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#6th arrondissement
famousinuniverse · 3 months
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Rue de Buci is a thoroughfare located in the Saint-Germain-des-Prés and La Monnaie districts of the 6th arrondissement of Paris.
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Raymond Depardon, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, 6th Arrondissement, Paris, 1967
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Paris: 6th arrondissement, January 2024
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mysticraven20 · 2 months
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To Feel You Breathe
For @bohemianrhapsody711 number 4 of @kisspromptsforthelovesquare - "I thought I lost you" kiss.
Bringing this from the archives (Inspired by the Hunger Games)
Ladybug’s feet tangled around themselves and caused her to stumble over the rooftop. The toe of one foot collided hard with the heel of the other as she unceremoniously hopped in order to keep her stability. 
The sudden weight shift had her colliding hard with the chimney, clipping her shoulder and scraping it against the hard, rough brick. Her hand slapped onto the wall, pushing herself away before clutching her shoulder and carrying on. She had to keep moving. 
A red swirl of Ladybug’s continued to dance around in the sky, circulating over her head; a promise of revival, a promise of luck, a promise of hope. 
Her heart begged for the ‘Miraculous Ladybug’ to work the way it always did — rebuilding and reforming — as her mind reminded her about what was important.  She couldn’t stop and check everything was going to plan. Stopping would steal seconds away from her — precious seconds she didn’t have.
Paris began to put itself back together; growing and growing as buildings and monuments reposition themselves in their pride of place. Back to being important to the citizens of the city — but right now, none of these were important to her. 
She hadn’t bothered to stop to check on the victim, or speak to Alya and make her usual statement, as soon as the Lucky Charm was launched high up into the air, she ran – fast, and with intent. 
Taking a leap, she pushed herself from the rooftop landing straight onto the next; her feet never truly connected with the ground. She had tunnel vision; a one track in mind. 
She skidded to a halt, attempting to gain her bearings. She looked around, not entirely sure where she was. 
They’d started the fight in the 6th arrondissement. 
A glance down jolted something in her memory as she noticed the boutiques on street level. She recognised them straight away. The one on the corner was where she’d been browsing when the first fireball hit – smashing through the roof as though it was made of paper and causing the building to crumble quickly and efficiently. 
The Akuma had moved fast and struck hard — harder than she’d ever seen before — taking them on a tour of the city before she could finally conclude the fight near the Louvre. 
She couldn’t exactly remember where they were when it happened. The whole event felt like an out of body experience; her heart had become disjointed from her body as the Akuma’s hard hitting, soul destroying ray took everything out of her. 
Her eyes trailed the buildings in the east. Maybe, that had been the area. It definitely looked familiar – but so did an array of rooftops over Paris. Chimneys, rooftop gardens, walls — all an almost exact duplicate of each other.
Ladybug berated herself. She couldn’t remember where it had happened. All she could remember was the feeling of him disintegrating through her fingers as she tried to keep him conscious and with her. A slow, painful death orchestrated with loud, ear piercing screams. She’d held him tight and close; his body finally slipped through her fingers and faded away to nothingness – her own screams taking over the unfortunate symphony.
He had to be here. He had to be somewhere – here . She’d fixed it! That’s what she did.
Her eyes began to survey the area again, each breath catching hard in her throat with every beat of her heart. She stretched a hand up, clutching at her throat, at her chest – at anything – in hope it would help her breathe. Her airways tightening in reaction to the panic and the pain — labouring her breaths and causing her to claw at her throat.
The red above her head, abruptly, gave way to blue.
Normality.
An imposter against the storm brewing in her heart. 
Her feet began to move again, taking off in a feeble attempt of tracing her steps. The rooftop had to be near here. It just had to be.
Every single step caused a ricochet through her body, the pounding impacting in her head, as much as it was her heart. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Her feet tangled like a mess of wires, snaking around each other in a practised and impossible entanglement, tripping her up and causing her to lose balance. Next thing she knew, she was falling. An unexpected twist of cruelty which took her down onto her knees. She fell hard, her hands  catching her before her face hit the ground, a droplet of water landing beside her glove, the grief of her loss fully on display for all to see — evidence of her failure. 
And the storm finally reached its superlative.
