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shellbilee · 4 months ago

Note

Hello fellow Aussie! 🇦🇺❤️

It’s my birthday today and I was wondering if I could put in a request for a Glen Powell fic?

Maybe they’ve been doing long distance for a while (they met when she was in the US from Australia for a holiday) and Glen decides to surprise her with him turning up at her door for her birthday or something?

If you can’t..it’s all good 😊

Have a good night! 😁

I am a week late, but happy birthday Queen! I hope you had the greatest day and got absolutely spoilt rotten.

Apologies to all my Hey There Darlin' readers, the next chapter update was delayed because I wanted to put this together for my favourite fellow Aussie. (Next chapter will be up ASAP).

So here's my little gift to you @queenslandlover-93, which would never be enough to thank you for all of your constant support on my work. Much love to you sweets!🩵

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One Afternoon in Austin

A Glen Powell RPF One Shot Pairing: Glen Powell x Reader Words: 5.5K

You glance down at your phone for the hundredth time, inhaling a long breath when you see no new notifications on the screen.

You sigh, lips stretching into a somber smile at the sight of your two smiling faces pictured on your home screen.

God you missed him.

It had been 18 whole hours since you'd spoken to Glen - not since he'd face timed you at 12.01am, determined to be the first to wish you a happy birthday. You'd answered within three rings, feeling your whole body warm when his gorgeous face appeared on the screen, teeth flashing in the effortlessly handsome, all-American smile that you loved so much.

Glen.

Even ten months later, you still hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that you were dating Glen Powell, and if you were being honest, you weren’t sure you ever would. If someone had told you a year ago that you’d be in a serious relationship with one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors, you'd have snorted and laughed out loud.

You'd met Glen when you were solo traveling through the USA last June. You'd been about halfway through your twelve week trip, having started high on the west coast and working your way down South and across, making it to Texas. The plan had been to spend a few days there, first in Austin, then Houston and a couple of other places, before moving onto Louisiana to New Orleans.

Two days into your Austin visit - staying in a modern little air BnB not far from the city, you'd been coming back from a run through the suburbs when you'd come across a little tan and white dog standing alone on the sidewalk. You remembered stopping and looking around, waiting to see if anyone would appear, hoping that someone was walking their dog off lead and hadn't caught up yet. No one appeared to be out searching for it, the surrounding houses seemingly quiet.

You'd knelt down and whistled for the dog, smiling when it wandered over to you immediately, tail wagging and panting happily. You'd cooed at the tiny animal, patting its fluffy head, sitting down on the grass beside it so you could get a better view of its collar.

The dog's name had turned out to be Brisket, a fact you'd found both adorable and amusing, flipping over the metallic name tag to find a phone number engraved on the other side. Deciding that Brisket must have wandered out of his yard and was now lost, you'd picked up the tiny dog and walked the rest of the distance home to your air BnB. Letting Brisket out into your yard, you’d gotten him some water and set about calling the number from his name tag, sitting down on the back porch next to him as you’d listened to the phone ring.

The phone had ended up ringing through to voicemail, and you’d soon discovered that Brisket’s owner was a man named Glen with a deep Texan accent. You still remembered smiling at the sound of his voice, some part of you internally swooning as you listened to him tell you to leave a message after the tone.

You’d left a quick message, telling him your name and how you’d found Brisket, and that you’d brought him home with you to get him out of the afternoon heat. You’d sent a quick text as well, detailing the same, in case he was otherwise indisposed and unable to take a call.

Fifteen minutes later you’d been relaxing on the backyard grass with a trashy romance novel, Brisket snoozing peacefully by your side, when your phone had started ringing. Immediately recognising the number as Glen, you’d answered, not at all surprised to hear a panicked voice greeting you instead of the calm, easy going one that had spoken to you in a voicemail.

You’d reassured him that Brisket was fine, healthy and laying happily by your side, explaining that you didn’t have a car, but that you could get an uber to wherever he needed. Glen had offered to come to you but you’d politely declined, not entirely comfortable with giving your address to a stranger when you were traveling solo, instead asking where he was and insisting that you’d go to him. You’d soon discovered on your maps that he was only a ten minute drive from your air BnB, promising that you’d be there soon and that he had no reason to worry about Brisket as he’d thanked you profusely.

Exactly twenty-three minutes later your Uber had arrived at what you could only describe as a modern Texas mansion, and you remembered the way your jaw had instantly dropped as your eyes had run over the sheer expanse of the property. Telling the Uber driver to stay put, you’d lifted Brisket into your arms and made your way up the palatial driveway, feeling the beginnings of sweat at the back of your neck from the hot Summer afternoon as you’d knocked on the enormous wooden door.

The Texan royalty, as it turns out, was Glen Powell.

You remembered eyeing off the huge black Ram in the driveway, an expensive black SUV and a smaller white BMW next to it, deciding that you must have stumbled onto some kind of Texan royalty judging by the house and cars in front of you. You’d chuckled to yourself at the thought just as you’d heard the sound of the front door opening, turning around to find a sight that you’d not at all been prepared for.

You’d tried your best not to stumble over your words, certain you looked like a gaping goldfish as you'd introduced yourself and passed a happily wrigging Brisket over to him, thankful for your sunglasses as you’d looked back at him. You remembered thinking that he somehow looked even more handsome in person than he did on screen - a fact that you didn’t think was at all possible, assuring him that it was no problem when he’d thanked you again for finding Brisket. It had taken everything you had not to audibly moan at the sight of him, hoping that your blatant staring wasn’t totally obvious as you took in his stubbled beard and effortlessly charming smile, golden tanned skin and thick, muscled arms.

God.

What you hadn’t known, and would eventually discover weeks later, was that Glen was just as shocked to find you when he had opened his front door - a gorgeous young woman standing alone with a smile that had quite literally stopped him in his tracks and left him momentarily lost for words.

He’d thanked you again and you’d promised him that it was really no issue at all, offering a small wave as you’d turned to make your way back to your waiting Uber. Just when you'd been thinking that meeting Glen Powell had to be the highlight of your trip, you'd heard Glen call out your name and tell you to wait. You remembered turning around to face him then, only to find him taking a step towards you with Brisket still in his arms.

He’d proceeded to ask if you'd wanted to come in for a drink, adding that he had to somehow thank you for finding Brisket. You'd declined of course, reasoning that you had to get back to your Uber - and even now you could still remember the distinct feeling of every single fiber of your body screaming at you to reconsider as Glen continued to insist you stay.

“Please come in?”

He’d asked again, the look on his face making it near impossible to say no, emphasizing that the least he could do was offer you a drink and temporary reprieve from the afternoon heat. You remembered standing there for a moment, seemingly frozen in place, weighing up your potential options.

Get back in the Uber and go back to your air BnB.

Or;

Take up the offer for a drink with one of the most attractive men you’d ever met.

Thinking back to that moment now, you wondered how you ever possibly considered otherwise.

Giving in to Glen, you'd jogged back to the Uber and thanked him for waiting, telling him he could go before making your way back to Glen at the front door. It was at that moment that you’d felt Glen’s eyes on you - running subtly over your figure, suddenly becoming self conscious that you were still sporting the shorts and tank activewear combo you’d worn on your run earlier.

On the transcript of your life, this was certainly not the outfit you’d envisioned wearing if you ever came across a gorgeous Hollywood celebrity.

Anyway.

He’d invited you in and you’d accepted gratefully, instantly thankful for the cool of the air conditioner as you followed him down the enormous hallway. He’d since put Brisket down, the tiny dog now happily trotting alongside his owner, the sight making you long for Flynn, your three year old Australian Shepherd dog back home.

The sound of voices at the end of the hallway made you stop in your tracks, Glen turning around and looking back at you concerned. You’d stammered wide eyed, telling him you didn’t want to interrupt if he had people over, instantly feeling like an intruder despite Glen’s genuine insistence that you weren’t. He’d stepped towards you then - close enough that you remembered the exact moment the scent of his sweet cologne hit you, his sage green eyes looking back at you earnestly and promising that you weren’t interrupting, that it was just his family that was over for a barbecue.

That new information had sent an instant tidal wave of nervousness crashing down your spine, your heartbeat immediately heavy in your ears. Now not only were you being invited into Glen Powell’s home, you were also seconds away from spontaneously meeting his family.

Fuck.

You remembered laughing then - a short, giddy bubble of laughter, Glen’s face splitting into a smile as you did so. Your laugh had been one of incredulousness, your brain unable to fathom the situation that you were currently in.

Of all the things you’d imagined you’d do whilst on your solo travels, this was most certainly not one of them.

Glen had gestured with his hand for you to follow him and somehow your frozen feet were able to oblige, the hallway opening up into an expansive open kitchen and living area, complete with enormous glass french doors that opened onto a luxury deck and pool outside.

You remembered not knowing where to look first - at the enormous turquoise pool, or the insanely stunning view of rolling hills and a lake behind it, the luxury styled interior of the house or the adorable little blonde girl in her swimmers that was staring curiously at you from the back doorway.

Almost immediately she’d spoken, pointing and asking her uncle Glen very loudly who you were, her voice making the rest of the people outside stop and look inside. You remembered your face flaming then, embarrassment flushing your skin as you'd fought the urge to sprint back towards the front door.

You didn’t have a fear of public speaking but in that moment it felt like you had spontaneously developed one.

Glen had informed his niece - who you’d soon discovered was named Gwen, of your name and explained that you were the girl that had found Brisket and brought him home, an older lady suddenly appearing from somewhere inside the house and clapping her hands happily when she’d spied Brisket at Glen’s feet.

As it turned out, it was Lauren’s and Will’s house - Glen’s sister and brother in law, and Witt, their son and twin brother of Gwen, had accidentally opened the back gate and Brisket had wandered out, unbeknownst to everyone at the barbecue. Glen, who had just finished grilling had whistled for Brisket to offer him a cut off of steak, only to find that Brisket had gone missing and that the back gate was open. Just as everyone had scrambled to find keys to go out and look for him, Glen had picked up his phone and seen the text from you, prompting everyone to relax knowing that Brisket was safe.

The lady had turned out to be Glen’s mother Cindy, Glen immediately introducing the two of you as she offered her own thanks for finding Brisket before pulling you in for a hug.The gesture had taken you by surprise but offered a surprising amount of comfort, the nervousness that had your knees threatening to give way slowly easing.

Fifteen minutes later, you’d been introduced to the entire Powell family and were seated on an outdoor lounge by the pool next to Glen’s younger sister Leslie, wine in hand and nominated an additional judge of the pool diving contest between Gwen, Witt and their dad Will. You’d clapped and laughed your way through it, thankful for your sunglasses for the second time in less than twenty minutes when Glen had taken his shirt off and joined as a fourth participant in the contest.

God.

You remembered biting the inside of your cheek so hard you’d drawn blood, using every ounce of strength you had to look away when Glen had emerged from the pool, water droplets sliding down his golden, muscled form.

Later you'd found yourself sitting and talking with Glen’s other sister Lauren and his dad Glen Senior, telling them all about your trip in the US so far and how you’d come to find yourself in Texas. They in turn had asked you about yourself and you’d shared about your home back in Australia, your job, Flynn and your family, Glen coming to join at some point later sitting down on the lounge beside you with a drink refill.

You’d talked and laughed with the Powell’s for the rest of the afternoon, all of your nerves from earlier having seemingly disappeared. It was like you’d known them all for months rather than only an hour, feeling right at home with the bubbly, extraverted, Texan family. They’d asked you about your plans for the remainder of the trip, offering their own tips and recommendations for the rest of your time in Texas which you’d accepted gratefully, making mental notes to adjust your itinerary.

Eventually the afternoon had faded into early evening, Glen Senior and Cindy saying their goodbyes and wishing you all the best for the rest of your trip, Leslie following suit soon after and making you promise that you’d say goodbye before you left Texas.

You’d grabbed your bag announcing that you should probably get home too, Glen interrupting and insisting that he’d take you on his way back home. You knew better than to decline his offer, concluding that based on the day you’d had there was no reasoning with him. You’d said your goodbyes to Lauren and Will, thanking them for their hospitality for the afternoon, comforting Gwen with a hug when she’d gotten teary at you leaving - the two of you having bonded earlier when you’d told her that her diving was as good as a dolphin's and she’d told you that they were her favourite animal.

Glen had driven you home then, the two of you settling into a comfortable silence, Brisket snoozing peacefully on your lap in the passenger seat. Pulling up to your air BnB, Glen had asked what your plans were for tomorrow and you’d informed him that you hadn’t quite decided yet - but you were tossing up between going out to see Lake Travis, or heading out into the hills to visit the country sights.

Flashing you a smile that had made you momentarily lose your train of thought, Glen had offered you an alternative option - let him take you out for the day to show you a side of Austin from a local’s point of view. You remembered staring back at him then, your brain trying to ascertain whether or not you were dreaming that Glen Powell had just asked you to spend the day with him, looking at his perfectly handsome face and uttering an animated yes to his proposal.

He'd kissed you on the cheek and wished you a goodnight, telling you that he’d pick you up at ten AM before thanking you again for finding Brisket. You’d laughed and assured him for the tenth time that day that it was really no problem, thanking him for having you today and saying your own goodbye. He’d waited until you’d unlocked the door of your air BnB and you’d waved as you’d walked inside, your cheeks hurting from smiling as you’d closed the door behind you and leaned back against the wood.

Unbeknownst to you, the plans for the rest of your solo USA trip were about to be turned completely upside down.

The next day with Glen turned out to be everything you’d imagined and more, the two of you talking, flirting and laughing from the moment he’d picked you up. He’d started the day by driving the two of you out to Lake Travis where you’d spent the morning stand up paddleboarding, Glen showing you his favourite spots on the lake and telling you about his family’s lakeside ranch a few hours out of Austin. Next was lunch from what Glen had promised was ‘the best Texan barbecue house’ in all of Texas, ordering his favourite steak sandwiches which quickly became the best meal you’d eaten on your trip so far.

After lunch he’d taken you on a hike through one of Austin’s national parks, the end of which had brought you to one of the most incredible sights you’d ever seen - a waterfall that spilled over a huge bowl-shaped canyon into a large swimming hole below. Glen had convinced you to walk the perimeter through the cave-like canyon until you were standing beneath the falling water, looking up at the natural sight in awe as Glen had snapped several photos of you and then the two of you together.

Looking out at the sunset, sitting beside Glen with his arm around your shoulders, you remembered thinking that this day - a day that would forever go down as one of the best days of your life, couldn’t possibly have gotten any better.

After your hike he’d taken you over to wine country, where he’d introduced you to his good friends Daniel and Amy - owners of one of the most well-known vineyards and breweries in Fredericksburg. They’d given you a private tour of their venue before you’d sat down for drinks, looking out at the picturesque green vineyard and seemingly endless rolling hills, a stunning Texas sunset bathing everything in a gorgeous, orange glow.

And then, just like that, it had.

Glen had driven you back to your air BnB and you’d promptly invited him for a drink, not quite ready to end your day with him. He’d happily accepted your proposal, parking his truck and following you in, sitting down on the living room couch as you’d gotten you both a beer.

What followed was an evening of more stories and laughs, more flirting and mischievous teasing, the tension only growing between you as the night went on. Eventually though, as if neither of you could no longer fight it, Glen had leaned in and kissed you, his lips moving against yours with a soft, passionate want.

That passion quickly became tangible, like a craving neither of you could satisfy, lips and hands growing desperate until you’d both lost several items of clothing and Glen was asking where the bedroom was.

You remembered thinking in that moment - when Glen was carrying you to the bed, his lips pressing wet, open mouthed kisses to the hollow of your throat, that there would be no coming back from this. You’d sleep with Glen Powell, and tomorrow this would become nothing more than a fond memory for the both of you.

After all, he was a Hollywood celebrity and you weren’t.

He lived in Texas and you lived in Australia.

It would never work.

And so you’d decided, as Glen had laid you down on the bed and kissed his way down your body, that you’d forget all about tomorrow and just enjoy tonight.

Every single, sweaty second of it.

And all three delicious rounds of it.

When morning had arrived you’d fully expected to wake up to an empty bed, pleasantly surprised to instead find yourself wrapped in Glen's arms, his chest pressed firmly against your back. He'd felt you stirring, pressing gentle kisses to the back of your neck, his actions teasing soft moans from you that quickly turned into a tangle of sheets and naked limbs all over again.

What followed was two more days with Glen, the two of you spending almost all of your time together - him showing you all of his favourite things about his hometown, and even catching up with his sister Leslie again when she'd joined you both at a live music night that had ended with the two Powell's introducing you to line dancing. There'd been endless stories and laughs and adorable cuddles with Brisket, constant flirting and stolen kisses, and several more rounds of what had quickly become the best sex you'd ever had.

You'd proceeded to become only more and more infatuated with Glen, even despite the constant nagging feeling in the back of your mind telling you that this would soon all have to come to its inevitable end. You’d known that conversation was coming, like a looming tornado that threatening to destroy your happy bubble with Glen at any moment, and on your last night in Austin as you’d sat on Glen’s couch with Brisket on your lap and wine in hand, it finally happened.

You’d told him that it was okay, that you had no expectations of him and that you’d known all along that this was only ever going to be a vacation fling, assuring him that you’d loved every single second of your time and adventures together with him. Glen had been silent for a long moment then, looking back at you as he’d sat beside you on the couch with his gorgeous green eyes boring into your own, eventually taking your hand in his and telling you just how wrong you were.

