#elaine ho | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

zenkindoflove · 10 months ago

Note

10 desperately

For Elucien, but like, not an established relationship.

10...desperately.

Okay, Anon. This one got smutty. I mean, I read desperately and that's where my brain went. So this is very NSFW.

10…desperately

Elain closed her bedroom door, taking her first deep breath of the day.

He was here, of course. And because he was here, that meant that her body was not her own. Her nose could always pick up his scent, even when he was in the adjacent room. Her eyes always found him, trailing over his lean frame, noticing how nicely his pants fit him. And her ears could hear the consistent beating of his heart, thud thud, thud thud, thud thud.

It also meant that a more primal possession controlled her emotions. The part of her that ached for his touch.

She ignored it, of course. It was improper and senseless. Her mate was still a stranger to her, and despite the call of the mating bond, Elain was determined to maintain some of her dignity.

An entire day of ignoring her instincts left her sore and sensitive. As she slipped on her nightgown, the brush of the fabric against her nipples infused a whimper in her throat. She squeezed her core, her sex tingling with desire. It had been like this since she was Made. As a human, she remembered having a libido, but whether it was being a Fae or the mating bond, Elain found that her sexual hunger could be insatiable at times. Lucien usually had the good sense to not stay the night, and she was able to take care of her needs without him in the house. However, tonight she had heard him agree to Feyre’s offer, citing that he had a little too much to drink.

She could still hear his heart beating through the wall. He was put in the room down the hall, and if she listened close enough, she was sure she could hear his feet rustling against the floor as he got ready for bed.

She slid under her covers, keeping her hands over the comforter. She closed her eyes, laying on her side, squeezing her thighs tightly together. She could ignore this. She could fall asleep.

Her thoughts drifted as she laid there. She thought about what Lucien could be doing at that very moment. Was he lying in bed as well? Did he sleep in pajamas, or just sleep pants? Maybe he wore nothing to bed at all. Maybe beneath his sheets, he was hard, his cock aching to be touched like her pussy ached now. Maybe he ran his hand over himself, rubbing his palm against his shaft once to try and relieve some of the pressure.

Elain rolled over on her stomach, pulling her top sheet around her and bunching it up underneath. She grinded her mound against it, seeking pressure on her throbbing clit. She knew that this alone wasn’t enough to fully satisfy her, but maybe she could soothe the growing need. Chase it away, at least until morning. She thought of Lucien. She had never seen his body, but she had a fantasy in her mind of what he would look like. She rocked her hips, biting her lip as the little release of pleasure only built her growing momentum. It seemed to only make her hunger worse. She groaned, rolling on her back as she stared up at the ceiling.

She felt something new. Some new desire filled her chest. It was raw and jagged. It sunk its teeth into her and she purred, letting the new sensation stroke her up and down. Up and down, and then Elain realized, this desire was not her own. She popped her eyes open in surprise, as she pieced together what was happening. She was feeling Lucien’s arousal down the bond. And he was…taking care of himself.

It was still her imagination, but she could see him more clearly now. He was naked, lying on his back in bed, stroking his erection in his fist, his head thrown back with his eyes closed shut.

Elain bunched the bottom of her nightgown in her fists, pulling it up and over her breasts. She usually didn’t wear underwear to bed, and she immediately slid her fingers through her folds. She was soaking wet, her day-long arousal making her slick and ready. She explored first, feeling how swollen she had become, toying with her entrance as she tweaked one of her nipples, until she focused on the spot that she knew would take her all the way. She rubbed her clit slowly, more than familiar now with how much pressure and speed she needed. She could make this quick. If she could feel him, she knew he would be able to feel her. It terrified and excited her all at once.

It was different this time. It felt like she had an audience, and it made her even more sensitive. She stroked her clit faster and faster, already a surge building inside of her. She could feel Lucien peaking too, his energy ferocious and needy. But just as she approached the edge of oblivion, she suddenly hit a wall. Her acceleration stopped and she petered out.

“No,” she whined, and she tore her nightgown over her head. She still ached, having the distinct need to be filled, and filled by something big. Something that was just on the other side of the bond, still edging on the brink.

She felt desperate. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight, but she had been dealing with all of this on her own for two, long, excruciating years. Her body was not her own as it tugged on the bond.

Lucien winnowed in front of her bed in an instant, completely naked. His eyes trailed over her body, drinking her in before he prowled forward on his hands and knees across the bed. His body was even better than she imagined. All lean muscles and broad, thick shoulders and biceps. Elain held her breath as he hovered over her, and she darted her sight down, taking in that thick cock that stood in attention against his flat abs. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t touch her, as he waited for her to make the first move.

She snatched him by the back of his head and pulled his face down to kiss him. She poured her desperation into that kiss. The need for him that never stopped bleeding. The pain of her own stubbornness, of her fear and her reluctance. How she couldn’t bring herself to think of what a first step might be. What knowing him would do to her. How she understood that after just one touch, she would be his forever. How she kept herself at a distance, not ready for forever yet.

But oh, she had to be ready now, didn’t she?

Her kiss was a signal for Lucien to finally let go. He kissed her with tongue, diving and lapping at hers, showing her exactly what the promise of his body held. His mouth never left hers as he slid his fingers through her slit, picking up where she left off as he circled her clit until she clung to his shoulders, and he swallowed her cry of ecstasy while she climaxed against his hand.

As Elain came down from her high, the aching, desperate need was gone, satiated by Lucien’s expert fingers. But a new temptation cast a spell over her. She hooked her knees over Lucien’s hips, crossing her legs behind him as she pulled him flush against her sex. As Lucien tore his mouth away from hers, she chased after him with her tongue, swiping a lick over his teeth and lips. He dropped his face to the crook of her neck, inhaling with a deep sniff, before groaning and pulling his hips back. He reached a hand between them, lining his cock up at her entrance.

He didn’t push inside of her immediately, and Elain grew impatient with his hesitancy. She practically growled, tightening her legs around his ass and pushing him forward.

She only took moments to adjust before Lucien quickened his thrusts. They both knew this would be fast, neither of them considering taking it slow. This wasn’t about learning each other's bodies. This was about soothing a burn. Elain grabbed a fist full of Lucien’s hair, tugging him down so that he could kiss her again. She wanted him to fill her mouth as well as her pussy. He pounded into her, his hard, fast movements building her up again, this time to a peak fiercer and more dangerous. Elain realized she was meeting his thrusts too, jutting her hips forward so that her clit grinded against his pelvis. She forgot about being quiet, and as her orgasm crashed through her, the most feral wail rang out of her throat. Lucien groaned as he collapsed on top of her, chanting the word “Fuck” over and over into her ear.

Elain loosened the grip on his hair, running her hands over his scalp in a gentle caress. Her entire body tingled, a hazy, blissful fog making her forget that she and Lucien had barely spoken ten words to each other since they met. She cradled him, loving the way he felt still hard inside of her. Once the haze faded, she knew they were in for the most awkward pillow talk of all time. But for now, she basked in the moment, feeling whole inside her body for the first time.

Kiss prompts.

#elucien #elain archeron #elain x lucien #lucien vanserra #pro elucien #elucien fanfiction #elucien smut #kiss asks #ask games #okay but everyone should be proud of me #because i actually wrote a smut scene in 1500 words #i deserve an award

120 notes · View notes

extremely-judgemental · 23 days ago

Text

Long Post

One of the questions in the game was this.

Who is worse?

Azriel: For his “three sisters for three brothers” entitlement

Elain: For choosing to dally with a male while her mate was in the same house, whom she refuses to accept or reject even after a year of knowing of the bond

The result was obvious. Azriel won this round. But I’m gonna be a little controversial here.

Before proceeding, I want to emphasise that Azriel’s beliefs are disturbing, his entitlement is wrong, and the gifting of the discarded necklace (in addition to what it stood for) to Gwyneth is downright disrespectful. Also, Elain has the right to time and space to heal and pursue whoever and however she wants.

Fair warning: I am anti-elucien and anti-elriel. I hate both ships when I otherwise don’t give two fucks about romances. The following is purely a logical analysis based on the characters alone and the impact of their actions. I love analogies and hypotheticals, this will be full of it. And MANY sections because there’s too much going on for me to keep track of and I’m too tired to edit this. Good luck keeping up.

Azriel

Azriel has been in love with Morrigan all his life and only ever made a move once, after he found her close to death. Since her rejection, he leaves her alone. He has been living with this humiliation for five centuries.

When Morrigan flirts with Helion in Dawn Court, Azriel disappears for that night. He exhibits similar behaviour during the solstice party choosing to isolate himself around Lucien and Elain.

Given his low self-esteem, he wouldn’t actively seek another woman. He would repress his urges and desires like everything else. And so, he doesn’t pursue Elain openly.

