#The French Painting That Shook The World | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moralesmilesanhour · 4 months

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Hi! May I request a small fic where miles 42 dates a male reader who's very bubbly, glittery, fashionista, and dresses in very bright colors or pastels. Maybe Rio and Aaron finally get to meet him and try their best not to tease or laugh at how ironic it is?

They find it even funnier knowing he's the who's been stickers all of his jackets or just anything that came out of his room.

Got carried away with this one oopsie

take it or leave it.

Miles peeled off his dark green puffer jacket, brushing off stray rain drops that hadn’t evaporated yet. In doing so his fingers ran over something smooth like plastic. Already knowing what it was, he took his forefinger and thumb and removed it.

The face of a rabbit with an ‘x’ for a mouth stared blankly at him. Miles held it up to the light and smiled to himself as little dots of color shifted from orange to green, having a good idea who it was from.

You liked to slap these things everywhere–anywhere–that you could reach. Though you never explained yourself to him, Miles suspected that your reason was the same as his when he spray-painted the walls of abandoned buildings: to make your presence known in a world that seemed set on ignoring you.

Your bleach-blonde curls, pastel shirts and flared pants made you quite difficult to ignore in the first place.

Even Miles, who hid beneath his hoodies and oversized jackets, couldn’t take his eyes off of you from across the basketball court that fateful day as you sat on a bench crowded with your friends. They were dressed just as elaborately, but not with nearly as much variety of color.

One girl draped head-to-toe in black lace and silver jewelry leaned over to whisper something to you. Whatever was said made you turn and meet his eyes just as he caught the basketball that had just sunk through the net above him.

He froze momentarily and could’ve sworn he saw you grinning at him before he started dribbling again.

You were too far away for Miles to commit the details of your face to memory, but he recognized the blonde sitting at the top of your head when you rammed into him in the middle of the hallway the very next day.

Now in full uniform–save for the fashionably-loosened tie–his eyes were drawn to the row of helix piercings lining your right ear, and the faint glow of metallic eyeshadow swiped across your lids with lashes that curled sharply upwards like–

“Yo,” your voice brought him back to reality. “Are you okay? I said ‘my bad’.”

Miles blinked.

“Oh,” he replied dimly.

You laughed good-naturedly.

“Just ‘oh’?”

“I-I mean,” Miles stumbled over his words, “You’re…good. I guess.”

“That’s…good,” you parroted with a teasing smile. “See you around!”

You pulled the strap of your book bag further over your shoulder, causing the cluster of charms and trinkets hanging from it to click-clack together with every bouncy step you took as you weaved through the stream of oncoming students.

That was how it began.

“I think he likes you.”

Sela took a bite of her french fry, which she then pointed towards the next table ahead of her. You followed her line of vision right back to the mismatched eyes that had burned two holes into the back of your skull in the hallway.

And P.E.

And A.P. Bio.

The more you thought about it, the more your friend’s hypothesis began to sound believable.

Still, you shook your head and chuckled.

“He’s definitely straight, first of all.”

“You don’t know that! What happened to not assuming?”

“Hm, I dunno…”

You looked again. This time, Miles was fiddling with the sleeves of his uniform, avoiding eye contact. Presentation aside, you’d never really seen him running with the sort of boy that said “Pause!” every five minutes, so that was a plus.

…Then again, you’d never seen him running with anyone. He even hooped alone. You recalled him making several lay-ups in a row as clean as the twin braids that brushed his shoulders. No team required.

Sela interrupted your quiet deliberation.

“Go talk to him and find out, then. Not like he’s gonna kill you if you ask.”

She tapped her long black coffin nails on the lunch table, awaiting your answer.

“I don’t feel like getting up,” you groaned lazily.

“Fine, I’ll call him over.”

“Hey, wait–”

“Aye, Morales! Miles Morales!”

Miles looked startled. “Huh?”

Sela waved at him while you ran your palm over your face.

“C’mere!”

He eyed her suspiciously, but slowly got up and shuffled over to your table.

“Do you…” he looked around. “Need something?”

The girl gestured enthusiastically towards you, and you rolled your eyes mentally before replacing the irritation with a smile and taking the lead.

“You looked lonely over there, man. Come sit with us!”

Miles bit his bottom lip once you spoke up, appearing to take in a sharp breath before taking the empty seat across from you.

“So do you have any, like, actual friends–? Ow!”

Sela rubbed her arm after you gave her a good smack.

“Sorry about her. She meant to ask if you were doing alright. You seemed kinda out of it.”

“I’m…fine,” he answered slowly.

“Well, that’s good. You were staring at me somethin’ fierce, I thought I had done something to you.”

Miles felt a rush of heat travel straight to his cheeks.

“N-nah, it’s just that–well, I saw you at the basketball court, and…” he trailed off and began messing with the end of one of his braids.

You leaned in closer to hear him better, which didn’t help his situation.

“One more time?”

“I saw you. At the basketball court.”

The teasing grin returned to your face.

“Yeah, I saw you too. What about it?”

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, trying to piece the right words together. Then he tried again.

“I liked your ‘fit.”

You held back an obnoxious snort of laughter.

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, you have…good…fashion sense.”

Miles wrinkled his nose. He didn’t even believe his own lie. Why would you?

Mercifully, you narrowed your eyes but didn’t say anything.

“Thanks. You got good taste in sneakers.”

You paused, then added, “Meet me at the basketball court after school and I’ll show you how I put my outfits together. How's that sound?”

The offer hung in the air. Miles considered the possibility that you were just pulling his leg and that he’d wind up standing alone in an empty court, but there was no sign of a joke in your expression.

He shrugged in a fake show of nonchalance.

“Sure.”

The two of you went on like that for two long months. Meeting each other on the court, sitting on the bench and making light conversation while shooting compliments at each other that always just missed the mark of what you really meant to say, until one day you finally got tired of meandering.

“Miles, can I ask you something?”

“I dunno,” he answered, sipping on a pouch of Capri-Sun. “Can you?”

“You promise that if I ask, you’re gonna give me an honest answer?”

“If it won’t get me arrested, sure.”

“Miles, I’m serious.”

Your gaze intensified, making his heart rate quicken.

“Alright.”

“Are you into me?”

His blood ran hot and icy cold at the same time.

The thumping in his chest whenever you got close and he could smell what soap you used, the absent-minded doodles in his sketchbook, and finally, the staring, had been given a name. And in being named, it took on a physical form - something blinding and liquid that shot through his bloodstream.

Miles wanted to be able to say no. Give a straight answer, and move on to a more comfortable topic. But you’d read him like a book the last time he tried to lie to your face.

You noticed his hesitation, and the vice grip he had on his now-empty Capri-Sun.

“It won’t change anything, I just wanna be sure.”

He looked unconvinced. How do you just go back to normal knowing that your friend is in love with you? They could pretend nothing had changed for maybe a couple weeks, maximum, before conversations became clipped greetings in the hallway, then fizzled out into nothing. Impossible.

But again, it was no use lying.

He avoided your eyes as he answered, “I think so.”

Cold, delicate fingers suddenly found themselves beneath his chin, and his eyes widened as you turned his face towards yours.

“Miles, look at me. You either do or you don’t.”

His heartbeat was in his ears now, making his breaths shallow and the veins in his eyes pulse. The setting sun cast a sentimental glow over everything that filtered through your hair. No one else was around, save for the warm breeze.

“Miles, are you good–?”

He pressed his lips against yours before he could stop himself. Your lips were smoother than he’d expected, just slightly tacky with mentholated lip balm.

And, more importantly, they kissed him back.

Miles grabbed his sketchbook from his desk drawer and opened it to a page filled with tiny sketches of your outfits. Carefully, he placed the sticker next to the baby blue puffer you’d worn yesterday so that the two of you could be “twins”.

He should really call you, he thought.

You sighed, leaning your head back on the couch beneath the cool air-conditioning of Miles’ uncle Aaron’s apartment. The tall, lean man that you’d guessed Miles had probably gotten his accent from (and sayings that could only come out of the mouth of an older man) had gone out momentarily to grab food for all three of you.

Feeling his eyes on you, you turned to your now-sort-of-official boyfriend with a questioning look.

“What?”

Miles was holding back a laugh.

“Why’d you switch up like that in front of my uncle?”

“I didn’t ‘switch up’ anything.”

“I have never heard you talk like that in my life.”

You copied his pose, slouching and man-spreading with your hands resting on your thighs. You flattened and lowered your voice into the boring monotone that teenage boys liked to adopt when they wanted to be taken seriously.

“You mean like this?”

This earned a snicker from Miles, whose expression then became earnest.

“Seriously, though, you don’t gotta do the whole act around my unc. He’s not like that.”

“Then why do you do it?”

The boy paused.

Your observation was correct - Miles tended to lengthen and smooth out his stride when he walked next to Aaron on their ‘grocery runs’. He would remove the playful lilt in his voice, like when you strain freshly-brewed tea, leaving only the mellow liquid behind.

“That’s…different.”

We’re trying to impress him for two different reasons.

You let it go.

“Whatever you say. You are gonna tell him about us, though, right? Since he’s ‘not like that’.”

Miles scoffed, “You’re the one that introduced yourself as ‘a close friend of mine’. I ain’t tell you to say any of that.”

“I wasn’t sure if you felt safe!” you laughed.

“We were holding hands before he even opened the door, he definitely saw that shit.”

“Alright, alright, you win. We’ll both tell him, then. Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

“Miles! Tu novio!”

“Coming!”

Miles padded over to the living room, where you stood in a bright yellow jacket covered in vibrant patchwork, and those jeans with the spray-painted stars all over them. Your hair was hidden beneath a red beanie you had stolen from his closet.

Aaron sipped on a fresh cup of coffee in the kitchen, well-within earshot as Miles greeted you.

“Hey.” The boy smiled, awkwardly sticking his hands in the pockets of his plain, dark-wash jeans.

His mother Rio shut the door and looked on in amusement at the two boys standing in front of her. You would think her son would add some more color to his wardrobe, being with someone that looked like that. But the all-black ensemble wasn’t going anywhere.

“¿Ustedes dos siguen fingiendo ser amigos?” the woman teased. “I’m not sensing any affection over here, guys!”

Miles gave his mom a blank stare, while you laughed. Even months later, the other boy wasn’t one for PDA.

“Oh they real affectionate, alright,” Aaron chimed in.

“Here we go…”

“I go out to get these boys some Domino’s one time, right? I come back up, and these two are cuddling on my damn couch after they told me they were ‘just good friends’. Now mind you, I ain’t believe ‘em for a second–”

“That’s great, unc,” Miles was already tugging you in the direction of his room, “We’re leaving now!”

“Don’t get too touchy in there!”

Once inside, he shut the door behind him. You struggled to suppress a laugh at the weary look on his face as you sat on the edge of his bed.

“She’s kinda right, y’know.”

“About?”

“It wouldn’t kill you to spare me a hug or something, once in a while.”

He said nothing.

You scanned Miles’ bedroom. All of his manga had been cleared off of his desk, and his swivel chair was no longer burdened with a pile of clothes. He just cleaned his room, you think.

The only thing left sitting there was his notorious sketchbook, a ballpoint pen, and a couple of Tombow markers scattered about.

And of course, your stickers.

You got up to take a closer look at the loose sketches and hummed in satisfaction.

“You’re really good at getting clothing folds right. You sure you never wanna study fashion design?”

He smiled, and shook his head.

“I’ll leave the fashion shit to you.”

“We could go to F.I.T. together, you and me.”

Without so much as making a peep, Miles and his long legs had snuck up behind you to wrap his equally-long arms around your waist.

“I’ll visit you.”

“What are you doing?”

“You asked for a hug.”

“That’s not what I mea–”

“Take it or leave it.”

The smell of paint and Jergens lotion enveloped you as you pulled him closer. You inhaled deeply, then sighed.

“You’re real stubborn, you know that?”

His chest shakes as he laughs.

“One of us has to be.”

#miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles morales x reader #earth 42 miles morales #miles morales x male reader #miles morales x black!reader #miles morales x you #requests #moralesanhour #earth 42 miles morales x male reader

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goldennikko · 1 year

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SOULMATE PHENOMENON PT. 1 — huh yunjin

summary : everyone has their own soulmate phenomenon, but you have one of the rarest: whenever you lose an item, it somehow ends up in the possession of your soulmate.

pairing : yunjin x (g)i-dle!reader

tags : f!reader ; soulmate!au ; idol!au ; swearing ; reader is a '99 liner ; yunjin is lowkey a simp

requested: ✘

word count : 2.5k

parts : 【 pt. 1 】【 pt. 2 】

it's common for people to lose their belongings. it's either because they're extremely clumsy or forgetful, or because of the soulmate phenomenon, in which you lose your stuff and they end up in the possession of your soulmate. the phenomenon began earlier this year, at least in your case, and this is the fourth time you've exchanged items with your soulmate, the identity of whom you discovered through your members.

how? well, let's recap.

first, pen and paintbrush.

when it first happened, you assumed it was nothing out of the ordinary. the first thing you lost was a pen. of course, you'd think it was a common occurrence. everyone lost a pen at some point in their lives. the only strange thing was that you discovered a paintbrush in your bag where you normally keep your pen.

you looked around the van, noting that everyone was sleeping except the manager, who was driving, and soyeon, who was in the front seat.

"unnie, oppa, has anyone touched my bag?" you queried, keeping your voice light so as to not disturb the other girls. soyeon looked at you, puzzled, while the manager shook his head.

"you hate having your stuff touched." he observed, fully aware.

"is there something missing?" soyeon asked, ready to throw hands if ever.

you rummaged through your bag for the last time. "no, actually, yes. it's just a pen, anyway. but i have a paintbrush and don't remember bringing one with me, and i know i'm artistic, but it's with words rather than painting and drawing." you showed them the aforementioned paint brush.

"it must be the soulmate phenomenon."

you and soyeon looked at the manager as if he had two heads, causing him to be concerned with how quickly you turned your heads at the same time, almost as if willingly breaking your necks.

"there's a phenomenon like that?" you inquired, your tone skeptical, and soyeon's expression mirroring it.

he nodded. "it's rare, but it exists. really odd, too. when you lose an item, it ends up in the hands of your soulmate. you would lose your possession, but gain items that were never yours to begin with."

you exchanged a puzzled look with soyeon before shifting your gaze to the paintbrush in your hand, wondering who your soulmate might be. although not everyone is gifted with their hands, there are far too many people who can paint and draw, and the world is far too large.

meanwhile, your soulmate is staring at the lone golden pen in her collection of paintbrushes. she was curious about how it got there and unintentionally spaced out. when her short-haired leader poked her head around the doorframe, she snapped out of it.

"everything okay?"

your soulmate nodded. "yeah, i'll be there in a second."

she left, casting one last glance at the golden pen before pulling out her phone to call her parents and inquire about something she remembered them telling her.

second, a random book borrowed from the library and a notebook containing french lessons.

your day started out really well because you were planning to return the book you borrowed from the library near your house, but instead found a notebook on the table. despite being annoyed that you now have to explain to the librarian that you unknowingly and unintentionally lost the book, you picked up the notebook and scanned the content. your brows raised, impressed and shocked by the french lessons written in it. you couldn't speak french, but you knew a few words and phrases.

pardon, excusez-moi. (pardon, excuse me.)

parlez-vous anglais? (do you speak english?)

je ne parle pas français. (i do not speak french.)

je ne comprends pas. (i do not understand.)

"that's some fine penmanship." you whispered to yourself.

with a defeated sigh, you went to the library, waving goodbye to yuqi and shuhua and promising to bring back food. when you arrived, you explained your situation, and the librarian almost gave you an earful, but she saw how guilty and irritated you were, so she let it slide and instead made you promise to return it once you met your soulmate.

"i'm really sorry. i'll bring it back, i swear." you bowed deeply.

"you better, child. now, go, i believe you're in a hurry. you have a schedule?"

you smiled apologetically. "if bringing food back to yuqi and shuhua is considered a schedule, then yes."

with that, the librarian ushered you out of the library.

your soulmate, on the other hand, was in a state of panic. clutching the random book that had appeared on her table in one hand, she stormed around her room in search of her notebook but knowing her efforts would be futile.

"shit, shit, shit, shit."

when the oldest member of the group, who was passing by, heard her muttering curses, she peeked inside the room while knocking on the door to announce her presence. she spun around, a frustrated expression on her face.

"unnie, have you seen my notebook?"

"no? why? it's not here?"

your soulmate's shoulders sagged, showing her the book. "no, it has to be with my soulmate."

heads popped out from around the door frame. "soulmate?!"

third, a scarf and a brown beanie.

this time, you gained something other than the item your soulmate owns.

