Star

⸻ image credits to artbycassmira & etherealbookart ⸻

summary: Aaric finds himself unwillingly roped into reader’s drunken antics—especially when she decides he’s the perfect person to cling to for the night.

pairing: aaric graycastle x fem!reader warnings: fluff word count: 3.7k

Request by @asteria-wood: would u be able to do aaric x drunk reader? like fluff and lowk funny since drunk reader is one of those cheery happy ranting drunks…🥺🥺🥺 - Thank you so much for your requests, I hope you like this one 💙

⸻⸻⸻✦ ♡ ✦⸻⸻⸻

The hall was loud, filled with laughter and clinking of cups that only came after a successful mission—or in this case, a night of reckless indulgence. Someone had decided that a drinking game was the best way to unwind after weeks of relentless training, and, to no one’s surprise, it had spiraled completely out of control.

Y/N wasn’t sure who started it. It might have been Ridoc, because of course it was, or maybe Sawyer, who had a terrible habit of egging people on just to see what would happen. Either way, the game had begun, and Y/N had made the unfortunate decision to participate with the same determination she approached everything in life. Which was why, at this moment, she was absolutely hammered.

Across the room, Aaric leaned back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, watching the chaos unfold with his usual unreadable expression. He was nursing the same drink he’d started with hours ago, clearly in no hurry to join in the drunken shenanigans. That was just so typical of him. Always composed. Always in control. Always watching.

Meanwhile, Y/N was very much not in control. She barely remembered how many drinks she’d had—just that each one had gone down smoother than the last. At some point, the game had stopped mattering, and she’d found herself swept up in the warmth of the room, in the laughter of her friends, in the way everything felt just a little bit funnier than usual.

Like Ridoc attempting to balance two cups on his head. Or Rhi’s dramatized retelling of an absolutely atrocious battle strategy someone had suggested. Or the way the firelight flickered across Aaric’s face, making his green eyes glow in a way that was entirely unfair. Wait. No. Not that last one. She groaned, shaking her head as if it would physically rid her of the thought. The movement made the room tilt slightly, and she giggled to herself, because walking was going to be an adventure later.

Someone—probably Sloane—nudged her shoulder, smirking. “How are you still standing?” Y/N grinned. “Pure determination.” Sloane snorted. “You mean pure stupidity.” “Same thing.” A deep chuckle sounded from next to her, and Y/N’s head snapped toward the source. Aaric was watching her with an amused tilt to his lips, his head resting against his knuckles like he was enjoying some sort of personal entertainment show.

“What?” she demanded, pointing at him—though her finger wobbled slightly in the air. “What’s so funny?” Aaric arched a brow, that smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, nothing,” he mused. “I’m just waiting to see how long it takes before you topple over.” Y/N narrowed her eyes, swaying slightly where she stood. “Joke’s on you, I—” she took a step forward and immediately stumbled. A strong hand caught her arm before she could crash into the table. Aaric. Of course.

His grip was firm, the heat of his palm searing through the fabric of her sleeve. He didn’t let go right away, probably because she still wasn’t standing entirely upright. His smirk deepened. “Told you.” Y/N squinted up at him. “You have entirely too much faith in gravity.” He huffed a quiet laugh. “And you have entirely too little.” 

She would’ve argued—really, she would’ve—but something about the way he was looking at her made words harder to form. Maybe it was the flicker of amusement in his eyes, or the way his hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary before he finally let her go. She definitely wasn’t drunk enough to deal with that. Or maybe she was too drunk. Hard to tell. Either way, the night was far from over.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Aaric knew the exact moment Y/N crossed the threshold from tipsy to absolutely gone. One second, she was swaying slightly on her feet, squinting at him like she was trying to figure out if he was real or a particularly smug hallucination. The next, she gasped dramatically—loudly—and threw her arms around Sloane, nearly knocking them both to the ground.