She used her hands to push herself up, but her knees were uncooperative and sent her stumbling forward once again. She dropped back onto the rough surface of the rooftop, her knees agonising from the impact on hard concrete against her skin, a feeling usually foreign when she was in her super suit. 
A heavy rattling sob became an echo of melancholy vibrating between rooftops. She couldn’t go on anymore. She couldn’t. She was done. She couldn’t breathe.
The rooftop was suddenly being coated in droplets of her sorrow, tiny pieces of anguish effortlessly falling on the ground without a care for ruining something previously untouched.
“I’m sorry.” She let out a sob. “I’m so sorry!” 
Laying her head in her open palms, she took the moment to be less than super, to feel everything that came with the grief of losing him, of not being able to save him. The memories she’d thought so little of passed through her mind in a film noir way. Times she should have done more, times she’d chosen to do less, times she’d taken him for granted. She wiggled her fingers wishing she could remember how he felt, his smooth skin and soft hair. But she’d failed. The gloves had always been in her way of really feeling him.
She could hear his voice echoing in her mind, words she longed to hear and would do anything for him to say again. The sweet distant call of him talking to ‘his Lady’. 
“Kitty,” she whimpered, an arm wrapping around her stomach as she held herself tightly. “Kitty!” Her voice was broken, every repeat of the word sounding foreign to herself. Was that really her voice? 
“M’Lady.” 
She heard it again. Chat Noir’s voice was clear in her ears, so concise; she was amazed she could remember it so distinctly. 
“Oh, Bug.” It was there again, this time closer. 
He was calling to her. 
“Bugaboo, come on!” 
She felt something on her hand, grasping it tightly. It felt so real, as did the hot breath on her neck. Almost as if he was here — with her.
Ladybug looked up, straight into the eyes of Chat Noir; her partner crouched down opposite her. 
“Are you really here?” she sobbed. “Is it really you?” 
A black, clawed hand stretched to her cheek, fitting perfectly against her chin as a cool thumb brushed away the tears gliding effortlessly down her face. He began to shush her, moving closer and using his other hand to claw through her hair.
“Real or not real?” she whispered, Chat Noir once again wiping away the tears on her face. One corner of his lips tugged upwards in that way she adored so much. 
“Real. I’m here. I’m back! You saved me.” 
With a trembling hand, she reached up and stroked over his face, tracing every part she could touch. She dragged her fingers around the edge of his mask, over his nose and cheeks before feeling the contour of his chin. It was all there. He was there. She completed the round once more, etching every single detail into her mind — positive she’d never forget the feeling of him again.
Launching herself into his arms, Ladybug cuddled him tightly, the sobs ripping through her body as her hands moved over his body. Threading in his hair and clawing at his back, before finding a home on his beating heart. The repeated consistency evening out her own.  
“You’re real!” she repeated, trembling before moving her arms and pulling him in closer. “You were dead!” she whimpered, everything shaking as she cried out the pain. “I felt you die!” 
He held her just as tightly, burying his nose into her hair as she continued to shake in his arms. A grasp that didn’t ease. Real.
“I’m here! I’m back. You saved me. You always save me.”
“You stopped breathing!” she said, gasping for her own breath as she continued to try and crawl at his skin. He was here. Her partner was here and she had never been more grateful for the power of the ladybugs. 
She continued to shake in his arms. 
He threaded his claws into her hair and gently loosened the ribbons freeing her hair and allowing him to massage her scalp. He placed his forehead against hers, brushing his nose delicately against hers.
“I’m breathing now. I’m here.” 
He moved forward and placed his lips against the corner of hers; a soft, electrifying kiss, which allowed the feeling of contentment to waterfall from her shoulders and release the tension she’d held so tightly. 
The night’s curtains began to draw, closing the brightness of day and leaving them with privacy amongst the stars, both interwoven as they soaked themself in the warmth of their love. 
“You love me?” Chat Noir whispered into Ladybug’s ear. “Real, or not real?” 
She pulled away from the hug, her hands clutching his and bringing them to her lips, a delicate kiss placed to each wrist. 
“Real.”
Leaning forward, she pressed her lips against him, the solid feel of life beneath her. She loved him. She needed him. She wanted him.
Time didn’t record how long they stayed there, huddled tightly on the rooftop as they found solace in one another. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, even days or months, but it didn’t matter, because she was here, safe in his arms. And when she was here, with him, she could finally breathe again.
