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writinginatree · 20 days ago

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At His Princess's Command

Relationship(s): Garrick Tavis/female!Tauri!reader, Xaden Riorson & reader, Violet Sorrengail & reader

Summary: When Garrick almost dies, you can no longer hide that you've been in love with him for years.

Warnings: Angst with a happy ending, Onyx Storm spoilers, mentions of canon-typical violence, panic attacks, poison, mentions of reader's family being toxic/kinda abusive, slight canon-divergence (reader takes Aaric's place in quest squad and we're pretending they stopped for the night between Hedotis and Zehyllna), one mention of reader having long hair.

Based on this request.

You impatiently tap your fork against your hand, courtly table manners too deeply ingrained in you to start on the cake. No matter what your hosts say, it would be impolite not to wait. But damn, does that cake look good. You really hope the servers hurry with getting the triumvirate their forks so you can find out if the cake's taste matches its appearance.

Suddenly, your hand is empty.

You look down at it, then over at your fork in Violet's hand, blinking in confusion. Just as your gaze meets her tense face, Garrick, who sits at your other side, says the cake tastes just like home, and a jolt of terror has the blood freezing in your veins.

The word flares bright in your mind. Poison. Gods, how did you not think of it? Throughout your childhood, you've been drilled about the dangers of it time and time again — though most Navarrians adored their princess, the danger of being poisoned at some banquet or other was never zero. The fact that your hosts hadn't received their forks alongside you should have instantly set alarm bells ringing in your head, but you'd been so preoccupied with the triumvirate's ridiculous judgement of your friends' life choices and wondering if this really is supposed to be the test of wisdom Violet had said was waiting for you, that you hadn't even considered they might test you by poisoning the godsdamned food. That's why Faris had waited until desert, you suppose, so you would be reassured by having survived the main course and fully focused on the conversation — too focused to be suspicious about the missing forks until it was too late.

"Don't eat it!" you shout, head whipping around to face Garrick.

But of course he already has. Gods, how did he manage to shove down almost half the slice so quickly? Why didn't you think faster, fast enough to stop him?

As you watch Garrick's face slacken, it's like your heart stops in your chest. If Violet hadn't snatched the fork from you before you could even think about taking a bite, you would think you're poisoned too. Terror paralyzes you for a second, two, then your body remembers how to breathe and you snap out of the stupor, your hand shooting out just in time to keep Garrick's head from slamming into the table as he collapses.

"Garrick!" Xaden shouts.

Oh gods, no. This can't be happening.

"He's not breathing!" You should do something about that, give him mouth-to-mouth, but you can barely breathe yourself. With your much too fast and shallow breaths, you wouldn't do him much good. "Xaden, do something! He's not fucking brea—"

"I heard you the first time."

Your friend is already on his feet, passing behind your and Violet's chairs to help you lower Garrick to the floor.

The chair topples over as you shove out of it and fall to your knees at Garrick's side, frantically feeling for his pulse. You can't find it. Is it just because you're shaking too hard, or is there no pulse to find?

Mira is yelling at someone to get Trager, but what good is a medic when you don't have the antidote to whatever is killing him?

"What did you put in that fucking cake?!" you snap at the triumvirate, even as it dawns on you that there's no way they'll tell you.

The poison was part of the test — and Garrick failed. You failed.

Xaden kneels on Garrick's other side, opposite you, ear to his chest to check for a heartbeat. "Sluggish but beating."

Thank you, Malek, for not taking him yet. But he still isn't breathing. His face is starting to turn blue.

"Do something," you plead again, wetness trailing down your cheeks. "We have to— to get him breathing again. I— I can't—"

Xaden doesn't waste time on a reply, lowering his face to Garrick's to breathe air into his mouth.

Meanwhile Violet is now trying to get answers from Faris, but, as you already suspected, he isn't talking. That asshole is perfectly willing to let Garrick die on his dining room floor, just for failing to guess that the cake was poisoned.

"Violet."

Xaden's voice is pleading, vulnerable like you've never heard it in the three and a half years you've known him. The realization that even your usually stoic leader is close to losing composure only makes it harder to control your own distress.

You're having a panic attack, you realize — worse than any you've experienced before, and you've had your fair share of them. All the breathing techniques and grounding exercises you know have abandoned you; the only thing you can think of is that you might be about to lose Garrick.

Not that you have any claim to him whatsoever — unlike your dragons, the both of you are merely friends, nothing more. If he dies now, he'll never know you feel more for him than friendship.

"I won't let him die," Violet promises, the words directed as much at you as at her boyfriend.

You tear your gaze from Garrick for a second to give her a grateful look, the panic receding the tiniest bit. Violet is one of your oldest friends — one of the only real friends you had as a child — and has always been the smartest. If anyone can find the right antidote, it's her.

Moments later, the door flies open. Trager and the others — finally. You don't know how much good his medical training can do in this case, but hopefully he can keep Garrick from dying long enough for Violet to figure out how to actually save him.

As Trager joins you and Xaden at Garrick's side, Violet and Mira shout orders at the rest of the squad. They all disperse to do their part, leaving the four of you alone with the triumvirate — all of them bent over and clutching their stomachs, thanks to Violet's arinmint.

"We have to get his heart beating stronger." Trager puts one hand on top of the other on Garrick's sternum, then forces all his weight down. "Keep breathing for him."

You know you should do something, anything, to help too, but you can't bring yourself to take your eyes off Garrick for even a moment, can't do anything but clutch his hand, fight for breath, and pray, pray that Violet really will find an antidote.

You're vaguely aware you'll hyperventilate if you don't calm down, but all you can think about is Garrick. Though your dragons are mated, it's different than with Xaden and Violet, who would almost certainly both end up dead if one of them dies. If Garrick dies, Chradh will likely survive it, and you'll be forced to live in a world without Garrick in it.

The thought is unbearable.

Without interrupting the heart massage, Trager calls your name. "Breathe. It won't help Garrick if you pass out."

"I k-know," you gasp.

Gods, you feel so useless. Worse than useless — you're making the situation worse, distracting Trager from helping Garrick, just because you can't get a fucking grip on yourself.

"It's going to be okay. Just breathe in" — he waits for you to do so — "and out. Good. Again. Deep breaths."

You do your best to force your thoughts to stop spiraling into doom, focusing on your breathing under Trager's instruction. Eyes trained on the almost hypnotic rhythm of his hands compressing Garrick's chest, you slowly regain some semblance of control over yourself.

Giving yourself a firm shake, you rub your hands over your face. When you open your eyes again, Trager and Xaden have stopped their efforts.

"What—?"

"He's breathing on his own."

Oh thank the gods. He's breathing — shallowly, but he is breathing. That's as good as it can get without the antidote.

"You can't die, Garrick," you whisper, curling in on yourself with your head on Garrick's shoulder. Every breath you feel him take comes as a relief. "You hear me? I forbid it."

He always jokes about being at your beck and call, heeding his princess's every command. It always makes you feel a little awkward, a reminder of your power imbalance and the life you'll never be able to fully leave behind, but for once, you hope he meant it.

No matter how ridiculous it is to believe that an order from you will keep him hanging onto live long enough for Violet to find the antidote, you keep repeating it anyway. He is not allowed to die. Not here, not now, not if you have any say about it. You'll personally follow him into the afterworld and drag his sorry ass back out before you let him leave you like this — killed by a piece of cake, of all things! When he wakes up, you'll give him an earful about shoveling the damned thing into his mouth so carelessly, that's for sure. You try to convince yourself he will wake up again. He just has to.

There's noise in the kitchen, then Vi and Ridoc step out of it. Almost at the same moment, Dain returns with Violet's book, and it must contain what she was looking for, because she sends him to get figs.

You blink at that. Figs? You don't know what you expected the antidote to be, but certainly not that. No matter. If they really help Garrick, figs will be your new favorite fruit from now on.

Violet turns to you, sending you into the kitchen with Ridoc to prepare five cups of water. You don't want to leave Garrick's side, but it's to save him, so you make yourself go.

You've just filled the first cup when Dain comes sprinting into the kitchen with the figs. Grabbing the nearest knife, he cuts them as small as possible, crushing the pieces with the flat of the knife for good measure before dumping the stuff into the water cup you hold out to him.

Grabbing a spoon, you head for the door, stirring the mixture as you walk. Dain and Ridoc follow with the other water cups; you don't know what Violet needs them for, and you honestly don't care.

Xaden and Trager already have Garrick on his side, and together, the three of you manage to get the solution down his throat.

Garrick sputters, spitting some of the slurry out, but his eyes flash open. Xaden yells at him to wake the fuck up and drink it. It takes him four big swallows before the cup is drained and he falls back, his head landing in your lap.

He still doesn't look good.

You frown down at him, while Xaden's worried gaze snaps to Violet.

"Give it time," she soothes. "We're under the hour mark. He'll be alright."

You don't take your eyes off Garrick. "You don't know that."

If you weren't still so worried about Garrick you'd be embarrassed at the way you sound, voice shaking and thick with tears. Your heart is still thumping against your ribcage like a trapped bird, but at least your breathing has normalized.

While Violet turns to threaten Faris some more, you run your hand through Garrick's hair.

"Wake up, Garrick. Please. You can't just leave me like this. I need you."

You wish there was magic here, wish you could mentally reach for Garrick or the dragons. Chradh would be able to tell you if Garrick is close to waking up, but you can feel neither him nor your own dragon. Maybe that's for the better — they're probably both furious about the poisoned cake, and getting swamped with dragon rage is the last thing you need right now.

But gods, how you long for Garrick's voice in your head. How you wish he'd wake up and tease you about the tears you shed for him, for believing he would die that easily.

You don't remember how to live without him. Though it's only been three and a half years since that day your dragons choose you and forever bound you together, it feels like you've known him an eternity.

When you think back to life before you became a rider, before you met Garrick, it seems woefully empty.

Abandoning your father's court to go to Basgiath had been the best decision of your life, not just because being a rider allows you to fight for what is right or because your dragon understands you like nobody else, though both things are also true, but because if you hadn't joined the quadrant, you might have never met Garrick, certainly wouldn't have become so close with him and the other marked ones.

When you declared you wanted to become a rider, your father had been far from thrilled, but since — much unlike your older brothers — you rarely ever asked for anything, he had eventually given in and allowed it. Though you hadn't liked entering the quadrant together with your brother, it was your luck that you did. After Alic's death, your father would have never let you go.

But gods, how you had loathed it, loathed Alic, loathed the implications. You knew how it would make you look; like you were just a little girl trailing after her older and stronger brother. For a while, you had even considered going to the healers instead, just to put some distance between yourself and your brothers. But being a rider was what you wanted, had always been your dream, a way to truly make a difference, and you wouldn't let Alic take that from you just because he had decided a dragon would suit his ego. You'd ignore him and make your own path.

It was easy enough to ensure you were put in a different squad, a different wing, than Alic. Even though your status wasn't supposed to mean anything in the quadrant, everyone was eager to please the princess, to win your favor. Precisely for that reason, you kept to yourself as much as you could. You were tired of fake friends, tired of all the lies.

The marked ones were understandably wary of you — it was defying your father that had gotten their parents killed, and they had no way of knowing you despised him, despised the deceit and cowardice he ruled with. They couldn't know you came to Basgiath to escape all that, that you knew what was out there and couldn't stand the thought of sitting idly in your father's palace in Calldyr doing nothing about it, that you wanted to find a way to fight the real enemy.

The open hostility had been strangely refreshing. It wasn't like any of the marked ones tried to harm you — they weren't fools — but they made no secret of the fact they wanted nothing to do with you, and you could feel them glare at you anytime one of them was in your vicinity.

Sometimes other people would get mad about it on your behalf, but when they tried to start fights about it, you quickly shut it down. All you wanted was to be left alone, treated normally; the marked ones didn't bother you.

Alic, of course, was a different matter. While you ignored the marked ones when you could and treated them the same you would anyone else when you did have to interact with one of them, your brother found twisted amusement in the pain the children of the rebellion had been caused on your father's orders, and tormented them whenever he could.

Not that he didn't torment everyone else, too — even you weren't entirely safe from his bullying, though he didn't take it quite as far as with others he deemed farther beneath him. When it suited him, Alic played the protective brother, using you as an excuse to pick on any marked ones he caught being less than friendly to you, only to be the one pushing you around and insulting you moments later.

No one seemed to take notice of it, and you were used to it, so you simply avoided him as much as you could, the way you'd always done. Being away from home made it easier to keep your distance, though in the quadrant's limited space you couldn't help running into him occasionally.

At home, you had been expected to get along. As the only girl, you had been expected to keep the peace between all three of your brothers, to play the perfect daughter of the perfect royal family, smiling even when Alic pinched your arm so hard you teared up. Being not quite a full year younger than him and Halden, you'd spent your whole life quietly suffocating in their oppressive orbit, shielding Cam from their cruelty as much as you could in hopes he would grow up a better person than them.

But at Basgiath, you didn't have to pretend anymore. Though people would never let you forget where you came from, you weren't the princess there, just another cadet. There was no more need for you to associate with Alic.

Dropping the pretense was freeing, but also strange, like speaking a language you weren't quite fluent in. So many times you'd been lectured about being nice to your older brothers, even when they were anything but. Turning your back on Alic when he commanded you to write his assignments for him had felt like committing a crime against the crown, but you'd done it anyway.

And as you grew bolder, more openly cold towards your brother, the marked ones slowly warmed up to you. It was such a gradual change you didn't even notice at first.

Not until the day you faced Garrick Tavis on the challenge mat.

He completely kicked your ass, but he was... shockingly nice about it.

The moment you'd heard his name called out alongside your own, you had prepared to die. It was the first match in which the professors dared to pair you with one of the marked ones, though you had no doubt there'd been requests from them to challenge you before. Considering who you were, it was to be expected they would try to kill you — and on the mat, they would have every right to do it, though even so, there were sure to be repercussions. But in the quadrant, every cadet was equal — or was supposed to be, anyway — so the professors couldn't avoid letting you fight a marked one forever.

The separatist kids had every reason to want you dead, but when Garrick stepped on the mat with you, he didn't seem like he was out for blood. He looked calm, confident, eager for the fight — normal. Like you were just a regular cadet, not the princess of Navarre, not the daughter of the man responsible for hiding the truth and orphaning more than a hundred children, Garrick himself among them.

You wondered if maybe he was just that good at hiding his hatred, if he was trying to make you let your guard down so he could stick a blade in your heart. But you'd seen him fight, knew he was one of the best in your year, outdone only by Xaden Riorson himself. He had no need to resort to tricks if he wanted to kill you.

And he didn't. Didn't try to kill you, didn't even hurt you any more than was strictly necessary to defeat you.

You walked off the mat with all your bones intact, and only a single, finger-shaped bruise blooming around your wrist where he'd gripped it to twist your dagger from you. Your thoughts, however, were a jumble. Not just that Garrick had defeated you so gently, he'd even offered his hand to help you to your feet after you yielded. And he had smiled at you — not the cruel sort of smirk you were used to seeing from Alic when he won a fight, but an actual friendly smile. Slightly cocky, clearly proud of his victory, but friendly nonetheless. Like he was a little sorry for ending the victory streak you'd had going.

It didn't make any sense. The marked ones hated you. Why would one of them spare your life when presented with a chance to end it, let alone be so nice about it? You even wondered if it was a ploy to indebt you to him, if he would hold it over your head and claim you owed him for letting you live, but he did no such thing. He just went on with his life as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

You payed more attention to the marked ones from that day on, started watching Garrick, and realized the glares had stopped — or at least become significantly less frequent. When you passed a pair of them talking to each other in the courtyard, they no longer interrupted their conversation to watch you with narrowed eyes until you were gone. When you had breakfast duty and a marked one got something from your station, they politely thanked you, some of them even giving you a smile. One time a marked girl was nearby to see Alic shove you around, and wordlessly offered a hand to help you to your feet once he'd left.

None of them went so far as to befriend you, but it seemed the growing awareness that you were here to escape your family was enough to come to an unspoken truce.

