#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.

[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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[justinspoliticalcorner]

Radley Balko at The Watch:

Since the election, a number of readers have asked how worried we should be, and what we should be looking for in the weeks and months ahead. My general answer: pretty worried! At this point, I see little reason to think that Trump won’t at least attempt his most authoritarian and destructive campaign promises. Whether he succeeds will depend on how much resistance he gets from the courts, Congress, the federal bureaucracy, and the rest of us.

Trump’s nominations to cabinet positions so far are a clear indication that he’s dragging his party further into a nihilist cult of personality. It isn’t just that so many of them are unqualified, corrupt, or destructive (though it’s also all of those things). It’s that they’re uniquely unfit for the specific positions he has appointed them to hold. He’s daring someone to stop him, and learning from what follows.

The Matt Gaetz pick for attorney general was bad, but it wasn’t even his most dangerous. Appointing crank conspiracy theorist and Trump/Assad apologist Tulsi Gabbard to the most sensitive national security position in government is a direct threat to national security and a reflection of Trump’s own fondness for authoritarians. Department of Defense pick Pete Hegseth has never led more than a dozen or so people (the one small nonprofit he did lead, he ran into the ground). As a National Guardsman, he was barred from working security for Joe Biden’s inauguration because he has a tattoo common to white supremacists. He lobbied Trump to pardon war criminals who had been reported by their own platoons, and believes the U.S. military should ignore the Geneva Conventions.

Then there’s the fact that the leader of the QAnon party, a man himself found responsible for rape and credibly accused of sexual assault or misconduct by dozens of women, appointed four — four — cabinet level officials accused of engaging in or covering up sexual misconduct. There’s Gaetz, of course. RFK Jr. has also been accused of sexual assault (he didn’t exactly deny the accusation). The sexual assault allegation against DOD nominee Hegseth are particularly credible. And Linda McMahon, Trump’s pick for Department of Education, was accused in a lawsuit of covering up a ringside announcer’s sex abuse of a boy while she and her husband ran World Wrestling Entertainment.

None of this is all that surprising, given that Trump’s party keeps nominating and electing sex creeps up and down the ballot. Nor does it seem to bother Trump’s congressional supporters. Instead, they’ve decided to single out and bully the first trans woman elected to Congress, barring her from using the women’s bathrooms on Capitol Hill . . . because she’s a “threat” to women. (We’re still waiting to hear which bathrooms male Republicans neutered by Donald Trump will be permitted to use.) Trump is also refusing to subject his nominations to FBI background checks, and his campaign says he won’t release the names of donors to his transition. Both are clear signs that he has no intention of making himself accountable or transparent to anyone. Nearly everything he’s done since the election points to a president who not only intends to buck every norm, convention, and check, he won’t even pretend to try. It’s just open defiance.

In the coming days, I’ll look at the free press and the First Amendment, immigration, and crime and criminal justice. But today, I’ll focus on Trump’s openly-stated plans to weaponize the government against his critics and enemies. I fully expect to see Trump follow through on his promises to seek retribution against people like Jack Smith, Liz Cheney, Adam Schiff, Alexander Vindman, Anthony Fauci, and countless others. Whether he’ll do it by ordering the DOJ to make sensationalist arrests and criminal charges or use subtler though still pernicious tools like IRS audits, subpoenas, or parading people before Congress for public ridicule, is hard to say. But investigations alone can ruin lives and careers.

Let’s start with the DOJ. I’m not sure that the Gaetz debacle provides much instruction on whether Senate Republicans have the backbone to provide any real oversight. (It did show us, however, that House Republicans were willing to remove their spines, gift-wrap them, and hand-deliver them to Trump.) I suspect Gaetz’s tendency to anger and insult members of his own party hurt his nomination more than his extremism, sex pestery, and utter lack of qualifications.

Trump’s new AG nominee, Pam Bondi, is less abrasive than Gaetz, but every bit the devout MAGA loyalist. As Florida Attorney General, Bondi was at one point set to join other states in suing Trump University (Florida has more “alumni” than any other state). Shen then mysteriously pulled out of the class action after Trump made a $25,000 donation to her PAC — a donation that came from Trump’s “charity,” by the way — and then held a fundraiser for her at Mar-a-Lago. (Bondi has a long history of that sort of pay-to-play.) Bondi quickly became a full-throated supporter. She’s not only a 2020 election denier, she was part of Trump’s legal team in his bid to overturn the election. She actually stood next to Rudy Giuliani at Four Seasons Total Landscaping.

Bondi has also already made clear that she fully supports Trump’s plan to weaponize the agency he has nominated her to lead.

[...] We’ll see an important test of Trump’s power shortly after he takes office. He plans to fire FBI director Christopher Wray and replace him with Kash Patel, a vengeful loyalist wholly unqualified for that position. The FBI director is supposed to serve outside the political influence of individual presidents. It’s why the position comes with a 10-year term, and why an FBI director can only be fired for cause. Remember that when Trump fired James Comey, Jeff Sessions considered it a serious enough abuse of power to appoint a special counsel. We’ve become so accustomed to Trump’s power grabs that it’s now just widely expected that he’ll fire Wray for pretextual reasons and install an unqualified lickspittle like Patel — a guy who has vowed to imprison journalists and critics. If the Senate allows that to happen, I fear dark days lie ahead. (Trump is also reportedly considering appointing Patel to a position that doesn’t require Senate approval, but which could still give him the power to act as Trump’s retributive hammer.)