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tamurakafkaposts · 11 months
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The Café Procope in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comédie is a café in the 6th arrondissement of Paris. It was opened in 1686 by the Sicilian chef Procopio Cutò (also known by his Italian name Francesco Procopio dei Coltelli and his French name François Procope) it became a hub of the Parisian artistic and literary community in 18th and 19th centuries. It sometimes is called the oldest café of Paris in continuous operation;however, the original café closed in 1872 and did not reopen as a café until the 1920s, so the claim of "oldest café in continuous operation" is not entirely true.
Marie Antoinette and Napoleon are known to have frequented the restaurant.
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yama-bato · 5 months
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Grand Augustin, New Bridge, Peniches, 6th Arrondissement, Paris Quai des Grands Augustinus, Pont-Neuf, Barges, Paris (Old Arr.), 1903. Photography of Eugene Atget (1857-1927)
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discordrpgadverts · 9 days
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JOIN HERE.
In the dying days of the Second World War, amidst a London blighted by bombing, rationing and hardship, three men - George Lytton, Alexander Sterling and Arthur Tudor - came together to plan a more decadent future. They reasoned they could banish their own despair, and that of others, by unleashing euphoria.
And so, The Black Rose was born. Named after the notoriously subversive and passionate meaning of the accompanying flower, the establishment was ostensibly a gentleman’s gaming club in St. James’s. In reality, the Black Rose played host to salacious and sinful activities behind closed doors. From underground gambling and fighting through to prostitution, drug-taking and drinking, it took the beating heart of the Roaring Twenties and ran even further.
Naturally, given the setting, secrecy and expense, the clientele were as rich and important as the Founders. However, that didn’t mean the working classes were any less involved. Carefully vetted and selected to staff the Black Rose in various forms, the working members of the club could engage in as much debauchery as paying members, provided they didn’t forget their responsibilities.
After a few years of thriving business, the Founders pondered what more they could do. So simply, the idea came to them. If the project had worked in London, why not elsewhere? With the possibility in mind, the Founders turned their attentions to Paris, the City of Love. By the end of 1950, a sister establishment had been launched in the heart of the 6th Arrondissement, and two years later, the Black Rose went stateside as a third club was opened in Manhattan.
Amid their swiftly growing empire, the Founders opted to rename the inaugural club to fit with its sisters. So, 'The Black Rose' became Blackrose London, matching Blackrose Paris and Blackrose New York. Over the next seventy years, the clubs expanded to cities all over the world - Cairo, Los Angeles, Tokyo, Madrid, Shanghai, Rio de Janeiro, Moscow and Mumbai. Decades upon decades of debauchery, sin and revelry have marked these establishments, keeping the spirit of the original Black Rose alive whilst moving with changing times.
Gradually, the Founders retired, and as they handed their legacies to their descendants, the way Blackrose ran began to change. Rather than being controlled solely by the three families, the direction of Blackrose now rests with the General Managers of each establishment. The eleven managers are co-ordinated by a Chairman, mandated to be a member of a founding family in a nod to Blackrose’s heritage.
Now, in 2024, Blackrose establishments have remained strong under such a model. And yet, as the world moves into uncertain and trying times, the organisation could perhaps face its most turbulent period yet...
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atotaltaitaitale · 11 months
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Thursday Throwback…way way back. Nivellement de Paris (leveling plans).
This console landmark is probably the best preserved in the capital at Rue des Grands-Augustins in the 6th arrondissement.
The first edict concerning the leveling of Paris dates from 1607. In 1811, in order to distribute the waters of the Ourcq and to know all the points where it could be conveyed by gravity, the municipal administration expressed the wish that leveling plans be attached to existing alignment plans. Leveling plates appear from 1856. These altimetric markers plates, in cast iron surmounted by a console and adorned with the arms of the city for the oldest, made it possible to know the leveling and to calculate the slopes necessary for the flow of water.
* 34.99 m = The average sea level measured at Fort Saint-Jean in Marseille. = level of the low point (26.25 m) + height above this level (8.74 m);
* 8.74 m = The altitude above the low water level at the Tournelle bridge. This is the lowest water level of the Seine in 1719, This elevation will be used to establish the route of the future sewers which must, by gravity, flow into the Seine.
