Work Text:
Run the long shore
Stones will not wound your feet
Protected as a house above the cliff
They carry you home like the wind over the steep
— Old Tyrrish verse, translator unknown
🌬️
“I want you to go over these mining risk assessments before the committee meeting on Monday, Lieutenant Cardulo.” Her new commander briskly handed her a binder.
You came knocking at my door at this hour for reports? Imogen kept the thought firmly behind her teeth. She’d had plenty of practice at that—it was a survival skill in her profession.
“Sir, while I’d be happy to, are you sure this task is suited to me?” She stood still, hoping it wasn’t obvious she’d already unbuttoned her uniform jacket in preparation for a cold shower—anything to escape the summer heat that now lingered into the evenings.
“Are you questioning my judgment?”
“No, sir. Just my position. I’ve only been here two weeks.”
“Make no mistake. I’m fully aware you’re an inexperienced liability—let’s not even mention those markings you bear,” he said flatly. “All of that was clear when I requested you. But if I’m forced to deal with new graduates, they may as well have useful skills. I’ll use anything that protects my post. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Fuck. Requested. Not sent.
With a curt nod, the commander left.
“See?” Glane’s voice rolled through her mind, like a fireplace flaring to life—warm and familiar as her childhood home. “Lewellen isn’t so bad. You can play with rocks in the mines now that your secret’s out. Outside the wards, potential action—and I can finally sleep without shielding again.”
Imogen drew a slow breath, counting to ten before her irritation could bleed across their bond. Losing her temper with Glane often ended with total embarrassment on the next patrol—an unwise gamble with a new squad watching her every move.
“I mean,” Glane continued far too casually, “you should sleep much more peacefully too, now that your Headwind is at a safe distance, Pink One.”
Imogen gave up at seven.
Glane’s creative nicknames for anyone but the Pink One were relentless. Garrick had cycled through several over the years. Somehow, your Headwind still stung as much as the first time she’d used it. She almost wished Glane would go back to Rune-Boy instead.
Because back then, he hadn’t been hers.
And now?
She didn’t know. Maybe. Maybe not.
She knew how she felt—had always known. Loving Garrick was like breathing. Not affection or fondness, but necessity. Her lungs moved whether she willed them to or not; stopping was not an option.
But years of history didn’t transform cleanly into something new in days. That kind of leap—trusting the ground would still be there—felt impossible. No matter how much she wanted to keep her promise to Quinn.
In free fall, no longer tethered to the earth by the one person who knew her best, she might start thinking about pressing her fingers to her temple again.
Forgetting.
That wouldn’t make her happy. She knew that much.
She should talk to Sloane. Someone alive should know that part—someone other than Glane.
She’d thought about telling Garrick too, but it didn’t feel like a starting slow conversation. And so far, starting slow had worked for them.
In some ways.
Time blurred after Draithus—not in clean breaks, but in overlapping moments that bled into one another. Graduation had dropped her class into a strange vacuum, no clear path forward, no consensus on how to divide riders across a fractured Navarre and its uneasy allies.
Imogen hadn’t minded. She’d filled the space with Garrick.
Slow, fast, desperate, reckless—after the gym, in a closet, her room, his—wherever they could steal the time. Until he ended it.
Or rather, enabled it.
In truth, the council ended it by finally agreeing on rider placement. At Violet and Tyrranaor’s request, Garrick served as her representative. Chradh still refused to carry him far after Draithus, whatever burnout clung to him like ash. Administrative work. Rebuilding efforts. Garrick had joked it off.
Stronger than I look.
Idiot. All six-and-change feet of him, solid to the bone beneath all that muscle.
But he was allowed his boundaries. Gods knew she had hers. Maybe one day he’d tell her what happened with Aaric and the eggs—why he’d walked them to the border, why he’d pushed himself nearly to collapse. Until then, she stayed close, doing what she could to fight the solitude that was the enemy of his sleep.
Until two weeks ago, when her posting to Lewellen was made official.
Back when the move had felt reasonable.
She hadn’t expected him to ask her to stay—especially not for personal reasons neither of them had names for.
They’d agreed they weren’t nothing.
