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costellos · 4 years

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author’s note: this wasn’t a request, just something super self-indulgent that I wanted to do! ❤⃛(*ૂ❛ัᴗ❛ั*ૂ) also this ended up taking 2.5 hours to write aldkf;j so much for unwinding at the end of the day. overall, I’m super proud of how this came out — please enjoy!

❥ ┋ ❝ bucci gang realizing that they’re in love!

bruno bucciarati.

Bucciarati realizes he’s in love when he sees you defending civilians.

he is a man made of love. for his people, for his community, for his goals — he firmly believes that everyone and everything can be built on yes, but more importantly, taken care of.

he sees you protecting an elderly couple during a stand battle. in a split second do you throw your stand at the couple, taking a hefty amount of damage in their place. you’re bloody and your arm is definitely broken, but you still turn to them. "you need to leave. now,” you say. although your words are harsh and hoarse, your smile reminds them that yes, everything will be fine, I just need you to trust me.

you didn’t have to protect them. any other gangster would have left them to die. they’re old, no one would miss them.

but you did. you put these two strangers, two no ones at the wrong place at the wrong time, before yourself. even if it meant you’d die.

Bucciarati would visit you shortly after the battle. Giorno had already tended to your wounds, evident by your lack of bandages. his hair is normally neatly placed, but it looks like he had been rustling it, with his clips out of place and the braid atop his head uneven. his concern is apparent; he’s wracked his brain waiting for your recovery. you knew that Bucciarati cared about his team, but when did he care this much? ↳ “I admit, your actions were certainly reckless,” he would say to you, taking a seat beside your bed. “you’re lucky that fight didn’t end worse than it did. nonetheless...” his voice is tired yet soft, comforting. “I’m glad you’re okay. I’m... I’m incredibly glad.”

leone abbacchio.

Abbacchio realizes he’s in love when he sees you upholding true justice.

although he would never admit it, he is haunted by his inability to save his partner during his time as an officer. as such, Abbacchio envies those who back justice in spite of the system Italy lives under.

you’re patrolling one of La Passione’s turfs with him when you see it: two officers harassing a young girl. even though Abbacchio tells you not to get involved, you quickly storm over to the scene. their voices are loud and clear, despite them being several meters away. the girl looks scared.

it turns out she had stolen a handful of painkillers from the corner store. the cops noticed her scurrying out as they were buying a pack of smokes. and now, they were threatening to take her into the station. “I need them for my family!” she explains, but the cops don’t buy it. they huff something about her bringing them to school and selling them to her friends.

“here. I’ll pay for her. just leave her alone.” Abbacchio watches as you flash 30 euros to the cops, more than enough to pay for the medicine. playing them at their own game, he sees. thankfully, they relent, pocketing the money and leaving the scene. and after you talk to the girl, explaining that if she needs more help to come find you, you both leave the scene too.

it’s a brief affair. truthfully, he wouldn’t have gotten himself involved. he wishes you hadn’t either. it would’ve been less of a headache, and now that girl is going to pester you again in the future. but he can’t stop replaying the scene in this head. how you willingly stood up for her, reassured her that everything would be okay. how you smiled and looked so content after the fact. ↳ “ I envy you,” he would say as you walked away from the scene. “doing the right thing is...” he pauses. stupid? naive? “...it’s not easy. you didn’t have to do anything but I admire your valor. just don’t be surprised if that girl comes up at your doorstep begging for more money.” nonetheless, he wants to learn more from you. to be good again, he thinks. maybe then he can be someone that he himself is proud of. and maybe, eventually, he’ll make you proud too.

giorno giovanna.

Giorno realizes he’s in love when he sees your ambition.

he prides himself on his resolve. to him, resolve is committing to something regardless of the difficulties that a person faces. seeing you be so goal-oriented would make him believe that he’s found his match.

it doesn’t have to be a huge goal, like dedicating yourself to a field of practice or learning a new language. it can be as simple as trying to keep your houseplants alive. in fact, those little things come off as more charming to him. it shows that you’re passionate about everything you do, no matter what it is.

seeing you continuously try despite numerous failures would make Giorno’s heart pound. you refuse to give up. even with everything against you, you still roll up your sleeves, take a deep breath, and pick yourself up again. he adores this about you.

he realizes it when you’re rambling about your next move in your goals. your face is so excited, your eyes so wide and bright. your mouth is voicing your steps a million words a minute but all he can focus on is how beautiful you look. the smile on his lips is unmistakable. ↳ “tell me more. I want to know everything. tell me about every detail, every step, what you’ll do when you’re finished... all of it.” he won’t say it — after all, he doesn’t want to come off as too desperate — but he wants to be there every step of the way with you. and when you’ve completed your goal, he wants to be the one next to you, the one to say, “I am so, so proud of you.”

guido mista.

Mista realizes he’s in love when you laugh at one of his jokes.

life should be simple. that’s the mantra he lives by. despite being a gangster, he just wants to have a simple life filled with simple pleasures. one of those ways is through telling stories.

it happens when the group is eating dinner at a local restaurant. Mista is telling some long-winded anecdote, something about how he heroically beat up a landlord for harassing his tenants over money. at the end, it turned out to be the set up for a really brief and really stupid punchline.

everyone is looking at him. “ah? ahhhh?” he muses, but no one responds. the silence in the air is unbearable. hm. wow. is it hot in here or what? finally, Narancia breaks the silence, muttering that he doesn’t get it. Fugo tells him that Mista could have made the joke so much shorter. Bucciarti exhales quickly from his nostrils, a half-assed attempt at laughing. Giorno and Abbacchio don’t say anything.

but then you. oh, you. it takes you a moment to get it, but when you do, your giggling disrupts the awkwardness. it sounds like bells, Mista thinks. sweet bells, ringing like how they used to at the church every Sunday morning in his hometown. it makes him feel warm, welcome, and he can’t help but feel his face flush when he hears your laughing.

Mista stays in place afterwards, pushing his white beans to and fro on his plate. he’s not hungry anymore. he keeps looking up at you, and while he had acknowledged you were attractive before, something about you was now beautiful. you were happy here, with your eyes bright and your smile wide. eventually, he would say: ↳ “hey, thanks for covering me back there. those guys never laugh at anything I say.” he rolls his eyes playfully, adding a slight shrug of his shoulders. “lemme make it up to you. what can I do for you?” he’s trying to be smooth, but he’s so giddy at the prospect at spending more time with you!

narancia ghirga.

Narancia realizes he’s in love when you don’t lose your patience with him.

he doesn’t have much of a formal education. hence, critical thinking skills don’t come easy to him. he tries his best, he really does, but it’s difficult when he’s hardly flexed his brain.

he’s writing a song. nothing fancy, but music has always been a part of Narancia’s life that he wants to give it a go himself. maybe one day he’ll be a famous hip hop artist, touring across Europe and maybe even the U.S. one day! the thought makes him excited. but for now, he needs to establish the lyrics.

rap is easier said than done, though. Fugo is teasing him about his inability to write poetry — what makes Narancia think that he could write a whole song? he grits his teeth and turns back to his paper.

that’s when you approach him. you sit down with him, asking him what he would like to write about. “oh, uh... growing up in the streets, I guess,” he mumbles. he’s taken aback by your help. plus, talking about it now makes him embarrassed. but you don’t judge him, no; you sit down with him and try to help him nail down the theme. and once you have that, you assist him in finding snappy lyrics and catchy rhymes.

you don’t criticize him for his ideas. you don’t yell at him for his suggestions. you just listen and add on. the encounter is foreign, to say the least... but not unwelcome. Narancia finds your help incredibly productive (much better than Fugo could ever offer him). and the time goes by so fast! within a few hours, his song is done. yet he’s not happy... no, he starts to feel lonely the moment you stand up, off to assist Bucciarati with whatever he needs. ↳ “wait, hold on, [Name]!” shit. his voice is way too desperate. he softens it as best he can muster: “can... can we write another song sometime? I have a lot more ideas and I can’t do it without you.” fuck. he did it again. but when smile at him and nod, promising that you’ll help him hit the Top 40, Narancia can’t help but smile back.

panacotta fugo.

Fugo realizes that he’s in love when you put him before yourself.

genius. prodigy. failure. Fugo is defined by how others see him. after his parents abandoned him for leaving an abusive establishment, he finds himself lost in the world. who is he? what is he worth?

he’s escorting you to your mission when his car is attacked by a rival gang. the assault is a blur. he can remember the car flipping over, tumbling off the road and into the Mediterranean Sea. it happens so fast. the salty water surrounding you both. the windshield cracking. the airbag goes off, suffocating him. he can’t see. he can’t breathe. and suddenly, it’s dark.

when he wakes up, he realizes that you’re both on the beach. “where are we?” he musters out. it hurts to talk. you hush him to take it easy, that he had most certainly broken a few ribs. and that’s when he sees it: when he looks down, his wounds are tended to. gashes have been tenderly wrapped in gauze and minor cuts treated with balm. a pain relief patch has been placed on his chest, no doubt where the air bag hit him. but when he looks at you, you’re bleeding through your bandages.

that’s right. there was a first aid kit in the car. based on his injuries, you spent the majority of supplies on him, even though you definitely had it just as bad. “why?” is all he can say.

why? you shake your head. “because you’re my friend,” you answer, adjusting the gauze on his wrist. “I’m taking care of you because you’re worth it.”

your words catch him by surprise. he doesn’t believe it, but... your face is honest enough. his thoughts are jumbled, as mixed as the sand and water at the shore just a few meters away. and when your hand touches his wrist... he shakes his own head.

↳ “you should’ve tended to yourself first.” his tongue tastes of nothing but blood and salt and his words show it. a beat, and gentler this time: “I appreciate your thinking of me. thank you.” that’s all he can say, at least for now. it hurts to much to talk, moreover think. so he places his hand over yours as a gesture of thanks. friends, huh? the idea before sounded laughable, but now... there was something warm about it. the answer to his question — who is he? — had come as quickly as the waves beneath him: a friend.

#bucci gang #jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #giorno giovanna #golden wind #bruno bucciarati #leone abbacchio #guido mista #narancia ghirga #pannacotta fugo #headcanons #part 5 #toya whisks u away

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thiswaycomessomethingwicked · 3 years

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If you ever wrote a Griomer fic set in modern times, what job would Grima have? What car would he drive? What kind of beer or wine would he drink? Where would he live? What would he do to relax? How would he and Eomer meet? Curious minds would love to know :)

A BEAUTIFUL, BOUNTIFUL THOUGHT.

May your crops be watered and your cows plentiful.

Ok so the first real question is setting. I’m going to go with Portugal. Lisbon, to be exact. Because I don’t know any modern AU that takes pace anywhere other than America and England. With a few exceptions that just prove the rule.

Grima works for the government in the legal department of one of the ministries. Maybe Foreign Affairs or Finance - something in that vein. Is he on the take? Probably. Can you get things done by shoving him a handful of dirty 100 euro bills? Yes.

He was also absolutely was running a book during the dust up between that one anti-masker judge and the director of police over Covid. When the judge challenged the police director to hand to hand combat saying that if he won the police director would have to publicly state “I’m an idiot, a puppet and the government’s bitch.”

Grima LIVED for that whole hot mess. He also absconded with all the funds from running the book because Grima is here for that sweet sweet cash money.

But yeah, he works in a government legal department and people just refer to him as “Grima from legal,” as if there are other men with his name running around. Mostly people avoid him, yet somehow he keeps climbing up the ladder and no one understands how or why this is happening.

He is a riot to have on calls though because when people are like “if we pass this legislation would that contravene the constitution” he always answers “I can make it so it won’t”.

Examples of a day with Grima at the office:

Grima: I’m not sure I like this language in the contract as it stands - it makes it seem that we would be liable to pay the local municipality a bucket of money. And we’re not going to do that.

Random civil servant: That language came from the city’s mistrust of us at the central government.

Grima: Completely fair, I don’t trust us either. But we’re taking it out. The municipality is on their own. Shame them with their bad fiscal planning if they kick up a fuss.

[...]

Civil servant: Can we even do this? Like, are we actually allowed to pass this kind of legislation?

Grima: I mean you can. The courts will hate you and you will have judges out for your blood. But you can. Theoretically, government can do anything.

Grima: Anyway, there are regulations already in place to support the legislation’s implementation. We’re cart-before-horsing it here but trust me. It’s fine.

Civil servant:

Grima:

Civil servant:

Grima: I mean, I do maintain that it was a mistake to pass the regulations so quickly but uh .... things got out of hand. Which is typical.

Civil servant: Got out of hand? The regulations are a mess.

Grima: They’re a mess because we’re just making it up as we go along.

As they’re in Lisbon I suspect Grima takes public transit or walks to work on the average day. Also, I don’t know enough about cars to have an opinion of what kind he would drive.

Grima, as a contrast to other Portuguese people, prefers wine to beer but will drink whatever you put in front of him. I enjoy head-canoning that his preference is for rose and he tells people who judge him about this to go suck a metaphorical dick. That said, I suspect his table wine/what he always has in the house is red. Probably from the Duoro region. Also your bog-standard liquor collection.

That said, those little 15cl glasses that beer comes in Portugal. He finds that acceptable.

I think he’s a snacker. Like he just snacks through the day instead of eating real meals. Five minutes between meetings and he’s casually eating a sandwich. Where did he get the sandwich? Who knows. Why is there a bag of chips suddenly appearing? Magic.

I head-canon, in both universes, that Grima a) likes pickled things, b) hates asparagus and walnuts, c) consumes vast quantities of coffee and d) has a serious sweet tooth. How many pastéis de nata can this man consume in a single sitting? So many.

For how he spends his free time - he does like the football and has many spicy opinions about everything relating to it. Especially the latest fiasco in the UK. Also, the UK in general.

Grima: England was a mistake. Shouldn’t have happened.

Eomer: Guess we’ll just visit Ireland and Scotland.

Grima: Why would we do that? It’s cold up there. I want to go to Croatia or Naples.

Eomer: We went to Naples last year.

Grima: ... Your point?

Though he pretends to be disinterested in it for Reputation Reasons, I suspect he’d be a big fan of Eurovision and does one of those March-madness style betting pools with his siblings over it. It’s the only time he talks to his brothers.

Christmas? No. Civic holidays? No. World Cup? No. Eurovision? Yes.

Eomer thinks this just demonstrates that Eurovision is the solution to most problems.

In terms of day to day hobbies/way to spend spare time - lots of reading. Many books. Eomer is like “One day we’re going to be eaten alive by your books. There are so many of them.”

As it’s Grima, he has a chaotic organizational system for them that makes sense only to him. Also, he never re-shelves them so there are very neat and precise stacks of books around the flat which he finds rather soothing. He makes upset noises whenever Eomer tries to tidy up.

Eomer believes in de-cluttering. Grima does not.

Puzzles - I firmly believe Grima likes puzzles. And those crazy ones too, like 7k pieces of the moon. So it’s all white and grey.

Also strategy board games and trick-based card games.

And for where he lives? I assume a flat - one bedroom, nothing too fancy those he has Aspirations and Dreams of being filthy, stinking rich one day and being able to spend money like an American.

Oh man, how did they meet? I feel like they’re on opposite sides of some legal issue or argument. Like Eomer works for the Lisbon government and there’s a jurisdictional dispute and Grima’s representing whatever Ministry is involved and it’s all knives out.

Then afterwards they keep running into each other because Life is Full of Trouble. Grima’s like “can a man not drink his coffee and eat his pastries in peace?” and Eomer slides into the chair across from him, “How’s my favourite corrupt government lawyer?” Grima gives him a rude gesture.

Grima’s all, “Excuse me, I’m busy.” Proceeds to take out a deck of cards to Very Visibly play solitaire.

Eomer is thinking, Oh my god what a freak. What comes out of his mouth is, “So you want to grab dinner or something?”

Grima, “No.”

Eomer, “Drinks? Go for a walk?”

Grima:

Eomer, “.... I know a book store with a cafe in it that sells really good croissants and does like an overly fancy charcuterie board”

Grima, “I’m free next Friday at 8.” Immediately goes back to his cards.

Oh he’s also permanently attached to his cellphone. Like it’s probably glued to him at this point. An additional limb coming out of his left hand.

Eomer: We’re on holiday.

Grima: government never stops babe.

Thank you so much for this ask. I love them so much they’re both so dumb.

<3 <3

#THAT GOT SO LONG #lotr #lord of the rings #grima wormtongue #eomer #ask #reply

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jesuis-melodrama · 2 years

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Overkill - Chapter 2

Time tʌɪm/ noun. 1. The indefinite continued progress of existence and events in the past, present, and future regarded as a whole. 2. A point of time as measured in hours and minutes past midnight or noon. 3. The rhythmic pattern of a piece of music, as expressed by a time signature.

Also available on ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN and WATTPAD.

Adrien wasn’t sure if it was his own conditioning, his upbringing or maybe he was just deluding himself, but he always felt like there was something off about him.

Like there was a certain emotion he couldn’t feel. A particular level of self-awareness he can’t reach, an empathy that always seems to drift away like sand in the wind just as he thought he had it in his grasp.

