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justinspoliticalcorner · 3 months

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Massimo Calabresi at Time Magazine:

Joe Biden makes his way through the West Wing telling stories. In the Cabinet Room, with sun pouring through French doors from the Rose Garden outside, he remembers the first time he sat around the long mahogany table, its high-backed leather chairs ordered by seniority. It was more than 50 years ago, Biden says, and Richard Nixon told National Security Adviser Henry Kissinger to brief the 30-year-old first-term Delaware Senator on the still secret timing of the U.S. withdrawal from Vietnam. Walking slowly through the halls, the President unspools anecdotes about heads of state: Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping, Emmanuel Macron. In the Oval Office, he talks about his childhood home in Scranton, Pa., and the 2008 phone call from Barack Obama asking Biden to be his running mate. Biden recounts these memories over the course of more than 90 minutes on a warm spring day, speaking in a quiet, sometimes scattershot way. The impression he gives is one of advancing age and broad experience, of a man who has lived history. Biden leads the U.S. as the American century is fading into an uncertain future, a changing world of threats, opportunities, and power shifts. At 81, he holds fast to a vision that has reigned since World War II, in which a rich and powerful America leads an alliance of democracies to safeguard the globe from tyranny. [...]

Whether this view of America’s role in the world will outlast Biden’s presidency is an open question. Voters face a clear choice this November. Biden calls America’s democratic values the “grounding wire of our global power” and its alliances “our greatest asset.” His presumptive opponent, former President Donald Trump, called for withdrawing American forces in Europe and Asia and has promised, most recently in his April 12 interview with TIME, to cut loose even our closest allies if they don’t do as he tells them. By his own account, Trump sees all countries as unreliable, the relations between them transactional. That sentiment has spread throughout a Republican Party that once championed America’s values abroad. J.D. Vance, the Ohio Senator in contention to become Trump’s Vice President, tells TIME that the D-Day story has become a sepia-toned distraction. “The foreign policy establishment is obsessed with World War II historical analogies,” says Vance, “and everything is some fairy tale they tell themselves from the 1930s and 1940s.”

During his 40 months in office, events have tested Biden’s vision of American world leadership. Alliances haven’t been enough to win a new European war in Ukraine. U.S. power and leverage haven’t prevented a humanitarian catastrophe in the Middle East, marked by alleged war crimes. Putin is trying to assemble an axis of autocrats from Tehran to Beijing. In China, the U.S. faces an adversary potentially its equal in economic and military power that is intent on tearing down the American global order. President Xi has told his military to be ready to invade Taiwan by 2027, U.S. officials say, raising the possibility of a dark analogue to Normandy in Asia. Biden doesn’t rule out sending troops to defend Taiwan if China attacked, saying, “It would depend on the circumstances.”

Biden’s record in facing these tests is more than just nostalgic talk. He has added two powerful European militaries to NATO, and will soon announce the doubling of the number of countries in the Atlantic alliance that are paying more than the target 2% of their GDP toward defense, the White House says. His Administration has worked to prevent the war in Gaza from igniting a broader regional conflict. He brokered the first trilateral summit with long-distrustful regional partners South Korea and Japan, and coaxed the Philippines to move away from Beijing’s orbit and provide the U.S. new access to four military bases. He has rallied European and Asian countries to curtail China’s economic sway. “We have put together the strongest alliance in the history of the world,” Biden says, so that “we are able to move in a way that recognizes how much the world has changed and still lead.”

But American Presidents must earn a mandate from their fellow citizens, and it’s far from clear that Biden can. In surveys, large majorities say that he is too old to lead. As he walked TIME through the West Wing and sat for a 35-minute interview on May 28, the President, with his stiff gait, muffled voice, and fitful syntax, cut a striking contrast with the intense, loquacious figure who served as Senator and Vice President. Biden bristles at the suggestion that he is aging out of his job. Asked whether he could handle its rigors though the end of a second term, when he will be 86, he shot back, “I can do it better than anybody you know.” Age aside, Biden’s handling of foreign affairs gets poor marks from voters, and not just for the bungled withdrawal of U.S. forces from Afghanistan or the ongoing war in Gaza. While 65% of Americans still believe that the U.S. should take a leading or major role in the world, that number is down 14 points from 2003 and is at its lowest level since Gallup began polling the issue two years earlier.

Biden, who is the most experienced foreign policy President in a generation, believes that role is in America’s interest. “When we strengthen our alliances, we amplify our power as well as our ability to disrupt threats before they can reach our shores,” he said soon after taking office. To judge the merit of Biden’s plan to sustain American world leadership, voters can look to his record: what he has accomplished, where he has fallen short, and how he intends to build on his work in a second term. [...]

Others view all the investment in Ukraine as a distraction from the bigger challenge America faces in East Asia. “Who doesn’t think that $200 billion spent in Europe would’ve been incredibly useful in the Pacific?” says Elbridge Colby, a former Trump Administration Pentagon official and lead architect of the 2018 National Defense Strategy. “Great nations fail,” says Lieut. General Keith Kellogg, Trump’s former National Security Adviser, when “you fix somebody else’s potholes instead of fixing your potholes.”

Biden says he remains committed to Ukrainian victory. Asked about the war’s endgame, Biden says, “Peace looks like making sure Russia never, never, never, never occupies Ukraine.” But last year’s Ukrainian counteroffensive was a failure. Russia recently has made its largest advances since the opening months of the invasion. Alliance building may have reached its limit, along with Americans’ appetite for funding a war of attrition. Biden’s allies in Kyiv complain he has been too cautious, giving Ukraine enough weapons to survive the war but not to win it. “It’s not a decisive stance,” says a senior official in President Volodymyr Zelensky’s government. “It’s not the way to victory.” On balance, however, even longtime critics are impressed with Biden’s efforts in Ukraine. Former Defense Secretary and CIA director Robert Gates wrote in 2014 that Biden had “been wrong on nearly every major foreign policy and national-security issue over the past four decades.” But on May 19, Gates said that Biden’s response to Russia’s invasion has gone a long way toward repairing the damage of the disastrous Afghanistan withdrawal. “He gained a lot of credibility with the speed with which he assembled the coalition of partner countries, allies, and friends before, during, and after the Russian invasion of Ukraine,” Gates told CBS’s Face the Nation. [...]

Biden may be right that despite the partisanship, a consensus exists for a values-based, pragmatic role for America in the world. His challenge is to get Americans to focus on that rather than on other issues driven by foreign affairs, like inflation or immigration. Biden denies that his expansion of Trump’s trade war with China will increase prices, and says his only regret about lifting Trump’s anti-immigration measures is that he didn’t do it sooner. His goal in a second term, he says, is “to finish what he started.” At stake is the direction of the world for the coming century. At Normandy, Biden will make the case for what historian Hal Brands says is “the 80-year tradition of internationalism that has been quite good for America and the world.” The alternative, says Brands, would be a “more vicious and chaotic” world where Americans ultimately would be less safe, prosperous, and free, but only after everyone else suffered first. Wrapping up his conversation with TIME, Biden offers cookies from a tray in the outer Oval. “They’re homemade,” he says. Turning to leave, he offers a final salutation: “Keep the faith.” But then he pauses and turns back, as the phrase triggers one last story. It’s about a relative who had his own response to that admonition. And here Biden taps one of his visitors on the chest and says, “Spread the faith.”

President Biden was recently interviewed by Time Magazine on May 28th (2 days before the Trump felony verdict was handed down) and during that interview, Biden touched on his foreign policy views ranging from Ukraine to Israel to China.

Read the full story at Time.

See Also:

Time: Joe Biden's Time interview transcript

#Joe Biden #Time Magazine #Time #Donald Trump #2024 Presidential Election #2024 Elections #Gaza Genocide #Foreign Policy #Russian Invasion of Ukraine #Israel/Hamas War

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tsukishumai · 3 years

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pairing; iwaizumi hajime x gn!reader genre; fluff, brothers best friend to lovers warnings; oikawa!reader, alcohol consumption, suggestive themes, making out, swearing wc: 3.7k+ summary; after years apart, your big brother finally flies back to visit home. Eager to show off just how much you’ve grown, you invite him over to your new apartment for dinner. It was supposed to be sibling bonding time; so why was Iwaizumi Hajime walking through your door???

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If there was one thing you hadn’t expected from Tooru moving half way across the world, it’s that you would actually miss him.

You had been such a pain in the weeks leading up to his departure. Not only did you create a poster counting down the days until his flight, but you had thrown all your things into and claimed his (much bigger) room before he could even get started on packing his things. You scoffed when he said you’d miss him, going so far as to wear a party hat and bringing confetti to the airport when you dropped him off.

You really did enjoy it, at first. You no longer had to fight over who used the bathroom first in the morning, or who got to pick what to watch on TV. There was no one coming into your room randomly to ask you stupid questions, and the walks home from school were suddenly a million times quieter.

You don’t know when you started lecturing him for forgetting to call, or sending him care packages because it’s almost impossible for him to find Mirin in Argentina. But you had bawled your eyes out when he couldn’t fly back for your high school graduation, and you were forced to come to the realization that you, in fact, missed your older brother.

So when he called to say he was coming home to visit, you could feel your bones vibrating with excitement. Although you spoke to him everyday, it had been years since you’ve seen him in the flesh. You were still just a teenager when he left, a little brat poking fun at your brother’s tear-streaked face as he tried to hug you goodbye.

Now, it was your turn — tears disgracefully staining your cheeks as the snot bubbles around your nostrils. Oikawa laughed when you threw open your apartment door and immediately bursted into tears, rushing forward to engulf him in a tight hug.

“Come on, y/n,” he chuckled, patting you on the shoulder and pushing you off, “I know it’s been a while, but this shirt’s designer, please.”

You step back and smack him hard on the chest before diving right back into his embrace. Oikawa rolled his eyes and finally wrapped his arms around you, giving you a tight squeeze in greeting.

You were eager to show him your apartment, one that you had leased and furnished all with your own hard work. You showed him the plants that you had miraculously kept alive for longer than a week, and he teased you for the family photo you had framed in your living room.

“It looks much bigger in person,” Oikawa commented as you led him to sit down at your dinner table, an assortment of different dishes and sides you had spent hours making spread across. “And since when did you know how to cook?”

“I’ve always known how to cook,” you rolled your eyes, grabbing two beers out the fridge and setting one down in front of Oikawa, “I just never bothered to cook for you.”

“And here I thought you might have gotten nicer over the years,” Oikawa clutched at his heart, feinting hurt before giving you a sad smile, “But this place is great, y/n. You’ve done really well.”

You could feel a sort of strange pride begin to spread across your chest, one that had made you grin a little wider and sit a little straighter. Suddenly, Oikawa lets out a dramatic wail and drops his head into his hands.

“You’re all grown up, and I missed all of it!”

You sighed, a crooked smile on your lips as you pat Oikawa on the shoulder.

“I know. You gave me abandonment issues.”

Oikawa’s head shot up out of his hands, a twisted snarl on his face as he looked at you in shock. “Wha— how could you say that?!”

You laughed at his distress, and Oikawa had started to say something snarky back. But your exchange had been rudely interrupted by four loud knocks. Both of you quickly turned your head over to the front door, your surprised and confused expression the complete opposite of Oikawa’s excited smile.

“Don’t be mad, y/n-chan,” Oikawa started, and nothing good had ever come from that sentence, “But since I’m only in town for such a short time, I kind of, sort of, invited someone else over tonight.”

Oikawa abruptly stands up from his seat, quickly dashing away from the daggers you were glaring at him and waltzing over to your front door. You felt your heart slowly sink into your stomach. You were undeniably upset, having expected to spend some real bonding time with the brother you’d only grown close to over a screen. He was just two years older than you, but the both of you had spent so much time arguing in your teenage years. Now, as adults, you thought this was your chance to really hang out — and he’s still pulling irritating stunts like this.

You had your lecture for him prepared and ready in your head, but when Oikawa swings open the door, any and all negative feelings that you may or may not have been experiencing just a moment prior had quickly dissipated into thin air.

Standing across the threshold of your apartment was your old high school crush, and your brother’s best friend — Iwaizumi Hajime.

Iwaizumi looks at you with a bright smile that made you feel as if you had been transported back in time. Butterflies that you thought long gone flutter their way back into your belly, bringing a heat to your face that left you silent. Iwaizumi must have mistranslated your expressions, as the corners of his lips slowly curl downward, and he turns to face Oikawa with a hardened scowl.

“You didn’t say I was coming,” Iwaizumi said, sighing and rubbing a hand down his face. Though, he was right about that.

“Iwa-chan!” Oikawa greets, completely ignoring Iwaizumi’s accusations and pulling his best friend through the door before slamming it shut. “SO glad you could make it tonight. Y/N made a ton of food!”

You hastily stand up from your seat, rushing to greet your new guest when Iwaizumi turns to give you an apologetic bow.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion,” he says politely when he stands back up, lamely offering you a bottle of sake in greeting. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Iwaizumi-san, please,” you finally find your voice. You hurry over to take the bottle from his hand, offering him a soft smile. “It’s not an intrusion at all! Come in, come in.”

He returns your smile with a relieved one of his own, finally shedding his shoes and entering your living space. Your heart was pounding like the rhythm of a taiko drum, and you thought it was impossible for them to have not heard it.

You lead the two boys the short distance from your foyer to your dining room table, Oikawa plopping down in his seat to your right and leaving Iwaizumi to take a seat directly across from you.

“I didn’t know you were back in Japan, Iwaizumi-san?” You questioned him as you prepared another place setting and grabbed another beer from the fridge.

Iwaizumi gives you a grateful nod, his fingers softly brushing against yours as he grabs the cold bottle from your grip.

“I just got back a couple of weeks ago,” he answered, watching you as you take your seat, “Something I thought your brother would have mentioned when he should have told you I was coming.”

Iwaizumi glares at the older Oikawa, who quickly raises both his hands up in the air in surrender.

“Do the details really matter now in this situation?” Oikawa squealed, quickly grabbing his own beer and raising the bottle into the air. “What matters is that the three of us are back together! Why don’t we cheers to that!”

You shared an exasperated look with Iwaizumi before the both of you rolled your eyes and begrudgingly raised your own bottles.

The clinking sound of colliding bottlenecks had been quickly followed by an oddly harmonized ‘itadakimasu’, and it was this that finally cut the ribbon of tension that had momentarily filled the atmosphere.

You forget just what a force the Iwaizumi/Oikawa combo truly was, having been deprived of the harmonious chaos the two often created whenever they were together for years. But now, the floodgates had been opened, and you were swept away in the current of nostalgia, all while trying to reconcile with the very new reality you were finding hard to believe was yours.

Everything about this was familiar. Your brother complaining about your cooking, yet still eating three full plates of food. Iwaizumi purposely antagonizing Oikawa with subtle jabs and back handed compliments. Oikawa asking you to take his side, so naturally, you take Iwaizumi’s because he helped you put the empty dishes in the sink. The two stayed bickering about anything and nothing, but the soft look in both their eyes and the way they leaned back against the chair and laughed told you that this was something that was sorely missed.

Yet somehow, none of it was the same.

The three of you still sat at your dining room table, and at first glance, Oikawa was hardly any different. His chest was just a bit broader, hair just a few inches shorter, and his skin had been kissed by the sun in a way it hadn’t been before. But then you see that his shoulders were no longer carrying the heavy burden he had placed on himself for years, and you notice his smiles had finally begun to reach his eyes. He now speaks to you with a gentleness to his tone that had never been there before, and his laughter had ceased to be laced with bitterness and discontent.

Oikawa’s hand moved so animatedly in the air as he talked about the cultural reset he had to go through in Argentina, but when Oikawa spoke of his new home, you knew he finally found a place he belonged.

Iwaizumi segues into a story about his roommates from America, and you could hardly see any shadow of the boy you once knew in the man that now sat in front of you.

Iwaizumi had always been handsome, but now he was drop dead gorgeous. His jaw looked so sharp, you were sure you would cut yourself if you dared to run your fingers along his skin, but you wouldn’t mind if it meant you could your thumb across his bottom lip. He filled out his shirt too perfectly, the outline of his pectorals barely starting to peek through the thin fabric. When he crosses his arms, you notice the veins that travel along the planes of his muscles, and you wonder what it would feel like if they were wrapped around you.

You move eyes up from his chest only to be met with hazy, verdant irises.

You froze in your seat, eyes locked with Iwaizumi’s as you try not to smack yourself on the face.

He caught you checking him out.

You felt your throat dry up at your attempt to gulp, ready to live with the humiliation for the rest of your life, but your despair had turned into irrational hope when Iwaizumi lightly licks his lips and smirks.

You had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“So, your own apartment, a job in the city,” Iwaizumi now turns the conversation to you, “Who would have thought Babykawa would be the most stable one out of all of us.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, cringing at your old nickname, “Do I look like a baby to you?”

“You’ll always be a baby to me,” Oikawa reaches over and pats your head, “but seriously. I’m really proud of you. You’re all grown up.”

Oikawa’s vision may have been blurred by the tears in his eyes, but you could clearly see the way Iwaizumi had looked at you up and down.

“Yeah, you definitely are,” he mumbled, reaching for the sake bottle the three of you had been drinking for the past hour. But when he tries to pour into his empty glass, not a single drop came out.

“We finished it,” you pouted, crossing your arms in a huff.

“Nooo, I want more,” Oikawa whined, banging his fists on the wodden table.

“Stop, you’re going to break the damn thing,” Iwaizumi snaps, and he tries to shake the bottle down for any ounce of liquid that might have been trapped inside. But alas, the bottle was dry, and the fridge had been devoid of beer ten minutes ago.

“Y/N, go buy more drinks,” Oikawa demanded, pointing at the door, “I saw a convenience store a few blocks down.”

You groan at Oikawa, rolling your eyes at him. But you weren’t ready for the night to be over, so you moved to get up from your seat and grab your keys.

But before you could go anywhere, Iwaizumi shoots an arm out to keep you in place, giving Oikawa the dirtiest look.

“Oi, shittykawa, it’s the middle of the night, and you’re going to order y/n to go out alone?” Iwaizumi lectures, “What the hell is wrong with you? Argentina make you forget your manners or something?”

“Ahh, I’m sorry, Iwa-chan, I can’t understand you with that American accent,” Oikawa childishly retaliates, but Iwaizumi just gives him a hard look.

“Damn it, fine, I’ll go,” Oikawa mutters, getting up to grab his coat, “Make some snacks while I’m gone.”

You stare at Iwaizumi slack-jawed. Oikawa was always such a pain in your ass, you could never get used to how easily he bended for Iwaizumi.

Though, you can’t deny you’d bend for —

Your thoughts were interrupted with the slam of your front door.

“That was impressive,” you commented, and Iwaizumi chuckled.

“That’s nothing,” he replies, waving a hand in front of his face, “Thanks again for letting me crash your dinner.”

You smile at how suddenly the previously confident Iwaizumi had melted into the nervous bundle in front of you, as he fiddled with his glass and ran a hand through his hair.

“Well, the bottle of sake made up for it, I suppose,” you joked, sighing dramatically, resting your arms on the table. “Though, your second mistake was only bringing one bottle.”

A comfortable silence fell amongst the two of you as you both leaned back on your chairs, and Iwaizumi’s gaze rested on your face. His cheeks were tinted red, and the corner of his lips had been upturned so slightly, that if you hadn’t been staring at him all night, you probably wouldn’t have noticed.

“I’m glad to see you’re still the same you,” he sighed out, now fully letting his smile rest on his lips.

There was no stopping your lips from returning his smile with one of your own, and you felt incredibly stupid for feeling so giddy over something that wasn’t even really a compliment.

“And I’m just glad to see you, Iwaizumi-san,” the words involuntarily tumbled from your tongue, the creeping onset of inebriation beginning to loosen your lips.

Iwaizumi raises an eyebrow at you. “What’s with the Iwaizumi-san? What happened to Iwa-chan?”

You recall the moniker you had adapted from your older brother, having called Iwaizumi that for nearly the entirety of your relationship.

But that was a different you. And this was a different Iwa. And a part of you didn’t want to drag old aspects of your connections with him into the present.

A bigger part of you wanted to make new connections.

“You don’t like Iwaizumi-san?” You ask, leaning forward to rest your head in your hands. You stared up at him through your eyelashes, copying his move by licking your lips, “How about I call you Hajime instead?”

You could tell Iwa had been taken aback from the way his eyes widened and his mouth dropped, but he was quick to regain his composure.

He leaned forward, dropping his arm down onto the table and ghosting his fingers along your arm.

“If you want to call me Hajime, you have to earn it.”

Your door bursts open in nearly the same you way your heart wanted to burst from your chest.

“I’m back,” Oikawa said, “They only had apple soju. Which, you know, I’m not complaining.”

Oikawa returned the scene, oblivious to the conversation that had just taken place a few seconds prior. Iwaizumi takes the bottles of soju from Oikawa and casually fills his glass, and yours. He sneaks a glance at you before placing the bottle down, and Oikawa complains about having to pour his own drink.

The night continued on as normal. You laugh at Oikawa’s story about how he accidentally bought 60000¥ worth of pineapple at the grocery store, and Oikawa sputters when Iwaizumi tries to teach him English phrases.

But now, you find your eyes staring at the handsome, green-eyed man in front of you much more often than you’d like to admit. And your breath is stolen from right out of your lungs whenever you find him staring at you too.

Four, five, six bottles of soju later, and Oikawa’s passed out on your couch with a fleece blanket draped over him. Iwaizumi was still sat at your dining room table, arms resting on the table as he laid his head on top. Competitiveness may be something they never outgrow, because as soon as Oikawa mentioned a drinking contest, you knew it was game over.

You move past him and into your kitchen, deciding to get a head start on your dishes in an attempt to calm your nerves.

It wasn’t all in your head, was it? Iwaizumi was definitely flirting with you. Well, at the very least, you were flirting with him.

Just as you finish washing the final bowl, Iwaizumi enters the kitchen. You quickly shut off the faucet before you slowly turn to face him, stomach flip flopping in its place as you fought the food and drink threatening to crawl back up your throat.

“Hey, Iwa-chan,” you teased, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms, “Have a good nap?”

Iwaizumi doesn’t react to your quip, half-lidded eyes honed in on you through an alcoholic haze as he slowly steps in to close the distance between you two.

He doesn’t stop until his chest is mere centimeters from yours, and you use every ounce of your willpower not to shrink away.

“Call me Hajime,” he leans down to whisper in your ear, placing his hands on the kitchen counter on either side of you. You were caged into his arms, and you shivered as his breath fanned down your neck. “I have a confession to make.”

“What?”

Iwaizumi pulled his head back, smirking down at you.

“I asked Oikawa if I could come tonight.”

You felt yourself sober up at his words, straightening your back so you could look him straight in the eye.

“Why?”

Iwaizumi shrugged, moving his left hand from the counter to stroke a finger along your jaw.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you.”

You couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. A part of you was afraid that one wrong turn would instantly shatter the illusion you had fallen under. Another part just wanted to stay caged under Iwaizumi forever.

You felt the warmth of his hand cup the back of your neck.

“Can I kiss you?” every word brought Iwaizumi closer until his breath fanned across your lips. The shadows of his face had been so close to yours, the scent of beer mixed with his cologne started to make your head spin, and you weren’t sure which way was up.

All you knew was that the moment you nodded your head, Iwaizumi bends your head back and lowers his lips onto yours.

Iwaizum felt so plush against you, his kisses felt as rich as velvet and softer than silk. He moved his lips against you in a smooth rhythm, his hand cupping your face while the other arm wraps around your waist.

You feel yourself being lifted off your feet, stabilized by only Iwaizumi’s embrace. You brace yourself against his chest, slowly snaking your arms up to wrap around his neck.

Iwaizumi pulls you even closer than you thought possible, licking and nipping at your bottom lip, asking for more. You could feel your heart beat faster and faster as Iwaizumi nearly whimpers against you, begging to be accepted.

As soon as you parted your lips, Iwaizumi enters your mouth, swirling his hot tongue against yours, making your heart do somersaults in its cage until you felt your knees begin to buckle.

Iwaizumi swallowed your moans with his mouth, and you cling onto him as if he were your only anchor in this spinning room.

The sound of glass breaking had abruptly interrupted your ministrations, causing the two of you to jump so far apart, you were on nearly opposite sides of the kitchen.

You turn to the living room, starkly reminded of the brother you left passed out on the couch. While he was still sleeping soundly, he manages to remind you of his presence by accidentally knocking over the lamp on your side table.

You and Iwa simultaneously let out a sigh of relief.

He looks at you. You look at him.

It started with a giggle, which soon evolved into a snicker, and a few minutes later you and Iwa were nearly on the floor laughing.

When the laughter dies down, Iwaizumi helps you clean up the broken shards that scattered in your living room.

You go to throw the glass away in the trash, and you come back to see that Iwaizumi moves to a spot by the front door, kicking his feet at imaginary rocks.

“I better get going. It’s getting late,” he said, finally looking up to face you.

You nodded silently, a stupid smile on your face as you still found yourself at a loss for words.

Iwaizumi turns to leave, but suddenly looks back at you nervously. “Can I call you later?”

You had no idea Iwaizumi could be so charming.

You close the distance between you two, placing a hand on his shoulder and standing up on your tip toes to place a kiss on his cheek.

“Get home safely,” you say, “I’ll be waiting for your call.”

The grin on Iwaizumi’s face was blinding.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Good night, Hajime.”

#hello besties I know it’s late but please read this omg 🥺#hqcorenet #hanimehub #iwaizumi x reader #iwaizumi x you #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi hajime x you #iwaizumi drabbles #iwaizumi scenarios #iwaizumi fluff #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! scenarios #haikyuu imagines #iwazimu imagines

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vrishchikawrites · 3 years

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Hello, this is the prompt I wanted to send you.

WangXian fic set during the sunshot compaign after one of their famous fights. They stumble upon an array that shows the future and It activated when WWX touched it. The array started showing glimpses of married and in love WX going on dates (yunmeng date), night hunting together, kissing, pillowtalks and aftercare, adopting children, teaching at the CR... YLLZ! WWX feeling jealous and bitter and not understanding why. The reveal that LWJ's husband is WWX, his falling out with the Jiang sect and JC's role in his death. Basically a fic where YLLZ! WWX finds out that after all these hardships he is finally going to be happy, have his own family and be with the love of his life where he is loved, cared for, respected and appreciated. And longing to have that future with LWj.

It can be a fix it fic with a happy ending please.

Posted on Ao3 here

Alternating POV - Wei Wuxian - Lan Wangji - Wangxian - A bit angsty with happy ending - Mature. Betaed by Moonyju.

I hear your heart beating in your chest

Wei Wuxian isn't the one to dwell on the past or look towards the future. He lives every day as it comes and faces every challenge without carrying burdens forward.

He has never planned for his future, not really. Some vague dreams here and there, but nothing real. Wei Wuxian learned at the tender age of four that the future is unpredictable. One day you wake up to your mother's warm smile and your father's gentle words. The next day, you have lost those things forever. Life has proven this to him repeatedly.

Future is uncertain, present is the only certainty Wei Wuxian believes in.

So, when he and the illustrious Second Jade of Lan stumble into an array while rescuing a few civilians. An illusion of sorts surrounds him, obscuring the real world outside the array. He doesn’t pay much attention to what it reveals. Instead, he focuses his attention on the array itself, carefully examining its intricacies. A single glance is enough to tell it is some sort of temporal array, a shade of what cultivators use for preservation purposes. But it also seems to have some form of an illusionary element to it. He tilts his head to the side and crouches down to study it.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan calls, almost in warning but Wei Wuxian is content to ignore him for once. Lan Zhan has always drawn too much of his attention and it rankles now more than ever.

Another quarrel, another needless argument about Wei Wuxian not understanding the depth and implications of his actions. Sometimes he wonders if Lan Zhan intends to sound as dismissive or haughty as he does when he confronts him about Mo Dao. He likes to believe Lan Wangji is above such petty things, but the man’s dogged refusal to accept Wei Wuxian’s path and his relentless quest to fix something that can’t be fixed is getting on his last nerve.

“Wei Ying,” He looks up at the sharp tone, meeting a pair of golden eyes in question only to be arrested by something akin to embarrassment tinting Lan Zhan’s stoic features. He glances towards the illusion and stills, somewhat stunned by the scene before him.

It is Lan Zhan. Or a version of him. He’s broader, with more mature features and a much sharper gaze. But that’s not the most astonishing thing, no.

Lan Zhan is… kissing someone.

It is someone shorter than him, with long hair tied up and away from a fairly pretty face. Wei Wuxian eyes the way Lan Zhan cradles the face and guides it towards his kisses, gentle and full of affection.

