#so i went outside to touch grass and ended up in. paris

[justplaggin]

finally stepped foot on the sacred grounds of miraculous ladybug

#so i went outside to touch grass and ended up in. paris #it has been a Weekend <- ticked off the list every possible tourist attraction (and a few underrated spots) in less than 4 days #and man. that is one big city #excellent food. surreal views. strange but wonderful sensation of seeing that famous landmarks/paintings/french ppl actually exist #also great place to converse in all the languages you know :D it's like the whole world is there #history all around. very musical. spotted a little girl in a lb onesie. the grass-touching was literal (had to see that one stadium) #got a custom shirt of my fav player and a dazai noodle stopper. also the muscle soreness of all time <- all of them thoroughly worth it #yk i COULD proudly say i was just plagging around paris- except no lazing around was done whatsoever #quite possibly the experience of the year 😌 #now if you'll excuse me i need to sleep until christmas

[yutahoes]

Bucket List

photo from Pinterest

pairing: boyfriend! Yuta Nakamoto x reader

word count : 1.2k words

genre : smut, fluff

summary: A picnic date crosses out your bucket list.

warnings : teasing, hand job, exhibitionism(?), can I say food play?, kinda subby Yuta but you didn’t hear it from me. 

another fic for the Sunny Side Event by @neosmutcollective​

June 13. Picnic

Picnics. Always on your bucket list but never crossed out. Maybe it's the guys you dated. Although you loved a date with picnics, no one had ever done it for you. And you have always thought that you will never cross out a picnic date from your bucket list. 

Then came Yuta Nakamoto, a guy you met in a mixer and started dating after having a fun time with him. 

Another guy, like the others. 

Wrong! 

He actually listens.

You thought he would shrug it off when you told him about liking picnics, he was too busy playing with his phone that time. It surprised you that he called you one night asking if you wanted to go have breakfast with him the next morning which you agreed on. Surprised, he woke you up at 4 am to say that he's outside your apartment and it's a long drive to the place where you're having breakfast. 

You know Yuta loved nature so you're not surprised when you both hiked a forest path. What startled you is when he took a mat from inside his backpack and placed it on the grass, putting out containers and bento boxes filled with food. "What are these?" 

"Just some picnic snacks." A picnic. He's giving you a picnic. He's crossing out that bucket list for you. "I'm sorry for waking you up early but this is the perfect picnic spot where you can see the sunrise." He gestured to the orange, yellow, and red hues illuminated in the sky. You never thought a picnic could be this beautiful. "Did you like it?" You nodded, tears welling in your eyes. This is so perfect.

Even the food he prepared was so good that you kept on moaning in delight every time you tried each food from the container. "Can we leave later? I'm so full, I feel like I'm really sleepy." 

"I did wake you up early." You lay on the mat, your head on his lap. "Get some sleep." You tried to close your eyes but the sunlight was hitting you so you turned around to turn your back from the sun. You smiled when he placed your hat to cover your face from the sunlight. 

The moment you woke up, you were still facing his body. A faint sound of guns shooting can be heard and you know that he's playing with his phone. But what's startling is the bulge in his pants that is eye level with you. Wow, Yuta is huge. And he is hard. 

You slipped the hat covering your face as he put down his phone to smile warmly at you. Total contrast. "You're hard." You glanced at his bulge then saw how Yuta visibly gulped, cheeks reddening while he tried to push you out of his lap. "Are you shy? What were you thinking about?" 

You sat down to stare at him. He looks cute like this. "Stop teasing." You shrugged and he whined, making you laugh. So cute. "I'm sorry. Your face is just so near my…" He looked bashfully away from you. "I was thinking of things." 

"What things?" He glared at you yet you only looked at him in confusion. "Come on, tell me Yuta." If possible, his face got redder. Is it that embarrassing? Your hand touched his thigh and he almost jumped in surprise. "What do you want me to do?" Your hands trailed on his thigh, the tips of your fingers touching the outline of the bulge in his jeans. 

A groan escaped his lips, eyes closing as you felt him twitch in your touch. He's so turned on. And here? In a public place? "Touch me, please." 

You giggled before pulling down his sweatpants to reveal his hard cock. A gasp escaped his throat as you carefully glanced around. There are some hikers and people with their picnic mats, enjoying the day as you are. You even spotted a kid nearby which made you bit your lip. This is so indecent but highly exciting. A thing you didn’t realize was needed on your bucket list. 

Your index fingers started circling the tip of his cock, touching the slit which is already slippery with precum. Yuta’s eyes were closed, cursing quietly. “Y/N, please.” He begged, gripping your arm which made you smile. How cute. Your fingers traced the vein of his cock, touching from the tip to the base then back again. “Stop teasing me.” You giggled at his desperation. 

You used two hands to touch him as he covered his nakedness with his jacket, your left hand fondling his balls while the other went up and down his shaft. The pleasure on his face made you smirk. Isn’t he too obvious? His eyes were closed, his mouth agape as he whispers a moan, hands both on his sides to give you full access to his cock. He looked so erotic and it’s turning you on as well. Additional was the fact that you’re in a public space with lots of people walking around the two of you. How thrilling. 

He hissed as you keep pumping his cock, your eyes scanning around. Two teenage girls caught your eyes before one looked away blushing while the other just stared. Audiences. “Someone is watching you.” You whispered as his eyes shot open, looking at you curiously. “Should I stop?” You watched as his gaze fell on the younger girls you were looking at earlier. But you kept your pace on his cock, rubbing the tip of his cock with your palm. Yuta bit his lip as he bucked his hip up. “Do you like this? Will you cum knowing that someone is watching you in a public place?” 

Your boyfriend released a heavy breath before nodding, thrusting his hip to fuck your hand. “I’m close.” He held your shoulder, another hand used as an anchor to thrust himself up. “Fuck, Y/N.” He cursed as you felt his cock twitch and liquid oozing from his tip. You kept on pumping him, either to get his white cum on your hand. 

Instead of cleaning your hand with a tissue, you used a slice of bread and smeared the white stuff from your hand. You folded it in half before putting it inside a sandwich bag. He was already covered, removing the jacket from his lap and standing up to fix your things. “Are we going?” He nodded. “Your place or my place?” You knew how this will end. You don’t need an Einstein to know that it’s either you cannot walk or you’ll be marked with purple hickeys, maybe both, tomorrow. 

“The car.” You smirked before standing up, holding the sandwich bag tight. “What are you going to do with that? Eat it on the way?” 

You shook your head. “It’s not for me.” You skipped to where the two girls are, looking at you in surprise. “Here.” You handed them the sandwich bag that made one girl almost rip it from your hand. Yuta chuckled when you return to him, holding his arm. “Thank you for the picnic. We should do it again sometime.” 

He kissed your cheek. “Thank you for crossing out two of my bucket lists.” You stared at him in surprise before making him laugh. 

Y/N’s bucket list:

Picnic

Go to Disneyland

Travel to Paris

Get an apartment

Get married

Yuta’s bucket list: 

Watch the sunrise with Y/N 

Let Y/N touch me there with those soft hands

Complete Y/N’s bucket list

Move in with Y/N

Get a puppy with Y/N

Marry Y/N  

#nscsunnyside #neosmutcollective #yuta #yuta nakamoto #nakamoto yuta #yuta smut #yuta nakamoto smut #nakamoto yuta smut #yuta scenario #yuta nakamoto scenario #nakamoto yuta scenario #nct127 smut #nct 127 smut #nct smut #nct yuta smut #nct127 yuta smut #nct 127 yuta smut

[fanartfunart]

Fly Away

Episode 1: Paon Lilas (*Lilac Peacock)

Ao3 Link (If I actually continue this, check my Ao3 of the same name “Fanartfunart”.. Considering how much mental real estate it’s taking up, I probably will.)

An au in which Adrien didn't succeed in trying to 'sneak' into brick and mortar school and therefore also didn't get the Black Cat miraculous..... but he did find a pretty peacock. (It's in his house... I mean....) Ladybug and Féline Sombre (Who uses She/They. Black Cat hero name thanks to @broadwaytheanimatedseries) get some help from the mysterious peacock miraculous holder, but Ladybug isn’t sure he’s 100% doing this for good.

Warnings: Canon typical violence.... Not much else? Tell me if I need to add anything.

A/N because Brick and Mortar schoolers never know that’s what they are: "Brick and Mortar school" is a homeschool/online school method of reference to in-person schools before calling it “in-person” was a thing. I 100% think Adrien would use that phrasing. (if the writers knew it existed...Tho. Idk if there's a French equivalent)

-*-

Adrien knew he shouldn’t be doing this. This was a worse idea than trying to sneak his way into brick and mortar school. He’d only seen it by accident. He wasn’t even doing very good at committing to breaking into his father’s mysterious safe. This was the third time he’d come back down to find out what was behind that painting.... He should really not be doing this. But...a secret compartment behind his mother’s painting was just… too interesting to ignore. He unfurled an umbrella to cover himself from the cameras his father probably had in the room. Inching his way to the painting of his mother. 

...He had had far too much time to think about this. He only had to punch in the code once (his mother’s birthday- frankly, his father really needed a code harder to guess), for the safe to click and unlock.

The contents… were not what he anticipated. It looked like a keepsake box, not a super secret compartment. He ghosted a hand over the frame of his mother’s photo, blinking away the lingering sadness. ...A peacock brooch? He picked it up, tumbling it in his hand. It almost hummed with energy. He tilted his head, brow raised.

Footsteps.

Adrien frantically closed the hidden compartment and glancing for a hiding place. The umbrella closed over his head just as he dove for the curtain. That… might bruise. He flattened himself against the windowsill, going on his tip-toes on the barely-there window ledge. 

From the distinct clack of dress shoes on the floor, his father had entered the room. Adrien held his breath, hearing his father’s footsteps come closer. A strange whirr. Then silence. Adrien stood there for a long moment, feeling the edges of the peacock brooch dig into his clenched fist. Heart hammering. But father never called for Natalie, or his bodyguard, or moved, or anything. It was eerily quiet. The umbrella peaked out of the curtain. He popped open the umbrella to find… no one. 

"What?" Adrien whispered to himself. He frowned, and tiptoed out from the window, before racing out of the room, down the hall, and outside. Once safely in the garden, he dropped the umbrella. He slid down into the grass, taking deep breaths. 

The brooch vibrated.

Wait. The brooch vibrated? He opened his hand. He had to shield his face from the burst of light. He opened an eye to see… a tiny… hummingbird? No, it was a peacock. Why is a peacock… floating? And Tiny? And why isn’t he sneezing? Are miniature peacocks hypoallergenic? “What the...”

“Ooooo, hello!” The creature said cheerfully, “Lovely weather isn’t it? Beautiful flowers! Nice to be outdoors for once isn’t it? Are you my new miraculous wielder? You’re so cute! You look almost like…” tears welled up into the miniature peacock’s eyes. Adrien looked around frantically. It kept talking unintelligibly between sobs, gesturing vaguely.

“Are you… okay?”

“Noooooooo.”

“Right. Er-” Adrien frowned, clearly it wasn’t going to make sense if he asked what was wrong. He opted for distraction. “Do… you want something to eat?”

“Oh sure!” The tiny peacock’s tears cleared up immediately.

Adrien blinked at the sudden change in mood and nodded “Let’s… Let’s go get you something to eat… I guess. Er, what are you?”

"Oh I'm Duusu, a kwami, I can grant the power to hone emotions into constructs."

He tilted his head. The image of Ladybug summoning her Lucky Charm came to mind. "Like… a superhero? How?”

"Well you are transformed by a magic phrase, and once transformed, you can create a sentimonster out of vibrant emotions. Whoever holds the Amok, the item imbued with power, can control the sentimonster."

“Oh, cool!”

"It is! Do you have any mangoes? I love mango."

“We’ll see.” Adrien glanced at the peacock brooch and stuffed it into his pocket. He looked back at the door inside, then Duusu. “Actually, can you… hide? Just for now-”

“Oh yes! Don’t worry! I know the Kwami and our wielder's identities are a secret.” The kwami zipped into Adrien’s over-shirt inner pocket and settled there. It felt… almost natural. He smiled a bit to himself and went to find out if they had some good fruit for the tiny peacock. 

-

The TV played in the background while Duusu had another sudden breakdown about… something. Adrien still wasn’t sure what. He was starting to feel very out of his depth. 

“Duusu.... Duusu. D- Duusu, do you want to talk about it?” There was a pause before the tears flowed even harder. Adrien was reminded of a sprinkler.

His eyes were pulled to the TV, with a flash of red and black blurring on the screen. Followed by an Akuma. Ladybug and Féline Sombre. He glanced at the Kwami. “Duusu… you mentioned you can give me powers, right?”

“Mhm! You just have to say ‘Spread my feathers.’”

“Alright! Duusu-”

“OH! Wait I didn’t-”

“Spread my feathers!” The transformation felt so natural, like he was made to do this. He struck a pose and smiled behind the fan that materialized in his hand. “Alright, let’s go help Ladybug and Féline Sombre.”

He didn’t expect to start… feeling, seeing emotions. Although he supposed that made sense for the power set. They were everywhere- it was like being dropped into the deep end of a pool, surrounded and covered. Fear, worry, frustration, annoyance, determination. Stronger emotions felt… bigger, somehow. The world was full of colors and feelings he’d never expected. He lept across rooftops, feeling like he was flying. His own elation from the truest sense of freedom he’s ever had in… ever; a bright vibrant bubble. He stumbled to a stop as he spotted Ladybug.

Ladybug was determined… and scared? He didn’t expect that from Paris’s hero. She kept looking around, searching for a plan. The redhead cat hero dove in from above and smacked the Akuma with their baton. Her baton was then immediately captured and swallowed by the plants under the Akuma’s control. Féline Sombe pulled desperately before eventually giving up and vaulting towards Ladybug. She was scared too, he noticed, and frustrated.

The Akumatized person was angry. So so angry it was overwhelming. He almost couldn’t see the person behind their anger. “It’s only a matter of time before Chloé Bourgeois and the litterers of Paris pay!” The plant-covered Akuma cackled. 

Chloe?! Well that’s not good. One of his only friends is in danger?

“Bonzaniac is just gonna grow bigger if they go anywhere near the Eiffel. We need to prune this plant before it’s unmanageable.” Ladybug told Féline Sombre, wrapping her yo-yo around the Akuma’s legs, straining to control Bonzaniac’s movement.

Féline Sombre gestured widely, “If I touch them I’ll just become Cat-nip! How are we supposed to stop them?”

Ladybug called her Lucky Charm, ending up with a polka dotted fishing pole. “How’s that supposed to help?” 

The peacock hero frowned and… Chloé? What’s she doing here? Bonzaniac noticed her as well, it seemed, because the plant growth reached toward her. Chloé’s fear grew rapidly and immediately. He plucked a feather from the fan, imbuing it with power. He dove from his perch on the roof down towards Chloé and Bonzaniac. 

“Fly away, darling amok.” The feather fluttered into Chloé’s necklace. He grabbed a traffic cone and hurled it at the plant tendrils, keeping it from touching Chloé. Féline Sombre quickly took over the idea, batting away the tendrils with a trash can lid. (That made Chloé cringe.) A purplish mask of light illuminated Chloé’s and his own face. “Chloé, I am…er- Paon Lilas. I can sense your fear. Let me help you turn it into safety. I can grant you a construct to protect you.” 

“Then just do it already!” Chloé cried, “Please just don’t let it turn me into a sticky sappy gross tree!” A large golden bear materialized in front of Chloe. It roared and Chloé gasped. “Mr. Cuddles!”

Ladybug was... understandably confused. “What? Another Akuma?” She furrowed her brow and deepened her fighting stance.

“OH! No no no, uh, I’m Paon Lilas." He flourished his fan with a bow. "I’m here to help.”

Ladybug’s suspicion grew, but he didn’t have much of a chance to explain himself as Bonzaniac roared and turned on him, aiming their plant tendrils towards him. “Hey! I’m not really the roosting type of bird!” He dived for cover behind a car, patting himself down, “Come on, is the only weapon I get a fan? Why couldn’t I get a baton or something like that?”

The gold bear attacked Bonzaniac, knocking them down. Bonzaniac grappled the bear in plants, taking the plants away from protecting their back.

Ladybug gasped, "There! They only have so much plant matter! Féline, destroy as much plant matter as you can, Paon, distract Bonzaniac! I'm going Akuma fishing."

The two other heroes nodded. 

"Cataclysm!" Féline Sombre yelled, summoning black destructive energy around their hand. She ducked and weaved towards the center of Bonzaniac's plant mass, jumping out of the way of grasping tendrils. 

Paon Lilas whistled "Hey Bonzaniac, have you heard about Fast Fashion? I use all my outfits that way. Never worn the same shirt twice!"

The Akuma roared "All. That. WASTE!" They focused a massive amount of plant matter towards him. 

"Didn't think that'd work so effectively," he muttered under his breath. He lept out of the way, and back around the bend of the car. The plants wrapped up around the car. He whooped in triamph.

Féline Sombre finally managed to hit Bonzaniac, severely reducing the amount of plants in their control. Ladybug swung the fishing pole and caught a necklace from in the middle of the thicket of plant matter. She crushed it under foot and captured the purple butterfly that fluttered out. 

Mr Cuddly the sentibear sat on the Akuma victim. Paon frowned and glanced at Chloé. The gardener looked dazed and confused.

“Now who do you think you are?” Chloe said, crossing her arms.

The gardener smacked the side of the over large bear. “Wh- you! You littered in my garden! And refused to simply pick it up!”

“So what? That's not my job," Chloe huffed, crossing her arms. The sentibear huffed with her.

Paon snapped his fingers, pulling the amok from the necklace, the sentibear disappearing. Chloe gasped, pouting.

"Mademoiselle Chloe," Paon sighed softly, "How would you feel if someone threw trash into your beautiful hair and refused to help clean it up?" Chloe grabbed her hair, and Paon saw her horror at the concept. "Exactly. That garden takes just as much work, or more, as your hair. I suggest apologizing."

She pouted, "Fine, your garden was pretty or whatever, sorry I messed it up." She flicked her hair over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. "There. I apologized."

Féline Sombre and Ladybug chatted in the background. Féline grabbed their baton and with a light salute, she vaulted away. 

Paon's Miraculous beeped. That... meant something right?

"Birdy!" Ladybug called, walking toward him, her own Miraculous beeping. "Where did you get that Miraculous?"

"Oh… um…. Funny story-"

"I'm sorry, but you need to give it to me. It doesn't belong to you."

"What?" Paon took a step back, "Why?" 

"It's been lost. I'm going to take it back to the original owner."

Paon paled. Did Ladybug know his father? Or did his father find the lost miraculous without giving it back? Did his father know what it was? What would happen if his father found out he took it? The bubble of elated freedom popped. "That… sounds like a great, morally right thing to do… but… consider…” He took a soft step back, glancing up to find a path of escape, hands raised surrender. “I can't. Sorry, bye!" Paon ran, leaping up and away.

Ladybug moved to go after him, only for her miraculous to beep again. Sabrina had run in just in time to comfort Chloé, so Ladybug sighed and ran in the opposite direction.

Adrien tripped over himself as he detransformed in a back alley. His legs weak, and head dizzy. "Woah- is that normal?"

Duusu looked up at him with sad eyes. "I meant to tell you. The miraculous is broken... If you continue to use it... it will hurt you."

"... Does it hurt you?"

Duusu thought for a moment. "The transformation? No.... It is nice... to see another use it's power so kindly."

Adrien glanced down. He looked at the broach clipped to his overshirt. The lightness... the freedom. He nodded firmly. Unclipping it from his shirt and instead clipping it in his inside pocket. Hidden. "I'll be careful. Come on, let's get something to eat...” He rubbed his head, “I feel like we both need it."

-

Marinette just barely managed to make it to the bakery before the afternoon rush.

"Marinette! How was school?” Tom called, opening his arms for a hug. She happily took her place in her father’s arms.

"Not great.. Chloé caused another Akuma."

Tom sighed and shook his head, releasing her with a pat on the back. "At least we have Ladybug and Féline Sombre. Come on, if you can't learn in peace at school you can learn some more Dupain-Chang classics!"

Marinette chuckled and nodded, heading over to get ready to work behind the counter.

The door chimed, signaling the entrance of a young blond. She stared at him. He seemed oddly familiar. She started picturing him against all the blonds she knew, although her brain was still somewhat stuck on the Peacock Miraculous holder…. She really needed to talk to Master Fu about that. 

The boy stumbled. He was just about to faceplant into the counter before Marinette, intending to catch him- shoved him. He fell on his rear instead. 

“OH, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Marinette cried, moving to pull him up to his feet. He was surprisingly light, ohmy and now she just manhandled him like a human doll.

“It’s okay! You saved me from what was probably a worse fate.” He giggled awkwardly, "Thanks... I’ve been.. a bit dizzy today, I guess."

"Oh, I hope you feel better, anything I can do to help?"

"Heh, I was looking for food. Got some, er, fruity stuff?"

"Fruity, fruit. For sure, fruit." Marinette stared at him a bit longer. Finally the images and fashion magazine clippings clicked next to the boy’s face. She gasped "Adrien Agreste! You're Gabriel Agreste's son! He’s my favorite fashion designer!"

He laughed awkwardly. Rubbing the back of his head. "Yeah… That’s… that’s me."

"You probably hear that all the time, sorry! But! Fruit." She walked over to the counter and gestured at the prepared goods. "Macaroons are always good, and there's some a couple of fruit Eclairs, brioche and jam-"

He smiled somewhat stiffly, before frowning at the eclairs. He made a subtle 'come here' gesture. Marinette looked down at the eclairs herself, unsure what exactly made him frown.

He sighed, adjusting his overshirt. (Duusu settled nicely into the pocket again, glad to have been able to choose his treat.) "I think one of those is good.... Er... actually, I think two." 

He handed her the money, and she handed him the pastries. "Thank you."

She smiled, "Thank you! Come again soon. Just try not to trip, that's usually my thing."

He laughed. "Actually…” He takes a bite of his eclair, with a smile “I think I will definetly try to come in again."

"Oh! Okay, cool!"

He waved and walked out of the establishment with a small smile.

Tom leaned over as she watched him leave. "Flirting with the customers?"

Marinette gasped dramatically, "NoOo dad no. He's... just a friend."

Adrien leaned against a wall and sighed. Duusu floated up into view, taking a section of eclair. "Ah young love..."

He shook his head, "...She's just a friend..." He gasped, glancing back at the bakery with a smile, "A friend."

-

Marinette frowned, "Wait, Master Fu, do you think he could be working with Hawkmoth?"

"It is a possibility. I wouldn’t be surprised if the butterfly and the peacock had been nearby each other. If you can find out where he found it, it may help us find Hawkmoth.”

“Hm, he didn’t seem like he was with Hawkmoth. He was helpful... And he actually got Chloé to apologize?”  She was still bewildered about that. It wasn’t the best apology ever, but she still actually did it.

“The peacock wields the power of emotion, Peon Lilas will be able to sense emotion. He can very easily use that information to manipulate others into doing things for him. Even something as simple as an apology.”

She frowned, considering, “I think I understand.”

“Be careful, the peacock is not to be underestimated. Make sure you and Féline Sombre are prepared for what he might do next."

She nodded firmly. "I will be.”

-

Gabriel Agreste stared at the paused frame from the newscast on his newest enemy. Emile's painting ajar and missing a vital item. "Natalie... Where is the surveillance footage for this room?"

She silently pulled up the footage, scrolling through to find an umbrella blocking their view of their thief.

Gabriel growled under his breath and stood up. "Time to catch a runaway bird, it seems. See what you can find from the rest of the cameras in and out of the building. If there's anything or anyone out of place, you tell me immediately."

"What will you do sir?" Natalie asked, already scanning through footage on her tablet.

"Someone found and stole the peacock miraculous from right under our noses. I need to find a way to protect my identity and a lure for our heroic peafoul.”

#gabriel agreste #hawkmoth #adrien agreste #miraculous ladybug #marinette dupain cheng #ml #peacock!adrien #black cat!sabrina #Chloé Bourgeois #akuma oc #ml fanfiction #fanart's fanfic #Peon Lilas AU #Duusu #Up next: me drawing them lolol

[anjuschiffer]

No Point In Lying

I should’ve been working on WIPs...oops...

Note: This is pre-daminette...and while Damian does not appear, I’m still tagging this as Maribat as it part of a Maribat au...

--

Tags: @theatreandcomicfreak @genshin-and-fanfics-are-my-life @toodaloo-kangaroo @elijahcrevan @vixen-uchiha @nathleigh

--

AO3

Lila pinched her skin as she stood outside the classroom room, waiting for her new teacher Mlle Bustier to introduce her.

She always hated introducing herself. What was the point of it when all the friends she would end up making will forget about her months later? They always promised to keep in touch and yet, they never do.

Thanks to her mother being a diplomat, Lila always found herself changing school every school year and while travel stories always captured people’s attention, it was only temporary. When she would run out of stories to tell, one by one, they would leave, disappointed in knowing that Lila had nothing else to offer.

A temporary entertainment in their eyes…

Looking at her reddened wrist covered in nail marks, Lila let out a long heavy sigh when she heard someone climbing up the stairs. 

Quickly turning, Lila was surprised to see a student running up the stairs, the boy dashing straight towards her!

“Watch out!”

Lila quickly stepped to the side, watching as the boy skidded towards the door, only to fall face flat onto the ground. Panicking, Lila helped him out, watching as the boy towered her by a whole foot. “Thank you! Can’t believe I was almost late for- say.” The boy looked at her from top to bottom. 

Lila watched as he was about to grab her hair, only to stop. “May I?” While Lila would never let anyone touch her hair, she somehow found herself saying yes. “Thanks.”

She felt as he ruffled her bangs a bit, remaining still as she let the boy fix her hair, feeling as he gently pushed strands of hairs away from her face and placed back the silver hairband she had chosen to wear that day. “And finished.” The boy proudly announced, taking out his phone and showing Lila her reflection using the front camera. “Your hairband was a bit out of place and I-”

“Thank you.” Lila cut off, giving the boy back his phone. “I didn’t think much about-” The boy let out a small gasp.

“You can’t just not worry about your hair! It looks very pretty and that shine! You already take lots of good care for it already! But doing these small-”

“I see you’ve met out new student Marcel.” Mlle Bustier interrupted, “and you’re late...again,” causing Marcel to let out a nervous laugh.

“Apologies, Mlle Bustier. I’ll try not to be late.” Marcel gave a small bow, heading into the classroom, Lila following him as he sat in the front of the classroom, next to a boy with glasses. 

“That’s Marcel Dupain-Cheng.” Mlle Bustier snapped Lila from her trance, Lila feeling the tips of her ears burning. “He’s the class president. During lunch today, he’ll be showing you around the school. But for now, let’s head inside. It’s time for you to introduce yourself to the rest of the class.”

Lila could only nod, feeling her stomach jitter for the first time in ages. 

--

Before she could even approach Marcel to ask him about the tour around the school, Lila was ambushed by her fellow classmates, one in particular shoving a phone in her face.