He always used to wonder if his parents had some sort of personality disorder. Something that made Gabriel so detached and uncompassionate, something that made Emilie so self-absorbed and ignorant. Neither of them seems to be able to view the people around them as people. Gabriel saw them as tools. Emilie treated them like dolls.

Adrien always wondered if either of them has ever passed anything down to him. Some kind of genetic anomaly that made him so fumbling and insecure and incapable of forming fundamentally sound connections with other people like archetypal human beings are supposed to do.

Or maybe he was just being melodramatic and histrionic and convinced himself into thinking that there was something wrong with him, because of a kind of placebo effect or such.

Adrien was probably fine. Just a normal person, with an ample pinch of anxiety sprinkled in.

Sometimes Adrien wished that his parents were a little crueller to him.

♡♡♡

The Marie-Antoinette Complex was located in the 16th arrondissement of Paris within the district of the Neuilly-Auteuil-Passy area. It was about thirty hectares wide and surrounded by undisturbed plains of emerald lawns and neatly trimmed hedges. A small man-made lake with willow trees grazing over its frosty surface was the property’s principal feature. In warmer seasons, when the sky is no longer cloudy and the winds no longer seems liable to pick up at any second, families would bring out their children and dogs to splash at the shallow ends.

It was exactly the kind of place one would expect, with such a name, such a locale and such an obsequious rack of external furnishings. None of its apartments were rentable. It was available only for purchase with attached price tags inflated for millions of euros. Adrien shared the complex with sexagenarians and septuagenarians. More business owners and politicians than celebrities. The quiet ambience and tranquil surroundings gave too much peace and not enough excitement.

But whatever his neighbours were in to, whether they were decent men trying to raise families, or indecent men trying to hide affairs, Adrien just wanted a good home.

Plagg, nestled in the folds of his collar, gave the place their own stamp of approval. Sniffing out the untainted greenery and the lack of milling crowds.

“Much better,” they said. “Than that smoke-infested mess of a city.”

Adrien left the hospital this morning, wearing the clothes he had been admitted in. The jeans were stiff, and the fur lined inside his jacket had lost some of its softness. But Adrien supposes that he shouldn’t blame the hospital. It was hygiene first and beauty second.

“My penthouse is on the top of that building.” He pointed out the northernmost tower to Plagg. It was the tallest among the twelve structures of the complex.

“Lovely,” said Plagg. “We can look down upon everyone else like kings.”

The Marie-Antoinette had its own private battalion of security, housekeepers, and administrators. Adrien passed two gardeners trimming the evergreen shrubs lining either sides of the leading red-bricked pathway. And when he approached the revolving glass doors of building Numéro Un, the doorman scrutinized his appearance, shoulders relaxing and giving a satisfied nod when he recognised Adrien.

A security guard was standing inside the lobby, lazily fingering his walkie-talkie, and smiling when they saw Adrien approach. “Welcome back, Monsieur Agreste. Haven’t seen you around for a while.”

“Been busy,” Adrien said casually. “Howdy, Moulin.”

“How do you afford all this?” Plagg questioned as they walked beneath the high-roofed atrium. There was a crystal chandelier dangling at the centre of the ceiling, and a single pretty brunette working behind a stone-fronted receptionists’ desk.

“Don’t you already know?” Adrien asked. “Can’t you see right through me?”

“I can see your spirit,” said Plagg. “Not your life story.”

The décor is baroque style, fitted with modern comforts. Golden wainscotting and curling filigree twisted above black-and-white art deco floors. The air is pleasantly warm compared to the crisp morning outside, and antique wooden frames hung romantic oil paintings side-by-side to contemporary cubism portraits. The elevator had a mock accordion gate, and they parted smoothly in tune with the steel doors.

“I was a model,” said Adrien. “A rather successful one.”

“Was?”

“And then I wasn’t.”

With mirrored walls and a dial marker, the ride up provided enough entertainment on its own. But a floor-to-ceiling window had Plagg zipping out in excitement, pressing their face against the glass to ogle at the expanse of the luxuriant grounds. Adrien casted an apprehensive look at the security camera.

“Don’t worry about that,” Plagg said dismissively. “Kwami can’t be caught on tape.”

“No?”

“Unless your cameras are able to capture non-corporeal essence.”

“I don’t think we’re quite there yet.”

The number of times Adrien has seen his floormates could be counted on one hand. The number of times he has talked to them, even less.

“Hold your breath,” he warned as he jammed his key into the lock. “It’s not going to be a pretty sight.”

Plagg got quiet all of a sudden, burrowing back into his collar.

“Behold,” Adrien proclaimed, throwing his door open. It's a bit worse than he remembered. Littered glasses and cups all over the floor, flies buzzing over the plates in the sink. His couches were covered in crumbs and stumpy matchsticks and the coffee table had needles and empty medicine bottles and unfurling green joints spilled haphazardly across its surface. “Welcome to my humble abode.” But it actually smelled better than he expected. White powder drifted across the room, staining the carpet. Had he accidentally left a window open? “Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?”

“Who are you talking to?”

Adrien froze, and jerked to the direction of the voice.

There, in the archway of the entrance to the balcony, was Nathalie Sanceour. She stood up, when he came in, instinctually adjusting her glasses. She hasn’t changed much in the last five years, although Adrien wouldn’t have expected her too. She loomed in the same muted make-up, the same well-pressed suit. Her hair was pulled back into a low chignon, and the only new addition he could spy was the updated tablet she was holding. A tablet.

“Good morning, Adrien,” Nathalie greeted politely when Adrien said nothing.

His jaw locked, but suddenly the words came easily. “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you.”

“How did you know where I live?”

She inclined her head and a lightbulb flashed.

“Céline,” Adrien realised. “She told you.”

“Mademoiselle Chevrolet is only concerned about you.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I was right to fire her. How did you get in?” A bolt of fear struck down his spine. “She gave you a key?”

“No,” said Nathalie. “I planned to wait outside, but your door was unlocked.”

“And that’s a valid excuse to break in?” His voice rose to a pitch, and Nathalie’s eyes widened in surprise at the depths of the fury in his tone. Inside his shirt, Plagg bit his collarbone, and the pain cut through the haze of rage. He took a shallow breath.

“Why are you here?”

Wordlessly, she handed him a rectangle of folded paper. Frowning, Adrien took it and opened it. Then he looked back up.

“You can’t be serious.”

“We, at Gabriel, would appreciate your participation.”

“No,” said Adrien. And gave a disbelieving little laugh. “Seriously? Fuck no.”

She didn’t bat an eyelid. “Please reconsider.”

“No,” he repeated, much more forcefully. “Are you serious? What the hell is wrong with you? Is he here?”

“Who?”

“My father, who else?”

Nathalie realised that he was referencing the tablet. “No, your father isn’t here. Although I am here on his behalf.”

“Tell him no,” said Adrien. “He has some nerve asking for this. Did he really think I was going to agree?”

“He thinks that it would be a good opportunity for you,” said Nathalie. “You don’t have anything else lined up. And I think–” And Nathalie’s face softened into something maternal, giving Adrien the unpleasant reminder that for years at one time, this was the only person to show him anything close to affection. “–that this would be good for you too.”

Adrien scrunched up the paper viciously, until a little scratchy ball formed in his hands. “You lost the right to decide what is good for me and what isn’t a long time ago,” he said. “And how the hell do you know I don’t have anything else lined up – Céline! Goddammit.” He threw the paper ball across the room. It didn’t hit Nathalie, it was far from hitting her, but she flinched anyway.

“Adrien.”

“No,” Adrien said. “No to this and no to whatever else you’re thinking of hatching in the future. This is ridiculous, you must be able to hear yourself. He must be able to hear himself. Did you really think that I would agree?”

“Adrien, please,” said Nathalie. “I know you don’t hold any favourable opinions towards us–”

The thump of Adrien’s boot against the leg of the coffee table shuttered off her words. A half-empty pill bottle rolled off and clattered onto the floor, and Nathalie’s eyes drifted to the number of circular, colourful pellets bouncing out before they snapped back to him.

“Listen to my words,” Adrien said slowly. “No. Get out.”

“Adrien,” said Nathalie, not moving. “Please reconsider.”

“Get the fuck out before I call security.”

She didn’t want to leave, and Adrien was sure that Nathalie could more than handle whatever security the complex could draft up. But she looked at the expression marring his face and, slowly, resignedly, made her way to the door.

She paused beneath the entryway. “Here,” Nathalie said quietly, not turning around but placing another folded letter onto the nearby buffet table. “I would really appreciate it if you could come. Your father too.”

“If you find your way back here again, I will call the police,” said Adrien. “And don’t tell–” He stopped and laughed. “What the hell am I saying? You probably blabbered everything about this place to him the moment you came in. Get out. You show your goddamn face around here again and I won’t be so lenient next time.”

For a moment, Nathalie’s shoulders jerked, and her hands trembled. Adrien’s hackles rose and despite himself, his throat dried, and he had to swallow his saliva. Apprehension prickled along his neck. But then, the moment passed, and Nathalie settled back into her default impassivity as if nothing happened.

“I won’t come here again,” she promised quietly. “All I ask in return is that you reconsider.”

The door closed.

Adrien grabbed the nearest object, a square rose-embroidered pillow, and hurled it at the door.

“Fuck,” he snarled. “Fucking-” His hands contorted into claws, and he was going to rake his nails down his own cheeks before stopping himself at the last second. The sofa took the brunt of his anger instead. “Goddammit, what the hell.”

Plagg flew out without beckon and busied themselves with the paper Nathalie left behind. “Gabriel Fall/Winter Prêt-à-Porter Collection,” they read. “At the Grand Trianon in the Palace of Versailles. What?”

Adrien slammed his fist down. “The goddamn nerve,” he cursed out. “The goddamn – how dare she just wanders into my fucking house and act as if she had any right to throw work at me?”

Adrien must’ve looked like a maniac, but Plagg doesn’t seem perturbed. “Who is she?”

“Nathalie,” Adrien muttered. “Nathalie Sancoeur. She’s my father’s…assistant.”

Plagg waited but Adrien didn’t say any more. “Huh,” they said. “From your reaction, I thought she was a past lover. Or at least family.”

Adrien gave them a wry look. “That’s disgusting,” he said. “She’s like, twenty years older than me. Twenty-five.”

“You’ve had older,” said Plagg. And they scanned the paper up and down. “Hmm...Paris Fashion Week, four looks on the runway from six to seven…in late September.”

“What?” Plagg was analysing the letter with far more attention than Adrien expected. “How do you know that?”

“From reading this.”

“No. How do you know that…I’ve had older?”

“Wikipedia,” Plagg answered dismissively.

“Wikipedia?” Adrien repeated. “You Googled me?”

“You weren’t going to tell me yourself,” said Plagg. “Are you mad?”

“Mad? No, but I’m…” Adrien searched for the right word. “Disappointed. You could’ve just asked me.”

“Would you have told me if I asked?” Adrien didn’t answer. “See? If it’ll even the odds, you can google me.”

“I doubt I’ll find anything useful.”

“You’ll be surprised,” Plagg said. They abandoned the paper, having lost all interest. They gave the apartment an appraising look instead, rotating three-hundred-and-sixty to take in the rooms in all of its glory. The spin ended on the coffee table. “You were having fun.”

“Don’t lecture me.”

“I’m not going to,” said Plagg, sniffing at the crumbled joints. “Everyone should have fun every once in a while. Just don’t let it get to far.”

Nathalie’s visit tugged at his consciousness like a throbbing wound. Coming home wasn’t going to be entirely pleasant, but seeing her again, in the middle of his safe space, unprepared and after all that time, almost ruined the entire experience. But there was still nothing as assuring as being back in a place you loved. Even if that place was invaded.

Adrien stretched, raising his arms over his head, and feeling his bones pop. “I’m going to start cleaning,” he said dully. “You want to help?”

“No,” said Plagg immediately.

“Too bad,” said Adrien. “Because I wasn’t asking.”

“I am a God of forces greater than your whole universe,” said Plagg. “You cannot make me do menial house tasks.”

“Uh-huh,” said Adrien, unimpressed. “And it’s my name on the tenancy. Get to work unless you want to be evicted, Roommate.”

♡♡♡

If Adrien had to pin down the exact time, the exact moment where things began to go downhill, it probably started when he broke up with Ralf.

Adrien was always a romantic, a big believer in fairy tales, an avid advocate for happily ever after. And in his ideal world, love comes and love stays. There will be no experimentation, no heartbreak, no searching for the right person. There would only be ‘the one.’

And he really did think that Ralf De León was the one.

He was sweet, and he was nice to Adrien. And in the clamour of everything dropping out of his control, the world turning into a confusing, screaming mess that made Adrien want to collapse in onto himself, Ralf made everything go away just by being there.

But did Adrien really love him? Or was Ralf just a decent person that Adrien got attached to?

And, in the end, what did Ralf really wanted from him anyway? Because as their unintentionally comedic closing scene has proven, the concepts of marriage and cohabitation and children were never really on the table. Adrien should’ve asked about that before he swore off all contact. Get one last closure. Was it money? Or was it just him? Adrien has been told that he was irresistible.

Adrien had been willing to try anything, intoxicated on newfound freedom. And he did.

Ralf probably hadn’t meant to hurt him. But he did. And so had the next person, and the next.

And the next.

♡♡♡

Adrien’s apartment doesn’t have a dining room. He ate either on the balcony, or in the living room which was spacious enough for two couches, a TV set-up, a coffee table, floor lamps, a buffet by the entrance, and other assorted accompanying furniture. It shared an open space with the kitchen, so that whoever was doing the cooking could do so in clear view of the living room occupants. It was probably meant to be a touching detail for close-knit families, it was a convenient detail for Adrien because he doesn’t have to travel far when carrying his meals.

“You don’t have a housekeeper for this?” Plagg asked, sullenly wiping the surfaces Adrien told them to.

Adrien straightened up from a particularly stubborn stain and rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand. One two three, one two there, it was not fucking disappearing. “No,” he said. He is still so weak, but at least he doesn’t feel like fainting. Yet. “I don’t want strangers clambering all over my stuff.”

“Smart,” said Plagg reluctantly. “Irritating but smart.”

Despite Plagg’s complaints, Adrien chose this particular apartment for its practicalities. It is isolated but not far from essential stores. It is spacious, but not abundantly so. It lacked any of those disgustingly white spaces that is so popular with the minimalism trend right now. It is warm and homely, and one person could certainly maintain the presentation of the entire apartment without difficulty.

But he did purchase some help. A little vacuum robot and another little mop robot worked in tandem to scrub the floor clean.

Thank god for hardwood, Adrien pulled his Persian carpet out from under the coffee table and rolled it into a tight cylinder. There was no way he could amateurishly remove all of its blemishes. He just hoped the cleaning shop doesn’t ask too many questions about the origin of the powders.

Two bathrooms – an ensuite attached to the Master bedroom and another smaller stall for guests, not that he’s had any – and an enclosed, windowless storage room. The Master bedroom only contained his bed and the walk-in robe. The clothes inside made Plagg whistle as they floated through them.

The other three bedrooms he converted into various playrooms of different functions.

The eastern-facing room, the one that received the most sunlight, contained only a single black Bösendorfer grand piano currently covered in a pearly grey dust cover sheet.

The second largest room is an entertainment centre. With comics and games and movies and pop albums piled onto oak shelves and intricate gaming systems carefully stored behind glass-panelled nooks. A massive flatscreen TV, stretching almost from wall to wall, rose before leather reclining chairs.

The third room, the largest room, contained the most expensive items in the house. A collection of swords, genuine artefacts and well-made replicas, hung on the walls or were cradled upon supporting racks. Authentic Rembrandts and Egyptian papyrus, blue-veined Ming vases and copper lares statuettes, were carefully locked behind display cases or glass frames.

“You’re a fencer,” said Plagg, hovering over the ruby-encrusted rapiers in interest. “You almost made it into the Olympics.

“That was a publicity stunt,” Adrien said. A cloth dabbed with white vinegar and water was gently swabbed in the corners where dust gathered. “My skills are nowhere as proficient.”

“Can you still fence?” Plagg asked.

“Yes,” said Adrien. “But not very well.”

He pulled open all the windows and lit a few fragrant candles when he finally was satisfied that every last inch of his apartment was cleaned to standard. It gave him the feeling that he has not only wiped away what happened but Nathalie’s lingering presence. Adrien showered, and remerged in wool pants and a beige cardigan, his flushed cheeks slathered with moisturizer.

Plagg was trying to eat the candle flames. Dabbing at them with a curious paw, adorably reminiscent of a real cat.

“We have nothing,” Adrien announced, opening his pantry door. After throwing out all the expired and perished, he was left with condiments, seasonings, various flagons of cooking oils, a worryingly soft box of strawberries, and half a head of lettuce. He washed and ate the strawberries, wincing at the sourness. He held one out to Plagg as they drifted curiously near, and they bit off a chunk, leaving a tiny tooth-print, but made a face and left, losing interest. “I’m going out, we need groceries. And dinner, I don’t feel like cooking today. And we need to get rid of this.”

