#must make quick note: THESE WOULD WORK ON AO3 FOR FLASH OR DRABBLES

[augment-techs]

crack vs smut, its a competition~

....

Amelia has been rooting for Ollie and Aiyon to get together since her breakup with Ollie. It takes like fifteen weeks of hard work in matchmaking from her, along with Javi’s help, but finally, she’s set up THE perfect kiss for them. And they’re just at the brink of their feelings for each other… and things are going good, things are going sooooooo good. 

Then Javi mentions that there’s a 69% chance of rain that evening. 

You can’t have candlelit dinners and love confessions and soft moments in the rain!! Not if you’re as sensitive as Ollie and start sneezing the second cold water hits your face!! Amelia panics. 

Javi has an idea. 

And so, while Ollie and Aiyon sit on the little table she’s set up in the middle fo the woods, with candles and a lovely dinner for them, Javi and Amelia stand with umbrellas on their heads, so they can make out in peace, getting drenched from head to toe themselves, because well… these boys NEED it. 

….

Drakkon would be absolutely enraged if he ever sees this. 

Bulk’s sitting on the stone throne which once belonged to Drakkon, he’d been complaining about how cold the stone felt on his ass, but now it’s warmed up, as is he. Kim’s straddling him, his entire cock completely inside her, and she’s never felt so full in her life, so content and so complete. 

She’d tried taking him completely a few times, but he always felt too big. But something about sitting on him, on the throne has gotten it flowing all too smoothly. 

It feels so good, the way Bulk’s groaning underneath her, the way she’s almost lost all senses of her own, and then they’re kissing, they’re kissing so hard, and Bulk’s callous hands wander through her short hair, then across her body, all the way through, exploring her, enjoying it. Nobody’s in the throne room at the moment, it’s past midnight, everyone has retired to their rooms, there’s no need for a constant sentry watch, anyway, now that things are almost almost back to normal; and even if someone were to come by, they wouldn’t care anyway. It’s probably Kim’s favourite place to take it now, and she lets Bulk know that by tilting her head back, and screaming his name as loud as she can, as she comes. 

All the best feelings.

…

Skull does not like road trips. He’s never liked them. He used to get motion sickness when he was a kid, and as his family fell apart when he grew up, he remembered one particular one when he was eleven, where he was vomiting all the way through, and their mom abandoned him and his brother halfway through, in the middle of a desert, to smoke weed with some bikers she found along the way. 

Yeah. Skull’s hated road trips all his life. 

This one’s different though. 

For one, he’s literally sitting on the top of the car, holding onto the chair his boyfriends had put up on top of the car’s roof, for his dear life. 

“A little wind never hurt anyone” Matt had said, before strapping him in securely. 

“You’re gonna love road trips by the end of it” Billy had beamed, “and if you need anything, just tell us through the sunroof!” 

Skull knows they had good intentions, but he’s not sure this is the best idea… 

…

It’s a blackout.

How unfortunate would that be, if Jason was stuck at the dojo alone, after practicing all the way until it was almost eight PM. 

But he wasn’t alone, Tommy was sitting right across him, the both of them without any flashlights, absolutely, and sitting away from each other waiting the blackout out. They had been practicing together, when the lights went out, and by the looks of it, it looked like it was through the entirety of angel grove. 

They were talking about things now, completely blind by the absence of light, and discussing random things. And they didn’t know how it happened, but then they were fumbling towards each other in the light, and then they were making out, then they were making out. 

And then they were fumbling around with each other’s clothes in the dark, and then they were both naked, and then Tommy was palming Jason’s cock, and then he was on his knees, his tongue wrapping around Jason’s head, and Jason’s eyes rolled back in his head as he received the best blowjob he had ever received in his life. 

“Oh god, Tommy… yes, yes, like that, just like that…” he was moaning, and that was the second when the lights chose to come back on, and Jason’s eyes met Tommy’s and the way the two looked at each other, it was almost as if the magic had lifted, and the both of them flew apart from each other as soon as they could, faces red, red, red, “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING—“ Jason screamed.

“WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU DOING!!” Tommy screamed back, and then the moment was over. 

