#a softer citadel

[joehills]

the roses on the ground there,

next to the slamming doors and flames,

might as well be for you

[adiraargent]

Kiss Me Again - Mattheo Riddle

Request: heyy oh my God I seriously love your work, could you do one where they are best friends but like each other and won't confess but one day they both realise they are in love wc: 4.2k warnings: fluff, kissing, swearing Summary: you and Mattheo have been friends since the beginning of school, the two of you like each other but neither wants to admit it, scared that it would damage your relationship. The two of you decide to take a break from studying and sneak around Hogwarts and then one thing leads to another...

Mattheo Riddle, he had been your best friend for pretty much as long as you can remember. You grew up together, helped eachother threw everything, stuck by each others sides. You were fortunate to have most of your classes together, and even outside of class the two of you hung out.

You had the same friends, got pretty much the same grades and had very similar hobbies... it was rare to see one without the other. 

The Hogwarts library stood as a citadel of tranquility, a bastion of wisdom and knowledge amidst the bustling halls of Hogwarts. Right now, you and Mattheo Riddle found yourselves engrossed in your studies, the air thick with the scent of parchment and the soft murmur of whispered incantations.

Seated side by side at a wooden table tucked amidst towering shelves, you and Mattheo immersed yourselves in textbooks and scrolls, the task at hand a mere facade for the unspoken emotions that danced between you.

Mattheo’s voice cut through the silence, "You alright, you've been pretty quiet for a while?"

You shot him a playful glare, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Well we are in the library Mattheo, we're meant to be quiet."

Mattheo rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging on his lips, "yeah well you practically never shut up," a small laugh falling from his lips. This of course earnt him an eye roll, which he caught onto, yet he somehow managed to miss the little sparkle that glinted in your eye as you looked at his smiling face.

You sat there for a while, occasionally bickering or leaning over to ask for help when getting stuck on something, but due to exams coming up in only a few days, the two of you understood that you had to try your best to stay on task. Textbooks sprawled open, parchment filled with notes, and a shared determination to conquer the complexities of magical theory.

"Have you seen this spell?" you queried, pointing to a particularly intricate incantation in your book. You had been looking at it for the past 10 minutes or so, waving your wand around trying to get the right movement, but it seemed no matter how hard you tried, it just wasnt working how you wanted it to. 

Mattheo leaned closer, his presence enveloping you in a warmth that sparked an indescribable sensation. You felt the hairs on your arm stick up, a warm feeling flushing in your chest as he leaned over your shoulder. "Ah, that one’s tricky. Let me show you a more efficient way to cast it."

His nearness sent a flutter through your senses, a magnetic pull that threatened to unravel the careful veil hiding the unspoken desires within. He reached over, his hand landing on top of yours and guiding your hand smoothly, "there you are, easy peasy."

"Thanks..." you murmured out, finally taking a breath as he leant back away from you.

As the sun dipped lower, signaling the arrival of evening, you and Mattheo began to gather your belongings. The unspoken feelings simmered beneath the layers of laughter and stolen glances, a silent understanding that bound your hearts in a dance of friendship and concealed affection.

Mattheo broke the tranquil silence, his voice softer than usual. "The library is closing soon, we should continue this in my dorm. You should head back to your dorm and get in something more comfy then come over"

You nodded, a faint smile gracing your lips. "Yeah, ok are the boys in the dorm?"

"Nah Jasper and Theodore are over in Lorenzo's dorm and Draco is with Blaise," Mattheo replied, his gaze holding a depth that hinted at more than mere friendship as he packed his books, "so it'll be just us."

"Cool, see ya soon," you grinned widely, brushing your hair behind your ear unconciously. 

*

After getting changed into something more comfortablein your dorm and a fresh spritz of purfume on you began your walk back to Mattheo's dorm (I'm trying my best to make it so it doesnt matter what house you are in so sorry if it's a little confusing). You couldnt help it as your mind trailed off to Mattheo. You knew you shouldnt be feeling this way, but you couldnt help it... this is wrong, he's my best friend. 

He was more than that though, he was an important aspect in your life, and you couldnt imagine life without him.He’s always had your back and stood up for you. He's defended you against teachers and students, he's protected you from the dark horrors that come with being born to Bellatrix Lestrange and Tom Riddle, growing up in Malfoy Manor.

You were well aware of the fact that you've liked him for a while now, just a small girl crush... but lately its only seemed to get worse. You’ve caught yourself staring at him frequently, admiring his brown curls and earthy eyes, you've tried to ignore the overwhelming feeling of butterflies that you get every time he laughs, or the tingling sting that you get whenever your skin comes in contact with his. 

In the embrace of his hug, you find solace, pressed snugly against the contours of his toned chest. The rhythmic thud of his heartbeat against your skin forms an intimate symphony, a melody that soothes your very core, making you feel inexplicably safe.

His gentle touch, brushing away a stray tendril of hair from your face, sends a wave of warmth coursing through you. It's a tender gesture that beckons you to close your eyes and surrender to the comforting sensation of his fingers against your skin.

As his hand encircles your waist, drawing you nearer, an undeniable sense of belonging washes over you. In that moment, with Mattheos’s touch securing you, it feels like the perfect fit—your bodies in sync, entwined in a moment that feels destined.

The yearning for more intensifies, an undeniable craving for closeness, for the electrifying sensation of his touch. It's a desire that lingers, urging you to lean into the embrace, to savor every shared moment with Mattheo, wishing for an eternity in his arms

Shit I sound crazy you rolled your eyes at yourself, shaking the thoughts off and continuing your walk. 

What you didnt know was that Mattheo had felt the same way. You didnt notice how he had started sitting even closer to you now, or the fact that he was constantly trying to come up with ways to inconspicuously touch you. You didnt notice the way he would put his hand on your back and lead you threw the halls when there were lots of people, or how if you were ever close to hitting your head on the corner of a cupboard or desk he would reach over and cover the surface with his hand. 

Once you finally get to the door of his dorm, you knock a few times before pushing the door open, walking in to find Mattheo on the bed. "Hey Theo," you grumbled, dropping your bag to the ground and then jumping on the bed next to him with a tired sigh.

"Hey love."

*

“come on, you've got it, just try it a few more times and it'll be perfect”, Mattheo says from his desk, his chair rolling around to face you where you were lying on his bed, books laying around you. 

“I cant do it Theo”, you sigh loudly, throwing your head back dramatically, “it's a stupid spell and I probably wont even use it after we leave school so why the hell do we even have to learn it.” 

“Quit whining”, Mattheo replies, laughing whilst shaking his head, "it's not even that hard."

“It's not fair, why does an idiot like you get to be so smart without even trying”, you pout softly, pulling yourself up in a sitting position.  

Mattheo's insistence on revisiting the notes for the umpteenth time made you almost desperate. You were tired and this was beginning to get frustrating, you hated it when you werent good at something.  You took a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak up. "Please, Theo. I understand that good grades mean everything to you and how pressured you are with all of this, but I'm seriously starting to go out of my mind. I have hardly slept and this is giving me a really bad headache."

His silence made you nervous; you hadn't intended to come across so harshly. Mattheo seemed absorbed in his thoughts, clearly thinking about what to say or do. He understood that you were tired, the two of you, along with much of your grade had been waking up early and going to sleep late for the last few weeks in order to study for the exams. But this was all important, the two of you planned to become Aurors together when you left school, and you needed really good grades for that.

You bit your lip, grappling with your impatience. "Matth-"

A frustrated sigh escaped Mattheo's lips. You felt guilty, you knew why he tried so hard for his grades. He didnt want to turn out like his mother and father and the people around him at home, he wanted to do good. He needed good grades to help him escape. 

Meeting his gaze, you found his intense brown eyes locked onto yours. "I apologize. You're right," he admitted, raking his hand through his brunette curls, your eyes went wide in shock, you hadnt actually expected him to agree with you, and you definietly didnt think that the next words would fall out of his lips, "hell it might even be a good idea for me to have a break, i'm tired too-"

Mattheo stood up, shutting his books and then stumbling over to the bed, a goofy smile on his face as he stuck his hand out in your direction. You looked up at him with furrowed brows, not exactly sure where he was going with this. When you said that the two of you needed to take a break, you just thought that the two of you would just chill and talk for a while, maybe lay down for a bit. 

"Up ya hop," he beckoned, making a grabby motion with his hands a few times before sticking his open palm closer to your face, "move it or lose it mate," he continues. You raise your brows at him, hesitating before carefully reaching out to take his hand

Should I grab his hand?

"Merlin," Mattheo groaned, rolling his eyes before just grabbing her hand and then tugging her off the bed

"Hey asshole!" you complained, glaring up at him as he tugged you towards the door of his dorm, grabbing a jumper that was hanging over the back of his desk chair. 

"Dont blame me, if we sat around here waiting for you to make up your mind then we'd be waiting till christmas," Mattheo complained sarcastically, pulling her down the hall and towards the main part of the common room. 

As Mattheo dragged you along, you stumbled to keep up with his brisk pace, shooting him an annoyed glare. "Seriously, where are we going?" you demanded, trying to slow his progress by digging your heels into the floor.

But Mattheo seemed determined, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Just trust me," he said with a smirk, not offering any further explanation.

You let out an exasperated sigh but relented, deciding to go along with whatever crazy idea he had in mind. You allowed him to tug you through the common room and out into the crisp evening air of the halls of the castle. It was late at night and since they were in the dungeons, it was freezing. There were no students anywhere, and the teachers were also more than likely in bed. 

"Wait, Mattheo, it's freezing out here!" you protested, shivering as a gust of wind swept by, making you regret not grabbing a jacket.

He chuckled, seemingly unfazed by the cold. "Don't worry, I've got you covered," he assured, reaching for the jumper he had grabbed earlier. With a grin, he draped it over your shoulders, the warmth of the fabric immediately comforting.

"Thanks," you mumbled, feeling a bit guilty for calling him an asshole just moments ago.

Without missing a beat, Mattheo resumed his course, leading you through the halls. Mattheo glanced around the halls, noticing the dimly lit corners and hidden alcoves. With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he leaned in and whispered, "I've heard rumors about secret passages hidden within the castle. Wanna go on a little exploration?"

Your curiosity piqued at the mention of secret passages. Nodding eagerly, you followed Mattheo as he led the way, navigating through the deserted corridors of the castle. Shadows danced on the walls, and the quiet of the night added an eerie yet thrilling atmosphere to your adventure.

Stopping in front of an intricately designed tapestry depicting a hunting scene, Mattheo grinned. "This is it," he whispered excitedly, pulling on a loose thread near the edge of the tapestry.

To your amazement, the tapestry shifted, revealing a concealed entrance behind it. Mattheo gestured for you to follow as he stepped through the hidden doorway. The passage was dimly lit by flickering torches, the air cool and musty.

You trailed behind Mattheo as you ventured deeper into the hidden corridors. The passages twisted and turned, leading you through a labyrinthine network beneath the castle. Dusty tomes and forgotten artifacts lined shelves carved into the stone walls, hinting at the secrets hidden within.

Occasionally, you stumbled upon locked doors or dead ends, but Mattheo's enthusiasm never waned. He seemed to have a natural talent for navigating the hidden passages, leading you further into the mysterious depths of the castle.

After what felt like an exhilarating journey through time and history, you stumbled upon a chamber bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. In the center stood an ancient-looking pedestal with a book resting upon it, emitting a faint shimmer.

"Is that...?" you started, your voice barely a whisper as you glanced at Mattheo, both of you captivated by the enigmatic sight before you.

Mattheo nodded in awe, his eyes reflecting the soft light. "I heard that there used to be this Ancient magic around Hogwarts that only a select few could see and use... apparently a goblin called Ranrok or something tried to gain control of that power but was stopped by a Hogwarts student who could see and use the magic, this is supposed to be her diary or something, there could be some cool stuff in there," he murmured, approaching the pedestal with caution.

You joined him, the book's pages radiating an otherworldly aura. As you reached out to touch it, a distant sound echoed through the chamber—a faint rattling followed by the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps.

Startled, you exchanged a quick glance with Mattheo before hastily retreating back into the hidden passages, leaving the mysterious book untouched. Heart pounding with excitement and adrenaline, you navigated the twisting corridors, making your way back to the safety of the castle's main corridors.

Breathless and exhilarated, you both burst into laughter as you emerged from the hidden entrance, relieved to have escaped without detection.

Caught up in the thrill of your secret exploration, you and Mattheo leaned against the castle wall, trying to catch your breath. The rush of adrenaline and the shared excitement created a bond between you that felt unbreakable.

As you exchanged a knowing glance, the unspoken promise of more adventures lingered in the air, filling you both with a sense of anticipation for the mysteries yet to be unraveled within the castle's hidden passages.

"Students out of bed!" They suddenly hear, their eyes widening at the familiar voice or Filch. They turned their heads to look down the corridor, a small hint of light making its way closer from one of the corners further down

"Oh shit!" Mattheo whispered, grabbing your hand and then yanking you through the halls once again. 

"You can run but you cant hide!"

"Ouch Mattheo! You're gonna rip my fucking arm off you pri-"

Mattheo had grabbed you around the waist and thrown you over his shoulder. A small 'hmph' falling from your lips at the rough impact of his shoulder digging into your stomach. "Theo that hurts!" you whisper yell, smaking him softly on the back as he continues to run, Filch on your tail. 

Mattheo quickly turns the corner and then pulls you both into a cupboard, slamming the door shut behind you both and putting you on the ground in front of him, his chest heaving up and down as he tried to catch his breath, a few small beads of sweat trickling down his forhead. 

Mattheo let out an annoyed groan, "Fuck that was cl-"

You slap your hand over his mouth with one hand, using your free hand to put your finger up to your lips, telling him to shush before leaning your head against the door, trying to listen to whatever was going on outside, praying to god that Filch wasnt going to find you. 

The footsteps outside grew louder, the sound of keys jingling and muttering becoming clearer. Filch's voice pierced through the silence, his grumbling indicating his frustration at not finding the mischievous students.

Mattheo's chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to control his breathing, his eyes wide with anticipation and a hint of nervous excitement. You pressed against the door, your heart racing in sync with the rapid beat of footsteps passing by the cupboard's hiding spot.

Silence descended upon the corridor, broken only by the distant echoes of Filch's fading voice as he continued his search elsewhere. Mattheo let out a relieved exhale, his shoulders slumping as he leaned back against the cupboard.

"Phew," he whispered, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shot him a playful glare, still catching your breath from being carried over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Warn me before you decide to play hero next time," you teased, trying to suppress a giggle.

Mattheo chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Sorry about that, had to think fast. You know how Filch is, always lurking around looking for cool kids like me."

"I think you mean dumbasses," you shot back jokingly

"Well you're out here too arent you?" he fired, a raised eyebrow paired with a smirk on his handsome face

"Hush," you grinned. 

"Merlin im buggered," Mattheo yawned. Mattheo flashed you a grin, his eyes alight with excitement. "Well, that was fun, wasn't it?"

You couldn't help but laugh, the thrill of the chase mixing with the shared relief at narrowly avoiding getting caught. "Definitely an adventure I won't forget anytime soon," you replied, still catching your breath.

You nodded in agreement, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the near encounter. The adrenaline rush began to fade, you went to open the door, pushing on it, but it didnt seem to budge.

“It won’t open.” You mumbled out, trying to push the door again

“What?” Mattheo asked, his breathing starting to go back to normal

“It won’t open.” you repeated with a frown as you pushed against the door yet again, but the hardwood didn’t budge. 

"Yeah right," Mattheo muttered out, going to push the door thinking that maybe you just werent pushing it hard enough, "what the hell..."

“It’s…not so bad. It is probably just jammed or something — do you have your wand?.”

The realization that the door wouldn't budge sent a jolt of unease through both of you. Mattheo reached into his pocket, rummaging around for his wand, but his expression turned to one of dismay.

"Damn it, I left it back in the dorm room," he muttered, a tinge of worry edging into his voice. "But don't worry, its only a few more hours till everyone is up so someone will find us soon, and until then we can just chill or try and get the door open"

"This isn't good," you murmured, trying to keep your tone steady despite the rising worry in your chest.

*

The night was not supposed to go like this.

Heat sweltered between them, and not only because of the walls encasing them on every side, and the small space plus their added body heat, but the fact that they were so close together. 

“Stop moving.” Mattheo mumbled as he looked up at the ceiling, his cheeks pink as he forced himself to look away from her, trying his best to stay calm and not freak out from the close proximity

"Sorry," you muttered, but once again shuffled unconsciously, the nerves taking over you as you grew more and more anxious, you didnt do well with small spaces, you were tired, and you were chest to chest with the boy you cared for more than anyone else 

"Y/n." Mattheo grumbled sternly

“I can’t help it!” You responded anxiously. “Im tired and my legs are so sore, theres rat shit on the ground so I cant sit down, and I'm fucking cold Mattheo,” She pounded on the door, no longer caring if they got in trouble from the teachers, she just wanted to get out of there

“Hey, hey, you've just gotta stay calm okay, its alright!” Mattheo said softly, realising just how much she was beginning to freak out.

The cramped space amplified the tension between you, a mix of frustration, anxiety, and the unspoken feelings lingering in the air. Mattheo's attempts to keep the atmosphere calm were admirable, but the situation tested both your patience and composure.

"I know, I know," you muttered, attempting to steady your breathing. "I'm just... I'm not good with this. It's too much."

Mattheo's eyes softened with understanding, his usual mischievous demeanor giving way to a more caring expression. He reached out and gently placed a hand on your shoulder, offering a reassuring squeeze.

"It's okay. We'll get through this," he said, his voice calming, though the unease lingered in his own words, "im here okay, you're okay."

You looked up at him, gazing into his brown eyes. He gave you a small smile

Damn it, theres that stupid feeling again. 

His smile was then replaced with an unreadable expression. "You okay?" you muttered, confused by his atttitude change

Mattheo's eyes lingered on you, an unspoken question reflecting in their depths. "You know, I've been thinking..."

Your heart raced, sensing the weight of his unspoken words. "About what?"

"I uh... nah its stupid," he muttered, shaking his head, looking annoyed with himself

"It isnt stupid Theo, you can tell me, I wont judge you," you smiled softly, giving him a small nod. 

He hesitated, "well its about..." his usual confidence faltering as he looked away, his words carrying a raw vulnerability. "About us... about our friendship."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your heart beating a frantic rhythm. "What about it?"

"We've been dancing around something," Mattheo confessed, his voice barely above a whisper, "something we've both been too scared to acknowledge."

Your breath hitched, the gravity of the moment sinking in as your gazes met, an unspoken understanding passing between you.

"I've been... feeling things," Mattheo admitted, his voice trembling slightly, "things that I've been too afraid to voice."

Your eyes softened, your vulnerability mirroring his own. "I know. Me too."

Even the cupboard seemed to hold its breath, the weight of your shared revelations hanging in the air. In that moment of quiet confession, the unspoken words that had lingered between you for so long found their voice, weaving a tapestry of emotions that had been hidden away.