"you're not wearing your favorite scarf?" miyeon inquired, her gaze drawn to the white scarf wrapped around your neck. she recalls you saying you'd wear your favorite scarf that soojin had given you, but instead you had a white scarf around your neck and your gloved hand clutched a brown beanie she'd never seen before.

"yeah, well, my soulmate has it." you grumbled. the disappointment and panic you felt when you discovered the scarf was missing sent you into a tailspin. minnie found you panicking and immediately calmed you down because she knew how important that item was to you.

"don't let shuhua hear that." yuqi passed by with a cackle, nudging you.

"shut it." you hissed, but only received another cackle from the chinese and a pat on the head from miyeon. you wore the brown beanie that your soulmate most likely owns while trailing minnie, who had ushered you two outside.

later that day, just after your schedule ended, the group was waiting for food, bored out of their minds and tired from work for the day, but the sound of a unique ringtone echoing through the living room had your members crowding around you. you answered the call, ignoring the chaos that your members had created all around you.

"soojin unnie!"

"unnie!"

"soojin!"

a chuckle was heard from the other end of the line, clearly amused by everyone shouting her name. "calm down, it's just me."

you exchanged pleasantries, almost tearing up at soojin's check-ins and reassurances. you noticed shuhua wiping her eyes discreetly, so you drew her into a side hug, the maknae leaning her head on your shoulders. yuqi attempted to lighten the atmosphere and was successful on her first attempt. however, that was quickly broken when soojin asked you a question that had shuhua looking at you with accusatory eyes.

"did you just lose my scarf, y/n/n?"

"you lost it?!"

you raised your hands in defeat and proceeded to explain what had been going on for months to soojin while shuhua scolded you, causing minnie and yuqi to cackle in the background. miyeon and soyeon attempted to reduce casualties, but gave up and simply watched the chaos unfold in front of them.

"i'm sorry, it just disappeared!" you argued back to shuhua.

soojin giggled. "i'm not mad, i knew something was up."

everyone, including shuhua, stopped talking and exchanged a puzzled look. "how did you know?" soyeon asked.

"you know le sserafim, right?" soojin started.

"yeah?" you answered in unison, urging soojin to continue.

"well, one of the members was wearing the scarf during a live, but i'm not sure who."

soojin was only half way through her sentence when yuqi already found a clip on twitter. when she played the video, your gaze was drawn to the blonde, who had the scarf draped over her shoulders. you froze for a moment, admiring the girl's cuteness when she scrunched her nose at whatever it was that eunchae said and already enjoying the sound of her laugh in her ears.

huh yunjin.

"y/n is in love~" minnie sang, noticing your frozen figure.

you sank back into the pillows, muttering angrily. "am not."

"you sure are~" the members sang, including soojin over the phone.

after discovering that your soulmate was huh yunjin from le sserafim, you were relieved but worried at the same time. despite the girls' encouragement, you didn't approach her because you were afraid she wouldn't like you. fortunately, the group was so preoccupied with the award show and year-end performances that they couldn't push you any further, but it didn't slip your mind.

this leads us to the fourth item, your microphone and her phone.

"fuck!"

yuqi turned her head at the sound of your cursing, amused at first because she was sure the camera had caught it, but worried when she saw you on the verge of yanking your hair. your manager stood in front of you, ready to prevent you from messing up your hair. she approached you, one hand resting on your shoulder to relieve your frustration, and you turned to face her with furrowed brows.

"what's wrong?" the chinese asked, her voice quiet.

"did you see my mic?"

shaking her head in response and already knowing where this was going, yuqi picked up the strange phone next to yours, and it was only then that you noticed the familiar keychain attached to it. so that's what i lost last month, you thought. the chinese grinned at the lock screen photo and turned the screen to you. you paused, your face flushed red, as you looked at the photo of yourself from the 'nxde' music video.

you cleared your throat and ignored her in order to speak with the manager, cursing as the girls crowded around her. "it appears that my soulmate has my mic."

"do you want me to get it for you?" he asked.

you opened your mouth but quickly closed it to think. your meeting with your soulmate was long overdue, and you couldn't really avoid her forever. seeing her set you as her lock screen makes you think she might like you after all. everyone else does think that, except your stubborn ass. furthermore, you'd keep losing your belongings, which would be a major inconvenience for the two of you.

while you were preoccupied with your internal conflict, the le sserafim girls crowded around yunjin, staring at the microphone in her hand. your microphone was customized, so no other idol had the same design as yours. it wasn't the average black one. even if you misplaced it, you'd be able to locate it quickly.

"shit! this is y/n sunbaenim's mic!" yunjin panicked.

the girls panicked and squealed, unsure of what to do. yunjin looked around, trying to figure out what she had lost, and panicked even more when she found her phone missing.

"my phone!" yunjin yelled in realization, causing everyone to jump in surprise. "my phone's missing!"

"sunbaenim has it for sure." eunchae reassured, but yunjin shook her head.

"that's the problem! she's my lockscreen!"

they couldn't think about it any longer when they heard a knock on the door. the room fell silent as the staff turned to look at the girls, particularly yunjin.

the american hesitated at first, but with a push from chaewon, she made her way to the door. she came to a halt in front of it, fingers curled around the doorknob, and turned to face her members, who gave her encouraging looks. yunjin took a deep breath, pushing down the gay that was about to erupt from her throat, and then opened the door.

you were standing there, dressed for your stage performance. when her gaze met yours, you flushed profusely, and her face did the same. your manager was nearby, filming you two, but you were both too caught up in your own world to notice.

yunjin couldn't believe you were standing right in front of her, just an arm's length away. you were slightly shorter than she was. you'd gone blonde for the sake of your latest comeback, and she swooned the first time she saw you, and she's melting all over again now that she's seeing it up close.

you were admiring her as well. she towered over you, her pink face revealing that she, too, is shy. her blonde hair fell over her shoulders, framing her face, and you couldn't help but think she looked stunning in that black dress. you opened your mouth to speak, but she spoke first.

"you look amazing." yunjin blurted out, switching to english out of habit, and the american cringed when she realized.

you both turned even redder, the people around you either grinning or facepalming at yunjin's painfully obvious admiration for you. you cleared your throat as you noticed your members approaching behind your manager. they were beaming because they had heard yunjin's remark. you returned your gaze to the taller girl, who turned to her members for assistance, but they shook their heads in amusement, before she turned to face you with a shy smile.

"thank you. you do, too." you smiled genuinely and yunjin didn't know how to keep the gay down. "i believe you have something that i own."

you both looked down at the microphone in her hand, and she rushed to hand it to you, nearly hitting you and causing yunjin to curse herself. you took it, your fingers brushing against hers, and handed her her phone, chuckling at her flustered state. yunjin blushed at the brief skin contact before returning her attention to your face.

"it's nice to meet you, yunjin-ssi." you bowed, causing yunjin to frantically shake her hands to stop you and return the bow.

"it's nice to meet you, too, sunbaenim." yunjin replied, smiling widely despite her embarrassment. "please take care of me."

you smiled. "i will."

a crew member appeared and announced that le sserafim will be on in fifteen minutes. you noticed yunjin's shoulders sagged, sad that this would have to end soon, so you reached for the american's hand. she looked at you as you leaned up against her ears.

"good luck, ace it."

with that, you quickly walked away, not giving her time to respond. she couldn't anyway. when you grabbed her hand, she stopped functioning. she watched as you walked away with your members and manager, all of whom were teasing you. chaewon tapped her on the shoulder, and yunjin returned to reality. she saw the teasing glint in her members' eyes and knew she'd be subjected to the same teasing.

yunjin looked at you one last time, and you were already looking at her, a promise in your eyes that you'd talk later, and she couldn't wait. she was both excited and nervous about the fact that you, her soulmate, would be watching from backstage.

that night, yunjin nailed her habanera opera solo and group performance, just as you had instructed. she can only hope that you were impressed.

if she only knew how you reacted backstage.

parts : 【 pt. 1 】【 pt. 2 】

#nikko works!#le sserafim #lesserafim reactions #lesserafim imagines #le sserafim x reader #huh yunjin #yunjin #huh yunjin x reader #yunjin x reader

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jungkookslipring · 4 months

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I Will Never Make You Lonely: CH 1

Summary: When your life is falling apart, your 8 best friends are there to lift you up

TW: mentions of de&th, su!c!de, su!c!de tendencies, su!c!dal ideologies, depress!on, anxiety, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, crying. If this is in any way triggering I’d steer towards more of my happier works.

If you or someone you love has thought of or acted on suicide, there is help and there is hope

Call or text 988

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort, non idol AU

PSA: this is no way represents the artists. While their birth names are used in this story, this is in no way a reflection of the artist or artists in real life.

Ch 1

The next day, Saturday, you were in your bedroom getting ready to paint your nails while the other guys were either out and about or in the apartments just doing their own thing.

“Y/n?! Can I borrow some of your coffee grounds?” Shouted Seungmin from the other side of the apartment. You laughed before you shouted back.

“Check the bag behind mine!” There was silence and shuffling until you heard “YOU’RE THE BEST!” You giggled to yourself. You got the younger one his own bag of ground coffee because he always borrowed yours. You didn’t mind sharing your coffee but Seungmin loved it so much you decided he needed his own; it was only fair since you used his coffee machine.

“Would you like me to make you a cup?” Seungmin yelled from the kitchen.

“Yes, please! Can you add vanilla too?” You ask.

“French or Bean?” He shouts back.

“Bean!!” You answer before going back to your task. You were going through your colors when your phone started ringing. It was Carter’s sister, Peyton. You put down your nail polish and answered the phone.

“Hey, what's up?” you ask putting the phone in between your ear and shoulder so you could proceed to paint your nails.

“Umm…w-what are you doing right now?” Peyton asked. You froze with the brush hovering above your nail bed. She was crying.

“I’m just about to paint my nails, why?” you ask, screwing the nail polish wand back into the tiny glass container. You grabbed the phone and held it firmly pressed to your ear. You heard your friend trying to control her breathing.

“Peyton? What’s going on?” You ask urgently.

“Carter was in a car accident early this morning…her car went off the road and hit a tree,” she choked out. Your heart stopped. There was no way.

“Is she okay?” you asked with every hope in the world that she was okay. There was silence.

No.

Please god no.

There was a ringing in your ear that wouldn’t allow you to process what your friend was saying over the phone. While staring straight ahead you saw the picture frame that held a photo of you and Carter smiling together at the lake. You shook your head.

“I’m so sorry…” Peyton cried out.

No.

You slowly set your phone on the floor as you stared at the picture. You could hear the faint voice of Peyton on the other line calling your name. You shook your head as you scooted backward until your back hit the bed frame. You press the heel of your hands to your eyes.

“No No No..no this isn’t…this isn’t real,” you grit out between your teeth. After you moved to Seoul, you were only able to meet your best friend, Carter, once a year for a couple of days before returning to school. Little did you know that the last time you spent time with Carter would be the final time. You remained seated, hugging your legs, and rocking back and forth. Suddenly, you heard two pairs of footsteps coming to a sudden stop outside your door, before entering your room and starting to speak.

“Y/n? What’s wrong?” Chris asked calmly but slightly frantic. He scanned you making sure you weren’t physically hurt. You open your eyes and look up. Standing in front of you were Chris and Seungmin. How does one relay this type of information without completely shattering?

“Whatever it is, it’s going to be okay, yeah?” Chris whispered, squatting to your level. You shook your head again. It wasn’t okay.

“Carter-” you whispered.

“Carter’s dead,” you finally say. They audibly gasped, Seungmin immediately squatting down to your level by Chris.

“Oh my god…” Seungmin breathed out. Chris crawled up next to you and gathered you in his arms.

“Oh, my goodness y/n…I’m so sorry,” he said, arms circling your frame. You barely registered the movements until you were breathing in his scent. Seungmin had a hand on your back, rubbing it in soothing motions. He turned around when he heard your friend calling your name over the phone. He picked it up and held it to his ear.

“Hi…yeah Y/n is still here, Chris has her right now,” Seungmin said gently in English. Peyton asked you to call her back when you could. She hung up and Seungmin put the phone down. When Seungmin turned back to Chris, he was still holding you in his arms.

“Peyton asked if you could call her back when you get the chance,” he said gently as he rubbed your knee. You nodded as your eyes shook. Their comfort was the one thing keeping you grounded and preventing you from going catatonic. After maybe 5 minutes, you lifted your head from Chris’s shoulder.

“I think, I think I’m going to call Peyton back, check in on her” you whisper. Seungmin rubbed a thumb over your hand.

“Would you like us to stay?” He asked. Your friends were just so kind. You shook your head, giving them a tight-lined reassuring smile.

“I think I’ll be okay, thank you though.”

Chris squeezed you once more before hesitantly moving to stand up.

“If you need absolutely anything at all, come get us okay?” He said with so much sincerity in his tone. You made eye contact with them and wordlessly nodded before the two walked out and closed the door. They made their way into the living room and found Minho and Han. The duo smiled at them until they saw the sad looks Chris and Seungmin had painted on their faces.

“You guys okay?” Minho asked. Chris let out a small sigh and guided the boys further into the living room. They all sat down on the couch and the two listened intently.

“Y/n’s best friend Carter passed away,” Chris said looking at his hands. Minho and Han’s breaths hitched.

“Oh my gosh…” Han whispered. Minho put a hand on Han’s knee.

“How?” Minho asked. Seungmin shook his head.

“We don’t know…we didn’t ask,” said Seungmin. They realized it had to have been a freak accident or something; Carter was young.

“Should we tell the others?” Minho asked.

“Eventually yeah, just so they know what’s going on,” Chris said quietly. After 30 minutes, Changbin, Hyunjin, Felix, and Jeongin finally got home from their classes. Chris quietly called them into the living room. They all quickly took off their shoes and sat down nervously.

“No one’s in trouble, I just have some news,” Chris said sadly. Everyone’s hearts started racing, even the ones who already knew.

“We don’t know how…but Y/n’s best friend Carter died,” Chris said sadly. Everyone’s eyes went huge.

“Oh no…” Changbin said quietly, shaking his head. He couldn’t even imagine the look on your face when you found out.

“How is she?” Jeongin asked quietly. Chris gave Jeongin a sad smile and patted his leg.

“I think she’s in shock,” he whispered, remembering how he and Seungmin found you. They all sat in silence, not knowing what to say until Seungmin spoke up. “She’s on the phone with Carter’s sister,” he said quietly. They all nodded, and all that could be heard were the cars outside. Back in your room, you picked up your phone and went to your recent phone calls. You clicked on Peyton’s contact and hit the soeaker button.

“Hey,” she croaked out. She’s been crying for a while.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“How are you doing?” Peyton asked. You shook your head.

“I don’t know….”

There was silence for a while until Peyton spoke up.

“Do you think you would be able to fly down here next month?” she asked. You shrugged while rubbing your temple. You only flew down for the holidays and usually, you had enough saved for those flights only. Tickets weren’t cheap.

“Yeah I think I can make it,” you say before Peyton lets out a sigh.

“Okay…I can pick you up from the airport if you’d like,” she offered.

“Sure, yeah that works.”

This was not happening.

“Okay, I’ll keep you posted,” Peyton said thickly as she hung up. You let your arm fall to the side as you stared at the ceiling. You inhaled deeply and let out a long sigh. You decided to get out of bed and get that coffee that was probably lukewarm by now. The guys all whipped their heads around when they heard your door click. You slowly walked out of your room into the hallway, stopping in the entryway when you saw 8 pairs of eyes looking at you with so much concern. The sight of you was just so sad. You were wearing one of Hyunjin’s sweatpants and Chris’s black hoodie, which wasn’t new, but you looked so small and so lost, something they weren’t used to seeing. Your face had lost all of its color, like you had just seen a ghost. You suddenly felt so vulnerable, scratching your neck.

“I uh *clears throat* thanks for the coffee, Seungmin,” you say, giving him a shaky smile.

“No problem…” he says just as quietly. Everyone was still unsure how to approach this situation. Do they mention Carter? Do they act like nothing is wrong? Your hands were shaky, still in a state of shock from the phone call you got not even an hour ago. Minho and Changbin both stood up quickly when they watched you almost drop your mug. At this stage, the boys were nervous you were either going to drop the mug on your foot, spill the hot liquid on your skin, or all of the above. That fear came true when you took a shaky sip of your coffee, the hot liquid spilling out from the sides and hitting your wrists. You made a pained noise as you put the mug down. Minho swiftly walked into the kitchen calmly placed hands on your shoulders and led you to the sink, immediately turning on the cold water.

Everyone knew you were headstrong, so they weren’t used to seeing you like this. Within your friend group, you were the third oldest, and in times when they needed someone to lean on, it came naturally to you to care for them. Only on a couple of occasions have they seen you upset, like during a sad drama or when you’d laugh so hard tears would spring to your eyes, or when COVID happened and so much was happening, but even then you remained strong for them, and right now you looked like you were on the brink of an anxiety attack.