And they ran back to each other again, like the horny teenagers they were, continuing their shenanigans, once again. 

“We’re not talking about this tomorrow” 

“Talking about what?” 

…

“I got you another thing… apart from the marshmallows—“ She’d just come back from grocery shopping and getting some necessities or something, after being stranded in space for so long, and she’d also gotten Javi marshmallows, and Aiyon’s favourite flavour of Pringles.  

“you remember what Billy said?” she continued, now averting her gaze, and looking downwards— which somehow made her look sexy— and she pulled out a little box from her pocket, and taking Javi’s hand, she placed it on the middle of his palm, then, stood on her tiptoes to brush her cheek against his, sending his heart fluttering, as she whispered seductively, in his ears, “you better use all of these on me” 

Javi didn’t remember what Billy had said, at all, so, as Amelia skipped forward into her bedroom, Javi was left standing with the cardboard box in his hand, very, very confused, but with an amused smirk on his face nonetheless. 

He looked at the little cardboard box in his hand, and almost choked on his saliva. It was a ten pack of condoms… ribbed, condoms. 

Amelia was such a tease.  

Ollaiyon while Javelia play the wingmen to shame all other wingmen. This is so...post-Cosmic Fury. And canon now.

*looks out from the bushes* *creeps closer and closer to the printed words* *YOINKS* GOOD FOOD.

I am...thinking about that meme with the car given options at a fork in the road: One way is getting shanked in the heart by past events that feel very on point; the other turn is getting all fluffed in the chest like a worried animated mother hen. I would probably ram directly into the sign post.

It is so humiliating how even after reading some completely messed up shit with these two in multiple dimensions, it's the First Time Jitters/Himbo on Himbo action that always gets me.

I feel like she doesn't know those things are actually a bit of a false advertisement--BUT I DON'T CARE. They're listening to Billy and following directions. GOOD.

[manikas-whims]

A Place Good Enough

[Read on AO3]

Ship: Kaz Brekker X Inej Ghafa

Summary:

Kaz pays Inej's indenture at the Menagerie and she joins the dregs.

_

A short fic that adds a little more of what happens that night after Kaz takes her with him.

Note:

I'm a new fan and read the SoC Duology this Feb.

This is my first time writing these characters so please excuse anything weird, I tried my best.

Inej may seem a bit scared in this because she isn't the Inej we know in SoC. This will be the first fic of many where I'll try to show our Crows before the events of SoC. A look at their daily lives in the Dregs. And the slow development of feelings between Kanej.

Hope you enjoy this short piece ♥

Kaz

“Let’s start by getting out of here and finding you some proper clothes. Oh, and Inej,” he says, “don't ever sneak up on me again.”

And yet as he ushers the Suli girl out of the salon, the bustling streets remind him how foolish it will be to roam around the barrel at night. Ofcourse a mere glance at his cane and gloved hands is enough to ward people off. No one in Ketterdam dares crossing the young man that goes by the title of Dirtyhands. Even so, it won’t be good for his carefully crafted reputation to be seen limping around at indecent hours with an exotic girl in tow. Dirtyhands doesn’t waste time on frivolous things. He has vengeance to condemn and for that he requires proper focus and meticulous steps. Brick by brick. He reminds himself.

With a quick scan of his surroundings to make sure no one is looking, he removes the deep grey coat he’s adorning and hands it to the girl. He doesn’t miss the way she flinches at the action, probably just as scared of him as the rest of this city.

“Cover yourself.” He commands and continues walking. Thankfully, the girl doesn’t waste time being confused or shocked and quietly does as told. He also notes how she maintains a distance whilst following him but makes sure to stick close enough, her feet soundless despite the bells tied around her dainty ankles.

Inej

Kaz Brekker finally slows his walk as they approach a shabby building in the remote parts of the Barrel. Its lit and noisy but Inej can tell its definitely not a clothing store. And it is only moments later that cold realization dawns on her. There was no release from enslavement to begin with, just a deal struck between a bawd from the west stave and the lieutenant of a notorious gang in the east stave. It was a sham all along. Why wouldn’t it be? Why would one of the most sinister criminals in Kerch buy her out of slavery only to be shifted to an indenture? She should’ve been skeptical. Instead, she had been hopeful because the boy named Dirtyhands is after all, a young one like herself. She thought he may have empathized with her. He had even offered his coat to her. But oh what an utter fool she had been! Everything in Ketterdam comes with a price. Even something as natural as freedom.

