#and it made me mad this particular photo wasn’t one of the prints

[the-nation-of-today]

We moved on from these photos too quickly methinks

[venusincleo]

Time. iii.

Part One [i]. ♡ Part Two [ii].

Warnings: MDNI • Explicit • Aaron Pierre x Black!Reader, smoking, a lil angst, a lil fluff, teasing, p in v, creampie, slight overstimulation, pet names, DDLG kink, BDSM themes, Soft!Aaron, omniscient POV and more...

BKG/Summary: As you and Aaron maintain your budding love in your long distance relationship, your respective careers continue to grow exponentially. Your writing has picked up wonderfully, and your newest work is to hit local shelves with pre-orders out for delivery. When there is a snag in production and they print the wrong cover, fans are rightfully mad but have no one to blame but you. To help cope with the stress, you call Aaron, hoping that he can talk you down but as he's busy himself, all you get is solutions. To make up for his lack of sensitivity to a moment that may very well be formative to your career, he gets a one way flight to see you.

Word Count: 3.8k❣

A/N: ✴︎Happy New Year!✴︎ Tell me how you liked this one 💗🫶🏾

• • •

right now i need your loving, one way flight ain't nothin'... - NYL by Phabo

Light smoke billowed from your lips, taking the color of the bronze sky as you blew it out of your large window. Your eyes low and your mind clear, you gazed into the horizon, thanking God for the beauty He had painted ions ago. You gazed along the limited foliage and bustling street underneath your apartment building, and couldn’t help giggling at the fact that everything seemed to be orange under the filter of the sunset.

As your mind was numbed from any of the day's events, you thought back to the person you would have loved to share this moment with. Earlier in your hectic day, you had called him for some relief from life’s unexpected symptoms but you did not get the reaction you desired. Wise but stern motivations took the place of the gentle words you thought you were sure to receive.

Then, your yearning tone turned defensive, and that was not pretty. Before you knew it, you and Aaron had had a small spat about his tone, and then you were hanging up in his face.

It wasn’t like you needed him to make things better, but you at least hoped that he would love on you enough for you to see the solution for yourself. Instead, he made it seem like he was too busy to handle your emotions in the moment, like he was unable to make the time. Though, two short minutes of affirmations would have sufficed, no doubt.

Now, you were okay with not speaking to him for the rest of the day. You wanted to feel your high for as long as humanly possible.

With a levitating sway of your hips, you allowed your bare feet to usher you back into your living room, your patterned maxi dress flowing behind you as you turned up your speaker. As Jhene Aiko’s voice heightened in volume, you rolled your body to her sensual lyrics, joint in the air.

'Let’s go half on a son, how far do you wanna go? Ohhhhh…'

Just as you brought your herb back to your lips to take in a long puff, your phone rang, interrupting the music. Breathing out the smoke quickly, you rush to your phone, ready to decline the call when you see the contact photo. Aaron.

A deep sigh rushes past your lips as you press the green button, taking a drag from your j as you see the call connecting. Distracted by nothing in particular, Aaron’s eyes take a moment to focus on your face through the screen, but once he does, he scoffs in near disbelief.

“I see you found an outlet.” His deep voice is littered with droplets of venom, and you roll your eyes as you breathe out the smoke you were holding.

“I would much rather have something else for that but, here I am.” You are involuntarily calm, your logical mind wanting to give him back what he was dishing. But physically, the effects of the weed wouldn’t even allow you to be phased. You were just…there.

“Anyways, did you call for something or what? Cause I’m busy…” You bend down to your coffee table to ash your joint in your pretty glass tray, and then your red eyes meet Aaron’s on your FaceTime. He hears a hint of reciprocation of the energy he gave you this morning, and his eyes soften, his natural pout a bit more defined.

“Uh, yeah…I’m outside.” Without much thought to his words, you smack your teeth, and look at your j, examining the neatly rolled herb inside.

“Okay, nigga.” All he can do is chuckle at your reaction, and you look at your screen to see what’s so funny.

“No, I’m really,” He begins, and then you hear three knocks echoing on either side of your phone. “Outside.”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you set your joint down in your tray and go to your front door. A quick glance through your peephole is all it takes to see Aaron’s large frame waiting right on the other side, and you instantly hang up the phone. After unlocking it, you swing your door open and meet Aaron’s eyes.

Every feeling that you had been avoiding bubbled up quickly, like seeing him was the last straw. Shit. You cursed yourself internally. You didn’t want to fold under his intense blue eyes, but as his softened demeanor waits to be welcomed in, tears sting at the sides of your eyes. Blinking to try and keep the waterworks at bay, you step aside and allow a space for him to make his entrance, looking off into the distance of your apartment.

Once he steps in, and waits for you to close your door, he watches you turn on your heel to face him. Soft steps in your direction lead him to the space right in front of you, and he leans his head down to be face to face with you.

“Come here.” His English accent sticks to his deep voice, and he places his hands on your hips to pull you in closer. You almost allow him to hug you, but as he begins to nestle his face in your neck, you reach your hands up to push him away from you.

“No. You hurt me, Aaron.” He keeps his stature, silently flexing his strength over you, but he moves back a little to try and respect your wishes. The tears continue to flood your eyes, but at this point, you don’t care anymore. You want him to see how he made you feel, you need him to.

Seeing you so upset with him makes Aaron’s chest tighten with worry. It wasn’t his intention to make you cry, it never was. But he couldn’t help but notice the tears threatening to spill over your lower lid at any moment.

“Y/N, please. I’m sorry.” His tone is soft, maybe the softest it’s been all day, and you find yourself looking up into his slightly upturned eyes. You want to kiss him so bad, just say ‘fuck it’ to all the points you had in mind to make to him. But you had to at least bring up the most pressing one, your mind wouldn’t allow you to forget it.

“Aaron, I-…” You begin, shaking your head as you try to form your words in a neutral way. A tear falls onto your cheek as you find just what you want to convey.

“You won’t always be able to pop up on me like this; phone calls are our primary form of communication right now. If you’re too busy for calls then maybe we should rethink this relationship.”

“I’m not too busy for your phone calls, Y/N. Today was just a bit stressful for me too but, I had no right to take that out on you.” His hands rub at your sides as he gazes into your eyes. “Truly, I apologize.”

A moment of quiet falls between the two of you, and you take in a deep breath, releasing it into the room.

“Thank you.” Your voice was near a whisper, as you took in his second apology. Comfortable now, that the two of you were on the same page, even if only for tonight, you reach your arms around Aaron’s neck, peering up into his pretty eyes yet again. Instantly, he pulls your body into his and brings his hand to your face to wipe your fallen tear.

A lush peck laces the lack of space between each of your lips, and then finally Aaron gets the hug that he yearned for. His strong arms squeeze around your body as he rests his head in the space of your shoulder and his large hands find their ways to the skin of your back. You feel his supple lips on your neck and you breathe in slowly, smelling the distinct scent of his luxury cologne mixed in with his pheromones. Your mouth nearly waters at the perfection of the warm, clean notes of his fragrance.

"I don't like seeing you cry, pretty girl." He rasps against your neck, sending tingles down your spine.

"I know." You run a dainty hand down his neck, along his shoulder and bicep, squeezing at the toned muscle. Mmm.

"Not unless Papa is making you feel that good." He trails his hands down your body, resting at your plump ass to give it a squeeze. Hearing your whispered gasp at his gesture, he brings his face back parallel to yours so he can see your expression.

Doe eyes stare up into his lowered ones, the energy in the room long past shifted, and waiting to be acted upon.

"You want me to make you feel good?" Your eyes flicker from his lowered gaze to his full pink lips, your vision shadowed by your long eyelashes.

“Yes.” As your vision is fixed on his pretty mouth, Aaron leans forward to seemingly give you what you want. But just when your lips get close, he pulls away, his intense glare demanding your attention.

Looking up into his eyes yet again, you press your body further into his, craving so desperately to feel his kiss. Instead of a kiss though, Aaron brings a strong hand to your shoulders, pushing your lovely black kinks out of his way. Sure enough, his tender hand wraps around your neck tautly, and he pulls your face right up to his.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” His chest rises and falls quicker as he watches your lips purse to reply to him.

“I want you to make love to me.” He closes in on your lips but when your eyes don’t leave his, he waits just a moment for your other requests.

“Start slow.” Your tone is breathy as you express just what you wanted and needed from your night. The ghost of a grin plays at Aaron’s lips, and then they finally connect with yours.

He parts his mouth almost instantly, the fulfilled desire of your tongue on his causing a soft moan to escape his lips. You aimlessly fight for balance, your tongues playing a tug of war you were okay with losing as long as it continued. Aaron’s hold on your neck stays firm for a few moments later, and then he slowly lets you go, bringing his strong hands to your ass through your flowing dress.

Your sure hands move to his shoulders to push his suit jacket off of his frame, and his arms leave your body to pull the tweed fabric off of him rather quickly. He throws his jacket to the side with no real regard for where it lands, and soon, his arms are back around you.

Aaron lifts you like you’re nothing, allowing your body to straddle his waist as he holds you up by your thighs. You don’t disconnect for any longer than a second, as you continue to press your needy kiss into his thick lips, feeling his hungry reciprocation. As you focus on the warm breath filling the space between your lips, and the secure hold you’re in, your body can’t help but react, your natural lubrication easing from between your thighs.

“Mm.” You grind your body against his, the friction of the clothes between you both being just enough to stimulate your throbbing clit. You whine against his lips, and he pulls away from the kiss to see your flustered face, as you bite your lip.

Seeing just how dire it is for you to feel something right now, Aaron carries you to your couch, where he lays you down softly. He lays over you as you keep your eyes locked on him, bringing a hand to your cheek as he presses his lips back into yours. As he delivers one of his slow, torturously enticing kisses, he rubs his hardened shaft against your heated core, grinding his hips against yours through your clothes.

Your breath catches in your throat as you feel yourself get wetter because of his efforts, and energy rushes through your body.

“Fuck, baby.” You breathe out, nearly being overcome with the feeling of him grinding into you. A deep breath leaves Aaron’s vocal cords in a gruff, stuttered tone, and he rubs himself against you just once more, pulling back just slightly to reach up your dress for your panties. But, when he feels nothing but your plush skin, he blinks slowly as he tries to contain his excitement.

As he takes his time pushing your dress up your body to reveal your moisturized melanin, his eyes trail past your hips, your navel, your torso and your chest to meet your pretty brown eyes yet again. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you watch him intently, having a hint of an idea of what he’s about to do.

Gently, he tugs at the airy fabric of the dress you are barely wearing now, and his eyes turn stormy with desire.

“Take this off.”

You obey quickly, pulling the dress over your head and tossing it to the floor beside the couch. When your eyes meet his again, he lets a moment pass before he’s tugging his chocolate brown shirt off of his own body, revealing his soft, honey-toned skin and the rippled muscles under it. Your eyes instantly attach to the greek sculpture of his body, and you bite your lip absentmindedly as you caress his limbs with your gaze.

Under your longing specs, Aaron only leans himself forward, his body drawn to the thought of your willful and wanton touch. Catching on to his wants now, you sit up and allow your hands to grasp onto his waist, pulling him into you tenderly as your eyes flicker up to view his face.

Almost completely overtaken by the needs of your flesh, you place a series of supple kisses along Aaron’s abs. Your eyes don’t leave his stare as you decorate his skin with small pecks, teasing him just a little. But as his mind is dead set on how pretty your face is from this angle –and the tingles that erupt underneath his skin wherever your delicate hands are holding him– soft moans sneak through his lips.

Your skin heats at every moan, as they get more and more pronounced, and you get a bit sloppier with your technique. Instead of the innocent feather-light kisses you were delivering before, you part your lips to widen your kiss along his skin. Your wet kisses sound in the quiet room, ad-libbing over the music that had started back up on its own some time ago. The song you make is just enough to make Aaron even harder, and his whispered sounds of pleasure harmonize perfectly with your energy.

“Lay back.” He keeps his composure the best he can, his mind swirling with thoughts of you taking control of him and doing whatever you wanted. Yet, as you layed against the yielding cushions of your couch, luscious brown skin glistening underneath the dim light in your living room, all he knew is the only place he wanted to be, was with you. And he’d be damned if he messed it up over a phone call.

Slow hands reached for the button of his pants, and he took his time undoing the fastens that kept the fabric up on his hips. His movements sped up just a little as he got the pants off of his legs, and across the room, out of the way. The black breifs that once decorated his lower body are close behind, and then it’s just you and him.

Aaron’s kisses start at your feet, feather-light, gentle. He allows himself whatever pacing he found reasonable, for cherishing every piece of you. His lips trail up your calve, his large hand holding your leg in place as he nuzzles his nose in your skin to smell the luscious lotions you had put on hours earlier. As he gives the same amount of attention to your other leg, his kiss tender as ever as he memorizes every detail of your skin down to tracing scars, you can see just what his intentions are.

Your eyes water just a little as you watch him make a mental note of all of your details, goosebumps raising along your skin as he runs his strong hand along every inch. A gasp leaves your lips as the dopamine surging through your veins makes way for your skin to be even more heated, more pliable, more sensitive to his touch. He looks up for a moment to check in and when he sees your beautiful eyes staring back at him, a small grin raises on his lips.

The smile falls as he kisses up each of your thighs, the puddle between them worsening as he got closer. His lips fall onto the side of your thighs, traveling to your hips and the stretch marks that came with your grown woman weight. He caressed the skin adoringly, littering smaller kisses on each stripe of lighter skin he found. The breath caught in your throat as you thought of the implications of his doting actions, and the tears that had welled in your eyes were threatening to spill over.

“Aaron..” You called for him in a near-cry. Instantly, he brought his face right in front of yours, and you ran your hands along his shoulders, pulling him between your legs. His thick lips captured yours without any direction, and you kissed back eagerly, your manicured digits easing into the short curls on the back of his head. He drags the kiss on for a few more seconds, readying himself at your slick opening. When you feel his thick tip easing in just slightly, you wrap your legs around his waist tightly, trying to brace yourself for his length.

“You are so special to me, Y/N.” He mumbles against your lips before he pulls away to look you in the eyes. “I don’t ever want you to feel like I don’t care.” You reach your hand up to cup his cheek, as he continues to speak his heart to you.

“I love you, Y/N.” Aaron gives your lips a lush peck before he presses his forehead against yours, easing his throbbing cock into your wetness. You growl softly at the familiar feeling, a slight pressure reminding you of your first time together.

“Mmh, I love you too.” You whine, feeling him pull back out slowly, to thrust once again before he caught a swifter rhythm. All you can do is draw in more air, your exhales laced with high pitched exclamations of unexpected bliss.

“Daddy’s so sorry, princess.” He goes to nestle his face in the crook of your neck as he continues to make love to you a bit recklessly. Your breathing gets faster, your chest heaving up and down as you feel your climax rushing through your soma.

“Aghhh.” You squeal lightly, throwing your head back at the overwhelming feeling of his thickness going in and out, in and… out…in…and…out. Aaron recognizes your falsetto-esc moans, and leaves kisses on your ear before he whispers to you.

“Ugh, this alright?” He asks, his deep moans doing nothing but making it worse for you to concentrate on breathing right.

“Yes, baby… Shittttt…ugh y- so thick.” You almost hoped that he would take it easier on you, but Aaron had no such plans. His strong hands reached to your legs that were crossed behind his back, and pushed them up so that your knees touched your chest.

Carefully, he pulled out of you, staring down at your connection and the tracings of your pussy juices that decorated your folds, and his entire length. A gravelly moan leaves his vocal cords as he slides back into your opening, you welcoming him in with the tightest fit, and your eyebrows turn upward at such a fill.

“Fuckkk. I’m ‘bout to cum, baby.” Your whiny confession is followed by a hearty moan, and then you cover Aaron in your essence, dripping down your cunt to the couch beneath you, and circling his cock in the process. He slows down just a little bit, though he has no intentions of stopping, and leans toward you to give you the most silken kiss. Then, as he pulls away from your lips, gazing down into your eyes, he thrusts at this new, slower rhythm.

“Mmh, pussy so good.” A growl laced his mumbled words, as he fought the urge to pick up the pace even slightly. With rushed, panting breaths, he reached his hand up to your neck and grasped it just tight enough.

You feel a jump in the pit of your stomach as he works your core, effectively digging yet another nut out of you. As you feel just a little overstimulated, you reach up to his hand that is wrapped around your neck, and hold his wrist in place. You wouldn't dare tell him to stop. But it was so much, and he was so girthy... you didn't know how much more you could take.

Eyes glossy, you let in a deep breath, hoping to regulate yourself but instead, all you do is moan out loudly. You throw your head back yet again, this time unintelligible whimpers and mumbles leave your mouth, and a tear runs down the side of your face.

"A-Aaron." You croak quietly, grabbing at his hips with your free hand. You find yourself grasping at any flesh of his that is visible to your hazy eyes, and he just sighs in delight.

He bites his lip to try and stifle his own cries but moans slip through his teeth so eloquently, you can tell he's close. His strokes never falter; they just get sturdier, firmer. Soon, he's squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment to hold on for as long as he can.

With a few more thrusts and a couple more loud moans, he was releasing all of his gooey, warm elixir right inside of you.

“Ohh.” You breathe out tiredly, another wave rushing over you in your trembling climax.

Aaron pulls out of you tenderly now, hearing your combined moisture sound lewdly in the room. When he saw the mixture ease from your slightly stretched opening, he smiled boyishly and placed a kiss on your forehead and then your lips. You hum lovingly, revelling in the feeling of him giving you the soft Aaron you'd craved all day.

The two of you share a quiet beat, just trying to catch your breaths. And then a resolution pops into your head.

“I need this every day. Every once in a while ain’t cutting it.” You express, still catching your breath from your great session. He chuckles at your forwardness, and pecks your lips yet again as he thinks about how he could make such a request happen for you.

“Then maybe…I move closer…?” He ventures, just a bit unsure. With sparkling eyes, and a hand to his cheek you assure his suggestion with a bit of levity.

“Maybe you should.”

• • •

I do not condone any translations, replications or plagiarisms of my original work. Please do not repost as your own. Reblogs and comments/notes welcome. ♥︎

MDNI Banner by @renyanovyn

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@userthatlovessmut32 @blyffe @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @dreamavenue99 @writingsbytee @mymindisneverhere @gg-trini @nayaesworld @the9sychwardlibrary @jaza23

*let me know if you want to be added to the ongoing taglist in the comments*

[timelesslords]

baby, just say yes

Read on Ao3

Summary: 

“Okay, then. Marry me.”

Annabeth waited a beat before rolling over to stare at him. His face was dead serious, but Annabeth still thought he might be messing with her.

“What?” she asked. It seemed the safest thing to say.

“Marry me.” he said, again, simply.

Annabeth never appreciated New Rome as much as she did on Sunday mornings.

They didn’t have class, homework could wait until later, there was no chance of a monster attack, and, best of all, Annabeth didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn to slip out of the Poseidon cabin before anyone noticed she had spent the night. She and Percy could just lounge around together and be lazy for half the day, before one of them finally got up and made breakfast.

It was starting to get a little late, but Annabeth couldn’t bring herself to get out of bed. It was comfortable and Percy was there. Plus, they were deep into a discussion about the architecture of the city, which only made Annabeth happier and more unwilling to move.

There was one temple in particular that Annabeth had only seen photos of, but it looked incredible. It was Juno’s, which was unfortunate, because Annabeth would really love to sketch the ceilings for her design class. 

“We should go see it,” Percy said, “It sounds amazing.”

“I wish,” Annabeth sighed, “But Juno loves to torture me. Nobody can go in unless they’re married.” 

“Okay, then. Marry me.” 

Annabeth waited a beat before rolling over to stare at him. His face was dead serious, but Annabeth still thought he might be messing with her.

“What?” she asked. It seemed the safest thing to say.

“Marry me.” he said, again, simply. 

“Are you being serious?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” 

“Uhh, I don’t know,” Annabeth said sarcastically, starting to count out reasons on her fingers, “We’re barely 21, we’re not even done with college, we’ve barely even  lived  together—” 

“We’ve known each other since we were 12, college is dumb, and we’ve made it two months living together and we’ve barely had any problems, so—” Percy said, folding each of Annabeth’s fingers down with each rebuttal.

“College is not dumb.” Annabeth countered. It was his weakest argument, but unfortunately it was also her lamest reason. 

“Okay, fine, college isn’t dumb,” Percy said, waving his hand dismissively, “but waiting to get married because we’re still in college is dumb. It’s not like we haven’t experienced the real world or whatever, we’ve been doing that since we were kids.” 

“Yeah, but that real world is different than like, being an adult, with a real job and a real apartment and bills and—” 

“How could that be harder than fighting in two wars and literally crawling through hell?” Percy asked, only he was grinning now, because he knew he had her. She hit him with a pillow in retaliation, and he laughed.

“You’re impossible,” she said, trying to sound mad, but it wouldn’t quite come out angry.

“You just don’t like that I’m out-logicing you,” Percy said, a little smug.

“You are not  out-logicing  me,” Annabeth huffed. 

“Okay, give me one good reason why we shouldn’t get married, then,” he said. That dead-serious look was back on his face. Annabeth would have preferred him to be smug. 

“Well, first of all, you don’t have a ring. What kind of lame proposal is that?” Annabeth said, knowing she was just stalling for time. 

“Who says I don’t have a ring?” Percy asked, straight-faced. The look on Annabeth’s face must have been extraordinarily panicked, because he sighed, looking defeated.

“I don’t actually have a ring ‘Beth. You can put off your heart attack.”

“Oh thank gods,” Annabeth sighed, covering her eyes with her hands. That really would have been too much too soon.

“But I can  get  you a ring, so that’s really a non-issue,” Percy continued, undeterred, “Next reason.” 

“Everyone’ll think I’m pregnant,” Annabeth grumbled, hands still over her eyes. That made Percy laugh.

“They’ll just assume that we’re crazy for each other and also madly in love,” Percy said. 

“And also that you knocked me up,” Annabeth added, moving her hands to her forehead and looking over at Percy. 

“In which case it would be my fault, and we would share the embarrassment equally,” Percy said easily, grinning. 

“That’s not even how it works,” Annabeth complained, “It would be way more embarrassing for me. Even though it's not true.” 

“We can print ‘Annabeth is not pregnant’ on the wedding invitations,” Percy said, because it was his turn to make her laugh. 

“Yeah, that’ll shut up the rumors,” Annabeth said, trying to ignore how the thought of wedding invitations made her stomach turn. 

“Okay, I concede that pregnancy rumors are at least half-way a valid reason. But I’m going to need at least one more,” Percy said. 

“At least?” Annabeth protested, “Is my potential humiliation not enough for you?” 

“Mm. Not quite. I’m sharing at least 25% of the embarrassment, so it cancels out a bit.” 

Annabeth wanted to argue that 25% was too high a percent, but he had chosen the number well. It was, to Annabeth’s calculations, fairly accurate. 

“Why can’t we just wait?” Annabeth asked. She hadn’t meant for the words to come out as seriously as they did, but she saw Percy’s expression shift from joking to sincere anyways. 

“If you want to wait, we can wait. Forget I brought it up” 

She knew he meant it, and she was really tempted to take up his offer and forget about it. They had talked about marriage before, in an abstract way, and Annabeth hadn’t exactly been  opposed, but he’d never asked straight up either. She had been clear that she wanted to be with him for the rest of their lives, but they’d never discussed a timeline for when they wanted to do things. 

But it had slipped out so easily, and so sincerely. He really did want this. The least Annabeth could do was talk about it with him.

“But  you  don’t want to wait,” Annabeth said, rolling onto her side to face him more directly. Percy shrugged with one shoulder.

“I love you. I want to be with you forever. Why wait?”

“If you want to be with me forever, why do it at all?” Annabeth asked. Percy frowned, little lines appearing between his eyebrows. 

“What do you mean?” 

Annabeth hesitated, unsure how to put her feelings to words. Marriage had always given her a kind of weird feeling, nervous and a little repulsed. She was sure a psychologist would have a field day digging up why, but she didn’t really care to know. It was only the prospect of doing it with Percy specifically that made it tolerable to her at all.

“I love you,” she started, slowly, “And I want to be with you forever. But why do we have to put this weird stipulation on it? Why can’t we just be with each other?” 

“We could. I’ll be with you however you want to be with me,” Percy said, reaching out, and brushing a stray curl behind her ear. Annabeth tried not to sink too much into his touch. She couldn’t afford to be distracted now.

“But you want to get married,” Annabeth protested. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

“Why?” 

To Annabeth’s relief, he didn’t look at her like it was a weird question. It would have been fair, it was a weird question. But he could tell what she was asking, what she was  really  asking. 

“I dunno, I can’t really explain it,” Percy admitted, “I guess I just want to make that promise to you, that I’ll always love you and always be there for you, sick or healthy and rich or poor, or whatever the words are.” 

Annabeth couldn’t help but laugh a little at the end of his statement, and his own lips turned up in a smile.

“You’ve already promised me all that, though,” Annabeth said. 

“Yeah, but this time it’s official. Something bigger than just you and me,” Percy said. 