And Garrick... Garrick slowly but surely started to take up more and more space in your thoughts. It was a little embarrassing, developing a crush on someone you'd never even talked to, but he had a certain charm about him that you could tell others weren't immune to, either. For someone with a rebellion relic, he was a very successful flirt.

He wore the dagger he'd won from you during that challenge strapped among his other ones, but so far as you could tell, he never used it — as if it were too valuable, too precious, something he didn't want to lose or damage. A ridiculous thought, of course, but you couldn't shake the feeling it was true.

Or maybe he just thought it too impractical — it being one of the daggers your father had gifted to you when you departed for Basgiath, it was a filigrane little thing adorned with jewels, looking more like a little girl's toy than an actual weapon. You yourself preferred fighting with the daggers you won in challenges, hating the way the blades you'd brought with you across the parapet seemed to scream spoiled princess.

Every time your eyes met across a room, you quickly looked away, lest Garrick notice the heat rising to your cheeks. You were used to male attention — guys had been hitting on you since you'd barely hit puberty. Everyone wanted the influence they thought they could gain from being with you, or to simply be able to brag about having kissed the princess of Navarre. But there was something different about having Garrick's attention on you, however fleetingly.

Maybe it was just that he didn't seem to care who you were, that even though he should consider you an enemy, he never treated you like it.

You'd never given any of your countless suitors the time of the day, which meant that now that there was someone you were actually interested in, you had no clue what to do about it. Was there even anything you could do? A marked one was the last person you should get involved with, the last person who would even want to get involved with you, no matter how many flirtatious looks he shot you.

Smiling at you from the other side of a room, handing you a book you dropped, brushing hands when you happened to reach for the basket of bread at the same time during lunch — none of that had to mean he liked you, or wanted anything to do with you.

The more you watched him, the more you doubted he even realized how friendly he was to you. Or — just as likely — maybe it was an act. Maybe he actually was trying to get close to you, to use you for your title like everyone else. Having the princess wrapped around his finger certainly would make life easier for him and the other marked ones.

Whatever his motives were, you kept your distance. You had joined the quadrant to bond a dragon, not to chase after boys, regardless of how handsome and charming they were. You needed to keep your eyes on your goal: to become a rider and fight for what's right. Between studying, hours in the gym, and Gauntlet training sessions, you had no time to waste on ridiculous crushes.

You did a good job of ignoring the way your heart sped up whenever you caught sight of Garrick, right up until Threshing came around.

When you stumbled upon him, Xaden Riorson, and Alic in the grounds, your resolve to keep away went right out the figurative window. It came as no surprise that your brother was using the opportunity to go after the marked ones, but you were still shaken that it was Garrick of all people he was targeting. Could Alic have noticed the way your eyes lingered on the marked cadet sometimes, or was it merely coincidence?

Seeing him raise his blade to strike Garrick down, you called your brother's name. You had no idea what exactly you thought you were doing — there was no way you could talk him out of the slaughter he seemed to have in mind. Did you seriously mean to fight him? Gods, you would be in so much trouble if you did. But you couldn't just walk away and let whatever happened happen, no more than you could stand there and watch it happen.

As it turned out, you didn't have to actually do anything. The brief distraction you provided gave Xaden enough time to place himself between his wounded friend and your brother. The following fight was short but brutal — and you did nothing to stop it, even when Xaden raised his sword for the killing blow.

Just before it fell, you turned your back, walking away with Alic's last scream ringing in your ears.

Even now, you sometimes find yourself wondering if the role you played in your brother's death makes you a bad person. You tell yourself it doesn't, that he was the bad person. The lack of remorse you feel about what happened, however, most certainly does. You can't bring yourself to care. He had been meaning to kill Garrick — Garrick, who is worth a dozen Alics. If Xaden hadn't been there to rid the world of your brother, you might have done so yourself. After twenty whole years in Alic's proximity, you had long given up any hope that he might grow out of being such a bully. He never would have changed.

You had still been reeling from the encounter when your dragon found you, leaving you no time to process what had happened — that you and the two marked ones were now co-conspirators in killing your brother. You might have only indirectly contributed to his death, but if your father got wind of it...

You could only hope he wouldn't.

Before you could contemplate what horrible fate would await you should anyone find out how exactly Alic had died, you were soaring through the sky to the flight field, where the next shock was already waiting for you in the form of your dragon's mate — a Brown that had bonded the very person your brother had been trying to kill. And because mated pairs couldn't be separated, that meant you were now tied to Garrick Tavis for the rest of your careers — and lives.

You still hadn't spoken a single word to each other.

It was a lot to get used to; the knowledge that Alic was dead and couldn't torment you any longer, the constant paranoia that someone would come arrest you for letting him die, and most of all, being bonded not just to a dragon, but by extension also to Garrick.

Once the both of you actually got to know each other, you'd instantly clicked, becoming almost as inseparable as your dragons, but despite all the lighthearted flirting, your bond never developed into anything more. It was like there was an invisible line neither of you were willing to cross, feelings the one thing you never spoke about — uncertain territory neither of you seemed willing to enter.

A groan from Garrick abruptly ends your reminiscing. His eyes open, meeting yours. "This is my least favorite isle."

You sob a laugh, silently agreeing. It's such a relief to have him awake and looking at you that you can barely hold back a fresh wave of tears. You hardly notice when Xaden jumps to his feet and attacks Faris; leaning down so your face hovers mere inches above Garrick's, it's like the two of you are in your own little world, shielded by the curtain of your hair.

"How are you feeling?" you ask, tracing your thumb along his scarred cheek.

"Well, I've definitely been better. But," he adds, that adorable dimple appearing as he grins up at you, "considering I have a beautiful princess fussing over me and acting as my pillow, I can't really complain."

"Gods, you're unbelievable." You don't know if you want to slap or kiss him. "You almost died, Garrick! And the first thing you do upon waking up is flirt with me?"

Upside down as he appears in your vision, it's hard to read his expression, but his shrug is entirely unapologetic. "It's not every day I get to wake up with my head on your lap. Those soft thighs do something to a guy, you know."

Un.be.lie.va.ble.

"More likely the poison got to your brain." You shake your head. "Do you even realize how fucking scared we all were for you?!"

No need to mention that it had been you who had freaked out the most.

Your expression must give something away though, because Garrick's face softens, and he reaches up to trace a finger over your cheek. Belatedly, you realize the tracks of your earlier tears must still be visible.

"I'm alright," he reassures you. "It'll take more than some poisoned cake to get rid of me."

You give him a wobbly smile, covering his hand with your own, the other still cupping his face. "Then I guess it's a good thing I don't want to get rid of you. Whatever would I do without you trailing after me?"

"Pretty sure it's usually you who trails after me, princess."

"Whatever. Just promise me that the next time we're served poisoned cake, you won't shovel it down like that."

"Yes, my lady. You can rest assured I will not be making that mistake twice."

Someone clears their throat next to you, interrupting the quiet conversation and reminding you that there are, in fact, other people in the room with you.

"Trager, help the princess with Garrick and start moving him toward Chradh," Dain orders. "Ridoc, let's pack everyone's shit."

The following night, you lie awake on your bedroll, watching Garrick's sleeping form in the firelight. While he seems to be recovering just fine from the effects of the poison — strong enough to keep his seat as you left Hedotis behind, and already back to doling out his usual sarcastic quips when you made camp for the night — the turmoil inside you still hasn't lessened. You can't bring yourself to take your eyes off Garrick, no matter how briefly; every time you do, the bitter taste of fear floods your mouth again.

He was so close to death, so close to leaving you. If he'd died, he would have done so without ever knowing how much he means to you.

The thought haunts you.

You've faced so much danger, overcame so many of your fears, pushed your limits time and time again. You like to think you've become truly brave in the three years you've been a rider, yet confessing your feelings is the one thing you still haven't found the courage to do.

How could you possibly tell Garrick you love him when even his and Xaden's friendship is already so much more than you deserve, considering everything your family has done to them?

Maybe it makes you a coward, but you've decided long ago that you would rather keep things as they are than risk rejection. With all his flirting, you're pretty certain Garrick would welcome you into his bed with open arms, but would he welcome you into his heart, too? He has never shown any indication he's interested in a long-term relationship — not with you, nor anyone else.

Maybe he just doesn't do romantic love.

If that's the case, you're fucked. You don't want a quick fling or to be friends with benefits. You could never be that casual about him, wouldn't be able to handle having him without having all of him. And if you tried and it ended up not working out, things would be terribly awkward. It's not like you would be able to avoid him, thanks to your dragons.

But watching him almost die made those worries pale in comparison to the sheer terror you'd felt at the idea of a life without him.

It's not like this was the first time you've witnessed him in mortal danger; gods know you've all had your share of close calls in your years as cadets, and even more since graduating. But somehow, this felt different. This wasn't just a blade evaded by hair's width, not an almost. This time, he stood right on Malek's doorstep — a door wide open, only waiting for him to walk through.

You've never come as close to losing him as this, never really had to think about what it would be like to have to go on without him, never quite realized just how much you need him, how much you rely on his presence to keep you sane in the midst of this war. You'd never dared to truly let yourself imagine what it would be like to have more than the friendship you built, kept telling yourself it's not worth the risk of destroying what you have, but after you almost lost him completely today...

You're not sure how you're supposed to keep hiding your feelings for him. Everyone saw you freak out. Oh gods, did they realize why you had reacted so extremely? Would they tell Garrick? Would it even matter if they do?

You know he cares about you, the question is just in what way; purely platonically, or maybe romantically, too?

If you don't find the guts to talk to him, you'll never know.

With a sigh, you turn onto your stomach, head resting on your folded arms, turned sideways in a way that will probably leave you with a stiff neck so you can keep Garrick in your sights. Your bedroll is laid out far enough from his to not seem clingy or improper, just close enough that if both of you were to stretch out an arm, your hands would be able to touch.

That's not going to happen, of course. He's sleeping, and you won't reach for him, no matter how much you want to.

You'll just watch over him, let the rise and fall of his chest reassure you that he's breathing. You know you won't be able to sleep anyway, no matter how hard you try.

Every time you close your eyes, the day's events play out in your mind again and again. Garrick chewing on that cursed cake, Garrick collapsing, Garrick laid limp on the floor, unbreathing. Better to stay awake, thinking about your feelings for Garrick and what to do about them, than to relive those moments over and over.

Maybe you should risk telling him. You only have this one life, only one chance to be with him. Do you really want to waste it just because you're scared he doesn't feel the same? What if he does? Wouldn't that be worth risking your heart for?

In the end, you must have dozed off after all, because the next thing you know, the stars overhead are gone, replaced by the dull twilight of early morning.

You've rolled closer to Garrick in your sleep — you're lying on the blank sand between his bedroll and your own, your blanket tangled around you like a constrictor snake.

Garrick's arm is stretched out in the sand next to you; a twitch of your hand is all it would take to make your pinkies touch. To your embarrassment, he stirrs before you can untangle yourself and move back onto your bedding. You can't even pretend to still be asleep; your fight to free yourself from the bondage-loving blanket made you twist into a position no one would believe you can sleep in.

Garrick doesn't even waste time on a good morning before he starts teasing you. "Careful, princess, or I'll get used to that beautiful face being the first thing I see when I wake up."

His voice, low and still rough with sleep, sends shivers down your spine. You're still so sleepy you can't stop yourself from imagining what it would be like to always wake up beside him and get to hear his morning voice.

"Shut up."

He doesn't, of course. "If you wanted to cuddle, all you had to do is ask."

"Shut up! I must have gotten cold in my sleep or something."

Garrick chuckles quietly. "Yeah? Come here then, princess. I'll keep you warm."

If you actually were cold, the heat rising to your cheeks at his words would certainly be enough to change that. Nonetheless, you scoot just a tiny bit closer. A second later, Garrick's hand slides under your waist, pulling you flush against him so suddenly you can barely stifle your yelp of surprise.

Everyone else is still asleep around the dying fire, except for whoever had taken the last watch. In the dim light of dawn, you can just make out their silhouette on the opposite side of your campsite.

Garrick's body is warm and solid against your own, and though you hadn't actually been cold at all, you're far from complaining. You only hope he can't feel the way your heart is racing.

This close, you can make out every detail of his handsome face, from the stubble on his jaw over the scar he got at Resson and those oh so kissable lips to his ever observant eyes.

"You're staring again," he whispers. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you haven't stopped staring at me since we left Hedotis, except to sleep. Did the poison give me purple freckles or something, or is just my good looks that have you so enraptured?"

You're not yet awake enough to make up an excuse or evade the question, so you answer honestly. "Just assuring myself you're still here. That you're breathing. Yesterday was—" You shake your head, words failing to adequately describe the horror you'd felt. "I almost lost you. I just— I can't bear the thought of a world without you in it."

"Aww, you really care about me that much, huh?" he teases.

"Yes," you simply say. You don't feel like joking about the matter.

Garrick must realize it, his expression turning serious. "I heard you, you know. When you told me not to leave you. I thought you didn't like giving orders, but it seems you do have it in you after all."

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant as you desperately try to remember what exactly you'd said. Had you let slip any of what you felt for him? You'd been so upset — too upset to care what you said or who might hear. "I figured it was worth a try, considering how you always say you'd do anything for me. Thought I'd see if that includes staying alive."

"It does. My life is all yours, princess."

Though the words are lighthearted, joking, his tone is anything but.

"You shouldn't say things like that," you whisper. "I might get the idea you actually mean them."

"I do. Not even Malek himself could make me leave if you tell me to stay."

Your hand curls into a fist around the fabric of his shirt. Gods, when he talks like that, you can almost convince yourself he feels about you the same way you feel about him.

"Good, because I don't know what I would do without you by my side. I don't— I don't think I want to know. When it looked like you were about to die it was like— like I couldn't function anymore." You hadn't meant to admit it, but the words are gushing out faster than you can stop them. "Everyone else did what they had to, but I— I was completely petrified. All I could think was that I was going to lose you and I couldn't do anything about it."

"But you didn't lose me. I'm alive, princess. And I won't be going anywhere, I promise."

He pulls you closer, both arms wrapped tight around your waist, and you rest a palm on his chest. His heart beats strong and steady, not at all like the sluggish slow stumbling it had done when he lay dying on Talia's dining room floor. Without thinking, you rest your head against Garrick's chest and close your eyes, soaking up the sound, every beat a promise that he's alive and will stay that way.

"Garrick?"

"Yes, princess?"

"What would you do if I said I love you?"

With your head still lying on his chest, you can hear his heart speed up at the question.

"If that were the case, I would have to kiss you."

You bite your lip, slightly angling your head to peek up at him. "Really?"

One of Garrick's hands leaves your back and gently lifts your chin, making you fully face him.

"Why don't you try saying it and find out?"

Because you're scared, that's why. But he wouldn't have said that if he didn't mean it, if he didn't feel something, too. He wouldn't play with your feelings like that. And the way he's looking at you...

You shove the fear aside, and say the words you've held back for so long. "I love you, Garrick."

"I love you too, princess," he says just as quietly, and then his lips are on yours.

#garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis #garrick tavis imagine #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #female!reader #Tauri!reader #princess!reader #requested

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nicksolemnlyswears · 3 months ago

Text

FORGED UNDER FIRE

THE UNPLEASANTRIES OF A SURPRISE

blurb: the sorrengail siblings reunite...what starts as a joyous surprise turns into an unpleasant moment as the realization of what brennan did sinks in

pairing: brennan sorrengail x rider! reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: nothing crazy, some violence and cursing, iron flame spoilers

a/n: hello, hello! sorry it took me a couple weeks to update, i've been studying for an exam and i was also catching up with some of my other writing. i had a long fic to update and a marcus acacius oneshot to write for a challenge but that is done!

i'm back and i hope you enjoy this part of forged under fire. it's not that long but it captures the essence of what needs to be said. you can now find a more detailed masterlist of this series on my main masterlist under fourth wing!

enjoy and let me know what you think at the end!

At the mention of a riot, Brennan sprung into action, calling out orders to the cadets under his care and the guards under his command. He knew the time would come when the Navarrians would find them, but he didn't expect it to be so soon.

