#black windows or doors. these sofas from different packs would match really well except that they dont have any similar swatches

[voidimp]

wait i did remember but im still leaving that post as is. the thing that finally convinced me to get ts4 (admittedly not particularly long after its initial release but still) was seeing a screenshot of a house someone had built & just how like. clean & polished it looked. & how vibrant the colors & lighting were. ts3 really suffered from the attempted realism with like every little overly detailed wood grain & fabric texture that kind of made it feel very busy & almost like. dirty?? & ts4 just like. did away with all of that & it looked so refreshing. & admittedly i disagree with some of the design choices (a lot of the hairs are so. so chunky. like i like the shapes but why are they so big) but overall i really do think its a more aesthetically pleasing game. & i also think the simpler style has helped it hold up for as long as it has. looking back at ts3 its like. oh that did not age very well actually. but i feel like games that are more stylized dont suffer as much from that

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 29 Part II

“You want me to what?” Nelly said, laughing. “I’m just about to wash my hair. I can’t.”

“Wash your hair?” said Buster, as though he’d never heard such a preposterous thing. 

“Yes, wash my hair. I told you before, I do it every Saturday.”

It wasn’t just the disruption in her toilette that made her hesitate. If staying at Buster’s bungalow was risky, stepping across the threshold of the Villa door when he was supposedly alone was downright dangerous. She didn’t trust that an important item hadn’t been left behind and that Natalie wouldn’t pop back in at any moment to retrieve it. She could also picture a sudden return due to illness, perhaps indigestion or the heat of the May sun.

“Poppycock,” said Buster, when she aired these fears. 

“How so?”

“They left for the train station at six this morning. Won’t be back for a whole week.”

“Yes, but …”

Buster told her all the ways in which her misgivings were foolish. “You can spend the night,” he added, in a teasing, tempting tone.

“I can’t,” she said. She ignored the instant flash of heat between her legs at his words.  

“Don’t you wanna see where I sleep?” 

The heat prickled. She did. “Do you think I’m that easy?” she said, not ready to quite surrender.

Buster laughed. “I do. Anyway, you can wash your hair here. I have a bathtub, you know. And a shower.”

Nelly gave it some consideration. “You promise everyone is gone?” she said at last. She wanted to add Your children, your wife, and your servants? but trusted he knew what she meant.

“Not a soul except you and me, sweetheart.”

“Okay, I give in,” she said. “Don’t think I think it’s a good idea, though, because I don’t.”

Buster showed up forty-five minutes later, parking a few houses down on Genesee Avenue. He had tipped her off that he was coming in a black Gardner car. It was rather ordinary-looking, his butler’s personal vehicle he’d said, and she understood why he’d chosen it. In the bright morning light, one of his luxury cars would have been more conspicuous than it was in the late evenings when he usually came around. He sat in the driver’s seat almost completely concealed behind a newspaper as she approached, carrying her handbag and a small satchel with some clothing.

“Good morning,” she said, after opening the passenger door and settling herself inside. She couldn’t help herself grinning ear from ear at the sight of him. It was only the third time she’d seen him since he’d returned from New York. 

“Morning,” he said, answering her smile. He folded the paper and tossed it in the backseat. “You ready to be queen of a castle for a day?”

“I will be a guest of the castle,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Joke or not, the idea of her somehow taking Natalie Talmadge’s place at the Villa made her uneasy. Thoughts of Mistress Nell Gwyn, which she’d long since finished reading, flashed through her mind. 

“Alright, guest then.” He turned the key in the ignition and then swung the car onto the road. 

After he had shifted the car up to a comfortable traveling speed, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. She knew him well enough already to know that he wasn't the type to say things like ‘I missed you’ out loud, it just wasn’t him. The kiss said it all the same.

Truth be told, as much as Nelly was glad to see him, she was nervous to be even a guest at the Villa and not simply because Natalie could return at any moment. She could forget that Buster occupied a different world when they were at her apartment or the modest bungalow outside the M-G-M gates; she could not forget it amidst the splendor and sumptuousness of the Villa. Moreover, the Villa was Natalie’s territory, built with her in mind as Buster had once told her. It didn’t feel right sneaking around her house while she was gone. 

When Buster shifted down a gear again, he kept her hand in his so that her hand was also on the stick. He drove that way for several minutes, whistling, caressing her hand beneath his. Nelly was occupied enough without conversation, half fretting about setting foot inside the Villa, half wondering at the mansions of Beverly Hills, sprawling cream chateaus in the French and Mediterranean styles, most with red roofs. They all seemed to be variations of the Villa, or vice versa. 

Her stomach grew jittery as the meticulous, manicured hills of the Villa came into view. Buster went up the drive, still whistling cheerfully, oblivious to her discomfort. He pulled the car through the circle drive with the fountain, shifted down, and turned it off. 

“M’lady,” he said gravely when he opened her door. She handed him her satchel and he took her hand with his free one and helped her down. The fountain burbled pleasantly as she looked up at Buster’s palace. She should have been bright with anticipation, but all that she felt was a gnawing dread. 

“Sure they’re gone?” she said. 

“Sure as anything,” Buster said, burying his face in the side of her neck and kissing it abundantly. For once, it failed to distract her. 

“Alright.”

He took her hand again and pulled her up the steps and to the mahogany door with its interlocking diamond-patterned metalwork. Electric light burned in the large black iron sconces by the door even though it was day. Still holding her hand, Buster turned the door handle and pushed inside. Nelly was now back in the dimly lit vestibule with the red-brick floor. The house was cool and had a distinctive smell, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, which announced that a particular family lived there. It was larger and more sober than she remembered without its gay partygoers. She followed Buster into the foyer. With the great stone staircase and wrap-around stone balcony encompassing the upstairs, the house really did feel like a castle. 

“Loosen up,” Buster said, setting down her satchel and giving her shoulder a squeeze. 

She attempted a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“I wanna show you around,” said Buster. Nelly bent to get her satchel and he tugged her away. “Leave it. We’ll get it later. You can hang up your bag, too.”

Reluctantly, she looped the strap of her bag around the hook of an opulent hall tree. It too appeared to be made of mahogany. Their feet echoed on the marble checkerboard floor. 

“This is the breakfast room,” Buster was saying as they went up some steps and into a smallish room with a simple white wicker table and matching chairs. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. He paused to let her gaze around her for several moments before leading her down another set of steps and into a room with a tiled floor, a trickling marble fountain topped with a cherub, and numerous palms and ferns. “And this here’s the conservatory on account of all the plants.” Nelly could only stare, marveling that there was an entire room just for plants. “The kids like playing behind ‘em, the plants, but I don’t much see the purpose of a conservatory,” Buster said, almost to himself. “That’s what it is though, and this next room’s the dining room.”

They ascended another small set of steps. Only one leaf was in the table and only four chairs were gathered around it though additional chairs sat against the walls. It was a table, in other words, for a family of four. It more than anything else she’d seen so far reminded Nelly of Buster’s other life, his real life, the part that she was shut off from. Clearly excited to be showing her around, he still hadn’t noticed her uneasiness, so she smiled and praised the pretty painted ceiling beams and the large, expensive oriental rug that the dining set was placed on.

“Servants are on this side, too, and so’s the kitchen. I’ll show you the kitchen later if you want.”

Next he took her back to the foyer and they went left into the living room. Nelly remembered from the party and said so. It was more cavernous than she’d recollected. There was the great stone fireplace, the sofa, some chairs and a side table with a fresh arrangement of flowers. She noticed another palace-sized oriental rug, a mirror, and a coal box. There were so many expensive items to catch her eye. Before she had time to adjust, Buster was pulling her in another direction. 

“I call this my playroom.” 

The playroom contained a big billiards table, a bar, and a small table the precise size for four card players. The ceiling was wood-paneled and beamed. A phonograph player and armchair sat off to one side.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and added in a moment of honesty, “It’s a lot.”

Buster came up and put his arms around her waist, resting his head on her chin. He smelled like cigarettes and Brilliantine. She could tell he was feeling amorous, but she was too tightly wound to relax into his arms. “Why don’t you show me the grounds?” she said, to head him off. 

He withdrew his arms, seeming to catch on that she wasn’t in the mood. “Why, sure.”

They went out of a loggia off of the living room and Buster let her explore the grounds at her pace. For some reason, even though she was more exposed outdoors to anyone who might be around, she felt more secure. Buster’s sense of opulence was not restricted to the interior. Nelly saw the tennis court and push-button trout stream, and walked down to the extravagant pool, which looked tempting and refreshing as it glinted in the sun. She sat sideways in a pool chair and rubbed her ankle absently. “It’s a lot of space, isn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Buster agreed. He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. He stood smoking and looking into the pool. 

“I’m afraid I find it all a little overwhelming,” she said. 

“Oh, I can tell,” said Buster, redirecting his gaze to her. “There ain’t no need to feel that way, you know. It’s a house, is all.”

“It’s a palace, Buster. It’s marvelously beautiful, it’s just …” She looked around her.

“Hmm.” Buster closed the space between them and sat next to her.

Nelly touched his knee. “I just forget sometimes that you’re King Charles and I’m Nell the orange-seller.”

“Bull,” said Buster. 

Nelly traced patterns on his knee and didn’t answer. The water in the pool lapped in a soothing way and smoke from his cigarette drifted into her face.

“So what’s your castle in the air, then?” said Buster, waving away the smoke.

“Me?” She looked into his eyes. “You know, silly. A Shakespeare talkie. What comes after, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far.”

“No, I mean when it comes to real castles. What would you do different?” He inclined his head at the Villa.

“Oh, well … I’d shrink it down, naturally,” she said. “Maybe just one story or maybe a bungalow with a little room or two upstairs.” She’d never thought of what her ideal home might look like, but warmed to the idea at once. “It would have plenty of bookshelves and lots of books. Floor to ceiling. I’d have a collection of plays. Maybe I’d have a collection of records, too. There would be space to dance.”

“Even if you were a star?”

“I suppose. I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine having so much money.”

“Easiest thing in the world to spend money if you’ve got it. Everyone does when they do.” Buster flicked the spent cigarette to the marble flagstones and crushed it with his heel. 

Nelly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be cross with me. You just have to let me get used to it. It all makes me so nervous.”

“I should have figured it would, the way you were acting at my party,” he said, in a somewhat sullen tone of voice. “Guess it’s my fault for asking you over.”

She kissed his cheek. “Give me a chance to get used to it. You know, maybe a drink would help.” She hadn’t shared a drink with him since his party, but figured it was the fastest path to getting more comfortable.

“You want a drink?” Buster said, brightening. 

“Yes. Make me a drink,” she said, squeezing his hand.