[...] Trump is also already planning to devote DOJ resources to “uncovering” evidence that he won the 2020 election, and to prosecuting state officials who resisted his attempts to coerce them. Expect to see a full-throttle effort to rewrite history about that election, only this time Trump will have more power to force federal agencies to provide faux credibility to his bullshit fraud conspiracies. Watch to see which agencies fall in line.

[...] The Post and other outlets have since reported that one of the key architects of Trump’s plan to purge federal agencies of institutionalists is Russ Vought, Trump’s former head of the Office of Management and Budget — one of the most powerful under-the-radar positions in government. Vought was also a key architect of Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation-led blueprint for a Trump II administration so deeply unpopular that Trump repeatedly claimed during the campaign that he had nothing to do with it. That of course was a lie: last week, Trump nominated Vought back to his old position.

[...] Finally, one particularly pernicious pattern we’ve seen from Trump officials and MAGA pundits is the targeting of not just politicians and public officials, but everyday people they see as representative of their enemies — at which point the MAGA faithful swarm with threats and harassment. We saw Trump-loyal publications repeatedly try to dox whistleblowers who exposed corruption and abuse. We saw them upend the lives of people like Ruby Freeman and Shaye Moss, along with countless other 2020 election workers who signed up for the sort of nonpartisan positions necessary in a functional democracy.

They did it to doctors and nurses during COVID, healthcare workers who treat trans people, and of course to the Haitian immigrants in Springfield — along with any local residents who dared to defend them. The Libs of TikTok account on X run by Chaya Raichik basically exists solely for this purpose — to sic an army of online followers to heap hate and invective on people she has deemed to be on the wrong side of the culture war. Trump’s “co-president” Elon Musk has been particularly eager to weaponize the social media platform he bought for this sort of targeting. Shortly after purchasing Twitter, he selectively released emails, internal documents, and other private correspondence to a few hand-picked “journalists” to create a dubious narrative about public-private censorship. While there were certainly some examples of improper government pressure on Twitter, most of the claims were wildly overblown. More worrying, the whole project — along with the complicity of Republicans in Congress — led to harassment and death threats against former Twitter employees, whistleblowers, misinformation researchers, and others caught in the crossfire.

Radley Balko wrote a great piece on how the incoming Trump Misadministration seeks to weaponize government agencies to be sharp tools to help his authoritarian masturbatory revenge fantasies.

[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]

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[especiallythewomenandthechildren]

The Tragedy of What Was (pt. 2)

masterlink

A/N: yeah no yall im alive yet have no life (school and life are coming for me). im so sorry it's literally been MONTHS but uhm here is whatever this is. Transaltions are at the end for the german words (pls dont kill me i used google translate) pls pls let me know your thoughts:)

warnings: unintended self harm, allusions to depression, bad grammar and spelling.

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。..✭・.✫・゜・。.

Wistful wind caressed your strands as it fleeted through your hair. The Geneva winds were kind on the sunny day as you sat on the cherry brown bench. Pen and leather-bound journal in hand, the words on your page turned blurry when your focus shifted.

The new metropolitan park was not too busy during the midday, which was likely the cause of your attention shift. A few feet in front of your feet, a deep charcoal grey pigeon rested awkwardly due to its pain in its left wing. The angle of the wing was unnatural, but you knew not from vision but feel. The alignment of the bones was all wrong, and it pierced through the status quo of the bird's natural gravity. Quiet, weeping chirps were all the poor creature could manage.

Your grip on your journal tightened as you focused on the world and air around you. A breath in, and it felt like surfing on smooth liquid; you felt all the slight crevices and edges of the snapped bones in the pigeon’s wing. A breath out, paired with a sharp call of pain, and the wing was returned to its natural state. You watched as its yellow beady eyes scanned in amazement while it flapped its wings over and over again, testing out the sudden fix.

Within a few moments, the small creature trusted your care enough to take flight, a successful venture that brought a satisfied smile to your lips. Even if small, it brought you a special kind of warmth to know you helped just one living creature live life a little easier. You didn't interact much with people, so your "patients" were often the concerning amount of injured animals who occupied the various cities across the globe you were dragged along to.

It was an odd life you walked in. Your days were spent in peaceful parks, calm cafes, and buzzing bookshops. So surrounded by life, yet you felt you lacked one of your own. Your train of thoughts was starting to buzz in a headache, but you were never good at regulating yourself as the spiral began. The years of a singular chase — Sebastian Shaw — were coming to an end as each lead got you and Erik oh so close. A thought that should have made you happy but only had your body feel unbearable with the weight of your anxiety about the future. You had no proper education as your childhood was spent moving from place to place. Those days after the camps.

The breath you were seemingly holding let itself out in a painful escape. You needed to clear your mind of such consuming thoughts or at least do it in a fashion that did not play into your body's instinct to cause self-agony. The more you tried to stop, the more the pain in your skull intensified. Flashes of knives, sounds of buzzing, and hands — crack! One tiny little burst in the rough surface of your skull. A pattern that would have likely continued if not for the rough voice breaking you out of the tunnel of misery you were sure to experience.

"And how many birds have to thank you today?"