Brennan curses when Violet speeds past him, running towards the courtyard and calling her dragon. He wishes to follow, but he has a protocol and orders to give. If it were up to him, he'd be following her and calling Marbh to meet him in the courtyard ready to battle.

"It is not a riot. More are coming to join us, forty of them. Teine leads them," Marbh tells him through his link.

"Mira?" Brennan whispers, the corner of his lips turning into a smile. The arrival of his sister is a welcomed surprise.

With a string of new orders and the reassurance they won't go into battle any time soon, he follows after Violet. He's excited to see Mira, his younger sister who he shared a childhood with. At one point, she was his best friend.

The two bickered more than acceptable, but it was part of their dynamic. At the end of the day, Mira and Brennan were each other's biggest supporters.

Brennan smiles when he steps outside, spotting his sisters together. He hurries down the steps, eager to join them and have a proper family reunion.

Teine has put a considerable amount between him and Tairn, considering the bigger dragon had his jaw around his neck not long ago.

Mira falters at the sight of Brennan. Her face pales as her brother, who was supposed to be dead, gets closer. The image of him is clearer and clearer. The sleep deprivation must be getting to her because it simply can't be him.

"Hey, Mira," he says as he approaches, preparing to give Mira the biggest hug.

His voice just about confirms his status as alive and breathing. Her older brother is alive. Her partner in crime.

Deep inside, she's elated that he's alive, that she didn't lose him, but there are layers of anger and resentment to sort through. He's alive, but at what cost?

Memories of her grieving and burning his belongings flash through her mind. Her mother's distance, her father's death, her sister-in-law's suffering, and her nephew growing up without a father figure. They all dealt with his death while he was hiding.

Without much thought, she allows that anger to flow straight through her as she lifts her fist and swings. A satisfying crunch and blood pouring from Brennan's nose lets her know she hit true. It's not the first time she's broken his nose, and it certainly won't be the last.

Violet guides them inside in a flurry, shooting orders left and right. Brennan clutches his nose with a handkerchief as blood pours down his face while Mira glares at him and everyone who tries to touch her.

Once they are alone, an argument ensues between the three siblings. Different questions arise about Brennan faking his death, the rebellion Violet is seemingly leading and their status as family. Violet may have forgiven Brennan, but his betrayal is too fresh for Mira.

It is chaotic and messy, but it describes the Sorrengails perfectly.

Xaden joins them in the office, watching amusedly at how they argue. Perhaps it's for the best he doesn't have siblings. The resemblance between them can be seen perfectly in how their mannerisms overlap and mimic each other.

The room turns quiet at Violet's order. The siblings all stare at each other. Mira ignores the fact that Violet has more guts than she used to. They've changed so much over the years, yet they are the same.

"How is she?" Brennan breaks the silence to ask about his wife. The last time Violet was here, he didn't get the chance. They were in and out in a hurry.

Not a day goes by when he doesn't think about you. Leaving you is his biggest regret. Your relationship was a pillar that kept him strong for so long. You often discredited yourself by thinking you needed him more than he needed you. You were wrong. Brennan needed you just as much.

The moment his signet manifested he stopped being Brennan. All they saw were his healing abilities and how they could use him in their battles. He loves his signet, but it felt dehumanizing when all they saw was a tool.

Except you always saw him as Brennan. You never asked to be healed by him. You��d rather bandage your injuries and deal with the pain. He never let you. If there’s anyone he’ll heal without protest, it’ll be his family.

"Who?" Mira asks, crossing her arms and raising a judgemental eyebrow at him. She knows exactly who he's asking about.

Brennan rolls his eyes, "My wife. How is she?" He asks directly at Violet this time. Reasoning with Mira will be impossible when she's in a mood.

Violet's expression softens, but before she can answer, Mira interjects, "Your wife? You don't have a wife, do you, Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh? Brennan Sorrengail had a wife, but he's dead."

Mira sneers at Brennan her anger eating at her fervently. She doesn't understand how Violet forgave him so easily. Doesn't she realize the gravity of what their brother has done?

"Mira, come on! Enough of this." Brennan pleads, driving his hand through his hair. A sign he's stressed out by the situation.

There were so many times he wanted to reach out to his family. To tell them he was alive and well and that he missed them. It was not realistic when telling them would've endangered them further.

Navarre doesn't want its citizens to know about the venin and what's going on outside the borders. Telling them could've led them to be charged with treason. That is, if Lilith Sorrengail admitted to the information she kept secret.

"You really want to know? Fine, she's dead, Brennan!" Mira exclaims, giving her back to him.

"What?" Brennan pales and falls back on his seat, burying his head in his palms. It can't be. You can't be dead. His heart pounds in his chest at Mira's words, the world spinning around him. The one thing he always counted on was you outliving him by staying safe within Navarre's wards.

"Dead to you! You lost the right to know when you faked your death," Mira says, spinning back around to stare accusingly at him. Maybe that will give him some idea of how they felt when he faked his death.

Violet and Xaden stare at the pair with wide eyes. That was cruel even for Mira.

"Fucks sake, if you think leaving her, leaving any of you, was easy, then you're wrong. I know you're upset, but I had to do this. I couldn't ignore the threats outside of Navarre. Threats our parents were hiding," Brennan shouts back, his chair tumbling to the ground as he stands.

His face matches Mira's as they glare at each other and share the same flushed complexion. It reminds Violet of the good old days when they'd argue about the smallest things.

"You didn't stop to think about me or Violet? You were my brother Brennan, my best friend!" Mira yells, pointing at him accusingly, "And then you try to hug me like everything is okay? This is all levels of fucked up."

Brennan sighs in defeat. "I really am sorry."

Mira looks down and says, "You didn't just leave us. You made us believe you were dead and that we'd never see you again. We mourned you: Dad, Mom, Violet, your wife, and the worst part of it all is--"

She almost told Brennan about his son but couldn't tell him. Mira can't bring herself to tell him about the best thing that happened to their family since he 'died.' It's not her call, and it's not like he deserves to know, either. He gave up that right when he chose to fake his death.

Brennan waits for her to finish her sentence, expecting a string of words to pour more salt into the wound.

"You don't really realize everything you've given up," Mira says ominously, standing across from her brother, no longer pointing fingers or looking to argue. Mira is tired. It's been a long day.

"Will you hate me forever?" Brennan asks her.

Mira smiles sadly, "I don't hate you, Brennan. I love you, but this hurt more than you can imagine."

Brennan opens his mouth to apologize once more, but a knock on the door interrupts him.

"Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh, a word?" One of the Aretian soldiers asks. Brennan nods, telling him to wait outside.

"I hope you know I really am sorry. I hope we can work through this because I missed my best friend." With that, he steps outside the room, Xaden following him.

Brennan is sorry, but he doesn't regret it. It was a sacrifice he had to make. He's hopeful Mira will come around and understand his intentions were good.

"You didn't tell him," Violet speaks softly, glancing at the closed door.

"Neither did you," Mira rolls her eyes, leaning back against a desk, "Not like it matters, he'll find out very soon."

"What do you mean?" Violet asks instantly.

"Because she's coming here," Mira says, playing with a paperweight, "Mom convinced her it's for the best, but she had to go get Benny before coming."

Lilith Sorrengail gave the riders a choice. They could stay in Navarre or join the rebellion. You chose to stay with her, not because you believed in Navarre but because you owed Lilith a lot. She deserved to have someone in her corner. So, it came as a surprise when she insisted on you joining Mira.

"How do you think he'll take it?"

"I'm not worried about Brennan. I'm worried she'll lose her shit and make Calliss eat Brennan," Mira responds with a smile at the imagery she's made up in her head.

"He'd deserve it," Violet laughs, knowing Calliss won't eat Brennan. "On the bright side, I'm excited to see the little bugger."

Little Bennett and Violet share a close relationship. Violet looked after him constantly, and Benny became attached to his aunt. She missed him most when she left for Basgiath.

"You can't be his favorite forever," Mira chimes, determined to take the title from her sister.

Violet laughs, and Mira joins her. It's crazy to think their family will be together soon. That is, if you don't murder Brennan first.

oop were getting closer to readers reunion with brennan! ain't that exciting! for the next one i think i'm bringing it back to when brennan and reader were in basgiath. i want to talk a bit about her signet so yes!

let me know in the comments or in my asks if there's a specific bit between them you'd like to see! i don't know if this is dragging for you guys, i personally love it but if you'd like me to just write them meeting up then let me know too.

tag list (if you'd like to added to future parts let me know!) : @berry-marys @cherubinn7 @ladynyx91 @kylaisra @detectivehailey @liahaslosthermind @thebreadisthetruevillian @bbkissme99 @honethatty12 @sunny1616 @akshstudios @yadirrez @xoxomoonlightbabe @jaynawayna @littlepippilongstocking @itsmytimetoodream @honethatty12 @poseidont @lveegsoi @cheappremingerfromdelululand @tattee-18 @bxm-2121 @hannahjsworld @holb32 @hannah-schooler

#fanfiction #nicksolemnlyswears #fourth wing fanfiction #fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #forged under fire #fourth wing #iron flame #brennan sorrengail x reader #brennan sorrengail #violet sorrengail #mira sorrengail #xaden riorson #onyx storm #fanfic #oneshot

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quietstormxr · 8 months ago

Text

No Need

Here's a Xaden x Reader that was a message request.

Slight Iron Flame Spoilers

Summary: You were Xaden's Wingleader and sent to Chakir. You discovered the venin and rebellion and want to fight, but don't want Xaden to know. You fight at Pavis and are injured.

Angst to Fluff

Hope this covers the request. I had a lot of fun writing it!

Word Count : 4.7k

Getting used to the idea that you were now considered a ‘traitor’ would definitely take some time. As you walked up to the entrance of the fortress of Riorson House in the warm August heat, you couldn’t help but take in the brutal beauty in front of you.

As you walked, you kept your steps measured, but your head held high. Your latest intercepted intelligence told you that this is where you would find the new instance of Fen Riorson’s original rebellion. Even though you no longer exchanged letters with Xaden, your heart knew you would never be able to let innocent people die for the lies Navarrian leadership would spin.

As you walked up to the fortress, someone with close cropped auburn curls came walking out of the doors. You honestly couldn’t believe they would let you get this close before taking you down, but you had just shrugged your shoulders and kept moving.

“What is your business here, rider?” The man in front of you asked in an accusatory tone, leaving no room for niceties.

Knowing there was no reason to beat around the bush, you began to explain.

“I’m here to offer my services to the rebellion. I have deserted my post at Chakir and want to join the fight against the venin.” You said with your shoulders squared, chin high, and a tone of conviction.

“What is your name, Lieutenant?” The man asked looking at the ranking on your flight jacket.

“I am Lieutenant L/N. I was a wingleader of Fourth Wing two years ago and Xaden Riorson served as a squad leader under my leadership.”

The man kept looking at you as you explained, a flash of understanding flew across his features.

“Ah, yes. Lieutenant Riorson spoke highly of you. However, I’m sure you are aware that you will need to be questioned before your intentions can be ascertained.”

You nodded your head, while he began to lead you to an open room.

As soon as you entered, you were overwhelmed by the stares directed at you. There were five other people, obviously older than you, that were looking as if they had just broken from a heated discussion.

The man that ushered you in, gestured at a chair at the other side of the table and you took a seat.

“I am Lieutenant Colonel Brennan Aisereigh. I know from Lieutenant Riorson, that you may have suspected that our operations existed. However, now that you are here, please help us get to know you by confirming how you learned of our existence, the venin, and any other current knowledge you can share.”

You gave a curt not before immediately starting to explain your reasoning for being there. You explained your close relationship with Xaden, leaving out the fact that you had been involved while you were at Basgiath. You explained how you came across the correspondence that led you to Aretia and the way you had come across the venin while on a patrol in Chakir. As soon as you were finished explaining everything you could, you were ushered out of the room and to another room.

You looked around and realized this must have been someone’s office, as there was a desk with papers and maps strewn about. You took a seat in one of the plush chairs lining the walls and got yourself ready for the long waiting game ahead as the members in the other room decided your fate.

As you sat there, you couldn’t help reminiscing over the relationship that you and Xaden shared. You remembered the stolen moments you had taken in your room as the Wingleader of Fourth Wing, the nights spent together talking and laughing while looking up at the stars, and even the fights that always seemed explosive.

You both had kept in touch when you first left Basgiath, but as distance does, it seemed that you both drifted apart. You still thought of him often and even remembered the touch of his hands on your skin. But, with all the rumors that you received at your post, you were more than aware that Xaden had moved on more than once at this point.

You took a deep breath and sighed, knowing that line of thinking wasn’t going to help you in any way. But before you finished exhaling, the door to the study opened.

“Lieutenant Colonel, have you all come to a decision?” You asked as you stood to mark the respect to the rank of the man in front of you.

“Yes, the Assembly has confirmed that you are welcome to serve with us in this rebellion, if you so choose. However, if at any time your loyalties are called into question, you will have to face a tribunal.” He says his face stern to convey the gravity of what you were taking on.

Without an ounce of hesitation, you say. “I understand completely. I am more than willing to prove myself of service to the Assembly and rebellion. However, if I may, I have one request.”

He looks as you with confusion and gives a quick nod for you to continue.

“As I’m sure you are aware, Xaden and I have history. I would like for him to be kept in the dark as to my involvement. I understand that this is his house, so I would like to find lodging somewhere else. I want to be just another name on the rolls of Lieutenants for you to command as you need.”

He looks at you with a face of slight confusion. “How do you intend on him being unaware if we use your name?”

I give a small smile and continue. “I would like to use my grandmother’s maiden name, in place of my last name. I don’t believe he will know who is on the rolls by just my first name. I also ask that if he ever returns to the rebellion full time, I am put on any other squad. I do not wish to be a distraction.” You say knowing that you may be the one that is distracted.

“Otherwise, I will report to duty and such as normal.” I finish.

He gives me a look as if trying to discern something but nods his head in agreement.

Months pass and your new routine continues to develop. You had moved into a small cottage near the fortress and were able to successfully avoid everyone in the fortress for the most part. The only people you saw regularly were Brennan, as you now knew him and Felix.

Brennan had found you were a good sounding board for him and helped with strategy when things were constantly shifting.

You didn’t mind either as it kept you extremely busy. You were constantly learning the movements of the venin, helping to research more on how their powers worked, and were even brought into negotiations with Poromiel. It was a whirlwind on how you infiltrated into the inner workings of the rebellion.

As you are packing your bag for your next assignment, you hear the roar of wind hitting the windows of your cottage. You look out the window to see the largest riot you’ve ever seen flying overhead.

You scrunch your nose in annoyance though when you see Sgaeyl is leading the whole riot.

‘Can we leave before Sgaeyl sees you?’ You ask Fenrir, not wanting to get caught up in explanations or reunions.

‘I’m ready when you are Ferocious One.’ He confirms back.

‘Let’s go. I’ll meet you to the west of town, since I assume the riot will be flying to the valley.’

You hear Fenrir huff in agreement and quickly finish your hair and grab your pack, while sprinting out the door with a cloak drawn to hide your features.

____________

Not long after getting to the outpost you’d been stationed at near the Medaro Pass, your squad gets the information of the new arrivals at Riorson House.

You also received a personal correspondence from Brennan confirming that Xaden was still unaware of your involvement and that he would take great care to make sure you were stationed apart.

You took comfort that at least you would still be able to fight this war without the distraction of Xaden in front of you.

Neither of you had called your ‘relationship’ off, but you had just stopped sending him letters. It wasn’t for lack of him trying, but as you learned of different things, you couldn’t help the way you felt slightly betrayed.

First you had found out he was betrothed while you were stationed in Chakir and then you learned of Violet Sorrengail and the saga of mated dragons. Both new realities made you sure that it wasn’t worth the fight or confrontation, so you were just going to let it lie.

It helped that the rebellion was stretched thin, so there were already so few riders available to man outposts. The days that you were home in your cottage, Brennan confirmed that Xaden was on patrols.

