Think I am gonna steal you from him
Cardan Greenbrair x reader
summary : Cardan pretends not to care, but weeks of watching Valerian manhandle you twist into jealousy. One night in the garden, Cardan finally snaps — beating Valerian and threatening him never to touch you again. a/n : Ok so I know I started a bit from the original request but like can you blame me ? Who doesn't love a jelly cardan , also I apologize of this being really short. #jellycardan
Taken from the this request !!
cardan's pov
You were easy to torment. That was the truth Cardan told himself, the excuse he repeated whenever his conscience stirred. You flinched at sharp words, stiffened at laughter, and every time his gang circled you, it was like watching a performance where he already knew the ending.
“Careful, little mortal,” Valerian would sneer, knocking your books from your hands. “Don’t trip over your own insignificance.”
Cardan would lean against the wall, wine-dark eyes gleaming, and add something crueler, softer, meant to sting. “Perhaps she likes crawling. It suits her.”
The others laughed, and Cardan laughed too, though sometimes the sound caught in his throat. He told himself it was nothing. You were nothing. Just another mortal foolish enough to linger in Faerie.
But then he found out.
Valerian, smug and grinning, announced it one evening as they lounged in the palace gardens. “She’s mine now,” he said, voice dripping with triumph. “The mortal girl. She’s sweet when she isn’t crying.”
Cardan’s goblet froze halfway to his lips.
He scoffed, tried to mask the sudden twist in his chest. “You’re joking. You’d lower yourself to that?”
Valerian smirked. “Lower? She’s prettier when she blushes. And she blushes for me.”
The gang laughed, but Cardan didn’t. Something hot and ugly coiled in his stomach. He remembered the way you looked when you glared at him after one of his barbs, the fire in your eyes that refused to die. He remembered the curve of your mouth when you bit back words, the way your hands trembled but never quite gave up.
Jealousy. That was the word, though he hated it.
He told himself it was disgust — disgust that Valerian would claim you, disgust that you would let him. But when he saw you the next day, walking beside Valerian with your chin lifted, Cardan’s throat tightened.
He wanted to sneer, to mock, to remind you of your place. Instead, he found himself staring, silent, as Valerian’s hand brushed yours.
It should have been him.
The thought struck like a blade, sharp and undeniable. He had spent so long making you flinch, making you small, and now someone else had taken the pieces he’d broken and held them close.
Valerian’s hand was tight around your wrist, dragging you forward before you could even think to resist. His grip was bruising, his smile sharp, and the gang’s laughter rose as he pulled you into their circle like you were a prize he’d just won.
“See?” Valerian said, voice loud, meant for them all. “She listens. She knows her place.”
His arm slid around your waist, fingers digging in, pulling you flush against him. You felt more displayed than held, more claimed than wanted. He tilted your chin up with rough fingers, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Sweet when she obeys,” he added, smirking.
Nicasia laughed, Locke leaned closer with a grin, and the others watched with cruel delight.
Cardan didn’t move. He lounged against the pillar, goblet in hand, eyes half-lidded as if none of this mattered. “Valerian’s mortal pet,” he said lazily, swirling the wine. “How quaint.”
The words stung, but his tone was softer than you expected — not cruel, not sharp, just dismissive. He didn’t add the barbs he usually did. He didn’t laugh with the others. He just watched.
Valerian’s hand tightened at your hip, thumb pressing into your skin hard enough to make you wince. You stayed compliant, forcing yourself not to flinch, because compliance meant survival. If Valerian wanted to show you off, then fine — at least it stopped the others from scattering your books or sneering about your blood.
“Good girl,” Valerian murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear. His grip shifted, tugging you closer, like you were a leash he’d fastened.
The gang laughed again, satisfied, and you kept your head down, playing the role that kept you safe.
You didn’t notice the way Cardan’s jaw tightened, or the flicker of something raw in his gaze when Valerian bent to whisper against your ear. You didn’t see how his fingers clenched around the stem of his goblet, how his smirk faltered for just a heartbeat.