Should she sprint away? She can take-off right now. He hasn’t looked back even once to check if she’s there. And he’s a cripple! She can easily outrun him. Yet all these plans formulating in her head are laced around a grim sense of fear. Kaz Brekker doesn’t need a reason. Or so she has heard. He has already earned an ill reputation for being whimsical. She mustn’t start giving him reasons to chase and drag her back down these dark alleys. So she quietly trails behind him as the door opens with a creak.

Men of varying ages who had been busy chatting and drinking, stare at them. His entry seems to raise everyone’s attention as they watch him walk by and approach the staircase. Although that’s all she sees as she continues after the uncaring boy, she does hear numerous brazen remarks.

“Am I too drunk or has Brekker actually brought in a girl?”

“Ghezen! We all must be sloshed.”

“I almost believed something was going on between him and that Zemeni boy.”

“So…Suli huh?”

Some snickers follow this particular remark but the boy doesn’t seem to mind. Does this mean their assumptions aren’t wrong? A wave of panic courses through her but Inej tries to calm herself with deep breaths, tries to focus her mind on the stairs instead. She has faced all sorts of repulsive men in the sheets. Dirtyhands can’t be much different. And even if the rumors aren’t false and he’s part-demon beneath the façade of his sharp suits,  she can still push herself to handle anything. If serving as his mistress will warrant her safety from the likes of Tante Heleen, she can do this. 

A soft clicking sound pulls her out of her trail of anxious thoughts. She notices they’ve walked past several floors and are currently going up into an attic. The inside isn’t much special but appropriately furnished— an old door placed atop several crates acting as a desk, a big window overseeing the surroundings and a door separating what she assumes must be a storage of sorts or a bedroom.

When Brekker finally turns around, his expression as unreadable as ever, Inej shivers. She takes one last gulp of air in hopes of easing herself. She can do this. She just needs to leave her body like she always does. Let the little lynx take care of such matters.

She begins by discarding his coat. Her eyes are lowered to the floor but she can sense his unwavering gaze. Maybe he’s one of those who take pleasure in watching a woman undo herself for him. Or maybe its something else entirely. His stoic demeanor doesn’t provide much to guess. Her shaky hands reach for the hooks in the back of her purple blouse. I can endure this! She mentally assures herself.

“What exactly are you doing?” comes his low voice, like a rasp of stone on stone.

Her hands fumble and come to a halt. She raises her eyelids to find a barely visible, amused smirk marring his pale countenance. “I..thought..I just–”

“Inej, was it?” he interrupts, leaning his weight on his frightening cane shaped like the head of a crow. Did she do something wrong? Will he use it on her? Her shoulders hunch slightly in preparation of whatever is to come. She hears an audible sigh instead. “I don’t remember us agreeing to such terms back at the Menagerie.”

Now she does look up, eyes wide in disbelief. “Oh..”

He passes a hand through his hair. “But since you seem eager to–”

“I’m not!” she yells, her cheeks tinted a lovely shade of pink. Frankly she doesn’t know how to react. It’s her first time speaking to a man who isn’t demanding any sexual favors from her but isn’t being very nice either.

He hobbles over to the makeshift desk and settles on a chair behind it. “Let me guess,” he starts, resting his bad leg on the tabletop and the cane in his lap. “You didn’t trust me.”

“I did!” she protests like a child  falsely accused of stealing candies. However, the embarrassment of her response follows immediately and she tilts her head down again. “Not truly but–”

“Wrong answer.” His tone is even more gritty now. “Its good that you expected the worst. Never trust anyone in the barrel.”

Inej looks at him again. It’s far too late for that lesson now. She’s learnt it the harshest of ways.

“I may be many things but I keep my word, Inej.” He adds solemnly, then fishes out a lone key from his pants' pocket. “Here” he gestures for her to come forward and receive it.