With hearts laid bare and emotions laid bare, the unspoken became spoken, and the unacknowledged became understood. Love, so long restrained by the fear of losing a cherished friendship, now flowed freely between you, binding you in a bond deeper than friendship.

Your eyes widened slightly as you felt his arms wrap around your waist, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. "Mattheo..."

Are we moving too fast?

"Can I kiss you?" Mattheo asked softly, a pleading tone in his voice as he anxiously knibbled on the inside of his cheek. His anxiety wasnt soothed as you stared at him with wide eyes, shocked that all of this was actually happening. 

He went to pull away, his cheeks flushing in embarassment, "I uh, you know... joking... just jo-"

You cut him off, pushing your lips against his, catching him by surprise. His eyes widened, his breath getting caught in his throat but he quickly regained composure, pulling you against his chest firmly as he kissed you deeper. 

The two of you pulls away for a second, wide, giddy grins on your faces as you looked into eachothers eyes for a few seconds before leaning forwards again, your lips moulding together perfectly. The kiss became heated, your hands wrapping around his neck and his hands cupping your face, his thumbs rubbing against your skin softly. You stood up on your tippy toes, leaning into him even more. 

You were the first one to pull away, looking up at Mattheo whose eyes remained closed for a few more moments, basking in the taste and feel of your soft lips. You smile widely, his smile matching yours as his eyes flutter open. His left thumb moves from your cheek to your lip, rubbing it softly. 

You look up into his eyes and you see it. 

Love. 

"Kiss me again?" he whispered

"Only if you say please," you joke, leaning forward once more. 

Credit to adiraargent. Please do not copy or repost anywhere. Hope you enjoyed, and feel free to leave a request :p

Wattpad: adira_argent

[blueiscoool]

A Rare 2,800-Year-Old Scarab Amulet Found in Israel

Antiquities Authority says recent winter rains helped expose buried antiquities, urges public to be aware and to turn over finds.

A rare scarab amulet from the First Temple period was recently discovered by a hiker in the Nahal Tabor Nature Reserve in the Lower Galilee and turned over to the Israel Antiquities Authority (IAA).

The scarab, made from reddish-brown carnelian stone, is estimated to be 2,800 years old and of Assyrian or Babylonian origin. The front is carved in the shape of a beetle, and the back has engravings that depict a griffon or a winged horse, a common motif of the Ancient Near East.

When he discovered the artifact, Erez Avrahamov, 45, was on a two-day leave from IDF reserve duty, taking advantage of a sunny day after recent rains.

“I saw something shimmering on the ground. At first, I thought it was a bead or an orange stone. After I picked it up, I realized it had engravings resembling a beetle. I called and reported the amazing find to the Antiquities Authority,” Avrahamov said, according to a Wednesday IAA press release.

Abrahamov found the scarab near the bottom of Tel Rekhesh, associated with the city of Anaharath mentioned in the Book of Joshua.

During the 6th-7th centuries BCE, “a large citadel stood at the top of the mount, where bathing facilities, halls and ritual chambers were found from the period of Assyrian rule. This rule, as we know, was responsible for the destruction of the Kingdom of Israel” in the First Temple period, IAA archaeologist Dr. Yitzhak Paz explained.

The scarab is likely from this period of Assyrian control and “may indicate the presence of Assyrian (or perhaps Babylonian) officials at Tel Rekhesh during this period,” Paz added. If the scarab can be conclusively dated and this connection proven, it will be a discovery of “great significance,” he said.

Scarab seals of a similar type, fashioned into a dung-beetle shape from a wide variety of stones, originated from Pharaonic Egyptian culture but were widely used throughout the ancient world.

The orange color and material of the scarab found by Abrahamov are fairly rare, the IAA said, as most were made from a softer bluish stone and then covered in glaze, which in almost all cases has worn away with time.

The IAA said it’s likely that the recent rains uncovered the scarab. “As in every winter, when the rainy season arrives, antiquities start to ‘float’ and rise to the surface,” IAA Director Eli Escusido said.

“I am imploring the public to obey the Antiquities Law, and request that if you come across an archaeological find, report it to the Antiquities Authority while in the field. The exact location where an object is found is extremely important… The special scarab will be stored in the state archive, where we can research and learn more about it,” he said.

Under Israeli law, any found man-made object dating from before 1700 is to be turned over to the authorities. Abrahamov received a good citizenship certificate for doing so.

By GAVRIEL FISKE.

[fanficapologist]

Of Dragons and Maelstroms

Themes and Warnings: slow burn, enemies to lovers, blood, violence, explicit language, sexual violence, period-typical misogyny, sexual themes, smut, tension, marriage, jealousy, pregnancy, childbirth, miscarriage, attempted sexual assault, breastfeeding, major character death, divergent timelines

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood/Game of Thrones characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Chapter Ninety-One

The Queen’s heart pounded in her chest as she looked at the silver-haired man, her face a mixture of shock and recognition. This was not just any Maester. This was a part of her history, her bloodline. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the weight of the revelation. Vaegon, her grandfather, stood before her, a living link to her past and now offering guidance for her future.

Aemond's voice boomed through the room, reverberating off the stone walls. "Everyone, out!" he commanded. The attendants and remaining Maesters scattered, scuttling quickly toward the door like mice fleeing a cat. The room emptied in moments, leaving only Vaegon standing before the couple, his head bowed in deference.

Maera not only felt her own rage boiling within her but also sensed the fierce anger emanating from her husband. Aemond did not know the elder who stood before him, but he knew Maera, knew her history, and that was enough to ignite his protective fury. He was angry for her, his jaw clenched, his single eye burning with intensity.

The one-eyed King leaned close to her, his breath warm against her face, and whispered, "We can select someone else."

Maera's mind whirled with the implications. It would indeed be the easiest option, to cast Vaegon away and choose another Maester, to forget that her grandfather had ever entered her life. She could sever this unexpected tie to her past and move forward without complication.

But as she contemplated, she couldn't deny the reason Vaegon had been selected in the first place. Both she and Aemond held exceptionally high expectations for the role of Grand Maester. Most of the candidates had barely met their requirements, but Vaegon had exceeded them all. His wealth of experience, his knowledge, his humility, and his service to both highborn and smallfolk were unparalleled.

She glanced at Aemond, her forest green eyes reflecting a mixture of determination and inner turmoil. "He is the best candidate," she murmured, her voice barely audible but firm. "I will not let my discomfort prevent me or the Council serving the Realm adequately."

Aemond's expression softened slightly, understanding the weight of her decision. Maera turned her gaze back to Vaegon, her grandfather, standing humbly before them. She rose from her chair, her black and green skirts swaying with each determined step as she approached the Maester. The rich fabric whispered against the stone floor, a soft counterpoint to the tension filling the room.

The Queen stopped directly in front of Vaegon, who slowly raised his head to meet her gaze. As she analyzed his face, the similarities struck her deeply. His eyes and chin bore an uncanny resemblance to her late mother's, a painful reminder of the family she had lost.

"How do we know you are who you say you are?" she asked, her tone sharp and accusing.

Vaegon remained calm, replying, "The archmaesters at the Citadel can confirm my identity, my Queen."

She considered this. It seemed unlikely that the Citadel would not send someone whose identity was a mystery. There were probably Maesters even older than Vaegon who had been present when he joined the order.

Still, her trust was not easily given. “Then if you are what you say, you know what I am…to you?” she asked hesitantly, her voice softer but no less intense. Vaegon nodded slowly, his eyes shifting away from hers, avoiding her gaze. His acknowledgment was both a relief and a spark to her simmering anger. At least he recognized their connection, but the avoidance stoked her ire once more.

Maera’s anger erupted like wildfire, her fury ignited by long-buried pain for her late mother and aunt. Her voice rose, filled with righteous indignation, echoing through the grand chamber. “How dare you stand here and face me?!” she spat, her words sharp as daggers. Vaegon winced, but Maera pressed on, her accusations unrelenting.“After abandoning your family for your own selfish pursuits!”

The Maester said nothing, his face a mask of stoic calm, but his violet eyes betrayed the depth of hurt he felt. Each of her words was like a lash, cutting deep, but he bore them in silence, his lack of response only fueling her agitation further. The Queen took a step closer, her green eyes blazing with fury.

“Did you expect that you would be picked purely because of our shared blood?” Maera sneered, her tone dripping with disdain.

Finally, the man looked up, his face now showing a spark of defiance. “It matters not who I was before I became a Maester,” he proclaimed, his voice steady and resolute.

Maera scoffed at his words, mocking his statement. “Matters not, does it?” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. Her face then quickly turned serious, her eyes narrowing as she took a step closer. “Did your late wife not matter? Nor your daughters?”

The Maester stood silent, seemingly taken aback and saddened by her questions. His eyes, previously a calm and composed violet, now revealed a depth of hurt and regret. Yet he remained quiet, his face a mask of sorrow and surprise.

Maera sighed, shaking her head as she struggled to temper her fury. “You are the most qualified,” she finally said, her voice heavy with reluctance. “Therefore, you will have the role of Grand Maester. Regardless of who you are.”

Vaegon did not raise his head at her statement, nor did he look pleased about it. His acceptance was marked by a deep, melancholic resignation, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of the decision.

“But know this,” Maera continued, her tone sharpening with resolve. “Your juniors will attend to me. You are not permitted to touch me. Or my daughter.” Her words were clear and firm, drawing an unmistakable boundary between them.

The room was tense, the atmosphere thick with unspoken emotions and unresolved history, the silence was almost palpable, each breath and movement magnified in the charged air.

“Maera…”

Her husband’s voice, unusually gentle and filled with concern, momentarily defused her anger. Maera turned to face him, and there was a look of concern in his single violet eye, fixed firmly on her. His gaze was steady but deeply worried, the shadows under his eye more pronounced in the dim light of the chamber.

She almost knew what he was thinking. The husband and wife had had their differences, but she knew he would not force her to endure this if she did not wish it. After all, Aemond had forced her to endure much worse, by his own choices.

Maera stood firm, her resolve unwavering. “Make your proclamation, husband,” she urged, her voice steady but carrying an edge of finality. “Your Small Council is whole.” Her eyes flickered with a mixture of determination and lingering resentment as she cast Vaegon one last look. His downcast eyes and sorrowful expression did little to quell her frustration.

As she stormed out of the hall, her black and green skirts swirled around her legs, the fabric rustling like the leaves of a restless forest. The attendants and staff, lined along the walls, bowed their heads low in a synchronized murmur of “my Queen.” Their voices were hushed, a poorly veiled attempt to mask their curiosity and the fact they had been eavesdropping on the heated exchange.

Maera’s cold, piercing stare swept over them, silencing any further whispers. Her eyes, known to be filled with the warmth of familial bonds, were now hard and unforgiving, reflecting the tumultuous emotions churning within her. She marched through the stone corridors, her footsteps echoing like thunderclaps in the still air.

The chamber doors burst open, the heavy wooden doors banging against the stone walls with a resounding thud. Maera’s fury, barely contained during the council meeting, now spilled over like a torrent. Her mind swirled with anger towards the new Grand Maester and the old wounds he represented, as well as a simmering resentment towards her husband for a reason she couldn’t pinpoint

Upon entering the room, she immediately noticed Sȳndor, the young black dragon, who was growing larger by the day. The beast, under the careful training of an experienced female dragon keeper, was setting fire to the chunks of meat laid before her upon command. The sight made Maera's heart pang with envy. How she wished she could breathe fire, to let off some of the frustration that boiled within her.

Across the chamber, Maera saw her daughter being cooed over by one of the nursemaids. The sight of her child's innocent smile brought a brief flicker of warmth to her heart. However, this was quickly overshadowed by a physical reminder of her motherhood as she felt a dampness spreading across her chest. The sight of her daughter had triggered her milk to release.

Groaning in frustration, Maera furiously tore open her dress at the laces, her fingers trembling with a mixture of anger and urgency. "I cannot breathe here," she muttered through gritted teeth, her voice a strained whisper of pent-up emotion. She pressed a damp cloth to her chest, attempting to relieve some of the pressure, but the action did little to quell her inner turmoil.

The room remained silent at the Queen’s frustrations, the air thick with unspoken tension. The dragon keeper paused her training, glancing nervously at Maera before turning her attention back to Sȳndor. The nursemaid, too, halted her cooing, watching the Queen with a mix of concern and respect.

Maera's breaths came in shallow, rapid bursts as she tried to regain her composure. The walls of her chambers, adorned with tapestries and symbols of her house, seemed to close in on her, amplifying her sense of confinement.

The nursemaid, gently rocking Aemara in her arms, ventured a meek suggestion. “Your Grace,” she began hesitantly, “perhaps venturing beyond the castle walls might quench your restless spirit.” Maera raised a brow at the young woman, who quickly continued, “A ride on a horse could do wonders.”

Maera paused, considering the idea. She had confined herself within the walls of Dragonstone since Aemara’s birth, staying close to her daughter. But over a month was indeed a long time to remain in one place, especially for someone as spirited as herself.

The breeze through the windows caught Maera’s attention, flowing gently into the room and carrying the salty scent of the sea. She sighed, closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, letting the crisp air fill her lungs.

She nodded at the nursemaid, her decision made. “You are right,” Maera said, her voice steadier. “A ride would do me good.” She then turned to one of the servants who was diligently making her bed. “Prepare me for riding and fetch my leathers,” she instructed.

The servant nodded obediently, moving quickly to fulfill the Queen’s command. Maera’s lips curled into a small smile as she added, “But I will not be riding a horse.”

The tunnels, a complex network of man-made passageways and caverns, were vast, reinforced with stonework to prevent collapses, and glistening from the heat and minerals seeping through. Torches lit the path, providing light but adding to the already intense warmth radiating from the volcano’s depths. The air was thick with the smell of sulfur and the constant hum of the earth’s movements.

Reaching the main cavern, the natural light of the outside lit the space, the wind howling through the tunnels in an eerie manner. The cavern’s floor was uneven, covered in rock formations and many loose stones that jumped up from the floor during the rumbles of volcanic activity.

Dragon Keepers stood guard at various points within this vast network. They were stationed near the tunnel entrance, along key passages, and at the main lair entrance, ensuring that only those deemed worthy could approach. The keepers were alert, donned in ancestral robes and armed with prodding sticks for managing the volcano’s dwellers.

Dressed in black leathers that clung to her form, her brown and silver hair braided back from her face, Maera looked every bit the dragon rider she was meant to be. She held tightly onto the lengths of fabric tied securely around her body as she entered the cavernous interior of the volcano.

The nursery maids had protested fervently against Maera’s decision to ride. They argued that she was not fully healed from childbirth, and that it was too soon for such a strenuous endeavor. But that was not the only reason they were panicking. Nestled within the fabric tied to her chest was her infant daughter. The baby’s almost lilac eyes were wide with curiosity as she took in her new surroundings, unfazed by the sounds of rocks falling or the deep rumbles of volcanic activity.

Aemara was not the only companion accompanying the queen. Perched on Maera’s shoulder was Sȳndor, her black scales almost blending into the Maera’s leathers. She had tried to leave youngling behind, but the little dragon had refused to be separated from the child to whom she was bonded.

The Dragon Keepers, seasoned and accustomed to the eccentricities of dragon riders, were not fazed by the sight of Maera with her daughter. In fact, a few of them smiled fondly at the sight, recognizing the continuation of the Valyrian lineage. Their expressions conveyed respect and a sense of pride in seeing the young princess already being introduced to the world of dragons.

One of the Keepers, an older man with a silver beard and not a hair atop his head, stepped forward onto the edge of the stone cliff that overlooked the heart of the Dragonmount. With a deep breath, he called into the cavern, his voice echoing off the stone walls and reverberating through the vast, dark expanse. "Naejot māzies, Ēbrion!" Come forward.

The sound of his call bounced around the cavern, reaching into the depths where the dragons rested. A deep rumble responded, followed by the sound of rocks tumbling and shifting. Little Sȳndor let out a few nervous chirps but Maera gently shushed the young dragon, stroking her head to calm her.

From the darkness, a colossal form began to emerge. The ground seemed to tremble as the mighty dragon, Ēbrion, made his way forward. His scales, a mesmerizing blend of blue and black, shimmered even in the dim light of the cavern. His orange eyes glowed like molten lava, radiating both wisdom and power. Maera's heart soared at the sight of her dragon, her connection to him as strong as ever.

Ēbrion extended his neck, bringing his massive head closer to Maera. His hot breath washed over her as he came face to face with his rider. Maera beamed, her eyes sparkling with joy and pride. She reached out, placing a hand on Ēbrion's snout, feeling the rough texture of his scales beneath her fingers.

“Raqiros issa, rytsas,” Hello my friend, she whispered, her voice filled with affection and reverence.

The large beast rumbled softly in response, the sound vibrating through the stone beneath them. His eyes, so fierce and untamed, softened slightly as he acknowledged the presence of Maera and her child. The connection between dragon and rider was palpable, a bond forged through fire and blood, and strengthened by loyalty and companionship.

She was so pleased to see him. During her confinement, the Dragon Keepers had reassured her that her dragon had taken to the Dragonmount well. They told her he seemed to have re-acclimated quickly to the volcanic environment, likely due to his many years there before coming to King’s Landing. The reports of his behavior had been a constant source of comfort for Maera, who had worried about him during her long absence.

The Keepers had informed her that Ēbrion frequently left the mountain, often flying with Vhagar and hunting across the skies. While she felt a pang of guilt for not seeing him for so long, the knowledge that he was content and thriving eased her mind. The sight of him now, healthy and strong, affirmed the truth of their words.

Ēbrion trilled softly, a sound filled with curiosity as he noticed the bundle Maera carried. His immense eyes focused on the fabric, his nostrils flaring as he tried to catch a scent. Maera gently removed the cloth around Aemara’s head, presenting her daughter’s face to the dragon.

“Tala issa,” My daughter, Maera said softly, her voice trembling with a mixture of pride and nervousness.

Ēbrion leaned closer, his hot breath washing over both mother and child. He inhaled deeply, taking in the new scent. Aemara’s almost lilac eyes widened as she looked at the dragon, her tiny face reflecting a mixture of awe and innocence.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Maera held her breath, watching as her dragon and her daughter connected for the first time. Ēbrion’s eyes softened, and he emitted a low, comforting rumble, a sound that seemed almost like a purr.

However, the hatchling perched on Maera’s shoulder was not so keen on the interaction between Ēbrion and the babe. Sȳndor hissed, her small wings flapping aggressively as she attempted to bite the larger dragon, her jaws snapping futilely at the air. Maera found the sight amusing; despite the beasts sharing blood, Sȳndor’s loyalty clearly lay with Aemara, fiercely protective of the child above all else.

Ēbrion, unperturbed by the hatchling’s display, merely puffed a breath of air from his nostrils, which knocked Sȳndor off balance slightly. The young dragon’s claws dug into Maera’s shoulder for stability, eliciting a wince from her but also a chuckle at the spirited little creature’s determination.

