#cass fic

You wait for the kiss, the rumble of his voice and the whisper of his breath as lips form the words I love you.

He never says it.

His back faces yours and never once does he reach for you in his slumber. “Is everything alright?” You muster up the bravery to ask the following morning, sheets gripped near your chest like armor as you watch him strap the holsters for his weapons against his back and thighs.

“Fine.”

Even inch of you wants to believe him but his words are short, clipped; utterly uninterested. “Are you sure?”

His mouth purses, parts, closes again as if he’s got something to say but isn’t sure how to word it. “Everything’s alright—just distracted is all.”

Your head nods robotically, hearing but not believing. “You hungry? I can make you something before you go.”

“No need. I have plans.”

He doesn’t stay to watch the way your face falls. Doesn’t linger for a kiss or to brush pillow-mussed hair out of your face. Cassian’s gone before your lungs can even complete the process of a full breath.

You try to brush it off. To busy yourself with fixing the sheets, fluffing pillows and tidying up the space you share. But, instead of finding peace, your cleaning becomes obsessive; reorganizing the closets, shining shoes and sifting through the clutter in bedside drawers.

You don’t even mean to find it—you have no intention of snooping but the folded piece of parchment finds you anyway, catching on the bracelet dangling from your wrist and slicing at the soft skin beneath it. “Ow,” You hiss, inspecting a cut so shallow blood doesn’t even draw. Not until your focus shifts back to the crumpled paper that was shoved in the shadows.

Any comfort you’d accumulated promptly burns to ashes when you read its contents. The hope you’d latched onto smashes like glass, littering the space around you in glittering shards as you read Cassian’s blocky scrawl. It’s filled with confessions of a love not meant for you. Addressed to a name that’s not your own.

You’re not even sure when the tears start, just distantly aware of trails of wetness dampening the slope of your cheeks, traveling down the curve of your chin and neck.

The love note is damn near memorized by time Cassian finds his way back to the room, hours having passed in the blink of an eye and he stands as still as a board when he finds you in a crumpled heap on the floor, paper pinched between your fingers, eyes studying the words as if it’ll change who they’re meant for. He says your name with such caution, clearly expecting you to greet him with anger and malice but that would take up too much energy—energy that had been leached from your bones, leaving behind nothing but the husk of who you’d once been.

“How long?” You finally croak out, voice void and lifeless.

Cassian is too quiet for too long, clearly searching for the right words until the truth takes the reins and spills itself before you. “A few months.”

“A few months.” The way your shoulders cave in is devastating. You look like the sun with no light. A flower with no stem. A bird with no wings. “Then this isn’t just you being overly flirtatious. This is…there’s feelings involved here.”

“I can explain.”

You can’t help but cut him off before he finds some charming way to explain himself out of your ire. Taking the reins of the conversation is all too easy—the power entirely too addicting. “To explain, not apologize.” The breath you take is heavy, settles in your belly like lead. “You’re here to end this?”

Cassian takes a step closer and instinctively you take a step back, arms crossing over your chest in attempts to hold yourself together. “I have to.” It’s then that you pick up on the scent that sticks to him. One you recognize. One that doesn’t belong to you or the bottles of perfume you keep. “I think she could be my mate.”

You can’t work up the nerve to look him in the eye, fearful that the simple act of eye contact would be enough to have the tears bursting free from the dams working overtime to keep the current at bay. A deep breath fills your lungs, spine lengthening as you force strength into the fibers of your tone. “Okay.”

He reaches for you, fingertips millimeters away from brushing the curve of your cheek but you flinch away—creating space. His spine sags with remorse, shoulders set with shame, hand falling limp at his sides with regret pooling at his fingertips and you’ve had enough when hazel irises fill with pity. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

“Don’t be sorry, Cassian.” Your voice breaks, your smile shakes but it still doesn’t rob you of the kindness that drew him in in the first place. “Just be happy.”

—

The shift that follows is immediate, all of his things boxed up and left in front of the door of his old room. You don’t fuss or fight, you don’t even break anything. You just pack it up and return it to its rightful owner.

You remove yourself from family breakfasts and avoid shared dinners like the plague in fears of seeing Cassian flaunt his love with Nesta without a care in the world.

You ignore your found family’s attempts at comfort, brushing off any and all inquiries on how you’re feeling. Turning down invitations for nights out to try to get your mind off things. Shutting down irate rants from your friends as they ramble about all the ways you didn’t deserve this—how they wanted to make it right for you. “Don’t bother,” The words come out so softly, laced with such defeat its devastating.

“No!” Mor can barely contain her disdain, brows furrowed and lips twisted in a sneer. “This is wrong. What he’s doing—what they’re doing is wrong. You and Cass have loved eachother for decades all for him to throw it away over some cauldron-made floozy? I can’t just sit back and watch that happen.” She’s pacing, heels clacking against the hardwood floors so harshly you’re sure dents begin to mark their way through the shinny finish. “Why are you so damn calm?”

“Because, what’s the point?” You shrug, red wine swirling in your glass. It’s strong, a little bitter but it numbs you so gently, like morphine injected directly into your veins. “How foolish do I already look as the female who feels too much for a male who clearly felt nothing for me. Making a scene about it would just add insult to injury.” Your eyes are distant, fixed on a random spot on the freshly painted walls in the new apartment Rhysand insisted on funding. It’s bare; empty, walls void of character and atmosphere sucked dry of all care. “He thinks she’s his mate Mor. Her. I just don’t understand why he can’t see—“ Your head shakes left to right, chest caving in. Wine quickly fills that chasm, glass refilling every time you reach the bottom.

You don’t even mean to say it really.

Drunk words being sober thoughts and all that.

But, Mor latches onto the unfinished sentence like glue. Eyebrows furrow, pupils expand in confusion before dilating to pinpricks when realization settles in. “Can’t see…that you’re his mate.” Puzzle pieces fuse together, a perfect picture being painted right before her very eyes but the image is distorted; the wrong face on a familiar figure. “There is a bond. You are his mate—he just doesn’t know. You never told him.”

You don’t so much as flinch at her conclusion. Only sigh, prettily painted toes grazing through the fluff of your throw rug. “Doesn’t matter much now.” More wine fills your glass until the decanter runs empty, the corners of your mouth tugging down in a frown. “I don’t think it ever even mattered at all.”

The flowy fabric of Mor’s dress billows as she plops down beside you, weight sinking into the soft cushions of your couch. A fresh bottle appears in her grasp, cork releasing with a pop but this one she doesn’t share, just drinks straight from the source. It’s cradled to her chest, eyes trained on the side of your face, cataloging the lifelessness of your skin, the bags growing under your eyes, the way your cheeks begin to thin out from lack of true sustenance. “Just say something to him.” She urges, her tone pleading; eyes begging. “Say anything. I can’t stand to see you like this.”

“Say what?” Your head falls back in something worse than defeat; something more like acceptance as your neck rests on the lip of the couch. “No bond forces two as one, and he wants her.” Fresh tears gather in your waterline, sliding down your cheeks so silently you barely notice them. “He wants her.”

She says your name, vocalizing the syllables so softly, so full of pity it lurches you from your spot before the sorrow roots you in place.

“You know what, if he’s happy, then I’m ecstatic. I have so much free time now.” Clammy hands wipe against linen sleep shorts as you stand, shifting over to a pile of boxes in the corner. You occupy yourself with unpacking, finding new homes for items collected in another lifetime. “I can pick up a hobby or travel or something—I’ve always loved Summer and I’m sure Rhys could use someone to start mending the rift between the courts. It’ll be like a paid vacation.”

It’s obvious your friend wants to object. Wants to call you out on the avoidance that begins to take place but for some reason she doesn’t bother. Maybe she see’s that you can’t take much more—that the flame of your fight has been snuffed out and you’re barely able to keep the remaining embers alive. Instead, she nods, crossing her legs under her and silently watches the way you convert your emotions into finding the perfect place for pictures and obsessing over which wall best suits a rack full of throw blankets. “How long of a vacation?”

“However long it takes to be able to be in the same room as them without feeling sick to my stomach.”

You say it like a joke but nobody laughs.

—

Turns out, Rhys has a soft spot for broken women. Big brother instincts running on overdrive at the sight of your watery eyes, composure crumpling at a voice that cracks under the weight of the world on your shoulders. One look at your torment and you’ve been granted permission for an all expense paid trip for his favorite —only— emissary. The paperwork is drafted hastily, sent out to neighboring courts before the ink even has the chance to fully dry. A few responses return within the hour, requests granted, a list of stipulations attached and agreed upon before basic necessities are packed away and winnowed off to your first stop before the sun even begins to peak its head above the horizon.

You don’t even linger long enough to say goodbye.

Given the fact that there’s no timeline listed in the fine print of your extended leave, guilt lives in your gut at the abrupt departure but Rhys promises to handle the fallout in your absence and you can’t help but admit the distance is a indescribable relief. Perhaps, it’s the way Summer Court accepts you, although a bit hesitantly at first. Tarquin watches you like a hawk your first few weeks, cataloging your every move until he’s certain you truly are there to rebuild trust instead of being some pretty Night Court spy slinking about in search of their secrets or weaknesses.

Six months pass and instead of hovering out of necessity, he deigns to keep you close by choice; your quarters no more than twenty steps away from his own and filled with radiant opulence. Early mornings are spent with breakfasts shared, treaties discussed, plans made for leisurely strolls through his city until a genuine care is curated for his people and the customs they share. “Do you ever come up for air?” The High Lord muses over his fork, sausage speared through the shiny silver prongs.

Fluffy eggs are piled on jammy toast, crumbs catch on the corner of your mouth but you make sure not a speck stains the packet of papers your free hand holds onto, eyes skimming over trade agreements and a list of needs personally extracted from skilled healers, fresh market mangers and dock workers. Things they require from Night Court that they’ve lived without given the strain. “I can hold my breath for quite some time, you know. Nowhere near the end of my reserves yet.”

It’s a cheeky response. A little dry. Comfort in your environment bleeds through your tone and the High Lord before you grins at your casual banter.

“I can see that,” He shrugs casually, leaning deeper into his chair. Ankles cross under the table, his hair tumbling over the bare chest exposed in his unbuttoned linen top. “I suppose, I’m just worried you’ll burnout if you keep at this pace.”

“The wellbeing of your people is important,” You insist, one hand blindly reaching for a flute of champagne and orange spritz. “They’ve gone without for much too long.”

He hums, nodding softly in agreement. Under the table, his foot nudges your own, forcing your attention to him. “And you? What of your wellbeing?” Your brows furrow in confusion. “You haven’t mentioned a word of your family since the first week you arrived. No letters, no visits—your birthday is tomorrow. Were you planning on going back to celebrate?”

You bristle at the reminder, toast falling back onto to your plate, now forgotten. Champagne is sipped as you struggle to clear the knot beginning to form in your throat, guilt gnawing in your belly, forcing you to acknowledge the radio silence you’ve upheld towards the people you love back home. “How do you know about that?”

