#Geneva Watch Days

[watchilove]

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star: URWERK UR-100V Stardust

Geneva, 29 August 2023 – It sparkles brightly in the spotlight. With utmost delight, we extend a warm invitation to hold the URWERK UR-100V Stardust in your palm, gently pivoting it to reveal its finest profile, and savoring its true essence. This timepiece is bound to ignite a radiant twinkle in your eyes – a true watchmaker’s promise. Continue reading Untitled

[gmtindiasposts]

Geneva Watch Days Conducted a Pre-Launch Gathering in Zurich

Geneva Watch Days Organised a Pre-Launch event in Zurich for the brand CEO meetups, where 31 luxury watch brands participated for presenting the latest masterpieces, and 520 people attended this event. The main event is held from August 29 to September 2. Read more.

[pkansa]

Cedric Bellon CB01 TI: a pre-Geneva Watch Days release

Cedric Bellon CB01 TI: a pre-Geneva Watch Days release

There are a number of watch brands that are focusing on more Earth-friendly materials in their watches. The great thing about a metal case is that it could be fully recycled. With the Cedric Bellon CB01 TI, we have a watch that is very focused on reducing waste headed to the landfill. Continue reading Cedric Bellon CB01 TI: a pre-Geneva Watch Days release

[p0orbaby]

A Drop in the Ocean

summary: you buy barça for alexia

warnings: none

a/n: requested on the back of a similar one i wrote

word count: 1.5k

-

You don’t even think about it anymore, the money. The commas and zeros stopped meaning anything the moment they started adding up faster than you could count. You don’t remember exactly when it happened, just that it did. One day you were checking the balances on your brokerage account religiously, watching the stock tickers on your phone at breakfast, and then at some point—probably after that second meeting in Geneva or maybe the fourth trip to Dubai—you stopped caring altogether. The accounts became endless, infinite, numbers that only existed on a screen and held no weight in the real world. You could buy anything, do anything. You do.

You’ve bought Barcelona FC. For Alexia.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult purchase, and that’s what bothers you, how easy it was. You’d made a few calls, orchestrated a few backroom meetings with men in navy-blue suits who wear Patek Philippe watches but don’t know how to spell "integrity," and within weeks, it was done. The club—one of the most storied institutions in world football—was now, for all intents and purposes, yours. They were failing in every department that mattered, so it wasn’t hard to make them see reason. The board was crumbling under its own corruption and incompetence anyway, the men in charge having long ago stopped caring about anything other than their own salaries. They saw the numbers you offered and couldn’t sign the dotted lines fast enough.

You’re sitting in the back of your Bentley Bentayga—the V8 model because the W12 felt too much, like gilding the lily—watching the city of Barcelona pass by in blurred streaks of sunlight and shadows. You don’t drive yourself anymore; it’s not that you’ve forgotten how, but why would you bother when you can pay someone to do it for you? You’re sipping on an iced Americano from a local coffee roaster that isn’t La Colombe but isn’t Starbucks either—because Starbucks is for tourists and people who don’t care what real coffee tastes like—and tapping your thumb against the cool glass, counting down the minutes until you get home. Home isn’t the place you grew up, or even the first penthouse you bought in Barcelona—God, you’ve already sold that one off—but the sprawling villa in the hills that overlooks the city like a predator watching its prey.

You’d bought the house because Alexia liked it. You had taken her to see it on a whim, even though you knew you’d buy it regardless of her opinion. But she’d loved it, her eyes lighting up in that way they do when she’s genuinely moved by something, not when she’s just being polite or trying to please you. It’s rare, that reaction, and you’ve noticed it only happens when she’s either on the pitch or somewhere quiet, somewhere she can breathe. It makes you feel something, a tightness in your chest, almost a panic, like the world’s collapsing in on itself, but in a good way. If there even is a good way for that to happen.

Your phone buzzes, vibrating against the buttery-soft leather of your seat. You glance at it and see it’s a text from her.

Training's over. Home soon?

You smile, the kind of smile that makes the people around you uneasy, because they never know if it’s genuine or not. It is, but it’s small, fleeting, like everything in your life that isn't Alexia.

On my way. You send the reply quickly, almost too quickly, like you’re not supposed to care that much. But you do. You always do.

You met Alexia when you were young—stupid young—back when you still believed that success was something you had to fight for. She was everything you weren’t: grounded, focused, humble. Even now, with all the accolades and the Ballon d'Ors and the fanfare, she still feels *real* in a way you don’t anymore. She still eats cereal for breakfast sometimes, not some overpriced organic granola shipped in from the Swiss Alps. She’ll sit on the sofa in her sweatpants and watch trashy reality TV with you, her feet in your lap, like the world outside doesn’t exist. Like she’s not the face of women’s football, the woman everyone wants to be. You want to be her too, sometimes.

But then you remember: she’s yours. And you’re the one with the power, the one pulling the strings now. You’re the one who’s going to fix everything for her.

You think about the RFEF, the Royal Spanish Football Federation, and how utterly revolting they are, how they’ve mishandled everything about the women’s game. It makes you angry, but not in the way normal people get angry, not in that quick, fleeting way. Your anger is cold, calculated, the kind of anger that doesn’t make itself known until it’s too late. You’d called in favours—favours you didn’t even know you had—and now you’re restructuring the whole thing from the inside out. The old guard, the men who’ve spent years belittling and undermining women’s football, will be gone soon, and they don’t even see it coming. You’ll replace them with people who actually care, people who understand what’s at stake.

Alexia doesn’t know yet. She doesn’t need to. She already carries enough weight on her shoulders; you see it in the way she moves, the subtle slump in her posture after a long day. She’s been fighting this fight for years, but you can take it from here. You’ll make sure she never has to fight again.

When you finally pull up to the villa, the sky is turning that particular shade of burnt orange that only seems to exist in Spain. The driver opens your door, and you step out, the sound of your Louboutins clicking against the cobblestone driveway. You’re wearing something understated but expensive—a cream-coloured silk blouse from The Row, tailored trousers that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and a watch that could fund a small country’s healthcare system for a year. You’ve always preferred quiet luxury, the kind of wealth that doesn’t scream but whispers, softly, in the background. Alexia likes that about you. At least, you think she does.

You walk through the front door—minimalist, custom-made, imported from Italy—and the scent of jasmine fills your lungs. Alexia’s perfume. She’s here.

You find her in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa, her legs up on the coffee table, still in her training kit. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face. She’s scrolling through her phone, probably reading up on whatever the media is saying about the latest match, and she looks up when you walk in. There’s that smile again, the one that makes everything else disappear for a moment, just a moment, but long enough to matter.

“Hey,” she says, her voice soft, like it’s only meant for you.

You cross the room and sit next to her, pulling her legs into your lap, your fingers automatically tracing circles on her shins. You don’t say anything for a while, because neither of you needs to. The silence between you is comfortable, familiar, the kind of silence that only comes when two people have been through everything together and still come out on the other side.

“I bought the club,” you say, casually, like you’re talking about picking up milk from the store.

Alexia looks at you, her eyes widening for a second before she catches herself. She’s good at that, at pretending nothing surprises her, but you know her well enough to see through it.

“You did what?” she asks, her tone somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

“I bought Barcelona,” you repeat, leaning back against the cushions. “They were fucking it all up, especially with the women’s team. I’m fixing it. For you”

She doesn’t respond immediately, and you can see the gears turning in her head, trying to process what you’ve just said. It’s not that she doesn’t believe you; she does. It’s just…a lot.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says finally, but there’s no conviction in her voice. She knows as well as you do that you don’t *have* to do anything. You want to.

“I did,” you reply, your voice firm. “Because they don’t care about you. Not like I do”

She looks at you for a long moment, and you can see the conflict in her eyes, the push and pull of wanting to argue but knowing there’s no point. You’ve already made up your mind. You always have.

“Thank you,” she says eventually, and the sincerity in her voice catches you off guard. You’re used to people thanking you, sure, but it’s always perfunctory, transactional. This is different. This is real.

You lean in and kiss her, slow and soft, and for a moment, everything is perfect. You don’t think about the money or the power or the corruption you’ve spent years navigating. You don’t think about the board meetings or the backroom deals or the restructuring of the RFEF. You just think about her, and how she’s the only thing that makes any of it worth it.

When you pull back, she’s smiling, and it’s that smile again—the one that makes your chest tighten and your heart race in a way that nothing else does. Not even the money.

“Let’s go fix everything,” you say, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you already have.

[phantomrose96]

My dodgeball friends which are my tennis friends which are my biking friends which are my skiing friends took me skiing again yesterday.

It was only my third time skiing after 10+ years of not doing it, and surreptitiously ("surreptitiously") yesterday was a pure powder day, which we couldn't have predicted when we booked the tickets. Given the absolute zoo of the parking lot, I figured "powder" would be like skiing on a dream.

I was wrong. By god I was wrong. Powder makes you work 10x as hard to turn and control. Powder turns the ski slopes into checkboard patterns of mounds and valleys which, if taken at high enough speed, must generate some kind of musical note. Like a marimba of bad decisions.

I was making noises I wasn't proud of. I was watching my life flash before my eyes. I was voluntarily faceplanting in the snow one time, because my options were voluntary faceplant now or involuntary faceplant later at a speed I could only reach against my own will.

