carefully toward the nearest wall, you didn’t fight it.

Cassian knelt in front of you again, eyes sweeping over you with a battle-hardened thoroughness that made your skin crawl. You tried to turn your face away—

—but his fingers found your chin. Gentle. Unmoving.

“Hold still.”

You glared. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He angled your face toward the light, jaw tightening at the sight of the gash above your brow. The blood had begun to clot, streaking thickly through your lashes. You didn’t need to see it to know the damage—his expression told you enough.

Then his hand shifted. Slid into your hair. Fingers careful, parting through tangles to find the source of the swelling.

You flinched.

He stilled. “Didn’t crack it,” he murmured. “But you’re lucky.”

“Or stubborn.”

A soft huff—barely a sound. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He checked the rest of you with a soldier’s precision—rolling your sleeve to inspect the elbow that had caught your fall, then skimming his hand down your leg, testing the bend of your knee, the give of your ankle. Efficient. Clinical. Detached.

It should’ve felt impersonal.

And yet—

You felt heat creeping beneath your skin all the same.

Cassian leaned back on his heels. “Rhys sent a basic first aid kit up with the supply run. I saw it in one of the crates—we’ll see how basic it is.”

You didn’t argue. Just watched him cross the half-finished room, boots thudding over the creaking floorboards, shadows shifting as he rifled through the stacked crates by the door. Tools clinked faintly nearby. Somewhere outside, the mountain wind threaded through the empty window frames, thin and cold and constant.

You used the moment to gather yourself. To breathe through the pounding behind your eyes, to will the heat still simmering in your chest to settle.

Gods, you hated this.

Hated how easily he’d helped you.

How careful he’d been.

How easy it had been to let him.

Because Cassian was infuriating. Arrogant. Impossible. But when the bluster dropped and left behind only steady hands, a tight mouth, and that quiet concern in his eyes—it made it harder to hold on to the anger you’d spent so long cultivating.

And you needed that anger. It was safer than remembering how it used to be between you. Safer than wondering if he remembered it, too. Safer than asking yourself why it still mattered.

He returned a minute later with a black canvas case and sank back to his knees in front of you. Snapped it open. Inside: a roll of gauze, antiseptic, a clean cloth.

“This’ll sting,” he warned.

You tipped your chin up. “Do your worst.”

He gave you a look. Then, with maddening gentleness, dabbed at the cut above your brow.

The antiseptic bit down sharp and cold and mean. You flinched before you could stop yourself, the muscles in your face twitching involuntarily.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

You let out a breath of a laugh, brittle and dry. “You apologizing now?”

He didn’t bite. Just kept working—focused, silent.

So you clenched your jaw and let him.

There was care in it. Not the loud, performative kind—but the careful press of cloth, the precise wrap of gauze. Intentional. Quiet. It made your skin itch.

He tore the strip of bandage with his teeth, wrapped your head in neat spirals. Tight, but not too tight.

“You’re not setting a bone,” you muttered. “Ease up.”

“Don’t pass out on me again and I’ll consider it.”

You rolled your eyes. Instantly regretted it as the motion sent another pulse of pain lancing through your skull.

When the bandage was finally in place, he leaned back, scanning you again—like he didn’t quite trust you not to have hidden some other injury just to spite him.

“You hit the back of your head too,” he said, voice low. “Hard. You’ll need to watch for symptoms.”

“No shit,” you muttered. “Maybe if someone had warned me about altitude and exertion and, I don’t know, lifting beams clearly designed by a drunk sadist—”

“I did,” he cut in flatly. “Three days ago. You told me to, and I quote, ‘shove it.’”

That… sounded like you.

“Still stands,” you grumbled.

Cassian exhaled through his nose, bracing his forearms on his knees as he studied you. Just studied—no irritation, no smirk, no retort.

Just that look.

You shifted under the weight of it. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Only said, “You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull open.”

You scoffed. “You’d love that. One less thing to trip over in this place.”

A quiet snort escaped him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

You hesitated. Then, grudgingly: “Thanks.”

It burned in your mouth. Bitter as iron.

Cassian stood. Brushed his palms off on his pants like he couldn’t quite figure out what else to do with them.

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

You wouldn’t. Gods, you wouldn’t.

You turned your back before he could say anything else, jaw tight against the ache behind your eyes.

Letting him take care of you had been bad enough.

Letting him see it? That was worse.

Letting it mean something?

Unforgivable.

So you wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

You told yourself that was enough.

The work after that resumed without ceremony. No acknowledgment. No mention of the moment you’d let him bandage your face like it hadn’t cost you something. Neither of you spoke about that day.

You didn’t speak much at all.

Days blurred into weeks, thick with sawdust and silence. The roof had gone up two days after your fall, the outer walls not long after that, and the gash on your brow healed without much fuss. One morning, you’d found Cassian half-folded in the crawl space, swearing so colorfully at a snapped floorboard that a laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

He froze.

Eyes narrowing like a wolf catching the sound of prey rustling just beyond reach.

By the time you registered your mistake, it was too late—he’d hurled a clump of wet moss the size of a grapefruit directly at your chest.

You yelped.

He smirked.

And as if the gods demanded balance, he promptly knocked his head against a support beam trying to make a smug exit.

You went back to work, muttering something like, “Idiots shouldn’t be trusted with sharp tools.”

Cassian had gone quiet behind you. For a second, you braced for a retort.

But none came.

Just a grunt. And the steady rhythm of hammering resumed.

And so it went: progress, distance, and the occasional detour into something that almost looked like familiarity—until one of you noticed. And then it was gone again.

One such moment arrived today.

The structure was solid now—weather-tight, insulated, the bones of a real home. Furnishing had begun, thanks in large part to the villagers who insisted on treating the whole project like public entertainment. Two Illyrian females—names you never caught—arrived this morning with a pair of mismatched nightstands and a little girl no older than five, who darted into the house without hesitation.

Cassian was crouched by the hearth, checking the chimney seal, when she barreled into him like a pint-sized battering ram.

He caught her instinctively. Let out a startled grunt that softened into a laugh as she blinked up at him and launched into a breathless story involving her kitten, a bucket, and something about soup.

You stood just inside the doorway, mostly hidden by the frame.

He listened—actually listened. One elbow propped on his knee, expression intent, nodding at all the right moments. When she jabbed a finger at the uneven stonework and declared it crooked, he didn’t correct her. Didn’t scoff. Just flicked a glance at the hearth and said, “Y’know what? You might be right.”

She giggled. He tossed her a wink like they’d sealed some sacred pact.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Because you’d forgotten this version of him.

The one who softened.

The one whose laugh, when it came easy, was low and warm and kind.

The one who didn’t bark or posture or carry every moment like a war waiting to be lost.

You’d forgotten.

And gods help you—

You liked it.

You turned away before you could fall any further, before Cassian caught the way you’d been watching.

Just in time, too—the crunch of boots on the path announced more arrivals. The two eldest sons of the Windhaven woman you were boarding with came into view, hauling a bedframe between them with the mattress already strapped on top. They moved in quiet sync, the way people do when the task is old and the rhythm familiar.

One of the females was chasing down the excitable little girl, who waved goodbye to Cassian with such enthusiasm she nearly toppled over. Her mother chuckled and called out, “Thank you both for building this. It’s a gift to see young love doing something useful.”

Your head snapped around. “We’re not—”

“Nope,” Cassian said at the same time, flat and certain. “Definitely not.”

The female just winked at her friend like she didn’t believe a word of it, and started down the path without looking back.

Then the Windhaven boys reached you.

“Brought the bed from the house,” Miran said, glancing at you, then turning squarely to Cassian. “Our mother said you’d need it sooner or later.”

“That was generous,” Cassian replied, stepping forward with easy authority. “Thanks for carrying it all the way up.”

Corven, with a permanent sneer stitched into his face, let out a low snort. His wings twitched like he was spoiling for something. “Didn’t realize you were playing house,” he said, eyes raking over the structure. “Figured you’d be back in Windhaven by now.”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice cool and steady.

Neither of them looked at you.

Corven’s mouth curled. “Could’ve guessed you’d let her boss you around,” he said to Cassian. “They get mouthy when they think they’re helping.”

Cassian didn’t move. Not visibly. But his entire frame shifted—still, suddenly, as if something had locked in place. You felt it before you saw it.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you said, stepping forward, sharp as a blade unsheathed. “I don’t need a male’s permission to speak, and I sure as hell don’t need one to lift a godsdamned beam.”

Corven scoffed and stepped in close—too close—his breath laced with arrogance. “Just surprised a fae female thinks she belongs up here,” he said. “Thought your kind liked to stay soft.”

You smiled—slow, cold. The kind of smile that made steel ring when drawn. “Careful. You’re one insult away from me showing you just how soft your skull is.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes.

“Mouthy,” he muttered, “for someone who needs a male to keep her upright.”

“Try saying that again while I’m holding a hammer,” you said, stepping toward him until your chests nearly brushed. You didn’t blink.

To your left, Miran leaned toward Cassian and muttered, “She always like this? Or just when she’s bleeding for attention?”

Cassian turned his head toward him. Slowly. Controlled. “You wanna try that again?”

Miran’s lip curled. “Oh? Didn’t think bastards got this protective. Especially over a fae bitch who doesn’t know her place.”

The breath left your body like a snapped string.

Cassian didn’t yell. Didn’t raise a hand.

His voice dropped, low and lethal: “Didn’t think Windhaven bred males dumb enough to say that to my face.”

Corven snorted, not quite brave enough to meet Cassian’s eyes. His gaze slid back to you, crawling over your frame with open disdain. “Bet you don’t even carry your own weight.”

Your jaw tightened. “I carry more than you can lift, you smug little—”

“Real bold, with your guard dog here.” He leaned in, that oily smile spreading again. “Without him, you wouldn’t be mouthing off at all. We’d teach you some manners real fast.”

He took a step closer. That was his mistake.

Cassian moved—but you were faster.

The dagger came free from your thigh holster in one clean motion, your other hand fisting the collar of his leather tunic and dragging him forward. The blade pressed low beneath his ribs, gleaming like a promise.

“Try me,” you said, voice a whisper laced with venom. You saw the moment the smirk fell away, replaced by startled calculation. His hands lifted slightly—not surrender, just instinct.

Behind you, Cassian’s voice sliced through the air like flint on steel.

“She doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles.”

You didn’t take your eyes off Corven, not even as Cassian’s next words landed like a death sentence.

“She outranks both of you. And if I hear one more breath out of you, I’ll rip your tongues out and send them back to your father.”

Silence crashed around you, thick and absolute.

Then:

“Leave the bed,” Cassian said, voice now a command, no longer a warning. “Thank your mother for us. And get the fuck out.”

Miran and Corven exchanged a look—wings flaring, teeth grit, pride wounded but not enough to be suicidal. They walked off a few paces, boots crunching against packed snow, dirt kicking up as they launched into the sky.

Graceless. Rattled.

Not nearly as fearless as they’d like to believe.

You sheathed your blade in one smooth, practiced motion. Your pulse was a war drum beneath your skin, steady only because you willed it to be.

Cassian hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the empty air where they’d stood, jaw tight, chest rising with quiet fury.

And when he turned to you—

That fire was still in his eyes. But something else had joined it.

Something softer. Something that looked a hell of a lot like concern.

Like he wanted to ask if you were all right.

You didn’t give him the chance—refusing to be the object of that quiet, pitying gaze.

“So,” you said briskly, nodding toward the bedframe, “we figuring out how to get that thing through the door, or do we throw out the door and build a bigger one?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You tried not to look at him.

Really—you did.

But fuck, the way he moved.

His shirt clung to the line of his back, damp from the effort of dragging the mattress through the door frame. Broad shoulders bunching beneath worn cotton. Wings flaring once for balance, then tucking in with quiet control. Forearms flexing with each pivot, veins rising with the strain.

You didn’t look.

Not when he crouched to angle the frame.

Not when his shirt rode up and exposed a sliver of golden-brown skin.

Not when his back curved and a few strands of his hair came loose—soft, sweat-dampened waves falling just past his jaw.

“Gonna help,” he grunted, “or just supervise?”

You blinked. “I’m thinking about letting the bed crush you, actually.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound low and unbothered. “Touching.”

Still, you helped angle the frame through the narrow hallway, side-eyeing him the whole way because—Cauldron boil you—how the hell had you managed to ignore how obnoxiously ripped he was for so long?

You told yourself it was the work. All that lumber hauling. All that swinging of tools and lifting of beams and moving of furniture. You were tired. You weren’t thinking straight.

The house had begun to feel… lived in.

The hearth had been stoned and sealed days ago. Mismatched chairs ringed a table you’d argued about positioning—too close to the window, he’d insisted. They hadn’t collapsed yet. Cassian had cobbled together bookshelves from spare planks, and someone had donated a carved bench with mountain birds etched into the backrest. The bed—this godsdamned bed—had been the last missing piece.

You’d kept your head down. Stayed busy. Swept corners. Shifted furniture. Tucked away the worst of the dust. Which was maybe why you didn’t notice the change in the air.

Not until the front door shook in its frame.

Cassian froze mid-step, one hand still braced on the bookshelf. His head lifted slightly. Wings adjusted.

Then the door rattled again—louder this time. A gust slid between the gaps, whistling high and sharp. The kind of wind that didn’t blow past, but through.

Cassian moved in three long strides, shouldering up to the door. His hand landed flat on the wood as he reached for the handle. You followed without thinking, stepping beside him just as he threw it open.

The door fought back.

Cassian grunted, leaning his weight into it. The hinges groaned. And then—

The wind hit.

A wall of it, like something with intent. It punched through the gap, ice slicing across your legs, snow curling around your boots and into the room. It howled in the chimney, screamed across the floorboards, clawed for your faces with invisible fingers.

Beyond the threshold, the world had vanished. The trees, gone. The path, buried. Snow fell in slanted sheets, driven sideways by the gale. It shimmered in the fading light, rippling like water, blinding and endless.

Cassian planted a forearm against the frame to keep the door from flying wide. His hair whipped loose behind him. His wings shuddered once before clamping tight to his back.

You pressed a shoulder beside his, blinking into the storm.

He didn’t shout—just said it low, over the wind.

“We’re not making it back to Windhaven tonight.”

You didn’t argue.

By the time Cassian managed to wrench the door shut again, the wind nearly took him with it. He staggered a step, braced a hand to the frame, and threw the bolt into place with a sharp thunk. His breath gusted out, chest rising hard beneath his soaked shirt.

Snow clung to you both in fine, glittering dust. Your boots were slick, pants damp at the hem. The cold had teeth now—sinking straight through the seams of your clothes.

Cassian blew out a low whistle. “And we didn’t bring in any dry firewood.”

You followed his glance to the hearth. The pile inside was pitiful. Damp, half-frozen. There might be enough to keep the coals breathing till morning—but only if you didn’t mind going numb first.

Then his gaze flicked toward the bed.

You beat him to it. “No.”

He didn’t even bother to smirk. Just reached for his belt.

“It’s not like I planned this,” he muttered, leather whispering through loops as he tugged it free.

The leather whispered through the loops, his movements unhurried as he pulled it free—sternly, deliberately. Your eyes followed the movement—against your better judgement.

You forced yourself to look elsewhere. The bed. Then the floor. Then him.

“I’ll take the rug,” you said, already striding toward the folded throw blanket on the armchair. “The floor’s fine.”

Something soft slammed into your face.

You blinked. Staggered back a step. The pillow hit your chest and dropped. You caught it before it bounced to the floor.

“Are you serious?”

Cassian stood beside the bed, arms crossed. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m being considerate.”

He rolled his eyes. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, and the floor’s wooden—less forgiving than you think.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you, Cassian.”

“Oh, please,” he muttered, already tugging off his boots. “Like I’ve never seen you drool in your sleep before.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I do not—”

He collapsed backward onto the mattress with a theatrical groan, then patted the other side without looking at you. “Come on, princess. I won’t even steal the blanket.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You snore.”

“Only when I’m comfortable.”

“I’ll kick you.”

“Not if I kick you first.”

You stared at him. At the lazy sprawl of him across the quilt. At the wind outside battering the shutters like it wanted in. At the hearth that hadn’t been lit in hours.

You muttered a curse and undid your laces. Toed off your boots one at a time—each thud against the floor sharper than necessary. Then you crossed the room, grabbed the blanket—

—and dumped it directly on his face.

He made a low, amused sound, muffled beneath the weight. You climbed into the opposite side of the bed, stiffly, yanking the blanket back into place and tucking it to your chin like it was armor.

“Back-to-back,” you ordered, not turning around.

Cassian shifted, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Sure,” he said quietly. He was already facing away.

Silence settled.

The wind keened against the walls. Something moaned in the chimney—deep and hollow. You lay still, spine straight, every part of your body tight with tension.

Cassian breathed slow beside you.

You clenched your jaw. “And don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“It’s better than idiot,” he muttered. “And you wouldn’t like that either.”

“I didn’t like having a pillow thrown at my face.”

“Well, I didn’t like watching you try to martyr yourself onto the floor when we both know you’d be up every two hours with a stiff back.”