“Rhysand sent over a summons for your return for the special occasion.”

You groan, papers abandoned in favor of holding your head in your hands. A tension headache begins to form right between your eyes, vision already going blurry at the irritating thump, thump, thump that takes root beneath the surface.

“Well, some greeting that is.”

You jump at the sound of a familiar voice; it’s melodic, sultry, accompanied by the rhythmic click of high heels against polished floors. Wide eyes catch on the approaching figure clad in red, blonde hair falling down in waves down her shoulders. “Mor? What are you doing here?”

“I’m your summons.” She grins, not-so-subtly taking you in from head to toe. A little pout forms when noticing the weight-loss, the eye bags, the way you’ve let your roots grow out. “Rhys had a feeling you might ignore him if he only sent a letter.” You’re too stunned to stand but it doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest as she continues her appraisal of you, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a hug. One nearly too tight.

Patting the arm around your neck, you shoot daggers at Tarquin but he pointedly ignores it, occupying himself by stuffing his mouth with fresh fruit topped with sweet whipped creams. “How proactive of him.” The words grit out like sand stubbornly stuck inside a shoe. “But, I hadn’t really intended to come back until I finished things here.”

“Boo!” She protests, swiftly snagging the glass of champagne you’d been nursing before her arrival. “If I accepted that answer, you’d never come home!” Mor says it like a joke but you can hear the truth in her words, the concern beginning to bleed into her tone, the desperate way she keeps her hands on your shoulder as if she’s afraid you’re going to disappear without a trace. “Please? It’ll be fun, I promise. I ordered a whole case of that good wine you like and I convinced Az to smuggle an ounce of mirthroot from the dealer he refuses to share with us.” She goes on for a few minutes, words running a mile a minute, more pretty promises spilling free until she see’s your walls begin to crumble.

You hate yourself for it, yet somehow, someway, Mor cons you into returning home for your birthday. The domino effect of your agreement is immediate and overwhelming. You, being dragged away from the table and led to your room so she can riffle through your closet and pick out enough clothes to last you a week. “Mor, I’m only going to be home for the night, two nights max—you’re packing my bag like I’m gearing up for war.”

“Just wanted to make sure you have options.” A white lie that’s easily detected, especially when she spends too much time collecting your usual jewelry from the dish resting on your bedside. “Speaking of options, how often do you and the High Lord of Summer spend breakfasts together?”

Shoulders shrug, your ass plopping onto the generous cushion of your mattress. “Everyday.”

A perfectly plucked brow raises. “Oh, really?” A conspiratorial smirk lives in the glossy corners of her mouth. “And does he always arrive at these breakfasts so….scandalously dressed?”

“This is Summer Court if you hadn’t noticed—can you blame the male for showing off a little chest?”

“A little chest?” Mor scoffs, hair flicking off one shoulder. “There’s nothing little about that male, anyone with eyes could get lost in the abs and a v-line peeking through that sorry excuse of a shirt. Don’t even get me started on his piercing.”

Eyes roll, a hint of a blush growing along the curve of your ears. It’d been so long since you’d had anything remotely close to girl-talk. “It’s perfectly normal here for males and females to have their belly’s pierced.”

Breezy pants, skimpy skirts and barely there shirts are robbed from your dresser, neatly folded and stowed away. Dresses with tummy cut-outs and generous necklines, thin tube tops and shorts so small their only purpose is to conceal the naughty bits are waved in the air with a pleased nod. “You’re going to give the boys back home a heart attack when you come through wearing these.”

“I don’t wear them to catch attention, I wear them to work on my tan.”

“And tan you are, one could mistake you for an Illyrian with that hue—it’s pretty. Makes your eyes pop.”

“You know what’ll really make my eyes pop? Some of that mirthroot. Did you bring it with you or was it just a bribe to get me back?” You’re being a brat, you know that. Mor knows that too. Either way, she supplies your needs, procuring a pretty velvet bag and tossing it your way. The scent smacks you in the face the moment you loosen its ties and a giddy little grin smears itself across your face. “Happy birthday to me—have you any clue how hard it is to find a reputable dealer here? Liqour, powder and mushrooms? Easy peasy. Anything else was next to impossible.”

Content with her pickings of your items, Mor leaves them by the door, following your lead to the balcony attached to your chambers. There’s a comfortable seating arrangement, brightly colored flowers blooming in golden pots that soak up sunlight and reflect its beauty. A spiral copper staircase leads directly to a rooftop pool that overlooks Tarquins personal gardens. Birds chirp, fish swim about in man-made ponds and crickets sing their song in the neatly trimmed bushes below. “Since when do you dabble in powder?”

“Since I found out my mate had been cheating on me with another female.”

It’s said so casually Mor freezes in place. Blue eyes slowly flicking over to you but you’re otherwise occupied, fingers breaking up buds, blunt paper unwrapped and catching the ground up plant. Your motions are fluid, practiced; something you seem to do often enough to have it completely rolled and sealed in under forty seconds.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have a problem or anything. Powder didn’t agree with me much.” One hand reaches over and a box of matches and an ash tray is procured from a little nook in the wall by the balcony doors. “Mushrooms were fun at first, until I started hallucinating images of my ex making out with his newest conquest in vivid detail.” The spark of flame to wood is like breathing for the first time again after swimming underwater for hours. Relieving. A saving grace. A life raft in the middle of a turbulent storm. “Liqour was my safest option but after a few times being caught belligerently drunk around town in the dead of the night, Tarquin started following me everywhere I went like he was afraid I was going to take a tumble off the cliffside.” You finally meet her gaze. “That’s why we have breakfast every morning—why we seem so close? He’s babysitting me so I don’t do something stupid to myself.”

Mor’s mouth opens, closes; tears welling up in her waterline. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Legs cross over the other, frame situating itself in the floating wicker chairs cushioned with pillows the shade of teal. “Wouldn’t be great for Court diplomacy if Night’s emissary died on Summer’s turf.” Your shrug on the topic is annoyingly flippant, worryingly detached, painfully numb. “Anyways, how’s home? Anything new?”

She swallows thickly, searching for composure, pushing blonde hair away from her cheeks as the summer breeze shifts through the fabrics of her dress. “It’s really not the same without you there. Things are quiet—tense even. Like a machine trying to move without a vital piece.” Fingers gently pinch around the passed blunt, smoke flowing past her lips when she keeps speaking, eyes memorizing the lush sight of a trim garden, waterfalls and fountains, walkways encrusted with gems that sparkle where the light touches. “You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t write. Didn’t visit. I—we miss you, you know?”

Vision blurring, throat working over the emotion beginning to knot in it, you nod. “I miss me too.” You brush the vulnerability off as quickly as it appeared. “It’s nice to see you though, hadn’t realized how much until you got here.”

To keep your hands busy, you already begin rolling another, opting to let Mor keep the first to herself so you don’t have to keep passing back and forth. So you don’t have to explain why you inhale too hard and hold the smoke in your lungs too long. Why your hands shake or explain your dissociating when the thoughts get too loud.

All you wanted was something to numb the ache beginning to return in your chest.

“Do you know how much longer you’re going to be here?”

“I’m less than two weeks away from completing the re-organization of trade routes. Tolls and taxes have been reviewed, negotiated and signed off on. Just need to cross my t’s and dot my I’s before it’s time for me to move onto the next.”

Mor sits up straight, ash pooling into a little mountain in the tray. “To the next? You won’t be coming home right away?”

Utter silence fills the gaps, fingers fidgeting as you pick at your cuticles until they bleed.

“Are you ever going to come back?”

“We’ll be heading over after we finish these, I reckon.”

You know that’s not what she means.

You don’t look to see the way she deflates, attempts to fight the choice before giving up altogether. Frustration settles between her brows, sticks to the scrunch of her nose and smudges the corners of her mouth. Mor’s next pull is vicious, compulsive; smoke huffing out her nostrils like an angered dragon fighting not to breath fire. “Suppose I’ll just have to cherish you while you last then.”

It hurts. Stabs a sensitive piece of you that lacks proper armor but you take the hit. Eat the injury and take it to the chest like you do all the other punches thrown your way. “Guess so.”

—

The high that permeates through your bloodstream satiates your nerves long enough to muster up the strength to winnow back to the Court that raised you.

Too bad it doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d hoped.

Perhaps it’s the familiarity of this house and the people in it because your throat begins to swell shut when you step through the doors and are bombarded by a flurry of familiar faces.

Feyre is first to snatch you up, slender arms wrapping around your neck like a cobra ready to coil its body around you to keep you rooted in place. Tears wet your bare shoulders as muffled words of relief is breathed into your neck. “You actually came! I was so worried you wouldn’t.”

Rhys has to pull her back, intuitive to the way you try and fail to relax into the embrace. His welcome is far more tame, though the true extent of his emotion lives in his eyes—shown mostly in the way they scan you over, his smile there but weak as what he sees worries him to the bone. Your skin glows from all the sun but your soul withers like flowers who’d forgotten how to bloom. “I trust Tarquin’s been taking good care of you?”

“More than good,” You fix a smile on your face to soothe his concern. “He hovers worse than you do.”

Something in his posture implies he knows more about that than he lets on, hands rustling through your hair like a fond older brother. He memorizes the scrunch of your nose and the girlish way you struggle to get your hair back into place.

The sound of heavy steps forces you to turn, a tether pulling you taut until your eyes meet the ones that haunt your every dream. He’s a little smaller than you remember, hair cut a bit shorter than you used to do it. A braid you never taught him how to do is weaved behind his right ear, dangling like a reminder that another woman’s hands touch what used to belong to you. Cassian’s voice is all but a whisper when he finally works the nerve to use it. “You came back.”

“Didn’t have much choice, Mor wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”

Her arm wraps around your shoulder, holding you close like she can tell your knees are going weak at the sight of him. “Damn straight.” She pulls you along before you get the idea to retreat and even though you have to pass Cassian to get to your old room, Mor stands as barrier between you and him.

You can’t help the glance over your shoulder, eyes meeting his once more. All he can do is stare, frozen in place; mouth agape as whatever words he’d intended dies in his throat as he looks at you like it’s the first time but you’re already turning the corner before you dare to figure out why.

“Where’s Az?”

“Finishing up some final touches for tomorrow. You’ll see him later.” Excitement bleeds through her every move, the contents of your bag on the bed like a kid sifting through a candy store. “It’ll be really casual tonight, family only—just to catch up. Hope you’re hungry.”

A glass and a half of wine and a blunt later, you are actually quite hungry. Mor forces you into a change of clothes, a comfy tube top and breezy pants that sit low, showing off the shape of your hips and the cute new dermals pierced into the dimples of your back.

It’s the first thing Feyre brings up when you enter the dining room. “Do they hurt?”

More wine is poured, an abundance of food being portioned off and placed before you. “Couldn’t say, I was a little wasted when we got them.”

