#plasterer south london

[jorichingsuk]

Details Presentation LWM Plastering Ltd

LWM Plastering is a limited company with a team of three plasterers, three painters and decorators and two labourers that specialise in all aspects of internal plastering, rendering, pebble dashing and painting and decorating. We work across the whole of South London and Surrey.

Flat 1, 12 The Waldrons,Croydon,CR0 4HB

07768 864191

lwmplastering85@gmail.com

[bapple117]

Velvette Slang Masterlist: for the fandom

A gift from a humble Brit to anyone (not from the UK) wanting to write Velv convincingly ~

Hello you wayward sinner!

Are you looking to write Velvette into a fan fiction, comic, roleplay or something else? Would you like to make her sound legit but you have no idea about British (or indeed, South London) slang? FEAR NOT! I, Bapple, am here to hold your hand and guide you through the wonderful world of British slang so you can have fun making Velv sound legit. Let's proceed!

Not all of this will be limited to the UK, of course, and it's not an exhaustive list of ALL British slang either - it's just the kind of things Velv WOULD say as someone from South London.

Insults

For men: bastard, prick, wanker, knob, dickhead, wankstain, bellend, git, tosser, sod, cock, pillock, numpty, codger (means old man)

For women: bint, bitch, slag, wench, slut, tart, trollop, scrub

For anyone: arsehole, arse, twat, sket, muppet, minger (means ugly), bugger, gobshite, cretin

The absolute worst thing you can call someone else is cunt - this is very strong and isn't used in casual conversation, unless you are in VERY informal company, in which case it's thrown around like it's nothing at all. (Come here you cheeky cunt - playful)

Terms of Endearment

Babes, hun, luv, darlin', sweetheart, mate, sweetie, mucker, pal, blud, fam, dear, dearie, honey

Eg: "Alright babes? How's it going darlin?'"

British people often use insults affectionately, too, especially with close friends as a way to tease / banter. (You silly sod, you useless prick, you cheeky git, you daft muppet, etc)

Slang Words

Drunk: trollied, smashed, pissed, wasted, legless, hammered, sloshed, battered, bladdered, merry, shitfaced, arseholed, plastered, lashed

Good: banging, well good, mint, the dogs bollocks, ace, blinding, cracking, brill, fab, neat, beast, fresh, hench, jokes (that's jokes innit), lush, peng (good looking), sick, wicked, peak, wavy

Bad: grim, naff, shite, shit, crap, tat (useless old tat), minging, rank, dry, nasty, humming (means gross)

Pleased: chuffed, buzzing, tickled pink, sorted (I'm sorted mate)

Annoyed: gutted, miffed, pissed off, fucked off, fuming, raging, ticked off, well annoyed, bovvered (used more sarcastically eg: I aint bovvered), vexed

Curses

Bollocks, fucking hell, bloody hell, bugger, piss off, any of the insults used above

Other random words

Bare = a lot of (eg bare money)

Chirpsing, grafting = flirting

Garms = clothes

Lips = kiss (are you tryna lips me?)

Peng ting = good looking person / high quality thing

Standard = of course, yeah no duh (Yeah that's standard mate.)

Tight = cheapskate (Don't be so bloody tight!)

Yard = your house (Come over to my yard)

Banter = conversation that's funny, casual, playful (S'just banter innit)

Convo, chinwag, chat = conversation

Defo = short for definite (Oh he's defo up to something)

Other random phrases

Are you taking the mick? = are you mocking me?

Stop faffing around = be serious and stop messing about

That's mad = wow, I can't believe what you just said or that's amazing

Allow it = just leave it, it's no big deal (Whatever mate, allow it)

Other helpful pointers

When British people (who talk like Velv) swear angrily we do so many times in a whole sentence and add a lot of qualifiers, eg:

"Fuck off you fucking prick, you absolute fucking useless arsehole!"

"Don't piss me off babes or I'll fucking end your shitty little life!"

Making a crude observation about something nearly always a curse in-front of it, eg:

"That's fucking rank."

"It was fucking buzzing mate!"

The Magical Use of Innit:

Innit is a wonderful word that can be used everywhere, especially for someone from South London. It basically means "isn't it?" but it has MANY uses. It can be used to mean an agreement, like "I know right?"

"That was well good innit"

"He's a right twat" - response: "INNIT!"

"It's fuckin grim in here" - "Innit mate"

Adding "well" to words

That was well good - that was well bad - that was well grim

(You get the idea)

That's about it for now!

If I think of anything else I will edit this masterlist and if anyone has any questions please feel free to pop them in my inbox. Happy writing!

[heyidkyay]

And I'm petrified of being alone, now | The Aftermath

House or Home?

It’s been about a year or so and they're finally looking at moving in together, properly this time, but Mouse is stubborn and Matty’s… Matty. 

“I hate it.”

Matty all but deflated at the three words, eyes sweeping over to where the estate agent was still stood in the kitchen doorway to the pretty four bedroom house they’d found in South Hampstead. 

In her defence, she still had that godawful smile plastered across her face, as though the entire statement bothered her none, but her eyes told a different story. They were screaming.

Matty couldn’t blame her, not when this was the eighth house Mouse had turned down this week alone. And it was only fucking Tuesday.

“Squeaks, babe.” Matty quietly attempted, mouth opening once more in an effort to get the woman to see sense. The house had everything they were looking for, it was more than perfect and how could it not be with an actual garden that Teddy could run rampant in and a sodding wine cellar to boot. 

But she cut him off, spinning around on her heel to shake her head at the agent in a silent apology. “Sorry. It’s just not gonna work.” It was all that was said before she took off, leaving Matty standing there awkwardly with the estate agent, hands tucked in his back pockets like a kid meeting their mum’s new boyfriend for the first time.

The woman, lovely girl named Mila, slumped slightly but kept up the act, pretending like all was fine and dandy, probably more than used to dealing with shit like this. 

“Sorry love, it’s just a big decision. You know?” Matty tried to soothe, lips pulling into a thin smile made mostly of regret. And it was exactly that– a big decision. 

It had been just over a year since that whole fallout had happened with the media and the sudden silence between them. And shit had cropped up every now and again after it; his management team had been a fucking nightmare to coerce and convincing themselves that this thing that they had was worth trying for had been daunting. But they’d put it all behind them in the end, they’d moved on.

And now here they were, buying a house. A home. Because Teds was getting bigger and bigger by the day, enough so that he now had a proper big boy bed and could ride a bike that took up a chunk of his bedroom. But also because Matty suddenly had a shit ton of crap to relocate since he’d moved out of and sold his London gaff, having slowly slunk his way into the flat he’d come to think of as home. 

All in all, Mouse’s was simply running out of room to hold them all.

Mila waved his apology off though with a single hand gesture, tucking the ipad she constantly held under her right arm. “It’s fine, I get it. Every client’s different.” She told him easily enough, but her smile was still so weary when she looked back at him, “I’ll get to looking for a couple more properties for you.”

Matty nodded, but let his eyes flit back over to the antique cabinets he could so easily picture Teds hiding in whilst they played a round of hide-and-seek, as well as the large kitchen island that they could all use for big get-togethers or family dinners. He gave a halfhearted sigh before allowing himself to take a small step back and follow Mila when she started to turn. “‘Spose this happens all the time then?” He asked her, hoping to fill the quiet walk from the kitchen to the front door.

There was a small pause, and then, “Sure.”

Wincing at that, Matty was more than a little thankful to be walking a step behind the woman, especially when they stepped out the front door onto a porch that screamed American Dream and spotted Mouse propped up against the Jeep’s passenger door. 

He tried to give Mila another polite smile when she told him that this had been the last viewing she would have for them for a little while and that she’d soon be in touch. Matty just shook her hand, thanking her again for her time, before they parted ways and he was walking back on over to the car.

He slid into his seat, hearing Squeaks follow, and didn’t say a word as he backed out of the paved driveway, admiring the stonework that lined the verdant grass and the fenced gate as they drove out of it. With one final glance at the house in the rearview mirror, he reached out to switch the radio on, the AC quickly following.

It was just as he made a left turn at the end of the quaint street that Matty heard a small intake of breath, he waited for the eventual…

“It just didn’t feel right.”

Even with the slight frustration he felt, Matty licked at his lower lip and looked right to hide the slight smile he wore. He hummed softly over the low buzz of the speakers, “You’ve said that about the last sixteen, baby.”

Mouse let go of a harsh breath and Matty felt his grin grow. “Well, then I guess the last sixteen didn’t feel right!” She retorted and threw her hands up in exasperation before crossing them over her chest, fingers moving to toy with the elbow of her sleeve. “I’ll know it when I see it, okay?”

Matty flicked an amused brow in the direction of the passenger seat and received a scornful glare for it in return, so he merely resorted to surrendering, glancing back out at the empty road ahead. “Okay.”

They stayed in a quiet little bubble the whole drive back to the flat. Matty’s mind stuck on the house they’d just viewed, on the long winding staircase, the extra bedrooms it offered, that waterfall shower. By his standards, it would’ve been perfect. It should have been.

It took a little wrangling but he did eventually manage to find a space to park on the overflowing sidestreet that their flat resided on when they finally got home, but it was at that point that Squeak’s phone rang. She moved on autopilot after answering it, unbuckling her seatbelt swiftly whilst Matty turned the car off and locked up.

She had a slight crease between her brow as they made their way up the few short steps which led to the front door and tugged a hand through her hair just as he worked the key into the worn gold lock. 

“Yeah, I can do that. Ah, just–” Matty listened to her pause in the entryway and glanced back, waiting by the radiator for her to shoot a quick glance his way so that he could ask a silent question with just a single look. She mouthed Teddy’s name before she was speaking into the phone again, only proving to puzzle Matty further. “Alright, can you hang on just a sec? Alright, thanks.”

Matty watched closely as she pressed the phone to her chest to muffle any sound the speaker might pick up and chewed on her lower lip. “What’s happened?”

Mouse raked her hand through her hair again and blew out a breath, “Teds has hit his head at school, they say he’s fine but the bumps come up quick. Need him to be picked up.”

It was immediate the way Matty’s pulse quickened at the implication of Teddy having been hurt and so he was pretty hasty as he moved to grab the keys he’d just set down on the hallway’s side, already gravitating towards the door before Mouse could even utter another word. “I can be there in ten minutes, just let them know it’ll be me coming, yeah?”

A year ago, Squeaks would’ve reeled a bit at the entire situation, what with Matty taking charge on matters where her son was concerned and on her not being the one to drop everything just to go and pick him up, but now she barely batted an eye. Instead, Matty watched on as she nodded, face full of relief as she stepped forward to press a chaste kiss to his cheek before she was speaking into the phone again, demanding to know what had gone down.

Matty slipped back out the front door with a slight rattle, his typical gait quickening as he hurried on over to the car, jumping in and starting it up once more before he could even think to worry about finding a better parking space than this when they eventually got back. Mind focused solely on getting to Teddy.

In the time Matty had known the kid, Teddy had only gotten sick twice. The first time had been this little bug, it had given him a bad belly and a bit of a cough but hadn’t affected him all that much. Still, Matty had fretted all the same, nursed him back to health and had barely left his side, even if that had meant listening to the same episode of Blue’s Clues on repeat for three days straight. The second though, that had been a lot more frightening.

Winter had rolled its way back around as it tended to do and the usual flu had taken its hold. Matty himself had picked something up off of one of their roadies during the promotional tour they’d been doing for the latest album in Europe. The tour had only lasted a couple of weeks, but he’d still been jumping back and forth between this city and that just so that he could see Teds and Squeaks as often as possible. But that in itself had also meant that Teddy had ended up catching the same bout of flu, too.

Matty had been beside himself when he’d first heard, guilty for the fact that he’d had the precious little gremlin sniffling down the phone on their next call. But Mouse had just laughed and shook her head at him, promising that Teds would be as right as rain soon enough. But not even she could have prepared for the way the kid had taken a sharp turn overnight.

Jamie had shaken Matty awake at four am, not long after they’d managed to make it to Sheffield and hunker down for the night in some swanky hotel. He’d been bleary eyed and still recovering from the relentless cough that had been wreaking havoc on his lungs for the past week when he’d rolled over to find his manager's nervous face staring down at him. 

Teddy’s fever has spiked, he’d said.

It had been a freight train of emotions after that. Jamie had somehow managed to score him a flight down from Manchester to London in less than a half an hour. But by that point Matty had already been in the back of a cab, trembling hands texting with Adi whilst the woman had updated him on every single thing that had occurred back home. 

Seemed that Teddy’s temperature had risen so quickly, having jumped from a steady 38 to 42 in less than an hour, which had prompted the most agonising hospital trip of Matty’s entire life. And that was including each time he’d fucked up and been wheeled there himself. 