The massive pile of trash layered by the door. Adrien gave the empty wine bottles and foam containers an apathetic look. How did he manage to order so much takeaway while being stoned out of his mind? Plagg came forward and laid one little paw on top of the heap. Cracks spiralled out from the touch, spreading like rot until the entire collection blackened and disintegrated into nothing.

“Oh, wow,” said Adrien. “Could you always do that?”

“Yep,” said Plagg.

“You killed my carpet.” Adrien had left the rolled up Persian next to the door to remind himself about the cleaners.

“No war can be won without casualties.”

Adrien pocketed his wallet and keys and patted his chest. Plagg came forward to nestled in at the dip between the cotton knit and his bare skin.

“Aren’t you cold in this?”

“I can’t feel the cold very well,” said Adrien.

It is only one when Adrien left the complex, but the darkening sky made it appear as if it is six.

“I need a new phone,” said Adrien. “And a new phone number. And we need to buy new furniture and electronics for you.”

Plagg perked up. “You’re going to do that for me?”

“Why not?” Said Adrien. “You’re going to be living with me, aren’t you? Can’t imagine you’ll want to share everything with me.”

At the nearest electronic store, Adrien bought the newest iPhone, a tiny square of an Apple Watch, two SIM cards and a sleek, silver flip phone.

“You can leave the iPhone at home,” Adrien said. They sat on an outside bench and unwrapped their new devices right there, throwing the packaging away into a nearby trash can. Plagg impatiently tapped at their iPhone screen, as if that would make the initialisation happen faster. Adrien changed the default language on his phone from Japanese to French. “And use the Apple Watch when we’re outside. Hmm. Well, actually I have pretty big pockets, maybe you could just sit in the pocket with the phone if you don’t mind being squished a little.”

“Do you go out a lot?” Plagg asked.

“We live in the number one tourist destination in the world,” said Adrien. “And I’ve come to the recent understanding that I’ve not even seen one eighth of what this city has to offer. So, yes, I do go out a lot. I’m working myself down a list of all the zoos and amusement parks and museums there is.”

“When you rejected Nathalie’s offer of work,” said Plagg. “I thought you had something more substantial than sight-seeing planned.”

“Discovering your native city isn’t substantial?”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you know exactly why I rejected the offer,” Adrien countered pleasantly.

Plagg doesn’t want any new furniture or any more electronics. Apparently, the entertainment room had all they need, and they were more than happy to sleep with Adrien. Which was sweet.

An artisan cheese shop named Formaggi Marina was their next target. During Adrien’s hospitalization, the only food that Plagg would consume was the small cubes of plasticky cheese that sometimes came with the bread.

“I can eat other stuff,” Plagg answered when Adrien asked. “But why would I? Cheese is the only food worthy of my mouth.”

The temperature within the store was always kept to a constant cool. The servers wore white face masks and coats. Cheese of all shapes, sizes and colours were arranged upon wooden shelves and tables. The display labels boasted origins from everywhere from France to Switzerland to Mexico.

“Italia,” Adrien read before a giant wheel of gorgonzola. “The Cheese Capital of the World. Right in the middle of Paris. That is certainly a controversial statement. Surprised no one has attempted to burn the place down yet.”

Plagg was looking around at everything in their vicinity, taking it all in with wide, shining eyes, practically salivating into the air. “Heaven doesn’t exist,” they said. “But this…this is Heaven.”

Adrien laughed.

“They have halal cheese,” he said. “And gluten-free and vegan selections.” These special products were locked away in a separate glass-fronted cabinet, and surrounded by a further ring of curtains, to ward off any lingering possibilities of contamination, that visitors are forbidden to enter, and tended to by a segregated server. “That’s awfully inclusive and considerate of them. I always wondered why vegans and vegetarians likes to eat food that resembles animal products. Isn’t the whole point to turn away? And cheese…it’s made from milk. Doesn’t really hurt the cow, does it? Well, I suppose there are unethical agricultural practices and it's more of a moral than a dietary habit…”

“You sure talk a lot, don’t you?” Plagg snided, almost biting down on the fingers that Adrien was using to feed them sample dairy blocks. “Less jabbering and more action.”

“How do you feel about vegan cheese? It’s made of potatoes. What?”

“Are you trying to poison me?” Plagg demanded, digging their claws into Adrien’s collar, pulling him away from where he was leaning closer and trying to scrutinize the ingredients list. “Do not gaze upon unhallowed grounds.”

Adrien filled out a sheet for a delivery subscription and raised his arm to hide Plagg’s scribbling as they ticked in all the boxes for what they want over the next few months. He bought one palm-sized round of camembert for Plagg to snack on now, while Adrien shopped for a replacement carpet next.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” He remarked, feeling the texture of a Tibetan wool rug, in a flooring store two streets down named Aladin Express. “I’ve been thinking about switching up anyway.”

“Soft,” Plagg offered, much more focused on gnawing at their treat. Adrien shifted the textile slightly out of their grasp as they made a reach for it with a filthy, oily paw. “Prude.”

“It’s so pretty,” Adrien said, tracing his fingers over the dark pink flowers and teal blue smoke. “Made from changpel and rich in lanolin. Hand-crafted by traditional weavers in Gyantse, all profits goes towards the underprivileged of Shigatse. Well, I hope that’s true. Excuse me.” He called to a nearby attendant. “Could I get this one delivered?”

The nearest Leclerc is stark and tired. Exhausted white-collar workers wrestled with squalling children among the candy aisles. The beeping of scanned products at the cash registers tittered like a sporadic alarm.

Adrien grabbed a basket and loaded up on basic fruit and bread, cherries and green grapes and a rustic, slitted, flour-coated stick of baguette. He bought a bottle of manuka honey hand soap that was on special, and Plagg pursed their lips at him when three bottles of pinot noir were weighed in at the alcohol aisle followed by two value pack boxes of aspégic.

“Shut up,” Adrien said. The little faceless man on the packaging stood accusingly at him. “I have a headache.”

“Not a good idea to mix pills with alcohol,” Plagg replied.

He selected out slices of ham, salami, and bacon from the boucherie. Smoked jowl was measured on a stainless-steel weight before being wrapped in kraft paper and passed over. Yoghurt, eggs, and berry-and-nut dark chocolate piled on.

“I’m a terrible person,” Adrien said. He didn’t feel like carrying everything home, so he passed all the products on for home delivery. His hands were empty and tucked inside his pockets.

“Why?” Plagg asked.

They walked underneath yellow streetlamps, it was getting late now. The wind ruffled Adrien’s hair and sneaked under his cardigan. Even Plagg shivered slightly and buried themselves further in. Passers-by in parkas and trench coats gave Adrien concerned looks.

“I read this article that you shouldn’t rely too much on delivery,” Adrien said. “Carry things yourself when you can. Because too much unnecessary ordering creates more carbon emissions, promotes the idea of a contactless, digital world, gives further powers to corporations, and we also threw away an awful lot of plastic and non-biodegradable trash today.”

“Who cares,” said Plagg.

“I thought you’ll be more concerned about the planet,” said Adrien. “Aren’t you a God? Isn’t this your kingdom?”

“I’m a deity of darker matters,” said Plagg. “And this planet will be just fine, this entire stint will pass in the blink of an eye. Well, in the blink of an eye for me.”

They walked under the canopy of an appliances store, where the products were displayed on acrylic shelves behind a glass-panelled front. A group of teenage girls with linen tote bags and old canvas sneakers were watching the news footage being played on the restored, antique TVs. Videos of smoke and rubble, a woman in a red, belted leotard zipping around the scene. Another woman in a skin-tight cat suit skittering across the floor.

“–Léon doesn’t think they will.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Her friend demanded. “The United Heroez did it.”

“But it’s not like we have the budget for an entire department,” the first girl argued. “Besides, New York is crawling with super-powered villains. We only have one guy, it’ll be a waste of manpower.”

“How do you know it’s only one guy?” A third girl piped up. Her pigtails bobbled excitedly with her speech. “Maybe more will pop up in the future.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” the first girl scolded. “This is our life, not a movie.”

“I suppose,” she replied. “But Ladybug can fix everything anyway. We don’t have to worry about the damage.”

Ladybug is dark-haired and slender. Her physique speaks of a dancer’s or a gymnast’s background and her fighting style resembles one too. She stays on her toes, leaping away at the first sign of danger, so quick and speedy she is a scarlet comet zooming around the screen, the cameras scrambling to keep her in their view. There seems to be clear established dynamic between her and her taller partner. Vantablack, voluptuous and deadly in sheeny black, defends and blocks, gold sparking around her limbs as she broke down enemy walls for Ladybug to charge through.

“That,” said Adrien. "Does not look fun.”

“It doesn’t?” said Plagg. “This doesn’t look fun to you?”

“It looks exhausting,” said Adrien. He began walking again. He wants to find a restaurant, eat, and go home. “Like something I’ll need to devote a lot of time too.”

“You’re fighting a supervillain,” said Plagg. “You will need to devote a lot of time to it.”

“What do I even get out of this?” Adrien asked.

“A sense of accomplishment?” Plagg suggested. “Moral fulfilment?”

“Disgusting,” said Adrien.

He chose a Thai place with green doors and a chalkboard propped outside, scrawled with lunch specials. Calming flute instrumentals waltzed in the atmosphere of the restaurant, potent but not loud enough to disturb the patrons’ conversations. Adrien requested a private seat in the back, and the server led him to a table pushed up against a benched wall.

“Don’t think they’ll have any cheese dishes here,” he said, scanning the menu. He angled the tent card, with its list of cocktails, and the toothpick holder for Plagg to hide behind. “But they do have milk tea with cheesy foam.”

“Too sweet,” said Plagg, revolted. “Order the red curry. I can work with spice.”

The waiter took their orders with a smile. Adrien drew lazy circles on the lacquered table top while they waited. His fingertips felt rubbed raw.

“I wonder why I feel so comfortable with you,” he said.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” said Plagg. “People can’t resist falling for me.”

Adrien smiled. “The thing is,” he said. “I usually can’t stand anyone. I can work with people, but not for long. I always feel like running away whenever the conversation starts dragging on for too long or starts getting too friendly. So, why am I so okay with you? To the point that I can even share my house with you? Is it because you are an animal and not a man?”

“That is, by far, the cruellest thing you have said to me,” said Plagg. “Do I look like an animal to you?”

“Do you expect my answer to be ‘no’?”

Plagg huffed. “It’s not my fault that I look like this,” they said. “I’m not a cat, just the manifestation of one.”

“Well, you look like an animal,” said Adrien. “Which is what my brain perceives you as. Maybe it’s like one of those guide dog things. Emotional support cat? You offer contact and non-judgemental support. And as I am saying those words, I realise how wrong I am.”

“Maybe you like me because you know we’re meant to be together.”

Adrien laughed. “Don’t say it like that,” he said. “That sounds romantic.”

“Aw,” said Plagg. “Am I not up to your tastes?”

“You’re not in the range of my preferred species.”

Somehow, in the midst of all their shopping, Adrien and Plagg has meandered all the way down to the Latin Quarter, with its gold-illuminated bistros and flaming outdoor lamps. Aggressively friendly diners shared chatter and raucous laughter over steaming cups of tea and plates of sesame-seed-splattered mole poblano. It made the journey back home much more pleasant, the length they had to travel, and on the leisurely bus ride home, Adrien pointed out the shops that he had sojourned in to Plagg.

“If you cross that street over there,” he narrated. “And then turn left, you’ll arrive at Jussieu. It’s Sorbonne’s main campus for their science faculty. And that, the shop with the red-panelling, that’s the bookstore I bought my copy of Pride and Prejudice from. I didn’t want to buy it online, so it took some time to track down a shop in Paris that sells the original English version. It was worth it. I read the book every night for two weeks straight.”

“Fascinating,” said Plagg.

“And that one, over there, the little restaurant with the tiny glass door, hole-in-the-wall gem. I have never had better xiao long bao. I don’t go there anymore, it’s getting a lot more popular now, which is good. The owner is passionate, and she deserves all the fame she gets.”

“Very interesting,” said Plagg.

The lighting in the lobby of the Marie Antoinette when they returned to the doorstep of the complex is dimmed, and the sole security guard, not Moulin, must be a new hire because Adrien doesn’t recognise him, was standing with a nodding head, reminiscent of a person falling asleep and valiantly pretending they're not. He jerked involuntarily when Adrien walked past him through the revolving glass doors, the receptionist glancing up at him, nodding, and then turning down to her work as Adrien walked past her granite till to the elevators.

“The deliveries will come tomorrow at the earliest,” Adrien said, on the ride up. A woman with straight blonde hair and pursed lips stepped into the box halfway, and Adrien had to stop talking until she stepped back out again. “So, we might have to go out again for food tomorrow.”

“Actually, I think you should transform tomorrow,” said Plagg. “And take some time to practice your powers. Run around the city and get familiar with your Superhero form.

Adrien frowned. His shoes clicked against the stucco floor as he walked. “Why?” He asked. “No, I know why, but - why now?”

“You really want to wait for an emergency before transforming for the first time?” Plagg asked. “You should get some rehearsal in first. Introduce yourself to Ladybug.”

“Gods,” Adrien muttered under his breath. His keys jingled as he fished them out. “This is already far more trouble than what it’s worth.”

“It’ll be worth it,” Plagg said mysteriously.

“It better be worth it,” Adrien said . “Because otherwise–” He twisted the key and the doorknob turned easily with the turn. But there were no click, no release of any mechanism, no unlocking.

Adrien and Plagg stared at each other.

“I swear to God,” said Adrien. “If Nathalie is back. I did lock the door this time, didn’t I? You saw me doing it?”

“Hold on,” said Plagg, and they disappeared into the walls. Barely a second passed before they reappeared. “Blonde girl, grey suit, making herself real comfortable on your couch. You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Adrien said, drained. “But I do have a fired agent.”

Céline sprang up when Adrien came in.

“Adrien!” She remarked as he closed the door, fishing out all his inventory – keys, phone, wallet, and little leather card holder– and placing them into the Tiffany and Co. platinum accessories dish on top of the buffet table, before coming over and sitting down, sinking into the couch opposite her. Céline's feet thumped against the ground, two-inch patent leather heels, as she pulled herself up into a sitting position. “You’re back late.”

“I’m sorry,” said Adrien. “Was there an appointment I missed?”

“No,” said Céline, rubbing her hands together. She seems strangely nervous. “But I wanted to talk to you.”

“You told Nathalie where I live,” Adrien started, bluntly, unceremoniously. “I trusted you not to do that.”

Céline frowned. “I…yes, I did,” she said. “But I did it with you in mind.”

“How was that supposed to benefit me in any way?”

“Are you serious?” She huffed. “Look at yourself, Adrien. I know you’re angry at me and you have all the rights to do so. But you can’t keep up this…” Her hands flew up. “Fit, forever. I’m just speeding along the process.”

“Fit?” Adrien repeated icily.

“Fit,” said Céline. “I know you said that you want to take a break, and I know that you want some space-”

“I said neither of those words,” said Adrien. “What I said was "I’m retiring", and what you interpreted it as, is ‘bother Adrien enough times and he’ll probably come back’.”

“This again?”

“Yes, this again,” said Adrien. “This multiple times, this for however many times it’ll take for you to understand the concept.”

Céline scowled. “I don’t think you’re appreciating what I’m doing for you.”

“Having my house invaded twice in one day is making me consider getting stronger locks.”

“Adrien,” Céline said. “Don’t be unreasonable. You had your fun, but your momentum is starting to slow down. Keep this up and you won’t be able to come back. Being alone isn’t good for you, look at where you ended up just two weeks ago, and yes,” she asserted firmly as Adrien opened his mouth. “That was partially my fault. But you were already drunk when you showed up to the party. I tried to get you to stop drinking, but you didn’t listen to me.”

“I trusted you, Céline,” said Adrien, quietly. “I trusted you not to betray me.”

The fierce look in Céline’s eyes diminished slightly, and her crossed arms faltered. Just a bit, before they retightened. “Well, I guess I’m breaking your trust,” she said stoutly. “For your own good.”

Silence.

“Why are you here?” Adrien asked.

Céline’s nails scrabbled against the gold clasp of her handbag as she pulled out a piece of folded paper. Even before she opened it, Adrien immediately knew what it is.

“Seriously?” He said. “No.”

“Why not?” Céline challenged. “There’s nothing else that you’re doing.”

“That’s not a reason to say 'yes'.” Adrien pressed a hand to his forehead. “Why…how do you even know Nathalie? How did she get you to do this for her?”

“I’m not doing this for her,” said Céline. “I’m doing this for you.”

“Why would this do anything for me?”

“Because it’ll get you off your ass and into some actual work,” Céline snapped. “Isn’t that obvious? Adrien, fucking frankly, I am fucking sick of this. I’m doing so much to help you, but I won’t be here forever.”

“I don’t need you to be here forever,” said Adrien. “I said that you don't need to be here forever, I gave you an official statement formally releasing you off from any 'forever' mandates, you’re the only party of this relationship still trying.”

“Oh, so, I’m just supposed to watch you give up on yourself.”

“I’m not giving up on myself–”

“Then what the hell is all this?”

“This is me trying to live my life," said Adrien. "And getting really fucking irritated by your continued efforts of coming in and attempting to take control of it.”