They’d also agreed they weren’t something they were ready to share.
But now she missed him more than she’d expected. What once felt fair—sensible—even, now felt punitive. Distance hadn’t dulled her feelings; if anything, it had sharpened the ache.
Imogen set the binder on her new desk. The room wasn’t grand, but it was hers—comfortable, private, complete with a bathroom. Privacy, however, was mostly wasted these days. Another ache she could name but not settle.
She tried to summon him from memory, but imagination fell short. She didn’t want the idea of him.
She wanted him.
“If I’m really unlucky, he might attend the meeting on Monday?” Glane remarked, mustering an unprecedented amount of compassion.
“I’m not sure mining for weaponry is relevant to his new position,” Imogen said. “Let’s also not mention Chradh refusing to take him farther than the city border.”
“I thought you trying to be happy would be less sad, but here we are.”
“Sorry my feelings are inconveniencing you.”
“Careful. The list of living humans I like might be short—but it’s flexible.”
“Can you call it a list if there’s no one left on it?”
“Did you know dragons care about human opinions almost as much as definitions of man-made objects?”
“Yes, your mantra is sleep and sheep.”
“…And slaughter.”
Imogen chuckled. Glane cared—in her own way. Loudly, aggressively, often from a distance. It wasn’t for everyone, but it was a kind of love Imogen understood.
“All this talking about sheep made me hungry,” Glane added. “Then I’ll do some sleeping. I’ll leave you for tonight. Besides—you’ll be busy.”
“Yes, yes. The report.”
Glane cut the connection without another word, but the fireplace still crackled with an emotion Imogen couldn’t quite name.
She sat and opened the binder. If she got distracted every time her dragon schemed, she’d never have survived college. She could work while her telepathic tormentor plotted. Gripping her pen, coaxing ink with a sliver of Glane’s power, she began to read.
The bearing walls could probably take an extra—
I should ask to inspect the western shaft myself.
Notes piled up quickly—arrows, clipped phrases, exclamation points.
Then her focus fractured.
Just a sound.
A subtle shift in the air.
Her chair scraped back as she turned. The pen flew from her fingers, ink splattering across the report.
She didn’t care.
“Who are you, and what have you done to Imogen?” Garrick leaned against the doorframe as it clicked shut behind him. Her door. Here.
Her brain stalled at the sight of his dimples, as it often did.
“You used to throw knives first and ask questions later. Now you’re unwarded and unarmed.” His smile deepened. “Or at least nothing aimed at me.”
There it was—the quiet truth burning beneath it. One he must have guessed when he opened the door without knocking.
Her door was warded. With exceptions.
He crossed the room, fingers brushing hers as he lifted her notes.
“Silver, or the rune for silence?”
“Stop—that’s confidential.” She snatched them back, painfully aware of the warmth where their skin touched.
“Please. Your handwriting is basically encrypted.”
“And you came all this way to critique it?”
“No. The assembly needed a lift.” He stepped closer. “And I had business here anyway.”
Her breath hitched.
“Hi,” he murmured.
Like he knew all it would take for her to crumble.
And, right now, she didn’t care.
Her fingers gripped his collar, closing the small distance between them, pulling him in again and again—kissing until she felt him gasp.
“Hi,” she said when she pulled back, hands still fisted in his shirt. She wanted to reach higher, into those curls, but emotion ran too close to the surface. Even without Glane fully present, her signet lingered there, demanding restraint.
Garrick didn’t seem to share the problem.
He hauled her back in the chair, kissing her with growing urgency, breaking only when breath became unavoidable. Tongues met, searched. Her hips shifted restlessly, frustration sharp as their exaggerated height difference became impossible to ignore.
Two weeks ago, he would have teased her for it. He had—pressed her into a closet, lifting her onto a shelf just to find the right angle.
This time, he dropped to his knees without hesitation, pulling her forward so her legs fell on either side of him. With easier access to her neck, he took full advantage—licking, kissing, biting lightly along her collarbones before moving lower.
She was suddenly grateful she’d never bothered buttoning her jacket.
