#and every single time I start to get near to the border agent my heart starts beating so fast and I start sweating and I just feel like

[captainrayzizuniverse]

I drove down to Buffalo and back yesterday (and i’m flying to nyc on friday woohoo!), and I just want to know why the fuck do I have to pay money to get back into canada? Specifically Ontario? This year I’ve entered the US through the BC border 4 times and not once did I have to pay anything to come back in.....so um??what’s the dealio? 

My friend reminded me that when we drove to syracuse in 2021 we had to pay as well to get back in but I thought it was because I wasn’t a citizen yet...so I’m guessing it’s a province thing? And google doesn’t help! All they say is ‘you don’t pay fees or taxes when you enter canada’...well I paid for something! 

[wkemeup]

By Any Other Name (2)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.7k warnings: descriptions of a controlling relationship, bucky is undercover as james, a wild peter appears, brock is an asshole 🌹series masterlist 🌹

“I thought I told you to keep these out of sight.”

Brock held up a copy of Jane Eyre, waving it around impatiently as you crossed the room to take it off his hands. You held the book close to your chest, brushing your hands along the fabric of the aged binding and took in the comforting scent of the pressed paper and ink. There was a slight aroma of aged brandy that burned in your nose and you looked down at the book to find a splash of Brock’s drink seeping into the cover of the near two century year old novel.

“Sorry,” you muttered, thumb brushing against the stain, a slight tremor in your voice. You turned to leave the room but Brock’s hand caught on the edge of your dress, grabbing a firm hold of the fabric and you stilled instantly. Your grasp on the book ached in your hands.

“You forgot something, baby.”

Muscles tensing, body clenching, you took a deep breath and pushed out a smile as you turned around to face him, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his lips. He tasted of cigar smoke and liquor despite the clear blue of the morning sky outside. You held onto the book pressed against your heart like it was a lifeline as he caged you with a hand gripped into your hair.

He let you go with a satisfied hum and you exhaled a breath of relief. He turned back to the papers on his lap without another thought to you and you quickly disappeared from the living room to return the book to its home.

Chills pressing bumps into your skin, you rushed down the hall until you found the sanctity of the library and closed the doors shut behind you. Leaning against the frame, you glanced down at the book, running a hand across the blue cover, tracing along silver lettering.

The stain had dried, a slight discoloration in the cover and you clenched your teeth so tightly it ached in the muscle. You set the book back on the shelve, squeezing it in amongst The Tales of Angria and Emma, your favorites in Bronte’s collection.

You stepped back from the shelf, admiring the precision of it, the colorings of the aged fabric of the covers and the intricately designed lettering on the bindings. It was beautiful; hundreds of years’ worth of knowledge and art and most brilliant creative works of humanity all gathered in a single room. Hundreds of thousands of dollars spent on these shelves. It was the only thing you put your time into these days; all that Brock would allow you access to the accounts for, so you didn’t get any… ideas.

You groaned, falling onto the couch and tucking your knees to your chest. A half empty cup of tea from the night before sat on the end table still seeping. There was a light ring forming under the cup, but you didn’t mind. It would add to the collection. Something about this place needed to feel imperfect and homey, unlike how polished and clinical as the rest of the mansion was.

It hadn’t always been this way, your relationship with Brock. You didn’t always feel so trapped in your own home, restricted to putting everything you had into a single outlet and spending your life locked away in a room your husband didn’t bother to ever step inside.

You had met Brock when you were a professor at Columbia in one of the cafes down by your office building. He had a charming kind of smile and was impossibly sweet for his stature and the scars littering his skin. He was easy to fall in love with and you supposed just about anyone would be if they were purposely catering every thought, feeling, and behavior to mold into what you wanted him to be.

He played the part of a loving boyfriend for nearly three years. You’d married quickly, with a short engagement, because he insisted he was just so in love that he couldn’t wait another second. You’d believed him because you were a girl who had grown up with an elusive father who spent more time in his office than at your recitals and scholarships ceremonies and poetry nights.

His disappointment in your love of the arts and literary fiction left a hole in your chest that Brock easily filled. Brock was the one who built the library in your shared home and encouraged you in your work at Columbia. He bragged incessantly about your accomplishments and joined you at every departmental fundraiser. He was perfect in every way, if only on paper.

Everything changed the night your father died and his millions were inherited to you, his only living child. Brock became distant and cold, and you had convinced yourself that he was grieving. He had been close with your father, after all, but the darkness never went away. He convinced you to transfer your inheritance to a joint account so he could take care of you, so you could take a step back and mourn without having to worry about paying bills and funeral costs and mortgages.

You never saw a penny of that money again.

It didn’t take long before you learned of Brock’s connections to Hydra, his apprenticeship under Alexander Pierce, and the crimes he committed in the dark cover of night when he slipped from your bed for nearly five years.

You supposed it was your own ignorance that let it go on for as long as it did or perhaps you were simply too naïve to see it, but Brock had held you down, tied and bound for years before you even felt the ropes.

You confronted him with the pieces you’d put together on his connection to the criminal world and he had threatened to turn you over to the police. It had been your money funneling Hydra and you were complicit, an accessory to every crime he’d committed and the blood money he’d made since.

He had you exactly where he wanted you; trapped, with nowhere to go, no friends or family to turn to. You hadn’t even realized how isolated you’d become until you were desperate to leave. He’d found a way to separate you from the last remaining friendships you’d had before you even knew they were gone.

So, you played the part of the doting wife. You did as he asked and kept up appearances when necessary. You went to his black tie events in expensive dresses and heels because it was what he demanded. You watched as he turned your father’s wealth into hundreds of millions of dollars through drug trafficking and weapons manufacturing, all while fighting off turf wars and ordering the executions of dozens of men.

He wanted you to conform to his life. He asked it of you every once in a while, for you to take your rightful place by his side and rule the city of New York together, but you told him to shove it. You wanted no part in the world he dragged you into, kept you locked away in by threat of extortion. He was a monster by your standards.

Your relationship with him was surface level. It was a political move to marry you, seeking out your father’s money. He’d forced you to step down from your position at Columbia, isolating you from the last remaining ties you had. He controlled every aspect of your life.

So, you kissed him when he asked, slept with him when he came onto you, because you were going through the motions. You kept yourself secluded to the one place that still managed to bring you joy; your library.

You were content. Numb, but content.

But something was different now. You couldn’t place what it was, but the unsettled need for more was returning to the surface and you were desperate to crawl your way out again.

A cool breeze swept in through the window, startling you out of your memories, and you shivered, turning to quickly close the draft as to not disturb the delicate temperatures needed to preserve the books. Locking the window shut, you turned and leaned against the wall, gazing out at the walled lined with countless novels, though your eyes kept falling back to a certain Bradbury novel with red flames intricately designed on the cover.

You sighed, grabbing your bag from the table and quickly made your way out to the car before Brock could notice you were gone.

***

You had the driver drop you off in Brooklyn, a few blocks off from the Queens border. It was part of your Sunday routine as much as you could manage to sneak away, to come into the softer side of the city and visit the shops and storefronts you’d frequented in your time before Brock.

You reveled in the feeling of the cold breeze against your every step, hands pressed into your pockets and nose tucking into a scarf when the chill started to bite.

You stopped in at your favorite bagel shop, the one with a few of the letters missing from the sign, and ordered your usual from the kind, middle-aged woman at the register. She smiled as she saw you, giving you a quick wave, as she finished up with the customer across the counter.

Stepping up to the counter, you took in a heavy breath of the fresh baked bread and the bacon sizzling on the table fryers. It was heaven in a shop.

“Hey, Mrs. Marselli,” you greeted, eyeing the order board though you had no intentions to change your mind, “I’ll take a—"

“Oh, don’t you worry, dear, I know it by heart,” she grinned, calling your order down to the last detail to her husband in the kitchen. You hadn’t changed your order in nearly three years and she winked at you. The bagel came only a few moments later wrapped up tight in tin foil.

“It smells amazing, as usual,” you grinned and slid a few extra dollars over the counter.

Mrs. Marselli picked up the cash and narrowed her eyes on it suspiciously. It wasn’t the first time you gave her more than what the bagel was worth. “This is too much, dear. I might need to send you back to school with my grandson!”

“Hmm, guess so,” you shrugged as you backed away, giving her no chance to hand you back the change and excess dollars. “Have a good day Mrs. Marselli! Tell Jim thanks for the bagel!”

“Will do, honey! Stay warm!

The next stop was down at the coffee joint on the corner of the block. It sat next to a Starbucks that usually had a line out the door, but you liked the family who ran Café Ramos and wanted to hear about whether Neftali’s son made the school musical.

The bell rang as you walked inside, a short blast of warm air pushing through the frame and you let out a sigh of relief and pulled the scarf down from your mouth. A messy mop of brown curls jumped up from the register where it looked like Mateo was trying to take a mid-morning nap.

“Y/n’s here!” Mateo shouted back to the kitchen, waving you over and quickly preparing your cup of hot warm. “What can I get you this time? We just got a gingerbread tea in time for the holidays? What about a chocolate lavender? Could always go apple caramel, too…”

“Whatever you think, Mateo,” you laughed, handing him the usual cost of the drink and told him to keep the change. He turned to grab a tea bag from the tin box with a small gingerbread drawing in brown crayon on the front label. “So, did you get the part of Bernardo or what? Don’t hold out on me, kid!”

“Who knows?” he sang with a huge grin, right in tune with the classic song ‘Something’s Coming’ straight from the West Side Story score. You squealed and gave him a high five, though he tried to play it cool. Most high school juniors did.

“That’s amazing, kid! I’m so happy for you,” you bit on your lip, trying to keep in your excitement. You’d known him since he was in elementary school and he talked nonstop of wanting to nab a lead in the high school play. This was his dream. “I want a ticket when you open, you hear me?”

Mateo’s cheeks flushed pink as he pressed the lid to your tea. “Bernardo doesn’t really sing a lot but I’ve got a lot of dance numbers and we all know the Sharks are way cooler than the Jets.”

“Well, count me in as team Shark,” you laughed, taking the tea as he handed it to you. It was piping hot but the smell was intoxicating. “Don’t forget to tell your mom I said thank you for the flowers she delivered to my aunt’s house last week. They were lovely.”

“Sure thing, Y/n!” Mateo called after you as you made your way to the door. He was a sweet kid.

There was as reason you looked forward to Sundays.

Most of the stops you made on your trips alone were filled with interactions like the sweet couple at the bagel joint and the Ramos family at the café, smiles and quick questions of how their day was going, but sometimes, you’d run into people on the street who recognized you for another reason, who knew of your connection to Rumlow and Hydra and they’d take one look at you before crossing the street or disappearing into an alleyway for an escape.

You clenched your jaw as it happened for the third time in only fifteen times.

This time, it was a young man, maybe in his college years with a dark purple bruise on his eye. He was walking with his head down, he almost didn’t notice you until he bumped hard enough into your shoulder to send you spiraling to the ground, trying to escape an oncoming biker who shouldn’t have been on the sidewalk in the first place.

The rest of your tea spilled to the sidewalk and the last bite of bagel was lost to the road. You only had a few sips of the tea anyway and it would give you a decent excuse to grab another on your way home, so it was no loss to you. Though, your tailbone would beg to differ.

“Oh shit! Sorry about tha–” The kid froze dead in his tracks when he finally got a look at you. He reached out quickly and pulled you to your feet, stepping away to give you distance.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” you said, trying to laugh it off but you recognized that petrified look in his eye. He almost certainly knew your husband you wondered what he part of Brock’s world he could possibly be involved in at an age so young. He didn’t seem to be hearing a word you said, so you tried again. “No harm done, kid. Really. I’m perfectly fi–”

“Please, ma’am, I wasn’t lookin’ where I was going,” he begged suddenly, hands shaking now as he glanced around the street nervously, like he was waiting for an attack. “Please, don’t tell Mr. Rumlow. I didn’t– I didn’t mean to–”

He didn’t even give you a chance to convince him that you’d never tell Brock something so trivial and that he had no reason to be afraid, but he bolted off before you could.

“Wait!” you called after him, but it was no use. He was already down the block, glancing back at you over his shoulder like he was running from enemy fire. A frown pushed at your lips, aching in your cheeks as you picked up the empty cup and the foil from the bagel.

Murmurs of bystanders hung in the air around you and you noticed an elderly couple whispering amongst themselves and pointing in your direction. They knew who you were and gossiped amongst themselves. You just hoped word didn’t get back to Brock, but still, these sorts of things always did.

***

When you finally made it to the bodega in Queens, you spotted your cousin sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, mindlessly scrolling through his phone, though his mess of brown hair popped up at every horn that blared in the streets, which was pretty often.

“Parker!”

Peter’s head snapped up in your direction, smiling bright in relief, and he jumped up from the sidewalk, rushing the rest of the way and crashing into you at the center of the crosswalk. His grip around you was tight and he nuzzled the cold of his nose into your shoulder.

“I was starting to think you weren’t gonna show,” he mumbled. Voice muffled as spoke against the lining of your coat. It was a rough time of year for the Parkers. The anniversary of his uncle’s death had just passed last week. You let him hang onto you longer than usual.

You chuckled, glancing around at the pedestrians as they sent you irritable glares in their efforts to step around the two of you. You ushered Peter back over to the sidewalk, not daring to pry his arms from around you.

“Come on, Pete, you know I’d call if I couldn’t come,” you reminded him. “Besides, someone has to keep an eye on you, huh?”

He laughed a little, pulling himself away from your embrace and nodded.

“What’s on our agenda for today?” you inquired, nudging his shoulder to pull that smile out of him again.

“Aunt May wanted me to deposit some checks,” Peter said, gesturing to the lump in his coat pocket. They must be condolences from the funeral. It was nearly five years ago now, but May had a hard time bringing herself to deposit them. Looked like Peter finally convinced her to let them go. “The banks out in Brooklyn though, and I know you just came from there so it’s okay if you don’t want to walk that f—”

“I don’t mind,” you replied with a shrug, hoping to ease some of his tension. “It’s a nice day and I’ve got time.”

That got him smiling, at least.

As you followed Peter along the sidewalks back to Brooklyn, you were relieved to find that he still had the energy to talk a mile a minute, telling you everything from how school has been, his progress on his latest project for the science fair, his escapades with his buddy Ned, and the kid named Flash who had some kind of vendetta against him.

“How’s Michelle?” you asked him suddenly. He nearly choked on air, coughing to alleviate his surprise and you laughed into your scarf, trying to hold it back for the sake of his ego.

“Oh, she’s—uh—she’s good,” he stuttered, chuckling nervously and running a hand through his hair. “I was thinking I might try and find this necklace for her, actually. She really likes the Black Dalilah. You know, like the murder?”

You raised an eyebrow, listening intently as Peter explained and you couldn’t help but feel grateful you weren’t in high school anymore. All these rules about how to interact with everyone and constant pressure to say the right thing. It was exhausting. Though, if you were honest with yourself, your life wasn’t much different now as it was then.

“What about you? How are things with Brock?”

You blinked a few times, surprised to look up and find you were a few blocks past where you’d last checked. You brushed a hand through your hair, shaking out the knots.

“Oh, you know, same as usual,” you said, not willing to give Peter any more detail than he needed. He knew nothing of the underground world your husband operated in and you planned to keep it that way. As far as Peter knew, Brock was the owner of a dance club in midtown. Nothing more.