It’s not to disregard his attitude towards Lucien but Azriel wouldn’t declare the Blood Duel only because of his belief. And if he did, that would be public humiliation if Elain rejected him and favoured her mate instead.

His confidence only comes to the surface after he is convinced Elain wants him, which is understandable—fighting for someone who loves him. Her interest in him reinforces the idea that she is wrongfully ‘given’ to another.

Also, this take by @goldenspringmornings explains his perspective very well.

#also imo it’s not even really that creepy of him #azriel is an abuse victim who’s likely not even aware of the toxic relationship he’s stuck in #he’s seen twice now that self worth and happiness with in the ic is dependent on having a mate #and more specifically an archeron sister through cassian and rhysand #he’s desperate for elain because the people closest to him are modeling/encouraging that sort of behavior #it’s not even really about elain herself it’s that he wants to fit in with the ic and have that sort of happiness he’s been searching for #for centuries that rhys/cass just had handed to them

Elain

After the solstice party, the two run into each other and exchange presents. Acceptable. But later, Elain is the one initiating intimacy by asking Azriel to help with the necklace.

Elain has the right to figure herself out and what she wants out of life, and if that life includes her mate. She deserves that chance and choice. But, did she have to do it the one night Lucien was in the court, let alone the same house? Why did she pick this exact moment when she and Azriel lived in the same city?

Let’s not dismiss Elain as naive. The first time she talks to Lucien, she says that she can hear his heartbeat through the walls. (And the worms in dirt and leaves and more which I don’t particularly remember) Someone with such awareness of fae abilities and her still almost kissing another man, or going beyond that, when Lucien is merely rooms away is quite brutal and heartless.

Elain, moreover, knows what she is doing. She has been living with Rhysand and Feyre since she turned fae. Even without understanding the bond, Elain saw the pain Feyre was in when Rhysand briefly died during the war and she witnesses their relationship every day in River House. She doesn’t have to fully accept the concept of it but she can’t be that blind to it unintentionally either. (Do not bring in ‘Rhysand is manipulative’ and ‘Elain is protecting herself’ here. The narrative is biased in favour of Feysand, this will never be acknowledged, and Rhysand is Elain’s future bestie. She’s not going to be scared of him. Let’s move on.)

Assuming, Elain is in the ‘I won’t yet accept I’m a fae’ mentality like Nesta was in Silver Flames, the only thing that comes close to a mating bond by human standards is a forced betrothal. If she didn’t want to learn about it, she should at least be curious about how to escape it, and instead, she is stringing her mate along while simultaneously pursuing another. Since the plot is set in medieval times, that’s scandalous for a proper lady.

‘Elain doesn’t owe Lucien’

I agree. She doesn’t owe a proper relationship because of the bond. But Lucien never pressured her. He gets her presents when he visits and checks on her, all out of courtesy. Not to forget, he isn’t over Jesminda and believes even after her death that she was meant to be his mate.

As of now, Elain has complete freedom over her life. In Frost and Starlight, Feyre barely tries to talk Elain into giving Lucien a chance and backs off immediately when Elain opposes. Morrigan too advises Feyre not to meddle.

The only pressure is the mating bond itself. And iirc the distance helps to tamper it and that’s why Lucien chooses mortal lands over Night and has his own home in Velaris.

So, there is no ‘owing’ in the narrative? Although, she does owe an answer or, at the least, an honest conversation.

‘Azriel should back off because of the bond’

This is a man who has been waiting for a woman to reciprocate his feelings for 500 years. Why would he throw away the little attention he is receiving from someone for the first time? If anything, it explains why Azriel is being aggressive and protective of it.

Also, Lucien is neither a friend nor a brother for him to be considerate as he is with Cassian and Morrigan. He has no reason to prioritise Lucien’s feelings over his own. That almost kiss, in his mind, is essentially Elain rejecting her mate.

Why would he care about Lucien when he is just a pawn for Night? Besides, Azriel doesn’t have as much loyalty to his court as he does to Rhysand.

If Elain picks Azriel, will he be expected to respect the bond and send her off with Lucien or will there be an outcry that Elain’s ‘choice’ is more important? Will he be expected to put Lucien’s sanity above Elain’s wants?

Is Elain ever responsible for anything?

If Elain chooses Azriel, Lucien will leave Night entirely and live with Band of Exiles untethered from the Inner Circle.

If Elain chooses Lucien, Azriel will continue to pine quietly, only for a different woman, until he finds his mate.

If Elain chooses literally any other person, the reactions of the two men will remain the same.

Aren’t her deeds so far dictating how these men act around her?

If matters had escalated on the solstice night, what then? None of the Inner Circle likes Lucien. Rhysand reprimands only Azriel because of the political stakes. He goes as far as to manipulate Azriel by bringing Morrigan into conversation after choosing to stay silent in that matter for so long. He had no issues interfering in Nesta’s life for his brother, but he let Elain alone when Lucien is integral to his court and he has witnessed Azriel’s suffering for centuries?

And let’s say, Lucien is aware of what transpired that night. Who would truly care about him? He is not the kind to confront Elain as he definitely hasn’t exuded any entitlement towards her. If he did, who would take his side? In fact, his emotional state will be exploited to further belittle him and remind him how he wronged another Archeron sister.

Honestly, whenever Elain is involved, none of the other characters can ever win because ‘Elain is Elain’.

She isn’t a fool to not know her actions will lead to conflict between the two men. Will she be blamed for hurting Lucien or going for Azriel while being mated?

If anything, this will be Morrigan 2.0. One is already labelled ‘entitled’ for merely bringing presents and the other is reduced to a horny man-child. But as long as they fight each other while Elain ends up scot-free and with a comfortable life, the consequences be damned.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate that she is exploring her options. With Azriel, she might feel ‘seen’ which is what she wants. She also gets that with Lucien (proven in their first meeting) although she is ignoring him in a way to resist the bond. My problem is that she goes for another man when Lucien could probably hear or sense what she is doing, and I believe, it is intentional on her part. She is running away from making a decision and indirectly pushing Lucien to do it for her.

So ultimately, for me, the deciding factor on the ‘three sisters analogy’ is: Would Azriel have still challenged Lucien if Elain showed no interest in him? This is very telling from the fact that he didn’t woo her even when they were alone. Elain makes the first move. Elain consents to the kiss without being asked.

IT STILL DOESN’T GIVE HIM THE RIGHT TO BE THAT ARROGANT BECAUSE OF SOME ATTENTION THOUGH. THAT WAS STILL GROSS. (Stating it again before someone twists my words against me.) He does need to do A LOT of healing before he approaches any woman romantically.

Azriel is twisted, I admit. His feelings aren’t entirely genuine or good-natured although it’s understandable given the circumstances. Also, he lacks certain awareness to grasp concepts regarding relationships and boundaries, which all go back to his past and the toxicity in Inner Circle. At the end of the day, his thoughts are just that and haven’t gone beyond threats so far.

The same can’t be said for Elain. This behaviour combined with everything we know of her comes off as selfishness (which I am not going to repeat). Knowing her actions will inevitably hurt someone, or solely intended to push Lucien away, is just manipulation.

In her book, this will be sympathised with as her rebellion, her passive-aggressive stance to resist the bond especially when its pull is stronger because of the proximity. IF THIS EVER IS ADDRESSED. All of her actions will be blamed on her lost love and trauma.

Everyone is fixating on Azriel which is overshadowing Elain’s cruelty. And the ones who notice it like to go with ‘women’s choice’, when in no way, Elain is choiceless in this specific scenario. She can choose to accept or reject the bond whenever she wants and live with whoever she wants. Inner Circle will stop or stand by Azriel depending on her choice. Inner Circle will continue to protect her from Lucien until she shows any feelings for him and then look for a way to ground him in Velaris (unless Feyre gives the okay to let her sister leave).

The plot until now revolved around her sisters and that’s why we know so little about what she’s doing in the background. But the prolonged timeframe and Elain’s inactivity don’t paint her as a simple, harmless woman dealing with her trauma, but as someone who is exploitative and prefers to hide behind someone on purpose. It’s not enough to throw in an ‘I’m sick of being invisible’ or ‘I’m not a toy to be won over’ dialogue around when her actions speak for themselves. No amount of blaming her chosen mask on others (Nesta) is going to undo all this.

If you’re still confused about whose side I’m on: Azriel is lame but I get him. Elain is bad. Lucien is an angel and everyone in Night should leave him tf alone.