Erik's impressive height had you turning your head upwards, ignoring the pain raging through your head. He wasn't ignorant to your tendencies, but rather the intensity of the involuntary reactions. So you tried your best to hide it behind a smile and harshly crinkled eyes hidden behind a chic pair of white sunglasses.

"I'm not one to keep count, but if you must know... four. I'm starting to get concerned about how many I've had to help out."

You get off the bench and walk beside your older brother as he lightly scoffs at your response. You quickly pack away your very light leather-bound notebook, the mass you manipulated a long time ago to make it easier to carry around.

"The reach of humanity's cruelty is not surprising."

Even behind the dark-lensed glasses and Erik looking forward towards the busy street, you made a show of rolling your eyes.

"All this talk, yet I don't see you protesting for birds' rights."

It was then his turn to roll his eyes as his rigid posture made its way across the newly paved crosswalk. He never said a word of where he was taking you two, but that wasn't a new aspect of your very complicated brother. You could only assume it was back to the hotel you rented out only yesterday so you could check out and travel to yet another place on your wild goose chase. The globe-trotting would have been endearing if it wasn't fueled and caged within the confines of brutal revenge. A revenge you have rarely taken part in as Erik deliberately left you behind on his deliberation missions.

You weren't bloodthirsty like Erik, not that you blamed him. He took the hits twice as hard, once for himself and once for you. Though he could not stop all the attacks; reality still drew its blood. Suddenly, you realized that Erik had yet to elaborate on his meeting with the Nazi associate at the bank. You stared at him expectantly. He couldn't feel glances and other movements as tangibly as you, but you knew this wasn't ignorance.

"So..."

The tall man took a short look to his left toward you to silence any pestering questions when he was taken aback.

"Are those new glasses?"

You ignored him swiftly, fighting the twitching need to adjust them. "I was right, wasn't I?"

"That's the third pair in a month, Y/N."

"Argentina. I've been saying this for how long?"

"Y/N." His tone was grave and pertinent, but you couldn't succumb. You didn't want to acknowledge the truth, so you kept up your mask of smugness.

"I think this confirms that I indeed do have a second mutation that lets me see the future."

All cheery brags were halted, as was the entirety of your body. You kept your eyes forward as your weak defense, in the form of the cream-colored cat-eye glasses, was swept away and pulled effortlessly into Erik's calloused fingers.

Trying and failing, you hissed in pain as the afternoon light burned through each river of blood splattering your eyes.

You hissed as the sunlight stung your eyes. In an instant, the intense light dimmed as your eyelids shut in an effort to protect your sensitive irises. You walked so perfectly and casually that no one would even realize you had no vision. The vibrant feeling of every object and organism called out, guiding you along the way. One good thing about shutting out the visual world was avoiding Erik's disapproving glare.

"Why are you wearing these?"

Eyes still shut, the invisible strings pulling on every fighting molecule tugged the now slightly broken accessory. It was incorrectly angled, a problem likely caused by Erik's careless and harsh grip. You really liked that pair. Though that wasn't much of the reason why frustration began swirling in your heavy sighs.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe the little fact that my eyes are blood-busted? Who would have thought having nerves that self-explode would cause some sensitivity!" you grumbled. "Stop thinking I'm ashamed of my mutation, Erik. My injury makes me sensitive, and while the sun burns the normal retina, it boils me alive. It's a shield from the sun, not my identity. Like I've been explaining for the past decade."

You muttered the last part, feeling a slight insecurity. Over the years, your vision had cleared up, but you still had the scars. Swirling snakes of crimson still slithered in your glassy orbs, even all these years later. Your body and mind grew, yet those eyes remained the same. A symbol of a scared little girl. One who couldn't hurt a fly but could shatter each one of her bones in an instant.

Erik huffed as if he didn't fully believe you, which he likely didn't. He doubted the only thing bothering you about your eyes was the pain and not what caused it. "Something is still bothering you. Your eyes have been more sensitive than usual, isn't that so? You keep breaking glasses."

You opened your mouth to argue when he hit you with an argument you couldn't deny.

"The air around you is suffocating at night when I come back or wake up early. Like when we first left the camps."

You felt your heavy breaths settle uncomfortably in your paused lungs. Swiftly, the fashionable glasses were back on your pretty face. They were only a centimeter crooked. A lone tear protruded from your lacrimal and slid solemnly down your cheek. Erik felt the atmosphere becoming colder, even though there had been no shift in the general temperature. He knew you wanted the conversation to end, but you couldn't keep ignoring whatever was eating you alive because, one of these days, it would physically crush you. Your emotions had been playing roulette with your psyche and connected body for far too long to keep getting empty bullets.

The looming hotel leered from above you as you walked through the shiny revolving door effortlessly. Your strides were far shorter than Erik's long legs, but you were stubborn. A trait that he dreaded being on the other side of. Finally, your legs were forced to pause their march as you awaited the luxury elevators.

"What is it that you cannot talk to me about?"

Dark-lensed glasses still on inside the artificially lit hotel, you kept your head forward. The air still acted like guards from Erik's inquisition.

"So, Argentina?"

The tall man huffed, knowing if he pushed any further, you would push yourself into a new set of injuries. Numerous past experiences taught him the extent of your uncontrollability.

"We are leaving tonight. Pack your bags."

Ding!