“Dohaerās, Ēbrion,” Serve me, Maera commanded softly. At her words, Ēbrion withdrew his neck, turning towards the cave’s exit. He crouched next to the stone edge, his muscles coiling in preparation for flight.

Mounting the blue dragon from the cliff was much easier than attempting to do so from the ground. Maera only had to take a few steps before she reached the saddle. She stepped onto the rope ladder, her foot slipping slightly at first, but she quickly regained her balance and began to climb. Each step felt steadier than the last, a testament to her improving strength. Her left leg twinged slightly, but it held her weight, and her left arm, though still weak, managed to support her as she ascended.

She felt better, stronger than she had in weeks. As she settled into the saddle, she secured herself with the chains and ropes. She looked down at Aemara, who was strapped to her chest. The baby’s almost lilac eyes peered up at her mother, then around the cave, drawn to the light streaming in from the exit. Sȳndor remained perched on Maera’s shoulder, still wary. The Queen gently peeled the hatchling off and settled her in front of her on the saddle.

“There, little one,” Maera murmured, her voice soothing as she petted the hatchling’s head. Syndor chirped in response, her small body relaxing slightly but her eyes still alert.

With her daughter secure and her dragons ready, Maera took a deep breath, feeling the anticipation of flight thrumming through her veins.

“Soves.” Fly.

Ēbrion stomped to the exit of the cave with a low roar, his powerful body vibrating beneath Maera. He dived off the edge of the cliff, the wind making Maera’s eyes water as they hurled toward the sea. Then, at the seemingly last moment, Ēbrion unfurled his wings, and they took flight, the sudden lift filling Maera with exhilaration.

They soared around Dragonstone, the rugged terrain and jagged cliffs below a breathtaking sight. The waves crashed against the rocks, sending sprays of seawater high into the air. In the distance, Maera could see King's Landing across the bay, the familiar sprawl of the city bringing a pang of mixed emotions.

To be flying again after so long felt like freedom reborn. Maera's heart raced with joy, her spirits lifting higher with each powerful beat of Ēbrion’s wings. She felt the tension and frustration of the past months dissolve into the wind, leaving her lighter and unburdened.

As Maera looked down, she noticed that baby Aemara did not seem fazed by the turbulence of the air or the wind blowing wildly. In fact, after a while, the child closed her eyes, the rhythmic movement of the flight soothing her to sleep. Sȳndor practiced her own flying for a few moments at a time, her little wings flapping vigorously to keep up with the older dragon, darting between the wisps of clouds.

Maera smiled, thinking how much she had missed this. The sensation of the wind on her face, the view of the world from above, and the companionship of her dragons. It was as if she had regained a part of herself that had been lost.

Soaring through the clouds, her thoughts could not help but be filled with the new Grand Maester. Vaegon. The Dragonless. From her memories, she didn’t recall her mother ever speaking a bad word about him. Lady Gael had simply stated that she was placed in the care of her maternal grandparents whilst he gave up his land and titles to serve at the Citadel.

Looking at the child strapped to her chest, Maera wondered how on earth Vaegon could even bear to do that. To abandon his two baby girls so soon after their mother had died. He just ran away. It angered her to no end. She couldn’t fathom the kind of man who could leave his own flesh and blood behind in pursuit of his own desires.

What angered her more was the familiarity of the old man’s face. His violet eyes and silver hair, the way his mouth curled when he smiled; it reminded her so much of her mother. Of her own reflection. Even some aspects of her daughter’s face. Similarities passed through blood. The same blood that coursed through her veins, binding them in a way that was impossible to sever.

But did blood truly matter? Should you owe someone anything just because you shared blood? Did it truly have the power to unite people? Aemond had been crowned King, ahead of his niece Jaehaera, Aegon’s only remaining child, as the Greens made it known that whoever sat the throne had to be a male. That blood did not matter.

Across Blackwater Bay, a short distance away, Rhaenyra, Aemond’s half-sister, remained steadfast in her claim as the rightful heir. Now the siblings were at war, tearing their family and the realm apart. Blood did not matter. The bonds that should have united them only served to fuel the fires of conflict.

Vaegon, known as the Dragonless, was an outcast from his family. Yet Maera had claimed a dragon, despite her blood not being as pure. She had done it by herself, through her own strength and determination. Blood did not matter. She had proven her worth through her actions, not through the purity of her lineage. And yet, despite this conviction, Maera found herself yearning for answers to questions she did not yet know how to ask.

Her thoughts drifted to her dwindling family members who shared her Targaryen blood: her mother, her Aunt Viserra, and all of her cousins, their numbers had declined to almost nothing. And she was well aware Aemond was responsible for the tragedy of Morne, dabbling in forces he did not understand for the sake of…what? Honour? Victory? Power? She was honestly still not sure. But this Maester, Vaegon, was a stranger, a servant sent to serve his king on his council. Why now? Why, after being hidden away in Oldtown for the majority of his life, did he reappear?

Mayhaps it was only natural to wonder such things, but she knew that her anger was justified. She would find out what she needed to know in time. For now, she would need to learn how to simply live under the same roof as him, working with him to secure a brighter future for the Realm and her daughter before asking such things.

Upon Maera’s command, Ēbrion banked sharply and began their descent back to the Dragonmount, his powerful wings beat rhythmically as they neared the stone cliffs. The dragon’s landing was as graceful as it was powerful; he folded his wings tightly to his body and touched down with a rumbling thud, his claws gripping the rocky edge with ease. The cavern echoed with the sound of his landing, a deep, resonant roar that seemed to shake the very walls.

Maera felt windswept, giddy, and exhausted, but in a good way. The exhilaration of flight and the rush of wind against her face had cleared her mind and lifted her spirits. She dismounted Ēbrion, her feet finding purchase on the solid ground of the cavern. Her body tingled with the lingering adrenaline from the ride, and she could feel her pulse pounding in her ears.

She glanced down at her daughter, whose eyes were open once again, her little silver tufts in disarray from the wind. Sȳndor flapped her wings and perched once more on Maera’s shoulder, her claws digging in lightly for balance. Maera turned to her faithful mount, the majestic blue dragon who had carried them so gracefully.

The Queen pressed her face to Ēbrion’s snout, feeling the warm, leathery texture of his skin. She thanked the beast sincerely her voice filled with gratitude and affection as she promised she would return the next day. Ēbrion snorted softly, a warm puff of air washing over her, as if acknowledging her promise.

As Maera made her way back to her chambers, she felt a renewed sense of clarity and purpose. The physical exertion and the time spent with her dragon had done wonders for her spirit. The dragon keepers watched her with respectful nods, and she gave them a brief smile in return.

Despite the tumultuous emotions that had plagued her earlier, she now felt a sense of peace. The flight had been a reminder of her strength and her bond with Ēbrion, a reminder of who she was and what she was capable of.

A few days later, Aemond stood tall in the grand hall of Dragonstone, making his long-awaited proclamation. The lords and ladies gathered there listened intently as he named the members of his Small Council. There was a palpable sense of anticipation, mingled with a hint of annoyance from some lords who had expected the announcement to come sooner. Yet Maera knew the reason for the delay all too well: Aemond had wanted to give her ample time to reconsider her decision regarding Maester Vaegon. Though she had not changed her mind, she appreciated the gesture.

As the royal decree concluded, attention turned to seven knights, including Maera’s brother, Faran, who stepped forward to take his vows for the Kingsguard. The ceremonial nature of the event demanded solemnity, and Faran knelt before Maera and Aemond alongside his counterparts, his posture rigid with a mixture of pride and lingering anger. His voice, though steady, carried an undercurrent of tension as he pledged his loyalty to his King and the Realm. Maera could see the fire in his eyes, knowing it was fueled by his fury at Aemond for the perceived failures towards his sister.

When the men stood, Faran stepped forward and made a public declaration to be his sister’s sworn sword, a surge of emotion rushing through the Queen at his loyalty and protective instincts. She accepted his vow with a glad heart, even as her thoughts drifted momentarily to Ser Arryk, the faithful knight who had served her so well and was dearly missed. The remains of his body were discovered recently on the island in a grave, placed beside his twin brother, Ser Erryk, a loyal knight to Rhaenyra. The pain of his loss was still fresh, and she knew that Faran had a daunting legacy to live up to.

The noble Houses began to depart from Dragonstone, their banners fluttering in the breeze as they filed out of the grand hall. However, the lords who had been chosen for the Small Council remained at the castle, their presence a testament to their continued commitment and their work far from over.

As the hall emptied, council members and all, House Wylde lingered behind, and Luthor stood at their side. They had come to say a more personal goodbye to their sister. Maera felt a pang of both pride and sadness as she embraced each member of her small House. Her siblings and cousins offered words of encouragement and concern, their faces a mix of relief and worry.

Even Guston, ever the stern eldest brother, received a warm embrace. As she pulled away, he fixed her with a serious look, reminding her once more of her duty to provide Aemond with an heir. Maera bit her tongue, forcing a polite smile as she bade him a simpler goodbye, wishing not to let his words grate on her too much. Each member of her House departed with gifts and trinkets, small tokens of her affection, and gold to ensure they were well taken care of in her absence.

Finally, the Queen approached Luthor. He attempted to bow to his sister, a gesture of respect and formality, but she quickly interrupted him with a hug. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, feeling the strength and warmth of his embrace. “Make sure Princess Jaehaera gets the paints I sent with you,” she whispered to him.

Luthor nodded, his expression softening. “Of course, sister,” he replied before releasing her from the hug. He then placed both hands on her shoulders, his grip firm yet gentle, his voice now lower in volume. “If you need me, send for me. I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

Before Maera could respond, Faran appeared, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why would she need you when she has her strongest brother as her sworn protector?” he said sarcastically, referring to himself.

Luthor rolled his eyes and jabbed Faran in the arm. “Always up your own arse, aren’t you?” he retorted with a grin. The two brothers then hugged each other tightly, their camaraderie evident.

Maera watched them with a smile, feeling a rush of gratitude for the bond they all shared. Despite the distance between them and the weight of their responsibilities now they were adults, their familial connection remained as strong as ever.

“The Queen is strong in her own right and has her own dragon,” another voice declared. The three siblings turned to see Aemond approaching, the Conqueror’s crown glinting on his brow. He settled beside his wife, his presence imposing and undeniable. Maera watched as her brothers exchanged a glance before bowing their heads respectfully.

Aemond placed his arm around Maera’s waist, his fingers flat against the fabric of her dress, his touch burning her with its intensity. “Nevertheless,” he added, “I’m sure my wife will be glad for company if you return to visit, good-brother.” The atmosphere suddenly grew tense, the warmth of familial affection replaced by an awkward silence. Maera shifted uncomfortably under Aemond’s touch, her earlier ease vanishing.

Luthor’s jaw clenched as he stepped forward, his posture unwavering despite being a head shorter than Aemond. His eyes, fierce and unwavering, met the king’s. “Dragon or not, where I come from, we protect our own, regardless of the circumstances,” he said, his voice steady but charged with emotion.

She held her breath, desperate to avoid a confrontation. Maera could feel the tension in the air, the clash of wills between her brother and her husband. Faran, standing slightly behind Luthor, smirked at the scene. He clearly enjoyed seeing his usually controlled brother confront the king, relishing the defiance.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words and underlying tensions. Maera’s heart pounded in her chest, her earlier sense of purpose and strength feeling fragile in the face of this new conflict. She looked up to see The One-Eyed King staring right back at her brother, his gaze steady, his expression inscrutable. She gently pressed her hand against Aemond’s arm, a silent plea for restraint. He did not look at her, but nor did he retaliate

Luthor looked Aemond up and down, his expression one of barely concealed disgust. “If a dragon cannot protect my sister, then he is no dragon at all,” he stated with finality, his voice echoing through the hall. With that, he turned and left the room, his steps echoing off the stone walls. Faran quickly followed after him, throwing a smirk over his shoulder before disappearing with the crowd through the doorway.

Maera and Aemond were left alone in the grand hall, the silence that followed heavy with unresolved tension. Aemond’s face remained stoic, but Maera could see the flicker of something unreadable in his eye. She sighed softly before removing herself from her husband’s grip, her mind swirling with the weight of her brothers’ words.

The Queen rubbed her temples, trying to alleviate the stress that had settled like a heavy fog after the encounter with her brothers. Behind her, Aemond's voice broke through the tension, his tone dry as he muttered, "I do not think he was talking about your mount."

She raised an eyebrow at him, annoyance flaring briefly in her green eyes. The King stood with his arms folded across his broad chest, a posture both protective and defiant. "Between Faran and Luthor, the latter was always more… collected," he added, his lips twitching into a slight smirk, a hint of amusement breaking through the heaviness of the moment.

Maera’s gaze drifted downward to her left side, where a familiar throb radiated through her thigh. Her fingers traced the fabric covering her left arm, memories of pain and sorrow etched into her skin. “They saw my scars,” she confessed quietly. “Whilst I was feeding Aemara.”

When she looked up at Aemond, his brows furrowed slightly, concern flashing in his single violet eye. He shifted his weight, avoiding her gaze for a moment before asking softly, “What did you tell them?”

Maera shook her head, a bitter scoff escaping her lips as she replied, “Basically nothing. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway, had I revealed the truth of it.” Aemond’s gaze met hers again, his expression a mixture of curiosity and worry. In a firmer tone, Maera added, “Nor would you be standing there.”

A tense silence filled the hall, broken only by the howling wind that whipped through the ancient stone pillars. The weight of unspoken words hung heavily in the air, pressing down on Maera as she stood there with her husband. Aemond, her husband, her child’s father, her King, stared at her with such intensity that she could not help but look away, unable to meet the fierce gaze of his single violet eye.

Looking towards the stone floor, the crown on her head felt heavy, its beautiful refinery of rubies and sapphires encrusted in Valyrian steel an unnatural burden. Yet her husband bore his own crown with an ease that seemed almost cruel.

The Conqueror’s crown, resting upon his brow, looked as though it had always belonged there. The horror and turmoil that had brought them to this point, the deaths of their family members, the strain on their marriage, did not outwardly seem to crumble him.

The Queen walked toward the window, her footsteps echoing softly in the vast hall. She looked out to the sea, her gaze drifting across the bay to King’s Landing, now shrouded in a thick mist. The city, once a symbol of their power, was now under the control of their enemy. The sight filled her with dread and a deep-seated fear for her dear friend Helaena, trapped in the web of their foes.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the dark thoughts, and shifted her gaze to the vast expanse of the sea. The horizon stretched endlessly before her, with no sight of land as far as she could see. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocky shores was loud and thundering, a welcome distraction from the current moment.

Behind her, she heard Aemond’s footsteps approaching, each one slow and steady, stopping a few feet away. She ignored him, her focus fixed on the turbulent waters below. His voice broke the silence, smooth and quiet, speaking in their native tongue. “Skoros nyke gōntan…rūnagon ziry issa. Tubis se bantis.” What I did…it haunts me. Day and night.

Maera did not turn to look at him, the anger and hurt still raw within her. She kept her eyes on the sea, letting the sound of the waves drown out her turmoil. Aemond took another step forward, close enough for her to feel his presence but not touching her. “Si jāhor nyke umbagon glaeson issa gaomagon jorepna, dohaertan, nūmāzma lo mērī gīda ezīmos hen issa ao shijetra.” And I will spend the rest of my life begging, toiling, if it meant even only a small part of you forgave me.

She turned to look at him, her back pressed against the cold ledge of the window. Aemond remained rooted to his spot, his eye searching her face with an intensity that was hard to ignore. There was something about him speaking High Valyrian that sounded more sincere, a depth to the words that the common tongue could not capture. They were not merely spat out in an attempt to save his own skin; they were carefully chosen and felt meaningful, genuine. She decided to try the same.

“Bona iksos sōptan shijetra mirre bē; ziry arliñagon tubis naejot tubis,” That’s the funny thing about forgiveness; it changes day to day, she began. Aemond frowned slightly, a shadow of confusion crossing his face. She continued,“Mirri tubissa ziry vestragon raqagon nykeā tolmiot, sambrar rūni, ēdrurys. Dōrī ziry massitas rȳ. Kostagon dīnagon naejot, rūsīr lyks se rȳ kirimves se glaeson īlon mazvēttan emagon. Biare.”Some days it seems like a distant foggy memory, like a dream. Like it never happened at all. And I can move on, feeling content and at peace with the life we’ve built. Happy, even.

Aemond’s lips curved into a slight, hopeful smile. But Maera quickly frowned, dampening his brief moment of relief. “Tolie,” Other days, she added, her voice tinged with pain, “skori nyke jurnegon isse urnen se ōdria rōdan, nykeā hīghagon bē ēdrutan tolī maegi vīlīptan ēdrugon isse…vēdros jeme nyke toliot arlī.” When I look in the mirror and see those horrific scars, or I wake up screaming after fighting with the witch in my dreams…I hate you all over again.

The hurt in Aemond’s eye was palpable, a raw wound laid bare. Maera’s own face mirrored his pain, a sadness reflecting the cruelty of the truth she had just spoken. It felt harsh but necessary.“Kuno nykeā tubis iksos tubī.” Today is one of those days.

Their marriage would take time to be restored. Maera knew this. It was not a matter of snapping fingers and everything falling back into place. But she was determined. Her marriage would at least be civil, for the sake of the Realm, for the sake of their daughter. As for her feelings from long ago, the love she once bore for him—it did not matter now… right?

Holding his gaze, Maera felt a flicker of the determination she needed. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumb tracing the scar on his cheek as she took in every detail of his handsome, sharp-featured face. The familiar line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, and the sharpness of his cheekbones were all etched into her memory. As she touched him, Aemond reached up and gripped her hand immediately, holding it in place as if never wanting to let her go.

Her forest green eyes met his violet one, and she swore she could see an unshed tear glistening in the depths of his gaze. Fate or not, they were bound, and always would be. She granted him a sad smile and whispered, “Keligon daor sylutan,” Do not stop trying.

With a heavy heart, she withdrew her hand from his face and began to walk away. Each step felt like a weight, her resolve mingled with sorrow. But then, his voice called out, strong and filled with determination, “Keligon dōrī jāhor nyke sylugon ao syt.” I will never stop trying for you.

Something about his words stopped her in her tracks. Her heart pounded wildly, her breath caught in her throat. She turned to look at him, and in that moment, she saw not only the King he had become, but also the boy he once was—her childhood friend, her love. His expression was raw, a mixture of vulnerability and steadfast resolve that stirred something deep within her.

Her resolve wavered, caught between the ghosts of their past and the daunting reality of their present. Her feet carried her forward before she could stop herself, closing the distance between them in a few swift strides. She reached up, tangling her fingers in his silver strands, and pulled him down, crashing her lips to his.

He kissed her back with equal fervor, his hands coming up to cup her face, his thumb caressing her cheek. The skin was callused from his training with the sword, but felt gentle against her skin, igniting a warmth between her legs, a warmth only he could create within her.

His tongue swiped her bottom lip, a question, asking permission, to which she gladly granted, opening her mouth and allowing his tongue to taste her, the wet muscles rubbing against each other after being parted for so long. Aemond bit against her bottom lip, causing her to hiss at the sting. Maera’s fingers instinctively tightened at the roots of his hair, pulling slightly, eliciting a low growl from deep within his chest.

