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romanoffjohansson · 2 years

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JOJO: Chapter One - The Park

summary: Y/n is a single mom to her 5 year old daughter, JoJo. What happens when JoJo brings Natasha into Y/n’s life after an almost tragic event?

pairings: Natasha Romanoff x singlemom!reader

word count: 2870

warnings: missing child? none really

Y/n POV

beep beep beep

My alarm echoed through my warm bedroom as it does at 6:30am every day without fail. Sun beams highlighted spots of the room as the sun began to peek through the grey clouds. As much as I wanted to stay curled up in my duvet and multiple fuzzy blankets, I slung the sheets back and swung my legs over the edge of the bed, mentally preparing myself for another challenging day of work. I loved my job, but god was it exhausting.

I trudged through to the bathroom, taking a quick shower, brushing my teeth and getting ready for the day. I threw on a fairly casual outfit and headed down the corridor. With a soft knock, I opened her door.

“JoJo? Sweetheart? Good morning, it’s time to get up.” Her long lashes fluttered as her teal blue eyes settled on me. The morning sun highlighted her gorgeous locks which lay messily over her pillow as she stretched her little limbs.

“G’ morning mama” She muttered as she fidgeted in bed, gently waking herself up. I gently lifted my daughter out of her bed, giving her a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead before placing her down.

“Let’s get you dressed munchkin, what do you want to wear?” She giggled as I tickled her sides gently.

“A dress!” She spoke excitedly – she loved fashion almost as much as me. I entered her closet, chose an outfit and helped her get dressed. I combed her hair back into a little top knot and finished with a silk bow.

“Now then, breakfast! What do you fancy?” The five-year-old pondered quietly for a moment before responding.

“Toast!” I breathed a sigh of relief. Josephine has a tendency to be rather fancy when it comes to breakfast. Just this week I’ve made her a smoothie bowl, eggs benedict, cinnamon brioche French toast, and even handmade croissants. But something as simple as a nice breakfast can make all the difference to my day, so I always want to do the same for my little girl, after all she’s not had the easiest time the past couple years. Once breakfast was eaten and her teeth were brushed, we headed out the door.

“Are you excited for school today?” I asked JoJo as she skipped down the street beside me, gently kicking the orange leaves that littered the street.

“Yeah, its Fwiday so we only have to do maths in the morning then we get to pway all afternoons!” Her adorable, childlike pronunciation made my heart flutter. How did someone so perfect come from me? JoJo’s school was only a couple of blocks away from our apartment so we walked together every day, even if it was in the opposite direction of my current workplace. These 5 minutes of strutting through the city together and chatting with my favourite person always made my day.

“Bye mama!” She yelled over her shoulder as she ran through the school yard after we’d reached the gate and hugged. I waved back, watching her with adoring eyes. As soon as she was out of sight I hailed a cab, threw myself and my bags into the back seat and flew through the streets of New York City.

I thanked my driver and before I knew it he was speeding away. I looked up at the building which, though I’d been in many times before, never failed to impress me. The vast tower sliced into the sky, hundreds of meters of potential staring back down at me. Quickly, I strutted through the revolving doors and headed up to work.

“Good morning!” I greeted as I entered the studio. Lighting rigs and clothing rails were stationed around the room, with a white drop and camera sitting in the centre. As a fashion stylist I do all sorts of different jobs, whether its styling a celebrity for an event or consulting filmmakers on costumes. Alongside that, for the past year, I have been working for Vogue magazine, styling models and celebrities for shoots for their magazines. My job is a dream come true – I have always adored fashion, the art of the materials and the skills it required. Being able to express my own feelings through the outfits I create has also helped me through some of the toughest times in my life, especially the last year or so.

“Good morning Y/n!” A chorus of voices echoed back. Time to get to work.

“MAMA!” I heard in the distance as footsteps quickly approached. Before I could even turn around, tiny arms wrapped around my thighs.

“Hi my gorgeous girl!” I laughed, reaching down to pick JoJo off the ground, swinging her around in the air before settling her on my hip. After a long day of school, her hair had become a little messy and her cheeks were tinted a shade of rose, yet she stilled looked beautiful. “How was your day?”

“So good! We pwayed outside and I made a picture with leaves that were orange and brown and we had a dance party and we- we got a new school pet he’s a turtle and- and- and-“ she stuttered on her words and her legs bounced up and down against mine.

“Shhhhh sweetheart calm down.” JoJo has this quirk – she gets way too overexcited to the point that she can’t get her words out and her little legs get jumpy and flail about. It’s potentially the most adorable thing to see. Of all the things that could be an issue with my daughter, she just gets too excited about things. “Blow on my nose, baby, for as long as you can,” I say trying to imitate a deep breath to calm her down. She complies and soon she manages to finish her sentence.

“and he’s called Colin!”

“That’s great, now shall we head home?” I ask expecting her to be exhausted and wanting to cuddle on the couch.

“No, not yet mama.” She says with a little frown on her face.

“What do you want to do then?”

“Hmmm… the park?” She inquires, staring at me with huge puppy eyes.

“How can I say no to you huh?” I booped her on the nose, to which she scrunches her face up with a smile before cheering. I set her down and we waltzed hand in hand down the street to Central Park, one of our favourite places to go together. The autumnal chill had set in as the golden sun lowered in the sky. That’s the unfortunate thing about autumn, it gets dark so early. I slipped a black, faux fur lined coat onto my daughter whilst I donned a tan waterfall jacket.

I sat on a bench in the crisp air whilst JoJo explored the park and the playground. She had a lot of energy, watching her bounce up the apparatus and running from one part of the playground to another, so I decided to pull out a book. I stuck my nose between the pages, delving into this new world of characters and stories, whilst consistently checking on my kid. She must’ve been playing for at least an hour, constantly yelling for me to watch her do a trick or go down the slide.

“MAMA WATCH ME!” I heard for the umpteenth time. I peered over the pages and watched as my little girl jumped down off a small wall. I smiled and gave her a thumbs up which she returned before immediately running off to the swings. I delved back into my book, absorbing each beautiful word as it came. I was always fascinated by literature, and I was using my current spare time to catch up on the classics. Currently? To Kill A Mockingbird. I was falling in love with each side of the page more than the last. As I turned the page again, I glanced up to check on JoJo. My eyes darted around the playground looking for a flash of her but it never came. Panic set in. I closed the book and stood up, eyes searching everywhere in sight. I threw my book in my bag, grabbing the straps and launching into action. I raced around the paths surrounding the play area, calling her name every few seconds and awaiting the sweet sound of her response. I felt myself becoming more frightened with each step, my breaths shorter with each inhale, sweat building on my palms and my forehead. Tears threatened to kiss my cheeks as I returned to my original position. Desperately, I pulled out my phone, showing my little girl on my lock screen and asked other parents if they had seen her. No luck. My world began to crumble around me as the evening became darker and the skies began to fade. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t go through that grief all over again. My eyes erupted and my skin flooded with tears. I broke.

“JOJO!”.

Nat POV

7 miles down, 3 to go. I jogged gently through the city, not pushing myself too hard due to the intense, but successful, mission I had returned from just a few days earlier. I enjoyed embracing the city whilst I ran, recalling fond memories or admiring the views as I paced through particular areas of the urban abyss. This evening I decided to take a detour through Central Park. I usually avoided the park due to how busy it can get, but there’s something about the reds and oranges of the autumn leaves, the sound of the water in the lake and the rustle of the trees that tempted me in. As I ran deeper into the park, the city crowds seemed to lessen and the mood of my run became quieter and more peaceful… well, as quiet and peaceful and New York can be.

Suddenly, through the sound of the evening breeze and the atmosphere of the city, I heard something that caught my attention. It was when I heard the noise again that I slowed to a walk in order to investigate. There it was again, a faint cry permeating through the air from my right. As I listened more closely, I realised what it was. A child. I followed the sound and the quiet cries became clearer.

“Mama,” I heard through a series of sobs and sniffles. Continuing toward the noise, I ducked behind a bush and found the source. A little girl sat cross legged on the ground, head in her hands, warm toned hair waterfalling over her face. I could almost hear my heart shatter at the sight.

“Hey princess,” I knelt down next to the girl as she glanced up at me, her ocean eyes meeting mine. She wiped tears away from her pink cheeks as she stared at me, a look of combined hope and fear painted across her delicate face. “Are you okay?” She shook her head lightly, her frown deepening and another tear slipping from her eye.

“I lost my mama.” She spoke barely above a whisper, bowing her head again, clearly exhausted and still scared of me.

“It’s okay I’ll help you find her.” Her eyes met mine again, hope plastering her face. “What’s your name sweetheart?”

“JoJo.” She responded, the corners of her lips upturning slightly as I smiled at her, attempting to comfort the poor little girl. She was adorable, her wide eyes sparkling in the setting sunlight, her tiny fingers fidgeting with one another.

“I’m Natasha, it’s nice to meet you.” She smiled a little wider. “Now come on, get up off the dirty floor and we’ll go find your momma, yeah?” JoJo nodded at me, pushing herself to her feet with a little grunt. Her tan dress, now tainted with dirt, fell delicately over her and she waddled toward me. I stood back up and began to walk back to the path but was stopped by her small voice.

“Tatasha?” The cuteness overload from her mispronunciation made my smile erupt as I turned to face her. JoJo was holding out her right arm and making grabby hands at me, clearly asking me to hold her hand. I reciprocated the action, reaching out my arm and taking her in my grasp, her tiny hand making mine look giant. We returned to the path and began to walk around the park in search of her mom, making conversation with the kid as we went.

Y/n POV

The sun continued to set as my anxiety levels skyrocketed. It would soon be dark, making it close to impossible to find my girl within this giant park… that’s if she was still in the park. I couldn’t leave. I couldn’t go home until I found her. I continued to patrol the park, showing a photo of her to every passer by just in case they’d seen her. My hope was fading. My feet carried me down the path toward a bench, finally giving myself a moment to rest before I kept searching. Just as I sat down, I heard it. The familiar warmth of her giggle. JoJo was here. My head shot up and my eyes raced until I caught a glimpse of her. My girl. Before I had even processed what I saw, my body pushed myself off the wooden seat and I was running. Sprinting. A sense of relief flooded me and I raced around the path. As I approached her, she finally noticed my presence.

“MAMA!” Her beautiful voice met my ears as tears began streaming down my face. She ran full speed toward me and I to her until she leapt into my arms. The warmth of her embrace spread through me like wildfire. Neither of us spoke a word, just enjoying each other’s returned presence. It wasn’t until a few moments later, I acknowledged the other body stood before me. The one who was holding my daughters hand. The one who’d taken her from me. I glanced up, instantly breath taken by her burning red locks, the twinkle of her emerald eyes and her rotund lips which upturned slightly as she looked on at me and my daughter. I dismissed my momentary distraction, bringing my hand up to her with a harsh slap, the sting remaining on my hand for some time. The redhead looked surprisingly unphased by the action which simply encouraged my anger.

“How dare you. Get away from her. Get away from us both. I’m calling the cops.” I spoke with a stone cold tone in order not to yell and scream in front of JoJo, the iciness of my voice carrying to my face as I glared at her whilst reaching for my phone.

“No I-,” the woman began, shortly interrupted by my daughter.

“Mama no! She helped me! Tatasha helped me to find you!” Regret instantly flooded my veins and I glanced at JoJo then at the woman again. Her head was dropped but her eyes fluttered up to meet mine.

“I’m so sor-,” my guilt ridden voice was interrupted by hers as she spoke for the first time.

“No, please don’t apologise, I understand how that must’ve looked.” The husk in her voice caused my heart race as we maintained eye contact.

“Well, thank you, thank you so much. Let me make it up to you somehow… the slap and the childcare.” We both laughed, hers opening the door to a wave of butterflies in my stomach.

“No, honestly, it’s okay. She was a pleasure to look after.”

“I insist.” I stared sternly at the woman. I wasn’t going to just let her leave, not after she brought my girl back to me. “I should get this little one home now but at least let me get you a coffee over the weekend or something.”

“Or we could get dinner…” She looked me up and down, a smirk taking over her lips. Another rush of butterflies. I don’t know what it was about this woman, but she had a way of making me both expressly nervous, confident and excited all at once.

“Deal.” I answered. “Give me your phone.” I demanded, holding out the hand that wasn’t still holding my daughter. She obliged, an iPhone smacking into my palm just moments later. I quickly entered my name and number before returning it whilst I felt my daughters head fall onto my shoulder. Her smirk grew as she placed the phone back into her pocket, meeting my eyes once again.

“It’s a date.” Her rough voice danced into my ears and down my spine.

“Is it now?” I raised a brow at her, tilting my head a little.

“I’d like it to be.”

I paused.

“Then it’s a date.” She smirked once again before turning to walk away. A smile took over my face as I pivoted on my toes and began to walk home. Not even two steps later, my head spun back around and I yelled after her.

“Wait! I didn’t even get your name.”

“It’s Tatasha!” My daughter raised her head and spoke loudly. The woman giggled whilst confusion painted my face as I glanced between the two girls before the elder of the two spoke again.

“Natasha.”

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #JoJo au #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x you #black widow #black widow x reader #black widow x you #black widow fluff #black widow imagine #natasha romanoff fanfic #black widow fanfic #singlemom!reader #natasha romanoff x singlemom!reader #marvel cinematic universe #marvel #mcu #romanoffjohansson

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ethereousdelirious · 7 months

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Okay well it's still the 23rd in MY time zone. Don't look at me.

Sicktember 2023 Day 23

Prompt: Coughing Fit

Fandom: Pokém.on

Characters: Lu.cian, Cy.nthia

Notes: I officially no longer care enough to scroll back through and manually add the italics that didn't copy over, godspeed

Celebrity ebbed and flowed like the tide, following fashion trends and the whims of teenagers on social media.

Champions tended to remain in good standing barring any catastrophic faux pas, and Gym Leaders could always count on support from the towns their Gyms occupied. But the wild fury of a trend, the blinding passion of a celebrity gone viral, that was random, left to the discernment of mass hysteria.