My one validation was reconvening with my friends at lunch and seeing that half of them also looked like they lost a long argument against God at the peak of that mountain, shoveling fries into their mouths and buying $5 powerade because it's that or death.

I got better like I got a feel for it as the day went on. But the fatigue stays with you. More than once I tried to tell my leg muscles to do something and they informed me the sodium-potassium channels were out to lunch. Informed me they were on their union-mandated break, but Good Luck to me and my own. I stopped on the slopes more than once to catch my breath. I flopped right over in the snow at the end of a run. And in the middle of it. And in the middle of the part before the middle.

I escaped the previous two ski sessions without being sore the next day but I knew this time I was done in. Did things to my legs that go against the Geneva convention. Would reap my consequences when the sun returned.

Woke up this morning. Legs were fine. Not just "not bad" but completely, 100% fine. As fine as if I'd done absolutely nothing the previous day.

My UPPER ARMS are killing me though. From, as best I can gather, the gargantuan, mammoth effort of... like pushing myself up from the snow like 5 times.

I should stop skipping arm day.

[jo-harrington]

Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction - Prologue: Crossover

Summary: Everyone wishes that they could have an Eddie Munson in their lives. In a strange turn of events, Eddie wishes that he could meet you, his favorite character from a cult classic 80's TV series. And he's about to get his wish.

Word Count: 3.9k

Pairing: Eddie Munson/Fem!Reader

Warnings/Themes: No-Upside-Down AU, Minor Angst, Fluff, Isekai, Mentions of FOI-compliant events

Note: Hello and welcome. I'm very excited about getting to expand on this idea; it's going to be a wild ride. Please note as you head in, and as we get into further chapters...this fic is going to be a little mind-fucky and a little bit self aware. This is my love letter to and my criticism of fanfiction, but at the end of the day, we're still gonna get to fall in love with Eddie and get some kind of Happily Ever After. This is my guarantee.

You can find my masterlist here.

Please do not interact if you are not 18+.

Enjoy!

May 2022. Such a weird time.

A time of uncertainty, a time of change. A time where the world seemed like it had been torn apart and was slowly being knit back together again.

But then a switch was flipped. Something happened. An old season ended and a new one started and with that start came something new. Someone new. And suddenly, countless people began to yearn for this new person in their lives.

A new, old person. Eddie Munson.

Joy ignited. Creativity sparked. Millions of words written and read. Edits made. Art drawn. Merch bought.

So many voices crying “why isn’t he real. WHY ISN'T HE REAL.”

If there was a god, he would let them have their own Eddie Munson. And if there was a Satan, he would let them sell their souls for Eddie Munson.

That’s just not how the universe works.

At least…not this one...

October 1985. A different kind of place and time. Still weird.

But Eddie Munson was real.

Sometimes to his detriment.

And for the most part, it was alright.

He played guitar, laughed with friends, mocked bullies to protect the people like him that were considered less than. He'd overcome hardships of one sort or another for most of his life, he could keep at it for a little while longer.

It would be his day week month year sometime soon.

Wouldn't it?

But until then, he would bide his time. Hopefully, this year, he'd pass all of his classes and finally graduate. Get to flip that douchebag Higgins off and snatch up a long-awaited, and well-deserved diploma.

What made it all easier, what softened the blow...was you.

It was silly. He knew that. Ronnie used to tease him on Wednesday nights when he needed to run home because he had a "standing date with his girl."

"Your girl doesn't even know you're alive," she'd scoff as he bustled her into the van. "She isn't real."

No...no you weren't.

Why couldn't you be real.

See, for the past...however long Eddie had spent his late nights half-assing homework, planning campaigns for Hellfire, working on music, and watching a television show. His guilty pleasure, a show about the ups and downs and upside downs of living in a sleepy suburban town: Port Geneva.

A show where you were his favorite character.

And crush.

You weren't the main character--in fact, you were just the main character's quirky best friend--but you were a fan favorite, as much as he could tell. You'd only been in the background during the first season, but before long you were front and just-left-of-center. And last year, you'd even gotten a two-episode arc in the season finale as you turned the small town on its head by announcing, a month or two before graduation, that you were quitting school to follow your dream and become an artist.

And man...Eddie had been there.

He'd actually missed those episodes airing when...well, when everything happened with his father and the heist...and the house...and Paige.

He'd missed a lot of episodes that season. Missed seeing you come into your own as he tried and failed to come into his.

Thankfully Wayne--and Eddie wasn't a believer but whatever deity in charge needed to bless his Uncle Wayne--had the foresight to tape those episodes for him.

Those tapes would be cherished 'til the day he died, because they had truly gotten him through those tough days after everything.

He wished he had seen them when they aired, maybe...maybe he would have made some different decisions if he had.

Of course, Eddie had already loved you before then.

Since he had first laid eyes on you, actually.

He was sure that if you were real, you would be the one to understand him more than any of his friends. See the real him. In return, he would understand you, be there for you too.

He already had been. He'd seen you cry countless times, he'd laughed with you, celebrated your successes and mourned your failures. He'd been there for you when you crushed on that dickhead Mark, and then had your heart broken by the careless jerk.

And somewhere deep down inside of him, when he was sitting in that jail cell after he wasted his phone call on Paige and he felt the weight of the world bear down on his shoulders…he wished that you were real so he could have called you instead.

If you were real, Eddie's life would just be a little nicer.

He knew…he just knew.

Of course, in the mean time while he wished with every fiber of his being that you would walk into his life, he brought you to life in other ways. During mid-season and summer hiatuses, he would write you into his DND campaigns. His friends knew, they always called him out for it.

"Are you seriously making her an NPC man?" Dougie would scoff and throw a D20 across the table at him.

"No, what are you talking about?" he defended and threw the die right back at his friend. "This is Spiria the Bold."

"Uh huh," Jeff rolled his eyes. "Sure."

By his imagination and his pen, you became a powerful warrior, a sharp-tongued trickster, a seductive mage. You became anything he wanted you to be--most often with a companion and lover that mirrored him--and everything he knew, deep down, that you were.

And then the unthinkable happened.

September ‘84. He and Wayne were in the checkout line at K-mart. Cart stacked with new clothes and school supplies and groceries. When suddenly...there you were. Right in front of him.

Alright, not you. Per se. But your face, smiling alongside Samantha and Patrick and Scotty and Bill on the cover of the TV Guide.

On Set with the Stars of Port Geneva.

Wayne was the one to snatch the magazine from the rack and add it to their bounty, a knowing smile on his lips as he shook his head.

He knew Eddie needed a little pick-me-up.

Or a big one.

How could he have known this would be anything but one...

Eddie scoured over the pages once they got back to the trailer. He was hoping there would be a big enough picture of you that he could cut out and tape to the otherwise barren walls of his new room. And there was; you were leaning against the back of your signature pastel blue Volkswagen Beetle, arms across your chest, head tilted to the side with the signature scrunched smile you gave when you were embarrassed.

He adored you.

Before he took scissors to the page, he read the interview with your actress.

He wasn't too keen on her, even though she had your face.

The illusion that Rosemary Glass was really you had been shattered the first time he'd heard her voice on a radio interview; instead of your perfect and familiar middle-American speech...Rosemary's voice was accented.

Not to mention, she sounded pretentious.

Gross.

Still, he could look past that annoyance if he got some kind of insight to what the next season would bring for you.

Hopefully not a new love interest. His heart could only take so much.

...gives us a tour of the Patterson and Son's set, one that is forever enshrined as the setting of Patrick and Samantha's first kiss. "Oh I'm actually not fond of that scene," Rosemary confesses. "Yeah it's sweet, and the way I bring Sam in so Pat could confess his feelings but the...when I fell down? It was not scripted. And I was honestly shocked they kept that in. But fans seem to think she's clumsy now because of it. That I'm clumsy. When I just tripped over a wire. It's quite awful, really." We ask Rosemary to tell us what she'll miss most, now that the show is coming to an end...

Eddie went rigid as he read those words.

The show...coming to an end?

"What?" he exclaimed into his empty room. "No, no, no."

He carefully examined the article again, then turned back to the beginning of the feature, only to feel his heart stop in his chest.

The title of the feature was like crit hit.

The final killing blow to his already weak constitution.

One Last Summer in Port Geneva - On the Set of the Final Season

The final season was a sham.

Eddie savored every episode, though. Of course he would!

He would enjoy every last moment with you that he could get before he lost you forever. But...he hated it.

It was lazy writing--seriously what were they thinking--and a quick, cheap means to tie up all the loose ends they'd set up over the years. He could tell they tried to deliver as fulfilling a finale for the extensive cast of characters as they could. Still, he was sure he could have done better.

Samantha and Patrick got engaged after graduation. That was lame.

Bonnie finally quit the bakery to open her own cafe the next town over. Didn't anyone remember that she wanted to quit because she wanted to be a vet instead? That was the whole point of her! She didn't want to follow in her family's footsteps and she was doing just that.

And you? You took a backseat.

Instead of leaving town right after graduation--something that you had followed through reluctantly to make your parents happy even though you had just resolved to put your own happiness first for once--you stayed to help Pat plan his proposal.

Your big adventure, your big push for your dreams, were on hold again. You played second fiddle over and over until the final episode.