Céline’s face darkened. “Take the fucking paper, Adrien.”

“Céline–”

“Take the fucking paper.” She shook the sheet violently at him, until it carted through the air with ripping booms and Adrien took it just to make the noise stop. “You ungrateful little bitch.”

“Are we really resorting to name-calling now?”

“I sweated for you,” she spat. “For four whole years of my life, I broke my fucking back for you getting you to where you were–”

“I think we both know that’s not true.”

“And then you go behind the same goddamn back, fucking shanks me in it, and yet I’m still fucking here, trying to help you and you treat me like this?”

“I told you,” Adrien repeated. “That I was going to leave, it’s not my fucking fault you refused to listen–”

“Barbier placed millions on you!” Céline yelled. “Which idiot in their right fucking mind would leave? Of course, I thought you were joking.”

“You think I would spend hours countering a contract for a joke?”

“I can’t even fucking tell because you always do things like this,” Céline said. “Never considering how others might feel–”

“Oh, you got to be kidding me.”

“–dragging yourself down into this stupid downward spiral, making everyone fucking worry and then refusing to let us help, you just want to watch us suffer, don’t you? Don’t you?”

“Céline,” said Adrien. “I have too much fucking respect for myself to damage myself just to spite others.”

She fell muted. “Then what the hell is all this?”

“Me–” Adrien repeated pointedly. “–leaving.”

She looked at him, stared him straight in the eyes for the first time since he entered the room. There were no humour there. Céline sat back, arms loosening from their rigid stance.

“…you’re really not kidding.”

“Why is it so hard for you to believe?”

“Because it’s such a stupid decision,” she said tiredly, and rubbed at her temples with two fingers. “Why?”

“I told you,” said Adrien. “I realised I don’t like it and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

“Why not? You’re good at it, Adrien,” she said, imploringly. “You’re at the top of the world, you can’t stop now.”

“Fucking watch me.”

“And what about everyone else? You can’t even stay back to complete their projects?”

“I paid the fee,” said Adrien. “I’m bearing the social consequences. There’s nothing else I have to do.”

“The Wiśniewska film,” she pleaded. “Finish that at least, he’ll willing to let you come back.”

“No,” said Adrien. “Once the ball starts rolling, it won’t be able to stop again.”

Céline’s lips pursed. “Do you know how many people would kill their own mothers to be in your position?” She asked. “To have your call list?”

“No,” Adrien said, sardonically. “Absolutely no idea. Please, enlighten me.”

She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t understand,” Céline mumbled, voice muffled. “Adrien, please don’t do this to yourself.”

“I’m not doing anything to myself,” Adrien said, but his words only fell upon deaf ears. “I’m fine! Jesus Christ, I’m retiring, not fucking dying, you’re making this a much bigger deal than it has to be.”

“Please do the Gabriel job.”

“No.”

“One last thing, okay?” She said. “For me? For old times’ sake.”

Adrien closed his eyes. “This is why you were fired,” he said.

“I know.”

“Give me back my fucking key.”

There was a silence. Then the rustle of cloth and Céline’s hands gently touched his, slipping a cool metallic object in between.

“Did you make copies of it? Give any to anyone else?”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’ve having a lot of trouble believing you anymore.”

“...that’s fair.”

Adrien tried to open his hands, to look at the article back in his possession but Céline clung on, slender fingers wrapped around his.

“You’re freezing,” she said.

“I just came home.”

“How long have you been wandering alone out there?”

“I wasn’t wandering,” said Adrien. “I was shopping.”

“In that?”

“I can’t feel–”

“–the cold very well,” she finished. “But the weather’s getting worse, so put on a jacket before you go out now, okay?”

“…okay.”

Céline rubbed at his knuckles and blew warm air upon them.

“I love you,” she said. “You know that, right?”

“I love you too,” Adrien said.

“What are you planning, Adrien?” She asked. “All these, the withdrawals, the refusals. The retractions. What are you running from?”

“Run,” Adrien repeated. “What do you think I have to run from?”

She watched him with sad eyes. “I know you’re not happy.”

Adrien didn’t answer.

“But at least work kept you busy.”

“I don’t want to be kept busy with work anymore.”

“Do you want to see me anymore?”

Adrien sighed. “Not really.”

She nodded, lips thinning. “The Gabriel job,” Céline said. “Please.”

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“If you’re going to leave,” said Céline. “At least revisited where you started one last time before you do.”

Adrien felt his mouth twitch. “Poetic.”

“Very,” she agreed.

Adrien leaned back, almost pulling her onto him as he did so. “Did you tell anyone else where I lived?”

“You think so little of me?”

“I don’t know what to think about you anymore,” Adrien said . “We have both changed so much from when we first met. We’re very different people now.”

“It’s unavoidable,” said Céline.

“I’ll do the job,” said Adrien. “But don’t get too excited about it. I’m putting my fucking foot down, I’m serious. This is the last one.”

The glimmer in Céline’s eyes did not diminish in the slightest. “Thank you,” she said. And she came forward to peck him on the cheek. “You won’t regret it.”

“I doubt that.”

“You won’t.” And she stood up, their hands unclasping, a rush of chilliness blooming in the absence of her heat. “I’ll leave you alone now.”

“Goodbye.” Adrien did not move from his position.

When Céline reached the entranceway, the sharp tacks of her shoes clomping a trail over the hardwood, she suddenly paused. And dithered as if considering something. Adrien cocked his head just as she turned around.

“Just out of curiosity,” Céline said. “What were you going to do if I hadn’t come tonight?”

“Just out of curiosity?”

“Just out of curiosity.”

“Hmm.” Adrien smiled inauthentically. “This apartment would’ve been shortly vacated if you hadn’t come tonight.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders stiffened. “Then, it’s a good thing that I came, isn’t it?”

“If you want to interpret it that way.”

Céline left, and Plagg flew out the moment the door clicked.

“That was dramatic.”

“That’s the fun of human interactions,” said Adrien. “Lots of screaming, lots of ‘I care about you’-s, and ‘I love you'-s, but overall, not a lot of considerations for your feelings.”

“What did you mean when you said that this apartment would be shortly vacated?”

Adrien rolled his neck and stretched, feeling the bones in his spine pop.

“It means,” he said. "That if a number of annoying presences, including a certain being in present company right now, hadn’t bothered me with their requests–” Plagg hmphed. “–I would be on a flight to Australia right now.”

“Australia?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“It’s sunny,” said Adrien. “They’re beginning their spring months and I bought a condo near the beach.”

“Wow.”

“Well, it’s all ruined,” Adrien said. “But if I’m staying for one thing, might as well add another egg to the basket.”

“That girl,” said Plagg. “The awkward strains of deception was plastered all over her aura. I don’t know what she was trying to do exactly, but she was attempting to deceive you somehow.”

“That’s Céline,” said Adrien. “But don’t worry, she’ll always have your best intentions at heart.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.” Adrien grinned, all teeth. “Didn’t you hear her? After all, I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.”

#miraculous les aventures de ladybug et chat noir #overkill #fanfiction

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mcu-fan-fics-blog · 3 years

Text

The Helping Hand

This is a Repost from my Ao3 I wanted to bring it to Tumblr. As I was editing the last chapter I decided to go a different direction than on Ao3. So moving forward the story will be different.

Word Count: 2200 approx

Summary: Y/N Krast Illegitimate Daughter of Tony Stark. Product of an unwanted teen pregnancy. What would Howard Stark be capable of doing to assure his sons future? What will happen when Tony meets our Beautiful, young, genius, rich philanthropist.

Tw: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Drug use, Drug addiction, Teen Pregnancy, Slight Stalking. (If there are any I missed please tell me.)

Ch.6

Chapter 7: Time is Running

Ch.8

The pain is unbearable and the bright light just isn't helping. You start to see shadowy figures around you, you close your eyes again trying to focus. You feel cold, then suddenly a hand in your own. You turn to see who it belongs to, you're slightly surprised to see Tony there holding your hand. He stands when he realizes you've woken up. He's saying something but you can't quite put it together.

"What-what happened to me?" Your voice is dry and hoarse. Suddenly Bruce is at your side as well. "Well, that's what we want to know Y/N." You look at them confused. "I-i don't know what this is, but it's happened before…" They both look at you intrigued, prompting you to continue. "When I was little I was really sick in and out of the hospital. Until one day it got very bad, long story short I had heart surgery." Still not getting the point you continue.

"And I had this dream, it felt exactly like this. My mom was there…" You say to finish your statement. "Your mom?" Tony repeats walking towards you. You simply nod. "What did she tell you… anything important?" He asks rather impatiently. "She's dead… my- my dad he's alive." You say quietly like you didn't want to believe it. Tony and Bruce share a look, but you don't mention it. "I don't know what happened." You sigh again "Did you check my Heart?" Your question seems to knock them out of their daze.

"No we didn't, your vitals were stable… Um, do you want me to?" You nod. "It's for the best, considering what happened last time." He begins to walk out “Bruce I would appreciate your discretion on the matter. No need to worry the team.” He hesitates but ultimately agrees. You watch him walk out and turn to Tony. “I’m going to ask that you do the same.” He goes to speak but you stop him before he can start. “Tony, please I don't need their pity, and therefore mentioned yours.” He sighs in hindsight he should have told them but he didn’t and you appreciated him for it.

The next couple of hours Bruce spent running tests on you. You knew something was wrong when he decided to re-test for “better images”. Just as he’s about to walk away and run the said test for the third time you stop him. “What’d you find Bruce, be honest with me running the damn test again won’t change the results.” He rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. “It just doesn’t make scene Y/n, earlier when I ran these tests everything was fine, and now your results are all over the place.” He gives you a worried look. “When Wanda tried to look into your mind she said you were blocked off she couldn’t get through the barrier. I think It was keeping you stable Y/n.”

“So you’re saying that whatever is happening to me Is keeping me alive?” He nods and builds on his theory. “It’s like a survival instinct it kicks in when you’re in danger.” You scoff and rub your hands together. “More like imminent death, show me my heart scans.” He walks off and hands them to you. “Oh, fuck me. That’s bad isn’t it?” He nods. “The surgery you had did not fix the initial heart issue you had, It actually got worse with time.”

You close your eyes trying to calm your thoughts. “What does this mean Bruce can we do something?” He sighs “You’re gonna want to talk to Tony about this, Maybe he can do something with the arc reactor. Maybe Vision could help us; he won’t tell anyone.” He adds quickly at the end. “Y/n they need to know about this…” You cut him off “No, Vision, Tony, and you need to know about this. There isn’t anything the rest of the team can do.” You stand from the examination table and clothe yourself. Bruce didn’t want to look but curiosity took over. “Y/n where’d you get those?” he asks quietly looking at the scars on our back. “Bruce the Foster Care System is fucked.” you say while putting your shirt on. “Do-do you want to find your father?” He asked another question this time you freeze in place.

“Bruce, thin ice bud.” You say walking away. As soon as you walk out you see the team sitting in the common room. “Steve, Pietro, Nat, Wanda I owe you all an explanation…” When you try to continue Natasha stops you. “Y/n you owe us nothing, when you’re ready to talk we’ll be here waiting.” she says casually. You look around the room and everyone is agreeing which is odd. Something is going on, they know something you don't, you look at Steve, his eyes immediately shift away from yours. “You are all terrible liars.” You state bluntly, them being closed off huddling together after all the “we’re a family, we’ll be here” crap just makes you less inclined to ever open up to them.

“Vision, Tony and Banner want to talk to you.” You say changing your attention to the synthezoid currently floating in the corner of the room. He simply nods and phases through a wall. You stare blankly at the wall, a ‘that’s new’ leaving your lips. Not minding the rest of the team behind you, you leave them there heading back to the lab. "Right have you gotten Vision onboard." He simply nods. "Y/n I have to ask your heart since when has that been going on." Vision asks and you nod "When I was dropped off at the hospital as a baby I had minor non invasive surgeries, later on I got this bad boy." You point out lifting your shirt to reveal a rather large scar.

"Y/n would you mind if I accessed your medical files." You ceded "It's fine do what you must. Bruce? Um thanks for all of this... What's your estimate?" You ask quickly he almost didn't catch it. "Y/n you don't need to know that." Your anger rising "The hell I do Banner. Look I don't have my affairs in order. I need you to tell me whether or not I should get started on that. Or I could just ask Vision." He shakes his head. "At the deterioration rate your heart tissues are in I'd say 4,5 months." That takes you by surprise and it takes you a moment to process. You look up at him, your smile faltering, you nod and head out of the lab.

Surprisingly a certain red head was waiting for you outside the lab. You walk up to her "Do you want to go get that dinner you promised?" She's surprised by your sudden invitation, but you don't back down. "I would love to." You nod. She clears her throat "so what's actually going on with you?" She tries to ask casually but ultimately fails. "I won't ask about your little secret and you won't ask about my little episode. Sound good? I just want to enjoy the night." She nods and you both make your way to the elevator. The walk to the restaurant was pleasant. “So tell me Y/n how’d you become the billionaire you are today?” You laugh at her phrasing no one’s ever asked you that. “I wouldn't paint myself in that light but I guess I am a billionaire, but I’m smart.” She scoffs “So, Tony’s also smart, tell me something I don't already know.”

“Fine, let me think… I had Howard that's how I did all of this I guess if it wasn't for him I would probably be on the streets.” She stops walking. “Another fun fact, that for my 12th birthday he gave me my first Million Euros.” She tilted her head. “Why Euros you may be asking yourself? He said ‘Y/n anyone can give you money, but I, I got you the best money there is.” Natasha broke out in laughter. “So Howard was rich, that must have been like culture shock.” You nod. “Well It should have been, but when your bestfriend gets a private island for her birthday your expectations change.” You mention casually. “Who is this best friend of yours?” She asks curiously. “Remember when we ‘met’ the coffee place? My friend Jenna owns the place.”

“What is she doing working at a Coffee shop?” She asks Intrigued. “Well, her family comes from old money. And something that usually comes with old money is strings. So she cut herself off.” Nat shakes her head. “That must’ve been hard.” You nod. “It was but by then I had my own money I could help her out when she really needed it.” You stop abruptly and turn to nat. “I can't believe I almost forgot, there's this place that has the best grilled cheese I’ve ever had!” You basically drag her down the street to the food truck. “Thank God! It's still here.” You exclaim trying to catch your breath.

“See, I was thinking candlelit, waiters and wine!” She mentions jokingly you give her a playful glare and proceed to order. “You see I’m not the wine and dine type of Girl.” she chuckles “I’m beginning to see that.” You take the first bite and it’s like heaven on earth. “It’s still as good as I remember.” You say in between bites. Natasha can only nod “You know you eat like a child right?” you fain being offended “Nat I’ll have you know I have the most refined palate. You can't tell me It’s not good. ”She hums taking another bite of her grilled cheese. “I never said it was bad Y/n.” She teases. Her eyes met yours and for a moment it felt like it was just you and her. When suddenly the world your eyes have created is brought to an abrupt stop.

“Y/n is that you?” fuck… “It’s me Zack from last night.” How can this keep getting worse. You turn your head towards Zack meeting his gaze. “Yeah, I remember you. My new favorite barista, thanks for helping me out yesterday.” You say plastering on the most artificial smile you could. “You like Doc’s too, I used to come here as a kid with my parents.” Your demeanor falters at the mention of his parents. “Yeah, It's my favorite. It was nice to see you Zack, but we gotta go see you around.” You take hold of Nat's hand and walk away from him. Once you're a safe distance away you let go and finally notice that you're breathing is of the charts. “Sorry that guy just creeps me out.” You say while catching your breath. “You could’ve fooled me. Your favorite barista?”

“Nat? Are you jealous… Cause if you are.” You stop talking when you notice her glaring at you. “He’s not my favorite barista far from it. Who would’ve thought an international spy Jealous.” She scoffs “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself Y/n. We haven't even gone out.” Now it's your turn to laugh “We haven't? Then what is this we’re doing?” The words in Natasha's mouth go away. She's left there opening and closing her mouth. "Right, now how about you pick dessert?" You say changing the subject. She nods "How does Ice cream sound, I know a really good place around here."

"That sounds Perfect." You hum as you start walking. "You know Zack, he's a horrible person. He's not in my good graces I guess is what I'm trying to get at." You mumble. She turns to you with a worried look. "Y/n are you okay? We can go back if you're not feeling well." She states taking hold of your shoulder. "No I'm okay I just wanted to clear the air." She nods and you continue walking. Once you make it to the ice cream shop you order and sit in a both. "So Y/n If you don't like Zack why pretend?" She asks "To put it simply he doesn't remember who I am hence what he did to me."

"What are you planning to do with this guy then?" She continues down the same road. "Nothing… It's not my priority right now." You say taking another bite of your ice cream. "So Natasha tell me about you. Yes, I know it might be surprising you might have picked up on how I like to make things about me. It's your turn now tell me something I don't know." You say and she chuckles. "I was beginning to think you'd never ask." She teases. "Well I'm Russian. I was trained to be the best assassin there is and I was until Barton recruited me." You nod.

