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pepsoui4 · 2 months ago

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Where I Want to Be Part 3

Reader realizes shes in too deep and tries to walk away from her and Bodhi Durrans situation ship. It doesn’t go as planned.

Word count: 7,428

Warnings: insults, the end?

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783022222549942273/where-i-want-to-be?source=share

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783108795206451200/where-i-want-to-be-part-2?source=share

There was a rhythm to them now, quiet and unspoken, like the familiar pull of gravity. Constant, steady, and invisible until you missed it. Somewhere between strategy sessions and sparring drills, between bruises and breathless laughter in candlelit corners of the archives, the lines between her and Bodhi had blurred. What began as necessity had softened into habit, and habit into something else entirely. Late nights once reserved for battle briefings and cadet evaluations turned into slow evenings in each other’s dorms, legs brushing under shared blankets, their shoulders pressed together as they passed a bottle back and forth in place of words. Other nights, they flew. Just the two of them and their dragons, skimming across midnight skies while the rest of Basgiath slept. Phyrrian, ever too wise for her age, would rumble with amusement when Y/N pretended the stargazing was tactical. Terrain memorization or aerial positioning. But even she had stopped mocking her rider after the third time she caught her smiling without realizing it.

The warmth between them never burned too hot. Bodhi, for all his razor-sharp wit and cocky charm in public, was frustratingly patient in private. He never asked her to name what was building between them, never reached too far, never pushed too hard. He simply was present, dependable, infuriatingly calm. And it was that steadiness she found herself drawn to more than anything. In a world where everything demanded something of her: her name, her control, her flame. Bodhi asked for nothing. He just stayed.

Until he didn’t.

At first, she barely noticed it. A missed night here. A half-hearted excuse there. He’d still show up most of the time. Still leaned against her doorframe with that lopsided smile, still slung onto her bed with the ease of someone who no longer asked for permission. But there were cracks now. A strange tightness in his smile. A distracted edge to his gaze. And once a week, almost like clockwork, he’d disappear altogether. He’d vanish into the dark before anyone else had even begun to wind down, no explanation, no warning, just gone. And when she asked, he’d wave it off. “Something with Garrick,” or “Just needed air.” But he wasn’t the kind of man who needed air. Not unless he was suffocating on something he wouldn’t name.

And lately he was always busy.

He was there, technically. Still her second. Still her sounding board. Still the calm to her storm. But his mind wandered more. His eyes darted elsewhere during briefings. And there were moments. Small, sharp moments when she caught him looking toward Violet Sorrengail with something unreadable in his face. Concern, maybe. Guilt. Something quiet and heavy she didn’t understand.

And it was starting to make her unravel.

Not all at once. Just in pieces. Just enough to notice the weight of the silence stretching longer than it used to. Just enough to hear herself wonder, alone in her bed at night, why Bodhi Durran, who had spent weeks drawing her out like no one ever had was starting to feel so far away.

It didn’t start as jealousy. Gods no. Jealousy was petty, irrational. And she was neither. That word didn’t belong in her vocabulary. It had no place in the mind of a FlameWalker trained to weigh loyalty over longing, precision over emotion.

She assessed people the same way she read battle formations. Shifts in behavior, patterns in timing, the silent gaps between words. She wasn’t bothered by Bodhi’s sudden distance, not emotionally. She was simply aware. Tracking a change in dynamic. That was tactical. Responsible. Expected. It was her job to notice when her second-in-command became distracted. That’s all it was.

Still, the changes scraped under her skin like grit caught beneath armor.

One missed evening turned into two. Then three. Then this whole week where his knock never came, where Y/N and Phyrrian took flight without them, and the space beside her bed stayed maddeningly empty. He was still Bodhi. Still calm and clever, still standing beside her during drills. But now his laughter was a beat too late, his mind somewhere else when she spoke. He hadn’t said anything was wrong. But she didn’t need him to. He was shifting. She could feel it.

“You could always ask.” Phyrrian’s voice was dry as heatstroke, curling in her mind like sun-scorched silk. “Instead of pacing a rut in your floor like you’re trying to summon answers by friction.”

“I’m not pacing,” she snapped back, irritation flaring hot.

“You’re spiraling, and you hate not knowing.” A pause, then the dragon’s voice dropped lower, sly. “You always notice when it’s him.”

She clenched her jaw. She didn’t respond. Phyrrian’s presence didn’t waver.

“Confront him.” The words came like a strike. Fast, clean, brutal. “You’re not afraid of battle. Don’t act like you’re afraid of the truth.”

She shut the bond harder than she meant to, the mental door slamming like a blade between them. Not because Phyrrian was wrong. But because she wasn’t. And that was the problem.

It hadn’t started as jealousy. It had started as observation and now It had become something uglier.

Violet Sorrengail.

That was the name twisting under her ribs like a blade she refused to acknowledge. She wasn’t threatened by her. It wasn’t about Violet. It was about Bodhi. About the way his focus, once so steady and unobtrusive, now drifted elsewhere. He didn’t tease Y/N as often. Didn’t linger quite as long after briefings. And when she caught his eye from across the mess or the field, he looked away first.

And gods, wasn’t that the worst part?

She’d grown used to being seen. To the quiet way he paid attention without demanding anything in return. And now, that silence was back, but cold this time. Detached. She didn’t know when it changed. Only that it had. And she hated the way it made her feel unguarded, unstable, and worst of all, wanting.

She wasn’t jealous

Morning arrived without mercy, dragging pale light across the edge of her windows like it didn’t care that she hadn’t slept. The sky outside was colorless, flat and heavy with fog. The kind that pressed low against the rooflines and made everything feel too quiet, too slow. Her room felt colder than usual, the chill biting at her ankles where the blanket had fallen during the night she hadn’t really spent in bed. She’d stayed sitting upright instead, spine stiff, arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself in place because if she didn’t, she wasn’t sure what might fall apart.

Sleep had tried to come once or twice, brushing against her like a hand she didn’t want to take. But her mind had been louder. Faster. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Bodhi’s expression in a dozen different versions. Smirking over a wine bottle, grinning with wind in his hair during a late-night flight, quiet beside her in the dark of the archives, his voice a low murmur she’d started to need more than air. She saw the way he looked at Violet, too. Concerned, focused, like his world had tilted slightly and no one had told her.

But this wasn’t jealousy. She refused to let it be. This was strategy. A controlled decision. A tactical withdrawal before something truly dangerous could detonate between them.

The moment she decided was not loud. There was no burst of emotion, no flash of anger. Just a slow, steady quiet that filled her chest and didn’t leave. Like cooling embers. Like a fire that had gone out because it had to. And somewhere in that silence, Phyrrian stirred. Calm, poised, patient as ever. The dragon hadn’t said anything since the night before, when her voice had cracked through the reader’s denial with unshakable certainty: “Confront him.” But she was there now, a familiar weight in the back of her thoughts, watching as her rider began the slow process of preparing for war.

Because that’s what this would be. Not a battle with swords or flame, but something more intimate. More painful. She was going to take the thing she’d allowed to grow quietly between her and Bodhi, the thing that had slipped past her defenses like a whisper and bloomed in the dark, and she was going to sever it. Gently, yes. But completely. Because whatever they were had become dangerous. Not in the way her father would rage about, or the marked ones might whisper about, but in the way that made her weaker. Softer. Vulnerable.

And that wasn’t something she could afford.

Her movements were clinical as she dressed. Each boot buckle fastened with practiced tension, each layer pulled tight against the morning chill. Her jacket felt heavier today, like it carried more than just its usual weight. Like it knew what she was about to do. Her fingers hesitated for half a breath at the collar, but she forced them into motion, smoothing the lapel and shrugging into her posture like she was putting on a mask.

Phyrrian didn’t speak. But the dragon’s presence curled tighter around her, a quiet support with no pressure, no push. Just presence. Reader knew the bond was waiting. Watching. Hoping, maybe. But neither of them said what they were both thinking.

That it would hurt.

That it would have to.

She stepped out into the corridor without a sound, the early morning still blanketing the halls in silence. The world smelled of dew and stone and cold, cleansing, almost. Like something was about to end.

And tonight, it would. Because it had to.

Her hand hovered over the door for a moment too long. It was late. Later than she usually allowed herself to act on impulse. But this didn’t feel like impulse. It felt like necessity, the kind that rises slowly over days, over weeks, until it suffocates the space between thoughts. The hallway was dark and cold, lit only by the flicker of the corridor lanterns casting long, unkind shadows against the stone. Her knuckles met the wood with three sharp knocks. They were measured and intentional, even though her chest felt anything but. It had been over a week since they’d been alone. Over a week since he’d leaned against her door with a grin she could feel in her spine. Since their dragons had flown together beneath a sky full of stars and everything, just for a few hours had felt still.

Now everything felt stretched too thin. Too distant.

She waited.

A beat. Then another. And then the door creaked open, slow and quiet. Bodhi stood there barefoot, his curls mussed and shirt hanging loosely at his collarbone. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired that came from drills or leadership. The kind that settled into your bones when something you cared about had been left untouched too long.

He looked at her with faint confusion. No sarcasm, no welcome grin, no preloaded joke. Just that slight frown between his brows. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” he said, voice low and even.

She ignored the way her stomach twisted at the sound. “Can I come in?”

He stepped aside without hesitation, the door falling shut behind her with a soft thud that felt far too final. The air inside his dorm was warm, smelling faintly of old paper, leather, and the kind of herbal soap he always seemed to carry with him like a ghost. It felt familiar in a way that made her ache. But she didn’t sit. Didn’t let herself soften. She stayed standing, her arms crossing tightly over her chest, her spine held taut with the kind of discipline that came from holding too much inside for too long.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Couldn’t. Her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder, and when the words came, they were clipped. Surgical. “I’m ending this.”

That hung in the air between them, as brittle as frost.

“Whatever this is, was, it’s over.”

Bodhi didn’t speak. Not yet. She could feel his eyes on her, but he said nothing. And for some reason, that silence made everything worse. She kept going, faster now, like if she didn’t say it all at once she’d lose the strength to say it at all.

“We crossed a line, Bodhi. Several. And it’s starting to show. People are watching. I can feel it. I hear it.” Her voice sharpened, voice trembling beneath the edge of composure. “You’ve been distracted. Distant. You disappear once a week without explanation. You barely look at me during training. I’m not stupid. I know when something’s changed.”

Still, he said nothing. Still, he watched. The gates were open now and there was no stopping the words that tumbled from her lips.

“I’m not asking for details,” she added quickly, cutting off the argument he hadn’t offered. “I don’t want explanations. I know this was never meant to be anything serious. And that’s fine. That’s more than fine. But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t matter when you vanish. I can’t keep feeling like I’m the only one who’s still standing in the middle of something I never had the courage to name.”

Her throat closed around the last few words, and for a terrifying moment, she thought she might break. But she didn’t. She forced her chin up, forced her voice steady again.

“I don’t want to care. Gods, I don’t. But I do. And that’s the problem.”

She finally looked at him then, really looked. And the softness in his face nearly unmade her.

Because he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t defensive. He was surprised. Genuinely, silently stunned as if he hadn’t known she felt any of it. As if every quiet moment they’d shared hadn’t already spoken volumes.

And maybe that’s what hurt most.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she finished, quieter now. “It’s too dangerous. Too messy. For both of us.”

The silence that followed was long and unbearable.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Part of her expected him to laugh it off. To shrug and say it was fine. That they’d go back to being leaders. Partners. Strangers again. But he just stood there, like she’d taken the air from the room and left him with nothing to breathe.

And for the first time since she met Bodhi Durran, he looked like he didn’t know what to say.

It took him a long time to speak. Not because he didn’t have words—Bodhi always had words—but because the ones he needed now weren’t the ones he knew how to wield. Not with her standing there, arms crossed and shoulders squared like she was trying to hold herself together through sheer force of spine. Her silence had never felt so far away. And for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could reach her.

“I haven’t been avoiding you,” he said finally, voice low, controlled. Like he was handling a skittish dragon. Like she might bolt if he touched the wrong nerve. “Things have just been… busy.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Her eyes pinned him like a blade to the wall.

“With Aeto’s squad?” she asked, tone razor-flat.

His mouth opened, too quickly. “Yeah. And some new assignments from Xaden. Some night patrols. Nothing major.”

Her jaw tightened, just slightly. Enough to crack through the expressionless mask she wore.

“Night patrols.” She repeated it slowly, like she was testing the taste of the lie in her mouth. Her voice didn’t rise. Didn’t break. But gods, it cut. “You disappear at the exact same time every week. You come back looking like you’ve been wrung out. And the only person who seems to know where you are is Riorspn. You really expect me to believe it’s nothing major?”

His mouth tensed. A fraction of hesitation. Not enough to be obvious but too much for her not to notice.

She stared at him, and the hurt pooled in her chest wasn’t fire. It was ice. Quiet, spreading, and numbing everything in its path. She knew him too well. Knew the cadence of his honesty, the way he never flinched when he spoke truth. But now, his gaze dipped slightly, right eyebrow twitching. His stance wavered just enough.

He wasn’t lying maliciously. He was lying to protect something.

And that made it worse.

“You don’t trust me,” she said, not accusingly. Just as fact. A sad, quiet realization that settled heavy between them.

Bodhi looked at her then, fully, and there was something soft in his eyes. Something that might’ve been guilt. Might’ve been longing. But she didn’t give him a chance to shape it into words.

“No,” she said, shaking her head once, the weight of all of it finally collapsing inward. “Don’t try to explain something you’ve already decided I don’t get to know. I’m not doing this.”