Eddie was grateful to have you for a little longer, but...once again annoyed that you were looked over--over and over, just like he was--when you had already proved that you were worthy of top billing.

Worthy of being the main character for once.

Still, at the beginning of the series finale, you packed your bags, cashed in your savings account, and drove out of town. The future was yours, just like it was always meant to be.

And Eddie cried.

The whole time tears streamed down his face as you said your own watery goodbyes. He might have even waved as you stuck your hand out the windshield to say goodbye to your friends as your car idled at the last stop sign. You blew a kiss to everything you knew and loved then started on your way into the unknown, car getting smaller in the distance right before the commercial break.

He held his breath for the final scene: a walk through the house where it all started and then Sam smiled her signature hopeful smile as she shut the door on the audience.

The screen faded to black for one final time and he exhaled.

"It's over," he muttered in slight disbelief, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself.

Port Geneva was over, and you were gone for good.

It was a strange feeling.

Heartbreak, mourning, disappointment? He couldn't really know for sure. Empty was the best way to describe it; the lack of feeling. It was infuriating. Port Geneva was just a television show, he attempted to rationalize for the nth time since he started watching. You were just a character on a tv show; how could you mourn for someone and something that wasn't even real?

You hadn't actually died. He could still see glimpses of you if he wanted, whenever Rosemary Glass' next movie came out or something.

But that wasn't you.

You were gone, for all intents and purposes, and it was a blow that hit Eddie hard.

How could he go on without you?

Devastated, he got high that night after he stewed on his grief. He day-dreamed and monologued to an empty trailer about a universe where the two of you were together, where your travels took you to Hawkins, of all places, and you fell in love with him, just like you were supposed to.

If the walls could talk, they would have a fantastic tale to tell. One with heroes and misunderstandings and love at first sight. One with a horrible, unseen foe and many pitfalls and dangers that exceeded anyone's wildest imaginations. One with a magic door that led to the happily ever that was beyond well-deserved.

Grief did wonderful and terrible things, after all.

He woke up for school the next morning with cotton mouth and a vague outline of a story that did just that: brought you to Hawkins to fall in love with him and all of the other things that seemed like nonsense once he was in a more right-minded state.

The only problem was that it was all in his English notebook. And he didn't need anyone finding that.

"Fuck," he groaned and ripped the page out. He shoved it into his bedside drawer, where it would be doomed to a crumpled and forgotten future.

Or until he needed a condom.

Which, considering how everyone had doubled down on their disgust of him, wouldn't be any time soon.

But there you stayed.

Put away, like old obsessions and childish things, to be ignored and forgotten.

At least for a little while.

Eddie tried.

He did.

He kept you and Port Geneva out of sight and mind as much as humanly possible. It was the most effort he had really put to anything tangible in the past year.

The series ended at a weird time--during the middle of the season--and some investigative journalism show took over its time slot. Barbara Walters couldn't hold a candle to you, so it wasn't difficult for him to keep himself rooted in reality on the nights where he typically indulged in his silly fantasies.

The daydreams that he had were limited to lyrics for Corroded Coffin originals and ideas for Hellfire, and nights were spent alone in the darkness of the living room, with his reflection in the television set to keep him company as he tried his best to do homework that he'd already done before.

Before he realized, though, the school year was coming to a close and he was--big shocker--on the brink of failure. It wasn't until Higgins called him into his office, again, that you made your violent resurgence into his life.

There was a tentative truce between Higgins and Eddie for a while.

Civility was a strange thing for both of them. They actively avoided one another, save for a snide jab here and there, and Eddie tried to stay out of the Principal's Office as much as he could.

That is, until Higgins was forced to tell Eddie that he needed to repeat his repeat senior year.

"Don't act like I want this at all," he sneered at Eddie who tripped over a reaction. "I'd rather have you out of these halls for good. You drop out one year, then you re-enroll and you fail another. Try to make the most of it this time Munson; I don't want to have this talk again."

Eddie grumbled the whole drive back to the trailer, and he fell onto the sofa with his head in his hands once he got in.

"Which one of the fates wrote this stupid plot for me now, as if last year wasn't enough. You can't make this stuff up sometimes."

He laid there, wallowing in his misery for hours, days, years, until it got dark enough for headlights outside to be noticeable as they shined through the window. There was a glint of a reflection that caught his eye and had him turn his head.

"TV," he sighed and reached out as though he could touch the set and stacks of tapes neatly piled below. “The cause-of and solution-to all of life’s problems.”

He contemplated his life for a few more minutes.

He could make the most of the final few weeks of the school year. He could set himself up as a willing and reliable pupil for these last few assignments and tests, even though they wouldn't mean very much.

He could do all of these things so that when he walked into the halls of Hawkins High in the fall, on his absolute last first day of school--whatever deity or powers-that-be willing, because how "getting the hell outta dodge or he would die here" turned into "two extra years in that shit hole" he could only attribute to cosmic intervention--the faculty would already know he would try his best this time.

It would show them he was serious about graduating and that he would succeed despite all odds against him. Finally.

He could do this.

Or...

He could put in one of the tapes from the stack and scrounge for loose bills left over from his last few transactions and order a pizza. Pretend like he didn't exist for a little while.

And given the choice?

Eddie Munson chose the latter.

And he continued to choose the latter throughout the summer and even into the fall.

Nights that he didn't already have plans were spent in front of the television.

They were cherished nights with you.

Aside from his VHS recordings, he found a channel that showed reruns of Port Geneva after 10pm. Two hours of small town shenanigans that might very well be found just outside of his own door--if he only went and looked--with you just there, making your appearance every so often and catching his eye.

Homework was sometimes left halfway done on the coffee table until he needed to switch out a tape, or change the channel, and he spent more time filling his heart than enriching his mind, so to speak; he knew all of this school stuff already anyways.

Third times a charm and all right?

He talked to the screen more often than not, tried to warn you against one disappointment or another. Sometimes, if he was watching one of his tapes, he'd pause right on your face and just talk to you. Mundane things, usually, like Ronnie's last phone call home or some album that got released and a song he thought you might like.

Other nights, like tonight, he got vulnerable. Moments where life seemed a little extra trying, and he'd confess his feelings to your image.

Knelt on the floor in front of the coffee table, warm light bathed his face promising comfort as he spoke, and the din of static emitted from the television set, akin to an angel's voice...beyond understanding of humans.

He'd never been one for church, but this kind of confessional was sacred enough.

An eternal bond, just you and him.

He stopped his ramblings at that thought.

It was a strange moment of clarity.

Where had that come from?

"I..." Eddie looked down at himself, a foot away from the television set, remote clenched in his hand. Then he looked at you, soul-filled eyes just beyond the glass, not looking at him, only...through him, just past him. "What am I doing?"

What was he doing? He was...he wasn't a kid anymore who could hide in his dreams; well, honestly he was always going to do that, but this was different.

One minute he felt the weight of the world lift off his shoulders as he told you about his troubles, and the next it was all back, heavier than ever, as he realized how silly this all was.

And here he was, wasting his life knelt at your altar.

It wasn't holy. It was pathetic.

You'd never answer; you weren't real.

"Why?" he asked aloud, jaw clenched. He gripped the remote tightly. "What did I do to not have...someone? Huh? What have I ever done to be alone? That I have to rely on a fucking television character to feel understood. And now I'm losing my mind talking to myself, talking to you, at midnight every night. Why am I here wishing that you're real? Why couldn't you just...be...real?"

If there was a God, he would let Eddie Munson have you. If there was a Satan, he would let Eddie sell his soul for you.

And that's how he knew neither of them existed: you didn't exist either.

Eddie hit the eject button on the VCR and was about to shut everything so he could go to bed, when there was a crash outside.

Crashes in Forest Hills weren't abnormal--someone backing into trash cans, losing traction on the icy roads in the winter, and the one time Mrs. Dawson kicked her husband out and threw all of his things out the window--but it was something he'd gotten used to since he came to live with Wayne.

This crash, however, started a ruckus.

Someone was yelling and that stupid dog across the way started barking.

Eddie was a lot of things...but a dramatic gossip was definitely high on the list.

What else was there to do in the Midwest?

He grabbed his cigarettes from the bowl full of junk on the coffee table and stepped outside, fully intent on plopping down on the old couch on the porch to smoke and watch the scene unfold.

A car crashed into the telephone pole; didn't look like there was much damage but it had run through some trashcans and might have clipped the drivers side mirror off of Mrs. Mayfield's car. The same Mrs. Mayfield who was on her own porch being held back by Max as she yelled.

"Are you kidding me? It's fucking midnight!"

"Mom! Stop!"

"The car, Max!"

Maybe there'd be a fight.

He barely got his cigarette lit when he noticed--really noticed--the offending car: a powder blue Volkswagen Beetle.

He blinked several times and then rubbed his eyes, thinking it might have just been a trick of the light or something.

Or it was a coincidence.

Or a dream.

Maybe he'd had a heart attack and died in front of his television or something?

Plenty of people drove Volkswagen Beetles. He was pretty sure he'd even heard Nancy Wheeler asking her parents for one as a graduation present.

But with the same license plate number?

The same one from the show, the same one that was in the TV Guide all those months ago. The same one on the makeshift poster he had taped on the wall next to his bed, that he'd run his fingers over to "kiss" you goodbye countless times, just like he did to his guitar.