She struggled to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her ears. One of her hands dropped to find purchase on his chest, her fingernails digging into the fabric of his black and green robes. The Queen felt a hand on her hip, gripping her with a bruising strength, pulling her flush against him, their bodies melding together as if they were one. She could feel the swell of his cock pressing against the seams of her dress, prompting a slick to form between her thighs and causing the wall of her resolve to crumble brick by brick.

The moment felt right, an intoxicating blend of passion and intimacy as they were tangled up together. Maera could feel the warmth radiating between them, a comfort that she longed for amid the chaos of their lives. As much as she wanted to let it consume her, she knew she could not. The lingering effects of her recent childbed still weighed heavily on her body, a constant reminder that anything beyond this kiss would bring her great harm.

Reluctantly, she pulled away, though Aemond's lips followed her, pressing softly against her cheek before descending down the curve of her neck. The sensation sent a shiver down her spine, and she gasped, the softness of his mouth against her skin momentarily clouding her judgment. It felt heavenly, almost ethereal, but she forced herself to remember the boundaries she needed to uphold. This could not go further.

With a sudden rush of clarity, she pushed him away, her hands firmly on his chest. Aemond stumbled backward, surprise flickering in his violet eye as they locked gazes. Both of them breathed heavily, the air between them thick with unspoken words, their cheeks flushed from both the heat of the kiss and the unexpected intensity of the moment.

Maera reached up to her head, her fingers finding the crown that had slipped askew during their passionate exchange. Straightening it, she felt the weight of her duties settle back upon her shoulders. Turning on her heel, she walked away, leaving Aemond standing in the hall, a mixture of longing and confusion etched across his features. As she touched her swollen lips with a smile, she felt no regret. Instead, it was a reminder of the connection they still shared, a flicker of hope amidst their uncertain future.

Notes: our big blue boy is back 💙 and we’re getting closer to Aemond and Maera being friends again. And we know what comes with that 😏 also posting this a day early because I need some joy in my life today 🖤

Tags: @0eessirk8 @magicseahorse @blue-serendipity @abecerra611 @saltedcaramelpretzel @marvelescvpe @watercolorskyy @shesjustanothergeek @thelastemzy @kckt88 @darylandbethfanforever9

Thank you so much for reading! Comments, feedback, likes, and reblogs are greatly appreciated 🖤

[goatgoatgoat7778]

Another slugcat, based very much on this absolutely banger post.

His name is Scratch and due to his greedy and selfish nature, his karma is locked at 4 (so he’s hungry all the time, basically). Because he kept eating way more than he needed, he was kicked out of his colony; he moved to the Shaded Citadel since he can see in the dark. He’s not very sociable, and can be inadvertently rude (especially when demanding that the overseers point him toward the food). He doesn’t mean to be rude- he’s just a bit hangry lol. I’m sure he has a softer side. Somewhere...

Minor Change: I changed the food meter so that he's essentially always in a starvation cycle. I know it's just a game mechanic and doesn't really mean anything here, but I just think it's fitting.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Demon!Azriel x reader: Teeth and Talons - Chapter 11

Warnings: murder, general death, Azriel, gore

Word Count: 3,549

-Part 10-

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It’s been simmering away long before he turned you. Maybe even before he met you. Bubbling and festering deep in the marrow of your bones, suppressed and denied over and over until it became something awful and ugly, untameable and unstoppable once it’s leash finally snapped. Wreaking devastation with wide-grinning teeth, talons that snicker-snack through flesh, crushing corpses beneath its leather covered paws.

You can feel it cracking open an eye, a slimy, translucent film beneath its lid, opening blearily, fully fledged at last, and ready to wreak havoc on everything around it.

And you know just the place to begin your destruction, how to set the doomsday in motion.

The twisted fucker that got you into this situation in the first place.

—————

It’s been a long time coming, this selfish sense of justice that you need to bring.

How many other women and innocents have they murdered in the name of mild boredom. The devil makes work for the idle, and their palms are softer than cotton. Easier to shred through.

Night hasn’t even fallen when you crawl up the walls of the palace, built in the centre of the citadel, able to see the priestess’ temple from the high crenellations. In a fleeting thought, you wonder what she’d think of your actions, if she’d condemn them or turn a blind eye for the sake of your own suffering. But she won’t be spared either—she should have warned you. Not sat you down over a cup of tea and given out her own simpering story.

Your claws hook over the balcony, effortlessly hauling yourself into the boy-king’s chambers. Take in the gaudy and lavish spread, undeserved opulence at its finest, long past the line of decadence. Nobody needs a golden chamber pot beneath their bed, no matter how well they eat.

Heightened senses pick up the beat of two hearts outside the door, filthily-paid guards positioned at the entrance, and your forked tongue flickers out over dark, rubbery lips. Drool drips onto the floor, but you pay it no mind, snaking silently across the marble before flinging the doors from their hinges. Blood splatters and bone splinters beneath the force, glittering talons making a wretched mess of the spurting bodies, unthreading sinew as you crush their lungs beneath your paw, the steel of their weapons nothing against the raw hide coating leathery limbs. At your back, your tails thrashes, gouging slashes in the stone as spikes slice through marble, putting breaks in the castle that nearly broke you.

Your nostrils flare, picking up the scent of someone young, blood too sour to enjoy laced with the overripe flavour of age. The sag of skin practically a flavour in and of itself as you skitter down the hallway, scrambling up the walls, clambering along the ceiling as you spot a familiar pathway, ones you’d been forced up when you were human. A human woman with bare feet and scrappy clothing, still shot through with remnants of sickness.

The great hall looms before you, and your pulse spikes, screaming for you to loose hell on the people within. Your back arches in a stretch, easing your muscles into working condition, warmed from the earlier blood-bath.

With a flick of your great, thrashing tail, the massive doors cave in, being flung from the frame in a crash of dust and stone. It doesn’t even take a minute before the guards within are splattered upon the pristine walls, dripping blood and viscera onto pretty, marble floors. Staining the stained glass red.

The boy-king screams, a high pitched wail that grates on your ears as you slither through the hall, only to come to a stop at the foot of the dais, watching as an acrid smelling liquid drips from the too-large throne where he’s cowering. Blacked-out eyes flick through the room, but the advisor is no where to be found, fury lighting you ablaze, rage rippling through your soul as magic pulses through the room, shattering the glass, sending bloody fragments raining down on the gardens below.

You hardly feel his tiny bones crack beneath your palm, as simple as squashing a fly—the difference being you’d feel bad about the latter, stealing food from the spider. Hot flesh is crushed into the floor, leaving a mushy pile of indiscernible parts dripping from the throne, iron mixing with ammonia.

Again your nostrils flare, heart pounding with bloodlust as you search for the man who’d sentenced you. Who’d been responsible for casting you out into that forest, beyond reason.

A broken cry sounds from the entrance, and you whip around, rubbery maw sharpening into a grin as you find your meal, held upon narrow, shaky legs that wouldn’t make more than a mouthful. His eyes are round and terror-filled as they take in the hell-beast you’ve become.

Shadows writhe at your wings, crowing them in a corona of darkness, tail thrashing and tearing at stone.

The advisor stumbles back on doddery old legs, stumbling and tripping as he falls on his bony behind, hands scrambling as he frantically pushes back from you, like a baby trying to crawl away. Razor-sharp teeth glitter, kept clean and pristine, waiting to be used.

You prowl forward, excited to take your time stripping his skin from his skeleton, feeling it peel from his flesh. Claws click on the marble floor, ticking like the second hand of a clock as you revel in the rising scent of his terror, so many wonders afforded to you with this new body.

His mouth opens in soundless scream, a wet gasp rasps from dry, old lips, hot breath wheezing from sinking lungs.

You press your paw over his chest, pinning him to the ground as his skeletal hands weakly rub at your fingers, trying to remove the great things from spearing him entirely as they curl into his back, tearing at sagging muscle. You wish you could gloat, could tell him who you are, see if he remembers what he did to you. See if he remembers being the one to suggest leaving you to the devil you’d sold your heart to in order to be cured from the plague.

His eyes are wide and glassy…the old man with already fading hair and wrinkles that swallow his eyes beneath flaps of loose skin.

The memories pour in, the rope biting into your wrists, weakness coating your muscles…eyes as black as the devils. The look alone had been enough to have nausea roiling in your stomach, threatening to upend it right there on the marble floor you’d been shoved to. Eyes that had swallowed you whole—black like you’d never seen black. Dark as pitch.

(alarmingly void, more than anyone’s have any right to be…and lacking in definition. Just one solid layer glazing across the obsidian coloured surface. Depthless.)

Terror-stricken blue eyes stare up at you, watery and weak as they strain and bulge beneath the pressure on his chest.

Ice glazes through your veins, blood freezing over just as a wave of pure power slams into you, throwing you back through the hall.

Your head cracks back against the marble, spine aching from the shockwave and you slide down onto the floor, collapsing behind the throne before slithering back to your feet, snaking down the dais. Eyes locking with cocoa.

There’s a brief moment of sorrow that flashes. It’s hardly noticeable, and passes before you can fully grasp it, but it’s enough for her to slip in.

Elain raises her thyrsus, knocking its base against the floor, a thrumming wave of power gathering in a shield as your talons clack against the stone, warily prowling forward, mouth watering to sink into his flesh. Cocoa flicks through the room, finally taking in the carnage—the blood splatters, and splintered fragments of bone dripping from the dais you’re standing on. The warped and crushed corpse of the young king.

“What have you become?” She breathes vehemently, delicate brow narrowing over cold eyes, shields rising up and locking down, sceptre spinning in her hand as she sets one foot before her, the other behind at five o’clock, pointed outward. A snarl rips from your chest, watching as she takes up a defensive position between you and the exit—between you and the rasping advisor. Between you and your meal.

Before you can think properly, you’re darting forward, faster than a shadow, shooting across the floor as talons crack down on her shield of magic, the staff appearing as a way from her to convert her power into a weapon. Burning rage pounds through your skull, yearning to obliterate as magic gathers at your fingertips, rubbery lips stretching into a grin when it coats your claws, slicing through her barrier.

She’s thrown back in the room, robes skidding through cooling pools of blood until she reaches the threshold of the caved-in doors. Glee beats in your chest as you skitter forward, the sound of leather stretching as your grin widens, showcasing gleaming rows of razor-sharp teeth, ready to rip and shred to your pleasure. The staff has been knocked from her tender hand, and she grapples for it as you scuttle closer, speeding up the closer you get until darkness is building at your back and your wings are flared in a display of dominance, keeping her pinned to the bloody marble with shadows.

Incisors glitter in the light as your jaws part above her, preparing to bite down and end when steel wreathed in fire slides beneath your throat. “Step away from her.”

Eyes flick up, jaw locking as stinging, searing pain lances down your right collar bone, bleeding into your shoulder as your gaze locks with a whirring, mechanical eye. Golden and russet narrows with unforgiving fury, glowing like the flames from a forge as the blistering steel raises in warning before pulling back. Fire sparks across the floor, aiming for your limbs to burn you alive as he spins, making to slice the blade across your throat.

Darkness flares out of nowhere, colliding with rampant and furious fire, and you’re thrown back as another figure joins the fray. One that’s packed with deadly power, great wings wreathing his back as he looms over Lucien.

“Step aside, Azriel,” the male hisses, flame licking up the walls, heat sweltering.

“Put the blade away, and I’ll consider letting you keep your other eye,” he drawls lowly, syllables dragging like gravel from his throat. Fury gathers in the room, settling like oil over your skin, so heavy and greasy you can feel it practically weighing you down.

“Look around,” Lucien snarls, flame deepening with sizzling rage, held in check by a leash of thread. “Your mate has killed dozens of humans, as well as trying to murder mine.” His power flares on that last word, as if instinct is roaring at him to protect but he’s restraining it. “Put. Her. Down.”

Even through your haze of anger, the words clang through, reverberating across leathery skin, hackles raising at the threat.

Azriel shifts on his four great paws, wings flaring menacingly as a snarl rips from his throat, settling between you and the male. “You look after yours and I’ll look after mine,” he growls, darkness taunting flame, building steadily at his back.

A little further behind Lucien, Elain shakily pushes up from the pool of blood, a trembling, pale hand reaching for her staff, brimming with a pale light. With a flick of her wrist, the magic flares, beaming like a spear for the unprotected underside of his throat. Faster than thought, faster than instinct, you’ve shot across the marble, skittering beneath his front left paw, jaws snapping viciously as your own power grates against Elain’s before sending it careening off, gouging marble from the crumbling castle.

Tension ripples as the four of you are locked in on one another, senses keyed to the slightest movement, waiting for the coil to snap so the others can be torn to shreds.

The room explodes in glittering black, razor sharp talons clicking skittishly as power splits your two sides apart, blasting a wall of physical adamant between you, just translucent enough for Elain and Lucien’s figures to be wrought in shadow.

Azriel’s body lowers, both in a bow and in a circle of protection, paw shifting forward to keep you tucked beneath him. Instinctively you follow, curling back into his power, tail pulled tight—ready to lash out.

The darkness simmers away, revealing the tall, powerfully hewn figure of a male. Wickedness practically drips from his finery, raven-black hair pushed neatly back from his brow as sharp violet eyes settle coldly over the scene. A wave of dread ices across your skin, a weight dropping in your belly as you take in the immense power that’s rolling from his shoulders—a god.

Azriel doesn’t so much as breathe different, but his shadows gather beneath you, thick and lush like a rug of black wool, drawing his magic in closer as a circle of protection. A suggestion of defence.

“Azriel.”

The voice is deep and icy, dripping with malice, and the spines at your back prickle. Your own magic weaves through with his shadow, hiding in plain sight but ready to spring free as fear pools in your stomach.

Violet flicks through the room, taking in the splatters of blood, dripping viscera, then his gaze locks with yours. It’s a new kind of fear, you realise, being singled out by a being so much greater than you are, and you shrink away, pushing back into the protective power of the male above you. His stance broadens, covering more of you as great paws settle further apart, braced for sudden movement.

“What happened here?” The god doesn’t remove his attention from Azriel, but it’s clear the question is not addressed to him. The shadowy wall fades entirely, and your gaze shifts to the two figures opposing you, Elain having gotten to her feet, robes soaked in blood, staff gripped dismally in her hand with grim determination.

“Your brother let his mate run free,” Lucien replies lowly, tone like gravel—lined with restraint. “She tried to kill Elain.” Fire brightens before again banking, as if being soothed by the reminder of her presence at his side. Sharp, violet eyes once again cut to you, “is that right?”

You manage a quiet snarl, fear drumming in your pulse, paws shifting like a great cat preparing to pounce. Muscle coils tight with terror at being faced with the god, having his attention settle like ice over skin, preparing to rip away. His sharp eyes narrow on you, and you pull your magic tighter.

Is that right? He repeats, and you recoil into Azriel’s chest, flinching as the god’s voice echoes through your mind. Through your peripherals you can see as a frail body starts to life, gangly limbs trying to heave up his torso as the king’s advisor return to consciousness. Once again you shift on your paws, hissing viciously at the trembling man, blood and vomit coating his front as he takes in the four beasts before him. Five.

“She wouldn’t kill Elain,” Azriel growls from above you, shifting his paw to block your line of sight from the advisor. “I wasn’t asking you,” your god replies coldly, attention pinning you to the ground as violet bores into you. “She won’t be able to speak yet,” Azriel bites out, power thrumming at your paws, curling up your arms, brushing at the leathery hide you’ve been coated in. “She changed less than a week ago.”

“Then why weren’t you watching her?” Lucien growls sharply, eyes blazing.

The god casts a warning glance at the fiery male, but does no more than that, evidently also seeking an answer.

Azriel shifts above you, and you can feel the oiled gears of his mind clicking effortlessly, spinning his information into a silky web. “I was,” he growls, gaze turning to the god appealingly. “You know as well as I do everything is well warded. The only way she could have escaped is if someone let her out.”

“If someone let her out?” Lucien echoes disbelievingly. “Those wards are practically impenetrable. It would be impossible to unlock them from the outside.”

“Lucien’s correct,” the god drawls icily, gaze drifting to Azriel’s, warning glittering in their depths. A timer counting down as his patience begins to fray, the metallic scent heavy in the air. Azriel makes no obvious moves, but you can feel his frustration curving around your bones, wrapping you tight to him.

It seems the god senses his hesitance, pouncing on the second of indecisiveness. “Don’t try and hide things from me,” he bites out coldly, power weighing heavily in the air, so intense it sets your iron stomach churning.

A muscle feathers in Azriel’s jaw, before charcoal eyes raise to violet. “She wasn’t going to make it,” he growls lowly, resentment coating his tongue. “Elain can attest to that.”

Violet flicks to hardened cocoa expectantly, but the priestess is already watching you, peering beneath a strained brow. Her jaw is tight, but she gives a curt nod, fingers still bone white around her staff. “That’s true. We both saw her before,” she answers, gaze briefly meeting Lucien’s. “She was feverish and already going into delirium. It’s unlikely she was going to survive.”

The god’s attention returns to Azriel, the edges of his irises slightly thawed but remaining hard.

“She was going to die,” Azriel repeats, words pulled taut as they leave his tongue. “She had to go through the Pit, or she wouldn’t have survived.” The three figures stiffen preternaturally, colour draining as something cold and awful settles uneasily across the room.

“The wards were likely weakened from residual magic,” he grits out, still keeping you wrapped beneath his shadows, as if trying to keep you hidden from them. “Enough for someone to get through.” You press a little closer into the lines of his body, tension beginning to drip away, releasing its hold on your heart. “They’d already tried to take her once. They thought this would be their chance to get back at me.” Shadows writhe across the marble floor, flaring with concealed rage, fury manifesting in his power.

“You think your brothers caused this?” The god asks slowly, eyes once again touring the room, filled with drying gore. Azriel nods, and you begin pulling slowly at your magic, gathering it close to your skin, preparing to jump.

Tension and fear knots your stomach, twisting in vicious carvings as you keep yourself coiled tight beneath the solid frame of Azriel’s form, keeping pressed tight.

Cold violet flicks over the squashed carcass of the young king, distaste passing through his features. “You’re telling me your brothers created a gap in your wards, and she managed to do all this before you noticed?” The god drawls skeptically, voice clean-cut like glass. Azriel’s talons pierce the marble floor. “She went through the Pit,” he repeats lowly, “she’s much stronger than—”

The advisor starts in your peripherals, body jerking to life as the contents of his stomach is heaved upon the floor.

Your tail cracks like a whip, coil snapping free, splattering pieces of flesh against the already blood-caked windows.

Body obliterated in the blink of an eye, before curling back tight to your paws.

Silence buzzes across the room, four pairs of wide eyes watching as bits of intestine drip from the sill, pooling in a gouged-out puddle in the floor. Almost immediately Azriel’s own tail is curling around you comfortingly, shadows stroking at your sides as if to lull you back into a state of ease, soothing the wild drum of your heartbeat, tail twining with your own.