It had taken him just over two hours to get down to them, so by that point Teddy had only just been properly seen and Mouse was in silent hysterics. Adi had ordered Finn to come pick him up from the airport, but back then the two of them had still been in this awkward sort of stalemate and so neither had spoken a word apart from when the other man had finally attempted to calm Matty’s anxious tapping. 

“He’ll be okay.” It was all that he had said, but Matty had found himself nodding along in quiet agreement all the same whilst he’d rattled his phone against his knee, ready to jump out of the car at a second's notice.

Driving over to collect the kid from school now, Matty felt that same agitation. The need to just be there, to see for himself that Teddy was okay. It was all that he could do to not hightail it over and fuck every traffic law he could somewhat remember just to ebb the sinking feeling that had wormed its way into his gut.

He did eventually manage to get there, making it in just under ten minutes after he’d accidentally ran a red and parked in a teacher's bay outside. 

The receptionist startled a tad at his sudden appearance, eyes probably as big as saucers and darting about the room in hopes to find Teds stood waiting there for him. But the kid was nowhere to be seen, and so Matty crossed the room to speak to her.

“Hi, here to collect Teddy? You rang, said something about him hitting his head?”

Matty had dropped Teddy to and from school more times than he could count, but collecting him from the office? That was something he’d never done before. Never even thought about, actually. And so he was fucking unsure on what the fuck kind of etiquette these people were supposed to use here. Did she need his ID, his passport? A picture of him and Teddy ice skating?

“Oh! Okay then, I’ll just fetch him for you. If you could sign him out here for me?” She pointed towards a clipboard and pen sat just off to the side and then smiled one last time before she wandered away.

Matty blinked and watched her slip out a side door. Was that it?

All he had to do was just sign the kid out? 

Matty released a heavy breath and shook his head at the thought, figuring it best to just do as was expected and have a word about it with Squeaks later on, maybe it was just something he was missing.

As it happened, he’d just finished scrawling down the last of his name when the door inside the office squeaked open causing him to jolt the y in Healy as his head snapped up.

It was as though all the tension he’d ever felt seeped out of him in that very moment. Years of stress from fucking performing, of trying to get through his own stupid exams back at school, and maybe even the trouble of having dealt with his parents and their shitty divorce. All of it just vanished when he looked over to find Teddy already grinning at him with his little book bag slung over his shoulder and a Spidey plaster stuck to the side of his eyebrow.

“Matty!” Teddy all but squealed as the kid darted away from the receptionist to barrel headfirst into his legs. Matty felt his heart give out a little at the sight of the tyke, obviously not as traumatised as he’d been expecting him to be.

“Alright, monster?” He replied softly, bending down a tad to scoop Teddy up into his arms, eyes flickering over every inch of his face just to be certain he wasn't hiding any other injuries. “Heard you had a bit of a tumble.”

Teddy nodded, almost excitedly, and Matty fought not to shake his head, utterly bewildered by the fact that the kid wasn't more phased. He almost wanted to scream, in truth. This amount of worrying wasn’t typical, alright? And he was fucking getting up there in age! All the stupid shit he’d managed to achieve during his livelier years and the life choices he’d made added up in the end, didn’t they? So it was an honest to God miracle that he hadn’t suffered a sodding aneurysm on the way over here, or something of the sort. 

“Just a little fall apparently.” Matty heard someone say and he looked up only to be reminded of the fact that the receptionist was still standing there, watching. She gifted him a sweet smile, eyes caught on the way Teddy clung to his neck and the way he appeared to cling back. “There’s an accident report in his bag for you to look at, they go home with all the little ones. The nurse said it wasn’t anything too big and that he should be fine, but it’s best to keep an eye on these things so if anything out of the ordinary does happen it’s best to take him to the local A&E.”

Matty felt his mouth go dry at the very implication and so he wet his lower lip just before he exhaled a little shakily. “Right,” He swallowed thickly, hand smoothing over a riot of curls and pausing on the small bump he felt at the top of Teddy’s head. “And the plaster?”

The woman blinked and weirdly Matty felt a little caught out, as though he was suddenly this afternoon's entertainment. He wondered briefly if she knew just who he was. 

“That’ll have been jotted down on the report too, but from what I heard it was just a little cut above the brow.” The receptionist answered him, extending an arm out to pat Teddy’s back before she stepped away again, “You really were brave today, Teddy.”

The kid puffed up at that, smiling proudly, but his eyes remained glued on Matty and so he returned the bright grin, kissing the side of Teddy’s head before he hitched him up further on his hip. “No stitches then?”

“Tiniest of scratches.” The woman assured him around a wide smile as she shook her head and waved his worries off.

Matty dipped his head in a slight nod, looking down at Teddy once more. “Anything else I need to do then, or?” He asked, letting that or drag out as he inched closer towards the door he’d previously barreled through.

“You should be good to go.” She told him, eyes still lingering. “It was nice to meet you though!”

“Yeah,” Matty replied as he struggled with the door, “you too.”

By the time the pair of them made it back outside and into the car Teddy was keeping up a constant babble, explaining (but not actually) just how he’d fallen and hit his head. From what Matty could make out it was when he was running to escape the fishmen? And so he could only guess that him and his mates had been playing a weird round of a tag at breaktime and Teddy had taken a plunge into the wrong kind of waters. 

“You’re sure you’re okay though, mate?” Matty asked him once they were about a minute or two away from the flat and Teddy’s ramblings had died out a tad. He glanced in the rear mirror to find Teds picking at the plaster above his brow.

“Uhuh.” Was the answer he received in turn and it was enough to dislodge the last of that worry that had been eating away at his chest. 

Matty figured then was as good a time as any to try and talk with him a little. The whole drive back from viewing that house, before they’d gotten the scare from the school, he’d been thinking and thinking. Enough to have concocted the beginnings of a small plan. 

“Remember how we was talking about looking for a new house, Teds?”

Matty’s thumbs tapped at the top of the steering wheel as he waited for a reply, oddly grateful for the small queue of traffic that sat up ahead. It would give them a bit more time.

“Yeah, you said a garden!” Teddy answered him and Matty figured he seemed excited enough about it all when the toe of the kid’s school shoe kicked the back of his chair. “That could mean a dog, right? Taylor has a dog!”

Matty fought back a laugh, the lad’s only just performed a stunt that’s gone tits up and landed him with a wound to the head but he’s more worried over when or if they’ll be getting a dog. Though, to be fair to him, a dog did sound nice. He could picture one now, out there on that grassy patch of land behind that particular house rolling about with Teddy. 

“That’s cool, mate. But I was just wondering what you thought about it all. A new house could mean a bigger bedroom for you, you know? Could have a couple sleepovers maybe, with a few of your friends from school.”

Matty didn’t have to glance back to know that Teddy’s eyes had shot open wide, he heard it all in that delighted little gasp he made. He chuckled.

“And remember my old house? How we used to make pancakes in the kitchen whenever you and mum would stay over?” Matty reminded him, eyes flicking up into the mirror to watch Teds nod at him, “Reckon we could do that again in the new house ‘cause it’d be a lot bigger, means we could all fit in there. Could even do your homework whilst we cooked in the evenings. How’s that sound?”

“Don’t like homework though.”

Matty laughed as the traffic started to pick up again, he moved to shift into gear. “Me neither, little man. But you’re a whole lot smarter than me so I reckon if we roped mum into helping too it’d all be done a lot quicker. And we could do that in the new house, don’t you reckon?”

“Yeah, and then I could get my Spidey walls!” Teddy exclaimed, bouncing in his carseat now, enough so that Matty was honestly a little fretful that he’d fall out of the thing. 

“You remembered that one, hey?” 

“You promised, ‘member!” Teddy shot back at him just as Matty turned onto their street, shoulders slumping in relief when he found that there was a space free a little further down.

“Yeah, I do, mate. Swear I haven’t forgotten.” He reassured and smiled to himself as he parked up and continued to listen to the dreams Teddy had for his future bedroom. And fuck anyone who thought he wouldn’t make them happen.

The two of them walked down the street hand in hand once Matty had pulled the monster free from his homemade rocking chair– and made sure that the thing was as secure as it should be. Teddy was happy to talk away, squealing when he caught sight of next door’s tabby cat and then bouncing in Matty arms when he had just about managed to scoop the kid up before Teds had gone bounding into the road to follow the skittish thing. 

By the time they’d made it in through the front door, Matty was sure he couldn’t take much more after the emotional rollercoaster he’d been on most of the day. 

“Squeaks?” He called out whilst he coaxed Teddy into kicking off his shoes and jacket, only just managing to peel the bookbag off the kid when Mouse came into view.

“Mama! Look at my Spidey sticker!” Teds called out as he tumbled on over to the woman, pointing to his head. In truth, it was a mystery how he didn’t take another tumble then and there, what with the way he was skidding about all over the floors. 

Matty let go of a weighted sigh and took to shucking off his own shit, dropping his boots onto the shoe stand before he hung up his jacket beside Teddy’s. When he stood back on his feet Teds had already hurried off into the living room, happy to be home from school again it seemed and not caring about the grape sized lump protruding from the side of his head.

Mouse quirked a brow at him when he stepped nearer, hiding her amused smile at his wary appearance, but still willing to let him wrap his arms around her waist and his head fall against her neck. “Okay, lovely?” She murmured into his hair and Matty felt himself nod slightly.

“Shattered.”

“Life of having kids, babe.” Squeaks chuckled, running a hand through his curls before resting it on the nape of his neck, “Thank you for going to get him.”

Matty pulled away to frown down at her, brow pinched. “Don’t thank me, you muppet. It’s weird.”

She simply resorted to snorting at the reply he’d given and then smiled, “I just appreciate it, is all. That alright with you?”

Rolling his eyes, Matty pinched her side before he slipped away. “Nope. But you can make it up to me by making dinner?”

He received a halfhearted scowl at the attempt but her smile was warm and soft and everything he loved, so he didn’t worry too much as he went to join Teddy on the settee.

Apparently, he hadn’t really needed to ask about dinner because it seemed as though Mouse had already had the foresight to have gotten a start on it when he’d been gone. So after he’d made sure that Teds was sweet and honed into his show, he’d peeled himself off the comfy cushions and headed into the kitchen to help out. 

Cooking together was something Matty had always loved. In the early days, he’d just been content to sit there and watch her work. But now he enjoyed helping out, even if it meant being bossed about or bumping into one another in the too small space.

It was just when they brushed against one another again, as she bent down to open the oven door that he only just narrowly missed toppling over the side of, that Matty could no longer hold his tongue on the subject.

“This place feels like it’s getting smaller and smaller by the day.” 

His words were merely met by a low hum whilst Squeaks continued to check on the food. Matty spared another halfhearted glance around the cramped kitchen, at the small wooden table and the tiny fridge tucked up under the counter. Then at the washing machine that was on its last legs and the pile of pots and pans they had no space for. 

“That house we saw was massive, kitchen was sort of like one of those you’d find in a catalogue, don’t you think?” He pressed a little further, tongue toying with the back of his front teeth as he struggled not to peer back over at her to witness her reaction. “Wouldn’t be bumping into one another all the time if we chose something like that.” He chuckled, but the sound of it was quickly cut short by the slam of the oven door.

“What, so you don’t like bumping into me anymore?” Mouse asked and Matty shifted to find her standing there by the hob, tea towel fisted in the hand she held at her hip. “‘Cause I do. I like coming home to you, to us spending time with each other, even if it’s in silence. I enjoy brushing past you in the kitchen and in the hallway, and even in the bathroom when you claim you have to brush your teeth the very second I do!”

Matty blinked.

“I love this flat, Matty. I love the fact that the rent’s cheap! That we’re chummy with the landlord and the neighbours aren’t half bad. That I can count on them to watch Teddy if something ever did happen!” Mouse exclaimed, staring back at him with those big eyes of hers, chest almost heaving.

“Teddy’s first steps were taken here!” She continued on, as though it had just slowly been building up inside her and had suddenly found its chance to blow. She paused, only to point up at the ceiling to where a splodgy patch of something hung above them, “See that stain? That’s from when Teds had his first bowl of bolognese. And that chip in the tile right there? That’s from when you dropped that planter you got me after you’d come home from tour!” 

Matty stared down at the chip now, noting that it wasn’t the only imperfection in the mosaic of tiles, but one that he could remember making as clear as day.

His silence must have lingered on too long though because Mouse then took his wrist and led him out of the kitchen, she stopped short to point at the plethora of guitars that crowded a corner of the living room. “And how about that mark on the wall? The one made when Ross and George came over for Halloween and all those guitars went toppling over as they chased after Teds.”

Teddy was watching them now, eyes having wandered away from the tele set and over to where Squeaks gripped his hand a little tighter to tug him along behind her and into the hallway. 

She paused by the door to Teddy’s room and Matty already knew what was coming.

“You told me you loved me here.” She murmured, stealing the breath right out of his lungs, before she then turned to spare a glance at the front door. “And we can’t forget that door.”

