The Bardic Muse

So @galleywinter threw a challenge flag at my head to start writing again. These are dedicated to her (thank you for listening to me scream on discord for a week)

Under the cut because there’s a few of them and it got kinda long.

Greer comes to consciousness slowly, lazily. Easily.

It’s the smell of petrichor that gets her first, before she’s even fully conscious, that makes a tiny happy hum roll through her as she burrows her nose into the hollow of Alkar’s throat.

Waking up with Alkar is waking up in a tangle of warm limbs - his left knee slipped between her thighs, her right leg thrown over his waist, his tail, warm and heavy, slung across her waist and hip. One of Alkar’s arms holding her, tucking her close to his chest, so that his fingertips brush against the nape of her neck, the other usually under both of their pillows.

Greer can’t even remember the last time she slept with her back to the open room.

2: Cheek Kiss

3: Nose Kiss

4: Forehead Kiss

5: Firm Kiss

6: Gentle Peck

7: Romantic Kiss

8: Eyelid Kiss

9: Jawline Kiss

10: Neck Kiss

11: Collarbone Kiss

12: Chest Kiss

13: Stomach Kiss

14: Kiss Along the Hips

15: Kiss in the Rain

16: Upside-Down Kiss

17: Goofy Kiss

18: Underwater Kiss

19: Forceful Kiss

20: Any of the Above

The music is lively and quick, and Ezra’s arm around Greer’s waist is strong and secure as they spin across the floor. She’s laughing and her eyes are bright, her hair flying around her face with each twirl, and it makes something funny and warm stick in Alkar’s throat.

He scoffs down into his wine glass, hating that he can feel heat creeping across his cheeks.

“They look good, don’t they?” Finn murmurs next to him, his voice as warm as the smile lighting his eyes as he watches them, too. “I’m glad she’s willing to dance with him.”

Something like a laugh bubbles out of him. “Surprised he still even asks you. Surprised he has any toes left,” he mutters as he gulps down a swallow of wine.

Finn snickers into his whiskey. “Not more surprised than I am.”

The song ends with a trilling, dramatic flourish, and before Alkar can look back to the dancefloor again, warm familiar hands are on his face, yanking at him, tugging him down and then she’s kissing him before he can so much as protest. One of his hands immediately clamps onto the back of his chair for balance, and he makes a strangled noise against Greer’s mouth as it presses to his, but he doesn’t stop her. He doesn’t want to, and his other hand reaches to cup the back of her skull, his fingers tangling in her hair.

Ezra, the shit, has her practically bent over backwards in a dip so low she might as well be laying on the floor, but Alkar can’t even be bothered to care about how dramatic it is when Greer’s got her hand sunk into his hair and the heat of her mouth is melting against his.

He has just enough time to register that kissing like this is different, to really appreciate how soft and full her lower lip is, to actually notice the texture of the tip of her tongue, and then she’s gone again as Ezra pulls her back up and helps her find her feet.

Canon? Nope. And I’m a bit rustier at writing them than I’d like. Obviously this means I need to write more of A Prayer soon, yes? ;-)

I’m not sure how good this is, but it’s done and complete, and I’m counting that as a victory.____“At the sound of the retreating boots, Caeleborn turned to Aelfira, pressed his finger to his lips, and leaned around the low wall.” Camdyn turned the page, then immediately carded her fingers back through Varian’s hair where his head rested in her lap, gently dragging her nails against his scalp.

He exhaled a hum, a small happy noise and tipped his head to chase her touch.

Camdyn set the book aside on the grass next to her hip for a moment, relishing in the feel of Varian’s hair sliding between her fingers, of the sensation of his weight on her crossed legs. She watched his face as she scratched at scalp again. As the corner of his mouth tugged up in a grin, she smiled at his simple happiness. He deserved it and so much more besides. He had always given so much to his people.

To their people.

It was still strange, still so large as to be vaguely nebulous and something she had trouble truly grasping.

The gentle drag of his fingers against her jaw shook her free, and she felt heat creeping across her cheeks as she looked down at his head in her lap.

She knew it was coming from the gleam in his eye, from the quirk to his mouth.

“My queen?” His voice was soft, and he didn’t try to hide the wolfish edge to his smile.

“Stop that,” she scoffed. The pad of his thumb skimmed over her cheekbone.

“But it makes your flush that much more pronounced and endearing.”

Camdyn swatted his shoulder for that, and at least he had the decency to feign injury.