There was an ache in your voice though, a slight sort of tremble that Peter usually picked up on though he didn’t force it. You felt his eyes as he glanced over at you, hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders hunched up by his ears to hide from the cold, trying to find evidence of your hurt upon your face. Your eyes were downcast, lips pressed to a frown.

He’d seen the change in you after your father died and he had thought it was grief, even for a man who wasn’t around much to begin with. He had tried to give you space but even you knew you had lost pieces of yourself that never healed again and it wasn’t because of your father.

“Come on, kid,” you huffed, swatting at his arm enough to trip him a few steps and get him laughing again, “I’ll race you to the bank.”

It was only two blocks away and you were on back alleys with minimal traffic anyway. It was something you used to do when you were younger and you’d be the one watching him after school. It was all you could do to get the energy out of the little pest.

“What do I get if I beat you?”

“Pride, Peter.”

“How about donuts from McQueen’s?” he pressed, grabbing tight to your elbow and bringing you to an abrupt stop. Alright – so he was serious now.

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. When I win, I want churros from the street vender across the block.”

“Done.”

***

An hour later you dropped Peter off back at Aunt May’s there was sweet sticky residue of cinnamon sugar on your fingers as you waved goodbye. You pulled the second churro from your bag, half eaten, and bit down on it with a triumphant smile.

Peter laughed, shaking his head as he brushed past Aunt May and slipped inside the house. She waved at you, leaning against the frame, reminding you to not be such a stranger, before you made your way home.

It had been a while since you’d spent time with Aunt May, especially after Uncle Ben passed. Hell, it had been a while since you’d spent time with anyone, really. You worked hard to keep Peter and Aunt May out of Brock’s world.

You never told him when you met up with Peter on the Sundays you were able to slip out of the house, giving excuses of your errands in Brooklyn and spending time reading in the park. He never questioned you, never thought that you would lie to him because he thought you to be feeble and submissive.

He confused you for the character in which you played for him. You weren’t the only one who could be fooled by someone who was supposed to love them.

You sighed as you pushed your way into the front door of the home, the chill of the inside no warmer than the flutter of snow falling outside. You reluctantly unwrapped your scarf, hung your coat, and eyed the emptiness of the living room. There was a loneliness in this home you were never quite able to shake, even in the moments Brock was around. It was never his company you craved.

A chill swept up your spine and you tugged your cardigan across your chest. Hoping there might be something in the kitchen you could throw together to make soup, you kicked off your shoes by the door and scurried your way across the living room. Hell, you’d even settle for a cup of tea and a PB&J if it was all you had.

Humming to yourself, you didn’t notice the murmured voices beyond the door as you pushed your way inside.

You froze in your tracks, nearly stumbling over your feet to find Brock and a few men in suits you didn’t recognize sitting around the table, eyes all trained on you.

James stood in the corner of the room, observing, and if you hadn’t already known what he did for your husband, you would have thought he was out of place.

Even the limited interactions you had with him had been decent, kind almost, and certainly nothing like the rest of the men your husband kept under his payroll. He nodded at you in acknowledgement, hands clasped behind his back. It was subtle, but it was there. It was more than any other Hydra members offered you.

Brock’s jaw was clenched when you finally dared to look in his direction, a silent warning for you to leave the room, but you huffed, letting the door close behind you as you made your way to the stove and turned on the top right burner. You usually had a bit more defiance in you after your time with Peter. He reminded you of who you used to be.

“Gentlemen, this is my wife,” Brock announced, forced smile and tight in his tone. He never offered your name, like withholding it was another lock he kept you under; dehumanized and alone.

You could hear the murmurs of approval from his business associates as you put a pot on the stove. Just as you were reaching for a can of broth from the pantry, Brock cleared his throat. You gritted your teeth and turned to face him.

“Why don’t you let Clara make something for you, baby?”

He wasn’t asking to be kind. He wanted you gone.

Clara quickly stepped in from the adjoining room, a sweet woman in her early seventies who had been working for the Rumlow family for decades and put up with far more than she should. You shook your head at her, offering a small smile as you held up your hand.

“I can manage just fine, thanks,” you replied.

“Baby,” Brock urged, the threatening nature of his voice masked under the pet name you despised, “we’re in the middle of a very important meeting.”

“You’re also in the middle of the kitchen and I’m hungry,” you snapped back, pleased by the flash of shock on his face. “You have a thousand other rooms in this house, you can’t go anywhere else?”

You’d come to regret that jab later, but the satisfaction of the way his forced smile faded down into an aggravated frown was too sweet to resist. As you turned back to the stove, you spotted James in the corner attempting to suppress a smile, though he quickly pushed it aside when Brock called his name.

“Karpov, please escort my wife somewhere she’ll be more comfortable. I’ll have Clara bring her dinner when it’s ready.”

James nodded, stern features replacing the softness of the smile and he stepped forward, gesturing for you to follow.

“You can’t be serious,” you gaped, glancing at James before you turned back to Brock.

You weren’t a child and you didn’t need to be treated as such, but with the look on Brock’s face, the redness burning in patches on his neck and the glare in his eyes as he stared you down, warning you to shut your damn mouth, and you silenced immediately.

You’d seen that look before. It wasn’t one you enjoyed being on the receiving end of.

“Ma’am, please come with me,” James requested, voice low, soft, and he placed a hand on your arm to lead you away but you yanked it from his grasp harsher than you intended.

It wasn’t him you were angry with but he was just as much a part of Hydra’s world as your husband was. He chose this life. You were forced into it. It didn’t matter how sweet and gentle he was, or the fact that he seemed to care about your books or your wellbeing. He was still a man following orders.

Frustration was etching in your skin, leaving you feeling antsy and shaken, but you stood your ground. You met Brock’s eye from across the room, a challenge of wills between you.

“Don’t make me ask again,” Brock growled, slowly standing from his position.

It was then you felt another soft touch on the mid of your shoulder blades. Gentle, guiding, and entirely unlike the hands of his men before who had yanked you from the room with a firm grasp around your wrist that left red marks and aching. You turned to find James watching you carefully, offering a nod in encouragement, and you shivered away from his fingertips.

His hand fell immediately and he made no efforts to touch you again.

You glanced back at your husband, and then to Clara who had already starting preparing the soup with the ingredients you had taken out of the pantry. With a roll of your eyes, you turned on your heels and stormed out of the kitchen, leaving Brock with a satisfied, prideful smirk you’d come to loath.

“Keep an eye on her, Karpov,” Brock called out to James and you turned your shoulder to find him following you into the living room.

There was an apologetic look about him, with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his hair falling down into his face. He offered you a tight-lipped smile despite the hardened frown on your face, and it only seemed to add to the confusion he elicited in you.

“I don’t need a babysitter, just so you know,” you said, arms folded over your chest as you leaned against the back of the couch.

“Oh, I am fully aware,” James nodded, a slight chuckle escaping him. “Think you can do me a favor and let me stick around for a bit though? Just so I don’t piss off the boss?”

You laughed despite yourself. The tension quickly fading from your shoulders and your arms unfolded from your chest. Hands gripping at the suede fabric of the couch, you turned to see James smiling at you. It was bright, leaving dimples on his cheeks and wrinkles by his eyes. He was really quite beautiful if you stopped and let yourself think so, which you did not.

“I suppose I can be fine with that.“

A silence took over for a moment and he shifted in his stance. He didn’t care for the quiet, you noticed, watching the way his eyes glanced down to his watch and he started to tap his toe against the hardwood floors. It took you a few years, but you’d come to savor the silent moment likes these. They meant you were alone, out of Brock and Hydra’s reach. They were a blanket of warmth and safety.

James seemed to find them unsettling.

“I actually have something for you,” he said suddenly, a slight jolt in his body as the realization came back to him and he quickly made his way to a black backpack sitting in the corner of the living room.

You narrowed your eyes on him, wondering what your husband’s enforcer could possibly have in that bag. You watched as he dug around the inside and tried to steal a glance over his shoulder when he stood up abruptly with a sudden nervous energy about him.

He didn’t say anything as he extended his hand to you; in his grasp was a copy of A Farewell to Arms.

You swallowed, stilling immediately, as you stared at it for a moment, giving yourself just a moment to process exactly what this was before your eyes trailed up to his.

He was swaying on his feet and it surprised you to watch a man who had been hired by your husband, to have dozens of pounds of muscle on his frame, and standing at six feet tall to be so nervous. You carefully took the book from his hands, running your fingers along the print of the title before you flipped through the pages.

It was faded on the cover and the binding was near in pieces from over stretching and cracking down the middle with use, but it was still readable, even with the ring of coffee stained on the first page of chapter one. The back cover had a high school library sticker adhered to the page that looked like it had been picked at relentlessly, though it won out in the end.

Worn over the years of being passed from student to student until ultimately James took it home and kept it more than a decade ago. It was a relic. A memory. It was perfect in every way and suddenly there was a lump in your throat you couldn’t quite explain. It had been years since you’d known kindness like this inside this home.

You had Peter and Aunt May, but they were like treasured secrets; ones you kept at the furthest distance from Brock as you could. This – this book in your hands – was something else entirely. You couldn’t remember the last time Brock brought you something simply because it reminded him of you.

James managed to make your heart ache and your stomach twist all at once, and you’d only known him a few weeks. You were at a complete loss.

“I know it’s not a first edition but,” he stumbled nervously, scratching at the back of his neck, “it was one of the few classics I liked back in high school. It’s, uh, seen some things… clearly.”

He chuckled anxiously, gesturing to the worn-down binding, and after a moment of what seemed to be pure shock, you tugged the book to your chest, hugging it close to your heart. A smile lit up your face, sparkling like gold and glitter and magic in your eyes. It was like a rush of heat in your veins and breath of fresh air.

“Do you want to see the library?” you asked suddenly and he seemed surprised by that as he raised an eyebrow, taking a step back. Now it was your turn to shift nervously on your feet as you stole a glance back over to the kitchen. “You know, if you’re stuck with me for a little while?”

James smiled, the corners of his lips curving slowly into his cheeks, and he nodded.

You grinned, turning on your heels and allowing him to follow you. You kept the Hemingway classic close to your chest the entire walk and tried not to think of the implications of it or the fact that Brock never once took any interest in your books or that you’d only known James a few weeks and he already seemed to be more interested in your love of fiction than your husband ever was.

You pushed all those thoughts aside. At least, you tried to. James wasn’t making it exceptionally easy with the way he was stunned into near silence as you pushed open the heavy oak doors and led him inside your sanctuary.

“I know you said you saw it before, but–”

“Not like this,” he said with a heavy sigh, shaking his head in disbelief as he stepped inside.

You knew a forced smile when you saw it and the way James walked around the room, his hand trailing along the shelf and closely examining the titles and the intricate detailing in the woodwork, every ounce of the bewilderment on his face seemed to be entirely genuine. He paused at the end of the first row, chuckling to himself as he pulled out a novel you quickly realized was among your Bradbury collection.

Fahrenheit 451. The book he asked you about the second time you ever spoke to him. There were smiles in between, careful glances and slight nods of acknowledgment in a way none of Brock’s men ever offered to you before, but the first time he talked to you, really talked to you, without the presence of your husband, was the first time you’d laughed in that home in a long time.

“You can borrow it, if you like,” you offered, leaning against the shelf as you watched him flip open the pages, studying the near translucency of the paper and the sculpted gold framing of the font on the cover.

“Think I might be a bit too rough around the edges for something as delicate as this,” he replied and it made your stomach twist in knots with the way he laughed to himself. The feeling was so foreign to you, you almost didn’t recognize it. It had been years since anyone brought those kinds of butteries around.

“I don’t believe that’s true,” you shrugged, stepping closer. “There’s no use in having a library full of books you can’t read. It’s what they’re here for.”

“Not sure that applies to ones worth thousands of dollars,” he mumbled awkwardly, though he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the first page, like he had already started reading. His eyes were scanning the page, a slight curve of his lips as he read, and you swore your heart fluttered, but you shoved the feeling deep down because it wasn’t one you were allowed to have.

“It does, actually,” you countered and he looked up from the page to find you standing just a few feet away.

He sighed, clearly reluctant. His eyes trailed from the pages to your face, and back to the pages again. “Only if you’re sure.”

“I insist.”

You smiled at him and he closed the book, letting his hand fall to the side with the novel pressed to his hip. He nodded in appreciation.

“Guess it’s the least you could do now that I’ve gifted you such a relic,” he grinned, nodding to the novel in your hands nearly torn at the seams, with pages bending in the corners from unwanted moisture and cracks in the cover.

“Hey!” you laughed, swatting his arm playfully, “don’t knock my new favorite book.”

“Favorite, huh?”

Your cheeks hurt. Blushing and heart pounding. It was suddenly five years earlier and you weren’t tied down by rope and duty and bound to a home and husband you wanted nothing to do with. It felt like, for a short impossible moment, that maybe you could start again, maybe want something for yourself.

But James was just as much a part of Hydra as Brock was; maybe even more so because it was his hands carrying out orders. It didn’t matter that the soft hue of bright blue eyes and the sweetness in his smile seemed to contradict everything you knew about him. He was still Hydra.

Realizing you had been staring too long, standing too close, you quickly cleared your throat, stepping back and James let out a heavy sigh, looking just about everywhere around the room but at you.

A sudden knock at the door made you flinch, hand darting to your heart to hold you steady.

“Miss Y/n?” a voice called. Clara. You could smell the homemade soup from across the room.

“Just a moment,” you called back.

You were hidden behind an aisle of books, shielded by the abundance of thick covers and pages, hiding this stolen moment – or whatever it was. You glanced back at James nervously, a silent apology in your eyes and he seemed to understand immediately. It was time for him to leave.

He offered you a short smile, holding up the Bradbury novel in his hand with a slight nod of appreciation, before he quietly slipped from the library. Clara eyed him as he left, keeping a careful distance as she usually did when Brock’s employees were around. When you emerged from behind the row of shelves, she had already set up your tray on the coffee table, folding the napkin into a beautiful design.

“That one’s new around here, isn’t he?” she asked, referring to James, a slight tremor in her voice that came with age. She smiled at you, saying more between the lines, but you knew what she meant.

James didn’t seem to be anything like the other men Rumlow kept company with. He was kind, with bright eyes and a warm smile. He cared about your library and your novels without forcing his way through a conversation for the sake of politeness.

He brought you a book, one from his own home, one he kept since his school days and must have dug through old boxes for, simply because he thought it might make you smile.

He was genuine. It had been a long time since you’d known anything like that within the walls of this home.

And it terrified you.

[pikemoreno]

if you ever wanna be in love

Chapter I: Coffee Cures All Ills

a/n: Here it is folks! The first part of a Marcus fic heavily inspired by the Netflix rom-com Set It Up. 

It’s more structurally and conceptually inspired and not an exact scene-for-scene remake because a) I was interested in the idea of this not even really being an AU. This is extremely canon-compliant and you’ll see more of that as we continue on. 😏And b) because I had lots of ideas that spun off from watching Set It Up that I just liked better for the purpose of this fic. So that’s what you can expect. It’s gonna be cheesy and fun and great.

The first couple of chapters are a lot of, well, set up (which has been infuriating). But we’ll get into the meat of it soon. My outline says so.

As a side note, a lot of the gifs I’m going to be using are from the movie, but these are not my face claims for any of the characters. I’m using them simply for the ~vibe~ of the chapter. Reader is not a small white girl... Or she might be. She is you. Or whatever OC you’d like her to be. Period. 

