#frenchman bay

[asteria-photo]

Bar Harbor, Maine and surrounding islands from the water.

Camera: Pentax K-70

Lens:  Pentax DA 50mm F1.8

[jmpphoto]

Lava Butte Sunrise by James Marvin Phelps Via Flickr: Lava Butte Sunrise Lake Mead National Recreation Area Nevada November 2022

[emperornorton47]

Cubic Prism #2

[theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction]

High on that Vought BS

Pairing: The Boys x Reader (all platonic)

Warnings: Strong language.

Summary: The Boys attempt to tangle you in their mess once again.

You opened the door, ready to grab the pizza boxes and shove a hefty tip in the delivery persons hand when you found yourself staring into the face of an old acquaintance. He also happened to be holding your pizza order.

“This is has got to be a nightmare.” You said as Billy Butcher made his entrance into your home with a younger looking kid trailing behind.

“No, Y/n. We’re about to start some fucking nightmares.”

Locking the door shut, you pulled down the curtains in the living room before dashing around to other areas of your house to lock it down. When you returned, you found Butcher admiring the tealight candles on the fireplace mantle.

“What are you doing here? We had an agreement.”

Butcher nodded, “We did - but if I recall correctly, you didn’t want to see my ugly mug until I had something concrete. Well, now I do.”

“Oh my god.” Your eyes widened. “You’re high on that Vought bullshit again, aren’t you?”

“It’s not bullshit, we can take ‘em down.” Butcher rolled his eyes, tired of not being believed in.

“We?”

Two sets of footsteps descended down the stairs and you jumped around only to find more familiar faces. Whipping back around, you glared at Butcher.

“Are you serious? You brought Frenchie and MM into this again? For fuck sake.”

Butcher merely shrugged like it wasn’t anything. His nonchalant behaviour had you ready to tear him into shreds, and you stepped in his direction only to be distracted by MM.

“Hey, it’s alright. We chose to be here.” He insisted and calmed his friend down. Flashing a kind smile, MM gave you a warm hug. “It’s good to see you again.”

MM stepped away and Frenchie took his place.

“Mon très cher ami.” The Frenchman grinned, his hug was so tight it felt like old times again.

Butcher smirked off to the side, “Now that we’re reacquainted, I’d like you to meet the newest addition - step up, Hughie, don’t be shy.”

The boy he arrived with made his presence known. You were so focused on the familiar faces that the kid practically blended into your home decor.

“Hi.” He greeted sheepishly, unsure of what to do with himself.

You glared at Butcher and he had an explanation prepped. “Don’t give me that look. Kid’s girlfriend was vertically split by that speedy fucker A-Train. So he’s very much ‘high on that Vought bullshit’.” He said casually and you noticed the pain on Hughie’s face. Clearly this was a recent incident.

“We need your help - specifically, your intel.”

Crossing your arms, you let out a laugh which took the others by surprise.

“Seriously? Did you think that a single nostalgic visit was going to be enough for me to just roll over?”

“The alternative was torturing you.” Butcher deadpanned.

MM shook his head instantly, “Nope, that was never an option.” He corrected and shot a look at Butcher who merely shrugged.

Butcher stepped forward, “Come on, Y/n. You’re the best person we know who can dig up dirt on the Seven’s weaknesses. Like that almond allergy for Black Noir that you released to the world? That was amazing. His haters were sending him almond scented fan mail for weeks. Fucker was confined to the tower medical bay for weeks.”

You stared at the men in your house. They had broken promises and laws in the span of ten minutes just to get help. You weren’t obligated to lift a finger… but that didn’t mean you weren’t curious to know what they had discovered.

“I’m not ‘joining the fun’ but I need to know what you know before I can offer anything of value.” You told them.

Butcher smirked. “You’re going to love this.”

Masterlist here

[lichtschimmer]

USA, Maine, Winter Harbor, Frenchman Bay - webcam

[formula1fanfiction]

Charles Leclerc / Pierre Gasly

Title: i'll take things into my own hands

Pairing: Charles Leclerc / Pierre Gasly

Characters: Charles Leclerc, Pierre Gasly

Prompt: would you consider doing piarles with bottom!charles?

Charles had been waiting all day to get Pierre to fuck him, all day! Pierre had told him this morning that if Charles had got onto the podium, he would should him an amazing time.

Pierre had been a little shit all day, whispering stuff into his ear, telling Charles exactly what he's going to do him, rubbing himself against Charles' ass. He had spent half the day with an annoying boner, which is never a good thing when you're in charge of a race car.

He had jumped Pierre the second they had gotten into Charles' ugly hotel room, the decor being dark and olive green. He had just gotten Pierre out of clothes, the Frenchman spread out on the bed in just his boxers when his phone started to ring. Charles had told him to answer but he had anyway. 