They went up the white marble steps past the impeccably trimmed topiaries that lined it and decorated its center and back through the loggia and into the living room. Buster led her into the playroom. “What’ll it be?” he said.

“Something that isn’t whiskey, please,” she said, taking a seat in the armchair. 

“Gin Rickey?” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said, not quite knowing what a Gin Rickey was but happy to find out. 

She stole long glances of the room as Buster stood with his back to her and mixed the drink. She could grow to like this room, she decided. Of all the places in the house she’d seen so far, it seemed the most like the man that she knew, always eager for a game of some kind, in love with his comforts. 

“Here you are,” said Buster, appearing at her side to hand her the drink.

It was clear and bubbly, garnished with a wedge of lime. She took a cautious sip and tasted pine and lime. “It’s delicious,” she said, smiling at him.

Buster returned the smile. “Good.” He went back to the bar to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “Game of billiards?” he said, standing before her again.

Nelly took a generous swallow of the cocktail and although he was sure to have an insurmountable advantage over her said, “Sure.”

She went over to the billiards table and Buster walked over to the wall to push a button. To her marvel, a long, lavish metal light decorated with scrolls descended from the ceiling. He pushed another button and light was cast over the red-velvet billiards table. Buster smiled at her astonishment and flipped open a built-in cabinet, from which he selected a couple of cue sticks. He handed one to her. 

“Ready to get whupped?” he said. “Your turn first.”

“No, you,” she said firmly. “You need all the advantages you can get.”

Buster laughed. “You’re pretty confident, kid.”

It was a lie, of course. She’d never played the game well but didn’t want to show how green she was. She could at least try to mimic his form if he went first. He lifted the triangle away from the balls and went to the south end of the table holding the cue ball. She watched him place it in the left corner of the table and chalk the tip of his stick. Not missing a beat, he laid his left arm on the table and threaded the cue through his forefinger, then pulled his right arm back. It seemed as though he barely tapped the cue ball, but the pyramid of balls went scattering. “I call stripes,” he said, after watching to see where all the balls went.

Nelly took a large gulp of her drink and set it on a nearby table. She was remembering Buster shooting billiards in a film whose name escaped her. Each shot had been impossible. “How did you do those trick shots in that one picture of yours?” she said, grasping her cue stick. 

“Sherlock, Jr.?”

“I think that was the one.”

“What’ll I get for telling?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’ll let you win, perhaps,” she said. 

That made him laugh. “It was practice. Four god damn months of practice. I had a teacher, one of the best players there is, and it still took us five days to get all the shots. Quit stalling, though. It’s your turn.”

Nelly stuck out her tongue and leaned over the table as she’d seen Buster do.

“No, no, no, you didn’t chalk your stick.” He took it out of her hands and wiped the piece of chalk around the tip. “Here.”

Rolling her eyes, she took the stick back and again set up her shot. She aimed at a solid green six-ball and shot. Instead, she hit a striped eleven-ball and didn’t get anywhere near any of the pockets.

“Oh Nelly,” said Buster, laughing. 

She didn’t mind that she was going to lose to him. It was worth it to see the way his grin lit up his face. “I’m deliberately putting you at your ease,” she said, narrowing her eyes and lifting her nose. She wandered over to her glass of Gin Rickey and finished it. 

“Want another?” said Buster, gesturing. 

She nodded.

They went on like that for the next half-hour, taking turns at the table. Buster beat her handily in three out of three games. “You can’t play at all,” he said with mild incredulity, after all of his balls were in their pockets at the end of round three.

Nelly set her drink (it was her third) on the table and hopped up onto the edge of the table. She was feeling happy and free and relaxed now. “So I told a fib,” she said, smiling and swinging her legs. “So what?”

Buster couldn’t hold back his laughter. “You’re awful bold.” He positioned himself between her legs and tilted his head up for a kiss. She pressed her mouth to his, tasting whiskey. “Want a lesson on form?” he offered. She shook her head, stroking her finger across his lower lip. “Well, what do you want?”

“You tell me,” she said. She traced a finger across his cheekbone and his eyelids grew heavy. His lips parted.

“It involve a bed?” he said, sounding dreamy.

“Maybe.” She grabbed the rest of her drink and finished it. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Second floor. C’mon.” Buster helped her down from the billiards table and took her hand again. She followed him up the grand stone staircase and onto the landing. He paused a few moments to unlatch a heavy wrought-iron gate. He led her through it and down a short hall, then took a right into a small circular vestibule with an intercom and dumbwaiter. Before Nelly had a chance to ask where they were, he pulled her through the next doorway.

She knew at once that the bedroom wasn’t his. There were too many feminine tells: a mint-green screen decorated with flowers, a lamp with a pink shade, French perfume bottles on a bureau. Buster was nibbling her throat, but Nelly was looking over his head at the photographs of his children hanging on the walls. He steered her over to the edge of the king-sized bed and pushed her to a seated position. It sat atop a platform and was the biggest bed she’d ever seen. He sat beside her and started working on the dress buttons at the back of her neck.

“Oh, we can’t,” she said, pushing his hands away. 

“Huh?” said Buster, looking affronted. “Why not? Thought you wanted to.”

“I do, but not on your wife’s bed. Buster, it would be wrong.” She stood up.

“Look, I never once made love to her on this bed.” He appeared confused. “No one’s made love on this bed. She don’t do that. Not with me, not with anyone.”

“It’s not just that. It’s—I don’t want to take her place anywhere. I don’t want to be in her room,” she said. Her head was fizzy with Gin Rickeys, but she was never more sure of herself. She turned on her heel and walked back to the vestibule. 

Buster’s footsteps followed her. He caught her arm. “Don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to upset you.” His face was so soft and pleading that she couldn’t stay angry with him. 

“I know you didn’t,” she said, though ignorance didn’t excuse his mistake. She stood dumbly as Buster ran a hand up and down her arm. 

“Want me to take you home?” he said, voice remorseful. 

“No. No, I don’t.” She smiled at his doubt and put her arms around him, softening further. “Let’s just stick to other parts of your house, alright?”

“Alright. Well, can I take you to my bedroom?”

She had to bite back another smile at his persistence. “Sure.”

A similar round vestibule preceded Buster’s bedroom. This led to a small hall which led into the main bedchamber. Both his room and his bed were half the size of Natalie’s. The curtains were drawn, making the room dark and cool. Nelly tried not to look too hard at the photographs. There was one of his sons in front of a large dressing mirror that connected his two bureaus. 

“I built that,” he said, thinking she was admiring the mirror and dressers. “Designed it myself. Gabe helped me build it at my old studio.”

She was surprised at this bit of trivia. There were very few areas into which Buster’s talents didn’t extend, it seemed. “It’s a handsome piece of furniture,” she said. She noticed that the picture opposite his sons’ had been turned onto its face and attempted to give it no more thought. 

“Sorry the bed’s not made, but the servants are gone for the weekend.”

“You can’t make your own bed?” said Nelly, turning to him and giving him a playful pinch. Her nervousness had begun to melt away again now that they were out of Natalie’s territory. 

“What’s the point? It’s just going to get mussed up if I make it.” He returned to kissing her neck and this time Nelly tried to force her nerves away. His lips were soft, his breath was warm, and that was all that mattered. 

In no time, they’d gotten onto the bed. Buster bent over her, his leg threaded between hers, kissing her fiercely and clutching one of her breasts. She ran her hands up and down his back as his tongue entered her mouth. The bed smelled like him and she imagined, vaguely, what it would be like to wake up next to him in it, tumbled in these expensive blankets and sheets; to watch him dress and get ready for the studio; to see him off with a kiss and spend the rest of the day in idleness and frivolity, waiting for him to return home so they could go to dinner or attend a party at Pickfair. She couldn’t make up her mind whether that sort of life would be the meaning of happiness or unbearably stifling. Realizing that her thoughts had wandered again, she brought herself back to the present by sliding her finger into the seam of Buster’s button-up shirt and easing one of the mother-of-pearl buttons from its hole. Buster withdrew his hand from her breast and knit his arms behind her back so he could do her the same courtesy, plucking open buttons as they kissed. When all buttons had been accounted for, Buster sat up and pulled his arms out of his sleeves, while she stepped off of the bed and out of her dress. 

“Now,” said Buster, when she was back on the bed. “Where were we?”

“You tell me,” she said, looking down at his lap. He was still wearing his dark grey trousers. 

He grasped her by her bare shoulders and steered her onto her back. As he crouched on top of her, caging her in with his hands and knees, she reached down to undo his trousers. Her fingers brushed against his erection and he moaned, appreciative of the contact. She let her lower instincts drive her when the buttons were undone. It was natural to stroke him just so, to lick at his ear, to tell him how hot he was making her, but these actions, done of intuition, left energy for her mind to resume its peregrinations. It took so little to make Buster happy, and was no great chore to content him in bed. He liked all the usual things that men did. None of the deviations that she’d heard whispered about Charlie Chaplin during his divorce seemed to hold any interest for Buster. He never desired sex to such a degree that it was burdensome. Admittedly, she felt just as passionate for him as he did for her, but she tried to consider what it would be like if she didn’t. She still didn’t see what the harm would be in indulging him, in keeping his bed warm. Too little payment for so great a debt. 

She clung to his neck and kissed it while he inched her knickers down. He entered her with a sigh a few moments later. He hadn’t mentioned a prophylactic and she hadn’t asked. It was easy to forget sense when he made love to her. She forgot, too, what time it was and that they were at the Villa. Instead, her mind coasted along currents of pleasure, following each one to its length until she encountered the next. 

“Flip over,” said Buster, pulling her out of the reverie she’d sunk into. 

“Hmm?” she said.

He withdrew from her body and sat up on his haunches. “Right here.” He patted a portion of the bed to indicate. “But with your head toward the mirror and your feet sorta pointed at the pillows.” He tugged off his undershirt.

Her heart pounded. They’d only ever made love on their sides or with Buster on top. She unhooked her brassiere, wriggled onto her stomach, and stretched out, her head facing the mirror. 

“Now, I’d like it if you…” He sucked in breath as he dragged a finger from the top of her neck to the slight swell above her bottom. “Get up on your hands and knees.”

Her pulse throbbed. To obey him would be downright wicked, not respectable, not ladylike, but the moment Buster made the request she perceived what a superb idea it was. She rose to the position that he wanted her in and arched her back. 

Two words. “Oh, Christ.” She had never heard his voice sound like that, dark and worshipful, like he was a pauper and had been handed a sack full of gold objects. 