It felt as if you would finally be able to stay apart, but still be able to help those in need. As time progressed with the rebellion, you started becoming more reckless. You figured that there wasn’t much you had left in the world, so if you could make the ultimate sacrifice to save someone else, then why not. Fighting venin was never going to be predictable anyway.

____________________

It didn’t go to plan. Then again, since you arrived at Basgiath, did anything really? You may not be as Basgiath any longer, but that didn’t mean the unfortunate incidents didn’t follow you around.

Sometimes you wondered if the Assembly really knew anything about the movements of the venin and apparent army they had. It didn’t take more than ten minutes before the entire city was overrun.

You were only caught off guard for less than a minute, but those precious seconds cost more than you were willing to admit. One minute the sky was clear and the next you were rushing to your dragon, strapped with every dagger you owned and hoping you could help as many people as possible.

‘Fenrir, we need to draw the attention away from the civilians. Let’s cause a scene.’ You thought to your dragon, knowing that none of your fellow riders were going to approve of your plan.

You were known for being a little bit reckless with your own life, but you figured that it was always better to save the masses, even at the cost of yourself.

Your riot that was watching over the city was only you and two other Lieutenants, all of which has seen little as to actual combat. You were the only one that had previously dealt with the venin while stationed in Chakir.

Knowing that you had the most experience with these creatures, you searched the horizon with Fenrir to see how many venin you would be dealing with.

‘Ladon confirmed there are only two venin with this wyvern horde.’ Fenrir confirmed.

‘Then let’s hunt the two. Can we get the attention of the most powerful one?’ You asked back hoping to draw the one with the most power your way.

‘Let’s hunt, Ferocious One.’

You let a menacing smile cross your face as you braced yourself on Fenrir’s scales. As soon as he got you close enough to the first venin, you let your hand fly with an energy whip flying to lash out as it flew past you on a grey wyvern.

You were only slightly wrong on your calculation of what the venin would do, so you weren’t expecting when it willingly flew back to your side on Fenrir. The second of distraction was all it took for the venin to swipe a blade across your arm. You felt a searing pain lance through you, one that you had never experienced before.

But you weren’t going to let the damn thing win that easily. Before the venin could register your actions, you pulled the energy taut again and slammed the alloy dagger into its chest. The screech that it let out caused you to immediately loosen the energy tearing at its waist. As soon as it dropped, you turned your attention to the other venin.

However, you were shocked to find there were now several more than before. Although wyvern seemed to be dropping out of the sky, there were more than you and your two other squad members would be able to take down.

‘Can you spot the next most powerful one? We need to keep drawing them away from civilians.’ You thought fiercely.

‘I can, but you are hurt Ferocious One.’

‘I don’t care Fenrir. I will not let these people die.’

Fenrir gives a huff of exasperation, but you know that he will not let these people die either.

‘There is additional backup coming that Ladon has called for coming now.’

You send a wave of confirmation, so Fenrir knows that you’re aware of what he said, but you’re focused on staying on his back and trying to push past the burning in your arm. At this point, you know that if this is your end, you will go down fighting as much as you can for the continent.

As you fly forward chasing the next venin, you see the flash of blue scales that you had been dreading to see all these months. You know that there is no way Xaden doesn’t know who is on the back of the red swordtail in front of him. However, you don’t spend much time dwelling on that as you are in a collision course with another venin.

You stand again on the back of Fenrir with your good hand grasping the scales in front of the pommel and make another lasso of energy ready to tear across the next venin. You go to lash out, but you hear a screech from next to you and turn to see a patch of desecrated land, where just a moment ago was a rider and her dragon.

Turning fast, you decide to create an arrow of energy and launch it straight at the venin’s throat that just killed one of your fellow riders. You aim and it strikes true through its throat. You let out a breath as you watch as the civilians that were fleeing that area now have more time to evacuate.

‘We’ve been told to retreat.’ Fenrir relays to you.

‘Why? There are still civilians at risk!’ You snap back, aggravated that you can’t continue to hunt these heartless monsters.

‘You can take that up with your leadership when we return to Aretia.’

“Ugh!” You can’t help the yell of frustration that rips through you at the idea that you will leave innocent people behind.

On your way back to Aretia, the adrenaline and fury of the fight is starting to wane. As you get closer to Riorson House, your body feels like every nerve ending is alight with fire. The absolute agony shooting through you is making it hard for you to keep your grip on Fenrir’s seat.

‘Can you bring me back to the cottage and ask Marbh to get Brennan?’ You ask Fenrir as a particularly stinging pain comes searing through your body.

You let your grip loosen slightly and tear the sleeve of your jacket open more.

“Damnit!” You look down at your arm and see black spidering across your skin.

‘I’ve been poisoned Fenrir.’

‘I know Ferocious One. I saw. I have relayed the message to Marbh and told him to get his rider there now. We will be back in just a few minutes. Hang on.’ He says as I feel bands wrap around my legs to keep me from falling.

You silently thank your dragon as your body seems to want to dance in and out of consciousness.

The next thing you know, Fenrir is landing in front of the cottage.

“Y/N.” You hear a male voice call. You look up and see the auburn curls you were hoping for. Relief washes over you and you fall towards Brennan.

“Bren, poison.” You manage to rasp out. Your eyes flutter in and out and you could swear you see a swath of navy-blue fly above you and rope of shadows drop a figure to the ground. As you begin to finally cave to the acidity of the poison floating through your system, you think you hear a familiar male voice.

“What the fuck is going on Brennan?” The voice asks and you feel yourself getting yanked into a different pair of arms and against a hard chest.

“What the fuck are you doing, Y/N?” You can’t mistake the anger in the way the person says your name before you fully give in to the darkness.

You wake slowly blinking away the exhaustion that still seems to still be pulling you under. Your body only now feels warm, instead of the feeling of fire racing through your veins.

The two male voices that you remember are now still talking in hushed angry tones.

“Why the fuck would you let her join and hide herself?” One of the voices hissed. “Then you send her to one of the most active fucking outposts. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I did as she requested when she came here.” The other voice volleyed back. “You already know that you aren’t privy to all of the decisions of the Assembly yet, especially before you came back with an entire untrained riot.”

“I don’t give a shit. You wouldn’t have accepted her terms if it were one of your sisters.”

“She’s not your sister, so I don’t see how your decisions have any weight regarding her choices.” Gods, that had to be Brennan, at least your foggy mind thought that’s who it was.

“I don’t fucking care what you think! She’s not to be put on an active border like that again.” The other male voice roars.

You hear one of them blow out a breath before continuing in a calmer tone. “That’s not for you to decide. It’s her decision when she wakes up how she wants to proceed. She has been invaluable for the movement and has provided guidance on movements and killed more venin than anyone else. It’s her life and her decision to make.”

“Over my fucking dead body.” The other voice says back, a dark imposing tone highlighting every word.

“Look, she needs to rest, and you need to get yourself under control. I’ll stay with her tonight. You go back to the fortress and get yourself in order. And before you ask, that’s a damn order, now move out.” Brennan tells the other male.

You hear a frustrated growl rip through the air before you hear boots retreating from the cottage and slamming the door. At that, you fall back into unconsciousness as sleep takes you again.

A few days later, you slowly blink your eyes open and are greeted with the bedroom that you’ve called home over the last few months. You take a deep breath, the first that you have been able to take since the battle began.

It’s with that realization that you jolt fully awake remembering the fight and staggering from Fenrir.

‘Are you alright Fenrir?’ You ask unsure about what happened once you returned home.

‘Of course, Ferocious One. I’m glad to know that you are awake.’ He says in reply, a wave of affection surging through your bond.

You slowly sit up and place your feet on the floor, shivering at the cold that has settled in the air. However, it looks as though someone had recently been at the cottage as the remnants of a fire are still glowing in the small fireplace.

You grab a sweater from your small closet and toss it around the pajamas that someone seems to have changed you into. You walk into the small living room and find that someone has obviously been making themselves at home in your cottage. There are some food items on the counter and there’s a blanket spread across the couch that looks like someone just got up.

As you continue to shuffle to the front door, you shake your head trying to clear some of the fog that has seemed to settle in your mind. You can remember hearing voices arguing but can’t seem to remember what they were arguing about. As you go to open the door, you feel the knob turning in your fingers and your brow furrows.

The knob turns fully, and the door is opening with the full light of the sun spilling inside. You squint and blink your eyes several times before you can focus on the person in front of you.

As your eyes finally acclimate to the lighting, you look up and take a full step back when the man in front of you comes fully into focus.

Xaden.

You continue to stare back in surprise and watch as you see the same emotion reflected in his eyes.

“Gods.” He breathes out and the next thing you know, you are being crushed into an embrace.

You let out a small squeak in surprise at the gesture which causes him to immediately pull back to look down at you. You watch as his gaze roams all over your body as if looking for a place that you’re hurt.

You slowly step back out of his arms and watch as his expression turns blank.

“Wh – what – what are you doing – here?” You stammer out as your voice croaks with disuse.

“I should be asking you the same thing.” He says with a firm tone to his voice.

You scoff incredulously at the tone that the man in front of you has taken. It’s amazing how fast this man can get on your nerves, especially after you just woke up from being poisoned.

“I never asked you to come into my home.” You spit back at him. “And you can’t control my actions as a rider trying to protect the people of the continent.”

“I beg to differ. If I don’t want you on the front lines, you won’t be. Just watch me.” He snarks back viciously.

“Ugh.” You say as you turn away from the infuriating man in front of you. “I either fight with the rebellion or I fight alone. Your choice. I made my decision regarding the side of the war I am on, and you can’t change that.”

“Oh, I won’t.” He says lowly while stalking towards you. “But I can guarantee you won’t be going back to Draithus or anywhere near there.”

You look back at him incredulously. You can’t honestly believe this man would punish you for simply joining the rebellion without telling him.

“And why not?” You snap back with your blood now boiling in your veins.

“Because I can’t fucking lose you!” He roars at you, his chest heaving along with his panting breaths.

You whirl your head to face him with shock written all over your face. Your entire body has gone instantly still trying to process the words that just came out of his mouth.

“Wha – What – What do you mean?” You stammer in a whisper.

You watch as he prowls towards you before grabbing your face in both of his hands.

“I came for you. I went to fucking Chakir looking for you and no one knew where you were. I’ve spent months wondering if you were dead because I didn’t know what happened to you.” He rushes out with hands still attached to your face.

“Then when we came back here and I didn’t see you on the rolls of current active riders, I thought I lost you. I had people all over Navarre searching for you. I constantly asked Sgaeyl if she had seen Fenrir.” He huffs out a humorless laugh.

“Then we are called to help defend Pavis and what is the first thing I see, but your energy whipping a venin down to Fenrir and you kill it. But the damn thing sliced you before you landed the killing blow. I watched your face scrunch in pain before you put your mask back on and flew with Fenrir. I didn’t even know if you saw Sgaeyl on that field.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course I saw Sgaeyl, she’s beautiful and hard to miss. Especially with you as her rider.”

“Then I flew back towards Riorson House after, and you weren’t in the group that came back. Again, I thought I lost you before I found fucking Brennan holding your almost lifeless body in front of this cottage.” He continues to explain as he gestures around the small cottage with one hand.

His fingers had at some point started stroking your cheeks in a soothing motion, although you were unsure if he was trying to soothe you or himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were here? Why did you stop writing?” He asks quietly. His tone of voice has now turned quiet almost as if he speaks too loudly the dream he is in would disappear.

You turn your eyes down breaking his gaze, knowing that you don’t want to have this conversation.

“Talk to me. Please.” He says pleadingly.

You look back at him with resignation in your eyes. “While at Chakir I found out about your betrothal and then about General Sorrengail’s daughter. I figured that you’d moved on. I didn’t feel like there was any reason to update you on my whereabouts any longer.” You sigh. “I didn’t want to bring in any additional complications for you.”

You look into his eyes and see regret and sadness. “My whole life I’ve never thought I’d have a choice on who I could be with.” He pauses before continuing. “I may have been betrothed and now tethered to Violet Sorrengail, but there’s only one person that I really want.”

You feel as one of his arms wraps around your back and the other hand rises to your neck and tilts your head back.

“I couldn’t breathe when I saw you limp in Brennan’s arms. I nearly ripped his throat out for touching you like that and knowingly putting you in danger.” He whispers. “I haven’t felt whole since you left Basgiath. And I’ve only been looking for you.”

You can’t help the way you feel like you’re falling into the onyx depths of the eyes of the man cradling you close.

“Please don’t shut me out. I’ve been here the last four days hoping against hope that you would wake up. I need you.” He continues.

“I won’t stifle you. I never could.” He says with a sad smile crossing his face. “But I want you to be with me. I don’t want to hide this anymore and I want you to fight with me.”

You continue searching those onyx depths and see nothing but sincerity and truthfulness. A small smile breaks across your face.

“I’ll fight with you.” You say as his arms tighten around you. “But you may have to catch up. I’ve been counseling the Assembly in strategy for the last few months.”

A smile breaks across his face. “So, I’ve heard. From what I can tell, the Assembly is very impressed with you.”

“Well, I didn’t make wingleader just because of my pretty face.” You sass back playfully.

“That may be true. However, your beautiful face just makes all that wonderous talent even more deadly.” He says moving his face closer to yours, before turning serious again.

“Will you be mine? No games, no hiding. Please.” He asks pleadingly.

You smile back at him before rising and kissing his lips lightly. For a moment he doesn’t respond, but once he realizes, he’s tightening his hand on the back of your neck and bringing you closer. His lips crash harder into yours, which causes yours to part slightly. He takes advantage of it and licks your bottom lip before claiming your entire mouth. You continue to share heated kisses before you are both panting and gasping for breath, resting your foreheads together.

“You’re going to need to up your game if you’re going to surpass your girl with the Assembly, Riorson.” You tease him.

He smiles brightly before replying. “No need. I’m more than fine backing up my girl and standing by her side.”

#fourth wing fanfic #fourth wing x reader #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #xaden fanfic #xaden x oc #xaden x reader #fourth wing xaden #xaden and sgaeyl #brennan sorrengail #the empyrean #the empyrean fanfic #fourth wing fic #fourth wing #iron flame fanfic #iron flame #x reader

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fireheartpages · 1 month ago

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forever | b.d.

bodhi durran x reader

masterlist

word count: 3k

summary: You trace his bare shoulder. “Is there anything I can do? Make you feel better?” “Marry me,” he mutters, and you’re absolutely certain you didn’t hear him right.

notes: second person pov, no use of y/n. heavy onyx storm spoilers. literally the whole thing is an onyx storm spoiler. poe dameron-ification of bodhi durran. fluff and a lot of angst and im so sorry. came to me in a dream. i heard it was bodhi week, so my nod to @empyreanevents even tho this doesn’t really fit any of the prompts, i just can’t let that slide by without writing something bc i love this boy! and i miss him! and just reread onyx storm twice. he reminds me of a labrador puppy. in my head this is bodhi and baby from toml. guys onyx storm messed me up so bad. this is kind of all over the place. sorry again. (proofread while sleepy)

There’s a reason the expression “heavy is the head that wears the crown” exists.

Squad leaders and Wingleaders, captain and generals, kings and queens and viscounts. People in power were under a burden, a visible, tangible one with nasty effects. Good leaders wore the burden on their chest, and bad leaders put it in their back pocket, trying to hide it away and ignore it. Often, the weight of power is mixed with the confidence it bestows. Assurance in stride and worry in raised shoulders. Perfect posture and a scrunched brow. Easy confidence accompanied by tapping fingers. There was no way of knowing what was going on in someone else’s mind—the Navarrian law made sure of that—but it wasn’t hard to decipher someone, if you knew where to look.

For example, it was easy to compare one Wingleader to another. Dain Aetos wore power with less grace than Xaden Riorson. He felt the weight like a strung bow, carrying it on his shoulder with a soft heart. Whereas his predecessor favored a mask of cool indifference. He wore the weight in the tick of his jaw, and in his grasp of control.

Or, one could compare the Commanding Generals of Basgiath. General Sorrengail wielded her power like a dagger, sharp and succinct, and carried it with perfect posture and a broken heart. General Aetos wielded his power like a battle ax, and carried it with a menacing stride and blackened soul.