It entrances him for a moment. He can’t help but stare at the scene, taking in how Lan Zhan seems to lean in again and again, to press closer like he can’t get enough. His heart races and he doesn’t really understand why it is suddenly so…

“Wei Ying!” He drags his eyes away from the illusion and looks at his Lan Zhan, who seems increasingly flustered despite the relatively calm expression on his face. His ears are bright red and he’s pointedly not looking in the illusion’s direction.

He smiles teasingly, “Aiya, Lan Zhan, it looks like the older version of you is more relaxed.”

“It is a trick.” Lan Zhan protests immediately but Wei Ying dips his eyes down to scan the array again and shakes his head. There are several clues that highlight the array’s purpose clearly. Lan Zhan is no less knowledgeable than he is so he must see it too.

The denial is already fading from the Second Jade’s features and Wei Wuxian stands up, brushing his knees absently. He glances at the illusion and feels something strange pool in his stomach, something like dread, when he sees the pair again. Lan Zhan is pressing the strange person to the tree behind them, pinning her- no-

He peers closer, swallowing when Lan Zhan’s hand disappears into the person’s robes. Lan Zhan’s… companion is clearly not a woman, that much was apparent at first glance. But it is even more apparent when those robes fall open under Lan Zhan’s questing fingers.

Somehow, that feels worse.

He struggles to maintain his composure and fixes a grin on his face, “Well-” The scene shifts abruptly and Wei Wuxian barely withholds a gasp, his eyes immediately drawn to the older Lan Zhan’s peaceful face. He’s sleeping, his arms wrapped loosely around the same companion from before. The room around them seems like it is in Cloud Recesses, perhaps Lan Wangji’s home?

His eyes turn back towards Lan Wangji and he takes a careful breath, heart aching for some reason. He pointedly doesn’t look at the man’s companion and silently turns to look at the array again. The time element is solid, undisturbed and clean. More than a simple illusion, a clear glimpse of the future.

But…

He looks up and the scene has changed again. Lan Wangji is with that man again. They stand side by side and the man is leaning against the Second Jade brazenly but Lan Wangji doesn’t seem to mind. He has his hand low on the man’s back, a gesture that reads distinctly possessive. The scene wouldn’t be out of place in any family. There’s a husband, there’s a wife, there’s a child clinging to the wife’s robes, and there’s a young man standing before them with a smile that speaks of affection.

The array seeks to show people a glimpse of their future. Lan Zhan is seeing his life as a settled man of a good family.

Wei Wuxian doesn’t exist.

He takes a careful breath as that thought settles in his mind. He has always known his path is treacherous but something in him burns to see life move on so peacefully without him.

The world has never had much space for him. When he was a child, no one had space to let him rest. As a youth, his place at the Lotus Pier was small, surrounded by thorns. The space keeps shrinking and shrinking ever since he stepped out of the Burial Mounds. He imagines at some point it will vanish altogether and Wei Wuxian will be forced to vanish with it.

Melancholy doesn’t suit him but the ache of it strikes him powerfully now.

The sight of Lan Zhan moving on – they’re not even friends, what does he need to move on from? – shatters something in him.

He can’t summon a smile.

Wei Wuxian locks his jaw and ignores his racing heart as the scene goes on. The young boy saying something to Lan Wangji’s partner and the partner grinning in response.

Lan Wangji’s expression is soaked in affection, despite how stoic it appears. The corners of his mouth are softer and there’s a fond light in those golden eyes. Wei Wuxian has never seen something so beautiful.

He watches as the young man leans down and plucks the child off the ground and carries him away, both of them waving to Lan Wangji and his partner until they’re out of sight.

Wei Wuxian’s heart shudders when Lan Wangji discreetly pulls his partner closer and buries his nose in his hair, expression content.

Suddenly, it is unbearable.

He brings his thumb to his mouth, ready to tear into his flesh and disrupt the seal with his blood. It would take very little to get them out of here safely. Lan Zhan has seen enough good things about his life, there’s no need to linger.

No need for him to find out that Wei Wuxian wouldn’t exist during this peaceful time. He knows the man cares about him enough to be upset if he is lost.

Just as he’s about to bite into his thumb, fingers wrap around his wrist tightly.