Matty breathed out a faint chuckle, his startled gaze moving to find hers in the dimly lit hall, only her eyes were glassy and darting back and forth between his own, almost pleadingly. 

“I know it’s too small. And I know we can’t stay here forever. But it’s home. It’s a place made up of all my best memories, Matty.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Because suddenly he realised that this was why she had claimed that she had hated every house that they had gone to look at. Why she had been so adamant on getting it right, on finding the right one. Why she had made up excuse after excuse to get out of viewings, to turn each one of them down.

Matty reached over to cradle her face before he pulled her in close, hands falling to hold her. He smiled softly when he caught a flash of movement just out of the corner of his eye. It was barely a gesture, let alone a nod of his head, but Teddy knew what it meant all the same and bolted over from where he’d been standing in the doorway of the living room to join them.

Matty understood then. That the flat was a part of them. But moving didn’t have to mean giving all their memories up. It could simply mean creating new ones, better ones. He only hoped that he could somehow convince Mouse of that. Because he knew that she wanted this too, deep down, she wanted a place that could be all of theirs, that they could mould and shift and shape into their own. But she was just so afraid to let go of the past, to take that next step, to leave the memories they’d made here together behind.

But he would show her it would all be fine. Somehow.

So with that thought, Matty went and did the one thing he knew would have to work.

A week passed after that emotional afternoon and things mostly settled. Matty hadn’t brought up another thing about house hunting or viewing talks with Mila, and so he could only guess that Mouse had been somewhat lulled into the sense of thinking that that had been the end of it all.

But then they were on their way back from Hann and Carly’s the next Wednesday, they’d had lunch and talked music, and Squeaks had been none the wiser when Matty had taken the Jeep down a wrong turn.

It was only when they’d pulled onto the street and the gravel beneath the tyres had levelled and softened out that Mouse had perked up a little in her seat. Her brow was pinched when she finally turned to face him, eyes darting around, “Think you missed an exit back there.”

Matty didn’t give her reply as he scanned the street for that familiar number, the weight of an unknown pair of keys sitting heavily in his right trouser pocket.

“Matty, do you even know where we are?” Mouse wondered again before she started messing about with the navigation system on the console. But Matty didn’t pay it much mind, continued to roll the car further and further down the street until they reached that fenced gate he’d exited through the last time they were here. “Matty?”

He came to a slow halt and switched the engine off, shooting her a sly smirk before he slipped out the side door.

“Matty!” Mouse called after him in a hiss, but Matty was already jogging up the few short steps to that painted white porch, a tiny set of keys already warming his palm. “Matty, what the fuck are you doing? You wanna get done for breaking and entering?”

Matty snorted softly to himself whilst he slotted the key into the lock and silently thanked the lovely Mila, reminding himself to get the girl a proper thank you gift if this all worked out the way he was hoping.

Squeaks called out to him one more time as he stepped over the threshold, a smile dawning on his face as he paused to wait for her to join him.

“Matty–” She was a tad bit out of breath but mostly exasperated by the time her fingers caught on the hem of his sleeve, but then she jolted beside him not a second later. He waited, peered over at her to watch her take in the familiar surroundings and smiled when the skin between her brows ultimately furrowed. “Why are we here, Matty? Isn’t this the last house we saw?”

Grinning, Matty linked his fingers through hers and gently lured her nearer. “Doesn’t hurt to take a second look around, does it?”

Mouse must have been more than a little perplexed by the whole ordeal because she didn’t fight him on the matter when he started to move them further inside— and in truth, he was really fucking thankful for that fact because he figured getting her inside would be the hardest task. And yet here they were.

The hallway back at the flat was about the same size as a twin bed and morphed into a narrow corridor which led onto the two bedrooms and the singular bathroom it had to offer. Here though, the entryway was wide and spacious. The current owners had a bench lined up on one wall where a pair of tall windows perched either side of the front door and the wooden floorboards that ran throughout the whole house homed a large vintage rug, which sat beneath a table in the centre of the room and held a rather bright bouquet.

Matty’s eyes stilled on the wide set of stairs though sat just behind the many flowerheads. “Couldn’t you picture Teds running about in here? Like, him storming in after school with all his mates behind him.” He wondered aloud, smiling as he took another step further inside. “And those stairs, I could see us taking Christmas photos there– like mum used to force me into doing back when I was a kid.”

He hadn't actually expected a reply and so he had to dampen his grin when she chuckled sweetly in return, “What, the three of us all decked out in matching jumpers?”

“Or pjs.” Matty countered before he led her a little further away, pointing out the large fireplace which they could use in the colder months and the downstairs loo that he could see becoming a lifesaver as Teddy grew older. “And look at this dining room, baby! We could have all the guys over at once in here, Adi and your mum too! Sunday roasts round ours, hey? Especially once the rest of the boys have littluns of their own.” 

She didn’t say much to that but her eyes were scanning, surveying even, and so Matty took that as a win and together they moved further forward into the famous kitchen. The very room she had claimed she hated the entire house in.

They paused by the entrance and Matty let himself lean against the door’s wooden beam, Squeak’s hand still holding his. Those antique cabinets looked the same as they had done a week prior, but the wash of colour seemed to illuminate under the setting sun that peered in through the old french doors.

“Could move about in here so freely.” Matty heard himself tease, voice soft though in hopes to not to break up the gentle moment. “Picture it. Making you pancakes on Mother’s day and helping Teds with his school work on the countertop there whilst we cook.”

Matty was surprised when Mouse was the one to shuffle on over towards the kitchen’s island, eyes mapping the vibrant fruit bowl and the cast-iron sink. 

He watched on as her gaze was drawn towards the back doors, to where another patio stretched far out on the other side. Slowly, he guided her closer to them, letting her get a feel for it all before he took the handle and opened them up, letting the light spring breeze flutter through. 

“Can you see it? A couple kids filling up the garden. Us standing here, or looking out that window there, to see Teddy laugh and smile while he darts about back and forth with a football or a kite.” Matty chuckled, already picturing it coming to life before his eyes, replacing the firepit in the back with a tyre swing and adding in a grill for him to man come summertime. “Could even get him a dog.”

Mouse shook her head even as they shared a smile.

“I know what you’re doing.”

Matty dragged his tongue across his teeth in hopes that it would dim the strength of his already too big grin. “And what’s that?”

“This, I get it.” Mouse replied, then she shrugged a single shoulder, “But it doesn’t change anything. The flats perfect for now, maybe soon we can look again and I might change my mind.” 

“You’re right stubborn you know that?” Matty acknowledged, because he’d hoped that by doing this, just them wandering through the empty property, that she might have been able to see what he saw. But still, he smiled down at her.

She widened her eyes mockingly in retort to that statement, forever used to hearing it. “Thought you’d’ve figured it out by now, rockstar.”

Matty simply hummed, feeling the slight breeze settle around them, rattling the metal wind chime which hung from one of the outside beams. He casted his sights out across the long patch of grass laid out before them and took a deep breath, mouth twitching ever so slightly. 

“You know, someday we’ll have to start making new memories.” He mentioned, tucking a hand into his jacket pocket.

“I know.”

It was hard not to fall apart then, especially when her eyes trailed over to meet his nervous smile. She tilted her head at him, confused. And Matty figured he just had to get it over with before his legs soon gave out. 

“So why not some place like this?” He wondered, fingers tightening around the hand he still held in his as he rocked back and settled down on one knee.

She didn’t dare move. Staring down at him and the pretty red box he now held, so still Matty wasn’t even sure that she was breathing. 

“Are you serious?”

A chuckle escaped him at the ask and it was surprising because it sounded so genuine, even with the way his hand currently shook. “I reckon we could make a couple nice memories in a place like this. So, you just gonna let me kneel here or will you marry me?”

Mouse tried to keep the smile from off her face, eyes sparkling as she stared back at him, but in the end the battle was lost and Matty ended up mimicking the strength of it.

“Is that a yes then?”

She laughed, bright and loud, then tugged him up to wrap her arms around him. When she finally pulled away her eyes were wet but he didn’t think he’d ever witnessed her happier.

“Of course it is, you idiot.” She sniffed, capturing his jaw between her palms, and she stared at him so earnestly that it made Matty feel so utterly seen. “But it really does need a new lick of paint.”

Squeaks must’ve seen the evident confusion that crossed his face right then because she chuckled and gestured her head over towards the back door. “The house. If we’re planning on living here then I want it to feel like ours.”

At the realisation Matty laughed in disbelief and dipped down to rest his forehead against her own.

“I think I can manage that.”

“You better.” She quipped, pulling him in for a slow kiss before she was giggling to herself. Her eyes were bright and alive even as she narrowed them menacingly at him and prodded at his chest with a finger, “But don’t pull anything like this ever again, you hear?”

“What, propose?” 

She rolled her eyes at the question but that smile of hers was relentless.

“Yeah alright, I hear you.”

[winniemaywebber]

Honeysuckle Rose

masterlist

part two

“This is the Greater Anglia service to Bury st Edmunds. Calling at Diss, Ipswich, Elmswell, Thurston and Bury st Edmunds.” 

The familiar voice of the train announcer startles Olive awake, her head banging against the strong plastic window. She finds that, embarrassingly, she'd been drooling and she wipes her chin with disgust. Pulling out a compact mirror from her handbag, she takes stock of her bleary red eyes, flushed cheeks and swollen lips, groaning at her rough appearance. All this was the result of a hangover, due to a celebration of her leaving the city the night prior. She had known it was a mistake the second she had agreed to having a going away party the very night before moving back to her hometown. Unfortunately, her fuck around and find out nature had consequences yet again, the movement of the train causing her stomach to churn, her insides doing somersaults and a subtle belch leaving an aftertaste of cheap cider clinging to her tongue. 

The countryside whizzes past the window as the train picks up speed from its previous stop, Olive trying her best to avoid looking at it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wishes to be anywhere but here - here on this train, moving back to her hometown after finding a job after drama school didn't work out, her parents being extremely blasé about what she would do or where she would go next. They'd packed up and moved to South Africa on a whim six months prior, leaving Olive even more lost and confused than she already was after being thrust into adulthood and self sufficiency. It wasn't until Grandma Pearl had called two weeks ago, saying she needed an extra pair of hands at home while her regular helper Joan adjusted to widowhood. Olive had agreed - very begrudgingly, however. The thought of going back home after all this time had caused Olive's shoulders to seize up, the tension wracking her body.

“Wow, Olive Lewis!” a voice cries from across the carriage. Turning around, Olive sees a redheaded man walking cockily towards her. It's only when he's right in front of her and she smells his familiar scent that she recognizes him. “Long time!” 

“It sure has been, Kyle. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, good, good, thanks. You here to visit?”

“No, actually,” Olive says, gesturing towards her two large suitcases sat in the chairs opposite her. “I'm moving back. Moving in with Pearl for a little while.”

"Shit,” he says, his eyes suddenly full of sympathy. “I'm sorry things didn't work out.”

“Nah, don't be. It's okay. I think I need it, anyway. London's too loud, too overwhelming. Glad to be back.” It couldn't sound more untrue, despite the smile she'd plastered on her face. 

“Maybe we can grab a drink? Like old times.”

“Oh, yeah, Kyle. Cos that went so well the first time.” She blinks up at him through your lashes, lips pursed before pushing a breath out and smiling. “I'd like that,” she says. “Let me get settled and I'll call you. Same number?”

“Same number,” he responds, before beginning to walk away. “See ya, Olive.”

"Bye, Kyle!”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she murmurs under her breath the second he's out of earshot. She'd been back in the county not even for half an hour and already the ghosts of her past were back to haunting her. Laying her head on the window and willing this migraine to disappear, she breathes out slowly, just wanting this day to be over. 

The train stops with a sudden jolt, Olive's head whacking against the plastic yet again. “Fuck me!” She yells, before staring apologetically at the other passengers. 

“Emergency stop. Cattle on train line. Thank you for your patience.” The booming, deep voice of the train conductor over the tannoy causes everyone to jump. So bloody British, a lady stands up and begins offering Murray Mints from a small bag. “We're going to be here a while,” she sings out, passing the bag along row by row. Taking one and smiling weakly in thanks, the nausea disappears the second the sweet is in her mouth. Peering out of the window once again, Olive takes in the place she grew up in, the beautiful green fields a shock to her eyes after living in a mostly gray, drizzly city like London for so long. 

