#I’ve ABSORBED from it as. amid

[skullmercy]

Saw a video abt “what if we used adventure lingo” and it just sounded like me normally..

[betweenstorms]

Chapter 3/1 of Skin Of Thunder To Be Known (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Simon 'Ghost' Riley x fem!Reader

"I’ve longed for you to tear me apart, not in cruelty, but in yearning. Sink your teeth into my truths, let the taste of me linger. If knowing means pain, then I’ll bear the bleeding for you."

The early morning air hung crisp and quiet, pressing against Ghost’s skin as he leaned against the cold metal railing by the designated smoking area—a modest patch of concrete, barely more than a slab, with ashtrays and rusting benches scattered like afterthoughts.

The sun just barely breached the horizon, casting long shadows on the concrete. Hardly a retreat, but here, away from the maddening sterility of his office, it felt like a reprieve. He rolled his balaclava up, just enough to free his mouth, taking a long, welcome drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke crawl through his lungs and chase the tension from his jaw. The stillness of dawn hung heavy, blanketing his restless thoughts, urging them into submission.

Just then, the sharp creak of the door jolted him back, a small irritation prickling through him.

Likely just some officer, off to grab a smoke or call it a morning. But when he looked over, his eyes snagged on a familiar, almost absurd splash of colour amid the grey.

You.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, too low for you to hear as he clocked the delicate pearls on the collar of your oversized navy blue shirt.

He turned away, taking another drag, hoping to hide the way his shoulders tensed under your approach.

Fuck.

He’d been craving a smoke, not company.

He couldn’t quite grasp the pull you had on him, the strange and soft ache that made him long to be in your presence, though he refused to bend to such foolish desires. So he kept his gaze fixed elsewhere, resisting the urge to let his eyes find your face, lovely and haunting, a temptation he was determined to deny.

But God, how he wanted to look at you—more than anything, he wanted to drink the light of your eyes, to study every soft curve of your face and carry it with him in the dark corners of his mind. There was nothing he craved more than that simple indulgence, yet it was the very thing he denied himself. So he exhaled another plume of smoke, letting it rise like a prayer, an offering to the distance he had forced between you.

Discipline, he reminded himself.

A soldier’s creed built for sacrifice.

You waved, a shy, endearing gesture, and though he didn’t return it, the sight lingered, casting a magnetic warmth he couldn’t quite shake.

The thrilling sweetness of your perfume drifted over, a delicate contrast to the smoke curling around him, and he found himself absorbing it in through skin and flesh, letting it settle over him like a gentle rain easing his frayed edges.

He glanced back, catching you falling into step right beside him—a respectful distance, careful yet inviting, close enough to let him feel your presence but far enough that he could imagine, if he chose, that he was still alone.

Ghost felt grateful for it, for the silent understanding woven between you, the way you stayed without imposing.

It was a kindness he hadn’t realised he craved.

“Good morning, sir,” you offered quietly, voice bright but tentative. “Captain Price said you requested some help with the paperwork, and, well… here I am.”

An irritated grunt was all he gave at first, still focused on the end of his cigarette, the cherry glinting as he took another drag.

“That was an hour ago,” he said, voice rough and steady. He didn’t look at you, but he could sense the nervous shift in your posture.

“Yeah, well, about that—” you faltered, an embarrassed little smile flickering across your lips as a soft blush crept over your cheeks, delicate as the first light of dawn. “I’m so sorry, Lieutenant, I might have accidentally slept in, but I’m here now. Ready to help with whatever you need. Really.”

With whatever you needed, the words echoed bitterly in his mind.

Bold words. Quietly spoken, but not without weight. 

He scoffed, letting out a slow breath, watching the smoke coil lazily into the space between you—a ghostly wall, thin and unyielding, that whispered the distance he couldn't close. It was a tension he both cherished and despised, a bittersweet ache that twisted in his chest. A cruel kind of ambivalence that he wasn’t accustomed to, a raging storm of contradictions swirling where his pragmatism used to reign. He was a man of precision, of order. There was no room for chaos, no tolerance for hesitation. His life was a series of clean lines and clear directives, a moral code etched in iron.

And then there was you.

He hated it—this loss of control.

But God help him, he loved it too.

“Lieutenant Riley?” you asked gently, breaking the silence. There was something hesitant in your tone, as if you were unsure whether he’d answer or simply walk away.

“Gimme a minute.”

The cigarette burned low, the ash crumbling like the remnants of his resolve as Ghost tipped it into the rusted tray beside him.

The morning air lingered cool against his exposed skin, the stillness between you both stretching thin, delicate as spider silk in the rain. Your hesitant words hung unanswered, their soft cadence brushing against him like the flutter of wings. For a short moment, the only sounds were the distant screech of tyres, the rhythmic cadence of soldiers on duty, and the faint hum of the wind curling through the base.

He let the silence stand, pretending not to notice the way your gaze lingered too long, tracing the curve of his jaw, the faint scar carved near his lips, the line of his neck disappearing beneath his raised collar. He knew you were staring.

Of course, he did.

And yet, there was something disarming about being seen, not the fleeting glances of soldiers or the wary stares of strangers, but this. Your gaze wasn’t too heavy with judgement or fear. It was shy, but it was also unassuming, almost tender, and it did something to him he couldn’t quite explain, like a warm hand pressed to his bare skin. Vulnerability wasn’t a feeling he entertained often, but here, under your watchful eyes, it didn’t make him want to pull away.

Ghost shifted as he exhaled a final curl of smoke, watching it spiral into the crisp morning air before dissipating. His thoughts had grown as hazy as the cloud he’d just released, and the stillness between you hung heavy, each second stretching taut with unsaid words. He should leave it there—should stub out the ember of whatever this was before it grew into something unmanageable, something dangerous.

But then, the words tumbled from his mouth, unbidden and unpolished.

“I like your perfume.”

The second they left him, he felt a rush of something that burned hot and fast, searing through his chest. Fucking sod. What the hell had possessed him to say that? Compliments weren’t in his arsenal, not ones like this, not here, not anywhere and definitely not for you—not when he was supposed to be keeping you at bloody arm’s length. And yet, there they were, laid bare between you, vulnerable and exposed like an open wound.

Your reaction was immediate.

A soft, startled inhale as your cheeks flushed, the colour rising high and fierce, blooming like dawn breaking over the horizon in front of them. But then, there it was. The sweetest fucking smile he’d ever seen. A simple smile that made something stir in him—something warm and reckless, something that shouldn’t belong to a man like him. Somehow the regret he expected never came, only the faint satisfaction of seeing that smile, of knowing his words had drawn it out. He felt like he’d stepped over an invisible line, into territory he didn’t belong in, but for the life of him, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Not when you were looking at him like that.

“Oh,” you said softly, your voice carrying an edge of disbelief, as though the admission had caught you as off guard as it had him. “Thank you. It’s, uhm—” You faltered, biting your lip for a moment before murmuring the name of the brand.

He didn’t catch it. Couldn’t, really.

He was way too focused on the way your lips moved, the way your beautiful eyes flicked up to meet his, shy and luminous beneath your lashes. That look—it undid him. Made his heart pick up its pace, a steady thrum that he felt low and deep in his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. He felt it deep within, an ache older than reason, a pulse in his marrow where instincts drowned out logic. 

Ghost knew the effect he had on women but he wasn’t a womaniser, not by disposition nor by choice.

Relationships, fleeting or deep, were uncharted waters he’d chosen to avoid. Hostile territories he refused to traverse, landscapes where desire turned men into ruins. It was a trap of his own making. He had learned, long ago, the cost of being known, the unbearable weight of letting someone too close. Most women recoiled from him, as they should. His profession, his mannerisms, his unflinching detachment—they cast a shadow too long and too sharp for most to cross. The sharp edges of him were designed to cut.

But then there was that look—it was undeniable, a silent confession offered in the flicker of a woman’s eyes, something soft and terrifying in equal measure. It wasn’t the look itself that unnerved him, it was the way it came from you. Because that look meant the promise of trust. That look meant potential desire. Moreover, that look meant the possibility of being known, of being understood, and in his world, that was the gravest vulnerability of all.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

His hands flexed at his sides, itching for the cigarette he’d already put out. “Shouldn’t’ve said that,” he huffed, the words rough and self-directed. He didn’t mean to be cruel, but his voice held an edge that might have been mistaken for anger. “Not my fuckin’ place.”

“No, it’s—” You trailed off, your fingers fidgeting nervously with your tablet. “It’s nice. I mean, it’s nice that you said something. I don’t get compliments like that often.”

He wasn’t prepared for that.

His head turned, almost reflexively, just enough to catch the flicker of your expression in the dim light.

You weren’t searching for validation, there was no grasping plea in your eyes, no desperate bid for comfort. Instead, you looked a bit startled, as though your own words had betrayed you. Just like his betrayed him a moment ago.

“Shame. You should.”

Simple, direct, and raw words that left him exposed.

Your lips parted, surprise flickering across your lovely face like a flame caught in the wind.

For a seemingly endless moment, neither of you spoke. The cold autumn air between you felt fragile, precarious, as if the wrong word could shatter whatever tentative bridge had formed. The blush on your cheeks deepened, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you held his gaze, steady despite the uncertainty, as though searching for something unspoken in the depths of his hazel eyes. And in that moment, Ghost knew—

—you were the braver one.

While he stood tethered to the weight of his scars, his silence, his bloody self-inflicted exile, you had leapt. You had chosen to meet him halfway, to reach out despite the walls he’d spent years fortifying. And God, how he wanted to catch you. To let himself fall with you into the unknown, into the warmth of whatever this was.

But Simon Riley wasn’t a man who fell.

He was a man who endured.

His gaze flickered away, his sharp jaw tightening beneath the fabric of his mask as he turned his head toward the door.

“C’mon,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, laced with a detached finality. “Still got a shit ton of paperwork to get through.”

"Strip me bare, wound me if you must, so long as you reach the marrow of my soul. If it takes bloodshed for you to understand me, then let it flow. I’d rather be your scar than your mystery." Skin of Thunder Chapters

[frostironfudge]

Silhouettes In the Spotlight - Bucky Barnes - Ten

Summary: Bucky Barnes has worked immensely hard to have a filmography expanding across genres and garnering accolades from critics, peers and fans. Y/N Y/L/N, with her debut novel (fan-fiction turned New York Times Bestseller) has two other best sellers under her belt. Next is her highly anticipated fourth book lined up for release. SHEILD Productions has acquired the film rights to her debut novel and they want Bucky Barnes to play the lead (aka himself) by any means necessary. This story is about angst, lust, heartbreak, and love. After all fairytales only exist in books and movies right?

Warnings: fluff, making out angst, swearing, towards reader: non consensual touching (not sexual in nature but still non consensual is non consensual), physical abuse, degrading language, non consensual photography. heavy chapter if these themes bother you please do not read the chapter, alexander pierce is a shit head or worse, brock rumlow too, i have demarcated the areas where the non consensual touching begins and ends.

Pairing: Actor!Bucky Barnes x Plus Size!Fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.6k || Dividers: @firefly-graphics

Main Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter Nine|| Chapter Eleven

HEADLINES:

Alexander Pierce Visits Dolores In Rehab Centre.

Natasha Romanoff Hopeful To Find The Next Doll, Maria Hill Joins Search For Auditions to Re-Open.

Author Y/N Spotted First Time Amid Break-up Rumours With Steve Rogers, Fans Attack Her Social Media.

Steve Rogers Jets Off To Europe. Top Ten Places To Visit To Get Over Break-Up Blues.

British GQ Announces Cover Star Bucky Barnes, Shoot To Take Place This Month.

Hydrangeas Publishing and SHEILD Productions Still In A War Over Buy-out, Authors Suffer As Work Is Pushed Back But Deadlines Aren’t Eased.

On-lookers Say Loki and Ace Spotted Getting Closer. Enemies To Lovers Or Just A Fling?

Bucky wonders if he’s dreaming, he really does as his hands run over your head along your back as you burrow closer. Your breathing soothed, sleepily seeking more of his warmth as laughter rumbles at your adorable behaviour. 

“What’s so funny?” You question, muffled by his shirt. 

“Not funny, endearing.” He corrects, you raise your head, chin resting on his sternum looking up at him. 

“You’re thinking.” You muse, narrowing your eyes. 

“Observant.” He chuckles, crinkles by his eyes appearing. 

“Tell me?” You try to sit up, his hold tightens, “James,” you giggle, his left palm cups your cheek, the cooler thumb brushing over your cheekbone. 

“I’m thinking, is this what Rhys felt, when he saw his Doll in reality? When he finally felt her against his body? Did he ask himself over and over, is this a dream? Is this a dream?” He watches you absorbing his words, blue eyes searching your own. 

You press a soft kiss to his palm, his eyelids flutter closed, you place a kiss to his wrist. Bucky’s breath hitches. 

You kiss the inside of his forearm, the way you can manage with his right arm still caging you in, when you reach the crease of his elbow, you look up at him. His gaze trained upon you. 

“Doll reminded Rhys, that this is their reality, every-time either one of them questioned if they are still in a dream the other showed them, with each touch, with each syllable of love, with each kiss. That this is their reality.” You watch as his eyes turn glassy. 

“And how do we remind each other?” His voice a soft whisper, “In the chaos of this life I lead, of these flashes and spotlights that surround you and I?” 

“Those bright flashes, that spotlight that shines upon you, the shuttering chaos that waits for your brand new, when you just hold my hand and then my fingers intertwine, we’re just two silhouettes in the spotlight, together we’ll remind, that those bright lights that illuminate, only make me see you more clearly.” You tell him.

“We’re two silhouettes in the spotlight, they don’t see you like I do, they don’t know how easily I’ve given my heart to you.” Bucky admits, you turn misty eyed. He chuckles, wiping the stray tear. 

“Might be coming for your job, Feather.” He jokes you give him a watery grin. 

Then hide away into his chest again. Bucky wraps his arms around you, kissing the top of your head. 

Your thumb brushes over the material of his shirt. Contemplating sharing your other book idea since you feel no urge to write the one you’re currently supposed to publish. 

That draft lay abandoned since weeks. 

“Whats on your pretty mind?” Bucky coaxes you out of your reverie. 

“Well I had another idea for a book…” You begin, he frowns as your body tenses. 

“Feather, why are you nervous?” He questions. 

“I’m scared about the idea and how it will be received.” You admit. 

“Well tell me, I want to know.” He urges, “You know I love the stories you’ve shared. Biggest fan right here even though I was terribly late to the fandom.” He clicks his tongue and the lil scrunched up face he makes has you giggle. 

“Well it’s about, this twenty six year old and a forty year old…” you watch him. 

“Quite the age gap but nothing to bat an eye too much at you know?” Bucky shrugs, “Are they in love?”

“Well, he’s her father’s best friend… the dad and he met when—,”

Incessant ringing has you pause, Bucky looks towards the table where your phone is the number is unknown,

“Why does he not understand I don’t want to talk to him?” You grumble. 

“You think it’s Steve?” Bucky reaches for the device. 

“I know it’s him.” You huff, he answers the call still, putting it on speaker phone. 

“Y/N.” Steve’s voice greets you, “Please talk to me.” His words are slurred, “Did you send me to voicemail again? Fuck.” Clanging of bottles and a shatter occurs. 

Bucky worries and you look up at him, “Steve?” 

There is a hiss, “Why won’t you talk to me? Am I that bad?” 

“Steve are you alright? Where are you?” You question. 

“Why don’t I dislike you? Why are you in every goddamn thought of mine? Was the fucking same when Bucky and I had our fall out. Is he with you?” There is a sniffle. 

“Steve, please tell me where are you?” You plead, you don’t want him hurting himself. 

“Steve,” Bucky’s own throat is tight with emotion. 

“Bucky?” Steve whispers, “I’m a horrible friend aren't I? Parading around your details and having a thing for your girl.” Steve gives a humourless laugh. 

“Steve are you at home?” Bucky questions, “Just tell us we’ll come get you.”

“You’d bring her? I want to apologise for being a shit, a shit head.” Steve drawls voice thickening. 

“She call you that? First meeting grumbled it under her breath but I heard it.” Steve chuckles. 

“She called me a knob head once.” Bucky adds, you glare at him. 

“I don’t think this is the time to discuss—,” 

“I see her in my dreams you know? Picked up her book, the one with the guy who lets her get away and then returns years later as her bodyguard?” 

“Steve I think you’re muddling all the books.” You look at the phone in concern, Bucky prompts you to ask Steve again. 

“Steve? Where would we be if I came in your dreams right this minute?” You wonder if the tactic will work. Bucky hands you your jacket while grabbing his own. 

“We’d be in my penthouse, you’d like the view from here, city lights and limitless sky.” He chuckles, then sighs as if he just took another sip. 

“I know where it is.” Bucky takes your hand as the two of you head to the stairwell to not lose the connection of the call. 

“That sounds nice.” You say, “Steve you have to talk to me, I need to know that you’re okay.”

“Just palm hurts, sliced it on glass, s’nothing.” He dismisses your sound of concern. 

“Can I ask you something?” He wonders, sounding childlike, hopeful. 

You and Bucky settle into his other car. The one he uses to remain undetected. 

“You can, go on.” You prompt, Bucky intertwines your hands over the console. 

“Why didn’t you and your mom leave him? Why did the two of you suffer? I’m asking because it took a long time for me too. I stayed cause I thought I could protect Mum by taking the hits for her.” He sniffles, your heart breaks for him. 

“You know what she did? She would purposefully call me in, so she could be saved. She threw me under the bus. Your mum isn’t like that, she shielded you.” His voice cracks, Bucky squeezes your hand. 

“I-I don’t know Steve, I never had the resources before and when I got them I knew I needed more and mom needed me.” You admit, “I wish I could have left with her earlier.” 

Bucky’s jaw tightens it pains him to hear your say this, you spilled everything over the course of time from your mutual confession. 

“Do you miss him? I miss mine, the good parts when I was younger.” Steve admits, you hear liquid sloshing. 

“Steve, you gotta stop drinking man.” Bucky tells him, worry lacing his voice. 

“I can handle it, your the one who can’t handle lick, lick-kurrrr.” Steve laughs, Bucky shakes his head. 

“Yeah I’m a total lightweight.” He admits. 

“Yeah you are, punk.” Steve agrees. 

“You’re the punk.” Bucky reiterates. 

A moment of silence settles over them, you can hear the breathing on the end of the line. Bucky’s grip tightens on the wheel and your hand. 

