#SEND HOUSES WITH TITLES AND DOCUMENTS

[zenlogs]

MONEY TRANSFER, BANK TO BANK MONEY TRANSFER, SEND GOODS, SEND PACKAGES, SEND TEXTILES, SEND SHOES, SEND HOUSES WITH TITLES AND DOCUMENTS, MONEY TRANSFER, SEND GOODS, SEND PACKAGES, SEND TEXTILES, SEND SHOES, SEND HOUSES WITH TITLES AND DOCUMENTS.

Name: CHERIQUE ELECCION, Real Address: Block 18, Lot #7, Lower Tv5, Home Owners Association, Camp Marina, Capitol Hills, Kalunasan, Cebu City, 6000. Philippines

Name: CHERIQUE ELECCION, Real Address: Block 18, Lot #7, Lower Tv5, Home Owners Association, Camp Marina, Capitol Hills, Kalunasan, Cebu City, 6000. Philippines

[darkficlord69]

Cregan Stark x Fem!Wife!Reader

Title: Northern Duties

Summary: Set during the harsh winter months in Winterfell, you find yourself caught between your growing affection for Cregan Stark and the responsibilities that bind him to his people. The snow might be cold, but the warmth of your bond with the Warden of the North is undeniable. Yet, even love has its challenges in the unforgiving North.

Warnings: 18+ implied, fluff, angst

Word Count: 3k

***

The winds howled outside Winterfell’s thick stone walls, sending icy drafts through the narrow corridors. You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself as you made your way through the dimly lit hallways, the torchlight casting flickering shadows against the rough-hewn walls. It was always cold in the North, but this winter was different—harsher, more unforgiving.

It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and refused to leave, no matter how many layers of furs you piled on. But the cold was the least of your worries. What concerned you more was the way Cregan Stark had been distancing himself, his attention consumed by the growing responsibilities of ruling the North.

You had come to Winterfell months ago, part of an alliance forged between your family and House Stark. The marriage had been arranged, but that didn’t mean it was without affection. Cregan was a man of honour, kind in his own way, and though he was often reserved, you had grown to love him. His quiet strength, his dedication to his people, and the way he would steal glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking—it all endeared him to you. That, along with his muscled form, his big heaving chest and his even larger…forms.

But lately, the distance between you had grown, like an icy ravine that neither of you seemed able to cross.

You found him in the Great Hall, hunched over a table laden with maps and letters. His dark brown hair was tousled, a few stray strands falling into his eyes as he studied the documents before him. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth seemed not to reach him.

“Cregan?” you called softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, and for a moment, the hardness in his gaze softened. “Y/N,” he acknowledged, though his voice was tired. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You offered a small smile, crossing the room to stand beside him. “You’ve been here all night.”

“There’s much to do,” he replied, his eyes flicking back to the map of the North spread out before him. “The winter is harsh this year, and there are reports of wildling activity near the Wall. I need to ensure that the North is prepared.”

You nodded, understanding his concerns. “I know the North is your priority, but you can’t neglect yourself in the process. You need rest, Cregan.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll rest when there’s time.”

“There’s never time,” you countered gently. “Not if you don’t make it.”

He finally looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw the exhaustion etched into his features. His grey Stark eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were dulled by sleepless nights and the weight of his responsibilities.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching out to take your hand. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the chill in the air. “I’ve been distant.”

You squeezed his hand, the simple gesture conveying all the words you didn’t need to say. “I know you have responsibilities, Cregan. I just… I miss you.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a rare moment of vulnerability. His embrace was firm, reassuring, and you let yourself melt into it, savoring the warmth and the sense of safety it brought.

“I’m here now,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The next few days were a blur of preparation and planning. Winterfell was abuzz with activity as Cregan and his bannermen worked tirelessly to ensure the safety of the North. The long nights you had spent alone were now filled with strategy meetings, and the brief moments you did manage to steal with Cregan were often interrupted by matters of state.

It was frustrating, watching the man you loved slip further and further away, consumed by the weight of his duties. You understood that Cregan was doing what he needed to do, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

One evening, after yet another day spent in solitude, you decided you couldn’t take it anymore. Wrapping your cloak around you, you ventured out into the courtyard, seeking the comfort of the Godswood. The heart tree stood tall and ancient in the center of the grove, its red leaves stark against the snow-covered ground. You knelt before it, hoping the Old Gods might offer you some clarity.

The wind rustled through the branches, carrying with it the faint sound of footsteps. You turned to see Cregan approaching, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he said softly, coming to stand beside you.

“This is where I come to think,” you replied, turning your gaze back to the heart tree. “When everything else feels too overwhelming.”

Cregan was silent for a moment, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. “I’ve failed you,” he said finally, his voice heavy with regret.

You looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been so focused on my duties, on protecting the North, that I’ve neglected you,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on the heart tree. “You deserve better than that.”

You shook your head, reaching out to take his hand. “Cregan, you’ve been doing what you need to do. I understand that. But we’re supposed to be in this together. You don’t have to bear this burden alone.”

He turned to face you, his expression conflicted. “I don’t want to burden you with my worries.”

“I want to share them,” you insisted. “Isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be? A partnership?”

Cregan’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, you saw just how deeply his responsibilities weighed on him. “I never wanted to drag you into the hardships of the North. I wanted to keep you safe.”

You stepped closer, cupping his cheek in your hand. “I chose to be with you, Cregan. That means accepting everything that comes with it, even the hardships. I want to be by your side, no matter what.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned into your touch, his hand coming up to cover yours. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Then it’s a good thing I get to decide that, isn’t it?”

Cregan let out a soft chuckle, the sound easing some of the tension between you. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “We’ll get through this, Cregan. Together.”

You kissed him then, and all the snow in the North could have melted underneath your blazing passion.

***

Winter continued its relentless grip on the North, but things between you and Cregan began to change. He made more of an effort to spend time with you, to include you in his plans and decisions. It wasn’t always easy, and there were still moments when the weight of his responsibilities threatened to pull him away, but you faced those challenges together.

The nights were the hardest. When the cold seemed to seep into every corner of Winterfell, it was easy to feel isolated and alone. But Cregan was always there, his presence a steady reassurance in the darkness.

One particularly cold night, you found yourselves curled up together in front of the fire in your chambers. The flames crackled and popped, casting a warm glow over the room as you nestled against Cregan’s side. He had his big arm around you, holding you close as you shared the warmth of the fire.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” you asked, your voice soft in the quiet of the room.

Cregan smiled, a rare, genuine smile that lit up his usually serious features. “Of course I do. You were so nervous, you could barely look me in the eye.”

You laughed, the memory bringing a warmth to your heart that the fire couldn’t match. “I was terrified. You were so… intimidating.”

“And now?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“Now you’re just my big cuddly bear,” you teased back, earning a mock-scowl from him.

“I am not!” he protested, but there was no real heat in his words.

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Perhaps…”

Cregan’s expression softened, and he leaned down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. It was slow, tender, and full of the love that had grown between you over the months. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between you.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, the words like a warm breath against your cold heart.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you whispered back, your voice full of the emotion you felt.

For a moment, there was nothing but the two of you, wrapped up in each other and the warmth of the fire. It was in these moments that you felt most connected, when the world outside seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you and the love that had blossomed despite the hardships you faced.

But like all fleeting moments of peace, this one was interrupted by the harsh realities of your lives.

A sharp knock echoed through the chamber door, and before you could respond, the door creaked open. One of Cregan's most trusted bannermen, Lord Karl Umber, stepped inside, his face drawn with concern.

"My lord," he began, his eyes flickering briefly to you before returning to Cregan, "There are urgent reports from the Wall. A large band of wildlings have been sighted moving south. The Night's Watch fears they might be preparing for an attack."

Cregan stiffened beside you, the tension returning to his body in an instant. The warmth between you evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of his duties.

"I'll be there shortly," Cregan said, his voice hardening with resolve.

Karl nodded, sparing you another brief glance before retreating from the room. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving you and Cregan in silence once more.

He didn’t move immediately, his arm still draped around your shoulders, but you could sense the turmoil inside him, the pull of duty warring with the desire to stay by your side.

"You have to go," you said quietly, breaking the silence. It wasn't a question, just a simple statement of fact.

Cregan exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your hair. "I don't want to leave you."

You smiled sadly, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. "I know. But you have to."

His jaw clenched, and he pulled you tighter against him as if he could somehow keep you safe by sheer force of will. But you both knew the truth. The North needed him. The Wall needed him. His people needed him.

And as much as it hurt, you understood that.

"I'll come back to you," he promised, his voice low and fierce. "I swear it."

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. "I know you will. Just… be careful."

He leaned down to kiss you again, this time with more urgency, more desperation. It was a kiss that spoke of all the things he couldn’t say, all the fears and hopes and unspoken promises that lingered between you.

When he finally pulled away, you saw the determination in his eyes, the strength that had first drawn you to him. This was the man you loved, the man you had chosen to stand beside, no matter how difficult the road ahead might be.

"I'll be waiting," you whispered as he stood, already feeling the cold settle in as he moved away.

Cregan paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame as he looked back at you. There was a weight in his gaze, a depth of emotion that he rarely let show.

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the room.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the door, the warmth of the fire slowly fading as the reality of his departure settled in. The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the room a stark contrast to the moments of warmth you had just shared.

It was always like this, the fleeting moments of happiness overshadowed by the looming specter of duty. But that was the life you had chosen when you married Cregan Stark, Warden of the North. You knew the challenges that came with it, the sacrifices that had to be made.

And you would face them, because you loved him. Even if it meant spending more nights alone, waiting for him to return to you.

***

Days turned into weeks, and still, there was no word from Cregan. The cold seemed to grow harsher with each passing day, the snow piling up against the walls of Winterfell as the winter deepened.

You threw yourself into the tasks that needed to be done, helping where you could, overseeing the stores of food and supplies, and ensuring that the people of Winterfell were cared for. It was the only way to keep the worry at bay, to keep yourself from imagining the worst.

But at night, when the castle was quiet and the cold crept in through the cracks in the stone, you couldn’t help but think of him. You wondered where he was, if he was safe, if he was thinking of you. The loneliness gnawed at you, a constant ache that refused to fade.

One particularly brutal night, when the wind howled like a wounded animal and the snow fell in thick, suffocating waves, you found yourself in the Godswood once more. The heart tree stood silent and ancient before you, its red leaves stark against the white of the snow. You knelt before it, your breath visible in the frigid air as you silently prayed for Cregan’s safe return.

The Old Gods didn’t answer, but the peace of the Godswood offered some small comfort. You stayed there for a long time, until the cold seeped into your bones and forced you back inside.

When you finally returned to your chambers, you found that sleep wouldn’t come. The bed was too empty, too cold without Cregan beside you. So, you sat by the fire, staring into the flames as they danced and flickered, your mind drifting to memories of him.

It was in the early hours of the morning, when the fire had burned down to embers, that you heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. At first, you thought it was just another servant, but there was something about the tread that caught your attention. Something familiar.

Your heart leapt in your chest as you hurried to the door, flinging it open just in time to see Cregan striding toward you, snow clinging to his cloak and boots. He looked exhausted, his face gaunt from the cold and the weight of his responsibilities, but he was alive.

"Cregan," you breathed, relief washing over you in a wave so powerful it nearly brought you to your knees.

He didn't say a word as he reached you, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him, of leather and smoke and the biting cold of the North.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say that could truly capture the depth of your relief, the joy and fear and love that warred within you.

Finally, Cregan pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I'm home," he said simply, his voice rough with emotion.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you nodded, unable to find the words. You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with the sheer joy of having him back, of knowing that he was safe.

Without another word, he kissed you, a fierce, possessive kiss that spoke of all the things he couldn’t say. It was a kiss that promised he would never leave you again, even if you both knew that wasn’t a promise he could truly keep.

When you finally broke apart, you rested your forehead against his, your breaths mingling in the cold air between you.

"I was so worried," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"I know," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. "I'm sorry. I never meant to make you worry."

"You can’t help that," you replied, your hand resting on his chest where you could feel the steady beat of his heart. "Just… don’t leave me for so long again."

"I won’t," he vowed, his voice full of the promise he couldn’t make. But you believed him, because you had to. Because that was the only way to keep going.

You spent the rest of the night curled up together in front of the fire, talking quietly as the flames warmed the room. Cregan told you of the battles he had fought, the wildlings they had faced, and the toll it had taken on him. And you listened, offering what comfort you could, even as your heart ached for the burdens he had to bear.

But he was home now, and that was all that mattered.

As the first light of dawn crept through the window, you finally allowed yourself to drift off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that Cregan was there beside you. The North was harsh, and the winter was long, but with Cregan by your side, you knew you could face whatever came your way.

Together.

---

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[mypearlsareclutched]

It's So Surreal

High By The Beach | Chapter Five

Modern!Aegon II x Original Female Character, Modern!Aemond x Original Female Character

Running away together, Aegon and Mila traverse their newfound friendship. Two ex-addicts with unresolved tension, in a beach front summer house, all alone... oh, the possibilities....

Yuh let's get into it!! Finally we're at the beach, I've been edging y'all with the title but nOW IT MAKES SENSE! x

Song inspiration | High By The Beach, Lana Del Rey

CW//TW: Sexual Content (MDNI, 18+), oral (f receiving), drinking, smoking fags and also the devil's lettuce, Aegon being the best sponsor, Aemond returns to the fic, beach vibes, song references

Word count | 4.1k

previous chapter // next chapter

When Aegon said he knew a place they could go, he was of course referring to the Hightower's disused beach house on the coast of Old Town.

As they drove towards the edge of Kings Landing, Aegon talked softly about the beach house. While a lot of Alicent and Otto's side of the family lived in the main city of Old Town, Aegon's uncle Gwayne had been a bit of a player in his youth, using the family's beach house as his bachelor pad. He continued to live there into adulthood, and raised Daeron there when Alicent begged him to care for her youngest.

Gwayne had since gotten into a serious relationship with a woman from the Iron Islands, and had moved to live with her once Daeron moved out and went to university. The beach house had been empty ever since.

The perfect escape, Aegon said.

Mila fell asleep listening to him talk, her head leaning against the window, Aegon's soft voice her lullaby, accompanied by the ancient radio playing 'Cherry-Coloured Funk' by the Cocteau Twins.

Jace sits on one of Dragonstone's many balconies, legs swinging childishly as he takes a hit from a spliff. The early morning wind ruffles his hair, seagulls chattering excitedly.

Laenor had left for a business trip, and after seeing him off, the Velaryon family had went off to their own corners of the estate to go about their own tasks. Since he didn't need to be in Kings Landing till next monday, Jace was happy to self-medicate and stare longingly off into the distance, imagining he's Tom Cruise in Top Gunn.

A smooth engine hums nearby, and Jace squints down at the road leading to Dragonstone. An expensive car drives through the porte-cochère, parking haphazardly. Jace's eyes widen as a tall, blonde man exits it, his eye patch sharply contrasting his otherwise pale and vampiric appearece.

"Ah fuck..." Jace sighs, swinging his legs over the railing to rush back inside.

He runs through the long and winding corridors of his family home, making a beeline for his mother's office. Rhaenyra barely looks up when her eldest son crashes through the double doors, her reading glasses perched on her nose as she looks over piles of documents

"Mum-!" Jace exclaims, rushing to his mother's desk.

"That better not be a joint in your hand." Rhaenyra says as she looks up at him from over the rim of her reading glasses.

"What? Oh." Jace tentatively places the smoking spliff on top of Rhaenyra's desk, "Aemond's here."

"What-?"

The office doors burst open, and Aemond Targaryen charges forward with the rage of an oncoming storm. Rhaenyra narrows her eyes, already unnerved.

"Where is she?" Aemond demands as he reaches Rhaenyra's desk, his voice cold and his stare even colder.

"I don't know what you are talking about, dear brother." Rhaenyra sighs, taking off her glasses and glaring at Aemond.

"My mother said you walked her out of the hospital. She hasn't returned home, she's not answering my calls, no-one has seen her. Where. Is. She?" Aemond's voice grows icier as he goes on, his chest rising and falling with barely contained anger as his lone eye pierces into Rhaenyra's, as if he could see her thoughts if he looked hard enough.

"She's somewhere safe." Rhaenyra states, "That is all you need to know-"

Aemond slams his hand atop the table, sending various pens clattering onto the floor. Jace flinches before regaining his composure, trying to seem as relaxed as his mother.

"You better check yourself, one-eye-" He starts, as Aemond whirls around and points a finger at him.

"Bite your fucking tongue, runt!" The blonde bites.

"Now how about we all just calm down..." Rhaenyra states, walking around her desk to stand in between the two.

"I deserve to know where she is. She's my fucking girlfriend!" Aemond yells, voice echoing around the office.

"Not anymore, she's not." Rhaenyra spits.

Aemond's face drops, and he stiffens. He stares down at his half-sister, who holds his glare with a steely one of her own. Jace stands awkwardly, looking between them with furrowed brows.

With a roll of his eyes and a twitch of his nose, Aemond breaks the staring contest first.

"This isn't over." He sneers, turning on his heel and storming back out of the office, like a tornado heading towards the next city to demolish.

Rhaenyra exhales, walking back around her desk and falling into her chair.

"It's nine in the morning, can our family at least wait until midday to create a civil war."

"Clearly not." Jace sighs and sits atop the desk, watching the door in case Aemond decides on a round two. His phone rings loudly, causing both Jace and Rhaenyra to jump. Pulling out the offending device, Jace frowns at the name on screen.

"Cregan? What's wrong?" Jace listens to his friends frantic voice, lips pressing into a thin line before pulling the phone from his ear, "Mila's gone missing."

"Seven hells." Rhaenyra picks up Jace's abandoned joint, taking a hit.

Mila startles awake as the car swerves violently, a car honks and Aegon tells them to stick their car horn where the sun doesn't shine. Seeing Mila wake up, Aegon winces.

"Sorry, sorry!" Aegon laughs, "Haven't driven in a while."

Humming, Mila stretches, looking around at the world outside their care. Their crossing over a bridge, a wide lake beneath them.

"Where are we?" She asks, looking at the water with a small smile.

"We just passed Highgarden, heading over to Brightwater."

"I've never been here before." Mila sighs, opening the window to let the air into the car, "Furthest I've been west is Silverhill."

"What the hells were you doing in Silverhill?" Aegon laughs.

"Same thing I've always been doing." Mila smiles bitterly, "Partying, drinking, snorting stuff."

"A girl after my own heart." The Targaryen smirks, but his face falls as he sees Mila's saddened eyes, "I'm guessing these aren't fond memories?"

"None of them really are." She comments, fiddling with a loose piece of thread from Aegon's coat.

The car is silent for a moment, the wind whistles from the open window, a seagull caws from the distance. Mila keeps her lips pressed together, but Aegon clears his throat.

"Keep talking." Aegon says softly, and Mila looks over at him with a raised eyebrow, "I mean it. I like listening to you speak. And you've got a lot to get off your chest."

"You don't want to hear me complain about my sorry life, Aegon."

"Well it's a hell of a lot better than listening to this one Cocteau Twins CV this car has got." Aegon groans, "Seriously, this car is so old all we can listen to is CD's... I've listened to Heaven or Last Vegas about fifty times today."

"Okay, okay..." Mila laughs, sticking her hand out the car window to feel the breeze, "Where should I start?"

"The beginning is always a good place."

"Yeah, I'm sure it is..." She chuckles, "Okay. So..."

Aegon was a good listener.

Mila told him all about her past. From the months after her parents passed, to her friendships with his cousins, to her crazy years of partying and drinking and sniffing and snorting. She even told him all about how she met Aemond, leaving out their rendezvous in the bathroom. Aegon barely said a word, and Mila had to check him occasionally to make sure he had not fallen asleep at the wheel. He had never been so quiet before.

The bridge and river turned into forests into fields into the city of Old Town, and Mila realised she hadn't felt so calm in years. Well, calm while being sober, at least.

On multiple occasions, mostly when they had to stop at a red light, Mila noticed Aegon watching her. He rested his head against the headrest, looking at her through his long lashes, a small smile on his lips.

"And then I found out that Cregan and Rhaena were seeing each other. I got so upset, because what nineteen year old wants their brother dating their best friend? Like, oh great, when we go out, my brother's going to be coming too? We had this massive argument... What are you staring at?" Mila laughs, giving Aegon a look as he stares at her. He gives her a dopey grin, shrugging before looking back at the road ahead, "Weirdo."

"Shush, I'm driving."

"Fine, I'll shush."

"No, keep talking." Aegon insists, "So did you and Rhaena fight? Like, fistacuffs? Did you invite her for a duel?"

"Yeah, we fenced." Mila nudges him, and he laughs.

"Hey, we need to stop and fill the car up. And you should probably get some clothes that don't make you look like a hooker who charges five quid for a blowjob."

"You're such a charmer."

The service station they stopped at was surprisingly huge, and Aegon was surprisingly excited to stop and look around. The man was practically giddy when he pulled up, because 'they have a gift shop'.

Capitalism wins again.

A man pumping petrol into his car gives them a strange look. Mila realised they probably looked a right pair, with her skimpy dress and big coat and his pyjamas and neon crocs.

"Should we get this?" Aegon says as he looks around a techno section. He points to a pay-as-you-go, retro looking flip phone. Drug dealer chic. Mila gives him a look.

"A pay as you go?" She chuckles, "Are we on the run from the government?"

"Hells, I might be on some kind of watchlist." Aegon muses, looking down at the phone with furrowed brows, "I'm definitely not allowed in any universities, or any pubs on the Iron Islands. Or the Vale."

"Where in the Vale?"