“We?”

“The High Lord of Summer is incredibly daring off of faerie wine.”

You feel eyes boring holes into the side of your face, hanging onto every word like a fly caught in a trap. Teeth grind auadibly. Strained smiles are carved in the corner of Cassian’s mouth asa you enthusiastically recount your time alongside Tarquin and his people. Nails bite into the palm of his hands beneath a satin table cloth so dark it resembles an abyss.

Everyone’s celebrating, conversations carrying, voices overlapping, laughs bleeding into one another and yet you cant shake the irritating hyperawareness of Cassian’s eyes on your body. Subtly, you search for Nesta, scanning the room for her steely gaze and perpetually elegant updo’s but her presence never appears. You try not to look too far into it, willing your heart not to care at all but the task is a fools arrand.

No matter how many’s attempts made, your line of sight continues to gravitate his way; admiring the line of his shoulders, the width of his chest, the dimples that appears in his cheeks when he submits to the smiles his family draws from him.

You suppose it’s your fault in the end when Cassian mistakes your stare for invitation, his boisterous voice cutting through the clutter of conversation to insert his own inquiries in the mix. “Are you with him?”

Your jaw clenches, lids narrowing. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“I think you and I both know exactly why it is my business.”

Instead of taking the bait and outing the mating bond you keep tucked away, you fixate on the soft plush of the rug beneath your toes. Over-analyze the obsidian rimmed crystalware holding specially procured wines. Inspecting the spices used in the roast and mash that used to be your favorite meal but now every bite disintegrates like ash on your tongue.

Fingers itch for a reprieve. A distraction. Another drink. More mirthroot.

A cross fade would ease the tension that lives in your shoulders, setting root in your spine until you sit like a statue in a place that should feel like freedom.

“I’m going to grab more ice, drinks getting warm.”

No one fights you even if they do follow your figure until it disappears into the kitchen. Grounding breaths are taken, hands braced against the countertops as you force your emotions in check, shoving them in a tiny little box so the ache doesn’t render you useless.

The double doors open behind you, a slightly annoyed sigh escaping you. “Mor I—“ Morrigan isn’t the one standing behind you. Elain is, watching you with a knowing look in her doe eyes. “Elain? I’m sorry —“

“You know,” Her soft tone cuts you off in a way that seems more charming than disrespectful. She takes her sweet time putting on her floral mitts before retrieving a fresh tray of baked goods out of the oven. “I dream about you sometimes.” Your jaw clenches, brows scrunching in slight confusion and yet you say nothing. “Of you and your mate.”

Your blood runs cold, heart all but stopping in your chest. “What did you just say?”

Yet still, in the midst of a calm that Megatron had not felt in millenia, he was restless. He could feel a prickling under his plating; one that had very little to do with the organic mud that tended to get stuck between his seams. It was an instinctive sort of thing, built from habit. He did not like not knowing what the enemy was up to. He told as much to Soundwave.

“You never did well with these sorts of stalemates, my love,” said Soundwave, a touch of bemusement in his tone. It’s a soft sort of teasing, one that Megatron could do nothing but grumble about. His casualness was enough to bristle, but there was a cleverness to Soundwave’s optics; the only indicator that his words did not go unheeded.

They were refueling together in their shared living quarters. The domesticity of it was not lost on Megatron. Here, it was almost believable that they were back on Cybertron and all they had to worry about were simple and inconsequential. A cozy warm feeling curled within the pit of his tanks. He was tempted to forget his misgivings, but Megatron was nothing if not pragmatic. In war, when the enemy was quiet, there was need to worry, a fact that he had become aware of many times in his long career.

Soundwave, more than anyone, understood. It was this understanding that was calming, a balm to Megatron’s frazzled nerves. “Do not fret so much. I have reconnaissance out already.”

“Ah, I should have known better.” A good reminder of why Soundwave was not only his top spy, but also why he loved him so dearly. Megatron grinned coyly behind his cube.

“Of course. Do not doubt me.”

—

Laserbeak’s return was met with little fanfare; a quick check-in with Soundwave, before she made a beeline for the washracks. It was a little known secret that she loved to preen and being away on missions always slighted her, even if she never voiced her protests. A quick mention that she had procured some interesting files that he should take a look at and she was gone.

Protocol did not require them to converse; whatever information was crucial to pass along would be found in her report. If anything, their exchanges were more for Soundwave’s benefit: a small way to reassure himself that she was ok before she disappeared into the base.

For his part, Megatron was elusive. A quick sweep of the command center and the common areas left him with nothing. Soundwave was not concerned, although he did let loose an irritated huff. There weren’t many areas he often haunted. Megatron was nothing if not a creature of habit and it didn’t take long to track him down in their living quarters.

He paused in the doorway, disbelief converging into wry amusement. Earth had slackened Megatron’s resolve enough for him to idle within his quarters, datapad clutched in a slackened grip, while he looked to be half asleep. Soundwave privately thought it was quite cute.

The sound of the door snapping shut only served to applify the clinking of Soundwave’s mask retracting. Megatron jostled, straightening on the berth in an immediate display of attention. He relaxed almost immediately upon realizing it was Soundwave, who met him with a look of bemusement.

“Your comm is off,” Soundwave said, as way of greeting. His optic ridge was cocked in an exaggerated manner, twisting his face into intentional comical proportions. There was no respite in his voice, just clear amusement.

“Oh is it?” Megatron’s words were casual, with only the barest hint of alarm. He fiddled with the side of his helm until Soundwave could hear the barest hum of a frequency. He paused as he reviewed his recent pings. “Sorry about that.” He made a poor attempt to cover his sheepishness as he met Soundwave’s optics.

Soundwave shook his head dismissively, a smile tugging at his lips. He turned his attention to the datapad in his hand, if only to steer his thoughts back to more important matters.  He held it out in front of him for emphasis. “Laserbeak has returned with her report.”

He made a subtle turn back toward the door. Both of them knew that it would be preferable to have their exchange in a more appropriate setting; either Megatron’s office or the bridge, as normal protocol stated. Today, however, seemed to want to deviant from the norm, for Megatron waved him over airily, still lounging upon the berth like some sort of would be king.

“Well, bring it over here.”

Soundwave stifled a sigh. He silently mourned the waning professionalism in high command. It was only his deep love for Megatron that kept him continuing toward the berth, but it wasn’t enough to hide his mumbled, “I do so hate when you get like this.”

Megatron, at least, looked thoroughly scandalized at the reprimand, straightening on the berth to a more presentable position, sitting at the edge of the berth with his back ramrod straight. Soundwave snickered lightly. Megatron growled lowly in faux threat, reaching for the datapad with urgency.

“Together.” Soundwave sat next to Megatron, in a close, familiar position, sides pressed tightly together. He shivered; Megatron’s plating was always cold, a layover from his days as a miner. It warmed quickly as it ate up the heat from Soundwave’s own unnaturally warm frame. Together, they held an ambience that was comfortable and uniquely theirs. Megatron wrapped an arm around Soundwave, pulling him closer to his plating, and Soundwave gladly leaned into him, flopping into his lap like a large cat. He raised an eye ridge at the display, but otherwise made no comment.

Soundwave balanced the pad between their laps. The screen flickered to life soon after, a slew of files neatly ordered on screen. Largest, by far, was Laserbeak’s full report, carefully organized and detailed in her usual precise way. The files below it were tantalizing, as well, clear copies of whatever confidential information she was able to procure. Soundwave ignored them for now.

Her report consisted mainly of mundane scenarios. In the absence of proper battle, the Autobots had instead decided to invest into things like recreational activities, focusing on strengthening their bonds with their human allies. The Autobots did not look to be gearing up for a proper war anytime soon. He had suspected as much. Yet Soundwave would loath to come to a definitive conclusion before truly finishing, lest he let Laserbeak’s hard work go to waste. He read on, half a processor bored, leaning more into Megatron’s bulk as it went on. It wasn’t until the end that a lone addendum caught his attention. He stiffened, meeting Megatron’s optics with confused surprise.

The Autobots knew about their relationship and kept extensive records on it.

It was not the fact that they knew that was shocking - Soundwave would seriously question the legitimacy of their spies if they had not figured it out by now - but the sheer volume of information, as if they were specifically keeping tabs on their romantic entanglements for a purpose that Soundwave had yet to figure out. The information held no tactical value in his eyes. Even to use their relationship as a ploy in a hostage situation was a moot point; Megatron would be desperate to have him back regardless.

Megatron make a quizzical noise in the back of his throat. It bordered into something distressed until he rebooted his vocalizer. “Perhaps those files that Laserbeak stole will shed some light on this.”

Soundwave nodded, already fiddling with the datapad before Megatron finished his sentence. An eagerness had overcome him, presented with such a puzzle as he was. He opened the first file, optics skittering over the words with a rapid hunger. Information, he knew, could be wielded like a weapon, but how sharp that weapon struck depended on its owner’s might.

Luckily, Soundwave was adept at rhetoric, and reading only proved that said weapon was dull and lifeless and much more suitable to be used as a toy. How fitting.

He laughed, causing Megatron to give him an odd look. His brow was still furrowed as he digested this new development. A gifted orator he may have been, but Soundwave was designed to get inside a person’s mind in the quickest way possible. And the way the Autobots wrote about them was almost innocuous.

“They are fascinated by us.” A part of Soundwave was weirdly amused by the whole situation. It was provocatively invasive and he, who had left his misguided notions about privacy in some early decade of the war, felt titillated.

“What?” said Megatron, confusion melting away into disbelief.

“These are not high level security files, even if they are encrypted. These are more akin to gossip holos, clearly written out of boredom.” Soundwave selected another file, scanning through this one quickly.

Megatron snatched the pad back. In this new light, several things stood out to him. He paused. “I believe you are correct.”

“Naturally.”

Megatron wrinkled his nasal ridge, reading the pad with more intensity than before. He selected another file, giving an offended scoff at the first few lines. “‘It’s hard to believe that a mech like Megatron is selfless enough to love another, let alone someone within his command staff. It explains the blatant favoritism, I guess. Now I get why Starscream is so pissy all the time…’ what’s that supposed to mean?”

Soundwave snorted. “It means your fierce warlord persona is working, my dear.”

Megatron made a face that might have been smug, had the twitching of his face not give him away. Soundwave could read solid amusement, barely masked by a bit of unease, on his surface thoughts. Neither of them had ever given much thought to what others said about their relationship, ancient and comfortable as it was. What was theirs was theirs and it worked for them. Here, it is different; on display in a way that was voyeuristic. He can tell that there is a part of Megatron that is annoyed by this, but neither of them felt like engaging the Autobots in the matter of wartime gossip.