You rolled, just enough to glare at the back of his head. “Excuse me for trying not to make things weird.”

He turned too—slowly, deliberately—just his head at first. “Weird? You think I’m gonna roll over and hump your leg in my sleep or something?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I don’t know what you think I’d do,” he said flatly, “but it’s just a bed.”

“This isn’t just anything,” you snapped.

He shifted fully now, facing you across the narrow stretch of space. “Sleeping. In a bed. In the middle of a storm. That’s all this is.”

You sat up, braced on one elbow. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You’re acting like this is a massive deal.”

“Because it is.”

Your voice cut sharper than you meant. You looked at him—at the mess of him in the low firelight. Hair mussed. Jaw tight. Brow furrowed in that way that meant he was trying not to say something.

“I’m not like you,” you said quietly. “I don’t—”

You stopped. The words caught. Bitter against your tongue.

Cassian waited.

But you didn’t finish.

You just lay back down, hard and fast, curling the blanket tighter.

Neither of you spoke again for a long while.

The wind howled against the glass, the storm clawing at the corners of the house like it wanted to blow the walls down. And somewhere beneath it all, you could hear your heartbeat—steady, defiant, and too aware of the warmth at your back.

It was a long time before either of you slept.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was warm.

That was the first thing you registered—not the cold, not the wind or the stiff ache in your back. Just warmth. Heavy, steady, inescapable warmth pressed along every inch of you.

Then: weight.

An arm slung low around your waist. A hand curled loosely against your ribs. A thigh tucked behind yours. One of your calves caught beneath his. Your nose was pressed to something solid and hot. Your fingers rested on something that was very much not a pillow.

Your eyes opened.

Chest. Bare chest. Scarred and golden-brown, rising and falling beneath your palm.

You froze.

Cassian’s breath stirred your hair. Slow. Deep. His nose was buried in it. One wing tucked behind you like an extra blanket.

Oh no.

You didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the expanse of his skin beneath your hand—watched it rise and fall in sync with your own panicked breaths. You could feel him. Everywhere. His palm splayed warm against your stomach. Your knee hooked over his thigh. His mouth—soft, parted slightly—rested near your temple.

You definitely hadn’t fallen asleep like this. You’d been cold. Irritated. Back-to-back. You hadn’t even faced him.

So at some point—gods—one of you had moved. And the other hadn’t stopped it.

You launched yourself back like the mattress had caught fire.

Cassian jolted with a garbled grunt and flailed off the far side of the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

You scrambled upright, yanking the blanket to your chest.

He was on his feet in an instant—bare-chested, wide-eyed, a dagger gleaming in his hand.

Your heart leapt. Then your gaze dropped—quick. Shirt still on. Thank the Mother.

Cassian exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. Then, as if remembering himself, he slid the dagger away behind his back. Like it hadn’t just appeared there.

Neither of you spoke.

Your heart hammered. Not from fear. From—shit, you didn’t even know.

You sat frozen for a beat longer, eyes locked on the crumpled blanket. His warmth still clung to it. His scent, too—cypress and wind and something darker, smokier. Something that lingered.

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair. His eyes skittered everywhere but you. “That was—”

“Fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too bright. “That was fine. We were just cold.”

He nodded once. Sharp. “Cold.”

Silence stretched.

You glanced over. “Why is your shirt off?”

“I run hot,” he said flatly. “Probably pulled it off in my sleep.”

“Right.”

You shoved the blanket aside and scrubbed your hands down your pants like that might wipe away the imprint of him. “Next time, I’m taking the floor.”

Cassian turned to look at you. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes. “You really think there’s gonna be a next time?”

You narrowed yours. “If there is, I’m bringing a second blanket and a fucking knife.”

“Great,” he muttered, turning away. “More weapons in the bed.”

“I wasn’t the one sleeping like a drunk bear on top of me.”

“You could’ve shoved me off.”

“I did. This morning!”

“Maybe try earlier next time.”

“Oh, so sorry for not waking up halfway through the night to fight off your snuggling.”

His head whipped around. “Snuggling?”

You pointed at the bed. “There was limb placement, Cassian. There were positions.”

He gave a full-body shudder. “Ugh. Don’t say it like that.”

You crossed your arms.

Another long, brittle silence.

You looked toward the hearth.

Cassian sighed, fingers dragging down his face.

You didn’t look at each other again. Not right away. But the red burning in your face wasn’t from the cold anymore.

When you passed him his coat, wordless, he took it without meeting your eyes—tugging his sweater back on in jerky, too-quick movements. Still warm. Still tense.

Still close enough that the silence between you felt like the loudest thing in the room.

“I’m gonna see if anyone in Windhaven’s hoarding dry wood,” he muttered, sliding his arms through the sleeves. His fingers moved deftly, fastening the flaps around the slits for his wings, sealing in the warmth with practiced efficiency. “Or if the Mother feels like being generous today.”

He ducked out before you could reply. The wind slammed the door shut behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame.

It still howled out there—louder than it should’ve for morning—but it was nothing like the chaos of the night before. No hail clawing at the shutters. No lightning tearing the sky into pieces. Just the steady, petulant churn of deep winter. Relentless and gray.

You stood there a moment longer, the back of your neck prickling with leftover heat.

Then you wrung your fingers once. Shook out your arms. You needed to move. Needed something to do.

So you turned toward the crates by the wall and got to work—sorting what was left, piece by piece. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to stop remembering the shape of him against you.

You didn’t mean to think about him. Not really. But the silence made it easy—made it too easy to drift back. To the heat of his chest beneath your cheek. The slow, unthinking rise and fall of his breathing. You paused, fingers resting lightly on the rim of a crate, and let the memory slip in: the way he’d looked at Miran yesterday—like it had taken real effort not to slam the male into the ground.

For a moment, it had felt like before. Before the cold fronts and the sideways glances. Before the contests and snide remarks and the constant need to prove something. Just the two of you, standing on the same side of something.

It started with a dinner table in the Autumn Court.

Too long by design, more gold than wood. Candlelight flickered along its length, caught in the carved antlers of an elaborate candelabra. The courtiers sat like scattered pawns—fifteen or so in total, all finely dressed and finely bored, murmuring beneath the weight of centuries-old manners.

You sat midway down, spine straight, gown cold against your skin. Feyre had chosen it—a pale, silken thing with thin sleeves and a plunging back, elegant enough to flatter, sheer enough to distract. You hadn’t realized how drafty the hall would be.

At your side, Cassian looked like a portrait of restraint. Formal leathers, dark and freshly oiled, with his sword strapped visibly to his back. His wings were tucked tight, shoulders set broad and proud as he drank from a goblet of spiced wine and pretended to listen to the courtier beside him drone on about hunting dogs.

“You must try the roast boar,” the male was saying. “Caught just this morning in the Ashen Wood. Hardly kicked at all.”

Cassian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds like a real fighter.”

You bit back a laugh and reached for your wine, lifting it with a hand you hoped wasn’t trembling. Not from nerves—from focus. Anticipation. The third course was being cleared. That was the signal.

You caught his eye. He gave the barest nod.

This was the plan: you’d slip out once the desserts arrived. Half the court would be deep in wine by then, and the rest too distracted with flattery to notice your absence. Beron was supposed to be away in Rask, and with him gone, most of the staff had followed. The guards were thinned, the route clear. You knew it by heart. Every hallway, every turn. Every blind corner.

You and Cassian were to retrieve a satchel of documents hidden behind a false wall in Beron’s private study. Documents that, according to Azriel’s source, outlined a network of Autumn spies embedded across the Night Court’s border villages. Names. Routes. Quiet, deliberate betrayal. Proof Rhys needed in hand before the next High Lord summit.

Then the doors opened.

The wind hit first—cold and sharp, a ripple of tension that passed down the table like a shadow. And then came Beron.

Tall. Imperious. A crown of flame wrought in iron above his head. He didn’t speak as he entered, didn’t even look at the table—just let the silence stretch, let his presence do the work of a hundred guards. His eyes landed on you. Then Cassian.

Cassian didn’t move, not at first. Just shifted a fraction, jaw tight. The smile gone.

You leaned in, lips barely moving. “We still have time.”

His eyes stayed fixed ahead. “No.”

“We can be in and out in two minutes.”

“There are guards in the hall.”

“I counted three. They’re patrolling. We can avoid them.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“It is,” you said sharply, eyes flicking to him. “We’re already here.”

He gave a slow exhale, eyes still forward. “Let it go.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just pushed your chair back, carefully, gracefully, as though all you needed was a breath of air. You adjusted your shawl, offered a smile to no one in particular, and laid a light hand on Cassian’s arm in passing.

He rose after a beat. Slower. Unwilling.

The hall outside the dining chamber was dim, lit only by amber sconces spaced far apart. The cold bit at your arms as you moved, your footsteps soundless on the marble floors.

“Turn back,” he said behind you.

“We’re already committed.”

“You’re committed. I’m cleaning up your stubborn—”

“You’re here because you agreed.”

“I agreed when Beron was in Rask.” His glare could’ve scorched the stone.

You didn’t answer. Just kept moving, your pace steady, gown brushing the floor. It felt heavier now. The tension thickened with every step. At the end of the corridor, you rounded the corner and slowed your breathing, ears pricked. No footsteps. No voices.

You reached the study door. Checked the sigil. Whispered the passphrase Azriel’d given you.

Cassian hovered just behind you, tense as a drawn bowstring.

The door clicked open.

The study was colder than the hall. Sparse, but grand—lined with dark, heavy shelves and a wide, weathered desk carved with swirling Autumn leaves. The false wall was behind it. You found it quickly, fingers slipping into the seam.

A panel swung free.

And there it was. A satchel. Worn leather, sealed with a Night Court clasp—proof that the spies were real. That the betrayal was already underway.

You had it in your hand.

Then—

“Oi!”

Cassian cursed. You turned in time to see him shove a guard into the wall, hard enough to crack plaster. Another guard’s horn lifted to his lips.

“Stop him—”

Steel flashed. Cassian cut the horn clean off before the sound could carry, but it was too late. The third guard was already gone, no doubt having sprinted for the main wing.

“Shit,” Cassian muttered. “We need to move.”

You bolted. The satchel hit your hip with every step. Shouts echoed behind you—more guards, more boots. You could feel them closing in.

“Go!” Cassian barked. “I’ll hold—”

You didn’t let him finish. Vaulted over the railing instead, your stilettos landing hard on the ledge two stories down. You were sure they snapped, but it didn’t matter when pain flared through your shoulder as you caught yourself. Something pulled—tore, and you couldn’t hold back the ragged cry that tore from your throat.

“(Y/N)!”

Below, the front grounds yawned wide. Gravel path. Stone basin. The koi pond Beron used to impress diplomats and scare off children.

The satchel had landed at the edge of it. Teetering near the water.

“I’m fine!” you shouted up, breath ragged, blood running warm down your arm. “Just jump—come on!”

Cassian landed beside you a second later. He didn’t hesitate. Just scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing and vaulted off the ledge. The world tilted. The wind roared past.

But then, the real fallout began.

Back home, Rhys didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His silence in the River House study said enough. The satchel lay at his feet, soaked and half-caked in mud. Your side throbbed beneath a bloodstained bandage, and Cassian still had a smear of crimson dried along his neck—one you hadn’t noticed until the lamplight caught it.

Rhys looked at the satchel. Then at you. Then at Cassian.

“What happened?”

You told him. So did Cassian.

Not all at once. Not over each other. Just… plainly. Like it was a report. Like it wasn’t still alive under your skin.

You hadn’t expected him to take sides. Not overtly. But when it ended, he absolutely had. Like the weight of it had settled heavier on your shoulders than Cassian’s. Like the mistake hadn’t been getting caught—it had been trying to finish the mission at all.

You squared your shoulders, tried to keep your voice from shaking. “I didn’t choose to get caught. I didn’t choose to mess this up.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “No. But you chose to keep going when you should’ve pulled back.” His arms crossed, his voice low. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

Your throat tightened. You pushed through it.

“I did what I had to,” you said, sharper now. “You think I wanted it to go this way?”

“Wanting and surviving aren’t the same thing,” he snapped. “You gambled with your life—and mine. And the lives of everyone in this court, now that they know what we were doing there. Don’t pretend you didn’t have a choice.”

The air turned brittle.

Rhys’s voice cut through it like a blade.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

The finality in his tone stopped you cold. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Get out.”

Your eyes darted to Cassian, expecting him to move first—to scoff or curse or storm off with the anger barely leashed behind his eyes.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Still as stone. Unreadable.

You opened your mouth—confused, half-prepared to follow his lead—

Then Rhys looked at you.

That calm. That cold, razor-precise calm that never meant fury. Just decision. Just finality.

“Go,” he whispered—quiet, deliberate.

And you understood. Suddenly. Horribly.

He meant you.

You left without another word.

Cassian didn’t follow. Didn’t call after you. Didn’t come by the next day, or the one after that. When you passed each other in the House of Wind, your shoulder in a sling and your pride hanging by threads, he didn’t say a word. Just kept walking.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Not the bruises. Not the frost still clinging to your lungs after the flight back from Autumn. Not even the look Rhys had given you when he dropped the satchel—dropped it—before sitting at his desk like it was nothing worth holding.

The worst part was that Cassian had let it lie.

Had let the blame settle and cling without brushing a single piece of it off. Like you’d earned it. Like silence was the lesson.

In the war room, it was the same. Around that long obsidian table where battle strategies lived and died, where the Inner Circle weighed lives like stones on a scale—he wouldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t say your name.

Just her, she, or nothing at all.

A flick of his eyes. A tilt of his chin. Like you were something he’d learned to step around.

Until now.

Because yesterday, for the first time in over four years, he’d defended you again. Had looked at Miran like he might tear his throat out just for raising his voice at you. Had spoken like the fight never happened. Like you hadn’t failed. Like he remembered what you were worth.

You blinked.

And the crates were still there. Still needing to be sorted. So you bent your head, grit your teeth, and got back to work. Because if he could forget it—at least for now—then maybe you could too.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when the door creaked open again.

You didn’t look up right away—your fingers were halfway through scraping what felt like centuries-old candle wax from the underside of the table. How it had gotten there, you had no idea. Your shoulders ached from the angle, knees cold where they pressed into the floorboards.

But you heard the footsteps pause.

A beat. Then another.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

You shifted, squinting up at him from beneath the table’s edge. “Scraping.”

Cassian blinked, then stepped fully inside, the wind tugging the door shut behind him.

“Why are you under it?”

“Because someone,” you said, chipping harder now, “decided to shove this thing directly in front of the hearth and apparently didn’t notice the stalactites hanging from the bottom.”

He opened his mouth—paused. Then grunted and held up a bundled stack of firewood.

“Vesa gave me these,” he said. “Said it was the least she could do after yesterday.” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “Told her what happened. You should’ve seen those kids’ faces—went pale as ash.”

You snorted. “Sounds about right. It’s always the ones who talk the most shit.”

He dropped the bundle beside the grate and crouched, sleeves shoved up, hair still tousled from the wind. You stayed under the table, willing yourself to focus on the wax and not the shape of him lit in profile by the first flickers of flame.

For the first few minutes, he was quiet, poking at the kindling until a small fire finally caught and crackled to life. Then—

“Why’s the table all the way over there?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just leaned out and wiped your wrist across your cheek.

“Because this spot gets the best light.”

Cassian rose and brushed his palms together. Then, without waiting, strode across and grabbed the table’s edge.

“Don’t—” you started, too late.

He dragged it five feet to the right, chair legs shrieking across the floor, some collapsing into a messy cluster.

“You’ll block the light,” you snapped, standing now and flinging the scraper onto the windowsill.

He cocked his head. “You’re obsessed with the damn view.”

“You moved it into the corner.”

“The corner’s not a dungeon,” he muttered. “It’s still technically daylight.”

“Daylight doesn’t mean good light,” you shot back.

“And you’re suddenly a fucking artist?”

“I’m trying to make this place not look like a condemned training yard.”

He stepped closer. “Well, forgive me for interfering with your vision.”

“You always do.”

His brows lifted, expression cooling. “Oh, that’s rich. Because you’re the picture of collaboration.”

You folded your arms. “I would be, if you’d stop rearranging everything I’ve already done.”

“It’s a table.”

“It’s always a table with you!”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you show up, throw your weight around without consideration of others and the time they’ve put into something, and act like you’re doing them a favor!”

His brow lifted, expression tightening. “I am doing you a favor.”

“By ruining everything?”

“It’s a miracle this place has floors that don’t collapse under your ego.”

You took a slow, pointed step toward him. “At least I showed up on time.”

Cassian’s smile was sharp. “At least I didn’t get us both chewed out by Rhys.”

Your nostrils flared. “You still think that was my fault?”

“I think you never admit when you screw up!”

“I always admit it—because someone has to!”

He stared down at you, breathing hard now, chest rising in the same uneven rhythm hammering through your own.

And then, just like that, you both realized how close you’d gotten.

“What do you care so damn much?” he shouted, voice ringing off the stone walls.

“Because it’s our project!” you fired back, fists clenched at your sides.

Cassian scoffed, incredulous. “Our project? You barely let me touch anything without biting my damn head off—”

“Because you do it wrong!”