Royalty tended to carry power differently than Leadership. The quiet acceptance of a bloodline bestowed upon a person, versus the fight to prove oneself as worthy of it.

There’s a reason royalty doesn’t wear rider black, they say. But what happens when it does?

｡･:*˚:✧｡

The day Xaden Riorson was named Duke of Tyrrandor, Bodhi Durran had a panic attack.

You could not believe it was his first. Ever.

“Honey,” you croon. You nestle your fingers into the curls at the base of his neck, using your other hand to bring one of his to your own heart. You keep your voice low, as comforting as you can be. There’s no real danger, and for a second, you can’t really understand why he was reacting this way. “Breathe for me. Feel my heartbeat and try to use it to slow yours.”

Bodhi drops his temple until it rests against your collarbone, but he obeys. His hand splays against your chest, and he sucks in a breath. He’s trying. His breaths are coming in ragged gasps, all hiccupy and sharp, but he is trying.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he chokes out. “This feeling—”

“Shh,” you soothe, brushing your hand over his shoulders, down his back, and up to his hair again. You curl the fingers holding his hand between his own, careful to keep his palm pressed to your skin so he could feel the steady beat of your heart. “It’s a panic attack. Just try to calm down for me so you don’t make yourself sick.”

He’s propped against a desk, with you standing between his thighs in an empty classroom. When he’d found you, he’d barely been keeping it together, a choppy rise and fall to his shoulders and unshed tears shining in his eyes. The second you got him alone, he broke down, tears flowing freely until he was gasping for air, and you had a brief moment of panic yourself before the problem solving part of your brain kicked in. You sat him down, trying to get him to speak, but it was nearly impossible between his sobs. Okay, regulation first, questions later.

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” he says, low and muffled by your jacket.

“You’ve got yourself so worked up that you’re not breathing,” you respond. You go to take his face in your hands but he shudders and coughs, and you reach for the water skin at your hip instead, holding it to his lips. “Just take a sip.”

He does, and for a moment, he seems to have calmed down. You bring your hands up to brush along his jaw, interlocking your fingers behind his neck. His hand falls from your chest as he brings his gaze up to meet yours. The sight breaks your heart clean in two, the feeling so prevalent in your chest that you’re glad his hand was no longer pressed there, since you were fairly certain he would have been able to feel it. His skin was splotchy, tear tracks staining his cheeks, eyes rubbed red and puffy, lashes stuck together with the moisture. His eyes fell shut, and his body heaved with a shuttering breath. And you pressed a delicate kiss to his temple.

“Talk to me, Bo,” you whisper into his dark curls.

“That’s never happened to me,” he says, still breathless and hiccuping. “I feel like I can’t get a deep breath.”

“You had a panic attack,” you say, rubbing circles into the place his neck meets his shoulders. He was still shaking, and a sob wriggled its way up his throat again. You sit him up, placing one hand on his cheek, one hand on his chest, crooning, “Hey hey hey hey hey, none of that. Breathe with me.”

You take a dramatized deep breath in, counting to five. Hold for three. Exhale and count to seven. You repeat that a few more times, until his hiccups are few and far between, and he’s slumped against your chest.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, low and slurred and electric against the skin of your neck.

“For what?” you ask, and you can’t help but laugh. “Sorry for having your first panic attack?” He nestles his nose against your skin, and you feel him take a breath on your counts of his own accord. “Which is insane, by the way. How are you that well adjusted?”

That earns you a small laugh. “Well adjusted is the last thing I’d say to describe any of us here.”

“Never had a panic attack,” you muse, containing your path over his shoulder, letting him wrap his arms around your waist and pull you closer. “Well, first time for everything, as they say. Guess I’m just glad I was here to witness it. Gods, no one is going to believe me!”

His face is smushed against your clavicle, so his words come out muffled and unintelligible, but you think he said something in between shut up and I love you—three words you had yet to speak aloud to him, but that played on repeat in your mind day in and day out. Bodhi was fond of them, though.

Across the breakfast table, picking at your eggs until your appetite manifests in the later hours of the day? I love you.

A stumbling dismount off your dragon after so many hours in the seat you were pretty sure your ass had scale imprints and you would never move properly again? I love you.

When he has you pinned down after losing yet another sparring match, curls falling into his eyes when you’re both breathless and worked up? I love you.

After he places a kiss to your knuckles as you walk hand in hand through Basgaith, the weight of the day heavy on you and exhaustion tugging at the corners of your vision? I love you.

When he slips two fingers inside you, makes you shudder and arch against him in a way no one has, when you should be getting up to face the challenges of the day or sleeping to better prepare for them in the next? I love you.

When he holds you tighter than anyone ever has before, skin against skin, limbs so intertwined neither of you are sure where one person ends and the other begins, his hand splayed over your back and your fingers in his curls? I love you.

You were dumb for not saying them. You were so wildly in love with the man it often made your chest hurt, feel like you could explode with it. But, at this point, it just felt awkward. Like when someone has your name wrong and you let it slide and then realize they’re going to continue to have your name wrong and by now it just feels too late to correct them? That.

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on now?” you whisper.

He slowly excavates from your person, blinking up at you, expression bleary and hazy. “Lindell and Lewellen got sanctioned for hiding Aretia. We all knew it was going to happen, but the Senarium is so scared of losing our numbers in the riot, they gave it to Xaden.” He shakes his head, and your mind whirls. “I feel so selfish.”

That brings a furrow to your brow. You smooth your thumb along the line of his bottom lip, shaking your head like you can shift the puzzle piece into place. “Why are you selfish?”

“Xaden is the Duke of Tyrrendor, and all I can think about is that it makes me next in line.”

Your heart falls straight out of your chest, past your stomach, and hits the floor. You swallow hard. “What?”

“He has a seat in the Senarium. He found me, and he told me, and he basically benched me. Said I have to be safe in case something happens to him, and that—” He cuts off, screwing up his face, trying to bury himself in your chest again, but you hold him there. You wipe at the tears still staining his cheeks.

“I don’t—”

“I can’t tell you,” he says, with so much hurt in his voice. “Just look, please, and then I won’t have to have told you.”

“Bodhi,” you chide, nearly a reprimand. “I won’t.” You never use your signet. He’s the only person who knows, who knows the extent of it. The only person you trust enough not to get you killed for your inntinnsic abilities.

“Please,” he whispers, and you can feel the moment his shields drop.

Your own dragon is, thankfully, quiet in that moment. The issue is that you never use it, so you don’t have it honed very well. You look at him, and it’s all to easy to slip into his mind. Your terrified to take more than he’s offering, but—

Red. You see red. You’re not angry, but Bodhi definitely is. The fury associated with Xaden’s red-rimmed eyes is the first thing you feel, then your own shock. He’s a fucking venin.

You can’t help the gasp that escapes. “He’s—”

“Shh.” Bodhi stands. He’s shaken, unsteady, but his hands are firm on your waist as he brings his temple to rest against yours. “You cannot tell anyone. Only Garrick and Imogen know. Well, and Violet. And you, I guess.”

“And now he’s the Duke of Tyrrendor. And if he goes too far, or someone else finds out,” you breathe.

Bodhi looks at you, and it’s fucking intense. In that moment, he is the physical manifestation of every term in a psychology tome. Tense, worried, anxious, manic.

“Then I’m the Duke of Tyrrendor.”

｡･:*˚:✧｡

Above all else, you’re glad to be the one person Bodhi doesn’t have to pretend in front of. He gets into fights with his friends now. He’s bull-headed and tenacious in his unwavering loyalty. But he argues, with Xaden mostly. With Violet sometimes, with Garrick and Imogen once or twice. He’s stubborn in the way he refuses to back down, just to let Xaden be reckless because he knows there’s a successor to the throne. That Aretia and all of Tyrrendor are safe, just because there’s a back up. A spare.

Before you knew him, you’d always thought Bodhi handled leadership with grace. He was solid, unwavering in his choices. He went above and beyond to help those under his command. But the more time you spent together, the more you saw just how much it weighed on him. How worried he was he would make a wrong choice. This latest development only added to that. He would crawl in bed next to you, crashing the second his head hit the pillow. Physical exhaustion was one thing, mental exhaustion another. But emotional exhaustion? That shit was heavier than an anvil.

You did your best to support him, but most of the time it seemed futile. The way he would wrap around you, rest his head on your chest and play with your hair made it all seem worth it, though. Like maybe you were helping. Lightening his load, if only for a moment.

It wasn’t until Violet’s Quest Squad returned empty handed that all hope seemed to be lost.

He crawls in bed that night, hair still damp from the shower and a bone-deep sort of tired lining every inch of his body.

“I don’t know what to do,” he mumbles into the pillow. “I love you.”

“Bo,” you whisper, lying down beside him. “You’re doing enough, I promise.”

“He won’t let me do anything.” He cracks an eye open, the dark brown of his iris nearly black, no demarcation line to see where his blown pupil begins and ends.

You trace his bare shoulder. “Is there anything I can do? Make you feel better?”

“Marry me,” he mutters, and you’re absolutely certain you didn’t hear him right.

You sit up. He follows.

“I didn’t mean—okay. Yeah, I do.” He shakes his head, dropping his face into the palm of his hand. He’s fucking smirking. He looks back up at you. “Marry me.”

“Bodhi.”

“My mom would have fucking loved you,” he says, and your eyes go wide. “Almost as much as I do. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you, however much time I have left. Forever, or something close to it.”

You can’t breathe. There’s no air left in your shared bedroom—his bedroom. The one he basically moved you into, since leadership gets their own bunks. “Is this because of—”

“No. Yes. Kind of. I really love you. Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

“That’s usually a question that requires an answer,” Shocair chimes in helpfully.

“Butt out,” you hiss down the bond, into the deepest crevices of your mind.

“I love you. You love me. I think we know where this is heading—”

“I do,” you say, cutting him off.

He blinks. “That’s usually saved for the vows—”

“I haven’t said it yet,” you scramble to explain, like suddenly you don’t have enough time. Like this moment will slip through your fingers if you don’t get the words out fast enough. “But I do, and I should have so much sooner—”

“Is that a yes?” He’s laughing! You’re making a fool of yourself while your boyfriend proposes and he’s laughing!

“I love you,” you spit out. “Yes. Yes, I love you, and I will marry you.”

He looks elated. His smile is the brightest you’ve seen in months—at least since you left Aretia—and his hand goes to the chain he wears around his neck. The one with the gold band you’ve never asked him about.

“This was my mom’s,” he says, unclasping the chain so he can slip the band off. “She gave it to me before the execution, and I swear the first time I kissed you I knew I would be slipping it on your finger.” He takes your hand in his and does just that.

The second the metal touches your skin, you plant both hands on the side of his face and bring his lips to yours.

“Now we both get to be in line for this stupid crown,” he says in between kisses, nipping at your skin and moving down your neck.

“Don’t remind me, or I might change my answer.”

The ceremony is small. The closest temple and the closest priestess you can find the next morning. Xaden, Garrick, and all of Second Squad—which Bodhi had argued made it less than small, but you refused to do something like this without first real family you’d had.

It was jovial, and Ridoc made you promise to get drunk afterwards. You were married in your flight leathers, and all felt right in the world, for just a moment, as you took his last name, and made the second most important bond of your life.

For a moment, forever seemed like a tangible concept.

｡･:*˚:✧｡

Moments are never meant to last.

Bodhi realizes this, mid-battle, as he watches you ride away on your massive blue. He couldn’t watch you be hurt, couldn’t watch his wife succumb to the evil all around them. They were losing. Losing hard, and the battle wasn’t nearly over.

Bodhi looked to where Xaden stood, utterly still and furious. He’s staring up at where Seagyl is ensnared. The venin have fucking dragon catching nets. And he realizes—he’s next.

The venin looks to the sky, at your retreating form, and raises his hand.

Bodhi’s signet doesn’t work on venin. That doesn’t make any sense, his signet is always be balance. It’s in the name. But he’s not powerful enough to stop them, not powerful enough to save you from whatever is about to happen next.

“Don’t!” Cuir roars into his mind. “She will live, and be pissed at you if you do this.”

“I have to save you both,” he sends back to him. Cuir had an annoying habit of being able to talk him off a ledge, but this time, it might not be enough. “I have to do everything I can.”

He feels it. The thrum and churn of the power of the earth beneath his feet. He could be complete with this. It would amplify his signet, and then it would work. He would be able to fight the dark wielders, and it wouldn’t matter if he had to become the thing he hates most in order to do so. It would keep everyone here safe. Basgiath, Tyrrendor, Navarre—everyone would be safe. For the price of the soul he had just promised to you the night before. Forever.

He would keep you safe.

Bodhi placed his hand on the ground and drew, and moved you one step closer to the Tyrrish throne.

#onyx storm spoilers #guys i really hope bodhi isn’t the secret new venin brother #but it’s not looking good #onyx storm graphic audio i love you #my favorite boy #bodhi durran x reader #bodhi durran #fourth wing #the empyrean #onyx storm #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing fanfic #emmmaswrites #bodhiweek2025

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theseinfernalangels · 4 months ago

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Fragile — Sawyer Henrick

Synopsis: Mender!Reader comes back from RSC worse off than the rest of your squad. Sawyer is heartbroken and takes care of you.

A/N: I pumped this one out surprisingly fast! I may post my OC reference sheet after this for more context, since there are references to characters you haven’t met yet, such as Reader’s dragon, Cridhe, and Eden (Liam’s girl!). We’ll see how it turns out! I might even do a part two for this hehe.

Includes: blood, injuries, insecurities, and anxiety. Oh, yeah; don’t forget the dragon telepathy, fluff, hurt-comfort, slight angst. Takes place during Iron Flame.

Sawyer knew something was up when you didn’t meet him outside the Gathering Hall.

It wasn’t like you to be late for…Well, anything, much less seeing him. He certainly wasn’t an anxious person, but it made his fingers twitch with nervousness when he didn’t spot your cautious frame lingering close to the sides of the hall. He waited anyway. He’d always wait for you.

At the ten-minute mark, his thoughts began to race. He could understand if you stayed behind for a word with one of your professors – you were a genius, anyway. Perhaps you could have gone off-track to help another cadet in need of extra notes. That was just in your nature (even though Sawyer and Ridoc had tried to convince you to charge a couple coins for it – you’d be swimming in gold by now). Maybe you were in the infirmary with your friend…Eden, was it? Emily? He could barely remember.

But no. Another fifteen minutes slowly ticked by, and his reasonable side began to veer off a little. Maybe you’d been injured somehow. Maybe the other cadets had finally taken advantage of your anxious, gentle nature and were in the middle of ganging up on you. Maybe they’d finally gotten you – the Marked cadets who weren’t too fond of you for what your parents, Navarrian military legends, had done to them.

He heard Sliseag’s chiding voice resound in the back of his mind. Easy there, Ashling, he soothed. Do not worry too much. She is exactly where she is meant to be.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. I would beg to differ, he replied, trying to calm his racing heart. If she was in the right place, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now.

The dragon snorted. Really, now? he mused. Look up.

Sawyer had just turned, his palms sweaty, when he saw a figure moving sluggishly in his peripherals. He squinted, then froze, the sight making his blood run cold.

You finally showed up…But you looked awful.

Damaged was the best word to describe it. Your hair was messy, your bangs falling in your face in a way it only looked after an intense flight. One of your eyes was swollen shut, and the rest of your face was battered. Your bottom lip was split and bleeding, the blood oozing out sluggishly and staining your chin crimson. That was only your face; the rest of your body was probably just as bruised and injured.

Go, he heard Sliseag urge. Go to her now. She needs you, Ashling.

He broke out of his trance; he couldn’t run fast enough to get to you, his legs moving on what felt like autopilot. Gods. What did they do to you?

You held up a hand when he neared you. “I’m fine,” you whispered hoarsely. “I…It looks worse than it feels.”

Sliseag made a noise of disapproval in his mind. I doubt that.

Sawyer, in that moment, felt almost scared to touch you, as if putting his fingers anywhere would shatter you like glass.