Three dairy cows run along the field, the shell of an airplane stood in the middle of it. Trying her best to remember her local history, Olive recounts the model of the plane: a B-17, from when the Yanks had been stationed at nearby Thorpe Abbotts during the war. Feeling a strange nostalgia for a time she'll never get to experience, she pulls her book from her bag for the first time this journey, once again getting lost in A Midsummer Night's Dream.

taglist: @sagesolsticewrites @ginabaker1666 @piastrinho

Olive's playlist

part 2

[fatehbaz]

British presence in the Straits Settlements […] (Penang, Singapore and Melaka) as a whole opened the way […]. Governor Andrew Clarke [...] clearly intended that economic botany should follow the quest for tin. Hardly three months after the [signing of the treaty legitimising British control in Malaya] [...] the Governor pressed Lord Carnarvon, Secretary of State for the Colonies, himself a keen botanist and collector, for the services of a ‘scientific botanist’. [...] Intimate plant knowledge among local [people] [...] assisted the discovery of many [plants valuable to European empire] [...] and the absorption of a number of vernacular names such as kempas (Koompassia), pandan (Pandanus) and nipah (Nypa) into scientific nomenclature. Equally, indigenous names for timbers, pre-eminently meranti and cengal, attained the status of trade names on the international market. Malay knowledge [...] proved also invaluable for commerce and [...] industries.

The Great Exhibition of 1851 at the Crystal Palace in Hyde Park, which displayed representative samples of colonial resources, was a microcosm of empire. Empire [...] co-sponsored the surveying, mapping and inventorying of people, lands and products for the ends of imperial power. Tropical nature, once a source [...] of wonderment, was brought to the domestic market place.

High on the imperial economic agenda were the Malayan territories, the source of gutta percha (from Palaquium gutta). Ingeniously adapted by the Malays [...], the plastic qualities of gutta percha were investigated for medical and industrial use by the [English East India] Company surgeons, T. Mongtomerie (1819-43) and T. Oxley (1846-57). [...] At the same time Oxley successfully pioneered the use of gutta percha for plastering fractures and preserving vaccine, the latter hitherto unable to be kept even for a few days. When a Prussian artillery Officer [...] then perfected its use for insulating telegraph cables, the product immediately gained strategic importance for the empire. Similar adaptations of other indigenous uses of plants paid dividends to industry and agriculture. [...]

---

The emergence of Hevea rubber in the Peninsula, superseding gutta percha as an industrial product was, again, the result of scientific exchange within the close-knit colonial botanical network [...] [following] [t]he illegal exportation by Kew [Royal Botanic Gardens in London] of the seedlings from South America to Ceylon and the Singapore Botanic Gardens [...]. Out of the seedlings sent in 1877 to Singapore, seven were planted by Hugh Low in the Perak Residency Garden. These and those raised in the Botanic Gardens furnished the seeds for the first plantations.

Though an introduced species, indigenous knowledge [...] of a wide variety of gums and exudates [...] benefited the plantation industry.

This [...] scored a major triumph for the colonial plantation industry. [...]

Large areas of Melaka had already been laid to waste by [...] a fast-growing variety of Brazilian cassava introduced in 1886 by Cantley.

The same cultivators soon turned the Imperata grasslands to rubber, but its rapid spread meant that a number of native plant species either became very rare or were entirely exterminated. The wild ancestor of the domestic mangosteen (Garcinia mangostana) is a likely example. [...] During his visit to Singapore in 1854 Wallace identified, within just a square mile, some 700 species of beetles [...].

---

All text above by: Jeyamalar Kathirithamby-Wells. "Peninsular Malaysia in the context of natural history and colonial science." New Zealand Journal of Asian Studies Volume 11 Number 1. 2009. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism purposes.]

[makehydrafictionagain]

Public Relations: Foundations- Ch. 1 Pt. 1 (MCU x Reader)

Note: While I work on Public Relations: Civil War, I decided I'm gonna throw a new part at y'all. Just to give us a better... foundation. <3

Summary: As the team navigates a day filled with public appearances, quiet reflection, and deeply personal moments, they are reminded of the weight of their past and the resilience of those around them.

Here is the prequel to this, Public Relations: Age of Ultron.

May 30, 2015

A low whisper rattled the thin window panes, the early morning wind pushing against the aged glass. It wasn’t harsh, just persistent enough to stir you from sleep a little earlier than you'd hoped. 

The air in the room was cool, the kind of crisp that settled in just before the warmth of the day arrived. You stayed still beneath the heavy comforter, the warmth cocooning you against the chill that had crept in overnight.

You blinked up at the window, watching as the soft, early sunlight stretched across the plaster, filtered through sheer curtains that shifted gently with the wind. Bratislava had already begun to wake outside, though at this hour, the city still carried the hush of dawn. You could hear the occasional sound of a car passing on the street below, but the steady rustling of the wind was the dominant sound. 

It was peaceful. 

You wanted to hold onto that peace as long as you could, given what the day would inevitably bring.

London was easy. Fun, even. A warm welcome, especially compared to the New York and D.C. stops beforehand. It was a press event that felt more like a celebration than an obligation. The English public had embraced the team, the royal family expressed their gratitude, and Parliament offered their formal recognition. There was no tension, no pointed questions- just appreciation. 

Vienna, though, felt more tense. The smiles were there, but beneath them was something else- something… watchful. The press event went smoothly, but the meetings behind closed doors had a different tone. You weren’t present for them, but from what you were told afterward they were sprinkled with questions about accountability, concerns about unchecked power. Nothing direct, nothing outright accusatory, but enough to make the entire team feel the shift.

Seoul proved to be a relieving break. A chance to focus on progress rather than politics. Dr. Cho was highly honored for her contributions to medical advancements, and you watched as she accepted her recognition with the quiet confidence of someone who didn’t need applause to validate her work. 

She helped you with an advanced regenerative treatment for your shoulder- nothing miraculous, just something to speed the healing along. It was incredibly reminiscent of the day you met the team; Clint was all beat up, but had just been worked on by Dr. Cho and was almost instantly healed. You hoped it would be the same for you. 

Steve sure remembers that day. Dr. Cho pointed out, both amused and confused, how often he watched you. She wasn’t quite ‘in the loop.’ Apparently, because you weren’t present for that conversation, either, he was quite flustered when Sam latched onto that comment like a dog with a bone. 

It was honestly the closest thing to a moment of peace that this tour had offered.

Johannesburg, though... Johannesburg was sobering. A necessary stop. An apology, carefully worded and heavy with the weight of responsibility. The city accepted their presence, but not without caution, not without reminders of the destruction left behind when Bruce had lost control by Wanda’s hand. 

The city didn’t need to know that part, though. 

The team visited relief sites, and spoke with the people who helped rebuild. When before there had been celebration, in South Africa there was acknowledgement. Of loss. Of damage. Of the reality that heroism didn’t erase consequences. It was also the first stop of the PR tour that Wanda joined; Steve made sure she knew she didn’t have to attend any of it if she wasn’t prepared for it. She took advantage of that permittance and stayed back for over half of the trip, leaving just her and Vision at the Compound for most of the week. 

You knew she would come, though. As little as you knew her, you knew she would come.

Now, you found yourselves in another new place. ‘New’ may not be the right word.

The team got in late and went to bed pretty much immediately, Wanda was the first to retreat. You wondered about her all night, through tosses and turns on the firm bed that creaked everytime you shifted. With everything going on in your head… The press tour, your speeches, the pain your arm was giving you… Steve… Wanda was paramount.

Because, today was different. 

Today is for Sokovia.

Your gaze drifted back toward the window, where the morning light was beginning to grow stronger. 

Bratislava was peaceful in the early hours, far removed from the destruction of Sokovia. 

But today, everything reminded you of a place that no longer existed. 

It's just so… real.

You sighed and forced yourself to sit up, throwing your legs over the side of the bed. The room was still cool, the floor cold beneath your feet as you pushed yourself to stand. You rolled your shoulder, testing the mobility. It was certainly better now, thanks to Dr. Cho, but the stiffness lingered. 

A quiet reminder that some things took time. 

Padding toward the small desk, you picked up the handwritten welcome note from a Slovakian official, skimming over the carefully worded gratitude. You had received plenty of these throughout the tour, but this one felt heavier, more personal. You set it back down and made your way toward the closet.

Your outfit had already been chosen days before- a sleek and conservative black ensemble, fitting for the tone of the day. 

No bright colors. No unnecessary embellishments. Just something professional, simple. 

Respectful.

You dressed slowly, buttoning the last detail in place before stepping in front of the mirror.

Your reflection looked composed, but there was still a tiredness behind your eyes, one that no amount of sleep could shake. You smoothed down the fabric of your shirt, then ran a hand through your hair, fixing a stray strand before turning away. It wasn’t about appearances today.

A final glance at the window showed the sunlight had strengthened, casting longer streaks of gold across the floor. 

Time to go.

-

The hallway outside your room was quiet; the dulled wood floors creaked underfoot as you made your way to the dining area. The scent of fresh coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the warmth of freshly baked bread. As you stepped into the room, you found it just as subdued as you expected. 

The dining space was elegant, an elegance that truly represented the town's history, with high ceilings and dark wooden furniture that felt more suited to a formal gathering than a casual breakfast. A long table had been set with a modest buffet: fresh fruit, eggs, flaky rolls, coffee, and tea.

Steve sat at the far end of the table, a cup of coffee in front of him, eyes scanning the newspaper that was delivered with breakfast, as if he could read it. He looked focused, but there was a distance to him, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Sam leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to force himself to wake up.

Rhodey made it further than Sam, already halfway through his meal, flipping through some sort of notebook as he ate. He acknowledged you first with a polite nod which you returned with a warm smile.

Natasha entered just behind you, sharp as ever, already put together and observant as her eyes scanned the room for who she knew wouldn’t be up yet.

The mood this morning was different from the previous ones. In London and Seoul there was easy conversation, teasing, laughter. Today, it was quiet. Reflective.

You grabbed a cup of coffee and took a seat across from Steve. He barely looked up, only offering the most modest of nods before a quick double-take and softening of his expression. You weren’t offended. 

I get it.

Sam was the one who finally broke the silence. “Well, this is the quietest we’ve ever been. Kinda eerie.”

Rhodey smirked, shaking his head. “Give it a few minutes. We’re still waking up.”

Natasha, now settled with her own coffee, made a quiet observation. “Wanda’s not in yet.”

You debated whether to check on her, but before you could make a decision, Steve spoke. “She might still be sleeping.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful.

You nodded, wrapping your hands around the warmth of your coffee cup. “Can you blame her?”

Sam exhaled deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “If I were her, I don’t know if I’d even show up.”

Natasha took a slow sip before responding. “She will.”

She will.

-

The door to the dining area opened softly, and Wanda stepped inside, dressed in black. The energy in the room shifted- not with awkwardness, but with acknowledgment. 

No one expected her to say much. No one pushed her to.

You watched as she poured herself coffee, fingers tightening briefly around the handle before she picked up a piece of toast, though she didn’t take a bite. 

Steve broke the silence first, his voice even and directed at the room. “We’ll head out in about an hour.”

Wanda nodded once but didn’t look up.

The others made a conscious effort to steer the conversation elsewhere, letting her settle in without pressure. Sam and Rhodey carried most of the conversation- their tone lighter, more casual. Something about super-suits and robot sidekicks, a topic far above your pay grade and not nearly interesting enough to pretend to care about.

No offense to the boys.

When she caught your periphery by finally looking up from her mug, you met her with a warm smile that didn't quite meet your eyes- rather, your eyes were too tired to show it. 

She gave you the same tired smile.

-

When the team arrived at the United Nations Event Hall they were stunned. Government officials, diplomats, and members of the press had gathered in front of a grand and imposing building adorned with Slovakian and UN flags, its large glass doors opening into a formal reception area. Cameras flashed as soon as they stepped out of the vehicles, the media eager to capture the moment. 

You were last, following closely behind Wanda. Where previously you spearheaded the introduction, you knew that you were not the celebrity here. If Wanda would have wanted, she would be the key speaker, but you knew she didn’t.

Security was heightened but not oppressive, just an ever-present awareness of the significance of the event- of your team. The atmosphere inside was respectful, the room filled with dignitaries and Sokovian survivors, all waiting to hear what would be said.

As the Avengers were led to their seats, lining the right side of the stage leading to the podium, the audience hushed, waiting. 

The speeches began with UN officials, some of whom you recognized as having followed the team on their tour thus far, followed by Slovakian representatives expressing their gratitude for the Avengers' role in preventing further devastation. Yet, even as the words of thanks were given, there was an undercurrent of loss- the acknowledgment that, despite everything, Sokovia was gone.

-

Steve stepped forward to the podium, his expression solemn and composed. His voice carried the weight of the moment as he spoke, steady and deliberate, ensuring that each word resonated with those listening.

“We can’t undo the past. We can’t bring back what was lost. But we can remember, honor, and ensure that Sokovia is never forgotten.”

He took a measured breath, letting the weight of his words settle before continuing. “The destruction of Sokovia was a tragedy- one that no speech or dollar amount can ever make right. But what I’ve seen in the weeks since is something… truly remarkable. The people of Sokovia- those who lost their homes, their families, their sense of safety- did not give up. You did not allow your pain to define them. You stood together. You rebuilt. And in doing so, you showed the world the strength that has always existed here.”