He lined himself up behind her, and there was a quick mutual adjustment of legs and feet before he entered her. Following instinct again, she pushed back to meet him. She closed her eyes to savor the new pleasure. As a consequence, it took her a couple minutes to realize Buster’s reasoning behind the position. When she blinked her lids open, in such a daze that it felt like she’d drunk ten Gin Rickeys, she saw them in the mirror together, Buster rising above her backside with abs standing out in stark relief, one arm stretched along her back and anchored on her shoulder. His eyes met hers and she pushed back. Not breaking her gaze, he pushed forward. She’d never seen herself in such a way before, her arms splayed, her hair starting to fall out of its chignon, her breasts swinging with every push by Buster. His breath was fast and hard. He was muttering sweet things to her through his moans, Oh darling and You’re so good. For her part, she’d never been so excited. 

He wouldn’t last like this, but she sensed that he wasn’t meant to. She gave another push back and he broke against her with a choked cry. “I can’t, Nelly, oh I can’t …!” He doubled over her and clutched her breasts, gasping as he came in her. She met his uneven thrusts, grinding herself against him for all she was worth, craving those last frissons of euphoria before he withdrew. She lifted her eyes to the mirror and watched him pull out and collapse on his back against the mound of his pillows, his chest heaving. Her arms were sore as she drew alongside him, but the pain was distant. 

Only when she met his eyes did she realize what had just happened. Buster’s groggy look of pleasure was changing to fear. “I was trying to say, ‘I can’t stop,’ ” he said, feeling for her hand and squeezing her fingers when he found it. 

Impossibly, she’d forgotten that there was no barrier between them. She dipped a hand between her legs and encountered the excess wetness there. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Buster. She’d never seen such an expression of worry on his face.

She propped herself on her elbows, still half in a daze from their love-making. “Do you have a—where are your pants? Your handkerchief.” She had trouble commanding the words. 

Buster slipped off the bed and picked up his trousers, feeling in the pocket. Wordless, he handed her the white square of cloth. She wiped away as much of the wetness as she could. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, after she’d bunched up the cloth and thrown it clear of the bed. She was now beginning to feel worried, but only because he seemed so worried. “The chances are very, very small.”

He was standing at the foot of the bed running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If it comes to that,” he said, in a halting way that told her he was still arranging his thoughts. “If it does, I’ll help you sort it out no matter what. Okay?”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Come here.” When he was close enough, she pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Don’t worry.” In her head, she was counting up the days since her monthlies had appeared last week. She came up to eleven, not quite the midpoint. The midpoint was when most women conceived. She looked up at Buster. The furrow beneath his brows was deep. “Please. Stop worrying.”

He sat next to her and knit his hands together and stared ahead. She thought she detected a peculiar luster to his eyes. 

“Darling, it’s as much my fault as it is yours. I forgot too.” She reached out and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “There’s no point in worrying unless I’m late.”

“I won’t go without a thin from now on,” said Buster, as though he hadn’t heard her. 

Her head began to ache. The Gin Rickeys had worn off. “Please. Please stop worrying.”

Without any warning, Buster threw his arms around her and clasped her tight, so much that he took some of the breath out of her. He held her like that for several long moments, not saying a thing, before releasing her. “Alright, I will,” he said. 

“Good.” She held his cheek in her hand until he looked her in the eyes and she was satisfied at what she saw in his. “Now I’m the one who’s hungry this time. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Buster seemed to cheer up a fraction. His voice sounded a bit sunnier as he said, “What would you like?”

“Oh, anything. Whatever you want. I’m sure I’ll like it.”

Nelly thought they dressed more somberly than usual this time, collecting articles of clothing from the bed and floor and pulling them on without saying a word. Despite her reassurances to Buster, the weight of her predicament was beginning to settle on her. All the canteen lunches on the set of Steamboat and at United Artists had taught her that there were two choices for girls whose famous lovers had put them into a condition. They could go away for a period of confinement and give up the child when it was born. Or they were put in touch with a doctor who could take care of their situation. 

Buster disappeared as she was buttoning up her dress and she heard the faint sound of his voice from down the hall. He was speaking to someone. She froze. Natalie must be back. She looked around in horror and spotted a doorway to the left of the bureau. She hastened through it and found herself in a bathroom. Hiding in the shower would be absurd, but it was the best place to conceal herself. She decided to wait to hear if footsteps approached first. The seconds dragged on. Her pulse thudded and her head throbbed in an angry way. At long last, she heard someone enter the room, but there was just one set of footsteps. “Nelly?” Buster called. 

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and made her way to the doorway. “Are you alone?” she said in undertones. 

Buster, who was standing at the foot of his bed, looked toward her in bafflement. 

“ ‘Course I’m alone. What do you mean?” 

Relief descended and she came back into the bedroom. “Who were you talking to?”

Buster gave her an odd look. “Caruthers. Ordering food.”

Although she was comforted to hear that Natalie had not made an unexpected return, she was dismayed to hear that someone else was in the house with them. “I thought you said everyone was gone?”

“They are,” he said. “I can’t go without Caruthers, though. He does all the cooking. And I need someone to fetch things if I need ‘em. I can’t just go out like you.”

“Oh,” said Nelly, somehow not feeling satisfied with this explanation. 

Buster gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He knows about us, anyway. And before you go worrying, he’ll never breathe a word. I trust him with my life.”

She wasn’t happy to hear that Buster had given away their secret. Though the butler had been friendly the night he had driven her home, she knew that servants gossiped. Perhaps male servants didn’t do it to the extent that female ones did, but she didn’t think it was worth chancing. “If you think so,” she said, not able to keep the skepticism from her voice. 

“Buck up,” said Buster. “Anyway, how else was I supposed to get you a nice dinner tonight?”

Tonight. The Gin Rickeys, the dark room, and the torrid love-making made her forget it was still daylight out, but of course it couldn’t be past two or two-thirty. She stepped toward the mirror and took in her disarrayed hair. “If he knows I’m here, I ought to fix my hair before I go back downstairs.”

Buster smiled and looked self-satisfied. “Ain’t no need for you to go anywhere. Go on and fix your hair, and I’ll call you when the grub’s here.” He took a silver brush from his bureau and handed it to her. 

She stayed in the bathroom until Buster yelled for her, not wanting to be caught in the room when the butler wheeled in a cart of food. It would be too uncomfortable. She stepped into the bedroom but didn’t see Buster. “Where are you?”

“In here.”

She followed the sound of his voice and, feeling cautious, went down the hall and into the vestibule where she saw Buster holding a silver tray with both hands. It held two or three covered dishes. He cocked his head at a dumbwaiter she had not noticed earlier where there was a smaller tray holding glasses and soda pop bottles.

“You grab those there,” he said.

She did as she was told and they went through another door of the vestibule and onto a balcony, where there was a small table and a few bistro chairs. “Oh my,” she said, as she caught sight of the view. The balcony was directly over the east portion of the house, which stretched out at an angle beneath them. That was not what had taken her breath away, however. From here, there was a perfect view of the marble steps, swimming pool, and tennis court, and sloping away from them, the estate wandered down to the great flower bed beside the winding drive that they had come up. It wandered farther still, past the palms and shrubs, and then there were mansions as far as the eye could see in every direction, beautiful mansions so well-arranged on the hills that they looked the very picture of an Italian town. That was where all of Hollywood lived, Marion Davis, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Norma Shearer, Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, and here she was among them dining with Buster Keaton. For a minute, she felt far removed from her previous life in Evanston and her current one as a humble extra and prop manager, tasting what it must be like to be a movie star. 

“Like it?” said Buster, setting the tray on the table. 

Nelly nudged her tray next to his, considered the warm sun on her shoulders and the breeze, smelling earthy and almost living, and nodded. Maybe it was the view, maybe it was laughing and eating fresh strawberries and cream with Buster after they’d finished purée of potato soup and veal cutlets, but from that hour forward she took a better liking to the Villa and began to see it as he did. Her worries were, for the remainder of the evening at least, set aside.

Notes: Are you surprised by this chapter? I was. What I had in mind was just a nice rendezvous for Nelly with Buster at the Villa, but there was much more tension and conflict and unexpected directions than I’d thought. The length also got away from me, but I hope you won’t mind that.  It’s hard to explain, but when you’re writing--when you’re immersed in your characters--sometimes they just act on their own and you just follow. Did I intend for Buster and Nelly to have unprotected sex that resulted in Buster accidentally finishing in her? No. Did I intend for Nelly to be so resistant to Buster’s home, help, and all the rest? No. I just wrote and the characters’ natural actions suggested themselves without a single thought on my part.  I think I will wrap this chapter up for now and just call the next one Chapter 30, even though it takes place the same day and same place.  And yeah, that’s a photo of Buster in his bedroom. Dreamy, huh?

[fortheloveoffanfic]

The One That Stays

Keanu Reeves x Reader Chapter 1  Chapter 2  Chapter 3  Chapter 4 Warnings- SMUT/NSFW

Chapter 5- Nebulousness

“Blurring all the lines, you intoxicate me.” -Camila Cabello, Never be the Same

A knock on the door had Y/n dragging herself off her sofa and padding barefoot towards her front door. Without thinking twice of it, she undid the chain lock and pulled it open, grinning giddily at the sight of Keanu; standing in the hallway with his helmet wedged between his arm and his side, riding back still over his shoulder. “You’re early,” she greeted after taking his hand and pulling him inside, giving him a quick peck at the side of his lips.

“I am,” Keanu held her for a minute in a lingering hug and then continued, “And I brought wine,” from his backpack, he produced a dark tinted bottle of white wine, offering it to Y/n.

“Thank you,” they walked to the kitchen and Y/n made a place for the wine in her refrigerator, “I made pasta,” she gestured to a covered pot on the stove.

“I didn’t think you were much of a cook,” Keanu joked as he helped her set up a couple plates and then open an already chilled bottle of red.

Y/n made a noise of mock offense, her hand, almost swallowed up by her over-sized cable knit sweater going to the center of her chest, “That’s a bold assumption, I’m offended.”

“No you’re not,” he laughed. They set the plates on the table near the floor to ceiling window and before he joined her, Keanu shrugged off his jacket, drapping it to where she pointed to on the sofa, near a throw blanket laid on the back. “How was work?”

Y/n’s shoulders shook as she put her glass back down, “It was work, I’ve been working on projections for a product we’re launching this Christmas, if it goes well I could get a raise.”

“That’s great. What’s the product?” He probed, and Y/n’s insides bubbled excitedly at his genuine interest. The few men she had gone out with usually thought that her job was all numbers; a bore, and the couple who hadn’t; had accused her of being superficial for working in the beauty industry. 

“It’s an entire winter inspired line; a partnership with a beauty influencer,” for a couple minutes Y/n excitedly went on about the specifics of an eyeshadow pallet and some of the expected profits.