Finally, he found his voice. “What the hell happened to you?” he murmured, wincing at how sick he sounded. His eyes traced your face; you still looked gorgeous as ever, but just looking at your good eye made his heart wrench.

“We,” you began, faltering as you fell forward a bit. Sawyer caught you with ease, splaying a hand on your back as you leaned into him. “We had RSC. I…I didn’t expect for it to be so…awful.”

You looked down, and Sawyer made a soft sound of protest as he lifted your chin back up to face his. Skies above, he thought. He’d seen you injured before, obviously – there was no avoiding that at Basgiath. But this…

“Oh, darling,” he murmured, ghosting a kiss on your forehead. “I’m so sorry. You…You haven’t been to the infirmary yet?”

You shook your head. “No. I saw a clock and remembered we agreed to meet up. Wanted to see you first.”

Oh, he thought. Damn you, you sweet, sweet girl. Damn you and your loveliness.

He sighed quietly, glancing at the sky. It was getting close to dusk, which meant that the infirmary was probably winding down for the day. His gaze flitted back down to your trembling form, his heart aching.

“Do you want to go?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound pushy. “I’m sure your friend is still there; she’d be willing–”

His voice trailed off when you vehemently shook your head. “No,” you said softly. “Not now. Can we…Can we just go to yours?”

At that moment, with you looking up at him hopefully, your good eye wide but exhausted, Sawyer would have given you just about anything.

He nodded, perhaps a little too hard. “Of course, darling. Just hold on to me. I don’t trust your legs right now.”

The pained smile you gave him twists his heart. “I don’t, either.”

It took a little while, but the two of you finally made it to his dorm in relative silence, save for the pained gasps and whimpers that occasionally fell from your swollen lips. The whole time, Sawyer was clenching his teeth. It didn’t matter that RSC was something that happened to everyone – not even his injuries hadn’t looked this rough.

He sat you down gently on his bed. He didn’t want to leave you, not when you looked that beat up, but he pushed that aside to grab the little box of medical supplies you kept in his room for when he was beat up after sparring. If you weren’t huddled beside him looking more fragile than he’d ever seen you, he would have made a joke about it.

You’d already removed your jacket and shirt, leaving your torso bare save for the bindings you always wore. Sawyer relaxed for a moment before he took note of your ribs, black and blue bruising rippling up both sides. Save for that, though, and other bruising and – Gods forbid, handprints – you honestly didn’t look too terrible.

He brushed your bangs away from your face, tilting your chin up so he could assess the damage. “Have you tried mending yourself?”

You sighed, sounding almost disappointed in yourself. “No. I’ve never tried that, but it won’t work, anyway. I tried to mend Anya’s arm after it got dislocated, but it didn’t work. I’m either terrible with my signet, or the injury was too bad, or–”

He cut you off before you could delve deeper into self-doubt. “No,” he assured you, taking a wet rag and wiping the blood on your chin. “They tampered with your water. It’s supposed to dull your signet and cut you off from your dragon to feel more realistic.”

Your lips formed an O in realization. “So that’s why I couldn’t feel Cridhe,” you mumbled, hissing in pain once he actually touched your lip. “I got worried there for a while.”

He nodded, ducking his head lower to check the area around your neck. There was an angry red line around your throat; someone had tried to choke you, he assumed. Bastard.

“I know,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. “When they took me, the serum didn’t wear off for about a day. I thought Sliseag randomly chose to hate me or something.”

The aforementioned scoffed softly. As if, Ashling, he muttered. I didn’t choose you just to leave you behind.

The words warmed Sawyer’s heart long enough that your silence didn’t bother him for the next few minutes while he looked you over.

He only paused when you spoke softly, your voice faint. “I…think I have a concussion,” you mumble. “The light hurts, and I’m dizzy.”

A tight-lipped smile fought its way onto Sawyer’s face. “Trust you to diagnose yourself barely an hour after it happens.”

You don’t respond, prompting Sawyer to lean back up and look into your eyes. Sure enough, your pupils were unfocused and exhausted. Smart girl.

He opened his mouth to make another little quip, only for it to die on his tongue once you leaned into his side.

“Tired?” he prompted you gently. A soft hum from you confirmed his suspicions, and he hesitated for a moment before relenting. He could carry you to Nolan or a healer in the morning, after you slept the night away.

He looked away for a moment, and you had somehow managed to snag a random shirt off his floor and slip it on. His eyes softened, and he reached over to help you out of your pants and under his covers. You looked so…unusually small in his bed, curled in on yourself like a flower without the sun to warm it. He didn’t even bother to change out of his uniform, opting to kick off his boots and leave himself in his undershirt as he settled next to you. You slowly unfurled from your tense position and rested your head on his chest. Pure bliss.

You both lay there in silence for what seemed like hours before Sawyer found his voice again, feeling weirdly sentimental. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and assume you don’t want to talk about it.”

Your silence was an answer enough.

“Thought so,” he murmured. “That’s okay. We don’t have to. Just…I hope you know that I’ll never let that happen to you when the time comes. Whoever it was, they’d have to kill me first to get to you.”

More silence from you. Sawyer thought for a moment that you fell asleep, but his eyes popped back open once he heard your weary voice.

“Sawyer?”

“Yes, darling?”

A beat. Two beats.

“Thank you for this. I didn’t want to be anywhere besides here.”

…You don’t have to thank me, he thinks, a pained smile tugging at his mouth. I’d do anything and more for you, anyway.

#the empyrean #fourth wing #iron flame #onyx storm #sawyer henrick #sawyer henrick x reader #sawyer henrick imagines #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing imagines #the empyrean imagines #sawyer & kora

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callsign-rogueone · 3 months ago

Text

call me yours

Brennan Sorrengail x childhood friend! reader [request] words: 1.6k 🏷️: very intimate, but still sfw, set mid iron flame, you’re Mira’s bestie since childhood and grew up with her and Brennan, Bren is touch starved and down atrociously bad (we love pathetic men in this house!) if you're familiar with the grishaverse, you kinda have the powers of a heartrender — can sense and control others’ vital signs.

The third floor, at the end of the hall, they’d told you, and surely enough, there he is: Lieutenant Colonel Aisereigh, seated at a desk in what appears to be his office. He looks exactly how you always picture him in memories and dreams — just older, his face slightly hardened, the light scruff on his jaw making him look less boyish, and more like the army commander he’s become in the years you’ve been apart.

He still has the same stiff posture as he examines a roll of parchment, that little crease of concentration between his eyebrows… You could stand here all night, just soaking up the sight, but that still wouldn’t be enough. And now that you’re finally reunited, your twenty-year-old self’s prayers answered…

You gather up the courage to knock on the doorframe.

He looks up from his papers, humming lazily, and then his heart nearly stops at the sight of you. There’s a flurry of emotion across his face before he finally speaks. “I just got my nose fixed, so I’d prefer it if you hit me somewhere else,” he says by way of greeting, giving you a pained smile.

You return it. “You know I could never hurt you, Bren— I probably shouldn’t be calling you Brennan anymore, should I?”

“Please. Call me anything but Lieutenant Colonel.”

You smile. “Brennan it is. And I’m really sorry about that, by the way. She never left the ‘anger’ stage.”

“That’s fair. I probably wouldn’t have, either.”

You finally step forward, entering the office and taking a look around. “Nice digs.”

He’s definitely going to need something stronger than his long-since-abandoned mug of tea if this conversation is going to last much longer. “Whiskey?”

That same mischievous grin that he remembers splits your face. “Always.”

He pushes up from his chair, taking a half-full bottle out of the cabinet along with two glasses.

“So, fill me in on this new life of yours,” you prod, shrugging off your jacket and draping it over the back of your chair before settling in. “Wife? Kids?”

“Nope. Just Marbh.”

You remember hearing that Marbh wasn’t the warm and fuzzy type, either. “Must be lonely.”

He shrugs. “Staying busy helps. What about you, Major? You have a husband hidden away somewhere?”

You roll your eyes at his use of your rank, flashing him your left hand — no wedding ring. “No, I do not. And I hate that title. They gave it to me as an apology, not because I earned it.”

He hands you a glass, frowning. “I’ve never known the Navarrian military to apologize. What for?”

“For almost killing me and my entire company — sending us right into a drift of gryphons. I let them take me so that everyone else could escape. But that’s what all the torture training was for, right?” you ask over the rim of your glass.

He doesn’t laugh. “When was that?”

The whiskey burns its way down your throat, and you sigh in relief — this is exactly what you needed after the fifteen hour flight from Montserrat. “A few months ago. Mira saved my sorry ass. Broke protocol to come get me, because-”

“—Navarre doesn’t negotiate for hostages,” he finishes for you. “I’m so sorry, kid.”

You mime taking a knife to the heart, twisting it and pulling it back out for dramatic effect. “Kid? And here I thought I had a chance.”

Something shifts in his body language, in his eyes, in the air of the room. “What do you mean by that?” he asks, deathly quiet.

“You know what I mean,” you reply, your eyes not leaving his for a second, even as you take another sip.

“I need to hear you say it.”

You rise from the chair and set down your glass, resting your palms on the edge of his desk and leaning forward slightly — it’s giant, so you’re still two feet away, but you’ve definitely crossed the threshold of his personal space, ignored the rigid line that’s supposed to separate the great Lieutenant Colonel from the rest of his army. It has the intended effect: his gaze immediately falls to the exposed curve of your shoulders and the green of your relic that spreads over your bicep, dipping down to the low neckline of the tank top you’re wearing before he looks back at your face, his cheeks sufficiently reddened.

“Surely you know I’ve always had a little puppy crush on you, Bren, ever since Mira and I met. You always saw me as your little sister’s tagalong friend, but I had this idea that once I graduated from Basgiath, you’d see me as a woman, a dragon rider… I know you can put the rest together yourself. You’ve always been too smart for your own good.” This punctuated with a cunning smile that makes him squirm a little.

“You are certainly both of those things now,” he says carefully, adjusting a stack of papers on the desk. He’s sweating, his blood pressure elevated, his breathing shallow… but he’s not going to break.

You give him a sad smile. “But you’re too good of a guy, too proper of a Lieutenant Colonel to do anything about it now. I promise I won’t let it get in the way of our professional relationship. I understand. We do have a war to wage, after all. In another life, maybe.”

“In this life.”

Oh?

Your eyebrows raise. “Are you sure about that, Lieutenant Colonel?”

“I thought I told you not to call me that,” he tries, but it comes out much weaker than he’d intended.

You round the corner of the desk, stepping forward. You’re definitely in his space now. “What do you want me to call you?”

It takes him a moment to gather the courage. “Yours.”

You blink at him.

“Call me yours,” he rasps. “I always have been.”

You can’t contain the smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” It’s a weak whisper, a quiet plea for you to claim him after all these years.

You reach out, cradling his jaw in a soft hand. He shivers at the touch, but leans into the warmth of your palm nonetheless, looking up at you with stars in those gorgeous amber eyes. “I would love nothing more than to call you mine, Brennan Sorrengail.”

If it’s the admission, the touch, or you saying his name — his real name — that makes his heart flutter, you’ll never know.

“When she told me that you were here, that you were alive… all I could think about was that I wasn’t going to miss my chance with you again.” You take another step closer, standing between his legs, and guide him into a gentle embrace, your thumb brushing over his cheek tenderly. You slide your other hand up to the back of his neck, working your fingers through his hair, and he melts, nuzzling his cheek into your shoulder like a contented housecat.

You hadn’t even used your signet, but he’s already falling asleep on you. That’s good. He probably hasn’t slept well in a while, if the dark circles under his eyes are any indicator.

You start to pull back, but his eyes fly back open, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of your shirt. “Shh,” you soothe, reaching out with a tendril of your power, and he calms near immediately. “It’s okay, sweet boy. I’m not going anywhere.”

He hasn’t been a boy in years — since before he started at Basgiath — but he’d let you call him anything as long as you said it in that soft voice, and looked at him with such adoration, touched him so gently… nobody’s held him like this since he was a child.

You continue stroking his hair, speaking softly. “I was just gonna suggest that we both get some sleep. In a real bed.”

He considers it for a moment, and then with a shaking exhale, slowly lets go of you. You take a cautious step back, but his heartbeat remains steady. Good. You extend a hand to him, and he takes it silently, interlacing his fingers with yours as he rises from his office chair, wincing at the ache in his back and shoulders.

The hallways aren’t as deserted as you’d thought they’d be at this hour, but none of the cadets or officers bat an eye at the sight of the two of you holding hands. He doesn’t say a word as he leads you across the fortress, stopping in front of what has to be the door to his room. It’s incredibly close to yours, actually -- they’d given the higher ranking officers the nicer guest rooms, and put all the cadets in the barracks.

“Brennan,” you say softly, “is it okay if I go get some clean clothes, and take a shower first? I promise I’ll be quick.”

He blinks at you once, twice, realizing what you mean -- you’d thought you’d be spending the night.

You see it dawn on him, and you continue before he can say anything, a little embarrassed. “If you want me to. I know that’s… a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’d like that.”

You give him a soft smile, squeezing his hand gently before you let go of it. “Ten minutes, tops.”

He must have done the same, because when he opens the door for you, his hair looks damp, slightly mussed from having a towel rubbed over it.

Neither of you say anything as you climb into his bed, gravitating toward each other like magnets. You fit together well, his head tucked into your shoulder and his arm around your waist, your legs intertwined. You can feel his heartbeat slowing, his breaths deepening…

For the first time since he died, it takes him less than two minutes to fall asleep.

#brennan sorrengail #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #brennan sorrengail x reader #mine

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dragonridersandhighlords · 2 months ago

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omg please do a garrick smut 🙏🙏 he’s legit my fav man in the series ARGHH

Strategic Surrender

Summary: In a tense, late-night strategy session, simmering tension between you and Garrick boils over into an intense and intimate encounter.

Notes: Listen, Garrick fucks and he fucks hard🤤

Pairing: Garrick Tavis x reader

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, all smut no plot, semi-public sex/exhibitionism? (risk of getting caught), Dom/Sub dynamics, rough (Garrick practically throws you around like a rag doll at one point), no mentions of birth control (wrap it before you tap it)

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist | FW Masterlist

Riorson House is shrouded in silence, the stillness of the night wrapping around it like a thick fog. The echo of footsteps faded long ago, leaving behind the remnants of a day spent in strategy and scheming. Cadets had drifted to their quarters, Assembly leaders had retreated to their chambers, and even the Duke and Duchess were lost to the embrace of sleep. But not you. Not with Garrick Tavis by your side.

The dim glow of an oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the strategy table, illuminating the intricate parchment maps that sprawled before you. You tried to concentrate on the territories, the routes, the defenses—anything but the man beside you. He leaned casually against the edge of the table, one hand idly tracing the contours of the Navarrian defenses, his fingers moving with a deliberate grace that made your heart race. Garrick’s gaze was a weight you felt on your skin, and it ignited a fire that left you restless.

“Your flank is exposed,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the kind that sent shivers down your spine. “You’d be dead before your squad took five steps.”

“Then maybe I’ll let you die first,” you shot back, refusing to meet his eyes. “Just for the quiet.”

His laughter was sharp, the kind that held secrets. “You’re mouthy when you’re nervous.”

“I’m mouthy because you’re cocky.”

“Cocky?” He pushed away from the table, drawing nearer until the air between you crackled with an intensity that was hard to ignore. “If you’re going to throw words like that around, you better be prepared for what they do to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as you blinked up at him, suddenly acutely aware of the space that had vanished between you. Garrick towered over you, his uniform rumpled from the day’s drills, a few straps still undone. The lamplight danced across the scar that cut through his temple, revealing the storm brewing in his eyes.

“What—” You began, but your words faded into the heavy silence as he reached out, dragging his fingers along your jaw with a touch that was both tender and possessive. The tension between you, always there, began to hum with a dangerous promise, ready to ignite with just a single spark.

“You know how long I’ve been waiting for you to push me just a little too far?” he says, his voice low and husky, each word dripping with unrestrained desire. “How long I’ve imagined bending you over this gods damned table while you're still spewing stratagy objections?”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words igniting something deep within you, awakening a surge of boldness that you didn’t know you possessed. “Then do it.”