#apparently brevity is not my suit #like AT ALL #if you read this to the end you are more invested in this drama than you should be #ignore that it's coming from someone who wrote this #praying that tumblr algorithm doesn't screw me over this time #azriel critical #pro lucien #anti elain #anti elriel #anti elucien #anti rhysand #anti feyre #anti cassian #anti morrigan #anti feysand #pro nesta #anti acotar #anti sjm

40 notes · View notes

nitrateglow · 1 month ago

Text

Favorite films discovered in 2024

This year, I focused more on rewatching films I hadn't seen in a long time rather than racking up new titles. However, I still encountered plenty of new faves, many of them movies that have been on my watchlist for years. Here are the top twenty.

But first, some interesting patterns in this year's list...

Most represented decade: 1960s

Earliest film represented: 1932

Newest film represented: 1999

Creatives who show up more than once: Robert Mulligan, Walter Matthau, Boris Karloff

The Window (dir. Ted Tetzlaff, 1949)

A young boy (Bobby Driscoll) living in a squalid NYC apartment building witnesses his neighbors (Paul Stewart and Ruth Roman) committing a murder. Unfortunately, the kid's penchant for tall tales prevent anyone from believing him-- except for the killers, eager to alleviate themselves of an inconvenient witness.

Precious few thrillers earn the moniker “Hitchcockian” as well as this intense little gem from RKO. The Hitchcock vibes make sense when you consider Hitchcock’s cinematographer from Notorious was in the director’s chair and the source material was written by Cornell Woolrich, also responsible for the short story behind Rear Window. Augmented by on-location photography of New York City and a grimy, desolate sense of urban decay, The Window is both a great suspense yarn and classic film noir. Despite having a kid for a lead character, the film pulls no punches: both its small-time crook villains and the city setting feel palpably dangerous.

My Neighbors the Yamadas (dir. Isao Takahata, 1999)

The Yamadas, an average middle-class Japanese family, navigate the perils of sharing a television set, a kid going missing during a shopping trip, awkward wedding speeches, and other misadventures.

Between the original Studio Ghibli directorial duo of Hayao Miyazaki and Isao Takahata, Miyazaki will always be the more popular filmmaker, but I think Takahata’s films are more intellectually and emotionally rewarding. This is not meant as a hit on Miyazaki’s undeniable greatness, but Takahata’s movies are far more challenging. That being said, My Neighbors the Yamadas is a lighter entry in his filmography, a slice of life comedy about the eponymous family and their shenanigans in modern Japan. However, beneath the whimsical humor runs an undercurrent of melancholy, an awareness of the transience of life in both its lovely and absurd moments. To date, it gets my vote for the most underrated Ghibli film.

A New Leaf (dir. Elaine May, 1971)

After squandering his ample inheritance, a middle-aged New York layabout (Walter Matthau) decides to marry an eccentric botanist (Elaine May) for her money then murder her ASAP.

Elaine May only directed a few films, but the two I’ve seen—this and the long-maligned Ishtar—were a lot of fun. A New Leaf is the better film though, far more focused and consistently funny. I don't usually belly laugh when watching a movie at home alone, but I did several times here. Even just thinking about some of the things that happen in this film can make me start laughing again. I understand the existing version was not May’s preferred cut and she felt it was butchered by the studio. Even so, this is a great movie regardless of that and one I really want to rewatch soon.

Cash on Demand (dir. Quentin Lawrence, 1961)

Uptight, unpleasant bank manager Harry Fordyce (Peter Cushing) is the boss from hell to his employees, but to criminal extraordinaire Gore Hepburn (Andre Morrel), he's the key to a successful heist. Posing as an insurance representative to get access to Fordyce's office, Hepburn tells the manager he's holding his wife and child, whose lives will be forfeit if he doesn't help him relieve the bank of ninety thousand pounds.

Ho, ho, ho, guess who's got a new Christmas classic to enjoy every year? Cash on Demand is not only a strangely enervating riff on A Christmas Carol's basic set-up (a miserable man is spiritually redeemed through an encounter with ghosts-- or in this case, bank robbers), but it's one of the best, tightest one-location thrillers I have ever seen. I genuinely had no idea where the story was going and found myself in absolute agony as the noose grew tighter around our protagonist's neck. It's a testament to both the writing and Peter Cushing's detailed, very human performance that this film is the emotionally powerful piece of work that it is, and not just a fun, clockwork heist yarn.

Letter from an Unknown Woman (dir. Max Ophuls, 1948)

While trying to evade a duel, an aging playboy (Louis Jordan) receives a letter from a dying woman (Joan Fontaine) who claims he was the love of her life. The letter recounts the details of their love affair, which was the centerpiece of this woman's life and only a mere erotic interlude in his.

The best way to describe this movie is lush romantic melodrama married to a bitter, emotionally brutal tale of a life wasted. The movie is heartbreaking but beautifully shot and performed. I’m not always the biggest fan of Fontaine, but she is fantastic here. Also, I need to watch more Max Ophuls.

Sudden Fear (dir. David Miller, 1952)

A middle-aged playwright (Joan Crawford) thinks she’s found love with a would-be matinee idol (Jack Palance)—instead she realizes she’s being targeted by her new hubby, who only wants her wealth. But he mistakes her emotional vulnerability for a lack of discernment—and a lack of desire to get even.

I like my women-in-peril thrillers when they feature clever heroines driven to survive whatever nightmare their antagonists throw at them and Sudden Fear is amazing in this regard. I know everyone loves Joan Crawford best in Mildred Pierce, but I was floored by her performance here, especially in the dialogue-free scenes. There are campy moments (which I adore), but the story is emotionally compelling and I not only wanted Joan's character to survive, but to thrive post-shitty marriage.

Thieves Like Us (dir. Robert Altman, 1974)

Young lovers Bowie (Keith Carradine) and Keechie (Shelley Duvall) yearn for a white picket fence, a quiet porch, and a case of Cokes (probably because that's all they drink in this film). Too bad Bowie is an escaped convict tied up with bank robbers. Too bad it's the Great Depression. At least there's plenty Coke. Want a Coke?

Most films set in the past do not as painstakingly recreate bygone worlds as strongly as Thieves Like Us. Set in Depression era Mississippi, this film captures the harsh, bleak reality and romantic, consumerist fantasies of its star-cross’d leads, played with sensuous naivete by Keith Carradine and the late, great Shelley Duvall. This is more than just yet another Bonnie and Clyde riff—it’s a tragedy about the elusive American Dream, with snippets of radio music, programs, and ads acting as a Greek chorus in a truly inspired touch. Robert Altman can be an acquired taste, but this is easily my favorite of his films to date.

Targets (dir. Peter Bogdanovich, 1968)

The paths of an aging horror star (Boris Karloff) and a psychotic mass shooter (Tim O'Kelly) cross at a drive-in theater.

Targets was not what I expected: it's a threeway character study between the disheartened horror star, the psychotic shooter, and 1960s America itself. To be honest, you could remake this movie now with a former ‘80s slasher star making the same musings and it would still seem credible—but then of course, you wouldn’t have Karloff in one of the best performances of his career. Targets is rendered even more chilling by its docudrama style. The violence shown isn’t sensationalistic, but presented in clinical detail, making it feel more authentic. Gorier films haven’t frightened me as much as this slow-burn character study.

Losing Ground (dir. Kathleen Collins, 1982)

Despite finding pleasure in research and theory, philosophy professor Sara Rogers (Seret Scott) envies the escatic nature of her painter husband, Victor (Bill Gunn). Their difference in temperaments and Victor's adulterous straying also strain the marriage. However, once Sara takes a job performing a sensuous, emotional role in a student film to get in touch with her own artistic side, Victor grows suspicious and jealous in turn.

Losing Ground was sold to me as a film about a crumbling marriage, but it's more than that. It might be more accurate to call it a portrait of self-discovery, a woman extending beyond her comfort zone to live more fully. I found myself strongly relating to Sara-- like her, I have a creative side I've often been timid to share, being more comfortable with the mind than the body. Being an independent film, it eschews the Hollywood histrionics and melodrama that would normally accompany this subject matter and it's paced perfectly at 90 minutes. Though filmed in the early '80s, the film only played the film festival circuit and never enjoyed a proper theatrical release. Only in 2015 was it rediscovered and then released on home video. The director Kathleen Collins died young, but this film stands a testament to her passion and talent.

Cactus Flower (dir. Gene Saks, 1969)

A middle-aged dentist (Walter Matthau) who poses as a married man to fend off romantic commitment decides to buckle down and wed his much younger girlfriend (Goldie Hawn, looking like a mod Tinker Bell). However, when she insists on speaking with his made-up wife, he recruits his no-nonsense nurse (Ingrid Bergman) into the charade.