“Come here,” Minho whispered after turning off the faucet. He walked you into the living room where everyone else was and pulled you into a hug. Your arms hung by your side and your breathing became uneven, but you refused to cry, cause once you cried then it was real.

“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to love, but what happened?” Minho asked carefully.

“Um…car accident?” you said almost as a question but more in disbelief. You heard someone make a pained noise while you stared at the wall.

“I don’t know how…maybe an animal ran out or maybe she was on her phone, I don’t know….but her car ran off the road…and she hit a tree.” No one knew what to say.

“Y/n…were so sorry,” Hyunjin said sadly. As much as you wanted to stay in someone’s embrace, you needed a distraction, something to take your mind off of things. You lifted your head and took a deep breath.

“I’m gonna try to get ahead on my reading, so I can get further in my research paper,” you said as you slowly pulled away from Minho, putting on your best attempt of a smile. Everyone nodded, not sure if they wanted you to be by yourself, but they respected your wishes and watched you retreat to your room. You flipped back and forth between reading and writing for a few more hours until your eyes hurt from staring at the screen for so long. You didn’t know how you were going to sleep. You tossed and turned in your bed for an hour, the phone call on replay in your mind. Well shit if you can’t sleep might as well study even more, right? You pulled out your laptop, the bright screen irritating your eyes even further as you started typing when all of a sudden there was a knock at your door.

‘Great, I woke one of the kids up’ you thought to yourself. You went to open the door and there stood the literal sun.

“Hey y/n,” he said sweetly. You gave him a small smile.

“Hey Lixie, what’s up?” you asked.

"Can't sleep...can I stay with you tonight?" he asked playing with his sleeve. You grinned and pulled him into the room. You got under the blankets, Felix following close behind. You saved your work and put your laptop on your nightstand. You pulled the sweet boy into your arms and closed your eyes.

“Y/n?” He asked quietly. You hummed in response.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he whispered. You ran your fingers through his hair.

“Thanks, Lixie.” He smiled and snuggled even deeper into your side. Felix dozed off in your hold, but you were wide awake.

At around 7 am, Felix woke up. He sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stared into your eyes, and by the looks of it, you hadn’t slept a wink.

“Did you sleep at all?” He asked. You shook your head.

“My brain wouldn’t let me,” you slightly chuckle. Felix pouted.

“I’m sorry,” he said in his low voice. You gave him a small smile.

“Thanks for the cuddles Lixie,” you thank Felix as you pat his hand. He smiled and gave you a side hug.

“Anytime,” he said as he squeezed you.

“Do you want to come to breakfast?” He asked. He figured you probably didn’t have the biggest appetite but he still wanted to ask. You shook your head.

“I’m not hungry, but maybe I’ll come out at some point, I’m gonna keep working on this,” you say, rubbing your eyes and pointing towards your laptop. Felix and patted your shoulder before getting out of bed and leaving your room. In the kitchen, Changbin and Seungmin were cooking. They both turned around when they heard footsteps.

“Morning Lix,” Changbin smiled. Felix gave Changbin the best smile he could, but the older one knew what was going through his head.

“How is she?” he asked quietly. Felix shrugged.

“She didn’t sleep at all, which I get…I just feel so bad for her,” Felix sighed. They both nodded.

“I don’t know if she’s still in shock or trying to numb herself but…I mean I know it hasn’t even been 24 hours yet so maybe she is just in shock but *sigh* I don’t know, it’s just hard seeing her that way,” Felix added. Seungmin shook his head.

“I’m sure she was very grateful you stayed with her last night, honey,” Changbin whispered as Felix hid his face further into the older’s neck, Seungmin walking up behind him and scratching his back. If Changbin felt wetness on his skin, he wouldn’t say a word.

————————————————————————

ahhhhhh nerve wracking! I promise chapter 2 will be more lighthearted. Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!❤️

taglist: @felixmainacc @felixburneracc @myforevermelody143 @dunno-wut-to-do @itzsana-kiddingmenow

#stray kids #stray kids x stay #stray kids fluff #skz fanfic #skz scenarios #skz imagines #stray kids hurt/comfort #stray kids x reader #non idol au #skz au #stray kids imagines #skz x reader #hurt/comfort

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nordleuchten · 5 months

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24 Days of La Fayette - Day 3

Have you ever wondered, why the National Guard is named the National Guard? If so, then I have a painting for you:

Lafayette and the National Guard, a National Guard Heritage Painting by Ken Riley, courtesy the National Guard Bureau (12/03/2023).

La Fayette’s Tour through America in 1824 and 1825 was the event of its time. People turned out by the thousands whenever La Fayette visited and even after over a year the people were still as enthusiastic as on the first day. It were not only civilians that lined the streets to greet La Fayette but also military personal. During La Fayette’s stay in New York, immediately prior to his departure for France, a company of militia men, the 11th New York Artillery, later the 7th regiment, lined the street for La Fayette. The unit had named themselves the National Guard in memory of La Fayette’s National Guard during the French Revolution. La Fayette was apparently so touched when seeing these men, that he halted his carriage and shook the hand of every single soldier. This moment is depicted in the painting.

I could sadly find no reference to this encounter in Auguste Levasseur’s book, but we do know that by 1903 the name National Guard had become so popular that it was adopted nationwide.

The painting was done by Kenneth Pauling Riley, in, I assume 2004. Riley could at that point already look back onto a long career. He had become a war artist in World War II and after the war, President John F. Kennedy purchased on of his portraits, The Whites in their Eyes about the Battle of Bunker Hill, for the White House. Riley died in 2015.

#24 days of la fayette #marquis de lafayette #french history #la fayette #american history #history #kenneth pauling riley #2004 #national guard #auguste levasseur #french revolution #triumphant tour #tour of 1824/1825

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violettduchess · 11 months

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Hello! This is my first time doing this, I hope I'm doing everything right. I'm usually more of a silent visitor... I'm quite nervous, haha... So, for your 1k First Kisses Celebration, how about Leonardo and 1. „An accidental kiss“? Thank you, and I really love your writing!

A/N: Here you go @blackpawprints 💜Thank you for requesting! (No need to be nervous 🤗)

Leonardo x Reader

Word Count: 788

Evening has settled over the land, a soft blanket made of starry-night sky and gentle breeze. Outside, the world is quiet and still. The mansion is at rest, with most of its residents either already in bed or out on the prowl for various reasons. Only a few windows are illuminated, including the arched window of the mansion’s cozy library. The oil lanterns within throw soft, yellow light across the wooden shelves, glinting off the embossed spines of all the books that fill them. You are currently next to Leonardo, a heavy, gilded book bound in soft black leather open on the table in front of you, heads bowed as you both search the pages, on a mission.

Less than twenty minutes ago, you had been sitting comfortably, discussing your travels to Italy when you mentioned visiting the Sistine Chapel. Leonardo, golden eyes alight with amusement, had you dissolving into breathless laughter when he told you that Michaelangelo had painted one very cheeky angel casually making an incredibly rude hand gesture at another figure. You shook your head. “I don’t believe it….” “Cara mia, it’s true! I will prove it” which had lead to you both hurrying toward the library with matching grins on your faces. Luckily, Comte’s interests have a breadth as wide as the sea and with just a short amount of searching, you found the oversized volume that had recently been published: the first-ever photographs of the famous ceiling taken by French photographer Adolphe Braun. An expensive purchase, no doubt, but one you are happy Comte made.

Now you and Leonardo are both leaning forward over the book, searching the black and white photographs as if they were those hidden picture challenges you had enjoyed as a child. Your bowed heads are so close together, your hair brushes his and you can hear the sound of his light breathing. His brow is furrowed in concentration as his long, elegant fingers carefully trace over Michaelangelo's famous figures, his touch feather-like. He smells like crisp parchment underscored by a tantalizing hint of the earthy smoke from his cigarillos. It’s a smell you have come to know and secretly, come to love. One that warms you, though you don't question the source of that sudden heat. He turns the page, murmuring softly in Italian. “Dove sei….” And then his hand stops and he breaks into a smile that could light up the whole mansion. “I found you! Here, cara mia. Look closely.”

Bracing yourself on the edge of the table, you lean down along with him, closer to the page. It’s a section of the ceiling with a depiction of the prophet Zechariah and behind him are two little cherubs, one with his arm slung casually around the other….and then you see it: his little chubby hand is indeed making a snarky, old-fashioned hand gesture, its tiny thumb stick rudely between its pointer and middle finger.

“I can’t believe–” You turn your head, your heart light with twin wings of surprise and delight.

“I told you-” He turns his head, warm with the glow of being right and proven so.

And your lips touch.

Surprise goes from something small and fluttering to a meteor, shooting across your body and bathing you in a shower of radiant sparks, ones that send your blood fizzing through your veins and heat floods your cheeks, your neck, your décolleté.

Breaking away from him is instinctual even as your body screams at the loss of contact. You stare at one another, the motion of time stopped, suspended like a glistening raindrop on the tip of an unfurled leaf. Your breath is clutched by lungs paralyzed with shock even as your heart rattles the bones of your rib cage excitedly.

His eyes are dark pools of amber, backlit by a golden rush of desire. The longer you gaze into them, the more you feel yourself sinking slowly. They are the most beautiful quicksand, the most decadent morass.

Your name passes his lips, soft as a prayer, powerful as thunder.

The quicksand engulfs you.

The raindrop falls.

And you find yourself within the stronghold of his embrace, clinging to him as you both collapse to the carpeted library floor, kissing each other ferociously, like it's the end of world, the calm of the night disrupted by a storm of unexpected desire and booming want. You burn with the white-hot ache to touch, to taste, to feel, all of him.

He rolls on top of you, pressing the length of his long body against you, his mouth everywhere all at once, his deft fingers finding their way through a tangle of soft fabric and lace, opening buttons and hooks, seeking tantalizing patches of warm skin.

On the wooden table, the art book lays open, forlorn and forgotten. It will be hours before a hand, trembling with the aftershocks of passion, finally closes it.

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @redheadkittys @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @kissmetwicekissmedeadly

#ikemen series #ikemen vampire #ikemen vamp #ikevamp #ikevamp leonardo #leonardo da vinci #ikemen leonardo #leonardo x reader #ikemen fanfiction #ikemen fanfic #otome fanfic #1k first kiss celebration #violettwrites

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the-authoress-writes · 15 hours

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Up Where We Belong

Part One

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell x Writer!reader

Synopsis: When a writer experiencing horrible writer’s block goes to the Apple Valley Airshow for inspiration, she meets a certain older, daring naval aviator, leading to maybe a little more than just inspiration.

Warnings: Mentions of hospice and family member deaths, age gap (reader is in their late thirties to early forties).

But really, this is just fluff.

Author’s Note: The plot bunnies have reproduced at an unholy rate, and I am so stupid for writing this, especially since I have another chapter of “Wherever You Go”, to write, the first chapter of “Safe and Sound” and a MavDad story to finish.

The second part and another Mav story is lined up, but at this point, I’m not going to complain, because at least I’m writing, and Mav is finally getting more of my writerly attention.

We’ll see what gets finished next, 😂.

#writerlife

Again, I name a story after a song, from another movie about the Navy, funnily enough.

(Only three of my stories on my masterlist are not named after songs—I can’t stop, apparently)

So here we go!

She had always been somewhat interested in planes—it was hard not to be, when most of her family was in commercial aviation.

Her father had flown for nearly thirty years for American, her younger brother was currently a first officer coming up on his command upgrade with Delta, and her grandfather, whom she affectionately called PopPop, had flown for Continental.

Some of her fondest memories were looking over her grandfather’s maps and airport diagrams, and sitting on his lap while he taught her how to use an analog flight computer.

But one day, when she was home from her freshman year of college, where she was taking her degree in English, her grandfather took her up to the attic to show her something.

It was a footlocker from World War II, the faded paint on the outside reading “USAAF”.

“This was your granduncle Joseph’s—my eldest brother.

He was a P-51 pilot.

He ran many successful missions in his aircraft until he got shot down saving his wingman’s life, near the end of the war.”

PopPop opened the footlocker, revealing a faded American flag folded into a tricorn lying neatly atop several dark greenish-brown uniforms.

PopPop gently lifted the flag and uniforms out of the footlocker, uncovering yellowed, brittle-looking maps, a compass set, and a thick stack of letters, tied together with a black ribbon.

It was the stack of letters that PopPop lifted out, and held out to her. “Look at these, and read them.”

She did, and the story the letters contained was beautiful and heartbreaking.

Her granduncle had fallen in love with a woman who was a member of the French Resistance, named Céline, whom he’d met during a covert resupply mission, and they even had plans to marry after the war.

But she’d died in a skirmish with German soldiers in Paris, leaving him so bereft that he’d taken to writing letters to her specter, just to have an outlet for his grief.

The last letter in the pile was heartwrenching, where her granduncle Joseph talked about how he was only living because she would want him to, only being careful in the air because she’d want him to.

She’d cried reading the letters, and she’d asked PopPop why he’d wanted her to read the letters.

“I wanted someone else to know their story,” he’d simply replied.

“No one else knows?”

He hummed, considering his answer. “Sometimes you keep some things to yourself until the right person to tell comes along.”

A few years passed, and when PopPop was on hospice, the two of them were watching “Band of Brothers”, when she remembered Uncle Joe, as she’d taken to calling him in her head.

“What’s going on in that bright head of yours, darling?” PopPop’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, uh, nothing much, I was just remembering Uncle Joe.

Thinking that he and Céline deserved better.”

“They did.”

She shook her head, “I wish I could write them a happier ending, you know?”

PopPop hummed weakly. “Well, why don’t you?

If anyone could do it, it would be you.

If you do that, I’m sure in a few years, those English professors of yours would be saying that they taught a great American author.”

She was shocked and touched. “Wha—I—well, I guess I could, but, are—y-you’d be okay with that, PopPop?”

He laid a cold hand on hers, “I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else, my dear girl.”

“Okay,” she smiled tearily, and nodded, the two of them returning their attention to the episode.

A week later, PopPop passed, and many things happened over the ensuing years that caused the idea of writing about Uncle Joe to be put on the back burner.

In fact, she forgot all about it, until she was sitting on her couch a couple of weeks after having been let go from her job as an English teacher at her local high school.

She was mindlessly watching an episode of some show she couldn’t even remember the name of, when her eyes landed on the footlocker which PopPop had given to her in his will.

The memory of PopPop encouraging her to write about Uncle Joe came back to her, and she paused the episode, strode over to the footlocker, carefully opened it, and drew out the letters.

Madly, over the course of the next several hours, she reread the letters, numerous research-related tabs quickly opening up on her phone, tablet, and laptop.

As months passed, she made good progress on her first draft, but somewhere along the way, about slightly less than halfway through her intended story beats, she hit the dreaded dead end, writer’s block in full force.

Rereading the letters did nothing—every line she wrote, she deleted; she felt lost, and like she’d completely lost Uncle Joe and Céline’s voices.

She felt right back at square one.

Then, one day, as she was looking at her brother’s latest Facebook reel from his layover in Korea, she saw an advertisement for the Apple Valley Airshow, which would feature an aerobatic demonstration with an actual, airworthy P-51.

Maybe seeing the aircraft her Uncle flew would shake something loose in her brain so she could move forward.

She didn’t even hesitate—she immediately booked a ticket, and prepared herself to take down a lot of notes.

The airshow was absolutely wonderful, and even though she never got as into aviation as the rest of her family, it was still something which fascinated her, and seeing the planes made her marvel all over again at the miracle that was aviation, how humankind had successfully taken the skies for itself through brutally elegant means.

Finally, it was time for the reason she’d come—the emcee began, “Now, everyone, you’re all in for a treat, because up next, we have a nearly eighty-year-old aircraft, a P-51K named Bianca, and she’ll be giving us an aerobatic demonstration!

So let’s give a warm Apple Valley Airshow welcome to Bianca and her owner and pilot, US Navy Captain Pete Mitchell!”

She clapped along with everyone else, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the P-51.

Soon, the sound of a propeller engine grew louder and louder, and then, there she was.

Bianca was gorgeous, gleaming silver with red markings, the American star roundel on her side.

The shining aircraft got closer and closer to the ground, towards the crowd, and just as she was about to worry that the P-51 was in an upset condition, the plane pulled up slightly, buzzing the transfixed people.

Laughing in awe and delight, she clapped with everyone, and watched as the daring pilot put the plane through a series of hair-raising spirals, rolls, dives, and elegant, breathtaking passes with such precision, skill, and ease, just knowing that whoever was flying that old girl had aviation in his blood as surely as it ran in hers; it made her wonder what her granduncle would say about how the venerable fighter was being flown.