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” he said quickly, stepping forward but not enough to close the gap.

“You already did.” Her voice cracked. Just barely. Just once. But it was enough to feel the shame crawl under her skin like a second spine. “You shut me out and then kept showing up like I wouldn’t notice.”

He looked like he wanted to reach for her. Like something inside him was breaking too. But she stepped back just enough to signal that this was done. That if he touched her, if he said anything that sounded like hope, she might not have the strength to follow through.

“I came here to be honest,” she said, quieter now, like her voice was fraying at the seams. “I’ve given you everything I have. Even when it scared the hell out of me. And you didn’t even trust me with the truth.”

She turned before he could speak again. She couldn’t bear to see his face if he called her name.

Her boots hit the stone floor too loud in the silence, echoing with every step as she opened the door and stepped into the hall. The cool air slapped her in the face, biting against the heat of everything she was holding in. She didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

And behind her, Bodhi didn’t follow.

He let her go.

And that—that—was how she knew it was over.

It had been four days.

Four days since she’d stood in Bodhi’s dorm with her heart clenched like a fist and her voice wrapped in iron. Four days since she’d turned her back on the only person who had ever made the silence inside her feel like something safe. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t indulged in anger or wallowed in the sting of walking away. That wasn’t her style. Instead, she’d done what she was trained to do: she executed. She rose with the sun. She attended every lecture. She called drills with clipped, decisive orders. She corrected footwork and signet misfires and strategic formations with the same calculated poise she always had. From the outside, nothing had changed.

But inside, everything had shifted.

The ache sat heavy in her chest, not loud or dramatic but present. Like a second heartbeat. She’d thought the decision would leave her with relief. Freedom, even. Instead, it hollowed her out. There were no late-night knocks now. No stolen glances across training fields. She didn’t realize how much of her day had been spent looking for Bodhi until he stopped looking back.

He still showed up, of course. Bodhi had always been consistent, maddeningly so. He attended drills on time, filled his role as executive officer without hesitation, passed reports to her with clean margins and cool professionalism. But the rhythm was off. The unspoken thread that had bound them through chaos and calm alike had unraveled. They didn’t speak unless they had to. They didn’t move in tandem anymore. And worst of all he didn’t look at her the way he used to. Not with curiosity. Not with quiet understanding. Not with anything.

She told herself it was fine. Better, even.

But that morning, the lie was harder to believe.

She stood off to the side of the sparring mats, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed as she watched one of the younger first-years run through a set of warm-up drills. She offered occasional corrections, not with cruelty. Her tone was cool, her mind half elsewhere. The sky was still gray from an overnight storm, the ground damp with the scent of rain and churned grass, and every bootstep seemed louder than usual.

Somewhere to her left, near the edge of the warm-up circle, she heard it.

Low voices. Whispering. Just far enough to be subtle. Just close enough to be caught.

“I heard he only got that spot ‘cause he was screwing her.”

A snort, followed by a different voice, mocking, male. “Please. Like she’d let anyone that close. Girl’s got fire in her blood. Probably burned his off.”

“Yeah, well, whatever it was, she ditched him. Saw her storming out of his room the other night. Guess he finally realized legacy girls don’t play nice once daddy starts asking questions.”

Laughter followed. Soft and cruel.

Her grip on her arm tightened, fingers curling around the crook of her elbow like she could anchor herself in the pressure. She didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there, eyes still on the first-year she was supposed to be coaching, even though the girl’s movements had long since blurred at the edges of her vision.

She wasn’t surprised. Not really. Whispers like that had always followed her. Since Threshing. Since she’d first dared to stand with Tail Section. But this time, it hit somewhere deeper. Somewhere raw.

Because this time it wasn’t entirely untrue.

They had been something. And she had ended it.

And now, Bodhi’s name lived on her tongue like an ache she refused to speak aloud.

She inhaled slowly, forcing her breath to even out, forcing her gaze to sharpen back on the cadet stumbling through a footwork pivot. She offered a correction. Cold. Clinical.

She didn’t look toward the whispering voices.

And gods, she didn’t look toward Bodhi, even though she could feel his presence across the field like a sunbeam she refused to step into.

She was fine.

The whispers didn’t stop. Not through drills, not through formations, not even when she shifted pairings to force the cadets into harder footwork that left them breathless and off-balance. She could hear them in fragments, tails of sentences curling under breath, sharpened by assumption and jealousy, softened only by the cadence of cowardice. She didn’t call them out. Not yet. She told herself it was discipline, restraint. That to acknowledge it was to validate it.

But every word sank deeper. And the fire in her spine threatened to rise.

By the time the final set was complete and the mats were cleared, the sky was smeared with late morning haze, the heat heavy and clinging. She dismissed the section with a clipped tone and crossed arms, her voice echoing crisply across the field.

“Good work today. Recover smart, rehydrate, and don’t do anything stupid until I say you can.”

A few cadets grinned. A few nodded quickly, eager to escape. The group began to break apart into smaller conversations, some jogging off to the water basins or benches, others stretching beside the edge of the field. The weight in her chest hadn’t lessened. If anything, the forced routine had only sharpened it. She was just about to turn to retrieve her notes when another voice cut through the murmur like a whip crack.

“Must’ve been a hard fall for the great FlameWalker. Slumming it with the rebellion and then getting left behind.”

There was a beat of silence. And then, softer, meaner.

“Guess it’s true what they say. Even the loyal ones leave eventually. Especially if they were never yours to begin with.”

Something in her body turned to stone. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She knew that voice. Same smug bastard who’d mouthed off about her before. Same cadet she’d humiliated on the mats weeks ago. The bitterness hadn’t burned out of him. Just learned to rot quieter until now.

But before she could turn, before the words could curl in her throat like flame and ash, someone else stepped in.

Bodhi’s voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “That’s enough.”

The tone silenced the field. It wasn’t barked, wasn’t sharp. It was measured. Steady. Controlled in a way that made it worse, like the stillness before a blade fell. She turned slightly, barely, enough to see him a few paces away, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes leveled on the cadet like he was just another mark on a page. Calm. Detached. Dangerous.

The younger cadet, caught in the open, shifted his weight like he wanted to step back but couldn’t without showing fear. “I didn’t mean anything by it,.”

Bodhi’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No, you did. That’s the problem.”

The field was silent now. Even the rustle of gear and breath had gone still. Y/N watched him, unmoving. The way he held himself: not tense, but deliberate like every word he spoke had already been calculated and carved in stone.

“You want to question my loyalty?” Bodhi said, voice smooth as steel drawn slow. “Fine. But when you insult your section leader in front of her squad after she’s spent months bleeding to get you here? You’re not making a statement.” He took one step closer. “You’re making a mistake.”

The cadet’s face paled, but Bodhi didn’t stop.

“FlameWalker has carried this section farther than you’ve walked since Threshing. You don’t have to like her. But you will respect her. Or you’ll find yourself on the floor explaining your attitude to your dragon while the rest of us move on without you. You’re lucky It’s a rule section leaders can’t kill cadets from their squad”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t theatrical. It was final. And that, somehow, was worse than anything she could have said.

The cadet muttered a shaken nod and turned, retreating into the crowd with hunched shoulders and burning ears.

Bodhi didn’t look at Y/N. Not right away. But everyone else did.

She stood still, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She should’ve been furious: he’d undermined her authority, stepped in where she should’ve crushed it herself. But she wasn’t.

Because he hadn’t defended her like a man protecting something delicate. He’d defended her like a soldier recognizing a commander. And somehow that cut deeper than if he’d touched her.

The field slowly came back to life around them, but the mood had shifted. No one laughed now. No one lingered. A few cadets murmured to one another under their breath, heads ducked, eyes darting toward the two leaders still standing beneath the gray-washed light of the late morning. They weren’t subtle about it, but they were smart enough to move. Smart enough to give them space.

She didn’t look up. She kept her head bowed over her notes, flipping through the corners of the worn leather-bound pages with too much focus to be genuine. Her pulse had slowed, but her stomach hadn’t unknotted. The scribbled columns of times and partner matchups blurred in her vision, and still she pretended they mattered more than the boy who had just defended her like she was still his to protect.

The others were gone now. She could sense it. One by one, the cadets peeled away toward their next obligation. Another round of weapons drills, sparring evaluations, a tactics exam. They left without a word, not because they didn’t have things to say, but because they knew better than to speak them aloud. Because there was something sharp and unfinished lingering in the courtyard air, and they weren’t about to breathe it in.

She snapped her notebook closed, the worn leather slapping softly against her palm, and bent to slide it into the narrow satchel she’d brought out for field review. Her fingers had just tightened around the strap when a shadow passed across her shoulder. Broad, familiar, too close not to recognize.

“Can we talk?”

The words weren’t forced. They weren’t desperate. But they landed heavy all the same.

She straightened slowly, her spine rigid, jaw tight as she adjusted the strap across her shoulder before finally meeting his gaze. Bodhi stood a pace away, hands relaxed at his sides like he wasn’t the same man who’d just dismantled a first-year with nothing but his voice and the weight of truth.

She didn’t answer immediately. The air between them was still thick with whatever had been left behind in his defense of her. Respect, regret, maybe something else. She hated that she couldn’t read him anymore. Hated that a week ago, she could interpret a twitch of his mouth, a glance, a shrug and now, everything felt unfamiliar.

“Now?” she asked, voice calm but strained.

He nodded once, eyes steady. “Yeah. Now.”

Of course it had to be now. Because if it wasn’t now, she didn’t know if she’d ever let it be.

She lifted her chin, ready to walk past him like she hadn’t just watched him silence a courtyard for her. Like the last four days hadn’t frayed every thread of her composure. But Bodhi wasn’t moving. And now, neither was she.

“You really want to do this now?” she asked, voice flat, not even looking at him. “You made your point already.”

“I didn’t say what needed to be said,” Bodhi replied, not missing a beat.

She let out a slow exhale, biting down on the instinct to tell him she didn’t need anything from him. That was a lie, and they both knew it. She turned slightly, trying to pivot away from the weight of the moment. But he followed. One step. Close, but not crowding. Just enough to let her know he wasn’t going to disappear this time.

“You’ve been angry at me for days. You deserve more than the silence I gave you.”

That stopped her. Just enough. She turned, arms still crossed, eyes unreadable. “Then talk. Say whatever it is you’re here to say. But if this is another apology wrapped in a half-excuse? Don’t bother.”

“I can’t tell you everything,” he said carefully. “I wish I could. But some things I’ve been ordered not to talk about.”

Her jaw clenched. “Then don’t expect me to understand what you won’t explain.”

“I’m not asking you to understand everything,” he said. “I’m asking you to let me tell you the part that is mine to give.”

She stared at him, something fragile flickering under her glare. “Then say it.”

He nodded once. No hesitation, just quiet resolve. “Violet Sorrengail is bonded to Xaden Riorson. Through their dragons, Tairn and Sgaeyl. That bond? It’s complicated. Dangerous. There are people who would tear her apart if they knew because it would kill Riorson. So, there’s a group of us: me, Garrick, Imogen and some others. we’ve been keeping her safe. Keeping her quiet. And that’s where I’ve been. Every week. Every time I left.”

The words landed like a stone in her gut. “You’ve been protecting her?”

“Yes. Because if I didn’t, she’d be dead by now, so would Xaden. And you would’ve never known why.”

Something flickered across her face. Shock, anger, and betrayal, all tangled into something she couldn’t name. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I couldn’t,” he said, his voice low. “The more people who know, the more risk there is. I wanted to tell you. Gods, Y/N of course I wanted to. But it would’ve dragged you into something you never agreed to.”

Her breath hitched. “So instead, you just vanished. Let me think it was my fault. Let me think I wasn’t—” She stopped herself, swallowed hard. “Forget it.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly.

“You still did,” she whispered, the confession hot on her skin.

And that? That made the silence stretch again. Thicker now. Like the space between them had become its own kind of battlefield.

She looked away first. “So what, you’re just here to lead me on?”

“I’m here because I owe you the truth. Even if it’s not all of it.”

“And what am I supposed to do with that?” Her boots shifted slightly in the damp grass, her weight redistributing like the ground beneath her had tilted. She could have walked. Could have tossed a half-hearted "see you around" over her shoulder and vanished into the fog of the day like she always did when things got too close. But her feet didn’t move. Her mouth didn’t either. Everything inside her felt suspended, like her thoughts had slowed down just enough to let the weight of everything crash down at once.

Bodhi was still standing in front of her, a careful distance kept between them. Not too close. Not too far. Just enough that she could breathe, and hate that she wanted to step into his shadow. He wasn’t trying to touch her, or convince her. He was just there. Steady. Quiet. Letting her sit in the silence without trying to fill it.

And gods, that was somehow worse.

She didn’t know what to say. Her thoughts were a mess of tangled emotion and half-formed questions. She was angry, yes but that was fading now, replaced by something messier. Regret. Relief. Something tighter and harder to look at. Yearning, maybe.

She glanced at him. Really looked.

He wasn’t wearing that easy smile he used like a shield. His brow was furrowed slightly, like he was holding something back. Like maybe this moment meant more to him than he was ready to admit. And yet, he wasn’t running.

Neither was she.

“I thought I had it figured out,” she murmured, voice hoarse and small in the wide space of the empty training field. “Us. You. What this was. I thought it made sense.”

“And now?” he asked, not accusing, just curious.

She exhaled, looking away, shaking her head. “Now it’s just noise.”