She scurries to the desk and takes it, her fingers lightly grazing along his gloved ones. Is he sending her on an errand already? Is procuring something important going to be her first task for the Dregs?

“Head downstairs and unlock the room directly below this attic with the key.” He tells simply and starts working on the tall stacks of papers lying on the desk.

She waits for further details but when he says nothing more she inquires herself, “For what?”

He glances at her, a brow quirked as if mocking her obliviousness. “Its your room from now on. Go get some sleep.”

“What about my..services?” she asks.

“We’ll discuss all that tomorrow morning.” He answers and waves her off, willing her to leave already.

Downstairs, upon unlocking an old cream-colored door and switching on the light, Inej is greeted by a tiny room. There’s a window overlooking the barrel, a cot arranged directly below it and an empty trunk lying open. Fortunately, everything is clean and dry and without any trace of smells.

As she steps inside, memories of her old life flash before her bleary eyes. This place is not even close to the large tents she used to perform in with her parents yet for some reason, she feels warm. Its not home but it’s good enough.

Shutting the door, she turns off the light and drops unceremoniously onto the cot. Moonlight illuminates the room- her room- in a dim glow. And slowly it happens. Her tense body relaxes into the mattress and her unshed emotions are set free in the form of tears slipping down her cheeks. Loud sobs rack her small frame as her hands hug the grey coat close to her chest. Amidst her shock and disbelief at actually being saved from sexual exploitation, she must have forgotten to return it. Kaz Brekker’s statement was like a dream she’s had every night since being stolen and shackled. A dream of being saved from the hell that is prostitution. I keep my word, Inej. She giggles at the sound of her real name being called by this stranger, tears staining her lips. She hasn’t heard it in so long that she almost forgot who she was. In letting her body go so as to persevere everyday at the Menagerie, she hadn’t noticed that the lively girl called Inej Ghafa was also withering away. She clutches the coat tighter as if fiercely trying to hold onto her remaining self. And for the first time since an year, she sleeps without the fear of being hurt.

Hope it was enjoyable!

I'm thinking of writing a short sequel drabble where Inej just goes to return Kaz's coat in front of everyone at the Dregs xD

.

SoC Masterlist

( divider by @firefly-graphics )

[mxstyassasxin]

I’m 24 in 24 days!

So I had this idea I wanted to do where I write a 24 ficlets, minifics or drabbles, one for each day in the run up to my birthday. And since I keep finding inspiration in music at the moment, each one will be linked to a different song that I like. 

Day 1: Wrote My Way Out 

A Draco pov inspired by this song on The Hamilton Mixtape. Also on AO3 and FFN.

Draco had gotten quite used to writing out his thoughts during the war. During all his time at Hogwarts really. It wasn't as though there he could have shared them with anyone, especially not during sixth or seventh year when the Dark Lord was in residence at the Manor.

Now, staring at the blank wall of his cell, he would give anything to have something to write with. Something to write on. The only entertainment he had all day, every day, were his own thoughts. And he couldn't even do anything with them. He couldn't write to dispel the nightmares he woke from, sweating and shaking as his screams went ignored. But even worse, he couldn't record the good memories that would suddenly come to him. His mother's voice as she reassured him, as she called him darling, looked into his still innocent eyes and told him how proud she was of him. The glee that had come to him when he saw a flash of raven hair flying from Hagrid's arms. The acceptance he now felt remembering the time Granger had struck him across the face.

He thought of all the journals and scraps of paper that were currently stuffed into a box, in a bag, in a panel in his wardrobe. All of it hidden from prying eyes because those pages detailed names and acts along with his feelings and thoughts. Despicable names and despicable acts. Years of his unwilling participation in a war that was his father's ambition and his aunt's amusement, So many people willingly doing what he never could, and punishing him when he couldn't.

He didn't know how long he had been staring at that wall when he was eventually brought to trial. It could have been days, it could have been weeks, maybe months. There was no way to tell the passage of time in Azkaban. He would just sleep and stare and think, occasionally being roused for a bowl of something that had no name.

As he stood in front of the Wizengamot, hands bound, head bowed, he registers that there had been no mention of his journals. Potter speaks, Weasley and Granger too, but the Wizengamot refused to be moved. And there was still no mention of his journals.