Instead, Soundwave snatched the pad back, rifling through it like an excited youngling, caught up with fascination. “‘To think that either of them could be so different behind closed doors is almost ludicrous to believe, and yet I’ve seen it with my own two optics. They fit together nicely, which is strangely nice to see, almost like a wall is broken the minute they are alone. It’s almost like looking into a parallel universe: Megatron is almost sweet and Soundwave? Soundwave is open and playful and not at all what we’re used to. If they weren’t enemies, I’d be jealous of their connection, and maybe I still am…’” Soundwave paused here. Meeting Megatron’s optics, as if they both came to a new realization. “Well, that’s oddly sweet.”

Megatron made a barely audible humming noise that may have passed for agreement, but was too absent-minded to really tell. He leaned over Soundwave’s shoulder, scrolling through the pad in a slow, thoughtful manner. “These all seem to be separate entries, compiled together, all written by different people.”

“Yes, I noticed that too. They have traces of several Autobot signals.”

Megatron narrowed his optics. “You would think we were the subject of some sort of Autobot romance novel.”

“Indeed. At least they have good taste,” Soundwave teased.

“I’m glad to see you at least find some amusement out of this,” grunted Megatron.

“There are worse things for the Autobots to become enamoured with. Be glad that they have yet to show this level of dedication to anything war related.”

“Hmm.” Megatron scrolled through the other files on hand. There was a substantial amount, pages and pages, all dating back to about the time that they had all awakened on Earth. It was unclear if the Autobots had known before that time, but they had certainly became fascinated by it by then. “I think the Autobots could find better things to do with their down time.”

“Do not begrudge them so much, Megatron. Perhaps they don’t have the luxury in their faction. You have said before that Prime could be a bit of a prude.”

Megatron made a humming noise. “Yes, I am aware. I feel no sympathy for them.”

Soundwave chuckled, leaning back into Megatron until they fell into the bed in an ungainly manner, Soundwave making quick work into contorted Megatron into a make-shift pillow. Megatron rolled with him, a rumbling purr shaking his chassis, passing pleasant shivers through Soundwave’s body. He shifted, draping himself over Megatron, chin propped up on his chest, datapad held in front of him in a way that Megatron could still read it if he dipped his head a certain way, of which he took full advantage of, still scrolling through the entries with a reverent greed.

Soundwave smiled indulgently. “I can tell that there is a part of you that is at least flattered.” It was the egotistical side, the only that got off on rousing speeches and demanded to be referred to as ‘Lord’ by his subjects. A part that he pretended that did not exist because he liked to believe that he was humble. It was endearing.

A barely legible smirk teased Megatron’s lips. “Perhaps.”

Soundwave snickered, freely giving the pad up to Megatron’s devouring hands. It allowed him to snuggle further into Megatron’s frame, of which he indulged in freely, drowning himself more fully into his sturdy frame. He could not resist a brush of lips over Megatron’s plating. He was rewarded with a gentle caress of his head and he smiled contentedly.

A relaxed silence settled between them, broken up by the gentle sound of Megatron’s thumb swiping against the pad. The noise was consistent enough to create a pleasant background noise, lulling Soundwave into a half doze. Megatron’s emotions danced in the back of his processor, as they always did when they were alone together; an open connection that Megatron embraced early on in their relationship. He could sense his amused fascination deeply, creating a pleasant warm feeling throughout his body.

This created a sharp contrast when that leaked into a near sort of offense, a bristle of something that wasn’t quite anger, yet still brushed against Megatron’s mind in an unpleasant manner. It was uncomfortable enough to stir Soundwave from his lounge, glancing up at Megatron’s otherwise stone face. His emotions bled out into the rest of his body, stiffening him in ways that motivated Soundwave to move in a quick manner. He gently moved Megatron’s hand down until he could view what was on the screen and promptly gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“‘Do you think Megatron is a valve mech…?’” Soundwave read aloud. “Now that would be a waste of a perfectly good spike.” He patted Megatron’s shoulder in a placating manner, rolling until he straddled Megatron’s hops.

Megatron scowled deeply at him, throwing the datapad toward the end of the berth. He unconsciously wrapped his arms around Soundwave’s waist. “That is entirely too personal.”

“I agree.” Soundwave lifted himself until he could reach Megatron’s brow, smoothing out the lines of his frown with gentle kisses. Megatron huffed, teetering on the edge of a full-on pout. “Perhaps if they are so curious, they would appreciate a demonstration next time they decide to pay us a visit.”

Megatron balked at first. Soundwave tilted his head with a devilish smirk, which succeeding in turning Megatron more thoughtful. His discomfort was momentarily forgotten, face falling into a predatory grin. “That would require more diligence in the future.”

Utterly hypnotized—fixated solely on your mouth and the bright pink gum stuck between pearly white teeth. The slightly obnoxious chewing is soothed by the slow swipe of your tongue flattening it out, full lips parted, cheeks slightly puffing and the fruity scent blows his way when the bubble pops prematurely.

Your nose wrinkles in displeasure, tongue retrieving the remnants and tucking it back in your mouth to restart the process.

He’s hooked. Fingers digging roughly into the leathers on his thighs, worn fabric straining under the pressure but it holds strong. “Can I have another one?” Cassian hears you ask, a grin growing on your face when Azriel complies without even sparing a glance away from his cards. He pulls another from his pocket, handing it over with nothing more than a ruffle of the wrapper.

Mor huffs from her spot beside you, possessively hiding her cards as the game finally starts getting good. Her leg crosses over the other, upper body sinking further into the soft cushions when she cuts her eyes to Az and the pocket of treats he’d been steadily loading you with the whole night. “You’ve given her two already—if I have to hear her jaw smacking through this whole game, then I quit.”

Azriel breaks a smile, peeking over seven cards. “Was that a formal forfeit?”

And so it begins, that familiar banter that filled the living space once a week when the entirety of the Inner Circle gathered for family game night. It had been Azriel’s turn to pick and he always chose poker—robbing the High Lord and Lady of more gold coins than they cared to admit before deciding to sit the next round out to nurse their drinks instead.

They’re all so lax; so casual. While Cassian’s heart thudded like a bass drum against his chest, unable to stop noticing the way you were draped across the couch, taunting him with your every move. Painted fingers peel away at the faded red parchment before another bright ball of bubblegum was popped in your mouth.

It takes two whole minutes for you to smoothen everything out, all three pieces combining into one giant blob. Your cheek bulges on the side you chew on, lips sticky and tongue tinted. “That’s disgusting,” Mor whines, muttering complaints about the affects so much sugar would have on your teeth.

You take it in stride, rolling your eyes playfully as you pull your feet from her lap to move elsewhere. “Fine,” The lingering scent of your body wash fills Cassian’s nose when you plop down beside him with no regard for personal space or knowledge of the complete filth running rampant in his brain. “I’ll be disgusting over here—you don’t mind, do you Cass?”

Wide eyes framed by thick lashes peer up at him. They’re glassy, a side affect of the whiskey no doubt and an easy smile grows across his cheeks, body shifting to make room for you. “Not at all,” He answers softly, hoping that you don’t notice the way he all but shoves a pillow into his lap before your head finds a home there.

It’s not unusual. You were always the most affectionate when you were a little tipsy; five times more inclined to settle into whatever warmth you could find no matter who it came from and usually Cassian wouldn’t have minded. But you’re all sprawled out, hair fanning messily down his thigh with your neck bared and cheeks rosy.

The perfect temptation just within arms reach.

Tunnel vision takes over, golden eyes catching on the flimsy dip of your neckline. The soft fat of your breasts spilling upwards and Cassian actually finds himself jealous of the shiny gold necklace that rests between them.

“Why aren’t you playing?” Your voice pulls him from the trance, dragging his gaze back up to your eyes and a distinct warmth creeps up the back of his neck. “Usually we have to drag you away from the table.”

“Saving my luck for something more special.”

Someone more special, was more like it.

You hum in acknowledgement, finger twirling around the gum until bright pink fades into dusky hues from the strain. “Like what?” Cassian follows the hypnotic wrapping of your finger in the sweet treat, the pretty color a stark contrast to the dark polish on your fingers. Hearty laughs and soft chatter weaves a comforting symphony in the background as ice cubes melt in crystal glasses, watering down aged booze and creating a ring of condensation on the polished wood table. “Did some pretty little thing catch your eye?” You mean it as a joke and yet even after a few drinks you’re still terrifyingly attuned to Cassian’s shift in body language. His mouth clamping shut, hazel eyes drifting off to anywhere else—and maybe it was the firelight but you were certain you’d caught soft peachy tones beginning to warm his cheeks.

“Maybe.”

A flicker of emotion darkens your eye but it’s gone before Cassian can name it. “Do tell—I can keep a secret.” The same finger wrapped in pink raises to your mouth, glossy lips wrapping around until it disappears down to the knuckle.

Moisture coats his tongue, golden eyes shadowed with desire directed towards you and you alone. Maybe it’s the distraction that has the truth spewing from his mouth as if he’d injected a truth serum. “She’s—“ The crackling heat from the firelight feels slightly less comfortable now and Cassian can’t resist the way his body adjusts, hips bucking to settle better into the cushions. “Sweet.”

“That’s it?” You deadpan, the gum chewing momentarily pausing. “Come on, Cassian. I know you can give me more than that.”

It was a poor choice of words, like fuel being added to an already blazing fire. Need burns under the surface of Cassian’s skin, singing away at his self-control and his fingers itch to swipe away the strands of hair that tease at your collarbones. “She tests my self-control,” He answers vaguely, listing superficial features to mask the way honeyed eyes melt from the warmth lacing every word. “Wears my patience thin but otherwise a total dream.”

A total dream.

Your lips part to reply when Mor shouts her displeasure, throwing her hand of cards to the table while Az greedily slides his winnings to his side, shadows swiftly stacking like coins in neat piles. “You have to be cheating!”

“Come on, Mor. Don’t be a sore loser.”

Her wine sloshes over the rim of her glass, bright red seeping into a similar shade on her dress but Mor doesn’t mind a bit. Pointing an accusatory finger your way, her cheeks flush in frustration. “He cheated and you were an accomplice with that stupid gum.”

“If that’s all it takes to distract you then shuffle the deck,” You muse, making a show of blowing bubbles through your teeth and Cassian has to hide his laughter behind his knuckles when Mor flinches at the sharp sound. “I’ve been eying a pair of earrings in town— it’ll be the sweetest treat to purchase them with your money.”

“Oh, you’re on. If I win, you’re going to buy those earrings and then you’re going to give them to me.” Her heels are kicked off, the hem of her dress bunched up to make enough room for her legs to cross comfortably on the couch. “But, you have to spit that shit out first.”

With an eye roll you comply, showing off your tongue in all its stained glory. “Happy now?”

“..you swallowed it?”

“Spitters are for quitters.” Azriel spares his brother a glance, noting his fixed stare and that barely restrained clench of his jaw. The grip on the throw pillow conveniently placed in Cassian’s lap tightens, though it doesn’t hide a thing with the spicy scent of arousal tinging the air. “And, I don’t like to lose.”