“Sloaneeeee,” Y/N whined, clinging to her like she was about to be dragged off to war. “You’re, like… the best. Have I told you that? You’re amazing. I love you.” Sloane—clearly amused but also struggling to stay upright—patted Y/N on the back. “Uh, thanks?” “No, no, no,” Y/N insisted, pulling back just enough to grab Sloane’s face between her hands. “I need you to understand how much I love you, okay? You’re, like, so cool, and you always have my back, and you make the best jokes, and—”

Sloane shot a look at the rest of the squad, grinning. “She’s gone.” “I am not,” Y/N protested, releasing her only to immediately latch onto Ridoc. “Ridoc! You.” Ridoc, already laughing, braced himself as she gripped his arms. “Me?” “Yes, you. Listen.” She swayed, her hands tightening as if she needed to physically steady herself. “You’re a menace, but you’re our menace. And that’s important.” Ridoc dramatically wiped away a fake tear. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “I mean it. You make life… life-y.” “I think you mean lively,” Aaric drawled from his seat. Y/N’s head snapped toward him so fast she nearly fell over. Her eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile, and Aaric had just enough time to realize what was about to happen before she lunged. The impact wasn’t as bad as he expected—mostly because he caught her before she could send them both to the floor. But that didn’t mean he was prepared for the hug.

Because Y/N wasn’t just hugging him. She was clinging to him, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, face buried in his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. And worse—far, far worse—was the small, content sigh she let out as she nuzzled into him. Aaric froze. His entire squad gawked. Ridoc was already mouthing what the fuck at him, while Sawyer looked like he was fighting the urge to burst out laughing.

Aaric cleared his throat, but Y/N was too busy melting into him to notice. “You are very drunk.” “Mmhmm,” she hummed. “You’re comfy.” Aaric’s eye twitched. “I—” Before he could disentangle himself, she pulled back just enough to look up at him, her face mere inches from his. Her eyes were slightly unfocused but full of unfiltered joy, her lips stretched into the happiest little grin he’d ever seen. “Your hair looks so soft,” she whispered, as if it were some grand revelation.

Aaric blinked. “I—what?” “I knew it.” She sounded entirely too triumphant, her fingers twitching against his shirt like she was seconds away from reaching up and testing her theory. “It’s always so perfectly in place, but I bet it’s so soft—” He caught her wrist before she could touch him, his lips pressing into a thin line. “You are not petting me.” Y/N gasped, scandalized. “I would never.” A beat. “Okay, maybe a little, but it’s because you never let me touch it and now I really want to—”

“I’m cutting you off,” Aaric said flatly. Y/N pouted. “Rude.” He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as she happily leaned back against him, using him like a very unamused chair. The squad, meanwhile, was loving this. “Are you going to get up at some point?” he asked dryly. “Mmmmm… no.” Aaric sighed. This was going to be a long night. And it only got worse when Y/N suddenly perked up, gasping. “OH MY GOD.”

Aaric flinched. “What?” Y/N grabbed his shirt, eyes wide with urgency. “We don’t compliment dragons enough.” Aaric stared. “...What?” “No, think about it.” She wiggled, looking around at the others like she was expecting some grand agreement. “We call them powerful and terrifying and majestic, but when do we ever just—just compliment them?”

Sloane, clearly entertained, tilted her head. “Like… how?” “Like, ‘Molvic, your scales are so shiny today’ or ‘Andarna, you have the cutest little tail.’” Y/N threw up her hands. “They deserve hype too!” Ridoc snorted. “You should tell that to Sgaeyl.” Y/N gasped again, her hands flying to her cheeks. “I should.” Aaric sighed. “You should not.”

But Y/N wasn’t listening anymore. No, she was already mumbling something about “dragon affirmations” while resting her head back against his chest, grinning to herself like she’d just solved the world’s greatest mystery. Aaric looked up at the ceiling. Why me?

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Aaric had the patience of a saint. Truly, he did. He had spent years dealing with entitled noble lords, arrogant commanders, and self-important politicians who thought themselves invincible. He had faced enemies who would rather die than surrender, survived near-impossible odds, and led squads into battle with a calm, calculating mind.

And yet. Nothing in his extensive experience had prepared him for this. Y/N was thriving in her drunken state, bouncing between affectionate rambling and absurd proclamations like it was her life’s mission to be the most extra person in the room. And his squad? They were reveling in his suffering. “I think it’s time you went to bed,” Aaric announced, shifting beneath her weight as she continued using him as an unwilling seat.

“I think it’s time you went to bed,” Y/N shot back, jabbing a finger at his chest. Aaric arched a brow. “I’m not the one who just tried to fistfight a bottle of whiskey.” “It was taunting me.” Aaric sighed. “You’re done for the night.” “Nooooo, I’m fine.” Y/N made an attempt at sitting up straight, only to wobble so hard that Aaric had to steady her before she face-planted into the floor. “Sure,” he said dryly. “Totally fine.”

