#stoke city wags

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon) 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart. 

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”  

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar. 

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?” 

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his. 

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted? 

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me? 

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City.  A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone. 

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his. 

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown. 

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt. 

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers. 

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to. 

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan. 

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her. 

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his. 

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades. 

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls. 

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

“The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!” 

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway. 

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed. 

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”  

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys. 

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion. 

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

���My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant. 

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can. 

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest. 

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored. 

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it. 

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind. 

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone. 

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls. 

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. 

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder. 

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke. 

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully. 

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs. 

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble. 

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s  near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow. 

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap. 

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens. 

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[rejectedbad]

Rejected Bad: Maple

The following is a rejected script from an early season of Breaking Bad.

INT. JESSE'S LIVING ROOM - DAY

Jesse's Samoyed, METH HEAD, is sitting on the floor, staring down at a large map of Canada spread out in front of him. His wide grin reflects pure excitement and determination. METH HEAD's VOICE OVER begins.

METH HEAD (VO):  Y'know, they say dreams are only for humans. But sometimes, dogs have dreams too. And mine... oh boy, mine is something else.

Meth Head's paw taps on the map, revealing various cities and locations he has marked. The camera zooms in on his adorable yet determined expression.

METH HEAD (VO):  I've been focusing on this one for weeks now. Canada, my friends! The land of snow, maple syrup, and pawsome adventures. And I'm gonna conquer it!

Just then, FILLMEUP, a scrappy yet loyal coyote, enters the room carrying a bag of trashcan Taco Bell in his mouth. He drops it on the floor and sits next to Meth Head.

FILLMEUP (English with a coyote-like voice): Hey, Meth Head! What's got you so stoked about Canada? And how in the hell do I fit into this whole thing?

Meth Head looks up at Fillmeup, momentarily torn away from his thrilling plans.

METH HEAD  (Excitedly): Fillmeup, my friend, you're part of the team now! You've got the moves, the connections, and the uncanny ability to acquire some seriously tasty human food. We're gonna make it big up north!

Fillmeup, amused by Meth Head's enthusiasm, lets out a chuckle before speaking.

FILLMEUP:  Alright, buddy, spill the baked beans! What's your mastermind plan to conquer the Great White North? And how do I fit into all of this mayhem?

Meth Head's tail wags with excitement. He can barely contain himself.

METH HEAD:  Okay, listen up. Canada loves its maple syrup, right? And you know what? I've got a secret recipe for the most potent syrup ever. The meth of maple syrup, yo!

Fillmeup raises an eyebrow, half impressed, half concerned.

FILLMEUP:  Wait, you're telling me you're gonna cook meth... as maple syrup? Isn't that a tad... illegal?

METH HEAD  (Nods): Exactly, Fillmeup! That's the beauty of it. We're gonna fly under the radar, blending in with all those syrup-loving Canucks. No humans would suspect a thing!

Fillmeup sighs, knowing he's been roped into something truly outrageous.

FILLMEUP:  Alright, I'm in, but only because I believe in you, Methy. What's the first move?

METH HEAD  (Smiling):  Well, amigo, before we kick-start Operation Maple Meth, we need a righteous RV. The best lab on wheels, just like our good old days with Jesse Pinkman.

Meth Head, along with Fillmeup, head towards the garage, their determination evident. Together, they march forward, ready for the wild ride towards their maple-syrupy conquest of Canada.

FADE OUT.

[worldwidewagsstyle1]

Aurah Ruiz (Jese Rodriguez | Stoke City) wore:

Philipp Plein Jogging Trousers -€450.00

Lacoste Monochrome Leather Trainers -£67.00

[footballers-wags-kids]

Congrats to Marc Muniesa and Sara Campeny ( Marc Muniesa : Stoke City ) pic: Sara Campeny

[allwaswell16]

A fic rec of One Direction fics that have a character as a WAG (wives and girlfriends of a professional athlete or in most cases here boyfriends and husbands) as requested in this ask. If you enjoy the fics, please leave kudos and comments for the writers! You can find my other fic recs here. Happy reading!

-Larry-

💖 your certain charms by deLILAh

(E, 20k, Potter Direction) louis is the reserve-reserve seeker, harry is the quibbler’s brightest new voice, and the quidditch world cup is as good a place to stargaze as any.

💖 I'll be home soon by Lalalaartje

(T, 20k, kid fic) Louis Tomlinson, 28, is an internationally successful football player for Stoke city and the English national team. He's openly gay and happily married to Harry Styles, who sacrificed his career to support his husband and raise their children.

💖 the sweetest devotion by itiswhatitisbutterfly

(E, 18k, mpreg) Harry loved Louis at 18 when he couldn’t afford to take him on a date, at 21 when he spent all his time trying to make it and now he adores every part of him as he professionally lives his dream every single day. 

💖 The fic where Harry calls Louis an idiot for ten days straight because he is one. by @mercurial-madhouse

(M, 17k, sick fic) A gift forgotten in London, the untameable force of the weather, and the scent of burnt snickerdoodle biscuits find Harry and Clifford pitifully alone and Louis... Where is Louis?

💖 Love in slow motion by sloganeer

(E, 17k, kid fic) A series of glimpses into the life of Harry Styles, pop star turned fashion designer; his husband, Louis Tomlinson, football legend; and their four adorable children.

💖  Hockey Player DILF Harry ♡ Ex Popstar Mommy Louis by dilfrry

(E, 17k, series) Why does his boyfriend have to be such a fucking DILF? He blames it on a twitter thread he read a few weeks ago.

💖 this slope is treacherous by TheRomantics

(E, 13k, engagement) Harry and Louis are getting married but that doesn't mean they can't have fun

💖 Want you more than a melody by @softfonds

(E, 12k, mpreg) His band is about to release their third studio album, he's dating the hottest football star on the planet, and tour is going to start the following year. But one trip to the doctor's office changes all his plans for the future, and he wonders if Louis is ready for it as well.

💖 So Kiss Me by embro

(NR, 5k, kiss cam) Harry's stuck in the football stands alone and falls a bit in love with Louis, the little-too-forward boy who's sat beside him.

💖  the stars are coming home by lsforever / @harrystinyshorts

(G, 5k, hurt/comfort) After three years together and nearly a full year of marriage, Harry has finally been permitted to sit in for one of the team’s practices. 

💖 you always leave me wanting more by jesynelsons 

(E, 4k, fluff) Sometimes when he's playing a big match, he swears he can hear Harry's voice in the stands over thousands of other peoples.

💖 your laughter tastes so sweet by tumsa / @babyoflouis

(G, 3k, kid fic) a future!fic where Harry and Louis are married, they have kids, Louis plays football, Harry is his biggest cheerleader and the whole world is envious of the awesomeness that is Tomlinson family

💖 In The Nick Of Time by ICantChangeRose

(NR, 3k, class reunion) Harry, dreadfully, attends his 10-year school reunion. A lot changes when you leave a bullied looser and you come back a pop star married to one of the most famous football players in the world.

💖 i'll be yours (and you're mine) by underpressure

(E, 2k, sugar daddy Louis) Dating a famous footie player is hard – maybe even harder than school or convincing his mum that he was mature enough to move in with Louis even though he was only eighteen

💖 ease the quiet and talk me down by cabinbythesea

(NR, 2k, pwp) Harry's a model and Louis' a footie player.

-Rare Pairs-

💖 love and kickin'!verse by @camiii

(E, 140k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw)  the fic where Nick has no interest in football but is dragged to a football match, Louis is the Arsenal player that catches his attention, and maybe there are some redeeming qualities to the game after all.

💖 The New Posh and Becks (series) by @mistresscurvy

(E, 31k, Liam/Louis) 2016 is a big year for solo artist Liam Payne.

💖 The Million Reasons Why by @reminiscingintherain

(T, 4k, Louis/Nick Grimshaw) When closeted Manchester United striker Louis Tomlinson visits his secret boyfriend Nick Grimshaw on the Radio 1 Drivetime Show to promote his charity work, how long can secrets remain secret?

[spanish-wags]

[hopeandharmonizing]

Adoption Day

Briar + Qrow Branwen ( @birdcfpassage​ )

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

Cakes are not Briar’s best confectionary creation, but muffins are basically the same thing.

“Thanks,” he said, ruffling her hair with one hand. “Guess that means I don’t gotta share you with a whole crowd? Which I can get behind. Whatever’s in the basket smells good.”

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

Cakes are not Briar’s best confectionary creation, but muffins are basically the same thing. One dozen each of blueberry grain and strawberry cream, still steaming in a basket and perfusing the very air around her with a homey warmth.

Forest cottage roots reach even into the cold of a Mantle winter.

Candles don’t hold their own against a true hearth, but they can still brighten a room and ignite well-wishes, and smaller bites of baked goods will hold them alight and aloft all the same.

For once, Briar can find Qrow on this day, this year, even if she’s not sure here or with her is where he really wants to be. Still, nice to bring him something in person. Tasty treats and a little token of affection, to let him know he’s cared for no matter where he is in the world.

She knocks on the door of where he said he’s staying this visit. Brings in the basket and offers a small box with a red bow. A ring that reminded her of him.

Arms swing around him in a tight embrace without even setting the offerings in each hand down…!

“Qroooow~~!” Excited tones drawl out in a whine as if she can hardly contain herself, “Happy birthday!!”

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

He’d expected to be spending the night more or less alone. He was only here for a few days before he made a desperate bid to get back to Patch in time for the girls on the 25th, and only urgency had him there at all. That day, though, was just the in between waiting game, checking up on something for Ironwood.

His own plans had stretched as far as seeing if Briar was doing some kind of Yule show that night, hoping she’d be free for a few hours. A familiar face, good music, drinks, company. It was about the most he’d consider for his own birthday, now that he’d already had a warm video call from home that had stoked homesickness in his gut.

What he didn’t expect was for Briar to find him before he found her, truthfully, and when he opened the door to see her he ducked his head and grinned, pleased and embarrassed.

“You’re sharp, sweet pea. And here I was plannin’ on findin’ you.” He scoops her up in her hug, realizing just how much he’d missed having her around. Her presence is warm and welcome, and not just because of her semblance.

It’s all her.

“Thanks,” he said, ruffling her hair with one hand. “Guess that means I don’t gotta share you with a whole crowd? Which I can get behind. Whatever’s in the basket smells good.”

❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦ ❦

No one ever alone again, once they meet Briar. Not as long as she can help it. Not as long as they breathe the same air. To meet eyes is to touch souls, and there is no escaping that connection once Briar’s briars sink in.

Doubly so for those with thick enough skin to hold her close, come to her, even so.

(Her homesickness never stops. Ruins never able to return to. Home a place only to be found in people, now.)

Him. Only him.

He speaks to her, touches her with familiarity, and she leans all too happily into it, nuzzling soft strands against a roughened palm.

Boot soles leave the ground, feet kicked up in girlish pleasure before swinging forward to wrap around Qrow’s waist. Salt and pepper tail waves as it hangs behind her, relaxed in its energetic wag; no stiffness, not even a little, not with so much trust in the frame confining her chest to chest.

“Mmmmh~,” that usual sing-song consideration, only a tell that she’s about to turn it around on him, “Flattered to hear you say so, but usually when people give away their position, they’re looking to be chased.”

Makes it a joke to play off how much her heart really leaps to know someone would seek her out. Even though countless fans already do - take her up on the invitation to shows, follow her around the city, find her dancing round the scene and even bring others to entertain - something in the way qrow says it sounds so much more personal.

“And believe it or not, sometimes I’d rather not be spread out so thin on stage,” a gentle laugh huffs out over rose-tinted lips, “I’ll share these, though.”

The gift sets aside right among the goodies to free her hand for pulling one of them out instead. They smell good, because they are good. She-wolf knows her strengths, takes pride in her ability to nourish.

They haven’t even left the doorway, and Briar still clings to qrow, feeling protruding ribs beneath clothes. Impatient.

Candles could come later.

Long fingers pluck a blueberry muffin free and hold it up to his mouth, practically barks, “Eat!”

[miraculous-consequence]

Consequence of Our Love, Ch. 4: Just-A-Friend Date

He appeared calm and collected, but Marinette saw the way his eyes were slightly too wide, how he breathed shallowly, how he blushed. “Are you ready?” He asked coolly.

It was an act, but it was so much more. She saw the twitch of his genuine smile underneath his cool, manufactured demeanor. Excitement sparked throughout her at the opportunity they had forged for themselves.

If Chat Noir wanted to perform, so would she. “I’m ready,” she said.

