They can't

Port’s booming voice carried across the now-empty classroom as he added, "And next time, ladies, do try to keep track of your... ahem... personal belongings. Wouldn’t want to lose anything vital during an exam, now would we?"

Ruby’s breath hitched, her fingers still pressed between her thighs, her entire body rigid beneath the desk. Weiss’s grip on her shoulder tightened—a silent command to stay still. The professor’s boots scuffed against the floor as he turned away, humming to himself, but the threat in his words was unmistakable. Had he seen? Suspected? No, he already knew.

Ruby’s pulse hammered in her throat as Professor Port’s knowing smirk lingered in the air. His bushy mustache twitched with amusement as he deliberately tapped the edge of Weiss’s desk with his crop. "Though I must say," he rumbled, "I’ve never seen a student so… dedicated to extra credit before."

Beneath the desk, Ruby’s thighs trembled, her fingers still slick and buried deep. Weiss’s grip on her shoulder turned vice-like, her own breath shallow as she fought to keep her voice steady. "I—I do take my studies very seriously, Professor."

Ruby’s blood ran cold as Port’s knowing gaze dropped to the desk where she was hidden. "Oh, I wasn’t talking about you, Miss Schnee," he chuckled, the leather of his gloves creaking as he adjusted his cuffs. "Though I must commend your... protective instincts." His boot scuffed against the floor as he took a deliberate step closer, the scent of dust and gunpowder filling Ruby’s nose as his shadow stretched across Weiss’s lap.

Weiss’s nails dug into Ruby’s bare shoulder, her other hand still pressed firmly over Ruby’s mouth. Ruby could feel Weiss’s pulse thundering where their skin touched—or was that her own?

Ruby’s breath stopped entirely as Port’s boot tapped the floor beside Weiss’s chair. "Miss Rose," he mused, stroking his mustache, "I must say I’m impressed by your... dedication to stealth. Though perhaps next time, you might consider arriving to class before the exam begins." His voice dripped with amusement as he leaned down slightly, the creak of his leather belt loud in Ruby’s ears.

Weiss’s fingers twitched against Ruby’s lips, her other hand now gripping the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles whitened. Ruby does wonder what he means by "arrive before the exam" though?

Port’s breath was warm against Weiss’s ear as he leaned in, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent a shiver down Ruby’s spine. "I’ll have a private word with Miss Rose about her… study habits later," he murmured, the deliberate pause before private making Weiss’s grip tighten painfully on Ruby’s shoulder. The scrape of his boot as he straightened was unbearably loud, followed by the crisp snap of his crop against his palm. "Now then!" His voice boomed suddenly, making Ruby flinch beneath the desk.

"Since we've all enjoyed such... stimulating test conditions today—" His boot scuffed against the floorboards as he pivoted, the worn leather groaning with his movement, "—your next examination shall be conducted outdoors! Weapons and wits only, ladies!"

Weiss's fingernails bit deeper into Ruby's bare shoulder as Port's shadow stretched across their shared desk.

Weiss’s grip on Ruby’s shoulder slackened just enough for the younger girl to feel the cold sweat between their skin. The classroom air hung thick with the musk of gun oil and something far more primal as Ruby’s bare thighs peeled away from the varnished wood beneath the desk.

Weapons and wits only?

The words slithered through Ruby’s fogged mind as Weiss cleared her throat, her voice betraying only the faintest tremor. "Professor, when you say weapons—" Port’s boot scuffed against the floor again, the sound deliberate, as he turned on his heel to face the rest of the class.

The leather of Port's glove creaked as he waved a dismissive hand. "I mean precisely what I said, Miss Schnee—only the weapons you arrived with today." His mustache twitched as his gaze flickered downward for the briefest instant, catching the way Ruby's bare foot had slid slightly from beneath the desk. "No substitutes. No... improvisations."

Beneath the desk, Ruby's stomach clenched. The cool metal of Crescent Rose's folded form pressed against her hip where it always rested—she hadn't even thought to remove it. But the heat between her thighs, the slick evidence of her other preparations...

Ruby’s pulse stuttered as the implications crashed over her—bare skin, weapons, and the wilderness. Her fingers twitched against the slick warmth between her thighs, the scent of her own arousal thick beneath the desk. Weiss’s knee pressed into her ribs, a silent warning as Professor Port’s boots thudded toward the blackboard.

The chalk screeched as he scrawled "SURVIVAL TRIAL: DAWN’S EDGE" across the slate, dust drifting down like snow. Ruby’s breath hitched as the words seared into her vision.