Every day, Valerian’s hand was on you — dragging you down corridors, pulling you into his lap in front of the others, gripping your chin until your jaw ached. He liked to show you off, liked to remind everyone that you were his.
“Sit,” he ordered one afternoon, shoving you onto the bench beside him. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, heavy and unyielding. “Good girl.”
Nicasia laughed, Locke leaned closer with a grin, and the gang’s eyes burned into you.
You stayed still. You let him manhandle you, let him tug you closer, let him press his thumb into your jaw until your eyes watered. Compliance was easier. Compliance meant survival.
Sometimes he kissed you in front of them, rough and possessive, holding your neck so you couldn’t pull away. Sometimes he made you fetch things for him, snapping his fingers like you were a servant. Sometimes he whispered humiliations against your ear, loud enough for the others to hear.
And Cardan?
He never intervened. He lounged against the pillar, goblet in hand, smirk lazy, eyes half-lidded.
But you noticed things. The way his laughter was hollow. The way his jaw tightened when Valerian’s hand slid higher. The way his fingers clenched around the stem of his goblet until it threatened to snap.
You didn’t understand it. You thought it was just another layer of cruelty, another mask he wore.
Weeks passed like this. Valerian’s grip never softened, his treatment never eased. You endured it all, because at least it stopped the others from scattering your books or sneering about your blood.
You were walking through the garden, the air heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers, when a sharp grunt split the quiet. It was followed by a strangled sound — a scream cut short.
Instinctively, you ducked behind the nearest tree, heart pounding.
Peering around the trunk, you froze. Cardan had Valerian pinned against the bark, one hand locked around his throat. Valerian’s face was twisted, his hands clawing at Cardan’s wrist, but Cardan didn’t budge. His other fist connected with Valerian’s jaw in a brutal punch that made the tree shudder.
“You think you can treat her like that?” Cardan’s voice was low, dark, dangerous. Nothing lazy or mocking now — it was sharp enough to cut. “Drag her around like she’s nothing? Put your hands on her like she’s a toy?”
Valerian choked, trying to speak, but Cardan’s grip tightened.
“She’s not yours,” Cardan hissed, leaning in close, eyes burning. “And if you lay another hand on her like that, I’ll make sure you regret it. Every. Single. Time.”
Another punch landed, harder, and Valerian’s head snapped to the side. Cardan’s expression was cold, but beneath it was something raw, something you’d never seen before.
You pressed yourself against the tree, breath caught in your throat. You’d never imagined Cardan defending you — never imagined him threatening Valerian for your sake.
And yet here he was, fury spilling out in the garden, his mask shattered, his jealousy laid bare in every word.
You should have run. You should have slipped away before either of them noticed. But you couldn’t move. You were rooted to the spot, watching the mask you’d always known Cardan to wear crumble into something raw, something dangerous.
Then his head turned.
His gaze found you through the shadows of the garden, sharp and unyielding. For a moment, the world stilled. His hand loosened on Valerian’s throat, but his eyes never left yours.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice softer now, though it carried the same dark edge.
Valerian sagged against the tree, coughing, clutching his jaw. Cardan shoved him once more for good measure, then let go entirely. He straightened, wiping blood from his knuckles, and stepped toward you.
You backed up instinctively, pressing against the bark of your hiding place.
Cardan stopped a few feet away, his expression unreadable. The lazy smirk was gone, replaced by something heavier, something you didn’t know how to name.
“He deserved it,” Cardan said simply, tone flat but eyes burning. “Every bruise. Every breath I stole from him. For what he’s done to you.”
Your lips parted, but no words came. You didn’t know what to say — didn’t know how to reconcile the boy who mocked you daily with the one who had just defended you with his fists.
Cardan tilted his head, studying you. “You think I don’t care,” he murmured. “But I do. More than I should.”
