#mender!reader

For a tense few seconds, everyone is silent. You find yourself wishing you had a signet like Imogen's to simply erase what they just saw from their memories, but of course you would have never gotten so close with Brennan in the first place if you weren't a mender.

"Could we just pretend you guys didn't see that?" you try to diffuse the tension.

Xaden, Garrick, and Bodhi answer as one without even looking at you. "No."

Their furious expressions are so similar that if you squint, it almost seems like your brother has multiplied. As if one angry Xaden wouldn't be trouble enough.

"Thought so..." you sigh, and exchange a look with Brennan, who gives you a tight-lipped smile that you assume is meant to be reassuring. You're too nervous to be reassured, though. This situation has a huge potential to get very ugly.

"Care to enlighten us on what exactly it is that we just saw?" Garrick challenges, cocking his head at you.

"It's called kissing," you retort. Maybe being snippy isn't the best idea, considering how pissed they are, but you can't help how annoyed you are by the interruption. "If you're not familiar with the term, we have a library where I'm sure you'll find a dictionary to look it up."

"Really," Xaden growls. "You sure about that? Because it looked like a lot more than kissing, considering where he had his hands."

Damn it. You were hoping none of them had noticed Brennan's hands under your shirt, or the way you'd been perched on the edge of his desk with your legs on either side of his hips, but of course you couldn't be so lucky.

Thank gods things hadn't gone far enough for any clothing to come off yet.

Even as it is, you're not sure how the fuck you're going to keep your brother from murdering Brennan. There can be no doubt he wants to, not with that look on his face. It's a testament to Xaden's self-restraint that he isn't at his throat already.

You take a step to the side, positioning yourself in front of your boyfriend, just in case the situation escalates, but Xaden isn't having it. His shadows wrap around your arms and pull you away from Brennan, not releasing you until you're right in between Bodhi and Garrick with Xaden in front of you.

"Hey! What the fuck, Xay!" you yell, only to be ignored. When you try to walk back over to Brennan's side, a waist high wall of shadows blocks your path.

Brennan asks, a lot more calmly than you, "Don't you think you're overreacting a little?"

In your opinion, Xaden is overreacting a lot. This is ridiculous. The three of them have always been very protective of you, but this is a whole new level of overprotectiveness, even for them. Maybe it's because they've never had the chance to give someone the shovel talk before, since both of the two relationships you've had so far — if you can even call them that, considering they consisted of no more than a handful of dates each — had taken place while the boys were already away at Basgiath. Or maybe it's the suddenness of unsuspectingly opening a door only to be met with the sight of you and Brennan making out.

If you'd just told them you're dating, it might have gone better. You had meant to tell them — eventually.

You had known all along you wouldn't be able to keep your relationship hidden forever. Xaden has a talent for sniffing out people's secrets — probably a side effect of having so many of them himself. You didn't want to keep it secret forever, only as long as the relationship was still fresh, until you figured things out a little more. The problem was the question of how to tell people without them making a big deal of it. Both of you knew right from the start people would judge you once they found out — because of the age difference between you, because he is a Lieutenant Colonel and you're just a first-year cadet, because he is the one instructing you as a mender.

Of all the ways your brother — or rather brothers, since Bodhi and Garrick are just as close to you as Xaden — could have found out, this is just about the worst.

"Overreacting?" Xaden asks in that deceptively soft tone that usually promises a painful death. "I catch you being all over my fucking baby sister, and you think I'm overreacting for putting some distance between you and her until I know what the fuck is going on here?"

Brennan rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "No. I get that. But it's not what it might have looked like."

"Isn't it? Then please, do tell me what the fucking hell you think you were doing with my baby sister."

Before Brennan can do so, you snap, "I am not a baby! I'm twenty!"

Xaden only spares you the barest glance, but that's enough for you to realize he's not just angry with Brennan, but with you, too. His curt answer confirms that. "You're grounded is what you are."

You gape at him, not sure you heard him right. "You can't ground me!"

"Watch me."

Just like that, he dismisses you, turning back to Brennan and demanding he explain himself. As if nothing you have to say about this even matters.

"You're being ridiculous, Xaden! What I'm doing with my boyfriend is none of your fucking business!"

Damn, it feels good to actually call Brennan that out loud.

Your brother looks momentarily put off by your giving Brennan that title, but ultimately ignores the statement. He doesn't even turn to look at you again. "I'd like to talk to Brennan alone for a moment, Y/N," he says. His voice is calm, but you can hear the fury simmering just beneath the surface.

"Absolutely not!"

"I promise I won't kill him... for now."

"How reassuring." You hesitate, knowing this is a fight you can't win. "Promise you won't punch or otherwise hurt him, either?"

"That depends on him."

"Go. I'll be fine," Brennan says.

You wish Xaden would let you near him. If you were in reach, he would doubtlessly be giving your hand a reassuring squeeze like he's taken to doing lately when he notices you're nervous, and right now, nervous doesn't even begin to describe how anxious you are. It's impressive how Brennan manages to stay so calm with Xaden trying to glare holes into him. Maybe his near death experience during the rebellion has made him immune to fearing for his life. Or maybe he's just good at hiding his nerves. He certainly isn't so stupid to think your brother is not a threat just because he's younger than Brennan.

"Alright." You point a threatening finger at Xaden. "But I want him back in one piece."

"Yeah, I gathered as much," he says, which isn't exactly agreement, but better than nothing.

Bodhi and Garrick lead you from the room, taking you in the middle. It simultaneously makes you feel like a child and like you're a criminal being escorted to prison. They lead you to the kitchen, the silence between you heavy like it's never been before.

"Guys—"

"Save the excuses for when Xaden is done with Brennan," Bodhi advises. He doesn't really sound angry, but when you risk a glance at his face, he's still wearing that scowl that looks like it belongs on Xaden's face instead of Bodhi's.

"I don't know why you guys are making such a big deal of this," you mutter as you take a seat at the kitchen table. "I'm more than old enough to have a boyfriend."

"That's not the point," Bodhi says. "The point is that he's too old to be your boyfriend."

"Bullshit. You're making it sound like he's ninety. Or like I'm ten."

Bodhi and Garrick shake their heads and refuse to say any more for now. You should probably be glad for the relative peace while it lasts. Once Xaden joins you, you'll be getting an earful, no doubt.

The waiting is bad. The not knowing what Xaden and Brennan are talking about, exactly, is worse. And the worst of it all is your own imagination running wild with all the horrible things that could be happening inside Brennan's office while you sit here, thinking they're just talking. Logically, you know Xaden won't attack Brennan, no matter how much he might want to. By now, he probably already realized Brennan holds no bad intentions toward you, and has calmed down. Even if he were to get violent, your boyfriend is perfectly capable of defending himself. None of these facts stop you from worrying, though.

After what feels like an eternity, Xaden walks into the kitchen. To your relief, you don't see any blood on him. That doesn't necessarily mean anything — you know he's perfectly capable of slaughtering someone without getting any of the mess on himself — but it's a good sign nonetheless. He doesn't look quite as furious anymore, either.

But not furious anymore doesn't mean his anger has evaporated. He's still far from happy, that much is evident by the look he gives you when he takes a seat across from you, folding his arms on the table. You know that look very well; it always means you're about to get lectured.

But before he can start, you can't stop yourself from asking, "You didn't hurt him, did you?"

"No," Xaden says, drumming his fingers on the table. He exchanges a look with Bodhi and Garrick, and adds, "Apparently, they're in love, so I decided to let him live."

Garrick snorts. "Well, clearly having a thing for Sorrengails runs in the family."

You ignore Garrick and glare at your brother. "If you'd just asked me, I could have told you that too. You didn't need to make such a scene."