Cactus Flower is what I often call a transitional film: released in the late ‘60s, it has one foot in the classical style of Old Hollywood and another in the more liberated counterculture that was shooting out hits like Easy Rider and The Graduate. Directed with unexciting competence by Gene Saks, Cactus Flower’s success largely comes from Ingrid Bergman, Goldie Hawn, and Jack Weston. Bergman I could watch in anything, so I’m biased perhaps, but she walks the fine line between funny and touching as the lonely woman who finds emotional liberation through her roleplaying. The scene where she gets groovy on the dance floor is a highlight of her entire screen career and no, I AM NOT KIDDING.

The Black Room (dir. Roy William Neill, 1935)

Two aristocratic brothers (both Boris Karloff) are at odds over the love of a young woman (Marian Marsh) and an ancient prophecy forecasting the end of their bloodline.

Boris Karloff dives into a double role in this deliciously gothic melodrama. Columbia pulled out all the stops for this one: it drips with sumptuous set design and expressionistic lighting. I was particularly taken by this film’s slightly tongue-in-cheek approach to a more 18th century mode of gothic terror. It goes for full-blooded melodrama with its innocent maidens, secret dungeons, lecherous villain, and ancient curses. It’s as close to a 1930s Castle of Otranto adaptation as we’ve got and by God, I'm grateful for its existence.

Freud: The Secret Passion (dir. John Huston, 1962)

In the late 1880s, young psychiatrist Sigmund Freud (Montgomery Clift) probes into the inner lives of his "hysterical" patients to discover the roots of their mental illnesses. However, these journeys into the subconscious worlds of others bring him into uncomfortable contact with his own demons.

Listening to a podcast episode on John Houston’s Key Largo led me to works of his I hadn’t heard of, such as Freud. I was initially skeptical it could be good. Biopics are my least favorite genre, but this film isn’t so much a biopic as a psychological drama in which Freud is the protagonist and some of his ideas are illustrated through his interactions with the other characters. Instead of wasting time being some melodrama ABOUT Freud the man (the route most biopics go regarding their subjects), it’s about his theories and philosophy, which is a far more interesting approach. The result is a probing, intellectual work. I’m not sure how close Montgomery Clift’s characterization is to the real Freud, but the real star of the show is Houston’s direction, a resurrection of German expressionist aesthetics blended with stark realism.

Paris is Burning (dir. Jennie Livingston, 1990)

This documentary covers 1980s NYC ball culture, where Black and Latino members of the LGBT+ community vogue and perform.

Documentaries are not usually my thing, but Paris is Burning was a longtime resident of my watchlist and I am glad I finally got around to seeing it. It has a time capsule quality, capturing a long-vanished 1980s New York City and the LGBT+ community living there at the time. Obviously, there is a lot of meditation on gender identity, sexuality, and the importance of community in a world hostile to your very existence, but I was also interested by the film's presentation of the materialism and consumption of the Reagan era.

Candyman (dir. Bernard Rose, 1992)

A graduate student (Virginia Madsen) studying urban myths unwittingly summons the Candyman (Tony Todd), the hook-handed ghost of a Black painter who was lynched decades ago.

I expected fun slasher nonsense and instead got a gorgeous, unsettling, modern gothic masterpiece that only occasionally dips its toes into schlock. Candyman is ethereal in all the right ways despite being suffused with despairing urban gloom. I was not surprised to find the script was adapted from a Clive Barker story—like Barker’s The Hellbound Heart (adapted into the Hellraiser films), Candyman is chilling yet eerily beautiful. The moment I finished watching it, I knew this was one I would be itching to revisit. There’s just so much going on regarding race, class, and memory in America. Also, Tony Todd’s voice is a damn treasure.

Merrily We Go to Hell (dir. Dorothy Arzner, 1932)

An alcoholic playwright (Frederic March) and his long-suffering wife (Sylvia Sidney) decide to have an open marriage. It doesn't work out well for either of them.

Merrily We Go to Hell is a sneaky piece of work. Reading the synopsis, one expects the usual salacious pre-code melodrama. The first scenes even resemble your usual romantic comedy, with our central couple having a meet-cute. The actual movie is much more complicated. It's about a married couple thinking love is enough to make their union work despite the husband's alcoholism. However, this idea proves erroneous and attempts to numb the pain through hedonism and extramarital vengeance just pour gasoline on the fire. The emotional honesty here is astonishing and even the "happy ending" isn't so uncomplicated when you think about it. So far, this is my favorite film of director Dorothy Arzner.

Up the Down Staircase (dir. Robert Mulligan, 1967)

An idealistic young teacher (Sandy Dennis) gets her first position at an inner-city high school. However, she finds her enthusiasm worn down by the school system's bureaucracy and the many psychological troubles of her students and fellow faculty.

Ever since I watched Four Seasons a few years ago, I’ve been intrigued by Sandy Dennis. No matter the role, I find her eccentric yet vulnerable screen presence compelling. Up the Down Staircase was Dennis’ first starring vehicle and an unsentimental look at the teaching profession. Having worked as a teacher and in similar jobs in the past, I related strongly to the main character’s compassion fatigue and her frustrated desire to help make her community a better place. While not a cheery film, it is ultimately an optimistic one, even if that optimism is cautious. And of course, Dennis is damn great as always, whetting my appetite for more of her work.

They Shoot Horses, Don’t They? (dir. Sydney Pollack, 1969)

In the thick of the Great Depression, a group of desperate contestants sign up for a grueling dance marathon with a hefty cash prize. Greed, sexual exploitation, health problems, and crushing despair eventually complicate the exhibition.

This movie is so bleak you’ll be just as exhausted as the characters by the tragic finish. I know that doesn’t sound like much of a recommendation, but this is powerful stuff. It does what a great tragedy should do: make you emphasize with the characters and go out into the world more empathetic toward the people around you and more critical of a society in which such awful conditions could be permitted. And like Targets, it’s depressing that this movie’s themes remain relevant to American culture.

Flash Gordon (dir. Frederick Stephani and Ray Taylor, 1936)

A himbo polo player (Buster Crabbe), a middle-aged scientist in hot pants (Frank Shannon), and an ingenue in a blonde wig (Jean Rogers) must save the Earth from a galactic emperor.

Yes, I’m counting a film serial as a single unit on this list. In this corny, breathless saga can be found the seeds of so many modern blockbuster spectacles. The old school space opera aesthetic is always a joy and I love seeing what George Lucas borrowed from the comic book plot and fantastic images for his Star Wars films. Also, the serial is surprisingly horny for a product released after the death knell of the pre-code era, so that’s fascinating too. I watched the episodes, one a night, usually before a feature film, to recreate at least in part the conditions in which old serials were viewed. I highly recommend that approach if you're interested in watching these kind of films-- NEVER binge them.

Silkwood (dir. Mike Nichols, 1983)

Karen Silkwood (Meryl Streep), a union activist and metallurgy worker at a plutonium processing plant, discovers both she and many of her co-workers have been contaminated with high levels of radiation due to blatant safety violations. Rather than remedy the problem, her employers are determined to keep her quiet, but Karen refuses to back down.

Meryl Streep's performance in Silkwood finally showed me what all the hype around her is about. What an astonishing, natural performance-- I forgot I was watching an actor every moment. As for the overall film, it's one of the stronger docudramas out there (as this film was based on a true story). It isn't just a preachy message piece and it allows Silkwood to be both a heroic figure and a flesh and blood human being with flaws like anyone. The domestic drama involving her lover (Kurt Russell) and lesbian roommate (Cher, who also gives an incredible performance) is almost as compelling as the main story. Though released in the early '80s, it feels like a late manifestation of the paranoia thriller genre of the decade before.

Love with the Proper Stranger (dir. Robert Mulligan, 1963)

When a one-night stand with a jazz musician (Steve McQueen) leaves her pregnant and at risk of upsetting her very Catholic family, an innocent sales clerk (Natalie Wood) tracks down her lover and demands he help her get an abortion.

Love with the Proper Stranger is such a unique piece of work that I can forgive the elements that dissatisfy me (like the ending). Wood and McQueen's romance starts out acidic and slowly becomes tender over the course of their bizarre misadventure, and the film itself shifts through several moods. Sometimes it feels like an urban drama, other times a romantic comedy. But it somehow holds together, perhaps because of the chemistry between the lead actors.

What were your favorite film discoveries in 2024?

44 notes · View notes

myromanempiree · 2 months ago

Text

gυιℓту αѕ ѕιη…?

a/n: its secret santacotar time!! My beautiful recipient is @shadowsingers-mate with an elucien piece! I really hope you like it <3

PLEASE NOTE: this is in no way related to the guilty as sin drama, the song just fits :)

Summary: what made Elain return the necklace? 1.1k words

Warnings: mentions of elriel, nipple play, elain is lwky a horny mess

Elain stood there in the living room, alone.