They don't know, he realised. They haven't found them. The Aurors that searched the Manor cannot have found the box in the bag in the panel in his wardrobe.

So, he tells them. He speaks for the first time in the hours that he has just stood there, and they adjourn his trial. He's taken to a holding cell in the Ministry. He knows that if they don't find the journals, he's screwed.

But they do. They find the journals in the box in the bag in the panel in his wardrobe. They are all lying there in front of the Wizengamot when his trial is resumed. They have already been discussed in private, so he has no way of knowing what they paid attention to. What comments the different members of the Wizengamot made about which events.

He is released with a suspended sentence but also with pitiful apologies and gratitude for the provision of new information. His journals mean that the Aurors can bring in those who have escaped arrest and he is horrified when he realises that one of those people is his father. He had been quite enjoying his so-called house arrest at their villa near Marseille with his mother, having pleaded ignorance and imperius, pushing all his faults onto Draco, letting the child rot in prison for crimes committed by the father.

Draco wallows at the Manor for the next week, ignoring all his mail, setting the letters on fire as soon as they fall from the talons of the owls, shutting down his floo. His only glimpse into the outside world he allows himself is the Prophet's reporting of who else has been apprehended, knowing that he's done something right at last.

The reporting of his own trial, subsequent release and the reason why, made it into the Prophet only when the Ministry allowed it, not wanting to scare any remaining Death Eaters into disappearing forever. The letters increased but he continued to burn them. A few people tried to come and see him at the Manor, but he turned every one of them away.

Until one visitor arrived at the gates announcing themselves as ‘Phoenix Publishing’.

"No. Mimsy, send them away," he orders once again.

His only remaining house elf returns a moment later to tell him that the representative has not left. They insisted on remaining at the gates. Well, let them. They would get bored eventually and leave.

What Draco had not accounted for, considering he had never been able to master the spell, was their ability to spend the remainder of the morning sending patronus after patronus. An annoying little sparrow that flapped around his head wherever he was. And there was no getting rid of it.

"Right! That's it!"

He marched down the drive of the manor to the gate, determined to give whoever it was a piece of his mind, only to find a cheerful, elderly lady on the other side of the gates with eyes and a voice that he imagined a grandmother might have once spoken to him with.

"Now is this any way to keep an old lady waiting, Mr Malfoy?" She had the audacity to smirk at him, eyes glinting with mischief.  

"You must have been in Slytherin, Ms..." he enquired.

"Please call me Esme, Mr Malfoy. And yes, I was. I'm now the CEO of Phoenix Publishing House."

"Don't call me Mr Malfoy. Draco, please."

"Certainly, Draco."

He invites her in and serves her tea and they talk. And talk. It was nice and Draco hadn’t realised just how much he'd missed it. The company. It didn't even matter that, eventually, he knew she would bring up the reason for her being there. That she wanted something from him. After all, everyone always did in the end.

"I want to offer you something, Draco. I want to give you the chance to tell your story, publish your journals."

Well, that wasn't exactly the way he'd expected it to come out. He scoffed.

"And what would you get out of it?"

"The chance to give a young, pained Slytherin his life back." She smiled her endearing smile at him.

"And a percentage of the profits? I know how this works, Esme."

"Only 10%. The rest you can do with what you will."

"I don't need it. I just need the story out there. People need to know. There's so much that people still don't know." He thought for a moment. "We sell it for as little as possible, you take 10% and the rest goes to charity. To the rebuilding efforts. To the orphans and the bereaved."

"Deal, but I expect you there at the release."

"Alright."

They get the journals back from the Ministry, he makes sure it's all of them and appeases them by making copies of all of it, but places protections on them that ensure no one else can copy it.

The journals and notes are placed in chronological order, all of them, every single piece of information, and Draco makes additional notes on the things he understands more now, drawing links between events that had seemed so separate back then.

The book is released at Flourish and Blotts when all those who had been apprehended because of his information were still in Azkaban awaiting trial. The Ministry doesn't like it but screw the Ministry if they were more willing to believe his father over a scared seventeen-year-old.