Cold power raises from the floor, darkness thrumming in warning as tension buzzes in your ears, having them flatten against your head.

“How much blood did you give her?” The god’s tone puts fractures into your bones, like rock grinding against rock, grating on your soul.

“As much as she would take,” Azriel replies quietly, and you feel his attention brushing affectionately over your leathery skin. Silence reigns heavily, stretching out as you huddle back into his power, wanting to escape from the immense power of the god.

“You did what?” Elain breathes, eyes wide as she stares at Azriel, grip tightening on her sceptre. She seems to be the only one of the three capable of formulating a response, something blazing in her eyes. “She was going to die, Elain,” he snarls protectively, body settling closer to you. “Because you neglected her,” she hisses, brown eyes cold and hard as they bore into the male. “You plucked her up out of her life, you refused to properly care for her, you were the one who refused to teach her anything because she wasn’t what you wanted.”

Azriel’s snarl is like thunder breaking across the heavens, marble trembling beneath your claws, and you settle against the sound.

Yet it doesn’t seem to bother the priestess.

“If she was the one who tore all these people to shreds,” she breathes, pale blue light blazing from her staff. “It is because you put that anger into her.”

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @amygdtjhddzvb @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut

[cookie-kisses]

Yo can I request a platonic friendship Headcannon of Dark cacao cookie meeting the reincarnate of one of the dragons he had defeated in his past but instead of coming back with a vengeance they came back to thank them for ending the many day long battle with their sibling and/or enemy and offered to become a protector of the kingdom.

Dark Cacao Cookie x Dragon! Reincarnated! Reader Headcanons. (Platonic)

Dark Cacao was initially taken aback by your proposition, albeit his face stone cold. He didn’t expect a reincarnate of a dragon he’s slain before him, let alone a grateful one.

You expressed your gratitude towards the king, thankful as death was a great mercy. No longer filled with bitterness from your past life, wishing to serve and protect along side him with pride.

He accepted.

Your new body was quite weak compared to your previous one, but strong nonetheless. Along with your strength and wisdom from your previous life, you were an unstoppable force, and one of the best warriors in the kingdom.

You sparred with the other watchers and warriors, but always swept the floor, leaving them face down in the cold snow. (Occasionally you’d deck someone too hard and land them in the infirmary, sorry Crunchy Chip Cookie.) Dark Cacao Cookie watched you from afar during your battles, noting your immense strength.

Soon you found yourself to be Dark Cacao’s “sparring buddy.” You might’ve been reincarnated into your new body, but you swear you’ve felt feral instincts flare up whenever you sparred with him. Perhaps it was the sparring, or maybe it was your instincts from a past life, but the adrenaline rush was always unbeatable. You found joy when you fought with him, Dark Cacao took pride in being able to strengthen you as a warrior.

You gained the Black Citadel’s respect, including the king, from your immense strength and power you brought to the battlefield. Occasionally you’d receive a nod from the watchers as you walked by. You were known for your battles and strength.

However, there was softer (and slightly mischievous) side to your friendship. Gradually, you found yourself gravitating towards Dark Cacao. There was an odd comfort you found around him.

When you weren’t sparring with him, you’d occasionally sneak into his office and take some of his things. Minute things like pens, pencils, brushes, and even clothes. You did this partially to annoy him and partially because dragons like hogging treasure and anything they deem “valuable.” If he owned it, you wanted it. His fluffy cape isn’t off limits either, the challenge of nabbing it while he’s wearing it making it more rewarding.

Unimpressed with your behavior, Dark Cacao often lectured you about taking his belongings with a stern face. Albeit annoyed by your antics, he couldn’t help but find it just slightly amusing and endearing as well. Part of him enjoy it, even. However he couldn’t have you taking his cape. Dark Cacao eventually gifted you a replica of his cape as a compromise. You were giddy when you received it.

Despite being an annoyance, Dark Cacao Cookie grew quite fond of you. You are so much more than just your strength to Dark Cacao. You’re a loyal ally and companion. You’re his friend. that wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

💋

~Cookie-Kisses

[kellyvela]

I don't remember a report from here or anywhere else where Marin talked about how he chose the names and then one where he talked about how the names were repeated the same way because of the number of characters xd, I don't know if you can find it in advance, thank you very much

GRRM about characters names:

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BHW: How did you come up with the names for Song of Ice and Fire ? Martin: I picked names from a baby book. Actually, the names in Song of Ice and Fire were something I devoted a fair amount of thought to. I violated a fair amount of rules that they teach you when you are a young writer. When I was younger, I tried not to violate them: Never have two characters in a story whose names start with the same letter; people will get confused. Certainly never have two characters with the same name because people will get really confused. I knew the first rule wasn't going to work because after the first chapter I had more than 26 characters and you don't want a lot of X and Q names running around. I read a lot of medieval history in preparation for this series. I encountered English histories and the names are all Henrys and Edwards. In French history it is all Louies and Philips. Even the secondary families are using the same names over and over again. There were particular names associated with particular houses. I decided to do that-to hell with the rules. The readers can pay attention. I even have characters occasionally get confused about which Brandon is being talked about. I felt this gave the world more verisimilitude. Our world-even our modern world-is filled with Davids, Stevens, and Brians. How do you keep them straight? You can use the same techniques for the book. [Source]

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The names Arya and Sansa are meant to represent the polar opposites of their characters, Arya being a hard sounding name, Sansa a softer more pretty name, etc.

[Source]

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Arya, I say it ar-ya, two syllables, not three, not a-ri-a, like an operatic thing, but Arya, very sharp. I wanted something that was like a knife, that was sharp and hard sound, to be a contrast to the flowery Sansa.

[Source]

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Source [x]

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Robert W. Chambers, one of GRRM favorite authors, has a character named Sansa in his book The Slayer of Souls.

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Hope this helps!

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Be Nice

Read on Ao3

Warnings: bullying, teasing, even though they don't mean it.

Pairings: merthur

Word Count: 6181

It shouldn't be a surprise, really, if the knights think punching each other in the arm is a viable and efficient way of cheering each other up, that they also think insulting each other is a perfectly good way to show affection. Insults are compliments, threats are reassurances, and actual bodily harm is considered good manners or at the very least the mark of genuine companionship. Basically, take everything Merlin's ever been taught about how you actually treat the people you care about and flip it on its head, because stars know that if any one of these men actually behave as though being nice won't incinerate them, the world will actually end.

Alright, maybe he's being a bit harsh.

But he's had a long few days saving the entirety of Camelot all by his-own-bloody-self, he's entitled to throw a bit of a fit when he gets shoved too harshly into the side of the stable under the guise of 'friendly greetings.' And it's not like the knights are doing it on purpose—except when they are, which they absolutely do, they have days where it seems like they all passed around a note that says today's one of those days, boys, make Merlin's life a living hell for no reason other than our enjoyment! He swears he's going to invent some kind of spell that lets him know when those days are so he can sit himself in Gaius's chambers and just stay there for all eternity. Or at least until they shake themselves out of it.

And fine, it's not as though he's never known softer kindness from them. Percival shoves and claps and punches, but he's also helped Merlin with the heavier chores and—not that Merlin would ever admit this—carried him when he's overexerted himself to somewhere safer. Elyan is an older brother, and older bother if he commiserates with Gwen, but he's not all bad when he's being protective or complimentary. Gwaine is…Gwaine, which means he commits himself wholeheartedly to whatever he's doing, be that teasing Merlin until his face is about to explode or making sure he's calming down when something really bad happens. Lancelot—listen, the main problem with Lancelot is that he keeps making this sly little face that's all you could stop us, Merlin, you could, but will you? As if he doesn't know damn well that it would go very badly if he actually did do anything. Leon is secretly a menace because he sees everything. And Arthur…

Well. Arthur's Arthur.

Look, the point is that Merlin knows he's being dramatic sometimes, really, he's self-aware enough to admit it, but sometimes…

Sometimes it feels like he's not being dramatic enough.

It's definitely one of those days. One of those days where he walks down to the courtyard with Arthur and all the knights are grinning up at them and he knows, he just knows that today he's going to be teased and pushed around and have pranks and jokes played on him every chance they get. Admittedly, with the amount of courtly stress the kingdom has been under, it's the same reason why they're going on this hunt in the first place; to give them all a break from the pressures of being in the citadel, to let them actually have a chance to relax without worrying about courtesy or diplomacy or any of that nonsense. It makes sense, Merlin's oddly grateful for the chance they have…

He just wishes he weren't about to be the chew toy for it, you see?

It starts almost as soon as they leave the walls of the city behind.

"Merlin," Gwaine calls and Merlin's shoulders immediately tense, "when's the last time you actually caught something on one of these?"

No. No, absolutely not. I am not engaging. "The last hunt we went on was three months ago."

"That's not what he asked," Percival says—oh, he's also starting early, "he asked when you caught something."

"Does a cold count?" Elyan asks and the knights start laughing. Merlin just adjusts his reins and his horse nickers.

"Come on," Gwaine cajoles when the first wave of laughter dies down, "do you want us to show you how it's done?"

"I've tried teaching him since he first arrived," Arthur calls out, "he's utterly useless at it. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he was forgetting everything on purpose."

"Well, with how much he has to remember to keep Princess satisfied, then—" Gwaine grins— "maybe it's a good thing he doesn't know how to hunt."

What does that even mean?

"Don't worry, Merlin," Elyan says with false sympathy as he brings his horse alongside, "we didn't bring you out here because you're good at hunting."

"That's right," Percival agrees, "best thing you can use on a fine hunt is a fine flush hound."

Despite all his instincts that tell him not to feed whatever mood they're in, his curiosity takes over. "What's a flush hound?"

He hears Arthur groan and Elyan snorts, and oddly enough, it's Leon who clears his throat and says: "A flush hound pushes the game out into the open where the hunters can see it."

He opens his mouth to ask why exactly he would be good at that when his horse steps on a rock wrong and he nearly falls off as he crashes into a nearby tree branch, making a wild grab for the saddle as a chorus of birds take off screeching into the sky. A lurch in his stomach and a mortifying yelp accompany the guffawing and cackling of the knights as his horse struggles to right itself and he emerges from the tangle of twigs and leaves with scratches all the way down his cheeks and arms.

"See," Gwaine crows triumphantly, "where else are we going to find a natural talent like that?"

Merlin ducks his head under the guise of making sure his horse is alright, running his hand over her face and neck that he can reach. Her mane rubs coarsely against his fingertips as he tries to swallow the pang of hurt as they keep laughing. His horse nickers back a moment later and he makes himself sit upright.

"Well, then if I'm so good at it," he says, "then it's a wonder you've not had much success over the last few hunts."

"Don't be so sure of yourself," and suddenly there's the familiar condescending voice from Arthur, "just because you've got some natural talent doesn't mean you don't have room for improvement."

"After all, it's as much about making sure you're in the right place as it is about making a fool of yourself."

"And we all know you're excellent at that."

And they're laughing again. Merlin's hands tighten on the reins. Is it just him, or are their barbs a little extra pointed today? Has he done something recently? He doesn't think so; he's just been, oh, saving the kingdom, like usual. Half out of reflex, half out of desperation, he glances over at Lancelot.

Come on, just—give me something. Say something, make a joke at one of them instead.

But no, Lancelot smiles wider and motions for him to turn around. Merlin does—

And almost runs face-first into another tree branch that Arthur 'happened' to pull back to swing in Merlin's direction. He just manages to dodge it, only receiving another swipe to the cheek.

"Careful," Arthur fake-scolds, "I know you're eager to show off, Merlin, but there's a time and a place. Don't know if you remember that about hunting."

"Maybe running into all those tree branches makes it difficult," Elyan suggests, and yes, there they go, laughing again.

It's not that funny.

Luckily or unluckily for Merlin, he's not quite sure which, they actually do find some game to hunt. Or rather, they find something they think they can hunt, and they start to actually behave like men who are on a hunt, not young and rude boys out to poke fun at someone who's supposed to be their friend. Grateful for the reprieve, Merlin quietly steers his horse to the back of the group, where him and his loud, rambunctious self won't be a distraction. Leon passes him one of the spare saddlebags and the reins of his horse, silently sliding off and into a crouched stance. Merlin fastens the reins to his saddle and lets the other horse draw up alongside, patting its neck.

But perhaps he's spoken too soon about them behaving like men rather than boys, because as soon as all the other knights see Leon doing the cool thing of hunting on foot rather than on horseback, they all immediately slide off their horses and start leading them towards Merlin, who is still on a horse and very much does not have the capability to suddenly be in charge of several horses.

"What are you—"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur hisses, frowning at him until he slides off his horse too, "now stay here and stay quiet. Now's not the time for you to be flushing anything."

"Don't pout," Gwaine says when Merlin opens his mouth to protest very reasonably, thank you, he is not pouting, "I'm sure you'll get your chance soon enough."

"They're close," Elyan whispers before Merlin can ask just how, exactly, he's supposed to keep all the horses organized and follow them and keep quiet all at once, "I can hear about…three sets of footsteps."

"Deer?"

"Most likely."

"We'll have venison for dinner, then."

Merlin's heart sinks when he realizes just how long of an evening this is going to be.

He gives up fairly quickly—alright, immediately on staying with them. Instead, he and the horses make a very suitable area for themselves in one of the larger clearings. He loosens their saddles and takes the bits from their mouths so they can have a bite to eat. He makes sure to check his horse's hoof; that rock must've hurt quite a bit, better to make sure it isn't stuck in there, after all. The leaves rustle cheerily overhead as a gust of wind blows through. The scent of fresh, clean water comes with it—there must be a river of some sorts nearby. That might be nice for them, some fresh water to drink. Best not stray too far from here, though, not when who knows where the 'hunters' are eventually going to end up.

He sits down near one of the tree trunks and is just on the verge of making himself comfortable when all of a sudden, something crashes out of the brush to his right and he has just enough time to scramble to his feet before the deer falls down dead in front of him.

"Would you look at that," comes Percival's voice from very far away, "it's almost like he knew where it would run."

Merlin can't tear his eyes away from the deer on the ground, not until one of the horses snuffles and nudges his arm. Then he lifts one hand to blindly pat its face and turns to look at the knights who spill triumphantly into the clearing.

"Wonder of wonders," Arthur says, coming up to clap him on the shoulder, "maybe you aren't completely useless after all."

The words lodge in some soft part of Merlin's chest and he clenches his jaw. "You didn't have to kill it."

"It's a hunt, Merlin," Arthur says slowly, as though he's talking to a child, "that's what a hunt is for."

"It wasn't hurting anyone."

"It's a deer," he scoffs, "it's not going to do much of anything except run into things."

"Not true," Gwaine says from where he's already carving the poor thing, "it'll fill our bellies tonight and that is a worthy cause if I've ever heard one."

"You'd consider anything a worthy cause if it got you bread and wine," Lancelot points out and they all start laughing again. The horse snuffles his hand again and he turns away, patting its nose and sparing one more thought for the deer, who at the very least was put out of its misery quickly.

If he thought it would be over when they started to camp for the night, he was terribly and miserably wrong.

First he wasn't moving fast enough. Then he was doing it wrong. Then he wasn't doing enough. Then there were things he kept forgetting. Then they noticed he wasn't talking very much and he was too soft-hearted, mourning for a stupid deer. Arthur's favorite insult of girl's petticoat made an appearance, followed by Gwaine's infamous innuendoes of—oh, who bloody cares, it's not like he's paying much attention at this point.

Maybe it's the fact that they've all not let off steam for too long. Maybe Merlin's been too busy saving Camelot and his tolerance of them has worn low. Maybe they're all in an especially cruel mood today and they don't realize it. Maybe Merlin's just worn himself a little too ragged and this thing that's supposed to be their chance to all relax just isn't how Merlin would choose to do that at all.

Whatever the reason, the armor that Merlin thought he had against the knights has abandoned him. Every word, every look, every laugh hits him like an arrow or a punch, lodging deep in his flesh and hurting. It doesn't matter where he goes, what he does, even when he gives into his cowardly instincts—Arthur's already called him a coward at least half a dozen times in the last ten minutes, he might as well give in and be a coward—and hides behind one of the horses, he still can't escape from it. His body truly starts to ache, starts to flush and burn and he's too hot and he's too cold and he's angry, so angry, because they're hurting him and they don't care, they just don't care.

There comes a point where enough is enough.

"Say, Merlin—" Percival tugs his sleeve a little too hard and Merlin has to steady himself before he falls over— "whoa! Easy!"

"It's a wonder we didn't mistake you for the deer," Elyan jokes, "you're wobbling around like you don't know what your legs are for."

He didn't mean it like this, but Merlin's mind fills with smoke and the sound of blades clashing over a rising chant of burn the sorcerer and he flinches. Hard.

"Be nice to him," Lancelot scolds, and Merlin's heart leaps with hope— "you know fawns are the most skittish of all."

His hands tighten until his knuckles turn white and he sets his jaw, determined to put all the bowls down and sit and actually rest for once. He manages to make it halfway across the campsite and almost to the fire to bend down and—

"Maybe you should train with us a bit more," Percival suggests, "then you could keep up more often."

Merlin doesn't even need to turn around to know that Arthur's sitting up with a fiendish grin on his face.

"Oh, he hasn't told you? I'm surprised, I would've thought they would have by now."

"Told me what?"

Not a damn thing, you prat, now shut the hell up.

"Merlin used to be Princess's training dummy," Gwaine says helpfully, and how the hell does he know about it and he hasn't told Percival? "Used to wear the padding, the helmet, everything but the straw. Bet that suited you better than the armor did, ey, Merlin?"

Merlin doesn't say anything.

"I'd have preferred a proper training dummy," Arthur snorts, and there comes the rustling of leaves as he must lean back, "at least it wouldn't have flinched every time I so much as raised my sword."

I was brand new to Camelot. I'd come to see one of my kind get executed on my first day. You had tried to kill me already and I had saved your life. You swung swords at me and I didn't know what to do.

"But hand to hand, surely," Percival says, "that must have been better?"

"Oh, no, I know this one," Elyan says, and how does he—Gwen. Gwen must have told him— "what was it, three times in as many minutes that he ended up face-first into a cowpie?"

"I can't take credit for all of them—"

"But you will."

"No, no, some credit must go to Merlin for being the clumsiest sod I've ever laid eyes on."

He flinches again and the bowls clatter to the ground.

"See?"

That does it.

Without bothering to pick up the pot, he stoops down and picks up the bowls, fumbling around to free his horse from its tether and walking off. The knights' laughter rings in the trees behind him as he ventures further and further away from the light of the campfire. The wind stings the open cuts on his face and arms. His horse brushes against him. He keeps going, not caring that the shadows start to gather around his feet as they pick their way toward the river.

He remembers those first days. Those days where it felt like Arthur was always on the verge of having him arrested, or having him thrown out for no reason, or something. Where every time he ventured outside it felt like it was punishment for something he'd done, when swords and maces and spears would be flung at him without regard for the fact that he was a living, breathing person with feelings and that he would be hurt, and then he'd go stumbling off to Gaius still hearing the clangs and wobbling from the impact and then Gaius would laugh at him too. Why was everyone always laughing at him?