"Watch it, or I really will ground you."

Rolling your eyes, you ask, "Why are you so mad about this, anyway? Aren't you and Brennan, like, friends?"

"That doesn't mean I want him dating my sister. He's too fucking old for you, not to mention he's supposed to be your mentor."

"I know it's not ideal. But you're not in the position to talk, considering you were Violet's wingleader when you two got together. And Brennan never gave you shit for that."

At least not as far as you know.

"Xaden and Violet are almost the same age, though," Bodhi points out. "Brennan is like, a decade older than you."

It does sound kind of bad when he phrases it like that, which is probably why he did it. Still, it's not the world-ending issue they're making it out to be.

"I'm aware. And I know that kind of age difference is a bit... unusual—"

"It's fucking weird is what it is," Garrick interjects.

"Fine, whatever. But I'm an adult, in case you haven't noticed, so—"

"A very young adult," Xaden corrects.

"Stop interrupting me! What I'm trying to say is, just because Brennan is a few years older than me doesn't mean he's taking advantage of me or anything like that. I'm not a little kid."

"No, but you're young and inexperienced. Even if he doesn't mean to take advantage of you, it's a fact that he's in a position of power over you, and you've never even had a proper relationship before."

"Just because my previous relationships ended before they really started doesn't mean they don't count. Besides, there's a first time for everything."

"Sure, but—"

"No but! Stop treating me like a godsdamned child, Xaden! I'm only three years younger than you. And I understand why you're... concerned... about the age difference between Brennan and me, okay. But—"

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Xaden interrupts. "Tell us?"

"Because I knew you'd freak out!"

"We're freaking out because you kept it from us so long! How are we supposed to look out for you if we don't know about the shit you're getting yourself into?! If you really understood why we're concerned, you would have told us."

"I was going to tell you! Just... not yet."

"You should have told us the moment this started," Garrick says.

You cross your arms and lean back in your seat, glaring from one of them to the other. "Why? So you could have meddled and stopped us from getting together?"

"So we could have made sure you're safe," Bodhi insists. "We're just trying to look out for you!"

You soften a little at that. It sucks having to justify your relationship like this, but you know they're not arguing with you just to make you feel bad. They only want your best, even when they're being unreasonable and overbearing.

"I know. And I appreciate it. But there really isn't anything to worry about. Brennan is very gentlemanly, you know."

"Well, that's good."

You think maybe they'll leave it at that, but then Garrick asks, "How long has this been going on for, anyway?"

"A few weeks."

It had started innocent enough. When your signet manifested, Brennan was the obvious choice to mentor you. Before that, you'd only known him fleetingly, from Battle Brief and through Xaden. But once you started spending time with him honing your signet, your admiration for his strategic brilliance quickly grew more personal and turned into a full-blown crush.

After months of unsuccessfully trying to fight your feelings, you'd been baffled to find that Brennan returned them.

In your mind, your chances with him had seemed practically non-existent. After all, he is a revered strategist, a war hero and member of the Assembly, while you're just a cadet, constantly overlooked in comparison to your brother. You're nothing special — a good fighter, but not exceptional, bonded to a dragon that is big but not huge nor legendary. Your signet, while useful and not overly common, is nothing out of the ordinary, either. Not even your appearance is anything special — you wouldn't go so far as to call yourself ugly, but you don't have the kind of striking beauty that turns heads wherever you go, either. It's always your brother who draws everyone's eyes, while you fade into the background. Xaden is the powerful one, the brave and selfless one, the pretty and charismatic one, the leader. Meanwhile you're absolutely average in every possible way.

And yet somehow, you'd been lucky enough to earn Brennan's affections; Brennan's, who is way out of your league! You'll be damned if you let these overprotective assholes ruin that for you.

"Weeks?! You've kept this from us for multiple fucking weeks?"

"Yes, Bodhi, I did. Because I don't fucking owe you guys a report about my love life."

He winces. "Of course not. But usually a new relationship is something you tell your friends about, don't you think? Like Xaden said, we can't keep you safe if we don't know what's going on."

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, okay?" You sigh. "I just wanted to avoid this very argument we're having, but I should have known that wouldn't be possible."

Bodhi smiles, and it feels like a peace offer. "Well, it kind of is our job to worry about you."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. And you don't have to like that I'm with Brennan, but you do have to accept it."

The three share a look, and then Xaden nods. "Okay. But we'll be keeping an eye on him."

That was to be expected. You can live with that. Unnecessary as their concern seems to you, it's kind of nice to know they're watching over you.

"Okay. Then if you don't mind, I'm going to go talk to my boyfriend now." You love calling him that. You're going to do it every chance you get for the foreseeable future.

"Talk to him, yeah?" Garrick teases. "Let me guess, you mean the same kind of talking you were doing earlier?"

You ignore the gagging noises Bodhi and Xaden make at the idea, flipping the three of them off as you walk away.

Brennan is in his office where you left him, and true to Xaden's word, he's unharmed. Closing the door behind you, you let out a deep breath and slump your posture.

"Well, that was..."

"Stressful?" Brennan suggests, crossing the distance from his desk to where you stand with three long steps.

"Yeah. That sums it up." You smile. "Definitely not how I meant to spend the afternoon, but at least that matter is out of the way now."

"Did they give you a very hard time about it?"

You shake your head, fidgeting with Brennan's fingers. "They're overprotective to an unhealthy degree, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. If it wasn't so annoying, it would almost be sweet how worried they were. What about you? How many death threats did Xay make once I was out of the room?"

Brennan chuckles. "Oh, a bunch. But they'll only take effect should I mistreat you in any way, shape, or form. Nothing to worry about. It wasn't easy to placate him, but we talked for a while about what I see in you, and I guess in the end I convinced him that this is serious."

"Good." You place your hands on his chest and give him a playful grin. "Now, where were we when those idiots interrupted us?"

Brennan pulls you against him, both hands on the small of your back. You slide yours to the back of his neck, and he presses his lips to yours.

"Bad day?"

You nod without lifting your head. "I just feel so angry and overwhelmed, and I don't even know why."

It sounds even more pathetic out loud. You half hope the mattress might have muffled the words enough to make them unintelligible, but no such luck.

"You've been under a lot of pressure lately," Brennan reasons. "Lots of tests in class, nothing but bad news from the front, all that worry about your brother. It's only natural you're frustrated."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"You sounded like you wanted an explanation. But if you don't want to talk about it, we can just skip ahead to the making you feel better part."

"Please," you nod, despite not having any idea by what means your mood could be improved.

Your skin feels too tight, a violent outburst lurking just beneath the surface, but at the same time, exhaustion weighs down on you so heavily you just want to stay like this and never move again. None of your go-to ways to cope hold any appeal — cuddles are too tender for your aggressive mood, sparring or sex take too much energy, and going for a flight would require you to leave your room again and risk encountering people. Ugh. You can only hope Brennan will come up with something better.

Without lifting your face off the mattress, you reach a hand toward where he sits, blindly grabbling for his hand. You don't find it, but Brennan understands; a second later, his hand closes around your own, warm and comforting.

"Alright then. What does my little angel need to make her feel better?"

"I don't know," you groan, finally turning your head to the side so you won't suffocate yourself in the sheets and are able to see Brennan from the corner of your eye. "You don't happen to know a secret technique to mend someone's mood?"

Brennan chuckles. "No, unfortunately not. I assure you that if a technique like that existed, I would have taught you about it. Cuddles can be very healing, though. Or I could run you a nice bubble bath. Does either of that sound like it might help?"