"The Vale. All of it." Aegon grimaces.

Mila shakes her head, looking to the tiny clothes shop next to a Waterstones, "I'm going to go grab some simple clothes and change."

"Alright. I'll be in the at the claw machine."

"Are you twelve?"

"Inches, yeah." Aegon winks and saunters off.

Inside the clothes shop, Mila found a soft, mens hoodie which was too big for her, a white tank top and a black maxi skirt. Flinging them on, she went off in search of Aegon. She saw him in the gift shop, trying on a pair of novelty sunglasses. The shape of a bikini clad rack, classy.

Mila rolled her eyes affectionately, looking around the various keychains and knick knacks that ranged from silhouettes of tall towers to sea views, all having puns in regards to the Reach. 'Highgarden says 'Hi'' 'You're older than Oldtown'. 'I went to Tumbleton and all I got was this lousy keychain'. Mila ran her fingers through them, the metal jingles as they crash together.

"Hey." Aegon greets, walking over with two pairs of sunglasses, "Do you prefer the tits or the alien eyes? You look nice by the way."

"Alien eyes. If you wear the tits to the beach you'll be put on another register." Mila jokes, "And thanks, this is part two of my 'walk of shame' collection."

"Would it be crazy if I said I prefer this one?"

"You really are reformed." Mila smiles, and he offers her his elbow as they head over to purchase Aegon's alien sunglasses.

They get back into the car as it begins to rain again. Mila sighs, wrapping Aegon's coat around herself before she looks over at the man and gasps, "Aegon I still have your coat!"

"...Yeah?" He laughs, unlocking the car.

"Well, it's raining. You're in a sleeping gown! You should have this back."

"Absolutely not." Aegon rolls his eyes, a smile on his lips, "It looks better on you anyway." As he gets in the car without another word, Mila wraps the coat around herself happily.

Wrapped up in the warm coat, with the Cocteau Twins playing softly, Mila falls asleep immediately.

Aemond was lucky Rhaena had a terrible poker face. When he stormed into their recording studio, he internally breathed a sigh of relief at only finding Rhaena and not her sister.

The younger woman stared at him with wide eyes from her perch atop a leather seat, eyebrows raised as her fingers pause playing her guitar.

"Mila." Aemond asks simply, an eyebrow raised, "Where is she? Now."

"I have no idea." Rhaena lies, staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

"Yes you do."

"Yes I do." She sighs, putting her guitar down and standing from her seat.

"Where is she?" Demands Aemond, taking a dangerous step towards her. Rhaena's eyes widen, and she takes a step back.

"Look, you really can't go and see her. She's not doing well and the place she's in won't allow people who aren't family to go and visit, and you'll really mess up her treatment if you go-"

"So she's at rehab?"

"...Shit!" Rhaena bites her lip, pressing a finger to it, shaking her head, "No, no she's not. Why would you think that? She's somewhere else."

"Which facility is she at?" Aemond asks with another menacing footstep.

"None! I swear she's nowhere." Rhaena insists with another step back.

"Nowhere?"

"Nowhere! Like, nowhere at all. Like, honestly." Rhaena gnaws her lip, face contorting as she tries to think of a lie. "You haven't gone to see your brother lately, have you?"

Aemond's eyebrows furrow, "Why?"

"Wait, no reason! Actually you should never visit your brother, like ever again. Please don't."

Aemond growls, turning on his heel and rushing back out, ignoring Rhaena's calls to stop. He was a man on a mission, and that mission was getting his girlfriend from that damned facility that has done nothing for his delinquent brother.

Weirwood was a strange looking building. Surrounded by strange trees, housing strange people.

Aemond grimaced as he looked up at it briefly, fragments of memories appearing before his eye. Dragging Aegon by the scruff of his neck like a kitten up the stairs, practically tossing him at the woman at the front desk, storming back out with Aegon's deranged giggles following him.

And now, his Mila is here.

And all because of you, a voice whispers to him inside his head. It sounds like Otto, his own guilt manifested like Jiminy fucking Cricket. Gods you really are a screw up. You should be in here, instead of her. For your addiction to messing things up.

The doors burst open as Aemond storms through them, earning a few confused look from various staff and patients. He's too focused to care.

The woman at the front desk glares as he approaches, practically snarling, but his eyes are focused on a blonde woman standing next to her.

"Halaena?" Aemond asks.

His sister looks up, giving her brother a microscopic smile, "Hey Aem."

The woman at the front desk, Nettles, gives him a glare, rolling her dark eyes before turning her attention back to his sister.

"...so like I said, I went in to check on her last night. The bedroom window was broken, and when I looked around the building, they were both gone." Nettles continues to Halaena.

"Oh no..." She murmurs, playing with one of her curls anxiously.

"What's going on?" Aemond demands, hands twitching as his sides, "Halaena why are you here?"

Halaena's eyes widen, "I came to visit..."

"Aegon? Why are you visiting Aegon, I thought Otto said not to visit him anymore. What's wrong with him?"

"He's vanished again." Nettles interrupts, clicking her tongue, "Shame. He was doing so well."

"Good riddance." Aemond growls, "As far away as he can be from Mila, the better."

Silence follows. Halaena and Nettles stare at him awkwardly, sharing a look before cringing. Aemond's body deflates.

"...Tell me she's here." He practically pleads, the fight slowly leaving his body.

"...She's here?" Halaena says weakly.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

Mila wakes up with a shudder.

Her body is surrounded by soft fabric, wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets and comforters. Lay on a sofa in a cozy living room with large open windows, she blinks at the sunsetting in the horizon.

Music blasts from another room, unmistakably Back To Life by Soul II Soul, and someone was singing along. Nowhere close to on-key.

Mila yawns, climbing from her nest, walking on weak, Bambi legs across the birchwood floors, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

Walking into the kitchen, Mila halts as she sees Aegon at the stove, dancing in place as he cooks something. He sings along to Back To Life, messing up the words occasionally, and Mila holds back a laugh as she watches him in the doorway.

As Aegon spins in place, he helps when he sees her

"The seventies called, it wants its shirt back." Mila laughs, nodding to his bright blue, Hawaiian shirt.

"Yeah, and the nineties emailed and requested their insults back." Aegon rolls his eyes.

Grabbing a spatula and scraping off slightly overdone eggs, he places them and lays down the meal with a flourish.

"Omelette!" Aegon says proudly. Mila laughs, clapping his efforts. He bows dramatically, humbly accepting the praise for his hunter gatherer skills.

"No plates?"

"Are you kidding? My uncle Gwayne and Daeron lived here, left to their own devices no less. We're lucky I found forks."

The two of them sit on the porch of the house, watching the waves crashing as they eat their omelettes. They don't speak, choosing instead to listen to the ambience of the beach instead. Peaceful sleep envelops them, only occasionally interrupted by the sound of Aegon yelling at a seagull to keep away.

Mila takes the plates inside, before returning and finding Aegon patting the pockets of his joggers, making an 'ah!' noise before pulling out a rather crumpled joint.

"No fucking way." Mila beams, picking it out of the Targaryens hands with a massive grin.

"Should you be partaking?" Aegon says with narrowed eyes, though he holds out the lighter for him to take.

"Try to stop me!" Mila says as she runs off, heading towards the beach waves as she cradles the spliff.

"I'm the worst sponsor ever." Aegon sighs, jogging to catch up with her.

Mila collapses onto the sand, putting the spliff to her lips. The crackling of the lighter makes her happy as she lights it, and she takes a deep breath. The taste is bitter, it burns her throat and lungs, and it makes her head loll back. Perfection.

"Alright, Snoop Dogg, hand it over." Aegon chuckles as he leans over her to pinch the joint.

"Gods this is amazing." Mila sighs happily as she looks over at the tide, feeling the breeze in her hair and

"So did you sleep well?" He asks, leaning back on his elbows.

"Best sleep I've had in years." Mila laughs, "Did you carry me from the car?"

Aegon shrugs, "Well it was either that or I leave you there, you were not waking up." They share a chuckle, the distant seagulls harmonising with them.

"Didn't think I was dead?" Mila asks as she takes off her trainers and socks, burying her toes in the sand.

"Hoped not. Can't find a pulse for shit so don't ask me to do that in the future."

"How are you still alive?"

"Spite." Aegon comments as he golds out the spliff for Mila to take.

Mila laughs, taking another hit from the offered spliff from Aegon's hands. Just like she did from Aemond a year ago. She tries not to dwell on it as she holds the weed in her lungs, avoiding Aegon's eyes.

The spliff has been smoked. The sun is now merely peeking over the horizon, bleeding the sky orange and pink.

Aegon lies back, practically collapsing onto the sand with a contented sigh. Mila giggles as she joins him, their shoulders bumping slightly. They burst out into childish giggles, the sand below them getting into their hair.

"I'm glad we came here." Mila whispers.

"Me too."

Aegon leans on his elbows, watching Mila's profile. She turns and gives him a dopey smile, looking over his face.

"You're tense." She states.

"So are you." Aegon counters.

Mila lifts her hand up, carting her fingers through his choppy waves, his hair surprisingly soft to the touch. Aegon's eyes flutter closed, his head tilting to let her continue.

"Mila..." He whispers, breathlessly.

She doesn't know what to say. Finally, her mind is quiet. All she knows is that she's here, in this moment, with Aegon Targaryen. And she's happy.

Aegon watches her face, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek lightly, before is caresses down her jaw, her neck, her bare shoulder. Mila's breath hitches slightly, his touch electrifying. Taking notice of this, Aegon continues, his warm palm travelling down her arm, then over the soft fabric covering her waist.

Mila lays back down, licking her lip as she focuses on the feel of Aegon's hand as it traverses her form.

He lifts her legs over her shoulders, his eyes moving up to hers to look for discomfort. She lets out a shuddered breath, body craving and her mind too foggy to think rationally.

Aegon's talented fingers push her skirts up, bunching them at her hips as he sucks in a harsh breath at the sight of her panties.

Mila is sure she's soaked through them, her arousal impossible to dispute.

"Fuck..." Aegon groans, surging forward and living her through the material.

Letting out a throaty moan, Mila arches. His tongue is thick and skilled as it explores her through her panties, finding her clit easily and pressing his lips to it to suck on it. Her legs open further, allowing further access.

Aegon pulls her panties down, leaving them hanging from her ankle as he dives back in, devouring her immediately.

Mila can merely grip onto his blonde hair, tugging on it gently as he feasts on her, licking her swollen folds and sucking on her clit gently. He uses his hands to hold her trembling thighs open, not hard enough to stop her if she wanted to prevent him, but enough so his head does not get crushed. His tongue invades her opening, making Mila arch up.

"Taste's so fucking good." Aegon praises, talking directly into her cunt due to his inability to separate from her sweet wetness.

"Don't stop, don't stop, please..." Mila begs, pushing Aegon even closer as he feasts deliriously. He moans into her, the vibrations making her even wetter and her pleasure build.

Aegon wraps his arms around her thigh, keeping her close to him as he fucks his tongue into her, his nose rubbing against her clit. Mila squirms beneath him, pushing herself against his mouth eagerly as her orgasm gets closer and closer.

"Feels so good..." She moans, tugging on Aegon's hair tighter which makes a pleased grunt leave his mouth, his blue eyes looking up at her with desire.

"Are you gonna cum, pretty girl?" Aegon groans, sensing her growing pleasure by her movements and her moans, "Come on, cum on my tongue, wanna taste you..."

"Oh gods!" Mila squeals, feeling herself gush harder onto Aegon's face as her orgasm soars through her. Aegon laps it up like a drunk man downing their last of the night, his tongue unrelenting in its need to drink her up.

She collapses against the sand, completely boneless. Aegon gently lays her legs back down, before laying down next to her. Mila looks over at him, noting his closed eyes and deep breaths. His face is contented, his mouth and chin covered in her slick. Mila lets out a deep exhale, looking back at the orange sky.

She's too high to care about what this will mean...

AN//Living for the headcanon that Modern!Aegon eats meow meow like a man STARVED. Finally had a bit of Aegon and Mila action, after like four chapters of slow burn (i couldn't wait any longer), and Aemond's trying to find her... let's see how this plays out ;)

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬

pairing: dieter bravo x ghost hunter!female reader word count: 4.9k rating: explicit (18+ MDNI)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲

The producers of your hit ghost hunting show, Spirit Seekers, have picked your next celebrity guest. Dieter Bravo. You’re not looking forward to being locked in a reportedly haunted mansion with one of Hollywood’s biggest divas.

𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

the first of my october spooky specials is here! ghost image in title art is from TO LIFE, TO DEATH by Jean-Marie GITARD. if you enjoy this fic, please consider reblogging or leaving a comment and thank you for reading!

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact), drug use - weed, smoking, dub con - sex following drug use, vaginal fingering, handjob, dry humping, getting locked in a haunted house together, misunderstandings. let me know if any tags are missing!

It’s not often you get called into an actual meeting with your producers. You’re on the road a lot filming for your hit ghost hunting show, Spirit Seekers, so they usually spare you from attendance and send you an itemized e-mail recap.

Not today, though. Today, all five producers were CC’d on the e-mail that requested a meeting to go over your next episode, which is set to start filming in two days. You tap your fingers against the shiny wood conference table, staring out at the Los Angeles cityscape through the panoramic windows as you wait for the suits to join you.

They all arrive at once, three men filing through the doorway with veneered smiles and abnormally smooth foreheads. They shake your hand one by one before taking their seats.

It’s Alec, a paunchy man with grey hair and round glasses, that speaks first, starting with a mumble of your name followed with, “I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve got a celebrity guest for the McCallister mansion episode that you’ll need to work into your production this week.”

“This is pretty late notice,” you reply, mind already running through what you’ll need to do to adjust for the format of a guest special. “Who is it?”

The three men exchange wary glances and you sit up straighter, bracing yourself for the response.

“Dieter Bravo,” Alec finally says, smoothing his tie with his hand.

“You’re shitting me.” If there’s one person you can’t stand, it’s Dieter fucking Bravo. “Is this how I find out Ashton is filming Punk’d again?”

The joke doesn’t land. Alec clears his throat before saying, “This isn’t a joke. And it’s an excellent opportunity to—”

“To what? Pander my show to a diva who’s just going to make my job difficult?”

“He has a very strong fan base that could bring in a large number of new viewers. Your show is popular, but only to a limited demographic,” Alec says. “We’re doing this for you. Spirit Seekers has a lot of potential but if you’re going to remain at the top and have a chance for another Emmy nomination, maybe even an award, you need to be willing to work with the guests that will bring in views.”

You sigh heavily. “I hate that you’re right.”

“I know. But I always am.” He slides a folder across the table to you. “Here are his requirements.”

“Requirements? He does know this isn’t a blockbuster production set, right?”

“This is the modified list,” the man to Alec’s right, Stephen, says. “Trust me, this is significantly better than it once was.”

You open the folder, scanning the document. “Alkaline water, glass bottle. Absolutely no plastic,” you read. “Organic, non-GMO, dye free, gluten free crackers. Did he just pick every Whole Foods buzzword and stick them together?”

“We will make this as easy for you as we can. We just need you to focus on the episode. Okay?”

“Fine,” you mumble, shutting the folder. “He breaks any of my equipment, I’m billing you.”

“Deal.”

Two days later you’re sitting in your makeshift command center with your crew mates, Andrew and Mike, making sure that all the monitors are displaying the feeds from the static cameras set up inside the mansion. You’ve already filmed solo interview segments with the owner, an elderly man who inherited the house over thirty years ago but left it untouched because of what he believes is a ghostly presence.

The sun is low behind the gorgeous Queen Anne Victorian home, orange sky haloing the steep roofed mansion. The historic building sits on six acres of land surrounded by a wrought iron fence that the owner, Paul, had to unlock for you to set up for the night filming session you would be doing this evening. He stands behind you now with his arms crossed over his chest as he watches you connect your equipment.

“So you’ll be in there all night?” He asks, voice wary.

“Most of it. We’ll get three hours of footage with Andrew following us through the house and then a few more hours of single camera action, coupled with the static night vision feeds that will roll all night. We’ll be inside until 3 a.m. and then work out here for a bit before packing up,” you reply. “Thank you so much for letting us come in and do an investigation.”

“I’ve got a bet going with a buddy of mine,” Paul says, puffing his chest out. “If you find something, he owes me a hundred bucks.”

You laugh. “I can’t guarantee anything. My goal isn’t to make a ghost where there isn’t one.”

“I know, I know. But I’m telling you, this place has always been weird.” He glances up at the house, his frame shivering despite the California warmth. “Doors always opening and shutting on their own, footsteps, voices. Whole nine yards. S’why I never moved in.”

You knew all of this, of course. You’d done a walk through of the property with one of your camera guys, letting Paul tell you his first hand experiences in the old house. You’re about to reply when the sound of a car barreling up the gravel driveway pulls your attention away from the conversation.

A black Escalade approaches, coming to a stop in a cloud of dirt that makes you cough. Paul pats your back as the back door opens and designer boots drop onto the gravel.

Dieter Bravo stands with one hand gripping the door of the car while he uses his other hand to tilt his sunglasses down his nose to squint at you. He’s wearing black joggers and a faded gray t-shirt with a hole near the collar, his hair a fluffy mess of dark curls.

“Hey,” you say in greeting. You hold a hand out and give him your name, forcing a smile on your face. “Welcome to the command center.”

“Command center? This some kind of secret army operation or something?” He asks, shutting the door and walking past you, leaving you with your hand out stretched for an unreciprocated handshake.

“Michael keeps an eye on the static cameras in case one needs to be fixed,” you explain, gesturing to the man sat in front of the wall of screens with a headset on. “Now that you’re here only,” — you check your watch — “an hour late, we can get started. Andrew, could you get him mic’d?”

Andrew approaches with a wireless microphone and the actor steps back and holds his hands up. “Hold up, I gotta make sure you got everything.”

“Got everything?” You ask.

“Yeah. My snacks and water?” He looks around expectantly.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yes, they got your snacks. They’re in the cooler. Can you please let Andrew get your mic on? We have to start the guest filming before the light is gone.”

Andrew approaches Dieter again, who lets him get close enough to hook the mic to the waist of his pants. Dieter smirks as he says, “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

You groan, grabbing your own mic. “Let’s get started.”

“The mansion itself was built in the late 1800s and has only been home to two families since it was finished. It’s been in Paul’s possession for thirty years,” you say, walking backwards towards the house as the camera man follows. Dieter stands off to the side of the wraparound porch, waiting for his cue. “And tonight, we’ve got the exclusive opportunity to explore this gorgeous home with a special guest. Tonight’s Spirit Seeker is none other than Emmy Award winning actor, Dieter Bravo!”

Dieter steps into frame and gives a smile to the camera, clapping his hands together. “Let’s catch some ghosts!”

“Now, Dieter, we’re not the Ghostbusters,” you say, your voice deadpan. Dieter raises his eyebrows at you.

“That’s the best you’ve got?” He asks. Your brows pinch together.

“Excuse me?”

“‘We’re not the Ghostbusters’? Really?” He waves his hands to the camera. “Come on, sweetheart, give it a little more energy.”

Your teeth are clenched so hard your jaw aches. “I had energy over an hour ago. You know, when you were supposed to get here?” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Can we just get inside?”

He holds an arm out, gesturing for you to enter in front of him. Having toured the mansion already, you signal to Andrew to focus the camera on your guest for his reaction.

Dieter looks around the foyer, grand staircase and marble floors the centerpieces of the large space. “It’s a damn shame they don’t make them like this anymore. Look at the carvings! This has gotta be all original, right?”

“Yep. They’ve only upgraded the internal stuff, like plumbing and electrical,” you confirm. “The owner, Paul, inherited the house after his grandfather passed thirty years ago. He used to spend his summers here when he was a child and vividly remembers experiencing some…unexplained events that have left an impression on him.” You approach a table that’s been set up with your usually line up of equipment. “Tonight, we’re going to see if we can find an explanation for the inexplicable.”

“That’s so cheesy,” Dieter laughs. “You’ve got the cutest serious face, though.”

He thinks I’m cute? Your treacherous brain says, your face heating in response to the compliment. You quickly look at your equipment.

“Anyways,” you say, clearing your throat. “Let’s go through the equipment.”

You start with the basics. A digital recorder for capturing electronic voice phenomenon, night vision cameras, and dowsing rods. Further down the table you have thermal cameras, electromagnetic field meters, REM pods, and spirit boxes. Dieter listens attentively, to your surprise, and even asks a thoughtful question about the spirit boxes.

“How about we divvy up the gear? I can take the recorder and thermal camera, you can take the EMF reader—“

“No can do,” he interrupts, holding his hands up. “I don’t fuck with EMF.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“That shit is toxic. It’ll warp your DNA.”

“Dieter,” you say incredulously, “The entire planet is comprised of EMF.”

“No, that’s the geomagnetic field,” he argues.

“It’s the same thing!” You take a deep breath. “You know what? I’ll take the EMF detector. You can have the thermal camera,” you compromise, shoving the camera into his hands. You hastily gather the rest of the devices.

“Alright. Let’s do this.”

It’s the last hour of the main filming session where Andrew films you and Dieter using the equipment. So far, there haven’t been many notable experiences. You’ve captured a few creaking floorboards and the EMF meter has gone off a few times, but nothing that you can undoubtedly point to as proof of the paranormal, which is par for the course. What people don’t realize when watching your heavily edited show is that you cut out hours of silence and empty footage.

“Alright, Andrew, you’re welcome to head out. We’ll do a bit more upstairs,” you tell the camera man. “Thanks for you help.”

“‘Night, boss,” he replies with a little salute. Dieter watches him as he leaves.