The moment those defiant words leave your mouth, Garrick springs into action. In one fluid motion, he clears the table, sending stacks of parchment and colorful markers tumbling to the floor with a heavy thud that reverberates in the dimly lit room. The sound of chaos is almost intoxicating, a symphony of anticipation that makes your heart race. Without breaking eye contact, he seizes you by the hips, effortlessly lifting you onto the table as if you weigh no more than a feather.

His mouth crashes into yours, fierce and hungry, a whirlwind of heat and intensity that leaves you breathless. The kiss is possessive, unapologetic, as though he’s claiming you—body and soul. You gasp, surrendering to the way his tongue sweeps into your mouth, exploring with a confidence that makes your pulse quicken. In this moment, you feel utterly consumed, as if your very essence has become entwined with his.

“I could ruin you right here,” he growls against your lips, his hands sliding up your thighs, calloused palms brushing against the fabric that separates you. “Right on top of classified documents. Where anyone can come in and see.”

A soft moan escapes you, the sound escaping unbidden as you clutch at the fabric of his collar, pulling him closer.

With a swift motion, he pushes you onto your back, dragging you down the table until your thighs dangle over the edge, vulnerable and exposed. He deftly pulls your pants down your legs, revealing more skin to his eager gaze. Kneeling before you, he hooks your legs over his shoulders, the world around you fading into nothingness.

His fingers tug your underwear aside, teasingly slow, igniting a fire that burns bright within you. “No teasing,” you warn, your voice strained with anticipation.

A smirk dances across his lips, barely brushing against your inner thigh. “I never tease. I devour.”

And he does.

His tongue moves with an exhilarating skill and precision, igniting a wave of sensations that draws a strangled cry from your throat. As he licks into you, the initial slow rhythm builds with an eager urgency, each flick of his tongue pushing you closer to the edge. He holds your thighs wide, his thumbs pressing bruises into your skin that mark your surrender, making it impossible to squirm away from the relentless pace of his assault.

You feel the world around you blurring into nothing as pleasure surges through you like wildfire. The heat of his mouth consumes you, and before you can process it, you come fast, a symphony of bliss crashing over you as you cry out his name. Your back arches off the table, seeking more of the intoxicating pressure, more of him. He doesn’t stop—not right away. Instead, he licks you through the waves of ecstasy, savoring every shudder that ripples through your body until your legs tremble against his shoulders, thoroughly spent yet craving more.

Only then does he rise, lips glistening with your essence, eyes burning with an insatiable ferocity. “Still with me?” he asks, his voice a low growl, fingers deftly undoing his belt, the sound echoing in the charged atmosphere.

You nod, breathless, still reeling from the aftershocks coursing through you.

“Good.” His pants slip down to his knees, revealing the hard evidence of his desire. He steps forward, lining himself up, his gaze locked onto yours, thick and commanding, and thrusts into you with a single stroke that knocks the wind from your lungs.

A gasp escapes you as he fills you completely, the sensation overwhelming. “Fuck,” Garrick groans, his voice thick with lust. “You feel—gods, you feel better than I ever let myself imagine.”

He sets a brutal rhythm, hips crashing into you with a fervor that makes the table rock beneath the force of his thrusts, wood creaking in protest as if echoing your shared desperation. His grip on your hips is vice-like, bruising yet intoxicating, each thrust driving you deeper into a haze of raw pleasure. Low curses spill from his mouth, mingling with your own breathless gasps as he takes you without restraint.

“You love being fucked where anyone could walk in,” he pants, the wildness in his voice sending shivers down your spine. “Don’t you?”

You nod frantically, lost in the way he fills you, the way he claims every inch of you with primal ownership.

“You want them to know you’re mine now?” he asks, and the intensity of his gaze makes your heart race.

“Yours,” you breathe, the word spilling from your lips as an affirmation of surrender.

He growls deep in his chest, a feral sound that reverberates through the air, igniting a primal instinct deep within you. With every thrust, he pushes deeper, harder, the relentless rhythm driving you toward the precipice once more. The world around you blurs, and stars burst behind your eyes, a kaleidoscope of brilliance exploding in a haze of ecstasy. A second orgasm rips through you, raw and violent, leaving you gasping as waves of pleasure crash over your body like a tempest, each pulse radiating from the core of your being.

Garrick follows suit with a harsh grunt, the sound rumbling from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you completely as he spills inside you. The warmth of his release mixes with the electric energy still coursing through your veins, a heady combination that sends a shiver down your spine. For a moment, time seems to suspend, and all that exists are the ragged breaths that escape your lips and the creak of the old table beneath your shivering bodies, the haunting music of your surrender echoing in the stillness of the room.

The air hangs thick with the scent of sweat and sex, an intoxicating blend that wraps around you like a cocoon, blurring the lines between pleasure and reality. Garrick leans down, his breath hot against your skin, lips brushing your ear with a tantalizing intimacy that sends goosebumps racing across your flesh. “Objections?” he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety growl that stirs something fierce within you.

You let out a laugh, breathless and wild, the sound mingling with the soft thrum of your racing heart. “None. You win,” you reply, the words flowing effortlessly.

His mouth curves into a smirk against your neck, a predatory satisfaction lighting up his features. The way he looks at you now, with a mix of triumph and hunger, sends a thrill coursing through your veins. “Good,” he replies, his tone rich with a promise that hangs heavy in the air. “Because I plan to run these drills again. Thoroughly.”

Everything Taglist: @lxnvmvrzx @bodhidurrans @bookwormysblog @nikfigueiredo

#iron flame #fourth wing #onyx storm #the empyrean #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing fanfic #Garrick tavis #garrick tavis imagine #garrick tavis x reader #garrick fourth wing #garrick tavis smut

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partoffantasy · 5 months ago

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Echoes of the Inevitable - Aaric Graycastle / Cam Tauri

⸻ image credits to artbycassmira & etherealbookart ⸻

summary: during tense negotiations on the Isles, reader witnesses a side of Aaric she never expected—commanding, brilliant, and dangerously compelling.

pairing: aaric graycastle x fem!reader warnings: ONYX STORM SPOILERS - if you haven’t read Onyx Storm yet, don’t read further word count: 1.6k

⸻⸻⸻✦ ♡ ✦⸻⸻⸻

The heat of the Isles pressed down on them, thick and stifling despite the breeze coming from the sea. The scent of salt and damp stone filled the air, mingling with the faintest trace of incense from the nearby marketplace. The sun hung low, casting long shadows over the cracked stone plaza where the delegation stood. Soldiers lined the perimeter, their armor gleaming dully under the fading light, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. The atmosphere was laced with barely restrained hostility, the kind that could tip into violence really quickly.

Y/N shifted her weight, resisting the urge to wipe the sweat from her brow. She was keenly aware of the weight of her own weapons, the tension in the air settling into her bones. Xaden stood at the head of their group, his posture unyielding and full of dominance as he faced the Unbrish commander. Beside him, Violet held herself steady, her eyes flicking between the foreign dignitaries. Dain lingered a step behind, his focus entirely on the unfolding discussion, ready to translate at a moment’s notice.

The commander lifted his hand, and his soldiers immediately fell silent, waiting for his words. "He asks if this is our champion or our leader," Dain translated. A ripple of unease passed through the squad, but before anyone could react, a voice cut through the tension—smooth, confident, and unmistakably fluent. Not in Navarrian. Not in any broken attempt at the language. But in flawless, fluid Unbrish.

Y/N barely caught the way Dain stiffened beside her, his mouth parting in shock. She could only stare, heat creeping up her neck, her stomach twisting with something entirely inappropriate for the situation. It was Aaric. The moment he stepped forward, every ounce of his usual quiet reservation peeled away, revealing something sharper. He moved with a confidence that sent a thrill through her, his broad shoulders squared as he addressed the commander directly. And then, he spoke.

Aaric’s voice was smooth, assured. It carried through the tense plaza like a blade slicing through silk. The words were foreign to her, but that didn’t matter—because she could hear it in his tone. The weight. The meaning. The command. His accent was perfect, his cadence even, and the effect it had on their adversaries was instantaneous. The commander faltered, his expression shifting, while the priestess beside him flicked her gaze toward Aaric with something close to surprise.

Y/N’s throat went dry. By the time Dain regained his composure enough to translate, Aaric was already pivoting back toward them, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword. “Are you fucking serious?” Dain snaps at him. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re fluent?” "You never asked," Aaric said simply, his voice rich with amusement, and Y/N swore she felt it in the pit of her stomach.

Holy shit. This was not the Aaric she sparred with in training, the one who rolled his eyes at pointless drills and carried himself like he was just another first-year. This was someone else entirely. Someone who spoke like he belonged on a throne. Someone who was utterly, unfairly, devastatingly attractive when he wielded language like a weapon.

She pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to shift on her feet. It wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. But when Xaden surged forward, grabbing Aaric by the collar to shove him back into place, all she could focus on was the flicker of defiance in Aaric’s green eyes. Y/N exhaled, barely resisting the urge to groan. Oh, she was in so much trouble.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The second time it happened, they were at the negotiation table in Hedontis, having just met Xaden’s mother, and Y/N swore Aaric was doing it on purpose. She had spent the better part of an hour trying to focus on the discussion, on the careful exchange of words between Xaden, the Isles’ leadership, and their allies. It was a delicate discussion, one she knew could turn dangerous if handled incorrectly. But then Aaric opened his mouth again, and all hope of concentration vanished.

"It is rather arrogant of us to simply refer to it as the Continent," he mused, his voice like velvet-wrapped steel. "As though there aren’t others beyond the sea. But we've been torn apart by war for so long, it's hard for anyone to think that we are one... anything." Y/N nearly choked on her drink. The table fell silent, all eyes snapping to him. Even Xaden looked mildly impressed. But Aaric? Aaric just continued cutting into his meal with calm indifference, as if he hadn’t just upended the entire tone of the conversation.

Nairi’s gaze flickered from Cat to Xaden to Aaric. "So many young royals here. So many potential alliances. Why are you not contracted to one another? It seems... foolish not to forge futures and provide heirs who could unite your kingdoms." The chicken went dry in Y/N’s mouth, but Mira shot her a can you believe these people look that steadied her heartbeat.

"My brother will be king," Aaric said, slicing through his chicken like this was any normal dinner. "Though a horrible one. Heirs and alliances aren't my concern. I will fight in this war, most likely die, and do so knowing that I protected others." Aaric's gaze flickered across the table, his usual air of detached confidence wavering for just a second. Then, his eyes found hers.

Y/N felt the shift—a sudden weight pressing down on her chest. His stare held something she couldn't decipher, something raw and knowing. It wasn’t just resolve or the grim acceptance of war. It was grief. It was finality. And it was personal. She swallowed, her pulse hammering against her throat. Why was he looking at her like that? Like he already knew something she didn't? Like he was memorizing her?

Before she could force her mouth to form a single question, Aaric turned away, his expression smoothing back into that infuriating, unreadable calm. "Honor has never been the equal of wisdom," Nairi sighed, then looked to Xaden. "And your excuse? We received news months ago that your title had been restored to you." When Xaden started answering Nairi, Y/N barely heard the next words. Aaric's gaze had lingered on hers, and the depth of emotion in his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. There was something there—something heavy, something she couldn't decipher. He knew something, she was sure of it. But before she could press him, before she could demand an answer, the Hedontis’ changed the topic to what they value most—knowledge and thus drawing her attention away.

“Amaralys. The only thing our kingdoms ever agreed on was calling it the Continent after the Great War," Aaric said, finally putting his silverware down after cleaning his plate. "Rather arrogant of us to simply refer to it as the Continent, as though there aren't others beyond the sea, but we've been torn apart by war for so long it's hard for anyone to think that we are one... anything." For fuck's sake, what else was Aaric holding on to?

"You're rather quiet for someone who seems to know so much," Nairi remarked. "I prefer keeping my mouth shut until I understand the rules of whatever game is aiming for my throat. Helps me judge the character and acumen of my opponent." He looked at each of them in turn. "Honestly, I find you lacking, and I'm not sure I want you for an ally. You have no army and you're stingy with the very thing that should be free to all—knowledge."

"And yet you seek our favor?" Nairi’s eyebrows shot up, and she blinked rapidly. "Me?" Aaric shook his head. "No. I'm just here because Halden can't control his temper and Violet didn't just bond one of our most terrifying battle dragons, but also an irid—the seventh breed. Dark wielders are spreading. People are dying as we sit here. Every day we're gone could change the battle map in ways we can't begin to predict. And my kingdom is full of assholes who won't take refugees under king's orders, so tracking down the irids is our best hope of not only adding to our numbers but maybe figuring out how we beat the venin six hundred years ago.”

Holy shit, this was something else entirely. The way he stood his ground, unwavering, his voice a lethal mix of precision and raw conviction—it sent a thrill down her spine. Every word that left his mouth was deliberate, measured, and she could feel the weight of them settle deep in her chest. This wasn’t just confidence; it was command. And damn it, it was making her smirk. She couldn't help the way her eyes traced the sharp angles of his face, the way his fingers rested with deceptive ease on the table as if he hadn't just unsettled everyone around him. Every word he spoke sent another shiver down her spine, curling low in her stomach. It was dangerous, the way he did this to her—how effortlessly he held his own against people who had spent their entire lives navigating power plays.

"You are the highest member of nobility in your party," Roslyn noted, shifting. "Is it not up to you?" "Nobility doesn't play into rank, at least not for me." Aaric glanced Y/N’s way. "Andarna chose Violet, and though there are four superiorly ranked officers with us, it's Violet's mission. She's in command. And with the exception of her rather questionable taste in men, I've trusted Violet's wisdom since childhood." Their eyes met, and Y/N felt another rush of heat spread through her.

She was so, so screwed.

#fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #xaden riorson #fourth wing fanfic #iron flame #onyx storm #aaric graycastle #cam tauri #aaric graycastle x reader #aaric graycastle imagine #cam tauri imagine #cam tauri x reader

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empyrean-thrones · 2 years ago

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Navarre's Religion

Plocothos, most commonly referred to as the Pantheon, was brought over from the country Ospon along with the first domesticated dragons and quickly became the dominant religion after the Unification. The Pantheon, as they're commonly called, consists of four gods:

Amari -- goddess of fertility, love, and beginnings

Dunne -- goddess of war, hunting, and wisdom

Zihnal -- god of good fortune, harvest, and music

Malek -- god of death, judgement, and dreams

The afterlife in Plocothism is split into two sections: Elysium and the Void Realm. Both areas are connected to Malek's domain and can only be accessed after a soul is judged and sent to either realm. Those who've died honorably and lived without fault are guided into Elysium, the eternal paradise where they'll no longer feel pain or anguish. Those that sin and fail to atone are thrown into the Void Realm, a place filled with nothing but darkness and the screams of those they've wronged. There is not peace or respite for the ones who end up here, only eternal torment and insanity.

#Navarre #Empyrean thrones #the empyrean #empyrean series #Navarrian Pantheon #Amari #Dunne #Zihnal #Malek

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serahadmoni · 5 months ago

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A Case for Bodhi Durran

Criminally underused and oft-sidelined, Bodhi Durran deserves…more. More attention. More consideration. More love. While plenty of fanon exists surrounding his character - including presuppositions of what his life was like before the apostasy, what his dreams for the future were before the Rider’s Quadrant - for this commentary I will try to focus primarily on the text and evidentiary proof of his virtues. So, let's talk about how Bodhi Durran...

Is Loyal

“When you have a hundred and seven scars on your back, then you get to make the fucking decisions, Ciaran,” Bodhi snarls

I feel like all the Marked Ones who populate Xaden's inner circle have loyalty written indelibly on their hearts - loyalty to not only Tyrrendor, but specifically to Xaden. They understand the sacrifice he made then and the sacrifices he continues to make for them. Even when being loyal to Xaden means hauling dead bodies out of his not-girlfriend’s room at two in the morning. Or making clandestine smuggling runs . Or continuing to manage the operation in Xaden’s absence when the Navarrian leadership has begun to catch wise. Or when you take pains to ensure he’s left to his grief on the anniversary of his father’s death. Even when they sometimes butt heads over specifics, Bodhi ultimately defers to Xaden, because he…

Is Dutiful

[Xaden] dips his chin toward our wing, and two riders—Garrick and Bodhi—break formation, then climb the steps to stand behind Xaden, their hands at their sides. “As it was a matter of life and death, I personally executed six of the would-be murderers, as witnessed by Flame Section Leader Garrick Tavis and Tail Section Executive Officer Bodhi Durran.