--

Consequence of Our Love is a pre-reveal, post-Hawk Moth AU exploring Marinette and Adrien’s lives as adults. | Read from the Beginning | Read on AO3

Rating: Mature

Chapter Warnings (Overall in the tags): None

--

The sun had disappeared below the horizon when Chat Noir stopped before an extravagant building in the richer city district. No sign marked the entrance, though from the tall windows and rooftop decorations, it felt like a club or a restaurant. It was quiet, with no people around.

“Here, hold this,” Chat said as he handed her all of his bags. Marinette slumped under the sudden weight.

“What are you doing?” She hissed as he paced the perimeter of the building. He didn’t answer her. “Chat??”

“Aha! Here we go!” He ducked behind a giant planter pot gracing the building and lifted up a set of keys. “Got them!”

Marinette exhaled in relief. “I thought you were going to break in.”

“Don’t worry, I usually wait until the third fake date before I start committing crimes,” he jeered, and she stuck out her tongue. He unlocked the door then grabbed all of the bags from her. “Wait here, okay?”

“Wait, no, not okay, I don’t want to be out here alone-“

“I’ll be right back!” Chat disappeared inside. Marinette huffed and squeezed her arms. She glanced behind her at the evening sky, streaked with orange and the faintest hints of purple. As the comforting light of the day left, the anxiety of what the night offered loomed over her.

For years, she had avoided relationships like they were akumas, knowing thoroughly that anyone who got involved with her would be at serious risk. She had considered casually dating, like Alya often did, but Marinette knew herself, and she knew that if she fell in love, there was no holding back. The only solution was to never let herself fall in love in the first place.

And - apparently - get her mischievous, platonic super-partner with killer drama skills and a free night to pretend to be her boyfriend so she could get her romance fix.

Absentmindedly, she stuck her finger into her purse, and Tikki’s gentle touch brought her back into the moment. Marinette opened her purse and smiled at her Kwami. Tikki could always calm her down.

“Do you want me to stay?” Tikki asked. Marinette shook her head.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured.

“I’ll be close by if you need me,” Tikki promised. As Marinette watched her friend disappear into the night, the feeling she now recognized as fear crystalized and dug in deeper. This was her once-in-a-lifetime chance to court love. After tonight, she was back to avoiding romance like the plague. What if she was bland and didn’t know what to say? What if they spent the whole night awkwardly trying to force themselves to have fun? There was no farmer’s market to distract her, no Tikki to fall back on for comfort. It was just her and Chat Noir. Pretending to be in love.

And historically, love did not turn out well for her.

“Ready?” Marinette spun around and saw Chat leaning against the doorway, basked in the golden glow of twilight.

She immediately felt the difference, hanging tense in the air between them. As he walked down the stairs towards her, Chat moved with purpose, every movement strong and smooth. His tail wagged lazily, flirtatiously, and his green eyes smoldered with the night. She held her breath as Chat Noir stopped before her and held out his hand. Marinette prickled with anxiety - she couldn’t do this, she couldn’t take this risk again - but then she saw the promise of a nervous grin peeking out beneath his flirtatious smile, and the uncertain, excited shimmer in his eye, and she realized - he was playing.

Her worries vanished. She was with her partner now. They had spent years facing wild, inconceivable situations together, and they always came through alright. Whatever happened tonight, they could handle it. They could make anything happen.

Marinette’s body relaxed, and she narrowed her eyes with a sly smile. She rested her hand on his outstretched palm, and he bowed low to kiss it. She could play, too.

Chat guided her into the building and up the stairs towards the top floor. He stopped before a grand doorway, surrounded by a magnificent gold-inlaid frame. He rested his palm on the door and pushed it open as he announced the next phase of their date. “Trait two of a perfect relationship is Romantic.”

She was expected to gasp. So she did. It helped that the scene before her earned it.

The restaurant was beautiful. What the outside took away with its extravagance, the interior made up for with its subtly and taste. The lighting was set low. All other tables were pulled apart and cast in shadow, save for the single, small table for two in the center, framed on both sides by walls of gentle waterfalls and crawling ivy.

It was quiet. The kind of quiet that envelops an empty stage. Safe, calm, yet teeming with possibilities.

“It is important to be comfortable, but still, you need fire. You need passion. You need intention.” As if on cue, Chat Noir stepped forward and lit the candles on the table. They glowed softly but brightly, flickering with life at each movement they made. He turned back towards Marinette and gently pulled her close to him. He gave her plenty of time to pull away, to set the boundary of what was too much - but she didn't resist, instead letting her body press up against his and resting her palm upon his firm chest.

She became very aware of how close his lips were to hers. She blushed.

“Romance doesn’t just happen,” Chat rested his hand on the small of her back. “Passion doesn’t just happen. Both need sparks, but ultimately, it is up to you to stoke those sparks into a roaring hearth.” Chat Noir smiled. He appeared calm and collected, but Marinette saw the way his eyes were slightly too wide, how he breathed shallowly, how he blushed. “Are you ready?” He asked coolly.

It was an act, but it was so much more. She saw the twitch of his genuine smile underneath his cool, manufactured demeanor. Excitement sparked throughout her at the opportunity they had forged for themselves.

If Chat Noir wanted to perform, so would she. “I’m ready,” she said.

She pulled away from him, slowly, intentionally, letting her hand trail briefly across his stomach. She undid her bun, letting her hair cascade down. She didn’t look back.

“How did you manage to rent this place for the night..?” Marinette asked as she traced the delicate engravings on the outer wall. She had always guessed Chat Noir was comfortably secure, but she didn’t think he was that secure.

“This lovely place actually belongs to a friend.” Chat Noir followed behind her, not close enough to be forward, but close enough that she felt tingles running down her back. “It’s not open yet. I promised to give him a full, glowing review in exchange for a test-run. A private test-run.” Chat emphasized.

“He definitely deserves the glowing review,” Marinette said and turned to face him. “This style is exquisite, and the atmosphere is… electric.” She leaned back against the wall and pushed her chest forward. “Though I guess I haven’t even tasted the food.”

“Trust me. It will be well worth it.” Chat Noir leaned close, so close that Marinette could barely breathe. He lingered for a long, heavy moment, before brushing her hair out of her eyes and withdrawing. “Would you like anything to drink?” He asked as he turned away.

Marinette exhaled sharply, pressing her fingers against where he touched to lessen the intensity of the sparks. “Sure,” she said, out of breath. “T-That would be lovely.”

Marinette followed him to a wall filled with wine bottles, irritated that he had overwhelmed her so easily. He had outdone her - but she would be victorious next. She watched as Chat picked out a bottle of red towards the bottom and carried it over to the table. He stuck a claw in and popped out the cork. “Courtesy of my friend,” he said as he poured them both a glass. She watched his hand slightly wobble when he handed her the glass, sending ripples of reflected light across the red surface.

“You’re nervous,” Marinette stated as she accepted the glass, making sure their fingers brushed.

“Of course I am.” Chat answered her challenge with a strong and steady voice. “I’m in the company of an extraordinary lady who I would very much hate to disappoint.”

“I do not mean to worry you.” She did.

“It’s not your fault in the slightest, save for the fact that you have a magnetic nature and an alluring smile that I am compelled to preserve.” Marinette found herself smiling at the elaborate compliment before quickly drawing back to a composed expression. She prickled at the amused twinkle in his eye. His acting was good. Very good. She needed to turn up the charm.

“Would it soothe your nerves if I assured you that you have exceeded all of my expectations, that there is no other place in the world I would rather be tonight than right here, with you?” She mused. Oof, too much - but she would roll with it. She set her glass down and stepped closer to him. She half-expected him to move back, but he stood firm.

“There’s no antidote to my worries except the promise of a lifetime by your side, but hearing those words from your lips bring me more joy than you could ever know,” he answered and lifted her chin up. His flowery words made her feel much better about her own. As sparks transferred between them, she felt a surge of confidence. She knew exactly what would make him falter.

Marinette closed the distance between them and set her hands upon his chest. He stiffened at her sudden touch but immediately relaxed. Marinette lifted her head up, eyes half-closed and lips slightly parted. She exhaled softly and watched in delight as his eyelashes fluttered in response. She inched closer to him, lips open in invitation. Chat Noir inhaled sharply, and Marinette waited for him to withdraw in defeat - but instead, he gently cupped the sides of her head and lowered his lips to hers.

There was no backing out. Their lips were centimeters away, drawing ever closer. She had written their script, and she must carry it out.

But as they were about to kiss… she giggled.

She pursed her lips together, trying to hold back the laughter, trying to preserve the romance, but then Chat Noir snorted. She laughed again, and he matched her with a wide grin. They held their poses, a moment away from each other’s lips, both trying very hard not to break into laughter. They were not successful.

Marinette broke first. Chat’s face contorted into a ridiculous expression in his attempt to hide his amusement, and she buried her face into his chest and burst out laughing. Chat wrapped her in his arms and they clung to each other, roaring with laughter.

“We tried,” Chat said, sighing.

“We tried!” Marinette answered, before giggling and restarting the laughter.

“You are very good at being seductive,” Chat complimented.

“And you can actually flirt! I didn’t think you could do it without being cheesy,” Marinette praised. She regretted saying that the moment it came out of her mouth.

“Don’t count me out yet,” Chat Noir geared up. “I’ve got a bunch of *gouda* puns! They’re all *brie*-lliant! By the end of the night, you’ll be *feta* up with me!”

“Stop!” Marinette laughed and shoved him playfully.

“I really missed you, Marinette,” Chat said, but his mischievous voice belied his sweet words. “And you know what they say, ‘absence makes the heart grow *fondue*’”.

He got a punch for that one. A good-hearted one though.

“I actually got surprisingly into this whole thing,” Marinette mused. “But then I thought about… well… this whole thing is just…” Marinette stumbled.

“It’s weird!” Chat exclaimed.

“It’s weird!” Marinette answered, and they broke out laughing again.

“Do you want to make dinner?” Chat asked. Her head shot up.

“Please! I’m starving!”

The dining area had been beautiful, but the kitchen truly took her breath away. Marinette gasped and skipped forward. “There’s so much COUNTER SPACE!” She exclaimed. She rubbed the smooth steel surface with both hands. “Look at those cabinets! They’re GORGEOUS. Is that a wood-fired oven?! And-“ she gasped louder than she thought possible. “Chat!! Look at the KNIVES!” She ran over to the display and pulled one of them off. “These are just top notch!!”

Chat laughed and tenderly removed the knife from her. “My friend Wayhem has taste. He knows quality when he sees it. Though he does tend to get obsessed…”

“Wayhem sounds like my kind of guy,” Marinette cheered.

“Alright, let’s get cooking!” He tossed her a sleek gray apron. “I’m going to start chopping vegetables, and you-“

“I’m going to start my cookie dough. It needs to chill for at least half an hour,” Marinette said as she pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. She started checking cabinets for bowls and utensils and cheered when she found a stand mixer - it was the best possible brand, too. She stood up and clapped her hands together in preparation. She was going to enjoy this. “You got this?” She asked Chat.

“Oh, I’ve got this,” he retorted and tossed the knife in the air. He caught it and pointed it at her with a wink and a smirk. She stuck her tongue out and got to work.

Chat Noir could cook, oh yes. His cooking style was just as chaotic as his fighting. He didn’t measure anything, and he threw in strange mixtures of herbs and spices on a whim. Many times, Marinette was certain his decisions would lead to a disastrous result, and she’d start mentally preparing how she’d pretend to like his food - but whenever he held a spoon up to her mouth for her to taste, tail swinging excitedly, she found she didn’t have to lie at all. It was absolutely delicious.

“What’s it like, being Chat Noir again?” Marinette asked. She had finished the dough and was chopping green onion while she waited for it to chill.

“What do you mean?” Chat asked as he seasoned the vegetables. Marinette frowned.

“Well, I, um… I’ve been following you on the web. There hasn’t been a legit Chat Noir sighting since you left, and I’ve looked everywhere. I kinda assumed you haven’t transformed until… well, now.”

Chat chuckled. “I didn’t stop being Chat Noir. I’ve just been a lot more careful than I’ve ever been before. I tried to only transform in nature, where there aren’t a lot of people. When I do transform in the city, it’s always in the dead of night.”

“Why hide so much?” He swallowed and furrowed his eyebrows.

“I… didn’t feel like a hero anymore, and I didn’t want people to see me. I didn’t want them to think I could help them, and I didn’t want them to be angry when they learned I couldn’t.” Chat Noir murmured. “Though I guess I messed that up yesterday.”