“So, it’s just us now, huh?” He says, his eyebrows raised suggestively. “All alone in a haunted house…pretty hot.”

“Oh, please,” you say nervously, fiddling with your thermal camera, “We haven’t gotten any evidence that this place is haunted.”

“Maybe the ghosts are just shy,” he suggests.

You grab the REM pod and turn on the device, the LED lights flashing. “Let’s do a REM pod session. Here, hold the camera.”

Dieter holds the expensive equipment delicately, staring at the night vision screen to keep you in frame. “Not often I get put behind the camera,” he comments.

You spend the next twenty minutes asking a series of questions in the quiet room, your digital recorder running in your hand. Dieter remains focused on the screen.

“Why don’t you playback the recording?” He suggests. You glance at him, his face illuminated in the dark by the lights of the camera and the faint moonlight that filters through a window.

“Good idea,” you admit, hitting the stop button and running the tape back. There’s some static feedback before your voice announces the date and time of the recording.

“Is there anyone here with us?” Your recorded voice asks. There’s a beat of silence and you fully expect your voice to be the next thing you hear but instead there’s a garbled, “Yes.”

“Holy shit!” Dieter shouts. “That was a fucking ghost!”

“Shhh!” You hiss, flapping your hand at him. You play it back and sure enough, the same disembodied voice echoes through the room, clear as day. “Holy shit!”

“Play the rest, play the rest,” Dieter demands. He steps closer with the camera trained on the recorder.

Together, you listen to the rest of the recording. There’s another moment where you think you might have gotten a response, but it’s not as clear as the first one. You play it back again and again, and finally Dieter takes the recorder from you.

“Alright, enough, if I hear you ask, ‘Do you mean any harm?’, one more time, I’m going to have to tattoo it across my ass,” he says with a laugh. “Actually, that would be kind of cool, right? Very…provocative.”

“Oh my god.” You can’t help but laugh and the man’s face lights up with a cute smile, the corners of his brown eyes creasing with the force of it. “Let’s go check out the study.”

“How does this one work?” Dieter asks as you turn on the spirit box, the staticky feedback noise filling the room.

“It sweeps through different radio stations rapidly and, theoretically, a paranormal entity can manipulate it and use it to speak. Just ask question.” You fix the camera on him. “Ready when you are.”

“So…do any of the ghosts think I’m hot?” He asks, glancing around the room. You bite your lip to hold in your laugh as the static continues. “Tough crowd.”

You roll your eyes. “Be serious.”

“Okay, okay, fine. Uh…did anything like…bad….happen to you?” No response. “Do you…like having guests?”

“No.”

Dieter jumps, eyes wide as he looks at the spirit box. “No fucking way,” he says excitedly. “Okay, uh, why don’t you want guests?”

“Loud.”

“Oh my god,” you murmur. “Keep going!”

“Do you want to hurt us?” Dieter asks. The device is silent, no responses coming through. His shoulders drop in disappointment. “Damn. Some confirmation that we’re dealing with Casper and not that fucking thing from Insidious would have been nice.”

“Try one more question? I’m going to get the thermal cam,” you tell him, rushing to the desk in the center of the room for your equipment. You hastily power it on and point both cameras at him. “Ok, go.”

“You’re supposed to say action,” Dieter says, making you roll your eyes. “But I’ll let it slide. Hmm…ghost, is there a room we should explore next?”

It’s silent for a beat, and you think maybe the session may be over, but suddenly the device spits out the word, “Attic.”

Dieter stares at you with wide eyes. “Guess we’ve gotta go higher.”

“Let’s do it.”

You open the door to the attic, revealing a dark, narrow staircase that looks particularly haunting. The man stands at your back, looking up into the inky black darkness. He audibly swallows.

“Uh…how about you go first? You’re the professional,” he suggests.

“You scared?” You tease, taking a tentative step forward. “It’s just a little attic.”

“In a very haunted house!” He hisses. “What if it’s luring us here to kill us?”

“Then you would have had to film for this ‘stupid show’ with nothing to show for it. Tragic,” you reply sarcastically, placing quotes around the words stupid show.

Because that’s what you’ve heard him call it. Your show was up for a Primetime Emmy award last year for your Halloween special and it was your first time attending an award show. Dieter was there to present an award and was seated only a few seats down from you, talking to another actor you vaguely recognized, when you overheard his feelings for your show.

“I can’t believe they put such a stupid show in this category,” he said, loudly. “It doesn’t even belong here.”

“What are you talking about?” Dieter asks as you reach the open attic. There’s a circular window that looks out over the grounds, caked with dust and only allowing a tiny amount of light into the room. You turn to face him.

“At the Emmy Awards last year. I was sitting two seats down from you and you said — and I quote — ‘I can’t believe they put such a stupid show in this category’,” you snap.

He stares at you incredulously. “Are you kidding me? I love your show. I’ve been begging my agent to get me on as a guest since your first episode!”

“Yeah, okay,” you reply sarcastically.

“It’s true! Just ask him!” He steps closer, eyes wide and pleading, looking like a puppy who’s just been reprimanded. “I was talking about that stupid potato documentary. It was boring as hell and had no reason being nominated!”

“Wait…so...you like my show?”

“I love your show. It’s, like, the closest thing to being in an episode of Scooby-Doo.”

You laugh and Dieter’s face brightens, like he knows he’s in the clear. Suddenly, the sound of a door slamming has you both screaming and Dieter launches forward, his arms wrapping around your shoulders as he leaps into the air.

It catches you by surprise, all of his weight leaning into you and sending you crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs and an echo of groans.

“What the fuck was that?!” You ask. “Dieter, get off, I can’t breathe!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, rolling off of you with a thump and another pained noise. “You were supposed to catch me.”

“Catch you?” You wheeze, flat on your back.

“Yeah, like in the shows. Scooby always caught Shaggy.”

“Why am I Scooby?!”

“I don’t know,” he shouts. “Listen, let me go check what that was.”

“You’re not leaving me up here,” you hiss. “We go together.”

The two of you make it to the bottom of the stairs, only to discover that the door to the attic has slammed shut. Not only that, but the damn thing won’t open. Dieter slams his shoulder into it as he twists the knob, cursing up a storm as he tries to shove it open with no luck.

“Remember what I said about the ghosts trying to murder us?” He asks.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got a radio. I’ll tell Michael he needs to come try to open the door.” You tug the radio free from the waist of your jeans, pressing the button and asking, “Mike? You there?”

Silence fills the room. You try again.

“Mike?”

More silence.

“Fucking Mike,” Dieter grumbles. He heads back upstairs to the attic and you trail after him. He makes a beeline for the small window, feeling around the edges of it. “Maybe we can get the window open and call out to him.”

“Good idea,” you tell him, coming up beside him and pulling a flashlight from your back pocket, shining the light on the windowsill to help him find the latch.

There’s a rusted crank that he starts turning, the hinges squeaking loudly enough to make you wince. The window opens the slightest bit, fresh air flowing into the stale room.

“Can you get it open a little more?” You ask. With a grunt, he forces the crank around, his biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt.

Not that you’re watching his biceps. Or the muscles of his back as he moves. Definitely not.

“That’s as far as it’ll go,” he says. “See if you can see your little tent down there.”

“Command center,” you grumble, doing as suggested. You can can’t see much except a corner of the white tent fabric, but you call out anyways, “Michael! Mike! Hey!”

There’s no movement from below, no responding shout. You call out for him again and again, but it’s no use. He’s clearly not answering.

“I don’t have my phone during investigations. Do you have yours?” You ask. Dieter pulls his phone from his front pocket.

“Fuck, it’s dead,” he groans, tapping the black screen. You sigh.

“What are we supposed to do now?” You check your watch and find it’s 1:30 a.m. You have no idea where the fuck Mike went, but hopefully he’ll be back by 3 a.m. for debrief and a very stern lecture about abandoning his post. Dieter grins at you.

“Wanna get high?”

“The episode you did at the asylum in Kentucky is my favorite. It’s so fucking scary. The gurney moving? The shadows? Fuck, I was hiding in a blanket the whole time,” Dieter says.

You’re sitting beside each other with your legs out in front of you, your backs leaning against the wall beneath the small window. You’re pleasantly buzzed, your head a little fuzzy and your limbs loose from the joint you’ve passed back and forth for the last half hour and you’ve been talking about your favorite episodes, yours to film and his to watch, the conversation flowing surprisingly well.

“You know, maybe I was wrong about you,” you say when there’s a lull in conversation. Dieter looks at you, his eyebrows raised. “Yeah, I just…I don’t know. I thought you were this high maintenance asshole, I guess. But you’re kinda cool.”

Dieter laughs. “Oh, baby, I’m definitely high maintenance. You weren’t wrong about that.”

Something about Dieter calling you baby makes you feel warm and gooey. You’d like to blame it on the weed but if you’re honest with yourself for once, it’s because of him. You tried not to like him, you really did, but he’s funny and nice and doesn’t think your whole ghost hunting gig is a waste of time like a lot of men you’ve dealt with in the past. Not to mention he’s so hot, with his messy hair and pretty brown eyes and warm tan skin. Sure, he’s a pain in the ass, but you’re realizing now that it’s actually part of his charm.

You must be quiet for too long or fidget too much because he’s smirking at you now, plush lips tilted up mischievously. “You liked that, huh?” He asks.

“Liked what?” You whisper. He’s scooches closer, his thigh pressing against yours and your shoulders brushing.

“Me calling you baaaaby,” he says, drawing out the word teasingly. “You got all quiet about it.”

“N-no I didn’t.”

“Riiiight,” he teases. He twists his body, reaching an arm across to grip your thigh. “C’mere.”

You go willingly, maneuvering your clumsy limbs until your legs are spread over his lap. He looks up at you with glassy eyes and a syrupy smile, sliding his hands into the back pockets of your jeans.

“You wanna try that again, baby?” He buries his face against your chest and you laugh, squirming in his grip. “Come on, be honest with me.”

“Maybe…maybe I kinda like it,” you mumble. His hands drift up your waist.

“Like what?”

“When you call me baby.”

He presses a kiss to your collarbone, the touch electrifying. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“You’re so annoying,” you huff, trying to pull away from him. He holds you tightly.

“Nooooo,” Dieter whines, peppering kisses along all the skin exposed by your tank top that he can reach.”’M sorry, I’ll be good for you, baby.”

Your eyes flutter as you sink into his hold. His light kisses turn into teasing nips of his teeth that make you gasp and grind yourself over his lap. You can feel him growing hard beneath you, the length of his cock pressing deliciously against the seam of your jeans to give you the friction you’re craving.

Dieter’s hand wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you forward to press his lips to yours. It’s awkward at first, just a lingering peck, but then he licks at your bottom lip and you open up for him, his tongue hot against yours as you explore each other. Your mouths are a little dry from the weed but the kiss quickly grows hot and wet, a little desperate and messy as you move together.

“Fuck,” Dieter groans when he pulls back for a breath. “Keep moving, just like that.”

You have a better idea, though. You move down a little bit until you can get your hands on the fly of his pants, popping the button and pulling the zipper. He helps you out a bit, lifting his hips to shove his pants down just enough for you to reach into his boxers and wrap a hand around his thick cock. His eyes are dark and his mouth goes slack as you slowly bring your fist up, palming the slick head and smearing the bead of precum around the sensitive tip.

You withdraw your hand, bringing it to your face to lick your palm, getting it nice and wet as you keep your gaze fixed on him. He’s breathing hard, chest heaving with the effort and he gasps when you take him back in your hand.

“Fuck, feels so fucking good,” he groans, tipping his head back against the wall with a thump. “Tighter, baby, squeeze it tighter. Fuck, that’s a good girl.”

His words have your clit aching with need and you reach down with your other hand to unbutton your jeans, trying to keeping your motions coordinated as you do. Dieter looks up and notices what you’re trying to do.

“You need a lil something, baby?” He asks. When you nod, his hand smacks yours away, successfully undoing the button and zipper. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

His hand slides beneath your jeans and panties, thick fingers quickly zeroing in on your needy clit with tight circles that have your hand stilling around his cock as you moan. His other wraps around yours, encouraging your movements as he plays with your pussy.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he groans, fingers dipping lower until they’re pressing against your slick entrance. “Keep moving your hand, baby.”

You hadn’t even noticed that you stopped, too focused on how good his touch felt. “‘M sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t be sorry,” Dieter murmurs, one finger pressing slowly inside of you. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You try to focus on his cock, sliding your tight fist over his length, twisting your wrist around the flushed head, smearing the wetness at the tip around with your thumb. He pumps one finger, then two inside of you in a matching rhythm, the heel of his hand brushing your clit and making you moan.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, rocking your hips the slightest bit. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it, baby, I’m right there with you,” Dieter replies, his own hips chasing your hand. “Come on, come on, all over my hand, baby.”

The wave of pleasure crashes over you, your muscles tightening before releasing all at once as you cum, clenching around his fingers and moaning his name. Warmth spreads over your hand and when you finally open your eyes you see that Dieter has cum as well.

“Uh,” you say awkwardly, “What…what do I do?”

“Huh?” Dieter mumbles, withdrawing his hand from your jeans.

“With the” — you nod towards your cum covered hand — “mess?”

“Oh, right. Uh…just kinda…wipe it into my boxers?” He says. You do as he suggests, wiping the sticky mess into the fabric. “I’ll just deal with it later.”

“Boss? You there?” Mike’s voice calls out over the radio, which sits discarded to the side. You scramble off of Dieter’s lap to grab the device.

“Mike! We’ve been locked in the attic for over an hour!” You hiss. “Come get us right now and maybe I’ll let you keep your job.”

Mike responds that he’ll be right up and you fix your pants, hooking the radio back onto your jeans. Dieter stands, pulling his pants up and gathering some of the equipment. You stand together, waiting for Mike in what you would consider an awkward silence until Dieter bumps your shoulder with his.

“We should do that again sometime,” he says. “Maybe without the audience.”

“Audience?” You ask.

He leans in close, lips brushing your ear and making your shiver as he whispers, “The ghosts.” You shove him away, both of you dissolving into giggles. His face grows serious once more. “No, really. You wanna like…get breakfast or something? I know this good farm-to-table place that opens super early.” You smile at him.

“I’d like that.”

Dieter sits on the couch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a box of gluten free crackers in his lap. “Hurry up! It’s starting!”

“Your fancy microwave burned my popcorn,” you whine as you rush back into the living room. Dieter sneaks a hand into your bowl, shoving popcorn hastily into his mouth. “Hey!”

“Boyfriend tax,” he explains. “Now, hush, or I won’t invite you over to watch anymore.”

“It’s my show!”

The opening theme music starts, some eerie instrumental that plays over a montage of scenes from earlier episodes. As the music fades, shots of the house and your recorded voiceover explain the location for the episode right before it cuts to you and Dieter.

“…And this, is Spirit Seekers,” you and Dieter say along with your recorded self, matching grins on your faces.

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[pbelfz]

Two to One | 13 |

Pairing: Bakugou x Reader x Midoriya Chapter Title: Default Dance Chapter 12 | Chapter 14 Story Masterlist Summary: You are a simple college girl working at a cheap, back alley café! The top heroes, Deku and Ground Zero, visit your work in hopes of ordering coffee, but they pick something else up instead. You begin an interesting relationship with the pair, while slowly becoming aware of certain underhanded tactics they are using. Idolization isn't always that bad... Right?

WARNINGS: controlling, manipulative?

Deku never smiled as much as he did on television.

Izuku came down with a hearty fever within the first two nights of (Y/n) officially moving in.

Katsuki was quick to point his finger at her, blaming her for bringing her city germs into the house, but Izuku insisted one of his high school interns was coughing in his office a few days prior. Regardless, Katsuki kept his distance from both of them.

In the few hours he was awake, Izuku worked from home, sending reports to his agency secretaries and signing off on investigation collaborations. He slept most of the day otherwise, leaving (Y/n) alone in the spacious house.

All of her personal belongings were relocated to the new house, but it’d been an overwhelming feat to unpack most of the boxes – not that she had that many to begin with. Still, it gnawed at her how final this all seemed. She couldn’t help but feel like she jumped the gun a little too quickly when she saw the face her RA gave her when they exchanged lease documentation.

She’d never lived with any of her previous partners before. What would she tell Hana if she wanted to come over to hang out? Would Deku or Katsuki even be okay with her having guests at all? The last time she recalled needing approval for friends visiting was when she lived with her parents.

Her frown tightened as she performed the next dance move of Rich Girl by Gwen Stefani. She remained sour even as the TV screen dinged, signifying a perfect score.

Izuku groaned into the pillow, hearing the music travel up the stairs and into the master bedroom. Even with the door closed, it grew harder and harder for him to block out the nasally ‘Nana na na na na’s, the ache in his head pulsing with each beat, right behind his forehead. He texted (Y/n) a few minutes ago to turn the TV down, but she must not have seen it. He supposed this was his cue to get up.

Izuku – slowly, with no urgency about him – made his way to the kitchen. His cold was getting worse, but he didn’t want to worry Katsuki or (Y/n). He glanced at (Y/n) in the living room once he reached the bottom of the stairs, and on a normal day, his interest would’ve piqued to see her playing Just Dance.

However, today was not that day.

He turned and continued to the kitchen.

Izuku’s eyes could hardly stay open as he made himself a cup of peppermint tea, adding some honey for his throat. He took his time with it. Why not, right? Gwen Stefani was serenading him.

Deku never smiled as much as he did on television. That was one of the first things (Y/n) noticed when she moved in.

‘If I was a rich girl, nana na na na na–,’

(Y/n) was completely enthralled in the game, but once she turned around for a spin, she locked eyes with Izuku, who was leaning against the wall with his cup of tea.

“EE-eezuku!” She covered her mouth to conceal the tail end of her yelp before scrambling to finally turn off that damn game. “How long–?”

“Did you get my text?” Izuku cut (Y/n) off more harshly than intended, which took her by surprise. He’s never the one to do that. Izuku noticed his slip-up as quickly as she did, and he took a sip of his tea, glancing at the floor.

“No, I left my phone upstairs. What did it say?” (Y/n)’s voice was soft, worried that she missed something important. Izuku shifted his weight, his reply just as soft as hers, much gentler than his previous interruption.

“I was just trying to sleep,” his gaze flickered to the TV hanging on the wall behind her. (Y/n) got the hint.

“Oh… I’m sorry.”

Izuku nodded before turning away, withdrawing from her. “It’s okay.”

(Y/n) couldn’t help but feel compelled to follow him to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?”

Izuku opened the fridge, bending over to check the lower shelves for something quick to eat. “Better.”

“Good.” She withheld the urge to feel his forehead to check his fever.

Izuku grabbed some bread, meat, and cheese to make a sandwich. He didn’t look at (Y/n) as he reached for condiments, which were right next to her.

Is he really that upset that she didn’t turn the TV down?

“Are you mad at me?”

It’s only natural to ask.

Izuku finally looked up at (Y/n), his face almost appalled at the question. “No,” was all he offered before biting into his sandwich and walking past her. “Just tired. And sick.”

He left her in the kitchen by herself.

With all of the audacity Katsuki carries, (Y/n) never anticipated how attentive he was towards Izuku.

She felt creepy, watching from the doorway as Katsuki spoon-fed Izuku the last of the homemade soup his mother dropped off. (Y/n) was in class when Mitsuki came by, but from what little Katsuki shared of his homelife, the Bakugous were a gourmet family, so it was no surprise they had their own recipe for everything.

Regardless of how big the house was, (Y/n) still felt lumpy and in the way. Katsuki brushed by her when they crossed paths in the hallways, almost purposefully knocking shoulders with hers. She didn’t have the heart to ask him if he actually was doing it on purpose, though; she still felt like a guest here.

More so now than ever, as she watched Katsuki kneel by the edge of bed, stroking the back of Izuku’s neck. Izuku was dozing off with a cooling pad on his forehead. They were muttering to each other about something, and Katsuki wore just a hint of a smile on his face as he monitored a drowsy Deku. (Y/n) didn’t want to interrupt them. They surely noticed she was there, but Katsuki wasn’t going to make an effort to call her in; Izuku was the priority at the moment. She observed how they looked at each other, and a black, tarry pit in her stomach kept telling her it was different from how they looked at her. Their hands found one another, Katsuki’s thickened skin naturally a comfort for Izuku, just as Izuku’s scars were for Katsuki.

(Y/n) hoped she caught the flu next week.

She turned and went back downstairs.

Days passed, and Izuku’s cold lessened into an irritating sore throat.

Izuku became antsy, not accustomed to being away from work for so long. The house was spotless from the compulsive cleaning he did when Katsuki wasn’t around (he would’ve gotten yelled at). (Y/n) gently suggested he continue resting, but her words went ignored. She then offered to help but was disregarded. That was fine with her; she was behind on her assignments because of her shifts at Satou’s.

Izuku’s weights clanged in the basement gym while she proofread a 10-page essay. (Y/n)’s fingers tapped on the keyboard, unable to focus on her work as she listened to her boyfriend work out. Two minutes passed, and there was silence. (Y/n) fixed a sentence on her document.

Clang!

She paused and waited.

Silence for another minute.

(Y/n) read another paragraph.

Clang!

Her concentration muddled once more, she groaned and closed her laptop.

Izuku almost instantly threw himself back into hero duty the second Katsuki’s mothering radar subsided.

The Bakugou-Midoriya-(Y/n) household found what their “normal” was.

Disgruntled Katsuki.

Overworked Izuku.

Unoccupied (Y/n).

