#somewhere in Bordeaux

[frenchpsychiatrymuderedmycnut]

by unofficial

street art parables

somewhere in Bordeaux

——-

this photo is documentation that a concrete structure existed and was covered in art and graffiti on the edge of the parking lot @ Stokomani in Bordeaux  FRANCE sometime in mid-10/2022 in the late afternoon

[clubsmarties]

@4fter-hours sent: ❝ when i said i wanted everyone to leave me alone i didn’t mean you. i can’t handle everyone else right now but you…you’re different. ❞

—

Moments where he was rendered speechless were far and few between. Times where he was speechless and didn't have a witty retort of some sort were unheard of but as he sat there, pillow ends between his fingers and green eyes studying, aware something was majorly bugging Liz, he took a few beats before he spoke. But you....you're different. Eyes sparkling with attentive concern, he leaned forward and placed the pillow aside and stared at her. He held out his hands for her in a gesture that had slowly become their thing. He stretched his legs out leaving it as an option for her to take if she wanted to sit between them. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?" he asked in a low whisper, frankly wasn't expecting her to do or say anything but the option was there.

One of the things he'd quickly learned was that nothing absolutely nothing would get pried out of her if she didn't want. Something he took into account every time he happened to be in the room. Now, that seemed to intensify whatever it was that was currently making her tone sound like it did. "You don't have to tell me," he promised, not wanting her to think he'd pry it out of her. "But I'll be here." Whatever capacity she needed him to be. He refrained from starting off with a joke but that didn't mean he didn't already have one ready for her. Hearing her laugh was of his favorite sounds and was at least glad he hadn't inadvertently pissed her off.

[bellemeansbeauty]

“Love can overcome everything. Is the strongest power in the universe.” Belle said with a smile. “And as long as you believe in, love will remain powerful and strong.” she spoke. “Just have faith.”

@sleepycoco​​ liked for a starter

[practically-an-x-man]

who was the first person your queer ocs came out to? how'd that go?

Oooh good question!! I meant to answer this earlier but kinda forgot I had it lol (blame it on the ADHD lol)

Jasper probably first came out to a group of close friends, since they were still in the experimentation stage and needed a safe place to test out names and pronouns before officially coming out to their family. That part went well, but coming out to their family later... not so much.

Similar story for Quinn, actually - she first came to that realization in uni, and came out in stages to their friends (and even experimented with drag a bit before realizing she's a woman). Thankfully they had a supportive friend group, though her parents were extremely transphobic and ended up cutting her off after she came out. She's pan too, but being trans was the bigger hitter there.

Ophelia got her first crush on a girl back in fourth grade, and Harry was probably the first person she told - not even in the sense of "coming out", they were just talking about crushes and hers happened to be same-sex, it wasn't a big deal for either of them really. Her parents found out soon after and had a similar reaction (Otto's for sure bi himself, but they'd both be supportive either way)

Katherine realized she was asexual shortly after starting college, since she realized she didn't have interest in sex like most of her roommates and classmates. She told Jace first, trusting that he'd be cool about it since he's trans and queer himself, and he helped her process those feelings and get comfortable with it. He's still one of her closest friends!!

If it counts, Kestrel "came out" as a changeling when they were twelve and wreaked havoc in their parents' house, and that's both an allegory for growing up queer and is literally tied to their queer self-discovery.

Eris had a similar story to Kestrel's - their coming out as queer happened about the same time as their other big life decision, when they decided to leave Themyscira and explore the wider world. His mothers were much more supportive of his being agender than the fact that she wanted to leave home, lol.

Most of my OCs in earlier time periods are queer but aren't as aware of it - Madison is demisexual but wouldn't have a term for it, and Robin would realize she'd bisexual and come out later in life (and Peter's probably the first person she tells, and they work out that bit of self-discovery together). Rae is bi too, but it's more of a lingering fact in the back of her mind. She doesn't repress it, but she also doesn't really acknowledge it.

And while I sometimes write Prometheus with they/them pronouns and their relationship could easily be read as queer, I'm not including them in this lineup both because any queerness would be innate to them without any perceived need to come out, and because I intentionally gave them more of an open-interpretation identity because I wanted their fics to work as reader-inserts (they don't have to be, but they can be)

[frmisnow]

BORDEAUX !

summary. after you realize that the man you had a drunk one night stand with, was in fact your new ceo. you settle on avoiding him as best as you could- but why do you feel so drawn to him?

notes. welcome to a new verse (aka. series), usually most of my series are more fluffy w a touch of smut (besides two whores, one job lol) but this one is gonna be a lot more angsty and smutty! so i hope y'all are into that kinda jam 🍷⭒⋆｡˚

warnings /includes. (1.7 k words / suggestive!) non idol! ceo! jungkook x non specified! reader, alcohol, shitty ex :/, jk is an alcohol nerd?, reader kind of uses him to kill bad memories ?, making out

the air was heavy with the scent of alcohol and smoke melted with the faint music somewhere in the background: jazz, how unfitting for this kind of environment. the enviornment which people go to specifically to escape reality, for a few minutes, maybe a few hours.