“I miss you, Buck.” Steve admits. 

“I miss you, Stevie.” Bucky says, without hesitation. 

You watch him, he swallows. You squeeze his hand.  

Steve cuts the call just as the two of you enter the basement parking. Bucky guides you through the familiar path to the penthouse. 

Bucky reaches behind the succulent handing near the window next to the door, the key hidden under the fake plant. 

Bucky takes a deep inhale as you both enter the apartment. It’s dimly lit, the television casting a glow across the living room, the glass crunches underneath your shoe. Steve’s head snaps up. 

“Y/N?” He blinks several times, Bucky comes to stand behind you and Steve’s gaze shifts to him. 

“Bucky?” Steve places weight on his right palm, then winces. 

“Shit.” Steve looks at the cut as it drips across his forearm. 

“First Aid’s in the kitchen if he hasn’t moved it, get him to sit up on the couch?” Bucky requests and you both part. 

“Steve, you need to sit on the couch.” You move closer he only looks up at you. 

“Oh you’re here, m'eudail.” Steve reaches for your hand with his uninjured one.

“Steve I need you to sit up on the couch.” You tug on his hand. 

“M’eudail listen, I need to tell you I’m sorry.” He kneels then stands swaying you grab his arms to help steady him. Yet you sway with him. 

“Steve sit, I’ll listen please just sit.” You urge, you look away to see if Bucky’s on his way back. 

Steve grasps your chin, making you face him, “Steve,” 

His lips brushing against yours, “Please.” he pleads. Your hands raise to push at his chest. 

“Steve, I’m with James—,” his lips cut you off and then he’s flung back. Bucky’s fist connecting with his face. Steve doubles over, palm covering the injured area. He groans pressing himself into the couch. 

“James.” You grab his hand, Bucky turns to you, walking you to the edge of the room. 

His thumb runs over your lips, you look up at him. 

“Don’t defend him.” He warns you. 

“I’m not, are you okay?” You question.

“You better hope this doesn’t bruise.” Steve groans. 

“Get over it.” Bucky calls out, eyes not leaving yours, you look at his chest. 

“I’m sorry.” You look back up at him.

“You have nothing to apologise for, Feather.” He assures you. 

“That guy on the other hand, his list just increases.” Bucky sighs, pressing his forehead to yours, you close your eyes. 

Footsteps pad closer and then fade, you heard the sounds of Steve hurling. You wince. Bucky sighs. 

“Stay here.” He requests, and moves to one of the rooms shutting the door. 

You stand for a total of one minute before carrying the bottles into the kitchen, trying to find the broom to gather the glass before it hurts anyone else or Steve again. 

Bucky walks out as you’re sweeping the glass into the outer carton of a Whiskey bottle. 

“He’s okay, threw up given the consumption, the forearm gash isn’t too deep.” He explains, moving to the sliding closet and retrieves the dustpan. 

“You spent a lot of time here?” You as as he takes the broom from you. 

“Starting of our careers he and I, with our first big endorsement bought this place,”

“And then he sold his half to me after the accident but before things went downhill.” Steve walks in rubbing his bloodshot eyes, some how seeming soberer. 

He shuffles into the kitchen, Bucky and you finish putting the glass in the trash to find Steve sipping the coffee mug while staring at the bandage on his palm. 

“You both can leave.” He says, Bucky rolls his eyes, “Don’t roll your eyes at me.” 

“You still have all the stupid with you.” Bucky grumbles, you glance between them. 

“Bucky—,” Steve turns and his eyes shift to you. 

“I’m sorry about what I did. It was shitty and non consensual and me being drunk isn’t an excuse or a reason. I, I’m sorry.” He looks away and then back at you. 

“Steve, that was really crappy.” You swallow down the lump in your throat, “Just, don’t do this stupid thing about drinking yourself to oblivion.” 

He nods, taking a sip of the coffee. 

“How, how are you holding up?” He asks, Bucky looks at Steve, observing the bags under his eyes and the withered look. 

“I’m okay, given how things are I’m sure you heard.” You shrug. 

“I’m sorry about the thing with your mom’s facility, I just, I wanted to be able to, fuck, whatever my intensions were it was shitty of me.” He sets the glass in the sink, scowling at the empty bottles. 

“Don’t go down that path.” Bucky says knowingly. 

A haunted look crosses Steve’s features, “I already am upon it.” 

“No.” Bucky presses, he steps forward, Steve faces him.

“Just go Bucky. Take her with you, she’s better far away from me. You all are.” Steve procures another bottle.

“You’re going to keep drinking?” The words leave your lips.

“Sweetheart, just go home with your boyfriend.” Steve sneers.

You glare at Steve, he doesn’t look at your drinking straight from the bottle.

“Steve—,”

“I said leave, before I call the cops for trespassing.” He seethes cutting Bucky off.

Your phone and Bucky’s ring in tandem.

“Yelena?”

“Sam?”

“Did you use the back entrance?” Steve groans, the two of you answer the calls.

“Are you with Bucky At Steve’s?” Yelena’s voice is frantic.

“Yes?” You sound wary how did she know?

“Valentina has paps stationed outside, the security tipped her off about you.” 

“I haven’t even been here!” You almost yell, Bucky’s expression is hardened as well.

Steve’s stomach flops again, “Fucking Valentina.”

“Sam’s attempting to get rid of them.” Bucky informs, “He’s told us to lay low.” 

“Where here?” You ask.

“Where else sweetheart?” Steve scoffs.

“You know what you did was hurtful but this, bullshit facade of yours hurts more.” You sneer, Steve’s mouth twists into a grimace he stomps over to his room shutting the door.

Bucky sighs.

“I’ll call you back, there is something that needs taking care of,” Yelena cuts the line before you can say anything further.

When the two of you head to the living room, muffled shouting resounds from his bedroom. 

“Valentina I swear if you don’t remove those fucking paps I will terminate your contract.” Steve sounds extremely calm but his voice keeps growing in octaves.

“Oh please you know I have shit on you.” She warns, “I know the shit Alexander has on you.” 

“Are you threatening me? You know I’m your biggest client I drop you, you will go down as a nobody.” He warns.

“You’re too much of a chicken. Please what are you going to do?” Valentina scoffs. 

“You’re fired.” He states, cutting the call, dialling his legal team.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Rogers?” Matt Murdock chuckles.

“Matt, i’ve fired Valentina, I need a new person to fill her place and I want everything iron clad, she has a slippery tongue.” He warns.

“Understood, I’ll have everything done by the end of the day. You take care alright?” Matt requests, Steve closes his eyes.

“I will.” He affirms, closing his eyes he opens the notification tab, already tweets, messages and emails pouring in about the leaked video that cuts Bucky out and only has you move through the building lobby.

Outside Bucky winces at the articles pouring in painting you as the one who cannot let go. The fan’s opinions dwindling. Then Sam shares a link. It takes him to Steve’s page. 

Bucky’s eyes widen, he taps your arm handing you the device. You raise your head from your hands.

“ @.Steve_Rogers: it has come to light that security footage from my building has leaked and been fabricated to today’s date. I apologise for the privacy invasion this has caused Y/N Y/L/N, she has endured enough on my account with fabricated tales and speculative articles into the nature of our relationship. We are co-workers nothing beyond that, she has written a brilliant book, that has achieved great accolades, and now I and my co-stars and the crew of the movie have the chance to bring her vision to life. I apologise to the fans as well, I know how all of this looks and I know most of my relationships are out in the open before I or my partner have the opportunity to decide, which is also why I have cut ties with Valentina de Fontaine. Please understand that this is a time you should be respecting Y/N Y/L/N not parading her private moments of offering to help me bring Beckham to life and twist them into a cruel jab at a relationship. Yes the pictures leaked, yes we shared a friendship. I did stupid things to fuck it up instead of being authentic. She tolerated me way beyond what she should have. Nothing more to it. Now, if any of you know a great PR rep or manager please let me know, preferably someone who doesn’t give a shit about keeping me in the headlines and gets me to do authentic work I believe in, thank you. 

All of the love, S.R. ❤️”

You re-read, he disregarded everything, admitted it was false, you look up at him as he steps into the living room.

“Well you did say to find the real me.” He shrugs, Bucky shakes his head chuckling.

“You still aren’t forgiven.” You tell him.

“I know, I’ll earn it.” Steve smiles confident, “Want food while the paps clear?”

“I could do for a pizza.” Bucky pipes up, he’s satisfied seeing the bruise on Steve’s face.

“You know? Why not.” you agree. 

You stare at the email, three days later. Alexander finally booked the venue for the meeting. You log it into your calendar. Yelena places a bag of take out in front of you. She had been hiding something acting shifty. You had hoped to catch her off guard but one thing about Yelena, she is never letting her guard down.

“Eat, Y/N.” She gestures with her hand.

“yeah I, I had a question.” You begin, she looks up at you, nose scrunched.

“What is it?”

“Why are you being so fidgety?” You narrows your eyes as her jaw drops and she immediately launches into being defensive.

“I am not!” She scoffs, you press your lips into a thin line.

“I don’t buy it, what is on your mind.” You question opening the bag that contains Indian food, the aroma soothing your senses. 

“Then why are you so…,” You pause as she stares behind you. You turn, Steve waves from the doorway. 

His attention is drawn by another worker at BW. 

“Is this why you’ve been shifty?” You turn back.

“Yes.” She exhales. 

“You took him on thats okay, Yelena I know you’re going to treat him better than Valentina did, you don’t have to worry about my reaction. Him being here won’t have you divert your attention from my work.” You smile when she nods. 

“I didn’t know how to tell you, its just, there was so much going on at your end and well…” She just trails off, slumping back in her chair.

“I’m not handling him directly we’ve taken him on as a client.” She explains you nod while eating. 

“So Alexander has sent out the invites for the dinner.” You turn the laptop around for her to read. 

“The dates the same as Bucky flying out. Have you told him?” She looks at you with furrowed brows. 

You nod, “James is trying to alter the flight till after the dinner meeting thing is done, Sam’s on it as well. Right now it’s coinciding with him boarding the plane.” 

You recalled the tension that rolled off of Bucky’s body the minute you mentioned this meeting. He hadn’t told you much about his own interactions with Alexander but you knew there was a-lot more to it. You just hoped to where your mind wandered wasn’t true. It was easy to think of horrible things. 

You stared at the email again, it seemed daunting the only thing getting you by was that other authors would be there too. 

Sam’s phone clatters on the glass he glares at it. Bucky groans throwing his own phone at the couch, it bounces and lands on the carpet with a thud. 

They don’t need to affirm what they already know. The tickets and dates aren’t changing. 

“I have a bad feeling.” Bucky says, the entire meeting thing has left a deep gnawing and clawing feeling in his chest. He doesn’t want Alexander to have something to hold over your head. 

Given how Alexander behaved when Bucky broke his PR relationship contract. He had a sinking feeling that you were going to be used against him. When it didn’t happen he stupidly allowed himself to feel relief and then the email came in, the meeting was on the same day but after he was being flown out. 

“What is the next step? Slip a recording bug in her bag?” Sam questions, “Hire a bodyguard?” 

Bucky covers his face with his palms, “Isn’t Steve an old Hydrangeas author? Also Loki they reached out to Loki.” 

Bucky bolts towards his phone dialling Loki’s number. 

“Hey mate.” Loki greets, “How are you?” 

“Loki, hey,” Bucky wonders if this would work. 

“What’s wrong? Did something happen with Y/N?” He sits up, “Are you okay?” 

“No, she’s okay, it’s, did you ever go through the deal with Hydrangeas? You know they reached out for you to come on as an author right?” His friend hums at the question. 

“They did but then the whole buy out thing happened so I never got on board, not that I would have, why?” Loki frowns, Bucky wasn’t seeming as himself. 

Bucky sighs, then begins to explain, Loki grows worried. 

“Wait did you say British GQ?” He confirms, “The just announced Steve as a special coverage too.” 

“What?” Bucky looks to Sam, “GQ Steve.” 

“On it.” 

“Look, I’m in New York send me the address and I’ll keep a watch okay? He doesn’t have shit on me that the world doesn’t already know.” Loki assures. 

“Thanks mate I’ll send the address to you. I’m sorry to drag you into this mess.” 

“Mate, Y/N is as much of a friend to me as I am to her, even without you two being together I would take care of her no questions asked.” Loki assures yet again. 

“Thank you.” Bucky’s voice is thick with emotion, he knows how hard it has been for you to form friendships as these, the way you cried to him with tears of joy when you realised how everyone was there for you came out in support of you. 

“You don’t know how much this means to her and me.” He adds. 

“Bucky, she means a lot to us as well. Now go, I’ll have everything sorted here.” Loki smiles as they bid each other good-bye. 

Bucky cuts the call Sam looks up at him, “Steve and you are on the same flight.” 

He presses his lips into a thin line. 

Something doesn’t feel right. 

There is a private entrance to the airport that  high profile individuals utilise to avoid being spotted as well as priority boarding after persons with different abilities. 

Bucky turns to you as Hayden places the car into park moving out to unload his bags. Giving the two of you another few moments to cherish. 

“You have the pepper spray?” He questions again. 

“I do,” you show him and tuck it into your purse again. 

He cups your cheek, the feeling in his stomach knots further. 

“James.” You look into his eyes, “I will be alright.” 

“I know I just; I’m going to miss you.” He swallows down, eyes searching through yours, you give him a smile. 

He strokes your cheek, “I’ve been meaning to say this earlier I regret not saying it earlier but I was worried that it might be too soon, but then again maybe I’ve been feeling this way for far longer.” 

Your lips part, he gives you a soft smile. 

“I love you, Feather.” He declares, the four words wrap around your heart. 

“Oh, James,” You inch closer to him, your lips brushing over his, “I love you, James.” 

Your confession a whisper against his lips that brands itself onto his being. 

He pulls your face closer, his lips on yours everything else in the world fades away. 

His hands move to your hips pulling you across his lap, the grin blooming across his face between the kisses the two of you share. 

“I’m the happiest man in the world today, Feather.” He admits, you nuzzle into the crook of his neck, his palm running over your head. 

“I wish you didn’t have to go.” You murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“I wish I didn’t either.” He admits, he kisses your shoulder, your scent taking over him.

The two of you remain embraced till Sam taps on the tinted window, “We have to move, I’m sorry to cut this short. Steve’s here too.” 

You shift away, but not before Bucky gives you another searing kiss. Even as he opens the door to leave Bucky bends back inside, he grabs your hand bringing it close to his lips and placing a kiss to the tattoo he adores.

“Take care of yourself for me, I’ll be back in three days okay? I love you.” He cups your cheek again.

“I love you too. Come back soon, take care of yourself for me.” You place a kiss to his palm, he smiles. 

Hayden enters the car again, you watch as Bucky, Sam, Steve and his new manager make their way into the airport.

“Shall we head out Ma’am? The Hotel your event is at is about an hour away.” Hayden meets your misty eyed gaze through the rearview mirror.

“Hayden,”

“Ma’am, he’ll be back before you know it.” He assures, you nod, taking the tissue he offers.

“Thank you.” 

Bucky sighs as you inform him of the sudden venue change, you made it in time, given as the hotel was closer to the previous venue. 

It’s fifteen minutes till he has to board the plane. 

The knots in his stomach only tighten he’s in half a mind to give up the cover page. Loki’s been updated about the venue change but the message isn’t read nor delivered and his phone is unavailable. He traces the path to the exit with his gaze. 

He should leave, his limbs push to have him rise from his chair.

“I thought you’d bring her along.” Steve muses while sitting down next to him.

“I wanted to but she has this meeting with every other Hydrangeas author and Alexander.” Bucky watches the blonde man’s brows furrow.

Bucky’s heart sinks at Steve’s next words,

“Bucky, that meeting was cancelled this afternoon.” Steve says while pulling up the email on his phone.

The words blur, “Steve she’s still invited, she’s on her way to meet him.”

“Boarding call for Delta Airlines JFK to LHR.” 

Steve’s features set into a harsh glare, Bucky begins moving to the exit, “I’m not getting on that plane.”

“No you are not.” Steve agrees following him.

NON CONSENSUAL SCENE BEGINS

There isn’t any welcome sign or guidance line to where the meeting is as you enter the hotel lobby. You had told Hayden he could take the night off since getting back home from here was easier. 

You message Bucky that you’ve reached and tuck in your phone when the manager stands in front of you.

“Ms. Y/L/N, I presume?” He speaks in a gentle manner.

“Yes, um, am I late?” You question worriedly.

“On the contrary Mr. Pierce is delayed he has asked me to take you to the presidential suite.” He gestures towards the lift.

“I, won’t the others be there for the meeting?” You ask while following.

“You’re the first one here. The suite is equipped with a private conference room.” He explains and you step behind him of the elevator.

“Oh, okay.” You tap your foot to the elevator music.

The doors open directly into the presidential suite, you follow behind to the meeting room, the chairs are lined up around an oval white marble table. Bottles of water kept along with notepads and pens. 

The manager pulls out a chair for you, you thank him as you sit.

“Would you care for refreshments? Any drinks?” He questions, you shake your head.

“Water is fine, you reach for the bottle, taking a few large gulps, his walkie beeps, he excuses himself from the suite.

You wait for a few more minutes sighing as you head towards the window, taking a few more gulps of the water and reaching for a second bottle. The sudden thirst you’re attributing to nerves, you place the bottle down.

“Ah, I see you made it.” Alexander grins like a cheshire cat.

You turn, “Oh, hello Sir— Alexander.” he smiles as you greet him.

“Ah come along I wanted to hold a mixer out on the foyer, no idea why Stuart brought you in here.” Alexander beckons you towards him with the flex of his fingers. You push away from the window, the floor tilts, you stumble propping yourself up with the back of the chair.

“Are you alright sweetheart?” 

You look up at him, he’s smiling, you blink, his features morph into worry. Nodding you take the support of the wall blinking several times to clear your vision. When you reach the doorway you fall forward again, the floor shakes. 

You groan as you’re picked up, large arms wrap around your waist. You shuffle in the tight grasp.

“Brock put her on the sofa and get rid of the jacket.” Alexander orders, taking off his own suit jacket and cufflinks.

Brock places you on the large sectional, when his hands move to your jacket you grab his hands, “Please no.” You plead, alarms ringing in your head and the vibrations of the floor don’t stop.

“Her, phone’s going off, it’s Barnes.” Brock says, looking up at his uncle.