Before she knew it, the demonstration was over, and with another low pass and wing wave, the P-51 flew off to land.

It actually took her a moment to come back to herself, she was so stunned by what she saw, and she knew she had to see Bianca up close.

After asking for directions to the flight line, she scanned the row of planes, eventually spying a flash of red.

She walked over, catching sight of a tall, mustached man a few years younger than her, standing in front of the aircraft, wearing a borderline-obnoxiously-loud Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned over a white tank and jeans, stereotypical Ray-Bans pushed up onto his head.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” the man replied.

“Is this the P-51 which flew a few minutes ago?

She is a P-51, right?”

“That’d be a yes to both questions, ma’am.”

She chuckled grimly at the idea that her age was maybe showing enough for her to be ma’am-ed by someone only a few years younger than her. “Are you the owner?”

He scoffed, good-naturedly. “Nah, that’ll be my dad.

Hey Dad, someone wants to talk to you!”

A moment later, a man stepped out from under the P-51, and she’d absolutely be lying if she said her breath didn’t catch.

First off, if she had to guess, he was older than her, but there was something about him which made him seem younger than his age.

Then there was the fact that he was absurdly good looking—ridiculously so, in fact; impossibly raven-dark hair, mischievously sparkling, brilliant green eyes, and a physique that people half her age would kill for, all sinewy muscle, visible with the snug white t-shirt and jeans he was wearing.

The final nail in the proverbial coffin was his smile—God, it belonged in a museum, because it was a work of art, and coupled with his roguish air, everything about him screamed the most delicious kind of trouble, sending echoes of Whoopi Goldberg’s voice saying, “You in danger, girl,” through her head.

“Hi,” he began, extending his hand.

Luckily for her, she was quick on the draw, and extended her own hand, proffering a “Hi,” of her own, though she kicked herself at the fact that the next words out of her mouth were, “Are you the owner?”

Oh, well—couldn’t win them all.

His grip was firm and calloused, but gentle, without the cool metal band she expected on his fourth finger, quick eyes observing the lack of even a pale band of skin on the same finger, and she shook herself from the observation in time to hear his, “That’s me—Pete Mitchell, you can call me Mav.”

At her quizzical look, he continued, “It’s short for my callsign, Maverick—I’m Navy.”

She nodded, “The emcee did say you were Navy, and that tracks; judging from that impressive demonstration, you don’t strike me as the kind who blends in.”

“Thank you—I aim to please,” he grinned.

Miraculously, she managed to ignore his brilliant, beautiful smile, somehow mustering a “Well, you certainly delivered,” before she introduced herself.

A cough from the younger man, Pete’s son, made her realize that she hadn’t let go of Pete’s hand, and vice versa, which caused the two of them to practically spring apart.

“Oh, uh, this is my son, Bradley,” Pete introduced the younger man, reaching nearly comically up to wrap an arm around Bradley’s shoulders.

“Nice to meet you, Bradley,” she replied, trying to recollect herself while her mind acted like it was the first time she’d interacted with a good-looking man.

“Nice to meet you too, ma’am.”

“I look that bad, do I?” she chuckled.

“Just the way he was raised,” Pete proudly said, patting his son on the back.

Embarrassingly, she just then remembered the reason she was here. “Oh, I—I actually had a few questions for you, Pete, about the P-51, because I’m writing a book, and I wanted to get some details.”

His eyes lit up. “Details about this old girl, huh?

I can do that; come on, let me show you around.” He moved to the side of the aircraft and gestured grandly. “Bianca here’s a Dallas-built North American P-51K, with a Packard V-1650-7 engine and an 11 foot diameter Aeroproducts propeller.

She was donated to the Civil Air Patrol in 1946, and I acquired her in 2001.

I’m not sure if she ever saw combat, because her military flight logs were lost, but I know for a fact that she routinely patrolled the California skies way back when.

Let me show you the controls.”

He nimbly boosted himself up to the wing and held his hand out to her. “Come on up.”

“Uh, is this a wise decision?” she asked, glancing between his hand and the wing. “She is nearly eighty-years-old.”

Pete laughed, “She’s stronger than she looks, and these girls were made to withstand this sort of thing, come on.”

Deciding to trust his judgment, she took his hand and jumped up to the wing at the same time as he pulled her up, causing extra momentum which propelled her body into his.

He caught them on the edge of the cockpit, and after a second, she realized that she was pressed up against his body, both hands resting against his…very solid chest.

She prayed that her suddenly pounding heart and the burning flush on her cheeks could be discounted as a reaction to her stumble.

“I’m so sorry,” she breathed, scrambling back to put some distance between them for her sanity’s sake, while trying not to fall off either wing edge.

“Eh,” he waved off, “that’s my fault, I should have said I’d pull you up,” as he shifted to kneel on the wing. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied breezily, “I believe you were about to show me the controls?”

“Mm-hmm, come here.”

They slowly adjusted themselves into a configuration that enabled them both to see into the cockpit, and he pointed out the many gauges—explaining each one—and the literal stick stick, which looked nothing like the controls of any aircraft she’d seen in person or in the movies, as well as her general flight capabilities and technical specifications.

A further glance to the right showed something she didn’t expect to see. “I thought the P-51 was a single seat aircraft?”

Pete absentmindedly rubbed the back of his neck, “They are—I made a… few modifications.”

“Oh.”

“You want to sit in her?” he offered, gesturing to the pilot’s seat.

She was not about to pass up an opportunity like that. “I—wh—sure!”

He carefully helped her into the cockpit, and once settled, she breathed in and out while she absorbed this moment, and imagined her granduncle sitting in a seat similar to this one, looking out at the boundless sky. “Wow,” she reverently murmured.

“I know, right?”

“This is amazing, that aircraft like this is still around and still flying, I mean—this is history,” she said, getting slightly emotional.

“It is; she is.”

After a few beats longer, she sighed, and reached for his hand so she could get out, and he carefully eased her out of the cockpit, onto the wing, then both of them back onto the ground.

“Thank you, for showing me around, this was really helpful, Pete, I think this really helped me.”

“You’re welcome,” he nodded easily. “If I may ask, what kind of book are you writing?”

For the briefest second, she instinctively recoiled from the idea of telling the story, but then, some part of her heart said that Pete Mitchell was someone she could tell this story to. “It’s uh, a fictional version of my granduncle Joe’s love story; he was a P-51 pilot during World War II, and he was in love with a woman in the French Resistance named Céline.” She turned to look at Bianca’s gleaming fuselage. “But they both died in the war; she was killed by the Germans, and he got shot down saving his wingman soon after.

I never even knew until my first year of college, when my grandfather told me the story through the love letters my granduncle and Céline wrote.

When my grandfather was dying, I told him that I wished they had a happy ending, and… well, he told me to write it for them, since I was an English major.

So here I am,” she shrugged, turning to face Pete.

He looked grave and touched. “That’s… that’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I have to admit, I’ve wondered if what I was doing was disrespectful.”

“I know quite a few people who deserved happy endings that didn’t get them,” he glanced into the distance, a wistful, pained look in his eyes. “If I can help at least two people who didn’t have their happy endings in this world get it somehow, I’m more than willing to help.”

She sincerely replied, “Thank you for the validation,” wondering what his story was.

“You’re welcome.

And uh… you know what?

Gimme a second.”

He leapt back onto the P-51’s wing, and rummaged through the cockpit, pulling out a flight log book and a pen, hastily writing something on a page, before he tore it out, and leapt back down.

“Here, it’s my number—if you had any more questions, feel free to call, I’d be happy to answer them.”

If she had been placed in a similar situation as this maybe twenty years ago, she’d have probably done something to embarrass herself, because this—things like this didn’t happen to her—they only happened in movies, but here she was.

He gave her his number—yes, it was if she had any research questions, but still.

‘Get a grip, woman, just because you didn’t see a ring doesn’t mean he isn’t in a relationship,’ she told herself, trying to project “Respectable Professional Woman”, while her inner adolescent was trying its level best to come out.

“Th—thank you,” she managed to get out, with only a minute stammer on the first syllable.

“I’m serious, call if you need anything—I mean—there’s not a lot of people out there who can tell you what it’s like to actually fly one of these beauties.”

“Be careful,” she chuckled, already determined not to call unless it was absolutely dire, “You don’t know if I might take you up on that offer.”

“It’s what I gave you my number for,” Pete winked, and she commended herself for keeping it together.

Deciding to quit while she was ahead, and while she still seemed like a normal human being, she came in for final approach, as her dad would put it, with, “Alright—I better go, I’ve already taken too much of your time.”

“It’s fine, it’s always a pleasure to talk to someone about this girl.”

“Thank you again,” she stated, honestly grateful, feeling the creative juices flowing and simmering in the background.

“You’re welcome.”

And with that, she walked away, exhaling evenly for so many reasons.

That night, she wrote and wrote just as she expected, and the story was flowing.

That is, until she hit another wall just before the next weekend.

And this one was even more stubborn than the first.

It didn’t help that she had written herself into a corner with this dogfight scene she was on—she had no way of knowing if the tactics were sound, and she was thinking of completely cutting it, but it seemed so stilted without it, and she had no idea of how to avoid writing this scene.

But one part of that thought, she realized, wasn’t true.

Her gaze landed on her coffee table.

The sheet of flight log paper with ten numbers written on them stared tauntingly back at her, daring her to call Pete.

“Nope, no, I am not going to do it,” she told herself. “No—absolutely not.

I’m sure he has better things to do than answer stupid questions.

No—I will not call him.”

The paper raised a nonexistent eyebrow.

“No!” was her battle cry, and she turned back to her laptop screen, but it offered no relief.

The depressing reality of her blinking, unmoving cursor cackled at her in harmony with the flight log paper.

It was like that healthy cereal ad from years ago, with the little girl in a prim uniform, enticingly calling “Donuts?”

However, after ten more minutes, the dictatorship of the blank page grew too cruel and harsh, and she folded like a house of whatever was more insubstantial than cards.

“Fine,” she muttered, snatching up the paper. “I’ll call, but if he doesn’t answer, it’s no skin off my back—I’ll manage… somehow.”

At least that’s what she told herself.

She dialed the number, heart pounding as the phone rang…

And rang…

And rang.

She was just about to breathe a sigh of conflicted relief and hang up, but then the line clicked, and she heard a slightly breathless “Pete Mitchell.”

“Hi,” she blinked, cursing herself for not thinking through what she was going to say. “I don’t know if you remember me, we met at the Apple Valley Airshow—”

“__, right?

The writer.”

“Yeah, that’s me, you said I could call if I had any questions,” she scratched her head.

“Uh-huh.

I’m guessing you have one,” she could hear the smile in his voice.

“More like a lot, really.

I’ve unfortunately written myself into a corner, it’s this dogfight scene, and there’s no way I can currently remove it without sacrificing practically all of my progress since last week.

I just need to know if the tactics are sound.”

“Huh.”

“I—you know, I can figure it out myself, if it’s too much trouble—”

He interrupted, “No, it’s no trouble, I’m more than willing to help, in fact… uh, this might sound—weird and uncomfortable—or—both, really, but if you want, why don’t you come out to my hangar tomorrow, we can talk about this, rework your scene if we need to, without having to do video calls or text or email.”

“Oh,” she breathed, eyes wide.

“I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything,” he chuckled.

“I—thank you for the reassurance, by the way—but I mean, that’s a lot of confidence in how well I can write a dogfight.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” he assured.

“I’ll just prepare to be ripped to shreds,” she half-teasingly replied.

Pete snorted. “Even if it were that bad, I wouldn’t rip it to shreds—I save that for my new students.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t know what’s worse, being torn apart or the porcelain treatment.”

“How about a balance, then?”

“I’d be very happy with that.”

“So… is that a yes to coming out to my hangar?”

“I… suppose it is,” she replied, before she could convince herself otherwise.

She was a mature, responsible adult, and she was capable of being said mature, responsible adult.

(And if time permitted, she was even capable of looking respectfully, when he wasn’t watching.)

(She was only human, after all.)

“Perfect, I’ll send you the address; I have to warn you, it’ll probably be a bit of a drive, is that okay?”

“That’s fine, after all, where else will I find someone with experience flying the P-51?”

“You could always try the local VFW post,” he joked.

“What are the odds my local VFW has a former P-51 pilot?

I’ll go with the expert I’ve already met.”

“Alright, alright, I already agreed to help, no need to butter me up,” he lightly said, humorously.

“Just send the address,” was her amused response.

And that was how she found herself on US-395 North making the three-and-a-half hour drive from her apartment in San Bernardino to the Mojave, praying that she wouldn’t somehow make a fool of herself today.

To be continued…

Next Part

Was part of this story inspired by Atonement?

Maybe.

I didn’t really have the movie in mind when I wrote the plot device, but I realized the similarity after the fact.

Analog flight computer

USAAF

Band of Brothers

The Apple Valley Airshow takes place every year in the town of Apple Valley, located in San Bernardino, California.

(I considered setting this story at the annual Miramar Airshow, which takes place at MCAS (formerly NAS) Miramar, but I imagine that Mav would probably want to avoid going to MCAS Miramar for obvious reasons.)

Roundel

I don’t think that most pilots would do very daring aerobatic stunts in a plane as old as the P-51, just because she’s a darn P-51, and she’s a flying piece of history, but this is Mav, he absolutely knows what his girl can handle, I’m sure he knows how to make something look more crazy than it actually is, and bottom line, let’s just suspend our disbelief, 😂.

Did I introduce Mav in that way just so I could use that gif?

Probably absolutely.

It’s a great shot, and I do not blame me.

“You in danger, girl.” Timestamp 1:35

All the information about the P-51 is taken from the information available about the model and history/registration of Tom’s P-51, except for the details of her name and the military flight logs being missing, as the history available for N51EW never mentions if she saw actual WWII combat.

She is registered in the FAA database with the serial number 44-12840, and her name since 2006 has been “Kiss Me Kate”.

(I know why she’s named this, and it hits something in my heart that Tom never bothered to rename her.)

Her name in this story will be explained later, but those who follow me on my main blog, @oh-great-authoress, might have a hunch as to why I named the P-51 “Bianca”.

The ad I mentioned was a real Kellogg’s Special K ad.

VFW

The travel time between San Bernardino and Mav’s hangar is estimated using the travel time from San Bernardino to NAWS China Lake, and then a further hour and twenty minutes from there.

Taglist

@valmare

@callsign-skydancer

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@tadomikiku

@malindacath

@aviatorobsessed

@lynnevanss

@djs8891

If you’d like to join my taglist, just send me an ask!

#not me 👀 at men literally old enough to be my father #but my reader DEFINITELY is—and he’s not old enough to be HER father #bahaha 🤣#top gun: maverick #top gun maverick #top gun: maverick fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #top gun: maverick fanfic #top gun maverick fanfic #top gun: maverick fic #top gun maverick fic #pete maverick mitchell x reader #pete mitchell x reader #pete maverick mitchell #pete mitchell #tom cruise

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abovethemists · 1 year

Text

On Bended Knee

A/N: The Rumbelle discord said we needed more shop blow jobs, so here I am to help.

Summary: Belle surprises Gold at the shop on their anniversary. A prequel to To Have and to Hold.

Read it on AO3

Alasdair Gold was the luckiest bastard in the world.

This was not due to any machinations of the universe. He had not been born beneath a lucky star. His mother had abandoned him before he could walk and his father had stuck around a scant few years longer. In fact, he’d been followed by pain and misfortune for most of miserable life. But right now, with Belle French’s mouth wrapped around his cock in the middle of the goddamn workday, none of that other stuff seemed to matter.

He was a lucky bastard, and he wasn’t about to question why his fates had changed so drastically.

“God, Belle,” he managed to gasp out, gripping the wooden counter before him with both hands. She’d snuck in a few minutes ago, a mischievous smile on her face and nothing but black silk beneath her trench coat and proceeded to blow his mind.

This wasn’t like him. He’d never engaged in things like this in his past relationships. But something about Belle made him want to be daring, to be brave, to be reckless, adjectives that had certainly never been used to describe Alasdair Gold.

Belle was hidden beneath the counter, but he was in full view of anyone who walked through the front door. There would be no hiding what was happening should someone come in. Belle had turned the sign to closed, but she hadn’t locked the door. The idea that anyone could stumble in from outside and catch them only added to the exquisite excitement of the moment.

Her head bobbed along the length of him, her hand wrapped around the base of his cock as she hollowed her cheeks and sucked.

“Fuck!” he groaned, pounding a fist against the counter, his other hand tangling in Belle’s hair.

Belle pulled off of him with a pop, grinning up at him.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?”

“Always,” he gritted out.

She blew along the length of him, sending a shiver down his spine and a whimper escaping his lips.