“You were rather public with your return,” Marinette conceded. Chat chuckled, but Marinette could sense he was feeling nervous. She switched topics. “So you transformed in nature? What do you mean?”

“Well… like, I climbed Mount Blanc in the Alps. I spent a whole month at its base during spring one time. Rarely anyone goes out at night because it’s dangerous, so I could transform and hike all over without fear of running into anyone. It was absolutely thrilling - it was an exercise in endurance that I had never known before! I kept food and supplies in my staff, and I could practically go the whole time with detransforming. I could push myself to limits I never knew I had when I was just in the city,” Chat gushed. He got more and more excited as he spoke.

“I also learned scuba diving. I got certified and learned all of the best places to dive off the American west coast. I learned all the risks and tendencies of the ocean, then I would rent a boat and go out at night to dive as Chat Noir. Do you know how many fish appear at night? It’s like a whole new world! Pressure and decompression sickness doesn’t matter when I’m transformed, so I could dive deeper and longer than any human could. My night vision isn’t as good underwater because of the limited light, but there’s still so much I could see!”

Chat sighed. “I just… feel so alive when I’m doing stuff like that. It makes me feel like I could stay happily tucked away at the bottom of the ocean, or the top of the mountain, or the middle of a jungle, forever. It made me feel safe.”

Marinette was enthralled. She had never imagined doing things like that, and as she listened to him talk, all she could think about was, why hadn’t she? She imagined the feeling of charging across a mountainside, free falling through a great canyon, skating across a massive frozen lake… She jerked when she felt fingers brush her. She turned to Chat, who watched her knowingly.

“I know you were only able to be a superhero for a few hours, but it’s intoxicating, isn’t it?” Chat asked. Marinette chuckled.

“It’s amazing,” Marinette confessed. “I could do things I never thought possible, and the best part was I could use all of that strength to actually make a difference. It no longer mattered that I was the clumsiest person I knew, that I could trip while standing still on a flat surface - for once, I could be useful in a way that really mattered.”

Chat grinned and nudged her. She blushed and punched him.

“Sorry that you couldn’t continue being Multimouse, by the way. You were absolutely amazing. I would’ve loved to work with you again, but Ladybug is kind of a stickler about the identity stuff.”

“I don’t blame her at all,” Marinette said dryly. “When you have that kind of power, it’s too risky to let others know you have it.”

“In most cases, yes,” Chat conceded.

“In ALL cases,” Marinette pushed back. “You haven’t told anyone your secret, have you?” She barely held back the alarm in her voice.

Chat Noir shook his head. “I have no intention on getting even more on Ladybug’s bad side. And like I said, in most cases, it’s a really bad idea.” He paused for a moment to set the vegetables in the oven. “But I have seen what secrets can do to a person. It eats them alive, and everyone surrounding them. There comes a time when hiding that kind of power destroys a person and everything they fought for.” He finished darkly.

Anger shot through Marinette. “There is nothing more dangerous than revealing that kind of secret. You don’t get a choice of sharing your powers, because it will end with someone getting hurt.” Her words had more bite than she intended, frosted with painful memories, and she saw realization dawning in his eyes. She lowered her head, embarrassed and afraid.

“I’m sorry, Marinette. I didn’t mean to offend you. I didn’t consider how much pain Luka’s accident must cause you.” The mention of his name made her flinch. Chat reached out to her, but she avoided his touch.

“It’s in the past,” she said with finality. Chat opened his mouth as if to speak, but he didn’t say anything.

They worked in silence for a long while. Squirming with discomfort, Marinette spoke up first. “Can you pass me the flour?” Marinette said without looking up.

“Uh, yeah sure. Here.” Marinette raised her head and was promptly bombarded with a fistful of flour. She gasped, wiped the flour from her eyes, and glared at Chat Noir.

“What the HELL?” She screeched.

“I was trying to comfort you.” His expression was wild, as if he didn’t know what he was doing.

“By throwing flour in my face?”

“…Yes.” He threw another handful at her. She could feel herself breaking, but she sank her teeth into her annoyance and held on like hell.

He dealt the final blow. “You know, it is traditional to get a girl *flours* on a date.”

It worked, however much she didn’t want it to. She tried to remain angry, but a giggle broke through, and she collapsed into a fit of giggles.

“I’m sorry,” Chat Noir repeated. Marinette took a deep breath and smiled.

“It’s okay,” she assured. It really was. She may have lost Luka in her life, but he was now getting to live his own life, safe from the world of superheroes and supervillains. She understood Chat must feel the same way. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”

Chat Noir was an excellent cook, but his timing was off. The pasta was ready ages before the vegetables. It didn’t matter though, because they were both snacking cooks. They broke into the bread before they even started cooking the pasta, and as they drank, they kept stealing more and more bits of food and cookies. As soon as the pasta was finished, they dug into it, already two bites in before they gathered enough decency to at least put it on a plate. They didn’t bother leaving the kitchen.

Afterwards, they both sat on the counter, content with the delicious food in their stomachs and nibbling on the leftover bread. Chat Noir was right - that was the best meal she’s had in a long time, and it wasn’t because of the food. Chat tore off a chunk of bread and handed it to her.

She accepted it, touched by the act. “I can honestly say this has been the best night I’ve had in a long time. Thanks for letting me live my fantasy for a bit.”

“Thank you for letting me be a part of it. It’s so much better getting to skip right to the good stuff of a relationship.” Chat said through chewing his bread. “Though I must say, our execution was rather off.”

“I think we did reasonably well, considering. Don’t get me wrong - all of this is absolutely crazy. But then again, I guess I’ve been missing chaos lately. And you, sir, are very chaotic.”

“And you, princess, are the perfect conduit.” Chat smirked and handed her another piece of bread. She took it, smirking right back at him. She wouldn’t mind getting to do this every night.

“So, what was the last phase?” Marinette asked. Chat smirked and looked away. “Come on, tell me!”

“I thought we ended the whole charade after that failure of a kiss,” Chat said teasingly.

“I was promised the full treatment. Don’t skimp out on me!” She felt a strong urge to touch him, so she pushed his shoulder.

Chat chuckled, took her hand in his, and squeezed. She realized he was nervous. He inhaled slightly, as if preparing to speak, then withdrew when the words couldn’t seem to come out. It was endearing to see Chat Noir at lack for words for once in their relationship.

Finally, he spoke. “The last trait of a perfect relationship is Vulnerable. In order for a relationship to last, in order for a relationship to be true, you must be vulnerable. You must be honest. You must be able to trust your partner with your life - all of the good, all of the disgusting, all of the parts that just are.”

His words resonated deeply with her. Marinette’s heart twinged with this wayward wish for a companion she could be her everything with. “Did you plan anything for this phase?” She asked. Chat nodded and shifted along the counter until he reached the cutout in the kitchen wall where guests could view the cooks at work. He motioned Marinette over, and they both peered out into the restaurant.

Chat pointed to a booth in the corner. “I was going to take you there. When you open the curtains, you can see an incredible view of the city. I wanted to just sit there and talk with you. The kind of talking you can do for a whole night without realizing the passing of time. The kind of talking where you discuss your innermost desires and beliefs, and feel completely seen and accepted. Do you know what I mean?”

Marinette smiled. “Yeah, I know.” She sat back up and smiled sadly. “But I also know you can’t force those kind of talks.”

“Just like you can’t force romance,” he said with a wink. Chat pushed himself back to into a sitting position, rested his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, inexplicably, Marinette wanted to feel him against her again. She gripped the edges of the counter stiffly, unsure of what to do. Finally, she decided to lean against him, slowly, (platonically), and let him decide what to do next. She laid back against his warm body, waiting for him to shift away or tell her to move - but instead, he moved towards her to make her more comfortable. She relaxed. It was a perfect fit. A moment later, Chat slipped her hand into his.

“Thank you,” Chat said. “For doing this with me.” He squeezed her hand, sending shockwaves through her. Marinette had forgotten how much could be shared within a single squeeze of held hands.

Her entire body started burning.

“I feel ashamed,” she managed. “We didn’t even use the lovely table you set up.”

“That’s perfectly alright. I prefer it this way.” He rested his head upon hers. Everything grew fuzzy as he drew near, and she decided that she didn’t dislike it. She didn’t think when she lifted her head towards him, and she didn’t think when he lowered his lips towards hers.

The kiss was perfectly mutual. And it was perfectly real.

They broke away, slowly, luxuriously. She missed his warmth immediately. So she pulled him in and kissed him again. Guided by his strong hands, she pulled herself onto his lap and leaned in close.

This is temporary, Marinette told herself as she disappeared into his kiss. She breathed him in deeply. This is all a fantasy.

But what a fun fantasy it is.

--

Read Ch. 5: Night of No Consequences, or if you’re not interested in spicier content, skip forward to Ch. 6: This is Everything You Want >>

Read the Full Story >>

[sheikah]

Close Quarters

This is the first bit of a fic that I intended to be for @annabelleebythesea back in December (hence the winter and Christmas setting haha) but couldn’t finish in time. It’s still only halfway done, but I’ve decided to publish the first part so that it’ll hopefully motivate me to finish the rest later :) This is unbeta’d and just for fun. Enjoy! Read below or on AO3.

“Think of it as … professional development.” Olenna Tyrell smiled blithely as the room erupted with protests. It was one thing to ask faculty to attend an in-service meeting before the Christmas holiday, but quite another to force them up the mountains for a team-building retreat. Even Dany, ordinarily agreeable and understanding when it came to Olenna’s stringent policies, couldn’t help feeling a little mutinous at the idea.

“And just what professional qualities will we be developing while holed up in your time share, Principal Tyrell?” Cersei Lannister’s dislike for their principal was well-known, and as the drama teacher she was, expectedly, outspoken and a little theatrical.

For once, Dany found herself in agreement with Cersei, however impertinent her question. She couldn’t see the logic in a faculty ski trip.  

True, Dany was somewhat new to White Harbor and its flagship secondary school, Winterfell High. She was in her second year of employment teaching history and had yet to establish many lasting friendships among her fellow teachers. But that was alright. Friends and colleagues weren’t a part of her classroom, and she managed quite well in the instruction of her classes on her own. No snowy excursions or forced mingling with other faculty were going to improve her rapport with her students.

But unlike many of the outraged teachers in the room Dany lacked a valid excuse for avoiding a holiday getaway. She had no family waiting back home for a visit, no children of her own to look after. In all likelihood she would spend the entire holiday break at home with her three cats were it not for this trip. A lonely prospect, but not enough to stoke her interest in the retreat.

To her right, Tyrion Lannister, resident wine-sodden English teacher, shifted restlessly in his seat, a sardonic grin forming on his lips.

“I hear the luge is all the rage on the conference circuit this semester. Excellent way to build your CV.” There was a scatter of chuckles from among the gathered faculty, though Cersei, Tyrion’s elder sister, seemed less than amused.

Principal Tyrell merely stared at Tyrion without a flicker of warmth until the room fell silent again.

“If you ever bothered to attend a conference, instead of spending your weekends at the pub, you’d understand the importance of networking with others in your field, Mr. Lannister,” she returned coolly.

Tyrion sat up a little straighter at the jab, but offered no argument.

“That’s all very well,” Cersei pressed, forcing a strained smile. “But we’re not in one another’s fields, are we? Missandei is fluent in languages I’ve never heard of, but she can’t teach Mr. Snow’s students trigonometry. Neither of them can direct a full theatrical production. Our work is different. Each of us, every day, has a different approach to what we do. And sending us all into the mountains for some juvenile bonding ritual is no way to improve our test scores.”

“What do you care about test scores?” Sansa Stark demanded from the next row over. “You’re the theater teacher.”

“You’re one to talk. As if home ec is really setting our girls up for success on the SAT,” Cersei sneered.

“It’s not just about that. A trip like this, we might all get to know each other.” Sansa offered Olenna an angelic smile. If nothing else, she was better at faking it than the rest of them.

“Yes,” agreed Oberyn Martell, eyebrows wagging suggestively. “I think we could stand getting to know another better.”

Dany sighed, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at them both. Sansa was the home economics teacher and a nice girl from what little Dany knew of her, if a bit of a brownnose. But her support of Olenna’s silly trip felt like treachery to the rest of them. And as for Oberyn, the always-inappropriate gym coach? He was just eager for an excuse to carouse with his colleagues

“It’s about communication,” Olenna insisted. “Look at you all! You’re riotous at the prospect of a paid holiday simply because it involves interaction with one another. You need each other. To discuss learning trends, problems across disciplines, classroom management styles, conflict resolution, conduct issues, ideas for student engagement. You’re almost as detached as our phone-obsessed teenagers! But we need to work together, to improve our learning environment, student completion, and, evidently, faculty morale.”