"See we've already got something in common. You have Clint I had Howard." She laughs at the fact that you completely flew over the International Assassin part. "I would like to do this again some time… of course if you want to too I mean." You go on. "Nat, are you listening to me?" You notice her eyes looking elsewhere. "Y/n he followed us here." You almost drop your ice cream. "He what?" She takes your hand. "Zack creepy guy followed us here. I'm starting to think he does remember you."

#natasha x y/n #avengers #marvel #pietro maximoff #tony stark #wanda x reader #natasha romanoff #reader x avengers #wanda maximoff #fanfic #elizabeth olsen #maria stark #howard stark #maya hansen #black widow

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rosesgonerogue · 4 years

Text

How to be a Dad 101

Chapter Six - Modeling

Jasonette July Day Eight

Masterlist

When Jason was a kid, his family was too poor to take any sort of trip, which at the moment he was missing. He didn’t have any concept of how normal people travelled, but it turned out that even if you were travelling to Paris in a private jet, doing so with your entire family was a downright nightmare.

“Does everyone have all of their bags?” Bruce was calling above the din. “And passports? We need to act like a normal family, so you need to exchange your money for euros when we get there, we shouldn’t just show up with them.”

“B, you’ve already said that at least fifteen times,” Stephanie complained.

“Why exactly is she coming on a family vacation?” Damian demanded. “She’s not even dating Drake anymore.”

“Face it, Damian. Your family chose me, they were stuck with you.”

“Father, you need to choose between Brown and Drake. I cannot be expected to tolerate both for an extended period of time.”

“Oh calm down, Little D. It’ll be fun!” Dick said, slinging an arm over his youngest brother’s shoulder.

Jason sidled over to Cass and whispered, “How many weapons did Bruce say we could bring?”

She looked at him with her unreadable dark eyes. “None.”

“Okay, that’s what he said, but how many are you bringing?”

Silently she held up seven fingers.

“Damn, I have eight. Do you think I can get away with that?” They looked at each other a moment. “You’re right, B definitely has more than that.”

“If you all don’t get yourselves and your belongings on the plane within the next five minutes you’re finding your own way to Paris!” Selina called over the noise.

“Move it, suckers!” Babs yelled, running at least three people’s feet over with her wheelchair in her haste. Despite the pain she caused, once she got to the plane, she was able to expertly maneuver herself onto it, letting Dick struggle aboard with both of their luggage. Jason kept himself as far away from the eldest Wayne child as possible. Every time Dick looked at Jason, he could see the apology in his brother’s eyes, which only served to piss him off all over again. Maybe he was being irrational, and maybe he was just on edge because they were heading to Paris, but Jason couldn’t really find it in himself to care.

He slept fitfully on the flight, doing his best to ignore his family, be it Dick and Babs being the disgusting newlywed couple, or just Damian being… Damian. His dreams were strange and disjointed, filled with blue eyes and whispered French.

After dealing with customs and getting checked into their hotel (which was almost exclusively inhabited by their party, because of course it was), Jason had no desire to ever go on another family trip ever again. The thought of doing all of that without skipping lines and cutting corners they were able to thanks to Bruce’s money was almost painful. But then again, people with less money also didn’t have to deal with Damian and Tim in the same space for an extended period of time.

Thanks to the nap he’d had on the plane and the fact that he was in Paris, Jason found he couldn’t sleep. He found himself wandering the hotel, taking in the opulent surroundings. He thought he would only see hotel staff if he were to see anyone, but on his way to the hotel’s twenty-four hour gym, he stumbled across a blonde dressed vaguely like a bumblebee who was arguing with someone on the phone.

“Listen, Dupain-Cheng, you are not taking advantage of these clients. No! You’ve been staying up at all hours of the night – don’t you dare argue with me, you’re up right now, aren’t you? And you have to take care of gremlins in the morning. No, she agreed to do it, it’s not exploiting them, it’s allowing them to pay you back for the giant favor you’re doing them! Fine, I will give her a discount, but this is not how you build a brand! Now go to sleep, the photoshoot is tomorrow. Don’t give me that, we both know you’ll finish things up with time to spare. Now go. To. Sleep.”

After a few moments the blonde hung up, and she seemed to be in a foul mood when she saw Jason. “And what do you want?”

“To get to the gym? You’re blocking the door.”

“And you were just eavesdropping. Your French isn’t bad for an American,” she said, flouncing away with a hair flip. “But your accent is horrible.”

“It can’t be as bad as your attitude,” he sneered under his breath before shoving into the exercise room.

Once inside, Jason ran himself to exhaustion, grateful when he collapsed into bed and fell asleep almost immediately. His dreamless sleep was fleeting, though, because it felt like only moments later that he was jolted awake by the sound of his phone ringing.

Glaring at the offending technology, he considered silencing it, but when he saw it was Selina, he thought better of that.

“Yes?”

“You have an hour to look awake and presentable. Meet up in the hotel lobby.”

She hung up as abruptly as she had called, leaving Jason blinking at his phone. He considered rolling over and going back to sleep, but he’d probably need the entire hour just to get his hair to Selina’s standards.

Cass was already in the lobby when Jason was finally ready, and thankfully Dick was nowhere to be seen. Sidling up next to his sister, Jason asked, “Do you know what we’re doing?” His level of concern grew exponentially when she shook her head. Everyone knew Bruce was weak for Cass, so if Cass didn’t know, that meant that the scheme was entirely Selina’s.

Unsurprisingly, Grayson the peacock was the last person to make it to the group. Babs was too annoyed with him to even make some sort of innuendo, she just complained about how long it took for him to do his hair.

“So what’s the plan, Selina?” Stephanie asked, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“You’ll find out when we get there. Follow me, we have a ways to walk,” Selina said, smiling wickedly.

The family obediently trudged after Selina, grouping up as they moved. Jason saw Dick make a beeline for him, but Babs caught his arm. “Babe, will you stick with Damian to make sure that he doesn’t maim any Parisians?”

“Sure, babe,” he said, deflating a bit.

As expected, only moments later Babs rolled up next to him. “Listen here, you giant. If you’re going to make me catch up to you, the least you can do is push my wheelchair.”

“Whatever,” Jason said, doing as she asked.

“I hope you know you’re killing my husband, by the way. He’s goingi crazy because he doesn’t know what to do to apologize to you.”

“Good.”

“I know you don’t mean that, Jason, and I know that because we both know I’m the one you’re actually mad at.”

“Am I?”

“Bringing up the French girl was a low blow. You told me about that in confidence, and I threw it in your face. I’m sorry, Jason.”

“That did piss me off, I just… Babs, why did you marry Dick?”

“Is that a trick question? Because I love him, stupid.”

“But how did you know that you loved him that much? Because ever since I met my ‘French girl,’ I can’t even think about looking at someone else. It’s insane because I knew her for like a day, but I’ve never… I’ve never felt like that with anyone before, but I didn’t feel right trying to make anything more out of what we had because of how royally screwed up our lives are. How could I subject someone who is possibly a literal angel to our lives? I’ve never questioned my decision on that before, but lately I can’t stop thinking about her, and now we’re here, in Paris where she lives.”

“Wow.” Babs said. “I didn’t know… That’s a lot, Jay.”

“Thanks.”

“Give a girl some time to process, okay? Geez. I don’t know if I believe in fate and that kind of crap, but this feels eerily like destiny. Maybe you’re meant to meet her here in Paris. If you do, then don’t run away. Stick it out for at least as long as we’re here. You wouldn’t be the first of us to have a relationship with a civilian.”

“But what if—”

“Jason, bothering yourself about all of the ‘what ifs’ is only going to drive you crazy. We don’t even know if you’re going to meet her here. Let things run their course.”

He sighed. “You’re right, thanks Babs. And I’ll tell your husband that I forgive him, the sap.”

“That’s all I ask.”

After a few blocks more, Selina abruptly stopped in front of a building. It was clearly some sort of business, but the doors only said, “MDC” across them. “This is it, kids. Come on in.”

Tim could be heard freaking out about something or other, but Jason found himself hoping that whatever was happening would be quick and painless. Inside, curiously enough, the same blonde from last night was waiting for them.

“You must be the Wayne family, here for the photoshoot,” she said in flawless English. “MDC had some personal affairs to tend to, so she will be here shortly.”

“Photoshoot?” Bruce asked, looking at Selina.

“This is the shop of the designer who is making my dress,” Selina purred with a winning smile. “Ordinarily she wouldn’t have been able to fit me, you and all the kids in with how little time we gave her, but she’s releasing her first line of clothes to the general public, and her normal models are away. It’s a fairly sizeable line, and she wanted diversity, so I volunteered our beautiful family.”

“We’re going to be modeling?” Damian asked, disgusted.

“We’re going to be modeling for MDC?!” Tim asked, nearly bouncing with excitement.

“Dude, you’re a CEO. Have some shame,” Babs said, elbowing him.

“You’re already booked and committed. Once MDC gets here she’ll decide who will be wearing what, and then we’ll get started,” the blonde said. As if on cue, there was a crash in the back room, and the blonde sighed. “That will be MDC now.”

Jason was only mildly curious what this designer might be like, but it seemed that things would be at least a bit entertaining. Even before she burst from the backroom, she was spewing frantic French to the blonde.

“Chloe, I’m so sorry I’m late, Jules kept spilling things on himself on purpose, and then the babysitter was sick, so I had to find someone else, and then I missed the train and –”

Emerging from the backroom was a beautiful pixie-like girl, a girl who had starred in almost every dream Jason had had since they’d met. Jason was completely frozen at the sight of her.

Marinette. Marinette was MDC, the only designer Selina would think of wearing on her wedding day.

She stopped at seeing the mass of people in her store, but she immediately smiled sincerely, eyes flitting from person to person. In English she said, “You must be the Wayne family, thank you so much for agreeing to model for me. It really—” she cut off mid-sentence, eyes wide. “Jason? Is that really you?”

Taglist:

@jasonette-july-2k20 @ira-sairain @myazael @pawsitivelymiraculous @nik-nak-3 @dast218 @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @vixen-uchiha @momothefemur @toodaloo-kangaroo @marinettepotterandplagg @goddessofthewestwind

Note:

In case you haven’t noticed, I haven’t done yesterday’s prompt yet. It’s in the works, but my life is complete chaos, and it will just have to be late. Even though it was such a fun prompt, I have been having some severe writer’s block. Anyway, I’m super excited for the next few chapters, it’s happening!

#jasonette july 2k20 #jasonette #jason x marinette #maribat #mominette

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imnotdoneyet-forreal · 3 years

Text

Deals with the Devil- 14

Author: Amanda Preston

Summary: A need to fill a void and an encounter to start something new, Elijah and Katya never knew that a simple one night stand would wind up into a love affair filled with family drama and side deals gone wrong.

Deals with the Devil Masterlist

“I don’t care if you kick me to the curb and set up my room on Craigslist but I refuse to work with misogynistic, egotistical, piece of Euro-trash that is your shitty, lying, cheating ex-boyfriend Lorenzo St. John.”

Bonnie is out of breath by the time she’s done with her rant and Katya lets out a sigh at all of the prying eyes around her office that are waiting for her response.

“I really ought to rethink this whole open-door policy,” Katya mutters tiredly. “I desperately need my door back.”

“Katya!”

She looks up at her best friend/editor in chief and lets out a sigh.

“Look, I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I can’t,” Katya repeats. “Enzo wanted me to be his editor and I have too much on my plate to fall onto his lap and do his bidding all over again. You are the only one I can trust that he won’t try to flirt or friend into getting his way. I need you to do this for me not only as your boss but as your friend.”

She pauses as she notices Bonnie’s resigned expression.

“Mostly as your boss though,” Katya amends. “If HR asks, it’s because I’m your boss.”

Bonnie has to let out a laugh at that and the tension in your office is soon relieved.

“Fine, fine,” she sighs out. “I’ll do it but you owe me. Big time.”

“I’m already planning on doing so,” Katya relent. “A midnight bar crawl or a road trip to wherever you choose. Or maybe…”

Katya slides the folder across her desk for Bonnie to take.

“What is that?” she asks curiously.

“Why don’t you take a look and see for yourself?”

Bonnie takes up the folder and looks through the contents.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims. “The lit mag got approved!”

Katya grins at her excitement.

“This is your baby, Bonnie,” Katya tells her. “I’m letting you take control here but I have to let you know of one big requirement and I hope you don’t hold it against me.”

“Alright,” Bonnie nervously agrees. “What is it?”

“The publication of MoonLit will have to have its first release at the same time as the MoonStone Online Publishing website.”

Bonnie lets out a sigh of relief at hearing this.

“That’s fine,” she answers. “I won’t have things done by then anyway.”

“Perfect,” Kaya responds with a smile. “Now, get to work! We’ve got a lot to do today.”

“Ay, ay, chief,” Bonnie states with a mock salute.

Katya watches as her best friend practically skips her way out of the office. She leans back into her chair relieved to have that issue out of the way but knowing there were hundreds more like it that she had to filter through.

A knock on Katya’s door frame interrupts her again and she finds a shy Davina to be the cause.

“I’m sorry to break in on your already busy day,” Davina apologizes as she steps up to Katya’s desk. “But I just got a call from Viking Co.”

“What did they want?” Katya asks in alarm.

She wasn’t sure if the acceleration of her heart was one out of panic or excitement. Katya hadn’t heard from Elijah since their outing on Sunday. She had expected some sort of text or maybe a sudden appearance to her office but he hadn’t done any of those things. Just pure radio silence.

“They were hoping to have a follow-up meeting over the online publishing project,” Davina summarizes. “I know it’s late notice, but they set it for this Friday at 5.”

“Alright,” Katya mutters anxiously. “That’s quite soon. We need to have something… anything ready for them then. I… crap.”

Katya rolls her chair out of her desk and starts to motion for Davina to follow her.

“Get Josh into the conference room,” Katya orders. “We’ve gotta bulldoze through two weeks of work in hopefully one day.”

Davina’s eyes widen at her statement but does as she’s told watching as Katya stormed into the conference room and began to write an outline on the dry erase wall.

Katya fidgets with the hem of her skirt unable to stop herself from doing so. She had everything prepared for this impromptu meeting but she couldn’t stop herself from being nervous.

“You’ll be fine,” Bonnie assured her as she stopped by her office before she left. “You put your heart, mind, and soul into this and it's perfect.”

Katya just smiled nervously.

“Unless you’re nervous because of something new altogether,” Bonnie pinpoints. “You never did tell me about that Sunday meeting that took all day.”

“It was nothing.”

“If you say so,” Bonnie shrugs with a grin. “I guess if all fails, you can always sleep with the gentleman Elijah and hope to appease his mind that way.”

Katya had immediately shunned Bonnie out of her office at that comment and had tried to keep her mind clear of any sexual thoughts revolving around her boss.

It was hard to prevent her mind from straying towards that direction but Katya focused on her work. Her hard and great work.

She wasn’t someone who sought praise in everything she did, but Katya wanted Elijah to appreciate the work that she and her team had done in the few days they’ve had. It wasn’t perfect, but the potential it had was driving Katya fully.

Katya wanted to prove to Elijah that his investment in MoonStone, that his investment in her, was not a mistake. MoonStone under her leadership has true potential and she wanted Elijah to see what the future held for it.

With one deep breath, Katya makes her way to Gia’s desk who is quick to motion her towards the conference room.

“He’s ready for you.”

Katya thanks Gia before making her way into the conference room. She smiles at the sight of Elijah who immediately stands up from his seat to greet her. Except that smile fades away at the serious expression he held on his face that hid all emotions from her.

She keeps up the smile though as she realizes there’s someone else in the room.

“Good evening, Mr. Mikaelson and...?”

Elijah was too slow to make the introduction as Kol is quick to rise from his seat and offer out his hand to Katya.

“The younger and more handsome Mr. Mikaelson,” Kol responds with a kiss on her hand. “Charmed, I’m sure?”

Katya has to fight back the laugh on the back of her throat as she glances over at Elijah for confirmation as to what has just occurred. Elijah looks as if he’s in physical pain which is the most emotion she’s seen in him since she’s come in.

“I apologize for the behavior of my younger brother, Kol,” he explains. “He will be shadowing me for the time being. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Katya answers as she pulls her hand away from Kol’s hold. “Shall I begin then?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Katya looks between the Mikaelson brothers confused at the responses. Elijah pinches the bridge of his nose while Kol just continues to grin.

“Isn’t it proper to have some polite conversation instead of jumping straight into business?” Kol offers up. “Like how’s your day going? How have you been? Etcetera, etcetera.”

“My day’s been fine and I’ve been great,” Katya answers as she slides her presentation to the both of them. She was relieved to have made an extra copy now but that ease was quickly turned into turmoil by the chaotic intruder in the meeting. “I’m assuming things have been good for both of you?”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Once again the conflict of their responses do nothing to ease the tension in the room. Elijah simply lets out a sigh and nods for Katya to begin her presentation which she does.

“...We’ve got an approximate timeline to launch online MoonStone by early May. My team will be focusing on this solely while my Editor in Chief will have MoonLit magazine ready to launch on the same date as well. As you can see from the budget…”

“That’s quite low,” Elijah interrupts. “Are these numbers right?”

“Yes,” Katya answers with a small smile. “It’s also just an estimate but I’m confident that we will either reach or be below that budget.”

