#avon cloud

[y2kbeautyandother2000sstuff]

Avon Natural Reactions In the Clouds Eau de Toilette Spray

1999

Found on Ebay, user Bubberred

[londonhorizon]

Late afternoon next to the river Avon

[interpolanticssuperfan]

nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 2 | 18+ only

warnings: none for this chapter except reader doesn't believe that ken isn't human and asks to touch his feet to prove it. its not going to be a thing, i promise lol. enjoy !! also i really hope my characterization of ken is good so far!!

So this is how you found yourself packing up your things, throwing a cursory farewell glance to Pat, who’d long abandoned watching your tense exchange in favor of flipping through an Avon brochure, and heading down the marble staircase with Ken glued to your side, chattering away at lightspeed the entire time.

“This is excellent. (Y/N), I just knew you’d be as kind as I thought you were. And now I never have to see the bridge guy again. You don’t have a change of clothes, do you? I mean… I assume you have plenty of dresses, jumpsuits, blazers, things like that, but I could really use something that accentuates my chest a little better. Unless you like it covered up. Do you like it covered up?”

“Aren’t you sweating your ass off in those clothes? And who is the bridge guy?” You give a slight tug at the hem of his jacket, pushing open the glass double doors for the both of you and nearly gasping at the hot wall of humid air washing past, embracing your skin in a rush. 

Ken turns, locks his confused eyes with your inquisitive ones. As your hand flies away from him, Ken follows your fingers, like he’s upset that you didn’t actually touch him. “What do you mean? I feel fantastic in these. It’s my white denim. But if you… do you like them?”

“I… well, I don’t know what your chest looks like, but I’m sure it looks… great.” Your cheeks flushed as you stole an unbidden glimpse in his general direction, shouldering you as if he was convinced he’d disappear if he wasn’t essentially tethered to you. 

“You really think so? Then I’ll keep it on. I bet I can wear this for a whole week and not even get a single wrinkle. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.” 

Without asking, you chance a risky move, placing your fore and middle finger to the back of Ken’s neck where his hair dips down. The sunlight doesn’t seem to bother him, the punishing heat isn’t making him groan with exhaustion, and to your abject horror – there’s not a bead of sweat on him: Ken’s sun-kissed skin is frigid to the touch. Rigid, he felt wax-like, resembling the mold of a man. 

In the middle of the looping sidewalk that wraps around to the block you live on, Ken freezes with a gasp, reflexively shoots his hand up to clasp around your wrist where you’re feeling him. For a moment, neither of you speak, you just allow yourself to stare into his eyes which are very much undeniably alive, bright blue with inexplicable life and bounding to chase yours, melting into your grip.

“Why aren’t you hot out here.” It doesn’t come out as a question. Ken begins to sense your hesitation, doesn’t drop his firm fingers from your hand. “It’s the middle of summer, Ken.”

You hear a passerby shove past you, can feel their leashed dog traipse by your knees, you can hear a car horn honking at traffic, but all of it feels muted, feels futile, the volume turning down on every possible source of stimulation save for Ken’s eyes, Ken’s icy cold neck.

He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t back down from the question. “I told you. I’m not…” Ken looks upwards to the clouds, quirks an eyebrow as if drafting his response with immense care. As if he had been up there before. Like he’d never thought this hard about anything. “I’m not from here. You’re a human.”

“And you’re supposed to be – what?” 

“I don’t really know how to explain it. No one’s ever… I guess no one’s ever cared to ask me about it.” With his eyes still trained on yours, you press your fingers a little harder against a cord of muscle where a visible vein pokes out, feebly exploring for a pulse point, just to find that Ken had no heartbeat, either.

This pressure between you both seemed to pull a reaction from Ken, who at once slammed his eyes shut and sucked in a harsh breath, inching his head back and baring more of his not-skin to you. You felt that if Ken could have a pulse, it would be racing right about now. 

“Are you. Are you dead?”

You feel ridiculous. You feel faint. Your body wants to look every which way, maybe waiting for a prank show host to reveal themselves with a raucous cast and crew, pointing and laughing at the fool who fell for the “living wax figure” bit, and you’d smile for the camera and go home and forget this ever happened. (Mind destined to wonder how the hell they made their dummy so believable, so lifelike, so… alive.)

But no one came, and no one laughed, and glassy eyed Ken kept staring at you, scrambling for an answer to your loaded question.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

“Do you eat?”

“Never tried. But there’s a bunch of food in Barbieland. It’s more for decoration, if that makes sense. Sorta like clothes. An apple here is very different from an apple there. Trust me.”

Sudden shakiness claiming your knees, you knew you’d have to find a place to sit soon or you were liable to fall over in the middle of the sidewalk, which would pose a massive problem for you and your new cargo (friend?) who claimed to neither sleep nor eat, let alone seemed capable of getting you medical help.

These newest revelations which you’d felt for yourself seemed to quickly overshadow the old worries which had plagued you – the stalking, the casing out your apartment, those were all old news now. 

Ken was one step ahead of you, noticed the pallor painting across your face, and without another word took your bag from your shoulder, slipping a shockingly strong arm around your waist effortlessly. “Come here. You look… really scared.” He jolted his head to find an unoccupied stretch of grass, then walked you both over to it, hand never leaving your back. 

Once you felt yourself on the ground, you were able to take a deep breath. Ken sat cross legged in front of you, your bag still strewn across his body, his face entirely drawn with intense concern. 

“(Y/N)?” The consideration in his tone was so palpable, you couldn’t help but to trust him, let him continue to keep his hand on you, just to make sure you were still with him. Black splotches had entered your vision but dissipated once you got your bearings, due in part to the reassuring feeling of Ken’s thumb pressed against the ball of your kneecap.

“I’m sorry, I. I don’t know what just happened. I didn’t mean to freak you out, Ken.” 

“You don’t have to apologize. Do you feel any better?”

In the middle of the day, broad daylight assailing your back, your cheeks, your arms, and still on the clock, you lifted your head up to address Ken. 

Ken, who had been there to help you, who had fixed you with such tenderness in his eyes and didn’t know the first thing about you. Ken, who glimmered in the sun, who waited five hours at the library by himself just for a chance at seeing you. Who had been bursting at the seams to show you a book about… horses.

“Did you really follow me home?”

Ken nodded, smile tugging at his lips. “I should have said hi. Would you have said hi back?” The way he balanced back on his tailbone revealed even more of his abdomen, his glistening muscles that managed to appear slick though they were devoid of actual sweat. Ken really did look to be covered in… well, lacquer, or some kind of perfect finish that made him perpetually shine.

“I think I would have said hi, yes. For sure. Why do you keep talking about – um. Barbie? And please be honest with me.” 

Ken didn’t miss a beat, looked down to where his thumb was still resting on your leg. “Don’t freak out again. You don’t have to worry about her, by the way – we are not a thing anymore.” He pointed tersely with his free hand. 

“That’s not what I was wondering… about.”

“I’d rather you hear it from me first, (Y/N). I’m from Barbieland. That’s what I was trying to explain before. You know Barbie and Ken? That’s me. I am Ken.” A laugh would be appropriate, but you didn’t feel like giving one. Not considering the dead serious look Ken wore as he talked, measured and severe.  

“Okay. So… okay. What does that mean? You live… like a Ken doll? Like extreme cosplay? Plastic surgery to look like him and stuff like that?” 

“I don’t know what roleplay is. I am literally Ken.” He blinks at you, waiting for the cogs to turn, waiting for it to click for you.

“A mega Ken fan.” You might be in denial still. 

Growing frustrated, Ken snatches your hand back to his lower neck, brusquely forcing your clammy fingers into the dip right above his clavicle, the base of his throat to prove his point.

“See? I don’t feel like you. Feel yours, and then feel mine. I’m not lying. Why would I lie about who I am?” With your other hand that Ken hadn’t captured, you did as he said and mirrored the motion, felt your arduous pulse, blood coursing through your veins, and felt speechless again at the sensation of nothingness coming from the guy who looked more male than any man you’d actually seen.

“I don’t know what to say. You’ve never been to a doctor?”

“Oh, Barbie is a doctor. But I haven’t needed to see her for anything in a while. She used to call me accident prone. Or attention seeking. I can’t remember which one.”

“Right. Have you ever been sick?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Of course not.

“Broken a bone?”

“Don’t think I have those,” Ken pressed on, returning your nervous hand to your lap. He then stretched his leather-covered legs out across the gross, positioning them to the side of your knees, and started playing with the strap of your bag. “This is pretty heavy. No one carries this around for you?”