Bodhi was quiet for a moment. Then he said, softly, “Can I add to the noise?”

She looked up at him, wary but silent.

He gave her a small, uncertain smile. Real, this time. A little nervous, even. And something about that, seeing Bodhi Durran unsure of himself nearly broke her in half.

“When I met you, I thought you were terrifying,” he said lightly, but there was a weight behind it. “Not just because you could take me apart on the sparring mat. Which, for the record, you absolutely can. But because you didn’t bend for anyone. You didn’t care what people thought. You didn’t smile if it wasn’t earned. You were sharp. Controlled. And I respected the hell out of it.”

She blinked, confused. “You’re confessing to being scared of me?”

His grin widened a little. “I’m confessing that I thought you were untouchable. That I liked watching the girl who held herself like a loaded weapon and pretended she wasn’t lonely.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her chest felt too full to speak.

“And then,” he continued, voice softer now, “you let me in. Not all at once. Not even intentionally. Just in pieces. Late-night plans. Stupid jokes. Flying under the stars because neither of us know how to sleep when the world is quiet.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to hers. “I didn’t mean to fall for any of that. I just did.”

Her breath caught. Her fingers tightened on the strap of her satchel.

“I haven’t said anything,” he added quickly, “because I know you don’t let people in easily. I know the moment I ask for something more, you’ll weigh it like a blade in your palm. But I also know this. ” He stepped forward. Not far. Just enough.

“I miss you. Not the idea of you. You. And I don’t want to go back to pretending we don’t know what this is.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Everything in her felt like it had been cracked open and left raw in the sun. And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel angry or hurt or betrayed. She just felt seen. And gods, it terrified her.

He hesitated. Then: “Whatever you want. I’m not asking for anything back. I just didn’t want you to keep carrying the worst version of us.”

She exhaled slowly, jaw clenched, blinking up at the gray sky like it might offer her something steady. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

“Thanks,” she said finally, voice dull. “For telling me what you could.”

And she didn’t say it, but she still wanted more. And maybe that was the part that hurt most of all.

The silence that followed Bodhi’s words wasn’t heavy it was thick. Full. Brimming with all the things she’d held behind clenched teeth and crossed arms for weeks. And he just stood there, giving her space to run if she needed it, but also hoping—gods, he was hoping she wouldn’t.

She should’ve turned away. Should’ve said something biting or cool, changed the subject, shut the door before it opened wider. That was what she did. That was what she always did.

Instead, her mouth opened and against all odds, her voice wobbled out, dry and sharp as ever. “You fell for the girl who threatened her cadets and sparred you bloody twice?”

Bodhi blinked, startled.

A second passed.

Then she giggled. Gods help her. It wasn’t loud, but it was real. A breathless little exhale that slipped out before she could catch it, her hand moving up to her mouth like she might physically push the sound back in. Her face flushed instantly, high across the cheekbones, down her throat. She wasn’t even sure if it was embarrassment or relief.

“I guess you really are an idiot,” she added under her breath, laughing once more, too pink now to look at him properly.

And Bodhi beamed. Not his usual cocky smirk, not his practiced grin. This was something soft, something unguarded and boyish and absolutely floored by the sight of her smiling at him like that.

She cleared her throat, straightened, tried to bring back even a scrap of her usual edge but her voice cracked slightly when she spoke again.

“I didn’t mean to let you in either,” she admitted, quieter now. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and this time, she didn’t look away. “And I didn’t like it. I don’t like feeling out of control.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“But you’re…” She rolled her eyes, frustrated with herself, with everything. “You’re there. Always. Even when I’m horrible. Even when I shut you out. Even when I lie to myself and tell Phyrrian it’s easier without you.”

Her hands twisted in the strap of her bag again, trying to ground herself in something.

“But I missed you too,” she said, finally. “And it’s awful.”

Bodhi laughed. “Romantic.”

“I hate this,” she groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “I hate that I let you in and now everything feels off when you’re not around. I hate that I look for you even when I’m furious.”

He stepped closer again. Slow. Careful. His voice was warm when he replied. “You don’t have to love how it happened.”

“I don’t.”

“But you don’t hate me.”

She glanced at him, lips twitching. “No. Unfortunately, I don’t.”

A breathless laugh passed between them, her cheeks still flushed, her expression still caught between exasperation and something much softer.

And then, gently, she murmured, “So what now, Bodhi?”

He reached for her hand. Not forcefully, just enough for their fingers to brush and said, without hesitation, “Now we stop pretending we’re not already choosing each other. One night at a time.”

And for once, she didn’t run. She just nodded, still pink-faced and unsteady, still her exact sharp-edged self but with a small, crooked smile that she only ever gave to him.

Their fingers brushed, then held. Her grip was cautious at first, like she wasn’t quite convinced this wasn’t all about to collapse beneath her. But he didn’t move, didn’t breathe too loud or squeeze too hard. He just stood there, steady as ever, like he’d been waiting exactly this long for her to take the lead.

It was terrifying how natural it felt.

They stood like that for a moment, quiet until the reality of it crept back in like morning fog rolling back over sun-warmed stone.

“I guess,” she murmured, eyes still locked on their joined hands, “this is the part where we talk about the awkward, legacy-shaming, politically inconvenient parts.”

Bodhi chuckled under his breath. “Right. The ‘you’re from a flame-blooded dynasty and I have a literal rebellion branded into my skin’ part.”

She gave him a withering look. “Not exactly ideal.”

“Scandalous,” he agreed, absolutely grinning now.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “You know my father will lose his mind, right?”

“Do you want me to write him a letter?” Bodhi offered, voice light and teasing. “Something like, ‘Dear Sir FlameWalker, please accept this formal notice that your daughter is dating beneath her station. Sincerely, the disappointment with a tattoo problem.’”

That drew a laugh from her, warm and involuntary, the tension in her shoulders easing another notch. “Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are,” he said smugly, bumping his shoulder gently into hers as he squeezed her palms in his. “Clutching my hand like it’s your new favorite weapon.”

She tried to scoff but she didn’t let go. Not even a little. There was a beat of quiet again, gentler now, wrapped in something softer than tension. Something close.

“Do we have to talk about all of it right now?” she asked eventually, the words quieter than before. “The rebellion. My family. All the ways this will probably explode in our faces?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. Not while you’re still blushing and mad at yourself for admitting you have feelings.”

She punched his arm. Lightly. “Shut up.”

“I mean it,” he said, smile still there but softer now. “We’ll talk about all of it. But not today. Not when we’ve already survived four days of self-inflicted emotional torture.”

She looked at him, and something in her expression cracked just slightly. “Later,” she agreed. “We’ll do it later. When I can’t use stress as an excuse for being soft.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You? Soft? Never.”

She sighed, dry and dramatic. “I already regret this.”

But then he stepped forward, close enough that their foreheads nearly touched, and she didn’t move away.

And gods, the warmth.

Bodhi’s presence was like sunlight. Calm and constant, seeping into her skin even through armor she hadn’t known she was still wearing. When he wrapped his arms around her, it wasn’t tight or possessive. It was slow. Thoughtful. One hand resting at the small of her back, the other curling gently behind her neck like she might still vanish if he wasn’t careful.

She melted before she meant to, her arms lifting up his chest. Sighed into the space between his shoulder and collarbone and let her forehead rest there, eyes slipping closed.

“You’re too much,” she muttered, voice muffled.

“Not a bad trade for terrifying, is it?”

She let out a soft laugh against his chest. “You’re not going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

And maybe it was the way her hands fisted gently in the back of his shirt, or the fact that his breath hitched when she leaned just slightly closer. But suddenly the air between them shifted again. Slower this time. He pulled back just enough for their eyes to meet.

His hand was still at her jaw. Her breath catching in her throat.

“You gonna punch me if I kiss you?” he asked, voice low, teasing but laced with something real.

She blinked. Swallowed. “Only if you’re bad at it.”

That was all he needed.

He leaned in.

And when their lips met, it wasn’t fireworks. Tt was flames. Slow, steady, built from everything they hadn’t said. His mouth moved against hers like he’d been memorizing the moment before it even happened. And gods, she kissed him back like she was still angry, still unraveling, but finally willing to burn just a little if it meant feeling something real.

When they finally pulled apart, her eyes were half-lidded, her lips parted, her hands still curled into his shirt.

“So?” he whispered, breath brushing her skin.

She smirked, cheeks flushed, voice hoarse.

“…I’ll allow it.”

#bodhi durran #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi fourth wing #bodhi x reader #bodhi x you #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #the empyrean #iron flame #onyx storm #x reader bodhi

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pepsoui4 · 2 months ago

Text

Where I Want to Be Part 2

The drunk first-years get out of hand and while reader thinks she's got it handled, Bodhi Durran comes through for the rescue.

Word Count: 5,042

Warnings: fighting, swearing, casual drinking

Part 1: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783022222549942273/where-i-want-to-be?source=share

Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783225952109035520/where-i-want-to-be-part-3

Y/N FlameWalker never told Bodhi not to walk beside her in the daylight. There was no direct order, no line drawn in ash, no cruel dismissal. Just the subtle shift of her shoulder when footsteps echoed behind them, the careful silence she kept when passing through the common spaces where others watched. She never had to say it. The FlameWalker name did all the talking for her. In their section, in the Riders’ Quadrant, and especially in her family’s shadowed corridors of legacy and discipline.

Appearances were sacred. Her family had built their reputation on bloodlines as clean and fire-forged as the signets they passed down. She could trace hers through generations of military excellence, loyalty to Navarre, and an unspoken mandate: do not tarnish what we made for you. There were no allowances for sentiment. No space for softness. And certainly no place for rebellion-born riders with grins too sharp and tattoos that glowed with treason.

But Bodhi had found his way in any way.

He hadn’t forced it. That wasn’t his style. He hadn’t charmed her into submission or worn her down with persistence. He’d simply appeared one night in the archives and stayed longer than he had any right to. What started as routine meetings to go over section rosters, training formations, and mock engagement strategy had stretched into quiet conversations about everything but drills. He asked about her dragon without flinching when she hesitated. He made offhand jokes that chipped away at her tension without her permission. When she rolled her eyes at his antics, he grinned like he’d won something. She hated that it worked. She hated that he noticed. But most of all, she hated how easily he slipped past the walls she’d spent years constructing. Bit by bit, word by word without ever trying to tear them down.

He didn’t crowd her in the mess hall. Didn’t sit beside her during briefings unless the seating required it. When they passed each other during the day, he offered nothing more than a flicker of amusement in his eyes. An unspoken acknowledgment, just for her. And still, he never asked why she kept her distance. Never pressed for more. That restraint only made it worse. Because if he had asked, she might’ve had an excuse to shut it down. Might’ve reminded him that her father monitored every move she made on campus. That the FlameWalker name came with eyes and expectations and the constant threat of being summoned home. But Bodhi said nothing. He just understood. And somehow, that was far more dangerous than any rebellion-blooded flirtation.

Their nights in the archives had become a ritual. She told herself it was efficient. That planning with her executive officer in quiet hours made her a better leader. That it had nothing to do with the way he always brought something for her to snack on without asking, or how he started picking books off the top shelf without comment when he noticed she couldn't reach. That she didn’t notice when he shifted closer over the weeks, inch by inch, until his elbow brushed hers on the armrest and her skin didn’t recoil. That she didn’t mind when his voice dipped lower in those last few hours, like they were sharing secrets neither of them wanted to name.

It wasn’t friendship, not exactly. It wasn’t romance either. Whatever it was, whatever they were becoming, it lived in the quiet space between. In the notes he didn’t hand her during drills but left tucked into the margins of shared notebooks. In the way he laughed a little differently when it was just them. In how she stopped timing their sessions because she didn’t want to know how long she’d stayed behind again. She told herself no one noticed. That her detachment remained intact. That so long as no one saw her with him beyond what duty required, it couldn’t become something her father could use against her.

But part of her knew better. Part of her knew there was only so long she could keep pretending Bodhi Durran wasn’t already inside her defenses. Not because he broke through them, but because she’d let him walk right in.

And maybe, just maybe, Y/N hadn’t stopped him.

The late afternoon sun cast elongated shadows over the Gauntlet, its towering structure looming like a sentinel over the training grounds. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that settled deep into the bones and refused to be shaken loose. Cadets of Fourth Wing, Tail Section stood at the base. Their gazes fixed upward, tracing the path they would soon ascend. The Gauntlet, a brutal test of strength, agility, and will was less than a week away, and every heartbeat echoed with the knowledge that failure was not an option.

She stood with Bodhi, their shoulders nearly touching yet maintaining the careful distance they had perfected over countless training sessions. To the untrained eye, they were merely section leaders, observing their squad with practiced detachment. But beneath the surface, a current of unspoken understanding flowed between them, as constant and steady as the rhythm of their breathing.

She held a clipboard, its pages filled with meticulous notes and timing comparisons. Her pen moved swiftly, capturing every detail with precision. Beside her, Bodhi held a stopwatch, his eyes tracking each cadet's progress with unwavering focus. They spoke little, their communication reduced to subtle glances and the occasional nod. Words were unnecessary; they had long since learned to read each other's thoughts in the silence between them.

The cadets moved with determination, their bodies straining against the obstacles that awaited them. Each ascent, each leap, each precarious balance was a testament to their resilience. She watched them closely, noting the improvements, the hesitations, the moments of brilliance. Pride swelled in her chest. Not for herself, but for them. They had come so far, and she had fought tooth and nail to ensure they had every opportunity to succeed.