Wei Wuxian looks up to see Lan Zhan gazing at him with wide, stunned eyes.

```

Wangji accepts what is happening almost immediately after Wei Ying shakes his head. He has always had a more intuitive understanding of spells and talismans. It is rare for Wei Ying to be mistaken in such matters.

So, this is his future. A glimpse of things that will happen a few decades down the line. Wangji is uncertain what to make of it. His ears feel warm as he witnesses the intimacy between partners. There’s enough affection written on his older self’s face to know the relationship is real.

He looks at his… companion. He doesn’t lack beauty. A delicate countenance, inky black hair, and a pleasing form. He looks almost alarmingly similar to Wei Ying, with only small differences. There’s an echo of Wei Ying in his smile and even the way he tosses his head back and laughs reminds Wangji strongly of the man beside him.

Only Wei Ying has never looked at him like that. This man’s face is flushed with passion, lips bitten red by his partner’s kisses. There’s a teasing sparkle in his eyes that makes his breath still in his chest for a moment. It reminds him of the expression Wei Ying wore all those years ago when they ran across the rooftops in Cloud Recesses.

How… is it possible for this man to be so similar?

He glances down at the array, trying to decipher what it seeks to accomplish. Wangji has never seen anything like it but there are enough familiar elements in it to deduce its purpose. It is clearly designed to show them their future, to create a sort of mirror that reflects images of their future life into the past.

Wangji tears his eyes away and turns to Wei Ying, a few questions already forming in his mind.

Wei Ying’s expression arrests him.

Wangji stills, unable to move his gaze away from Wei Ying’s face. There’s something bitter about his grimace and flinty in his eyes. He watches the scene with an almost animal expression, lips pursed in displeasure – furious – Wangji realizes with an indrawn breath.

For a short, heartbreaking moment, he fears it is disapproval, disgust for a cutsleeve relationship.

That impression doesn’t last.

Wei Ying’s hand goes briefly to his chest and something very much like open, raw pain crosses his face, wiping away the anger. The expression… is nothing close to disgust.

It is a short, unguarded moment and it ensnares Wangji completely. His heart races in his chest as several realizations happen in an instant.

Wei Ying is an ever-smiling sprite, mischievous as they come. He rarely shows any true sorrow and Wangji has only seen him show true anger three times over their acquaintance. It is easy to become convinced that nothing can touch the formidable Wei Wuxian. But standing there, looking at Wangji’s future with a bitter expression, Wei Ying seems shattered.

The expression is devastatingly open. In that instant, Wangji has no problem understanding Wei Ying better than he has ever before.

Wei Ying’s expression twists before every inch of vulnerability is gone from his face. It is wiped clean and almost cold, colder than he has ever seen Wei Ying be. He locks his jaw and brings his hand to his mouth, his movements stiff and sharp.

Wangji shoots forward, wrapping his fingers around Wei Ying’s wrist. He feels the pulse hammering under his fingers and his own heart races in an echo of it. Wei Ying’s eyes are sharp and defensive, hiding the pain that Wangji had glimpsed clearly before.

In contrast, Wangji feels almost breathless with elation, “Don’t,” he says, pulling Wei Ying’s hand away from his mouth. His hand doesn’t shake but he feels shaken. Wei Ying scowls at him, which is also something he has never done, “Don’t.”

“Lan Wangji,” Wei Ying says curtly, “This isn’t for me to see and we have seen enough. Let go.”

Wangji tightens his fingers, unwilling to let go. He studies Wei Ying’s face carefully, finding it unreadable once again. In fact, Wei Ying is uncharacteristically quiet, not teasing him about his future partner, not commenting on the cutsleeve relationship, not even mentioning his older self’s appearance.

The silence speaks loudly.

'Don't nurture foolish hope,' Wangji thinks to himself but it grows in him anyways. It is strange that a single glimpse of an unguarded emotion is enough to alter Wangji’s perspective so much, but it does and now he isn’t inclined to let the matter go.

“Don’t destroy the array,” He requests, “Something isn’t right.” Wei Ying should be present. The array shouldn’t focus on Wangji’s future only. He doesn’t know who the strange man is but he can’t imagine being with anyone but Wei Ying.

Is his heart so fickle? Can it stray from Wei Ying that easily?

It is unsettling to consider it.

“We can figure it out once we’re away from this illusion,” Wei Ying says, making a visible effort to muster his usual nonchallance but Wangji sees they way his eyes flicker away, looking at the couple in the illusion briefly before glancing down at the array like he can’t stand the sight of it.

“Wei Ying-”

“Aiya, er-gege, what are you doing to your poor Wei Ying?”

Wangji glances sharply at the illusion as Wei Ying stills, his arm going tense in his grasp.

The pair in the illusion are now closer and somehow their conversation is audible. The voice is strange but the cadence and rhythm is entirely Wei Ying, teasing, playful, pleasant.

Wangji’s grip tightens as he sees his future self pull his companion onto his lap, a spare Lan forehead ribbon in his grasp. It has the clan markings, it belongs to a clan member but Wangji’s ribbon is already on his forehead.

He swallows and feels the pulse beating against his fingers speed up as his future self wraps the ribbon around his partner’s forehead.

“Wei Ying must wear it for today’s ceremony,” His older self says and his Wei Ying sucks in a sharp breath, his hand going lax in surprise, “Xiongzhang has requested it.”

“Well, if Xichen-ge has requested it, this one must obey,” Wei Ying sounds… happy. And it is Wei Ying. The face is different but the smile, full of mischief and life, is the same.

“What… is this?” His Wei Ying asks, baffled. He looks down to study the array more keenly, trying to determine why the illusion looks different.

Wangji is hearted to see the stiffness of his features melt into curiosity, “Lan Zhan, why would the array alter my appearance and not yours?” He asks, no longer attempting to pull away from Wangji.

The illusion is still playing in the background, showing what will happen several years down the line. But Wangji isn’t curious now. The present is so much more interesting.

Wei Ying is looking at the array, the conversation in the background is cheerful, full of intimacy and affection, the pulse against his fingers is still beating rapidly.

There’s a flush crawling up Wei Ying’s neck.

Wangji observes. He sees the blush crawl further and settle on Wei Ying’s cheeks. He sees teeth digging into soft lips, anxious. He sees eyes flicker towards him, towards the illusion, before moving away.

‘How can I bear it,’ He asks himself and gives in. He pulls the hand in his grasp to his mouth, pressing his lips against the center of Wei Ying’s palm and closing his eyes.

---

Wei Ying fears his heart will fail if this continues. The lively chatter of a couple in love surrounds them and his Lan Zhan is pressing his precious face against Wei Ying’s hand, cool but utterly content. The feel of his petal-soft lips against the rough skin of his palm is enough to drive him to distraction.

He doesn’t know how to react or what to say. He doesn’t want to pull his hand away but there’s a strange, almost unsettling sensation low in his stomach, not unpleasant, but very unfamiliar. Wei Ying has flirted with people before but he has never felt any true attraction towards them.

But the longer he remains inside this array, the more he learns about himself.

Lan Zhan moves, taking a step closer, dipping his lips lower to brush against Wei Ying’s exposed wrist.

His breath trembles as he gasps. The sensation is almost sharp, knife-like. He feels his entire body change and respond to it. He feels his fingers curl, his hair stand on end, and his body lean forward.

There’s a flash of teeth.

“Lan Zhan,” His voice is shamefully raw, everything he feels is written in the tone of it. Lan Zhan reacts immediately and Wei Ying goes, helpless against him. Lips slide over his and a warm, strong body presses close. The kiss is harsh, full of tongue and teeth. Desperate like Lan Zhan has been holding himself back and has finally been granted permission.

Wei Ying sways in place, lightheaded as a tongue slides over his and licks the roof of his mouth. ‘What is this,’ he wonders dazedly. There are strong fingers around his wrist and neck, showing no indication of every letting go. There’s a slight popping sound in his ears and he absently notes that the illusion has dispersed but Lan Zhan doesn’t give him time to think.

He yelps when Lan Zhan moves a hand down his back and grabs him under his thighs, lifting him up in a smooth movement. Next thing he knows, he’s pressed against a rough surface and his lips are captive again. His skin burns wherever Lan Zhan has touched it. His mouth feels raw and hot when they pull apart.

He stares when bright golden eyes look at him, edged with heat that he didn’t think Lan Zhan was capable of feeling.

It takes a moment for him to collect his thoughts under that direct gaze but he manages, his bruised lips curling into a teasing smile, “Er-gege, how shocking!” He leans forward, confident that Lan Zhan won’t drop him, “Look at what you’ve done to your poor Wei Ying!” He lifts the hand Lan Zhan had kept captive, showing off the redness he can feel around his wrist.

Lan Zhan glances at it but there’s no remorse in his expression, not even a hint of apology.

Wei Ying feels a delighted laughter bubble in his chest at this new revelation. The reserved and taciturn Hangjuang-jun is capable of such passion! “My, my, who would have thought you’d take advantage of me like this?” He drapes his hands around Lan Zhan’s neck, bringing his lips close to a flushed red ear, “You didn’t even ask, just held me tight and took what you wanted. How bold! How shameless!”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan’s voice is lined with warning but Wei Ying doesn’t care. He feels utterly safe, utterly content, for the first time in years. What can touch him when he is in Lan Wangji’s arms?

“Is it always going to be like this?” He teases, “Now that you know I am to be yours, probably your husband or will it be wife? Will you kiss me… maybe even fuck me, whenever you wish?”

“Be silent.”

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, how can I be silent now? You have awakened my curio-” Another fierce, biting kiss interrupts him and Wei Ying laughs, delighting in Lan Zhan’s eagerness. Everything fades, all serious and practical considerations hold no meaning. Later, when he is alone in his tent, he will think about how unreachable this dream is, but now he is happy to submit to Lan Zhan.

---

War progresses as it must. Wei Ying continues to remain on his cultivation path but his touch is a bit gentler now. He isn’t as ruthless as he used to be.

It takes effort and patience. It takes many bitten back reprimands and angry words. It takes months and months of careful questioning before Lan Wangji understands the incredible, breathtaking sacrifices his beloved has made. Not even Wei Ying can stop him from seeking out Wen Qing and asking for her assistance. Not even his brother can stop him from offering shelter to her family in exchange. Not even Jiang Wanyin’s bitterness can stop Wangji from protecting Wei Ying.

He does what he must because he understands. That Wei Wuxian, the one from the array, had endured terrible strife. More strife than Wangji can ever allow his Wei Ying to suffer.

Wei Ying will survive and thrive.

Wangji will make sure of it.

#short prompts #wangxian #wei wuxian #lan wangji #canon divergance #fix-it

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disastermages · 2 years

Text

Wherever You Go, There You Are

[read it on ao3]

The heat of the sun above them beats down on Lan Zhan’s back and burns him through his shirt while he follows Wei Ying through the massive garden. They’d said little since Lan Zhan had been left standing on Wei Ying’s front porch, his throat feeling swollen with words and his heart trying hard to burst through his ribcage.

He’d thought that Wei Ying had been somewhere inside the house, hiding from him by pretending not to be home, Lan Zhan had been ready to leave, but then, Wei Ying had appeared around the corner of the small house, a piece of dry grass dangling from his lips and a basket of eggs hanging from one hand. There had been mud on his jeans, on his rubber boots, but there’d been a smile on his face when he’d recognized who was on his porch.

The sun could not hope to compare to Wei Ying’s smile, not when Lan Zhan had first met him in high school, and certainly not now that Lan Zhan had found him again, the both of them taller, but Wei Ying broader and tanner than Lan Zhan would ever be.

He should ask questions, he should demand answers, Lan Zhan should want to know where Wei Ying has been for the last six years, but Wei Ying is turning around and walking backwards just to smile at him. Lan Zhan can’t hope to blame the redness of his ears on the sun.

He wants to tell Wei Ying that he’s been looking for him, that he’s been chasing down every lead he could find. He wants to tell Wei Ying that he’s not angry with him for disappearing without a trace, he’s only hurt, but Wei Ying is speaking, and his voice still makes Lan Zhan want to squeeze his eyes shut and commit the sound of him to memory, just in case.

“Can you believe that Uncle Jiang and Aunt Yu didn’t tell me about this place until after I graduated college?” There’s something careful in the way Wei Ying speaks, the way he glances off to the side, as if he knows he’s done something wrong. Lan Zhan can’t and won’t fault him now, he won’t meet Wei Ying with bitterness in front of the tomatoes that Wei Ying has obviously tried very hard to raise, instead, Lan Zhan turns and helps Wei Ying pull the ripe tomatoes off their vines.

Wei Ying does not get angry when Lan Zhan accidentally pulls at the fruit without twisting, dragging the whole plant forward, he only covers Lan Zhan’s hands with his own and shows him the proper way of doing things. The tomato comes away freely and Wei Ying allows Lan Zhan to drop it into the basket, his smile just a little bit more real.

“I’ve looked for you.” The words tumble out on their own, and Lan Zhan can’t look Wei Ying in the eyes afterwards, he can only work down the first line of tomatoes in tandem with Wei Ying, their movements still matched, even after six years of nothing but an empty space at Lan Zhan’s side. “No one would tell me where you went.”

“I…” Wei Ying starts and stops, his eyebrows knitting together. There is dirt underneath his fingernails, and the tips of his fingers have been stained green by the plants, Lan Zhan still wants to lift them to his lips and kiss them. Green bitterness does not matter. “My grandmother granted me this place in her will, and my uncle had been watching it for me until Uncle Jiang and Aunt Yu finally decided to tell me about it, Lan Zhan. I was going to write to you, I really was, but my Uncle Xiao and his husband only stayed here for two more weeks to show me what to do, and then I was on my own out here.” Lan Zhan watches as Wei Ying busies himself with pinching off tiny, unnecessary branches, ones that would hinder growth, rather than encourage it. “They’d been stuck out here since she died, you know, they wanted to see the world, and I couldn’t ask them to stay longer, even if they did offer, and the cell reception sucks out here, Lan Zhan, it really does. I have to go all the way up to the attic just to get enough signal to send Jiejie a text.”

Lan Zhan knows it to be the truth, he hadn’t had signal for hours, not since he started up the mountain, he’d been relying on handwritten directions from a store owner at the base of the mountain. They reach the end of the row, their basket having grown heavy with tomatoes, but neither of them moves to stand, instead, they stay there, dirt clinging to both of their pants and their hands almost touching on the ground between them.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan starts slowly, a rock digging into his knee, “I am not angry.”

Wei Ying’s face had grown stormy, but now, shock replaces it as he looks up, his own fingers digging into the dirt. “You should be, Lan Zhan, you should. I just left you after everything that happened, I didn’t even leave the note I wrote for you.”

“You wrote a note for me?” Lan Zhan asks the question gently and shuffles himself closer, mindful of the tomato plant between them. The rock is digging into his calf now, “What did it say?” He has to ask, he has to know. Even if Wei Ying didn’t see the point in leaving it on Lan Zhan’s bedside table before he left, even if Wei Ying tore the note to pieces and tossed it into the garbage outside of Lan Zhan’s apartment, Lan Zhan still wants to know what the note said.

When Wei Ying says nothing, Lan Zhan allows his hand to close tightly around Wei Ying’s wrist, just like he used to do more frequently.

“Just… Just the address of this place, and some other stuff that’s not important, that’s all.” Wei Ying’s hand covers Lan Zhan’s and in one moment, the world feels right again, as if something has clicked back into place, “I still have it, Lan Zhan, I keep it underneath the pillow on your side of the bed.”

Lan Zhan hadn’t come out here expecting for anything to still be there, Wei Ying had left him without a word, without a sign that he still cared, but his heart still twists in his chest when Wei Ying tells him that he has one side of the bed here, of all places. Butterflies that had sat still in his stomach for years come to life as he meets Wei Ying’s eyes, his tongue pressing against his lips. It isn’t fair that Wei Ying still has such a strong hold on him, it wouldn’t ever be fair, just like the hold would never fade. “Wei Ying would still share his bed with me?”

It’s a risk, to say such a thing, but Wei Ying hasn’t asked him to leave yet, and he’s still holding onto Lan Zhan’s hand, his grip tightening as if he feared that Lan Zhan might slip away from him otherwise.

Sweat drips down Lan Zhan’s temple and off his chin, landing in the soil below them, but Wei Ying still wipes dust off on his jeans to brush the back of his hand down Lan Zhan’s cheek, drying the trail the sweat had made before he takes both of his hands away to remove his straw hat, only to drop it onto Lan Zhan’s own head. “More than just my bed, Lan Zhan, if you’d have it.” Wei Ying stands up slowly and offers both of his hands to Lan Zhan to help him up, his voice dropping to a murmur as he pulls Lan Zhan up and out of the dirt, “If you want it, if you still want me.”

“I would not have come if I did not still want Wei Ying.” They’ve always been the same height, but the sunhat makes it difficult for Lan Zhan to look Wei Ying in the eye without looking up at him. He should be well past such vanity, but he isn’t, so Lan Zhan still pushes the hat backwards, the strap catching at his throat before he steps carefully between two tomato plants to press himself into Wei Ying’s space.

He won’t allow himself to be nervous, he’d done this hundreds of times before Wei Ying left, and, if he could, he’d do it a thousand times more. His hands find Wei Ying’s chest, his muscles remembering where they belong once Lan Zhan is able to press against him, even his head wants to turn so he can rest his cheek against Wei Ying’s shoulders, but Lan Zhan pushes past it.

“I have questions, Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan means to sound stern, he means to dig underneath years of memories and bring out the tone of the hall monitor he used to be, even if Wei Ying never feared him then, but he’s too fond of him. Lan Zhan’s eyes glance towards Wei Ying’s lips, just like they used to do during arguments, but it’s Wei Ying’s hands wrapping around his own that brings Lan Zhan out of his thoughts, their eyes meeting while the both of them refuse to look away.

“Ask me anything, Lan Zhan, see if there’s anything I wouldn’t tell you now.” Hearing him say that only makes Lan Zhan want to lay his head against Wei Ying’s shoulder even more, his knees suddenly feeling weak underneath him.

“Are you happier here?”

Once, when he’d been drunk with his head in Lan Zhan’s lap, Wei Ying had talked about a farm in the country, with children running around them. Lan Zhan had stroked Wei Ying’s hair away from his temples and told him that running would be forbidden, back then. He hadn’t thought Wei Ying serious about any of it, maybe he should have, maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised.

It’s Wei Ying’s hand that guides Lan Zhan’s head to his shoulder, and Lan Zhan lets him, his eyes already shut as he presses himself against Wei Ying’s sun-warmed shoulders. He wants to kiss him there, to drink in Wei Ying’s warmth and his new smell of sunshine and vegetables that he’s grown himself. There’s an undercurrent of sweat, but they’re both sweaty, the afternoon sun isn’t kind and Lan Zhan doesn’t mind it, not when it’s Wei Ying.

He’s missed him.

“I’m happier to be away from the city.” Wei Ying finally answers, his mouth moving against Lan Zhan’s temple. Lan Zhan lets himself hope that Wei Ying wants to kiss him too. Wei Ying’s arms wrap around him, keeping Lan Zhan right where he wants to be, where he’s wanted to be since he was 15 years old. Wei Ying’s answer should hurt him, he’d been in the city, after all, but just as Lan Zhan’s mouth opens, Wei Ying is speaking again, his voice clear but quiet in Lan Zhan’s ear.

“Seeing you again has made me happier than I was, though.” This time, Wei Ying does dare to kiss him, his lips land against Lan Zhan’s temple, and then his cheek, the kisses long and lingering, just to remind Lan Zhan how starved he’s been. “I missed you so much, Er-gege, I thought of you every day and every night.” Something catches in Wei Ying’s throat, and Lan Zhan kisses him for it, or he tries to, he kisses Wei Ying as well as he can without ever pulling away from where he’s hidden himself.

“I would have come with you.” If Wei Ying had only asked, if he’d only woken Lan Zhan up the way he did right before he left for work, Lan Zhan would have woken up, and he would have packed a bag to go along with Wei Ying. It wouldn’t have taken him six years. “If you had asked.”

“I wanted to, Lan Zhan, but you’d just started at your uncle’s company, how could I ask you to give that up?”

“I did not want it. I wanted you.”

It’s the one bitterness that Lan Zhan allows himself, his nails digging into Wei Ying’s thin t-shirt, not hard enough to rip it, though Lan Zhan wants to. He wants to destroy something, but he won’t, it feels too cruel. He doesn’t expect Wei Ying to lean his cheek against the side of his head, though Lan Zhan wants nothing more than to believe the warm wetness against his temple is his sweat mixing with Wei Ying’s. He doubts that it is.

“I know that now, Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” If there’s a wobble in Wei Ying’s voice, Lan Zhan won’t call him out for it, a knot of something rising up in his own throat.

“No apologies or thanks between us, Wei Ying. You know this.”

Wei Ying doesn’t answer him for a long time, he only keeps his arms where they lay around Lan Zhan, their shared warmth only a little uncomfortable in the heat of the day. Even if Wei Ying were burning him alive, Lan Zhan still wouldn’t shove him away.

“Lan Zhan, Sweetheart, Er-gege, will you stay for dinner?”

“I’ve taken a room at the inn down the mountain, Wei Ying.”

“Please?”

He should say no, Lan Zhan should promise to come back in the morning, so they can talk more about it, but he’d gotten out of the habit of telling Wei Ying no such a long time ago, he’s no longer sure if he even has the ability.

“If Wei Ying is sure.”

No verbal answer comes, but Lan Zhan can feel Wei Ying nod his head, just like he can feel Wei Ying squeeze him tighter before letting go so he can pull him along by the hand, their fingers not interlaced until Lan Zhan does it himself.

Wei Ying looks back at him, but he doesn’t separate their fingers, instead, he smiles and pulls Lan Zhan towards another row of vegetables. He does not ask Lan Zhan to help him with the rest of the harvesting, Wei Ying doesn’t have to, Lan Zhan helps him without a second thought. He sets the vegetables into Wei Ying’s basket gently, even if Wei Ying himself tosses them in almost carelessly.

Lan Zhan has missed Wei Ying like frogs miss the rain, but he’d known that. He’d known he’s missed him for years.

The inside of Wei Ying’s new house is air conditioned, part of Lan Zhan hadn’t expected that, but he’s glad for it as Wei Ying sits him down at an old, scratched kitchen table. It undoubtedly belonged to his grandmother, but Lan Zhan doesn’t point it out, he only watches as Wei Ying busies himself about the kitchen, washing his hands before he pours cold glasses of lemonade for both Lan Zhan and then himself, though he doesn’t sit down with him.

Instead, Wei Ying flits about. He washes the vegetables, he sets the basket of eggs down on a counter, only to forget about them a second later, Wei Ying bends low and starts to pull pots and pans out of lower cabinets and Lan Zhan stands up to help him, but he’s stopped.

“Let me cook for you tonight, okay, Lan Zhan?” There’s a grin on Wei Ying’s face, one that makes Lan Zhan want to bend down and kiss him where he kneels, dirty jeans on the kitchen floor underneath him, but he holds himself back.

“Wei Ying can cook for himself now?” Lan Zhan hopes that he doesn’t sound as incredulous as he feels. The last time he’d seen Wei Ying, all of his cooking attempts ended in fire alarms going off and ruined pans, but the only ruin on the pans in front of Lan Zhan are the dents and scratches of being used over and over through the years. He reaches out and touches one before he can think better of it. Wei Ying laughs as he straightens, his smile glowing bright in the yellow light of the kitchen.

“I had to teach myself the hard way, Lan Zhan, but Uncle Xiao left some cookbooks behind, I think I figured it out, all things considered.” Wei Ying holds up his forearm as he speaks, showing off a burn scar as if it’s something to be proud of. Lan Zhan presses his fingers against it as if it might still be sore and sensitive.

“Wei Ying has always been quick witted, I am not surprised.” It used to infuriate him, that Wei Ying didn’t have to bother with studying, that he only had to work half as hard as Lan Zhan did, but that irritation faded into something fond over the years. Lan Zhan looks away from Wei Ying’s eyes deliberately as he presses a kiss to the very middle of the burn scar. He doesn’t care if it’s already healed.

His name is a whisper on Wei Ying’s lips, one such whisper that Lan Zhan has missed hearing down to his bones. “May I help Wei Ying with dinner?” Wei Ying lowers his arm, but only far enough that he can press his hand to Lan Zhan’s cheek, his thumb stroking back and forth underneath Lan Zhan’s eye.

“Just sit with me while I cook, that’s all I need, Lan Zhan, that’s all.” They’re the only two in the farmhouse, Lan Zhan is sure of it, but Wei Ying’s voice doesn’t climb above a whisper, though it doesn’t lack warmth that makes Lan Zhan want to lie in it and sleep for as long as he’ll be allowed.

“Alright.” Lan Zhan answers before he turns his head into Wei Ying’s palm and kisses it, only retreating back to his chair after fixing his eyes against Wei Ying’s.

Wei Ying sits with him at the table while he peels and chops the vegetables, the knife in his hand moving carefully, cutting small, perfect squares that Wei Ying tosses into a tall pot. He’d told Lan Zhan that they would have soup, but what kind, Lan Zhan had missed, he’d been distracted by the way the setting sun’s light caught Wei Ying’s eyes through the kitchen window.

Only once did Wei Ying ask for Lan Zhan’s help, he’d sent him to the fridge for heavy cream that Wei Ying swore would make the soup even better. Wei Ying had been correct, of course, but Lan Zhan didn’t turn him down when he offered him a spoon straight from the pot, two pieces of perfectly cut and cooked potato and carrot sitting happily inside the broth.

Wei Ying’s bangs had gone frizzy with the steam, but Lan Zhan had only noticed when he’d leaned in close to wipe a dribble of soup from Lan Zhan’s chin, licking it off his own thumb and knowing full well what it meant.

Dinner was ready after Wei Ying had taken the time to toast two slices of bread each, Lan Zhan can’t help but blink up at him as Wei Ying sets down the bowls and the plates, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder.

Lan Zhan reaches for Wei Ying without thinking, his arms wrapping around Wei Ying’s neck, and Wei Ying doesn’t resist, he only goes down on his knees again, his hands holding Lan Zhan by the hips while they kiss.

It’s the first real kiss that Lan Zhan has allowed himself to have in years, no matter how many men his brother or his friends introduced him to, no matter how many people made their interest in him clear. None of them had been Wei Ying. None of them had known to hold him like this, none of them had wanted him like this. None of them had known to kiss Lan Zhan until his lungs screamed for air, but Wei Ying knows, and he does. He kisses Lan Zhan properly, better than anyone else ever could.

Finally, they have to separate, but Lan Zhan doesn’t let go easily, he bites and sucks at Wei Ying’s bottom lip just to beg him to come back without using his words. Instead, Wei Ying strokes his cheek again and presses a kiss to Lan Zhan’s chin.

“We should- We should eat dinner, before it gets cold.” Wei Ying’s tongue is clumsy as he speaks, but he makes no haste to rise to his feet. When he does, he kisses Lan Zhan’s forehead quickly, a promise that Lan Zhan already knows is there, but it doesn’t stop him from watching as Wei Ying circles the table, only to drop himself into his own chair.

He’s still incapable of sitting properly, and it warms Lan Zhan’s heart to know it.

They leave the bowls and the plates to sit in the sink while the soup cools on the stove, something Lan Zhan never would have done normally, but when he’d reached to turn the tap on, Wei Ying had wrapped around him, just like he used to when he would try and hinder any amount of housework getting done.

“Come upstairs with me.” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Wangji agrees readily.

The stairs creak underneath them, but Wei Ying takes them two at a time and Lan Zhan follows closely behind, his hands reaching for Wei Ying’s waist as they finally reach what Lan Zhan thinks Wei Ying’s bedroom door might be. He settles for holding Wei Ying by his belt loops as he’s led inside. Wei Ying leaves the door open behind them, though the room still feels more humid than downstairs had, or maybe it was just the heat between them, Lan Zhan finds he doesn’t care enough to question it, not while Wei Ying is turning around in his arms.

“I know you said you had a room at the inn, but what if you stayed here tonight, Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying’s voice is gentle and his skin is golden in the light of the bedside lamps. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the overhead light, and Lan Zhan had been too distracted to give it a moment’s thought, not that it mattered. Wei Ying is beautiful in any light. “You could try out your side of the bed.”

Wei Ying doesn’t mention the note, but Lan Zhan knows it’s there, just underneath his pillow, his reward for coming all the way out here. Or at least it should be, but it’s hard to think about the note with Wei Ying still standing in front of him.

“I will not sleep here alone.” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Ying shakes his head, frizzy bangs catching on his own slightly sweaty cheeks. Lan Zhan doesn’t stop himself from brushing them away. Wei Ying catches his fingers and kisses them quickly.

“I’ll sleep with you, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying agrees, but sputters when he realizes what he’s said, “I mean, I’ll sleep here with you, if you want, I wouldn’t… I couldn’t ask you for that so soon after today.”

“You should.” Lan Zhan says it clearly, unwilling to play any games that he no longer has time for, “Ask me.”

For a moment, Wei Ying’s mouth opens and closes uselessly, his fingers flexing and unflexing where they lay against Lan Zhan’s body.

“Lan Zhan, Er-gege, can I take you to bed?” The light in Wei Ying’s room is terrible, it’s dim, but Lan Zhan still thinks that he can see a blush spreading across Wei Ying’s cheeks and a smile pulls at his own cheeks.

“Wei Ying used to be much more shameless than this, has living on his own changed that?” Wei Ying used to be the first one to flirt, to flash beguiling grins in Lan Zhan’s direction, no matter how many times Lan Zhan called him shameless or scolded him for it.

Lan Zhan expects Wei Ying to argue with him, he expects him to pout, but he doesn’t. Wei Ying only grins sheepishly, the whites of his teeth peeking out just a little. “Lan Zhan will have to forgive this one, he’s out of practice.” But Wei Ying still kisses him again, and again, and again, the kisses lingering longer and longer each time, until the hand at Lan Zhan’s cheek moves towards the back of his head and cards through his hair. Wei Ying’s other hand slips beneath the waistband of Lan Zhan’s jeans, disregarding the tight fit to palm at him through his briefs. Lan Zhan regrets wearing underwear at all.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan gasps as Wei Ying finally releases his lips to mouth at his neck, his own hands scrambling for purchase at Wei Ying’s shoulders, “not out of practice.” Wei Ying still remembered what made Lan Zhan gasp and jerk underneath him, he still remembered just how to touch Lan Zhan to make it feel as if something were twisting tighter and tighter inside Lan Zhan’s stomach until he burst, usually all over himself, or all over Wei Ying, if he was riding him.

Abruptly, Wei Ying’s hand is gone, but before Lan Zhan can dwell on it, Wei Ying is walking him towards the bed, his hands two heavy, comfortable weights at Lan Zhan’s shoulders as he’s pushed down and back against the mattress. He wants Wei Ying’s weight on top of him right away, he expects it, but it doesn’t come, leaving Lan Zhan to sit up on his elbows, his hair already mussed and messy.

Wei Ying drops onto the bed beside him and rolls onto his side, a faraway look in his eyes. “I forgot how much I liked looking at you.” Wei Ying says it by way of explanation, his hand laying between them and Lan Zhan reaches for it, kissing Wei Ying’s fingers knuckle by knuckle while he waits for Wei Ying to continue. “Six years later, and you’re still the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying is the one to tangle their legs together, the one to lay his other hand over top of Lan Zhan’s, but Lan Zhan wants more. He wants him, he wants him in a way that’s six years overdue.

Wordlessly, Lan Zhan swings himself up and over Wei Ying’s hips, his own legs spreading just to accommodate him. His hands find their places on Wei Ying’s chest again, and Lan Zhan lets himself lean down enough that their noses brush. “Wei Ying has not looked in a mirror in six years? He’s been depriving himself of the most beautiful man in the world.”

Wei Ying’s laughter is cut short when Lan Zhan kisses him hard enough to make him moan. His fingers find the collar of Wei Ying’s shirt and this time, Lan Zhan allows himself to rip it, leaving Wei Ying bare chested beneath him. Whether they had done this last six years ago or yesterday, Wei Ying still knows better than to rip Lan Zhan’s clothes, so he unbuttons Lan Zhan’s shirt button by button, until it slips off his shoulders, all without breaking their kiss, his tongue sweeping over Lan Zhan’s bottom lip. It’s a beg for entrance that Lan Zhan allows, his hands roaming over Wei Ying’s chest.

There’s softness of age and eating well where there used to be harder muscle and bone from forcing himself to stay up late working long hours and refusing meals. Lan Zhan wants nothing more than to leave his mark on Wei Ying’s body just like he used to, to sink his teeth into his pecs and into the squishy bits of flesh above his ribs, to drag his nails down the length of Wei Ying’s back, and to have Wei Ying do the same to him.

The button and fly of his jeans give way easily underneath Wei Ying’s fingers, Lan Zhan doesn’t even notice until he’s in the palm of Wei Ying’s hand again, a groan tearing through him as his hips snap into Wei Ying’s hand of their own volition. He feels Wei Ying gasp around his tongue as he grinds against him, the ever thickening line of Wei Ying’s cock pressing against his thigh.

Grinding isn’t enough, it’s never been enough for either of them, and they both know it still. It’s what makes Lan Zhan pull away from Wei Ying long enough to gasp his name, his nails scratching over Wei Ying’s nipples.

“I know, Sweetheart, let me open you up.” Wei Ying points towards one of the bedside tables and Lan zhan throws himself towards it, grabbing at the drawer and pulling a bottle of lube out of it, the plastic around it still intact. Wei Ying takes his chance while Lan Zhan is looking at the bottle to drag him back, only to press Lan Zhan against the pillows and kiss him while his hands drag his pants and briefs down and then off, throwing them in some corner of the room.

They both almost fumble the bottle of lube, but Wei Ying catches it at the last second, his now clean thumbnail catching the plastic safety wrapper and getting rid of it before he uncaps it and spreads the lube over his fingers.

“You remember how to tell me if it’s too much or you want to stop?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan nods before he hits Wei Ying’s shoulder twice with the heel of his hand, only then does Wei Ying push two fingers inside of him, scissoring and curling them and making Lan Zhan gasp against his shoulder, his legs wrapping around Wei Ying’s waist.

“That’s my good boy.” Wei Ying breathes against Lan Zhan’s ear when he hears him breathe out slowly, though his nails still dig into Wei Ying’s shoulders when Wei Ying adds a third finger, and then a fourth, his thumb stroking over Lan Zhan’s balls. “You’re always so good for me, you know that? You always have been.” Wei Ying’s praise still has the same effect that it always did, it makes Lan Zhan gasp and moan under him, his teeth sinking into Wei Ying’s throat just long enough to feel as good as it hurts.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan gasps and Wei Ying kisses him for it.

“Are you ready for me?” Wei Ying asks, and Lan Zhan nods, his lips feeling swollen and red from all the kisses Wei Ying had given him after years of nothing. Another kiss lands at his temple as Wei Ying pulls his fingers free to spread lube over his cock, and then, he’s grabbing Lan Zhan by the backs of his knees to line himself up with Lan Zhan’s entrance.