And maybe that was it; the wrinkle that wouldn’t let her just dive in and say yes and get married at 21 like every other lovesick young adult. Promises. Because a promise made was just a potential promise broken and the more official it became, whether in a prophecy and a knife or a ceremony in front of all their friends, the worse the fallout would be.

“What’s wrong with just promising it to ourselves?” Annabeth asked. 

“Nothing at all.” 

“But you really want this,” Annabeth sighed. 

“Don’t say you’ll do it just because I want to do it,” Percy said. 

“But you really want it?” Annabeth asked. Percy took a second to answer, biting his lower lip the way he did when he was really nervous. 

“Yeah. I really want it,” he admitted. 

Annabeth studied his face, every earnest line marking his expression, right up to the crinkles in the corners of his sea-green eyes. 

She tried to imagine being married to him,  really  tried. Not just in an abstract sense, but what it would look like, what it would feel like. To her surprise, it didn’t seem that different from what they had now. Maybe even better, in some ways.

They were already so much more than boyfriend and girlfriend, they had been for a long while. Soulmates was a cheesy word, but she did honestly and truly believe Percy was hers. And while the thought of actually  getting  married was a little horrifying still, the thought of  being  married to him was a little exciting. Having people understand, at least a little bit, what they meant to each other made her feel warm inside.

And he wouldn’t break his promises to her. He was the only one who had kept every single one, and a stupid piece of paper at city hall wasn’t going to change that. 

“Okay,” Annabeth sighed, finally. 

“Okay?” he asked, a hopeful smile creeping onto his face. 

“Okay, I’ll marry you, you dumb idiot,” she said, unable to keep a smile off her face either.

Before she could continue, he leaned over and kissed her. She could feel how happy he was through his lips, and it was supremely difficult to break away, but she knew she had to or she would get lost and her stipulations would slip out of her mind, never to be seen again.

“I have demands, though,” Annabeth said, finally pulling back. Percy laughed, loud and earnest.

“I would expect nothing less.” 

“I don’t want a big wedding. Actually, I don’t want a wedding at all,” Annabeth said, trying to suppress the shudder that crept up on her at the thought.

“Easy. We can elope. Next,” Percy said. 

“Really?” Annabeth asked. She had thought that might be a bigger deal to him, but he just shrugged. 

“I want to be married to you, it doesn’t matter to me how we do it.” 

“Even if I say I wanna go to Vegas and get it done with an Elvis impersonator?” Annabeth asked, only half joking. 

“Can we really?” Percy asked, his eyes flashing with excitement.

“Maybe? If we— okay, no, I have more demands, put a pin in the Elvis thing.” 

“I’ve pinned it,” Percy promised. 

“Okay. I don’t want a stupid gaudy ring, it's not practical, and diamonds are unethical anyways,” Annabeth continued. Percy nodded. 

“No diamonds, got it.” 

“I want to keep my last name, or hyphenate or something. And if I do change it I want to wait until we’re done with school.” Annabeth said. She was a little nervous about this one, but it didn’t seem to bother Percy.

“We could both hyphenate,” Percy suggested, “Jackson-Chase has a nice ring to it.” 

“Chase-Jackson sounds better, but we can deal with the details of that later,” Annabeth said, waving her hand. 

“Okay, I’m putting a pin in hyphenation order. Next.”

“I don’t want to send announcements or anything. People can find out when they find out,” Annabeth said. 

“Okay, but we have to at least call my mom and Paul,” Percy said. Honestly it was impressive he had gotten so far without even a small amendment to her asks. “And Piper is going to be really pissed if you keep it a secret from her.” 

“We can call your parents,” Annabeth promised. 

“And Piper?” Percy asked, raising an eyebrow. But the thought of telling her best friend besides Percy was getting less cringe-inducing by the minute. Annabeth actually felt herself getting excited about Piper’s potential reaction. She would absolutely freak out in the best way possible.

“She can be our witness. If you’re cool with that,” Annabeth said. Percy grinned. 

“That sounds great.” 

“Even if I ask her to make it as irreverent as possible?” Annabeth asked. 

“We’re getting married in front of Elvis, I’m not sure how it gets more irreverent than that.” Percy said. 

“We put a pin in Elvis,” Annabeth corrected, “But I’m positive Piper can somehow make it even more irreverent if she puts her mind to it.” 

“Never thought I’d know an Aphrodite kid so willing to ruin a wedding,” Percy said fondly. Then an excited look flashed across his face.

“Plus, she won’t be able to stop herself from talking about it, and then we won’t have to tell anyone.” he added. He sounded so triumphant Annabeth had to laugh. 

“You’re right, that’s perfect. So, when are we doing this?” 

The smile on Percy’s face faltered slightly. 

“Are you sure you want to do this? Because we really really don’t have to.” 

Annabeth hesitated slightly. In truth the idea still scared her a little, even with Percy’s promises that they could do it in the most goofy, non-traditional way possible. But his insistence that he would stand by her with or without getting married was the thing convincing her. If she asked him to drop it now, he would, and he wouldn’t bring it up again, even though it was a big deal to him. 

And really, it wouldn’t be such a big deal to Annabeth as long as they didn’t make it feel so official. Breaking a promise you made in front of an Elvis impersonator felt much less disastrous than breaking a promise you made at city hall. But it didn’t even matter, because Percy would never break that promise anyways, no matter where he made it. 

“I want to be with you. And you want to be with me,” Annabeth said, “It’s a little weird for me, but if you want to do it, I’m down.”

“Okay. Cool,” Percy said, letting himself smile again. It was so radiant it just about chased away every last shred of lingering doubt Annabeth had. Not to mention the few added advantages to being married that had popped into her mind in the last few minutes. 

“Plus, we’ll get a better tax refund,” Annabeth added, and Percy collapsed into laughter. 

“I love you so much, I don’t even care that you’re marrying me for the tax benefits,” Percy said, rolling over and kissing her again. Annabeth let this one last longer, let herself sink into it.

“We’re getting married,” Annabeth said breathlessly, when they finally separated. 

“We’re getting married,” Percy agreed, grinning. 

So, maybe the institution of marriage was weird and a little sexist in origin and reminded Annabeth of old prophecies and old promises. But that was in the past. Percy was the future,  her  future, and wanted to have every single moment possible with him. 

They were going to go to Vegas, and hire a random guy dressed as a 50s rockstar off the street and have Piper make the whole thing as ridiculous as possible. And then they were going to live the rest of their lives together, maybe as the Jackson-Chases, (or if she had her way the Chase-Jacksons), and she would finally have a word to describe Percy besides “boyfriend” which had been woefully inadequate for years.

Plus, her rebate next year was going to be  awesome. 

Annabeth grinned. Maybe marriage wasn’t so bad after all. 

[catgrump]

consider: 4 (when did u last eat?) with naegami? //byakuya voice: food is for the weak, coffee is superior*

I did consider and I decided on something else lol

It’s still Naegami tho don’t worry 🥰😌

And it’s Post-Canon! This is like pre-SDR2’s events so uh mild DR3 Anime spoilers and some SDR2 spoilers!

🌻🌻🌻

Makoto looked over his desk and felt absolutely overwhelmed.

The recovered Hope’s Peak Academy files were strewn about and the words were all melting together in his mind.

He went to school with these kids, and it frustrates and agonizes him that he can’t remember who they were.

He picked up the nearest sheet of paper and looked at the name and ID photo printed on it.

“Where are you?” He begged the parchment for answers, as if it could speak back to him.

He looked at the face of this guy. The printer ink distorted it a bit, but he looks like he would’ve been such a nice person.

“Why can’t I find you in particular? Are you hiding?” He whispered his questions even though the office was bare, “It must be the Luck.”

He stared into the eyes of the shoddily printed black and white photograph, somehow hoping the one thing that tied him and this other former Hope’s Peak student together would send him a sign.

And the longer he looked and stared, the more his peripheral vision caught up with the other black and white photos on his desk.

The former students’ faces all spun around in his head, laughing at him. Taunting him.

His head was heavy and light at the same time. The room felt like it was spinning. The ticking of the clock’s second hand grew louder and louder and louder and louder

“AAAAHHHHH GOD DAMMIT GOD DAMMIT—“ he shouted from deep within his gut, slamming his fists down on the wooden desk, but suddenly caught himself, holding his forehead to attempt to stabilize, “god... dammit...”

His eyes were fluttering shut. He barely comprehended the door in front of him opening.

He could barely make out Byakuya’s look of panic and fear as Makoto’s vision went black and his head slammed down onto the desk’s surface.

———

“Makoto?”

“... huh?” Sound barely escaped from Makoto’s mouth as he came to.

Makoto’s eyes drifted up and shifted into focus to see Byakuya sitting beside him.

He just connected that the warmth on his back was Byakuya’s hand.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” Makoto hoarsely told Byakuya’s worried eyes

“I was about to leave when I heard you scream,” Makoto trembled when he realized Byakuya’s fingers were softly brushing back and forth across the fabric of his blazer, “You passed out for a few moments; when did you last eat?”

“Hah,” Makoto weakly chuckled, “Even now you find a way to criticize me... that’s so like you...”

Makoto felt his head get heavy again but was snapped back when Byakuya’s other hand held on to his cheek and jaw, trying to balance between fight and flight

“I’m not criticizing you, Makoto, I’m asking about your physical health,” Even now, his words had their signature venom and his face, as perfect as it was, had its signature scowl, “I don’t think I ever saw you leave this office today.”

“I made so much progress, Byakuya,” Makoto deflected, trying not to exert anymore energy than was necessary, “I found three of them. They travel in a pack; if one is around, the other two aren’t far behind—“

“Makoto—“

“And I think one of them is the source for the weaponized Monokumas loose in the city—“

“Makoto—“

“He’s the Ultimate Mechanic, Byakuya; if we get him, we can at least stop any more machinated monstrosities—“

Byakuya’s hold on Makoto’s face strengthened and he tilted Makoto to be at his level, “Makoto. I admire all the work you’re doing, but I’m worried you’re killing yourself.”

Makoto didn’t want to admit it, but Byakuya was right. He can’t remember the last time he had water to drink. He’s been in this room since early this morning, piecing together tips and clues and trying to disguise it all as routine business just running on cups of coffee.

The fact that this plan is being kept so under wraps is driving him mad enough.

But when he looks at Byakuya— a man he never expected to be the comforting hand— he feels confident in what they’re doing.

And then he felt his face heat up. He couldn’t determine if that was from embarrassment or exhaustion or... attraction.

“Byakuya?”

“Yes?”

“You never call me that.”

“What; your name?”

“I can’t...” his words were fuzzy and went from his brain to his mouth in milliseconds, almost as if he weren’t processing them at all, “I can’t remember you ever calling me Makoto.”

His hands were still there.

“Ridiculous,” Byakuya scoffed, “I’m sure I’ve—“

“I can’t remember, that’s all,” Makoto’s eyes were being drawn shut like curtains and his head was jerking forward with Byakuya helping him resist, “Maybe you have. I just can’t remember.”

“Makoto, I’m taking you to your room. You need to rest.”

“H-hide the papers, please,” Makoto asked, giving in to Byakuya’s care as he felt his body giving in to shutting down

Through his exhaustion, Makoto guided Byakuya through securing the documents from any other Future Foundation members’ eyes.

Byakuya carefully took Makoto’s arms and helped him up, making sure to go slow to avoid any vertigo

They were close. Makoto felt his body pressed against Byakuya’s as Byakuya held him up, leading him out of the corporate sector of the HQ, toward their rooms.

As tired as Makoto was— as much as Makoto’s body was screaming for rest— his mind was occupied by ‘close’.

He’s close to bringing in the Remnants.

He’s close to pinning down the locations of three of them specifically.

He’s close to Byakuya.

Makoto hasn’t had too much time lately to worry about this attraction that’s been in the back of his mind for... he doesn’t even know how long it’s been.

But every time Byakuya surprises him somehow— tonight especially— it comes back.

I guess pining can’t be repressed, he thought.

Makoto fished his room key out of his pocket and Byakuya snatched it out of his hand, unlocking the room for him.

He continued to aide Makoto in settling back down, gently bringing him to sit at the edge of his bed.

“What do you have in here to eat?” Byakuya practically demanded, starting to sift through Makoto’s drawers

“Huh?”

“I’m not leaving until I’m sure you’re okay,” he insisted, “You must have some sort of food in here.”

Makoto focused his eyes a bit and remembered, “there’s a sleeve of crackers in the nightstand.”

Byakuya aggressively opened the drawer and found them instantly, shoving them toward Makoto.

He also took note of the empty plastic water bottles littering the surface of said nightstand and grabbed one, crinkling the plastic in his fingers and storming into the bathroom

Makoto’s brain was suddenly processing.

Bed.

No, eat crackers.

Then bed.

He heard grumbling coming from his bathroom followed by a faucet turning on as he finally let his body eat.

As soon as he swallowed, the sleeve of crackers kind of just fell out of his hands as his body crawled into fetal position in bed, shoes still on.

He shut his eyes and wasn’t quite drifting off, but he didn’t have enough energy to turn around to face Byakuya as he came back from the bathroom.

“Drink some—“

Byakuya must’ve cut off his train of thought when he saw Makoto laying like that.

After a few moments, Makoto heard the water bottle’s base rest on the nightstand from whence it came.

Then, he felt the mattress sink a little further.

Then, he felt a hand hesitantly brush through his hair.

That was followed by a sigh.

“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” Byakuya spoke softly as his fingers soothed Makoto to sleep, “I guess I’ll have to do that for you. I’m sorry I haven’t been keeping a better watch. I’ll do better from now on, darling.”

And in a daze, Makoto smiled, and prayed Byakuya would stay by his side.

If you enjoy my work, you can leave a tip in my tip jar! (Ko-Fi) 💛 Fics will always be free; this is just an additional way to support me

[miraculousluvbug]

WINGLESS | Ch. 7

***New to Wingless? Start at Chapter 1!

CH. SUMMARY: After Chat learns Ladybug told Rena her identity, Plagg's solution is simple: tell someone he's Chat Noir so they're even! Duh.

Unbeknownst to the three wicked stooges, Paris’s favorite cat boy sat perched upon a rooftop adjacent to the mansion, ogling the interaction between his father, his trusted assistant, and his absolute least favorite person in the entire world.

Next to Hawk Moth, of course.

As they tittered and conspired in the darkness, Chat Noir narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t help but find the whole thing . . .

Shady.

“Claws in.”

Plagg whizzed out of the ring and looked up at his holder with sad kitten eyes. Adrien avoided making eye contact, practically drilling a hole into the ground with the intensity of his glare. He hugged his knees to his chest and picked at his shoelaces.

“That was pretty rough, kid.”

Adrien sniffled and roughly smeared away his tears with the back of his hand.

“I was hoping her explanation would make me feel better, Plagg.”

Adrien hugged his knees tighter.

“But it made me feel so much worse.”

“Oh, Adrien,” Plagg crooned, shoulders drooping. He hesitated for only a second before flying to Adrien’s shoulder and nuzzling his holder’s neck.

“She doesn’t want to know me, Plagg. Am I really that bad?”

“Not at all. I already told you that no other Chat Noir could be you. I meant it. You’re the best Chat Noir I’ve ever had.”

Adrien’s sniffles quieted, but the tears persisted. He had no idea how to stop them now that they had started. With gut-wrenching envy, Adrien watched the person he hated most engage in chit-chat with his father as if it was the most casual occurrence. The man even went as far as sharing whatever was on his tablet, a feat Adrien had been trying to accomplish since before he could remember. His father always claimed to be private, unwilling to share any kind of imperfect designs with his own son.

But there Lila was. Conversing with his father more than he himself had in the past week.

And Ladybug had given her most sacred secret to Rena Rouge.

Was he invisible?

He felt so small.

Lost at sea.

A blip in the turbulent waters that no one knew was missing.

He was a boy overboard with no life raft. And no one knew to look for him.

His soul was cold and his heart felt numb.

“You know what?” chirped Plagg suddenly, snapping Adrien out of his spiral. “Ladybug is the new Guardian, right?”

Adrien nodded hesitantly. Where was he going with this?

“What’s her only rule?”

“We can’t know each other’s identities.”

Plagg hovered in front of Adrien’s eyes and flipped onto his back, making a show of nonchalance. If this was gonna work, Plagg had to make the kid think it was kind of his own idea. “Who can’t know each other’s identities?”

Adrien was unamused. To him, Plagg was beating a dead horse.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

Plagg popped open one eye. He didn’t need to open both for Adrien to see the blatant impishness in them.

“So Ladybug and Chat Noir can’t know each other’s identities. What about . . . other people?”

The blonde ball of despair perked up, hair bouncing into his eyes, though they immediately narrowed at his Kwami’s scheming.

“But Master Fu--”

Plagg interjected, “--who isn’t the guardian anymore.”

Adrien blinked.

Kwamis, Plagg was so close to convincing his kid to be selfish for once. He just needed a push! A hefty, premeditated shove off the Fu-forsaken cliff!

“It’s like I’ve always said. Beg for forgiveness, not for permission.” Plagg folded his little paws across his chest, floating right up to Adrien’s nose. Adrien went cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact. “Ladybug told Rena. So the question is: who’s Chat Noir going to tell?”

“It’s--” Adrien spluttered. “It’s risky, Plagg!”

“And so is being depressed,” Plagg snarled back, surprising Adrien. “Any other person gets minorly inconvenienced and akumatized, who saves them? You--” the Kwami jabbed a paw into Adrien’s nose “--and the bug. But you or Ladybug get akumatized, who saves you?”

Plagg saw the cogs turning in Adrien’s head. He briefly speculated who his kid might choose. Nino would be the obvious choice. He wasn’t as close to Kagami any more, but telling her the secret that had broken them apart would certainly be one hell of an apology. It could even, say, potentially repair what the secret had fractured.

There was also the off chance Adrien might choose Pigtails, who coincidentally doubled as Ladybug. Plagg would have to raid the Agreste kitchen for popcorn if that happened.

“If . . .” Adrien began.

Yes? Plagg internally coaxed.

“If I were to choose someone . . .”

Come on, Adrien.

“I think it would be . . . Nino.”

Yahtzee.

Plagg clapped his paws together over and over, rousing Adrien from his feet like a drill sergeant. “All right, then! Let’s go, let’s go! Hustle, bell boy. We’ve got places to be!”

Adrien reached into his pocket and pulled out a squishy triangle, letting loose the most intoxicating aroma Plagg ever did smell. It circled the pair and made Plagg salivate. “Don’t you want this first?”

Did I really forget about camembert? Plagg wondered incredulously.

“I--” Plagg scrambled for an excuse to atone for the touchy-feelies interfering with his one true love, but he came up short. “Of course I want that!”

Adrien smiled fondly at his Kwami and threw the camembert into the air. Not one to miss a beat, Plagg zipped and caught the cheese in his mouth, devouring the thing in one fell swoop.

“Now we can go!” said Plagg, belching remorselessly. Naturally.

Adrien chuckled. When he opened his mouth to say the transformation phrase, however, he faltered. Was he really going to do this? It . . . It felt disobedient, like he was betraying Ladybug. But could she really hold it against him, if she had needed to do the same?

Would his partner reveal herself to be a hypocrite?

The budding consequences of revealing himself to Nino weighed so heavily on his shoulders that he wasn’t sure how he would manage batoning into the air once transformed. The aptitude for disappointment just felt so tangible to him, as if it were physically chaining him to the rooftop, a meaty claw so solidly wound ’round his ankles it threatened to pierce his skin.

The thought that Nino might hate him for keeping the secret in the first place made home in Adrien’s cerebral cortex, further immobilizing him. It pulled up a chair and opened the morning newspaper like it was meant to be there, meant to remind him that not everything was just simple. Straightforward. Without fallout.

A tender paw touched his cheek, wiping away a runaway tear.

“Kid,” whispered Plagg. His eyes were misty.

Is that . . . because of me? Because he cares about me?

Holding his gaze a moment longer, Adrien uttered the words that once changed his life forever and seemed to be forever following him with new and improved ways to spice up his routine.

“Claws out.”

The energy washed over him like a cold shower, springing him into action. The need to move, to run, to fly nipped at his heels and before he knew it, he was vaulting to his best buddy’s.

If Adrien was honest, telling Marinette, his dearest friend, was his first instinct. He gripped that realization like it would fly away at a moment’s notice, at the slightest spook (he was on the precipice of truly understanding what his good friend Marinette really meant to him). But he had heard from Nino that Alya and Marinette were holed in for a “girls’ night,” so . . . Nino was the next best thing.

Nino was far from second place, however. Sharing the burden of his greatest secret with the guy who got mad at Gabriel Agreste on Adrien’s behalf was like a breath of fresh air. More than that, it was like Adrien would finally be able to steady his head above the tide.

(Telling Marinette would have been like sprouting gills and uncovering the mystery of the sea up close and personal, but Adrien didn’t want to unpack that particular conclusion yet.)

Wasting no time, Chat Noir landed nimbly on Nino’s apartment balcony and tucked his baton back into place. Giving himself just one more moment before life as he knew it was spun upside down--for better or for worse was yet to be determined--he raised a gloved claw to the sliding glass door and timidly knocked.

Nino’s balcony wasn’t decorated like Marinette’s. A few bikes of various sizes loitered against the railing, collecting dust. A few helmets hung limply from their handlebars, occasionally shifting to and fro in the passive wind. Chat could discern by the light-up training wheels which bike belonged to Nino’s little brother, Chris. The bike--which Chat realized must be new since his last visit--sported black spots against its red frame.

Chat shook his head fondly.

Someone obviously developed an appreciation for the bug after their last akumatization. But as the evening breeze softly twisted the helmet, the vision before him melted him into a puddle of endearment. Nino’s kid brother apparently also had a thing for Chat Noir.

The evidence?

A black helmet topped with an acid green paw print and two plastic cat ears to boot.

Un-fur-tunately, as much as the sight was incredibly thera-paw-tic, it also made his heart throb. His body ached for a larger family, from head to toe and down to his bones.

Adrien didn’t dream often in his sleep, but when he did . . . Oh, when he did, he was blessed with visions of him entering a cozy one-story home (his) and immediately being greeted by giggling and the blinding smiles of three faceless children (also his).

While his hopelessly romantic heart yearned for Ladybug to be his other half in that tender fantasy, lately his subconscious had a habit of inserting a particular blue-haired classmate. It baffled him at first, but he figured seeing her family photo that one time during Animan in addition to experiencing the Dupain-Chengs’ bolstering hospitality personally as both Adrien and Chat Noir made Marinette a safe space for his lonely imagination.

Whoever she married would be one lucky bastard, that was for sure.

The curtains behind the glass door swept dramatically to the side, revealing a bewildered Nino in Rena Rouge-themed pajamas.

“Chat Noir?!” he exclaimed. The glass between them muffled his voice.

A quick scan beyond Nino told Chat that his friend was home alone, but he knew he needed to be certain. “Are you home alone?”

Nino paled before realizing that a superhero asking that question wasn’t as bad as some random adult looking for an easy target. He exhaled, chuckling nervously. “My family went to the ice rink, but skating’s so not my jam.”

So he stayed behind. Good. This was gonna be a piece of cake! Adrien pointed at the door handle and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Oh, right. Sorry, dude!”

Nino clambered to unlock the door and wrenched it open. The smell of broth and herbs hit Adrien square in the nose. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch. “What brings you here? An akuma?”

Stepping over the threshold, Chat tried to make sense of Nino’s question. Why would he come to a civilian if there was an akuma? “No, no akuma, Nino.”

“Oh, good, ’cause I-- Dude, how did you know where my room is?”

If Chat weren’t there to reveal his identity, he might have had a heart attack over accidentally bee-lining to Nino’s room like he’d been there before. He probably would have said something fishy like “In a house like this, it’s a given!” But he didn’t have to make up some ridiculous excuse. He wouldn’t ever have to lie to his best friend.

Never again.

“Because . . .”

Nino eyed Chat expectantly. His room was a mess. He really wasn’t expecting any visitors and his laptop was still open, his music and film ideas scrawled onto random pieces of notebook paper and scattered across his desk like a madman. Or an artist. Was there really a difference?

“Because . . .” Chat began once more.

Oh, gosh. This was it. He was going to do it. He was going to do the thing! He was alone at sea and no one from the boat had noticed him falling overboard. But maybe, just maybe Nino was the Coast Guard. Maybe Nino would throw him a buoy.

“Because claws in.”

Nino’s entire body went rigid. Crap, crap, crap!

“No, wait--!” Nino shouted, closing his eyes instinctually and reaching for Chat Noir. He had to pull him away from his laptop’s camera field! Had to get him out of sight! Why did he choose now to share Paris’s most coveted secret?!

But . . . he was too late.

The light had already dimmed behind his eyelids by the time his hands were closed around--

“Adrien?” Nino whispered, peering up at his best friend. The duckling he had sworn to protect and teach the ways of life was standing where Chat Noir should be.

Adrien smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but a high-pitched laughter rang out and the joy he felt was quickly replaced with sheer terror.