Elijah skims down the spreadsheet and pinpoints the problem.

“Your team consists of two?”

“Aside from me and some advice from my lawyer Mr. Gerard, yes.”

“That’s quite small for the amount of work that is required.”

“I know what needs to be done and I know that my team of two can easily do it all.”

“Well I beg to differ.”

Katya has to refrain from getting defensive. It was such a minor detail in her presentation.

“I know what my team and I are capable of…”

“Your timeline is a hopeful estimate at best. It would be wise for the sake of keeping the deadline to increase your team. I’ll approve of the new budget once you get those new numbers calculated.”

“That’s great but I’m not going to hire more people.”

Elijah looks up at her and Katya has to remain calm at the new demeanor he held at the moment.

“Excuse me?”

“I know I have you backing me financially but the finances are not the issue here. My team is capable of doing the work and to make that deadline.”

“More work means more people are required. At least to lighten your load.”

“I can’t argue with your logic there,” Katya responds. “But I am no better than my employees just because I’m the boss. I can do the work so I will do it. There is no need for me to expand my team. We’re fine as is.”

“You have a company to run. You can’t be spreading yourself thin.”

“I am not,” Katya argues. “I know what I’m capable of.”

“I don’t think you do.”

Katya can’t hold herself back this time. The hitch in her breath at his statement was the only response she could make.

“As entertaining as this is, I’m getting hungry.”

Elijah and Katya turn to Kol in surprise. Amidst their argument, they had forgotten his presence.

“You don’t trust her and she is hurt by it,” Kol continues. “So in order to remedy the situation and wrap this up so I may take myself out to dinner, how about we come up with a solution to this menial problem?”

“What do you suggest we do?” Katya asks the younger Mikaelson.

Kol smiles at the question and leans forward in his seat.

“Middle ground,” Kol suggests. “My brother thinks you need more help and you don’t. Hence, I come into play.”

“Kol, enough.”

Kol ignores his elder brother and continues with his explanation to Katya.

“I have no experience whatsoever in the publishing realm so I will be no aid to you which is what you want. What I can do though is keep an eye on you and your team and if you are to fail… spread yourself too thin or miss certain deadlines then I will report to my brother which then he will be forced to expand your team. A win-win and a lose-lose situation.”

“I’m not going to allow you to…”

“I’m in.”

Elijah turns to Katya with a mix of surprise and betrayal.

“Katya, you don’t understand…”

“It’s business hours, Mr. Mikaelson, you are to address me as Ms. Fontaine,” Katya corrects him as she shuts her portfolio closed. “And whatever I don’t understand you may type up into an email and send to me by Monday morning which is when I expect you at work, Mr. Mikaelson Jr.”

“Ms. Fontaine…”

“This meeting has surpassed the hour scheduled for it,” Katya continues ignoring Elijah’s attempt of mending the situation. “I won’t keep you much longer. We wouldn’t want you to spread yourself thin just because this meeting ran too long.”

“Katya, please…”

“If you have any questions or concerns, call my assistant and set up another meeting. Have a good night.”

Katya packs up her things and takes her leave without another word. Elijah simply watches her go knowing better than to chase after her while Kol was present. Though, he regretted not doing so anyway.

“Well I think that went very well considering you insulted her blatantly to her face,” Kol states with a grin. “All of this could be remedied though if you just…”

“I’m not firing you, Kol,” Elijah interrupts him. “You made a commitment now and you’re going to follow through it.”

Elijah leaves the conference room and Kol simply shrugs off the order.

“You’ll regret this soon enough, brother. Just wait and see.”

#elijah mikaelson #elijah mikaelson x reader #elijah mikaelson fanfic #elijah mikaelson fic #elijah mikaelson x oc #elijah mikaelson x ofc #the originals au #the vampire diaries au #tvd au #to au #elijah mikaelson x you #fluff #angst #tvd #the originals #deals with the devil masterlist #deals with the devil part 14

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victimhood · 3 years

Text

The one in which the Euros 3rd place playoff is abolished after Italia 1980, and then restored at short notice for Italia 2028, making it the historic occasion in which a whole country cockblocked their captain Nicolò di Genova.

It is June 1980. The European Championship is taking place in Italy. It is the first edition of the tournament with eight teams, divided into two groups. The winners of each group move on to play in the final, and the runners up of each group move on to battle for third place.

It is the final edition of the Euros to have the third place playoff. With dwindling attendances and television viewers, UEFA deems the fixture unnecessary for future editions of the tournament. Italy hold Czechoslovakia to a 1-1 draw, and the match is decided on penalties. The final outcome? 9-8 to Czechoslovakia.

For as long as it has existed, there has been vocal opposition to the third place match. There are those who question its purpose, who see it as a meaningless extension of the tournament for advertisement money. A kinder commentary on offer is from those who see it as cruel to make losers play yet another competitive fixture, for little to no reward. Just think of the fourth-placed team—they played better than the rest of the competition except three—yet they must go home with the bitter memory of having lost twice.

On the other camp, there are those who recall with great fondness the third place match of the 2002 World Cup between host nation South Korea and Turkey. If that doesn’t work for you, what about the consolation it offered to the host nation in the 1990 World Cup, a breakout tournament for Italy’s Roberto Baggio?

Now we skip to June 2028. The European Championship is once more taking place in Italy. There are twenty four teams divided into groups, followed by a knockout stage. There is no third place fixture on the schedule. The much-beloved Italian captain takes his team on a blistering dream run, in front of an adoring home crowd, beating a well-regarded Portugal and incumbent holders Belgium along the way. He has declared his intention to retire for good, once this tournament is over.

Picture this: you are Italy. You play England in the semifinal in Napoli, at the Stadio San Paolo, also known as the Stadio Diego Armando Maradona. You arrive in the stadium, or you watch from home, full of hope, with faith in your captain and your squad. Your team scores one at the 20th minute. Perfect opening. England try but they can’t get past the deadbolt across goal, past your much vaunted defensive line. At the 63rd minute, Foden puts one past your goalie, but VAR rules it offside. At the 89th minute, the scoreline is still 1-0 and you’re nearly through, and some egregious fans are already cheering, and then Foden gets it in for real in a stroke of sheer luck. The ball hits the crossbar but somehow bounces downward into goal. The game goes into extra time, and then to penalties. The final result? England wins 4-3 on penalties. This is a brutal game. At the end of your match, your captain sheds tears and apologizes for not being able to do more to push the team through to the finals. No! You want to scream. Caro Nicolò, il nostro capitano, it’s not your fault. You have done so much for us. You begin to blame yourself: it’s us, it’s our fault. We dared to dream too early. You were so busy dreaming of your beloved captain raising the trophy that you forgot the game wasn’t over. In fact, even before this semifinal you were already dreaming of the trophy. This is how fate punishes you. You hate to see him end his career this way. He didn’t let you down, you let your captain down! Can we do this one over? You’ll do right by your captain this time.

Picture this: you’re the president of UEFA, and the tournament is hosted in your home country. It would have been the honor of honors, to award the winner’s medals to your compatriots. The papers are raging over the match outcome: England squeaked through on a razor’s blade, and Italy were the more inspired team. The fans are out in the streets. The people have spoken! Let us bring back the third place match! Let us see our captain off with dignity and honor! Your colleagues say: this is preposterous. We got rid of it years ago, because of Italia 1980. But does anyone really remember why? The advertisers tell you they’re willing to pay. One extra match means extra revenues. Worse things have happened in the pursuit for money. What’s the harm in a consolation match? An emergency meeting is called. Who’s playing in the second semifinal? France and the Netherlands. Both their feds agree to the third place match. From the next tournament onwards, there’ll even be a sweet cherry of a coefficient bonus—all the feds agree to this, but it would not be fair to the rest to apply it this ongoing tournament (and you hear minor grumbles from the FIGC, FFF and KNVB, who think they should be compensated for the inconvenience). No matter; the people have been given what they want! Another football match in the grand machine of things! The meeting takes so long that France beats the Netherlands 3-2 in the meantime, and now someone has to do the unpleasant job of telling the players. Were any of them consulted in this affair? What a preposterous concept. That’s not how UEFA works. UEFA says jump and they say how high.

Picture this: you are Nicolò Di Genova, and you’ve played the final match of your professional career. It did not end in the way you wanted, but such is life. You are ready to put your former self in the grave. You say goodbye to your treasured teammates, and the very next morning you check out of the training center to make your way to Turin, to see your fidanzato in the semifinals. Well, he crashes out too, his downfall orchestrated by that paraculo of your club teammate, Sébastien of the number 23. And so it is England vs France in the final, to be played in Italy. The thought of it turns even the strongest stomach of any citizen of this noble country. The only silver lining to this cursed final lineup is getting to whisk the love of your life off into the secluded countryside, and maybe with a few rounds of passionate lovemaking you can even forget the pain of loss.

You’re in the car. You just picked up your inamorato from his team hotel. You want to push him into the backseat and blow the brains out of him but you have better self control than that.

“How does retirement feel like?” he cracks a joke at you.

“You know full well my plans,” you return cheekily.

You’re driving off into the E70 when your phone rings. It doesn’t stop ringing so you pull over to take the call.

It’s your national team coach. “They just restored the third place match. Can you come back to the training ground?”

Who agreed to this? Your mind is reeling from the preposterousness of it all.

“They love you, Nichi. The people want you back.”

You exchange a look with your lover. Now his phone is ringing too. It’s his coach.

Due to this unfortunate turn of events you end up having an argument with your lover. You are principled, and having principles means not giving in to this total farce of a circus show, the third place match. Your lover is an incurable romantic, and pleads on behalf of your people. They did this all for you—show them some love in return. And what was the meaning of the past 31 years of your life again? You have already given them everything.

If only the people of Italy knew how much they had to thank Yusuf Al Kaysani. It’s because of him—it’s because of his beautiful deep brown eyes that glisten with all the stars of this universe that you cave and you agree.

“Get out, let’s switch. I’ll drive, and you call your mom and tell her the news.”

How do you begin to articulate how much this man knows the answers in your heart before your brain catches up to the same conclusions?

And so, like Lazarus, on the fourth day of your death you come back to life.

ITA vs NED

Picture this: you’re the cameraman, in the tunnel. The teams are lining up. The two captains emerge from the dressing room and compliment each other on their good looks with wry smiles. Some good natured ribbing, you think. They’re old friends. They played together for eight years at the same club. The Italian captain puts his hands on the Dutch captain, and then, like magnets, his hands seem incapable of leaving the Dutch captain’s back. You start to feel uncomfortable, like you’re seeing something that you shouldn’t be seeing. You look around. Everyone else in the double file of blue and orange is just chatting away, acting normal. Maybe...it’s just your imagination? You train your camera on the chatting crowd, giving the captains space. The match officials appear, taking the lead in front of both teams. You get in position for the money shot, following the two teams out of the tunnel and into the adoring crowd.

Picture this: you have never missed a single football match your grandson plays in. So when there’s a surprise third place match announced, you have to bail on karaoke night with the girls to watch the match on tv. Your friends don’t watch football, but if they do, they watch for the “hot guys on the Italian team”. Oh yeah, he’s playing Italy, you tell them. Feel free to come over to my place, if they don’t mind your oldest son and your rowdy grandchildren. Karaoke night swiftly becomes football night. There is an argument between Hamza and his dad over the pointlessness of the third place playoff. So...your family has been behaving in an unusual manner for several months now, and you suspect it’s because your grandson said he is gay. The papers here don’t report it, because they still want to claim him to some extent, but you have noted that the coverage is more conditional than before. You don’t live under a rock, and you’ve seen the news on YouTube even if no one around you is prepared to talk about it. As the two teams walk out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, you notice the Italian captain letting his hand slip from your grandson’s back, and Hamza suddenly jumps in front of the TV screen to adjust the volume.

“What the heck are you doing?” Mehdi, Hamza’s father and your eldest son, yells.

“The audio was...wonky,” Hamza replies sheepishly. “But I think it’s okay now.”

The match begins. At a corner kick, the Italian captain practically plasters himself all over your grandson, and it’s Hamza messing with the TV remote again, this time accidentally switching channels. Mehdi slaps him in the back of the head. You think that maybe it’s time you called Ibrahim. Someone needs to tell you the truth they’ve been so bad at hiding. Your grandson is not just gay, he seems to have a lover, and it’s that evil-eyed captain, the man who curses all who cross him.

Picture this: you’re a fan from the friendly town of Muggenbeet, watching from the San Siro. You came all this way to support the Oranje and they had to concede that final goal to France in front of your face. Sore and in denial about your loss, you start to make jokes about Waterloo to cope, handing the French off to the English. And then—out of nowhere, UEFA announces that they’ll restore the third place match. You think it’s the most shameless attempt for the host country to award themselves something ever. But, you know, does anyone really want to watch an England-France final? No. Never. For forever. We hate them both. It’s not football. It’s a circus of clowns. The viewership for this third place match is through the roof, higher than for your semifinal vs France. Let’s just treat this as the real final. What a galaxy-brained idea. Your country could steal it from the hosts—no hard feelings to Italy. You’ve enjoyed the pizza and the pasta, maybe it would be fun to crush their team like little peppercorns to sprinkle on your food. Based. Now you want a cacio e pepe after the match. Wait, you’re not in Rome, where the real (fake news!) final is. Boo. There is a corner, right at the end where you are sitting. Poepjes is taking it. Dekmijn and Blootgat are running up. Your captain is being felt up by the Italian captain. (No literally, that guy isn’t even looking at the goal? He’s just...pressing himself against your captain? Why are his hands encircled around Al Kaysani’s waist like so?) Anyway, the ball pings between the Italian keeper and Blootgat, and then it flies into Di Genova’s rather shapely calves...and bounces into the goal.

Uhhhhhh, THANK YOU? Grazie mille Nicolò Di Genova!!!! You gave us one goal!!!

The Italian fans must be flabbergasted. Isn’t this the dude’s retirement match? Or whatever. Who knows. Italy is a place of the greatest contradictions, so you’ve been told. But you’ll take what you can get. You kinda feel bad for the guy, who has buried his face in his hands. Maybe...you should cheer for him. And so...the lot of you, the orange lot, sitting in the Curva Sud, you start singing for the Italian captain. Nicolò Di Genova! There’s only one Di Genova!

The third place match is the most lawless ninety minutes in the historical timeline.

Picture this: you’re an Interista and season ticket holder. And of course you support your national team. You were heartbroken when the England keeper denied Marcuzzi to progress to the finals. You cried when your captain cried. And then, out of nowhere, they said, let’s bring back the third place match. The finals are in the Stadio Olimpico, so...maybe let’s have the third place match in the San Siro? You score a ticket at your usual seat. You get to see your captain one more time before he rides off into the sunset? What more can you ask for? This is romance of the highest order. The San Siro loves Nichi, of course all the staff and volunteers come together to make the event happen in a matter of days. You can’t believe this is happening. And then...your captain opens the scoring with an own goal. The Dutch fans are singing for him. What do you do? Well, if you can’t beat them, join them—you can sing louder for your captain! He’s your captain! And you know, their captain, he’s kinda your guy too, because Sempre Inter. Revenge is served, sweet and cold like a scoop of gelato, when your captain heads in the equalizer. The crowd goes wild. He’s taking this match seriously, but you knew he always would—that’s why you love him. He could ask for your firstborn and you would gladly give it up. You can always trust your capitano. There is a penalty call in the second half of the match and his teammates give it to him—a little unorthodox—but like a deadly sniper your captain sneaks a cool and calculated one past the Dutch keeper. You cheer. Does it count as a hat trick when you’ve scored at both ends? What a scoreline to retire to!

Picture this: you’re Yusuf Al Kaysani. You just lost in the third place match, a match widely panned as the least necessary match in a tournament by those who don’t know better. And yet, the third place match is the purest expression of love for the beautiful game. All other matches are clouded by the temptations of fame and fortune. The third place match you play for love and honor. You watch from the sidelines as your boyfriend leads his team to collect the medals, from none other than Paolo Maldini. Maldini, who’s doing an admirable job as UEFA President. Who knows where and how they got these medals at short notice—sometimes this country pulls miracles like a rabbit out from the magician’s hat of chaos. Everyone in the stadium is acting like this is the final. It’s not—it’s something a little better, a match born of love, played for love, with nothing to win and nothing to lose.

There is no trophy to lift, so Nico’s teammates lift him. They’re yelling for you. You’ve played with and against at least 90% of that team. Come join us, the men in blue say, and everyone forms a circle, arm linking arm, bouncing to the music. There are no losers here—your whole team is invited to the celebrations. The Dutch fans are singing: Second place! Second place! Let’s pretend we’re second place!