“Hi! I’m Alya! I was wondering if you would be willing to say- hey Marcel! I’m- hey!” Lila watched as Marcel frowned as he took Alya’s phone and raised it above his head, Lila watching as Alya struggled to take it back.

“Alya, we already talked about this. Ask people before recording them.” Marcel pocketed the phone. “You won’t be getting it until you apologize to Lila.” After an apology, Alya got her phone back and put it away. Just as she was about to ask Lila about her travels, Marcel grabbed Lila by her wrist and dragged her outside the classroom, Lila wondering what exactly was happening.

“Marcel...I don’t think she’s following us.” Lila spoke up, watching as Marcel got flustered, instantly, but clumsily, letting go of her.

“S-Sorry about that! It’s just that I know how energetic Alya can get when she gets like that and thought that-”

“Thank you.” Lila smiled, clasping her hands behind her back. “Really. Thank you.” Smiling, Marcel returned the smile, quickly going onto the promised tour, Lila absorbing his every word. 

--

Just a month into school and Lila already fitted in with the rest of the class, already having a best friend in the form of Alya. Even after running out of stories to tell them, Lila found herself invited to every girl’s outing, after school events, club meetings and evern shopping out on weekends.

Today, the girls were out having a picnic, trying to catch Lila up on the different events that happened in the school year so far.

“-but of course! We only had one guy who was willing to go with our ridiculous plan.” Alya retold, looking at all the girls before signaling them.

“Marcel!” The girls said in unison, Lila watching as Mylene, Alix and Alya laughed while Rose and Juleka simply smiled at the memory. 

“He’s just like Ivan.” Mylene added, a soft smile on her face. “He may look intimidating at first, but the moment he speaks, you can tell he’s a big softie!”

“Doesn’t help that he’s so tall.” Alix raised her hands above her head. “Guy’s a giant!”

“You’re just jealous because he’s so tall.” Alya poked.

“Have you seen his dad?” Alix almost screamed, honestly wondering if anyone has seen Marcel’s father, or was she the only one?

“I remember when I first met him,” Juleka spoke up, making Lila jump. Can you blame her though? This was the first time she’s ever heard her talk! “I was busy helping tune my brother’s guitars, sitting on the Liberty’s deck when I saw him, staring back at me. One minute he was on the grass and the next, on the Liberty’s deck, asking me to model for him.”

Now that was surprising.

“Wait, is that how he actually asked you to model for you?” Alix screeched before going into a laughing fit, Lila watching as the others soon joined in, leaving Lila confused.

“Oh,” a snort. “That’s right! How did we forget to tell you!” Alya managed to say, gesturing Rose to fill in Lila while she continued to laugh.

“Marcel runs his own fashion line: MDC! He designs and sews all of the clothing, hats, bags and accessories in his fashion line. Juleka,” Rose gestured to her blushing girlfriend, “is Marcel’s main model.”

“Main model?” Lila asks, looking at the rest of the girls. “Do you guys help model for him too?”

“Sometimes.” Mylene shyly states. “But he mainly asks Juleka, Aurore and Rose to model for him. Aurore is another girl in the school!” She quickly adds when she saw Lila panic.

“Oh? What’s this?” Alya smirked, Lila feeling a shiver down her spine. “Could Lila...have a crush on Marcel?”

“W-What?! NO! No!” lila squeaked, knowing her face contradicted her feelings. “I barely speak to him! How would I have a crush on him when the only time I speak to him is during class and that’s it?”

Apparently that wasn’t convincing enough, Alya wrapping an arm around Lila, a cheshire smile plastered onto her face. 

“Oh Lila, you can’t fool us that easily. Not that you should be shy about it. Almost everyone in the class has had a crush on the designer.” Alya confessed, Lila watching as Mylene looked away while Rose hid her face into her hands.

“Had?” Lila dared to ask. “Does-”

“Yup.” Alix quickly answered, a grin plastered on her face. “Nathaniel, Chloe and Sabrina? They’ve fallen victim to Marcel’s spell. Oh! But of course, Chloe would never admit to falling in love with the baker’s son.” Alix quickly wrapped up, noticing Lila’s pale face. Uh-oh. “W-Well, despite-”

“Despite there being many people who’ve had a crush on Marcel,” Alya picked up, hitting Alix’s shoulder, “Marcel never showed any interest in them, something about none of them appealing to him. No offense!” Alya quickly said as she looked at Mylene and Rose. “And to be quite honest, I think you have a good chance of getting Marcel’s attention.” 

“What?” Lila squeaked, feeling her cheeks burn. 

“You’re literally the first person Marcel has ever went “designer mode” the minute he laid eyes on you.” Alix clarified. “Never done it to anyone else but you.” Alya squealed.

“If you do capture Marcel’s attention- imagine it! The two of you would be the cutest couple in school! No! In all of Paris! You and Marcel, posing together-”

Lila let out a screech, feeling her face on fire as she buried it into her hands.

“No way, now way, no way!” Lila denied. “Marcel’s just someone who I admire! He’s the first person I met who welcomed me to Dupont, so of course I’m going to-”

“Alright, alright.” Alya sighed, patting Lila’s shoulder. “So you don’t have a crush on Marcel...so that means you’ll be alright with him getting your measurements and being face-to-face with him, right?” Lila’s head snapped up.

“What?” Alya showed Lila her phone, Lila reading the message. 

“Marcel needs a model right now since Aurore might not make it to his photo shoot in an hour, so of course, I told him you’re okay with filling in for her.” Lila sputtered to come up with an answer, only being able to watch as the girls dragged her to Marcel’s studio…

Or rather bedroom.

There he was, wearing nothing but a tank top and a pair of sweats, his toned arms exposed. Did he work out?

Trying to not gulp loudly, Lila could hear the snickering and whispers of good luck as the girls left them alone, Marcel giving Lila an apologetic smile.

“Sorry for making you-”

“No!” Lila accidentally squeaked out. “Help being fine- mean.” She cleared her throat, hoping her heart would stop beating so loudly in her ears. “I’m glad to be able to help a friend out.” Lila answered, hoping she didn’t cross a line by claiming Marcel to be her friend.

Judging by Marcel’s smile, she didn’t cross it, causing her heart to flutter.

“Thanks Lila, you’re truly a life saver! Now all that I need to do is-” Lila simply smiled and nodded, her breath hitching when Marcel’s fingers grazed her shoulder as he started to take her measurements.

Being so close to him, she could smell the sweet aroma of bread, a small hint of-

Oh no…

There was no hiding it anymore, no point in lying about it, because...they were right...Marcel wasn’t just a friend…

He definitely was a crush...and a huge one at that.

#maribat #maribat male!marinette #marcel dupain-cheng #anju writes

[randomdash]

My long Ass Random Kravis Rant

I loved Kourtney and Travis in the beginning, and now I find them so trashy and repulsive. There, I said it. Their PDA is so overwhelming that it makes me cringe and uncomfortable to see—I think they like this factor, making others uncomfortable.

I was a Blink fan back in the day, not major. Not having seen Travis Barker in a while made me look him up to see what he’s been up to. I went back and reread his book, and I watched Meet the Barkers on YouTube; I never watched the show on MTV. I thought the show was okay. It’s pre-Kardashian reality TV. I remember hearing a buzz about the show even if I didn’t watch it because it was shocking that the dude whose voice you never heard was having a reality TV show. He was the member of Blink who spoke the least.

Travis is the same attention-seeking guy (he openly admits he loves being on reality TV and was trying to get a new show with his kids recently). He’s the same very affectionate PDA-heavy type that he was back then. In the very first episode of Meet the Barkers, you see Travis on top of his wife, dry humping her on a pool table in public while being filmed. In the next few scenes, you see them making out on the side of a red carpet event while his other band members are being interviewed. Then Shanna rubbed his back and hugged him, holding him in her arms, almost to console him with affection. Nothing is wrong with this, but it’s like he loves affection all the time. It seems too tiresome to me. Maybe it’s his coping mechanism?

Not to be ungrateful to those who like it, but my husband is also very affectionate, and I am just not as affectionate as I’d like to be, so we have healthy bounds we set for each other, so both our needs are met, including me needing my space sometimes. Still, my husband is getting that affection he desires. I would be so overwhelmed by a guy like Travis, though. He seems fun for a one-night stand but long-term? I don’t know how Kourtney does it. Obviously, she loves him, and it’s her thing, but I thank goodness I don’t have to deal with someone that affectionate all the time. All the constant touching would drive me crazy. Sheesh!

Get back for a minute, let me breathe. For me, less is more meaningful and passionate.

That’s why we live in a world where people are different. I get it. Maybe I’m a prude and am the only one in the world feeling this way?

Back to the Meet The Barkers, there is a moment where Travis and Shanna are getting their marriage license, and Travis wants to run his fingers through her hair multiple times from root to tip, all while he is on his phone, mind you. They make out, and he rubs her boobs and her ass as they are waiting in line as if he just cannot wait for the sex he can get at home or even in the car.

You can go home to do all that, but you don’t because that’s you’re thing, right? Being so touchy-feely in public. That’s cool, I guess.

This PDA was making the wedding license guy so uncomfortable. Travis didn’t seem to care, and Shanna seemed like she was on the fence. This extreme PDA is his thing.

As far as the PDA, whomever Travis is dating, he will do this with. Kourtney should not feel special by him being this way with her, but more so expect it from him. It’s his personality. I’m happy for her if this is the first time she is experiencing such affection and if she is the type that likes it. Good for her, if this is what she wants and she is happy.

Kourtney spent many years being unhappy. Everyone deserves to be happy. Kourtney and Scott were so toxic, and many of us were fooled by how good they looked together.

The new mirage is Kourtney and Travis are so happy and in love and perfect in comparison because we see all this extreme PDA engagement from Kourtney that we have never seen before, I think not.

I’m happy for Kourtney if she is happy. Change is good, and I think both she and Scott are damaged and toxic people together. Just because they were together all that time 10+ years, with kids, doesn’t mean they have to be together.

We see a new Kourtney getting everything she never did with Scott, but her and Travis's relationship is presented in such an extreme, in your face, fashion that it doesn’t feel authentic all the time. You read Travis’s book, and he describes all the PDA and sex that he loved to have in great detail. He said he and Paris Hilton had a thing that he couldn’t work out because they didn’t have good sexual chemistry. It seems like this man has slept with everyone. In his book, he mentioned girls would show up at his door and just knock, and he’d let them in for a good time in the earlier Blink days.

Is it the rockstar life, or is it the sex addict life? Both? Kourtney has had her share of dating around too. Remember Miami season 1 Kourtney wilding out or hanging out with Kendall’s younger friends after Scott? People have probably signed NDA’s left and right on both Kourtney and Travis’ sides. Think of all the hookups we don’t even know about.

I bring all this up because Kourtney is with Travis now, and they have blended their families. They are neighbors. It’s a serious situation. I worry for Kourtney. I know she doesn’t care or need me to worry for her, but she’s been morphing into someone else. Travis Barker is the same, but Kourtney is not. She has changed her ways so much that her sister and Mom are defending her behavior, saying her PDA with Travis is cute and this and that. They are a little older to be coming across as cute, in my opinion. At the same time, I’m sure Kourtney’s family just wants to see her happy after the dead-end of Scott.

Kourtney will make her own decisions. It’s her life, and all we can do is just look on and let her live, but as someone concerned about her during the show's filming through the years, I worry how much she has changed herself while she has been with Travis. At what point do you feel so engulfed with someone that you lose yourself?

He has you feeling good but do you really feel good?

How does a photo OP of making out in the bathroom improve yourself? You know you are being photographed, so how does straddling your man in public with your thong showing through your butt cheeks and skirt help your relationship? Does doing these things make a person happier? Does it prove you ARE happier? After all, you cannot help yourself because you’re so in love? Is that it? Are you coming on to your boyfriend because you’re afraid you will lose him if you don’t? Have you always been this way, but you were holding back?

All the questions that will never get answered.

In Travis’s book, he claims to have had the best sexual chemistry ever with his ex-wife Shanna. On their honeymoon, they were breaking into places to have sex. First, who does that? Second, does that weigh on Kourtney? Has she read his book, I wonder? Shanna was around Travis as recent as during the beginning of the pandemic. Does knowing his ex’s history make Kourtney insecure? Why the change in Kourt? If Kourtney doesn’t jump on Travis in public, laying on him or straddling him, or touching tongues in front of others….will he think less of her? Or is Kourtney just that in love?

To be honest, Kourtney seemed a little uncomfortable lately. That smile in the bathroom video looked a little fake to me and hard to watch awkward, but who am I?  

I am no one but an anonymous person on a blog. Maybe I am a bit too conservative for someone in their thirties? Perhaps it’s not that deep, and I’m looking too close. Again, this is just my opinion, and I’m not trying to come off as a hater, so sorry if I have. I’m merely just observing what I have noticed through the years. I think the old Kourtney would have things to say to this new version of Kourtney. And that word rhymes with Slore. Respectfully, I’ll try to keep an open mind in the future. For now, I’m going to go outside and touch some grass.

#kravis

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Roguish Women Part 49

Summary: Kate is an American who fled to Paris to escape her past life. Now she's dancing and  playing the part of a courtesan at the Moulin Rouge. There she meets Tommy Shelby who thinks she can be useful in expanding his empire. But has he been blinded?

Part 49: Neither Kate nor Tommy can remain idle for very long. 

//Sorry for such a delay. School has been so tough this semester but this week is finals so I'll be back to writing in no time. I think Helen's death really took the wind out of my sails too. I still haven't really gotten over it. I take celebrity deaths so badly. 

            But by the time Tommy had returned, however, his own bride had gone missing. Alice pointed him outside again, this time on the back patio. Grateful for some time alone with her, Tommy left the rowdy party inside.

            Kate was sitting on a garden wall; her back was to the party as she overlooked Arrow House’s great lawns. Tommy shrugged off his coat and draped it over her arms.

            The soft-touch of the fabric knocked her out of her own thoughts. “Did you find Alfie?”

            “Yeah, he was out on the steps.” Tommy sat down next to her.

            “Oh good. Mabel was sure he had gotten cold feet and ran.”

            “He’s not going anywhere. Never thought I’d see that man in love. Guess I’ve seen it all now.”

            Kate laughed softly and leaned into his side. Her eyes were still lingering over the grassy hills where grasshoppers chirped and a few owls surveyed hidden in their trees. “This place is bigger than the block I grew up on in Boston.” She remarked. “I’d always grown up wondering where those great outdoors were. Where there was almost nothing for miles and miles. You couldn’t see the end of it. I thought someday I’d go out west and maybe just disappear out there.”

            “I would’ve joined you.” Tommy agreed. “I wanted to a cowboy when I was growing up.”

            Kate smiled and tried to picture young Tommy Shelby pretending to be an outlaw. In a way, he had become one. They both had. “I guess the city isn’t so bad when you’ve got people you care about there. Still, it’s nice to know that there are places where city stuff doesn’t matter.”

            Tommy knew there were things they could never escape. But there was no use destroying the illusion.

            “I was thinking if we had a boy, we could name him after John.” Kate glanced over at her husband. “Arthur and I were talking about it. I guess we could nickname him Jack to make things easier. But I thought it would be a nice honor.”

            Tommy nodded. “I think that’s a nice idea.” There was a hole in his heart that his younger brother had left. So many times, he was tempted to pick up the phone and call him. But then the realization trickled over him like cold water. Esme had taken many things but there were items Tommy still had. Letters and an old schoolbook that John had written all over. The binding was coming loose and the pages were yellowing, but Tommy would never throw it away. He had learned early on to keep little mementos of people before they were gone. He had nothing from his mother. No one did. It was almost like she never existed because there was no trace of her left. It was something he regretted and a mistake he wouldn’t make again.

            He took Kate’s hand in his, squeezing it gently. “What we have girls?”

            “Then one of them will be Jacquelyn.”

            He chuckled. “You always have a plan for everything, don’t you?”