"Never have enough time to unpack anyways."

And with that, you slipped through the doors of the gold-encrusted elevator.

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。..✭・.✫・゜・。.

The Argentinian sun rays were blissful upon your skin—a welcoming feeling after the odd prickles of discomfort dancing upon your goosebumps. Though the break was short-lived. Following the same pattern you had since the '40s, as soon as your feet touched foreign ground, Erik went off on his own. As you walked across the dirt and stone streets of the small rural town, surrounded by beautifully secluded mountains and lush greenery, you felt just as grown as you did when you were 10. The feeling of uselessness was one you had never gotten used to—just one item on the exhausting list. Self-pity had never done you any good, so the tiny, warmly inviting shop seemed like a good distraction.

Your deep maroon leather notebook had filled its last pages, much to your irritation, on the plane ride over. Writing was always your one sure cure for clarity, and you wrote as much as you could in the metal contraption flying unnaturally through the air. You felt everything too vividly, and it suffocated you. You often wondered whether or not Erik enjoyed being surrounded by so much power, though you never managed enough courage to ask.

The colorful bells rang above your head as you smiled at the dark-haired, pretty woman behind the counter. Walking straight into the nearest aisle to avoid conversation, it found you regardless. As you were taking off your glasses to observe your surroundings, you found yourself right in front of what you were searching for—an array of bound journals shining beneath the sunlight. Squinting to adjust to the light change, you realized that your sudden stop wasn't due to a wall but rather a middle-aged man with fair brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a thick mustache.

Your eyes widened in surprise at the sudden collision. The sight of your reaction caused the man’s own eyes to mirror your expression. It was hard not to feel ashamed and timid as he took his time gawking.

Turning away, you focused on a rich blue version of the journal you already had. The urge to hide from his stare behind your glasses tugged at your heart while your fingers shakily grasped the journal. The look in his eyes reminded you of men so sinister they transcended the bounds of the moniker.

“Do not be ashamed, leibling.”

The roughness in his aged voice was oddly laced with a smooth layer of reassurance. The warm blood flowing in your veins halted at the term of endearment. He caught onto your surprise and gave a sigh of acknowledgment.

“I can always tell a beauty from the motherland. Far too many have been running away here. Though that would make me a hypocrite, no?”

You looked at the unnerving man. Keeping silent would only do you more harm than good.

“I was not sure I was so noticeable.”

You didn’t want to be. You never were. All you wished was to be in those lush fields you saw on your way here. Away. Far away from the watchful eyes of those gray memories.

“I am not here to stay. Business trip with my brother.”

The sound of your stutters in your mother tongue made you cringe. It had been so long since you’d had a lasting conversation with someone in German. The only times you ever practiced it consistently were in your writings and mutterings to yourself. Erik stopped using it with you a few years after you turned your back on Auschwitz. Only in anger did the tongue of your lineage emerge.

The man took in your answers, stepping closer into your personal space.

“Ah, I am impressed with a man serving his people. The ones of true worth, not those cowards letting our land be split apart by those Americans and communists.”

You could feel the spit and hatred mix together as he spoke. The tubes stationed within your throat felt constricting. The work and people the man was referring to sickened you. It disgusted you that you could so easily be mixed up with your torturers. Self-hatred settled itself on the six inked numbers on your left forearm.

“Your father, where was he stationed?”

The dark numbers and darker memories felt as if they would burn their way through your thin sleeves and lies. The gulp in your throat reverberated through your weak, trembling body.

“Auschwitz.”

Your tone was as grave as the site. As grave as the one your father deserved instead of the trick of a shower. Muscles around your eyes yearned to twitch. Your forearm felt as if it were being carved all over again, this time with shame instead of ink.

An amused laugh scratched its way past his lips. He cackled.

“A man of honor. Tell him and your brother to visit the bar just outside of town. He shall be met with the last men of purpose.”

The contents of the aisle spun around your vision as the man clasped your shoulder and walked past. There would be no need to tell Erik of the small bar. You knew he was already there and would be the last man to leave alive. So much for those great “men of honor.”

Maybe if you had even tried to shift your focus onto anything else, you wouldn’t have had a mountain of emotion embodying itself on your shoulders. But you had given up on that battle a long time ago. The last time you tried, you nearly split your brain physically in half.

In the meantime, you tried to walk out of the shop quietly, but you heard the splintering of the wooden door as your panic did what it does best—ruining its surroundings. You had no choice but to run to your small hotel room, as if any slower steps would leave you sinking into the earth. A new place on the wide planet, the same stares and distress.

Making it to your room, you should have known better than to collapse on your bed, as it did just that—collapse beneath the weight of your turmoil. You could feel the pricks of wood and springs, but you could focus on healing later. Right now, all your mind could replay were insistent flashbacks. That man from the store shape-shifted in your memory to endless faces of torturers. The countless men and women who looked at your small body, not as a child, but as a simple experiment.

Number 214783.

Screams ripped past your resistant cords as scratch after scratch cemented themselves temporarily into the permanent mark of your worth. Of your place.

It was several hours later, in the darkness of night, when your gravitational sense felt a resistance. A resistance that naturally came after one of your breakdowns. And as always, it was Erik who was trying to push against your invisible walls.