"It's just dark," he tried to convince himself, "and I'm tired, and...and..."

It was a coincidence. It was a dream.

He repeated the mantra over and over in his head like a lifeline.

It was another fan like him who just used fantasy to make their life a little better. That's all he was trying to do too, right? He could understand; hell, if this was a new neighbor, maybe he'd be able to chat with them about the show. Wouldn't that be something?

Eddie was so distracted making up endless excuses for himself that he didn't notice Mrs. Mayfield as she threw her hands up in the air with an exaggerated "I'm calling the police. He didn't hear Max holler at her mom to calm down, or see the tail lights of the Beetle turn off either.

It wasn't until the driver's side door swung open and a sneaker-covered foot crunched against the gravel that he forgot all the excuses he was conjuring.

And his heart stopped as the driver got out of the car and stood in the faint glow of the streetlight.

Because that driver was you.

Next Chapter: Alternate Universe

There is no taglist for this series, please follow the STFF Updates tag or check the series out on AO3.

[avatar-anna]

Before the Show

Young dad! Harry x Young mom! Reader

Harry rushed through the halls of Wembley Stadium, barely keeping track of the crew members he narrowly missed bumping into or the people who greeted him as he rushed by. It was a little less than an hour before the show, and though he should've been going through his pre-show routine of brushing his teeth and getting into his stage outfit and hanging out with the band, he was running around Wembley like a madman.

When he finally reached the right door, Harry skidded to a stop, breathing a huge sigh of relief before opening it.

"I got it!" he said, voice hushed as he tossed the stuffed animal.

Y/n caught it out of the air and rested it next to the sleeping figure on the couch. "You're an angel, Harry."

Harry waved his hand nonchalantly. "No problem. I'm just glad I made it back before she woke up."

They looked down at where Maeve was sleeping soundly on the couch of the dressing room, a separate one from Harry's, for no other reason than for him and Y/n to watch the kids in peace and have as little eyes on them as possible. Everyone on the Love on Tour crew was under strict NDAs, but Y/n did appreciate a little privacy when she had to change a diaper or put someone down for a nap. Harry's dressing room was right next door, but both of them found that an extra room for diaper bags, toys, and whatever else they needed that day came in handy.

"Where is everyone?" Harry asked, noticing the lack of children in what was basically Love on Tour's playroom.

"Simone, Collette, and Jules are with the band, and your mother is getting in some one on one time with the babies," Y/n said. "And now I'm debating staying in here with Maeve or just leaving the baby monitor on."

"Oh. Might not have to," Harry said, nodding toward the couch where their daughter's eyes were beginning to flutter.

Maeve rubbed her eyes sluggishly, looking around and trying to get her bearings. When her eyes landed on Harry, she stretched her arms out. He picked her up with ease, holding her close before standing up.

"Where's Pauli?" she mumbled.

Y/n quickly handed Harry the stuffed animal to give to Maeve. "Right here, peanut. Was with you the whole time," he said, giving Y/n a conspiratorial wink, which she rolled her eyes at.

Maeve took the stuffed unicorn and held it close before settling against Harry's chest again, her free hand reaching up to play with the hair curling around his ear.

"Pauli" was Maeve's stuffed animal, named after the person who gave it to her. When Harry brought it home one night, Harry told Maeve it was "from Pauli," but she thought Harry was telling her the unicorn's name, and so that's what everyone called it. Maeve never went anywhere without Pauli, which meant that anytime he got left at home or in a car seat, there was massive panic between Harry and Y/n.

"Why don't you let Mommy hold you, Maevie. Daddy has to get dressed for his big show," Y/n said, but even as she did, Harry could feel his daughter's little legs tighten around his waist. He knew he had to get ready for the show, but he secretly loved that Maeve didn't want to let go of him too.

"It's alright," he said to his wife. "Let's go find everyone, shall we, peanut?"

The three of them left the dressing room and went a couple doors down to where the band was supposed to be getting ready. Harry could hear a low hum coming from the closed door, which told him everything he needed to know. When Y/n pushed the door open, the noise got louder, causing Maeve to lift her head from Harry's shoulder to see what was going on.

"Hey, look who it is!"

The commotion didn't stop entirely, but it did lessen as the focus shifted to Harry, Maeve, and Y/n. Pauli—the person, not the unicorn—came over to where the three had remained by the dressing room door. Geneva was on his hip, who seemed to be marveling at Pauli's hair and touching it idly, but Pauli didn't seem to mind. He handed GiGi over to Y/n, who was making grabby hands at her now that she was in arm's reach. Y/n took her and kissed her cheek, quietly thanking Pauli for looking after Geneva.

"I thought my mum had Gi and Natalia?" Harry said to no one in particular.

"She went with Gem and the baby for a walk. Trying to get her down for a nap," Mitch said. "Took ours too."

"She does that," Harry nodded. He was plenty used to his mother taking any of his babies off his or Y/n's hands.

"It's fine. Sarah and I are used to it by now," he said. "And there's plenty of little ones to occupy us before the show."

Surveying the rest of the room, Harry saw all the rest of his children entertaining his band. Simone was sitting on a couch with Elin's bass in her lap while Elin told her where to put her fingers on the fretboard; Collette seemed to be in an intense battle of rock paper scissors with Julian while the members of the trumpet section watched and cheered. A small smile tugged at Harry's lips at the sight. It was such a different environment than when he was first starting out, and he couldn't have been happier.

"You need to go get ready. Unless you're planning on going out like that," Y/n said to him.

Harry looked down at his t-shirt and workout shorts, the beat up shoes he was wearing, then looked at Y/n. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

"Nothing's wrong with what you're wearing, baby. In fact, I'm sure your fans would love to see you perform in your day clothes," she said, leaning over to kiss his shoulder. "But you might as well put on what Lambert picked out for you."

Harry finally relented, knowing the clock was ticking and he would soon be out of time. Carefully, he set Maeve down on the floor, telling her to show Uncle Pauli her unicorn, and since she was more awake, she was more receptive to the idea of letting Harry go.

He watched Maeve skip over to Pauli and Sarah and present her unicorn. Even though he knew about it because Harry told him, Pauli acted surprised and showed interest in the stuffed animal named after him.

"Go, Daddy. We'll come see you off before the show," Y/n said. She tilted his head to face her so she could kiss him.

"Promise?"

Y/n smiled at Harry, partly amused. With a slight roll of her eyes, she said, "Yes. I promise."

With one last kiss, Harry left. He didn't like being away from his family when they were so close, but in moments like these, moments before a show, he appreciated a little quiet to calm his nerves. And there were a lot for this show.

Harry's hands shook ever so slightly as he got dressed, his mind wandered to the thousands of people that were already filling the stadium. Eighty-five thousand people. All of them waiting for him to perform his heart out, to give them a show they would never forget. Harry usually forgot about that pressure when he stepped onstage, but beforehand, he was all nerves.

"I hold you, Daddy?" GiGi said, reaching for him. That had become her favorite phrase recently. Instead of asking to be held, Geneva asked if she could hold them. Harry's heart melted every time he heard it.

Grinning, Harry reached down to where his second youngest child managed to toddle in by herself. "How did you get in here, eh? You're too cute to be out of anyone's sight."

"Mommy," GiGi said, smiling when Harry smiled at her.

"Oh, Mummy let you in here? Mummy?" Harry asked, determined to have at least one of his kids share his accent.

"Mu—mmy," she said.

"That's my girl. Now give your daddy a kiss, hm? Right here."

Geneva kissed Harry's cheeks right where he'd pointed. Just moments before, he'd been stressing about his show, but as he held his daughter, and took Y/n's hand, who was waiting just outside the dressing room for the pair to come out, he felt like he could take on the world.

[haleswallows]

I've Been the Forest and the Fire (and the Witness Watching It) DC x DP Dead on Main (Jason Todd/Danny Fenton) Teen Soulmates AU

Teaser:

The asshole is in the manor.

Which. Of course, he is. Because he’s Jason’s soulmate and he decked the guy. It was entirely justified, but it’s still assault and that has to be sorted. Jason glared at Alfred with eyes shining from unshed tears when Tim finally managed to signal for the old butler. It took one look at the matching swollen knuckles and bruises before Alfred’s shoulders slumped.

And wasn’t that a sight. Jason can’t think of a single time Alfred has lost his stiff posture, let that stoic façade slide. There’s a grief in the way he focuses on Jason. But then he’s back to business – standing tall and ushering them all outside and to the car. Even the asshole.

Jason can't help but notice the asshole is taller than him. Built. It only makes him angrier.

Awkward. That’s the only word for the half-hour drive to the manor. An ugly frown twists Jason’s face the entire time. The asshole picks at the skin around his nails while Tim watches him with a blank expression and sharp eyes that speaks to a scheming Jason is sure will end in bodily harm.

Bruce’s sigh back at the manor still hasn’t managed to make him feel guilty. The opposite, really. Jason feels righteous even as he's sent away to his room and asked softly to rest with a hand brushing over his bruised jaw. The steel in Bruce's posture isn't a surprise, even though he's nothing but gentle to Jason. Because, whoever this asshole is? Bruce isn’t letting the guy get away without answering some questions.

Namely, what the fuck he’s been doing to turn their soulbond into a Geneva Convention violation.