Y/N nodded, proud. “Exactly.” Aaric pinched the bridge of his nose. “You can barely sit up, let alone walk.” “I can walk,” she declared, attempting to push herself off of him. “I am a rider.” Aaric gave her a deeply unimpressed look. Y/N grinned, clearly mistaking it for encouragement, and launched herself to her feet. For exactly half a second, she stood victorious, her hands on her hips like she had just conquered the battlefield. Then, reality caught up to her, and she tilted.

Aaric saw it before it happened—the slow, inevitable loss of balance, the widening of her eyes as gravity took hold. “I—whoops—” And then she went down. Aaric caught her before she could properly eat the floor, one strong arm snapping around her waist. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, her mouth slightly parted. “Oh,” she breathed. “That was close.”

Aaric stared at her. “You absolute menace.” She let out a giggle. “Oops?” The group was dying. Sloane had her face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking. Ridoc was wheezing, practically folded over. Sawyer had completely given up and was openly cackling. Aaric scowled at all of them before turning his attention back to the very drunk problem in his arms. “Alright. That’s enough of that.”

Y/N blinked at him again, looking very pleased with herself. “I walked, though.” Aaric exhaled sharply. “You tried to walk.” “Same thing.” “Not even remotely.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “But you caught me.” Aaric clenched his jaw. “Obviously.” Before she could protest further, he did the only logical thing—he picked her up. Y/N squeaked. “Aaric!” Ignoring the way his squad erupted into loud laughter, he adjusted his grip and effortlessly tossed her over his shoulder like she weighed nothing.

“HEY!” Y/N shrieked, kicking her legs. “THIS IS A VIOLATION OF THE RULES.” Aaric tightened his hold to keep her from wriggling too much. “What rules?” “The—” She paused. “I don’t know, but I’m sure there are some!” He started walking. “Fascinating.” “I swear I can walk!” she whined, drumming her fists lightly against his back. Aaric sighed, keeping a firm grip around her legs. “You literally just proved that you can’t.”

“I just lost focus! That’s all!” “Mm-hmm.” Y/N huffed dramatically. “This is humiliating.” “You’ll live.” “I won’t! This is a war crime.” Aaric smirked. “Oh? Are you going to report me?” “Yes!” “To who?” “…I don’t know, but someone very important!” Aaric rolled his eyes and kept walking. She squirmed again, clearly still determined to prove she didn’t need to be carried, but she also had the coordination of a newborn fawn. Eventually, she seemed to realize she was not winning this battle, because with a dramatic sigh, she flopped against his back.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But you’re still rude.” Aaric bit back a laugh. “Duly noted.” She mumbled something incoherent before suddenly perking up. “Oh! Wait!” Aaric braced himself. “What now?” Her hands grabbed his shoulders, and before he could stop her, she propped her chin on his back, peering at him upside down.

“You do have soft hair,” she whispered conspiratorially. Aaric stopped walking. Slowly—very slowly—he turned his head to glare at her, but she just beamed at him like she’d uncovered the world’s greatest secret. His eye twitched. Ridoc actually fell over from laughing too hard. Sloane wiped a tear from her eye. “Oh, this is the best night of my life.” Aaric sighed, resigned.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

By the time he reached her room, he had endured a full five minutes of her wiggling, complaining, and occasionally marveling over his existence. His personal favorite had been: “Do you bathe in perfection, or is it just a natural phenomenon?” He had no response to that. Now, with her safely deposited on her bed, he should have been able to make his escape. Except Y/N had other plans.

Aaric pulled the blanket over her, patting it down like she was a particularly unruly hatchling that might try to escape. “Sleep.” Y/N pouted. “But I’m not tired.” “Yes, you are.” She huffed. “You don’t know that.” “I do,” Aaric countered, deadpan. “Because you were literally falling asleep on my shoulder earlier.” “That’s different,” she argued, flopping dramatically against her pillow. “Your shoulder is comfortable.”

Aaric stilled for half a second. He definitely wasn’t going to acknowledge the way his heart did something weird in response. Instead, he sighed, reaching for the blanket to tuck her in again. “Just go to sleep.” Y/N blinked up at him, eyes unfocused but still filled with the same warmth they always held. “You’re really pretty, you know that?”