You made no move to open the door he was so insistent on bending to his will through mere strength. The room was pitch black, and you were covered in debris when Erik finally managed to get through the stiff gravity. He didn’t need to turn on the lights to know what he would see. Yet, the artificial lighting burned your retinas anyway.

“Whatever this is, it isn’t healthy. Why don’t you let me help you, Liebling?”

The nickname made you flinch—a movement visible as the debris surrounding you did a little shake in apprehension. You manipulated your gravity to ease yourself onto your feet and look around at yet another mess you caused. You could feel a bit of stabbing in your shoulders from wooden splinters, but those were quickly sorted out as you used your mutation to clean the chaos out of your body and off the floor. With too much ease from too much practice, you were able to get the bed back into a condition good enough for use. You really wished you’d gotten the journal before you had your breakdown.

“Y/N—”

“Is this what my life is?”

Erik Lensherr is not a man of many words, but that does not mean he gets speechless. He seldom does, but this was one of the rare moments. You stared out the window at the dim lighting dancing in the town center.

“Just following you around, doing all the real work while I sit here and destroy everything I touch?”

“That can be controlled. You losing your life cannot. We’ve talked about this before, and the answer is still no.” Erik’s firm voice only seemed to infuriate you further. Is this what the edge felt like?

“What life?! I am sick of being sick! I am getting hurt doing nothing; at least let me do so while doing something worthwhile.”

“You are doing something worthwhile by making sure Mama’s daughter lives! I am not disappointing her by letting you do something so reckless.”

This was meant to make you back down. Echoes of the same message from all the years flowed through your ears, but all you could hear was the ringing of anger and a migraine.

“You speak of making her proud? How about I avenge her?! She was my mother too!”

“I can do it enough for the both of us!”

You could feel the metal shake before you saw it happen around you. The keys, the lights, that accursed coin. The look of horror on your face snapped Erik out of his fit of anger, bringing him back to his senses—a trait of his you have always been envious of.

There was no more point in arguing. There didn’t feel like much point to anything lately. You laid down gently on the bed this time, not even bothering with the blanket, simply turning your back to the one person who claimed to love you.

“Liebling. Please, I am only worried about you.”

You left his confession to mingle with your silence as you closed your eyes. It would only be a matter of time before Shaw would have to face the Lensherr wrath. Not just Erik’s, but as you swore to yourself, yours too.

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。..✭・.✫・゜・。.

Turns out that moment came far sooner than expected. After yet another trip, you expected it to be one that blended into all the others. That was until you caught onto the tension surrounding your brother. You kept your eyes down on the small book you managed to snatch from the lobby downstairs. In the corner of your eye, you saw him in a fully black outfit, seemingly ready for a swim. He grabbed an overcoat, and before he left the room without saying a word about his whereabouts, he turned to you.

“Tonight, we make our parents proud.” He closed the door in your face.

You had only moments for action. He was right. You both would make your parents proud.

One look at your outfit and it was clear you did not plan for the assassination of a former Nazi official. With a sleek pair of brown slacks and a black turtleneck, you were at least grateful it was dark and warm enough for the cold night air.

Erik’s tall frame was easy enough to follow, though his constant scouring behind him and around made it a constant game of hide and (hopefully) no seeking. After the 20-minute chase, the ultimate destination presented itself. A lit-up yacht was lounging restfully upon the languid water. A deep breath, a jump, and Erik landed in the water. Not a moment was wasted as he made his way through the cold, dark liquid. If he was making his way, then you needed to.

All you wanted to do was scream as the temperature began seeping into your veins, but if you stood around in discomfort, it would overcome you. You didn’t have much experience swimming, but you used your mutation to glide without much hardship.

The megaboat presented itself far too quickly for your taste, as did Erik’s jump onto the surface. A man so focused was rare to see, but it was clear, even from your lowered position, that only one thing was playing in his brain. You swam to the very edge of the boat by the ladder, and that’s where you witnessed the knives being pulled by your brother. Even more so, the symbol engraved on it. Sebastian Shaw was going to die by his own legacy.

You had just jumped onto the boat when Erik’s frame entered the boat lighting and Shaw’s sight.

“Herr Doktor.” The man—the monster—had finally come face-to-face with his own monstrous creation. No fear seemed to present itself in his voice, though, as he only greeted Erik with an odd surprise of delight.

“Little Erik Lensherr.”

Even though the knife was on full display, his blonde companion was quick to broadcast his intentions. “He is here to kill you… and he isn’t alone.”

Well, that wasn’t planned. With no choice but to come out, you realized that you were grossly unprepared. You brought no weapon other than your mutation’s unpredictability. Though, as you came face-to-face with the man who had haunted every thought you’ve had since you were six, you were certain that a chaotic outburst wasn’t too far away. Hopefully, you could aim it this time. As surprised as Shaw was, it was nothing compared to Erik’s surprise. Maybe you should have just stayed at the hotel.

“Ah! Two makes a party! It’s a shame that, even grown up, you haven’t learned manners. Come on now, this is not the type of greeting. After all these years?”

Suddenly, piercing scratches engraved their way through your ear canals and into your brain. Sounds of drilling, shrieks, and electricity all began buzzing and mixing together as one face came into focus: Sebastian Shaw and his sick satisfaction at your torture, which he labeled “experiment.” You noticed Erik was on his knees yet broke free and took his chance by throwing the knife, guiding it through his own mutation. This break of focus by Emma Frost gave you liberation of your own mind and the opportunity to strike.