After what she had perceived to be the perfect to start something, something to distract her from the dull singing in her chest, Azriel had left her alone. Not even a whispering shadow to keep her company after his abrupt exit, paired with a nearly panicked, yet cold, "this was a mistake."

She couldn't help but wonder if the shadow singer had been correct.

It was hurtful, at the least. She didn't particularly feel anything magical for the male— aside from the sensation in her lower region�� but how he departed was jarring. It was rather rude, even, providing no explanation after nearly kissing her lips which previously had been untouched for a time just shy of two years.

With a long, drawn out sigh, she began making the trek back to her room,not bothering to look back into the corridor in hopes he'd come back and finish what he started. To be frank, a lingering part of her, a traitorous part of her that sings along to the melody of the warm glowing thread strung to her rib, rejoiced that the male didn't come back.

She ran lithe fingers along the wall, gaze trained on the jewel-toned ruby slippers that Mor had so intently stated matched her complexion, quote— 'gorgeously.'

A low huff leaves her lips as she dreamed open the door leading to her bedroom, the room decorated abundantly in all sorts of fauna Rhysand and Feyre had so graciously provided. Wide, heart-shaped leaves from the tropics of Summer drape over a macrame hanger, vines decorate the walls, and flowers from every part of the Continent and Prythian sit patiently in clay pots. Waiting for the warm glow of the sun that currently hides in the night.

She could resonate with them, sunlight always cheered her up and cleared her hazy mind from any lingering visions.

As Elain walked to her bed, she unclasped the necklace the Shadowsinger had given her and placing it on her desk. Looking at the delicate glass rose, its pink tint turning pale from the silver-white light of the moon. Now that she looks at it, without the haze of lust, the night diminishes its beauty.

With a deep, slow breath, she pushed the thoughts aside and slipped off the slippers, climbing into the welcoming embrace of her bed, bringing the pink, yellow and blue quilt up to her chin and falling asleep.

The sunlight filters in through the stained glass of her greenhouse, the lush greenery steadily moving in the warm breeze, and the comforting scent of soil fills her nose. Her gloved hands bury into the soil to properly distribute the damp clay and slit. Patting the top of her creation with a contented smile. Leaning back to peel off the gloves, delicately setting them down onto the glass table.

A familiar click of slightly heeled boots along the cobbled paths, echo in the otherwise quiet greenhouse. Strong arms wrap contentedly around her waist, a warm face burying into her neck. “Hello, my love.” Lucien said softly, kissing along the gentle curve of her neck.

“I apologize for being late, Helion dragged on the meeting.” he murmured, pulling her against his chest, “You’re alright… I suppose.” She said, smiling up at him, dimples forming into her cheeks, turning in his gentle embrace to wrap her arms around his neck, guiding his lips to hers.

“You suppose?” He began with an amused chuckle, before sobering “I missed you dearly, Petal.” He said, thumb circling along her waist, kissing her again before his soft lips travel down her neck, a low groan leaving his lips.

“I’m desperate, my love. It’s been so long without holding you in my arms.” He said dramatically, pulling her closer.

“It's only been two hours.” Elain chirped back at him, running a hand along his cheek and twirling a stray braid from his mess of hair. Eyes meet, the male's gaze anything but expectant, only full of adoration and hunger. A roll of her eyes caused him to immediately loosen his grip on her, blinking away the lingering hunger. A dash of mischief fills her eyes, her hand gently tugging on the collar of his shirt.

“I never said no, my love.”

With that simple permission, he kissed her passionately, pulling her closer, taking bits of her skirts into his fists, almost to restrain himself from eating her alive. A soft sound escapes her lips as he nibbles on her bottom lip, urging him to pick her up, pushing her gloves off the table and setting her on it. “Lucien–” she said, gasping and nosing under his ear as he kissed her pulse, feeling her heartbeat creciendo under his lips, causing him to groan in her ear, a soft croon more than anything.

“Mother, I love you so much it hurts.” He said, grinning against her neck as she shivers in his hands. He immediately began pulling at the laces of her corset, huffing against her skin as it fell, pulling the puffed chemise down with it. Exposing her to the warm air of the green house. Lucien eyes (eye?) dilate at the sight of her exposed for him, only to let out a soft groan as she teasingly tugged on the golden thread intertwining their souls as one.

Lucien looks up at her again, eyes quietly asking her if she is alright with this. When she nodded, he began to kiss along her clavicle, teeth slowly and delicately dragging along her shoulder, encouraging a soft moan to fall from her lips. Gasping softly as he took her breast into his mouth, running a warm tongue along the bottom and coming up to suckle on her hardened nipple.

He held her against him and continued his ministrations, large fingers moving up to pinch at the spare his mouth wasn't on. She could feel his heartbeat under her fingers as she set her hands onto his chest. Pressing her face into his hair. “Darling” she weakly cooes. Kissing along his forehead lovingly.

But just as he descends lower, her eyes flutter open, revealing her dark bedroom, everything the same.

Her hand flies up to her heart, feeling the beat against her fingers, matching that of Lucien's in her…rather erotic dream. A searing blush kisses her cheeks, all of sudden feeling hot. She stood up out of her bed, shucking off her lace robe, and beginning to pace around.

’Why on earth would I have such a dream?’ she thought to herself, flapping her hands to urgently fan at her face. Though, deep down, she knew why. And it only little had to do with the glowing in her chest, it was because of the male attached to the other end of it.

Eventually, her legs grew tired from pacing, and she was sure she wore a divot into the floorboards. So she sat down on her bed, staring at her shaking hands. Before eventually looking up, a dull glimmer caught her eye. Turning to look at it. It was the rose necklace Azriel had gifted her, it was beautiful, but in the wake of the fluttering butterflies in her stomach that the mere dream of her mate, it felt…abysmal.

So she stood up, scooping the glasswork into her hands, taking the trek back to the living room.

Upon seeing the glimmering tree, she set the necklace back into the pile of presents. Walking away without looking back.

a/n: it feels good to get the pen out :))

40 notes · View notes

the-lonelybarricade · 1 year ago

Text

if you ever think you got it wrong - Feysand Oneshot

Summary: Feyre returns to her home town and is forced to confront a drunken night that's gone unaddressed for four years.

@shallyne ho, ho, hello there!

I'm not the secret santa you were originally assigned for the @acotargiftexchange, but I did go back and check your previous asks to see what you might be interested in! I saw you mention you like the friends to lovers trope and that you'd happy with a slight touch of angst and maybe some Feyre/Cassian/Mor friendship moments? I tried my best to add a pinch of all that goodness in this modern AU oneshot and I really hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3

Illyria hadn’t changed since the last time Feyre left it.

Four years made a lot of difference on a person, but not so much an isolated mountain town, so reserved that if its residents needed something outside of the one dedicated grocery store and smattering of local mom-and-pop businesses, they would need to drive two hours through the mountain pass to find the nearest outlet shopping center.

She never minded the quiet, but there was something unnerving about returning to a place that hadn’t changed. Those four years away had weathered her edges, and now she was a rounded shape being pushed through a square hole. She fit, but not the way that she used to.

Mountain air was fresher—thinner. And it was no wonder that she always felt out of breath, always caught off guard as she ran into old classmates and teachers and people who she recognized, but whose lives were now foreign to her. She’d forgotten that in Illyria, you couldn’t step outside the house without running into a familiar face.

The inability to run to the store without being caught ill-composed for being perceived by the public was excruciating enough. For Feyre, it was worsened by the constant, exaggerated surprise that she hadn’t disappeared off the face of the Earth, despite what her radio-silent social media might have conveyed. And that always meant questions—unbearable, irritating questions.

“How’s your husband?”

Feyre stared pathetically at her carton of oat milk, wondering if averting any stomach issues from using her father’s whole milk was worth explaining to her freshman English teacher that she was now a divorcee.

With no other tool of escape in her arsenal, she forced a bland smile and opted out of the conversation as quickly as possible by offering a flat, “He’s great!”

Because did it really matter? She was only here for a short time, and she could let the town speculate in her absence. Maybe that absence would last another four years. Maybe she would never come back.

“Are you enjoying city life?”

“It’s wonderful,” she said, shifting weight from one foot to the other as she glanced at the single cashier working the registers and the full conveyor belt he was working through. “Everything you need is at your doorstep.”

Including a grocery store with a self-checkout aisle. Things were always excruciatingly slow to change here. Across the street was a 50s-themed diner that had actually been built in the 50s and had resisted change long enough for its interior to become nostalgic.

“I’m sure you miss the mountains, though,” her old teacher said, pressing a hand to her chest in heartfelt emotion. “I know your father misses you girls.”

Sure he did. They had been the ones to take care of him growing up, meanwhile parenting themselves and each other. Her sisters, Nesta and Elain, decided not to come this Christmas, and Feyre certainly couldn’t blame them. They had families now, and the only reason she’d decided to come was because Tamin—

It was better than staying in her empty apartment.