"Yes, I know it could have been worse but-" Pierre says to god knows who, his cock has already gone soft. Charles can't take it anymore, he strips himself completely naked and leaves them in a messy pile on the floor. He catches Pierre's eyes, something sparkles in the blues but he goes back to answering whatever question he was just asked.    

"Fuck you, Pierre." Charles takes matters into his own hands and straddles Pierre's waist. Pierre can't keep the gasp at bay and Charles hears the person on the phone asking Pierre if he's okay. Oh this is going to be very fun.

First he leans down and places a kiss on Pierre's neck, knowing very well that it turns him on, feeling a little mischievous Charles bites down hard and sucks a little hickey there. Pierre lets out a mixture of a moan and pained grunt he apologises to the guy on the phone but continues to talk to them. WHAT WILL IT TAKE?

Charles kisses his way down Pierre's neck, down to his chest. Pierre doesn't even flinch, at least not until Charles takes his nipple into his mouth, while squeezing down on the other one. He's looking down at Charles with an unreadable expression, Charles just smiles at him, letting the nipple slip out and continues kissing his way down Pierre's body until he reaches the hem of his boxer shorts.

He slowly lowers them down Pierre's waist, exposing his now very hard cock. Pierre's looking at him again, there might be a please don't in there but if Pierre wants him to stop, he's going to have to tell him.

Charles wraps his hand around Pierre's cock, it's very big it almost makes Charles' hand look small. There's a small bead of pre cum bubbling to the surface of Pierre's slit, just seeing it makes Charles' mouth water, so he licks it off.

Pierre grips handfuls of the bed sheets as Charles takes him into his mouth, he concentrates on the head, kitten licking it and swirling his tongue around. Pierre's slowly starting to lose his composure, all to Charles' delight.

Charles takes the whole of Pierre's cock into his mouth, he struggles through the gag reflex, the holds."Fuck."  Charles presses Pierre's strong thighs into the bed, stop him bucking up while he drags his mouth up and down the shaft covering Pierre's cock in spit and saliva. Pierre has fully lost it, he's thrown his head back into the pillows, teeth sunk into his bottom lip.

Charles works Pierre even faster, forcefully moving his mouth up and down using his tongue for the extra pleasure. He pulls off Pierre's cock, just in time to hear him saying goodbye to whoever the fuck he was talking to.

"What the fuck was that Charles?" Pierre sounds wrecked, he doesn't get to dwell on it for long though because he finds himself roughly flipped over, his back pressed against the bed sheets while Pierre is on his knees between Charles' legs.

"Just can't wait for my dick can you?" That's exactly it, Pierre! Charles wants to say but the words get lost because Pierre grabs the bottle of lube and pours a generous amount onto his fingers. Charles can't wait to feel them inside of him.

Pierre circles his fingers around Charles' hole and slowly starts to sink a finger inside of him, he moves agonisingly slow, this is obviously payback from his earlier teasing. Pierre twists and turns the single digit, only then does he slide a second finger inside to join the first one. Charles moans, just to let Pierre know he's really enjoying himself, especially when he starts to fuck him with them, quickly adding a third one before judging Charles open enough for his cock.

Charles just watches as Pierre gives himself a few hard strokes. "I don't think i'm going to last long after all the teasing you did." Pierre laughs as he wraps Charles' legs around his waist and nudges the head of his cock against Charles' hole and sinks inside of him. Pierre goes slowly at first, just to be a tease more than anything, he gives up about half way through then slams home with one swift move. They both cry out, especially Charles who is finally filled to the brim with Pierre's dick.  

"Move, P" Charles withers underneath him, he doesn't need time to adjust he just wants to get fucked into the bed sheets. "Maybe you'll think twice before teasing me during important phone calls." Pierre waits a few more seconds, the little shit and only then does he start to move, pulling all the way out only to slam back inside again.

Charles moans like a cheap whore and couldn't give a shit about it, he's finally getting what he needs. Pierre has built up a proper rhythm and is sinking harder and deep with every thrust into Charles' body.

"You don't even deserve my cock after everything you've done today." Pierre squeezes Charles' hips even harder, there are sure to be bruises in the morning. Charles' doesn't care, he loves having Pierre's marks littered over his body. "It's a good thing I love you isn't it." Pierre angles his thrusts and Charles feels a strong wave of pleasure wash over him.

The waves of pleasure come strong and fast as Pierre continues pound into his prostate, Charles digs his nails into Pierre's skin, leaving scratches in his wake. "Think you can come like this?" Pierre's breathless like he's holding back his own orgasm, Charles can only nod as Pierre is still pounding into him. It doesn't Charles long, he draws blood from scratching at Pierre as he reaches the height of his orgasm, painting his load over his own stomach.

Pierre fucks Charles through his orgasm, much slower as not to overwhelm him. Pierre himself doesn't take much longer to reach his own orgasm, he screams Charles' name as he comes, filling Charles with the warmth of his orgasm.

"I still can't believe you did that, you little shit." Pierre giggles as he drops to the bed, Charles opens his arms and Pierre rolls into them instantly, all most a role reversal.   