His lips skimmed her chest as he slid it from her shoulders. Hands followed, circling her waist, thumbs grazing her breasts. She rarely wore bindings; only thin fabric separated them now. His fingers toyed with her nipples until her head fell back, breath hitching as she gave in to the sensation.
She was on the verge of pushing—of forcing him to put her on the desk or begging him to touch her however he wanted—when he seemed to read her perfectly.
He worked lower, tugging her laces loose just enough for his hand to slide between her thighs, fingers brushing over her underwear.
“Fuck,” he murmured. “You’re always so wet.”
Weeks without him had done nothing to help.
“I missed you,” she admitted, meeting his gaze. Strangely, in that moment, the words felt easy.
“How much?” His fingers rubbed lazily over the lace, teasing.
She answered by pressing herself closer.
“Fuck, Ims.” He pulled her forward and slipped two fingers inside her. The sound she made startled her—soft, needy, unguarded. Another thrust drew a whine from her throat, a pleading voice she barely recognized as her own.
His palm pressed firmly against her as he worked her open, fingers curling, stroking. Her knees would have buckled if she’d been standing.
“I thought about you,” he said, breath rough. “Almost every night. Worst two weeks of sleep in my life.”
The change in angle made her gasp.
“And every dirty fantasy I had?” he added. “Nothing compares to this.”
She locked eyes with him, fighting for control, hands scrambling for purchase on the chair as her body tipped toward the edge.
Up. Curling.
She swore as he rolled his fingers against that growing, sensitive place inside her.
He did it again.
Pressure built fast—too fast.
“Oh fuck—” No. She couldn’t—
Her protest died against his mouth as he kissed her with something close to desperation.
If anyone could undo her like that, it would be him.
“Garrick—”
Her voice only drove him faster.
“I need—” She bit her lip, breath shaking. “I need you inside me.”
He paused, clearly fighting himself. “Let me feel you first,” he said quietly. “Let me feel you come on my fingers.”
The temptation was there—but no. She didn’t know if she could let go like this, with him, with anyone.
She knew what she had to do.
“Please.”
His groan was instant.
She didn’t like begging, but it had its moments. That word had undone him before. It was how they’d ended up in that closet. All reason tended to leave him when she said it.
“Are you sure?”
“Bed. Now,” she said, just to be safe. “Please.”
He lifted her with ease, pressing her against his chest. “You’re the worst,” he growled in her ear. “The things you do should be studied as warfare.”
He dropped her onto the bed—but didn’t follow.
Panting, she lay there waiting, anticipation humming. The push and pull. That was what made her tick. This new layer to their verbal sparring. The game. A thrill no one else ever quite reached.
So when he told her to take her clothes off, she obeyed—slow and deliberate, letting her hands trace familiar lines.
Because she knew exactly what it did to him.
The sound he made confirmed it.
She smiled, leaning back on her elbows. “Are you planning on joining me?”
His uniform hit the floor moments later. She watched, taking him in like warmth settling low in her belly.
He gave himself a slow stroke. “Do you enjoy this?”
“Not as much as you.” She couldn’t help following the motion of his hand, biting her lip as his thumb brushed the head.
With a rough sound, he surged forward, fisting her hair, pulling her back so he could kiss her deeply. Tongues slid, teeth clashed, before he turned her onto her hands and knees and guided her to the edge of the bed.
Warmth—his body close, hard between her cheeks, slicked with the mess he’d already made of her.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
He teased her, dragging himself against her, drawing it out until she whimpered.
“Please.”
That was all it took.
He leaned forward, chest over her back, kissing along her spine. The kisses dissolved into panting as he finally sank into her.
She tried to rock back against him, but found herself caged by his larger frame.
“You wanted me inside you,” he murmured. “You have me.”
Normally she would have taken her time, letting herself adjust to his size. Now she could barely stop protesting as he kept her movements small, controlled.
“Not what you meant?” he teased, hot breath against her hypersensitive skin.
She knew what she had to do.
“Please,” she said again, no longer caring. “Please.”
He thrust forward, snapping into her again and again. She cried out, fingers slipping against the bedding as he picked up the pace, then groaned objections into the covers as he slowed.