Mor pauses her shuffling, eyes a little bleary and hands shaky from the alcohol. “Hm, maybe I should just forfeit before you end up conning me into giving you my apartment.”

“I do love your balcony.” You mumbled thoughtfully. “Private and with a view.” Crisp cards rustle against one another while you adjust the unruly ones and split it in two to shuffle. “The things a girl could do.”

Now you’re just being cruel, Cassian thinks. Mind wandering to the picture you’ve painted. You dressed in some skimpy silks or see-through gossamer, the winds chill cooling sweat slick skin after the rigorous physical activity the General would make you endure.

He gets stuck fantasizing about flushed cheeks and unbound hair. Lacy panties left in a messy heap on the floor and duvet sheets that reek of sex. Breakfast in bed with a sappy sunrise illuminating mouth shaped bruises along your neck while hand feeding you chopped fruit.

A fools dream. A sinners fantasy. A need that refuses to go unfulfilled.

“We doing this or not?”

Complying ends up being Mor’s downfall, with every second that passes you conjure up some new way to goad her on—adding to the stakes and then grinning like a fool when sliding the earnings over to your side. A shiny gold key dangles from one of your fingers, palms cradling a pouch of coins, a triumphant glow gracing your cheeks. “I hate you,” Mor grumbles but it only makes you laugh harder, hips shimmying in a little victory dance. “I’m going to bed.”

“Enjoy my sheets,” You tease, jubilance evident in the grin you sport as you wave her goodbye and even Azriel can’t fight a smile at the antics, your joy too contagious. “I’ll definitely be enjoying yours!”

Cassian tracks your exit, grinning to himself about the pep in your step and once you’ve finally gotten out of earshot he faces his brother. Azriel’s already looking, a knowing expression lingering in his eye as he pockets his winnings. “She can’t winnow, you know.” Cass’ brows furrow in confusion. “It’s dark out,” Az continues, tone holding a restrained amusement. “And awfully late for a female to be out travelling alone.”

“I don’t know what you—“

“Take her home, Cass.” There’s an annoying amount of smugness settling into the line of Azriel’s shoulders. It festers in his stride, steps casual and lacking any real urgency as if he wasn’t unveiling the crush his brother has had on you for years. “I know you want to—whole room fucking stinks of it.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, fuck her. Seriously, the sexual tension is making dinners unbearable.”

Az leaves him there, lips parted in what appears to be shock but Cassian identifies the feeling that emerges rather quickly.

He knows he shouldn’t haven taken it the way he does.

Like permission.

As if the locks to his cage had been picked open, iron bars creaking agape; urging Cassian forward, crooning for him to seek out what he’d fixated on during the entirety of his imprisonment.

Colorful candies and the stain they leave behind. Sticky lips, sugar kisses and coy smiles. Strappy pajamas with pretty lace trim. Dainty gold jewelry. Unbound hair and soft skin that smells of cocoa butter and comfort.

A sweet thing that Cassian’s just dying to sink his teeth into. He barely notices the way he seeks you out, body moving on autopilot; nose greedily huffing in the trail of your perfume until he sets eyes on you and the duffle bag at your feet. “Make a wrong turn, General?”

“M’not that drunk.” He hides the greedy flinch of his fingers by grabbing your things instead, just barely grazing the curve of your ankle—he thinks his hand would make the perfect chain around it. All his. Locked in place; to do with as he pleased. “Just here playing escort.”

“Only playing? Could’ve sworn you were trying your luck on something sweet.”

That makes him double-take. A brow raising as he’s frozen in place, watching the swish of your hips while you walk down the hall.

It just worked. Even if there were a few differences that occasionally left you feeling slightly inadequate—like his sexual experience and your naivety.

You’d overlooked it; chalking it up to the fact that Cassian had simply been alive significantly longer than you, experienced more while traveling the Courts. It was without question that he’d had his fair share of women—had probably tried things you couldn’t even dream of but a huge part of you was okay with that. Grateful that he’d gotten it out of his system because, in truth, you preferred a gentler pace. Taking the time to appreciate when your massive male of a mate left his title and the aggression that ensued at the door, presenting you with a part of him unseen by most, if any.

Cassian was a giver, always pressing sweet kisses down the slope of your nose and muttered compliments into the plush of your lips as he eased off your clothes. A thorough lover, who’d memorize the curves of your body as if you were a prized sculpture being put on display simply for him to admire. He’d croon kindness in your ear while feeding pure sin to your cunt with as much of his length as you could handle without shattering like glass in his grasp.

It had taken practice and countless hours spent building trust to pull you out of your timid nature; to quell the desire to cover your chest when he undressed you or fighting the burning of your cheeks when Cass would slap at the fat of your ass in front of his family. “Hurry back,” He commands playfully after dinner. He’s comfortable in the giant chair, soft cushions tucked behind his back and the crackling fire behind him warms at his wings while arguing over nothing with his brothers.

You oblige the request without hesitation, partially because Mor all but shoves a glass of some terrifyingly bright concoction of liquor in your grasp the second you step foot in the kitchen with a hellish grin and partially from the mating bond that seemed to throb when you were apart. She leans against the counter, fingers hovering over a display of sweet treats when you make way to go back.

“—just tell us. How is it?” The hushed tone of Rhysand’s voice stops you in your tracks, muscles tensing and ears all but pressed against the door to hear better.

“Fuck off.”

Azriel’s laugh follows, tone teasing. “Must be good. You know what they say about the quiet ones.”

You don’t even have to look to know Rhys is nodding along based off his inebriated low hum. “Filthy in bed.”

“Maybe some of them,” Cassian chuckles, ice clinking and you assume he’s still clutching at that half finished glass of whiskey he’d been nursing after his meal. “Mine is a little more…vanilla.”

It wasn’t like he was wrong and the words don’t even register as a bad thing until you hear the High Lord’s displeased groan and Azriel’s muttered comments about respecting it but personally desiring a female who was a bit more durable—adventurous.

You take a step back, stomach knotting with insecurity and you aren’t strong enough to linger any longer. Without a second thought the drink in your hand is finished in two quick gulps and the burn that settles is far less intimidating with their words replaying in your mind to distract you. “Where are you going?” Mor’s eyes catch on the bottle of wine you snag from the table, your empty glass left behind and she’s acutely aware that while she’d made it even she couldn’t stomach the contents.

“Taking my party upstairs,” You reply without even looking back, too fearful she’d see the tears beginning to glaze at our eyes. Halfway up the staircase, you all but rip the cork from the top drink deeply straight from the bottle with little care for the stray drops that drip onto the neckline of your dress. The door to your shared room is kicked closed behind you, eyes catching on the shuffled sheets left unmade after earlier—they still smelled like the both of you. A reminder of Cassian’s head between your thighs and fingers stuffed as far in your cunt as they could go. It had felt so perfect then but now you couldn’t even bring yourself to lay on the mattress.

Not even the wine can rid your brain of the self-depreciating thoughts and by time Cassian had come to check on you, the bottle had long since run empty and the few rebellious tears that had fallen dried on your cheeks. He makes an effort to make as little noise as possible when toeing off his boots, shuffling over to carry you to bed. Your subconscious betrays you, body melting into his warmth and you vaguely remember calloused hands guiding your arms through the holes of fresh nightclothes, a warm cloth dragging against your neck to clear the stickiness of spilled wine.

You mumble something unintelligible but Cassian just hums in agreement, sliding into the sheets beside you and pulling you close to his chest.

—

You aren’t there when he wakes the next morning, the sheets cool and your scent faded. He frowns as he wipes the sleep away and the lines only grow when you’re nowhere to be found at breakfast, or in the training ring a few hours after that. His agitation doesn’t go unnoticed, confusion intensifying when even the bond is blocked. All day Cassian yearns for the random tugs, the reassuring waves sent through a sacred connection but every gentle caress is met with complete silence.

He finds you much later, form covered in silk where you sat in the middle of the bed. A box sits before you, tied neatly with a bow and everything. A brow raises, relief flooding every fiber of his being when he can verify for himself that you were safe. “I haven’t seen you all day. Where’ve you been?”

“Went shopping.”

Cassian’s weight dips into the mattress, fingers eager when gripping at your hips to pull you in closer. He’s nosing at your neck when he mutters, “What’d you get?”

You shift beneath him, sliding the box carefully before him, unable to meet his eye. “Open it.”

Even filled with anxiety, he finds a way to make you laugh, doing his best to make a whole deal about opening the wrapping paper but when the lid slides open, his grin falters. “I—“ Resting inside the dark velveteen packaging was a pair of leather cuffs, padding lining the inside and a thick key tucked snug beneath it. “I thought you weren’t really ready for stuff like this yet?”

Fingers fiddle in your lap, rings twisting and silk ruffling against smooth skin when you shrug. “Changed my mind.” You don’t give him time to think too hard about it and he doesn’t resist in the slightest when you leaned forward to kiss him. It’s effortless to get lost in it—in him and those careful hands and claiming lips, pouring out just how much he’d missed you with each graze of his tongue against your own. Cassian adjusts you with ease, the kiss never breaking for even a moment as you’re caged beneath him. You can feel the press of his weapons against your knee, the drag of thick leathers against your inner thigh and the throbbing hardness of his arousal pressed against your belly. “Put them on me.”

There’s such weariness in golden eyes when they stare down at you and briefly your brows furrow— you thought he’d be more excited and less likely to ask too many questions since it was something he’d apparently desired so badly. “Are you sure?”

You pray he doesn’t notice that you don’t exactly offer an answer, instead pulling him down into another kiss; a deeper one and you know you’ve got him when you’ve guided his hands to your chest. He melts like the sweet icing Elain put on top of still steaming rolls of sugar and cinnamon; offering small groans and strained moans when you explore the rigid planes of his body.

Cassian doesn’t stray from the normal routine, using his elbow to slightly shove the box and its contents away while he got his fill. Each loving drag of his tongue down the length of your neck, over your breasts and peaked nipples. He stops just below your belly button, eyes sliding from you to the present beside you and every move is deliberate—careful, like he was handling fine china. “Do you remember your safe word?”

“I do.”

A kiss pressed along the line of your underwear. “And if you can’t speak?” He nods in approval when you snap your fingers twice. “We can stop at any time.” The leather is smooth against your wrists and you don’t miss how loose he’s fastened them, ensuring your safety before all.

A few steadying breaths as you tested the restraints, hands dangling above your head and while you can bend at the elbows and shift your weight there’s not much give for anything else. “Don’t stop,” You whisper, eyes fluttering shut as you try to focus on everything but the racing of your heart against your ribcage.

Cassian mouth was sinful, teeth biting into the flimsy fabric to tug them down, down, down. “Well, aren’t you just perfect,” He praises, nose trailing tickling lines up your inner thighs until the taunting touches leave your hips squirming for more.

“Please, Cass—want you.”