When she was finished, Keanu was still wearing a goofy smile, but it was mostly out of second hand excitement. Co-owning a company had given him a considerable amount of knowledge when it came to projected profits and pricing, hearing her talk about make-up though, that was something that he had trouble following, “I know those words mean something, but I have no idea what cream eyeshadow is. Is that like a color or....”

“It’s a type,” she corrected, “It’s better during cooler weather, very versatile. Well, enough about that, what about you, how was your day?”

“It was okay. My agent sent me a couple scripts a while ago and I finally got around to starting on them,” he explained nonchalantly.

Y/n raised her brows with silent intrigue, “Anything you like?”

Her cool interest was refreshing compared to the extremes of barrage of questions from those who were too interested and the blank stares of those who thought his job was reserved to what happened on camera. “Not really, they were okay, but they aren’t really for me.”

“Well, you’ll find something soon,” the light from the full moon filtering in, coupled with the dimmed blubs imbedded into the ceiling washed Y/n’s delicate features with a cool glow. With her face free of product and half of her hair only held back by a tiny black hair clamp, strands fell out the sides, casting dark shadows on her skin; she looked almost ethereal. 

“Yeah,” Keanu nodded, “But I don’t know, I’m enjoying the down time more than I usually do,” by then, his free hand had reached across the table, meeting hers half-way, his thumb tracing her knuckles. In response, Y/n just blushed, biting her lip as her cheeks took on an almost unnoticeable shade of pink.

When they were finshed with dinner, Keanu helped her clear up and afterwards, they had moved on to their second bottle of wine, lingering in the kitchen long after they had finished with the dishes, when Y/n’s eyes widened, “I almost forgot, I wanted to show you something.”

“What is it?” Keanu laughed, watching her grab the bottle and encourage him to follow her lead.

They walked down the hallway he had seen on his first visit to her place, when he picked her up for their first- well, ‘forth’ date. It was just a bit longer than the front hallway, but was lined with doors on both side, going about thirty feet in and ending with a simple set of white double doors. Y/n turned the knob of one side, pushing it in, and Keanu followed her as she flicked on a light switch; presumably, her room.

It was nice, and Keanu wasn’t sure what he expected, but it somehow suited Y/n. A large bed at the center of the room, was pressed with it’s head to a cream wall, a set of abstract paintings hanging a couple feet above it. The wall to the left was interrupted by two doors, both with shiny gold hooks, set about five feet apart. The flooring was a dark colored hard wood but her bed sat stylishly upon a fluffy white rug that came out a few feet on all sides. Furniture was minimal; a couple shelved nightstands, both topped with matching antique lamps, but only one packed neatly with books, a couple chargers and other little trinkets. There was a dresser, and finally at the awing, full length window, covered by pale gold drapes, a wide vanity, the top decked with various perfumes and beauty products.

“You room?” Though the answer was plainly obvious, Keanu asked anyway. 

“Yeah, you can sit on the bed. Or where ever you want,” she gestured around, pointing out a printed floral, accent chair and the other at her vanity. When he opted, for a reason that he couldn’t attribute to anything other than the wine, for the floor, Y/n giggled musically, “The floor?”

“Yeah, it looked comfortable,” he patted the spot next him, and Y/n sank down, cross legged holding a carved wooden box in her lap, “Is that what you wanted to show me?” He questioned, intrigued.

“It is,” taking a long swing of her wine, Y/n set her glass a little ways from the rug, then cast the cover of the box aside. From where he sat, it seemed to be filled mostly with pictures, mixed in with a couple odds and ends; key rings, a tiny stuffed animal and some other telling treasures. The printed photographs were her focus though, and she sifted through a few, looking for the right ones. “Here,” she finally offered, depositing a few in her lap, “I know I said you’d never see them, but I thought about it, and maybe prom pictures weren’t so bad.

Keanu placed his glass a couple feet away, looking through the memories Y/n had handed him. Most of them were in fact, from her prom, and on the white backs, they were dated for 2009. She looked almost the same, though, her hair was longer and she looked a more of a child than the woman he sat next to. What a difference ten years could make. Most of them were of her and Julie, though there were others taken with a large group. The remainder appeared to be from college, mostly taken on places around a campus. 

“This was taken on spring break during my last year in college,” she pointed one out, of her and Julie and two men, probably their age, one with his arm loosely around Julie, the other hugging Y/n from behind, “That’s my college boyfriend, Andy. I met him after my run in with the I.T guy.”

“Miami?” The beach seemed familiar, though Keanu couldn’t readily recall the last time he had been there.

“Mhm,” she hummed her response, “Julie planned the whole thing. Well, if you call, going to the airport and booking the cheapest last minute flight ‘planning’. That trip was a mess,” she continued and her smile suggested that even with all the bumps along the way, her last spring break as an undergrad had been more than memorable, “We weren’t exactly rolling in money, so we all had to share this one tiny hotel room, with one bed and a bathroom the size of a matchbox. And if things couldn’t get worse, the guys thought it would be cost effective to save money on street food, and ended up spending the first two days with food poisoning.” 

“That sounds terrible,” Keanu scoffed, mirroring her amused smile, “How’d it turn out?”

“With the exception of their pride, they got over it pretty quickly. And afterwards, it was actually really fun. We skinny dipped on a private beach, almost got arrested for trespassing on that beach. We got drunk, went hiking and at some point, Julie talked onto this boat party thrown by a pro league footballer. It was awesome.”

“Sounds like fun. What happened between you and Andy?” He wasn’t jealous, it would be ridiculous, but Keanu was curious, always eager to learn more about her.

“Nothing really,” Y/n shrugged, “He wanted to move to New York, go to grad school. I wanted to stay here for my MBA, so I did,” for a minute, Y/n continued looking at the picture and her face fell a little, “He asked me to go with him, and when I said no, he.....” she scoffed, “He said that I never really loved him.”

“Didn’t you?” Besides Y/n’s head resting on Keanu’s shoulder, they weren’t touching, their thighs kept apart by about an inch of space.

“I don’t know.....I don’t think,” she paused, swallowing thickly, “I don’t think I’d know if I did. I mean, how do you even know? Do you just wake up and decide you’re in love with someone? Do you feel the same way you did before? How do you know if you can’t make sense of it; identify it, measure it”

Keanu mulled on her words for a while, thinking carefully before he spoke, knowing his next words might be risky. He shouldn’t say them, he thought, but he did anyway. “Maybe you always know; from the beginning, when everything changes, when you can’t them off your mind and the thought of them makes you smile. Maybe its simple, and all it takes is one night,” Y/n shifted and their eyes met, something that should have been new, but was instead, oddly familiar flowed between them. A little reminiscent from the first night on the balcony, but more so on their first ‘in person’ date and on their afternoon at the beach. Bits and bits of whatever it was during their lengthy phone conversations; the ones where they'd spend so long talking, hours into the night, that they’d fall asleep, the line dominated by even breathing and soft snores until one of them would rouse, barely awake and whisper a quiet ‘goodnight’ to the other. “Or one day,” he finally added in an attempt to cover his tracks.

Y/n’s eyes sparkled questioningly. Even if she knew what he meant, she still wasn’t willing to believe it. Would she know it if she felt it? What if Keanu was wrong and it was too soon. Like Julie and his friend had said. They were supposed to be going slow.

“I really like you,” he said quietly, breaking the short bout of silence, his face close to hers. Y/n could smell the alcohol on his breath and the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. On anyone else, it might have been off putting, but something about Keanu, it was just.....intoxicating, “I want to kiss you.”

“We’ve kissed before,” Y/n breathed nervously. No moment had ever felt that way, so private, like there was something buzzing around them, pushing them together. Her hand slid from the softness of the rug, resting on his thigh, a silent signal that she wanted it to happen.

Keanu’s hand rose to cup her cheek, tangling with escaped dark strands; they felt like strands of silk between his fingers. He had known her for two weeks, they had been doing....whatever it was that they were doing for a measly one week. But still, Y/n was unlike many of the woman Keanu had gone around with, she was like a breath of fresh air, and if people were water, she’d be champagne. “We have,” he cocked a faint half smile, “But not the way I want to kiss you right now.” Taking a deep breath, Keanu pressed his lips to Y/n’s cradling the back of her neck with his free hand.

His lips melded with hers easily, like two puzzle pieces just being put together, working so well with each other. His tongue slipped passed the barrier of Y/n’s teeth, tangling with hers and she found that he tasted unsurprisingly of wine. So much was poured into the gesture; passion and lust with notes of something softer and more lasting. Something that would make it past a steamy encounter, that Y/n wasn’t sure if she was ready for, but wanted to hold on too.

As things grew more heated, Keanu pressed her against the base of the bed, and Y/n adjusted her legs, spreading them so he was kneeling between them. His tongue swirled around hers between teasing nibbles on her bottom lip, and her hands roamed his strong back, eventually tangling in the ends of his hair. 

Soon enough, Keanu found the hem of her sweater, pulling it over her head clumsily, before Y/n did the same with his t-shirt, not caring where it fell as she tossed it aside, “I thought we were going slow?” Y/n questioned against his lips, smiling as Keanu’s fingers hooked into the waist of her yoga pants, urging them into a laying position.

He hovered over her, taking a moment to admire her bra clad chest, cleavage pushed up a little by cups decorated with light grey lace and silk,  before peeling her pants off at a tantalizingly slow pace, “I can go slow,” Keanu smirked, lifting her left leg, placing an open mouthed kiss on her inner thigh, near the lacy edge of her underwear.

Y/n’s breath shook and her toes toyed teasingly with the button of his jeans, slowly running the length of his crotch, watching him inhale sharply. When Keanu dropped her leg and leaned over her, Y/n reached for the fastenings on his pants, letting him kick of his shoes before pushing them off.

His lips made contact with the warm skin in the valley of her breasts, favoring the left with his hand after he  had quickly slipped it beneath the cup of her bra, groping and squeezing enthusiastically, “You’re so beautiful,” he mumbled, his lips still against her skin. Y/n’s bare heels rubbed against Keanu’s calves, her hands tangling in his hair.

Eventually, his hands slipped to her back, holding her to his chest as he clumsily undid the fastenings of her bra, helping her out of it and then letting it join the rest of their clothing. “Is this what you want?” Keanu asked, suddenly a little unsure of himself, not wanting Y/n to feel pressured just because they had gotten carried away.

“Yeah,” she exhaled with a steady smile, inviting him with her touch; fingers running along his back, nails barely grazing his skin, sending shivers though his body. With her other hand, still tangled in Keanu’s hair, Y/n urged him down into another passionate kiss, her legs wrapping around his middle, grinding slowly though encouragingly against his erection.