His gaze moved over the audience, making eye contact with several of the survivors who sat near the front. “Strength isn’t just in battle. It’s in the way people come together, in how they refuse to let loss consume them. The people of Sokovia have shown a resilience that deserves recognition. Not just today, but always.”

He didn’t dwell on the destruction, nor did he try to shift blame. Instead, he made it clear that this was not about the Avengers- it was about the people who had survived. “We stand here today not as superheroes or soldiers, but as people who witnessed your strength firsthand. And we promise: Sokovia will not be forgotten. Your stories, your losses, your triumphs- they matter. And they always will. You always will.”

His gaze, perhaps unintentional, rested squarely on Wanda behind him. Yours did, too.

-

Wanda hadn’t expected to speak.  

She had spent most of the event in silence, listening, enduring. Feeling. But as Steve’s voice faded into quiet, as the weight of his final words settled over the room, all eyes turned toward her. She could feel them- watching, waiting, hoping.  

Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she stood, but she stepped forward anyway.  

She had faced worse things than this.  

Taking a steady breath, she let her fingers brush the edge of the podium, grounding herself. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, but unwavering.  

“Můj bratr a já jsme se narodili ve světě, který nás nikdy neměl chránit.”  

The hall was silent, every ear trained on her.  

"Nikdy jsme neměli být zachráněni. To jsme se naučili jako děti—že pokud chceme přežít, musíme být silní. Ne pro sebe. Pro sebe jsme nikdy nic nedělali. Ale pro sebe navzájem. Protože jsme neměli nikoho jiného.” She swallowed, exhaling slowly.   

"Pietro dal svůj život, aby zachránil dítě, které ani neznal. Protože to je to, kým byl. Nikdy nechtěl být hrdinou. Chtěl být bratrem. Chtěl být synem. A místo toho se stal symbolem, tváří na zdi, jménem na seznamu padlých.”  

Her fingers curled against the podium. Despite not knowing what was being said, it was as if you and the others could read her mind. You knew what she was saying.

"Ale pokud musí být symbolem, ať je to toto: symbolem toho, co znamená být Sokovcem."  

She lifted her head, her gaze finding the survivors in the front row- their grief mirroring her own, their pain woven into hers.  

"Naučili jsme se bránit se, protože jsme museli. Naučili jsme se truchlit, protože jsme neměli na výběr. Ale dnes se nebudeme trápit jen kvůli tomu, co jsme ztratili."

Her voice strengthened.  

"Dnes oslavujeme to, co nám zůstalo."

She turned slightly, looking toward Steve, toward the others behind her.  

"The Avengers will not bring back my brother. They will not bring back my home. But they gave me something else- something I never expected. They gave me another family. People who did not give up on me, even when I gave them so many reasons to."

She glanced down the team, toward you.  

"Without them, I would not be standing here today. Without them, I would have never seen who I truly am."

She looked back to the crowd, her chin lifting slightly.  

"Sokovia may be gone. But my people are here. You are here."

She let the silence stretch for a moment before speaking one final time.  

"A to vám přísahám. Ať jsme kdekoliv, kamkoliv jdeme- Sokovie žije v nás."

She stepped back. The room was still.  

And then, the applause rose- not loud, not frantic, but steady, heartfelt. A recognition of something true.

Wanda didn’t turn to look at the others, but she felt them there.  

She had said what needed to be said.  

And, for the first time in a long time, she felt like Pietro had heard it too.

-

The team was escorted to a large banquet hall, where hundreds of Sokovian survivors had gathered for a community meal. The space was warm and lively, filled with the aroma of roasted meats, fresh bread, and traditional Sokovian dishes. The long wooden tables were lined with plates of steaming food, and for the first time today, there was laughter.

Tony Stark had personally funded the event, ensuring that no one in attendance went without a full Stark-branded plate. His contribution to balance out his absence.

It was a moment of warmth amid the grief, a time to simply sit, eat, and remember together.

Instead of sitting at a separate table, the Avengers chose to spread out among the people.

Steve sat with an elderly couple and their adult child, listening to their stories about what Sokovia had been like before the fall. He enjoyed the cadence of conversation between the four of them, only one of them being bilingual.

Natasha and Rhodey spoke with local community and leaders, discussing ongoing relief efforts and how the Avengers could continue supporting them.

Sam entertained a group of children, somehow getting roped into an impromptu arm-wrestling match with an ambitious ten-year-old, much to everyone’s amusement. 

Wanda sat with a group of Sokovians who spoke to her in their native tongue, making her feel- if only for a little while- at home.

-

After observing quietly from afar for a while, you found yourself closely beside Steve; the two of you shared a table with a young family, their son asking him questions between bites of food.

"How strong are you really?" he asked, voice slightly muffled by a mouthful of bread.

Steve smiled, resting his forearms on the table. "Stronger than most," he admitted. "But not as strong as I’d like to be."

The boy frowned. "But you are Captain America. How can you not be strong enough?"

Steve’s smile faded just a little, his gaze flickering toward the other tables, where survivors were gathered. "Because sometimes strength isn’t about how much you can lift," he said. "It’s about what you can carry. And there are some things even I can't hold on my own."

The boy thought about that for a second, chewing his food slowly before asking, "Like what?"

His father chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "Like all the trouble you get into," he teased, earning a small pout from the child.

Steve let out a low laugh, glancing at you for a brief moment before answering. "Like making sure the right things stay standing," he said simply.

The father nodded, his expression turning a little more serious. "We are lucky," he said, his accent thick but his words clear. "Lucky to be here. To have this moment."

Steve met his gaze, and something passed between them- an unspoken understanding, an acknowledgment of what had been lost, and what still remained.

As the conversation carried on, you felt a shift beside you. The mother, who had been listening quietly, leaned toward you, her dark eyes warm with curiosity.

"When will you marry?" she asked, her voice soft and hesitant, her English broken but clear enough.

Your entire body tensed. "What?"

She gestured subtly toward Steve, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips. "You. Him." She tapped the side of her head as if searching for the words. "Together. When?"

Your face grew hot instantly. You stammered over yourself, barely managing a string of half-formed words. "Oh, um- I, well, we- that’s-”

The mother chuckled lightly at your embarrassment, patting your hand as if to soothe you. "Beautiful couple," she said, her smile widening. Then, with a small nod, she added, "Beautiful babies."

Your brain short-circuited.

The woman grinned knowingly but said nothing else, simply turning back to her husband and child as if she hadn’t just casually rocked the foundation of your entire existence.

Your face was still burning, and you chanced a glance at Steve, who had straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening slightly as he fought to suppress whatever reaction was threatening to break through.

You swallowed, trying to compose yourself.

"So, um-" you said, grasping for literally anything else to talk about, "-you were saying something about strength?"

Steve blinked, then slowly exhaled through his nose, a barely-there smirk pulling at the edge of his lips. He shook his head slightly, reaching for his glass again.

"Yeah," he muttered. "This is definitely one of those things I can’t carry alone."

You pressed your lips together, fighting back a nervous laugh.

The mother just smiled, clearly pleased with herself.

-

You and Steve sat alone now, watching the room slowly diminish as families took their children home and press began to leave, satisfied with their bounty. Steve leaned in slightly, speaking low.

“This feels different.”

You nodded, taking a sip from your glass of water. “Less speech-y. More real.”

His eyes swept the room, watching Sam ruffle the hair of the last boy he had arm-wrestled in the line that had formed, watching Wanda nod quietly as a woman touched her hand and spoke softly in Sokovian.

“This is what matters,” he said.

You didn’t need to say anything in response. He was right.

The banquet continued for another half hour, laughter and conversation filling the hall in a last hoorah. When it was time to leave, you found yourself lingering a little longer, committing the warmth of the space to memory.

As the team gathered near the exit, ready to move on to the resting site of Sokovia, Wanda stood just beside you. She wasn’t smiling, exactly, but the tension in her shoulders had eased just slightly.

You nudged her lightly with your elbow. 

“You okay?”

She exhaled, glancing around at the people still laughing, still living.

“Not yet.” A pause. “But this helped.”

You nodded, and with that, you all headed toward the transport.

Sokovia.

-

The transport ride was quiet. No one had much to say, and even if they had, the weight of the destination left little room for conversation. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, only hours before setting, casting sharp beams of light through the windows. The warmth did nothing to settle the unease sitting low in your stomach.

It wasn’t long before the vehicle slowed to a stop.

As you stepped outside, the wind hit you first- warmer than before, carrying with it the distinct emptiness of open land. Rubble. 

You figured you knew what to expect, but seeing it was something else entirely.

There’s nothing left.

Where a city once stood, there was now only vast emptiness, an open landscape dotted with remnants of foundations too stubborn to be completely erased. There were no buildings, no streets- just a stretch of land that had begun the slow process of being reclaimed by nature. Nothing more than a scar on the earth.

The team spread out naturally, each taking in the space in their own way.

Steve stood at the perimeter of what had once been a city block, his hands in his pockets, looking out over the nothingness with an expression that was hard to read.

Natasha wandered toward a makeshift memorial that had been set up on the outskirts; flowers, candles, and handwritten notes left by those who had come before them. She crouched down, fingers brushing over a small framed photograph left among the tributes.

Sam and Rhodey spoke quietly with a small group of Red Cross and local volunteers who had dedicated their time to preserving what little remained, making sure the site was never completely forgotten.

Wanda hadn’t moved from where she stood.

Your eyes followed hers, tracking the way she stared unblinking at something in the distance: a structure, still standing despite everything else having been wiped away. You continued to follow her line of sight, and as you got closer, you saw it.

A mural.

Pietro.

The painting covered the entire side of the lone remaining wall, his likeness captured in motion, a streak of silver-blue trailing behind him. His expression was determined, focused, the same way he had looked in the final moments before he fell.

Beneath his image, in bold Sokovian script, were the words:

"Junak nikada istinski ne umire, sve dok ga pamtimo."

A hero never truly dies, so long as we remember them.

Wanda exhaled sharply, as if she had been holding her breath this entire time.

You hesitated before stepping forward. The others had noticed the mural too, but they stayed back, giving Wanda space.

She took a slow step closer.

Then another.

She stopped just short of the wall, standing still, her arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold something in.

Steve approached next, following your lead, quieter than usual. He looked at Pietro’s face for a long moment before placing a hand against the stone.

"He would have hated this," Wanda murmured, her voice barely audible, but there was a faint, sad smile on her lips. "But I think… he would have been proud, too."

You swallowed. "He mattered. To all of us."

Steve nodded, his voice steady. "We won’t forget him."

Wanda’s fingers hovered over the edge of the painting, tracing the outline of Pietro’s face as if she could still feel his presence in the atmosphere through the brick on which he was enshrined.

For a long while, no one spoke.

The only sound was the wind moving through the empty space where a city had once stood.

As the team slowly began to make their way back to the transport, Wanda was the last to turn away.

Her fingers lingered on the painted surface for just a second longer before she stepped back.

-

The team lingered near the transport, but no one rushed to step in. Leaving felt wrong- like stepping away would mean acknowledging that there was nothing more they could do here. 

And maybe there wasn’t. Maybe there never had been.

Wanda stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, gaze fixed on the crater she once lived atop. You stayed beside her, not speaking, just letting her exist in the moment.

Steve walked up to stand near the two of you, his expression unreadable. He wasn’t watching Wanda. He was watching the land- the open, barren stretch that had once been full of life. 

Wanda looked to the two of you and with a sigh, stepped into the car, leaving you and Steve alone, the last ones standing.

“You okay?” you asked him, your voice soft.

Steve exhaled through his nose, his hands resting on his hips as he looked over the horizon.

“No,” he admitted after a moment. “But I don’t think that’s the point.”

You looked at him then, studying the tension in his jaw, the way he held himself like he was carrying the weight of something much heavier than just today.

Steve had always been good at moving forward, but that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the weight of what was left behind.

Heh.

You tilted your head back, your eyes searching the empty blue expanse above, and then you pointed toward it. He followed your gaze.

“I think we had our first kiss right… there.”

His eyes snapped to you, his lips parting slightly before they curled into something small, something almost reluctant.

“That was a hell of a first kiss,” he said quietly.

You smirked. “Not many people can say they had their first kiss while the city was falling out of the sky.”

Steve let out a breath of laughter. Soft, brief, but real. After a beat, he looked back up toward the sky, then back at you, his expression softer now.

“We survived that,” he murmured. “We’ll survive everything else too.”

Something tightened in your chest at the certainty in his voice.

You met his eyes. “You always so sure of everything?”

Steve held your gaze, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.

“Not everything,” he admitted with a small nod. “But this? Yeah.”

For a moment, you just stood there, the quiet settling between you like an unspoken promise.

