“First night, and
you already slept with him.” Natasha Romanoff had gone full mother
mode on you as soon as she got you alone, and hadn’t stopped raving.
Even once you had walked into the headquarters.
“Context is very
important here.” You defended. “I slept with him, but
there were no sexual acts. And have you heard Clint
snore? His poor wife… I have no idea how she lives. Ear plugs,
maybe?” You got slightly sidetracked as you thought about it. There
was no way there wasn’t a trick to it.
“Now, now. No need to pout,” a vaguely amused Garrus said.
Kaidan huffed with arms crossed over his chest as he watched Shepard dart away into danger again. He raised a curious eyebrow at the words of the turian. “You’re fully suited up, too, you know.”
“I’ve learned to be prepared. Literally anything can happen when Shepard’s involved. You know that. Best to be ready at a moment’s notice.” Garrus settled in on a bench as the doors closed and yet another mission began on a foreign world.
“I’d just feel a little better if you or I were with her.” Kaidan stared at the closed doors for a moment, lost in his own thoughts. “I joined the Normandy again for a reason, and it wasn’t to watch as she goes barreling into danger alone every time we touch ground.”
“Well, you do outrank her, and now you’re a Spectre. You could go against her wishes and technically she wouldn’t be able to do a damned thing about it.” Garrus chuckled at the thought. “Besides, she’s not alone. She’s got James and EDI. They’ll be fine.”
“And you’re here calibrating your gun,” Kaidan observed with genuine amusement.
“Yes. Like I said, it’s best to be prepared.”
The Spectre took up a seat next to the turian and settled in to wait as garbled calls and static filled their ears from their comm units. There seemed to be no end to the enemies that wanted to kill them all on sight, and somehow they’d all managed to survive. Well, more or less, anyway.
Kaidan broke a long silence with an unexpected change of topic. “Garrus, I hadn’t had the chance, but I wanted to thank you.”
“Hmm,” the turian answered, turning his attention away from the weapon in his hands to the human at his side. “For what?”
“For staying with her when… when I couldn’t.” Kaidan’s gaze dropped to his hands as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Or when I wouldn’t, I guess.”
Google has done it again, this time marking Robert Doisneau’s brith, 14 April. The famous French photographer. His pictures once adorned the walls of student residences everywhere.
And is best known for the photograph, “The Kiss by the Town Hall” in which in a young couple, oblivious to the bustle around them kiss. His camera sought the surreal in everyday life; the amusing juxtaposition, the fables of human nature, all captured by an artist who was charmed by his subjects.
3 Invaluable Things to Know for a Successful Long-Term Relationship ”Day by day all of us should commit what the requirements necessary to build successful relationships. A relationship cannot grow if there is no desire to work for the common good and without a benefit that is clear for both parties, the relationship is doom to failure.” -Toni Segarra
COMMITMENT: the level of commitment should progress with time and the level of responsibility and interaction should increase as the relationship develops.
AUTHENTICITY: relationships require honesty and candor on both sides. It will be noticed if the expressions of care are not sincere, and the relationship will go backwards. On the other hand genuinely expressed appreciation will be quickly perceived and accelerate the evolving relationship.
COMMUNICATION: both parties should feel free to express themselves as they are and know they will be heard and understood. In each of the stages of relationship, if communication is well prepared it will help to convey the other two factors. (1)
Photography of Robert Doisneau (1912-1994) : In the 1930s he used a Leica on the streets of Paris. Doisneau, one of the pioneers of photojournalism was known for his modest, playful, and ironic images of amusing juxtapositions, mingling social classes, and eccentrics in contemporary Paris streets and cafes.
For the prompt thing if you're still doing it, Marinette learning how to dance from Cat Noir cause as he's patrolling he see's her practicing on the roof? Cute schmoop. you can go wherever you'd like to go with it
a/n: So, I really have no damn clue how to actually write dance scenes, but I do adore the concept “dance with death”. I think I may have gone a tad overboard with this. Oh well~!