And that’s it. Let’s go, I guess.

pairing: marcus pike x f!reader

word count: 2k (probably one of the shortest chapters we’re gonna see out of the 14-ish lolz)

warnings: none, and i don’t expect there to really be any serious ones in upcoming chapters either. this is just fun.

Marcus Pike never wanted to fall in love. 

He’d seen what it had done to him in failed relationships including everything up to a failed marriage. Some would argue that it wasn’t love then, that love doesn’t fail, so it couldn’t have been. But he disagreed. He knows it when it hits. It comes on you like lightning, bright and fast. You accept it, letting it run through your veins, and risk suffering a fatal blow to your heart. And it most definitely can fatally fail. It can cause joy and pain in equal measure. He’d already been struck so painfully once, the blow of the electricity going straight to his heart. He was beginning to hope to the high heavens that he wouldn’t be so unlucky as to be struck a second time, just in case it should reach his heart so painfully once more.

Marcus Pike never wanted to fall in love.

He felt that especially strongly as he watched Adrian go through his recent break-up. He felt for his fellow agent, he really did. Adrian was completely convinced Sam was the one, sold to the point of going ring shopping soon. But one brief mention of an engagement sent Sam running for the hills. He’d been moping around the office for a couple of weeks now and, as much as Marcus understood the pain, he was already really looking forward to Adrian’s rebound or some similar distraction. He was needing his friend’s signature fire back right about now, not to mention his focus. His work had gotten sloppy in this mourning period. He was constantly distracted. Marcus was dreading getting him on this case today, but maybe it was just the push he needed. He hoped. He stepped up to Adrian’s desk, watching the glazed over look in his eye.

“Hey, Adrian, do you mind getting a head start on this? I’d really like you to be our head man on--” he slid the file onto his desk, but was cut short by Adrian’s response. A response that had nothing to do with anything Marcus had just said.

“I’m gonna die alone,” he muttered, hands supporting his chin, elbows on his desk. Marcus let out an exasperated sigh that he didn’t seem to notice.

“You’re not gonna die alone,” he played along once again, rubbing his temple.

“Maybe I’ll go be a monk. They never have to worry about this shit.”

“An honorable profession.”

“Yeah.” Adrian blinked out of his dream-like state. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” Marcus nodded rigidly. “Sorry, Pike.” He opened the file, nodding slowly, “Yeah, I’ll get on this.”

“You look exhausted,”

“I am,” he admitted sheepishly. 

“I’m making a break room run to get coffee, you want one?”

“Please.” Marcus nodded his understanding and made his way down the hall to the break room. He doubted a case and a coffee could get his friend back on track, but he could hope, right?

***

If you had to listen through one more of Wendy’s mood swings, you might just scream. You love the girl, you really do. She’s your friend and the best boss you could’ve asked for, but Lord Almighty, had she been in rare form. Some days she was perfectly fine, strutting around like she didn’t care that her asshole boyfriend Daniel gave her an ultimatum instead of a ring on their last anniversary. Other days would see her doing a complete 180, shutting herself in her office and weeping into suspect files. Your least favorite days, though, were days where the heartbreak made her angry, where thinking about Daniel saying “It’s me or your job” made her border-line vengeful. But, unfortunately for you and the rest of the team, he wasn’t around to take the beating.

You couldn’t say you entirely understood. The short catalog of even shorter flings that you boasted brought largely apathy rather than heartbreak. You couldn’t say you’d ever been in love like Wendy had been. You’d never felt anything quite that strong-- and thank goodness for that. It wasn’t something you particularly looked forward to, at least, not the way you’d seen it lately. It was an uncontrollable force, dangerous and all-consuming. You liked control, liked being in your right mind. If love was to take up it's unfortunate residence, you could only hope it was for someone worth losing your mind over. You hadn’t seen anyone of the sort so far. 

Unfortunately, it was already too late for Wendy Harrod. The already intimidating head of the Jewelry & Gem Theft Program in Texas was in rare form. You watched as an HR intern ran from her office in near tears. Poor Randy. Her sharp “come in” in response to your knock on her door made you wince.

“Harrod, I have the results of that house search you requested if you--”

“No, no! Absolutely not, I cannot handle this right now,” she was absolutely raging, leaving you grasping at straws for a response. 

“I-- Uh-- Of course. I’ll just leave it right here whenever--” you placed it gently on the end table by the door before being interrupted again.

“Ughhhhh,” she groaned out before flopping into her desk chair, the red leather creaking as she let sit spin her around once, “I’m sorry. I’m being mean.” There was your Wendy.

“Just a little.”

“Sorry, sorry. Bring that here please.” 

“What can I do for you? As your friend, I mean. You--” you weighed your words carefully as you hand her the report, “You haven’t quite been yourself since…” you stopped that thought, “Well, lately.” She sighed, shaking her head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I need,” she began to skim the report before looking back up with you with a tight lipped smile, “Maybe a coffee? For the more immediate problems anyway.” You laughed.

“Now that I can do. I’m headed there now. Break room coffee ok?”

“That’d be perfect.”

“The usual?”

“The usual.” She yelled after you as you walk down the hall, “You’re an angel!”

She wasn’t gonna be saying that when you came back without coffee. 

The sign on the coffee pot reading “out of coffee” was going to seriously ruin your reputation and Wendy’s sensitive mood. You ran through the options: you couldn’t leave to get her a Starbucks; there were some bottled iced coffees in the fridge, but Wendy hated them; you could wait for someone to make a run at lunch and pass on the order, but this was too urgent. Then it hit you. Everyone knew the sixth floor had the better coffee stock anyway. The art freaks loved their fancy stuff. You could always just waltz down a floor and snag two cups from their stash. 5 minutes in and out. No harm done, no questions asked. 

Or so you thought. 

The sixth floor break room was already occupied when you walked in, finding another agent also brewing a morning cup in a single cup coffee maker. 

They really did have everything here: multiple pots, another much fancier looking machine that looked like it might come to life and attack at any moment, recyclable coffee cups, every type of creamer. You name it.

You’d have to sneak over here more often.

You stepped up to the larger coffee pot, rinsing out the carafe before reaching for the container of grounds. Empty. 

They had everything here. Except coffee. 

Was the whole damn building in a coffee famine? You didn’t have time to check.

“No, no, no, no,” you panicked, frantically searching the cabinet for another container. In your peripheral you could see the other agent look at you like you’d grown two heads. You couldn’t be bothered with his judgement, but you met his eyes to ask, maybe a little too frantically. 

“Is that the last of it?” you questioned, eyeing the cup he was brewing.

“Well, yeah, sorry.” It was obvious he meant it, but apologies were not what you were needing right now.

“Shit.” 

“Withdrawals?” he laughed a little at your panicked state, but it wasn’t demeaning. He was genuinely amused, and maybe a little concerned, but it made you narrow your eyes at him all the same. You were not in the mood for the mocking, no matter how light-hearted it may be. No matter how much it was softened by the bright smile next to you.

“It’s not for me. It’s for my boss. My very upset boss who needs just one small ounce of joy in her life right now. The kind of joy that can only come from the fueling of her caffeine addiction, so if I could please just have that cup?” You blinked at him innocently, but his dark brown eyes widened as he shook his head

“What? No. I have a friend who needs this. If I don’t bring him this, he won’t be working for the rest of the day.”

“If I don’t bring my boss a cup of coffee in the next two minutes, I will probably not be working again. Ever. I will be dead. Do you want to be complicit in a murder, Agent--” you glanced at his badge, “Pike? Can you really live with that?”

“You’re awfully dramatic aren’t you?”

“I wish it was an exaggeration.” He inspected your badge then too.

“Jewelry and Gem Theft. Floor 7, right? What brings you down here to steal our coffee?” The argument was pointed, but his demeanor was anything but. He was smiling, enjoying this. A little too much, you seethed. You couldn’t stand around arguing all day.

“We’re out too.”

“Try another floor?”

“Time is of the essence here, Art Squad.” There was no room for addressing him politely now, he was riling you up on purpose. 

“If you didn’t stand here arguing with me you could’ve tried another floor by now, Jewels.”

He must think he’s so clever.

“Please. This is DEFCON 5.”

“You do know DEFCON 5 is the good one, right?”

“You know what I mean. Please.” He looked at you and then the newly brewed cup, biting the inside of his cheek, thinking through the problem.

“Tell you what. I am willing to split this if you are. Maybe it’s enough to fix both of them.” The crease between his eyebrows was deep as he studied your face, “I know Adrian is too out of it to notice he’s getting jipped, not sure about your boss.” You shrugged.

“Wendy will manage. It’s enough to keep her from throwing something at my head next time I walk in.” He dutifully split the coffee between two of the recyclable travel cups and handed one to you. You took it gratefully. 

“I hope this keeps you from… Dying? What’s up with that anyway?” You’re not sure what made this person that was essentially a stranger so interested in your life, but something about it feels nice.

“She had a really bad breakup: anniversary, thought it was going to be a proposal, instead it was him being a piss-baby. She’s a little all over the place right now. They’d been together for years and now there’s just… A hole. She doesn’t know how to deal with it.” Pike’s nod in response is emphatic, giving the cup in his hand a little wave.

“Same with him. Terrible breakup. He didn’t see it coming at all. She broke up with him on a voicemail… Then moved. ‘Course it just put him in this crazy funk, though. Doesn’t wanna work or do much of anything. No violence. Yet. But it’s sad to see.” You winced.

“That’s a rough one. Best of luck with him, Art Squad. Thank you. I owe you one. Seriously.”

“You definitely do, Jewels.” His smile is blindingly bright as he jokes. It makes you smile back.

“See you around.”

series taglist: @whiskeyslasso​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​

forever tags: @acomplicatedprofession​ @hdlynn​ @makaela27 @space-floozy @catfishingmorales​ @ithinkhesgaybutwesavedmufasa​ @princessbatears​ @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @findhimfives​

[the-dc-killjoy]

4x12 - Old Souls

Wynonna Earp's over. I'll do pretty much anything to get another season, but shows (not that I think that this show could ever get to that point. id still love WE even if it turned into whatever Grey's Anatomy's doing rn) shouldn't overstay their welcome. If this is the end, than it was a damn fine ending!

-

The cute.

I've been watching Martina sing since I was 11 years old, and it still puts a smile on my face. Rachel was iconic as always, and I'm gonna miss the most recent addition to the Earp family. I can just imagine the chaos of her, her not really but kind of boyfriend, and Randy Nedley on a tiny boat in the middle of nowhere. Poor Nedley. Let's hope Chrissy remains the only one of his many daughter figures to catch mono.

Speaking of mononucleosis- that's such an awful transition that i'm keeping it, I believe that Wayhaught has officially christened the entire homestead. Bedroom, The Stairs, kitchen floor, barn- short of just going to pound town (i'm not getting any better with sex references tonight. am i) in a patch of grass outside, they've got everything covered. Or nothing covered if you know what i mean. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Am I getting better now?

-

The random.

Nedley walking Nicole down the isle, Wynonna walking Waverly down the isle, Doc being Waverly's best man, and Wynonna being Nicole's best friend (no she will not take a secondary title. best friend will go on her tombstone)- sigh, i'm so gay. i can't really explain what that has to do with these circumstances, but i am and this makes me happy. Rachel and Nedley (and Billy was there somewhere right?) being the only people in attendance made this the perfect pandemic wedding even though there wasn't actually a pandemic in Earp land. I was the living embodiment of the pleading face emoji when they panned over the chairs. Doll's chair hurt me. like deeply. like i'm still suffering. there aren't words. fuck, i miss him.

On a lighter note, Waverly said fuck (like eight times)!!! She technically said it already, but chainsmoking-angelic possession doesn't count, right?

I'm glad that Jeremy has this new thing with Damon, but I kinda wish things had worked out with him and Robin. He officiated a wedding, got promoted, and got a handsome date in one afternoon, so I can't be too sad about his adorable self.

Charlotte Sullivan, the jilted dress shop owner/witch, played one of the earliest (in my knowledge at least. this show was my brother's thing not mine) representation of a bi woman in Canadian media. I don't know too much about her Rookie Blue character, but if you can have tolerated the will-they-wont-they, end of the world romance of the main character's kinda mediocre relationships for a couple more seasons, I'm sure you'll find out! By the nature of Canada having 16.87 actors in total, I tend to see a lot of overlap, and I have to infodump about that somewhere. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

The Earping callbacks! Wynonna's truck, her motorcycle, the bullet proof vest, Nedley and Nicole's father-daughter thing, Waverly never saying the f-word (and subverting that), i'm all in, even Rachel always being stuck with juice while the adults are drinking- perfect! We had a little bit of the usual supernatural insanity, but this episode was wall to wall fanservice, and it was perfectly in-character fanservice. That's the way to go! It didn't feel forced or awkward and the edited mailbox will make me tear up on rewatch

-

The relationship. (aka i wanna talk about wyndoc and had no outline when i started this thing)

The Wyndoc goodbye was beautiful. I'm not into the whole you need one person to complete you kinda thing, but the implication that it didn't have to be romantic (implying that Wynonna's person was Waverly) was great. I felt that the scene worked perfectly, and might have been fine leaving it there if there was another season clearly on the horizon. With the fact that this was the series finale (i sighed so hard typing that. my poor lungs), I'm glad that they got their own happy ending.

-

The analysis.

Nicole's and Wynonna's as individual characters mirror each other in so many ways, but I'm just gonna wax poetic about one: their relationship with the GRT. Wynonna was hurt by the town, badly. She grew up with a steady stream of shitty adults and a few who told her to shake the demons out of her head and embraced the tough love mantra. It made a lot of sense that she left as an adult. Waverly was most likely the only reason she didn't skip town before that.

Nicole had a negative integer of adult role models in her life, with the murdered aunt and uncle and the whatever-the-fuck her parents were trying to be. Sure, a little trip to the Ghost River Triangle left her with trauma that she spent a lifetime repressing, but what's a little surviving a massacre under the six year old girl bridge. Am I right?

In their early lives, these characters had nothing but negative experiences in the aptly named town of Purgatory. Wynonna was drawn back into town by Curtis' letter just in time for her 27th birthday, and Nedley applied for Nicole to start working as a cop. Neither of them directly chose to come back to the Ghost River Triangle, but both of them did have the final say.

Wynonna decided pretty early on that she was going to stay no matter what. She already abandoned her sister once. How could she do it again with all of these monsters lurking in the shadows. As time went on, her circle of people expanded, but Waverly has always been the person that fight through hell and high water for. Even when fighting wasn't necessary, when it hurt her much more than it helped anything, she did it anyways because it was the only thing she could do to protect her sister. Wynonna thought it was the only thing she could do at all. This entire season, she's been fighting a war with herself, and her leaving, Waverly telling her that it was okay to leave, was the first time that took a break, took a breath since she arrived in Purgatory on her 27th birthday. Her child and the man she loves are out in the world, but she will be back with them at her side. Maybe after a quick road trip, maybe after a few years, but she will be back.

Nicole spent a majority of season 1 and 2 feeling like an outsider. Season 3 came with the realization that these people were her family and the Ghost River Triangle was her home. Early season 4 kinda shat all over that, oops. The rest of this season has been her finding her footing again. Nicole was a wandering soul, but she voluntarily staked herself to the land, vowing to protect it and the people within its borders for the rest of her life without the ability to leave, and she doesn't regret it. Her wife, her family, her people are all in this one not-so-sleepy Canadian town.