the alcohol wasn't bad, at least judging by the wine and it offered a sense of peace or rebellion, stupid fucking rebellion. your ex used to despise wine with all of his heart, he hated the scent of it, didn't want you to drink any of it near him.

he didn't like when you drank alcohol over all, he was stern on the idea of keeping you innoccent. you chugged down the glass like a shot at the sheer memory of the behavior you used to put up with.

the glass hits the table with a dull thud and you could almost hear his voice, scolding you for how reckless you were. you reach out for the bottle, pouring yourself another glass. and this time you savor the taste on your tongue, the rich flavor.

you feel eyes burning into your face, no- not burning, observing. it didn't feel uncomfortable but you could firmly feel them on you. the man's presence cut through the fog of alcohol and self-pity that had settled over you, and for a moment, you simply stared.

you should have looked away, but you didn’t. instead, you lifted your glass to your lips, taking another sip of wine, feeling the liquid slide down your throat, heavy and warm. he watched you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes never leaving yours.

he stands up making his way to you, and suddenly the crowd and all the shitty memories fade away, it was almost like he had a bigger effect on you then the alcohol did and that said a lot.

finally, he spoke, his voice low and smooth, like velvet draped over steel. “mind if i join you?”

the question was formal, did he work in business? no, that would be stupid to assume based of just a question. you nod, slowly but surerly, motioning towards the chair next to you.

he takes the seat next to you, signaling for a nearby waiter, requesting another glass, before turning his attention back to you. his gaze is intense and unwavering, as if he’s trying to see straight through to your soul.

“rough night?” he asks, his tone conversational but his eyes still focused intently on you.

his thigh touched yours, the proximity with somebody you didn't know should make you feel uncomfortable but it strangely didn't. "yeah," you mouth. the whole truth was too complicated, too raw, to lay out infront of a stranger.

a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, before he speaks again, his voice was soft, almost soothing. "you're downing that glass like it's water."

you look at the almost empty glass that your fingers had been circling around while talking to him, he was right. you didn't even remember how many glasses you had, three perhaps?

"you have a pretty voice," you mumble, finshing what was left of liquid in the glass.

he raised an eyebrow at the compliment, surprised by the sudden comment from you. he can't help but chuckle a little, amused by the drunken confession. "thank you," he replies, sounding sincere.

you both barerly talked, you were two strangers in a cheap bar, why bother talking about boring jobs? the night was young.

the music in the background shifted, a slower, bluesy tune now. the more you looked at him, the more you could firmly feel his thigh pressed into your own. his fingers, tattooed, why hadn't you noticed that earlier? took the wine bottle from earlier, tilting it around to look at the label. he seemed to know the brand, humming in approval.

"it's a good vintage." he says, still holding the bottle but his eyes are on you, studying your face in the dim light.

and this actually managed to crack a smile out of you. it wasn't meant to be a funny comment, in fact he seemed serious about it. was he an alcohol expert? the fact that you knew absolutly nothing about wine made it better.

he takes a sip from his own glass, his eyes never leaving yours. he can't help but find your lack of knowledge about wine oddly endearing.

please, talk me stupid about alcohol. i want to know what rebellion tastes like. the words linger on your tongue but you don't cave into the urge of saying them. i want you to teach me what he was so afraid of showing me.

"i have a whole collection of rare and expensive wines back at my place. some you would never find even in the best bars," he pauses, his hand brushing slightly against your arm.

"are you trying to make me come home with you?" you ask though it's not a question you necessarily need an answer to, you knew what he had meant.

"and if i was?" his eyes stay on yours, tilting his head, "would you come with me?"

stupid fucking question.

the second you step into his apartment, the door closing behind you, he is already on you. his hands are on your waist, holding you firmly in place as his tongue invades your mouth, tasting the mixture of your saliva and the rich flavor of the wine.

when you both take time to breathe, you ask, "so where is the wine you were talking about?" your tone is clearly intoxicated, your eyes a little hazy as he doesn't let go of you and you both stumble towards his living room together. the action seeming strangely domestic.

"it's right there." his voice a tad bit breathless, he motions towards a large display of alcohol, his eyes scanning the selection before settling on a particular bottle.

he reaches for the bottle, the arm around your waist still keeping you close to him, the alcohol clearly making the both of you more touchier then you would be sober.

jungkook holds up the bottle, letting you get a good look at the label. it was an expensive brand, even you could tell that, the words written on it swirling in an elegant script.

you hum, "italy," leaning into his touch sub counciously whilst he drew little circles over the clothed skin, twisting the bottle, "when did you get this?"

"i have a guy who brings me the good stuff from time to time."

your eyes wandered over the display, you wanted to kneel forward to look over the bottles but didn't want to get out of his embrace either.

it felt good, doing everything your ex would scrutinize you for. he'd be disapproving off even letting you look over all of these.

his head made a little motion towards almost like a silent 'go on' like he could firmly hear your thoughts.

the bottles seemed rare, visably very espensive and whilst you looked over the alcohol, he looked at you.