            “Well, I learned from the best.” She murmured and pulled him close for a deep kiss.

 ~~~~~~~~~~

            The day was warm as Kate stepped outside. But there were clouds coming in from the horizon. She took her time walking across the patio to the lawns. She went to stand on top of the hill that overlooked the rest of the fields on Arrow House’s land.

            There, she could spot Tommy coming from the forest trails on Blue. He had the horse on a loose rein, letting him lope across the grass. May had told Kate it was a miracle the gelding responded so well to Tommy. According to May, the horse had a fiery temper but that didn’t seem to bother Tommy in the slightest. Kate had a feeling he enjoyed the challenge. She knew he’d been itching for something to do. Between being on holiday and waiting for the due date, Tommy was getting stir-crazy. Having a young horse to focus on training was good enough of a distraction. At least for the time being.

            Blue’s hooves were heavy against the ground as he trotted up the gradual hill to Kate.

            “I thought I’d find a cowboy out here.”

            Tommy chuckled and dismounted. “Were you waiting for me long?”

            “No, I just came out. I was worried you were going to get caught in that storm coming.”

            Tommy took Blue’s reins in hand and began walking with Kate back to the stables. “A little rain doesn’t bother me.”

            “Well, I didn’t want Blue to be spooked. I think it might thunder.”

            He patted the gelding’s shoulder. “He’ll learn to get used to the noises. Warhorses always get used to the noises.”

            Kate noticed the faraway look in his eyes. “I hardly think Blue would be a warhorse. Deserves a better life than that, don’t you think?”            

            “Hm.” He nodded but didn’t seem to really hear her.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~

            The sky had gone completely dark by the time they reached the stables. Tommy got Blue untacked while Kate combed out his mane. But the horse was starting to pick up on the storm brewing. His nostrils flared and he tossed his head.

            “Sh, sh, easy.” Kate soothed and stroked his neck. “It’s alright.”

            Tommy took Blue off the cross ties. “He’ll settle in his stall.”

            Kate put the mane comb away and wandered to the stable doors. In an instant, it began to pour. Heavy raindrops smattered against the gravel walkway back to the house. The wind picked up and rushed through the budding trees.

            Every time it rained; Kate felt washed over with memories. She didn’t know why the weather had such an impact on her. But there was only so much she could do when the sky was putting on such a violent display.

            Tommy wrapped an arm around her waist. “Guess we’ll be stuck here for a bit.”

            “It’ll go as soon as it came.” She said quietly.

            “Want to sit?”

            “Oh, yes, that would be a good idea.” Sometimes when she was lost in her thoughts, she forgot the burden of carrying twins.

            Tommy grabbed a stool from the tack room to let her sit. Kate sighed and watched some of the rainwater trickling into the stable aisle.

            As if reading her mind, Tommy slid the doors shut. The rain was muffled and mixed with the sound of the horses stirring in their stalls. Blue poked his head out, snorting uneasily.

            “Y’know, it rained one of the last few days I was at the Moulin Rouge,” Kate said. If they were going to be stuck in the stables until the rain ebbed, she figured it would be a good idea to talk. “And I realized that sometimes the worst comes before the good.”

            Tommy sat down on a bale of hay next to her. “I’ve found that too.”

            She smiled. “So maybe with all we’ve been through so far, it opens us up for happiness the rest of our lives.”

            “Kate, I want nothing more than for you to be happy.”  

            “I know, so I guess I…” She chewed on her lip. “I don’t want to sound like an awful person saying this, but I don’t want to lie to you either.”

            Tommy reached over to lift her chin. “Tell me.”

            “I hope that during this holiday you’re taking, you’ll realize there’s more to life than clawing your way to the top.” Kate took his hand in hers. “I hope you’ll see that maybe you were destined for better things. You said how you wanted to work with horses. You have plenty of money to just do that. To retire and-” Her voice faded when she realized she was losing him.

            His blue eyes were steady on their entwined hands. “I can’t stay still, Kate.” He whispered. “Not since the war. If I stay still, if I stop moving forward…everything catches up to me.”

            Kate understood completely. When she was running from Santo all those years, she never felt safe in one spot. Physically or psychologically. If she kept moving, she felt she was steps ahead of her opponents. Steps ahead of the turmoil she’d left behind. If she kept moving, she could forget about her mother’s death. She couldn’t ask Tommy to stand still and let it all catch up to him.

            “I understand.”

            Tommy brought her hand to his lips, gently kissing her knuckles. “It’ll be alright.” He promised. “The holiday will be fine. We’ll be busy soon enough.”

            Kate smiled but felt a little deflated. If only there was something she could do to help her husband. But it felt impossible.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

            The rain let up just enough for Tommy and Kate to hurry back to the house. Thunder rumbled across the sky and the wind tore across the countryside with a vengeance. Kate didn’t like to think she was superstitious, but she was getting an ominous feeling that she couldn’t shake.

            The windowpanes rattled after dinner from the thunder that was still getting closer. Kate retired to bed before Tommy but she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she paced by the windows. There wasn’t much to see outside. It was too dark and raining too hard. But Kate she could see shadows on the lawns. A chill ran up her spine when a crack of lightning flashed across the sky.

            She gasped when she swore that she could see a menacing figure standing outside. In her panic and fear, her brain conjured up an image of Santo. The floorboards behind her creaked and she couldn’t help but let out a scream.

            “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” Tommy turned on the light and rushed over to her.

            So startled, Kate began to cry.

            “What’s wrong?” He pulled her close.

            “I’m just s-so scared, Tom.”

            “There’s nothing to be afraid of, love, I would never let anything bad happen to you.” Tommy kissed her temple and rubbed her back. “What spooked you?”

            But Kate was too petrified to answer. Every roll of thunder and every flash of lightning made her shake. She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. “I-I’m just scared.”  It was scarce, the number of times Kate admitted to being afraid of anything. No one needed to know her fears. If they did, she was certain they would just use those fears against her. Some sort of manipulative tool. But there were times, like in that moment, she couldn’t contain her anxiety. There was no telling why, but so many things were coming up to the surface that night. Perhaps she had remained idle for too long as well.

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @biba3434 @kimmietea @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997 @tarafaithe @evelynshelby

Tag list: @radical-gecko @actorinfluence @meltingicequeen @merlettina

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#peaky blinders fanfiction #ofc #ofcs #OC #ocs #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby fanfiction #fanfiction #cililan murphy #cillian murphy character #season 4 #season 5 #tommy shelby x oc #tommy shelby x ofc

[therealjammy]

The Worth Of the Wait (Witness)

AN: Posting this here for the Tumblr crowd, but also in the hope it’ll garner a bit more audience. It’s quite angsty, so please bear that in mind xx

The title that isn’t in parenthesis is from Ivan & Alyosha’s song by the same name

Words: A little over 2.5k

--

And since it falls unto my lot

           That I should rise and you should not…

—

There was something in the reading of ghosts Dani had done that mentioned souls were doomed to wander the grounds around which they died due to unfinished business. As to what that business was, the spectre had to find out on their own, a task that began as soon as one came to.

           No such task was set forth when Dani woke the first evening after her death, collapsed on the shore of the lake on her knees, not knowing it was the same spot Jamie had knelt just hours earlier. No sense of purpose filled her, only the strangeness of the afterlife, the emptiness of the manor’s grounds, and a bizarre, echoing loneliness.

           Here, Dani did not bear the weight of the first Lady of the Lake. No second gaze watched from within. No claws tore away pieces of her. She was Dani once again. Almost whole, but not quite1.

           She walked the grounds to grow used to her new body and life. She mused that this must have been what the astronauts who landed on the moon felt like—terribly weightless, yet able to come back to the ground by sheer force of will. So light. Like floating on air. But she wasn’t hovering. The afterlife wasn’t nearly so stereotypical. There was grass underneath her feet, and gravel, and brick. Dani was pleased that the muted feel of them all did not terrify her. The downside, however, was everything she took in reminded her of Jamie. And Hannah and Owen and Flora and Miles. So much so that she dropped to her knees for the second time in the middle of the statue garden and allowed herself to feel another knife. It slid beside the one that’d pierced her chest at the sight of Jamie in the water, reaching for her, agonized screams distorted by the thick, choking medium. I won’t, Dani had said. Don’t reach out for me to take you; this is the only time I will not accept your hand.

           The book said nothing about the loneliness one would feel in the afterlife, nor the emotions that ghosts were still capable of feeling, nor even the fact that ghosts could have their own ghosts.

 —

Time was nearly impossible to tell here. The days varied in their colors, of course, so Dani knew the hours, but she could not count the days. Or the weeks. She only knew the beautiful grounds, once kept tame by Jamie and a series of others before her, were slowly being reclaimed. The hedges lost their shapes. The statues in the statue garden wore masks and robes of moss. The rose garden and the white iron table and chairs were covered in leaves and surrounded by weeds, and armies of aphids munched greedily on the wilting roses. The church was dark and drafty; the candles had dust gathering in them, and the benches were covered in it, too. Jamie’s beloved greenhouse was overgrown, looking the part of a houseplant jungle that was now home to spiders and large, fearless rats. Soon many varieties of leaves and arms of vines would cover the bench, concealing the evidence of a deep first kiss and—on a different day—a thick half-hour’s lovemaking.

           Concealing life so that they might live their own. Jamie would say that, or something similar to it. Part of nature, innit? Inevitable. Uncontrollable, once set free.

           Dani was not bound to the lake. Not entirely. And so she spent a series of nights on the greenhouse’s bench, on her bed of plants and cracking cushions, perfectly content to lose herself in memories that hadn’t been sharp for years.

 —

It could have been months, or even years later, that Dani began to hear voices. They were faint and far away, like music drifting from an open window several stories up, the voices unidentifiable, the words a string of incoherence. There were no others on the grounds; what others there were had moved on to somewhere else the second the Lady of the Lake settled herself inside Dani. But the voices were there, whispering in the woods and the lake, the greenhouse and the church, wherever Dani managed to find herself. Was it possible, she wondered, for someone dead to lose their mind? It shouldn’t have been. It would be cruel of the afterlife to make her repeat an act that had already been done. The voices were not memory, either; memory did not tickle the eardrums or raise one’s hackles.

           It didn’t take long for Dani to shrug the voices off, thinking them a new music serenading her world. She often fell asleep to them—a different kind of lullaby.

 —

The first time Dani was called to the land of the living was an accident.

           She was walking through the woods, admiring a golden sunset slashing through silhouetted branches on the way to the spot where Jamie’s carefully grown moonflower once sat. Dani seated herself on the log she’d occupied, watching the shadows lengthen on the iron the moonflower had used as an anchor to grow against, thinking of Jamie and her going-out-on-a-limb monologue, of the kisses that followed and the laughter-filled ascent up the stairs that led to them making love in Dani’s bedroom, with no hesitation after Jamie’s, “It’s not too fast?” A voice shattered her thoughts, clear as day, a whisper.

           “Where are you?”

           Jamie.

           Heart leaping, feeling more alive than her new life had lately allowed her to be, Dani ran, ran through the woods and the gardens, past the empty greenhouse, church, and manor, calling Jamie’s name. “I’m here!” she shouted. “I’m here, Jamie!” No avail. No reward. Just the whisper, again and again. “Where are you?”

           Once again, Dani found herself wading into cold water, and once again fell and sank, but it was not to the lake’s silty, reedy bottom.

           There was water underneath her hands. And wood. Not even an inch of it, but still it lapped at her hands, an insistent, icy tongue. There was hissing. And further away, the sound of sirens. Dani stared at the floor. Light finished oak. Skinny pieces. She knew this floor.

           Looking up, in a state of dizzying disbelief, was looking into the flooding kitchen of the apartment. Their apartment. The sprinklers were spraying water. Something must’ve caught fire, but Dani wasn’t looking for that. Her gaze was trapped by the cracked front door and the unmistakable figure of Jamie, soaked to the bone, sitting between the oven and the sink, the posture of someone who had slid there in defeat, not quite weeping but on the verge of it.

           The strangest part was how ardently she stared into the water.

           “Where are you?” Jamie said.

           “Here,” Dani would have said, and reached out to her, had she not felt herself being pulled back.

 —

Several times, the breaking through happened, each as jarring as the first, until Dani learned to expect it. Until, one winter evening, when the grounds of Bly were dusted with frost, she only thought of Jamie and was instantly over her shoulder. They were in The Leafling, the winter plants and flowers in full season. Outside, there was snow, and fresh flakes were falling like cigarette ash from a steely sky. Jamie was in dark jeans and a black turtleneck, her curls pinned up in a bun, a few unruly ones dangling over her eyes, her hands putting the finishing touches on a pot filled with pansies.

           “It’s a very ironic name,” Jamie had said once, back when they first opened the shop and rotated the flowers out depending on the season. “Call this flower a pansy but it survives the winter.”

           “Maybe we should call it a toughie,” Dani suggested. Jamie shook her head, smiling, but she ended up making a chalk art sign that read, “These toughies survive the winter!” and placed it appropriately in front of the pansy display. They’d sold out within the first two weeks.

           The signs that were in the flower shop now were not written by hand in Jamie’s half-messy cursive. They were all typed and displayed on boards. Including the sign on the door, which was flipped to closed.

           There was life here, Dani realized, her heart seizing in her chest, continuing despite the gaping loss Jamie obviously still felt.

           How many times, Dani wondered when she returned to Bly, to the greenhouse, had Jamie thought of giving up? It had to be several, by now.

           It took a special sort of perseverance to overcome the call of death.

 —

Time hardly existed at Bly, but Dani found a way to keep track of it. She watched Jamie and knew the months went by, staying longer and longer, until she hardly found herself at Bly at all.

           She watched Jamie change. Her hair got longer and less wavy. Grey began to show. Slowly at first, and then they were as sudden as weeds. Dani watched efforts of romances, all of which ended in apologies and the showing of the ring she’d slipped onto Jamie’s finger in the nineties. She watched The Leafling change hands. Watched Jamie pack up the apartment and move into a small house in a different town. Watched her fly to Paris and step through the doors of A Batter Place for the first time in ages. Owen was still there, dressed in white chef’s uniform. And Hannah’s picture remained where it was, too, her kind, smiling face forever immortalized.

           Jamie stood by the doors. Jet lag sagged her shoulders. Made her eyes droop like half-dead leaves. Yet there was determination, Dani saw, mixed with an oncoming wave of nostalgia.

           Owen was a few tables away, smiling, pouring refills of wine into two guests’ glasses. He glanced in Jamie’s direction, owner’s instinct kicking in at the sight of someone loitering in the entryway, looking back at the customers, and then giving Jamie a long double-take.

           “Please excuse me,” Dani heard him say.

           He and Jamie approached each other slowly.

           “My god,” were Owen’s first words to her, “you’ve gotten old.”

           The laughter that erupted from Jamie’s mouth was the sweetest music.

           They sat at the same table that’d seen them a little over a decade ago, talking over French cuisine and wine, until long after closing and long after everyone else left. There was much to say and then nothing at all, a silence settling over the old friends that was comfortable.

           There was a bit of happiness in Jamie’s life at last.

 —

Jamie’s life had changed since seeing Owen in Paris. It was lighter. She walked with new purpose. There was, however, one constant. Jamie always left doors cracked. Always left something filled with water—the kitchen sink, the bathroom sink, the tub, a watering can—and gazed into it, much like she had that day in the kitchen. The habit could have started long before that, Dani theorized, but there was no plausible way to be certain. The only thing that was certain was the statement these habits made: I’ll wait for you. In those moments, Dani’s heart ached in her chest, its own clenched, frustrated fist.

           On a blustery spring day in 2007, Dani followed Jamie around her plant-populated kitchen as she had a conversation with Owen over the phone. Jazzy piano floated from a speaker somewhere Dani couldn’t see, the volume low. She only heard Jamie’s side of the talk.

           “This makes me feel really fucking old.”

           “Well, wasn’t she twelve the last time we talked to each other?” A smile. “I’m giving you shite, you moosher.”

           A pause.

           Her tone turned serious. “You’re sure you want me there?” A pause. “You know they might not remember me.” Silence. Then, with another smile, “All right, you’ve convinced me with your battering on about it.”

           In the past, Jamie threw on whatever outfit was convenient: old, soft T-shirt tucked into worn jeans, jacket pulled on over it; paint-splattered overalls and flannel shirt; sweater and jeans and a grey-blue coverall caked with soil. Her style came together in the nineties. It was polished in the New Millennium. She planned her outfits with a little more care, and she looked stunning in all of them. It was, thought Dani, no wonder the younger women that floated in and out of Jamie’s life fawned over her.

           The occasion she talked about with Owen was, much to Dani’s surprise, Flora’s wedding. The man she’d been smitten with at seventeen was the same one she was marrying at twenty- eight. Jamie marked the date in the calendar hanging on the fridge.

           In the days that followed, a melancholy shadowed Jamie. Dani saw it on her face, and deep in her eyes. She believed Jamie was thinking about their own union, how they had to practically beg for it to be civil while all some people had to do was slide a ring on a finger and ask for a license. How Flora’s life stretched for acres ahead of her while Dani’s own was an uncertain countdown. Dani saw, as she’d gotten rare glimpses of, Jamie scribble the thoughts down in a notebook with yellowed edges. (She had usually left Jamie when she wrote. That time was hers alone.)

           She turned the page. Her pen hovered.

           Jamie began a new note.

We should have grown old together. Watched each other change. Kept track of the lines that appeared around our eyes and mouths. Made love until we were too ancient to do it properly. Found other ways. We should have had our whole lives ahead of us. It seems unfair I get to be the age I am. But we had our time, Poppins. Not many people get that.

             The note wasn’t a goodbye. To Dani, it was more of a reminder.

 Epilogue:

Witness

The asylum-turned-hotel was surprisingly cozy, even by dead people’s standards. Nestled in a sort of grove in Northern California, Dani liked the rustic look of the place and how pleasant it looked against the late afternoon sunlight shining through the trees. It had a sitting room just off the lobby, populated by comfortable couches. Despite the spring warmth, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and the wedding guests gathered around it, some with drinks in their hands, others empty-handed. They chatted amongst themselves until, rather abruptly, Jamie announced, “I have a story.”

           Dani settled behind her, back to the warmth of the fire. Bly did not call back to her. Nothing held her but Jamie, whose command of the room was absolute.

           She hung on every word.

           She felt light. She felt like she could fly at the way Jamie narrated the story that held everyone so raptly; her voice wavered from tenderness to melancholy to, at the end, devotion. A sense of purpose.

           It hit Dani as suddenly as cold water. Her purpose. Her unfinished business. It had only taken seven years and countless witnessing of someone perpetually in wait.

           Jamie filled the hotel’s sink. And the bathtub. She cracked open the door, just a little, letting in a small bar of white light. She turned a chair to the door. Waiting. Expectant.

           Dani knew then.

           If Jamie waited for her, Dani would wait for her in return.

           She set a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, a promise she would, hopefully, feel.

--

Endnotes

1. A reference to my favorite novel, Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones

The lines before the start of this work are from “The Parting Glass”

#the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #fic stuff #kate writes things #i'm proud of this one still

[kluzty-o]

The Lily of the Valley

Written by Gene 2019

Tallbacka---a place in Finland. Not everyone knows about this place. One of them is me.

We had to travel for hours on a boat crossing the North Atlantic Ocean to France. Then from France we rented a car. There were disagreements at first on what car we will have but in the end we chose Mazda CX-5. They said it’s a great car for long and non-stop travel. After we finished stuffing the luggage in the back our group hopped on our silver ride and quickly drove up to North.

The first few hours were mesmerizing; we passed Paris, Belgium, then to Berlin, where we made a quick stop to grab some breakfast. I decided to have “Rissoto Al Pollo” that cost 9.90 Euro. I am actually glad it’s worth it.

Then we head back on the road. This time I drove. My crew was like Medusa’s victims as they slept. Not moving and clearly has no sign of waking up after that good breakfast. This time we passed Poland, Warsaw, Latvia (My friend Robert offered to drive from here), and then we crossed St. Petersburg to Finland.

After 36 hours of driving and sleeping. We arrived in Tallbacka.

We wanted to take a rest but we are far behind our itinerary that’s why we continued to our client’s restaurant. Our car stop in front of a small red diner shop walled with large windows that a moose can fit in. Above hang a wooden sign etched with gold letters that said “Ruoka Talo”.

“What are we waiting for?” Sinn said as she unloads our equipment. As if on cue, a lady came out and smiled at us.

“Hi, My name is Fe Virtanen. Owner of Ruoka Talo, I’m glad you came all the way here. Such a small town isn’t it?” The wrinkles in her eyes told us how old this lady was. Yet, she’ s very charming. Green forest eyes, protruding nose, red lips, blue linen dress and wild vibrant blond hair. She exactly has the European charm. She reached out her hand and greeted us one by one. She gestured us towards her office deep within the diner. We followed.

After an hour of briefing, we took out our cameras and started to take pictures of the place. Robert and Sinn shoot the street view, Jason and Glem setup inside the diner. I alone handled the kitchen.

I slowly opened the door and came across a girl humming to an unfamiliar music. She sat on the top of the table holding her knees together. She looks like Mrs. Virtanen. Though her hair is darker and she wears a crazy and noisy pair of floral camisole and leggings. She was fumbling some strings in her hands. but before I could figure why. She noticed me. She fumbled down to the floor and smiled at me. A warm glow started to engulf my chest. The way her mouth crest at the end reminded me of the moon smiling down on me on a cold night.

She reached out her hand. “ Parcy Virtanen.” I shook her hand then she ran out of the kitchen.

At 10 PM we finished the shoot. Mrs. Virtanen offered us a meal before we went to our rented house just a few blocks away. The truth is the diner was shutting down, Mrs. Virtanen book us to capture the diner for memoirs and documentary. She said that the diner will become a book shop that the town always wanted. “It’s a bitter sweet filling.” Mrs. Virtanen shared her feelings. I actually felt guilty half-heated responding to the conversation because my mind is occupied by someone else---t’s Parcy. She was sitting across from me. Chugging down a cup of coffee. She glances at me from time to time and everytime I catch her, she quickly looks away. When we finished the meal, we all decided to settle in.

Mrs. Virtanen informed us she has another engagement for tonight, “Parcy will come along with you to check the pictures in my stead.” With a quick reassuring smile. she left.

11:00, we arrive at the house. It was a small comfy place. 2 bedrooms, a small kitchen, open living room where all the equipment is sprawled everywhere. And a large yard showing the view of the unfamiliar Tallbacka.

After changing into more comfy clothes. Tidying up some of our luggage. We all agreed to stay in the living room for the pictures evaluation. I sat next to Parcy and Glem. While Jason and Sinn are busy debating what camera is best for shooting a fruit. Then Parcy suddenly broke in.

“Whichever camera you use, isn’t a fruit still a fruit?” We all laughed.

Robert finally came in holding a tray of hot chocolates and cookies. After all, sugar is best consumed after a long tiring day. Grabbing our own cups, we proceed to the photo evaluation.

Hours passed but none of us seem tired. So we proceed to play cards and share each other's stories. It was a simple and comfy night. I also get to know Parcy more. Apparently, she is a fan of Haruki Murakami. Parcy especially loves “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running”. When she visited Australia once, she got to try Zumbo’s Macarons.

“I would die for it to taste again.” Her accent slips showing how excited she was.

“I should try making macarons.” I mumbled. But Parcy seems to have heard me and gave me a list of reasons why I should. When she finished, she suddenly beamed her heart-stopping smile.

I am definitely making those macarons.

Soon morning came; my crews were snoring away to their dreamland. We accidentally slept in the living room. Well, with all what happened last night, I wouldn’t find it strange. We laughed our ass out, designed the materials, printed the products and decorated the final album. It all happened in just one night. I got up and went up to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Wadling through the counter, I caught a glimpse of a person and in my surprise it was Parcy---stretching outside.

I decided to step outside.

Now, with morning light, you can see the Tallbacka’s beauty more. The scenery was breathtaking. ITrees shoot up to the sky, houses glow as the sunrise hits. The smell of grass and fresh baked bread dances through our nose. Singing of the birds sends melody to our ears. Mist made me forget that I haven’t washed my face yet. It was like a watercolor painting came to life. I wish the moment could stop right now. I wish I could stay here, but I need to go back. So, the only thing I can do is remember---remember the brief fleeting tranquil time at a small town at the edge of Finland.

“You can go back here if you want. The doors of our town are always open to people like you.” Parcy said as if she read my mind.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I would come here soon though.” I rubbed my freezing hand.

“I didn’t say when, silly Ruby. Even 5 years later, 10, maybe 25 years. As long as you remember to come back here it’ll be alright. Also as long it can help you, even for a moment to run away from romahdus--- breakdown. ”

We broke into a series of laughter that rippled through the waking town of Tallbacka.

An hour later, we are loading our luggage onto the van again. Today was our last day in this peaceful town. We want to tour a little but we still have things we need to do back in New York. Reluctantly, we head straight back to Ruoka Talo, to take Parcy back and to give Mrs. Virtanen our finished product and farewells.

Mrs. Virtanen was decorating her diner for a closing party when we arrived. She welcomed us with a big warm hug and a grin. Her smile grew bigger when we showed her the product we’ve done. Some tears might have left her eyes. She scanned through the small book we gave her. The book contains the diner history and its memories and most amazing moments through its legacy as it stood in the small town of Tallbacka.

“I love this!” Mrs. Virtanen's voice broke. After fanning her tears out, she proceeded to kiss our cheeks one by one.

“Looks like our job here is done.” Robert exclaimed.

Mrs. Virtanen pushed us back in her diner. “Oh no not yet, what about the payment?”

We laughed. All of us are heading to the office but Parcy suddenly stole me to the side. “Here.” She handed me a key. “When you decide to come back, come to the house written in there. That house the only thing isn’t changing here.” I was touched. I actually never thought that I’ll be able to come back to Tallbacka, but here’s Parcy---hoping.

“Thank you, Parcy.” I reply. My crew got the money and is now sharing farewells. I approached Mrs. Virtanen and gave her a hug. After a lot more goodbyes we get to our silver car.

“Come back, okay?” Parcy’s eyes were shining even more than last night. Her voice seems to linger in my mind too.

I nodded from the shotgun seat. Then we hit the road back to France. I look back from the rear mirror at the shrinking town of Tallbacka. Parcy still waving with at us with a hopeful grin.

I’ll come back. I whispered to the winds.

#writer #writing #short story #story #romance #drama

[ribbonshades]

☾  identity

It was much harder than any other game Charles had played, and he didn’t think he would win. It was days of willing his frail body to keep running away from Noise and Reapers, hiding in the alleyways of London and ducking into store fronts to survive. No matter where he went, though, he knew that the Composer had her eyes on him the whole time and that she decided arbitrarily who wouldn't move on at the end of each day, anyway. Luckily for him, she seemed to have a soft spot for the shy, defenseless ones. Soft to the point of being rotten, probably. 

"It's Charles," he'd mumble every time she got his name wrong. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Your name is written [REDACTED] in your soul, you see. It's nothing personal, love." Eliza waved her continuous mistake off, making his heart sink to his stomach. But he was too timid to say anything more. 

"You're so precious, [REDACTED]," she'd say, insistently reaching forward and brushing her thumb over his cheek. He flinched away from the touch, only ending up with her repeating the process, more roughly this time. "I love mixed Asian girls, I can't wait to doll you up," she went on. Charles felt numb, ice seeping in his bones. She'd smile serenely and bid him well on the day's mission. Day after day, he wondered if he should have joined Mom and Dad if it meant sparing him this. 

In the end, she and her preferential treatment were the only reasons he survived the Game. Someone he didn't recognize stood next to her when the end of it came. They looked otherworldly, high strung, sympathetic, tired. They reminded him of the only teacher he had that referred to him as a boy. He felt like he could trust them.

"Charles, correct?" the newcomer said. His face brightened and he nodded. "Ah, good. Well, congratulations on winning the Game. It has been quite a week, mm?" 

Eliza was nearly bubbling over with excitement, already her basket was full of 5 pairs of new, lamp shaped wings and Charles could feel that she wanted him to be her sixth. He swallowed and tried to keep his eyes up on the stranger in front of him. 

"You may come back to life, or you may live the rest of your existence in the London UG, as a Reaper. What would you like to do?" the figure said. 

"Uhm… I… have a question…" Charles mumbled. 

"Yes, dear?"

"My parents… they're gone, right…?" he said, swallowing back heavy tears in his throat. The stranger gave a small, weary sigh. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so. Do you have other family that would take you in?" they asked, their brow knit with the slight worry they allowed themself to show. 

"... No," Charles exhaled. He truly didn't know what would be the better option. If he went back to the RG, he would be forced to live as someone he wasn't, without his medications that served as his lifeline. He may even be strong enough to end it all, if it came to that point. But if he stayed in the UG, while he would still struggle to live as Charles, his body would stay the same. He could escape, one day. And, well, if it didn't go favourably, he supposed he had the option of ending it all then, too. 