Nino grinned sheepishly.

“Uh haha, you remember my girlfriend Alya who I sometimes Skype with while working on scripts?” Clumsily, Nino rubbed comforting circles into Adrien’s arms as if he could rub away the embarrassment.

“You said you were home alone.”

“Actually, I said my family went to the ice rink.”

Adrien’s eye twitched.

Plagg, who couldn’t have foreseen this turn of events, hovered off to the side and figured if he didn’t move, he could pretend he was invisible.

Sure enough, Adrien craned his head to find an unhinged Alya screeching like a fox (he had seen a video of them laughing once on YouTube; they were so adorable!) from Nino’s computer screen. Behind Alya was a familiar cork board of friends and, well, lots of himself. The walls were pink. She was at Marinette’s like Nino said she would be.

Adrien had expected gasps. Finger pointing. A million questions. What he hadn’t expected was Alya laughing like he was the butt of a joke.

After a good minute of cackling and awkward waiting from the boys, Alya sighed and wiped a tear from her eye. Then she spoke, a dazed smile on her lips.

“I cannot wait to strangle that Hawaiian-shirt-loving Master of Unnecessary Manipulation.” Her words were completely contrasted by the amusement in her voice.

Adrien tried not to faint.

-----

We're now caught up with AO3 here on Tumblr (AO3 is where I first started posting this). Yay! :D Also, was anyone expecting Rena to be there? 😌I wasn't. 😳 Follow me for updates and check out my Instagram where I post art!

(7/?) Previous | Next

[saturnsummer]

permanently inked (G rated)

notes: since everyone freaked out over beam’s tattoo on twitter, i was very much inspired to write a situation when joonhwi gets a tattoo and sol finds out. here's a G rated version, which slightly more details than my twitter one!

joon has always liked the idea of having a tattoo

no, he doesn’t mean the kind you see on mafia gangs or yakuzas. he means the dainty one of fine calligraphy and those minimalistic arts.

but he was never certain of what to get. a ramyeon bowl seemed like what a child would think. having inked the name of his mother or father seemed…too odd. after all, he didn’t grow up with them.

but his uncle…it was a different story.

his uncle from the beginning was his superman. from a young age, he loved sitting in the lap of his uncle while reading reports and asking his uncle the meanings of words of ‘perjury’ and ‘defamation’.

even after his passing, when all the truth had been dug up, he tried all he could to stay angry at his uncle. but all he found was guilt, shame, and regret.

but why does he so badly want something to remember his uncle by?

so when he found himself looking at different tattoo designs, he knew that he wasn’t going to be forgetting about this idea any time soon.

he scrolled through many, many ideas. traditional calligraphy. pictures and outlines. but none of them appealed to him. they were all too cliche or not to his liking at all.

and him as a future prosecutor? he rather have a tattoo somewhere hidden so his clients wouldn’t be scared off.

then he finally stumbled upon a photo of someone’s designed tattoo. it was nothing too complicated, minimalistic and in pure black thin ink.

but what struck him was how it was an outline of a man, with spectacles alongside a lady with long hair.

at that moment, he just knew that this was the design he was going to use. he immediately went to flip through different photos of him and his uncle, but as soon as he started looking at the most recent one, his heart sank.

because all he could remember was how angry he felt towards him, and how misunderstood his uncle must have felt. how lonely he was to die alone with no one by his side. how…he died for the sins of another.

a tear slipped as he shut his album. he quickly stored the album back into his cabinet, but a printed picture fell out and fluttered to the floor. picking it up, he managed a small smile.

it was a photo of him and his uncle on his tenth birthday. he was all smiles, in his favourite power rangers shirt, and his uncle, looking so much younger than before, rid of burdens, tears and troubles, actually giving a smile.

it was the most memorable birthday of joonhwi’s, considering that it was one of the birthdays that his uncle gifted him his favourite action figure along with new books and a playstation 2.

staring at the photo, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the times his uncle would come home with different ramyeon flavours and cooked them in a special way.

eighteen years later, he has still not figured out how to recreate the taste of the ramyeon of his childhood.

with that, he took the picture, stuffed it in pocket and headed out the front door of his dorm room.

but he stopped as he locked the dorm room. what would jiho say? or his new girlfriend, sol? tattoos weren’t a big thing in korea. will they shun him, like society does? or will they accept him despite the permanent decision?

just at that moment, sol called him as she asked if he wanted to have lunch. he hesitated, and asked if he could meet her at the entrance of school. sol just hung up and joonhwi went ahead to the entrance.

there, her hair in a high bun and in a simple sweater and shorts, stood his girlfriend of one month. greeting her with a small peck, she blushes as she ask what’s up.

“what? what do you mean what’s up? how do you know im troubled?”

“everything about your voice says it. spill it, what is it?”

joonhwi couldn’t lie, especially not to her. bringing her to sit at the plush chairs of the lobby, he tells her about his want of having a tattoo, how he wants one to remember his uncle by. not the one that died, but the one from his childhood.

“joon, that’s so sweet of you. you sure? it’s permanent, you know. you won’t regret it?”

“no. sol, it’s been on my mind since i was, what, 21? i just never knew what to get. and…you’re not mad? you’re not disapproving of me?”

“how could i? joonhwi, when i said i’ll be rooting for you in your uncle’s place, I meant it. you aren’t impulsive like i am, and you’ve said it. you wanted it since 21. it’s been seven years, I think it’s a decision you won’t let go, no?”

and he finally realises that the entire time he’s talking she’s been smiling the whole time and nodding while holding his hand in his lap.

sol was never one to judge, and he couldn’t have loved her more at that moment when she kissed his knuckles and pulled him up telling him “come on now, let’s go!”

and with that, hand in hand, all thoughts of lunch was forgotten as they headed to the streets of town to a tattoo shop, safely hidden away from the main streets.

joonhwi had done plenty of research for this particular shop. he has seen the work of the artist, the way her steady hands created straight lines and thin minimalist styles of art. it was what he wanted.

nervously, he explained with the lady what he had in mind as the lady sat patiently and listened, tracing the photo over with tracing paper and asking if she could take a photo.

he contacted the lady a couple more times, as she forwarded different designs, styles and artworks over to him. with sol, they spent hours deciding on the best design.

sol and joonhwi went through the designs in secret on their quiet nights at the bleachers as sol pointed out her concerns with one design and he sat, chocolate milk in hand as they zoomed in on the fine details and shortlisted them.

ultimately, they concluded on the one he always wanted; a minimalistic piece that just outlined his uncle and him. no special shadings, colours or anything. thin, neat and simple. his uncle would have liked it, considering how he knows that the only reason why he is neat is because he observed the way his uncle would adjust the books on the table to perfectly align with the edge.

on the day of the appointment, joonhwi thought of where to put it. he knew he had to keep it hidden away, so somewhere on his arm wasn’t the best idea.

“joonhwi, how about your chest?”

“?”

“well…you said you want to hide it, after all, our future jobs aren’t exactly best for tattoos. having it on your chest would be the best, wouldn’t it?”

sol made some sense. it was a good spot to keep it concealed, yet meaningful enough. his uncle was always going to be in his heart and he will always be remembered.

so as the tattoo artist imprinted the design blueprint on his chest, just above his heart, he stared at the mirror with the design.

he was finally doing it.

sol came over behind him as she stepped in front, looking at the tattoo on his bare chest. her fingers traced it lightly before his hand caught hers.

“you sure?”

“i am. i am now.”

“it looks beautiful.”

leaning back onto the chair, sol grabbed onto his hand and squeezed it for comfort.

“if it hurts, just squeeze my hand, alright? it’ll be over in a bit.”

the artist got to work, as she dipped the needle into the ink, needling the ink permanently into his skin. joonhwi’s eyes were shut as he held his breath from the sting.

sol rubbed his biceps as she whispered to him. “you’re okay, it’s alright. shall we get ramyeon or army stew later?”

joonhwi knew sol was trying to distract him. and so he did his best. he chatted about their meals later, what should they do with the next week before they get back to school with their regular lessons. sol suggested to start studying, but joonhwi only agreed if sol were to take it easy and not cram. as a 3L, she didn’t need to faint again.

sol was right, though. distracting him worked, as the artist finally finished her work on him and wiped the blood and ink, before cleaning it. she stuck a clear film on it, and advised him on how to properly care for it for the next two weeks.

as promised, sol and joonhwi dined out at a army stew restaurant in town they always wanted to visit and they had a nice quiet lunch, a rare day for them to be on a date alone and eating out.

jiho found out the night after, as he noticed the different aftercare products on joonhwi’s desk. he didn’t say anything or ask, but nodded in acceptance. (secretly, he thinks his hyung looks cool.)

as they met with the group on casual study sessions, bokgi pointed out the plastic under joonhwi’s white shirt and joonhwi finally announces he has a tattoo.

“HYUNG THAT'S SO COOL WOAH” is what bokgi says before earning a smack from sol who clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “min bokgi, don't get any ideas of having a tattoo!”

bokgi was about to argue back, but realised that he was indeed about to say he wants one too. joonhwi just laughs as he wraps his arm around sol's waist.

when they find out what it meant, they fall silent.

"it's lovely. i think it's poetic" yeseul says, but the tension was still there. they knew how much joonhwi respected, admired, hated, resented his uncle. despite all the emotions and thick tension, joonhwi stood up, "come on, they're serving dakgalbi today, let's discuss our weekend plans over lunch."

two weeks later, as joonhwi removed the bandage on his chest, he smiled at the permanent memory of his uncle, now engraved on his chest above his heart.

maybe he did enjoy his childhood.

his emotions were always temporary. his anger, guilt, shame, happiness, sadness. but one thing he knew he wanted was permanent was his memory of his uncle. the one he grew up loving, the superman he looked up to.

the uncle, seo byungju, that raises him like his own son.

[psychedellic-phase]

Fifteen (pt 9)

A/N: it’s reader backstory time! This part also includes season 6 spoilers :) xx

word count: 4.0k 

tw: mentions of violence, abuse, cursing, other criminal minds stuff!

masterlist:

The beginning of letter #8 was scribbled out, like you’d written but decided the words weren’t quite right. Spencer tried to look through the black ink lines to see what you wrote, but most of it was smudged from tears. 

“This was the night everything changed, Spencer. This was the beginning of the end, but at the time it just felt like the beginning. It was a little over a year ago, sorry for skipping some of the middle. I could’ve written a 5,000 page novel about every little moment I had with you. If I had the time, I would. I’d write about every date night, every bouquet of roses, every case you held my hand through. I thought about writing about a lot more of the ‘happy’ parts, but they would’ve just been fun, little, anecdotes and made my heart hurt more. I decided on only highlighting the important parts, not that the happy parts were unimportant. I think they may be the most important, they’re the only things that kept me going at the end. Those parts gave me hope that maybe one day we’d get back to those people. But we didn’t and those people are long gone. Now all the bad memories outweigh the good ones. I need you to see the ugly parts. I always showed you those, and you still told me they were beautiful in some way.  

“Everything is a masterpiece if you look at it in the right way” 

So here’s the ugly Spence, any clue how to make this beautiful? How do I make this a ‘masterpiece’? Because I don’t know. 

Before I start, I want you to put on some regular clothes and pack up the box and put it in your car. Remember how in the first letter I said you’d need to go somewhere? This is that letter. So get in your crappy car that brought us together and drive to the place where it all started to fall apart: Meridian Hill Park.”

Spencer stopped reading and did as you asked. He took the sweatshirt off and hung it in his closet in a place he’d see it everyday. He didn’t really own any ‘regular clothes’ so he ended up in slacks and a dress shirt, his version of regular. He grabbed the box and the last of the coffee in a to-go mug and got in the car. He slipped the disc from letter 2 in and listened to Stacy’s Mom on a low volume. Between that and the snow, he felt like you were right there with him. 

When he got to the park, he sat in his car for a moment and reopened the letter. 

“There? Good. The bench we sat at is next to the blue bird bath and under that huge oak tree. Go sit at it.”

Spencer got out of the car, now wearing a heavy wool coat and scarf, and made his way to that spot. After most of your dates you’d go for a stroll around that park and always end up at that exact bench. You’d talk for hours, or sometimes you’d people watch. Either way, that bench became another one of your places. He set the box down on his left, the spot where you usually sat, and kept reading.

“That particular night was in December, during that weird week in between Christmas and New Years when time doesn’t feel real and the world is almost at a stand still. (My favorite week of the year) I had begged you to go to the movies with me. I dragged you to see Frozen. 

“Frozen?” You said, crinkling your nose, “Out of all the movies?”

I laughed and told you that I needed to see it because Mia had and already loved it. I think I said something like, “If I’m going to be her cool Aunt we have to see it.”

And you agreed, because you’d do anything for me. You always would. So two thirty-somethings went to see a six o’clock showing of Frozen on a Tuesday. We looked ridiculous; your messenger bag was overflowing with snacks and we were the only people there without a child. 

I loved it though, and you did too. When the movie was over we sat in the lobby at a table and I finished my slurpee as you told me about the real story of Frozen. 

“It’s loosely based on ‘The Snow Queen’ by Hans Christian Andersen from 1845. They both have a snow Queen, reindeer, trolls, frozen hearts, and snow creatures, but that’s where the similarities end. In the original story there is a horrible magic mirror and,” You finally paused to breathe, “ROBBERS!”

I laughed, “Aren’t all fairytales actually awful? We’ve just disney-ified them for kids?”

You nodded, “Most fairy tales in their original form were gruesome to the extreme. In Cinderella, the step-sisters had their feet mutilated to fit into the shoe.”

I yawned, “That’s why I always stuck to Pixar.”

We laughed and threw away our million candy wrappers. As we were leaving I saw a photo booth, one of those old one’s like I went in with all my high school boyfriends. I pulled you over to it and you grimaced, “It’s a small space CRAWLING with germs Y/N!” you whined to me, “Do you know how many people have been in there?” 

I rolled my eyes, “It’ll take thirty seconds and I will sanitize after!”

I tugged your arm in and we both barely fit in the booth. You pulled me onto your lap and four poses later we had two photo strips covered in pictures of you kissing my cheek and us smiling. That’s your momento for this letter.”

Spencer reached in and grabbed the photo strip delicately between his fingers. It was one of those tacky ones that looked like a roll of film and all the pictures were in black and white. The first one was the two of you smiling as wide as you could, the second you stuck your tongue out and Spencer scrunched up his nose, for the third he kissed your cheek, and the last one you turned your head to meet him. His heart softened for a moment, remembering how soft and sweet your kisses were. They were usually delicate, like you were kissing the finest of china. Or they were intense, like you were drowning and he was coming up for air. He felt warm, despite the snow falling all around him. 

“This is my copy. We printed two. I don’t know where yours is, I just hope it isn’t in the trash. I know it’s another photograph; you just got one of those from JJ’s wedding.  But I love photographs. I have a million of you and I. I always used to shove my phone in your face and you’d block it with your hands. I haven’t been able to bring myself to delete them yet. I just love pictures. They capture moments, the good and the bad. Sometimes the only thing that can get the feelings across is a photo, so here’s four. 

I remember sticking them in my purse as we walked out of the theater hand in hand and found ourselves in this park. I love it when the cherry blossom’s bloom, but they weren’t blooming. We found our way to this exact bench that you’re sitting on right now. I think it has the best view of the fountain. You put your arm around me and I snuggled into you. You were trying to talk about work; something about Rossi and Gideon? I didn’t know. I was so tired, I couldn’t even focus. I remember just staring at the dry fountain; they turn it off when the weather gets too cold. 

“Don’t you agree?” You said, but I didn’t register it, “Y/N?”

I looked up at you and blinked a few times. I sat up and moved myself off of you, “What? Sorry about that I—“ my own yawn interrupted me, “I’m just really tired.”

You looked at me so concerned. Your pretty, honey brown eyes always could see right through me. 

“Tired? But we went to sleep at ten last night, you should’ve had at least seven hours.”

I just shrugged and you raised your eyebrows at me, waiting for me to spill. 

“I couldn’t fall asleep the last few nights.”

I avoided your prying gaze that felt red hot on my skin even in the freezing air and played with the locket around my neck, as I usually do when I’m nervous. 

“Y/N,” You said and grabbed my two hands to make me look at you. I looked you straight in the eyes. 

“Talk to me.”

I sighed, “No.”

“No?” You looked offended, I don’t blame you. 

“No,” I said plainly. It looked like I was picking a fight, but I wasn’t. I just wasn’t ready to tell you. It’s so weird, we had spent over two years together by then, and I still couldn’t tell you. I don’t know why. It wasn’t you. You make me feel comfortable and safe. I think talking about it made it more real for me, you know? And I just didn’t want it to be real. 

“Is it the nightmares? Are they back again?” 

I just nodded. Of course you knew, you always knew.

“Y/N, we’ve been through this. You have to talk about them.”

I groaned and you dropped my hands to run yours through your hair. Frustrated is how you felt in that moment, and I don’t blame you. I was mad at myself too. 

“I know! But can’t I just not want to talk about it?”

You stood up and paced in front of me, “You have to talk to someone! Even if it isn’t me.”

“That’s the thing! I don’t trust anyone except you with it!”

You sounded defeated, “Then why don’t you tell me? You haven’t slept, Y/N. You need to take care of yourself. I can’t just sit back and watch you do this to yourself. It’s not healthy.”

That isn’t the last time I heard you say that, but it was the first. That became your favorite phrase at the end. “It’s not healthy,” as if you’re the judge of what’s healthy and not.

My heart ached at the sight of you; purple scarf disheveled and your eye bags a similar color. Your hair was tousled from running your hands through it and you looked like you might cry. I patted the seat next to me so you would sit down and then before I could even think them, the words were tumbling out of my mouth. Every. Damn. Detail.”

He remembered it so clearly, as if it were yesterday. The cold air bit at your skin causing you to shiver and pull your coat tighter. The only warmth either of you felt was what was radiating off the other. It wasn’t much. 

“It’s the nightmare, like the nightmare. The same one from Jacksonville. It just won’t go away. I wake up sweaty and disoriented and I can’t breathe.” 

Silence came. How hadn't he heard you wake up the last few nights? Why didn’t he notice? He silently scolded himself while watching your feet draw little shapes in the snow. The flakes landed on your hair perfectly and the light made you look like you had a halo. An angel. His angel.

You got yourself together and back tracked, “Do you know what I did before the BAU Spence?”

He thought for a moment and realized he didn’t. He had no idea. It was a strange feeling. He knew the last four or so years of your life so well. He spent two and some change of them with you, together, but he knew little about you before then. He knew about your family and your childhood, but that was it. Your early twenties were a secret. 

“No, I don’t,” He croaked, running his hands nervously down his pants, as if they were sweaty, “Rossi just called you one day and the next you were here.”

You sighed and didn’t dare look at him, “I worked with Organized Crime in California. With the Bratva.”

“The russian mafia?” His voice went high, like it always did when he was confused. 

“Let me start at the beginning,” You took a deep breath and held it for a moment, “I went to school, got my criminal justice degree, you know the usual stuff. I worked on various other criminal psychology and forensic degrees and certs until I turned twenty-three.”

“So you could join the bureau,” he finished your sentence. 

You pursed your lips and nodded, “Yeah, it was my life long dream. So I joined at 23, found myself in organized crimes twenty weeks later. I was on the fast track. Not as fast as you of course,” You smiled and bumped your shoulder with his, earning a warm smile that made you feel more comfortable. 

“I worked various cases for a year or two. Low level stuff, you know? Until they actually needed me.”

He was nervous to hear it now, half regretting asking, and half celebrating the fact that you’d share your deepest darkest with him. 

“You know like in old movies when the gangster has a pretty girl in a skimpy dress on his lap? And she pretends to know nothing about what he does? Yeah that was me. Turns out I was the right age and type for Alexei. So there I was. Twenty-five. Had no idea what I was doing, going undercover.”

“Like Emily did with Doyle,” he said.��

You nodded, “Like Emily and Doyle. That’s part of why we got along so well, we both had similar experiences. She knew what the long haul was like.”

“How long were you under?” Spencer whispered. 

“Sixteen months.”

His eyes went wide, “Sixteen?”

“Yup,” you popped the ‘p’. 

“That’s a long time.”

“You don’t become a mafia kingpin’s girlfriend overnight, Reid.”

He laughed. You didn’t. 

“See you guys do the short stints. A night, maybe a day or so. It’s different. It’s draining. Constantly worrying about knowing the details of my cover while also not losing myself in the process. Sometimes I couldn’t tell where the cover ended and I started. I was paranoid, looking over my shoulder constantly. If they knew who I was, I’d get killed instantly.”

He stiffened next to you, but you carried on. 

“And you can’t break character. You have to do whatever they want. I had to be his girlfriend. I had to pretend to love him. You know how tiring that is? Pretending to be in love with a man you’re trying to take down? Pretending to like what he likes? Pretending to want to be a part of the sick shit they did?”

He sighed, “You had to do everything he wanted.”

His heart sank and he suddenly felt angry. He needed to punch this guy in the face. 

“Everything,” You practically spit out, venom dripping from the words, “And Alexei’s favorite pastime was killing people who he thought were disloyal. He’d switch it up. Some days he liked to make them suffer, others it was one between the eyes and out. He liked to make me watch.  He liked hurting the dancers too. They had a club, they always have a damn club, and those girls were the only friends I had for months. He liked to hurt them too, defile them. ‘Ruin them’ he’d say.”

Spencer’s arm reached around you now. The cold was getting to both of you, but you didn’t budge from the bench. You didn’t curl into him for safety. You just stared at the snow. 

“He liked when it hurt. He liked to throw things at me. Bruise me. Pull my hair. God I hated it,” your voice was a mere whisper now. Spencer’s grip around you tightened with every word. He wanted to protect you. He always wanted to protect you. 

“Shh, it’s okay,” He mumbled into your hair. A few frozen tears dripped down your cheeks. You sat like that, silently sobbing while remembering what had happened to you. What you’d seen. 

“What happened to him?”

You took a shaky breath, “I begged them to let me out. We had enough. I had stacks and stacks of pictures and evidence. But they didn’t let me. My awful handler would always say ‘just a few more days, Y/N, just a few.’ Then that would become another month. The job only needed eight months. I was there double that. Finally, they did the raid. I got kudos and congratulations. A promotion and a couple extra bucks, as if that would take away what I had been through. I wasn’t myself anymore.”

You took a thick swallow, finding it hard to breathe, “So I quit.”

Spencer held you still, not moving a muscle. 

“I quit. I gave up my dream. I moved back to Connecticut. I made coffee at Starbucks for $7.25 an hour. I read. I went on trips and vacations. I needed to find myself again. Then one day you guys stumbled into them and Rossi called me since I knew first hand how they worked. That was all I needed. A taste of it again, and I was all in. So a week later I showed up, Rossi raving about my ‘ability to get information out of people.’ I developed the skill to survive, Spence.”

You turned into him now, head on his chest. 

“So the nightmares are those memories. The girl’s faces. The young kids who messed up jobs. They’re hurting and I can’t save them. That’s the nightmare.”

You sat in silence, letting the words hang in the air between you. You were tired and spent, leaning your full body weight into him. He was just trying to relax and keep calm. He was pissed, and a little bit was directed at you. 

“I’m so sorry Y/N, but thank you for telling me,” His voice was low and raspy, his head spinning. For just over two years he had been your person. Your rock. And he didn’t know this about you? Why couldn’t you tell him? He told you all of his dirty secrets; his dad, the kidnapping, the drugs, and you ‘couldn’t tell him?’ Why?

“That’s why I was so scared when Emily ‘died.’” You used air quotes around the last word, “Her nightmare came true.”

“Yours won’t.”

You sniffled and rubbed your ice cold nose, “I know. You guys keep me safe.”

You looked up at him, falling into his big doe eyes. They were hurt and twisty, but full of love. And you looked at him like he was everything in the world. In that moment, he was. 

He treated you differently after that night. He was always kind and gentle, but he approached you with a new sense of care. He didn’t mean for it to happen, it just did. Someone finally understood you, and it felt so good. But one thing always bothered him, why did you wait so long to tell him? He didn’t think he’d ever know. 

“I loved you and trusted you enough to lay it all out for you, and you took it all in. You told me you wouldn’t let it change anything, but it did. I thought it changed us for the better. Maybe it didn’t, I’m still not sure. You told me it made me stronger, more resilient. It made you love me more, if that was even possible. It made me human. You told me Ernest Hemingway once said “The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.” You said I was strong at those broken places. 

So that’s what this photostrip is to me. It’s the day I officially took all of my walls down and showed you the parts of me that aren’t pretty, and you didn’t run away. You stayed and kissed me on that freezing cold park bench and warmed me up with a hug I never wanted to leave. I thought after that it would take something much greater than you or I to break this apart, like divine intervention. We were impenetrable, but then again, so was the Titanic.

That night I didn’t have any nightmares. I didn’t have a bad one until a few weeks ago. I missed having you next to me during it. You were right, talking about it does help. I’ll find someone out here to talk to, I promise. 

That night, all the walls were finally down. I think that was my fatal mistake, if only I kept them up a little while longer.