"I'm your little shit though."   

[tidewalker77]

From atop Cadillac Mountain looking down on Frenchman's Bay. Bar Harbor, Maine.

[phandomtaleweaver]

“Chien de Garde”

No parings, fluff, humor, 700+ words

New to the team, Finka always get the feeling she’s being watched when she talks to Doc, Monty might be able to tell her why

(Please don’t come at me for my French or Russian, I used google translate)

Only a week after the team had returned from Truth and Consequences, Finka visited Doc in the med bay for the first time. The conversation had been innocuous, some follow up about the Chimera Virus. The doctor had been working in the main area of the med bay, rather than his office. After leaving Lera couldn’t shake the feeling that she and the doctor were being watched. Nothing terribly sinister, just the simple feeling of being observed. Thinking back, Finka didn’t remember seeing anyone else in there, as Jäger, the only patient, had moved back to his own room, where he was far more comfortable.

Over the next couple of weeks Lera noticed the same feeling, but only when she was talking to Doctor Kateb. She thought about asking him about it, or Oliver, except the latter might start a fight. Finally, after three weeks, Lera had had enough, so she approached the next closest person to Gustave to see if he knew anything: Gilles “Montagne” Toures.

She approached him one quiet evening in the common room. Most other operators were doing their own things elsewhere or had gone out to the pub for a pint and Lera and Gilles were virtually alone in the common area. Gilles sat on a couch reading a book titled Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. She sat on a chair catty corner to him and he looked up.

“Um, hello, Toures, I hope I’m not interrupting your reading.”

The older man chuckled, a rich, warm sound and shook his head. He then inclined his head for her to continue.

“I have an odd question, but one I don’t know who else to ask,” she watched his face for any adverse reaction, but none came. He merely maintained his previous warm expression, waiting patiently for her to continue. “Do you ever feel like you're being watched when you talk to Doctor Kateb?”

The Frenchman looked incredulous then seemed to think for a moment. “Non,” he finally responded. “But I may know what you are-” he paused searching for the word “-signifier, oh, what you mean.” He stopped speaking, realizing his faulty English was probably hard to understand. “I know, what the feeling you have, I understand it. You are aware of Gustave’s “Chien de Garde”. His, uh, guard dog.”

“His guard dog?”

“Oui, I can introduce you.”

“Why not?” Lera chuckled, still slightly confused.

Gilles stood and beckoned for her to follow him, “Viens.”

The two walked to the med bay together in companionable silence, and a bit of anticipation on Lera’s part. Upon arriving Lera saw the med bay looked empty, aside from the doctor organizing something. The minute they were fully in the room, the CBRN specialist felt like she was being watched.

“Bonsoir, Docteur,” Gilles greeted.

“Salut, vieil ami. добрый вечер, Lera. What brings the two of you here so late? Not an injury I hope.”

“Non,” Gilles smiled, with just the slightest hint of mischief in his eyes. “Lera wanted to meet your Chien de Garde.”

The Doctor rolled his eyes and shook his head. “He is in my office if you wish to speak with him.” He turned back to what he was doing.

“Not any more,” a voice said from the doorway of the aforementioned office. Lera looked and there stood Dominic Brunsmeir. Lera had never met the man formally, but he had been waiting for the team when they had returned from T&C, only to remain at Jager’s side till he was released back to his own room. She had heard jokes and whispers about him possibly being a drug dealer, though she doubted that. She realized in that moment that his intense blue eyes observing her was the feeling she had felt all those times talking with the doctor.

“I don’t see why you find it necessary to terrorize everyone, Dom,” Gustave sighed, breaking the silence.

“I'm not terrorizing anyone, artz, just keeping you company,” the German smiled, attempting to look innocent and failing.

“You are as good at keeping me company as Tania would be, you just like to lurk,” the doctor shot him a faux glare. Then turning to Lera he continued. “He hangs around me to make sure no one bullies me, though I don't need it. I think he just likes to scare people, hence the nickname Gilles and Julien have given him: Chien de Garde.”

[miamierre]

triage (ao3 link & under the cut) (1,571 words) summary: It’s been a while since it’s been like this. 

It's been a while since it's been like this.

Not the being in Charles' bed part, of course: some things never change even when they do and if there is one thing Pierre knows about himself, it's that he will never be able to deny himself the pleasure of Charles, no matter when.

But the Charles who is clinging to him as he sinks in again and again, slow and steady and as delicate as he knows how to be, is one Pierre hasn’t seen in a very long time. There’s the Charles caught up romance, soft with love and affection who wants to kiss and touch Pierre all over, and then there is this Charles: the one who’s quiet, curled in on himself, desperate to not be himself in a way that’s uncharacteristically self-conscious.

