A Courtship of Dragons is a M/M Romance (it could be short, it could be a novella, it could be any size, I have no idea) told in short scenes, between two young dragons, Estenarven kin Boulderforce Clan Stoneheart and Mastekh kin Rainstorm Clan Flowflight. It’s pure fluff ‘n’ stuff and not intended to be anything other than that.
Breathe, Mastekh. Just breathe.
3
The Dinner Bell
MASTEKH HAD WOUND himself into a fine state by the time the bell rang for dinner. Anxiety pinched high and tight inside his chest with every step as he paced the narrow confines of his room. He knew such restless movement wasn’t helping, but sitting still was worse.
What had he done? Oh, what had he done?
Courting a Boulderforce, him? What had come over him? How did one even go about courting a Boulderforce anyway?
Mastekh paced and wrung his hands, wondering if he’d done the right thing or made a terrible mistake. Had Estenarven liked the cakes? What if he’d hated them? It could be the sand bread all over again, when he’d tried so hard to impress Elder Blazeborn and got it terribly wrong.
Maybe Estenarven hated him now. After all, rock cakes weren’t normally made with chocolate or so much sugar. But Estenarven loved sweet things. Only rock cakes were supposed to be savoury. What right had he to change an ancient Flowflight recipe?
And what business did a puny little Rainstorm have in courting a Boulderforce anyway?
Did Estenarven even know they were a courting gift?
Aunt Water, he couldn’t cope with this. His heart was beating triple time and he was only pacing his room.
Breathe, he counselled himself. Breathe.
It was unlikely that Estenarven thought it was a courting gift anyway. He probably thought it was just something Mastekh had made while he was bored.
Whoever heard of a Flowflight and a Stoneheart anyway? While other Clans might mix romantically with other dragons, ever since the Curse had covered the lowlands of the world with a thick layer of clouds, Flowflights had kept to themselves. With so many of their kin lost in the water beneath the Curse, they had pulled inwards, determined not to dilute their rare bloodlines any further. Romances were frowned upon, mate-alliances refused. Flowflights learnt to keep to their own.
Oh, but…
Mastekh shook his head and wrung his hands, feeling them starting to drip. He was loosing control. He couldn’t lose control, not in here. His hold on his human form was improving these days, but stress made it worse and he’d always had trouble focusing. If he wasn’t carefully his thoughts tended to spiral and when they went down, they went all the way down, into the depths of anxiety and worry and oh, oh, oh –
“S-stop it!” he hissed at himself, standing still and closing his eyes.
He couldn’t lose control in here. The room wasn’t big enough. If he gave into his fears his human skin would slide off like oil on water and he’d be left cramped and cursing and embarrassed in a room too small to hold him.
Deep breath. In… Out… He had to remind himself that the pinch in his chest was just anxiety, not a heart attack. Though he wouldn’t be surprised if he did worry himself into a heart attack one of these days. It was so hard to breathe at times.
Oh, no. Oh, no! He couldn’t breathe!
Stop.
He clenched his damp fists and forced his heavy tail to vanish again, settling down his rippling skin and pulling in all of the water that kept trying to escape.
He was stronger than this. Better than this.
Elder Blazeborn expected better. He would be better.
Allowing a shaking breath to escape his tight lips, he opened his eyes and sighed. Much better.
“Mastekh?” Elder Blazeborn called from the room beyond. “Are you coming to dinner?”
Oh, no, oh, no, he was making the elder wait.
Panic swept over him again as a knock sounded on his door.
Oh, oh, he hated being a bother. He hated being late. It was so rude, so terribly rude.
He wrenched open the door and barrelled out, bubbling apologies – and slammed straight into a wall.
The wall shifted and two strong hands gripped Mastekh by the elbows, holding him steady when he would otherwise have reeled backwards.
“Oh!” He looked up into a dark, charcoal-tinged face and beautiful, laughing black eyes.
A slow smile spread across Estenarven’s mouth. “Hello, Puddle.”
Mastekh gulped and the anxiety melted inside his chest, warmth seeping in where there had only previously been cold. “H-hello, P-pebble,” he whispered.
“I’ll go on ahead, shall I?” Elder Blazeborn muttered, seemingly aware that no one was paying him the least bit of attention.
The sound of the door slamming shut made Mastekh jump. Estenarven tightened his grip on his elbows – and that was when Mastekh noticed where his own hands were.
On Estenarven’s chest.
Not just on the slate grey silk robe that the other dragon wore, but on his chest. Because Estenarven was careless with how he tied his sash and didn’t much care if he left a lot of skin showing. Mastekh didn’t much care either because Estenarven’s chest was like the rest of him – broad and sturdy and strong and smooth, so smooth. Warm too, with a hint of softness that was missing in the Boulderforce’s much larger and more solid native form.
As a dragon he lived up to his kin name, but as a human he had a little give in his strong muscles. Which Mastekh couldn’t help but notice as he stared straight ahead at where his fingers were flexing… and squeezing.
A low rumble hummed against his hands. Estenarven was laughing.
“Oh!” Mastekh snatched his hands away, staring down at them as if they belonged to someone else, a mortified blush rushing to his face. “I’m s-s-s-sorry.”
“Don’t apologise, Puddle,” Estenarven chuckled again, grabbing Mastekh’s hand before he could scuttle back inside his room and bolt the door for an eternity. “Never apologise for touching me. You can do it a bit more later if you like, but sadly we don’t have time for that now.”
Mastekh could only blink as the other dragon towed him towards the door.
“The banquet,” Estenarven explained, smiling at Mastekh’s blank face. “Elder Blazeborn is expecting us.”
“Oh.” This time he couldn’t hide his disappointment from the small, but eternally adaptable sound. He flexed his fingers inside of Estenarven’s and felt a warm, reassuring, wonderful squeeze in return.
Chuckling again, Estenarven pulled Mastekh out into the corridor. “We’ll talk later,” he promised, brushing a brief yet wonderful kiss across Mastekh’s knuckles.
Heat rushed to his face again, but Mastekh didn’t mind so much this time and spent the rest of the walk through the halls of Highstrike grinning like a fool.
I shall post more on Saturday, if I have any more to post.
As yet I have half a page. Need more.
Take care, my lovelies.
Becca Lusher 
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