“I love seeing you like this,” she said, her hand pumping him lazily as she grinned up at him with smeared lipstick. It was an utterly erotic sight. “All desperate for me. Imagine if anyone else in town could see you now, the powerful Mr. Gold completely undone.”

He shook his head, a flare of panic in his belly belied by his cock swelling even more at the idea of anyone watching them.

“Mmm,” Belle hummed. “You like that don’t you?”

“I like everything you do,” he managed to grunt out.

Belle gave him one more little grin before taking him in her mouth again, taking him so deep he was butting against the back of her throat, her tongue painting intricate designs along his cock. He wasn’t going to last long and before he could even warn her, he came with a muffled shout, biting down on his hand to keep from alerting the whole street.

Belle didn’t complain, just sucked him down. She pressed a little kiss to his tender flesh before tucking him back into his pants and zipping him up. Then she looked up at him, her lipstick wrecked and a wicked smile on her face.

“Happy Anniversary,” she said.

“Marry me,” he returned.

That wiped the smile right off Belle’s face, her blue eyes widening and her delicious lips parting in a gasp.

“What?” she asked, quickly clamoring to her feet and steadying herself with her hands on his arms.

“Marry me,” Gold said again softly, reaching out to push a lock of hair behind her ear. “Be my wife.”

Belle shook her head and Gold’s heart hammered to a stop. Perhaps he wasn’t so lucky after all. Of course, it was silly to think she would ever say yes. Why would she? He was old, lame, ugly…

“Because of that?” she interrupted, motioning behind her to where she’d just been kneeled beneath his counter.

“No,” Gold snorted. “Because I love you and I want to marry you.”

“But you’re only asking me because your head’s all fuzzy from a blow job!” she exclaimed. “Oh, don’t do this now! You can only ask me something like that if you really mean it.”

“I do mean it,” Gold assured her, and then to drive home the point, he pulled a small blue velvet box from his jacket pocket.

Belle gasped again.

“I was going to ask you at our anniversary dinner tonight,” Gold said, popping open the box to reveal a brilliant diamond ring. “But no time like the present, eh?”

Belle clapped her hands over her mouth, looking up at him with those beautiful blue eyes of hers.

“You’re serious?” she managed.

“As the grave.”

“You’re really proposing!” she gasped yet again, tugging her coat closed over her lingerie. “And I’m in my underwear! What will we tell our children?”

Gold raised a skeptical eyebrow. “You’re worried our hypothetical children will ask what you were wearing when I proposed?”

“It might come up,” Belle insisted. “Oh God, they’ll know we have sex!”

Gold couldn’t help it, he laughed at her.

“They’re bound to figure it out eventually, given their existence.”

And then Belle was laughing too, and kissing him, and squealing about the ring. But she still hadn’t answered his question.

“So,” he prompted, a nervous little butterfly fluttering around his stomach even still. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, Alasdair, of course I’ll marry you!”

She flung her arms around his neck, kissing him again and he gripped on to her for dear life.

Yep. Luckiest bastard in the world.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #raven's fic #fic: to have and to hold

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shadowsong26fic · 9 months

Text

Papa and J---- Chapter 4!

Author: shadowsong26

Rating: PG/PG-13

Fandom: Les Misérables

Characters: Technically all on-page characters are OCs; Valjean, Cosette, Marius, and Javert are discussed as historical personalities. Backstory Cosette/Marius and heavily implied Valjean/Javert.

Warnings: Nothing specific, I don’t think?

Summary: Euphrasie Pontmercy–known in the art world as La Jardinière–isn’t exactly a household name. Still, the sheer length of her active career (her work was first displayed and sold in 1839, and she left one last work unfinished at her death in 1910) makes her interesting to people who actually study that century in art. But as far as the historical record is concerned, Jardinière seems to have sprung semi-fully-formed from the streets of Paris somewhere in the mid-to-late 1820s. Other than the fact that she was educated in a convent, essentially nothing is known about her parents or her childhood.

Until now.

Or:

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a PhD student with no thesis topic must be in want of an undiscovered painting to go absolutely feral over.

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective creators.

Notes: Here we are with Chapter 4! It's been a while, hasn't it, lol. This chapter is mostly Logistical Stuff, but we get to see Phil again! still seriously considering finding someone to commission to actually make a version of the painting are any of y’all who might be artists interested/does anyone have any recommendations of artists who are open for commissions who do that kind of style

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Authenticating the painting wasn’t really a matter of lab testing. Most chemical analysis couldn’t date a painting more specifically than within fifty years or so of when it was painted. Which of course we did anyway, and that proved it wasn’t a modern forgery, at least.

My research into the development of paints and pigments during the nineteenth century also proved the painting didn’t use any colors that weren’t available in the mid-1830s, but that wasn’t exactly conclusive, either. Just because something was available didn’t mean it was used in every painting, after all.

Which meant it came down to comparing technique, and the inscription on the back--most of Jardinière’s paintings had a signature as well, but some, including this one, did not. I didn’t have immediate access to any of her very early works, but there were two paintings in reasonably local collections that I was also able to borrow. The earlier of the two was a painting of a street from her Calais period; the other was from the 1890s, a memory-portrait of the artist herself and one of her granddaughters in their respective wedding dresses, comparing the poofiness of their sleeves. (I have to admit, I love an artist with a sense of humor.)

Still, they were physical paintings that were known to be Jardinière’s work. The next step involved many, many hours of looking at all three paintings in very close detail, with Emma overseeing and offering her experience to help with authentication. There weren’t any specific experts in Jardinière’s work, exactly (“Though after you finish this research, you’ll probably qualify as one,” she had pointed out), but the bulk of Emma’s research had been into pre-Impressionist French painters, so she knew what to look for.

“I think,” she said, at somewhere around eleven pm on the sixth day after we’d gotten access to Souvenir de soixante ans, “that we can say this is a genuine Jardinière painting. The inscriptions on all three match, just like you thought, and while her technique definitely evolved, you can see some of the same detail work you noticed around the hands and eyes in Soixante ans.”

“Yes,” I breathed, with a silent fist pump of victory. “Which means I get to go ahead with the rest of the work.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Any changes to the plan from the last time we talked?”

I shook my head. “I’ve put out feelers to that museum in Marseille, along with a couple other collections in France and one in Dover. Most of them were willing to work with me and grant access to at least some of the behind-the-scenes papers that weren’t on display. Dover wanted to hold off until the painting was authenticated, so I’ll reach out to them again…tomorrow, probably. After sleep. I still need to line up a translator, too.”

“That should be your next step, before you travel anywhere further than Chicago,” Emma said. “If you still want to look at Inachevé in person. Did you talk to my usual guy?”

“I did,” I said. “He said he wasn’t sure he’d have time for a project of this scale until summer, though. And while I can do at least rough translations myself…”

“You don’t want to spend six months going down the wrong road,” she said. “Fair enough.”

“I’m going to check with the department here, see if there’s anyone they recommend, and then look into other freelancers,” I said.

“At least you’re working with nineteenth-century French sources,” Emma said.

“True,” I said. “Helpfully common.” Unlike my ex-girlfriend, who’d had to wade through seventh-century Greek for her research.

“That can wait ‘til morning, too,” she said. “It’s been a long day, and you’ve gotten past the first major hurdle.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for your help on this one.”

“It’s what I’m here for,” she said, and smiled.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The next day was all logistics--my absolute favorite part of any project. Back and forth with Dover and the various French collections; reaching out to a few other translators who had been recommended to me; and the absolute best part: budgeting.

Ugh.

Still, progress had been made; I had most of the permissions I needed and had worked out at least some of how I was going to pay for flights and so on. Waiting to hear back from some of the possible translators, so that was still up in the air but at least the momentum from the night before--finally officially authenticating the painting--had carried forward.

And, best of all, the day ended with another date with Phil.

Our third, actually, not counting the one I’d accidentally derailed with art-nerd brain. I was very proud of myself for managing to keep things on track after that. I mean, obviously, both of us talked a little bit about work, but not enough to make the night all about that.

“So, how long do you think you’ll be out of town?” he asked, when we made it back to my place with ice cream.

“Hard to say,” I said. “Some of it depends on what I find. At least a few weeks, though. And I’m not leaving, like, right now, I still have to work out some logistical detail bullshit.”

“Hey, some of us like the logistical detail bullshit,” he said, grinning.

“Really?”

“No, not really, planning travel kind of sucks,” he admitted. “But other detail stuff can be fun.”

“Right, you’re a math guy.” I flicked his nose affectionately and he rolled his eyes.

“It’s satisfying when it all comes together right,” he said. “Different kind of satisfying from when I was translating to pay the bills, but that was kind of fun, too. It’s all solving puzzles, you know? Just different kinds.”

“I get that,” I said. “Even if number-puzzles never really drew me in.”

“Not for everyone,” he agreed. “…actually, though.”

“What?”

“You said you were still looking for a translator?”

“I am,” I said. “Why?”

“Just…I don’t know,” he said. “My other language is French, I’m not sure I told you that?”

“Uh…no, I don’t think you did,” I said, sitting up. “Wait, are you offering?”

“I mean,” he said, sitting up as well, facing me. “If it wouldn’t be…I don’t know, I don’t know what all the rules are? Since it’s my family’s history, and since we’re…is it too early to say dating?” He flushed a little, which was adorable.

“I don’t think so? It is your story as well. We’d need to put together a specific work contract and everything, but…wait, let me actually…” I reached over and grabbed my phone from the nightstand to send a quick email to Emma. If she didn’t know the actual answer, she’d know who to ask, at least.

“Right,” he said. “So…I guess let me know what she says? Because I’m. Uh. If it’s not against the rules or whatever, I’m interested in helping out.”

“Great,” I said. Then, because I definitely hadn’t forgotten the other question, “And…yeah, I think I would say we’re dating,” I added, leaning forward to give him a quick kiss.

“All right, then,” he said, with a smile, kissing me back, which put a pretty decisive end to any work talk for the evening.

Emma wasn’t going to get back to me before morning, anyway.

#shadowsong writes other fandoms #shadowsong writes self-indulgent bs

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the-badger-mole · 11 months

Note

💭

Excerpt from Pick Up the Pieces

Mamoru arrived slightly out of breath to the park. Usagi hadn't said where in the park they were meeting, but he had a pretty good idea. He jogged through the park until he came to the pier overlooking the lake that he and Usagi had spent many afternoons rowing on. Just as he thought, she was there, looking out over the water, her feet dangling off of the edge of the pier. Her jeans were rolled up to the knees and her sneakers and socks were next to her. Mamoru came up and sat down beside her. Usagi glanced at him and turned back to the lake, her bare feet churning the water below her. They sat together in silence for a few minutes. Usagi watched the sunset and Mamoru watched her out of the corner of his eyes. There was paint spattered all over her clothes and a few smears on her face. She was wearing a Hokkaido University t shirt that was several sizes too big for her and her hair was out of its usual style and pulled back into a messy French braid. Mamoru thought that there couldn't possibly be another woman on the planet as beautiful as she was at that moment. She glanced at him again and finally spoke.

"I'm mad at you, Mamoru." Mamoru froze for a second, and then sighed.

"I know." Usagi snapped her head around and glared at him.

"No, you don't know. Mamoru, I'm beyond mad at you. I'm furious. For the past two weeks, I've been trying to get past that and move on. I don't want to be angry with you anymore. I don't know if I want to feel anything for you anymore." Mamoru felt his heart clench in his chest. Usagi wanted to end their relationship for good? He couldn't lose her. He had broken up with her before, but it hadn't sunk in as something permanent, despite what he told Usagi. At that point, Mamoru had the comfort of knowing that Usagi would take him back if-when- he couldn't stay away anymore.

"Usako, please," he begged. "I only did it to protect you. I tried to ignore the dreams, but they were just so real. And when the picture…"

"You were protecting me," Usagi scoffed and shook her head. "How is it protecting me to dump me out of no where, with no explanations other than you didn't want to be trapped in a relationship because of something that happened a long time ago? How on earth do you figure it's protecting me to practically break my self confidence- which was barely hanging on by the way- and leaving me to think there was something I did wrong?" Mamoru reached out for Usagi's hand, but she pulled away.

"Usako, I…"

"No, I'm not done, Mamoru! Ever since we started going out, everything has been your decision. You decided to give this relationship a shot. You decided what boundaries we would have. You decided it wasn't time to meet my parents. Good grief Mamoru, you decided where we would go on most of our dates. And moron that I was, I let you, because I was so in love with you that I forgot that I had rights in this relationship, too. I was your girlfriend, Mamoru. I'm a flesh and blood, thinking, feeling person. I'm not a porcelain doll that needs to be protected from every bump and scrape. Tell me why you didn't trust me enough to tell me about the stupid dream?"

In his entire life, Mamoru could remember feeling this frantic only a handful of times in his life. All of them had been when Usagi had been in mortal danger. He knew he had no answer good enough for her. Why had he chosen to listen to that dream blindly? Why hadn't he talked to Usagi about it before?

"Usako, I…the dream said to stay away from you. I thought it would be easier if I just stayed away from you." Usagi rolled her eyes and pulled her legs up to her chest.

"So you thought that I was so completely obsessed with you that I wouldn't be able to stay away from you if it were a matter of my life and the safety of the world? Come on, Mamoru, I may not be as mature at Ami and Rei and Makoto and Minako- heck, I may not be as mature as some other girls you may have dated, but please give me a little credit." Mamoru looked down at the water and stared at the ripples Usagi's toes made thoughtfully.

"Would you believe," he said after a moment, "that you are the only girlfriend I've ever had?" Usagi froze, one foot halfway out of the water. She turned, her eyes widened in surprise.

"Really?" she asked incredulously. Mamoru hunched his shoulders a bit sheepishly.

#ask the bagder mole #ask game #sailor moon #usagi x mamoru #usamamo #THE YEAR OF CONTENT!!!!

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araminakilla · 2 years

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Day 35: 🎶 La Seine, la Seine, la Seine 🎶

First clip of the movie thanks to the Tumblr blogs of @sastiorn and also @shields-and-depthgauges-oh-my for posting it. Because we are only 5 weeks away from the premiere of the movie in Spain, they are releasing little sneak peeks of the third movie. Maybe we will get more of them in the following Fridays or earlier than that.

Anyway, I just LOVED the clip and all the implications it carries in less than 40 seconds. Like boy, those were some intense 40 seconds.

I will explain why in three words:

Police vs Mummy

Should we also include Tad, Jeffzoni and Ra-Amon-Ah as well? Yes, but also no.

Why? Because he is according to the director, a VERY important character in the third movie and according to french sources, Tad has his main nemesis in Ryan, the leader of the mighty trio of archeologists.

Of couse, the agents and the curse are a problem to him too but guys... everything is indication they are Mummy's main problem.

Incan mummy has the curse on him, he's the one who is battling to not let it take over him and it looks like he's losing forces to keep it at bay.

Pickles and Ramirez are following his account and being involved in his possible capture (especially Mr. Pickles, but that's a theme for another post)

After the Louvre incident, they have a very good reason to arrest him: the Mona Lisa being vandalized.

But something else has to happen for them to call the army, maybe they saw him transform into Ammit before arriving to Egypt.

In their eyes, they are doing a great favor to the world by eliminating this monster. They don't really see the content Mummy posted online.

At least is confirmed Agent Pickles just is seeing a monster, a potencial menace trying to hide with a phone filter.

It is possible this image is the first time the group encounter the french police (after the agents failed to reach them on land) and some police officer says on a megaphone they are arrested.

The one who is more worried in the image Mummy, as Tad is more surprised and Ramona is just confused.

It looks like Mummy is trying to push away the police boat, to no avail. He wants to get away from them ASAP

And let's look at the best part of the clip in my opinion:

"I'm too young to go to jail!"

"Nobody is going to jail"

Can we just. Talk about. This scene 👆🏽

So much emotion and details!

The way Mummy at first looks so amashed, like he just broke something very important on a elegant building... which he kind of did, but that's not the reason he's so worried as he thought he made the painting better.

Then the way he looks many times at the police boats, then back at Tad then at the boats in less than one second. The undead is so nervous he can't focus on only one person, using his hands to give himself air as if he's suffocating for a panic attack.

Then there's the fact he says he's too young to go to jail, which should be a joke given he's +500 years, but comparing his age to Ramona's (probably more than a thousand) and the way he acts in general, he feels like he died young, maybe mid twenties.

Also Tad, he is very worried about playing a part in the persecution and how everything is his fault to begin with.

But he manages to look at Mummy and giving him a little shook with his head denying the thought of his friend being in jail, being him the one who has more visual contact with Mummy while the other doesn't know where to look.

He also raises his hand to calm down his brother while reassuring him nobody is going to jail. It's so heartwarming.

But Mummy only thinks he will go to jail if they managed to capture him?