You stay quiet for a moment, not wanting to be difficult. Being held by him is always nice; maybe you should content yourself with that. But cuddles alone won't fix the agitation bubbling inside you, and if you don't do anything about it now, the next tiny inconvenience to come your way will probably be your last straw and have you lashing out at whichever poor soul has the misfortune of being near you when it happens.

Better to put in the effort to figure out a way to actually make you feel better. Brennan doesn't mind, you know that. He likes taking care of you.

Pushing down the illogical fear of being a burden, you shake your head and mumble, "I don't think 'm in the mood for something relaxing like that. Feels like I'm going to go out of my skin, but 'm too tired to do anything to let it out."

Brennan gives a thoughtful hum, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on your palm as he considers this. Then he says, "Sometimes a good cry can help."

"Yeah, but I can't cry on command. I know I should just let my feelings out, but that's easier said than done. I would need— I don't know... I'd need..."

You go silent, struggling for the right word.

"An incentive?" Brennnan suggests.

"Yeah. An incentive."

"Alright, then let's give you one. I could fuck you to tears, overstimulate you till you can only cry and beg. Or—"

You perk up, intrigued by the hint of hesitation in that single word. "Or?"

Brennan clears his throat. "Or I could spank you."

Though you've talked about liking it in theory, that's not something you've actually tried before — Brennan has given your ass the occasional light slap, but nothing more than that. In your mind, spanking was more of an abstract concept so far, a punishment you might earn if you misbehaved badly enough to truly rile Brennan up. You never considered the possibility that it could be done just for the sake of it. The idea thrills you.

"Yes," you blurt. "That, please."

Brennan lets out a breath that sounds half like a laugh, half like a sigh of relief. "You didn't even think about it."

"Don't have to. Your suggestions are always the best."

"I want you to actually think about it, though. This isn't something to be done lightly. You're already in a vulnerable state of mind, and while it could be a good outlet for your feelings, having me hurt you could also make you feel worse. I need you to be absolutely sure you want it, that you'll feel safe the whole time if we do this."

Brennan sounds very serious, so you do as he said and really consider the effect being spanked might have on your current mental state.

You are very vulnerable right now, he's right about that, but you have to be, if you're supposed to let out the bottled up feelings making you so irritated. With Brennan, letting yourself be vulnerable is easy. You always feel safe with him, and are certain you still will even while being spanked by him. You'll know he would never actually harm you — he'll make it hurt as much as you need him to, and not a fraction more. And regardless of whether the spanking will work as a way to make you feel better or not, Brennan will take good care of you during and after, you know that with absolute certainty.

"I'm sure," you say after a moment. "Can we try? Please?"

Still lying on your front as you are, you can just barely see Brennan's nod in your peripherals.

"Okay. Let's get you comfortable and see if I can spank that bad mood out you."

With that, he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze and lets go to rise from the bed.

Brennan unties your boots and slips them off, stashing them next to the door where they belong before he returns to your side and continues undressing you. He slides off your socks, then pulls down the pants of your sparring uniform and throws both into the laundry basket — there's bloodstains on the pants from when you'd mended a classmate who got hurt during your training session. Your panties follow, but then Brennan is suddenly gone from your field of vision, leaving you like that.

Too lazy to turn your head, you listen to him rummage through the armoire, and a moment later, your unasked question of what he's looking for is answered when he returns with a pair of fuzzy socks he slips onto your feet.

Despite your sullen mood, you smile. Brennan knows how quickly you get cold, and has made it a habit to take countermeasures every time your clothes come off.

He keeps your shirt on, lifting your hips off the bed with one hand to place your biggest pillow underneath them with the other, so your bottom is elevated — a perfect target to spank. Brennan doesn't do so just yet, though. Very serious about ensuring you're as comfortable as can be, he offers you another, smaller pillow for under your head.

Folding your arms over it, you note it's Brennan's own, the smell of his shampoo faint but there. You press your face into the soft fabric, inhaling the comforting scent deeply. Though your mood is still far from great, a feeling of excited curiosity has taken over, pushing the worst of your agitation into the background.

Brennan leans over you to plant a soft kiss on your temple. "Your usual safeword?"

You nod.

When Brennan straightens again, you wiggle your hips, hoping to entice him into the first smack. Surely he's done getting you comfortable now, right?

Indeed, the mattress dips as Brennan settles at your side once more. Chuckling, he gives your ass a gentle pat. "Patience, angel. I'm getting to it."

"Please, 'm ready!"

"Just a second. We don't know what you like yet when it comes to spanking, so I need you to work with me and let me know what does or doesn't feel good, okay? Tell me if you want me to use less force or more, to slow down or go faster. Do you think you could do that for me?"

"Yes, Bren. Promise."

"Good girl."

With that out of the way, Brennan doesn't waste any more time and brings his hand down on your ass for the first time.

Your breath hitches, a near-silent squeak lost against Brennan's pillow. The slap wasn't particularly hard, just enough to sting a little, but the smacking sound that went with it was louder than expected, startling you.

"I've put up a sound shield," Brennan informs you, "so you can go ahead and scream if you want. Let out all those big, overwhelming feelings. You'll feel better."

He lands another smack on your ass without waiting for a reply, this time to the other side.

"Harder," you demand after the next one.

You can tell he's not using his full strength, still testing the waters. You knew from the first smack that he was right and this is just what you need, but to make you actually let go of all restraint and cry, he'll have to make it hurt more than this.

Brennan instantly complies. The next spank is twice as hard as the previous ones, making you cry out in a mix of pain and surprise.

Yeah, that's more like it.

It only takes another few slaps before tears start to burn behind your eyes, the first sob hitching in your throat as your inner defenses slowly start to crack.

"That's it," Brennan encourages, the words immediately followed by another spank. "Let it out."

Another dry sob in response to the next slap; your bottom lip starts to tremble. Then, the first tear rolls down your cheek to be soaked up by Brennan's pillow. After that, it's like the floodgates have been flung wide open all at once, wetness streaming freely down your face, accompanied by whimpering cries.

You couldn't stop crying now even if you wanted to.

Soon, genuine sobs are shaking your body in tandem with the spanks, each of which has you screaming into the pillow clutched in your arms.

After a particularly anguished-sounding scream, Brennan pauses. "Are you still good, sweetheart?"

"Y-yes," you sniffle. "Please don't stop. 's perfect."

It is — with each hit, you sink deeper into that soft, fuzzy state of mind you're so familiar with from when he fucks you. Stress and worry melt away with each tear and scream Brennan coaxes from you, leaving you bare and unguarded, feeling impossibly fragile. Your whole ass is aglow with pain, a prickling warmth rivalled only by the growing heat between your legs. You never knew pain could feel so incredible.

Brennan heeds your request not to stop, and keeps on spanking you until your sobs eventually die down and each hit draws only weak whimpers from you anymore. At that point, he brings his palm down hard on your sore ass one more time and keeps it there as he half lies down beside you to kiss the top of your head. "I think you've cried it all out now, huh?"

"Mhh."

Your response — or rather the lack of a proper one — seems to worry Brennan. "Sweetheart? Can you look at me, please?"

You shift in the direction of his voice, rolling half onto your side until you can blink up at him.

Brennan pushes your hair out of your tear-streaked face with a gentle smile. "There she is. How are you feeling now?"

Small. Safe. Sleepy.

"Better," you mumble. "You said something about cuddles earlier... Could we do that now?"

"Of course, angel. Let's just put some pants on you first, yeah?"

"Nh-nh. Want you. Can I, please?"

"Does my sweet little girl need me to fill her up?" Brennan coos.

You nod, eyelids fluttering with the effort it takes to keep them open. "Please, Bren."

"Anything you want, my dear." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Especially when you ask so politely."