* 66.50 m = the leveling of Paris represents the difference between the elevation of the high water level of La Villette (51.49 m), increased by 50 meters (= 5 bars of pressure?) and the altitude in relation to the average sea level (34.99 m). That is 51.49+50-34.99m. This rating will be used to design the distribution by gravity of the water coming from this same basin (they will then be downgraded to non-potable water). (Source)
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randaahmed4012 · 11 months
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MAKE ARCHITECTURE ART AGAIN
This is the Félix Potin building on Rue de Rennes, 6th arrondissement of Paris.
Art Nouveau elegance at its finest - this is how Parisians saw fit to build their department stores in 1904.
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What would preparing for a baby look like in France?
Hi!
We weren't sure if you meant in terms of customs or in terms of legal stuff (which there is a lot of in France), so we'll dive into both!
🩺 Firstly, the Medical stuff: there are 7 mandatory appointments during a woman's pregnancy: these are conducted by an OBGYN or a midwife.
The first prenatal examination/ultrasound (before 15 weeks of amenorrhea): this is often paired with the official statement of pregnancy (i.e. a declaration that the woman is indeed pregnant, which is used for later admin). It's also the point where the monitoring steps are laid out, and initial health checks are carried out (serologies for illnesses such as hepatitis, mumps, rubeola, toxoplasmosis...)
2nd prenatal examination (4th month of pregnancy): general check up of the mother and foetus' health. Tests might be carried out if there's a risk of Toxoplasmosis or Down Syndrome.
3rd prenatal examination/2nd ultrasound (5th month): general check, plus morphological ultrasound. This is when the parents might know the sex of their baby, or they can choose not to know.
4th prenatal examination (6th month): general check up, plus hepatitis B checks.
5th prenatal examination (7th month): general check up, plus blood pressure monitoring.
6th prenatal examination/3rd ultrasound (8th month): general check up, and ultrasound to check on the baby's wellbeing - if their growth and organ function are normal, if the position is alright for the birth...
Last prenatal examination (9th month): the doctor assesses what type of birth is best during this appointment, and an anaesthetist might be consulted for the epidural.
All the appointments are taken in charge by the social security system, as well as the birth and the "basic" hospital stay (i.e. if it doesn't exceed 12 days - in practise, most patients don't stay over 3-5 days). Part of the ultrasound costs is not taken in charge, but private insurance companies will cover it (if not, about 10€ are left for the patient to pay).
The birth happens in a hospital/maternity (home births are very rare; only 5/1000 births happen outside a hospital). Once born, the child is measured, weighed, their health is measured using the Apgar scale, and they get a small screening test for 6 severe illnesses. Baby boys are rarely circumcised, unless there's a medical reason (or religious, in which case it doesn't take place in the hospital anyway).
Mother and child stay at the hospital for a couple of days, and can receive visits, mostly from close friends and family, who generally bring gifts at this point.
📝 Admin stuff:
The mother must notify her employer and social security ASAP after the pregnancy has been confirmed, to start planning the maternity leave, etc. Maternity leave must be at least 8 weeks, but it's generally more (it also increases with each baby, and the number of babies you're pregnant with). Paternity leave is about 11 consecutive days. The parents receive benefits that match their normal wages during that time.
The parents also needs to register with a maternity/hospital ASAP, to make sure they have a place to give birth. Home births are extremely rare (5/1000 births), and in most cases are due to a rapid birth.
Register the baby: this must be done within three days of the birth, at the local mairie (the arrondissement one, in Paris). The parents can do it, or a doctor/midwife. This enables you to get the birth certificate.
🍼 Baby preparation:
Find baby names! The parents need to come up with at least a first name, plus middle names if they wish (even though it's fairly common to have some in France). The parents can tell people what name(s) they're thinking about before the birth of the baby, or keep it as a surprise for after the baby is born!
Buy/acquire maternity clothes, baby clothes, furniture...
Think about godparents: in France, the concept of the godparent is less linked to religion than in other countries (the word "God" doesn't even appear in the French words). The Parrain/Marraine theoretically take care of the child should anything happen to the parent, but in practise they're more likely to have the same type of status as an aunt/uncle for instance.
Baby showers are rare: they've become somewhat more popular with the American influence, but it still isn't something that's frequent. People will generally give baby presents to the parents privately (colleagues might chip in for a present/mini maternal leaving party); close friends and family will do so during a maternity visit.