“I built half this place!”

“Exactly. Half. And I’m the one trying to make it livable.”

You were toe to toe now, breath mingling—furious and hot, sharp enough to cut.

“It’s ours,” you snarled. “Whether you like it or not.”

Silence.

One breath. Then another.

And that was all it took.

He lunged first. You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and fury and weeks of tension neither of you had dared name—finally breaking free.

His hands tangled in your hair before you could catch a breath, gripping like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or shove you away. You grabbed at his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric, hard enough to stretch the seams.

You stumbled together—hip into the table. One of the dining chairs screeched across the floor as you crashed into it. Neither of you stopped.

Cassian bit at your bottom lip like he wanted to keep the argument going that way, and you shoved him, nails dragging down his chest. He caught your waist, hauled you back in. You didn’t know if you were kissing him or fighting him anymore. Didn’t care.

Your hand slid up his chest to his throat, not gentle, and he groaned into your mouth like it only spurred him on.

Four years. Four years of silence and blame and what-ifs collapsing in the space between your bodies, now gone.

You weren’t thinking—just grabbing, shoving, kissing like you meant to hurt. Cassian stumbled again, hard, tripped over one of the dining chairs and nearly went down.

He caught himself at the last second, crashing backward into the seat with a grunt.

You didn’t get the chance to laugh—because he yanked you down with him.

You landed on his lap, straddling his thighs, your mouth never leaving his. And then everything blurred into fire.

His hands gripped your hips, dragging you forward, grinding you down until you could feel every sharp line of him pressed beneath you. The friction wrung a raw sound from your throat. Your fingers scrabbled at his coat, his shoulders, fisting in the fabric like you didn’t know whether you wanted to rip it off or hang on tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered against his mouth, biting at the corner of it.

“Shut up,” he rasped, catching your jaw in one hand and dragging you back in.

You rolled your hips again—deliberate now. Slow, filthy. He groaned, hips jerking up in answer. You did it again. Again. The rhythm turned hungry.

You weren’t sure who lost control first. Only that suddenly it was all heat and teeth and breathless swearing.

You tugged at the collar of his coat, wrenching it open just enough to shove your hands beneath—seeking the warmth of him through the coarse weave of his sweater. He growled into your mouth when your nails scraped down his spine.

The damn coat was still in the way.

You reached behind him, fingers slipping over the slats built to frame his wings, trying to find the clasps. Couldn’t get them. Didn’t care. You tugged anyway—frustrated, frantic, gasping against his throat as he mouthed his way down the side of your neck.

“This is—fuck, this is so stupid,” you breathed, hips stuttering against his again.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, low and furious, like it scorched him to say it.

You got one clasp open, then the next snapped loose beneath your fingers.

He didn’t wait. Tore at the coat, shoving it down his arms, half-flinging it aside. Before it even hit the floor, you were already under his sweater, dragging it up with one hand while the other reached again for the second set of slats.

These were easier. Familiar. Your fingers worked fast. You got them loose and yanked.

He helped this time, yanking the sweater over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him.

But you barely registered it.

Because his hands were already under your shirt.

Big, rough palms skating over your sides, greedy, without finesse—just hunger. You gasped, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other already tugging your shirt upward.

He didn’t wait. Grabbed the hem and yanked it over your head in one motion. Tossed it behind you.

You didn’t even feel his fingers before the clasp of your bra flicked open—just the sharp, practiced snap and the sudden looseness against your skin.

And then he was baring you to the air, to him, dragging the straps down your arms like he’d tear them off if they didn’t come fast enough.

His mouth closed over your nipple—hot, relentless—and you gasped, head tipping back as he sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. One of his hands kneaded the other breast, rough and greedy, while the other stayed clamped on your hip, dragging you down like he meant to fuse you there.

It was frantic. Hungry. Mindless in the way only need could be.

You rode the hard line of him through your clothes, every grind a flash of friction that lit up your spine. Your thighs locked tighter around him, chasing more—harder, deeper—and his grip only anchored you firmer, like he couldn’t get close enough if he tried.

Shirts gone, his chest hot and bare against yours—

Mother above, the heat of him. The press of skin. How solid he was, how he moved like the contact might kill him or save him.

You were breathing hard against his ear, still grinding slow and filthy against him. He groaned into your chest, mouth dragging lower, sucking a dark, bruising mark onto the swell of your breast.

“You always this easy when someone mouths off at you?” you panted, lips brushing his jaw as he rolled his hips into yours. “Guess that explains the barmaid in Itica.”

He bit your collarbone—hard.

You cursed, breath catching.

“You’re such a little shit,” he growled into your skin, voice shredded.

Your nails raked down his back, catching at the sensitive base of his wings. He jolted.

“Takes one to know one,” you said, smug.

Cassian pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You gonna run your mouth the whole time?”

“Only when it gets you this worked up.”

Something in him snapped.

He growled—low and feral—and surged upright in one brutal motion, hands gripping your ass as he lifted you off his lap. You yelped, clinging to his shoulders, and barely registered the shift before your back hit the bed with a bounce, limbs flung wide beneath him.

He stood over you, flushed, breathing hard. His fingers were already on his belt.

You couldn’t help it—you stared. Watched the way his fingers gripped the worn leather. The sharp clink of the buckle, the whisper of it sliding through the metal loop. It shouldn’t have been hot. It was hot. Like watching him unholster a weapon. Like watching him bare his teeth. You swallowed, heat crawling up your throat, your thighs pressing together.

His knuckles brushed his stomach as he dragged the belt loose, and the sight alone made your pulse skip.

“Oh, you like this?” he said, tone smug, a little cruel. “Yeah, I know you do. Couldn’t tear your fuckin’ eyes off it last night.”

The belt hissed the rest of the way through the loops.

“Shut up,” you said, but your voice came out too thin.

His smirk was pure sin.

And then he was on you.

One heartbeat flat on your back—next thing, you were flipped face-down with a grunt, cheek pressed hard to the mattress.

“Cassian—” you started, twisting under him.

“Shut. Up.” It came low and sharp in your ear.

One heavy hand yanked your wrists behind your back. The belt coiled around them a moment later. Not once. Not twice. Kept looping it tight through the buckle until your hands were cinched together in a firm, inescapable bind.

You cursed, bucking hard. “Fucking undo it—”

“Should’ve thought of that before you started mouthing off,” he growled.

He dragged your hips up with both hands, leaving your shoulders pinned by one broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades. Your face mashed into the sheets, breath caught, teeth gritted.

You twisted your wrists, tried to lift your upper body—

But he shoved you back down with humiliating ease.

“Stay the fuck down,” he bit out.

Then came the tug of your pants, the hook of his fingers in your underwear. You kicked out instinctively, but it didn’t matter. He manhandled the fabric down anyway, wrestling it past your hips, down to your knees, leaving your legs tangled and stuck. The cool air rushed over you—over the slick, swollen heat between your thighs—igniting a fresh spark that sent a sharp hiss from deep within you.

“Shit,” Cassian growled, and his head dropped, forehead resting on the curve of your back as his fingers pressed against you. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when he dragged two fingers through it again—slower this time. Like he needed to feel it properly. Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“From that?” he muttered, heat washing over your skin. “Just from that little show?”

You didn’t even have time to think before his fingers slammed into you.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sharp, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you, your body jolting forward with a choked gasp.

“Fuck—” you choked, wrists straining against the belt.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you a second to adjust. His fingers drove into you hard and fast, relentless—each thrust ruthless, the angle unerring. Over and over, he found that spot that lit you up from the inside out, made your breath stutter and your vision white out.

The wet sound of it was obscene. It echoed between the groaning mattress and the wrecked, involuntary noises spilling from your mouth.

Cassian muttered something behind you—filthy and dark. You didn’t catch all of it. Just the tone—low and wrecked, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. Like he couldn’t stop.

His free hand dug into your hip, anchoring you in place as he fucked you on his fingers. Your knees slipped wider despite the pants still tangled around them—your body betraying every biting word you’d thrown his way.

“All that mouth,” he panted, “all those fucking fights—just needed something stuffed in you, didn’t you?”

You twisted, tried to rise, but his hand left your hip and fisted in your hair, shoving your face into the mattress.

“Stay down,” he growled, fucking you faster now. His voice went ragged. Wild. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Mouthy little thing, and now you can’t take it?”

A harsh scoff.

“Should’ve done this years ago.”

Your stomach flipped. You hated that it flipped.

But you managed to turn your head—maybe he let you, maybe not. “Yeah? Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be such a tight-fisted, control-obsessed asshole. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent the last four years wanting to claw your fucking eyes out every time you walked into a room.”

His fingers didn’t falter. If anything, his wrist stiffened, driving them deeper—meaner—like you’d proven something.

“Four years and you still can’t decide if you wanna kill me or fuck me.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the way his fingers were driving into you, relentless.

“Nothing to say?” he murmured, teeth sinking into the curve of your ass. “No claws left, kitten?”

“Ew,” you hissed, hips jerking. “Don’t call me that.”

He just laughed—low and mean—then flipped you like it was nothing, your back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Your wrists ached beneath you, fists digging into the small of your back. Uncomfortable as hell—not that you’d expect anything else from him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done it on purpose. Just to irk you. One last petty jab before you talked about this later.

Oh, Gods. You were going to have to talk about this later.

A conversation.

About this.

A hot spike of dread twisted low in your gut.

But you didn’t get the chance to dwell on it, because then he was undoing the buttons on his pants—and suddenly, you had a far more immediate problem on your hands.

Well. Not your hands.

He shoved his pants down, and—

Mother above.

Maybe those Illyrian wingspan rumors had some merit after all. Because fuck.

The first thing you saw was the cut of his hips, the sharp V leading down to a dark trail of hair—and then him. Thick, flushed dark at the tip, heavy enough to make your mouth go dry. Your thighs clenched on instinct.

Of course he’d be built like that. Of course he’d keep that hidden away behind all that smug, self-righteous bravado. Arrogant fucker knew exactly what he was working with.

He caught your stare, brows raised, mouth curving into something downright indecent. “You keep looking at my cock like that, sweetheart,” he drawled, wrapping a hand around the base, slow and unhurried, “and I’m gonna start thinking you’re not as mad at me as you pretend to be.”

He gave himself one lazy stroke. Your breath caught.

“That mean you ready to be nice for once?” His hand moved with practiced ease, pulling your pants and underwear the rest of the way off in one sharp tug. Your socks bunched awkwardly at your ankles, forgotten with the way the heat spiked between you.

You narrowed your eyes. “The only thing I’m ready for is—”

“You gonna behave?” he murmured, almost sweetly. “Gonna play nice for me?”

You sucked in a breath, spine stiffening—but before the words could form, he shoved into you Thick, unrelenting. And just like that, your sentence vanished.

He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath, didn’t give you time to adjust. He set a brutal rhythm from the start, fast and deep, fucking into you like he meant to tear something out of you.

You gasped, voice breaking on a startled cry. “Wait—shit, it’s… Ca—hold on, it’s—”

He laughed. Low. Rough. Right in your ear. “Too late for that now, sweetheart. You wanted to mouth off.”

His eyes met yours, dark and burning. “You feel like heaven.”

His hips slammed into you again, and the only thing you could do was choke on the shock—the white-hot bloom of heat unfurling inside you.

“Fucking tight around me like you were made for this,” he growled, teeth grazing your ear. His voice was raw, possessed—like he was branding every thrust into your bones.

Your body clenched involuntarily, muscle locking against muscle, every nerve bracing under the weight of sensation.

“You’re gonna take every inch,” he hissed, voice like smoke, “and you’re gonna like it.”

“Cassian, it’s too—”

“You’re gonna fucking like it, (y/n).”

It hit like a slap—the sound of your name in his mouth.

Not her, or she, or sweetheart, or the princess he’d thrown your way last night.

Just you.

Spat like a challenge. Drawled like a curse.

Your breath caught, your whole body locking up around him.

“Yeah,” he snarled, like he knew exactly what he’d done, the words vibrating against your skin. “You feel that? That what it takes to shut you up?”

His hand splayed across your abdomen, pressing down hard as he drove into you again—deep, brutal, claiming.

“Say my name again,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, before you could think.

He gave a dangerous, breathless laugh. “Greedy,” he growled. “Didn’t think I’d fuck the attitude out of you and make you beg.”

And gods, maybe you were begging. Maybe that’s all you had left, with your hands trapped, hair clinging to your damp skin, and the only thing anchoring you to this world the thick, punishing press of him inside you.

He slowed—just barely—to drag the next thrust in deep. Too deep. You felt the shape of him shift everything, rearrange everything. Your lips parted around a sound you barely recognized as your own. A half-broken moan, raw at the edges.

Cassian grunted at the noise, hips drawing back in one long, slow pull—only to slam forward again, harder. A cruel rhythm. A practiced one. Like he was testing your limits. Learning them.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick against your ear. “Messy little thing. Can’t even pretend you don’t want this cock in you.”

Your breath hitched. Your back arched instinctively, desperate to escape the stretch and heat—but his hand clamped hard around your hip, dragging you back with brutal precision. Like you were leverage. Like your body was his now. Because you’d let that slip—say my name again—and he’d taken it for blood in the water.

You hated him for it.

You hated how good he felt.

“Fighting it won’t help,” he said softly, like he could see it on your face. “You already gave in.”

Maybe you had.

Maybe the second he said your name like that—like it still meant something—it had already been over.

You dug your nails into the sheets, teeth grit as you wrenched air back into your lungs. “Keep telling yourself that,” you gasped, forcing the words out around a moan. “Might help you sleep at night. Thinking I actually wanted you all this time.”

His laugh was low, vicious. “Sweetheart, you’re dripping down my cock.”

He punctuated it with a snap of his hips—hard, precise, merciless.

“You can lie all you want. But your cunt’s got better manners than your mouth.”

You twisted beneath him—more reflex than intent—

—and he caught it like he’d been waiting for it.

His grip shifted in a blink, dragging you onto your side. Your shoulder hit the mattress, legs folding awkwardly beneath you—until his hand caught your thigh and lifted, braced it open. The other settled hard at your waist. A warning.

You barely had time to draw breath before he drove back in.

The angle was ruinous. Sharper. Deeper.

He hit something that made your vision snap white. Made your spine curl. Made your mouth fall open in a wordless gasp.

“Fuck,” he bit out. “Tighter like this.”

Your hands—no longer pinned but still restrained—clawed at the sheets, grasping at nothing. And gods, you hated the way your body arched into him. Hated how fast he’d found a new rhythm and made it yours.

“Say it again,” he hissed. “Say you don’t want me. Look me in the fucking eye and lie to me.”

You tried. You tried.

But he rolled his hips just right—once—and the sound that broke from you tore your argument apart at the seams.

Cassian groaned. And gods help you, it sounded like satisfaction.

“Thought so,” he growled, grip tightening as he wrenched your thigh higher. “You feel that?” His voice dropped—rough, clipped, almost amused. “Used. Fucking used.”

You didn’t bother looking at him. But your voice cut through the air anyway, sharp and venomous:

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not the one losing control.”

He stilled for a heartbeat.

Then he drove into that angle again and again, harder and harder, until your lungs caught fire with every thrust.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.”

His hand slid down your body, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path between your hips, barely brushing over the slick skin. The touch was maddening. Featherlight. Precise in its restraint.

His thumb pressed gently at first, circling with measured patience, never quickening, never giving the release your nerves were screaming for. Cauldron, that was exactly what you needed, the pressure building just enough to ignite you. Yes, yes, yes, yes—each one tore from your lips like prayer, like instinct. You hadn’t even realized you were saying it, hadn’t noticed the way it spilled out—quiet, helpless, reverent.

But he pulled back, and his thrusts slowed to a crawl—so measured, so agonizing, it may as well have been nothing at all.

You jolted like you’d been struck.

“Are you—” Your voice cracked, hoarse with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He didn’t bother answering. He didn’t need to. That smirk, sharp and smug, said everything.

You twisted, desperate for leverage, trying to push back against him—to make him move, force his hand—but his arm only cinched tighter around your thigh, keeping you spread and helpless in that sideways sprawl. His body: a cage. A curse.

“You think this is funny?” you snapped.

Cassian’s mouth brushed your ear before you even felt him shift. “I think you’re beautiful when you’re desperate.”

He rolled his hips sinfully deep, just enough to brush everything you needed. Pleasure flared so hot and fast it took your breath, your cry catching halfway through your throat—

And then he stilled.

You swore, loud and vicious.

Cassian laughed low in your ear. “There she is.”

“You motherfucker,” you hissed, trying to move, to get something, anything. But his arm locked firm across your thigh, holding you open and perfectly still.

He hummed in mock thought, as if he wasn’t actively ruining you. “Y’know,” he mused, voice soft like silk over a blade, “I’ve got a few places I want to put my hands.” His palm slid slow up your side, curling beneath the swell of your breast, teasing without giving. “Could untie you. If you promise to be good.”

You snapped your head toward him. “I’m not promising you shit—”

He stopped moving entirely. Every inch of him thick and pulsing and unbearably still, the heat of him like a brand.