Brennan reaches for the buttons of his pants, rising from the bed to undress quickly and efficiently.

He is already hard as he peels out of his leathers. You vaguely wonder if he's been that way the whole time, from watching you writhe and cry as he spanked you, or if it was your innocent request to be filled that did it. You're too exhausted to really think about it right now, but you file the question away for later. If Brennan has a hidden sadistic side, you fully intend to explore it at some point.

His uniform discarded, he takes your favorite fluffy blanket from the foot of the bed and spreads it over you, before sliding beneath it himself at your back.

"Do you want to turn around or stay like this?"

"Like this."

"Okay."

Brennan presses closer, sliding an arm underneath you to hold you close to his chest. With the other hand, he takes your upper leg and guides it out of the way, up toward your chest, so he can slide his cock between your soaked folds.

You can't stop from whimpering as his hips press against your ass, your skin hot and tingly with pain. Then his tip nudges your entrance, and nothing matters anymore but the delicious stretch of him sliding into you.

Brennan wraps his other arm around you too, and you melt into him with a soft hum of pleasure. His hips rock softly into you, but he doesn't pull out to really thrust, knowing you just need to feel him right now, not be fucked.

"Comfy?"

“I will not permit such a minor wound to kill us,” the young Morningstartail ground out.

If the way you were tumbling in spite of the rapid flapping of his still-functioning wing hadn’t been indication enough that the injury was anything but minor, the pain that tinted his mental voice would’ve given it away.

Forcing your eyes open, you glanced behind you to check whether the wyvern that damn near tore his wing off had decided to give chase. Nothing. It had disappeared in the fray above, maybe distracted by one of your squadmates, or simply certain that gravity would finish the job of killing you in its stead.

You turned to face forward again, breath catching at how fast the already much-too-close ground was rushing at you. If Ēbrion didn’t manage to slow down, he would break his legs on impact — at best. At worst, you would both break your necks, along with the majority of other bones in your bodies.

Since he surely knew this as well as you did, you said nothing.

With an effort, he veered to the right, catching on an upwind. He screeched in agony as he spread both wings out to glide, but the action paid off. Thirty seconds later, you touched down in a meadow, ripping up great clumps of earth and grass in skidding along the ground so roughly you nearly tumbled off his back after all, but without sustaining additional injuries.

You were moving the moment Ēbrion stopped doing the same, rushing across his back to his wing to see what you might do about the wound.

At the sight of it up close, you had to fight a wave of nausea. It wasn’t as bad as the initial spray of blood had made it look — it was worse. The wing hung limply down into the mud, the injury preventing Ēbrion from folding it properly. A long, jagged slash ran through the wing’s membrane parallel to his body where the wyvern’s claws had torn into it, its whole back half hanging down in bloody ribbons, and the joint looked like it had taken some damage as well, likely from the strain of keeping aloft long enough to land safely.

You didn’t waste another second, bending precariously far over his side to put your hands on the wound. Ēbrion shuddered with pain under the touch, but otherwise kept as still as he could while you mentally plunged into the soft glow of his magic and began to force the wing membrane to knit itself back together. If Ēbrion was to have any chnace of ever flying normally again, you had to close that huge tear here and now, while the wound was still fresh.

His pain flooded your senses right along with the power he channelled; he was suffering too much to control which sensations he allowed to reach you through your bond, and you could not shield from him while using your signet.

You ground your teeth and bore it, focusing every bit of your attention on the task at hand. The noise from the battle your friends were still fighting overhead faded into the background. Dragon’s roars, wyvern’s screeches, shouts, thunder — the blood pounding in your ears drowned it all out.

You could only hope the venin and their wyvern were too preoccupied to take notice of your vulnerable situation. Grounded as you were, Ēbrion and you were as good as defenseless against attacks from above.

Time ceased to exist, seconds becoming undistinguishable from minutes, from hours. All you knew was Ēbrion’s pain, his blood hot on your palms, the flood of magic flowing from him to you and back into his wound, rushing through you with such force it felt like it might tear you apart. Your hands shook; your vision blurred. Still, you kept going. You didn’t have the strength to fix all the damage to his wing at once, you knew that, but you wouldn’t need to. If you only managed to stop the bleeding and grow the sensitive wing membrane back together, however sloppily, his natural self-healing would do the rest. You could mend the joint later on, though how you were to get home if he couldn’t fly was a question you would need to puzzle out when you were done.

You must have passed out from the exertion. When you came to, a dark shape loomed over the both of you; blinking the world into focus, you recognized Tairn. The giant Black Morningstartail was nosing at his younger relative in obvious concern, his rider already on the ground and rushing toward you.

“Are you alright?” Violet called up to you.

“We’ll live,” you replied. “What about the battle? Is everyone okay?”

She nodded. “You’ve got the worst of injuries as far as I know, and the venin are gone.”

Since you didn’t trust yourself to make it back onto Ēbrion’s back if you dismounted, you stayed where you were, and surveyed your handiwork. The wing was in one piece again, though a thick rope of scar tissue still showed where the wyvern had ripped it, and the joint remained visibly swollen — perhaps sprained or even fractured; you couldn’t be certain without using your signet.

Sensing your guilt about not having been able to do more for him, Ēbrion turned his head and blew an affectionate gust of warm air at you. “You have done all I could have asked of you.”

“You’re still hurt.”

“I am well enough to fly,” Ēbrion assured you. “If you push yourself further, you will only hurt yourself as well.”

After a brief discussion, all four of you agreed there was nothing to be done right now but return to Aretia. Too large and proud to let Tairn carry him in Andarna’s harness, Ēbrion insisted on flying himself in spite of the remaining pain. It was slow going, but with Tairn supporting him on his weak side, you were able to make it home, where Ēbrion promptly curled up and went to sleep right in the spot you’d landed in, mindless of the other dragons moving about the field.

You were so exhausted you briefly considered doing the same: simply allow yourself to collapse and get some much-needed rest with Ēbrion’s warm scales as your pillow. But even in sleep, he was tense with pain, a sight that kept you rooted in place as you stood by his head, stroking his jaw and beating yourself up over causing him to be in this state. If only your signet were stronger, so you could’ve mended him fully. If only you had seen the wyvern sooner, warned him so he could’ve evaded its attack. If only you were any use at long-range combat, so you could’ve killed it before it got close enough to strike. If, if, if…

After what must have been a handful of minutes, Violet came up behind you and put an end to your self-blame. Taking you by the upper arms, she gently but firmly pulled you toward the fortress. “Come inside. Tairn will watch over Ēbrion.”

You hesitated. “I should mend him some more.”

“Absolutely not.” Her tone allowed no argument. “You’ll burn out for sure if you try. You were already on the verge of it earlier. What you need — both of you — is rest.”

You knew she was right. You could barely keep on your feet as it was. Any further exhaustion would mean gambling with the risk of coma or, if you weren’t careful enough, even death. You knew it, and yet…

“I just can’t stand the thought of leaving him in pain.”

Violet moved to your side, wrapping an arm around you in quiet comfort. “I understand that, but you’ve done all you can for now. Get some sleep and recover, then maybe you’ll have enough of your strength back to mend the remaining damage in the morning.”

Before you could reply, Ēbrion cracked an eye open, and grumbled, “Do listen to the lightning wielder. It is quite impossible to sleep if I have to worry about you doing something foolish and passing out again.”

The wound is hidden from sight by your brother's shadows, wrapped tightly around Brennan's stomach to hold a bundled up jacket in place. It's not enough to stench the bleeding. The precious liquid has long soaked through it, and now stains your bedsheets red around your boyfriend's torso even as you watch.

"What happened?!" you try to yell, but it comes out as a choked gasp.