In Sinnoh, it was Aaron and Lucian's time to shine, as Bug Pokémon and suits had come into vogue simultaneously following the superstar success of a well-dressed Coordinator and his Vespiquen at Sinnoh's bi-yearly Master Rank Contest.

They had all been featured in magazines and subjected to countless interviews, stopped on the street and made to sign autographs until their hands ached, and even featured briefly in a music video together.

That combined with the usual stresses of the holiday season had left them both feeling wiped out— and looking it, too. So much so that Flint had started distributing vitamins at every morning huddle. For Aaron and Lucian's trials did not end with celebrity and holidays, no, they also had their jobs.

While winter was not the Sinnoh League's busiest season, they had racked up enough challengers over November and December that they'd had to increase their on-call hours, staying at the League building with their battling teams on deck in case a challenger called.

At 2:17, the alarm sounded. All the lights in Lucian's room pulsed in time with the gentle chimes and he rolled over, disoriented.

Instinct moved his body more than any conscious diction by his sleep-fuddled brain and he staggered through the motions of getting ready. No time to brush his teeth, no time to do more than button his shirt and stumble to the kitchen in search of a caffeine pill and a protein bar.

The others were already assembled, Flint with vitamins in hand. He looked the best out of all present; he slept little and woke easily. "Got everything set out for ya, hotshot," he said, gesturing at the counter.

"Mmph," came Lucian's reply. Every swallow tingled in the back of his throat like he'd slept with his mouth open. He cleared his throat experimentally and swept the vitamins and caffeine pill into his mouth all at once, swallowing them down with a mouthful of orange juice. That stung his throat even worse and he coughed a little, awareness jolting back into his mind.

Bertha patted him on the back, but it was Cynthia who spoke, steely and cool as always: "Aaron, two minute warning. Lucian, good morning and please don't die."

"Not while I still have a job to do," he said drily, pulling down his glasses so he could wipe the tears out of his eyes.

It was too early for much chatter and the thrill of an impending challenger rendered them all quiet, contemplative. The lobby camera revealed a familiar face, a Trainer named Fumiyo who had already given Aaron and Bertha some trouble in the fall.

When the two minutes had passed, they dispersed, fanning out down the hall toward their respective chambers. But Cynthia lingered, holding Lucian back by the hand, and kissed him on the cheek before she left.

Lucian kept a rotation of books in his chamber for moments when he was caught without one on call. His current selection was an old favorite, one his grandfather used to read to him as a child. He held it open without really seeing it, eyes darting around the room.

The caffeine had done its job all wrong, leaving his body restless and his mind sluggish and half-awake, unable to pin down and focus on the words in front of his face. As if that wasn't bad enough, his sinuses burned with every inhale like he might sneeze, though the tickle never quite came. Sinnoh's dry winter air had done its work.

He shifted his weight, hands shaking, mind yearning for the warm embrace of his bed. The narrow focus of battle-adrenaline never reached his veins and he kept thinking, turning over thoughts in his mind like floats in the ocean. He had a photoshoot, another photoshoot, to attend later that morning, and then he was supposed to be seen dining with Byron (deliberate paparazzi bait, reason unclear), and then he and Cynthia were supposed to cut the ribbon at the grand opening of…

He blinked, unable to remember. A pang shot through him and the dim purple lights in his chamber seemed too bright for one dizzying, dazzling moment.

The feeling passed quickly, leaving him alone with a buzzing under his skin and thoughts of sleep in his head. He stayed like that, the tension borne from the polarity of sensations keeping him upright, and jumped when the bell chimed and the lights flashed.

Victory: Aaron.

By the time Lucian made it to Jubilife, the truth that had been so obscure that morning had made itself abundantly clear: he was sick. It was more than just a case of the sniffles; he had a nasty cold, one that had demanded more and more of his energy as the hours passed. Reality pulsed in time with the sickening pressure-pain in his head, but it was his chest that had the worst of it. At first, he'd been able to fend off the coughing fits by clearing his throat. Then he'd started to give in to little bursts, two or three coughs into his sleeve.

That wasn't going to work now. After swallowing down the urge for so long, he had to stop short of the bakery (with a crowd already forming in the street) and give in, coughing so hard he doubled over and had to lean against a lamppost to keep from staggering off the sidewalk. His ribs ached and his throat burned and the sensation of choking was so strong he thought he really might collapse for a moment.

His vision wavered when he was finally able to stand back up, his breath coming in great labored heaves. Blinking away spots, he fell into his usual stride. The grand opening ceremony started in 15 minutes. It was far too late for him to back out now.

But still…

Doubts clamored in the back of his mind, growing louder the closer he got to the excited crowd. He was so congested he couldn't even see straight and the short walk had left him panting like an overworked Rapidash.

"There he is," came Cynthia's voice. "Lucian! Over here!" She waved at him from behind a plastic barricade. "They want a picture."

'They' obviously referred to the duo of journalists standing on the other side of the barrier. Lucian nodded to them before ducking under it and nearly toppled into Cynthia when he rose again. She caught him by the shoulders with a look of deep concern and hastily directed the journalists toward the owner of the bakery for a solo shot.

"Are you okay?" she asked him quietly, getting in close. "You don't look so good."

"I'm…" He swallowed hard, unwilling to admit it even now, when the truth was unavoidable. "I'm not feeling very well."

"Oh, baby…" she said tenderly, wincing at the raw sound of his voice. Discreetly, she put a hand to his neck like she was brushing something away. "Do you need to go home?"

He shook his head, drawing in a painful, congested breath through his mouth. "I think I can make it through this."

"Well, you don't seem feverish…" She reached out for him, but, remembering the cameras, pulled her hand back. "Let me know if you start feeling worse and I'll get us both out of here."

The bakery owner, a young Pokémon Breeder named Lia, waved at them from her position by the front doors. "If you don't mind, could I get a picture of you two by the menu?" she asked.

Lucian sniffled instead of blowing his nose and followed Cynthia into the bakery. His aching body protested the few stairs up to the entrance, his lungs burning like he'd just run up twenty flights. His own name greeted him from the vast menu board overhead, and Cynthia's too. Blueberry crumble for him, charcoal matcha waffles for Cynthia.

As he lined up in front of the glass cases, he could only hope that he didn't look too gruesome. His appearance had been enough to shock Cynthia, but she knew him better than most.

He drew in labored breaths through his congested nose when one of the journalists approached to pose him, not wanting to shower them in a deluge of germ-ridden exhales from his mouth. The slight relief in his throat was no fair tradeoff for the sting in his sinuses, and as the light flashed, the smell of blood flooded the back of his mouth.

A wet sensation followed, thicker and hotter than the usual drip from his congested nose. He fumbled for his tissues, stammering out an "Excuse me" as he stepped away to catch the blood now cascading from his nose.

He made for the corner behind the door, angling himself away from the food. Warmth bloomed in the tissues, some of it trailing down the back of his throat and catching when he inhaled. The effect was instantaneous and he doubled over, helpless to the rough, desperate coughs exploding forth from his diaphragm.

"Oh, my!" Lia gasped somewhere under the onslaught of coughs and the ringing in his ears. "What happened?"

"Nose… bleed…" Lucian choked, waving a hand to indicate that he was okay, or at least capable of responding.

The journalists seemed less concerned. "It's the dry air," said the one with the camera, "I get them all the time. Have you tried nasal spray?"

Lucian took a deep breath and coughed, trying to clear the last of the irritation from his throat.

"Bobby," said the photographer, apparently unmoved, "go get my petroleum jelly from the truck, would you?"

"Lucian." Cynthia's firm, authoritative voice caught his attention. She stood right in front of him, creating the illusion that it was just the two of them in the corner. Blocking him from prying eyes. "Sit down."

He sank to the floor, the tissues shaking in his unsteady hands.

"Tilt your head forward." She put her hand at the base of his skull and pushed gently. "Now sit still. Try not to move."

Standing, she turned to Lia. "Could you get me a glass of water and some napkins?"

"Y-yes! Of course!"

Lucian's body shook. Intellectually, he had no fear of blood, but the shock of seeing so much of it so suddenly had activated some reflexive nervous response. "I think I'm going to live," he said as evenly as he could manage, struggling to establish some control over the situation. Addressing Lia, whose shoes had just reentered his field of vision, he said "I hope I haven't caused too much of a delay."

"Oh, no," she said, before she had even checked her watch, "not at all." She glanced down at her wrist and nodded to confirm the sentiment. "We still have five minutes before we're scheduled to get started."

"There's already a line all the way down the block," said Bobby, jogging back in with a small tube of petroleum jelly in hand.

Lucian pulled the sodden tissues away from his face and looked at Cynthia inquiringly. She knelt to examine him, water and napkins in hand. "Looks like the bleeding stopped," she said thoughtfully, and applied a wet tissue to Lucian's face. She raised an eyebrow at him, a silent question if he wanted to continue.

And despite the burning in his chest, he nodded.

Cynthia wiped his face clean and made him blow his nose before leading him back to his position in front of the menu. He tried to smile, tried not to let the flashes from the camera make his eyes water too much.

"That's time," Lia said, checking her Pokétch after another excruciating round of flashes. "Wait here a second, please."

Lucian watched her disappear behind the counter again, vision pulsing randomly. He leaned into Cynthia a little, heedless of the photographers. "I think I need to go home," he mumbled, barely feeling the words leaving his lips. His eyes burned, his throat burned, his sinuses burned, all of them dry and scratchy in the winter air.

"I'll get us out of here," she said, ghosting a hand along his back.

Lia returned, beaming, holding out two white to-go boxes. "I couldn't let you go without sampling the goodies I named after you!"

"Oh, Lia, thank you very much," Cynthia said warmly. And despite how awful he felt, Lucian's heart swelled in his chest. People were so kind, really. "I wish we could stay but we're going to have to get a move on." She gestured to her Pokétch apologetically, silently indicating some unnamed responsibility.

"Of course," Lia said, "duty calls. Thank you so much for coming to my grand opening."

"It was our pleasure," Cynthia said.

"We wish you all the best," Lucian managed, forcing himself not to wince at the pain that shot through his throat with every scraping syllable.

Cynthia steered him out, hailing a taxi with battle-ready efficiency.

His head found her shoulder and he closed his eyes.

#ethereous writes #sicktember 2023 #ive had so much coffee i can feel my heartbeat.

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grandhotelabyss · 8 months

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Somewhere or other I recall you referring to a scientistic turn in the academy after the era of theory. For those of us who never got that far, what does this mean?

Around the turn of the millennium, many thinkers turned against theory on the grounds that it was politically disabling, idealist rather than materialist, and tending toward nihilism and cynicism. Some of the figureheads in this turn had themselves been associated with theory, such as Edward Said (who abandoned theory for a more grounded focus on practical politics and human rights) and Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick (who decried theory as leading toward paranoia and absolutism). Some figures newer to American academe—e.g., Žižek and Badiou, then at the peak of their influence—still drew on Continental philosophy but to bolster Marxist universalism rather than the pluralism of theory. The scientistic turn proper comes with the late Bruno Latour, who asked in 2004, "Why Has Critique Run Out of Steam?" In his view, theory led to a corrosive skepticism about the possibility of knowledge that echoed the irrationalism and anti-scientific attitudes of the political right, then dominated (in America) by its Evangelical wing, and of conspiracy theorists.

What has become of critique when my neighbor in the little Bourbonnais village where I live looks down on me as someone hopelessly naive because I believe that the United States had been attacked by terrorists? Remember the good old days when university professors could look down on unsophisticated folks because those hillbillies naively believed in church, motherhood, and apple pie? Things have changed a lot, at least in my village. I am now the one who naively believes in some facts because I am educated, while the other guys are too unsophisticated to be gullible: “Where have you been? Don’t you know that the Mossad and the CIA did it?”

He proposed instead a revival of "realism" oriented toward "matters of concern," which is to say an intellectual presumption of the obdurate reality of such urgent facts as war and the environmental crisis. In literary studies specifically, this was the moment of Franco Moretti, with his proposal for "distant reading," essentially the application of quantitative sociological methods to the newly digitized corpus of literature the better to understand literary history in terms of capitalism and domination. Digital humanities, as I understand it, follows from this. There was affect theory, which, despite the sentimental ring of the phrase, departs from psychoanalysis's focus on the inner life and poststructuralism's focus on language to re-orient attention to the transports of the body. There was the cognitive turn, applying cognitive psychology and neuroscience to the theory and practice of reading. There was even a brief fashion—counter-signaling the anti-Darwinian religious right—for evolutionary theories of literature, though this proved short-lived. And then in the last decade or so the vogue for "the anthropocene" and climate-everything. But I haven't assiduously kept up since leaving grad school in 2013 since, if I may, I don't even like theory!

Underlying this turn is probably the shift in academic leftism from a New Left orientation where humanities intellectuals saw themselves as fighting alongside the global dispossessed against a mechanized society overseen by white men in gray suits to these intellectuals' new understanding that they themselves are administrators and may turn administration toward the ends of enlightenment, especially since the global dispossessed have proved such a disappointing revolutionary subject, always running after demagogues and disparaging expertise. In other words, the professoriate once identified with the forces challenging western empire (e.g., the Maoist influence on theory) but now sees itself as this empire's ethical vanguard against the threat of backward elites, restive populisms, and their 21st-century insurgencies against the system (e.g., 9/11, Trump's election).

#literary theory #critical theory

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somethingimworkingon · 1 year

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“You had to be there”: in conversation with Albert Watson for Vogue CS, April 2023

Carmen Dell’Orefice photographed by Albert Watson, Vogue CS, April 2023

“You had to be there,” says Albert Watson. The legendary Scottish photographer is talking me through his shoot with the every-bit-as-legendary Carmen Dell’Orefice, the original supermodel, who makes her Vogue CS debut this month at the tender age of 91.