“Just be patient for me, angel. I’ve waited all day for you,” A kiss to your bare sex, tongue peeking out to press a barely there stripe up your slit. “Let me savor it.” Strong arms nudge your legs further apart, guiding your calves over his shoulders and when he really gets started there’s not a single brain cell working to begin to fixate on the restraints. It might’ve even been fun, submitting to such power when it was directed towards you with such care.

It’s not until his clothes become scattered heaps on the floor, cock lined with your entrance with his mouth slotted over yours that the anxiety spikes again. Something about the inability to move was less pleasant with so much muscle above you—with so much of his length sliding inside without the security blanket of being able to nudge his hip when you’d taken enough.

He does everything right, slowly working you open and moaning obscenities of your warmth, the tight fit and how fucking pretty you looked taking him.

And yet, still your muscles refuse to relax.

Your fingers flex, numbness settling in but each adjustment only seems to make them feel tighter until even Cassian’s hands rubbing against your skin felt uncomfortable. Each thrust of his hips jostles your body, thick padding chafing at sensitive skin. “Fuck,” He pants into your neck, arms wrapping under your shoulders for leverage. “Squeezing me so tight, angel.” It draws a whimper, one he mistakes for pleasure but you say nothing, willing yourself to breathe, repeating over and over that you were safe.

Against your will, your heart rate spikes, hands clenching into tight fists above you. “Cass,” A deep groan and his pace speeds up. Tears begin to line your vision, eyes squeezing shut as the need to please was overshadowed by panic. “Red. Please, red—I’m freaking out.”

He stops without question, quickly pulling out and slapping a hand against the bedside table for the key. “Shit angel, I’m sorry.” It unlocks with a click and instantly, you can breathe again. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I—it’s just that,” Fat tears roll down your cheeks when he scoops you into his arms. “I wasn’t ready,” There’s so much shame in the words and Cassian’s heart absolutely shatters when you bury your face in his chest. “I overheard you the other night talking with your brothers about us—about me being vanilla during sex and I guess…well, I just wanted to prove that I could be adventurous too.” He doesn’t interrupt you, allowing a small noise of disapproval to slip free but it’s followed by fingers raking through your hair and kisses on your forehead. “It wasn’t bad at first, but once you got on top and I couldn’t move my brain just wouldn’t shut off.”

“That’s fine, it was just too much too soon,” You wait for the ‘but’ because there had to be a ‘but’ when he spoke in that tone. The one where he allowed a sliver of the Night Courts Commander to shine through. Warm palms cradle your cheeks, prying you from the safety of his chest to face him and he doesn’t speak until you’re looking him in the eye. The pads of his thumbs swipe under wet lashes, smearing away tear trails and tucking stray hairs behind your ears. “What you think you heard back there with Az and Rhys? I swear it wasn’t that, angel.”

“But they sounded so disappointed,” You look away, nose scrunching to sniffle. “—I thought you were disappointed.”

Cassian speaks your name firmly, urging you to look at him. “There is nothing more I love than being able to come home and be soft with you.” He pushes the hair from your shoulders, touch ghosting over your skin and you can’t fight your body’s desire to lean into his warmth. “Centuries of being looked at as just a soldier; a weapon. There’s so much blood on my hands but when I’m with you, all of that goes away. With you, I feel safe—I feel clean.”

Your hands cling to his sides, relief flooding under the reassurance and the love that erupts through the tether tying your souls together is nearly overwhelming. Goosebumps swarm under the intensity of it all, finding no other remedy other than to kiss him, to open up your end of the bond and allow him full access.

And this—the delicate approach to such intimacy, it felt right. Like two magnets colliding. Opposites attracting. Halves fusing into a whole. “How about we try again?” Cass offers, grip sliding down to your bare hips. “Do it our way.”

“Our way?” A tug of a smile at the corner of your mouth as he begins to pepper those sweet kisses along the slope of your nose.

You blame it on the ambiance.

This place was no Rita’s, not nearly as cozy or tucked away but something about the clubs hypnotic hues of rich purples and soft blues casting over Cassian’s cheeks had your head slowly tilting to the side in silent appreciation.

Had he always had that dimple when he smiled?

“Truth or dare?” Mor yells over the thumping music, effectively breaking you free from your trance and stealing your attention. A bright grin is plastered across her face induced by the empty shot glasses on the table before her.

Your head shakes on instinct, not nearly as prone to letting loose as the rest of the Inner Circle. The outfit alone was far enough out of your comfort zone as is, allowing Mor and Feyre to use you like a baby doll; curling your hair and applying makeup over excited giggles and shared bottles of bubbly. The borrowed fabric sticks to you like second skin, its halter neckline more comfortable than you’d care to admit and the cool breeze of passerby’s on your exposed back is welcome. The tight bodice blends seamlessly into the flowy skirt that tickles the middle of your thighs, showing off more leg than you usually cared to bare but it had looked too nice against your figure to complain. “I don’t really—“

“Don’t even bother,” Cassian interjects, a beer clutched in one hand while the other rested lazily on the back of the booth. “She always says no.”

“That’s not true.”

It was.

You blamed it on their High Lord’s inability to complete his paperwork and file them properly afterwards. When you’d first arrived, there had been centuries worth of paperwork strewn about his storage room in no true order with the subjects varying from treaties and common laws on trade routes to pages worth of detailed documentation dividing up ownership of land. Blueprints for potential and current properties with box after box of receipts kept to keep track of the billing it took to run such a place—much less a whole city.

Simply put, you’d been stuck in work-mode; refusing casual outings and generous offerings of chilled bottles shared over dinner for months until you’d finally made a dent sizable enough to satisfy you. There’s no point in bothering to explain any of that to Cassian though, biting your words over the rim of your glass and the burn on your tongue is soothed by the sweet mixer. “Oh really?” He goads, a cocky glint in golden eyes as he leans forward, shoulders straining in the dark cotton of his shirt . “Answer her then, truth or dare?”

There’s a long pause—one long enough for Rhysand to clear his throat, fully prepared to diffuse the situation but your voice cuts through before he can. “Dare.” It’s spoken stronger than you feel and you muster up the courage to meet his eye as if you hadn’t just been gobbling up the miles of endless muscle packed onto his body.

“I dare you to let loose for once in your boring little life.” Feyre scoffs her disapproval at his wording, a hand smacking at Cassian’s arm but he doesn’t react as if he can even feel it. He’s utterly fixated on you, body language lax and still somehow emitting such a domineering presence it makes your feet shift in high heels. “Unless you’re too prude to even let your hair down?”

A brow arches and you ignore the burn creeping up your neck at the looks your friends are sharing, clearly having a mental conversation on who was going to have to intervene this time. Saving them the trouble, you comply. “Fine.” You’re too occupied in chugging the remnants of your drink to notice the surprised expression crossing the General’s face. He doesn’t miss you though, witnessing a mischievous darkness clouding your eye before you rise from the booth and squeeze through the endless sea of bodies.

“I don’t understand your problem with her,” Mor grumbles with distaste, a hand outstretching for the latest round of drinks being provided by the waiter. “She’s nice.”

“She’s boring,” Cassian promptly retorts, eyes sifting over the crowd in search for a flash of your dusky red dress but it’s nowhere to be found. His spine straightens ever so slightly, the grip on his glass tightening in his silent surveillance for you. “When you said you were hiring a female who’d be around so often that she’d be living with us, I hoped she’d be more…eventful.”

“Is that truly your reasoning, brother?” Rhys drawls out playfully, tugging his mate in closer to his side. A glass of whiskey is in his free hand, tilting the bottom of it tauntingly in Cassian’s direction as he pretends to ponder. “Or maybe it’s because you keep antagonizing her in hopes that she’ll notice you and yet she barely gives you anything back in return? Her passiveness must eat you up at night.”

It earns the High Lord a few laughs and even Azriel can’t hide the amused upturn of his mouth at Cassian’s expense but the Lord of Bloodshed can’t even begin to be bothered with that.

Not when his sights finally land on that sinful shade of red gripping at the curves contained within them. Cassian can’t even hear his family anymore, eardrums tuning out everything that wasn’t you as he watches the way you lean in towards one of the nicely dressed workers with a smile. The exchange is quick but Cassian doesn’t miss a thing, noting the challenging quirk of the males brow and he leads you behind a thick curtain that sectioned off a portion of the bar he hadn’t even noticed until now.

Words can’t describe the way losing his visual on you makes his skin itch, wings twitching with his irritation and the tense line of his shoulders doesn’t release for even a second. A plethora of thoughts plague Cassian’s mind. Surely you hadn’t taken his jest as an invitation to go be with some other male? Even if it would’ve been well within your right it was the furthest from his intentions.

“Run out of witty remarks?” Rhysand prods further, voice full of humor but there’s a hint of serious questioning lingering in his eye. “Or have I stunned you to complete silence?”

Feyre catches on quicker than her counterpart, following Cassian’s line of sight, watching as the same curtains you’d disappeared behind starts beginning to rise, a thundering chime ringing through the bar. “I don’t think it’s you who has him speechless.”

The others follow her gaze and quiet fascination sets root when more space is revealed. Situated right in the middle of the newly revealed stage is what seems to be the magical apparition of a fake bull, complete with horns and a nose that huffed out smoke. It’s one hell of a spectacle that has the inebriated crowd cheering with joy at the promise of such extravagant entertainment. “Trouble is in the house tonight. Let’s welcome her warmly.” The male announces, guiding you into the light and spinning you around for all to take in.

Cassian’s teeth grit together, disturbingly aware of every eye and muttered comment directed your way and his fingers twitch for the familiar weight of his sword. “No way...” He whispers in complete disbelief as you approach the bull with a practiced ease, hoisting yourself on its back with the swipe of your leg.

The motion is fluid, thighs shifting to get situated and the new position hikes up the hem of your dress. All the bare skin that is revealed makes his mouth water, elbows leaning against the table to brace himself.

Your gaze finds Cassian’s easily in the crowd, a devious smirk forms in the corner of your mouth and the wink you send his way has his cock twitching to life in his breeches.

Music flows through the space—a sensual tempo with a bass so deep it rattles the very blood in your body. There’s no explaining why you find such a comfort in it but you submit to the numbness it provides anyway, relishing in the absence of thought as you melt into the beat.

One hand latches securely around the saddle and the well-dressed employee begins his skilled control of the bull. It’s a slow rock, movements mechanical and jerky but you make it look graceful—hips shifting back and forth over and over as the speed increases. You barely look up, too caught up in synchronizing your body with the music, spurred on by the generous cheers from the other drunken fae with energy to burn and coins to spend.

Faster and faster the bull rocks, spinning you from left to right but your remain saddled in place, core strong and thighs braced for the chaotic jostling. Haughty whistles cut through the crowd when the bull abruptly tips forward, shifting the fabrics of your dress until you were face down, ass up and flashing the lacy boy shorts you had on underneath. “Come on,” You whine prettily to the male in control of the mechanism, hair spilling to one side of your face and a pretty blush fans across your cheeks at the salacious exposure. “That all you got?”