He’d told you that he’d never before met a girl like you.

He'd told you that he’d never felt the way he had about someone he’d known for only three days.

He'd told you that he’d loved every single moment that you’d spent together and that he knew if he didn't tell you how he felt, he'd be forever wondering.

You swore in that moment that you’d forgotten how to breathe, your heart in your throat as you'd realized the implications of what Glen was saying to you.

You remembered wondering if you were really going to do this, if you could actually be in a relationship with Glen - in a relationship that was not only long distance, but also with a famous celebrity. You knew it would turn your world upside down and back to front a million times over, but the longer you’d looked back at Glen, getting lost in the gaze that was seemingly looking right through you, you’d realized that above all else, you were willing to try.

You’d fallen into his arms then, falling into one another over and over again, first on the couch, and then the shower, and then finally in his bed, eventually drifting off to sleep wrapped around one another as the evening ended and morning brought with it the inevitable tomorrow.

The rest of your trip had seemingly flown by, seeing the sights and experiencing the best of New Orleans, Jackson, Memphis and Nashville, making your way north to Boston and later New York where your twelve week trip would come to an end. Though those six weeks couldn’t compare to the time you’d spent with Glen in Austin and you’d missed him terribly, you’d spoken to him almost constantly throughout the rest of your travels - sending photos and videos, texting and face timing, following his advice and recommendations of the best places to go and see.

What you hadn’t known and would only find out upon checking into your hotel room when you’d arrived in New York, was that Glen had organized to fly up to surprise you. You remembered feeling like you’d won the lottery when the hotel concierge had advised that you’d received a complimentary room upgrade to a suite, and just as you’d thought that your trip couldn’t possibly have wrapped up any better, you’d opened the suite door to find Glen waiting for you.

When you’d finally gotten over the shock of seeing him again, after you’d jumped into his embrace and kissed him with all of the emotions that you’d held in since Austin, Glen had taken you out for a romantic night on the town - and continued to do the same for every night that followed for the rest of your trip.

Eventually your solo travels had come to an end, Glen kissing you tenderly and promising that you’d see each other again soon, holding you tight in his arms as you’d sat outside JFK airport on the day of your flight home. You remembered trying to take in everything about your last few minutes with Glen then - the smell of his cologne, the feel of his lips on your hair, the warmth of his chest as he held you pressed against him, desperate to prolong your last moments together not knowing when you’d next get the chance.

A tender goodbye that you swore you wouldn’t ruin with tears, one final kiss that you’d forever commit to memory and a promise that together you could make this work, you’d waved to Glen and made your way through the departure gates, boarding your flight home to Australia.

The months that followed had given you a new found respect for people in long distance relationships, missing Glen more than you thought possible - even with your constant communication. Some small part of you had expected your relationship to fizzle out a week after you’d arrived home - that your time with Glen would be nothing more than a memory, a story you told people about when they’d ask about your overseas travels, but just as you’d promised on your last day together, you and Glen had made it work.

He’d come to visit you three months after your trip, staying with you for two whole weeks in October. You'd shown him around your city in the same way he’d done with Austin, introducing him to your friends and eventually your family after your sister had all but begged to meet him, your dog Flynn loving Glen just as much as Brisket had you.

Those two weeks had been incredible, and as close to domestic bliss as you'd ever gotten, loving waking up to Glen each morning and falling asleep wrapped in his arms each night. Then there was the sex - both of you obviously desperate to make up for the three months apart, spending the first two days of his visit practically locked inside and christening every surface of your house.

All too soon it was time to say goodbye again, but not before you'd made plans to see each other for Christmas. You'd flown back to the states for the holidays two months later, the Powell family welcoming you back with open arms, Brisket especially happy to see you as he'd happily licked at your face. You’d gotten to experience your first ever Winter Christmas that year holing up at the Powell's family ranch, eating, drinking, dancing and laughing all the way through to New Years Eve, feeling nothing but love as you celebrated with Glen's sisters, parents and the twins.

The rest of that trip had gone by all too quickly, and soon you were saying your teary goodbyes all over again before you’d headed back home to Australia. This time you hadn't been able to plan your next visit with Glen - his latest film projects beginning and finally introducing you to life as a famous actor's girlfriend. You'd found yourself feeling consistently grateful for your job, friends and family then, their presence keeping your mind busy and away from thoughts of Glen’s chaotic schedule and the fact that you had no idea when you'd next get to see him.

It was at the Powell’s annual New Year's Eve party that Glen had told you he loved you, just as the clock had struck midnight and everyone had erupted into cheers of happiness. You remembered that moment vividly, your heart still racing whenever you thought about it, the two of you standing on the edge of the lake as Glen had wrapped you in his arms and kissed you, pulling away just enough so that he could whisper those three perfect words.

And so, that had brought you all the way to June - nearly five months since you'd last seen him, as Glen had worked insane hours on a four month long shoot for his newest movie. Alongside the Australian Winter, made worse by the fact that you missed your boyfriend more than you'd previously thought possible, June had also brought with it something else seemingly upsetting - your birthday, also known as your thirty second lap around the sun.

Still, your friends had pulled out all the stops to celebrate your day - your three closest girlfriends taking you out on a spa date complete with a full body massage, facial and pedicure, followed by a tasting and lunch at the most stunning of vineyards which had continued well into the early evening. Your boozy, extended lunch had later turned into dinner and cocktails at a rooftop bar in the city, which soon turned into singing and dancing at a nearby karaoke bar despite your vehement protesting.

That's how you'd come to find yourself sitting in the booth with one of your friends, looking down at your notification-less phone as the other two girls performed an intoxicated rendition of It’s Raining Men on stage.

Though the girls had spoiled and pampered you on your day, it hadn't quite been enough to completely take your thoughts off of Glen and that fact that you hadn't heard from him all day. You knew he was busy with his shoot - having since learned that sometimes they could go for several hours at a time, knowing that there were many occasions where he just wasn’t able to have his phone on him in the middle of all the chaos. Still, despite not hearing from him since the early hours of the morning, he'd still somehow managed to spoil you on your birthday - organizing your favourite coffee and breakfast to be delivered to your door this morning, alongside the biggest bunch of stunning red roses that you'd ever seen.

When you'd arrived at the winery for lunch later there'd been a second bunch of flowers, this one somehow bigger than the last, an exotic mix of eclectic tiger lillies and striking orchids, the colours bold, bright and beautiful. Alongside them had been a note, short and simple in the way that was classically Glen, telling you that he loved you with his whole heart and that he hoped you were having the best day with your friends for your birthday.

You and the girls had called it a night just before midnight, your own tipsy performance of Proud Mary signaling the end of your birthday. You kissed and thanked your girlfriends, incredibly grateful for the three of them in your life, waving goodbye to them in the taxi and making your way inside.

In any other circumstance, Flynn's lack of barking at your arrival would have alerted you to the idea that something was up, but in your several-drinks-too-many state you didn't quite pick up on that. So when you opened the front door to your house and found Glen standing in your kitchen looking back at you with the biggest smile on his face, all you could do was stare back at him momentarily - your brain a whirring mix of alcohol, surprise, overwhelm and love.

Eventually you separated enough that you could ask him what he was doing here and why he hadn't told you, Glen smiling and explaining between kisses that he was never going to not see you for your birthday. As it turned out he had the flight organized weeks ago, and had enlisted your friend's help to keep you busy while he made the long haul flight over, having planned all along to surprise you at the end of the night.

You ran at him then, bounding into his waiting arms and holding onto him with everything you had, burying your face in his neck as he whispered happy birthday baby in your hair. Depositing you on the kitchen bench he'd cupped your face and captured your lips in a tender kiss, both of you pouring all of the thoughts and emotions from your months apart into your intimate embrace.

Just as you launched into your next barrage of questions - about his latest project, about the film shoot, about his family and about Brisket, Glen had tilted your chin and silenced you with a slow, heavy kiss, the action leaving you breathless and momentarily lost for words.

“All of that can wait” Glen breathed, lips hovering over your own as his hand moved into your hair, “We’ll have time for questions later darlin’”.

“Later?” you asked, voice barely louder than a whisper, letting out a shaky breath when his free hand cupped the back of your bare thigh and pulled your body flush against his.

“Later” Glen affirmed, his silky voice low and his Texan accent thick, his intentions instantly clear when he rolled his hips into yours with a breathy, almost desperate groan, “First I’m gonna take you to bed and give my girl a proper happy birthday”.

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tiddygame · 9 months ago

Text

hello im sorry i wrote more for @myriadblvck ’s streamer au ghoap

I time travelled and around 4,000 words magically appeared in a document titled: "you didn't juju on the fucking beat soap" I think I was possessed by something. anyways here’s that:

tw: is it a panic attack? is it just typical ghost angst? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ just be careful it's mostly fluffy (ghost is mean to himself cause he almost kissed soap on the forehead)

also i just realized after i wrote this whole thing, this is based on my general knowledge of dog tags… as an american. writing about the british military. so if you know your shit about the british military, uhh sorry in advance. my bad. from a very brief search i think a lot of it’s the same or at least same enough but this might hurt for people that know a thing or two. whoops!

fun fact: did you know for a brief stint (iirc, >40 years from around 1960s to 2010ish) the american military was printing soldiers’ ss numbers on their tags? yeah can’t imagine why they switched back to serial numbers.

Ghost had been pacing outside of his office for three minutes before he actually entered. When he did, he didn’t say a word. Just sat down in one of the chairs, fidgeting. It wasn't that uncommon of an occurrence, he was normally either gathering his thoughts before talking to Price about something more personal or hiding from what/whoever he didn't feel like dealing with.

When it came to mission debriefs, he was clear and concise. However, personal matters were a different story, and based on the way he anxiously opened and closed his hand, he'd guess this was a personal matter.

Price didn’t ask. He knew that whatever it was Simon needed to say would come out eventually. For now, he continued filling out paperwork and trying to figure out what it was that had Ghost so worked up.

Honestly, there wasn't much guesswork involved. Chances were, it was probably yet another leave request. He knew from Gaz (who was such an awful gossip he sometimes wondered how the man made it through interrogation training) that Simon had been visiting some social media person he had taken a liking to.

(Look, yes, Price knew about Twitch and live streaming and everything. He’s not actually that old. However, as long as he kept up the front of the old man who complained about the keyboard on his phone being too small, he didn’t have to deal with social media. Sure, it caused all of them to joke that he was geriatric and on his last legs, but he was able to convince Roach that he doesn’t know what TikTok is, meaning he wasn’t in charge of reviewing all the bullshit he and Gaz posted. A fair trade if you ask him.)

He also knew that Gaz was convinced the two were in love to the point that he and Roach had a bet going to see when they would get together. Price thought it was rather stupid, but he had to admire their ability to keep it under wraps; if the lieutenant found out they’d been placing monetary bets on his love life, he had a feeling he would need to find replacements for the 141.

Regardless, Price hoped that one day Simon would tell him about the friend but, until then, he was happy to fill out any paperwork that would get the poor man off base. God knows that idiot needs a vacation.

Simon was bouncing his leg, messing with his fingers, and staring off into space.

Three of his nervous habits at once? He must be even more worked up about this than Price thought. But, he was a patient man. It was about seven minutes of companionable silence before Simon spoke.

“I need replacement dog tags. I seem to have lost mine.”

Price looked up. He could see the chain around his neck and the outline of them still under his shirt.

"You do?" Price shuffled his documents around, eventually finding a blank piece of paper he could write on.

"Yes sir."

“And do you know what happened to them?”

“I believe they were knocked off during the fight from the last mission. I didn’t notice until later that night when we were back at base.”

Price paused and looked up from where he had been writing.

The last mission had been an odd one. Ghost normally stuck further away, their eagle-eyed lieutenant typically stayed at long to mid-range, watching for hostiles and making sure whoever else was in the field wouldn’t get caught off guard by someone they hadn’t seen.

During the last mission, he decided to engage at close range, a far cry from his usual approach of sniping hostiles from the shadows.

At one point, their lieutenant had been tackled and almost strangled. The fight had pretty much ended, his attacker was the only one left there. Ghost, being The Ghost, dispatched him with ease, but it stuck out to Price. Ghost may prefer to stay further back, but that didn’t mean that his hand-to-hand combat skills were lacking by any means.

He remembered thinking at the time that it was a clumsy mistake, that Ghost would have had to be intentionally trying to fuck up to get knocked down. He assumed the man had just been caught off guard, but he knew that theory wouldn’t hold up to any scrutiny. Ghost isn’t one to get caught off guard.

What was stranger yet still was Ghost specifically pointing it out in his mission report, calling even more attention to it.

Price set his pen down and leaned back in his chair.

“You planned this?”

“I plead the fifth,” said the British man.

Price just continued to stare, curious to see if this was actually going where he thought it was going.

“Is this off the record?” Simon eventually asked.

“Of course,” almost everything the 141 did was of dubious legality. Not reporting a conversation about possible wasted assets was far from the worst thing that had been swept under the rug.

“Then yes.”

“Why?”

Simon didn’t answer. Price waited, giving the man time to gather his thoughts, but based on the way his mouth opened and closed before he slumped in his chair, it seemed he didn’t know what to say at all.

Price had an inkling he might know what this was about.

“You know, Gaz likes to keep me informed,” Ghost looked up at him, somewhat panicked yet resigned, like he already knew what Price was going to say.

“He tells me you have a certain someone you’ve been visiting?”

“Yes.”

“Is this person a friend or…?” Ghost once again paused, calculating the potential consequences of his available responses.

He didn’t answer.

“Hmm,” Price paused, wondering how far to push before he continued, “You want to give this person your old dog tags?”

“Yes.”

Of course he would pre-plan “losing” his dog tags. Price mentally chuckled, leave it to Simon to be such a sap that he wanted to give someone his dog tags yet still make sure to follow protocol so he never actually risked going without them.

He had to hand it to him, it wasn’t a bad plan.

Price had a smile now, knowing his grumpy hard-ass lieutenant had a sweetheart he wanted to be sappy with.

“Romantic or platonic?” Price tried again.

“… I don’t know,” he’d never seen Simon look quite so… forlorn.

Hmm… That would explain his hesitancy.

He was pushing how much Simon was willing to divulge.

“And does this person know the significance of you giving them your dog tags?”

Well, curiosity killed the cat…

“No, they don’t.”

…But satisfaction brought it back. How interesting, the plot thickens.

“Do you plan on telling them?”

There was a long pause, after which it dawned on Price, “You want to give them your dog tags because they don’t know.”

It wasn’t a question, he already knew. Simon somehow slumped further, attempting to hide his face as if he weren’t wearing a balaclava.

His grumpy hard-ass lieutenant. Absolutely smitten with someone yet too shy to say anything, deciding on a quiet confession, one they likely wouldn’t pick up on.

Price chuckled, jotting down the necessary information he would need when he got his hands on the right paperwork, polishing up some of the details of Ghost’s story to make it more believable, before reading off what he had written to Ghost to make sure he got everything right. Ghost nodded once, and that was that.

“Replacement tags will probably be here in two to three weeks.”

“I would like to request leave for two to three weeks from now.”

Price handed him the form, having already grabbed it. He noticed how the man seemed to calm at just the thought of getting to visit his mystery person.

Oh, he thought to himself.

I am definitely joining Roach and Gaz’s bet.

<><><><>

They were lying on the daybed in his streaming room, or, well…

No, that’s not quite right.

Simon was lying on the daybed.

Johnny was lying on top of Simon.

His computer was still softly playing quiet (non-DMCA) music from where his stream had just ended. Instead of turning it off, he had decided to unplug his headset and leave it on, the music just loud enough to be heard.

Simon was sleepily scrolling through his phone, trying to pretend like he hadn’t almost dropped several times while dozing off, desperately trying to stay awake. Johnny had watched his struggle and decided to lay down right on top of Simon, not even trying to pretend like he was trying to fit on the remaining space on the daybed. Why would he when Simon was right there?

It was meant to be a joke, having thrown himself on top of him to annoy the man into sleeping on an actual bed (he claimed he wasn’t tired but the comically loose grip on his phone and the waking world said otherwise.) However, unfortunately for said sleepy man, Simon was very, very comfortable.

His head was resting on Simon’s chest, arms under his back like he actually was just a pillow, one hand reaching higher to feel where Simon’s hair had begun to grow out slightly.

I wonder if he would let me help him cut it…

Simon had said he was like a clingy cat, his free hand running through his hair in the same manner one would pet a cat to prove his point. The joke's on him though, he likes it.

Simon had tried to stop but Johnny didn’t let him, threatening to tickle him if he did.

(“I’m not ticklish, I just don’t want you throwing a tantrum.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say,” he was definitely ticklish, and one of these days he was going to prove it.)

At some point, Simon had given up on keeping a grip on his phone, letting it drop to the side. They would probably have to go digging through the cushions to get it out of whatever crevice it had fallen to. As of right now, the idea of ever leaving his spot was comical at best.

The sun had begun to set, orange and pink tinted light filtering through the sheer curtains, making everything look more like a dream. Or maybe it was just the proximity to the man below him that was making him feel so serene.

Johnny took a second to inhale and exhale slowly, appreciating the moment. He hoped that this memory, this beautiful tranquility with Simon, would be something he cherished for a long time to come.