“Throw it to the side.” He huffs, a clatter resounds as the vibrating floor stops, you stare up at Brock, trying to push his hands away. Brock pins your hands above your head.

“James won’t let you—,”

“Shh, sweetheart, you and I are going to take some very interesting photos. James is on his way to be far, far away from you.” Alexander’s palm cups your cheek.

You pull your head away, he grabs your jaw harshly, you cry out. Distantly fabric rips and Alexander’s weight is above you as he nastily grins at you.

“Oh look at you, crying. Oh sweetheart, you should have thought of this before you tried to get in the way of my entire plan. My best actors and you? Have you seen the mirror?” He laughs wickedly, there is a bright flash, you cry out at the sting on your cheek that follows.

“Dip your head down.” Brock tells him, Alexander’s breath fans across your neck, you struggle against him.

“Fucking bitch, I’m not even touching you. Who would want to? Certainly not my actors, they are toying with you. Shiny little toy, they ran after Dolores the same way.” 

Your eyes close at his words, you can’t feel your limbs anymore, disorientation taking over. 

He grabs your hand, making your fingers move close to his mouth you catch a flash of your tattoo before Alexander takes them in his mouth, you will yourself to kick or pull your hand back, his teeth clamp around your index finger you cry out at the pain. 

“Fucking bitch. I will make sure no one hires you, or publishes you. I will even ruin your little Barnes’ career. At least him I used well, didn’t I Brock?” Alexander chuckles.

Brock’s laugh echoes around your mind.

“Don’t, don’t hurt James.” you cry as his fingers twist your wrist, the dizzying feeling as you’re turned around.

“Maybe I should tell you what I have on Steve then, you’re going to forget all of this, and I’ll remind you.” he chuckles darkly, you see the flash against the upholstery.

“Little toy of SHEILD, thats what we should call you, fat fucking toy, your followers, your fans, all increased because of my company. I bought Hydrangeas already, I leaked your chapters, you will be SHEILD to buy your book rights, I’ll earn a profit you get nothing. Just the way I milked your precious James’ arm loss.”

You can hear him but your tears seem louder as he tells you the vile things he did to the two of them, the drugs, the women, the compromising pictures with everything. 

You cry out as he pulls you up then pushes you down to the floor. You struggle to remain on your knees as he has you face him. 

“Was supposed to be Steve losing his arm, fucker was becoming a liability, then Barnes stepped in with his improvisation. Maybe I should hurt him again. Or should I hurt Steve?” Alexander’s ring bruises your cheek. “Answer me.”

“Please don’t hurt them! Please don’t hurt them! I’ll do anything.” You plead.

“You open your mouth and you see what I do to you.” Alexander warns, throwing you back, you curl up on your side, black spots cloud your vision.

“Anyways once your little boy toys know what occurred they won’t touch you. Who will believe that you didn’t sleep with me, you were the one that wanted to rise above. No one. Who will believe that I, Alexander Pierce drugged you? No one. Who will believe a little author who lied to everyone about her father not being an abusive man but displayed every bit of it in her book? No one will believe you. When I’ve produced movies and best selling sagas, your story is in my hand as well. You’re a liar, a fraud, no one will believe a silly pathetic girl that makes up stories for a living.” Alexander pats your wet cheek.

Brock takes a final picture the white flash bleeds into blackened darkness.

NON CONSENSUAL SCENE ENDS

The ding of the lift and silence of six minutes echoes around the rental car. Sam drives as swiftly as possible. Steve’s gaze is trained on his phone that was video recording Bucky’s device. Bucky was shaking, anger rolling off of him in waves. 

“Yelena?” Steve’s new manager, Angel’s, voice cuts through the silence, “We need Barber and Murdock. It’s Y/N, something happened, just get them at BW private meeting no paps nothing. Off books. You need to go get her, she’s shaken up. Medical team as well.”

Your sobs break free, Bucky’s heart bleeds, “Feather.” he says. 

“James?” your voice breaks off more.

“Feather I’m coming to get you okay? I, I need you to talk to me, are you hurt?” Bucky will kill them, he’s going to kill Alexander and Brock.

“Do-don’t I’m, I’m not, I’m not—,”

“Feather, please, please, don’t believe a word he says, I believe you.” He assures, you cry harder over the call, there is shuffling across the line.

“You didn’t go?” you whimper, bringing the watch closer to your face.

“I’ll explain when I get there okay?” he sounds broken, hearing everything that was done to him and Steve.

“Don’t come here. I’ll, I’ll meet you at home, please.”

“Baby—,”

“I don’t want to be here.” You plead, “please.” 

“I’ll call Hayden for you.” he says.

“I gave him the night off.” You inform, “I, I thought he would—, there should have been others…”

“Yelena is on it.” Angel assures, “She’ll reach in a few minutes.”

“Did you hear everything? It the call’s on the watch…” You wonder when did the call dial or get answered during the struggle. He sighs, he doesn’t know how to answer this question.

“Who-Who else heard?” You sniffle, your shirt was in tatters, the buttons half popped off.

“Feather…” Bucky winces, “Steve, Angel and Sam.”

“We’ll make him pay, Y/N.” Steve’s voice is gruff a little scratchy, the whole ordeal lasted thirty minutes, how did the call get answered they don’t understand but Steve began recording the device with his own phone. 

“We can’t, he’ll ruin your careers. He threatened to hurt, hurt you, he said more but I, I was drowning?” you try to make them understand.

“Nothing is more important than you.” Bucky says, his vibranium arm whirs as his fist is tightly clenched. 

“Alpine and Mum, the nurse…” You being to panic again, 

“I’ll have someone relieve the other nurse and say you’re caught up okay?” Steve assures you, “Angel, call the nursing facility please, an email from them has the contact information.

“I’m not going to stop, Feather. We’re going to make him pay.” Bucky assures, you whimper.

“You, you tried to warn me, I should have said no.” You begin to cry again.

“This is not your fault, you were misled. This was planned by them, you are not at fault.” Bucky assures you, he swallows thickly.

You take a deep inhale, the elevator dings, “Someone’s come back,” you hide away the watch behind your back, cowering against the sectional. Pulling your jacket to cover your form.

Yelena comes finds you on the floor she drops her bags as you arms wrap around her, you begin to cry, “I’ll have her back at BW.” Yelena spots the ongoing call on the watch.

“Have change of clothes for you, your hoodie.” She explains, “I thought maybe it was a spill…”

You shake your head, she helps you wear the hoodie. Your limbs wobble, “He had something in the water in the conference room.” 

Steve and Bucky share a glance, they were familiar with the laced drug. 

“Yelena, get the bottles.” Steve says over the speaker phone.

You follow her not wanting to be alone, she grabs the half empty bottle and the empty bottle and a third sealed one.

She takes your hand, leading you to the basement parking. You numbly follow her, getting into her car.

Bucky paces the entirety of the BW office, his head snapping up to the entrance every time he hears footsteps. Steve watches him while he replays the audio for Matt and Andy. 

Matt’s lips press into a thin line as the call progresses for a second time. Your cries for no and help have your voice hoarse. 

Andy scribbles the time stamps across a piece of paper. Noting down everything that was occurring via the audio. Every word where you pleaded for a no, or asked them to stop marked. His breathing trying to remain in control. The anger towards men like Alexander only growing.

The audio ends, Steve looks towards both of them.

“We need to tread with this very carefully. It is non consensual, she repeats over and over, he also admits to incriminating things he has done to you and Mr. Barnes.” Matt lists, “Andy you need to work rationally not with anger.”

“I know what I’m doing Matt.” Andy huffs, “We can build a case. However this needs to be off books and off records. The main thing is she’s shaken, if she says no, we cannot do anything.” 

“What do you mean? We have to do something!” Steve yells.

“Mr. Rogers, please understand, till the victim does not file the complaint, there is nothing we can do.” Matt sighs.

“Andy come on.” Steve looks at the man helplessly.

“I can’t do anything Steve, we can talk to her, assure her that this will be dealt with without harm to either you or Mr. Barnes but if she says no, that it a full sentence.” Andy looks at Steve who only gets more irritable.

“You need to cool off before she comes in.” Andy advises his brother, “She needs rational and calmness right now.”

Steve only grumbles under his breath.

His head snaps up as Bucky and you meet halfway, he lifts you up as you wrap around him, your sobs greet everyone. As you hold on for dear life to Bucky.

Bucky runs his hand over your head, leading you to Yelena’s office, the three seater couch allowing you to lay on Bucky as he holds you. Apologies fall from both of your lips, he kisses your tears away while shedding his own. 

“I managed to get a hold of Loki.” Sam walks into the conference room, “He ordered a drink in the hotel lobby. Woke up right now.” 

“He was drugged as well?” Steve looks towards Andy.

Andy’s lips press into a thin line he notes this down as well, “We need him to come in, I’ve got Dr Banner and Dr Cho in to find DNA evidence and take blood samples. Again only if Y/N agrees.”

Steve pushes the nearest chair and it topples over, he rests his palms against the wall trying to curb his anger.

“He’ll hurt the two of you.” You say for the umpteenth time sitting in the conference room to discuss how to go about this whole situation.

“Feather, we have him threatening you over us. He cannot do shit.” Bucky cups your cheeks, you weren’t leaving his side to afraid to be alone. The scent of his cologne calming you. 

“It will all come to light.” You say, “What about that?” 

“It anyways would if we did a misstep with Alexander.” Steve says from his place to your left. 

“Exactly, this way they know Alexander is the bad guy.” Bucky’s thumb brushes over your cheekbone. You look down at your hands, his teeth marks left a gash over your tattoo over the exact place Bucky left his parting kiss.

Bucky’s jaw tightens as he sees the flesh marred. 

“If you still do not want to, Matt and Andy will leave.” Bucky tells you and your gaze lifts to the two lawyers, Steve explained Andy and he are twins but Andy left the family and changed his last name. The information seemed like whiplash. He had kind eyes, as Steve did in some moments you had with him.

“Y/N, look the trauma you underwent tonight was horrible and I cannot provide words that may be able to comfort you,” Andy’s voice is sincere, “What I can offer is a chance to make sure Alexander and Brock never get the chance to hurt you or anyone else again.”

“We have a contact in the FBI as well, her team was investigating SHEILD for the longest time, money laundering amongst other things, we can build a case.” Matt assures, he tilts his head the glasses gleam against the light.

“He won’t be able to hurt James and Steve or anyone right?” You want to affirm.

“Yes.” Matt says, “even what he mentioned about Bucky’s accident that was scheduled for Steve.”

“We will make sure of it.” Andy adds, his gaze flickers to his brother who harbours worry towards you, Bucky’s expression holds the same worry. 

“What about Bucky’s accident?” You look amongst everyone, your brows furrowed, “I, I don’t remember…”

“It’s probably the drug altering your memory.” Matt deduces.

“Don’t strain yourself trying to recall, we can take your statement afterwards as well.” Andy says, he taps his pen on the paper.

“We all are going to believe and support you, no matter the choice you make.” Bucky grasps your hand gently, Steve lightly touches your forearm. 

“Look around the room,” he urges, and you do, “Bucky, Yelena, Angel, Loki, Matt, Andy, Sam and I, we are all here for you.” They all offer encouraging looks, you feel tears brim again.

“Okay, okay, I’ll file the case.” You look at the two lawyers, Matt smiles.

“Thank you.” He says.

“Hey, Darcy, I have some news.” Andy stands gazing out the window continuing his call.

“Y/N, this is Dr. Cho, she will be assessing you and documenting the injuries.” Matt announces the minute Dr. Cho steps in, “her perfume is recognisable.” he explains with a light chuckle.

“Y/N, I’m Helen Cho, I’ve step up the examining area in the other office, you can have someone accompany you.” She gives you a warm smile.

Your gaze moves towards Yelena, she nods, “Of course I will.” 

You swallow standing up, looking down at Bucky.

“I love you.” he tells you kissing the back of your hand.

“I love you.” you cup his cheek brushing your thumb over his jaw.

You look back at Steve, “M’eudail, it means, my darling.” he tells you, you nod.

“Steve.” Andy warns.

“Thank you for being here, you’re a good friend.” You say to him, Steve find a weight lifted from his shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes meet his, he nods affirming and agreeing to what you said.

You meet Loki’s gaze with an apology on your tongue.

“Hey I’d get knocked out as many times for you.” The green eyed man gives you a cheeky smile.

You give him a smile and walk out with Yelena following Dr. Cho.

HEADLINES:

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes Get Into Public Altercation At JFK, Escorted Out By Security.

Dolores Issues Apology Statement As She Gears Up To Return From Rehab.

Loki Laufeyson Naps While Waiting For Script Read.

GQ Releases Statement Redacting Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers From Next Month Issue, Director Brock Rumlow Chosen Instead.

Alexander Pierce Issues Statement Hydrangeas Now A Part Of SHEILD. New Name — HYDRA. 

A.N.: i know this chapter a heavy scene, if anyone needs to talk my DMs are open.

Taglist is Open comment or DM to be added!

Taglist: @stevesmewmew @elle14-blog1 @crazyunsexycool @sebsgirl71479 @pandaxnienke @slutforsexyseabass @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer @pandaxnienke @vampire7595

[theageoftheunderstatement]

Newsweek Magazine: Arctic Monkeys Change Direction Yet Again on 'The Car'

Written by David Chiu, 24/10/2022

When Arctic Monkeys released their sixth studio album, Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino, in 2018, it was viewed as a dramatic left turn for the British band primarily known for their guitar-charged indie rock and the distinct lyrics of frontman Alex Turner. For that record, the British quartet incorporated ornate psychedelic and lounge-pop influences that leaned toward Burt Bacharach and the Beach Boys, with the piano becoming more prominent than the guitar. Yet, those noticeable shifts didn't appear to alienate the band's diehard fans when Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino became the band's sixth consecutive number one album in the U.K.

After that stylistic detour, fans might have expected Arctic Monkeys—Turner, drummer Matt Helders, bassist Nick O'Malley and guitarist Jamie Cook—to return to the earlier brash rock for their next album. But the band from Sheffield remains determined to evolve and defy expectations, as indicated by The Car, released October 21 via Domino Records. It's a continuation of the trippy and elegant after-hours vibe mined on Tranquility Base, although the music—featuring strings and horns this time—sounds more loose, atmospheric and expansive.

"I think there's this idea of when starting a new record [is the] 'we're-not-gonna-make-it-anything-like-the-last-one,'" the pensive Turner tells Newsweek. "But what I realize more often than not is they all seem to bleed into each other. It's only now when I've got this one under the microscope, I realized how much of that is true. I was probably trying to get away from things we've done on that last record. But I think there's still some of that kind of hanging over here into [The Car], but hopefully not to the extent where it isn't also reaching some new places that we haven't been before as well."

A listen to The Car (produced by longtime collaborator James Ford) immediately draws comparisons to the music of such artists as David Bowie (somewhere between his Young Americans and Station to Station albums), Serge Gainsbourg, Nick Cave and Scott Walker as well as '70s R&B and glam—and yet it still sounds like Arctic Monkeys. "I find it a bit more difficult than I have in the past to draw a line between records of other artists and this thing," Turner says. "I could probably pencil in a few. Perhaps the things I've sort of absorbed for a relatively long period of time now just influenced the process but in a more subtle way than having a discussion saying, 'Let's try and do a song like this' or something. It feels a little more unspoken now. Perhaps I'm just still too close to it in the moment."

Unlike Tranquility Base, whose theme centered on a futuristic hotel on the moon, The Car doesn't primarily focus on a particular subject running through the songs' enigmatic lyrics. "I think there is a theme or feel that runs through this whole record, but I don't think it's exclusive to the words," Turner explains. "It's almost easier to latch on to a theme if I take the words out of it for a minute and focus on what the feel of everything else is doing. I think that the lyrics are sometimes subscribing to that feel. And if there is a theme that runs through it, it's more along those lines than it is about XYZ, if that makes any sense at all."

"The first thing I wrote through it was this instrumental section at the beginning of the album," he continues. "Everything that came after that was written after that. It felt like it has a relationship with what was being evoked in that instrumental section. I wouldn't be leaning into the idea of it's just another 10 songs that aren't connected in any way. But at the same time, I don't think I can pin down a theme, not in a succinct sentence anyway."

The first single released off The Car, "There'd Better Be a Mirrorball," carries an air of melancholy amid the gorgeous strings and prominent piano lines, as Turner sings wistfully: "So if you want to walk me to the car you ought to know I have a heavy heart, so can we please be absolutely sure that there's a mirror ball."

"Obviously, you're describing the lead-up to some sort of goodbye line," Turner says, "and suddenly a mirrorball drops into the middle of that situation, which somehow doesn't seem totally incongruous in my mind. Perhaps on some level, the mirrorball is kind of synonymous with the closing of the show or something like that. But I think what I was imagining is carrying someone's suitcase to the car and then the lighting suddenly changes and the mirrorball drops in the middle of that situation. It's like, 'What's going on there?'I think it does feel like there are a few goodbyes here and there."

Introduced by beautiful acoustic guitar picking, the lyrical setting of "Mr. Schwartz" seems to take place at a movie shoot, which seems appropriate given the cinematic feeling of the song and the album. "There is a feeling of that behind-the-scenes of the production," Turner says. "That idea is not exclusive to or contained within just that song....It feels like there is something going on in the background of all these songs, like sort of a production: There's someone with a clipboard somewhere and somebody's up a ladder not too far from where these things are going on. The character of Mr. Schwartz was something that kind of did present itself to me in very real life, but sort of has been allowed to become a character in a song, I suppose."

The sweeping "Body Paint," the latest single, may be the most brash song of the collection. There are moments of electric guitar bursting through the lush orchestrations, while Turner's vocalizing echoes Bowie's '70s soul boy phase. It opens with a line Steely Dan or Prefab Sprout could have written: "For a master of deception and subterfuge you've made yourself quite the bed to lie in." Explains Turner: "It definitely does get pretty sparkly in the guitar toward the end of that. It's loud...more than I had expected it from the sketches of that song that we had before. I had it down for something that was gentle at the beginning. But during the session, there was something that was more lively that wanted to come out there at the end. I think that songs always continue to reveal themselves even sometimes after they've been recorded. We played the version of that on stage for the first time the other day, and it definitely seemed like it's still got somewhere to go. It's becoming a more exaggerated version of itself."