They laughed at him when Arthur decided that he needed to be trained 'for his own good' too. Never mind that he could do far more impressive things and far more effective things than swing a bloody sword, no, Arthur dressed him up in that stupid bloody armor and had all the knights and squires have a go at him. He'd been pushed to the ground, hit, punched, kicked, pinned, humiliated and every time there was Arthur, either looking incredibly disappointed or trying and failing to hide a smirk. Then he'd tell him to get up so they could go again.

They reach the river.

His horse nickers gently, pulling the lead through Merlin's hands to stretch its neck down for a long drink. Merlin looks at the bowls piled haphazardly in his other hand and slowly sets them down on a nearby rock before he sinks to the ground, wrapping his arms around his knees and setting his chin atop them to watch the water. Some of the last of the sunlight still sparkles off its ripples as it flows downstream.

See? This, this, this is all he wanted. He wanted to go and be in the woods and just breathe. Just watch the water, listen to the sound of the breeze, not to murder some animal that wasn't doing anything and make a loud ruckus and all of that. He didn't want to be surrounded by insults and laughter, he just—he just—

Oh, Merlin realizes faintly as the horse turns to bump its damp nose against his hand, I'm crying.

Of course, as soon as he realizes that, he starts to sniffle in earnest, his nose quickly making a mess of his trousers as his horse snuffles at his hand. He shuffles a little closer, leaning against its side, as it goes back to drinking. He closes his eyes and turns his face into the warmth. He ignores the slight sting against the still-open cuts.

Why had they been so cruel today? Was he—he wasn't that useless and clumsy, was he? He never tries to be, he just—it just happens sometimes, it's not as though he can keep complete control over himself all the time, not when he has to work so hard to constantly keep his magic in and hidden and unseen and it's hard, it's just hard sometimes and it's not fair. It's not fair that they get to prance around and make nuisances of themselves and when he doesn't do anything, they insult him for it. It's not fair that they get to poke fun at him all the time for things that he has no control over. It's not fair that they get to pick the things to do and he just has to go along with it.

And it's especially not fair that they don't notice how much they really, actually hurt him.

Perhaps that's the worst part of all of this, he decides as he sniffles again, it's that he doesn't think they realize how hurtful some of the things they say actually are. He doesn't have the same sort of hurt-people's-feelings-and-get-away-with-it that they do, he doesn't have this I'm-going-to-be-mean-on-purpose instinct. He doesn't have the ability that they all have to trade blows and take it and laugh it off. He spits back at them because he can't do anything else sometimes, and then he's beaten down again. He knows he's not a knight, he knows he's just a servant but they don't—do they have to make him feel like he's less when there's no one else around too?

It hurts. Everything hurts.

Maybe he should just stay here. Here, by the river, where the sunset was soft and golden and the horse was firm and solid and the air smelled slightly sweet, like flowers that had just past their prime. No one would be mean to him here, no one would shame him for being upset, he could cry and it would be alright if he did that. He's been accused of being far more than just clumsy and useless today, after all, he might as well indulge the parts of him they would gladly spear and roast over the campfire.

He flinches at his own metaphor, startling the horse slightly until it rubs its nose against his hand again. He fumbles to pat it carefully in silent apology and it lets out a worried noise, nosing at his head too. He sniffles and lets it nibble his hair, its breath warming the top of his head until it grows bored and goes to drink again. He keeps his hand on its leg, stroking the strong muscle with his fingers. Out of habit, he finds himself picking out little bits of twig and brush, cleaning the worst of the detritus away with quick little motions as the horse shifts its weight back and forth. He finds a slightly rough patch and scruffs at it with his fingernails until the horse's coat is smooth again. It snorts in thanks.

See, he thinks again, what's so bad about this? Why is it so bad to be kind in an uncomplicated way? Why can't you just be kind for the sake of being kind, without having to disguise it?

Should he have swatted the horse and mocked it for its matted coat? Should he have shoved it this way and that in lieu of a proper grooming? Should he have laughed at it when it stumbled and hurt its leg on a rock it couldn't have seen before it was already too late? What purpose did any of that serve? Why would he want to make it seem like he would only hurt the horse when all he wanted to do was be kind?

With a courage he does not feel, he closes his eyes and wraps his arms back around himself, trying to find the scared, hurt horse in his own chest and reach out to it too.

Why are you being unkind to me, that part of him sniffles, why are you hurting me? What did I do to deserve being hurt by you? Why are you taking pleasure in hurting me?

I don't know, says another part, I don't know.

Make it stop. I don't like this, it hurts. You're hurting me. Please, make it stop.

A rock clatters behind him.

In an instant, he whirls around, trying to see what managed to sneak up on him, but in his haste he overbalances and is about to fall into the river—

A hand grabs the front of his tunic, catching him before he drenches himself. Panting, Merlin stares up at Leon, who looks just as surprised as he, his hand still fisted in the thin material of Merlin's front. He raises his other hand, palm open in a signal of sincerity, before he slowly reaches forward and tugs Merlin back to safety.

"Are you alright?"

The fear of falling into the river dwindles, swiftly replaced by a growing anger at being caught off guard again, at almost falling in and needing to be saved, and at himself for not noticing Leon's approach. He twists Leon's hand none-too-gently out of his tunic, setting his jaw and deliberately turning away. "Thanks."

Leon gives a non-committal hum. For a moment, Merlin thinks he's going to leave, or at the very least, do whatever it was that he was going to do when he came here that wasn't cause-and-prevent-Merlin-falling-in-river, but then the still-dirty bowls are being moved further away and Leon is crouching next to him on the bank of the river. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees him take something from a pouch on his belt, remove his gloves and dip something in the river.

When callused hands reach for him, he contemplates pulling away, saying no, even snapping at them—if they're going to insist he's a hound, he'll damn well act like one—but before he can decide what to do, the dry warmth of Leon's hand is turning his chin and then something soft and damp is dabbing over the cuts on his face. With the soft and steady patience that only he has, Leon tends to the open wounds without saying a word, his free hand gentle on Merlin's chin and shoulders to hold him in the right place to reach all of the right places without straining either of them. He keeps his eyes on his hands as he works, the smallest wrinkle between his brows the only indicator that something's upsetting him. Is he upset? Why is he here? Merlin hasn't been gone that long, has he?

The cloth rubs too harshly against one of the cuts and Merlin flinches, a quiet whimper emerging into the still air. Immediately he wants to claw it back into his throat, but Leon doesn't smirk, doesn't tease, doesn't do any of that. Instead he takes the cloth away and leans closer, blowing cool air over the raw and reddened skin until the ache is soothed. The tenderness of the gesture causes tears to spring to the corner of his eyes and to his absolute horror, he sniffles.

Leon pulls the cloth away but his other hand remains, thumb carefully stroking the unblemished skin of Merlin's right cheek. He lays the cloth carefully over one of his gloves before he looks back and uses his other hand to ruffle Merlin's hair just above his ear.

"I'm sorry," he says gently, "I should have realized."

A lump appears in his throat and he does his best to glare. Leon takes it, because he's a stupid kind bastard sometimes and Merlin is weak, and when Leon opens his arms and says come here in the softest, gentlest voice in the world, Merlin doesn't bother to fight it and buries his stupid sniffling nose into the crook of Leon's neck and lets the knight wrap him up in a cuddle, his stupid cape wrapped around him too like a blanket.

"There, now," Leon murmurs, one hand still scratching lightly at his scalp, "there you are���forgive me, Merlin, I didn't realize they were hurting you so much. That we were hurting you so much."

"Why are you so mean to me," he mumbles, half into, half over Leon's shoulder, not caring that he sounds like a child, "why are you always so mean?"

"I don't know," the knight confesses and Merlin just huddles further into his hold. "I'm sorry."

"It hurts, you know, when you all say those things. And when you hit me. And throw things at me."

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you so mean," he sobs, making a fist and weakly hitting Leon's shoulder, "why— why?"

Leon just tightens his grip, turning to bury his own nose in Merlin's hair, and Merlin sobs again. He's being unfair, he knows; Leon isn't the only one to blame in this situation, and in fact, might be the least to blame, but Leon is the only one here and Merlin is angry, angry, so angry.

As if he can hear it, Leon shifts, putting his mouth to Merlin's ear. "Go on, Merlin, it's alright."

"But I don't want to," he grits out, "I don't want to hurt you. I know what that's like, it hurts, it doesn't feel good, I just—you just—I just want it to stop!"

"It'll stop," Leon says immediately, "it's over, now, Merlin, I swear to you. No more of this, I swear."

"It hurts, L-Leon, it—it really hurts."

"Shh, shh, I know, Merlin…hush, now, please, try and breath a bit slower." The knight's chest expands and contracts slowly, exaggerated breaths filling the small clearing. "There…in…and out…in…and out…that's it, shh, just like that."

Slowly, Merlin manages to calm the worst of his anger and tears, the whole mess unspooling as Leon keeps rubbing his back, soft words in his ears. He buries his nose in his neck again. This part, this part of the knights he's never taken for granted, this tenderness that he's only able to get when he's visibly upset. When he manages to voice that thought, Leon goes still for a moment, before a quiet and terrible sigh leaves his lips.

"I have failed, then," he says lowly, "more terribly than I could ever have feared, if you do not know how deeply I care for you."

"W-what?"

Leon pulls back, then, just enough for Merlin to see his face. "You are a dear friend of mine, Merlin, and it is an honor to serve with you. Ever since the day you arrived and saved the Prince's life—hush, shh, none of that, now," he soothes when Merlin panics, "your secret is safe with me, I swear upon my honor and my life. I mean every word that I say, Merlin, you are one of the best men I have ever had the privilege of knowing, and more than that, you are a dear friend. If I have not made that clear to you, that is no one's fault but my own."

"You'll make me cry," Merlin accuses, even though he's already crying.

Leon smiles, but it's a kind smile. "Come, then, shed your tears. I will tend to you."

Well, with an invitation like that, how can Merlin say no?

When he's cried himself out—and made a mess of Leon's cloak, which the man doesn't even let him apologize for—Leon ruffles his hair and takes off his cloak, wrapping it over his shoulders and cleaning the bowls while the horse snuffles at Merlin's shoulders. The cry exhausted the part of him that could protest, and so he watches in the quiet dusk as Leon finishes the last bowl and stands, offering a hand.

"They'll worry," he says softly when Merlin hesitates, "and then they'll all come looking for us together."

He doesn't want that. But neither does he want to lose this, whatever this is, whatever he's found with Leon on the banks of the river. As if he'd spoken the thought out loud, Leon cups his elbow through the cloak, thumb rubbing back and forth until Merlin nods and gets to his feet, going to give Leon his cloak back.

"Keep it, if you want it."

"They'll laugh at me."

"They won't," he says with remarkable confidence, only to acquiesce when Merlin raises a doubtful eyebrow, taking it back. "If you decide you want it again, it's yours."

Part of him wants to take him up on the offer as soon as they start to hear the voices from camp again, to hide underneath it and not have to show his face until next morning, but the horse calls out to its friends and the voices hush. He stops, lingering just out of sight, before Leon rests a hand on his back and silently encourages him forwards. He emerges from the tree line, already bracing himself for whatever comes flying at him, when—

"Oh, sweetheart, what's happened?"

That…that can't be Arthur. That soft voice and worried tone can't be the same man who just delighted in dictating Merlin's humiliation not three hours earlier, it can't be.

"Merlin," the voice says again, and it certainly looks like Arthur scrambling up and over to him, reaching out to cup his face, "oh, you poor thing, look how hurt you are…is this from that tree?"

Merlin nods dumbly and Arthur sweeps his thumb across his cheek. "You've been crying, does it hurt very badly?"

"No."

"You don't have to lie," he chides, but it's gentle, why is it gentle? "You can tell me."

"We've got extra salve," Elyan says, already going for one of the saddlebags, "here, come over by the fire."

"There's another portion still here," Percival adds, "if you're still hungry."

"Give him a moment," Lancelot says, standing too, "he looks a bit overwhelmed."

"Wh-what—" Merlin staggers and Leon and Arthur both surge to catch him— "what's happening?"

"Come sit," Gwaine says, already clearing a spot and shuffling a bedroll close to the fire, "you look like you're about to fall over. Leon can handle the horse and the dishes."

Sure enough, Arthur's hands take Leon's place as he guides Merlin carefully over to the bedroll, sitting him down and immediately taking a position at his elbow. He strokes his thumb over Merlin's jaw as he examines the scratches, before looking back up at him properly.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Merlin still has whiplash from the difference between the knight before he left and the knights now, thank you very much. He swallows around the lump in his throat and mumbles something about being mean and insulting and whatever they're doing now, and Arthur's face crumbles.

"Oh, sweetheart, you know we don't mean it, don't you?"

"We never do," Lancelot says immediately, "it's only supposed to be fun."

"How is being mean to each other fun?"

"Merlin's right," Gwaine says before anyone can try and explain, "it's only fun if everyone's in on it. And Merlin wasn't in on it, that means we stop."

"What happened," Merlin blurts out, "when I left, you were all more than happy to laugh at me being humiliated or otherwise, and now you're all being nice and calling me sweetheart, what happened?"

The campsite grows quiet. He looks around. None of them seem willing to meet his eyes, save for Leon, who just gives him a reassuring nod. He's about to open his mouth and ask again when Arthur speaks.

"I'm sorry, Merlin. I'm so sorry. I didn't—I…I never mean it. I never mean it."

Merlin swallows. "Then why do you do it?"

Arthur shrugs helplessly. "It's…it's what they all do. What we all do."

The knights make vague noises of agreement but Arthur reaches out for him again.

"But we'll stop now. I promise," he says when Merlin looks at him doubtfully, "we'll—we'll put a stop to it. At least between us, and definitely with you. You're Merlin, we never want to hurt you."

"You promise?"

"Yes." Something that could be mischief flickers across his expression and he leans closer. "And I'm the only one who gets to call you sweetheart."

"What happened to being nice?" Merlin yelps as he starts blushing furiously.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't know it would make you do that."

Merlin closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to calm himself down. When he opens them again, he sees Arthur staring at him like a worried puppy and he sighs. "You don't…you don't have to stop everything. Just—will you stop if I tell you to?"

"Yes," he says immediately, and the rest of them join in, "of course, the moment you say."

"Thanks." Arthur's hand passes over his shoulders and he grins. "Besides, you were the one who couldn't speak after the barmaid smiled at you."

"Merlin!"

"Wait, Princess did what?"

"You've been holding out on us, Merlin, tell us!"

"Oi! Show some respect for your King!"

"Oh, is that what the barmaids are calling it these days?"

Merlin laughs as Arthur hucks a spoon at Gwaine and Leon comes to sit next to him, offering a warm side to lean against. Perhaps they really are capable of acting nice after all.

[tcwmatchmakingau]

Take a Chance (Part 1)

Pairing: Crosshair x f!reader

Rating: General (but MDNI)

Summary: Crosshair finally caves and sets up an appointment with Right to Love. He doesn’t expect much out of it, but what he gets is softer and brighter than even he could ask for. 

Warnings: Crosshair angst (because that’s a warning I guess); peep my matchmaker OC Tal, love them dearly; brotherly teasing

A/N: @wolffegirlsunite submitted a prompt about Crosshair at carnivals and I just kinda…ran with it. In this AU, the Citadel never happened, so Echo is not with the Batch.

WC: 3.2k

Crosshair had mastered the art of patience a long time ago. He had to; it was a requirement of his specialization as a sniper. Sitting for long, boring hours in a secured hideout, there had been times on missions where he didn’t move for hours, at minimum. One learned how to be patient when all one had was time to pass. He thrived in those situations. After all, it was what he was made for. 

What he hadn’t yet mastered was the art of civilian life. He’d rather perch in the branches of some scraggly pine on some far-off Mid-Rim world, teeth chattering in his bucket from the cold, than sit here in this waiting room. Despite the facade this damned service had so clearly cultivated to be comforting, he felt on edge, nerves screaming at him. Soft music chimed pleasantly from the speakers hanging from the ceiling corners. Vanilla, warm and inviting, cloyed in his nose. Adorning the walls, right, cheerful posters touted sickeningly saccharine slogans. We’ll help you find your path! and At Right to Love, we’ll make sure your love is right for you!

His upper lip curled in the barest hint of a scowl. Karking hell, why had he let Wrecker talk him into this? 

With a slight shake of his head, Crosshair refocused on the datapad resting in his lap. He was supposed to fill out this questionnaire to let the matchmakers do their job, but all he could think about was the vulnerability of it all. He had to just…give away personal information? Just like that? Kriff, even his brothers had given up getting him to talk about his feelings before he was ready.

Leading him to another worry, one he’d never admit out loud, and certainly wasn’t about to admit to himself. Was he ready for this? 

His first impulse was, yes of course. He’s Crosshair, member of one of the most elite squadrons of clone troopers in the entire existence of the Grand Army of the Republic. Clone Force 99 didn’t back down from challenges, and had a 100% mission success rate. 

Or at least, they did. When the GAR still existed. When the war still raged and when clones’ lives were valued less than dirt. 

He’d answered exactly three of the twenty-five questions so far. The fourth question, “How would you best describe your personality?” presented options that felt so…restrictive. Was he a) shy and reserved, b) expressive and open, c) humorous but private, d) uncomplicated and easy-going, or e) other? 

Crosshair had been labeled as “other” his entire life. Frustration simmered in his chest, hot and annoying. 

Just as he was about to stand, chuck the datapad back at the receptionist, and storm out, the receptionist in question cleared her throat.

“You don’t have to answer every single question, darlin’,” she said, smacking her gum. “That’s just to help us get started.” 

He felt the knot of anxiety in his chest loosen in spite of himself. “Anyone ever turn in a blank form?”

Her dark eyes met his, narrowed behind square spectacles, before she shook her head with a reluctant grin. “There’s a first time for everythin’. We’re all about firsts here.” 

“Yeah.” He huffed, looking back down at the datapad. The rest of the questions were similarly vague and aggravating as the personality one, but by the time he reached the last one, he was surprised to find that he’d filled in nearly half of the responses. 

Sweeping his gaze across the waiting room once more, he couldn’t help but pick out the imperfections, the way that that one paint stroke lifted some of the first coat underneath there by the corner, or the way that the ceiling tile above him only appeared symmetrical but every third one was slightly shorter, or the way that the receptionist’s eyeliner had one, tiny, nearly imperceptible gap where it had snagged over her skin. He found that the skin around his nail beds was dry and cracked, red and angry—a nervous habit he’d picked up shortly after the war ended. 

Quit stalling, he snarled to himself. 

The receptionist gave him a fleeting smile as he crossed the room to deposit the datapad on her desk. He wished she wouldn’t. 

“One of our case workers will be with you shortly, dear,” she said. 

He returned to his seat, silent, apprehensive. 