Bodhi's presence beside her was a constant source of comfort, though she would never admit it aloud. His quiet confidence, his unwavering support, his ability to see through her carefully constructed walls. It all unsettled her in ways she couldn't explain. Yet, she found herself seeking his company more often, their late-night strategy sessions stretching into the early hours, filled with shared stories and lingering glances.

As the sun dipped lower, casting a golden hue over the training grounds, she allowed herself a rare moment of vulnerability. She glanced at Bodhi, catching his eye, and offered a small, genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it spoke volumes. In that moment, amidst the chaos and the pressure, they found solace in each other's presence. A silent promise that, whatever the Gauntlet held, they would face it together.

The Gauntlet had come and gone, a storm of blood, sweat, and silent prayers stretched across splintered beams and unforgiving drops. One by one, her cadets had climbed, leapt, bled, and survived. Every single one of them. And gods, she had watched it all with a jaw so tight it could’ve cracked teeth, arms crossed so forcefully it bruised her own ribs, pretending the pulse thundering in her throat was annoyance, not dread. But they made it. All of them. And somehow, they made it look like they’d been born to do it.

Then came Presentation Day, when dragons lined the flight field like the oldest gods still watched, shadows rippling over stone and skin. She’d stood in formation with the rest of Fourth Wing, spine straight, mouth set in that signature, unreadable line but her chest had burned with something she didn’t have a name for. She watched her cadets walk out one by one, hearts bare and uncertain, and come back from Threshing changed. Marked by ash, bonded, and chosen. She didn’t cry. She didn’t cheer. She didn’t even nod. But her fingers curled tightly behind her back when the last of them emerged victorious, shoulders squared beside a dragon who looked more mountain than beast, all weathered hide and golden eyes like still water.

A gentle giant, the others had said. A dragon of patience and power, of quiet strength. A mirror, maybe, to the bondmate who’d earned him.

And now, like clockwork, came the celebration. The wild, barely sanctioned post-Threshing chaos that always followed blood and glory. The hall pulsed with music and heat, filled with the scent of spiced mead and sweat and whatever flowered oil someone had spilled from a garland already halfway unraveled. Laughter rose in waves, cadets spilling across every table and open patch of floor, stories growing louder with every refill.

She leaned against the back wall, third bottle in hand and observing the crowd within the shadows. She told herself she was just scanning the room. Watching. Making sure her section didn’t start a brawl or fall into one. But her gaze lingered too long on the familiar figures of her cadets, grouped loosely near the center, flushed and happy and safe.

They didn’t see her watching. Or maybe they did. They’d grown used to her, in their own way. Learned how to read the spaces between her silence. They’d stopped flinching at her barked orders, stopped bristling when she handed out criticism with that clipped, merciless tone. Over the past few months, they’d gotten just close enough to know that when she showed up to the field early, it wasn’t for herself. When she left extra rations on bad weather days, it wasn’t because she had too many. And when she held eye contact after a particularly hard session and said nothing at all, it sometimes meant she was proud.

She hadn’t told them that. She wouldn’t. Pride was a dangerous thing to name aloud, especially in public. Especially with a name like FlameWalker stitched across her life like branding iron scars. But she felt it now, quiet and full, warming her from the inside out in a way no drink ever could.

And still, she didn’t smile.

Not really.

She just leaned back against the wall, took another drink straight from the bottle, and kept her eyes on her squad—her squad—like it was just habit. Just protocol.

And not because she’d started caring a little too much.

She took another pull from the bottle, the burn warm but familiar, and let the cheer of the celebration wash over her like a tide she had no intention of swimming in. From her post near the back wall, where shadows made the torchlight flicker in long golden streaks, she scanned the room again. This time slower, more deliberate. Her gaze swept over clustered cadets, over scattered garlands and sloshing mugs, over the gleam of dragonsteel at someone’s hip. But then, for the briefest moment, her eyes caught on a familiar head of tousled dark curls, the way it shook slightly mid-laugh, the line of a grin so damn easy it made something twist low in her gut. Bodhi.

She didn’t realize she was looking for him until she found him.

She blinked and turned away before her thoughts could get ahead of her. Her eyes flicked back to her section, grounding herself in routine. Discipline. Observation. That had always been her way.

The cadet she landed on, of course was him. The one with the too-pretty smile and the too-loud voice. The one she’d publicly demolished on the mats all that time ago after he’d let his mouth run too far. He’d improved since then. Sharpened. Smoothed out some of the rough edges and learned to follow orders with something that almost resembled respect. But an attitude like his didn’t disappear, it just went dormant until enough booze and attention coaxed it back out.

And tonight, it had.

She watched as he tipped back his drink with too much flourish, his shoulders thrown wide, voice carrying above the music. He was gesturing too big, laughing too loud, chest puffed in that obnoxious way that warned her a storm was coming. Her bottle lowered slightly as her eyes narrowed. He wasn’t just annoying. He was baiting. She followed the direction of his latest comment. She couldn’t catch the words, but she saw the shift in the people around him. The way a few flinched. The way a few stared.

And then she saw who he was speaking to.

Garrick Tavis.

Her stomach dropped.

It was like watching two flints strike, and she was standing in a room soaked in oil. Garrick had the control of a loaded blade and the expression of a man who didn’t waste energy unless it was worth it. But even from across the room, she could see the tension in his jaw. The way his stance had stilled. Garrick didn’t need to raise his voice to be dangerous. That silence was his threat.

From the corner of her vision, she saw Bodhi break away from the group he’d been lingering near, smiling easily as he made his way toward her. He always moved like he wasn’t in a rush even when he was. That infuriating calm had a way of soothing people. Disarming them.

But she wasn’t in the mood to be soothed.

She pushed off the wall without a word, slipping through the crowd with the efficiency of someone who had studied chaos and learned how to bend it. Her steps were sharp, controlled, her bottle now gripped low by the neck as she moved. Garrick and the cadet were squaring off, posture stiff, words no longer muffled by drink and noise. The air around them was changing. Charged. It wouldn’t take much. One comment too far, one movement too sharp and the post-Threshing celebration would become a disaster her squad wouldn’t recover from.

She couldn’t let that happen. Not when they’d come this far. Not when she’d carved this section into something better than anyone expected.

Behind her, Bodhi’s steps slowed, his expression shifting as he watched her cut through the revelers like a blade honed for command. He knew that look on her face and he knew it meant trouble.

The moment she stepped between the two males, the heat in the room shifted. Voices that had been raised in celebration faltered. Movement slowed. Even the music seemed to dull around the edges. She didn’t yell. She didn’t have to. Her glare alone carved the space clean, a blade slipping between two enemies mid-swing. She reached out and clamped a firm hand on the first-year’s shoulder. The same one who still carried a bruised ego from the mat months prior, the one who never quite learned to keep his mouth behind his teeth.

His body tensed beneath her grip, but he didn’t pull away. Not yet. Garrick Tavis hadn’t moved either, but his silence had sharpened to something dangerous. One more word, and he’d strike. She could feel it like pressure in her skull.

“We’re done here,” she said evenly, voice low enough to demand attention, quiet enough to keep the moment from tipping over. Her eyes flicked briefly to Garrick’s. It wasn’t a command but a signal. A request for his restraint, something she didn’t give lightly.

Garrick gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, then stepped back with military precision. The surrounding cadets, marked and unmarked alike began to breathe again.

But the boy in her grip didn’t know when to stop. “You cozying up to the rebellion now?” He twisted slightly, mouth curled into that smirk she hated, and slurred just loudly enough for those nearby to hear, “What’s the matter, FlameWalker? All that flame and no spine to match it?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t show it. She turned her body to steer him away, her fingers tightening on his shoulder, guiding him toward the exit with practiced force. He stumbled slightly as she moved, trying to regain footing, but his tongue was looser than his legs now. And sharper.

“Come on. We all see it. I bet your Daddy’s real proud of you. The first Flamewalker to bend over for a Marked One. Let me guess, Durran? Or is it Garrick? Or do you pass it around like-”

She didn’t hear the end of it as her body reacted before her mind caught up.

She slammed him into the ground so fast the impact cracked across the floor like lightning striking stone. Gasps erupted nearby, someone shouted, but she didn’t register who. She was already kneeling, one knee pressed hard against his ribs, her fist curled in the collar of his jacket as she leaned down close. Too close.

Her voice was quiet. Deadly. Like a flame that burned without smoke.

“You think I fought for you to disgrace this section? You think because you survived the Gauntlet, because a dragon took pity on you, that you’ve earned the right to open your mouth about me?” Her breath was steady, her control terrifying. “You don’t know a godsdamned thing about me. About the people you disrespect. And if you ever, ever,” she paused threateningly, “use my name like that again, I’ll make sure your dragon sees just how unworthy you really are.”

He squirmed, clearly sobering under her glare, but she pushed him deeper into the floor before standing abruptly. She didn’t wait for him to move. She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and dragged him up like a ragdoll, spinning him toward the exit with a shove.

The entire room had frozen.

Bodhi was somewhere behind her. She knew he had been walking up to her when it started, probably ready with some clever quip, some half-smile and warm eyes but she didn’t dare look back. She felt the tension in the room tighten further, felt the question on his tongue, the concern in his gaze. But she wouldn’t meet it. She couldn’t.

Not now. Not when her pulse was still thundering and her legacy felt like it was unraveling at the seams.

She hauled the cadet through the corridor outside, ignoring the stares and hushed voices trailing behind them. Every time someone opened their mouth, her glare cut them off at the root. An unspoken promise that anyone who questioned her right now would be next.

Even Bodhi.

The walk to the first-year dorms was brutal and silent. The boy whimpered once as her grip tightened, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. She didn’t speak until they reached the threshold. Then, with a final shove, she released him just inside the door.

“Keep your motherfucking mouth shut,” she said coldly. “And pray to every godsdamned dragon above that you’re still in my section– Hell, pray that you're even still here come morning.”

Then she turned, boots echoing in the corridor, her hands shaking. Not from fear but from fury. From shame. From everything she’d just buried dragging itself back up with every step.

By the time she reached the stairs to her dorm, the adrenaline had drained from her limbs. It left behind the quiet ache of fatigue and a low, simmering buzz crawling just beneath her skin. The alcohol, forgotten during the heat of the moment made itself known again in the soft tilt of her balance, the slight sway in her step, and the heat blooming uninvited across her cheeks. She wasn’t drunk, not really. But she’d passed the point of sober, and the combination of booze and wrath now clung to her like sweat.

She pressed her palm against the wall as she climbed the last steps, feeling the cool stone steady her. Her fingers tingle with leftover tension, her knuckles still pink from gripping that smug little bastard’s collar too tightly. Every part of her body felt wired. Sharp, buzzing, like she hadn’t finished the fight even though it was over. But worse than the leftover rage were his words. The way he’d said her name. The insinuation. The audacity. It scraped at the back of her skull like nails down slate. She felt the familiar tug of her signet deep within her chest, threatening to burn anything in her path.

“What was that about.” Phyrrian’s voice licked across her mind like the snap of wind across coals, fierce and immediate.

I handled it, she replied silently, teeth grinding. But her dragon’s presence only sharpened the ache behind her eyes.

“You’re bleeding fire and acting like that’s fine.” There was a pause, then something quieter. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how.

Her boots scuffed against the stone as she reached the narrow corridor that led to her room. Her private quarters tucked just far enough from the others, away from the noise, the stares, the judgment. She could practically taste the stillness waiting behind her door, the promise of solitude and quiet fury curled in her bedroll like a waiting ghost.

But she wasn’t alone. Not yet.

She didn’t see him until she was only a few feet from her door, the soft sound of his steps drowned out by the racing of her own thoughts. Bodhi stood just to the side, one shoulder braced lightly on the wall as if he’d been pacing and stopped when he saw her. The hallway lighting caught on the planes of his face, casting half of it in gold and shadow. And for the first time tonight, her heart lurched. Not from rage, but something quieter. He didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her, really looked and in that gaze was something that made the flush on her cheeks deepen in ways no wine could explain.

His eyes flicked down and back up, scanning her with subtle urgency, lingering at her hands, her face, the set of her shoulders. “Are you hurt?” he asked, voice low and steady. No teasing. No grin. Just concern, worn plainly across his features like it was too heavy to hide.

She blinked, taken aback not by the question but by the sincerity of it. “What are you…” She caught herself, voice sharper than intended. She swallowed, then tried again, quieter. “What are you doing here?”

Bodhi straightened slightly, his hands dropping to his sides, as though the act of answering was both simple and monumental. “The party ended early,” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Once Garrick told me what happened, I came straight here.”

That stopped her. The weight of it. The immediacy. The intent.

She should’ve barked at him. Told him she didn’t need checking on. That he didn’t owe her anything. That this wasn’t his place. But her mouth stayed shut, and her throat tightened instead.

Because truthfully? She wasn’t sure she wanted him to leave.

She didn’t answer him. Not directly. Just lingered there in the hallway with her breath still catching in her chest, unsure whether the tightness came from his concern or the fact that it had been real. She hated how good he was at reading her. Hated that, with him, silence wasn’t a shield, it was an invitation. Still, she said nothing. Only turned toward her door, pulling the key from her pocket and slipping it into the lock with more force than necessary. The click echoed too loud in the quiet corridor.

Bodhi didn’t move at first. Not until the door creaked open and she stepped halfway into the room. Half expecting, half hoping he’d take the hint and leave. But behind her, his boots followed without hesitation. He slid inside like he belonged there, like she’d invited him in, and kicked the door shut behind him with the same casualness he always carried like armor.