The Car marks another maturation and evolution in Arctic Monkeys' sound. Its release falls on the 20th anniversary of the band's formation. The hype surrounding Arctic Monkeys' arrival in the post-Britpop era has since become the stuff of legend: their early recordings were burned on CDs and given away at their shows, which prompted fans to upload them online. After signing with indie label Domino, Arctic Monkeys released 2006's Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not, which hit number one in the U.K. and became that country's biggest-selling debut. Since then, it has been hit albums, touring and festival appearances for the band. On his end, Turner has been engaged with a side project, the Last Shadow Puppets, whose elaborate sounds may have been a prelude to the music of Tranquility Base and The Car.

"It was the summer of 2002 when we first got all the way through the same song at the same time together," he recalls. "We still are friends like we were before it started, and still trusting each other and our instincts in the same way. " The fact that Arctic Monkeys never made the same album twice most likely contributed to their longevity and friendship. It's been a progression that was more natural than calculated.

"When I cast my mind back to 20 years ago," says Turner, "there's always been something inherently uncooperative. I don't know if that somehow has translated to each time we've been faced with the task of making something new. There's something about not wanting to kind of cooperate with our perception of what we think that should be. I suppose you can arrive at the idea that if one record was successful, the next one should try and emulate or bark up the same tree as that one was. We're not having the board meeting where we're kind of discussing that out loud to that extent. The whole thing in the first place was done on a hunch, on an instinct, and I think that's something we're just still paying attention to, that same instinct all the way along. That's the through line."

Arctic Monkeys will be touring the U.K., Ireland, North America and South America the rest of this year and into 2023. Having branched out on their last two records, it wouldn't be surprising if their next record tackled another genre, perhaps hip-hop or ambient music. Turner says. "Yeah, why not? I'd have to give it some more thought. When I think about my perception of the way people make dance music, I am interested in that approach to it. I'm not saying that it's something I want to do, but I'm interested in watching somebody do it or something for an afternoon."

[cyanophore-fiction]

“Contact”

Out in the distance, something glitters on the side of a dune.

Quetzal is in the process of constricting a concept to death when they detect the object, sensing a wisp of its meaning before turning to look at it. At this distance, it’s little more than a bluish glint reflecting the desert’s eternal midday sun.

In its death throes, the concept lashes at Quetzal’s emerald scales, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand. Distracted, they glance down at the concept, coiling their body tighter around it. The thing’s avatar is an ancient CRT television set with hundreds of barbed electrical wires whipping from its body. Onscreen, a grainy black-and-white image of an elderly human wearing a suit squints at them, silently mouthing something.

As the concept begins to break down, Quetzal strikes, driving their head through the screen with a rain of sparks and shattered glass. Its wire tendrils go limp as Quetzal whips their head back out of its body, clutching its glowing core between their fangs.

It tastes thin and inarticulate, a set of anxieties with its substance derived from the identity of the man onscreen. Quetzal learns that it gestated through the 1980s as they swallow the core whole, absorbing what little psychic mass it contains. There isn’t much else to know.

They turn their attention back to the object and take off towards it, discarding the concept’s remains to disintegrate into the sand. Quetzal grins as they feel its significance become clear. Diving toward it, their plumage swirling green and red, they watch the object resolve into a sheet of lined paper.

______

To the best of their understanding, Taylor and Jo have successfully summoned the feathered serpent of Aztec myth. Jo bolts into the night and winds up tumbling into Taylor’s dad’s tent, snapping the poles. Taylor hears her friend hit the ground, but is too stunned to look.

Quetzal hovers over her, their amber eyes on her spiral-bound notebook, which until about a week ago was for Algebra II. Now it has a pentagram doodled on it in sharpie, with a shed snakeskin resting on the page. The serpent looks at her next, and she feels very small in her camp chair.

A grin spreads across Quetzal’s face. “Oh, I love it,” they say, glancing at the thrashing, swearing mass amid the tent fabric. “Absolutely incredible.”

“We didn’t…” Taylor starts, going numb as Quetzal looks back to her. The serpent’s grin disappears, and their eyes go wide.

“Oh, honey. No, no, no, don’t worry. You’re completely fine.”

“Oh. Okay. Because we didn’t mean to, like, actually...”

“You put a signal up into the fever dream without even trying?”

“I’m sorry? I don’t know.”

“Okay. That’s okay. Hey, I—I just wanted to see who was there. Just here to chat. Is she alright?”

Jo, motionless, has managed to free her head from the tent and is looking on in terror.

“Quetzalcoatl,” she says.

“Actually, nah. Just Quetzal. Modeled after him, used to play him. Someone’s idea of him, anyway. The Quetzalcoatl is floating around up there somewhere. Probably couldn’t come down to hardspace even if he wanted to. Were you two trying to reach him?”

Taylor and Jo glance at each other. For a brief moment, Taylor feels sunlight on her skin, and the sensation of sand running through her fingers. A sense of vast, empty space yawns out around her, and then it’s gone.

“Did you have something in mind?” Quetzal asks, grinning.

“Well, since you asked…”

_______

If you make a call, be prepared for someone to answer.

Thanks to @flashfictionfridayofficial for the prompt, “didn’t mean it.” To be honest, I ran out of steam here and need to sleep, but I may expand on it when I’ve got time. Thanks for reading!

[learnthisphrase]

Best books of 2023

The best books I read in 2023

Knock Knock, Open Wide by Neil Sharpson (Tor Nightfire, 2023)

Imagine Tana French writing a folklore-infused horror novel, and you have Knock Knock, Open Wide. The always-thrilling plot takes in a life-changing accident, a love affair, and a sinister TV series; the storylines overlap and entwine perfectly, and there’s a lot of beautifully crafted character work. It’s a dark and eerie book, but full of life and love, too.

Black Mountain by Simon Bestwick (Independent Legions, 2021)

A mixed-media horror novel disguised as non-fiction about the many strange incidents surrounding a cursed/haunted mountain. Unputdownable and genuinely unnerving at points – I had the time of my life reading this. I’m amazed it isn’t better-known among horror fans!

The Last Language by Jennifer duBois (Milkweed Editions, 2023)

A riveting, disturbing book about a language therapist’s relationship with the autistic man she’s helping to ‘speak’ using the controversial method of facilitated communication. I read it in one fevered session, completely in the grip of the dizzying, queasy moral maze duBois creates.

Hydra by Adriane Howell (Transit Lounge, 2022)

Just when you think the ‘unhinged woman’ trend has had its day, this excellent Australian debut offers a fresh spin on the whole idea. Anja’s dry, idiosyncratic voice rings out from the page, and the plot is never far away from intimations of something dark and weird. Read if you love Ottessa Moshfegh and Tár.

My Death by Lisa Tuttle (2004, reissued by NYRB Classics 2023)

A perfect novella about a widowed writer who becomes obsessed with her latest project, a biography of a little-known artist’s muse. Astonishingly clever, convincing and absorbing, it’s a revelation and turned me into an instant fan of Tuttle’s writing.

Grasshopper by Barbara Vine (Penguin, 2000)

A beautiful and eloquent coming-of-age tale dressed up as a crime novel. The plot has so many different strands that it’s difficult to describe concisely, but this is essentially a character-focused story about identity, aspiration and love. The rare book that actually made me cry.

How Can I Help You by Laura Sims (Putnam, 2023; UK ebook out in January 2024)

Explores the tense relationship between two women with secrets (some more dangerous than others) who both work at a public library. A sharp, nuanced character study that is also utterly propulsive. If you loved Death of a Bookseller, this should be next on your wishlist.

Novel with Cocaine by M. Ageyev, translated by Michael Henry Heim (Picador, 1985)

1930s cult classic about a dissolute Russian teenager, his friendships, affairs and drug addiction. Think No Longer Human, but (in my opinion) way better. It’s philosophical, funny and stuffed with remarkable descriptive writing.

Where the Dead Wait by Ally Wilkes (Titan, January 2024)

Years after an infamous failed expedition, a captain with a sullied reputation must return to the Arctic in search of his former lieutenant. Immersive and enthralling at every level, this is a blood-soaked, frostbitten treat – I’ve been describing it as The Terror meets Heart of Darkness.

The Devil’s Playground by Craig Russell (Doubleday, 2023)

An elaborately plotted historical mystery about a legendary silent horror movie. Come for the lost film and its ghosts; stay for the well-researched portrait of old Hollywood, the world-weary heroine, and the fascinating detective story.

We Were Never Friends by Margaret Bearman (Brio Books, 2020)

A woman looks back at a strange period of her youth when her family became entangled with Kyla, a hated classmate of hers. Dazzling at the sentence level – Bearman illuminates Lotti and Kyla’s world with startling colour, vividly portraying the emotional landscape of adolescence.

Honour Thy Father by Lesley Glaister (Bloomsbury, 1991)

Four elderly – yet naive – siblings live in self-imposed imprisonment amid the squalid remains of their family home. How did they end up like this? We Have Always Lived in the Castle meets Come Join Our Disease in a dark tale that perfectly balances tender nostalgia, black humour and sinister threat.

Angel by Elizabeth Taylor (Virago, 1957)

We meet Angel as an impetuous 15-year-old convinced she will become a great novelist, and follow throughout her life as she first fails upwards, then eventually loses everything. It’s a tragic story that centres on a pathetic character, yet Taylor writes with a compassion that makes it almost romantic.

The Night Ocean by Paul La Farge (Penguin, 2017)

A labyrinthine series of stories within stories inspired by H.P. Lovecraft – but you definitely don’t need to like (or have read) Lovecraft to enjoy it. Deceptively complex, it excavates the lives of its characters while maintaining a subtle sense that the whole narrative is haunted.

Looking Glass Sound by Catriona Ward (Viper, 2023)

My favourite of Ward’s books since her debut Rawblood, this is a story about murder that deals with the long shadow it casts. It’s also about writing and witchcraft, unrequited love, and the death of the author, and is unexpectedly heartbreaking.

Brainwyrms by Alison Rumfitt (Cipher Press, 2023)

This book takes the ‘trauma as horror’ trope and eats it from the inside out. It’s full of fearless writing about fetishes, transness, transphobia, dysphoria, and what – if anything – it means to be virtuous. While often disgusting (be warned), I wanted to reread it straight away.

Where Furnaces Burn by Joel Lane (2012, reissued by Influx Press 2023)

A sprawling map of linked stories; layered, moody and strange. Not the easiest book to recommend – Lane, one of my favourite writers, invariably creates very bleak worlds – but an incredibly rewarding reading experience.

Notable reread: Kiss Me First by Lottie Moggach (Picador, 2013)

A grieving, lonely young woman finds solace on an online debate forum and ends up immersed in someone else’s life. Just as fast-paced, gripping and brilliantly voice-driven as it was when I first read it a decade ago.

Honourable mentions

So many good books came out in 2023 that I have to mention a few more. The Book of Ayn by Lexi Freiman was the funniest, sharpest, most quotable novel I read this year. I loved the intriguing layers of Ben Tufnell’s The North Shore and Viola Di Grado’s poignant Blue Hunger, translated by Jamie Richards. Verity M. Holloway’s romantic, atmospheric The Others of Edenwell deserved way more attention. And this may be an unpopular opinion, but I enjoyed Elizabeth Hand’s A Haunting on the Hill more than The Haunting of Hill House.

For thought-provoking plots: Service by Sarah Gilmartin and Kids Run the Show by Delphine de Vigan, translated by Alison Anderson. For pure thrills: Nicholas Binge’s mind-bending Ascension and Jinwoo Chong’s dazzling Flux. For both, and great suspense: A Flaw in the Design by Nathan Oates.

And not forgetting the brilliant 2023 books I read as review copies last year: Nina Allan’s masterpiece Conquest, Alice Slater’s ultra-compelling Death of a Bookseller, and Maria Dong’s loveable Liar, Dreamer, Thief.

[chicagosavant]

Dealing with a person who has some major unacknowledged personality disorder traits—of the narcissistic/border-line sort…

The absolute one-sided, self-centered perspective of reality—I see it in my patients so often, and I’ve glimpsed episodes in this particular friend over the years. But never to this extent, and so flipping disconnected from reality, where they accept absolutely no responsibility in their actions. And when the people who’ve tried to help them out mention their own particular commitments, or boundaries, regarding the situation that’s persisted longer than it was ever meant, bc of a lack of clarity in communication—that, I’ll admit both to parties sharing some responsibility (although, the BPP person certainly won’t…)—and the reactive hostile vindictiveness…omg. They’ve said their part, and we’ve said ours. Trying to reframe their actions in terms of the lack of clarity, and completely inaccurate portrayal of topics discussed is like trying to truth-sandwich an anti-Vaxer. It’s pointless, bc their version of realty is so self-absorbed, and detracts from any constructive trouble-shooting. Their poor dogs, who are the subject of this vague-post, where we’re (my partner and I) are trying to get our friend to get her damn (but actually very sweet, fairly low maintenance, but have literally been staying with us for 6 fucking months already) dogs, while our friend/ex-friend decided amid a mid-life crisis, they would up and drive 1/2 way cross-country to buffoo-NewMexico, thinking this was The Great Life ReSet—then, decided, literally after trying it for 6 wks in NewMexico-Life wasn’t happening quite as planned, and upped-n-hauled back to New-Fucking-England. En route, mentioning they needed a place to leave their dogs till they could get set up in a new apt.

Bad foresight on my part, not specifying a time-frame we were willing to watch them for (in the Midwest, btw—no where near NewEngland….). 6 months was not a part of this dialogue, till after they tell us they signed a lease on an apt, but the catch: “Oh surprise! They won’t let me have my dogs. So, as a favor to you guys, I told them I could only sign a 6 month lease bc I just couldn’t be away from my little shmoopies that long, for a full 12 months. So, it looks like you’ll be watching them into the spring (wtf??? That hadn’t been mentioned…)”. Btw, this friend is a working professional in healthcare, at a pretty cush teaching-hospital in NewEngland—not homeless/jobless/salaryless/or skilless—they can afford the $450-900 pops for their ketamine infusions, every 1-2x/month, but lament how hard-up they are financially, unable to afford a place that’ll let them have dogs. We’ve attempted to politely inquire as to any updates on her living situation a few times, in the last few weeks, especially as this 6 month lease is up in early April, and supposedly, her current landlords were considering letting her have her dogs, so she could finish out the coming 6 months on her lease. Or, bc—well, you know—finding a place, and moving and all that…also, well, we’re going out of country in early April, and we don’t want to be responsible for her dogs needing a boarder. And they’re not our dogs. She’s covered the cost of kibble (2 long-haired doxies, not that expensive anyway, but appreciated from our end), but we’ve done all the other doggy things you do when you’re not a turd, and you’re caring for fur-babies. However, We already postposed/wrote-off a few fall trips that had been in the works/planned bc of her sudden crisis-mode, and the changing goal-post of duration for which we were meant to be watching her dogs originally. So, bc we heard nothing in the last 2 months, in terms of time-frame, touching base on dates of when she’d be able to out to get her “shmoopies”, (for the record, we’d even floated the possibility of driving them out to her once she had a better idea what her plans were…), we sent an email mentioning upcoming dates that we were finally planning on going abroad to visit a friend (in 2 months, btw—about the time our friend was/is supposed to be out to get her dogs), and we were trying to figure out what game-plan was. She tells us she’s already put in for vacation, and only had a certain select number of days/dates, end of March into April, that she could be out, bc it was already approved by her employer, and there was nothing she could do to alter that, and if the dates didn’t work with our plans, well that was on us bc this is what we’d talked about in a conversation 2 months ago.

um, yeah, I don’t need to say here—this was not how that particular topic was mentioned 2 months ago. We’d batted around a general time-frame, with the understanding we’d be revisiting the dates more specifically around now, before anything was set in stone. We had no idea she’d already made plans—didn’t even know she was planning on staying with us, or she was intending to visit at that time. And proceeds to blame this whole situation on us…

Anyway—I have every sympathy for the shit-pie she keeps referring to in every-other paragraph, regarding her life-choice consequences in the last 5 years, and I hope she finds a place in her life, at some point, where she feels more in control of her circumstances. We’ve tried to help her, to the extent we were able, in the way she’d seemed to ask, but the rule of thumb with Narcissistic/BPersonalities is—the moment you mention you’re own commitments, or boundaries, they’ll come back at you, blaming you for failing every expectation of what they expect from a friend…

enough said—personal rant done…

[chthonicomens]

In duskiness, something far more than evil lingers within igniting constellations of dead stars, a black hole in desolation absorbs empty desires. At first, it beckons you on edge, an unwanted scent of raw metallic and demise. Its relished savour liquefies on the tip of your tongue welcoming your heart to Hell’s Gate. I remember this in a different aspect of reality, although it may be an illusion or dream.

The pain begins to strike upon empty visionaries, things that aren’t there, or maybe I’d been there?

And what if I didn’t dream it all, then suppose I’d been stuck inside my head this whole time?

Voids of death whisper for their craving to know this feeling, boundless as they entice the incessant ache with an anguish endured. Coal-black skin teared apart at the seams amidst eely flesh buried underneath my fingers, there's cold-blooded reptilian gore replenished with black fluid painted on the walls, and my face. This accomplishes something beyond a satisfaction as I’d devour blood held in between my cupped hands, the endless craving surrenders ache, and then, excruciating death. The sacred demonic lives within my soul; it's tainted until it emerges from the depths of Hell. A demon ascends from the core of my soul, to sustain the putrid crimson that is my blood, he nourishes off these weakened bones. It has its power of possession, from inner thoughts to the very bottom, it’ll devour me whole and I’ll remain soulless. Even one day in the realms of Hell.

I see that now, I am cursed. I accept the consequences, only to a fault.

There’s a place in darkness sheathed by dead silence that doesn't stop the voices, to every lingering thought of suffering I’m weakened by its power; held on edge until I’ve fallen to my fate, I douse endlessly in the river of haunted souls. And to the advantage I know great will come when I call, but to the downside I feel infested with flesh-eating parasites growing from the blood-dripping poison, with an ache that will never perish. What seems to remain on the other side lingers in the path of emptiness. I feel nothing, no sympathy for those lost, no empathy for those who crossed my path. It makes a home inside my heart. I am different. Time can only tell whether I’d give in to my fate, or relent everything I’ve worked for.

The void of emptiness I hold only fades away, like dust of scattered souls in the wind. It no longer has me resistant to the ache of ripping demons apart from their limbs, their bodies split half open and the black nectar inside spilling the darkest arts.

I’m drowning.

And so I am one with it all, drowning in the heavens of every drop of blood.

