omfg make this verse shut up

[maderr]

One birthday story was not supposed to so completely fucking pwn me. Sheesh.

^^;;; Three drabbles, and I also wrote two pages of Treasure and deleted them because I was informed they suck =_=



Tate & Macklin

Macklin yawned as Tate's cabin finally came into view. Well, Finn's cabin. But everyone knew Tate treated it like a lair. He wondered, sometimes, what sort of lair Tate had possessed before he'd been semi-bound by Mad Finnegan.

He also wanted to know how a dragon so obsessed with cleanliness and order had wound up bound to and best friends with a wizard who clearly followed the path of mayhem…but neither had ever divulged the full story.

Ah, well. He'd get it eventually.

The light was still on in the shop, and Macklin frowned. Normally Tate would already be finished at this hour.

When he reached the door, it was unlocked. That was bad. He'd never known Tate not to lock the door when the shop closed.

Inside, it took him a moment to realize what the strange low, heart-wrenching sound was.

The moment he realized what it was, he wanted very badly to find the culprits responsible and gut them. Then feed their innards to them one bite at a time.

Dropping his bag to the filthy floor, wondering what the hell had happened to cause such a mess, Macklin all but ran across the room and scooped up his dragon, who was crying quietly as he scrubbed at the ruined floor.

"Dragon mine, it's all right."

Tate clung tight, his tail lashing hard enough to shatter the bones of anyone who got too close.

Macklin gently tugged Tate's head up and gave his dragon a deep, hard kiss. "Tate, what happened?"

"Master is gone, helping Shay," Tate said miserably. "A nasty featherhead came with dragon bane and m-messed it all up! Because I kicked him out last week."

Featherhead. A phoenix. Dragons did not like phoenix, the only ones who could match the fury of dragon flame and, according to dragons, tasted absolutely vile. Dragon bane. That substance was illegal, even for wizards. Tate must have really pissed them off.

"Where did they go, Tate?"

"I don't know and I don't care!" Tate snarled. "My lair! Look at what they did to my lair! I'll never get it clean, that stupid featherhead with the stupid bane and I can't burn or eat him and it's not fair!"

Macklin kissed him again, not letting up until Tate's growls had softened to a deep and steady rumble, the dragon all but vibrating in his arms. "Come on, dragon mine. You're not staying here, the dirt will drive you mad. We'll stay in Beck's cabin, and I'll help you clean it all tomorrow."

Then he was getting Finn and Shay and they were going on a phoenix hunt. He'd been wanting a new feather pillow for ages anyway.

He was also going to beat it into Mad Finnegan that he really should consider actually warding his house. His reputation, it seemed, wasn't always enough to protect his things.

Despite protests that he had to clean, and Macklin knew it would drive Tate crazy all night, he managed to usher the dragon out of the cabin and along the path to Becket's cabin.

"Dirty," Tate rumbled, but Macklin could see he was too tired and upset to really care.

Oh, yes. Blood was going to be drawn.

First, however, he had a dragon to cheer up. Luckily he had just the thing.

Guiding Tate to the bed after throwing down a cleaner blanket, he then rifled through his pack and came up with a paper-wrapped package. "Here, Tate. I bought you a present while I was out."

Tate brightened a bit, eyes taking on a bit of their usual gleam – a gleam that was only for shining, glittering things, an inexplicable passion all dragons shared. Worries momentarily forgotten, Tate delicately unfolded the paper and then opened the box.

His eyes widened, and then the dragon burst into a smile that would have made Macklin laugh under normal circumstances. As it was…he was only happy to see Tate returning to his usual self.

"Soap," Tate said eagerly. "This is from the north province. I did not know you were going there."

Macklin grinned. "If I'd told you I was going up toward that fancy soap maker, it would have spoiled the surprise. So you like?"

Giving a low, pleased growl, Tate set the soap carefully – almost tenderly, really – aside, then reached out and yanked Macklin down to the bed, curling up against him, nuzzling and petting and rumbling in that way that shook his entire body. "I am happy you are home, Treasure," Tate said quietly.

Macklin kissed him. "Me too. You should have summoned me."

Tate shrugged, unhappiness again clouding his eyes. Too often Tate tried to do everything himself. Macklin would break him of the habit slowly.

"How are you going to thank me for the pretty soap?" Macklin asked with a teasing grin, glad the distraction immediately worked.

He received a light nip to his neck, before delicate claws began to work on his clothes. "Perhaps I should test it on you, Treasure," Tate rumbled. "Would that be adequate?"

"Oh, yes," Macklin breathed, shivering. Clean-obsessed dragons gave delicious baths.

Rumbles growing louder with his happiness, Tate gave him a hard, eager kiss and then stood up to drag him outside for a midnight bath.

Macklin let him, willing to do anything to see his dragon happy.

And tomorrow, he would kill every last featherhead he saw until he found the one in need of a slow and painful plucking. Then he would let Finn turn it into another fish for the pond. Then everyone would be happy.





Finn & Shay

Finn's skin begged touching.

It wasn't the tattoos, though those certainly begged plenty of attention all their own. Every time he looked at the runes and sigils inked into his brother's flesh, Shay saw something different.

He swore sometimes Finn had purposely laid out certain spells. But he could never quite catch the pattern of the markings. Always comprehension seemed to slip away right at the last moment.