Aaric froze. Slowly, carefully, he sat back on the edge of her bed, giving her a look. “What?” Y/N gave him a very serious nod, like she had just made the most profound statement of her life. “It’s actually very rude.” Aaric narrowed his eyes. “How is that rude?” She pointed at him, her arm wobbling. “Because the rest of us have to look at you every day, and it’s unfair.”

Aaric blinked. “Excuse me?” She continued like he hadn’t spoken. “You should smile more, though. But not too much.” Aaric pinched the bridge of his nose. “I—” “Because,” she interrupted, reaching out to poke his chest with a single finger, “if you smile too much, it would be too powerful. And then everyone would die.” Aaric stared. “Everyone would die?” She nodded again, her expression solemn. “Instant death. Too much beauty.”

Aaric let out a slow breath. “You are unhinged.” “And you are pretty,” she countered. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I swear to the gods—” “You should also let me touch your hair,” she declared, reaching up to poke at the strands falling loose on his forehead. Aaric leaned back, just out of reach. “That is not happening.”

Y/N gasped. “But why?” “Because I don’t trust you with my hair while you’re drunk,” Aaric said dryly. “But you have prince hair,” she insisted. “It’s all soft and perfect. It’s basically begging to be touched.” Aaric snorted. “Prince hair?” She nodded fiercely. “Yes.” He shook his head, unable to stop the amused smirk tugging at his lips. “You are completely ridiculous.”

Y/N beamed at him. “Yeah, but you like me.” Aaric’s breath caught. His amusement froze, his heart stumbled, and for a single moment, he just stared at her. Y/N, blissfully unaware, snuggled deeper into the blankets, her eyes fluttering half-shut. “You’re always looking out for me,” she mumbled. “And you’re all grumpy about it, but you care.”

Aaric’s throat tightened. Y/N’s drunken confessions were usually nonsense—random thoughts, exaggerated declarations, things that had no weight beyond the moment. But this? This felt real. Aaric swallowed. “Go to sleep, Y/N.” “Mmm,” she hummed, already half asleep. “You’re nice when no one’s looking…” Aaric sighed, staring down at her as she finally drifted off.

It wasn’t the first time he had taken care of her. It wasn’t the first time he had tucked her in or listened to her ridiculous drunken rants. But it was the first time she had unintentionally confirmed what he had always suspected—That she knew he cared about her. That she saw him, even when he tried to pretend otherwise. And that, somehow, was far more dangerous than anything he had ever faced before.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Y/N’s first conscious thought was that her skull had been split open. Her second was that she might be dead. Her third was that—no, if she were dead, she wouldn’t feel like absolute shit. With a miserable groan, she pried one eye open, immediately regretting it as the dim morning light stabbed into her brain like a dagger. She slammed her eyes shut again and let out a pathetic whimper.

“Ah. You’re alive.” Y/N flinched. That voice. That smug, silky, far-too-amused voice. She cracked her eyes open once more, vision still blurry, and found herself staring directly at Aaric. Sitting in a chair beside her bed, one leg crossed over the other, his usual posture radiating the kind of unfair morning person energy that made her want to commit violence.

Y/N groaned, dragging her blanket over her face. “No.” Aaric arched a single, infuriatingly perfect brow. “No?” She curled into herself, her voice muffled beneath the fabric. “No. This isn’t happening. I am not awake. I refuse.” Aaric exhaled through his nose—one of those low, entertained sounds that usually meant he was holding back laughter.

She hated him. She hated him so much. But also, she was so thirsty and her mouth tasted like she had eaten sandpaper and regret. Slowly, cautiously, she peeled the blanket off her face. “Water?” she rasped, her voice barely functioning. Aaric didn’t move. Just stared. Expression neutral, but eyes gleaming with way too much amusement.

Y/N scowled. “Aaric, I swear to all the gods—” He finally—finally—tilted his head towards the small table beside her bed. Where, to her great relief, a glass of water and a potion bottle sat. Y/N lunged for them, wincing as her head throbbed in protest. She downed the water in record time, then uncorked the potion bottle, sniffing it. “Hangover remedy?” she croaked.

Aaric nodded. “Made sure it wasn’t poisoned first. You’re welcome.” Y/N paused, staring at him. “You tested my hangover potion?” Aaric lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Seemed necessary. You were… particularly reckless last night.” Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Define reckless.” And just like that—Aaric’s smirk deepened.