Again, all the Marked Ones display this quality in spades. Even if they don’t always agree with the methods Xaden uses, they will forever carry out their duty, his orders. Liam represents the ultimate expression of this quality, but the way Bodhi protects Violet in Xaden’s absence, even going so far as to risk his own reputation and command by constantly moving flight maneuvers to protect her is an undeniable expression of his sense of duty.

“You saved every single one of us here, cousin,” Bodhi says. “And we’re thankful. Now, I’d like to do what we’ve trained for, and if it means I don’t go home, then I guess my soul will be commended to Malek. I wouldn’t mind seeing my mother anyway.”

This speaks for itself. Both in the language of duty and loyalty, which only serves to accentuate the fact Bodhi…

Is Supportive

“You’re our best fighter,” a second-year near Xaden counters with a quick grin.

Though he and Garrick (and Violet) share in this responsibility to some extent, I still think in a lot of ways Bodhi is Xaden’s ultimate hype man. Mostly because he understands Xaden so deeply and as such is well aware how much Xaden needs it sometimes. He’s present for Xaden in difficulty. Willing to advocate for him, stand up for him even against the other Marked Ones as he does after Resson.

Bodhi grins, flashing a smile that looks exactly like my aunt’s used to. “Good to see you up and about, Sorrengail.” Then he smacks me on the shoulder as he walks off, looking back over his shoulder. “I’ll fetch the backup plan. Good luck.”

But it’s not just Xaden he supports…

When the Assembly wants nothing more than to toss Violet in a cell, he lends his voice to the arguments for her loyalty, her integrity:

She fought at our side at Resson.” Bodhi tenses as his voice rises as well.

AND

In another, quieter moment, which speaks not only to his naturally supportive nature but also how well he can read others needs:

“It’s a lost magic,” Bodhi says softly, appearing at my side. He rubs his thumb over his newly mended, scarless palm. “Maybe there’s a reason this stone never worked. It might be broken.”

He can tell how thoroughly the failed attempt at raising the wards shatters Violet’s self-confidence and even though he doesn’t know her as well as Xaden, he understands she needs reassurance, offering it freely. He also supports Violet in her burnout and when she’s crazed after hearing Xaden was injured.

Bodhi Durran is a man who desperately wants everyone to be okay. Actively. Daily. Trying to not only keep everyone alive, but sane and grounded, because Bodhi…

Is Brilliant

The distraction Bodhi engineered in the flight field bought us time to meet without teachers noticing, but not much, especially considering that Devera, Kaori, Carr, and Emetterio are among those on campus still.

Personally, I would love to know what he threw together with zero notice that managed to keep the instructors busy long enough for Dain to call the quadrant to formation and Xaden (coughVioletcough) to issue his invitation. My guess, there were explosives of some sort involved.

Also, when they are climbing the Cliffs of Dralor with the fliers and the wyvern attack, he puts together what it means that the wyvern felt the pulse of the Aretian hatching grounds being reactivated before pretty much anyone else. He understands the wyvern will have relayed to their masters that the fliers and Aretian riders joined forces and the implications of such a report.

“I… uh… think we’re going to have to make some modifications on that harness,” Bodhi remarks as Andarna struggles to maintain her balance. “That’s going to take a few hours.”

Without drifting into the land of fanon, it’s hard to elaborate on this point except to highlight that Bodhi has the skills and know-how to modify an elaborately designed one-of-a-kind dragon harness. Were I to drift into fanon, I would shout from the rooftops that he’s the engineer of the group - the one that made sure Violet’s daggers would work for her, who consulted with Xaden on the prototype and modifications to Violet’s saddle, who also helped design and proof Andarna’s harness. Where Xaden may be the ideas-man in these areas, Bodhi executes. He’s the one who fixes their pocket watches when they won’t keep time or helps troubleshoot why the damn trigger on that crossbow sticks when any of the Marked Ones can’t figure it out for themselves. Ultimately, Bodhi wants to help in a tangible way because he...

Is Protective

In this, I feel it’s best to just let Bodhi speak for himself.

When Varrish confronts Violet on the flight field before her first trip to Samara.

“You may leave, Cadet Durran,” Varrish says. Bodhi moves closer to my side, and the male lieutenant takes a step closer as well, the mage lights catching the signet patch—fire wielding—on his uniform. “As Cadet Sorrengail’s section leader, I am the next in her chain of command. And as Article Four, Section Two of the Codex states, her discipline falls to her chain of command before being brought to cadre. I would be negligent in my duty were I to leave her in potential possession of… whatever it is you’re looking for.”

When Varrish pushes Violet to near burnout.

Bodhi’s warm brown face appears in front of mine. “Fuck.” He tugs the edges of the blanket closed around me. “This is because of Andarna?” “Yes.” Bodhi’s eyes widen. … “I’ll handle it,” Bodhi promises, capturing my gaze. “This won’t happen to you again.”

When Dain Aetos calls Violet to the mat because he’s pissed off that she won’t talk to him.

“You shouldn’t do this!” Bodhi shouts as he runs at us, skidding to a stop next to me. Imogen isn’t far behind. Ah, she’d run to find the closest person to Xaden possible. Makes sense. “She’s in a fucking sling, Aetos.” “Last time I checked, you’re a section leader.” Dain narrows his eyes on Bodhi. “And your cousin isn’t her wingleader anymore. I am.” The muscles in Bodhi’s neck bulge. “Xaden’s going to fucking kill him,” he whispers.

There are plenty of other instances where he protects others. Notably, when he steps in front of Carr to counter his signet as they are leaving Basgiath. And I’m certain there are hundreds of instances we don’t see since we are in Violet’s POV through the series. None of which detracts from the fact that Bodhi…

Is Principled

At the beginning of Fourth Wing, upon returning from a standard weapons run, he pushes Xaden and Garrick both, insisting:

“There has to be something more we can do,” Bodhi argues, looking to Xaden, his voice low…

And then again at the end of the book, when the cadets are faced with a decision to fight alongside the fliers to save the Pormoish civilians or flee for Eltuval, he’s the first to insist they help. Even coming into conflict with Xaden’s more measured approach to the impossible dilemma Col. Aetos has enforced upon them.

“How many people live in Resson?” Bodhi asks. “More than three hundred,” Imogen answers as another boom cracks through the valley. “That’s the post they do the yearly trades at.” “Then let’s get down there.” Bodhi turns and Xaden steps back, blocking his path with an outstretched hand. “You’re kidding me, right?” “We have no idea what we’re walking into.” Xaden’s tone reminds me of that first day after Parapet. He’s in full command mode. “So we should just stand here while civilians die?” Bodhi questions, and I tense. We all do, watching Xaden.

As much as I love Xaden, and I do. I believe equipping the drifts with weapons is a means to an end for him. They are the thin, brown and feathered line between the venin and Tyrrendor. He wants to continue helping them, but I don’t believe - other than from an abstract “we don’t condemn innocents to death” perspective - he’s overly concerned with the preservation of individual Poromish lives. Bodhi, for better or worse, appears to be invested in the preservation of life in general. A grounded, guiding principle that thankfully he values because Bodhi…

Is Powerful

He sighs. “Yeah. Second time someone tried to jump me in the bathing chamber this week.” My eyes widen as my heart hammers in my chest. “Are you okay?” He has the gall to grin. “I completely eviscerated some asshole out of Second Wing while naked and only got a bruise. I’m fine.”

I mean, besides the litany of weapons certification patches Violet observes early in Fourth Wing, Bodhi is just as skilled in unarmed hand-to-hand. While he’s never described as “on-par” with Xaden (since Xaden spars with Garrick almost exclusively unless he’s trying to make a point), Bodhi clearly knows how to handle himself. In the buff. With no weapons. And accruing no serious injuries.

Which doesn’t even touch his signet…

“What have you done?” Carr shouts, running for us, his wispy hair flying in all directions as he lifts his hands. “You’ll end us all, over who? People you’ve never met? I won’t allow it!” “Bodhi!” Xaden orders as Carr reaches Third Wing. Fire erupts from Carr’s hands, streaming toward the dais, and my stomach drops. Time seems to slow as Bodhi steps forward and twists his hand like he’s turning a dial. The fire dies, extinguishing like it was never there and leaving Carr staring at his hands. “You taught us well, Professor,” Bodhi says, holding his hand in place. “Maybe a little too well.” Damn. “He can counter signets,” Xaden tells me. Well, that’s fucking terrifying.

And though people have questioned Brennan's assessment:

“By our best calculations,” Brennan says, rubbing his hands together to keep warm, “the six most powerful riders currently in Aretia are Xaden, Felix, Suri, Bodhi, Violet, and me.”

When you consider the potential of his signet…

Yes, he extinguishes Carr’s flames without blinking. But he can also smother Xaden’s shadows. Dispel Violet’s lightning. Destroy Mira’s wards. Keep Brennan from mending. He could have calmed Lilith’s storms. And while it seems like largely a defensive signet, there are offensive elements to it as well. Such as - and I’m not saying this would happen - he could remain completely invisible to Melgren, even without the benefit of three other Marked Ones. If such a thing were in the cards, he would be able to easily assassinate Melgren, undetected.

And that’s if we don’t consider what, if any, mind signets he can counter. Can he reverse Imogen’s memory wipe? Or merely prevent her from performing one? Can he fool a truthsayer by offering them nothing to read? Based on the text, it appears Xaden is unable to read his intentions. Which would imply he’s impervious to not only inntinsics, but memory readers and erasers, truthsayers, etc.

Considering we don’t know precisely how his signet works, it’s difficult to say for certain where the boundaries lie. Is it only as Xaden says, “He can counter signets?” Or is he interrupting the channel between dragon and rider entirely? Which would have far more wide-reaching implications since he could theoretically also break the channel between gryphons and their fliers as well as venin and the earth.

Just like we really don’t have all the information about Violet’s “pure power” signet, we don’t have nearly enough hard information about Bodhi’s to say for certain where the potential expression of it may end.

Despite his physical and magical prowess, though, Bodhi…

Is Pragmatic

“I liked it better when we just delivered the weapons,” Bodhi mutters.

As principled, honorable, loyal, and dutiful as he is…same. He wants to help, but it’s hard. And dangerous. And running weapons is easier. I don’t blame him at all.

His pragmatism is reflected in the text a hundred different ways, but it’s also simply stated by both him and Violet.

“And I thought you were the most reasonable of the group.” I sigh. “Look, if I can help, then maybe we can prevent what I’m assuming are… supply runs.” Talking in code is ridiculous, but anyone could be listening. “Give me a job.” “Oh, I am the most reasonable in the group.” He flashes a grin, leaning back on his heels. “I also don’t have a death wish. Survive second year and strengthen your shields, Sorrengail. That’s your job.”

He is a man who gets things done. Which is not to say he’s not in touch with his emotions. But he understands the balance between necessity and diplomacy. Not that he’s a staid, stoic mission only guy either, because Bodhi…

Is Quick-Witted

“Hey, I hate to interrupt what’s obviously a moment,” Bodhi whispers loudly from my left. “But that was the last bell, so that’s our cue to get this nightmare started.”

AND

Bodhi wrinkles his nose. “What?” “You smell like dragon ass.” “Fuck off.” I chance a whiff and can’t argue. “I’m using your room.” “I would consider it a personal favor.” I extend my middle finger and head toward his room.

Much as I appreciate and adore Bodhi’s quick wit, I could also write volumes about how his dry, sarcastic sense of humor operates as a defense mechanism. A lens through which he can deal with the intensity of his circumstances and the impact of these weighty decisions they are all making.

Like Xaden himself says, Bodhi always lightens the mood. To help himself deal? Yes. But (like Ridoc) also because he can tell everyone desperately needs it, a virtue that serves him well because he…

Is A Leader

”Shouldn’t you all be in Battle Brief?” Bodhi asks, his voice booming as he comes up behind us. One look sends the other squads scurrying for the door.

Though a lot of space on the page has been given to Xaden, Rhiannon, and Violet’s obvious leadership qualities, Bodhi sprang from the same genetic line as Xaden. While the expression of the Riorson magnetism may be tempered by his natural demeanor, he possesses the same it-factor as Fen. Were I to lay bets, I expect his mother was similarly charismatic and it was expressed in her much the way it is in Bodhi.

“…Flame Section has the unique honor of being completely intact.” Brennan looks down at Bodhi. “Durran, you brought every single cadet. I guess that would make you the Iron Section.”

He inspired such loyalty from his section, they all defected. For so many reasons, including those already expressed above, I believe Bodhi to be a servant leader. Servant leadership rests on three pillars: compassion, character, and competence. All of which Bodhi has in spades. He would not run a section the way Garrick did. Or the way Xaden ran his wing. Not that there was anything wrong with either of those philosophies necessarily. But he would pull with his squads, encourage them, equip them, support them, and push them gently to be their best. He would need to make certain they’re ready to face what he did in Resson, but he would do it with a deft, deliberate, more delicate hand than I think Xaden is willing or able to extend, because Bodhi Durran…

Is A Caretaker

So much of what has already been outlined above also represents an expression of this quality. From him helping Garrick protect Xaden’s solitude on the anniversary of Fen’s death. To him stepping between Aaric and Xaden when they start throwing barbs about Alic (which is also pragmatism, because hey, there’s a job to do). To him waiting with Xaden in the hall while Violet cleans up after Resson. He takes care of people both physically:

“Whoa!” Bodhi throws up one hand, the other clutching his rucksack. “I don’t want you to freeze to death on the flight there.” He yanks his flight jacket out of his pack and hands it to me.

Bodhi helps Aaric out of his [disguise], careful with his blistered hands. … “That’s a rebound burn,” Bodhi says. “It will clear up overnight if treated.”

”And tell Bodhi to track down whatever antidote she and the rest of her squad need.”

And emotionally, which leads me to the fact Bodhi…

Is Emotionally Attuned

An hour later, I’m bathed and impatient as I wait outside my room in a fresh set of leathers with Bodhi, who’s doing his best to lighten my mood just like he always does.

Bodhi reads people. Easily. He understands what Xaden’s saying without it being said . After Resson, he knows what Xaden needs from them - not questions, not reason, just action. He knows that Violet and Imogen need to run. And even when he can’t contradict Xaden’s orders, I believe he sympathizes with Violet’s driving need to do something to help, because it’s a drive he shares. Later, he knows not to carry Violet back to the quadrant after her burnout. And he’s the one that follows her into the courtyard to offer his jacket because he can see the panic plain as day. Just as he can see her disappointment when the wards fail. He can feel Xaden’s rage and terror as Violet lays comatose and poisoned (not that Xaden is overly subtle about it).

On top of all of that, Bodhi…

Is Beautiful

He’s handsome, with tawny brown skin crowned by a cloud of black curls and a litany of patches on what I can see of his uniform under his cloak. His features are close enough to Xaden’s that they might be related. Cousins, maybe?

…Bodhi has the same bronzed skin and strong brow line, but his features aren’t as angular as Xaden’s, and his eyes are a lighter shade of brown. He looks like a softer, more approachable version of his older cousin...

Even Violet, who only has eyes for Xaden, recognizes how attractive he is. Yet, as fair and fine the wrapping, I would heartily declare his character fairer still.

While this is by no means an exhaustive list of his virtues - he's also humble, adaptable, a peacemaker, a good listener, infinitely capable, empathetic, and hyperaware of how he should conduct himself in a given situation - I think the case for Bodhi Durran has been made.

(originally compiled for the Onyx Storm countdown days at the RQ Discord)

#the empyrean #fourth wing #empyrean meta #bodhi durran #fourth wing spoilers #iron flame spoilers

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