Charles shivered. Eliza was watching him with wide, glassy blue eyes, her silver hair in curls framing her face. 

"I'll… become a Reaper," he said, looking up at the angelic figure with tears welling in his eyes. 

"... Alright. If that is what you wish, Charles." 

-x-

He was whisked into a whirlwind of a first few days as a Reaper. He was given a dormitory to live in, a small one bedroom with a communal bathroom, the wings separated by gender. His closet was full of tartan skirts and blazers that he resented, the desk piled high with books on the UG, Reaper powers, and the history of London. As soon as he was settled and dressed appropriately in the wrong gender’s uniform, he was subjected to various tests that drew out his Reaper power and tested his Noise Form. 

"Shadow powers? Oh, that is lovely, [REDACTED], I've been needing a new Reaper in the Espionage department," Eliza gushed. The pile on his desk grew higher with texts on spying and assassination techniques. He was assigned a number, used in place of his old name when necessary. He almost liked the number better.

His only respite was Allen, the only person who seemed to be able to keep Eliza in check. Charles couldn't quite tell what gender they were either, though Eliza referred to them as a woman, as Alexandra. He wondered if that was the reason why they were the only one to call him Charles. He decided he liked them, and he looked forward to spending time with them, whenever he could, and upon seeing the amount of work they did for the city, he gained a great respect for them. 

"Say, have you ever wanted to alter your appearance or anything?" they had asked one day while they were eating crumpets for afternoon tea time. 

"Ah– Uhm, sometimes…" he responded, nearly dropping the butter knife into his cup. They knew very well that he did, why were they bringing this up? 

"You've always seemed a tad uncomfortable in your skin, Charles. What would you change?" They smiled knowingly. 

"Well… I guess I want to look cooler… like an albino bunny?" he said, tilting his head. 

"Aha, bunnies are cute though!" Allen smiled, leaning back. He felt his lips move on their own, cracking a small smile himself. 

Other than those rare, fleeting moments, Charles endured his day to day, undergoing harsh training to optimize his powers and to sharpen his skills as an assassin. He was showered with praise and unwanted affection from Eliza, with comparisons to various female, Asian assassins in media. 

"Oh, but you wouldn't turn against me like some of them do, will you, love?" Eliza smiled, leaning in and giving him a kiss on the forehead. 

The thought never occurred to him, but after he mulled over the possibility, he couldn't stop thinking about it. 

-x-

Once it was all done, Charles left a note on his pillow addressed to Allen and fled the city. He sunk into his shadow the instant the rest of Eliza's body dissipated into static, only narrowly catching the salute of gratitude from the newly crowned Composer. Truly, there was no real threat to staying in London, but he didn't want to wait around to be employed by the new monarch and to spend eternity repeating the last two years. He appeared somewhere outside the bounds of the city, where he wasn't sure if his powers would be as reliable anymore. With nowhere else to go, he did what any respectable Brit on the run would do and boarded a train to Paris. RG or UG, he knew any Parisian would help him in his escape if they knew he was trying to get away from London.

With some luck and a shaky conversation in half English and half French, he ran into a winged man who he knew would be able to help him. Charles briefly explained an embellished version of the truth, though the man connected his story of "I was wrapped up in a political scandal" with the news of Queen Eliza meeting her demise and was delighted to help him. 

"Please, do stay 'ere!" the man offered, "I can only 'ope to assist ze one who ‘az liberated London!" 

"Uhm… Do you know who could change my appearance, maybe…?" Charles asked, tugging on his hair nervously.

Somehow, Paris was a vain enough district that there were powerful Reapers who's sole purpose was cosmetic alterations. He was face to face with yet another Reaper whose gender he couldn't determine at first glance. 

"Ah… S'il vous plaît, uhm… Cheveux… court? Courts? Et blanc? Blanche? E-et, les yeux… rouge," he stuttered, holding up a picture of the haircut he wanted. The Reaper clicked their tongue and nodded. 

"Rouge vif ou foncé?" they responded, and jesus christ Charles would have to learn French fast if he wanted to stay here. 

"Vif… ah… comme ça, ici–" Charles pointed at a bright red fabric scrap hanging from the Reaper's belt. They gave a thumbs up and gestured for him to get onto the table and lay down. The procedure itself was quick and painless, and he couldn't help but smile when a mirror was brought to show him his new reflection. 

"C'est tout pour vous aujourd'hui?" the Reaper asked, tilting their head. Charles took a breath. He had blindly trusted Allen and gotten favourable results there, so… 

"Ah, euh… Aussi… Ici…?" Shakily, Charles pointed his hand downwards to the bottom of his torso. The Reaper watched him and waited for him to continue. 

"... Efface-là, s'il vous plaît." 

-x-

He spent almost two years district hopping across Europe, learning several languages along the way. It was wonderful, having freedom. He relished being able to dress how he wanted, being able to use his powers for something less ugly for once, focusing on learning how to configure his stealth powers into various cute animal forms. His tour ended in France again, this time in the southern city of Marseille as a bunny hopping around the gardens flanking the mansions. The day was just beginning, and Charles was just basking in the sun for a spell when–

"Papa! Un lapin!" 

He peeked his eyes open to see a young boy run out of the terrace area towards him. A girl stood at the door warily, watching her brother move with such little restraint over a grey lop in the grass. Charles was picked up into the boy's arms and brought inside, placed on a cushion and fought for in frantic, accented French that he couldn't quite understand fully. It seemed that the mother was trying to argue that they couldn't take care of a bunny, and the boy fired back that they should at least take care of him until they find the owner. It was one phrase in specific that had him, though. 

"Nous pouvons être sa famille!" 

At that, he burrowed closer to the boy. The mother conceded and instructed a butler to purchase supplies to temporarily house a bunny. In the meantime, the boy hugged him, victorious. 

"Je m'appelle Jean, Monsieur Lapin! Et vous?" the boy grinned. His sister sighed and came over to pet him on the head, too. Charles wondered if he could imprint an RGer from this form, seeing that he asked his name– so he tried it, suggesting his own name in Jean's head. 

"Hm… il ressemble à… Charles!" Jean grinned and squeezed Charles more, the latter utterly confused at how it worked, despite the French accent making his name something quite different. Moreover, considering how Charles was very much not a French name in the least, it will be interesting to see how he justifies this to his parents. 

Nobody minded, though, and the missing bunny posters went largely ignored. Once two months had passed, the father patted his head and announced that the rabbit was now part of the Duvert family. 

Charles' nose wiggled happily at having one again. 

-x-

After years of obsessively consuming anime and video games, Charles could barely believe that he was now living in Japan. As a bunny, of course– he couldn't get away with running off for a week quite as often as he did before, but he knew Carel's schedule and he knew how to teleport out of his cage, so he spent many a day loitering around Shibuya until it was time to head back home.

It was a lovely routine, though it lasted only months. That December, Jean died in an accident that Charles knew resulted in him playing a game. He wanted to go to where he died and work the game and ensure his survival, but Carel's grief was too much for her to bear by herself. Charles steeled himself, hoping that he could come back and waiting for the day Carel's memories of his death were wiped, to no avail. 

Wanting answers, Charles waited for a time where Carel would be out of the house for longer periods of time and took a train to Kawasaki, where Jean died. 

"Haha, you're gonna get erased if you don't keep up, newbie!" Jean laughed horridly, blood from his last erasure still speckled on his glasses. 

"I'm… keeping up…" Charles gritted his teeth, keeping an eye out for the partner of the Player he had erased earlier that day. 

"Sure you are. You couldn't keep up with me, I bet," Jean retorted, licking his lips. Charles squeaked as Jean moved closer into his space, his arm resting on the wall behind him. "Maybe you can keep up in other ways, though. What do you say?" he asked, his voice lowered. 

"N-no thank you," Charles huffed, quickly slipping into his shadow to safety. The district had done awful things to Jean, and Charles couldn't bear to see more. He made an effort to avoid Jean for the rest of the game and slipped away from Kawasaki as soon as he was able. 

-x-

"Charles! I missed you!" Jean said, holding his arms out to hug the bunny. "It's been so long, huh?" 

Not as long as you think, but I'm glad that Carel knows you exist now, Charles thought, snuffling in Jean's arms. 

-x-

"You, ah. Knew I was a Reaper even before I came to Shibuya?" 

"Uhm… yeah. I worked a week in Kawasaki while you were there, and…" Charles trailed off, looking to the floor to avoid seeing Jean's reaction. 

"Ah," Jean responded, "I remember now. I, uh… I'm sorry." 

"Be sorry to yourself, you tried to get your pet bunny in bed with you," Charles scoffed. 

"H-hey, I was just like that back then, it was a phase–!" Jean squawked indignantly, failing to save face. 

"A phase is something that ends, Jean…" Charles tsked, turning back to his newly decorated room. He heard Jean sputtering more behind him as he closed the door. 

-x-

A few months after becoming Conductor, Charles sat down with Jean and told him how he became a Reaper. It went exactly as he thought, Jean crying on behalf of him and wallowing in pity that wasn't even for him. 

"Sorry," Jean breathed, wiping his glasses, "I just can't believe everyone has gone through hell. Please tell me you're happier now, where you are." 

Charles reached forward and swiped his thumb over Jean's teary eyes, wicking away more moisture, his palm resting on his cheek. Jean's eyes widened at the gesture, having never seen Charles be that physically intimate with him before. 

"I'm much happier now that I can finally be who I am. So, thank you, Jean." Another rare smile surfaced on Charles' face, and the combination seemed to be too much, as Jean burst into fresh tears right after. 

-x-

With approved leave, Charles arrived back in London, almost 15 years after he last left. He was dressed smartly, a dark grey suit with a red tie, and a pair of rabbit shaped cuff links that Jean had lent him for good luck. He still remembered well the way towards the entrance of the God's Palace, and his feet led him there without much thought. Once just inside, he approached the reception. 

"Hello, I'm the Conductor of Shibuya, here to meet with the Producer of London," he said. The receptionist looked over the schedule and gestured for him to sit down. It was a short wait before Allen appeared at the door, looking a little confused at having a meeting with a foreign Conductor, though the answer was clear as day as soon as they laid eyes on the man sitting in front of him. 

"You're alive," Allen remarked once they had gone outside for privacy. 

"I am." 

"You're also taller than me now," they laughed, looking up. With the slight heel of his shoe, Charles was indeed 5 inches taller than he was before. He chuckled and took a seat on a bench nearby, Allen following suit. 

"What made you reach out? I thought you'd never come back with the letter you left me," they said, their hands folded in their lap. 

"I was telling my friend… the Composer, about how I became a Reaper, and I realized that I never got to thank you." Allen tilted their head, a brow raised.

"For not intervening in Eliza's assassination? I mean, I'm not supposed to get involved in that, but–" 

"For seeing me as Charles. Honestly, I don't think I would have held onto that if nobody saw me as who I am for two years," Charles explained, a serene smile on his face. Allen smiled widely. 

"Of course I would have. You saw me as Allen, too." They smoothed out their skirt, their smile widening into a grin. "Might I say, you're looking quite sharp. Almost made me swoon when I saw you."

Charles' cheeks pinkened slightly, though he was a large contrast to the flustered mess he would have been even a few years ago. "I did some growing up," he replied nonchalantly, bravado enough to keep an air of confidence up. 

They talked for hours, catching up from over the years, walking around the city Charles had called home for half his life. He felt reacquainted enough with the city by the time that he had to go.

"Thank you for meeting with me, Allen." Charles held his hand out to theirs; confused, they placed it in his. As was his nightly routine so many years ago, he knelt down to a knee and kissed the back of their hand, eliciting a startled noise from them. 

"H-hey, you don't need to do this again–" they sputtered. Charles looked up from his position and smiled. 

"It's the ultimate sign of respect here, isn't it? I'm doing it because I want to, not because I have to," he responded, getting back up afterwards. "Either way… keep in touch. I'd love to come visit again when I can, I didn't realize how much I missed London." 

"London's a home for you, Charles. Come back anytime, okay?" Allen grinned again, taking a step back to let them part ways. 

"Thank you, Allen. Take care," Charles said, letting go of their hand. He waved as he slid into his shadow to make the journey back home, feeling light and fulfilled. 

#events #i havent written out charles' full backstory yet so that + trying to figure out what hes doing now in this timeline was nice

[padfootagain]

Singles Will Be Paired (VII)

Part 7: Longtemps

I'm too obsessed with this series to write anything else at the moment… so here comes a new chapter!

This song by Amir that I'm using in this chapter is soooooooooo beautiful!! You should definitely check it out!

I hope you all like this! So much cuteness still… I'm making myself blush and grin like a bloody idiot.

Gif not mine

Word Count: 2500

Outside the warm bedroom, the sun was still shy. A pale light bathed the rooftops of Paris while dawn rose, colouring the sky with gold and pale blue hues instead of inky shades. Clouds were gathering in the distance, catching fire as the sunbeams hit them. Slowly, the city was waking up with a laziness mingled with hurry, and the subway was filled with workers travelling across the town from home to their workplace with their eyes still filled with sleep.

Meanwhile, in your hotel room, Ben was staring at you.

Your closed eyes still moved under your eyelids at the rhythm of your dreams. You were lying on your side, facing him, your lips slightly parted. Your hair fell a little across your cheek, and he delicately brushed the strand away to admire your cheekbone.

He wasn’t sure what to do now. Oh, he wasn’t even thinking about leaving you here, don’t worry. He would stay by your side in this bed until you woke up, that wasn’t what he was unsure of.

But how would your relationship evolve after the prior night, that was the question that made him feel nervous. Almost afraid…

He had never meant for you to be a mere one-night stand. But he hadn’t planned on falling head-over-heels for you either.

Ben was mostly rational. Sometimes a little too much for his own good, he was willing to admit it. He thought things through before taking a decision. He thought about it thoroughly and weighed the pros and cons and chose the solution that seemed the safest.

But with you, it seemed that he couldn’t listen to his brain.

Instead his heart seemed to have taken the lead, beating harder whenever he saw you, skipping a beat when he touched you, pounding when you smiled…

He felt like he belonged here, by your side. And if his rational brain kept on reminding him that he had met you just a few days before, his trembling heart kept on pushing him towards you. It was such a strange feeling, to know beyond all logic that he was right where he should be. It was more than instinct or gut feeling. As he watched you peacefully sleeping next to him, it was certainty.

But did you feel the same?

His thumb traced the sharper edge of your cheekbone as he softly cupped your face, his touch feathery. You suddenly stirred, blinking a few times and opening your drowsy eyes before he could pull away.

You stared at each other for a moment, motionless. He waited to see your reaction, and your brain played the events of the previous night as a reminder. When you finally shook yourself, you tightened a little your hold on the sheet, pulling it up to fully cover your torso up to your neck.

"Hey," Ben greeted you with a tender smile.

"Hey," you breathed back.

There was a short silence before you spoke again in a voice tightened by emotions, barely louder than a breathy whisper.

"You’re here."

Ben smiled, amused and puzzled at the same time as he quirked an eyebrow.

"Of course, I’m here," he nodded. "What did you imagine? That I would turn back into a frog after you stopped kissing me?"

"Something like that."

You struggled to swallow back the lump in your throat, and your voice when you spoke again was tainted with fear.

"I… For a moment, I thought you would leave before I would wake up."

His smile changed into a reassuring one, and he shook his head.

"I’m not a bastard," he answered earnestly, and you couldn’t refrain a laugh.

"Yeah… I can see that."

Across your cheek, his thumb moved again, the gesture tender and soft.

You took some time to lay there, motionless on the mattress, staring at each other. You looked at his eyes, and his beard, and this freckle under his right eye that you adored, and his hair messed by both sleep and your fingers during the night.

And the way he looked at you, his dark brown eyes roaming your face again and again, passing on the same spots until he had memorized every detail, made you feel worshipped like never before.

Eventually, the alarm you had set on your phone the previous evening rang, soon joined by Ben’s, and the two of you exchanged a smile.

"I think Versailles awaits us," you breathed, letting your phone ring as you couldn’t gather the strength to look away from his eyes.

"There’s something I need to do before getting up," he replied, leaving his phone ringing through the room freely as well.

You silently invited him to continue and he smirked, before holding your face more firmly and pulling you into a kiss… that you could only describe as loving.

You kept on kissing, ignoring the ringing alarms until they went silent on their own.

And well… let’s say that you arrived at Versailles later than expected…

 ---------------------------------------------------------------

 The Galerie des Glaces stretched before you as a gallery you thought had been extracted from a book. The marble floor made every of your steps echo through the hall. The walls seemed made of gold, the crystal chandeliers above your head glimmered in the pale light of a wintery morning, coming in through the tall windows on your left that ran all the way down the gallery. And beyond these chandeliers, the ceiling was fully painted, tracing in curves the story of the first years of the reign of Louis XIV, filled with war and peace. On your right the mirrors that had given the name of the room reflected the visitors in awe, the grey sky full of water droplets and the rich decoration.

Ben had wrapped his arm around your shoulders, and your own hand was settled on his waist. Slowly, you walked in unison through the gallery, your eyes round in awe of the scenery, and your hearts beating harder because of the nearness of the other.

You looked at your two reflections in one of the old mirrors that had witnessed so many people passing before them, people who were long gone by now. You could almost see their ghosts in the glass, from the ladies twirling in their satin dress centuries before to the young children coming now to visit the old halls. It was one of these places where you felt the weight of history on your shoulders. You could smell it in the air, you could see it everywhere you looked. There was this strange sensation that you were out of time. Ben’s body against yours still anchored you in the present, but the many people who had walked these halls before you accompanied each of your steps.

You walked across the hall to take a look by the high windows, and a dreamy grin formed on your features as you took in the view of the gardens. Bushes, grass, flowers, trees and alleys seemed to have partnered together to draw on the ground a painting that could only be seen from the sky. Spirals of grass traced their curves across the white alleys, pines adding darker shades to the ground. Three large fountains finished to decorate the scenery. There were still a few white stains left from the snow that had fallen a few days before and had been frozen in the branches of the trees and bushes. Further down, the park stretched till the horizon, the large lake that followed disappearing in the grey hues of the sky filled with snowflakes.

"That is what I call a view," Ben smiled, pulling you a little closer to him.

You hummed in agreement, snuggling closer to his chest.

"I have something to admit…" he went on, and you looked up at him with a little frown. "I’m not sure I’ll be able to get you such a view for our next dates."

You giggled, and he made a dramatic face.

"I mean… I know my charms will do all the work for me but…"

You swatted his shoulder playfully as you laughed and he soon joined you.

"Actually, the scenery is your main argument for now."

"What?! I thought it was my never-ending charisma."

You faked a wince and you both laughed again, making a few tourists turn to glare at you.

But you didn’t stop joking, and you kept on giggling as you walked your way down the gallery.

And as you stepped out of the room, Ben pressed a tender kiss to your temple.

He proposed to take a walk through the gardens, and you accepted with a smile full of excitement curling up your lips.

The air was cold, and the sun hidden behind the clouds wasn’t there to warm your skin. Ben had released your shoulders to take your hand instead. And as you entered the gardens, you intertwined your fingers together.

You walked across the garden you had admired from the Gallerie des Glaces. In the fountains, the water had frozen, and thus no liquid was running out of the statues, but it didn’t bother you at all. It felt wintery, but not less beautiful than if you had walked through the alleys in summer.

After wandering through the maze of bushes nearby, you started in the direction of the park and the long lake that stretched across the trees, like a blue arrow piercing a forest into two.

The cold weather had apparently discouraged most tourists from adventuring outside, and both you and Ben enjoyed this peaceful walk.

Upon the water, a few ducks swam slowly, paddling in the lake. All around you, the trees are for the most part lost their leaves. The grass was a little muddy, but the green shade in the pale light and grey world provoked a beautiful contrast. And the more you walked across the park, the most you wanted this moment to never end.

You kept on wandering through the park for a rather long while, until both of you felt painfully hungry.

You stopped under a little kiosk in the Trianon, and ate the picnic you had brought along next to the statue of a cupid.

Meanwhile, the conversation had drifted from your family and your work to his.

"But it must be tricky to put on this fake skin every morning, pretend all day long that you are someone else, and then come home and be you again," you asked Ben, before biting in your bread.

"Sometimes it is," Ben nodded in agreement. "For some characters more than others, but it’s always something you need to be careful about. Or else you might lose yourself in a character, and at the end of the job, there won’t be you anymore, just the character left."

"How do you cope with that?"

"I have friends who are good at reminding me who I am," he smiled. "They call me out when I don't come back as myself fully. And besides that… my parents are a psychiatrist and a therapist, I can still give them a call and I don't even have to pay for therapy."

You let out a loud laugh, and Ben soon joined you.

"Is it harder if you're single?" you asked in curiosity.

He seemed to think for a moment, before he would slowly nod.

"Sometimes, yes. It is. When you go home to find someone who is waiting for you… someone who wants to be with you as you are and not with one of these characters you play… Someone who doesn't see an actor at all… Someone who just sees me… I'm not saying that no one sees me as I am, don't think I'm complaining. But I would be a fool to think that no one sees my job before seeing through it all. And sometimes… sometimes it's tiring. Sometimes, I know that I can't really be myself around some people."

You put your sandwich away and took Ben's hand in yours, resting your head on his shoulder for a moment, your eyes settling on the cupid before you.

"I hope you can feel that you can be yourself with me," you let out a breathy whisper.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you both closed your eyes together.

"I know," he reassured you. "And it feels good."

After a while, Ben started to hum a tune you remembered from the radio, but you didn't know the name of the song. Nevertheless, you joined Ben as he kept on humming.

He smiled at the sound, before reaching for his phone and earphones. He gave you one of them, and you smiled at him, putting the earphone in your ear.

"What are we listening to?" you asked him, kissing his jawline and making him grin.

He didn't answer. Instead, he found back this song he had been humming and turned the volume up.

Longtemps started to play, but you couldn't understand the meaning behind the lyrics. The melody was soft though. The voice warm and soothing. Just by the sound of it, you knew it was a love song.

"Tell me what it is about," you whispered, stroking Ben's arm and nuzzling your head in the crook of his neck.

He took your other hand in his, and guided it to his lips, so he could kiss the back of your hand.

"I don't know what it means…"

"I'm sure you can catch a few words."

"Not really."

"Don't play it humble, come on!"

He chuckled, but when the chorus played again, he complied anyway.

"Longtemps it means… 'for a long time'."

"Lo…"

"Longtemps," he laughed at you as you tried to repeat the words.

"Longtemps," you repeated it well enough this time.

"Rêver, it means 'to dream'."

"Rêver."

"Sourire, it's 'to smile'."

"Sourire… oh, I like this one."

"Me too."

He had kept your hand imprisoned in his large one, and he rested it against his heart.

"It's a love song, isn't it?" you asked softly.

"Yes, it is."

"What is he saying?"

"That he wants to be with this woman he loves for a long time. That he wants them to grow old together, even when they are too old to remember who they are, he will be happy as long as he's with her."

"That's a beautiful love song… how do you say that? How do you say 'to love'?"

His heart skipped a beat as he answered, turning his head to whisper against your temple, his warm breath tickling your skin.

"Aimer."

You tightened your hold on his hand as you repeated the simple word, your heart quickening.

"Aimer…"

You stared at the cupid before you, holding on Ben tightly, feeling his heart beating just as fast as your own. Behind you, through the tall trees, a few birds were singing too.

Ben played the song again, unwilling to let this moment end.

And all around you, the snow began to fall…

*********************************

Taglist : @geeksareunique @giggleberts @sad-orange-thoughts @aylinnmasow @benbarnes-world @ladyblablabla @madamrogers @drinix @joelynnp @mxrihollxnd @rockintensse @newtstarmander @iammadeofstarsandlazyness @presstocontinue @ilmiopiccolounivers0 @ponycake27 @horsesreign @xinyourdreamsx @jbluevelvet @notkeppeki @daynigt-dreamer-stuff @fudgeflyss @stuckupstucky @snek-shit @suchatinyinfinity @i-padfootblack-things  @spencer-is-too-perfect

#ben barnes #ben barnes x reader #ben barnes fic #ben barnes imagine

[bulgarianmermaid]

Traveling solo in Africa, changing jobs locally, finding a new home overnight all alone while mending a broken heart… “Impossible” they said, “I’m possible” I read. It was ME I was fighting for and I had Myself and I in my corner. And the angels above 👼 At the end my crazy Morocco adventure turned into an absolute fairytale better than I could have ever imagined 🏰 (And no, Mom, there is no man involved, just me and my wild heart)

“Aren’t you afraid of flying?” the little girl sitting next to me on the plane to Morocco asked. “Why would I be afraid, sweetheart?” I wondered. “But what if we fall?” she said. “And what if we soar?” I asked. She told me it was her first time flying and she was very scared. So I decided to tell her the story of my first time on a plane. How old do you think is old enough to travel alone? If you ask my crazy parents 3 yrs old was plenty to send me off alone on a flight from Algeria to Bulgaria with a lay over in Paris. The proper term is “unaccompanied minor”, a child that travels alone and gets taken through security and from gate to gate by a flight attendant 👮‍♀️ I still had to sit all alone on the planes yet I didn’t make a sound 👼 Three decades later my parents get really worried when I roam the world solo. “Really, Mom, really, you are worried NOW?!”

Thanks to my incredible Grandma who raised me while my parents traveled the world, every new experience was presented to me as the most fun adventure one could go on. And every new place visited as a land from the fairytales. That woman, my Grandma, was a magician with her words and her touch. So a plane was a bird that would take us to the land of Alaeddin and the desert was the land of the 1001 Nights of Shekerezhade. I celebrated my 3rd birthday in the middle of the Sahara desert of Algeria, having just joined my parents on their own African adventures. Three decades later I celebrated my birthday in Africa again, on the coast of Morocco, where the Atlantic Ocean washes the sands of the Sahara. French is my first language, not Bulgarian (I still understand French if you speak slowly 😱) and coming back to Africa always feels like coming back home. To my first memories of a home – dusty, dirty and oh, so wild and free.

  I didn’t grow up rich 💰 Even though my parents were traveling around the world for work and dragged me across Europe, to the Sahara Desert of Africa and thru the Gobi Desert of Mongolia all the way to China before the age of 10, we never had much money. Or a car I could use. My parents didn’t introduce me to the outdoors, enroll me in any sports, or teach me survival skills. They didn’t believe in any of that. But ONE thing they insisted on was languages and education and I have to thank Mom for that. I started learning French when I was 3 yrs old, I wrote and read in French by age 5. I speak 5 more languages (NOT fluently) and I happen to enjoy an elephant memory, two university degrees from some of the best schools in the world and a razor sharp brain.

I came to Morocco for work, I stayed for surfing 🏜 That’s the recap of my 2 months here. There is nothing else but the desert and the ocean. You must love surfing and water if you are planning on staying 🌊 I had been working on Online, Digital, and Social Media Marketing and Online Bookings for a Moroccan surf & yoga camp for 3 months and I was really excited to finally be here in person. Well, what I thought would be a “one man show” turned into a “complete shitshow” by week 3. But when your accommodation is connected to your job and you are a tall blonde traveling solo in Africa, you think twice before you quit. So I thought for a week and finally couldn’t take another day of it 😦

I had met a boy in those first 2 weeks and for once in my life I decided to give a relationship a chance, not run away and stay for him another few days. I purposefully call him “a boy” because a man would have acted differently. A man would have seen my worth beyond the current setbacks I was experiencing. A man would have been my rock when I was standing on shifting sands. When said “boy” heard about my work troubles and living condition challenges he said he didn’t want to invite my problems into his life and “sent me off” to figure it all out myself. He could have helped, it wouldn’t have cost him a thing and I wasn’t asking for much, just a roof over my head for a night and a warm hug. Instead he chose to cut all ties and continue with his “perfectly designed” life (and home) because in his eyes I was a “complete mess”. I chose to let Fate take care of him…because payback is a bitch and the Universe never disappoints.

So with professional setback under one arm and personal disappointment under the other and having just acquired a short spell of “Moroccan shits” I hastily packed my suitcase and took a “berber taxi” 🚗 (car not camel) to see a friend at a brand new surf and yoga camp (Surf Safari Morocco) close by for a couple of days, enjoy their pool and heal my body while figuring out my life. Because in Morocco it is just a matter of time before you get the shits – personal, professional, just shits. How these old “berber taxi” cars from the 1980s still function is beyond my understanding. How they make it up and down the hills is a sheer miracle. Considering 3 people sit in the front, 4-5 in the back and there is always room for 1 more (in the driver’s lap perhaps as there is already someone sitting in mine 😂) I guess we could pish the car all the way to town if it broke down.

My dear friend and yoga instructor Julian @hostelyogi who saved my life more than once

In retrospect, I should have left Morocco back then but it is too easy to judge life in retrospect and I am a warrior, I wasn’t going to let one asshole (ok, maybe 2) ruin my whole Morocco experience. When Plan A didn’t work out (it never does), it is time for Plan B. Oh wait, I don’t have a Plan B. I never do. Perhaps with the 100% chance of Plan A not working out in my life, I should start preparing a Plan B 🤔 I believe in the power of the Universe, I believe when we set an intention and we really want something the Universe responds. Not always in the way we expected, often in a better way 🙏 Sometimes it is hard to sit still and wait for the future to unfold while you are shaking in uncertainty but if you are patient and watch out for the signs, I promise you the result will be more beautiful and grand than you ever expected.