He knew that they had things to do. Soon, Simon would be catching a flight at some ungodly hour, headed back to save the world yet again. But for now, he was happy to nap away in their own little bubble. He never was a religious man but here in the arms of Simon Riley, he was tempted to think heaven was real, and that it was right in front of him.

“I almost forgot,” Simon mumbled, not sounding any more awake than he looked, reaching up for the collar of his shirt. Thankfully, the hand that was running his hair remained. He didn’t like proving the cocky bastard right, but he probably would have thrown a tantrum had he tried to remove it.

“They had some fuck up along the line or something and accidentally printed me an extra set of dog tags. I was just gonna toss ‘em but thought you might want—”

Johnny was now wide awake, sitting up and yanking the chain out of his hands.

“Don’t you fucking dare throw them away, of course I want them!” Simon’s face reddened, a frequent treat for Johnny now that he had gotten more comfortable going without the mask. Simon might have been good at keeping a poker face, but without his mask, he was a blushing mess.

He wondered if the blush was from his obvious jubilation at the gift or if it was because he was now straddling the man. Such pesky details, however, (even ones that would keep future Johnny awake at night) were far less important than examining the necklace in his hands.

It was obvious this was the older set, the metal worn and dented in some spots though the writing was still clearly visible.

��Calm down, I’m not going to take it from you,” the gruff tone was severely undermined by the aforementioned blush. It was hard to sound tough while half asleep on a daybed and being used as another man’s pillow.

Johnny stared at them for a little bit longer, feeling every dent and wondering the story behind how they got there, before putting them on.

He smiled at the man under him, “How do I look?”

He was going to joke, asking if he looked like a rough and tough soldier ready for war, but something in Simon’s eyes made him stop short.

He was looking with… with… Reverence was far too intense of a word for the softness of the moment but it was the only word that came to mind.

Simon reached up with his hand, grabbing the tags, his knuckles grazing his chest.

Well, that’s just fucking unfair.

Simon was supposed to be the blushy one. Not him, goddammit!

Though, he thinks when they make eye contact, they end up tied for who is blushing the most. They stare for a while, maybe it should have felt awkward but it was too adoring for either to feel any form of uncomfortability.

Neither moved.

It was Johnny that broke first, smiling at him, yet again tracing all of the scars he could see. It was his new favorite hobby, especially when Simon would blush making the scars on his face all the more visible.

He took one more second to sleepily appreciate the man before him, then went back to using him as a pillow. His hands went back to where they were before, one under Simon’s back and one playing with his hair. His head, however, did not fall back to his chest, instead resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder.

Simon’s hand returned to running through his hair, his other now coming up to rest on his back, rubbing up and down a few times before the sleepiness from earlier fully returned with his hand stopping somewhere around the small of his back.

Johnny leaned up slightly and gave a chaste kiss to the part of his neck that he could reach, then settled back to where he was. The hand in his hair paused.

“Thank you, Simon.”

A second of delay, and then the hand continued.

“You’re welcome, Johnny.”

Simon shuffled slightly, getting comfy before—

A kiss, on his forehead.

He couldn’t stop the blush and smile if he wanted to. He snuggled closer before drifting off to sleep.

When he woke, he was in his bed, practically tucked in. His window had been opened slightly, blackout curtains that had been drawn closed now swaying slightly with the breeze. When he focused, he realized he could smell petrichor and hear heavy rainfall outside with the occasional grumble of thunder.

There was a note on his nightstand. As he expected, it was Simon’s handwriting, apologizing for not waking him up before he left. It said that he had made breakfast for him (pancakes, with enough for when his sister would inevitably try to steal them), that he made sure to lock the front door, and left the window cracked.

He giggled sleepily at the last line. Regardless of the context, it always made Simon anxious to have the curtains open, much less to leave a window open. But, he also must've known how much Johnny loved the rain and set his worries aside, just this once, so he could wake up to the rain.

He set the note down and flopped back onto his pillows, his hand felt something cold and he remembered.

The dog tags.

John MacTavish is no stranger to crushes and heartbreaks.

He's had high school sweethearts, been in and out of love, he knows his way around the world of dating. Which is why he most certainly does not squeal and kick his legs while holding the tags like some kid with their first crush.

He did it like a grown man, thank you very much.

He grabbed his phone and sent Simon the worst pun he could think of; it was tradition at this point to send him some god-awful joke before his flight.

Simon has probably already forgotten about the whole exchange. He probably woke up and assumed he threw them away when he noticed he wasn't wearing them. It was probably stupid, an insignificant gesture with no meaning. But to Johnny, it felt like everything.

He sighed dreamily at the ceiling and felt the cool metal once more. Thunder roared outside. He thought about how he had felt in the man's arms. Thought about how much he wanted that again.

God.

His phone dinged and he immediately reached over to grab it.

I'm fucked, aren't I?

<><><><>

Elsewhere, Ghost was in an airport terminal, having far too much time to think.

Over the weekend, it was almost impressive how many times Ghost had talked himself into and back out of giving Soap his dog tags. He really hoped he hadn't made a mistake.

Simon felt the spot that Johnny had kissed and wondered if he remembered it. Wondered if he had meant it.

Simon thought about how Johnny had looked cradled in his arms when he carried him to his room, the way he had reached out for him when he laid him in bed. The way he had grabbed his wrist and clung to it, grumbling when Simon tried to pull it back.

If asked, he'd say that he had woken up late and that's why he was so far behind schedule. He'd keep the part where he sat there, kneeled in front of Johnny's bed, waiting for him to fall back into a deep enough sleep to pull his arm away all to himself. After all, it would have been rude to wake him up, no?

He had made sure to plug up his phone and, upon seeing the forecasted weather, hesitated before opening the window. It was only barely cracked, just enough for the sounds of the outside world to shamble in, but not so wide as to worry about water damage. He stared at it, convincing himself not to worry and that Johnny would like waking up to the fresh air.

He turned back to make sure the man was still asleep, still comfy, but stopped for a moment. He approached the bed and hesitated before running his fingers through his stupid haircut, almost wishing the man would grab his arm and give him an excuse to stay.

He didn't. Simon did, however, lean in to give him one last kiss on the forehead as some stupidly sappy goodbye, before his brain turned back on and he ripped himself away.

What the fuck is wrong with you? What? He grabs your arm in your sleep so you feel entitled to be able to kiss him?

Simon backed away, staring at the hand that had just been in his hair. He felt dirty.

For fuck’s sake, relax. It's not that big of a deal, you did it earlier; the man fell asleep in your arms, a forehead kiss isn't too much of a stretch.

He went to the kitchen and scrubbed his hands for a while, only stopping when he thought about how much water he was wasting. He still felt dirty.

Not a stretch? You don't get to decide that. How would you feel if someone tried to kiss you while you were unconscious? If they said that they felt they should be allowed to do so because you fell asleep?

He had started making pancakes. Something quick, easy, and reheatable for when Soap woke up. Like making him breakfast would make up for trying to kiss him in his sleep.

Why can't you just be normal?

Eventually, and after a run-in with Soap’s hell-spawn of a twin, he had to leave. The time on his phone showed that he should probably already be halfway to the airport by now but he has always been a selfish man.

He had snagged some paper and left Soap a quick note, hoping the apology would make him feel better about worse sins than not waking him up. It didn't.

He stared at the man for a second, admiring him, before he reminded himself that he was a fucking creep and left.

The storm left the flight delayed by 1.5 hours. Ghost had sat waiting, wireless headphones on and connected, but not playing anything. He had far too much time to think.

Simon thought about how Johnny had looked, his dog tags around his neck, silhouetted by the fading light, the sun behind his head as if even the stars knew they could never compare to him.

He stood and started pacing. Amongst the screaming children, feuding families, and people who think they're entitled to listen to their music without headphones, one middle-aged man having an existential crisis didn't stick out.

He thought about how he had never understood weighted blankets so well until Johnny had thrown himself on top of him. It should've hurt. He should've been annoyed. Instead, Simon selfishly hoped he would never get up.

It took him a while to put his finger on what he had been feeling exactly. Finally, he realized.

There, in that moment, he had never been so happy to be alive. It was a startling emotion to discern amongst the swath of negativity he normally felt. It startled him so much, he had snapped out of his reverie and stopped short in his pacing. When he checked the time, he saw he had one missed text from Johnny.

Soap (art streamer): i was trying to think of an airplane joke but none of them landed

Simon chuckled and sat down; he almost forgot about their dumb little tradition.

Ghost: Disliked.

Soap (art streamer): everyone is so mean 2 me 💔

Ghost: It is not my fault your pun was so Boeing.

Soap (art streamer): well i thought i could wing it

Ghost: Did you look up what giving do-

Ghost: About the tags, you

Ghost: I think you make me want to live

Ghost sighed and fell back further into his seat, coming to a conclusion that his subconscious had long ago discovered.

I'm in love, aren't I?

Soap (art streamer): speechless huh? finally, the Wright reaction to my comedic genius

Ghost: Absolutely awful, Mactavish.

Soap (art streamer): :D

Took you long enough, dumbass.

<><><><>

Soap’s twin spent a good bit of time staring at her brother's new accessory.

“Is something wrong?” he challenged, hoping she wasn't in a bothersome mood.

She failed miserably at hiding her shit-eating grin but didn't care.

“Nope!” she replied.

She had run into Ghost early that morning before he left.

"Detergent."

She was pretty sure he never even learned her name, just jumped straight into calling her detergent.

"Ghoul," she greeted, glaring at the man.

Being required by law to not trust him, she checked on her brother as he was still gathering his things and noticed the necklace.

“You gave him your dog tags,” she accused, like she was framing him for murder.

“Yes, I did,” he replied casually, as per usual robbing her of the fight she so desperately wanted to pick.

“Did you tell him what it means?”

“...What does it mean?”

Damn, he was good. If she wasn't convinced that he was the devil incarnate, she might have fallen for his feigned ignorance.

“100 bucks and you buy my silence.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“200 then.”

“It doesn't even mean anything.”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose you might be right… JOHN!” their neighbors were probably going to complain.

“What the fuck are you doing?” ooh he was getting panicked now.

“If it doesn't matter then you won't mind me telling him to look it up,” she started walking to his room, “JOHNSON!”

“Fucking Christ, woman! Just— Fucking— Here.”

He pulled out his wallet and started counting bills. Damn, that was easier than she thought.

“What did you say? 100?”

“Nope! That was before inflation. Now it’s 300.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? You said 200!”

“So you admit you tried to scam me?”

“Just take the 100 and g-”

She didn't even get to yell, he reached for more before she could finish taking a deep breath in.

“Just shut the fuck up! Here! Three fucking hundred!”

She was tempted to raise her price further, but she was no gambler, she was a strategist. She knew a defeated man when she saw one. If she played this right, she could extort money out of him for a long time to come.

Something, something, vampires not fully killing their victims and all that.

She took the money, counted it, and then held out her hand to shake.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wraith!”

He didn't shake her hand.

“Christ, both of you are awful.”

He packed his stuff and left, broke, broken, and defeated.

She ate as many pancakes as she could, rich and victorious.

She thought about how much power, how much blackmail she had in this moment.

“I’m fantastic actually,” she walked to her room.

I am going to be so fucking rich by the time they get their shit together.

#ghostsoap #soapghost #ghoap #streamer au #streamer! soap #streamer!soap #streamer! au #ft. Old Man Price and Chronic Shit Stirrer Twin Sister (unnamed)#ghost never changes soaps contact name #my version of ghost in this au has convinced himself that he's nothing more than an incel/neckbeard #and that's why he is the way that he is #[I know my mess of 'family hcs' or whatever was derailed to shit but I still think ghost would call his twin detergent]#i’m scheduling this for when i’ll be asleep so goodnight i hope you all sleep well and drink plenty of water #my writing

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lolchicsa · 2 years ago

Text

Skulls and Chaos

Simon “Ghost” Riley x Fem!reader

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, nsfw, description of gore

Part 1 of 2: smut in next part (link here)

No use of y/n

Loosely follows the events of the ‘Alone’ mission. Reader’s vacation was ruined by Shadow Company going on a genocidal rampage :( But fear not dear reader! Mr Ghost is here to make it better ;P

A/N: First time using Tumblr to post stories and using mobile to write this. Apologies for bad grammar, it’s been a while, and I have no idea what to tag for this story. Story inspiration comes from a post by @fanficsforfun so here’s my twist on it.

Chaos.

The streets of Las Almas could be described using only one word. Chaos…

Usually, at this time of night, children would be asleep, lovers back in their homes and just a set few would be enjoying the dreamy sight of stars littering the night sky. It is truly a beautiful place to visit, if you can ignore the cartel’s presence that is. The cartel is known for being violent… but this… this was different. This wasn’t the cartel.

The screams and cries of children and parents echoed through the city. Gunfire sounded off at irregular intervals, surrounding me in fear. I had abandoned my hotel room when the screams first started, trying to find my way out in this maze of a city. The first dead body I had come across was that of a young boy. A trail of blood, starting from a small hole in his head, ended on the ground in a pool of crimson liquid. At first, I was fear stricken and unable to look away.

My reality felt surreal, a distant nightmare I could escape when my mind decided to end the torture. But no, I wasn’t dreaming, I was wide awake and running for my life. I officially lost count of how many dead bodies I unfortunately came across after seeing an alleyway filled with them. I wanted to cry, to curl up in a ball and forget the world exist. But I couldn’t bring myself to do so.

Exhaustion took over a few minutes ago, leaving me walking through the streets of death alone and on edge. The sound of death still polluted the air, I was trying my best to avoid the gunfire and escape. Easier said then done, trust me. It felt like the chaos was following me, taunting me with thoughts of escape.

And then I heard voices. Must be a sick joke my mind was playing on me. Logically, I knew there was very little chance of finding a living soul, but hope has shimmering at the back of my mind. Maybe these people can help me, maybe they know how to escape. I travelled closer to the orchestra of voices until I noticed something… odd.

They where speaking calmly to one another, acting like this was a pleasant walk instead of hell on earth. It made me uneasy, but something caught my attention. Their accents. Not to different then my own, but definitely a rarity around here. Americans.

I round a corner and there I saw them. All black tactical gear, guns, knives, they looked ready for war. My heart leaped into my throat, a surge of newfound adrenaline propulsed me closer to them. These soldiers most be here to bring an end to this chaos.

“Man, that Ghost guy gives me the creeps” One said, the pack turning their attention to him. They where huddled close together, seemingly enjoying a 10 minute break of freedom before continuing on. A few snickers broke the silence following the soldiers comment.

“It’s only one guy, c’mon he can’t do much against all of us” replied another.

“Don’t forget about the other one” a third chimed in. Their conversation helped keep their attention off of the street corner I was currently stalking. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in eavesdropping on these guys. The more you know, the better right?

“You mean the one that goes by Soap? Ha! What kind of name is that anyways? How can you be scared of a guy like that!”

“An angry Scotsman is not to be trifled with, trust me”

“Man if you get killed by someone named after a cleaning product, no matter what he is, you’ll be a laughing stock in whatever hell we end up in”

“Oh so getting shanked by Ghost is better?”

As far as conversations goes, this might be the worst one I have had the privilege of eavesdropping on. Their arguing… over names? I don’t get it.

“Hey you! We know your there! Come out with your hands in the air and slowly walk towards the middle of the street” yelled on of the soldiers. The command was directed towards my general area and my stomach dropped. Anxiety started prickling through my veins, thoughts racing through my head a mile a second.

Just do as they say, my conscious brain screamed. It’s the only way to survive this nightmare. With that, I made my way towards the middle of the street with my hands up, just like I was told.

“Mind explaining to me what you are doing here ma’am?” asked one of the soldiers. From the looks of things, he seems to be the leader of this rag tag group of men. He’s got the scariest voice of them all, I would say. Sounds like the type of guy you can easily trust, but would stab you in the back if he had too. He didn’t have a gun pointed at me, not yet anyways, but he did have a death grip on his rifle.

“Please, I mean no harm. I was here on vacation and I just want to go back home” I begged.

“You’re American? Odd to see you here. You’ve got ID to prove your story miss?” His grip on his rifle loosened and his posture reflected that of a calm man. I started searching through my small purse, searching for the requested object.

The moments leading often where a blur. Adrenaline had left my system, leaving me tired and emotional. I remember giving my ID to the man, which I now know goes by Graves. Something in him changed, going from the on edge soldier to overprotective best friend. One of his men was ordered to strip off his armor plate and give it to me. A jacket was placed over my shoulder, a signet stitched on the jacket sleeves. I was told it was their company’s logo… Shadow company.

Graves had me follow a couple of his men out of the city to safer location. They where ordered to protect me with their lives. I felt safe, like really safe. Here I was, following three armed men, tasked with protecting me, out of this city of nightmares and closer to my warm bed back home. Currently, our small group was engaged in conversation. The topic? Well…

“These guys don’t play around. All this death? They caused it. We don’t know why, but we’re tasked with hunting them down” specified one of my bodyguards.

“Specifically that Ghost guy. He has this weird mask thing he wears all the time. It’s like a skull and it covers most of his face. Scary fucker” another added.

I hear admiration when they describe this guy, that and fear. My gut tells me there is more they are keeping from me. Part of me couldn’t give two shits, but another was curious.