Oh sweetie... you kind, cursed, anxious, little peruvian andean child. No, jail will only be a sweet dream knowing what people could do to a living mummy.

And then Ramona breaks the moment while saying the equivalent to "Look where are you going slaves"

She DID call them slaves in the clip. She's definetly royalty, but also looks down at Mummy for the simple fact that he is not egyptian, denying that he is even a mummy to begin with. I'm really curious to see her development.

Going back at Mummy, he really just wanted to be somebody to the world, not in the "famous and rich" aspect, but he only wanted to be recognized as a fellow being that, in the modern world of humans, could fit in.

But everything backfired at end with many people being NOT happy with his existence, and now the agents know about what he really is...

and these two french police officers

and all of those french people there

and the rest of people on those boats.

Hence, this "discovery" could lead us to:

This scene, where an authority of Paris has to probably calm down its citizens by all the conmotion that happened in and out the Louvre Museum.

Maybe they already know there was a Monster in Paris (*roll credits*) or two.

I just want a good resolution to all this scandal. And for "good" I don't mean "everyone forgot about the incident. Tad and Mummy went scot free and everything was back to normal. The end"

No, what I'm talking about is how the world is going to react to the fact that there are two living mummies, magic, places that have a lot of riches in their own countries. The unknow.

How things will end up with Victoria Moon, agents Ramirez and Pickles, especially Mr. Pickles as he is the more determined of the two. He really wants someone guilty and resolving that case.

Hope the end is not only an average end, but the beggining of something greater.

They have the potencial, they just have to play all the cards right.

#tadeo jones #tadeo jones 3 #tad the lost explorer #tad the last explorer 3 #tadeo jones meta #tadeo jones analysis #tadeo jones theory #tad stones #mummy (tadeo jones)#jeffzoni #Ra-Amon-Ah #ramona (tadeo jones)#agent ramirez #agent pickles #tadeo jones ramirez #tadeo jones pickles #yeah I had to do at least two references to A monster in Paris #my brain was begging to #tad 3 countdown

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sabiekay · 2 years

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AMOMK - Of Maps, Forms, and Other Crazy Ideas

This work was based on the original story A Map of Mrs. Kims (and the drabbles that started it all!) created by @bonvoyagenoona and various members of the Tumblr BTS fanfic community! (You can also read it on ao3!). All rights regarding this universe of characters are credited and belong to her.

I originally sent her an ask for this story a while back, and this drabble idea based on it would not leave my head. Thank you again to the wonderful @bonvoyagenoona for letting me play in this universe for a bit! <3 You can also read this particular drabble on A03 here!

“Oh come on, what’s the worst that could happen? If you get selected, you get to go out with some of the hottest bachelors around. Be in the running to be a future Mrs. Kim! Did I mention they’re hot? Super hot brothers?”

You stared pointedly at Ji-a as you bit into another french fry. “Is that all that matters? Looks and status? What about their dreams? Personality? Surely that’s important in this whole application thing too…”

Ji-a laughed and shook her head slightly. “I mean, of course you want a good man to be your husband. But what’s the harm in having a little fun on the way? Besides, my Eomma is desperate for me to finally settle down, and both our families are regulars here – the Kims seem to be some of the nicer rich boys in this crowd.”

Your fries turned colder by the second as you contemplated her scheme. Call it being a romantic, but you wanted your future husband to not only be your soulmate, but also have more brain capacity than a microwaved potato. To have him support your own interests and dreams seemed to be little more than a pipe dream at this point. Hell, even your dating app profile was covered in cobwebs – you thought you saw a tumbleweed roll through your empty inbox the other day. You honestly couldn’t do much worse than a mother’s matchmaking plan. You didn’t have the time or patience for boys who only cared about “the thrill of the chase” or “let’s not put a name on what we have, even though we’ve exclusively been seeing each other for a while now”. If you go along with this application idea, you probably wouldn’t even get ghosted. Probably.

“Plus, it’ll get your mind off of Museum Boy….”

You groaned as your head fell into your hands. “I never should have told you about him…”

“It’s been what? A few months of polite nods and simple smiles?” Ji-a chuckled as she grabbed another fry. “Just ask him out already! I’d even settle for a name at this point!”

Museum Boy was almost a legend among your friend group. For the past month or so you’d see the same young man at the local art museum near your place. It was almost a routine by now – check out the new exhibits, run into Museum Boy at some point on your way to your favorite painting in the Natural World section, give each other a polite nod as a greeting from a distance. Once you were alone again, you would congratulate yourself on not staring at the beautiful man like a creep and keeping your feelings to yourself. No one needed to know your mini crush on Museum Boy. After the first couple of times, you wouldn’t say you actually knew him, but at least just acknowledged each other as fellow patrons of the arts. But you don’t talk to people in an art museum. It’s quiet, made for reflection and appreciation. Or at least that’s how you’ve convinced yourself not to walk up to him yet.

A sudden snap of fingers in front of your face jolted you in your seat.

“You were just thinking about him, weren’t you?” Ji-a sighed. A rush of heat to your face gave her all the answer she needed. “Okay, that’s it. We’re getting those forms.”

She grabbed your wrist, pulling you out of the chair with barely any time for you to grab your purse. You looked back at the abandoned table, half a plate of fries still sitting untouched. Ji-a huffed slightly as she dragged you back to the table, grabbed the plate of fries, then dragged the pair of you inside.

You should have known Ji-a had an ulterior motive when she suddenly invited you to the country club she was practically raised in. You, in your nicest bargain bin sweater and jeans, were now fully inside the ornate lounge surrounded by the city’s elite. Specifically, a beautiful woman and 4 of the most handsome men you had ever seen. Your first mistake was trusting Ji-a at all, who only said you were going there to have some lunch and catch up from your busy work schedule. She left the room as soon as she got her form for Kim Taehyung. That traitor.

Your second mistake was requesting all of them when given the choice of which one to fill out after your introductions. You weren’t expecting physical copies, complete with printed out photos of each boy. It reminded you of your daily tasks as a receptionist – everything neatly organized by name and in their own respective folder. Digitally, it was all fairly anonymous so you could just hedge your bets and hope that someone you clicked Like on would do the same. But in person? You were worried you seemed greedy or didn’t care about them as individuals.

“We should have all of these back online soon, but for now just fill these paper ones out,” Mrs. Kim said with an elegant (but tired) smile. “The website keeps crashing, so we’re just waiting for the new server to take over.”

You nodded respectfully, while trying to figure out just how many people are involved in this entire process. Ji-a mentioned it was like a real-life version of a dating app, but there had to be hundreds of people applying daily for only 3 people in order for an entire server to crash. You were starting to feel like a tiny drop in an ocean, but it honestly tracked with how your dating life was going at the moment.

“Coming to the store without buying anything, huh?” one of the boys joked as you were handed 3 forms. You wanted to die on the spot.

“Seokjin!” Mrs. Kim cried as some of them rolled their eyes.

“We’re not for sale, hyung,” another one quietly declared, nudging Seokjin in the arm.

“Speak for yourself. Name your price,” a third boy replied as he stared directly at you. You knew this one to be Kim Taehyung, based on how Ji-a gazed at him earlier. He seemed to be her type anyways.

“I just wanted to be thorough in my decision…” you mumbled, holding the stack of folders delicately in your arms. Suddenly another form was placed on top, identical to the other ones.

“Here, take this one too,” he said, a hint of dimples showing through his polite smile. A quick glance through the folders showed his name was Kim Namjoon. You thought he looked familiar, but from where? It was bothering you ever since Ji-a dragged you into the lounge. Was he an executive at the financial company you worked for? An old college classmate? It had been about a decade since you graduated university, surely you had forgotten a face or two.

A shorter man next to Namjoon had pulled his lips into a straight line, but didn’t look in your direction. You thought you heard him whisper something along the lines of “stop it.” Looking at the new form, you saw it read the name Min Yoongi. Maybe he was a cousin who got dragged into this idea too.

You took a deep breath as you readjusted the forms in your grasp, trying to take control of the situation as best as you could. You liked forms and lists. They comforted you in a way with how straightforward they were. Forms didn’t yell at you for being a single woman in her early 30s when most of your peers were already married with kids; lists didn’t call you a failure for starting over with an entry level job at your age.

“Do they fill out forms too? It’s only fair that if you all get to learn everything about me from a piece of paper, I get to learn things about you too, right? Like sunsets vs sunrises, favorite type of dates, favorite songs that make you cry, and all that,” you asked, looking right at the group in front of you.

You thought you saw something sparkle in Mrs. Kim’s eyes. “Oh of course, they did fill out some forms too - it’s all on the website and in those folders. But there’s always more questions they can answer. I might have a few more ideas…”

“Eomma! No more lists!” Seokjin whined, but it didn’t seem to be out of malice or purely negative feelings. You smiled as you could see the love this family had for each other.

“Okay, good to know. I’ll just go…fill these out now. Do I just turn these back in to you or mail them in..?” you asked as you shuffled in your spot, adjusting the forms in your hands to make sure nothing dropped.

“There’s an address listed on the business card inside each of the folders that you can mail it to. You don’t have to rush it. Just take your time, think about your decision,” Namjoon responded with a polite smile and nod. Suddenly something clicked in your mind.

“Yes, please really take your time!” Seokjin laughed, but you didn’t quite hear him. You quickly said your goodbyes and turned away, rushing to go anywhere to be alone.

“Happy shopping!” Taehyung called after you as you booked it to the hallway. You lightly pressed your head against the wall, hardly believing what just happened – maybe some deity was messing with you or something. Because you just made your third and possibly biggest mistake of the night.

You had grabbed an application to date and possibly marry Kim Namjoon – aka Museum Boy. Who probably now thought you were a gold digging stalker. Great.

#a map of mrs. kims #amomk #bonvoyagenoona #bts fanfic #namjoon fanfic #seokjin fanfic #taehyung fanfic #bts drabble #bangtanarmynet

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ace-angel-judas · 2 years

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Hydrangeas, Violets and Roses

Pairing: Woosung/Hazel ft Babygirl and BM

Series: LOSTxGIRL Original Group AU

Synopsis: Hazel finally talks to Woosung.

A scream made Hazel throw a blanket over herself, eyes wide as two people stood at her door. Only they weren't her band mates, but seniors in her company.

"Good afternoon!" Babygirl announced proudly, "Get ready, you're coming with me,"

"..I have no pants on..," Hazel whispered, "What are you doing in my dorm?!"

"Eunji let us in," Ariel smiled softly, "We're also in the dorm above yours,"

Wednesday night was the night all Jin Studios artists got off unless they were on tour. Hazel had hoped for a night in, playing on her switch and avoiding the world in general.

"Let me see what clothes you have!" Babygirl grinned as she barged into the room.

"No!" Hazel shook her head, "I'll get dressed! Just.. out of my room, please?"

Babygirl had a massive grin on her face while Ariel was giggling, closing the door. Groaning, Hazel slowly crawled out of her bed, walking to her closet.

Was everyone in this company just insane?

After getting dressed and grabbing her phone, Hazel slowly snuck out of her room. Chaewon and Eunji were both sitting in the lounge room with Ariel and Babygirl.

"Oh your cute!" Babygirl clapped her hands together, "Very skater girl,"

How was ripped jeans and an oversized sweater, skater girl?

Hazel looked at her band mates, perhaps they would get her out of what ever green hell this was. Only Eunji looked away, pretending to not notice while Chaewon had a cheeky smile on her face.

"Let's go!"

---

This had to be planned. There was no way in the world that this exact moment hadn't been planned out by the girl siding beside Hazel. But how exactly did this get planned out?

"Hazel?"

"Huh?" She looked up, looking at Babygirl.

"Where you from?" Matthew asked, sitting next to his girlfriend.

Hazel swallowed thickly, "Um, Canada,"

"Canada?!" Woosung gasped, "I lived there for, like, a year,"

"Oh..," Hazel nodded slowly, "I'm from Vancouver,"

"I thought you were American," Matthew laughed, "Canada is cool though,"

Babygirl clicked her fingers, "Oh, do you speak French? Like Ozlo and Hayoon?"

Nodding, Hazel got a little bit speak scared at the way Babygirl's eyes lit up.

"I learnt French and Chinese," Babygirl explained, "Do you still remember how to speak it?"

Matthew chuckled, "You are such a private school kid,"

Babygirl poked her tongue out at him, while Hazel furrowed her brows together.

"I went a private school, too," Hazel whispered, "Well, a boarding school,"

"Ooh, what school did you go to?" Babygirl asked.

Hazel fumbled with her hands, "Um, Bishop's College School,"

Tilting her head curiously, Babygirl stared at Hazel. It made her turn the other way, only to be face to face with Woosung now. He had a comforting smile on his face.

"How long have you played guitar?" Woosung asked.

"Since I was eight," Hazel looked down at the table, "I taught myself to play,"

"Wow," Woosung's eyes went wide, "Did you paint your guitar too?"

Hazel nodded slowly, "Yeah, there's hydrangeas on it because they represent gratitude, violets represent loyalty and the white rose represents-"

"Purity and Innocence, right?" Woosung finished her sentence.

Nodding, Hazel smiled slowly.

#lost girl original kpop group au #ace: lost girl #lost girl original group au #ace: hazel

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fictionfromafar · 1 year

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Crime Fiction In Translation 2023

This list will be added to throughout 2023

5 Jan

Black Ice by Carin Gerhardsen, translated by Ian Giles, Head Of Zeus SWEDEN

A deadly secret haunts a group of strangers who cross paths in the snow of a Swedish midwinter. The days are short, the air is cold, and all the roads are covered in snow. On a deserted, icy backroad, these wintry conditions bring together a group of strangers with a force devastating enough to change their lives forever

Empathy by Antoine Renand, translated by Frank Wynne, Welbeck FRANCE

Prix Maison de la Presse Award Finalist 2019 Marion Mesny and Anthony Rauch, otherwise known as 'The Pear', work at the heart of the Sexual Assault Unit in Paris.

Renowned for their bravery and intelligence, the pair are not unfamiliar with violent crimes. Yet they are horrified when they discover a criminal who goes by the name of Alpha - a man filled with red-hot hatred, whose meaning of life lies in assaulting and torturing others.

18 Jan

Trouble by Katja Ivar, Bitter Lemon Press FINLAND

Helsinki, early summer 1953. Hella Mauzer, once a member of the city’s murder squad, now a reluctant private investigator, is doing a background check on a member of the Finnish secret services. She accepted the job because she was promised information about the 1942 death of her father. An accident, file closed they say. But not for Hella. Her investigation leads to people who want her stopped dead in her tracks.

The Birthday Party by Laurent Mauvignier, translated by Daniel Levin, Fitzcarraldo Editions FRANCE

While Patrice plans a surprise for his wife's fortieth birthday, inexplicable events start to disrupt the hamlet's quiet existence: anonymous, menacing letters, an unfamiliar car rolling up the driveway. And as night falls, strangers stalk the houses, unleashing a nightmarish chain of events. Told in rhythmic, propulsive prose that weaves seamlessly from one consciousness to the next over the course of a day, Laurent Mauvignier's The Birthday Party is a deft unravelling of the stories we hide from others and from ourselves, a gripping tale of the violent irruptions of the past into the present, written by a major contemporary French writer.

25 Jan

Winter Swallows by Maurizio de Giovanni, translated by Antony Shugaar, Europa Editions ITALY (USA)

Christmas has just passed and the city is preparing to celebrate New Year when, on the stage of a variety show, famous actor Michelangelo Gelmi fires a gun at his wife, Fedora Marra. The shooting itself would be nothing strange: it is repeated every evening as part of their performance. But this time, someone replaced one of the blanks with a real bullet. Gelmi swears his innocence, but few believe him.

The Only Child by Mi-ae Seo, translated by Yewon Jung, Point Blank KOREA

Criminal psychologist Seonkyeong has two new people in her life. A serial killer whose gruesome murders shook the world but who has steadfastly remained silent. A young, innocent looking stepdaughter from her husband's previous marriage, who unexpectedly turns up at the door after the sudden death of her grandparents. Both are unsettling. Both are deeply troubled. And both seem to want something from her. Can she work out just who is the victim in all of this?

29 Jan

Nothing Is Lost by Cloé Mehdi, translated by Howard Curtis, Europa Editions

In a small town just like any other, a police identity check goes wrong. The victim, Saïd, was fifteen years old. And now he is dead. Mattia is just eleven years old, and witnesses the hatred and sadness felt by those around him. While he didn’t know Saïd, his face can be seen all over the neighbourhood, graffitied on walls in red paint, demanding “Justice”. Mattia decides to pull together the pieces of the puzzle, to try to understand what happened. Because even the dead don’t stay buried forever, and nothing is lost, ever.