Once again, one of Keanu’s hands travelled to her front, fondling her breasts, and for the slightest second, Y/n faintly recalled the night when Julie so surly determined that Keanu was a ‘boobs man’. Though, the memory was pushed hastily aside when two of his digits invaded her underwear, startling her as he pumped slowly. His ministrations, the rough yet gentle texture of his fingers, touching her, sparked pleasurable shocks throughout her body, ones that Y/n swore she could feel in her fingertips. Her back arched, yearning for more, “Keanu,” she breathed heavily.

His response was a low hum as he continued favoring her chest, his tongue swirling around her hardened nipple, the fingers of his free hand pressed into the silky skin at her hip, probably already making bruises that that Y/n would have to remember the moment by. 

Y/n’s manicured nails sunk deeper into his back and she pleaded again with his name on her tongue, “Keanu,” she begged, sucking in a sharp breath when his fingers started going faster, her panties consequently slipping down her thighs, creating an excitable friction. When the flimsy lace garment was low enough, Y/n let her legs shake them off, gridding against Keanu’s stocky fingers. “More,” she begged.

Groaning when his still clothed erection brushed her thigh, Keanu let Y/n aid him his getting rid of the last bit of clothing between them; a pesky pair of grey boxers that didn’t make it too far. It barely took a minute for Keanu to line himself up with Y/n’s entrance, easing into her, admiring how her jaw slackened at the new sensation. 

With slow thrusts, Keanu marveled in how tight she was, feeling her warm, slick goodness around him, “You’re so tight baby,” he moaned through gritted teeth, the side of his head pressed to hers. 

Y/n’s grip dug into Keanu’s shoulder blades as she moaned a garbled plea, “Faster, go faster.” With a low, carnal groan, Keanu picked up the pace and as their bodies moved, the rug below Y/n felt oddly rough, rubbing against her bare skin. He felt so good inside her, stretching her, his generous length reaching her deepest point of pleasure. As they kept going, Keanu reached between again, them, his index and middle finger rubbing her cilt and Y/n moaned breathily, shutting her eyes and biting her lip at the added sensation. 

Eventually, the coil in the pit of her stomach was about to snap and Y/n was clawing at Keanu’s back, her nails raking across his skin, hard enough to leave angry red bruises, “I’m gonna.....god Keanu,” she moaned loudly.

“Do it,” he encouraged, his voice hoarse and low, his face buried in her hair, “I want to feel you come around me.”

With her breathing still ragged and heavy, Y/n moaned Keanu’s name again, clenching around him as he rode though her orgasm. Her legs, which were still around his waist, held their hips close and shook with pleasure as her back arched and she threw her head back.

Keanu was close behind her and when he was about to pull out, Y/n tightened her legs around him encouraging, “Come inside me baby,” she suggested, the overwhelming desire to have him lingering in her like that, giving that to him, clouding her judgement.

“Fuck!” He managed, the word muffled by his lips on her neck as he shot his hot release inside of her, his formerly controlled thrusts going sloppy and their thighs growing sticky with release.

Even after his own orgasm, Keanu lingered between her legs, and eventually, when he pulled out, rolling onto his back, Y/n winced at the emptiness. Their breathing slowed as the high took its time to fade, and as they adjusted on the floor, Keanu pulled Y/n to his chest. They didn’t speak- there wasn’t much to say, at least not right then, but Y/n and Keanu both knew that soon, they’d have to.

*******

Tagging- @baphometwolf666  @kindainlovewithkeanu  @a-really-bi-girl  @soarocks  @harrisongslimited

[whenisitnottimeforbed]

Unscheduled Change in Procedure (II)

~~

" 'Shields'? Really?"

"Like Brooke, or Sam."

"Who the h*ll is Sam Shields?"

"Football player." Clint and Coulson had both responded quietly while Natasha held back her growls.

"...Packers, Super Bowl 2011-" The thinner agent couldn't help but add, looking off because he knew Natasha was glaring at him over the file she'd been handed. Clint had glanced over his shoulder at the other room where the two children sat in chairs next to each other, Pietro with his arm around Wanda and clearly trying to say something advisory or reassuring to her. Neither room could be heard from the other.

"Don't you think it's a little less than discrete?" Nat had asked while she flipped a page up and looked into more of the information provided. The folder was infuriatingly thin.

"Covert affairs isn't known for their naming creativity. I heard one of them had a baby and named it John Joe. Hmph. But, if you can think of a better name, then by all means-"

"How about Ne Sem'ya. It means 'Not Family' in Russian."

"Shields it is."

"Coulson, really-?" Clint interjected into the exchange, shaking his head. He might be less vocal about it, but he certainly felt the same way.

"This is the only way it will work."

"We have rooms here in the compound- nice ones. And agents who are trained for asset holding and ones who teach. All. Right. Here." Natasha had argued.

"All the details aren't being passed down, but the salient points are that we've been aware of Pietro and Wanda Maximoff for almost all their lives. Much like the rest of the mutant population, we've never gone after them, but others have, and they were once interned. It's after that that we switched from 'aware' to 'monitored'."

"And now 'reared'?"

"Agents, think of it more like babysitting. Once we find suitable replacements, you'll be able to switch out and go back to your regular lives."

"And How long is that going to take?"

"I wouldn't be able to say-"

"Coulson-"