The store is packed. Granger is there, of course she is, and Potter and Weasley at the back. They're all dressed inconspicuously with charms on their most distinguishable features. It doesn't stop Draco from recognising them though. Not when he's been at school with them for seven years. Not when he knew it was them at the Manor. It's only Granger out of the three of them that approaches the desk where he sits to buy the book. She meets his eyes, he notices she's kept them brown, and he nods at her in a gesture full of acknowledgement and respect and apology.

Three days later, he is in the library at the Manor when Mimsy informs him that there is a visitor requesting to come through the floo in his personal drawing room. He never sets foot in the main one anymore. Too many bad memories.

It's Potter.

He's holding Draco's book tightly, certain pages dog-eared at the corners. It makes him cringe and he wonders if Granger would have the same reaction. It's probably the copy that she bought after all.

"I didn't know, Draco. I had no idea. None of us did."

"That's the point Potter. If I could have talked to anyone, that book wouldn't exist."

"But the things they did to you," he trails off and Draco hates the pity and guilt written across the face of the saviour.

"It happened Potter," he says through gritted teeth, managing not to cringe at the emotion he sees in those green eyes focused intensely on him.

"And after you refused to identify me, they, they did... that." His voice was so small, in such contrast to the anger Draco had experienced from it at Hogwarts.

"Yes, Potter. Compared to that, what you used on me in the girl's bathroom was nothing." He saw the other boy flinch at the memory but carry on, ignoring Draco’s snarkiness.

"You knew they would, but you still didn't say anything."

"No." It was that simple.

Potter drops the book on the marble floor where it lands with a thud, the pages fluttering open, and reaches Draco with a few quick strides across the room. He pulls Draco into a hug, all his gratitude, pain, guilt and relief flowing through it.

"Harry," Draco whispers, not knowing what's left to say, not knowing how else to apologise.

"No, you don't have to say anything else. You've already said it Draco. It’s all over those pages."

So, Draco just wraps his arms around the skinny boy in return and rests his chin in the mess of raven hair. And, for the first time, in a long time, he lets himself really breathe.

[insomnia-productions]

Stakes Claimed - a mat/rand drabble

Summary: Egwene plans to hand Rand over from herself to Elayne. But someone else, it seems, has already staked a claim.

[Read on AO3]

.

Stakes Claimed

“Are you sure about this?” Elayne asks, for what must be the hundredth time, and bristles when Egwene rolls her eyes. Really, is it such an unreasonable question? “Isn’t this too… forward?” Her eyes slide to the ground, heat pricking her neck. Just thinking about it…

Egwene, walking briskly a few paces ahead, lets out a huff. “It has to happen sooner or later.” She glances over her shoulder at Elayne, and then turns back, almost dismissively. Voice light, she says, “Well, I am going to tell him I do not love him. You and Berelain can do whatever you like after that.”

The heat behind her neck disappears, replaced with a chill. Elayne hurries to catch up with her friend, feeling tricked when she catches sight of Egwene’s little smile.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Egwene’s eyes widen innocently, but she drops the facade as they turn the corner. Maidens of the Spear fill the corridor, squatting against pillars, leaning beside dim torches, their hands flashing rapidly. A few look up as the two girls approach, appraising. Rand’s guard. Elayne can see the doors to his room just ahead, guarded, as always, by two Maidens holding sharp bronze spears. In spite of herself, Elayne feels her footsteps slow. Egwene seizes her arm, tugging her along. Her voice is gentle when she says, “It will be fine.” After a moment’s hesitation, she adds, “And if it’s not… well, I shall simply have to sit on him until he realizes how lucky he is to have your attention.”

She releases Elayne’s arm as they come to a stop before the doors, flashing her a small, reassuring smile, before smoothing her expression and turning to the Maidens at the door.

“We wish to speak with Rand.” Her voice is all cool authority. Elayne wonders at it; this adolescent farmgirl could give any Lord or Lady in Caemlyn a run for their money. The Maidens, however, are not so easily impressed.

“He is busy,” one of them intones flatly. The other—Adelin, wasn’t it?—shifts her feet slightly, her lips tugging up at one corner.