He can feel the way Wei Ying’s hips buck and try to thrust in right away, but Wei Ying forces himself to take it slowly, to push inside of Lan Zhan until he’s got nowhere left to go, until the two of them are flush, their arms wrapping around each other in an embrace familiar enough to hurt.

“I love you.” Wei Ying gasps as he sets his pace, the bed creaking and protesting underneath them, he lifts Lan Zhan’s legs over his shoulders and kisses from his knee to his thigh and then again on the other leg, “I never stopped. No matter how far away I went.”

Lan Zhan wants to speak, to tell Wei Ying that he still loved him too, that nothing could make him stop, but every time he opens his mouth, some new, wanton noise tumbles out of him, until all Lan Zhan can do is gasp Wei Ying’s name while he clenches around him, desperate to do anything to keep him as close as he is now. Lan Zhan throws his arms around Wei Ying’s neck and uses the new angle to pull himself up just to kiss him, letting Wei Ying swallow up all the noises that rise up from deep inside of him.

He bites Wei Ying’s lip hard enough to draw blood as he comes, skinny lines of pearly white dripping down both his and Wei Ying’s stomachs. Wei Ying doesn’t fault him for it, he only groans and fucks Lan Zhan harder, until he comes deep inside of him, his cock still twitching as he moves to sit back, but Lan Zhan stops him.

“Do not take it out.” Lan Zhan hates how desperate he sounds, but the words are already out, “I want to feel you.”

“Anything you want, Lan Zhan.” Wei Ying presses his thumb against Lan Zhan’s bottom lip as he smiles, a drop of blood clinging to his own lip. Lan Zhan leans forward and kisses it away, the taste of iron spreading over his tongue.

Wei Ying rolls both of them onto their sides, the two of them sharing one side of the bed, even after Wei Ying pulls the blankets over them. They would sort the mess of clothes in the morning, everything could wait until the morning.

“Lan Zhan?” Wei Ying calls him from where he lays against Lan Zhan’s collar bone, his fingers smoothing over Lan Zhan’s skin.

“Wei Ying?”

“What if you stayed here forever?”

Rather than answering him, Lan Zhan presses his hand against Wei Ying’s cheek to tilt his face up and he kisses him hard, their legs tangling together underneath the blankets.

They would have to get his suitcase from the inn down the mountain in the morning, too, Lan Zhan decides, the rest would come later.

It could wait until morning.

#wangxian #mdzs #cql #mdzs fic #cql fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #lan zhan #wei ying #everybody be cool ok

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bearificationtransformations · 4 years

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Becoming a Mass Monster

“Dear Daniel,

Are you looking to get huge? To dominate in the weight room and on stage? To get freakishly big? Of course are! Even since your early days lifting at Eagle Gym, you’ve always dreamed at stepping on stage as a total mass monster. We know you’re hesitant to take on the extreme steroid cycles and growth hormone required to pack on that kind of insane size. Well, Your friends at Énorme have created the perfect lean mass gainer that’ll add more size and strength than you could imagine.”

That’s how the email began. At first, Daniel figured it was just another new supplement company looking to find representatives, but the little details about his life startled him. How did they know he had an itch to get seriously big? How did they know where he got his start lifting? Something about the email unsettled him, but it also intrigued him.

Since he was, afterall, a middle-weight bodybuilder looking to get big, so to speak, in the fitness industry, this didn’t seem like a bad deal at all. A new supplement for lean mass? He was on board with the idea.

Daniel Hernandez, with movie star good looks and in fantastic shape, had high hopes of getting attention in the fitness world. A recent set of professional pics had just been sent around to a supplement ad agency only hours ago, but this was the first “bite” he had gotten. He wrote back and said he was interested.

A few minutes after he shot off an email expressing interest he got a reply:

“Thanks Daniel,

We’re very happy you’re going to try out product. Just take some before and after photos, and I’m sure the results will speak for themselves! No need to get professional pictures done. Just send us the email with the updated shots and we’ll send you the money. Your shipment is in the mail and will be sent to: 142 Chestnut Ave, Los Angeles, CA. 90042 USA.

Happy lifting and massive gains,

The Énorme team”

How did they know his address? This was a bit freaky. Unless his publicist had shared it with them? That must have been the case. Odd, because he didn’t think publicists would share addresses like that, but maybe it was to help him get free samples.

Only two days later a small package arrived addressed to him from Énorme. Inside was two small vials that simply said “Lean Mass gainer”.

At first Daniel thought it was a joke. No way was this stuff real. He hadn’t spoken to his publicist about it, but something about the packaging, its simplicity, the professionalism of how it was put together and the instructions convinced him otherwise. He was intrigued, and the more he looked at the packaging, the more he read the label, the more intrigued he became. After a few days he felt compelled to try the stuff.

Daniel, following the instructions, downed the first vial. What harm could it do? He treated it like a preworkout and went to the gym. He lifted with so much energy, with a newfound vigor and strength that surprised him. He looked so pumped in the mirror. His tank top even felt more snug than usual.

As the day went on Daniel swore he could feel his muscles growing. It was like the gym pump never subsided, but kept going. His arms and shoulders were looking bigger and more jacked than ever. Daniel knew his way around anabolics, but he never had heard of anything that worked like this. As he stared at his reflection in the bathroom at home he knew he was bigger. He looked bigger for sure, and his beard was coming in fast. Daniel showered put on a clean shirt and it felt tighter than normal. How was that possible? As the evening went on he continued to feel like his body was gaining more and more muscle mass.

Daniel stepped on the scale that evening. There was no denying now that he had grown. Instead of normal 210 pounds, Daniel was now pushing 240. He was so into this growth he got a boner from just looking at the numbers. Fucking hell, he had actually gained 30 pounds of solid muscle in a matter of hours. He jacked off at his own reflection, seeing his bigger arms flex with each pump. Fuck it felt so good to be big.

Daniel was horned up all night. He kept feeling up his bigger pecs and thicker arms and got worked up all over again. His chest hair, which he usually kept short, was growing in, and his beard was getting longer quickly. Fuck, he was getting hairier. All this testosterone was overloading his system. Even his dick felt fatter in his hands. Daniel slept like a rock after jerking off for the third time in bed. The

The next morning he moved quickly to head to the gym again. He cleaned up all the used up socks around his bed and got dressed. He was bigger and his shirts were tighter. He had a full beard. For the first time in his life he had grown out a full beard. He wore one of his big tank tops only to find it fit him well, hugging his increasingly hairy pecs. Fuck, He looked even bigger. After jerking off quickly Daniel went to the gym.

Fuck he was big. He looked like a pro bodybuilder. The scale at the gym confirmed it. 260 pounds. He was one of the big boys now. Forget fitness magazines, Daniel wanted to be on the cover of FLEX magazine, or on stage at Mr. Olympia. He looked practically stage ready. 50 pounds of lean muscle mass had piled on without seemingly a single pound of fat. If anything, he looked even more defined.

It was hard to concentrate at the gym, he was so horned up. So obsessed with his new size. His strength was way up. Benching 405 was no problem now. He was probably the most jacked, and the strongest dude in his gym.

And he was nearly the size of a real mass monster now. Goddamn he loved this. He loved ever second of it. He was getting boned up at the gym just seeing his own muscles flex and press.

His libido continued running at this extreme high.The growth may have run its course but his testerone seemed to be supercharged. A super horned up 260 pound bodybuilder. Goddamn that wasn’t such a bad arrangement, not at all.

Days went by, and his libido didn’t repent. He had to jack off four or five times a day to keep himself in check. He needed new shirts to fit his broader, beefier muscular frame. Friends at the gym were shocked by his sudden growth. He kept jerking off in the mirror, loving his size, feeling his huge muscles up with his hands as he stroked his fat heavy cock. Goddamn, had that grown too? It felt thicker and maybe even longer, but it was hard to tell.

But Daniel wanted more still. He dreamed of more mass piling on to his frame again. That wave of growth had been such a high, he still hadn’t come down from it. Daniel had to keep trimming his beard and trimming back the chest hair every day. It was growing in fast and thick. He was a beast. It had to be his hyped up test levels.

And that second vial. It sat there on his nightstand, tempting him. He wanted more, he fucking loved being huge, and what a better way to get noticed than to be an absolute mass monster? This was his ticket, it would make his dreams of true muscle freakdom come true. He could be inhumanly massive. Inhumanly strong. Damn, had he always wanted to be that huge? Wasn’t he big enough? Nahh, he wanted more. Whatever voice of his that envisioned him at 260 forever was getting drowned out by the desire for more. Lots more.

So four days after his first transformation into a heavyweight bodybuilder, Daniel decided to make the plunge. Would it bring him another 50 pounds of pure muscle mass? Fuck, he’d be over 300 pounds if it did. Just the idea turned him on so much.

When did he get so horny thinking about muscle mass like this? Was this the side effect of stuff he took? Even other men’s muscles got him worked up now. Fuck, was he gay? Not that he had anything against gay guys, but he didn’t used to get a boner looking at other jacked guys. Now he was into it. Totally into it.

Fuck, maybe he was bi?

Daniel shrugged at the idea. Muscle mass was so fucking hot, who cares. He just wanted more. He wanted to get so huge that he wouldn’t be able to fit into any of his clothes. He wanted to outgrow the fucking doorway.

After hitting the gym that morning, Daniel came back home and without jesistaying, just downed that second vial. A warmth spread over his entire body like he hadn’t felt before. Fuck yeah, it was starting to work.

Daniel could actually see his muscles grow minute by minute, he stood there with the biggest boner of his life, flexing, posing, jerking off.. watching himself steadily grow larger and larger. It was intoxicating, insanely hot. He stepped on the scale just 30 minutes after taking the potion to find his weight had climbed to 280 pounds. He jerked off on the scale looking at those numbers and looking at the mass monster in the mirror in front of him. Jizz flung everywhere in the bathroom.

This was the best experience in his whole life, the best thing he had ever felt. Better than sex, better than drugs. Growth was the hottest thing he’d ever experience. He was so indebted to this company, what was their name? God he would rep them in anything they did now. He owed everything to them now.

God he was getting so huge. So enormous. Becoming the mass monster he always dreamed of being.

The mass kept piling on, faster than before. He walked around his apartment, noticing how his arms had to swing out further to move around his massive blown up lats. His saunter was more exaggerated as his quads had grown thicker and were now pressing against each other. His footfalls were heavy, deliberate. They seemed to shake the walls a little. He was getting hard, his fat dick slapping heavily against his massive thighs. He loved this. Daniel made his way back to the bathroom to examine the changes further. His triceps hit the doorframe as he walked into the bathroom.

How big was he going to get? He looked into the mirror and was shocked to see his size. Looking down he could barely see passed his pumped up pecs, which now was getting a thick coat of fur on them. He sauntered back to the scale. 304... fuck no wonder his arms were flaired out to his sides like that, no wonder his footsteps were so heavy. Goddamn he had made it. He had grown to muscle freak status.

And he was still growing. Steadily growing. It wasn’t noticeable with the passing seconds, but it was event he was still getting bigger with the passing minutes. Lats pushing out wider, shoulders growing more and more broad, pecs blowing up, his arms packing on more mass. He tested the doorway to see if he could clear it at his shoulders now. He still had tiny bit off space to clear the doorway at his shoulders, but not at his arms, which pushed out far from his sides due to their hulking mass. Damn, he really was wider than the doorway now. It was such a rush.

Daniel jerked off furiously again, watching the overblown muscular beast in the mirror flex with each tug on his thick cock. His dick felt heavy and fat in his hands. He was definitely bigger down there now too. No way to deny it now.

He came again just looking at himself. All that freaky mass, that size, that bulk. He was a monster, a gigantic hulking stud. Overblown muscles growing so big they seemed almost impossible. So overgrown.

327 pounds. Fucking hell, that was more than 50 pounds. No wonder this was so much more intense than last time. He began jerking up again, unable to keep his big fat dick down. It had a mind of its own now and it didn’t want to quit.

His beard was getting heavy. Growing higher up on his cheeks. It was getting heavy on his massive chest too. Swirling fur was starting to cover those huge bulging pecs. God he was an animal. A freaky huge muscle bear he thought. Wait, what? A bear? Where did that term come from?

Daniel kept growing over the next few hours. His shoulders finally growing too wide for his door frame. Even sideways, getting through doors in his home would be a little tricky. He was that massive, that thick. All night he had Slowly morphed into a freak of inhuman size. An utter overblown giant in the world of bodybuilding that would put most mass monsters to shame. 360 something pounds of hairy lean muscle. Pure, extreme, mass.

Daniel lost count how many times he blew his loads, he just knew his hefty 9 incher was tired by the end of it, sore from too much use and abuse. His heavy balls were still pumping out more cum, but he could keep up. He passed out that night with cum soaked towels covering every inch of his floor.

Daniel could hardly reconcile with the freak had become. Muscle mass competed for space on his 5’9” frame. He could barely His libido was now barely manageable, his dick was huge, beer-can thick, constantly sporting a chub, and eager to blow. He had to trim his beard back, it had grown enormous since taking the potion. He had to clean up all the hair on his stomach and abs too...at least if he wanted people to see the definition. And he definitely wanted people to see the definition.

Jerking off, Working out, eating, and jerking off more. This was his life now. He was meant to be seen, meant to be stared at. And he did get stared at. Everywhere he went.

Daniel got a new set of professional physique photos taken a few days later. The world of bodybuilding ignited into furious speculation and talk over this new giant, this new 360 pound freak, that was now making his presence known online and on instagram.

Daniel didn’t know how to thank Enorme except to write them back with the new photos attached. He explained to them how much attention he was getting now, how many other offers he was getting from supplement companies... and his deep deep gratitude to their product.

A few weeks later, Daniel got another vial. A hot gay bodybuilder, Jordan, had come over for another hot session of muscle worship when the package arrived. Jordan was just starting to suck off the giant muscle freak when Daniel heard the package come to the front door.

It was from Enorme. A letter of thanks for the photos and a little note. “We wanted to provide you with some more lean mass, in case you’d like to show anyone else how well it works” Daniel look at three more vials with the note “these extra vials are for sharing, that is, if you want to” and a smile crossed his face.

“Hey Jordan” Daniel called out from the hall. “Are you looking to get huge?” Daniel went back to the bedrooms and handed Jordan the vial. “Just drink this”.

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revolutionary-demosthenes · 4 years

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4th of July: John Laurens and Slavery, and why we shouldn’t idolize him

I’ve written several drafts of posts trying to explain John Laurens’s complicated relationship with slavery and, in a broader sense, how the hypocrisy of freedom for our country--while denying the freedom of enslaved people--has led directly to the situation we find ourselves in now, in terms of race in America.

I’ve struggled with even going there, because I’m trying to focus on the present now, not the past. But I firmly believe that America can only fix its present once we’ve faced our past. And I want this information on my blog. John Laurens was not a perfect man, not even close. He was an abolitionist, yes. But how he came to these views is complicated and his personal conduct towards African-Americans is often troubling. Too often, in fact, the racist ideas of his era are visible in his writings.

There’s lots out there about not glorifying or idolizing historical figures, such as Thomas Jefferson, Washington, and other slave-owners.

This is becoming particularly clear today, with the truth of violent systemic racism in America finally becoming more fully recognized. When people watch videos of a black man begging for his life under the knee of a policeman, that brutality becomes undeniable.

But John Laurens is often exempt from this “historical disclaimer” of sorts. In the world of the Hamilton fandom and even more broadly in history, he becomes The Abolitionist, a White Savior figure who abhorred slavery and fought for racial justice, no exceptions, no fine print.

But there is a fine print for John Laurens. And it is a vital one to examine, because it shows us the importance of carrying our beliefs into our personal lives, not just our political ones.

First, let’s acknowledge the circumstances John was born into.

South Carolina, where he was born in 1754, was a southern colony, and as such relied mainly on agriculture in its economy. The rich plantation owners were the pinnacle of society. Washington’s family is an example of one such rich and powerful plantation owning family. The wealth and standing in society of these men led to positions in the government. And a man who illustrates this perfectly is none other than Henry Laurens.

Henry Laurens, John Laurens’s father, was, despite his pleading to the contrary, a significant slave owner and slave trader. Though in his private life he claimed to dislike slavery, he co-owned the largest slave-trading house in North America, Austin & Laurens. It doesn’t matter what he thought, or claimed to think. What matters is what he did.

Henry Laurens owned between close to three hundred slaves. His attitude toward the treatment of his own slaves was dehumanizing, self-righteous, and willfully ignorant. He chose to look upon himself as a “good” slave owner, rather than actually face the horrors he was perpetrating. He wrote in a letter that he’d rather treat his slaves “with Humanity” and make “less Rice” than “submit to the Charge of one who should make twice as much rice & exercise any degree of Cruelty towards those poor Creatures who look up to their Master as their Father, their Guardian, & Protector.” What Henry is trying to say here (to my reading) is that he’d rather his plantation produce less of a crop and not work his slaves too hard than treat his slaves cruelly to produce more profit.

Henry Laurens, in an attitude that is all too familiar today, consistently chose to think of himself as an exception to the problem rather than as part of the problem. He was quick to talk up abolition and condemn cruel treatment of enslaved people. But when it came to his own slaves, he insisted that “my Servants are as happy as Slavery will admit of, none run away, the greatest punishment to a defaulter is to sell him.”

I don’t know how John’s mother, Eleanor Ball Laurens, viewed slavery, but she also came from a large slave-owning family. Even if she personally didn’t approve of the practice wholeheartedly, she benefitted directly from slavery and married someone in the slave trade.

So this is the life John Laurens was born into. A life of incredible privilege, sourced directly from the the slave trade and the labor of kidnapped and enslaved Africans. This is the first thing that needs acknowledging in terms of John’s relationship with slavery. He was able to accomplish much of what he did because of his social standing and wealth as the son of a very powerful South Carolinian, powerful mostly because of his standing in Southern society.

John was able to get his education in Europe because of slavery. He was able to use his father’s influence to become an aide-de-camp to George Washington. His social standing and quality of life all stood upon the backs of slaves.

Because of this background, John was exposed to the brutal truths of slavery since he could understand the world around him. Is this how he came into his abolitionist views? It absolutely could be. But it is more likely that John first became serious about abolition when he was taken to Europe for his education. He attended a school in Geneva, a cosmopolitan place that was very open to new ideas. Being an abolitionist was not considered as radical there as it was in the Southern Colonies, and there was more writing on the subject of abolition, including a poem by Thomas Day, an abolitionist patriot, whom John was friends with.

So John’s serious thoughts on abolition may have partly been a product of being away from a place where slavery seen as a part of life and being in a place which was more open to abolition. John may have thought slavery wrong for a long time, but lacked adequate support to be vocal about it.

Significantly though, John did not abandon his beliefs when he returned to America. He continued to be a vocal abolitionist, and unlike his father Henry, confronted actual slave owners and tried to convince them to free their slaves… including his boss, General George Washington.

He also converted Lafayette into an ardent abolitionist, and Lafayette, even after Laurens’s death, stuck to these beliefs. He later in life even bought a plantation and ran it with the labor of paid black people, to prove it could be done.

But once we get to the war, we must also talk about Shrewsberry.

John didn’t own slaves, technically. But his father dispatched two of his slaves to serve as John’s valets during the war, one of whom was named Shrewsberry. (Something to note: I am not sure if these slaves were paid or not. I would assume not, and I have yet to find a record of payment, if it did exist. But if anyone knows more about this, I would love to know the answer, as it’s an important question to think about.)

This alone would mar John’s “perfect abolitionist” image, but it gets more disturbing when you consider how John viewed and treated his valets. I should mention we don’t have a ton of evidence of their living conditions, but what we do have is distressing.

On to the primary evidence: if you read the correspondence between John and his father, a funny/not funny pattern is that John is always requesting clothes, fabric, hair powder, etc., from his father. He usually thanked his father for these items. But here is a quote from a letter John wrote to his father on December 15th, 1777: “Berry received a hunting shirt and a check shirt. If there be any difficulty in getting him winter clothes I believe he can do without.” So while John advocated for black Americans in his public life, his private conduct tells differently.

And this is further evidenced when, after Laurens’ death in 1782, Thadeus Kosciuszco wrote to Nathaniel Greene that John’s slaves (his father's technically, as explained above) were “nacked” and that they were in need of “shirts jackets Breeches.” (“nacked” meaning “naked.”)

While John Laurens was certainly more enlightened than the average man of his time on the subject of slavery, he still had trouble connecting his broader ideas of freedom and emancipation to his personal life. He also wrongly blamed Shrewsberry for the loss of a hat, writing to his father, “Shrewsberry says his hat was violently taken from him by some soldiers as he was carrying his horses to water. If James will be so good as to send him his old laced hat by the bearer I hope he will take better care of it.” The blame for this incident obviously lies upon the soldiers who stole Shrewsberry’s hat, but John acts like Shrewsberry was in the wrong, or somehow that having the hat “violently taken” indicated that Shrewsberry was not taking care of the hat. The automatic and unjust condemnation of Shrewsberry again speaks to how John did have the prejudices of his time period in his head, even as he fought against them in a broader sense.

Later in the war, John left Washington in favor of his home state, South Carolina. He wanted to raise a regiment of slaves to fight for the patriot cause, who would then be emancipated for their service. John had written his father about the idea earlier, saying,

“I would bring about a twofold good, first I would advance those who are unjustly deprived of the Rights of Mankind to a State which would be a proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty—and besides I would reinforce the Defenders of Liberty with a number of gallant Soldiers—Men who have the habit of Subordination almost indelibly impress’d on them, would have one very essential qualification of Soldiers—I am persuaded that if I could obtain authority for the purpose I would have a Corps of such men trained, uniformly clad, equip’d and ready in every respect to act at the opening of the next Campaign…”

Reading through this carefully, we can see some ideas expressed here that are important to note. Firstly, “proper Gradation between abject Slavery and perfect Liberty.” This means that though John did want to free the slaves, he did not think that black people should have the “perfect Liberty” that whites enjoyed. Additionally, when John writes, “Men who have the habit of Subordination indelibly impress’d on them” he is suggesting (to my reading) that because slaves were constantly treated as inferior, they would be good soldiers (I assume because soldiers have to obey their commanding officers.) Honestly, this reads to me like John wanting to take advantage of the cruelty slaves endured because “They’re used to it.”

Henry wrote back that what John was offering was hardly better than slavery, again assuming his attittude of “my slaves are happy.”

John wrote a long letter in return, explaining his reasoning and also basically being like, “dad please support me, dad, please.” But there are also some phrases here, in his letter defending his abolitionist views, that are revealing about the prejudices John harbored.

He writes, “I confess, indeed, that the minds of this unhappy species must be debased by a servitude, from which they can hope for no relief but death, and that every motive to action but fear, must be nearly extinguished in them.”

Note John’s reference to slaves as a “species” rather than a race. (And, by the way, race is a social construct, not an actual biological thing.) The belief that blacks and whites were separate species was common at the time, and often used by slave traders to justify their actions. And this bit of writing shows that even if John didn’t really believe this wholeheartedly, he at least had the idea in his head. However, later in the letter John does use “race” so it’s a little unclear what he actually believed.

And we can see the belief that black people were not as intellectually capable as white people, owing to their enslavement.

Gregory Massey puts it this way: “Young Laurens reasoned that blacks were not innately inferior to whites; rather, their apparent mental deficiencies resulted from generations of enslavement.”

John goes on, “I have had the pleasure of conversing with you, sometimes, upon the means of restoring [the slaves] to their rights. When can it be better done, than when their enfranchisement may be made conducive to the public good, and be modified, as not to overpower their weak minds?”

What sticks out here is, of course, the assertion that the slaves had “weak minds.”

Essentially, John thought that once black people were allowed to live free, “rescued from a state of perpetual humiliation” as he put it in the same letter, their nature would change to more like whites. Black Patriots and Loyalists: Fighting for Emancipation in the War for Independence by Alan Gilbert states,

“Nonetheless, John Laurens retained a slave-owner’s perspective about the psychology of blacks at the time. In a 1776 letter to his father, he ignored manifold black acts of resistance and their hunger to be free: ‘There may be some inconvenience and even Danger in advancing Men suddenly from a State of Slavery while possessed of the manners and Principals incident to such a State... too suddenly to the Rights of freedman. [T]he example of Rome suffering from Swarms of bad citizens who were freedmen is a warning to us to proceed with caution.’ [...] The son insisted, however, on the principal that slavery is simply wrong, the immoral shackling of another: ‘The necessity for it is an Argument of the complete Mischief occasioned by our continued Usurpation.’”

But the same book also says, “John Laurens was a practical abolitionist. Favored by nature and fortune, he chose no easy path. He could, for instance, have worked for Washington, recruited a company of white soldiers as his father urged, and still have advocated for the “public good.” Instead, he committed himself to the nobler course of fighting determinedly for abolition.”

However, “18th century abolitionist” usually did not mean someone who believed black and white people were equal and should have the same rights. It meant that you wanted to end slavery. The difference between these views often gets blurred for John Laurens. Saying that John Laurens was an abolitionist is accurate, but he probably did not believe that black and white people should have the exact same rights, at least not at first. That needs to be acknowledged. John was an abolitionist, but it is unclear how much equality he really wanted.

Only paying attention to his anti-slavery professional life also leads to the idea that it is safe to idolize Laurens, rather than critically examine his complex views on race. The idea forms that he is the one white man from the 18th century we can be fully proud of. The one we can say is our beautiful cinnamon roll without having to confront his relationship with slavery. The fact that John Laurens wanted to help enslaved people gain their freedom doesn’t change the ways in which he benefited from white supremacy, nor how he treated his personal servants, nor the racist ideas he expressed in some of his writings.

This does not mean Laurens was evil, or that you can’t like and admire parts of him. By the standards of other revolutionary figures, like the aforementioned Jefferson and Washington (and Madison and Hamilton to an extent*) Laurens was remarkably enlightened. But also, that in itself is terrible. Like, the idea of a “good guy” from the 18th century is still one that believed that black people had “weak minds” owing to their enslavement.

If we truly want to reckon with the racial sins of America, and how they originated, we need to see figures like Laurens for all they were. Not just the noble abolitionist, but also the inherently privileged white man whose righteous public crusade was enabled by the very system it sought to end, slavery. We also need to see him as the extremely wealthy young man who regarded the command of his servants as part of the natural order of his life.

I didn’t write this solely for history. John’s story is a reminder to all allies that actions based on our beliefs are important to make in our private lives, as well as public. Yes, it’s important to advocate for racial justice in our public and professional lives. But it’s also important to examine and be honest about our own forms of privilege and the ways in which we have internalized the racism of the world around us. All white people in America benefit from slavery and the systems it was built upon, even those whose forebears came to America long after slavery was abolished. I firmly believe that a step forward for racial justice in the US is simply to acknowledge privilege, because we cannot fix a broken system until we realize all the ways in which it is broken.

#John Laurens #slavery #abolition #Alexander Hamilton #I hope it came out okay #also I'm completely open to feedback #long post #Jefferson #Washington #Madison #founding fathers #4th of july #quotes #letters

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chilling-in-the-dark · 4 years

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The Batboys Growing Up as Yanderes Part 1: Bruce Wayne

This is a yandere story; it mentions elements of death, murder, stalking, kidnapping and unhealthy obsession. If any of this is triggering for you, I understand, and you don’t have to read it.

As always feedback is welcome.

Something broke in Bruce the night his parents died, and it only got worse as he grew older. It started with Bruce becoming afraid that everyone he loved would leave him. Even you, the girl he’d known for as long as he could remember. As time passed, that fear would lead to an all-consuming need to keep you by his side.

Alfred had tried to tell himself that this was normal, Bruce had just lost the two most important people in his life, and that he would grow out of it once he realized you weren’t going anywhere.

Alfred had never been more wrong. Once he realized that the changes in the boy were permanent, he was left with a choice. He could continue to be willfully ignorant, or he could accept that the young master wasn’t entirely sane and do his best to help him not get caught.

Alfred loved Bruce like he was his own, so he chose the latter.

As time wore on and Bruce’s feelings for you became more romantic than platonic things got worse. Bruce was always convinced that someone would try to take you from him, that you were going to leave him behind in the dust, or that you’d end up dead like his parents.

It didn’t matter that you were from one of Gotham’s more destitute neighborhoods and could only afford to survive because Bruce started paying your bills when the power was cut while your dad lay strung out on the worn old sofa.

Nor did it matter that you were only able to attend Gotham Academy because he paid for it. Bruce knew the world would try and take you from him one way or another, but he wouldn’t let that happen, he couldn’t let that happen.

So he subtly sabotaged your grades so that they were barely good enough to keep you in the prestigious school, really the only reason he paid the tuition was that he liked to keep you close; you wouldn’t need a college education or a job. After all, he’d take care of you.

The dark parts of his brain kept whispering to him that you couldn’t leave if you weren’t able to look out for yourself, it didn’t matter if you could anyways, that’s he was there for. What good was being a billionaire if you couldn’t use that money to make sure that the girl you loved was safe and well kept?

Bruce thought one of the other kids was going to realize that you were everything good about the world concentrated into its purest form, and they were going to take you from him. It didn’t matter how many times Alfred tried to convince him it wasn’t true, that even if they did try and win you over, you’d never just abandon him.

Bruce’s possessiveness came to a head when you were fifteen, one of the kids from school wanted to take you out on a date and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Bruce pulled you in and kissed you fervently right there in the middle of the hallway. It was a statement you were his, and no one was going to take you from him.

When the kid who was hitting on you was found stabbed to death behind a bar that was known for overlooking age if you paid well enough, who would suspect Bruce Wayne, after all, he’d gotten the girl. Even if someone did think Bruce did it, what evidence could they find when the culprit dumped the knife in the river and burned everything else.

It wasn’t even a year after you first kissed that Bruce proposed, he’d done it on your sixteenth birthday. It started out with diner at the manor, he’d made sure to have the whole nine yards ready, candles, music, and a spread of your favorite foods. When he got down on one knee didn’t even hesitate when you said yes. Little did you know that you were celebrating when you should have been running because once that ring was on your finger, there was no going back; you were going to be Mrs. Wayne for the rest of your life, whether you liked it or not.

The ring had been in the Wayne family since they founded Gotham, students and teachers alike knew that ring, because it meant that the person who owned it would have a level of power and prestige only a Wayne could achieve.

Suddenly teachers were a lot nicer to you, and the students who used to hiss at you over your lack of wealth wanted to be your friend. You weren’t stupid enough to fall for any of it; they just wanted to be your buddy because when you and Bruce got married, it would give you a level of influence only a Wayne could achieve.

Bruce hadn’t planned on you freezing everyone besides him out, but he can’t say that he’s too terribly upset by it. It just makes it easier for him to keep you for himself.

Bruce’s protective traits don’t surface until several weeks after the engagement, he gets a call from your father’s loan shark demanding ransom money. Apparently, dear old dad traded you in exchange for his debts being forgiven. The fiancée of Bruce Wayne would fetch a lot of cash; even more then the twenty-grand, her father was in debt.

Bruce wasn’t Batman yet; he knew he wouldn’t be able to take out an entire crew of crooks. So, he called the one man in the GCPD he knew he could trust, Detective James Gordon. Gordon came up with a plan to get you out safely. If it wasn’t for him, Bruce wasn’t even sure if he’d have gotten you back alive.