“Well, it was great catching up with you, Feyre,” her teacher said pleasantly, gathering bags of groceries into her arms.

Feyre thought she was sincere, though she doubted that there’d be rumors any time soon that Feyre Archeron was back as an excellent conversationalist. Then again, the goal was that she appeared so dull there was no cause for rumor at all.

“Likewise,” Feyre said, handing the teenage cashier her single carton of oat milk.

Then she was shuffling out the front doors, grimacing against the whipping sting of winter that the insulated skyscrapers of the Hewn City kept largely at bay. Once, she’d been hardened to the winter and the endless heaps of snow that dominated six months of the year at this altitude. Now, she shoved the carton into her elbow and stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, willing warmth back into her fingertips.

She’d forgotten so many things—like the importance of wearing shoes with traction. And how to spot black ice. Her foot slipped under her, and the next thing she knew, she was facing the crystal blue sky. A pair of steady hands grasped her beneath the shoulders before she could slam into the unforgiving concrete.

They were strong hands, warm and broad.

“Careful,” warned a deep, sensual male voice that shivered awake every hair on her arms. He raised her upright and added with a soft laugh, “I never thought I’d see the day Feyre Archeron fell for me.”

“Rhys.” She turned, and there he was. The thin air made her breathless again. “I didn’t…” she blinked. “I thought you’d be in Velaris.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, and her chest ached at the familiar gesture. In four years, he hadn’t changed much. His violet stare was just as piercing as it’d been the last time she’d seen it, when she’d hugged him goodbye and offered a lingering kiss on his cheek. She’d been engaged to Tamlin then. And she thought Rhys might have begged her not to go, but he hadn’t said anything.

The following summer, she’d gotten married. Rhys had been invited, though he hadn’t responded to her invitation or spoken to her since.

“I always come here for Christmas,” he said. “To be with my family.”

Right—Mor, Cassian, and Azriel. She thought they would have all gone to Velaris now that he’d announced his engagement to a pretty redheaded woman who looked like she’d never seen a suburb in her life. Besides, Rhys didn’t have the same roots here that she did. His parents owned a vacation home in Illyria, a pretty log cabin where his family had stayed during every winter holiday growing up. Not quite a local, not quite a rich tourist, but something in between.

An old wound was tugging loose. Feyre crossed her arms like that would do anything to stop the bleeding. “It’s nice,” she said. “That you all still do that.”

“I didn’t know you’d be here, though,” Rhys said, shoulders straightening more than was casual. “I thought your fiance didn’t enjoy winter. What was his name again—Tarquin?”

“Tamlin,” she said, a little too sharp.

He smirked, the insufferable prick. “Ah, that was it.”

“I’m here to spend Christmas with my dad.”

Rhysand’s expression softened a bit. “How is he?”

“Fine.”

“I missed our one-worded conversations,” he said with a mocking purr that made Feyre want to hurl the carton of oat milk at his head. “Why don’t you come by the cabin? It’d be great to catch up with you—I’m sure Mor would be pleased to know you’re still alive.”

She weighed the implications on her heart. It would be nice to see Mor. It would be earth-shattering to spend an evening with Rhys’s family. Each new story would be a splinter in her heart, four years of moments she’d missed, tales of how Rhys had met the mystery red-haired woman from the Instagram she’d tried, and failed, not to stalk. God, his fiance would probably be there, integrated into his family like a piece they’d never known was missing.

Rhys knew her too well, could see she was hesitating. He said, voice strained, “You can bring Tamlin along.”

All he’d done was add another layer of embarrassment to the would-be evening. Explaining to him, to all of them, that her relationship with Tamlin had collapsed sounded almost as painful as meeting Rhysand’s fiancé.

“I should spend time with my dad,” she said. “Have a good Christmas, Rhys.”

“Wait.” Rhys drew a hand from his pocket to reach into the space between them.

Feyre stared at that hand, recalling how it had held her hair back four winters ago when she’d been hunched over a toilet, hurling her guts out. He’d stayed with her for hours, curled together on the bathroom floor, practically in his lap while he raked her fingers across her scalp and down her spine, insisting he stay no matter how many times she told him he should go. Cassian found them the next morning, still clinging to each other.

And then she’d left on a plane and never saw him again.

“I’m sorry for forgetting his name,” he said, as if either of them believed it was an accident. “I still think you should come. Mor’s making her famous eggnog.”

Feyre didn’t think she’d be able to stomach that eggnog ever again after she’d spent a night puking it up. Rhys would know that as a witness to that disastrous evening, but maybe… maybe he was deliberately trying to remind her of that night and all the unsaid things they’d left in its wake.

She sucked in a short breath, the air sharp against her teeth and tongue. Even just being in this town was suffocating her.

Rhysand’s hand dropped. So did his shoulders, already sensing her answer but keeping any emotion from showing on his face as she said, “I’ll think about it, Rhys.”

Thinking about it became much more difficult when Mor and Cassian arrived at her father’s house the following evening.

“I’d hug you, but I’m afraid those bones are going to stab me,” Cassian said.

Mor, of course, had no reservations in hurling herself at Feyre, who nearly tumbled backward through the doorway as she gripped her friend in turn.

“Oh, I missed you!” Mor retreated just enough for her ringed-adorned fingers to dig into Feyre’s shoulders. “Ignore Cassian, you look amazing.”

Cassian was right, though. Feyre knew she’d lost weight, and from the frown on Mor’s red lips as she studied Feyre’s face, she knew her friend was thinking the same, even if she was too polite to say so.

Yes, she was a little more frail, was still healing in ways more than physical, but it didn’t leave her fragile.

She raised her brows at Cassian. “From all those knives you like to play with, I didn’t think you’d be so scared of a sharp elbow.”

“Scared of crushing you, more like,” Cassian said. He opened his arms all the same, and Mor stepped aside so he could sweep Feyre into a hug that was indeed bone-crushing. Feyre wheezed, but was grateful that he didn’t hold back.

“Rhys told us we’re to abduct you for the night,” Mor said, arching onto her toes to meet Feyre’s eyes over Cassian’s hulking shoulder.

Of course Rhys had sent them, the meddling prick.

Feyre said lightly, “I’m pretty sure that’s a felony.”

She could feel the words rumble through Cassian’s chest before he said, “That’s never stopped the bastard before. Now, should I set you down so you can grab your things and come with us, or do I actually need to carry you into the car?”

Feyre knew there was no getting out of this without hurting Mor and Cassian’s feelings, so she heaved a sigh that was defeated enough for Cassian to set her back down, a triumphant grin spreading over his face.

A few minutes later, she sat in the backseat of a familiar jeep, staring out at the serene winter forest as their vehicle climbed higher and higher into the mountains.

“It’s freezing,” she complained, watching her breath cloud in front of her face. “Could you put the heat on?”

“You and Rhys are the same,” Cassian said, reaching for the dashboard to adjust the temperature. “Living at sea level has changed you.”

“I take it you’re still living as a ski bum, then,” Feyre teased.

Mor angled herself so that she was facing Feyre from the passenger seat. “You wouldn’t believe it, but Rhys actually managed to coax Cassian out of the Illyrian Mountains. He has to wear a tie to work now.”

“A tie?” Feyre repeated, feigning scandal. In the years she’d known Cassian, she rarely saw him outside of a jacket and snowboard boots. She met his hazel eyes in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t think you knew what that was. Does Rhysie have to tie it for you in the mornings?”

“Of course not,” Cassian said with a scoff. “Azriel is way better at tying them than Rhys.”

She grinned at the mental image of stoic Azriel devotedly adjusting his best friend’s tie every morning, likely with the same methodical precision he exacted on all things. Soon that grin split into a laugh, and Cassian’s eyes creased with a warmth she could feel spreading into her chest.

Cresting on that feeling, Feyre joked, “I find I’m much better at untying them, myself.”

There was a stagnant beat in which Cassian and Mor glanced at each other, and Feyre wondered if she’d said something wrong.

Then Mor said, gaze flicking to Feyre’s hand. “I’m sure Tamlin is delighted by that skillset.”

Oh. At the current altitude, there wasn’t enough air to replenish the breath that rushed out of her. Feyre followed Mor’s stare, dread cracking through her like compromised glass, moments from shattering, as she confronted the faint pale line on her ring finger. The only evidence that a ring had ever sat there.

“I didn’t see him at your dad’s house,” Cassian said, keeping his voice a little too casual. “Did he stay in the Hewn City?”

Feyre didn’t see any reason to prolong the truth. Might as well rip the bandage off as quickly as possible. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. Swallowed. “We’re not together anymore.”