Fwoosh

My brain froze, my body stopped moving. The world shifted, the quiet chatter turned into loud commands I couldn’t make out. I saw red. Blood red. This time not painted on walls or flowing down the cheeks of children. This time, I saw it spray out of the neck of one of my new friends. A blade had materialized out of thin air, implanting itself into the soldiers neck.

His body made a sickening sound as it hit the ground. I wanted to scream, I wanted to run, but fear stricken as I was, I could only watch. Watch as the other two had knives plunged into their throats like the first. Watch as lifeless bodies hit the floor.

My body moves, but not because I ordered it to do so. The colours shift into each other, sky and ground blurring together. It only last a couple seconds, but has an everlasting effect on me. Slowly, my senses come back to me and I realize something is very very wrong.

It’s him.

It’s the man with the skull face mask.

It’s Ghost.

He’s the first thing I see when my vision finally focuses. I’m to unfocused to realize what’s going on, but I can feel a wall behind me. His eyes are staring into mine, hands holding me tightly to the wall behind me. I can feel the heat radiating of his body and I can’t help but feel attracted to it.

That’s when I realize he’s shouting at me, but I’m having a hard time making out what he’s saying. I feel trapped, unable to move, forced to keep eye contact with this dangerous killer. His eyes are mesmerizing. I can’t look away, I can’t focus on anything other then his eyes.

“Tell me where Graves is and I promise to give you a quick death”

His words still sounded unclear, but the anger rolling off of them helped snap me out of my daze. This is the killer the soldiers were talking about, the dead soldiers. He killed them… just like he killed everyone else. Fear gripped my soul, my fight or flight instincts finally kicking in. I started trashing about, trying to loosen his hold on me. The wall of pure muscle in front of me didn’t seem fazed by my attempts to escape.

“Answer me now, shadow bitch. I’m losing my patience!”

His hand bolted towards my throat and gripped it with a force I have never felt before. It was getting hard to breath, my already tired body didn’t know how to react. He wasn’t playing around, he’s making that very clear. I have a feeling he’s the type to not make empty threats, especially when it comes to death threats.

Wait, did he call me “shadow bitch”? Hold on.

“Wait! Wait! Wait! I’m not part of that group! I just stumbled upon them and they were gonna bring me home! I swear! They were protecting me!”

His grip on my throat relaxed and for a second I thought I was in the clear. That’s until he moved impossibly closer to me. My head rested on the wall behind me, tilted up so I could keep eye contact with the behemoth in front of me. Our chests was flush to each others. His breath slowly fanned over my face, his warmth bringing some sense of safety.

We stood in silence, staring at each other for awhile. I had to remind myself of the atrocities this man committed… the children he killed. But something felt off.

“Why… why do want to know where Graves is? Are you going to kill him? Like you killed these civilians?” My tone was shaky, filled with whatever authority I had left. I hope this doesn’t get me killed.

Instead, the man stepped back from me, leaving an empty void where his warmth was moments ago. He acted like I had just stabbed him through the heart… if he even has one that is.

“What? You think I am responsible for this genocide? No, the Shadow’s are responsible for that”

This new information served to confuse me even more then I already was. Did Graves lie to me? Or is Ghost lying to me? Who to trust? Graves did seem like the lying type, and if Ghost really was behind all this, why was he being so nice? Well, as nice as someone could be in a situation like this, I should say.

“We have to move. Forget about Graves, survival is a priority. If the Shadows find you with me, they will kill you” His tone suggested he wasn’t lying about that last part. My gut told me to trust him, follow him. So I did and I don’t regret a thing.

A/n: omg I’m finally out of writing hibernation and boy does it feel good. I plan on making shorter stories that focuses more on smut eventually because Ghost melts my brain and I need to share. Pardon any grammatical errors and the fact that I split this in two. Any criticism is welcome, like straight up tell me if this is shit cause I’m trying to get better. Might do story requests if people are interested enough. Anyways, I hope every single one of y’all has a great day!

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eloquentspeeches · 2 months ago

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book recommendation tag game!

rules: recommend as many books as you like. please include genre and some basic information on it (either your words or a copy+paste synopsis). feel free to include cover art, a personal review, trigger warnings, and anything else! just don’t spoil the book!

tagged by @dekarios!!! thank you for the tag I'm usually too busy and or shy to randomly talk about things but here I am. I'm putting it all under a read more because million bajillion words

American Elsewhere by Robert Jackson Bennett

Some places are too good to be true. Under a pink moon, there is a perfect little town not found on any map. In that town, there are quiet streets lined with pretty houses, houses that conceal the strangest things. After a couple years of hard traveling, ex-cop Mona Bright inherits her long-dead mother's home in Wink, New Mexico. And the closer Mona gets to her mother's past, the more she understands that the people of Wink are very, very different ...

this is sincerely my favorite book ever. i bought it from a sci-fi only bookstore that i visited once and that closed down shortly after. it's got horror. it's got sci-fi. it's got eldritch sci-fi horror set in a small town. i re-read this book almost every year and i still find new details i missed.

Mistborn: The Final Empire by Brandon Sanderson

For a thousand years the ash fell and no flowers bloomed. For a thousand years the Skaa slaved in misery and lived in fear. For a thousand years the Lord Ruler, the "Sliver of Infinity," reigned with absolute power and ultimate terror, divinely invincible. This saga dares to ask a simple question: What if the hero of prophecy fails? Mistborn: The Final Empire — Kelsier, a brilliant thief has turned his talents to the ultimate caper, with the Lord Ruler as the mark. Kel's plan is the ultimate long shot, until luck brings a ragged girl named Vin into the fold. But she will have to learn to trust if she is to master powers of which she never dreamed.

i can only recommend the first triology of this series - final empire, the well of ascension and the hero of ages - since i haven't read the other books from this world. definitely worth the read, this book changed my brain chemistry when i first read it in high school.

The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison

The youngest, half-goblin son of the Emperor has lived his entire life in exile, distant from the Imperial Court and the deadly intrigue that suffuses it. But when his father and three half brothers in line for the throne are killed in an "accident," he has no choice but to take his place as the only surviving rightful heir. Entirely unschooled in the art of court politics, he has no friends, no advisors, and the sure knowledge that whoever assassinated his father and brothers could make an attempt on his life at any moment. Surrounded by sycophants eager to curry favor with the naïve new emperor, and overwhelmed by the burdens of his new life, he can trust nobody. Amid the swirl of plots to depose him, offers of arranged marriages, and the specter of the unknown conspirators who lurk in the shadows, he must quickly adjust to life as the Goblin Emperor. All the while, he is alone, and trying to find even a single friend . . . and hoping for the possibility of romance, yet also vigilant against the unseen enemies that threaten him, lest he lose his throne–or his life.

if you like complicated political court drama!!! then oh boy this is the book for you!!! my cousin made me read this book because complicated political court dramas are her specialty and she was not wrong. this is a banger.

gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir

The Emperor needs necromancers. The Ninth Necromancer needs a swordswoman. Gideon has a sword, some dirty magazines, and no more time for undead nonsense. Tamsyn Muir’s Gideon the Ninth unveils a solar system of swordplay, cut-throat politics, and lesbian necromancers. Her characters leap off the page, as skillfully animated as arcane revenants. The result is a heart-pounding epic science fantasy. Brought up by unfriendly, ossifying nuns, ancient retainers, and countless skeletons, Gideon is ready to abandon a life of servitude and an afterlife as a reanimated corpse. She packs up her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and prepares to launch her daring escape. But her childhood nemesis won’t set her free without a service. Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the Ninth House and bone witch extraordinaire, has been summoned into action. The Emperor has invited the heirs to each of his loyal Houses to a deadly trial of wits and skill. If Harrowhark succeeds she will be become an immortal, all-powerful servant of the Resurrection, but no necromancer can ascend without their cavalier. Without Gideon’s sword, Harrow will fail, and the Ninth House will die. Of course, some things are better left dead.

if you follow my blog at all then you know i'm like a hardcore fan of TLT. i love this book series. it's such a good read. this is one of three with a fourth on the way. please read it. pelase.

bullet train by kōtarō isaka

Kimura’s young son is in a coma thanks to the Prince, and Kimura has tracked him onto a bullet train heading from Tokyo to Morioka to exact his revenge. But Kimura soon discovers that they are not the only dangerous passengers on board. Satoshi—the Prince—looks like an innocent schoolboy but is really a stylish and devious assassin. Risk fuels him, as does a good philosophical debate, such as questioning: Is killing really wrong? Nanao, nicknamed Ladybug, the self-proclaimed “unluckiest assassin in the world,” is put on the bullet train by his boss, a mysterious young woman called Maria, to steal a suitcase full of money and get off at the first stop. The lethal duo of Tangerine and Lemon are also traveling to Morioka, and the suitcase leads others to show their hands. Why are they all on the same train, and who will make it off alive?

okay i saved bullet train for last solely because. i didn't like. the book. as much as i really wanted to like the book. BUT i really do like isaka's writing and i think reading the book and watching the movie is the way to go to really appreciate what's going on in Bullet Train. that's my personal opinion.

#fighting for my life with the tumblr formatting #who to tag who to tag.#eso talks #tag game #i never tag people LMAO I don't know what to say here #thank you for the tag fray <333 #know we've. never really talked but i'd like to be more chatty on tumblr so thank you <3

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gemsofgreece · 5 months ago

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https://fortune.com/europe/2024/07/09/mayor-of-athens-overtourism-greece-not-viable-visitor-tourism-economy/

Nothing new but the Greek government should really invest on other aspects except from tourism. Like yes it's profitable but it can't be the only source of income alongside with agriculture.

OH MY GOD yes! Kudos to Haris Dukas for saying this, I suppose it's still a very unpopular and brave opinion among the politicians, who are known to care only for the short-term non-viable benefits.

I have a lot of feelings and thoughts regarding overtourism, given that I started this blog exactly because I am interested in the tourist industry, in touristic promotion in general.

A few days ago I scrolled through an article which was saying that some smaller country in Europe is getting more and more tourists and aspires to reach Greece's numbers by also competing with us over our tourists for a similar tourist product (beaches and sun) and there was this tinge of annoyance I felt because it's a cool country and I have been there but I have an opinion on this, so I was like somewhere between "bitch please" and "why, are we doing something wrong?". I mean, I wish the best for them but the annoyance was about kind of targeting tourists interested in Greece with cheaper offers and also because I am interested in this, the travel promotion of Greece, even as a hobby, so you know it sort of affects me, lol . But as I was scrolling down the article, I saw the other Greek comments and they were like "Good, let them go there and leave us in peace".

This gave me such a pause. It was one of the few times I found the comments shaking me towards their direction instead of making me angry or sad. I paused and thought, shit, they are actually right.

Let's be real, Greece does suffer from overtourism. Not only this but its overtourism is very disproportionately distributed in the country. Greece's travel product is also badly, old-fashionedly promoted (still the sun-and-beaches of the 70s which was only targeting Northern Europeans). All these create those masses of tourists following blindly the horrible itineraries of poorly informed, outdated travel agencies. Half of these people have no idea why they are coming and what they are supposed to be seeing and doing in every place.

I will go back to the notorious example of "Santorini is overrated and Greece has no trees" that you will hear a few of them say. You have people boarding a plane from the other side of the world to visit and stay on a half-submerged volcano crater and they are wondering where the forests are! People really have no idea where they are going and what for. Now this is a type of tourism we resolutely do not need. If you have to explain to someone what Santorini is AFTER they have gone there, everything was entirely lost on them, it was doomed from the beginning.

One of the most maddening videos I have ever watched was an American woman doing a travel video. She followed the AmericanTM tourist plan: she found a resort and just stayed there locked until the day of her return came. She also had just become a mother and she was dragging the baby in a different continent, only to walk it around the resort over and over. For some reason she made a youtube video for this. She didn't say anything negative but obviously if I knew nothing about Greece and I watched this, I would be like "wow what a boring place Greece is, you can't go anywhere, it's just a resort and a small market nearby". Is there really a need to overbuild the country with such massive resorts only to accommodate people who have no idea why they are coming and what they are supposed to do once they come?

Ultimately, tourism must NEVER be the main product of a country's economy. NEVER. It is very unsteady, unreliable business and when it starts doing too good, it means it will very soon ruin the country. The tourism industry must always remain steady, balanced and viable. There should be a predetermined viable percentage of area and investment that should be dedicated to tourism in every region and NEVER surpass those limits. In short, tourism should be only a side business for a country's economy and not the main thing. Even as a side thing it can become destructive. Look at how the Spanish and the Italians have started taking wild measures against tourism. There are literally protests in Barcelona with people asking tourists to leave to their face. We don't have this in Greece yet because for us it is our main industry so we still prioritise the financial need but it will soon happen here as well.

There is urgency to boost the first and especially the dead second sector in Greece. There is just no other solution. There is no light in the end of the tunnel. The first sector should not expand a lot (because its shrinkage the last decades led to the improvement of the once overexploited ecosystems, we do not want to undo this) but we should boost our produce's quality and its prestige in exports. Is there any Greek who hasn't discussed with their family that the local produce often tasted better than the imported one? Literally all of us. Greece can not produce in quantities but it can produce in quality. One example, I don't know if you know it; Greece sells olive oil to Italy and Italy rebrands it as Italian olive oil (which so far is more well known worldwide) and exports it internationally. This is an agreement between the two countries from which Greece gets fast and sure money and Italy covers deficits in the quantities required by its importers. All is well but Greece is once again getting the short end of the stick, because in the long term consumers who buy this olive oil and like it will form an affinity for what they think is the Italian olive oil and not the Greek one. Greece loses from the prestige it could perhaps have gained and it loses the chance to sell Greek olive oil more competitively for what it really is. Like, every choice we do as a state is a shot in our face. I don't know how we do it. It's a talent.

(BTW no bad feels to Italian friends, this is only critical of the Greek exporters' choices, both Greek and Italian olive oil rock but I am sure if the roles were switched and Italian olive oil was sold internationally as Greek, you would too maybe feel a little awkward about it.)

I won't even go to the second sector, I won't even go there. I will just say, whoever had PITSOS electric devices in their house in the early 90s ... is probably still having the very same devices right now as we speak. I know my parents do. PITSOS devices are what we call in Greek "bad dogs". They just don't ever break. At least not in the first 30 years of usage. Fortunately PITSOS re-opened but it will take ages for them to regain all the lost ground and even try to compete now with the foreign brands, even on a local level. And they have been so ruined that I can't tell their new products will be of an equal quality as the old ones. Greece had a lot of industries. It even had good fashion industries. It's crazy that it was much better self-sustained pre-EU. By the way, I am not blaming the EU or the tourists above. No, I am blaming the Greeks for getting worse and worse and worse at managing themselves.

Should I go to the merchant navy? Let's have a laugh. Greece is still miraculously the world leader in merchant navy with Greeks owning the 25% of commercial ships in the world. Of course, a few decades ago it was the 50% but we would certainly do our best to lose that. The problem is that most of the tycoons have left the country and have their bases in the UK and other countries due to a better tax system and they sail under different flags. The funny thing is that I was reading some articles and the president of the Greek tycoons was saying that they come constantly in contact with the Greek state to discuss all this, there is interest on their side to come back, to work things out but it's always to no avail. At this point, even the TYCOONS can't work in Greece!!! XD Top that. By the way, I am not concerned about how the ship owners will get by, trust me, but these businesses are always two-way relations. Imagine all the bases, all the shipyards, all the ship making, all the jobs in ship making and in the commercial navy. Imagine owning 25% of world's ships and NOT being an international leader in shipmaking. Plus, Greeks have historically and traditionally been seafarers, this is a quality of ours we should keep cultivating, even as part of our heritage, even for the heck of it.

We have destroyed all this and have thrown all our efforts to a badly planned, unstructured mass tourism. We are running towards self-destruction head first in every possible way. There are so many foreigners who are totally sold on the stereotype "Greece has no economy, never made anything". It wasn't like that. We had and still have fine produce. This is why Greek food is considered tasty. It's not having super complex, surprising recipes. It's the quality of the produce that makes Greek cuisine famed for being both tasty and healthy. We used to have good or at least very decent industries. I think apart from cars we were pretty self-sustained on most other things. And we used to have balanced, healthy tourism with travellers who knew why they came and they often came back again and again and even stayed for life after pension because they knew why they did it.

So, I am not against tourism, I will never be but it needs to become quality tourism again and a SIDE thing for us as well. When I say quality tourism, I do not mean luxe / expensive tourism because I hate the idea of a place being inaccessible to someone who truly desires to visit it, unless they are a millionaire (let alone that luxe tourism would also stop locals from travelling inland, which already is happening) but tourism needs to become intentional again. Meaning, a tourist should be a traveller, an explorer. They should understand what they come for and take their time to explore the country properly, with respect and genuine well-meaning interest to the best of their ability. By the way, this should apply for every country. And this is honestly the safest way you can have an authentically good experience in a new country.

As for those smaller countries which try to reach Greece's numbers, well, good luck for the five years until your country gets utterly ruined.

#greece #tourism #overtourism #travel #economy #greek facts #opinion #finances #anon #mail #link #boy am i passionate about this #long text #tw long #tw long post

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prairiesongserial · 2 months ago

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24.10

Julien was beginning to wish he’d stayed in Cologne.