Then, Steve tilted his head toward the transport.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

[polijakefim]

Travis Fimmel

May 14, 2003 Joseph Brown

It’s about 14,000 miles from Opium Garden nightclub in South Beach where this shot was taken, to the farm outside of Echuca, Australia where Travis Fimmel grew up—a lot of ground to cover for a 22 year old (reportedly much younger) surfer, whose presence in a room seems to ignite a sustained tremolo in the private parts of both hetero and homo alike. But then it’s a relatively quick hop when your image is plastered all around the world as Calvin Klein’s new pony-boy underwear model.

Fimmel’s rap sheet is a success story straight out of Hollywood. He arrived in LA with $60 in his pocket, spent $40 of it on a cab into town and blew the rest in a pub. Weeks later after wandering into LA Models flat broke, he found himself in New York standing in front of Calvin Klein and other company executives in his underwear, winning the battle of the bulge hands-down over numerous other male models.

Fimmel’s relatively slender physique breaks out of the mold set by Calvin Klein’s previous hard-pumped poster-boys like Mark Wahlberg, Antonio Sabato Jr. and Michael Bergin, and evidently the new approach is working quite well. Just two months ago the British Advertising Standards Authority dismissed complaints that the Calvin Klein underwear advertisement hanging on the corner of London’s Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street was “indecent, sexually suggestive and demeaning” —concepts which don’t seem to register here in South Beach. The poster apparently caused “more congestion than usual” according to the Authority’s Head of Road Safety.

Even though Travis is currently working under a multi-million dollar contract with Calvin Klein, he still drives a 1985 Bronco; answers most interview questions with five words or less, and scoffs at celebrity—both his own and others.

During his time as a fixture in the London party scene, his fling with All Saints singer Nicole Appleton, who is now married to Oasis front-man Liam Gallagher ended because “she was boring,” and he says he never dated film star Meg Ryan, even though they were seen dining together at Robert De Niro’s Nobu restaurant in New York. Who do you believe—Travis or Inside Edition?

He also displays his affection for former video clip love interest Jennifer Lopez using a rather quaint, down-home complement, “She’s got a fat arse but she’s very nice.”

Yeah, we know, Travis—isn’t it great?

[victoriaenjoyshardcore]

25.05.2023

When I look around me there are high ceilings and plaster patterns but no Hogwarts style here; all is plain and white and a wee torn down. The bookcases do not reach the ceilings; there is nothing majestic here. Just boring high school bookshelves - some of them maybe even made from cheap plastic. Posters of Black Panthers on the walls complement the teal colour on the entrance hall and the big staircase leading who knows where

thank god for south london dude

[biographyit]

Saim Ayub ruled out of second South Africa Test

Saim underwent tests this afternoon and reports sent to specialists in London for further advice Saim Ayub walking with plastered leg after suffering ankle injury during the first day of the second Test match between South Africa and Pakistan at Newlands stadium in Cape Town on January 3, 2025. — Reporter Pakistan’s left-handed opening batter Saim Ayub has been ruled out of the second Test…

[decorworks]

Eight home kitchens finished with tactile brick floors

Our latest lookbook collects eight houses from around the world that feature kitchens with tactile brick floors, including a mid-century home in the USA and a coastal dwelling in Denmark. Widely used for their durability and low maintenance, bricks are a long-time favourite material across the fields of architecture, interiors and design. They are most commonly used on walls and patios, but also popular as internal flooring because of their ability to add rich, earthy tones and tactile qualities to an interior.  While brick flooring may conjure up images of old rustic farmhouses, this roundup shows how they can also be adapted to suit contemporary homes around the world.  The examples below include those that have been arranged in herringbone format, used as a backdrop to oak cabinetry or designed to connect homes to their matching patios outside. This is the latest in our lookbooks series, which provides visual inspiration from Dezeen's archive. For more inspiration, see previous lookbooks featuring conversation pits, autumnal living rooms and lavish members' clubs.

Photo by Carlos NaudeHacienda Granada, USA, by Working Holiday Studio Working Holiday Studio sought to create a "hacienda vibe" for this mid-century home that it overhauled in Los Angeles. Among the alterations was a revamp of the kitchen, which involved adding a floor of warm terracotta bricks handmade in Tijuana, Mexico, arranged in a herringbone format. They contribute to a warm and earthy aesthetic in the room, which is enhanced by dark green plaster walls and wooden joinery and furniture. Find out more about Hacienda Granada ›

Photo by Agnese SanvitoGallery House, UK, by Neil Dusheiko Chunky reclaimed bricks extend down from the lower half of the walls of this kitchen and continue out across its floor. Designed by architect Neil Dusheiko for his father-in-law, the terracotta lining forms a backdrop to a wall of storage built from oak that displays ceramics, glassware and framed pictures. Find out more about Gallery House ›

Photo by Jonas Bjerre-Poulsen of Norm ArchitectsFjord Boat House, Denmark, by Norm Architects Handmade ceramic bricks are inlaid across the floor of this kitchen, which Danish studio Norm Architects created at the Fjord Boat House in Denmark. Married with warm oak finishes and a custom washi-paper pendant lamp, the textured flooring is intended to contribute to a warm and cosy atmosphere. "A refined abundance of warm textures and hues are used throughout, creating a deep sense of cosiness and comfort," said Norm Architects. Find out more about Fjord Boat House ›

Photo by David SouthwoodArklow Villa III, South Africa, by Douglas & Company During their renovation of a century-old house in Cape Town, architects Liani and Jan Douglas revamped the kitchen with a tactile material palette that includes brick flooring. The terracotta floor continues onto the adjoining patio and is teamed with a structure of exposed South African pine and bespoke wooden units finished with green marble counters. Find out more about Arklow Villa III ›

Photo by Chris WhartonVinyl House, UK, by Benjamin Wilkes Elongated bricks are arranged in a herringbone formation across the floor of the Vinyl House extension, recently completed by British studio Benjamin Wilkes in London. Designed to help connect its kitchen area to the matching patio outside, the earthy flooring is complemented by warm wooden cabinetry and off-white terrazzo countertops. Find out more about Vinyl House ›

Photo by Prue RuscoeBudge Over Dover, Australia, by YSG Terracotta brick was teamed with aged brass and tactile plaster across the interior of Budge Over Dover, a house in Australia renovated by YSG. Bricks line much of the ground floor, including its textured kitchen that is complete with a chunky prep counter made with a veiny marble countertop. Find out more about Budge Over Dover ›

Photo by Jonas Bjerre-PoulsenHeatherhill Beach House, Denmark, by Norm Architects Norm Architects also opted for brick flooring in the kitchen of Heatherhill Beach House, a wooden holiday home on the Danish coast. It was designed as a contemporary twist on the traditional brick flooring found in Denmark. "The bricks are placed side by side instead of in the traditional pattern and have minimal cuts – instead, the grout size changes minimally to achieve a homogenous and harmonious look," the studio explained. Find out more about Heatherhill Beach House ›

Photo by Fred HowarthCamberwell Cork House, UK, by Delve Architects A floor that acts as a continuation of the brick paving outside features in the open-plan kitchen of Camberwell Cork House, conceived by Delve Architects in London. Its design formed part of a wider strategy for the home that sought to better connect it to its garden. This is also achieved by introducing large green-framed windows that enhance sight lines and maximise natural light. Find out more about Camberwell Cork House › This is the latest in our lookbooks series, which provides visual inspiration from Dezeen's archive. For more inspiration, see previous lookbooks featuring conversation pits, autumnal living rooms and lavish members' clubs. Read the full article

[thelenazavaroniarchive]

26th July 2024.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. Lena’s single, Ma! He’s Making Eyes At Me was at number 8 in the South African charts.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. The East Kent Times advertised Lena’s Sunday concert at the Winter Gardens, Margate in the 4th August.

Harry Secombe was doing the summer season.

𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. In the New York Times, John Rockwell notes that every subway station is plastered with adverts for Lena.

The Pop Life By John Rockwell,

New York Times 26th July 1974.

“The Jackson 5 (or six, with the addition of 11‐year‐old Randy), who are performing at Madison Square Garden tomorrow night, are hardly the only young group before the public these days. The record racks and the airwaves are full of piping prepubescence.The reasons are several. Not all such singers and groups appeal exclusively to the 8‐to‐16‐year‐old set of course, but most of the young‐teen‐agers and subteenagers have become an increasingly affluent market, and the music business has never ‘been shy about following its nose towards affluence.

Another reason is that lots of pop has gotten pretty fancy. Rock was born as something vital yet simple. But pop stars and their audiences have both grown older, even with infusions from the youthful end of the scale. Where is a panting 12‐year‐old to turn for moon‐June pap if all lie or she can get is profundities from Emerson, Lake and Palmer, Bobby Sherman, Rick Springfield, David Cassidy, the DeFrances, the Osmond Brothers and the Jacksion 5, are the young Elvis Presley and young Beatles of today.

At the moment every subway station is plastered with Pictures of a rather aggressIve‐looking little girl named Lena Zavaroni. Miss Zavaroni is 10, yet she belts out torch songs with a fervor that might make Mae West blush and an assortment of glottal show‐biz squeaks and ornamental flourishes worthy of the aging Judy Garland,

Clearly, some adults can find tot stars cuddly cute, and maybe even look upon their juxtaposition with “mature” material with mildly kinky glee. Miss Zavaroni’s version of “Help Me Make It Through the Night” makes the 15‐year‐old Tanya Tucker’s account of “Would You Lay With Me (In a Field of Stone)” sound positively innocent.

Miss Zavaroni has a brassy vocal talent, to be sure. But her managers should have their money bags washed out with Of course, in principal there’s nothing much wrong with performing microboppers (to use an Esquire magazine term that never caught on), and a young person trying to sound old is probably no worse than an old person trying to sound young. Some acts, like the Jackson 5, can even make music of a genuinely infectious, appealing kind, and ad of them serve to inject continually new energy into an entertainment form that sometimes threatens to float away in its own cosmic profundity.It’s just that one can’t he quite sure where it will all end.

Rodney Allen Rippy, the 5‐year‐old hamburger‐eating super‐smiler, is, after all heading toward center stage.Some adults think of the world of pop music as a den of dope‐crazed incompetents, amiably ambling about in permanent mental fog. One naturally rejects such slander with righteous indignation, except that recently two rock bands have come along that can’t seem to decide how to spell themselves.The first was 10 cc., an innovative British group that has won both commercial success and critical acclaim for its clever variants of rock formulas. The group’s name has variously appeared — in ads, record covers and publicity material—as 10 c.c., 10 C.C., 10 cc, 10 CC, 10cc and lOCC. A woman at London Records, when quizzed about the discrepancies recently, said, “Gee, that’s a good question, We fight about it here at the office all the time.”The latest instance of nomenclatural confusion is Grinderswitch, a Southern blues‐rocking band that has opened a number of the Allman Brothers summer shows., Grinderswitch has also appeared as Grinder Switch; Grinders Switch and Grindersswitch. Perhaps both bands are making a significant protest against the order freaks of this world. As a certified orderfreak, however, I can only urge them to get it together before my next deadline.

It looks now as if the Bob Dylan‐Band European tour, that had been widely rumored for this fall will take place next spring”.

𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟒. Lena was photographed at home with her friend Senise and her dog Whiskey. (from the long defunct site lena-zavaroni.co.uk).

𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟔. Publicity photograph.

𝐖𝐞𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖. Lena was at the opening of the new Tesco store at Pitsea, promoting her new LP; Songs are such good things, and signing autographs.

𝐓𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗. The Stage listed The Lena Zavaroni Show in Bridlington on it’s Summer Shows 1979 page.

𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗. An undated newspaper article about how bored Lena was in Bridlington during her 1979 season and how Carla came down to keep her company, the article estimated that Lena earned about £400,000 p.a, - about £2.03 million in today’s money. The photograph was one of a set taken by John Curtis somewhere in the countryside near Bridlington.

𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗. A fan club photograph from a set taken on 30th January.

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟐. Record Business reported that Lena had agreed to appear in a February 1983 song festival to aid deprived children.

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟔. Lena & Jimmy Crickets show was advertised in The Torbay Express.

𝐌𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟑. The South Wales Echo listed the coming Sunday's Summer Praise on it's television pages.

[thomascodevelopment]

Portsmouth Office Fit Out and Refurbishment | Tcdltd.co.uk

Enhance Your Workspace with TCD Fit-Out: Premier Office Refurbishment in the south east

 Revitalize your workspace with TCD Fit-Out, established in 2013, TCD Fit-Out stands as a reputable office refurbishment company, offering a professional service with high standards of workmanship

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We understand the importance of a workspace that reflects your brand, here at TCD fit-out strive to deliver value without compromising on quality

 Service Coverage:

Hampshire, Surry, London, Berkshire, Dorset

 Why Choose TCD Fit-Out?

