bodhi durran x reader
chapter one.
series masterlist
summary: everyone has their demons, you just chose to run from yours. straight to basgiath war college. and definitely not towards the grinning tall, dark, and handsome marked rider that seemed too kind to be in a hardened place like the rider's quadrant.
word count: 2.1k ish
notes: second person pov but i give the reader a nickname (that i stole from dirty dancing) and a last name bc i'm not using y/n and i want this to be readable. she/her pronouns used for reader. this has been stuck in my head and i thought i was gonna combust if i didn't get it on page. and it's all together hovering somewhere around 7k words so im gonna split it up and post it all within the next few days and then have the whole thing available on ao3! i haven't written fanfiction in at least a good six months, and i've never written for fourth wing, so bare with me a little--i tried my best. i have a chronic attachment to side characters with little to no page time. half of this was written while wine tipsy and all of it was proofread while wine drunk, so we die like men
Bodhi has never seen someone walk across the parapet so easily.
He's never seen someone make a dance out of it. As if it were a show, a production. Your feet are so confident, so sure with every step, every placement that you would make it to the next. It's pouring rain and windy as all hell, and yet you make the parapet look like a children's balance beam.
You land right in front of him, and by the time your eyes meet his, he's already decided that he needs to know everything he possibly can about you. The instant your focus lands on him, he's obsessed.
Garrick has other plans.
"Name?"
"Baby," you say, and Bodhi blinks. "Marho."
Garrick is downright gawking at you. "Baby?"
Something that sounds much more like a name and not what an infant is called slips out on a laugh, and Bodhi can't help but trace the lean lines of your neck. Holy shit. If he thought you were pretty before, it was dwarfed to the sound of your laugh. The sun had to fight for space when you smiled.
"Sorry. Childhood nickname, I forget I have another one sometimes."
"Did your parents nickname you after a hooker?" Garrick asks, jotting your name--the true one--on the roll.
"Did yours raise you to be a dick?" you ask, not missing a beat, and the boy's gaze snaps up to you. If Bodhi had been looking anywhere else, his would have too, but he hadn't taken his eyes off of you since the moment you stepped foot onto the parapet. He felt his brow shoot up, lips parting on a huff.
He bursts out laughing.
You don't move. Don't take your eyes from Garrick, from staring him down, until he tips his head in inclination and gives something that sounds like an apology. It's Bodhi's turn to be the subject of your scrutiny now, and as your eyes trace his shape, shifting with the weight of your gaze and his laugh, he senses more than sees the moment you note his rebellion relic. Your face doesn't shift, but it's as if a proverbial file is created and tucked away into the archive of your mind.
You didn't say anything else as you walk away from the two boys, but Bodhi tracks you as you go. Tracks your movements, as you weave through the crowd with a practiced grace, how your hair moves as you take the stairs down and out of his sight.
He's almost sorry to see you go. But he's determined to see you again.
Bodhi snatches the roll sheet from Garrick as parapet comes to an end, scanning to make sure he has the name correct. He marches up to Xaden, and only pausing for a moment to consider how stupid this is--he literally doesn't know a single thing about you--before throwing your name into the space between them.
"I want her in my section."
"Don't you have better things to do than flirt with children?" Xaden asks impassively.
"She's not a literal baby."
"I'm aware of that," he responds, sounding exasperated. "You're an Executive Officer, Bodhi. Do what you want."
Except Dain Aetos has other plans.
You made friends. You stand with the Sorrengail girl and another he didn't recognize, tucking loose strands of hair back into her coronet braid. What type of person fixed the hair of someone they'd just met? You, apparently.
You're in Second Wing. With Aetos and Sorrengial and the other girl. This is fine. Something about you didn't scream "secret rebel" the way wanted it too.
And then Xaden transfers your squad to Fourth Wing. He had sent Bodhi a glance as he put the squad in Flame section--not Tail--and Bodhi could see there was some sort of ulterior motive behind the decision. It did also mean you weren't under his direct chain of command. He couldn't tell if that was a good thing or a bad thing
Fraternization is frowned upon, not forbidden, after all.
Not that you would be fraternizing. After all.
But, challenging you would be a terrible idea. Terribly adverse, fatally cataclysmic, and ill-fated.
And all of those words mean the same thing.
He would stay clear, watch you from afar, and maybe, maybe work up the courage to talk to you outside of parapet. Possibly.
His confidence needed some serious shaping. Since when was he afraid to talk to someone? A pretty someone, to say the least. He was a gods damned dragon rider. He wasn't afraid to talk to you. He was just... hesitant.
Yeah. That. And he did not need a challenge to break the ice.
Emetterio has other ideas.