He’d been vacationing there; the first real vacation he’d treated himself to after half a decade of work for Hemisphere. Of course, he traveled on Hemisphere’s dime often, but that wasn’t the same. He went where he was sent, killed the person he was told to kill, and went back to Montreal to debrief with his handler. This trip was supposed to be different. It should have just been Julien, the Rhine River, and the most expensive alcohol his hotel had to hand.

Obviously, it hadn’t shaken out that way. Not when Intelligence had caught wind of Leo Hennig booking an economy class ticket on the Göttingen to Milan. Lillian, Julien’s handler, had explained brusquely over the phone that Intelligence had been keeping an eye on Hennig’s work for the past few years. He had invented some new type of car engine, the schematics for which currently resided in a lopsided leather briefcase in the luggage rack above Julien’s head.

“You want me to steal those papers,” he’d guessed, over the phone.

“Please. I wouldn’t pull you away from vacation for something that easy,” Lillian had said. “We want you to kill Hennig before he gets to Italy. Then steal the papers.”

“How much of a priority are the papers?”

Lillian had leaned away from the phone, then, to confer with someone else in muffled tones.

“Less of a priority than killing Hennig,” she’d said, upon her return. “As long as no one else gets their hands on them, we’ll consider it a success. Destroy them if you have to.”

Julien had found that instruction surprising at the time, and he still did. Sure, the election was coming up and it wouldn’t do for any other branch of Hemisphere to have intelligence that could give them a leg up in the race. But all this fuss over a single set of blueprints? That engine must really be something special.

“What are you thinking about?” Hennig asked from the seat next to his.

“Nothing, nothing,” Julien said, with false good cheer. He bounced his leg, jostling the toe of his brogue against the seat in front of him, and glanced past Hennig to the window. “Just admiring the view. I’ve never been through the mountains like this before.”

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” Hennig agreed. He had switched to English just as soon as he’d realized Julien wasn’t a native German speaker, and he spoke it well, albeit with a heavy accent. “You should see them in the winter. My wife and I ride the Express to Switzerland every Christmas to visit her family, and ski.”

“To be honest,” Julien said, and he was being entirely truthful, “I’m starting to regret not making more time to stop in Switzerland.”

Hennig smiled. “Perhaps we can stop together, on our way back.”

“Perhaps,” Julien said, politely returning the smile. He had told Hennig that he was a mechanical engineer from Nova Scotia on his way to the same convention Hennig was attending in Italy. Julien had his doubts on whether or not that convention actually existed, but Hennig certainly believed it did, which was a good enough foundation for a false backstory.

He also didn’t have to pretend that this would be his first time in Italy. He’d never been sent there on assignment. Come to think of it, as far as Julien knew, no one had. There was a Hemisphere presence there–they’d gotten their roots into the Vatican–but the place was a bit of a black box beyond that knowledge. Dealing with Italy meant being prepared for anything, which was why he’d been aggrieved but not entirely surprised to see two of the Pope’s own cardinals aboard the train.

The Hemisphere Russia agents sitting a few rows back from Julien and Hennig had been a surprise, though. As had the American Central Intelligence agent who clearly expected no one would recognize her in her stewardess outfit. As had the nuns, though the nuns were less competition and more of an obstacle when it came to the simple fact of killing a man unremarked. There were just so many of them. And so many ways this whole operation could go sideways in an instant.

Still, Julien had come equipped with something he was almost certain none of the other Hemisphere agents aboard the Göttingen to Milan Economy Line had: the ability to call for help.

“Well, nature calls,” he announced to Hennig, standing up. He’d chosen the aisle seat for a quick getaway. “Maybe we’ll grab some lunch upstairs once I’m back, eh? I’m starting to feel peckish.”

He had a small, dissolvable packet of poison in his breast pocket, and a few more inside his briefcase. Even on vacation, he’d packed them. He liked to be prepared. But there was no way he’d be able to kill Hennig with the Russians so close, and so obviously interested in the same target. Hennig had already given his water bottle away to the ill-looking Russian still in his seat, removing any opportunity Julien would have liked to have to poison it. Upstairs in the dining car would be safer. Less opportunities for distraction.

“Yes, I could eat,” Hennig agreed.

Julien ended the conversation there by turning and making his way to the closest restroom. Mostly out of curiosity, he scanned the seats he passed on the way for any sign of the cardinals or the other Russian, and came up empty. That was fine–Julien didn’t particularly care what they were up to, as long as they were keeping their distance. None of the other agents aboard the train, even the American, seemed to have recognized him or deemed him anything but an annoyance keeping them from closer contact with Hennig. He would have to be quick with this errand, but not so quick that he gave the game away.

He reached the bathroom, and shut the door behind him. It was roomier inside than Julien had expected, but oppressively warm, blanketed by a floral perfume smell. He leaned against the sink and dug his Notebook from his jacket pocket.

It resembled an actual notebook when flipped shut, the small kind that a detective or journalist might use. Flipped open, its top half was a display screen that also responded to touch, and its bottom half was a small keyboard. Julien punched in the number to Lillian’s phone, already well aware that she would pick up no matter what time of day it was in Montreal, and waited.

She picked up on the third ring. “This better be good. Your chip says you’re still on the train. Did you kill him?”

“Not yet.” Julien was pretty sure she had guessed as much, but he wasn’t about to beat around the bush. “You’ll want to hear this, though. It’s practically a Hemisphere convention in here.”

“How so?”

“I’ve clocked two Italian cardinals, two Russian agents, and an American spy. I don’t know if they’re all here for the same mark, but the Russians have been trying to get friendly with him.”

To her credit, Lillian only lapsed into nonplussed silence for a couple of seconds.

“Are you made?” she asked.

“No,” Julien said. “I don’t think so. I gave the Russians an alias, and they don’t seem to care about me. The American is disguised as a stewardess, but hasn’t singled me out for anything. And I haven’t seen the cardinals since I boarded.”

“Then the mission’s still on,” Lillian replied. “Kill Hennig, and be discreet about it.”

“Really?” he asked, in spite of himself. He realized now that a part of him had been hoping to hear Lillian call everything off, tell him to leave the train, and let him go back to Cologne. Maybe his description of the situation hadn’t gotten his misgivings across.

“I’ll report the presence of the other agents–” There was the sound of shuffling papers and keys clacking. “Vannier-Vanier won’t be happy, but it’s good intel at least. Anything else?”

Julien sighed, but made sure to do so inaudibly. Asking in no uncertain terms to be pulled off the mission wasn’t on the table. It was unprofessional. This was Canada’s only shot at Hennig before he vanished into the tar pit that was Italy, and Julien was supposed to be one of their best.

Instead, he asked, “Do we have anything on a faction of nuns?”

“Nuns?”

“Never mind,” he said. “I doubt they’re relevant. I’ll call you for extraction when I’m finished.”

“Good luck out there,” Lillian said. “And sorry about pulling you off vacation. I know you never get much ‘you time’.”

“It’s not a problem,” Julien lied smoothly, though he could count on one hand the number of times in his life he had lied to Lillian. He smiled, tight-lipped, and hung up on her.

24.9 || 24.11

#story

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averagejoesolomon · 11 months ago

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Gang, I could not be more delighted to share this chapter with you. I know I always tell you to buckle in, but for this one, you ought to buckle in. I'm so serious. You don't have any idea what you're in for. And if you're new here and want to get in on this madness, you can read Full Circle from the beginning on Ao3. Enjoy!

Chapter Five

The most prominent religion in Russia is Orthodox Christianity, but the national church is the Bolshoi Theatre, where crowds worship week after week, night after night, among gods by the name of Ramanov, Stalin, and Gorbachev. Built less than a mile away from the heart of Moscow's governing epicenter, the Bolshoi weaves ballet into the political pulse of the country. It announces a national pride on stages across the world. It is an institution. It is a sacred arthouse. It is the venue of choice for Russian chairmen and it is the top item on the visitation itinerary for any and all foreign dignitaries.

It's also a spy's worst nightmare, crawling with the sort of people Matt's made a career out of avoiding.

He can think of at least two-dozen different ways to spend this evening that don't include revealing his face to the better part of the Soviet parliament. A single misstep—one unlucky run-in, introduction, or incident—could spell serious trouble for Matt someday down the line. When he brought this concern to Rachel, she had suggested he wear a disguise.

"I can't do my job wearing a disguise," he had told her, and when she inquired as to why, he had said, "Disguises, by design, draw the eye. If you want me to be your guy in the crowd, you can't paint a three-inch scar on my face or put me in some God-awful gaudy wig."

This must have been a convincing enough argument, because she didn't have a counterpoint to match it. Instead, she calmly pointed out that he could either show his face anonymously at the ballet, or he could wait until the Soviets found it next to his name, age, place of birth, and designated passport number. The choice, she had said, would be up to him.

So now he stands at the base of the Bolshoi foyer, an exposed American nerve in a hostile crowd. "All good, Ace?"

It had been Rachel's idea to travel separately, all four of them staggering their arrivals across the past six hours. Grace has been onsite for ages, posing as a photographer for a famous Russian newspaper that took a bribe from Langley five weeks back. Abe followed close behind, masterfully playing the role of low-ranking British royalty and receiving all of the VIP tours and introductions that come with his faux dukedom. He'll join Matt and Rachel for the performance later on, watching from the elite visiting dignitaries box while the two of them slum it in twelfth-row center.

Matt, for his part, has already slipped in through the maintenance corridors under the guise of a furnace inspection that's been scheduled for seven months. He's shed himself free of the branded navy coveralls to reveal the perfectly tailored Versace below. As he fusses with his ivory cufflinks, he wonders how Rachel managed to pin down his exact measurements, but knows a fella shouldn’t ask questions he doesn’t want answers to. "Patience, Nebraska," she says, voice crackling in his ear. “Good things come to those who wait."

Last, but certainly not least to arrive is Rachel, who carries enough natural poise to breeze through the Bolshoi's front doors without a second glance from anyone in sight. From his place at the bottom of the Bolshoi's elegant double staircase, Matt spots her through the crowds above, clocking the familiarity in her movements before anything else—the stubborn set of her shoulders, a graceful glide of her hand along the banister, confident steps as she begins her descent in his direction.

And by God, she is a sight to see.

Her dress is the classy sort of affair that suits her perfectly, a solid black number sewn from silk and cut into a simple silhouette. The neckline settles along her collarbone and swoops from shoulder to shoulder, paired with soft loops of fabric that drape listlessly along either arm. This weighty, sophisticated feel curves down to her hips, where the dress drops off into an inky sheath that pools at her feet, as though she's been poured straight over the steps. She lifts her hem with a gloved hand, the motion effortless and practiced, and she never looks more like herself than when there's a string of pearls around her neck. With each step, Matt notices her anew, taking in the sheen of the silk, the red of her lips, the soft, subtle bounce of a relaxed updo pinned in place by Swarovski crystals.

Just when he thinks the sight can't get any better, she looks up at him and smiles. "There you are, darling."

Her Russian is technically perfect, the same way her shots always land dead center, and her punches always strike in exactly the right spot. "Are you ready, my love?" he responds, his own contrasting Russian forged in the streets of Leningrad. "I was beginning to grow worried."

He meets her at the final stair and passes along a sleek glass of bubbling Champagne to match his own. Neither of them will drink tonight, but the glass had given Matt a reason to look busy while he waited for her arrival. Somehow, she makes it look like the perfect golden accessory to her ensemble and, after a demure sip that doesn’t make it past her lips, he holds out an arm to her. When her sleek glove slips through his elbow, he can’t hide the warm, tingling shiver that buzzes straight down his spine.

"You will never truly understand the woes of the women's restroom," she replies, and he senses some truth in this predetermined conversation point, despite it being scripted to subdue wandering ears. "Do you have the tickets?"

With his free hand, Matt reaches into his inner pocket and produces two strips of cardstock placed by Rachel before leaving the safe house. This sparks a subtle satisfaction in her, as she mentally checks another box in her fifty-point plan for the evening. Change into her dress, check. Meet on the lower level, check. Pretend to be married, and dating, and in love—check, check, check.

Etiquette dictates that he lead them inside, for the sake of chivalry. Handily, the mission brief also dictates that he lead them inside, for the sake of discretion. Guided by the two complimentary motives, Matt greets the usher with a perfectly neutral hello, and the usher tears their stubs with a hospitable smile. They both receive a program and make their way into the low hum of chatter inside the theatre doors.

Matt has only seen the inside of the Bolshoi once before, when the agency first sent him overseas to train and take in the culture. It's just as striking as he remembers, six balconies carved from intricate gold and dressed in heavy, burgundy velvet. In those early days, a more senior agent had suggested that this place was designed to highlight its visitors just as much as its on-stage talent, because if one could afford an extravagant evening at a Bolshoi performance, then they were certainly the type of person worth noticing. This is especially apparent with the presidents’ box, which takes up two full stories at the center of the balconies and is accented by all the usual curtains and trimmings one might expect to adorn the stage.

Matt and Rachel’s seats are less auspicious, which is entirely by design. The carpet sinks beneath their shoes as he guides her toward a stout velvet seat tucked beneath the first balcony. They offset one another, Rachel’s sharp vigilance balanced by Matt’s casual covertness. As they walk, Matt spots Abe three stories up, chatting to a gentleman with a round gut and a distinguished mustache. Grace is out of sight and, if all goes according to plan, she will be all night. The ambassador to Turkey is ten yards away, the Minister of Justice is sharing a drink with the Minister of Transport, and Matt’s fairly certain that the young lady seated two tiers above them is a descendant of the long dethroned royal family—at least, she’s surrounded by enough armed goons to make people think she is.

If they get out of here without incident, it’ll be a miracle. "After you," he says, gesturing toward their seats. He wraps a possessive hand around to the small of her back, intending to let his lady lead the way like his pops taught him, but something in his brain snaps when he feels her bare skin at his fingertips, a warm and golden flood now washing every thought downstream.

So caught up in surveilling the crowd, he’s neglected to notice one key element about his partner—she seems to be missing half her dress.

The modest neckline sweeps into a wholly immodest back, a deep black V dipping low along alabaster skin. The silk hugs the outer edges of her rib cage, narrowing until meets at a single point that cradles the base of her spine in a gentle, swooping ripple. She's surprisingly soft for someone so fit, carved from demure muscle perfectly suited to the deception of spycraft. The smooth slope of her traps. The rounded angles of her shoulder blades. Matt's eyes trail along her exposed vertebrae, connecting the dots down, down, down her back until he's thinking the sort of thoughts that would have his mama clutching at her pearls. It ain't hard to imagine—except, no, he ain’t going to imagine. It ain’t right. It ain’t gentlemanly, to picture his fingertips brushing down her backbone. To hope she’d melt beneath his touch. To crave the feel of his hand at her back, reeling her in close, holding her right up against his—

"Darling?"

And it just ain’t fair, the way she puts on that alluring tone. The way she glances over her shoulder with a pout that sends his pulse plummeting. The way her dark eyes flicker over her dark dress and the way he could tear that damn thing off her, here and now—

God almighty, he has got to get a grip.

"Uh-huh." He feels his cheeks flushing, not with the sight of her, but with the images running through his own head. He blinks them away, silently scolds himself, and clears his throat with the hope that this one action will clear everything else, too. "Coming."

When they sit, Rachel makes a show of reading the program, expertly delving into the sort of bored small talk that belongs to socialites who have spent their entire lives in gorgeous theaters. But beneath the surface, she’s taking stock of every last detail around them and Matt knows he ought to join her. He knows he ought to note the exits, count the security officers, spot every diplomat that might be spotting him. Except the part of Matt that’s trained to notice everything can’t stop noticing her, all of his good sense getting tangled up in the sight, the smell, the presence of Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.

Three cameras cover his closest exit. Rachel’s lips form thrilling new shapes around her Russian. There’s a plainclothes guard sitting two rows ahead. Rachel has a birthmark below her chin. The director of ballet walks in the east entrance. Rachel’s breath hitches on the rise and fall of her chest.

The house lights dim, and Matt uses his Champagne to wash down all the want.

He takes on his own private mission of reigning in his rampant thoughts, but she doesn’t make it easy on him. She smells like wildflower fields and Nebraskan sunlight. She looks the way rock and roll feels on US-20, when all the windows are rolled down. She sounds like a good idea he can’t quite shake. And that dress, that dress. It turns his insides into a mid-April storm, and he’s not sure how he's supposed to sit beside her for the rest of the night, especially not when his brain insists on identifying and cataloging every latch he'd need to unhook in order to unwrap the rest of her.

The orchestra hums to life and the glow of the stage fades into the crowd. The low, blue light seems to catch Rachel in all the right places. The curve of her nose. The pout of her lip. The sharp edge of her jaw, the tender lines in her neck, the elegant curve of her collar bone. The Bolshoi is known internationally for its magnificent mastery of the ballet. It is, in the eyes of many, the most beautiful expression of the most beautiful art form in the world. And yet, as music fills the hall and dancers fill the stage, Matt just can't bring himself to look away from Rachel.

One day, he’s going to kiss her right there, and there, and there.

He will never kiss Rachel Cameron.

One day, he’s going to hold her close, and closer, and closest.

He will never hold Rachel Cameron.