As Emma flung Erik over the boat’s edge, you took your time to fight back. In her diamond form, you swung into the air, hitting no target with your physical knuckles but using the gravity around her to make your impact, seeing a satisfying crack in her diamond coating.

“Well! Young Y/N fighting back!” Shaw's disgustingly gleeful voice rang through the air, distracting you just enough for Emma to nearly repeat the same move she used on your brother. But you were fast. Grabbing her arm, you used a few moves you managed to learn from Erik's very limited fighting lessons. Kicking her firmly in the stomach was enough to deceive you into believing you had a chance—until coast guard lights began lighting up your scene. Even with spotlights on you, you weren't going to let your shot at Shaw miss.

You fully lunged for the despicable man, until suddenly your feet were no longer touching the ground. Looking down, you saw the boat at least 40 feet below you, and as you turned your head upwards, you were met with a devilish face snarking back at you.

“He doesn't need two of you.”

You were no stranger to pain. Crushing, slicing, and even nerve-shocking pain were unfortunate realities of your mutation. But the feeling of stabbing was different—not a thousand little pricks, but a clean slice across your stomach. As was the sensation of it being ruptured and invaded by the dropping air, as the grip on the front of your black sweater let go. You could hear metal rampaging through the yacht, knowing Erik was doing what he was bred for: pain and destruction. While you were doing what you were bred for: failure embodied on a chopping block.

Your mutation worked instinctively to protect you from death upon impact, but the frigidness seeped into your wounds as crimson began coating the already dark waves. Even with the softened impact, your lungs still had the air knocked out of them, which you naturally gasped to regain, yet only took gulps of salty water flavored with copper blood.

Eyes closed, your connection to Erik was still too strong. The connection to all the forces was too strong. You could feel the submarine slipping away, along with your consciousness. If death already had you in its grasp, you might as well play your last laugh in life.

With every last cell marked with the pesky X-gene, you bent gravity to your will to lift the submarine. Slowly, the ocean's grip on the metal contraption began loosening as it was exposed to the night air. It was becoming excruciating as the salt penetrated your exposed flesh and water filled your lungs as you began laughing. You were happy you were in the water when the tears came. At least when Mama saw you, she wouldn't be able to tell the tear stains. If you died laughing, maybe Erik would somehow hear it through the ocean's enveloping waves. At last, you would be at peace. The darkness that overtook your eyes then overtook all your senses, leaving you an unconscious hope drifting at sea.

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。..✭・.✫・゜・。.

Charles Xavier has known humanity more intimately than potentially any human before. Yet that fateful night in 1962 was one that changed his perspective on it more than any of the prior decades of his telepathic existence.

All he was meant to do was invade the mind of one Sebastian Shaw, help with world peace, and get started with his teachings as an official professor. Though, nothing worthwhile in life is planned. When Charles realized that the water was not free of occupants, he rushed to save Erik from drowning himself. Until he realized that there was a soul drowning beneath the waves and one suffocating above in the night air.

“Oh my God,” a horrified Moira could only gasp as two figures levitated above in the moonlight before one simply poofed away while it seemed a girl dropped at a concerning speed. In an instant, Charles made a plan and prayed that it would work for the lives of the two strangers and his own conscience. The water was unwelcoming to Charles as it clung to him, trying to drag him down, but he was defiant as he latched onto the tall man in front of him.

“You can't! You'll drown! You have to let go. I know what this means to you, but you and your sister are going to die. Please, Erik, calm your mind.”

The sensation was all uncomfortable and intrusive to Erik, but the one thing that made him refuse all his instincts to keep going was the mention of his beloved sister, you. The two men emerged from the icy domain of the water, and as all questions of who this strange voice in his mind was, Erik had only one thing on his mind:

“Where is she?!”

Very distantly, Charles could feel the last grasp of consciousness and knew time was of the utter essence.

“She is not far, but we have no time to lose. Can you pull her with your ability?”

Out of breath and in far too many layers of confusion and panic, Erik had no hesitation as he stuck his hand out, praying you had enough metal upon you for Erik to use. Thankfully, you decided to wear the very first necklace Erik had gifted to you after your escape for Hanukkah. It was a small necklace with a few charted stars. It was stolen, that much you could assume due to your financial standing, but you had kept it dear to your heart and chest for all these years.

Erik clung to the feeling of its magnetic pull and called it to him. His frozen blue eyes were manically wide as he kept out for any sign of you. While he worked on bringing you forward with his mutation, Charles dove back in. Back into the dark abyss of the water and your unconscious mind.

It was rare for the mind to be a silent place. Even when he was younger, accidentally invading someone's dreams was never a quiet sensation. Yet again, Charles had never been in the brain of an unconscious soul. He didn’t want the list of firsts to continue with the feeling of losing a life in his arms. Faster, deeper, he went at full speed, chasing that faint buzzing of your brain. As he got further below the surface, you got closer to it. The small and dainty necklace was unnaturally the levy to your entire being when Charles grabbed your faint body in his arms and swam to the surface with a hunger for air. With each stroke, he tried to enter your mind, begging you to wake.