"what do you think?" he asks after a few minutes, tone soft and quiet like he didn't want to disturb you.

"i think i've had enough to drink already but it's all really pretty," you trail off, "you're really pretty"

jungkook smiles at the comment, reaching forward to run his fingers through your hair, the gesture seemingly absentminded yet surprisingly tender, "is that the alcohol talking?"

you shrug, grinning, "i honestly don't know"

he studies your face for a moment, his eyes roving over your features. he reaches out, his fingers grazing your jawline, the touch light and gentle. "you know, you're very pretty yourself," he says, his voice almost a murmur.

the color of the red wine in your hands is now the exact color of your cheeks and your mind is empty as you lean forward to kiss him once more.

this time when your lips meet, it was rather delicate and slow. as you both sat on the ground next to the large display and kissed eachother like it was the end of the world.

and you don't stop when you felt like you couldn't breathe, placing your hand on his chest, feeling the pulse beneath the shirt. this was what drowning memories was all about.

your ex didn't kiss like this. he didn't hold you like this and he most certaintly will never get the chance to redeem himself ever.

you find yourselves sinking to the floor while jungkook craddles your face as if you were something precious, something worth cherishing.

your ex kissed you just to check of the foreplay box, jungkook kisses you because he wants to.

"i want you," you mumur against his lips as you both take time to breathe.

you wake up to harsh sunlight filtering through the blinds, you realize you're lying on a coach. his coach. the cool leather fabric is a stark contrast to your bare skin, that's when you notice — you’re only in your panties. red lace with little bows.

the rest of your clothes are scattered on the floor, your shirt draped over the armrest, your skirt crumpled beside it.

you try to piece the events of last night together, did you sleep together? ... you can't quite remember. you sit up slowly, your head pounding with the dull throb of a hangover.

jungkook's presence was no where to be found, the apartment was dead quiet. he left you here, naked and confused: what a dick.

you do your best to gather the clothes, slipping into them, you search for your phone, finding it next to the alcohol display. you take another look at the various bottles, now sober.

you shake your head at how easy you were yesterday, checking the time on your phone until your heart drops — the meeting. the meeting you could not afford to miss.

you let out a groan of frustration, fighting the zipper of your skirt, great- you were going to meet your new ceo looking and feeling like a mess.

you step into the large building with your heart still pounding, why did the metro station have to be so far away from your job? running as fast as you can had been your only option.

you push through the glass doors of the conference room, instantly sitting down, you did not want the people to look even more then a second at the wrinkled skirt of yours.

the important man stands facing away from you, writing something down on a white board. he seemed pretty tall, confident posture.

and then he turns around.

your expression drops. it's him. it's the man from last night.

🍓 tag list — @chansloverr , @marimarvelfan , @bxcndd

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.   

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?    

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.   

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.   

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.  

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”   

“Only because you insisted.”   

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”  

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.” 

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”  

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.” 

“Bollocks.” 

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”   

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.  

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above. 

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”   

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.  

“...And?” France eventually asks.  

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”   

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”    

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”   

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.    

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.    

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”    

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”   

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”   

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands. 

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”  

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”  

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”  

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”    

England glowers. 

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.   

It's the food, of course. Just the food. 

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late. 

...Should be safe enough, then.  

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold. 

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.” 

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh. 

“Get off,” he groans.  

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”  

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”   

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares. 

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”   

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”   

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?” 

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!” 

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux. 

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!���

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once. 

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over. 

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?” 

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?” 

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?” 

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.” 

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.” 

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?” 

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous. 

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.” 

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck. 

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.” 

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure. 

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.  

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs. 

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.   

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.” 

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back. 

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease. 

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

  —

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds. 

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon. 

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last. 

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise. 