So look at us, all young and innocent before the world left us jaded and hurt. I miss your cheek kisses and the way your hands feel snaking around my waist. I miss your fact dumps and the way you feel like home. Thank you for taking me at my worst, loving me, and leaving me better than I was when you got there. Just like being under, it’s now hard for me to tell where I end and you begin. So many parts of you became parts of me. I’ll have to work on finding myself again, and this time I won’t do it over grande java-chip frappucinos, I’ll do it over case files. I’m finally done running away.” 

Spencer’s throat was dry and his palms were so sweaty the ink was bleeding underneath his fingers. How was he sweating when it was barely ten degrees outside? He put the letter and photo strip back in the box and stuffed it in the passenger seat of his car before walking back into the park. 

The fountain was off again, but he remembered what it looked like running. He walked the same paths you had walked with him a million times. He never wanted to walk them alone. He wondered if Seattle had any nice parks like this for you to walk through. He hoped you were close to Pike Place Market so you could order a coffee at the first ever Starbucks. He hoped you were happy. 

He remembered the way the park looked in the summertime, all lush, green grass and kid’s playing. He remembered the picnic you went on when the blanket flew away. He remembered kissing you under huge trees and feeding birds. As he walked around, he could almost see it, shadows of the people you used to be.  

He walked for maybe an hour before retreating back to his crappy car and crying for a moment. He didn’t turn the music back on as he drove home. He just thought of the way your body racked with tears at the nightmares and how he could always calm you down, almost instantly. He wondered who would see you through the nightmares now? They’re too hard to do alone. 

He didn’t remember when he got home, seemingly having driven on auto-pilot the whole time. When he got back inside he dropped the box and made a beeline for where his copy of your photo strip was, on one of his many shelves covered in books. He grabbed the book he had started six months ago. It was a gift from Rossi and he only read half of it, a rarity for him. When he got halfway through, everything happened and he couldn’t bring himself to open the book up anymore. He rifled through the pages of  ‘What to Expect When You’re Expecting’ and found the photo strip where it was acting as a bookmark on the page where he had left off. He took it out and slammed the book closed, not wanting to read any of the words, even by accident. 

He took the strip over and compared it to yours. His was worn and bent and the shiny photo paper had dulled from the many pages he had stuck it between. Yours was in perfect condition, still shiny and even a little sticky, like it hadn’t been touched. He stared at them, wondering what your life would be now if you could’ve held onto the people in that photo booth. There were so many what-ifs, he didn’t even know where to begin. He knew he couldn’t just leave it at these letters, he needed more. He needed to see you and he fully intended on breaking your ground rules, but not until he was finished. He walked back to the box with newfound vigor, and grabbed #9.

PART 10!

taglist: @l0ve-0f-my-life @aperrywilliams @helloniallslovelies @random-ravings

@ajwantsapancake @andiebeaword @boiled-onionrings @frnks-stuff @icantevenanymore1 @mellifluouswildbluebells @rottenearly @sammypotato67 @blushingwueen @peaxhyjaes @justanotherfangurlz @juniorgman187 @mbowles23-blog​ @blameitonthenight @goldentournesol​

(i think some tags aren’t working so if anyone knows how to fix that pls lmk :)

[enkelimagnus]

Cookbook

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1694 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky walks home from a long day of paperwork. On his path is a garage sale and a tired woman.

TW: cigarettes, smoking

Read on AO3

Part 2 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series, Part 1 here, Part 2 here

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

Bucky smokes on the way home from work.

Everything that brought some sort of pleasure was a currency back in his day. That was why they sent cigarettes to the front. It was easy to make them necessary, when you were under constant fire and needed something to keep you going. Anything that got you out of that hell was traded for, fought for. Some days, it was like nothing mattered more than the next ration shipment and its load of cigarettes, pin-up magazines and six-pence books.

In truth, he doesn’t have the habit he used to have. Hydra wouldn’t have that. Upside of brainwashing, he guesses. And it’s not like it burns the same way anymore. That’s the serum for you.

Still, sometimes, he pulls a cigarette out of its gore-decorated cardboard box, lights it and pretends it has the same effect on him now than it did back in muddy camps or candle-lit living rooms.

The day has been long. No raids, but he’d been stuck behind a desk doing fucking paperwork for the last two weeks-worth of missions. His reports are tired and concise, he hates doing them and he’s pretty sure it’s obvious to anyone who reads what he writes.

He wishes he could smoke then , at that stupid cramped desk, to make the endless signing and reading and writing easier, but you’re not allowed to smoke inside anymore. So he finds himself doodling on other pieces of paper when his mind drifts. His focus is not the best outside of missions.

He used to love writing shit. Steve had his drawings and Bucky had his words, in between everything else. They wrote stories on notes they passed in class in high school. When it got taken by the teacher, no one could understand what they were talking about. He used to make up worlds and think of men walking in space, and he wishes he could tell his 14-year-old self that there are people in the sky, and that he’ll meet them one day. That he’ll see aliens, real ones, and punch them in the face.

He would tell him all the good things about the universe, all the people in it, all about partners in crime and arms like Dugan or Morito or Jones, or Sam or Natasha, how he not only met Howard Stark but was his comrade, how Stark knew him as “Sergeant Barnes” or “Sarge”.

He’d tell him all the good, and none of the bad, none of how his dad would die in two years and he’d be leading the family in shabbos prayers at 16, none of how the people in the world could be cruel for the sake of their own fun, none of how Howard Stark said his name in shock before he punched in his skull with the metal fist that was now his left hand.

Those conversations with his younger self -- barely a man, already smart-mouthed and charming and cocky in the way teenagers are and in the way Bucky had tried to remain for as long as he could until the war drained it out of him -- evaporate in the smoke, in the cold Brooklyn air.

He doesn’t love writing anymore. His mind can’t create the worlds it used to make. He thinks in three languages on a good day, only knows how to write one of those, so whenever he tries, something’s always missing. On a bad day, he can barely string along one sentence, let alone tell a story.

And he’s got no one to tell them to, anyway.

It’s 7pm and the streets are dark and icy. In the last few weeks, the gloves he always wears to hide his left hand have not been an incongruous fashion statement.

It’s January now. There was snow last week, a soft blanket that made him fucking cry out of nowhere when he saw it through the window. It was gone soon, but it was there. And for once, it didn’t fall on Siberia. It fell on Brooklyn again. He never would have thought he’d seen snow on Brooklyn again.

That kind of shit pulls memories out of him like nothing else, and he’s thankful for them. They make it easier and harder at the same time.

He told Doctor Raynor about the shul that’s now a church, about how it was the worst pain he’d felt since he’d last been wiped. How that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to walk into Becky’s retirement home and see her as she is now. The pain of time lost is the worst one to bear.

That, and he’s pretty sure she knows what he’s done. His name and photo have been blasted on every news channel and every social media website after the UN bombing. There’s no way she wouldn’t recognize him, when he looks so similar to the brother she lost.

He has no desire to face his Becky now that he’s a murderer and a weapon of mass destruction, Hydra brainwashing or not. You don’t do that to your little sister.

Besides, she doesn’t need him. She’s got kids and grandkids and great-grandkids, and nephews and nieces and every sort of relative you can imagine except for parents and siblings. She’s taken care of, they visit her often, she doesn’t need the grief he’d bring. He can’t be selfish.

He stops to stab the butt of the cigarette into a wall but his eyes catch something else.

In the cold evening, there’s a few lights set up on the sidewalk, over some makeshift tables threatening to crumble over all the items on it. Everyday items mostly, kitchen stuff, books and a clock and some candlesticks.

At first glance, all of the pricier stuff has been sold already, and there’s a tired-looking middle-aged woman sitting on the stairs of the house behind the tables. She has a look on her face, heavy with emotions muddled so well they’re impossible to tell apart.

“Buy what you want,” she says. Her voice doesn’t carry. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have heard more than a mumble if his hearing wasn’t enhanced. “Pay what you want.”

How many times has she said that today?

He looks down at the items for a moment, the cheap metal candlesticks, some old plates decorated with blue flowers, a still plastic-wrapped, never used, frankly hideous challah cover, and a pile of various books. Most in English, a couple in what he assumes to be Polish, some in Yiddish. His eyes fall on one in particular, a cookbook. It looks old.

“Can I touch?” He asks, pointing at the cookbook.

The woman nods. “Yeah. Nothing very modern in there. Bubbe barely even made this anymore,” she explains. Ah. A bubbe passed and the stuff they can’t keep, they’re selling.

The cookbook’s unremarkable. It’s been used, obviously, there are stains of chocolate-covered fingerprints on some of the dessert pages as he flips through. It seems to be half in English and half in Yiddish. He reaches the page where the publication date would be. He doesn’t even know why he’s checking.

Entire Contents Copyrighted 1949 The B. Manischewitz Co. Printed in the U.S.A.

1949. It’s close enough. Really close enough.

“How much do you want?” He looks up at the mourner.

“I told ya, it’s how much you’re willing to give.”

Bucky makes an annoyed sound at the back of his throat. He rephrases the question. “How much do you want me to give?”

The woman makes eye contact again. She looks deeply surprised by his question. Hesitant, too. She has no idea what to reply.

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, starts going through the cash he has. He barely uses his credit card. Every month, when he gets his money from the army, he immediately withdraws most of it. It’s safer that way, and he knows how much he’s spending.

He counts out 180 dollars. It feels like a ridiculous amount for a cookbook, but the woman’s selling her bubbe’s shit like this, she’s still out at 7pm in January in Brooklyn and Bucky doesn’t have a lot of expenses anyway. He doesn’t really have expensive taste. 18’s a good number too, at least, it used to be, in his day.

“Peace be upon her,” He says quietly, when the woman opens her mouth at the bills he places in her hand. “It’s getting cold, you should go back inside,” he adds, quiet and coaxing, the tone he used to use when the neighbor’s son, Aaron, had a tantrum and sat on the stairs all evening, pretending to be mad at his parents.

Did he know the bubbe in question? Was she one of the kids from Hebrew school? It’s a little too far from his old neighborhood to be sure. He’s not going to ask.

The woman sighs a little, putting the money in her pocket when she realizes he’s not going to take any of it back.

He eyes the tables for a moment. “You need help packing up?”

She hesitates. He gets it, he’s a weird stranger who just bought an old cookbook for 180 dollars, it’s nighttime… He can’t tell her he’s not a serial killer, because he is one, and there’s going to be a moment where she remembers where she’s seen his face before. There usually is.

He holds his hands up, seemingly showing he’s harmless. It’s hilarious, really, because he’s never harmless. But contrary to Steve, he’s not massive. He’s more on the lean side of things, especially with his new arm.

“No pressure.”

She hesitates still, but he sees the exhaustion working away at her until she nods. The cookbook is put to the side and he helps her pack up the tables and the remaining things. He is careful not to display too much strength, and he’s also careful to keep his face in a neutral but positive sort of mask. His resting expression is meaner than needed.

He comes home much later than he thought he would, but he’s got a cookbook and some ideas of how to occupy his amnesia-riddled nights.

[all-things-skam]

Title: Darkroom kisses

Ship: Wtfock | Robbe Ijzerman + Sander Driesen (Sobbe)

_______________

Truth be told, Robbe wasn't interested in the dance performance in the slightest. Sitting in uncomfortable chairs for over two hours to watch girls - and boys, as Noor had mentioned - shaking their body on stage sounded like a snoozefest to Robbe.

But, he still went. For the boys...and their future hook up.

And for Noor, of course.

Talking about her, Robbe should've probably been more supportive of his girlfriend and brought flowers or something, but he was broke and flowers were overrated. Why spending so much money on something that's going to die in a couple days?

He chewed his lip thoughtlessly as he took his seat beside his friends. The brunet wasn't looking forward to this and he'd rather be anywhere else but in this auditorium, but at least, moment in time, coming to this performance appeared to please both Noor and the boys.

When they first heard about the dance performance, Jens, Moyo and Aaron were so excited that Robbe had absolutely no way of getting out of it. He thought about faking being sick for a second, but knew that Jens would never buy his lie - not without checking.

The lights went down and the performances started one by one, Aaron practically squeaking in his seat, way too excited to watch girls dance. Moye tapped Robbe's arm, motionning at some brunette doing moves, but Robbe's attention was anywhere else but on stage. He looked around, letting the boredom creep in. Can this spectacle be over soon?

A duo of girls stepped on stage with tutus and heavy stage makeup as Robbe broke a yawn.

''Dude,'' Jens hissed, shaking his head at Robbe who shrugged.

''Sorry...''

Their attention returned to the stage, trying to focus on the ballerinas when Robbe felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

He pulled it out despite knowing it was rude to check your phone during a performance, lips twisting up when reading Sander's name.

Sander: Meet me at the back of the auditorium

Glancing around, Robbe tried to look for Sander's platinum head. He knew he was there, being in charge of taking pictures of the spectacle, but Robbe couldn't see him.

Biting his lip, Robbe hesitated. According to the little pamphlet they had given at the entrance, Noor's performance was next and Robbe knew she'd be mad if he missed her dance performance. But, at the same time, the raven haired girl wasn't the one who made his heart do crazy things.

Slipping his phone back in his pocket, Robbe stood and nudged Moyo's knee so he could pass. Jens pulled his eyebrows, about to ask where he was going, but Robbe was already sneaking out of the auditorium.

''Sander?'' Robbe called, the heavy door flapping shut behind him.

Instead of a response, he was greeted by a camera flash, Sander's grinning face behind the device.

Robbe groaned at the harsh light of the flash, rubbing his eyes as if to stop seeing spots of colors. ''Stop taking pictures of me...''

Chuckling, Sander rolled his eyes. ''Never,'' he countered, his clear green eyes staring right into Robbe, causing a little blush to creep. Click. He was just too pretty not to photograph.

''Stop,'' Robbe dragged, using his hand to cover his face, shielding himself from the camera. Despite his attempt to sound annoyed, a smile was hidden behind his hand.

Sander dropped his camera, letting it fall on his chest. ''Let's go,'' he said with an undeniable grin.

''What?'' Robbe asked hesitantly, giving Sander a confused look.

He glanced around, checking his horizons and, once he ensured that no one was around them, he let his eyes wander back to Sander.

''Come.'' The blond grabbed Robbe's hands and pulled him along, determined to get them away from everyone, trying to be alone with Robbe.

''Where are we going?'' the smaller one asked as he followed Sander down the hall.

''Somewhere secret.''

.

Sander came to a halt in front of a black door, almost causing Robbe to hit his back at the sudden stop. Looking up, Robbe noticed a tag on the door: Darkroom.

Sander reached into his pocket to fetch a key, making the brunet even more confused.

''Are we allowed in here?'' Robbe asked, worried that they'd get in trouble.

''I am.'' He inserted the key in and twisted it to unlock the door. ''The janitor gave me a double of the key. I think he was annoyed to have to stay past his work hours whenever I stayed here late to develop photos.'' A light chuckle left his lips at the anecdote.

Sander rolled his eyes, seeing that Robbe still had an unsure look on his face and nudged the door open, flashing him a grin and motinning for Robbe to follow. He turned on the light, the red tint of the bulb tinting their faces.

''Welcome to my crib,'' Sander joked, imitating the infamous MTV quote as he Robbe closed the door behind him, preventing any outside light to get in. Robbe might not know much about photography developpement, but he knew that light ruined the photos.

At first Robbe was taken aback. It was his first time going inside a darkroom and, he'll admit, he was mesmerized. Containers, chemical bottles and other developing equipment were neatly placed on the counter by the sink. A string was hung across the walls, pictures pinned to it.

Robbe stepped forward and took a closer look at the pictures. ''These are yours? You took them?''

''Yes.''

Sander felt his heart flutter at the smile on Robbe's face as he inspected every nook and cranny of the space. Art - especially photography - was very important to Sander. It was a stress relief, a way of expressing himself with his creativity. At first, he felt nervous sharing it with Robbe, but it seemed like the boy was enjoying himself, his smile broadening as he glanced at the pictures.

''Is that me?'' Robbe asked, pointing to a certain picture. He recognized the warehouse Noor took him to do grafitis. ''That's a great shot. You're talented.''

''Yeah, getting a good picture is not easy when the subject is a sight for sore eyes,'' Sander countered with a flirty smirk.

A blush coated Robbe's cheeks, slightly embarrassed. Since they met, Sander has always been a flirt with Robbe. But, up until today, he had never flirted so explicitly.

Robbe looked away and focused back on the pictures. ''How did you get into photography?'' he asked, changing subject.

''You know how all the art kids have their thing? Well, mine is photography. I do other stuff like painting, but film photography is my favorite.''

''Film photography?'' Robbe shook his head mockingly. ''You're so old-fashioned.''

''You should know, film photography is making a big return. Digital photography is nice, but I prefer film. A digital camera does all the work for you. Anyone can do it. For film, you have to learn and figure out techniques, angles, lighting. You can also use different films to make cool effects.'' Sander stepped past Robbe, pointing to a particular picture. ''See? I recently learned to edit manually when printing. I can now adjust the exposure and contrast levels, and even apply dodges and burns to the images.''

Even though Robbe didn't understand what the blond was talking about - unfamiliar with the photography language -, he liked listening to him. You could feel his genuine passion through his voice.

Robbe returned his attention to the pictures hung up, grafitis around the city, portraits of who he assumed were Sander's friends and more artistic shots.

A particular picture caught his attention recognizing the skatepark he and the boys spend their time at, the ugly graffitis at the far back giving the place away. There wasn't much on the picture, just a boy in a brown jacket, mid jump on a skate ramp.

Pulling his eyebrows, the brunet unclipped it without asking. ''When did you take this?''

Behind him, Sander's heart started beating faster, getting nervous. Taken the wrong way, Robbe could be offended and call him a creep for taking this picture without his consent. ''Late september, I believe,'' he confessed, biting his bottom lip.

The younger one stilled. September? They didn't know each other back then, they hadn't even met yet. Why did Sander take pictures of him?

A minute passed and there was no reaction from Robbe.

''Robbe?'' Sander said, voice unsteady, apprehending Robbe's reaction, yet needing a reaction.

Breath caught in his throat, Robbe felt a warmth on his back from the proximity of Sander's body. He fought the envy to lean into him and gathered his courage to turn around, keeping his eyes down as he spoke. ''Why did you take pictures of me? I mean, why me? There's a bunch of skaters that are much better than me.''

Sander reached for Robbe's hand, fingers gently ghosting on his skin, hating when Robbe was thinking low of himself. ''I didn't take this picture because I thought you were a skateboard master. I took this picture because you caught my attention, you inspired me artistically.''

Robbe knitted his eyebrows, confused.

''The first time I saw you was when you and your friends started coming to the skatepark in the summer. I didn't know you, but all I could see was a quiet boy with a sad smile, sitting amongst a loud group of boys. Your eyes were giving away so much, but no one asked what was wrong.''

That summer, everything started going downhill at home. His parents were arguing a lot, and Robbe's mom had been struggling with her mental health more than usual. He was always caught in the middle of the quarrels and, although he wasn't the center of it all, it was tough. Hearing your father say cruel things to the one he's sworn to love forever hurts.

Swallowing thickly, Robbe felt tears well up in his eyes, trying to push away the bad memories. He was having a good time with Sander, he didn't want to ruin the moment because he got too emotional over past events.

Fingers laced through his, pulling Robbe from his thoughts. ''You okay?''

Robbe glanced at their intertwined fingers, lips twitching. He nodded, slowly raising his eyes to meet with Sander's. Sander caught his lip between his teeth, debating whether to go for it or not and cupped the back to Robbe's neck, closing the gap between them, pressing their lips together into a soft kiss.

It took the smaller boy a second or two to realize what was happening, heart hammering behind his chest. Robbe never thought this day would happen. That's he'd get to kiss a boy. Especially someone as good looking as Sander Driesen.

Heart hammering behind his chest, Robbe kissed back, parting his lips to capture Sander's upper lip between his. He didn't want to rush the kiss, enjoying every seconds of this moment, content with just their lips touching.

Kissing Sander felt so different than all the kisses he and Noor had shared. Firstly, there wasn't a lipstick in the way, just Sander's bare - and slightly chapped - lips. The sickly sweet perfume had been replaced by a woody cologne with slightly spicy undertone.

A hand came to rest on his hip, pulling the brunet closer, feeling himself melt under Sander's touch, so gentle on him despite his natural chaotic energy. Robbe raised his arms to wrap them around the back of the older one's neck, lips parting as a soft, satisfied sound escaped, cheeks flushing.

Sander grinned through the kiss, biting Robbe's bottom lip teasingly before pulling back, earning a small whine as Robbe followed the blond, not ready for the kiss to end.

[emanedrees]

Project 1 FA222 Principles of Graphic Design

Interviews

David Carson was born in September 1954, and studied sociology in San Diego University.

He touched upon graphic designing briefly while attending a two-week commercial designing

class at the University of Arizona, in 1980. Subsequently, he attended the Oregon College of Commercial Art to study graphic designing and a three-week workshop in Switzerland as a part of his degree. Besides, his many talents include professional surfing and he was ranked 9th best surfer in the world, in 1989.

An Interview with David Carson:

Question 1: David, could you tell us a little about your new book?

Carson: It’s called The Rules of Graphic Design. I’m working on it now in Zurich, Switzerland, where I have a small studio, besides my one in the states. It will show a lot of the new work I’ve done over the past few years, and will, as the title suggests, finally get the official “rules” out on graphic design. It should be out early spring 2008. My first workshop I ever attended on graphic design was in Switzerland, so the book will no doubt be affected by my being here. I started it in the states and it will be finished there.

Question 2: As one of the most well-known and influential graphic designers in the world, how do you balance work and play? Do you still get to surf often?

Carson: I’ve always felt I make my living from my hobby, so I’m lucky in that respect. As Marshall McLuhan said, if you’re totally involved in something, it is no longer work, it’s “play or leisure.” I surf in the Caribbean every winter. There’s a perfect point break in my front yard. I watch the Internet surf reports, and when a swell is coming, I head down to the British West Indies. It’s a very special place and helps me recharge.

Question 3: When creating a design such as a magazine cover, article, or website, what are a few of the most important things a designer should consider?

Carson: Who is the audience, what is that audience’s visual language, what type of things are they seeing? How can you communicate and reinforce visually what is written or spoken, and how can you stand out from the competition in that particular field?

Question 4: You redesigned Surfer Magazine in 1991 and founded Ray Gun as well. How does redesigning a medium, whether it’s a magazine or advertising campaign, differ from creating something from scratch?

Carson: In some ways they are very similar. You have to determine who the audience is, and what is the message you want to portray through the design. A new design gives you a bit more freedom, as you can help define the language. I think Ray Gun helped establish a certain visual language for alternative music. But redesigning, or inventing something new, both have their challenges and rewards, and I enjoy both. As long as you look for the solution in the particular thing you are working on, and not some predetermined formula or system, you will never run out of ideas.

Question 5: I remember attending a seminar when you spoke at a local school here in Central Florida years ago, and you told us a story about where you had the text in a magazine article covered up or unreadable, but the layout was spectacular. Do you have any other humorous or quirky stories of editors getting mad that your layout caused the article to be unreadable?

Carson: You might be referring to the article I set in the font Dingbat, largely because I found the article very boring. To start designing, I have to read the article, or brief it or listen to the music, to see where it takes me visually and emotionally. It was [a] bit funny, maybe, that at Ray Gun some of the writers complained early that their articles were hard to read. But then by the 30th issue, the same writers would complain if they thought their articles were too easy to read! The layout came to signal something worthwhile to read, so the writers came to look forward to see how their words were interpreted.

Question 6: Some have said that you are heavily influenced by the ocean. Is that true, and where do you find other sources of inspiration when creating a design?

Carson: My environment always influences me. I’m always taking photos and I believe things I see and experience influence the work. Not directly, but indirectly in some shape or color or something that registers. The ocean has always played a big part in my life, but it’s hard to say exactly what that influence is in regards to the work. But I’m always scanning the environment I’m in, and I’m sure it ends up in the work.

I think it’s really important that designers put themselves into the work. No one else has your background, upbringing, life experiences, and if you can put a bit of that into your work, two things will happen: you’ll enjoy the work more, and you’ll do your best work. Otherwise, we don’t really need designers—anyone can buy the same programs and learn to do “reasonable, safe” design.

Question 7: You have branched out into directing television and video commercials. What aspects of print design do you also use when directing video? Do you often focus on typography as a major part of it?

Carson: I’m often asked to direct commercials where the type plays an important role, and sometimes I add type to other peoples’ work. My approach is very similar to print: who is the audience, what is the emotion of the spot, or the feeling we want the viewer to get from watching, and how visually can we make that happen?

Question 8: Could you give an example of a video project that you enjoyed directing? What software do you or your associates use when creating these, and do they include Adobe After Effects?