“Hold on tight.”

You’re grateful for obtaining the good sense it takes to heed the warning because in an instant the bull is jerking back to life, spinning and rocking in an attempt to shake you off. Jubilant laughter pelts free, hair blowing in the wind and dress flashing more of the soft skin that Cassian was just dying to get his fill of.

He’s been bested—that much the Commander can admit but it doesn’t feel like a loss when you feed his filthy fantasies without even trying. The roll of your waist will surely plague his dreams but the effortlessly seductive glint in your eye will haunt him to his dying breath.

It doesn’t dissipate. Not even when you finally tap out, easing yourself down on shaky legs and shuffle back to the shared booth with a breathy huff.

A peachy sheen has overtaken your cheeks at the bewildered stares your friends give you for your performance but the mess of your curls splaying around your shoulders has Cassian’s heart racing when imagining the others ways he could put you in such a state.

The others watch in complete silence as you steal the beer right from Cassian’s hands, cool condensation dripping down your fingers but you pay it no mind. “It seems that I am plenty of fun to be around,” He watches the slow roll of your throat as you swallow, unable to look away. “But that’s usually reserved for after hours.”

It’s an exhausting process, one that leaves you aching and has your head swimming as you shut the curtain for patient privacy but this isn’t the place to complain about that—not around all of these tortured souls as they endured a pain you couldn’t dare comprehend. “You should get some rest.”

You can’t fight the roll of your eyes at the sound of his voice. “And you should go back to your friends.”

Cassian keeps up with your stride with ease and while you refuse to acknowledge it, you walk a little slower when you catch sight of the neatly wrapped dressings around his thigh. “My friends are fine. You made sure of that. Azriel wouldn’t have made it if you weren’t there.”

“Yeah, well that’s my job.” You don’t bother hiding the irritation in your tone. It’s not normal for exes to be this present. But, you’re certain you catch the scent of him by your window every morning; sandalwood and eucalyptus, crackling embers and oak. A perfectly annoying blend of masculinity and comfort. It haunts you—follows you around the shops when collecting groceries for the week and lingers in your blind spots when treking home after a little too much to drink. Quiet but constant; an unspoken rule that Cassian was definitely breaking. “Something I really need to get back to so if you’re finished—“

“Don’t think I’ll ever be finished with you, peach.”

You hate that charming cadence. Despise the handsome grin that’s flashed your way because he knows how much you (love) loved it. “What do you want Cass?”

“Want you to take better care of yourself.” That’s a lie. At least partially because Cassian knows that what he really wants is to be the one to care for you. He knows he’d do it well—dedicate himself to the roll because there had been a time where it had been his only desire. But Rhys had come back after fifty years and Cass had a High Lady to protect now; had duties to uphold—responsibilities that wouldn’t allow the freedom necessary to take you on picnics in flower fields or to remember anniversaries. “You haven’t been eating enough and you’re always working. You barely even sleep.” He says it oh so gently but you can hear the underlying worry there. Can see it in the way his wings rustle and gaze scans the length of you, most likely noticing the way you resemble a deadman walking.

“You stalking me or something?”

“You promised.” His stance straightens out a little, syllables carrying a little more conviction as he tries to get his point across. “After everything between us, you at least promised that you’d be safe and take care of yourself.”

“You left me, Cassian.” His throat rolls under the shame, chest constricting as he’s forced to witness the way your eyes go glassy. “You walked out on me so what I look like without you shouldn’t matter.” Emotion holds thick in your voice and it takes true effort not to let tears fall down your cheeks. This was too confusing, the back and forth too exhausting, the hope too draining. “Why do you even care?”

A million possible answers claw to the forefront of Cassian’s mouth. Ones that scream, ‘because I love you! Because you’re everything to me.’ So badly he yearns to just let it out and confess how your safety was everything he thinks of when suiting up for battle and drenching himself in the blood of others with no regard for his own life. “Because, I do.” He says instead and he knows it’s not enough—can see the way the light in your eyes die out when you’re left hanging yet again. “Please peach, just get some rest. For me.”

He almost wishes you’d resist; to give him another reason to seek you out and darken your doorstep even if meant just a glimpse at you.

Your shoulders fall too low to be gearing up for a fight and the furrow of your brow wobbles with the effort it takes to keep you from crumbling all together.

Gauze patches at your battered heart. Dab with disinfectant there. Pressure to staunch the bleeding. Fire to cauterize. Magic to smooth it all over. “Fine.” You nod stiffly, the picture of professionalism. “And thank you, General, for your service.”

--

The first time they're in the Bureau of Balance together, Magnus feels a definite shift in their relationship. The type that comes with surviving, and most importantly, the kind that comes with uniting under a single banner. Magnus is the type to easily find companionship with other people, so perhaps it was just him. He feels a unique kinship with Taako and Merle, one that triggers his protective instincts and tempts him to consider them friends.

He learns a lot about both Taako and Merle during their first adventure. He finds that he likes Taako. Surprising, considering their first meeting. He likes Merle, too, but it's different. Maybe it's because Merle is older, or prone to weird diatribes, or a myriad of other reasons, but he finds that he enjoys Taako’s personality a bit more. He's still cold and aloof, traits that normally turn Magnus off, but there's just something about him that draws him in. It's like trying to figure out the most difficult puzzle ever. Magnus isn't fond of puzzles, but he is nothing if not determined.

--

In Lucas’ labs, Magnus thinks about Julia. It's the first time he feels truly afraid while on a mission, when the grip of death feels like it's nipping at his heels. He wonders if she's doing okay in the afterlife, if she's lonely or if loneliness was even something you could feel when you're dead. Mostly, he thinks about what she would be doing if she was alive, what they would be doing together. He wonders if she was with him when he met Merle and Taako, if she would have joined him on his adventures or if he would even have any desire to go in the first place.

Magnus isn't afraid of death. Death is a warm embrace, death is where he can see Julia again, the only thing that matters to him anymore. In another life, he might have actively sought it out. But this life is the one he's leading now and he knows that not only would Julia be disappointed with him, but that he would be leaving his friends behind. His friends need him, his friends need his protection.

Taako needs his protection. Taako who is all at once powerful and fragile. Taako, who is slowly warming up to him, a great treasure that Magnus takes as the greatest gift ever. He desperately wants to protect that, to protect him. He can't really describe his feelings toward Taako, but he knows that it's unlike anything since Julia died. He wants to preserve it.

--

In the days before Refuge, Magnus cannot sleep. He's found himself in this predicament before, nightmares about burning villages and Julia’s screaming face haunting his subconscious. It's different this time, though, because it doesn’t come from being stressed. It comes from his complicated thoughts about Taako, how they teeter on the edge of being just friendly to something more.

He's had these feelings before, but seeing death and, actual Death, in person in Lucas’ lab has him stuck on Julia more than he normally is. Julia is dead, he knows that. But now he also knows what death is like and he wonders if Julia is still watching him, if he was betraying her by loving another.

He walks around the perimeter of the courtyard of the Bureau and loses himself in thought. He thinks about Julia, about death, and about Taako. He does this for several nights in a row, organizing his jumbled thoughts into something cohesive. The more he thinks about Taako, the less he feels like a traitor toward Julia. There's something that feels inherently right about what he feels, something that's unique between the two of them that he can't deny.

Somehow, he knows that Julia wouldn't mind.

--

After Refuge, Magnus finds sleep almost impossible. It's hard to enjoy the feeling when your mind is slowing digesting such a new revelation. Him, a Red Robe? A possible enemy? It is hard to fathom, and on top of the ripping of old wounds, courtesy of June, he finds himself in an existential crisis like no other.

He knows that he isn't the only one. On nights when he wanders the courtyard, Taako is always there. Elves have no need for sleep, but Taako also values his downtime and loves to meditate whenever he can. Magnus knows that that is very rare. On nights where Magnus was restless while on the road, Taako was usually also up, close to the fire and wide-eyed, but carefully dodging any questions that Magnus asked about his mental state.

On the first night, Magnus finds him standing in the center of the square, staring off into nothing. Magnus doesn't ask him any questions, simply coaxes him into walking with him through the grass. On the second, Taako is already walking and gives Magnus a small smile when he falls into step beside him. On the third, Taako turns to him and says, “thanks, Mango,” just before they decide to turn in.

Magnus knows that he doesn't feel the same way about Taako as he did for Julia. But he knows that he loves him just as fiercely. It helps ground him on the days when the world feels too much.

--

No amount of training could prepare him for the feeling of dying. It's uncomfortable and at the same time, it lacks any sort of sensation at all. He finds himself floating toward the Astral tear with peace on his mind, even as the black tar-like substance that has invaded the plane would normally fill him with dread. He thinks about Julia as he dies, about seeing her again. And he also thinks about Taako, about how he wouldn't see him for a very long time and he nearly chokes.

Then, Taako is there. Taako is there with him. Magnus feels guilty at first, thinking that he is dying too - he wasn't there to protect him like he quietly promised to. But there is something different about Taako, something more fierce and determined and he clutches his ankle like a lifeline.

Taako is very much alive, and the portal in front of Magnus doesn't seem to care as it begins to now suck both of them in. Magnus feels a spark of life in him now, striving to fight the portal. Taako claws at him desperately, his eyes wild while he fruitlessly tries to tether Magnus to his body.

It's all over quickly, Merle coming along just in time to stop the struggle.

--

In an instant, Magnus wishes that Taako and Merle would have let him die. When he sees his body being occupied by Edward, the man who tried to kill him, the man who now welds his body like clothing, he is insulted. When he finds himself occupying the remains of a mannequin, he nearly loses it. He feels useless in the final battle, no longer the protector, but someone who was only so far away from being kindle.

He's not used to feeling this vulnerable. He hates it. His job is to be on the front lines, he is meant to be the heavy hitter, the one who absorbs the blows so the people he loves could be safe. He is nervous and scared and for the first time in his life, he feels very, very small. All he wishes for is for this battle to be over with so they could figure out a way for him to get him back into his true form.

He nearly screams when he watches his body - his beautiful, big, useful body - vanish.

--

On the trip to Barry’s base camp, Magnus feels depressed. He starts unconsciously picking at the loose wooden shavings littered on his new body. A twisted part of himself believes that he could whittle himself human again. At the very least, he prays that the motions will cause some sort of feeling in his otherwise unfeeling form.

He's never felt this hopeless in his entire life. The thought of being stuck in a such an ungainly frame for the rest of his life repulses him. It goes against everything he was born to do, went against his very humanity. He feels truly alien, like he doesn't deserve to exist.

The thing that grounds him is Taako, who sticks close to him and calmly clutches at his hand when his hands get particularly violent.

--

He's elated when he finds his body. It fills him with such a sense of excitement that he doesn't bother to think about the implications. About why this body was here, about what will happen when he activates it. All he cares about is fighting - fighting against the growing evil that threatens everything he cares about.