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin  

~~~

Author’s Notes  

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.  

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.  

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.  

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.  

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

[ohmytomorrowisthursday]

AOT characters taking you on a date pt. 2

Hi! part one is here 

A lil spice!

Reiner: Idk, Reiner is a hungry man and I feel like he wants a place with a lot of meat lol. Takes you out for southern style barbecue. Loves the low-key vibes and the good food; orders extra corn bread and beans. He is sooooo shy when it comes to his feelings for you  I feel like he would eat so much so that he doesn’t need to talk lol. Likes taking you to his favourite restaurant and seeing you in jeans. I feel like he would love going to a sunset outdoor concert or a drive in movie. Even going to a haunted house, he’d loooove the feeling of protecting you. Wants to hold you to the music, or cuddle you in the car. Physical touch is his love language and he just wants to go somewhere where he can feel your body and make out with you for hourrrrrsss. He cant keep his hands off of you. 

Sasha: ALL YOU CAN EAT. Not sure if its a buffet or like ayce sushi but a place where you can try a ton of dishes and eat as much as you can. Would love making you laugh and playing silly get-to-know-you games. Going to a theme park or fair or anywhere with rollercoasters would be her jam. I feel like she’d love Disneyland but hate how expensive all of the food is haha. Wants to go on rides, eat mini doughnuts and enjoy the fun until you’re both exhausted. Kisses you on the Ferris wheel and buys you both matching merch, like those Toy Story aliens hats. Taking photos in a Photo Booth and end up making out. Hiding behind corners and stealing kisses from each other so no one sees. 

Levi: Every minute of the date is planned perfectly. He has high standards and wants to take you somewhere really nice for dinner, a restaurant where you get multiple courses of food and there’s matching wine paired with each course. Dimly lit with jazz music playing. Has a list of acceptable places and it has to be at one of those. He doesn’t go out to restaurants often, but when he does he goes for a five star experience. Loves seeing you all dressed up, just so he can take it off later. Touches your thighs at the dinner table and is giving you the ‘fuck me’ eyes all night. Loves teasing you and seeing you blush and get flustered. Takes you to a quiet speakeasy after to drink cocktails. My man is definitely a whisky drinker, he is getting an old fashioned or a scotch on the rocks. Whispers dirty things in your ear all night but refuses to kiss you which drives you craaazy. When he drops you off back at home he brushes your hair behind your ear. “I want all of you,” he says before he kisses you. Doesn’t stay because he wants to leave you wanting more. 

Jean: He would be sooooo nervous while planning this date lol. Probably googles ‘romantic date ideas’ because his brain was too anxious to some up with his own ideas. Would pick a nice French restaurant and give you a red rose at the beginning. He’s super blunt and throughout the night he’d say things like ‘you are so hot’ and tell you how much he likes you. Something about him just makes me think he loves classic romance tropes. Like he’d take you to the Eiffel Tower and kiss you under it when its twinkling. Getting a cartoonist to sketch both of you and then keeping it on his wall. Sooo nervous when he asks you to kiss him and he doesn’t hold back at all. Lifts up your chin and look into your eyes kind of kiss. Wants to be your Prince Charming. You tease him about how sweet he is and he gets all red and flustered.

Erwin: I feel like Erwin is a gentleman and wants to take you on a really classy night out. I feel like he’d want to dress up and go to the symphony with you or a charity event at a museum of anthropology, followed by a dinner at a boujie restaurant. Wants to talk about work and your career with him. Would love asking you tough hypothetical questions because loves having really cerebral conversations. Drinking nice Bordeaux and eating oysters and steak. Shares chocolate cake with you after. I feel like he wouldn’t try anything because he’s such a gentleman, but he’d compliment you and kiss your hand. Takes you back to his place for a night cap on his deck. He’d tell you how that he finds you beautiful inside and out and ask for a kiss. He’s slow and holds back but as soon as you say the word, he’s ready to go. Tells you to take off your clothes and loves watching you undress. Loves making your toes curl.

[glittering-moonlillie]

I Hate You, be my Girlfriend Part 1 (Damian Wayne x reader)

Word Count: 1337

Warnings: Mild language, Tim and Damian being mean to each other, bad Barbara characterization

Summary: Dick and Barbara are getting married which leads to the whole batfam wondering if Damian has a girlfriend. He does not, but he can't stand the humiliation and inadequacy he feels. One lie turns to another and he ends up on your doorstep about to ask you, someone he is not fond of, for the hugest favor in his lifetime.

“We’re getting married!” 

The sudden news had shocked everyone in the manor, including Damian himself. “You’re…what?”

Dick excitedly raised up Barbara’s arm, showing off the lavish diamond adorning her ring finger. “I proposed to her last night, I didn’t want to risk any of you spilling the beans early so I didn’t want to tell you guys until the day after.”

“Well…” Tim took a big swig of his fourth batch of coffee, “That’s nice.” The ends of Dick’s smile twitched into a subtle frown. 

“It’s not that we aren’t happy for you Dick, we really are.” Stephanie moved closer to the now engaged couple. “It’s just…you know…sudden!” She pulled Barbara into her arms, who was quick to reciprocate the gesture. “Do you guys have an idea where you want the wedding to be?”

“No, not officially, but we were thinking somewhere in Bordeaux. It has a lot of sentimental value to Bruce, and Dick wanted to commemorate his family.” 