Elayne narrows her eyes. “Busy?”

“Busy,” repeats the first Maiden. Under the deadpan, is there a current of humor?

Thoughts like whips make sharp lashes across Elayne’s mind; she exchanges a sharp glance with Egwene. Busy? With what?

With whom?

Egwene draws herself up to her full height—not much, and especially compared to the Aiel, but she manages to make it work—and purses her lips.

“Well, whatever he is doing, he is certainly not too busy for a childhood friend.”

“No, he is not,” someone murmurs from behind. Elayne whirls around to see several Maidens glancing away, palms covering their mouths, eyes crinkled at the corners.

What on earth are they laughing about now?

Elayne is starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable, but there is a low heat in Egwene’s eyes that Elayne has come to learn means nothing but trouble and stubbornness. Oh, dear.

“I am going in,” Egwene announces. There is a twitch of irritation in her eyebrows. “Don’t any of you try and stop me.”

The Maidens at the doors shrug, exchanging small, barely perceptible grins, and step away. Egwene puts a hand on each knob and flings the doors open. Boots loud against the stone floor, she marches in. Elayne follows at her heels, remembering just in time to steel her spine and put on her most regal expression. She is the Daughter-Heir of Andor, after all. In the back of her mind, a voice whispers: and he is the Dragon Reborn. Dimly, she wonders how the hierarchy falls.

Rand is sitting in bed when they enter. He is not wearing a shirt, but he has the covers pulled up and he sits with his knees to his chest, a large book propped against them. Moiraine said he had been reading too many Prophecies, but this tome does not look so old; in fact it might be the tales of Jain Farstrider, going by what Elayne can make out of the cover. He has one hand on the book; the other rests idly on something just beneath the covers, by his side. Rand looks up as they enter, eyes wide, cheeks pink.

He opens his mouth. Before he can speak, Egwene is announcing,“I have come to tell you some things, and I mean for you to listen.” Her arms are folded tightly and her chin is lifted. Elayne holds a similar posture; they look down at him together.

Rand shifts, eyeing them. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Could you step outside for a few minutes first?”

Egwene does not seem to hear him. “First of all, just because you have those Tairen lords scraping their noses on your boots does not mean…” She trails off abruptly, face going red. Elayne follows her gaze and lets out a gasp, hands flying to her mouth.

How did she not notice the very person-shaped lump under the covers?

A thousand voices take up a cry in her head, some shocked, some hurt, most very, very angry.

If that is Berelain, she thinks darkly, I will drag her by the hair to Caemlyn and have her strapped in the street.

Egwene has drawn herself up, the glow of saidar surrounding her. She plants her fists on her hips and levels him with a dark glare. “Busy,” she hisses.

Rand lets out a yelp. The book falls to the ground as both his hands come up to press against his forehead. “Ow! What was that for?!”

“Here we have all been worrying about you,” Egwene fumes, “and you have been fooling around with some– some hussy—”

Rand lowers his hands, a flash of irritation crossing his face. But his lips quirk up at the corners, and Elayne bristles. What is he smiling about?

“No,” Rand says, soft but firm. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew—”

He is interrupted by a low moan emanating from under the covers. Not of pleasure, Elayne thinks—rather of complaint. She finds herself unable to breathe as the blankets move. A head of short brown hair pops out.

Elayne’s eyes widen as the blankets fall away, revealing a tanned, decidedly un-female torso. He is facing away from them, his whole body turned towards Rand, who appears caught between looking—smiling?—at him and looking at Egwene. The boy lets out a yawn and, perhaps taking note of Rand’s divided attention, glances back over his shoulder.

Elayne watches surprise settle into irritation on Mat’s face. Her mind spins and stutters to a halt. By her side, Egwene appears to be suffering a similar problem. Her mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, eyes widening by the second.

Mat is the first to speak. “Blood and ashes,” he mutters darkly. “Can’t a man have one peaceful morning?”

Egwene finds her voice. Slightly. “Mat? But… you… he… I thought…” She shakes her head, brows creasing, and suddenly the cool Aes Sedai authority is gone.