Where malevolent spirits dwell and shadows reign supreme, a vanquisher of the profane entwined by fate and blood. Each demon that succumbs to my blade ignites a surge of exhilaration upon me, a potent elixir that propels me into a realm of ecstasy, where the boundary between light and darkness fades into obscurity. Traversing the labyrinthine corridors of my mind, the spectres of death and desolation linger, etched into the very essence of my existence. The echoes of my fallen adversaries reverberate me, a sombre testament to the dominion I command and the lives I've extinguished. Finding a macabre solace in the art of manipulation, in the mastery over minds, I embrace the mantle of a true psychopath with a grim sense of pride. Yet, amid the tumult of battle and the haunting echoes of the departed, a haunting question looms like a spectre in my thoughts.

Am I a mere conduit for darkness, a spirit adrift in the abyss, or simply a warrior bound to a sombre duty?

The boundary between reason and madness blurs, but in the blackhearted void. Kimetsu no Yaiba, dimensions of the exorcist such distinctions hold little sway, their significance fading amidst the grander conflicts endured. For in the macabre waltz of shadows and malevolent entities, where demise and devastation intertwine, I unearth my purpose, unwavering in my pursuit of justice, impervious to the constraints of the labels that seek to confine me. In the realm of relinquishing command.

I am cognizant that inevitably, I shall merge with their kind. My authentic essence emerges, an irreversible metamorphosis beckoning. A shadowy essence resides me, prompting the question.

Will I challenge the arts or persist in this life?

Unravelling the verity, liberation from the hex shall be right at my fingertips.

[masongrizchel]

Reflections from My First Month Away from the Classroom 🏫🌟

Note: I'm trying a different format for this blog post.

KEYPOINTS:

Continuous Learning: Embrace every opportunity to learn, no matter where you are. The skills and knowledge you acquire will always add value.

The Desire to Share: Teaching is not confined to a classroom. Sharing knowledge and insights can happen in any environment and is always rewarding.

Value of Interaction: Human interaction and the exchange of ideas are invaluable. Finding ways to foster this in any setting is crucial for personal and professional growth.

Passion for Teaching: Once a teacher, always a teacher. The passion for imparting knowledge and guiding others is a lifelong trait.

---

I celebrated my work month-sarry last Monday. Cheers!

It’s been a month since I traded in my chalk for a keyboard 🖥️, leaving behind the familiar buzz of the classroom 🏫 for the uncharted waters of a new professional environment. The decision to step away from teaching wasn’t easy, but the promise of growth 🌱 and new experiences awaited me. Now, with thirty days of fresh challenges and learning under my belt, I find myself reflecting on the journey so far and the unexpected ache of missing the classroom.

The first few days in my new role felt like the initial weeks of a school year – a whirlwind of introductions, orientation sessions, and a steep learning curve 📈. I was eager to absorb everything, from understanding the company's culture to mastering new software and processes. The pace was relentless, but each day brought a sense of achievement 🏆. I thrived on the challenge, reminded of the early days of my teaching career when every lesson plan and student interaction was a new adventure.

One of the most exciting aspects of this new job has been the opportunity to learn. In just a month, I’ve been exposed to concepts and skills that were previously outside my professional scope. I've delved into areas like project management, digital marketing, and data analysis – fields that were once just buzzwords in my vocabulary. Each new piece of knowledge feels like a tool 🛠️ added to my arsenal, equipping me to contribute more effectively to my team and the broader goals of the organization.

Yet, amid the excitement of new learning, I’ve felt a growing desire to share these insights. As a teacher, sharing knowledge was second nature; it was my daily bread and butter 🍞. Whether it was explaining a complex idea in simple terms or sparking curiosity in my students, the act of teaching was deeply fulfilling. Now, I find myself wanting to convey the same enthusiasm and understanding to my new colleagues and friends. I catch myself mentally drafting mini-lessons on the latest marketing strategy I've learned or a fascinating project management technique. The instinct to teach, it seems, never fades 🌟.

What I miss most, though, is the interaction with students. There’s a unique energy ⚡ in a classroom that’s hard to replicate elsewhere. The curiosity of students, their "aha" moments 💡, and the lively discussions – these were the highlights of my teaching career. In my current role, interactions are often more structured and less spontaneous. I miss the organic flow of ideas that a classroom fosters, the immediate feedback from students, and the joy of watching them grow 🌿.

Moving forward, I plan to blend my new skills with my teaching instincts. Perhaps I’ll start a blog/video series to share my learnings 📖 or initiate workshops within my team. The past month has shown me that while I may not be in a classroom, the essence of teaching – the joy of learning and sharing – is something I can carry with me wherever I go 🌟.

[safethaw]

Ultimate Guide On Removing Oil Stains From Your Driveway

Let's sit down, grab a coffee, and talk about something that's probably been bugging you – removing oil stains from driveway. It's like they appeared overnight, a dark blot on your otherwise perfect home front. But don't sweat it; I've got some tips and tricks that'll make removing those pesky stains feel less like a chore and more like you're winning at homeowner bingo. Step 1: The Detective Work First things first, let's play detective. Is this oil stain fresh, or has it been hanging around longer than your in-laws at Thanksgiving? Fresh stains are simpler to handle. Grab some kitty litter or baking soda – yes, the stuff from your pantry – and give that stain a good sprinkle. It's like putting a cozy blanket over it. Let it sit, absorb, and then sweep it away like you're brushing off yesterday's worries. Step 2: The Kitchen Hero – Dish Soap Now, let's raid the kitchen. Dish soap and hot water can be your dynamic duo against oil stains. It’s like they team up to cut through grease and grime. Scrub that area and then rinse off for removing oil stains from driveway. Step 3: Bringing In The Big Guns – Degreasers If you're dealing with a stain that's more stubborn than a mule, it’s time to call in the heavy hitters: degreasers. It’s like bringing a superhero into the fight. Apply it, follow the epic instructions, scrub, and watch as that stain meets its match. Step 4: The Unexpected Twist – Wd-40 Here’s a twist in the plot – did you know that WD-40 can help lift oil stains? It’s like finding out your old school friend is actually a secret genius. Spray it on, give it a moment to work its charm, and then scrub. It's oddly satisfying, like popping bubble wrap. Step 5: The Pressure Washer Finale For the hardcore, been-there-forever stains, unleash the power of a pressure washer. It’s like using a magic wand to blast away the last traces of the stain. Just be careful not to go overboard; you don't want to turn your driveway into a scene from a superhero movie. The Cautionary Tale: Ice Melt Woes Now, let's talk winter woes. Using salt or chloride-based ice melts is like inviting a bull into a china shop. Sure, they melt ice, but they also rough up your concrete, making it more vulnerable to oil stains. It’s a short-term solution to long-term headaches. The Hero Of The Story: Safe Thaw Instead, let’s turn the page to Safe Thaw. It’s the gentle giant of ice melts. It is non-corrosive and eco-friendly, and it treats your driveway like a cherished family heirloom. Its special formula, a blend of crystalline amide core and glycol admixture, is like a secret potion keeping your driveway safe without any of the drama. Wrapping It Up: Keep Calm And Clean On Removing oil stains from driveway is like piecing together a puzzle. It takes patience, the right tools, and a bit of know-how. And remember, prevention is key. Using driveway-friendly ice melt like Safe Thaw you now know “how to clean oil on concrete driveway” and it can save you a lot of hassle down the road. So here’s to conquering those oil stains and keeping your driveway looking as inviting as a welcome mat. Happy cleaning! Read the full article

[abvndonedbydisney]

[ lando norris, cis man, he/him. ] ✧･ﾟ is that [ HUDSON MCQUEEN ] who just stumbled into town? rumour has it that they’re the [ TWENTY-ONE ] year old child of [ LIGHTNING AND SALLY ] from [ CARS ]. i’ve also heard that they’re [ DARING ] but [ COCKY ] and have [ 1 ] sibling. i could almost swear i heard [ FERRARI - JAMES HYPE ] playing when they appeared.

full name: hudson mcqueen.

nicknames: none.

gender: cis man.

pronouns: he/him.

sexuality: bisexual.

age: twenty-one.

date of birth: october 9th.

zodiac sign: libra.

aesthetics: tbd.

parents: lightning mcqueen and sally carrera.

siblings: one open sibling spot.

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘.

the world would one day know hudson mcqueen’s name, that was one thing he was sure of. he was born to famous racecar lightning mcqueen and sally carrera, the two decided to name their son after doc hudson. he grew up in radiator springs and was extremely close to the other children of the cars there. life was a bit on the slow side save for the times he would watch his father or tourists would come through their little town. hudson ended up spending a lot of his time re-watching old races and spending time racing himself through the bluffs, this passion for racing easily sparking up. his parents were a bit apprehensive when he told them that he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, but they supported him no matter what.

following in his father’s footsteps, he was able to get his foot in the door to the world of racing due to who he was the child of. but even though he was essentially a nepotism baby, he was pretty damn good at racing. he loved the thrill of racing, but the most addictive feeling was the joy and exhilaration he would feel after winning a race. it was easily one of the best things in the entire world. he ended up making a name for himself as a rookie in his career, even breaking some of the records that were set by his father. while he felt like everything was going his way and he enjoyed racing in america, his true dream was to eventually be able to race in the european circuit. even though it felt like a lofty dream for a while, he ended up lucking out.

through connections he made back home through luigi and guido, he ended up obtaining a sponsorship with ferrari and ended up getting whisked away to europe. the dream he thought was impossible was becoming a reality. although amid all his wins, he started to become a bit self-absorbed and cocky. it was difficult not to allow all the newly garnered attention and fame to go straight to his head, almost as if he had learned absolutely nothing from the stories he heard about his father’s early career. but despite the change in his attitude, he always found time to return to radiator springs in his off-season. it was the one place that truly grounded him. he did everything he could to share his wealth and time with the people who always believed in him before he became a famous race car.

𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒.

kids of mater.

kids of ramone and flo.

his sibling who he has always been extremely close to.

[cess-is-here]

Stars Around My Scars

“Time is everything we have and don’t.”

My life amid this unprecedented pandemic is more like a roller coaster ride than anything else imaginable. Everything from elation to terror to shock to a host of other life-altering experiences. I would not alter any of these occurrences if given the opportunity to do so. If any of those things hadn't happened, I wouldn't be who I am now.

In all candor, I was rather pleased when the lockdown finally began. My academic year had ended early, classes were canceled, and the sun was beaming. I felt good and confident that I would be happy. Really, remaining at home can't be that challenging, can it? Imagine being able to skip chores and lie in bed all day. Given that we own a sari-sari store, I would probably spend most of my vacation there if the lockdown hadn’t happened. Obviously, then, I benefited from the advent of the pandemic. Nothing was done but lie in bed for the entirety of those days. I was thumbing through my phone, checking out various social media apps, and taking in an entire season of shows on Netflix. Just generally wasting time. After some time had passed, the reality of the situation started to sink in.

In those moments, I could only think of how wonderful life was without the burdens of home and classroom obligations. Looking back now, I see how self-absorbed and egocentric I was.  It's like the world is ending, people are dying, many are losing their loved ones, and yet there I was, rejoicing in the fact that a pandemic has occurred. I didn't understand how mundane being at home would be until we started having issues as a family. The expected family drama has finally begun. In most cases, I think families have grown closer together during lockdowns. Since everyone is stuck at home, it's a great chance to spend quality time together as a family. But that is not the case with my family. 

“The longer I stay at home, the more homeless I look.”

My lowest point in life. All the trauma, all the anxiety—I didn't even realize I was feeling them at the time. The connection that I had with my family began to show signs of strain. To this day, I have no idea what the root of the problem was that led to my alienation from them. But I suppose that one of the reasons was that we were not accustomed to being at home with the whole family at the same time for an extended period of time. Before the epidemic, my family and I didn't get to spend much time together because we were all so preoccupied with our individual lives. Therefore, it is really awkward for us to spend time together at home. At least, that's how I felt about it.

I found myself in several disagreements with both my parents and my siblings. It wasn't until then that I realized how little I actually know about my family, and the same goes for them for me. There are a great number of things that set us apart, and you should know that I am not the sort to just give in and back down. I have a theory that one of the reasons we get into disputes a lot is because neither one of us wants to acknowledge our own shortcomings. This was the mere similarity that we all have. 

It even came to the point where one of my family members almost ran away from home. After that it was very hard to interact with that person. He was always in such a bad mood and what’s worse was it came to the point where he physically hurt me. I can still vividly recall the searing sensation that spread across my face where his hands had landed, as well as the buzzing sound that emanated from both of my ears. It seemed as if time had stopped moving, and all of a sudden he was so far apart from me. I believe that it was a depiction of how that one act had resulted in the severing of all of my ties with him.

Since that happened, I’ve been plagued by anxiety. My entire body would start trembling so badly whenever there would be loud noises or voices of people shouting with one another. Suddenly, it would be difficult to breathe, and going outside wouldn't be much of an option because of the lockdown. Being that my family isn't exactly the most open bunch, I had no choice but to keep everything to myself. Not until I figured out how to cope with my anxieties, anyway.

“Healing is not linear.”

There's a common belief that if someone in your family has wronged you in any manner, you must forgive them no matter what. “Pamilya mo pa ‘rin naman sila,” as the old Filipino proverb goes. It drives me crazy when people say things like this to me because it just doesn't make any sense. I stand my ground, and I have some good reasons why that adage is bunk. One thing to remember is that just because they are related to you does not absolve them of responsibility if they cause you emotional distress. Second, your mental and emotional health will suffer if you continue to be with toxic people. Finally, getting out of an abusive relationship is the only way to recover from it. These are the primary reasons why our family members do not have an excuse to dump their traumatic experiences on us. There are still a lot of other reasons why this is the case, but these are the most important ones.

I am not, however, advocating that people harbor resentment or refuse to forgive members of their own families. Despite having made peace with the past, one lesson I took away from this is that you may forgive someone without forgetting what they did. I'm to the point where I can have a regular conversation with that person, but there are still moments when it all comes crashing back in. That's fine, by the way. Healing is not linear. 

Everyone has the option of forgiving, but forgetting might be challenging. To heal, it's fine to take things slowly and focus on one thing at a time. It's ultimately up to you to decide if you want to forgive, and if you don't, it doesn't make you a horrible person. Forgiving someone who has wronged you against your will isn't always the best way to heal from the hurt you've suffered.

After the horrible experience that I went through, I was never the same person again. Despite the fact that it had a positive and negative impact on me, I believe that such things are an inevitable part of life. Everything we've been through up to this point has contributed to making us who we are. Therefore, we shouldn't just stop there but should instead continue to shape ourselves in various ways. Let us not let our suffering be the defining factor of our entire lives, but rather let us use it as the impetus to get better. Sometimes we slip backwards in our recovery, and that's okay; relapses are a natural part of the process, and in no way undermines the progress that we have already made.

“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”

[wingedblooms]

The seeds Sarah planted for Elain in ACOSF

I don’t know how many times I’ve read that Elain isn’t developed enough to get her own book, but it puzzles me each time. We have seen her grow significantly over the series and despite what some say, Sarah planted many seeds for her arc in ACOSF. This post is long (so many seeds), so take a seat and get comfortable. And if you notice any missing hints that might influence Elain’s story, please share! Many thanks to @offtorivendell for previewing this list and providing feedback.

1. We learn that Elain was Papa Archeron’s princess and they once lived happily together in a manor by the sea. This information seems like the opening of a fairytale. Through Nesta’s POV, we learn more about their childhood experiences. While Nesta was her mother’s creature, Elain was her father’s princess. Her word choice and proximity to a specific parent sets the sisters apart, in turn making their perspectives and development different. Nesta’s mother honed her ruthlessness and taught her how to scheme her way into a formidable match. And we are shown Elain’s heir-like resemblance to her father in their warm brown eyes, association with love and beauty, and desire to travel.

“We weren’t always poor. Until I was fourteen, my father was as rich as a king. They called him the Prince of Merchants.”

He gave her a tentative smile. “And you were his princess?”

Ice cracked through her. “No. Elain was his princess. Even Feyre was more his princess than I ever was.”

Even their gods-damned father had a portrait on the wall along one side of the grand staircase: him and Elain, smiling and happy, as they’d been before the world went to shit. Sitting on a stone bench amid bushes bursting with pink and blue hydrangea. The formal gardens of their first home, that lovely manor near the sea. Nesta and their mother were nowhere in sight.

2. Mama Archeron once predicted Elain would wed for love and beauty (which, as others have pointed out before, sounds an awful lot like lovely beauty), and comments dismissively that she doesn’t dream beyond her garden and pretty clothes. Nesta absorbed her every word, and channeled her mother when she told Elain to return to her little garden in a heated argument. She later challenges Nesta on her hypocrisy when she tries to keep Elain from living beyond the safety of her garden. And thanks to the Cauldron, we know she now dreams far beyond anyone else in this realm. It seems we have more to learn about what the middle Archeron sister wishes to make of her life.

My Nesta. Elain shall wed for love and beauty, but you, my cunning little queen … You shall wed for conquest.

Elain is pleasant to look at, her mother had once mused while Nesta sat beside her dressing table, a servant silently brushing her mother’s gold-brown hair, but she has no ambition. She does not dream beyond her garden and pretty clothes.

That fast, the power in her receded, vanishing into smoke on the wind. Leaving only exhaustion weighing her bones, her breath. “It doesn’t matter what I think. Go back to Feyre and your little garden.”

“Why?” Elain demanded. “Shall I tend to my little garden forever?” When Nesta flinched, Elain said, “You can’t have it both ways. You cannot resent my decision to lead a small, quiet life while also refusing to let me do anything greater.”

3. Elain’s relationship with Nesta is strained and evolving from their past. Elain used to trail after Nesta to comfort her when she had awful arguments with Feyre. She catered to her needs, and in turn, Nesta defended her as a mother would. Elain’s absence in the intervention scene is therefore significant and indicates a shift in their relationship. She does not reinforce their past dynamic, and in later confrontations, seems to challenge it directly. Based on the evidence below, her presence might’ve simply been used by Nesta to delay the inevitable: getting help to address her addictive behaviors before they destroyed her immortal life. While we are ultimately left with hope for their future, they have yet to discuss their mutual hurts and find a new way forward.

Nesta didn’t bother to look pleasant as Feyre twisted to face her, taking a proper seat on the couch, the velvet cushions sighing beneath her. Her sister swallowed. “We need to make some changes, Nesta,” Feyre said hoarsely. “You do—and we do.” Where the hell was Elain?