A scoff sounded behind her and Dany turned to find the aforementioned Mr. Snow glowering as usual. Jon was the resident math teacher. He was young, like Dany, and the students loved him. She couldn’t imagine why.

“Something to add, Mr. Snow?” Dany asked, turning in her seat to fix him with her lilac stare. There was a flash of surprise in his eyes when they found hers, but it was gone just as quickly.

“Of course not, Ms. Targaryen.” There was ice in his reply, a promise of more and unkinder words left unspoken. Typical.

Olenna passed a curious glance between the two of them before nodding with finality.

“Good. With that settled you’ll all receive the details of your itinerary through your faculty email. The only thing left to decide on is transportation arrangements.”

“Transportation?” Tyrion asked. “Won’t we all just pile merrily into one of those yellow deathtraps the students are lucky enough to ride in every day?”

Olenna’s glare was enough to make even Dany flinch.

“Our school busses are very safe, Mr. Lannister, I assure you. The incident last year had nothing to do with the integrity of the vehicle. Mr. Dondarrion didn’t see the oncoming vehicle in time on account of his … impaired sight.”

Tyrion only blinked at Olenna, his smile never wavering. It took all of Dany’s self-control not to erupt into laughter at his side.

“For the gods’ sake, can we end this meeting? What transportation are you providing, Principal Tyrell?” Cersei demanded, already standing to leave.

“None.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me,” Olenna answered calmly. “None. While our busses are more than safe for their intended purposes they aren’t rated for ascent to high elevations, especially in the winter months. No. You’ll need to take your own vehicles. We’ll pay for your mileage, of course, but we’re only budgeted for three reimbursements, so you’ll need to carpool.”

A synchronized groan rose all around the room, but Dany was silent, panic overtaking her at this latest development. She hadn’t considered the possibility that she might need to drive herself, much less any others. She wasn’t used to driving here, to the snow-laden roads and their treacherous slickness. Back home, she could count on one hand the number of times the roads had frozen over. Her city wasn’t prepared for it. Why bother? That far South, it simply wasn’t cold enough. So any time the conditions didn’t favor driving, businesses simply closed, the citizens bundled up safely in their homes until the streets were passable again.

Since the move to White Harbor Dany had used a rideshare service to get to work when the weather was poor, always telling herself that she’d learn how to drive in the snow eventually, when she was ready. Just not yet.

Apparently she’d have to teach herself over the next two days. That, or hope she was lucky enough not to be chosen to ferry the others up the mountain in her car.

“Cersei,” Olenna said, interrupting her reverie. She squinted down at a notebook that lay open on the podium before her. “You’ll drive up first, being that you’ve got no after-school engagements on Friday. Based on their schedules, it looks like you can take Sansa and Missandei with you.”

Cersei swore under her breath but nodded, Sansa looking more than a little disappointed behind her. In front of Dany, Missandei turned in her seat, a grimace of dismay on her pretty face.

“Fuck me,” she mouthed, shaking her head. No one in their right mind would want to ride up with Cersei. Dany couldn’t help sympathizing her with her friend. She indulged in a bit of pity for herself, too. She’d hoped that if nothing else, she and Missandei would at least ride together.

“Samwell,” Olenna continued, still eyeing the schedule carefully. “You’ll also leave Friday afternoon, with Oberyn, Tyrion, and my granddaughter.” This time Dany couldn’t suppress her snort of amusement. Of all the employees at Winterfell High, Samwell Tarly was the most tightly wound and by-the-book. He was a nervous man, always wary of disgruntled students and overbearing parents. How the timid librarian was going to survive a weekend away with the likes of Oberyn and Tyrion ribbing him was beyond her. At least Olenna’s lovely granddaughter, Margaery, would be there. She was kind but firm, the students’ best-loved counselor. With her around, the men wouldn’t be too hard on Sam.

Looking around the room, Dany realized with horror that this left only three people unassigned: herself, Davos Seaworth, the aging guidance counselor, and Jon Snow.

“Mr. Seaworth is out with the flu,” Olenna reported, finally looking up from her schedule. “So that leaves …  Ms. Targaryen, you have the honors’ society meeting Friday evening. And Mr. Snow, you’ve got fencing practice. That means the two of you will have to ride together, leaving Friday night.”

No.

Dany opened her mouth to protest but Olenna spoke first, her eyes suddenly glued to the ornate gold watch on her wrist.

“We’ll adjourn now. Much to do. Look for more information in your emails.” With that, the principal bustled out of the room in a sweep of her dark green skirt, leaving the rest of them grumbling in her wake.

“I can’t believe this,” Dany muttered, meeting Missandei’s pitying gaze. “I can’t ride up with Jon.”

She turned hesitantly to see if he was still behind her, wondering if she should approach him first to make a plan, explain that she couldn’t drive. But he was already gone, the desk he’d been sitting at vacant.

“What is it with the two of you anyway?” Tyrion asked, quirking a brow at her as they filed out of the room with the others.

“What do mean? Nothing.” Dany paused, staring down to fiddle at a hangnail on her thumb as she scrambled for the right words, determinedly avoiding Missandei’s knowing look. “I don’t like him is all. I’d think even you could understand that. He isn’t the friendly sort.”

The lie was easy, natural so that she almost believed it herself. The truth was less simple, and dodging it now only brought the memories back with staggering force.

It had been almost a year since the office Christmas party. Dany had only been teaching at Winterfell for three months back then, still learning the ropes, still getting to know its colorful cast of faculty and staff

She and Missandei had been fast friends. They were close in age, hired at the same time, and Dany’s interest in world history paired well with Missandei’s knowledge of various languages and cultures. They often planned joint projects in their classes together, had dinner on the weekends, and spent lazy evenings at one another’s apartments grading papers and splitting a bottle of wine.

Dany’s friendship with Tyrion was less conventional. He’d been dubbed her “new faculty mentor,” a job he approached with dry humor and no real advice. But the arrangement had paired them together at various work functions until she had developed a grudging affection for the sardonic older man.

Dany was grateful for her newfound friends, and for the most part she was happy with her colleagues at Winterfell; but even then, Jon Snow had found his way under her skin. He was quiet and withdrawn in the lounge, his nose always in a book, earbuds in place to block out any chance at the distraction of conversation. He taught math, she knew, but he was usually reading fiction instead of working through equations. Adventure thrillers and fantasy epics.

Every day he brought a healthy lunch from home, and he was almost always early through the door in the morning because he came to work straight from the gym. His dark-colored dress shirts fit well enough to show the sturdy build of his arms and shoulders. At least his hard work was paying off.

Outside his classroom he never talked to anyone save his best friend, Sam, and the occasional chat with Tyrion for a book recommendation. Even his cousin, Sansa, seemed to prefer Margaery to the company of the seemingly cold Jon. So Mr. Snow was a man of rigid discipline and few words, but Dany liked nothing more than a hopeless cause.

It didn’t help matters that she frequently looked up from her morning coffee in the lounge to find him watching her silently from his seat across the room. The moment she caught him looking he’d quickly drop his gaze back to the book in his lap. Ordinarily it would have annoyed her to be stared at, but Jon’s attention was a little flattering. He was handsome, with a fine, bearded jaw and big brown eyes framed by Warby Parker wayfarers. Yet despite his frequent glances her way, they’d never spoken past the obligatory introduction in her first week.

Jon’s withdrawn behavior would’ve been sufficient to catch her attention on its own. Dany had a history of involvement with inappropriate or unavailable men, after all. Her catastrophic breakup with Drogo would have been reason enough to move across the country, even without the job offer at Winterfell. So Dany had been ready to write Jon off as another case of her inconvenient attraction to, for lack of a better word, assholes.

But then she’d seen Jon teaching. She’d happened by his classroom on the way to the lounge during her free period, and the little rectangular window into his room framed a portrait of an entirely different man.

He was animated and energetic, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows as he moved from one corner of the board to the next, scrawling out numbers and graphs and turning to his students with a smile so dazzling it stopped her in her tracks. Who got that excited about algebra?

Maybe he wasn’t the office grump after all, just a man who didn’t much care for idle small talk and forced pleasantries. Dany could respect that. She wasn’t exactly a social butterfly herself, and being the new girl in a small town like White Harbor was a lonely business. A part of her wanted to fix that.

So she’d gotten absurdly dolled up for the office Christmas party that year, barely zipping herself into a sequined red cocktail dress and using the occasion to break in a pair of her highest heels, shiny black patent leather.

The party was held off-campus so that they could all indulge in the booze they so desperately needed around the holidays. The school’s hospitality fund had gone toward an open tab at the sports bar off Main Street, Tyrion’s favorite weekend haunt.

The place had been spruced up for Christmas, string lights along the bar, red and green window paint near the entrance broadcasting season’s greetings to the passersby. The tables had been pushed back or removed to make space for a crude dance floor, and music was blasting through the sound system at a near-deafening volume.

Dany could feel the bass in her bones, a humming vibration that excited her. It’d been too long since she’d had any real fun or done anything for herself. She was always so focused—working toward her next career goal, learning new ways to approach her students. That night was supposed to be different.

Things started off well enough. She slid up on the barstool next to Tyrion, already a few beers in and chatting up the bartender.

“Targaryen!” he’d greeted her enthusiastically before sweeping his eyes over her dress. “You look like an HR violation waiting to happen.”

Dany snorted, shaking her head demurely. That was good. She hadn’t worn a skin-tight, sparkly dress to blend into the background. But it wasn’t Tyrion’s admiration she was after.

“Put her first drink on me,” he instructed the bartender, throwing a friendly nod Dany’s way.

“Thanks. Vodka soda, please. With a twist.”

Tyrion frowned at her drink order.

“And two shots of whiskey straight up,” he added, winking at Dany’s surprise.

“Tyrion, no,” she protested quickly. “That’s too much, I—”

“Not to worry,” he sang out with a grin. “It’s not for me. One for you, and one to quiet down this insufferable chatterbox to my left.”

“Who?” she wondered aloud. Tyrion just patted the bartop twice in parting and slipped easily from his seat and onto the floor. On the other side of his now-empty stool sat Jon Snow. His expression was one of confusion to match Dany’s own as Tyrion picked up his drink and backed away from them.“

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he warned, and with a wink, he disappeared into the crowd.

Dany scoffed before turning back to Jon. He looked smart in a slim cut black suit. He wore black a lot, she’d noticed. Black like his hair. He had nice hair.

“Hi,” she offered simply. The greeting came out in an awkward sort of yell to be heard over the music and the dead space of the empty seat between them.

“Uh, yeah. Hey,” Jon returned. She saw his gaze dip to take in her outfit, the plunge of her neckline. He swallowed with a bob of his Adam’s apple before dragging his eyes back to hers.

A clink of glass against the bar signaled the arrival of the shots and Dany eyed them apprehensively. She didn’t drink nearly often enough to be comfortable shooting whiskey. But she’d resolved to have fun tonight. To relax. And with this night marking the beginning of a week’s holiday break from work, she didn’t have any reason to be up early the next day.

“We don’t have to—I mean, you don’t have to take it. Tyrion is just—he’s pushy. But you don’t have to drink that,” Jon assured her, leaning across the stool to be heard over the noise of the bar.

That’s more words than you’ve ever said to me, Dany thought, a smile tugging at her red-lacquered lips.

“I know,” she said, taking the shots in hand. She held one out to Jon with a nod of encouragement. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Snow.”

Jon stared at her hand for a moment of indecision before accepting the proffered whiskey.

“Merry Christmas, Daenerys.”

“You can call me Dany,” she offered. “My friends call me Dany.”

They toasted with a clink of their glasses that sloshed some of the liquid onto Dany’s fingers before she brought it to her mouth and downed it one gulp. It was strong and bitter on her tongue, burning all the way down her throat, and Dany had to fight the urge to gag from the taste. She’d never been one for hard liquor.

Jon appeared totally unaffected, swallowing it without the merest wince of discomfort. He looked up just as Dany was sucking the spilled, sticky drops off her skin, eyes rivetted to the sight of her finger between her lips. He shifted in his seat before turning back to the bar.

Dany sighed, taking the vodka soda Tyrion had bought for her from the bartop and sipping it to dispel the lingering flavor of the whiskey. She could see Jon fidgeting out of the corner of her eye, nursing a pint of some draught. The empty seat between them felt like a canyon. She wanted him to scoot over and sit by her. Strike up conversation. Something.