That moment is what sealed his fate as Batman, sure he’d been toying with the idea before, but now he knew that he’d have to make Gotham a safer place for you and everyone else who lived in it. Only there was something he needed to do first.

Sure, Bruce wanted to give you the big fancy wedding you deserved, but that would have to wait until he got back. Right then, he only wanted to ensure that you had unhindered access to the Wayne fortune while he was away so that you wouldn’t go without, Bruce also knew it would make it harder for you to leave him if the distance got too much for you to take.

It hadn’t taken much convincing from Bruce to get your dad to agree to sign the papers after all the man owed him big time, because your ransom had nearly been three times your dad’s debt. It had taken even less persuasion to get your dad to stay in Vegas after the wedding, Bruce didn’t want him anywhere near you.

It was only about a month after the wedding that Bruce left Gotham, though over the nine years he was gone, he never failed to send a letter each month. Sometimes they’d come with a gift, a dress from Paris, a jade hairpin from china, a painting from Venice, among other things.

When Bruce decided that it was time to come home he surprised you by coming back on your anniversary, he called Alfred as soon as he landed in Gotham and asking him to pick up a bouquet of your favorite flowers, and to make sure dinner was perfect.

Bruce may have not been ready for Gotham to know that he was back yet, but he’d been away from you for nine years, far too long.

You flew across the room and in his arms in a heartbeat when he walked into the manor. He’d gotten taller while he was away, broader two. It was almost impossible to believe that he was the same person who’d left Gotham nine years ago, but it was him, you’d recognize those eyes anywhere.

You realized he’d left as a boy, but he’d come back a man. The thought of how many years you’d lost brought tears to your eyes. Bruce gripped you tighter as you fought back your tears, the years had been lonely for you, but for him, they’d been agony, now that you were back in his arms he wasn’t ever going to let you go again.

It hadn’t taken you long after his return to realize Bruce was no longer the boy you’d fallen in love with, he was less open about his feelings with you and distant. You’d also changed over the near-decade the two of you had been apart. You realized how unhealthy it was for Bruce to want to know where you were at twenty-four-seven, or that he wanted to control who you talked to.

When you were younger, you brushed these off as him just wanting to keep you safe, but now you understood that something was seriously wrong with your husband. The final straw was when you’d found out he’d been stalking you over the bat-computer. He’d investigated every aspect of your life from when he was gone

You packed your bags and tried to make your way out of Gotham, maybe even to leave the country, but you hadn’t even made it off the manor’s grounds. There was a sharp sensation on the back of your neck, and before you knew it, Bruce had caught your falling body in his arms.

Bruce had been afraid this day would come, and always he’d been prepared for it. There was a room in Wayne manor that he’d have to keep you in until you realized that staying with him would be the best thing for you.

Bruce held you to his chest as he walked to the room. He wasn’t sure if he was more angry or sad about you trying to leave him, but that didn’t matter, you were his wife, and he wasn’t going to let you go. Not now, not ever.

He hoped that in time you’d understand that it’d be better, you’d be safe, and Bruce would make sure that you were well cared for, heck all you had to do was ask for it and he’d give you the world. The only thing he wouldn’t do was let you leave him. You were his wife, and it was going to stay that way until he drew his last breath.

Tags:

@yanderepeterparker

@idkmanicantenglish

#Yandere DC #Yandere Bruce Wayne #yandere x reader #Yandere bruce Wayne x reader #Yandere batman #Yandere Batboys #x reader #Bruce Wayne X reader #DC x reader #reader insert #Oneshot #CITD writes

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stuckinapatriarchalbullshitland · 4 years

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🙂 - ɟ

Hiii babies and dear Anons 👋🏼🤗 Here’s another post with the answers to the asks Mari sent me. Enjoy 🙃

Hi @sawwyouuinadream 👋🏼😄 I’ve already talked about how C exaggerated for the sake of the songs in my ‘💭- ɟ’ post (8th question) [click on the #f anon of this post to see all my others]. As for the rest, you need to understand the difference between our normal life and theirs, especially when they were in the group. You can’t compare your life and what you would do with your girlfriend in their place simply because they’re completely different things. Any parent of famous artists who gets the chance to spend time with their child when they can, seizes the opportunity. I saw it with 5H, I saw it and keep seeing it with Ari, I saw it in Taylor’s documentary, and many others. But not all artists have this luck.

5H were far from home, always around the world, without parents most of the time, and with fans who recognized them. Unlike the other parents who didn’t always have the opportunity to be with them because of work, the most present were Sinu, papa H (Jerry, Ally’s dad), and mama Dre (Andrea, Normani’s mom; as much as Sinu and continued as Sinu even after the hiatus). The only difference is that Camila suffers from depression and variants of OCD (diagnosed in 2015) and for these reasons, Sinu has always tried to be as present as possible. She only became a regular presence after C’s explosion in early September 2016. And, honestly? I don’t know where Camila would be without her mom. I don’t think she could have gotten through most of the things. I don’t think she would be in the industry anymore.

Now, I’d like to remind you of something else: we only see 5/10% of their lives. And that 5/10%, is ONLY what they want to show. You said that Sinu always accompanied C on dates? That’s not true. We saw Sinu with them a couple of times when they went shopping, once for dinner at Katsuya’s, and once at the beach in Australia. And these are literally only five times in what, four years that C was in 5H? Do you really think those were their only dates? Or that those can even be called dates and not just spending time with the mother-in-law? Come on. Try to look at it differently. Try to look at it from a broader perspective. Try to look at the big picture.

I send you a hug 🤗

No, dear Anon. Lauren was together with Camila. That whole conversation was based on Camila teasing Lauren. That episode was another confirmation for me regarding their first kiss. Lauren answering “Kind of” because Camila literally nearly passed out from nervousness is one of the things that amuses me the most.

Oh and, dear Anon? Bread Simplified, aka I don’t know what lips are, was just another one of her PRs. I don’t know how this is still something to doubt about. 75/80% of all Hollywood couples are fake, and as I said earlier, we only see 5/10% of what they want to show us about their lives. I’ve said this before and will write it again: “Any PR relationship involving Camren is simply this: fake, and for publicity and narrative purposes”. Real relationships, dear Anon, are not public ones. They’re the ones we don’t see.

I’m still a little bit confused about your ask actually if I have to be honest, dear Anon. I’ll answer based on what I understood.

None of the five of them are with Syco Music anymore because it has integrated with Sony Music Entertainment and therefore doesn’t exist anymore.

Only Camila and Lauren are with Syco Entertainment simply because only the two of them were asked to sign. Simon never cared about the group per se. He wanted Lauren and Camila from the start and he got them. He created an opportunity to prepare them for that world and for their eventual solo careers. How? By creating 5H. By creating three products (C, L, and 5H) at once that would make him money.

Because, dear Anon, as twisted as it sounds, it’s part of their publicity. I’ll explain myself better. Camren sells. From the beginning. A large part of the 5H fans became their fans BECAUSE of Camren. The labels still use them when needed. For labels, it’s okay to get people talking. It’s okay to get them to speculate, take their name out there, create buzz, create gossip, everything’s okay, EXCEPT confirming it. The important thing is the publicity. The important thing is to sell what they want to sell, and many times, they use Camren to do it. And it works. It works EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Plus, I think both C&L also had fun doing it to “keep the boat afloat”. More in the past than now tho.

I know about the rest of the pictures because it was said a while back by a guy who said he was yet another ‘insider’, dear Anon. This guy even published an email that was supposed to be from 2017 from TMZ to Roger in which they were supposed to have a meeting to discuss the extension of the agreement made not to publish the dossier. It’s actually old news, and it indeed seems strange to me that you’re only finding out now 🙃 Has anyone ever talked about it here on Tumblr?

But anyway. That he was an insider, I have my serious doubts. That the email picture was specially created, perhaps by him himself, I’m sure of it because it looks more fake than a plastic flower. That TMZ actually has a dossier on them, is very likely because this is another one of the many ways paparazzi agencies make money.

Dear Anon, I guess this ask of yours is due to your reading of my last post. If you’ve read it, then you have also read the sentence that I will now copy: “Everyone’s ready to point the finger when they don’t even know what is really going on behind the scenes”. You’re doing the same thing. You’re doing the same thing because all I see here is Roger did this and Roger did that, but you don’t know that. You don’t know why he did certain things. You don’t know why he didn’t do certain things. You don’t know why he handled some things in one way and some things in another. You know nothing, yet you’re pointing the finger.

I understand that you’re speaking based on what you see, believe me, I understand, but you’re judging without knowing. We know this PR is for Skittles, so what do you know if the deals made were exactly for Roger to promote him more? What do you know if the deals made were exactly for Roger to do or not do certain things? And more importantly, what do you know that Roger no longer has Camila’s best interests at heart? Just because of this show? Come on!

I’ll try to be clearer this time because I’ve noticed that many, like you, didn’t get the big picture of my last post. The labels decide everything. Camila can choose certain things, propose ideas, and be more liberally creative, but she doesn’t have the last word. If Camila comes up with the idea for a video she wants to make, but the labels don’t like it, then she can’t make that video. If Camila wants to perform a song in a certain way, but the labels don’t approve of a thing, then Camila has to change that thing in order to perform it. If the labels say no, then it’s no. Periodt.

Camila accepted the PR. COVID has changed things. She couldn’t expect such a thing. Hell, none of us could have expected a worldwide pandemic. But things turned out this way, and now she’s miserable. The choice she had initially made has backfired on her, and there’s nothing she can do to change that because it’s a legally binding contract. Neither she nor Roger, whom I remind you is also an attorney, can do anything about it.

I made this little scene for you. I hope that with this, you’ll see things a little more clearly.

*During the meeting*

“And that’s the idea” Roger says as Simon continues to look at the various set designs and documents by nodding

“So.. what do you think?” Camila asks anxiously and with a small hopeful smile

“I think we only need to change a couple of things, but for the rest, everything’s fine” Simon replies

“Really?” Camila asks excitedly

“Yes, really” Simon replies with a chuckle due to her enthusiasm “Good job, Camilla”

“Yay!” Camila cheers towards Roger. She’s too happy to care about the cringe due to the mispronunciation of her name. She’s used to hearing him call her that for years now.

“What are the changes you were referring to?” Roger asks him

“Oh, you know, this and this” Simon replies, turning the set designs towards them “It’s a little too…” “Gay?” Camila asks with a laugh, finishing his sentence

“We knew, but she wanted to try anyway” Roger says, indicating Camila with his palm “So, by changing those two things, we’re ready to go? We’re gonna shoot the video in a week”

“Yes, I approve. Everything’s all right” Simon says, handing the set designs back

“Thanks, Simon” Camila says, getting up together with Roger ready to leave the room

“Oh and, Camilla? Remember what we talked about” Simon tells her as soon as she gets to the door

“But-” “Remember what we agreed on” Simon says, interrupting her

With a sigh, Camila nods and turns to look at Roger who smiles at her sympathetically. With another sigh, this time of acceptance and determination, Camila positions herself behind Roger, who’s bending his knees to get down and is bringing his torso forward.

“Um.. what exactly are you two doing?” Simon asks, confused and curious at the same time

“When you tell me to jump, I ask you ‘how high?’, right?” Camila answers him as she climbs on Roger’s back

Simon nods with an even more puzzled expression.

“I’m helping her jump from higher” Roger explains to him

*the end*

This is just a silly example, but I hope it helped you understand the dynamics better. I also copied and pasted another piece of my previous post as a reminder: “If Roger does certain things that you may not like at first glance, before accusing him, please wait. Wait till you see why he’s doing what he’s doing, and then if you really don’t like it, then point the finger. But if you have to do it for no good reason, then don’t. You’d only going to look worse after. Same thing for Camila. They have a reason for doing what they do, so just wait before speaking and judging.”

Have a great day too, dear 😊

I don’t think you’re gonna like my analysis, dear Anon, but you asked for it, so here it is.

I’d like to start by saying that Thinkin’ Bout One is a half-demo. It’s not a completed song and it’s from ‘The Hurting. The Healing. The Loving.’ era, so even before the album title changed to ‘Camila’. I’m talking about the very beginning. When Havana wasn’t even remotely ready to be complete, or recorded if that’s why. When I Have Questions had just been recorded or was about to be recorded. I’m talking about the end of 2016.

The demo is pretty messed up because there is no intro, verses, pre-chorus, chorus, etc., like in a normal song. The quality and the way the demo is structured reminds me a lot of the GarageBand Camila times. To be honest, I think that’s how it was recorded. I think Camila created the demo on her own and then she abandoned it once she started recording other songs that would adapt and fit in the true direction of the album.

The reason I said I don’t think you’re gonna like my analysis is because this song, it’s not about Lauren. I have reason to think this song is for someone else, but without dwelling on that, I’ll explain why in my opinion it’s not about Lauren through my interpretation.

“Where you at

Come baby show me where you at

Finally got time off work

Tryina disappear off the map with ya

What’s love gotta do with it

This my vacation time

Bathin suits and tan line

Thirst trap for your timeline”

Camila is asking this somebody where they are. Camila was still working with Lauren in 2016. She knew where Lauren was because she was with her, this somebody wasn’t. She’s asking them to meet and spend those days she had free together. She’s asking them to go together to a place where they could be off the radar. A place with a warm climate. And she’s not asking them to see it as a romantic getaway, but just as a vacation. Love was the last of her thoughts given what she was going through with Lauren that year.

“Num num num num num

Pass the henny not the rum

I go num num num num num

If I decide to give you sum

Talkin talkin talkin

All this time that we been rockin

Hey”

“Sip a lil this

Sip a little that

Now this ain’t nothin but a fact

I need you come and take control”

This vacation that Camila proposes also included alcohol and other activities, if you know what I mean. I’ll explain the slang she uses here to indicate those two very things.

In case you didn’t know, num is the slang for making out. Henny is the slang for Hennessy, which is a brand of cognac. It’s used a lot together with coke for a simple two-ingredient cocktail, and indeed, Camila specifies that she prefers henny over rum (rum and coke) in her simple two-ingredient cocktail. Sum is the slang for some. Now that you know, I believe you can put the pieces together and better understand the puns she used here.

And that’s all. There’s nothing about Lauren for me. There’s nothing deep about it. Just another distraction. And for me, for my timeline, this event happened during the 7/27 tour break. The break that lasted from July 6 to 26 before starting the North American part.

Hello to you too dear Anon 😄 No, I personally don’t think those scenes represent her experiences exactly as they happened. I think she and Dave (Meyers) represented her experience in a cinematic and straight way, but with symbols that represented Lauren.

For example, the fact that Dylan plays the piano is to represent an artist, aka music, aka Lauren. The flower on the back of his shirt in the kiss scene: Lauren. The book’s scene you mentioned? The scene is represented in winter with snow, yet in her memory, they’re both represented dressed in a light way, aka ‘In Miami, where winters are hot’ (Sangria Wine’s verse 2) [or even in L.A. since the winter climate is much more similar to the spring one]. They both like to read, so the book was a perfect clue. Alcohol and fights were represented in a much stronger way than I think they happened in reality because we all know that Lauren is not a violent person. The moon? There’s not even the need to explain it. Oh and, the fact that she’s holding hands with herself at the end of the video is also a representation of what we saw in the Havana music video. The “I do love you. But I love me more” that we saw there. With that scene at the end of the Consequences music video, Camila shows us that she has finally managed to love herself.

So dear Anon, to me, that video is just an artistic representation of how things went. And thanks. I hadn’t watched that video in a long time, but I went to re-watch it for you, so thank you, dear 🥰

🤸🏻‍♀‍🤸🏻‍♀‍🤸🏻‍♀‍

Aaand I’m done 😄 I hope I was helpful in this case too. As always, I’m available for those who have questions, so feel free to ask 😊 Thanks once again to you for asking me and Mari for making this exchange possible 😍

As usual, remember to be kind, to others and to yourself. Be a good example. Be patient. Be safe and take care of yourselves. I send you virtual love and hugs 🤗🤗🤗 I love you, babies. Always with love, F ❤️

___

This was awesome, thanks again F. BTW, the marks on the asks is a small detail I couldn’t erase but you can read them anyway, so sorry bout that.

#submission #f anon #anon #asks #answers #that small story with Simon

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justadram · 4 years

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Fic: In Fallow Fields

Part 3 of 3; Parts 1 and 2

Jon/Sansa, post-series; complete

A warm morning following on the heels of a cool night coats the blades of thin, bright grass with glittering dew. It darkens the hem of her wedding gown, creeping up the hem with every steady step she takes. Until it soaks through the layers beneath, penetrating to the flesh. Standing beneath the spreading limbs that make up what’s left of the godswood, Sansa feels the dampness in the cling of the embroidered stockings she rolled up her calves, when she woke and dressed without aid of a serving girl on her wedding day.

A moon or two ago, wet stockings and dew laden skirts in the chill of the morning air would have raised the delicate hairs on her arms and up the back of her neck. But it is warm. Blissfully so. Blue skies herald the day and the spring sunshine is a bright white that pierces the soil as certainly as it does the eyes, forcing her to blink against each chink of light that breaks the canopy as she approaches. The season has shifted.

With the sun shining in through the trees, the only thing that sends a thrill up her spine is Jon’s hand taking hers and pulling her in close with his eyes fixed upon her lips.

...

Sansa dislikes the taste of sour wine and ale, but Tormund’s fermented potatoes yield a practically flavorless drink. The warm burn it sets up in her belly is the same as if it was a chore to force down, but she manages to sip it without a grimace.

There are no frowns today, not even from her stony faced little brother or Arya, who has made it plain she wants none of the details of their arrangement, save that she might teach any forthcoming children to wield a sword, believing her technique superior to Jon’s. However skilled her sister is--and her skill is considerable--Sansa can’t bring herself to agree with the assessment entirely. Arya might be the only one alive to have watched Jon fight the undead on behalf of Westeros and scoff at his form. Even Tormund, for all his teasing, does not fault Jon on that point.

Tormund is plenty fond of teasing though, and today’s proceedings have unleashed a torrent of jests. She smiles over her cup at Jon--her lord husband--as Tormund claps him on the back hard enough to slosh some of the clear liquid over the rim of Jon’s cup onto his black jerkin. The broad-chested wildling urges Jon to drink. Filling his cup back up even as Jon protests. Again. For a second time and a third. It’s as merry as any of them have been, since they returned to Winterfell. It is their wedding that has made it so, even more so than the drink.

For a wedding toast--that’s how Tormund convinced Jon to grant him some of the harvest. It was not a bad crop, despite their collective lack of skill, and with the threat of starvation put aside, Jon allowed his friend the indulgence. Just so long as it was done in the name of pleasing Sansa.

She could have done without. Though weddings before were celebrated with feasting and drinking and song, Sansa doesn’t think anything missing from their day. Although, she wouldn’t have turned her nose up at a hind of venison in lemon gravy or a towering fruit cake iced in marzipan with candied lemons--anything with lemons, which she sometimes thinks she’ll never taste again, isolated in a North cut off from what feels like the rest of the world. A dress that she didn’t have to mend by the light of the fire might have been welcome too. But the strong burn of this drink will probably serve the bride and bridegroom better.

There were times past, when she drank to drown her sorrows on a wedding night. This isn’t like that. There are nerves, but she doesn’t dread the moment they will be alone. She doesn’t fear Jon’s lips on hers or his hands at her waist.

She has awakened from dreams of a full stream and arching backs on the banks with hair twined around fingers that pull. In that place between sleep and waking, she remembered it, no shadowed figures but clear enough to be a memory, not a figment. Jon’s dark hair, his beard rough on her skin, and his hands sure and eager. It felt familiar and welcome, as if it had always been him.

But there are ghosts. Hers and his. And though not all are malicious--her lord father and lady mother, for one--they haunt them all the same. And so she sips, welcoming the burn, and watches him with cheeks that hurt from smiling, as Tormund claps him one more time.

...

“I’ve had too much,” Jon says, sinking his head into his hands, as she lowers herself beside him on the bed.

Pulling his hands through his hair brings it back. It’s like lightning briefly illuminating a distant corner of her mind--hands in her hair, hot mouth on her neck, and twitching muscles under her questing touch. A moment from a dream as real as if it were out of time, akin to Bran's own warped vision of the world. He’s left her panting in an empty passageway, from his kisses, but they’ve never touched like that.

She swallows thickly and moves to touch his leg, grounding herself in what’s real. Looking down at her pale fingers against the dark of his breeches, as his comforting warmth seeps through the coarse fabric.

The icicles are gone. Melted by the sun and sent crashing down to the ground, where the mud became so thick, it could suck you in with its viscous pull as much as from its earthy fecund smell.

But she still hears it, in the silence of the room, the awakening water, tip-tapping to the beat of her heart.

“You needn’t keep your wits about you. It’s only me.”

It’s a trick, getting the words out, as an unfamiliar desire urges her to test the firmness of his thigh higher, following the rise of muscle.

“Only you?” he says with an awkward smile, the one she’s loved too much for too long.

Over tables shared, whether talking of the past, worrying about the future, or dining on meager fare, she’s looked on it and felt an answering flutter. Sometimes a pleasant sensation and other times a shock of terror, since everything she has ever loved has been ripped from her grasping hands.

Surely he wore it when they were children, though she struggles to summon images of them as children, running through the halls of this shell of a great caste. But she knows she felt no great fondness for it. Not then. Not like Bran’s smile delighted her, the one he no longer can summon.

“You are my weakness.”

The low gravel of the confession and his gaze raking over her, swells her chest in anticipation of something so close. Her cheeks, growing warm, betray the pleasure his words awaken in her. She ought not to want it, but she longs to be more than a convenient match, something that might bring them both a small measure of happiness.

He reaches up and tucks her hair behind her ear, his rough fingers following the curve of her ear with impossible care. “Weakness or strength. I’m not certain which.”

“Either way,” she says, fingernail toying with the weave of his breechcloth, “you overstate my importance.”

A wedding night pronouncement perhaps. Made to assuage whatever jealousies she might wickedly harbor. It isn’t necessary. He is more than enough, his being hers is plenty. She will never cease being grateful for what remains.

His dark brows climb high, as his fingertips tease at her hairline. “I couldn’t even put up a good show of refusing, when Arya came for me.”

Her head tilts, as she takes in the long slope of his nose, the rise of his cheeks, his dark eyes. No one is as formed for this place than Jon--the spitting image of their father, of a long line of Starks.

“These walls call us home.”

“No, it’s the people in them,” he says, the curve of his finger lazily tracing her flesh, up and down. “I turned down Winterfell before, when it was offered. You I could not refuse. I’d tried. I left, I went south because of you.”

Sansa would have never sent him South. She begged him not to go to an early grave like their father, uncle, and grandfather before him. “Not for me.”

She can’t make herself say Daenerys’ name aloud but Jon’s eyes cut sharply to hers all the same, the unsaid plain.

He might have mourned her and loved her once and her dragons may have played a role in the fight for the dawn, but Daenerys was a threat to everything Sansa wanted from the moment the Dragon Queen stepped foot on Westeros’ soil. She is a apparition better unnamed.

“When I left for Dragonstone...” With his fingers lingering at the bend of her neck where her gown ends, his throat rolls above his collar. She wishes they’d go farther, sink into the thick of her scalp. She’s ready to lean into his touch, rub against him like a mewling kitten. “You are not a Lannister, but I may be.”

She blinks, as the words sink into her, clearing her fogged mind. It rearranges conversations and looks that passed between them into a slightly shifted reality, and she sits there, letting all the pieces settle.

Would the acknowledgement have unnerved her then? As he was taking his leave? She felt so desperate to keep him close, so fearful of losing a piece of her family that felt as vital as a piece of herself, she can’t be sure.

However she might have felt, it doesn’t matter now. The past is just that and they have survived until now to face a future together.

She bumps his shoulder with hers, hoping to draw another hint of a smile from him. “Of the two of us, I am the only one who was--for a time--a Lannister. You are a Stark.”

“Targaryen then.”

“Yes, and in another world,” she says, letting her hand slide up as she imagined doing, the heavy fabric rasping under the brush of her hand, “where Father did not have to pretend you were something you were not, I might have always been yours. He might have wanted us to wed, and saved us both some trouble.”

“Trouble,” he repeats at the minimizing of their miseries. At that he finally does smile, something broader than his upside down twitch of a smile. “We still would have argued.”

“Oh, worse,” she agrees. “In the end, though, it’s all the same. I am yours.”

#jonsa #jon x sansa #gotfic #fanfic #game of thrones

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moondustaeil · 5 years

Text

interlude _ lee taeyong

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ⋅ interlude

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀

⠀ about

⋅ genre : mafia + soulmate au

⋅ characters : taeyong x fem!reader

⋅ word count : 2.7k

⋅ note : you can leave feedback (even if it sucks) and send in ideas! ⠀

⠀ summary

⋅ One more step until you meet your soulmate, zero steps and there’s a gun aiming at you.

A long day of work had finally ended for you, luckily the late shift meant that it wasn’t busy anymore, but it did mean coming home more tired than on other days. Today you had no other choice but working late, seeing the co-workers all had home duties such as their own families or events they had to go to. You were kind enough to say yes when they had asked you to work a late shift and afterward clean up a bit as well. You had done as you had been asked, even though you had wished to be home with each hour of the day that had been passed.

The way home was calm and slightly uncomfortable, the streets being so empty was something you could never get used to, especially not with the recent big circumstances in the city. And the darkness made a horror movie scenario seem more likely than you had hoped. Your steps were fast, something that would make you seem suspicious if other people were around, but you were just in a hurry. You wanted to get home as fast as possible.

Once you were inside the apartment building, you made your way to the place that you called home. You got the key out of your bag only to find that you had somehow left your door unlocked, you didn’t know how you managed to forget that, but blamed it on the tiredness that you had been feeling even before your shift had started. After a second of hesitating to go on, you decided you had no other option than to go in.

“I’m home” You announced to no one in particular as you got into the small hallway: leaving your shoes and jacket behind in their place there before you walked further into the place that you were renting. The lights were off, making it dark aside from the street lights that shone a bit of light through your window. Without turning on the lights, you made your way towards the windows to close the curtains, as you wanted that bit of privacy at this late hour of the night.

Once it was pitch black inside, you realized your stupid mistake and roamed your hand around in your bag until you had found your phone. And rather than turning on its flashlight, you let the lockscreen provide you with the slightest bit of light to get you through the nearest light switch. Your heart was beating fast as you went through the dark, even if you were in your own house right now. Your hand reached out once the light of the phone brought the light switch against the wall in sight, the little sound the light switch made came synchronously with the light in the middle of the living room.

Your eyes scanned the familiar surroundings as if they weren’t so familiar after all, but seeing everything left the way it had been before, made a sigh of relief push itself past your lip. These days it wasn’t easy to live here: a lot of criminalities happened and it wouldn’t be new that the mafia hid for the police in the nearest house they could break in to. Luckily, that was something you didn’t have experience with, yet it was something that brought a spark of fear each time you came home.

The silence of the place was broken when you turned on the tv and afterwards guide your bare feet towards the fridge to get yourself some water before you would go to bed. A voice was heard through the living room, making you hear what once again was the local news: the same local news each day, with once again the subject of the infamous NCT mafia. Your ears didn’t want to hear it and yet you were fast to sit on your sofa to listen and watch at the same time. “According to international sources, the mafia group NCT has spread out to countries as far as China and are planning to grow even larger.” The host spoke as some undercover pictures of the mafia group seemed to appear on the screen: how could they even get away unnoticed when some of them had the weirdest hair colors?

The host went on to the next subject of the news that you were no longer interested in, making you switch through the channels. But at midnight not much was on television anymore: aside from programs that weren’t made for the eyes of innocent children. After swapping back and forth between some channels, you turned off the tv and got up, leaving your bottle of water on the coffee table as you headed towards your bathroom to wash up a bit.

The house seemed quieter without the television but you did your nightly routine without focusing on the eery feeling you had in your own home. Your clothes were exchanged for your nightwear and your face was ready to hydrate and rest for the night without feeling the air from the outside blow upon it. A look in the mirror revealed how tired you were after today, but it wasn’t as if anyone would ever notice or speak up about the eyebags that rested underneath your eyes.

Your feet took themselves to your bathroom after you had cleaned up the slight mess you made in there. The lights again had turned off but you were quick enough to turn the one in your bedroom on so that it wouldn’t be pitch black for the second time that night. “Let’s sleep” you mumbled to yourself as you made sure the curtains in your room were closed and that your phone was really charging itself on your nightstand. Without noticing anything else in the room: you laid down in your bed and pulled the little string that hung against the wall, turning off the light which automatically left your eyes to close themselves.

Falling asleep took a little while as your mind was still occupied with the busy day you had today, and wondering if tomorrow would be the same kind of busy day as well. Thoughts didn’t seem to leave, not even when you tried to imagine the vocals in your favourite song, and not even when all you tried to think of was falling asleep. Maybe it was too warm in bed, which caused you to rest your legs upon the blankets instead of underneath them. Maybe you had been staying up too late which caused you to be so tired that you just weren’t able to sleep at all.

Your thoughts never seemed to stop wandering and it seemed to last hours, even if you knew probably only half an hour had passed in reality, but you were too stubborn to check the time on your phone. Slumber eventually started to take over your body, although it was as if you were still conscious of the non-existent surroundings. At least, that’s what you thought.

A few sounds were heard in the bedroom but sleep managed to lie to you and say that it was just nothing at all. Your closed eyes didn’t see the other presence in the room, neither did your body feel it. The room slowly filled itself with the scent of chloroform as the person that had crawled from underneath the bed, applied a generous amount of the liquid onto a rag he had found in your home.

“Sorry doll, had to hide in here so I gotta take you now” The voice spoke as the rag was pressed against your nose and mouth to make sure that you were completely gone within minutes. Because of your sleep: you hadn’t noticed anything, not even your own coughs or the horrid smell of the chloroform woke you up. Something that made it only easier for Ten: the guy that brought you under an even deeper sleep.

After a few minutes, Ten was sure that you were completely away from the world and called out for Winwin who immediately came from your closet. The two them carried you out of your own apartment and into the basement, where Winwin had found access to a car of one of the other inhabitants of the building. “Put her in the backseat” Ten said and soon enough you were laid on the backseat by the two mafia members. After both of the guys got in the front of the car, they drove away and back to their hideout. You would probably never return to this place, but that was something they didn’t care about.

During the entire drive, your eyes stayed closed and you were still asleep, probably caused by the heavy doses of chloroform that had spread itself through your nose. The laughter of the two guys in the front of the car was unheard, the silence after their leader Taeyong had called was eery but not to you. You were out for the rest of the short night.

Just like they would in the morning, your eyes opened themselves just slightly. Although instead of waking up onto your soft mattress, you woke up on something that felt like the cold hard floor. And once your eyes had adjusted to the light, you saw that your senses were right about the floor part.

“Fuck” you cursed softly to yourself as your head felt odd right as you were able to realize it, you felt as if you were on another planet and yet able to realize that you were on the cold floor. You didn’t remember drinking last night, neither did you sleep in the garage of the building.

Your body slowly moved to set itself up more straight so that your eyes had a broader view of where you really were. It was cold here which was something you realized when you saw your short-clad thighs and the rest of your bare legs. Only after that, your eyes scanned the rest of the room; which really wasn’t even close to what they could call a room. It was just a floor with four walls built around it: simple brights and no windows around you at all, only a door to break the endless wall of brights.

Another thing that you realized was that you were alone in the room, no one else that accompanied you here, but most importantly was what you were here for and how you got to this place. Even though your limbs were still and cold, you managed to stand up on your bare feet and head towards the door first.