Carson: After Effects is hugely important in the commercials I work on. It’s hard to imagine how we did them before. Well, actually I know—we did them in very expensive suites in post-editing houses in Los Angeles and New York! I just did some work for Saturn cars, and it was almost all done with After Effects. It’s clearly the best tool for motion graphics. I directed an in-flight commercial for American Airlines—a 90-second spot—that I enjoyed very much, from casting the actors to selecting footage to having some fun with the type. I also made a commercial for the band Nine Inch Nails for the MTV music awards, and the launching of Lucent Technologies, which were type-only spots. In general, I’m drawn more toward moving images and type, but I’ll always do print, even though “print has ended.”

Question 9: Finally, what advice would you have for other graphic designers just starting out?

Carson: Do what you love, trust your gut, your instincts, and intuition. And remember the definition of a good job: If you could afford to, if money wasn’t an issue, would you do the same work? If you would, you’ve got a great job! If you wouldn’t, what’s the point? You’re going to be dead a long time. So find that thing, whatever it is, that you love doing, and enjoy going to work for, and not watch the clock or wait for weekends and holidays.

I learned from this interview, when creating any design, you must define the target audience, and what message you want to convey to the audience. One of David Carson's most important advice is that it is important to do what you love and to trust yourself, and find that thing, whatever it is, that you love doing, and enjoy going to work for, and not watch the clock or wait for weekends and holidays.

@uob-funoon

[lady-of-lies]

An off feeling

A/N: I’m back to posting! Not regularly I’m afraid but my goal is to catch up on the year long challenge since I’m on Christmas vacation now. This is not edited since it’s late and my eyes are bleeding (not really but you get the deal) and it’s inspired by Ally Brooke’s song Low key

Prompt: “...I left it in my room...”

Word count: 1252 (What!?, consider it compensation for my inactive-ness)

Warnings: None that I know of

Loki Laufeyson x gender neutral reader

Something was off. You had known it from the moment you set your foot inside the giant elevator doors. The air just had that scent of mystery to it and the familiar feeling of not knowing immediately, albeit slowly,  made its way creeping up your spine, unleashing a wave of pleasant shivers. You loved this feeling, but at the same time you hated it. Your body being weird like that, you loved the idea of surprises and taking the day as it comes, but when it really comes down to it you’re scared of what’s going to happen next. It was like two different people trapped inside one person.

You knew you shouldn’t have assumed the tower to be empty just because the common room, at the moment, for once, happened to be unoccupied. But you had wanted to try the acoustique in here for an eternity. That’s right. Singing, one of life's greatest remedies for rainy and otherwise boring days had been a passion since childhood. The only problem was that you would prefer to keep it on the low-key for personal reasons. Only because you are one of the Avengers doesn’t mean that your self esteem is through the roof, not everyone’s like Tony Stark, which supposedly is a good thing.

You can’t remember a time when you didn’t wonder how it would be to sing in a room as soon as you walked into it, you just couldn’t help it. It was one of the few ways you could blow off some steam in a more creative manner and if you ever found yourself in a funk of any kind, you sang, you sang all your emotions out and it somehow left your head feeling much lighter afterwards. There was something indescribable in hearing a melody you create resonating between the walls of a room.

There was this one song you had found a way back. It was silly, very so, but you couldn’t help yourself. You had refrained from singing it, or even playing it before, because of the person it reminded you of. You had had feelings for the one and only god of mischief since… who knows, and you were not about to let it slip just because of a silly song. But since there was no one here… there really was no harm in singing just a few lines is there? After a long and somewhat tiring inner debate you decided to just go for it, screw your inner piglet for being so anxious about anything and everything.

 Let's forget about our phones until the morning

('Til the morning)

We can post up, no one gets to see our story (Oh no)

I can take you places you ain't been before me

Then, the rest I guess is self-explanatory

All your friends are looking for you

They don't know where you're at

'Cause you left with me

And slipped out the back (Ah, shh)

Low key, low key

You should really get to know me

(Get to know me)

Low key, low key

You should really get to know me (Ah, ah)

Yeah, I know you got some things

That you could show me (Oh oh)

Low key, low key

You should really get to know me

You heard a loud noise coming from behind and as you twirled around you caught sight of the last person you expected or wanted. Loki. He just stood behind the kitchen counter a few meters away knocking a few glasses over on his way over to the coffee machine. You know, for an actual god, someone who descends from completely different realm,  he had found his love for coffee surprisingly fast. But before you let your mind explore that thought further you pulled yourself together. He had heard you sing, there was no way he could have missed it with how the loud music blasted from Tony’s obnoxiously expensive stereo system. Why had you sung that song? Out of all the songs stuck in your head why did you have to choose that one?

you had almost forgotten where you were when a low but smooth voice brought you back to reality. 

“Do you mind if I borrow your mug?”

Ok… Not exactly the first thing you had imagined him saying in this particular situation but whatever floats his boat. Your voice was somewhat shaky as you responded, you couldn’t help but wonder how and when he would address the elephant in the room, with Loki you could never be too cautious.

“No, uh, go ahead, I guess..?”

Your mind was a rollercoaster. A rollercoaster picking up speed with each passing second and with no way off. Never had you thought this was how your most secret passion would be relieved, and never in a million years would you have guessed Loki would be the one to do so, especially not while you sung that song. Maybe you should say something? You should definitely say something. That something should probably have been more thought through, but in this case your mouth was faster to act.

“didn’t Thor give you a brand new one not too long ago? Why don’t you just use that one?”

Stupid mouth. Couldn’t it have been something that didn’t ad to the awkward tension spreading in what felt like the whole tower like a wildfire. Loki didn’t lift an eyebrow though, he just continued on with his task like there was nothing wrong. Maybe there wasn’t? Had he really heard you? Something had felt off when you walked in earlier and now you knew what. You figured out what. The mug. Loki’s favourite coffee mug. It had been standing on the small table by the window when you stepped in. How had you not noticed? He had been in the room all the time and you were too caught up in your creative ways to acknowledge his presence.

“It’s a complicated and long story, i’d rather just borrow yours. Where is it anyway?”

Shit. Your mug was currently sitting on your desk, directly in front of a very old photo album and a coffee stained piece of paper you made a mental note to print a new copy of later. You remember how mad you had been when the mission call had gotten in and oh so rudely interrupted your sentimental morning. 

“Oh, right… I uh… I left it in my room… I can go and get it though! really it’s no trouble at all I’ll just be a minute-”

You felt yourself begin to ramble and quickly make your way out of the room, but before you could even make it past the nearest sofa you felt a hand wrap around your wrist, successfully causing you to halt mid-step and stumble backwards into a very tall, very lean, and very broad shouldered god. You just stood like that for a moment, neither of you saying a word. Not until you felt him draw in a deep breath. You felt his chest vibrate against your back as he spoke.

“Don’t bother. I’ll just take summon a new one, or two, since you’re here I see no point in drinking a hot beverage by oneself. Maybe I’ll even let you try one of my Asgardian biscuits I have stashed away for special occasions. Let’s just call it one of many things I could show you..”

Permanent Tag list:

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[prisonrose]

{ Post Tenebras Lux }

Panicked footsteps echoed through the lonely mine as the boy dashed about in aimless circles. His heart was nearly thundering out of his chest as he stopped for a moment, panting. “Hello?” he cried as loudly as he could. “IS ANYONE THERE?!”

Nothing. “Mum? Dad?!”

The echoes of his frightened voice almost sounded as if it was taunting him. Blinking back his tears, he dashed off in the direction he hoped would get him out of here and once again wracked his brain for answers to his current predicament. 

All he had to do was retrace his steps, right? That’s what mom had always told him! Let’s see… He’d been with his mom and dad, taking a tour through the Macro Cosmos factory on the outskirts of Motostoke. The Chairman himself was there to greet them, and that had been so exciting! He started showing them all the different machines and explaining what they did, though, which wasn’t quite as exciting, so the boy’s mind began to wander. And then…

The boy stopped dead in his tracks, clutching at his hair in frustration as he looked around. He couldn’t even remember how he had gotten split off from the group. Something had caught his attention momentarily, though he couldn’t remember what it was. He didn’t really think he’d gone that far, but when he turned around to go back to the factory, he didn’t even know which way he had come from. 

He’d gone into this mine, hoping it was the way back to Motostoke, where at least there would be other people he could ask for help. Instead, he’d ended up wandering around aimlessly in this dark, Pokemon infested hole without a Pokemon of his own to defend him, and he was lost, and he wanted his mom and his dad and to be back at Postwick and safe!

He slumped to the ground covering his face with his hands and sobbing noisily, then pressed his small body into a secluded corner as he shivered with fear. What if no one found him this time? What if he was going to be lost forever?

“MUM! DAD!” he screamed in desperation. “SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP ME!!!”

“... Leon?” a distant voice called. 

He froze, holding his breath with shock. “... Hello?” he called again, shakily climbing to his feet. “Is… Is someone there?!”

“Leon! Oh, thank the heavens that I found you!” The voice sounded relieved. “Stay put! Help is on the way!”

The boy spotted a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye. “No, wait! I-I think I see you! I’m on my way there!”

“Leon?! No, no, stay where you are! Don’t move!”

Too late. He’d taken off after the shadowy figure, sniffling and trying to wipe his face free of tears. In just a few minutes, he’d back home and this would all just be a memory! He’d be safe and warm and happy, and--

And that was not not a person.

He screeched to a halt so quickly that he nearly fell over, eyes wide with fear and panic. The Pokemon in front of him made a quick hairpin turn to face him, growling softly. Leon froze in place, feeling as if he couldn’t even breathe. Even when he saw its mouth glow as it prepared to attack him, he felt like his feet were rooted in place. Why… Why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he run? It was as if his body had been turned to stone! It wouldn’t listen to him!

As the blistering heat built up in the Carkoal’s body, Leon slowly looked down so that his brim blocked out the sight of it and he wouldn’t have to see his gruesome demise coming. He sniffled, feeling another tear roll down his face as he waited patiently for the enraged Pokemon to end it. But then he heard frantic footsteps coming from behind him.

The Chairman yanked one of his Ultra Balls off of his belt, and tossed it out in front of him, rushing in front of the boy. “Cerys! Defend us!” he cried throwing out his hand to shield the boy from any incoming damage.

Just as the Carkoal shot a powerful volley of flame at the two of them, the Chairman’s Copperajah burst out of its ball. Rose briefly had to shield his eyes from all of the dust his Pokemon had kicked up, but thankfully his Copperajah had managed to soak up all of the damage from the attack, leaving them both unharmed. Leon blinked, his cap plopping quietly on the ground. He looked up at the massive Pokemon standing in front of him with awe. Then he turned his eyes to the Chairman standing resolutely in front of him.

Rose just ran his fingers through his hair, thankful that no one had gotten hurt other than the small amount of damage Cerys had taken from a Pokemon much weaker than her. He could have ended the battle with an Iron Head or a High Horsepower then and there, but it seemed a little excessive. The poor thing had just been startled, after all.

“Here,” he called out to the wild Pokemon, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a toy with a bell attached to the end that Olga enjoyed playing with every now and then. He’d have to get her a new one sometime soon. “Go fetch.”

The Carkoal’s eyes went wide as Rose flung the jingling toy further down the long corridor. It let out a soft noise in delight, chasing after it as quickly as its wheels could take it. Rose sighed, stroking his Copperajah’s haunches. “How are you, girl?” he asked softly, looking over where the move struck her.

She rumbled quietly, turning so that she could gently wrap her powerful trunk around his waist and pull him in for a cuddle. 

Rose laughed softly, patting her trunk reassuringly. “It’s alright, darling, we’re both unharmed. There, there…” She really was quite protective and motherly towards him. He patted her one last time and went to address the young boy still looking up at him, completely awestruck. His face was a mess, smudged with dirt and awash with tears, so Rose took out his handkerchief and got down on one knee to wipe all the grime away. 

“You had us all very worried,” he hummed quietly. “I’m so glad to know that you’re alright…”

“I… I’m sorry…” Leon sniffled. “I didn’t mean to be a bother… I didn’t mean to wander off! Mum says there’s… something wrong with me. I get lost really easily, and it drives her mad. ”

“I’m sure that’s very frustrating,” Rose murmured, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket once most of the muck was wiped away. “And very scary, too. But just because you’re made differently, it doesn’t mean that you have to let your disability define you. I happen to think you show quite a bit of promise as a potential trainer.”

Leon’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “M-Me?!” he cried incredulously. “You have to be joking! I don’t even know how I got here, and if you hadn’t saved me from that monster, I would have been burned to a crisp!”

“I promise I’m being quite sincere,” Rose replied, rising back to his feet and brushing the dirt from his fancy trousers. “Look where you are, Leon. You came here all by yourself. Through the tall grass of Route 3, and down into the very depths of this place. No adults… Not even a companion Pokemon by your side. The only time you landed yourself in any trouble is when you ran into that Carkoal in a rush, seeking me out. That suggests that you have very shrewd judgement, a natural affinity for befriending Pokemon, and a knack for getting yourself out of sticky situations. I happen to think those are all very admirable qualities.”

Leon looked up at him with wide eyes. “You… You really think so? Most of the kids call me dense, and most adults just think I’m just pretending to get lost, but… But I’m really not! I really try!”

Rose fondly ruffled the kid’s short, purple hair. “I’m certain that you do. You just need some help compensating for the qualities that you lack, but the same can be said for everyone else. Why, I bet that with the right partner by your side, the possibilities for you could be endless.”

The Copperajah lumbered over and nuzzled Leon gently with her trunk, almost cooing softly. Rose laughed, patting her. “See? Even Cerys agrees! You’ve got a bright future ahead of you, Mr. Leon.”

Leon blushed slightly, reaching down to pick up his cap off of the ground and pulling the brim of it down over his eyes with embarrassment. “Th… Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you to say.”

Rose smiled at him, and patted his shoulder. “You’re welcome… Now! How would you feel about getting to ride old Cerys out of here?”

“REALLY?!” Leon shouted with excitement. “You really mean it?!” 

“Of course I do,” Rose laughed, helping the boy step onto her trunk so that she could lift him onto her back. “Let’s go put your poor mother and father’s hearts at ease. Come, Cerys, this way!”

-- A few days later --

“Lee!” his mother shouted from downstairs.

Leon blinked, pausing his game of Tetris, and looking up from his screen. “Yeah, Mum? What is it?” he called.

“Did you order something off the telly without telling us about it?”

“No???” he called back.

“Well, there’s a package here from Macro Cosmos here with your name on it!”

His eyes widened as he tossed his controller aside and raced downstairs as fast as his legs could take him. “Lemme see, lemme see, lemme see!!!” he squealed.

“Hold on,” she chastised, using a kitchen knife to open it. “... What on earth?” 

Inside, there was a portable incubator with detailed instructions and in egg inside. It also came with an ultra ball housed inside of the incubator and a trainer starter kit of Pokeballs, potions, various status healing tonics, and a blank League Card for Leon to one day print his photo on. There was also a letter on it, autographed by Chairman Rose himself.

Leon,

Sorry it took me so long to reach out to you. When your mother told me your favorite Pokemon, I knew I had quite a project on my hands! So I got in contact with some breeder friends, and we managed to get you your very own Charmander egg! Congratulations! We even managed to imbue it with a prototype technology that we’re coming out with in the next few years. 

This particular breed comes from a long, proud line that has rescued people in mountainous areas during blizzards and avalanches for centuries. Its excellent sense of direction will ensure that no matter where you are, as long as you have your partner by your side, you’ll be able to find your way back. I’m sure it will be a very loyal and helpful friend.

I know that you still have a few more years before you’re eligible to begin your Gym Challenge proper, but it’s never too early to begin your journey as a Pokemon Trainer. The other sheet of paper that’s attached is my official endorsement for you once you have your tenth birthday. Good luck, and I’m rooting for you.

Chairman Dhimani Rose Macro Cosmos Corp. CEO

[starrybbarnes]

sticking together [b.b]

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader 

Summary: just a normal day where Bucky happens to see a familiar face stuck on your laptop

Word Count: 1,710

Author’s note: this was inspired by this interesting sticker I saw, and it made me laugh. but please, if you have seen that person, lemme kno. I also wrote this at 1am, and scheduled it for later today so let’s hope it's published.

“Y/N! Pizza is here!” 

“In a minute!” you yelled, closing your laptop and swiftly getting out of the couch. It was a slow Tuesday afternoon, and you and Bucky decided to just stay in.

“Hurry up or else I’m gonna eat it” Bucky lamely threatened, placing the plates onto the kitchen table. 

You feigned horror, hand draped across your forehead: “You wouldn’t dare Bucky!”

Laughs erupted the kitchen as Bucky set the box of pizza and wings in the middle and handing you a cold beer. It was a warm summer afternoon, a breeze coming through the kitchen window. 

You both dug into the pizza, with you almost burning your tongue. A chuckle escapes from Bucky’s mouth as you smile back at him.

“So,” Bucky started, speaking with his mouth filled with pizza, “I saw that you were looking super concentrated on your laptop. Work got you stumped?”

You scrunch a paper towel and chuck it at Bucky, “What’d I tell you about manners, Buck! I don’t wanna sound like an old geezer that’s mad at the youth.” 

“Hey, that was one time!” Bucky interjected, “Those teenagers were being a nuisance outside, so obviously I had to straighten ‘em up somehow.” 

“That doesn’t mean you walk up to them in your tactical gear and a gun.”

“But have you seen any teenagers making a ruckus outside our apartment?”

“Nope.”

“Exactly. You’re welcome.”

“You’re really something else, babe,” you sighed, taking a sip from your beer, “anyways, I wasn’t concentrating on work. I was looking for something on an online store.”

“Oh? Did you find it?” Bucky asked. He knew you loved to online shop, but was very particular about certain things. You’d check the reviews, the descriptions, and anything else to make sure the item comes as described. Also because sometimes you’d pay for 5.99 shipping and that made your wallet wince. 

“Well I’m not sure,” you replied, “I’m just window shopping at the moment, but I need some new art to put up somewhere around the apartment.” 

Bucky hummed in agreement and got up, “well, whatever or wherever this art is, I know you have a very good eye for it. Anything you choose is beautiful, and I appreciate you for adding so much color in my life.”

He planted a kiss on your forehead and then hugged you from behind. Your heart fluttered at what he said and you replied, “You’re such a sap, Buck. You’re making me blush.” 

Bucky just flashed his signature smile at you and made his way to the living room. Once you finished up eating and cleaning the dishes you joined Bucky on the couch, reaching for your laptop to resume your art scouting. 

An hour has passed, and Bucky has passed out on the couch, his quiet snores filling up the silence of the room. You were still searching far and wide on your favorite art website, but still no luck. 

You were about to call it a day when you hear Bucky almost choke on his spit while sleeping. He semi-coughs kinda chokes and then goes back to his nap as if nothing happened. 

You decided to type Bucky Barnes on the art website and click search. 

Almost immediately, you see photos of Bucky photoshopped with flower crowns, a halo, or him in a polaroid-type background. You have stumbled upon fan art for Bucky, and boy have you hit the jackpot. 

You clicked on the sticker section, and there it was. 

The perfect sticker for your laptop. 

It was in the style of a wanted poster, and it read: 

Wanted: Have You Seen This Person? No Crime (Other than stealing my heart). Reward Available. 

And right in the smack-dab middle was a photo of Bucky that you vaguely remember seeing in a magazine. People really loved your boyfriend, and the sticker brought an absolute smile to your face.

You saw the dimensions of the sticker and decided to go with the medium-sized one, to put it front and center. 

You also found some art of the skyline of your favorite show, so you decided to buy a decent-sized canvas print of it. 

You added to cart, and once you bought you saw they’d be ready in 5-7 days. 

You absolutely couldn’t wait. 

。。

Days passed, and the mail finally came in. Luckily for you, Bucky was still at the compound, so you didn’t have to worry about hiding the package this time around. 

You opened up the box and saw the canvas print. It looked absolutely beautiful, you mentally thanked yourself that you got a size big enough to put above the couch. The hues of blue, purple, and pink really made it stand out in the living room, and definitely complimented your living room. You knew Bucky would be constantly admiring it. 

You rummaged around the box a bit more and then felt the cool sticker paper. You yanked it out the box and saw the sticker in its entirety.

It was more than you asked for and saw it would fit perfectly on this lower-left corner of your laptop. You cleaned the spot it was gonna be on, and once it was on, it looked amazing. 

You couldn’t stop giggling to yourself because there was an actual picture of Bucky on your laptop, and he looked just adorable, might you add. You also bought 3 other miscellaneous stickers: one of a koi fish, another of some poppies, and the last one that simply read “lol ur not bucky barnes.” 

You put the 3 stickers on your metal water bottle. After being content with the placement, you collected the box and its trash and started to make your way to the front door.

As you turned the knob, the door wouldn’t budge open. And when you decided to let go, a very eager Bucky almost swung open the door. Almost. 

Bucky looked at you wide-eyed and started apologizing profusely, “Babe! I didn’t see you there! Were you gonna take out the trash? Don’t worry I’ll do it.”

“Bucky, I’m okay! Just come inside already and give me a kiss.” 

He happily obliged and pulled you into a hug. “So I’m assuming your art came in?”

“It did!” you beamed, “come looked at it!”

You practically dragged Bucky to the living room and had him stop in front of the couch.

You saw Bucky’s eye light up in admiration. “Wow...” Bucky whispered, “this is an amazing art piece, sweetheart.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Bucky reassured you, “this might be my favorite piece to date. You buy anything else?”

“Well, I did buy some stickers.” you hesitantly said. Your ears went pink and Bucky saw immediately.

“Can I see them?” Bucky asked.

“...yes?” you coughed. 

“Are they nude stickers or something? You’re acting funny.” Bucky added.

“Psh, no!” you interjected, “why would I put that on my water bottle??”

“Then show me!”

You took your sweet time to get your bottle from the kitchen while doing a quick scan of the apartment, quietly thanking yourself that your laptop is nowhere to be found. 

You finally grabbed the bottle, and since bucky was growing impatient, he just walked up to you and stuck out his hand. 

“I really don’t see anything wrong with the bottle,” Bucky said, as he was examining the bottle. What he didn’t realize was the “lol” sticker was covered by his hand.

“Scoot your hand to the left,” you said.

He did so and raised an eyebrow. “L o L, you’re not Bucky??” he asked incredulously, “but I am Bucky?? Or am I ?”

“You are Bucky, silly,” you said as you snatched your bottle and set it on the table. “the sticker just means that whatever fool is talking to me, it won’t matter, ‘cause they’re not you.”

“Interesting,” Bucky responded, “and you can just buy stickers like that?” 

“Pretty much. There were a lot of stickers related to you.” 

“Really?” Bucky said with interest in his voice. “That’s pretty neat.”

“If you’re thinking, yes they’ll probably have some embarrassing ones of Steve and Sam,” you added. Bucky did a small cheer and you just rolled your eyes. 

You turned on the TV and decided to catch up on the news while Bucky was raiding the fridge.

“Hey Y/N, it seems that there’s nothing good in this thing,” Bucky started.

“Is that so?”

“Yup. I’m gonna order take out, sound good with you?” Bucky asked.

“I’m game, babe!” You replied, not taking your eyes off the TV.

“My phone just died, I’m gonna borrow your laptop real quick,” Bucky hollered as he walked to your shared room to retrieve it.

“Sounds good,” you yawned, feeling your eyes flutter closed. The silence and the low volume of the television were about to engulf you into sleep until you heard your name.

“Y/N..”

You froze. You just remembered about the sticker on your computer.

“... yeah, Bucky..” you responded.

“Uh... can you just come to our room real quick?”

You shuffled your legs as quickly as possible as you see the sight before you: Bucky is holding your (closed) laptop up to his face, wearing an incredulous look.

“Bucky, I can explain!”

“Out of all the pictures, you chose this one??”

“I, uh, what?” you stuttered, processing what he said.

“Was this the only picture they had??”

“Well, yeah, someone made it and I just bought it.” you explained, your face turned pink and you kept hiding your face.

“Oh, babe, I didn’t mean to embarrass you!” Bucky said as he embraced you in a hug. “It just threw me off that there’s a whole ass sticker of my face on your laptop.”

“It’s a good photo!” you argued, “Besides, people need to know that you are a criminal, for stealing my heart!”

“Someone alert the media,” Bucky joked, “because I’m gonna make sure you’re falling for me, hard.”

He started kissing you all over your face and pulled you closer to him.

“Oh Buck,” you sighed, kissing him on the lips and wrapping your hands around his neck, “You already did that ages ago.” 

Bucky smiled. “Do you think I can get that exact same sticker with your face on it?”

“I hope so. Let’s investigate together.”

。。

A/N: as always, feedback is greatly appreciated. love you guys!

[iwillgiveyoumyhappiness]

박우진, Park Woojin

anonymous asked:

I'm so glad I could make your day! Finding your scenarios made me super happy too ;u; AB6IX is so new so there aren't many fics for them yet but ahh I really liked what I've read from you so far. Could I make a request please? Something with Woojin with the themes of "coffee" and "camera"? Everything and anything else is totally up to you! I trust in your imagination~ I love the boy so so so much, he is so precious aaaaa ;u;

Group: AB6IX

Member: Woojin

.

.

.