But he didn’t. Instead he traced a fingertip idly through the frost of condensation on his beer glass, determinedly keeping his eyes straight ahead. Apparently, he was done talking.

Dany pressed her lips together in irritation, her stare boring into the side of his head. She wasn’t used to this, to having to be the pursuer. In any other circumstance she would be the one rebuffing a man’s advances.

She polished off her whole drink waiting for him to make a move. And then another. It was a lot for someone her size. Even more for someone who drank as seldom as she. But Jon’s silence was maddening enough to keep her going, anything for a distraction from the awkward tension that hung palpably between them.

It was tempting to abandon him altogether and join the crowd on the dancefloor. Dany had already spied Missandei in a sleek black cocktail dress, dancing close with her boyfriend Grey. They looked happy. And she knew that somewhere out there Tyrion was several whiskies deep and engaged in some drunken philosophical discourse with an unwilling participant. Most likely Samwell Tarly. That’d be something to watch.

But she was too curious about Jon to leave things as they were. This was the closest they’d gotten to a real conversation. She’d seen him all those times in the lounge at work, even in faculty meetings. He stared at her. That meant he was attracted to her, didn’t it? So what was he waiting for?

Missandei bellied up to the bar next to her, giggling helplessly, Grey in tow.

“Dany!” she greeted her, patting her a little too hard on the back before ordering another glass of wine.

“Why aren’t you dancing?”

“Wrong shoes for it,” she fibbed, shrugging. “Enjoying the party?”

“Very much,” Missandei confirmed. Grey only smiled. He didn’t speak much English, which was just as well since Missandei was an expert in his native Valyrian tongue.

When her wine was delivered Missandei raised it to Dany, who toasted her with a clink of her own glass.

“Merry Christmas, Dany.”

“Merry Christmas,” she returned brightly. Missandei’s jovial spirit was infectious, even as she peered over Dany’s shoulder, no-doubt eyeing her sulking neighbor. She raised a brown questioningly at Dany before taking another sip of her wine.

“See you out there then?”

“Maybe later,” Dany replied, hoping it was true. She had to admit that it looked like a lot more fun than her current occupation.

When the couple had gone, she turned back to Jon with a sigh loud enough to be heard even over the boom of the music.

“So,” she began, scooting toward him and onto the empty barstool at last. “What’s your problem?”

His face hardened instantly, posture going rigid.

“Excuse me?”

She was being rude. She knew that much, but the heady combination of liquid courage coursing through her veins and the weeks of compounded curiosity about this man spurred her on anyway.

“Why did you come here if you’re only going to sit there pouting?”

“I’m not pouting. I’m having a pint at a bar. What else would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, dance.”

He scoffed, shaking his head.

“I don’t dance.”

Dany rolled her eyes, sucking at her straw as it rattled loudly in her empty glass.

“Another one, please,” she called, raising her drink in the air to call the bartender over their way.

“You might want to slow down,” Jon cautioned. “You’ve been putting those away pretty fast all night.”

“So you’ve been watching me ‘all night,’ but couldn’t bother saying a word?” Jon shrunk back, clearly uncomfortable. Good, Dany thought. At least he can feel something.

When her drink arrived she took it at once, defiantly holding Jon’s gaze as she brought the straw to her lips and took a deep drink. The nerve of him, really, telling her she ought to slow down. He made no further protests, though, and Dany could feel his eyes on her mouth as she drank.

“So you don’t dance,” she noted. “And you don’t talk.”

“I never said I didn’t talk,” he fired back.

“But you haven’t.”

“Well, neither have you!”

Fair enough. She swallowed, trying to find a suitable response. He was right, of course. But she’d left the door open for conversation, hadn’t she? She’d told him her nickname, she’d taken the gods-damned shot of whiskey. The ball had been in his court, then, and he’d let it roll right past him. For an hour.

“Fine,” she relented finally. “We’re talking now. So, um. Why did you come here tonight, anyway? This doesn’t really seem like your scene.”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing myself,” he answered, swishing his drink idly in his hand. “This isn’t exactly going how I’d thought it would.”

Interesting.

“How did you think it would go?”

His hand stilled around his glass, his eyes finding hers. There was something in them that sucked the air right out of her, something serious and suggestive. Maybe she was right, after all. Maybe he did want her.

“I, ah.” Jon cleared his throat. “I don’t know. I thought for sure Tyrion would’ve been kicked out by now.”

She giggled at his unexpected humor, nearly toppling from her precarious seat on the stool. “Maybe he has,” she pointed out, shrugging. “Haven’t seen him in awhile, have we?”

Jon smiled at that—a handsome, disarming smile. It put her at ease to see it, to be reminded that under his coarse exterior was the kind man she’d seen in the classroom before.

“So when you aren’t sitting at bars avoiding dancing and talking,” she teased. “What do you do for fun?”

He shrugged. “I like training, exercise. I run and hike with my dog. I do a bit of reading. And I’m a fencing instructor.”

Dany snorted, inhaling a burning swig of her vodka soda and coughing to clear it. Her eyes teared from the choking sensation, but even through the blur she could see Jon’s scowl.

“Fencing?” she asked, gasping for breath. “Fencing?”

“Aye, fencing,” he answered, bristling. “What of it?”

“You’re—you’re a nerd, Jon Snow,” she announced, his obvious grumpiness only adding to her amusement. She tried to imagine it, Jon in one of those little white practice suits she’d seen in the movies, face hidden behind a mesh mask, curls stuffed under a helmet, sword-fighting like they were in some period drama. Being a history nerd herself she could appreciate the hobby, but it didn’t make the idea of the surly Jon prancing his way through fencing footwork any less hilarious.

“A ‘nerd?’ Gods, what are you, ten?” he demanded, crossing his arms.

“You’re a fencing math teacher. Face it.”

“Fencing is a noble craft, an art-form dating back centuries. You ought to know, history expert and all.”

“Still a nerd,” she grinned.

“I’m not,” he insisted, but she could see the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

“Alright, if you’re not a nerd, then prove it. A nerd wouldn’t dance with me,” she challenged playfully. “Come on, prove me wrong.”

He blinked at her, slowly uncrossing his arms.

“Fine,” he agreed, shrugging out of his jacket. He stood up and held out a hand, refusing to meet her eyes. “One song.”

Dany’s lips curled upward in a sultry grin, excitement thrumming through her. She wanted him. More than she’d thought she would, and the prospect of dancing with him had her body bursting with anxious energy. She took a final sip of her drink before setting it on the bartop next to her clutch and accepting Jon’s hand.

It was warm, warm and rough and big. He laced his fingers through hers and then turned away leading her through the press of bar patrons and out to the dancefloor.

The crowd had somewhat thinned from earlier that night, though Missandei and Grey were still going; Margaery and Sansa, too, laughing breathlessly and stumbling about. Dany didn’t really see anyone else she recognized among the dancers, though it was hard to tell in the semi-darkness.

The music was even louder here, the tall speakers abutting the crude wooden dancefloor. It was typical club fare, lots of bass, energetic beat. Ordinarily it wasn’t Dany’s type of music, but tonight she couldn’t have chosen anything better. When Jon turned to face her she saw uncertainty and nervousness etched into his features, but when she guided his hands to her hips they felt natural enough, and soon they were swaying and stepping in time with the song.

It didn’t take long for them to slip into an easy rhythm. The music pounded out louder than her own pulse in her ears, the dark of the bar casting everything in a haze of smoke and laughter. Dany was just drunk enough to be fearless and free. She didn’t even notice when she stepped out of turn, or the pain in her feet from her ill-advised stilettos. Everything blurred together into sensation and instinct.

It had been awhile, but Dany had loved dancing and clubbing with her friends back home. Even so, dancing with a man was different. She’d always seen it as a test of chemistry, rhythm and compatibility made physical. If that was true, Jon was passing the test with flying colors, holding her temptingly close one moment and spinning her out with an effortless flow in the next. Dany found herself returning the flash of his smile peeping out at her in the dark. He was good.

“I thought you couldn’t dance!”

“I never said I couldn’t,” he shouted back over the music, lifting her abruptly out of a dip, her hair whipping in the air. “I said I didn’t.”

For a heated moment they stood, breathing heavily from the dance, her face inches from his.

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

The song ended on an instant of silence, their panting breaths suddenly deafening in her ears. Dany tried to hide her disappointment. It was over too quickly. Jon’s closeness, the grip of his hands and the dizzy excitement of moving with him on the dancefloor had only served to make her want him more. A tease. But despite his earlier “one song” declaration, when the next song filled the room with sound, he didn’t let her go.

Instead, he twirled her around in his arms, plastering her body to his and splaying his palms over her hips to hold her against him. She gasped, covering his hands with her own and relaxing into his hold. The song was slower than the first, and she writhed against Jon in time with the beat, her ass pressing at his hips.

She fell into something like a trance. All their prior hesitance melted away into a delicious euphoria as she danced shamelessly in Jon’s arms, breathing in the spice of his cologne, relishing in the heat of his palms through her dress, his breath at her ear and on her neck as they moved together. The second song blended into a third, and then a fourth, and soon Dany stopped counting. She felt wild and desirable, sweating from exertion, hair a mess and skin flushed. Jon was everywhere, all lingering touches and breathy exhales, his body moving sinuously with hers.

It felt filthy to dance with him this way, especially at a work function of all things. But Dany found it hard to care about prying eyes with Jon’s hands sliding up from her waist, the pronounced feel of what she knew to be his erection throbbing at her backside.

For months she’d done nothing more than steal a glance across the staff lounge, pass in the hall close enough to brush his shoulder. Every moment had made her ache with some unsatisfied need. To be so close now, finally, was enough to make her wet with anticipation. The palpable attraction between them, the reciprocal, fluid sync of their movement went beyond anything she’d ever expected.

Jon’s quiet reserve had intrigued her before, but she’d never dreamt it was masking this—that underneath his careful exterior he was so passionate and uninhibited. It was like her touch had flipped a switch, lit a fire, burning his mask away to reveal a wolf in a man’s clothing. Yes—a wolf, and she wanted nothing so much as to be devoured.

Dany could feel her dress riding up almost to her hips as she danced, grinding back on Jon with his leg shoved up between hers. Every touch was like a promise of what could be if only they weren’t in public, if only they were alone.

She lifted her hands to feel for him behind her, grabbing blindly for his face, her fingers raking through his short beard. His palm was hot on her throat, guiding her head back until it rested at his shoulder, angling her face to his.

All at once the music crescendoed and Dany crushed their mouths together, grateful then for the towering heels that gave her height enough to match him. The kiss was rough and frantic, charged with all the building fervor from their dance. His lips were soft but unyielding, his beard scraping roughly at her mouth as he opened his lips to kiss her deeply. She met the hot slick of his tongue with her own, tasting the faint tang of his beer, the cool of some minty gum.

Jon dropped a hand from her jaw down lower to traverse the décolletage over her dress, then lower still, scandalously low. She moaned into his open mouth as he all but groped her through the fabric. She hadn’t worn a bra with the strapless dress, leaving nothing but the thin, sequined fabric between the flesh of his palm and the aching sensitivity of her nipple.

It was getting to be too much, too intimate, and even her booze-drenched awareness knew how wildly inappropriate it was, how mortified she’d be if their colleagues noticed what was happening. But it was only when Jon pulled back, gasping, that she had the clarity of mind to act.

She turned around in Jon’s arms to face him properly, still breathless from the kiss. She stood, drinking in the sight of him. His eyes were lidded and dazed, lips wet and kiss-swollen. Her lipstick was smeared all over his face. It only made her want him more, like she’d marked him, like he was hers—no longer that untouchable-hot-guy from work but the very-fuckable-hot-guy who’d all but dry humped her on the dancefloor.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” she breathed, leaning in to speak at the shell of his ear.

“Okay.”

Dany took his hand and marched him off the dancefloor, navigating through the throng of people and back to their former places at the bar. In a daze she collected her purse and settled up her bar tab, staring at her reflection in the huge mirror that spread across the wall behind the bar. She looked strange and unfamiliar, her eyes ringed in dark, smudging makeup, hair sticking to her damp skin, cheeks flaming.

This was completely mad. She was a schoolteacher. A sensible and responsible woman. She didn’t go out to clubs picking up men, especially not men she’d have to confront in the staff lounge at work after the fact.

She was wrenched from her thoughts when Jon came up behind her. He was back in his suit jacket, looking at least a little more put-together than she did. She noted with some satisfaction that there were still faint splotches of pink coloring his face from her lipstick. His arms wound around her waist and he pressed a kiss to her shoulder before meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Ready to go, gorgeous?”