Same goes with gender reveal parties: if the parents want to know the sex of their baby, then the doctor will tell them during the 2nd ultrasound. They'll then choose whether to tell other people or not, I guess they could do a kind-of gender reveal party with a coloured cake for their friends/family at that point, but to be completely honest, it's a bit of a stretch.
Hope it helps!
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travelif3 · 11 months
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Which hotels in Paris offer complimentary breakfast?
Here are some hotels in Paris that offer complimentary breakfast:
Hotel West End is a 4-star hotel located in the 8th arrondissement, close to the Champs-Élysées. It has a buffet breakfast with a variety of pastries, fruits, cereals, yogurt, eggs, and more.
Hôtel Le Cardinal is a 3-star hotel located in the 6th arrondissement, near the Luxembourg Gardens? It offers a continental breakfast with croissants, pains au chocolat, coffee, juice, and more.
25hours Hotel Terminus Nord is a 4-star hotel located in the 10th arrondissement, near the Gare du Nord train station? It offers a buffet breakfast with a variety of pastries, fruits, cereals, yogurt, eggs, and more.
Hotel Ibis Paris Bastille Opera 11ème is a 3-star hotel located in the 11th arrondissement, near the Bastille Opera House. It offers a continental breakfast with croissants, pains au chocolat, coffee, juice, and more.
ibis Paris Tour Eiffel Cambronne 15ème is a 3-star hotel located in the 15th arrondissement, near the Eiffel Tower. It offers a buffet breakfast with a variety of pastries, fruits, cereals, yogurt, eggs, and more.
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famousinuniverse · 3 months
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Saint-Sulpice Church & Paris Sky view: The Church of Saint-Sulpice is a Catholic church in Paris, France, on the east side of Place Saint-Sulpice, in the Latin Quarter of the 6th arrondissement. Only slightly smaller than Notre-Dame and Saint-Eustache, it is the third largest church in the city. It is dedicated to Sulpitius the Pious. Wikipedia
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alexstorm · 1 year
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She's French
I've watched an interesting documentary yesterday called She's French. It deals with the obsession of the English with French women by interviewing French women in London and Paris (all with better English than Louise) about it. What parts of it are a myth and what is real. Most of these younger and diverse women (they've invited two older ones) were perplexed by where this comes from and even had to google Nouvelle Vague. Josephine de la Baume gets interviewed as well but she's not as levelheaded about the whole thing as the rest of them. She bought into (and uses) the bullshit image. But I loved that after quickly making fun of the headlines in English-speaking magazines about French beauty stuff they got down to business of discussing the casual sexism and rampant racism in France. They quoted a study saying that 100 % of French women have been harassed on public transport at least once and the excuse was it's the "French way of seduction".
In conclusion they all said it's an outdated image stemming from that 60s French cinema revival and the English apparently not getting to see titties back then. lol
The funny thing though was that all the women said that the perpetuated stereotype of the French woman is basically "a skinny, white Parisian living in the 6th arrondissement". Guess where Louise lives? lmao Most of them couldn't identify with any of the stereotypes and didn't feel represented.
For anyone interested in why Alex and English people in general are so obsessed with French women I find this to be an eye-opening documentary especially if you unlike the English have not grown up with that 60s French actresses image.
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cherrynika · 1 year
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It's been 3 years since he was cancelled. 3 years of off-on retail work, attempting to reunite with Max, and attending uni part-time. Esteban, annoyingly, has not only graduated but scored a deal with Kiki.K to make bullet journals. Bullet journals were PIERRE'S thing--total productivity hack. Esteban even stole his idea to add a special page of grid paper for each week, to track stock prices.
Pierre had said, to track the price of Bitcoin and Luna. But everyone knows what happened to that. He didn't just lose his followers, he got anonymous messages with audio attachments after Terra and Luna cratered overnight. At first he opened them, his curiosity, after all, had led him to the high point of becoming the first crypto influencer in France. But it was just screaming, sobs, inchoate shrieking. That was creepy enough, but then he got messages from unknown sources saying they knew he lived in the 6th arrondissement, and that they'd lost their house, their retirement, their second home in the alps, car downpayment, the chance to holiday in Bali, he knew it was time to go dark.