“Is it okay if I touch your leg?”

“You can absolutely touch it. But, do you think I can do that for you from now on? Carry the bag?” Ken pleaded at you with his eyes, so open and honest and innocent like a newborn fawn, and you found it impossible to tell him no. Talking with him was almost like conversing with a child, and that made your skin crawl when coupled with the knowledge that you found him overwhelmingly attractive, impossibly beautiful, even. 

Jesus, the heat must be getting to you after all.

“Sure, you can carry my bag, Ken.” 

“Yes,” Ken celebrated privately, too initially excited to notice that you’d started prodding at his shin in little tentative bursts. At first, you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, it just felt like… a leg. So you eyeballed his ankles, his feet where the cowboy boots sat against the grass, and Ken seemed to know what you were about to ask. “Do you wanna see my feet? Will you believe me then?”

“I know how crazy this might sound. But I think I kind of do need to see them. Is that okay?” You fought to suppress your embarrassed grin, but this only made Ken laugh.

And what a beautiful laugh he had. Boyish, charming, airy like an angel; something you wanted to keep hearing again and again until this self proclaimed “Ken” had run out of things to find funny.

Had you always been this easy?

Or was it just easy with him?

Ken bent forward immediately, removing his spotless white boots, to reveal bare, spotless feet, angled perfectly and without any sort of distinct smell. No calluses, no odd toenail, no hair. They enticed you to get closer, to touch them, but you realized how bizarre this looked and how odd Ken must feel. 

“I’m sorry, god, this is probably the weirdest day you’ve ever had, and I’m not making it any –” But as you looked up to give him this apology, Ken wore not an uncomfortable expression, but one instead of… unnamable, sober emotion. Like he was likely to break down in tears of relief the longer you regarded him with such curiosity.

“You don’t think I’m weird?” Ken asked, voice barely above a whisper. This response wasn’t what you expected, and you bit your lip, learning fast that Ken was as sensitive as he was bold. “When Barbie was here, people were awful to her at first, they were calling her horrible things and I don’t think I could…”

“I think that I have never met anyone like you. I think that… it’s insane that your feet are… I mean, can I touch them?”

This brings a hopeful spark to his face again, and he nods eagerly at your request, hungry to hear what you have to say. As if his future hangs on your opinion of him. As if he would die without your attention, good attention, bad attention, any of it. As if the prospect of being touched would save him from damnation, eternally.

All this to hold a stranger’s foot (a stranger with no heartbeat, a stranger with hypnotic blue eyes that could look so inviting looking down at you, would look even better blown open in surprise after a kiss, or – wait, why are you thinking about this?) on the grassy courtyard by a Catholic church while you’re still ignoring your work and still getting paid for every minute.

You knew there’d be more than a handful of angry emails waiting for you when you finally returned home.

But that could wait. It could all wait, because you scooted forward to cradle Ken’s bare foot in your lap, and you inspected with all the great care of a scientist inventing pharmaceuticals or something equally as important to mankind. He was right. It wasn’t like yours, his skin, his body wasn’t like anything you’d seen before. So… smooth. No hair except for Ken’s head of blonde, his arched brows. What kind of human being could live this long and not have a pimple on their face, no bumps or ridges on their feet, no scars anywhere whatsoever? You dragged your fingertips across the rounded arch, but again, nothing.

“You’re not even ticklish?”

“I’m not sure what that feels like.”

“Is Barbie ticklish?”

“I never tried tickling her.”

“You can feel me doing this, right?” Ken nodded, watched you caress him lightly, then with effort, as you squeezed tentatively. “So you can feel pressure.”

“Yeah, I can feel everything you’re doing.”

“But there’s no, like. It’s not tickling you, it’s not hurting you, it’s not. Sorry if this sounds weird, I promise I’m just trying to get information. Does it feel… good?” Something in you was begging you to just let go, stop worrying that this was probably the strangest day you’ve ever had, like you had anything else nearly as interesting going on besides quiche recipes in library magazines and buying lettuce for your guinea pig. 

Ken raises his light brown eyebrows, like he hadn’t considered this, face still content as he processed your handiwork, rotating in circles now and occasionally swiping up to his smooth ankle. The cuffs of his leather pants had rolled up and afforded you a bit of access to more skin, if you could call it that.  

“You’re the first person to touch my feet before. I don’t know… give me a second.”

“Should I stop?” Suddenly, you began to worry this might be putting Ken off. After all, you literally didn’t know him, and you’d asked him to show him your feet. Christ, you hoped he wasn’t taking you for a lunatic. You knew this was probably stupid. It was arguably unsafe – this guy had admitted to following you home. 

However, with context, you were beginning to understand this might be the only course of action that fit Ken.

“No – don’t stop. Please, keep going.” The tone he’d just used was vastly different from the others – it wasn’t quizzical, wasn’t reassuring or conversational. He sounded… pleased, voice almost cracking at the end as you pushed a little harder at where his ankle bone would be and felt none of the give a human would have, none of the pores or follicles of hair. You’d started to really start massaging him now, gently rolling your fingers across his lower shin and then moving back down to his feet, compressing him. 

How could this be real? It didn’t make any sense. You had half an idea to ask if you could try this on his neck, but when you looked up to gauge his physical state, Ken’s eyes hadn’t opened, but his mouth had fallen open in satisfaction, brows relaxed and easy. At first, he seemed peaceful, but when you stilled your breathing, you could hear him almost purring under your touch, like he’d never felt this before and wanted more – wanted something more acute. Something heightened. His chest rose and fell, mouth twitching as you worked, but you knew this was a peculiar way of getting to know someone, and you knew that Ken would probably never tell you to stop.

You gingerly laid Ken’s foot back in the grass next to his boot, and he snapped his eyes open, staring at you with a protest at the unexpected loss of contact.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I don’t know. This is weird. Am I making you feel weird?”

“(Y/N) – you’re making me feel incredible is what you’re doing. What’s that called, anyway?”

“A foot massage, I suppose. And it’s not something you typically do the first day you meet someone.”

Ken turned this over in his mind, evidently not picking up on the undercurrent of… something heavier than enjoyment he’d been displaying so openly, and put his boot back on.

“You don’t even need socks, huh?”

“Guess not. Can we do that again sometime? Maybe you can teach me how to do it for you? (Y/N), I promise I can learn really fast.” His mind racing a mile a minute, you had the good sense to rise above in this situation, regardless of how electric it felt to touch him – even if it was a little unorthodox.

You rose to stand once Ken had adjusted his (perfect) foot, and Ken held onto your bag like it was his job, clutching the strap with unnecessary force. 

“Maybe, Ken. Listen, I really need to get back to my apartment and keep working, my boss is probably furious with me. And. I also am sorry if that was weird, asking to see your feet and then… doing that. I promise I’m not a creep or anything.” Very convincing – great work, he’s sure to buy that.

“Don’t say that. Seriously, (Y/N), I do not want to hear you say that again. You’re not a creep – you’re amazing, you’re so smart – no one’s ever even been interested in seeing me like that, no one’s ever questioned that I’m a doll, so I –”

“Is that what it is?” You asked, feeling like the clouds may have parted and the word dancing on your lips the entire time finally made itself known to you. “You’re a doll?” Ken bounded to his feet in a fluid motion, something that would’ve been difficult for any normal man to do.

He made it look easy – made everything look easy.

Ken chuckled, couldn’t help but wear that irresistible grin as he waited for you to start leading the way, assuming that wherever you went, he would naturally follow. “You are so funny. I told you, didn’t I? I am Ken! That’s me.”

“That’s you.”

“That’s me, baby.”

It rolled off his lips a little too casually. It wrenched your heart to correct him – with Ken’s understanding of the world, he probably had no idea that touching someone’s bare feet in the middle of the day did not mean you were romantically involved. 

You wondered what he understood of romance. You wondered if he’d ever been touched anywhere else, what was underneath his pants, what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped massaging him, but this started to make your head spin with more ferocity than before.

“This is important, Ken, so please listen.”

“You got it.”

“People you’re just friends with – you can’t call them baby.”

“But we are friends. We are, right?”

“Yes – yes, we are friends. But baby is for when you’re with someone. You know?”

Ken chewed on this, followed you down the sidewalk even further, passing by a string of old houses.

“With someone.”

“Dating them. Seeing them. Committed and whatnot. You have that in… Barbieland too, don’t you?” It felt completely and utterly insane saying that sentence, but you were beginning to realize you’d have to stop caring about how you sounded when you talked to Ken if you wanted to get anywhere with him.