Let’s be real, for this one night, in this exact stadium, there’s only one captain, and the ones in the know push you towards him. Here’s your man, the unspoken acknowledgement. But you know your place—this is not your night. This night is for him. It’s for the country that loves him, and for him to say one last goodbye. Daniele Pirozzi jumps on the captain’s back, and the captain carries him for a while, laughing away. Pirozzi, whom you spent countless hours training how to read the field, in a fashion after yours. And then there’s Boselli, Marcuzzi, Poepjes and more. From one generation to another, the baton is passed. Nico, look around, these are our boys, as good as any. They’ll be better than us, and we are happy to see it, for the love of the game. Pirozzi jumps off the captain’s back and jumps onto you, asking you if you want to lift the captain together. You laugh and agree. On the count of three, uno, due—

Picture this: you’re Nicolò Di Genova, and you’re sitting on the shoulders of your protegé and your lover. Here we can mark the passing of the guard—tonight you are unburdened and the only thing that’s left, you realize, is love. Yusuf was right. Look, look how much they love you. Even San Paolo did this for you. Could you ever have denied all of them this? You almost screwed it up at the beginning, but perhaps God was just reminding you to take your responsibilities seriously. You are but a servant of the game and this ground is your ground, your hallowed ground, the church of your sins and glory.

It’s the final competitive match of your career, and you get to walk off the field, arm in arm with the love of your life, cheered on by a country you gave everything to.

Now, for the rest of your life to begin.

(chapter 106: nel blu, dipinto di blu, of The Beautiful Game)

#the old guard #joe x nicky #kaysanova #immortal husbands #nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #this is fanfic!!#football!AU #soccer!AU #this chapter cracks me up each time #tog: the beautiful game #tog fc

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gemsofgreece · 3 years

Note

Hello, may I request some comedy/light drama etc. recs from the golden age of Greek TV?

Okay, then *cracks knuckles*

(For anyone who didn’t read the first answered ask, the “golden age” of Greek TV is 1990 - 2010)

I don’t know if you are the Anon who had asked the 2010 onward shows because they didn’t mind the subtitles. If you definitely need subtitles, I am afraid there are only two shows you can watch right now:

Είσαι το Ταίρι Μου (You’re My Soulmate)

Romantic comedy / light drama (2001 - 2002). Vicky and Stella are two very different friends who are Greek immigrants in Australia. Vicky is stunning and men go crazy for her but she has many insecurities. Stella is not conventionally attractive but she allows nothing to bring her down. They both fall for the same handsome rich Greek, Nikos. It’s no brainer who wins - Nikos is a womanizer and falls immediately for Vicky. The interesting part is what happens next - when Vicky’s insecurities make her come up with a crazy plan / prank that will unleash hell over these three, Nikos’ entire family and a couple of friends living in Athens and change their lives forever...and everyone will then get what they deserve... or what they are brave enough to claim. Overall just a hilarious and clever comedy, with great acting and memorable characters you end up loving and an ending that isn’t a cliche. Here’s the link to watch with english subtitles.

Στο Παρά Πέντε (In the Nick of Time)

Mystery / Crime Comedy / Light drama (2005 - 2007) One of the two most famous Greek comedies. Five totally different people happen to be witnesses to the murder of a politician. Before he dies, the politician asks them to find who did it and take revenge for this and other crimes they have committed. These five unassuming people become friends and start solving the mystery together like hilariously amateur detectives. In time, they will find out that there’s something more that unites them besides their friendship...and maybe not everything happens accidentally. Here’s the link to watch with english subtitles. This one is being subtitled right now.

So bad news: only two shows with English subtitles. Good news: They are the best of the best, so no problem.

But if subtitles are not necessary, let’s proceed with the rest I love in no particular order:

10 Λεπτά Κήρυγμα (10 Minutes of Scolding)

Comedy (2000 - 2003). The life of Leonidas Alivizatos, an untamed only child with divorced parents. The story is basically the endless ways Leonidas find to escape the limitations his parents put to him and the shenanigans he does with his best friend Telis and his girlfriend Marilena that drive his family crazy. Fun fact: My generation, we all had at some point a crush on Leonidas...right?

Singles

Romantic Dramedy (2004 - 2008). The show has four seasons although it’s the first one that mostly had a lasting impression on me. The story revolves around the social, professional and romantic lives of six young single people: Maro, a sensitive hopeless romantic, Rania, an angry cynic who hates relationships, Lila, a sex crazed cheerful woman, Orestes, an average I’d say young man who has his eyes on Maro though, Arthuros, Orestes’ best friend and a socially awkward man with a dark family past and Loukas, a divorced father who seems to be quite the catch. There’s something special about the first season, it had an atmosphere, a style that I loved. The music was great too. I still remember the episode with the Reaper nightmares and that green light. In the following seasons, half of the cast changed. Y’all Greeks here do you remember the title song? I love it.

youtube

Δεληγιάννειο Παρθεναγωγείο (Deligiannis School for Girls)

Comedy, Drama (2007 - 2008). Summer 1939. The events of the series evolve at the last period of the Greek Regime, the Greco-Italian War and the Nazi Invasion of Greece. Mimis Metaxas in the headmaster of the School and trapped in a miserable marriage. His father-in-law invites Agape, his niece, to teach at the school. Mimis falls desperately in love with Agape but of course he keeps it a secret. Agape is a free-spirited woman and it is soon clear that she is a Communist (or at least leaning toward left ideals) and Mimis tries to balance his job as the Headmaster of the school, his sad marriage, his love and the historical events happening in the country with his need to keep Agape protected at all costs and under full secrecy.

Κωνσταντίνου και Ελένης (Constantine and Helen’s)

Comedy (1998 - 2000). Okay, this is officially the best Greek comedy to date. After it ended in 2000, it has been on TV repeatedly and continuously to this day. For twenty years non-stop. It still has bigger viewership than new current shows. An old aristocratic childless man writes two wills right before his death in which he gives his big residence. The one will is for Constantine, his aloof and conservative nephew who is a professor of Byzantine History in the University. The other will is for Helen, the only daughter of his beloved poor gardener who is a potty mouthed waitress. Constantine and Helen arrive at the house the same day and they are both determined to inherit the house and they can’t wait until the court date. The story revolves around everything they do to get rid of each other and their friends who are just as crazy as they are. There’s an interesting story about this show: they had done some tests and pilots and they were convinced that nobody was going to watch their show so the show became low budget and the actors were free to go batshit crazy. This ended up creating this hilarious masterpiece that is being rewatched by million Greeks to this day.

Οι Μεν και οι Δε (Them and the others)

Comedy (1993 - 1996). Dionysis Dagas, a famous lawyer who defends criminals lives with his wife Vana, an aristocratic lazy woman, in their apartment in Kolonaki. In the apartment right next to them Timos and Nana Stamatis come to live, unemployed and a jewelry artist respectively. Timos and Nana attempt numerous times to take money from frugal Dionysis and in general a big war starts between them as snobby Dagas are the exact opposite of the hippy Stamatis.

Σαββατογεννημένες (Born on Saturday)

Comedy (2003 - 2004). A sexist and all around horrible man named Savvas wins 7 million Euros at the lottery and as he learns it he has a car crash and loses his memory. His three ex-wives, the Greek language teacher Keti, the actress Bia and the tourist shop owner Soula, all very different and hating the guts of each other and Savvas, team up to find the lottery ticket before Savvas' memory recovers. But in order to achieve that, they have to act a lot and they have to take care of incapacitated Savvas themselves.

Το Καφέ της Χαράς (Chara's cafe)

Romantic comedy (2003 - 2006 and 2019 - now). Chara Chaska, an Athenian unmarried mother decides to start anew and takes her daughter with her to go live somewhere close to nature. They go to a village in Mountainous Arcadia, named Kolokotronitsi. What Chara doesn't know is that the village is extremely traditional and backwards and governed by the conservative and misogynist mayor Periandros Popotas. Popotas and the villagers will start a big war against the newcomer, especially when they find out she wants to open a modern lounge cafe and is not married. Chara has only few supporters there but soon she will also have the interest of her biggest enemy. The show has been revived since last year, as the continuation of what happens many years later but I haven't been watching.

Dolce Vita

Romantic comedy (1995 - 1997). Christina Markatou is the mature rich widow of a tomato factory owner and now she runs it on her own. Christina visits her daughter Dorita in Italy where she studies and upon her return to Greece she unexpectedly has a one night stand with young Antonis Kaloudis. What they both don't know is that Antonis is Dorita's fiance and travels to Greece to meet her family. After the initial shock, Antonis realises he prefers the mother but Christina tries to resist. The love though is too strong. Christina begins seeing Antonis, full of regrets and self-loathing, and tries to hide the affair from her daughter, the nosy housemaid Aspasia and the absolute terror that her mother-in-law is, Olga Markatou. Is there any chance for happiness?

Εγκλήματα (Crimes)

Black comedy (1998 - 2000). Alekos and Flora have always been in love but never got together and got married to evil Soso and kindly Achilles respectively instead. Alekos finds Flora and they start an affair. Soso finds out about the affair quickly and tries repeatedly to kill Alekos. All the crazy things that happen start from all of Soso's murderous attempts and affect the lives of the aforementioned as well as their close relatives who are as crazy as the main characters. Will Soso achieve her biggest ambition to become utterly evil and kill Alekos and whomever else stands in her way?

Σ' αγαπώ, μ' αγαπάς (I love you, you love me)

Domestic comedy (2000 - 2002). The hilariously realistic life of a couple, Dimitra and Thodoris (the actors play with their real names). The actors had such great chemistry that they were chosen as the voice actors for Greek Marlin and Dory in Finding Nemo (also with great success).

So, these are my favourites but there are many others I like or that are very popular but not my cup of tea. Any other Greek is welcome to recommend their own faves.

#greece #tv shows #tv series #greek #greek tv #greek shows #greek language #anon #ask #mail

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thewreckkelly · 3 years

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ESL: Don’t Just Blame the Owners

Despite being Irish I can still name every player and their position from that game at Wembley on July thirtieth. I was six when it was played.

For nearly six months the Saturday matinees at my local cinema in Dublin included newsreel footage of the Lisbon Lions. I was seven and a fan of the Cisco Kid.

You couldn’t move in the good room of my Uncle’s house the night the Belfast boy destroyed Benfica. I was eight and not that familiar with watching football on TV.

I collected souvenir coins from petrol stations leading up to, throughout and after the World Cup finals in Mexico. I was ten and an outraged defender of the English captain.

‘Revie’s Animals’ found my undying loyalty throughout the seventies with my first live game being at Anfield in 1971. I was eleven and thought Liverpool was an incredible city and Johnny Giles the best player ever.

World performers like Cruyff, Ardiles and Muller intruded into my fandom and opened up a bigger world picture as they performed in the German and Argentinean World Cups.

Spain 1982 provided my first experience of a live stage for world football where Northern Ireland shocked the hosts and Scottish fans became my friends in Malaga.

London 1983 saw my first visit to Highbury and resulted in me becoming a proud season ticket holder.

For the best part of fourteen years I didn’t miss an Arsenal game, (including every final up to and including the 2005 FA Cup), as well as being privileged enough to attend many internationals, World Cups and European Championships.

The 1992 Barcelona, Sampdoria final at Wembley saw me experience in person a sidelined Cruyff steer his total football to the ultimate success, (not that it was that obvious in that particular game).

Euro 96 allowed me to indulge in ten memorable live matches.

There is little doubt that watching Maradona do his thing in Italy and Internationally, rates among the very special experiences of my football love affair.

Sky Sports proved a Godsend when I moved back to Ireland in 1997 and delivered me not just the Gunners experience but also allowed the wannabe coach in me to watch the technical side of the game develop and grow beyond recognition.

Then came Spain and Messi – enough said .....

All of which is a preface to my provenance and how I feel about the current state of football along with the recently abortive attempt by the big clubs of Europe to go their own way in a thing they chose to call; ‘The European Super League’.

First of all, Football doesn’t belong to anyone. Two sweaters and a ball will allow those, who want to, to live the dream for as long and as often as they want. Commercial Professional football is a whole different animal altogether.

I was born a year before Jimmy Hill changed the financial landscape of the sport and grew into the game with enough of a curiosity - from watching him as a staple pundit on TV throughout the seventies - to research and try to understand the significance of his success and how it had affected the game.

When Jean-Marc Bosman went to court and won, it caused me to again reflect long and hard as to what the knock on effect would be.

While I was a subscriber to Sky Sports for many years and tipped my cap to the way they presented the game I was forever aware Rupert Murdoch was not likely to be a fan of football and yet again wondered at where this pursuit of satellite domination would take the sport.

The USA has a had a chequered history with football, where on several occasions the Napoleon's of money tried to buy what they considered a product so it could be customised to suit the taste of viewers and advertisers with an entirely different understanding and approach to televised sport.

These businessmen had developed a successful TV sports model with their own home grown games that was based upon exploiting a herd mentality with inconceivable numbers, promoted ‘innocent’ escapism, nativism and an highly unlikely avenue for anyone to succeed in an American dream.

I remember being somewhat uncomfortable that day in 2015 when it was announced on the news the FBI had arrested several high profile FIFA officials – my discombobulation was not with regard to the corruption charges but rather the sole involvement of an internal American law agency in what was essentially a non-American criminal enterprise – where were Interpol?

Three of the biggest clubs in England are owned by Americans and the ‘Golden Boy’ of a ‘Golden’ generation of English footballers has set his tent up in Florida as the new face of the game stateside.

The financial exploitation of the game is in full swing and being led by US corporate vultures and bankers.

And therein lies the problem.

I believe European football changed when mostly egotistical owners believed it was necessary to adopt a profit and loss ethos over and above the reasonable – as set out by the management of professional sport in the US.

It could be said that this became most visible when merchandising was designed to marry itself to personal identity - a cornucopia of uniforms for the masses to openly display a sense of belonging. And all of a sudden ‘Official’ kits costing a pittance to produce in South East Asia were being hawked to fans at a mark up of ten thousand percent or so.

And the fans bought it.

Ticket prices galloped ahead of inflation by ridiculous percentages. Player wages went through the roof and transfer fees – coupled with agents’ commissions – found, to their collective delight, there was no ceiling.

Satellite companies shut out traditional terrestrial 'free to air' national broadcasters with unacccountable fees for exclusive rights.

Catering prices at stadiums became the stuff of usury practice with cognac shrimp con beurre blanc finding its way on to menus for non- football loving patrons of newly constructed corporate boxes.

Meanwhile the next World Cup is to be hosted in one of the richest non-football playing dictatorships in the world.

And the fans bought it.

Then an announcement out of the blue that the ESL was real!

And the fans didn’t buy it, (for the moment)

However it would appear fans are of a mistaken assumption they get anything in return for the excessive amount of money they pay into professional football - other than the ninety minutes promised, overpriced propaganda ridden tat, satellite service and being told little or nothing constructive by so called experts.

The brief history outlined above would, instead, indicate supporters unwavering attendance and acceptance of financial and other abuses will continue as long as fans demand a fix.

It’s an awful comparison but reality tells me street dealers don’t lower the price of heroin for the good of the addict.

So should we really blame the twelve clubs and their owners for the ESL debacle?

The number of highly paid pundits, managers, players, agents and broadcasters who have stood on a recent soapbox of straw to exclaim their abhorrence of the ESL make me laugh and cry in equal measure.

These are the same people who continue to personally milk the game with their outrageous salaries and fees – in most cases for being very average at what they do and in all cases way beyond anything approaching honest. They are not just hypocritical they are a curse on the game and absolutely guilty of legal daylight robbery.

Yet all the people of ‘standing’ in football have targeted a convenient scapegoat in owners and board members whom they believe are somehow more insidious than they are themselves. All of these horrors are most defiantly not the gatekeepers of football but they do uncaringly exploit the professional game for their own personal benefit – given the actual mediocrity of the majority of these parasites they are not just robbing the fans they’re actually robbing the owners as well.

The sport has reached a point where there are few, if any, innocents involved who are not, at least, partly responsible in the creation of the ESL and no amount of sanctimonious slobbering will convince me otherwise.

And the fans should know that by now.

Maybe not!

So, is there a solution to this problem?

No!

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dragonscanbeplantstoo · 3 years

Text

Agape

an Oil & Sky story

I was boring that summer in Milan. I was already boring in Dresden, and boring before that, in Paris and Montpellier. But those three months I spent trapped under the Milanese sun were a singular boring. Like one of those bottled ecosystems, I needed almost nothing to exist, and impacted almost nothing with my existence.

I was there for Degas; for a three-month fellowship dedicated to his philosophies and techniques. It had to be in Milan, because Degas had already chewed Paris to pieces. He was in every café, around every corner, a weight on every dancer who dared to turn across a Paris stage. Paris was a place to study Degas. But this fellowship was more than that, it was about emulation, about becoming. There was no better place to become Degas than Milan, home of DaVinci, home of the finest opera house in the world. Untouched and ripe for fifteen young artists to possess in the same way he possessed Paris. And possess, I did. I arrived in June and lived above the only café in the city that opened before 7am. I would never adapt to the Italians’ lackadaisical approach to time. The proprietor called me his ‘6:45 girl’, always ready with my cappuccino at the exact time I stumbled up to his counter. It wasn’t exactly the same as my morning coffee back home. Less milky, and less of it, but it did its duty. By the bottom of the cup, I was alert enough to paint.

Studio hours were 9am-5pm, Monday through Saturday. I stood in the northeast corner of the room with my back to everyone else. The windows concentrated the heat on my skin and made me sweat, but it kept my hands warm and loose until the lunch hour. A bright-cheeked nonna across the street from the studio sold paninis the size of my head for four euros. But the time I’d finished it and the paper, the hour was up, and critiques began. My walk home took fifteen minutes. At home, I painted.