Matt sits through five full movements of Tchaikovsky’s finest, wrestling with back-and-forth thoughts, before Rachel reaches through the darkness and effortlessly laces her fingers in between his. Her hand is cold. Her hands are always cold. It’s one of those things he already knows about her, and the familiarity is enough to send a pang of longing straight up his arm, filling all the empty spaces in his chest until he’s about ready to burst. She’s playing a dangerous game, dancing on the edge of something Matt’s barely managed to restrain. He remembers with a start that she’s wearing a wedding ring—a diamond-studded gold band made to look old and worn, courtesy of Langley’s top jeweler—and he reckons this might be it. This might be the final crack in a dam that’s already on its way out.

That is until Rachel leans in close, her words a whisper rolling over his shoulder, and he realizes that this, actually, is the thing that ends him.

Her breath raises goosebumps along his neck, his shoulders, his back. It’s all twisted up in the raspberries and walnuts they shared in the afternoon, a sweet and earthy scent in equal measure. There’s nothing between them now, except the single inch of her mouth from his ear as she leans in with all the casual belonging of his supposed wife, and he gets so caught up in the feel of her that it takes too long to realize she’s back to speaking English. “Fifth balcony,” she whispers. “Ten o’clock. What do you make of her?”

On instinct, his eyes flick up to her target. He spots it too, a young woman rapt with the dancers below, leaning along the railing just to get a better look. To the untrained eye, she looks like anyone else in the crowd, but as someone who spends plenty of time trying to blend in, Matt notices all of the ways she stands out. Her hair is tied in a low, unglamorous ponytail. Her dress isn’t couture, like so many others here. She wears modest jewelry made from mixed metals—a cardinal sin among polite society. And he’s seen that bag before, in a shop window somewhere in Manhattan.

His attention falls back to Rachel with every intention of crafting an intelligent response, but he gets caught on her eyes before he can get anything out. The way they wait for him. The way they dance between each of his. The way they drop to his lips. The way he can’t help but drop his own gaze to match.

He will never kiss Rachel Cameron.

“The bag,” he mutters instead, and he can’t tell if he’s still looking at her lips or not. He thinks he might be. He probably is. Is he speaking in Russian or in English? “I think its…”

He’s never noticed the low point of her cupid’s bow. The downward draw in each corner of her mouth. The way her cheeks divot ever so subtly, as though she was supposed to have dimples but never found the time for them. Red lips curve around the unsaid end of his sentence. “American made,” she confirms.

The flood is back, biblical and mighty, and his insides warm with the rushing current. Every nerve in his body seems to have found a way to his front, and the shift in weight sends him forward, forward, forward, heavy in her direction. She’s looking up at him—not the stage, not the ballet, but him—with eager eyes, chin raised high, just as it always is.

Except the orchestra trills to a stop. Applause surrounds them. The house lights come up.

Intermission.

The lights break through whatever feelings were fostered under cover of shadow, and the only thing remaining are Matt and Rachel, far too close to something neither one of them can explain. “I should—” he starts at the same time she says, “You need to—”

He waits for her. She waits for him. Finally, when the space between them grows too tight, she reaches through it, hands landing on his bow tie. She straightens each end, then brushes lint from his shoulder. “That’s your cue,” she tries again. “Don’t lose your head.”

It is entirely too late for that, but he swallows this thought down, and opts for a simple, “Yes ma’am.”

It takes more effort than it should to stand from his seat. Somehow, she now sits at the gravitational center of the room, and he has to strain against the pull, one step at a time. Eventually, he manages to join the dozens of other attendees who rush toward the bathrooms and the bars, and the further he walks, the weaker her pull.

When he finally makes it to the lobby, his head clears just enough to wonder what in the Hell just happened.

The events come to him like a mission outline, as though he’s about to debrief with a superior and desperately needs the notes for reference. It’s the only way he can wrap his head around the moment, working through it one step at a time. Except no matter how many times he runs through it, he comes back to the same two steps.

He leaned in.

Then she leaned in.

And he reckons he can understand the first part easily enough, but it’s the second part he keeps getting stuck on, because there’s not a room on this Earth they’ve shared without a fight. On the relational spectrum of people likely to kiss and people likely to brawl they’ve always leaned more toward the latter, and now seems like a Hell of a time to make a leap in the other direction. This is the same woman who tore him apart in Baltimore. The same woman who told him to get lost for two years straight. The same woman who, when they first met, took one glance at him and vowed to make his life harder than it had ever been before.

A lady like that doesn’t lean in. She fights, and yells, and holds grudges. She tells him where to be, when to be there, and what to wear. She gives orders. She makes plans. Rachel Cameron does not lean in—and she certainly doesn’t do so on a whim, in the middle of a mission.

And it occurs to him that this is just another check mark on Rachel’s list. Another scripted moment in her perfect strategy. Of course it is. A wife kisses her husband before he leaves. It’s a cover. It’s a legend. She’s always been one step ahead of him with this sort of thing.

At least, that’s what Matt tells himself as he meanders through the crowds, and it helps his racing heart slow to his resting rate. Mind clearing, he brings his mission objective into focus and works his way toward the fifth balcony using one of the paths Rachel mapped out for him weeks ago. He stops in bathrooms, refreshes his Champagne, and swipes a bite-sized chocolate desert from a passing cart, partly because it’s his best bet at cover, and partly because he’s a sucker for a chocolate mousse. One staircase at a time, he climbs that magnificent Bolshoi Theatre and works his way onto a balcony that isn’t his.

In Rachel’s grand Moscow plan, Matt has six pre-approved options for approaching a potential target. Since the first requires their target to be a man and the second requires there to be a gun pointed at his head, Matt settles for option number three—the confused tourist gambit or, as he prefers to call it, the National Lampoon. “Excuse me, miss?” he says, in the best lost American voice he can muster. “Do you know the way to the—?”

She turns, and any commitment Matt had to his cover immediately shrivels when he realizes he knows the young lady perched in the fifth balcony. He used to have dreams about her. Spent the better part of a year trying to remember every detail about her, from the red hair, to the ring on her finger, to the way she threw a baseball in the basement of Wrigley field. He last saw her skipping down a stoop in Georgetown and if she’s here now, he knows in his gut that something has gone horribly, staggeringly wrong.

“You?” he says, abandoning all pretense as he bolts toward her. “What are you doing here?”

The redhead moves quick, snatching her leather messenger bag and pulling it in close as she scans the balcony for an escape route. Every instinct Matt’s got tells him that she can’t leave with that bag, so he makes himself big and impassable, barely hooking the leather strap as she tries to slip past him. “Let go of me,” she hisses. “What are you doing? Let go.”

“Drop the bag.”

“We’re on the same side.”

“Drop. The. Bag.”

She’s slippery, in that same way Joe can be slippery when he wants to be, and Matt wonders if everyone in the Circle of Cavan learns to run before they fight. She wriggles against his grip, bright eyes wide with panic, but Matt pins her down easy. He’s got plenty of experience keeping runners in one place. “What are you doing here?” he asks again. “Who’s your buyer? What are you—?”

“On the ground!”

When a third voice interrupts, Matt mistakes the accent for Abe and says a quick prayer of thanks for the backup. This relief is quickly doused when he looks up to find a tall, slender stranger holding a gun to the girl’s head. “Whoa, hey,” he says, holding out his free hand. “Easy with that thing.”

“Get on the ground,” says the stranger, and Matt realizes that the gun is actually being pointed at him. “Now.”

Thirty seconds too late, Matt suddenly understands that he hasn’t intercepted a trade. He’s walked right into the middle of it. What’s more, he’s gone and done the exact thing Joe’s always warning him about—he’s backed himself into a corner, stuck between the buyer and the seller with no good way out. “I’ve got company,” Matt tells the team in his ear. “What’s my way out?”

Grace’s voice is absolute, ready with an instant reply. “Through,” she tells him. “There’s a stairwell to the right, but you’ll have to get off that balcony first.”

“I’m coming up,” says Rachel.

Matt shakes his head, even though she can’t see him. “No time.”

“I’m coming up,” says Abe.

“Better make it quick.”

“I won’t tell you again,” the stranger says, adjusting his grip on the gun. “Get on the ground.”

He holds his pistol like law enforcement, all rigid shouldered and stiff stanced. The sight makes Matt sick to his stomach. “You don’t want to do this,” Matt tells him. “You’re putting real lives at risk, doing this.”

The stranger huffs, like he knows everything and Matt knows nothing at all. “That’s rich, coming from you,” he says. “Give up the passports and no one gets hurt.”

“A lot of people get hurt,” Matt argues still pulling at the bag. “Let’s figure something out. Let’s—”

“We are well beyond figuring something out,” says the stranger. “That ship has sailed, and you’re going to jail for a long time.”

“I’m—” Matt’s already started rolling into his next argument before this sentence has time to land. When it does, it stops him in his tracks. “Hold on, I’m what? What are you—?”

In this profession, there are plenty of people Matt never wants to cross. He spend his days with spies, con men, assassins, and rogues, all of whom know how to make his life miserable in horrible and exhausting ways. Right then, Matt adds another name to the list as he watches Abe Baxter sneak up behind the stranger, grab hold of his weakest joints, and bend them in ways that bring the man straight to his knees.

And when Abe looks down at the man’s face, it’s clear that he isn’t truly a stranger after all. “Townsend,” he groans. “You absolute twit.”

Over comms, Grace says, “What the bloody hell is he doing here?”

“I fully intend to find out,” Abe answers. With a glance up at Matt, he gives a nod. “You got the passports? Good on you.”

Matt doesn’t have the passports, so much as he still wrestling for them, but when he goes to point this out, he realizes that his sparring partner is nowhere to be found. In the time it took for Matt to talk his assailant into Abe’s hold, the mysterious redhead has completely vanished. In her place, the strap of the messenger bag is looped around a small golden gargoyle, and Matt’s been wrestling with a ghost.

“Get up, Townsend,” Abe says, and even though the not-so-stranger Townsend has an extra foot of height on Abe, there’s no questions about who’s in charge. “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

Matt unloops the strap and digs inside the messenger bag. Sure enough, he finds a pile of little leather covers. He looks over his shoulder, toward the audience below. Toward Rachel, who knows better than to meet his gaze, but does it anyway. He nods, and so does she.

For a single moment, Matt lets himself fall into his own relief. Mission accomplished. Lives are saved. He won’t have to worry about agents arriving at the ranch, or an assassin knocking on the door of the M street apartment. At least, not for now.

But there’s something scratching at his instincts, like he’s being watched, and not just by Rachel. There are eyes everywhere in Moscow, and there are eyes on him now. When Matt scans the crowd below, he spots a gentleman looking back at him. Wide face. Bushy eyebrows. Armed. Matt's short-lived relief fades in a flash as he remembers where he is, and remembers how deadly it can be to be spotted in a place like this.

The house lights flash once, twice, three times, and Matt steps back from the edge of the balcony. Intermission, he thinks, is over.

#Full Circle #I TOLD YOU #I TOLD YOU YOUD LOVE IT #thanks for trusting me with these kids #its a long ride but we are in payoff central

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hetalia-has-a-secretary · 7 months ago

Note

How would the German Brothers, France, England, Russia, and China react to their American s/o (who recently moved countries to move in with them) dealing with extreme homesickness?

German Brothers + Allies with a homesick S/O

(I made this for a S/O from anywhere in the world since America already lives there and he must be included. Everyone loves that greasy bomber jacket blonde lol)

German Brothers:

Germany:

He understands what homesickness feels like. Between the wars from the past, and the meetings for the future he usually upholds, he is rarely at his nice clean home.

He does his best to console them, and buys them stuff from their home country.

One day he was talking with Italy, and was shocked when Italy suggested to just have more meetings in their home country and bring them with when they start to miss it.

He starts to do just that.

Makes extra time to take them to nice resturants or their hometown and to visit as much of their family and friends as possible.

He realizes having them as a traveling companion helped his stress levels so now they're his emotional support S/O!

Now at least when they miss their home, they won't be alone in that.

Prussia:

Man is retired, and LOVES to travel and learn stuff.

Has no problem sneaking his S/O away to their country.

Movie nights with subtitles will happen frequently. He's not even paying attention he's just so happy his Jewel is happy.

Also cooks a lot of food from their homelands as well as gifts and tacky tourist gages just to make them smile.

Allies:

America:

Doesn't fully understand at first since he couldn't WAIT to break free from England.

Doesn't stop him from bringing his S/O to all the themed resturants in America.

Even has pinned down all the cultural museum spots from their Homeland.

Has an endless knowledge about S/O's heritage of cryptic and ghouls.

Loves seeing them happy and will fly them out, even if he can't go with due to restrictions.

Will help make an album of photos and magazines and newspapers and all that good stuff with them.

Also expect a LOT of imported snacks from their home country as well.

England:

We will pretend he thinks museums don't exist, and that his country doesn't have any major art works.

This will be the ONLY time it's a good thing because now his S/O can ramble off what all the foreign words are.

Laughs when he learns the British museums didn't realize a relic was NOT in fact used to make biscuits.

He won't be able to go with them, but sends a friend of theirs to go with and gives them an allowance to go on a shopping spree and eat at the highest quality of resturants/food markets.

Bring him back a teacup, or pottery piece and he will fight tears over the fact they thought of him just as much as he did of them.

France:

HUGE advocate for getting to travel with his S/O.

Unless there's a riot outside his window he will drop everything to go.

"It would be unfair to give up your life completely just for me, non?"

Showers them with romantic evenings and maybe a get together with friends and family.

France has an amazing wifi connection so he will set up a place to video chat with their friends.

After all even just friends can bring you back home.

Will have random people send postcards so his S/O can make a picture map of their countries best sight seeing places.

Even if he does most the work.

China

He's not too keen on traveling there, and rarely let's his S/O go back

But when they do its not a small trip. We're talking a couple months, or until they had enough.

He will try his best to incorporate foods from the other country and enjoys the process.

He has also shipped out many books and movies to China for them.

Though he will evidently receive chinese rip offs, and gets agitated and apologetic.

He knows it's an issue, they guy is trying his hardest!

Russia

He gets a little sad, thinking they just don't want to be with him.

Even so that in itself is understandable, but decides to go on a trip with them anyway.

Look out if it's a nice and sunny beach like country (or has any beaches regardless)

He will become a very happy sunburnt Russian. Sunscreen? What's that?

His S/O will have to fight with him ti actually go back home because how their home is him new home, da?

Have fun with your summer stays!

#hetalia #hws #aph #hetalia russia #hetalia china #hetalia france #hetalia england #hetalia american #hetalia germany #hetalia prussia

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coulsons-fullmetal-cellist · 1 year ago

Text

Back to The Bubble

(Dieter x horror loving female)

Words: 3, 077

Summary: you and Dieter go to England for the filming of his latest project, but he must face an old fear

Warnings: oh boy, do I put Dieter through the wringer!

Check out masterlist here

You looked at you list again; you were sure you had packed everything but felt safe checking one more time. You and Dieter were going to England for a two month shoot on a short film.

FOUR was being directed by notorious auteur director Ryan; pronounced rhee ahn, and anyone who pronounced it wrong would be fired immediately. This was the second in his trilogy of short films based on MacBeth and most people would amputate their left arm to have a small part in one his films, even though he had a certain reputation. You helped Dieter with his lines, and it had been a while since you read the play at school, but this was very different to what the bard wrote.

This was also the first overseas trip you and Dieter would be taking together, the furthest being a trip to Disneyland California for your one-year anniversary. You sipped your tea from the mug you got on that trip, feeling satisfied that everything was checked off your extensive list.

Dieter had never met anyone who was as organised as you and certainly never met anyone who took making lists as seriously as you. It made sense to you, given your mostly freelance work and having lived alone for most of your adult life. You felt safe with lists. And yes, you liked having things packed and ready to go well before you went anywhere, it made sense. You never understood how people could do anything last minute. Speaking of which…

“Dieter, have you packed your toiletry bag?”

Said boyfriend emerged from the bathroom. “Yes, honey cakes”

“Checked everything off your list?”

“Yes ma’am” He lay on the bed next to you and handed over his messily scratched off list. “We’re not leaving for two days you know?”

Dieter was so used to just throwing things in a bag and hoping for the best. He’d never heard of packing cubes and now he’s the proud owner of his own set and everything he could possibly need for a trip away was ready to be packed in a suitcase.

“Exactly” you said “We’ll be away for two months, and I want to make sure we don’t forget anything. Who knows what’ll be available there.”

“It’s England, it’s kinda the same as here.”

“Some things are different; the chocolate for instance.”

Dieter sat up and hugged you from behind. “I know, it’s sweet, like you.”

He gave you a kiss on the cheek and took your mug from you, taking a sip himself, and watch you while you were scrutinising your list.

“Do you know how much time off we’ll get?” you looked to him.

“Weekends or something, I think.”

“So, we could maybe get to explore London a bit?”

“Well, I was thinking more not leaving our room, but what did you have in mind?”

You turned the pages of your travel notebook. “Well, I made a list…”

“Of course you did” he muttered affectionately.

“…of places I’d like to visit” you finished as you showed him the page of listed travel locations.

He swapped the mug for your notebook and looked over this new list.

“Crouch End, All Saints Church, Shaftesbury Avenue; these aren’t normal tourist places. Okay, what horror films are we talking here?”

“Shaun of the Dead, The Omen and American Werewolf”

“They do horror films in England now?”