The surf camp where I went for 1 day to relax and recharge (and ended up staying a month) took me in with all my physical and emotional pain. They hugged me until I stopped crying – thanks Julian and Evan. They saw my worth even through the thick wall I had put up and hidden behind – thanks Younes and Mohammed. They gave me a week to just surf, eat, sleep, and heal. I will be forever grateful for that. (And do laundry, because after a month in a dusty, little Moroccan town nothing makes you happier than the sight of a new washing machine and European detergent.) Within a week after moving in, meeting the owners, observing camp operations and enjoying myself tremendously in and outside of the water, I was asked to help manage Surf Safari Morocco and take over Digital Marketing, Social Media and Online Bookings. Less than a month later we are completely full (actually that was true after JUST a week when management believed in my strategy and took immediate actions to implement my recommendations). For there are FEW things I’m very good at IF you believe in me and WORK is one of them.

Surf Safari Morocco – the greenest grass and the cleanest pool in town 🙂

To all the people who didn’t help me on my journey, who tried to stop me from succeeding or attempted to stall my growth – THANK YOU 🙏 For showing me I had verged off my true life path and I had to change course a bit. For the only constant in life is change and this mermaid does change better than most 🧜‍♀️ My Moroccan adventure has been one HELL of a story 📝 with plenty of ups and downs and “drowning time” in between (some call it surfing but I’m mostly under water 🙂 “Rugs to riches”, “nada to Prada” or just another way to say – believe in yourself even when no one else does!

Finally, a tribute to the girls who shared my first month of the “Moroccan shit show” – I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I did without you – Charlie’s Angels or MY angels – for true friendships are built in the most challenging of moments and we were together thru thick and thin 🙏 As we have all headed out on our new adventures (I was the very last one to leave Morocco from the group and I thought I would be the first) all I want to say is thank you Annie, Leah, Meli and G – for your friendship, your advice, your emotional support, your translation from German, and for having my back when you were pretty backless yourselves 💪 Yours truly, The Total Mess ❤

  Morocco – My Crazy African Adventure Traveling solo in Africa, changing jobs locally, finding a new home overnight all alone while mending a broken heart...

#africa #Inspiration #morocco #road trip #solo female travel #Surf #surf school #surfer #surfing #Travel

[hiraeth-doux]

A Road Paved In Gold (14/21)

Summary: Steve Trevor didn’t die in the sky in Belgium, but his survival came with a price he couldn’t have ever imagined.

A/N: Hey, look who is still alive. I know it’s been a while and technically I’m still travelling but I didn’t want to make you guys wait for two more weeks or so, so here we go! Hope you will enjoy it  and please let me know what you think! ♡♡  And thank you for your patience!

AO3 |  FF.net

Gotham, 2017

Slipping into their old patterns was the easiest thing. One day, the world seemed to be falling apart before Steve’s eyes and nothing made sense, and then suddenly it was like the past several decades had never happened. There was comfort to familiarity, to knowing each other enough for the adjustment to the change in their relationship to not be grating, but there was also a thrill to discovering small details about one another that had come to be since 1952.

While Steve remained a drifter he had always been, Diana’s life turned out being stitched together of habits and routines that fascinated him to no end. She went running almost every morning, claiming that it helped her keep her head clear. There was a path circling the lake, and even though it had nothing on the trails crazing through Themyscira, she seemed to enjoy it well enough. Although, if Steve woke up before she left, she wouldn’t put up a fight if he tried to cajole her back into bed. He couldn’t get enough of her – the sound of her voice, her laughter, the way her fingers would sometimes skim casually over his body and set his blood on fire.

Even away from Paris, she worked a lot, sending emails and making phone calls in more languages than he could recognize, effortlessly juggling her duties as the Curator of Antiques with her life as a heart and soul of the League. If she had allowed it, he would be more than happy to spend his days watching her, the easy grace with which she moved about the house, the way she spoke to the dealers and her assistant and the other Curators about something or other that made his mind reel.

On top of that, despite having an affinity for tea, she seemed to have a special relationship with the coffee maker in the kitchen that only tolerated her and Alfred and couldn’t stand everyone else, and she could type texts faster than Barry (at his human speed), much to the frustration of the latter.

It took Steve all of three days to pick up on all of that, and when he oh so proudly laid out his observations to her at some point, she called him ‘such a spy’, which made him laugh until his stomach hurt.

The old things had come back, too. Those that remained dormant in his mind – like what side of the bed she preferred to sleep on, the way she tended to reach for his hand without thinking, how she tilted her head when she was curious or puzzled. All the details that he missed about her that made him ache on the inside for so long that he thought he would wither and die from a heartbreak.

She was his Diana still, the woman that he had loved for so long that he could no longer remember what it was like not to, but also so much more that Steve could hardly comprehend how one person could contain all the wonder and beauty of different worlds within her. A clash of times and contrasts. To him, she was still a Princess of the Amazons who once got confused by a revolving door, but now she was also a woman who used emojis in text messages and easily understood pop culture references. She still read the works of the Greek philosophers, in Greek, but was also fond of Lord of the Rings and the novels of Hemingway and Huxley. It was, he had to admit, a lot to wrap his mind around.

It was new, but also not, and he loved every moment of pulling everything that they were and all that they were meant to be to the surface, watching a puzzle fall into a complete picture. She was open and honest and unapologetic about her feelings, and the onslaught of quips that Steve half-expected from the members of the League never came, although he was tempted to ask if there was ever another bet going on, and maybe he and Diana deserved to be in on it. Except it didn’t really matter because he had already won a jackpot, and who cared about the rest?

“It wasn’t permanent, you know,” she told him one night, tracing lines on his skin with his fingers, her cheek resting on his collarbone.

“What wasn’t?” Steve asked, sleepy, too sated and relaxed to think straight.

“I’m not weaker than I was before.” Her voice was soft, but he went still, hanging on to every word, suddenly very awake, his hand that was tracing the line of her spine frozen just beneath her shoulder blades. “I thought about it, about what you said, and I suppose it’s not impossible that my mother was right, but if bringing you back cost me some strength, it came back again.”

He didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at the ceiling, wondering if they had wasted all this time for nothing, if he had actually ruined nearly seven decades for them both, or if she only managed to heal properly because he was not around. There was no way of knowing it for sure, and he knew that dwelling on it would only cause pain to them both, but it was hard, so very hard to not think of it. She wouldn’t lie to him, and she wouldn’t have said that if she wasn’t sure.

Where it left him was another thing altogether.

As if the list of unforgivable things he had done wasn’t long enough already.

Diana lifted her head and pulled just far enough away from him to look him in the face.

“What are you thinking?” She asked, reading his inner turmoil chase across his features, anguish and regret mixed into something that had no name.

“But what if the next time--” he started, the damned habit of thinking ten steps ahead because back in the day it was his only way to survive rearing its ugly head again.

She touched her thumb to his lower lip and smiled that divine smile of hers. “Then so be it.”

He didn’t speak of it again, vowing silently to himself to live forever if he had to. If that was what it took to keep her safe.

---

A few days after moving into Diana’s room, Steve woke up just after dawn, his eyes raw and his mind as foggy as the early November day outside the glass wall of her bedroom, pale wisps clinging to the remnants of frozen grass. It was early still, but Diana’s side of the bed was empty, and even half-sleep, he missed her desperately.

Steve ran his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He buried his nose into her pillow, hoping for the slumber to claim him once more, but it never came. He blinked his eyes open, slowly and unwillingly, waiting for his head to clear. There was a sound that he first mistook for the ever-present patter of rain against the glass, but when he turned his head, he found Diana sitting at the desk to the left from him, her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop.

For a few moments, he simply watched her, taking her in, all of her so achingly beautiful that he wondered half the time if he was dreaming. One of her legs was tucked beneath her thigh, and her hair was loose, falling down her shoulders in heavy waves, and she was wearing nothing but her underwear and a tank top - a very thin one - and he decided that next to having her in bed next to him and without any clothes whatsoever, this was the second best view he could possibly wake up to.

And then she looked up and saw him study her with sleepily eyes, breaking into a smile so bright and wonderful that it made his chest constrict fiercely. And Steve thought, I could never love anyone more than I love this woman.

“Hey,” he croaked, stifling a yawn.

“Morning,” she whispered, seemingly no longer caring about whatever it was that kept her so wildly occupied not a few seconds ago.

“Why are you up?” Steve grimaced a little. “S’early.”

And they had a late night. A very last night.

“Work,” she responded, amused, as she watched him fighting a losing battle. “Go back to sleep, Steve.”

He rolled onto his side, claiming her half of the bed and murmured, “C’mere,” in that thick, sleep-laced voice that never failed to undo her in the best way. He stretched and tucked Diana’s pillow under his cheek, watching her gaze trail along the outline of his body beneath the sheet slung over his waist, weighing the options. He knew the look. He liked that look very much. He particularly liked the things that often followed soon afterwards.

“I do have responsibilities, you know that, right?” Diana pointed out, an eyebrow arched and her chin resting on the heel of her hand propped on her desk.

“Mm-hm,” he hummed noncommittally, barely bothering to contain a smile that threatened to split his face in half. “At 7 in the morning?”

“It’s past noon in Paris,” she countered, clearly enjoying his impatience.

He scrunched his face, struggling for an argument that could tramp her sense of obligation in favour of something, well, less productive but much more fun. It was far too early for that, though. Thinking, that is. His thoughts were tumbling aimlessly into one another without much aim or purpose.

And so, he opted for looking at her, taking in the glint in her eyes and a quirk of her eyebrow and the way her tank top was hugging her body just right even though it did seem entirely excessive, all things considered.

How on earth he managed to survive without her for so long was beyond him.

At last, Diana caved in, never a fan of this game. She uncured from her seat and crossed the room, padding barefoot across the soft carpet and then lowering down on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped beneath the weight of her body, and Steve moved closer to her, reaching for her hand. He kissed her knuckles, watching her watch him with that small secret smile of hers that never failed to make him feel like he was losing his mind.

And then he dropped the pretences too because resisting the temptation was too bloody much for this early hour. He pushed up to sit and tugged her to him until she was close enough for his mouth to brush against hers.

“Hi,” he said again.

“Hi,” she whispered, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

God, he loved her smile. That smile alone could end wars and bring peace to the world, he thought.

His hand pushed into her hair, tangling in her black mane, the strands soft as silk between his fingers, bridging what little space was left between them. Her response was immediate, her body leaning into his touch and, encouraged, Steve bit gently at her bottom lip, coaxing a low moan out of her. She sighed softly against his lips. A wave of heat seared through him, blinding in its intensity.

“Steve,” she started without conviction when his lips moved across her cheek.

“Hm?” His mouth latched on the underside of her jaw, his thumb running slow circles on the back of her neck. “It’s too early to be out of bed and wear so many clothes.”

Her fingers curled around his wrist, although in protest or encouragement he wasn’t sure. She didn’t stop him though, so he hoped it was the latter.

“I’m practically naked,” Diana argued, amused.

“Not naked enough,” he murmured, nuzzling into the tender spot behind her ear. “Let’s fix that.”

“Steve.”

She drew just far enough away to be able to find his gaze, her hand resting on his ribs and making the early-morning process of putting his thoughts together into something more or less coherent nearly impossible.  

Still, he sighed, although not relinquishing the physical contact, his hand merely dropping to rest on her waist. “So, what’s this about?” Steve asked, his eyes darting toward her laptop that glowed in the dimness of a gloomy morning.

“A quarterly report and some shipment forms that needed my approval,” Diana explained, her fingers strumming absently along his skin. “Pierre is worried about the exhibition we’re opening later this month.”

Pierre, her assistant. The very one who somehow always knew to call at the most inconvenient times – even more so than Barry who texted pretty much nonstop, and it was often very had to tell whether it was an emergency or a new cat meme. Having been instantly added to his contact list was an interesting experience, Steve had found out very fast.

With Pierre, on the other hand, everything was an emergency. And maybe it was, but Steve had yet to figure out how exactly he expected Diana to fix them all from across half of the world. He was curious, though. He had seen Diana in many roles – a woman, a lover, a warrior. Yet the idea of her working at the Louvre – the Louvre – intrigued him greatly and he wondered what she was like as a boss and how she was different in that role from the Amazonian demi-goddess he was far more familiar with.

She was bossy, for sure. Had been for as long as they had known each other.

“Rightfully worried or panicking because you’re here and not there to supervise?” Steve clarified.

Diana laughed. “A little bit of both, I think.”

“Well, he’s a big boy.” He paused and frowned. “He is, isn’t he?”

She nodded, smiling. “He is. But some of those things are my job, not his.”

“He’s doing fantastic, I’m sure.” His fingers curled around her neck to draw her closer, his mouth finding hers again as he thought, This is what every morning should be like for as long as I breathe.

Steve’s hand slid down her neck, trailing the length of her arm before slipping around her waist.

“Steve.”

“Mm.”

His mouth abandoned hers and started to inch its way toward her neck once more, his teeth grazing lightly along the sensitive skin as he moved closer toward the spot that worked like magic. Her breath caught in her throat and Steve smiled to himself, feeling her resolve crumble. His fingers traced along the hem of her tank top before sliding underneath it, searching for skin. Christ, he loved her so much it almost hurt in that impossibly pleasant way that he wanted to never stop.

“Steve,” Diana tried again, albeit without conviction, trailing off as her spine arched under his touch.

He inched her tank top up, and then some more, kissing his way down her neck and toward her collarbone and wanting nothing more than to pull her to him and stay in bed for another hour, or five. Or the rest of the day, for that matter. They could make good use of that.

Was the wanting ever going to go away? He had no idea. He had no idea how what he felt for her could ever go away, or even fade. How much time could one person need for something this consuming to cease to be? Several lifetimes, for certain. And he didn’t want it to. Didn’t want to not feel this burning for her, the need simmering beneath his skin, the elation that filled him at the mere thought of her smile. Didn’t want the pricking of his skin at the sound of her voice whispering to him in the dark to ever ebb.

He turned his head, pressing his mouth to the pulse point just under her jaw, her blood throbbing rapidly against his lips. Pleased, he trailed his hand down her back and lower still, his fingers tracing the hem of her panties along the curve of her thigh, moving slowly closer to where she loved to be touched, both of them very much aware that once he got there her resistance wouldn’t stand a chance. Diana muttered something he didn’t catch, desire pulsing in his blood.

“Steve.”

With a hand on his chest, holding him firmly in place, she pulled away and took a steadying breath, dazed – much to his satisfaction, but also amused beyond measure by his rather confused look, caused by the sudden lack of contact.

“I wasn’t done,” he protested and tried to reach for her, but damn the Amazon strength that, with just a small nudge, had him on his back again.

“I have a meeting with a curator of the Gotham Museum of Art in an hour,” Diana said, steering the conversation in a different direction while she so very obviously tried not to laugh at the defeated look on his face. “To see if maybe we could do a collection exchange. They seem to be quite interested.”

“I can be quick,” Steve promised eagerly and heatedly and with as much conviction as he could muster, completely ignoring the second part of her statement. “And efficient. I can be very efficient,” he added when she tilted her head and arched an eyebrow.

He grinned.

“Don’t I know that,” Diana smirked and leaned over to kiss the corner of his mouth, her hand still holding him against the sheets. “And I prefer to take my time with you,” she whispered. “Tonight.”

Steve swallowed, watching the fire flare up in her eyes, his own body responding to it in an instant.

“How about I take you for lunch when I’m done?” She offered as a truce, taking pity on his wounded expression and, well, some other parts of him.

“I’m not sure I can wait that long,” he admitted, his gaze dropping to the bow of her mouth and then further down to the expanse of her skin disappearing in the cleavage of her shirt. “I’m hungry now.”

She laughed and stood up, and it took him a whole of two seconds to start missing her terribly.

“You’ll have to manage, I’m afraid,” she said, sitting back down at the desk.

Steve turned on his side and propped up on his elbow. “Hey, how come it’s always you taking me places?”

Diana glanced at him. “Because you don’t know the city.”

He made a face and ran his hand over his hair, trying to smooth it down and failing spectacularly. “Yeah, fair point.” He paused. “But how about I take you out for a change?”

Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “Where?”

The corner of his mouth curled upwards. “I have an idea.”

Diana turned off her laptop and closed it before crossed the room again until she was standing right before him, and Steve’s gaze traveled unashamedly up and down her legs.

“I’m sure you do.”

“Outside of this room, I swear,” he added, looking up. “Unless….” He let the sentence hang between them, his suggestive tone more than a little hopeful.

She shook his head, laughed, and leaned down to kiss him once more, her hand stroking his stubbled cheek. “I’ll come get you here at 1, yes?”

Steve craned his neck to chase her lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Sleep,” she murmured, her face not an inch away from his. “I promise you we won’t have time for it tonight.”

He smiled. “Tease.”

“You started it.”

He did, and he regretted nothing.

Steve chuckled, pulling her pillow closer and inhaling her scent that still lingered on it as Diana headed toward the bathroom. “Yeah, well, who wouldn’t?”

---

By the time Diana came out of the shower and got dressed, Steve was already asleep again, sprawled diagonally across the bed with his arms wrapped around her pillow. She smiled and walked over to the bed, more than a little tempted to wake him up and allow him to get her out of her clothes this time. So very tempted. They had done that before, and the memory of those moments stirred something warm in her chest, her whole body humming with need for his touch.

However, she did mean it when she said that some of the tasks her assistant was doing now were not entirely his responsibility, and had Diana been in Paris, it would have been a different story. Here, though, her resources were limited and time zones were an issue to be considered, and it wasn’t like she could take care of physically arranging the collection from another continent. Steve’s amusement regarding Pierre’s dependency wasn’t unreasonable, and while personally, Diana found it rather endearing, she did appreciate his hard work nonetheless, and the least she could do while she was here was finish the negotiations that had started months ago and were still nowhere near complete.

If nothing else, it made her feel a little bit better about still being in Gotham even though there was, technically, no need for it and no reason for her to stay, except for the man snoring softly into her pillow right now, tangled in the sheets, and her desperate need to hold on to this time with him, like this, for just a while longer.

She had lovers after Steve, people she was comfortable with and cared about, but never once was she scared of losing anyone the way she couldn’t bear the thought of losing him. She wasn’t ready to let go just yet.  

Lips curved into a smile, Diana crouched down near the bed. She stroked her hand through Steve’s hair, mindful of not disturbing him, and then pressed her lips to his forehead, breathing him in and trying to ignore the longing building up in her chest with all her might.

No one had ever had the kind of power over her that Steve wielded, and not once was she willing to give it to anyone so gladly.

His face scrunched a little at her touch, and she whispered a quiet I love you, unable to stop herself. Unable to stop saying it, period. Needed to say it for every day that she had spent missing him, the words whispered into his skin when they were making love and repeated again and again as they lay basking in the content afterglow.

And then, after a moment of hesitation, Diana stood up before she had a chance to change her mind and crawl back into his arms, the rest of the world be damned. She walked quietly out of the room, closing the door behind her and doing her goddamn best to ignore a pang of panic in her chest. It was still new, and half the time it felt like a dream and she was terrified out of her mind to wake up and find out that he was still gone.

She got it now. Used to having him slip right through her fingers, she understood the despair lurking behind Steve’s eyes, a reflection of her own fears that made her want to avert her gaze because they were too painful to see.

There was no one in the kitchen, even though the coffee machine was on and a bitter smell of the fine Arabica was hanging in the air. She was not surprised. Both Barry and Arthur liked to sleep in and Alfred often read in the study before breakfast if there were no urgent matters for him to attend to. Such as patching Bruce up after a rough night, which, if she recalled correctly, was a fairly frequent occurrence. Her gaze lingered for a moment on her semi-transparent reflection. The temperature kept going down steadily during the past week and the glass wall overlooking the dark, gloomy forest was fogged up at the corners. It was bound to snow in a week or two, she thought absently.

Diana reached for a cup holder, looking for the mug that she had claimed as hers when she stayed here for the first time, trying to decide if she could afford to have a proper breakfast, and then reconsidered when she noticed that the light over the staircase leading down to the Batcave was on.

Maybe she could stop by a coffee shop near the museum later, she decided.

Downstairs, Bruce was half-buried under the hood of the Batmobile, tugging and pulling at something that Diana couldn’t see. He glanced up when he heard the sound of her footsteps before turning his attention back to the problem du jour again, although it was more than enough for her to notice his weary look and dark circles under his eyes. He was a morning person alright, when he had to be, but she still couldn’t help but wonder if he was already up or still.

Diana crossed the distance between them and paused near the bumper of the car, peeking inside as well out of sheer curiosity.

“You need to sleep sometimes, you know?” She said, folding her arms over her chest.

“No rest for the wicked, or however that saying goes,” Bruce muttered without looking at her.

“You don’t have to take it to extremes,” she noted, smiling. “Is there anything bothering you, Bruce?” She asked when it went unnoticed.

“Why would you think that?”

Ha made a grab for a wrench from the toolbox sitting atop the tubes and hoses.

“You haven’t been around much lately.”

In the past few days, every time she tried to catch him for a proper conversation he was either out, or on the way out, or very obviously trying to come up with an excuse to escape. If Diana didn’t know any better, she would have assumed that he was avoiding her on purpose. And quite frankly, his inability or unwillingness to even meet her eyes right now spoke volumes.  

Bruce straightened up and turned to the work bench, looking for something among the assortment of tools spread out there, his back to her.

“Maybe you were too preoccupied to notice,” he said as he picked up a screwdriver.

“Can we talk?” She offered softly, watching the back of his head, then his profile as he leaned forward again.  

“About what?”

She didn’t waver. “The benefit in Gotham two months ago.”

His hesitation was brief, yet it didn’t escape her attention.

“What about it?” Bruce asked, his voice pointedly nonchalant, and then cursed when he dropped the screwdriver into the depths of the Batmobile, the metallic clang oddly loud in the suddenly quiet room.

Diana didn’t want to do it. Regretted not doing it sooner, unbidden guilt blossoming in her chest. She didn’t owe him anything, never had, but it didn’t mean that she didn’t see that he was hurting and that it was her fault, one way or another.

“You know what,” she murmured.  

This time, Bruce did look up, his gaze tired but sharp, his expression uncompromising, although she could see a flicker of doubt flash across it, like he couldn’t quite decide if he should deny it or brush it off or pretend that he had no idea what she was talking about. She braced herself for either one.

He chose neither.

“It was a kiss, Diana. Not a proclamation of undying love.” He pushes up to stand and picked up a rag to wipe his hands that were stained black with motor oil and dirt. “Alcohol and boredom are a dangerous combination. I should know. If nothing else, we are both aware that there is no such thing as undying love to begin with.”

Everything about him was daring her to disagree.

She didn’t, even though she didn’t believe that it was nothing. Certainly not for him. Hadn’t been for a long time. Her inability to reciprocate his feelings didn’t make her blind, although it might have made her look the other way more often than not.

“You seemed to have made the decision,” Bruce added when the pause started to stretch between them. He moved closer to her until they were only inches apart and she could smell cold and whiskey and that rubbery scent of the Batsuit on him. “Is there anything that I can say that can get you to change your mind?” The question was rhetorical, but there was desperate, hungry yearning behind his words.

She met his gaze, held it, wondering for just a moment—

It didn’t matter, though.

“No,” she shook her head.

Simple.

Honest.

He was wrong on another account, too. There was such thing as an undying love. It was real, and it was burning in her chest with such intensity that it was hard to breathe, and she never wanted for it to stop. Not even for a second. Just as she was certain that it never would.

Diana didn’t say any of that, though. Knew that she didn’t need to.  

Bruce was a good man, and she cared for him deeply, but the matters of his heart were none of her concern, no matter how much he wanted them to be. They would have worked, she thought. In another lifetime, if the stars were aligned differently, they could have worked. Maybe. He was driven, his passion matching hers, and there were so many things that they viewed similarly. She never considered it seriously, but she toyed with the idea.

And then she would have probably hurt him when it turned out that he wasn’t enough. Zeus knew it had happened before.

“What if he never returned?” He asked suddenly.

Diana felt her whole body deflate. “Don’t go there, Bruce,” she breathed, shaking his head.

He watched her for a long moment, and then nodded. “Why did you make it sound like he was dead, when…” he faltered not sure how to finish the sentence.

“I never said that,” she countered. “You assumed because of the old photograph.”

Because who wouldn’t? As a rule, his people didn’t get to live to be over a hundred years ago. Not often. Certainly not without ageing. So why did she feel so foul about never correcting him? For allowing him to believe a lie?

“How?” Bruce pressed, and this time there was curiosity to him.

Because I love him, Diana thought, and like always, it made her soul unfurl until it took so much space in her chest that she could barely inhale.

“It’s complicated,” she responded. “And it doesn’t really matter.”

He nodded again and stepped away from her, choosing not to push, breaking whatever spell kept them captive in a bubble of trust that burst before her eyes.

“Well, I’m glad…” He started and faltered once more. “If you’re happy.”

“I am.” Diana looked around the cavernous room before turning back to him.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Do you still love him? After all this time?”

She didn’t hesitate. “I do.”

“I’m glad.” He repeated and looked away. “You deserve to be happy.”

They remained silent for a few moments, both searching for words that didn’t seem to come.

“When I go home, he’s coming with me,” she said after a while.

Bruce stepped back to the work bench. “So, you’ll be a package deal, then?” He asked.

She smiled tentatively, not quite certain if it was a joke, but liking his wording for some reason. “Afraid so.”

His lips twitched a little, but the smile didn’t linger. “You should be careful with Waller. She is going to use him against you,” he spoke.

Her own smile faded as well, replaced by a slight frown. It wasn’t that she never thought about it – she didn’t trust that woman and wasn’t going to start now. But it was one thing to merely have that thought cross her mind, and something else entirely to have someone else put it into words.

“The way you tried to?” She asked, surprised by the sharp edge in her voice.

“Diana--”

“Don’t think that I forgot, Bruce. Don’t think I forgot that you tried to use him to manipulate me.”

He winced, his palm running over the back of his neck. “I won’t. Trust me, I won’t.”

She squared her shoulders. “And if you do it again, I am going to walk out this door and never come back.”

He exhaled slowly, his eyes earnest. “I know, and I’m grateful that you haven’t already.”

“I won’t let Waller come anywhere near Steve,” she said.

His frown deepened. “She might not ask.”

Diana scoffed. “I’d like to see her try.”

“She’s going to have to go through all of us if she has to,” he noted.

She shook her head. “It’s a nice sentiment, but I’m sure it won’t come to it.”

Bruce’s jaw set tautly.

“It is not a sentiment, and it will come to it. Because what do you think is going to happen if she can’t get to him?” He asked, and this time her brows knitted together, his voice cutting deep. “She won’t come for you, she’s not an idiot. And she won’t come for Steve because it’s the same as coming for you. So, it stands to reason that she will try to do it through the next best target. Barry. Victor. The rest of us.” He rubbed his forehead. “You think she’s above hurting someone for her own gain? She’s done it before and she’s very good at covering up her tracks.”

Diana’s lips pressed into a tight line. “I will never let it happen.”  

He lowered his hand, his eyes weary. “It’s not your job to keep watch. Not like that.”

She was shaking her head. “What do you want me to say, Bruce? What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to understand what’s at stake here.”

“You think I don’t?” She demanded, furious. “You think I’m clueless?”

“I think you’re blindsided when it comes to Steve Trevor.” The jealousy in his voice caught her off guard. Jealousy he had no right to own. “He is your Achilles heel, if you please.”

Diana bristled at his accusation. “And Alfred is yours, and Barry’s father is his. Lois. Mera. Victor’s father. Steve is not my weakness because he loves me and I love him, he never has been.” If nothing else, he had been the opposite, showing her the side of strength she never knew existed. “We all have people we care about. It doesn’t make any one of them stand out among the others.”

“But it does,” Bruce insisted. “Waller wants more from him than she’s letting on. She can’t not to. He’s 136 years old, for heaven’s sake! However that works….” He stopped abruptly, his jaw working for a few moments. “It’s all too—convenient. The timing, his sudden return after all those years…”

“Whatever it is, she won’t get it,” Diana said firmly, cutting him off, and Zeus help her, she felt sorry for Amanda Waller – if the woman tried to cross her path, Diana wouldn’t hesitate. “Never.” She bit her lip, then exhaled slowly, remembering why she was here and what this was supposed to be about. “Bruce…” she started.