Nicole found her place, after a lifetime of searching, and Wynonna left, temporarily, after a lifetime of feeling trapped. They might seem like opposites, but both women call the same place home.

-

Originally, I watched this show was to cope with the ending of Agents of SHIELD (which I kind of used to cope with the ending of Killjoys, which featured Emily Andras as a writer in season 1 and has near identical humor, found family, and a healthy serving of gay and wow this is turning into a bit of advertisement isn't it), but it wormed its way into my heart. I've never quite seen a show like this. Never seemed interested in a western, even a sci-fi western. Never saw the gay couple reach OTP status both in fandom and canon. I've never seen so many fan conventions dedicated to just one show. I usually stay for just one character (and Wynonna has become one of my all time favorite characters), but I find myself connecting with so many of the beautiful people being brought to life on my screen. Wynonna, Waverly, Nicole, Rachel, Dolls, Jeremy, Doc, Nedley and so many other hilarious and heartbreaking characters make this show, and every single human who played a part in this self-proclaimed shitshow deserves a round of applause and a swig of whiskey.

The end.

[wisdomrays]

TAFAKKUR: Part 237

WILL AND BALANCE IN NOURISHMENT

Once, Shaykh ‘Abdul-Qadir al-Jilani, one of the greatest poles of spirituality, may God sanctify his holiness, had a pupil who was the only child of an old, anxious woman. That respected woman went to visit her son only to find him eating a piece of dry, black bread. His physical weakness that was a result of this asceticism aroused his mother’s compassion. Pitying his condition, the woman went to al-Jilani to complain, and saw that the respected Shaykh was eating fried chicken. She said to him, “O master! My son is nearly dying of hunger, but you are eating chicken!” Whereupon, the renowned Spiritual Pole said to the chicken, “Rise up, by God’s leave!” Many truthful, trustworthy, and reliable people narrated that the bones of the chicken brought themselves together and jumped off the dish as a live chicken. The holy Spiritual Pole responded to the woman, “When your son reaches this level, then he too can eat chicken!”

With this act, the holy Pole meant, “Whenever your son’s spirit prevails over his body, and his heart over his carnal soul, and his intellect over his stomach, and he demands pleasure for the sake of thankfulness, then he can eat delicious things.”

I too witnessed a similar incident thirty years ago. With a large group of friends from university I was invited to visit a well-known scholar for whom I had a deep respect. We had the opportunity to attend a dinner with him and among the food served were some delicious cherries. My inner voice said, “If I sit near him, I will not be comfortable enough to eat as many of those cherries as I like.” This was exactly what happened. While I was thinking about how to get a chance to eat more of the cherries, that respected person took one of the cherries, excused himself, and left the table. I still cannot forget how ashamed I was of my thoughts at that time.

As a result of the story of Abdul-Qadir Jilani and my own experience, I started to ponder the activities that function so well in the human body. In medicine, the dynamic balance that entirely governs the body during eating, drinking and digestion is known as homeostasis. The most crucial body fluid in this balance is the blood. All the agents in the blood have a fixed quantity, a fixed measure and are supplied at a constant rate. Blood pressure is stabilized according to the characteristics of each vein. For instance, the average blood pressure of large arteries is about 100 mmHg. If the pressure exceeds this figure, then the result is hypertension. Hypertension can lead to cerebral hemorrhages, paralysis, renal failure, cardiac expansion, cardiac failure and heart attacks, all of which can result in death. As for hypotension, this is when the flow of the blood to the organs, mainly the brain, lessens. Another example of the importance of maintaining balance is that the agents which are responsible for maintaining the concentration of sugar in the blood (glycemia) must be kept at a suitable balance. If the ratio of the blood sugar (glycemia) rises, the person may go into a sugar coma, which is life threatening. However, if the ratio of blood sugar drops, the organs, in particular the brain, are deprived of energy. A hypoglycemia coma (when blood sugar is too low) is even more dangerous for the brain than hyperglycemia (when blood sugar is too high). The concentration of sodium, potassium, chlorine, calcium and fatty acids present in the blood, like sugar, are kept in a dynamic balance. If this concentration is upset, the result may be disease or even death. The Owner of Absolute Will and Infinite Mercy keeps all these in balance thanks to the marvelous mechanisms that He has placed in our bodies. However, we are free as far as actions like eating and drinking are concerned, for we are granted the willpower to choose our actions.

BALANCE IN NOURISHMENT

One of the most often discussed medical subjects in recent years is obesity. This is an important health problem that poses a threat to life, and it is related to diabetes, hardening of the arteries (arteriosclerosis), fatty liver, cirrhosis, cardiac failure and heart failure. Apart from using one’s own will power and eating less, doctors have presented other harmless ways that are appropriate to human nature to treat obesity. Being overweight constrains the ability of a person to move (exercise) and this inactivity, in turn, leads to more and more weight gain. God has enabled us to seek nourishment wherever we like, within certain parameters. Naturally, our stomach has a certain capacity and when this capacity is met, we feel full and do not need to eat any more. Yet, even though we feel full and should not eat, as this is what is necessary for the health of our body, we are overcome by our lower self and tend to overeat extravagantly. The problem of obesity seems to be greater in developed countries.

Our Creator has not put any restrictions on the absorption of food into the blood. All the food we eat is taken into the intestines so that the nutrients can pass into the bloodstream. If the dynamic balance (homeostasis) were to be maintained here as well then the body would take as much as it needed and the surplus of food would be evacuated from the body without going into the blood; as a result, obesity would not be a concern, however much a person might eat. But by allowing all the food we eat to pass into the bloodstream, the Absolute Ruler has set a test for us, challenging our wills and warning us about self-control.

Most of the activity during digestion and absorption takes place in the small intestine. Our small intestine is a duct which consists of three parts, namely the duodenum, jejunum and ileum, each having different functions and structures. The length of the intestine is 3–4 meters, and it measures 2–4 centimeters in diameter, varying according to the position in the body. The area of the inner surface of this cylindrical structure is 1,600 cm2 (0.16m2) at its maximum. The inner perimeter of the intestine is not like a flat tube, but rather it has folds, each measuring about 8 millimeters, that stretch over the inner parts of the canal. These folds allow the absorption surface to be increased about threefold. If the inner surface of this structure were flat, the absorption capacity of the small intestine would not be more than 1/600 of its present capacity. The surface of these folds is also not flat, but covered with protrusions called villi that are shaped like a finger; these stretch into the vacuum of the canal by about 1 millimeter. There are between 20 and 40 villi to every square centimeter on the surface of the intestine. These villi allow for there to be a tenfold increase in surface absorption. The surface of the villi has cylindrical cells that are arranged in a single row and these help in absorption. The surface of these cells has extensions that are quite thin and dense, known as microvilli, or epithelial cells. Thanks to these cells with a brush border surface, the absorption surface can increase by about twenty times. Thus, although the surface area of a flat canal of the same size should be approximately 3,300 cm2, thanks to surface folds, villi and bushy edges, the total absorption surface of the small intestine increases to 2 million cm2 (200 m2). Moreover, some research has suggested that the total increase could be even greater (about 1,000 times as much). Normally, 100 grams of fat, 50–100 grams of amino acid, 50–100 grams of iodine, and 7–8 liters of water (consisting mostly of fluids produced within the body) are absorbed by the intestines daily. Furthermore, if one eats or drinks too much, the maximum capacity of the system allows the absorption of several kilograms of carbohydrates, a half to one kilogram of fat, a half to one kilogram of protein and twenty liters of water per day. Our intestines have been created with the capacity to transfer all this food into the bloodstream. If we do not control our eating, this capacity is abused and we can face conditions like obesity.

In this life, one of whose tests is in our body, and in which we are required to strive hard using our willpower, there is no limit to the absorption of foods that have high calories (lipid, carbohydrate, and protein), and this can lead to being overweight, as mentioned above. However, in the absorption of minerals, which are not normally considered as making up the basic components of nourishment, but which are of the utmost importance for the human body (in all the operations of the nerves, muscles, bones and in the balance of all the electrolytes), the rules of dynamic balance occur in our intestines, regardless of our will, by the help and mercy of God. For instance, hemoglobin, which is found in the red blood cells (giving the blood its red color) and is charged with the task of transporting oxygen, contains iron. When there is surplus iron in the body, hemosiderosis occurs, which leads to the destruction of organs such as the liver and the pancreas, or cardiac failure. If there is an iron deficiency, then a person suffers from anemia. It is for this reason that a quite sensitive iron-absorption balance exists in our intestines. Here, it is evident without question that there is Divine Aid and Mercy. The same mechanism works for substances like calcium.

Prophet Muhammad’s, peace be upon him, advice to stop eating before feeling full is a significant measure against obesity, for it eliminates “false” appetite. This has a psychological truth, for the brain responds to the feel of fullness a short time after eating. In fact, we all know by experience that we actually feel full a short while (fifteen–twenty minutes) after we stop eating even if it is a small meal.

To conclude, the Almighty One warns us against extravagance and orders us to use our willpower. At this point, we can see how important a role the blessing of religious belief and the training of the soul and the will play in eating habits. Likewise, the principles of Islam, which is in perfect keeping with human nature, are crucial for the well-being of the community as a whole; charitable alms and fasting, which urge us to help and think about those with less, are obligatory and all kinds of charity and good deeds are encouraged. In Islam extravagance is prevented, not only in eating and drinking.

[drivelings]

TWtaH - Plot

Just in case work absolutely decimates me and I can’t finish the story somehow. Below is pretty much every single plot point from chapter 16 onward. It's not that I've given up, but I've been spinning my wheels and I am reaching my limit. This has almost everything I wanted to write about minus some specific details.

The Watchpoint now faces a dilemma: their food supply is dwindling and they know they’ll have to either go out to buy food everyone (which increases their conspicuousness) or get Chef’s arrangements back in order. The latter is not an option anymore since Chef effectively sabotaged the relationship between the restaurant and Overwatch.

Additionally, Overwatch still has Talon agents they have to feed.

Overwatch ultimately decides to dump the Talon agents over the border of Gibraltar (the Line) and have contacted Coeur d’Artichaut for help because of Asim’s logistic connections.

Asim refuses and basically makes it clear that he’s sacrificed a lot and did not ask to be involved in an international crime or get a whole restaurant business dumped on him. He’s tired and just wants to be left alone to pick up the scraps of a business that Chef just threw upon him.

In the end, Asim gives Overwatch a contact for them to sort things out. There’s a moral dilemma here where it’s unclear who is in the wrong, but both sides have their own reasons.

McCree sorts things out in person.

It’s decided Overwatch will drop Talon off over the border in a few days.

Meanwhile, in Overwatch’s kitchen:

Several things have been destroyed and needs replacement. Lot of utensils, glassware, etc.

Brigitte volunteers to fix it all up and Torbjorn helps out when he gets the chance.

Because the kitchen’s stuff is old, lots of the old styles can’t be replicated or found in production anymore, so they all do some Frankensteining and the kitchen is repaired with spare parts. Everything works, just looks weird.

Some agents are clearly uncomfortable with being in the kitchen, especially the veterans who know it’s supposed to be off-limits.

No one really goes into the Cellar except Fareeha and Torbjorn. They have a job to do down there, but Athena still warns everyone to keep things respectful for Chef’s sake.

The Cellar is slowly getting security upgrades, but it takes some time to order the supplies. So as of now, Athena’s systems are connected to the Cellar’s systems via cables running through the Cellar door.

Symmetra set up some turrets over the Cellar door. She’s disgusted with the way the kitchen looks now because it’s disorderly. She organizes things to the best of her ability.

Rotation cooking schedule is implemented via lottery. So far, Lucio, Mercy has been cooking.

On Lucio’s turn, everyone finds out that Symmetra is vegetarian and can’t have meat.

On Mercy’s turn, they find out she’s not a very elaborate cook. Dry toast, yoghurt,

Zarya, Junkers, and a few others have issue with this.

Lots of tension because it’s hard to go out constantly to buy more food for the big eaters and there are people with very specific food preferences.

Tracer reminisces that it wasn’t like this when Chef was cooking. She wonders what’s different--is it because Chef knew all their food preferences or is it because there was someone dedicated to handling such a basic need?

Hanzo’s turn is coming up.

Overwatch has their internal meetings. Almost everyone is back on base. Genji is running around and Hanzo is clearly avoiding him still. But he thinks about Genji a little more now.

Winston is also debating about what to do about Chef.

Solider: 76 isn’t talking about getting rid of Chef now--it’s way too late and risky.

Ana talks to Hanzo a little about the current situation, teases him and tells him to talk to Chef about cooking. She’s heard that he’s not a great cook and hints that after Mercy's attempt, she wants something a little more substantial.

Hanzo talks to Chef, finally. His feelings are vaguely making itself known, but when seeing someone you are starting to care about so down in the dumps, the conversations are a little awkward.

Chef has been left in the dark about all the decisions that are taking place and isn’t aware about what’s happening with the kitchen.

You have absolutely any idea how terrifying it is to have raison d’atre getting yanked out from under you?

Chef’s basically cut off from the restaurant by choice of Asim and Argus who can’t keep playing middleman in an international crime between two morally dubious organizations and the world government and a bunch of regulators while still trying to run a charity restaurant.

And the agents are cooking their own food (who are realizing it’s not as easy as just ‘cooking your own food’, but it’s normal for Chef, so it’s not like it’s particularly recognized as difficult).

Hanzo swallows his pride a bit and asks Chef for some help to grab some ingredients. It’s a secret from Mercy who doesn’t want Chef running around.

Chef is on board because it’s freedom.

Chef was visited by a lot of people who has been instructed very strictly not to talk about stressful stuff.

They leave some clothes with Chef because McCree started it.

Hanzo comes to pick up Chef before the ass-crack of dawn. They’re sneaking out, so it’s best to do it when no one is around.

Chef is wearing some weird clothes--McCree’s serape, D.Va’s cap, Mei’s yeti slippers, Ana’s sunglasses, all worn over hospital clothes. Hanzo is in business casual clothes (because that’s all he has) and even he disapproves of Chef’s appearance.

Look, Chef didn’t have a lot of clothing choice being stuck in the medical bay.

Hanzo insists on Chef changing--they are both supposed to be incognito. This weird outfit is anything but.

Hanzo accompanies Chef to get clothes because he doesn’t actually know where they are. So, to his horror--because Mercy was very, very, very explicit in not inducing stress--they’re headed back to the kitchen.

Chef gets the surprise of a fucking lifetime because the kitchen is not the same kitchen anymore.

But anyway, that gets pushed through quickly enough. Chef leads Hanzo into the Cellar. Hanzo, remembering that Chef may remember the site of being gunned down, just rushes down the hall past where the blood stain is still chillin’.

Stopping in front of a door, it’s revealed that it’s a dorm room. Hanzo waits while Chef changes.

Chef takes a moment to think about the gunshot wounds, debates whether it’s worth it or not to bring pain medication on the trip.

Nah.

They go down the tunnels again because they figure they might as well if they’re trying to sneak out.

Chef stops at the tunnel fork that leads to the weird vault-thing that the Junkers were spending all their time in. 

Chef doesn’t actually know the Junkers are there.

They don’t take the truck when they go past it. Hanzo insists he’s strong enough to bring back all their shit, but Chef insists on taking a dolly. It makes them more conspicuous, so Hanzo refuses.

Basically, it’s a date.