It’s not like she was necessarily waiting for them to do anything with her! It’s just this situation screamed “roommates”. Isn’t that what they were now, though? Roommates with benefits, except they haven’t done anything sexual since Izuku’s got sick. (Y/n) wanted to talk to the two heroes to clear up any boundaries, but the throuple were hardly ever in the house at the same time. (Y/n) busied herself with schoolwork, carrying about her business as she usually would back in her apartment, except now there were two hunkering men lumbering about.

“Deku and I made dinner reservations for all of us tomorrow,” Katsuki mentioned over his shoulder.

Neither of them bothered to mention this to her before right now. (Y/n) tightened her lip to keep from rolling her eyes.

“I don’t think I can go. I’m going out tomorrow,” (Y/n) pondered aloud, scrolling through Instagram on her phone.

Katsuki’s attention, previously only halfway in the conversation, was now yanked fully into it. He finished his rep, setting the weighted barbell above him on the bar holder before sitting up on the bench. Sweat gleamed from his torso, and he grabbed the nearest rag to wipe his forehead.

“This is the first time I’m hearing about this,” he grunted, glancing up at (Y/n). She shrugged, still invested in her phone.

“I guess it was kinda last minute.” A slight jab.

Katsuki was quiet for a moment, trying to be careful about his words. “Does Deku know?” He asked, trekking over to the dumbbells.

“Does Deku know what?” Izuku suddenly called from beyond the basement stairs, the sound of the front door closing behind him. (Y/n) glanced upwards, noting how Deku always appeared at just the right moment.

Izuku took his sneakers off in the foyer, exchanging them for his slippers before bounding down the stairs. He was noticeably tired, and even though he wasn’t in his hero costume anymore, his clothes still seemed worn. He may have run into another villain on the way home.

Katsuki snorted a dry laugh, giving (Y/n) a look as he began another set for his workout. The dumbbells were bigger than (Y/n)’s head.

“I’m just going to a karaoke party tomorrow. Maybe some barhopping,” (Y/n) peeped from her place on the floor next to the weight rack. Katsuki glanced at his partner.

Izuku’s mouth tightened ever so slightly, but only Katsuki caught it. “Oh.”

“Who are you going with?” Izuku asked, hiding the hesitance in his tone as he stepped further into the basement.

Katsuki set the dumbbells down much quieter than Izuku did. (Y/n) didn’t know why they were making such a big deal about this.

“Hana. My coworker from Satou’s.”

Both men appeared to be in thought.

Izuku spoke first. “We can talk about it after we shower, okay?” He suggested with a soft smile, leaning back as an invitation for (Y/n) to follow him upstairs to the bathroom. (Y/n) remained seated on the gym floor.

“What’s the big deal?” She asked. Part of her was looking for a fight; they felt it. She wanted to do something with her friends, and they finally decided now was the time to give her attention? Katsuki and Izuku looked at each other. Katsuki was more reclusive than Izuku when voicing his concerns, so he withdrew as he wiped the bench down with a rag. Izuku sighed.

“We’re just worried,” Izuku spoke for the both of them, as he naturally did. (Y/n) blinked, setting her phone to the side as she prepared to hear them out.

“About what? I’m gonna be with my friends.”

Izuku scratched the back of his ear and stepped over to her, crouching down to her height on the floor.

“Everyone there is cool, I promise,” (Y/n) softened her voice, trying to comfort them further.

“(Y/n), we’re concerned about the college culture.”

(Y/n) furrowed her brow at that and glanced at Katsuki, who was watching the exchange.

“What do you mean by th–?”

“Just don’t be a whore,” Katsuki all but blurted as he picked up his water bottle and started chugging.

“Katsuki!” Izuku shouted over his shoulder. The volume didn’t seem to affect Katsuki, but it made (Y/n) jump. There was a beat of silence, as if Izuku was debating on yelling something else, but instead he turned back to look at her with an apologetic expression.

“We’re just worried about drinking and all that,” Izuku tried to explain, returning to his regular pitch. (Y/n) glanced between both of his eyes and held her tongue because she was about to tell him he sounded more like a father than a hero. “While they may not be villains, some people can do pretty villainous things, like slip something into your drink. If you’re going to drink, keep your drink on your person, and try not to take your eye off of it,” Izuku warned. (Y/n) shifted, and although she felt like he was overexaggerating everything, she still felt uneasy under his gaze.

“Yeah, I know…”

“And can you text our groupchat when you get there tomorrow? What time is it at? And the address?” Izuku asked, pulling his personal phone out of his pocket.

“Yeah, of course. I was going to, anyway,” (Y/n) picked her own phone back up to check her texts with Hana. “Karaoke is at around 8:30 PM at 228 Yugun.”

“Text every thirty minutes,” came Katsuki’s request. (Y/n) looked over at him, then back at Izuku, who seemed to be typing the address and time into his phone reminders. There wasn’t any rebuttal from the other hero, so this seemed to be a consensus between the two of them.

“Okay.”

It was so much easier to socialize with Hana by (Y/n)’s side.

(Y/n) cheered along with everyone as Hana completed the song on the screen. It wasn’t perfect, but Hana laughed off her mistakes, something (Y/n) always admired about her.

Their other friend from school, Chiharu, was a naturally gifted singer and was getting high score after high score on each song. Natsuko and Jin, who were dating, sang a duet but were too tipsy to get a score above 37%. Every time someone offered (Y/n) the mic, she politely declined, satisfied with simply sipping on her drink and eating some of the platter.

“Jin fucked that one up that time!” Natsuko laughed, slipping her jacket off and resting it on the seat behind her. Jin was carefree and good-natured. Patient. Everyone in the group knew Jin and Nat were a good match. Jin was flipping through the available list of songs, her shoulder-length hair swaying when she wiped some of the beer from her lip.

“You can’t blame all of that on me,” Jin retorted playfully. Chiharu suddenly shot up from her seat, pointing at the screen.

“Wait! Pick that one! Pick that one! I know the Tiktok dance to it.”

“Oh, God, nooooooo, boooooo,” Hana moaned with a thumbs down.

“Wait, no, I wanna see her do it!” Came Nat from the other side of the room.

(Y/n) sunk into the couch, cradling her drink as she glanced from person to person, a blissful smile on her face. After a dedicated discussion, Jin finally picked the Tiktok song. Just as Chiharu was warming up for her dance, (Y/n)’s phone vibrated. She pulled it out of her bag.

(09:48) Katsuki : What time you coming back?

(09:50) (Y/N)ヾ☆* : not sure yet

Katsuki is typing…

(09:50) Katsuki : Can you ask?

(Y/n) sighed and scratched her head.

(09:51) (Y/N)ヾ☆* : i asked. No one knows

Katsuki started typing again. He was typing for a while, but then the bubble disappeared. (Y/n) stared at the screen. He began typing again.

(09:53) Katsuki :  Deku’s picking you up

(09:53) Katsuki :  When you’re done.

(Y/n) replied with a thumbs up emoji.

(09:54) Katsuki : So let us know when you’re almost done, so he can head over there.

(09:54) Katsuki : Are you drinking?

Jesus Christ, Katsuki can talk when he wants to. (Y/n) shifted in her seat, setting her drink down on the table in front of her so she can type with both hands. Hana eyed her.

(09:55) (Y/N)ヾ☆* : I will

(Y/n) didn’t know if he responded because she shoved her phone back into her bag. She looked over and saw Hana already looking at her.

“You okay?” Hana asked.

“Oh, yeah. Just group project stuff.”

Hana nodded, understanding. Nat then came over and handed mics to her and (Y/n).

“I picked out this duet just for you two.”

(Y/n) and Hana stood on the curb with their arms locked at the elbow as they waved goodbye to their friends, watching the three of them stumble away in the direction of their apartments. Jin and Natsuko lived together, and Chiharu lived in the complex around the corner from them. Hana lived on the opposite side of the city campus, so (Y/n) offered to walk her. They were both laughing at a video someone posted on Twitter of the Deku Fortnite skin.

“Why didn’t they include Shoto? Dynamight and Deku, but no Shoto?”

“I don’t know, maybe he didn’t approve it,” (Y/n) remarked, watching Deku’s character dance on Hana’s phone. “And with good reason.”

“And Dynamight did?!”

(Y/n) shrugged, sputtering a laugh. “Maybe Dynamight likes the game.” By force of habit, (Y/n) pulled her own phone out of her bag to check her notifications. She ended up ignoring it for most of the night, so she couldn’t imagine what she missed.

To her surprise, she only missed one text from Katsuki and one text from Izuku. Izuku was letting her know the time he was picking her up at, which was… in 3 minutes.

(Y/n) stopped walking, her sudden halt pulling Hana back. Hana looked at her, confused.

“So, my ride is actually a few minutes away, and I only gave them the address to the karaoke bar…”

Hana understood, and she smiled. “Oh, okay! Text me when you get home?”

(Y/n) didn’t think Hana realized she didn’t live on campus anymore.

“Of course.”

Izuku pulled up to the curb in the sleek black car he and Katsuki alternated driving. They had other cars, but they both must’ve preferred this one. It was 1 in the morning, and the streets were starting to quiet down.

He wordlessly unlocked the car, and (Y/n) popped into the passenger side, smiling. Izuku didn’t give much of a greeting as he pulled off as soon as she buckled in.

(Y/n) broke the silence first. “I didn’t know you were in Fortnite.”

It was dark in the car, but (Y/n) could see the way his brow furrowed as he drove, as if he were trying to recall what on earth she was referring to.

“Katsuki’s in Fortnite, too,” she giggled. “Your costumes look a lot different, though.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he was no louder than a mumble as he looked past (Y/n) to make a turn.

(Y/n) sunk into her seat, taking this as her cue to leave him alone. Where Katsuki pushed her when he was upset, Izuku ignored her.

“How was your night?” He finally asked, after the lights of the city became sparser. (Y/n) perked up.

“It was a lot of fun! I was a little nervous to sing, so I spent a lot of time watching my friends, but Hana and I did a song together near the end.”

She didn’t know, but Izuku could smell the alcohol on (Y/n)’s breath, and he slightly turned his head away from her as she spoke.

“You have a lot to drink?” He asked quietly, a hand leaving the steering wheel to scratch his ear.

“No, not a lot.”

“How much?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t really–”

“How much, (Y/n)?”

(Y/n) looked over at him, blinking. Izuku’s gaze was still fixed on the road.

“I think no more than five,” she peeped. She watched him.

Izuku continued driving. They were almost home.

“You think?”

“I think, yeah.”

He was silent. He made another turn, and the light from a streetlamp shined down on half of his face, so (Y/n) could finally discern him. He appeared unaffected.

(Y/n) didn’t know what else to say, and whatever buzz she was feeling before quickly dissipated. She sat there with her hands folded in her lap. If this was Katsuki, she would’ve yelled back at him, but this was Izuku. Izuku has a different command about him.

The car was parked, and (Y/n) looked up. They were home. Izuku turned the car off, but he didn’t unbuckle. He turned to (Y/n), the light from the porch finally illuminating his face enough to give (Y/n) an emotion she recognized: pity.

“Please try to keep track next time.”

(Y/n) didn’t know what to say.

“Okay…”

Izuku got out of the car, closed the door, and headed inside with his hands in his pockets, leaving (Y/n) alone in the car.

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 18: When the gods choose to punish us, they merely answer our prayers.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Look where we will, the inevitable law of revelation is one of the laws of nature: the lasting preservation of a secret is a miracle which the world has never yet seen.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Masterlist

Read on AO3.

Art by Shiroishi

“Sweetheart,” she called out placatingly. He scoffed and bit down on a tart, his jacket draped over his other shoulder. He’d decided he would start early today; there was little doubt going through the lower city would take some time. Ban was lounging on her throne, legs crossed and documents in hand. In his absence she would have to manage three meetings - not too horrible, especially since one of them was to finalize the turnover of the Sharran cloister to the city.

“I was just teasing!”

He rolled his eyes, turning back to scowl at her one last time, the faux-anger shifting into mirth. He shot her a wink. “I’ll try to be home relatively early. If not, well…” he waved the last of his tart, “it’ll be a lonely dinner for you yet again. Maybe you’ll miss me this time.”

The sound of her laughter was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

He and Ban hadn’t been back to the lower city often since the end of their adventure. They’d visited occasionally, but there had been no reason to of late.

Over the past week, he had sent his staff to begin searching.. So far all of the upper city had been scoured and to no one’s surprise it had yielded no results. He had also covered a fair amount of the lower city. That had likewise borne no fruit.

He had also considered… other possibilities. A Sending spell had allowed him to contact the twins in Waterdeep and inquire as to whether Vel or any of his associates had been active in Baldur’s Gate at that time. They had answered in the negative.

The morning proceeded in relative boredom. He went from house to house, knocking on each door and holding up Adrien’s portrait. A lot of them seemed surprised to see him - an elf in ostentatious clothes - tramping about lower city in all his finery going door to door about some man, but he found that he didn’t mind, as he agreed with their assessment.

He ended up at a house at the far end of a street and knocked on the door. It looked relatively well-kept, if a little old. The door creaked open, and a younger elf peered at him. Astarion cleared his throat, and began his spiel.

“Hello. My name is Astarion Ancunín.” He had avoided tacking on his title for this errand. “Have you by any chance seen or met this man?” He held up the open locket. His name is-”

The elf scratched his head. “Adrien, yeah.”

Astarion’s mouth fell open. He closed the locket, pocketing it. “Adrien Glasscraft, yes. You know of him?”

“He was my friend.” He opened the door wider. “You should probably come inside, Mister Ancunín.”

The house was quaint, even cozy, and Astarion made himself comfortable on the couch. Sprawled in his usual way, he caught the disapproving glance from the other elf as he sat on the chair opposite him. Astarion pointedly ignored it.

“My name is Lulen.” When Astarion made no response, merely tapping his knee, Lulen continued. “Adrien is someone I knew for several years, before he stopped coming by. If I may ask,” and he leaned forward. “What is your interest in him?”

Astarion’s lip curled. “He is important to someone important.” That, he felt, was as detailed an explanation as he was willing to give. Lulen fell silent, eyes fixed on a spot behind him, and Astarion waited.

Lulen scanned Astarion’s clothes. “It does make sense. He comes from a rich family, as far as I know. Some offshoot of a patriar family. He griped about it a lot.”

“Tell me what you know of Adrien, then,” Astarion prompted, “and perhaps you might be able to help me find your friend. Where and when did you see him last?”

“It was an evening, several years ago. He arrived here, angry, which was not an uncommon occurrence with him. We talked for some time, then he said he would head out and get some food, clear his head, and…”

“And?” Astarion prompted, leaning forward, hands on his knees. “Did he tell you where he went?”

Lulen shook his head. “No, but he mentioned heading to Wyrm’s Crossing.”

Astarion stood outside Fragyo’s, his scowl deepening. The sun was high in the sky, the midafternoon light harsh. There were several places to get food in Wyrm’s Crossing, and he had left this one for last, hoping he wouldn’t have to go in. The idea of stepping back into that cesspit was unpleasant; he did not relish the idea of having to relive all of his previous activities in that establishment, but it couldn’t be avoided. He’d been hoping to have his meal somewhere better, but he had lost track of time, so he supposed he’d grab something here while he investigated. Perhaps Adrien had slept over in the flophouse before he left Baldur’s Gate.

He made his way in. It wasn’t too busy at this time of day, and he headed up to the counter. The halfling custodian peered at him, seemingly recalling his face.

“You’re- you were with…”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, waiting with his arms crossed.

“With the group - the ones who saved the city!”

Ah. He was relieved to be remembered for that and not for his other, older exploits in the flophouse.

“Apologies,” the halfling - Dashkent, he remembered now, bowed. “I am not very good with faces, and so it took me a moment to remember where I knew you from.”

He scoffed, but waved his hand dismissively. Resolving to question the halfling after he’d eaten, he ordered his lunch, and then slipped into a seat at an empty table, scanning the room. He had been here countless times before, of course. They’d always kept a low profile when they’d hunted here, hunkering in corners and darkened alcoves at night, whispering those sickly sweet words, laying their traps.

He ate with disinterest - the fare here was still bland, despite having his sense of taste back - and flicked open the locket, studying Adrien’s features for what felt like the millionth time. The black hair, that jawline, those eyes…

They always stood out, those eyes. They could hardly have done anything else. They were Ban’s eyes, after all, an exact match down to the shape and shade of brown-

No… not just that. He’d seen them somewhere else.

It was a cold night, and it had begun to rain. He pulled his cowl over his head. Ahead of him Dalyria and Petras had already opened the door, heading inside. Neither left the door open for him; he slipped inside without a word.

The three split up, as was their wont. Astarion took his usual corner, mug in hand, scanning the room. Searching for potential marks was a skill he’d fine-tuned. Anyone who seemed alone, a little lost, would be perfect. Attractive, if he could manage it, but when pickings were slim it didn’t matter. Tonight, however, was a good night for hunting - the flophouse was teeming with people, the rain likely helping force them indoors. He took his time; there was no need to rush with so many options.

Dalyria slipped into the seat beside him. He rolled his eyes.

“What?”

“I told you it would be a good idea to come tonight, didn’t I?” Her eyes also roamed over the patrons. “Good pickings. I’m sure even Petras will find someone. Why aren’t you mingling yet?”

He scoffed, and took a sip of whatever he had ordered - he didn’t exactly remember. “Petras needs them blind drunk before they’ll even look his way. I’m giving him a head start.”

Dalyria laughed. “Of course you are. Astarion, the prettiest of us lot, barely even needs to try, eh?” She tried to playfully touch his cheek; he growled and shifted away.

She stood up. “Do find yourself… something. Two more nights of coming up empty-handed and you’ll be…” she bit back a laugh as he snarled at her.

The thought was unpleasant, but he did not let it show. “Worried about me? How sweet of you.” He rolled his eyes at her. “Godey has nothing new under his metaphorical sleeves, dear sister. It’ll be uneventful.”

“Judging by the way you screamed last time, I doubt that’s true.”

She drifted away and Astarion seethed, stewing over her flippant remarks.

Two weeks. Two weeks of coming up empty-handed and he’d come face to face with Godey. The door would latch closed behind him and not open again until the master was thoroughly satisfied. A date with Godey’s toys, a night of manacles and instruments and of blood, of screaming himself hoarse and it still not being enough to sate their lust. Two weeks - sometimes less, if Cazador’s whims dictated it so - until he was reminded of exactly how painful drawing his master’s ire was - not that he ever forgot. The man took what felt like boundless joy in breaking him, after all - far more than the rest. He rubbed a hand over his face, resentment bubbling to the top. Even in their shared suffering, he endured more. Far more.

Astarion swirled the contents of his mug, staring down at it absently. It wouldn’t do to fail tonight. He slipped into his thoughts, however - something he found himself doing more often lately, his mind sinking into nothingness. When someone jostled against his table and snapped him out of it, he had no idea how long it had been. He scanned the room. A fair bit of time must have passed, he realized, as Dalyria was now in the arms of a burly man.

A man caught his eye. He was seated at a table, alone, nursing a goblet of what looked like wine. Handsome. Black hair, square jaw, and alluringly dark brown eyes. Astarion sauntered over.

To his surprise the man looked up before he managed to say a word. “This chair’s free.” He tapped the seat beside him. Astarion slid in.

“You look awfully lonely, darling. Is it the weather, or something else?” Astarion sipped from his mug.

The man shot him a nervous smile. His eyes brightened as he took stock of Astarion’s face - a look he knew all too well. Tonight, that meant success.

“Something else.” The man returned his gaze to his drink. “The rain doesn’t help, I suppose. I headed out before it started. And you? What brings you here?”

Astarion noticed, belatedly, that the man had no cloak or anything to cover himself with, other than a jacket that was already soaked. He clicked his tongue. “Well, then. I’m all ears, if that’s what you need.” He would have added a coy ‘and perhaps more, if you want’, but something told him he’d have to take this particular mark slowly. He didn’t bother answering the man’s questions; more often than not people just wanted to talk about their own problems.

“It’s nothing more than common family drama,” the man said, pushing his sopping hair off his eyes. “The usual, really. I really don’t want to talk your ear off,” he chuckled, “and I’d rather hear about something else.”

Astarion found himself pleasantly surprised, but he was ready. “I am a magistrate. I’m here to meet someone, but…” he pretended to look around the room, “it seems that they have misplaced their clock.” He huffed. “Not my loss, considering that I now get to talk to you.”

“Adrien.” The man held out his hand.

He shook it, allowing his fingertips to subtly drag as he pulled away from Adrien’s grasp. “Astarion.”

Adrien nodded. “A wonderful name.” Again the man took a moment to look at his face; Astarion smiled, angling himself slightly so the light would catch his cheekbones. “Do you come here often?”

“Mm, once in a while.” Astarion took another sip of his drink. “And you? I haven’t seen you before, I feel. I’m certain I would have remembered a face like yours.”

“It’s my first time here, yes. I don’t come to this area often.” A blush crept across Adrien’s cheeks. Perfect.

“There must be a good reason then. With all the rain, and the frankly horrid state of this place… I will be very concerned if you tell me you’re here for leisure.”

Adrien laughed. “You… you got me. I was walking by to just… get my bearings, and have some dinner, but it started raining. I might have to stay the night here, and as correct as your assessment of this place is… I’d still rather be here than at home.”

“You and me both,” Astarion mused. It wasn’t exactly a lie, he supposed. Clapping his hands together to snap himself out of his melancholy, he sat up. “So. You’ve made me tell you my frankly boring reason for being here. Your turn, dear.”