Your hands shake as you take one of Brennan's between them. He's colder than he should be, pallid from how much blood he's lost.

"We were patrolling near the border when a bunch of venin came out of nowhere," Garrick explains. "Killed them all, but Brennan took a blade to the guts. I don't know how that happened exactly; we lost sight of each other in the fight."

Xaden adds, "He passed out before he could mend himself, so we brought him back here as fast as we could."

"And why the fuck did you bring him to me?" you shout. "He needs a healer!"

"No, Y/N," Xaden says calmly, putting his hands on your shoulders, "he needs a mender. And you're the only one we have here right now."

You didn't think your heart could race any faster than it already did, but at those words, it does. Sheer panic floods your body. This can't be happening. Brennan's life, resting in your inexperienced hands. You've only had your signet for half a year, barely know how to wield it. You're pretty good at mending inanimate objects — it's what you'd started practicing with — but healing people is much more complicated, even when the injury isn't too bad. And this injury is very bad.

You shake your head. "I can't!"

"You can, and you will."

"But I've never worked on a patient in critical condition before!" You've never worked on a patient at all without Brennan's guidance. "I don't— I don't even know what to do!"

"Yes, you do. Take a deep breath and focus," your brother instructs. "You've got this. Just remember your lessons with Brennan, and don't panic."

Xaden is right, of course. If you let the panic consume you, Brennan is as good as dead. You need to do something about his wound, not stand here and freak out. There's no guarantee you'll be able to save him, but you can try. You have to.

But if you fail—

The thought steals your breath and keeps you rooted in place. You'll never forgive yourself if Brennan dies because of your inadequacy as a mender.

"Then don't fail," your dragon's voice sounds in your head, uncompassionate as always.

He makes it sound much simpler than it is, but he has a point. Failure is not an option.

"You could have warned me that Brennan is hurt when you saw them land," you accuse, but the beast only scoffs.

"So you could have worked yourself into a full-blown panic before they even got him inside?" he mocks. "I don't think so. Now quit wasting time and get to work. Unless you want him to die, of course."

Your dragon's familiar snark helps you break through the panic. He's right. This isn't the time for fear.

One of the first things Brennan taught you about mending people was that you must never ever panic when faced with an injury. If you do, your patient will freak out, too. Not relevant in this case, since he's unconscious and you wouldn't be in this terrible situation if he was awake. But more importantly, fear will distract you from doing your job. That's why no matter how much blood there is, how horrible the sight of the wound, you must ignore those feelings and focus on the task before you. Steady hands, a clear head — that's what you need. No room for fear or hesitation.

With a deep breath, you reach for the jacket covering the wound and pull it away. The rivulets of blood flowing down Brennan's side immediately turn into rivers. You need to hurry. You don't know how much blood he's already lost, but it has to be a lot.

Putting your hands directly to the source of the blood, you desperately try to remember everything Brennan taught you.

When you'd progressed from mending inanimate objects to assisting in the infirmary, Brennan taught you some basic facts you needed to know about the inner workings of the human body, but he'd only briefly brushed on the topics of internal bleeding and mending organs. That kind of stuff was too difficult, he'd said, until you were more used to working with living tissue. Flesh and bone are much more complex than a piece of wood or ceramics, which had been your main practice materials at the beginning. Stomach wounds are especially complicated — too many organs that could be affected, too much you could do wrong.

But you don't have a choice.

You close your eyes, visualize the torn tissue beneath your hands, and try not to think too much about the blood seeping between your fingers. If you get this right, the bleeding will stop soon enough.

Before you can close the entry wound, you need to heal any damage the blade might have done inside Brennan's body. That's the hardest part, fixing something you can't see. You have only the vaguest idea of what each organ looks like, where it sits. Something is bleeding in there, your power tells you that, tugging, wanting deeper into him. You can mend whatever it is. Probably.

You imagine the tissue knitting back together, blood clotting to close off the opening it's flowing from, scar tissue growing and smoothing out. You can only hope the organ will continue working the way it's supposed to once you're done, because you don't have the knowledge necessary to fix any complex damage to it, can't even tell how much damage there is or which organ it is you're working on.

If it's his stomach, you're fucked. In that case, his stomach contents might have poured out into his abdominal cavity, and you have no idea what you could do about that.

Oh please, please don't let it be his stomach, you pray to whichever gods might care to listen.

But no. A detail surfaces in your mind from your anatomy lesson. When Brennan had touched on the topic of stomach problems, he'd briefly put his hand on yours, indicating where the organ was situated. You'd only been together for a couple weeks at that point, and your skin had tingled with a million butterflies even through two layers of clothes — above your bellybutton. Brennan's wound is a little to the side of his bellybutton. Probably not the stomach then. That's good.

You think it might be his liver, but you're not certain. Whatever it is, you're done healing the cut on it's front now. If it still works, or if it took more damage than you can tell, only time will show.

Thankfully, no other organs seem to be hurt, so you move on to closing Brennan's abdomen.

Starting with the innermost layer, you force flesh and muscle and what little fat he has to grow back together. This, you're familiar with. You've healed plenty of deep cuts before; this part is not all that different from healing someone's arm or leg.

The gaping wound turns first into a thin line still oozing blood, growing less and less deep with every layer you put back together. By now, your hands are shaking with the effort of channeling so much magic, much more than you're used to, but you push through. Almost done. Brennan will be fine, if you did it right. If you didn't miss any internal bleeding.

You shake your head. No use thinking about that. You can only keep going.

Last comes the skin, closing the wound off with a thick, reddened rope of scar tissue.

As soon as it's done, you collapse into a heap beside the bed. Xaden is there in an instant, stopping you from hitting your head on the floor. He helps you sit, leaning against the bed, as the three of you inspect your work. It's not pretty, but it's the best you could do with a wound so severe. Brennan could have done better, could have probably healed it without even a trace of a scar. Doesn't matter, as long as he just survives. He can smooth the scar out himself once he's awake if he wants to.

You watch the rise and fall of his chest, hypnotized. With every breath he takes, you send a silent prayer of thanks to Malek for not taking him from you.

There's nothing more you can do now, except wait for him to wake up.

You startle when Garrick hands you a glass of cold juice. When did he get that? You must have been more zoned out than you realized.

You're shaking so badly you spill some of the juice over yourself before your brother's shadows wrap around your hands like gloves to steady them. You give both boys a grateful look, draining the whole glass in slow, tiny sips. The sugar almost immediately helps.

Xaden is the first to break the silence. "Is he stable?"

"Probably. I've done everything I can. We just have to wait and hope—" Your voice cracks. "Hope it was enough and he wakes up soon."

Xaden brushes sweaty strands of hair from your face. "He'll be fine," he reassures. He sounds so certain you almost believe him. "You did great. Now get some rest."

"I'm not leaving him."

"I'm not asking you to. We'll take him to his room and you can lie down with him, okay?"

Right — because your own bed is currently covered in a pool of Brennan's drying blood. You don't particularly like the idea of moving him, but — as per usual — Xaden is right. There's no telling how long Brennan will remain unconscious, and you can't leave him lying in his own blood in the meantime.

"Okay."

Your brother helps you to your feet and keeps close to your side as you walk the short way to Brennan's room, ready to catch you in case your legs give out again. Garrick carries Brennan. By the time you reach his room, your vision is threatening to turn black, but you make it to his bed before collapsing again.

Lying with your head on Brennan's chest, the steady beat of his heart soon lulls you into a doze. You're aware of the sound even as you fade in and out of consciousness, know you would immediately notice and wake if it were to stop.