They talk on the shopping trip, Chef reminiscing about the past while pointing out different stalls and teaching Hanzo different things about ingredients.

Hanzo’s enjoying himself, actually. He’s mentally taking notes about the stuff Chef is teaching him. He gets to taste samples of fruits and stuff. They’re surprisingly good and somehow better than the stuff he had when he was with the Shimada clan. Sure, they don’t look very pretty, but they’re flavorful and juicy and crisp and--they’re just good.

They talk about what Hanzo wants to cook and Chef gives some tips as Hanzo talks through how he’s going to make his meals.

They’re picking up bulk ingredients.

Eventually, they pick up rice--the huge sacks of them. Hanzo basically flexes and shows he can carry all that, the ingredients, and Chef, if necessary. 

Chef gets tired eventually. The pain is beginning to kick Chef’s ass and out of stubbornness, refuses to take a break.

Hanzo pulls a, “But I’m hungry,” and forces them both to stop at a breakfast place. Chef still can’t eat anything, so he just gets Chef a drink.

They talk a little bit more about a few more personal things. Like what Chef plans to do now and what Hanzo wants to do with his situation with Genji.

He doesn’t really want to talk about it in a public place, but Chef indicates that Genji cares--Genji talks to Chef and mentioned a few things.

At some point, Hanzo holds Chef’s hand. Originally, it’s to make sure Chef can keep up the pace, but eventually, it’s just forgotten about.

At some point, Chef is staring off in the darkness, thinking that there’s something there. Hanzo’s danger senses are going off, so they are forced to return back to the Watchpoint.

Mercy, Genji, and Zenyatta are waiting for them and greet them before they get to the Watchpoint. Genji, for protection purposes, Mercy for medical reasons, and Zenyatta to keep the peace.

Hanzo brings all the stuff into the kitchen to start on breakfast without speaking to Genji while Chef gets escorted back to the medical bay for more pain meds and treatment.

Chef basically knocks out for the rest of the day--it was exhausting.

Wakes up near dinner time and finds a covered dish sitting on the bedside table.

It’s curry from Hanzo.

Chef, despite the nothing-by-mouth order, begins to eat the curry and rice.

It’s a lukewarm, overly thick, too salty, and the rice is a little dry. It’s not conventionally good or gourmet, but Chef begins to cry. It’s fucking delicious for some reason.

It’s the first time in years that anyone has cooked anything for Chef for the sake of goodwill. Chef begins to remember Head Chef Richard talking about love again.

Usually, when Chef eats, it’s either leftovers the Chef made out of necessity or test creations from other chefs who want a critique or just test dishes for the restaurant.

Remember the title of the story? The Way to a Heart? Yeah, this wasn’t just about the way to Hanzo’s heart.

Chef gets sick because, again, ‘nothing-by-mouth’ order. So, Mercy is angry. However, when Hanzo comes back, Chef lets him know the curry is delicious. While Hanzo is sure it’s not 100% sincere, he feels good about it. He gets a glimpse into the satisfaction one can get from just serving food to others.

Chef is back in the kitchen to clean and get things back in order with Symmetra while everyone else is discussing strategy.

Chef is making tamales because it’s easy and just to have something to give to the agents for the big mission. It should be easy, but knowing Talon, it might get tough.

So the mission to get rid of the Talon agents is underway.

Hanzo, Genji, Ana, Soldier, Lucio, and McCree are off to escort the Talon agents they have as their prisoners away. 

McCree, Ana, and Soldier insisted on going because Talon. 

Surprise. Reaper’s waiting for them.

It becomes a hell of a brawl.

Ana and Hanzo are at their perches while both Soldier and McCree are trying to chase after Reaper who was apparently assigned to get back those Talon agents who, by now, know Overwatch is almost fully operational. 

Reaper is also a great distraction because there is an attempt by Talon to get into Overwatch’s Watchpoint.

Yeah, the remaining agents at the Watchpoint isn’t about that life and puts a stop to that real quick. Though it’s not like Talon tried very hard.

Later, it’s revealed that Reaper wasn’t taking the attack on the Watchpoint too seriously. It’s an apology to Chef. He’s the one who has been keeping tabs ever since the whole attack on Chef happened.

At some point, Genji is overwhelmed try to clean up after Soldier’s and McCree’s asses, and inevitably gets damaged to the point to temporarily being unable to move.

Hanzo rushes down and throws himself into the midst of a fuckton of enemies while facing his own flashbacks and eventually the past and present overlap and he gets some breakthrough where he unleashes his dragons on the battlefield.

Ana is exasperated because she can’t fucking believe she’s babysitting so many people. Lucio is doing his best to keep up.

Reaper is cornered by McCree at a point who throws a tamale at Reaper. 

Why? Because McCree has an inkling about what’s happening and the tamale is to remind him about what matters. Reaper makes a telling comment about the Chef (”dishwasher”) that indicates he’s been watching and very aware of what’s happening.

Reaper insists he doesn’t need to be lectured by a kid and disappears after a few more choice words about McCree’s life choices, pulling back and giving Overwatch a victory.

It’s not much of a victory when you have both Shimada brothers wiped out and McCree emotionally shaken. Soldier’s also a bit shaken but he has to keep it together. Lucio is fucking exhausted because healing these fools and keeping up with them is exhausting.

They return to find out the Watchpoint was attacked, but no one was seriously injured. The Shimada brothers get emergency care and Chef is immediately concerned.

When Hanzo wakes up, it’s been a day or two. Genji, already functional, yells at Hanzo for being a moron. Who would be happy about him attempting to sacrifice himself like that?

This is their reconciliation scene. It’s awkward, it’s painful, but Hanzo finds himself a little lighter and not as full of regret as before.

The brothers talk a bit and Hanzo finally takes that first step toward recovery. 

Chef comes to visit, still recovering, but not unwell enough to not cook up something for Hanzo’s recovery.

Artichoke soup.

It has great sentimental value to the chef, not that Hanzo knows this, but it’s easy to consume and warm.

Hanzo’s feelings get a bit deeper.

When Hanzo gets a moment to escape the medical ward, he finds Genji chilling somewhere in the Watchpoint, humming a familiar song their mother used to sing.

They talk a bit about the past, agree that it’s a work in progress, and they’ll work through it in small steps.

SURPRISE. THIS WAS A HANZO REDEMPTION FIC ALL ALONG.

Eventually, the Watchpoint gets itself back into order.

Winston plans on announcing Overwatch’s return to the world.

Chef returns to the kitchen, now on a schedule--those who do not eat in the designated time will be dragged down to eat. This is so Chef finally has a healthy sleeping schedule.

There’s more group meals.

Hanzo and Genji have their meal together. Chef joins them for this one. D.Va’s taking pictures of Hanzo and Chef smiling at each other in that really tender way that no one’s ever seen before.

Fuck, I almost forgot: as thanks for the curry, Hanzo teaches Chef the curry recipe and they make it together.

Cue me describing my absolutely favorite curry of all time. Chewy, beautiful and fragrant short-grain rice, thick gravy that coats every grain and filled with shreds of pork and onion. Crunchy, crispy, and juicy pork katsu that is just full of flavor. Absolutely fucking delicious.

After talking with Winston and some advice from Hanzo, Chef decides to open up the kitchen and tell everyone about the secrets of the kitchen. Chef is now the master of it, after all, and shouldn’t be held back by the past.

Before that, Chef visits the vault.

The Junkers are there, sheepish at being found.

The vault contains a hydroponic plant that’s been restored with Junker technology.

This is the secret of the Cellar. An indoor, self-sustaining garden that acknowledges Gilbratar’s import issue and takes it upon themselves to create nutrient-rich and delicious ingredients.

Chef reveals the Cellar’s secrets, providing everyone with the map, talking through every room and its purpose. Overwatch debates repurposing the rooms since they will likely be moving from Watchpoint to Watchpoint once Overwatch becomes official.

It’s then that Hanzo realizes what the real treasure of the Cellar is.

Remember the dorm? Yeah. It’s heavily implied that the treasure is no alcohol or gold. It’s the chefs who serve the Watchpoint and Overwatch’s agents. The Head Chef was a huge sap for his employees, if a hard-headed sap.

Oh yeah, Coeur d’Artichaut?

McCree visits them while undercover as Joel Morricone and finds that they have a new owner: the previous Overwatch Head Chef Richard Sauveterre.

Richard sees through his disguise and grabs McCree by the neck for a cigarette break.

McCree tells him about Chef and Richard laughs at him, saying he doesn’t care about a child who left him such a huge mess to clean up. However, Richard implies that he cares very much and knows how hard Chef has been working and expresses some regret over having taught Chef in the way he has, leading to this outcome.

But Richard is happy for the chef who has now found the light.

Richard tells McCree not to tell Chef about his appearance here or else he’ll turn McCree into his “Meatload Surprise”.

Chef has come to terms with having fucked up everything, and while it’s not satisfying, does not contact Argus or Asim again except to leave an apology.

Chef has finally chosen to stay with Overwatch. 

Back at the Watchpoint, Hanzo and Chef are talking. Chef finally uses the miso that was kept in the fridge and Hanzo breaks out the cheesiest and most roundabout way of confessing:

“Will you make me this miso soup for the rest of my life?”

It’s a traditional (or antiquated) Japanese proposal, okay?

Yes. It’s something new and scary, but they’re both okay with it. Yay, the deal is sealed with a kiss.

Great. Story ends.

Nope. Epilogue.

Epilogue is two years later where Hanzo is sent with Baptiste and Mercy to go to a jailhouse. They take a car and Hanzo is dressed all business-like. Hair down, long trenchcoat on his shoulders, etc.

SURPRISE. Chef was finally arrested shortly after the end of the story for international crimes of assisting Overwatch during their time of exile, money-laundering, setting up a fake charity, and other financial related crimes.

DID YOU REALLY FUCKING THINK YOU CAN DO THIS WITH NO CONSEQUENCE?!! 

Not to say that Hanzo didn’t try to save the Chef. He tried, but Chef decided to face everything head-on. No more running away.

It’s basically a long flashback about how everything led to this.

It ends with Hanzo and chef meeting each other again, Chef jumping into Hanzo’s arms and forehead touches and kisses.

They’re finally bringing Chef home and now their relationship can really start.

[bountyofbeads]

Shoot Them in the Legs, Trump Suggested: Inside His Border War https://www.nytimes.com/2019/10/01/us/politics/trump-border-wars.html

Shoot Them in the Legs, Trump Suggested: Inside His Border War(Trump is nothing more than a thug and wannabe mobster. 🤢🤬🤬🤬)

By Michael D. Shear and Julie Hirschfeld Davis | Published Oct. 1, 2019 Updated 7:19 p.m. ET | New York Times | Posted October 1, 2019 |

WASHINGTON — The Oval Office meeting this past March began, as so many had, with President Trump fuming about migrants. But this time he had a solution. As White House advisers listened astonished, he ordered them to shut down the entire 2,000-mile border with Mexico — by noon the next day.

The advisers feared the president’s edict would trap American tourists in Mexico, strand children at schools on both sides of the border and create an economic meltdown in two countries. Yet they also knew how much the president’s zeal to stop immigration had sent him lurching for solutions, one more extreme than the next.

Privately, the president had often talked about fortifying a border wall with a water-filled trench, stocked with snakes or alligators, prompting aides to seek a cost estimate. He wanted the wall electrified, with spikes on top that could pierce human flesh. After publicly suggesting that soldiers shoot migrants if they threw rocks, the president backed off when his staff told him that was illegal. But later in a meeting, aides recalled, he suggested that they shoot migrants in the legs to slow them down. That’s not allowed either, they told him.

“The president was frustrated and I think he took that moment to hit the reset button,” said Thomas D. Homan, who had served as Mr. Trump’s acting director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement, recalling that week in March. “The president wanted it to be fixed quickly.”

Mr. Trump’s order to close the border was a decision point that touched off a frenzied week of presidential rages, round-the-clock staff panic and far more White House turmoil than was known at the time. By the end of the week, the seat-of-the-pants president had backed off his threat but had retaliated with the beginning of a purge of the aides who had tried to contain him.

Today, as Mr. Trump is surrounded by advisers less willing to stand up to him, his threat to seal off the country from a flood of immigrants remains active. “I have absolute power to shut down the border,” he said in an interview this summer with The New York Times.

This article is based on interviews with more than a dozen White House and administration officials directly involved in the events of that week in March. They were granted anonymity to describe sensitive conversations with the president and top officials in the government.

In the Oval Office that March afternoon, a 30-minute meeting extended to more than two hours as Mr. Trump’s team tried desperately to placate him.

“You are making me look like an idiot!” Mr. Trump shouted, adding in a profanity, as multiple officials in the room described it. “I ran on this. It’s my issue.”

Among those in the room were Kirstjen Nielsen, the homeland security secretary at the time; Mike Pompeo, the secretary of state; Kevin K. McAleenan, the Customs and Border Protection chief at the time; and Stephen Miller, the White House aide who, more than anyone, had orchestrated Mr. Trump’s immigration agenda. Mick Mulvaney, the acting chief of staff was also there, along with Jared Kushner, the president’s son-in-law, and other senior staff.

Ms. Nielsen, a former aide to George W. Bush brought into the department by John F. Kelly, the president’s former chief of staff, was in a perilous position. She had always been viewed with suspicion by the president, who told aides she was “a Bushie,” and part of the “deep state” who once contributed to a group that supported Jeb Bush’s presidential campaign.

Mr. Trump had routinely berated Ms. Nielsen as ineffective and, worse — at least in his mind — not tough-looking enough. “Lou Dobbs hates you, Ann Coulter hates you, you’re making me look bad,” Mr. Trump would tell her, referring to the Fox Business Network host and the conservative commentator.

The happiest he had been with Ms. Nielsen was a few months earlier, when American border agents had fired tear gas into Mexico to try to stop migrants from crossing into the United States. Human rights organizations condemned the move, but Mr. Trump loved it. More often, though, she drew the president’s scorn.

That March day, he was furious at Mr. Pompeo, too, for having cut a deal with Mexico to allow the United States to reject some asylum seekers — a plan Mr. Trump said was clearly failing.

A complete shutdown of the border, Mr. Trump said, was the only way.

Ms. Nielsen had tried reasoning with the president on many occasions. When she stood up to him during a cabinet meeting the previous spring, he excoriated her and she almost resigned.

Now, she tried again to reason with him.

We can close the border, she told the president, but it’s not going to fix anything. People will still be permitted to claim asylum.

But Mr. Trump was unmoved. Even Mr. Kushner, who had developed relationships with Mexican officials and now sided with Ms. Nielsen, could not get through to him.

“All you care about is your friends in Mexico,” the president snapped, according to people in the room. “I’ve had it. I want it done at noon tomorrow.”

The Start of an Overhaul

The president’s advisers left the meeting in a near panic.

Every year more than $200 billion worth of American exports flow across the Mexican border. Closing it would wreak havoc on American farmers and automakers, among many others. Senator Mitch McConnell, Republican of Kentucky and the majority leader, said in an interview at the time that a border shutdown would have “a potentially catastrophic economic impact on our country.”

That night, White House advisers succeeded in convincing the president to give them a reprieve, but only for a week, until the following Friday. That gave them very little time to change the president’s mind.

They started by pressuring their Mexican counterparts to rapidly increase apprehensions of migrants. Mr. Kushner and others in the West Wing showered the president with emails proving that the Mexicans had already started apprehending more migrants before they could enter the United States.