“I suppose so. It’s a long tale, but I can give you the sum of it.” He wrapped his hands around his goblet and took a small breath. “My parents are shit, and I’m here-”

“To get some reprieve from them, yes.” Astarion slid closer. “While I would agree that that’s common… it doesn’t mean that it’s not important.” He waved a hand. “Like I said. I wouldn’t mind lending you an ear. Or my… company. Whichever you prefer. I’m not picky.”

A small risk, that.

The man turned to him, surprised. His lips pursed. “I would love your company, really. But I’ve already promised the rest of my evening to another. However, the first part of your offer I would heartily accept.”

Astarion groaned inwardly. He wanted to make a quick exit, but there was nothing for it. The night was likely to be wasted, anyway; the patrons were slowly clearing out as the rain began to ease off. “Of course. Please, do regale me.”

“My father wants me to be his heir. Wants to marry me off. If only she hadn’t left…” Adrien murmured angrily, and Astarion opened his mouth to ask some followup question he didn’t even give a thought to when the words died in his throat.

Petras stood in front of them, drink in hand, glaring at Astarion.

“Petras!” Adrien smiled. “Please, sit. I was merely talking to… uh…”

“It doesn’t matter.” Astarion stood up. “As much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, darling, I must be off. After all, my associate may yet still arrive. Wouldn’t do well to be otherwise occupied, as pleasurable as that would have been for both of us…” He couldn’t help that last statement, smirking as Petras resisted the urge to hiss - and failed.

“Nice to have met you, Adrien.”

He sauntered off, a little miffed that Petras, of all people, had stolen a mark off him. Not stolen, exactly, he corrected himself, but still. Petras? Over him? That Adrien must’ve had bad vision. Astarion slinked back into his corner, nursing his drink and pointedly not looking at where the other two were in deep conversation.

To his dread, the night ended fruitlessly for him. He headed home some hours later, slipping into the palace and down to the dormitory. Petras had left first, followed by Dalyria, who had also managed to bring home a victim.

Astarion opened the door to find Petras on his bunk, legs crossed and smirking. He sighed. “Of course you’re filthying my bed, Petras. Won’t you ever be anything but predictable?”

“You have to admit I was anything but tonight. Didn’t expect that, did you?” Petras shifted, and Astarion bit back a snarl as he realized his sibling was lying on his blanket.

“Expect what? A man to be kind enough to uphold an earlier arrangement, even to one as… well, to someone who looks like you do?” Astarion laughed. “A surprise, to be sure, but angels do exist. As do charity workers.”

Petras glowered, and then he flicked something at Astarion. He caught it instinctively, opening his hand to see what it was. A cufflink. “Here. A consolation gift. Gods know you’d gripe about losing to me for days. Maybe this’ll get you to shut up.”

It looked expensive, jewel-encrusted, and he held it to the light.

Astarion frantically reached into his pocket, pulling out the cufflink the Glasscrafts had given him. There was no doubt - this was its counterpart. Fuck.

How would he tell her? Darling, we killed your brother. He was there, that day, perhaps only a couple of rooms away. We stupidly did the rite, not thinking someone we cared about might be in one of those damned kennels. We-

He snapped the locket shut, unable to look that portrait in the eye. Her eyes. He should head home, that was for certain. There was nothing to be done. There was nothing to search for. Nothing.

Astarion’s mind whirled with the possibilities. He could not tell her, that was always an option. He could already imagine the words he’d say.

Darling, I have some bad news. I’ve scoured all of Baldur’s Gate, and there was nothing of your brother to be found. Perhaps he’s made his life somewhere else, and we’re better off leaving him to his peace?

Darling, your brother told me he wanted nothing to do with you. He shooed me away, threatened to stake me- gods, you didn’t tell me he was vehemently against vampires!

Darling-

…He couldn’t do that to her.

Oh, but it would be easy. He could simply say the words, run his hands down her body, cup her ass, slip a finger between her legs. Purr and say the right words with just the right tone, and she’d believe him, because she trusted him. Trusted him to no longer use his skills to deceive her, trusted him to be honest.

And he would. As frightened as he was of her response, he would.

The long carriage ride felt like mere seconds. He was willing it to drag out, to delay seeing her face, asking him, ‘Love, how was your day?’ How would he respond?

He wondered if she'd leave him. Likely not, he figured - hoped, but she would be beside herself and rightfully so. He had no idea how much affection there was between Ban and Adrien, but he had no doubt it was more fond than he and his own siblings had been. Would she blame him? Not unreasonable, if so - that price was paid for him, after all.

What would she have done if they’d walked past those kennels and seen Adrien? Would she have stopped the ritual, told him to find a spare to swap her brother out? Would that have been the push to make her entirely say no to the idea? What if he’d argued back? And he was sure he would have - he could still recall the ice-cold fear that had gripped him then, the smell of blood and rot so strong it had suffused his senses and clouded out all other thoughts.

They would have fought. No, she would have talked him down. No. He would have stormed off. No. They would have-

He shook his head, trying to clear it. There was little use in what ifs, especially at this point.

He felt a sudden surge of loathing and he placed his trembling palm over his racing heart as he watched the mansion come into view. The price that had been paid for it, for all this - it had never really mattered, not for him, and barely for her, but now…

He was sure some god was out there, laughing at their fate. He would have seen the humor in it himself, if it hadn’t befallen them.

Soon he was spilling out of the carriage into the courtyard, breaths coming too short, praying she wouldn’t yet be out of her last meeting for the day. Please.

He stepped into the foyer and called the chamberlain over.

“My lord?”

“Rainier, where is the lady of the house?”

The chamberlain frowned. “She is still occupied in the gardens, making arrangements with Shadowheart and the city representative. The cloisters-” he cut off as Astarion waved a hand at him.

Good. He had some time to try and at least present a solution together with the problem. That would at least ease the blow.

“A Sending spell. To Gale. Ask him to come as soon as possible. Tell him it is an emergency. Bring him to the study the moment he arrives.”

Astarion’s head whipped up a little while later as Gale stepped into the room. He was still dressed in what looked like his teaching robes. The man looked slightly harried, the robes ink-stained on the sleeves.

“Astarion.” Gale sat in the armchair opposite his. “What brings me here, in such a hurry? Did something happen? Where’s Ban? Are you both alright?” His eyes followed Astarion as he quickly shut the door, locking it.

“Ban is fine. She’s outside, in negotiations with Shadowheart and the city planner.”

“Then what is-”

“It’s about her brother.” He sat in his own armchair, then leaned forwards, rubbing his face. “We were making attempts to look for him. He disappeared several years ago, and she wanted to seek him out.”

“A brilliant idea, which I assume did not yield the results you wished for. What can I do to help?”

Astarion glanced at him, grateful for the offer. “We - or rather, I - found him.” He looked away. “Or what became of him, at least.” There was a waver in his voice, he knew, but there was no hiding it.

“What became-” Gale trailed off at the look on his face. “Astarion. What exactly befell the man?” Gale’s concern was obvious. Astarion felt some relief there; at least someone could share in this burden that felt like a stone in his heart. “If he’s dead, a scroll of true resurrection would work, provided either his body or in the absence of it, his soul…”

He shook his head, and Gale’s sentence trailed off. How would he say this? Gale had been there as well. In some ways they all had doomed Ban’s sibling.

“He was one of the seven thousand, Gale.” Astarion kept his eyes fixed to the wall. “We killed him, and damned his soul as well.”

Gale swore. “Then why would you ask for me to come, if you knew this? True resurrection would definitely not work.”

“Wish.”

“Oh, no. No.” Gale shook his head, raising a finger. “The risks involved in casting that spell… no. It cannot be done.”

As Astarion opened his mouth to protest, Gale pushed on.

“Wish is a difficult spell to cast, for one. I’m not even certain I’d be able to cast it. Then there is the issue of intent - what is your stated goal? To return Ban’s brother, yes. But by what means? Are you able to specify, down to the minutest detail? If you do not, the spell will have unintended consequences, consequences that are certain to only bring more trouble.”

“If I specify-”

“What do you specify then? Undoing the rite itself? What about everything else that came with it? What about Ban? What about the arrangement with the hells? Would they not come after you if seven thousand souls they owned suddenly disappeared? What if it undid time itself, reverted everything back to before it happened, including our memories?” Gale stared at him, and Astarion had no choice but to meet his gaze head on. “Wish is a spell that alters reality, but it does so in completely unpredictable ways. It is manageable for smaller requests, smaller wishes that wouldn’t unravel so much of the fabric of reality. But you’re dealing with something that’s on a massive scale, involving thousands of souls, Astarion. I would not risk it.”

Astarion found that he could not disagree. “If I only ask for one soul back, what then?”

“You could, but what would happen with the rite? It required each and every one of them as payment. What would the hells do, were you to renege on your arrangement and pluck one right out of their grasp? And what condition would her brother be in? Would he be a tormented soul? A spirit? He might even come back in the form of a coin, for all we know.”

“A coin?”

Gale exhaled. “When souls are sent to the hells, to demons or devils - it matters not - the soul may be used in some other manner, but they are usually turned into soul coins.”

It took a moment for that to sink in. “The coins we found when we were wandering about? The same coins Karlach used?”

“One and the same,” Gale nodded, voice grim. “Now, a lesser devil might have used some of the souls for something else, made them into servants or something of that nature, but the fact that Mephistopheles was the one who received them, and received seven thousand of them in one go… it’s likely her brother’s soul is now, in fact, in a coin.”

Astarion swallowed. “And am I not able to simply wish him to come back as a whole, living being? That would circumvent his arrival as… as that, wouldn’t it?”

“It would, but yet again we do not know the consequences of it. Usually turning into a coin is a one-way process. And there’s a chance the spell would consider that as a second wish: one, that her brother return unharmed, and that two: he returns as not a coin. So you see-”

“I know!” Astarion got up, pacing. Wish would not work; that much was obvious. “Do you have any other ideas, then?”

Gale stared at him, askance. “Simply accepting what happened and mourning her brother aside, I would suggest reading up on the circumstances regarding the rite.”

Astarion froze. “And what good would that do?”

Potentially a lot of good, he knew. He still didn’t want to do it.

“Because you’d want to know the specifics of the contract. It might help with understanding or finding a means by which to retrieve Ban’s brother, if any such method exists. You could also consult a diabolist,” Gale added. “Or, Karlach and Wyll might be able to wrangle some fiends for you.”

They were all good suggestions, but right now it merely felt like meaningless words swimming in Astarion’s head. There were too many options, none of which seemed to lead to better chances of success. Then there was the bigger concern in his mind - telling Ban about it in the first place.

“Thank you,” he managed to say. “I’d invite you to stay over for dinner, but I doubt tonight will be anything but deeply unpleasant.”

Gale stood. “I understand. I will, of course, begin researching on my end as well. Let me know if you need anything more, and I will be in contact if I find anything of use. Good luck, my friend.” He clasped Astarion’s shoulder, and slipped away, leaving him to his thoughts.

He found her seeing Shadowheart and the city planner off. She was standing by the front door, waving goodbye. Shadowheart shot him a smile from afar, no doubt thinking about her wedding present, but he could barely muster a response, merely raising his hand in farewell.

As they departed, Astarion wrapped his arms around Ban from behind, pressing his nose against the top of her head. Taking a deep breath, he held her close, hoping she would let the moment stand. He did not know what to say, or how to even begin; but he needed to seek comfort. Gods knew this might be the last peaceful moment they would have for a while. Possibly ever.

Her hands settled on top of his arm, rubbing gently. Her muscles were tense, he noted, but that thought was brushed aside. “Good evening, love.”

Ban arched her neck, and he pecked the proffered cheek. “Did your day go well?”

“Well enough. I-” He stopped himself. Not yet. She didn’t turn to face him, or ask him about what he had just tried to say. Evidently something else was on her mind. “I trust the business with the cloister has now been fully resolved?”

She pulled away from his grasp, heading back inside the palace. “It has. They’ve agreed on a lump sum. Only the paperwork needs to be signed.”

He followed her in, a step behind her. “That’s… wonderful news.”

They headed towards the dining room. If she was avoiding his gaze as much as he was hers, he couldn’t muster enough courage to ask.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The only sounds were of clinking glasses and the utensils as they ate. Neither reached out to the other’s mind - an uncommon thing during mealtimes - but neither commented on it. He was thankful for it - it gave him some time to think and consider exactly how he wanted to broach the topic.

She finally cleared her throat after dessert, the first sound she’d made in a while, and he looked up.

“Astarion,” she said, her face tight. He tensed. Did she already know? How?

“My love?” He forced a lightness he did not feel at all into his voice.

“I think it’s time you tell me how much contact you’ve actually been having with my parents.” Before he could say anything she passed an envelope to him, and he looked down at it.

A letter addressed to him, from Roderich. Ban hadn’t opened it. He fought down a flood of relief, then waved it at her. “If you were so concerned about our correspondence, love, you could have opened it. I would not have minded.”

“I’d rather hear it from your own mouth.”

Cold. Angry. He sighed, thoughts of Adrien temporarily pushed from his mind. He ripped the envelope open, scanning the text as quickly as he could. As expected, it was nothing of import.

“Here.” He passed the letter to her. “They are merely asking for updates, the impatient wretches.”

Ban read the letter, and then reread it. “I see. But why would they ask for updates in the first place?”

“I made an agreement with them,” he confessed. “I was to inform them if… if we found Adrien, and in return they promised to leave you both alone.”

Her eyes softened. “That… well.” She reached out and grasped his hand. “Sorry. It’s just that… when it comes to them, I… I find it hard to be reasonable.”

“I don’t blame you.” His old methods slipped back in without his conscious choice. Sidetrack the conversation, spin it into something else. Do anything, everything - just to avoid what needed to be said. “There’s little need to apologize. Shall we head to our room, then? I've yet to finish that book.”

Ban stared at him for a long moment, far longer than she usually did. He felt her eyes move from his face to his body, her index and middle finger shifting to feel his pulse.

Controlling his body language was something he could do without much trouble, seeing as he'd had to do it for centuries. Calming his pulse however, was another; he hadn’t had much practice with that. As her fingertips touched his wrist he pulled it away.

She frowned. “What's wrong?”

No. Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

I’m not ready!

He spoke anyway.

“Adrien left your parents.”

She broke into a laugh. “Well, that's ironic. And also good! If he ran away, I'm sure we'll stumble onto him eventually, but there's no rush. He'll handle himself well - at least I hope.”

He made a small, strangled sound, fighting to get the words out.

“He… left, to cool off.”

“Oh.” She sat up straighter. “And then decided to run away? Impulsive as always.”

“That was my initial conclusion.” Astarion gripped the table, knuckles white.

“But there's more to it.” The smile on her face died. “What happened, Astarion?”

“He-”

A deep breath, and then another. His hand sought hers, gripped it tight. Ban bit her lip.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Astarion didn't know whether to shake his head or nod. He felt frozen, eyes locked onto hers. “He…”

“He is.” Her voice cracked, and he hated it. Ban was never one to cry, after all. He could count on one hand the number of times she'd allowed it to happen in his presence. “Y-you don't have to say anything, I… thank you, for finding him.”

“He isn't just deceased, Ban.” He locked eyes with her, steeling himself. His jaw tightened.

“Then what? Please. I know it's bad. The way you've been acting all night, the way you haven't spoken - please.”

“By all definitions he's dead,” he managed to say. “The circumstances of his demise are, however, a matter in and of itself.”

He stared at her for a long, hard moment.

“We killed him, love. We killed him in the rite.”

[darlingmbappe]

The Loneliest [3] | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Epilogue]

Summary: While Kylian lets jealousy get the best of him on the pitch, you find that a tequila-filled night might be the answer to healing your broken heart... even if it's just for one night.

Warnings: Still just absolute angst. Missing your ex, Kylian being overprotective and jealous, Erling Haaland being a dick (i'm sorry it's purely for plot purposes), heavy drinking, self destructive behavior, cussing, bad cheese puns, let me know if I missed anything! — English is not my first language —

The breakup was bound to go public sooner or later. It was surprising you made it almost seven weeks before the media got the hold of the story. You both were spotted alone on separate sides of town too many times, you’d missed all of his matches, and E!News got a source that told them you live alone now. You have a strong hunch it’s your next door neighbor that’s always lingering by the stairs. She asks entirely too many questions.

While you were still with Kylian, your relationship was kept mostly private and you rarely found yourself in any headlines. But, lord knows, if there’s anything the press loves more than a celebrity engagement is a celebrity breakup. When you saw a graphic of your face and Kylians face photoshopped onto a broken heart on Snapchat, a clickbait title asking, “did our fav football couple call it quits?”, you knew you’d be getting some unwanted attention. Fuck you, Daily Mail. Mind your business.

You clearly remember agreeing with him to wait for you to text first, but he’s a damn liar. He didn’t let a day go by before sending you a sweet good morning text. For the past three weeks, he’s been sending little messages here and there. Nothing too risqué or anything that made you feel pressure… they were actually nice. You’d been pretty good at not responding, being occupied doing absolutely anything else to stop yourself from thinking about him.

Kylian knew this. Being with you for such a long time, he understood how you got when you didn’t want to think about something. When your family dog passed, you claimed you were fine over and over again, and he just had to let you hyper fixate on new random hobbies until your feelings eventually exploded out. You taught yourself claymation, knitting, refurbishing old creepy dolls… that was definitely his least favorite. He needed to make sure you didn’t force yourself to forget about him, he wanted to be there for you when you were ready. He’s patience is usually very thin, but he’s impressed with himself for staying (mostly) zen about you not responding. He had to. He couldn’t fuck this up again and come swinging with the ‘I love you’s that he types out and erases promptly.

It’s finally Friday and you just finished a late lunch at your favorite café near your office, just listening to music on your headphones and reading through a document you were about to send to your colleagues. Your phone buzzed with a message from Kylian and, of course, you clicked the notification. You always did.

He’d sent you a picture of a decorative board at some market with a cheese-remix of the song Sweet Dreams by the Eurythmics. You immediately laughed out loud, having seen this exact sign before with Kylian years ago. For weeks after, you two sang the lyrics randomly around the house, in the car, pretty much anywhere until all of your friends were begging for you two to just shut the fuck up.

Sweet dreams are made of cheese, who am I to dissa-brie, I’ve travelled the world and the feta cheese, everybody’s lookin’ for stilton.

Your fingers began to respond before you even had a chance to really think about it.

(Y/N): Not this shit again

Kylian smiled widely upon seeing that you sent something back, typing back in record speeds.

Kylian: I think it’s…….. grate

You actually smiled at his horrible pun, twirling your hair against your own will.

(Y/N): very cheesy

Kylian was so quick to look up more cheese puns, not wanting to let his roll come to an end. Any communication, even about cheese, worked for him.

Kylian: it’s very gouda to hear from you again :)

“Oh, man.” You mumbled to yourself, noticing how your heart rate increased with just a couple of his really really bad jokes.

God, you missed him so much.

You stood up, leaving the conversation there, gathering your things and turning up the music. Yet, the whole walk back it was impossible to focus on whatever was playing in your ears because of the louder song playing inside your head. Sweet dreams are made of cheese…

Kylians thumb was lodged between his teeth in anticipation, but soon realized you weren’t going to respond again. Lowly cursing to himself, he threw his phone back in his locker. Everyone was prepared for todays game against Manchester City, especially Kylian. He wanted to win so bad, it almost felt like the World Cup.

He knew who he was going to play against — Erling Haaland. If he wasn’t too fond of him before, finding out he hit on you on you brewed a different kind of determination to win inside of him. You said nothing happened that night and he believed you — but he knew that Haaland had more in mind than just a nice conversation. He noticed last week that he followed you on instagram and liked all of your recent pictures, not including the ones with him. As of last night, you still didn't follow him back. Those late night stalking sessions have to stop soon. His nutritionists is really getting on his ass for finishing entire jars of peanut butter every other day.

He wondered if you were going to watch the game or if you had been since you left. He really hoped you hadn’t been. He’s been playing horribly these past weeks. Once the news of your breakup went public, every commentator made a point of mentioning it and saying stupid shit like, “life goes on, and that’s something Kylian Mbappé is going to have to figure out sooner or later.”

He let his angry thoughts fuel him as he walked into the tunnel. He tried to get his head in the game, but couldn’t help looking back every so often to the opposing team next to them, eyes always landing on the tall blonde man.

He stood in his place, but his neck twisted back against his will, not really caring if he was being too obvious. Right before the teams were meant to walk out together, Haaland caught his death glares. Kylian doubled down, making sure he wouldn’t be the one to lose this immature staring contest. Holland cracked a shit-eating grin and winked at Mbappé.

Oh, the rage… keep it in, Kylian.

He looked away with an unbothered “pft.” It wasn’t very convincing, not even to himself.

After the usual opening ceremony, the whistle blew indicating that the match had begun, sending Kylian sprinting in every direction as the game progressed. ManCity was good, but he knew PSG was better. He kept telling himself this, but his teammates continued to mess up, even allowing the light-blue motherfuckers to score the opening goal not even twenty minutes into the first half. And, of course, it was Haaland that buried the ball deep in the back of the net. He watched him celebrate on his pitch, listening to the crowd cheer their chant, feeling tortured and helpless.

His eye was fixed on the Norwegian as he moved back into the starting position, hating that he was laughing, still on a high from scoring. Hakimi walked next to Kylian, feeling that his friend is on the brink of doing something very dumb. His hand patted his shoulder, but Kylian didn’t even notice it, his entire body twitching with jealously.

When Kylian was in earshot, Haaland nodded up at him. “Kylian.” The young player called, but Kylian just side eyed him. Hakimi grabbed his shoulders tighter just in case he tried anything. “(Y/N) is up for grabs now, no?”