So.

The asshole is in one of the more ‘public friendly’ drawing rooms. It’s still bugged to hell and back, that’s for certain. And Jason guesses he’ll negotiate himself down the steep stairs into the Cave at some point in the near future to watch the footage. Get some of those answers Bruce is sure to extract out of the asshole.

It feels like a big to-do over a fat lot of nothing. Even Dick is on his way back to Gotham for the night to help with patrols. More like Batman Babysitting Duty to keep Bruce from beating someone to death if he’s even half as angry as Jason feels. Alfred’s hovering somewhere. He’s always hovering somewhere. It’s an even toss-up on any given day if that’s going to piss Jason off, or make him feel soft and affectionate. If Alfred dares to pop into his room just now, Jason doesn’t honestly know which way he’ll go right now.

Tim hums low, pressing his back into Jason’s shins where he’s sitting in the giant plush armchair in his room. Comfy as if it’s his own room. Might as well be, with how much time Tim spends in here with him sometimes. The tablet in his hands is open on some sort of DMV page. Jason glances at it but goes back to his staring out the window. Mind blank, he turns a lighter over and over in his hands.

He’d quit smoking. That day all those years ago when he’d collapsed under a metric shit-ton of pain.

He’s still under that metric shit-ton of pain.

Jason doesn’t do self-pity. Jason does anger and resentment and grudge-holding like he’s got something to prove. Maybe he does. Maybe he has something to prove to himself that some asshole who didn’t even know he existed isn’t going to be the defining fact of his life. ‘Jason, Benched Robin, Shitty Soulmate’ isn’t what he signed up for.

It isn't going to be his epitaph.

He’s tired of being in pain. He’s tired of being beholden to some asshole.

Jason sighs. Tim tilts his head, bird-like and curious. A wordless prompt if Jason wants to talk about it. Or just an acknowledgment of how bullshit this all is. He shifts when Jason taps his shoulder and watches closely as he stands. But says nothing, not even when Jason does grab his cane this time.

Learning to use a cane had been a curious thing. Jason didn’t even know there was a proper way to use one. What was more fun was the cane-centric self defense training. Apparently, being visibly disabled makes him more of a target of battery assault. Not that Jason was ever by himself in public to use it.

But Bruce likes his contingencies.

Everything is so far in the manor. Luckily, Jason finds them in the second drawing room he checks. It’s the opulent one and he nearly snorts. Of course, Bruce picked this one. An overt and unsubtle flex of the absurd wealth behind the Wayne name. The asshole wears ratty sneakers and jeans worn thin at the knees – it's definitely an obvious tactic to use on someone far from the upper crust.

There’s a low murmur of the asshole’s voice behind the door. It cuts off when Jason presses it open.

In a flash, Bruce is up and across the room. Hovering, hands not quite touching. Afraid to grip and cause pain. Jason leans into his dad for a moment.

“Chum, what’re you doing? You should be —."

“Go away,” he says. To which, the asshole flinches and looks like he’s scoping out the nearest escape route. Jason rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, old man. I want to talk to the asshole.”

(Find the rest on ao3)

[37sommz]

❁ : lookin' 4 . . .

✼. masterlist — taglist — request. ✼. genre: fluff. ✼. wc: 4.1k.

the fia prize giving ceremony is a chance for michaela to let her hair down. between the awards and the champagne, michaela is feeling particularly light. a tailored tuxedo and those haunting blue eyes enter at precisely the right moment.

✼. warnings: none i can think of :)

✼. notes: the jenson arc is here! this one is sweeter than usual, very very romantic.

000.⠀⠀JANUARY 27, 2021    ›    Geneva, Switzerland.

A glittering array of luxury cars lined up outside the Hotel President Wilson in Geneva. The cool breeze whispered through the alleyways, hinting at the snowfall that had painted the city white just the day before. Michaela tightened her fur-lined jacket around her, feeling a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. It had been a whirlwind year, and tonight was the cherry on top.

The FIA Prize Giving Ceremony was in full swing. She could feel the excitement buzzing through her veins as she stepped into the grand hall, her heels echoing off the marble floor. The room was a collage of black tie, with teams dressed in their finest and the smell of champagne and anticipation filling the air. She spotted her new McLaren crew across the room, raising their glasses in a silent toast to her impending arrival.

Michaela managed to mingle through the sea of congratulatory handshakes and kisses on the cheek, all the while keeping an eye out for the one person she hoped she wouldn't see: Jenson Button. His wide, dimpled grin and piercing blue eyes had haunted her thoughts since that unforgettable night in Tuscany. She knew he would be here; after all, the racing world was a small one, and they had both left their marks on it.

The moment she had been dreading finally came. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around to see Jenson standing there, looking as dashing as ever in his tailored tuxedo. "Michaela," he said, his voice low and warm, "Congrats on the award. That was one hell of a move you pulled off." His words brought a flush to her cheeks as she recalled the daring maneuver that had earned her the Action of the Year award.

"Thank you, Jenson," she replied, trying to keep her cool. "It's great to see you again." They exchanged small talk, the tension between them palpable. The air was thick with unspoken words, and she felt her heart racing as his gaze held hers for a beat too long. He leaned in closer, his cologne a heady mix of leather and sandalwood, and whispered, "Dance with me?" She glanced around the room, looking for an escape, but her eyes met those of her manager, Guido, who gave her a drunkenly encouraging nod.

On the dance floor, the lights flickered and the music swelled, a symphony of strings and bass that seemed to echo her tumultuous emotions. Jenson's hand was firm yet gentle on her waist, guiding her through the steps, his other hand holding hers. She felt the warmth of his skin against hers, sending a thrill up her arm. The room seemed to spin around them as they danced, a blur of glitter and smiles. Their conversation grew more intimate, the laughter and chatter of the party fading into the background.

Michaela felt a strange mix of excitement and anxiety. She had spent the last month pushing thoughts of Jenson to the back of her mind, focusing on her training and preparing for the upcoming season. But now, with him so close, it was impossible not to remember the heat of his touch, the taste of his lips. 

"So," he began, his voice a caress in her ear, "How long have you been single?"

Michaela's eyes widened, and she took a step back, the music seeming to come back into her attention at the sudden shock. "What are you talking about?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. Jenson's grin grew, and he pulled her back closer.

"Oh, come on, I've been watching you all night," he said, his breath tickling her ear. "You're a hard woman to miss in this world, and a harder one to forget." 

His words were like a sucker punch, and she felt the air leave her lungs. It had been a month and a half since she had told Olivier it was over, a month and a half of focusing solely on her career, and now here she was, face-to-face with the man who had been the catalyst for her breakup. A month and a half was far too soon for Jenson Button to be making her fall under his spell once again.

Her cheeks flushed, and she tried to regain her composure. "It's been over a month," she admitted, feeling the weight of the secret she had been carrying around since that fateful night. "But that doesn't mean..."

Jenson raised an eyebrow, interrupting her. "Doesn't mean what?"

Michaela took a deep breath. "It doesn't mean I'm ready for anything serious."

Jenson chuckled. "Who said anything about serious?" He leaned closer, his gaze holding hers. "How about we start with a date, just the two of us? No strings attached."

Before Michaela could muster up a response he added, "Just one date where I don't have to pretend I don't want to hide you away from the rest of the world and make you mine alone." The words were low with a heated anticipation that sent a shiver down Michaela's spine. He spoke casually as if the thought was perfectly appropriate for the black-tie ceremony, his blue eyes sweeping over her figure and sending her into a dizzying spell.

Michaela's eyes snapped up to his, and she found a hint of the same hunger she felt. "What are you doing to me, Jenson Button?" she murmured, half in jest, half in seriousness.

He leaned closer, his breath warm against her neck. "What I've wanted to do since we met," he replied, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill through her body. "But I can wait, for now." His smile was mischievous, and she knew he wasn't just talking about the dance.

Michaela felt her resolve wavering. A date with Jenson? The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating. But she had her priorities; the season was starting in less than two months, and she had to focus on her new team.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," she started. "I've got a lot on my plate with the upcoming season."

Jenson's grip on her waist tightened slightly, his eyes searching hers. "One date," he repeated, his voice smooth as silk. "It's not going to change the world, but it might just change your mind." He paused, then whispered, "And if not, well, we'll both have had a good time."

Michaela's heart skipped a beat. She had spent the last six months convincing herself that what happened in Tuscany was a one-off, a moment of loneliness fueled by adrenaline and success. But the way Jenson looked at her, the way he made her feel, was something she hadn't felt in a long time. She took a deep breath and met his gaze, his blue eyes sweeping over the features of her face as if committing them to memory.

"Okay," she conceded, "One date. But that's all."

Jenson's smile grew, and he leaned in to whisper in her ear, "I'll take what I can get." 

The music swelled again, and they continued to dance, their bodies moving in perfect harmony as if they had done it a thousand times before. She figured that was the allure of the magnetic pull she felt with Jenson. Every word, every breath, every thought came as if written in destiny when she was near him. He made every moment feel natural as if they had met in a hundred lives before.

As the night grew later, and the party started to wind down, Jenson offered to walk her to her hotel just down the street. She accepted, relishing the quiet after the blaring noise of the night. Max and Daniel had attempted to drag her to a nearby club, Charles and Pierre tried to convince her to fly back with them to party some more in Monaco, but Jenson demanded nothing of her, simply patiently waiting at the edge of the room with that dazzling glimmer in his eyes. 