It was so annoying. Every time he started something new, like tarot or astrology podcasts, they'd hunt him down.
Pierre always said, none of his videos were financial advice. And yet.
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mysticraven20 · 8 months
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To Feel You Breathe
Rating: Teen
Ships: Ladynoir
Genre: hurt/comfort, falling in love
Synopsis: Ladybug loves Chat Noir… it just takes him sacrificing himself one more time to bring it out of her.
Inspired by: The Hunger Games
Ladybug’s feet tangled around themselves and caused her to stumble over the rooftop. The toe of one foot collided hard with the heel of the other as she unceremoniously hopped in order to keep her stability.
The sudden weight shift had her colliding hard with the chimney, clipping her shoulder and scraping it against the hard, rough brick. Her hand slapped onto the wall, pushing herself away before clutching her shoulder and carrying on. She had to keep moving.
A red swirl of Ladybug’s continued to dance around in the sky, circulating over her head; a promise of revival, a promise of luck, a promise of hope.
Her heart begged for the ‘Miraculous Ladybug’ to work the way it always did — rebuilding and reforming — as her mind reminded her about what was important. She couldn’t stop and check everything was going to plan. Stopping would steal seconds away from her — precious seconds she didn’t have.
Paris began to put itself back together; growing and growing as buildings and monuments reposition themselves in their pride of place. Back to being important to the citizens of the city — but right now, none of these were important to her.
She hadn’t bothered to stop to check on the victim, or speak to Alya and make her usual statement, as soon as the Lucky Charm was launched high up into the air, she ran – fast, and with intent.
Taking a leap, she pushed herself from the rooftop landing straight onto the next; her feet never truly connected with the ground. She had tunnel vision; a one track in mind.
She skidded to a halt, attempting to gain her bearings. She looked around, not entirely sure where she was.
They’d started the fight in the 6th arrondissement.
A glance down jolted something in her memory as she noticed the boutiques on street level. She recognised them straight away. The one on the corner was where she’d been browsing when the first fireball hit – smashing through the roof as though it was made of paper and causing the building to crumble quickly and efficiently.
The Akuma had moved fast and struck hard — harder than she’d ever seen before — taking them on a tour of the city before she could finally conclude the fight near the Louvre.
She couldn’t exactly remember where they were when it happened. The whole event felt like an out of body experience; her heart had become disjointed from her body as the Akuma’s hard hitting, soul destroying ray took everything out of her.
Her eyes trailed the buildings in the east. Maybe, that had been the area. It definitely looked familiar – but so did an array of rooftops over Paris. Chimneys, rooftop gardens, walls — all an almost exact duplicate of each other.
Ladybug berated herself. She couldn’t remember where it had happened. All she could remember was the feeling of him disintegrating through her fingers as she tried to keep him conscious and with her. A slow, painful death orchestrated with loud, ear piercing screams. She’d held him tight and close; his body finally slipped through her fingers and faded away to nothingness – her own screams taking over the unfortunate symphony.
He had to be here. He had to be somewhere – here . She’d fixed it! That’s what she did.
Her eyes began to survey the area again, each breath catching hard in her throat with every beat of her heart. She stretched a hand up, clutching at her throat, at her chest – at anything – in hope it would help her breathe. Her airways tightening in reaction to the panic and the pain — labouring her breaths and causing her to claw at her throat.
The red above her head, abruptly, gave way to blue.
Normality.
An imposter against the storm brewing in her heart.
Her feet began to move again, taking off in a feeble attempt of tracing her steps. The rooftop had to be near here. It just had to be.
Every single step caused a ricochet through her body, the pounding impacting in her head, as much as it was her heart. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Her feet tangled like a mess of wires, snaking around each other in a practised and impossible entanglement, tripping her up and causing her to lose balance. Next thing she knew, she was falling. An unexpected twist of cruelty which took her down onto her knees. She fell hard, her hands catching her before her face hit the ground, a droplet of water landing beside her glove, the grief of her loss fully on display for all to see — evidence of her failure.
And the storm finally reached its superlative.
She used her hands to push herself up, but her knees were uncooperative and sent her stumbling forward once again. She dropped back onto the rough surface of the rooftop, her knees agonising from the impact on hard concrete against her skin, a feeling usually foreign when she was in her super suit.