In one particular picture, Carmen, statuesque in opera gloves and giant shades, appears to be rising like an Art Deco Venus out of a red and white mosaic cloud, yards of Lever Couture dress pooling below her. How, I want to know, did he make her look so – well, so tall? “There’s a ledge that she’s standing on at the back of the elevator,” Albert explains – “we shot in a freight elevator” – next to the makeup area at the photographer’s studio in New York. Despite the fact that she is “very fragile: two people had to escort her onto the set, if she’s standing for any more than five minutes she gets vertigo,” Carmen remains, clearly, the eternal, consummate professional. “Once she was on the set,” Watson continues, “once that flash went, she [said] to herself, ‘Ok Carmen, pull yourself together, let’s go!’ She would laugh, give a little something [special] for every shot.” She may not have been actually levitating, but some kind of magic appears to have been happening. Not a gesture, not a moment was wasted. “There were sometimes just five frames – click, click, click, click – done.”

The very idea of a nonagenarian with vertigo posing in dark glasses and couture several feet off the ground, in an elevator, is dizzying, and Watson is candid about the challenges. Early ideas discussed with the team in Prague included a shoot with a Surrealist theme. The immense depth of Watson’s knowledge, his decades of experience – not to mention his great gift for storytelling – are evident as he explains to me, in detail, how a Surrealist-influenced shoot would work, how the model would move, how long the shots would take, how the photographer would conduct the sitting. He mentions the Vogue masters Horst and Erwin Blumenfeld, as well as Welsh theatrical photographer and set designer Angus McBean. But then: “I had a coffee with Carmen a week [before the shoot]… She is beautiful, people looked at her as she left the coffee shop… [but] she is fragile,” and he knew that this shoot needed to go in a different direction. “As far as conceptualising it, I knew that my energy was best served to pour energy onto Carmen, to make her feel good about the shooting. If I had a 20-year-old model I could pour my energy into the concept – but you have to accept this is Carmen, a 91-year-old, and that’s kind of remarkable.” And, in the end? “It was fabulous!” Albert says, warmly. “She is a wonderful person” – as well as a part of fashion history. He describes the project as “photographing somebody from another era, even before my time. She pointed out that when I first picked up a camera she had already been working as a model for twenty years – and I’ve been a photographer for fifty years!”

Albert Watson is 81, and has shot over a hundred Vogue covers. He started working with the magazine in 1976 (Carmen appeared on her first Vogue cover, aged 15, in 1946). Born in Edinburgh, Watson retains a soft Scottish accent, despite having lived in the US since the seventies. “I started off at art college as a graphic designer,” he says. Impressively, the fact that he was born blind in one eye seems never to have held him back. “As a craft subject I had two years of photography.” He then spent two years studying film at the Royal College of Art, but it was photography which was to dominate his career. Early test sessions for Max Factor in Los Angeles brought him to the attention of magazines, including Vogue, and his first celebrity image, of Alfred Hitchcock holding a dead goose for the Christmas 1973 issue of Harper's Bazaar, set the stage for a career in A-list portraiture. From Steve Jobs to Bill Clinton, Mick Jagger to Queen Elizabeth II, Watson has photographed many of the most famous faces of our times, as well as hundreds of actors, musicians and other celebrities.

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Going back to the Vogue CS cover story, “I approached the shooting like it was portraiture,” says Albert. “My preparation in this case was that it had to be minimal, treating Carmen as a celebrity [rather than] a model, [where we] catch glimpses of the fashion.” I mention that some of the shots have a feel of Irving Penn, some of the styling, the hats and fascinators, reminds me of Lilian Bassman photographs. Albert doesn’t disagree. “You could sense, when you photographed Carmen, a little bit of a thread going all the way backwards to the 1990s, the 1980s, the seventies, the sixties and into the fifties. You could feel that [history] from her, the way she projects it.”

Carmen Dell’Orefice photographed by Albert Watson, Vogue CS, April 2023

As well as shooting portraits, fashion, and covers for magazines including GQ, Rolling Stone and Details, Watson has photographed major ad campaigns, directed TV commercials, and shot film posters and album covers. He also keeps up a steady stream of personal work, including still life and even landscape photography. You’ve shot so many different kinds of subjects, I say: do you have different mindsets for different kinds of photography? Do you feel differently when you’re shooting different subjects? “I do!” This is a good moment to point out that Albert is also an educator, a teacher of photography students. His Masters of Photography series covers everything from “The importance of casting and hair & makeup” to “Photographing sand dunes.” He tells me about taking time off between fashion shoots to travel in the north of his native Scotland, which in turn leads a fascinating discussion of his methodology when it comes to preparing and conceptualising photo shoots.

“I’m not a landscape photographer,” he says, “but I always wanted to spend six weeks just doing landscapes, no faces in front of me. [In 2013] I went to the Orkney Islands to do ‘portraits’ of the standing stones there. I went to the Isle of Skye [with] a book of paintings by Degas.” While Degas is famous for his Impressionist studies of ballet dancers and jockeys, Watson took a book of his less well-known landscapes. “I was fascinated by the fact that he would paint a rather boring hill – if I was standing behind Degas and took a picture of it [with a camera] and showed it to you you’d go, ‘Ok, it’s a picture of a hill,’ whereas if you look at the Degas painting you say, ‘Wow, what a beautiful painting.’ The thing is that Degas is doing an interpretation of what he sees in front of him, and I’m taking a picture… so I get an exact copy of what’s in front of me.”

Watson talks about how two photographers shooting the same landscape may end up with the same image, whereas two painters rarely will. He’s describing the need to push photography, beyond simply recording what is in front of the camera. “You have to try and control the landscape,” he says, “don’t let the landscape dominate the final image.” Some of his endeavours seem almost like Buddhist meditations – spending three days, ten hours a day, photographing reflections caused by the wind on a Scottish loch, for instance. Or getting up every day at 4.30am to be on the road by 5.30am, when it was still dark, to do “a series of pictures in a beautiful kind of forest, using the headlights of the cars as lights going through the forest.”

Carmen Dell’Orefice photographed by Albert Watson, Vogue CS, April 2023

Watson’s landscape photography isn’t simply an endurance test – even though “I chose October deliberately because the weather was bad!” He approaches it with as much professional preparation as any of his commissioned work: “I had two assistants with me, to make me very efficient, and able to quickly get up a mountain to take a picture, and quickly down.” He also uses it a way of reflecting deeply on the meaning of the images. “I wrote down a lot of things that were connecting landscapes to an emotional response.” On Skye he was musing on “Lord of the Rings, Game of Thrones, Victorian romantic paintings” and when I ask him about how he keeps track of all these ideas, all these concepts, projects, he replies, “I’m taking notes all the time. I have a diary with me, and I’ve a diary by my bedside. Sometimes I wake up in the morning with an idea, go to sleep get an idea…” He talks about jotting things in a little notebook – “Landseer [the nineteenth century English animal painter and sculptor], some of the German Romantic painters from the 1860s, 1880s.”

On Skye, he also spent time taking pictures of the landscape specifically to manipulate them later – “shooting for a computer,” as he calls it. In his eighties, Watson still has a strong interest in innovation, and is unfazed by technology. His Instagram account, @albertwatsonphotography, is beautifully curated (“my son does that, he does a great job”) and has a strong following, but Watson is shrewd about the platform, well aware of what generates likes and what doesn’t. “With Instagram you have to be careful. Instagram is kind of a false reading of how popular your work is.” A combination of old and new, published and unpublished work, the account is also an educational tour through five decades of image-making, an excellent resource for photographers, students, designers and photography lovers alike. I ask him to talk a bit more about his own resources, and what kind of advice he offers to younger generations today. Unsurprisingly, Albert has a wealth of brilliant insights on the topic.

“I always say to younger photographers: ‘preparation,’” he begins. “They immediately think, ‘must charge the batteries in my camera!’ But it’s nothing to do with that. It’s conceptual preparation… When I’m preparing a shooting, I’ll go through a lot of books.” Watson admits, “the one thing that amazes me that young photographers don’t use nowadays… [is] books.” He talks about how books can be a source of ideas and inspiration, even if you end up taking things in a different direction than originally planned. A book is like a road map, but you don’t have to follow it faithfully: “It’s like you head out from London to go to Cornwall and you end up in Wales – the important thing is the book gets you out of London!”

His book collection is “about 30% photography, 70% art. That is a major difference,” he points out. “You’d imagine for a photographer it’d be 92% photography. But there are books on art, architecture, Frank Lloyd Wright, books on the Maya, the Aztecs… a complete collection of [seventeenth century English architect] Vanbrugh drawings, Michelangelo drawings...” With thousands of volumes at his disposal – “I have five libraries in my apartment” – it’s also important not to get overwhelmed. Or overburdened on set. Albert’s trick is to use the iPhone to snap images from his library and collect them in albums on the phone to use as reference, especially when travelling. It’s an elegant solution, as practical as it is contemporary.

Watson himself has been the subject of several books, from the educational (Creating Photographs, from the Masters of Photography series), to the spectacular (Kaos, a dazzling career overview published by Taschen in 2017 in a limited edition priced at £2,000). His work has also been featured in catalogues from scores of exhibitions. Watson, The Maestro, at Hangaram Art Museum, Seoul Arts Center through March 30, 2023, is his first retrospective in Korea and his largest exhibition to date in Asia. Meanwhile, those hauntingly beautiful images from the Isle of Skye can be seen in an online exhibition at the virtual gallery, CameraWork.de.

I ask if there any books he would recommend? “One of the best things for photography students, and design students,” he says, “is photography catalogues from [auction houses] Christie’s, Sotheby’s and Phillips – Phillips does nice big ones” (as both a photography lecturer and former Phillips art director, I’m delighted to hear this.) “You can buy these things [on Ebay] going back fifty years,” Albert points out. “For thirty bucks you’ve got a thousand images by classic photographers! It's a great teaching tool.”

Our interview is nearly over, there’s just time for one last question, so I ask what motivates him – to teach, to experiment, to plan, to shoot – “What inspires you to keep doing what you’re doing?” Albert laughs. “I’m addicted to photography!... I always found the technical side of photography a pain in the neck, so I was never enthusiastic about that, but I did realise that if you want to be a photographer you have to have to bite the bullet, do your homework. I’m glad I did, because working hard on things like lighting, it opens creative doors for you. You can solve things quicker if you know how to light.”

#albert watson #carmen dell'orefice #vogue cs

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someguynamedzoom · 17 days

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Valhalla in Vogue (Short Story)

(CW: Violence, Death, Religion, Suicide)

I believe myself to be a good, God-loving American like anybody else. I pray, I follow the rules, and I respect dueling. As everyone knows, only those who are brave and honorable are permitted into Heaven. And of course, the most respectable way to go is to be courteously slain over a disagreement. Indeed, formal combat is God’s favorite, and any other method shall burn you in Hell. A fate unlikely for an American, as we have no such cowards. If someone here were to not die by another’s hands, then they must’ve never been American in the first place. Although… Something happened to make me question some things. Allow me to tell a story.

I had just turned eighteen, the appropriate age for combat, along with a few of my peers. We believed our shared births to be a wonderful miracle and decided to throw a combined celebration. After all it wasn’t only a day for us, but also for those old school-issued Makarovs finally leaving the classroom to relive their forgotten battles. So, our grade met at a popular bar that neglected identification. Because of that, the following evening was quite merry and the refreshments influenced us greatly. Joey, who was obsessed with the classics, only allowed the speakers to blare Billy Joel and Tim, who declared himself a clown, had an amusing lip-syncing for Movin’ Out. These lives of the party were juxtaposed by my lonesome nursing of a bottle. Though I did enjoy watching them, opposed to another individual.

I locked eyes with a classmate named Bruce, who seemed apathetic toward the event. I didn’t know much about the fellow, other than him being another church-going American. And I’m sure he knew little regarding me, yet that did not decrease his heavy gaze. Followed by the formation of an odd grin. It took me a moment to understand what he was implying until I met with the notion that was probably in the back of all our minds. He wanted to duel me. Now, I had no reason to but once I was reminded that I was now allowed, I found the same urge to participate in God’s plan. I returned his leer and he approached.

The beat of my heart intensified with each step he took. The excitement to finally use my skill caused me to feel up my holstered gun. However, a sudden thought brought an unfamiliar sentiment. What if I were to lose the duel and die? The question made me tense and cease all movement. I don’t know why; death is a common result so there was no need for adverse reactions. Despite that, I was frozen. Forced to watch Bruce come with a widening smile. I apologized to God for whatever I did, pleading to cease this punishment. Because the look in Bruce’s eyes haunted me, I worried that I wasn’t even going to be challenged before shot dead. Then he came.

An oblivious man poorly timed a collision with Bruce. While he teetered, Bruce shouted at him to watch his path. A fair reaction, as half his vision was covered by the collar of his coat along with the brim of his hat. The outfit was unique, making the man appear as a battler of an old America. A time of expanding west, when bloodshed was a means rather than the meaning. In that sense, the man’s attire was offensive, like he was parodying the ghosts God had banished from America. Upon realizing what the man was wearing, Bruce began a disgusted rant. That made me feel ashamed since my curse ended once Bruce’s attention went to someone else. The man who dredged up shameful history was disinterested in the scolding but remained to take it. Then, the grin returned to Bruce’s face. In a mocking tone, he said another reason to consider the man’s clothes is how it may motivate someone to duel. To punctuate the threat, Bruce referred to the man by his caricature. He called him a cowboy.

Finally, the man– The cowboy turned to Bruce. His duster swung in the air, grabbing the attention of a few bystanders. He then told Bruce that he should be clear when making a challenge and dubbed him a kid. The description flustered Bruce, understandably as this night was meant to toast our maturity. It warranted a complaint that could not be delivered for the room was hushed by the cowboy taking out his weapon: A black handgun with a long barrel and wooden grips. It was an older piece, though better kept than our Russian leftovers. Another notable trait was the make, denouncing any semblance for self-defense. The gun’s aura screamed to kill and kill alone.

Usually, drawing a weapon, especially one as dramatic as this, would result in everyone else doing the same. No unrighteous murder would be tolerated by God’s favorite children. However, while he gained the whole room’s perception, no one else produced their firearm. Any dark intention was dissuaded by the cowboy pointing the barrel at himself. Additionally, any concern of him performing the most craven sin, suicide, was eliminated by his monologue. He informed us that his gun was a Thompson/Center Contender, a break-action hunting pistol made to only hold a single bullet at a time. This was confirmed by exposing the gun’s empty chamber. He continued by showing us his belt adorned in ammunition, their and the gun’s required caliber being .40-70. The cowboy admitted to the power possibly being overkill for a duel, but then commented on how often guns are in general. Finally, he explained his policy of never loading his gun before drawing and how he would only shoot it once. An audacious claim that elicited murmur from the crowd and sweat from Bruce.