You playfully swatted him on the chest. “You know they do. Did I not go on about Hammer Horror?”

“I did” he said playfully “But I was too distracted by your pretty face to notice”.

That got another playful swat from you.

“Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

“Not really, unless…maybe Baker Street?”

You looked at him in surprise, “You’re not a Sherlock Holmes fan are you?”

“What? No, I’m talking Basil the Great Mouse Detective!”

“Ah, of course”

“Seriously underrated film”

*****

The non-stop flight from Los Angeles to London took over 10 hours and you were glad to be going business class. Trying to sleep in economy class felt like trying to go to sleep in a Saw contraption. Dieter had to uncanny ability to fall asleep anywhere; just give him a surface to lean on and he could sleep through the apocalypse.

You couldn’t understand how Dieter wasn’t excited by the luxury of not only going business class but by the business class lunge. But, you guessed, he was used to first class luxuries, or he hated traveling, it was hard to tell sometimes with him. He was at least happy he could watch his favourite films on the flight, even more excited when they had every Aardman film on board. You heard him humming along to the Wallace and Gromit theme song while you went to sleep. It was probably the best sleep you’ve ever had on a plane, and you could certainly get used to it.

Dieter promptly fell asleep during the car ride from the airport to the hotel. This was your first time in England, so you happily played the role of stary eyed tourist. You only woke Dieter once you saw the hotel approaching in the distance, awed by the prestige of it all. This was certainly a place once occupied by nobility. Your awe was broken when you heard a most unpleasant sound: Dieter had collapsed to the ground and was curled up in a panic attack.

“No…no…not this place…”

He could barely breathe, let alone get the words out and, before you could reach him, he passed out.

*****

Dieter awoke some time later and found himself a stranger in an even stranger place. He thought this place was gone from his nightmares, but now he finds himself stepped once more unto this hell.

He was vaguely aware of your voice in the distance; you sounded angry which was a rare occurrence. As soon as you approached him, you immediately softened. “I am so sorry Dieter; I didn’t know this was the same hotel as…how are you?”

He wasn’t sure, everything felt like it was closing in on him, like a weight was slowly crushing his chest.

“It’s stuffy. Need air”

“Of course.” You cooed and led him outside to the coldness of the English countryside. It helped somewhat. And you were comforting him as best you could.

“I can have us moved to a different hotel.”

“No, I don’t want to be a hassle to everyone.”

You grabbed his face so he could look you in the eyes.

“Your wellbeing is not a hassle.”

“I don’t want to make a fuss.”

“I want to make a fuss.”

He looked torn, he didn’t what to do, “I think…if you’re here, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, so you kissed his forehead. “Okay, but if you have even the slightest dark thought, tell me and I’ll sort something. And don’t be afraid to talk to me or anyone about anything, okay?”

He mumbled back a reply while you pulled him into a hug.

“I think our room has a bathtub. Do you want to have a nice soak?”

“Will there be lavender bath salts?”

“It’s a fancy hotel, so probably.”

You led him through to the reception, having already been given your room key while you berated the production team. Dieter paused and pointed to a random spot of the carpet.

“Oh look, that’s where I technically died.”

He started laughing hysterically and you dragged him away before they turned into sobs.

The staff had thankfully not placed you and Dieter in the room he was in before. It was a very nice suite, much bigger than your old apartment. And they had lavender bath salts, so you plopped Dieter into a steaming hot bath and went to unpack everything.

“Are you going to join me?” you heard a few minutes later.

“I want to get things unpacked, at least everything we need tonight and tomorrow. Are you hungry? Do you want anything?”

“Just you, honey cakes”

Well, you needed to take the toiletries into the bathroom.

You held him close to you that night in case any bad dreams decided to get through.

*****

You didn’t get to meet the infamous director until the second day of shooting. Ryan was known for being eccentric, but you thought he was extremely rude and acted like a spoiled child.

He absolutely detested colour and refused to acknowledge your existence until you wore your least colourful clothes which luckily, you did pack.

The man was impossible to work with, having a habit of saying one thing but meaning another. He’d constantly expect everyone around him to be able to read his mind, and only giving monosyllabic answers. He would throw a massive hissy fit and throw things around if he was questioned for anything. People would give their left arm to work with him? You'd happily take the bite of a zombie just to avoid him.

The crew, which was new for this shooting, as with every shoot, bonded in mutual frustration. You were all giving each other secret eye rolls whenever the director was talking nonsense, and some started recording whatever he said. They’d compare notes just to make sure no one was going crazy and to have insurance against being fired. One poor assistant was already reduced to tears as she’d somehow gotten his tea order wrong.

The cast was small: just Dieter playing MacBeth and three actresses playing the witches. Well, actresses was a loose term. Lucretia Schwartz was an underwear model, Cheery Lin a swimsuit model and Dencidee (yes that was her real name) a Tik Tok star known for dancing and lip synching. They were clearly cast for their looks rather than their talent and Ryan definitely favoured them, praising them so much, it was borderline creepy.

Dieter, however, got the opposite treatment; every little thing he did seemed to be picked over like a rat picking at a bone. Dieter was criticised to the point of frustration every day. There was an on-set therapist, to nobody’s surprise, so he had constant sessions with them along with most of the crew.

You encouraged him to vent his frustrations when back at the hotel, as normally he bottled up his feelings until he exploded in a flurry of chaos.

Today was a particularly bad day.

“Fifty takes. Fifty fucking takes for one fucking line!”

Dieter was lying face down on the bed as he only had the energy to voice his anger. He did happily accept soothing back rubs from you, and he had severe anger related tension in his back.

“And that Tik Tok twit goes and does one take with the worst delivery and his eminence claims it’s a perfect take?”

“She did seem a bit wooden” you agreed with him.

“Wooden? I’ve seen more convincing performances from an actual piece of wood!”

He turned over in a frustrated sigh, so you could see how tired his eyes were. He took one of your hands and started tracing circles in your palm, while you brushed the hair from his face with the other one.

“This reminds me of how Stanley Kubrick treated Shelley Duvall on the set of The Shining. I just hope your hair doesn’t fall out from the stress.”

“So, if someone puts an axe in his back, no one would mind?”

“An axe is too good for him” you mused “It’s not cold enough to leave him outside to freeze to death, so maybe locking him in the hotel freezer would do. Then hope he spends a cursed eternity trapped in a picture”.

“You my dear, have a very depraved mind” Dieter says as he kisses your hand “One of the many reasons I love you.”

You gave him an amused look “Want me to keep listing ways of offing him?”

“It’s foreplay to my ears.”

*****

Those two months were an arduous ordeal. Dieter would be subjected to all forms of verbal abuse on set, and at night, he would sleep. He was prescribed something to help with the anxiety and stress and the medication usually left him feeling drowsy, but it helped him sleep undisturbed.

Whenever you had days off, you’d drag him away for as long as possible, usually for weekend trips to London. You took him to fun spots, trying afternoon tea, exploring the Natural History Museum, Harrods and Borough Market, getting slightly distracted by all the English cheeses and distracting Dieter with the English chocolate. You even got tickets to The Lion King on the West End. Those days were enjoyable, and an occasional smile would grace Dieter’s lips. You took several photos of those occasions. It almost felt like you were having a fun holiday.

You almost didn’t come on this shooting trip, having been offered a job back in LA, but now you’re glad you came with Dieter. He would not have been able to handle all this by himself and if he didn’t come home…you didn’t want to think about it.

*****

Finally, last day on set. Everyone on crew was ready to celebrate no longer having to put up with this tyrannical egomaniac. You were happy to celebrate with Dieter and tell him about a surprise you had planned for him.

For some reason, you had been sent off set to collect something random that apparently his eminence absolutely needed and only you could get. You were wearing colour today, in defiance so that was probably the reason for it.

It took you most of the filming day for this errand, so by the time you got back, filming had wrapped. The set seemed almost deserted you wondered…

You were fuming.

This must be breaking so many laws on so many levels. Now you know why you were sent away.

“Are those…?”

“Pig guts, yes”

“And that…?”

“Cow manure”

Gwen, working on costumes, was one of the few left behind due to the stench, was equally furious.

“This wasn’t on the call sheet”.

“Last minute decision by our esteemed director. Makes the finale more dramatic apparently.”

She helped you hose the filth off of Dieter before taking him into a nearby bathroom. His costume was completely ruined along with his state of mind, most likely. He was numb, barely responding to what was happening.

As soon as you got back to the hotel, you packed up all your belongings and left to check you and Dieter into an airport hotel. When there, you led him into the shower and washed him until the water ran clear. Then you held him tight as he finally broke down into tears. It was a long night, but he finally managed to sleep.

*****

The following day, Dieter spent a good hour facetiming with his therapist in L.A. while you were on the phone to whoever was in charge of production. Apparently, what happened to Mr. Bravo was not exactly considered a crime; something to do with no physical harm happening and a contract being signed before filming blah blah blah. You were stuck in an endless loop of people mincing their words and saying a lot but not saying anything at all. They seemed to be doing everything in their power to protect their esteemed director as he had won several awards and appointed an OBE. You didn’t care if he got a Nobel Prize for Peacekeeping, no one treats a person like that and gets away with it. You now understood why Carrie went and telekinetically destroyed everyone who ever hurt her. But then you had a better idea: revenge was best served by people with hidden recording devices…

*****

Dieter was almost back to normal; he was at least sitting up and able to hold a conversation. You were watching Curse of the Were-Rabbit together and he was laughing at every joke, which was a relief to you.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, will be much better when we’re home”.

“We’ll be home soon” you kissed the top of his head “But we’ll be making a short detour”.

He lifted his head from your shoulder in question while you grabbed something from the bedside table.

“We deserve a bit of happy news so…”

You handed him a gift bag. He looked inside and then to you.

“Is this?”

“Yes”

“Are we?”

“Yes”

He pulled out a pair of Mickey Mouse ears.

“We’re going to Disneyland Paris!”

Dieter collapsed against you in a muddled hug and cried, but this time from happiness.

*****

The next day, you were waiting at your gate headed for Paris. Dieter was clearly excited for the first time in a while, already wearing his Mickey Mouse ears without shame.

“Do you think they’ll have churros at Paris?”

“Maybe, we’ll have to find out.”

His hand hadn’t left yours since leaving the airport hotel, almost like he needed an anchor to avoid floating away into sadness again. You squeezed his hand every now and again to reassure him you were still there.

“I could write us a list of foods we should try.”

He gave you a cheeky glance, “You haven’t made a list yet?”

But before you could answer, there was a chattering amongst the crowd, everyone looking at their phones in disbelief. One of the many TV screens at the gate were displaying a sudden news bulletin. There was no audio but the story playing out was clear: acclaimed director Ryan was having many allegations being held against him for abuse and malpractice. A grainy video showed him screaming at some poor soul. The chatting was now fluttering around the airport.

“It’s not the first time he’s done this.”

“I always knew he was a creep.”

“Does the abuse excuse the art?”

Dieter was looking around, but you tugged him back into attention.

“Come on, they’ve just announced boarding.” And you started leading him towards the queue forming.

“You don’t want to find out about that?” he asked.

“Who do you think started it?” you looked up at his startled face.

“You did this?”

“I didn’t do much, just encouraged everyone with evidence to leak it to the press, and there were so many of us with phones on set so…”

“You, honey cakes, can be evil when you want to be.”

“Evil?” you asked “Me? I’d say I’m more of a Robin Hood type character.”

“Well, I’m glad to be your Maid Marion.”

“You’re talking animated version, right?”

“Absolutely. Underrated film.”

Film referenced: Shaun of the Dead (2004), The Omen (1976), An American Werewolf in London (1981), Basil the Great Mouse Detective (1986), Wallace and Gromit (1986), The Shining (1980), Curse of the Were-Rabbit (2005), Robin Hood (1973)

Lovingly tagging @boliv-jenta @simpingcowboy @ellenmunn @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @brilliantopposite187 @chaithetics @myloveistoolittle @cevans-is-classic @glshmbl

#pedro pascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #dieter x honey cakes #love of horror fanfic #love of horror #dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter fanfic #dieter x reader #dieter x f!reader #dieter bravo #the bubble netflix #the bubble

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tomorrowusa · 1 year ago

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Need an OBGYN? Good luck finding one easily in a red state!

In conservative states, care delays largely stem from the fallout of the Dobbs decision last summer when the supreme court revoked the constitutional right to abortion. Facing possible lawsuits for providing abortion care, OB-GYNs in Texas, Florida, Idaho and elsewhere are choosing to relocate to more liberal states, while medical students are opting for other fields entirely. “Florida has become a place where it is unsustainable to be an OB-GYN,” said Stephanie Ros, a maternal fetal medicine specialist at the University of South Florida who, until recently, ran the school’s OB-GYN residency program. For years, the program was among the nation’s top schools for abortion training, and was found on the prestigious Ryan list of the best family planning residency programs. But after the state banned most abortions after six weeks of pregnancy, the designation was revoked. Applicant numbers subsequently declined dramatically, as skilled candidates took their talents elsewhere.

Ron DeSantis with his extremist agenda is turning Florida into a women's healthcare desert. Sadly, the same is also true in other states with hardline Republican governors.

In a national survey, 60% of medical students said they were unlikely to apply for residency in a restrictive state. “States with stringent abortion laws won’t align with my goals as a future OB-GYN,” said Rohini Kousalya Siva, president of the American Medical Student Association. “If young doctors want to … get the skills they need, then they have to go to states where they can access [abortion] training.” Verda J Hicks, president of the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, described the trend as cause for concern about the “next generation of OB-GYNs”. Notably, fewer residents means fewer doctors on the floor. To remedy that vacuum, USF hired locum doctors, who Ros described as “the substitute teachers of the doctor world”. Still, routine care appointments at USF are significantly pushed back. In August, the earliest a new patient could book a prenatal visit was November. “We have people who … don’t get their first ultrasound until 30 weeks, because they just can’t get in,” she said. [ ... ]

When chronic diseases are not managed as well, the overall risk of any pregnancy goes up, explained Erika Werner, chair of obstetrics and gynecology at Tufts medical center in Boston. “If you don’t have your first visit until 14 weeks, you don’t have the same access to prenatal testing. You may not have an early ultrasound that reveals a major structural problem,” she said.

It's ironic that Republicans are eager to turn women into baby making machines but are making it impossible to get proper prenatal care.

Women seeking reproductive care are heading to blue states and are putting a strain on services there.

Even parts of the country without abortion bans are struggling to keep up with care needs. Christina Han, the director of maternal fetal medicine at UCLA in California, pointed to the influx of out-of-state patients seeking abortion care and how it stretches the workforce thin. Han specializes in complex procedures like multifetal reduction – an operation that must be completed early in pregnancy. That time crunch means that if a patient travels to LA for urgent reproductive care, which Han says is happening with increased frequency, the hospital has to defer local patients’ scheduled operations, including terminations, that are not as time sensitive. “We have to tell our patient who is struggling with a miscarriage … that we just can’t get them in. And that is an emotional, physical burden for these patients,” said Han. Werner, who also chairs the Society for Maternal Fetal Medicine’s health policy and advocacy committee, explained that this displacement effect is especially pronounced in states that directly border those with restrictive policies, and are now receiving the lion’s share of out-of-state patients. In Pennsylvania, which borders West Virginia, Stolfer remembers thinking about women in other states as she awaited care for her miscarriage. “It was one way that I was trying to make peace with how long it was taking,” she said.

Being an OBGYN was stressful even before the Republican SCOTUS decision in Dobbs v. Jackson Women's Health Organization.

For years, studies have predicted that population rise paired with an ageing workforce would lead to gaps in women’s healthcare. Ruth Crystal of Stanford University also points to the high risk for medical malpractice litigation and demands for long and irregular hours as factors that steer people away from the field. “OB care is a 24-hour-a-day job,” she said. “Babies don’t come only between banking hours.”

So Republicans have made an already difficult job nearly impossible in some areas. As a result, maternal mortality rates are growing in the African-American community.

Nationwide, 36% of counties are maternity care deserts, meaning they lack any obstetric care facilities or providers, explains Amanda Williams, clinical innovations adviser at Stanford University’s California Quality of Care Collaborative. The affected populations are also disproportionately people of color, people with lower incomes and people in rural areas – groups that already face care inequities. In the US, Black women are experiencing soaring maternal mortality rates. “All of these things compound for poor maternal health outcomes,” said Williams. “When patients give birth in these maternity deserts, they have higher rates of preterm births and maternal deaths.” [ ... ] Werner believes the most critical fix is abolishing restrictive abortion laws and creating “parity across all states”. “It’s only when it comes to OB-GYN care that what you can get in one state is different than what you can get in another,” she said. “That just forever means that we’re going to have unequal care in different states.”

#dobbs v. jackson women's health organization #obgyn #shortage of obgyns in red states #women's healthcare #abortion #florida #republicans #the gop #the republican scotus #a woman's right to choose #the sanctity of reproductive freedom

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ash-and-books · 4 months ago

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Rating: 5/5

Book Blurb:

Author Brandon Hoang takes readers on a high-stakes adventure through Vietnam in search of an ancient magical crossbow in this debut middle-grade fantasy that Michael Dante DiMartino, co-creator of Avatar: The Last Airbender calls "a must-read"!