She walked into the coffee shop with a sense of confidence. It was like a second home to her, so she knew her way around perfectly. 

She checked her watch. She was about ten minutes early, but that just meant that she could order beforehand. She didn’t really need to, though. The barista immediately recognized her. 

“I know you,” he chuckled. “Iced Americano and Matcha Latte, right?”

She flashed him a smile. “You’ve got me pegged,” she said with a shrug. 

The barista smiled, jotting down the order in a small notebook before slipping it shut. He glanced around. “Where’s your boyfriend?” he asked. 

“I’m early,” she explained. She gave a quick thanks before wandering off to the seating area. She pouted upon seeing that their usual seat was taken, but she supposed moving down a few tables wouldn’t hurt. 

She sat down with a content sigh, happy to rest her legs. She kicked her heels off under the table, hoping no one would notice. She had the brief thought of, “What if my feet stink?”, but luckily, no unpleasant scents came wafting.

She closed her eyes, taking in the quiet music that played over the speakers. She bopped her head up and down to the beat, her fingers joining in at some parts, tapping them rhythmically against the table. 

She was confused when she heard an off-beat couple of taps. She cracked an eye open, looking out the window, only to be blinded by a flashing light. It caught her off guard, but she wasn’t scared. 

There was only one person that would pull something like that.

Once her eyes readjusted, she immediately smiled. Outside the window, there stood Park Woojin, his eyes pushed up into crescents from his smile and a Polaroid camera in his hands. 

She shook her head at him, chuckling to herself. 

He blew her a cheeky kiss from outside before running (or as he would put it, ‘reasonably speed-walking’) off to the front of the shop. The brass bell at the top of the door rang gently when he pushed the door open. He stood at the entry way with his arm open for a hug, as if saying, “Come and get me”.

She covered her eyes. Why’d she have to fall in love with the most embarrassing person on earth? She looked at him, shaking her head. She gestured for him to join her. 

He pouted at her, huffily crossing his arms and raising a brow. 

She rolled her eyes. “I love you,” she mouthed to him. 

That seemed to satiate him enough. He rushed over to her, giving her a quick kiss before settling down in the chair opposite to her. He held up the camera. “Do you know what this is?” he asked, his voice thick with excitement. 

“The thing that just blinded me?” she suggested playfully.

He flicked her forehead. “Wrong!” he said. “This is something much more important than that. It’s gonna carry our memories with it.” He was beaming. He dug in his pocket, pulling out the picture of her that it’d already printed out. “Look at this,” he said.

She took it from his hand. “It’s actually not too bad,” she said, looking over the snapshot. There was a little glare from the window, but it looked more stylistic than anything else. Plus, he had managed to catch her at what she thought was her best angle: 3/4 view. “When’d you get so good at photography?” 

He shrugged, taking the picture back and slipping it into his wallet. “Natural talent, I guess,” he said. 

She nodded. “Sure,” she chuckled. “So, Youngmin’s teaching you, then?”

He huffed. “Nothing gets past you, huh? For the record, I’m already better than him.” 

She laughed, trying to muffle it a little with her palm. “You’re acting so strangely today,” she said. The waiter came over, setting their drinks delicately in front of them. “Thank you,” she said, giving him a polite nod.

Woojin did the same. “You already ordered?” he asked once they were left alone.

She nodded, taking a sip of her latte. “Of course I did,” she said. “We always get the same thing here—”

“Hold that pose!” he interrupted, pulling the camera close to his face. He squinted, trying to make it as steady as possible. “Don’t look at the camera,” he instructed. “It has to look candid.” She said something to him, but due to the glass in front of her mouth, it was garbled and indecipherable. 

He started counting down. “Three... Two... One.” The camera shutter clicked. 

She gingerly pulled the cup away from her mouth. “You done yet?” she chuckled, wiping some foam off of her top lip. 

Woojin waited patiently for the picture to print out. Within seconds, it did; a 3x3 black and white image from their favorite coffee shop. A memory that they’d keep forever. 

He held it up. “Look at that,” he said. “Beautiful.” 

You blushed a little bit, laughing in embarrassment. “You’re acting seriously weird today,” she said. “What’s the occasion?” 

He took a sip from his Americano. “I have a day off, and I want to spend it with someone special,” he said.

“Oh, yeah? Where is she?” she asked playfully. 

Woojin could tease right back. “She’s not here yet, I guess.” 

She kicked him under the table. “Jerk,” she said. 

He kicked her, but much softer. He still had shoes on after all. “Takes one to know one,” he chuckled. 

She stuck her tongue out. “So,” she started, “what’s on the agenda for today?”

He gave her a cryptic smile. “Fun,” he said simply. 

Their first stop was the arcade. 

They played so many games, blew way too much money on claw machines, and basically sunk back into their childhood days. They would come to places like this with their friends. They would come by themselves to relieve stress. 

But for sure, their favorite time spent there was now. Just being together. 

Woojin hadn’t been able to take as many pictures as he wanted since the lighting was pretty dark, but he still made the most of it. That including tickling her sides to try and get her to lose Pac Man. 

Yet somehow, she still got the highest score. He didn’t quite see the logic in that. He figured the universe was just trying to teach him a lesson about cheating.

They played air hockey for an unreasonable amount of time, resulting in both of them having an equal number of losses and wins, much to their chagrin. 

Next stop: the mall.

There wasn’t any particular rhyme or reason to that one. Just lots of wandering around, window-shopping and goofy pictures taken of each other wearing ridiculous hats and sunglasses. 

They basically had a fashion-show in the middle of a store. 

People were staring at them strangely, sure—but they didn’t feel any embarrassment. They told each other, “Let’s be shameless today”. 

She laughed, trying to steal the camera from him. “Let me take pictures of you, too,” she whined playfully. 

He held it above her head. “You have taken pictures of me!” he said. 

“Not as many as you’ve taken of me!” she said, trying to jump for it as they walked. 

He jerked it away from her, out of her reach. He trapped her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her flush against him. “I need these pictures more than you do,” he chuckled. “No stealing.” 

She furrowed her brows. “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

He blew a puff air in her face, fluttering her bangs. “None of your business.”

She cringed, but he noted the smile playing at the corners of her lips. “You’re disgusting,” she said. 

He nodded with a smile. “I know.” 

After that, it was lunch at an awesome sushi joint they’d found together a while back. It was always a place they went back to. There were a lot of memories in there. 

Memories of cola spilled on white shirts, lots of laughter, lots of kisses shared behind the safety of a makeshift menu-shield, lots of resolves arguments—overall, a beautiful place to them, despite the run-down exterior. 

She slipped her hand into his, looking around the humble restaurant. “I love this place,” she said, heaving a satisfied breath. 

He squeezed her hand back. “Me too,” he whispered, pecking her temple. 

They took their first together-picture of the day there. It had to be one of their favorites. The both of them, printed in black and white, sitting at a table near the back of the restaurant. It was nice and quiet and the perfect setting for a sickeningly sweet couple-photo.

And that it was! Both of them smiling genuinely, the tips of their noses touching and a light flush to both of their cheeks. 

Finally, as the sun was setting dramatically over the horizon, they arrived at their final stop. It was a park they’d always talked about going to, but they never had the time. 

They wandered around for a few hours taking pictures of each other in the flickering sunlight. 

“You’re pretty,” Woojin said, pausing his picture-taking to just marvel at her. She was back-lit by the dying sun, all of her so-called ‘flaws’ illuminated in an exemplary way. If he wasn’t 100% sure that she loved him, he’d never take his eyes off of her, afraid that someone would steal his beloved, ethereal light away.

She smiled at him. “And you’re handsome,” she said. The way he looked at her set off butterflies in her chest, just like their first date. How did he always manage to do that? She was positive that he would be her first and last heart-flutter.

Sure, they would argue, and they would hate each other for a time, and they would sigh at each other and say cruel words that they didn’t mean, but they would always come back together. They would talk, apologize and resolve. 

Because even when they were mad at each and didn’t like each other, they still loved each other. 

After every argument, when they realized their feelings were still just as strong as before, they would fall back into ‘like’ all over again. It was a healthy addition to their lifes.   

“I know,” he replied. She smacked him in the chest for that, but it just made him laugh. He hugged her and gave her a look; the look he usually gave when he was about to ask if he could kiss her. She just nodded. 

With no time to waste, he leaned in and connected their lips, smiling into it. 

When he pulled away, he pet her hair and caressed her jaw. “I love you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you, too,” she whispered back. She paused for a moment, biting her bottom lip in contemplation. “I like you,” she finally said.

If he wasn’t such a tough guy, he might’ve gotten tears in his eyes...

Okay, maybe he did, but he’d never let her tell anyone that. 

He leaned his forehead against hers, losing himself in her presence. “I like you, too,” he said. “I like you a lot, especially right now.” 

.

.

.

*takes deep breath* AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH- 

That goes on for another few centuries, so I won’t bother you with that. 😅 I hope you enjoyed it, 1102 Anon! The request was... I don’t know how to describe it. It was really pretty. Does that make sense? Like- as soon as I read your request, I thought: “Wow. That’s a beautiful thing”. 

Your request is one of the things that makes me think human-beings are really gorgeous. They can imagine stuff like that. So simple, yet so meaningful.

Thanks for entrusting me to write this! I hope it didn’t disappoint!  

[faveficarchive]

Coup de Grace: Part 1

The Last of the International Dilettantes

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Mel/Janice

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: From the Author:

The fabulously ill-tempered archaeologist Janice Covington and Southern-Belle-in-Exile Melinda Pappas gradually discover the real truth at the heart of the Xena Scrolls, in a story that darkly plays with time and memory, loss and desire, and the nature of what is real and what is not.

The stars all seem motionless, embedded in the eternal vault; yet they must all

be in constant motion, since they rise and traverse the heavens with their

luminous bodies till they return to the far-off scene of their setting.

—Lucretius

1. Still Life with Assistant Professor

Cambridge, 1948

At precisely 12:19 p.m. on Saturday, June 11, 1948, after sitting on the back porch and consuming two meatloaf sandwiches, drinking half a beer, pondering the uneven lawn begging to be mowed as well as the rutted wood rot in the roof beams of the porch, thinking that she didn't want to go to Venice to some damned boring conference anyway, then wondering why she didn't want to go anywhere and would rather stay and home and paint the kitchen ceiling and pull weeds out of the garden and just watch her lover fall asleep in the sun, after all this fermentation of thought aided by the American institutions of beef and beer, Dr. Janice Covington, the restless, relentless archaeologist and world explorer, fully realized that she had been domesticated.

She exhaled, as if some intangible pseudo-virility within her had been deflated.

Then she burped, and this small, crude action comforted her.

Janice laid back on the porch, head pillowed on a forearm, ignoring the empty, yawning lawn chair—she could not tolerate being civilized any further. Smoke from her cigarette drifted up into the rafters of the back porch. Out, damned rot! she thought, scowling at the poor old beams. She had warned Mel about this, when they bought the house—that it was less sturdy than it looked. But its shabby genteel, struggling-academics-meet-haunted-house ambiance possessed great appeal to the Southerner, who reveled in a very regional penchant for the Gothic. Not to mention that the house, drafty in the winter, also possessed incessantly creaking floorboards and a regularly flooding basement. Nonetheless, Janice reluctantly admitted to herself that she liked the house. Oh, hell, I love it. It's ours. She sat up abruptly, as if the happy thought would strip it all away. I've been waiting for two years for the other shoe to drop. 

She continually expected to wake up some morning in a leaky tent somewhere in the middle of nowhere: alone, on a site...lucid and miserable and no longer part of this living dream. Or she would wake to find a "Dear Jane" kinda letter propped against the sugar bowl (no, Mel would take grandma's sugar bowl with her. Against the toaster, maybe?) on the kitchen table : Dear Janice, I cannot go on any longer loving someone as short as you. I'm going back home to my fiancé, who was 6'4" in his stocking feet. You can keep the car. Love, Mel. Never mind the fact that the fiancé was now, most definitely, a former fiancé and married to another woman, and who kept sending Mel annoying photos of his newborn son, who had a strangely large head, like a mutant turnip....now there's someone who desperately needed the Pappas gene pool. But so far, practically every day, she woke to the smell of coffee, to Mel in the kitchen, loose hair spilling over a bathrobe, frowning over the newspaper. This world, I swear, she would drawl.

This world. When Janice was younger she kept a journal, in which she wrote about the things she was learning from her father. When she was 19 she finished one particular notebook with a litany of names—all the places she'd seen thus far. Under the dark canopy of night and tent, everything seethed with possibility, and she would recite the list in her mind: Hierakonpolis. Athens. Syria. Alexandria.

The litany kept her company, and for a long time it felt like her only friend. Through the holes in the old tent she would see stars.

Cairo. Rome. Istanbul. Thessalonika.

It had not occurred to her then to wonder if she was happy. Because everything had seemed possible. She looked around the yard. And the amazing thing was, it still felt that way. 

Add Cambridge to the list.

*****

"Ah, my little Mad Dog. My poor, little, housebroken Mad Dog."

Upon murmuring this benediction, Paul Rosenberg leaned back into the soft leather chair at the study's desk, and put his feet up on it, ignoring Covington's entreaties about doing so. Janice was always so nervous in the study—which she considered Mel's room—as if she were in the tomb of Tutankhamen himself and fearing some ancient Carolinian curse, should objects be tampered with. Carefully, he stretched his long legs over the desk, avoiding the thick, vellum-paged notebook, covered with lines of Greek, and an English which, to him, was as indecipherable as the ancient language, given the florid, tangled serifs of the bold hand. He knew instantly it wasn't Janice's handwriting, having encountered her painstakingly neat printing while they worked at Neuschwanstein. The chair carried a faint whiff of Mel's perfume. He smiled and closed his eyes for a minute. 

His brief, fluttery daydream of a certain leggy, blue-eyed brunette was disrupted by the disgruntled tones of a certain small blonde: "Hey, asshole." 

Janice had lured him from his penniless life in New York to an equally penniless one in Boston, with the promise of a teaching post for him at the college. When this drunken promise failed to materialize (I would've known she was drunk on the phone if I hadn't been drinking myself!), he found music gigs in town, tutored here and there, and acted as Janice's Boy Friday, a position that dictated nothing much more than picking up her dry cleaning (skirts being an unfortunate fact of life for a female professor, even one as lowly as she) and trying to discern the fate of the scroll she viewed at Neuschwanstein at the end of the war. You've still got the military contacts, buddy boy, she had said to him. Paul opened his eyes and smiled broadly at Janice, a toothy grin crowding his ten o'clock shadow, his open madras shirt flapping in the breeze from the window, revealing a slightly yellowing white v-neck undershirt. "Yes, my little Mad Dog?"

"Stop calling me that," she snapped. He had been relentless about the nickname, ever since hearing Mel employ it in an equally teasing fashion one day, as she shipped Janice off to work: Mad Dog honey, y'all sure are pretty in that dress! Now she stood before him, scowling, hands settled along her hips, in blue jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. He suddenly wondered if she had seen A Streetcar Named Desire recently, or if Marlon Brando had taken butch lessons from her. "Whaddya got for me? You call that number down in Washington?" 

"Ah. Well, I got stonewalled. That's what I got." He sighed, and toyed with a fountain pen from the desk. "I can't get the file. Sorry."

"You're kidding me. They won't even let you see a file?"

He shook his head. "I tell ya, I really ran up my phone bill trying to track it down. All I found out was that the scroll had been returned to the family of the owner before the war. Presumably the family that the lovely Fraulein Stoller bought it from. They live in Venice."

"Venice," Janice repeated dully. 

"That mean something to you?"

"There's an international archaeology conference there next month." Then, to herself: "Damnit, I need a name, at least." He murmured, "That's a coincidence."

"I hate coincidences, Paul." She paced in front of him. "Who's the bigwig in charge of all this?" She felt a familiar burn in her gut: the excitement of the chase. Is it happening again? I've still got it, then?

"Some general named Fenton, in Washington. I spoke to a flunky in his office. We got to bullshitting about the war, and he was the one who told me the scroll is in Venice. But that's all he would tell me."

Janice stopped pacing. She stared at him. Another coincidence. "The general is Jeremiah Winston Fenton?" "None other." Paul glanced at her uneasily. "Why?" "I'll be damned. Mel knows him. He was an old friend of her father's."

"Old Dr. Pappas knew everyone, it seems."

"Comes in handy."

"I see. So...you think Melinda could sweet-talk him? Is that your plan?"

"No." Janice sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. "She hates him. Said he's a creepy old bastard."

"Somehow I can't hear her saying that," Paul noted wryly. 

"Her exact words were, 'He's quite a terrible old man.' " She mimicked Mel's accent to perfection.

"That's pretty good, sweetheart. You sound just like her," he said admiringly.

"I get a lot of practice. But let me translate it into our lingo: He's a bastard. He put the moves on her, not long after her father died."

Paul shrugged. "Surely she's used to beating them off with a stick," he said, with forced carefulness. You don't want to be on that list of terrible men, do you, buddy? He was content just to be in Mel's orbit. Or so he believed. Given the strength of the relationship he witnessed between the two women, he knew he had very little choice in the matter.

"We're talking hours after Dr. Pappas's funeral," she snorted.

"Oh." He winced. "Lovely."

"Yeah. I don't want to put her through talkin' to that asshole again." Additionally, she was wary of using Mel's charms in this way, given the near disastrous results with Catherine Stoller. Near disaster? Okay, definite disaster. She was quiet for moment, but Paul didn't like the strange glint in her eye.

"Get the phone, will ya?"

*****

Paul's hand grew sweaty as he gripped the phone, and the business-like woman answered. "Melinda Pappas calling for General Fenton!" he barked into the receiver. Janice gave him a thumb's-up sign. He nodded, then handed her the phone. She made a great show of wiping her hand after touching the slimy receiver, but no sooner than she did, Paul could hear, from his close proximity, a deep male voice on the line.

"Why, General Fenton, is that you?" she began. Eerily, her voice had taken on the accent and cadences of her lover's. "Yes, it's me, Melinda. I know, it has been simply too long. Yes, yes, that is too true! So! How was your war?"

Paul rolled his eyes.

"Oh yes, I was abroad for a while, in England. I did so want to help the cause, and I was kept out of the WACs 'cause of my terrible nearsightedness." Janice giggled like a demented schoolgirl. "General, stop! Y'all are too much! My eyes do not look like sapphires! Well, maybe just a teeny bit, I suppose. You're so sweet. A summer sky? No, no one's ever told me that before! Well, now, I did have a purpose in callin' you…I've been so desperate for help. Yes, I am positively desperate!" Janice sat up straight, breathless as a Gene Tierney heroine. "You see, I have been continuin' the work of my Daddy—God rest his soul—and durin' the war I was fortunate enough to view a certain scroll at this lovely little castle in Germany—Neuschwanstein, yes. Now I'm sure you know, given how eee-fficient the military is, that it has been returned to its original owner, but I would so love to have a look at it again, so I need to contact the individual who is in possession of it. I had one of my manservants call your office earlier, to see if they would provide any information of their own free will—but I'll be darned if your Yankee bureaucracy didn't have me hog-tied! Yes sir, I bet you could just picture that: me, all tied up! What a sight! I was madder than a hornet's nest." A pause. More male rumbling. "Oh my, yes, you better believe it, sir! I do have a terrible temper. Why, just the other day I found one of the servants spit-polishing my silver! Usin' his disgusting saliva on the tea service that my great-grandaddy fought and died for, defendin' it from Sherman's fiends! I was so furious I could've cut off his balls and fed them to the hounds…" Janice's voice dropped menacingly. "They do so love the smell of blood, it arouses them for the hunt."

Paul conveyed a frantic plea to stay in character via a well-placed kick to the shin.

Janice grimaced, then cleared her throat. "Er, as I was saying, I would so love it if perhaps you could intervene…" Another pause. A bright smile lit up the archaeologist's face. "Oh General," she cooed seductively, "you are wonderful. I am entirely indebted to you. Uh-huh..." Janice picked up a fountain pen and scribbled down some information in the notebook in front of her. "Yes indeedy, I will call that lieutenant...and I certainly hope you read him the riot act!" Another pause. "No, I'm not living in South Carolina, or even in North Carolina anymore..." An unfortunate inspiration occurred. "Why, I'm livin' in New Orleans now! You sound as excited as I did when I moved here! Ah got together with a bunch of my old sorority sisters from Vanderbilt, and we all chipped in and bought a lovely old house down in the French Quarter. We call it the Rising Sun."

He buried his head in his hands.

"If you're ever down that way, well, you just try lookin' me up." Another peal of feminine tittering. "Oh, you're just awful! Uh-huh. Really? Well, red is my favorite color, you know…mmm-hmmmm. I would love to talk longer, General, but my manservant just brought in my mint julep and reminded me about gin rummy with the girls this afternoon. Why, yes…" she grinned at Paul. "He is a big strapping man, how did you know?"

Paul heard a loud click at the other end of the line. Janice looked at the phone in surprise. "Got him all worked up," she muttered.

He shook his head in pure disbelief. "You are out of your damn mind, Janice."

"That ain't no way to talk to a lady, mister."

"You're no lady, even when you're pretending to be one. And I tell you, if she ever finds out—"

Janice jammed a finger in his face. "She's not gonna find out unless you tell her, and if you do, I'll feed your balls to the hounds—"

"I'd like to see you try, butchling, 'cause we might as well face facts here—"

She grabbed his shirt, yanking him up out of the chair, knocking over the notebook.

"—you're pussywhipped!" he shouted gleefully.

Both parties felt a breeze from the study door, now opened by the woman who, indeed, without a single doubt, had them both pussywhipped. Mel stood in the doorway, her face slightly flushed from her brisk walk from the campus in the midday sun, carrying the leather satchel that once belonged to her father on her shoulder, and with a needless cardigan sweater draped over one forearm, poised like a waiter with a towel. Her pale, well-formed arms were bare in the summer dress she wore. Judging from the slightly dazed expression on her face, she either heard Paul's exclamation or was suffering a mild form of heat stroke.

"Hi," Mel greeted timidly, feeling as if she had interrupted some intimate scenario in a house that was not her own.

Both Paul and Janice mumbled hellos.

"Um..." Mel began, as she deposited both satchel and sweater on the study's couch. 

Paul straightened his abused shirt. "Hey, didn't you tell me you guys got meatloaf?" Before Mel could affirm, he darted past and down the hallway into the kitchen.

Janice remained sitting, now cross-legged, on the desk, prompting a scowl of disapproval from her companion. The archaeologist jumped off the desk immediately, sending loose papers scattering in her wake, and inadvertently wounding the fountain pen, which proceeded to bleed blue ink all over the desk's blotter. 

Mel sighed deeply.

"Sorry."

"This word—" Mel tried again. A parade of nervous tics commenced. First she nudged her glasses with a knuckle. Beneath the becoming blush, Janice could see the little linguistic wheels spinning in her lover's mind: Pussywhipped. Transitive verb. Pussy. Slang, obscene.... Then she scratched her cheek and tugged nervously on her ear.

The bullshit generator kicked in. "It's all part of the Mad Dog legend, baby. You know lots of things are said about me, and ah, this is one of those rumors...that, ah, I liked to abuse cats."

"I see," Mel responded, drawing an imaginary line in the carpet with the tip of her shoe, perhaps indicating a rapidly lowering threshold of nonsense. She took a step toward Janice. Who retreated with a much larger step of her own. "You know...dogs don't...like...cats..."

"If that is the case, then, wouldn't it have made more sense for Paul to call you a pussywhipper?" Mel said the word cautiously, as if afraid of mispronouncing it.

Oh, to hear that word rolling off that tongue. Language covered in honey. "Now Mel," Janice muttered, taking another backstep and colliding with a chair, "you know the intricacies of American slang cannot be easily dissected and understood fully without further research. There is also an arbitrary element at work, which we must take into account—"

"Good Lord, you are becoming an academic."

Janice gaped at her, hurt. "That was low!"

"My apologies, Assistant Professor Covington." Mel grinned at her; then, gradually, both the smile and the warm blush faded. "Did you sleep at all this morning?"

"Huh?" The archaeologist feigned ignorance. "Sure, once you were gone. You take up a lot of space." As do the nightmares in my head. "And you snore like an old man," she added softly.

The smile returned to Mel's face. "No one says you have to sleep with me."

"Actually, it's in the 'Rules for Pussywhippers' handbook. I must suffer for love."

"Perhaps," Mel suggested, "I should just ask Paul about this word. Hmmm?" She turned on her heel for the door. The little blonde panicked; she knew Paul would crack as soon as Mel took the meatloaf away from him. With a running leap, Janice jumped her, piggybacking effortlessly onto Mel's back. The Southerner oofed in surprise, then giggled, but bore the weight effortlessly, instinctively grabbing the legs that locked around her waist, and opting not to think about the dirty heels digging into her clothes. "Is this pussywhipping?" she asked in mock innocence. "Or a prelude to, perhaps?"

Janice laughed. "Will you stop for a minute?" She tightened her arms slightly around Mel's neck and shoulders. 

"I will find out what that word means," the translator proclaimed.