The door was locked and you could hear no noises from outside the door, it was as if you were alone on this world and no one was alive to save you. A scream for help left your lips and even though your scream was loud, it felt as if you went unheard by everyone. Defeated, you slumped against the roughly-textured wall, the place where you waited and waited.

What felt like two eternities later, the door opened up again. Instincts made you get up without realizing it as you pushed yourself past the person that stood in front of it. You were quicker than you had expected to be, which probably was because your body reacted when your mind couldn’t. As you ran past the person, you heard something that sounded like metal collide with the floor. But it didn’t stop you. Neither did the unfamiliar way around the place stop you.

You ran as fast as you could, taking the steps that went upstairs as fast as possible but you still had to be careful so that you didn’t stumble over the steps. The presence behind you was quicker than you were, but each time you had a little joint of energy that kept you a step in front of him. The door at the top of the stairs had luckily still been open, which allowed you to run into an even more unexpected place. It looked like an abandoned place made into something better, yet you had no idea of what it really looked like because you were too occupied.

The last bit of energy that your body provided allowed you to run whatever way, near the end of the energy rush it combined with your mind to find a small hiding spot in the middle of the place. Your breathing stilled even though you were sure it was still heard after running up the stairs and away from the guy behind you, but at least your body was out of sight for a little bit.

“Do you know what NCT stands for? It’s New Culture Technology”

The voice was loud through the almost poorly-decorated place but the words ran even louder through your mind as you heard the words. The footsteps came closer to you and soon another pair of footsteps did the same, surrounding you in without them realizing. The voice still sounded so young and yet you immediately knew where you ended up.

“It’s Neo Culture Technology”

The other voice rang in your ears a second after, the tone sounding as if the person was smiling just a tad but judging the other guy. Some laughter from the two of them and other guys filling the emptiness in the room. You tried to keep yourself quiet through their small, joking talk: because even if they were joking, joking time would be over when they saw you.

The laughing was over when you heard the same gasping as you did once you ran from the basement of the place. “She’s gone. She escaped” The voice said hurriedly but kept it shushed for some reason, probably because he assumed that you were somewhere in this room. The words seemed to cause everyone to start pacing around, looking behind every single object that they occupied in the abandoned place.

As they were too busy looking in particular places, you had the chance to silently slip back towards the place you came from. No one was able to catch you as you practically crawled back towards the basement. And even when you silently put the door against the lock: they just guessed it was another member of their gang coming into the room to help them look for you. The footsteps surrounded everything, but each time you heard them coming into the direction of where you were, they disappeared just as soon once again.

After a couple of minutes, it seemed completely quiet. You rested your head against the door to check if you really didn’t hear any more footsteps or talking in the abandoned place. You counted in silence, gathering your courage before you opened the door.

Your eyes cautiously wandered around to see if you were correct about no one being here anymore, and a sigh of relief left your lips once you realized that you were right. A hand went to your face and rubbed through your eyes as you just needed some extra courage to just run and get out of this place as fast as possible. The timer on your wrist came to sight which revealed that you were only five steps away from your soulmate. A romantic cheesy plot about it being your savior filled your mind and your mind was stupid to believe in such a little untrue fairytale at that moment.

The eyes never left your timer as you took slow steps and watched the digit change with each step that you took. You had forgotten about being captured by the most well-known mafia these days, you had forgotten about walking around in their hideout spot, and you had forgotten about the fact that you were trying to escape. Once the timer claimed that it was one more step, you felt joy running through your body, because you finally were going to meet the one you were destined to be with forever.

Your feet shuffled as you took the last step towards your soulmate, suddenly feeling something cold straight against your forehead. You had expected to bump into something, but rather than that, when you looked up, you saw the leader standing in front of you, his gun pressed against your forehead. Taeyong’s eyes were intense, a devilish smile on his lips.

His eyes went towards his own counter for a second, making the smile widen once he had looked back at you. You belonged to him now, and you always would.

“that was your last step, darling.”

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keelywolfe · 4 years

Text

FIC: Casting Its Shroud Over All We Have Known

Summary: It's daylight and Edge has no interest in dealing with the secrets of the night. He's got plenty enough on his mind.

Tags: Spicyhoney, Brotherly Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy, More Angst

Warnings: Implied underage pregnancy. Implied miscarriages. Past Trauma.

~~*~~

Chapter List

What Will Be, Will Be

Something To Say, But Nothing Comes

Can’t Go On, Thinking Nothing’s Wrong

Seldom All They Seem

Voices Are Heard But Nothing Is Seen

Winter Makes You Laugh a Little Slower

That Place Where You Can’t Remember and You Can’t Forget

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was getting harder for Edge to get up in the mornings. Perhaps it was something to do with the differences in the universes that the mattresses were more comfortable. Or perhaps it was that the Swap brothers had a better furnace in their house and better blankets on their beds, keeping the space beneath the covers so toasty warm that it was difficult to leave it behind and head out into the cold Snowdin air in two difference Universes.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Rus was beneath those blankets with him and Edge was finding it more difficult by the day to leave Rus behind.

With great reluctance, Edge forced himself to climb out of the embrace of covers and Rus’s arms, hissing at the chill against his bare bones as he skinned into his trousers. Still in the bed, Rus made a dissatisfied little sound as he rolled into the warm spot Edge left behind without even waking up. And no wonder, he’d been up far too late last night on his talk with Red, he needed his rest.

Edge refused to think too deeply about that particular conversation. Last night’s secrets were best left in the darkness they crept out in. That was a door his brother closed a very long time ago and Edge had no interest in forcing it open. Red was his brother, he would always be his brother, and soon, he would be an uncle. Edge could only hope that he was willing to step into that role when the time came.

By the time he was finished dressing, Rus managed to somehow swathe himself into a ball of blankets and sheets, the top of his skull barely visible above the tangle. Hopefully, he’d sleep for some time yet. The baby was growing in leaps and bounds, Blue had already let out Rus’s normal pants twice and now Rus stuck with a pair of pajama pants and a very oversized sweatshirt that still didn’t manage to hide his rounded belly. Carrying around that unaccustomed weight was visibly exhausting for him, along with the constant drain on his magic that no amount of rest or food seemed to fully replenish. Despite Blue and their Undyne’s assurances that Rus was healthy enough, seeing him so worn was disheartening, especially since there was little Edge could do to help.

Soon, Edge told himself, soon the baby would be here, and Rus would never need to endure this again.

As unlikely as it was that anything would wake Rus, Edge shut the door carefully and made his way downstairs. He stepped out into the bracing cold and started to walk around the house to the basement stairs, his mind on his patrol, his scheduled training with Undyne tomorrow, and not at all on the happenings of the night before. He did not want to think about crouching in the dark, listening as Red slurred out the answers to the rumors Edge heard whispered around New Home whenever he was forced to meet with Asgore, he didn’t, and—

Years of living on the streets in Underfell ingrained in him a sense of constant awareness and Edge turned instinctively towards the figure coming up behind him at the first crunch of a boot through the crust of snow.

“Hey!” He only caught a glimpse of hulking yellow shouting at him before it moved in a blur, hands lashing out as they hurled axes formed from magic at him. Edge knew a killing attack when one was coming and this one was not. He dodged the axes easily and they struck the house without so much as denting the siding, dissolving in a burst of lightning. Edge dove for cover behind a tall pine tree and crouched down in wait, his own burning magic pulled forth and ready to sally an attack of his own as he eyed his opponent warily.

Alphys.

But not any Alphys he’d ever known. Edge hadn’t met this world’s version, he’d only seen her picture in passing, but there was no mistaking her. The facial resemblance to his own was uncanny and that was where the similarities ended.

No thick-lensed glasses for this version of Alphys. She was taller, close to Edge’s height, but much broader, a massive, hulking size. The arms of the jacket she wore against the cold strained, bulging muscles concealed beneath the cloth and one of her eyes was scarred and unseeing, milky white in contrast the blue blaze of the other. The claws on her hands were longer, sharper, and so were her teeth, every inch the ferocious Monster of Human legends.

She drew closer and Edge watched calculatingly, noting that her size certainly did not inhibit her movements; she walked with the grace of a predator and had the intelligence to stay out of arm’s reach. This was a formidable foe and from the way she eyed him up and down, she did not return that sentiment, saying bluntly. “You must be the baby daddy. You look like someone Papyrus would hook up with.”

Well, then. Edge stood up and stepped out from behind the tree to glare at her, since the rule of the day seemed to be rudeness given and rudeness returned, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She ignored the question, stamping in closer to loom in front of him. “I got something to say, so listen up, deadbeat. Papyrus can be a shitty brother and he’s a worse sentry. But if you hurt him, I’ll twist you around so hard you’ll be able to see your tailbone by looking up, you get me?”

He supposed she expected him to be irritated, angry, perhaps even to attack her. The thrumming static of magic was heavy in the air, she was braced and ready to absorb anything he sent her way. But Edge was already letting his formed magic drain away, he wasn’t angry in the slightest. On the contrary, it was comforting to know there was at least one person in Underswap who dealt properly in threats.

He lowered his head in a slight bow, allowing a small concession. “That’s good to know,” Edge said honestly. “Thank you for looking out for him.”

That must not have been the reaction Alphys was expecting. She blinked and every emotion she felt was on display as it ran across her face, confusion, irritation, a bare hint of cautious respect. It was so like his Undyne that Edge fought against a smile; her inability to keep her emotions properly under wraps was at least one of the reasons Undyne’s helmet had a face shield. Edge’s ability to school his features to bland unreadability was impeccable and he did, meeting Alphys’s scowling glare with calm sincerity.

“Guess you must not be too bad,” Alphys conceded grudgingly. She gave him a hard poke in the sternum with a finger that protruded from a fist nearly the size of a canned ham, “I’m watching you, deadbeat.”

“I’m sure you—"

Alphys didn’t wait for him to finish. She spun on her heel and tromped away, tail dragging in the snow as she headed in the direction of Underswap’s Waterfall.

The childish temptation to send an attack between her shoulders to knock her face-first into the snow was nigh on overwhelming. Edge resisted it; to begin with, Rus would likely not appreciate him going to war with the captain of the Underswap guard over a simple shovel speech. He also didn’t have the time to deal with the inevitable aftermath right now and regretfully, he turned towards the back of the house and headed to the basement stairs. Perhaps he could ask Blue to bring him along on one of his training sessions, a chance to spar with an unknown Monster was tantalizing, he might even learn a new move or two to use against his Undyne—

He spun around, magic surging to the fore again as words came out of nowhere around him.

“good thing you didn’t kill her, woulda pissed the blueberry off something awful.”

The speech was echoing, directionless, and Edge turned slowly, searching, until he caught sight of crimson eye lights peered slyly around the side of the house, Red’s serrated teeth curved in an irritating smile.

Edge shook away the attack and lifted his chin, stalking past his brother to the door. “You’ve hardly spoken to me for weeks and you think now is the time to interject your opinions?”

Red only shrugged and fell into step behind him through the door, their boots plodding heavily on the stairs. “what’s it matter? ain’t like you listen either way. you headed back home?”

“I am headed back to Underfell, yes.”

“uh huh.” Red shoved his hands into his pockets, watching as Edge turned on the machine. It hummed obediently to life and he keyed in the coordinates for their universe. “so this’s what you’re planning’ on doing, then? keep hopping back and forth, hoping one day you don’t zig instead of zag and get your ass dusted?”

“I don’t have an expansive selection of choices.” The moment the whine of the machine hit its highest pitch, Edge stabbed the button to open the portal. Shimmering, silent blackness formed in the gateway and Edge stepped through it and into his own universe. Perhaps it was the lingering chill of the void but somehow their basement always seemed colder than the Swap brothers’.

Red was still following him, stomping his feet as if trying to knock off any lingering void as he trailed behind Edge up the stairs. His voice rose over their echoing steps. “maybe not, but you got at least two, all nice and simple; stay here in the dust or stay there with rus and the kid.”

Edge stopped at the top of the stairs, his gloved hand resting on the doorknob. On the other side of the door was Underfell, with its promise of death and dust. And other children, other Monsters who were too weak to defend themselves against the LV hunters. People who needed the guard to protect them and the guard needed a Captain. “We can’t abandon the people of Snowdin.”

“you can’t abandon them,” Red grumbled out. Behind him, Edge could hear the rustle of clothing, the creak of the stairs as Red shifted his weight. He sighed heavily. “but i can’t abandon you. whatever you decide, boss, i’m with you.”

Edge closed his sockets and let his head drop, his forehead resting on the cold steel of the door. Not that he ever thought Red would abandon him, he hadn’t, but the last few weeks had been…unsettling. His brother had never been so cold to him before, his anger so unyielding towards Edge even as he kept watch over Rus and their child. His brother.

kid was a pain in the ass, but he was mine

“Thank you, brother,” Edge said, softly, and he meant every single word.

Then he firmly turned the doorknob and stepped out into his world. Only to be immediately grabbed and slammed back into the side of his house, and the only thing that spared Undyne’s good eye from a bone spearing through it was Edge aborting it so quickly that he felt the burn of backlash in his soul. He fought off the pain, hissing out, “What the fuck are you doing!”

“Me?” she snarled back. She was breathing too hard, agitated and angry, her teeth clenched around a sneer. Her clawed hand was icy around Edge’s cervical vertebra, she hadn’t even bothered to put on a jacket or gloves against the cold. “What the fuck did your brother do to Alphys?”

Ah. That explained the anger. Edge didn’t struggle in her grip, relaxing against the side of the house as he asked calmly. “Is she hurt?”

In her good eye, a tinge of red light suffused her pupil, her voice a near subsonic growl. “Guess that depends on your definition of hurt.”

“Then I suppose she should have considered Sans before she offered me her ‘congratulations’ on my child and asked after my significant other.” Acid fairly dripped from the words, as poisonous as Alphys’s offering of tea.

It took a moment for that to pierce Undyne’s temper but when it did, the manic redness in her gaze faded. Her grip loosened, then she let go entirely, her head dropping down between her shoulders as she hunched down, muttering out a string of curses, each more vile than the last.

Edge straightened his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles from her grip even as he discreetly dissolved the thin stiletto of a bone that had been concealed in his palm. One of her nails must have torn through the fabric and he scowled, poking a finger through the hole irritably, “I take it she didn’t mention that.”

“Nah, she didn’t.” Undyne offered him a thin, toothy smile. “But she wasn’t talking much, anyway. Don’t think you need to worry about her pestering your skitten.”

For now, Edge did not say. “You might consider going back to her, it could be she’d appreciate your specific brand of comfort.”

A blotchy, ruddy blush infused her cheeks and she barked out a laugh, “I can get laid on my own, I sure as fuck don’t need any favors from your brother or advice from you, nerd.” A certain gleam rose in her eye, the very opposite of her earlier anger, “’course, it’d be stupid not to take advantage of a mood, wouldn’t it.”

“Do enjoy and do not tell me anything about it,” Edge said, dryly.

She laughed again, raucously loud, but it faded into an unexpectedly sober look. She glanced around, belatedly lowering her voice as she murmured, “Papyrus? For what it’s worth, I didn’t tell her about the kid.”

“I know.” He hadn’t, but it was good to hear her say it.

“See you tomorrow, nerd.” She turned on her heel and walked away before he could say another word and it was a moment of mirrored déjà vu, watching as she tromped off in the direction of the Riverperson; Undyne giving Edge her back was a deliberate show of her trust, as opposed to Swap Alphys’s insult.

“you believe her?”

This time his brother’s voice coming from nowhere was not a surprise. “I do, which means you may need to check over the audio distorters.” He finally turned to look up at his brother, who was lounging on the snowy rooftop, his sneakers braced against the gutters and a slender sharpened bone dangling idly between his fingers. Trust him to always be able to find the high ground. He glared at Red sourly. “Care to explain what you did to Alphys?”

Red only shrugged, tossing the bone to dissolve in the air and sending a miniature avalanche of snow to the ground. “heard about your tea party with her. been a while since i saw alphy, thought it might be time we had a chat, reminisce about old times and all.”

“And where did you hear about it?”

His grin widened mockingly, “always tell you, little brother, around here, the walls ain’t the only thing with ears.”

“Nor are they the only things without them, unless you’ve grown a pair. Can you at least assure me that it was worth antagonizing our allies?”

“doubt it. but she ain’t gonna hurt your kid.”

“Did she tell you that?” Edge asked. Red’s confidence was about as trustworthy as his rare promises, honest only to a point. “And do you believe her?”

Red’s grin was a sharpened knife, his eye lights glittering with blood-red sparks. “i do now. better get goin’ on patrol, little brother, those fancy traps of yours won’t check themselves.”

“You—” Red was gone before Edge could remind him that he needed to get to his own damned sentry station.

He blew out an impatient breath and stalked up the barely cleared path from their basement to the walkways of Snowdin proper. None of the citizens greeted him, instead scurrying out of his path and that was as it should be. His duty to the people here was to protect him from the XP Hunters and the LV-maddened Monsters that haunted the depths of the woods. He was not here for friendship or any companions past those he commanded. He was the Great and Terrible Papyrus and they would do well to remember it.

He did not spare a thought towards Rus, hopefully still sleeping in the cozy warmth of the bed they’d been sharing, their child still cradled safely in his belly.

His patrol went as perfect as was possible, considering the events of the morning. All the traps were clear, the Dogs were at their stations. Red’s post was empty but there were fresh footprints in the snow so he’d at least gone there earlier and then vacated before Edge could gripe at him for sleeping on the job. There were only a couple traps left on the very outskirts and he was headed to them when his phone began to ring, a distinct ringtone meant for emergencies only.

Edge took the moment to check his surroundings, scanning the woods. As anxious as he was to know why Rus was calling, he couldn’t afford to allow himself to get sloppy, especially not when he was alone. Only then did he press the answer call button, lifting the phone to his auditory canal, “Rus? Are you all right?”

The voice on the line was staticky this far away from Snowdin proper, “do you have any pillows?”

Edge nearly asked Rus to repeat it, half convinced that he couldn’t have possibly heard that right. “Pillows?” he echoed doubtfully, fully expecting to be corrected.

“yes!” Rus snapped back testily and that in itself was strange. Even at his most aggravated, Rus kept a firm hold on his temper, offering insults with lazily brutal precision instead of shouts. Anger was effort and he’d always kept his expenditures low. Until now. “pillows! do you have them or not!”

“I…yes?”

“good.” The relief fairly dripped from Rus’s voice. “i need them.”

“You need…pillows?” Edge repeated.

“did i stutter?” Through the static on the line, he heard Rus suddenly heave in a clotted breath, so wretched and teary that Edge’s soul clenched in sympathy. “i need pillows!”

“Shh, calm down,” Edge soothed. All right, so it wasn’t a traditional emergency, but Rus’s distress was real enough. He gave his surrounds another glance and turned back to town, his long strides eating up the distance. “Pillows, I hear you, I understand, you need pillows. Yes, we have some, several.”

“can you bring them with you tonight?” Again, that unhappy, hitched breath. “please. i need them.”

“Of course,” Edge said, trying for reassuring even through his confusion. “They’re yours, any we have.”

Rus let out a shuddery breath, whispering gratefully, “thank you.”

This was passing strange on an already strange day. “Rus? Are you all right?”

“yeah, i’m fine,” Now that he had secured a promise of pillows, he sounded distracted. “i gotta go. stay safe, okay?”

“I wi—” The line went dead before he could finish. Under his breath he muttered again. “Pillows?”

There was really only one way he was going to get an explanation. Edge headed back towards Snowdin, making mental plans. He could send the Dogi to check the last traps; if he phrased it as a show of trust rather than asking a favor, they would do it eagerly, always prepared to demonstrate their loyalty.

The pillows themselves might prove to be another problem. Despite his assurances, he only had a single pillow on his own bed and he wasn’t about to subject Rus to any of Red’s without a chance to sterilize them. They did have a couple of throw pillows, but that meager offering didn’t seem like enough for Rus’s level of upset and Edge could only picture his expression if he brought a mere three pillows as a contribution. No, he’d need to secure extras from somewhere else and there was only one place Edge could reasonably consider.

He could only hope to survive unscathed.

~~*~~

“heya, edgelord,” Sans yawned out. He looked up at Edge from where he was leaning against the doorjamb with as much interest as he could muster. From the vague sleepiness lingering over him like a miasma, it wasn’t much.

“Hello,” Edge said curtly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have time for niceties. Do you have any extra pillows I can borrow?”

Truthfully, he had no idea how much time there was, though the chances of Rus dying for a lack of pillows did seem unlikely. What he did know was that speaking with Sans was always simultaneously better and worse than talking to his brother, each tipping to the furthest end of their scale. There might be very little that could work Sans up enough to put the effort into making someone bleed, but his stare was like Red’s, direct and unflinching, always seeing far too much.

There was nothing in him that Edge wouldn’t allow Red to see, no secrets to keep hidden from him. Sans might resemble his brother, but he wasn’t and Edge was always deeply uncomfortable beneath the endless depths of his gaze.

That gaze was settled on him firmly now, sleepiness vanishing as Sans’s brow bones climbed up his forehead. Wonderful, now he was intrigued. “pillows?” he echoed.

Suddenly, Rus’s earlier frustrations made much more sense. “Yes, pillows! Soft square things that people lay their heads on. Pillows!”

“yeah, yeah, i get you, don’t get your panties twisted, it’ll ruin the leather.” Sans left the door open and wandered back into the house, leaving it for Edge to close behind him. He was wearing one slipper and trying to slide his foot into the other, socks sagging down his ankles. “lookin’ to cosplay as the stay-puff marshmallow man?”

“They aren’t for me, they’re for Rus.”

That got him a shrewd glance, Sans’s teeth parted in a silent ‘ah’. “gotcha. welp, anything for the upcoming mama.”

“I don’t know why you and Red insist on calling him that,” Edge said irritably, “he doesn’t like it.”

Sans frowned slightly, as much as he could around the constraints of his skull. “no? sorry ‘bout that, he never said. i’ll stop, but i’d guess for your bro that’s the main reason he does it.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“how’s things goin’ with rus, anyway, haven’t seen him lately.”

Hardly a surprise. Rus wasn’t supposed to use the machine any more than he should be teleporting, and Sans never seemed particularly fond of it himself. He’d always been perfectly content to allow visitors to come to him and whether that was simple laziness or something else entirely, Edge did not know.

“well?” Sans prompted. “you two doing all right?” His eye lights were pale white, nothing at all like Red’s crimson and yet, somehow, they sent a tremor down Edge’s spine.

Enough of this. Perhaps Rus’s need for pillows wasn’t a fatal issue, but that didn’t mean Edge wanted to hold off getting them to him. “If you’re warming up for a lecture of some sort, I’ve already spoken to a version of Alphys, my Undyne, and my own brother today. I’m full up, so I’d appreciate it if you could save it for a day when my self-esteem is particularly high and might need taken down a peg or two.”

Sans only looked at him in mild surprise. “no lectures. not really seeing a need for it, seems to me you’re doing okay by rus. ‘course, i’m not privy to all the details, but i don’t really need ‘em. none of my business, unless you’re planning on knocking up my bro, too.” The way his eye lights flickered out was nothing close to mild, and the darkness in his sockets only resembled blackness. “don’t recommend that, by the way.”

As if the same trick his brother often pulled was anything close to a threat. “I’ll keep it in mind if I get any sudden urges to impregnate anyone else,” Edge said dryly.

“’preciate it. pillows,” Sans said decisively. Between one step and the next he disappeared and then returned only moments later, announcing. “help yourself.”

The mass of fluffiness was worth a brief stare, if only for the shock that the Tale brothers seemed to have an unexpected collection of pillows stowed away somewhere in their home. Edge took Sans at his word, piling in as many into his inventory as would fit. Sans’s easy expression never changed, even as Edge tried to force in yet another. “Won’t your brother mind?”

“paps?” Sans only gave him a one-shouldered shrug. “nah, not if i tell him they’re for rus. he’s pretty excited to meet the kiddo.”

“So am I,” Edge murmured. “Thank you.”

“sure. do us a favor and give ‘em a wash before you bring ‘em back? it’s gonna get a little messy when the baby finally decides to make an appearance, yeah?”

There was something peculiar in Sans’s voice, something that didn’t match his normal lazy ease. It gave Edge a pause and he hesitated, giving Sans a scrutinizing look. Without his hoodie, Sans looked smaller and that too was reminiscent of Red. Even Edge usually only saw his brother without a hoodie when he was too unconscious to prevent it. Sans met that gaze evenly, his smile never faltering. But then, it really couldn’t, could it.

“I’ll wash them myself,” Edge told him slowly.

Sans snorted and shook his head. “you know what, don’t make it a priority, you’re gonna be busier than one-armed shit-shoveler pretty damn soon. guess you better head out, if rus’s asking for pillows, he’s getting close.”

“What do you--?”

It was fascinating really, to be steadily herded towards the door by someone who never bothered to take his hands out of his pockets. Edge was standing on the porch with a pillow in his arms before he even noticed he was through the front door and Sans was on the other side of the threshold, offering him an easy little wave. “see you around, edgelord.”

“Thank you agai—” The door closed with a firm click. Edge sighed and said to no one at all, “It would be nice if someone let me finish a single sentence today.”

But as strange as Sans’s pronouncement was, Edge took him at his word. Rus needed pillows for something and if that something was the birth of their child, then time might be at a more of constraint than he suspected.

Edge headed back to the Tale brothers’ basement at a jog, pillow in hand and Rus was the only thing on his mind.

~~*~~

tbc

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #underfell sans #pregnancy fic

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paralleljulieverse · 4 years

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LILI IN LONDON: Darling Lili Makes Her European Bow

Fifty years ago this week, Darling Lili had its official European Premiere at the Plaza Cinema in London on 1 October, 1970. It wasn’t the film’s first international release -- that honour fell to Japan, where Darling Lili opened at the Cinerama Theatre Tokyo on 4 July, barely two weeks after the film’s US opening. However, the London premiere was a significant occasion in the film’s wider global rollout. It was, after all, Julie Andrews’ hometown and there was considerable hope local audiences would give the film a warmer reception than had been the case in North America.

Accordingly, the UK branch of Paramount Pictures afforded Darling Lili a high profile release. They exhibited the film as a full roadshow attraction, complete with widescreen 70mm print, overture and exit music, and a 24-page souvenir programme (Klar 1970). In keeping with the era’s norms of variegated international film marketing, completely new promotional artwork was commissioned for the UK release. Featuring a central image of Julie/Lili bursting into song with her arms outstretched -- a clear nod to The Sound of Music -- with a cloudburst of narrative scenes from the film fanning across the bottom of her billowing skirt, it was an arresting design that served as a ready-made marketing logo for the campaign that could be emblazoned across the full range of advertising and merchandising (Paramount 1970).

The gala premiere took place on Thursday, 1 October -- Julie’s 35th birthday, incidentally — at the Plaza Cinema in Lower Regent Street, just off Piccadilly Circus. Popularly dubbed the “Home of Paramount Pictures”, the Plaza had long been the London venue of choice for the studio’s biggest film premieres (Eyles, 26-28). Though not an official Royal Performance, the European Premiere of Darling Lili was a major society charity event with proceeds going to the Printer’s Pension Corporation, one of the oldest royally-sponsored occupational charities in the UK. Tickets were available from £1 to £5 in the stalls and £10 to £20 in the Circle with the event raising over £6000 for the charity (”Darling Lili Aids”, 12).

Official patrons of the Printer’s Pension Corporation, Lord and Lady Hartwell presided over the evening, welcoming a line of society notables and assorted local celebrities including Sue Lloyd, Judy Geeson, Clodagh Rogers and Julie Ege (“Darling Lili Has”, 32). Neither Julie nor Blake was able to make the premiere, though Julie’s parents were in attendance as honorary guests. Representing the cast, Lance Percival, who plays the comic support role of T.C. Carstairs in the film, “arrived at the Plaza in a vintage white Rolls Royce driven by a female chauffeur” (ibid.). Press reports noted that the “premiere drew large numbers of films fans to the theatre” and “the capacity audience...repeatedly applauded during the presentation of the film” (ibid.)

Following the premiere, Darling Lili opened the next day on 2 October to the general public. In a way that paralleled the experience at New York’s Radio City Music Hall, the decision to stage the film as a special event prestige picture worked well. Lili ran in roadshow release at the Plaza for over three months till 6 January 1971. It then continued to play in general release at various venues throughout London such as the ABC Cinema-Edgeware Rd well into late-1971.

Critical responses to Darling Lili in the London press ran the gamut. The film garnered several positive notices. Patrick Gibbs of the Daily Telegraph rated it “a very amiable and romantic comedy-thriller” (P14). The film “offers many pleasures,” declared the Daily Mail, with “Miss Andrews singing, dancing, delighting...with some very pretty songs...and amusing performances” (Cable, 9). The critic for the Evening Post opined:

“It is fashionable to sneer at Julie Andrews’ films as being sickly-sweet and 20 years out of date--but I can only say I enjoyed this one...Darling Lili is an enjoyable, emotional, light-hearted love story with a strong comedy element” (Watson, 7).

Other reviewers were less enthusiastic. The critic for the Daily Mirror was unsure “what kind of film Darling Lili was supposed to be”:

“Taken as a spy send-up, it’s harmless enough and drags only occasionally, but the comedy doesn’t always blend with the drama. The ending...is a cloyingly sentimental cop-out and a shade nauseating” (Richards, 19).

More than a few UK commentators baulked at the film’s irreverent treatment of World War 1--perhaps unsurprisingly given the enormous significance of the “Great War” to British history and national mythology. The critic for The Tablet, for example, called the film “a monstrous betrayal of the period.” Its “trivialisation of the issues is outrageous...I have no doubt it will be popular, but it shouldn’t be.” Still, he conceded, the film’s “photography...is very pretty and Miss Andrews’s voice is as pure as ever” (Burke, 959).

Critical concessions to “our Julie” were a notable feature of many London reviews. The all-important Times review declared:

“I wish I could like Darling Lili more. I love musicals and remain unrepentantly devoted to Julie Andrews, but this lavish new vehicle for her talents is the most upsetting sort of misfire--the sort which could so easily have been put right, with a little more thought (or a little less worry), a little more confidence in hitting the right tone and sticking to it...a disappointing waste of all the talent and money so evidently lavished on it” (Taylor, 13)

It was a sentiment echoed in The Illustrated London News:

“Miss Andrews sings well, acts decently, and even does a strip number that reveals a new side to her talent as well as a gorgeous, long-concealed, pair of legs. But, alas, not even she can save this ponderous film with its strange blend of old-and-new songs, its heavyweight prankishness, and its inordinate length” (Billington, 31).

Or again the review in The People:

“Julie has charm, grace, plus a good singing voice and Henry Mancini’s music is haunting. But the character she portrays...is hardly endearing. The story...is improbable too, even for a musical. But there are some smashing flying sequences and I like Julie’s style--so I wish it well” (Nunn, 7).

While Darling Lili opened with a splash and did decent enough business in London, it faced very different prospects elsewhere in the UK where the film became something of an inadvertent hostage in an ongoing industrial dispute. At issue was an attempt by US distributors to loosen the stranglehold and perceived old-fashioned exhibition practices of the two big regional UK chains: ABC and Odeon (“Elvin Raps”, 196; “Compromise Ends”, 24). Unable to agree on new terms, the distributors withheld several big features, including Lili, from release to these chains. As a result, Lili’s broader UK rollout was held up for months and, in some cases, years. The film didn’t get a Midlands release, for example, till April 1971 when it opened for a fixed season at the Regal Cinema in Leamington, “an independent theatre whose booking agents were able to come to terms with the distributors” (“Regal Breaks,” 2). The film then popped up intermittently at other independent theatres across the UK: Margate in September, Liverpool in October, and Belfast in January 1972.

Many major provincial markets missed out on the film completely. In a disgruntled letter to the local newspaper in early-1972, one Birmingham fan wondered if “there is a particular antipathy to musicals in our city. We have yet to see Darling Lili (Julie Andrews) and On a Clear Day You Can See Forever (Barbra Streisand), both of which have been shown in London” (Krober, 6). In a similar vein, a Reading filmgoer complained that his local ABC cinema was screening endless reissues while many new films “have yet to play in Reading..that are certainly worth a showing” such as “Julie Andrews and Rock Hudson in Darling Lili” (Suter, 10).