They stepped out into the chilly Geneva air, the stars winking down at them as if approving the match. The moon cast a soft glow over the city, lighting their path as they strolled through the empty streets. The silence between them was filled with unspoken words and anticipation.

Michaela felt a flutter in her stomach with every step they took closer to her hotel. She knew that once they reached her room, she would have to make a decision. Would she invite him in and potentially risk everything she had worked so hard for? Or would she say goodbye and cling to the professional facade she had built around herself? The crunch of their shoes on the freshly fallen snow was the only sound breaking the silence. Jenson had charmingly poached a pair of spa sandals from the first desk, silencing the glimpses of discomfort that flashed across Michaela’s features for a brief moment. He offered a hand to balance on as she switched her heels for the sandals, wordlessly taking the shoes from her hands without as much as a hint of reservation.

When they reached the hotel lobby, Jenson didn't hesitate. He took her hand in his and led her to the elevator, his touch sending electric currents through her body. The ride up was agonizingly slow, the memory of the last time they were stuck in an elevator together stifling any decent thoughts. 

When they were a few moments from her floor, she turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper, "I don't know if this is a good idea."

He stepped closer, his eyes searching hers. "Why not?"

Michaela swallowed hard, her hand resting on the cool metal railing of the elevator. "For one, Grosjean and Ericsson are staying here and you know they can't resist getting involved in everyone else’s drama."

Jenson chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers. "They're not the only ones who know how to keep secrets, are they?" He leaned in, his breath a gentle whisper against her cheek. "I'm not looking for a scandal, just a chance to have you all to myself."

Michaela's heart hammered in her chest as the elevator doors slid open. She took a step out, still unsure of what she wanted. "I'm not looking for anything serious," she reiterated, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked.

Jenson's smile softened, and he nodded. "Understood. Just one date. No expectations." He leaned in and kissed her cheek, the brush of his lips sending a shiver down her spine. "But I promise it'll be a date to remember."

Michaela couldn't help but feel a thrill at his words. She had spent so much time focusing on her career that the prospect of a simple, carefree evening with someone like Jenson was tantalizing. "Fine," she said with a small smile, "But only because you're so charming."

Jenson's laugh was low and warm, and she felt it resonate through her chest. "You have no idea," he replied, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He pulled her closer for a proper kiss, one that was soft and lingering, hinting at the passion that lay just beneath the surface. It was the kind of kiss that made her knees feel like they might give out and sent her heart racing.

Michaela stepped back, her breathing shallow. "I'd better get some rest," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's been a long night."

Jenson nodded, his smile never wavering. "I'll see you in the morning, then." He leaned in and kissed her cheek once more before turning to walk away. She watched him go, her heart racing as she stepped into her hotel room and closed the door.

The next morning dawned bright and crisp, the sun shining through the windows of her suite and casting a warm glow over the plush hotel bed. She took a deep breath and pushed aside the curtains, taking in the breathtaking view of Lake Geneva. It was a contrast to the turmoil in her thoughts. The date with Jenson loomed ahead, a mix of excitement and nerves fluttering in her stomach.

Michaela had barely slept, replaying their encounter in her mind over and over again. She knew the risks, the potential for drama in their tight-knit world. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that there was something undeniable between them, a spark that had been ignited that night in Tuscany four months ago and had been slowly burning ever since.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. It was a text from Jenson. "Ready for our hike?" He had suggested it the night before, a casual outing to get to know the city she was in for the first time while simultaneously getting in her mandatory cardio for the day. She took a deep breath and typed back, "Give me twenty."

Michaela threw on her workout gear and met Jenson in the lobby. He was dressed similarly, his casual attire doing little to hide the athletic physique that had carried him to victory so many times on the track. They greeted each other with a smile that felt more like a promise than a simple hello.

The hike was steep but beautiful, the snow-capped Alps standing tall in the distance. They talked easily as they climbed, sharing stories of their careers, their passions, and the moments that had defined them as individuals. The conversation was punctuated by bursts of laughter, the kind that left her stomach feeling light and her eyes shining.

Michaela found herself opening up to Jenson in a way she rarely did with others. His genuine interest in her life and his easy-going nature made her feel at ease, despite the underlying tension that hummed between them like a live wire.

As they reached the summit, the wind whipped around them, carrying the scent of pine and the distant sound of the city below. The view was breathtaking, a canvas of blues and whites that stretched on forever. Jenson turned to her, his eyes shimmering with excitement. "This is my favorite part of Geneva," he said, "So distant from all the noise."

Michaela nodded, her eyes scanning the horizon. "It's beautiful," she murmured, her breath misting in the cold air. She felt him step closer, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill surrounding them. He reached out and tucked a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek for a moment before dropping away.

"Michaela," he began, his voice serious. "I know we agreed on one date, but I have to be honest with you."

Her heart skipped a beat. "What is it?"

"I've wanted to do this since the moment I saw you at the ceremony," Jenson said, his voice dropping to a whisper. He leaned in, and before she could react, his lips were on hers. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and filled with a passion that was impossible to ignore. For a moment, the world around them disappeared, and all that mattered was the warmth of his mouth and the strength of his arms around her.

Michaela felt a rush of heat flood through her body, and she found herself responding, her hands reaching up to tangle in his hair. The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as if they had been apart for an eternity instead of just a few months. When they finally broke apart, they were both breathless, their cheeks flushed with cold and desire.

A brief moment of stunned silence floated between the two of them, leaving only the howl of the wind between them. Suddenly, Michaela began to laugh. The sound a deep, genuine exclamation of the shared moment. Jensen's eyes crinkled at the corners with his own laughter. "What's so funny?" He asked, a playful glint in his eye.

Michaela leaned into him, her eyes sparkling with happiness. "I'm in Geneva for the first time, on top of this gorgeous mountain," her voice broke with another laugh before she could continue, "And all I can think about is how much I want to kiss you."

Jenson chuckled, his eyes never leaving hers. "Well, we should do something about that, shouldn't we?" He leaned in again, capturing her mouth with his in another kiss that seemed to speak of the joy they could share.

They hiked back down the mountain, hand in hand, the tension between them now charged with new electricity. The city looked like a miniature wonderland from their viewpoint, but all Michaela could focus on was the feel of Jenson's palm against hers, the calloused skin a reminder of his years behind the wheel.

As they descended, Jenson pointed out various landmarks and told her stories of his own adventures in Geneva, making her feel like she was discovering the city through the eyes of a local. They laughed, they joked, and every now and then, their eyes would lock and the air would thicken, reminding them of the unspoken promise of more dates made at the summit.

After the hike, they decided to grab a quick bite at a cozy cafe near the lake, a place where they might be seen but could leave without being remembered. The warmth inside was a welcome contrast to the chilly air outside, and as they sat sipping on hot cocoa, the conversation turned more personal.

Michaela found herself opening up to Jenson about her fears and ambitions, her voice coated with passion as she spoke about her hopes for the upcoming season. He listened intently, his eyes never leaving hers, nodding in all the right places, offering words of encouragement and understanding that seemed to resonate deep within her.

"You know, you're different than I thought you'd be," she said, taking a sip of her cocoa. "When we first met, I was completely starstruck." She giggled, remembering her short, tight-lipped answers to his pre-race interview questions during her championship-winning F2 season.

"Really?" Jenson raised an eyebrow, his smile teasing. "What did you think of me?"

Michaela felt a blush creep up her cheeks. "I thought you were... I don't know, a bit of a distant teenage fantasy. But now," she paused, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I see there's so much more to you."

Jenson leaned closer, his eyes searching hers. "And what is that?"

Michaela took a moment to gather her thoughts, the warmth of his gaze making it difficult to think straight. "I see a man who's honest about his past and vocal about his desires for the future." She took a deep breath. "And I see someone who might just be worth taking a risk for."

Jenson reached across the table, his thumb gently brushing against the back of her hand. "You won't regret it, I promise."

Michaela felt a warmth spread through her, a warmth she hadn't felt since that night in Tuscany. She knew she was taking a risk, but something about Jenson made her feel alive, made her want to throw caution to the wind. She nodded, her eyes never leaving his.

"Good," he said, his voice firm and filled with a new kind of excitement. "Because I've been waiting to hear that since the moment I saw you that night at the bar in the tiniest dress I've ever seen."

Michaela rolled her eyes, but she couldn't help the smile that played on her lips. "It wasn't that short," she said, but there was a tease in her voice.

Jenson laughed. "It was so short it nearly gave me heart palpitations!" 

Michaela threw her head back in laughter at his dramatics. His hand reached out and took hers, his thumb tracing lazy circles on her skin, as he watched her shoulders shake in amusement. The moment grew quieter as their smiles faded, and their eyes locked again, the chemistry between them undeniable.

They finished their drinks in companionable silence, the crackling fireplace in the cafe adding a romantic ambiance to their afternoon. The warmth from the fire and Jenson's passing touches to her warm skin made her feel safe, a stark contrast to the solitary life she'd been leading for the past month.

As they stepped out into the cold, the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden hue over the city. "Thank you," she murmured, her eyes searching his. "For the hike, the conversation, everything."