During your waking moments, you remind yourself that it's normal for him to take a while to wake up after losing as much blood as he did, but it's hard to ignore the voice in your head that says it's your fault. If you were a better mender, he might be awake already. And what if he doesn't wake at all? What if he's in a coma, slowly dying from internal injuries you missed?

Xaden and Violet poke their heads through the door a few times. Your brother makes you drink another glass of juice and eat a few bites, but other than that, they don't disturb you.

Dusk falls without Brennan awakening, but the color is slowly returning to his cheeks.

Your sleep is fitful, filled with nightmares of blood and Brennan's lifeless face. Time over time you jerk awake with tears streaming down your face, calming only after you assure yourself that Brennan is beside you, unconscious but alive and breathing.

When you wake for what must be the dozenth time, it's not from a nightmare. This time, it's Brennan stirring beside you.

You sit up faster than your exhausted body likes, sending waves of dizziness through your head, but you're so focused on Brennan you barely notice. He's waking up!

"Hi," you breathe when his eyes fully open and find your face, illuminated by the small mage light you'd left on.

"Hi. What happened?"

The tears burning behind your eyes spill over at the sound of his voice, low and slightly hoarse and alive. You'd been so scared you'd never get to hear his voice again, never see him look at you, or smile, or do anything again.

But he's awake now. He's okay. The relief is so overwhelming that if you weren't sitting in bed already, you surely would have fallen to your knees.

"That's what I'd like to know from you," you answer Brennan through your tears. "Xaden and Garrick brought you in half dead, and there wasn't any other menders around, so I had to try and save you! I was so scared I'd fuck it up and lose you, and t-then you wouldn't wake up even after I stopped the bleeding and I didn't— didn't know what to do and— and—"

Brennan sits up, cooing soothingly, and pulls your sobbing form into his arms.

Probably not a good idea — you have no idea if you really managed to fix all of the damage to his organs, and even if you did he shouldn't be moving around just yet. But now that he's awake, he can heal anything you might have missed himself.

You hide your face against his neck, cling to him like he might disappear any second if you let go. You shouldn't be crying, but you can't seem to stop. All the emotions you'd had to push aside earlier come pouring out now that you know he'll be okay.

"Shh, shh, it's alright. I'm awake now. It's alright. You did such a good job. I'm proud of you, little angel."

You're a shitty mender, forcing Brennan to comfort you when he has been awake for less than a minute. You should be taking care of him.

"I didn't, though," you mumble against his skin. Still crying, but calmer already. "I got the wound to close, but then I was too weak to smooth the skin so now you've got this big raised scar and there might be internal damage I missed, so you'll have to check and fix it yourself even though you should be resting, all just because I'm not a good enough—"

"Hey, none of that," Brennan interrupts. "You're a first-year. We haven't even covered stomach wounds in your lessons yet, and you managed to heal mine anyway. That's really fucking impressive."

"You really think so?" you sniffle.

"Mhm, I do. And it doesn't feel like you missed any damage, either. You did a great job, believe me."

"What about the scar?"

Brennan gently shifts you to the side so he can lift his shirt and take a look. You cringe at the sight, not because it's ugly or anything like that, but because it feels like an attestation of your inadequacy.

Brennan just hums. "Doesn't look so bad to me. Just like it would look if it healed naturally."

"You could have healed it without leaving any scar at all," you mumble. "Still can, probably."

"Maybe, but that's only because I've been doing this for a lot longer than you. In a year or two, you'll be able to do that too. Besides, I don't want to erase the scar."

You frown up at Brennan as he wipes away the tears drying on your cheecks. "You don't?"

"Of course not, silly. Why would I want to erase the evidence of how brave you were, mending me when you barely knew how? It might not be the prettiest, but it's your work."

"Technically it's the work of the asshole who tried to gut you."

"Right. But you know what I mean. I'm really proud of you." He takes your hands, kissing the knuckles of one and then the other. "Thank you, by the way."

You give him a shaky smile. "Just do me a favor and never scare me like that ever again."

His tongue presses against your lips, requesting entrance you grant him without thinking.

You lift your chin, push against his tongue with your own, but ultimately lose the fight for dominance. Doesn't matter. The point isn't to be in control, only to make Brennan take it from you instead of giving it up willingly.

Having given no instructions for you to disobey so far, he's still oblivious to the game you're playing, the self-imposed mission to be a little shit and find out where it gets you. It probably won't be long before he catches on, though. He knows you too well not to notice you're up to something.

You can't wait to see his reaction when he realizes what it is.

Though Brennan has occasionally hinted at there being consequences if you disobey him, you've never given him reason to make true on those threats so far. As much as you wanted to, you just never quite managed to hold on to that spark of curiosity long enough to test him, always melting under his tender dominance, but that's going to change today — if you can resist the temptation of habit, that is.

With a nip on his bottom lip, you detach your mouth from his to kiss your way down his throat instead, back arching to press your chest against him as your hands grip his waist a little more tightly.

Brennan slides one arm around you, squeezing your ass, and lifts your chin with the other hand.

"Somebody's very eager today," he chuckles, tracing his thumb over your kiss-swollen bottom lip.

"I missed you."

It's the plain truth, even if it sounds sappy.

"You saw me this morning."

"Yeah, and then I didn't until now. Not even at lunch."

He sighs. "It's been a busy day, little angel. I would've also preferred to be with you rather than sit through all those fucking meetings, believe me."

"Do you have any more of those today?" you ask softly, and lean against his chest, arms encircling his waist.

Brennan's hand drops from your face, both hands moving to your back to hold you close instead. "No. I still have to write a few missives later, but other than that, I'm all yours for the rest of the day."

You melt into his embrace, glad he actually has a whole evening off for once.

As the prime tactician among Tyrrendor's forces, he always has so much to do lately that you sometimes wonder if your brother is keeping him extra busy on purpose. Probably not — Xaden appears to be warming to the idea of you and Brennan as a couple, and even if some of his skepticism remains, he wouldn't sink so low to use his authority to keep the two of you from having free time to spend together. It's just the war, its fronts creeping ever closer.

You shake the thought. Now isn't the time to think about the venin drawing ever nearer; there'll be Battle Brief for that in the morning. In the here and now, you have Brennan all to yourself for the rest of the night, and you're going to make the most of it. With a couple of hours left until dinner will be served, there's plenty of time to carry out your plan of being a brat, and discover how Brennan will deal with it.

You surge up to kiss him again, hands untucking his shirt to glide over the warm skin underneath.

Brennan takes control of the kiss in a matter of seconds. He deepens it, sucking your tongue into his mouth and circling it with his own, his hands on your hips to hold you close. You're breathless by the time he breaks the kiss, bending to mouth at a particularly sensitive spot on the side of your neck while his hands slide up your body to knead your breasts through your shirt.

"Bren," you moan, rolling your hips against the very apparent bulge in his leathers.

He straightens with a smile that brings out the dimple in his cheek. "Let's spend our night off in bed, yes?"

You nod. "Yes, please."

With your hands already under Brennan's shirt, you take it upon yourself to take it off.

He lets you, still seeming a little amused by your eagerness. If he suspects any mischief, he doesn't show it.

Your own shirt follows, Brennan's deft fingers already undoing the buttons of your pants as you shake off the sleeve tangled around your arm and drop the black garment on top of his. Both of your pants join the pile, Brennan's lips back on yours as your hands roam each other's bodies.

The desire coursing through you makes it hard to think, and you let him steer you a few steps toward the bed before remembering your poorly-planned mission. Ducking out of his arms, you dance out of reach with a provocative smirk.

"Catch me if you can!"

You know it's contradictory — first being in such a hurry to get his clothes off, now running from him. You do want to get on the bed, but bratting means doing the exact opposite of everything Brennan wants you to do, right?