&

Feyre swallowed, but didn’t balk. “That is enough. You’re moving up to the House, you’re going to train and work, and I don’t care what vitriol you spew my way. You’re doing it.”

“Elain needs to be able to see me—”

“Elain agreed to this hours ago. She’s currently packing your things. They’ll be waiting for you when you arrive.” Nesta recoiled.

4. In contrast to her sister, we see that Elain has started to heal. She is taking care of her body, has found friends in the Night Court, and is moving on from her heartbreak with Graysen. Does this mean her healing is finished? Of course not. Healing is an ongoing journey. But these clues might indicate that her story will focus less on her healing arc and more on her finding her own voice and using it to be the architect of her destiny. And we’ve already seen glimpses of this through her quiet steel, direct responses, and bold statements (see #6). This might also mean that her counterpart will receive more intentional healing support, while she tries new things with his encouragement.

Tending to the gardens of Feyre’s veritable palace on the river, helping other residents of Velaris restore their own destroyed gardens—she had purpose, and joy, and friends: those two half-wraiths who worked in Rhysand’s household. But those things had always come easily to her sister. Had always made Elain special.

Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court. Gone were the sharp angles, replaced by softness and elegant curves.

She peered down at herself, bony and gangly. Her sister turned toward her, glowing with health. Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows.

Elain cocked her head. Didn’t dissolve into the crying mess she usually became when Graysen came up. Instead she said, “You’re angry with me.”

5. We finally learn Elain’s scent: a delicate mixture of jasmine and honey. Not only is jasmine heavily connected to the Night Court, but like honey it balances opposing forces. It is a flower that soaks up sunlight during the day and blooms at night. It has a soothing scent that can both help someone relax…and heighten their desires. Add some sweet honey to that, and you’ve got yourself a beautiful aphrodisiac (love that for her). In ancient cultures, honey is connected to both life and death; it is specifically included in religious references of land that overflows with plenty (land of milk and honey), and it was also buried with those who had died. Do those words sound familiar? They should. In ACOTAR, the fae Feyre was forced to murder start reciting this before they die: “Cauldron save me / Mother hold me / Guide me to you. / Let me pass through the gates; let me smell that immortal land of milk and honey.” More on that in a future post very soon. But big takeaway: even down to her scent, Elain is a blend of life and death, day and night.

Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring, a sparkling river that she followed to the open doors of the chamber.

6. Elain seems to be done with being told what to think and do. She asserts herself and doesn’t balk from others. In fact, she even challenges and dismisses the most powerful characters, Nesta and Rhys. This change in behavior has been building since ACOFAS and it will likely manifest fully in the next book.

“I still wanted to come,” Elain went on with that focused calm, the quiet steel building in her voice. “I wanted to see you, to explain.”

Silver lined Elain’s eyes, but her voice remained steady, sure. “There was nothing that could have been done to save him, Nesta.”

Elain stiffened, but refused to balk from whatever she beheld in Nesta’s gaze. “You think I’m to blame for his death?” Challenge filled each word. Challenge—from Elain, of all people. “No one but the King of Hybern is to blame for that.” The quaver in her voice belied her firm words.

When Elain burst into the dining room of the House, Cassian and Rhys were shaking off the frigid air that had been howling through Windhaven. Her brown eyes were bright with tears, but she kept her chin high.

“What happened.” When Rhys spoke like that, it was more of a command than a question. Elain waved a hand in dismissal before flinging open the veranda doors and striding into the open air.

Elain remained in the doorway, her face pale but her expression harder than Nesta had ever seen it. “You do not decide what I can and cannot do, Nesta.”

Elain cut in sharply, “I am not a child to be fought over.”

“Look who decided to grow claws after all,” she crooned. “Maybe you’ll become interesting at last, Elain.”

7. And she is ready to hone her powers and help her court. Elain accepted the task of tracking down the Trove without hesitation. As we’ve seen in the original trilogy, her powers are extensive and they were critical in the war against Hybern (discovering a missing queen, Koschei’s box, Suriel’s whereabouts, and preventing her family’s deaths). The Night Court will need her powers to outmaneuver those who scheme against them and avoid another devastating war.

Cassian shifted in his seat. “So we track down the Dread Trove—how?” Elain spoke from the doorway, having appeared so silently that they all twisted toward her, “Using me.”

Elain said, “Then I will find it. I might require some time to … reacquaint myself with my powers, but I could start today.”

But Elain turned on her heel. “Find me when you wish to begin.” The doors shut behind her.

8. Amren (the ancient who flatters no one) reminds us that Elain is more than capable of defending herself and shouldn’t be underestimated. This is another callback to the times she defended her friends and family in the previous trilogy, to everyone’s surprise. Amren places emphasis on Elain’s capability and choice to determine whether or not she will train. We do not hear anything more about Elain tracking down the Trove, but it is after this point (specifically on solstice) when Nesta wonders if she is, in fact, taking lessons.

Amren said, “We do not have the time to wait for Nesta to decide. I say we approach Elain tomorrow. Better to have both of them working on it.”

Amren drained her wine and said to Cassian, “Nesta has a week. One more week to find the Trove with her own methods. Then we seek out other routes.” She threw a nod toward Azriel. “Including Elain, who is more than capable of defending herself against the darkness of the Trove, if she chooses to. Don’t underestimate her.”

Cassian and Azriel looked to Rhys, who merely sipped from his own wine. Amren’s order held. As Rhys’s Second in this court, short of Rhys overruling her, her word was law.

9. We learn that she is incredibly observant and has a vivid memory, and when she shares what she knows, it sets important events in motion. Despite what Feyre claims about her in ACOTAR (Elain just doesn’t grasp certain things), Nesta contradicts this by thinking that Elain was the only one who fully grasped her fierce nature and emotional depth. Despite what Nesta said about her being a loyal and loving dog, Cassian contradicts this with realizing that she sees and understands everything Nesta did. Notice a trend of assumptions and contradictions? @onceupona-chaos made a fantastic post about this very topic. SJM is intentionally setting up her character arc with these contradictions, expanding what we know about her, and preparing us for more development. And without the intelligence she provided, we wouldn’t have Nesta’s iconic Court of Nightmares scene or the musical gift from Cassian on solstice.

She had been born wrong. Had been born with claws and fangs and had never been able to keep from using them, never been able to quell the part of her that roared at betrayal, that could hate and love more violently than anyone ever understood. Elain had been the only one who perhaps grasped it, but now her sister loathed her.

&

“I’d forgotten,” Feyre murmured. “About this, and about her dancing.”

“Nesta never spoke of it afterward,” Elain said. “I just observed.”

Nesta was wrong, Cassian realized, to think Elain as loyal and loving as a dog. Elain saw every single thing Nesta had done, and understood why.

10. And somehow, she has evaded praise for Hybern’s death…like a spy. Rhys recalled her role in killing Hybern in ACOFAS, but we don’t get a hint of it in Nesta’s point-of-view and she claims the responsibility in ACOSF. Not once does Nesta correct others’ misunderstanding; she embraces it like a warrior. This is curious, but if the next book is focused on spying, it also makes sense. Spies don’t crow about their accomplishments like warriors do as that would blow their cover.

“I know,” Emerie said, releasing Nesta’s hand. “You killed the King of Hybern.”

“Yes.” There was no denying that fact. And she couldn’t bring herself to lie that she wasn’t the least bit smug about it.

&

Merrill bared her teeth. “You think I do not know you? The human girl who was shoved into the Cauldron and came out High Fae. The female who slew the King of Hybern and held up his head like a trophy as his blood rained upon her.”

&

“You slew the King of Hybern,” Gwyn repeated. “With the shadowsinger’s knife.”

“Luck and rage,” Nesta admitted. “And I had made a promise to kill him for what he did to me and my sister.”

11. Elain may be better than Azriel at keeping secrets. She discovers things that others do not (again, observant) and knows how to keep that information private.

Feyre smiled. “Elain was the only one who guessed. She caught me vomiting two mornings in a row.” She nodded toward Azriel. “I think she’s got you beat for secret-keeping.”

12. She’s also sneaking around and surprising trained warriors on the regular. We know she’s up to something and Nesta’s thoughts about it might be a hint, but we’ll have to confirm in the next book.

Elain spoke from the doorway, having appeared so silently that they all twisted toward her, “Using me.”

Elain had already departed with Feyre, claiming she had to be up with the dawn to tend to an elderly faerie’s garden. Cassian didn’t exactly know why he suspected this wasn’t true. There had been some tightness in Elain’s face as she’d said it. Normally when she made such excuses, Lucien was around, but the male remained in the human lands with Jurian and Vassa.

“You came,” Elain said behind her, and Nesta started, not having heard her sister approach. She scanned Elain from head to toe, wondering if she’d been taking lessons in stealth either from Azriel or the two half-wraiths she called friends.

13. She is riveted by the stories of her sister, her friends, and the legends of the Valkyries. Rhysand uses this opportunity to make a very interesting connection: some Valkyries were as lovely as Elain before they transformed into bloodthirsty creatures like Amren on the battlefield. Is this a hint for the other side Elain is hiding, and the true reason she was asking Amren about changing forms in ACOFAS? Is she a lovely fawn on the outside, and a fanged beast on the inside? We’ve actually seen this transformation before: in ACOWAR, Elain accepted Truth-Teller as the lovely fawn and then became a fanged beast when she stepped out of a shadow, bared her teeth, and slammed Truth-Teller through Hybern’s neck. This change from a soft creature of spring to a fierce creature of darkness also aligns with the myth of Blodeuwedd. Elain can be both soft and fierce, and no, she doesn’t have to choose one over the other.

“We never heard of them in the human lands,” Elain said. She’d been as riveted as Feyre to hear Cassian tell of it: first of Nesta and the others’ interest, then of the brief history of the female fighters. “They must have been fearsome creatures.”

“Some were as lovely as you, Elain,” Rhys said from beside Feyre, “from the outside. But once they set foot into the arena of battle, they became as bloodthirsty as Amren.”

14. Like her sisters before her, she will also have to address the mating bond, but Elain might have more than one bond to choose from. SJM uses specific language when Nesta thinks about Elain and Feyre growing closer—she thinks about the bond Elain had chosen. She could have written something else, like the sister Elain had chosen, but she didn’t. Instead, she decided to make us think about a choice Elain may have between bonds.

Elain and Feyre—that was the new status of things. The bond Elain had chosen.

15. When she is in the presence of her mate, Elain loses all her newfound boldness. If Sarah wanted to pursue an endgame between Elain and Lucien, this would have been the perfect opportunity to plant seeds for it. Instead, we see their mutual discomfort and disinterest. Lucien doesn’t even use her name, only referring to Elain as “his mate” when asked about her. Elain doesn’t buy a gift for Lucien, barely thanks him for her own gift, sits as far away from him as possible, and withdraws in his presence. He, in turn, is disappointed and pained yet again. Sarah persisted with this dynamic intentionally, and she consequently made it very hard for readers to root for them…because mate or no, who wants to read a story where the male accepts his fate despite his perpetual disappointment and the female slowly, but surely, loses her spark of life? It is painful to read even now, so unless we want more of this sad dynamic, the bond needs to be addressed in the next book.

“Why are you here?” Cassian asked, unable to help the sharpness. “Where’s Elain?” “I am not always in this city to see my mate.” The last two words dripped with discomfort.

Elain, the wretch, had taken the seat between Feyre and Varian, about as far from Lucien as she could get. Azriel remained in the doorway.

He and Lucien did not exchange gifts, though the male had brought a gift for Feyre and one for his mate, who barely thanked him after opening the pearl earrings. Cassian’s heart strained at the pain etching deep into Lucien’s face as he tried to hide his disappointment and longing. Elain only shrank further further into herself, no trace of that newfound boldness to be seen.

16. In contrast, Elain behaves demurely around Azriel. She avoids lingering eye contact and smiles shyly at him. Cassian’s thoughts prompt us to wonder why, and close readers may at this point put together the clues Sarah has sprinkled throughout the book, from Azriel’s reactions to Elain’s behavior. And on solstice we have an answer to our suspicions, thanks to Nesta’s keen observation: when their gazes linger, something charged is exchanged between them. This interaction parallels what we see between Nesta and Cassian—their gazes linger and something goes taut between them—to help us understand what is growing between Elain and Azriel: romantic tension.

“I always thought she was born on the wrong side of the wall,” Elain admitted. “She made ballrooms into battlefields and plotted like any general. Like you two,” she said, nodding to Cassian, and then, a bit more shyly, to Azriel. Azriel offered her a small smile that Elain quickly looked away from. Cassian tucked away his puzzlement. Lucien was certainly not here to snarl at any male who looked at her for too long.

“I was just checking on dessert,” Elain explained as they approached the doorway and Azriel. Nesta met the shadowsinger’s stare and he gave her a nod. Then his gaze shifted to Elain, and though it was utterly neutral, something charged went through it. Between them. Elain’s breath caught slightly, and she gave him a shallow nod of greeting before brushing past, leading Nesta into the room.

And our Nessian parallel:

Nesta grew still as Cassian’s gaze met hers. The space between them went taut, the sounds of the exercising priestesses fading into nothing, the sky an azure blur above, the wind a distant caress on her cheeks— “You too, Archeron,” he ordered, pointing to where Emerie and Gwyn now exercised, apparently doing their best not to laugh. “Do another fifteen.” Nesta threw a scowl at all of them and began her curls again. That was why she’d been avoiding eye contact with him.

17. We are also conveniently told that Elain is not a virgin. We learn that she not only slept with Graysen, but she also seemingly enjoyed it. Sarah felt this detail was important enough to include, and when we’re thinking about her writing preference for heroines, it makes sense. Sarah prefers to write about romance from the perspective of a female who has been intimate before.

Nesta snorted. “You’re living amongst beings who have none of our human primness, you know.” Elain squared her shoulders again, just as Nesta added, “It’s not like you and Graysen didn’t act on your feelings.” It was a low blow, but Nesta didn’t care. She knew Elain had given her maidenhead to Graysen a month before they’d been turned Fae. Elain had been glowing the next morning.

18. Elain indicates that she’s ready for more intimacy with Azriel. The interaction on solstice demonstrates that (1) Elain sees and understands Azriel without him needing to explain himself, (2) she gets him, but not her mate, thoughtful gifts that lift his spirits, (3) she is very attracted to him and wants more than glances and touches. And all of that is reciprocated: (1) Azriel reads her easily without the use of his powers, (2) he gets her a romantic gift that matches her character, one she wants to wear immediately, and (3) he is drawn to her and even exhibits mate-like thoughts (touch, smell, taste) that are typical for Sarah’s fae males. Most importantly, both of them lower their guard around each other and seek the other’s intimacy, despite past trauma, heartache, fear, etc. The charge between them is primal (like Nessian’s): Azriel is turned on by the thought of how she might taste, and Elain is turned on by his touch. This is more than casual relations. Both could seek that out in a heartbeat without issue. This attraction is nail-scratching, mountain-trembling, soul-cleaving romantic chemistry.

She hadn’t bought her mate a present. But she’d gotten Azriel one last year—a headache powder he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use, but just to look at. Which he’d done every night he’d slept there. Or attempted to sleep there. […]

Elain murmured, “You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you.” He chuckled, unable to suppress the impulse. “No wonder you didn’t want me to open it in front of everyone.” Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t have appreciated the joke.”

He offered her a smile back. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present.” He left the rest unspoken. Because her mate was here, asleep a level up. Because her mate had been in the family room and Azriel had needed to stay by the door the whole time because he couldn’t stand the sight of it, the scent of their mating bond, and needed to have the option of leaving if it became too much. Elain’s large brown eyes flickered, well aware of all that. Just as he knew she was well aware of why Azriel so rarely came to family dinners these days.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, lifting it from the box. The golden faelight shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm glowing with hues of red and pink and white. Azriel let his shadows whisk away the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?” His head went quiet. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her long, creamy neck.

He knew it was wrong, but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. Letting his scarred fingers touch her immaculate skin. Letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took a damn long time fastening the clasp. Azriel’s fingers lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch. Until his palm lay flat against her neck.

He needed to know what the skin of her neck tasted like. What those perfect lips tasted like. Her breasts. Her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue—Azriel’s cock strained behind his pants, aching so fiercely he could hardly think. He prayed she didn’t peer down. Prayed she didn’t understand the shift in his scent.

Her arousal drifted up to him, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the sweet scent. He’d beg on his knees for a chance to taste it. But Azriel just stroked her neck again. Elain shuddered, drifting close. So close one deep breath would brush her breasts against his chest. She looked up at him, her face so trusting and hopeful and open that he knew she had no idea that he had done unspeakable things that sullied his hands far beyond their scars.

“Yes,” Elain breathed, like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them. Azriel’s hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain’s mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut. Offer and permission. He nearly groaned with relief and need as he lowered his head towards hers.

19. Elain is hiding another side, even from her family. We can see this in her confrontations with Nesta and it is discussed specifically in Feyre and Rhysand’s bonus chapter. This is a very clear hint about Elain’s character arc, one Sarah intentionally highlighted for readers. Elain isn’t sweet and innocent (none of Sarah’s characters are). And their conversation reminds us that, as a gardener, she is used to getting her hands dirty and torn for a pretty result. Why else tease this information now if Sarah didn’t plan to show us what this looks like in the next book?

Rhys asked, “Have you ever seen Elain act like that before?”

“No.” I chewed on my bottom lip. Rhys’s gaze tracked the movement. “I mean, she’s been brave when she had to be, but she’s never been confrontational.”

“Maybe she was never given the chance to be that way.”

I whipped my head toward him. “You think I stifle her?” Rhys held up his hands. “Not you alone.” He surveyed the study as he thought. “But I wonder if everyone has spent so long assuming Elain is sweet and innocent that she felt she had to be that way or else she’d disappoint you all.” He sighed toward the ceiling. “With time and safety, perhaps we’ll see a different side of her emerge.”

&

I glowered at Rhys. “You think Elain’s boring?”

“I think she’s kind, and I’ll take kindness over nastiness any day. But I also think we haven’t yet seen all she has to offer.” A corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Don’t forget that gardening often results in something pretty, but it involves getting one’s hands dirty along the way.”

“And torn up by thorns,” I mused, recalling a morning this past summer when Elain had come into the house, her right palm bleeding from several gashes thanks to a stubborn rosebush that had pierced her gloves. The thorns had broken off in her skin, leaving sharp splinters that I’d had to pull free.