The age-old notion dance with the devil isn’t far off its mark, it seems.
Surprised? Well, of course, there’s the obvious differences; the image of the devil, or death, doesn’t quite match up with the human imaginings that come with typical word association; there is no hooded skeletal figure with a scythe waiting to reap your soul from your body, there is no boat waiting to transport you down the river of lost echoes of humanity to a place of eternal hellfire.
Honestly, what immortal would want to hear the cries of pain? After a while, one would become numb to it. But the one thing the immortals can never rid themselves of is their curiosity for mankind.
Able to meander change like a river thwarted off-course. Building upon the foundations of the dead, despite the inevitability of the end. They are no mindless animals only able to comprehend time running out in the last moments of life; they invented time, crafted the phobia of time slipping through their fingers like sand. They adapt, they thrive, they die, their ashes drift into the wind. But they carry on anyway. Beauty ages. Nothing is constant aside from their determination to live, their unwillingness to accept defeat. Perhaps humanity one day will conquer the gods, simply out of their insatiable appetites of being on top of the chain of blood.
Until that day comes, however, we have decided to play the part of the unknowing fool, wear the mask, and intermingle with their kind as if we, too, were mere flesh and bone.
For this moment, I am a golden-haired boy in the prime of his youth. A rogue thing, hellion to society and distaste for all things conventional (though, of course, that means I conform more than most to feed the fires of this rebellion). Usually, my apparel is little more than robes hidden under a grey mist of a hooded cloak. If humans have one thing right about us, it is they are creative and giving when it comes to what we wear.
Now? Top hat, white shirt, black waistcoat. No more a mask than make-up, but will do.
The new trinket of intrigue; Marinette Dupain-Cheng. A dainty little thing with the stars caught in her eyes, leading her to an early death by strings of temptation. Her fingers don’t even know they’re tangled. She’s learned to ignore the puppet strings controlling her every move.
Night graces the skies of Paris. Those stars caught in her eyes blind her the most at this time; there is no sun to ward off any wandering spirits when she tends to the blossoms at this time.
The stage is set; time to play a part in her tragedy.
“Cultivating more roses, my Lady?“
Predictably, she gasps and drops her red roses, the petals shattering at her feet.
Unpredictably; she glares and turns her attention away from me, gathering up the fallen flowers.
”You again, Chat Noir?“ She sighs, weaving the petals back onto the stems with spider’s thread. "Don’t you have something else to do other than bother me?”
“Chat Noir? Is that my name, now?” A grin quirks my lips; green eyes glimmer underneath the mask. “I don’t believe I ever told you.”
“Correction: you won’t tell me your name, and I am not about to talk to a nameless phantom that won’t stop following me. So, to me, that is who you are."
Marinette is certainly an amusing juxtaposition to the mundanity of death’s cycle. A certain spice that flavours the dull appetite. She is not quite human in her approach; something tender, but thorns will still ward off any potential predator. Death is netiher predator nor prety, however. It is inevidable that every thing that dubs itself "alive” will meet one of my faces one day.
She places the roses back onto the table. There are still cracks and tears in the petals, but they hold strong from her handiwork. Ignores myself as she walks away from them. She leans against the crumbling walls and overlooks the cobblestoned city.
“Why are you here?” She whispers into the night.
“Why are you?"
”… Heh, you’re going to play that game with me, are you? It is fair, I suppose.“ She unties the red ribbons in her pigtails. Lets the wind caress through raven locks, twisting like each strand is part of the tailwind of a storm. "I’m here because… this city is alive. And I want to protect that.”
I scoff. “Cities aren’t alive. They’re just stone and wood. People are alive in the city.”
Her brow quirks. “You don’t think places are as alive as people are? That each city, each village, does not hold some life of it’s own? You kill a city, you kill it’s people.”