“You know,” he said as he stepped around her, eyes dragging across the sparse interior like he was taking inventory, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted me to come in.”

She rolled her eyes, but the motion was weak at best. The alcohol in her blood and the heat in her face conspired against her. She didn’t have the energy to pretend his presence was unwelcome. Not tonight. So instead of answering, she moved to the edge of her bed. It was neat, plain, precisely made as she sat down with a heavy breath, her elbows on her knees, hands cradling her forehead like the weight of the entire evening had finally dropped all at once.

The room was quiet save for the soft shifting of his feet on the stone floor, and the crackling tension in her chest that refused to ease. She could feel him watching her. Not judging but watching. As if waiting for her to finally let the words go that she never allowed herself to say.

And still, she stayed silent for a moment longer.

Until he spoke again, softer this time. That damn gentle tone he used like a scalpel. “It looks like he got under your skin.”

Her fingers curled tighter into her scalp at his words, nails digging into the roots of her hair. Her jaw clenched. Her spine tensed as the heat burned up her spine again. But she didn’t deny it. Because she couldn’t.

“Doesn’t matter,” she grumbled, though her voice sounded rough around the edges, like something had cracked in the foundation and was trying desperately to hold. “He’s just a first-year with a loud mouth.”

Bodhi’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I heard what he said. About your father, about us.”

She finally lifted her head. Her eyes met him across the room, her expression a tangled thing. It was part fury, part shame, part something she couldn’t even begin to name. “What about it?” She sighed softly in frustration, feeling the claws of defensiveness rack against her mind.

“I think you pretend it doesn’t bother you.” He stepped closer, not all the way, just enough. Enough for his presence to fill the space between them. “And I think you’ve been doing that for too long.”

Something in her chest twisted. She looked away, breath catching at the edges. “What do you want me to say, Bodhi? That he's technically right?” She shook her head, voice barely holding. “That I stopped pushing you away and I don’t know when or how or why and now I don’t know what that makes me?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak right away. He just let the words hang between them like smoke, let her hear her own fear out loud for the first time. And then, gently, “It makes you your own person.”

She blinked. The room tilted slightly. Not from the alcohol, but from the honesty in his voice. The certainty. She hated how it unraveled her. Hated how seen she felt.

And yet she didn’t ask him to leave. Not even as the silence returned, and her hands slowly dropped from her face to her lap, her fingers still trembling.

Bodhi didn’t sit right away. He stood there in her space like he wasn’t entirely sure if he was allowed to cross that last invisible line. He’d always moved through her life like a slow tide: patient, constant, relentless in a way that never demanded permission, just waited for resistance to dissolve. And gods, she hated that it was working.

She heard him exhale softly, barely audible, like even his breathing was reluctant to disturb whatever this moment was becoming. Then he took a step closer. And another. And finally, he eased down beside her at the edge of the bed. Not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him in the small space between their shoulders and thighs. The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, and it made her shift, instinctively adjusting her balance, her spine now straighter as though her body was suddenly hyper aware of his.

She didn’t look at him as the air between them stretched tight. Taught as a bowstring drawn to its limit. She could feel it vibrating in the silence, alive with all the things they weren’t saying. The things they wouldn’t say. Not tonight.

She rubbed her hands slowly down her thighs, grounding herself in the fabric of her trousers, in the familiar repetition of touch. Her heart was loud in her ears, not racing from fear, but from something far more dangerous. Anticipation. Her skin prickled with awareness, her thoughts tripping over the memory of his gaze back at the party, the way his eyes tracked her with something like care but not pity. Never pity. Just concerned, warm and steady like he knew exactly what she needed even when she didn’t know herself.

He didn’t speak again, and she was grateful. Or maybe furious. She couldn’t tell. Because in his silence, he gave her room to breathe, but also gave her nowhere to hide. And it made everything ache.

She risked a glance sideways, eyes flickering up just enough to see the side of his face in the dim candlelight. His expression wasn’t smug or teasing. It was calm. Thoughtful. That damn softness he reserved just for her, like he didn’t care that the rest of the world thought her made of iron. Like he saw the fire beneath it, the burn she refused to name.

“I hate this,” she said finally, voice low and rough. “Feeling like I’m not allowed to be proud of who I am or who I choose to stand beside.”

The pause that followed wasn’t empty. It was full of meaning, unsaid but understood. And she didn’t have to look at him to know his eyes were on her again, not with judgment, but with that quiet, unshakable patience that had undone her slowly over the course of the last few months.

“You are allowed to,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Even if your family doesn’t see it yet.”

She inhaled slowly, her lungs tightening like something sharp had filled them. Her fingers curled into the edge of the mattress.

They didn’t move. Neither of them did. And yet everything had shifted. She could feel it.

A breath closer and she’d fall. A word softer and he’d catch her.

But they stayed there, dancing between lines they hadn’t drawn but still respected. The hum of something unspoken pulsed between them, not quite ready to be named. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And still, she didn’t ask him to leave.

#fourth wing x reader #fourth wing #bodhi x you #bodhi durran #bodhi fourth wing #bodhi x reader #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi durran x you #bodhi durran imagine #bodhi durran fic #the empyrean

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pepsoui4 · 2 months ago

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Where I Want to Be

The strong willed, fierce and independent reader learns she may feel too much when Bodhi Durran is around.

I'm thinking of doing a part 2, thoughts? I need more Fourth Wing fics, cmon now!

Word count: 4,971

Warnings: sparring, unsaid feelings, threats

Part 2: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783108795206451200/where-i-want-to-be-part-2?source=share

Part 3: https://www.tumblr.com/pepsoui4/783225952109035520/where-i-want-to-be-part-3

No one ever questioned why Y/N walked alone. In fact, most people seemed to prefer it that way. She wasn't the type anyone approached lightly, not with that clipped stride and expression set in practiced indifference. She carried her family name like armor: heavy, polished, and meant to intimidate. FlameWalker. It echoed in the halls of Basgiath like a warning bell. The kind of legacy that demanded perfection, that turned heat into a weapon and raised its children to burn weakness out of themselves. And she had learned early and brutally that loneliness was safer than defiance.

As Tail Section Leader of Fourth Wing and in her second year, she had eyes on her from every angle. Commandants, legacy families, her own brutal bloodline, and the cadets under her. Her squad ran on precision. She was known for being harsh, efficient, emotionally distant. And she liked it that way. Or at least, she told herself she did. She was a model of everything her family expected. Focused. Efficient. Distant.

The FlameWalker name carried weight. Her parents, her brothers, even her distant relatives were all expected to be leaders if they weren't already. They were brutal, fanatics for purity and power. Her family’s ideology burned through generations: strength is order, order is control.

Her reputation preceded her: sharp-tongued, fiercely independent, and unapproachable. Her lineage was synonymous with power and an unyielding disdain for marked ones. This legacy was both her shield and her shackle. Her orders were followed without debate, not because of any natural charisma, but because she didn’t tolerate questions. Legacy riders weren’t raised to be liked. They were raised to lead. Efficiently, coldly and without attachment. Of course, she had taken that lesson to heart.

She had mastered the art of isolation. She didn't make friends. She didn't laugh in public. She didn’t bother pretending to be anyone but the hard-edged girl she’d been molded into. People steered clear, not just because of her attitude nor title, but because the FlameWalker name came with rules. Written and unwritten. The most sacred of which was this: do not fraternize with the marked ones.

Her family loathed them. Those who bore the magic-stained scars of being chosen. They saw it as impure. Unnatural. A flaw, not a gift. They said marked ones were dangerous, unstable. That even the best of them were ticking bombs with smiles. She’d repeated it like scripture. Believed it, at least enough not to question it out loud. That was the line she had never stepped over. Never let herself. Her loyalty to her family was supposed to be unquestionable.

Which made her second-in-command an ongoing problem she didn’t know how to name.

Bodhi Durran, the Tail Section Executive Officer, was supposed to be a headache. At least, that’s what she expected when he was assigned to her team. Son of a rebellion leader, marked one, and a cadet known more for his sharp mouth than diplomacy. He wasn’t supposed to be competent. He wasn’t supposed to fit. And yet, somehow, he did.

He handled strategy meetings with a strange mix of intensity and humor, never missing a beat even when she threw last-minute changes at him just to test his adaptability. He pushed back when it counted, stayed quiet when it didn’t, and always seemed three steps ahead. He read people fast. Sometimes faster than she did and called out weak spots in training routines with brutal honesty and no concern for ego.

She didn’t like how much she respected him. Worse, she didn’t like how easy it was to slip into a rhythm with him.

There was ash in the air. Not literal, but in the way heat clung to the breath between bodies and soaked into the worn grit of the sparring mats. The sun cast long lines across the yard, catching on the shimmer of flame-marked gauntlets and the dull gleam of sweat. Y/N FlameWalker stood at the edge of the rotation lines, arms crossed, her posture as immovable as her reputation. The leathers clung to her shoulders, blackened by flame use and time, branded with the sigil of legacy and command.

Her section moved through drills under her watchful eye. Pairs locked in rhythmic strikes and counters. She’d fought harder than most to get this time slot, and even harder to keep it. The training schedule had been chaotic since the term began, with the Gauntlet looming and the Threshing yet to come. Instructors overlooked the Tail Section unless blood stained the wall. She refused to be overlooked.

She noticed everything. Every missed beat. Every falter in stance. She called them out without mercy. Because mercy didn’t forge riders. And her surname meant something. It weighed on her shoulders like a mantle woven from fire and bloodline. There was no room for softness. Not for her.

And yet lately her gaze kept drifting. Slight. Subtle. But always toward the same direction. The Marked Ones.

Not just the inked relics on their skin, but the way others reacted to them. Cold glances. Whispered judgments. Muted sneers passed like notes between cadets. She caught it more now, in the raw tension that followed someone like Imogen crossing the mats, or the way silence trailed behind Garrick’s clipped orders. She noticed it in the way first-years bristled when Liam Mairi passed—still unbonded, still observing, but already too familiar with contempt.

They didn’t deserve it, not like she did.

She had earned the disdain. With her sharp tongue and flint-edge demeanor. With a legacy family that preached loyalty to the Crown and whispered poison about rebellion behind closed doors. The disdain wasn’t new to her, it was expected. Welcome, even. She’d worn it like armor. Made people fear her before they could dismiss her.

But the Marked Ones? They bore hatred they hadn’t asked for. They trained harder than anyone, carried centuries of betrayal on their shoulders, and still showed up.

And none more vividly than Bodhi Durran.

He moved through the sparring rings like wildfire in silk. Lean, fast, sharp. He didn’t bark commands like she did. He offered sharp humor, smirks, and easy laughter. Cadets listened. Relaxed. Fought better under his guidance. He was her second-in-command, appointed as Executive Officer of Fourth Wing Tail Section at the start of second year. A Marked One. A rebel son. And the one who had, somehow, slipped under the cracks of her armor.

She never spoke to him more than required. Never gave anyone a reason to think she was softening. But she listened when he gave instruction. Watched how effortlessly he led, not with authority, but with respect earned through action.

And it burned, didn’t it? That quiet shame. That sick twist in her gut when someone muttered “traitor” as Bodhi passed. She said nothing. She never did. Not when the same words were hurled at Imogen. Or Garrick. Or even Xaden Riorson himself.

She could justify her own bitterness, her isolation. Her family had made her what she was. But the Marked Ones? They carried judgment like a noose and still walked tall.

Why did it bother her so much? She didn’t flinch when others hated her. Why was it different now?

Across the yard, Bodhi flipped a first-year flat onto the mats with effortless grace, landing in a crouch, his smirk wicked and sharp. The younger rider lay stunned, groaning, as Bodhi stood and brushed off his leathers like he hadn’t just humiliated someone in five seconds flat. The section around him went quiet. Someone behind her muttered under their breath.

“Marked bastard.”

The words hit harder than they should have. She didn’t turn. Didn’t respond. But something in her chest coiled tight. Hot. Ashen.

She told herself it didn’t matter. And still, her gaze lingered.

The hum of sparring filled the yard like a living thing. Grunts of effort, the sharp crack of palm against wrist, the scuff of boots pivoting across the mats. Y/N hadn’t moved in minutes, hadn’t spoken since assigning rotations, but her eyes were everywhere. Watching. Calculating. Measuring the potential of every fighter in her section. This was the time she’d fought tooth and claw for. Petitioned up the chain of command, argued with Wingleaders in louder wings who had dismissed Fourth Wing as the underdogs they always were. She’d earned this block of uninterrupted sparring through sheer force of will, and she would not have it squandered.

Still, even her focus couldn’t drown out the whispers.

They started like static. Low murmurs behind her right shoulder, a ripple of ill-contained amusement from two first-year cadets who thought the tail end of the mat was far enough from her line of vision. She didn’t need to turn to know who they were. She’d clocked every name, every face, and more importantly, every attitude in her section. One of them laughed, just a little too loudly. A scoff followed. Then a voice, male, smooth in the way that made her think of oily charm and the kind of confidence that came from too much privilege and too little humility.

“Cocky little rebellion rat. Figures he thinks charm makes up for dirty blood.”

The words struck something inside her. Not like a blade or a blow, but like flint against stone. A spark. Small, bright, hot. For a moment, she said nothing. Years of upbringing held her still. Don’t engage. Don’t lower yourself. Don’t defend the disloyal.

Her father’s voice again, stern and hollow: Their weakness will reveal itself. Stay above it. Stay true to the FlameWalker name.