  He didn’t have to wait long; at least the receptionist was right about that. Not even fifteen minutes later, a short, kindly individual with a buzzcut and piercings pushed open the faux-wooden door leading to the back. Crosshair appraised their appearance quickly, an old habit. Black eyeliner on their bottom waterline, round, unframed glasses, a black T-shirt with some indie band Cross had never heard of: he hated to admit it, but the sight of someone dressed so casually put him at ease. Whatever he’d been expecting, it certainly wasn’t this. 

“Crosshair?” they asked, as if there was anyone else in this damned waiting room. 

Still, Crosshair rose, toothpick clenched between his teeth. Quiet as a wraith, he followed who he assumed would be his case worker down a labyrinth of hallways. Behind a few of the closed doors, the familiar tones of regs’ voices drifted to him, counterpointed by the unfamiliar strains of other case workers. 

At last, his adorned case worker pushed open a door and gestured for Crosshair to enter first.

Slinking past, Crosshair took in every detail at once. Above the corner desk were at least a dozen framed holoscans, most of them featuring his mystery case worker and two others, a beaming brunette woman and a laid-back, dark-skinned man. Crystals of various colors, cuts, and properties sat scattered across the side table nearest the futon; a tapestry arched across the ceiling. One lone plant, a healthy looking thing with glossy castleton green leaves, breathed life into the room from one corner.

“I’m Tal,” the case worker said as they closed the door behind them. “Make yourself comfy. Or don’t. Everything here is under your control.” 

Crosshair shot a glance at Tal, head tilting just slightly, so minutely that Tal probably missed it. He hesitated for just a moment before sinking into the futon, the silky black fabric cushioning him as he tucked his feet up. 

“Tea?” Tal asked. 

Poison, came the immediate, instinctive thought.

“No, thanks,” he said. 

Tal shrugged. “Suit yourself.” As they poured steaming water into a waiting mug, they glanced at him. “So, Crosshair, here’s how this works. I’ll ask you a few questions, you can ask me some, and after our meeting, I’ll get to work matching you to some of our clients, yeah?”

“Fine.” Cross shifted the toothpick between his teeth, the poky bit softened and no longer quite so poky. He’d need to grab a fresh one soon. 

For a moment, Cross simply watched as Tal scooped honey into their tea mug, spoon clinking softly as they stirred the drink. The faint scent of…was that chamomile? drifted to him, and he nearly wished he’d accepted the offer.

Nearly. 

“Let’s start with the basics.” Tal set the mug down on a cork coaster. “Why are you here?”

Crosshair quirked an eyebrow, leveling his best unimpressed stare at Tal—who, to his surprise, matched Crosshair’s energy.

“That’s starting with the basics?”

Tal shrugged. “Would you rather I coerce answers on these blank questions?” They waggled a datapad in one hand. 

Sucking on his teeth, all Crosshair could do was shake his head. 

“Great, because I’m sure you hate having teeth pulled as much as I hate pulling them,” Tal said. “What brings you in?” 

“My brother,” Crosshair said flatly. Not technically a lie.

“And is that Tech, Hunter, or Wrecker?”

He clamped down on the toothpick, the fragile wood snapping. “Wrecker.”

Tal typed on the datapad for a moment. “Got it. So, no other reason, nothing more self-motivated?”

“No.”

With a hum, Tal typed some more on the ’pad before setting it to the side. They took a tentative sip of their tea, a smile of satisfaction curling over their lips. 

“Tell me if I get any of this wrong, m’kay?” Tal said. “The war ends last year. You and your brothers get to live a normal life, and you each try dating. Maybe it works for them, maybe it doesn’t, but it certainly doesn’t work for you. None of the people you go out with can get past the fact that you’re a sniper, or a science experiment, or just an ass. So you stop going out. 

“But your brothers don’t. In fact, one by one, they make their way here, to this very office in fact, find themselves partners, and settle into the cushy civilian life you just can’t wrap your head around. You’re happy for them, because they’re your brothers. But you’re also annoyed by them, because they have what you just can’t seem to find.”

Crosshair bristled at the nonchalance with which this individual, this…observer, read him for filth. Removing the now-shattered toothpick from his mouth, Crosshair forced himself to go through the ritual of discarding the broken one, selecting a fresh one from the pouch at his belt, and slipping the dry wood into the pocket of his cheek.

He avoided Tal’s gaze the entire time. In their calculating gaze, Crosshair saw himself reflected. 

“You got part of it wrong,” he eventually said. “I never tried in the first place.”

And it was true. He’d been…arrogant, more than usual, refusing to even entertain the idea of finding a fulfilling relationship outside of his vode. He’d seen the way people looked at him on the streets, even here in the capital, where no one should stand out. He couldn’t stomach the thought of having to put himself on parade just to find happiness. 

“Well,” Tal said, “I can’t be right all of the time.”

A wry smile twisted Crosshair’s mouth. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad experience after all.

  By the time that Crosshair left the RTL building, his stomach crawled with ants. He couldn’t tell if it was from nerves or excitement or some combination of both, but he couldn’t remember feeling so hopeful in a long, long time. Tal had given him their comm frequency and promised to answer any questions if Cross thought of them; and swore that as soon as they found him a match, they’d let him know. In return, Crosshair had given his word that he would think of an answer to the last question Tal had posed before their time was up. “What kind of date do you want to go on?”

Given that he’d never been on any, and certainly didn’t ingest media that portrayed such things, he hadn’t been able to give an answer. He hadn’t even wanted to lie, instead defaulting to his training, the instilled need to have the entire picture before making a decision. Kark, this meant he had to do research. 

Climbing the stairs to the apartment he shared with his brothers, he took the time to school his expression into its usual blank mask. The last thing he needed was for any of them to catch a whiff of where he’d been. He hadn’t even told Wrecker he would go to the matchmaking service; he’d just…left in the middle of the morning after they had all gone their separate ways. 

He lingered in the hall just long enough to determine who was already home. Judging by the raucous laughter, snide remarks, and grumbling complaints, it seemed all three of them were. 

Great. 

The door slid open and whooshed shut behind him as he stepped over the threshold. From the living room, Wrecker’s head peeked around the corner, a broad grin on his scarred face. 

"Was wonderin’ where you went,” he called. 

Cross ambled to the living room, pushed Wrecker back out of the way with one thin hand on his brother’s face. Laughing, Wrecker over-sold the push and landed squarely on his ass on the tile floor. 

Plopping into the beige, worn-out recliner, Cross sighed, running a hand through his short silver hair. He’d need a haircut soon. 

“Out,” he finally answered.

Hunter fixed him with a look, eyebrows scrunched. “‘Out’?”

Crosshair nodded once. Kriff, he should have just gone to his room, avoided this whole mess, but he knew his brothers; once they got on the trail of something, they couldn’t let it go. 

Wrecker lightly kicked the recliner—thought a light kick from him meant that the chair still slid a few inches across the floor with an uncomfortable screech. Hunter winced from his spot on the couch. 

“Did you go you-know-where?” Wrecker asked, voice in a stage-whisper, as if Hunter and Tech weren’t right kriffin’ there. 

Cross rolled his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I believe Wrecker is referring to the matchmaking service known as Right to Love, which has helped clones find life partners,” Tech interjected with a glance up from his datapad. “A service to which you have been incredibly averse.”

“Hey, I thought I was convincing!” Wrecker’s voice dripped with indignation. “Wasn’t I, Cross?” 

Crosshair cut a glance at his older brother. “No.”

“Aww, Cross, you’re no fun,” Wrecker whined. He stood and lumbered to the kitchen. 

Crosshair met Hunter’s gaze. Knowing his brother could probably smell the karking vanilla candle and chamomile tea on his clothes, he had tried walking through exhaust vents to douse the scent. But the way that Hunter’s eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring, set Crosshair’s heart sinking.

“Well,” Hunter said with a knowing look, “wherever you went, hope you had a good time.”

The rest of the evening passed quietly, the four of them settling into their usual routines. Dinner ate, holoseries watched, old stories swapped, the clock ticked by with an aching slowness. Even as his brothers recounted the latest triple-date ideas they’d had, he couldn’t help but fixate on the building anticipation in his limbs, a jittery, twitchy feeling that had him on edge. All he wanted to do was shut himself in his room and research. 

As soon as the clock showed 10 PM he bid his brothers goodnight and forced himself to walk normally to his room. The second the door slid shut, he rushed to his desk and booted up his datapad, one of Tech’s old ones. 

While the device blipped to life, he lowered himself into his desk chair and gazed at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window, cast in ghostly blue from the ’pad homescreen. Eyes wide with apprehension, Crosshair almost didn’t recognize himself. He forced himself to look beyond the mirror image and focus on the scintillating lights of the ecumenopolis. Skyscrapers reached for the stars, lights dotting every floor in a mockery of the galaxy that laid beyond the polluted skies. Speeders whirred past, traffic lanes cruising steadily. Somewhere out there, came the unbidden thought, somewhere out there was the person for him. 

He snapped the datapad shut. 

Someone being right for him meant he was right for somebody, and that thought alone was too much to bear.

He went to bed trying to ignore the heated worm of jealousy burrowing into his spine at the sounds of his brothers’ laughter.

  The next morning, he awoke to the insistent blip-blip-blip of his comlink. Peering with bleary eyes at the tiny screen, it took his sleep-addled brain a moment to parse together why an unsaved frequency was contacting him this early. A glance to the time revealed that it was, in fact, mid-morning. Still. Early for him.

A few possible matches, the message read. Would you like to come in and chat about them, have me send you their profiles, or just pick for you? 

His eyes shot open, suddenly wide awake, as the message sunk in. Sitting upright in bed, he hesitated over his reply, thumbs dancing aimlessly over the keypad. This was sooner than he expected. The fact that there was more than one match made his stomach lurch—there was no way that was right.

A few? was what he ended up writing back. 

Correct, came the reply. Then three bouncing dots appeared, Tal typing another message. There’s no rush. You’re in control here. 

The reminder did little to calm Crosshair’s racing thoughts. Looking over at his reflection in the window, he grimaced at himself. He’d gone to sleep with his clothes on, his short hair spiked up on one side of his head from the awkward sleeping position he’d been in, and blanket marks criss-crossed his face. He at least needed a solid fifteen minutes to look put together, and then hopefully he would feel awake enough to compose a reasonable reply.

And so, fifteen minutes later, he perched on the edge of the living room recliner, comlink in hand as he stared down at the blinking cursor. He’d been given choices. So few people gave him choices, at least before the war ended. He decided he liked having options. 

So absorbed in wracking his brain for a coherent response, he completely missed the tell-tale sounds of Wrecker sneaking up behind him until it was too late. His brother snatched the comlink out of his grasp. Cross reached for his brother, but Wrecker was faster than he looked and darted to the other side of the couch, nimble as a Nexu. 

“Wrecker!” Crosshair growled. “Give. It. Back.”

Wrecker’s belly laugh echoed off the walls. “You’ve been actin’ weird since you got home. I wanna see why.” He glanced down at the comlink, lips moving as he silently read the messages to himself, then his mismatched eyes widened. 

“You did go you-know-where!”

Crosshair sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If I say that I did, can I have my comlink back?”

“Maybe.”

“Kark, fine. Yes, I went. Now, give it back.” This time, as Cross strode forward to nick the comlink back, Wrecker let him, a ear-splitting grin breaking over his face. 

Cross squinted, unease seeping into his veins at the mirthful glint in his brother’s eyes. “What did you do?”

He whipped the comlink up to his face and glared at the screen. There, in his latest sent messages: Pick for me! 

Chuckling, but already backing away, Wrecker flashed him one final smirk before tearing down the hallway to his room. Crosshair sighed, shoulders deflating. Kark it all to hell, now he’d never hear the end of it. 

The comlink bli-bli-b-b-blipped in his grasp as several messages came through at once. Groaning, he collapsed into the couch, head in his hands, determined to ignore the damned device, but as the notifications continued, he ground his teeth and peeked. 

A torrent of messages from the group chat with his vode. 

Crosshair’s going on a date!!! 

I could have told you that. -Tech 

Proud of you, vod’ika. 

Does this mean we can go on QUADRUPLE dates!?!?!?!?

Calm down, Wrecker, let the man actually meet the person he’s being set up with before you start planning. 

We’re gonna have so much fun!!!! 

I can see why Crosshair chose not to reveal this to us. -Tech 

And at the bottom of the notifications, one lone message from Tal: Great. I’ll send you information about your match as soon as it’s confirmed. Thank you for trusting me with this, Crosshair. 

[stevetonyweekly]

SteveTony Weekly - Jan 7th - Week 1

It’s the first SteveTony Weekly of the year!! This year, I’m gonna try to personalize the recs, and pick a favorite of the week. We’ll see how long I keep that up. As always, be sure to leave a comment/kudos if you enjoyed the fic! 

~*~ 

peace bought with blood and magic by Areiton

There is a legend, older than the Citadel, about the field.

About the king who had ruled for as long as the Thousand Year War had raged. There is a legend about the king and about the one he loved, and it goes--

Note: i had so much fun with this fic, and it left me wanting to write a long version of this as an original project. 

[PODFIC] Maybe this Time by MsErmestH by Pywren

Tony’s better now. You can even say he’s superior. But all the money, alcohol, and sex can’t stop the incursions, and when his world is destroyed, he ends up on an earth ten years younger than his own.

One where Steve goes by the name of Nomad.

If there’s one thing Steve’s good at, it’s reminding him of what really matters, and maybe that makes Nomad the person Tony needs if he's going to save the universe.

Note: the way that Tony slowly begins to feel again and the way he loves Steve is everything to me. I love it. 

Love among the Hydrothermal Vents by DevilDoll

In which Namor has a thing for Steve, an octopus has a thing for Tony, and Steve and Tony eventually have a thing for each other.

Note: I’ve read this before and it’s just as amazing as the first time. Fake dating, pining, Namor in all his…Namor-ness. And the amorous octopus!!! What’s not to love. 

may the angels bow down for you by Anonymous 

He hides.

When the Demon gets loud, when He drinks His poison and tries to hurt him with His palm, or His words, or His power—he hides.

Burgundy. Oak. Shattered glass.

Note: Interesting format for this story. Interspersed with the descriptors, it gave the story a disjointed and urgent air that really worked. 

Working Late by Anonymous 

Some nights, Tony stays up late, building and rebuilding and upgrading his suits, until Steve walks into the workshop, usually already in his pajamas, and wraps his arms around Tony, kissing him until he forgets what he was doing and then dragging him to bed.

A fill for the prompt "Steve sits in Tony's lap and rides him" from last year's Community Gifts prompt list. Because there's really not enough bottom!Steve in the world.

Note: Some very lovely smut. 

The first time I met you (I already had a drawing of you) by Anonymous 

Kissing Tony was a bit like sparing, pushing and pulling and stumbling against furniture. He had no idea why a billionaire cared enough to be this strong, and it was hard to keep in mind he had to pull back his own strength.

or

Tony meets a cute artist in at a Gala event, Steve tries to get over Iron Man, and Bucky just enjoys watching his best friend be a little stupid sometimes.

Note: I love identity porn. It’s one of my favorite things in the fandom. This was a tiny slice of perfection. 

Softer Landing by Anonymous

In which there is a snowstorm, Tony has had a terrible week and Steve might be an idiot.

Note: Miscommunication and reconciliation and snowstorms. Lovely. 

****Exact Measurements Required by trilliath 

That time S.H.I.E.L.D. quartermasters accidentally put Steve's balls in a vise and it goes exactly as well as you'd expect it to. Tony promptly offers to help. Because he's helpful like that. Obviously.

Note: What I especially loved about this was Steve’s humanity and the way Tony was obsessed with him and it took him FOREVER to figure out how serious Tony actually was. 

Father and Son by Anonymous

Peter should have seen it coming.

All hell breaks loose when his secret identity as Spider-Man is revealed. His parents take the news about as well as you'd imagine, and it escalates all too quickly.

But his family wouldn't be his family if they didn't work through it.

Together.

Note: I love Superfamily dynamics, especially when it focuses on Tony and Peter, as this one does. 

opera interlude by starvels (dinosaur) 

They spend their days tumbling through space, hoping they're aiming in the right direction, ignoring the way the ship whispers, waving its shadows at them.

Note: My only thought about this is that it was too short. I loved it and wanted to read so much more. It was lovely. 

The Nearness of You by UisceOneLove 

Steve wasn't thinking when he protected Tony's protege and got a bullet for the move. He doesn't know what to think of Tony Stark showing up at his apartment, either.

Note: I loved this. It was short and sweet but the worldbuilding packed into that short little window was flawless. 

****All We Do by Anonymous 

Tony doesn't mean for anyone to find those recordings. Steve doesn't mean to see them. Between the two of them, there were never the right words spoken, so this just might be a blessing in disguise.

Note: This Endgame fic is so bittersweet and lovely. I loved everything about it. 

Crooner by wirewrappedlily 

There are songs to sing; there are feelings to feel; there are thoughts to think. That makes three things: You can't do three things at the same time.

Singing is easy: shiver off the tongue.

Thinking comes with the tune.

That leaves feeling. And you're not going to catch him feeling.

Tony Stark had a great voice. He had a magical voice, even. But he didn't have the presence for it. Didn't have the pizzazz to make it in the '20s roar.

Note: Early 1900s, with a little bit of Phantom of the Opera vibes, it was super sweet to see Tony & Steve coming together. 

like stepping on the sun by Red (S_Hylor), starksnack

When the Sorcerer Supreme asks the Avengers to go investigate a potential multiverse incursion, Tony is less than impressed. The weather is foul, and it's not even a Tuesday.

The multiverse portal, when it does occur, seems to be a bit of a fizzer, so Tony isn't expecting anything to happen.

He certainly isn't expecting an oversized fuzzy jellybean to come and meddle in his personal life.

Note: tsumtsums are often really hard to take seriously but I LOVE crack treated seriously, and it was handled perfectly! 

don't let the blue sky fade by Myrime 

It was supposed to be a mission without surprises, but then a building collapses on top of them and traps them underground.

Tony is hurt but doesn't tell anyone. Steve just wants Tony to give a damn for once. And Clint, who cannot run away from their bickering since he broke his leg, just hopes they do not kill each other before they get him out of there.

(- Since the End is almost upon us, why not return to the beginning of the Avengers, when everything was still mostly beautiful and they haven't yet hurt each other so much. Simpler times!)

Note: This was fantastic team dynamics--the relationship between Tony and Clint was especially fantastic--with a slow build Stevetony that I adored. Excellent 2012 team fic. Highly recommend. 

[sol-consort]

btw have you noticed when javik talks about how much better prothean cuisine is, he lists out multiple races used as food EXCEPT human https://youtu.be/UCzcFDK9ls8?si=WaaQjQ0ZDQG751ln&t=4532 1:15:32 timestamp bee tee double u

I HAVE NOTICED IT. like damn not using us as food despite our bodies having more meat and fat than the other races? That's literally the sweetest thing protheons have done when you compare it to their normal actions. Like they used to eat that hanar who eventually worshipped them but us? The adorable humans? Nah we got a pass and protheons kept obsevering us from Mars instead, occasionally borrowing a human to read them with a single touch, pet their hair then return them to earth.