Perhaps it was just a type of lust spell, because he certainly felt that every time he raked his eyes over Finn's body. The tattoos covered his arms, shoulders, and went partway down his chest and back, then ran from hip to ankle on the outside of both his legs. Another single sigil, one that Shay knew could be used to write his own name in runic, was at the small of Finn's back.

Over and over again Shay had explored ever last one of those tattoos…but they weren't the reason Finn's skin begged touching.

It was the way it felt as soft as it looked, the tan to it, the myriad scars and burns from countless spells gone awry. From head to toe was painted an intimate portrait of Finn's life, and Shay wanted to know every last bit of what he'd missed since stupidly driving away the love of his life.

Finn murmured softly in his sleep and rolled over onto his back, burying his face in his arms and one of Shay's deep pillows.

Shay shifted to nip lightly at one sharp hipbone, the star-shaped scar there that was the remains of a curse that had gone horribly awry, then moved a bit higher up to kiss a long, white scar from a harpie, then lapped gently at an old burn scar from a potion which had not gone well at all.

Another sleepy murmur, and Finn turned over with a low groan. "I was sleeping," he said with a yawn.

"I didn't mean to wake you," Shay replied, smiling faintly. "You're just too irresistible."

Finn snorted at his words, but his eyes were bright and happy behind the sleep still clouding them as he dragged Shay down for a kiss.

Mm, yes.

"You're temptation yourself," Finn whispered when they finally broke apart.

"Then it is a good thing we have given up resisting," Shay said with a smile. "Though if you wanted to go back to sleep…"

"Too awake now," Finn said, and pulled Shay down on top of him. "Tire me out."

Shay licked those irresistible lips. "Gladly."





Glen & Becket

"So this fork for salads only? And a separate one for…fish?" Becket picked up the delicate, tiny fork and blinked at it, then made a face and set it back down. "I don't get you nobles."

Glen chuckled softly from his own seat, far more interested in the way the sunlight from the balcony of their room made his pale lover almost seem to shimmer, the hints of flesh visible beneath the light white linen shirt.

But Becket had been curious about dining etiquette and Glen had promised to teach him everything, so focused he would remain. This was probably the first time he'd ever enjoyed it, even if – or maybe because – Becket spent more time discussing every last little thing rather than learning any of it.

"It has less to do with the food than the company," he said as Becket started fussing with the different spoons. "When the person on your left is smarter than you, and the person to your right more clever, and the person across more powerful, you take gleeful note that none of them know which fork to pick up for the strawberries and decide secretly they must be morons for not knowing something so simple."

Becket frowned at a butter knife. "That's stupid. Trina is a twit, Gorkey rehearses everything before every social encounter – a maid told me -- and Moira keeps power like a broken cup holds tea."

Glen blinked. "What?"

A slight flush stained Becket's cheeks. "Well, that's where they were all sitting last night, right?"

"Yes…" Glen said slowly. "How did you know?" Becket never attended fancy things if he could help it, though he would always go along with whatever Glen asked.

Becket shrugged. "From what you said last night after the dinner, and what you said now. I don't know why you let them bother you. You outshine all of them."

"Thank you," Glen said, feeling warm all the way through. He'd never been quite the leader his mother was, and his status had not improved with his taking a peasant for a mate. Strange how none of that mattered so long as Becket approved of him, when once every opinion had weighed so heavily.

Returning the smile, Becket then turned back to the table. "So why are there so many glasses."

"Wine, water, tea," Glen rattled everything off, rambling off into the different kinds of wine and tea and how they fit the various types of dinners and banquets.

Becket made a face when he finished. "And everyone calls me the strange one. I'll take a simple ale or plain cup of black tea any day. I'm glad none of this was necessary where I grew up, I would have starved."

"Given you eat nothing but apples, and those are easily obtained, I doubt you would have starved," Glen teased gently.

"That's not true," Becket protested. "I eat lots of others things. I had cake earlier."

"Spiced apple cake," Glen countered.

Becket began to look a bit worried. "I had biscuits for breakfast."

"With apple jam," Glen said with a grin.

Flushing slightly, Becket slunk down in his seat. "I had tarts for a snack."

"Fruit tarts, one of those fruits being apple."

"There was other stuff in them," Becket muttered.

Glen snickered. "And don't think I don't know about the piece of apple pie you snitched."

Becket's cheeks burned a dark pink. "I really do eat other stuff!"

"Hmm," Glen said with a smile. "I wonder."

"So I like apples," Becket said with a sheepish grin. He stood up and snatched a bright green apple from the bowl in the center of the table, then moved around and sat down on Glen's lap.

Glen blinked, always disconcerted – though in a pleasant way – when Becket did such things so casually. He wrapped his arms around his demon and licked apple juice from his pale lips, unable to resist temptation when it was so close.

Becket hummed in pleasure and kissed him, long and slow, wrapping his arms around Glen's neck.

So different, their meals now, than the stiff and awkward things they used to be. The happiness it brought nearly made him dizzy

"I don’t believe this is part of standard etiquette, demon," he murmured, but as Becket twisted and shifted to straddle him, Glen lost whatever interest he still had in lessons.

Becket snickered. "Maybe you just don't know which utensil to use."



And now I go bedz0r *sigh*