Kylians ears rung as he felt himself launch at Erling who just laughed. Hakimi had gotten in front of him without missing a beat, roughly shoving him in the opposite direction to keep him from beating up the 22 year old. Other PSG players joined, guiding Kylian to his position.

He didn’t even know words were coming out of his mouth at this point, pointing his finger threateningly at Erling. “Don’t fucking talk about her. I’ll fucking kill you. You hear me?” He was well aware that this was all to get in his head but, shit. It’s working. Kylian didn’t even notice that the referee was being talked down by Neymar and Messi, eventually the confrontation getting waved off with a warning at the start of a new play.

Halftime rolled around and no one scored again. In the locker room, Glatier yelled and waved his arms, demanding that the defense get their shit together. He zoned out, too deep in thought about what an asshole that guy is and how he wants to score and rub it in his face. He was brought back when he heard his name grumbling out of his coaches mouth, having no idea what the topic even was.

“Sorry?” He embarrassingly piped up, seeing all of his teammates had their eyes on him.

Glatier grunted, stomping closer to him. “I said, get your shit together!”

“Yes, coach.”

“Don’t worry about what they say. Just go out there and play like I know you can. You want to win, don’t you?”

“I do, coach.”

“Then let’s fucking win.”

Glatier was right and he knew it. Whatever that stupid hulk-boy had to say about you was only getting under his skin. He couldn’t play at his best like that.

So, when the second half started and he heard him say some bullshit again, he did his best to let it roll off his back. “You think she’ll respond if I DM her?” Erling asked nonchalantly to Álvarez, but Kylian was determined to let it slide. Let it fucking slide.

But, he didn’t stop there. When walking by him, Haaland asked him, “What’s a good spot to take her? Nothing too far, my hotel room is around here.” Kylians fists were balled in rage, biting his cheek and blowing air out of his flared nostrils.

“You better shut your goddamn mouth.” He snapped back, but continued walking away, knowing he can’t let him win. Hearing Haalands taunting chuckles behind him almost made him whip back around, but Neymar wrapped his arm securely around his shoulder, forcing him to look forward.

“It’s just talk, Kylian. Come on.” He rubbed his head roughly as if to beg him to not let it get to him before running back into position.

The game progressed, only ten minutes left of the second half before overtime. Neymar was at the left side of the field, preparing himself for a corner kick. Kylian searched for an opening that could potentially bring a scoring opportunity, but a brooding shadow seemed to follow him everywhere. Haaland was aggressively playing defense against him, his height advantage making it impossible for Kylian to move somewhere better.

“I hope she wears something nice and tight.” Erling chortled through his tired breathing. “I’ve been waiting for you to mess things up with her. I’ve had my eye on her for months… She’s so hot.”

His mind went blank, completely blank. It must have, because he didn’t remember shoving Haaland down onto the pitch, fists pulling back. He was seeing red, but his teammates dragged him off before his punch could land right on his cheek. Before he knew it, the ManCity players were charging at PSG. The whistle blew about a dozen times as the crowd got louder.

Kylian couldn’t stop trying to shake off his friends, screaming past the wall of light blue toward the blonde man on the ground pretending to be seriously injured, clutching his arm.

“Say that again! I fucking dare you!” Kylian threatened, Ramos clinging onto his shoulders, walking backwards.

He was pushed away far from the scene as his whole team began to fight with the other players in solidarity, the referee preoccupied with calming down the situation.

He was for sure already getting a red card, so his mindset was fuck it. He sprinted around the fighting crowd who immediately recognized his intentions, getting back in front of him before he could reach Haaland to really do some damage.

“Stay the hell away from her. I’ll end you, you son of a bitch. Off this pitch, I swear to god you’re dead.” Kylian talked out of his ass, already walking himself off the pitch when the referee held up a red card. He waved him off, spiting on the grass as he made his way back through the tunnel, ignoring the coaching team screaming at him altogether.

ManCity ended up winning 2-0 and Kylians suspension was decided to extend for two matches. He didn’t watch the remainder of it, but when he found out Erling Fucking Haaland scored the other goal, it felt like the knife was twisted. Fuck that guy. The press conference after was hell, having to claim that he deeply regretted his actions and that this doesn’t reflect his character or whatever his PR team wrote up for him.

He truly did feel like a dumbass. He absolutely hated how much he let those comments affect him. He knew he should’ve just blocked it out but how was he going to let him say that stuff about you? The way he talked about you like you weren’t even a person, like you weren’t the love of his life. Sure, he felt like a dumbass, but he would defend you to the ends of the earth.

He got home to his empty house, throwing himself on his sofa, flipping on ESPN to watch basketball highlights. Eventually, he drifted off to sleep. Usually, he’s opposed to naps as they throw off his sleeping schedule, but recently he’d found them comforting; an easy escape from everything going on. Besides, his sleep schedule was already bonkers from the breakup.

He swears his eyes were only shut for five minutes, but he woke up to complete darkness. His TV even timed out, neck sore from the stiff throw pillows supporting his head, groaning so loudly that it echoed inside the vacant home. It was only when he picked up his phone to check the time that he realized you were even calling. The faint buzzing was probably what woke him up.

“Shit.” He shot up, wiping the sleep from his face as he answered quickly.

He cleared his groggy throat. “Hello?”

He faintly heard you saying his name, but the music in the back was pounding. “Kyyyyks!”

He laughed to himself, loving the sound of his nickname for the first time since your breakup. “Hello? (Y/N)? Are you drunk?”

“Hold on.” He heard you yell from the other line as the music got softer in the background. “Hellooo.” You giggled.

“Hi.” He giggled back.

“I woke you up.” He could hear the pout in your voice, having to bite his lip to keep his smile from getting ridiculous.

“No, no I don’t mind. Call me anytime.” Kylian began twirling his hoodie string on his forefinger. “Are you okay?”

You nod, but he can’t hear you. Your drunk brain didn’t catch up. “I think so.”

“You think so? Where are you?” Concerned, he looked at the time. A little past 3:30 am. Damn, long ass nap.

“Umm…” You paused to look around you, seeing no signs anywhere and finding it kind of funny. “I dunno. I lost them ages ago.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, my friends.”

He stood up. “Wait, wait. Are you by yourself?”

“Mhm!” You chirped, now walking away from the club, alone. Your skin-tight tights gave you no warmth at all, but the tequila that flushed your system had you covered. “Kyks…”

“Yeah?” He waited for you to say something, his concern for you growing, wishing he still had your location so he could go look for you.

You paused, looking around the dark streets. “I mi…” your sentence drifted off and you laughed off what you were about to say. “… I’m so drunk.” You stumbled further down the street, a loud club with red lights oozing from the entrance peaking your interest.

He knew what you were about to say, but wasn’t going to push it. “I can hear that. Do you need a ride? I can come get you right now, just send me your current location.”

“No, I’m fine! Look, I found somewhere safe!” You point, even though he couldn’t see. “Oh, my god. You’ll never believe who’s here. Oh, shit.”

“Who?” Kylian asked over the phone.

You giggled. “I don’t wanna tell you, Kyks. You’ll be mad. I saw what happened today during the match.”

He was tempted to quirk a smile hearing that you have been watching, but then it dawned on him. It couldn’t be… “Haaland?”

What are the odds? Erling Haaland stood outside the packed nightclub with a few of his teammates, surrounded by women and men, all trying to get his attention. He hadn’t seen you yet.

“Oh my god, you’re such a good guesser.” You clapped. “God, I forgot how tall he was.”

He grabbed his keys, putting his shoes on, holding the phone up to his ear by his shoulder as he rushed around his home. “Please just let me come pick you up. I’m worried about you, where are you? I’ll take you home.”

You got closer to the LED sign. “It’s called… uh… la petite robe noire… oh my god! That’s what I’m wearing!” You cheered.

He put you on speaker and looked it up. Jesus, you were so far, he wondered if you’d started out around there or if you’d ventured out alone. He revved up his engine, backing out of his driveway. “Stay there, I’m coming. Okay?”

You didn’t respond, your phone now by your side as Erling spotted you, jogging over to where you were standing.

“Hey!” You waved, letting him come to you because your heels hurt too badly. You couldn’t hear Kylian on the other line trying to get your attention.

“Hello, beautiful.” He leaned in and hugged you. You kind of hugged back, too drunk to balance yourself upwards that way without falling into him.

As soon as he heard that fucking accent over the phone, he pressed his foot down on the pedal, hoping he hits every green light in Paris. You, on the other hand, forgot you were still on the line with your ex fiancé, but hung up when you realized it with a giggly “oops!”.

“Didn’t think I’d run into you, how are you, (Y/N)?” Haaland asks, placing a steady hand on your waist to keep your wobbling frame from tipping over.

“So good!” That was a lie. You were out tonight drinking away the pit in your stomach since the match. You’d watched sneakily from your desk, fingers tugging at your roots when you saw the little incident during the first half. During those last ten minutes, you felt like you were going to throw up.

Why did you have to tell Kylian about Erling? What happened today definitely opened him up to a lot of criticism from his coaches, the team, the media… You couldn’t help but feel a little responsible because you knew he could behave himself if he never knew about that night on the balcony. On the other hand, it was kind of… very hot. Jealous Kylian was never your favorite, but you can’t stop yourself from feeling something spark in you. Or maybe you were just horny. Who’s to say? It's been so long...

“You’re good?” Erling accent repeats, grinning down at you. “Sorry to hear about your breakup."

"Pffft." You laugh. "Yeah right, you two were never exactly friends."

He shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets. "You're right. I'm not sorry." He smirks, looking you up and down. If your head wasn’t filled with liquor you’d feel kind of gross, but his flirty stares didn’t mean anything to the drunken body you found yourself in tonight. It all went right over your head. He nods his head toward the club. "Come on, let's get you a drink, yeah?"

You followed him in, the lights were blurry and the ground wasn't very stable. The vibrations came up from the ground, making you feel like someone was shaking your brain around. You were absolutely not thinking straight, and it only got worse when a bottle girl came over to the section with Don Julio. It was all so fast, like the lights flashed and you were suddenly with someone else, or in a different part of the club, or dancing, drinking, stumbling.

Fuck, you had to get out of there.

Kylian arrived at the club and he definitely did not fit the dress code. But, despite his grey joggers and Nike hoodie, he was still Kylian Mbappé, so he got in without any issue. Ideally, he wouldn’t have to risk being spotted at a nightclub that Erling Haaland was at, but he did it for you. He politely smiled at his fans but weaved past people begging for a selfie. He called you plenty of times from the car, but you never picked up.

Once inside the club, he lifted his hood and put on some sunglasses, hoping this wouldn't cause a riot without his security to lead him through the crowds. People were too focused on grinding and not spilling their drinks to notice the international superstar frantically searching for one single woman in a sea of them.

He looked up at the sections on the second floor, finally spotting that tall blonde bastard, wasting not a single second before making his way up, security letting him through once he flashed them his famous smile.

"Haaland!" He cups his hands around his mouth, hoping that he knows where you are. "Haaland!"

He finally turns around, knitting his eyebrows at the sight. "Kylian." He steps around the models to stand close to him, the loud music making it impossible to communicate from even a few feet away. "What? You didn't get enough of me on the pitch today?"

Kylian rolls his eyes. "No, man. I'm just looking for (Y/N). I know she was here."

"Yeah, she was." Erling laughed. "She's wild, for sure. Don't know where she went, though."

"What? She's not here?"

Haaland shrugged. "She went to the bathroom and never came back. Why do you even care? Like I said, she's up for grabs. She's not yours anymore."

If he wasn't so worried about your current wellbeing, he would have grabbed his stupid little ponytail and gone full Fight Club on him. But he didn't, instead he shook his head at him and made his way down from the section before he regretted not throwing a punch or two.

His concern grew. He never thought he would wish you were with Erling Haaland at a nightclub, but at least he could find you then.

Kylian stood on a ledge hoping to see your hair or face anywhere from a birds-eye view, but had to leave promptly when the partygoers caught onto his less than great disguise. A security guard from the club lead him to the back exit, warding off flashing cameras in every direction.

Thanking the man when he was safely outside with a fist bump, he walked himself down the dirty metal steps, sighing. "Putain." He walked to is parked car, leaning on it to try and think a little, wondering how he’s going to find you. He really isn’t familiar with this part of town, but he'll stay out all night if he has to.

He wished you’d just pick up the phone, ease his jittery nerves. Just as he was about to click on your contact, he heard some slurred singing further down the alleyway he was in. The faint tune sounded familiar, but the voice definitely was. It was you.

He followed like a siren sound, turning the corner to see you sitting on a small cement step, head resting on your curled up knees, giggling to yourself as you continued the song.

"Sweet cheese are made of cheese, who am I to *hiccup* disa-cheese..."

"I think you've messed up the lyrics there, love." He smiled, letting out a breath he’d been holding now knowing you're okay.

You gaze up, smiling widely, gasping and jolting up, wrapping your loose arms around his neck and letting your legs go limp.

"Woah, hey..." He exclaimed with a laugh, grabbing your torso tightly to keep you upright.

"You're here!" You gaze up, grin wide as he peered down at you, smiling as well. "Whadda coincidence!"

It was like he didn't just spend hours worried sick, now feeling somewhat at ease. Your presence is all he needed for every weight to be lifted off his shoulders. He only cares about making sure you get back home with a glass of water on your nightstand and a trashcan at your side.

"You okay? Why are you out here by yourself?" He guides you to stand properly on your own, but you didn't let your grip go, so he didn't either. He let his hand stay on the small of your back, his other gripping your hip.

You shrug, scratching your fingernails against the nape of his neck. He shivered, goosebumps running down his body, letting a flustered giggle escape his lips. You stared deep into his eyes. Your funny demeanor simmered down, finding the familiar warmth of the man in front of you to be more intoxicating than anything you've drank tonight. "You always loved when I did that..."

Kylian's heart got caught in his throat, gulping it down along with the urge to hold you so tightly. He'd been craving your touch, spending many sleepless nights wondering if he'd ever get to feel you again.

"Let's get you home, okay?" He mumbled, running his hands down your arms to unwrap them from his neck. He held one of your arms as he bent down to grab your phone and purse from the dirty floor.

He started guiding you to his passengers seat, but getting you there wasn’t an easy task. Your heels kept getting caught in the cobblestones so he had to keep a steady hand around you in case you fell. He buckled you up like a toddler, doing his best to ignore the googly eyes that you made at him.

When he got in drivers seat, he looked over at you, a rush of memories making his heart flutter.

All of the times he would turn his gaze away from the road for just a second to see you. The way you smiled when you rode with the windows down, sticking your arm out to feel the rushing wind outside the car. The way he used to be able to put a comforting hand on your thigh while he drove and you'd draw circles on his knuckles mindlessly, rambling about anything that came to your mind. The way you would always unwrap a piece of gum for him because you didn't want him distracted, even though he would never not get distracted by you.

He shook the thoughts out of his head, clearing his throat. "So, what's your address?"

You laughed, taking your heels off. "I dunno."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"Geez, Ky. I've only lived there for like..." you counted in your head, but numbers barely made sense sober, "...not that long."

"Do you have it on your phone?" He pried, handing you your cell.

"Yes!" You cheered, snatching it only to see that it was out of battery when the screen reflected back at you. "Ah, man. It's dead!" You pouted, throwing it in the backseat, crossing your arms.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, turning on the heat higher when he noticed the chills running down your arms. "I can take you back to... uh..." he stuttered, having to stop himself from saying our place, still getting used to living there alone, "—back to my place."

You gave him a look, raising your eyebrow dramatically. "Nice try, Casanova." You chuckled.

He laughed too, rubbing his eyes. "No, come on, (Y/N). There's like five beds. I wouldn't take advantage of you like that."

You bite your lip and stare at him through your lashes. "I'd let you."

God, that stare. That tone. He's internally cussing himself out for all those times he told you he wasn't in the mood or too tired. He wished he could go back in time and slap himself.

He quickly shook it off, laughing dryly and having to look away from you. “You are so drunk.”

With that, he put the car in reverse, beginning the half hour journey back to the home that still has pictures of you on the walls. The home that still feels like it’s yours, the one that Kylian prays he’ll see you wake up in again… at a time when you’re not absolutely plastered, of course. For now, he’s content looking over to your sleeping figure in his car, slowly breathing and shifting every so often.

Once he pulled into the garage, he got out and made his way to open the passenger door. “Hey,” he gently put a hand on your cold shoulder, “we’re here, bébé.”

He didn’t mean for the nickname to slip out of his mouth, but it did. It actually woke you up, your heart thumping at the four letters that used to be so familiar to you, so intimate.

“I’m tired.” You grumble, putting your hands out toward him, slightly less drunk, yet nowhere near sober. “I forgot how comfy your car is.”

“Wait ‘till we get you into a real bed. You’re gonna sleep like a rock.” You grabbed his forearms and stumbled out of the car, Kylian quickly grabbing your heels, phone, and purse.

For a drunk, you moved surprisingly fast, beelining to the kitchen. He followed you in, attentive to your wonky steps. He set your belongings down on one of the barstools, turning to see you leaned inside of his fridge, grasping the handles for balance.

“You hungry?” He grins, walking around the kitchen island and leans against it.

“Mm… you got rid of all my snacks…”

“Uh, not true.” He quipped, opening the cupboard and pulling back a red box, the sight bringing a big smile to your face.

“Pancakes?!”

He opens the cabinet bellow him and pulls out a sleek black press, confident smirk spreading to his cheeks. “Waffles.”

You cover your mouth in excitement, stumbling backward a bit but catch yourself on the island. “No way.”

He nods, eyes twinkling at your enthusiasm. You look so pretty in this kitchen. It’s nostalgic. It feels warmer now that you’re back here, even if he’s just pretending to forget that you’ll have to leave in the morning.

“Go sit. They won’t take long.” You do as he says, hopping into a stool as you watch him begin to mix the ingredients in a bowl.

Your mind drifted to the last time you saw him. The way his chin quivered when he cried over you, how much it hurt to tell him you weren't ready and that you may never be. It was still true. In a more clearheaded scenario, you probably wouldn't be here with him right now. If alcohol didn't seem like such an inviting bandaid to your aching mind and heart, the feelings you'd been suppressing would likely have stayed suppressed... where you honestly wanted them to stay. Opening yourself back up to be loved by the same man that made you question yourself was still incredibly scary.

"Bon appétit." He placed the plate in front of you.

The waffle was dusted in powdered sugar, a small butter square in the middle was surrounded by sliced strawberries. "Oh... my... god..." You salivated, picking up the fork and knife he handed you and devoured the first bite, moaning in gratitude. "Oh my god." You had no other words.

Kylian laughed, picking up his own fork to dig into his less pretty waffle, standing across from you. "Yeah?"

He didn't get a verbal response back, but knew you meant it upon seeing the manner in which you inhaled every crumb on your plate. Your late night snack was gone too soon and you wanted more, but your drooping eyes and full bladder convinced you that sleep was better.

Kylian took his last bite, grabbing your plates and setting them in the sink. "I think it's bedtime."

You agreed without saying so, hopping off the stool and took the route to the master bedroom. You could walk there with your eyes closed and you might as well have. The sleep deprivation mixed with your drunkenness lead you straight to the dresser, opening up the top chest on your side to grab a t-shirt.

When your crossed eyes looked down at the empty drawer, it was sobering. You let out a shakey breath, clasping your hands in front of you. "Right..."

Kylain stood by the door, frowning at your stillness. The small window of bliss he had with you just seconds earlier shattered upon seeing your sorrowful face looking down at the drawer that used to contain your things, now containing nothing but memories of what used to be.

Silently, he walked over to you, gently shutting it for you. He opened up his side, handing you one of the shirts you left folded for him. One of your favorites. "Here."

You give him an attempt of a smile but don't actually look at him. "Thanks."

He goes to leave the room but you stop him. "Wait. Where are you going? I'll sleep in one of the guest rooms. I'm not taking your bed."

"No, please. You just get some rest, okay?" He almost whispers, taking in the sight of you standing in this room again before he went to close the door.

"Ky?" You breathe, locking your eyes on his. There was something you wanted to say, some words your throat closed up on, leaving you with nothing else but silence. He stayed still, his adoration for you threatening to spill out of him the longer he stared at you. You draw a subtle breath upon feeling your emotions pooling in your eyes. "Thank you."

Kylian felt the weight of your otherwise simple words, taking context from the way you were looking at him. "I'll always be here for you."

With that, he reluctantly closed the door behind him, trudging to the bedroom closest to you.

The room spun as you laid down on your favorite pillow, beyond comfortable under the duvet you picked out yourself. You wished you never went drinking tonight. If you'd just stayed home and pigged out on ice cream you wouldn't have to face the truth that's been slowly crawling to the surface.

Your eyes shut much too quickly to really explore the sentiments you've uncovered tonight, but that's probably for the best.

Kylian's mind was racing and he only hoped you couldn't hear how loud his brain was from the next room. Under the guilt and self-pity he's been swimming in for weeks, he finally felt a sliver of optimism beginning to grow inside of him. It was such a tender feeling, a feeling he let lull him to sleep, content knowing you were just on the other side of that wall.

A/N: The amount of times this deleted..... I was going crazy. Thank god that I started saving every draft on Google Drive or else I probably would have stopped writing out of frustration. Big things coming for (Y/N) and Kylain! Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter and I'm sorry about having to make Haaland an asshole bc I really do love him. It was just to move the plot along <3. Also I didn't know all of the soccer terms in english so forgive me if I messed any of that up. Love all of you and thanks for reading!