Dany’s heart thumped double-time at the possessive wrap of his embrace, the hint of mischief in his voice. How could she say no?

At her eager nod of assent Jon helped her into her coat and then guided her through the throng and out the door. When the brisk chill of the night air hit them on the sidewalk he pulled her in close, enveloping her in warmth. Dany let out a breath, nestling against his chest

“I didn’t drive here,” she murmured.

“Me neither.” Jon fished in his pocket for his phone, still shielding her between his arms as his thumbs tapped the screen rapidly, calling an Uber.

“My place or yours?” she whispered, stifling a giggle at the cliché. She could hardly believe it even now. She wasn’t one for one-night stands or going home with a guy on the first date. But she couldn’t stomach facing the silent loneliness of her cold apartment. Not tonight. And while Dany wanted to blame it on the vodka sodas, it was more than lust or loneliness that drew her to Jon. She liked him. She’d never been good at any of this, but he made it easy, natural.

“Uh—what’s your address?”

Dany spun in his arms, wriggling his phone out of his grip to type in her address. It took a few attempts, her fingers clumsy and unwieldy from the booze.

“Let me—” Jon began, noting her difficulty.

“I’ve got it,” she insisted, shrugging him off. After two more tries she finally spelled her street name correctly, confirming their ride. “Hope you like cats, Jon Snow,” she said with a grin, returning his phone to his pocket.

He smiled, nodding, but there was something off in his eyes. He looked distracted. Different. Dany opened her mouth to ask what was wrong but thought better of it when their ride arrived. The driver shot them an impatient glare and Jon dropped his arms from her sides, moving to get the door.

At Jon’s invitation Dany got in first, sliding across the back seat to make room for him beside her. When he didn’t follow she leaned over to peer up at him where he stood framed in the car doorway, a hand on the hood. He was looking down at her with an inscrutable expression that made her stomach drop.

“Be safe tonight, okay?”

“What? What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbled, his dark eyes shifting away.

“What do you mean? Jon, get in,” she said, hating the pleading tone that entered her voice. “Don’t do this.”

“Good night, Dany.”

He pushed away from the car, shutting the door hard and stepping back off the curb. Dany gaped at him, scooting hurriedly toward the window and fumbling with the controls to lower it, but the car pulled away before she could.

Pressing her face to the cold glass she could just make out Jon’s shrinking form. He remained on the sidewalk, watching the retreating vehicle until they were out of sight. Even then, she couldn’t help noting how handsome he looked—hair tousled in the breeze, hands jammed in the pockets of his well-tailored slacks.

Asshole, she thought bitterly.

That night the alcohol was enough to soothe her to sleep in spite of her wounded pride and infuriating lust. But the rest of her week’s holiday from classes gave her ample time to nurse a healthy rage at and loathing for Jon. It was cruel of him, teasing her that way, touching her that way, kissing her that way, only to send her home without so much as an explanation. In her darker moments she blamed herself. She should have known better, really. He couldn’t have truly wanted her. If he had, he wouldn’t have been so cold and silent at work. In her experience, if a man was interested he made it known. Loudly and often. Why should Jon be any different?

He was different, though. Jon Snow was a snob, she’d decided. A snob and a tease. She tried to console herself with the notion that she’d dodged a bullet—clearly sleeping with him would have been a mistake of epic proportions. He’d done her a favor, really. If they’d gone through with it she’d be left with nothing but regret. Right?

When classes resumed the following week Dany did her best to act as though nothing had happened. Jon must have returned to the bar after their ill-fated encounter, because no one—not even Missandei—mentioned their leaving together. All conversation in the faculty lounge focused on Oberyn’s salacious dancing and Tyrion’s over-indulgence that led to him falling asleep on one of the newly-felted pool tables at the bar.

Dany was grateful for the gossip. She wanted nothing so much as to forget that night and the tumultuous emotions that had followed it. The alcohol had helped some. As it was, she could only remember the party in pieces, flashes.

The problem was that the images in her memory, jumbled as they were, were hot. Every time she thought of dancing close with Jon, the shameless snap of her hips, the moist heat of his breath on her neck, she had to squeeze her thighs together against the tingle of recognition, of desire. Despite her lingering anger her treacherous body wanted him still, which only made it more difficult when she saw him again.

He cornered her at the coffee pot, stepping in near enough that only she could hear.

“Dany,” he began, his voice a hurried whisper. “About last week. I—”

“Save it,” she cut him off, stepping away from his closeness, from the disorienting scent of his cologne, potent with memories. “And my name is Daenerys.”

There was a blink of pain in his eyes before his expression shuttered again. He left the break room in a huff.

If Dany was honest, she was desperate to hear his explanation. The unanswered questions and wondering what she’d done wrong were enough to keep her up at night. But her pride wouldn’t allow her to show it.

Thankfully, that morning was the only time Jon attempted to broach the subject, and from that day on he’d treated Dany with nothing but the same chilly civility she’d noted in him before the party.

Eventually she’d broken down and told Missandei what had happened, and her friend had been supportive and encouraging, repeating the oft-used “he doesn’t deserve you” refrain. Dany wanted to believe it, but Jon had been the one to reject her, and while there were no outward signs of what happened between them, a peculiar tension remained—a heat that made the air between them simmer with something vacillating between hatred and hunger.

So now, a year later, all those months of confusion about that night and her growing frustration at his stony demeanor coalesced into a bone-deep dread at the prospect of a weekend away in close quarters with Jon.

He’d left in such a hurry after Principal Tyrell’s meeting that they hadn’t had the opportunity to plan, which meant that sooner or later, one of them would have to initiate contact. The thought made Dany’s stomach turn.

Three days later it had become clear that Jon was leaving it up to her. Dany had been expecting him to approach her at work, drop by her classroom, find her at lunch. Anything. Instead he seemed to be avoiding her with more than his usual determination, so that by Thursday evening she still hadn’t seen him at all.

Dany was sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, Drogon spread out on her lap, a stack of ungraded papers guilting her from the coffee table. All her bags for the were trip packed and ready to go for the following day. She couldn’t put it off any longer. She’d have to be the one to reach out to Jon.

She clicked open her phone, her thumb hovering over her contacts with mounting anxiety, when the ding of her text tone sounded out, startling a hiss from Drogon.

She snorted with laughter as the notification lit up her screen: “New message from Pompous Dickhead.” The entire faculty directory was synced into all their contacts through the school’s email app, so Dany had always had Jon’s number in her phone. But Missandei had taken the liberty of changing his record from ‘Mr. Snow’ to the delightfully crude new moniker after Dany shared the story of their unfortunate Christmas party rendezvous. She’d never had occasion to contact him before or change it back. Maybe she never would.

After all, Missandei was a language expert. Who was Dany to question such an apt description of Jon’s character?

She opened the message with a smirk, her eyes scanning quickly over the brief text:

Pompous Dickhead: “Meet outside the back entrance tomorrow at 6. Be ready to get on the road. We’ll take your car.”

Dany shook her head, setting her glass down and thinking over how to reply. She couldn’t be the one to drive them up into the mountains. She wouldn’t. But she wasn’t about to admit fear or weakness to Jon.

“No. Let’s take yours. See you at 6.”

She sent the message with a shaky hand, dreading his response. She’d prefer not to lie, but if Jon pressed, she’d just say her car was in the shop. Anything was preferable to making herself vulnerable after the way he’d already hurt her pride.

The ellipses that signified Jon typing a response flickered into view, then disappeared. A moment’s pause and he was typing again. Dany bit her lip, anxiety prickling at her scalp. Maybe it’d be easier to just agree, to take her chances behind the wheel. At least if they wrecked she wouldn’t have to go on the stupid retreat.

But then his reply finally came.

Pompous Dickhead: “Fine.”

Rude, but at least he was consistent. Dany sighed. This was going to be a long weekend.

[beevynn]

I did a thing! I chose to participate in the Shance Cafe Valentines Exchange hosted by @shance-cafe​. My giftee is @kaptainkoalaoshiz​. This is my first time doing something like this so I hope I did alright!

You can read it under the cut or on AO3! 

Bundles of Love

Shiro fumbled with his keys as he unlocked his apartment door, slowly pushing it open as if it weighed more than the cheap softwood it had been made from. He slowly trudged down the hall as quietly as possible. It was very early, Lance was probably still asleep. Shiro smiled, if there was one thing that always cheered him up after a grueling night shift, it was coming home and taking Lance into his arms.

Walking up to the partially cracked door of the bedroom Shiro nudged it open. The room was pitch black as always, and the soft song of the ocean played in the background. It was the sound machine Lance had bought when they moved in together.

“I grew up on the shores of Varadero! You expect me to be able to fall asleep with all this city noise!”

Shiro smiled as he remembered what Lance had said when he questioned him about the machine. The apartment they lived in had been well insulated when it was built, and while they skimped out on good doors, the walls were very thick. You could only hear the outside life if a window was left open. They both knew the reason they had the machine was because of Shiro.

Tossing his jacket and keys onto the dresser Shiro began stripping out of his suit, leaving it to pile messily on the floor. He would take care of it when he woke up. Dressed in just a pair of boxer briefs Shiro slid between the sheets of the bed, his hands searching for Lance’s warmth. He paused and wiggled closer to the other side of the bed. Maybe Lance had curled up on the edge. Shiro searched again. Nothing.

There was a short paused before Shiro flung the covers off himself and walked to the doorway. Squinting slightly he looked down either end of the hall. No sign of Lance.

Oh?

It was faint but Shiro saw a bit of light coming from the bottom crack of the bathroom door. He walked closer to see better, it looked like someone had stuffed a towel along the crack. He turned the knob and opened the door only to watch as Lance threw himself over a mass of wiggling furry bodies.

“S-Shiro, Hun. You’re home early!”

He was, and he had expected to find Lance sprawled in the middle of their bed fast asleep, snoring in the adorable way that he refuses to admit he does. Finding his fiancé gushing over a pile of kittens on the floor of their bathroom, was the last thing he thought he would find when he went searching for him.

He should have known better than that.

Shiro sighed and leaned heavily against the doorway, “Please tell me I’m asleep Lance, and this is all just a dream.”

The blue-eyed man squawked, “Every moment with me is a dream, Kashi.” He began crawling forward, “But I can kick this dream up a notch if-”

“You can’t distract me with your wiles, Lance. I’m too strong and tired for that.”

Lance scoffed, “Liar.”

Shiro sighed again made his way towards the slumped over Lance, who was currently batting at the paw of one of the many kittens crawling around on the floor. “Do I dare ask?”

Shiro jolted as Lance released high pitch wail and scooped up as many kittens as his arms could hold, his blue eyes watery with unshed tears.

“Shiro you don’t understand. I-,” The rest of his sentence was intelligible as Lance had buried his face in the furry bundle in his arms. He kept his face obscured as he continued his story leaving Shiro standing confused, as he couldn't understand a word he said.

“Lance, I-”

Said man’s head rose from where it had been buried, “They needed me, Shiro!”

Shiro smiled, Lance was adorable, “I understand that Lance, but wasn’t able to hear you.”

The two men stared at each other silent. One with a tired smile on his face, and the other with tear filled eyes. Shiro watched, love-struck, as his significant other gathered his bearings. Though Lance tried to strut around as if he had no feelings everyone knew he felt, and he felt strongly.

Clearing his throat Lance nodded to himself releasing the kittens from his grasp, “I was walking home from work yesterday, you know, during that storm? When I was passing that super creepy alley down the street I thought I heard something. I shook it off thinking it was just the rain, but then the sound got louder, and it was something meowing. A cat, obviously.” Lance paused and looked down, “Or kittens as I should say.”

Shiro said nothing, silently willing him to continue his story.

“They were in a cardboard box!” Lance exclaimed flinging his arms in the air, “It’s like Oliver and Company but sadder, and with no wisecracking dog to teach them how to survive in this cruel world!”

“What?”

Lance shook his head, “You just as uncultured as Keith. It’s sad.”

Shiro chuckled, and crouched next to Lance, letting himself play with the stumbling balls of fluff, “So you thought it was a good idea to bring...two...six...twelve kittens to our apartment.”

“Thirteen actually.” Lance stuck his hand into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie, most likely Shiro's, and slowly pulled out a lump of fur that snuggled into the palm of his hand. “There’s also this little fella. I’m pretty sure he’s the runt, and look.”

