Okay but Lae'zel and Gale.
Gale 'I like your musk' and Lae'zel 'I want to taste you'. Gale 'I read that the adrenaline from fighting makes you horny' and Lae'zel 'the battle rage is in my blood - and yes'.
Gale taking notes during the ceremorphosis lesson while everyone else is flinching. Lae'zel kicking Elminster out of camp and then pulling Gale up by his collar snarling for him to pull himself together and acknowledge his own power and strength, or so help her she'll throw him into the dirt.
Gale being smart enough to see the zaith'isk for what it is and talking Lae'zel through (or out of) the procedure. Lae'zel and Tara bonding over killing animals and bringing them to Gale to cook (Tara's not even going to be mad that Gale would prioritise a boar over a pigeon).
Gale apologising for being monogamous after all he's been through, and Lae'zel being 'no-one else can have what is mine, I will not share or be shared with anyone but you'. Battle buffs and fireballs.
Shining silver armour and soft purple velvet. 'Me and the baddest bitch I pulled by being autistic'. Big Buff Warrior GF and her nerd BF.
Is this anything.
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Silver
Morning sun cuts through the small, circular bathroom window and spills onto the bedroom floor, bright enough Kaidan thought they’d left the light on overnight. But when he rolls out of bed and pads over to the open door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, it’s just the sunlight and Shepard scowling in front of the mirror, towel slung low on his hips as he leans in to examine something on his chin.
They have nowhere to be until tomorrow, when they have to head into Vancouver to greet Jack’s latest field trip of Grissom biotics for a weekend stay at the orchard. In fact, Kaidan distinctly remembers a conversation yesterday afternoon about lounging in bed this morning to enjoy some peace before the madness descends. Yet here Shepard is, awake before the alarm Kaidan had turned off, ready to take the day head on.
Some things never change.
“Morning,” Kaidan says, leaning against the doorframe to take in the sight with a soft smile.
Shepard grunts in response, tilting his neck and practically pressing his face against the mirror while scrubbing a thumb across the stubble on his cheek. Sometimes, if the light hits it right, Kaidan can still see the ghostly white lines of the Lazarus scarring. But as more years go by, they’re harder and harder to see.
Time does heal, he supposes.
“Something wrong?” Kaidan asks.
Shepard presses and pulls at the skin over his lip before finally glancing over his shoulder at Kaidan in the doorway. The way his gaze lingers for a moment over Kaidan’s bare chest still sends a delighted shiver down his spine.
“Being rudely reminded of the passage of time,” he grumbles, then points to his chin. “I think I have a grey hair.”
Kaidan heart clutches unexpectedly, the way it used to do over and over in the days, weeks, hell, months after the final push. Memories that feel distant except in moments like this whisper in his ear.
(I’ll be fine.)
(I can’t lose you again.)
(We both know this is goodbye.)
He draws in a sharp breath, sharp enough that Shepard’s irritation vanishes in a heartbeat.
“What is it?” Shepard asks.
Kaidan takes in the lean but softening muscle of Shepard’s chest, the deepening laugh lines around his eyes, the soft brush of silver that’s not just in his stubble – it’s in his temples, too, now that Kaidan’s looking.
“Nothing,” he says, swallowing around the lump in his throat. “Just…something I never thought I’d get to see.”
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listen up thaumaturges. there exists a enchanted metal called uranium that emits a sort of invisible poison curse that is known to us as “radiation.” then wizards called scientists conduct some kind of spinning ritual using the tome of centrifugal knowledge to increase the power of the enchantment in order to transfer its energy into the form of a cataclysmic fireball. this is contained in a metal phylactery until such time as to usher in the end of days on this plane. this process that shall repeat indefinitely without pause until that inevitable curséd end. thus the machinations of known, evil warlock, harold truman of the blighted lands, laid in place long before your birth, come to fruition
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