Despite his nerves, Bruce clarified he still wanted to duel and kept that way even when the cowboy said they would draw in ten seconds. The abrupt decision silenced the room, and we viewed them with the respect properly given to duelers. The lengthy sixth of a minute passed and ended with a bang. Bruce’s gun flew across the bar with the cause smoking in the cowboy’s hand. True to the word, the cowboy only loaded after the time and did so in a blur. The amazing feat and Bruce’s loss by disarming called our applause. Although, our cheers were not as loud compared to if Bruce was granted the glory of death, something that upset him verily. Knowing this, the cowboy claimed he fumbled his shot. Bruce was about to confront him again before an older gentleman came over and enlightened Bruce. He told Bruce that he just dueled Harold Grace of The One Round, a walking legend who has dropped fighters far more experienced than us students. After that, Bruce dropped the matter.

The birthday ceremony resumed, now with everyone aware of Grace in the room. The off-putting attitude he held made most avoid him. Yet I, already feeling unlike myself, was attracted to the table he sat at. I inquired what he was doing there that night, and he begrudgingly told me that he intended to meet a woman– To duel, he established as if there could be any other reason. They both arranged to meet here, unaware of the ongoing party which caused him to regret his choice. I know his hint of disdain should’ve forced my leave, but I became persistent to stay. After seeing him handle that gun without hesitation, I believed he may hold a cure for my mental affliction. I explained what I just experienced with Bruce and asked if he had any tips for gunslinging. He gave me a once-over and declined by leaving the table.

I was disheartened for sure, but my goal lasted. I considered how if the man himself wouldn’t give me advice, then maybe his rumors would. This idea led me to the bartender who I knew had gossip as all good bartenders do. They pondered and told me the little that they knew. Grace adopted his policy of loading late early on and established himself with the One Round moniker. Although, he never explained why he did it. Sure, it’s impressive. But any sensible type can see how dangerous and absurd the fighting style is. The bartender then told me of a duel a few months prior. He was challenged by Prawn of The Swift, who was aptly named with a record-breaking draw time. Grace accepted, supposedly he always did, and they held it on a public street famous as a go-to impromptu arena. They waited for Grace’s preferred ten seconds before they both fired. When time, Prawn moved inhumanly to get the first shot off with his Beretta. It was an attack that should’ve went straight between Grace’s eyes. But while he drew, Grace went down on one knee and loaded his pistol while leaning back. It was indeed a position cruel for the posture, but it allowed Grace to steal Prawn’s intent including his life and the bridge of his nose.

I told the bartender how remarkable I found the story and let my tone prove it genuine. The bartender didn’t need any reassurance since they enjoyed the story themselves. Grace on the other hand wasn’t as convinced so he asked me if I meant it. I told him I did and paused briefly before letting out a yipe in shock of his sudden materialization. He didn’t react to my noise, thankfully, as he was too busy brooding over how to treat his newly acquired fan. He seemed upset, oddly enough, that someone would hold him in such high regard. I couldn’t see as to why since he was a prime example of how God’s warriors should be. Though he was ridiculously insistent on the clarification of my wanting to be a gunslinger. And even after I confirmed this, he seemed unable to conjure up any solution for me. Like he had a reason to hold back on educating me. Tragically, I didn’t get the chance to learn why.

Our conversation was interrupted by a man that I recognized as the one who convinced Bruce to leave. He said he had witnessed a fight from Grace’s youth and wished to be given a clarification. Grace didn’t respond but remained to hear the man give his tale. In the setting, Grace was a student proven by the school labeled semi-automatic he used instead of the Contender. While he was out and about one day, some of his peers showed with their own guns drawn. What issue they had; the man didn’t know. But he was there to witness Grace’s defense of unloading precise shots with a flurry. The man described the scene like a story from myth and I was entranced from hearing another exploit by The One Round. Then he came to the conclusion. After Grace had felled his foes, he supposedly dropped down and wept. This is what the man wanted to ask about. He, and now I, wondered why Grace would cry over someone’s death, let alone the deaths of his enemies. Grace did not answer. He simply left the counter and I curiously followed suit.

We traveled across the room. I didn’t probe him about the story, but I did ask where he was going. With a flat emotion he said that he realized it was time. Before I could ask for what, I was reminded of his purpose when he stopped to stand in front of a woman. She had just entered the building, standing tall and surveying the environment with a stern expression. People took note of the sheathed side-sword buckled to her regal jacket and sent around gossip fitting for the eccentric. She was identified to be Ann of The Blade, a swordswoman obsessed with dueling the skilled. This one confirmed to be at her request while she greeted Grace courteously. As the reason for her visit spread, the onlookers became eager to see someone fight with a sword. The tool was irregular with the current score for gunpowder beating steel. Yet her ability with it was proven long ago and to see it against another unusual choice was unquestionably intriguing.

After introductions, the two strutted to the center of the room. While walking, Ann asked if Grace would kindly not use the handicap he had given everyone else. Grace politely refused and said it was for himself. She seemed dissatisfied with that answer. Grace figured she would’ve understood, carrying an unconventional weapon herself. Ann stated that it was for character. Grace then offered to justify himself by asking her to see his policy as the same while not revealing if it actually was. Ann was silent to that, ending the conversation. The two took their positions and hovered their hands above their arms.

The tension summoned was a far cry to what we witnessed with Bruce. Opposing each other were two genuine professionals. Killers who made their own names and vanished the disbelief for their equipment. A blade slashing before a gun fired. An unloaded weapon that still assured triumph. We were in awe while watching and shaken at the end of ten seconds. It was quick, untraceable. Ann’s blade pierced Grace and extended out of his back. Grace reacted by giving his signature single shot into her chest. The force of the blast sent them apart. Ann’s firm grasp of her sword pulled it from Grace to leave a hole in his heart. He clumsily stumbled backward, accidentally seating himself in a chair. Ann slammed into the bar which she then leaned on to prevent herself from falling. A red stream ran down her jacket while the exit wound gaped her back. Nonetheless, she was breathing and compared to Grace’s limp body it appeared that she would live.

The crowd erupted. In the name of God, a victor had been chosen. The party gathered around Ann who seemed more concerned with her gunshot than her glory. While I watched her be praised for her skill and honor, I couldn’t bring myself to join them. Ann impressed me, of course, but I was still saddened that Grace would now be unable to help me. While brainstorming for a new solution, I went over to his body. I knew I could no longer gain anything but figured that I should at least get an early start on paying my respects. However, my plan was cancelled by his voice. Grace was not dead, but dying, and in his final moments he was speaking to himself. The way he spoke was happy, as expected of a dying man. Yet what he said was strange. He was glad that people were applauding his death. This made me curious enough to ignore the common reaction to finding a corpse still alive and I told him they weren’t applauding just that. I corrected him that Ann’s win was also a part of it. He noticed me and asked what point that changed. I wasn’t sure what he meant and got to say nothing while he then stood with a vigor unfitting for his condition. As he did so, the chair he was on scratched against the floor causing a few celebrators to turn and see him. They then got the rest to look at him while he reclaimed the gun he dropped in the fight. We were confused as to why Grace was still here and not yet in Heaven but knew it would be rude to interrupt the final actions of the warrior. With his gun returned, he replaced the spent round in his gun with a fresh bullet from his belt. After doing so, he pointed the weapon at me, returning me to the unusual sorrow Bruce had introduced. I couldn’t fathom what I did to bring out Grace’s hostility, but then realized by his smile that he wasn’t upset with me. He did not shoot me, nor did he want to. Harold Grace just wanted to ensure that I paid attention to the advice he finally came up with:

“Kid, live a little.”

He then placed the gun against his temple and pulled the trigger.

No one speaks of The One Round anymore. His last act tarnished any memory of him. Yet, why? Why does what he said still stick with me and what does it mean? How come I, unlike everyone else, am unable to forget him? Why do I still fear the possibility of dying? Why am I different? I shall continue to ask God for answers, but in case someone who listened has one, please share.

#short story #creative writing #writing #writers on tumblr #fiction #cowboy

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scentedstarlightpolice · 6 months

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The moral of your Tale is the fact It can be simply just not worth it shopping for fake bags. You can find too many hazards concerned and the standard is frequently not worthwhile. The original high quality designer luggage have colonial coverage, warranties, good development in addition to greater substance. Shelling out slightly additional will guarantee you the quality and fulfillment of proudly owning louis vuitton outlet a real bag. In addition to, It can be unlawful, and from the ethical code. Don't be fooled into buying a fake!

#fake bags online

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tremendousdefendorsweets · 6 months

Text

How Did We Get Here? The History of replica bags Told Through Tweets

The duplicate bag craze is nothing at all new. I recall After i was a younger teenager planning to glimpse her most effective, I assumed owning a reproduction bag was the final word vogue statement. I purchased my incredibly first fake bags online designer reproduction bag from a local keep. It was a basic Gucci tote that I assumed was so chic and complex. I don't forget clutching tightly to your handles and strutting down the street. I felt just like the belle of the ball!

I've considering that recognized the Idea of proudly owning a reproduction bag is a tad controversial. All things considered, the initial designer ordinarily places their blood, sweat and tears into each individual design, and knocks-off corporations merely take the credit history as their particular. Even though I purchased my replica bag a few years ago, I still reflect fondly on many of the excellent times I'd with that bag.

Simultaneously, I know how critical it truly is to safeguard the exertions and commitment of designers, so for that cause I do not buy duplicate luggage any more. Even now, It is difficult to disregard the price tag of the primary style, and again and again its just over and above our economic attain.

For that reason, I do think replica bags have their location in The style field. It is really legitimate there are drawbacks to possessing a replica like inadequate high quality and cloth, however, if worn respectfully they can be extras that help us generate exclusive and fantastic appears to be. In addition, I do think It really is possible to find a middle floor - 1 could nevertheless appreciate the first types without buying knock-offs.

Although I do not Individually personal replica bags anymore, I realize Many of us who do, and to use an idiom, ‘everything depends upon the person’. For a few, the one difference between an reliable and replica bag is the cost tag. They don't treatment about recognition or excellent, They simply want to save lots of a couple of dollars no matter what way they're able to.

I can thoroughly empathize with this perspective. All things considered, I have been there myself, desirous to experience stunning and stylish in my duplicate Gucci bag. But I also recognize the crucial job of the designer and the importance of guarding their rights and their hard work.

I keep in mind The very first time I saw a phony bag. I had been procuring in my community mall and stumbled across this beautiful designer handbag. I was so mesmerised by its magnificence which i promptly assumed it absolutely was authentic. Very little did I are aware that it was in fact a counterfeit! I'm able to even now recall the depth in the disappointment Once i found the truth.

At first, I assumed to myself, how can someone get away with producing copies of authentic designer bags? Then I realised the desire for designer merchandise has developed exponentially, and counterfeiters are Making the most of this. Fake baggage are almost everywhere now, and it's really unfortunate to think about.

I am certain many of us have purchased a faux designer bag with out realising it. All things considered, the counterfeiters have their Qualified contact. It is challenging to inform the difference between a true as well as a fake bag. Even seasoned shoppers might be fooled.

However, There are some notify-tale indicators like the price tag, and the standard of the leather-based employed, which can help detect a fake. In case you are scared of currently being duped, do your investigation and Make certain that the bag you're obtaining is the real offer.

I really feel responsible realizing that there's an business that takes benefit of folks. But the reality is, a good deal of shoppers have their own individual explanations for purchasing bogus luggage. Some folks are not able to afford originals, while some are searhing for a very good deal.

Plenty of individuals have been cheated and duped by acquiring phony luggage. It's best to keep away from counterfeits altogether. Correct, They might search seemingly genuine and experience magnificent, but that's only intending to past for thus extended. Very low-good quality supplies and inadequate craftsmanship imply your fake bag would not stand the examination of time.

What is actually even worse is, purchasing a phony bag will not only gain the vendor but supports a much larger, felony underworld. Other than that, providing pretend products can end you up in jail if you have caught, so It really is always best to remain away from fakes.

So, for anyone who is ever considering investing in a designer bag, I'd urge you to get only from authorised dealers. Like that, it is possible to make sure It really is serious and Risk-free. Plus, with all The cash you preserve from acquiring fakes, you'll have more than enough to buy a high quality initial. So It really is constantly finest to get cautious in generating buys.

I suppose I’m trapped in the middle, having seen each side on the coin. I might not carry a designer tote any more, but I am able to value the worth, craft and top quality that went into it. And After i do see a person carrying a gorgeous primary piece, I can’t assist but admire the trouble and creative imagination at the rear of it.

So, when it comes to replica luggage, what actually defines them? Can it be the craftsmanship, the originality, or maybe the piece of brain that goes in conjunction with it? Or can it be basically about the cost tag?

In the long run, I think replica luggage need to be regarded as manner statements that should be highly regarded and appreciated, just like the initial items. In fact, they help us spend less without having compromising our model in any way, and for that they should be thought of a precious addition to anyone’s collection of luggage.

Using a deeper consider the make any difference of replica bags, there’s much more to them than just knock-offs of originals. Some knock-off models became pretty Imaginative, Performing hard to produce handbags with outstanding craftsmanship and cocktails of resources that would not Ordinarily be uncovered on a conventional designer piece. They draw inspiration from the initial and think of models which might be remarkably trendy - showcasing their unique exceptional elegance in lieu of just copying a design and style from somewhere else.

An increasing number of, The style sector is seeing a growth of replicated models gaining traction, as An increasing number of buyers appear to add a singular contact for their wardrobe without the need of breaking the financial institution. Sure, the knock-off market carries its share of low high quality baggage, but even replica baggage occur in different grades now.