Within a few moments, the two of you were back in the realm of oxygen as Erik met you. Charles quickly switched you into Erik’s arms as the three of you made it to the CIA boat. Erik had no reason to trust the man in front of him except for the fact that he saved your lives and that he may be like you. A mutant.

Even before your body was lain on the ground, Charles' urgent pleas for medical aid rang through the icy air. Erik's reddened hands were covered in crimson while his cheeks were covered in tears.

“Liebling, please. Please! Bitte!”

Erik hadn’t pleaded in 17 years. It was a foreign taste to his tongue, but he would make it go numb if it meant you no longer would be. You weren’t the one meant to die today. Erik was going to surprise you. Just one last ticket. This time, wherever you want to go. Forever. Start your life. It was supposed to be the beginning. Now why is it the end?

It was hard for Charles to focus when Erik's thoughts nearly drowned out the faint buzzing of your consciousness. All he wished to do was calm Erik's mind, but any second spent on him was one second closer to death for you. With a hand on his forehead and one brushing the hair away from your face, Charles clung onto that small sliver in your brain.

It was a fountain. Not too grand, but with the way the water sparkled and mirrored the surrounding gothic buildings, it made quite the spectacle. The weather was warm yet not hot, aided by the slight breeze. Floral scents wafted through the air, mixed in with the fountain and fresh bread from a bakery close by. Charles knew he was in a memory of yours with the way he felt the emotions you did: joy, contentment, and hopefulness. He knew it was a memory because above all those emotions, the one of aching presented itself painfully.

Fingers were intertwined with his. He finally moved his eyes away from the fountain and to the point of connection. Your hands didn’t clench to him. Instead, his did to you. Yours were grasping until the point your knuckles were white, with the hand of a woman. She looked youthful and beautiful, though there was a strain in her eyes. A sadness she entrapped, only visible in the reflection of the sparkling water fountain. You faced forward, but the look of wonder was infected with confusion at Charles’s additional presence. The fingers in his began to move, brushing with his. The woman to your right, who you assumed to be your mother, sighed lovingly and pulled your hand toward her as she tried to move. You were frozen.

“Es ist Zeit zu gehen, meine Liebe.”

Her voice was honey-sweet and a long-sought comfort. Charles noticed how your knees bent to move and your finger pointed to follow.

“Y/N, come back to us.”

Your fingers were now tracing the inside of his palms, as if trying to follow a map. Once again, you made no effort to move, but Charles did. He tugged your hand gently to gain your attention, though it didn’t work as your eyes still traced the glorious movements of the falling water in front of you.

“Y/N, wir müssen gehen, Erik wartet.”

Your name sounded so pretty with its proper pronunciation from the woman who had given it to you. The language was still foreign to Charles, but it was your mind, so you could make sense of it, and by association, so could he. A tug once more to your clasped hand.

“Erik is this way. He needs you.”

Your eyes flinched as Charles saw more life and confusion dance behind them. Turning your head, you saw your mother. Her patient smile, crinkled crow's feet, and jubilant hair you always loved to play with when doing dress-up with her. She was everything you longed for. A near step in her direction was too close for Charles.

He placed a hand upon your shoulder, and only then did he finally get the privilege of being witness to such a sight of beauty. You turned your head and knew instantly that this was not a product of your mind. It could never produce such a sight as Charles Xavier’s eyes. The longer the stare was held between you two, the more you felt it all. The gravity of the water, the birds slicing through the air, and a faint pain growing stronger in your stomach. You looked down at it and saw the red staining the milk-white dress you donned. Back to those deep orbs, who seemed to beg you to tug back. Slowly, you started to hear the pleas of a man echoing through the memory. It sounded eerily similar to Erik.

“Y/N.”

At the same time, your mother’s comforting and Charles’s intriguing voices called for you. Your hands were outstretched in front of the fountain as the sun began to set. You felt as the skin began to break apart as the cut deepened. Erik’s voice was as persistent as that never-ending flowing fountain. It was odd—not being able to feel another’s heartbeat, but Charles’s beating so rapidly. Your mother’s didn’t beat at all.

The young man knew just how tempted you were to let go of his grasp. The soliciting pathway out of the tribulation so filled with sorrow was hard to resist, more so for you. All it had been since this near-decade-old memory was a sea of despair. Charles swore to himself that if he was able to get you back, it would not follow that pattern. He was in your mind, but it seemed you were in his as well, as you looked at him as he took his vow. A silence between you two as more voices joined the now urgent shouts of Erik and the maelstrom of metal bending. Your fingers clutched your mother’s as she gave you a loving smile. It was returned with glossy eyes.

“Erik is waiting for me, mama.”

Your fingers finally fully intertwined with Charles’s as you let go of the woman you thought of every night. Once again, your eyes were caught in his orbit as everything became far sharper and more tangible. The sounds of the falling water droplets of the fountain were the last of the memory to dissipate when your eyes finally opened.

A ragged and painful breath was signal enough for Erik as he lifted his head from your shoulder in disbelief.

“Liebling!”

Charles stepped back to give you room but noticed your hands were intertwined in reality, just as they had been in your mind. You looked around and met at least half a dozen pairs of eyes staring down at you, and a pair of gloved hands trying to catarize your stomach in a fashion that made you queasy.