“If you do this, you'll forget everything.” Taako looks at him with a special sort of guarded sadness. He doesn't do soft emotions. His tone is pragmatic, but Magnus knows what he's really saying. You'll forget all about me.

Magnus likes to believe that Taako feels the same way about him as he does about him, but it's nearly impossible. In that moment, looking into Taako’s sad eyes, he absolutely thinks he does. Instead of commenting on that, he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Those are the arms that held my wife!”

Taako stares at him, unflinching, yet not judging. He understands, but Magnus feels a deep uncomfortable awkwardness. He loves Julia, he always will, but prioritizing her now feels wrong. “I can't do anything, I can't protect, I can't fight, I'm useless.”

Taako’s eyes take on a sort of fire that he rarely sees. He grips the map in his hands tightly. Then he sighs, defeated, letting the tension bleed from his body. He looks like the relaxed Taako that Magnus is used to and it almost scares him. “I understand. I can't stop you. But, please think this through.”

Magnus does. He thinks about his priorities, how even in his wooden form, his body still aches to fulfill its duties. He thinks about forgetting about Taako, how wrong that seems. He thinks about his body in the tank and he makes a decision.

“Leave me a note and the map.”

--

In the midst of the final battle, Magnus is thrown into memory. Not just one memory, hundreds of them, thousands, even. He's hit with them with such a force that he retches, but when his mind can finally catch up to the present, he's filled with a mixture of relief, joy, and anger.

He knows now, why loving Taako felt so natural, that befriending him and Merle came so easy to him. Why he felt so instantly attracted to him. At first, he blamed loneliness, now he knows better. The heart remembers what the mind forgets. He remembers a time of softness between bouts of running away from darkness; stolen moments that would have remained locked away. He's hurt and confused, but when he looks at Taako, he sees the same sort of emotions in his eyes and more.

He sees a deep set of wonder, astonishment, and, most importantly, unbridled affection. The thought of ever forgetting about that look nearly brings Magnus to tears. He wants to apologize, apologize for forgetting about such an amazing creature, but before he can, Taako’s eyes harden to steel and he lifts his umbra staff toward Lucretia.

The name was a more recent phenomena, too, only appearing within the last week, which made it easier to hide from what remained of her brothers. Not that she really cared about what they would say about it. They were all a pack of idiots in her optics, anyway, and if it weren't for the begrudging feelings of kinship she felt with them, she would have abandoned them swiftly the first opportunity she got.

However, her secret was safe until just moments before, when Skywarp managed to spot the markings, swallowing his nerves enough to ask her about it. Skywarp was her favorite, only because he was easily cowered to stay out of her way. It was this fact that saved him from losing an optic. But if there was one thing that they all shared in common, it was an insatiable curiosity, and Skywarp was perhaps the worst case.

In the ensuing confrontation, Skywarp trilled something about a “destined person,” to which

Slipstream had snorted, waving him away. She didn't need fanciful, romantic notions about people she didn't even know. And she certainly didn't need her cowardly brother crowing at her about it.

She rubbed at the plating again. She knew Skywarp wouldn't tell Thundercracker nor Sunstorm about it, only because he was terrified of both of them and tended to try and avoid them. Not that she particularly cared either way, she just didn't want to deal with more nosy brothers.

It did leave her curious because she knew that none of them had one on their own arms. She did remember a name being scrawled across Starscream’s arm, but she only ever caught short glimpses of it, never enough time to really decipher what it said.

At this point, her frustration was beginning to eat away at her. She hated mysteries. She hated not knowing something. Her wings twitched erratically, catching onto the subtle breeze where she stood out in the open. Perhaps a long flight will help burn off some of the excess energy she was building up.

--

One of the more frustrating things about living as a rogue was the lack of a proper database. Slipstream barely held enough resources to keep her and her brothers safe, yet alone the ability to maintain a supercomputer. The abandoned ship they've huddled into was corroded enough already, bits of it falling off almost every day. There was no thought put into piecing together the old teletran outside of the basics - making sure it could still work the lights and the energon dispenser for one. The practical part of Slipstream was perfectly fine with that. But her current situation left her lacking in rationale. She couldn't help but bemoan the lack of actual information.

Flying helped keep her mind steady, if only for a short while. She attempted to keep herself blank, only focusing on the changing air pressure and the feel of gathering raindrops on her wingtips. It worked, up until a blip on her radar had her sensors on high alert.

She descended a fraction from her high altitude, ever careful of an Autobot ambush. It was remote enough where she was that it was unlikely for her to run into one, but she didn't want to test that theory. She circled around the trigger, gauging that it was an abandoned outpost of some kind - Cybertronian by the looks of it. One more fly-by of the vicinity only provided that no life signs were detected.

As she descended further, she picked up on the fact that the place looked well maintained, at least for an object that was meant to be abandoned. It unsettled her, but she was driven on by an idea. This place was bound to have a decent database, hopefully one that was equally as well kept as the outside of the base. Her answers may lay right behind the heavy door.

She transformed, her blasters held out in front of her while she surveyed the grounds. When nothing out of the ordinary happened, she relaxed minutely, strutting up to the door with her usual confidence. It was pried open easy enough and she walked into the darkness.

--

The lights overhead were automatic, turning on only as she walked under them. It made for a very perilous runway; only knowing what was immediately in front of her. She walked slowly, her audios tuned to pick up every little sound. It was deceptively quiet, only the clicking of her thrusters haunting the hallways, only heightening her growing feelings of unease.

The facility was large, with twisting hallways that led to nowhere. A dead end here, a looping corner there. She grew impatient after the first twenty minutes, small growling noises of frustration escaping her vocalizer.

Huffing, she turned another corner, miraculously coming across a deep set of stairs that traveled far below the base. The space was narrow, barely big enough to contain her wings. Cringing, she pressed on.

It was a long trip down. She felt claustrophobic, every little scrape against her wings made her grit her dentae. Her peripheral sensors were receiving interference, too, only worsening the further down she went, making it twice as difficult to navigate. She fought the urge to panic, even as the stairway gave way to a brightly lit room, glossy with freshly polished gunmetal walls.

The room around her was some sort of command center, large with several monitors dotting the walls. Each one was fuzzy with distortion, creating an otherworldly effect. Her wings stretched imperceptibly as she walked the circumference. Each one was in perfect working order, simply not tuned to any sort of frequency. She looked at each one curiously, her optics sweeping over each one. The fuzz made her optics cross.

Finally, she came upon what she was searching for. At the center of the room was a large teletran, the screen a deep black, but the keyboard lit in a bright orange. It looked in pristine condition, clean and shiny, with only a few small chips marring the screen to show its age. Her audios picked up on a pleasant, inviting him coming from it.

Slipstream smirked. In a few quick strides, she was in front of the monitor, her talons skimming delicately over the keys. The blackness faded into a bright blue that washed over Slipstream in one large wave. She loaded up the archive. “This had better be worth it.”

--

There were many things that Slipstream could be researching right now. Ways to build a more efficient base, more economical ways to synthesize energon, or even a few blueprints for a choice superweapon. Yet, here she was, buried under research on a “destined person” - just like Skywarp had told her. It wounded her pride that he would know about something like this before her, but then again, the absurdity of its existence only showed how gullible he was. He had probably only known about it through one of his stupid romance novels. Or at least that's what she told herself.

She shuffled through another academic paper, scowling that science would even be involved this situation. She took what information she could from the article, between the heavy bits of jargon and occasional self-flattery from the author, and compressed it into a few short sentences to add to a file she had compiled on what she had learned.

So far, she knew that having a name was a rarity in and of itself. On the flip side, people could go their entire lives without a name, only to wake up in the throes of old age to one scrawled across their plating. Destiny was fickle that way: choosey, finicky, but most of all, random. Attempts to understand it were often met with resistance. There were plenty of theories pushed forward, but Slipstream wasn't interested in any of them. What she was interested in was the fact that the person written there was usually someone who was to play an important role at some point in their lives, usually as lover, but just as commonly as an adversary, an inconvenience, or even as a benefactor. It was impossible to predict what a meeting between two names would be like until it actually happened.

She snorted, scratching at her plating again. What absolute nonsense.

Her peaceful research was cut short however, when she found herself wrapped in a sticky substance, causing her to fall to the floor. She shrieked, her wrists and upper arms bound tightly to her chassis, while her legs were completely wrapped in white. Struggling with it only seemed to make the material tighten, which only encouraged her to shout expletives at her assailant.

“How dare you?! Get this slag off of me!”

“Hush.” Slipstream watched as a figure appeared from the minimal shadows, taking in the shape of an oddly organic looking femme. One with many eyes and sharp looking legs on her back. Slipstream shuddered. “This is my lab.” She held a blaster in her hands, pointing it squarely between Slipstream’s optics. “What are you doing here?”

“None of your business,” Slipstream said, petulantly. She flexed her talons in their prison, trying in vain to cut at the silk. She growled.

The figure smirked, walking closer to the console. This close, Slipstream could tell that she held a significant size advantage over her, but in her current state, she had no chance of overwhelming her. She had no choice but to wait this out.

“Destined person, hmm?” The femme turned to her, hand on her hips and a teasing smirk on her lips. She laid the blast on the keyboard, creating a line of keysmash through Slipstream’s document. She scrutinized Slipstream’s prone form, long and hard, almost as if analyzing her, until a spark of recognition lit up her optics. “You're one of Starscream’s clones aren't you?”

Slipstream scowled. “I'd rather not be associated with that buffoon, but yes, I am.”

She laughed. It was a small one, more of a snicker than a proper sign of amusement, ending with a sort of hissing noise. It showed off the fangs lurking in the recesses of her mouth, making Slipstream squirm uncomfortably. “You and me both.”

Slipstream raised an optic ridge at her, but the femme didn't elaborate. Rather she decided to glance through the intact part of Slipsteam’s notes, a predatory smile forming on her face. She circled her then, her figure low and intimidating. “Now why is someone like you in here, researching this of all things.”

“Wouldn't you like to know,” Slipstream said, cheekily.

“Why yes I would.” The femme grinned dangerously.She bent over Slipstream, twisting her forearm until Blackarachnia was visible. The talons gripping her were sharp, far sharper than what Slipstream was packing and Slipstream couldn't help a small sound of warning slip from her lips.

The femme’s eyes widened in surprise, before her face blossomed into a wide grin, all sharp teeth, right beside Slipstream’s face. “Why you lucky girl.” She turned her own wrist over, displaying a matching Slipstream in messy scrawl.

“You're Blackarachnia?!” Slipstream blanched.

Blackarachnia nodded. “Now, that just leaves the question: are you friend or foe?” She tilted her head, her wide grin growing more mischievous. “Or possibly something more?”

Slipstream shuttered her optics at Blackarachnia. She couldn't really tell her, didn't know much about her to really gauge an opinion. She swiped her optics over her frame and couldn't help but notice Blackarachnia preen at the subtle movement.