As he rolled back and settled again, his fingers still cradling her face and hers in his hair, her heart skipped at the joy in his eyes.

His hand slid to her neck. With gentle insistence, he guided her down until their lips met.

It was slow, easy, gentle.

With Camdyn’s hair curtaining around them, Varian kissed her as if there was nothing else in the world but her, and the tenderness of it stole the breath from her lungs. The tip of his tongue flickered along the line of her lower lip, teasing, testing.

The absolutely wicked chuckle he made into her mouth as she nipped at the fullness of his lower lip made her blood sing for him.

The sudden, distinctive sound of a throat being pointedly cleared was like dumping ice water over her head. Camdyn tore her mouth away from Varian’s and her hand flew back to the book, yanking it to her face as she sat back up.

“I apologize, Father. Camdyn.”

Camdyn wasn’t sure whose blush was brighter, hers or Anduin’s, but she was almost certain the heat in her cheeks rivaled the heat of the Great Forge.

“I’ll just find you both later then, shall I?”

Camdyn could feel Varian’s eyes on her still, but she refused to look at him, instead keeping her eyes studiously fixed on the book.

“That would be best, I think,” Varian finally answered, amusement coloring his words. “And close the doors to the gardens on your way out, if you don’t mind.”

So, eventually - as soon as I’m done with A Prayer You Can Borrow, most likely - Amanda’s story is getting a rewrite; a novelization if you will. A lot will be changing. A lot will stay the same. But one of the things that absolutely is going to be altered is ME3 in its near entirety.

Plus, canon for them is the beginning of a reconciliation between the Omega-4 jump and the contents of the Arrival DLC. I don’t know if this scene will be in the rewrite when I get to it, but I’m calling it canon for now.

Also, I have missed these dorks something fierce.____

Kaidan’s stomach pits as the Normandy’s cargo bay doors drop open. He knows Amanda freeruns, knows she dabbled in parkour, but this jump is nothing like the controlled ones in the gyms that she’s used. This is literal life and death, and she’s only five foot four.

It only takes a moment to find her in the rubble. Her blonde hair gleams like a beacon as she barrels for the ship at full steam. She skids over a barricade, vaults up a second, and then she’s in the air, arms tucked tight to her chest and back arching in an attempt to control direction and reduce drag.

His arm immediately snaps up in a pneumonic, biotics flaring and snapping in currents over his skin as he focuses solely on Amanda.

His arms are already open for her, reaching to catch her, even as he uses his biotics to pull her the rest of the way into the cargo hold. She flies into him, smacking solidly into his chest. He knows that it isn’t just a side effect of velocity that has her fingers digging into his biceps.

He wants to kiss her - in relief, in grief; needs to feel her, to taste her - but he doesn’t. He can’t. His hands can’t slide into her hair, can’t tighten around her waist. But as she’s scrambling to turn in his hold, he can brush his lips against the line of her jaw. Something quick and deniable, but something tangible. Something so that he can feel her. So that she can feel him.

And he does. Without hesitation or regret. 

She doesn’t regret it either, judging from the quick, deliberate drag of her thumb against his arm. He knows it for what it is; they’ve communicated this way for so many years it’s an automatic understanding between them.

It’s both an acknowledgement and a promise.

This chopped salad is a mix of grilled chicken, tomatoes, cucumbers, bacon, chickpeas and fresh mozzarella cheese, all tossed together in a homemade vinaigrette. A delicious blend of flavors and textures that makes for the perfect lighter meal.

#choppedsalad #glutenfree #lunch #salad #avocado #bacon #chicken #chickpeas #yum #foodgasm #foodporn #dinneratthezoo

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Everything feels fuzzy, indistinct, with a backdrop of almost-pain that he cannot explain.

He tries to remember what happened, why he’s feeling so weak and out of it, but he can’t. It’s a blank spot in his mind. He doesn’t remember how he ended up… Well, judging by what he can feel, he’s wearing a breathing mask, which implies bacta immersion, which in turn implies rather serious injuries.

His eyelids feel heavy, so very heavy, but there is something in him that tells him that it’s time to wake up. That he’s slept for a long time already. Perhaps it is the Force, perhaps it’s just its body telling him its had enough sleep now.

Padme Naberrie Amidala, patron Saint of Redemption and Diplomacy

So @mmeviardot and I have been talking about a canon-adjacent AU where Padme Amidala is basically turned into a religious figure by some pockets of people across the galaxy, and this is my interpretation of what an icon of her would look like.