The whine tore out of you before you could stop it—high and broken, more plea than protest.

Cassian didn’t say a word. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at you.

A single brow arched.

Your face burned. You grit your teeth. “Fine.”

Still, he waited. “No. Promise.”

You rolled your eyes. Looked away. Of course he wanted the words. Of course he wanted to win.

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw with enough force to make you gasp—fingers squishing your cheeks until your lips puckered. You glared. He didn’t flinch.

“I promise I’ll be good,” you muttered, syrupy-sweet, laced with venom.

Cassian grinned, all teeth. “Good girl.”

Then he let go—of your jaw, of your thigh, of every last ounce of mercy.

You didn’t even register the motion before he reached down, unfastening the buckle in a smooth, unhurried sweep. The belt rasped as it loosened, the sound too loud in the charged air. He never stopped moving inside you—slow, shallow thrusts that felt more like a warning than a reprieve. A promise.

And then your wrists were free.

You didn’t have a second to process it. The moment the leather dropped, he drove back in like he’d been waiting for it—no rhythm, no patience, just heat and power and brutal momentum.

Your arms flew around his neck, hauling him down, desperate for something to hold. His chest crashed against yours, sweat-slicked skin meeting slicker skin, and you clung.

One leg stayed hitched over his shoulder, your thigh crushed near your ribs now, and gods, you felt every inch of him. Every brutal slide, every shift of muscle as he adjusted the angle like he was searching for the exact spot that would ruin you.

His hands were everywhere—one braced beside your head, the other sliding between your bodies, dragging over the sweat-slicked curve of your breast. His thumb swept roughly over your nipple, and you gasped, hips jolting in time with the motion.

You didn’t even think before your own hand moved, sliding down your stomach, chasing the pressure and friction you’d been denied. The second your fingers brushed yourself, your head fell back, breath catching on a moan that was far too desperate to pass as hatred.

He felt it—really heard it.

And when he looked down at you, it wasn’t smugness—it was something darker. Focused. Like now that you were free, he was going to see what you’d do with it.

He didn’t say a word as your fingers worked fast, frantic—just kept moving inside you with brutal precision, all heat and muscle and weight. His chest pressed tight to yours, breath rasping against your cheek. That leg he’d hoisted up stayed pinned, folding you open around him like he had all the time in the world to take you apart.

Then his voice, low and too close to your ear. Not a growl. Not a threat. A question.

“Is this what you wanted?”

You didn’t answer.

His thumb dragged over your nipple again, slower this time. Intentional.

“When you mouthed off earlier. When you looked at me like that.” His teeth skimmed your jaw. “You wanted this?”

You shook your head before you even thought about it.

“Liar.”

He angled his hips again, and you gasped—your body stuttering beneath him, back arching.

Your hand was so slick now. So close.

“You wanted me to fuck it out of you,” he said, like it was obvious. Like he’d always known. “You wanted to lose.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out—shoved aside by sensation, swallowed by heat.

His hand slid up again, cradling your jaw—firm, but not cruel. His thumb brushed over your parted lips.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Say what you wanted.”

You swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut, the words catching in your throat like they might burn coming out. But he didn’t wait. His hips slammed forward—once, twice—hard enough to shake the frame like he’d rip the truth from your body if he had to.

“I… wanted… you to—ah—fuck me.”

Everything stilled—just for a breath.

Then he let out a sound that was half laugh, half snarl, low and razor-sharp.

“Yeah?” he rasped, the next thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “You wanted me to break you in? Fuck you so hard you’d forget how to run that pretty little mouth?”

Your answer was a strangled sound, no shape to it—but it was enough.

Cassian didn’t need to hear any more.

He moved like he meant it—vicious, savage. Every thrust drove deep, shaking the mattress, the frame, the pictures on the walls. You could feel it everywhere—down to the soles of your feet, behind your teeth, pounding inside your skull. And still, your hand worked furiously between your thighs, desperate and slick, chasing the pressure his rhythm only stoked higher.

You were close. Too close. The kind of close where your thighs were beginning to tremble, where your breath hitched into broken gasps, where your stomach coiled so tight it felt like you might split open from it.

And then his hand shot down, catching yours just as you were about to tip over the edge. He yanked it away, holding it up like a prize, like proof of your need.

“Cassian—fuck—” you sobbed, your hips chasing after what he’d stolen, body spasming from the denial.

He leaned in, breath hot at your ear, and pinned your hand above your head, fingers lacing through yours like he owned them. Owned you.

“What was it you said earlier?” he murmured, the words cruelly soft, hips still driving into you with ruthless intent. “Something about losing control?”

His meaning, along with a sharp thrust, deep and slow, made you cry out.

He hummed, mock-thoughtful. “Tell me—who is it, exactly, falling apart now?”

Your breath hitched, broken on another sob. The pressure was a blade now, poised to split you open.

“What do you want from me?” you begged, voice cracking. “Just—just tell me what you want, I’ll—please—”

His answer came without pause, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Apologize,” he said, dark and absolute. “For saying you didn’t want me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed and wide.

“Tell me,” he ground out, each thrust a brutal punctuation. “Tell me how badly you want me. No—need me.”

You hesitated, teeth sinking into your bottom lip hard enough to sting. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to say it—it was that saying it meant surrender. Saying it meant he’d won.

Still, your voice came out hoarse and thin. “I didn’t mean it…”

He gave a low, amused hum, cock still grinding into you like there was no rush. “That’s not an apology, sweetheart.”

You tried to glare at him, but your head was thrown back too far, body too wrung out to muster more than a gasping curse.

“Fine,” you spat. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t want you.”

“Better,” he murmured, mouth brushing your cheek, near your jaw, his breath all heat and command.. “Keep going.”

Your next breath came shaky. “I wanted you,” you said, barely audible. “I’ve wanted you for—fuck—for so long.”

“That’s it,” he praised, voice molten. “Say it like you mean it.”

And gods help you, you did.

“I need you,” you choked, thighs trembling around his hips. “I fucking need you, Cassian.”

“Look at you,” he breathed, something reverent beneath the filth. “All that attitude, all that fight—and now you’re here, begging. Dripping.”

His hand slid between your bodies like it belonged there. Two fingers found the aching, swollen mess of you, rubbing tight, punishing circles. You jerked at the contact, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

“So sweet for me now,” he groaned, working you with ruthless precision. “Was that so hard, baby?”

You whimpered, hips twitching. “No,” you whispered. “Just—please, let me—”

“Then come, (y/n),” he growled, his fingers moving faster now, rough and wet and perfect. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

And with those words, you did—you shattered around him, back arching hard as white-hot pleasure crashed over you, wave after merciless wave. His name tore from your throat—sacred, wrecked, a plea and a prayer all at once. Your body locked tight around him, the sounds ripping from you falling somewhere at the intersection of a shout and a cry and a moan.

Cassian swore—raw, reverent—and didn’t stop.

In one seamless, brutal motion, he grabbed behind your knees and shoved them higher, folding you in half. Your thighs pressed tight to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders as he pinned you there—helpless, trembling, wholly his.

“Fuck,” he bit out, voice hoarse. “Look at you—still fucking squeezing me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely think. That new angle had him hitting something devastating—something deep and bruising that sent stars bursting behind your eyes.

He didn’t slow. Just kept going, those deep, relentless thrusts rocking the bedframe, obscene slick sounds cutting through the ragged rhythm of your breath.

“Taking me so well,” he groaned, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh like a vice. “This what you needed? Me to fuck you this deep—this full—until you can’t think straight?”

Maybe it was. Maybe this had always been what you both needed—this unspoken breaking point, all heat and fury and surrender.

“Keep making those sounds for me,” he rasped, pounding into you like he meant to leave a mark on your soul. “Those pretty little sounds—fuck, you sound so needy.”

And you were. Every noise that spilled from your throat was high and broken and raw, punched out of you with every snap of his hips.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and ruined with want. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you breathed—then louder, filthier, no shame left in you. “Want you to fuck me full, Cassian. Want to feel you dripping out of me for days.”

He choked on a sound—half snarl, half moan—his rhythm faltering.

Then he drove into you hard, to the hilt, deep enough you swore it pressed behind your ribs, and stilled.

A ragged groan tore from him—your name, cracked and guttural, as his whole body locked above you. You felt every shudder, every pulsing wave of heat spilling into you. Felt him unravel, felt the weight of it—of him—pouring into you until there was nothing else.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Cassian let out a breathless laugh, low and wrecked. “Fuck.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The storm had passed.

In every sense.

Morning sun spilled amber through the cottage windows, brushing over fresh paint and new shingles, over repaired beams and the once-crooked door that now swung true on its hinges. The faint scent of pine smoke clung to the air—evidence of the fire Cassian had built earlier, more out of habit than necessity.

You stood at the hearth anyway, one hand braced on the mantle, the other smoothing absently over the front of your sweater. The house was quiet. Not silent, but quiet in the way a place becomes once it’s been lived in. Settled.

Behind you, a soft thud marked the last box lowered to the floor.

“That’s the last of it,” Cassian said, voice low, content.

You didn’t answer right away. Just turned, slowly, letting your eyes move across the room—the clean lines of the walls, the honey-warm kitchen, the faint gloss of varnish still clinging to the new floors. Light glinted off the old tools hung neatly by the door, each one a reminder of what this place had been.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to fall over anymore,” you said.

Cassian glanced at you from where he knelt by the hearth, coaxing the embers back to life. “You say that like you’re disappointed.”

“I’m not.” You let the corner of your mouth curve, soft. “I think maybe it was meant to stand after all.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter. He stood and stretched, arms arcing above his head, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of golden skin. You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Not too obviously, anyway.

“Rhys said we can take the rest of the week if we want it,” he said after a beat, wandering to the little kitchen table and adjusting one of the chairs. His voice was easy. Too easy.

You paused, taking a mental tally. Three days—maybe four—since that night. The ache hadn’t quite left your muscles, and neither had the tension between you. It lingered in the space, quiet and unspoken, like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“Do we want it?” you asked

He shrugged. “No one’s waiting. We don’t have to rush back.”

And it was true. There were no war meetings waiting, no urgent messages. The world, for once, wasn’t on fire.

Just this place—sturdy now. Still a little imperfect. But whole.

The thought of another morning here, slow and golden beneath thick quilts… of evenings warmed by the fire, maybe even stealing a moment outside bundled up with Cassian to watch the snow settle while his laugh echoed soft across the rafters—

It didn’t sound terrible.

You reached for two ceramic plates, their edges chipped and familiar, the way all good dishes are. “You’re building the fire, I’m setting the table. We’re staying.”

Cassian looked at you over his shoulder, one brow raised in mock challenge. “That an order?”

You set the last plate down with a gentle clink. “It’s a plan.”

His grin bloomed slow and real. A little tired. A little surprised. But warm, all the same.

When he moved to your side and bumped his hip lightly against yours, reaching for the bread and honey, it wasn’t the kind of touch that asked for anything.

It just was.

Uncomplicated. Easy.

The fire crackled.

The floor no longer creaked beneath your feet.

You poured the tea.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—something had been fixed that wasn’t made of wood or stone.

Maybe something else had been meant to stand, too.

#acotar #cassian acotar #cassian #cassian x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #meant to stand

649 notes · View notes

emchante · 11 months ago

Text

thighs

masterlist | requesting rules

summary: daniel notices how much you love his thighs, yet are too shy to mention it. he shows you what you've been missing by not telling him before now.

WARNINGS: 18+ content, thigh riding, use of good girl, slight dirty talk.

wc: 1.9k

a/n: hi!! i’m super excited to start posting on this blog. of course, the first post had to be dedicated to daniel and his thighs, so i hope you enjoy! requests are open, so if anyone has any prompts or ideas, please send them into my inbox! + a massive thank you to @thef1diary for beta reading this, and inspiring me to start the account.

daniel knew you loved his thighs, it wasn’t exactly a well kept secret. he was sure all of your friends knew too. your eyes wouldn’t leave the meat of his thighs when they were on display – which was often, god bless the extreme heat of most places you travelled to for making him wear shorts everyday.

it wasn’t something that you spoke about often though, in fact, daniel realised you had never really brought it up yourself. you were shy, didn’t really like bringing such things up yourself. daniel usually had to coax what you wanted out of you, and tonight wasn’t any different.

daniel trailed kisses from the nape of your neck, up your jaw until he reached your ear. he whispered sweet nothings to you, telling you how beautiful you were, how he would do anything you wanted. your face was on fire at the wet kisses, the sultry tone of his voice already starting a fire in your belly. you tilted your head to give him more access to your neck, but he pulled away from you, causing your eyes to follow him.

he moved his rose-inked hand to cup your jaw, allowing his thumb to gently stroke your cheek. you leaned into his hand, enjoying any and all touch you received from him. you only had your eyes shut momentarily before daniel gave your chin a squeeze, causing them to flutter open again.

“for me to give you what you want,” he started, his voice low. “you need to tell me exactly what it is.”

you smiled at his words. daniel, ever the gentlemen, always doing what you wanted. it was never any different. “i just want you, danny.”

daniel let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down. you furrowed your brows, confused at his reaction. with a tilt of your head, you asked him what was so funny.

“you are,” he told you, looking back up. “always too shy to tell me what you want. always have to work for it to get it out, don’t i?” daniel explained, raising a brow with a grin. you felt your face heat up again, but it wasn’t due to arousal this time – not for the most part, anyways.

“what are you–” you had started to question him, but you cut yourself off with a surprised gasp as daniel moved you to sit on his right thigh. you looked to him for answers, but you were only met with a small smirk on daniel’s face.

“i see the way you look at my thighs, sweetheart,” he began to explain, moving his hands to rest on your hips. his thumbs rubbed small circles into them as he continued to speak to you. “you’re always looking when i’m in shorts, eyes always on me. you know how hard i get when i watch you squeeze your thighs together, all because you can’t contain yourself?”

your jaw dropped at daniel calling you out. you knew that you weren’t exactly subtle about your interest in his thighs, but his words made your full body heat up. you stuttered over your words, but you couldn’t get a coherent sentence out. all you managed to squeak out was a “sorry”, and it only made daniel laugh.

“sorry? for what?” he asked as he laughed, moving his right hand off of your hip to grab at your own. he moved it to rest on the fabric of his clearly straining shorts, making you gulp lightly. “you mustn't have heard me, your gaze gets me so fucking hard.”

you meekly nodded, not really sure how to respond to him. daniel knew what you were like though, he didn’t expect much else. he liked how shy you were, how easily flustered he managed to get you. moving his hand off of your own, he slowly ran it up your bare leg, allowing it to slip under your short skirt, smirking as his fingers grazed your clothed pussy.

“so wet for me,” he cooed, and you could only whine as his fingers were so close to where you needed them. you let yourself rut against his thigh once to show him you were desperate for him. daniel’s eyes darkened as he felt you move against his thigh, and he couldn’t contain the groan that left his throat.

slipping his fingers to move your underwear to the side, daniel’s left hand dragged you across his thigh once more to test it, and he couldn’t have landed the jackpot quicker. the feeling of your bare pussy against his thigh, starting to soak it due to how wet you were was all he needed.

“fuck, darling,” he moaned, his right hand moving back up to your hips so he could guide you through it. “you gonna ride my thigh? like a good girl?” he asked you, looking right into your eyes as he said it.

the friction of his thigh against your clit, along with the good girl caused a whine to escape your mouth. you nodded as you moved your hands onto his shoulders, gripping them tightly as you continued to rut against him, desperately lapping up the pleasure you got from your bare cunt against his tattooed thigh.

you suddenly came to a halt though, causing you to break out of the pleasure-bound spell you seemed to be entranced in. daniel’s brows were furrowed, his hands gripping your hips tightly so you weren’t able to continue your movements.

“danny please– let me move,” you pleaded with him, looking down at his thigh as you desperately tried to move your hips. his grip was too strong for you to fight against, and daniel only tutted, clicking his tongue to get your eyes to land on him.

“so now you can talk? i want verbal confirmation as soon as i ask you a question,” he told you, his hands squeezing your hips even tighter to make sure you understood. you were sure it was going to leave bruises tomorrow, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care, in fact, the thought only turned you on more.

“i‘m sorry, dan,” you apologised, eyes pleading with him to continue so you could go back to what you were doing. he nodded, and repeated his question for you. “so, are you going to be a good girl and ride my thigh?” he asked you, eyes trained on your face.

you nodded again, but verbally confirmed it this time too. “yes, danny. i’ll ride your thigh,” you told him, making a small smile appear on his face. you tried to move your hips again, but daniel was still holding you in place. you whined in frustration, hopelessly trying to recreate the friction from moments ago but to no avail. he tutted, shaking his head at you.

“tell me you’ll be my good girl,” he commanded, eyes dark. one thing about daniel, he was always going to make you tell him you were a good girl. his good girl.

“going to be your good girl– but please dan, i need– your thigh again,” you plead, and if it wasn’t obvious by your constant attempts at grinding against your thigh, the urgency in your voice would’ve been a dead giveaway.