And yet, she couldn’t unhear it. Couldn’t pretend the words hadn’t curled beneath her skin like smoke looking for a fire to feed. She hated how it lodged itself in her chest. How it burned deeper than it should have. Not because she cared what they thought of Bodhi. Not because she was soft on the Marked Ones.

Gods no. But because it was happening in her section, under her leadership, during her time. And that she could not abide.

Her boots scraped across the mat as she moved, each step sharp, deliberate, echoing over the din of practice. Cadets turned to look. Some went still. The tension shifted like metal drawn tight. She made a beeline toward the cadet who had spoken, a broad-shouldered, golden-haired first-year with a too-white smile and the arrogant posture of someone who hadn’t been humbled yet. He straightened the moment her shadow hit his shoes, his chin twitching up in something that almost passed for pride. But his eyes gave him away.

“Repeat what you just said,” she said, her voice clipped and laced with fire.

The boy blinked, feigning confusion that didn’t suit him. “I’m sorry?”

She tilted her head ever so slightly, the motion precise as a knife drawn slow from its sheath. The section knew the look. They’d learned to fear it the first week of being under her command. “Did I stutter? Or should I assume your mouth only works when you think no one with rank is listening?”

The boy paled, lips parting uselessly before his gaze darted toward the others as if hoping someone would bail him out. None did. Her presence turned them to stone.

“It was just a joke,” he muttered. “Didn’t mean anything by it. Just locker room talk, right?”

Gods, the weakness in his voice was an insult on its own. She arched one eyebrow, slowly, as though drawing blood with expression alone. He stumbled again under the weight of her silence.

She let the tension stretch like a bowstring, letting him squirm in the trap he’d set for himself. Then, evenly, voice cool as banked embers, she said, “Strange. Because it sounded like you were wasting the valuable sparring time I fought for us to have. Time that does not come easy for our Section. Time that Flame and Claw would never bother to share.”

Her steps brought her closer, enough that he had to tilt his head back to meet her eyes. “So tell me,” she said, almost a whisper now, the threat in her tone razor-thin and gleaming, “why are you standing here polluting the air with nonsense when you should be on the mat proving you even belong here?”

The boy opened his mouth, perhaps to defend himself, perhaps to grovel. She didn’t care.

“Get your ass on the mat,” she snapped, and shoved him. Not hard, but enough. Enough to make him stumble forward, lose his balance, and feel the full weight of the watching eyes behind him.

He caught himself, barely. Face flushed red. Mouth tight with humiliation.

She felt it. The shift in air pressure, the awareness that prickled across the back of her neck like static. She didn’t have to look to know Bodhi Durran’s eyes were on her. There was a stillness to his presence that always made her uneasy. Like he could sense the moments she didn’t mean to reveal, the cracks in her armor she kept sealed under discipline and disdain. And yet, this time, the weight of his stare held something else. Curiosity. Surprise. Amusement, maybe. The familiar glint of mischief she’d grown used to ignoring. Across the sparring yard, he stood with his arms folded in that infuriatingly relaxed posture of his, body half-angled as if he had all the time in the world to watch her unravel something in front of an audience.

Their eyes met for less than a heartbeat. Hers sharp and unreadable, his lifting slightly with unspoken commentary she refused to invite. She severed the moment before it could breathe. Turned her back to him like it meant nothing. Like he didn’t matter.

She stepped onto the sparring mat with purpose, the space still buzzing from the suddenness of her earlier command. The boy, twenty, smug, and still blinking through the sting of humiliation stood at the edge with one foot hovering just off the padded floor. He was trying to recover what little dignity he had left, trying to mask the panic behind a mask of stiff bravado. She recognized the type. Fourth Wing, Tail Section saw more than its share of would-be warriors who thought their age or height bought them power. But she’d been shaped by a bloodline where power had to be earned. And today, she was going to remind everyone that legacy alone didn’t make her dangerous.

Her boots hit the mat with a satisfying thud as she squared off. No sword. No elemental flash. Just her body, her fists, and the rhythm that had kept her alive long before she earned her dragon’s flame. She bounced lightly on her toes, shoulders loose, her stance coiled and exact. There was a violence to her stillness, something that promised consequence in the smallest of shifts. She fought like a boxer, light on her feet and heavy in her hands, and she’d never needed brute strength to dominate. Precision was her weapon. Timing, her blade.

The boy hesitated as he stepped in. His pride begged him to make a move, to reclaim control of the situation she’d shattered. But his instincts screamed retreat. She saw it in his shoulders, the tension drawn too tight, his balance a second too slow. He was already lost.

“Come on,” she taunted, voice low and confident, her mouth curling into a slow, cruel smile as she gestured him forward with a single curled finger. “Let’s see if you’re as fast with your hands as you are with your mouth.”

It was the final shove. He lunged, heavy and forward, his form all aggression and no thought. He came in hard, trying to overpower, trying to silence the shame with force. He was too loud. Too slow. Too easy.

She pivoted cleanly to the side, her weight already shifting into the next step before his foot fully planted. Her left hand caught his wrist mid-strike, her right sweeping behind his knee in one swift motion. The world flipped beneath him. The mat met him with a brutal, satisfying thud. He didn’t even have time to register the fall before the breath was knocked from his lungs.

She was already standing over him and not even winded.

The entire section had gone silent, the kind of silence that sinks deep into skin. She didn’t bask in it. Didn’t milk the moment. But she felt it, how the tension warped into something else. Respect. Fear. She crouched slowly, letting her eyes lock onto his, and the boy so smug just minutes before couldn’t even meet her gaze.

“If you can’t fight with respect,” she spat, her voice loud enough the entire crowd could hear, especially Bodhi. “you’re not just a coward. You’re useless.”

She straightened and stepped back without ceremony, walking off the mat with precise, grounded steps, her back straight, her chin high. She didn’t look at Bodhi again. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But she felt his gaze still lingering, sharp and searching. Not mocking like the others. No smirk now.

The flush in her chest wasn’t from exertion. It was something else entirely. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

The archives were near-empty at this hour, which was exactly how she liked it. The sun had long since dipped behind the mountains. The halls of Basgiath quiet now, save for the occasional laughter drifting from the dining hall or the far-off echo of boots on stone. Most riders used Friday nights for blowing off steam. Drinking, sparring, or finding warm bodies to forget how brutal their days had been.

Not her.

She was curled into a deep armchair in the back right corner of the Archives. A thick leather-bound volume resting in her lap, her boots planted firmly on the seat. The overhead light cast a warm halo on the open pages, tactical strategy layouts for Gauntlet formations and squad combat drills. She read them not for the first time. Markings lined the margins in her narrow, sharp script. Even now, her brow furrowed as she revised a rough plan for the following week’s maneuvers.

Her body ached from training, her knuckles still raw from striking the mat too hard earlier that day, but she didn’t notice. Not really. Pain was a constant. It was the silence she needed. Space to think, to plan. Being section leader was more than commanding a ring. It was shaping the squad beneath her into something stronger, smarter, and worthy of surviving.

So she didn’t notice him at first. Not until the chair beside her shifted slightly with weight and warmth, and the unmistakable scent of worn leather and wind-touched pine cut through her focus.

Bodhi. Of course it was him.

She didn’t look up, not right away. She stayed rigid, her eyes tracking the same sentence twice on the page, even as the air around her shifted.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just leaned back, a little too comfortably. As if this had been his plan all along. He didn’t look like someone who spent the day getting flung around mats or thrown under whispered insults. No, Bodhi looked maddeningly at ease. His arm rested against the side of the chair they now shared space between, closer than he normally sat in group briefings or training discussions. Close enough she could feel the heat of him through her sleeve, though she was certain he’d act like he didn’t notice.

Then, finally, his voice cut softly through the quiet, threaded with amusement. “Didn’t think you were the type to go feral in defense of a disgraceful rebellion rat.”

Her eyes didn’t lift from the page, but her lip twitched. “I did no such thing.”

“No?” he drawled, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “Because it looked a whole lot like justice to me.”

“I was defending the sparring slot I nearly dislocated a shoulder to win from Claw Section. I’m not in the business of babysitting egos, especially not yours.”

He chuckled, low and warm, and it slid down her spine like a touch she wasn’t prepared for. “Ah. So I’m just an unfortunate footnote in your schedule, then?”

“Exactly.”

“And here I was thinking I owed you my life,” he said, teasing. “Or at least a drink.”

She finally looked up, eyes narrowed but calm, meeting his gaze full-on. His face was unfairly handsome in the dim light. Shadowed in all the right places, mischief softening into something sincere just beneath the surface. He didn’t look like someone baiting her for fun. He looked grateful, curious and a little too close.

She leaned back slightly, if only to collect herself. Her voice was softer when she replied. “You want to thank me for doing my job, Bodhi? Then show up tomorrow with a section plan that doesn’t involve you charming half the recruits into slacking off.”

“That’s a lot of words for you’re welcome,” he said, and smiled. An actual cheek splitting smile, not the cocky slant he wore during training. This one was softer. Real.

She hated that it made her heartbeat hiccup.

He leaned back, his hand brushing the armrest between them like he wasn’t thinking about it, but of course he was. Bodhi never did anything without calculation. He was all casual grace and practiced unpredictability. But tonight, here, beside her, quiet and still? It felt different. The teasing was still there, sure. But beneath it, a thread of sincerity curled like steam between them.

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he said after a moment, quieter now. “I’ve heard worse. Ignoring it would’ve been easier.”

She looked at him again, and this time she didn’t hide the tension in her jaw. “It’s not any easier. It’s about standards. Mine. And theirs.”

“You still didn’t deny it,” he murmured.

She gave him a flat stare. “If you’re looking for some kind of poetic confession, Durran, go find a scribe.”

His laugh was soft, but it lingered. She didn’t push him away. Didn’t shift to reclaim the space between them. For once, it felt earned. Like the silence meant something other than avoidance. Like maybe he wasn’t the only one trying to make sense of a shift that had already begun.

“I don’t need a confession,” he said after a long beat. “Just wanted to say it meant something more. Coming from you.”

She didn’t respond. Not right away. Her gaze drifted back to the pages in her lap, the words now blurred by thoughts she wasn’t ready to face. She didn’t do vulnerability. Didn’t know how to receive that kind of thing without burning a hole in her chest.

But she didn’t push him away, either. And she didn’t ask him to leave.

Instead, she turned a page she hadn’t finished reading, more out of habit than focus. Her eyes flicked down the line of text, but nothing stuck. Not the formation pattern. Not the movement analysis. Not a single godsdamned word.

Bodhi was still watching her.

And not in the usual way. The way men looked when they were calculating, when they were peeling back armor to find a weakness to press. No, Bodhi’s gaze wasn’t hungry or cruel. It was maddening in its patience. Soft, even. Like he was waiting for her to stop pretending this wasn’t affecting her.

She hated that it was affecting her. “I told you,” she muttered, voice clipped as she flipped the page again. “It wasn’t about you.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. Bodhi never accepted the first answer. He always peeled back the first layer, then the second, until whatever was left stood naked in the light. She’d seen him do it with recruits in training, even with instructors..

But it was different when it was her.

“Right,” he said, drawing the word out just enough to make it irritating. “Totally unrelated. You stormed across the yard and knocked a first-year flat on his ass just to defend, what? Scheduling?”

She didn’t respond as her jaw twitched.

“And that little speech about respect?” he continued, tilting his head as if he were genuinely pondering it. “Sounded real personal. Almost like you gave a damn.”

“I give a damn about structure. And cohesion. And not letting entitled little bastards poison the section I’m responsible for.”

He leaned forward slightly, close enough now that she could smell the salt of dried sweat clinging to his collar, the worn scent of leather and something just undeniably him. He rested one arm along the top of her chair and smirked, but his voice softened.

“Come on, FlameWalker. You’re not fooling me.”

She hated the way her breath caught at the sound of her name on his tongue. Not sneered, not barked. Spoken like it meant something more than the legend wrapped around it. Like it was hers and not her family's.

She glared at him, forcing her voice not to waver. “And what exactly do you think I was doing, Bodhi? Hiding a secret crush under all that righteous fury?”

His smile spread, crooked and utterly infuriating. “Nah. I think you’re uncomfortable with the idea that you care. That somewhere between hating my guts and tolerating me as your executive officer, I stopped being a Marked One to you. Started being something else.”

Her lips parted, words on the verge of forming but none came. And gods, he saw it. Saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. The war she waged against herself in the space of one breath. The way she turned her face slightly as if it would shield her from how exposed she suddenly felt.

“You really are an arrogant bastard,” she said instead, but it lacked venom. It was breathy, uneven. Off her rhythm.

Bodhi leaned in just a hair, his voice low and teasing, but softer now like he knew exactly what line he was walking and liked it.

“And yet here you are. Letting me sit too close. Not barking orders. Not flinching when I get under your skin.” He paused. “Kind of sweet, actually.”

That broke her. Her head snapped to him, eyes sharp with disbelief. “Sweet?”

He grinned, eyes gleaming. “Admit it. You’re going soft.”

“Don’t push your luck, Durran.”

He laughed, full and bright, and something inside her cracked a little further under the sound. Because it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t mocking. It was honest.

“Too late.”

She hated how the edges of her mouth betrayed her. How she almost smiled. How her fingers clenched around the book in her lap, grounding herself in something tactile, because otherwise she might have leaned into him.

The heat was crawling up her neck now. Slow, traitorous, and unmistakable. She shifted slightly in her seat, fingers tightening around the edge of the book in her lap like it might anchor her back into herself. Back into control. She’d mastered a thousand ways to shut people out. A hundred more to bury what they made her feel. But Bodhi was like water slipping through cracks. Always finding the places she didn’t guard.