Erik grasped your face to look at it, but you pushed his hands away, along with the young man trying to heal you. If you could, you would have pushed everyone far enough away so you could do your own healing in seclusion, but you did not have such privilege. Eyes slipping closed, your hands rested on your stomach as you sped up your blood clotting process. The cut was diagonal, long, and deep, but with years of practice on much smaller cuts, you were able to manage a speedy procedure that fully stopped any external bleeding. Then came the painful part. You looked forward, past a certain brunette woman’s curious eyes, as you held back grunts of pain. Charles watched in amazement and intense worry as your skin was being pulled at an unusual pace toward the other ripped half, unnaturally closing securely. After one internal check of everything in order with your gift of gravity, you let out a shaky breath, dreading what was to come next.

“That was extraordinary.”

To your left, the man from your mind was there. He was real, yet still not out of your brain as you heard him. He gave you a charming and compassionate smile at your confusion.

“I am just like you. You are not alone.”

You were given no opportunity to respond, nevertheless comprehend what had all happened when Erik forcibly turned your sore body towards him.

“Was dachtest du, was du da macpymhst?!” The words didn’t need to be elaborated to any of the operatives, which many could already translate, to know they were not ones that you were eager to answer. Their expectations coming true as you lifted yourself up, with generous aid by the man you for some reason wanted to call Charles. Erik’s eyes were wide and frantic as he examined you and your shivering form. He had nothing to give you of warmth, but Charles did. Wordlessly, he offered you his coat, and yet another staring match; you took it with a shy smile. As if there was a conversation between the two of you that the rest were not privy to. He suggested that all of you go inside and shelter away from the cold, an offer you gladly took as it took you away from Erik. Though, of course, not for long.

“Y/N!”

You didn’t know where you were going, you simply walked the halls and back towards your brother. “I would simply like to rest, Erik, not now.” Looking past Erik’s burning stare, you addressed the young man who you just now noticed was as drenched as you and Erik. “Do you have anywhere we can rest? We will be gone by dawn, I swear.”

You had no idea how you would do that and where you would go from here, but that was an issue for tomorrow. If you could, you would have demanded to be taken to shore and out of the way of whoever these people were, but you were simply too exhausted. The young man stepped forward, his accent as smooth and refined as silk.

“Actually, we would prefer you to be here by sunlight. We would like you to stay, join us. You two are not the only ones. You are not alone.”

You finally looked at Erik, albeit with apprehension, and he did the same as he tried to understand what the still unintroduced man was saying. It seemed to hit him then (or did he peer into your minds? Was that his ability?).

“Ah, I am so sorry, I fear I have been too distracted to properly introduce myself. Charles Xavier.”

He first held out his hand for you, that smile ever-present. You took it cautiously but he returned with understanding. He turned to Erik, who, to your surprise, took it. An enthusiasm radiated in the air surrounding Charles.

“This is Agent Moira MacTaggert and fellow CIA agents—”

“The CIA?”

A panic rang through your voice. You were raised to trust no one, nevertheless the government. Any kind. You remembered the last time you got caught up. You were beginning to question whether or not Charles was a telepath or empath, as he knew exactly what to ease your worries, somewhat.

“The mutant division. We are after Shaw just as you are. Now you just don’t have to be on your own.”

Moira nodded from behind him in confirmation while Charles was focused on Erik, seemingly knowing he was the decision-maker between the two of you. Clearly, there was a conversation between the two in the sphere of the mind. Yet, whatever Charles had said must have been meticulously crafted as Erik did something against his very nature. He took Charles’s hand and agreed to join along with whatever this was. Then it was his turn to brush past you and deeper into the boat.

Considering you were all in a metal boat that he could easily crush like a tin can, it was no surprise a short man with glasses and a black suit followed along with the pretty Moira. That just left you and Charles.

“I apologize for the intrusion, though that was a beautiful memory. I can see why you thought of it.”

His words were soft and genuine. You knew mutants were oddities, but Charles seemed the oddest of them all. A rarity within rarities.

“You saved my life.” The words were blunt but didn’t offend Charles in the slightest.

“I would say you saved your own life. You made the choice.”

Charles took your processing time to take you in. Your hair was drenched and knotted yet somehow looked perfectly styled for your prettily reddened cheeks and nose and sparkling eyes. His bones were freezing but, to him, it was worth it. He would be willing to suffer the cold into the morning if he could ensure you would be there. Just a glimpse into your mind, and Charles wanted to indulge more. This was a sensation he had never felt before. His own cheeks grew red, not out of bitter wind but out of embracing heat as he thought of how Raven would tease him mercilessly if she saw him now.

Clearing his throat, he gestured for you to follow him.

“You can rest in this room tonight. I will tell Moira to bring you a change of clothes to ensure you don’t get a case of hypothermia. Rest as much as you need, truly.”

You looked inward at the small but functional room. You turned back and noticed the intense gaze of those crystal eyes.

“I don’t know what to say.”

If only you had a dollar for every time he had flashed that ever-present smirk at you.

“A ‘goodnight’ should suffice quite nicely.”

A slight smile began to grow on your lips. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

.・。.・゜✭・.✫・゜・。..✭・.✫・゜・。.

translations:

Liebling - darling

Bitte - Please

Es ist Zeit zu gehen, meine Liebe - It's time to go, my love

wir müssen gehen, Erik wartet- we have to go, Erik is waiting

Was dachtest du, was du da macpymhst?! - What did you think you were doing?!

[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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