White House advisers encouraged a stream of corporate executives, Republican lawmakers and officials from the U.S. Chamber of Commerce to tell Mr. Trump how damaging a border closure would be.

Mr. Miller, meanwhile, saw an opportunity.

It was his view that the president needed to completely overhaul the Homeland Security Department and get rid of senior officials who he believed were thwarting efforts to block immigrants. Although many were the president’s handpicked aides, Mr. Miller told him they had become part of the problem by constantly citing legal hurdles.

Ms. Nielsen, who regularly found herself telling Mr. Trump why he couldn’t have what he wanted, was an obvious target. When the president demanded “flat black” paint on his border wall, she said it would cost an additional $1 million per mile. When he ordered wall construction sped up, she said they needed permission from property owners. Take the land, Mr. Trump would say, and let them sue us.

When Ms. Nielsen tried to get him to focus on something other than the border, the president grew impatient. During a briefing on the need for new legal authority to take down drones, Mr. Trump cut her off midsentence.

“Kirstjen, you didn’t hear me the first time, honey,” Mr. Trump said, according to two people familiar with the conversation. “Shoot ’em down. Sweetheart, just shoot ’em out of the sky, O.K.?”

But the problem went deeper than Ms. Nielsen, Mr. Miller believed. L. Francis Cissna, the head of the United States Citizenship and Immigration Services until earlier this year, regularly pushed back on Mr. Miller’s demand for a “culture change” at the agency, where Mr. Miller believed asylum officers were bleeding hearts, too quick to extend protections to immigrants.

They needed to start with the opposite point of view, Mr. Miller told him, and start turning people away.

John Mitnick, the homeland security general counsel who often raised legal concerns about Mr. Trump’s immigration policies, was also on Mr. Miller’s blacklist. Mr. Miller had also turned against Ronald D. Vitiello, a top official at Customs and Border Protection whom the president had nominated to lead Immigration and Customs Enforcement.

By midweek, the campaign to change Mr. Trump’s mind about closing the border seemed to be working.

Maybe there’s another way to do this, the president told Ms. Nielsen. How about if I impose tariffs on the Mexicans, or threaten to impose tariffs? Tariffs are great.

But the staff worried that his retreat would only be temporary. The president never really let go of his obsessions.

They were right. On a trip to California late in the week, Mr. Trump turned to Mr. McAleenan, the Customs and Border Protection chief, with a new idea: He wanted him to stop letting migrants cross the border at all, with no exceptions. If you get into any trouble for it, Mr. Trump told him, I’ll pardon you.

The Turning Point

Once on the ground, Mr. Trump met up with Ms. Nielsen and worked a room filled with Border Patrol agents. Start turning away migrants at the border, he told them. My message to you is, keep them all out, the president said. Every single one of them. The country is full.

After the president left the room, Mr. McAleenan told the agents to ignore the president. You absolutely do not have the authority to stop processing migrants altogether, he warned.

As she and her staff flew back to Washington that Friday evening, Ms. Nielsen called the president. She knew he was angry with her.

“Sir, I know you’re really frustrated,” she told him. The president invited her to meet with him on Sunday in the White House residence.

Ms. Nielsen knew that Miller wanted her out, so she spent the flight huddled with aides on a strategy for getting control of the border, a Hail Mary pass. She called it the “Six C’s” — Congress, Courts, Communications, Countries, Criminals, Cartels.

Unbeknown to her, Ms. Nielsen’s staff started work on her letter of resignation.

When Ms. Nielsen presented her plan to Mr. Trump at the White House, he dismissed it and told her what he really needed was a cement wall.

“Sir,” she said, “I literally don’t think that’s even possible.” They couldn’t build that now even if it would work, which it wouldn’t, Ms. Nielsen told him. The designs for steel barriers had long since been finalized, the contracts bid and signed.

The president responded that it was time for her to go, Mr. Trump recalled later. “Kirstjen, I want to make a change,” he said.

The president said he would wait a week to announce her resignation, to leave time for a transition. But before Ms. Nielsen had left the White House that day, the word was leaking out. By evening, Mr. Trump was tweeting about it.

“Secretary of Homeland Security Kirstjen Nielsen will be leaving her position,” Trump wrote, “and I would like to thank her for her service.”

The dismissal was a turning point for Mr. Trump’s immigration agenda, the start of the purge that ushered in a team that embraced Mr. Miller’s policies.

Mr. Trump quickly dismissed Claire M. Grady, the homeland security under secretary, and moved Mr. McAleenan to take Ms. Nielsen’s old job. Within two months, Mr. Cissna was out as well, replaced by Kenneth T. Cuccinelli II, a former Virginia attorney general and an immigration hard-liner.

On Aug. 12, Mr. Cuccinelli announced that the government would deny green cards for immigrants deemed likely to become “public charges.” Nine days later, Mr. McAleenan announced regulations to allow immigrant families to be detained indefinitely.

In the months since the purge, the president has repeated his threat of placing tariffs on Mexico to spur aggressive enforcement at the border. Mr. McAleenan and Mr. Cuccinelli have embraced restrictive asylum rules. And the Pentagon approved shifting $3.6 billion to build the wall.

Mr. Trump has continued to face resistance in the courts and public outrage about his immigration agenda. But the people who tried to restrain him have largely been replaced.

In the interview with The Times this past summer, Mr. Trump said he had seriously considered sealing the border during March, but acknowledged that doing so would have been “very severe.”

“The problem you have with the laws the way they are, we can have 100,000 of our soldiers standing up there — they can’t do a thing,” Mr. Trump said ruefully.

This article is adapted from “Border Wars: Inside Trump’s Assault on Immigration,” to be published by Simon & Schuster on Oct. 8.

[officialleehadan]

Death Valley Sand

Death Valley was never hospitable.

Even with the air conditioning on it was punishingly hot, and Brandon was slightly annoyed that Razz wasn’t even sweating.

Guess he had been serious when he had said the heat didn’t bother him. Apparently demons had a lot of heat and fire immunity. It really wasn’t fair.

They had talked a lot on their trip west from Chicago. It turned out Razz was hired on the same year as Brandon, although via two seriously different set of circumstances.

“You seriously majored in Pattern Analysis?” the agent laughed incredulously. “Who even does that?”

“Double major, I was in for Information Tech. too,” Brandon grinned. It was a fairly normal response to his recent college history. He was used to it. “Specifically, information management. I was made for shady government organizations.”

“Well, that explains how you picked up on the attacks. Why did the Magical Defense Agency grab you?”

“They do that when you hack their mainframe,” Brandon grinned ruefully. “Turns out, their security on those things is pretty good.”

“You’re shitting me!” Razz laughed so hard Brandon thought he might run them off the road. “No wonder they carried you off. How old were you?”

“Twenty-one, and drunk as hell.” Brandon told him with a fond smile for the memories of his college dys. Really, it was a miracle he survived to adulthood. “I was just messing around, and suddenly I’ve got agents breaking down my door.”

“I bet. Makes you twenty-eight now? You’re young for the agency.”

“Not the youngest we’ve had. Some of the geniuses down in R&D probably shouldn’t be out of high-school.”

“I’m scared of them.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The scenery smoothed from low mountains to rolling sand dunes and Brandon looked out the window. There was no sign of anyone and he wondered why, of all places, their contact had chosen to meet them here. Razz had said that the dragon, Blaec, could take a human form.

“You won’t see them yet.” Razz said knowingly as he leaned back in the seat with one hand on the wheel. He was watching Brandon out of the corner of his eye. “I know where they’ll be. Blaec likes to bask out here and he has a spot he prefers. Something about the sand being particularly comfortable.”

He turned off the road abruptly and headed out into the dunes. The sand slid under their wheels but Razz had picked their car well, and the rugged jeep cleared dune after dune without trouble.

It wasn’t until they were well out of sight of the road that Razz spoke again.

“Brandon. Leave your weapons in the car.” he said seriously, and followed his own advice by pulling his sidearm out from under his coat. Brandon hesitated, and then added his gun, and then his ankle weapon, to the glove box. “Good. Almost there.”

When they cleared the next dune, the desert flattened out into a small flat-bottomed valley. A bright blue beach umbrella came into sight before Razz slowed

“Not parking closer?” Brandon asked as Razz parked the jeep well back from the umbrella, and the woman draped underneath it. “Why?”

“It’s better to let Blaec check us out,” he said cryptically. “Blaec gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘overprotective’ and he won’t stop to ask questions if he decides we’re a threat.”

There really wasn’t any answer for that, so Brandon just got out of the jeep and closed the door behind him. He didn’t see the dragon, but that didn’t mean the dragon couldn’t see them. Dragons were notorious for their ability to hide until they were good and ready to reveal themselves.

The umbrella it turned out, was stuck in the sand beside a lump of smooth black rock jutting out of the sand. On the rock lay a woman, with her feet in a wading pool that matched her umbrella.

She looked like a pin-up model, draped across the rocks. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her face in a thick braid that coiled down to her hips and the white sundress she wore stopped just an inch above her knees. A white sun hat finished the look, and her smile was kind, but had an edge to it that Brandon couldn’t place.

“You can come over,” she called cheerfully, and lifted one hand in invitation. “It’s good to see you again, Razz. Who is your friend?”

Razz grinned as they walked closer, and Brandon tried not to stare at the woman. She was beautiful. Her skin was pale despite the sun. Her features were delicately Greek, and her blue eyes had gold pupils.

With a start, Brandon realized that the woman was no more human than her draconic husband.

Razz left that part out of his briefing. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to bite them in the ass later.

“Evalene, this is Brandon Leith. He’s working with me on this one.” Razz explained, stopping short of her and her pool. Brandon took his cue from Razz. Really, in Magical Defense, it was best to watch the older Agents. They survived where everyone else didn’t, and they knew how not to die.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Petros,” he said politely, and got a soft laugh. “We came a long way to meet you and your husband.”

“Call me Evalene, please,” She said dismissively. “Now Razz, you told us you needed to meet, but not why.”

“We’re having a problem with the undead.” Razz told her frankly and with more honesty than Brandon really thought was wise. “On the border between the States and Canada, near the Great Lakes.”

“And so you called us?” Evalene asked, pushing a few loose strands of hair back behind her ear. A ring glittered on her left hand, more money in a single piece of jewelry than Brandon had ever seen before. “It must be quite the problem indeed.”

“Far more of them than we’ve seen in decades,” Razz said darkly, and shifted from foot to foot in the sand. “We’re having trouble hiding the incidents.”

Brandon had briefed him on the problems while they traveled, so Razz knew as much as anyone about the situation. Once they knew what they were looking for, they had been able to gather a considerable amount of information.

The picture was bad no matter how you looked at it.

The woman looked out over the dunes and Brandon wondered if she was looking for the dragon who was supposed to be somewhere near.

“My husband wishes to know if we will be expected to work with the idiot from before.”

“No. That’s why Brandon’s here,” Razz said with a wince. “Nick sends his regards, but we figured you wouldn’t want to see him again.”

“Well, I think my love would like to see him again a bit too much,” Evelene laughed brightly, voice light and teasing. “But for the sake of his life, I expect it was wise of the director not to come.”

Apparently Blaec Petros wasn’t the only one who Nick had offended. Evalene didn’t look distressed at the thought of Nick Jackson running afoul of her dragon. That was… illuminating. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a problem.

“That’s about what I thought,” Razz chuckled dryly. “II headed him off before he could do the stupid. So, will you come?”

The woman got hat distant look in her eyes again. “Who else has been called?”

“We wanted to make sure we had you two before we called anyone else.”

Evalene pulled her feet out of her pool and up onto her rock slowly as she regarded them. Water trickled down the black stone and left iridescent trails behind it. Her feet glittered oddly in the bright sun.

“No.” she said softly, and rested her palm on the stone beneath her. “No I don’t quite think that’s quite it.”

As Razz opened his mouth, maybe to explain, the ground began to shake.

Brandon staggered and fought to keep his feet as the sand for three hundred feet in front of them started to rise out of the desert floor.

The rock Evalene sat on disappeared in a cloud of sand. Just before Brandon threw up an arm to cover his eyes he saw the kiddie pool get knocked aside, staining the sand dark with seldom-seen water.

When he lowered his arm, he realized that no picture could have prepared him for seeing a dragon for the first time.

Sand poured off the dragon’s immense body in waterfalls, red-gold against immense black scales. Billows and tiny dust devils formed in the backwash of huge wings, and sent grains of sand in every direction, a small, self-contained sandstorm with a dragon at the heart.

With a care Brandon wouldn’t have expected, the dragon mantled his wings slowly before flaring them out to their full width. His barbed tail lashed once before he settled back down onto the sand with his wings spread out across the ground to soak in the punishing sun.

His scales were black at first glance, but where the sun reflected off them they shone with green and blue iridescence. The rock Evalene had been seated on turned out to be the top of the dragon’s head and she lay there still, draped elegantly between his eyes.

Brandon tried not to flinch back when those terrible eyes fixed on him. They were as big around as tractor tires and glowed poisonous yellow-gold. His pupils were slitted like a cat’s and dilated to the smallest slivers in the bright sun.

‘What you mean, is that you fear the others and cannot control them.’

Brandon had been on the receiving end of telepathy twice before. One time with a witch caught in a bad situation and needing help. The other when he was in Ireland the previous summer helping their agency with a problem with the Fae.

Neither experience compared to the dragon’s overwhelming presence in his mind. His voice was deep and smooth, and edged with the promise of death. The bellow of overworked furnaces echoed in his lungs with every breath, and for a moment Brandon lost himself in the fire.

Somehow, Razz seemed unshaken and it was good, because suddenly all the breath had been stolen from Brandon’s lungs.

“We can’t find them.” The part-demon explained when he realized Brandon couldn’t, looking up at the dragon. “Rhys and Xaenxa are in the wind and last I heard, Thori was in Alaska.”

The explanation seemed to mollify the dragon somewhat and he lowered his head to the ground with an air of faint interest. Evalene dropped a hand to trace the tiny scales around his eyes and smiled faintly.

‘Rhys is in Moscow. Xaenxele plans to join him there soon if she has not already. Thori visits family in the Olympic mountains.’

“We can send jets to pick them up any time. Just say the word and-” Brandon started, but Evalene was already shaking her head.

“Thori hates airplanes. He’ll take the train,” She told them, sitting up and bracing one arm on the dragon’s scaly brow. “Rhys will fly himself and Xaenxa mistrusts private jets.”

Brandon thought fast. “We can arrange a first-class ticket on a commercial airline, if that would be better?”

“Much better, yes. And a private compartment for Thori?”

“No problem.”

Blaec turned his huge eyes on Razz.

‘The increase in our fee-‘

“The gold will be transferred to the usual safe-deposit box. The increase has already been included.” Razz said firmly. “And I’ll negotiate the others’ fees separately. The same as I always have.”

Satisfied, the dragon’s eyes slipped closed and he shifted into the sand comfortably.

‘Have my suit in the Regent Beverly Wilshire reserved for us. We will meet you there with the rest of the team in a week.’ He told them. He cracked one eye when Razz winced. ‘Relax, Demonkin. I won’t stretch your pitiful government budget to pay for it.’

“Thanks.” Razz sighed. “I appreciate it. Is there anything we can do for you? Besides the hotel reservation I mean.”

‘I want gold sheets on the bed.’