Truth be told, this wasn't even the reason Pierre had come over for in the first place. When he’d heard the news about the breakup, he'd showed up at Charles’ doorstep to check on his best friend, because he's never been good at processing this type of thing for as long as they've known each other, and this is Charlotte. They’ve been together for years. He'd imagined there would be children involved someday, and had been absentmindedly planning around the future that would come with it. There had always been certainty here.

He's clutching Pierre at the waist with both legs, now, locking him in as his face is planted so firmly in the Frenchman's shoulder it's undoubtedly going to leave some kind of imprint. "Charlie," Pierre murmurs as he bottoms out again, presses a kiss to the lobe of his ear just to hear the muffled noise of devastated pleasure spill from him, so small and quiet Pierre knows that he's still trapped in his head. "Charles, sweetheart, you are okay. I'm here with you.” He thrusts in again, knocking the shaky breath Charles had been taking in right out of him. “I will not let you go."

It’s the truth, and would be even if Pierre weren't fucking him with the goal of the inevitable relief of mindlessness. He pulls out and thrusts back in again and Charles makes a choked sob-like noise in his skin. Pierre imagines it's closer to tears than either of them care to acknowledge. He's not planning on going anywhere any time soon, especially not with the hurt in his eyes he'd caught a glimpse of when Charles answered his door earlier.

It was all downhill from there. Charles had tucked into him immediately, face burrowed in the crook of Pierre's neck, the words it's over filling his ears like a song he hates to love. Some babbled explanation had followed, mostly muffled in the thick fabric of Pierre's hoodie, but it didn't really matter because one moment, they were hugging in the doorway of his apartment, and the next Charles was dragging him into the bedroom, eyes so dark and sad and needy that it would be obvious to anyone what he'd been after. And Pierre is not just anyone.

"Pierre," Charles whines, clenching around him, ankles locking so Pierre can't move. "Pierre, Pierre, I—" His eyes are so wide, sparkly from the tears he's so clearly trying to keep at bay, and Pierre aches seeing it: how he does this every time, pours himself entirely in until he loses himself in it because that's all he knows how to do, love love love until he breaks. He does it with every relationship he's ever had: Giada, Ferrari, now Charlotte—he's never going to learn how to reserve himself, not ever.

Pierre loves him so terribly that he could never imagine any other version of him.

"Shhh," Pierre murmurs, thumbing tenderly at the flushed-red apple of his best friend's cheek before pressing a tender kiss to the bow of his upper lip. "Charles, I have you. It's okay. You will be okay." It's true. Pierre will make it true. Charles arches into him, presses Pierre deeper just to moan gutturally in his ear again. "Fuck, Charles."

"Only you, Pierre," Charles gasps. He eases up on his grasp so Pierre can fuck into him again, another slow but purposeful thrust, and whines high in his throat. "Never again, only you—only, fuck, Pierre, only you." The tears on his cheek have started to dry a little, although they're shiny enough with sweat that the difference between the two is negligible. He's starting to lean back into the pillows again, eyes screwed shut, which means, as Pierre knows, that he's starting to turn his brain off for the night. There will be plenty of time after this for him to return to the hurt in his stomach, and Pierre knows he will likely be rehashing that feeling for days and weeks to come, but at least now Pierre has won: his best friend is accepting the feelings, the pleasure, the emotion between them that always seems so ugly to Pierre in the daylight. He loves Charles so fiercely it feels wrong. At least, it used to, when he was all but engaged to his girlfriend and still riding Pierre's cock every non-race weekend they got to spend together. The lingering shame of it hasn't faded, even if the cause of it no longer exists.

So Pierre already knows, then, Charles doesn't mean what he's promising. It sounds sweet, sweeter than he could ever imagine, but they've done this before, this reunion of the body. Almost this exact scene, to boot. Charles has told him this before. He’s said this and still it never changes.

It will never stop him from trying to give what is needed—it’s Charles, and Pierre would do anything to take care of him—but he knows better than to believe.

Instead, he just keeps moving, hips rolling in time with Charles', chasing the whimpering sounds off his lips as he echoes the empty sentiment: "only for me," repeated over and over, like he could manifest it being true if he says it enough. Charles eats it up, too—whimpers as the words fill his ears, face flush and all shiny-hot, nodding along like he wants it to be true, too. He meets every thrust of Pierre’s with eagerness, untucks himself from his shoulder every few moments to catch him in a messy kiss that’s almost more of a bite than anything else, then goes back to the safety of Pierre’s neck.

To have him so exposed like this feels unsafe, to Pierre—like any moment he could shatter apart, or even worse: like he could worm his way into Pierre's chest and do real damage, now, really break down the wall he's been putting up all these years.

That's always the thing with him: he's always dangerous, always. To Pierre, fatally so.

But he’s never had a good sense of self preservation as it is. Pierre just continues to lave attention to every bit of his best friend he can, teeth scraping at the gradually-formed scruff at Charles' jaw and then nuzzling it insistently as he gets a particularly good angle in. Charles keens. "I will take care of you, bebe, I always will," he whispers, pressing another sharp kiss to his heated skin.