That should have been her warning. That should have been the moment she braced herself. But no, she had to go and ask. Aaric leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. “Well,” he drawled, “you were very insistent that my hair was, and I quote, ‘too soft to be allowed.’” Y/N froze. Aaric continued, deliberately slow, deliberately smug. “You also declared that if I smiled too much, people would—what was it?—ah, yes. ‘Instantly drop dead from the devastating power of it.’”

Y/N squeaked. Actual, horrified, panicked squeaking noise. Aaric wasn’t done. Oh no. He lifted one hand to his chin, feigning deep thought. “Oh, and then there was the part where you very dramatically informed me that I must, under no circumstances, ever take off my shirt in public, because, and I quote—”

Y/N launched herself at him. Or rather, she tried to. Her head protested immediately, and she ended up flopping forward like a dying fish, landing face-first in her pillow with a muffled scream. Aaric chuckled. The absolute bastard. “Oh, don’t stop me now,” he said way too cheerfully. “We’re getting to the best parts.” Y/N let out a sound that was one part groan, one part death wail.

Aaric, meanwhile, was enjoying himself far too much. “You also suggested,” he continued smoothly, “that I allow you to touch my hair, because apparently I have ‘prince hair’—which I must say is a new one.” Y/N screamed into her pillow. “And finally,” Aaric said, his voice lowering just slightly, “you made an excellent case as to why I must, under no circumstances, ever stop looking out for you.”

Y/N froze. Her stomach dropped. Slowly, so slowly, she turned her head, peeking up at him through wide, mortified eyes. Aaric wasn’t smirking anymore. His expression was still amused, but… softer. Almost fond. She swallowed. “I—” “You’re always looking out for me,” Aaric murmured, repeating her words from the night before, his voice gentler now. “And you’re all grumpy about it, but you care.” Y/N wanted to evaporate.

Right here, right now. Simply cease to exist. Because of course she had said that. Of course. Aaric tilted his head, watching her reaction, his eyes far too knowing. “You knew, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. “You’ve always known.” Y/N’s heart pounded. Her throat was dry again. There were too many feelings in this room, and she was not emotionally stable enough for this with a hangover.

So she did what she did best—She flopped back onto her pillow with a dramatic groan. “Kill me,” she begged. “Just do it. Right now. End my suffering.” Aaric exhaled, shaking his head, but there was something warm in his expression. “Unfortunately for you,” he said, leaning forward to pluck the empty glass from her nightstand, “I still have some looking out for you left to do.”

Cardan: fell first, fell harder, fell hardest tumbling down the staircase of the tower of forgetting since the beginning of time

Jude, standing peacefully at the top stair: you okay?

He looks at me like I’ve gained another head. “I was raised to be a diplomat. Diplomats don’t speak to dead people.”

Aaric Graycastle the diva that you are

“You didn’t think we should know you speak fluent everything?” I arch a brow.

“And nullify Aetos’s reason for joining…what is it Ridoc calls us? Quest squad?” Aaric shakes his head.

Never Alone - pt 4

Aaric Graycastle x Fem!Reader

Summary: It’s time for Threshing! You and Aaric are separated and try to find a way back to each other. If you can stay alive.

Warnings: very graphic violence, blood, swearing, dragons being dragons, yearning, idiots in love

Author’s Note: part 5 might be turning up the heat for this slowly burning slow-burn👀

Word Count: 5.3K

Part Three | Part Five

Dain knows how to cook. Nobody knows. His father insisted he learn basic survival skills including cooking (basics) and he enjoyed that part so much he kinda went overboard.

When extremely plastered (in Aretia), Sloane Mairi suddenly decided that the dragons looked lonely and needed hugs, so she naturally when to do just that. Dain was the only one who succeeded in dragging her away from a very exhasperated Thoirt, an amused Andarna and a long suffering Cath who all decided to "sacrifice" themselves so she wouldn't get roasted by a far less amused dragon. This happens at least once a week, less often when in Basgiath, but only because it's harder to get to the dragons.

The only reason Sloane can get hammered so consistently is because all second squad first years meet once a week for a "game night" that devolves rapidly when someone suggests something a bit more fun.