Jason, who had mostly been quiet during the whole ordeal, let out a chuckle. “You deserve so much better Babs, you won’t be able to refund him once you get tired of him, you know.”

The family broke out into enthusiastic chatter and laughter, but the youngest of the siblings could not bring himself to be happy. Damian had known Dick for almost all of his life, and if anything, they had the strongest connection. He was the one who straightened him out, who trusted him when his father hadn’t. Dick had shown him kindness and respect. He was the best older brother he could have asked for, and even acted as a father figure when he needed it most.

Damian knew of his older brother’s numerous relationships; he was attractive and had the charisma to woo any girl in a 10 meter proximity, and yet, marriage never seemed like something in Dick’s wheelhouse. It was never exactly something in most of his family's future, considering their night time jobs and the lack of ability to keep a stable relationship. But now that his dear brother is getting married? It felt like Damian’s world was turning upside his head, like he was losing an integral piece of himself. 

Perhaps it was hidden jealousy that made Damian feel such disinterest. As much as he tried to repress his emotions, Damian also desperately wanted to unleash them; to be able to love someone unconditionally without feeling petrified or uncertain…well…he wasn’t sure if it would be a blessing or a curse. It was the main reason that out of all his siblings (other than Cass), he had never been in a serious relationship before. Sure, he’s had a few flings here and there, but nothing that was substantial. 

Tim’s out of place burst of laughter brought Damian out of his train of thought. “Demon Brat? Having a girlfriend? That’s almost as likely as me giving up coffee.”

Everyone looked to Damian in expectation, waiting for him to give out a snide remark as he usually did. Instead he gave them a blubbering utterance, his face burning from the further embarrassment. He had no idea how this topic was brought up, but most likely it was from Stephanie, who was foaming at the mouth for him to bring home a girlfriend who she could bond with. 

“HA! See! You can call me a failure all you want Damian, but at least I have a boyfriend!”

“Shut up, Tim. Why are you bringing this up anyway? It has never been a problem before.” Damian crossed his arms. Dick made his way to him, a gentle smile on his face. He placed his hand on Damian’s shoulder, like the way he used to when he was younger and about to get a brotherly pep talk. 

“You’re 20 now, Damian…I know that you have a hard time opening up to people but it would make me really happy if you could bring a date to our wedding.” Dick gave him a sincere smile, but the underlying disappointment in his voice clawed at Damian’s skin. Everyone else seemed to be utterly disappointed in him as well. Did they all just assume that he was incapable of getting a girlfriend? 

Fine. He’ll prove them wrong. 

Damian shoved Dick’s arm to the side with a stubborn huff. “TT, all of you are unbearable. If it concerns all of you so much then I may as well tell you that I do, in fact, have a girlfriend.” 

Tim let out another burst of laughter while everyone else looked at him skeptically. 

“And who might this mystery person be? The painting chick from that manga you’re obsessed with?” Jason said from across the couch. 

“No,” Damian seethed. “I have a perfectly normal love life, thank you very much Todd.”

“No offense Damian, but if you have a girlfriend, how come we have never heard you mention her before?” Duke asked. 

“That’s assuming that he even has one. I’m betting my money that he’s just faking it.” Tim shrugged, getting up to pour himself another batch of coffee. 

This was fine. Damian could handle a little lie such as this. All he had to do was pray to find a date before the wedding and convince his family that they had been together from the start. It should be easy enough. Dick turned back to Damian, surprised that this news was not spilled to him sooner. “Who’s the lucky lady, Dami? Is it someone we know?” 

Fuck

In hindsight, he should have known that his family would have asked for a specific name of this mystery girl. Damian was stumped and his face only flushed further. There were not many girls that he was friends with, let alone ones that he could pretend to be in love with. 

“His silence speaks more than-”

“I-it’s Y/n, if you must know!” Damian blurted out before Drake could even finish his sentence. He must still be salty from losing against him in that monopoly game they had a week or so ago…

For the first time in the last few stressful minutes, Damian was able to take a sigh of relief as all his family stared at him in silence. Once again, Dick was the first one to break the stillness. “Well, I’m happy for you, Dami. I’ll make sure to officially send invites to the both of you when the time comes.” 

“Yeah, whatever.” The feeling he got from proving his siblings right was not enough to get rid of his underlying (stress). He knew that he had majorly fucked up, not only by lying to his family (of which were talented detectives), but by stating that his girlfriend was someone, in reality, he had no interest in. Damian could not understand why no other girl came to mind, why he had to say your name out of everyone else’s. He reasoned to himself that the mention of France skewed his brain into thinking about you, recalling the few times you had mentioned wanting to go there. That didn’t make the situation any better for him though, he would rather die than admit about thinking of you. 

Normally Damian was never one to back down out of a fight or a challenge, he was the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul, grandson to Ra’s Al Ghul after all, but going up to you and explaining the whole ordeal was the hardest thing he has ever done. It took him a few months to finally muster up the courage to go up to your door. He was willing to push past his disinterest in you if it meant not looking like an idiot in front of his family. 