Shiro swallowed heavily as he noticed the small kitten was missing the bottom half of his front left leg. All that was left was a stump dusted with wavy deep black fur. “Oh.”

Lance smiled softly and held out his hand and Shiro flopped out of his crouch next to him, gently taking the small kitten with his artificial hand. He cooed softly as bright blue eyes tiredly blinked open.

“I couldn’t leave ‘em, Shiro. They would have died.” Lance murmured as he watched Shiro attempt to play with the slowly waking kitten. He laughed as Shiro slumped against him, the larger man allowing the entirety of his weight to be propped up by Lance.

“You’re such a good person, Lance. I love you so much!”

Lance laughed again and stroked Shiro's hair as he nuzzled into his neck, “Wow, you must be super tired. You only get this gushy when you’re about to crash.”

Shiro nodded, “I am a little sleepy.” He yawned before continuing, “You know we can’t afford to keep these kittens, Lance. We both work, and thirteen extra mouths to feed is just a little out of our budget.”

Lance pouted and nodded, “I know, and honestly this was a very spur of the moment kinda decision.”

Shiro huffed a laugh into Lance’s neck, “I guessed.” He paused and lifted his neck to return his gaze to the kitten in his arms. “Looks like this little guy fell asleep again.”

The kitten was adorable, all of them were, but there was something special about the runt of the litter. “Well...We have been talking about getting a pet.”

“Oh my god!” Lance squealed as he bounced around, jerking Shiro from where he lent against him. “Are you for real?”

Shiro smiled and softly kissed his excited partner, “Of course I am, Love”

Lance laughed and hugged Shiro before releasing him and turning his attention to the kittens once again “We can take them to the shelter later today. Once you get some sleep.” His voice became high as he stoked the kittens clamoring around his hand for attention, “Don’t you worry little ones. You’re all so cute; you’ll be adopted by loving families very quickly.”

Shiro watched as Lance continued to baby talk the twelve kittens around him. They would find loving homes. The thirteenth however, wouldn’t be leaving. Shiro knew that he belonged in their small family. He scratched the kitten between his ears and smiled as it began to purr.

“Lance, did you get litter and food? It’ll be sometime before the shelter opens.”

A look of panic flashed across Lance’s face, “I didn’t think of that.”

“Thought so, I guess I’ll run to the store.” He handed Lance the kitten and joking wagged his finger, “You’re lucky I love you.”

[themurphyzone]

A Tail of Impawsible Purrportions Ch 8

Let’s see how things are on the other side, shall we?

Ch 8: Dogs are a Girl’s Best Friend

The mansion wasn’t the same without the cats. Diogee even found himself missing Cavendish, who had always disdainfully watched him from a cushion on the large windowsill. It was strange to be allowed in the mansion for extended periods of time. 

Diogee had never minded the living arrangements before, since he’d always loved the outside. There was more to do, with howling at the butcher’s for a few bones, digging holes and covering them up before he could get caught, and playing with the kittens. 

Besides, he didn’t have to watch his step outdoors. Even if there was glass shattered from a bottle thanks to a careless human, it was fairly easy to avoid. And if he didn’t get something embedded in his paw, there was Elliot to contend with. 

But he couldn’t worry about the idiot butler who antagonized the kittens for no good reason at the moment. Checking on Martin, Brigitte, and Sara was far more important.

Before he could check on the Murphys, a jaunty whistle came from the foyer. Curious, Diogee turned to see Elliot hanging his coat on the rack. For someone who lived in a household where valued members of the family had gone missing, he seemed awfully chipper. Diogee bit back a growl. He didn’t like this at all. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Elliot sniffed. “Well, you’re just a dog so I guess there’s no harm in letting you bear witness to the first step of making the Murphy household a safe place to live.” 

Before Diogee could take offense at the ‘just a dog’ comment, Elliot unfolded the evening newspaper to the front page, which featured a large black and white splash of Orton Mahlson. 

“Oh, yeah. Think he’s in town right now,” Elliot remarked, frowning. “And I’m talking to a dog as if he can read. Wonderful. But I’m digressing. My point is, I made headlines! I know it says ‘Mysterious Catnapper Abducts Family of Cats’, which makes it sound kind of bad, but I guess you can’t win ‘em all. Anyway, tomorrow begins my first day of making the mansion a safe place to live! Starting with that chipped tile in the kitchen. Big tripping hazard.” 

He sauntered off to the kitchen, taking the newspaper with him. 

Diogee whined softly to himself. Alerting Martin of Elliot’s actions simply wouldn’t work. Brigitte and Sara would just call him adorable and not pay attention to the message he needed to convey. He huffed. As much as he loved his family, they suffered from an inability to comprehend a different species’ language like every other human on this planet. 

His only option was to find Cavendish and the kittens, bring them home, and drive Elliot out for good. But he could hardly leave now. Not when everyone was so emotionally vulnerable. 

He’d have to try going out when everyone was asleep, but even that was harder when Sara needed a companion at night. 

Frustrated at that selfish, incompetent butler for putting everyone into this mess, Diogee lifted his leg and relieved himself on Elliot’s shoes. Even he had to indulge in being a bad dog every once in a while. 

Upstairs, the master bedroom was eerily silent. Brigitte sat at her desk, a blueprint opened in front of her. She stared at the wall, a pencil hanging loosely from her hand. Martin rubbed circles into her back as he murmured soothing words to calm her. 

“They’re part of the family. How could they just suddenly be gone?” Brigitte asked. 

Martin shook his head gently. “Not gone. Sounds...permanent. You know how we went to that Beethoven concerto when Sara was six and we lost her while heading out? Then the conductor found her in the orchestra pit and helped her find us? It’s something like that. We’re here, the cats decided to check out the orchestra pit, and the conductor will bring them home.” 

Brigitte smiled. “Have I ever mentioned how much I love you and your analogies that make sense to no one but us?” 

“Maybe once or twice,” Martin chuckled, peppering her cheek with several kisses. 

Diogee nosed the door open enough for him to slip through, padding up to Martin and nudging his hand. He was rewarded with several absentminded pats to the head. 

“I know you miss them too, Diogee,” Brigitte said. “You were always so good with the kittens.” 

Diogee’s tail wagged at the praise, though it didn’t do much to alleviate the melancholy atmosphere. 

“Mom?” Sara called from the hallway. 

Brigitte stood up from her chair. “Yes, Sara?” she asked. Diogee followed her out of the bedroom. Sara stood at the top of the stairs with his leash in hand, fidgeting with the loop anxiously. 

“I can’t sleep, Mom,” Sara confessed. “Do you think I could just take Diogee out for an evening walk? He’s kinda been cooped up for a while. And I think I just need to tire myself out.” 

“Well, if Diogee wants to, then I have no problem with it,” Brigitte assured her. “But be sure to stay on the grounds.” 

Diogee offered no resistance when Sara hooked the leash to his collar. Then he led her down the stairs as Brigitte called out a few reminders. Sara frowned as she unlocked the door, glancing at the soaked brown shoes that were suspiciously laying far away from the rest of the family’s footwear. 

“So did Elliot’s idea of safetyproof include switching your favorite bowl with a boring plastic, white one?” Sara asked. 

Diogee snorted. He’d better not try it. 

As they passed by the stables, a sudden idea struck Diogee. He strained at his leash, barking up a frenzy as he rushed towards the area where Elliot kept his motorbike. 

It had always been in poor condition, but he definitely recalled seeing Elliot come back the other night with his clothes scuffed and the sidecar missing completely. And if he could just show Sara.... 

“Diogee! I wanted to go by the koi pond!” Sara scolded breathlessly. “You know, I’m supposed to be the one walking you!” Despite her protests, she didn’t seem to particularly care about where they headed. He took it as a good sign. 

Pawing at Elliot’s motorbike, he led Sara around so she could see the latch that used to contain the sidecar. She ran her hand over the latch, her eyebrows furrowed in thought. “That’s odd,” she said. “Where’s the sidecar? And what’s with all these weird scratches?” She peered curiously at a tiny dent. 

Good. She was getting suspicious. 

Then a shriek came from outside. “That’s it!” a frantic voice muttered. “That’s the last time people leave bales of hay within five feet of the entrance!” 

Diogee and Sara wrinkled their noses at the smell emanating from Elliot’s shoes, which he strangely never noticed. 

“Hi, Elliot. You haven’t noticed anything...strange. Right?” Sara gagged. 

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Well, my socks feel soaked, so I should probably run back and change them before I get a fungal infection. But other than that, I haven’t seen anything strange. Why would you think anything’s strange? Cause your parents haven’t seemed to notice anything either so-” he chuckled nervously, his fingers twiddling together. 

Honestly, he’d seen better subtlety from the most inexperienced of shoplifters. 

“Oh. Well, I was just wondering what happened to your motorbike. It looks likes it’s seen better days. And by better days, I mean it was banged up but not as badly a week ago,” Sara said, folding her arms. She and Diogee glanced at each other as Elliot tugged the collar of his shirt, a bead of sweat trickling down his neck.

“I-uh, well you see, I was out doing a routine inspection of the city!” Elliot exclaimed. “Just because I wasn’t this town’s traffic cop anymore didn’t mean people could go breaking safety laws whenever they felt like it!”

Sara raised her eyebrow. “Any violations?”

“Three instances of improper horse to cart attachments, seven gentlemen dictating letters while driving, and there was one lady with a very long mink scarf. That thing was a choking hazard, lemme tell you,” Elliot replied.

“So if that’s all normal, then why’s your sidecar missing?” Sara asked.

“I was robbed!” Elliot cried. “They jumped me when I was off-guard, those scoundrels! They made off with my sidecar, and I’m glad that’s the only thing they-“ he broke off, a look of dawning realization crossing his face. “The sidecar…if they discover it….” he muttered frantically. “Um, I have places to be tonight. Safety czar stuff, 24/7 job. You know how it is.”

With that, he shoved Sara and Diogee out of the stables, slamming the door behind them.

Diogee pawed Sara’s leg, and she knelt down to stoke his back. “Thanks, boy. You were telling me something all along, weren’t you?” she asked. Diogee barked in affirmation. She smiled. “Thought so. Elliot’s definitely acting strange. And he’s obviously not good at lying.”

They sat in silence while Sara mulled over the recent events. “Diogee, I want you to be my co-investigator. We’ll keep a close eye on Elliot, but we won’t tell Mom and Dad yet. Not until we know for certain. Call it a hunch, but I think he knows something about the cats.”

Sara trusted him to help her solve the mystery. She was a lot more than the airheaded Orton fangirl most people seemed to regard her as. She loved Cavendish and the kittens too. He could tell there was nothing else she wanted except to see them safe and sound.

Diogee missed them so much. And even if he and Cavendish never saw eye to eye on most things, he trusted that he would protect them to the best of his ability. Cavendish had a duty to protect the kittens and bring them home safely.

Just as he had a duty to comfort the humans at home that the cats would come home.  

Elliot is really, really bad at villaining. 

This movie is like the epitome of the butler did it. 

[aion-rsa]

Warrior Season 2 Episode 4 Review: If You Don’t See Blood, You Didn’t Come to Play

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This Warrior review contains spoilers.

Warrior Season 2 Episode 4

The title of this episode comes from Sophie’s (Celine Buckens) date. Spencer (Russell Crous) comes from the upper class and he’s trying to court Sophie in an upper-class way, but she’s is having none of that. She brings him to the Banshee to slam some drinks, and coyly asks him about his athleticism. Spencer says he plays rugby and Sophie feigns being impressed by the roughness of the sport, egging him to say, “If you don’t see blood, you didn’t come to play.” Then she takes him to the back-alley bare-knuckle matches behind the Banshee, to show him some fresh blood. It’s one of only two scenes that get bloody in this episode, that that’s just not enough.

This episode, like the previous one, fails to deliver much Kung Fu action. There’s a central street demo, which will be discussed later, and two fights: the first being this bare-knuckle match and the second being towards the end of the episode. Not one of the lead actors shows any Kung Fu fighting.

Lee (Tom Weston-Jones) punches O’Hara (Kieran Bew) when he discovers he’s been working for the Fung Hai for months. It’s right after O’Hara gets his wife (who is terribly upset about having to kill someone, even though it was self-defense) and kids out of San Francisco in the wake of the previous episode’s attack. But it’s just a punch, not a flying kick or even some Kung Fu fist combination. A Kung Fu attack would not have been appropriate coming from Lee, but this show is coming from Bruce Lee, so copious Kung Fu is expected. In fact, it is demanded, especially from a cast with such martial firepower.