Avalynn drinks the most, Aaric is a two and done cause someone's gotta be responsible. Lynx provided the alcohol and drinks a quarter of it minimum. Baylor is a lightweight and Kai is a horny drunk.

Speaking of Lynx, he has no less than 15 bottles hidden in various clever hideyholes in his room plus a few more around both Basgiath and Aretia. Dain knows where all of them are. Dain pretends not to know and occasionally swipes one of them as compensation if the first years have been particularly trying that week.

The morning after "game nights"  Aaric wakes his squadmates up with hangover tonics and breakfast in bed. If in Aretia, breakfast will include the fluffiest most delicious pancakes known to mankind, promptly commandeered by Sloane, who will actually bite anyone attempting to take a bite of her pancakes. Dain may or may not have made the pancakes himself. Sloane will never know. Aaric takes credit. He might have been bribed to do so. Allegedly.

The whole subterfuge over who actually makes the pancakes (and the rest of the Aretian post game night breakfast) gets discovered two days before Dain graduates.

When Dain graduates, he passes onto Rhiannon the knowledge of where all of Lynx's bottles are because "you'll need it".

Aaric demands to know how Dain actually gets Sloane to cooperate on getting away from hugging the dragons, because every time he's tried he's been unsuccessful and the two times he saw it in a vision, the dragons taking off drowned out what was being said. The answer? Tyrrish. You gotta talk in Tyrrish.

The first time Aaric attempts this after Dain has graduated and happens to be on a mission somewhere, Sloane promptly breaks down in heart wrenching sobs and Aaric has to physically carry her back to her room, bridal style. After a bit, still sobbing, a still very much sloshed Sloane manages to get out that he did it wrong. When Aaric tried to get a now hungover Sloane to explain how the hell did he speak Tyrrish wrong (his accent was flawles, his grammar impeccable) it took 3 hours and a lot of blushing to explain that, essentially, he wasn't Dain and therefore didn't sound like Dain. And also he used the wrong terms of endearment. Aaric didn't get the chance to get it right, as Sloane stopped going to hug the dragons.

Once a bit more comfortable with each other, Jesinia decides to teach Sawyer how to sign a full sentence without telling him what it means. She doesn't tell him until he can sign it properly. The phrase is make a professional whore blush level of inappropriate. Jesinia does this to get Sawyer to blush cause she thinks it's adorable. She does it twice more (different days) before Sawyer decides to take the erotic sentences as requests and proceeds to fullfill them to the best of his abilities. By the time they're married this has become a fun way for Jessinia to request some more salacious bedroom activities that she may or may not have read in a book somewhere. For educational purposes of course. If he's already familiar with the signs, Sawyer feigns ignorance until she explains.

At some point during the war, Jessinia does something heroic that impresses the dragons (defending hatchlings or something equally big, dragons aren't easily impressed) and recieves a gift as gratitude. Sliseag does the honours (that's his rider's mate thank you very much). She gets marked in both arms in a similar way to the apostasy kids, except hers are the same shade or Red as Sawyer's relic, and go from just before her elbows down to her wrist and in a vaguely arrow like shape on the back of her hands.

The gift allows her to speak with Sliseag in a similar way Violet could speak to Sgaeyl. After she gets used to this for a bit, Sliseag points to the little pathway that connects her to Sawyer, giving Jesinia a way to fulfill her biggest wish: to hear Sawyer's voice.

Sawyer is delighted when he discovers this side effect of the gift. They use it often so Jessinia can hear sounds she's been curious about but mostly so she can listen to music. Ridoc joked once about his own voice luring Jesinia away because it was just that sexy. Jessinia responded with something along the lines of "hell no it's not" but bitchier somehow.

Sawyer writes poetry. He has it in a little notebook he keeps on his person at all times, mostly cause he doesn't trust Ridoc not to go through his things and find it. He'd never let him live it down.

The poetry notebook falls to the floor one day as he climbs Sliseag when he has to take off fast for some mission or other and he doesn't notice. If Sliseag notices, he doesn't say. Jesinia notices and picks it up, intending to give it back later.

She really didn't mean to snoop, honest, but she's a scribe and she's curious and after taking a peak at the first one she kinda can't help herself. It's good. Really good.