When he knocked on the door, Damian was surprised with how quickly you opened it. Your eyes widened at his sudden appearance, the half eaten muffin in your hand leaving crumbs on the freshly swept floor. “Damian? What are you doing here, are you okay?”

“I need to ask you a favor…” 

I decided to make this a multiple part series, probably going to span about three or four oneshots in total. I figured that it would be easier for me to write and it would allow me to release the story faster for you guys! :D

I'm about to pass out because I'm tired, but I hope everyone has a good day/night!

[f1bordeaux]

⇢ ˗ˏˋ Bordeaux's Master List ࿐ྂ

Prompt List

Formula One ❤️Poetry Style❤️‍🔥Smut(+18)💙Angst💗Fluff💜Story Style💘Suggestive Content

˚ ༘♡Charles Leclerc ; cl16 Somewhere - ❤️💙 , TSTBU Series PL | C1 | - 💙💜 ˚ ༘♡Carlos Sainz ; cs55 Landslide - 💙💗💜💘 ˚ ༘♡Max Verstappen ; mv1 If You Cared Series Pt1 | Pt2 | Pt3 | Pt4 - 💙💗💜💘 ˚ ༘♡ Lando Norris ; ln4 What I Desire Most - 💙💜 , TSTBU Series PL | C1 | - 💙💜

[frenchpsychiatrymuderedmycnut]

by unofficial

medication parables

somewhere with Dr B.

——-

i was in 2 weeks back to see Dr B.

my rendez-vous was consumed with my anxiety and neurosis that centered around the constant threats of a nuclear war

the rendez-vous came to an end…Dr B. handed me my prescription

i asked him why he wrote a prescription for 3 months instead of the usual 1 month.

Dr B. put forward his logic…

he is in the large metropolitan area of Bordeaux…it has a high chance of being hit by a nuke…

i live in a tiny village 1 1/2 hours out of the hit zone…

he said that he would then live on through his prescriptions…

——-

Dr B. then told me to layoff the news and try breathing every now and then

[mit]

A carbon-lite atmosphere could be a sign of water and life on other terrestrial planets, MIT study finds

A low carbon abundance in planetary atmospheres, which the James Webb Space Telescope can detect, could be a signature of habitability.

Jennifer Chu | MIT News

Scientists at MIT, the University of Birmingham, and elsewhere say that astronomers’ best chance of finding liquid water, and even life on other planets, is to look for the absence, rather than the presence, of a chemical feature in their atmospheres.

The researchers propose that if a terrestrial planet has substantially less carbon dioxide in its atmosphere compared to other planets in the same system, it could be a sign of liquid water — and possibly life — on that planet’s surface.

What’s more, this new signature is within the sights of NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope (JWST). While scientists have proposed other signs of habitability, those features are challenging if not impossible to measure with current technologies. The team says this new signature, of relatively depleted carbon dioxide, is the only sign of habitability that is detectable now.

“The Holy Grail in exoplanet science is to look for habitable worlds, and the presence of life, but all the features that have been talked about so far have been beyond the reach of the newest observatories,” says Julien de Wit, assistant professor of planetary sciences at MIT. “Now we have a way to find out if there’s liquid water on another planet. And it’s something we can get to in the next few years.”

The team’s findings appear today in Nature Astronomy. De Wit co-led the study with Amaury Triaud of the University of Birmingham in the UK. Their MIT co-authors include Benjamin Rackham, Prajwal Niraula, Ana Glidden Oliver Jagoutz, Matej Peč, Janusz Petkowski, and Sara Seager, along with Frieder Klein at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution (WHOI), Martin Turbet of Ècole Polytechnique in France, and Franck Selsis of the Laboratoire d’astrophysique de Bordeaux.

Beyond a glimmer

Astronomers have so far detected more than 5,200 worlds beyond our solar system. With current telescopes, astronomers can directly measure a planet’s distance to its star and the time it takes it to complete an orbit. Those measurements can help scientists infer whether a planet is within a habitable zone. But there’s been no way to directly confirm whether a planet is indeed habitable, meaning that liquid water exists on its surface.

Across our own solar system, scientists can detect the presence of liquid oceans by observing “glints” — flashes of sunlight that reflect off liquid surfaces. These glints, or specular reflections, have been observed, for instance, on Saturn’s largest moon, Titan, which helped to confirm the moon’s large lakes.

Detecting a similar glimmer in far-off planets, however, is out of reach with current technologies. But de Wit and his colleagues realized there’s another habitable feature close to home that could be detectable in distant worlds.

“An idea came to us, by looking at what’s going on with the terrestrial planets in our own system,” Triaud says.

Venus, Earth, and Mars share similarities, in that all three are rocky and inhabit a relatively temperate region with respect to the sun. Earth is the only planet among the trio that currently hosts liquid water. And the team noted another obvious distinction: Earth has significantly less carbon dioxide in its atmosphere.

“We assume that these planets were created in a similar fashion, and if we see one planet with much less carbon now, it must have gone somewhere,” Triaud says. “The only process that could remove that much carbon from an atmosphere is a strong water cycle involving oceans of liquid water.”

Indeed, the Earth’s oceans have played a major and sustained role in absorbing carbon dioxide. Over hundreds of millions of years, the oceans have taken up a huge amount of carbon dioxide, nearly equal to the amount that persists in Venus’ atmosphere today. This planetary-scale effect has left Earth’s atmosphere significantly depleted of carbon dioxide  compared to its planetary neighbors.

“On Earth, much of the atmospheric carbon dioxide has been sequestered in seawater and solid rock over geological timescales, which has helped to regulate climate and habitability for billions of years,” says study co-author Frieder Klein.