A heavy rattling sob became an echo of melancholy vibrating between rooftops. She couldn’t go on anymore. She couldn’t. She was done. She couldn’t breathe.
The rooftop was suddenly being coated in droplets of her sorrow, tiny pieces of anguish effortlessly falling on the ground without a care for ruining something previously untouched.
“I’m sorry.” She let out a sob. “I’m so sorry!”
Laying her head in her open palms, she took the moment to be less than super, to feel everything that came with the grief of losing him, of not being able to save him. The memories she’d thought so little of passed through her mind in a film noir way. Times she should have done more, times she’d chosen to do less, times she’d taken him for granted. She wiggled her fingers wishing she could remember how he felt, his smooth skin and soft hair. But she’d failed. The gloves had always been in her way of really feeling him.
She could hear his voice echoing in her mind, words she longed to hear and would do anything for him to say again. The sweet distant call of him talking to ‘his Lady’.
“Kitty,” she whimpered, an arm wrapping around her stomach as she held herself tightly. “Kitty!” Her voice was broken, every repeat of the word sounding foreign to herself. Was that really her voice?
“M’Lady.”
She heard it again. Chat Noir’s voice was clear in her ears, so concise; she was amazed she could remember it so distinctly.
“Oh, Bug.” It was there again, this time closer.
He was calling to her.
“Bugaboo, come on!”
She felt something on her hand, grasping it tightly. It felt so real, as did the hot breath on her neck. Almost as if he was here — with her.
Ladybug looked up, straight into the eyes of Chat Noir; her partner crouched down opposite her.
“Are you really here?” she sobbed. “Is it really you?”
A black, clawed hand stretched to her cheek, fitting perfectly against her chin as a cool thumb brushed away the tears gliding effortlessly down her face. He began to shush her, moving closer and using his other hand to claw through her hair.
“Real, or not real?” she whispered, Chat Noir once again wiping away the tears on her face. One corner of his lips tugged upwards in that way she adored so much.
“Real. I’m here. I’m back! You saved me.”
With a trembling hand, she reached up and stroked over his face, tracing every part she could touch. She dragged her fingers around the edge of his mask, over his nose and cheeks before feeling the contour of his chin. It was all there. He was there. She completed the round once more, etching every single detail into her mind — positive she’d never forget the feeling of him again.
Launching herself into his arms, Ladybug cuddled him tightly, the sobs ripping through her body as her hands moved over his body. Threading in his hair and clawing at his back, before finding a home on his beating heart. The repeated consistency evening out her own.
“You’re real!” she repeated, trembling before moving her arms and pulling him in closer. “You were dead!” she whimpered, everything shaking as she cried out the pain. “I felt you die!”
He held her just as tightly, burying his nose into her hair as she continued to shake in his arms. A grasp that didn’t ease. Real.
“I’m here! I’m back. You saved me. You always save me.”
“You stopped breathing!” she said, gasping for her own breath as she continued to try and crawl into his skin. He was here. Her partner was here and she had never been more grateful for the power of the ladybugs.
She continued to shake in his arms.
He threaded his claws into her hair and gently loosened the ribbons freeing her hair and allowing him to massage her scalp. He placed his forehead against hers, brushing his nose delicately against hers.
“I’m breathing now. I’m here.”
Chat Noir moved forward and placed his lips against the corner of hers; a soft, electrifying kiss, which allowed the feeling of contentment to waterfall from her shoulders and release the tension she’d held so tightly.
The night’s curtains began to draw, closing the brightness of day and leaving them with privacy amongst the stars, both interwoven as they soaked themself in the warmth of their love.
“You love me?” Chat Noir whispered into Ladybug’s ear. “Real, or not real?”
She pulled away from the hug, her hands clutching his and bringing them to her lips, a delicate kiss placed to each wrist.
“Real.”
Time didn’t record how long they stayed there, huddled tightly on the rooftop as they found solace in one another. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, even days or months, but it didn’t matter, because she was here, safe in his arms. And when she was here, with him, she could finally breathe again.
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steliosagapitos · 2 years
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        ~ “Concrete turret of the Félix Potin building, a 1904 Art Nouveau department store with an exterior of moulded concrete casts on Rue de Rennes, 6th arrondissement of Paris, France. “ ~
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