The UK distribution dispute was eventually resolved and Darling Lili managed to make its way out to a broader range of provincial centres including Birmingham, where it opened at the Odeon in April 1973. But by this stage the film was hardly new and whatever marketing impetus was there from the London campaign had well and truly evaporated. It was an unfortunate fizzling out for what could have otherwise been an effective national release for the film. Still, UK filmgoers who missed Darling Lili in theatres didn’t have to wait too long to catch it on the small screen. It made its British television debut as the ‘Film of the Week’ on BBC-1 on 2 April 1976 (“Film of the Week”, 22).

Sources:

Billington, Michael. “Cinema: An Ode to Lost Innocence.” The Illustrated London News. 3 October 1970: 31.

Burke, J.A.V. “Darling Lili.” The Tablet. 3 October 1970: 959.

Cable, Michael. “The Sweet English Rose is Among the Guns.” Daily Mail. 30 September 1970: 9.

“Compromise Ends US Majors’ Fight Vs. UK Circuits Over Sunday Rentals.” Variety, 13 October 1971: 24.

“‘Darling Lili’ Aids Printers’ Charity.” The Daily Telegraph. 2 October 1970: 12.

“‘Darling Lili’ Has Glittering London Bow.” The Calgary-Herald. 10 October 1970: 32.

“Elvin Raps ‘Oldfashioned Methods’ of UK Pic Biz, Hits Chains’ Bookings.” Variety. 29 April 1970: 196.

Eyles, Allen. London's West End Cinemas. Swindon : English Heritage, 2014.

“Film of the Week: ‘Darling Lili’.” Radio Times, 1 April 1976: 22.

Gibbs, Patrick. “Films: Spying With a Song.” Daily Telegraph. 2 October 1970: P14.

Harmsworth, Madeleine. “New Film.” Sunday Mirror. 4 October 1970: 29.

Klar, Arthur. Darling Lili [Souvenir Book], London: National Publishers, Inc, 1970.

Krober, Kenneth S. “Letters to the Editor: Antipathy To Musicals.” Birmingham Daily Post, 7 February 1972: 6.

Mallett, Richard. “Cinema.” Punch. No. 6787, 7 October 1970: 510.

Nunn, Ray. “But Will Lili Keep ‘Em Singing?” The People. 4 October 1970: 7.

Paramount Pictures (UK). Your Promotion Guide: Darling Lili [Advertising Campaign Manual], Chiswick, 1970.

“Picture.” Daily Telegraph. 2 October 1970: P17.

“Regal Breaks Stranglehold.” Birmingham Daily Post. 27 April 1971: 2.

Richards, Dick. “I Spy a Send-Up.” Daily Mirror. 1 October 1970: 19.

Suter, Les. “Letters to the Editor: Old Films.” Reading Evening Post. 15 June 1972: 10.

Taylor, John Russell. “Purple Passages in Paris.” The Times. 2 October 1970: 13.

Watson, Albert. “At the Cinema: Yes, I Enjoyed Julie Andrews!” Evening Post. 10 October 1970: 7.

#Darling Lili #julie andrews #european premiere #film premiere #london #plaza theatre #paramount #blake edwards #rock hudson #film history #classic film #old hollywood

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starforsharon · 5 years

Text

Sexy Little Me

This is how Hollywood turns a pretty Texas girl into Sharon Tate, the star.

By John Bowers for "The Saturday Evening Post"

1. Two of Sharon Tate's three pictures have been produced in Europe. Although Texas-born, Sharon spent her adolescence abroad, and much prefers London to Hollywood.

2. Sharon will be shown off to American audiences for the first time in DON’T MAKE WAVES. On the set, she reacts prettily to a compliment from co-star Tony Curtis.

3. At 6 months Sharon won Dallas’ “Miss Tiny Tot” award.

4. Portraying a Las Vegas showgirl who becomes a superstar in VALLEY OF THE DOLLS, Sharon had to wear a 10-pound jeweled headdress which “gave her a headache.”

5. This picture of Sharon and her father, Maj. Paul Tate, at a 1965 Fort MacArthur party is from a large “family events” scrapbook that Sharon dutifully keeps.

6. Relaxing on the set of YOUR TEETH IN MY NECK, Sharon listens attentively as the Polish-born Polanski explains how she can improve her performance in the next scene.

May 6, 1967 – Sharon Tate had finished her last scenes for The Vampire Killers (later to be called Your Teeth in My Neck), and had no film work for the moment. At 95 Eaton Mews West, London, she moved about in the late afternoon looking for something to do. She sat Buddah-style on the living room floor and put on fake eyelashes, one eyelash at a time. She worried that a sunlamp treatment, taken a few hours before, was going to make red cracks in her face. “Doesn’t it seem to be getting all red on the cheeks? Look close now.”

She wore a gray sweat suit and furry boots, having been to her daily gym class that afternoon. She didn’t like the gym class, but Roman Polanski, her director, had told her she must go. She frowned into a hand mirror, thinking she saw a red streak. She started to bite a fingernail, but stopped. Roman had forbidden any more fingernail biting; she had a tendency to bite them down to the nub. She went to the refrigerator, and amidst Wyborowa vodka and Carlsberg beer, brought out the makings for a salami sandwich. She would not drink a beer because it might bloat her, and Roman was taking her out for dinner.

There was no place in the apartment for her to settle back and relax now. Everything inside had a transient look, as if the tenants would only be there a short season. A complicated stereo set sat on crates; Bach on top of a stack of records, Cannonball Adderly on the bottom. There were no pictures, no pets, no cozy heat. Upstairs on the wall was a framed citation stating that Knife In The Water under the direction of Roman Polanski had been nominated for an Academy Award. As Sharon reached for a folder of still photographs from The Vampire Killers to show a male visitor, she stuck up her bottom in a way she has; as she went through the photos, she pooched out her bosom. But she did it by reflex. Her thoughts were totally on her director, who was not there. She had been in three unreleased films – 13, Don’t Make Waves and The Vampire Killers, all with different directors.

If she caught the public’s fancy in any of these pictures, she would become a movie star. And she was pleased with her work in The Vampire Killers. She was in a nude bathtub scene in it, and in a brief sequence in which she got spanked.

The phone rang; it was a strange female voice with a French accent. “Is Roman there?”

“No, I’m sorry he isn’t,” Sharon said, in her accent of the moment, which was English. “Who shall I say is calling, please?”

“Oh – I just wondered if he were in. Tell him Barbara. Thank you very much..”

The dull London afternoon turned dark, and still no Polanski. He could be cutting The Vampire Killers, or he could be tied up in London traffic or he could be sitting in a café. She took off her furry boots and put her feet into his house slippers, which rested at odd angels by a mammoth bed that cost over $600. The slippers were far too big for her. She wondered if tonight she would be thrown with people who would overwhelm her with their wit, their awesome knowledge, their self-confidence. When she was out in public with Roman, she never felt adequate enough to open her mouth. She could only talk to him alone. Her problem was that she had always been beautiful, and people were forever losing themselves in fantasy over her – electing her a beauty queen, imagining her as a wife, dreaming of a caress. Most people had fantasies. But a few people, like Polanski, took charge.

At the age of six months Sharon Tate was elected Miss Tiny Tot of Dallas, Tex. Her mother had sent in photos of the beautiful baby to contest officials. Sharon’s father was (and is) in the Regular Army, and was then stationed in Dallas. (Both her parents are natives of Houston.) As Sharon grew up, the family moved around in Army style, her father frequently absent from home. She remembers that when her father would return from an overseas tour, and she had reached a nubile age, her mother’s first command would be, “Now you, Sharon Marie, button up that night gown when you come out of your bedroom. Daddy’s home.” Her father was very strict with her as she budded through adolescence, turning thumbs down on potential boyfriends and making her stay in nights. He was very strong and knew how to take charge.

But most people continued to do things for Sharon without her lifting a finger. At 16 she was elected Miss Richland, Washington, and a short time later named Miss Autorama. At the age of 17 she was in Verona, Italy, where her father was stationed, and the prizes mounted. At Vicenza American High she was a cheerleader and baton twirler, and was chosen Homecoming Queen and Queen of the Senior Prom. The Vicenza yearbook for 1961 shows her as a very pretty, large-eyed girl, with hair somewhat darker and hips a little broader than now. She daydreamed at this time about becoming a psychiatrist and a ballerina, and had little to do with her classmates. Yet if any far-out stunts or fads were proposed, this terribly quiet girl was ready to lead the way. “If miniskirts had come in then, ” she says, “I’d have worn the shortest one.”

Today the fad among young girls in cosmopolitan circles is to use the old Anglo-Saxon words in everyday conversation, and Sharon Tate leads the way. But back in Italy at 17, she was just starting her worldly knowledge. She watched the on-location shooting of Barabbas, a film about ancient Rome, and the family scrapbook now includes still pictures of Jack Palance and Anthony Quinn in the movie costumers they wore in Italy. As she walked in Venice one day, she was spotted by the choreographer for the Pat Boone Show, which was being filmed in Italy. She next appeared very briefly in one of Boone’s TV shows, and his glossy smiling face now rests in the album with a fond inscription for Sharon.

When the Tate family moved from Italy to Southern California, Sharon decided it was time to live on her own. She was 18, and she paid a visit to Harold Gefsky, then agent for Richard Beymer, a young actor she met in Rome. “She was so young and beautiful,” Gefsky, a softly-spoken man, said in his Sunset Boulevard office, “that I didn’t know what to do with her. I think the first thing I did was take her to a puppet show.”

He also got her work because her father, in Calvinistic style, had only given her a few dollars to sink or swim. One of her first jobs was dressing up in an Irish costume and handing out Kelly-Kalani wine in Los Angeles restaurants at $25 a day. She also appeared in TV commercials for Chevy cars and Santa Fe cigars. People who knew her during this period agree on one thing. She was the most beautiful girl in the world. “Everywhere I took her she caused a sensation,” Gefsky said. “I would take her into a restaurant and the owner would pay for her meal. Photographers kept stopping her on the street. I’ve lived in Hollywood since the mid-Forties, but I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.”

But at this point no one, except perhaps Sharon, knew if she wanted to be an actress. Then one day Gefsky took her by to meet his friend Herbert Browar, who was connected with TV’s Petticoat Junction. He thought possibly Browar could fix her up with a minor role, something to tide her over. Browar took one look at her and rushed her in to see Martin Ransohoff, head of Filmways, Inc.

Ransohoff has a strand of hair combed over his bald dome. He wears loose sweaters, torn windbreakers and breeches that are baggy in the seat. He first started producing TV commercials in New York when food particles were glued onto Brand X’s plate to show the differences in detergents. He branched out into TV programs with such commercial winners as Mr. Ed, The Beverly Hillbillies and Petticoat Junction. He then tackled movies on the order of The Americanization of Emily and The Loved One, which got mixed reviews but generally made money. He founded the company in 1952 on $200, and today it operates on a budget of over $35 million. He will talk about Oswald Spengler or H. L. Mencken and then croon into his ever-present phone, “Helloooo, Bertie, baby. Where’s the action, kid?” He chews gum till his head rings, smokes two packs a day and sends everyone to the wall with his adrenaline. He can be gratuitously cruel in speaking of others – “She’s got a lunch pail for a mouth,” he said of an aging actress, “and if we take out insurance on her, it’ll have to be that she’ll die.” Then he can take his twin sons to a football game, clean up a dog’s mess in his Bel Air living room, and talk to anyone in the world who has guts enough to call him. A rich man’s son, he sold pots and pans from door to door while going to Colgate and claims the experience taught him what the public will or will not buy. He had little interest in films before he became involved in them, and his favorite actress in the old days was Deanna Durbin – who, coincidentally, was also Polanski’s favorite. Both vividly remember her pedaling a bicycle down a shady street and singing through a dimpled smile. Not everyone has had pleasant dealings with Ransohoff in Hollywood, but all agree he is a super salesman.

When he first saw Sharon Tate, he squinted his right eye and did something that was very impulsive, even for him. “Draw up a contract,” he shouted. “Get her mother. Get my lawyer. This is the girl I want!”

He had not seen a screen test, not even a still photograph. She had hardly opened her mouth. But Marty Ransohoff, like the rest of us, has his fantasies – and Sharon Tate walked into one of his fondest ones. “I have this dream,” Ransohoff said, “where I’ll discover a beautiful girl who’s a nobody and turn her into a star that everybody wants. I’ll do it like L. B. Mayer used to, only better. But once she’s successful, then I’ll loose interest. That’s how my dream goes. I don’t give two cents now for Tuesday Weld or Ann-Margret..”

“I think he’s just trying to pull one over on the public,” Gefsky said.

Sharon signed a seven-year contract, and Ransohoff took charge. Gefsky, a nice man, bowed out. At first she lived in complete fear of Ransohoff, and did as she was told. “She wouldn’t even eat a hamburger if he told her not to,” a friend from that period said. If Ransohoff said she was to appear on The Beverly Hillbillies disguised in a black wig, she appeared. If he told her to go on a moments notice to Big Sur, New York, London, she went. Off and on she studied acting.

Jeff Corey, one acting coach, said, “An incredibly beautiful girl, but a fragmented personality. I tried to get reactions out of her, though. Once I even gave her a stick, and said, ‘Hit me, do something, show emotion’ ..If you can’t tap who you are, you can never act.”

Charles Conrad, another acting teacher, said, “Such a beautiful girl, you would have thought she would have all the confidence in the world. But she had none.” Among her friends, however, she began to refer to herself as “sexy little me.”

Ransohoff tried to place Sharon in The Cincinnati Kid – his own movie – but failed when the director demanded Tuesday Weld. He packed her off to New York to study under the personal direction of Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio. “She was only with me a few weeks,” Strasberg said, “but I remember her. She was a beautiful girl.” In New York Sharon had a romance with a young French star, who offered her relief from her Texas style, Puritan upbringing. The actor was tall, dark and very nice. When they broke up, the actor bungled a suicide attempt.

Sharon continued to fear Ransohoff. Once, while driving at a high speed near Big Sur, she turned her car over four and a half times, but somehow managed to crawl out with only minor injuries. Her first thought was that Marty would be mad. The first picture he finally placed her in was his French made 13, in which she plays a chillingly beautiful, expressionless girl who goes about putting the hex on people. Completed many months ago, ’13’ still rests in the can waiting for a 1967 release date. Ransohoff flew Sharon back to Hollywood for her second film, Don’t Make Waves, in which she plays a beautiful, deadpan skydiver. Sharon’s first two directors were older men. Britishers – very polite, very nice and understanding with a novice actress.

And then Ransohoff began dickering with Roman Polanski, the Polish director living in London, to make a picture. Polanski, a tiny, baby-faced man whose explosive manner and Beatle-like appearance belie his much-admired skill as a maker of art films, wanted to do something with Ransohoff called The Vampire Killers, a spoof of horror movies. He wanted to play in it himself, and, as in all his movies, he wanted a beautiful girl in a supporting role.

“How about Sharon Tate?” Ransohoff said. “I was thinking more in terms of Jill St. John,” Polanski said.

At Ransohoff’s instigation, Sharon and Polanski had dinner together. He looked at her from time to time, but said nothing. On a second dinner date he was painfully silent once more. Real weirdo, she thought. What’s he waiting on? She found out shortly. Walking in London’s Eaton Square, he suddenly put a bear hug on her and they fell to the ground, Polanski on the bottom. Sharon clouted him and stormed off. “That’s the craziest nut I ever saw,” she said. “I’ll never work for him.”

But Polanski apologized, and they saw each other again. One night he took her to his apartment which had even less furniture than it has now and no electricity. He lit a candle and excused himself, flying upstairs to don a Frankenstein mask. He crept up behind her, raised his arms, and whinnied like a madman. Sharon turned and emitted a terrible scream. It took over an hour for her hysterical weeping to subside. Not long afterward Polanski informed Ransohoff that Sharon would do fine for The Vampire Killers. On the set he treated her as if they never saw each other at night. He cajoled, flattered, got angry – which ever worked – and never had lunch with her. During the nude bathtub scene, he snapped still pictures of her. Still enthusiastic, he had her pose all over the set in the altogether, and then sent the results to Playboy. She plays a gorgeous redhead in The Vampire Killers – and she shows

Roman Polanski walked into his apartment in a sharp blue blazer and high-gloss shoes, carrying a briefcase. He had a good-sized nose and searching, deep-set eyes, and he nodded briskly to Sharon. “A Barbara called,” she let out daintily. “Do you know who that could be?”

“A Barbara?” he called from the kitchen, out of sight. A pause. “You didn’t get any last name? Always get last names. I don’t know any Barbara that would be calling. Sharon, Sharon. There’s no liquor here. Always see to it that we have enough whisky. Can’t you do that?”

Sharon went on the phone to order some, worrying about which brands to specify. She didn’t want to be embarrassed by asking Roman – although he would certainly tell her. He knew the correct whiskey brands in London, the good pastrami places in Manhattan, and the right topless spots in Hollywood. He learned a country’s customs and its language in a couple of weeks. He took a bath now upstairs, calling down for Sharon to fetch him some tea. Later he descended the stairs in a cowboy outfit and boots, ready for dinner. Some movie friends had shown up, and he led the party on foot toward Alvaro’s restaurant.

At the restaurant Sharon basked in the eyes that roved over her. She listened big-eyed to Polanski explain the difference between the sun’s heat and that on earth, apropos of Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451. The only trouble was that it was difficult to digest pasta in such a giddy atmosphere, and she complained of her stomach. After Polanski figured out how to work the waiter’s ballpoint pen, he signed the check.

In a dreamlike state, Sharon began slipping into her fox fur coat in the foyer. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a tall Englishman with a prep-school tie and large teeth popped up and put his arm around her. “Ummm, you have a sexy feel, love. Don’t we all love to touch you now..” She squirmed away.

Out on the street, she said, “Roman, a complete stranger began hugging me in there.”

“Yeah? Really?” A short distance away he suddenly spied a blond in fox fur who had the same duck walk that Sharon has. “Hey, there goes Sharon,” he said. “Let’s get her and put the two of them together!”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her anger flashing. Another day, away from Sharon, Polanski said, “I’m trying to get her to be a little meaner, She’s too nice, and she doesn’t believe in her beauty. Once when I was very poor in Poland I had got some beautiful shoes, and I immediately became very ashamed of them. All my friends had plain, ordinary shoes, and I was embarrassed to walk in front of them. That’s how Sharon feels about her beauty. She’s embarrassed by it.”

Sharon has a quarter-inch scar under her left eye and one beside the eye, the result of accidents which she keeps having. As Polanski drove with her one night in London, meticulously keeping on the left in the custom of the land, an Englishman with a couple of pints under his belt hit him from the right. The only one hurt was Sharon, whose head bounced off the dashboard, spraying blood on slacks, boots and fur. An angry red wound appeared at the start of her scalp, and it will leave another whitish scar on her head. With blond hair combed down over her forehead to hide it, she skied at St. Moritz. And then she caught a jet for Hollywood because Ransohoff had called. She must redo a few scenes for Don’t Make Waves. She grumbled a little. She found she could grumble to Ransohoff now. She hated Hollywood, and she didn’t want to leave Polanski. Also, she hated to fly. She had to be drugged to endure it.

And then she appeared beside Ransohoff at La Scala restaurant in Beverly Hills. She had a black costume that looked more like a slip than a dress, and her blond head caught glints of movie-star light as she turned this way and that. “Oh, there’s David! David Hemmings. David, David!”

David Hemmings, who had been featured with her in 13 and had gone on to star in Antonioni’s Blow-Up waved. Other celebrities flicked glances her way, at each other, to the door to see what majesty might enter next. Occasionally they looked down at food or drink. The place was as crowded as Alvaro’s in London, the customers practically the same. Ransohoff wore an open-neck sport shirt and shapeless coat, and he talked business. “Listen, sweetie, I’m going to have to cut some stuff out of The Vampire Killers. Your spanking scene has got to go.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Why would you do that?” “Because it doesn’t move the story. The story has got to move. Bang, bang, bang. No American audience is going to sit still while Polanski indulges himself.”

“But Europeans make movies differently than Americans, ” she explained to the producer she once feared. “Blow-Up moved slowly. But wasn’t it a great film!”

“I’ll tell you something, baby. I didn’t like it. If I’d have seen it before the reviews, I’d have said it’d never make it. It’s not my kind of picture. I want to be told a story without all that hocus-pocus symbolism going on.”

“But that one scene, Marty. When the girl show’s her, ah –” (only Sharon said the Anglo-Saxon word). In Hollywood, New York and London they all talked now about Blow-Up, dwelling on that scene.

“Yeah, I got to hand it to the guy for that one.” Ransohoff said, chuckling. “He pulled a good one off there.”

“Oh, I want to do a complete nude scene,” she said. “Say you’ll let me!”

“OK, OK,” Ransohoff said, bored, looking toward the door. “Yes, yes.”

“Do it now. Don’t just say it.” Then Sharon got bored.

Early in the morning Sharon appeared before the camera at Malibu Beach, redoing a scene for Don’t Make Waves. The sun had a hard time getting through the wisps of fog, and strong klieg lights helped out. In a sequence with an undraped David Draper, “Mr. Universe”, Sharon stuck out her backside and shot out her front. Magically, a button or two came undone on her polka-dot blouse, and after close examination of camera angle, director Sandy Mackendrick decided to leave it that way. He gave Sharon guidance in rubbing mineral oil over Draper’s bare back, as the scene called for. “Treat him like a horse,” he said. “Pat him just as you would an animal. That’s the way..”

She lovingly went over Draper’s muscled back, and then went “ugh” when the camera ceased to roll. The scene was done over and over. In her tiny trailer dressing room, she took a break and smoked daintily. “I’m happier when I’m working,” she said. “I don’t have time to think to much that way.”

One thing to think about was a visit to her parent’s home in Palos Verdes Estates, an hour’s drive away. (Her father was stationed in Korea, her mother and two younger sisters were at home.) Driving to the house one night in a heavy seaside fog, she became quieter and quieter, her words less Anglo-Saxon. A passenger beside her remarked, as the car neared its destination, that the fog reminded him of snow. “You know what it looks like to me?” she said. “Vomit.”

Her mother – a pleasant, plump, dark-haired woman – turned Sharon’s face this way and that. “Have you had your blood count recently, honey? You look so pale to me.” What did she think of Sharon’s becoming a movie star? What did she think of Roman Polanski? “You know,” she said, in the voice of every middle-class American mother, “I don’t care – just as long as she’s happy.”

Back in Hollywood Sharon moved from hotel to hotel, from one friend’s home to another. She talked to Polanski by phone. (It embarrassed him to try to write letters in English because of his mistakes.) So many things were unresolved, shadowy. Ransohoff was sore at Polanski because Polanski had gone way over the budget on The Vampire Killers (“Very un-Hollywood of him,” a Filmways executive said; another only referred to him as “the little–.”); Polanski was mad at Ransohoff because Ransohoff was cutting away at his film and postponing its release in the States. (Ransohoff had also had difficulties with Tony Richardson, the English director, over the budget and the cutting of The Loved One.) “The thing is,” said Sharon, “that Roman is an artist.”

At night Sharon went to The Daisy, a private discotheque in Beverly Hills. She wore an aviator’s leather jacket, slacks, and tinted Ben Franklin glasses. Seated near the dance floor, she silently watched young actresses her age go through their gyrations. Suzanne Pleshette and Patty Duke did subdued turns; Linda Ann Evans, in a miniskirt, did a much more spirited fling. Carolyn Jones, who only yesterday had played the ingénue, now looked like a chaperone. Sharon gave Linda Ann Evans the once over and said, “I’ve worn a much shorter mini in London. That’s nothing.”

From another table a slim, bronzed young man with a pampered black hair ambled confidently past Tina Sinatra, Patty Duke, Suzanne Pleshette – and hovered over this strange blond beauty in an aviator’s leather jacket. He had the air of a football star in a small town high school, who was used to having his pick. He showed his beautiful white teeth and said, “Let’s dance.”

“No,” she said, “let’s not.”

He kept the smile on his face as he backed away. He was now another who had tried to bring Sharon Tate into a private fantasy – but he didn’t know that she had passed his type long ago.

She was going to fly to London and get engaged to Roman Polanski. Then she was going to fly back to star in Valley of the Dolls. Ransohoff was lending her to 20th Century-Fox to play a sexy bombshell who goes to Europe to star in nudie movies and who bewitches the world with her improbable lushness.

#sharontate #sharon tate #sixties #1960s #vintage #hollywood #old hollywood #1967 #sexy little me #john bowers #saturday evening post #article #cinema #fearless vampire killers #valley of the dolls #don't make waves #roman polanski #paul tate #fort macarthur

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blushingonmyknees · 4 years

Text

Over A Year as Her Timesheet Bitch

“Your timesheet bitch would like to remind you today is Thursday and you have a timesheet due today. Thank you for allowing me to serve you in this way.”

That is a text I sent my Domme this morning and have done every-other Thursday ever since June 27, 2019.

It started on June 17, 2019, with me telling my Domme that she is amazing and should be adored by everyone. Her response was, “My HR department would love me more if I could turn in timesheets before the deadline.” My response was, “Would you like me to remind you of the deadlines as they approach, your Majesty?”

We then had a conversation where I ended up saying, “Completely serious: Please make me your timesheet bitch. It would be an honor to make your life easier by reminding you about your timesheets.” She did mention that she would love to intertwine me more with her life and allow me to serve her more.

During the scene, we focused on my begging training and finger sucking/mouth training. The night ended with me asking to please be her timesheet bitch. She asked had she not already answered that question? I mentioned that she stated she would love to intertwine me more in her life and allow me to serve her more. “Ah, then explicitly yes – I would like to try using you in this way,” was her response.

I still remember my heart skipping beats at that response. I was very eager to take my place as her timesheet reminder and asked when her timesheets are due. She said she is to turn them in before she leaves the office (Noon) every other Thursday. They are due Friday, but she turns hers in on Thursday’s.

She informed me her next timesheet would be due the week of July 1. She then informed me I would be an extreme value add and that her next timesheet would actually be due on June 27th because they had just started a new cycle.

I asked permission to ask for a few requests about being her timesheet reminder. My first was to ask if we can please find a way to punish me if she ever misses a timesheet submission and it is my fault, meaning I forgot to remind her. I would like there to be consequences if I slipped up and didn’t remind her. She said that was doable and she would be deciding on the exact form of punishment.

I also asked if she would require me to send her the reminders through text message. She was a little surprised because I wasn’t particularly comfortable about texting before and we had used other forms of messaging. I said that was true, but it would be worth it in order to serve her in this way.

My last request was if I could receive a voicemail the next day congratulating me on becoming her time sheet bitch. Receiving calls on my personal cell phone was a bit of a limit for me before, so she was also surprised I requested this.

She said she would do a check-in in the morning when I wasn’t floating on post-scene endorphins before making a decision because it related to a stated limit. I was then ordered to get ready for bed.

One morning check-in later, my cell phone went off at work and my heart skipped beats. It was my Domme calling. She left a voicemail. I thought of this constantly throughout the day and blushed quite frequently while wondering what the voicemail said.

I took the walk over the bridge to my car after work and was smiling and blushing like crazy. I planned on waiting until I was home before listening to the voicemail, but once I was inside my car, I couldn’t hold out any longer.

I called my voicemail number and entered my password. “Hello, pet,” she said. My head almost hit the steering wheel from hearing her voice and feeling so submissive, knowing why she was calling. “I am calling to congratulate you on becoming my timesheet bitch.” She mentioned my responsibilities as her timesheet bitch and how there would be consequences if I ever forgot to remind her of a timesheet. She said congratulations on my promotion, and she was sure I would serve her well.

My knees were very weak after this voicemail and they still are even remembering this. She definitely knows how to put me in the mindset to serve. I love pleasing my Queen and it is so easy to serve her.

That night, I spent at least five minutes trying to think of what to say to her. I was speechless and felt both owned and cared for. Her voicemail made me feel absolutely powerless and I enjoyed remembering my place and position in our dynamic while listening to them. I let her know it was an honor to be her timesheet bitch and thanked her for the voicemail.

She mentioned after this how much fun it would be to leave me voicemails from time to time. I agreed and was very grateful to be hers.

She let me know she appreciated how I very subtly made an onramp for accomplishing something we have both wanted. It was well done and very helpful. It made her feel seen and cared for and she wanted me to know that she saw it as the act of service it was intended to be.

Later on, she informed me she was not entirely settled on how she would punish me if I forgot to remind her of a timesheet, but that her current inclination was to send me out to purchase a sturdy bath brush to add to our impact play options but also specifically to tie to the consequence of not completing the timesheet protocols.

I agreed that sounded like an effective punishment. Before bed, she mentioned she would like me to have sourced and purchased a bath brush by the following Thursday (when her first timesheet would be due as part of our dynamic). She wanted to do a non-severe test run of it to get a feel for the intensity and best uses of it as an impact implement.

Logistics decided on, she shared with me that she was cautious about this expansion of our dynamic. She was excited but also a touch trepidatious as she began to intertwine me in her life further and accept service from me in a really meaningful way. It was going to be amazing, but it felt big. Since she was doing it, she assured me that she was going in 100 percent. She would be holding me to the mark and building protocol and letting herself revel in it.

I let her know I am happy to help her and serve her in any way that makes her life easier. My goal is for others to notice how truly amazing she is and to give her the credit she deserves. I told her it felt really good to be useful to her in the world and to make her life easier.

I also let her know that when I earn my punishments, that they would not be done intentionally and that I would be thankful for the correction. I like knowing I will be held to her standard and there will be consequences if I forget. It made everything more real.

On June 19, 2019, my Domme gave me instructions for the purchase of a bath brush. She wanted me to look for a broader back over a narrow head on the bath brush. She went to the store during her break at work to look at bath brushes and to give me examples on what to look for. She preferred me to get a wooden bath brush.

I spent most of the following days researching bath brushes and making sure I could find one that fit my Domme’s specifications. On June 26, 2019, I was starting to get scared because finding a bath brush in the town I was living in was hard. All I was finding was plastic bath brushes. I ended up finding one at Target later that afternoon and it was actually the one my Domme had sent me an image of when she went to look for bath brushes! I purchased it immediately.

My Domme and I discussed the format for timesheet reminders that night. She wanted something pointed but also something where I could focus on work immediately after if I had to. Her first thoughts were, “Ma’am, your timesheet bitch would like to remind you today is Thursday. Thank you for letting me serve you.”

The next morning, it was finally Thursday! I was so excited to finally be sending my Domme her first timesheet reminder. I sent it through text while at work and kept having to look around to see who was all around. “Your timesheet bitch would like to remind you it is Thursday and you have a timesheet due today, Ma’am. Thank you for allowing me to serve you in this way.” I blushed the entire time I sent it.

That night, my Domme and I talked about how it felt. She said it was a multilayered feeling for her. On one hand it’s the good kind of objectification, using me as a useful object. On the other hand, it’s a warm feeling. It is intertwined feelings of ownership and care and domination.

Work was stressful that day, so I felt a little distant and not in the right headspace when sending the timesheet reminder. It made me have to make the conscious decision to remember to text my owner. It made me feel submissive to remember there would be consequences if I forgot. I blushed and felt somewhat swoon-ish. I knew it was a good sign that I wasn’t in the right headspace before sending it because I knew there would be stressful days in the future where I would have to remember to send it and I thought it was good for our future. I debated about heading to the restroom for privacy when texting her but ended up doing it at my desk.

I waited a few hours and did not receive a confirmation from my Domme. I thought about whether or not I should send a second text. It turns out she received the first text when she was at a meeting, so she couldn’t respond. I eventually sent a second text and she sent me a confirmation of submitting her timesheet after that. It felt so good to be useful in meaningful ways to my Domme.

Today when sending her the timesheet reminder, I ended up wondering how close we were to the one-year mark with me as her timesheet bitch. Much to my surprise, the one-year mark was on June 27, 2020. My Domme and I have been wanting to get the exact dates of when certain things happened in our dynamic because it feels so natural. I also discovered when researching for this post that December 31, 2017, was when I skipped New Year’s parties and watched Jupiter’s Ascending (her favorite movie). Shortly after, I asked for permission to address her as Your Majesty. It was the first honorific I was allowed to use in addressing her. I wasn’t completely hers back then, but I became hers shortly after. I wanted to make sure I had these dates so we could mark them on our calendars.

I can happily admit that I have never missed a timesheet reminder to date. Holidays sometimes throw off when she has to submit her timesheet, but her timesheet bitch has always remembered to remind her and ask for the proper dates to send the reminders. I have only ever once had to take a cold shower and then be beaten with the bath brush… it was for the test run of the bath brush, so she would know how to use it if it needs to be deployed.

I am sure someday I will receive a beating for forgetting. For now, I am just extremely thankful I have been her timesheet bitch for over a year and that I get to add value to her life. Even today when sending the timesheet reminder, my head wanted to bow (and if no one was around, I would have desperately wanted to be on my knees). Every text serves as a reminder that I am hers.

“I never want to be your equal. I always want to be viewed as your subject and treated as such.”

I said those sentences around the time we first decided I should be her timesheet bitch. Each reminder I send makes me feel exactly like her subject. It is so lovely to be my Domme’s subject and serving her and real and meaningful ways.

Thank you, Ma’am. I love you, your Majesty. Happy (almost) Anniversary from your Timesheet Bitch.

#anniversary gift #service submission #I am Her bitch and I belong to Her #thankful to be Her subservient toy #long distance dynamics #ldr relationship #making Her life a better place #service beyond a scene #building a dynamic together #objectification #farcical aquatic ceremony

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eeveevie · 4 years