“Sort of. I meant it when I said you don’t have to worry about Barbie, okay? Don’t worry about that, (Y/N). We are just. Friends.”

This wasn’t going where you thought it would. For now, you decided to postpone educating Ken a little further on the boundaries you’d have to set – the ground rules to keep this from turning into something unfair. 

Ken smiled at your side, hated to tear away from your shoulder even to let other people pass, and for now it was enough to hear Ken call you ‘baby’ even if just once, and even if he had no idea what it really meant.

[dk-thrive]

Human beings say, “It never rains but it pours.” This is not very apt, for it frequently does rain without pouring. The rabbits’ proverb is better expressed. They say, “One cloud feels lonely”: and indeed it is true that the sky will soon be overcast.”

― Richard Adams, Watership Down: A Novel (Avon; January 1, 1975) (via Alive on All Channels)

[boobo13cambridge]

Skyfall | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé | OC

As she gazed out of the window, her eyes lingered on the sprawling cityscape of Paris below, a tapestry of lights and shadows. With a resolute heart, she made a silent vow to herself - to live fiercely, to be the champion for those silenced in the shadows. The path ahead was fraught with challenges, but her resolve was unyielding, a debt of honor to the one who believed in her when doubt cast its long shadow. He had been her mentor, her guardian; he had taken her under his protective wing at a time when skepticism clouded her every step. His unwavering presence had been her fortress, standing valiantly by her side, a solitary defender against a sea of naysayers in those echoing halls of judgment that was the Assas.

A solitary tear, a crystal testament to her inner turmoil, traced a path down her cheek, caressing her skin like a whisper of the past. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply, though the city's air was tinged with the bitter notes of reality, but mostly pollution (and was that piss?). A sudden, sharp cough, rattled her body, breaking the spell of her reverie. A rueful smile touched her lips as she mused on the cinematic trope of the enigmatic lawyer, solitary and contemplative, gazing out over a city - a scene far more inspiring in a James Bond movie than in real life.

With a finger raised towards the dark sky, the young woman whispered a prayer into the night. 'Vae victis,' she breathed, her words a soft caress against the chaos of the world, 'woe to the conquered.' Her whispered incantation rode the winds, a spectral force, stirring an unseen tremor that resonated through the city, a silent herald to those who would stand against her. 

Chapter One

August 12th, 2023

Parc des Princes

8:00 p.m.

One hour before kickoff, Laila was seated in the office of President Nasser Al-Khelaifi, wishing he would just get to the point. She had to admit, Kylian Mbappé possessed an almost uncanny ability to send the club's president into bouts of extreme hypertension. The obsession with the young French star seemed borderline obsessive to Laila, almost creepy. She often marveled at how Mbappé managed to maintain his composure and resist the urge to confront the old geezer. From a business standpoint, however, she could grasp why the PSG president was so adamant about retaining the French prodigy; after all, money makes the world go round.

Despite her desires to be anywhere else, fate had different plans. Her late mentor had insisted that she start her so-called mission with the French football club for reasons he didn’t entirely foreclose. It was in these moments, she felt a deep kinship with Harry Potter who also had a mentor who seemed to leave the world with more questions than answers despite the world going to shit. Even from beyond the grave, he seemed to enjoy watching her struggle in this unexpected role. Being a lawyer for PSG was far from what her teenage self had envisioned for her future. But such was life.

“Je ne peux pas croire qu’après tout ce que nous avons fait pour ce connard, il ne veut pas renouveler. Il veut quoi de plus put-” the president grumbled in his accented french.

“Avec le plus grand respect, Mr. le président,” Laila interjected, “vous devez comprendre que les résultats du PSG après le mercato n’étaient pas satisfaisant. Vous lui avez promis un bon mercato, et pourtant, ils ont été éliminés dès les huitièmes de finale en ligue des champions. Et pourquoi? Parce que vous avez mis tout l'accent sur l'acquisition de stars. Sérieusement, qu’est-ce qui vous a traversé l’esprit en voulant avoir Messi, Neymar, et Mbappé dans la même équipe? Et vous pensez vraiment que Messi allait s’essayer si proche de la retraite?”

The words tumbled out of Laila before she could stop them, her frustration with the president's incessant complaints reaching its peak. Sometimes, he acted like a petulant child.

“Et alors, c’est de ma faute ça ?” President Al-Khelaifi retorted defensively.

“Si vous voulez des stars dans votre équipe, Mr. le Président, vous devez avoir un entraîneur capable de gérer leurs égos astronomiques. Messi venait du FC Barcelone, et il était évident le respect qu’il avait pour le PSG. Malheureusement, un coach comme Christophe Galtier ne fait qu'empirer les choses,” Laila countered.

“En tout cas, passons à autre chose. Je veux que tu ailles voir Mbappé et sa famille et que tu essaies de le convaincre. Ils vont être là ce soir pour voir le match.” (As usual, the president didn’t want to discuss anything that put him in a bad light)

“Peut-être que la première chose à faire serait de lui dire qu’il ne sera plus dans le loft?”

“Oui, oui, dis-lui qu’il peut revenir, mais je veux qu’il reste. C’est compris?”

“Sí, señor,” she replied sarcastically, exiting the room swiftly as she noticed President Al-Khelaifi’s eye begin to twitch.

As Laila stepped out of the president's office, she let out a deep sigh and made her way down to the Salon Louvre. Truly, Nasser should’ve been smarter than this but money does have a way of blinding a person. Regardless, she had a job to do and if it meant that she had to play Nasser’s little games, she would do it. Laila knew exactly what the end goal was and she wasn’t going to get distracted. 

As she made her way to the Salon Louvre, where Chef Arnault had promised to reserve some of his renowned crème fraîche and caviar deviled eggs for her, she couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement for the match. Parc des Princes always pulsated with infectious energy and passion, which she adored. The stadium itself was incredible, and the Ultras knew how to light up a stadium. Every time she scrolled through Twitter or Instagram, she saw the tifos they made. The huge banners were truly works of art, and she deeply admired and respected the fans for the effort they put into them.

Her thoughts drifted to her three musketeers, her closest friends, and how carefree they had been before life's harsh realities had intruded. She reminisced about that summer night of August 14th, 2021, when they had come to watch PSG vs Racing Club de Strasbourg, the first match after COVID restrictions were lifted. How different things were back then. She yearned to reconnect and mend the fractures time had caused, but deep down, she knew it was perhaps a futile wish. With her eyes brimming with unshed tears, Laila wandered through the hallways leading to the salon, lost in her memories. Absorbed in her thoughts, she didn't notice the figure in front of her and walked straight into what felt like a very warm wall.

“Tabarnak-,” she swore, instinctively rubbing her nose.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” a voice apologized.

Startled, Laila looked up and found herself face to face with the French captain. Flustered, she took a step back, momentarily at a loss for words. Kylian Mbappé stood before her, and she couldn't help but notice how strikingly handsome he was. Dressed casually in a white Dior t-shirt and paired with stylish brown pants, which complemented his athletic build. His confident posture and the easy smile playing on his lips added to his striking appearance. He naturally carried a certain air of charisma that left her with a dry throat and a racing heart.

And God, those dimples...

How was she supposed to argue with this living reincarnation of big dick energy? Much less, convince him that he would be better off staying in a club where it was quite unlikely that he would ever win a Champions League, forget a Ballon d’Or. Her professor was so lucky to be lounging in the afterlife, because when she did find him, she would make him pay for putting her in this situation.

Kylian's gaze met Laila's, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes at her evident surprise. "You okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Yeah, just... wasn't expecting a human roadblock," Laila joked, trying to mask her nervousness. The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile, those famous dimples making a brief appearance.

"I've been called worse," he chuckled. Kylian's smile took on a knowing edge, his gaze sharp yet playful. "So, Laila Soltani, the lawyer Nasser has brought in to convince me to stay at PSG, eh?"

Laila's eyes widened slightly,  her eyebrows arching in surprise."Yes, that's me. How did you know?"

Kylian leaned in slightly, a playful grin spreading across his face. “See, now I’m more inclined to be offended. Athletes can read too, you know?” he teased, nodding towards her badge.

Laila felt her cheeks warm. “Oh, n-no, that’s not... I mean, I wasn’t—” she stammered, her words tumbling over each other in her fluster.

He laughed, a light, easy sound that seemed to echo around them. “I’m just messing around with you. Besides, it’s not every day the president hires someone specifically to deal with me. You must be quite persuasive.”