"Mm. Don't make any personal plans for at least a month."

~~~

"A month, Clint. A month." Natasha glowered. Pietro quietly herded Wanda toward the white-painted iron gate, minimally designed and shoved it open so they could get onto the driveway. It was a long concrete rectangle surrounded by dead patches of weed-grass and packed dirt with a sidewalk piping to the rear of the house, but they headed toward the front door of the little one story house. It was a bland tan-peach color, possibly sunbleached, with a Spanish styled roof and one smaller window visible at this angle. There was one thin tree adorning front yard, two potted plants in the sliver of dirt between the walk to the door and the house wall. Neither looked well cared for or matched the decor or landscape and were still in their hardware store black plastic buckets, vastly different in size. The piece de resistance though was a very old, faded, peeling satellite dish propped up on one corner of the building.

"Have you ever lived with children for a month?"

"I've babysat for my sister before-"

"But for a month?" She asked, at a loss. With a sigh forced out more like a huff she picked up one of her bags, beginning to head in, "And besides, Laura's kids are practically angels. You can't compare that to what we're about to do."

"We'll get through this, Nat." His dissatisfaction manifested, unlike hers in haughty agitation, but, as usual, in an exhausted sort of submission to his circumstances.

She grumbled back, but headed inside. He couldn't help a little smile, though, when he heard her yell,

"Bags don't go in front of the door!" but got started scanning his surroundings. Around back was another large, quartered concreted area, clearly meant to act as the 'garage', and some more dirt. The fences around were about five feet high in matching stucco with some lattice work design, topped with more far spaced, short, white, iron spires. There was one window near the front door, and the rest at the back of the house were blocked by the 6 foot inner wall, solid that bent around from the front door to the concrete in the backyard. The house was as fortified as one could hope for this location as far as exterior and viewing points were concerned. If he was reading their expressions right, it was apparently pretty soundproof as well.

"You are sleeping! In separate! Rooms!" is what Natasha was currently saying, well, arguing.

"No!" Pietro shouted back, "You can't make us! We sleep together! It's safer!"

"No, it's not-" Natasha approached him quickly, sick of his backtalk, and threw him off guard a little- he stumbled but he held his ground, "If someone comes in the house to take you, then they get both of you at once. OUR way, they only get one."

"We don’t need you- if someone gets in the house, we'll fight them off together-" he growled back at her before mumbling, "If we haven't run away by then."

"Run?" Natasha laughed, "How? On that leg? You won't get two blocks."

"Perimeter’s secure." Clint came in saying and Natasha could hear him stumble over duffel.

"Didn't I tell you to move your bag?" Natasha shoved Pietro at his back toward the door.

"It's too heavy." He stumbled and limped a bit, Wanda skittering over quickly to take his hand again.

"Tough it out; I'm not your mother and I'm not your maid." she pointed at him before turning and rolling her eyes at his wild, angry little face, and heading toward another room, "Complaining never made anyone any stronger."

The house had come furnished, of course, in what was basically a spastic IKEA workers submission to Better Homes and Gardens. The color palette the agency decided to work with was creams, lavenders, and cherry-browns in all the common areas, with a floral or vine theme, and soft edges. Like someone's great aunt might live in. The interior of the house itself- walls and floors and such- was white-white, and spackled with tile flooring everywhere except the bedrooms which had slightly off white carpet.

There were three bedrooms- one clearly catering to a boy raised in the middle of the last century and the other obviously constructed for a girl who had an abnormal fixation with the color pink and polka dots. Finally there was the master and en suite, which, regrettably, was done out in deep burgundys and what appeared to be white fur-shags,  and black wall ornamentation that one could only deduce was chosen by a 1970's fetishist. Leaving that aside was this horribly obnoxious salmon color someone had vomited all over everything in the en suite, presumably to make all the mint green linens and accent pieces pop. Someone who'd peaked in the 80s had been assigned the bathroom.

Venturing beyond the sleeping quarters, there was a kitchen with an 'open concept'- it was small, so raising a wall would have probably made it a closet. Apparently a Martha Stewart magazine must have been lying around because there were a three jars of olives, noodles, and tiny tomatoes stuffed into jars with cork tops about the neck with twine sitting on the window sill above the sink- a window that looked out at 70 % wall, 25 % neighbor roof, and 5 % sky. And that was all the ambiance for what could pass for the cooking space of a mental institution. Three measly jars.

A living room and dining room truncated each other outside the imaginary line that defined the paired kitchen and, beyond the raised counter where two high legged chairs pulled up, the 'breakfast nook' territory. The dining room, a cube with 3 sides across from the kitchenette, held a country style wood table- the top painted creame while the center column remained natural- covered in a long thin cloth down the middle. Surrounding it were four brown wooden chairs with creame cushions tied to their seats.

The living room, nearer the front of the house was furnished with a creme couch, matching loveseat and armchair, with this ribbing striping its entire upholderied body, as though it were an animal warning others not to come near. To counteract this, there was a purple throw provided over it's back and pillows with vinework stitched in placed at it's pockets. On a wall that was nearly bisecting the square footage of this area and yet didn't quite reach all the way to the ceiling, there was a Television mounted, probably 58" and poised above a small entertainment table with a DVD/Blu-Ray player, a wii, and a cable box. And at the end of it all, near the corner of this wall hoping not to draw attention to itself, was was a door where, inside, beyond the view of the rest of the house and cut off from it like a secret, was the set up of all of the agency's surveillance and security equipment. It also included the closet for the tactical and defensive weapons, and the trap door that led to a 'plan z' escape route. After all the effort put in, this house could do little else short of pulling in visitors by their collars and screaming "I AM AN EXACT AVERAGE OF EVERYONE IN YOUR LIFE YOU'VE FORGOTTEN TO PAY ATTENTION TO!" in their faces.

"Ugh." Natasha pulled the door to the surveillance room closed behind her, the autolocking engaging and strode over to collapse into the puffy new sofa. She huffed again and crossed her legs when Clint gave her an eyebrow and a shake of his head.

"I know how to play this part, but we're inside and this is ridiculous- what do they think it is, the '50s?" She sighed, looking out one of the two windows to the beautiful view of the side of the neighbor's fence. Natasha's arrival outfit had been chosen as a red camisol under a thin, white, sleeveless blouse with big photo prints of roses in red, purple on the bottom half. She tucked this into high waisted white, rolled-cuff shorts and a large, rustic brown belt buckled around her waist to match the brown on the oxford flats on her feet. Clearly not something she usually had to don.

"I'm sure there are khakis in there somewhere." Clint chuckled, sitting in an armchair nearby, his smile slowly melting away. He'd been allowed to wear a green plaid shortsleeve button up over a blue hanes, and a pair of jeans and addidas sneakers. Natasha glanced at him and gently shook her head looking off again without giving a response otherwise.

It was quiet, and in that pause in the otherwise hectic day their thoughts were allowed to bubble over. So, they were doing this. It was done. They were taking care of two children on orders from Director Fury himself in some lower suburb of the Las Vegas area with little more to go on than, "Handle Asset Care."

"We shouldn't be here." Clint’s thoughts, almost silent, snuck out of his mouth, “I'm not a-”, just as the kids came back in,

"Now, what are we supposed to do?" Pietro asked indignantly, Wanda watching with wide eyes from where she trotted behind him. Clint fatigue pressed him further staring at their eyes, expectant and confused. What the h*ll was he supposed to do with a couple of kids- why in the world did they put him here? What was this feeling growing every second they stared at him and he sat there unable to figure out this puzzle? Wanda looked him over as he held still for a moment and her eyes fell away, turning instead to the floor. Ah yes, it was so clear when it was on someone else's face; dissapointment. Yeah, that seemed about right. And yet, he couldn’t just sit there forever-

"Well, I guess we should-" Clint tried, right before a roach the size of freaking bird flew from the "foyer" with a buzzing that could have doubled for a powerline, deciding to launch itself at Pietro. They boy was wearing a pushed up black long sleeve over the blue graphic blue t and was probably the darkest colored thing in the house- camoflauge. As if it were an actual monster, the boy made the most unfiltered, childish, whimpering yip through his teeth and swung at it. As soon as his arm made contact, disgusted, it flew back with the rest of him into his little sister who was frightened by his lack of composure and both of them crumpled to the floor. The adolescent kicked his good leg at the grounded beast who was just looking for some dark color in this sterile house to blend in to and hide on. It's scrambling was halted with a the 'ting' of metal as a blade thrust its tip into the tile through the bug's carapace. The children both stared in silent horror at the animal, whose legs thrashed in panic and confusion, and up the hilt of the 4 inch long weapon to its owner who stared at them with eyes that left them feeling empathy with the insect. A soft whimper bubbled from Wanda.

"Nat-"

"No," She held up a hand to stop him before he could continue and stood, going over to her knife and pulling it free.

"Pick it up and throw it back outside." she ordered. Pietro stared at her frozen for a moment longer, but, keeping his eyes on her as long as he dared, reached out toward the two pieces of bug.

"No. You." She pointed the knife under her finger at Wanda who nearly wilted right there.

"I can do it!" Pietro protested.

"But she's going to."

"No, I am!"

"Pick it up."

"Can't you see she's scared?" Natasha dropped to one knee in front of him so quickly his breath caught.

"The world is a scary place. And you can't keep carrying her like dead weight."

"She's not dead weight! You don't know! You don't have anyone who loves you!"

"Kid-" Clint nearly interjected but Natasha signalled that she still wanted control of the situation.

"Oh, yeah? Then show me what that means. Show me how your love keeps both of you alive."

"I will!"

"Then stop me-" And before he could do anything at all, she'd snatched Wanda away from him. The girl was terrified, crumpling like paper into herself while she reached for her brother who started, reaching back and stumbling on his injured leg, nearly falling back down. He looked up at his target though and bit deeply into his lips, jetting forward. Nearly a blur, he grabbed her ankles with a pained moan to pull her away but Natasha shoved his hands away, swinging Wanda a different direction, and he gave chase.

At least three times he had her in his grasp and Natasha was always able to pry her from him, and both children were becoming increasingly distressed and dissatisfied. Finally Wanda reached out herself and took hold of her brother's arm, and when Natasha pulled to break their bond, Pietro, enraged and losing focus, threw his fist out to strike Natasha but his wild punch, engaged with speed, was dead on for his sister's midsection instead. Whipping her away, Natasha reached out her other palm to receive the force of his hand. It stung. Wanda, resting on Natasha's side in the air, had pulled her legs up- a natural reaction to seeing when you're about to be struck. The realization seemed to strike Pietro- his eyes darted between his enemy and his ward in a condition of disbelief frayed with horror.

"Love won't keep either of you safe. If you don't stop carrying her, both of you are doomed to suffer. You're not strong enough to protect her." Natasha spoke, standing up and let the girl go. She scampered off to her brother.

"Pick it up and put it outside." At once, Wanda ran over and grabbed the bug and raced to the door, but Pietro, chin quivering and brows so furrowed he'd probably have an ache, stared back at Natasha until his eyes watered. When Wanda returned she reached out gently and took his arm, breaking his trance and he limped off with her down the hall. After a few moments a slam cracked through the house. Natasha stood there for just a few seconds before she wiped the blade a bit on the cuff of her shorts and tucked it back into whatever sparse hiding space she'd managed to find in the outfit. Taking a moment to glance down the hall, she turned away and came back, face mussed in frustration, and sighed it back to indifference when she sank back onto the couch, resting her chin on her fist and looking at the wall.

"That wasn't too much?"

"I don't even know how they survived this long."

"I just think you could have done that a little later. They're scared, and turning their fear from bugs and shadows on to you doesn't help them. It's just going to make this month harder."

"We're supposed to be teaching them- that's what I just did. They ought to learn how to protect themselves better. And how to respect… superiors."

"But come on- they're just kids." Clint shook his head sitting forward to lean on his knees trying to look at her.