She believes her worldview is unique. Live as long as I, and the “unique visions” are as see-through and easily-shattered as glass. Oh, humans are so amusing.
“Perhaps.” I shrug. “But you’re not unique in that.”
“…You do, hm.”
“There’s no such thing as a unique perspective. I just like the one I have. I’m not here to teach anyone anything.” She glares at me. “But I’m not going to presume my view is the correct one.”
Ever the scholar. “I believe that is directed at me.”
At night, the cities begin to sing. Each sound will eventually die, eventually fade away. A temporary distraction.
“Hey, Chat Noir. You never answered my question.”
I look over at her. She’s smiling.
“Why do you continue to visit me?”
She wants the truth. Death cannot lie.
“…I’m bored. You’re the next amusement.”
“Until?” She doesn’t seem phased.
“…Until you’re not.”
Until you’re dead, and I move on knowing I wasted your life and reaped your soul for the next world.
She folds her arms. Smirks. “Now who’s got the shallow view?”
…What? Can she…
She giggles. Holds out a hand. “It’s rather rude to visit a lady under the cover of night and not once ask for her hand in a dance, correct? Assuming that there is more to this little charade of yours than amusing pleasantries, Chat Noir.”
“Alright…” I pause. “But there’s no music here, Princess.”
She waggles a finger in my face, puts a hand on her hip. “Can’t you hear it? The city is singing right now. You say I’m just an amusement until I will not be? Apply that to the city. The city will sing for us until it will not anymore. A temporary stage, if you will.” Her fist unfurls into an open palm. “So why don’t we perform for the eyes that cannot see us, Chat Noir?”
I take her hand, and she begins to lead.
As I predicted, the songs of this city soon die with the night’s end.
Marinette stands there, garbed in her red dress, barely even tired from the dance with death. There’s almost a golden hue behind her head.
But that would be cliche, would it not?
“…Well, that was nice.” I open my mouth to respond. She doesn’t let me get there in time. “Don’t you think so, Death?”
She smiles. Laughs. Burst into hysterics.
“You think you’re hidden in plain sight? You are more obvious than me, my friend. Did you not see death undoing itself right in front of you?”
I look at her. Then my gaze wavers to the roses.
Her laughter is all that remains.
“You think you are the only God who likes to play your little game, Death? You should know that Life meeting Death is inevitable, hypocritical fool.”
During the lunch hour, everyone made a beeline towards the dining hall, though Andy took his time to get there, knowing his friends would save him a spot. It was one of the perks of being popular and having friends that took up an entire table to themselves, effectively ostracizing whoever wasn't seated with them. Most people would think of popularity as a trivial notion, but Andy thrived off of it - he loved the attention. He had grown accustomed to it due to his parents, and then it just naturally fell onto his lap when he started school, being charismatic enough to always have a group of friends around him. He was in mid-conversation with a friend of his when he saw his older brother walking down the hall. "I'll catch up with you later," Andy told him before he waited until he had walked off to be at Owen's side. "Hey, big bro," he said as a means of greeting him, always amused at the juxtaposition of the words, given Owen was much shorter than him. "Sorry about last night. If I would've known Morrison was your roommate, I would've texted you to just not get back to your dorm just yet," he said with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I was at a loose end in Sydney, when George and Olivia Harrison very kindly invited me on a private week-long cruise round the islands of the Great Barrier Reef. One of the stops was a place called Hamilton Island, and George became fascinated by this beautifully plumaged parrot. I am fond of pictures where there is some sort of amusing juxtaposition, In this case, the parrot seems to match the galloping kangaroos pasted across the front of George’s T-shirt, and also, of course, he played ‘Long John Silver’ in one of Eric Idle’s 'Rutland Weekend’ sketches, complete with a fake parrot on his shoulder. It was very rare that George was able to get right away from the pressures of his life and completely relax with his wife, Olivia, and his young son Dhani, so needless to say, I felt incredibly touched that they invited me.”- Carinthia West