Expertise: Our team comprises dedicated professionals with extensive experience in office refurbishment.

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Customer Satisfaction: Your satisfaction is our priority; we ensure clear communication and a seamless process from inception to completion.

Get in Touch Today!

Reach out to us at +44 23 9239 5880 Discover how we can transform your workspace to a happy productive environment

[buzz-london]

In 2017, aged 25, the realisation that life is short and that I shouldn’t care about societal pressures was the wake-up call I needed to live a life as close to my true self as possible.

I had to go private because the NHS waiting time for the first gender-affirming appointment in the UK was three to five years, so I just couldn’t wait that long.

Within a week on testosterone, my voice dropped. This was a breath of fresh air because I had previously become quieter as my voice was incredibly triggering for me. Since then, my face shape changed slowly (it was more angular), hair started growing thicker on my face and chest, my hourglass curves filled-in gradually, and my muscle mass increased.

I would say the most noticeable change wasn’t physical – it was happiness.

Alongside all of this, my first gender-affirming trim after coming out took me all the way from South London across town to Open Barbers in Hackney, a queer barber shop with a ‘pay what you can’ model so people from all incomes can enjoy their services.

Now, I stroll into my local barbershop – one that’s different and even closer to home – for a trim. It’s true this could be a ‘passibility privilege’ (the idea that trans people face less prejudice when they’re perceived as cisgender) but I exchanged social media with my local barber after a few trims and he didn’t bat an eyelid, as my gender identity is plastered all over my Instagram.

I assure you that more people are accepting than you think.

[jrslinteriors]

A Few Things To Remember and Follow When Engaging Top Painters and Decorators

Hiring professional painters and decorators can make a significant difference when it comes to transforming the look and feel of your home or office. Whether you're looking to freshen up the walls with a new coat of paint or completely revamp the interior design, finding the right painters and decorators in South London is crucial. With numerous options available, it can be overwhelming to make the best choice.

However, by considering a few key factors, you can ensure that you hire the best professionals for the job. Here are some important considerations to remember when searching for painters and decorators in South London.

Portfolio and References: Before making a final decision, ask the painters and decorators for their portfolio of preceding projects they have completed successfully. This examination will give you an idea of their style, resourcefulness, and courtesy to detail. Furthermore, don't hesitate to ask for references from past clients. Contacting these references can provide valuable insights into the professionalism, reliability, and overall satisfaction with the services provided by the painters and decorators.

Communication and Competence: Effective communication is essential when working with painters and decorators. Look for professionals who are responsive, concentrating on your requirements, and willing to provide proposals and leadership based on their proficiency. Good painters and decorators will listen to your ideas, offer recommendations, and keep you informed throughout the project. Their professionalism and attention to detail will contribute to a smooth and successful collaboration.

Knowledge and Skillsets: One of the first things to consider when hiring painters and decorators is their experience and expertise. Look for professionals who have been in the industry for several years and have a proven track record of delivering high-quality work. Experienced painters and decorators deeply understand different techniques, materials, and finishes, allowing them to provide exceptional results.

Insurance and Licenses: When hiring painters and decorators, always check if they have proper insurance coverage and the necessary licenses to operate in South London. This ensures that you are protected in case of any accidents or damages that may occur during the painting and decorating process. Licensed professionals are more likely to adhere to safety regulations and follow industry standards, giving you peace of mind throughout the project.

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Of Articles and Agreements: Chapter 1

In which British journalist Darcey Li, columnist for The New York Opinion, writes a scathing article and draws the unwanted attention of Vought and the target of her criticism, America's greatest superhero himself: Homelander. Forced into a fake relationship with the hero to boost his image after the recent revelations regarding Stormfront, Darcey finds herself succumbing to the whims of the shady corporation, and to the affections of the man she thought she hated.

Chapter 1 

Homelander: America’s hollowest hero.

I scrutinised my manager’s face as his beady eyes worked down the freshly written article I’d just handed to him, gulping hot tea from my Waterstones flask. It was half-eight in the morning and cold at this time of year, the New York February chill being harsher than what I was used to in London. Supposedly, a blizzard was on the way. My scarf still wrapped tightly around my neck, I found myself longing for dull, English drizzle.

I wondered what he thought of it. Greg had an annoyingly adept poker face, and it was often difficult to gauge his thoughts before he spoke. He would hum here and there, pausing to re-read and re-assess. Each time he turned a page he would give his fingers a loud lick. I watched him with quiet self-assuredness.

It was a sledgehammer of an article. Probably the bluntest, dare I say meanest, piece I’d ever produced. I could only describe it as a complete character annihilation of America’s greatest superhero. With all the recent revelations, I had had plenty of ammunition.

It wasn’t that I hated Homelander, or any of the Seven. In fact, some years ago I was much like everyone else; wide-eyed and in awe. I would ogle daily at the news, captivated, consuming video after video of Homelander saving people from burning buildings, terrorists, and supervillains. It was uplifting and inspiring; addictive, even. I was, as others in Europe, desperately envious of the excitement and glimmer taking place on the other side of the Atlantic.

But I grew disillusioned and found myself absorbing superhero media not with adoration as I once had, but with cynicism and uncertainty. My mother had always said I had a nasty, suspicious mind. Maybe I just grew up. The absurdity of it all struck me out of the blue. I had been coming back one evening in my home town Beckenham, South London. I’d just finished a weekly Sainsbury’s shop – I remember struggling with the bags - and was walking back to my car, when on the way I passed by the local cinema. It was a fairly small, nondescript place, I’d walked past it dozens of times before. I remember they were showing the new film, Homelander: Brightest Day. The trailer was playing on loop on the screens inside and there were giant posters on either side of the door. It was here that the superhero’s flashing smile struck me in a way I can only describe as unnervingly uncanny. Perhaps it was the overwhelming ubiquity of the man’s perfect face plastered across the coffee cup in my hand, the posters on the wall, and on the crumpled pack of peas in my shopping bag. Disgust had bubbled in my throat like bile and I’d quickly turned away.

The news of A-Train’s tragic incident with the Queens girl and The Deep’s predatory nature made me even sicker. I realised these ‘heroes’ we worshipped were as flawed and imperfect as the rest of us, albeit with deeper pockets and massive marketing teams. Then, the bombshell unearthing of Stormfront’s racist past finally killed my love of superheroes once and for all. I was determined to let the world know who they really were.

Greg turned back to me, his face blank. My confidence wavered; was it too harsh? Maybe he’d ask me to tone it down, avoid alienating readers. But The New York Opinion was infamous for not pulling any punches.

“Gutsy, topical, and controversial.” Greg broke out into a toothy grin, slapping the article on his desk and stabbing at it with one fat finger, making me jump in my seat. He rose from the desk, coffee in hand, and smiled widely. “Everyone’s going to be reading this by lunch I can guarantee it, left and right-wingers alike. No one can ignore that title”. He slurped loudly and gestured through the glass behind me. I turned and saw Mike the intern stumbling towards us, juggling numerous coffees.

“Great job, Darcey.” Greg beamed at me again as he held open the office door. I smiled back, rising from the armchair.

“I had a lot of fun writing it.”

“Thanks, Greg, morning. Morning, Darcey. Wow, isn’t it cold today?” Mike said, bustling into the office. Downing the rest of his drink, Greg reached out to him and swapped a hazelnut latte for my Homelander article.

“Oh, what’s this?” Mike peered at the papers stuffed by his armpit, glasses slipping down his nose. “Thanks”. He said, as Greg repositioned them.

“It’s my newest article, about Homelander. That he’s a hoax and a fraud. That America needs to reject its dependency on superheroes.” I said, emphasising the last sentence and standing up a little taller.

I was proud of the work I’d produced and excited to get my article out to the public. I’d written pieces dismissing the country’s love of superheroes before, but this was my biggest one yet. Vought had finally fucked up so badly, the American people were bound to listen. The anticipation hung in the area around me, my excitement causing little shivers to course electrically through my body. Or, perhaps that was just the early February air.

“Wow you sure have it out for them!” Mike said, and laughed. “You’re, like, our personal version of the FBSA or something.”

I laughed with him, sipping from my flask. “It’s cultural differences. I just don’t get it. And someone needs to take them down a peg.”

Greg turned to the intern with new seriousness. “Mike, take that to the photocopiers ASAP. We want it printed and distributed before lunch. Anna’ll help you and show you how.” He held the door open for the boy.

“Right away!”

“And Darcey,” Greg said, “Email it to me and David when you get back to your desk please. We’ve gotta get it online too, our readership stats are gonna jump. That’s the thing about superheroes; love ‘em or hate ‘em, they sure do get people talking.”

He nodded at me then went back to sitting behind his desk, waving the mouse to reawaken the desktop. The screen flashed to life. I smiled gleefully before leaving the room; things were going to get interesting around here.

“Will do.”

…

The rest of the morning went by pleasantly, but agonisingly slowly. I spent the time proofreading some of my co-workers’ work, replying to emails, and brainstorming ideas for the next piece. I mulled over trying to arrange an interview with the disgraced Homelander himself, but knew Vought would never agree to that. No, the company preferred to orchestrate its own constructed narrative through its puppet news channel anchor, Cameron Coleman on VNN. It baffled me that he was still considered a trustworthy news source by many. Besides, for all my bravado through my pen (or, rather, my laptop), it would be entirely different going up against the man himself. The idea of interviewing Homelander in person made my knees weak. I thought of his sparkling, saccharine smile and wondered if it would appear as plastic in person as it did on screen.

By ten o’clock my article was published and up on the front page of The New York Opinion, both physical copy and online. I was absolutely buzzing; it was my first front page piece since I’d moved to the paper a year ago. I felt like I was finally getting somewhere with my career, that becoming a journalist and then moving to the states was the best thing I’d done for myself. Wanting to remain professional, however, and knowing I’d lose all focus on the rest of my work should I start reading the comments, I resisted the urge to look at my phone. It was agonising.

The time soon came when I couldn’t wait any longer; I was squirming in my seat. The minute my laptop showed half one, I bounced up from my desk, gathered my handbag, and made for the lift, mumbling about going to grab lunch. I pressed the button for the first floor and nervously smoothed my hair in the mirror. The lift doors opened with a chime and I walked briskly across the crowded foyer, my small heels clicking against the shiny marbled floor towards the revolving doors.

Though the morning fog had been replaced by welcome sun, there remained a distinct chill in the city and my breath was visible in the air. The sun glittered prettily on the frost on the tops of buildings and a cold wind howled through the streets. I wrapped my coat tighter around me and fished my leather gloves out of my handbag. The blizzard would surely hit soon.

I made my way down the bustling pavement with an anxious but optimistic spring in my step. All around me, the street swelled with the chorus of urban life; taxis honked, people chatted and shouted, and an endless march of footsteps beat the ground. I loved New York, loved the city, loved being in America. I had lived in London all my life and so was used to the rush of big cities, but the infectious energy of New York City coupled with my recent career success left me exhilarated.

There was a popular café I loved to frequent near the office which did amazing paninis. The owners were attentive without being overwhelming friendly, which suited me just fine. I took a table near the back and at long last brought my phone out from my coat pocket. With shaking hands, I went onto The New York Opinion site and poured over the webpage.

Homelander: America’s hollowest hero.

There was my article, front page. Next to it, a satirical cartoon of the man. They’d given him dollar signs for eyes. My hands shook harder.

Five thousand comments.

Five thousand comments! I gasped, abandoning my panini. This was the most I’d received on one of my articles, ever - and it’d only been up half a morning.

I clicked the icon and started scrolling, desperate to gauge public opinion. I’d be lying if I denied that part of me was hungry for validation. I loved being told my writing was good, that my arguments were well constructed, intelligent, and thorough. Hunched over the table with my eyes glued to the screen, I soaked up every commenter’s praise like a sponge, my heart swelling from their flattery. They thought I was good! They thought I was right.

And yet, for every person in agreement, there was somebody in disagreement. They say five positive experiences counterbalance one negative one. That was not the case here; the site displayed an alternative equilibrium. I’d wager around half of the comments posted were in opposition to the points I’d made in the article, and in opposition to me.

There was a healthy dollop of laconic insults; I took these on the chin, unbothered. More surprising were the sheer amount of people fiercely defending Homelander, calling him a national hero and an honest, god-fearing patriot. That it was disgusting I was trying to tear down this beloved figure and that my cynicism was everything wrong with modern day America.

Truthfully, I was taken aback. I was so sure the breaking news that Stormfront was a Nazi would have dragged her boyfriend’s ratings through the mud and destroyed his affable boy-scout image. That Homelander would never recover from such a nuclear media blow. Had I really read the room so wrong? It was clear from the comments he was still cemented in the hearts of many.