Charles writhes beneath him, clutching tighter at his shoulders so that his blunt nails dig more insistently into his skin. "'m sorry," he whimpers as the filthy slap of skin-on-skin starts to pick up in the silence of Charles' room. "Pierre, 'm sorry, please, I–fuck, fuck," the rest of the sentence broken off into a shattered moan as Pierre gets him just right again. He's close. He's been close. Charles may have been in a steady relationship for all this time but Pierre is more than confident that no one fucks his best friend the way he does.

(The thought behind that, briefly, is dizzying: that maybe the two of them had been here last week, Charles splayed out on his back the way he loves, sweaty and feverish to the touch as her manicured nails dig—

"Oh, Pear, I—I'm gonna—" Charles doesn't even get a chance to finish his sentence before he shudders against Pierre, sticky heat splattering into the space between their stomachs. The noise drawn from the back of his throat is thready, barely-there but right in Pierre's ear, and he chokes on a half-formed series of thank you, thank you, Pierre, I love you as he comes down.

Apparently, that's all it takes. With a groan, his hips jerk clumsily as he fucks Charles through his own orgasm, relishing the way he continues to hold on for dear life. The faint sound of his name repeated into the flesh of his shoulder, the shape of it on his lips so hot he’s practically branding Pierre’s shoulder with it.

“Pierre,” Charles whispers, fingers digging into his back. He nuzzles more into the crook of Pierre’s neck, whimpering softly as Pierre pulls out of him with a low groan. One leg tucks between Pierre’s own as he half-tugs Charles onto his chest. “Pierrot, please. Do not leave.” He hums. “I’m sorry. Please.”

They’ll talk about this later. For now, Pierre just hums soothingly, rubbing a slow, wide circle into his back, no longer wound up and tight the way it had been before. “Calamar, there is nowhere I would rather be than here with you.”

[asteria-photo]

SEALS!!!

(Bar Harbor, Maine)

Camera: Pentax K-70

Lens: Pentax DA 50mm F1.8

[tf2-oneshots]

i have a silly lil hc that boils down to pyro and spy being long lost siblings, could i please have a oneshot of what happens when thats found out?

Dear god…of course you can

Warnings: none!

Rating: General

Medic couldn’t believe the results. He stares at the sheets of paper, eyes flickering between the two in his hand. Multiple grey streaks were printed onto the lines, many of which were in identical placements. He scans them, confirming their matching positions before setting the papers down.

Earlier, he collected blood samples from each member of the team. He ran it through his fancy new machine, giggling as he pressed the buttons to run his tests. When the last sheet of data escaped the clunky printer, Medic came to a startling realization.

Spy and Pyro were siblings! Full blood and everything. Medic grabbed both of their papers, hurrying out of the medbay to find them in the common room with the other mercenaries. The doctor clears his throat.

“Spy, Pyro, could you two come with me?” The papers are held close to his chest, concealing their contents. Pyro looks up from their coloring book, head tilted with curiosity. They set the periwinkle crayon back inside the box and stand. Spy, however, has gone completely invisible.

Medic looks around only for his sheets to be snatched out of his arms. Spy uncloaks, analyzing the papers much to Medic’s dismay. The doctor tries to snatch them back, but a hand to his face keeps him at bay. The two hiss like cats, trying to fight for the papers. Medic pulls on Spy’s arm while the Frenchwoman fights to keep his distance.

“Whatever is on these papers can—“ He pauses, eyes wide at the fine print. Medic finally takes the papers back, glowering at Spy’s rude behavior. That is, until Scout snatches the same sheets out of his hands. He hunches over, blocking Medic from taking them back.

“Lemme read it, god! Ok, uh, Spy’s got a, uh, sib-ling match with…Pyro.” Scout’s jaw drops. Pyro slaps their hands to their cheeks, demonstrating their shock. Medic grabs Scout, throwing him onto the nearby couch and finally getting his precious lab results back.

“Well, since none of you care about patient confidentiality, I might as well tell everyone your secrets! Scout, you have a—“ The younger shouts, tackling Medic to stop him from speaking. He covers the man’s mouth, loudly shushing him with panic in his face. Bandaged hands are pressed to the German’s mouth before being yanked off.

“Dear god. Men, Spy has been lying to us! I always knew you weren’t from Paris, Texas!” Soldier jumps from the couch, forcing Spy into a headlock with a war cry. He punches the woman in the face despite the protesting screams coming from her.

“Get off of me!” Spy stabs the American in the back before sliding his larger body to the floor. She rolls his shoulders, straightening his back with a brush to her sleek suit. Bastard could have stained it.

Spy marches away, infuriated and confused by the revelation. Pyro? His sibling? Don’t make her laugh! That psycho was probably raised by fire obsessed wolves! There’s no way Pyro of all people comes from the refined and quaint city he refuses to name for anonymity.