The team reasoned that if a similar depletion of carbon dioxide were detected in a far-off planet, relative to its neighbors, this would be a reliable signal of liquid oceans and life on its surface.

“After reviewing extensively the literature of many fields from biology, to chemistry, and even carbon sequestration in the context of climate change, we believe that indeed if we detect carbon depletion, it has a good chance of being a strong sign of liquid water and/or life,” de Wit says.

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[bellemeansbeauty]

“You know my son? Where is he?” Belle asked. Being in a new town, a place she had never seen or heard of before. She was alone. Adam wasn’t around, she had lost Ben when he was only a baby. And now this purple haired girl stood in front of her, claiming she knew him. 

@inkdreamt​ liked for a starter

[raptorsaurusmelain]

Let me show you... youtube - Prologue

I decided to write an intro for my possible youtube insomnia MC falling in Twisted Wonderland. Tell me if you want more ? XD

Warning : no proof reading, english is not my native language...

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hearing noises, I kicked the "door" that was in front of me, obstructing my vision. How could there be noises when I am alone in my house ?

What welcomed me wasn't the old room full of cowebs, but a true hellfire of blue flames in a... castle ?? Confoused I looked at the room, then my corridor, then the room again. There was something strange and I didn't liked it.

Before I could close the door, a strong gush of wind swept me off my feet and pushed me into the castle room. I fell onto the floor and tried to resume my thoughts in the confused room. I stood up slowly and looked around. Fire. Screams. A gray cat being hunted. Young ones hunt the said cat. A... floating mirror ? And... floating coffins ? I was flabbergasted. I turned around to go back through my door, but my door was now a castle door. I wasn't aware, too focused on opening and closing the door, that the noise had shut down. Some people looked at me. Someone coughed, catching my attention.

"Fan-ta-stic, we love it..." I said, completely done with the situation.

A man in a raven mask (high probability that he was the one who coughed) asked, baffled "And... Who may you be ?".

Cool, he is speaking english. At least we can have a conversation about the situation...

"I... am Victoria Devi ? Who are you ? And where are we to begin with ?" I said, suspiciously.

"I am Dire Crowley, headmaster at Night Raven College."

Night Raven College ? Like the Disney game ? Ooooh damn... she was interrupting a cosplay photoshoot...

"I am so sorry, I didn't knew... I am totally lost !" I said, apologetic. "Do you know the way to the nearest aeroport so I could go back to Bordeaux ?"

"Bord...eaux ? In which country ?" blinked the raven man.

"In... France ?" I blinked.

He pinched his nose under the mask.

"So you are telling me that I have a child and a woman from somewhere else ? My generosity know no bounds !" he laughed "Let's go to my office, I think it is going to be a long night... Now, Yuu, Miss Devi..."

[toomuchracket]

per the last ask (I’m a different anon) maybe birthday party verse! Matty and reader take a trip to celebrate a publication of hers and they rent a car (maybe a vintage convertible like in that one music vid) and matty is looking all classic driving reader down pch on their way to dinner and so it’s kind of a mix of sunshine baby/golden/style and then after dinner they decide to take a dip in the ocean 😌

gonna change the location of this because i had an idea about it anyway but it's a similar vibe!! so i think that the holiday starts in paris - you've been asked to do a little talk and a signing of your most recent book at the shakespeare and company bookshop, which is a huge fucking deal and something you're so so excited about, and naturally matty's glowing with pride and goes to paris with you. and you have a few days there before your event, just reminiscing on the last time you were there with your friends, and visiting museums and doing a bit of shopping. matty's in extra-proud boyfriend mode and attempting to buy you everything your eyes linger on for more than a second "as a well-done! a little treat!"; at the event itself (which he's already given you flowers for), he's watching you from the edges of the crowd, totally in awe of you (someone snaps a pic of him smiling at you like you hung the moon and tweets it, someone else tweets to say that they spoke to him and he literally just gushed about you for five minutes straight lol), and he almost cries after he cheekily queues for you to sign his copy of the book, because you address it to "the love of my life" and kiss the page to leave a lipstick mark on it for him lol.

anyway, i think at dinner afterwards, you probably say something like "god, i really don't want to go home in two days" and matty just beams and goes "well, good, because we're not", and then he reveals that he's booked a cottage somewhere in bordeaux for the two of you to stay in for the next week - you're immediately so so excited, and then you're like slightly panicked because "i didn't bring enough clothes!", and matty laughs like "well, now you'll need to let me take you shopping, sweetheart, yeah?" and you roll your eyes but you do let him buy you armfuls of new sundresses the next day lol. and the day after shopping, you and matty have a two-hour long train journey to bordeaux - which is spent listening to an album together and eating sweets lol - where there's a car waiting for you outside; a classic red vintage convertible (like the one from that clip of matty in l.a.), which matty is SO smug about. you tease him about it a little, like "you're sure you can drive on the opposite side of the road?" and "this is so new wave cinema of you. you've got postmodernism brainrot, baby", but that's just to distract yourself from jumping his bones because jesus christ he looks so hot driving with his sunglasses on and his hair all curly and messy (you take like 455883 pics of him like this. new lockscreen material for certain). i think you probably