Laila laughed, a sound more relaxed than she felt. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mr. Mbappé. But yes, that's why I’m here, in part. Though, convincing someone of your caliber to stay... that's a tall order. My greatest adversary so far."

Kylian's eyes glinted with amusement. "Greatest adversary, huh? Sounds like you’re ready for battle. Just remember, I'm not so easily swayed."

"Oh, we'll see about that," Laila retorted, her own eyes sparkling with the challenge. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Looking forward to it, Mademoiselle. May the best person win."

With a final chuckle, Kylian turned and strode away, leaving Laila to ponder the intriguing encounter. She shook her head, a smile lingering on her lips, and continued her journey to the salon Louvre. As she entered, she was immediately greeted by the buzz of fans, whose enthusiasm seemed to infect her immediately. The modern design boasted a sleek and refined look, with geometric light fixtures casting a constellation of warm, ambient light across the polished floor.

She found Chef Arnault behind the mini bar, a silver-maned sage in the world of haute cuisine. With the twinkle of seasoned joy in his clear blue eyes, he beckoned Laila over with a broad grin that seemed to know more than it let on.

"Well, well, if it isn't our lawyer," he teased, the light in his eyes matching the mischief in his tone as he took in her flushed appearance. "You look like you've just spent the whole evening sweating in a sauna. Let me guess, Mbappé charm in action?"

Laila rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth turned upward involuntarily. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to those who know," he chuckled, presenting her with a plate of deviled eggs, each a small culinary work of art with creamy filling and a crown of caviar. "Here, I made these just for you. They might just give you the boost you need for the evening to deal with the capitaine."

Laila decided to just brush off Arnault's teasing and, not wanting to wait another second, she tossed back a whole deviled egg. The taste was amazing—so good it almost made her moan right there at the bar.

With a quick thanks to the chef, she slipped through the crowd of fans as she heard Michel Montana's voice encouraging the Ultras to cheer for the team. Their chatter was just noise against the hum in her head as she moved to her seat. It was pretty close to the president's spot, giving her an incredible view of the field.

She dropped into her seat, taking in the low buzz of the stadium and the distant echo of the players getting their game faces on. The excitement was kicking in. This wasn't just another day at the office for Laila; it was like stepping onto a chessboard where every move counted. The match was about to start, and she wasn't just thinking about the football. It was game time on all fronts.

___________________________________________________________

A/N: Hello, my lovelies. I'm back ��

[grinchthem]

ok sure we all know that avon's smile is radiant like the sun bursting through the clouds but you know what's underrated? vila's half smile that he does when he's annoyed

[lauvra]

The Progress of Poesy: A Pindaric Ode by Thomas Gray

I.1.

         Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take: The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I.2.

         Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War, Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

I.3.

         Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. O'er Idalia's velvet-green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day With antic Sports and blue-ey'd Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II.1.

         Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war.

II.2.

         In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shiv'ring native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat In loose numbers wildly sweet Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II.3.

         Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown th' Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In ling'ring Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power, And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.1.

         Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III.2.

         Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, The secrets of th' Abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace.

III.3.

         Hark, his hands thy lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— O lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban Eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms, as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

Ephraim's Glory Vanishes

1 When Ephrayim spoke there was trembling; he was exalted in Yisroel; but when he became guilty in Ba’al, he died.

2 And now they sin more and more, and have made for themselves massekhah (idol) of their kesef, and atzabim according to their faculty of binah (understanding), all of it the work of the craftsmen; they say of them, Let adam that sacrifice kiss calf-idols.

3 Therefore they shall be like the anan boker (morning cloud) and as the early dew that disappears, like the motz (chaff) that is driven with the whirlwind out of the threshing floor, and as the smoke out of the window.

4 Yet I am Hashem Eloheicha from Eretz Mitzrayim, and thou shalt know no Elohim but Me; for there is no Moshia besides Me.

5 I did know thee in the midbar, in the eretz taluvot (land of burning heat).

6 According to their pasture (T.N. i.e., as I fed them), so were they filled; they were filled, and their lev became proud; therefore have they forgotten Me.

7 Therefore I will be unto them as a lion; as a leopard by the derech will I lie in wait;

8 I will meet them as a dov (bear) that is bereaved of her cubs, and will rip open the covering of their lev, and there will I devour them like a lion; as the wild beast of the sadeh would tear them.

9 O Yisroel, thou art destroyed; because thou art against Me, thine Ezer (Help).

10 Where now is thy melech that he may save thee? Where in all thy cities are thy shofetim of whom thou saidst, Give me a melech and sarim?

11 I gave thee a melech in Mine anger, and took him away in My wrath [Isa 53:10].

12 The avon (iniquity) of Ephrayim is bound up; his chattat is lurking.

13 The chevlei yoledah (birth pangs of a woman in childbirth) shall come upon him; he is a ben lo chacham; for when it is time he does not come to the opening of the womb.

14 Should I ransom them from the power of Sheol? Should I redeem them from mavet? O Mavet, where are the dever (pestilence, plague) of thee? O Sheol, where is thy destruction? Nocham (sorrow, compassion, pity) shall be hidden from Mine eyes.

15 Even though he thrives among his achim, an east wind shall come, the Ruach Hashem shall come up from the midbar (desert), and his makor (spring, fountain) shall become dry, and his well shall be dried up; it shall plunder the otzar of every keli chemdah (precious vessel).

16 (14:1) Shomron shall bear guilt; for she hath rebelled against her Elohim; they shall fall by the cherev; their olalim shall be dashed in pieces, and their women with child shall be ripped open. — Hosea 13 | Orthodox Jewish Bible (OJB) The Orthodox Jewish Bible fourth edition, OJB. Copyright 2002,2003,2008,2010, 2011 by Artists for Israel International. All rights reserved. Cross References: Genesis 31:40; Genesis 41:6; Genesis 49:22; Exodus 20:3; Deuteronomy 2:7; Deuteronomy 8:12; Deuteronomy 8:14; Deuteronomy 32:6; Deuteronomy 32:34-35; Deuteronomy 33:26; Deuteronomy 33:29; Judges 8:1; Judges 12:1; 1 Samuel 8:5,6 and 7; 1 Samuel 10:17; 2 Samuel 17:8; 1 Kings 19:18; 2 Kings 8:12; 2 Kings 15:16; 2 Kings 17:4; 2 Kings 18:35; Job 10:6; Job 21:18; Job 30:15; Psalm 50:22; Isaiah 44:17; John 16:21; Romans 2:5; 1 Corinthians 15:55; Revelation 6:8; Revelation 13:2

[hinsaa-paramo-dharma]

So uh this character can resurrect the dead, he dies after the plague which is ironic, but his body just slowly decomposes since he gets buried in I cemetery he kind of "absorb the other bodies energy" idk anyways

I need a name for him also do you think he should be a poet??

okay so I have a few name ideas:-

-avahdon (meaning: destruction)

-admatha (meaning: a cloud of death, a mortal vapor)

-dearil (meaning: a call of death)

-osiris (meaning: mighty, name of the Egyptian god of death)

-menahem (meaning: comforter)

-tristan (meaning: sorrowful)

-avon (meaning: river)

-millay (meaning: noble)

-hugh (meaning: soul, mind, intellect)

And if you want to then, sure as hell make him a poet!

[lavoiedeleau]

Le jour où j'ai découvert qu'un autre monde existait

Grâce à des podcasts et bien sur des personnes très inspirante, j'ai souhaite en début d'année 2023 découvrir mes capacités extra sensoriel. Sans aucune connaissance ni protection j'ai commencé une méditation pour découvrir mes dons. J'ai cru avoir découvert un truc hyper rare.

Je remets dans le contexte j'ai fais des études de chimie et de commerce, ma famille est dans la santé ou dans l'agriculture. Seule ma grande soeur commence à s'ouvrir à l'hollistique en organisant des séjours, merci à elle d'avoir ouvert ces portes chez les membres de ma famille. Bon, pourtant aucun d'entre eux n'ont bougé leur système de pensée, pour l'instant ;)

Je reviens à mes moutons, je perçoit alors un bourdonnement fort dans mes oreilles et ma tête se mets à bouger toute seule. Je ressent également un nuage noir au dessus de ma tête, clairement je vois qu'il se passe un truc mais je n'ai aucune idée... J'écrit alors à ma soeur et elle me dit d'aller voir une chamane qu'elle connait.