“Don’t,” he interjected, lifting his hand up.

“You are deflecting.”

His face closed off instantly.

“Don’t pity me. It was a kiss. I have never expected anything from you, not then and certainly not now.”

“I’m not--”

He gave her a look and Diana cut off, not wanting to lie but also unsure what the truth was anymore.

“It’s better that way. For the team. For everyone. All of this,” Bruce gestured vaguely around them, “it’s bigger than you and I, and if he’s the one…” He trailed off. This was nonsense and they both knew it, but she was not going to argue, knowing all too well that they could drown in what-ifs if they allowed themselves to. “Just be careful.”

“I’m sorry,” Diana said softly, for not feeling the same way or for admitting it, or for losing her temper minutes ago, she wasn’t sure, but hoped he knew.

For hurting him.

There was a heavy feeling between them, and maybe she wasn’t completely ready to forgive him for his words, for the things he had done, but there was fear behind his motives, not malice, she knew that much. She wasn’t sure if it made it better, but it didn’t make it worse.

“Don’t be. It’s me who should be sorry for… well, a lot of things.” Bruce took a breath and then chuckled wistfully. “Your Captain Trevor is one lucky man.”

She felt the tightness in her chest ease. “I would argue that I am.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

“Of course, you would.”

Her gaze darted toward the staircase, and then back to Bruce. “You really need to get some sleep.”

---

When Steve woke up again, the early morning fog that never failed to turn this place into a scene straight out of a gothic novel was gone and the sun that offered all the light but none of the warmth had crept over the treetops, flooding the bedroom with a soft glow.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and rolled onto his back, squinting around the room, half-expecting to see Diana at the desk or rummaging through the closet but not surprised when he found it empty. A pang of longing jolted through him. It had been a few hours, and he already missed her to the point of fierce ache in his chest.

There was a text from her on his phone, a quick good morning that she had sent an hour and a half ago, and Steve smiled, rereading a brief message several times. In his mind, he could easily see her typing it after she parked the car outside of the Museum or maybe in the elevator, and he hoped that she wished she was here instead as desperately as he did. He could think of a few ways for them to make good use of this morning.

Not that he expected her to cancel her life for him. It was not Diana’s fault, after all, that he had crashed back into her world with the grace of a bull in a china shop. Nor was it her problem that he would much rather spend all his free time between the sheets with her making up for the lost years than do, well, anything else.

Not that Steve had nothing to do, for that matter, he reminded himself.

In the past few days, he had managed to upgrade Bruce’s security system, which even Diana had a hard time getting around when they tested it and he learned - not without surprise - that she was quite spectacular at bypassing them when she needed to. He was also going to have a look at the firewall in the Batcave, as a part of his agreement with Bruce. God only knew what he had on those servers, including the half-fake file he had on Steve.

Better safe than sorry, Steve figured.

Which, come to think of it, could be a project for the morning.

Maybe.

Except that it meant going down to the Batcave, which Steve was more than a little reluctant to do. It was the one place in the house where Bruce seemed to gravitate to the most, and ever since he and Diana… well, fixed things, there was a not so discreet undercurrent of tension between the two of them.

Sometimes, he could practically hear an endless array of what-ifs running through Bruce’s head. All the things that Steve refused to venture into for fear of losing his mind.

He could still try, though. It wasn’t like they could keep this up forever.

At least that was the plan when he finally made his way to the kitchen only to find Victor fiddling with the coffee maker. Barry was sitting at the kitchen isle, slouched over a bowl of cereal. He glanced up from his breakfast and offered Steve a small wave.

“Morning,” Steve said, pausing for just a second, curious. “It’s Tuesday,” he pointed out.

“Your point being?” Barry asked, shoving another spoonful into his mouth, his words garbled as he chewed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

The young man shook his head. “They’re painting the lab. I’m allergic to that stuff.”

“Huh,” Steve blinked and turned to Victor.

“Don’t look at me,” Victor said. “I’m just hiding here. My dad’s been a bit overbearing lately, after what happened at the S.T.A.R. Labs.”

A faint frown creased Steve’s forehead. “Are you doing okay?” He asked, eyeing the Cyborg with apprehension.

He still wasn’t entirely sure how the healing worked for someone like Victor to begin with, but he looked fine, for a half-robot. Come to think of it, having a self-regenerating tissue was quite handy, perhaps. If nothing else, it was so much more convenient in their line of work than dealing with the vulnerable human bodies that could be easily incapacitated and took weeks to heal.

It fascinated Steve to no end. That, and the mechanics of it. Jokingly, he asked Diana the other night if he could take Victor apart to see how he worked and put him back together, and she laughed until she had tears in her eyes.

The memory made his mouth curve in a smile, slight colour rising on his cheeks. He didn’t mean it, of course. Not in a literal sense.

“Yeah.” Victor turned back to the coffee maker, his lips pressed together. “Considering my definition of okay.”

Steve nodded. “Acting up again?” He asked, his gaze darting toward the machine.

Vic nodded. “Alfred asked me to have a look. I think it’s the power cord because everything else seems to be fine, but I can’t…” he frowned.

“Diana seems to be the only one who has a way with that thing,” Steve said and pulled a carton of orange juice from the fridge. He could get coffee later. Or he could also ask Alfred to throw the evil thing out and get something less temperamental.

Vic chuckled. “Yeah, Di’s a woman of many talents.”

“Dude,” Barry hissed theatrically, snapping his head up, his eyes comically wide. His pointed at Steve. “That’s his girlfriend.”

Victor rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like--”

“I know, it’s okay.” Steve patted him on the metal shoulder, smiling. And added, “She really is.” He started toward the pantry but then stopped and turned to Victor again. “Can I ask you something?”

Vic shrugged without looking at him. “Sure.”

“Does it, uh… does it hurt?” Steve gestured vaguely toward the metal parts of him, too curious to shut up now that the words were out of his mouth.

This time, Victor glanced at him, his lips curving into a faint smile. “No. Not anymore.” At the counter, Barry was hanging on to every word, his breakfast forgotten. “I know it did, when I… you know, in the beginning. But I don’t remember much of it, it’s all blurred.” He shook his head, and Steve wondered if maybe it was for the best, a blessing in disguise.

Once, back in 1917, he got shot. A graze that was more of an inconvenience than an actual injury that left him with a scar on his left shoulder. He was sent to the field hospital to have it checked nonetheless, and that experience was like nothing he had ever had before. There were people there with their limbs torn off by the mines, people with half their faces melted off in the fire. The war was a nightmare, but that tent? That tent was hell. He had never seen this much pain in one place, so concentrated and all around them. It was like a living, breathing thing, taking up the inside of the canvas tent and suffocating them all.

Steve knew that few of those men lived, but those who did – well, he could bet his very soul that they would rather not remember the days of unbearable agony. He certainly didn’t want that for Victor.

“Right now, it’s odd,” Vic added. “It feels… okay, but strange. I do have the whole ‘phantom limb’ thing going on when my leg or my back would itch and it wouldn’t go away for hours, and it both the most and the least human thing about this whole…” He glanced down himself and then met Steve’s eyes. “Whatever this is. But no, it doesn’t hurt.”

“Man, this is the coolest thing ever,” Barry blurted out.

Victor looked at him. “Which part?”

“The—the ghost… whatever.” He lifted another spoonful of cereal to his mouth. “All of it, really.”

“You think?” Victor asked flatly.

“It does sound fascinating,” Steve admitted.

“And he can play video games with his brain,” Barry added, for what felt like a hundredth time, to Steve’s memory.

“Yeah, that’s the biggest perk of being only half human,” Victor deadpanned.

“Exactly!” Barry agreed, not hearing the sarcasm in the Cyborg’s voice.

“I guess having built-in weaponry could come in handy now and then,” Steve offered before Vic had a chance to come up with a retort.

“Yeah,” Victor nodded, “and also this.”

He pressed his spread-out fingers to the side of the coffee maker, his brows pulling together in concentration as if he was hooking to the machine’s mainframe. And then he curled his hand into a fist and smacked the whole thing with it. It sputtered for a moment, and after a few seconds, the main console lit up and the air filled instantly with the bitter smell of percolating coffee.

“I could have done that,” Alfred noted, appearing in the kitchen in that exact moment.

“You’re welcome,” Victor grinned at him.

“Captain,” Alfred nodded.

“Alfred,” Steve echoed, amused.

He grabbed a cup from the holder but paused and looked over his shoulder, having to stifle a smile.

A speedster, a cyborg, a butler, bickering about something amongst themselves.

Somewhere in the house, an Atlantian was probably still snoring away – if there was one thing that Steve noticed about Arthur it was that he decidedly wasn’t a morning person. Not in the slightest. That, his distaste for the water jokes – the last time Barry suggested that he tried talking to the river cutting Gotham in half, the very one that was known for toxic waste floating in it, alongside with two-headed fish, he had to make a very fast escape because Arthur did not appreciate the humour. Or that time when Bruce asked him to part the water of the lake like in the Biblical story and Steve thought that the Batman was in for his first real flight.

And somehow along the way, while he was busy putting the broken pieces of his life back together and trying to find his heart again, they all managed to crawl under Steve’s skin without him even noticing and found home there.

In a few hours, he would see Diana again, and the mere thought of her made his heart spring into a gallop. He had missed her, but he didn’t realize how much until he didn’t have to anymore, and being back with her left him with a sense of vertigo, the ever-terrifying sensation of free fall that he didn’t want to break.

How could less than a thousand lifetimes of this ever be enough?

---

Their first date after the war, after Steve had healed and they returned to London, was a dinner at a small restaurant not far from his apartment that he booked on Etta’s recommendation because he had never stayed in the city long enough to discover any places more sophisticated than the bars frequented by Sameer and Charlie in between their missions. The ones that supplied cheap alcohol and trouble above all else. The ones that were not suited for a princess – he chose not to think of having taken her to one before (as Etta reminded him helpfully).

They were on a mission, he had told himself. It didn’t count. He was not trying to…to make an impression then. Mostly. Yet, he still yearned to fix it.

Hence, the dinner.

He remembered the red checkered tablecloths and flowers on each table and an actual menu with a selection of options - something that he was so unaccustomed to that he could barely bring himself to pick something. He remembered smiling like a moron because he didn’t seem to be able to ever stop, and Diana’s inquisitive gaze when he tried to come up with a sensible enough explanation as to why any of that was a big deal when they were already sharing not only their meals but also a bed since the day she had found him in that field outside of the airbase in Belgium – something that he couldn’t quite put a finger on himself. He remembered the awestruck and curious look on her face and thinking that they were doing it all wrong.

Okay, not wrong but the other way around, and it both amused and scared him, the newness of it and the lack of… rules, perhaps.

He took her to bed before he took her out for dinner – and no, sharing a bland stew by the campfire on the night they stayed with Chief didn’t count as one. He loved her before he truly knew her. He almost lost her before they had a chance at anything. But then again, nothing had ever been normal about them, so maybe it wasn’t much of a surprise that he struggled to find his footing. Maybe it was about making their own normal, or so he was thinking as he watched her watch him in the faint light of a dancing flame that night, a tender smile on her lips and a life full of wonder stretching infinitely before them.

But that was a long time ago, a whole century, to be exact. And even though Steve still remembered that night with striking clarity, they did manage to make their own rules that seemed to have worked much better than anything he had ever learned prior to meeting her, social rules be damned. Diana didn’t care much for appearances and gestures. She wanted him, she wanted to be loved, and those were the things that Steve could give her so easily and gladly that he was nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste.

And this, it turned out, had never changed.

“Okay, you have to be able to reach the handlebars comfortably,” Steve was telling her now, on a cold November afternoon nearly a hundred years later, as his hands curled over Diana’s, her skin warm against his palms.

He had spent the past half hour going in great detail over the anatomy of his motorcycle and showing her the switches and the clutches and the levers, making her repeat his words back to him so he knew that she got it right. It was slightly more nuanced than the car, and even though she preferred manual transmission to the automatic, as he had learned, and the principle here was very similar, he wanted to make sure--

“This is your idea of taking me out?” Diana asked, not without amusement.

Sitting behind her, his chest pressed against her back and the hair that escaped a loose bun on the nape of her neck whipping against his face, Steve let out a short laugh. “Don’t tell me this is not fun.” And then, unable to resist the temptation – because when was he ever? – he dipped his head and kissed the back of her neck.

“You’re being distracting,” she warned him, but there was a smile in her voice.

“I learn from the best,” he noted, and she laughed. “Okay, so…” He cleared his throat.

“It’s pretty straightforward,” she said, turning her head slightly to the side.

Truth be told, this morning when he promised her that he had a plan he didn’t exactly have one. He just thought that he would figure it out by lunch. It didn’t bother Steve one way or another that she seemed to be the one to always choose where they went – which was her bedroom more often than not (which was something that he had no business complaining about). However, there was a burning need simmering inside of him to do something for her, break out of their routine, however non-invasive it was. It had been so long since he could have her all to himself, even for a short while, that he craved it beyond comprehension.

Neither he, nor Diana walked through the past century without emerging on the other side with more than a little bit of cynicism clinging to their bodies like a second skin. He had expected it from himself, what with the first war effectively stripping him of the delusions he might have had when he was younger and the subsequent ones leaving him with a hard shell around his soul to protect it from further pain, but seeing it in her – albeit much less pronounced and bitter than his own – was still something that Steve wasn’t quite prepared for.

The fact alone didn’t bother so much as sadden him. There were many things that he had always wanted desperately to shield her from, and knowing that he had failed on all accounts felt like a punch to the gut that left him breathless.  

It was not his place to stop it, to get her not to give up – and god help him, he would never blame her if she had. Time was starting to take a toll on him as well. There were moments when he ached to know what his expiration date was, exactly. Queen Hippolyta made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t immortal like her daughter, and there were many a night when Steve lay awake scared of closing his eyes for fear of never opening them again because there were no rules to his life.

God only knew what Diana went through on her own, what demons were lurking in her mind, haunted by the memories of pain and loss.

There was nothing that Steve could do to fix it for her.

However, he could try to coax the old Diana out of her hiding. He had never expected her to remain the same, much like he knew that he would be a different person at the end of this journey – there was no point in fighting the inevitable. But their old selves, brittle and frayed at the edges, were still there somewhere, deep down, buried under a layer of disappointment and pain and fear.

And so when she came back to get him around lunch time, he gave her knee-length skirt a sceptical look and suggested that she changed into something more practical. Intrigued, Diana obliged without arguing. And then he drove them to the harbour, nearly empty this late in the season with the chilly wind blowing from the water and angry waves crashing against the stone and concrete below, and said that it was time for her to learn how to drive a motorcycle.

All things considered, it definitely wasn’t the worst idea he had ever come up with.

And there it was, a familiar glint of surprise in her eyes mixed with something that made Steve’s chest fold in on itself. A feeling that was most certainly worth dying for. He wanted—

He wanted so badly for her to never stop being surprised. He wanted her to never, ever stop wondering.

The air was cold, biting at their cheeks and noses even though Steve was more than a little certain that Diana only wore her jacket because it was a social convention, to stop strangers from gawking at her. A dozen rather puzzled seagulls were floating over the water coloured in gold by the sun that no longer bothered pretending that the winter wasn’t near, casting odd looks in their direction, and he felt his blood flowing in his veins like it hadn’t in a very long time.

“Are you hungry?” Steve asked as Diana fiddled with the controls under the dashboard.

“Yes,” she admitted, glancing at him. “A little.”

“Well, maybe you could drive us somewhere later,” he offered, and she smirked. “Ready?”

Diana nodded, and he caught a glimpse of another smile that took root in his chest, spreading all the way into the tips of his fingers and his toes before springing into a full bloom across his face and he was beaming like a lovesick idiot that he was. God, he was so crazy about her that his heart was about to burst.

Steve leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her shoulder, sliding his arm around her – not to be thrown off the bike if she started it too abruptly, and also because he wanted to never stop touching her. He ran his hand across her stomach. “Okay, let’s do this.”

It took her a few attempts, but Diana got it right after a minute or two, waving him off with, “I got this, Steve,” as she brimmed with stubborn determination to figure things out on her own that he loved so.  

And then… and then there was swerving, and the wind tearing at the folds of their clothes and slapping wisps of her hair against his face. And laughter. And a time or two when Steve thought that they would fly through an embankment and straight into the frigid water - and if they did, it would probably be worth it. The bike stalled; Diana had to restart it half a dozen times before she got a hang of it, and when she came too close to end of the pier, he had to grab the handlebars over her hands and steer them back to safety.

He could feel her excitement flowing in his own veins like it belonged there.

And suddenly, none of this felt like a bad idea anymore.

The past few days felt surreal, too good to be true even. It was almost like someone climbed into his head and pulled everything he had dreamt of and prayed for and made it real, and even better than anything he could ever have imagined.

However, Steve wasn’t delusional about this honeymoon phase lasting forever. Soon enough, their lives would have to fall back into some sort of rhythm. Diana had a job, and he had one hell of a task cut out for him if he wanted to work with the League. Waller’s radio silence bothered him more than he was willing to let on and he itched to find out what caused it. He needed to know what they were up against before it was too late, and that thought was a constant presence in the back of his mind.

But it wasn’t ending today, and hopefully not tomorrow; and right now, neither of them needed to think about any of that. Not for a little while.

“I gotta admit, you weren’t half bad,” he said when the sun started to inch toward the horizon and the shadows around them began to grow longer and Diana finally brought his bike to a stop with a jerk.

“Not half bad?” She echoed, incredulous and mock-insulted, as Steve propped it on a kickstand and slid off, missing the close contact with her instantly.

She climbed off too and stepped to him, pulling him to her by the lapels of his jacket. Steve didn’t resist, his lips stretching into a smile the moment before they met hers.

“You were good,” he murmured against her mouth, drawing her closer to him by her hips.

One of her hands slid up his chest and curled around the back of his neck, her body alive and languid against his. He could taste the thrill of the past few hours on her tongue, feel it in the way her fingers slid into his hair as she kissed him.

“A natural,” Steve added, smiling.  

Diana hummed in agreement and then stepped back. She reached for his hand and weaved her fingers through his. They walked toward the end of the pier, listening to the cries of seagulls nearly swallowed by the furious roar of the water and the singing of the wind. Before them, the ocean was stretching endlessly all the way to the places somewhere out of their reach.

Diana paused before the railing and peered into the distance, longing for something that she couldn’t quite put into words building up inside of her. Steve could feel it thrumming in her blood.

He let go of her hand and moved to wrap his arms around her from behind. He pressed a kiss to the back of her head before resting his cheek against her temple, his gaze following hers. The wind was ferocious here, but the view was breathtaking – fierce and powerful, the ocean smelling of salt and seaweed and places they couldn’t see. He could certainly understand the appeal even if they were a few seconds away from being blown away.

“You were right,” Diana said after a few moments. She ran her hand along the sleeve of his jacket until her fingers reached his wrist, curling around it, her touch soothingly warm. “It was fun.”

Steve chuckled. “Hey, I promised you a good time.”

“You always do, and you always deliver,” she responded matter-of-factly, and his skin flushed at the implication she didn’t even bother to hide.

The Diana he knew back in the day was far less proficient in suggestive banter, but Steve had to admit that he rather enjoyed it now, even if half the time it ended with his heart racing for dear life and him struggling for words, a quick-thinking and articulate spy that he was.

Much to Diana’s immense amusement.

“You know, we could have just stayed in your bedroom,” he pointed out, and she laughed, the warmth of it making his very soul unfurl in his chest. For a while, they just stood there, watching the seagulls diving toward the water and soaring back into the sky as he held her close, her body nestled neatly into the circle of his arms and his heart hammering against her shoulder blades. “Do you miss it?” Steve asked after a few minutes. “Themyscira?”

The name of the island still rolled with difficulty from his tongue. Their time spent there remained one of his most cherished memories – not so much the heavenly island as the look on Diana’s face when she was there, the easiness to her, her body language relaxed and at ease. There was nothing there to warrant any worry, never had been. And yet Steve couldn’t help but wonder now and then how their lives might have turned out if they never went there at all.

A pang of shame shot through him, hot and burning, making him want to claw it from under his skin. The island was Diana’s home and she loved it, and she longed for it even when she didn’t want to admit it. He had no right to take it away from her. Yet, if his conversation with the Queen never happened—

A sigh flowed from his chest. He wouldn’t have to run away from something he never knew existed.

“I do,” Diana said after a moment. “But I know they are well. It is enough.”

She turned to rest her forehead against his cheek, and Steve reached absently to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Do you ever wish that we never went there?” She asked as if reading his mind.

“No,” Steve responded, surprised that he actually meant it. “I wish that some things had turned out differently. I wish that your mother was wrong.” He took a breath. “But no, I never wished that we didn’t go. You missed them, and I wanted answers.”

Be careful what you wish for, he thought. Most of the things he knew about the Greeks and their mythology was from Diana, and the awful irony of opening his own Pandora’s Box through her wasn’t lost on him. Speak of unexpected.

“I did,” she admitted, her finger circling absently over the juts of his knuckles. “But I wanted you more.”

He stayed quiet for a while, watching the water, inhaling the ocean. Diana had always been drawn to it for as long as he could remember, the wistfulness in her gaze whenever she would look at the waves crashing against the beach never escaping his attention.  

I wanted you more.

“Are you cold?” Steve asked softly, tightening his grip on her.

“No,” Diana shook her head, her hair brushing against his face.

He smiled. “Right. A goddess. So above our trivial human concerns.”

“Doesn’t mean that I don’t like you holding me,” she told him.

“You know, I…” Steve started and faltered. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry and his blood pounding fast in his ears. He could say anything now and it wouldn’t matter. She wouldn’t know the difference. Still, when he regained his ability to speak, he went for the truth, “I saw you once. In Paris, at the Louvre. About a decade and a half ago.”

His heart was thudding in earnest by the time he fell silent to the point of him feeling dizzy.

Diana stayed quiet, and a hot wave of panic rose inside of him, making him want momentarily to turn back the time and swallow the words before they came out of his mind. With her, he always was either fumbling for words, or spilling his soul without thinking twice, and he wasn’t certain which one was more frightening.

They never taught him that. When they were schooling him to be a spy, no one ever told him that there was nothing as disarming and terrifying as loving someone with everything that he was.

“I know,” Diana said so softly that he almost missed it. “I saw you, too.”

Steve’s brows pulled together and he glanced down at her, wanting desperately to read her face but she remained staring straight ahead.

“You—you did?” He asked.

Surely, he had to have heard her wrong.

“It was April and we had just opened a new exhibition the previous week. You were standing in front of a Monet painting and looking at it like you were trying to find the answers in it unknown to mankind since the creation of the universe,” she said quietly. “And I thought… for a moment, I thought that you came back for me.”

Steve felt his body go rigid, and when he spoke, his voice came out hoarse and raw.

“Diana…”

“I didn’t think that it was really you,” she admitted, her fingers running absently over the back of his hand.

“You didn’t?” He echoed.

Diana shook her head. “I used to see you often after you left. I’d notice a man with the same haircut or hear someone speak in your accent, and think…”

Her voice caught, and she trailed off. Steve pressed his lips to her temple. She turned in the circle of his arms, her hands snaking under his unzipped jacket to rest on his waist. She might not have felt the cold the way he did, but her cheeks were pink from the wind, and cool to the touch when he reached to loop a piece of hair around her ear.

It fell right back across her face moments later.

“I went to an art show in Geneva once, shortly after I moved back to Paris,” she continued, taking his hand in hers and intertwining their fingers. Her eyes were watching his thumb running over her knuckles. “There was a father with a young girl, his daughter, on the plaza in front of the gallery. She ran over to him and he caught her in his arms and put her on his shoulders. She was laughing the whole time. From the back, he looked so much like you that I was certain…” Her other hand twitched on his side. “Until he turned around, I thought it was you.”

Steve could see it in his mind – a sun-bathed square and the light reflecting off the windows, flocks of bold pigeons and toddlers chasing after them between congregations of tourists with cameras. And amidst them all, a woman frozen to a spot. He recalled the way he felt when he saw Bruce kiss her at the benefit and it was akin having someone stab him in the heart and twist the knife for good measure.

Whatever that encounter felt like for Diana, it couldn’t have felt good.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, bowing his head closer to hers until their faces were almost touching.

“I hoped that it was you, and prayed that it wasn’t,” she said, her gaze drawn back to the waves, and for once, Steve wished that he couldn’t see her expression. The anguish chasing across her features was unbearable. “That day, I was so jealous I couldn’t recognize myself. More than I’ve ever been before.” Her lips twitched humourlessly. “Which is ironic, considering the history of my people.”

“And here I was thinking that you were above something that mundane,” Steve muttered.

Diana turned to him, the concerned lines around her eyes smoothing out, her lips curving into a proper smile.

“You’d think so, but in reality, no one feels deeper or more passionately than gods.” She sighed. “I knew that it wasn’t you when that man turned around, but before then, I stood there and watched them. And I thought that there was nothing that I wanted more than for you to be happy. But even more than that, I wanted you to be happy with me.”

Steve took in a shuddered breath and looked up from the knot of their hands. He found her gaze.

“I’m happy with you, Diana,” he said quietly, his voice earnest. “I’ve never been happier than when I am with you. Then. Now. A million years from this moment.”

It was silly thing to say. Silly and sentimental and like it came straight from one of those tacky greeting cards that people gave to each other because their own words didn’t seem enough. The words that, if someone else said them, would have grated on his own ears. The words that, if said in front of Sammy and his friends, would have made him a laughing stock for weeks on end. Steve didn’t care. He wanted to be tacky and sentimental, he wanted to sound like a cliché. If that was how he felt, then so be it.

Diana’s features softened and a teasing comment he half-expected never came.

“I tried to find you, in the 1960’s, after Etta passed away,” she said after a moment. “I thought you’d come to her funeral, and when you didn’t, I tried…”

Steve grimaced a little. “I’m pretty damn good at hiding.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I—” he cleared his throat. “I didn’t know about Etta until it was too late.” The memory was bitter and painful, aching still in his chest. Of all the things he would never forgive himself for, losing track of the people he loved was one of his biggest regrets. “I spoke with her daughter, about a month after…” He shook his head. “I went to say goodbye to Charlie, though. You should have seen how mad he was at me for—” his lips tugged upwards at the corners at the memory. “Well, for losing you.”

Diana let out a small laugh. “I can imagine. Sameer was just as bad.” She ran her hand back and forth along his side, her touch warm even through his shirt. “I saw him in Paris a few times, and the man had a foul mouth on as many languages as I could count.”

“All about me?” Steve chuckled.

Diana’s eyebrow arched. “Of course.”

“I went to his show once, when he was touring in Belgium,” Steve confessed. “He beat me with a bouquet that he received from one of his devoted admirers.” She laughed again. “Said it was a much better use for it. And called me names, too, that I’m not going to repeat in the presence of a lady, and told me to go find you.” He let out a breath. “I’m not saying I didn’t deserve it.”

“You didn’t,” she murmured, lifting their hands up to her mouth and pressing a kiss to his fingers. “You were hurting.” The wind picked up and then died down just as suddenly, and odd calm settling over them. “Although I still wish you’d listened to him.”

Steve did, too. Wished he’d listened to Etta when he called him a moron and some other unflattering words. Wished he’d listened to Sammy when he told Steve to get his ‘sorry ass back to Paris and stop being an idiot’ – direct quote. Wished he’d listened to Charlie whose lungs were collapsing the last time they spoke and who still managed to make Steve feel like he was the one who had drawn the short straw. The latter probably should have clued him in, but the wound was still raw and bleeding, and he chose to let it scar rather than poke at it.

“I miss them,” he said.

“I miss them, too,” Diana sighed.

They spoke of their friends some more, trading old stories and filling in the gaps that each of them had. Steve never met Sameer’s grandkids, and Diana knew little to nothing about Charlie who seemed to be the most adamant of them all to cut the ties with the past for fear of falling into a pit of despair that the war had dragged him into all over again. He missed Etta terribly, but keeping an open communication was a tempting getaway to coming back and he was scared. Diana did, though. She never forgot, and he gave her a story from before they met for each one that she had from after he had left.  