He calls your name, then Bodhi's, and Bodhi is pretty sure his heart stops in his chest.
You don't look frazzled or scared, just curious as you study him from head to toe. He guards himself as if you were an intruder in his mind, an Inntinnsic slipping in to spill all his secrets. Except you're an unbounded first year that hasn't even developed a signet, and instead that's just you. He's building up walls just to look at you. You and those bright, keen eyes.
Emetterio calls it, and you're off. Except neither of you move. You pace around, and it's a stand off. You cock your head, and Bodhi tries every trick in the book: the fakes out, glances quickly off to the side, purposefully stumbles--and you're unfazed. Completely and utterly unfazed.
He can't make the first move. He can't hit you--
Suddenly, his feet are out from under him, and he's staring at the ceiling, and you lunge, reaching to pin him to the floor. He reaches out and catches the elbow you throw, but before he can even make contact, you twist, sliding underneath him, and suddenly you're behind him.
You're fast. Really fucking fast. And suddenly, Bodhi has his work cut out for him.
You kick out again, going to the back of his knees, and he recognizes the move, thrusting his body forward to keep control and twisting before he lands, kipping up so you're eye-level again.
Your first catches his nose, and blood goes flying. He makes the mistake of bringing his hands up to cup his nose and it leaves his core exposed. You take the opportunity to land a knee in his gut, probably bruising a few ribs in there, and he doubles over, the wind having been knocked from him. Holy shit, he needs to get at least one hit in. This was getting embarrassing.
He swings blindly, and you dodge--but you don't grab his fist. And you had the perfect opportunity to. You were fast, and your reflexes were quick, but you didn't know how to end this. The realization crashes into him as you swing again. A lot of force, but no follow-though, giving him the perfect opportunity to deflect, pushing your fist and forcing the follow-through until you were swinging behind him with his hand around your wrist and then he was bringing you to him, one of his arms gripping one of yours across your neck, and the other twisting your other behind your back. Like this, your body was flush against his.
You struggle, kicking out, but it was all too easy for him to get your feet out from under you. You weren't small by any means, but Bodhi was bigger, and had a year of training over you. Your feet kicked out, and all he had to do was lean back to incapacitate you. You gave a frustrated grunt that so heavily affected him that he almost dropped you to make sure you were okay before he realized where he was and what he was doing.
"Finish her without making a fool of yourself, please," Cuir chimes in, probably sensing his hesitation and near-miss, and Bodhi sends an eye roll he hopes he can feel, since he doesn't have the brain space to say anything back, with your body pressed against his and the current task at hand.
He twists and take you both to the ground, pinning both your hands above your head, and taking a leg beneath his foot, balancing on a knee. You let out a sharp huff, and he's mesmerized by the way your nose scrunches up in determination. Your free leg goes to knee him, and he takes the hit, leaning into it before transferring your hands so they're both pinned between one of his, sliding one hand down your hip and to your thigh, holding it to the gourd before you can knee him again. He has a free knee to hold him up, but not without giving leverage to one of your legs. So he's pressed against you, hip to hip, face to face.
"Yield," he says, begs, because he can't hold this for long, and because if you figure out just how much you affect him, you'd win this thing in a matter of heartbeats.
"No," you grind out, thrashing. He's spread thin: his wingspan practically encompassing your body, giving you leverage to wear against him. He worries for a moment, a flash of the bruise he could leave on your thigh going through his mind, and two thoughts overtake him at once.
One, that he doesn't want to hurt you. And that while it may be inevitable with where you two stood, he wanted to try and eliminate the possibility as best he could.
Two, that he would leave bruises all up and down your thighs if he ever got the chance to get between them.
And the combination of the two of those thoughts loosened his grip on you, giving you the opportunity to roll away.
"I did not choose someone this negligent," Cuir snaps, and Bodhi panicks, and now you're pinned underneath him again, his front pressed to your backside, and it's a true plea when he breathes, "Yield."
"No!" You squirm, and fuck stop doing that--
"Get yourself together!" Cuir snaps, and Bodhi sucks in a sharp breath.
"That's enough," Emetterio says, pinning you with a look Bodhi would pick dragon fire over. "Know when to quit, Cadet Marho."
"No!" you yelp. "If this were a real fight, no one is calling the shots--"
"If this was a real fight, you'd be dead. I called it. Get off the mat," Emetterio snaps, and Bodhi scrambles off of you.
He offered you a hand that you send a pointed look at, and he can tell you're considering telling him where to shove it, but you take it anyway, and he walks you off the mat with a hand on your shoulder.
"Good match," Bodhi says, genuinely trying.