When Vietnamese American Freddie Lo finds herself in Vietnam for the first time since she was little, she's not quite sure how to feel. The memories of her extended family are more like distant echoes; she has a tough time speaking Vietnamese; and she can't help but feel like she just isn't Vietnamese enough. Still, this is her chance to reconnect with her family, especially her Ong ngoai -- or grandfather -- who is receiving a big award.

That's when Ong ngoai reveals his secret: He knows the location of an ancient legendary crossbow, one with the power to decimate armies -- and he's hidden it away from those who intend to use its magic for evil. But when Ong ngoai is kidnapped, it's up to Freddie, her cousin Lien, and a mysterious boy named Duy to get to the crossbow before it ends up in the wrong hands.

In this Indiana Jones-style adventure, readers will travel through Vietnam -- from its seaside villages, to the swamps of the Mekong Delta, to the majestic Marble Mountains of Da Nang -- as Freddie learns what it takes to be a hero.

Review:

When traveling to Vietnam to visit her family the last thing Vietnamese American Freddie Lo is to go on a magical quest to find an ancient legendary crossbow and save her grandfather! Freddie Lo is going to visit her extended family in Vietnam, however having not seen her family for so long and not speaking Vietnamese all that well, it's hard for Freddie to connect. But Freddie isn't going to give up the chance to reconnect with her family, especially with her grandfather. But when her grandfather reveals that he knows the location of an ancient legendary crossbow that has magical abilities, Freddie knows her entire life is going to change. When her grandfather is kidnapped its up to Freddie, her cousin Lien, and a mysterious boy named Duy to find the crossbow and save Freddie's grandpa! This book was just a fantastic read, it takes you across Vietnam and through gorgeous places. It's a great middle-grade read and the adventure was well done. I liked the story and friendships built in this and how Freddie was so resilient and determined. The book is a fun one for middle grade and young readers to read and get interested in. It's a fun road trip adventure filled with Vietnamese mythology, family bonds, and identity! Seriously, pick this one up and add it to your tbr!

Release Date: August 6,2024

Publication/Blog: Ash and Books (ash-and-books.tumblr.com)

*Thanks Netgalley and Scholastic | Scholastic Press for sending me an arc in exchange for an honest review*

#book review #bookish #book #the crossbow of destiny

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fictionaddictcosplay · 11 months ago

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Christmas fanfic

It all started, as Ed remembered well, during summer.

They were dating for a few months. They already had a few highs and lows, but they managed to make things work. They were walking hand in hand in the streets of Paris, not far from the cathedral, and it was… So fucking hot. Yet it was not Ed’s first summer in France, but really, he could not get used to it. It would have been bearable by the sea, but Paris was suffocating.

“I’m so glad we’re here! Paris is truly the most wonderful city in the world, don’t you think my dear?”

Ed couldn’t hold a smile. Stede was so… So Stede, and he would never want him otherwise.

“Tis’ a wonderful city. Especially in August. The lack of Parisians is so delightful, nearly enough to compensate the climate.”

“Oh, Ed! You don’t have to act like a misanthropic adventurer with me, keep this for your vlogs and just admit that you love it.”

Stede’s voice pretended to be properly indignated, but he had this lovely grin and that sparkle in the eye meaning he was teasing Ed, and happy to do so. Ed loved it so much. He replied with a frantic laugh:

“It is not misanthropic to say that Parisians are the most insufferable people on Earth, it is a fact. You can ask any French person.”

They were about to joyfully argue more, when a someone yelled from the other side of the street:

“Eddie!”

Ed blinked several times. Yes, it was indeed…

“Ann! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for a new armoire for the antique shop, obviously! Oh Mary will be thrilled to know I saw you...”

She ran towards them as she was chatting. Her very long hair, brown and wavy, seemed to flow from a gigantic hat. She wore a maxi green dress with several ruffles and frills, imitating silk – quite a good imitation. The décolletage was, as always, quite revealing. She said once to Ed, drunk, that she had made her spider tattoo in order to have a pretext to show her boobs to everyone. That was the one and only reason. Ed had no difficulties to believe it. He was quite drunk himself and replied that he was so scared of spiders, even a tattoo would frighten him, and maybe this was the reason he was gay, the view of her boobs traumatized him for ever… God. They were so young. And stupid.

Those were good times, and he remembered them with a smile, but there was no doubt: even if he had a chance, he would never want to be young again. He was much happier in his forties than he ever was in his twenties.

“And this is Stede! How come you never introduced him? You must visit us next time you’re passing by, Mary will make dinner! But Eddie, you haven’t even told me, what are YOU doing in Paris?”

“Romantic holidays.”

“Of course, what was I thinking? It would not be for business, obviously!”

It was obvious indeed. Ed had found a way to exist in the crowded, rapacious world of travelling Youtube channels by going to the farest and most dangerous places in the world. Sometimes with Izzy, but mostly on his own, with good shoes, salt-and-pepper hair tied in a bun and a book of poetry, in the wild. That was his brand. It was not an easy life, but it suited him much better than all the others careers he had before. He liked it a lot – at least, in the beginning.

They chatted with Ann for a few more minutes before parting ways. They were approaching the Pont Neuf, and Stede stopped to look at the water. Ed embraced him, but he didn’t seem to care.

“You okay?”

“Of course. Just wondering… Will it work? I mean… What you are doing is special, what I want to do is not. Who will care about another travelling channel with an American in Paris? There are thousands of them already!”

“Hey. First, I care. Second, do you think that when I started, people cared about a grumpy New-Zealander in the Highlands?”

“You know what I mean. Your channel is unique.”

“Of course there are thousands of travelling channels full of Americans in Paris. But none of them has all the bitchy comments of Lucius. I was only on set for the wrap day and he cracked me every time. Your techies are good as well, especially Jim. And there’s you. I can swear that there is no one, and I mean, absolutely no one in the world, who would eat a quiche with mushrooms and think that they are snails. This is good TV. Good Youtube. Good everything. You can do it.”

“Thanks. And thanks for coming here with me. And for insisting to turn the cameras off for the weekend, I needed it.”

“Sure.”

Stede could be quite insecure at times. They kissed before heading back to their hotel. Ed told all the stories he could remember about Ann, Mary and himself in their youth, and Stede was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes.

“We should definitely visit them next time we’re in… Where do they live?”

“Thailand. In the kind of place that French people call le trou du cul du monde.”

“This is such a poetic language!”

“Right.”

Ed was raised with two languages and could speak fluently three more. Stede, who spoke only English, admired it deeply.

“She had a lovely dress. Not proper vintage, but really beautiful.” Stede said.

“Agreed.”

“It must be cooler than pants, by this weather.”

“Sure. You could try one on, if you want.”

“What?”

“I have a similar dress. Not here, of course, at home. You know, from the time I was a fashion designer.”

“Oh, I always forget about this one. Was it before or after the restaurant?”

“Before. After the restaurant, I was a mechanic.”

“Of course.”

Stede had this concentrated look, so concerned to learn everything he could about Ed, never judgmental. It felt so good. Ed liked to boast and say he could do anything, and he was actually proud of it, but it was not completely true. He could do anything, as long as it did not imply talking to people too much. No matter how hard he tried, he was not a people person, and it bothered him more than he wanted to admit. Even to Stede.

Stede. Right. He was in Paris with Stede for a romantic trip, not for spiraling.

“Anyways. Do you want to try this dress on once we get home?”

“Of course not!”

“Why not? Even if New-York is not as hot as Paris, it will still be Summer.”

“People will stare.”

“What people? I thought it would be just the two of us, you know. Like the time we exchanged clothes.”

“Oh. Right. But still. No.”

Ed looked at Stede.

Even now, he could remember the feeling. It was the precise moment when he felt that the atmosphere changed and that Stede was… Hesitant. Insecure. Something was not right. Stede was always up for anything and everything, it was a constant in their relationship. They both loved fashion and dressing up, especially with each other’s clothes. Stede refusing so firmly seemed very out of character.

“Okay.” Ed said softly.

“It’s not… because of you, or the dress, you know” Stede replied, almost with guilt. “But… Have you watched the movie Danish Girl? The main character realizes that she’s a trans woman when she tries a dress on. And I don’t want this to happen to me.”

Of course, Ed reassured Stede, told him it was fine, no problem at all. They both had several closets full of clothes to exchange and have fun with. They made back to their hotel, finished their holidays, and Ed didn’t think anymore about this odd conversation for a while.

But then he started to notice the small things. How Stede was smiling when Lucius called him “queen”. How he said “I am a happy thingie with you”, and never “I am a happy man”. How he said he didn’t like his body, except for his hair. Small things, really. Almost insignificant. But with the light of the dress conversation they had in Paris… Well, something was going on, right?

Ed sighed. Of course, something was going on, but he didn’t know how to address it. It was early December, Stede and him had been together for less than a year, and Ed could confidently say that he had never been with anyone remotely like Stede. He felt like he lacked experience.

Stede always said that he was the one lacking experience. He had been married for fifteen years to a woman and spent almost his whole life in the closet. Ed was his first man, but also his first love and his first real relationship.

Ed, on the other hand, had a lot of experiences and relationships. He had spent half of his youth and adult life hooking up with men, and the other half in unsatisfying and more or less toxic relationships. Stede knew about CJ, he even met him once, did not go well. And Izzy… God, Izzy. Ed hadn’t even tried to explain Izzy to Stede, because he was not quite sure himself of what they were. Or what they used to be. Izzy probably didn’t know either. Stede was very patient about that and never asked questions, even though he probably guessed a few things. Stede was amazing, too good to be true. Even a year after their first encounter, Ed felt like he didn’t deserve him. It was, by far, the healthiest relationship he ever had, and sometimes, he didn’t even know how to navigate it. What was he supposed to do?

It was not only a relationship matter, it was also a gender matter, and Ed didn’t feel qualified enough. He was not a part from this community and didn’t know anyone who was. He needed advice.

Who could he talk to about this? He was not that close to Mary and Ann anymore, and they were not very healthy people. His only friend was Izzy, and he would not talk to Izzy about Stede. Not in a million years.

Wait. Stede had friends. Maybe one of them would have an advice. Not Lucius, too chatty, he needed someone discreet. Nathaniel was too weird, he’d say something like “let’s all turn into birds” and it would not help. John would be too intimidating. Pete would tell Lucius… Oh, of course! Oluwande was just the guy Ed was looking for. Smart, caring, and the nicest person Ed ever met. Really, a guy you do want to ask advice from.

Alright, it was settled then. He had a few errands to do (their Christmas date was approaching, and Ed wanted more gifts), he would use this opportunity to pass by Oluwande’s place.

So he did and rang the bell. But the door didn’t open on Oluwande’s smile, as he expected: Jim was staring at him and looked quite angry. Ed knew it wasn’t personal, Jim was quite angry almost all the time. Izzy was like this as well.

“Hi. Hum, didn’t expect you here. Is Oluwande in?”

“No. He’s on a romantic weekend with Zheng. Lends me the flat so that I can have sex.”

“Oh. I thought you were dating Oluwande.”

“I am.”

Ed was getting more and more confused.

“What are you here for?” Jim asked, out of patience.

“I needed an advice, but if you’re busy...”

“I’m not. Archie cancelled last minute, she’s meeting with a guy from her former snake cult. Come in.”

Jim led him to a small living-room and served coffee, without commenting on the seven sugars. Ed did not feel very comfortable. Jim was actually really impressive. But he still needed the advice, right? After asking Jim for discretion, he explained the matter as best as he could.

Jim listened calmly and then asked:

“What kind of advice do you want here?”

“I’m not sure, mate. I don’t know anything about gender stuff. Do you think Stede might be trans?”

Jim laughed.

“I don’t thing he might, I know he is. Afraid of wearing a dress because he thinks it would magically make him a trans woman? This is literally the transiest trans shit I’ve ever heard and I’ve been on this scene for a while.”

“I’m not sure to understand.”

“Well he’s not a very conservative Republican. He knows that you can wear a dress and still be a man.”

“Of course. And he has seen me wear skirts several times. I am still a man while I do it.”

“Exactly. If he thinks that wearing a dress would be enough for his sense of masculinity to vanish… It means that it was probably not a very strong sense in the first place. Clothes are not magical wands changing your gender on their own. Your gender feelings come from yourself.”

Ed nodded pensively.

“It makes sense. So, what do you think I should do?”

“Nothing. Gender is a very, very personal thing. I told you what I thought, but even I can be wrong, the only person able to know Stede’s gender is Stede. If he’s not comfortable wearing a dress or doing things considered as feminine because of what it could awake in him, we are bound to respect that. The only thing you can do is tell him that trans people exist and that it is possible if he doesn’t know...”

“He does know.”

“Well then. Let him walk on his own path and discover new things about himself, or not. You can be there to support him, but you can’t walk for him. D’you see what I mean?”

“I think I do.”

“Tell him that you’ll be there, no matter what. Tell him that you think he’s beautiful – not handsome, not pretty, beautiful. Apart from that… As would say a great man, you need to wait and see.”

Ed smiled.

“Thanks a lot. ‘Tis good advice.”

“I surely hope so! Why did you want to ask Olu instead of an actual trans person?”

“Olu seems like a nice g… Wait. Are you trans?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

Ed’s astonished face answered for him and Jim burst into laughter.

“Come on! We’ve met several times, everyone refers to me as “they”, you never noticed?”

“Guess I wasn’t paying attention.”

“But the mullet? And the bag with trans flag colours?”

Ed felt more confused than ever – what had a mullet to do with anything? Jim laughed again.

“I can lend you a few books about trans issues and culture. I’m pretty sure there are some things you can learn!”

Ed came home with a pile of books and some chocolates, “they’re fair trade, from a queer cooperative I know”. He started to read this very evening. All of this was very interesting, and confirmed what Jim had said: ultimately, it was Stede’s own path.

A few weeks passed, or rather fled. Ed was very busy with uploading the last videos on his channel, buying gifts (no matter how hard he tried to make lists, he always forgot one and needed to go back shopping, only to discover once home that he forgot another one). Their Christmas date was approaching, they chose the date of 23th of December because Stede spent Christmas Eve with his children.

It was their first Christmas date, so everything needed to be perfect. Ed spent hours to elaborate a menu, do groceries, make decorations and plan his outfit. He was determined: this would be a date to be remembered for decades at least!

On the due date, he woke up early to finish the flat’s cleaning. Then he started to get ready. He chose a very plain, classic black shirt, to be paired with what he knew to be his most dashing winter skirt. Stede didn’t see it yet, and Ed was excited to show him. It was a vintage emerald skirt, floor-length, all in velvet, closed by its original leather-covered button.

Stede arrived an hour later, wearing skinny grey pants and a white frilly shirt, holding a bottle of wine. When Ed opened the door, Stede looked at him, with an amazed expression in his eyes. He opened his mouth to say something, but then he didn’t seem to know what and close it again. He was so lovely… Ed couldn’t help but tease him.

“You won’t even hug me?”

“Oh, sorry! I’m… You… You look great.”

He leaned for a kiss, and Ed noticed that his shirt was open, unveiling his chest. Oh God. It was his punishment for teasing, he couldn’t think about anything to say, how could anyone be that gorgeous? They made out for a while, unable to stop, like teenagers.

“’m glad to have not started dinner yet” Ed said finally. “I would have let it burn.”

Stede giggled.

“I look forward to taste... your dinner.”

Ed was not the kind of guy to blush, but he did this time. Stede went on:

“You look dashing. This skirt is gorgeous.”

He passed his hands along the velvet, caressing the fabric.

“It is so soft, I love it!”

He raised his head and looked at Ed straight in the eyes:

“Do you want to do something weird?” ****

Stede’s grey pants were way too tight for Ed, but he didn’t care. All he could look to was Stede, in front of his mirror, with his frilly shirt and the velvet skirt. He embraced him from behind and looked at him in the glass:

“You are so beautiful. How do you feel?”

“Weird.”

“Weird-good or weird-bad?”

“I don’t know. I always thought… I always thought it’d be different. That I would be a different person if I had a dress or… But I feel like me. Is it weird?”

“Is it weird to feel like yourself? I don’t think so. I think it’s a good thing.”

“Do I look like a man?”

“You look like you. Do you feel like a man?”

“No. I never did.”

Stede turned towards Ed, worried.

“I’ve never said it out loud.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be a man. You can be whoever you want to be.”

Stede looked again at the mirror.

“I don’t know who I want to be.”

“It’s okay too.”

“Somehow I always imagined that it would feel feminine to wear a skirt, but it doesn’t. I don’t feel like a woman. I feel like me. Both different and the same, but completely me. I might be non-binary, like Jim.”

Ed hold him tighter and kissed him in the neck. He couldn’t believe at what he heard. Only six months had passed since Stede had refused to try a dress on in Paris… He had evolved so much!

“I love you. You are the most beautiful person in the world, no matter what your gender is.”

They kissed again. It tasted like freedom, joy and pride.

“Now that we both acknowledged that this skirt fits me much better than you, what about taking it off?” Stede whispered.

“’m all here for it. Or you could keep it on.”

“I haven’t thought about that, but I love the idea” Stede replied, taking his hand and leading him to the bedroom.

#our flag means death #ofmd #blackbeard #stede bonnet #ed x stede #blackbeard x stede #edward x stede #ofmd spoilers #fanfic #gentlebeard #nonbinary #christmas

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