She tilted the book upward, hiding behind it even though she wasn’t reading anymore, hadn’t been for several minutes now. Her voice was steadier when she said, “Shouldn’t you be off charming someone else by now? It’s a Friday night. I’m sure there’s at least three first-years still breathless from watching you fight.”

Bodhi didn’t laugh this time. He didn’t tease. He just stayed where he was. His arm still draped across the back of her chair, his shoulder warm beside hers, his presence steady and unshakable. “I’m exactly where I want to be,” he said simply.

The words struck deeper than she wanted them to. No clever tone. No sarcasm. Just honesty, dropped like a pebble into a still pond, rippling through her ribcage in places that had been untouched for far too long.

She lowered the book again, turning her head just enough to look at him out of the corner of her eye and finally closing it. He was watching her again, but the grin had faded into something gentler now. Open, but not demanding. Patient, but not waiting for her to be anything other than what she was.

And gods, that was worse because she knew how to fight insults. Knew how to command, how to discipline, how to dominate a sparring mat. But this? This quiet kind of softness? She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t know what to do with him.

“You’re insufferable,” she said again, but this time it was barely a whisper. There was no bite to it. Just breath and uncertainty.

“And yet you haven’t told me to leave,” he replied, voice barely louder than hers.

She opened her mouth to deny it, to say something sharp, to retreat behind the armor that always worked. But it didn’t come. Her breath caught instead. Her lips closed around nothing. And her heart betrayed her with a single, quiet truth: She didn’t want him to go.

He seemed to feel it too. That final surrender she didn’t speak aloud. “Then you better make yourself useful, Durran.” She sighed, rolling her eyes in faux annoyance.

He shifted slightly, and without a word, he leaned just a little closer. Not enough to press, not enough to crowd but enough for his shoulder to brush hers, warm and solid and real. They sat like that for a long while. The silence between them wasn’t tense anymore. It had softened into something fragile and tentative. Something sacred. She kept her eyes forward, but every inch of her was aware of him beside her. Of how still he was now. Of how he didn’t need to say anything else. He just stayed.

And for once, she didn’t push him away. She let herself breathe. Let herself exist in the quiet without flinching from it.

#fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #bodhi fourth wing #bodhi durran #the empyrean series #onyx storm #iron flame #bodhi x reader #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi x you

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pepsoui4 · 9 months ago

Text

Kiss Me

A story inspired by the song "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer.

Azriel and YN navigate their way through years of fear regarding their mutual love, unspoken words, and misunderstandings under the stars.

Word Count: 5,417

Warnings: Mutual pining, fluff, smooches

“Kiss me, out of the bearded barley

Nightly, besides the green, green grass”

The night was filled with sounds of crickets and fireflies, a soft breeze teasing the crops as they swayed beneath the dim light of the moon. She stood at the edge of the meadow, where the golden barley met the vibrant green grass. Her hair shifted with the wind, blowing away from her face as she gazed at the moon as if sensing something in the air, something more than just wind.

The girl wasn’t alone.

She knew the dangers of nature, especially when the sun went to sleep. But she felt drawn outside with the full moon tonight, her heart yearning.

An intimidating figure emerged from the shadows, as if born from them as the dark clouds swirled around his body. As he began his descent from the forest before the meadow, his hair caught the faintest touch of moonlight, and the girl felt her breath stutter. He was breathtaking, the embodiment of home and love and beauty. His eyes met her own, the brilliant shades of caramel browns and sage greens sparkling as though he could see into her mind.

“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice soft yet commanding, like the pull of the moon on the tide. She crossed the distance between them slowly, her bare feet brushing through the dewy grass as they stood in front of his boot clad ones.

The two weeks without Azriel had felt like a lifetime, she was never able to get used to his long missions away as the Spymaster of the Night Court. She had spent the days restless, her mind constantly wandering back to him. She wondered if he was okay, replaying every memory, every fleeting glance, every touch that lingered just a moment too long. The absence of his presence was a sharp, aching hole, and she found herself yearning for his return in a way that felt too much for someone who was supposedly “just a friend.”

But that’s all they were, right? Best friends. That was the title that came with their relationship for the last century. They’d both been too scared to push beyond the boundaries of friendship, too afraid to ruin what they had currently.

All this time, she convinced herself it was impossible- that he didn’t feel the same.

He said nothing as his shadows retreated from where they normally hovered close to him, the space between the two of them felt charged as they both held their breaths. The girl's feathered wings shuttered as she lifted her hands to Azriel’s shoulders, caressing his Illyrian leathers.

Kiss me, she begged in her thoughts as Azriel brought her into a warm embrace. Both were acutely aware of the warmth that seemed to seep through, right into their skin. Out of the thick barley, beneath the stretch of stars, they stood in the silence of the night. The only sound the distant rustle of the wind through the fields and their heart beats syncing at their proximity while the bugs sang in the brush.

Azriel hesitated, not because he didn't want to kiss the beautiful girl standing before him- he rarely thinks of anything else since the first day he met her. But he was a creature of shadows, of secrets, and she was the sun, something he wasn't sure he deserved.

“I missed you,” his voice was low, sighing. His hands itched to touch her further but decided to pull her to an arm's length away instead.

Her smile was soft as she lifted her chin and stared up at him with wide, innocent eyes. She ignored the tingling in her body, the pull in her chest as she felt his hands on her shoulders now.

“I missed you, too.” She felt her heart crack as he stepped away from her, a silent reminder that they were just platonic. She shoved the feeling of grief down in her chest, away with the golden tug. She turned and began walking to the path, glancing back in invitation as Azriel fell in stride besides her walking along the moonlit meadow.

“Swing, swing, (swing, swing) swing the spinning step

You wear those shoes, and I wear that dress”

The sounds of joy and music drifted through the busy air, mingling with the crackling fire and the joyous laughter of the citizens of Velaris at the city center. The Inner Circle were here to celebrate the holiday Starfall with their people, the entire day and night filled with festivities and buzzing of excitement. Although tonight, Azriel’s mind was elsewhere.

He stood just outside the glow of the firelights, his wings tucked tightly against his back as he clutched an untouched drink in his hand. He watched her dance, she was slight on her feet, swaying to the rhythm of the music. Azriel watched with soft eyes as she let Cassian grab her hand and twirl her, a bark of a laugh escaping her quiet lips as her dress, hair and wings spun in a blur of color. Every time her eyes drifted his way, his heart clenched at the sight of her: both breathtaking and unbearable.

Rhysand and Feyre were laughing near the fire, watching the dancing crowd with bright eyes. Nesta, Elain and Lucien talked quietly nearby while Mor and Cassian spent their time out on the dance floor with the girl plaguing his thoughts. Even the chaos of his family and the dancing crowd couldn't pull Azriel’s attention away from her.

Once the song ended, the girl's eyes drifted over to Azriel while Cassian left their side to speak with him. She caught Azriel’s gaze across the flickering flames, and his breath hitched. A small smile tugged at her lips before turning away, her hands catching Mor’s as they spun in time to the new, faster paced music.

She didn’t notice the way his gaze lingered, never noticed how he looked at her when she wasn’t watching. She never realized every touch he held back was because he’s as afraid as she is. They both were trapped in this never ending, immortal pining that lasted for decades, assuming they were stuck as friends because the other didn’t feel the same. The thought kept them apart, even when all either of them wanted was to be closer, something more.

Cassian looked down Azriel’s body, down to his shoes, and back up to his eyes with a knowing smirk. “You know Az,’ he sipped at his drink as he leaned against the same wall and wiped his sweaty forehead. “If you stare any harder, she's either gonna burst into flames or slap you in the face for being a creep. Wanna place a bet on which happens first?”

His eyebrow twitched in irritation, turning to Cassian with a frown and red tinged ears. “I'm not staring,” he mumbled, voice low enough that only he could hear.

“Sure, you aren't,” Cassian rolled his eyes, shoving his brother onto the dance floor. “Just go dance with her already.”

The night was alive with celebration, and yet all Azriel could think about was how desperately he wanted to hold her, how he’d give anything to sweep her into his arms and feel her warmth against him as they swayed to the music.

But he wouldn't.

They were friends- strictly, only friends. The line between them was fragile, but it was one he couldn't cross. Not without risking everything, he felt a pull in his chest at the thought. So, he stood there in silence, watching as she laughed and danced, the distance between them feeling like a grand chasm.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Rhys approach him and Cassian as Feyre made her way to the dance floor, drinks in hand.

“You could at least ask her to dance,” Rhys said softly, his voice full of amusement. His eyes held something deeper as he nursed his own drink.

“It's,” Azriel paused, clenching his jaw and shaking his head. “It's not that simple.”

“Isn't it?” Rhysand raised an eyebrow.

Before Azriel could think of an answer, Cassian joined in, his grin wide as he slung an arm over his shoulder. “It's just a dance, Az. Even you can handle that.”

But it wasn't just a dance. Not to him. Every step she took was a reminder of the distance, the space he forced between them because he couldn't- wouldn't- let himself reach for something he didn't deserve. Something she didn't deserve, a man of shadows like him.

She glanced his way again, now moving to the music with Feyre and Mor. Her laughter softened as her gaze lingered on Azriel. For a moment, everything else faded away, the music, the fire, the voices. It was just her. Her and that impossible, unspoken, unbearable longing that he buried deep inside. He felt the familiar golden tug in his chest.

But instead of stepping forward, he stayed in the shadows. Watching her spin, watching the world move around them, just always out of reach.

“Oh, kiss me beneath the milky twilight

Lead me out on the moonlit floor

Lift your open hand

Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance

Silver moon's sparkling

So, kiss me”

Azriel stole a glance at her. The moonlight danced off her skin, making her look like something out of a dream- unattainable, ethereal. But she wasn't. She was right here, right next to him, and yet the distance between them felt impossible.

The family dinner had been filled with the usual teasing, and friendly bickering, but now it was quiet. Azriel and Y/N had slipped away after the meal, the excuse of needing fresh air barely uttered before they found themselves alone, walking side by side beneath the moonlight and dazzling stars.

Their hands brushed ever so often as they walked, a tinge of red on each of their ears. The night was painted in dark shades of blue and silver, the moon casting a gentle glow over the Velaris countryside. They had wandered to their normal spot, far enough from the house that the sounds of their family and citizens faded. The meadow left only the whisper of the wind and soft hum of the insects around them.

She turned her head, catching him looking. There was that smile again, soft, knowing. It made his heart tug in the familiar, painful way. They were best friends, the kind of bond built over centuries of trust, but tonight was charged with the unspoken, with the things they felt but refused to say aloud.

She sighed, stopping in the middle of the path between the field of barley and the scratchy grass of their favorite getaway as she shook out her feathered wings. Azriel stopped beside her, his wings shifting slightly as he watched her lift her hand. He watched as she brushed her fingers through the night air, as though she could catch the stars themselves.

She turned to the fireflies flying above the swaying crops, her eyes sparkling similarly to the moon. Her heart pounded, searching her brain for the confidence to even mutter the words. “Kiss me,” she whispered to herself. Azriel’s heart pounded, hearing her words like a thunderclap, that familiar ache in his chest intensified as he didn't move. He couldn't.

She turned to him fully, bright shy eyes catching the silver of the moon. “I didn't mean it like that,” she corrected quickly, a playful smile tugging at her lips, though there was something behind it. She lifted her hand to twirl a piece of her hair, something that made his pulse race even faster. “I mean, this place.” she gestured around them to the moonlit field, kissed by the stars and fireflies. “It feels like something out of those old fairy tales. The kind where the hero sweeps the princess off her feet and kisses her beneath the moon.” She rambled nervously.

Azriel’s throat tightened. If only it were that simple, but he wasn't the hero like in the stories. He was the shadows, the darkness: never the one who could claim the light. And here she was, the personification of the sun with her bright and cheerful, yet shy character. If only he could lift his hand and close the distance between them, take her hand in his and let the fireflies and the moonlight be witness to something they both yearned for but couldn't speak aloud.

She stepped closer, her fingers brushing his for just a moment, sending a jolt through him. “Lead me out on the moonlit floor,” she teased, a smile softening into something more. “Just one dance?”

Azriel’s shadows stilled, almost as if waiting to dissolve completely into the night. Her eyebrow twitched nervously as he glanced down at their hands, so close but not touching. Finally, he lifted his scarred palm, offering it to her. She took it, her skin warm against hers and his heart stuttered at the simple contact.

They didn't need music. The fireflies danced around them; the night air filled with their quiet, flickering glow. The stars seemed to hum above in delight, as if the pair were the only two Fae in the world.

Azriel moved slowly, carefully, as if the movement would shatter this fragile, wonderful moment. They swayed together beneath the milky twilight, her head just a breath away from his chest. His hands rested gently on her waist, rubbing soft, soothing circles as they stared into each others eyes.

She could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his breathing. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, letting herself imagine, just this once, that this was real. That she could have this, have him, in the way they both wanted.

But he didn't kiss her. He didn't let his lips brush hers beneath the silver moon light, no matter how much he ached to do so. Instead, they danced, silently, the world forgotten as they moved in perfect time with each other.

When they finally stopped, her hand lingered in his, her gaze searching his face for anything, for something he couldn't give her. The silence stretched between them, filled with a thousand unsaid things. Then she leaned in, just enough to rest her forehead against his, her breath warm on his skin. Kiss me, she thought.