Hours go by after the ordeal. Spy had retreated to his smoking room, quietly huffing one of his cigarettes. There’s a knock to his door, which drags his attention away from his newspaper. As it creaks open, she has a feeling she knows who it is.

“Mmph, mmph mn?” Pyro peaks their head into the room. Their glass eyes look to the Frenchman as he sets down the paper. Spy stands, approaching them with an exhausted look.

“Don’t tell me you believe that crazed doctor? I believe that those results were a mistake.” Pyro makes another muffle, hand gesturing slightly before they fully enter the room. They hold a tray of eclairs, and from the looks of it, they were freshly baked.

“A peace offering? Well, who am I to say no to that?” Spy takes one eclair, deciding to spoil herself today. After being punched in the face, he deserves a reward. Taking a bite, he instantly perks. Its delicious! The cream was mixed perfectly, and the chocolate has just the right amount of sugar. Its almost familiar to Spy. Too familiar.

She swallows, not daring to take another bite. It…it can’t be. He looks into those empty glass eyes that never blink. Pyro stares, hands still holding the tray of eclairs. Their filter emits a soft sound with every breath they take.

“This is mother’s recipe.”

Rip Spy -H

[etherdwellers]

@covrroucer

while alive, julian had been a political behemoth, tasked with all manner of important duties. he'd played as hard as he worked, certainly, but was known for strategy as much as escapades. for the most part he'd tried to cultivate an air of finesse.

in death, he played hide and seek.

he didn't want to, but kitty, much like a junior partner in a coalition, had mastered the art of whine. if he and his fellow phantoms hadn't agreed to participate, they'd never hear the end of it—which was how he found himself in the kitchen doorway, holding up a palm to keep a frenchman at bay. a predicament he'd often encountered in life.

"oh, no. think again, mate." julian's voice was a low hiss, though he needn't have bothered. kitty rarely thought to check the area of the house in which a round had begun. "this is a prime strip of hiding steak and i'm not gonna let you spoil my perfect record." well, he hadn't wanted to play. that didn't mean he wasn't now in it to win it.

[emperornorton47]

Forest and Bay (pinhole)

[faulknxr]

the peregrine soliton.

closed starter ft. @agenthemingway, mentions of @dxckinson.

setting: multiple locations.

timeframe: various times.

summary: the recruitment of a new agent. the beginning of a friendship. the premature end to a mission.

content warnings: none for this part. future content may include depictions of depression, period-typical homophobia, suicidal ideation, etc., triggers will be updated within the tags.

1986. 18th of September.

The clouds by Agent Dickinson’s head roll across the plane’s oval window like chronophotographs, its animated stroll across the sky, each phase of the movement, captured in the lens of Faulkner’s eyes. He hasn’t seen the wisps of cirrus clouds rush by like busy traffic since almost a decade ago when this agent last took to the air. And never has he witnessed them in something as dandy as business class. But for his snoozing partner seated by the window, it’s his first time leaving the country on a plane (and boarding a plane in general). From a technical point of view, it is more efficient and discreet to have their trip to and back from France to be as comfortable for them and their guest.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping man beside him, Faulkner slides out the files from his briefcase and reviews them again. He reminds himself to breathe out through his nose after his chest lightly pangs due to a lack of oxygen. His fingers do not tremble, but his vision does, blurring the name on the brief before focusing back into clarity. Dark, dark brown eyes linger on the photo in the file.

He is so young here to the point of unrecognition.

Agent Faulkner parts his lips no more significant than a millimeter apart and inhales. It's soundless, like how they taught in boot camp. But basic training hasn't covered the skills required for this Herculean feat. This is the only time he has experienced a physical ailment close to sickness that clams up his hands and dampens the crisp white collar of his dress shirt, spiteful of the handkerchief Agent Faulkner carries to keep his indecorousness at bay.

Then, if his background fails him, Faulkner can only fall back on the lessons from his best tutor. However, that dearly venerated man no longer extends visits. He last saw Faulkner a long time ago.

The ding of the seatbelt sign signals their plane's descent. Feeling his partner would enjoy the view, Agent Faulkner gently nudges the man at his left and whispers, "Agent, please wake up. I believe you would like to see Nice."

Their contact meets them when the two agents exit Aéroport Nice Côte d'Azur, leading them to a parking lot and passing them the keys to a partridge-gray Citroën GSA. The thin, bearded man gives them a once-over before he tuts. Crossing his arms, the contact inquires with an arched brow, « Savez-vous tous où aller? »

Having studied the maps and trekked through the French coastline in his youth, Faulkner nods. The other man cocks his head with a frown, and a small puff of air is forced from his wrinkled lips. Seeing that the man is unconvinced, Agent Faulkner says in pleasantly accented Niçard, « Òc, n’ai una foura, monsieur. Mercés a ouf. »

The Frenchman does a double-take, muttering to himself, « Porca petan. Que lenga a, a Paris va. »

Agent Faulkner opens the door for Agent Dickinson in the front passenger seat — to which he receives a grin and a softly whispered thanks — and goes to place their luggage in the trunk — to which Dickinson jolts up in his seat and says, “No, let me help.” But Faulkner declines, heading to the back of the car as the man is clearly going through his first bout of jetlag.