Vient le jour du rdv, je ne savais pas à quoi m'attendre mais j'ai toujours été en confiance et avec la vision d'un enfant, j'ai laissé la vie me traversé. Je n'ai pas beaucoup de souvenir de ce rdv, je sais qu'elle m'a fait un recouvrement d'âme, qu'elle n'a pas voulu me mettre d'étiquette par rapport à mon parcours d'âme ( ce qui a fortement perturbé mon ego).

Je me rappelle qu'elle était très en colère contre la politique et avait une vision complètement différente que j'aurais imaginé d'une personne spirituelle (douce et bienveillante)

Par contre j'ai eu un gros tournant dans mes émotions suites à cet échange, la vie était tellement douce les mois suivant, un vrai petit cocon. Car la relation avec mon amoureux ayant bien poursuit, nous avons aménagé ensemble.

J'ai appris alors que la vie est pleine de surprise et tout est mis sur notre chemin pour nous faire évoluer.

Thanks to podcasts and of course some very inspiring people, at the beginning of 2023 I wanted to discover my extra sensory abilities. Without any knowledge or protection I started a meditation to discover my gifts. I thought I had discovered something very rare.

Let me put it in context: I studied chemistry and business, my family is in health or agriculture. Only my older sister is starting to open up to the hollistic world by organising holidays, and I'd like to thank her for opening the doors for members of my family. Well, none of them have changed their way of thinking yet ;)

Getting back to the point, I heard a loud ringing in my ears and my head started to move on its own. I also felt a black cloud above my head, clearly I could see something was going on but I had no idea… I wrote to my sister and she told me to go and see a shaman she knew.

The day of the appointment came, I didn't know what to expect but I've always been confident and with the vision of a child, I let life pass me by. I don't remember much about the appointment, but I do know that she gave me a soul overlay, that she didn't want to label me in relation to my soul path (which greatly disturbed my ego).

I remember that she was very angry about politics and had a completely different vision of a spiritual person (gentle and caring) than I would have imagined.

On the other hand, I had a big change in my emotions after this exchange, life was so sweet the following months, a real little cocoon. Because my relationship with my boyfriend had progressed so well, we moved in together.

I learned then that life is full of surprises and everything is put in our path to help us evolve.

[xjoonchildx]

u should try using 'little black dress by avon' its such a mellow and beautiful smell! i wear it almost every day and the amount of confidence it gives me is insane. definitely has to be my top scent of ALL time!

ooh anon, i'll have to check it out!

the notes look pretty -- i love ginger and musk:

here's what's in heavy current rotation for me right now:

strawberry letter by phlur:

i had my doubts, but she's that girl. strawberry without being too candy-like, awesome sillage.

hundred silent ways by nishane:

i've heard people call this scent basic but ... it's just so freaking well done. wearing it is like walking around in a lovely cloud.

milk by dedcool:

zero explanations needed. i have the lotion, the body wash, the laundry detergent. obsessed.

rosie by rosie jane:

this is a more floral milk and it's the scent i can throw on without thinking. always pretty and soft and yummy and cozy. like a perfect sweater.

lucky candy by montale:

this is kind of self-indulgent. sweet, sweet marshmallow scent that just makes me happy. fragrance doesn't have to be high art all the time, ya know?

[mayamistake]

What better way to celebrate the 50th anniversary of the She-Devil With a Sword than to revisit her greatest tales in an all-new hardcover collection? Brought together for the first time in a single volume, these storied sagas trace the legendary exploits of the Hyboria’s favorite daughter over five skull-smashing, tavern-wrecking decades!

From her earliest comic book appearances in Marvel Feature and the very first Red Sonja series — penned by such legendary talents as ROY THOMAS and FRANK THORNE — to her contemporary epics crafted by celebrated scribes like GAIL SIMONE, MICHAEL AVON OEMING, and LUKE LIEBERMAN and artistic titans like WALTER GEOVANNI, MEL RUBI, and LIAM SHARP, The Best of Red Sonja brings readers more than 350 pages of crimson-maned classics — including:

“The Temple of Abomination!” — Roy Thomas & Dick Giordano

“Red Sonja” — Roy Thomas & Esteban Maroto

“The Blood of the Unicorn” — Roy Thomas, Ed Summer, Clara Noto & Frank Thorne

“The Day of the Sword” — Roy Thomas, Doug Moench, Dick Giordano & Terry Austin

“The Message” — Michael Avon Oeming, Mike Carey& Mel Rubi

“The Return of Kulan Gath” — Michael Avon Oeming, Mel Rubi & Stephen Sadowski

“Birth of a She-Devil” — Luke Lieberman & Sergio Davila

“One More Day” — Jimmy Palmiotti, Justin Grey & Liam Sharp

“The Cloud Tiger” — Arvid Nelson & Pablo Marcos

“Wolves on the Road” — Eric Trautmann & Walter Geovani

“Red Sonja” — Gail Simone & Walter Geovani

“Queen of the Frozen Wastes” — Frank Cho, Doug Murray & Gregory Homs

“Worlds Away” — Amy Chu & Carlos Gomez

“The Coronation” — Mark Russell & Mirko Colak

“Three Wishes” — Luke Lieberman & Sergio Davila

[waitingforwinterwinds]

ASOS; Steel and Snow: 10 DAVOS II (pages 133-145)

Davos reunites with Salladhor Saan, who catches him up on the post battle report, then Davos heads off to see Stannis and Kill Melisandre, only to find himself arrested by the queen's men before he can do either.

-

The great fire that burned atop the Sharp Point watchtower at the end of Massey's Hook reminded him of the ruby she wore at her throat, and when the world turned red at dawn and sunset the drifting clouds turned the same color as the silks and satins of her rustling gowns.

ruby = 🥛

He insisted that Davos share his provisions as well, though that turned out badly. His stomach could not tolerate the snails and lampreys and other rich food Captain Khorane so relished, and after his first meal at the captain's table he spent the rest of the day with one end or the other dangling over the rail.

I am so glad D&D weren't allowed to get their hands on this scene, they would have made it "haha, look a poop joke, lol, so random"

Davos is so freaking lucky he didn't end up with refeeding syndrome and die. He's had basically nothing but a few raw tiny crabs for several days.

That was before the onion ship, before Storm's End, before Stannis shortened my fingers.

Actually, while he's bringing it up, cause, Davos kept his fingerbones in a pouch around his neck to remind him of Stannis' justice, that there was mercy, fairness, but it was still upheld.

But he lost those bones during the Battle of Blackwater. He mentioned it in his last chapter.

I wonder if that's GRRM's way of saying "this is the point that starts going. Here is where we're going to see Stannis has crossed a line and he can't come back from this anymore. That Stannis no longer exists."

Or if this is the point from which Davos realises that Stannis is gone.

(because obviously, using magic to create shadow babysassins is definitely a line crossed, or the slippery slope he falls from.)

... I like Salladhor Saan. It feels like he and Davos are genuinely some kind of friends, that there's real concern and care for Davos in Salla's fussing for his health, and not just some manipulation. Of course he wouldn't say no is Davos went looking for new employ, though.

... well done to this gate guard. He'd do well at a bottle-shop. Customer: *is clearly 60+* Guard: can I see some ID? No, but seriously, good on him for not trusting someone who is claiming to be someone all but confirmed dead. He would not be fooled by a vampire pretending to be the Avon lady.

...SHIREEN!!! hi sweetie.

Hopping from foot to the other, he sang, "Fool's blood, king's blood, blood on the maiden's thigh, but chains for the guests and chains for the bridegroom, aye aye aye."

Hmmm, prophecy or nonsense? Clearly ("bridegroom") about a wedding, but which?

Sansa and Tyrion's? Fool's blood, king's blood could mean Tyrion, he is of Joffrey's blood, thus king's blood, but he's treated like he's not a true member of the bloodline by his father, like fool's gold...

blood on the maiden's thigh could mean Sansa's newly 'blossomed' status.

And it is an act made to chain the couple to Tywin and Cersei's will.

Or I might be reaching and it could be about one of the other fun (sarcasm) weddings lined up.

... !!!! EDRIC!!!! He's alive!!! ... for now... Melisandre! Stay away from the small child!

...Ummmm, just to... Does Gendry in the show, by chance, take up a role that belongs to Edric in the books? Like, say... a sacrificial one? Or does he just also have sacrificial purposes?

It'll be interesting to see, because Edric was cut from the show, so I don't know if he was cut completely, or if his story lines were passed off piecemeal to someone else. (Like how Jeyne had a cameo in the pilot but then was erased until D&D gave her plot-line to Sansa because they can't write political intrigue without someone smart holding their hand/writing it for them.)

"Ser Davos, and undrowned. How can that be?" "Onions float, ser. -"

Ehehehehe.