“Az,’ she whispered, her voice soft, yearning. He swallowed hard in return, his wings shifting restlessly behind him as he repeated her name. He wanted to close the gap between them, to kiss her like the stories promised, to make this moment complete.

But instead, he pulled back, ignoring how her face twisted in disappointment and rejection. “We should head back,” he said quietly, pulling his hand from hers as he shoved them into his pockets. They fell in stride together, even more unspoken words filling the tension between them as they made their way back home.

“Kiss me down by the broken tree house

Swing me upon its hanging tire

Bring, bring, bring your flowered hat

We'll take the trail marked on your (brother’s) map”

The path was overgrown, hidden beneath thick vines and winding trees that had been untouched for centuries. Azriel walked one step ahead, carefully navigating the trail marked on the old map Rhysand had told them to follow. The parchment was worn, its edges frayed with age, but the path it revealed had led them deeper into the woods than either of them had ever been.

It was his brother, Rhysand’s map. A relic from the days when Azriel, Rhysand and Cassian had been young, wild, and free- before the weight of responsibility had been thrown onto their shoulders. The promise of an old tree house, tucked away in the heart of the forest, had been enough to lead them here today.

The girl followed close behind Azriel, her soft laughter and rustling wings filling the air as she pushed aside a low-hanging branch Azriel had flung back at her purposely. She was wearing a wide brimmed, flowered hat Feyre had gifted her. The kind of thing that seems out of place in the thick, untamed wilderness but somehow suited her perfectly. Her fitted top and flowy pants matching the hat fluttered around her legs, the pattern of blossoms and greenery bright against the greenery of the forest. She was the picture of life, of everything Azriel wasn't, and everything he wanted.

“There it is,” he pointed, pausing as the treehouse came into view, tucked between the branches of a large, ancient oak. It had seen better days, the wood worn and weathered, but it still stood.

She hurried to the tire swing, somehow still standing. She didn't think twice when she jumped on it, looking back and gesturing for Azriel to push her. He gave her a look of warning, worried the tire couldn't handle the movement. She folded her wings tight to her back, a wide grin on her face as she bellowed out a laugh as he began pushing her, he was never able to say no to her. The sun began setting, and after the rope snapped and ended with Y/N tumbling down the hill, they decided to stop playing their luck.

He let her climb the old, rickety ladder first, staying silent as he averted his gaze from under her and focused on the rungs. The wood groaned under their weight, but they made it. The hideout was small, the floor uneven beneath them, but it was beautiful in its own way. A forgotten piece of the past, hidden by time.

The two of them sat together on the ledge, their legs hanging over the side as they watched the lake below. Her breath stuttered, smiling as their thighs pressed against each other and their pinkies brushed on the wooden floor.

The setting sun shone across the water, between the trees, a beautiful and peaceful reminder of the simple things in life. It was quiet besides the fluttering of leaves and the occasional call of the nearby birds and critters. The kind of silence that filled spaces between their words, thick with everything they never said.

She leaned back, adjusting the brim of her hat with a small smile. “I can't believe you guys hid this place all to yourselves,” she said, her voice soft with wonder as she glanced at him briefly before turning back to the view. “It's beautiful.”

Azriel nodded in agreement, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “We used to come here when we wanted to get away. Rhys would bring us up here, and for a little while, it felt like we could forget everything else.” He glanced at her, the words trailing off as he watched the way the sun reflected off her eyes, the soft glow of her skin making her seem even more unreal.

Her fingers played absently with the edge of her hat, her fingers twisting a petal of the silk flowers stitched to the brim. “I wonder why he sent us here of all places,” she mused quietly.

Azriel's throat tightened, knowing Rhysand knew exactly what he was doing when he gave them the map. He had seen it, just like Cassian had. The way Azriel watched her, the way he hovered close but never touched. The way he carried the weight of his feelings was like a secret too dangerous to reveal. He changed the subject by pointing out leftover dirt on her shirt from her tumble on the tire swing.

They sat in silence for a while longer, admiring the sunset and reveling in the comfortable silence. The quiet stretched between them as the moon slowly climbed higher in the sky, the pink hues reflecting off her in a beautiful, tantalizing way. The lake below shimmered, the water catching the light and reflecting back at them as they stole glances at each other. His hand rested lightly on the wood beside him, close enough he could feel the warmth of her skin, even though they were not touching. He wanted to reach for her, to take her hand, to pull her close like he'd imagined so many times. But he felt the tug in his chest, fighting back the urge to grab her hand as his pinky inches closer to hers, brushing softly.

“You know,” she began, her voice barely more than a whisper, “I think I've always known.”

Azriel stiffened, turning to look at her with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the lake. There was something in her voice, something fragile, like a thread pulled too tight. “Know what?”

Her lips quivered in a small, sad smile. “That this,” she gestured between them, her hand falling back to rest in her lap. “That we would never be more than this. No matter how much I might want it.”

Azriel's breathing shuttered at her honesty, unsure if he was ready to finally speak the thoughts that plagued his mind. His wings twitched behind him, the words hitting him like a punch to the gut, but he didn't speak. He didn't know how to.

She finally turned to him, her body fully facing him as she sat on her hip. Her eyes were soft, filled with sorrow. “Az,” she sighed, “you and I, we've always been best friends. And I love you for it, but this... longing I feel?” she shook her head, her voice trembling. “It's impossible, isn't it?”

He swallowed hard, the truth of her words settling like a dagger to his chest, adding to the dull, golden tug. It was impossible, he had known it all along, unsure how much more of this yearning he could live with. He had known that no matter how much he cared for her, he was still worried of the repercussions. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, barely audible. His usual, confident and strong self-replaced with the anxiety he hid deep within.

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She was slowly losing hope, finally realizing how even her words couldn't get Azriel to just look at her how she wanted. She yearned for his affections, her eyes pleading with him silently. “Don't be, I think I just needed to admit it,” She shrugged, a watery sigh leaving her lips. “Even if it hurts.”

Azriel nodded, his gaze dropping to the space between them. So close, yet so far. He could feel the pull, the yearning, the desire to lean in, to kiss her like he had imagined so many times. But he wouldn't, couldn't. The anxiety of what could be too much for his heart to handle. He didn't want to lose this relationship, even if they both knew it wasn't what they wanted.

“I'll always love you Az,” she reached out, her fingers brushing his cheek for just a moment before she pulled away. “It's time for us to stop pretending.”

The words hung in the air, final and unspoken, as they sat together in the too cramped, broken tree house. Two best friends, caught in a love that could never be.

“Oh, kiss me beneath the milky twilight

Lead me out on the moonlit floor

Lift your open hand

Strike up the band and make the fireflies dance

Silver moon's sparkling

So, kiss me”

The tension had been unbearable.

Days-weeks-had passed since that night in the treehouse, since her quiet confession, since they had both agreed to let go of what could never be. And yet, they couldn't. Not really.

Every corner of the house reminded her of Azriel, the quiet moments they had shared. The laughter they used to find so easily, the way his eyes would soften when they locked with hers. Now in the silence of the avoidance, the weight of missing him was suffocating, even worse than when he would disappear on his diplomatic missions. She never realized how deeply entwined her heart had become with him until they began to distance themselves.

They avoided each other, keeping a polite distance that everyone in the Inner Circle noticed. Feyre’s concerned glances, Rhysand’s subtle smirks, Cassian’s relentless teasing- it all pointed to the same thing.

Azriel and Y/N were miserable.

Everyday felt hollow without him, like a piece of her was missing, wandering the halls farther away from him. She missed him in a way that wasn’t friendly at all. Their distance made her slowly realize how trapped she was, trapped by the fear that what she felt wasn’t mutual. She felt like this yearning that wouldn’t go away, was for her to bear alone.

Tonight, however, everything had come to a head. After dinner, the Inner Circle had been suspiciously absent. A few muttered excuses and knowing glances left Azriel alone on one of the many balconies, the soft breeze stirring his normally kept and styled hair, now rustled and unruly as he stared out at the night sky. He knew they were up to something.

Then she appeared.

Azriel turned at the sound of her steps, his heart giving a familiar jolt as she stepped through the doors, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight that suited her so well. She looked hesitant, her eyes meeting him for only a moment before she glances away, fidgeting with her hands as her wings fluttered behind her. It had been weeks since they'd been alone like this. Too long.

He didn’t expect to miss her as much as he did. The days stretched endlessly, turning to weeks, every moment without her a reminder of how deeply embedded she was in his routine. At this point, it had been exactly 24 days and 47 minutes since they had spoken in the treehouse, not that Azriel was keeping track or anything.

“They did this on purpose,” she grumbled, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she feigned annoyance.

Azriel huffed and crossed his arms, the hint of a smile touching his face as well. “Of course they did.”

Silence settled between them, but it wasn't the awkward, strained kind that plagued them since the treehouse. It was something softer, quieter, and thoughtful. The moon hung heavy in the sky, casting a silver glow across the city below the balcony. For the first time in weeks, they felt it- the ease, the pull, the connection that had always been there. Always will be there.

She leaned against the railing, her face turned towards the stars, the soft breeze playing with the loose strands of her hair, the feathers of her wings. Azriel couldn't help but to stare, his heart raced with the familiar ache he wanted so desperately to push away.

He always told himself they were just friends, that the feelings he shoved away were nothing more than fondness and friendship. But now, with the distance between them, and her late-night confession, he couldn’t deny it any longer. He was in love with her-had been for years.

Every laugh, every stolen glance, every soft touch had built into something undeniable. And now, the ache of missing her was a constant reminder that friendship isn't enough anymore, not after that night. He was at a loss for words all those 24 days ago, but he had plenty of time to reevaluate his anxious mind and try to think of a way to fix this. Fix them.

“They're right, you know.” she sighed quietly, “We’ve been avoiding each other. I hate it.” She admitted truthfully.

His throat tightened, moving from his spot to lean against the railing beside her. “I hate it too,” he said, glancing down at her as he felt the warmth of her arm near his. His wings tingled at the sensation, waiting for the perfect time to explain his actions.

She turned to him then, her eyes soft, open in a way they hadn't been since the treehouse. “I don't want to do this anymore.” Her voice cracked, “Pretending we're fine when we're not, ignoring this connection we have.”

Azriel's chest ached, his wings shifting behind him as he moved closer. “Neither do I,” he admitted, barely above a whisper.

She questioned if she heard him right over the wind, surprised with his easy agreement. She lifted her hand then, similar to when she reached for the stars. The gesture was more than enough to undo him. He reached out, taking her hand in his. Her skin was warm against his, comforting. Azriel pulled her closer, the moonlight washing over them like a blessing. It was like everything they'd been holding back, every unsaid word, melted away in that simple touch.

“I've been a fool,” he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. “Trying to keep my distance when all I've ever wanted was to be close to you.” He swallowed hard, “I thought if I admitted it, I’d lose you completely. So, I stayed quiet, complacent, and pretended friendship was enough. But Gods, Y/N, it never was enough.” His voice softened, a watery, small smile across his face as he pulled her face closer to his. He almost whimpered, just a breath away. “I've wanted you for so long, and I was too afraid, too much a coward to see that you might have the tiniest chance of feeling the same.”

Her lips parted, her eyes shining with something that looked like hope. “Then don't keep your distance anymore.” She begged, Kiss me.

Azriel whispered, “When you told me your feelings that night, I was stunned.” his hazel eyes stared into her dazzling ones, noticing how the silvery moon reflected against her lashes and rosy cheeks. “I didn't know what to do, because I wanted to hear them for so long but never considered.” His sentence trailed off, gaze distracted at her lips, never seeing a smile so heavenly.

“I've been waiting for those words for so long, Az.” She smiled widely at him; eyes crinkled in delight as her wings fluttered similarly to his. They both felt the tug in their chests at the mutual admiration.

The words were simple, but they undid him completely. The fear, the anxiety of losing her now outweighed the hope of something more. Azriel lifted her hand, pressing it against his chest as he took a deep breath. She felt her heart stutter, the tug in her chest almost impossible to bear. The night seemed to hum around them, the air alive with the distant sound of music and joy coming from inside the house and the streets of Velaris.

And at that moment, everything fell into place.

Without thinking, without over analyzing, Azriel bent his head, their foreheads brushing as they stood together beneath the silver moon. The world seemed to still, the fireflies dancing around them, the stars glittering above them as if they were waiting for this. Waiting for them.

“Az,” she whispered, just a breath away from his lips. ”Kiss me.”

And this time, he did.

He kissed her beneath the milky twilight, their hands entwined as the moonlight spilled over them. The soft hum of the city below fading into nothing as they finally, finally found their way back to each other. The moment their lips met, it was as if the world dissolved around them, leaving only the fierce, undeniable tug between them that had simmered for way too long. He kissed her softly, pouring every unsaid emotion into the kiss and showing her his true feelings. Every ounce of longing and unspoken yearning, all of it deep and breathless. They finally let go of the fear that had kept them apart for so long. Hope blossomed in replacement as the sun and shadows finally united.

He pulled away slowly, both breathless, “I should've done that a long time ago.” Azriel murmured close to her lips, his eyes barely opening to look into her own, his hands still holding onto her tightly.

“Better late than never,” she laughed, pulling him back for another kiss, leaning into him.

And as they stood there, wrapped in the glow of the night, the fireflies dancing in the air between them, Azriel couldn't help agreeing.

The couple ignored the cheers of their friends on the other side of the closed, glass doors. Y/N threw an obscene gesture at them, laughing as she turned to chase them away as Azriel stared at the beautiful girl. His beautiful girl.

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