It truly is correct that designer originals will constantly stay originals, but the market for knock-offs has developed considerably through the years, supplying The buyer bit of head even though even now being able to Categorical their own individual model at a portion of the cost. Personally, I do think there’s a particular appeal to the knock-off industry which can’t be denied. Absolutely everyone really wants to shave two or three hundred of the fee of purchasing a designer bag, so it’s Secure to say that duplicate bags are likely to be around for fairly some time.

Moreover, there are a lot of different thoughts around the subject. A lot of people may well argue that purchasing knock-offs supports the unethical procedures of price cut merchants, while others might counsel that it encourages creativeness and helps you to bring up the conventional of manner parts. Some could possibly be wholly indifferent for the make any difference, but Irrespective, it’s anything well worth discussing and mulling around.

At the end of the working day, Absolutely everyone has their unique belief on replica luggage, And that i’m no exception. Around I’d love to try to avoid the knock-off market place, I’ll acknowledge that there are times Once i discover myself waving for your cab having a replica bag by my facet. Little doubt it’s a personal selection that every of us need to make for ourselves, and I’m absolutely sure it’s a topic that could go on to become the source of diverse debates.

#replica bags

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lettersbyjia · 2 years

Text

Letter 2 | 4th August, 2022

Dear Reader,

Day two started off with Ted Talks and evolved to challenging word expressive art and the following happened on 4th August, 2022.

Shiva Nallaperumal

Admirable type designer I would say. Interesting tales related to his work and typefaces/fonts.

youtube

The video gave us a glimpse into the type industry with the introduction of Ink Traps and his fonts which included the Kufic lettering inspired Calcula. Again, pretty admirable work I must say.

What fascinated me was the intricacies of the type industry where so much work happens in point 11 size. And in that size is where the magic happens. For example ink traps to accommodate for ink bleeding in newspapers.

Word Expressive Art

We were without a warning of what was to come ahead asked to choose 5 keywords from the video. Lo and behold the assignment was to make word expressive art and I honestly salute the people who had taken words like Calcula or Kufic.

So, 5 words and 4 iterations which made 20 ideas in total. (AND WE WERE GIVEN ONLY 20 MINS + EXTRA TIME)

My words:

Anxious

Hungry

Sleep

Python

Interstellar

Brainstorming:

Ctrl C + Ctrl V

This assignment was a bit daunting at first because we had no idea of what to do with InDesign. We were thrown into the water without being given swimming lessons(sad to admit, it was beneficial for us).

From Vogue October 2015

These were the layouts that I had decided upon to replicate.

I definitely struggle with word expressive art, so this was quite an interesting challenge that I tried to accept with an open mind and zero prejudice. Surprisingly once I had accepted that brainstorming can also include failed ideas I ended up coming up with good stuff. Of course there is always room for improvement but at least the task did not feel daunting.

Font regards,

Jiali Thakkar.

#Youtube #typography #graphic design #lettersbyjia #20220804

0 notes

writer59january13 · 2 years

Text

Onerous task confronted teachers and parents

As prospective students

ably ready themselves to matriculate and/or first set little feet

inside halls of learning,

I rebroadcast a poem crafted

at the height of Covid-19.

A couple years gone back educators

adaptation regarding coronavirus

severely impacted on the classroom, which modifications necessitated school boards

to rejigger methodology teaching paradigm,

quite herculean feat yours truly (self tasked himself with assignment) attempted to encapsulate difficulty courtesy

his handy dandy trademark poetic flair;

through arbitrarily chosen words,

nevertheless encompassed feeble effort forthwith present authored outcome read endeavor printed below,

which attempt barely hinted at near insurmountable obstacles

pandemic loosed upon webbed wide world.

The following reasonable

already obsolete rhyme

verst animated mine

faux class (sic) lilting brogue

courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue,

wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus,

nevertheless September 1st, 2020

signaled resumption of school year

back in vogue.

Countless challenges abounded

as millions of students (darting to and fro, hither and yon

analogous to flagellated spermatozoa) did re:zoom

even fetus soon did kickstart

to get academic jumpstart while in utero

eventually nudged out of womb,

whence a new born babe

cradled in mother's arms lulled to sleep listening to Mozart

while older siblings

awaited crossing guard signal

when one after another

bus came by... vroom,

whereby administrators established

virtual and/or actual room

adapted to delegate assignments

as reported by local newsroom

facilitated by unrenown,

unstoried, and untutored writer,

most likely a bonafide married, and once former unbridled groom.

Though mind boggling, death defying,

and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross

(dangerous information

super highway road)

confronted those most qualified to teach

impressionable minds to overload,

nevertheless I envy those learning

courtesy high tech mode, whereby inquiring inquisitive young students

taught abc's including

modus operandi how to code.

Virtual golden (gated) opportunity

spectacularly presented to bridge, kickstart, and buttress children

immodestly excited and

amenable to learn online,

while one old googly eyed

aging pencil necked geek

made his poetic cameo appearance

crafting awareness about severe complication

hash-tagging those best equipped to instruct,

which alternatives pinterest me

linkedin, trumpeted nsync with

tried and true orthodox methodology

(think white/blackboard with markers and/or chalk respectively),

who by the way never got chosen to clap erasers outside,

neither folded flag ditto after said

emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,

nor ever served as safety patrol.

Though born within baby boom generation,

I horrendously, nobly, royally struggled

to acquire cognitive consonance invariably experiencing cognitive dissonance

who floundered like a fish out of water

forever barely achieving passable grade.

Bard of Perkiomen Valley

readily attests de facto failure

if hypothetically enrolled

in kindergarten today,

he would get demoted to preschool

(a slight bit of hyperbole),

thus laments abysmal track record,

whereby attending conventional

schools of hard knocks

situated within Lower Providence district

emotionally fractured psyche until this very waking moment, and moost likely mine remaining tenure on Earth.

Concomitant to foster misgivings of wretchedness, I harbor jealousy

at young whip smart kids,

who already possess laudatory command

concerning salient technological knowhow,

me far beyond paternal parental stage

yet speculate how child raising could allow, enable and provide insight into latest

cutting edge binary wizardry.

Less impactful upon precocious

boys and girls hungry

as a caterpillar for knowledge

included protracted time eons ago,

when fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters

experienced opportunities to

relish countless hours whittled away

being tutored as son(s)

and/or daughter(s) for stereotypical roles.

Within realm of cyberspace

positive kudos extolled mentoring progeny

about rudimentary concepts (plus edifying offspring about all encompassing

social media platforms netiquette)

aided in turn with

sophisticated computer programs

(possibly created by little Einsteins)

invariably lovingly bonding (yeah right).

0 notes

la-fille-en-aiguilles · 3 years

Text

Dog Tags

Billy Russo x Female!Reader

Request by @nebulastarr : Hey! Whenever requests open up again, could you do a Billy Russo x Reader where the reader liked Billy but doesn’t want to tell him because she thinks he won’t feel the same way

A/N: I was going to wait and get down to writing this once I was finished with my series... But this one has simply hit a little too close to home. I couldn’t stop thinking about it when I saw it and I ended up putting a lot of personal stuff in it so I’m sorry if it feels chaotic at times. Thank you for requesting, love, I hope it lives up to your expectations. The Only Living Thing series will be back with its third part next week. The song: Isak Danielson - Power

All you heard was an excited scream, that raised above all of the New York’s past-6-pm commotion, as a slender tall body smashed into you, locking you in a bone-crushing hug. You laughed happily, albeit feeling a little bit uncomfortable in Karen’s strong hold. You knew it didn’t seem that way, but Karen packed a wicked punch in those elegant arms of hers. Those self-defense sessions with Frankie boy that she’s been gushing about over the phone must have been finally paying off.

“Once I am done hugging you, I am so kicking your ass,” she breathed out into your hair as she squeezed you harder, as if reading your thoughts. “You’ve been ghosting me for what, a month now?”

You sighed guiltily as Karen pushed you slightly away, keeping her hands on your shoulders. You watched her as she studied your face, a creeping smile stinging at the corners of her mouth.

Grabbing one of her elbows, you groaned dramatically, pulling her towards the busy road. With your hands locked, you finally admitted:

“I did suck at communicating these past couple of weeks. Work’s been…. hectic”, the lie tasted bitter on your tongue, but this was the best explanation you’ve been able to come up with so far. “Please don’t kill me”.

Trying to keep up with your power walk, Karen let a bubbling laughter leave her lips.

“You’re not the one who should be worried then,” she gave you one of those bright trademark smiles of hers. “Next time I’m going to interview Russo, I’ll…”

You stuttered at her tirade as you walked, and of course it didn’t go by unnoticed. Karen was the best journalist you have ever met during your prominent career. She just sensed that sort of thing.

“I’m getting this ‘I-meant-to-tell-you-Karen-but-I-didn’t-and-now-you’ll-need-to-fight-it-out-of-me’ vibe”, she gave you a scrutinising look. “Want to maybe share whatever it is you’ve been not telling me before I go full interrogation mode on your plump backside?”

You rolled your eyes as you led her to a terrace-ringed Upper East Side high-rise, waving to the doorman through the glass doors. Jackson, a thirty-five year old ex-military with three kids and a labrador, gave you a brilliant smile as he hurried to open them for you.

“Good evening, Mrs Y/L/N!” He bowed his head in a stiff, very army-like manner. “A package arrived this afternoon for you, should I bring it up?”

From the corner of your eye, you caught Karen looking around, confusion written all over her face. You had a lot to catch up on.

“Don’t worry about it, Jax, just give it to me,” you didn’t mean to urge him, but you couldn’t wait to change out of your corporate attire into some comfortable old pyjamas and crack open a bottle of whiskey - that’s right, some habits did die hard. And to think you were a bubbles-kind of girl a year ago when you met him.

You could feel Karen’s blue eyes drill a hole in the back of your head as you took a small, envelope-sized package from Jackson’s hands.

It wasn’t until you both stepped into the elevator that Karen cleared her throat.

“When you said you’d rather have a girls’ night in, I asked Frank to pick me up from Queens, not from…here,” she spoke, her eyes skimming expensive red wood and mirrors. “Did you finally sleep with Russo and moved in with him?”

Whatever it was that Karen expected you to say to that, it definitely didn’t include you spitting out a roaring laugh, as you nearly dropped the package on the floor.

“Quite the opposite, actually,” you informed her after you finally restored your breath. “I left Anvil. And, well, Russo. At the end of last month”.

—

A half-bottle of whiskey for you and a bottle of white wine for Karen later, both of you were sprawled out on the lambskins thrown over the hardwood floor in your living room. Jazz music was seeping out of the speakers by the TV, a couple of Diptyque candles emitting a soft yellow glow.

You stared at the ceiling of your new living quarters, your mind a blur. As you folded your hands on your stomach, you felt Karen twitch as she bent her elbow and leaned her blond head on the palm of her hand, facing you.

“So let me get this straight,” she paused, narrowing her eyes. “After becoming the Forbes’ hottest CSO, concluding what can easily be described as deals of the century - especially the one with Anthony Stark aka Iron Man and his magnificent goatee…”

Involuntary, you giggled at this. This talk brought out some very dear memories that you wouldn’t trade for the world - the way Billy’s dark eyes shimmered in the dim lights of the opera house as he gave you a look that said you did it, ever the perfect team… Or the way he threw his arms around your frame, his long fingers sliding down your back… You knew you looked good in that dress, but the moment Billy saw you wearing it… You felt like the only girl in the world, the way his jaw dropped a tad, his lips opening up in awe…

Oookay, Y/N, can’t go there, your mind screamed at you as you wiped that dreamy smile off your face. Sitting down, you took your whiskey glass, and washed those memories away with a gulp of amber liquid.

Meanwhile, Karen ranted on.

“…you just quit?!”

She jumped to her feet all of the sudden, brushing her blond hair away from her face as she watched you excitedly.

“Jesus Christ, did Billy make a move?! He made a move on you, didn’t he?”

The urge to facepalm was fierce, almost overpowering, but you managed to resist. Slamming your empty glass against the floor harder than you intended, you gave her a bored look.

“No, Karen, why… Why in the world would you think that?” You sounded just a little short of desperate, so you cleared your throat. “I was his second-in-command, that wouldn’t have been appropriate…”

When you were done studying the flame, dancing within the glass walls of one of the nearby candles, you raised your eyes to meet Karen’s. She wore quite possibly the most blatant look of ‘you are shitting me’ on her face.

“So you just quit?” she stared at you in disbelief, unblinking. “No explanations provided?”

“This wasn’t how it happened,” you said, hating the fact that you felt like you had to justify yourself. You brought your knees closer, hugging them tightly. “I…”

—

“…I’m here to see William Russo”.  

With a nonchalant gesture, you unbuttoned your Burberry coat, looking at a red-head secretary behind a desk that screamed power and status with every inch of its epic proportions.

Anvil was certainly new money. With all of those hedge funds injecting their cash into emerging companies, there was no shortage of these - entrepreneurial endeavours that didn’t last long.

You didn’t know that at the time, but you were going to make sure this one would.

“My name is Y/N Y/N/L,” you added, perching your sunglasses on top of your head. “He’s expecting me.”

The red-head gave you a polite smile before checking something on her Mac.

“Welcome, Miss Y/N/L,” she almost seemed shy, as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear before standing up. “Mr Russo is indeed waiting for you. If you would like to follow me, please”.

As the redhead led you through the training grounds, packed with fit men and women that looked like they walked straight outta Gym Shark ad, you did notice a couple of vagrant stares in your direction. You couldn’t blame them. You looked slightly out of place; more Vogue than the setting allowed for.

You quit your job as the COO of a global FinTech company just weeks ago, looking for a new challenge. It was an adventure of a lifetime, and while your ex-executive board had literally begged you to stay, once you’d decided something, no promise of a generous promotion could make you change your mind. While you absolutely loved your job, working for one of the most prominent online payment giants in the world, it felt like it was time for you to step down. Due to all the processes and wise investments you’d initiated, the company could make millions of profits without their CEO having so much as to lift a finger.

And you, well, you lived for the hustle. And that’s exactly what you were here for.