“Does the League ever remind you of them?” Steve asked when they both fell silent, realizing that he was practically shaking from the chill by that point, his toes numb cold stones in his boots.

“Sometimes,” she smiled. “I think the League is far less reckless than your boys.”

Amused, he shook his head. “I beg to differ.” And added, “I think that if they all met, they’d have liked each other.”

She let out a small laugh. “They would have,” she agreed, leaning into him.

“Do you remember Veld?” He asked after a moment, his voice low. “The night after the liberation? Dancing?”

She tilted her head, curious. “Yes. Of course.”

“Remember how I told you that I didn’t know what life without the war was like?” She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were flicking between his, waiting for him to continue. “I still don’t think I do. Probably never have.”

Diana let go of his hand, her gaze searching his, and it was as hard for Steve to look at her now as it was when she had first asked that question and he came up empty.

She put her hands on either side of his face, and her mouth formed into a small smile that made something snap inside of him.

“I love you,” she said quietly, her right thumb running over his cheekbone. “I will always love you.”

His gaze dropped from her eyes down to her mouth and the temptation was too strong to resist. He leaned forward and kissed her, her lips warm against his. She pulled him to her, weaving her arms around his neck and allowing his hands so slip underneath her jacket and around her waist, palms roaming over her back, her shoulder-blades, everywhere he wanted them to be, drawing her closer to his chest until he could feel her heartbeat as clear as his own.

She gasped against his mouth when one of his hands slipped beneath the hem of her shirt, startled by the cold of his touch to her skin. A low groan formed in the back of her throat, her lips parting against his and sending a shiver of a different kind down Steve’s body. He didn’t hesitate, kissing her the way he wanted to kiss her every moment of every day that they were apart, frantic and almost panicky, needing to put into his touch everything he knew not how to express with words.

Diana was the one to break the kiss, pulling back a little, her eyes dazed and dark with want when they found his, knocking what little air Steve still had left in his lungs out of him. She was breathing hard, her chest heaving against his, and although it had never been about pride with them, he was stupidly pleased to know that even after all this time he was still able to kiss her senseless, quite literally so.

“Take me back home, Steve,” she whispered, and it came out as a demand, her voice hoarse, her exhales puffing out in small clouds between them.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “I thought you were hungry,” he reminded her, his fingers running back and forth along the base of her spine beneath her shirt.

Diana’s hand flexed, curling around a fistful of his shirt under his jacket.

“I am.”

---

Funny how some mistakes were meant to keep biting one in the ass for as long as one lived, apparently.

There wasn’t a day when Amanda Waller didn’t regret forming Suicide Squad – she got nothing out of it and lost more than she wanted to admit – and yet it was the one thing that somehow seemed to haunt her no matter how much she tried to put it behind her.

If she knew to set her attention on Justice League earlier, a lot of things could have gone very differently, yet here she was, still trying to clean up the mess in Midcity while dodging everything else coming her way and seeing no way out.

And on top of that, she had managed to grossly miscalculate her steps with the League as well, which felt like a cherry on top of the crap cake of the situation she was in. When she first found the photograph and discovered that Steve Trevor was alive, he was meant to be her trump card. Instead, she was left with nothing to bargain with. Bringing him in was a mistake. The one that she couldn’t fix now.

There had been nothing in his scant file on his personal relationship with Wonder Woman, and as far as Waller was concerned, Diana Prince had never been in a romantic relationship at all. She should have known better.

At the time, Waller was going for half-gratitude from a certain demi-goddess in hopes of getting in her good graces, and half-shock to shake up the seemingly established peace in the League. God knew, she needed to have an upper hand with them for once, and briefly, Bruce Wayne’s reaction was almost worth it. Her own superiors had been breathing down her neck for months now, urging her to gain control over half a dozen people who could tear this city apart without breaking a sweat with no consequences whatsoever and, if nothing else, her continuous failures in that regard were starting to drive her up the wall.

Yet, what she ended up with was rejection and animosity, driving her further away from her goal than she had ever been. And she needed to fix it ASAP. There was only so much her superiors would put up with before they decided to get someone else involved, someone who, in their opinion, might be better suited for the task, but Amanda Waller had not spent several decades of her life doing her damned best to keep peace here to simply hand over her victories to anyone else and walk away.

The problem was, she was running out of time.

Ice cubes clinked softly in her glass when Waller lifted it to her lips and took a small sip, aware of the burning trail the alcohol would leave in her throat. It was almost midnight and the hallways outside of her office had been quiet for hours. She couldn’t bring herself to leave though, not yet. She needed to find a way to get Steve Trevor to cooperate – of them all, she suspected, he was the only one without a personal grudge against her. Or, at the very least, it was not supposed to be a big one. She needed to get him on her side, find a way to cooperate with him. If her intel on the nature of his relationship with Wonder Woman was correct – and she suspected that it was, based on both of their reactions on the day Waller brought him in – then he was her best hope.

And if that failed… Well, there should be a way to make him compliant, she figured. They did, after all, had an agreement, which essentially made him a property of the Government of the United States, but she didn’t want to use it against him unless she absolutely had to. Which, truth be told, was more likely to happen than not.

Waller chose not to think of how his girlfriend might take it yet.

A knock on the door gave her a start, making her hand jerk so that a few drops of an ember liquid spilled on the papers spread out in front of her.

“Yes?” Waller snapped, frowning at the slight nervous uptilt in her voice.

The door opened a crack and a tech whose name she never bothered to learn poked his head into her office. “Director?” He adjusted the glasses that kept sliding low on his nose.

“Yes?” She repeated coolly.

“We have a problem.”

She almost laughed at that. Of course, they did. When was the last time they didn’t? It only seemed like a logical ending to her already shitty day. She stifled it though, her frown deepening momentarily.

“What is it?” She demanded when the man didn’t say anything else.

He crossed the room, walking over to her desk and the extended his clenched fist to her and opened it. On the palm of his hand were a few small pieces that looked like—

Waller pressed her lips into a tight line.

“Bugs,” she muttered.

The man cleared his throat. “These were found on the first level. We are scanning the whole building now.”

“How?” She snapped, eyes drilling into a tech who seemingly shrunk under her glare.

“We are checking the security footage—” he started.

“Nobody leaves until the building has been cleared,” Waller stopped him.

He nodded. “Yes, Director.”

When the door closed behind him, Waller leaned back in her chair and let a long breath through her nose, trying to clam blind rage rising inside of her.

“Bruce Wayne.”

---

“Thank you.”

Perched on the kitchen counter and wearing nothing but her panties and Steve’s button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up half to her elbows, Diana watched him rummage expertly through the freezer, searching for the stash of ice-cream that she knew Alfred always kept for her visits.

Her gaze followed the defined lines of his arms, the taut muscles of his back, lingering on the dimples that disappeared into the waistline of his jeans riding low on his hips. She bit her lip, trying to swallow a smile, and vowed silently to try and get him to be shirtless – or, better yet, naked – more often. Why on Earth was he even allowed to cover a body like this was beyond her.

She had always found Steve attractive but missing him somehow intensified it to a point where she could barely keep her hands off of him. Their relationship had never been about physicality, per se. Their connection running deeper than just sex. Diana was in love with him, she cared about him in a way she had never cared about anyone else. She missed him achingly whenever they were apart even for a brief period of time. However, it didn’t hurt that she found him handsome as well, reminding her of the pictures of ancient gods from the books that filled row upon row of shelves in the library on Themyscira. Lean muscles and easy grace.

And right now, she certainly enjoyed it.

Steve glanced up at her, his eyebrow quirked and his face puzzled. His hair was tousled comically after the past few hours that they had spent reminding one another unapologetically and a with as much fervour as they could muster just how really and truly well they fit in every sense Diana could think of.

“Huh?”

“For today,” she clarified, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her legs crossed at the ankles. “I don’t believe I said this. I should have.”

He grinned at her. “I believe you did.”

“Not in words,” Diana pointed out, her head tilted ever so slightly.

“Ah-ha!” Victorious, he pulled a pint of ice-cream from the back of the freezer – Alfred’s attempt to keep the other members of the League from so much as looking at it, which Diana found amusing to no end, considering that they all knew better than to even try. “You were very convincing in other ways,” Steve promised, moving toward her.

It was past midnight, the house around them dark and quiet. For fear of disturbing anyone else, they chose to forgo turning on the overhead light, sticking instead to a smaller lamp over the stove that cast a warm glow around them while the corners of the kitchen remained drowned in shadows. Hunger, as it turned out, was a force to be reckoned with, and while skipping dinner in favour of far more exciting activities wasn’t nowhere near Diana’s list of regrets, a late-night snack seldom was a bad idea.

Steve stopped in front of her, his elbow brushing against her leg, and just like that the familiar warmth stirred in her belly as it often did even at the small touches that punctuated their routines. It amused Diana beyond measure that he would barely even look at her in the presence of the other members of the League because it was ‘unprofessional’ to be ‘personal’ in front of them, which, consequently, only made her want to put her hands all over him even more.

But there was no one else here now, Alfred and the rest of them fast asleep, and when Steve was within her reach, she draped her arms around her neck and reeled him closer, watching his eyes widen as she did so.

He was a damn good spy, and even though she might have been a little biased in her assessment, Diana was certain that she had never met anyone better. With or without her, he still singlehandedly obtained the intel to stop the Great War. With or without her, she knew that he would still go against the orders of his superiors to save the lives of innocent people. With or without her, she was sure, he would have still climbed into that airplane. He wasn’t just good. He was excellent.

And yet, there was something intoxicating in knowing that he could barely ever hide his feelings when it came to her, in seeing the desire in his eyes even when he didn’t mean for it to show.

“Oh, other ways,” Diana echoed. “Yes, of course.”

“I like other ways,” he promised to her. “I like them a lot.”

“Good to know,” she murmured, touching her mouth to his, reminded pleasantly of the moment several hours ago when he peeled her clothes off her body only to reveal the same black set underneath them that she wore on the night they went to Metropolis, thin lace clinging so close to her skin that it was hard to tell where one ended and the other one began.

Diana watched him stare at her, slack-jawed and more than a little desperate, drinking her up as his eyes moved down her body and then back up, his rather undignified gaping making her want him even more. His need was so raw she could feel it in her core. And she promised to herself to wear something like that more often. Every day, if she could. If only to have Steve look at her the way he did tonight. She was quite adamant to make it happen for as long as he would let her.

“So, about that story that I was trying to tell you when we were so rudely interrupted,” he started, drawing away from her. One hand still resting on her hip, Steve pulled open a cutlery drawer near her left thigh, fumbling for cutlery.

“You mean, when our clothes fell off?” She teased, one of her arms still slung over his shoulder.

“Hey, an interruption is an interruption,” Steve brandished a spoon in her direction, and Diana laughed. “And they didn’t just… fall off.”

“Yes, I remember you being very diligent with removing those that didn’t,” she told him with as much seriousness as she could muster.

“God,” Steve exhaled and rubbed his eyes. “Don’t,” he said, pointing at her. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” Diana asked innocently, her fingers running absently along the base of his neck.

“You know what,” he grumbled.

She raised her hands up, biting her lip so she wouldn’t burst out laughing. She took a breath. “Okay, I’m sorry. Please, keep going.”

He regarded her suspiciously, but then only shook his head.

I have never loved him more, she thought, watching him, her lips pressed together around a smile.  

“So, a week after I get deployed and come to London, I go to this bar around the corner,” Steve continued from the moment where they had left off when something far more appealing became a priority. “The kind of place where you go looking for trouble.”

He twisted the lid off the ice-cream tub.

“Were you looking for trouble?” Diana asked, curious.

He chuckled. “No, I was looking for a drink and didn’t know any better.” He passed another spoon to her. “So, I walk in, and there’s a brawl over… At the time, I had no idea what it was over, to be honest, but it was messy and loud, and apparently it was all a fault of one particular man who no one could find.” He let out a short laugh. “You know why? Because he was hiding under a woman’s skirt.”  

A spoon reaching for ice-cream, she paused and looked at him. “You’re joking.”

“Honest to god truth.”

She blinked, a mental image wild in her mind, and then laughed, having to clasp her hand over her mouth not to wake anyone up.

“And that is how you met Sameer?” She asked.

Steve smirked and offered her a half-shrug. “And that is how I met Sameer. The bravest man I’ve ever known was hiding under a skirt. And doing damn fine down there.”

She was shaking her head now. “Lucky Sammy.”

“Poor woman,” he corrected. “She turned out being the owner’s wife, and he was not pleased with any of that. Not the fight and certainly not a strange man getting closely acquainted with his wife’s undergarments.”

“I can’t believe it,” she muttered.

Diana knew about their first mission together, knew the story of them meeting Chief, and a million small moments in-between, but this… How Steve failed to mention something this impossibly entertaining was beyond her.

“As it turned out, I was the only person there not after his head,” Steve added, trying to swallow back his own laughter. “Sammy lost a game of cards and couldn’t pay up, and talking his way out of it didn’t work out, so…”

“What happened?”

“I had to grab him and run, or they’d probably come for his blood.” There was fondness in his voice that made Diana’s chest constrict. “We’d been inseparable since.”

He had to be feeling it too, she was thinking now. The dread and exhaustion of watching everyone he loved die. A slight crack in his voice when he mentioned their names, the wistfulness in his gaze. She saw them too for they reflected her own.

“You do know how to find trouble, Steve,” she noted nonetheless, her heart full and her chest tight with affection.

He grinned at her. “You should know.”

Diana hummed, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She was not going to argue, all things considered.

“This is delicious,” she said, taking a bite of ice-cream.

Heavens bless Alfred for remembering about her weakness. He didn’t have to, and she would never have asked – not at Bruce’s home where he already allowed his comfort to be disturbed for the sake of the League. Which only deepened her gratitude towards the older man.

“I’m glad you’re so easy to please,” Steve noted.  

Her eyebrow arched. “Am I, now?”

He scooped some ice-cream with his spoon and lifted it up to her lips. She licked it clean without breaking the eye contact as she watched his smile slip and his eyes turn dark. Her stomach tightened, heat starting to simmer in her veins. His hand that still rested on her side flexed, fingers digging into her skin through the thin cotton of the shirt she was wearing.  

Diana’s hand curled over the side of his neck. She uncrossed her ankles and pulled him to her until he was standing between her parted knees. The warmth of his mouth against her cold tongue sent a shiver down her spine, a low sound of appreciation rising in the back of her throat. He tasted of vanilla and caramel and want, and she was drunk on it, on the feeling of him, on the heat of his body under the palms of her hands.

“You are trouble, angel,” Steve murmured.

“Sorry,” she breathed.  

“You’re not.”

She smiled against his lips. “Not really, I’m not.”

His hands clenched the fabric of her shirt, tugging her close, and Diana thought absently that this was exactly how they ended up without any dinner in the first place. Or lunch, if she recalled correctly. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Steve Trevor had turned entirely into her sole sustenance, and she was in no hurry to have it any other way.

Her hand closed over his jaw, tilting his face up, her body responding to his touch on its own volition.

“Diana…” he started, a warning in his voice, when she buried her fingers in his hair, bowing down to kiss him properly.

“There’s no one here--”

“Ohmigod!”

A yelp caused Steve to jerk away from her so fast that they both nearly tumbled down to the floor, his hand flailing to grab the marble counter to catch his balance. His blood flowing in earnest and his heart thudding in a panicked frenzy, he turned to the door to find Barry standing there, his mouth agape.

He was wearing flannel pajama bottoms with a yellow duck print and a loose Lord Of The Rings t-shirt, a pair of massive headphones sitting on his head like a perfect finishing touch. His eyes were cartoonishly wide as his gaze slid over Steve’s bare chest and an endless expanse of Diana’s legs peeking from under the hem of the shirt that she barely bothered to button properly, at which point his face turned scarlet red.

He looked away quickly. “Oh my god,” he repeated. “I’m so sorry.”  

“Barry,” Diana started, her smile sympathetic.

“I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I didn’t hear you.” He yanked the headphones off, and by now even the tips of his ears were crimson. “I—I didn’t think anyone was here, this late.”

“Really… sorry about that,” Steve grimaced.

“No, no, it’s cool.” Barry’s gaze darted for a second toward them, and then snapped away just as fast. “I was just—I thought I’d have a snack, because there’s no such thing as a bad time for a snack.” He paused, looking mortified, “Except there is, apparently. And it’s not good for you, anyway. I think. Eating late, that is. So….”

“It’s not—” Steve looked toward Diana’s his eyes pleading. “We were just--”

“Never mind,” Barry interjected, nodding more to himself than for their benefit. “I’m just gonna…” He started toward the balcony, then stopped abruptly. “Wrong way.” Steve had never seen anyone put this much effort into avoiding looking at something. The Flash turned on his heel. “I’ll see you later.”

“Barry,” Diana tried again, her voice kind, but he was already gone in a whoosh of wind that left a faint smell of ozone and a few sparks of electric discharge behind.

Steve let out a sharp breath and scrubbed his hands over his face, pushing his fingers into his hair. His shoulders slumped forward.

“I’ll go talk to him,” he said.

Diana’s hand curled over his arm. She shook her head, finally tearing her gaze away from the dark doorway and turning to Steve. “I don’t think he’s going to talk to you now. Better give him some space, perhaps.”

A flash of doubt rippled across his face as he debated her words, and for a moment, she thought that he was going to argue, but then he stepped back toward her. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching her features soften.

“Do you think we broke him?” He asked, his voice miserable and his face matching Barry’s red suit.

“He’ll be fine,” Diana promised, shaking her head a little and trying very, very hard not to laugh. “I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Steve sighed.

Her eyebrow quirked. “Because you’re a man?”

His lips twitched a little. “Because he has a hero-worship thing going on for you,” he explained. “He probably won’t even hear a word you’ll say. He’ll just… stare.”

She rolled her eyes a little. “That is not true.”

“Just—just trust me on this,” he shook his head, feeling her hand rest on the nape of his neck.

“It’s not like he doesn’t know about those things,” Diana whispered, scratching her nails through his hair.

A strangled sound formed in the back of Steve’s throat. “Oh God….”

“He has a girlfriend…” She continued, then paused and corrected herself, “A lady friend. Iris. He is not very fond of discussing his personal life.”

“And now he is all too aware about ours. Besides, it’s not the same,” Steve muttered, wincing. “Hell, it’s like walking in on your parents--” He stopped abruptly and dropped his forehead on her shoulder with a groan. Another mental image that he didn’t need. “Not that we’re his…” he added, mortified. “I need to stop talking now.”

He scrunched his face and Diana rubbed a soothing hand over his back.

“We weren’t doing anything,” she pointed out.

“We were,” he protested. “Sort of.”

“It was only a kiss.”

“I don’t think it matters,” he said, his voice muffled and pained.

Diana pressed her lips to the crown of his head.

“Steve.”

He looked up at her, his cheeks still flushed.

“I think we need take this party back to your room,” he offered. “Just to be safe. In case someone else wakes up to get a glass of water, or… I don’t know.” He rubbed his eyes.

She bit her lip, studying him for a few moments and he felt his stomach drop.

“What?” He asked, lowering his hand.

Diana’s eyes flicked between his.

“I have to go back to Paris at the end of the week,” she said.

He blinked, momentarily confused by the sudden change of subject. Weren’t they just about to discuss some sort of obligatory therapy for the Flash? He could even think of a few ways to foot the bill to Bruce.

Her words sunk in slowly.

Paris.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t like Steve didn’t see it coming.

Diana had spent every morning this past week going through her emails and making phone calls and arranging video chats, digging through electronic catalogues that her assistant kept sending her – damn him – and signing forms and permits and other things that Steve didn’t entirely understand. She had a whole life to go back to.

The only problem was that Paris was far away from Gotham. Very far away, in fact.

Was she even coming back?

For a moment, he imagined being here without her, in this house that looked like an aquarium – according to Barry, who appeared to have strong opinion about glass walls – having to endure heavy silences that tended to hang between him and Bruce Wayne.

The prospect was dreadful.

Maybe he should just leave, too. Find a place in the city--

For one unbearable moment, Steve remembered with startling accuracy what waking up without her for the past several decades had been like, his chest aching from missing her already.

“There is an exhibition coming up,” Diana added, watching him, and he tried not to let his disappointment show, knowing that he was failing spectacularly. “Pierre would have a heart attack if I’m not there. And some other things that I need to take care of, on top of that. Like the recovered painting. I requested for it to be sent to the Louvre for proper assessment before we return it where it belongs.” Her fingers smoothed down his hair before her hands came to rest on his cheeks, framing his face. “And I also thought that maybe you and I could have some alone time.”

Steve stared at her. “Alone time?” He repeated dumbly.

Her gaze darted toward the dark hallway. “I love them, but it can be a little hectic here, no?” He nodded absently, his eyes never leaving her face. Diana turned to him. She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb. “Would you like to come with me?”

“To Paris?” He clarified.

She smiled. “I mean, you don’t have to--”

“Would you want that?” He interjected before she went any further. She could have asked him to move to Neptune, and he would have followed her gladly and without a single question asked.  “Would you want me to go with you?”

Diana’s smile widened, blossoming into something entirely majestic.

She nodded. “I would want that very much.”

To be continued.... 

#wonder woman #wondertrev #diana prince #steve trevor #wondertrevnet #a road paved in gold #it's long #the read more is there but it doesn't work on mobile #i am sorry for making you scroll through all of this #also I hope you are enjoying this fic so far :)

[punkdaddylouis]

un: harry del rey ♡♡

just trying this one out. since my fics and account altogether recently got removed from a site, i have decided i will post my fics here instead. so under the cut is the first chapter for baby loves when daddy gets high, book one of the del rey series. thank you in advance for those who will give it a try.

♡♡♡♡

Louis looks through his window as he clutches his paintbrush, gazing at the massive picturesque gardens, with a magnificent pool that's the shade of cerulean nestled in the midst of the freshly cut grass, and then holds up his palette.

He breathes through his nose, letting the breathtaking view take root in the crevices of his mind, and then he paints.

Painting is something that he can easily lose himself in, it's an age old routine that he mastered years ago that allows him to sink into a blissful brand of artistic autopilot.

After thirty minutes of letting his paintbrushes convey things that his mind could never begin to articulate into words, Louis backs away a bit to look at the masterpiece he's making and sighs. Not good enough, the voice in his head tells him menacingly, he needs to do better.

He sets down the brush and palette then wipes at the stray sweat that he can feel trickling slowly across his temple and turns around, taking the glass of juice Valeria left on the nightstand beside his bed. Louis takes a sip, eyes blinking against the sun, gaze fixated directly at the house that is nestled beside his own.

Del Rey, he thinks. He sees, right there, getting out of his posh, vintage car and taking his guitar with him.

Dressed in floral sheer shirt, dark skinny jeans—they look tighter than normal, he notes—and his trademark gold boots reflecting the sunbeam perfectly. His curls have gone longer, headscarf holding it in a loose demure, once pinkish pale skin from last month now reddish tan. Louis lowers down his drink, eyes never leaving the sight, mind momentarily mesmerized by the fact his neighbor has possibly grown a pair of...

"Ses fesses," Louis murmurs to himself, eyelids getting heavier without his consent. His eyes just can't help ogle those...oh God.

And then he blinks rapidly, dragging him out of the trance that he quickly fell under. This isn't like him, he's startled even by his own attitude. He turns away from the window, cheeks heating rapidly when he catches a glimpse of heavily-lashed eyes staring back directly at his own—his neighbor has a knowing smirk on his face that holds the implication that he caught Louis checking him out. Checking his arse out. Louis' heart crawls up his throat in mortification.

Fuck. Shit, shit, shit. Louis' screwed. All of the subtlety—all of the guises of seeming mysterious and carefully acting like he is disinterested in his neighbor—has been for naught; he knows that Del Rey caught him practically salivating over them and he couldn't possibly be more embarrassed.

It's been several months since Louis moved to this side of the town, and during the first few days he must admit he was quick to take notice of his gorgeously handsome—no, not handsome. He's more than that, really, his features put him under the definition of beautiful, or ethereal. He's just. Insanely attractive, and Louis wants to paint the elegant curvatures of his body for hours on end—neighbor.

And he watched him from afar as he went out to do mundane things like take out the trash or pick up the daily newspaper; but this is the first time that Louis' been caught. With full on eye-to-eye contact and everything. Louis laughs under his breath at himself, his heart rate still racing from the seconds long contact, like he's a teenager once again, a young boy that has just spoken to his crush for the first time.

But he can't help it, the eye contact was just so intense; it felt like Del Rey was drawing him to be seduced into staring longer, until he has drowned in his eyes and lost all of his sensibilities. It felt like in the span of four seconds, Del Rey was able to provoke Louis into ogling his arse some more with something as simple as the movement of cherry-blossom lips forming into a smirk.

More, Louis. More.

Louis swallows hard, then looks around his room in sheer panic. He considers calling his maid to distract him but quickly decides against it, and then just settling on taking a deep breath, before swiftly turning back around to look over yet again at his window, hoping to get another glimpse of Del Rey.

But then all he sees now is the vacant drive way, one that's connected to his neighbor's home.

Louis doesn't know whether to sigh in relief or in disbelief.

~*~

Later on in the afternoon, Louis decides to make a last ditch effort to find inspiration and goes over his cabinet and rifles through his drawers. He withdraws his pipe, handkerchief filled with kush, and his Zippo lighter with a small sound of relief. Maybe he can find a muse this way.

He falls asleep instead.

~*~

Sunlight streams through where his window was pried open by his maid earlier to let fresh air in and Louis is irritated by it.

Summer has officially commenced in California and the sun is demanding that it's ever-so-bright presence be known and constantly in his eyes. Louis has known that California would be like this, he saw the overwhelming abundance of a bright sun and happy skies in the movies that he watched when he still lived in bleak Paris while he was still under his foster parents' care, but that doesn't mean that he still can't be annoyed by it.

He scoffs bitterly at the thought of Paris, even though it was in the past and he refuses to ever let himself dwell over the city and the memories that it harbors for too long. Louis has always had the notion to always, always fucking live in the moment, in the now imprinted in his mind. Louis rolls his eyes at himself because of how absurdly he's thinking again.

Get it together, Tomlinson.

He swings his legs over the side of his massive bed and sets his feet on the ground, padding across his room and then out, making his way downstairs with his phone in hand.

"Valeria?" He calls out.

Not even a minute has passed and Valeria's immediately right in front of him. "Oui, monsieur?"

"Apportes-moi ma serviette et ma crème solaire, je veux m'effondrer sur la chaise longue jusqu'à la nuit tombée. Il fait chaud dans ce putain d'état," Louis tells her, dismissive tone mixed with his trademark raspy voice. Valeria nods twice, and then she's off. Louis proceeds outside where his pool is and sits on one of the pool chairs, waiting for his maid with the sunscreen.

Moments later, Louis is eventually lying on his front in only his black swimming trunks, his back completely bare, all of his tattoos in plain sight. He's got his eyes closed, sunscreen applied to his skin, and yep—Louis really plans on sleeping here until the sun hides from him and all that. Yeah, good plan. Good—

But then his plans are ruined by the doorbell ringing from the living area. Louis scrunches up his nose and calls out, "Valérie, dites à peu importe qui cette personne est que je suis—,"

But he cuts himself off short when he hears his maid say in turn, "C'est le voisin, monsieur, il veut vous parler. Il dit qu'il joue de la guitare et serait heureux de se joindre à vous pour jouer."

And—what? A neighbor who plays guitar? Louis bolts right up from his relaxed position and immediately grabs for his slippers and runs inside the house, his shirt and towel still laying poolside, completely forgotten.

"Venez-vous de dire quelque chose au sujet d'une guitare?" are Louis' first words as his eyes attentively land on the boy he knows is the only neighbor he has who plays said instrument.

"Ooh, French, I like it," the boy with the curls and the red, plump lips drawls in a low, syrupy voice. And, God, he looks even more beautiful in this close proximity. And much more young, too, he notes. Louis must still be dreaming, because—because surely this isn't happening.

Valeria stands beside the two of them, with who Louis has in his head nicknamed Del Rey staying put on the doorstep with a fluid persona, slivers of inked skin on sight (so they do have tattoos, then, Louis' always wondered if he's right on that front), and Louis in just his swimming trunks, looking quite baffled and rooted in the middle of his massively posh living area. Massively posh, Louis mentally scoffs in his head, but of course, this is Beverly Hills!

Clearing his throat, Louis suddenly feels rather exposed with his torso missing a top and his feet and soles touching the tiles. Valeria backs away and nods at Louis, breaking the silence that followed once blue has met green. Louis' grateful for it. "Est-ce que je peux vous apporter à tout deux quelque chose, monsieur? Un verre de jus de fruits et des g��teaux? Dois-je le laisser entrer?"

Completely out of his depth, Louis only nods at her feeling lost, and then she disappears right back in the kitchen.