[summer-nights19]

Omertá part 3

Romeo Scorpius Lucci x fem reader Part 2

As you were eating breakfast in the cafeteria the morning after your deal with Romeo, your phone buzzed from a message notification. Trying not to sigh, you opened it. Who could be bothering you this early in the morning

Unknown number: This is Romeo. Come to my office immediately after finishing breakfast so we can discuss your work for the next week.

You: Ok. How did you get my number ?

Romeo: I'll explain later. Stop wasting time and hurry up.

You put your phone back in your pocket, growing increasingly exasperated. The day had barely started and you already had a feeling it wasn't going to be an easy one. Unfortunately, it couldn't be helped, so after finishing up your coffee, you headed back to Sinostra and straight for Romeo's office.

Once you reached the door, the usual guy standing on guard waved you in dismissively. You assumed Romeo had informed him you'd be coming ahead of time.

"You're late, Y/N. In the future, if I call you to my office, I expect you to be there within five minutes of me sending the message,"

You tried to keep the irritation out of your voice. After all, this was still the man who could technically decide to kill you at any point.

"Mr Lucci, this campus is enormous. Unless I somehow develop the ability to teleport, how am I meant to go from one place to the next in five minutes,"

Romeo glared at you. Looks like you weren't the only one who was irritable in the mornings.

"That's not my problem. Also, it's Fico. I despise being addressed as Mr Lucci- it was my father's title, and I share nothing in common with that WTWUT,"

"WT what ?" What was it with this man and abbreviations ?

"Wall to wall useless trash, obviously," Romeo rolled his eyes at you as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and you sent a sharp glare in his direction.

"From my experience, Mr Lucci, all men of your ilk are the same. If you want to be called by a different title, you'll have to prove that you're different,"

Gritting his teeth, Romeo scowled. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him clenching his fist around his expensive fountain pen.

"You'd do well to remember that I can still do whatever I want with your life, Y/N. Keep talking back and you'll see what happens,"

Glowering at him, you took a seat at his desk and decided to leave it at that.

"Why did you call me here ?" You tried to keep your tone as calm as possible, which was no easy task. Apparently, the Sinostra vice captain could get under your skin just as much as you could his.

"I'm here to discuss your work for today. If our agreement is to amount to anything, you should try to become familiar with how the Casino works. We still have an hour before we open officially, so read this,"

Romeo reached under his desk and took out a thick, leather bound notebook, which he thrusted in your direction. As you skimmed through it, you frowned.

"What is this ?"

"The full record of business activities, investments, costs and profits for the last six months. I'd recommend you read it before you start working,"

"Before ?? You mean I'll be doing something other than studying this tome all day ?"

Romeo sighed, and he glared at you as if you'd just asked the world’s stupidest question.

"Obviously ! You will experience all the positions in our casino. In the morning, you'll do all the front of the house work - that includes card dealers, cleaning, and waitressing. Then, in the afternoon, you'll experience some of the less ... public positions with a few of my underlings. You'll just be picking up cargo and dropping something off to a customer, so even you could manage that,"

You looked at him, trying to work out if he was joking or not, but when you met his gaze, his face was completely deadpan.

"You're trying to say that I need to do all that work today ? That would take like eight employees !"

Romeo slammed his hand down on his desk, causing piles of documents to collapse and flutter to the ground.

"Be silent ! If you want to live, you'll follow my orders,"

Taking a deep breath in, you looked down at the notebook and started to study it. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. You saw Romeo smirk to himself out of the corner of your eye as you started skimming the notebook, but you decided a reaction wasn't worth the effort.

After about half an hour of silent study of the records, you cleared your throat.

"Mr Lucci, I think I've located a potential issue. A lot of your slot machines have people winning too frequently, so you're not really making much of anything from them. If I had to make a rough estimate, I'd say halving the odds would maximise your profits. Also, with the roulette table-" you completely lost your train of thought as you noticed how Romeo was looking at you. His face was almost the same unreadable mask he'd worn last night, but now, he looked kind of interested, maybe even a little impressed. You could see a smirk forming on the corners of his lips.

"Keep going, BB. For once you're saying something of value,"

Deciding to ignore the jab, you resumed your explanation of how he could tweak the casino games to maximise his profits,trying to give him rough estimates where possible. By the end, he was fully smirking, and his face almost seemed to have lost some of that coldness.

"I knew you could be useful if you tried hard enough. Good girl,"

You felt your face heating up as he praised you, so you decided to avert your gaze. Maybe you were coming down with a fever after the stress of the last few days.

"Also, Y/N, you should take this. I can't stand seeing your hands in such horrible shape," This time, Romeo took out a jar from one of his desk drawers and placed it next to you.

You looked down. It was luxury hand cream, imported directly from Italy. Trying not to laugh, you thanked Romeo and put it on your bag. He did seem like the kind of person who would want to get everything from back home, no matter how expensive and impractical.

"Maybe I do have a last bit of advice, Mr Lucci. You should stop spending so much of your earnings on fancy trinkets and reinvest some in your casino," this time, you were the one smirking, your eyes glinting with silent laughter as you finally looked up at Romeo.

"I also have advice, BB. Keep such useless and ridiculous insights to yourself. Now leave, they're expecting you at the roulette table in five minutes,"

Rolling your eyes, you slung your bag over your shoulders and walked out of the office, mentally preparing yourself for the start of what was sure to be a very long day.

Masterlist

[stars-and-clouds]

hi res download

This is just my understanding of the Ishgardian power hierarchy as I gathered from the game and the undermentioned sources.

some notes:

The church’s power mostly ‘technically’ spans over the orange blocks but some of the green blocks too. It should be noted, however, that Ishgard is a theocracy and religion practically rules over everything. Some examples of lose church power is that, the ruling houses seem to always have some cardinals appointed inside the church from their own house. It is, of course, not clear that it is forced upon the houses or the houses do it to have power inside the church. I wish there was a clearer explanation of this.

In regards to the lose connection between the inquisition and the ruling houses, it seems the houses do fear the authority of the inquisition officers and the inquisitor even by high standing lords (and knights) like Haurchefant and Francel. This is odd since nothing suggests they are above the ruling houses as it is my understanding that the ruling houses are basically a council of rulers in Ishgard, so, they shouldn’t be beneath the vault technically but they seemed to be practically. Religion rules.

I did not find examples any knights sworn to the minor houses, so it seems only the ruling houses have knights sworn to them and the minor houses sends their members to be sworn to the ruling houses, something like bannermen. This might not be for life, however, as seen by the knight Ser Carrilaut who used to serve house Haillenarte but has moved to serve house Dzemael when we meet him for the quest ‘The Rose and the Unicorn’.

*I apologise for the typo in the infographic: Next to the block of ‘minor house,’ the noble title should be ‘Viscount/Viscountess,’ not ‘Visount/Visountess’ lel

edit note (221214): If a clergy member is particularly young, newly admitted or is beneath a pastor, they can be referred with ‘sister/brother’ titles.

As always, respectfully correct me if I have made some mistakes.

Hope this helps people =D

Sources:

Haillenarte on tumblr

Ishgardian Lore Document

Encyclopaedia Eorzea- I by Square Enix

[ancientcraftnoccultism]

🌿 Herb Of The Day

Title: Lilac

Gender: Feminine

Element: Water

Planet: Venus

📜 Folklore & History 📜

Lilacs are an old, old, species that originated in Persia and then traveled to Europe. They were brought to America in 1750 and then planted at New Jersey Governor Wentworth’s home. Other prominent men fell in love with lilacs. They were reportedly one of Thomas Jefferson’s favorite flowers, and he documented his lilac-planting-methods in 1767. George Washington followed suit and moved existing lilacs on his property to his garden in 1785.

In Greek mythology, Pan, the god of the wild, chased a nymph named Syringa. She turned herself into a lilac bush to escape Pan, and in anger, he broke off the reed-like branches which made pipes. With regret, he tried kissing the broken branches, and as his air pushed over them, sounds were made. Lilacs were responsible for the creation of “Panpipes.”

Russian folklore believed that hanging lilacs above a baby’s bed would bring the child wisdom.

American folklore thought that lilacs could drive away evil and that placing them in a haunted house would displace ghosts. Thought to be symbolic of “old love,” Victorian widows often wore lilacs as a sign of remembrance. One hundred and fifty-five years ago today, April 15th, Abraham Lincoln died after being shot by John Wilkes Booth. Any American — and much of the world — knows the story of the self-educated, country lawyer who became one of our nation’s most beloved presidents. But what many Americans might not realize is how the death of Lincoln reverberated into so many areas of our collective psyche, including literature and horticulture, thanks to Walt Whitman. Walt Whitman was a reporter, printer, writer, traveler and Civil War nurse who is considered one of America’s greatest poets. He self-published Leaves of Grass and worked on it throughout his lifetime, eventually modifying it so that there are eight different editions. Whitman felt a great affinity with President Abraham Lincoln, and when Lincoln was assassinated in the spring of 1865, Whitman grieved.

He wrote years later in Specimen Days about learning of the President’s death:

"I remember where I was stopping at the time, the season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and give tinge to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself always reminded of great tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails."

While lilacs are first to bloom, their flowers are short-lived. The heady fragrance lingers sweetly at first, but then the blooms start to die, leaving a heavy, cloying smell. One of the first flowers of spring, lilacs contain a natural compound called indole that’s found in flowers — and feces. It’s that undercurrent of the “bottom note” of fragrance that suggests decay and death.

🔮 Metaphysical Properties 🔮

The beautiful May-blooming lilac is one of the loveliest tokens of spring. But they are much more than beautiful shrubs with showy, sweet-smelling flowers. Originally lilacs were planted to repel all evil. Planted near the entryway, lilacs were believed to send out protective vibrations. When the flowers are cut and brought into the home they cleanse any living space. And they'll also remove any unwanted spiritual presence. Blue and white varieties work well for this purpose. Since lilacs are ruled by Venus, they are also used in love spells. Try placing some pink lilacs on your altar while performing a love spell. The dried flowers make a powerful addition to any love sachet.

🍴⚕️ Culinary & Medicinal Properties

The simplest way to enjoy lilacs is as an infusion of the flowers for a lilac sugar. The sugar can then be used in recipes to add lilac flavor to baked goods. This also works with a lilac simple syrup which is just a liquid form of the same thing that’s perfect for making cocktails. For my money though, I think lilac infused honey sounds the best. The sweet floral flavor of lilacs translates beautifully into an ice cream base.

To prevent the recurrence of disease, lilac flowers were used to help strengthen the system and prevent relapse after a patient had healed. They’re said to be specifically good after cases of malaria. Tasting the raw flowers you can actually pick up some of the astringent qualities, as they make your mouth dry and pucker a bit (along with their floral flavors). This astringent quality makes them good for use in skin care products. Lilacs are used as a folk remedy for intestinal worms, as well as a treatment for gastric discomfort and gas. Regardless of the purpose, the most likely medicinal lilac preparation is a tincture, which is just a lilac infused alcohol

[iamamythologicalcreature]

An Ask Game for Writers to Procrastinate Working on Your WIP(s)

(Not like I need the assistance, but I'm so thrilled to be thought of as a writer that I'm totally doing this.)

Thank you so much for the invites @aristocratic-otter, @bookish-bogwitch, @shrekgogurt, @ic3-que3n, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @drowninginships, @best--dress, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @monbons, @thewholelemon, @whatevertheweather, and @youarenevertooold! (I think I might be the last one in the 'verse doing this, but that won't stop me from tagging more people at the end.) I've loved reading everyone's answers!

Okay. Here we go. I am absolutely using my flimsy claim to authorhood to answer these. >.>

1. 🦈Tell us the name of your/ one of your WIP(s):

The Haunting of Simon Snow

2. 🍄Describe your WIP/one of your WIP(s) in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Construction Worker!Simon + haunted manor house = a most interesting summer job

3. 🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your WIP(s) need if you intend to share it?

Well, it's a ghost story. You can draw some conclusions from that.

4. 🧭An alternative title to your/ one of your WIP(s)?

A Victorian's Gothic

5. ⚠️Which WIP your most likely to finish or update next?

It sure as hell better be Haunting. I mean, my goodness, it's looped around my brain like a too-patient boa constrictor, just sloooowly squeezing.

6. 💾What is your document of your WIP/ a WIP called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

snowbaz.scriv is my catch-all Scrivener file for all ficcy things

7. 🖍Post Any sentence(s) from your WIP.

There’s a person that I used to be. Magic I used to hold, magic that held me. I have done everything I can to forget that feeling, because it was never supposed to be mine. I was never magic. He’s magic. He’s magic, and I can almost touch him. He’s magic, and he can almost hold me. I live on the edge of almost all the time, so that’s enough. (It’s never enough.)

8. ♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP.

This was originally planned as a story written in letters. (Doing that with something else, now, and it works way better in a different story.)

9. 🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I'm going to stick to snowbaz fanfic for this, because if I broaden it any further, this list will instantly become quite long. (I have a lot of original story ideas.) For snowbaz, though? Well, there's the one I'm planning for COTTA. There are a couple AU's that I've written way too many notes on. And then a Fangirl crossover fic that I sincerely hope to someday write. (Technically I started it, but only a few hundred words at this point.)

10. 🤡How many WIPS are you actively working on?

Actively? One. Maybe two. Kinda thinking two, but the second one is new and more of a game at this point, so we'll see. (Not quite so actively I also have my Baz fic, my "Silence" fic where Baz successfully steals Simon's voice. It's roughly (super roughly) outlined, and I've written several scenes, but it's on the back-burner for Haunting. And COTTA. No more new fics after that, though! I really want to tell that story!)

11. 🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

That's funny. What a question. XD YES. Yes, there are scenes. I'm designing Pitch Manor to get through this damned scene LOL

12. ❤️Not a question, just a second Kudos to send.

Thankee kindly!

On the off chance there are any fic writers left out there who haven't yet done this... Tags! @mooncello, @cutestkilla, @blackberrysummerblog, @hushed-chorus, @fatalfangirl, @onepintobean, @j-nipper-95, @facewithoutheart, @angelsfalling16, @noblecorgi, @alexalexinii, anyone else who wants to. Cheers!

[you-remind-me-of-the-babe]

An ask game for writers to procrastinate working on your WIPs

Thank you for tagging me @ic3-que3n @theearlgreymage @wellbelesbian @shrekgogurt @orange-peony @youarenevertooold @whatevertheweather @thewholelemon @cutestkilla @aristocratic-otter @monbons @emeryhall @valeffelees (wow everyone is out here playing huh?)

🦈Tell us the name of your / one of your WIP(s)

As of right now, I’m going with Back and Back and Back but that may change.

🍄Decscribe your wip / one of your wips in the format of “___ + ___ =___”

Past flashbacks in which Baz grows up being visited by an older Simon in the woods outside his house in Hampshire + current 7th year Simon suddenly finds himself traveling back in time to visit young Baz = both Simon and Baz trying to figure out what’s happening in the present, resulting in them falling in love in a mesh of past and present

🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your wip(s) need if you intend to share it?

Soulmates, time travel, canon divergent, Watford-era, angst with a happy ending, kid!Baz, lightly inspired by Time Traveler’s Wife.

🧭An alternative title to your / one of your WIP(s)?

I mentioned this last week, but I quite like Start at the End, even though I don’t think it technically is accurate or describes the fic.

⚠️Which wip you’re most likely to finish or update next?

Idk, this one will be quite long, but everything else in my WIP folder are just attempts at starting a premise I liked, but none of them have gotten much traction, so probably this one? Hopefully?

💾What is your document of your wip / a wip called? (not the stories actual title but what you’ve saved it as)

Time Travel AU

🖍Post Any sentence from your wip

He whistles, looking around and finally taking the time to fully appreciate the tree house.

“Did you make this?”

“With help,” I explain. “Some from Father. Mostly from you.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. That’s one thing I’ve yet to figure out, why he forgets. Sometimes, he remembers our past visits with more detail than I do. As if they’d just happened the day before instead of years ago. Other times, he can’t remember something as big as building a treehouse with me. He reminds me of my grandmother, when her dementia had its grips on her. She’d recall something from her childhood so clearly, and the next minute, she’d forget my name.

Father didn’t want me to call attention to it in front of her. He said it would only make her more confused. So I don’t mention it to him, either. We just sort of…dance around it, without mentioning it outright. (He’d fit right in with my family, honestly.) I just clarify things and then we move on.

♻️A scrapped idea for your current WIP

I was thinking about having the Humdrum be a time traveling younger Simon, or something like that, in addition to current Simon being a time traveler. Like, they discover there’s another version of him traveling, but I thought that would be too confusing. So instead, he’s just the regular ol’ Humdrum.

🤔What’s a story you’d love to write but haven’t even started yet?

I have a lil Drabble in my head about Baz being sad while his wedding ring is getting fixed by the jewelers for a week so Simon has to cheer him up. (It me. Rubbing my empty ring finger all week while it’s getting fixed and I hate it not being there.)

🤡How many Wips are you actively working on?

Actively? I think just this one right now. There are about 4 other half starts from earlier this year when I was just throwing spaghetti noodles at the wall to see what stuck. Some of them I may come back to if I get a burst of inspiration or something.

🛠Is there a scene or anything in the WIP you are struggling with right now?

(One of) the big reveals because the scene carries a lot of emotional weight, and I want to do it right.

❤️Not a question, just a second kudos to send.

And kudos to anyone who read this far!

Anyone else want to play? @facewithoutheart @hushed-chorus @iamamythologicalcreature @ileadacharmedlife @blackberrysummerblog @run-for-chamo-miles @mooncello @angelsfalling16 @artsyunderstudy and anyone else interested! 💜

[indestructibleheart]

Summarizing My WIPs Badly

I was tagged by @kiwiana-writes and @cha-melodius.

I'm going to include everything that actually has a doc (or folder lol)—even the things that have an empty doc, lmfao. None of these are the actual titles of their respective documents.

@kiwiana-writes and I constantly try to one-up each other in the emotional pain stakes, but in fic form*

thank god the time loop restarts right before they kiss and not later in the evening, or this would be straight-up edging the reader

alex dreams about the lake house while henry deals with his mommy issues

fine. fine. fine.

let's get very literal about modernizing a mythological concept

henry never thought of alex as forgettable. we must all be wrong sometimes.

what if i took all of the world-building from one of my favorite universes and threw almost everything else out because fuck [REDACTED]?

henry suffers the consequences of writing something really fucking meta. alex has no idea what the fuck is going on.

i'm obsessed with this one, single line in the book. what if it were a whole fucking fic at a private school?

banishment to texas*

henry is shy. and also green.

As a bonus to this, I invite anyone reading this to send me asks telling me which ones you wanna see next and/or to get more info about any of the above. You might get a snippet, or a bit of outline, or just some unhinged rambling!

* I'm keeping the details of this one close to my vest, so I won't just ramble info like the others, but I will answer specific questions if they don't give away the farm.

Tagging some lovelies under the cut. If you have not been tagged and you want to be, consider this your tag!

@anchoredarchangel, @cricketnationrise, @firenati0n, @guillermosfamiliar, @hgejfmw-hgejhsf, @hippolotamus, @inexplicablymine, @junebugclaremontdiaz, @lizzie-bennetdarcy @missgeevious, @mulderscully, @myheartalivewrites, @ninzied, @nontoxic-writes, @notspecialbabe, @priincebutt, @three-drink-amy, @treluna4, @vanillahigh00, @welcometololaland, @orchidscript, @ships-to-sail, @stereopticons

[ktwritesstuff]

The Babysitter (a Last of Us fanfic) pt. 3

Title: The Babysitter Fandom: The Last of Us Rating: Explicit Characters & Pairings: Joel Miller x Reader Word Count: ~2000 Summary: Playing house with Joel is not all it's cracked up to be. As always, lovingly beta-read by @bs-fangirl. Additional content notes below the cut

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (below cut) | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Content Notes & Warnings: mentions of assault, depression, p-in-v sex, & violence.

I consider my personal brand to be "All your faves want to fuck fat chicks" but the post-apocalyptic setting makes that harder to convey. Given that the diet culture of the 90s and early 2000s fucked us all, be on the lookout for body talk and mentions of disordered eating.

Atlanta 2007

It was a miracle you were alive.  That was what the doctors said when Joel and Tommy managed to find a FEMA clinic nearly 48 hours later.  The bullet had hit Joel first, just grazing him, but slowed down enough that when it struck you the impact didn’t send you into cardiac arrest.  It entered a few inches below your right shoulder, missing the lung, the subclavian artery, and the bundle of nerves controlling your arm, and exited the top of your chest before lodging in Sarah’s stomach where it tore her apart from the inside.  Some miracle.

The clinic doctors decided to send you to Dallas by helicopter, where there was supposed to be a working trauma center.  Of course, by the time you got there everything had gone to shit.  But the fluids and antibiotics they had already pumped into you kept you stable.  You hunkered down for a few weeks until Joel and Tommy decided it was safe to move you.  

From there you headed east, eventually making your way to a refugee camp in Atlanta.  It was a fucking mess–most folks had fled their homes without gathering important documents, but the bureaucrats were still insisting on trying to verify peoples’ identities.  The people outside were begging and bribing for someone to vouch for them.   

With Tommy being military, the government knew everything down to what underwear he had on; Joel managed to hang on to his wallet so thankfully he still had photo ID.

“This is my daughter,” he said, pushing you in front of him at the gate.  “Sarah.”

The powers that be immediately pressed Tommy into service helping to control the crowds and guard supplies, leaving you and Joel to get settled into one of the canvas tents on site.  It wasn’t much, but you had a cot, a toothbrush, and a bar of soap, which was quite a bit more than you had arrived with.

“Why’d you tell them I was your daughter?” you asked.   

“Because I’m pretty sure it’s still frowned upon for grown men to be traveling with a random teenage girl,” Joel replied gruffly.  “It’s just temporary.”