Giving their contact another professional smile after getting their luggage in order, Agent Faulkner climbs into the driver’s seat to the lively tune of a French pop song. It is his mission partner’s doing, already establishing musical accompaniment in their drive along the coastal mountainside. It’s only been a year of teaming together, but they have found their respective roles.

According to the brief, the drive from the airport to the Alpes-Maritimes commune Sainte-Agnès will take roughly two hours. Agent Dickinson has the map open to call out directions to the streets, his face in a slight frown while turning back and forth between the English and French sides of the road map. On a gray-blue September morning at ten hundred hours, the two Temporal Agents drive out of the parking lot.

Faulkner keeps his eyes on the road, two hands on the wheel, focusing on the drive while his mission partner looks out the window and whistles at the view of the slate-blue sea. The Mediterranean Sea, which hugs the Southern French coastline, is connected to the more immense Atlantic Ocean but is almost entirely enclosed by land. At the north are Southern Europe and Anatolia, opposite at the south are the Northern countries of Africa, and its east is bordered by the West Asian Levant.

In the Mediterranean Sea’s grand history, the Roman Empire is the only state ever to control its coasts in a nautical hegemony. The sea’s name comes from the Romans. The 3rd-century Latin grammarian and geographer Gaius Julius Solinus, better known simply as Solinus, called it Mare Mediterrāneum, which means the sea ‘in the middle of land,’ or inland; the term a compound of the Latin words ‘middle’ medius, ‘land’ terra, and ‘qualitative nature’ -āneus.

Agent Dickinson stirs in his seat, sticking his head slightly out of the open window.

“Agent, be careful,” Faulkner warns but keeps his eyes on the road. Through his periphery, he glimpses Dickinson’s deep umber curls rippling by the sea breeze like waves.

“Is this place known for its fisheries, by chance, FK? I know you can’t look, but there are nets all over the water over there. I’ve never seen anything like it. Hey, the French like clams, right? Maybe they’re clam farms... Wait. There aren't any boats.”

Ah, what his partner is describing must be a cross sea. The autumnal squalls generating the square waves have Dickinson confuse them for a wide-cast fishing net, as the skies above them show no sign of a tremendous gale. These squared seas are due to two weather systems meeting at the precipices of their systems, far from their sources. Despite their innocent and novelty appearance, this sea state is the typical perpetrator of shipwrecks, as the vessel cannot sail into one set of waves without sailing parallel to the other. In short, it is a perilous sign.

Explaining it as such to his partner and reminding his partner that his codename is Faulkner, not FK, the other agent replies, “Ay, n’ombre… Y’know, that fact is almost as comforting as the thing you said about us dying instantly if our plane crashed in the ocean last night, Faulk.”

Faulkner smiles, and his partner laughs out loud.

It takes them half an hour to drive ten kilometers inland from Menton to an outcrop of rocky cliffsides. Their hatchback ascends the ever-winding and steepening slope, as Sainte-Agnès (or Sant Anha in the local dialect) sits at the highest point in the Alpes-Maritimes department in the Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur region, 800 meters above the level of the Mediterranean Sea. Home to less than 455 people by 1982, the small town’s precarious road showcases the dazzling sights of the Provençal hilltops and the vast sea.

The rural town hasn’t changed much from the past. The jagged peak of the commune creeps into sight. Beyond that would be the Fort Maginot de Sainte-Agnès. A part of the Maginot Defense Line in 1932 to defend the area against possible Italian and German invasion, it has now been remodified into a museum. It’ll find more use as a cultural heritage site than a war front, as the invaders went around and never sieged the fort.

If they had more time, Faulkner would’ve loved to tour around with Agent Dickinson to highlight the ancient churches, castle ruins, religious pilgrimages, and legends surrounding this coastal commune. Southern France is famous for their cuisine, and many terraced restaurants in the region offer an unrivaled view of the French Riviera that only their mountain town can provide. However, Faulkner is efficient, and they have arrived at their destination at the crossroads of the three roads that lead into the city: Chapelle Saint-Sébastien.

The stout, one-storied chapel has a large wooden cross at the front of its cobblestoned entrance. A metal gate is in place, signaling to any congregation that service is unavailable until later. A tall, lone man sweeps the steps with a wooden broom. As the car slows to a stop on the gravel lot, Faulkner checks his watch. Eleven hundred hours and forty-two minutes. C’est l’heure du déjeuner. Or, in English, lunch-time.

He opens the door, and a bit of moisture meets his hand. The skies above have gathered the flock of sheep-puff clouds. They mingle; the air is fresh and cool. Mist and light drizzle dampen the coarse earth. Faulkner looks to the backseat of the car, takes his briefcase, and tells his partner, “Agent, I regret to inform you it is raining. Have you packed your raincoat? I can get it for you.”