"Of that I have no doubt. You're the most stubborn woman I ever did meet."

"You bring it out in me," accused Mel.

No snappy retorts came to Janice's mind. She was too close to the nape of Mel's neck, and inhaled her scent with the ferocity of a junkie. The roller coaster rush through her blood left her dazed and senseless, and resistant to sequential thought. "How's your Italian?" she mumbled into Mel's ear.

"What? Oh, just fine. It's sittin' in the back of my brain, with my French and my Latin, playin' backgammon. Why?"

"That's a surreal answer."

"Such a non-sequitur deserves it."

Janice kissed her cheek. Several times.

"Hmm. That's a better non-sequitur."

"Baby," the archaeologist purred, "we're going to Venice."

Mel craned her neck to look at Janice in surprise. "You changed your mind?" In previous discussions concerning the conference, Mel had taken Janice's lack of interest as a sign they would not be going. She had been surprisingly disappointed, wondering, with some amusement, if she herself were the one growing restless.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

Good question, wondered Janice. I just got caught up in the chase again. Figures as soon as I accept settling down, it starts up again. "Tell ya later," she replied as Paul stomped back into the room.

"Hey, you guys are out of—" he stopped, blinking in surprise at this playfulness. Simple horseplay, or Lesbian foreplay? I don't want to know, do I? Whatever it was, the obvious love made him feel about a dozen kinds of ambivalence.

But that happy look in Mel's eyes, and her big grin, seemed to override everything for him at that moment. "We're goin' to Venice," she blurted, like a kid, breathless, as she lugged Covington toward the door.

Paul managed a small, wry smile. "Send me a postcard," he said wistfully.

2. The Spell, Unbroken

Venice, 1948

For Jennifer Halliwell Davies, another trip to Venice was…another trip to Venice. The city was like a drowning woman, a dying dowager thrown on a reef: It was alive, though just barely, and as such did not interest her. She could not even remember how many times she had been in the city, let alone this particular palazzo, one of many built during the Renaissance by the powerful Cornaro family.

But there was one thing in Venice that interested her: a certain woman, who stood in the crowd milling in the courtyard below.

She'd had a premonition—well, not exactly that. She'd met a fellow in the hotel bar the night before, some poor anthropology professor from Harvard, who hit her up for as many vodkas as she was willing to buy. And when she discovered that the chap knew Janice Covington and had said that the esteemed archaeologist was attending the conference as well, Jenny would have stormed Moscow itself and raided Stalin's liquor cabinet just to keep him talking.

And there she was.

Jenny hid herself, allowing a large vase to provide her cover, as she stared at Janice through her fashionable turista binoculars.

Upon closer inspection through the looking glass, she noted that Janice wore a man's white oxford shirt, bright against her tanned arms, and it looked clean. Must've been laundry day yesterday. The pants were khaki, as they usually were, and the wild strawberry blonde tresses were twined carelessly into a messy braid. The only things missing were the leather jacket and the foul fedora, older than the Dead Sea Scrolls. Perhaps the abomination passing as a millinery item had finally faced its overdue demise. Nonetheless, the good doctor looked quite prepared to lead an impromptu expedition into the most appalling of canals.

Despite the never-changing attire, she thought Janice looked different somehow. The small article she encountered almost a year ago in Archaeology magazine, about the so-called Xena Scrolls and Dr. Covington's role in their recovery, mentioned that she had served in the war—was that why Janice looked more mature?

The archaeologist was nodding politely at the older woman who had engaged her in conversation—whom Jenny recognized as a White Russian expatriate, just another international dilettante like herself. Her brows knitted in curiosity as she realized what was different: There was no impatient, angry scowl on Janice's face.

Jenny felt Linus's presence before he said anything—or, more accurately, she felt his mustache tickle her ear. "You were right," he burred.

She frowned, then lowered the binoculars. "Not totally useless, you know."

Linus smiled. "Never said you were, darling." His arm drew around her waist in an affectionate squeeze. "Aren't you going to go say hello to her?"

"Should I?" She tapped the lens of the binoculars irritably, then pushed away a loose strand of her blonde hair. "I suppose it's tempting."

"I'll leave it to you." Linus touched the knot of his green silk tie for the umpteenth time. Then he slicked back his dark brown hair with the damp palm of his hand, twitched his mustache to make sure it was in place, and allowed his hand wander back to the tie.

"If you don't stop fussing with that, I'm going to hang you with it," his wife hissed. "You're worse than a woman."

He raised a thick eyebrow. "I always thought you liked that about me," he parried pleasantly.

She smiled at the familiar retort. After almost ten years of marriage, the minutiae of their lives—the jokes, the jaunts, and the lovers, shared and not shared—flimsy on their own accord and meaningless when dissected, held them together more than any illusion of love or fidelity.

"You haven't seen her in over five years," her husband reminded her. "The spell is broken, is it not?"

She said nothing.

"You know what she's like." Linus prodded with the delicacy of a ham-handed surgeon. "Girl in every port...."

...and I was just lucky Alexandria was a stop on her itinerary.

"I would be surprised if she's here alone. And," he added, ignoring her homicidal glare, "Covington is an awful lot of bother. She breathes trouble like air."

Jenny turned her gray eyes to her husband. "That was part of her appeal, you idiot," she growled.

Linus rolled his eyes, unable to comprehend this. "Oh, righto. Forgot that bit. As I said, I'll leave it all to you, dear. If I should run into her first, I'll just tell her you're at Baden Baden with the masseuse again and you can remain up here, hiding."

He succeeded in making her laugh. His lines around his eyes crinkled as he grinned, and then softened as he grew serious.

"What?" she prompted.

"Don't get hurt, hmm?" He kissed her cheek, trotted down the stone steps leading into the garden, and she turned her attention, once again, to the woman in her sights. "And Jenny?" he called, turning around suddenly to face her again.

"What?" she shouted irritably.

"Don't give her any money!"

Oh, you cheap bastard. "Fine!" she retorted, as he melded into the crowd. With another sigh she put the small binoculars back in her purse, snapping the bag shut. I think I need another drink first. She lost herself for a few minutes, staring into the crowd. Linus wants to see her again. Wants her to come to Alexandria. What about what I want?

Jenny had to admit that she didn't have a clue about that.

Italian purring emanated from just beyond the open doors of the palazzo. She knew, even with her back to them, that it was Vittorio Frascati, who owned the palazzo. She did not know him well—she vaguely recalled being introduced to him once before the war—but the old man, scion of a prominent Venetian family and descendent of a doge, was high profile among the wealthy international set. And now he was oozing his lecherous charm on some hapless female. "Is it not the finest Cornaro in Venice?" he was murmuring.

Jenny turned around, just for a peek. She expected to see some tittering blonde barely out of university, but this one made her raise an eyebrow appreciatively; Vittorio did have taste after all, she marveled. The small, dapper man had linked arms with a tall, bespectacled black-haired beauty, who smiled at him graciously. Jenny wondered if the woman was the wife or mistress of a famous man, or even, perhaps, famous herself. Her clothes were impeccable: a silk blouse of deep blue, a darker matching skirt, both items flattering and elegant.

The woman nodded at the old man. "Grazi, Vittorio," the woman replied, honoring him in his native language. "You have been very generous with your time. And very helpful."

"And you have been generous to humor a babbling old man, Melinda." He squeezed her arm affectionately, then disengaged from her. "I hope you find what you are looking for." He kissed her hand, smiled, and returned indoors to maintain his Gatsby-like aloofness from his own party.

Jenny found herself alone—and exchanging smiles—with the beautiful woman, who looked faintly embarrassed to have been fawning, however subtly, over a wealthy and powerful man.

"He's quite a charmer," Jenny said to the woman.

"That he is," the woman agreed. Her low, indolent drawl was from the American South. She came closer to Jenny, and that was when the Englishwoman noticed that the stranger was about half a foot taller than she, almost as tall as her husband. "If I wanted to marry for money, he'd be the one," the Southerner added.

Jenny tried to stifle a grin. "You seem the type who would marry for love instead."

The woman smiled mysteriously and said nothing, but absently touched a ring on the smallest finger of her left hand. It was a silver ring, a nice complement to the expensive watch (Cartier) and the pearl earrings (real).

"I'm Jennifer Davies," she said, offering a hand.

The tall woman enfolded it in one of her own. "Melinda Pappas."

"Let me guess..."

"Hmmm?" Mel mused, raising an eyebrow.

"You're from Virginia!"

It was the "Guess the Accent" game. Mel was well acquainted with it; it had made the first few months of living in New England sheer hell. "Er, no, I'm afraid not."

"Tennessee?"

"No."

"Kentucky?"

"No."

"Definitely not Texas."

"Certainly not," Mel affirmed, a touch haughty.

"I'm afraid I've run out of Southern states," Jenny said, almost apologetic.

"South Carolina," Mel provided, the syllables languishing in her speech like Janice Covington on the sofa after one bourbon too many.

"Good heavens." Jenny paused. "Does each compass point have a Carolina?"

Mel laughed. "No. Just North and South."

"And what brings you to this party, this conference?"

"I'm a translator," Mel supplied succinctly.

"How fascinating. I barely stumble through English, let alone any other language. What have you been working on?"

"Well, it's a bit of an ongoing project. I'm translating a series of ancient writings, known as the Xena Scrolls."

For once Jenny was glad she wasn't drinking, for if she were, she would have choked. Then providence, divine and sadistic, threw a sunbeam down to highlight the silver ring on Mel's finger. Oh bloody hell.

"So," Jenny enunciated carefully, "you must know Dr. Covington."

***** Janice frowned in the general direction of the palazzo's great doors, wondering where Mel was. She scowled into the dregs of her wineglass, then returned her gaze to the house. Venetian architecture failed to impress her, and she had opted not to go on the impromptu house tour that Count Frascati offered to them. But she knew Mel's motivations were more than a desire to see the palazzo; the Southerner had hoped that the Count would know something about the Falconettos, the elusive, aristocratic family that had owned at least one scroll authored by Gabrielle of Poteidaia. So far all they knew of the family was that the patriarch had died at the end of the war and his son, his heir, could not be found.

The old maze of the city, though, intimidated her, and she frequently found herself getting lost whenever she was alone, tooling around the city with the ridiculous—and essentially useless—hand-drawn map that Mel had given her. "Don't get lost," Mel always said to her. And the archaeologist always scoffed at this: Lost? She, who could navigate all five boroughs of New York (even Staten Island!) with ease, who knew Alexandria and Cairo like the back of her hand, who, as an ambulance driver during the war, had the smallest streets of London and Paris committed to memory?

"Venice is a tricky city," Mel had said. "It's a changeling." She had paused dramatically, and if you aren't any kind of goddamn warrior you sure did inherit a sense of drama from that damn woman, Janice had thought to herself. "Kind of like the South," Mel then added, both wistful and mysterious.

This was typical. Whenever Mel liked anything, it reminded her of the South.

This is what I get for taking her up North, thought Janice, with a trickle of guilt. Endless nostalgia and romanticism.

Janice deposited the empty glass on a tray that sailed by, piloted by an overworked waiter. No sooner was it out of her hand than a fresh drink was thrust into her hand. "Hey!" she exclaimed, half-turning to berate the waiter.

Who was already gone. Standing in his place was Jennifer Davies.

Oh shit. Janice's sudden desire for Mel to be there was not because she wanted her lover to witness what could be a potentially ugly encounter, but because she knew that the ever-responsible Mel would, if nothing else, ensure a safe return to the hotel after Jenny had beaten her to a pulpy state of unconsciousness.

"Janice," she purred.

"Jesus," blurted the archaeologist.

"Not quite, love." The Englishwoman sipped at a glass of pinot grigio. "Almost didn't recognize you without the hat. And the jacket. You seem almost naked."

Janice rolled her shoulders nervously, then squared them, both gestures dying for the roguish finishing touch of a leather jacket. She studied Jenny. The Englishwoman was still lovely, with her mess of dark golden curls now tamed into a respectable looking bun, her gray eyes, usually mischievous, still possessing a lively glint. But what that glint meant now, Janice was not sure. All she felt was gratitude that Jenny was not enamored of firearms. "Good to see ya," Janice mumbled. Goddamnit, Mel, where are you?

"It's surprising to see you." Jenny swallowed. "I thought, for a while, you might be dead."

Is her hand shaking? "What?"

"Not long after the war I ran into Andrew Curran. He said he saw you in London, in '44. And they were sending you to the continent, right into the heart of it."

Janice remembered that. She also remembered he borrowed ten quid and never paid her back. Andrew was a writer, an old friend and ex-lover of Jenny's, and a RAF pilot during the war. "I'm glad Andrew made it."

Jenny ignored this. "I've spent five years wondering what's become of you."

Shit oh shit. Somehow an I’m sorry seemed pointless in the face of this weighty fact. "Guess I shoulda sent word."

"Perhaps. But eventually I knew you were all right: Your scrolls are making you well known." Jenny sipped the wine. "You have them all now?"

A tiny frown, and the familiar furrowing of her brow. "Not all of them. There are more."

"Really, Janice? Your translator thinks you're wrong." Jenny smiled, relishing the stunned look on her former lover's face, and tilted her head. Janice followed the direction of the motion. They were not difficult to spot, because they were both two of the tallest people at the party: Linus and Mel, together, talking.

Shit oh shit oh shit. "You've met Mel." Janice was, initially, too surprised to ignore the implications of what Jenny claimed Mel had said about the Scrolls. "Quite by accident. We started talking, and found out we had a mutual acquaintance in you, my pet. Then I introduced her to my charming husband, and they've been blathering about Mayan architecture for the past twenty minutes. Terribly dull. Oh Janice, don't glare at me like that. I'm not saying your little concubine is a bore. Actually, she's not so little, is she?"

"No, she's not," snapped the archaeologist.

Rather defensive, thought Jenny. "Not that it's a bad thing," she amended.

"It's not. I never have to worry about changing light bulbs or gettin' things from the top shelf in the pantry."

Always ready with the wisecrack, Janice. That hasn't changed. "At any rate, she's lovely, and very smart. Don't worry. I said nothing to her of our—shared past, and I'm sure Linus won't either."

"I'm not worried about that."

But Jenny could tell from the nervous clenching of the archaeologist's jaw, that this wasn't quite the given that it was declared to be. "To be frank, dear, I didn't think she was your type."

"If that's your polite way of sayin' she's out of my league, I know that." Janice glared at her.

"She's out of everybody's league, darling." Jenny said it lightly, but felt it deeply, miserably, in her bones. She would have been prepared to compete with a woman—or even a man—for Janice's affections, but not an Amazonian demigoddess. "They look good together," Jenny observed, as they both watched Linus and Mel. "My husband and your lover. Both so tall. Like some Nazi-Nietzschean super breeding couple." As she'd hoped, Janice did chuckle at that. Nice to see I can still make you laugh, if nothing else.

"And I thought I was pissed off about being short."

"I'm pissed off about a lot of things, love."

"Even after five years, baby?" Janice raised an eyebrow.

Jenny resisted the diminutive and what it stood for: an obvious attempt at being charmed. Unfortunately, as she stared into the green eyes and ached to kiss the lips, she realized it was working. "She wears a ring."

"Yeah," Janice grunted. "Is that a crime or something?"

"No. But it's the ultimate symbol of marriage, of commitment. Isn't it?"

The infamous Covington sneer of defiance made an appearance. "So suddenly you're an expert, since you're married yourself? You might as well wipe your ass with that piece of paper."

Ah, Janice, I have missed you. I needed to feel something, and you're it. Who else would talk to me like this, who would let the truth fly like that? She wanted to take Janice in her arms, and forgive her, and make all the promises that she knew she couldn't keep. Our mutual marriages appear to be in the way of that. Mine has always been flexible. But yours? She watched Janice watch Mel. This was also something new, this naked look, a vulnerability slowly crossing Covington's face, like a blind man negotiating an intersection.

"Just admit it. You're in love with her. And it's something bigger than anything you ever felt for me."

Janice closed her eyes. "Jenny, don't do this. Don't start." A little too late for that, big mouth, she chastised herself.

"I'm not starting anything. I'm finishing it." Jenny glared into her wine, watching the surface of the liquid spin like a hula hoop. "You left it a bit sloppy, a bit unfinished in Alexandria. Didn't you?"

Alexandria. It was the last time they had been together. Janice remembered little of it: Hazy golden blurs of fucking, of drinking. Of the haunting urge that built in her head to see Mel again, until it became so strong and desperate that she sold her mother's wedding ring just to get enough money to buy a plane ticket home. She had left Jenny without saying goodbye. She remembered sitting on the edge of the bed, money in her hand, watching Jenny sleep. And then moving, as if in a dream, for the door. "I guess I did," Janice replied softly. "I regret that." The musing tone gave to the words all the weight and substance of a feather. But it felt, to Janice, as if she were now a different person, someone not capable of that behavior. For she could never see herself doing that to Mel, ever again. Especially since I gave you a ring and I said I didn't need a ceremony or a church or a God. I don't need anything except you.

Jenny, of course, knew none of this, and even if she did, would have remained as  impassively impressed as she was now. "A hell of an apology."

Okay, I tried noble, now I'm back to the bitch. "Well, what the fuck do you want from me?" snapped Janice.

She wanted to slap Janice hard—very, very hard. But instead, she opted for the humiliation of throwing wine in her face. The sudden violence of the gesture possessed the emotional impact she wanted, as she watched the archaeologist flinch, if only ever so slightly.

"Try to explain that to your dashing Southern belle," she said quietly.

*****

Inevitably, at any type of social gathering, Mel eventually reverted to wallflower status; she felt most happy quietly observing other guests.

Especially Janice. At the moment, however, the archaeologist was not visible from where she sat, on a stone bench, at the periphery of the crowd. But then Janice was walking quickly toward her, whistling tunelessly and betraying her nervous restlessness by tapping a clenched fist against her thigh.

Mel straightened in distress when she noticed the dampness of Janice's cheeks. Crying? she wondered. But once the small blonde sat down next to her she realized it was not the tracks of tears, but a sheen of white wine. Luminous clear drops were falling happily, willingly, into her cleavage.

"Oh, dear. And we were proceeding so nicely, without incident." Mel murmured. She handed her companion a clean yet wrinkled napkin.

Janice blotted her face dry.

"Could have been worse, I suppose," she added, discreetly checking for bloodstains or bruises.

"I suppose," echoed Janice with a sigh. "But white wine does possess a certain sting."

"Would you care to tell me what happened between you and Mrs. Davies?"

"Mrs. Davies?"

"She was the last person I saw you talking with. Did she do this?" Mel gestured at her lover's face.

"Ah, dear Mrs. Davies."

"Yes. What of Mrs. Davies?"

"This conversation is beginning to remind me of that crazy book you were trying to make me read."

The "crazy book" was by Gertrude Stein. What Mel found to be a fascinating exercise in the modern use of language had sent Janice scurrying for the comfort of her old friends Raymond Chandler and Dash Hammett.

"Don't change the subject, darling. Especially when it's about a woman who still seems to be in love with you."

"So you figured that out, huh?"

"Yes. I'm pretty good at decoding the obvious. You should have seen me when the Hindenburg blew up."

Mel had hoped to bring a smile to the that lovely face, but instead Janice frowned, wrapping the napkin around her fist, the white contrasting with her tanned hand, like a bandage. Like the gauze and cloth slapped on her during the war, like the handkerchief Harry gave her when she scraped her knuckles on rocks during an excavation in Macedonia. Four days later he was dead and all she had was his handkerchief, covered with her own blood, and his dreams, and his debts.

"I didn't know she'd be here," Janice admitted quietly.

"Of course not. But when...when were you with her?"

Janice continued to stare at her hand, watching the white cotton flutter as she wiggled her fingers within it. "Last time I saw her was in '43. It was one of those on again, off again things. I met both of them…" she exhaled, scowled in thought. "….oh, I think it was 1940. Harry called their set 'the international dilettantes.' They threw parties, they traveled, they nosed around on digs, acting all curious and trying to buy anything that struck their fancy. No one took them seriously. They were kind of on the fringe of things. In a way, so was I, but no one could say that I didn't do my time in the field, and that I wasn't serious about what I was doin'." She shot Mel a wry look. "I thought you were one of them, one of those types, when I first met you."

Mel shrugged. "Well, I guess I am.”

"No," teased Janice, "you're a debutante, not a dilettante, honey."

"Gosh, I do get those words mixed up in my pretty little head!" Mel drawled.

Janice laughed. "There's a lot in that pretty little head, I know. In fact, I've always thought you should be the one teaching, not me. I'm just a digger at heart. Anyway," Janice continued with a sigh, "we kept running into Jenny and Linus—Athens, Cairo, Syria, you name it. They were always around. Eventually we all became friends...and, with Jenny, more than that."

"And Linus? Did he know? Does he know?"

Janice snorted derisively. "Oh yeah. He knew all right. In fact, he gave me money for a couple of my digs. 'Cause I was fucking his wife and keeping her happy."

"This made him happy?" Mel frowned, confused.

"Linus and Jenny have what you might call a marriage in name only. He's nouveau riche, Canadian. His family was looking to make themselves classy by marrying off their dissolute son to a woman with background. Jenny's got the lineage, her father is a squire or something stupid like that...they have this big country house...but no cash flow. It's a perfect set-up. They're fond of each other, and for all I know they may actually fornicate with each other every once in a while, but usually they go their separate ways when it comes to companionship of that kind."

"Oh." Mel blinked, pondered something meaningful to say. "At least she's not a Nazi."

Janice laughed in amazement. "No, she's not. She's worse." Morosely she stared at the ground, then scrutinized Mel. "You're taking this awfully well," she accused.

"I don't see the point of getting upset over something that's already happened." Mel chewed her lip. How to convey reassurance, with an innocuous touch, what inept words cannot…whoever thought that language would fail me, of all people? Even now there were moments when she could not trust her body, her movements, as if any casual sign of affection would tell the world what she was, and what she felt. Her fingers twitched, she steadied her hand, and plucked at the khaki pant leg, gently, teasingly.

Janice looked at her.

"I don't care about that."

"Jesus, I do not deserve you. Damn this stupid thing. Why did we come to this party anyway?"

"It was your idea," Mel reminded her.

Janice made a pretense at scanning the crowd. "I thought we should get out. Some people might think fucking in a hotel room for a whole day is unhealthy."

"I wouldn’t take you to be one of those types, Janice."

"And I never thought you'd turn out to be a sex fiend with unlimited energy." Janice reached out and took the wineglass from the large hand, permitting her fingers a brief electric entanglement with Mel's own. "But you are, aren't you?"

Mel thought, for a moment, that Venice had just sunk another inch.

The archaeologist drained the glass. She swallowed. Her lips glittered, wet.

"Do you want to go back to the room?" Janice asked. She pressed the empty glass into Mel's hand. Her palm brushed along the knuckles curled loosely around the expensive Venetian stemware.

She took the soft smash of Vittorio's fine wineglass as a yes.

*****

In the sanctuary of their rooms at the Hotel Danieli, Jenny lit up a cigar in honor of Covington. She puffed furiously. Like to see that Southern ninny try to smoke one of these. The spiteful thought came too soon, as the smoke strangled her and she proceeded to hack violently. It's like tasting death.

Linus emerged from the large bathroom while unknotting his tie to find his wife sprawled, unladylike, on the couch, her skirt hitched up to dangerous heights and a cigar in her mouth. "You know," he began, "Byron called Venice 'Sodom on the Sea.' " He sat down next to her, draping a large hand on her bare thigh, not in the least tempted by the smooth skin. "So one would think, whatever your misfortunes with the lovely doctor, you would find a bit of...entertainment elsewhere." He squeezed her leg with gentle affection. "The night is still young."

She unfurled smoke at him in lieu of a response.

He coughed loudly. "Darling, put that foul thing out before we all go up in flames."

She dropped it in the half-empty champagne glass. It fizzled, just like all those hopes I had of being back in your bed, Janice.

Linus took her hand. "Look, I know it bloody hurts, but she's happy. Can't you tell?"

"Yes." She flopped against him and pressed her face in the dark soft night of his black jacket. No crying. Not yet. Not now. She took a deep breath, its jagged rhythm suggesting the inhalation of broken glass. It fucking feels like that, anyway. "She'll be coming to Alexandria?" The tiny pleading voice was almost lost against the breadth of his jacket.

He shrugged. "The invitation was proffered to both of them. You can lead a horse to water…."

"…but she'll end up drinking bourbon anyway." Jenny sighed and sat up. She stared at the ceiling, then at her husband. Time to ask the tricky question. "Lye, this really has nothing to do with me, does it?"

His standard trick, in attempting to look innocent, was widening his dark eyes.

"Why do you want Janice in Alexandria?" she asked slowly, knowing she would get the answer he always gave, the answer that, in his so-called line of work, he couldn't help but give her.

He smiled. "You know what I'm going to say…"

"Say it anyway."

He rubbed his chin. "I need to keep an eye on her."