get lost a couple of times on the way to the cottage - you're responsible for navigating with the map and it's in french, for fuck's sake lol - but neither of you mind, because it's just so perfect driving through the french countryside with the wind in your hair and the sun on your faces. and the week is like the total antithesis to your busy time in paris; you just laze about in the sunshine, smoking and fucking (lol) and eating good food (but you both do end up getting inspired and writing some stuff for your respective next projects lol), before getting a little bit dressed up in the early evenings to tour some of the MANY vineyards nearby, having dinner and getting pleasantly tipsy on red wine. the very last night, you go to the vineyard where That Wine, the one you guys bonded over and love sharing, is made. and maybe, just maybe, a certain question is popped... idk! who's to say? regardless, it's perfect <3

[fizzycherrycola]

It's Bastille Day, have a FrUK WIP

Here u go, a nice WIP for u ❤

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920  Seagulls are crying in the distance, muted by the soft roll of sea surf. England stares, unfocused, at the crosshatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.  Beach sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. Can’t forget that part. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.  Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirms England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?   Ah, right. Bastille Day and such. For the past week, France pestered him into agreeing to this little beach picnic; an excursion that resulted in nothing but wine and sex.  England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it slightly to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. France is guzzling the prized alcohol, his Adam’s apple bobbing with each swallow, his back arching upward like a cat as he drains the glass. Upon emptying the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasizing the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.  “Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.  France pauses. Lazy dark lashes blinking open with the most unimpressed expression.   He sighs. “How can you already be in such a terrible mood? We are on a private beach.”  “Only at your insistence.”  France raises one of his perfectly sculpted brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being unfilled.  

[sonics-atelier]

Gaea's Embrace: A symphony of Death and Decay.

Summary : The product of Lord Huron and Hoziers Songs, which I drew inspiration from and you can listen to below -

a/n : Blame @achaotichuman for encouraging me, also I wrote this in a flurry, not proofread.

Beneath the crescent moon, a solitary figure wandered through the enveloping shadows of the forest, where the crackle of dried leaves and the soft sigh of the wind were the only audible companions in the stillness. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and decay, a fragrance both alluring and ominous, weaving through the ancient trees whose gnarled branches etched dark silhouettes against the starlit heavens, as if recounting tales borne in the Chaos of distant epochs.

With deliberate steps, the figure moved as if in reverence, each stride a deliberate caress of the earth beneath. Eventually arriving at a clearing, where wild grasses sprawled untamed, a verdant tapestry amidst the heart of the woodland. Here, they reclined, surrendering to the cold embrace of the soil. Above, the night sky stretched like an infinite canvas adorned with countless celestial jewels, forging a fleeting connection with the boundless Ouranous.

In this sacred stillness, the flora and fauna of the shadowed ecosystem stirred. Mosses of deepest green and black crept nearer, their tendrils delicately entwining around limbs with a gentle, persistent touch. Luminous mushrooms bloomed nearby, their caps casting ethereal glows in the moon’s pale embrace, their spores perfuming the air with an otherworldly aroma. Fungi in shades of violet and bordeaux wove intricate patterns amidst the grass, their presence a haunting blend of beauty and eeriness.

Unseen, yet omnipresent, bacteria began their silent choreography, dismantling the boundaries between the figure and the earth. They murmured of the secrets veiled within the dark loam, of the eternal dance between life and demise. The figure listened, finding solace in their whispered revelations, feeling the ancient rhythms pulse beneath their form.

Drawn by the inevitability of transition, denizens of the forest’s depths approached. Beetles with iridescent carapaces, worms aglow in moonlight, and other inscrutable beings commenced their ritual feast. They moved with a grace that belied their task, stripping flesh from bone in a solemn communion, drawing sustenance from the essence of the figure. This process, neither rushed nor cruel, unfolded as a natural ballet—a reverent return to origins.

The earth seemed to exhale in acceptance, enfolding the exposed bones in a gentle shroud of soil. It consumed them with fervor, reducing remnants to dust and earth. No fear lingered within the figure, nor regret; only tranquility, a profound merging with Gaea’s dark heart, an acceptance of the inevitable cycle.

As the night progressed, the clearing underwent a metamorphosis. Where once a solitary figure lay, they now melded seamlessly with the earth, indistinguishable from the mosses, mushrooms, fungi, and verdure that surrounded them. The soil whispered of its sacred offering, of the new life poised to burgeon from this communion with mortality. The forest, ensconced in its spectral allure, thrived amidst the poignant beauty.

Thus, the figure’s essence became an integral thread in the tapestry of eternity, their final thoughts not of loss, but of profound unity. They had surrendered to the radiance of perfection, willingly merging with the chill embrace of the earth, discovering a hauntingly beautiful eternity within Gaea’s embrace.

- @sonics-atelier 2024 ( do not repost or reuse in any way shape or form, I will decapitate you )

( dividers by @cafekitsune 🫶 )