“alright gorgeous, you can have it,” he cooed, loosening the grip of his hands on your hips so you could move, but still holding them securely so he could help move you against him.

you couldn’t believe it had taken so long for this to happen, and it was so much better than any fantasy you ever had about it. each grind against his inked thigh sent sparks shooting throughout your body, the whimpers and moans escaping your lips were music to daniel’s ears as his dark, hungry eyes watched the way your body moved.

daniel groaned at the sight of your tits bouncing each time you rut against him, moving between watching them, and the facial expressions you were making due to the immense pleasure from his thigh alone.

“you look so perfect riding my thigh, sweetheart,” he started, making your eyes land back on his face as you focused on his words. “soaking it too, because of how fucking wet you are,” he groaned, and bit his lip at the moan you let out at his words.

he couldn’t stop himself from moving one of his hands up to your chest, toying with your hardened nipple through the fabric. the friction of the fabric, along with the touch of his thumb sent a streak of pleasure through you, head snapping back as you let out a guttural moan.

“can’t keep my eyes off these, either,” he continued, alternating between circling his thumb around your nipple, to squeezing the swell of your breast. “everything about you is perfect. made for me, weren’t you?” he asked, looking into your eyes for confirmation.

“made for you and you only, danny,” you sighed, panting as you felt yourself getting closer. daniel could tell too, your voice pitches up, and he feels your hand’s grip onto him tighter.

“such a good girl f’me. getting close, aren’t you?” he questioned, despite already knowing the answer. he just wanted to hear your needy, desperate voice say anything. you nodded frantically at him, high pitched whines escaping your throat.

“so– fuck, so close, dan” you breathlessly admitted, slightly angling your hips so your clit was getting more friction, and daniel knew you found a good angle when a sudden but pleasant moan escaped you.

daniel suddenly got an idea. “got an idea, sweetheart. it’s gonna help you feel even better, do you trust me?” he asked, waiting to see if you’d agree, or rather just let yourself finish like this. his eyes lit up when you squeaked out a please, hands gripping your waist a little tighter before he started to bounce his leg.

it was somehow better than before, a new experience which felt like absolute euphoria. you let out a shaky, breathy moan as your eyes rolled back, unable to control yourself any longer. daniel moved you back slightly, a little closer to his knee than his thigh, and it worked like magic, as it worked even better.

“fuck– yes, yes daniel–” you panted out, almost falling into the category of babbling due to how much you kept repeating almost incomprehensible chatter, too focused on the feeling of pleasure to respond properly.

“let go for me, c’mon. cum for me,” he coaxed you, feeling your thighs tighten around his own, before you came, chanting out daniel’s name as you rode your high. you immediately fell into daniel’s chest, body slouching as you sighed, smiling lazily when his arms wrapped around you.

it was silent for a while, the only noises being your heavy breaths until you recovered back to your normal state. daniel’s hand gently stroked up and down your back, leaving soft kisses on the crown of your head as he let you recover from your orgasm. you used your still shaky hands to push yourself up, meeting face-to-face with daniel as he smiled softly at you, leaning in to initiate a passionate kiss between you.

daniel carefully carried you into your shared bedroom not long afterwards, making sure you were a-okay before helping you get into fresh pajamas and getting you ready for bed. much to your dismay, of course, as you wanted him to clean himself up first, especially after the mess you made on his thigh, but daniel paid no mind to your whining, carrying on with his duties of making sure you were sorted for the night.

#daniel ricciardo x reader #daniel ricciardo x you #daniel ricciardo oneshot #daniel ricciardo smut #daniel ricciardo fic #daniel ricciardo imagine #daniel ricciardo fanfic #f1 smut #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #formula one x reader #formula one fanfiction #f1 blurb #smut #em's filth

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velvetwyrme · 7 months ago

Note

which deception would have an sti AND fuck cars?

in reference to: https://www.tumblr.com/penny-anna/767952128217104384/imagine-youre-a-mechanic-in-the-transformers?source=share

okay. so. first off. anon, thank you for sending me this because the idea that you read that post and just went- "hey, you know who i should pose this question to?" and sent it to me- is hysterical and i lvoe u.

anyway theres also a Texty answer under the cut if you want to read that, because i genuinely DO have thoughts about this, but i wanted to draw that comic because this ask made me laugh very hard when i saw it in my inbox.

also, the thrilling conclusion of the comic answer:

he fucked that car!!!!!!!

hi! Texty time. I think a lot of them would have/be one but not the other (either has a STI or is a Carfucker) but i included some of those here anyway because i think my thought process was funny for some of them. this is all purely my own opinions etc. etc. no basis for anything only vibes. i went through a lot of options and came to a lot of conclusions.

to reiterate the Chart for claritys sake:

Soundwave: No STI and no Carfucking. This is true across all versions of Soundwave imo. Rumble and Frenzy are a solid no on the STI front and a solid yes on the Carfucking.

Starscream: no STI, no Carfucking (despite what Soundwave thinks). TFP!Starscream specifically might have an STI though. Sorry man. Skywarp definitely has/had a STI but gets it treated on account of his trinemates. No Carfucking. Thundercracker would fuck a car but doesn't have an STI.

Shockwave: ??? - I'm not sure I want to know. "Once, as part of an experiment" was the original thing I wrote for his answer lol. True across continuities as well.

Anyway. moving on...

My actual answer for Megatron: REALLY depends on continuity. Here's a sample:

G1? Yeah, probably both. I can see it.

IDW/MTMTE? Nah. Maybe? ... Nah. I feel like if he had an STI it'd have been back when he was a miner. Would not fuck a car.

Earthspark? I feel like no STI but yes to the Carfucking. Except he feels really guilty about it after. I still haven't watched ES but this is the impression I get from him.

TFA? oh god. i don't know... i don't know....... he probably fucks cars. No STI.

TFP? Yeah absolutely are u kidding me? Yes to both.

Constructicons: I feel like they'd be a yes to both, but not at the same time, so they wouldn't have been the one/s to transmit a STI to a car. Also Hook would be ON TOP of treatment. Once they ALL got infected after combining into Devastator, and that was miserable for everyone. Nobody has fessed up to being the one who had it in the first place, but now they have treatment on hand just in case.

Also while on the topic of combiners... I think some of the Stunticons are also pretty good candidates for STI/Carfucking. Motormaster, Drag Strip and Wildrider in particular shfkgbekfbk

I considered Tarn/The DJD and Overlord just because of how freaky them guys can get, but I think Tarn runs too tight a ship for that to happen, and Overlord is preoccupied with. worse things. The Scavengers on the other hand... sorry to Misfire, I can see him giving a car a STI. Relatedly, Grimlock would fuck a car but not have an STI.

Who else................................ wait.

Astrotrain. I can see it. Okay bye im going to sleep this took me too long to reply to fhfjfbrmfbdj

#inbox #anon #velwy.txt #transformers #macaddam #good lord.#sighs.#i had other things i wanted to draw today but alas. this is my life now (no regrets)#also honorary mention to Knock Out because hes got the Vibes but i think he'd value his finish too much. if he hsd an STI he'd treat it-#-immediately and not pass it to anyone (or anything)#ADDITIONALLY. depending on continuity i can absolutely see some of the autobots getting an sti and fucking a car but listen that wasnt the-#-question and i already talked too much #sti saga

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cybrasigilism · 4 months ago

Note

hey pookie (≧∀≦) can i request something for a threesome between kang dae-ho x reader x namgyu? they’ve been my current 18+ brainrot for days now omg i need them both (at the same time)

HEY DIVA OMG, of course i will write this bc you asked so nicely

Hard & Soft (Kang Dae-ho/Player 388 + Nam-gyu/Player 124 X Reader Threesome Headcanons)

characters: kang dae-ho (player 388), nam-gyu (player 124)

A/N: cheered when i saw you in my inbox, i love, and i mean absolutely LOVE, the way you portray nam-gyu in your writings :) enjoy! i fear i wrote nam-gyu to be kind of an ass but his ego’s at risk half the time here, so i thought it would make sense 😖🙏

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➢ a threesome with dae-ho and nam-gyu isn’t just a threesome. it’s a goddamn contest. both are convinced that the other isn’t loving you right, and they definitely make a point of it

➢ nam-gyu is the more openly competitive one of the two. usually he’ll sneakily make eye contact with dae-ho as he fucks you, all while making snide little remarks. dae-ho’s always got a clap back saved for nam-gyu when he does this though— however jealous seeing you get fucked so raunchily by someone else may make him

“would you listen to that? funny, she didn’t sound like this when you were fucking her”

“yeah, i’m not nearly as rough with her as you are though..”

➢ during foreplay, they’re both trying to make you feel good in different ways. you can tell that dae-ho’s doing it to please you and you only, the way he handles you so tenderly, gently running his hands over your body while your lips collide with delicate grace, being dead giveaways to his motivations. nam-gyu, on the other hand, takes a more possessive approach. his ego is fragile, so it’s almost as though he’s claiming you through dark hickeys and light scratch marks to reaffirm that you’re his.

➢ when you’re fucking them, it’s typically you giving nam-gyu head while dae-ho takes care of you from behind. their banter is almost distracting, but with the little praises from dae-ho woven in you really don’t mind.

“shit man, you need to go easier on her— she’s doing too much of a good job for you to treat her so roughly”

“fuck that, she wants to act like a dirty little whore, that’s exactly how i’m gonna treat her”

➢ if dae-ho’s the one fucking you while nam-gyu watches, nam-gyu will do everything in his power to distract you from dae-ho. this will usually be in the form of him taunting you guys from afar, talking down on dae-ho’s performance.

“c’mon man, you know she likes it rougher, don’t be shy!”

“fuck, this is pathetic. you’d think this was her first time, you don’t have to go so slow”

“don’t tell me you’re actually getting off on this, you’ve had better..”

➢ sometimes, if nam-gyu’s hitting you from the back, dae-ho will be right there to comfort you and tell you how good you’re being. if you’re really acting desperate, he’ll indulge you with a couple kisses

“you’re doing so good, sweetheart. you’re almost there, huh”

“just keep going a little while longer, i can make it worth your while after”

“i know it’s a lot, but you’re being such a good girl— i’m sure he’s very grateful”

➢ you guys go round after round, these two just need to see who can outlast the other— you might get overstimulated in the process

➢ to follow up on that last bit, they take aftercare pretty serious. fighting over who gets to take care of you after all that you just did, spoiler alert: dae-ho usually wins. but regardless, they both have their fair share in praising you on your resilience.

─────────────

thank you for reading! sorry if it’s lacklustre, this isnt a pairing i would have written for before this request, but i aim to please! hopefully this is somewhat satisfactory to what you had in mind, however OOC it may be

as always, any constructive criticism/advice for improving my writing would be greatly appreciated and is requested! have a good night/day lovelies 💋

🏷️ : @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @agornotsworld @kvstjwonnie @marymustdie @kouzih @gabbystinks @pink-apples001 @wonestro @luvlyfandoms @putrescentpoet

#squid game 2 #squid game #squid game smut #fanfiction #squid game x reader #x reader smut #player 388 x reader #kang dae ho x reader #player 124 x reader #nam gyu x reader #imagines #x reader fanfiction

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scorpioriesling · 2 months ago

Note

Hey girlie, I love that so many of your fics have song references! (I love me some Taylor yay)

That got me thinking, and my favorite character from fourth wing is Garrick (he deserves way more love and attention) and I was wondering if you could do a story based on tates miss possessive where he and reader are in a relationship but (ass we all knoe and I love her) Imogen has a thing for him and reader doesn't like it?

Thank you <3

Miss Possessive

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Pairing(s): Garrick x reader

Warning(s): angst, fluff at end, jealousy, injury

Summary: You don't take well to other women going after things that are yours -- especially not sassy, pink-haired, third years.

SR’s Note: Yessss my favorite thing about Tumblr is actually making friends on here, and connecting with readers and writers alike! Whether it be music, books, fandoms and more -- I love meeting new people and seeing the common interests we have! I tried to deliver as best I could, and I hope you like this!

Tags: @mellowmusings @rcarbo1 @lilah-asteria @bookofriverr @kitsunetori @velarisdusk @nctsawrus @lreadsstuff @freakishfandomfiend @littleemissperfecttt @loveofmychips @bodhidurrans (inbox me or comment if you'd like to be added!)

･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *

Your fork speared another green bean, your eyes never glancing down at the plate. The metal scratched against the porcelain of the dish, and Violet looked sidelong at you. It didn't take long for your closest friend to realize what had enraptured your attention -- your eyes had given it away. You stared straight ahead, directly across the mess hall to the table along the back wall.

"Oh Gods not this again," she uttered softly. You swallowed, spearing a carrot this time. Garrick sat with the other third-years, laughing and cutting up over something so hilarious. Your gaze turned scowl, especially when Imogen's hand brushed his arm. She needed to get her hands, off, your man.

This time, your fork scraped across your plate.

"Jesus, Christ!" Ridoc groaned, staring at you. "Why torture all of us with that horrible sound?"

Violet smirked, laying a comforting hand on your shoulder. You were growing increasingly irritated as Imogen laughed at something Garrick said -- over-animatedly, if it were up to you. You knew Garrick was funny, sure; but that girl was always doing the most when it came to him. Little did she know, he was yours.

"Hey, stare a little harder why don't you -- maybe you'll burn a hole through her skull." Violet teased. Your stare faltered at this, looking to your friend as she looked to you expectantly. "You can't be mad at her for sitting with her friends, Y/N."

You rolled your eyes, huffing.

"Yeah, but I can be mad at her for trying to steal my man."

"Oh, so you finally asked him out then?" Ridoc piped up. You growled, crossing your arms.

Violet only sighed. "No," she said, answering for you. "No, she hasn't yet."

Ridoc chuckled. "So, you're pissed at Imogen, because she's flirting with your boyfriend who's not your boyfriend?"

You banged a fist on the table, the silverware atop it clamoring. The entire table looked at you as you stood instantly, anger flaring inside.

"I'm going to the gym."

It was all you said before tossing your leftovers, and heading for the double doored exit. You passed Garrick's table, but he was too busy nudging Bodhi in the side to register you passing by.

But, out of the corner of your eye, you realized the pink haired female did.

✧･ﾟ: *

The sun was setting low on the horizon, the gym still empty. You huffed and panted as you swung your fists against the punching bag, the pain in your knuckles barely registering after going at it for so long. Music blared in your headphones, the angry lyrics prompting you further. You hadn't heard nor noticed the gym door opening, not until a soft touch to your shoulder had you whirling.

"Woah! Woah!" The voice sounded as though it was underwater, and you instantly lowered your fist and yanked out your earbuds. Before you stood none other than Garrick, hands raised in surrender.

"Oh gosh," you wheezed, arms on your hips as you worked to calm your racing heart. "You really gave me a scare!"

Garrick laughed sheepishly, his beautiful straight teeth shining through. Your heart, already skipping at the sight of him before you, lurched at the sight. Gods, he really was the most handsome man you'd ever seen.

"Sorry -- I just came by to get a few reps in myself, and I noticed... your form," he winced. You squared your shoulders, raising an eyebrow.

"My, what?"

He grinned, a simple in his left cheek popping out.

"Your form," he explained, dropping his gym bag to the ground. He squared off before the bag, bringing his raised fists into a fighting stance. "You tend to hit like this," he demonstrated, punching forward slowly. "But, that'll do you some damage after time. To preserve your knuckles, you need to hit like this," he extended his arm again, demonstrating the wrist rotation you'd been lacking. You nodded in understanding.

"I see."

"Here," he stepped aside, allowing you to stand before the bag once more. "Give it a go."

You sighed softly, spreading your feet to square off before the mat once more. You raised your fists, readying to throw a punch -- but, your breath caught in your throat as Garrick's hands braced your hips.

"Oh, and you'll want to angle yourself this way too," he said softly. His breath graced your neck, and you could've melted beneath his touch. Only when he released you did you breathe again, trying to regain focus on the task at hand. You threw a few punches, trying to imitate what Garrick had showed you -- but you weren't quite doing them just right.

Garrick frowned, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I'm not sure, Y/N -- something still looks off." His brows furrowed in concentration. That's when a lightbulb went off in your head.

"You're right, I don't think I'm quite getting it," you said innocently. You stepped forward, arms crossing beneath your breasts. "Maybe I need a tutor, or a trainer, I guess."

Garrick nodded in agreement.

"That might actually help a lot," he said, and your cheeks heated beneath the weight of his gaze. You sighed, shrugging your shoulders.

"I mean, I'm sure anyone else could help me but... you always spar so well, I think it'd be best if you trained me," you said sweetly. His brows shot up at this, clearly thinking over the idea.

"Me? Oh, I mean... yeah, that's an idea," he said, mulling it over. You swallowed, taking another step toward him.

"What about right now?" You asked. He chuckled nervously, a hand reaching to scratch the back of his head.

"Oh! I don't think I'll be able to tonight, unfortunately," he said apologetically. You pouted, sticking out your bottom lip. "I already told Imogen I'd spar with her-"

"Wait. What?" You couldn't help but interrupt. He only shrugged.

"Yeah, I mean with challenges at the end of next week, she asked me to work with her tonight, and I said sure. She's a really good friend, Y/N, I couldn't just cancel on her."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. Your attention was stolen as the gym doors opened again -- this time, the bane of your existance walking through them with her bright pink hair.