"- Have you come to take me to the king?" "I have come to take you to the dungeon." Ser Axell waved his men forward. "Seize him, and take his dirk. He means to use it on our lady."

Ah. bugger.

[parfumieren]

Garden Lace (Princess Livia)

I found it in a display case at a local ladies' consignment shop: a slender tablet of transparent pale-green glass surmounted by a milky celadon cap.  Though unfamiliar with the brand, I could tell from the white Madonna lily imprinted on its face that it was grade-A bridal material.

I prepared to be bored off my tits.

"Lily white florals envelop you like a veil of delicate lace..."  So runs the descriptive text offered by Princess Livia's parent company, the Chicago-based beauty corporation Cosmetíque.  I'm sure the symbolic import of the color white carried a different weight back when brides actually were virgins, their innocence enforced by the twin authorities of God and Good Breeding.  But these are obsolete standards to which few modern women subscribe.  What does "lily white" mean today?

In Garden Lace, it means green, green, green.  Green is the color of growth and fertility, and I admire the makers of Garden Lace for choosing the spectrum's most fecund hue over the predictable purity of white.  A woman is not a pillar of cloud, after all; rather, she's far better off emulating the primitive Eve described by Stella Gibbons in Cold Comfort Farm: "as close to the earth as a bloomy greengage". In a similar spirit, Garden Lace's green is fresh, sappy, and slightly bittersweet, like the sticky juice produced by broken flower stalks.  I'm not certain it's bona fide galbanum -- there's something a little too tinny and synthetic about it -- but it acquits itself honorably as the dark, shady background against which this sweet spring floral can pop.

Speaking of flowers, I'd say there's more lilac than lily in Garden Lace-- but again, this is not a drawback.  Lilac plays well with others, particularly muguet. Here, the two friends mingle with a subtle spice dimension that further erodes the vision of bridal purity.  I only wish they'd been given more playmates, in the form of one or two anchoring resins.  (Styrax or benzoin leap to mind-- lighter than amber or labdanum, and powdery enough to counterbalance that sticky sap element.)  The drydown is a mild, lactonic thing as opaquely milky-minty as that plastic cap.

Not bad for an Avon wannabe priced at $1.50!

Scent Elements: Lily, muguet, violet, lilac, peony, jasmine, rose

[xtruss]

Florida’s Vanishing Sparrows

A group of eccentric endangered birds serves as a bellwether of the climate crisis.

— By Dexter Filkins |July 17, 2023

The survival of the Florida grasshopper sparrow is in doubt, but the scientists who are working to help the species refuse to give up.Photograph from Nature Picture Library/Alamy

The Avon Park Air Force Range, in central Florida, is a noisy place. Most weeks, American pilots practice dropping bombs and firing rockets there, turning old Humvees into clouds of scrap metal and smoke. Last month, a crowd gathered at the range to listen for the song of the Florida grasshopper sparrow—a faint chittering noise that evokes an insect’s buzz, giving the bird its name. As the crowd looked on expectantly, a group of tiny birds, small enough to fit in your palm, ventured tentatively from a pen, looked into the sunshine, and then flew away. The grasshopper sparrow, a modest and eccentric creature that inhabits the prairies of the central and southern parts of the state, is considered the most endangered bird in the continental United States. The birds at the bombing range were part of a program to bring their species back from the brink. “It will be hard, but we think this sparrow is worth saving,” Angela Tringali, a researcher at Archbold Biological Station, which is involved in the effort, told me.

With its subtropical climate, Florida hosts a vast array of wildlife that exists nowhere else in the county. But years of relentless human population growth have driven many to the vanishing point: Florida is home to sixty-seven species of threatened and endangered animals, among the highest numbers in the continental U.S. Those include the Miami blue butterfly, the Everglade snail kite, and the Florida panther, of which fewer than two hundred and fifty remain.

Birds that nest on or near the ground—like the Cape Sable seaside sparrow and the grasshopper sparrow—are especially vulnerable. Grasshopper sparrows can fly, but they spend most of their lives on the ground, nesting in clumps of tall grass. This provides easy access to the insects that they eat (though it also makes them susceptible to predators, like skunks and snakes). As more and more people moved to Florida, their habitat—in the prairies that used to cover much of the state south of Orlando—gave way to shopping centers and housing tracts.

For decades, scientists watched the sparrows’ numbers slowly ebb. In 1986, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service declared them endangered; by the end of the century, there were thought to be fewer than a thousand left. Shortly after that, the population began dropping precipitously, and by 2012 as few as seventy-five males remained. Beyond habitat loss, the reasons for the steep decline weren’t entirely clear, though some scientists suspected fire ants, an invasive species. “We started to panic,” Mary Peterson, an endangered species biologist with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, said.

As the sparrows approached extinction, Peterson and other scientists decided that they couldn’t risk letting the bird continue to breed only in the wild. After identifying three concentrations of birds in protected habitats, and one on a private ranch, they gathered what adults they could and began breeding them in captivity around the state. Captive breeding is generally considered a last resort—some species of birds and other animals don’t survive it. But, Peterson said, “the risk of not doing anything could be catastrophic.” The scientists released their first batch of youngsters, a dozen birds, in 2019. Since then, they have bred and released more than seven hundred. In a good year, about a quarter of the chicks survive to adulthood in the wild; the release at the Avon Park bombing range last week brought the estimated number of birds to about two hundred and fifty.

The Avon Park range appears to be an especially promising venue for the birds. With more than a hundred thousand acres, it contains more than a dozen other threatened and endangered species. Twenty years ago, before populations collapsed, it was home to about three hundred grasshopper sparrows. The Department of Defense has proved to be an eager partner in preservation: Charles (Buck) MacLaughlin, the range operations officer, told me that the Air Force and the Fish and Wildlife Service periodically survey the landscape, when there aren’t air strikes scheduled. “I don’t think any have been killed there,” he told me.

Still, the survival of the grasshopper sparrow is in doubt. “Extinction is still a possibility,” Peterson said. The scientists aim to create ten protected sites of at least fifty breeding pairs each—a goal that is many years away, at best. The challenge is less in breeding sufficient numbers than in finding space for them; some ninety per cent of the bird’s historic habitat is gone. There are similar stories throughout the state. The Florida panther is making a modest comeback, but it’s constrained by human presence in the Everglades; last year, some twenty-five panthers were killed by cars. In the oceans off the coast, temperatures of ninety-plus degrees threaten coral reefs. But the scientists who are working to help the grasshopper sparrow refuse to give up. Tringali, the biologist, told me, “It’s really easy to do nothing. We are not done. We have a long way to go.” ♦

[ofthreechords]

So... I wrote a whole fic of Kerry and my V in a Sunless Skies / Fallen London AU. I suppose I just liked the idea enough to write all this out. Enjoy, I guess.

In this AU, I interpret Kerry's title as The Dispirited Muse, and V is The Remorseful Captain. This fic is approximately 3.8k words long, and is split into three parts. Nothing too explicit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~ part 1 ~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Dispirited Muse coughed into his sleeve, followed by another, and then another after that. The London smog found its way into his lungs. Covering his mouth with the inside of his coat, he walked briskly through the streets, with a clouded expression not unlike what poured from the smokestacks.

He huffed as he tugged on the shoulder strap holding up his guitar case. The busts of Her Enduring Majesty around the station did nothing to ease his bitterness. His frustrated steps echoed along the halls and his eyes were fixed on the floor. His mind was only on one track – getting away from this wretched place.

As he reached the dock and started navigating the crowds, his hand went into his pocket. He clutched his coin purse, feeling the texture of the Sovereigns he'd saved up since departing from his band. His eyes turned to the locomotives, great vessels that braved the heavens. He scanned those that were docked for captains that he could catch the attention of.

His eyes fell on what he assumed must have been a captain. His peaked cap partially concealed his red hair, and his arms were crossed as he watched repairmen finish work on his vessel. As the Dispirited Muse approached, the captain turned his gaze to him. He had a youthful face framed by a scruffy beard, but his eyes carried a somber note.

"Are you taking passengers?" The Muse asked.

The captain gave a subtle eyebrow raise, "Where to?"

“Port Avon,” the Muse replied. He fished out his coin purse, opening it to show the captain its contents.

Looking at the purse, the captain seemed to think for a moment, before gazing at the Muse again. "What for?"

Then the Muse hesitated for a moment, trying to decide on the vagueness of his answer. “Vacation, I guess,” he eventually said, “Need to get away from London for a bit.”