He huffs, but chases after you without hesitation.

It doesn't take him long to corner you, the room not nearly spacious enough to be a good place for playing catch. Backed against the wall with the armoire on one side of you and the door on the other, there's nowhere left for you to go unless you want to run into the hallway in your underwear, which you definitely do not. You would never hear the end of it if one of your friends or — gods beware! — your brother saw you.

Brennan pins you against the wall before you could have made it to the door, anyway. Taking your chin in his hand, he leans in until your fast breath mingles with his, until his nose brushes yours.

Your lips part, but he doesn't press his own to them like you thought and hoped he would.

The tiny reaction doesn't escape him. "Does my pretty girl want a kiss?"

"Yes," you breathe, and Brennnan smiles, but still doesn't close the distance.

"Say please."

You open your mouth, catching yourself just in time to close it again before the word can escape. Instead, you move your head forward, intending to slam your lips against Brennan's yourself if he won't do it.

He pulls back before you can. Still holding you pinned in place against the wall, he takes half a step back, so his face is just out of your reach.

"Ah-ah. Where are your manners, little angel?"

"Don't wanna use those today," you reply, followed by a needy whine as you futilely strain against his hold to try and get that kiss.

Brennan shakes his head, and teases, "You have no idea what you're doing, do you?"

"Not really," you admit. "But I still want to see what happens."

"By all means then, keep it up. Just don't say I didn't warn you if you don't like where it gets you."

There it is again, that spark of excitement, that question — what will he do?

He leans in again, and for a second you hope you'll get your kiss after all. You don't. His lips skim over your cheek, your throat, even up along the bridge of your nose and across your forehead, trailing featherlight kisses all over your face — everywhere, except your lips. He really won't kiss you like you want unless you say please.

Your eyelids flutter as he kisses along your jaw. Gods, he makes it hard to hold on to your resolve of being bad when every touch of his practically has you melting with the longing to be good for him.

Turning your head to chase after his lips doesn't work; every time you try, he is already moving on to a different part of your face.

A whine of his name only makes him chuckle. "If you want something you'll have to ask for it, my dear."

Somehow, you manage to hold the words in.

"I see how it is. No kisses for you, then." He gently scrapes his teeth over your throat as if to emphasize his point, then steps back and releases you. "Get on the bed."

When you don't move, he uses a stricter tone to add, "I'm not going to say it twice."

Pursing your lips, you lift your chin and meet his gaze with as much defiance as you can muster (which is less than you would like), and mutter, "Make me."

Gods, disobeying him is so much harder than expected — you're too used to doing what he says due to his mentoring you in regards to your signet. When the both of you visit the infirmary, the wellbeing of your patients depends on you following Brennan's instructions to the letter, especially as you progress to mend more and more complex injuries. In those situations, his guidance is reassurance and demand in one, as he accepts no less than your best. In private, it morphs into something softer, a promise that he will take care of you, that you're allowed to be weak.

Either way, his guidance equals safety to you. Without it, you feel lost.

Brennan's brows rise in an expression of feigned disbelief. "What was that?"

"Make me," you repeat, a little louder this time. Feeling lost or not, you refuse to back down now that you've come this far.

He shrugs. "Fine."

Before you can process the unexpected reaction, he simply grabs you, throws you over his shoulder, and carries you to the bed, where he unceremoniously dumps you with enough force to have you bounce on the mattress.

The squeak the leaves your mouth at the impact is entirely undignified.

It takes you a moment to orient yourself after the sudden change of positions, to gather your limbs and confirm where up and down is. When you finally look up, Brennan is still standing, towering over your supine form.

"So, you've decided to be a brat today," he observes. He shakes his head in disapproval, though there's an amused glint in his eyes that gives away that your little rebellion doesn't truly bother him at all. "My, my, whatever should I do with you now?"

You don't answer, certain he has already come up with something. His thoughtful expression is all part of the game, an act.

"No opinion on the matter, sweetheart?"

"Kisses?" you try, blinking up at him as innocently as you can.

He laughs. "No, I'm afraid kisses are not an option anymore. If you can't behave, you get punished, and I know you're well aware of that."

"What's my punishment, then?"

Brennan's eyes darken, a look coming over his face that you would almost call predatory.

Reaching down, he grasps your chin and forces you to look him straight in the eyes. "If you don't have any requests of how you'd like to atone, I think I'll keep that a surprise for now."

Your breath and heartbeat quicken with anticipation. You nod.

"Yes to the surprise, or yes you have a request?" Brennan checks.

"Surprise me," you breathe.

Brennan nods. Without further ado, he leans over you to take off your underwear. The lack of acknowledgement as he does so, how he moves your limbs about like those of a doll, makes you feel strange — simultaneously turned on and disquieted.

How is it possible to feel neglected by Brennan while he is actively touching you? And why is it so hot?

You watch silently as he pulls your panties down your legs. The fabric glistens with your slick, a string of it connecting to your core, dripping warm against your thigh when it breaks. Your face heats, and you hide it in your hands, but Brennan doesn't comment on you being so soaked before he even touched you.

When you peek out between your fingers a few seconds later, he's already watching you, laid out for him stark naked and already breathing hard, breasts rising with each inhale, just waiting to be fondled.

It's an invitation Brennan follows, your nipples instantly pebbling under his touch. The rune-shaped scar on his palm drags against your skin as he caresses your chest, still without directly acknowledging you. He pinches your nipples, gently at first, then harder, twisting them until you whimper at the sting. For a second he pinches harder, then lets go, bending to soothe the ache with his tongue, warm and wet as it swirls around one then the other.

His hands trail down your ribcage, lower and lower, and finally, he speaks again. "Spread your legs for me."

Your body obeys before your brain catches up. Since you have what you wanted, you suppose there's no point continuing to misbehave, anyway.

Brennan pushes two fingers into you and starts thrusting them at a leisurely pace without further explanation.

This is not what you had expected, but you certainly aren't going to complain. With his thumb on your clit, the rising pleasure quickly washes all thoughts of misbehavior and resulting punishment from your mind, soft moans spilling past your lips as you buck your hips for more.

You're vaguely aware that Brennan is strangely silent. If you weren't so lost in how good he's making you feel, you might have recognized it as a sign that he hasn't forgotten about punishing you, but as it is, it comes as a total surprise when he pulls his hand away without warning, ripping away the pleasure just before it can peak.

You can only whine in confused dismay. He's never done that before!

"You didn't really think I'd let you off that easily, did you? I warned you that misbehavior would have consequences."

Indeed he had — time and time again, until the curiosity of what those consequences might be got the best of you.

"But that's why I did it! I just— I just wanted to see what you'd do!"

"I know, sweetheart," Brennan soothes. The contrast between his kind, empathetic tone and the stern meaning behind his words makes your head spin. "But regardless of why you did it, you still need to punished."

"That's unfair!"

"Is it? I don't think so, my dear. In fact, I'm giving you exactly what you wanted. These are the consequences you were so curious about, and you're going to deal with them, because, as you just admitted, that was your whole reason for acting this way."

"And— and if I don't like them?" you ask meekly, entirely out of your depth. You knew what you were asking for, but being denied your orgasm feels strange, considering that usually, making you feel good is Brennan's number one priority while you're intimate.

"Then you have your safeword." He kisses your forehead, the gentle action grounding you as much as his words. "Obviously punishments aren't exactly supposed to be enjoyed, but if you're genuinely uncomfortable in any way, you can tap out any time. Just say the word and we'll find something else to do, or stop entirely. It's all up to you, and I won't be disappointed or think less of you if you decide you can't take it. Don't forget that we're just having fun. You're not actually in trouble. Okay?"