“Relax,” he said roughly. “Just getting you comfortable.”
He adjusted her—leg lifted, grip firm, supporting her exactly where she needed it.
“Yes—fuck, yes.”
The new angle shattered her. His hand pressed to her stomach. She clenched, trembling, wet sounds filling the room.
Each time he hit that spot inside her, what little resolve she had left dissolved.
Oh gods. She was going to squirt. His fingers earlier, this position—like he knew exactly what it did to her.
Her mouth fell open as pleasure built, devastating and unstoppable.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Go on… oh baby.”
Her orgasm slammed into her, making her convulse, scream locked in her throat as it spilled down her legs.
Garrick didn’t let up. Instead, he dragged it out, fingers finding her clit as she thrashed, helpless, wave after wave tearing through her.
It was too much—and somehow still not enough. Maybe this was how she died. Not to Malek, but to him. And what a way to go.
He pushed back inside her and she came again, shaking around him as he kept moving, groaning her name. His thrusts grew uneven as he spilled inside her, body locking against hers and tipping her into one final, curling climax.
She slipped from him and lay there, boneless and unmoving, jaw tight with overstimulation, breath burning in her lungs, eyes squeezed shut.
Her body kept clenching around nothing until she finally managed to cry out, raw and ragged.
“Easy, easy,” he murmured, voice low in her ear.
The world tilted, and she followed, pliant, as he rolled them over.
“You okay?” he whispered when she ended up draped over his arm.
The covers beneath them were soaked, but she could barely manage more than a faint scowl, her thoughts still scrambled.
“A bit too intense?”
“No… good. Just—” She tucked her cheek against his chest. “The bed.”
“That’s what’s bothering you?” He sighed and flicked his hand. The wet patch dried instantly, airing out.
“It’s still… dirty.”
“Do you always think this much about it?”
“Don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s never happened like this before,” she admitted, blushing.
He frowned. “Like what?”
“Just—with myself,” she said, then added quickly, “—and never in the bedroom.”
He rolled onto his back with a groan.
“Oh, I need every detail,” he said. “For future. Personal. Reference.”
“Like I’d tell you, even if you asked.”
“Please?”
“That line doesn’t work on me.” She smiled and settled against his chest again, content listening to the steady proof of him.
For a moment, they stayed tangled together, breathing, the world held at bay.
Sleep crept in heavy at the edges. She rolled away before it could take her, padding toward the bathroom. The shower she’d planned earlier was no longer optional.
He was there when she returned, pulling on his underwear.
“If you need to borrow the toothbrush, just do it,” she said, aiming for nonchalance.
He grimaced. “I left my things in another room.”
“Oh. You don’t have to stay.”
“Not like that—”
He ran his fingers through his already rumpled curls.
Silence followed.
Then—“Where are the towels?”
She pointed to a cabinet. “Use whatever.”
Unsure what to do with herself, she drifted back toward the bed. Emotions washed over her as the shower turned on.
The sheets. Focus on the sheets.
Dirty sex and dirty sheets were different things. Even if he didn’t care—about more than one thing—she did. About some of it.
She stopped short.
“Pink One,” Glane’s voice cut in softly. “Did he upset you again? I can toast him if you like.”
“No burning,” Imogen said. “He just—made the bed.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It’s just… he didn’t have to. I’m the one who cares. And it’s my bed.”
“So we’re making him bleed because he looked in your drawers, or because he did it wrong?”
“No. And no fire. Stop. You said you’d be sleeping.”
“Hm. Right. You’re no fun like this anyway. In love.”
Imogen stiffened, refusing to follow the thought. Instead, she slipped beneath the covers, the smooth linen grounding her.
A moment later, the mattress dipped. Garrick settled beside her, close but not touching. Warmth and sea air mixed with soap and mint.
She still couldn’t quite relax.
“Garrick,” she whispered.
“Mmm?” Sleep softened his voice.
“Next time—or if you’re here for some reason I don’t know—you could leave your things in my room.” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t mind. If you wanted to. To have your own toothbrush, I mean.”
His arm slid around her, pulling her close.
She let herself sink into it, finally sleeping beside him again.