Not only that, but he doesn't insult us at all! While saying this, I realised how much to outisder it would sound like we are in an abusive relationship with Javik, but nah dw dw he is just like that. Anyway so his only insult for humans is when he calls us primitives while including us with the other species, or when Brooks betrays us and he says typical human behaviour, BUT THAT'S SUBJECTIVELY NOT AN INSULT.

Meanwhile, he keeps digging at the asari for not figuring out writing sooner for having their advancements and biotics handed to them by the protheons. He keeps saying how the salarians used to lick their own eyeballs and eat flies, but he never mentions our embarrassing moments in the caves, not how embarrassingly long it took us to discover farming or tame horses. He spares us the scolding.

Like even the fact we can influence him as Shepard. A whole protheon only allows the human to change his opinion because he likes our species? We can encourage him to view the memory shard or tell him not to, we can nudge him to be softer with Liara, and he actually listens.

In the citadel DLC party, he only ever asks the humans if he can touch them while he is drunk. In the next morning hangover, he only ever talks bad about the asari. That dude is desperately pspspsing at us in his own protheon way, hoping we'd spare him a glance. Somehow, it's like only the humans remain the same comfortingly familiar race while all the other species changed beyond recognition for him.

That's why he sticks by our side. That's why he is so open to Shepard's questions and addresses you as commander the second he boards your ship. So many things changed in the universe he used to know, but somehow, the humans managed to protect the sparkling light in their eyes amidst the storms. He is relieved that we still cuddle and play hard to get with emotions as if he can't just read us with a single finger, he is glad we haven't lost our curiosity or adorable stubborn ego and pride that makes him feel proud to see us use.

If the humans weren't there, he would've been much more hostile and less willing to cooperate. Seeing how each race is looking out for their own and repeating the mistakes of the past. Without the infectious human hope, then Javik would've fallen to despair and faced the reapers alone as a last attempt of a dignified death.

[entering--hyperspace]

going to bother you about the Rytleo BUT who between them initiates kisses more often and what does affection between them usually look like.

Would you believe me if I said Rytlock.

I see Rytlock to be a man of action that struggles with conveying feeling/emotion verbally, even in more personal relationships. And between the two of them has always been the more physically affectionate one, specifically in private. Rytlock so extremely loyal to the people he cares about and has a softer side he just doesn't publicly show because its reserved for very specific dynamics.

Meanwhile Leo had never experienced a long term relationship and even made it a point to avoid them, so I think physical romantic intimacy was outside of his wheelhouse, and Rytlock was fine initiating that sort of contact. It makes me feel insane knowing that despite their history of being intimate for 6 Years before they officially get together they never actually kissed, Leo is the one to kiss him first. It's a big moment for the two of them that cements them officially entering a long-term a relationship with each other.

(I have Thoughts on the implications of legion charr deciding to choose mates in a society where its very uncommon. But that gets a little off topic.)

Anyway!

In terms of like, "Love Languages"/ how affection looks for them, I see Rytlock as prioritizing Physical Touch and Acts of service. He respects Leo deeply, and there has always been a bit of gentleness thats granted to him, I also think between the two of them hes able to shed a certain demeanor of expectation, so I think doing small things like sharpening his sword for him, having their armor prepared for the next day, bringing a meal back for him. In physical touch this is more generalized but I think they have a little night ritual where Rytlock will usually groom him bc it makes Leo go to sleep easier <- gripping my chair abt this. Rytlock being the big spoon is a privilege Leo gives him and only him. This also sorta changes in HoT/Ls3 Leo is often the one caring a bit more for Rytlock as he adjusts to being a revenant with Leo doing his best to help him where he can.

I see Leo leaning towards "Quality time' and "acts of service/words of affirmation"

Leo is the one to pull them both out of the constant whirlwind of events to take a break or at the very least taking a mission thats just the two of them. Rytlock tends to tunnel vision and bulldoze ahead on things that he kinda needs Leo to grab him by the ear sometimes and break that for a bit. Smthn smthn Leo is 80% of his impulse control. And doing small things for the other extends to Leo as well. Leo is also the more verbally affectionate/playful of the two of them and is more willing to initiate physical affection "publicly " as long as theyre away from the Citadel or yknow things that would require them to be more professional ofc. Theres a moment later in the story I can pinpoint where Leo does something that very clearly shows theyre together and half the group is like HUH and the other half is looking at them like ermmmm yeah thats been a thing for years (it hasnt. Kinda.)

I will say I think the thing I imagine them doing the most is the big cat head/neck rubs, its just such an endearing cat behavior and sooo sweet to me.

[screechthemighty]

Titanfall fic writing is back, babey!! Fun fact, I started writing this *checks notes* literal years ago, but only just now circled back to it now that I'm filling in the holes in the Titanfall part of my Respawn Cinematic Universe. I will be eventually circling back to the stuff that happens after The Citadel, don't worry! I just wanted to get this one out of the way (again: literal years). AO3 link will be in a reblog, but you can read the first chapter below!

crash and burn (and then return again) | a titanfall 2 fanficpart one

cw: vomiting, loss/grief, shutdown, references to alcoholism

.

Things would’ve gone a lot differently if he were a in movie. For starters, Cooper wouldn’t have passed out within five minutes of arriving on the main battleship.

That was his own fault. His body had been giving him signs it was going to quit on him the whole flight back. He was shaky, almost dizzy, nauseous, and it felt like someone had replaced his brain with piles of stuffing. Cooper had figured it was just the adrenaline. Been there, done that. He’d be fine once he had something to eat and some real sleep. He didn’t say anything because it wasn’t a big deal.

Turned out it, was a big deal.

His memories of what exactly happened were hazy. Commander Briggs was there, he knew that, and Robert Taube. He remembered there were a lot of other people, and that he thought it was all those eyes on him (even in a positive light) that were making him feel worse. He tried to be subtle about excusing himself. He wasn’t sure if he succeeded or not; he thought someone followed him, but he couldn’t remember if it was Commander Briggs or Taube or both. Maybe it was neither. But he was pretty sure he remembered someone asking if he was okay, and replying that he didn’t feel so hot.

That must’ve been when he passed out, because his next concrete memory was lying on a moving gurney and someone checking his pulse “...repeated physical contact with an unknown energy source, we have no idea…” someone was saying.

Cooper risked opening his eyes. Commander Briggs was there, Taube, too, and a nurse, and a medical droid. It wasn’t that big of an audience, but it felt like a whole stadium of people once he realized what happened. “Did I throw up on anyone?” he mumbled.

“No,” Taube replied bluntly. “You about to?”

“...uhm…”

He must’ve gone grey or green or whatever color you turned when you were about to puke, because Taube swore and got out of the way. At least that way, Cooper didn’t throw up on anyone. Puking on the floor in front of his new CO, a respected war hero, and two medics was still in the top ten most humiliating moments of his life. There wasn’t much in his stomach to throw up, just water and one and a half energy bars. But apparently his body really didn’t want it.

There was a hand on his shoulder, someone asking him something, but Cooper barely registered the question. He stared down at the floor, eyes defocused. This had happened before, right? Fracture? Yeah. Fracture. He’d hit his head, suffered a concussion. Did he have another concussion? He’d fallen so many times on Typhon. He’d thought the jump kit and the helmet would take the worst of it but…hell, he didn’t know. He had no clue what he was doing. “Shit,” he muttered.

“Were you given any medication during Broadsword?” asked the med droid. Its voice was neutral in a calming way, but higher pitched than BT’s had been.  Thinking about BT made his stomach churn. “Exposure to any other energy sources?”

Had he? So much had happened. He could barely keep track. “Uhm...s-sansufentynal. After my drop pod landed. And...Lastimosa…” The name tasted bitter in his mouth. “…gave me something, I don’t know what. He said it might knock me out, but I’d feel better once I woke up. I was in a power chamber, there was some radiation, but I think it wasn’t so long that my suit couldn’t handle it.”

“Understood.” The med droid began speaking in softer tones to the medic, something about blood work and scans; Cooper was too busy trying to control his still-revolting stomach to really pay attention.

Am I dying? Did I really survive all that bullshit just to die like this?

“You’re not dying,” said Taube roughly. Cooper looked up at him, confused. Had he said that out loud? How out of it was he right now? “Just keep it together, kid. We’re gonna get you help.”

He was the one resting a hand on Cooper’s shoulder. The reassuring pressure of the grip contrasted with the way Taube actually looked: worn down, five o’clock shadow, bags under his eyes. He looked just as ready to pass out as Cooper felt.

Cooper couldn’t blame him for that. It had been a hell of a long day. Using the past tense didn’t feel right, though. A day like that couldn’t just be…over. Not like this. Not with…

He lay back down and shut his eyes tightly.

He can’t be gone.

How can he just be gone?

The thought kept echoing in his head as they dragged him into a private room in the medbay. Cooper went through the motions, sitting up, letting them look him over, responding to any questions he knew the answers to. The answers kept getting shorter and shorter; if that concerned the medics, Cooper barely noticed. Everything was growing more distant—sounds, sensations, the overall feeling of reality. All he wanted to do was curl up somewhere quiet and dark and sleep.

Sleep and wake up in a world where BT wasn’t gone.

.

Cooper had gone quiet.

Barker hadn’t noticed it at first. He’d only realized because he’d happened to glance in Cooper’s direction. He was hunched over, face buried in his hands, not making a sound even as his shoulders shook slightly. Barker wasn’t shocked—after everything Cooper had been through, having an emotional crash with the physical one wasn’t out of the blue or anything.

Should I do something?

Barker barely knew the guy from Adam, but he had a feeling Briggs didn’t either. That might’ve been part of the problem, now that he thought about it. All that shit and no one he could talk to about it.  Still, one of us should say something. Briggs was still talking intensely with the human medic, and the bot didn’t look like the reassuring type. It was either interrupt or…

He sighed. Ah, screw it. “Hey, Cooper?” Barker said carefully as he stepped forward.

Cooper didn’t reply.

Shit. “Cooper?” Barker repeated, a bit louder this time. When that didn’t get a response, he knew it was time to switch tactics. Cooper had been a rifleman before this; maybe he just needed a good prod from a CO to get him out of it. “Pilot,” Barker tried, trying to force his voice back into tones he hadn’t used since the IMC.

Still nothing.

Except he hadn’t been pilot for longer than a few days, right? Field promotion, no time to get used to it. So maybe…

“Hey, Rifleman.”

Cooper straightened up immediately, shoulders squared, hands dropping down from his face. “Sir,” he said. His eyes were pink, still wet with tears. He didn’t seem to register who Barker was at first; his body just responded to the rank. Muscle memory. Hell of a thing.

Barker had Cooper’s attention all right, but now he didn’t know what to do with it.

“You, uh…” Barker took another few steps forward and clumsily rested a hand on Cooper’s shoulder. “You okay?”

The kid looked at him like he was trying to figure out the right answer to the question.

That look didn’t last long. Whatever it was Cooper was trying to press down and re-shape into an acceptable answer shattered like a glass bottle. His composure and decorum went with it. Next thing Barker knew, the kid’s face was pressed against his chest as his body heaved with audible sobs.

Damn it, I am not equipped for this.

Though he may have been more prepared than everyone else there. Briggs looked just as caught off-guard as he did, and the medbot wasn’t going to be any help. The flesh and blood medic looked lost, too. Barker shot them all a baffled look as he clumsily patted Cooper’s shoulder. You’re gonna let me do this? Really? “’S’okay. Let it out.” Don’t worry about me telling anyone. I will definitely be drinking enough to forget this. “I’m sorry.”

The words tasted sharp, bitter. I get it. That part was left unspoken, but he did. The empty hole in your head, in your soul. You formed bonds quickly in combat. Cooper might not have had the years of connection Barker had with Juliet, but that wouldn’t make it hurt less. Someone sacrificing themselves for you never went down easily.

Barker gritted his teeth. Definitely drinking tonight.

“You’re safe now,” he said instead. “We’ve got you, kid.”

Cooper’s sobs slowed eventually. He let go of Barker’s jumpsuit, instead tightly hugging himself. He rocked slightly in place—self-soothing, if Barker had to guess—and his eyes stayed clenched shut. “Can’t,” he choked out.

“Can’t what?”

“It…mmph.” His shoulders hunched more tightly, like he was trying to shrink into himself. “Bright.”

Briggs finally snapped out of it and went to dim the lights. The medbot said something to the human medic, who cursed quietly and started digging around through some nearby drawers. Barker, meanwhile, crouched in front of Cooper, trying to catch his gaze. “That better?” A pause. A nod. “Anything hurt? Like, about to drop dead hurt?”

Cooper hugged himself more tightly. Damn it, I’m making things worse again. Barker didn’t think this was a panic attack; he’d seen plenty of those before. So what is it? What’s wrong?

The medic nudged him aside gently and held out something to Cooper. “Here,” she said. “Do you think you can use this?”

She small tablet she’d passed him had an application open with a bunch of buttons. Barker could see an alphabet, and some standard words and phrases. Cooper took the tablet, then stared at the application as if trying to register what he was looking at. After a lengthy pause, he tapped one of the options.

“No.”

Okay, they were getting somewhere. “No, nothing hurts?” Barker guessed. Cooper nodded. “What do you need, kid?”

A pause. This time, Cooper tapped at the letters.

“Alone.”

…yeah. Fair.

“Can we clear the room, guys?” the medic asked. To Cooper, she added, “We’ll be just outside. Come get us if you need anything, okay?”

She seemed confident that Cooper wouldn’t hurt himself or have a heart attack, so Barker followed the others outside. He took one more glance at Cooper as he stepped out, and almost wished he hadn’t. The freshly minted pilot had hunched back over, the tablet hugged tightly to his chest. It was something no one should see, least of all the drunk who’d only just met the poor guy.

Barker looked away. Jack Cooper was going to be the talk of the town when they got back to Harmony. The least they could do was let him grieve in private while he still could.

[haunted-plush]

My Rick and Morty ocs!! They are kitty cats because my furry/theiran ass said so

Rick is a grayish blue with white, and Morty is brown with some lighter brown

Lore!!!

Nothing is really different story wise, they're mostly aesthetic variants. They do have some changes to their personality though!! Rick is a bit softer and more openly affectionate, both in general and with Morty. He cares about *his* Morty, which not every Rick can really say. Morty is also a bit different, being a bit more naive and distractable, although that could be due to Rick being a bit more protective of him. Morty needs to be kept an eye on, or he will literally wander off to chase butterflies and get lost. Rick has to hold his paw when they visit the Citadel. They're also a bit more cat like in general [the top right is Rick showing Morty his new invention, a self motorized feather!!]

Fun tidbits!!

Rick loves laundry piles fresh from the dryer, they're perfect for naps

Morty gets zoomies when he's exited

Rick really needs to groom his fur better

Morty's favorite music is nightcore!! His favorite song is Bumble Bee

Rickorty/proship dni--

[bagog]

N7 Month, 2023 - Day 24: Foliage

A short mshenko drabble, mid-war, ME3

++

He had been all business, coming out of the Spectre office on the Citadel. But when Shepard found Kaidan standing in the diplomatic lobby downstairs, his mood immediately lifted. Maybe he didn’t have to jet on to the next appointment right away.

“Kaidan,” Shepard announced himself as he walked up. The man turned and gave Shepard a warm smile.

“Hey, Shepard,” Kaidan reached as if to take Shepard’s hand, then saw the crowd around and thought better of it. He crossed his arms across his chest. “I was just headed up to the Spectre office.” He was looking up, above the offices and bay windows.

“Something hold you up,” Shepard followed his gaze and saw a tree, an earth tree. It was small, no more than 10 feet high, but the yellow-green leaves were slowly becoming orange in places, firmer yellow in others.

“They always decorate the embassies with plants native to that ambassador, but two years ago they changed the whole Presidium to Earth cultivars to celebrate Earth’s admission to the Council,” Kaidan let his shoulder bump gently against Shepard’s as they looked at the tree together. “This one’s a vine maple. Practically a weed.”

As they watched one of the maple’s leaves drifted slowly down, landed at their feet. Only then did Shepard recognize there were leaves both colorful and brown scattered on the floor beneath the vine maple. All about the lobby, fallen leaves skittered across the floor.

“They’re all changing,” Kaidan’s voice was thick, his expression impassive. “The Station’s on reserve power: that means a temperature drop in areas that can take it. Also means the UV in the Presidium has been turned way down.”

“Since the coup?”

“Since before the coup, even.” Kaidan turned his eyes away from the maple, looked out the bay window at the Presidium below. “They had custodians sweeping up the leaves left and right, all over the Presidium. Since the coup, though…” He gestured around them to the leaves on the ground.

“It’s odd to have a sense of the seasons on a space station.” Shepard looked around the lobby, dozens of people in queues, some waiting or sobbing in a chair.

“And it’s April,” Kaidan scoffed. “Not, uh… not the season where things should be dying.”

“Think once the war’s over, they’ll finally turn up the UV again? Give these trees a chance?” Kaidan turned and gave Shepard an affectionate look, a soft, unspoken gratitude in his features.

“Maybe, Shepard.” He shook his head lightly, “But uh, where were you headed?”

“Down to Purgatory to meet with Aria, but…”

“But?”

“But I saw you.”

“Sorry to hold you up.”

“Not what I meant,” Shepard chuckled. “Of course I find Major Kaidan Alenko down in the lobby, taking time to look at the trees. You remind me to slow down.” Kaidan’s eyes were a little softer, but he still regarded Shepard with almost impassively.

“I’m glad I can be that for you, Shepard.” But he sounded glum. “Myself? I’ve been trying to hurry myself up. End of the world and I’m trying to squeeze everything in while I can. There’s not much in my life I’ve wanted that I haven’t gotten—I’ve led a pretty charmed life. But then you see something like this,” he gestured to the vine maple, “And it reminds you… ‘Oh yeah, I’d like to see fall again,’ or ‘Oh yeah, every sunrise is worth seeing.’ Then suddenly the war gets that much harder, you know?”

Shepard nodded solemnly. Kaidan had uncrossed his arm and let his arms dangle, stretching his neck. “Its all worth fighting for,” Shepard said.

“I know that,” Kaidan nodded. “Just.. for now, glad I got to see this tree before it dies, I guess. Little things.”

“Not dying,” Shepard let his body drift closer, till their hands almost touched at their sides. “Going dormant, waiting for spring. It’ll be back again.” Then, firmer, “You’ll see it all again.”

“Cycles, I guess,” Kaidan snorted lightly. “Everything’s always going to come back around…”

“Except this, except us.” The words were almost a whisper.

Kaidan reached down and took Shepard’s hand, paying no heed to the crowd or the trees, but only looking at Shepard.

“This is what’s happening now. You’re right,” Kaidan smiled. “I guess I better slow down a little and enjoy it, then.”

They stood holding hands for a long time, watching the leaves fall about their feet, and when they left, they left together.