"Anything... I can do fo' you?" Louis tries then, swallowing the lasts of the saliva that's dried in his tongue, addressing Del Rey and his unexpected visit. "Forgive me, monsieur." He shakes his head. "I am no very good in Anglais..."

It's true. Louis sucks at speaking English, whether it's American or British, and he feels like an idiot, talking to the person he's been stalking through his window ever since he's moved here in broken English while sunscreen dries uncomfortably on his skin. Perhaps the day that truly tests his English skills has finally come; he's now regretful he did not pay attention to English class back in the days. Back when he was in Paris and living his rebellious teenager years, and couldn't give a single fuck about English and all of its subject-verb agreement rules. Well, it's too late to go back and change it now, though, innit? He's bloody thirty-one now for fuck's sakes.

Smiling softly, Louis watches Del Rey gesture with his hands—long, delicate fingers swaying in the air, while his massive, massive hands make enthralling gesticulations—and watches his mouth move as he speaks, again, slowly, "It's alright if you're not fluent, as long as we can communicate well. That'd be fine, I suppose." After a beat, they just stand there and look at each other, Louis drinking in Del Rey's languid posture. He's so tall, albeit he's hunched. Seconds pass and Del Rey eventually says, "I'm Harry, by the way. I'm sorry if I came here unannounced—it was just that I've realised we haven't properly met yet, which is a shame, considering the fact that we're the only neighbors in this side of nine'o'two one'o, so...yeah."

Blinking at him, Louis suppresses a short circuited laugh and motions for Harry to come in. He's so fucking relieved; he thought for sure that his neighbor stopped by with the sole plan of giving him a tongue-lashing for practically eye-fucking him like a right pervert. "Okay, okay," Louis lets out, breathy, "bonjour, Harry. My name is Louis, nice t'meet you. Uh, veuillez entrer.”

Harry smiles toothily, showcasing his perfect white teeth in a heart-achingly charming manner, and Louis' gaze doesn't leave Harry as he lets himself through his extravagant threshold. The ends of his gold boots are pointing toward each other endearingly, and his long, slim legs move in calculated strides that's reminiscent of how a model would grace a runway. He feels his skin crawl nervously all of the sudden, because this is actually happening.

"You've got a nice house, French neighbor." Louis hears Harry say from behind him, sounding as awestruck as anyone else that ever enters his home.

Louis chuckles weakly. "Thank you, Anglais neighbor."

Harry follows him as he leads him to where the pool chairs are once they step outside, and when they choose where to sit—which is next to each other—Louis picks up his shirt from the patio and pulls it back over his chest, clearing his throat once more as he faces Harry with a troubled facial expression.

His heartbeat is racing.

"Look, mon amour, about the... uh, earlier when you catch me—," Louis begins to explain, until Harry releases a breathless giggle that quickly makes him shut up.

"Amour?" Harry breathes out in a sketchy accent, a smile painting his lips. Louis wants to touch those red lips, see what they feel like against the pads of his fingers. Or perhaps, paint them using the reddest shades that he owns until he can show the entire world. "Isn't that love in French?"

Louis can only nod in affirmation at the question thrown at him, his face heating up rapidly. "Oui... I—I'm sorry."

Shaking his head, Harry smiles and says, "No, it's—it's cool. I like it. I mean, I love it. You can, like, call me that. I think it's...yeah. Cute."

Louis sighs in relief. "Oh." Harry grins at him, cheekily and Louis almost melts with this fond type of attraction that hits him as a result of it, and that's when Valeria finally walks in on them staring right into one another's eyes while fully clothed during a hot California day beside a luxurious pool that is worth more than most peoples' houses, tray of juice and biscuits in her steady hands.

They thank her and she leaves without a word. Louis mentally praises himself for hiring her, she's not inquisitive of Louis and his doings in the slightest of ways, which is why he even fancied the thought of taking her in in the first place.

~*~

Their afternoon together turned out to be great, much to Louis' great relief.

Louis learns about Harry's profession of being a nightclub singer in a gay bar called Velvety Roses, where he says he plays his guitar and pours his heart out to an audience that mostly consists of sweaty bikers and men in their late thirties and early forties. Which—wow. That probably explains the radiating seductive demeanor Harry holds in just his presence alone... Louis can see him as being successful with his job, with several of the attendants jostling for the best view of him crooning beautifully along with the sultry notes that he elicits from his guitar. Men probably crave his...attention. But he can't judge; Louis yearns for the exact same thing from him, too.

Louis also learns Harry is a very cheeky lad, smarter than he looks, taciturn too, but much happier to just sit and ramble continuously about nothing and everything, with that syrupy slow way of talking that he has going, green eyes sparkling and keeping Louis engaged while he does so.

In theory, Louis would've sighed and rolled his eyes at how talkative his companion—an American one, too—was. But there's something that's distinctly different about Harry, something that makes him so delightful that Louis actually wants to spend time with him and urge him into talking more. Because really, Louis can't understand what Harry was even saying half of the time, given that there was an obvious language barrier between them. But even so, Louis doesn't even seem to mind. He loves hearing Harry talk, even if he is entirely unsure on why Harry even came over to his home and why they've even been talking for such an extended period of time.

"Sorry I didn't bring anything for you, Mr. Tomlinson, like—a pie or something. I mean, isn't that what we are infamous for doing to newcomers? To welcome our neighbor to the neighborhood?" Harry giggles loudly, and then claps a hand over his mouth like he's embarrassed of the seal-like bark of a laugh he just emitted. "Sorry, again. 'S just—kinda repetitive. Neighbor...neighborhood..."

Louis laughs. "It's okay, it's—cute. Harry, cute. Also, please... Louis is the name. Pas monsieur Tommo."

"Mhmm, as you wish, Louis."

They've ran out of biscuits long ago, and their drinks are also almost empty; the moon has risen completely up in the sky, and the stars are slowly beginning to join the celestial body and illuminate the night, too. It's a beautiful scene, but Louis finds Harry more beautiful.

Breathing in and out, breathing in and out, Louis racks Harry's languid posture from where he's draped over the chair next to him and smiles when their gazes meet. Harry brushes a hand across his forehead, tucking his curls back under his red and blue headscarf. "No work tonight, Harry?" Louis asks, breaking the silence.

And for the first time ever since they've started talking, Louis wants to punch himself for ever speaking because Harry's eyes immediately widen, like he's woken from a deep trance and has just realized that the moon was out and playing games with the smiles that seem to be glued on their faces. "It's getting late, I should go," Harry says in a soft voice.

Louis nods at that and stands in sync with him, not saying any more. They both go inside and head towards the living area, with nothing that can be heard in his empty mansion besides their intertwined breaths echoing off of the walls. Louis leads Harry to the door and then opens it for him.

"Merci, Harry, for—"

"About earlier, Louis, I," Harry cuts in, turning around to face Louis, "I should let you know... I did see you looking at me from your window, but. I don't—I wouldn't calling it 'catching you', though. I've always seen you watching, so. I didn't just notice you, but rather I've always been aware... if that makes sense? I think it's just more so that this is the first time that you've caught me looking back."

Louis stares at him, tongue-tied while mortification overruns his veins. "You've always..." His eyes grow big, cheeks numbing because of all of the heat that's flooding there so rapidly. And then he groans, and starts to ramble, "Oh mon dieu. Je suis tellement désolé. J'espère que j'étais pas bizarre, oh mon dieu."

Laughter bubbles from inside Harry's throat and leaves his mouth, startling Louis into cutting himself off and blinking up at Harry. "I don't know what you just said, but Lou. It's okay, it's okay—hey." He takes Louis' hand and squeezes at it. "Don't worry, Louis, it's all good. Didn't you realise that... just by admitting I catch you every time actually meant...I also do the same with you?"

Louis' still looking at Harry—gawking, really—and in the end Harry just winks at him, retreating backwards with his hands on his back and across the yard, leaving Louis speechless on his front door, still in his dried up swimming trunks and t-shirt.

And yeah, why didn't Louis realise that anyway? Harry stalks him back. Louis watches as his hair bounces against his shoulders and his hips sway confidently away from Louis. He stalks him back? Louis' mind flashes back towards the knowing smirk that Harry aimed at him earlier today, and the realization hits him like a vicious punch to his stomach.

He does. Oh mon Dieu.

#baby loves when daddy gets high #chapter one #blwdghone

[khaivin]

I’m Trying to Find a Meaning

Demigod!Jean makes amends in a graveyard and Vampire!Marco watches in delight.

Day 3 Jeanmarco Month: Generator AU

Fate put a vampire and a demigod in the same place like the beginning of a weird joke.

The vampire walks in first, into a café, and the demigod comes in minutes after. Their eyes meet after they order and the scenario feels like a painting. How long would it take one to ask the other out?

The answer is a few minutes. The demigod approaches the vampire with a polite smile and a joyful tone. The vampire chuckles and fall for the demigod as fast as lightning strikes outside the little café in downtown Paris, bringing rain with it.

If the vampire took just a few minutes of his eternal life to fall for the demigod, how long would it to take so the feeling was mutual?

The answer is just a few days.

It happened in the countryside of France, inside a small rented cottage. Their friendship developed to something they couldn’t label, but knew the meaning as they knew their own names. They talked for hours, hands lingering in soft touches as they drank wine in front of a hearth as autumn settled on the outside world.

When the first oak leaf fell on the garden outside, the vampire laughed drunk and the demigod understood what worship meant.

It didn’t take long for them to move in together, into a small apartment in downtown Paris, near the café they met the first time. Jean used to say fate had a weird sense of humor and Marco would laugh, trying to grasp what his boyfriend meant by that.

They walked into the graveyard side by side. Jean, always the romantic, had beautiful white roses wrapped in red paper in his hands while Marco had a small bottle in his.

They made their way between the tombstones as if they made their way back home; in a comfortable silence, but giddy for going back somewhere they felt safe.

Jean stopped and kept his eyes on the flowers in his arms, one finger caressed one of the petals. Marco tilted his head to the side and gave a reassuring smile to his friend.

“I’ll meet you up later.” He put a hand on Jean’s shoulder, squeezing it slightly. Jean glanced at Marco before nodding and turning around, feet taking him to the opposite direction.

Marco watched as the other followed an imaginary path between the eternal beds. He turned around and focused on his own task, stepping in green grass and stone as he went in the direction of his family mausoleum.

The night, warm and cloudless, didn’t hinder his way to the well-known building. He could walk those steps with his eyes closed if needed, the goosebumps dictating his actions with each inch he got closer to the place he was transformed.

He stopped only at the heavy door, pulling it open with strength he didn’t have before, but was used to it by now. Marco pulled a lighter from his pocket – he had to put it back before Levi noticed he got it - and lighted the old candles, illuminating the small place.

The stale air had its charm Marco had to admit. It gave the impression that time didn’t pass, the moments eternalized in stone and dust between those walls. He smiled of his own irony and put the bottle near the flowers he left the day before.

“I’m sorry for forgetting your liquor, dad.”

The beautiful orange petals of the flowers gleamed under the bright light of the candles, giving life to a corner of his existence that took so much from him. Marco put his hands and forehead against the stone, asking for guidance as he always did when visiting his relatives. He breathed the stale air, the dust and dirty smelling nostalgic even if the memory wasn’t pleasant.

Marco still had a few nightmares with the memories of that fateful encounter. In one of his visits to his family mausoleum, he was ambushed by a beautifully sly creature. Its gorgeous golden eyes and bright smile hypnotized him and, against his relative’s tombs, Marco was killed and reborn. He did place the flowers to hide the blood splatter.

He leaned away and made the sign of the cross, leaving a kiss in his fingers and delivered it to the cold stone. He closed the door and glanced at the sky above before walking back the path he made.

During the walk, he remembered Jean asking him if he would be okay going to masses being a vampire. Marco explained it wasn’t like the stories and he would not screech at the sight of the cross. He laughed when Jean confessed he was relieved to know he could buy garlic again.

He put his hands in his pockets, walking back to the familiar tombstones. He raised his eyes and looked for Jean, his fair hair bright under the moonlight. Marco found him kneeled in front of one of the dozen tombstones they gave to Johns and Janes.

It was the first time Jean went with Marco to the cemetery. A week before, he sat by Marco’s side on their bed, in their little apartment, and confessed he wanted to join Marco in his visits to the tombs.

The brunette looked at him and smiled, but didn’t ask why or what made him change his mind. They bought flowers, specific for their intents and chose a date to their visit, which had been the day before, but Jean had given up before Marco left.

The next day, he apologized to his boyfriend and Marco understood.

“They worshiped me, y’know.” Jean’s voice echoed and pulled Marco from his thoughts “I mean; they worshiped a really weird version of me.” He sighed and Marco kneeled by his side, tilting his head.

Jean’s bangs were a mess, denoting he was anxious. He always messed up his hair when he was anxious and Marco found it cute when not annoying. His whiskey eyes were downcast on the single flower near the stone and his hands fidgeted in the remaining ones in his lap.

“I hurt a lot of people because of my father.” He confided and Marco listened “I think…” he took a deep breath “I had a lot of anger inside me. Towards my father and… He… He being a god.” He shrugged, but Marco caught the way his shoulders trembled with shame.

Jean wasn’t someone that would disclose his feelings to anyone. He shook and choke and, once, cried, trying to talk about what he felt, what he thought. Marco tried to be patient, listening and trying to encourage the rare initiatives to express his emotions.

Those moments often ended up with Jean crying, humiliated, in Marco’s arms.

Son of the forest God, Jean had worshippers that followed him around. He told Marco people put their lives in his hands. They went to him asking for guidance he couldn’t give or miracles he couldn’t make. Jean admitted, he could make a few things, help a plant regain its strength and wild animals used to enjoy his presence, but that was it.

Also, Jean wasn’t fond of his godlike side. His mother, beautiful and kind, was killed by a fight that she didn’t take part. His father, married to another goddess, fell in love – something that Jean noticed happened frequently among the Gods – with a mortal. And his mother loved him back.

So Jean was born. And for most of his eternal youth, Jean held anger against his father. First, for being absent, for leaving his mother with a child to raise and second, for giving him the fate of immortality and worship.

“This guy” he pointed to the tombstone “He asked me for luck, once. I yelled at him and said the only thing I could give was disappointment, if he wanted luck he should build me a shrine.” He put his hand in his forehead and sighed, chuckling bitterly “Two weeks later, he appears to me with a little shrine.” He chokes on his words and Marco places one hand in his back “I still have it.” He sucks wet air and sniffs.

Marco reaches more and passes an arm around Jean’s shoulder, hugging him the best he can in that position. He smiles against the other’s hair and feels him shake, but hold the sobs that comes up his throat.

Jean leaned away and wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt, looking back at the tombstone. He leans down and touches his forehead to the ground, roses squeezed between his lap and stomach.

“I apologize.” He whispers, “Please, rest in peace.”

Jean glances at Marco and reaches for his hand, squeezing it. He wished he could be like Marco, strong and put together, even if he knew the brunette took time to become as he was.

Marco watches delighted, as Jean gets up and walks to the next tombstone – skipping a few ones – and does the same thing; kneels down, talks with the stone and apologize for treating them with disrespect.

Marco tears his eyes away to clean a few tears that roll down his cheeks. Seeing Jean swallowing pride and grow with each step, he took towards the next tomb, warmed Marco’s chest and he let the prideful tears roll down his face.

#jeanmarcomonth #jeanmarco #jean kirchtein #marco bodt #my fics

[7r0773r]

Portraits Without Frames by Lev Ozerov

VARLAM TIKHONOVICH SHALAMOV

Forward and to one side, like a knight on a chessboard, with a knapsack on his back, Varlam Shalamov plods on, battered by Kolyma. Lonely, almost sullen, he has the air of a sad Russian peasant, or scholar, or writer whom life has stung hard, whom life has pressed down on but not yet utterly crushed. Deep in his soul there is still strength, still the will to fight fate. His wrinkled face is a hieroglyph of all he has lived through and does not speak about. It’s a cold day. We go into a café. Not much to eat there, but at least it’s warm. “Varlam Tikhonovich, read me some new poems.” He turns one ear towards me. Without a word he takes off his rough, wind-battered knapsack. Inside it, a wooden spoon hobnobs with crusts of bread, notebooks, and documents— death, after all, can creep up on you any moment. He reads slowly, separating each word: each word ready to drop into the abyss. Getting the words out is easier with pauses for breath. “Thank you,” I say. “No, it’s for me  to thank you. Who nowadays asks anyone to read poems?” he says hoarsely, with feeling. “I’ve got an awful lot of them. How am I to choose?” He reads at random jumping from page to page, whatever catches his eye. Reading aloud, he warms up. “All right. Enough of that.” Someone brings coffee,  sausages, bread. Steam rises from our cups; steam rises from our plates: the renowned fragrance  of a Moscow people’s café. Shalamov tries not to eat  too quickly, not to show that he is very hungry. I don’t ask about Kolyma, and he doesn’t mention it: as if it hadn’t happened. As he eats the bread, he holds one hand  just below his chin. Crumbs fall into his palm. Shalamov eats them greedily, with particular relish. His long experience  of malnutrition is apparent. This mouth accustomed to hunger opens slowly, mistrustfully, almost unwillingly, as if in shame. Shalamov eats in silence, with tried and tested  deliberateness, with meaning, with pauses, and to me he seems  not to be thinking about food. What is Shalamov thinking about? How am I to know? He returns his notebook to his knapsack. Out we both go into the winter outside “It’s a cold day,” I say. “What do you mean?” he says. “It’s warm.”

***

MIKHAIL ZOSHCHENKO (excerpt)

How does it start— the mad day, the made life of a writer? What whim, what overwhelming force presses a pen into some poor fellow’s hand and leads him down through all of Dante’s  twisting circles?

***

PERETZ MARKISH

Once you’d seen him, you could say you’d seen Byron: honor, dignity, stature, a melancholy beauty. He’d raise his head and, with half-closed eyes, recite his poems as if he were singing. He wrote his own Childe Harold, his own Don Juan, his own Beppo. His sin, his one and only sin: that he wrote in Yiddish. He could express himself only in Yiddish. He could express  himself only in Yiddish. For this, he was jailed. For this alone, executed. Everyone knew, but it wasn’t done to say it out loud, to spell it out in black and white. It was said and written: He died. Just went and died. Just went and died, you see. Why get people upset?

In the province we call Volhynia lies a village we call Polonne. That’s his childhood, that’s his grandfather Shimshon-Ber, that’s his cheder. And after that, he was chorister, tutor, day laborer, worker at the vineyards,  army private, and office clerk. But he didn’t like calculating, he liked the immeasurable; on the flip side of banking documents poems began to appear. This dreamer’s distant gaze was focused not on the faces of clients but on the Galaxy. Later, he said in passing, “While you clutch a grass-blade, I hold up the Earth, the planet vast and blue. Immensity is what attracts me, but your grass-blade is a part of it too.”

We didn’t see each other for a long time. Then I saw him on a canvas by Alexander Labas. There, there he is— Markish, who was built for a long life, imagining his last hour. There is a touch of sunset in the dawn blaze. The light melts into a dark  that allows no return.

His widow is making inquiries about her husband, about his notebooks and manuscripts, confiscated when he was arrested. His widow walks down the long corridors of the seventh floor— corridors her soul had walked long before. She had endured much: a waiting room, a small window where relatives could hand in parcels of food and clothes for a prisoner. But now she is here by invitation. Courteous and charming, General Borisoglebsky addresses her: “You can probably guess why I’ve called you here.” “No. Tell me.” “I am able  to inform you that your husband has been rehabilitated.” “Where is he?” The general’s reply is ready and waiting, planed and polished: “He was executed  by enemies of the people.” And he offers Markish’s  widow a glass of water, also ready and waiting. “I want to read his case file.” “But you are not a lawyer.” “Where is my husband’s grave?” “He has none. . .”

More time passed. Another telephone call: “This is the KGB, finance department. It seems we owe you a little money.” “What do you mean? You’ve already returned me the money I tried to send to my husband but which he never received.” Pause. An in-breath. An out-breath. “We owe you for the teeth.” “What teeth?” “The gold crowns.” In a voice not her own, the widow  let out a wild scream. Neighbors ran out into the hallway  and caught her, as she collapsed in a faint. She was pale now and silent. While the telephone receiver on its twisted cord groped the wall, swinging like a pendulum, counting off our godforsaken time.

***

ARAM ILYICH KHACHATURIAN

Free time for whims is what makes age alluring; the aging Khachaturian grew to like touring: Rome—Paris—London—Berlin. He conducted, shook hands, represented the state, gave many an interview, enjoyed his fame through and through. Glory, after all is glorious; he lapped up bravos; the glitter of concert halls held him in thrall. Glad of each chance to further his own fame, he paid his respects to the pope and von Karajan, Stravinsky and Britten, the Dalai Lama, the Queen. He was photographed with them, or rather—they with him. Some photos were like ads, others more personal. Best of all were the snapshots  of handshakes: hands coupled, heads bent forward. In his Moscow apartment, with its sliding doors, he treated guests to Armenian wine, Mutakh cheese, a few grapes, and these photos— expecting rapt  exclamations. His albums, his apartment walls were adorned with every major celebrity. The only one missing  was Salvador Dalí. He must visit Dalí! Must see Dalí! Must be photographed with Dalí! Otherwise  both the collection and his own fame would be incomplete. Dalí gave his consent. A date was set for a meeting in a remote castle, At the time agreed, Khachaturian and his assistant, his assistant’s assistant, and his photographer, a friend and this friend’s daughter— a budding artist— approached the castle. A truly ancient castle! But in order to enter it you had to cross a wide swath of swampland. No other way: no footbridges, no guards to assist them. Mud splattered their dress shoes and best clothing; dispirited and exhausted, they crossed the swamp. The gates clanged open; they entered the empty vastness of the ancient castle, akin to a planetarium or crematorium. The silence continued. The guests stood in a stupor. This was insane! Suddenly, in all its wild frenzy, the “Sabre Dance” was unleashed. It was like bolts of lightning!  Crossed sabres rang out struck each other, recoiled, parted, flashed again, clanged again. It was spectacular! The music’s proud composer managed a smile: this was, after all, in his honor. He was distracted, however, by the sight of his Angelo Litrico shoes, gleaming new only the day before but now encrusted with mud. The “Sabre Dance” drew to an end. After a meaningful pause, Salvador Dalí himself appeared, riding a dark horse, dressed like Don Quixote, carrying a spear, of course, but without Sancho Panza. He rode three victory laps, respectfully stopping beside his shivering guests. Through half-closed eyes he looked down at everyone with benevolent condescension: a look full of meaning. Then, thrice brandishing his spear, he withdrew so abruptly that  the photographer was unable to recollect what he was meant to be doing there. A prerecorded message boomed a polite “Arrivederci”; the lights went out, the wayfarers exited. “Ouch!” groaned the photographer. “Argh!” growled the assistant. Khachaturian stayed silent. Once again they trudged through the surrounding mud, but I said enough about that as I described their approach to the castle of the ingenious Salvador.

It is said that this episode  cooled the composer’s ardor: he went less often on tour to dodgy venues.

#lev ozerov #book quotes

[diaryofasupergroupie]

Let me kiss you in a French accent

Men in the scene aren’t anything too different from civilians in what they are. They are different in how they make you feel. But they aren’t gold plated. Just as in real life some will play hard to get until you’re begging for them to devour you. But some will offer themselves up on a platter within the first twenty-four hours. C was the latter. He would have done anything I asked of him at that festival. The details didn’t matter because he wanted me. That’s part of the reason I became so entirely obsessed with him. Every now and then you meet someone - even in the scene - who is bad news and you know it but you just can’t get enough. They do and say things which make them work their way deep inside of your soul. My groupie heart that wanted nothing more than good music that made me feel and good people that made me love was well and truly up for the taking. I often say I have no hate towards anyone in the scene. That isn’t strictly true. I hate the things some people have done. But I am capable of understanding why they do them. But C... oh I hate him to my core.

I went to the party full of hope. I wore something extremely out of my comfort zone and dragged my then friend C along with me. Us girls are supposed to have a code but she promptly left me for someone she had been pining after. C spotted me through the crowd and he pulled me away from everyone else. I was already entranced with him. All I could look at were his eyes. They were such a wonderful shade of hazel. He sat down on the ground and urged me to do the same. I did and as soon as I had gotten comfortable he took my hand. He offered me a cigarette and I went to take one. But he stopped me and lit one. He offered me a drag once he had taken one himself. He wanted to touch my lips and work his way inside of me. He would succeed.

“K, you’re the only good thing about this festival.” He told me. I remember becoming quite heated, lovely sentiment but the hundreds of fans that had queued up to a meet and greet may disagree. He brushed my hair softly and ran his long fingers down my jaw. “You must be here to save music.” He whispered.

It doesn’t need saving, I said. I remember looking him in the eye and seeing that shock. No one upset him. Groupies aren’t supposed to be an opposing force. But I was. I was a bad groupie - a force of nature. “Wake up.” I whispered. “Your fans are the ones saving music. It isn’t me. Appreciate them.” C looked furious. He looked like he wanted to cut me to pieces. For a minute I thought he would. But then he crashed his lips down onto mine. C was chaotic and manipulative but right then all I saw some something raw and unfiltered. He always was unfiltered but that isn’t good thing. When you’re being plied with alcohol and a heavy metal sweetheart is telling you all the right things, his hands touching all the right places you don’t see that. My diary reads like a pre-pubescent with her first crush. But I was well versed in boys and in the music industry. I could turn the sea red with all those flags that were falling around us.

But my lips moved against his and he came to whisper lovely words in my ear. They were too lovely to be real. If a man tells you such lovely things while his hands are roaming you and through laboured breath it may be time to wonder whether he actually means them. Perhaps I’m just a little cynical, but with good reason.

“K, come to Paris with me. Let me kiss you with an French accent.” He said huskily, his hands going up my legs and gripping my stockings. His fingers tangled up in the holes and he left ugly pulls in the pattern. “Let me have you in France.” Those words made me melt inside. My stomach clenched and my arms pulled him closer to me. Yes, I replied. I would have let him have me anywhere. I opened my legs for him and he pushed me back onto the grass. He kissed me all over and made me feel weak. My uncovered skin turned into a road map for him always to find his way home. He moaned and made me feel like I was oxygen. I could have stayed there forever.

But of course we broke apart. I left him that night and went back to A. I may be a lot of things but I do my best not to start any drama. I would explain the groupie scene to outsiders as high school on steroids. The girls are constantly bickering and talking about you behind your back. We have our cliques and stick to them. In front of the boys we are perfectly lovely to one another, but behind closed doors they will scratch out your eyes with a laminate. There are dreadful rumours that can end you. Being a groupie is about staying relevant. There are new girls coming all the time who will let the boys do anything they want to them. A few years ago someone spread a rumour I had a drug problem - totally false. Although far from the strangest rumour that has been spread. Our drama is superficial but drama between the boys can mean tours lost, collaborations finished. It’s serious business.

I did the perfectly respectable thing and spoke to A. I told him that C and I had been getting on well and that he had asked me to Paris. Coincidently C and A were playing the same gig. A kissed the tip of my nose and ran his fingers gently up and down my thighs. Then he leant in and whispered in my ear, does that mean I can ask my girlfriend to meet us in Paris. I smiled and told him he was a wanker. He grinned back at me and said he knew he was. A was a true sweetheart, but a wanker nonetheless. All the good ones are.

A lover can become a friend real fast. A and I went from rolling around getting tangled in the bed sheets to tickling my sides and showing me photos of his girlfriend and dogs. They were lovely and he made sure by the time we were in Paris I knew all about them. A lot of girls would have left but you don’t know people for that long without being friends with them. If you weren’t you wouldn’t go on tour. I say friends but there is always a wall up and it has to be there. I’m not telling you to pretend entirely but you can’t reveal too much of yourself. Very few people now my real name and very few know my real life retail job and university life. Perhaps this is why I haven’t got one of the boys to fall in love with me yet, but above all costs you have to protect yourself.

Before we left for the beautiful streets of Paris - again - a very impossible thing happened. As I said before there is always drama. Such drama tends to be between the girls and a whole separate drama between the boys. Very rare do they cross. As I left C’s tour bus on the very last moments I was alone and without anyone to open the door to A’s bus. They have to be very hard to get into for safety reasons. Once I was on tour and someone broke in. They don’t like that kind of thing. As I walked to try and find someone I heard a shout from across the way. I saw K standing in the doorway of his bus and signalling over to me. For those who have not been following me for awhile K once had a very nasty place inside me reserved for him. He was known to be a bit of a bully especially to girls on the bigger side - groupies and fans regardless. At the time this happened I was banned from all of his gigs for throwing a drink over him. So to see him calling me over was very strange indeed. This isn’t something I recommend but I went to him and he let me sit on his bus while someone came for me. We talked a lot all about the festival and music and films. There are times when you misjudge people. I do not excuse what he has done in the past. But as he let me use his hair straighteners and told me how it was good to see me again I felt like he was an okay person. He was funny and had a very sarcastic sense of humour which I understand people not liking. I am quite sarcastic so when we spent that time together I felt a kinship. His sarcasm rivalled mine which is quite a feat. Perhaps that is why we clashed. This was a rare case - sometimes assholes are just assholes. He told me he was on his way to Paris too. He was playing a bigger venue than the one C was at, but he only bragged slightly. He said we should get a drink in Paris. There was no sexual tension, just terrible movie references. Obviously I couldn’t turn down Paris now.

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