You still had your doubts about Anvil’s owner and acting CEO, though. William “Billy” Russo had already become a household name in the financial circles, albeit the company he was spearheading had little to do with the FinTech space. Some said he had the potential to succeed; others badmouthed him for being ruthless and balancing on the very edge of legal limits.

In short, the man had you intrigued. So the very moment he called and invited you to drop by Anvil to talk strategy, you knew you had to meet him.

See the beast for yourself, so to speak.

The first thing you noticed about William Russo as you walked into his office, spacious and entirely transparent, with its glass walls overlooking the training grounds, was experience, for the lack of a better word. It was etched into his every handsome feature, especially into his scruff strong-willed jaw. As he raised his gaze to meet yours upon the red-head’s announcement, his black eyes swallowing you whole, you realized no light reflected on their surface. There was a certain confidence to him as he raised from his chair, his white shirt straining some over his chest, long dark strands of hair falling onto his long eyelashes. This man meant business, as those black impenetrable eyes zeroed in on yours. He almost seemed too flawless - to spotless to be an ex-marine, stained with blood and murder.

All that Hallmark handsomeness was nothing but a cover.

Before William Russo had even got a chance to open his mouth, you were determined to find out what was lurking underneath.

“Mrs Y/L/N”, the hot-shot gave you a polite smile. “Thank you for coming”.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Russo”, you didn’t move an inch. He may have invited you for interview, but he wasn’t the only one with a long set of demands.

You briefly wondered if he knew that.

Before your thoughts could take you further, William Russo made his way to you, composed and calculated. He stopped by your side, albeit for a moment; rolling the sleeves of his shirt further up, he shot the red-head a charming smile (nothing like the one he gave you).

“Olivia, would you please bring a fresh pot of coffee to the conference room? Mrs Y/L/N and I have a lot to discuss”.

When he turned back to face you, you noted unconsciously that he was taller than you expected, the top of your head barely reaching his shoulders. The cool and composed look was back on his face as he motioned towards the doors.

“Would you like to follow me, Mrs…”

“Y/N”, you cut in with a slight raise of your chin. “I’d also prefer to call you William while I tear Anvil’s strategy down”.

His reaction didn’t disappoint. Some tension left his arms, his stung-up body relaxing just enough for a spark of mischief and curiosity flicker its way to his eyes’ surface.

A twinkle of a smile danced across his lips as he bit on the inside of his cheek, nodding ever so slightly in approval.

“It’s Billy”, he said, amusement echoing in his every word. "I don’t expect any leniency, Y/N”.

“Good”, you replied instantly, looking him straight into his eyes. “That’s not what I came here for”.

He nodded again.

And this time, there was liveliness in the quirk of his brow and a touch of insecurity in the corners of his mouth.

Now that was the man you could potentially work with.

—

Working with William Russo was anything but predictable. There were, however, certain patterns to his way of handling things. Whatever the trouble was, Billy was good at seeing the bigger picture - he was usually able to put things into perspective, but there were occasions when he refused to. You dare say that sometimes, you felt like he thought that money didn’t matter - like Anvil’s financial prosperity didn’t matter - as long as his team got not to risk their lives one extra time. You watched him turn down several lucrative deals that you’d busted your ass to put on his table, because it involved sending his men a little too far from home, in a place where he had no strings to pull whatsoever should anything go south. A part of you (the part that wasn’t frustrated as hell) admired him for that - it didn’t, however, stop you from disagreeing with him, time and again.

You may have never been to Iraq, and may have never known the horrors of sleeping with the bombs exploding a mere kilometer away, but you knew a game-changer when you saw it. There were risks involved, there was no arguing about that, but those were calculated, and those kind of deals could make Anvil jump straight to the top of the private military sector overnight.

William and you disagreed.

When William and you disagreed, no voice was raised, no blood was spilt, but Billy usually became distant, cold and just short of snappy when those conversations took place. 

He only crossed the line once.

  You were three months into your job as Anvil’s Chief Strategy Officer when Mayhew happened.

The clock on your desk showed midnight as you paced in your office, on the phone with Rex Mayhew, the U.S. Ambassador in Cairo. A cat-and-mouse game between the Egyptian Armed Forces and the nefarious arms dealer group had become common knowledge since a week or so; the U.S. special forces got involved in the conflict when it’d been discovered that the arms were being transported onto American soil. Rex, an old friend from your Yale days, had let you in on the fact that General Richard Ravelin, in charge of the operation, was looking to reinforce his rangs with private military before “neutralising the threat”. This was a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity, with a potential governmental recognition in play… and Billy wanted to hear nothing of it.

You were exhausted and barely hanging in there; Billy was categorical and stubborn.

You’ve dropped the phone on your table promising Rex you were going to give him an answer in two hours, tops. Taking a deep breath, you walked out of your office, your bare feet thudding on the parquet floors of the corridor. When you reached Billy’s hideout, you found the man leaning against his desk with a glass of whiskey in his unnerved hand.

“Billy…” you spoke firmly, barely stepping through the doorway. “Rex…”

“Can go fuck himself”.

Oh, okay. No sugarcoating this. Alright.

You saw his lips barely touch the amber liquid as he slammed the glass against the surface of his desk.

“I said no, Y/N,” he wasn’t facing you anymore, leaning on his desk with his hands digging into the wood, his back tense. “Please just go home. Have a good night sleep. We will talk about this tomorrow.”

You could have sworn you felt your head starting to fume. This was the third time Billy Russo was shutting you down. For the third time he was making you feel like an incompetent fool when you were trying to do your goddamn job.

Why in hell would he hire you if whatever vision you had for Anvil didn’t match with his own?!

“You could at least say this to my face, Billy,” you spoke a bit harshly before you could stop yourself. “You know, to my tired and disappointed face, with a mouth that you have been shutting up every time it offers you a deal of the century”.

This sounded so much better in your head.

“Why did you hire me?” you asked almost immediately, trying to soften the impact of the words that had already escaped. “If this isn’t the direction in which you want to take your company, maybe I should just…”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Y/N, just fucking leave already!” Billy snapped like a branch that’s been holding too much weight, the sound of it dry and final.

…maybe I should just rethink the entire plan.

There was no point in finishing that sentence now, was there?

“I was there long before you came along, so I’d think I know a shitstorm in the making when I see one!” Billy was looking at you alright, brushing his hair back, his eyes black and void.

You had wished It would have been new to you - looking in William Russo’s eyes and not seeing him there. But it wasn’t. He was back to his Hallmark version of a man, but instead of playing a hero, he was now putting on his villain guise.

“Let’s get something straight here,” he leaned back on his desk, crossing his arms on his chest, his black eyes narrowed. “While you were making your way to the top of a rich-ass cookie-cutter FinTech company, I was crawling in the dirt in Iraq under a downpour of the Trident D5LE missiles. While the closest thing you’ve come to havin’ your hands dirty was bribing an investor or two, I was fucking beheadin’ people under the direction of the CIA,” his words were cold, measured and rhythmic, like a round of bullets being fired on a range. “You know nothing of what’s it like to be in the middle of that kind of shit show, princess, so when I fucking say no, you listen. Is that clear?”

Bark. Sit. Roll over.

“Crystal. Sir.”, you finally broke the heavy silence hanging in the air, just barely resisting the urge to salute him. “I’ll see myself out.”

Biting the inside of your cheek like your life depended on it, once you turned your back on him, your first thought was don’t you dare cry on his account, bitch and then almost right away wait at least until you’re home.

You could have sworn you heard William call your name in a stranded voice, but you made sure to slam the door somewhat hard as you left his office so you could pretend you didn’t hear him.

If you were to face him now, with all that power and toughness he exuded… You would never admit it, even to yourself, but you’d just end up on the floor, huddled into a shivering little ball.

—

You were grateful that the next day after the shit went down with Mayhew fell on a Friday. When you stumbled into your apartment in Queens at almost one in the morning, you immediately shot an email to the HR department asking for a day off. Once that’d been done, you dialled Rex to decline his offer to introduce Anvil to general Ravelin, washed the makeup off your face and crawled into bed, hugging the second pillow close to your chest.

You didn’t cry, if that’s what you’re wondering.

As you rolled out of bed in the morning at around 8 am, you took a shower and grabbed a coffee from the kitchen before settling behind your home office desk with a heavy head. When you opened up the Keynote presentation with your strategy outlined for the H1, you couldn’t help but steal a glance at the iPhone you left on your couch last night.

You weren’t going to check if you had any missing calls.

There was nothing you had left to say to each other.

…with your chest hollow, you powered up the screen. There were no missed calls and no new messages.

It all looked like you had another strategy to build now. If Billy Russo thought that calling you a rich-ass princess that knew nothing of the world, all butterflies and rainbows, was going to make you resign, then man, was he in for a surprise.

You once heard one of his men compare you to a military convoy, when the guy thought you weren’t listening.

He had no idea.

You spent the morning refilling you coffee cup and rebuilding your H1 plan from scratch. After about eleven calls with the people you knew could get you a foot in the door of the offices of some government officials, billionaires and generals, after typing, deleting and typing again for 5 hours straight, by 2pm you had a solid game plan. You were pretty sure it would still need some tweaking from Castle, who essentially held the role of the Chief Operating Officer, dispatching men and women on missions and planning operations, and, well, from Billy Russo.

The Badass-ex-Sniper-turned-CEO himself.

You kept the email short and to-the-point, sending the document over to Russo with Castle on copy, saying you’d be in the office to debrief on Monday.   Refusing to check whether your email’d been opened, you slammed your MacBook shut.

The rest of the day rolled on uneventfully. You grabbed a coffee with the People Culture Officer from your previous company, who also happened to be one of your dearest friends; then you picked up your dry cleaners and did some shopping, cracking for a pair of new shoes in Saks Fifth Avenue.

Shoes were, indeed, your weakness.

By the time you got home, the tired sun was yawning, stretching its rays in one last effort before rolling into bed. Humming a Dua Lipa song under your breath, you were putting your new Jimmy Choo’s away when you suddenly heard your phone ring.

You didn’t even have to look at it to know who it was.   You checked the time, however, noticing is was two minutes after the official end of the working day.

“Hi, Y/N”, Billy spoke, clearing his throat. “Are you… Um… Any chance you’re available to meet tonight? I would really appreciate it if you could give me fifteen minutes of your time. Please.”

It sounded like the real Billy Russo was back around. Insecure. Rugged. Imperfect.

“Can you pick me up?” you asked softly, “I’ll text you my address. There’s a pizza place just around the corner, I could use a free slice”, you circled the cold coffee cup you left on the counter with your finger. “Free as in you’re paying, Russo”.

A laugh that came somewhere from within caressed your ear.

“Uh, yes, I’m actually… Yeah, thanks. I’m leaving the office now,” even if he tried to hide it, a shocked surprise still seeped through the cracks in between the vowels.

You chuckled silently at his reaction.

“Just one more thing,” you ventured, placing the cup in the sink and making your way to the balcony - your small piece of heaven with a wooden chair, pillows and lavender. As you stepped outside, you put oyour free hand on the railing, just to feel the coolness of it, the evening air and the gentle flower smell stroking your skin. “What kind of car should I be on the lookout for?”

Billy hesitated, biting his bottom lip, running his nervous fingers through the thick strands of dark hair. The setting sun was hitting him just from the right angle, making his sculpted cheeks look like they were made of marble.

“A Rolls Royce Wraith”, he squirmed, rubbing his forehead, probably realising how lame and pretentious it sounded. “I’ll call you once I’m downstairs”.

“Uh-huh”, you smirked, leaning on the railing with your forearms.

You saw Russo pinch the bridge of his nose, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip again.   Your small balcony provided quite a view, when you really thought about it.

“Don’t take too long”, you couldn’t help it, it really was stronger than you. “I’m starving”.

With a wide grin, you dropped the call and went back into your apartment.

You were planning to make him wait for ten extra minutes when he would finally “arrive”.

Just for the hell of it.

—

“That’s a lot of hot sauce for one pizza”, Billy commented, watching you spray your truffles and cheese generously with the piquant olive oil.

You gave him a mischievous smile.

“What can I say,” you shrugged, leaning back in your chair and licking the tip of your finger after you swept a drop of it from the top of the bottle. “I like them hot”.

That startled a laugh out of Billy as he eyed you with something in his irises looking a lot like awe.

Just when he was about to speak, a servant brought a glass of red wine for him and bottle of sparkling water for you.

You thanked the guy with a sweet smile, while Billy eyed him a bit coldly, obviously waiting for him to leave.

When the waiter had finally made himself scarce, Billy softly called your name.

You raised your eyes to meet him, struggling as hell to keep your stare vacant. (Which was hard to do with some foreign tightness in your throat).

“Before we dig in and I hope spend a nice evening as two friends, getting together on a Friday night”, he didn’t even blink? Was he blinking? You couldn’t tell, his black eyes swallowing you whole, again. “I want to apologise. I was completely out of line… It was unacceptable. You don’t need my validation, of course, but I still want you to know that you are doing a terrific job at Anvil, taking us to the heights I never even thought existed. It’s just… It’s hard for me sometimes to be a good CEO and someone who promised to take care of my men at the same time… Everything is happening so fast, I’m afraid to lose my footing.”

You reached out for his hand across the table before you could stop yourself. You didn’t take it, but your fingers brushed his ever so slightly before you realized what you were just about to do. Your eyes widened as you looked at him, searching for a reaction.   Billy remained perfectly still, not taking his eyes off you.

You grabbed a napkin next to his wrist, pretending this was what you had meant to do all along.   “We’ll get there, Billy”, you said, a small encouraging smile blooming on your lips. “We just need some tweaking”.

You weren’t sure if you were talking about strategy at this point anymore.

—

You had a great time at dinner.

(And a whole-hearted laugh as Billy finished your remainders of the truffle pizza, downing a litre of water to numb down the burning sensation in his throat afterwards).

You talked about your respective lives, your ex-colleagues, your hopes for the future… You dared think this who the real Billy Russo was.

And he was incredible.

After the two of you were done with dinner, you offered him to come upstairs to your place and go through the new strategy together. He didn’t hesitate, although you could swear you’d seen something ambiguous flash in the depths of his dark eyes before he nodded.