20. Elain will be the next one to experience the Night Court’s family intervention. The final hint in Feyre and Rhysand’s bonus chapter is also clear, and it echoes the conversation Feyre and Elain had in ACOWAR. Now that Nesta is on a healing path, it is Elain’s turn for help. For reasons I have already covered, it likely won’t look the same as her sister’s journey, but it will involve finding her voice, making choices about her life, and embracing her whole self (even that other side).

I sighed, absently rubbing my still-flat stomach. “Let’s focus on helping one sister before we start on the other.”

“Agreed,” Rhys drawled.

Although Elain was not active in Nesta’s healing journey (and based on their past dynamic, I would argue that she shouldn’t have been in order for Nesta to grow and start their relationship anew), Sarah planted many hints throughout ACOSF for her story. These hints parallel what we see for Nesta in ACOFAS: thoughts and comments from other characters, such as Cassian, Feyre, and Elain, with very few on-page interactions. Her story gave us a clear conflict that was necessary to resolve first. And now, with Elain, Sarah has set up clear inner and romantic conflicts for her story that need to be resolved next:

Inner conflicts: struggling to find her voice and embrace her full self, including the other side that she’s felt the need to hide

Romantic conflicts: enduring an unwanted mating bond, familial and political obstacles that stand in the way of romantic fulfillment

Overarching conflicts: allies refusing to sign treaty, mole(s) in the Night Court, scheming from Beron, queens, and Koschei, a mysterious fourth Trove item, and a missing Bryaxis

Paired with clues about her Made power, social skills, observational skills, stealth, secret-keeping, and potential training, she is ideally poised to address several of the overarching conflicts with her friends, family, and love interest:

We have a fae territory on the continent that is proving difficult to convince, and a female who can supposedly convince anyone to do anything with a few smiles.

We have moles in the Night Court who will need to be discovered and dealt with, and someone who has Cauldron-blessed abilities to hear, see, and track things that others do not. Bonus: she also has a strong connection to the Spymaster and spies in his employ.

We have a powerful death-god who would love to escape his leash and cause mass chaos, and a Made seer who has had visions involving him even though he is not woven into the fabric of this realm (which was the limit of the Suriel’s knowledge). With training, who knows what information she can access on Koschei, those who are working for him, and his plans?

There is a fourth Trove item shrouded in shadow that Nesta could not see, and a deadly monster on the loose. Would Nesta be able to track them both down with her remaining power? Or would a seer—who has her full powers and doesn’t require bones and stones to track things, including foreign beings—be better equipped for the job?

Elain as the next main character not only makes sense based on all the seeds Sarah planted in ACOSF alone, but her story is also necessary to move the plot forward with her power and role. It’s time for her family to come and find her, so she can finally begin.

[rebelsandtherest]

They Love a Good Braid

This is for @draw-a-circle-thats-the-foxhole​, who has told me that despite my ace inability to identify flirting in real life, I have managed to write some flirting/romance that is very sappy and cute. I’ve also here borrowed her name for the Netherlands (Jan) as well as the character of Matt’s Samoyed dog, Buddy.

This is also for @ego-meliorem-esse​, who helped me visualize what it would look like for Alfred to braid Matt’s hair. :)

Soft Bros, silliness, and flirting ahead!

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FF.Net  |  Ao3

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It had been a while since Ottawa had hosted a United Nations Summit, and last century Matthew Williams would have been wringing his hands over the itineraries and seating arrangements, but time had taught him there were some things you could never fully prepare for, UN summits being one of them. For the last three months, he'd done all he could do to prepare himself and his government for the influx of foreign visitors and their respective nations, but the time for preparations was past. Last-minute panicking was something he'd endeavored to leave to the humans. All that Matthew had control over now was showing up on time tomorrow morning. Until then, it was enough to slip into a pair of joggers, an old Habs sweatshirt, and rip open a packet of orange gummy edibles while he waited for his fellow nations to arrive.

Well, he wouldn't have to wait on all of them.

"Oh hey, Space Odyssey! What a classic." Matt stopped flipping through channels and glanced up while Alfred stepped clear over the back of the couch and onto the cushions, carrying a Coke Zero in one hand and a box of chinese in the other, chopsticks protruding from one corner. Ignoring the disrespect to his furniture, Matt frowned at the soda. It was nearly nine o'clock.

"A bit late for caffeine, don't you think?" Alfred chuckled.

"I just finished my last slide deck for tomorrow, this is to put me to sleep, man." Matt shook his head. Even knowing Alfred had screwy brain chemistry was not always enough to keep him from questioning his life choices.

"I thought you were on adderall again?"

"Yeah, and it wore off at like, 5, so," Alfred tipped his can and took a slurp. He glanced at the foil packet on the coffee table and nudged Matt's thigh with his foot. "You're one to speak, Mr. Smoke-the-Anxiety-Away."

"I haven't smoked since Spring," Matt grumbled, reaching for his gummies with a foot to nudge them within reach. "The office staff complained about the smell and my dry cleaning bill got too high."

"Gummies are better anyway," Alfred said, rifling through his takeout with the chopsticks. "Ugh, why is there always so much damn broccoli in these things? You want any?" Matt closed his eyes in an exasperated expression he'd absorbed under the tutelage of Arthur Kirkland.

"Please eat your vegetables, Alfred, God knows your arteries will thank you."

"Shut up, I'm eating all of the other vegetables, but broccoli contaminates everything it touches. If you don't want it, I'll give it to the dog." Matt glanced at his Samoyed, Buddy, a melted pool of white fur lying on the floor, black nose twitching with interest towards Alfred's dinner.

"The sauce will make him sick," Matt said. "You're so damn picky. Give it here," he held out his hand, but instead Alfred lifted a piece of broccoli directly to his mouth. He bit it and swatted the chopsticks away. "You're hopeless," he munched.

"I know what I like, so sue me."

They both munched in silence while Keir Dullea navigated the stark black-and-white spaceship amid ethereal string music. Alfred was more accustomed to hosting international summits than his Northern twin, but for whatever reason, Matt had never made a habit of showing up more than a day or two early whenever the UN convened in New York or DC. However, whenever Ottowa was hosting, Alfred travelled up weeks in advance, using the summit as an excuse to visit with Matthew.

He'd arrived two weeks ago, his old Bronco packed to the gills with fresh citrus, old video games, sporting equipment, home-made whiskey, and other eclectic offerings that he thought Matt might have a use for. The first time he'd showed up unannounced back in the 80s, Matthew had exploded on him for making him host company while also planning an impending UN summit. The same afternoon, however, Matt had come home to find his dog walked, his kitchen sink repaired, his fridge restocked, and dinner simmering on the stove.

Loathe though he was to admit it, it was useful having Alfred around sometimes. Even if he never ate enough vegetables.

Matt hadn't meant to settle in to watch Space Odyssey, and it turned out to be an existentially tiring movie to watch while high, but the music and the visuals mixed with Alfred's intermittent commentary of "Did you know that in order to shoot these scenes," this and "the technical execution of this shot is magnificent" that, he found himself melting into an liminal space of bright tv lights and cozy couch cushions. His vision jolted sometime around the beginning of the third act and he realized belatedly that Alfred had left for the kitchen. He returned shortly with a neat (and full) glass of whiskey to replace his soda, and if Matt weren't so high he would've scolded him soundly for mixing uppers and downers, but Alfred's had always responded to substances differently. Alfred laughed at something Matt didn't register himself saying, and offered his brother a small bowl of popcorn, which he did register taking with an appreciative hum.

Matt zoned out for an undetermined amount of time and came back to Earth when the credits were rolling. At some point, he'd navigated himself to sit on the floor, back propped up by Alfred's leg, lap now full of a sleepy, furry dog.

"What do you want to watch?" Alfred asked above him, voice pleasantly tipsy while he clicked through the channels. "Ooh, Star Trek reruns. Want to keep with the space theme?"

"You and your fucken space race. No. Keep going."

"Ugh, fine."

They eventually settled on, of all things, late night reruns of How It's Made. While Alfred slurred out overly enthusiastic explanations of how every machine worked and which ones he'd helped build before, Matt stared at the assembly lines and let them massage his brain through his optic nerve, feeling pleasantly like a noodle. He munched on his second gummy and asked Alfred to put the rest away so Buddy wouldn't get into them.

A sip or two past the halfway point of his whiskey, Alfred entered the cuddly phase of drunk, and began idly playing with Matt's hair. Matt groaned appreciatively and with uncharacteristic eagerness pressed the back of his head toward his brother's hand, knocking hard into his knuckles in the process.

"Ow," Matt complained. Alfred chuckled. The couch behind him shifted and Alfred sipped his whiskey before setting it on the coffee table by Matt's extended leg. Alfred's legs appeared on either side of Matt's shoulders and he poked Matt in the side with a toe.

"Don't elbow me, you menace." Matt didn't answer, too mesmerized by the balloon-making process to make words.

Alfred began combing his hands through Matt's hair, and the heavenly scritch and tug against his scalp was more addictive than the bottle-filling machine on screen. Alfred spoke softly above him, about the show and about his hair and surely about other things, but Matt was absorbed in the bliss of his gummies and the feeling of someone else playing with his hair.

"…haven't seen you in braids in a while," Alfred said, and though Matt knew he must've been speaking already, he hadn't been listening. "You look great like this, why don't you wear them more often?"

"Hmm?" Matt reached up and brushed fingers over his hair, letting out a noise of surprise—higher pitched than he liked—when he felt the thick cords of a braid trailing from his temple. "Oh wow," was all he could think to say. "Didn't know you remembered how to braid. Your hair was always matted so badly, Arthur always told me you must've forgotten how to plait before you'd ever learned."

"Hardy har," Alfred jeered, taking the braid from Matt's finger tips and gently prising it back apart. "You were the one who liked your hair long. I only let mine mat up so they'd let me shave it off. Then all my bosses kept having baby girls and somehow I was babysitter. You know how much celebrity you get in the kindergarten crowd when you know how to do special braids? The Roosevelt girls thought I was hot shit." Matt snorted.

"Mmhmm, 'specially Alice…" he smirked, eyes closed. Alfred kicked him.

"Shut up." Matt elbowed him back. A small war of knees and elbows ensued, but stopped when Alfred leaned over Matt's shoulder to retrieve his whiskey glass.

"What kind of braids you want? I'll show Arthur who forgot how to braid."

"Mmm," Matt hummed, feeling his high tapering off but leaving him at a pleasantly hazy, sleepy place. "Surprise me." This response seemed to take Alfred off guard, and he chuckled as he continued brushing out Matt's blond locks with surprisingly gentle fingers.

"Hmm," the southern twin hummed, more to himself than to his brother, "your beau will be there tomorrow, maybe you ought to impress him."

"Give 'im something to untangle when we get home…" Matt mused.

"First of all, ew," Alfred said, tugging his hair, "second of all, no way I'm making it easy for him." Matt no longer cared what Alfred was saying, happy to surrender to the lullaby of nails on his scalp, tugs on his hair, and the warmth of Alfred's hands repositioning his head as he nodded off.

"You falling asleep on me, bro?" Alfred asked.

"No," Matt said. He woke up a while later to a quiet, dark house and Alfred's broad shoulders under one of his arms.

"I've set your alarm for 5:30, looks like your suit is already set out, Mr. Prepared." Matt realized Alfred had taken him to his bedroom.

"Right," Matt said, falling into bed still in his socks and sweats. "Thanks." Something unfamiliar and firm was pressing into the nape of his neck but he was too tired to investigate. The mattress shifted as his dog leaped up to join him on the bed and he let his eyes drift shut.

"See you in the morning, Mattie."

---------------------

At 5:30 am, Matt's alarm went off and both he and his dog groaned about it. After the human hit snooze a few times, the dog relented to the day with a high-pitched yawn and began nosing Matt in the neck until he, too, was forced awake. It was still dark out, but the Canadian had centuries of experience rising and dressing in the dark.

He pulled on his socks and slacks before the dog insisted on breakfast, which Matt found and distributed in an equally-dark kitchen. He returned to his dark room and fished a freshly pressed shirt out of his dark closet before tying the tie he'd selected last week—in the dark, of course.

And so, when he finally entered the washroom and flipped on the lights, it was a shock to see his own reflection.

"Oh wow," he muttered to the mirror, which of course gave no comment beyond Matt's own stunned expression. Tentatively, he reached up and touched his styled hair, which was astonishingly clean and flat despite the fact that he'd just woken up. He stood back and surveyed it again, turning this way and that to see it from the side, feeling up the nape to see what his brother had accomplished while whiskey-drunk and watching manufacturing process videos.

"Damn, Alfred," Matt muttered quietly to the air, mouth falling slightly open as he traced the eerily-perfect braids. The grain of his hair was pulled back into a tidy bun he'd begun sporting occasionally in the last decade or so, but he'd never styled it like this, with two small dutch braids coming up from the nape of his neck and one large French braid woven all down his crown. It was immaculately done. Lacking glasses, Matt leaned right up to the mirror to admire the details, having to press down errant strands only here and there in places where his pillow should've rubbed the plaits raw. Still, they held their shape.

"Well shit," Matt muttered. "No wonder Alice wanted you to fuck her."

"Yo Mattie!" Alfred's voice called from elsewhere in the house. "You still sleepin' in there, or are you just getting dressed in the dark again?"

"I'll be out in a minute," Matt said, casting a last look at his reflection before he continued straightening his tie and tucking his shirttails. "Don't drink my coffee!"

When Matt emerged from his room, the lights had been turned on and there was a pair of clean coffee mugs waiting beside the percolator burbling on the stove, but Alfred was nowhere to be found. Matt had only just got the waffle batter into the iron when the front door opened and Alfred came inside, a panting and happy samoyed smiling beside him. Of course Alfred would go for a run at 6am before an international summit.

"Aha!" Alfred beamed even as he bent over to let Buddy off his leash. The dog shook himself and went to go sniff Matt's pant legs. "So you liked the braids, huh?" Matt glared at his brother before turning back to the waffle iron, adjusting the gas range underneath before carefully flipping it over.

"Don't let it get to your head," he grumbled, and Alfred continued to smile, unfazed. "I didn't have time to redo it." Alfred said nothing, happily busying himself with plates, flatware, and fetching the syrup. They danced around each other in companionable silence to prepare breakfast, and neither said a word until they were sat across from each other at the table and Matt was waiting for him to finish drenching his waffles in syrup. "French and Dutch," he said, and shook his head when Alfred looked up. "A little on the nose, don't you think?"

Alfred grinned, dimples shaping his face in that mischievous way that made some nations nervous but made Matt's stomach warm with thoughts of home.

"You're welcome," Alfred said, pleased with himself. Matt frowned at him.

"Alfred, you don't need an entire maple tree for two waffles."

"I know what I'm about, Canuck," Alfred paid him no mind, eyes on the stream of syrup onto his plate. Matt looked alternately between the waffles and his brother. Eventually, he said,

"Seriously, Alfred, that stuff isn't cheap, could you please—"

"Cheaper than it is in my place!," Alfred smacked Matt's hand when he tried to reach across the table to the glass carafe. "You have a whole personal forest of this shit back in Quebec, don't think I don't know about that—"

"Oh my god you're going to make yourself sick,"

"And if I do, it will have been worth it!"

"I'm never making you waffles again."

"I'm never braiding your hair again!"

"Jesus you're such a child, give it here—"

"I wasn't done!"

Miraculously, Alfred had managed to budget enough time in their morning to complete a full course of bickering and still have enough time to brush their teeth, clean up breakfast, tidy each others' ties, and set up Buddy in the backyard before their scheduled government car arrived.

"I hate to disappoint you,"Matthew muttered to Alfred when they were seated side by side in the back, "but your offer of a 1985 Ford Bronco chauffeur service didn't quite meet the expectations from Rideau Hall." Alfred only scoffed.

"Their loss," he said.

They arrived early, and only the greenest of Canadian officials were surprised to see Alfred strolling in on his brother's heels, nearly an hour earlier than his American compatriots. One intern visibly blanched upon seeing the USA flag pin on Alfred's lapel, and when he glanced at her paper badge, he realized she was one of the ones who'd been tasked with helping the Americans navigate the conference spaces.

"Don't worry about it," he gave her a wink, "I cause enough trouble they make this guy boss me around himself," he jutted a thumb at Matt, who Alfred was not entirely sure she would've known personally. Matt noticed him and called him over.

"Stop scaring the interns," he hissed. "The president is supposed to be arriving in fifteen. Don't you have places to be?"

"Yes, mom," Alfred rolled his eyes. He strolled back by the intern, who was not so pale now, but still flustered. He smiled and tipped his chin at her. "Nice braid," he said, prompting her to run a self-conscious hand over her hair. "Dutch, right?" She blushed.

"The President, Alfred," Matt reminded.

"Yeah, yeah."

---------------------

Not a soul had commented on Matt's hair all morning, and Alfred was beginning to feel offended. As the other nations began arriving with their entourages, Alfred floated closeby to eavesdrop in the hopes that someone would notice his handiwork. Arthur was first to comment, but it was a quick and ambiguous,

"Ah, there you are, my boy, I hardly recognized you with your hair pulled back like that. It's a clean look. How've you been?" Clean was not exactly the kind of compliment Alfred had been hoping for from the man who'd said he couldn't braid, so he continued eavesdropping in the hopes of juicer feedback.

Jan had been next to comment, but Alfred had no idea what the Dutchman thought of Alfred's braidwork, partially because Alfred's Dutch comprehension was rusty at best, and partially because whatever Jan had said had made Matt get that look on his face that made Alfred want to gag, so he'd turned away in a hurry. Sure, he liked Jan, and yeah, he was glad that Jan and Matt had found each other, but seriously? In front of allies?

"Shall I give you a strand of pearls so you might clutch them?" Asked an accented voice, and Alfred looked over to see Francis approaching, daintily holding a cup of conference room coffee in one hand.

"He's my brother," Alfred said, "I'm allowed." Francis laughed and reached out his free hand to place it on Alfred's shoulder. The American endured la bise with practiced indifference but must've looked grumpy when Francis pulled away.

"Puritanism has never been a fashionable look, mon cher, not even when you were young." He glanced past Alfred to where Matthew was being inundated with fresh arrivals, moving on from his beloved Jan to Emma, Antonio, and the Nordics, who seemed to have arrived together. "Oh my, speaking of fashion… I have not seen Matthieu in braids since he was a child. Who knew he could elevate the style so much as a grown man?" The older nation hummed thoughtfully. "I wonder what prompted him."