Andrew Koji (Ah Sahm), Olivia Cheng (Ah Toy), Jason Tobin (Young Jun), and Dianne Doan (Mai Ling) have all demonstrated they can handle a decent Kung Fu fight. Joe Taslim (Li Yong) and Dustin Nguyen (Zing) are veteran action stars with several exemplary martial arts films already under their belts. Hong (Chen Tang) and Lai (Jenny Umbhau) have shown their skills too and fans are eager to see more of them. Sure, sure, drama is important for context but let these actors fight. Unleash them. Bruce Lee fans want Kung Fu. We want blood. 

A Chinese Laundry and Some Street Kung Fu

Li Yong brings Mai Ling to a Chinese laundry looking for a loan (as if taking a loan from a Tong is ever that good of an idea). Mai Ling buys out the laundry as a safety net, a legal business for when the Tongs go sour. Li Yong, still suspicious of the intentions of his boss and lover, says “We are warriors, not washers.”

It’s another nod to history. That old stereotype of the Chinese laundry comes from this period when Warrior is set. Racism drove Chinese immigrants into the laundry business. Laundry work was demanding manual labor prior to washing machines but was deemed unmanly by Westerners.

However, even this lowly avenue of employment was inevitably sullied by racial injustice. In 1880, San Francisco had some 320 laundries, two thirds of which were Chinese run. The city approved an ordinance that laundries in wooden buildings required a permit. No permits were granted to any Chinese. Only one non-Chinese owner was denied. Two years later, the Chinese Exclusion Act was passed further oppressing the Chinese. This point in history has been looming large as an imminent threat in Warrior with several mentions of it from Buckley (Langely Kirkwood) and the Mayor (Christian McKay).

After buying out the laundry, Mai Ling and Ah Toy cross paths at a Kung Fu street demo. It’s the only Kung Fu in this episode. Kung Fu masters have worked as street buskers for centuries, so Warrior makes another solid historical nod.

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However ironically, the demo is from a monk-like character clad in white robes doing a modern Wushu staff form. While the skyward shot of the monk doing a slow-motion barrel-roll framed by the Chinatown alley roofs is stylish, monks generally don’t wear white. A shaven pate implies that this is a Buddhist monk and their robes are traditionally saffron or grey. In Chinese culture, white is a funerary color.

To really nitpick the scene, modern Wushu didn’t exist back then. It’s modern. This is the style that Jet Li does, an acrobatic sport that China has been pushing to get into the Olympics. The earliest date for the creation of modern Wushu would be the founding of the People’s Republic of China in in 1949. Nevertheless, if that’s all the Kung Fu this episode is going to show, it just must be appreciated for what it is. 

Mai Ling and Ah Toy have their own little showdown, a duel of fashion. Season 2 continues to amplify the costumes of both actresses. While everyone else is period, they’ve earned elaborate steampunk attire. It’s a Chinatown standoff and Mai Ling gets Ah Toy to bow to her. A Kung Fu duel might have been nice here but inappropriate to the storyline as Ah Toy is keeping her skills covert. 

Back at the brothel, Nellie (Miranda Raison) visits Ah Toy to pick up one of the women to take to her vineyard sanctuary in Sonoma. She invites Ah Toy to visit on the next morning (presumably the next episode). In the days of Warrior, a trip to Sonoma would have taken a long time. Today, it’s a six-hour trip one-way by bike (the closest analog to the speed of a horse-drawn carriage on a maps app) and that’s using the Golden Gate Bridge.

However, the Golden Gate Bridge wasn’t open until 1937, decades after when Warrior is set. Without the bridges, a traveler from SF to Sonoma would have to take the long way around the bay. Even a ferry would take a long time. It’s more nitpicking but for anyone in the SF Bay Area, it sticks out as painfully inaccurate.

It’s Hard to Be a Cop in Chinatown

As the police arm up to take revenge on the Fung Hai after their attack on O’Hara’s home, Chao (Hoon Lee) cuts with a plan. He tells O’Hara that the Fung Hai is anticipating reprisal and have set a trap and that Zing is in hiding. Chao asks O’Hara to get the cops to stand down for two days so he can set up a counter trap. In exchange, Chao wants his stock of police-confiscated weapons returned. O’Hara complies. 

This doesn’t go down well at City Hall where Buckley continues to stoke anti-Chinese sentiment. In a nod to today’s politics, the Mayor offers O’Hara his “thoughts and prayers” and respects O’Hara’s request for more time, despite Buckley’s protests. The Mayor calls him out on it and the two start to oppose each other politically.

Later, Lee visits Ah Toy’s place. He finds relief to his chronic pain in her opium den and Chao, watchful as always, spies this. Chao pulls Ah Toy to enlist her in his plan, taking Ah Toy’s sword to plant on Zing. This will implicate him as the swordsman murderer, removing any suspicion off Ah Toy and putting Zing on the run. It’s a promising plan for future episodes. 

Sibling Rivalry Gets Explosive

Back at the mayoral mansion, Blake tries to pull the cable car contract from Mercer Steel. Historically, the cable cars were developed by several competing private companies so the mayoral office probably wouldn’t be holding those steel contracts, but that’s more nitpicking. Fortunately, Penny (Joanna Vanderham) lawyered up and informs her husband that the city is contractually bound to pay even more if they break the contract. 

Penny’s bad night continues when she gets in it with her sister. After Sophie ditched Spencer, she hooked up with Leary for some Skinemax action.

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Afterwards, Sophie sees Leary distributing soup for the hungry, and is swayed to his cause. She notices that Mercer Steel is not on Leary’s terrorist bombing target map. Leary says it’s because he knows Penny has hired protection, but Sophie hopes that it is for her sake. When Sophie returns to the mayoral mansion, she confronts Penny about hiring Chinese instead of Irish. Still fuming over her confrontation with Blake, she yells at Sophie pointing out how entitled she is. 

Sophie runs to Leary and tells him about a secret tunnel into Mercer Steel. She leads Leary’s terrorist cell into the factory, but the Hop Wei discover them, and a fight ensues. It’s a dark warehouse fight, brutish and shadowy, but Leary and his squad are not Kung Fu fighters and the Hop Wei hatchet men are nameless thugs who are just there to die at the hands of the Irish.

It’s another disappointing fight scene, one that could be seen in any action show, not worthy of the Bruce Lee legacy. However, the mission is successful. Leary blows up Mercer Steel and Sophie goes home to Penny, wracked with guilt for what she has done. As a concluding scene, it sets up next episode where the repercussions will come to light.

The Way of the Dragon

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Despite the lack of Kung Fu, this episode has one good nod to Bruce Lee. In an earlier scene, one of the hatchet men ridicules Hong for being homosexual as the Hop Wei Tong men have breakfast. Hong has plenty of witty comebacks, but Young Jun comes to his defense. He joins in with the chiding to get close to Hong’s unsuspecting detractor, and then slams his head into the table. The whole Tong jumps out of their chairs, but Ah Sahm checks them by wagging his finger. It’s a distinctively Bruce Lee gesture, just like what he did to the Mob Boss in The Way of the Dragon.

Warrior has been good about dropping such clever Easter eggs, subtle homages that only true Bruce fans notice. But if Warrior really wants to keep those fans happy, for the next episode, show more Kung Fu. Show more blood.

The post Warrior Season 2 Episode 4 Review: If You Don’t See Blood, You Didn’t Come to Play appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[worldwidewagsstyle1]

Aura Ruiz (Jese Rodriguez | Stoke City) wore:

Kenzo Logo Zipped Hoodie -€275.00

Kenzo Logo Sweatpants -€195.00

Nike Air Force 1 Sneakers -$95

[footballers-wags-kids]

Marc Muniesa with Sara and Pau Pic: Marc Muniesa

[spanish-wags]

[boloorsportsmania]

#753 Rohit makes Vizag match his own by hitting his 2nd century of the match; Shami rocks SA in 2nd innings to help India win the match; Liverpool keep their winning run in EPL but just by a whisker; Djokovic wins Japan open without a sweat; Coleman and Shelly Ann Fraser have a dream week in WOrld Athletics Championship and more..:-)

Though Muthusamy and rest of tail wagged to take SA to 431, India held upper-hand once Rohit found his range again. Mayank was dismissed early for 7. Pujara find his form again. He and Rohit had a 169 run stand in 42 overs which set platform for India to put pressure on SA. Rohit had a chance when Muthusamy stepped on boundary after grabbing the catch. Rohit made most of his luck to score 2nd century of the match and his 4th in test. This is first instance when any batsmen who opened has scored centuries in first innings This match could inspire Rohit to greater heights. He would be tested in NZ, Aus and England which needs to be seen. He has passed with flying colours in first test. Pujara was dismissed for 81. Rohit made 127. India declared at 323-4. They scored this in just 67 overs at a run rate of 4.8. SA should have tried to decrease run rate but they bowled at poor lengths. India set SA a target of 395. 1 full day and 13 overs on 4th day was left for SA to survive or force a win.  Jadeja trapped Elgar with a ripper to push SA on the backfoot straight away. They ended day 4 at 11-1.  It’s India’s game to lose. SA need to play out of their skins to win the match. On final day pitch in India, Jadeja and Ashwin have been handful in last 5 years.  Final Day started like a dream for India. Ashwin castled De Bruyn to become joint fastest player to reach 350 wickets. Murli is the other star with this record. Then Shami bowled the spell of the match. He dismissed Bavuma, Faf and Quinton with some serious swing bowling . SA reduced to 60-5. Jadeja then dismissed Markram, Philander and Maharaj in the same over. SA 70-8. In matter of 60 minutes, SA lost 7 wickets in the morning. They looked like getting allout before lunch but Muthusamy and Piedt held their nerves. They irritated Indian bowlers for almost 30 odd overs. They played Ash-Jadeja combo with ease. Virat got back Shami who broke the partnership rightaway. He then dismissed Rabada later to grab his 5th 5-wicket haul in tests. India won the match by 203 runs.

In Japan Open, Djokovic outclassed Goffin in straight sets to setup final with Millman who beat Opelka in other SF.  In the finals, he outclassed Millman 6-3 6-2.  In China open, Thiem beat Khachanov in 3 sets thriller after being down by a set.  He would face Tsitsipas in finals who outclassed Zverev 7-6 6-4. First set was sea-saw battle which Greek won 8-6 in tiebreaker.

Spurs horror week continued. After thrashing in Champions trophy, they got hammered0-3 by Brighton in EPL.  Liverpool were tested for the first time in EPL by much improved Leicester City. Mane gave Liverpool the lead just break. Maddison gave Leicester City the equalizer in 80th minute. Just when it looked like Liverpool would lose a point for the first time in 2019-20 season, Milner gave red the winner in 5th minute of extra time. They won 8th match in a row. Man City have the record for 9 consecutive wins which is under threat now. In La Liga, leaders Real Madrid lead 3-2 agains Granada before the gap reduced just 1 goal. Rodriguez gave Real the cushion in extra time  by scoring 4th goal.

In World Athletics Championship, most eagerly awaited event was 100m Mens as a certain Bolt would not feature in it. This would give an indication as to who would be favourite for Tokyo Olympics. It was 23 year old Coleman who stoke the show by winning the final in 9.76 seconds. 37 year old grabbed the silver with 9.89 seconds. It was stunning to see him run so fast as 100m is always seen as a young man’s sport. Andre De Grasse won the bronze . He had timing of .01 second higher than Gatlin. It was so competitive that top 5 runners had timing of under 10 seconds. Cant wait for Tokyo Olympics to start. In ladies 100m final, 33 year old Jamaican Shelly Ann Fraser-Pryce grabbed the gold with 10.71 second timing. Britain’s Dina Asher won silver and Marie Josse won bronze. In 800m ladies event, Halimah won the gold. In 200m men, Coleman withdrew due to injury. Hi compatriot Noah Lyles won the gold with timing of 19.83. Andre De Grasse went one better in 200m when compared to 100m by winning silver medal. In 200m ladies final, Dina Asher Smith grabbed gold. She had a dream week as she won silver in 100m too.  This 24 year old would be sure shot favourite to win multiple medals in Tokyo Olympics. In 400m women, Salwa from Bahrain won the gold. In 400m mens event Steve Gardiner of Bahamans won the gold. In Mens 4*100 relay, USA comfortably won the race. Great Britain grabbed the silver. In 4*100 womens event, Jamaica won the gold. Great Britain grabbed silver here as well. Dina Asher Smith won her 3rd medal of the week. Stars of the week though was Shelly Ann Fraser and Coleman who made in 2 golds in 2 (100 and 4*100m relay).