(You must have imagined it.)

The two of you ended up sprawled out on your soft faux fur carpet talking game plan, bouncing ideas off each other. You watched Billy frown, as he rubbed his mouth with his long fingers, smile in excitement and shake his head in awe when you voiced your ideas - you felt proud and appreciated, and you wouldn’t trade the sensation for anything in the world.

A couple of hours later the two of you had finally decided that it was enough brainstorming for one night, and you rose to your feet to go and make Billy a coffee before he got behind the wheel. As you pushed the start button on your coffee machine, you heard him speak over the noise.

“You know I’ve done four tours - three in Iraq and one in Afghanistan”, you popped your head up, only to see him play absentmindedly with something on his chest. “And every time I’m considering a mission for Anvil, I find myself back in there again… A part of a death squad.”

You carefully picked up his cup of coffee and made your way back to him. You didn’t say a word as you leaned lower to hand it over to him, encouraging him to go on.   Billy thanked you in a whisper before clearing his throat.

“Every time I have to send them somewhere, especially overseas, I force myself to stop and think… Is this really worth it? Is a fat check really worth putting the lives of my men and women in danger? And most importantly - you may think it’s stupid…” he avoided your gaze, staring into his coffee cup, a miserable smile on his lips. “I think, will it make a difference? If one of them dies on a mission, I have to at least know they made a difference… it’s selfish and it’s more about the peace of my own mind, but it is what it is, you know?”

When he looked up at you, his eyes were full, full to the brim. There was so much emotion in them, hatred, misery, hope, adoration, all whipped in a wild mix that was Billy Russo’s dark, velvet eyes.

“I carry these at all times,” the fingers of his free hand dropped to his chest, as he got a hold of something hanging around his neck. A necklace? “When in doubt, I just look at them - they help me remember where I’ve been and what I’ve done - and I just know if it’s worth it or not. The answer is usually no, by the way”.

He smiled again, the curve of his lips looking less haunted this time, as he sipped on his coffee.

Dog tags. Those were Russo’s dog tags.

“So they’re your reminder that, even being a badass CEO of a private military company”, you couldn’t help but feel some kind of zero gravity settling in your lower stomach as you saw him chuckle at your words. “…you still have a heart”.

“How poetic”, Billy teased you without missing a beat, putting the empty cup on the floor next to him. “But yeah. Sort of, I guess”.

As you fell asleep that night, you dreamed about explosions, piquant olive oil and holding Billy Russo’s dog tags in your hand.

—

The time flew by after that. In 8-month time (after some tweaking) Billy Russo and you became a team. It sometimes felt like nothing could stop you, as long as you were together.

It should not have come as a surprise that the two of you earned yourselves a catchy nickname - at first, it was spoken solely behind your backs, but soon enough it became some kind of a title, more powerful than that of the CEO or the CSO.

Anvil’s men and women (and especially Frank - the fact that he invented the nickname secretly tickled him pink) - were now calling you Bonnie and Clyde. The ultimate partners in crime, against all odds, doing the impossible.

The two of you also settled in an almost homely kind of routine. Ever since that Mayhew fiasco and the day that followed, Friday had become the non-spoken partners in crime day. What it meant in practice was exchanging Friday jokes on Anvil’s internal communications suite…

(Billy once attacked you with a “would you look at this, just found the actual footage of your interview @ Anvil”. Before you even got a chance to answer, he forwarded you a cheesy meme with two old women speaking to each other, one of them saying “We need someone who can do the job of two men”, and the other responding “oh, so it’s only a part-time job then”. When you shot him back a message asking whether he really considered himself an arthritic old woman, that seemed to have shut him up).

…grabbing a beer in a bar nearby…

(you sometimes invited your colleagues to join you, plus it was an unspoken rule that Frank and Karen were to be there as well)

…you making fun of Billy Russo’s eating habits…

(It was honestly a nuisance to have a lunch with him. The list of things he refused to eat went on and on: no asian food, no food chain restaurants (even high-rated), no soups, no cheesecakes… He sure was settling well in that peaceful life he earned after spending all those tours living off canned food).

…and just overall enjoying each other’s company.

By the time the ninth month of your being Anvil’s CSO had rolled in, you couldn’t imagine not seeing Billy Russo every day. Not noticing him rolling his eyes at a smart-ass comment you or Frank made, or his orbs lighting up every time you told him the deal with that or this decision maker had gone through. You simply could not understand how you managed to live day in and day out, and think you were genuinely happy, before you actually met Billy. Everything before him just faded away somehow, your memories lost their colour and spike in comparison to the life you were living now. You kicked ass at your job, your career thrived, but most importantly, you were feeling like this was exactly where you were meant to be, braving the obstacles by Billy Russo’s side, knowing he would catch you should you fall.

He would, wouldn’t he?

It was your usual Friday night outing, the seven of you - Billy, Frank, Karen, Curtis, James from legal, Ashley from mine clearance and yourself - occupying your usual table at Whimsy, the bar that must have made 90% or their revenus off of Anvil’s folk. It was just around the corner from the headquarters, after all.

The overall mood of the evening was rather nostalgic. It’d been four weeks since you’d lost a team member in a crossfire in Falluja, Iraq. After everything was said and done, his loss still hung heavy in the air, and it felt right to get one more drink in Jasper’s honour. The conversation flowed easily, even though the topics you’d spoken about were anything but.

“I remember how I felt when I lost Andy”, Ashley nursed her beer as she stared into the distance. “I just literally had the weight of the entire world on my shoulders, pinning me to the ground, I just couldn’t move on”, she finished her bottle in one go and motioned for the bartender to bring her another one. “Sometimes, I just ask myself, what would have I done if I’d known he was going to die the next day? Would I have stopped him from going? I think I would,” she thanked the bartender as he put the beer in front of her, her eyes a bit foggy. “Yeah, I definitely would have.”

Frank grasped Ashley’s shoulder and squeezed it hard in a comforting gesture; Karen gave her a tender look.

You didn’t know why your mind had gone there, but all of the sudden a memory of Billy sitting in his office chair, laughing his ass off at some offhand comment you’d made flashed before your eyes; it quickly got replaced by the recollection of his hand brushing against yours during the Zoom meeting you’ve had with general Warren Singer; then you remembered him putting his hand on the small of your back, staring daggers at some army brat wanting to join Anvil, eyeing you like a piece of meat (you learned later that day that the man’d been thrown out before having a chance to introduce himself); until finally, your brain stopped dead at the picture of Billy running his nervous fingers through his hair as he called you from his car, telling you he was only leaving the office.

What would you do if you knew he was going to die tomorrow?

Your heart sunk at the thought as you gulped hard, ducking your head and staring at your hands folded in your lap.

A soft touch enveloping your elbow had you facing the man of the hour, his black eyes shimmering with concern.

“Are you okay?” he half-whispered, half-mouthed, not letting go of your hand.

No.

Nothing is okay, Billy.

I’m so happy that I met you, but you’re scaring the hell out of me.

I never wanted any form of eternity until now, I never saw the point…

So stay. Please, stay forever, and feel something for me, too.

“Yes. I’m fine,” you whispered back, staring into his eyes, hypnotised and helpless. You watched him turn away from you as if in slow motion, the warmth of his hand leaving nothing behind but emptiness in your bones.

“Here is to always telling the things that matter to the people who matter”, Billy spoke firmly, raising his beer. “Here’s to never missing a chance to open up to the people we love”.

Well, if this was his way of crossing the t's and putting the dots to the i’s regarding his feelings for you, he couldn’t have been clearer.  

As far as confessions of love went, this one was non-existent.

—

You tried, time and again, to convince yourself you had to go. You learned the hard way that your unrequited feelings were feeding on a sort of inadvertent parasitic relationship where every moment of your day depended on the level of Billy’s unintentional emotional indifference. Your days were spent questioning his every move - every look and every touch; until, the grown-ass woman that you were, you’d commanded yourself to stop second-guessing everything - stop feeling - and decided your best course of action would be… to work yourself into the ground.

If Billy ever noticed anything, he didn’t show it - your were still you, after all, working hard, laughing when he said something funny, calling him out on his bullshit when needed. He didn’t notice slight change in your eyes, when their icy surface cracked at every other compliment he threw in your direction (and there was no shortage of those). He didn’t realize the smile you gave him was different from those tightlipped signs of appreciation you gave to Anvil’s potential clients, he didn’t think twice about the reason for which you glowed around him, your every move softening, your every gesture emanating warmth.

Because Billy hadn’t really known you until you started to have feelings for him.

You knew this couldn’t go on forever. This entire situation was bound to result in some explosion of nuclear proportions, and then all hell would break loose. You needed to get yourself out of this situations, but you just… couldn’t. You couldn’t imagine your life without Billy Russo. You couldn’t leave him.

Even if being friends with him meant tearing yourself apart and suffering in silence.

  Long story short, you waited with fear in your bones for someone to walk into your life and to get you out. You’ve had no fight left in you to do it yourself.

Your salvation came in the form of a phone call on a Friday evening, when Billy was on a recruiting mission in California.

You were typing back a response to his cheeky message when the call cut in half-sentence.

Billy Russo: Please remind me to take you with me instead of Frank next time? He’s driving me insane trying to set me up with the ladies from the Organising Committee. Any ideas on how I can calm him the fuck down?

You: Sorry, Billy, but recruiting is out of my mission scope. As for the calm down part, try bondage maybe? :)

Billy Russo: I’m going to pretend you did not just suggest I engage in sexual practices with Frankie. Karen will have my balls.

Billy Russo: But perhaps you’re right. Taking you with me is probably not a good idea. Wouldn’t want my new recruits’ brains to turn into mush because of how beautiful you are.

You: The flattery will….

“Hello? Y/N speaking”, you brought your phone close to your ear, your cheeks still a lovely shade of pink. If you were going to feel miserable when Billy came back, acting like nothing happened, you were sure going to make the best of that fuzzy feeling in your chest right now.

“Miss Y/N/L”, a smooth deep voice greeted you, and you could have sworn you’d heard it many times before. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

Frowning in an attempt to remember, you urged:

“No, not at all. How can I help you?” you stared into the screen of your Mac, wheels turning in your head as you silently catalogued all the men you were in discussions with regarding a deal. “I didn’t catch your name…”

“Oh, how rude of me”, the man chuckled but there was no mockery in his voice, more like self-depreciation. “Tony Stark, from Stark Industries”.

Your mind went blank. Did you hear his last words correctly?

“Uh… Mr. Stark”, you quickly got a hold of yourself - well, as quickly as you could. “I appreciate you reaching out to me directly. What can Anvil do for you?”

You did a pretty bang-up job trying to mask your amazement with polite cheerfulness, and Stark had caught on that.

Tony Stark just called your cellphone number. What in the world?…

“We don’t really do alien invasions”.

Ohyourgod, did you just say it out loud?!

His uproarious laughter took you by surprise, reverberating through your entire body. It took every ounce of your self-control not to giggle in response.

“That’s a good one, I love it”, Stark finally said, restoring his breath. “And the better question would be, Y/N - can I call you Y/N? - what you can do for me”.

Before your brain could take you into some naughty direction, freaking Iron Man cleared his throat.

“Okay, this came out wrong,” he admitted with a sense of self-irony. “I um… I’m looking for the Co-Chief Executive Officer for Stark Industries. Well, Virginia Potts is actually looking for a Co-CEO, I’m just her errand boy. And my missions apparently include recruiting…. Anyway,” it was a bit of a challenge to follow Anthony Stark’s train of thought, but you were also still shocked, so that could explain it. “…I think you are the perfect fit for the job”.

You just stared into the screen front of you, your breathing barely audible.

“Mrs Potts and I would love it if you could swing by the A-Tower, let’s say, on Thursday? You’ll be surprised, but I can also whip up a mean cup of coffee…”

Say something.

Fucking hell.

Say something!…

“Thursday sounds great,” you blurted out without thinking. “Let me just shuffle my schedule around… I could stop by after lunch?”   Your hands were slightly shaking as you clicked on your mouse, opening your schedule window.

“Whatever works for you, Y/N”, you could hear Stark smile. “Not to sound like a creep, but I’ve been following your career for quite a while now, and I think that the work you've done in such a short span of time for Anvil is outstanding, even though you still don’t offer protection from alien invasions”.

That made you chuckle, pushing you halfway out of your stupor.

“I’ll put that on the list of things for us to consider”, you promised.

"Tell Mr. Russo I sent my best,” Stark added, and you felt your heart drop to your stomach. “I actually might have some ideas for how we could collaborate. Let's discuss this on Thursday, too, shall we?”

After you said your goodbyes, you fell back in your chair, dropping your iPhone on the table.

You: The flattery will….

...get you nowhere.

You never finished that message, leaving Russo on Read.

—

Starting with that evening, things were moving fast - too fast for you to keep track.

After a three-hour long coffee and the tour of the A-Tower, Virginia Potts, the acting CEO of the Stark Industries, had offered you the job - just like that - and asked you to come back to her executive assistant should you wish to take the job, with your salary expectations and the information about your notice period. You thanked her for her time and promised to get back to her as soon as you made your decision.

Virginia Potts was a brilliant woman; but running a company like Stark Industries while being equipped with a vagina was certainly no walk in the park. Sexism was still very much present within the Boards of the Tech Businesses. You understood perfectly well why she wanted a woman in her corner - it would have been a massive slap in the Board’s face, but it was also about having someone to lean on, who just understood.

In any other circumstances you would have peed your pants in excitement. It was an opportunity to work for Stark Industries - no, scratch that - it was an opportunity to step in as a Stark Industries co-CEO. The idea of it still made you dizzy.

…but as you looked at Virginia’s email sent to your personal address thanking you for stopping by, your eyes were swimming with tears.

You weren’t ready to leave Billy.  You just couldn’t.  You couldn’t leave him.   There was no epic finale to your story. There was no big revelation, no closure, no moment of relief, no acceptance, nothing. Only a fat-ass what if.

And you didn’t know how to let go of a what if with Billy Russo.

And that was exactly why you had to do it.