Without a change to his expression, the captain gave a nod, deeming the answer satisfactory. He gestured to the locomotive’s entrance, “Welcome aboard.”

The vessel itself wasn’t impressive, both inside and out, but it looked sturdy and capable enough. The captain led the Muse through the halls, offering nods of greeting to his crew as they passed by. He took the Muse to one of the cabins, sporting wooden bunks, a stained-glass window, and an overhead rail to hold on to in case of sudden movement. It was no doubt meant for the crew, but it was neat enough to suit passengers and guests.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he offered softly, “And feel free to mingle with the crew. We’re an alright bunch, but if we run into something nasty out there, it’s best you stay here and out of our way.”

“Understood,” the Muse gave a nod, then presented his coin purse again, “Do you want your pay now?”

The captain hesitated, but then he reached into the purse, pulling out a few Sovereigns. “I’ll take half; the rest we can discuss on the way.” Then a pause, as his gaze flicked to the guitar case, a peculiar look in his eyes. “I might charge you less if you play for us. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

A thoughtful expression crossed the Muse's features as he watched the captain leave. Setting down his case, he sat on the bed and gazed idly at the door. He listened as the banging and clanging of repairs came to an end, and footsteps started filling the hallways, presumably from the crew making their final checks before flight. One crewman stopped by and offered a short greeting, but didn’t stay – just returned to his rounds.

The whistle sounded, along with a bell ringing, and calls from various crew. The locomotive rumbled as the latches were released, and they took to the skies, leaving London behind. Between canopies of metal pipes and smokestacks, the lurid glow of the Clockwork Sun shone through – a sight the Muse was sure he wouldn’t miss. The stained glass of the window made it easier to bear, though, and he stared idly at it to pass the time – he didn’t quite feel in the mood for playing.

After the relay to the Reach, the garish rays were replaced with calm bioluminescence from the surrounding flora. The first inklings of fatigue started coaxing the Muse to sleep. He was about to lie down, before he heard the door open.

A woman poked her head – or rather, half her body in. Soot was lightly drizzled on her overalls, her dark hair was swept to one side – she must have been a mechanic. Her eyes widened in realization, and she retreated back through the doorway, “I should have knocked.”

“You’re fine,” the Muse offered back. “Something you need?”

The mechanic pointed her thumb down one side of the hallway, and she spoke rather tersely, “There’s food in the mess if you’re hungry. We have a good cook, you don’t want to miss it.”

The Muse thought for a moment. He was feeling peckish, at best, but perhaps it would have been better for him to eat than not to. A subtle sigh as he gazed back at the woman, “I’ll be down in a bit.”

She nodded and then disappeared from the doorframe, leaving the Muse alone with his thoughts again. His gaze turned to his guitar – if he were in the mess hall with the ship’s crew, they might ask him to play for them. Normally, he’d be happy to, but for now, he simply could not find the motivation. He rose from his seat and started down the hallway.

In the center of the mess hall was a long table, around which sat most of the crew, making shallow conversation as they ate their stew. Off to the side was the kitchen, in front of which stood the captain, waiting as the cook ladled stew into his bowl. He caught the Muse’s eye, offering a brief nod before he left, taking his bowl with him.

The Muse gazed after him for a moment, thinking, wondering. Then, shaking his thoughts, he headed up to the chef – a tall man with tan skin, a buzz cut, and a comforting smile. He handed the Muse a bowl of stew, “Enjoy.”

The warm, savory notes of the stew’s aroma made the Muse’s mouth water. With a thankful nod, he took the bowl and settled at the table. The crew’s eyes turned to him with cautious interest – among them, the mechanic from before. The Muse gave a slight nod, just to acknowledge them, before he started lifting spoonfuls of stew into his mouth.

The mechanic spoke up. “Captain says we’re headed for New Winchester,” she explained, “But we’re stopping at Port Avon on the way. Is that where you’re heading?”

“Yes, I am,” the Muse responded. He paused, and again he felt like he had to explain himself, “I just felt sick of London. Needed to get away.”

“I hear that. It’s why we’re all out here.”

The rest of the crew exchanged murmurs and expressions of agreement, before one turned to the Muse again, “I hope you have enough gossip to entertain the locals.”

He smiled lightly, “I do. And if I run out, I’ve got my guitar.”

“Are you going to play for us, though?” The mechanic asked, giving a soft smile. “Before you leave?” There was a subtle glow of anticipation in her eyes, and the rest of the crew followed suit.

There was a pause, after which the Muse gave a shrug, his expression showing a hint of regret. “I need to replace the strings,” he lied, "Maybe later." He could see the disappointment on the crew’s faces, but unfortunately he still wasn’t feeling up to it.

Suddenly, a series of clanking and clanging noises resounded through the locomotive, as if a scattering of projectiles were peppering the hull. The piercing shout of a horn was heard, echoing throughout the hallway – followed by the captain’s voice, bellowing, “All hands to battle stations! We’re under attack!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~ part 2 ~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The engineer looked to the Muse, “Grab a rail and hold on!” She and the crew then clamored out of the mess hall, and the cook rushed to fasten his cutlery and cookware.

The locomotive swerved to the side, and the Muse let out a yelp from the sudden movement, landing clumsily against a wall-mounted grab rail. He clasped his hand around it, before turning to the stained-glass window, where a massive shadow thundered closely by. With a loose grip on the rail, the Muse scrambled to the window tried to make out the shape of the attacker. A smokestack, turning wheels, and a set of stained-glass windows – it was another locomotive.

The Muse’s eyes widened, and he turned to the cook, “Pirates?”

Making his way to the window, the cook studied their attacker, an urgent look crossing his features. “No. Look at how it moves.”

The other vessel jerked erratically back and forth with its side jets. It turned to face them again, and steam and fire exploded from its rear thruster, barrelling towards the locomotive and threatening to crash into them.

With a gasp, the Muse retreated back from the window. The locomotive jumped to the side again, narrowly dodging as the attacker roared by. Returning to the window, the Muse gazed at it for another moment, before looking to the cook again. “They must be insane.”

The cook’s face filled with dread. He responded gravely, “They are. They’re star-maddened.”

The Muse looked out the window once more, gazing at the other vessel. His expression darkened in dire realization. He’d heard of the condition before, caused by prolonged exposure to the harsh light of distant stars. It rotted the minds of once-ambitious skyfarers to hollow shells, leaving delirium where there were once dreams.

“Fire!” The captain’s call rang through the hallway. A barrage of missiles and gunfire surged forth from the locomotive’s front weapons, hitting their mark and ripping it apart. Out from the explosion flew metal scraps and corpses, some whole and others not. The Muse watched as they drifted away, at the bodies that hosted lives that wished, yearned, and hoped.

The roar of the locomotive's engine tapered off into a low rumble. Brisk footsteps came through the hallway, and the captain entered the mess hall. Following him was a woman whose hair was tied into a bun – judging from her uniform, she must have been an officer or a pilot. The captain looked to the cook and the Muse, “You two alright?”

The Muse nodded, “Yes, I am,” then paused before asking, “That ship – were they star-maddened?”

A grimness flashed through the Captain’s eyes. “I’m afraid so,” he said softly. Then he turned to the cook, “Could you brew us some tea? And – bring out some brandy. Some of us might need it.”

“Of course,” the cook replied, then returned to the kitchen to resume his work. The captain then turned to the woman beside him, “This would have been our last voyage, if not for your piloting. Take the rest of the night off; you’ve earned it.”

The pilot smiled, “Thank you, captain.”

The captain excused himself and headed back into the hallway. The pilot took a seat by the kitchen, offering a nod at the Muse to acknowledge him. The Muse returned the gesture, then headed over to the hallway entrance, gazing into it to see the captain addressing some of the other crew. He ordered them to don sky-suits and assess the damage on the hull before they retired to their quarters for the night.

The crew headed off, and the captain disappeared into his quarters. The Muse returned to his room, intending to lay down and go to sleep, but when his eyes fell on his guitar case, he thought for a moment. Gazing out the window, he looked to where the star-maddened locomotive once was, quietly brooding over his realization from earlier. That was the end of the story for that vessel and its crew – they took to the skies with the stars in their eyes, and those same stars eroded their minds to nothingness. Their thoughts were reduced to insanity, and their bodies were reduced to smithereens.

Bowing his head, the Muse observed a moment of silence. The engineers returned to the ship, removing their suits and heading to the mess hall for tea before bed. The Muse turned around and looked to his guitar case again, getting an idea. He opened the case and retrieved the guitar, then carried it to the mess hall.