Every second that stretched over the resulting silence tempted Feyre to pry open the car door and risk tumbling down the mountainside.

“I’m sorry,” Mor said. “We didn’t… we had no idea.”

“It’s okay.” But a dark, aching pit was yawning open in Feyre’s chest. She began uselessly chucking words into it, desperate to bridge herself back to the Feyre from a moment ago, who’d laughed without needing to force it. “We separated at the beginning of the year, and it all became official last month. He—it was a mistake to begin with.”

He’s wrong for you, Mor had said four years ago, a hard crease forming between her brows as she’d stared absently into her eggnog, thinking far more than she was saying—even drunk.

Is there even such a thing as someone who’s ‘right’? I don’t think there’s anyone who’s ever going to be perfect for me.

That was where things always got a little more blurry in Feyre’s memory, but she thought that Mor might have glanced over their shoulders on the sofa, to where the boys were playing a festive game of reinbeer pong, and said quietly, I think someone like that does exist for you.

If Mor recalled the same thing, there was no I-told-you-so’s—no triumph. There was genuine sadness in her eyes as she reached behind to squeeze Feyre on the knee. “We wanted it to work out for you.”

Feyre considered touching Mor’s hand, squeezing it back. But they might have been trembling, and it was easier to shrug her shoulders than make up a pathetic excuse about the cold. “Maybe it still could,” she said, grasping at a cheer that wasn’t yet tangible. But they’d all pretend it was, for her sake. “My story isn’t over, and this might just be the right step towards something better.”

Cassian put the car in park and turned to beam at her. “Exactly!”

He wasn’t making any effort to sound upset at her divorce, and she couldn’t say she blamed him.

“Come on,” Mor said. “I think a bottle of wine is in order.”

“One of the nice ones,” Cass added with a savage grin towards Feyre.

They used to sneak into the cellar and grab as many of the old bottles as they could get away with, to Rhysand’s chagrin.

Speaking of—

“Oh, good,” Rhys crooned from where he leaned in the doorway of the log cabin. He was dressed casually, in a cable sweater and a familiar knit scarf—one that stopped Feyre dead in their tracks. “I was worried they wouldn’t be able to convince you to come.”

“There might have been some threats of physical force,” Feyre said, resisting the urge to wrap her arms protectively around herself as Rhys assessed her, again and again. “That can be fairly persuasive.”

“I was a perfect gentleman,” Cassian protested.

“You poor thing,” Rhys said to Feyre, clicking his tongue. “The last time Cassian said that, he was banned from the entire city of Adriata.”

Cassian sidled up to Feyre and offered his elbow. “Would you like me to escort you past the prick?”

Rhys raised his brows, and Feyre wasted no time looping her elbow through Cassian’s, purring, “That would be very kind of you.”

The aforementioned prick didn’t bother to move out of the way as Feyre and Cassian squeezed past, forcing Feyre to endure the brush of Rhysand’s chest against her shoulder. An ordinary person felt butterflies from that sort of grazing touch, but Feyre had never felt that way touching Rhys. It was something far more brutal, more demanding, like a swarm of wasps digging their stingers beneath her skin. She clenched her teeth not to hiss. It was always mortifying how viscerally her body reacted to him—worse that he held her stare the entire time, watching her grow flustered until she whipped her head and practically begged Cassian to take her into the cellar.

Usually Rhys would protest, but he didn’t say a word as they made a b-line towards the stairs. There was no sign of Azriel or Rhysand’s fiance, and she hoped the cellar would give her time to prepare for that mortal blow.

“Rhys,” Mor called, running to catch up after locking the jeep. Whatever she needed to share with her cousin was lost to the shutting door and the creaking stairs.

Cold, stagnant air coiled over her ankles as Feyre and Cassian sunk into the old stone cellar. Cassian, more diplomatic than she gave him credit for, didn’t comment on her red cheeks or how she wrapped her arms around her body to ward off more than the chill. He took his time assessing each bottle, paying their labels far more attention than she knew he ordinarily would have.

He was giving her time to reign herself in. She didn’t know how to thank him for that kindness besides making the most of it. Feyre took a deep breath. Another.

Then she steeled her nerves just enough to broach the topic. “Is she nice?”

Cassian didn’t look up from the bottle of red vintage he was holding. “Who?”

Feyre shut her eyes. That way, she could pretend Cassian was still reading the wine label, disinterested and oblivious, even as her voice wavered. “Rhys’s fiancé.”

She had no right to say it that way, like she hated the taste of those words. Not when she had walked away first, gotten married, left this town and their friendship behind.

A sharp noise rang through the too-small space, glass rapping against metal, and she opened her eyes while the sound reverberated through the hollow void in her chest. Cassian had set the wine down a touch too forcefully. She had never known him to be careless with his strength.

His head was bent—a necessity if he didn’t want to smack his head against the low ceiling—and his face was angled toward her, brows drawn tight. Like her words held some hidden meaning he was trying to puzzle together.

Feyre couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, always a touch too-perceptive. He had a gift for disarming people. A few sharp grins and light-hearted jokes and those clever eyes could dress someone down right to their bones. Her body tensed beneath his assessment, unprepared for what he might uncover. Feyre took a step back unintentionally. Started opening her mouth to blurt something stupid, and Cassian was already shaking his head, realizing he’d stumbled over something too raw—

“I hope you two aren’t stealing all my best wine.”

They both snapped their heads to Rhys standing on the top step. He also needed to duck his head, and there was something so endearing about the way a piece of his hair spilled onto his forehead that she thought she might very well try her chances at hurling down the mountain.

Feyre knew she must have looked like a caged animal, her eyes too wide, cheeks too flushed. So much for taking a moment to reign herself in.

“All okay?” Rhys said, weighing her expression before he flicked his eyes to Cassian—narrowed, like he thought his friend might be responsible for making her uncomfortable.

“We’re fine.” She grabbed blindly at a bottle of wine, producing it with more enthusiasm than she could muster in her smile. “Let’s go drink—I’m excited to find out if Azriel is still the prettiest of you three.”

Rhys clutched his chest in mock hurt as he led them out of the cellar. “I hate to disappoint you, Feyre darling, but I think this might be one such occasion.”

She was relieved that much hadn’t changed about him—his refusal to pressure her, humoring the deflection though she knew her performance was less than convincing. Rhys placed a hand at her back to guide her towards the kitchen. A casual touch to him, but to Feyre, every inch of contact felt scalding. She swore that when she took off her sweater later, she’d find a red handprint branded into her skin.

“Don’t worry,” she said to him as they stepped into the kitchen, where they found Mor, wine glass limply in hand, perched on the counter beside Azriel. “I haven’t been disappointed in the least.”

Azriel looked up from the large, steaming pot he was stirring and offered a reserved smile in greeting. Feyre offered one back, bold and just suggestive enough for Rhys to nudge her with his elbow.

“You wound me,” he whispered.

“Oh good! You brought more wine!” In a deft motion, Mor lept from the counter and breezed up to Feyre, easing the bottle from her hands. “A great choice, too. You always did have good taste.”

It was a bald lie, one that the group might have contested four years ago when they used to make a game of volleying good-natured teasing back and forth. Maybe they were more careful with her now, not quite sure where she fit in after all this time. After hurting Rhys.

Though, out of everyone, he seemed the most comfortable having her here again. He dropped his hand from her back in pursuit of fetching more wine glasses, and once he was finished, he carried a full glass to Feyre with a carefree smile. As if no time separated them at all.

Feyre wished she could summon some of that ease. Everything felt mechanic, from curling her fingers over the chilled glass, to raising the rim to her lips and taking a controlled sip. All she’d been doing in the last year was wading through the wreckage of her life, struggling to piece together what she had left while making sense of where it had all gone so horribly wrong.

The pieces always led her back to this cabin. Silver-rimmed violet eyes and tingling lips. That night he’d told her, I think you could be happy here. With me. For years, she wondered how differently her life would have turned out if she’d been brave enough to leave it all behind and see if he was right.

All this time, she’d assumed the silence between them was angry, or at least a little bit wounded, that she’d left him behind and went through with her engagement. Now, it occurred to her that it might have been something infinitely worse—apathy. That Rhys had simply moved on, and she was the only one still stuck on that moment she’d kissed him goodbye.

It was better than resentment, she told herself. That didn’t stop her from finishing her wine glass too quickly.

“Careful,” Rhys chided when she set it down, empty. “As much as I love tradition, it’d be a shame for you to spend the night curled over a toilet.”

She glared at him, but Cassian added, “Don’t forget it goes to your head faster at this altitude.”

“Only because of Mor’s generous pour,” Feyre deflected, sending a wink towards Mor, who snagged Feyre’s glass with a conspiratorial smirk.