*****

Mel had decided that they should never leave the hotel room. Because she was both deliciously happy, yet deeply mortified. What kind of looks might they get when they dared to leave the sanctuary of the room again? If this were a room in the Bible Belt, we might get away with saying we were holding a small revivalist meeting or something. I could even throw in a hallelujah. For, if the proverbial fly on the wall were, say, a blind nun, this creature would have been most impressed by the Christian devotion of Dr. Covington, as she chanted "Jesus" over and over again, so lovingly, so frequently, so breathlessly. The repetition had indeed made Mel downright nervous, triggering dormant Methodist tendencies, and distracting from the extremely pleasant task of servicing the good doctor. Blasphemy upon blasphemy. I really am going to hell...if I still believe in that. Her quasi-theological ruminations derailed as Janice climaxed, blonde head slamming back into a soft, fat pillow, with one final cry for Christ. Her mouth glistened, as if she had swallowed stars, and her eyes were dazed, unfocused, and happy.

Mel decided that hell was worth this.

"Keeps getting better and better," mumbled Janice, before rolling on her stomach and falling into a light slumber. Mel indulged a bad habit and sprawled practically on top of her, cheek against shoulder blade, hips to butt. She was on the precipice of sleep herself when the soft growl of Janice's voice reverberated against her.

"I was a shit." The words were almost smothered by the pillow to which they were addressed.

Mel could not see her face. "What?"

"With Jenny. I was a shit."

Her hand swept down and felt the scars along Janice's thigh, then the resultant shudder that the touch brought, one of desire or remembrance, she did not know. She wondered if Janice herself knew. "I don't care." The words tumbled out of her mouth. It was true. It also appeared cruel somehow. She wondered, ever so briefly, why she didn't. Love, the great blind spot.

"You should."

"Why?"

"The last time I was with her…I could think of nothing but you." Janice whispered this, sighed, then stretched, the action rippling her body.

Mel rode the current of flesh. "Am I too heavy for you?"

"No. Don't move." And she added, almost shyly, "I like it."

Some emotion caught Mel by desperate surprise, a nameless, rootless anxiety, and she knew now Janice's own fear of having it all taken away, of the dream dissolved. She thought of the other woman who, in this city, at this moment, also loved Janice Covington. If fate were crueler, she wouldn't be here now. Usually, Mel possessed a powerful ability to find common ground with others; empathy had caught up with her at last.

"I love you anyway," she said.

3. Lucky

Cambridge, 1949

Dr. James Snyder sat at his desk, focusing a passionate amount of attention on his pen. He twirled it in his fingers, aligned it with the stack of papers in front of him, picked it up again. "You don't think she'll bring a gun, do you?" he muttered, half-joking.

The Dean, sitting on a worn leather couch near his desk, only smiled.

"Of course, you've heard the rumors…."

"Hmm," was the Dean’s noncommittal reply.

"…she killed an entire Nazi patrol single-handedly. Didn't she get some sort of commendation? And I have a colleague at the University of Texas who said that she pistol-whipped him."

The Dean pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Oh, dear." This response did little to assuage Snyder. "I'm relatively certain that Dr. Covington is capable of behaving herself, Snyder. We've had no incidents in the two years she's been on staff." Just a rash of infatuated coeds, he thought.

Nonetheless, when the door opened and the small woman, wearing dark trousers and a rumpled khaki shirt, strode into his office without being formally invited, Snyder felt his palms go clammy and every muscle in his back knot itself. He was not comforted either by the tall woman who lingered shyly near the door. Great, she's brought a second. He only knew of Melinda Pappas via her rising professional reputation, but wrongly assumed that the translator was as ill-tempered as her companion.

"Hiya, Snyder," Janice said as she flopped in the chair facing his desk. She nodded at the Dean, who sat at her left. “Old man."

The Dean grinned, amused. "Hello, Janice."

The archaeologist craned her neck to gaze back at Mel. "Join the party, Stretch."

Mel rolled her eyes, and reluctantly approached. She was not faculty and enjoyed no special status, despite tutoring and being a regular denizen of the library, and thus felt uncomfortable at being privy to matters among the staff. Even if it they were about the Scrolls. But Janice had insisted that she attend the meeting. You're my partner, Janice had said. And, she thought as she took the seat next to Covington, I really like the sound of that.

"Hullo, Miss Pappas," Snyder said.

"Hello, Dr. Snyder. How are you?"

"Oh, just fine." He smiled at the polite, blue-eyed beauty. "Stretch, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Didn't know folks call you that."

"They don't," Mel replied firmly. She flicked a sidelong glare at Janice, who shrugged.

Snyder blinked. "Oh."

A stake was now driven through the heart of casual conversation.

Janice cleared her throat. "Why are we here, Snyder? I assume it has to do with the dating of the Scrolls."

"Correct, Dr. Covington. Er, the results of the carbon dating are in."

"And?" Janice prodded impatiently.

"Well, it is a little later than you initially thought."

The archaeologist shrugged. "They were damn difficult to date. That's why I was so broad on time period."

"I quite understand. In general, that's the safest, most practical route. But now with the advent of radiocarbon dating, we can be much more accurate. Statistical probability is the basis in calculating the half-life of C-14, but no one can really predict the rate of decay, and a standard deviation exists in every case, which is—"

"Snyder, I don't need a goddamn lecture on the process, okay? Just tell me what you found."

The befuddled and frightened academic mumbled something which sounded like "churlish beans in sentry." In fact, this was precisely what he said. For within the great roaming recesses of his mind he thought that perhaps Covington would be satisfied with this response, would smile, shake his hand, declare him a genius, perhaps even buy him a drink.

Instead, her gaze cut him like a diamond on glass. She straightened from her lounging, relaxed position. He saw her flex her hands and became utterly convinced that even her fingernails possessed muscles. "Come again?" she requested smoothly.

Snyder swallowed, thought a quick prayer and a farewell to his wife. "The early sixteenth century."

Another silence dropped, like a theater curtain after a botched performance.

Until it was broken by Janice. "Are you shitting me?"

"Calm down, Janice," the Dean urged.

The only thing that kept Janice from jumping up was the sudden warm hand that, mindless of their location and the parties present, gave her leg a comforting squeeze. She looked quickly at Mel, whose stunned expression nonetheless betrayed the assurance of the gesture. "There has got to be a mistake," Janice snapped. Mel nodded numbly. "This is still a very new procedure. Someone made a mistake."

It was now Snyder's turn to be riled. "No mistakes can be made in this process. I checked the results several times. I dated several pieces of parchment."

Janice stood up and began pacing. "But the typology of the instruments—the scroll casing, the stiles—it all fit in with the time period."

"The stratigraphy confirmed this?" asked the Dean.

"Yes! Do you know how far down I had to go? They were in a tomb, for Christ's sake!"

"Those artifacts—the scroll case and the writing tools—did date well within the time frame you assigned," Snyder agreed. "As did some of the pottery you brought from the same location. But it's the actual scrolls themselves that do not: the paper."

"So this was all a ruse. They're fakes." Helpless, inconsolable for the moment, Janice leaned against the windowsill. It was the only thing that kept her standing.

"Or very cunning duplicates of the originals," Mel added softly.

The Dean smiled. He didn't know Covington's partner well, but what he knew, he liked.

But before he could pursue this line of thought, Snyder threw in, "Oh, who cares how real they are!" The women and the Dean stared at him. "They're a fascinating discovery! Somebody was clever enough to write in ancient Greek, use the proper materials to make them look like ancient scrolls, found a case somewhere, then buried them for posterity, thinking they played a massive joke on the world. You know, like that MacPherson fellow, who invented Ossian."

"Or they are copies of the original scrolls, which are still missing, as Miss Pappas proposed," the Dean added. "What do you think, Dr. Covington?"

Janice's fury was spent for the time being, otherwise the hand pressed against the cool windowpane of Snyder's office would've been bloodied by shattered glass. "I don't know what to think," she whispered.

"I know what I think," the Dean retorted. "I think you're lucky."

Janice shot him a curious yet homicidal glance.

"Your father spent his entire professional life looking for those scrolls. Yet you, barely thirty, made this discovery, and in a war zone, no less. They may not be the real thing. But they're a damned sight closer—and more interesting—than anything Harry Covington found."

"Watch what you say about my father, old man," Janice grunted.

"Janice." Mel sounded the warning.

"My father laid the foundation for me to find what I did. He did thirty goddamn years of legwork chasing after these. If he hadn't died when he did, he would've found them." She drew a breath to refuel her fury. "If you want me off the faculty now, fine. I don't give a damn. I didn't have much of a reputation before I came here. It doesn't matter to me. So I'll resign."

Alarmed, Mel stood up. "No. Wait a minute—" She exchanged a look with her lover. 

How much of the bravado was shock, and wounded pride? Janice's desire for legitimacy—for someone to take her work seriously—was very much a part of why she accepted the position at the university. It complemented her wish, however seemingly tenuous at times, for a stable life.

"That isn't what I want," the Dean replied quietly. "I want you to find the real scrolls."

"You believe they exist," Janice stated warily.

"I believe that if they do exist, you'll find them. And if this is, as Snyder suggests, some kind of fantastic fraud, you'll find that out as well."

"All for the greater glory of the old alma mater, eh?"

Once again, the Dean proffered his smug smile. "Anything you uncover would benefit the university, as long as you are under its auspices. And as far as I'm concerned, you are." The older man stood up. "Let's give you a year to come up with something. I know that doesn't seem like much time, but if, at the end of that year, you give me enough reason to continue the search, I'll extend the expedition. After you spend a semester in the classroom, of course."

The Dean extended his hand for Janice to shake. She stared at him suspiciously.

"Don't be a bad sport, Covington. I'm giving you an opportunity to do what you do best. And you're damned good at it, I know that. Have a proposal on my desk in six weeks."

Her hands remained idly on her hips.

He chuckled and withdrew his hand. "I look forward to seeing what you'll do." He winked and picked up his walking stick, and a hat. "I'll get my money's worth out of you, my girl." He nodded at Snyder and Mel. "Dr. Snyder, Miss Pappas, good day."

Janice was staring into space. "Money's worth?" she mumbled. Her gaze snapped to the doorway where the Dean had departed. She stomped over to the door, flung it open, and shouted down the hallway at his retreating form: "You already get your money's worth out of me, you old sonofabitch! Do you know how goddamn low my salary is? You're wringing me dry, you cheap bastard!" She drew in another breath with which to launch another tirade, relented, growled, and stormed down the hallway after slamming the door.

Mel yanked her glasses off her face with a groan and massaged her temples.

Snyder gave her a timid look. "She really doesn't want tenure, does she?"

*****

The odd, arrhythmic typing of Mildred, the department secretary, was punctuated by the strange thwaps emerging from one of the offices nearby. She paused in her task, wondering when the noise would cease, and if the perpetuator would notice that her typing had stopped, but the angry sounds continued. She sighed, and took a cigarette out of the pack she kept in her top desk drawer. She was halfway through the cigarette, and pecking halfheartedly at the letter in the typewriter, when Mel arrived.

The stout middle-aged woman exchanged a look with the Southerner. "You want the bourbon?" Mildred asked. She hadn't the chance to ask Janice if the professor wanted the emergency bottle of hooch—the little archaeologist had barreled past her with such speed and anger.

Mel shook her head. "I don't think letting her drink will help in this instance."

"Actually, I meant for you."

The translator laughed so faintly that it was barely an exhale of breath. "Ah, no, I don't think so." A finger stemmed the tide of her eyeglasses, sliding down her nose.

"If I hear screams I'll call the police," Mildred remarked as Mel entered the sanctum sanctorum.

The lack of time spent in the office was reflected in its bare décor; the assistant professor was rarely in it except to brood and meet the occasional student. Pieces of wood—representing two and a half years' worth of grading midterms, finals, papers, and resisting the advances of romantically deluded students—were scattered on the floor, along with the woman responsible for them and the large, cracked dent in the side of the desk. Janice smoked a cigarette and regarded the pile of tinder, as if a merry little act of arson would cap her day.

"Paul Bunyan," Mel said. She half-leaned, half-sat along the desk.

"Get me an ax, then, so I can destroy it properly." A baseball bat, which lay beside her, worked well when she grew tired of kicking the desk, but a sharp object would be ever so more pleasing.

"You're very lucky the dean likes you, honey."

"Lucky!" Janice exploded. "You're as bad as he is." She pushed at the woodpile with the toe of her boot. "I should have let Kleinman keep them," she said softly.

"No, you shouldn't have," Mel countered. "They may not be the Scrolls, but they are still Gabrielle's words. And as such they are sacred."

Janice ignored this. "Why does it seem impossible to get to point B from point A?" she mused. "I thought I was already there. Thought I had them." Thought I had it all. She looked at Mel, who had her arms crossed and was staring into space, thoughtfully. I am incomplete without you, but I'm incomplete without them as well.

"Zeno," Mel muttered absently.

"Huh?"

"One of his paradoxes—about how all motion is impossible. You recall—?"

"Oh. Yeah." Janice, in reality, had totally forgotten anything to do with Zeno, or much of anything she was forced to read as an undergraduate. "Is there really a Gabrielle or a Xena? Are we so sure that these just weren't stories our fathers created? They fed us these legends, these make-believe stories. We ate it all up. We were kids. And then it seeped into our subconscious, these myths. They're universal. A shared hallucination."

"I never suspected you were a Jungian, Janice."

"Are we descendants of heroes and bards, or forgers and pranksters?"

Mel's lips tightened, set in their familiar stubborn grimace. "You deny what you know to be true."

"Do I?"

"You have the dreams."

Janice said nothing. How long did you think she would say nothing, would wordlessly hold you after you wake up screaming? How long would she politely ask you how you've been sleeping, and settle for your half-hearted lies?

"Will you sit there and tell me that those nightmares you have…that they're just about the war? Can you tell me that?"

The dreams were about the war, at the very least. What her mind refused during the day, what it would not acknowledge, her body whispered in the ragged gossamer of scars: This happened to you. And then the brain would finally rebel, subconsciously. 

More recently, they were tenacious—and they went further than ever, extending into a darker past: Lying in snow, stomach bathed in blood, daylight faltering around her, in the blue glow of a winter world devoid of sun. She looks at her hand, watches it fall...onto a plank of wood, where it is bound by a Roman soldier. And what was too horrible to contemplate, too awful to bear, was that she doesn’t die alone. There is a broken body next to hers.

Yet you managed to smile for me. I still remember the first time you smiled at me—really, truly smiled. It was hesitant, shy, belying the reputation of the warrior and the coldness of your eyes. This piece of you—so fallible, so human, you gave to me. The stupid, stubborn farm girl who followed you.

"Hey." It was Mel's soft drawl, snapping the spell. The chill she experienced every time after the dream was aroused once again, and the hairs on her arms stood, stiff in fright. Until Mel smoothed them, rubbing warmth with her palms.

Janice swallowed, stood up. She simmered, paced. Mel sighed inwardly, and waited for the inevitable.

"Goddammit!" she screamed, and kicked the desk once again. More chips of wood spiraled from the desk, like gymnasts executing backflips.

Mildred is calling the police.

A finger, not as callused as it was once when they first met, was thrust at the translator. "It may be all fine and well for you to hear fucking little voices inside your head, but not me, baby! Not me!"

Or maybe she is finishing off the last of that bourbon.

"I thought that I really accomplished something: I found the Xena Scrolls. They were real—or so I believed. And then, I thought, just maybe, I could have a simple life. Where I could just be myself. Not the descendent of some naïve brat who changed personal philosophies like underwear. Not the daughter of some obsessed grave-robbing bastard carrying on the crazy family legacy. I wanted it all normal." She regarded Mel thoughtfully. "You made me want that. Just a house. A steady job. And a girl who loves me."

“I know,” Mel said softly. “I’ve wanted the same thing.” She paused. “Come here.” Janice hesitated in the face of the gentle order, remembering the same words in different circumstances: The first time they made love, when she had stood, fixed in the doorway, neither resisting nor giving in, afraid to take the leap into the bedroom, until Mel, sitting on the bed, had uttered those two words. She had felt as if she were opening up Pandora's box, propelled by an unknown energy and motion, by fatal curiosity. And she felt that way again, now. Afraid of what you'll find.

She permitted herself to be held, to let Mel prop her chin upon her head. And afraid of what you’ll lose. She had lost Harry to this search—even before he died.

The blue of the dream was the abyss and the salvation at once, beribboned together.

Mel pulled back and looked at her. And the blue of these eyes? "Weeks ago you were excited at the prospect that there were still scrolls out there to be found."

"That was when I thought they were real."

"They are real."

Janice said nothing, frowned, let Mel's thumb press a temporary cleft in her chin.

"It'll be you and me, under the stars," she said.

As it has been always been.

"How bad can that be?"

Janice did not know. They hugged again, she placed her head against Mel's shoulder, and for the moment she could ignore the chill of the dream and could draw upon the strength of Mel's words. She loved the certain, the tangible, the sure thing. Now she gave herself over to words not written down, belief neither felt nor seen, and a love that, more often than not, she did not understand, nor felt she deserved.

[jessiewre]

Day 22

Sun 26th Jan 💜

It’s been a year to the day since we lost Nanny. That’s mad isn’t it. Miss that legend.

Woke up at about 5am because we’d gone to bed too early, but managed to power through and stay in bed till 7am. Phil got up and continued researching his new obsession - a half marathon near Kilimanjaro - and I joined him at 8:30am for Spanish omelette breakfast included in our 25$ a night room. Good deal that init. People say that in London you’re never further than like 5 meters away from a rat. Well thats like me and good deals, there’s always one close by for me to sniff out. Maybe I’m more like one of those pigs and the deals are truffles.

I digress...

The hostel manager was now wearing a chefs coat and I realised he was now the chef. What a multi-talented chap he was. I threw him into a frenzy by asking for salt, pepper, ketchup and chilli sauce, and eventually went into the kitchen myself to assist.

The ketchup was in a huge bucket bottle in the fridge and he gracefully glugged it out into a plastic squeezey bottle that he couldn’t find the lid for. Yum.

Shout out to Stella and Helen who will surely boke at that description of keptchup.

We got bodas to the Woman’s Centre for the recommended walking tour starting at 10am - but there was a big bike race on believe it or not, and so road blocks meant we had to walk the last kilometre. Phil was loving the bike race, I could see his legs twitching like he was imagining himself on a bike that moment, but I soon snapped him back to reality by power-walking ahead to avoid us being super late to the walk.

The sky was rapidly turning a dark shade of grey but Phil assured me that the weather report he’d checked stated that there would be no rain until midday or later.

You may be able to sense where this is going.

We arrived at the Centre and sat in the sofa area for the introduction, and the exact moment the woman began to talk and tell us about the community, the rain began to thunder on the metal roof and no one could hear a word she said. After 10 minutes, the intro finished and the rain actually calmed down a little, but then it went totally crazy again and me and Phil looked at each other like...hmm should we just not do this walking tour.

Another English girl there was thinking the same thing and the 3 of us decided to ditch the tour and head back the next day, while the 3 older people and a young American woman went off in the torrential rain with umbrellas. Umbrella’s are all good and well but I couldn’t see another soul on the streets so I seriously doubted how good a community walking tour would be in this weather. We chatted to the English girl, Esther, and she was ending a weeks work doing research for the Princes Trust who she works for. In a nutshell, she creates programmes for local groups in different countries to integrate technology into their lives to improve their prospects and quality of life. Really interesting! Phil mentioned that she should hang at our hostel later if she wanted as we were planning on trying out the bowling alley on site, and she was really up for that, especially considering she was in Kigali on her own and it was her last night.

The rain eventually calmed down enough for us to jump on a boda and we decided that considering the rain, it would be appropriate to visit the Genocide Museum at this point. We knew we were going to visit it at some point so made sense to be inside during the rain.

We were really hungry though and didn’t want to rush through the museum, so thankfully there was a cafe on site where we had a vege burger and vege panini, both with chips. We decided we’d try and lay off the chips for a while after that meal, it was the chip that broke the camels back.

The Rwandan Genocide museum was a harrowing and necessary visit.

The below information is upsetting, I’ll warn you now.

genocide

noun

noun: genocide; plural noun: genocides

1. the deliberate killing of a large group of people, especially those of a particular nation or ethnic group.

To briefly summarise, the problems began when the country was ‘colonised’ - or should we say if we’re being honest, when the country was invaded against its will. The Germans were first in 1899 then the Belgians in 1916 and then the Belgian’s decided to split the country into three different groups. Ultimately this created a sort of competition between the groups of people that had never existed before and this was what they say sparked the issues in the country. Fast forward to 1994, and the genocide officially began, over a period of 100 days - neighbours were murdering neighbours, friends were murdering friends. Relatives even betrayed each other. By turning people against each other, the ringleaders were able to sit back and watch the killings happen for them.

Being in the country now, its very difficult to imagine it happening, as it feels vibrant, friendly and safe. But the images in the museum leave you under no illusions. People were mindlessly slaughtered, no one was spared - children, pregnant women and men. It was absolutely mind-blowingly horrendous.

The museum talks a lot about how the international community sat back and let it happen, like Rwanda was on another planet that no one cared about. There is obviously a lot of pain from that which was difficult to read about.

But there were also a number of people who put themselves on the line by hiding people in their houses and gardens, saving many lives. Unfortunately, there were not enough of those people and over a million people were killed. They are still uncovering mass graves today.

There were videos playing with interviews from survivors talking about the guilt they feel from being the only member of their family who survived. But incredibly, they spoke about forgiveness and said they would like to forgive the perpetrators if they were willing to ask for forgiveness. They spoke about moving forward with only peace in mind, as this was what would move Rwanda forward in a peaceful way. By seeking revenge, the violence and pain would continue, they said. It’s unbelievable to hear that from someone who watched their innocent young siblings and mother murdered by machete in front of their very eyes. You can’t even imagine what this person has gone through.

One of the most difficult parts of the museum was The Children’s Room. This section had beautiful photos of child victims printed in large portraits displayed around the room, with a small plaque underneath each one with bullet points of information about the child, like:

Name

Age

Favourite Snack

Best Friend


Then the final point for every child was

Cause of death

The descriptions here were detailed and distressing.

Obviously there is a huge amount of detail missing from this account of the genocide and I urge you to have a read about it if you have time and are interested.

We left there after a few hours taking it all in and went to find the Inema Art gallery, as we’d read about it being a really cool artists space that has had a lot of international interest.

It was different to what I expected, as there wasn’t actually a lot of pieces in there - more like a few extremely large pieces, each priced around $5000. So obviously, we bought two and headed off.

Well anyway, some of the artists were there stood near their art in smart clothes and were hoping for a super rich muzungu coming in and buying everything. That was not going to be us, so we thanked them and headed to the cafe for a little coffee.

Not before I asked them if there were any female artists there.

One guy said No, the women in Rwanda seem to stick to the craft-making and THEN he said that even though many are good at art, he thinks they are lacking in passion.

I said Hmm perhaps you means Confidence, not passion.

He was like Oh yeah, maybe that.

Yeah MAYBE THAT mate.

We boda’d back to the hostel and Phil donned up in his gear for a run. Just before heading off, he finally booked himself a spot onto the Kilimanjaro half marathon in Moshi, Tanzania on 1st March. FFS. Better get practicing on my excited supportive girlfriend look then.

Meanwhile I sat in the hostel garden watching videos on how to use Procreate on the iPad. Suddenly realised Phil had been gone AGES and then he rocked up having run like 10 MILES and then said Oh also, I may have tripped over and potentially broken my toe.

He’d taken out his phone to check the map and ended up kicking a bit of metal sticking out of the group, and then he’d fallen over and made a few new cracks on his phone screen (to join the 5 that were already there).

Wicked.

Phil had a quick shower and change while hobbling around on his bad foot (I hear broken toes are brilliant for half marathons), and Esther arrived at the hostel, so we went searching for a restaurant open on a Sunday. After a few fails, we eventually stumbled across a place called Afrika Bite and negotiated the 10k per person meaty Rwandan platter down to 5k each for a vegetarian version for all of us. It was so good! Garlic potatoes, peanut sauce, rice, vegetables, fried banana, salad, plus some ‘fish fingers’ ordered as an extra. Such a welcome relief to eat something local and delicious. Shout out to those who are reading this blog mainly for the food descriptions.

We went back to the hostel to play in East Africa’s 2nd bowling alley (the only other one is in Nairobi!) and Esther made sure she mentioned she had a ‘bad neck’. That would explain her unbelievably bad scoring thats for sure. Ok now to be fair, Phil the physio also advised that she use the heaviest ball available which turned out to be truly awful advise and after a stagnant run of about 2 points in 6 goes, she tried a really light ball - and actually hit some pins! Go Esther.

Can I also mention that this bowling alley had a system where a bloke hidden at the end would organise the pins and reset them for us manually using a kind of lever system. He always managed to move his hands out of the way before the ball struck the pins of course.

Esther headed back to her hotel and we ended up playing basketball on the two hoops game with Desire the manager. Our quick game of ‘How many can you score in 1 minute’ managed to take over our lives for over an hour. My record was 23, Phil’s 24 (he’s taller init) and Desire managed 33 (well, he works there so ya know). Was addictive and super fun and I got the impression Desire will spend the next year working on his pb.