The chalk dust settled like fine snow as Professor Port turned, his thick fingers brushing white powder from his vest. The scent of gun oil and aged leather clung to him as he planted both hands on his hips, his belt creaking with the movement. "In the wild," he boomed, his voice rolling through the silent classroom, "you won't always have the luxury of your uniforms. A Grimm tears through your coat, a river soaks you to the bone—" His mustache twitched as his gaze flickered downward again, lingering just a second too long near Weiss's lap. "—or perhaps you simply find yourself... overheated. These things can happen to you while your out there, keeping the peace."

The chalk dust settled between Weiss’s fingers as she clenched her fist around the edge of her desk. Port’s boot heels struck the floorboards like hammer blows as he paced, his shadow stretching long across the blackboard’s faded script.

"Survival isn’t just about endurance—it’s about withstanding pressure," he rumbled, the leather of his gloves groaning as he flexed them. "Dawn’s Edge will test you under the knife of night. No lights. No retreat. Your auras will be monitored—fall into the red, and you fail."

The classroom air thickened as Port’s boot scuffed the floorboards, his shadow swallowing the trembling chalk letters on the board. "And mark my words," he growled, the musk of oiled leather rolling off him as he leaned over Weiss’s desk, "should any of you attempt to... re-equip mid-trial—" His glove squeaked as he tapped the edge of her skirt, the fabric shifting just enough to reveal the crumpled lace of Ruby’s discarded panties half-tucked beneath her thigh. "—the penalty will be immediate disqualification."

Ruby’s pulse hammered in her throat, the taste of copper sharp on her tongue as she bit down to stifle a whimper.

Nora groaned—a deep, theatrical sound that rattled the desk hinges—as she slumped forward, her forehead hitting the textbook with a dull thud. "There goes my entire strategy," she whined, fingers curling into fists against the woodgrain. The scent of ozone clung to her, faint static lifting strands of orange hair where she'd been nervously charging her semblance. Ren's palm pressed between her shoulder blades, warm even through her combat corset, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the damp fabric. His other hand slid her half-written answer sheet away before ink could bleed through the page.

Professor Port's mustache quivered with barely contained amusement as he leaned against the desk, the wood groaning under his weight. "And should any of you... neglect to remove extraneous garments beforehand," he drawled, his voice dripping with mock sympathy, "you'll enjoy a rather special opportunity." His glove squeaked as he pointed toward the window, where Beacon's courtyard stretched toward the dorms. "A lovely stroll—in whatever state you find yourself—from the testing grounds back to your quarters. Publicly. With your aura suppressed to ensure... authenticity."

A choked sound escaped Ruby's throat, her bare thighs pressing tighter together beneath the desk. That meant she couldn't bring her cloak.

Port’s boots ground chalk dust into the floorboards as he straightened, the leather of his holster groaning with the movement. "A true Huntsman/huntress," he said, his voice dropping to a growl like a revolver’s cylinder turning, "doesn’t hide behind fabric when the wilds strip them bare." His gloved hand swept toward the window, where the first bruise-colored shadows of evening already stretched across Beacon’s walls. "Your cloaks, your armor—" The tip of his boot nudged Ruby’s discarded combat skirt under Weiss’s chair with a soft scrape of fabric on wood. "—they’re privileges. Not rights."

Ruby’s breath came in shallow, trembling bursts as Professor Port’s words coiled around her—A true huntress doesn’t hide behind fabric. The classroom air was thick with the musk of sweat and gun oil, her own scent still clinging beneath the desk where her bare skin stuck to the varnished wood. Weiss’s knee pressed harder into her ribs, but the warning barely registered.

Her fingers twitched against her thighs—still damp, still exposed—as Port’s shadow loomed over Weiss’s desk. The realization slithered through her like molten metal: He wasn’t just talking about armor. The weight of Crescent Rose against her hip suddenly felt absurd, obscene. He was talking about forgetting avd accepting humility; no matter how embarrassing it is.

The classroom air trembled as Ruby's cloak pooled around her ankles with a whisper of fabric. Cool air licked up her bare thighs, over the still-damp heat between them, as every head in the room snapped toward the sound. Weiss's knee jerked away from Ruby's ribs—too late. The scent of gun oil and musk thickened as Professor Port's shadow loomed closer, his boots crushing the fallen cloak beneath thick soles.

A bead of sweat traced the dip of Ruby's spine as she straightened, the metal of Crescent Rose biting into her naked hip. She'd done it; she shed her shame.

Ruby’s breath hitched as she met Port’s gaze—his mustache twitched with the ghost of a smirk, his eyes glinting like polished brass casings in the dim classroom light. "I'm glad you could make it to the test, Miss Rose." Ruby was glad to be here as the weight of Crescent Rose against her bare hip was an anchor, a reminder that even stripped of fabric, stripped of her shame, she was still armed. The air between them hummed with unspoken challenge, her pulse throbbing in time with the fading static of Nora’s semblance.

Weiss’s fingers twitched against her own thigh, her glove creaking as she fought the urge to reach for Myrtenaster.