“Stop” Evalene rolled her eyes, a smile playing across her lips. “Ignore him, Razz. He’s not serious.”

‘Yes I am’

Razz laughed. “We’ll figure it out.” He said. “But I hope you’ll forgive me, Blaec, if I follow your wife’s orders.”

‘Troublesome woman.’ The dragon grumbled, but now that Brandon was getting used to the powerful mental voice, he could hear the affection in the complaint. Evalene only laughed.

“I’ll make it up to you, my love,” she told him, stretching herself out languidly on his nose. “But for now, Razz, please see to our accommodations. I’ll email I will you the information on where to have the tickets for Thori and Xaenxa sent.”

It was a dismissal and Brandon was glad for it. His heart had been pounding since that first moment when the desert sand began to rise. The blazing sun wasn’t helping matters. Death Valley was known as one of the hottest places on earth for a reason.

‘One more thing,’ Blaec said, his eyes closed again and his voice deceptively casual. ‘Tell the idiot back at your agency to stop trying to find my lair. His last attempt alarmed my wife.’

Evalene sighed. “I had forgotten about that. He’s right. Please put a stop to it. The good director managed to get a tracking bug into our dry-cleaning, and it exploded unexpectedly.”

“Tech doesn’t do well with magic sometimes.” Razz muttered to Brandon. More loudly, he added; “I’ll talk to him.”

‘See that you do.’

The dragon yawned hugely, and Brandon couldn’t keep himself from taking a half-step back. He could have driven a semitruck down the dragon’s throat, although he wouldn’t be getting it back any time soon.

Blaec’s teeth were longer than he was tall, and wickedly sharp. His tongue had a small bone spike set in the fork. It was used to strike a spark when the dragon breathed fire, and also for their distinctive language

Blaec’s eyes were cracked open again, and Brandon got the impression that he was being measured against some invisible standard.

‘So you’re the new one,’ He said thoughtfully. ‘I expect more intelligence out of you than the last one.’

Evalene trailed a hand over her husband’s scales. “Gently, my love.” She murmured. “I believe this one might know better what not to ask of us.”

The dragon snorted, sending sand and sulfur-scented air into their faces.

‘Is that so?’ he asked skeptically. ‘If you insist, my treasure. You know more about monkeys than I do.’

“That means he likes you,” Razz informed the Brandon with a grin. “Blaec, Evalene, We’re gonna head out. Lots to do in a week. Send me the information about Thori and Xaenxa and we’ll make sure they travel in style.”

‘Travel safely, Demonkin. You would be difficult to replace,’ Blaec commented, appearing to drift off into a light doze. Evalene raised a hand in farewell.

“We’ll see you in a week.” She assured them. “And don’t worry. Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

Brandon hoped she was right as they got back into the jeep and turned away over the dunes. Maybe, just maybe, they had a solution to the nightmarish problem on the horizon.

 +++

HGE - The Others

Through Shattered Glass

Sea and Sky

HGE - Smoke before Fire

The Legend, The Rumor

Deep Water and Scales

Black Scales and Open Spaces

Screams in the Dark

Warning Lights

Into the Wild

Nobility and Flames

+++

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[killmongerthirst]

Jealous

Request: “Hey! I don't know if you do requests but it would be amazing to read a t'challa x reader imagine where he falls in love for the reader (who he meets outside Wakanda) and bucky (already being there) tries to steal his girl lol so t'challa gets really jealous and does v fluffy stuff to prove bucky that she's not his girl hahaha idk I thought it could be interesting. Thank you <3″

Pairing: T’challa x reader, Bucky x reader (slightly)

Warnings: jealousy, language, fluff 

You had to meet T’challa and Bucky in the CIA headquarters. You were working beside Ross, normally doing assistant obs like bland paperwork, organizing emails, phone calls and getting him coffee, just normal mundane stuff, but Ross was kind and the pay was ridiculously good so you stayed. Whilst Bucky was being brainwashed by the 'Doctor' you had been downstairs with Natasha and Tony, fetching them paperwork on the accords, making them acknowledge their leadership and so on, but you had been violently interrupted by the huge sack of human muscle that attacked you all. Just before the super soldier stalked towards you, T'challa had pushed you out of the way, fighting the soldier whilst you lay on the floor, panicking.

 As you where lying on the cold floor, your wrist aching as you landed on it, you selfishly admired the muscles on both the men, watching them exchange punches and pushed, but overall, Bucky had managed to land a heavy blow to T'challas cheat, making him fall back and next to you on the floor.

You both shared intense eye contact with each other, your eyes wide and full of concern, almost mimicking his as he had a slight tint of mischieve in them. He smirked at you before crawling up again, racing after the soldier as the began to fight again of the staircase before he disappeared. T'challa looked around once more before rushing to your side, hoisting you up onto the nearest table, standing between your legs as he looked you over. A small cut had formed on the side of your face from your impact, and you had sprained your wrist. It wasn't anything major or important, but he acted as if you had broken your neck. You found his concern delightfully charming as you laughed, moving your hand to his face as you brushed your fingers over his own cut.

"You ok darling?" He asked, his eyes searching yours and his lips pouted slightly; he brought his hand up to cup your face as you smile sweetly, both of you giggling slightly as you felt the sparks fly between your skin.

"I'm fine, your highness," You whispered almost, your breath faltering as you unintentionally squeezed your thighs against his thick build. You heard him grunt as he wrapped you in his arms, lifting you up from the table so you could stand, your body flush against his as you looked up into his deep dark eyes, watching them shine as you stared at each other. You felt giddy, you had only met this man and you felt like you where already fall head over heels; like you had some silly high school crush all over again, and it was with the fucking king.

You pulled back abruptly as you heard a sly cough, looking over to see one of his guards 'Ayo' as you knew her She was looking you up and down like a disaster piece, making you step back a great deal more form the king, casting your gaze down to the floor. She walked over and whispered in his ear, not being able to hear their conversation as you detected it was in an unknown language and you couldn't hear them that well anyway.

"Of course Ayo, I'm bringing a guest," He replied, obviously louder than her crude whispered. You looked up at him, surprised and confused as he was just staring right back at you, smirking as he shooed Ayo away, holding his hand out for you. You gently took it in his as he leads you back to his designated office. You walked through multiple hallways and stairs, gaining looks of all sorts from the officers, walking past Agent Ross as he raised his eyebrows at you, yourself shrugging in return as he waved you on, being slightly dragged by T'challas mighty grip.

"Your majesty, where are we going?" You asked, stuttering almost as you ran to try and keep up with his giant steps.

"Please darling, call me T'challa or King, either way, I'm gonna get excited," He laughed, quickly winking at you as he now stepped faster, walking with a purpose. You approached a door, watching him violently opening it and just as quickly shutting it as yous tumbled in, your back turned against the edge of the large wooden desk, his body sauntering towards yours. He looked so damn delicious in that tight black top, your hands reached up to place your hands on his upper chest, his hands landing on yours as they intertwined, lifting each hand beside your bodies, as you watched him lean in slowly, teasing you as his smirk plastered his face. You rolled your eyes as you pushed forward, catching your body in his as your lips clashed against each other, moving in a dramatic fight as you both teased and played with one another. You were both dramatic, frantic and desperate to get more from each other, to feel more of the electricity that flowed through you. 

"Come away with me, princess," He sighed, his eyes closed as you both breathed heavily, your chests heaving up and down as you laughed.

"Anything, my King,"

Weeks had passed, and you had been copped up in T'challas quarters by his order; most days he would walk in and out, keeping you company most of the time, but in the last few days he had been more focused on work and extra. You had already been accepted by his little sister, becoming best friends within the first hour you arrived at the wonderful city, his mother took convincing to welcome an outsider in her own home, however, her heart warmed when she listened to her son talk fondly over you. other than that, not many people spoke to you, going on about their lives, ignoring that one weird girl that stayed in the Kings bedroom all day every day.

However, Shuri had convinced you to start coming out with her down to the border side to meet Sergent Barnes; helping her look after him and tend to him when she couldn't. You enjoyed having the company of another 'outsider', it made you feel less lonely, you and Barnes got on fine, his old antics made you giggle furiously as you spent most of your new acquainted time teaching him modern day stuff, like the cultures, politics, and stuff, whilst Shuri taught him about all the technology and his new prosthetics. You found yourself sending more time with Bucky than T'challa, you knew it wasn't his fault, as he had worked as King, and with the new Wakandan Outer Reach Centre, everyone was busy, accept you and Barnes. 

"So, hows you and the King?" Bucky asked, the two of you sitting on the lakeside, watching all the birds settle on the tops of the water, the sun glowing a low orange across the sky, the trees, and nature lining the lakeside perfectly. You two often came here together to get away from all the hustle of the inner city, plus Bucky enjoyed staying near the kids, who were deeply fascinated by him, and vice versa. You let out a deep sigh as you twiddled the single blade of grass in between your fingers, your feet swaying in the cool water beneath you. 

"We're fine, when I see him anyway," You said, a small sincere smile forming on your lips as you continued to look at the ground, "He spends most of his time with the Council, and when he gets back home is flat out like a light, just crashed on the bed, an when I wake he's gone again," You looked up to Bucky, who was looking out into the water, his eyes full of sorrow and worry. Your relationship with T'challa was confusing, more complicated than anyother you had; he had brought you to Wakanda with a promise to show you the world, treat you like a queen and love you unconditinatly, and you knew it was extreme, dropping everything for a man you had met for a few days, but there was just something about T'challa that made your heart flutter and your soul sing, he was the most precious and caring person you had ever meet, and youd be dammed if you ever let him go for the sake of your selfish needs. 

"I get you doll, I really do. But I mean he's running a whole country as well as helping others, it's not easy," He said, now cupping his hand on top of yours as he ran his thumb up and down, carving smooth patterns along his wake. You sat in silence, feeling more comfortable as you rested your head on his shoulder, just watching the sunset as the setting sun reflected off the smooth surface of the crystal water. You truly felt like you were in a dreamland, it was so beautiful, and you had the best company; you always contemplated if you were really in a coma from the events at the CIA office, but all your love felt too true to be a dream.

"I know he cares for you," Bucky spoke, more quiet than usual as his arm wrapped around you, digging your head further into his shoulder as you closed your eyes, more than ready to fall asleep right then and there. You're where so wrapped up in your own thoughts that you didnt hear your beloved stalk up behind you, watching in rage as the soldier's arms wrapped around you like you where his.

"Whats going on here?" He growled, making you quickly latch off of Bucky and stand to your feet, almost slipping from the wetness of your feet. You almost ran into T'challas arms, but the angered face he had stopped you from doing so, you noticed the slight tiredness and rage in his eyes, his hands clenched into tight fists as his stance was forward, looking ready to pounce.

"T'challa? You alright?" You asked, your voice wavering slightly as you reached your arm out to touch him, but he pulled back, making your heart sink right to the fucking floor. Your mouth fell open as you let out a small 'oh' and looked down, almost ashamed. 

"Look, man, I don't know what you think this is, but nothing was happening hones-" Bucky spoke before T'challa lunged at him, pinning him beneath his figure. Bucky did nothing to stop the attack, not wanting to do any more damage than he had to the both of you. T'challa didnt throw any punches or cuts as he just stood over Bucky, growling in his face as he looked like an animal, wild and possessive. Your arms wrapped around T'challas waist, holding tight as you leaned up to his side, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, feeling his muscles relax slightly as he began to regain his composure.

"Baby, I promise," You said, all of you now standing in a circle as you held out your pinky finger, watching as both T'challa and Bucky looked down at it in confusion. You rolled your eyes and forcefully wrapped your pinky around T'challas, watching his eyes light up as your skin touched, sending bolts of fire throughout your entire body. At that current moment, you felt the need for T'challa, to have him close, near you always; it was a selfish need and you didnt want anything less.

Suddenly, T'challas strong arms were wrapped around you so tight, your body flushed against his as he smashed your lips together. It felt just as magical as the first time you lip-locked, fireworks and sparks lighting all around you as a shiver went down your spine. Feeling his own warmth against yours made you blissfully happy as you smiled into the kiss, both of you giggling slightly as you continued to make out in front of the stunned soldier. You had almost forgotten he was still standing there, looking at you both in shock. Your hands traveled to the front of T'challa chest, resting on his hard abs as you traced the outlines of all his muscles, making him groan slightly into the kiss; you pulled back quickly, need to catch your breath and regain your sanity.

"Damn I guess I'll just go then," Bucky said, holding his hands in the air, chuckling at the two of you, embracing each other like a wedded couple. The moment was beyond perfect, the sky lit up by pink and purple light, the hue glowing off of T'challas face, making him look like a god compared to every man you had ever meet.

The next couple of days were better than the passing weeks, T'challa had gone out of his way to show you his country, spending more time with you during the day and tending to you gently every night. He had moved Bucky inside the palace, he said it was so the doctors and guards could keep a closer eye on him, but it was really so he could show off your relationship in front of him. Making you scream and beg every night loud enough so Bucky could hear it; kissing you every time he walked past you together, and pulling you away from him whenever you here looking after him. You knew it was irritating Bucky slightly, but you couldn't help but laugh every time, watching as Buckys mood changed as soon as T'challa touched you in front of him. 

Whenever you confronted T'challa about it, he would always act as if he was innocent, just 'sharing the love', but you knew the hint of mischief in his eyes everytime he would see Bucky. You would always roll your eyes at his behaviour, but you liked his neediness, watching him get possessive over you everytime a man would even look at you; it made you feel like a princess, proper and loved. 

"T'challa?" You hummed, both of you just laying on the bed together, placing your book on the countertop next to you, turning on your side to admire the King beside you. 

"Yes, my princess," He replied, looking up at you as his eyes twinkled, your cheeks blushing as you both just stared at each other.

"I love you," You whispered, you head coming down to rest on his chest, tracing small patterns onto his sides as you cradled him almost. You were so happy and content, you wanted to stay like this forever, just you and him against the world.

"I love you too, my darling," 

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [200]

“I’m cutting this down to the bones,” Lavellan says as she tosses her travel cloak at a servant standing by the door, who catches it and bows out of the room with the practiced ease of someone long used to Lavellan and her almost casual disregard for protocol, “Advisors, meet my Triumvirate, Triumvirate, meet my Advisors. And this the Iron Bull. Be civil, Hunter.”

A man with pale hair and a sharp mouth scowls but crosses his arms and glances at them before following after Lavellan into the council room.

“Don’t mind him,” A woman, also with pale hair, but with round, almost sleepy eyes says, “Mahanon’s like that to everyone, especially when he’s around the Most Holy of the Dales. Come. The Most Esteemed writes about the three of you often.”

The woman cuts a sly look at the Iron Bull and pointedly turns away and walks into the room after the other two.

There’s a third man inside, sprawled out on some cushions on the floor and grinning up at them, waving a hand, “Hail and well met, as they say.”

“A single show of respect is all that’s ever asked of you, and yet you fail every single time to meet that incredibly low standard, Mahariel. Stand up when the Most Holy enters a room,” Mahanon sneers, kicking at Mahariel as he passes.

Mahariel catches Mahanon’s ankle and flutters his lashes, “Call me Theron, dont make me beg, my love.”

“I continue to fail to see what the Most Holy sees in you,” Mahanon replies, shaking Mahariel off and moving on to stand in front of a long, heavy wooden desk that is covered in neat stacks of wooden scroll tubes and flat paper.

“An attempt at pretending to be civilized people,” Lavellan says, dry as she shrugs off her riding coat and throws that onto the chair behind the desk.