The crew’s eyes fell on him as he entered, their expressions showing cautious interest, and he gave a subtle smile in response. Taking a seat at the corner of the mess hall, he went through the motions of tuning his guitar. He looked back to the crew watching him, and he offered softly, “I hope none of you mind.”

The pilot rose from her seat, shaking her head with a friendly smile. “Not at all,” she said, and she relocated to a seat closer to the Muse. “Go ahead. Please.”

A nod was given, before the Muse looked back to his guitar, his hands in position. Once again, his thoughts turned to the locomotive and crew they’d just ended. The smile faded from his face, and his thoughts, his feelings translated to his fingers.

It started with a single, solitary note that rang out through the air until it faded into silence. It was followed by another note that did the same. More notes were urged forth, each taking their own lonely space, before they were joined by more still – and then the Muse, fingers dancing across the strings, wove them into a pensive, mournful elegy. It lamented the transience, the insignificance of smaller beings amidst a universe that cared nothing for them. It grieved those who had dreams that could never be realized, love that could never be fulfilled. Its melodies intertwined and grew to an indomitable, undeniable crescendo, and its last notes echoed with solemn acceptance.

The Muse closed his eyes and lowered his head, somewhat winded from his own performance, but he looked up to see the crew offering their warm applause. Some whistled, some wiped away tears. At the corner of his vision, the Muse spotted the captain leaning against the doorway, and he turned to gaze at him. His eyes showed a somberness that was similar to before, but there was also a hint of what seemed like catharsis.

Amidst the crew’s praises, the captain made his way over to the Muse. The ghost of a smile was on his lips. “Beautiful,” he said softly, “Thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” the Muse offered back, before turning to the rest of the crew, “All of you.”

The captain turned to the crew, addressing them with a wave of his hand. “Alright – night crew, keep watch. The rest of you, get some sleep. You’ll need it.”

They said their goodnights to the captain and the Muse, and murmured softly amongst themselves as they filed out through the doorway. Left alone in the mess hall, The captain looked to the Muse again, then gestured in the direction of the kitchen. “Cup of tea?” He suggested.

“Yes, please,” the Muse responded, offering a nod in gratitude. “Thank you.”

A kettle had already been set out, so the captain poured a cup for himself and for the Muse, who took it with a thankful smile. The Muse took a seat at the table, gazing at the captain as he joined him.

In between sips of tea, the Muse remarked, “Your crew seem to like you.”

The captain shrugged. “I do my best to keep them safe,” he replied quietly, “And satisfied. If they didn’t trust each other, or trust me – well, we wouldn’t be getting anywhere.”

The Muse gave a nod in agreement. “I hear you. That’s why I left my band.”

Then the captain raised his brow. “Oh?”

“Yeah, we got along at first,” the Muse explained, “Even made some good music. But then we got into more and more disagreements – we saw things differently, we wanted different things, and we fought because of it.”

His expression softened as his thoughts turned to one particular former bandmate of his; one whose words still echoed in his head, weighed down his heart. With a sober tone, he finished, “I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left.”

The captain gave a look of understanding. “So that’s why you’re here. Why you’re going to Port Avon.”

The Muse nodded, “I’m hoping some time there will help me cool off.”

The captain nodded as well, still the look of understanding on his face. The Dispirited Muse gazed at him for another moment, before deciding to change the subject.

“So, uh,” he gestured around him, at the locomotive at large, “Before this, were you a zailor in the Unterzee?”

“No, actually,” the captain shook his head, “I never got the idea until we all came here, to the… ‘heavens.’” He shrugged. “I suppose I just like trains more than boats.”

“How long have you had this train, then?” The Muse inquired with a smile, “She’s a fine vessel.”

The captain smiled back, “She is. Bought her a few years back, with my old crew. I remember the day we first took flight with her.” His eyes gleamed with a hint of nostalgia.

The Muse gave a look of interest, “You had a crew before this one? Where are they now?”

The smile disappeared from the captain’s face, and he hesitated to answer. His expression softened, and his eyes took on the same somber look from earlier.

In realization of what he’d just done, the Muse’s eyes widened, and he extended his hand in a placating gesture. “Oh, no,” he said, “It’s alright. You don’t have to say anything.”

The captain turned his gaze away, looking at nothing in particular, and the Muse could see the sorrow in his eyes. When he looked to the Muse again, he spoke with a tone heavy with contrition, “It was an expedition gone wrong.” He paused for a moment, “A heist, more like. We messed up, the authorities came after us. I’m the only one who made it out alive.”

Guilt washed over the Muse for making the captain relive the memory. He had questions, but he decided against asking them. He frowned deeply, before giving a look of sympathy, “I’m truly sorry.”

Still the somber gaze, the captain continued, “It’s why I care so much about my crew’s safety now. No more wild expeditions, dangerous heists. Just honest work, and a stable income for my crew.”

The Muse nodded, “I understand.” Suddenly, he felt an urge to say something that would console the other man, and so he offered, “Well, I’m sure your crew appreciates what you do. You treat them fairly, and they trust and respect you. That counts for something.”

The captain held his gaze for a moment, and from the look in his eyes, it seemed that the Muse’s words had eased him somewhat. His lips pulling into a subtle smile, the Remorseful Captain offered back, “Thank you.”

Eyes glowing with sincerity, the Muse gave a warm smile. He rose from his seat, “Well, I ought to head to bed. It was good chatting with you, I appreciated it.”

“So did I,” the Captain affirmed, rising from his own seat. “Go get some rest.”

The Muse picked up his cup with one hand and gave a mock-salute with the other. “Yes, Captain,” he said with a lighthearted tone. “You should get some sleep, too. Good night.”

“Good night,” the Captain replied back. His expression conveyed a hint of gratitude.

After putting his cup away, the Muse gave the Captain one last smile, before heading down the hallway and back to his room. He looked out the window for a moment, at the stars that dotted the distant skies, thinking briefly about the Captain. Then, as fatigue crept up on him, he climbed into the bed and closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~ part 3 ~~~~~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Muse stood at the locomotive’s exit, guitar strapped to his back. Port Avon laid before him, presenting lush farmyards and homesteads on floating islands, the air carrying the scent of leaves and wood smoke. A distant nebula shined onto the village, its light as mellow as lemon cake. Gazing forward, the Muse could see villagers casting curious glances at the locomotive, and he wondered how long they’d be letting him stay, even with his supply of salon-stewed gossip.

He’d paid the rest of his fare – or, at least, whatever little the Captain was still willing to take – then said his goodbyes to him and the rest of the crew. He stepped off the locomotive and onto the grass, turning his head to see some of the crew waving at him from the windows. With a smile, he waved back, before the Captain appeared again at the vessel’s entrance.

“Wait!” The Captain called. In his hand, he carried a bottle of champagne, with a lace bow wrapped around its neck. He held it out as he went up to the Muse, “I want you to have this.”

The Muse’s eyes widened as the Captain headed towards him, and he hesitated to take the bottle. He shook his head, “I shouldn’t.”

“Take it,” the Captain insisted, his smile as genuine as the light from above. “It might convince the locals to let you stay a little longer.”

Unable to resist the Captain’s expression, the Muse relented and took the bottle. His face showed his gratitude, “Thank you.”

The Captain’s smile lingered for another moment, before shifting to a curious look, “So, how long do you plan on staying?”

“Not sure,” the Muse replied with a shrug, “As long as they’ll have me, I guess. If I run out of gossip and they get tired of me, I’ll hop on the first vessel that’ll take me out of here.”

The Captain’s expression turned to a thoughtful gaze. “We'll be coming this direction again in a few days. We can make another stop here, in case you feel you've worn out your welcome by then, and we'll take you home."

The Muse held the other man’s gaze for a moment, before smiling once again. “I’d appreciate that.”

The Captain gave one last smile in return. “Well, we should be going. Hope to see you again.” With that, he nodded and started back towards the locomotive.

“I hope so too,” the Muse offered back, raising a hand to wave him off. “Safe travels!”

The Captain gazed back at the Muse, his eyes glimmering with warmth, before he disappeared behind the locomotive’s entrance doors. Through the stained-glass windows, the Muse saw the vessel’s crew moving about and returning to their stations. He continued to wave as the latches were released and the whistle was blown, and he watched as the locomotive took to the sky again.

The locomotive turned around the corner of a floating island, and the Muse finally lowered his hand, and gave a sigh. Gazing at where the vessel had disappeared, his expression softened, though the smile remained on his face. Finally, he turned around, and continued into the village proper.