You nod. The reminder that it's all just a game, that you can change your mind anytime and he'll take care of you just like always, was exactly what you needed. "Yes."

"Good. Let's continue, then."

Instead of ordering you to change positions and thereby giving you another opportunity to disobey, Brennan just grabs you by the hips and turns you over, putting you on your hands and knees.

"Unless you want me to tie you up, you're going to stay just like this," he informs you.

There's no room for argument in his voice, and though getting tied up doesn't sound bad at all, you instinctively keep still as you wait to see what he'll do next.

At first, that is absolutely nothing. You know he still has to be there right behind you, but you can't see him, don't hear him move nor feel any touch. Nothing. It gets increasingly harder to stay still as the urge to turn and look what he's doing, to make sure he really is still there, grows by the second until it's nearly overwhelming.

Just when you're about to crack, there's a touch between your legs, fingers spreading your folds. Then, you feel the mattress dip as Brennan moves. Fabric rustles. A moment later, his cock presses against you, gliding through your wetness.

Back and forth he rubs along your slit, teasing you, nudging your clit, but not entering you. It's torture, what little pleasure the action allows you only serving to increase your desperation without bringing any relief.

When Brennan finally pushes into you, you're trembling with need, already on the verge of tears from how badly you want to come. You realize now that he's been spoiling you with how he normally focuses on your pleasure, bringing you to orgasm as many times as you can take, and it makes the denial all the worse.

After only a brief moment to let you adjust, he starts fucking you hard and fast. Both hands on your hips, he doesn't seem inclined to pay any attention to your clit, which is all swollen and aching to be touched.

You can't help it; you shift your weight to rest on one arm so you can sneak the other between your legs.

Of course, Brennan immediately notices.

"Oh no," he scolds, giving your ass a harsh slap, "you're going to keep both of those little hands right where they are."

"But I— I can't come if you don't touch my clit!"

Even as you protest, you clutch the sheets with both hands again.

"I know," Brennan croons, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "That's the point. Bad girls don't get to come, sweetheart."

Oh fuck.

"Even— even if I behave now?"

"If you're really done being a disobedient little brat, you might re-earn your privilege to come. But you'll have to work for it, convince me you're actually sorry. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, Bren, I'll be good now!"

"Hmm, I hope so for you. Keep your hands where they are and just let me use this sweet little pussy. When I'm done, I'll think about letting you come, too."

Your assurance that you will turns into a garbled moan as he slams into you again, hitting that soft spot inside you so perfectly you wonder if maybe you'll be able to come just from this after all. It's your last coherent thought, quickly replaced by a desperation too intense for words. All you can do is claw at the sheets, arch your back, and moan so pathetically you can barely believe the sounds are coming from your own mouth.

Brennan ignores it all, fucking into your body like that's all it was made for.

Something twists in your chest at being denied the affection he usually showers you in, though just like earlier when he undressed you, there's another part of you that likes being handled like a toy.

Brennan's grip on your hips becomes bruising as he nears the edge, rutting into you with abandon.

You hover just short of the edge yourself, desperately wishing he'd touch your clit — just a brush of his fingers, that's all it would take! Then he stills, flooding your insides with his cum, and you cry out in frustration as your own pleasure recedes.

He doesn't give you a break as he pulls out, immediately replacing his cock with his fingers. Your clit remains ignored.

"Please, Bren, can't I come now?"

"Patience. You promised to be good, and that involves waiting until I say you can come, without complaints."

You swallow your protests, aware they might only make him decide to not let you come at all.

The tears are harder to hold back. Soon they flow freely down your cheeks, your whimpers drowning out the wet squelching of your cunt as Brennan's seed leaks out around his fingers only to be pushed back in. Time blurrs. You try to count the passing seconds to distract yourself, but inevitably loose track every time. Has it been ten minutes, or fourty, or a hundred? You can't tell, hardly aware of anything beyond the desperate throbbing between your legs and the sobs wrecking your body.

"Shh," Brennan soothes, giving you a break. "I know, sweet thing. I'm sorry. I don't like having to punish you any more than you do, but you left me no choice, acting like that. I have to make sure you learn your lesson. You understand that, don't you?"

"Y-yes," you whimper. "I understand. But I— I already learned my lesson, Bren."

"Just a little longer. You're being so brave, little angel, I know you can take a little more. Show me you're my good girl, hm?"

"Okay. 'm sorry, Bren. I do want to be your good girl, honest! I just— I just wanted to know what you'd do if I'm not, 'cause you always say there'll be consequences and I— I just wanted to know, but I didn't really want to be bad, Bren, I swear!"

The words are slurred with tears, every so often interrupted by sobs, and you know you're rambling, repeating yourself, and probably not making much sense overall. Your mind has gone all fuzzy; the only things that matter are how much you want Brennan to call you his perfect girl again, and how much you want to come — in that order.

"My poor girl," Brennan croons. "Too curious for her own good. Let's see if you can follow a few simple orders, and if you do well, I might just let you come."

"I'll do anything," you quickly promise. "Whatever you want! I— I'll prove I'm a good girl, just tell me how!"

"Alright, sweet thing. First, I want you to hold completely still."

It takes all your willpower not to buck into his touch as his hand slides back between your legs, gathering the cum dripping from your hole and pushing it back inside, but somehow, you manage.

"Good," he says, ignoring your sob of desperation at the loss of his touch as he pulls away. "You can move again now."

His cock presses against your cum-dripping hole, hard once more. Arching your back the better to receive him, a fresh wave of tears rises to your eyes at the sheer relief of being filled.

The emotion is short-lived — Brennan doesn't move.

"B-bren? What—?"

"I'm not going to help you, sweetheart. You want to come? Then you're going to fuck yourself on my cock to get there." He brushes a finger over your clit, but redraws his hand again almost immediately. "I'll help you over the edge, but other than that, you're on your own."

Oh.

"But— but I'm allowed to come?"

"Yes. You just have to work for it."

Thank gods.

You don't have to be told twice, pushing back your hips to fuck yourself on his cock with all your pent-up desperation.

True to his word, Brennan doesn't help. He kneels behind you still as a statue, hands presumably hanging at his sides since you can neither feel nor see them.

"There you go," he encourages, moaning at the way your walls flutter around him at the praise. "That's my perfect little angel. It feels so much better when you give up control and just do as you're told, doesn't it?"

You nod frantically. The words barely register beyond the fact that they're positive.

"Please, Bren, I'm— I'm so close! Please help me cum, oh please!"

He leans over you, chest pressing to your back as he wraps his arm around you and slides his hand between your legs.

His fingers press on your clit, and you come instantly.

The orgasm is so intense the world completely disappears around you. You hear yourself wail as if from a great distance, white spots dancing through your vision as your eyes squeeze shut, all sensation narrowing to the fire of pleasure racing through your convulsing body.

When you come to, you're laying on your side, Brennan holding you close while stroking your sweat-soaked hair. Fresh cum dribbles down your inner thighs.

"You with me, sweetheart?"

"Uh-huh."

You simply lay there for a few minutes, basking in Brennan's affection as he rubs your back, tells you how well you did and peppers you with kisses while you recover.

When you're fully coherent again, he asks, "What do you want first, a bubble bath or dinner?"

"Bath," you answer, though your stomach rumbles at the mention of food. Can it really be dinnertime already? "My legs are so shaky I don't think I can make it to the mess hall right now."

"You don't have to. I can head down and get us something while the tub fills."

"And eat while we sit in the bath?"

Brennan grins and boops your nose. "Why not? Let me spoil you a little."

You have to admit you like the sound of that.

"Do I get dessert, too?'