Rand, for his part, has the grace to look slightly abashed. “We would have told you before. It’s just that… well, everyone at home always assumed that I would marry you, and it was easier to let them assume that than to try and explain… this.”

“This,” Egwene echoes lamely.

There is a beat of silence. Elayne realizes she has forgotten how to think.

Rand clears his throat. “You wanted to talk to me?”

Just like that, Egwene snaps back into action. Elayne follows belatedly, trying to shake off the daze. “Yes! We’ve come to talk to you about channeling.”

Elayne doesn’t miss Mat’s flinch. Rand doesn’t, either.

“Mat? Would you mind…?” His voice is gentle, almost apologetic.

Mat rolls his eyes and sighs theatrically, but he drags himself off the bed and goes on his knees beside it, digging around underneath. He emerges with a wrinkled shirt and mud-stained boots; after pulling each on in quick succession, he stretches his hands above his head and lets out a languid yawn. Elayne watches with rising fury as he climbs back onto the bed on his hands and knees and gives Rand a wicked grin.

“Find me later,” he murmurs, just loud enough for Elayne to hear, and presses a quick kiss to Rand’s lips.

Then he slides off the bed and saunters out, flashing Elayne and Egwene a decidedly bratty smirk as he goes. The doors swing shut behind him.

Rand’s gaze lingers on the doors, his eyes soft, the emotion in them somewhere between fondness and exasperation.

Elayne takes a long breath, goes deep into her mind, and screams into the void.

.

.

She sees them, later, in the garden. Elayne is not trying to spy—well, alright, yes, maybe she is. Mat is seated on a stone bench, flipping a coin and catching it, brows furrowing more with every flip. He doesn’t notice Rand coming up behind him until a red bloom is threaded behind his ear, and then he turns around, his frown falling away to make room for a wide, bright smile.

“How was it?” he asks as Rand sits down beside him. “Did they torture you?”

“Not too much. I think they will need some time to get over the shock before they start any of that again.”

Mat snickers at that. Elayne wants to box his ears.

“I think it was the best way for them to find out. I hope it happens with Nynaeve, someday.” His eyes sparkle in the sunlight. “Or Moiraine.”

Rand shudders. “The Light send it not so.”

“Or, better yet, those Tairen lords. Egwene was right, you know. They’re terrified of you. I wonder what they would think if they could hear you when—”

Rand clamps his hand over Mat’s mouth, ears flaming red. Elayne presses a hand over her own mouth, bracing the other against a pillar to keep from falling over. Lini was right. Absolutely nothing good comes out of eavesdropping. Still, she doesn’t move.

They stay like that for a moment, and then Rand yelps and snatches his hand away, wiping it roughly on his jacket as Mat cackles. “You licked me!” Rand cries, sounding affronted. “I can’t believe you!” But he’s laughing. “We’re not seventeen anymore, you know.”

“No?” He grins, and Elayne almost expects him to stick out his tongue. “Do you feel like an adult now, Lord Dragon?” Mat’s grin falters a moment, but returns brighter and cheekier, if that is possible. “It’s just me, here. And you. Just me and you.” He laces their fingers together. “Can’t we be seventeen?”

“I don’t know,” Rand says honestly, his voice almost too soft to hear. “I don’t know if we can even be twenty anymore.” But he keeps their fingers woven together, and the way he leans in to press his forehead against Mat’s makes the gesture seem like a wish whispered to the stars.

All of a sudden, Elayne feels like an intruder on the scene. She backs away, footsteps silent on the smooth floor. As she slips away, she glances back only for a moment. They have separated. Mat is yelling about something, hands waving in heated animation. Elayne cannot make out his words, but from the range of almost comic expression flitting over his face, she imagines he is telling some greatly embellished story. Rand is laughing loudly, eyes screwed shut and cheeks flushed with mirth. Elayne catches herself smiling and desists immediately. She sneaks another glance at Mat, then shakes her head and walks away.

Elayne does not think she will ever understand the appeal, there. But, well, if Rand is happy… she catches herself smiling again, and lets it happen. If Rand is happy, that’s all that really matters, in the end. Elayne walks down the corridor, back into the Stone. Laughter rings behind her.