"Me, actually," Alfred allowed himself to puff out his chest slightly. "I braided it for him last night." Unexpectedly, this made Francis laugh, suddenly and loudly. He quieted himself in short order, but the smile remained on his lips.

"Oh, I've missed you and your sense of humor, mon ami," Francis gave Alfred's chest a pat and began to move past him. "I'll have to pry Matthew for his stylist's name."

"But I-"

"We will meet for lunch before I go, yes?"

"Okay but I really did-"

"Angleterre," Francis called ahead, "tu marches trop vite, wait a moment."

Alfred's shoulders slumped, mouth hanging open in affronted silence while Francis teased Arthur in French down the hall.

---------------------

No one else mentioned Matt's braids for the rest of the day, and Alfred sulked about it at every available opportunity between conference sessions, so much so that Matt himself came to ask him what was wrong.

"Nothing," Alfred insisted. "You're doing a great job, by the way." Unexpectedly, Matt actually flushed at such praise, shoulders relaxing minutely. Alfred forgot how tightly wound Matt could become around these events. "Sorry if I made you worry."

And so, for the sake of his brother's nerves, Alfred was willing to take his wounded pride and bottle it up for future indulgence where it wouldn't upset the conduct of international affairs. Still, when he spotted Francis gossiping with Ludwig and Lux from across the hall, he couldn't help but squint his eyes, wondering if they were talking about his "sense of humor."

That night, after Matt quietly left the nations-only dinner with Jan's hand down his back pocket, Alfred let his wounded ego out for a breather at the hotel bar, where he grumbled about their whiskey selection under his breath and began squinting at the vodka options.

"The drafts here are surprisingly good, if you're having trouble," crowed a feminine voice, and Alfred turned in his stool to find a cute, buxom blonde licking beer foam off her red lipstick. He watched the movement before meeting her eyes; the left one had a dark freckle interrupting the green, and he'd always found it enchanting.

"High praise coming from you, O Mistress of the Brauhaus," he smiled at her, and Emma made a show of preening under such praise. He chuckled. "Whatcha drinking?"

"I can't remember what it's called," she admitted, and pointed at a colorful tap pull down the bar. "That one in the middle, there."

"Oh?" He leaned into her space, grinning goofily as she hopped up to the barstool next to him. "That's one of mine, you know."

"Oh ho," Emma watched the bubbles in her beer before looking playfully over at him. "Tastes like you've been copying someone's homework, Mr. Jones." He grinned, dimples playful.

"I learn from the best." She held his gaze for an intense moment, and asked:

"So whose homework did you copy to make those stunning braids?" She teased. "I didn't know Matthew had a sister hiding about."

"Oh, come on," Alfred moaned, flirtatious efforts shattering as Emma dissolved into laughter. "Who told you?"

"Francis has been gossiping about it all day," she told him, still giggling, cheeks rosy with alcohol and humor. "Saying you're trying to take credit for a masterpiece when you yourself were a… how did he put it? Enfant sauvage? Who… I really can't say it like him. Who "would've have only learned to braid if it were taught in the Navy, and he grows so sick at sea he surely never stayed long enough to find out,"" Emma could barely get through the quote before giggling some more, wiping at her eyes while Alfred glared into space.

"I can't believe him," Alfred complained, watching the bartender deposit a pint on his coaster. He dragged it closer to himself with a sigh.

"Oh, don't pout, mon râleur," Emma put a hand on his arm, "it's un peu drôle."

"It's not funny," Alfred insisted, taking a sip of his beer and having to suck the foam off his lip—he missed how Emma watched him do it—"I'm not that hopeless."

"You're really upset about this, aren't you?"

"I take credit for something I did, and get called a liar? Yeah, I'm a little pissed about it." He sucked back several large gulps while Emma watched him with new skepticism.

"You know, I really can't tell if you're bluffing or not," she said.

"I'm not," he insisted.

"Hmm," Emma sat up a little straighter in her seat, and ran a hand through her shoulder-short strawberry blonde hair. "Alright, then, prove it."

"What?"

"Braid my hair."

"Oh, come on, you can't just take me at my word?"

"You know better than I the exchange rate for that kind of currency is tanking, Mr. Jones," she teased, and shook her head to make her hair fan out toward him. "Go on." He glared at her.

"And what do I get if I can prove I'm not lying?" He asked.

"Hmm," she glanced back over at the taps. "Another pint." He met her eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"Fine," He said, and downed half his pint before perching on the edge of his barstool and setting to work. She watched him work out of the corner of her eye as he wove a small, clean braid down the side of her temple, arching over the curve of her ear in a tasteful line. She threw her head back to finish off her beer, but he continued to work, undeterred. When he was finished, he had no tie to secure it, so he gently tucked the end at the base of her ear and gave it a stroke with his finger to put it in place.

"Done," he said, and crossed his arms in a self-righteous way. Emma sat up and took out her phone, using the front camera to inspect his handiwork.

"Well?" He asked. She put down her phone and sighed. She nodded her chin to get the bartender's attention. "He'll have another pint on me," she said.

"Ha!" Alfred beamed, and downed the remainder of his first pint before sliding the glass aside to make room.

"And you, ma'am?" Asked the bartender, fetching two glasses.

"Hmm," Alfred wasn't paying attention while Emma side-eyed him, and was taken completely off guard when she grabbed his face in one hand and pulled him down for a wet kiss. After a few seconds she pulled away, still holding his bewildered face in a hand, and tasted her own lips. "What is it that he just had?" she asked.

"That was the New England IPA, ma'am," said the bartender, audibly trying not to laugh.

"I'll have a pint of that, then," she finally let him go but he stayed right where she'd left him, wide-eyed and pink. She leaned forward, nose almost touching his.

"Color me surprised, he can braid," she said. "But I bet you can't do a proper French plait."

"Hmm," a smile grew on Alfred's face, a bashful shade of confidence that Emma had been chasing for years. "And… what, exactly do I get if I prove you wrong?" The bartender came by with their pints.

"Last call is in five minutes, folks, can I get you anything else?" he asked.

"No, thank you," Emma answered for them both. Alfred frowned at her, but she only smiled at him, eyes playful. "I have an early morning tomorrow," she said, and handed him his pint. "But I'm sure I can think of something if you prove me wrong tonight." His eyebrows shot skyward, but she didn't drop eye contact as she sipped her IPA. He bit his lip in an effort not to laugh even as his face blushed bright.

"Alright," he smiled. When he grabbed her pint and set it aside, she let him. "Turn around, then," he said, and she giggled when he swiveled her around by her knee. His hands buried in her hair. "Saying I can't braid," he teased, smile audible in his voice. "honestly, the nerve." Emma chuckled, swinging her legs as he worked.

"Don't waste time, then, I've got plenty else I plan to say about you before the night is over."

---------------------

The following morning, as the crowds returned for day two of the summit, Matt arrived with barely-noticeable dark circles under his eyes and heavenly blonde waves that framed his face in patterns made by plaits that had been lovingly untangled the night before.

"Alfred," he found his brother at breakfast, startling the American to attention just as he bit into a bagel. "Where have you been? I was worried, you didn't come home last night."

"Go home?" Alfred asked around a mouthful, pausing to swallow. "And listen to you and Jan reunite all night? Absolutely not."

"Okay," Matt rolled eyes eyes, "we are not that ba-"

"Yes you are," Alfred pointed the remainder of his bagel up at his twin. "You know you are. I swung by this morning for my suit, your fucking tie was on a rafter. I'm just glad I didn't get an eyeful of you two. Honestly." Matt sighed and plopped down in the chair next to him, cheeks pink.

"Did you at least find some place to sleep?" he asked, sounding a little guilty.

"Yeah, not like there's any shortage of couches to surf on here. Sides, the bartender felt bad for me and gave me a pint on the house."

"He what? Oh my God, Al, you could've just asked, they would've given you a room, you don't have to go complaining about me to everyone who-"

"Mattie, I'm joking."

"...oh."

"Don't worry about me, seriously. I was fine." He sipped his coffee, and handed Matt a piece of bacon, which his brother took and munched without comment. "Though if it's all the same to you, I might swing by and get my suitcase at lunch today. You know. Just. relocate for a few days while Jan is in town."

"That's… probably for the best."

"Yeah."

They chewed in silence as more people filtered into the breakfast hall.

"Oh wow, Emma looks great today," Matt commented. Alfred looked up and nearly choked on his coffee when he saw that she was still wearing the proper French plait he'd given her the night before—it must've taken her an hour just to clean up from how he'd last seen it. He blushed furiously behind his mug.

Clueless, Matt continued, "I'm not sure I've ever seen her wear a braid. It suits her."

"Sure does," Alfred said, sipping quietly. "Apparently all those Europeans are suckers for a good braid."

[casspurrjoybell-17]

HEART'S BLOOD - CHAPTER 42

*Warning: Adult Content*  

Epilogue - Part 2 - Homecoming

Noah Hunter was right. Freya Hunter doesn’t take it well when Dane Hunter tells he the truth. 

It’s the third morning since he and Julian Hart arrived at the thousand-acre ranch where his parents live with several of his siblings and their families.

‘They all knew Julian and I were coming and everyone had gathered home to meet us... me and my new mate.’

It made Dane’s heart swell with pride and anticipation but Julian was obviously nervous. 

The young psychic had barely spoken on the two-day drive from California to Montana where Dan’e parents had moved after leaving Canada to start their own pack. 

No matter how much Dane had assured him that he’d be welcomed and accepted, Julian continued to worry until the minute they stepped from the car and he was immediately absorbed into a nine-person group hug.

 At last he relaxed. 

Then he went quickly from nervous to overwhelmed amid the press of so many new people showering him with attention and love. 

The Hunter triplets... Travis, Martin and Noah... are each quiet and reserved on their own but get them together and all hell breaks loose. 

They manage to tease Julian mercilessly while at the same time making him feel like the heart of the pack. 

Sasha Hunter wants Julian to model for her photography studio and Ingrid Hunter alternates between telling him about her studies at the music conservatory and asking for demonstrations of his psychic abilities. 

Montreal Hunter... or Monty as he prefers to be called... is quiet at least.

 He is the second eldest after Dane. 

He works as a bodyguard and his protective instinct extends to anyone smaller than himself... which is most things. 

Monty Hunter quickly starts playing defence for Julian, intercepting the triplet’s attacks and interrupting Ingrid and Sasha’s before they can monopolize all of Julian’s time. 

The problem is that Monty hovers and quickly gets over bearing. 

Eventually Dane has to tell him to lay off and puts his alpha authority behind the order so he knows it’s not a request. 

Dane doesn’t like to do that to Monty because he always takes it to heart. 

Dane’s parents are a different story. 

Joseph and Astrid Hunter are an odd pair. 

Dane used to wonder what had drawn them together but now that he has Julian, he can understand a little more. 

They complement each other, one filling in where the other lacks. 

Dane’s mother is tall and fair. 

When she was young was red-gold like fire. 

Now it is silver-grey, it’s pretty and she wears it in a long simple braid down her back. 

She’s a warrior at heart, quiet and strong, ready to act with a force of will that cuts a problem down before it knows what’s coming. 

Dane’s father is smaller than his wife’s statuesque form. 

Smaller than his two eldest sons, Dane and Monty but Joseph Hunter is still well built, broad across the shoulders and chest and very fir for a gut in his sixties. 

His skin is a richer, darker brown than any of his children and he keeps his grey hair closely shaven. 

Even so, he’s undoubtedly and undeniably an alpha. 

Joseph Hunter’s power is quiet but runs deep. 

Mr and Mrs Hunter accept Julian easily, just as they had excepted each of their children and let them discover their own joy and their own truth. 

They make Dane proud to be their son.

‘I’ve always tried to live up to their example of generosity and support, offering my siblings whatever of my strength that I can, which is why it hurts when Freya looks at me, the way she does now, like I’ve done something terribly wrong.’ 

‘Like I’ve betrayed her trust.’

“How could you, Dane?” Freya asks, tears tracking down her face. 

“How could you do that to yourself? To me?”

“Because I love you, Frey,” Dane says, hands spread wide. 

Dane and Freya have retreated far from the house for the sake of privacy. 

Now they stand along the banks of one of the little creeks that flow down from the mountains, the water moving sluggishly below a layer of thin ice. 

The sky above them is white, with thick snow-laden clouds and the first flakes have already started to fall. 

Freya Hunter circles her older brother, hands clenched and teeth bared.

“You love me?” she snarls. 

“If you loved me, you would have told me what you had done. You wouldn’t keep something like this from me, for so long.”

“It made sense,” Dane pleads, shaking his head. 

“Look, Mum and Dad couldn’t take on that kind of debt at their age, Ingrid's just starting out, Travis and Sasha have families of their own and Monty, Noah and Martin don’t make enough money to get that kind of credit. Neither did you, for that matter. That left me. I had the means. How could I not have given you what you needed. I knew you wouldn’t just take it from me, so I...” 

Dane stops, blinking back unexpected tears of his own. 

“Freya, I’m sorry. You were so happy, after your surgery, I just wanted you to concentrate on recovery and enjoying your life. Then the longer I wanted, the harder it was to tell you.”

‘I looks at Freya through a whirl of snow.’ 

‘I look at my sister, who has always been so strong and beautiful.’ 

‘If I have a favourite amongst my sibling, it has to be her.’

“I love you, Freya,” Dane says again. 

“I’m sorry.”

Freya looks Dane, eyes hard with anger but after a moment her expression gradually softens. 

She knows her older brother doesn’t apologize unless he means it.

“Oh, Dane...” 

It sounds like she can barely speak past the tightens in her throat and she starts to cry in earnest as she stumbles towards him. 

“I love you too, you big idiot. You are my hero, big brother. I just hate that you did this and didn’t tell me. I deserved to know sooner. I deserved a chance to give something back.”

Dane catches Freya and holds her tight.

“I know. And you’re my hero to, sis. You are the bravest and the best of us. Your are the brightest star.”

When Freya finally stops crying, Dane lets her go and she laughs and wipes away her tears.

“I’m as sure as hell not the prettiest, though. Leastways, not with snot and tears all over me. Shit. I’ve gotta get myself together before the others see me.”

“Come on,” Dane says, smiling and tugging Freya’s sleeve. 

They walk together along the side of the little creek as it wides it’s way over the land. 

They walk for a long time, not speaking. 

Gradually the snow begins to fall more thickly, until it swirls around them in little wisps of white clouds, caught in the swirling air.

“We better head back,” Dane says. 

“It looks like a blizzard is on it’s way. I’d rather be inside for it.”

“Me too,” Freya agrees and they turn their steps towards home.

When they get there, they find everyone gathered in the large, central room of the two-storey ranch house. 

A fire blazes in the open hearth and the smell of Joseph hunter’s slow-cooked chili and fresh cornbread permeates the air. 

Everyone is laughing and chatting happily until Freya walks straight up to Noah and bitch-slaps him across the face. 

The crack of her palm on his cheek cuts through every conversation, there is a collective gasp and then for a moment everyone holds perfectly still. 

Freya the wraps her little brother in a hug and everyone breaths a sign of relief, though no one except Dane, Freya and Noah, know what’s going on. 

Noah remains wide eyed and frozen for a moment but finally he relaxes and returns her embrace.

“I guess I deserved that,” Noah says. 

“Although it was me who made him tell you, right?”

Freya nods against Noah’s shoulder and holds him tighter.

“Thanks. I love you, you little shit,” Freya says with such affection that everyone laughs, except for Julian, whose brilliance.

Dane realises with a sudden, sharp pain, is the only thing missing from the room.

“Where is my mate?” Dane asks.

“Upstairs, maybe,” Sasha suggests. 

“I haven’t seen him since this morning. I think maybe the triplets were driving him a little nuts.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right,” Dane’s dad says, rubbing his chin. 

“Julian offered to help me in the kitchen but I told him it was under control so he said he was going for a run, of all things.”

“When was this?” Dane asks sharply.

“Oh, I don’t know, around noon, I guess.”

“Has anyone seen him since?” Dane demands, meeting one confused, clueless gaze after another and no one answers him.

“Shit. Fucking hell,” Dane swears, putting his hand over his mouth, as soon as the words leave it and casting an apologetic look at his mother but he couldn’t help it. 

It’s getting late and at this time of year, darkness falls early and fast. With the heavy snowfall on it’s way, if Julian is still out there...

“We’ll find him, brother,” Freya says, setting her hand on Dane’s arm. 

“Don’t worry about that. We’ll find your mate and bring him home. How’s up for a little search and rescue?” she asks, glancing around the room with a wide smile. 

Nine wolfish grins meet her own. 

“Alright,” she says, rubbing her hands with undisguised glee. 

“Let’s get ‘changed’.” 

[fictionadventurer]

Aunt Gardiner or Sir William Lucas!

I'm not a hundred percent sure that Sir William Lucas enters into this AU. I've had some faint but amusing glimmers of the fun we could have with a kindly but self-absorbed former superhero basking in minor past glories, but he's not hugely important to the story here and I'm not sure I'll be able to fit him in.

Aunt Gardiner is definitely here, though, and I'm excited to develop her.

Their abstract goal: To help her family members find normal human happiness amid all the craziness of living with superpowers and secret identities.

Their concrete goal: To keep her nieces safe from whatever evil conspiracy seems to be closing in around them.

Their superpowers: She's a normal person who married into a family of superpowered people. But her family believes that her good common sense and cheerfulness and ability to roll with whatever insanity comes her way are as impressive as any superhuman ability.

When they first discovered their power: She was on a date with the cheerful, sensible classmate from one of her university classes. The restaurant was damaged in a supervillain attack. Her date disappeared. A superhero showed up a few moments later. She put two and two together and was highly amused. This is also when she discovered her near superhuman talent for navigating chaos, and her sensible reactions are a big reason that Edward Gardiner fell in love with her.

When/why they decided to take up this superhero thing: Her husband did a little bit of superheroing when they were dating, but his powers and fighting prowess were never very strong, so after one semi-significant injury, he hung up his cape and settled happily into a normal life, using his powers on the sly every once in a while when he sees a situation where he can help. Her children are all caught up in the glamour of masked superheroes, especially now that their cousins are entering in the business, but she would much prefer them to use their powers in more practical ways and live quiet, happy lives.

A random other character fact: Grew up in Pemberley, so she has a huge respect for the Archer. She's willing to consider Lizzie's doubts about his successor's heroism, but she thinks the evidence lies firmly in the Archer's favor.