2 Feb

You Will Never Be Found by Tove Alsterdal, translated by Alice Menzies, Faber & Faber SWEDEN

A body has been found locked in the basement of an abandoned house in the woods. Aside from the victim's name - which he carved into the wall before he died - the police have nothing to go On. Eira is still struggling with the aftermath of her last big case. But no one knows Ådalen like Eira, and she soon begins to immerse herself in this eerie new case.

Nothing Can Hurt You Now by Simone Campos, translated by Rahul Bery, Pushkin Press BRAZIL

Lucinda has lived her whole life in the shadow of her glamorous and outgoing high-end model sister Viviana. But when Viviana suddenly disappears on a trip to Sao Paulo, Lucinda drops everything to track her down. Met with indifference from the police, Lucinda joins forces with Viviana's girlfriend Graziane to launch her own investigation.

Mirror of our Sorrows by Pierre Lemaitre, translated by Frank Wynne, MacLehose Press FRANCE

Louise Belmont runs, naked, down the boulevard du Montparnasse.

To understand the tragic scene she has just experienced, she will have to plunge into the madness of the 'Phoney War', when the whole of France, seized by the panic of a new World War, descends into chaos.

7 Feb

The Island by Katrine Engberg, translated by Tara Chase, Hodder & Staunton, DENMARK

Jeppe Kørner, on leave from the police force and nursing a broken heart, has taken refuge on the island of Bornholm for the winter. Back in Copenhagen, Anette Werner is tasked with leading the investigation into a severed corpse discovered on a downtown playground. As she follows the strange trail of clues, they all seem to lead back to Bornholm. With an innocent offer to check out a lead, Jeppe unwittingly finds himself in the crosshairs of a sinister mystery rooted in the past, forcing him to team up with Anette and Esther to unravel the island’s secrets before it’s too late.

16 Feb

The Last Grudge by Max Seeck, translated by Kristian London, Welbeck FINLAND

While her colleagues investigate the brutal murder of a prominent businessman, Jessica Niemi must battle demons from her past. Powerful executive Eliel Zetterborg has been found murdered in his upscale Helsinki home. What at first seems like a straightforward case soon proves to be anything but when it becomes clear the murderer has other targets. The only clue the police have is a photo of Zetterborg with three men whose faces have all been scratched off.

The Hitchhiker by Gerwin van der Werf, translated by David Colmer, Text Publishing (USA) NETHERLANDS

Tiddo plans a holiday to Iceland, travelling the tourist circuit in a rented campervan. On their trip, they pick up a hitchhiker named Svein, who is tall, handsome and covered in tattoos of ancient runes. When Svein offers to guide them off the beaten track, Tiddo is conflicted. Does Svein pose a threat or offer salvation? Is there wisdom in his stories? What power do his tattoos hold?

23 Feb

The Mill House Murders by Yukito Ayatsuji, translated by Ho-Ling Wong, Pushkin Press JAPAN

Every year, a small group of acquaintances pay a visit to the remote, castle-like Water Mill House, home to the reclusive Fujinuma Kiichi, son of a famous artist, who has lived his life behind a rubber mask ever since a disfiguring car accident.

This year, however, the visit is disrupted by an impossible disappearance, the theft of a painting and a series of baffling murders. The brilliant Kiyoshi Shimada arrives to investigate. But will he uncover the truth?

7 Mar

Tina, Mafia Soldier by Maria Rosa Cutrufelli, translated by Robin Pickering-Iazzi, Soho Crime ITALY

Sicily, 1980s: When she was just eight years old, Tina watched as her father, a member of Cosa Nostra, was murdered in cold blood. Now a teenager, she terrorizes her hometown of Gela, having made it her mission to join the mafia, an organization traditionally forbidden to women as made members. Nicknamed ’a masculidda, or “the tomboy,” Tina has taken charge of her own gang, and is notorious for her cruelty and reckless disregard for societal expectations

16 March

Red Queen by Juan Gómez-Jurado, translated by Nicholas Caistor, Macmillan, SPAIN

Antonia Scott is special. Very special. She is not a policewoman or a lawyer. She has never wielded a weapon or carried a badge, and yet, she has solved dozens of crimes. But it's been awhile since Antonia left her attic in Madrid. The things she has lost are much more important to her than the things awaiting her outside. She also doesn't receive visitors. That's why she really, really doesn't like it when she hears unknown footsteps coming up the stairs. Whoever it is, Antonia is sure that they are coming to look for her.

The Hand That Feeds You by Mercedes Rosende, translated by Tim Gutteridge, Bitter Lemon Press URAGUAY

The attempted robbery of the armoured truck in the back streets of Montevideo was a miserable failure. A lucky break for the intrepid Ursula who manages to snatch all the loot, more hindered than helped by her faint-hearted and reluctant companion Diego. Only now, the wannabe robbers are hot on her heels. As is the police. And a private detective. And Ursula's sister. But Ursula turns out to be enormously talented when it comes to criminal undertakings, and given the hilarious ineptitude of those in pursuit, she might just pull it off. She is an irresistible heroine. A murderess with a sense of humor, a lovable criminal with an edge and she is practically invisible to the men who dominate the deeply macho society of Uruguay.

The Spider by Lars Kepler, translated by Alice Menzies, Zaffre SWEDEN

Three years ago, Saga Bauer received a postcard with a threatening text about a gun with nine white bullets - one of which is waiting for Detective Joona Linna. But time passed and the threat faded. Until now. A sack with a decomposed body is found tied to a tree in the forest. A milky white bullet casing is found at the murder scene. And soon the police are sent complicated riddles from the killer - a chance to stop further murders.

23 Mar

Mothers' Instinct by Barbara Abel, Translated by Susan Pickford, Harper Collins

David and Laetitia Brunelle and Sylvain and Tiphaine Geniot are inseparable friends and next-door neighbors in a pretty, tranquil suburb. Their sons Milo and Maxime, born in the same year, grow up together as close as brothers. But when Maxime is killed in an accident, their idyllic world shatters. Maxime's parents, Sylvain and Tiphaine, are consumed by grief and bitterness, while David and Laetitia are wracked with guilt for their role in the tragedy. Then a mysterious series of “accidents” begins to happen to Milo, raising Laetitia’s suspicions.

The Girl By The Bridge by Arnaldur Indridason, translated by Victoria Cribb, Vintage Publishing ICELAND

An elderly couple are worried about their granddaughter. They know she's been smuggling drugs, and now she's gone missing. Looking for help, they turn to Konrad, a former policeman whose reputation precedes him. Always absent-minded, he constantly ruminates on the fate of his father, who was stabbed to death decades ago. But digging into the past reveals much more than anyone set out to discover, and a little girl who drowned in the Reykjavik city pond unexpectedly captures everyone's attention.

30 March

The Sins Of Our Fathers by Asa Larsson, translated by Frank Perry, MacLehose Press SWEDEN

Forensic pathologist Lars Pohjanen has only a few weeks to live when he asks Rebecka Martinsson to investigate a murder that has long since passed the statute of limitations. A body found in a freezer at the home of the deceased alcoholic, Henry Pekkari, has been identified as a man who disappeared without a trace in 1962: the father of Swedish Olympic boxing champion Börje Ström. Rebecka wants nothing to do with a fifty-year-old case - she has enough to worry about. But how can she ignore a dying man's wish?

The Shadow Lily by Johanna Mo, translated by Alice Menzies, Penguin Books SWEDEN

Small-town police detective Hanna Duncker has a past. Her deceased father was convicted of murder and arson long ago, and she has taken up residence and resumed her police career in her hometown after his death. She and her partner Erik Lindgren are called to investigate the disappearance of a father and his infant son from their home while his pregnant wife was away on a weekend trip.

Lady Joker Vol 2 by Kaoru Takamura, translated by Allison Markin Powell and Marie Iide, John Murray Press JAPAN

This second half of Lady Joker, by Kaoru Takamura, the Grand Dame of Japanese crime fiction, concludes the breathtaking saga introduced in Volume I. Inspired by the real-life Glico-Morinaga kidnapping, an unsolved case that terrorized Japan for two years, Lady Joker reimagines the circumstances of this watershed episode in modern Japanese history and brings into riveting focus the lives and motivations of the victims, the perpetrators, the heroes and the villains.

Tomas Nevinson by Javier Marias, translated by Margaret Jull Costa, Hamish Hamilton Ltd SPAIN

Tomas Nevinson has left the secret service and returned to his old job working in the British Embassy in Madrid.

Assumed dead by his wife Berta, Tomas attempts to resume his previous life and heal from his psychological wounds. But when he is contacted by his old boss, Bertram Tupra, Nevinson reluctantly becomes involved in a plan to locate and eliminate a woman believed to have helped orchestrate the 1987 Hipercor bombing.

3 April

The Consultant by Im Seong-sun, translated by An Seon Jae, Raven Books KOREA

The Consultant is very good at his job. He creates elegant, effective solutions for … restructuring. Nothing obvious or messy. Certainly, nothing anyone would suspect as murder. The ‘natural deaths’ he plans have always gone well: a medicine replaced here; a mechanism jammed there. His performance reviews are excellent. And it’s not as though he knows these people. Until his next ‘customer’ turns out to be someone he not only knows but cares about, and for the first time, he begins to question the role he plays in the vast, anonymous Company. As he slowly begins to understand the real scope of their work, he realises just how easy it would be for the Company to arrange one more perfect murder.

13 Apr

Stigma by Thomas Enger and Jørn Lier Horst, translated by Megan E. Turney. Orenda Books, NORWAY

Incarcerated in a Norwegian high-security prison, a broken Alexander Blix joins forces with Emma Ramm to find a ruthless killer who has escaped from a German jail. Pulse-pounding Nordic Noir. Alexander Blix is a broken man. Convicted for avenging his daughter’s death, he is now being held in one of Norway’s high-security prisons. Inside, the other prisoners take every opportunity to challenge and humiliate the former police investigator .On the outside, Blix’s former colleagues have begun the hunt for a terrifying killer. Walter Kroos has escaped from prison in Germany and is making his way north.

Skin Deep by Antonia Lassa, translated by Jacky Collins, Corylus Books SPAIN

In the glamorous resort of Biarritz, the corpse of an elderly millionaire is discovered brutally scarred with acid burns in a downmarket rental apartment. Her young lover is the chief suspect but the authorities admit they are not entirely convinced about his guilt. It will take the intervention of private detective Albert Larten to explore all the complexities of desire, and ultimately reveal the truth.

4 May

Nineteen Claws and a Black Bird by Agustina Bazterrica, translated by Sarah Moses, Pushkin Press ARGENTINA

On hearing her neighbour's body plummet on to her patio, a woman's comfortable life seems to split open.

A cab driver's perfectly manicured nails may be concealing grisly secrets. In these tense, macabre stories, acclaimed author Agustina Bazterrica strikes to the dark heart of our desires, fears and fantasies.

11 May

Blood Ties by Veronica E Llaca, translated by Mark Fried, Mountain Leopard MEXICO

When the writer Ignacio Suarez is sent photos of two murdered women, mirroring a passage of his detective novel, he rushes to uncover who is responsible. What no one suspects is that the key to solving these crimes lies in the forgotten story of Felicitas Sanchez, the midwife turned child-killer who became known in the 1940s as 'The Ogress of Colonia Roma'.

Thirty Days of Darkness by Jenny Lund Madsen, translated by Megan E. Turney, Orenda Books DENMARK

Copenhagen author Hannah is publicly challenged to write a crime novel in thirty days. Scared that she will lose face, she accepts, and her editor sends her to Húsafjöður – a quiet, tight-knit village in Iceland, filled with colorful local characters – for inspiration. But two days after her arrival, the body of a fisherman’s young son is pulled from the water … and what begins as a search for plot material quickly turns into a messy and dangerous investigation that threatens to uncover secrets that put everything at risk … including Hannah.

Coffee and Cigarettes by Ferdinand Von Schrirach, translated by Kat Hall, Baskerville GERMANY

Von Schirach returns with gripping character portraits and short stories, as well as autobiographical vignettes and astute observations drawn from his life and career. From conversations with imprisoned clients, great writers and supreme court judges, and vignettes on art, film and smoking, to observations on Germany's heavy history - as well as his own family's. The result is a revealing, revelatory collection

25 May

Killing Moon by Jo Nesbø, translated by Robert Ferguson, Vintage Publishing NORWAY

Harry has gone to Los Angeles to drink himself to death, in the wake of his life back in Oslo falling to pieces. He’s nearly managed to, but Harry has been helping an older film actress, Lucille, to get away from the grips of a drug cartel to which she owes one million dollars, and in return she’s given him shelter, company and a tailored suit. In Oslo, two girls have disappeared and been found murdered and one of the suspects is a well-known real estate magnate. Katrine Bratt wants to bring in the country’s foremost serial killings expert, but the idea of collaborating with Harry Hole is out of the question for the chiefs of police.

The Invisible Web by Oliver Bottini, translated by Jamie Bulloch, Maclehose Press GERMANY

Berlin: A man is beaten up, the attacker escapes undetected. As a trail leads to Freiburg, Chief Inspector Louise Bonì is sent to investigate. It's a complex case: the attacker appears to be a professional, the victim a secret service informer, the only witness knows more than she's saying, and the domestic intelligence service is hovering in the background but refusing to cooperate. Industrial espionage appears to be at play, focused on the burgeoning solar energy sector.

Lazarus by Kjell Ola Dahl, translated by Don Bartlett, Orenda Books, NORWAY

Summer, 1943. When a courier for Sweden's Press and Military Office is killed on his final mission, the Norwegian government-in-exile appoints a writer to find the missing documents ... breathtaking WW2 thriller. Daniel Berkak works as a courier for the Press and Military Office in Stockholm. On his last cross-border mission to Norway, he carries a rucksack full of coded documents and newspapers, but before he has a chance to deliver anything he is shot and killed and the contents of his rucksack are missing.

Cult by Henrik Fexeus and Camilla Läckberg, translated by Ian Giles, Harper Collins, SWEDEN

A young child is snatched in broad daylight outside his nursery. Nobody in charge sees a thing, but the other children say a woman is the culprit… Detective Mina Dabiri calls on her close friend Vincent to untangle the puzzle that surrounds the kidnapped boy. As he finds a link between the boy and other others who have gone missing, it becomes clear that time is running out for everyone involved… Meanwhile, Mina’s estranged daughter gets caught up in the secretive world of Epicura, a shadowy organisation that claims to be a centre for leadership development. Can Mina protect her child—a child who doesn’t even know she exists?

1 Jun

The Collector by Anne Mette Hancock, translated by Tara Chase, Swift Press, DENMARK

When 10-year-old Lukas disappears from his Copenhagen school, police investigators discover that the boy had a peculiar obsession with pareidolia—a phenomenon that makes him see faces in random things. A photo on his phone posted just hours before his disappearance shows an old barn door that resembles a face. Journalist Heloise Kaldan thinks she recognizes the barn—but from where?

8 Jun

Inmate by Sebastian Fitzek, translator TBC, Head Of Zeus GERMANY

A desperate father. A terrible secret. Serial killer Guido T has already confessed to two horrific child murders and led the Berlin police to the horribly disfigured bodies. The police are sure he is also the kidnapper and murderer of six-year-old Max, who disappeared without trace a year ago. But now Guido T, who is being held in the high-security ward of a psychiatric prison hospital, is staying silent.

15 Jun

The Murder of Anton Livius by Hansjörg Schneider, translated by Mike Mitchell, Bitter Lemon Press SWITZERLAND

For Inspector Hunkeler the New Year begins with a most unwelcome phone call. He is summoned back to Basel from his holiday to unravel a gruesome killing in a gardening allotment on the city's outskirts. An old man known as Anton Fluckiger has been shot in the head and found hanging from a butcher's hook from the roof of his garden shed - like butchers hang the carcasses of dead animals.

The Woman Inside by M. T. Edvardsson, translator TBC, MacMillan SWEDEN

A wealthy couple ends up murdered in the nicest part of town in this compulsively readable, page-turning thriller from M. T. Edvardsson, The Woman Inside. Bill Olsson, recently widowed, is desperate to provide for his daughter, Sally. Struggling to pay rent, he welcomes a lodger into their home: Karla, a law student and aspiring judge, who works as a housekeeper to make ends meet. Her clients are the Rytters, an incredibly wealthy couple who hide behind closed doors. The wife is ill and hasn’t left the house in months. The husband is controlling and obsessive. Is he just a worried husband, concerned for his wife’s health? Or is there something more sinister at play?

29 June

The Devil's Flute Murders by Seishi Yokomizo, translated by Jim Rion, Pushkin Press JAPAN

The scruffy sleuth Kosuke Kindaichi investigates a series of gruesome murders within the feuding family of a brooding, troubled composer, whose most famous work chills the blood of all who hear it. The Devil's Flute Murders is an ingenious and highly atmospheric classic whodunit from Japan's master of crime.