All three of the other elves in the room immediately stare with an incredibly unnerving focus on the bandaged stump of Lavellan’s arm. Mahariel stands up and the three elves stand in front of Lavellan’s desk and stare.

Lavellan lowers herself into her seat and waves the one arm she does have at them, “The one one the far left is Mahanon, my second in command over the Knights, Hunters, and Blades and former Master of Blades. I meant it when I said be civil, Mahanon. Theron Mahariel is my Speaker, he presides over court affairs, various official events and practices, as well as overall general peacekeeping. He would be, I suppose, my head Ambassador, Josephine. And Lyna Mahariel is my Hearthkeeper, she watches and maintains domestic affairs such as food stores, land distribution, general welfare, et cetera, et cetera. The Triumvirate is not quite as clean cut as the three of you.”

Lavellan waves between the three standing in front of her, “All three of them coordinate between all matters, not a single one of them is absolute in their domain. In example, all three of them practice various bard arts. Theron tends to control gossip and control public image, but Lyna can start and stop rumors as well as manipulate land distribution to suit our needs. Mahanon can send spies where he pleases, but Theron has secret informants all over. I expect that at first it will be difficult for the six of you to coordinate with one another given cultural differences and expectations. I trust that some sort of understanding will be worked out sooner rather than later.”

“Yes, most Holy,” The three elves chime.

Cullen nods, “Yes, Inquisitor.”

“It will be interesting, to be sure,” Leliana says.

Josephine smiles, “Everything starts somewhere. At least there is some common ground.”

Lavellan nods, “To business. What news?”

The members of the Triumvirate fall into attention, arms behind their backs and feet planted firmly, chins up.

“We have begun to pull out suspected spies of Fen’Harel - Solas,” Theron says, “It is not easy, but general public opinion is in our favor.”

“And the truth of the matter?”

“Concealed between those present. The Elder Council is unaware.”

“As are the High Priests, Most Holy,” Lyna adds on, “They continue to adhere to our edda’s. Many pray and leave offerings for you at the main shrine. There has been some unrest, concerning that. I believe it would be most beneficial for you to make a public appearance, especially since it is common knowledge that you have returned within our borders.”

Theron shifts on the balls of his feet, “Many, Most Holy, worry you returned to die.”

“Does it look that way to you?” Lavellan raises an eyebrow. “Continue with your report. What of the general attitude of the people?”

“The expected unrest,” Mahanon says, “Many want war and proper retribution. They are willing to fight for you, Commander.”

Lavellan taps her fingers on the wood and turns to Cullen, “What is the general feeling you get from our soldiers, Cullen? They are aware that there are traitors in our ranks, spies. If Inquisition forces were to begin working with the armies of the Dales in full would there be possible repercussions?”

“Honestly, Inquisitor, I believe that we do need the power but it may be a hard touch to the ego,” Cullen admits, “Many would think that the Inquisition is enough and that it should be the armies of the Dales that are subsumed into the army of the Inquisition I understand it would not be a true and real merge that is being suggested. However…”

“It would look as though the armies of the Dales are taking the lead,” Lyna finishes, “And it would, Most Holy, possibly cause unrest on our side as well. There are many who wish to march on Orlais, and have wanted that since before news of your near-assassination took place.”

“But will they remain on my side once it is revealed that it was the doing of Fen’Harel?” Lavellan asks, “And will they continue to remain on my side once his goals are made clear?”

“It depends,” Theron says slowly, “On how you spin this gold for them.

“I have a few ideas,” Lavellan says, “I believe that many would agree with me in saying that it does not matter the source of our gods. Once they became gods they were no longer the people they were. They became myths, more than themselves. Their identities were no longer their own. Their lives are ours to shape and dictate as we see fit. Such is the life of a public servant.”

“Yes, that is the general belief and attitude,” Lyna says, “But the harder struggle would be to avoid getting people to follow his cause out of desire and want.”

“Josephine and Bull have ideas for that,” Lavellan says, gesturing for Josephine to come forward. “I personally think that they are quite clever, however I have been somewhat out of touch with current emotional climes and do need your opinion before we proceed. Josephine, please.”

“The Inquisitor has mentioned that Solas has had spies within the Dales before, and that you have often caught them in acts of what could be considered treason or sabotage,” Josephine says, “And that his agents have been a destabilizing force for years. This could win public opinion, after all - it was Solas who. Who cut away the Anchor.”

“Fen’Harel tried to murder the Most Holy of the Dales,” Bull says, “After taking away a source of immense power for his own use. Go to your priests and use this as proof that Lavellan is in the right as a guard against negative forces and that her reign is watched over by a higher and greater good. Combine that with the idolization and transformation of historical figures into separate ideas and concepts and you’ll be good to go.”

“I like him,” Lyna says, “Can I have him?”

“No, your tastes aren’t compatible,” Lavellan says. “It would ultimately be very disappointing for you both in the end and I would rather spare you both the awkwardness since we will be working in close conjunction together for some time. Perhaps after we deal with the homicidal idealist with grand delusions of penance.”

“Excellent, can I have him?” Theron asks, batting his eyelashes at Bull with an exaggerated wink.

“No,” Lavellan says, “I forbid it, he’s too good for you.”

“The best thing about you becoming the Commander of the Dales and Most Holy of the People is that you never had to marry him,” Mahanon says and then casts Bull a considering glance, “I will take him.”

Lavellan scowls, “Absolutely not. What would you even want him for?”

“What do you want him for?” Mahanon fires back and Lavellan closes her eyes with a look of pure exasperation that screams for patience.

“Out with it. Whatever it is you’re just snapping at the bit to say, since you see much more exuberant than your usual self. Just spit it out. We don’t have time for you to be petty.“

“You should not have allowed yourself to be summoned like a dog,” Mahanon immediately replies, flatly and pointed. Lavellan narrows her eyes at him. Theron and Lyna both grimace. Mahanon stares straight back at Lavellan with an unwavering gaze. “You know it. I know it. We all, in this entire country know it. If only that were your first mistake.”

Cullen’s eyes widen. Josephine blinks rapidly. Leliana’s eyes just slide between the two.

Bull stares at the side of Mahanon’s head and wonders how the fuck he got this far without losing it, knowing Lavellan’s temper.

“I,” Lavellan says slowly breathing out as she spreads her palm flat on the table, “Am going to forgive your complete and utter idiotic lack of common sense in speaking to me that way when we are neither speaking in privacy or without my specific leave for you to drop formality, out of the goodness of my fucking heart.”

Theron and Lyna groan, shoulders sagging as they stare upwards at the ceiling.

“They couldn’t wait to get this done for after,” Theron sighs.

Lyna turns around and goes to sit on the cushions, snagging Josephine and Leliana by the arms, “Might as well sit. This is going to take a while. Mahanon’s been itching for this for months.”

“Right, want a drink? I don’t think we have anything quite strong enough to carry us through this piss contest,” Theron says dryly as he gestures towards a liquor cabinet lined up on the far wall, “But I’m sure it counts that we try.”

“Ah yes, the goodness of your heart that’s caused you to leave your country for almost four consecutive years,” Mahanon plows on, still standing at attention but practically glaring down his nose at Lavellan who’s curled her shoulders in her chair like someone ready to lunge. “The goodness of your heart that caused you to leave the false empress on the throne of Orlais. Do you mean that specific goodness of your heart, Commander?”

“Is it like this all the time?” Bull asks as he sits down on one of the cushions, accepting a crystal glass of something that smells faintly of dandelions from Theron.

“Oh you should see them around the holidays,” Theron laughs, “It gets explosive, really.”

“And this is - permitted,” Leliana says, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Not exactly,” Lyna admits. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s actually not,” Theron says.

“No,” Lyna sighs, raising her glass up, “It isn’t. Cheers, I suppose, to the return of the Most Holy, sounding in perfect form.”

“Really,” Theron says, giving the others pitying looks as the not-quite shouting match continues, “It is fine. That’s just how they show - affection.”

“Affection,” Bull repeats.

“Some siblings play a sport together,” Lyna says, “Some siblings share stories and write letters. Some of them share a hobby or craft. Some of them even hug each other.”

“And then there’s the Lavellan twins,” Theron says, “Mahanon is right, it’s very lucky that Ellana became the Most Holy and got our engagement annulled. I don’t think I would have survived marrying into that clan.”

“Cousin,” Lyna sighs shaking her head as she takes another generous drink of out of her crystal goblet, “You wouldn’t have survived the courtship announcement, let alone made it to the actual ceremony.”

[businessweekme]

Maldives, Dolomites, and Panama Top List of Most Memorable Trips

It’s always a whirlwind year of traveling when your job is to suss out the world’s most ambitious hotels and bucket list-worthy vacations. And while there were many individual moments that I’ll cherish from my travels in 2018—such as the benevolent spa therapist at Faena Miami Beach who practically raised me from the dead after a brutal conference—these are the destinations that made the most lasting impressions. I know I’ll return to all of them; follow in my footsteps and you likely will, too.

5. PanamaInstagram: Nikki Ekstein on Instagram: “Really e…

Conservation is an issue that’s close to my heart, so I was instantly drawn to the story of a billionaire who had acquired an entire archipelago off the Pacific coast of Panama, only to protect it from future development.

The glamorous castaway vibe starts when you land in the remote town of David, near the Costa Rican border, where guests are picked up in a no-frills boat (but offered Champagne on the spot). Then it’s off to Isla Cavada, where Louis Bacon now owns a nine-villa, ultra-luxury resort. The property, Islas Secas, is made for people like me who love to be on boats and in the water. I spent my days snorkeling, swimming in isolated beaches, exploring national parks, and “seabobbing” around the 14-island chain and the areas just beyond it. (What’s a seabob, you ask? It’s an expensive motorized kickboard that works above and below the water’s surface—and it’s tons of fun to play with.)

The whole trip also gave me an excuse to check out the Havana-esque scene in Panama City, where I had my most memorable meal of the year: a tasting menu at Donde José, highlighting the indigenous recipes of this legendary global crossroads.

4. The MaldivesInstagram: Nikki Ekstein on Instagram: “It’s lik…

I’d never really been curious about the Maldives. Having been raised in Miami, crisscrossing the globe just for a beach trip never felt worth it. But when I realized I’d be a half-hour’s flight away from the Maldivian capital of Malé while reporting a story on Sri Lanka’s luxury coming-of-age (see below), I couldn’t not take a detour.

The Maldives, it turns out, is not about the beaches. It’s about seclusion. From the deck of my duplex villa at Soneva Jani, there was nothing but still, turquoise ocean as far as the eye could see. And the water was so shallow, so clear, you could seemingly run a marathon toward the horizon without getting more than waist-deep, always surrounded by needlefish and the occasional school of colorful underwater critters. It was so shallow, in fact, that the private water slide in my room was safe only to operate at high tide.

Which leads me to the Maldives’s second calling card: The hoteliers here pull out more stops than anywhere else in the world. Apart from the water slide, my villa had a retractable roof over the bed and a walk-in pantry stocked with gummy bears, booze, and SPF 30. Of course, it all costs a pretty penny—as does every glass of wine, since alcohol imports are heavily taxed in the primarily Muslim country. But it’s unlike anything else in the world.

3. JapanInstagram: Nikki Ekstein on Instagram: “Kanazawa…

My first deep dive into Japan would probably rank on my all-time top-five-trips list, which tells you something about the quality of these last few destinations.

As with the safari I took two years ago, Japan was a trip that I’d been mulling for the better part of a decade—one that required my husband and me to save up ample vacation days (nearly three weeks’ worth) and a budget to match. We had soy sauce ice cream in Kanazawa (it’s better than it sounds), impeccable tempura in Tokyo, oysters the size of my whole hand in Miyajima, and a Japanese kaiseki meal prepared entirely in a brick oven in Kyoto. We bought authentic Japanese denim in the ultra-charming town of Kurashiki, learned to make raku-style pottery and meditate with a Buddhist monk, and slurped buckwheat noodles made from home-milled flour in a tiny town near Shirakawa-Go. Every morning at Auberge Maki No Oto, we were served rice grown on the hotel owner’s farm in Takayama; at Ryokan Kurashiki, the general manager doubled as our personal guide. It was an intimate look at a country that’s too often seen as difficult to access—but is actually incredibly warm, welcoming, and easy to navigate.

Of course, insider access helps: we used Black Tomato as our travel agent for a running start, then added a few experiences recommended from industry friends at Remote Lands and Ryokan Collection. I’d recommend booking with any of them for a truly next-level trip.

  2. The Dolomites, ItalyInstagram: Nikki Ekstein on Instagram: “He’s the…

The world is so large, I try to avoid going the same place twice. But with the Dolomites, in northern Italy, I’ll break that rule again and again.

I’ve never had a better ski lunch than the one at Rifugio Averau, a mountain hut in the Cinque Torri region (not to be confused with Cinque Terre on Italy’s west coast), where a roughly €15 ($17) pasta platter came heaped with impeccable speck tortelloni and hand-cut pappardelle al ragu. Closer to the Austrian border, in the town of San Cassiano, the menus gravitate more toward schnitzel and streusel—a curious culinary divide. And everywhere, the base lodges had thick, sipping chocolate topped with panna, that lightly sweetened Italian cream. (You’re not going to the right places if you think skiing isn’t a gateway to good eating.)

As for the slopes? They proved ideal for my taste: plenty of gentle, scenic terrain interspersed with not overly challenging steeps and intermediate-friendly circuits. (As a bonus, we never waited more than a minute or two to get on the lifts.) And what sounds like a catch was really a perk. Fewer ski-in, ski-out hotels make you need wheels to get around, but driving from town to town opens up a world of cultural contrasts and jaw-dropping panoramas. Add a growing list of luxury accommodations, from Ciasa Salares to Rosa Alpina to Cristallo, a Luxury Collection hotel in the luxury town of Cortina, and it’s no wonder that the Dolomites warrant regular, if not annual, returns.

1. Sri LankaInstagram: Nikki Ekstein on Instagram: “Official…

There are so many reasons we travel: to get away, to expand our horizons, to spend time with family, to relax. Sri Lanka delivers on any of those counts, but it also goes so much deeper.

Sure, the beaches in Galle are as pristine as those anywhere in Southeast Asia. A safari drive through Yala National Park can get you leopard and elephant sightings, plus up-close-and-personal time with majestic peacocks and feisty macaques. And a lazy day in tea country can unlock meaningful conversations about civil war, social progress, and the power of tiny white-tipped plants to transform economies and lives. Seaplanes—and resorts by the trailblazing luxury hotelier Resplendent Ceylon—connect all these disparate locations into a tight and mesmerizing web, with facets so distinct it’s unclear how they all fit together on a single island.

It turns out that the connective tissue, though, is exactly what makes Sri Lanka so special. All around the country, tourism is unlocking tremendous opportunity; locals are invested in preserving and showcasing their culture and the natural assets they’ve been blessed with, and travel industry trailblazers such as Malik Fernando are giving them the toolkit and platform to do just that. It’s impossible to visit without becoming invested in the country’s upward mobility, to be moved by the community development and conservation initiatives pushing Sri Lanka forward, or to resist the temptation to extend your itinerary to see even more. Its abundance—of experiences, of generosity, of optimism—left me recharged, reinvigorated, and uplifted. In an era when so many of us travel just to get away from the daily grind of work and politics, nothing could be more impactful.

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