The only days I didn’t go straight home were Fridays, when we were required to go to the opera. I would have gone anyway; it’s what Degas would have done. Ensconced in the dim with my sketchbook spread across my knees. My universe lit only by the stage as I followed dancers and singers with my charcoal. Afterward, my classmates poured out into the night for pasta and wine, but I was so dazed with music in my ears and colors behind my eyes that I could do nothing but go home and stain my hands with paint. After a week or two, they stopped inviting me. After a week or three, they stopped talking to me about anything that wasn’t a canvas. I suppose I made it too much effort.

What do you like to do, Maeva? Paint.

What do you do on Sundays, Maeva? Paint.

What are you doing for this week’s piece, Maeva? Painting.

Looking back, it seems a little bit improbable. Three months of eight-hour days together, and I never went out for drinks, or hung out at their places, or laughed in the studio. I was that ecosystem, sitting on a shelf. There when they arrived, there when they left, barely existing outside of the studio.

When they drew me, because of course we drew each other, it was always in black lines. Irises, eyelashes, bangs. Things like a chin or a nose barely suggested. They were boring portraits, but Degas would have been proud. My classmates did not draw me as I looked, they drew me as I was—a series of shapes barely connected, a nebula anchored to nothing.

There were never many things securing my Chucks to this plane of existence. But that summer more than ever I was ghostly, gossamer, barely real. So little held me down that I could have discorporated at any moment. Blown away on a breeze, liquefied in one of the famous Italian thunderstorms. I could count only three things that prevented my fate. Three little things. Coffee, of course. After coffee, Degas.

That summer Degas was the weight in my heels, and Degas gave matter to my mass. He grounded me in the purity of the studio, in mystery, vagueness, and fantasy. When I walked across the cobblestones, when I selected my brushstrokes, when I followed the dancers in La Scala with my charcoal, he was there, haunting my ear. My purpose was crystalline. I threw out Monet that summer, Cezanne, Renoir. Instead I made my prayers at the altars of the Old Masters. Caravaggio, DaVinci, Raphaelle, Botticelli. I painted almost everything from memory, because he disliked painting by eye, and he was right. The memory of a dancer’s foot will always be more beautiful than the foot itself. To paint from memory was to paint something more. Something just real enough to be beautiful, and just false enough to be art. That summer I agreed with every word Degas said and ever would say, except one. When Degas said the recipe for beauty had been lost, he was wrong. It was not a fault of philosophy, but of time. Degas died in 1917, so he was not alive in 1999 when Corin Olivier was born.

Corin was the third thing, the last thing. The touch of sunshine my ecosystem needed from time to time, the flutter of pulse that proved I still had a physical form. I was there for Degas, but it’s possible I came because I knew Corin would be there too. He was the only thing that could pull my mind away from my painting. Fridays, at the opera, and every day, when I yanked the paper open to the arts section and hunted for a face I could draw better than any photograph. He was in it most weeks, which gratified me. La Scala wasn’t giving him the lead roles yet—he was still only a student—but they couldn’t resist showing him off over the summers. He sang chorus or supporting roles, and the papers were in love with him.

My classmates too, were in love with him. First with his piercing voice on Fridays. Then with his soft curls and sweet smile on the day he visited me at the studio. I didn’t blame them. Corin was a piece of art, and they were admiring him. But they had no idea how delicate he was. The work it took to keep him from shattering. They watched him sing as closely as I did. They giggled about him over their canvases. They asked me for pieces of him.

Will you bring him to dinner, Maeva? No.

Ask him to come sit for us, Maeva? No.

Can you introduce me, Maeva? No. Corr doesn’t have time for you.

That was an outright lie. Corin had time for anyone who asked. But Corin was mine.

He was mine on Sundays. On Sundays there was no studio, so I spent my mornings at the café, reading the long paper and eating too many pastries. Around 10:30, the chair across from me would screech. When I looked over my paper, he was there, his pretty chin propped on his deep brown fingers. Milan suited him in a way that should have been illegal. Sandy buildings brought out the warm tones in his dark skin, and his eyes, striking anyway, were made all the bluer by the sky overhead. In the summer heat he wore flannels with the sleeves scrunched and slim jeans, his amber throat and ankle bones always exposed to the caress of the sun. The rolled sleeves were new for me, something he never would have done in my mind. But he had finally gotten the tattoos he wanted. Gleaming black, wrapping gracefully around his wrists to cover his scars. I had mixed feelings about them. Corin got his coffee, and then I handed him the astrology section of the paper. He read his horoscope—Leo—and read me mine—Aquarius. He was teasing me, but I listened. Corin liked astrology because it gave him an identity, a framework for his behavior. That summer I understood in a way I never had before, and never would again.

We talked, about everything, and nothing. He teased me about my love affair with Degas, and I offered him pastries just to watch him glare at them. He nursed a single cup of espresso for hours, and that, I didn’t make fun of. I knew it was the only one he allowed himself a week, a tiny risk he took only when he was with me. I didn’t want to sour it for him. Sometimes, while he drank, I sketched him. It was in flagrant disobedience of Degas, to work plein-air like that, but I did it for Corin. Not because I couldn’t draw him from memory, but because I enjoyed watching him move and muse while I captured him in pencil. Whenever I drew his hands with the new tattoos, I had the perverse urge to reach across the table and touch the inside of his wrist. Study the scars and track marks I knew were hidden there. I never tried. We both had classmates that hung around the café on Sundays. Neither of us wanted to give them more questions than they already had. When we finally rose to go upstairs, I saw them scrutinizing us. I’m sure they thought we were sleeping together. Maybe we should have. Maybe that would have felt less delicate.

And they were, those afternoons in my bedroom, so very delicate. When Corin crossed the threshold, he would toe off his Chucks, raid my poetry collection, and sprawl across the foot of my bed. He read poems to me, or more often, he sang poems to me. I stood on my pillows and added to the flowers I was painting across the walls. In that close summer air, his voice blossomed like the peonies under my paintbrush. Each octave uncurling like each petal with its own tones, veins, shadows. Still unequivocally apart of the same whole. I found myself painting his voice into my mural. I mixed pinks like the undertones of his high notes. Pressed my brush into the wall to match the gravel of his lows. Caught the roundness of his breath on the edges of leaves and stamen. Like memory to the dancer’s foot, his voice made my peonies so much more.

I painted until the light was peachy and my hands ached. I would drop my brush into water, and then I would drop myself onto Corin’s chest. The sudden heat always gave me goosebumps. My legs rested beside him, and my mouth hung over his. He finished what he was saying or singing, a smile teasing at his cheeks, and then he exhaled with me. It wasn’t really kissing. It was no different than when I spread my fingers across his ribs, or pressed my cheek into his pulse. It was making sure he was still pulling air into his enormous lungs, beating blood through his fragile heart.

Only occasionally did we speak. Occasionally Corin would suck in a wonderfully long breath and say things like:

“One day I’m going to write songs about the paint in your eyelashes, Maeva Leroux. But no one will ever hear them.”

I lifted my face from his neck. “Why not?”

He closed his eyes, the sunset turning his eyelids burnt orange, and sighed.

“Because I was born for Verdi.”

I understood his resignation. I understood precisely, because I was an ecosystem planted and bottled for Degas. Isolated from the world by thick walls of glass, and flourishing inside.

#Oil & Sky #short story #writeblr #writers on tumblr

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stephspurs · 3 years

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A Family Affair | Euro 2020 Football Fanfiction

Life is beautiful and life is cruel. This is a window into the souls of the victorious and the vanquished. In a way, football did come home during the summer of 2021. Follow along Amelia’s journey, navigating the football world as a tactical analyst for the Italian football team, with a brother and father part of the three lions. Will Amelia leave Italy and come back to England? Will she leave the Serie A for the Prem? Will she set aside the bianconeri stripes for new colours, leaving behind friendship for love? Maybe she can have both...

Wow - the response i received in a little under 24 hours since i posted the first taste of part 1 has truly bowled me over! I wasn't expecting that reaction & tbh i would have been happy if 2 people wanted to read this story hahaha! So, i've been writing in the background & the first few parts have already been proofed and are ready to go. HOWEVER! I am open to your suggestions so please please let me know what you think and how you want to see Amelia's story play out. As far as i'm concerned, this fic is as much yours as it is mine! So please enjoy this first part, in its entirety, and let me know your thoughts! Love always,

Steph xx

UPDATE as of 31/07: I've made some additional editing changes due to some feedback about the confusion between ben white (her brother) and ben chilwell (not her brother LOL). Nothing has been added to the story, just the addition of either surname has been added where i think it could be more straightforward - for future readers!

Part 1 | prima parte

warnings; none - maybe a bit of angst? (what sibling rivalry doesn't have a bit of angst)

word count; 1978 words

writing tools; third person until dashed line, first person thereafter.

next update; Sunday 25/07 5pm AEST. Updates will be twice weekly at this stage. Probably Wednesday’s and Sundays from next week!!

link to fic masterlist here

The world of football, no matter how big it may seem, is as tight as a close-knit family. Whether its management staff, senior players, scouts, academy players, business developers, medical team, groundskeeper - everyone knows someone who knows someone else involved in the sport. For Amelia White, it was a family affair.

Having grown up with her father as a senior tactical analyst for many different clubs throughout his career, and an older brother currently playing for Brighton in the Premier League, there was no opportunity for her to escape the fanaticism of the sport. It was what her household lived and breathed, football. Most would think that, with her brother being as successful as he is now, her childhood was shadowed by her brother's success but that's not the case. She capitalised on her ability to think both logically and creatively, and absorbed all of the information her father could give her as if she was a sponge, to establish a name of her own in the sport and advance her career in the sport. At the age of 21 she upped and left the comforts of her home in West London, accepted a position at Juventus within their graduate program & worked her way up the ranks to be their youngest tactical analyst by the age of 24.

So far in her career, the support of her mother, father & brother were unmatched by any. They were all so proud of her for making her own name, proving herself and succeeding in one of the most competitive football leagues in the world. She was smart, tactful, both meticulous and ruthless in her approach to her career and the success of her players. Because after all, they were her players. She worked day in and day out, studying them and their opponents, drafting performance plans and set pieces for every possible outcome of the play, so that they could perform at their best. They had her trust and faith, and she had theirs. This is probably what her family was most proud of, and wished her every success, until she was appointed as a tactical analyst for the Italian National Team for the upcoming Euro 2020 tournament. Which happened to be the same tournament that her brother had received his call up to the Three Lions. Which was the current level at which her father was a senior tactical analyst for the English National Team. The Euro 2020 Tournament was about to be a real family affair...

10 July 2021

It had been 2 months since she last had any contact with her family. 3 months ago, Amelia signed a contract with the Federcalcio, the governing body of football in Italy, to become the Azzurri’s tactical analyst for the foreseeable European Football Championship. In turn, her silky signature at the bottom of the agreement, also constituted a digital and physical contact ban with members of her family that were also involved with the tournament...her father and her brother.

At the time of the contract, and against her better judgement, Amelia hadn’t told her family of her opportunity. She knew her father would be proud, but her brother would be bitter. Her mother was switzerland, completely neutral and rooting for both of her children - but that's not how football works. No matter your role you have a job to do, and you do everything you can to make sure it is your team that lifts the trophy at the end of the tournament. So, on May 23rd her family congratulated her for another successful season at Juventus, and unbeknownst to them, said goodbye for the next 2 months. Until the day before the final match of the tournament, Italy v. England.

Her heart dropped when England won their semi final match against Denmark. She wanted nothing more than for her brother to be happy and for her father to succeed, but she didn’t want to have to go up against them in the final. Ultimately, she knew they were good, but she also knew that she could hold her own and compete with the best. Having a close relationship with her brother, up until this period, meant that she often paid attention to the premier league. This was a major benefit to her as she had already started analysing the azzurri’s opponents. It was her job to know what foot Raheem Sterling preferred to pass with, what direction Declan Rice preferred to take the ball up the field, what direction of receiving the ball did Harry Maguire struggle the most with. So that's how she spent the three days between matches, solidifying her knowledge of her opponents & predicting the plays her dad would be instructing the English team to complete, to attempt to outperform the Italians. However nothing would prepare her for the knock on her suite door, or for what was on the other side…

_____________________________________________________________

“Ciao Amelia, vieni con me per favore. abbiamo organizzato una visita supervisionata con tuo fratello prima della finale di domani sera. sorpresa!” (hi amelia, come with me please. we have arranged a supervised visit with your brother prior to the final tomorrow night. surprise!). I stood there in shock staring at one of my players & closest friends, Federico Bernardeschi. I was a person who didn't enjoy spontaneity, who thrived off of preparation and organisation. I needed the opportunity to overthink every situation so that I could prepare for every possible outcome. This was not my idea of a good time. Of course I missed my brother, but I know just how volatile he can be. Nevertheless, I grabbed my jacket and shoved my sneakers on before following Fede down the hall and into a blacked out van that was waiting to take me to St. George’s Park for my family reunion.

Upon arriving, and after a stern pep talk from Fede (who was my appointed supervisor for the visit - not sure I would say he was the most responsible choice but he did talk some sense into me) I walked into the main entrance and saw my father leaning against the reception desk waiting for me.

“Papa!!” I called as I walked over to him, ready to smother him with my love and affection. My father, Dean White, and I had as good of a relationship as possible, being that he was always heavily involved with my brother Ben’s footballing career as well as his own. I think when I came along, my father didn't know how to be a girl dad, so he took my mothers advice and just involved me like he would Ben. I was glad that I would be seeing him first, and he would be taking me to see my no-doubt pissed off brother.

“Dad, this is Fede, one of my players”

��Ciao Dean, it’s very nice to meet you but i am also her bodyguard for this evening” Fede introduced himself to my father and they exchanged pleasantries. I had a look around the foyer of the facility until I heard my name brought up in conversation.

“Amelia, come on. The boys are just over here. I don’t think you have long before heading back to your camp” My dad called to me. Boys? As in...more than just my brother?

“Hahaha that's funny dad, just show me to his room and we can have our screaming match there. Should only be about 20 or so minutes”

“Ben’s not in his room, we have a recreation room for the players and staff to lounge about and relax in. Pretty sure he’ll be in there. Come on, you’ve never been scared of your brother before. Why start now?” Before I knew it, Dad was leading us through some doors and into a large common area with bean bags, pool tables and couches - all occupied by current first team members of the English National Football team.

“Dean mate, don’t normally see you down here after 7pm. Oh look at that, someone let the trash in.” A loud mouthed player, that I used to adore as if he was my own brother, calls out as he notices us enter the room. And just like that, I shake off my nerves, stand in front of my taller & more argumentative bodyguard, relax my shoulders and stare into the eyes of Kyle Walker - daring him to challenge me and push me further.

“Relax Kyle, Benjamin White - your sister is here to see you.” Dad cut Kyle off. I didn’t need him to defend me against Kyle’s harsh comments, I could defend myself.

“Wow, I thought hell would freeze over before I got the opportunity to speak to you. Of course, I didn't realise hell would look quite like seeing you in that shade of blue.” My brother, Ben, spoke bitterly at me as he approached me from the other side of the room. This, coupled with Walker’s exclamation earlier, got the attention of the majority of the players scattered about.

“Ben, if you let me explain in private I'm sure you will be able to understand why things had to be this way” I tried to reason with him. Letting go of my always-defensive guard and pleading with my big brother to open his mind to see my side of the story.

“As if I would even talk to you right now, the night before the final, you’re probably here to try and get some insider information. Boys make sure you don’t say anything to her, she’s as sly as they come” Ben’s words were as sharp as a knife - but I knew what I had to say would cut him deeper.

“Ok that's enough! You are ridiculous! What did you expect me to do? Not take the job because you’re my brother? This is my career we are talking about here” I challenged him. “If you think for one second i stopped supporting you then you must be even more stupid than i thought. Of course this isn't the ideal situation, I'm proud of you for reaching a final but I'm just as proud of myself for doing the same thing.” I got progressively closer to my brother, who stood there with his hands beside himself, unable to get a word in.

“I came tonight to wish you good luck, to tell you I loved you, to give you a hug and tell you to stay safe and play smart. Whilst I still wish all of this for you, I now want you to know that I want you to play your best so I can be better than you. I can show you exactly how good at my job I am. I want you to know that no matter what way you play the ball, I'll be right there waiting for you. I am prepared for this, I hope you are too - so that it will feel that much more sweet when we beat you” I sneered at my older brother, who at this point, is quite visibly feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

I take a step back, let out a breath and shake the tension from my shoulders. Breaking eye contact with my brother, I look briefly - yet confidently - at the other players in the room and take a step back. I turned to my dad, who was looking at me solemnly, as though he wasn’t happy with my outburst but understood it came from a place of frustration with my sibling. Walking up, giving him a kiss on the cheek and wishing him luck, I turned to look at Fede and began to walk to the door. This interaction with my brother, although supposed to be a nice moment shared between siblings, has only gone and motivated me to be at my best tomorrow, to prepare my players to go to war and to come out the other side victorious.

Part 2 | seconda parte

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