"So was I." And she felt the need to stand, walking a few steps into the center of the room, arms crossed, shifting her weight to one side, "This is ridiculous. Kids..." she glanced toward the hall and shook her head again, her shiny hair, styled in heavy curls at the bottom waving in small bounces around her neck. Clint caught himself staring at the form she turned away from him and how she kept huffing and looking toward that closed door. As he came to a realization his tire began to melt away and he swallowed a smile, standing up. There was work to be done.

On his feet once again, Clint headed passed her and into that narrow little hall toward the door with a chalkboard nailed to its face where "Pietro" was written. He gave a couple of knocks. Shadows under the door moved around but no sounds were made. He knocked twice more before speaking himself now,

"Alright, come on- come out you guys." There was no response so he leaned in a little closer trying to think for a moment, "No one's going to hurt you," he said as genuinely as he could, "I promise." There was more silence but then that shadow moved and he heard,

"--No, don't trust him. Remember what she did."

"Don't worry about Nat, she's a bit of a brute, huh? But you know, she's just got a hard way of proving points." His shoulder was backhanded and he turned with a small smile to see his partner nodding for him to try saying that again. It was still quiet and both of them stood quietly in this silence sussing out the emptiness for any clues at all about what was going on behind that door.

"It... wasn't a fair fight." a voice responded.

"Oh, yeah? How do you mean?" Clint asked.

"She... she's taller than I am. And, and stronger. I grabbed Wanda, I should have won."

"If you can't get her away from them, you think you can call it a win-?" Natasha interjected and Clint shook his head at her beseechingly to knock that off, signing "stop" at her with his hands a few times off to the side, while Pietro shouted, "You didn't explain the rules good! If I pulled on her I would have hurt her! If I pull you have to let go, you're a cheater!"

"Why don't you come out here and say that to my face?"

"N-no, that's alright, hold on, bud-"

"What are you doing?" Clint threw his hands in silent speech, signing in disbelief.

"What am I doing? What's this 'bud' stuff?"

"We need him to trust us- he doesn't like you."

"So what? I'm his handler- not his mother, and not his friend." She signed back with defiance, "So are you." He shook his head, giving up on the argument before turning back.

"Well, how about you try something else then? Double or nothing. We'll all just forget that first one, like a, like a practice."

"Are you going to do it this time?"

"No." Natasha answered.

"She's a cheater- she'll cheat again, because she's sneaky."

"-Then we'll do something you're good at," Clint continued before Natasha could fire back at him. The quiet dropped in again.

"How do you usually protect your sister?"

"We run." His answer was a bit quieter but he gave it, "Or I'll fight them."

"Alright, we can work with that. How about a spar?"

"Spar?"

"Yeah- all you have to do is land a hit on Natasha and you win. Does that sound good? You'll be the winner." once more they waited.

"N-No!" He pulled back, "No, she'll cheat!"

"Okay, okay, calm down- why don't you just show us your moves then? No winners, no losers- just let us see what you do, hm?" a pause.

"We'll leave you alone for a while if you do." Natasha rolled her eyes and added. The interlude was much shorter, and those shadows came to the door, unlocking and opening it. Wanda hid closer to Pietro when they noticed both adults crowding their door and Pietro glanced back, his arm out toward her comfortingly before glaring up at Natasha.

"You have to leave us alone until tomorrow."

"Done. Let's go."

[overwatchladieslover]

The Moon Circus chapter one: La fille du soleil

She was tired. Undeniably tired. Under her eyes were bags larger than those she had packed when leaving Switzerland, in her hand, a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. Her hand had cramps from holding her pen for so long.

���Ziegler, we need you at the drive-through!” Yelled her boss in her shitty earpiece, which matched her equally shitty fast-food uniform. She nodded, running over to her post. “Good evening! Have you made a choice yet?” She asked, trying her best to sound welcoming and happy. Her French was perfect, from the accent to the pronunciation. Perks of being Swiss.

Even if she had barely slept in three days, even if she got the shakes from her caffeine high. She had just gotten back from her college, where she was studying the medical arts, she barely had the time to trade her blouse and skirt for an orange and bright yellow uniform, she was already getting yelled at by five different persons. Angela Ziegler kept her voice even and joyful for the rest of the evening.

“Good evening! Have you made choice yet?” Her throat was dry, she was tired, and her voice slightly raspy, yet her interlocutor did not seem to mind in the slightest. Excited babbles of children could be heard, chanting ‘circus’ with enough energy to bring a melancholic smile to Angela’s lips. She remembered, when her little world was covered in snow, as her parents, holding her hands, stood by her sides, leading her to the circus. She fondly recalled the feel of her mother’s hand against her gloved one, or how her father laughed when he gave her piggyback rides.

She was brought back to the moment by her colleague, Hana, who looked at her with compassion. Decembers always were trying times for Angela since her parents had passed away. Sighing sadly, she resumed working, trying to keep herself focused.

Her service had finally ended, after dragging out slowly like a dying snail trying to reach its final destination. She simply could not wait to take a shower and pass out on her couch with some silly TV show playing in the background. On her way out, she waved goodbye at Hana, who was in charge of the night shifts. It was pretty cold outside, but Angela had had worse. Plus, she welcomed the freezing breeze like an old friend, as it seemed to dance with her blond hair. Angela Ziegler liked the calm, she checked her phone, it was almost midnight. She hurried back to her apartment. If she liked the Lyon nights, she certainly was much less fond of the dangerous back alleys.

She opened the door to her small lair. It was nothing fancy, but given the fact that she was living in the third arrondissement, right next to the docks, she was lucky. It had a living room with a kitchenette, a decently sized sofa who could serve as a bed in case Lena got in trouble with her girlfriend, Emily. Angela’s room was small, but efficient. A small bed, a bedside table drowning in books, notes, and a glass of water that had been sitting there for way too long to be drinkable. There also was a small desk, equally messy, with a small plant, which she lovingly named Freud, for she loved to pour water on little green Freud, chanting ‘drown, drown’. She let her bag fall to the ground, as she kicked her shoes off, jumping on the sofa, turning on TV, as she stared at the ceiling. Lord, was she tired.

She eyed the pack of cigarettes on her table. Lena gave them to her, as a ‘thank you’ for letting her stay over a week. Angela was not a smoker, not a regular one, but she could use something to take the edge off, and the smell of fast food oozing from her made her too nauseas to drink any of the cheap liquor she kept stashed in her cupboard. Grabbing a cigarette, she opened her window, pulling a lighter from the empty ashtray sitting on the windowsill. As she was smoking, her mind wandering, paying no attention to the political debate in the background, a blaring noise echoed through the street, she almost dropped her cigarette.

“What is that?” She muttered, leaning over the railing to see what was going on. “Greetings, ladies and gentlemen! Le Cirque D’Andromède is in town! Head over to Place Bellecour, and witness the impossible! Under the big top, you shall find us! Our first representation is going to be public, and completely free!” Enthusiastically spoke man in a megaphone. He was standing atop a car, which was blaring an obnoxiously loud circus music. He waved a top hat around.

Angela chuckled, he had cliché long moustache, a white cane and a black tailcoat, complimenting his pristine white shirt. The med school student checked her phone. Lena could definitely use something fun to do tonight. She called her, the brit answered almost right away. “What’d’ya need, Angie?” Asked Lena, upbeat as ever. “There’s a circus in town, first night sounds free. Want to check it out ? Bellecour isn’t that far from your place, is it?” Angela was already stripping for her shower, holding her phone with one hand, letting the cigarette fall down. “Please, I live in Bronc, that’s right next to the Jean Masset train station. I’ll be over in a second, meet me there!” Chirped Lena cheerfully. “I’ll take a quick shower and I’ll meet you at the station. Bring popcorn!” “Will do!” Angela hung up, before getting in her shower. She felt all the stress of the day wash off pleasantly. Sure, she was still tense, but she got used to this weight on her shoulders a long time ago. As soon as she was out of the shower, she tried to figure out what she was going to wear. Was it going to be casual, or classy? She had like, one good dress, and that was it. Her paycheck didn’t really cover much over the essentials.

She ultimately decided that she was too lazy to dress up, plus Lena had seen her at her worst caffeine-fueled extravaganza at 4 AM, trying to turn a semester of slacking around. She opted for dark jeans, a blue top which really brought out her eyes, and some light mascara and eyeshadow, just to pretend she actually made an effort. TV: turned off. Purse: Grabbed. Makeup: On. Ready to roll.

The streets were pretty calm for the 3rd district, which was known to house some of the city’s poorest students and people who didn’t have enough money to move to the suburbs. Still, it was a nice place. She lived Rue De Marseille, where shops almost never closed, except during Ramadan, where everything was quiet during the day, but so lively during the night ! Children playing soccer in the dead of night, under their mothers’ and the moon’s supervision. Teens smoking on the docks, carving their names in every available surface, or graffitiing the walls. Lena was a pro at that. Her nickname, ‘Tracer’, was almost everywhere in the borough, to her utmost pride. The train station was her favourite. The brit liked to go on trains, especially when she had no idea where they were headed, and just leave. Emily hated that, she once had to get Lena back from Valence, the brit still had not lived that one down.

Angela ran up the stairs to Jean Macé, where Lena was laying on a bench, watching something on her phone, kicking her crocs-clad feet in the air. “Hi there!” “’Sup Angie!” The brit greeted her with a hug. “When’s the train getting here?” Asked the blonde, sitting on the bench, as her friend let her feet lay on her lap. “Shouldn’t be too long now, I s’pose.” Lena looked as tired and dead inside as Angela, she too had to work a part time job, but it was far less classic than Angela’s. “How are things?” Miss Ziegler knew that Lena did not exactly enjoy bringing her adventures as a ‘criminal’ (after all, poor Lena Oxton wouldn’t hurt a fly). “They’re good, Jalel and I just lounged up in the HQ all day, not much traffic. Even enough time to actually turn in my assignment in time, for the first time like, ever!” Jalel, Lena’s boss, was a dear, but was not to be messed with. He was like a teddy bear which would turn in an actual bear if provoked. He /adored/ his assistant, and always made sure not to drag her into overly dangerous tasks. “Sounds great! But I am afraid your professor might have a heart attack when she realises that you were actually one time, for once.” Lena was studying animation, and her art teacher, in spite of her appreciation for the very much loveable brit, was growing more and more exasperated each time she turned assignment in late. Her current high score was two months late, she had had to dodge the teacher’s incessant calls, emails, and even had to hide in the boys’ bathroom to escape the animation teacher’s wrath. “Are we going by TGV, or are we going the wild way?” Asked Lena, knowing fully well that there were no TGVs scheduled for the day, only trains carrying merchandise or materials for the ever-expanding city that was Lyon.

“Wild way, I imagine.” Grinned the blonde, cracking her knuckles. Lena started stretching, before a distant light warned them of the train arriving. Angela sucked in a shallow breath, she had gotten slightly used to it, but before the big jump, she always got stressed out. Lena took her hand, squeezing reassuringly. They stepped back a bit, waiting for the perfect opportunity. The Brit whistled, and the two girls broke into a sprint, jumping on the train. Angela looked down as she jumped, it felt like time itself had slowed down, the tracks moving fast beneath her feet.

In this moment, she felt everything, the wind in her hair, the blood hammering her temple, the adrenaline running wild in her veins, just like the train speeding through the city. She landed on her knees, but she didn’t feel any pain. She just felt relief and joy. “Not bad, Angie!” Yelled Lena, barely audible over the wind rushing around them. The blonde giggled in response, grabbing Lena’s extended hand, pulling her to her feet. She opened her arms against the wind pushing against her. “Wooohoo!” The tiredness in her bones left, replaced with cheerfulness. Lena imitated her, the two of them started a screaming contest, knowing that nobody could hear them. They screamed in unison, in their heads, they screamed against mean bosses, late nights on papers they knew were going to be awful, failed romances, against a world that kept trying to bury them, yet, here they were: on a train, in the middle of the nights, surrounded by the city’s lights coming from the cafés, the rooftops lit with fairy lights.

Once their voices had died down, it was almost time to get off the train. “Part-Dieu’s in view!” They got to the opposite side of their wagon, trying to avoid the pieces of wood firmly held by metal chains. As soon as the platform was in sight, they ran and jumped. Their landing was not exactly smooth or elegant, but they managed just fine, rolling onto the unclean ground of the C platform. Luckily, there was no one in sight. They got up and dusted themselves off. “We should hurry, I don’t want to miss the opening!” Lena, hyper as ever, grabbed Angela’s hand, running through the train station. Angie really liked the ambiance in those late nights in the train station. People asleep on the benches, or on their luggage, the brave, daring youth vomiting in the bins, getting chastised by the personnel, or the soldiers patrolling under the Sentinelle Act.