Text

Salvation is a Last Minute Business (5/18)

Chapter 5: Do It Simply

Nick and Madelyn have a heart-to-heart while on a stakeout in Quincy. After some time apart, Deacon shows up at Madelyn’s apartment encouraging her to give the Railroad another chance. When she agrees, Desdemona sends them to a Bunker Hill contact who needs assistance in smuggling somebody out of the Commonwealth—somebody who may have been witness to Eddie Winter’s crimes. Outside of the Ticonderoga safehouse, a suspicious man catches Deacon’s eye and the entire operation goes up in flames.

“If you're going to kill someone, do it simply.” - Johnnie Aysgarth as played by Cary Grant (Suspicion, 1941)

x - x

[read on Ao3] ~ [chapter masterpost]

February 11th, 1958

“I should’ve warned you this would turn into a stakeout.”

Madelyn shivered as she glanced over to Nick from the passenger seat of his Cadillac, tugging the collar of her coat around her shoulders a little tighter. Of all the times they had decided to follow Eddie Winter across town, it had to be the night when a flurry had delivered nearly three inches of snow. Needless to say, she was freezing, half tempted to bum one of Nick’s cigarettes if only to heat up her body in some way. The smoke from his own wafted in the air above his head as he mumbled incoherently, binoculars glued toward the building a few hundred feet away. They’d been sitting like that for a few hours with no movement.

“Damn Winter, thinking we have all night to sit on him,” he muttered, cigarette bobbing between his lips.

“It’s not like we have much else going for us,” Madelyn replied, sifting through the small stack of case files across her lap, ones she had brought with them in their mad dash to Quincy. Ever since the Earl Sterling case, their primary focus had been on Eddie Winter’s activities, mostly because the agency hadn’t received a new job in weeks. There had been dry spells before, but this time it was obvious they were being punished by the Boston Police Department for their involvement in capturing Doctor Crocker. It wasn’t fair, it never was, but there was little they could do but keep investigating.

“Don’t remind me,” Nick grumbled, lowering the binoculars to look at her. “Are we sure this is the right place?”

She hummed, flicking through the various files. They were all labeled in her neat handwriting—WINTER—filled with various leads and rumors from the street, one of which had led them to the Quincy police department. With a nod, Madelyn flashed a sideways smile. “Maybe they’ve got a secret underground bunker.”

Nick wasn’t about to dismiss anything, eyebrow quirking up. “You might be onto something there.”

She softly chuckled, scribbling the words down, even if she felt foolish—not every organization in town had an underground tunnel system, right? As Nick continued to scope out the building, she flicked through her notebook absentmindedly until a loose-leaf of paper fluttered down to her feet. She had nearly forgotten about it, the instructions Drummer Boy had dropped off nearly two weeks ago, directing her to another meeting with the Railroad. Her conscious reprimanded her for making up an excuse for not attending, but at the time, she wasn’t ready to face the group again.

She hadn’t seen Desdemona—or Deacon—since their little adventure beneath Slocum’s Joe. Foolishly, she believed that space would set her mind straight, that her emotions would level out after introspection and some time alone. What she hadn’t realized was that her life had already been drastically altered: Nick believed the Railroad to be a valuable ally, she had an agent for a neighbor, and despite everything, she couldn’t get that stupid, silly, enigmatic man named Deacon out of her mind.

“Another mysterious note?”

“What?” Madelyn snapped her eyes up and over to where Nick was looking back to her with all the curiosity in the world. She couldn’t lie to him, not when it was his job to find the truth. “More or less of the same, requesting me to visit their headquarters beneath the church again. It’s…outdated though. I didn’t go.”

“You have been spending a lot more time at the agency,” he mentioned, stubbing out his smoke in the tiny metal tray of the Cadillac’s center console. “You ready to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head?”

“Don’t flatter me, Nick,” she playfully chastised, before shifting as her legs became restless. “We don’t have to cut the Railroad out as a point of contact, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He didn’t say anything, but the detective always had a certain look about him, a glimmer to his eyes when he knew there was more to the story being told. She sighed, staring back down at the typewritten note and continued. “I just…needed some time.”

Nick took a moment, glancing out the window to confirm that there had yet to be any movement on the building they were watching. Only then did he divert his full attention to her.

“I’ve been meaning to apologize,” he paused, waving his hand in protest when she went to interject. What did he have to say sorry for? “I overstepped some boundaries a few weeks ago, insinuated something I shouldn’t’ve between you and that Deacon fellow.”

Madelyn wasn’t upset with Nick, but hearing his words was somewhat comforting. Though, she was sure she would’ve been in her head about the situation regardless of the lighthearted teasing from her partner and his fiancé. She should be the one apologizing—for dragging her feet, for being distracted, for being stuck in the past. Nick wasn’t the only one she owed that to, but she didn’t dwell on that thought.

“My only hope is that one day, not tomorrow or even this year,” Nick said, treading lightly. “Is that you will be able to move on. It doesn’t have to be with the first handsome guy you meet that makes you smile, but you don’t deserve to live out the rest of your days alone. I don’t want to pretend to know what Nate would’ve wanted for you,” he hesitated, reaching over to place his hand over hers. The cold material of the prosthetic sent a shiver up her arm, but otherwise, his touch was comforting as always. “But this isn’t it.”

Madelyn knew that Nick was right—almost hated that he was. But she couldn’t be mad at his advice, or the mild-mannered way he delivered it. If she had been paying attention, he’d been gently nudging her towards this for months—the grieving counseling sessions, dinner parties, case work that had her interacting with all sorts of people. Her friend was doing the best he could to ensure she had all the opportunities to break out of the shell she had buried herself in for the past year, and for that she was grateful.

“I know,” she finally admitted, a truth that made her stomach uneasy. It was freeing, but the remorse still lingered. “Its tough Nick, to let people in. Not like before when I could trust everyone and anyone despite years of law school telling me otherwise,” she softly laughed, more to herself. “But now? I have my support group. I have my friends. To let anyone else in is dangerous, and to let anyone too close is foolish.”

She didn’t necessarily mean to think about a specific person—certainly not a certain Railroad agent who had stirred up these emotions within her in the first place—she tried to focus on the broader aspect of what Nick was stating.

“You’re right, but it’s so hard,” she steadied her breath so she wouldn’t break down in a fit of sobs like she had been doing so often in the last few weeks when she thought about her departed husband. Codsworth, her newly activated Mister Handy butler, wasn’t sure what to make of her outbursts. “I think of Nate, and the guilt is overbearing. It isn’t right—not when he’s dead, his killer still out there somewhere. I don’t get to move on like nothing happened.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Nick contended, calmly. He fidgeted, lighting up a new cigarette to calm his nerves, or perhaps get rid of the chill surrounding them from the snow outside the vehicle. “What I’m saying is that you should take one day at a time, just as you’ve been doing. Just—” he paused to exhale a small cloud of smoke, waving it away from her. “Be less afraid, especially when somebody dares to breach the walls around your heart.”

Madelyn let his words resonate with her and really settle in her mind. Ever since Nate’s death she had been taking life slowly, but at the cost of living a half-life. She wasn’t herself—hadn’t been for a long while—and even she knew it was well past a reasonable time to be wallowing in self-pity. Perhaps it would be okay to let her guard down, allow her personality to shine after months of fading to the background. She needed to do right by her husband’s memory and live—she couldn’t do that if she was constantly torturing herself. Finally, she nodded, signaling to her partner that she understood. More than that, she agreed.

“Speaking of the heart,” she deftly changed the subject, flashing a teasing grin. “Valentine’s Day is this Friday. Have any plans with Jenny?”

Nick smirked, anticipating nothing less from her. “If I didn’t have plans, it would be a disservice to the family name, don’t you think? Jenny would have me take her name at the registrar’s office.”

“Mr. Lands,” Madelyn snickered. “Lands’ Detective Agency,” she tested, imagining the flashing neon light that hung above the office door. “God Nick, we’re already suffering enough. We don’t need a name change to put a nail in the coffin.”

“Good thing I’ve got Friday in the bag then,” he smiled, without any indication he planned to indulge any details. “The future Mrs. Valentine won’t be disappointed.”

Rather than be jealous, she could only be happy for Nick and Jenny—two people that were so in love and so impeccably made for each other it was surprising they had waited so long to tie the knot. Madelyn was too close of a friend with both of them to feel anything but joy for their relationship, even when she had nobody to go home to after long nights on the job. Well, nobody except Dogmeat and Codsworth.

Maybe her time for happiness would come sooner, rather than later, if she allowed it.

“It’s late,” Nick spoke, interrupting her thoughts. He lifted the binoculars to take one last glance towards the Quincy police station, confirming there had been no further movement. “Time to call this a bust?”

Madelyn agreed. “Bust.”

February 14th, 1958

Madelyn could hear Bobby Darin playing on the radio from the kitchen as she sat at her vanity that morning, smiling to herself as she listened to Codsworth rummaging around and yammering on while he conversed with Dogmeat in the kitchen. A year ago, she would’ve never assumed she would one day find this aspect of her life normal or comforting, but now, she couldn’t imagine her apartment without the robot butler or German Shepard.

After three weeks, she had finally adjusted to having Codsworth activated, the Mister Handy robot proving to be convenient in more ways than one. At first, it was alarming at how devoted he was to serve her—anticipating her every need and hovering over her every action. Madelyn was appreciative, but being the independent woman that she was, set some ground-rules for the robot to follow so she wouldn’t feel so crowded or coddled in her own home. With some semblance of a routine, she felt her life taking shape once again—even if it seemed more suited for a television sitcom starring Betty White.

She had just finished adjusting her curls when there was a knock at the door, the sound echoing through the hall to her bedroom. Codsworth’s chipper voice resonated from the front room after a few mysterious clanks of her pots and pans. “I shall see who is at the door, mum!”

For a fleeting moment, she figured it must be Nick, there for an early morning visit on his way to the agency. They would typically car-pool to the Fens district throughout the week but as she glanced to her flip calendar on the table, she realized her partner had more important obligations—Valentine’s Day. That’s when her mind switched over and began running through the rather short list of possible visitors who would be at her door before eight on a Friday morning. Piper would’ve called first. Jenny was with Nick. MacCready didn’t know where she lived, neither did Hancock—at least she hoped that was true. Drummer Boy would’ve slipped a note under the door. Madelyn groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose at the possibility it was Deacon.

“Miss Madelyn!” Codsworth sounded confused as he called for her and she was already standing, tightly securing the tie of her silken robe around her body for decency’s sake before striding down the hall towards the living room. The robot was hovering before her open front door. “This man claims to be the milkman, but I do believe we’ve already received our delivery for the week. Is this another alteration to the schedule?”

It was definitely Deacon.

She sighed, rolling her eyes as she approached to stand next to Codsworth, if only to confirm what she already suspected. Bright smile, black hair styled up and of course—it wouldn’t be Deacon without his darkened shades. At least the milkman costume was a nice touch. She had to admit that the effort the man went through for an act was impressive, if not amusing.

“I get the feeling you’ve been avoiding me, Charmer,” he frowned, though she could tell he was bluffing.

Madelyn glanced to her Mister Handy unit, who—if she had gotten any better at reading the machine—appeared bewildered. “Codsworth, honey, what did I say about opening the door to strange men?”

“Oh! Right!” he exclaimed, raising his arms in defense. He moved so the bulk of his frame blocked her from Deacon’s view. “Shall I stick ‘em mum?”

She couldn’t contain her laughter, snapping a hand to cover her mouth at the sight of Codsworth hovering threateningly before Deacon, dressed in all-white with an equally entertained expression. She stepped closer, resting a hand against the robot’s cold metal frame. “That won’t be necessary, dear. I was only joking.”

“Are you to say you know this…milkman?” Codsworth questioned, before spinning his arms frantically as he moved back into the apartment on his way towards the kitchen. “Will he be joining us for breakfast? I will need to prepare another plate!”

Before she could interject or protest, Deacon was crossing the threshold with a beaming grin. He was carrying a metal basket just as a real milk deliveryman would and she wondered where he had managed to find such a convincing getup. Instead of white bottles rattling inside there was a brown packaged box and a small bouquet of flowers wrapped in parchment. Madelyn sidestepped around him to the door and contemplated asking him politely to leave but decided against being rude. She owed him a face-to-face conversation after so many weeks of silence.

“A Mister Handy unit?” Deacon spoke before she could, turning to face her. “I guess everybody needs a three-eyed metal husband.”

Madelyn snickered, glancing over to where Codsworth was balancing several tasks at once—eggs over the stove, coffee on the pot and bread in the toaster—all the while humming along to whatever song was filtering through the nearby radio. “Remind me to look into the legalities of marrying artificial intelligence. He may be flighty, but he knows his way around the kitchen.”

“You just haven’t had me cook you breakfast yet,” Deacon replied matter-of fact. He lifted the basket he carried, changing the subject before she could respond to his remark. “I come bearing gifts.”

She nodded towards the kitchen island, motioning for him to sit on one of the barstools while she circled to the other side. It was a calculated move, wanting to put as much space between them as possible for now. Deacon placed the box on the counter and nudged it towards her. “This is from Irma. Said she couldn’t believe you walked out last time without one.”

Madelyn opened the package to discover a freshly baked blueberry pie, the smell an instant trigger for her mind, sending her back to the brief visit within the Memory Den. At least that all but confirmed what she already suspected—that Irma worked for the Railroad in some capacity. Deacon tapped a few fingers against the empty plate set before him and she sighed before turning to rummage through a drawer for a pie-cutter. Facing away from him, she heard his small chuckle.

“That’s a delicate little number you’ve got on,” he commented. She wasn’t alarmed by his statement, almost expecting it—if anything, she was glad to hear the mirth in his tone as if their quickly formed dynamic hadn’t changed.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, watching as he poured two glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice from the pitcher Codsworth had placed. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor.”

Deacon let out a low whistle. “Silk and lace says otherwise, Charmer.”

“Had to look nice for my metal husband on Valentine’s Day,” she joked, sliding up to Codsworth who was none-the-wiser. It was a shame the robot had a difficult time processing sarcasm. “Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Mum, I do hope you aren’t planning on spoiling breakfast by eating that pie,” he responded, ruining her act. The Handy unit returned to preparing their morning meal, crisping the bacon on the griddle pan. Dogmeat whined as he circled around the kitchen island, stopping to sniff at Deacon’s feet. He regarded the dog with a smile before lifting the second item from the metal basket, handing the flowers to her and swapping for the pie cutter.

Madelyn examined the bunch of white daisies mixed with blue forget-me-nots, inhaling their sweet scent as she looked over at him. He was cutting slices, ignoring the way Codsworth was peering at him with one, zoomed in eye. The significance of the flowers wasn’t lost on her—forget-me-nots—it wasn’t entirely subtle, even for Deacon. She searched through her cabinets for a vase, delicately arranging the stems and petals as she poured some water inside.

“Irma insisted I couldn’t show up to your place empty handed, given the holiday,” he explained. “As you can imagine, all the flower shops from North End to Cambridge were out of roses.”

She had a difficult time determining if he was being sincere, or if he had really gone through the effort. For all she knew, he could’ve bummed the bouquet off some unsuspecting fella on the street corner. Madelyn decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, thinking that he had scoured all the floral shops along the Charles River just for her sake.

“I prefer these,” she replied with a soft smile. He regarded her with a softer expression, though she would’ve liked to know what his eyes looked like behind the sunglasses. Madelyn had resigned herself to the simple fact that she likely never would and would have to guess that they were trained on her—it certainly felt that way, with how her skin tickled with goosebumps.

“Good,” he replied, so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. Deacon poked at the slice of blueberry pie he had set on the plate before him with a fork, scooping up a generous bite. “One bite won’t hurt.”

It wasn’t until his arm started moving across the counter space that she realized what his intentions were, and she reflexively stepped back, bumping into Codsworth who was ready to serve their food. She scrambled to move out of the way, realizing the only place for her was the empty barstool next to Deacon. Reluctantly, she joined him on the other side, unable to ignore the way he was still holding the utensil out in offering with a ridiculous, expectant smile. Madelyn braced her nerves and reminded herself it could be another exercise in trust—a rather bizarre exercise—and leaned over the short distance, wrapping her lips around the fork to take the bite. To his credit, the blueberry pie was delicious and so was his momentarily shocked appearance—he hadn’t expected her to comply.

“Breakfast is served!” Codsworth interrupted their strange encounter with his announcement, metal arms whizzing around as he placed the steaming piles of food on the center counter.

The two served themselves, eating in a comfortable silence with the occasional sideways glance and shared smile. The robot continued to whirr as he floated around looking for a new task to attend to while Dogmeat successfully begged for bacon scraps at their feet. Madelyn quickly noticed how domestic the scene looked and felt, even with Deacon dressed up as some imposter milkman. Just like having the dog and the Mister Handy unit was abnormally normal, she felt a strange sense of calm with having the Railroad spy next to her. She wasn’t ready to confront what deeper emotions she possibly had whispering beneath the surface, but intuition told her it was time to stop running and let fate do its job.

“I’ll be honest,” she started, clearing her throat as she set her napkin down. “I may have been avoiding the Railroad.”

“So, it wasn’t just me?” Deacon teasingly asked. “Listen, I know our organization can be a handful, intimidating even. You haven’t even met the rest of the gang yet. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted out,” he paused, head turned towards her. “It’d be a damn shame though.”

“I participated in one job,” she replied. “If you could call me following you around underground in a sewer participation. How is that impressive in any way?”

“I’m easy that way,” he shrugged. “Dez calls the shots, not me. Even if I told her you were dead weight, which I wouldn’t dream of describing you as, she doesn’t seem ready to let you go so soon.”

Madelyn had to wonder just what Deacon had described her as to the Railroad leader. Probably something with too many adjectives while being overzealous and dramatic with hand-movements, if she had to guess. She focused on the important part—despite her radio silence, Desdemona wanted her to stay aboard.

“Is that why you’re here now?” she asked. “To check up on Agent Charmer? Bring me back into the fold?”

He waved a piece of crispy bacon at her, frowning. “Don’t sell my social calls so short. You won’t see me buying flowers for Drummer Boy.”

“Maybe he should invest in silk nightgowns,” she joked, snatching half the piece of meat from his hand.

He let out an airy chuckle while she chewed, eating the rest that he had before shaking his head. “Dez doesn’t know I’m here. She thinks I’m at Bunker Hill, working on setting up a meeting with one of our old contacts. I thought I’d see if my partner wanted to join in on the fun before I go.”

The fact he still considered her his partner after one Railroad outing was endearing. Madelyn still had her reservations, but she knew the organization deserved more than to be written off after one excursion. She softly laughed to herself. “What is with you guys and tourist traps?”

Deacon’s smile gradually increased. “What can I say? We’re a quirky, history loving bunch.”

“What’s the job this time?” she asked, curiously.

“Carrington asked me to find out if one our old Bunker Hill contacts, Old Man Stockton, was still in operation,” he began. “He was a big player back when we were moving people regularly in and out of the city. Now that we’re down on our luck, he’s gone back to his old line of work.”

“Under our current circumstances, we wouldn’t accept an escort job, but the Doc made it sound imperative the subject be moved as soon as possible,” Deacon explained further. “If Dez cleared it, then we’re in the green to proceed.”

Madelyn was astounded by the notion that they could and would help a person willingly disappear but figured an individual must be desperate to turn to an underground organization instead of vanishing on their own. She wanted to know more and the only way to do that was to go along with Deacon again.

“What do you say, Charmer?” he asked, one eyebrow arced high above his shades.

She nodded, flashing a tiny grin. “You’ve got yourself a partner, Deacon.”

He laughed, reaching over to clasp his hand on her shoulder as he brought her in for a quick, sideways hug. Madelyn was startled by the show of friendliness but didn’t express it, swiftly channeling her alarm into ease—she didn’t mind the warmth and feel of his hand on her at all—she actually liked it. He leaned away, fingers trailing across her back before withdrawing fully.

“You know,” he said in a sing-song way. “I noticed you don’t flinch away from physical contact. You aren’t shy. Unlike most people.”

“Most people are uncomfortable with the notion of physical touch, sure,” Madelyn agreed. It figured he had been studying her behavior. “I—I find it comforting.”

Deacon turned to her and she could feel his stare through the reflective shades. Heat spread through her chest the longer the silence stretched between them until his lips pulled up into a sideways smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

February 16th, 1958

On Sunday, Deacon returned to Madelyn’s apartment with a dead drop from Old Man Stockton, confirming the rendezvous point in which a face-to-face meeting would occur. They were to meet the Bunker Hill contact at the Cambridge Catholic Assembly church after dark, long after the parishioners had gone home for the day. The two had been sitting in the empty church for what felt like hours, occupying one of the last few pews while they waited for Stockton to arrive. Madelyn found herself distracted by the moonlight pouring in through the picture frame windows of the towering steeple, dumbfounded that once again she found herself in a place of worship. Just as she began reminiscing about Nate’s funeral service and the hymns the priest sung, she shut her eyes tight, blocking the memory from overpowering her thoughts.

Deacon’s gloved hand bumped against hers. “Charmer?”

“Tourist traps, churches,” she mused. “Why can’t it be amusement parks?”

“You don’t want to know who runs Nuka World,” he mumbled, fingers idly trailing along her wrist where her watch rested until she opened her eyes. “I didn’t expect it to take this long. If we’ve been had…”

“I hope not,” she replied, glancing down to confirm it was midnight. “At this rate, you’ll owe me breakfast.”

He grinned and nudged his shoulder against hers. “I did promise you I, didn’t I?”

The church’s front door squeaked open, interrupting the two from their banter and they stood to meet the approaching visitors. Two men, an older one dressed in a business suit and coat, the younger one dressed in shabbier denim with a winter jacket and cap. The older gentleman approached as the other stood back, looking anxious.

“Do you have a Geiger counter?” he asked, signaling the Railroad key phrase.

“Mine is in the shop,” Deacon replied in kind. “Stockton, good to see you. Carrington sends his regards.”

Stockton nodded, though he didn’t seem concerned with pleasantries as he observed their surroundings before gesturing to the younger man. “I won’t be long. This is Henry. Henry, these are the people I talked to you about,” he shifted towards the back window where a lantern was. “I’ll fire up the signal.”

Madelyn extended her arm to Henry. “Nice to meet you,” she offered politely. “You can call me…Charmer.”

The man nervously gripped her hand and shook it meekly. “Thank you.”

“Time for me to go,” Stockton stated, still scanning the church as if he was waiting for someone or something to jump out and discover them. “Keep Henry safe. Someone will be here shortly.”

He regarded Deacon with one last steely look before making a swift exit. Madelyn glanced to her partner in confusion, wondering if the Old Man’s departure was all part of the plan. He shrugged but didn’t appear nervous about the change—she’d never seen Deacon anything but calm and collected, anything to the contrary would be alarming. The three stood quietly, Henry continuing to keep his distance as the lantern burned in the window. At twelve-thirty, footsteps echoed outside the church, but the doors didn’t open right away. Madelyn and Deacon exchanged a quick glance and at the sound of more rustling, she withdrew her pistol from her handbag—she figured he might be carrying as well but insisted if either of them was going to brandish a weapon it was going to be the one with connections to the District Attorney’s office.

The two blocked Henry from sight as the large oak door finally creaked open and a figure shadowed by the night creeped in. Unable to determine if they were friend or foe, Madelyn trained her weapon, even if she wasn’t entirely convinced that she would be able to shoot. Upon noticing the group standing near the pews the intruder stopped dead in his tracks, raising his hands defensively.

“Don’t shoot!” he exclaimed before hesitantly taking a few steps closer. Under the dim lighting, she observed the man’s appearance closely—dark skin, warm brown eyes and a black hair shaved down to the stubble. Even though it was still blistering cold out, he seemed unbothered, wearing only jeans, a white t-shirt and a leather jacket with some laced-up Chucks. Even with a gun pointed at him, the man smiled. “Charmer, right?”

He flicked his gaze to her side but didn’t dare to move his arms. “And my man, Deacon. Still wearing sunglasses at night?”

Before her partner could react, she intervened. “Do you have a Geiger counter?”

“Right you are,” he responded, impressed. “Mine is in the shop. All good?”

Madelyn looked to Deacon who nodded, flashing a grin. “High Rise, it’s been a while.”

“Three months since I’ve seen your ugly mug,” High Rise laughed as they exchanged a firm but friendly handshake. He glanced over to Madelyn with cheeky smile as she made to place her pistol back into her purse. “So, this is Charmer? The one who helped with the Switchboard, while you sat on the sidelines.”

She shot a raised eyebrow in Deacon’s direction, but he only offered a sheepish shrug in return. She could only imagine the kind of fanatical stories he had been spreading about her while she had been away. High Rise continued, reaching his hand out to her. “Glad you joined the team.”

Madelyn reciprocated his handshake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Honor’s all mine,” he replied before tilting his head to get a better look at Henry who had hunkered down in one of the pews. “How’s our friend doing?”

With all the attention suddenly focused on him, Henry slouched further back into the wooden seat. Madelyn took a few cautious steps closer, not wanting to startle him any further. “Are you alright?”

“Mister Stockton…he said I shouldn’t talk too much,” he replied in a shaky voice, eyes darting between the group of people standing. She sat down next to him, deciding to take a softer approach.

“Would you like to tell me what brought you here?” she asked, carefully. At his silence, she nodded, encouraging him. “You can trust us, Henry. We’ll protect you.”

He still seemed skeptical—lips twisted to the side as he avoided looking at any of them. “I—I need to get as far away from Boston as possible,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m afraid for my life.”

“What’s got you so spooked?” Deacon questioned.

Henry shook his head, remaining tightlipped. “If I say, you’d be in danger too.”

“We’re already helping you get out of the city,” High Rise pointed out the flaw in Henry’s resistance. “Might as well double down and let us know of any potential threats coming our way.”

Another moment of silence passed as Henry contemplated answering, fidgeting in the church pew. Finally, he breathed out, looking to Madelyn like a safe haven. “I witnessed a murder. Not just any murder. Last month, I was working as a dockhand on the Harbor when I saw the car pull up—”

Madelyn started adding up the details in her head and interrupted, nearly blurting out the words. “Johnny Montrano Junior?”

Henry’s eyes widened in shock and realization. “Y—yes, how do you know?”

“Some of us have day jobs,” Deacon assured, raising his eyebrows at Madelyn, silently reminding her to reel it in. “Nothing to worry about, we’re still the good guys.”

She nodded in agreement, desperately hoping he would believe them and continue. Henry took a deep breath before resuming his story. “It was late, and I was the last to leave the warehouse but when I saw the men and the guns I ran and hid behind some crates.”

“What did you see?” Madelyn asked.

What she wouldn’t give to have a tape deck to record his statements—she wondered if she’d ever be able to compel him to speak again, if she could ever track him down after he disappeared. Even with Deacon and High Rise as bystanders, a court would likely dismiss it as hearsay unless they heard it directly from the witness himself—probably why Henry wanted to leave Boston in the first place.

Henry shivered, eyes glossed over in memory. “Everything.”

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” High Rise spoke, signaling to the dwindling flame in the lantern. “But we shouldn’t hang around here. We can talk more once we get Henry to the safehouse.”

Madelyn’s wanted to argue but she instinctively knew that staying in the church wasn’t the safest choice. She stood, straightening the lines of her dark coat—Deacon had insisted she wear it so they could not only blend into the shadows but coordinate.

“Safe to assume Ticonderoga has been moved, right?” he asked, looking towards High Rise for the answer.

He nodded in answer. “If you drive, I can show you the way. It’s not far.”

Madelyn chose to sit in the backseat of Deacon’s Volkswagen with Henry, wanting to gleam more information about the night he witnessed Johnny Montrano’s murder. Deacon held the door open for her, closing it even though High Rise had yet to climb into the passenger seat and the two exchanged a laugh about it while she retrieved a notebook from her purse. The engine roared to life and slowly they drove away from the Cambridge church.

“So, you having fun yet, Charmer?” High Rise’s lighthearted tone caught her off guard. Beside her, Henry shifted uncomfortably. “With Deacon, I mean. Of all the people Dez could’ve paired a rookie with, you got stuck with—”

“Excuse me,” Deacon interrupted, turning down a street when High Rise directed him to. “We already have a group codename. The Big Sleep.”

High Rise chuckled. “You’re no Bogart.”

“That’s what I thought,” Madelyn announced, suppressing her laughter at Deacon’s offended gasp. At the next stop sign, he took a moment to glance over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised. To her surprise, even Henry seemed momentarily amused by the group’s antics.

“Maybe James Dean,” High Rise offered with a hum. “I’m being generous with your age. And if you take the fake pompadour wig into play.”

Deacon grumbled, turning towards the other man with his lips in a straight line. Madelyn thought she would’ve been more surprised, but considering who High Rise was talking about, the revelation wasn’t all the shocking. It also explained why curiously, his eyebrows appeared too fair in color and why his hats never sat straight upon his head. A spy had his secrets, she supposed. Noting the stretch of silence, High Rise shifted, turning as much as possible to face Madelyn.

“Deacon may be a terrible liar, but it pays to have him on your side,” he stated.

Madelyn wondered about that, glancing up at the rearview mirror to catch a glance of Deacon’s reflection. Her own face was mirrored back in the flicker of his shades as he offered a tiny smirk. In the short time she had known him, he had offered up plenty of little white lies—nothing extravagant or harmful—and was evasive enough that she still considered him one giant mystery. Nonetheless, she trusted him, and the stunning realization sent a shockwave through her system.

“Another right up here,” High Rise announced.

Before she had a chance to collect her thoughts, Deacon had pulled the car along the curbside outside a tall, unlit building. She looked to Henry and the notepad in her lap, sighing in resignation—she’d have to ask her questions inside just as it was recommended earlier—there would be time, even if it took all night. High Rise exited the vehicle first, delight in his voice as he pointed up at the skyscraper.

“Home sweet home,” he announced before turning back to lean against the roof, looking in at Deacon and Madelyn. “All in a night’s work for you agent types, huh?”

She smiled. “Just part of the service.”

“I think I’m going to like you even more than Glory,” High Rise responded, cheekily.

Deacon twisted his body, arm slung over the seat to face her and Henry and seemed poised to say something when the car was flooded with light from an advancing vehicle. It parked on the curb behind them and a few moments later, the headlamps went dark as the engine died. Immediately, Madelyn was on edge.

“We were followed,” Henry was quick to assume, scrambling to try and remove himself from the car.

Even though she had difficulty seeing through his glasses, she could tell Deacon had his eyes trained on the other vehicle and the person behind the wheel. From her angle, she couldn’t tell what the immediate danger was. In the quiet, they heard a car door open and close. Minutes passed before the echo of footsteps followed in the opposite direction of where they were. Instead of relief, Deacon tensed, his arm reaching out for her before waving towards High Rise.

“Get Charmer out of here.”

Madelyn didn’t have time to be afraid as High Rise hauled her out of the backseat with little decorum, encouraging her to run in the other direction as he rushed to help Henry. She ran as fast as her heels would allow through the soft blanket of snow, panic building in her chest at the fear of the unknown. For a split second she hesitated, looking back over her shoulder to see how much distance she had made when a faint click echoed across the quiet plaza. At the same time, Deacon was in front of her, his body meeting hers in a swift collision as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, toppling them both to the ground. They were propelled forward by a large explosion—though Madelyn wasn’t sure what had happened until she was flat on the icy gravel, her head pounding and ears ringing from the lingering sound.

Deacon was still perched over her, resting half his body weight atop her as he shielded her from the distant smoke and flames. Madelyn blinked hard, adjusting her vision before realizing that his sunglasses were askew. Even in the dark of night she could see the faintest hint of what was underneath, and her heart skipped a beat. Blue. With trembling hands, she reached up, pushing them back into place.

His lips twisted into a small, sideways smirk. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

Reality sunk in as he rolled away, the two slowly leaning up to survey the damage. It was clear that the second vehicle had been planted with a bomb, set with a remote trigger and detonated by the mysterious driver. Deacon’s car was practically destroyed, and from where Madelyn was, she couldn’t see Henry or High Rise. But the devastation and intent was evident—they had been followed. The Railroad had been targeted again.

Ticonderoga Safehouse had just gone up in flames.

#fallout 4 #fallout au #deacon x f!solesurvivor #madelyn hardy #deacon #nick valentine #codsworth #this chapter has some of my favorite codsworth lines ever #more banter and EXPLOSIONS #also more slow burn #some canon dialogue is used here #boston after dark questline but noir

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