“Oh, lighten up, you two!” Mor smacked Rhysand’s chest with the empty glass. “If Feyre gets sick again, then I promise to be the one looking after her this time.”

Then, with that, Mor sashayed back to the wine bottle to refill Feyre’s glass. The alcohol must have loosened some of her restraint because Feyre let her gaze drift back to Rhys. Who’s to say what he was remembering when their eyes met, but Feyre… she remembered how, between bouts of hurling her guts out, he’d pulled her into his lap and laid her head against his chest, claiming that his heartbeat soothed her. Somehow, she doubted Mor’s heartbeat would have the same effect.

Mor snapped Feyre away from the memory by handing her another full glass. Feyre promised herself that she’d take her time on the second drink, only because she didn’t think she’d be able to survive another earth-shattering night like that one.

“Tell us how you’ve been,” Mor said. “What’s life like in the infamous Hewn City?”

“It’s…”

Lonely. Crowded. Expensive.

“It’s great.” Feyre forced herself to nod like she meant it. “But I’d much rather hear about how you have been—all of you.”

“Well,” Mor intoned in a way that suggested she was about to unveil drama. “Wouldn’t you believe it, but Rhysand has found himself centered in quite the business scandal.”

Cassian groaned. “Not this again.”

“Mor.” Rhys sent his cousin a warning glance.

She only grinned, continuing, “He recently backed out of a conglomerate merger with Hybern and caused quite the uproar when he publicly accused them of fraud.”

He raised his brows. “Accused implies it wasn’t later proven when Amarantha—”

“Amarantha?” Feyre repeated, blinking as she realized she recognized that name. “Your fiance?”

Cassian sputtered his wine across the counter. Azriel turned away from the stove to slap him firmly on the back as he coughed. Feyre wasn’t certain if Mor’s laugh was at her expense or Cassian’s, but either way, she deserted the conversation to grab a roll of paper towels and begin cleaning up the spilled wine.

“No,” Rhys said, ignoring the chaos at his back. His face was tight. “Definitely not my fiance.”

Feyre shook her head. She was certain Amarantha was the name of the girl she’d been stalking for… an embarrassingly long time. From the moment Rhys announced their proposal.

“She was a prospective business partner,” Rhys clarified, studying her with a discomfiting level of scrutiny. “Never—” he actually looked a little disgusted. “Never anything romantic.”

She said slowly, “You’re not engaged.”

Rhysand’s lips pressed into a thin line. “No.”

Oh my god. Her hands began to tremble, and she set down the wine glass so he wouldn’t hear the sploshing liquid. “You had an Instagram post,” she said, mortified. “It said something about announcing a proposal. That there was going to be a marriage—”

“Between our business firms,” he said. “Before I backed out.”

“Oh my god.” She didn’t mean to say it out loud. Feyre knew this wasn’t a normal reaction. This was just a small misunderstanding—totally minor, if not a little humorous. “I need to… I just need a moment.”

Then she rushed for the bathroom, locking the door as if that would do anything to keep out the embarrassment flooding over her wave after impenetrable wave. Feyre cringed when she glimpsed her reflection. Red blotches were blooming over her chest and up her throat. She was shaking so violently she barely had the necessary motor skills to turn the tap. Once it was running, she let the cold water pool in her cupped hands before she splashed it against her heated skin.

“Feyre,” called a velvet voice at the door, followed by a soft knock.

“I just need a moment, Rhys.”

Silence. She knew better than to think he returned to the kitchen, but he was at least giving her that moment. She counted to ten, forwards and backwards and forwards again, trying to remember her grounding lessons.

Find something green—the plastic toothbrush sitting upright in its ceramic holder.

Find something blue—the towels, lovingly folded and hanging elegantly over the heated drying rack.

Find something red—her eyes drifted toward the mirror. No. Not her cheeks, not her skin. It had to be something external from this meltdown. Feyre turned, searching the small space until she found a glint of red hidden in the folds of the white shower curtain.

She froze.

Something to remember me by, she’d slurred to him four years ago, after proudly removing her ruby earring and piercing it into the curtain.

Rhys had laughed. I could never forget you, Feyre. Not until my dying breath.

I want you to remember me every time you come in here. Even while you’re taking a shit.

Not exactly romantic. But four years later, it was still there. That stupid piece of plastic costume jewelry, which she’d worn only in a half-hearted attempt to be festive. She knew that curtain had to have been cleaned in the years since, and wondered if that silly earring had been removed and repinned each time. Why hadn’t he thrown it away?

“Feyre,” Rhys called again through the door. Softer now.

She unlocked it.

A moment later, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“Hi,” she said, knowing there were tears in her eyes and that, from his perspective, she must have looked hysterical.

He was searching her face. “What’s wrong?”

Her voice cracked a little. “Everything.”

“Tell me.”

Feyre raised her hands to cover her face as she started somewhere inane. “You’re wearing the scarf I knitted for you.”

Even concerned, his voice possessed a dry humor as he asked, “Do you not want me to wear it?”

“I don’t understand why you’re wearing it.”

“It’s winter,” he said plainly. “This scarf is warm. And soft.”

A sob was working its way up her throat. He gently wrapped his fingers over her wrists and lowered her hands from her face.

His voice dropped lower, a secret shared between them: “Most importantly, it reminds me of you.”

“I thought you hated me,” she croaked, flinching inwardly at how pathetic it sounded.

With no barrier to deter him, Rhys pressed his palm to her cheek and chased away one of her tears. “I could never hate you, Feyre.”

“We haven’t talked to each other in years,” she said. “You’ve ignored all of my calls and messages.”

“Because I blocked your number.” Feyre flinched. She suspected as much when her calls started going immediately to voicemail. But now there was no mask on Rhysand’s face, nothing to hide the hurt in his expression as he swallowed thickly and added, “Like you asked me to.”

“I—” Feyre felt like she was in a high-speed vehicle that had suddenly slammed on its brakes. “What? I didn’t ask you to…”

Oh no.

A fresh wave of tears stung the backs of her eyes. Feyre blinked them away as she begged, “Tell me what happened.”

“You left.” The words creaked out of him like shifting weight on an old wooden floorboard. She felt the accusation groan through her chest. “You were going to get married to him, and I knew I couldn’t let you without at least telling you how I felt. You know what happened from there.”

“Tell me anyway,” she said, barely holding back her horror.

Rhys took a deep breath. “I got rip-roaring drunk with Cassian, and I sent you a stupid, poorly thought-out message. And you told me off, as I deserved.”

“What did your message say?” She asked a tad too sharply.

Now, it was his turn to flinch. “I begged you not to marry him. I offered to pay for everything to help you leave your life with him behind. I told you…” Rhys looked away, staring at the shower curtain as he said, “I told you that I love you.”

The world slipped out from beneath her feet. Feyre’s lips wobbled, and she pressed them together in an attempt to contain her sob, but it burst out of her along with a warbled, “You loved me?”

He shut his eyes. “I love you,” he corrected.

Her delight was eclipsed by the pain on his face and her realization of what must have happened, at what she’d inadvertently put him through over the last four years. Her voice shook as she rasped, barely more than a whisper, “What did I say back?”

Rhys opened his eyes, and she could see tears shimmering over the violet as he said, “You told me to block your number and never speak to you again.”

Of all the times Tamlin had been cruel to her, this was undoubtedly the worst of his deeds.

“That wasn’t me.” Feyre grabbed for his collar, uncertain how to untangle years of misunderstanding. “Rhys, please believe me. I didn’t write that—I didn’t know. I would have…”

And here it was, the most brutal part. She felt like she was swallowing knives as she admitted, “I would have left him if I’d seen that message.”

Feyre wasn’t sure which of them crumpled first. They might have fallen together, neither of their bodies quite ready to hold the weight of lost time. The bathroom tiles leached cold through her clothes, but Rhys was there, pulling her against him, fighting back the chill with his inherent warmth.

There they were again, curled together on the bathroom floor.

Maybe they could start here and pretend the last four years hadn’t existed.

“I know it’s probably too late, but I left him. I was a coward back then, but I’m ready now. To leave it all behind.”

His fingers lifted her chin, drawing her eyes back to that beautiful, heartbreaking face.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

Rhys leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “Don’t be. Four years is nothing. I would have waited a thousand years for you.”

“Four was enough for me,” she said lightly.

Four was far too much, actually. And because she couldn’t stand wasting any second longer, Feyre slid her fingers into his hair. Rhys went still as she leaned in, pressing her lips to his in a soft kiss. One she used to cleanse the years of heartache and longing, until there was only that bright, shimmering love that had always been quietly there, beneath it all.

And for the first time since coming back to Illyria, Feyre felt like she was home.

#Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Feyre x Rhys #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhysand #Rhysand x Feyre #acotar gift exchange

105 notes · View notes