There's poetry about everything you can think about. War, loss, friendship, even one that Jessinia suspects is actually about his dragon. There's also a couple dozen at least about love, hinting at some mysterious alluring captivating woman and some seem to hint whatever feelings are being reflected in the pages are not reciprocated. Jesinia is not jealous. At All. She just doesn't think this mysterious tramp deserves him in the slightest. That's all. Really.

By the time she returns the little poem book to him, Jessinia has gone through 17 stages of grief, multiple cycles of self doubt and managed to fret herself into low self esteem. She gives none of that away. Sawyer proceeds to somehow look  simultanously embarrased, horrified and hopeful, and his face is so red it's making Sliseag look pink next to him. Jesinia doesn't stay to chat.

Sawyer spends almost two weeks trying to determine if Jesinia has in fact read the poems and what she thinks about them (embarrassment be damned, he actually meant every word) but every attempt to bring up the subject ends with either her pretending she can't see him sign or suddenly being busy or needed elsewhere.

Finally he manages to corner her and sit her down and talk about the damn notebook with the stupid love poems. Turns out it had never occured to Jesinia she might actually be said mysterious alluring captivating woman (the poems don't give enough hints of the physical appearance or anything that would outright point to her) and had been heartbroken thinking Sawyer was in love with someone else and she had misread the situation. Sawyer takes the best part of a whole afternoon showing her how much she had not misread the situation in the slightest before they actually discuss what she actually thought of the poems. He does make her promise not to tell Ridoc about them. Ridoc already knows about them but is saving the info for a rainy day.

Speaking of Ridoc, he's an excellent dancer and more flexible than you'd initially think. Those skills translate well into the bedroom.

The way the squad finds out about this is when a slightly more than tipsy Ridoc attempts to dance with the entire squad, succeeds in dragging an equally tipsy Maren into the center of the room and proceeds to wow all of them. She still refuses to go back to his room for another type of demonstration.

There used to be a rider whose signet was being able to transfer memories into paper, creating instan portraits (much like a camera works). She's the reason why an old colleague of General Sorrengail had a bunch of portraits, that she may have managed to deliver to Mira one way or another. Second squad spends a quiet free afternoon cooing over portraits of a 7 year old Dain with a mop of unruly curls on top of a 5ft pillar smirking in victory and satisfaction at having "conquered" the summit, little Dain and Tiny Violet arms around each other cheek to cheek and smiling widely, 15 year old Brennan trying and failing to look like anything other than an awkward teen, Mira and Brennan clearly arguing about something while Violet pouts next to them, and Dain (from the top) and Brennan (from the bottom) helping Violet get on top of the first pillar.

After the portraits, General Aetos has now 5-6 new plans for an untimely death made for him exclusively because "how can you look at that face and think Imma screw this kid up so bad his anxiety has anxiety?". Sloane's plan is the most violent. Aaric agrees to issue a pardon to her if she sees it through and lets him watch.

Another side effect of the portraits is that the first years (and Ridoc) are now curious about what their wingleader would look like without the beard. Dain refuses to shave it. There's multiple attempts to persuade him otherwise, including coercion and goading. Aaric also tries bribery.

Sloane is the only one weaved into Dain's wards because after a lecture one day she decided to mess with his very carefully arranged stuff and he noticed she was like 25% less aggressive the rest of the day and he decided him being inconvenienced for 10 minutes whenever she was pissed was better than having to physically stop her from fighting half the quadrant every half hour (also because he's totally in love with her and loves having her in his space but he's not admitting to that even under torture).

This and a particularly strong pain tonic after Dain gets injured on patrol, is how the first years get their wish of a beardless wingleader. Someone got into the wingleaders room while he was nearly comatose from the painkiller and managed to shave enough of said beard that the only way to fix the mess was to properly shave it all off. It took a whole week to regrow to a decent enough level and 3 to restore to pre shaving conditions.

Turns out Beardless Dain looks mostly like a very big very muscular very pissed off teenager. Sloane is unaware he knows it was her (or that she was at the very least an accomplice) because Sloane has been operating under the assumption that Dain's room isn't warded.

Cath treats all future Slain children as if they were his hatchlings and will actually let them crawl all over him while pretending to be annoyed. No one believes his protests. He's gentle enough with Liam, but positively soft with the girls. He has nicknames for all 3 children and they get used more than their actual names.

Sliseag treats Jesinia as if she was Sawyer's mate (in the dragon sense). He becomes protective of her in a would be nonchalant way. He also claims if she had chosen to become a rider and had been found worthy she would have surely bonded a red. Reds are the superior choice after all.