Jenson's smile grew as he pulled her closer. "No, thank you for saying yes to the date," he replied, his voice thick with emotion. "It's been a long time since I've felt this... alive." He reached for her hand, his touch sending a shiver down her spine.

They walked along the lake, the sound of their footsteps echoing off the cobblestone streets. The lights from the city began to reflect on the water's surface, creating a shimmering mirage of colors. It was a perfect moment, one that seemed too good to be true.

Michaela felt a flutter in her stomach as they approached her hotel. She knew what was coming and was surprised to find she wasn't as nervous as she had thought she would be. "So, this is where we say goodbye," she said, her voice a soft murmur.

Jenson stopped and turned to face her, his expression serious. "Or it's where we say 'see you soon.'" He leaned in, his hands fidgeting at his side, suddenly wary of reaching out to hold her. "I want to take you out again, properly next time. Dinner, a show, the works." The words were spoken with a good-natured hum.

Michaela searched his eyes, feeling the weight of their shared secret. "I'll be in England in February," she said, her voice steady despite the butterflies in her stomach. "For the McLaren launch."

Jenson's smile grew. "It's a date, then," he said, his voice filled with a confidence that was contagious. "We'll make it work, I promise." The end of his sentence dipped into a whisper as Michaela made a move towards him, her brown eyes almost staring into his bare soul.

Michaela nodded, her heart racing as she felt the anticipation of the next time she'd see him. "I'll hold you to that," she said, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked.

Jenson stepped closer, his hand brushing against her cheek. "I'll be counting the days," he murmured, his eyes dark with desire. Before she could respond, he leaned in and kissed her, the passion from earlier on the mountain now a gentle, lingering promise. The kiss was sweet and tender, leaving her breathless as she pulled away.

Michaela felt a warmth spread through her, a warmth that didn't come from the setting sun. "February can't come soon enough," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut.

Jenson chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through her. "I can’t wait." He leaned in and placed a final kiss on her forehead before letting her go. "Get some rest, sweetheart. We'll talk in the morning?"

Michaela nodded, watching him walk away. The cold air was a stark contrast to the heat he left behind, and she took a deep breath to steady herself before turning back towards the hotel. Her mind was racing with the implications of their kiss, the thrill of more to come.

The evening was spent in a whirlwind of preparation for the flight back home. She couldn't help but replay the hike and their kiss over and over again in her mind. Every time she thought of Jenson, her stomach did a little flip. The thought of seeing him again in England was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

The flight was short but her thoughts were occupied by the Englishman and the flutter she felt whenever he was near. She couldn't shake the feeling that she was opening Pandora's box, but she was curious to see what was inside. As the plane descended into Turin Michaela couldn't help the schoolgirl's butterflies that bubbled in her stomach. The winter sunset painted the sky a deep orange, the perfect backdrop to the start of a new chapter in her life.

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[hijinxinprogress]

Young Justice spends all of their time violating the Geneva conventions or mocking their mentors bc they’re traumatized theater kids without any capacity for a verbal filter which is also why they’re not allowed to watch movies at the tower

YJ is watching some hero movie and a character with a gruff voice sternly says “we don’t kill…we’re better than that” so Tim gives the most dramatic sigh and goes “this is giving me back the migraine from our last lecture from the league” which leads to YJ doing their best to dramatically reenact disappointed justice league lectures

Cissie, offhandedly: Most superheroes having that dumbass code that’s some variation of “we don’t kill, we’re better than that…” make me fucking nauseous because who’s we? I’ll have you know my mother assures me that I’m a piece of shit everyday so no I’m not better than this.

Greta, in a mocking disappointed tone: Cissie! I’m very surprised at your behavior, we’ve taught you better than that! We’re here to protect people not to hurt them

Kon, in his best angry Cissie impression: Well, who’s gonna protect my sleep schedule? You woke me up at 3am to stop some idiot that wanted to steal kryptonite? Are you serious?They’re not going to jail they’re going to the nearest cemetery that I can promise you

Anita, in a dramatic hero pose: I’m not like you…you made me realize something, I have friends and people that love me so I’m not going to-

Bart, doing an excellent mimicry of Anita’s unimpressed face: He killed your family wdym you’re better than that, that’s dumb as hell you even look at anyone I know with the tiniest hint of malice you’re leaving in a bodybag

Kon, turning to Bart and making his voice echo the way Greta’s does when she’s annoyed: what is this nonsense I wouldn’t let anyone get away with doing that to you guys I promise they’d suffer immensely

Cassie, hovering in the air doing a terrible impression of disappointed superman: We can’t kill because then we’re no better than they are

Anita, glaring at Cassie with her best Kon impression: I’m okay with that…let’s not pretend you don’t expect this from me, am I supposed to care? They deserve to suffer, why should I be the only one that has to suffer?

Anita, pretending to storm off dramatically while Cassie tries to look disapproving:

Cissie, doing her angry Bart impression: You’re not gonna waste people I actually like then get to chill in jail and breakout in a couple days

Tim, in a dramatic ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed’ tone: I’m not sure how you did things in the future but you can’t do things like this, do you understand?

Cissie, snorting and crossing her arms in the agitated way Bart does: I understand that our first fight will be our last because we’re not doing this shit again I’m not superman

Greta, in a gruff Batman voice: People can change if you give them a chance

Cassie, in a sarcastic Tim impression: I’ll start a timer I’ll even give him five minutes why are you playing with me rn Batman

Bart, sighing disappointedly: You're so angry and I wish you’d find an appropriate outlet for all this aggression. You don’t know what taking a life will do to you, what it’ll take from you….

Tim, in an irritated Kon impression: why not? we can find out let’s do an experiment and find out I like science I’m game hbu??

Cassie, who does the second best Batman voice: Neither of you can even begin to understand-! How do you know you won’t end up ending low tier criminals like pickpocketers? We can’t play judge, jury, and executioner… what happens when you’re wrong? What’s going to stop you?

Greta, fiddling with a phone and shrugging before giving Cassie Tim’s patented ‘I can ruin your life and you’ve just given me a reason’ look while doing her impression of the way Tim stands when he’s pissed and rolling her eyes: Self control? Common sense? When have my hunches ever been wrong? Don’t play with my intelligence, it will not work out for you

Bart, doing his best to copy the way Cassie stands and messes with their hair when they’re pissed: I’m just saying, if you blow up a city block you lose air privileges I have debris in my shoes rn for what?

[JL was meeting with a bunch of reporters in the tower and later had to do a lot of damage control after the press released a statement about the JL failing to rehabilitate young villains]

[watchilove]

Ulysse Nardin BLAST Free Wheel Marquetry

Geneva Watch Days, August 29, 2023. Ulysse Nardin’s visionary spirit surprises once again with its technological innovations and daring designs by introducing the new Blast Free Wheel Marquetry, presenting silicon as a material that is not only ultra-technical but also artistic. Continue reading Untitled

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 3 EPISODE 12 || THE BAKRA||

#83daysofoutlander☆

“You didn’t know that Jamie was married?” He blinked, but not in time to keep me from seeing a small grimace of pain, as though someone had struck him suddenly across the face. “I knew he had been married,” he corrected. He dropped his hands, fiddling aimlessly with the small objects that littered his desk. “He told me—or gave me to understand, at least—that you were dead.” Grey picked up a small silver paperweight, and turned it over and over in his hands, eyes fixed on the gleaming surface. A large sapphire was set in it, winking blue in the candlelight. “Has he never mentioned me?” he asked softly. I wasn’t sure whether the undertone in his voice was pain or anger. Despite myself, I felt some small sense of pity for him. “Yes, he did,” I said. “He said you were his friend.” He glanced up, the fine-cut face lightening a bit. “Did he?” “You have to understand,” I said. “He—I—we were separated by the war, the Rising. Each of us thought the other was dead. I found him again only—my God, was it only four months ago?” I felt staggered, and not only by the events of the evening. I felt as though I had lived several lifetimes since the day I had opened the door of the printshop in Edinburgh, to find A. Malcolm bending over his press. The lines of stress in Grey’s face eased a little. “I see,” he said slowly. “So—you have not seen him since—my God, that’s twenty years!” He stared at me, dumbfounded. “And four months? Why—how—” He shook his head, brushing away the questions. “Well, that’s of no consequence just now. But he did not tell you—that is—has he not told you about Willie?” I stared at him blankly.

“Who’s Willie?”

Instead of explaining, he bent and opened the drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small object and laid it on the desk, motioning me to come closer. It was a portrait, an oval miniature, set in a carved frame of some fine-grained dark wood. I looked at the face, and sat down abruptly, my knees gone to water. I was only dimly aware of Grey’s face, floating above the desk like a cloud on the horizon, as I picked up the miniature to look at it more closely. He might have been Bree’s brother, was my first thought. The second, coming with the force of a blow to the solar plexus, was

“My God in heaven, he is Bree’s brother!”