You open your mouth to respond, looking like you yourself could spit fire for a second, and Bodhi pities the dragon you end up bonded to for a moment.
"You're fast," he continues, before you can. "Quick reflexes, and you're strong."
"I had you," you throw at him, fiery and determined, and your gaze slips to his rebellion relic.
Oh. So, that's what this is about.
Bodhi shakes his head, and the grin that had been blooming falters. "I can help," he says. "If you're struggling with sparring, I can help."
You suck in a breath.
"Or Imogen. Or Xaden. Or--" he stops, because, fuck, obviously you don't want to be near Marked ones--
"Thank you," you say, and the ghost of the smile he saw after the parapet makes a reappearance. "Thank you."
And with that, you turn and leave, heading back to your squad. Rhiannon is shaking her head at you, and Violet mumbles something that makes you laugh. Bodhi would bottle that sound if he could. What the hell was a countering signet for? His signet should be used for bottling the sound of your laugh--
"Do not finish that thought," Cuir chides. "Get a grip."
Bodhi grins, his hair falling over his temple as Garrick comes up and slaps him on the back, congratulations on a challenge well fought. He watches you take a swig from the water canteen, traces the lines of your jaw down to your shoulder until you hand it back, then traces the length of your wrist as you hand it--
"Pathetic." Cuir. "You haven't spoken."
"We kind of did," Bodhi says mentally. "I offered. I... tried."
"If you like her, try harder," he chides, and Bodhi sighs.
It’s late into the night, but the prince is yet to snuff out his candles. They flicker warm light onto skin covered in a light sheen of sweat. His brows are drawn as he works his hand on his body. The night has not treated him kindly, you see. He had simply wished to relieve himself before lying down, but that was over an hour ago. He whines openly, too tired to hide his noises as his back arches against the sheets. He can feel himself getting closer and closer, but it just never happens. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes and he groans in frustration. It seems his own hand simply won’t do the job tonight.
“Guard?” he calls out, lamenting how desirous it lands upon his own ears.
The knight enters immediately, thanking the heavens to be allowed to gaze upon the prince’s visage in such a state. As it is, he lies with one arm thrown over his face, the other hand lying limp against the sheets, and a flush traveling from the tips of his ears down his chest. The knight swallows hard at the sight between the prince’s legs. He could hear his liege from beyond the door, but to see, in the flesh, just how worked up the man is… why it makes his head swim.
“I need your assistance, Sir Knight.” The prince readjusts himself to the edge of his bed, legs parted and hanging off the side. He props himself up on an elbow, looking at his knight with hazy desperation. “I require the touch of another, else my satisfaction will elude me until daybreak.”
The knight gets to work right away, shucking his gauntlets and removing his helmet, and dropping to his knees before his prince, his delight. The knight’s hands hesitate for a moment as he remembers his oath. Can he willingly defile the king’s son? His charge? Can he truly place unworthy hands upon such pristine flesh? …..could he live with himself if he doesn’t?
The prince grows tired of waiting, scooting himself that much closer with a soft whine. The candlelight glistens off of his sensitive flesh, which gives off a delicious aroma of his natural scent mixed with the oil he keeps in his bedside table. Hesitating then no longer, the knight reaches out and gently strokes his hand along the outside of his prince’s thigh, holding him steady before diving in.
The prince’s sleepy eyes fly open as this trusted knight’s tongue sets upon him. Throaty moans fall from his mouth as his hands grip the sheets below. After how long he’s spent trying to get himself off, every caress and lick sends jolts of lightning up and down his spine. It’s too much for him, but he needs it. Tears flow down his cheeks even as he draws his legs up unconsciously, crossing his ankles behind the guard’s head. At hearing the royal’s choked sob, the knight attempts to lift his head and check on him.
“No!” the prince cries, reaching down to thread his fingers into his knight’s hair and pull him back down. “Continue. You must continue, that’s an order,” —he drops his own head back against the sheets— “please, you must, you must~”
And his knight does just that. For several more minutes, the pleasure and pressure builds. His entire body jolts and his legs shake from the overstimulation. Finally, with his thighs clamped around his dearest knight’s head and his hand that’s never seen a day of hard labor pulling a fist’s worth of the guardsman’s hair, the prince crashes over the threshold that has escaped him for so long. It hits him with all the intensity of a charging bear, making him cry out breathlessly as he nearly suffocates his paramour.
In the end, he lies utterly spent on his sullied royal sheets, bleary eyed and twitching as the tear tracks begin to dry.
ik deltarune is like a different universe from undertale but imagine if Frisk was Kris' like really great-great-great-they (or great-great-great-grandchild) and the soul is just some family curse you pass down by generations