Garrick turned back to you, placing a promising hand on your shoulder.

"What are you up to tomorrow?" He asked, his eyes locked onto yours. You stared up at him, though the pink streak in your field of vision was drawing closer and closer.

"Nothing -- absolutely nothing," you said. A lie, sure -- you had promised Violet you'd study with her. But, she'd understand, especially if it meant you'd get some one-on-one time with Garrick.

He nodded. "Perfect -- I'll meet you here at seven?"

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance.

"Sounds like it'll work for me."

Garrick's hand dropped as Imogen stalked closer, tossing her duffel loudly onto the floor. She sighed as she stretched, arching her back and crossing her arms side to side. You'd had just about enough of that, and on that note, bid your crush goodbye.

✧･ﾟ: *

"Seriously? We made these plans days ago."

So, Violet wasn't as chill about cancelling study plans afterall. She frowned at you from her bed, watching as you secured your hair in a ponytail across the room.

"I'm sorry Vi -- I just had something come up. An important something, might I add," you added with a hint of intrigue. Violet only sighed.

"We take the test Monday," she griped, shaking her head. "I do get that it's a Friday night, but what could have possibly come up that is more important than passing it?"

You secured the ponytail around your thick strands. "Trust me, Vi -- it's not something I can just reschedule."

She shrugged, hopping off her bed.

"Well, then I wish you the best of luck on Monday."

✧･ﾟ: *

You checked the time again. 6:45. You were early. Unsurprising, as you'd been pacing your room for hours, waiting for seven to come -- but, now that you were here at the gym, the nerves began to creep in. Adrenaline flowed through you as you paced before the gym doors, not wanting to go in too early.

There wasn't much time left, you supposed. You pushed through the entry, taking stock of the empty gym -- well, almost empty. To the left, near the weight racks, Garrick grunted, his muscles flexed and bare chest sweaty.

The sight nearly took your breath away.

He grunted again as he lifted the weights, his muscles straining and veins more visible as you approached. His biceps bulged as he lifted the bar up again, this time dropping it onto the rack with a satisfied huff. He sat up, panting, though his eyes caught on you.

"Hey," he said breathlessly, making to stand. You set down your things, undoing and resecuring the wraps around your knuckles anxiously.

"H-Hi," you mumbled, straining to keep your gaze away from his bare, toned chest. He approached you, running his fingers through his hair as he took in heavy breaths.

"You ready to get started?" He asked, and you nodded. "Did you stretch?"

You bit the inside of your cheek at this.

"No," you admitted. He shook his head as a small grin tilted the corners of his lips.

"You want to stretch before working out -- every time," he insisted. You dropped to your knees, sitting back as you straightened your legs before you. He joined you on the floor, watching as you slowly prepared your body for the exercises.

"Not stretching will only ever result in injury."

✧･ﾟ: *

When Monday morning came, you found it hard to sit still in Duvera's class. The test lay before you, the one you neglected to study for -- and Violet sat to your left, side-eyeing you. She'd picked up on something, watching you practically skip down the halls all weekend with glee. What she didn't know was that your cancelled plans Friday night were the reason why.

Your eyes glazed over as you read the question again, one of the last ones on the exam. What year was Basgiath War College founded? Shit, you didn't know the answer. Only a small seed of regret bloomed in your chest as you considered it -- maybe taking a little time to study would've been helpful. But, that would have meant less time with Garrick-

"Five minutes, cadets!"

Duvera's warning caused you to panic. You frantically filled out the rest of your paper, scrambling to bring it to her desk as the bell rang. Violet followed you out, flanking your side when you made it to the main hallway.

"How do you think you did?"

You shrugged, unable to look at her. "Not as well as I could've, if I would've studied."

She chuckled, nudging your side.

"Well, I think I did pretty good -- no good worrying over it now though." She said. As the two of you rounded the corner, your heart stopped beating in your chest. Just down the hall, Garrick held open the doors to the sparring ring, allowing Imogen to walk through. Her grateful expression only kindled the hate flames inside of you -- his smirk set them ablaze.

"What's gotten into you?" Violet asks, following as you walked quicker toward the sparring ring. You peeked inside, noticing quite a few other third years inside. Graciously, Imogen wasn't talking to Garrick this time -- she was in deep conversation with Quinn and a few others. Garrick's back was to the door, but you knew without a doubt it was him.

"Nothing, nothing," you responded absentmindedly. Violet huffed, looking around as the hall began to clear.

"It doesn't seem like nothing -- c'mon, we're gonna be late for land nav," she pleaded. You tore your eyes from the peephole, following as Violet took off for your second lecture of the day.

Fucking Imogen.

The bane of your existence, Imogen.

✧･ﾟ: *

You tried not to think about the poor grade you recieved on your exam as your fist connected with the bag once more. Garrick stood to your right, coaching your every move.

"Good, now go faster -- yes!" He praised as your knuckles hit the targeted area. You paused, breathing heavy as you turned to face him. His expression was full of delight, his smile full of teeth as he looked at you.

"You've gotten a lot better at this, Y/N," he complimented, reaching to grab your waterbottle from behind him. He handed it to you and your fingers brushed his as you took it -- your beart skipping a beat.

"Do you think you're ready for mat training?"

You nearly choked on your water, the suggestion surprising.

"M-mat? Training?"

He chuckled, taking the bottle from you and setting it near the punching bag.

"Yes -- I think it could really help you, especially with challenges coming this weekend," he explained. Your heart sank as you registered his words -- sure, you could hold your own on the mat. But with challenges only continuing to get harder and harder, you could actually benefit from a few pointers.

"Yeah, actually that sounds great... should we start tonight?"

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow -- I'm using this area for the rest of the night."

Your blood ran cold as you turned, coming face-to-face with Imogen. Her words were spoken firmly, as though she had no doubt whatever she said would go. Garrick chuckled, rubbing his hands together nervously.

"Gen, what are you even talking about. We can't share?"

She scoffed, her gaze narrowing in on you. "No, we can't. And you only reserved the gym for training until nine -- I have it until closing time later."

You glared at her, but she only chuckled. Garrick tilted his head, curious and oblivious to the silent war waging between the two of you.

"Why do you need the whole gym to yourself?" He asked. Her feline grin turned feral in response.

"It's not just for me -- I've taken on a little second year in need of some training, myself," she quipped. You folded your arms.

"Who?" You demanded. She smirked, and your eyes widened as a familiar, silvery braid approached behind her.

You stared, shocked and horrified as Violet walked up to you, a sheepish smile on her face. "Hey, Y/N."

Your brows narrowed, your blood boiling. "Violet -- what are you doing here?"

"She needed my help," Imogen snapped. Violet stared quietly at you, watching as you shook your head slowly. "Her best friend started taking private lessons, anyway -- why shouldn't she?"

You growled. "It's not the private lessons that are the problem," you said lowly. Imogen raised an eyebrow.

"Oh? Then what is?"

You glared at her, your face flushing in embarassment. Violet shot you an apologetic look, but you ignored it. Instead, you yanked your bag up off the floor, huffing and striding for the exit.

"Great work tonight!" Garrick called. You didn't turn to face him, his voice fading as you shoved through the exit doors. "We'll practice more tomorrow!"

✧･ﾟ: *

You'd trained with Garrick so many times now, you realized you felt the most comfortable being around him. He always kept things so professional with you though, and you wished he'd break free of that facade and act instead.

Thank again, he'd only ever been cordial with you. But tonight -- oh, tonight, you knew you could break him.

Strutting into the gym, you tilted your chin high. The last few riders exited as you strode in, eyeing you and flat out gawking as you passed them by. You didn't mind, that was the point, anyway -- now you could only hope Garrick would take the bait.

"Hi Garrick," you said smoothly, your hips swaying as you sauntered up to him. Bodhi and Dain paused mid conversation, the officer's eyes unabashedly roving over your form. Your Wingleader was more subtle about it though, covering up his interest with a strained cough.

"Oh! Shit, sorry, I didn't realize it was so late," Dain said, purposefully averting his eyes. Garrick turned, his eyes landing right where you wanted them too as he took you in.

"No worries, I'm a few minutes early anyways," you said, smiling sweetly. Dain moved to leave the room, yet Bodhi still stared, enraptured.

"Y'know... if Garrick is ever busy, I'm more than happy to-"

The back of Garrick's hand met his friend's chest, halting his sentence.

"No need, Bodhi -- Y/N knows I always have time for her, don't you Y/N?"

You peered up at him innocently, and Bodhi shook his curls softly.

"Right... well... I'll leave you two to it, I guess." He walked off defeatedly, and you cocked an eyebrow at your trainer.

"So, mat training tonight?" You questioned. Garrick swallowed thickly, nodding in response.

"Yep. I suppose so."

✧･ﾟ: *

You grew increasingly frustrated as Garrick forced you to repeat the same move again -- and again, you did it wrong. This time, you weren't even trying to mess up, but you just couldn't quite seem to figure it out anyway. All night, you'd been teasing the male without so much as a flinch from him -- the excessive stretching, the skimpy garments, and bedroom eyes -- nothing worked, and it was pissing you off.

You groaned in frustration, moving to reset your position once again.

"Garrick, I don't even understand why you're making me do this," you griped, bending your knees and taking a fighting atance again. "You said tonight we'd do mat training -- what does any of this have to do with-"

The wind was knocked from your lungs as the male lunged at you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist. You shouted as you were flung backward, landing straight on your ass. You gasped for air, vision blurring as Garrick released you at once.

"Because," he said, his tone curt. "Someone will take advantage of your ill-preparation, and knock you on your ass as I've just done."

You frowned, but he kept talking.

"Sparring begins with a good stance -- now, get back up, let's try again."

You huffed, accepting his outstretched palm as he tugged you back onto your feet. About 15 attempts later, he finally dealt you some praise.

"Very good! Now -- for hand-to-hand. Show me what you've got."

You stared blankly at him.

"You mean... fight you?"

He chuckled, readying himself before you. "Sure! Let's see what you've got, then I'll know where to start with you."

✧･ﾟ: *

You couldn't exactly be angry over how many times Garrick had you pinned to the mat -- he was a third-year, however, and you weren't complaining about him landing on top of you.

It was another hour before you began to push back, dealing him new blows and dodging the way he'd instructed you.

"Well done, Y/N!" He congradulated. It was short-lived, as the next round, you were on your ass again. This time, your back laid flat on the ground, and Garrick's nose hovered a few inches above yours.

"You've got fire," he said gently, his eyes searching yours. "But, I think I've figrued out what fuels you."

He had not the slightest idea.

"Back up -- this time, try and fight me with a little bit of that attitude from earlier."

You gasped, your hands curling into fists.

"Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "You heard me -- where'd that bratty sense of entitlement go, hm? Was it the first time I put you on your back, or the fifteenth-"

You lunged for him, growling as you took one of his legs out from beneath him. He gasped as he fell back, not expecting the move. You pinned him to the mat with your hips, your hands dodging his as he went to grab you. Once you had his pinned above his head, you finally found the courage to smirk down at him.

"This attitude, you mean?" You chuckled. His arms slid from your grip, grabbing at your exposed waist and flipping you over. Now, his hips pinned you -- his lips so close to yours, they could touch.

He smiled, soft as he looked down into your eyes.

"Exacly, that attitude."

This was the moment -- it had to be. Heat flared between your thighs as his hips pressed firmly against you, his bulge twitching and hardening beneath his sweats. Your spandex shorts did nothing to restrict the feeling, and a small wave of victory crossed your mind. You'd got him.

Slowly, you craned your neck, lifting your head from the mat as your mouth moved closer to his. His eyes fell closed, and you tilted your chin, almost there, almost-

"Am I interrupting something?"

Garrick's eyes flew open, his head turning toward the entry doors. You looked too, though you already knew who that annoying voice belonged to.

Imogen.

"N-no," Garrick stuttered, immediately releasing you and scrambling to his feet. He dusted himself off, not offerring you a hand this time. You stood reluctantly, watching as Imogen infultrated the room, dropping her bag without a care in the world.

"It was nothing, Gen. We were just training," he assured her. Her eyes dragged up and down your body, assessing, judging. You wrapped your arms around your bare torso, suddenly feeling exposed. The cropped tank and spandex shorts were meant to lure in Garrick -- not be used against you, making you feel so small.

"Right," she said, disbelievingly. She shrugged, working to wrap her knuckles with tape. "Well, Violet will be here any minute, so."

Garrick nodded, giving you a small glance before gathering his things. You sighed, reaching for your bag as well.

"I'll... see you tomorrow, Y/N. Be ready for the challenges."

It was all he said before racing through the doors, faster than a bat straight out of Hell. You frowned, standing from the floor and preparing to follow him out. That was, until Imogen's taped hand caught your shoulder to stop you.

"What?" You hissed, narrowing your eyes. She leveled you with an accusatory stare.

"I know what you're doing, second-year; and it's not gonna work."

You laughed humorlessly.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you stated, trying to wrench your shoulder free of her grasp. She held tight, leaning in to speak lowly to you.

"You don't think it's obvious? The stares, the lessons, the... whatever the Hell it is you're wearing," she said wit disgust. Your cheeks reddened, but she kept talking. "I've been friends with Garrick for a very long time -- whatever you're doing is not gonna work."

You shook your head slowly, swallowing.

"Right. And I'm sure whatever you're doing, is?" You bit back. She dropped her hand, glowering at you. "Or, maybe not -- last I checked, he's not your boyfriend either."

She stared silently at you, her anger visible on her face. You shrugged, shifting your bag higher onto your shoulder. The door opened and Violet walked in, and you took that as your cue to leave.

"Good luck tomorrow, by the way," Imogen grit out. "I heard the challenges this week were going to be much harder than before."

✧･ﾟ: *

You were all but stewing as you watched the match happening before you. A girl from first wing was paired with another female from yours - Rhiannon, you think. She was doing your wing justice, absolutely handing the ither girl's ass to her. Violet flanked your side, not talking much as she watched beside you.

"You can't give me the silent treatment forever," she said, and you cuold practically feel her stare at the side of your head. Sure, the past week had not been fun -- you'd barely uttered two word to your roomate since finding out her new training arrangements. Thus, you figured she'd suffered enough -- and so had you.

"I just don't see why you'd go to Imogen for training," you answered, a long sigh escaping as you spoke. Violet turned fully to you.

"I didn't -- she offered to train me. She said she knew about the challenges this week, and who I'd be fighting, and said I could probably use a few pointers so I wouldn't end up on my ass again," she explained. Your brows narrowed as you registered what she said.

"Wait -- you're telling me Imogen knows who's paired up today?"

Violet nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. She said a bunch of the second years would be matched with thirds this week."

That. Fucking. Bitch.

You turned slowly, your eyes narrowing.

"And, you didn't think to tell me this?"

Violet shrugged.

"Figured Garrick would, honestly. Imogen said he probably did tell you."

Your blood simmered beneath your skin. That ignorant, pink-haired, selfish-

"Next on the mat! Y/N Y/L/N, and Imogen Cardulo."

Emmetario's voice was white noise as all color leached from your face. Was he serious? If you were paired with Imogen, and she'd known all week...

You turned, searching for Garrick in the crowd. Your gaze found his, the top of his head visible over the heads of the other cadets. His brows furrowed in concern as he stared back at you, his line of sight faltering as a certain third year stepped onto the mat.

You glared as you stomped onto the mat as well, walking straight up to her.

"You knew all week?" You growled, and Imogen only answered you with a look of amusement. "You knew. You knew all fucking week we'd be challenging one another, and you told my best friend, but not me?"

She huffed a laugh.

"Please -- I only found out this morning we were paired up. But yeah, I knew I'd be challenging a second year no doubt." She would the tape tighter around her knuckles. Looking down, you realized you weren't wearing any. Imogen laughed cruelly, not even looking at you as she spoke.

"What, did your new boyfriend not bring you to the ring well-prepared?" Your gaze hardened, especially as she glanced up at you. "Oh wait -- he isn't, your boyfriend."

You took a deep breath, the rush of air doing nothing to cool your temper. You heard your name from behind you, and you turned just in time to see Garrick approaching the edge of the mat. He held out wrapping tape, and you eagerly made your way toward him.

He said nothing as he made quick work of the material, winding it tight around your palms.

"Remember what I taught you," he said softly. "I believe in you, Y/N. I trust that you'll apply your training here, today."

You waited as he finished securing the tape around your second hand, then you glanced up at him angrily.

"Yeah, like how I should've trusted that you'd tell me I'd be fighting Imogen today?" Your gut twisted, the words you'd accepted as truth spilling out. "No wonder you didn't, honestly; I already know you have a thing for her."

Garrick's eyes widened, and he gripped both of your shoulders as he looked into your eyes.

"No, Y/N you don't understand-"

"BEGIN!"

You yanked free of Garrick's grasp, leveling him with a glare before turning to face Imogen again. She inspected her nails as you strode toward her, not even taking a fighting stance as you drew closer.

Silly girl, you thought. The first punch you threw hit her in the gut, and she reared back a step before aligning her defenses. She coughed as she took her fighting pose, fists raised and eyes narrowed.