“I don’t mind getting a little wet, but I know you'll insist. It should be on my suitcase’s left side inner pocket, but don’t open the other side ‘cause that’s where my unmentionables are.” Dickinson says.

Faulkner quirks an eyebrow and says, “But you mentioned it, so they aren’t ‘unmentionable,’ Agent.” But he nods and does just that to the pleasant sound of his partner's loud chuckles, quickly fetching their raincoats from the trunk while Agent Dickinson also exits the vehicle.

The light sprinkle wets his gelled hair, and a few strands fall out of place when he brushes them back. However, Agent Faulkner doesn’t mind the rain. It is necessary to the ecosystem and a refreshing conclusion to extended heat waves; he even finds the sound relaxing while reading a book. But he doesn’t want to ruin his suit or wet his files. Picking up an umbrella in case the mizzle explodes into a cloudburst, he closes the trunk and hands the raincoat to his partner.

Together, they climb the cobblestone steps, approaching their target: the man sweeping the church front.

Agent Faulkner calms himself with another breath. He has yet to fail a single mission — assassinations, cover-ups, codebreaking the Soviets during the brink of Cold War Armageddon, all these high-risk assignments a mainstay in his resume. But this recruitment task is so out of his depth.

The Temporal Bureau has had this individual on their radar since his early days in the United States Army. The Bureau has given Agent Faulkner the unique mission usually offered to a designated and experienced recruiter. Although he wishes to ask, why me, Faulkner knows their organization does not make mistakes. And so mustn’t he.

He is someone who knows how to rally the troops, Agent Faulkner. He is good with his words. Someone who will know his brothers-in-arms like the back of his hand. A person we must be able to rely on and trust. With your help, we’ll bring him into the Temporal Bureau.

Faulkner remembers how he reacted to the picture his superiors slid to him across the briefing room table. He shook, no different from a dead leaf on a branch.

Make certain you will not fail him or us, Agent.

There is a tug on his sleeve. Faulkner reacts, snapping his head to — Agent Dickinson, who gives Faulkner the tiniest crease of his rosy, full lips, pinched at the corners. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this is my first time too. When I was with the old man—uh, I mean when I was with my old partner, we didn’t take any noncombat missions, so I’m out of my element as well. But the bureau wouldn’t have sent you—us out here if they didn’t think we could do this. So let’s just, y’know, stick to the script we came up on the plane, and if it feels like he’s not biting, then… I don’t know, we can talk from the heart?”

Faulkner cannot speak. So he nods, confused by the tenseness in his chest disappearing. His face feels a little hot.

“That’s him over there, isn’t it? Damn, I thought someone fudged the numbers when I saw that six-foot-four… What are they feeding you guys in the army that we’re not getting in the other branches?” Agent Dickinson whispers.

Faulkner also wonders about present-day rations but keeps it private from his partner. There is no place for his mind to wander now. It is mission time.

« Bonjour monsieur. Parlez-vous anglais? » Faulkner calls out to the tall man, mustering as much warmth as he can into his greeting, as taught by his tutor. If it works, it’d be all thanks to that man. If it fails, it is Faulkner’s shortcoming. As the two agents advance until they are only a meter from the target, Faulkner’s features dissolve into content placidity.

This time in English, he asks, “Hello, nice to meet you. I am Agent Faulkner. My associate here is Agent Dickinson. Mr. Jamal Bernard Jackson, correct? May we have a bit of your time?”

[tricornonthecob]

BTW my fuckin sciatica is back

LK 122: This is Not A Place Of Versailles

pt1 pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5

you, uh. You gonna elaborate on that, chief?

I love how expressive this soldier is, and then his stoic boyfriend. I bet you the blonde's a whiny bottom.

"why is this man talking to us like we're children." also damn is that bg kinda nice.

Background art appreciation moment

something something I'll Make A Man Out Of You.

don't tell him how to live his life! Also I see Caesar is back in his Bay phase.

...Its shallow as fuck, James. *GASP* CAN HE NOT SWIM????

oh FINE

You just want his stuff.

...they lose everything because they'll be fucking drawn and quartered, James, not because they have a ton of shit.

My guy they both enslaved people.

Well this must have been an awkward frame in 2002/2003 but like also

there are some really nice bgs in this ep.

and some just excellent frames omg.

aaaaaa its ya boys, the Stock Footeage!

check out THIS copypasta man they must have ran out of time

*vague gesturing* something something skirmish.

there's like a full thirty seconds of the same frames over and over again btw.

There's the Retreats Georg we all know!

Thanks, Captain Obvious.

"Heard there was chaos???"

Frenchman runs up within spittin distance of some brits and yells at you to retreat calmly, you fuckin dewit.

"WE SHALL TAUNT THEM A SECOND TIME" i'm sorry

"Because he is my son."

...is he rigging up an IED.

gonna end it on that note.