Aaric's future wife is gonna be a navarrian scribe or something similar from one of the other countries.

Winter

Spring

Summer

Let's scrap Irish

I think it depends on the level of sickness. Paddy seems like the type of guy to 'rub dirt on it', and only really go to the Doctor's if he is SICK SICK and so out of it. So, you'd have to treat him like one of those rabid cat's, if he's refusing to get it tended to..

tending to a sick Paddy..

Staring a look with Stirling and Fraser, you resist the urge to run your fingers through your hair out of stress, taking a sharp breath in through your nose. God, there was nothing worse in the world than dealing with an ill feeling Paddy. He was a cranky thing already, but add in that he wasn’t feeling “100% fucking ready” and it was worse..so much worse. You’d rather drink a bottle of straight gin and then skinny-dip in the Nile River than attempt to tend to a cranky Paddy. 

Tapping your foot against the floor, you glance over your shoulder, staring down Paddy on the other end of the hall. He was hunched over the table, the aura around him just oozing sickness. He had gotten grazed on his left arm, you didn’t know how and he didn’t dare to expand more on it. You had tried to get a better look at it, but he’d growled at you like some kind of rabid dog. All you could do was speculate about just how bad it could be. Paddy lived by the 'rub some dirt on it' kind of mentality.

“He needs antibiotics, Stirling.” You argue, tapping your fingers on your hip.

“He needs to be fucking sedated.” Stirling mumbles, making your scoff.

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Fraser jokes, shaking a snicker with Stirling.

“Oi! Both of you, focus! I need to look at it. So, either one of you talks to him. Or you hold him down so I can take a look.” You scold, smacking the both of their heads with your hand.

“And have him bite me?” Stirling scoffs, “Again?”

“I’ll patch you up if he bites again. The point is, I need to look at it. So, either we deal with this now. Or, you have to deal with a truly ill Paddy later.”

The pair don’t budge from their spots. They just stare at you with a look that screams, “Can’t you just do it?”. Staring at the both of them in disbelief, you grumble in annoyance at their refusal to help you, smacking Stirling’s arm hard. Stupid fucking men. Grabbing the pre-made syringe from the table, you tuck it into the pocket of your pants, mustering up the courage that you need. You could survive gunfire and bombings, you survive Paddy. This was Paddy. Your Paddy. Paddy who would read poetry to you. Paddy who would watch over you whenever you showered. Paddy who would reserve a seat next to him for you. You could do this. You could fucking do this.

“Paddy..” You start, offering him a sweet smile.

“I’m not letting you look at it.” He grumbles, not sparing you a second glance.

“It’s going to be a little peek, won’t even hurt⎯”  

“No.” He states bluntly, cutting the conversation short.

Taking a deep breath in through your nose at his refusal, you stuck in air through the gap between your teeth, nodding your head begrudgingly. Fine. Fine, no more being kind. Casually walking up behind Paddy as if you were going to leave, you keep your hands tucked behind your back, undoing the cap of the needle. Wrapping your arm around his neck tightly without warning, you trap his head in a headlock, trying to get a clear spot on his arm to stick the needle in it. He chokes on a breath, startled by your attack. Clamping down on your forearm, he thrashes around in your grip like a rabid dog, kicking the table away. Christ, he was really living up to that reputation.

Yelping as he bites down hard, you kick back his chair, making more room for the two of you to wrestle around without risking a bump into something else and accidentally stabbing yourself. Blindly grabbing a handful of your hair, you yelp in pain, nearly losing your grip on him. Like hell were you going to let him get out of treatment and get worse. Smacking your knee into the back of his knee, he collapses to the floor on his knees, giving you the second that you needed. Stabbing the bevel into his left arm, he lets out a loud curse of pain, thrashing more as you press the plunge. Pulling the needle out of his arm, you snap the cap back on, licking away sweat on your upper lip.

“What the fuck was that?” He hisses, clutching his arm like a wounded animal.

“Called taking care of that graze on your arm.” You pat him on the butt, “I’ll see you in two hours for your second doze, Paddy.”

“Fucking hell, ( Y/n ).” 

“Keep being stubborn, I'll do it when you’re showering, Paddy.” You warn, “Go wash it and wrap it properly with gauze.”