Part-Dieu was a street away from Bellecour. They raced down the stairs, to the surprise of a few young men, trying to soothe the burn of alcohol in their system by laying in the fountains, which were luckily not turned on. They didn’t even have to raise their heads to know where the circus was. Loud music echoed through the street, along with a tremendous cheer, from a seemingly overhyped crowd.

Their steps led them to the place, and the crowd that had formed there was nothing short of massive. All around the titanic place that was Bellecour, were decorations, poles challenging the height of the surrounding buildings, with various strips of coloured cloth twirling and joining the other poles in a whirlwind of undeniable beauty. Thankfully, the spectacle had not started yet. “Oh! Cotton Candy!” Exclaimed Lena, almost running to the small stall, dragging her friend along. “I’ll never get over how ridiculous its French name is. Barbapapa.” Angela shook her head, as her friend grabbed their sticks, handing her the extremely sugary candy. “C’mon, Angie, French is the language of love, shall I say it again?” Lena wiggled her eyebrow suggestively. “Do no-” “Omelette du fromage…” She winked, as if she had dropped the smoothest pickup line known to mankind. An exasperated sigh made them turn around. A woman, clad in tight, dark green leather, and what seemed to be a huge necklace made of various leaves, feathers, and flowers. Her hair, held back in a ponytail which showed her remarkably high cheekbones. “Omelette AU fromage.” Sighed the beautiful woman, walking past them, stopping to catch a side glance at the duo. “Jolies crocs, ma belle.” Grinned the Frenchwoman, fading into the crowd. “Angie, I’m pretty sure my ovaries just exploded.” Whined the brit with a shaky voice. “For fuck’s sake, Lena.” “Exploded!” “Oxton, your gay ass is the reason I can’t take you anywhere nice.” Angela sighed, and resumed trying to eat her cotton candy without having it stick to her fingers, which was frankly impossible. While her friend was off rambling about her ovaries getting destroyed by yet another woman, Angela dragged her towards the scene, trying to avoid running into people too much. “It’s about to start, snap out of it!” Chastised the blonde, lightly shaking her friend’s shoulders. All the lights suddenly went down. The crowd went dead silent, and thank God, Lena shut up. Various noises, resembling those of a forest rose from seemingly everywhere. There must’ve been some speakers hidden in the poles’ cloths. On the scene, rose poles looking like bamboo, in a dim cloud of smoke. The first men appeared. Clad in skin-tight blue costumes, with intricate patterns which looked like scales. They gracefully split across the stage, revealing a huge man, whom looked similar to Poseidon, wearing a similarly blue costume, however this one was cut at the torso, revealing an impressive chest covered in blue tattoos, which ran up to his neck, and got lost underneath his equally impressive beard, also covered in the aqua glyphs. He rose his voice. It was not a language Angela knew, though it did sound similar to a mix of Spanish, Italian, and a few hints of French.

Then, the violins started to accompany him. The subtle melody was sublimed when cloths from the nearby polls were thrown onto the bamboos, as the acrobats started their hypnotizing dance, which consisted of intricate swirls and jumps, getting nearer to the public, studying them with their immense, child-like eyes, before promptly jumping back a few steps, as if they were afraid. Their arms moved in perfect harmony with the song, their long arms wrapped in foliage made them look like brisling bushes, moving with the wind. Then, a bright spotlight illuminated a pole on the other side of the Place. An acrobat was standing there, it didn’t take long for the two girls to recognize who it was. “It’s the ‘crocs’ girl!” Thought Angela. “It’s sugar-tits!” Exclaimed Lena, ever a one-track mind. A line from the pole she was currently standing on, with perfect pointes, as if she were a feline and not an actual human being, was linked to the main scene. Graceful as a feather slowly making its way towards the ground, quick as a leopard dashing on its prey, she pounced on the thin line. She rolled on it like it was solid ground, landing on the tight string, under the public’s delirious applause. Her skin, coloured in blue, seemed to sparkle under the limelight. She stopped for an instant, as if enraptured by the art flowing endlessly throughout her body.

In that moment, to Lena ‘useless horny lesbian’ Oxton herself, she was much more than simply a pretty face, she was an ethereal vision of pure, unaltered beauty, as she fended through the air, not unlike a falcon seeking its prey. It felt as if her lungs exalted art, in each and every subtle puff she let slip, as she danced across the thin line, her naked feet strutting, carelessly taking dips, standing on one foot, as the other carelessly dangled in the void. “Woah,” Sighed Oxton, her eyes refusing to leave the entranced woman’s lithe figure dancing across the line, her very ears refusing to acknowledge the man starting to sing in the background.

“She looks…” She didn’t even finish her sentence, completely mesmerised. Angela didn’t dare to shake her friend out of her trance, instead turning around to follow the main attraction. The man whom spoke earlier was now singing, his loud voice booming through the audience, enrapturing, enchanting people who knew little to nothing of the quality of the performance they were currently experiencing. Because such a thing shan’t be qualified as a simple performance, nay, ‘twas an experience, one which touches your very essence, leaving it forever altered. The beauty of the spectacle, the sheer elegance, art was dripping everywhere, like honey from a lover’s lips.

Angela was not exactly a patron of the arts. She was quite fond of them, sure, she even took an option in college, yet, no painting, no simple youtube video of a performance could ever match the feeling which flowed through her veins, drowning her sense with a feeling of everlasting satisfaction. Each artist, acrobat, every piece, foliage of the décor belonged there, it had a meaning, it had an IMPORTANCE.

The dancers strutting along the stage, carrying their aforementioned colleagues, whom were once terrified by the public, were now dancing a breath away from them, standing on the brink of the stage. The public, even though they perfectly could have, did not dare to touch them. The imposing man strode forward on the scene, his glorious mane dyed in various shades of blue, aqua green and purple, his voice carrying the strength of the whole company. The dancer they had met earlier jumped on the platform, landing with a graceful bounce, followed by a salto, ending in the man outstretched arm. They swung their hips rhythm for a short while, before a sharp cry stopped the whole stage altogether.

The artists looked around, jumping away from the crowd. The bamboos-like poles seemed to shake. Then, a creature, which resembled the chimera from the Greek Mythology, fell in the middle of the stage, forcing the imposing man and the gorgeous dancer to step away elegantly. “How many people are in this costume?” Wondered Lena, aloud. “Shhh…” Hushed Angela, entranced couldn’t move her eyes away from the scene. A man, shirtless, flaunting his flawless body, rock-solid abs enhancing an already entrancing silhouette. His dark skin was covered in white war paint, he was walking like a gladiator in an arena. He came to an eye-level with the chimera, growling loud enough for Angela and Lena to catch it from where they stood. He raised his fist, preparing to strike, but suddenly, both him and the beast knelt. A woman, clad in dark red and black from head to toe made her way between the both of them. Her face was covered by her hood, in her hands, she carried two lanterns, oozing purple smoke, adding to her already frightening aura.

“We get it, you vape.” Snorted Lena, not even realising that Angela didn’t even hear a word she said, her eyes almost forgetting to blink, too focused on the spectacle. She dismissed the Gladiator with a flick of her wrist, before running her hand against the beast’s flank. The beast seemed to shudder, whining for everyone to hear. The impressive man left the blue-skinned acrobat, trying to push away the wraith-like creature from the distressed animal.

With a twist of her finger, the man fell to his knees in front of her, as his comrades gasped in shock. She flicked his forehead, causing him to stumble backwards. She pointed an accusatory finger at the man, before gesturing to the blue skinned acrobat. The woman collapsed on the spot, her long hair falling over her face. The other dancers slowly stepped back, some of them running towards the poles, climbing them up, resting at the top like lemurs. Just one remained by the fallen dancer’s side, rocking her in his arms, seemingly weeping. The singer wailed, as the violins’ strings joined his voice, in a requiem-like mood.

The hooded woman, with a lift of her pinkie, invited the fallen beauty to rise, which she did, grabbing her companion by the collar, effortlessly flipping him over, her hands around his throat, strangling him. The blue-skinned woman then joined the mysterious figure. The latter grabbed her smoke-oozing orb, bringing it to her lips, inhaling some of it, before letting the smoke go in the fallen beast’s nostrils. It promptly got up, its previously cream-coloured fur turning a twisted shade of grey, before charging an acrobat. He jumped over the ferocious beast, evading his hit. Its lion head roared at the public, before turning tail, exposing his back, which bore a goat head where his spine met its rear, and most importantly its tail, an enormous snake head, which hissed menacingly. “You know what this reminds me of. Eww, that’s why I’m a lesbian.” Commented Lena, still not deterred at her friend’s lack of response. The hooded lady offered the dancer her arm, and they left together, walking among the forest of bamboos, as the man, rose to his feet and raised his voice, now thunder-like. The artists, hanging on their perches, jumped to the ground, bouncing on their feet, as if there were springs underneath them. They started to run in circles around the singing man, the tempo increased, the hammering of the acrobats’ feet on the stage sounding like drums of war, as the impressive man’s voice grew louder and louder.

The public saw a grapple falling in the middle of this mosh pit-like circle. The man, holding the line with a death grip, showing off his imposing musculature. The violins simply went insane, the musicians, appearing perched atop the poles all around Bellecour, in an orchestra of grief-fuelled wrath. He rose to an incredible height, the climax of the scene was his vertiginous fall. Right as he was about to hit the ground, the music stopped dead in its track with a final bang, the subjects fell to the ground, leaving him standing there, on one knee, his strong fist against the ground. The crowd was silent. He got up, his hair hiding on of his eye. He walked up to the end of the stage, standing on the edge. “This, is not the end,” He started, his shoulders heaving menacingly with each breath.

“Merely the beginning!” As he ended his sentence, fire sprouted from the bamboo poles illuminating Place Bellecour. The lights remained for a few seconds, before the fire died down. The public was cheering, clapping enthusiastically. The whole stage was in the dark, before some dime lights revealed the whole cast, bowing to the audience. “Where’s the hot chick?” Asked Lena, looking frantically on stage.

A noise similar to one of a zipper made them turn around instantly, ever so mindful of pickpockets. “Why, I do hope you meant ‘me’.” She was standing there, hands planted firmly on her hips. Lena was speechless, just looking at her up and down, in utter disbelief. “Your performance was incredible miss…?” Asked Angela, extending her hand, which the acrobat shook with in a most firm handshake. “Amélie.” Confidence was practically oozing off of her. “A pleasure Amélie, I am Angela, and this is Lena.” She pointed to her lust-struck friend. The brit seemed to regain her composure, extending her hand, expecting a handshake. But the Frenchwoman gently took her hand, bringing her lips to her knuckle, leaving a feather-light kiss upon it. “Heureuse de faire ta connaissance, ma belle.” She smirked, as Lena sported 50 shades of red on her face, ears and neck. “The mine is the pleasure.” Blurted out Lena, to Angela and Amélie’s hilarity. The acrobat reached in her more than generous cleavage, to reveal a sticky note. It had a number written on it. “Gérard is going to give out a speech, it should cover the basics, I do hope to see you around at the Moon Circus.” She stuck the note on the gay mess’ cheek, before kissing the other one, pretty close to her lips.

She turned around, raised her arm to a nearby pole, and grappled away. “I hate to see her leave, but bloody hell do I love to watch her go.” Whispered Lena, in awe. “For fuck’s sake.” Sighed Angela, recovering the sticky note before the brit could forget about it. The man Angela had seen earlier appeared on stage in a cloud of smoke.

“Ladies and gentlemen! We are delighted to hear that you appreciated our opening! However, I must inform you of a most tragic news for us, but a truly interesting opportunity for you! Due to the snow blocking the air traffic, a lot of our artists had to cancel. If you have any particular skill, visit us next Sunday for the auditions. Weeeeelcome to the Moon Circus!” His moustache moved with each word he said, speaking in a microphone bearing a similar one. The crowd cheered some more, as paper and leaflets flew across the sky, shot by some cannons which were hidden under the stage.

Lena caught one, looking it over with interest. “Want to apply, Lena?” Angie looked over her friend’s shoulder. “You could, I mean, you’d be bound to earn more than you do at that crappy MacDonald’s. Didn’t you study this before?” Asked the brit, stroking her chin thoughtfully. “I studied Les Arts Du Cirques back in Switzerland, yes, but I am afraid my level of skill is not what they’re looking for.” “There’s a role you’d be perfect for.” Stated Lena, showing her the leaflet. “And what would that be?” “La fille du soleil.” “Your French is fucking awful, Lena.”