The next hit wasn't so lucky -- you threw a punchand missed, which gave the third year the opportunity to knee you in the ribs. You staggered froward, working to regain your balance as you wheezed, turning to face her ignorant, smiling face.

"You got one good hit on me, I'll give you that." She lunged, both arms wrapping your waist and sending you careening to the floor. The wind rushed from your lungs as she pinned you, her sneer mere inches from your face.

"You forget, second year, he trained me too."

This had you seeing red.

You jerked your hips, tossing her off of you as you went completely feral. Every move, every thrown punch, every swing -- it was all Garrick. She dodged a few of them, of course; but by the fourth or fifth attempt, your knuckles were connecting with her jaw and your foot was shoving against the backs of her knees. You'd wrestled her to the floor, yanking her hands behind her back. You bared your teeth as you tried twisting them, but the callous female only laughed.

"You really think this is going to make him want you?" She taunted, blood dripping from the inside of her mouth. "You really think he'll be impressed? I can assure you he'll never-"

You huffed a growl, driving your elbow between her shoulderblades. She cried out in pain, her words completely cut off.

"He's mine," you growled into her ear. "Haven't you gotten that by now?"

Imogen grunted, thrusting you off of her back and sending you to the floor. You scrambled, trying to regain your footing -- failing, as her boot connected with your ribs.

"Miss possessive -- I'm sure he'll love that," she sneered. Her foot kicked you again, and again, and soon enough she was atop you. Her fists flew at you, every breath escaping as you panted and gasped for air. Shouts sounded from behind you, and in the moment you did the only thing you could think of. Reaching up, you clasped both hands around her neck, squeezing hard. Her eyes widened as her face grew redder, her air supply cut off. Black spots clouded your vision as she continued her assault -- the last image you saw was your tatered, bloody bandages before your vision winked out.

✧･ﾟ: *

When you woke up, night had fallen. The first thing you saw was the crackling hearth across the room, moonlight streaming in from the window above. You swallowed, your throat so dry it fels as thouh it had been coated in a layer of sand -- and that's when you began to realize where you were.

Your hands lie atop black, cotton sheets -- the room was cold, save for the burning fire beyond. Shivering, you drew the blankets from you; on top, you wore a large shirt you'd never seen before, and on bottom... well...

Instantly your eyes widened. The single bed, the upscale dorm, the shirt -- you weren't in your dorm. You weren't even in your own clothes, for that matter. Glancing down at your hands, you spotted fresh bandage wraps; gone was the blood and gore from earlier. You glanced around frantically, pausing as the adjacent bathroom door opened.

"I changed the bandages while you were out," Garrick said, crossing through the doorway. The stream of light followed him out as he crossed the room, nearing your bedside. "How are you-"

Your clenched fist drew out from under the blankets, aiming right for his nose. He caught it in an open hand, his grip reawakening the pain in your knuckles. His brow furrowed as he tsked at you.

"Ah ah ah -- you don't want to do that," he reasoned, gently placing your hand atop the covers once more. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he only met you with a grin. "Besides, your hands are just beginning to heal."

"I don't want to be here right now." You said suddenly. Garrick sighed, running a hand through his hair. You hated the way your eyes followed the movement of his long digits.

"Y/N please, just let me explain-"

"Explain what?!" You said incredulously. "Explain how you knew I'd be fighting Imogen today? Explain how, you kept it from me because you have some sort of, I don't know... thing with her?"

Garrick chuckled shaking his head.

"That's not it at all, Y/N. I didn't know the two of you would be paired up, for starters. Even if I did, I would have kept it to myself to keep the fight fair," he reasoned. You scowled.

"No, you would've kept it to yourself so she'd have the upper hand." Rolling your eyes, you continued on. "Because you're in love with her or something-"

It all happened so fast, his hand gripping your throat, your head swilveling to face him. His lips crashed onto yours, demanding and punishing in the most delicious of ways. Your eyes widened as his mouth moved against yours, not quite believing what happened. A soft groan escaped as his fingers squeezed lightly around your throat, and at that he pulled back slowly. His eyes opened slowly, focusing on your face.

"I don't," he assured, his quiet voice loud in the otherwise silent room. "I don't love Imogen -- not like that."

You stared at him in shock, all 1000 emotions warring with one another inside of you. He gazed back, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips.

"I do however, have a thing, for you."

Your face flushed at his words as your breath abandoned you. He chuckled, leaning in to kiss you again. You melted into him this time, listening as he mumbled softly against your mouth.

"Sorry -- this felt like the only thing I could do to get you to shut up for one second so I could explain myself." You giggled at that, arching your aching back as his hands slid around your waist and hugged you closer to him. You stayed silent as your head rested against his chest, his body repositioned to lay half on the bed with you. He sighed, his other hand stroking through your hair.

"How long have you known?" You asked. He knew what you meant, his chest rumbling as he laughed.

"Hmm.. maybe, a year ago?" You could hear the smirk in his tone. "You made it pretty obvious, Y/N."

You drew your head back, looking up at him in disbelief.

"You knew all this time that I liked you? And didn't do a damned thing about it?"

He shushed you, his fingers guiding your head to rest against his chest once again.

"Shhh, shh -- I'm doing something now, aren't I?"

You rolled your eyes, snuggling deeper into his chest. "Guess so."

After a few long minutes of silence, he spoke again.

"If we're going to make this work -- you're going to have to get over Imogen," he reasoned. "She's been my friend for a very long time, there's no getting rid of her." You huffed, closing your eyes.

"She likes you, Garrick." You complained, and he tilted your chin to look up at him again.

"And I, like you," he stated plainly. His lips kissed yours softly as he laid you back down.

You grumbled. "Just don't let your friend beat the shit out of me again."

He cackled at this.

"From what I hear, you did a number on her too."

Your focus faded in and out, sleep soon consuming you as the night stretched on. Garrick could have all the friends he wanted, you supposed -- as long as they kept their hands, off your man.

✧･ﾟ: *

#garrick tavis imagine #garrick fourth wing #garrick x reader #garrick tavis #fourth wing x reader #read more #fourth wing #onyx storm #iron flame #iron flame imagine #the empyrean #tate mcrae #miss possessive tour

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amomentsescape · 8 months ago

Note

Yay request are back! I loved your yandere slasher sleepwalking one shot so may I request another sleepwalking reader scenario?

But instead of sleep escaping they just roam around like a drunk saying cute things like about how much they love them and silly things like how the strawberries are so obnoxious always saying they're the best fruit while the reader is just sitting in the fridge and random stuff like that?

And the Slasher just finds it aboustly adorble and fondly giggle at their antics while lovingly guiding them to bed?

😴😴😴🤤🤤🤤🥰🥰🥰

Slashers with Funny Sleepwalking! Reader

Slashers x Reader (Separate)

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, & Bo

A/N: It's been a long time coming. I'm so sorry for the wait on this, and on anyone else's requests still sitting in my inbox. This was a joy to write though, so thank you!

Freddy Krueger

Who needs TV when Freddy has you?

You aren't really able to fully sleep in his world, so he comes to you most nights

He just flops into your still warm spot in bed and watches you stumble around the room

"Freeeedddy! I love you!" you coo over and over

And every time, he replies with a chuckle and an "I love you too"

You giggle and just stumble around some more, bumping into the same wall multiple times

When you finally come back to bed, you just fall right on top of him, not even noticing he's there

Michael Myers

You've woken up a few times in the morning to sore lips

(He duct taped them shut throughout the night)

He's not really home most of the time anyways, so it doesn't really matter

But when he is, the last thing he wants to deal with is you laughing and practically screaming at any object you bump into

He's quite literally locked you in the bedroom some nights so he doesn't have to hear your incessant babbling

"Michael, why is there glue on my cheek?"

He'll just shrug and walk off, tossing a broken glue stick in the trash

In his defense, the glue was nontoxic

Jason Voorhees

He loves to hear your random laughs and nonsensical talk of hysteria

You've grabbed onto his arm multiple times, using all of your strength to pull him outside to go on an "adventure"

"But, Jason! There's strawberry unicorns and feather fields out there!"

He honestly isn't sure if he should be laughing or feeling actively concerned for your wild sense of imagination

He always guides you lovingly back to bed while you have the cutest pout on your lips

"But it's time to explore!"

He just kisses your head and places the blanket back around you

It only takes a few seconds for you to fall peacefully back asleep again

Thomas Hewitt

You're going to make this man go into cardiac arrest

You're sleep talking is adorable, of course

But what isn't adorable is how you think each one of his carving knives is a toy doll

"This one is so pretty! What should we name her?" you asked all giddy

Thomas's smile turns to one of horror as he watches you swing his freshly sharpened butcher's knife around like it was flying

"Weeee!" you squealed happily, only to drop the knife two inches from your foot

Thomas about died

Since then, he makes it a point to lock you both in the bedroom each night

He'll happily indulge in your fantasy like dreams from there

Bubba Sawyer

He literally sets an alarm so he can see what made up conversation you're going to have each night

He'll follow you around, giggling with you about whatever you have to say

"And then I told him to go away cuz why would he say that my favorite fruit isn't his favorite fruit? Who does that? Oh, and then he went and..."

And Bubba just holds your hand and hums along with you as if he's listening

He has no idea what you're talking about most of the time, but hearing your sleepy voice is just so heartwarming, he can't help it

You always wonder why you wake up in the morning sounding like a dying frog

Brahms Heelshire

Oh, Brahms eats it up

You're constantly on a rampage going on and on about how much you love him and how much you need him

And this is exactly what he wants to hear

The moment he feels you stir in the middle of the night, he rolls over and holds you tight, making sure your sleeping actions don't cause you to leave the room

"Is there anything on your mind?" he asks softly

The moment you hear his voice, a big goofy grin spreads across your face

"Oh, Brahms! I love you soooo much. I wish I could just be here with you forever!"

Do you even know what you're saying? Of course not

But Brahms will do everything he can to believe it

Norman Bates

Norman is certainly guilty of staying up too late reading some new novel that has him engrossed

You've almost scared him a few times when he turns to look at you only to be met with your open eyes and droopy smile

"I like the bagels that jam," you say sweetly

Norman just looks at you in a confused smile

"Sure you do, honey"

You just smile and flop your head onto his arm

"Jam jam bagel. Jam jam bagel," you whisper-sing

Norman just chuckles quietly and goes back to his book, letting you continue your random sleepy talk

Billy Loomis

Billy just wakes up with a groan each time

"Babe, please just go to sleep"

"But the caterpillars! They're hiding..." you say, rolling all over the place

He replies with his usual grunt and rolls over, flopping right on top of you

"They're gone now! How did you do that?" you exclaim

He puts his hand over your mouth

"We do this every night," he mumbles into your neck

He's just met with a snore as you've already passed back out

"I don't know how I put up with you," he says with a slight chuckle

Stu Macher

He wakes up to the sound of yelling and fast thumping coming from the living room below

He all but trips on his way downstairs, worried something was wrong

Except he is simply met with you running around in a blanket, yelling about incoherent nonsense

"The snakes! The berries! The fridge!" followed by an immediate laugh

Stu stands there for a bit before finally chasing after you, swooping you up into his arms

"No! They got me! I'll never surrender!" you yell at the top of your lungs

"And I thought I was the loud one," he laughs, carrying your wiggling frame back upstairs to bed

Vincent Sinclair

He wakes up in the middle of the night to a soft voice singing

This would honestly be terrifying in any other context

But since this is almost a nightly occurrence by now, he just responds with a sigh

"Then the fruit tree grows, and the fruit starts to fall, and the-"

Vincent picks you up and tosses you back into bed

"I can fly now!" you yell, kicking your feet

He can't help but smile at your behavior

It might be two in the morning, but seeing you so goofy and free warms Vincent's heart

Just please don't sing so loud anymore, or else Vincent is going to get an earful from Bo the next morning

Bo Sinclair

He can hear you banging around in the kitchen

And he's about to storm out there to complain how it's 3 in the morning, and you shouldn't even be awake right now

But instead, he finds all the food on the floor as you try to wedge yourself inside the fridge

"Lava. There's lava everywhere," you're muttering

"Darlin' what in God's name are you-"

"Bo! You're on fire! Hurry! Hop in!" you yell, trying to make room for him in the cramped fridge

He just lets out a frustrated sigh

"Not tonight, sweetheart."

He quickly picks you and carries you back to the bedroom

"I didn't know you could walk on lava!"

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nightsmarish · 27 days ago

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Request: Barty x fem!animagus!reader who gets hurt but no one tells Barty so he has to ask the marauders where she is.

Barty crouch jr x fem!reader | 624 words

A/n: I was halfway through formatting this and the ASK DELTED ITSELF SO HERE WE ARE. I am SO sorry this took so long, this ask was in my inbox forever :[

Tw: reader is hurt, door slam, Peter, platypus

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡

The door to the marauders dorm slams open so hard that Remus is convinced the door was about to fall off its hinges.

"Dear fucking merlin," Sirius gasps, practically throwing the magazine he was reading.

"Good afternoon," Barty stands in the doorway, hands on hips, clearly having ran the entire way here, “Any of you blokes know were my gal is? Seemed to have lost her."

"Perhaps she doesn't want to be found." Peter mumbles from his desk, Barty seems to ignore it.

"She has left, decided Durmstrang was better suited for her academic needs." Sirius crosses his arms, upset his night has been invaded by Barty of all people.

"Very funny, Black." Barty sneers at him, "If someone wants to tell me I'd be out of your hair and all of us would be happier."

As if on cue, James walks out of the bathroom, drying his curls from his shower.

"Have you checked if shes still in the infirmary?" Finally! Barty gets some information, thank you James!

Barty practically runs back out of the dorm. Slamming the door once again on his way out, Remus winces slightly.

With quick feet Barty makes it up an obnoxious flight of stairs and to the infirmary, heart beating a million miles a minute.

Just as he enters, he sees your book bag resting at the end of one of the beds.

"Dragă?" Barty rounds the corner of your privacy curtain, seeing if you have been left here to die. Although that's probably a tad dramatic to think.

"Barty!" You smile, tired from pain potions Madam Pomfrey gave you, "Lovely to see you, darling."

Barty's eyes dart all around your body. You have small scratches all over you, a large bruise on your head and one large cast on your left leg. His heart melts.

"What happened? Take a fall off the astronomy tower?" He chuckles, taking a seat on the bed next to you.

"No." You look as if it's a feat you didn't fall off the tower, "I was trying to make friends with the giant squid and he threw me out of the water. Luckily damage was reduced due to having transformed beforehand."

Ah, yes. You, Barty’s wonderful and adventures girlfriend who became an animagus in your second year. A platypus, obviously. A land and water animal that you have used to get into far more trouble than you should.

"How dare he hurt my darling, I'll see to having him removed from the lake immediately." He grins, slinging an arm around your shoulders with care and pulling you into his side, "What did you tell Poppy?”

"Just a tumble down a hill, hit some rocks." You shrug, "the boys were there to back up my story so it worked well."

"Good, good. Can't have you sent to Azkaban before you befriend the merfolk." Barty nods thoughtfully.

There's a soft silence for a few minutes. Soft breathing shared between the two of you, Barty gently scratching up and down your arm, avoiding any injuries.

"Sorry I didn't get to tell you what happened sooner." You all but whisper.

"Don't apologize. Next time send that mutt you call a friend to fetch me though, yeah?" Barty cackles, "Nearly gave me a heart attack when I couldn't find you. Finally had to enter the Gryffindor dorms and interrogate those idiots."

"He's not a mutt!" You laugh, slapping his leg, "But I will, sorry you had to commit such a heinous act. I'm sure your life will never be the same."

"It won't, but I will recover." He sighs theatrically.

"Excuse me, Mr. Crouch." Madame Pomfrey clears her throat, "I'm afraid visiting time is up. Please vacate the infirmary."

Surprisingly enough, Barty gets up with almost no argument, giving you a salacious wink as he is escorted out by Hogwarts favorite matron.

You wink back.

#marauders era #marauders #marauders fanfiction #marauders era fic #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr #barty crouch x reader #barty crouch jr x you #barty crouch jr imagine #barty crouch jr fluff #barty crouch jr fic #Barty crouch junior x fem reader #barty crouch junior x reader #barty crouch junior fluff

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moonselune · 4 months ago

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I loveeeee the teacher stuff so much 💗 can i get w/ karlach, minthy, and the boys something with them being university professors and theres a bit of tension between you and them. perhaps you guys accidentally hooked up outside of class and now you want more but they are trying to stay professional??? love you miss seluney and thanks 🙏

thank you so much for blessing my inbox with this ask, love you too nonnie x the amount of research I had to do though for Astarion's was actually so funny

Karlach:

Karlach, or rather Dr Cliffgate, was avoiding you.

Not in the obvious, skittish way that most people avoided their problems, but in the way that made you aware of it. A way that made it obvious that she was trying not to avoid you, but also definitely was. Like how she never met your eye for longer than two seconds, or how she’d always position herself on the opposite end of the class, barking instructions from a distance.

And, of course, there was the rule.

"Five feet. I want five goddamn feet between us at all times."