There couldn’t be much doubt about it. The boy in the portrait was perhaps nine or ten, with a childish tenderness still lingering about his face, and his hair was a soft chestnut brown, not red. But the slanted blue eyes looked out boldly over a straight nose a fraction of an inch too long, and the high Viking cheekbones pressed tight against smooth skin. The tilt of the head held the same confident carriage as that of the man who had given him that face. My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped it. I set it back on the desk, but kept my hand over it, as though it might leap up and bite me. Grey was watching me, not without sympathy. “You didn’t know?” he said. “Who—” My voice was hoarse with shock, and I had to stop and clear my throat. “Who is his mother?” Grey hesitated, eyeing me closely, then shrugged slightly. “Was. She’s dead.” “Who was she?” The ripples of shock were still spreading from an epicenter in my stomach, making the crown of my head tingle and my toes go numb, but at least my vocal cords were coming back under my control. I could hear Jenny saying, He’s no the sort of man should sleep alone, aye? Evidently he wasn’t. “Her name was Geneva Dunsany,” Grey said. “My wife’s sister.”

59 IN WHICH MUCH IS REVEALED ~ voyager

[gmtindiasposts]

Luxury Watch Event of the Summer: Geneva Watch Days 2024

Mark your calendars! The highly anticipated 5th edition of Geneva Watch Days is all set to take place from August 29 to September 2, 2024. This year, the event will feature an impressive lineup of 51 top-notch watch brands, including Beauregard, Cvstos, Daniel Roth, Edox, and many other newcomers. To know more details about Geneva Watch Days 2024, click here

[jungle-angel]

Send Off (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You, Bob and the rest of the squad get ready to send your kids off to school and let the shenanigans ensue

"Okay Daddy I'm ready now!" Auggie chirped as he stepped out of the bathroom.

Bob sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Auggie, though he had tried, couldn't quite match his own clothes yet. "C'mere bud," Bob told him.

He went into Auggie's room and dug around in the dresser for a hot minute, pulling out a little white t-shirt and a blue checked flannel to go with Auggie's jeans. "Put this on," Bob told his little mini-me.

"But we're gonna miss the bus!" Auggie chirped again.

"Buddy we've still got plenty of time," Bob assured him.

"What's he buggin about missing the bus?" you asked, poking your head in the door.

"Just a little," Bob answered. "And might I ask why you're up Mrs. Floyd?"

"Bob, I've been taking it easy for three weeks now," you told him, the dishtowel in your hand coming to rest on your ever growing bump. "The only thing that your sister's allowing me to do is eat, sleep, read, watch t.v or use the can."

"Hey, Reagan's been doing this for the last nine years," Bob reminded you with a grin. "Trust me, you don't wanna brush off her advice."

You laughed a little, neither of you having noticed that Auggie had disappeared and come back a minute later. "Daddy I can't brush my teeth."

"Why not buddy?"

"Patrick's parked on the shitter!"

You and Bob both burst out laughing at Auggie's response, but at least three-year-old Patrick had finally gotten the hang of using the bathroom on his own.

You got Auggie's toothbrush and the charcoal and mint toothpaste out of the bathroom and had him scrub his teeth in the kitchen sink before Patrick was done, having just washed his hands. As soon as Auggie's backpack had been packed up, he followed Bob out of the house to wait for the bus.

It wasn't long before the rest of the squad had begun making their way down. Maverick was the first to drop by with Danny and Thomas while Rooster was close behind him with Nicky and Pete.

"You guys get outta the house ok?" Bob asked.

"Never better," Maverick yawned. "These two little demons though, woke Penny and I up at six-thirty while Amelia was doing her makeup in the bathroom."

Bob snickered a little, more so when he noticed Rooster in his black basketball shorts and a mismatched shirt. "You didn't sleep did you?" Bob chuckled.

"I couldn't even a coffee before we left," Rooster groaned. "These two are like bottomless pits......they just wolfed down their cornflakes and called it a day."

Coyote came striding up just a minute later with Paloma and Carla giggling like crazy but the exasperated look on his face saying it all.

"Hair......" he interjected before anyone could say anything. "That's all you've gotta know."

Bob looked over at his giggling nieces whose thick hair had been put into tight cornrows with white and turquoise beads at the end. "How'd you do it?" Bob asked him.

"I don't have a clue," Coyote said, throwing his hands up. "Those two cannot sit for two seconds to save their lives and my mom and my wife are the only ones who can do their hair. But somehow, Daddy did it!!!"

Payback crossed the street with Geneva and Neveah some time later while Mickey trailed along with Isabella in her new dress with a bright sunflower pattern. Hangman came around the back of his house with the twins while Phoenix was the last to arrive with Gabe in tow.

"Holy shit," Hangman groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "Is it the first day of school already?"

"Unfortunately," Rooster answered.

"God help us all," Natasha said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Couldn't get the coffee in on time?" Jake asked her.

"This little knucklehead woke up and tried to bring the dog to school with him," Natasha answered. "First time I ever saw Cole jump outta bed in his shorts."

Everyone had a good laugh on the morning shenanigans while everyone had begun taking pictures of the older kids all lined up with their backpacks as they waited for the bus. It felt like forever but finally, the little yellow bus that had the name of their school stenciled on the side, pulled up and let the kids on. All of them waved goodbye to their parents, ready for the first day of school as the bus pulled away down the street.

"Are you crying?" Bob asked Jake.

"No," Jake insisted. "I've got allergies, that's all."

Bob rolled his eyes as everyone dispersed and went back to the house. His father's truck pulled into the driveway to bring Patrick down to the nursery school, where Auggie had gone, leaving you and Bob with the whole day ahead to get the nursery decorated for your daughter.

"What?" you asked when you heard Bob chuckle a little.

"Hangman was crying at the bus stop when Missy and Molly got on the bus," he answered.

"Did he really?"

"Oh yeah," Bob laughed. "Tole me it was allergies."

You both had a good laugh on the matter as you began putting the nursery together and attempting to paint it the way Patrick's nursery school had done. You looked over at your phone, noting the time, but hoping all the same that Auggie and your nieces and nephews were having the time of their lives on their first day of kindergarten.

[adrl-pt]

First Russian Military Operation Outside Its Territory. Ukrainian Armed Forces Combat Operations in Kursk Region.

You are watching the news from the weekly rally at the Russian Embassy in Lisbon. Today is August 10, 2:30 PM.

The five-day war in Georgia from August 8 to 12, 2008, was Russia's first "special operation" outside its territory. Journalist Georgy Kobaladze says that Georgian authorities commemorate the anniversary on August 7, marking the Ossetian army's attack on a Georgian village near Tskhinvali as the beginning. https://www.svoboda.org/a/kapkan-i-vtorzhenie-15-let-s-nachala-rossiysko-gruzinskoy-voyny/32538906.html

The Ossetians trace the origins of the war with Georgia back to 1989, when the USSR was collapsing. https://www.bbc.com/russian/features-45106205

After the Dagomys Agreement, Georgia maintained difficult but peaceful relations with the regions of Abkhazia and the Tskhinvali region (South Ossetia). In 2008, Georgia began to consider joining NATO. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mE7_p7WISo4

Matthew Bryza, who was involved in the US mediation plan for this war, told Dozhd in an interview how steps to contain Russia were removed during the process of working with the German Foreign Ministry. https://youtu.be/uK6pyU5DuQM?feature=shared&t=294

The human rights organization "Human Rights Watch" in its research discusses violations of humanitarian law on both sides, including systematic arson, robbery, and beatings of residents of Georgian villages by South Ossetian forces after the withdrawal of Georgian troops. https://www.hrw.org/reports/georgia0109ruweb.pdf

In 2021, the Strasbourg court found that Russia exercised control over Abkhazia and the Tskhinvali region and therefore bears responsibility for these violations. The Russian representative stated in court that the fragments of the Iskander missile used by Russia, presented by the Georgian side, were stolen, dismantled, and planted by the CIA. https://www.bbc.com/russian/features-55737376

Volunteer and activist David Katsarava said in an interview with Dozhd: "For us, the war against Ukraine is a continuation of ours." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uK6pyU5DuQM

Since August 6, the Armed Forces of Ukraine have been conducting an operation in the Kursk region. The combat zone has already reached 430 square kilometers. The YouTube channel "The Insider" reported briefly on the situation: people are evacuating on their own, Putin is distributing the usual 10 thousand rubles, and Russian generals ignored reports of Ukrainian forces concentrating on the border. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vbljcaYy1k

On August 9, politician Yulia Navalnaya stated: "Putin's war has finally come to Russia." She addressed those aiding Putin's war efforts: "No one will forget what you did to our country. You are working for a killer, but it's never too late to stop." https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-HoR9OJ6mU

On August 7, Vladimir Osechkin held a stream on his YouTube channel in memory of Oleksandr Ishchenko, a member of the Azov regiment who was killed in Russian captivity, and called for information about this crime to be sent to him for investigation. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBi3sO5Rq5M

Azov commander Svyatoslav Palamar published a forensic medical examination report on his Facebook page confirming the brutal murder and violation of the Geneva Convention relative to the Treatment of Prisoners of War. https://www.facebook.com/share/p/FWoEAf9XxGmrShd2/

On January 12 of this year, the Memorial Human Rights Center recognized prisoners of war from the Ukrainian Azov Regiment as political prisoners, as they consider the Supreme Court's decision to recognize the Azov Regiment as a terrorist organization to be unlawful. https://memopzk.org/news/my-schitaem-politzaklyuchyonnymi-voennoplennyh-iz-ukrainskogo-polka-azov/

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