Deadly Autumn Harvest by Tony Mott, translated by Marina Sofia, Corylus Books

When what seems to be a series of random murders start troubling the beautiful Carpathian town of Brașov, forensic pathologist Gigi Alexa is asked to collaborate with the police to handle one of the rare instances of a serial killer in Romania. Encountering prejudice as an ambitious woman in a misogynistic world, she soon discovers that the killer may be on her trail as well.

6 Jul

Death of the Red Rider by Yulia Yakovleva, translated by Ruth Ahmedzai, Pushkin Press RUSSIA

As the Red Terror gathers pace, a horseman and horse mysteriously collapse in the middle of a race in Leningrad. Weary Detective Zaitsev, still raw from his last brush with the Party, is dispatched to the Soviet state cavalry school in Novocherkassk, southern Russia, to investigate.

11 Jul

A Little Luck by Claudia Pinero, translated by Frances Riddle, Charco Press ARGENTINA

After twenty years, a woman returns to the suburban Argentina she had fled to escape a dreadful accident, a sense of guilt, and social condemnation, leaving her son behind.

But the woman who returns is not the same: she doesn't look the same, her voice is different, she doesn't even have the same name. After two decades spent in the United States, this damaged woman has rebuilt her life. Will those who knew her even recognise her? Will _he _recognise her? Not fully understanding her own reasons for going back to the place where she once lived and raised a family, and that she had been determined to forget forever, both anticipated encounters and unanticipated revelations show her that sometimes life is neither fate nor chance: perhaps her return is nothing more than a little luck.

The Stranger in the Seine by Guillaume Musso, translated by Rosie Eyre, Weidenfeld & Nicholson FRANCE

Paris, a misty night a few days before Christmas: a young woman is saved from the waters of the Seine. She is naked, doesn't remember her name or how she ended up in the river, but is still alive. The mysterious woman is taken to the hospital - and then disappears in thin air. DNA testing reveals her to be celebrated concert pianist.

Anatomy of a Killer by Romy Hausmann, translated by Jamie Bulloch, Quercus Publishing GERMANY

Berlin, 2017: several young girls have been disappearing for the past fourteen years. Red ribbons show the police the way to their bodies, but there's no trace of the killer. One evening, internationally renowned philosophy professor and anthropologist Walter Lesniak is arrested on the suspicion of the murders in the presence of his daughter, Ann. 'Professor Death' becomes the headline of the tabloid press and Lesniak himself refuses to cooperate with the police.

20 Jul

Blizzard by Marie Vingtras, translated by Stephanie Smee, Mountain Leopard Press, FRANCE

In a harsh, Alaskan landscape, four solitary characters are brought together by a desperate hunt to find a missing child. Blizzard is a gripping thriller. Quiet and unnerving, but building to a breath-taking dramatic climax. A blizzard rages in Alaska. In the storm, a woman stops for a moment to tie her shoelaces. Seconds later, the child under her protection has vanished. She searches for him, soon joined by the very few other inhabitants who live in this cold, desolate place. As the hunt intensifies - a race against the clock in these excruciating conditions to bring back the child alive - the inner demons and torments of each individual are revealed, and their uncanny connection to one another is finally unveiled.

You Can't See Me by Eva Björg Ægisdóttir, translated by Victoria Cribb, Orenda Books, ICELAND

A wealthy family is investigated and dark secrets exposed when a body is found on the lava fields outside the hotel where they’ve gathered for a reunion. This is a Forbidden Iceland prequel.

The Great Snake by Pierre Lemaitre, translated by Frank Wynne, Mountain Leopard Press FRANCE

Mathilde has always been a headstrong woman. A member of the French resistance when she was just eighteen years old, she both impressed and horrified everyone with her cool capacity for violence. Now it is 1985 and Mathilde is in her sixties. She is not as glamorous as she once was, but she continues to take great pride in all that she does. Recently, however, the sixty-three-year-old has been affected by loss of memory and erratic changes in mood that even her exasperated dog Ludo has noticed. This is a potentially dangerous situation, since Mathilde now makes her living as a contract killer...

27 Aug

Reykjavik by Katrín Jakobsdóttir and Ragnar Jónasson, translated by Victoria Cribb, Michael Joseph ICELAND

Iceland, 1956. Fifteen-year-old Lára spends the summer working for a couple on the small island of Videy, just off the coast of Reykjavík. In early August, the girl disappears without a trace. The mystery becomes Iceland's greatest unsolved case. What happened to the young girl? Is she still alive? Did she leave the island, or did something happen to her there?

31 Aug

The Girl In The Eagle’s Talons: Millennium 7 by Karin Smirnoff, translated by Sarah Death, MacLehose Press SWEDEN

Karin Smirnoff’s take on the Millennium series. The story that follows hacker Lisbeth Salander and investigative journalist Mikael Blomkvist, moves from Stockholm to Northern Sweden, an area vast and beautiful, but also dealing with economic and social problems and the effects of climate change and environmental exploitation.

Feral by Gabrielle Filteau-Chiba, translated by David Homel, Mountain Leopard Press, CANADA

Set in the Canadian forest, Feral is a feminist eco-thriller, a passionate love story and an ode to nature's ferocious beauty. Raphaelle, a forty-year-old forest warden, has been estranged from her family for many years. She lives with her beloved dog, Coyote, in a caravan deep in the Canadian woods.Fiercely independent and cut off from civilisation, she is always armed, protecting herself from bears, coyotes and lynxes who she in turn defends from sadistic, overzealous poachers. Soon after Raphaelle discovers animal footprints outside her cabin, her dog vanishes and is eventually found severely injured. And then it is not long before Raphaelle herself becomes the prey of the forest's ultimate predator, which is not animal, but man.

14 Sep

The Eye Collector by Sebastian Fitzek, Head of Zeus GERMANY

The first in a powerfully unsettling new trilogy by the master of the psychothriller, Sebastian Fitzek. First he kills the mother, then he kidnaps the child. The grieving father is given 45 hours to search for them. If the child isn't found, they die, never leaving the place they have been imprisoned. That's his method: the man they call the Eye Collector. Because the horror doesn't end there. All the bodies found are missing their left eye

To Be Confirmed...

The Prey by Yrsa Sigurdsdottir

The Beaver Theory by Antti Tuomainen

2024

20 Jun

The Children of the Cult by Mariette Lindstein, HQ

Previous lists here:

#crime fiction #crimeintranslation #european literature #novels in translation

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dtoussaint · 3 months

Text

《 Solo 》Into the Acheron

The meaning of things. It was such a fucking simple things; intention to communicate something that ain't directly expressed. That was what Google said! Sadly, this was an era of self-gratification, shit being delivered at your door faster than most could spelled their whole name and nobody giving a flying fuck about nor reading terms of agreement. People had either gone moronic, lazy or complacent in their self-gratification. And that was how humanity was going to implode one day.

And complacency had and would always be the downfall of his customers. The Toussaint Patriarch had raised his family to use passive attacks, cause really, money was most people's Achilles heel, but sometimes, painting the world a bit redder was the only choice left.

They called him eccentric, but Damien was aware that too many didn't take him seriously and it kinda was his own doing. It was always so easy to make people lower their guards when you mixed sass, wit and debonair attitude. His guards though; they rarely lowered; dweller's life obliged.

All of this to say that this moron had it coming!

Damien had no fucks to give about who people were. You could've been the Pope and he would make you pay like everyone else. In here, not even all the Toussaint were kings! But this fucking bastard; right from the way he'd looked at Damien, he'd known that shit would hit the fan.

"Et c'est parti mon kiki!" He'd exclaimed, and the traveller had asked about it. Damien had replied that it was a French expression used back in the days in the Quartier Pigalle in France by whores. That had amused the traveller and he hadn't been interested by the rest of the story.

But meaning was everything.

It'd taken about two hours before they'd started to see some sunlight again and the traveller had decide to seal his fate; deciding he'd no longer required his service, but also that he didn't need anyone to know about him. Damien had apparently missed a concealed weapon when he checked him over. Though, the traveller barely had time to take out his weapon and threaten him that the blade of a Swiss army knife had been shoved into the side of his neck. As he'd fallen to the ground; desperately and firmly holding his hands against the wound, Damien had just shook his head as the assailant came to stand beside him; a dweller.

"You asked me earlier about what I'd said, but you never gave me the chance to finish. If you'd let me told you the whole story, maybe you would've known better than to try something." Damien squatted down as he spoke; fumbling through his pockets for something very important. "You see, the kiki wasn't about gossiping and catching up, nor a ky-ky for fucking. The kiki was you; a customer. And saying that was so their fellow whores took a good look at the customer in case something bad happened. Down here, I say that to make sure someone has my back." His fingers came in contact with something cold and he grinned. "Tada! A parting gift for your next trip." He said tenderly; shoving a golden coin in his mouth and forcing said mouth closed; finishing the inevitable by drowning the traveller in his own blood.

"No one will find you. You'll be just another lost soul in the Acheron. If you're lucky, you'll be served in pieces to the pigs; it's true what they say about them. They eat everything." Damien watched the light leave the traveller's eyes. He was then handed a surgical stapler and stappled the dead man's mouth shut. "Merci beaucoup Floyd. He's all yours." He paid his gratitude to the dweller; giving him the stapler back. Damien straightened up, wiping his hands clean on the traveller's shirt; it had already been stained with blood anyway.

Damien cracked his back with the help of his cue stick; calling his grandpa about the situation and left mildly annoyed, but also unphased.

#{{about #{{Lone×Ferryman #death tw #murder tw #light gore tw

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ogmathestoryteller · 5 months

Text

Chapter 1 - Strange Beginnings

Blake watched Thomas and Jen stroll back to the town of Great Bear. Thomas needed more help to walk these days. Week by week his hair got whiter, his body slower and his skin more wrinkled. These mortals lived such short lives Blake thought. He was trapped in amber, watching the world go by.

Flowers were left by Alice's grave. He would take one later. It was making a fantastic project to dry flowers in the old bibles left behind.

There was a groan behind him. Lyle unzipped her tent. Her dark short hair was a mess and her light skin was paler than usual. She sniffed the air.

"I smell food." She muttered.

"You are not eating Thomas and Jen." Blake said, making sure they were closer to civilization than Lyle. They were nice. Thomas used to come on his own but now Jen would accompany him in his twilight years.

"You've never been any fun." she groaned again and stepped out of her tent. "Won't let me wear shoes inside or feed on the elderly." She was wearing last night's clothes. A rumpled blue shirt with black trousers. There was red speckled on the collar of her shirt and Blake smelt the unmistakable tang of blood.

"You see Blake, the elderly are like a aged bottle of Merlot. Their blood tells a story." She paused, biting her lip. "They also can't run away as fast." She added.

Blake picked up a book from the shelf and tossed it at her. She caught it with ease. Dried Lavender fell out of its pages in a purple shower.

"Very cute."

Lyle had made her home in the highest point of the chapel. In their tower now lay furniture and paintings. She had bought Blake books for him to read when she went out hunting in the dark winter nights. Lyle had even attempted to gain Internet access however she quickly cursed Great Bear's lack of signal.

"No matter." Lyle said zipping her tent back up. "I will just have to find a beautiful soul tonight to feed upon." She unzipped the tent in a new outfit. Her arms were bare and she wore a slim fit t-shirt with an American flag on. She gestured at the flag. "You know, without the French this would still be a colony of England. They really owe us."

"And what were you doing over the American revolution?" Blake asked.

"Watching from far away." She replied. "I don't have a taste for battle. The blood after however." She let the implication hang. She had told Blake pieces of her past over the last year she had lived here. She was born in France, had come across during the American revolution and decided to stay to watch the country grow.

Blake shook his head at Lyle. "That's gross."

"You're gross." Lyle replied indignantly. "Before me you were a naked Gargoyle covered in moss and slime."

"There were no clothes here." Blake argued. "Besides, no one in the congregation minded that I had my dick out."

"They also thought you were a lifeless Gargoyle for the last fifty years. I bet you liked it didn't you?" Lyle smirked. "Exposing yourself to the masses you pervert."

"Urg." Blake moaned. He shook his head again, leaving Lyle to her filth. He stepped over to his perch overlooking the cemetery and began to climb down the crumbling wall. When he first woke here there was still a congregation. A few men and women who sat in front of the pastor and listened intently. In the winter he woke earlier and was able to watch people from the rafters. He enjoyed listening to their conversations, it made him feel less lonely. Then one day people stopped coming. Apparently there was another bigger chapel in town and slowly his home crumbled around him. It was hard to fix with no tools.

Fireworks had already begun. Scarlet red and neon green bursts of light lit up the cemetery. Blake had never gone further than the cemetery in fifty years. He would stand guard of the sword Stoneheart every night. It was a simple longsword with it's named engraved on the side of the blade. The metal wasn't anything he had read of. It couldn't be broken or burnt or snapped in half. In one night of fury he had attempted to break the sword that kept him here. A sense of obligation that tied his soul to the blade. He felt physically sick if it left his presence for too long.

He picked a Aster flower from the bouquet, a small purple flower he would press later. In the distance he heard people whoop and scream. He sighed.

"Do you miss the sun?" Lyle appeared at his side. She looked at where the sun once was. In the orange glow of the fireworks she almost looked human. Her paper white skin had colour to it, her dark eyes looked less barren of humanity.

"I don't know what it's like. You can't miss what you never knew."

When the sun rose his body returned to stone. Having Lyle around made it easier. She didn't know the world by daylight either.

"I miss the warmth. I've been cold for so long." She murmered.

Blake put a arm around Lyle. Her eyes didn't move from the horizon. He wondered where she was when she first turned. Whether she had a choice in what she gave up. Lyle leant into Blake's shoulder and moved away.

"Anyway," she diverted away. "Tonight's the night."

"Excuse me?"

"You're coming out."

"No I am not. I have to guard-"

"Guard Stoneheart. Yes I know. It's all you talk about. But I see you watching the town with those big longing eyes. You might not admit it to me but you want out."

Blake shook his head and began to walk back into the church. He felt Lyle grab his arm. Her grip was strong. She might have broken his arm if he were not made of stone.

"Look at me Lyle." Blake said firmly. "The moment someone see's me they'll scream in terror and I'll be hunted down like Frankensteins monster. I'm not like you, I don't look human."

"You look human enough." She opened her rucksack and bought out a beanie, sunglasses and makeup. Lots of makeup. "We'll put you in a trousers and a long sleeved top. I can make your skin look more human. One night Blake."

"What about-"

Lyle flitted out of existence for a second then returned holding a guitar case. "The blade fits perfectly. I already took measurements. I even accounted for your back lumps."

Blake touched his back. He once had stone wings that stretched double his wingspan. He woke up in the night to find them shattered on the ground. He learnt that night that if a part of him was destroyed in the sun it was gone forever. In this form he was nigh indestructible as far as he could tell. Lyle once brought a crowbar home and attempted to hit him over the head with it. Instead it bent in half. Once the sun came up and he was turnt to stone he was vulnerable. He could be broken

"Okay. We'll go."

Lyle blinked slowly at him. "What?" She said. "Really?"

"Yes, really." He said, firmer this time, feeling confident in his decision. "I've been here alone for so long. This can't be it. I've been here alone for fifty years. No one is coming."

Lyle nodded. "Bring the sword anyway, perhaps there will be a breadloaf in need of slicing."

Xxx

Blake stood at the edge of the Cemetery. Lyle had spent a hour making him look as human as possible. He wore a white long sleeved top and jeans with loafers. She had put a salmon pink beanie in him to hide the horns, sunglasses and had covered his face in makeup. He still looked grey but now it was the sickly grey of a unfortunate Victorian boy. Human enough.

He took a step out.

Blake turned back. "I can't do it." He told Lyle. "I forgot, I have to sharpen stoneheart tonight and there is this great book on birds that-"

Lyle took Blake's hand with surprising gentleness and hugged him.

"You can do this. Just one step at a time. If it's too much, we'll leave."

"What if the humans realize I'm not one of them?"

"They'll be drunk. You'd be lucky if someone could recognize themselves in the mirror." She squeezed his hand. "I'll convince them they didn't see anything. We vampires have a way with words."

Blake took a long breath. He put one foot out. Then another and another.

He felt a vibration under the ground as he stepped on the dirt path leading to Great Bear. Blake stopped again.

"Did you feel that?"

"Adventure calling? Absolutely Blake." Lyle said, pulling him along. "Let me tell you, you are going to love the carnival Great Bear puts on. I've heard it's to die for."

#writerscommunity #writers on tumblr #writing #young adult #new adult #supernatural #gargoyles #vampire #original story #monster hunter #van helsing #witches #lgbtqia #lgbtq #werewolves

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