It was the first thing she had said to you on your first day back after that night. The night you still dreamed about, the one that made you burn with want every time you looked at her. She had been so soft with you, all muscle and warmth, guiding you through it like she was made for it. She had held you so tight, pressed kisses to every inch of your skin—how could she expect you to forget?

And she wanted to pretend it never happened?

Bullshit.

So, naturally, you decided to push.

You weren’t bad at Sports Science. In fact, you were quite decent at it—when you wanted to be. But today? Today, your squats were terrible, your push-ups were abysmal, and don’t even talk about your deadlifts. Karlach was forced to correct you, calling out every mistake in that deep, commanding voice of hers.

It was fun, watching her squirm. But Karlach, to her credit, lasted the entire class without snapping. She was firm, professional, perfectly composed. Right up until the moment she ordered you to stay behind after class.

And now, you were alone.

Karlach stood at the front of the gym, arms crossed, expression taut with frustration.

"Alright," she said, tone clipped. "What the hell was that?"

You blinked innocently. "What was what?"

Karlach groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. "You know what." She fixed you with a hard stare. "You don’t need help with your form, and I know it. So tell me—why are you acting like a dumbass all of a sudden?"

You tilted your head, stepping forward just a fraction. "Maybe I just wanted some one-on-one time with my favorite teacher."

Karlach’s jaw clenched, and she immediately stepped back, holding up a warning finger. "No. No. Stay back—five feet."

You pouted. "What if I need help with my form?"

Karlach’s eye twitched.

You took another step forward.

She took one back.

"Bad student," she warned, pointing at you like you were a misbehaving pup.

You smirked, tilting your head coyly. "You weren’t saying that last time."

Karlach froze.

Her fists clenched at her sides, a storm brewing behind her eyes as she squeezed them shut and muttered something under her breath. Probably some kind of mantra to keep her from breaking, from doing what she wanted to do. Professional. She had to be professional.

But you could see it—the way her breathing had quickened, the slight twitch of her fingers, like she was fighting every urge to grab you and push you against the nearest wall. And you were more than willing to give her that push. You took another step forward, closing the distance entirely.

"Karlach," you murmured, voice soft.

Her eyes fluttered open—just as your lips pressed against hers. The groan she let out was guttural, half frustration, half relief. She grabbed you by the waist, yanking you flush against her as her mouth crashed against yours. The heat of her burned through your clothes, her grip iron-strong as if she was afraid to let go.

"Gods, you’re a menace," she growled against your lips.

You grinned, threading your fingers through her , dark hair. "I thought I was a bad student?"

Karlach huffed a laugh before lifting you onto the gym's padded table with ease, slotting herself between your legs.

"The worst," she muttered, before kissing you again.

Minthara:

Minthara was a strict professor.

She ran her Toxicology lectures with the precision of a battlefield commander, brooking no nonsense, no laziness, and certainly no stupidity. And normally, you were an exceptional student. One of her best, even.

Which is exactly why, when you deliberately screwed up your latest lab analysis, she had wasted no time in ordering you to stay behind after class. Now, you were seated in her office, watching as she paced behind her desk, ruby eyes blazing with frustration.

"Tell me," she said, voice sharp as a dagger's edge, "are you trying to be a disappointment? Or has your intelligence simply abandoned you?"

You bit back a smirk, watching the way her lips curled in distaste, the way her fingers flexed in restrained irritation. Gods, she was beautiful when she was mad.

"And look at you," she continued, exasperated. "Not even paying attention. Are you listening to me, or am I wasting my breath?"

You tilted your head, dragging your teeth over your bottom lip. "Oh, no, I'm listening, professor. Please—keep going."

Minthara paused. Her sharp mind caught on instantly, her ruby eyes narrowing as she studied your expression. The slight flush on your cheeks, the way you were watching her—intently, hungry. And suddenly, she understood.

"You like it," she murmured, more to herself than to you. "You like being scolded."

You grinned. "What can I say? You do it so well."

Minthara let out a slow, measured exhale, her nails tapping against the desk. "And what exactly am I meant to do with this information?"

You hummed, standing to your feet and sauntering forward until you were pressed against her desk. You leaned over it, propping yourself up on your elbows, your face mere inches from hers.

"Well," you mused, eyes alight with mischief. "You could always bring back some corporal punishment."

Minthara arched a brow. You smirked, tilting your head.

"Bring out the wooden ruler for a spanking." And then, to drive the point home, you slowly bent over the desk, resting your forearms against the polished wood. "What do you think, professor? Will that finally get through to me?"

Silence. Then—Minthara let out a deep, shuddering sigh, as if she were trying to summon every ounce of restraint she had left. And then, in a blur of movement, her hands were on you.

One gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as she dragged you up and crushed her lips against yours. The kiss was fierce, searing, a collision of teeth and tongue as she stole the very breath from your lungs.

"You," she growled between kisses, her grip tightening. "Are insufferable."

You grinned. "You weren’t saying that last time."

"Oh I think I was," Minthara’s grip tightened, eyes darkening as she pushed you back against the desk.

That one night. That reckless night. When you had been nothing more than strangers who had both, separately, decided to drink too much at a bar on the outskirts of town. She had been furious then, too—drunk, loose-lipped, and entirely unbothered by her usual air of control. You remembered the way she had pinned you against the wall of her rented room, how she had devoured you like a woman starved. And now, here, in the dimly lit confines of her office, she looked exactly as she had that night—eyes dark with want, expression hard with something that neither of you had dared to put words to.

Minthara muttered something in her native tongue—something that sounded distinctly like a curse—before pulling back just enough to reach for the wooden ruler on her desk.

"Perhaps it’s time," she murmured, voice like velvet and steel, "that I put you back in line."

And gods, you had never been more willing.

Gale:

Gale Dekarios was desperately trying to pretend that he hadn’t spent a night tangled in your sheets, gasping your name like a prayer, and utterly forgetting that he was supposed to be a responsible, professional figure in your academic life.

It was almost admirable, how steadfastly he kept his focus on the pitiful essay you had placed before him. His brow furrowed in exaggerated concern, fingers tapping against the edges of the paper as he sighed, long and heavy, like he was genuinely distressed by how abysmally incorrect your star charts were.

He was not fooling anyone.

“This is…” He exhaled sharply through his nose, rubbing his temple with two fingers. “This is not your best work.”

You hummed, leaning forward in your seat, chin propped up in your palm as you watched him intently.

“I think you are right, and I think I know why,” you mused. “I have been feeling rather… unsatisfied lately.”

Gale’s shoulders visibly tensed. He cleared his throat, choosing—rather wisely—not to acknowledge the deliberate edge to your voice. “Is there a reason you’ve been so distracted? It’s not like you to be so careless in your calculations.”

You sighed, stretching languidly in your seat. “I suppose I’ve just been in real need of some stress relief.”

Gale’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the page.

You watched him carefully, admiring the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes flickered—just for a moment—to where you sat before quickly snapping back to your disastrous work. It was clear that he was actively wrestling with himself, forcing his mind to stay on track, but oh, he was doing such a poor job of it.

“I—” His voice caught in his throat, and he had to clear it again before speaking. “I can refer you to student services for well-being if you’re struggling with academic pressure.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, rising from your chair.

“Is that all you can do for me, professor?” The way his breath hitched did delightful things to your ego.

He held his ground as you circled his desk, though you could see his fingers twitch against the paper, as if debating whether he should shove it into your hands and send you on your way. Instead, he straightened, schooling his features into something carefully neutral as you came to stand before him.

“I would strongly advise you to remain professional,” he said, voice measured, though you could hear the strain beneath it. You ignored him.

"Your tie’s looking a little loose, professor," you noted, gaze flickering down to where it hung slightly askew. "Let me fix it for you."

Gale opened his mouth, possibly to protest, possibly to attempt another weak defense, but he never got the chance. Because the moment your fingers brushed against his tie, he snapped.

One second, you were teasing him; the next, you were being yanked down into his lap, your breath stolen as his lips crashed against yours. His hands were firm on your waist, gripping like he was starved for the feeling of you, like he had spent every waking moment since that night thinking about how you had felt beneath him—how you had moaned for him.

He kissed you fiercely, hungrily, all pretenses of professionalism abandoned as he angled his head, deepening it with a groan that rumbled in his chest. One of his hands moved up, threading into your hair, tilting your head to his liking as he took control of the kiss.

And gods, you let him.

Because for all his self-restraint, all his desperate attempts to ignore what had happened between you, Gale Dekarios was a weak, weak man.

And you were more than happy to remind him of it.

Astarion:

Astarion’s lip curled as he held your latest project between his fingers, tilting his head as if it might suddenly reveal some hidden brilliance from a different angle. It did not. With a dramatic sigh, he let it drop onto his desk like it offended him.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, tapping his manicured fingers against the wood. “Perhaps if you didn’t spend so much time gallivanting, you could produce something half-decent. But alas, it seems someone has their priorities hopelessly skewed.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms as you leaned against the desk. “Oh please. The same could be said for you, professor. That is, after all, how we both ended up in that passionate predicament—”

Astarion immediately cut you off, talking over you with ease. “Yes, yes, I vaguely recall that debacle. But do you know what I’d much rather discuss?” He gave you a pointed look, lifting a perfectly arched brow. “Your abysmal stitch work. Truly, I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a seam ripper than endure looking at this for another second.”

You grinned, unfazed. His gaze flickered over you, from the crisp lines of your shirt to the neatly finished seams. Then, to your surprise, he huffed an amused laugh.

“The top you’re wearing now is an example of perfect tailoring,” he admitted, gesturing vaguely. “Proper dart placement, clean finishing—though the sleeve cap could use some refinement.”

You smiled at him, slow and knowing.

“Good to know,” you mused. “I made it myself.”

Astarion blinked.

You stepped closer, holding out your arm and tugging at the sleeve slightly, showing off the intricate seams. His sharp eyes honed in immediately, his fingers instinctively twitching, unable to resist assessing it more closely.

“Hm,” he hummed, inspecting. “Not terrible.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, undoing the first button of your shirt. “What would you have done differently?”

Astarion barely reacted, too focused on the fabric itself. “I would have—wait, what are you doing?” His gaze flicked up as you popped open another button, then another, exposing the curves of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders.

“Just giving you a better look,” you teased.

Astarion narrowed his eyes, his voice clipped. “Don’t you dare—”

You pulled the shirt off entirely. Astarion scrambled, eyes widening as he lunged forward, grabbing the discarded fabric and shoving it against your bare chest with an indignant noise.

“Are you insane?!” He hissed, pressing you flush against the desk in an attempt to shield your exposed skin. “This is not how a critique session works, darling—!”

You ignored him, hooking your fingers into the collar of his shirt and yanking him down, capturing his lips with yours. Astarion made a noise of protest—one that quickly turned into a needy sound as he melted into you.

The moment you pulled away, breathless and grinning, you traced a finger down the front of his neatly tailored shirt.

“Excellent inseaming,” you murmured appreciatively. Astarion let out a sharp, exasperated laugh, shaking his head.

“Gods, shut up,” he muttered before pulling you in and kissing you again, fiercer this time, like he was trying to sew himself into you.

Wyll:

Wyll sat behind his desk, your latest essay held between his fingers like it was something fragile, something unfamiliar. His brows were furrowed in a way that made his usual calm, disciplined demeanor seem almost troubled.

"I had some concerns about this," he said, tapping the parchment lightly. "Your writing is usually concise, structured, and critical. And yet this—" He lifted it slightly before setting it down again. "This is filled with… whimsy."

You tilted your head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"What's wrong with whimsy?" you asked, batting your eyelashes.

Wyll exhaled through his nose, clearly trying to keep himself composed. He had been doing that a lot since that night. The night where he had held your hips so tightly, pulled your body against his like a man starved, whispered things that should never leave a professor’s lips. The night that haunted his thoughts ever since.

But he was professional. Ethical. Disciplined. Or at least, he was trying to be.

He cleared his throat. "Whimsy, in itself, is not inherently wrong," he said carefully, sitting up straighter. "But philosophy demands clarity, structure, a foundation—"

You stepped forward. Just a little.

Wyll noticed immediately. His jaw tensed, but he carried on, unwavering. "—and while creative exploration is welcome, this lacks the critical analysis that I know you are more than capable of—"

Another step.

Wyll paused mid-sentence as you leaned in over his desk, as if to examine your paper more closely. It was a weak excuse—you knew what was in that essay, but the proximity gave you reason enough to invade his personal space.

Wyll sighed through his nose, jaw tightening further. "I know what you're doing."

You blinked at him innocently. "What ever do you mean?"

His fingers curled into his palm. He had already given you multiple warnings since that fateful one-night stand. Told you this was improper, inappropriate. Told himself that it couldn’t happen again. And yet, here you were. Again. Testing him. Pushing him.

It was wrong. He taught ethics, for gods' sake.

But all he wanted—all he wanted—was for you to straddle him in this office chair and ride him until the wheels broke.

Wyll forced himself back into reality, blinking rapidly. That was when he realized—

Your hand was on his thigh.

His body reacted before his mind could, heat rushing to his face. You gasped as if you were scandalized by his sudden flush.

"Professor Ravengard," you murmured, pressing the back of your hand to his forehead. "You're burning up."

His lips parted slightly, a weak protest forming—but then you dragged your hand down, tracing his cheek, cradling it gently.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly.

Wyll closed his eyes briefly, exhaling as if that would dispel the tension that had thickened the air between you. Then, he shook his head.

You smiled, your thumb brushing over his jaw. "I didn't think so."

You leaned in. Just close enough that he could feel your breath against his lips.

You could have kissed him. You wanted to kiss him. But you waited. You wanted him to come to you.

And oh, he did.

Wyll surged forward, his lips crashing into yours, his hands gripping your waist as if he had finally let go of every restraint that had been holding him back. The kiss was rough, needy, filled with every ounce of frustration and desire he had bottled up since that night.

They could debate the ethics of this later.

Halsin:

Halsin sat behind his desk, broad arms folded across his chest, his usual calm expression schooled into something unreadable. He had known this was coming. He had felt your eyes on him in class, the way you tilted your head when he spoke, the way your lips had quirked up into something just shy of teasing. He had ignored it. He had forced himself to pretend that nothing had happened between you that night—the one that still haunted his thoughts no matter how much he tried to suppress it.

But now, here you were, standing in the doorway of his office, as if fate itself was determined to test his restraint.

"Professor," you said sweetly, stepping inside. "I had some questions about today’s lecture."

Halsin arched a brow. "Did you, now?"

You nodded, stepping closer, taking the chair opposite his desk. "Yes, I found the discussion on mating seasons quite fascinating."

Halsin exhaled slowly. He knew where this was going. He had seen the glint in your eye, the way you played innocent far too well. But he was a professional. He was your professor.

So he sighed and leaned back, arms still crossed. "Ask away."

You smiled, tilting your head as if considering your words. "I was just wondering… how does an animal know when they've found the right mate? Is it purely instinct, or is there more to it?"

Halsin clenched his jaw.

"That depends on the species," he said carefully, his voice even. "Some rely on visual cues, others on scent—pheromones play a strong role in attraction, signaling compatibility and readiness to breed."

You hummed thoughtfully, fingers tapping against your chin. "So… they don't really have control over it? It's just primal instinct?"

Halsin took a deep breath, his large hands flexing against the arms of his chair. He had dealt with plenty of difficult situations in his life. He had faced wild beasts, braved the deepest parts of nature. But this? This was an entirely different kind of challenge.

"Instinct is powerful," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But control is what separates us from the animals."

Your lips curved into something wicked. "Is that so?"

He should have ended it there. Should have told you to leave, should have maintained the boundaries that were already far too blurred. But instead, he sat there, watching the way you looked at him with those knowing, hungry eyes—eyes that had once looked up at him from beneath tangled sheets, from between parted lips whispering his name.

You pushed back from the desk and stood, stretching ever so slightly before turning towards the door.

"Well, thank you for the lesson, professor," you said lightly, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the exit.

And then—

The last thread of his restraint snapped.

One second, you were reaching for the doorknob, and the next, you were yanked back, lifted effortlessly off your feet as Halsin turned you and pressed you against the wall, his large hands gripping your thighs, caging you in.

"Halsin—"

His mouth was on yours before you could finish, hot and demanding, all of his carefully controlled patience finally, finally breaking into something raw and consuming. You gasped against his lips, fingers tangling in his hair as he kissed you with the kind of intensity that made your head spin.

"What kind of professor would I be," he murmured against your mouth, voice rough, "if I didn't give you a live demonstration?"

Your breath hitched, and then you were kissing him back just as fiercely, your hands roaming over broad shoulders, feeling the raw strength beneath his clothes.

Maybe you had been the one to set the trap.

But Halsin had always been a creature of instinct.

Was I just listening to reproduction from Grease 2 and when I kissed the teacher on repeat when I was writing this? Yes, yes I was. I'm putting Shadowheart, Lae'zel, Rolan, Raphael and Mizora on a list of things I want to write when requests are done with this prompt. I just cannot get enough of it. Hope you guys enjoyed it and if anything was inaccurate subject wise... shhhhhh-Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

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