I didn’t like to admit that I preferred when my readers agreed with me. I knew that was immature, that my article was harsh, and that the most important thing was that I’d sparked a conversation. The New York Opinion didn’t care whether readers agreed with pieces or not, it was all a numbers game to them. My article had got people talking; all publicity is good publicity! For more publicity meant more readers. The bosses would be happy… But I was not. As I continued scrolling through the deluge of comments, a few managed to sneak under my skin. People had evidently researched my profile; there were quite a number of messages directed at me, telling me to go back to the UK and get my nose out of others’ business. A handful of comments attacked my Chinese surname. I turned off my phone in dismay; I had never felt so self-conscious. I sat there alone in the back of the café, face burning.

I knew that facing my share of public criticism was part and parcel of being a journalist. I knew that I should laugh, brush it off, and not let it chew me up inside. I thought of controversial journalists both back home and here in the states, and of some of my steely colleagues in the office, and wondered how they were able to shrug off such intense scrutiny. Until this afternoon, I had been so sure I could have done the same. A sinking feeling of disappointing self-awareness pooled in my chest; I should have been cool and aloof, not hot and flustered.

I walked back to the office downhearted and embarrassed, unable to shake off my uneasiness with all the negative attention. I was frustrated, first at the article, then at myself for letting it get to me so much. I was a journalist, and not an inexperienced one; I should be stronger than this by now. Why was I so affected by the words of strangers? Suddenly, the soaring skyscrapers surrounding me made me feel very small.

The office was abuzz with energy when I came back in. My co-workers congratulated me as I walked past. Greg waved at me from inside his office, giving me two thumbs up. I plastered on a smile in return, my movements stiff and robotic.

Back at my desk, I tried hard to focus on my work, hoping to block out any negative thoughts through sheer determination. I started proofreading my colleague Samantha’s article on the rise of the neo-Nazi group of Stormfront fans, imaginatively dubbed ‘Stormchasers’. After the success of my Homelander article, the bosses had evidently encouraged the writing of more opinion pieces on the Supes. Greg was right; love them or hate them, superheroes sure got people talking. I was sick of it already. I regretted writing the article.

“Darcey, you’re on the news!” Samantha said suddenly, turning her monitor round to face me. I looked up, bewildered, horrified.

Sure enough, a familiar face stared back at me from the screen. They’d used an old photo, from the depths of Facebook. My face was heavily done up, my lips rouged and pouting. It was from a few years ago, a hen-do in Shoreditch. I was outraged.

“What’s this on?” I demanded.

“VNN.” Samantha said. Sure enough, the camera zoomed out to Cameron Coleman sitting at his studio desk with a grave expression. Superimposed were pictures of me and my article. The air around me grew cold.

“Now, as I’m sure you’re all aware, this young woman has dragged all of America into quite the storm this morning!” Cameron said, with his eyes direct at the camera. “Darcey Li, a columnist for The New York Opinion, originally from England, has written what I can only describe as an unfair attack on our nation’s greatest hero, and an attack on traditional American values.”

Anger blossomed inside of me; I hadn’t remotely criticised American values. My article focused solely on Homelander, his relationship with Stormfront, and the excessive use of marketing stunts to boost his popularity.

“Which brings me to question,” Cameron continued, “Where all this animosity towards our great superhero comes from? Why do we as a nation tolerate the unjust, unpatriotic slandering of our beloved public figures?” He paused, slowly shaking his head.

“I, for one, question Miss Li’s integrity and motivations for writing this ungrateful piece. It seems to this news anchor that Miss Li is an overly ambitious young journalist seeking to advance her career through the use of attention-grabbing headlines. It paints a sorry picture of the state of journalism today and reveals the lengths the younger generations will go to climb the career ladder. We could all do with rallying behind our great superheroes, the Seven, and Homelander in particular, to avoid letting this distasteful article divide us.

“But now, moving onto more positive news, let’s turn our attention over to the cast of the Vought+ reality series Red, White & Blue Justice, as we have a very special Friday treat; an exclusive interview with the show’s frontrunner, Blue Hawk. Let’s welcome him into the studio everybody – Blue Hawk!”

I turned away from the monitor, heart racing. Samantha closed the browser, lips pursed.

“Don’t let him get under your skin.” She said matter-of-factly.

“I can’t believe they used that picture of me.” I said quietly. Then, more panicked, “Nobody’s going to take me seriously now.”

“On the bright side, VNN practically did you a favour - addressing your article on air. Everyone’s going to read it now.” Samantha said, readjusting her monitor and turning back to her work. “The paper’s pulling in thousands of new readers. Greg and Alan are really pleased.”

I mumbled a response. Inside, I was scared and shaking. The walls of the office seemed to close in on me and I felt the stares of my colleagues on the back of my head. Cameron Coleman’s words echoed inside my mind like a broken record on repeat.

The end of the day came, and I excused myself and hurried out the door, throwing my coat around me like protective shielding. On the subway ride home, I lowered my face into my scarf and tried making myself as small as possible, anxious that no one should recognise me. A man in a business suit carrying a copy of The New York Opinion got on the train at the next stop and sat down opposite me, making me freeze in my seat. To my relief he remained engrossed in the paper and didn’t look up. But I remained tense and sat rigid as a statue until I had got off the train at Inwood. Outside the station, the cold evening air was biting and I shook horribly.

My apartment was only a few blocks away. I walked quickly in the dark, fingers curled around my keys. Inwood wasn’t a particularly dodgy area but the winter evenings were always inky black and I was especially on edge tonight. I feared I’d been recognised on the walk home or on the subway as the author behind the country’s most current divisive article and could have been followed home. I looked over my shoulder constantly and even more so when I crossed the street and reached the old building, fumbling with the key in my shaking hands. I gave the door a good pull before rushing inside and hastily shutting it behind me, breathing quickly. Whilst the building was still cold, it was a relief to get out of the freezing night air and the possibility of watching eyes.

I took the lift up to the seventh floor. My heels clicked loudly in the empty corridor. Once I’d unlocked my apartment, I turned the lights on and staggered inside, collapsing on the sofa and slipping off my shoes. Finally, I was home.

A wave of muddled emotion came over me, a mix of frustration, disappointment, and fear. I burst into tears and then was so ashamed that I’d done so that I quickly leapt up and dabbed at my eyes with a tissue, smearing my mascara. I hated that all this nonsense bothered me so much, hated that I cried so easily. I should have been celebrating my success; I’d made my bosses at the paper happy, my colleagues were impressed, and I’d published my first ever front page piece. I should have been ecstatic. But the flood of negative comments and Cameron Coleman’s words hung over me like a raincloud. I was not used to all this attention and I was not used to being so disliked.

I wiped off my makeup and stepped into the shower, telling myself that this would all blow over soon. I was still a nobody; a young journalist from abroad. VNN would get bored and go back to plugging the latest shows on Vought+, and Cameron Coleman would stick to slagging off Hugh Campbell and the FBSA.

But I’d never been good at burying my true feelings. I stood there numbly, naked, shivering as the cold water ran down my back.

…

 It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do for you. My worries felt a thousand memories away, like a dream that had happened to someone else, and I felt a renewed sense of purpose. The morning sun streamed into my bedroom window and I awoke with a fresh perspective and a healthy attitude. Fuck Vought, fuck VNN, fuck Homelander.

I ate my porridge leaning on the rail of the tiny balcony of my apartment, wrapped in my thick dressing gown. The blizzard had arrived in New York overnight and snow lay heavy across the city. It was beautiful to look at, twinkling in the sunlight. I remembered the pure joy I’d felt when I’d first stepped out onto the balcony after securing the deed, elated that I’d found a place to rent with such a good view. It wasn’t perfect; the building was old and my apartment was very small. Pocket-sized, I liked to call it. But it was fairly affordable, well-located and offered additional bonuses such as this. I loved leaning on the railings looking out over the city, wondering if Homelander ever tired of the sight from the skies.

The 14th of February. A rush of happiness hit me as I realised it was Saturday and I didn’t have to face going into work. Whilst I’d been invigorated by a new sense of positivity, I didn’t want to come down from this high and face reality. No, the article and all the problems it had created could be avoided until Monday.

Foolishly of me, today was the day when I decided to venture upstate. Although I’d lived in New York for a year, I hadn’t properly explored outside the city. There was so much to do already, and I had been kept busy by work.  Today I wanted to get away, see a bit more of the state and leave behind the nastiness of yesterday. Although the blizzard had hit the city, the view from my balcony didn’t quite feel real, as if it were some Christmas postcard given to me by my grandma. The snow seemed to me a magical sight, rather than a hazard I needed to avoid. I was also desperate to keep hold of my newfound optimism and was determined to go.

I put a little makeup on after I dressed, wrapping up warm with a white jumper and red puffer jacket. I packed a small rucksack and mulled over what to bring, taking out a quiche from the fridge, cutting it, and putting it into a Tupperware. I filled up my flask with earl grey and then headed out, stopping by the door to put on my boots, scarf, and bobble hat. Then I took the lift down to the ground floor and made my way outside, locking the front door behind me. The morning winter air was piercingly cold and I shivered, teeth chattering. I almost turned back. But I was stubborn and turning back to the comfort of my apartment would have felt like failing. Luckily, my car was only a street away. I almost slipped on ice getting to it.

My car was a bit naff but it had a full tank of petrol and when I blasted the heating on it was so warm. I tapped in the directions to a town called Newburgh on the Sat Nav, doing a quick search on my phone and deciding it looked like a good place to start, and pulled out, slowly on account of the ice. The route took me alongside the Hudson River, through Yonkers and heading to the Governor Mario M Cuomo Bridge. I drove carefully, enjoying the upbeat pop music playing on the radio, my mind at ease. Outside, snowflakes began falling gently down, twirling in the breeze.

…

 Things took a turn for the worse when I neared the bridge. It all happened so quickly. By now, it was snowing heavily and the wind had drastically picked up. It shrieked like a banshee and shook the car. The bridge was very exposed and the wind howled down the Hudson River. To make matters worse, the roads hadn’t been gritted enough and I felt the tires slide dangerously beneath me. I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles turning white with stress. I’d long since turned the radio off. Snow pelted against the windscreen as the wipers whipped back and forth, blocking my vision. I cursed my stupidity as I drove over the water, terrified. I should never have come; it had been a reckless, foolish decision. But there was nowhere to turn the car around and I was forced to keep going.

It happened half-way across the bridge. A violent blast of wind hit the car as it skidded over black ice. I felt the tires spin wildly out of control. My hands were frantic on the wheel.

Time seemed to slow. I watched, paralysed, petrified, as the car hurtled towards the barrier.

Absolute silence.

Then a gut-wrenching scream, the hiss and squeal of brakes, and the sickening crash of steel crumpling against concrete. The windshield imploded, shattering glass everywhere. My cheeks stung. A sharp stab of pain burst from my chest. A stink of petrol filled the air, followed by a nauseating chemical reek. The sound of frenzied coughing. The smell of fire. I couldn’t see for the blanket of grey smoke and the spots of darkness dancing in and out of my vision like an explosion of tiny stars.

There was a low creak, then a shrill grating sound. My face hit something hard. There was an awful rocking sensation, like on a ride at a theme park. The creaking grew louder as I felt my surroundings swing back and forth like a pendulum. Then, a screech of metal being ripped apart, and a sudden sense of weightlessness.

Dazed, I stared as the remains of the car fell into the Hudson River. It groaned horribly against the concrete, the front a mangled metal mess, before tipping and plunging into the dark water with a tremendous splash. The river greedily swallowed it up and it was gone as quickly as it had entered. It was a terrible, sobering sight. I watched all of this numbly, hovering above the bridge, convinced I was dead. I had died, I told myself, from either the collision or the smoke inhalation, and my body was still strapped in my seat in a car at the bottom of the Hudson.

But I found myself hovering closer to the bridge, then felt solid tarmac beneath my feet. I was not dead. My legs gave way; I swayed dizzily and the ground was swept from under me again.

People were shouting- male and female voices. An ambulance siren wailed in the distant. Material whipping in the wind- a flag? There was a throbbing in my head, and the sounds came out muffled. Then, a clear voice above all the rest:

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

The voice was male, the accent sharply American – rich and buttery. Oddly familiar, and close by. I searched for the owner, but could find none.

“Ma’am?” He asked again.

I realised with a start that the voice came from behind me and, for the first time, registered the feel of the hard muscles of his chest and the firmness of his grip as he carried me effortlessly, bridal-style. An insurmountable, desperate pang of dread washed over me. I knew that voice.

Turning my head round to face my hero, I took in his blonde hair, regal features, and striking blue eyes. They glinted in the winter sun, cold and empty as glacier caves. But his smile was wide, his teeth white and gleaming. My breath hitched in my throat.

Homelander.

----

Thanks for reading <3 Feedback always welcome, always looking to improve my writing. Look out for more chapters to (hopefully) come soon. Putting the whole thing on Quotev as well. Will probably publish chapters every few weeks or so. Ta ta x