You heard Billy come in the next Monday earlier than usual. He was positively humming Usher’s Yeah! quietly as he made his way past your office’s doors straight into his own.

You took a deep breath, closing your eyes. You’ve been psyching yourself up during the entire weekend, telling yourself it wasn’t a big deal, we wouldn’t even flinch when you were going to tell him.

You had to tell him.

As you stood up from your chair, straightening you skirt with the palms of your hands, you suddenly heard the footsteps coming back in your direction. You froze in place like a deer in headlights when Billy swung open the door to your office, a box of Pierre Hermé macarons in his hands.

Your goddamn favorite Pierre Hermé macarons.

“You’re here!” Billy’s warm smile illuminated the room. “So much for a surprise, huh?”

He shook the box carefully in the air. You stared at it, dumbfounded, every single thought leaving you.

You couldn’t breathe.

In the hazy morning light seeping through the windows of your office, Billy looked beautiful and dissolute, shirt open at the collar, longer strands of dark hair falling into his eyes.

He was going to be the death of you. It really wasn’t fair.

“Billy, I have to tell you something.”

Was it you who spoke those words? They seemed distant and cold, so uncharacteristically detached.

Blood roared in your ears.

“What’s wrong?”

Billy’s reaction was instant. In three decisive steps he closed the distance that separated you, leaving the macarons on your desk. He stood still just mere inches away, and just like during your very first meeting, you had a fleeting thought cross your mind: you really were tiny next to him, the top of your head barely reaching his shoulders.

You bit the inside of your bottom lip, trying to keep your composure. He stared at you unblinking. He wasn’t touching you, but it felt like his eyes were looking straight into your soul, undressing you, blowing that wall you built around yourself into dust. They were taking you down, piece by piece, determined to see what you’d been keeping from him.   Because, of course, he knew. He should have known something was going on. Hence the surprise this morning.

He had no idea what it was though.

“Maybe you should sit,” you said, making a physical effort to tear your eyes away from him, feigning sudden interest in the buttons of his shirt.

  That chest…

  …was going to be just fine. He didn’t feel the same way you did. He would just find someone else to fill your position. With brilliant women stalking him - in cooperative packs - that would not be a problem.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you”.

You squeezed your eyes shut as soon as his words reached your ears.  Fucking hell, you should have done that by phone. Or with other people around. You should have…

“You’re leaving”, you heard Billy repeat as his voice broke a little. He stepped away, burying his face in his hands as he dragged them down his jaw and neck, staring into the ceiling.

“Billy, listen, I…”

You were the one to close the space between the two of you this time, and before you could think too much into it… You threw your hands around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

The sensation struck you like a bolt of lightening when you felt his hands cross behind you back and pull you closer.

He smelled heavenly. Like a forest fire, a hint of smoke with oud and pine. You inhaled deep, deeper still, losing yourself in his comforting touch.

In his arms, just for a second there, you felt home.

“You… The company doesn’t need me anymore”, you nearly choked on words, screaming internally at yourself to keep the waterworks at bay. “It’s thriving, there’s not much else I can give you. My job here is done.”

I need to leave because your indifference is destroying me, and when I think I’m ready to let go, all it takes is one look from you, and I’m back to wanting you, to settling for anything you give me, like a goddamn fool.

“What the hell are you talking about, Y/N?!” Billy exclaimed, his hands grasping your shoulders as he distanced your bodies just enough for him to look into your eyes. “I nee- The company needs you! I was… You know, I was planning to make you the CEO of Anvil in a couple months time,” his smile, as earnest as it was, did not reach his eyes. “Yeah”, noticing your eyes go wide in shock, he let his hands slide down your sides. “You’re so much better at it than I ever was. I was going to join Frank and just manage operations… under you”.

You just stared at him, dumbfounded, not feeling a stray tear escape your eye and rolling down your cheekbone.

“These are the tears of happiness, I hope”, Billy added, and you barely registered his touch as his thumb wiped the salty drop off. “Well, I guess Anvil will have to settle for the little old me. With my best girl going places."

You gave him a strained smile before you carefully wiped your cheeks, just taking a moment to look at him. To try and read him.

Billy Russo was a goddamn ceiling. Plain white, cool and unattainable. In all of your time working for him, you have never seen this Hallmark version of him before. Which one was it?  

Oh wait, you guessed you knew. The happy-for-you friend.

“So where are you going?” Billy asked, his eyes empty. “Who snatched you away from m- Anvil?”

The stutter was so subtle you barely noticed. You were finally tired of reading into shit.

“Stark Industries. I’ll be their co-CEO”.

—

Before you left Anvil you promised yourself you’d get the deal with Stark Industries up and running. There was no one in the world you trusted more in terms of security than Billy.

(The fact that you couldn’t keep your heart safe from him didn’t really count, did it?)

As a matter of fact, Billy and you were going to shake hands with Anthony Stark on the deal on your last night of being Anvil’s CSO. It was happening in The Metropolitan Opera and required both Billy and yourself to dress for the occasion.   He promised to come pick you up at 6pm sharp; you were putting on the Jimmy Choo’s you’d bought a coulee months ago in Saks Fifth Avenue when you heard a low knock on your door.

Straightening up, you threw a quick glance at your reflection in the mirror. You decided to go with a long Marchesa black velvet gown with a rather deep V-line, a pair of long diamond earrings and an elegant half-up half-down hairdo, soft curls in the front framing your face.

“I’m coming”, you yelled out, picking up your leather jacket (because why the hell not) and your purse from the kitchen counter. Sharply opening the entrance door, you realized moments later that you didn’t even take time to prepare yourself for seeing William Russo in a tux.

If you weren’t already half in love with him, the sight before your eyes would have sealed the deal.

God-fucking-damn, like he needed any help being unforgettable.

With a black jacket thrown on a crisp white shirt with a couple of buttons undone and the tie hanging loosely around his neck, Billy was here to make a statement, to leave a mark. His hair was coiffed back in his usual style; honest to God, he looked like he just stepped out of the Man of the Year special GQ edition…

Just when your thoughts were about to switch to the way you must have looked next to him, ridiculous in your simplicity, like you refused to make an effort…

…Your eyes met his.

And the way he looked at you was so intense, his big black eyes with galaxies in them probing into yours, his strong jaw slack. There was beauty and tragedy reflecting in those orbs, but only just for a second - just for a second, he looked at you the way he probably looked at the sky he could never reach. Just for a second, he looked at you the way that made your heart beat twice as fast, like the world could crumble all around him and he still would not have blinked.

Would not have taken his eyes off you.

“Wow, Y/N, you look… You look beautiful”, he finally said. “I just can't spot a part of you that beats the other.”

Something in your chest exploded silently.

“Thank you, Billy,” you smiled at him - a genuine and happy smile, because you felt on top of the world with his adoring eyes on you. “You’re quite a catch yourself”.

Before you could scold yourself for your choice of words, you stepped out of your apartment and locked the door behind you.

“Shall we?” Billy offered his hand to you, without hesitation it seemed.

“We shall”, you replied instantly, slowly sliding your hand into the crook of his elbow.

And, just like always, you were going to enjoy it while it lasted.

—

The crowd in the opera was so posh, the looks all the women had been throwing you first made you question your choice of outfit. It’s after overhearing their conversations that you realized, the reason they stared daggers at you was the man that kept by your side no matter where you went.

Virginia and Anthony welcomed you at the buffet with sun-stained sincere smiles. After a short small talk, Anthony Stark informed you both that he had signed the contract earlier today, thus officially giving Anvil an exclusive security deal with Stark Industries. As of now, Anvil was the only company allowed on the Stark Industries’ premises in the quality of guards and protection officers.

The look Billy and you exchanged spoke volumes; while your eyes were sparkling with excitement though, screaming “we did it!!”, his bottomless black eyes were whispering “thanks to you”.

The four of you then shook hands and went through rounds of gratitude and appreciation; when a pleasant woman’s voice announced the imminent start of Onegin, inviting the guests to go to their seats. Virginia immediately took you hand, leading you straight into the Opera house, saying something about leaving men to finish their drinks. You threw Billy a laughing look over your shoulder, mouthing “come join me” before disappearing out of his sight.

“So on the scale of one to ten, how pissed at me are you, Mr. Russo?”

Billy turned his head sharply to a side, leaning on the high table, and spotted Anthony Stark himself, nursing a glass of whiskey. “For taking your queen away from you? Excuse the chess metaphor, but that woman”, Stark took a sip of his whiskey and savoured it before swallowing it down. “Is a goddamn queen.”

Billy chuckled, straightening up, digging his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“That, she is,” he whispered, his eyes still piercing the spot in the crowd where your smiling face was mere minutes ago.

—

When the opera ended, both Billy and you couldn’t be more relieved - because both of you hated it with passion.

Exchanging meaningful glances in the dark during the singers’ performances now and then, you had to bite your tongue in order to not just ask Billy if you could maybe sneak out. Russo proved to be more stoic than you, carefully covering your hand with his in what was meant to be a comforting gesture.

You didn’t look at him once after that, afraid to say or do something that would make him remove his hand.

How much more pathetic could you get?

When the performance was over, Billy led you out of the opera house without saying a word, his hand hugging carefully the small of your back.

His silence was unnerving. You didn’t know what to make of it. Should you have shaken his hand off back in the darkness of the concert hall? Or should you have caressed it with your thumb?

Your mind was spinning in circles by the time he opened the door for you and you slid into the front passenger seat of his Rolls goddamn Royce.

When he got in the car and gripped his steering wheel, you reached out and placed your hand on his whitening knuckles.

“Billy,” you spoke softly, barely audibly. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” he whispered back, turning his head to a side to face you. His black eyes stared into yours, looking hypnotised and helpless. “Everything is fine.”

It didn’t take a degree in Psychology to see that he was lying. You could feel his gaze on you as you turned away from him, taking your hand away at the same time.

Billy started the car. The revving engine filled the silence, loaded with the unsaid words.

—

“…he then walked me to my door, we exchanged our goodbyes. And that was it,” you finished lightly, looking back at Karen.

Her eyes were red as she stared at you, unblinking.

“Unbelievable…” she whispered. “So you never told him?…” her lips barely moved.

You sighed.

“Have you ever felt like you’re potentially in love with someone? Like, you don’t actually love him, you know you don’t, but one day you realise that you could? You realise just how easy it would be for you to fall in love with him? With all the teasing and the banter, the play hitting each other, calling each other names, just…. You start to pick up on little things - like if you listen closely, in every shut up, there’s a barely-there ring of I could love you.”  You shifted on the floor a little, and Karen watched your memories transport you somewhere else again. While physically your were here, in your apartment - with your fluttering eye-lashes, uneven breathing and loaded expression - mentally, you were somewhere else.

“….You probably don’t notice it at first, but your body is drawn to him. Every accidental or absentminded touch…” you continued quietly. “And there’s that twinkle in his eyes when he looks at you and it messes you up, because - what’s going on with you? What the hell does it even mean? Are you imagining shit? You’re trying to make sense.”  

Karen didn’t interrupt, still staring at you as if she were seeing you for the first time

“I mean, he didn’t ask for any of it, you know?” you finally raised your foggy stare at Karen, as if searching for confirmation. “Maybe he just did something dumb one day, smiled at you or said something that seemed important and then all of the sudden you’re full on Looney Tunes, seeing stuff that isn’t there?”

Your words barely audible, you swallowed hard, before continuing.  “…I just kept looking at him with what ifs, and could haves, seeing all that goddamn potential. It’s so fucking twisted. Over-analyzing everything? Waiting for a sign?…” you chuckled bitterly all of the sudden. “…I was so fucking scared of reading too much into it, of crossing that line, because… It would be so easy!… Falling in love with him would have been so easy.”

Oh sweetheart, Karen’s eyes glowed with comfort as she reached out for your hand and squeezed it softly. But you already are in love with him.   

A loaded silence ripped through the air in your living room. The sound of an engine revving somewhere close squeezed its way through the slit of an opened window, and it seemed to break the trance.

Both Karen and you shuddered, and as you took in the realisation Karen’s eyes just bestowed upon you, you pinched the bridge of your nose.

“It’s pretty late,” Karen spoke up, reading you like an open book. She knew it was her cue to leave the stage. You needed time to process. “Frank is in a bar nearby with Curtis, let me just give him a call, okay, sweetheart?” she gave your hand one last reassuring squeeze. “You know where to find me when you need me”.

“Yes”, you responded, blinking tiredly. “Thank you so much for coming, Karen. I didn’t mean to unload on you like that…”

“Shut the hell up,” the blonde advised, raising her eyebrows. “But honestly, Y/N, please call me once you… come to terms with things, okay?”

You nodded.

When Karen left, leaving the sweet and pleasant smell of her perfume behind, you closed the door behind her and turned around, leaning on the cold wood and metal with your eyes closed.

It’s been a month. This was supposed to pass by now. Billy was supposed to stop inviting himself into your dreams. You were supposed to heal.

You may have just realized you were in love with the man instead.

Letting out half a moan, half a groan, you peeled yourself from the door slowly, and brushed your hair back, wanting nothing more than to fall face-first into bed.

After you at least cleaned up a bit and put out the Dyptique candles, that is.

As your eyes scanned your living room in an attempt to asses the size of the job at hand, you stopped mid-way, zeroing in on the box Jax gave you earlier in the evening. It rested silently on the kitchen table.

Tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, you made your way to the kitchen area. Grabbing the package, you turned it around, looking for any indication of the sender.

The package wasn’t even stamped.

Curiosity getting the best of you, you took a moment to grab a knife from one of the drawers, and carefully swished it between the two cardboard sheets.

Flipping over the envelop, you heard something fall out of it before you could actually see it. A small sheet of paper floated in the air before falling on the surface, partially covering whatever fell out of the package.

Your heart squeezed the second your brain identified the object, attached to a worn silver chain.

With trembling fingers, you slid two metal pieces from under the paper, covering your mouth.

Finding their home in the palm of your hand, Billy’s dog tags shimmered in the dim candlelight.

Squeezing them in between your fingers, you grabbed the paper with your free hand, your eyes staring at one single sentence scribbled on its surface.

“You took my heart with you”.

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