But after four years this temporary stopover looked more and more like home and you felt more like a mother than daughter: washing, mending, cooking when there was food which there usually wasn’t.  You had lost more weight than was probably safe, but you weren’t quite as rail-thin and sallow as most of the other evacuees haunting the camp.  

Still, you regretted all the time you had spent starving yourself when there was plenty of food around, desperate to shrink down to nothing.  Your body had kept you alive in impossible circumstances and you had promised yourself you would do what you had to to take care of it. 

With Joel, it was a different story.  About a month into your stay at the camp, a man whistled at you in the breadline for weekly rations of beans and government cheese.  It was so strange and unexpected that you didn’t even realize it had happened until Joel had jumped the guy.

“Stop it!”” you screamed, helping two other guys pull him off.  “You’ll kill him!  Daddy!”

Even after one of the guards slammed his rifle into the back of Joel’s neck, he still wasn’t satisfied.

“I’ll kill you, you son of a bitch!  She’s mine!  I’ll fucking kill you!”    

The guards probably would have hanged them both if not for Tommy running interference, but that didn’t keep Joel from picking fights wherever he could.  He had a death wish and that made him dangerous. 

Losing Sarah had broken something inside of him, how could it not.  Keeping you and Tommy safe had kept him grounded for a while, but now that things were (relatively) stable, he had no reason to keep going.  You sympathized, of course, with the unfathomable grief of losing a child.  That didn’t mean you were content to stand by while he self-destructed.  

It was past noon and Joel was asleep, passed out, you realized as your toe connected with the bottle that had rolled under his cot.  

“Get up,” you said, pushing on his back.  “Laundry day.  Get up.”

Joel grunted, balling up under the blanket.

“Well that’s just great,” you said.  “You want to drink a week’s worth of rations in one afternoon, fine.  But if you think I’m gonna let you get a staph infection from sleeping in the same filthy clothes for weeks, you’ve got another thing coming.”

You grabbed the corner of the blanket and pulled with all your might.  Joel fought you, growling and thrashing, but ultimately you managed to wrestle it away.  Joel harumphed and turned over in bed.  You threw the blanket into the laundry basket and stormed out of the tent.

Tommy was on rounds and you passed him on your way to the little stream that ran through the east side of camp.

“You need to talk to him,” you said.  “Cause I am at the end of my rope.”  

Joel had been shutting down for weeks and things seemed to be getting worse and worse.  You knew he wished you had died instead of Sarah.  As if it wasn’t bad enough that you'd always be left to wonder if you hadn’t turned around when you did, would that bullet have passed through Sarah and killed you.  You would have taken her place if you could.  This wasn’t the life any of you would have wished for, but this was the life you had.

“Cut him some slack,” Tommy said.  “Birthdays and anniversaries are always rough.”  

“I’m sorry,” you said, as Tommy walked with you toward the edge of camp.  “I’m sorry.  I can’t imagine how hard this has been for you–I know how much you loved Sarah and we can’t even talk about her.”

Tommy shrugged.  “You compartmentalize.  Deal with it when it’s safe.”

“So never?” 

“That’s the job,” Tommy said.  

You shook your head.  “The job sucks.  And we still need to figure out what we’re going to eat this week.  I already traded my last tampon for the month.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Tommy chuckled.  “I don’t need to know that.”

“Yeah, well, I figured your back was getting tired from carrying us,” you teased.

Tommy waved you off, jogging back to his post before his C.O. noticed he was gone.  

You sat down by the river, sprinkling your weekly allotment of laundry powder onto the stones.  Having to do all the scrubbing manually certainly gave you time to think.  When weekly assignments came around, you usually asked to be on the cleaning crew–it wasn’t a desirable chore, but you liked knowing that the communal showers and horrible pit latrines you had to use were as sanitary as possible.  Besides, as long as you weren’t greedy you could get away with pocketing extra hand sanitizer and disinfectant–that shit was better than gold around camp.  

But FEDRA was trying to get a factory up and running about a mile outside camp, hard work, double shifts, and shit pay.  But there were fringe benefits for those willing to take the risk.  This dude called Axel had a pot farm on the other side of the fence.  He was always looking for people dumb enough or desperate enough to move his product–they were always getting caught at the gate.        

So you wrung out and hung the laundry and marched down to the big house to sign up for the next truckload of workers leaving camp.

You worked the graveyard shift, and made it back through the gate the next afternoon with half a kilo of weed in the hidden pocket you had sewed into the lining of your jacket.  As you suspected, the guards were more interested in groping your breasts and between your legs during their pat-down.  You headed back to your tent with the most money you had ever held in your hands–before the outbreak or after.  

Your euphoria at your success was only somewhat diminished by the realization that Joel and Tommy had spent the morning tearing the camp apart looking for you.

“Where the hell have you been?” Joel said.  He looked frantic, disheveled, cold sweat, the works. 

“Working,” you said, digging the wad of ration cards out of your bra and handing it over to Tommy.  “Maybe you can find us some real food now.”

“Jesus, kid,” Tommy said, flipping through the cards.  “Where’d you get this?”

“Why? They’re good, aren’t they?”

You toed off your shoes and pulled off your sweatshirt as you came into the tent.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Joel followed after you, wiping a hand across his forehead.  “We’ve been worried sick–thinking you were dead in a ditch somewhere, or worse–and that’s all you have to say for yourself?”  

“Can we have this conversation later,” you groaned, shimmying out of your bluejeans and collapsing on your cot.  “I’m exhausted.”  

When you finally woke, Joel was sitting on the folding chair beside your cot.

“So what are you a whore now?” 

“Jesus Christ, Joel,” you groaned, sitting up, pulling the thin blankets up around you.  “Does it fucking matter?”

You had considered sex work, but the truth was there wasn’t much of a market for it.  Assault was more common than toilet paper in the camp–there was hardly a woman who hadn’t been groped (or worse) or a man that hadn’t been mugged for that matter.  You figured the only reason you had been spared so far was that Tommy and Joel were so fucking scary.  

“Yeah, it fucking matters, Sweetpea,” he growled.  You had never seen him angry before, not like this.  You would have been terrified if you weren’t so goddamn tired.  

“I am responsible for you.”

“Oh, spare me the sanctimonious bullshit,” you said.  “I’m not a child.  I am grown.  I’m certainly not your daughter.”  

“You think I don’t know that!”  Joel grabbed you by the chin.  You met his gaze; for a moment, you weren’t sure if he wanted to hurt you or something else.

“Prove it,” you said, the corner of your mouth lifting into a sneer.  “I fucking dare you.”

In the space of a breath, Joel had crushed his mouth against yours.  You moaned against his lips, leaning back in bed, but Joel held the back of your neck, keeping you close.  You put your hands on his face, running your fingers into his hair.

Joel climbed on top of you in bed, the thin mattress sagging under your combined weights.  He sat up long enough to unbuckle his belt and paused.  

“Say yes,” he instructed, leaning down, planting his lips in the space where your jaw met your neck.  

You sighed, gripping his shoulder, turning your face to expose your neck to him.  

“You have to say yes.”

“Yes,” you breathed, pulling your ratty t-shirt off over your head and dropping it on the floor.  

Joel pulled down his jeans and ran his hands down your back, looping them into your panties, pulling them down.  You kicked them off to hook your ankles behind Joel’s thighs as he kissed your throat.  

He pressed into you all at once; you were so exhilarated you hardly felt anything.  Then pressure and a sharp tug behind your pelvic bone as he withdrew and pushed deeper. You gripped his arms and squeezed your knees into his sides. 

“Good?” he asked, kissing and sucking a trail down your chest, grazing the mounds of your breasts with his teeth.  

You took a few deep breaths and relaxed your face which had tightened into a grimace.  

“It’s a lot,” you said, running your hands down his back.  

“I know,” Joel breathed.  “I know, Sweetpea.  I got you.”

Joel moved one hand between your legs, to the bundle of nerves at the peak of the wishbone where your bodies met, massaging in circles with his rough fingers.  You felt something coiling inside you, hot and tight.  You arched into him.

“That’s better?”  

“Mmhm.”  You nodded, relaxing your thighs.  “That’s nice.”  

Joel moved against you, hips flicking up into the bowl of your pelvis as he massaged you.  He cupped one breast with his spare hand, pressing his mouth over the other, tongue circling the sensitive nipple. 

“That’s nice.”

He bucked into you harder; you bit your lip to stifle a cry.  You could feel the knot in your belly spreading, unfolding.  Your body stiffened and relaxed and with a low moan, Joel dropped his weight onto you, tired and spent.

You felt your heart rate slow and your breath grew deeper.  Joel rested his head on your chest and you ran your fingers through his hair.  You noticed it was damp and smelled faintly of mint.

“Did you shower?”

Joel nodded, his beard rubbing against your skin.  You smiled.

“You do listen to me.”

“Mmhm.”  You ran your hands over Joel’s shoulder girdle; felt the tight knots of muscle relax under your touch.  

Joel’s lips found the ragged scar under your collarbone where the bullet had left your body.  He kissed the scar gently, running his fingertips over it.  For an instant you felt like he was worshiping you, in awe of you.  And you marveled at your own sweet self for being able to give such pleasure.  

“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” Joel said.  You pressed your eyes closed.

“I may not have a choice,” you sighed.  “Axel wants me to do another run at the end of the week–I don’t think he’ll take no for an answer.”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said. 

After a moment, Joel rose from the bed, pulling on his pants as you pulled the blankets up over you. 

“What are you going to do?” you said.

“I said I’d take care of it,” he repeated.

“Joel,” you warned.  “You can’t narc on him��you can’t kill him.  Don’t kill him, Joel.  Please.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, leaning over to kiss your cheek.  “Eat something.  Tommy brought you peanut butter.”

You had half a mind to try and stop him from leaving, but who could resist peanut butter.

Baby's First Taglist: @stilllivindue2spite, @amethystwonders11 & @teacupcollector

[avengersnewb]

I've finally posted my entry for @cap-ironman RBB 2024!!!!!!! I had the honour of working with amazing @kandisheek on her magnificent, breath-taking art. I started to cry when I saw the finished version, I couldn't believe my eyes. I'm still mesmerised by it every time I look at it.

Here's my fic, omega Tony and alpha Steve, with a lot of hurt comfort and warm soft feelings, bit of angst and lots of fluff. It's the longest one shot I've ever done, so...I hope you give it a go!

Sunshine on Leith (E, 17k)

With the new government law prohibiting the employment of unbonded omegas, Tony has no hope of keeping his job at SHIELD, knowing full well that he has little chance of ever finding a mate. That is until he's officially claimed by a very special alpha: Steven Grant Rogers, also known as Captain America. Omega Tony, Alpha Steve, marriage of convenience, hurt/comfort, Tony needs a hug, protective Steve, discussion of infertility

“Alright,” Fury announces, as he puts the document down on his desk—face down, God—and looks up at Tony. “You know that the extension of your extension is almost over.”

Right into it. “Yes, sir.”

“And you know that we can’t get another one under any circumstances.”

“I—” Tony swallows. “I do.”

“I sent an inquiry on Friday, to General Ross himself, explained your value to your team, enclosed a brief summary of all your intel projects, your app, how you’re virtually irreplaceable to SHIELD—”

Tony watches Fury as he recites his own account of how awesome Tony actually is and despite the flippant tone and the airtight comment, something swells in his chest.

“You know what I got from his office this morning in response?” He reaches into his desk drawer. “This,” he exclaims holding up a pink booklet that Tony doesn’t need to read the title printed in gold to feel the bile coming up his throat; to feel the bottom of his stomach drop right down to his feet. “The Omega Regulation Act for the Workplace,” Fury says, voice slightly raised. “Not a letter enclosed. Not even a note. You know what that means?”

Tony sucks in a breath. That General Ross is a dickhead alpha, he does not say.

“That we are out of options,” Fury answers his own question, punctuating every word with a shake of the booklet. “Do you understand?”

“Sir, of course—”.

“Nuh uh.” Fury smacks the booklet against his desk. “Think hard before you answer. Because you said you understood the direness of the situation when you turned down Barton’s offer to claim you—”

“Sir, please,” Tony says, half-aware that he is interrupting Fury which no one should do even on a good day. “I’d teach people how to turn their computers off again and on again, rotting in a smelly cubicle at the back of Radio Shack, before I become someone’s second—”

“It was going to be on paper only, just for—”

“—someone’s second omega, sir, even on paper. It’s a matter of principle, the first omega’s dignity—”

“Romanoff is your best friend and she suggested this!”

“Sir.” Tony rubs his hands down his face. “I appreciate everyone’s best efforts to help me keep doing the job I love, but in the face of a humiliating law, in a situation I have zero control over and a problem I cannot fix—sir, please, just don’t ask me to give up the last shred of dignity—”

“God, Stark, just stop,” Fury says, raising a hand. “Is taking customer service calls in the smelly cubicle part of holding on to your last shred of dignity? What happens when what’s-his-face decides to incorporate the Workplace Regulation Act voluntarily to butter up the president, or Ross, or some other higherup knothead and sends you the ‘you have 45 days to provide your updated mating status or hand in your resignation’ email?”

“Then I’ll hand in my resignation and go flip burgers at BGR,” Tony retorts, even though the words come much shakier than he’s hoped. “And if BGR decides to kick me out for being unable to find a damn alpha who’d be willing to mate a male omega, I’ll clean houses for a living.” He swallows the lump forming in his throat. Damn it. He is not going to tear up in this office ever again.

“So you’re admitting that if you could find an alpha who’s willing to take you as their first mate—”

“With all due respect sir,” Tony says, as firmly as he can manage, “are you throwing hypotheticals at me? I might need to pack my things and be gone by the end of the day and you’re bringing up the near-zero possibility of an alpha wanting to take me, a male omega they will never be able to breed, as first mate? It’s just—you’re being a little cruel don’t you think?” He trails off and wets his parched lips.

Fury sits back. He tilts his head and considers Tony as if it’s necessary to let Tony stew in his misery for a moment longer. “And what if it’s not hypothetical?”

“Excuse me?” Tony blurts out, feeling very still all of a sudden. As time stretches into eternity, Tony’s brain runs through possibilities like a little Raspberry Pi4, and yet he cannot come up with a single plausible scenario. He rubs his forehead. He blinks. He rubs his forehead again. The input is running through the compiled code but Tony’s processor is incapable of creating credible output. “Sir,” he says, miserably, “what’s going on?”

“This.” Fury slides the document he was reading before toward Tony. “An alpha has officially offered to claim you.”

Tony reaches for the document, hesitant fingers clutching before finally flipping it. He reads through the title page and the entire first section, and yet not a single word makes sense. His gut churns and his heart rattles in his chest, and maybe his vision is blurring a bit too, and he reads all the way to the end of the million pages, but he doesn’t understand anything.

“Who is—” Tony flips to the second page “—Steven Grant Rogers?” He looks up at Fury. “I don’t—is he—who—”

“Son, I’ve been told that you’d left the party on Friday night pretty drunk, but I figured HR is being HR about omega behavior. Are you telling me that you don’t remember the hour and half that you spent with Captain Rogers? I have an account—” he reaches for a page on top of a pile and starts to read “—from the outdoor area of the bar, the omega and the alpha talking extensively, omega keeps drinking, more talking, more drinking, the omega laying his head suggestively on the alpha’s shoulder—”

“Oh,” Tony says before his mouth hangs open for a beat. “The alpha—” he tries swallowing a few times “he just—we—he—that alpha? That cannot be right, sir, it must be a mistake. He probably meant someone else—” He flips through the pages feverishly but his own name is everywhere on the official claiming document, right through to the title page. “How can that be true? Why on earth would this Captain Rogers wanna—”

He then goes quiet, not because he has fully lost his ability to form sentences, even though he actually has, but because there is a knock on the door, and then the door opens, and then—is Tony seeing things that are not there?

Did Captain America just walk into Fury’s office?

“I’m sorry I’m late,” he says, taking a few steps forward to shake Fury’s hand who’s standing up to greet him, before turning around. “Hey, Tony.”

Now, Tony knows that Captain America has been back in the land of the living for a while, and, yes, Tony’s seen him quite a few times at Triskelion—mostly due to Tony wandering about on the 22nd floor in front of the STRIKE lounge to sneak a peek—but that’s about it. Tony has never talked to him, and his attempt at getting more information has been blocked as his personnel file is still fully confidential.

How on earth does Captain America know Tony by name?

Captain America comes a few steps closer, towering over him, close enough that his scent fills Tony’s nose: intense pinewood that’s vaguely familiar somehow. He draws one hand toward Tony, fiddling with his cowl with the other one. “I came right after we got rid of the drones, didn’t even stay for cleanup.”

Tony rises to his feet, staring at his fingers wrapped around Captain America’s stretched hand. He looks up, with a spinning head as Captain America finally removes his cowl, still holding Tony’s hand. “Good to see you again,” he says with a smile so bright that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

Oh.

Steven Grant Rogers.

Read full on AO3

[daniwritessometimes]

I am determined to finish a story this year and work toward publishing!!

Anyway, here's the prologue:

Athena Osborne-Jones sat in the middle of the room as everyone milled about. Her black clothes and maternity corset hid her growing belly. No one was told officially yet other than her twin Alec and her dear friend Charles Seymore-Windham. Charlie.

She looked across the room where Charlie and Alec stood together chatting with one of Martin's brothers. He was the defacto heir until the baby was born. If it was a boy, that is. If she had a girl, the land and all titles went to Michael. She would still get a house in London, as would the child, boy or girl.

Charlie squinted around the room. He was mostly blind, but he could see enough to spot where he and Alec had left her. He touched Alec's arm and said something to him before slowly making his way toward where she sat.

"Do you need anything?" Charlie asked softly.

She shook her head.

"It's a little dark in this corner, Thee, I can't see getsures well."

"I don't need anything, Charlie." She took hold of his sleeve. "Just sit here a moment, please."

He took the chair she guided him toward and leaned closer. "Your brother-in-law is already talking about what he wants to change."

Athena sighed. "Of course he is. He never liked how I decorated the house. Nor that Martin allowed me to do so in the first place."

"I don't like him."

She snorted a soft laugh and then started sobbing again. "This is the worst thing that could have ever happened."

He reached out a hand to pat her arm, but missed and his hand touched her stomach.

She let out a soft sound and he pulled his hand away quickly. "Apologies, my lady," Charlie said softly.

"Don't do that," Athena scolded. She wiped at her eyes. "I need to be alone." She got up and walked quickly out of the room.

--

Charlie listened as her feet hurried out of the room and up the stairs. No doubt to her room. Would everyone still be here much longer? The immediate family had been here for the last several days and planned to stay for another week as Athena settled in. Alec promised to stay as long as Athena needed. He had brought with him all the legal documents they needed to go over.

He stood and found his way out the back door and into the garden. He slowly walked around the path that led to the little rose garden in the middle. The bench was warm from the summer day. Charlie closed his eyes and lifted his face toward the sun.

Alec found him a short time later. "What did you say to her?"

"I accidentally touched her stomach. But I don't think that's what sent her off."

Alec sighed and sat down beside Charlie. "What bullshit, eh?"

Charlie looked toward him. "How long do you think you'll stay?"

"Through the end of her confinement at least." Alec swiped up Charlie's cane. "Will you stay, too?"

"I don't think Matthews and Andrews will allow both of us to be gone for the next several months."

Alec took the cane and ballanced it on his finger. "I'm not going to be here the whole time. I'll return for all the trials and for meetings. It's just an hour into London from here. But I won't leave her completely alone."

Charlie stood and tried to swipe the cane out of his hand. He missed and stumbled into the rosebush, slicing up his face on the thorns.

"Fuck!" Alec exclaimed, pulling him up out of the plant. "I'm sorry, Chip. Let's go get you cleaned up."

--

"What in the world were you doing?" Athena asked sharply as she cleaned out the cuts on Charlie's face.

"Alec stole my cane," Charlie said.

"I was bored," Alec protested.

"Right into my rosebushes." Athena finished. "At least it was enough to send the extras home when you came in bleeding all over my carpet."

"I didn't bleed that much," Charlie pointed out.

"There's a fair number of scratches, though." This came from his father Horace as he walked back into the drawing room followed by Audrey, Sarah, and Wulfric.

"I figured." Charlie looked to Athena. "Are you done yet?"

"Yes, I am, you baby." She picked up her things and headed out of the room.

"Talking of babies..." Sarah trailed off.

Athena nodded. "Yes. In about four months."

She walked out of the room to deposit the bloody cloths and her bag of medical supplies in the hall. She turned to find her mother and aunt standing there waiting for her. She motioned for them to follow and she turned to Martin's study.

Sarah wrapped her arms around her daughter and held her close.

Folded into her mother's arms, Athena started sobbing again. How could she still be crying? How could there still be tears? She's been doing so for over a week.

When she finally pulled away, Audrey handed her a cup of tea. "You are entering a very important club."

"But I don't want to be. Not without him. Life isn't fair. And I can't help but think..." She trailed off.

"About Charlie," Audrey finished for her.

Athena sipped her tea. "Is this punishment, do you think?"

Sarah squeezed her hand. "Audrey and I advised you toward this. If it is wrong, it's our fault. But we all worked out that Martin was the better choice at the time."

"And I broke Charlie's heart. I would never have broken Martin's." She put her tea cup down and walked toward the desk. She trailed her fingers over the papers left exactly how Martin had left them. "What would have happened if I had rejected Martin's offer?"

"He would have died alone. He would have had to give everything to his brother sooner. Just pray the baby is a boy and that Michael doesn't take everything from under you before then."