#first of all its peanut paste what are we americans
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University began only two weeks ago, and I have already yearned so greatly to be on the road. I used to hate living in rural lands, surrounded by cattle pastures and yellowed grass mounds where only ranches and family owned gas stations lie and little else. I had lived such solitude in only the past year and then I suddenly found the country to be romantic. It was the flickering lanterns of the old country saloons, the horse stables with Pickle and Peanut, the prairie dressed women who seemed to have walked right out of 1850 and operated whimsical stores, all the folk artists who dwelled here and whom I got to know. For much of their music, I observed without documenting. Some moments feeling too sacred. There just isn’t the same charm here in the city with its murky brown bay, endless concrete, strangers with provocative outfits and green hair and Marxist flyers. I’m a little old fashioned perhaps. And so we road-tripped back to an adjacent town near where we lived just yesterday, surrounded by horses grazing and corn stalks one could get lost in. We rummaged through the shops with Western reminiscent antiques, porcelain Mexican dolls, a petrified rattle snake, old Native American pottery, and cowboy paintings depicting cowpokes on a range on horseback. A lone one sat upon a hill with his dog. We went to the brewery where we drank Mexican lager, ate lime steak quesadillas with habanero salsa and broiled Serrano peppers from the taco truck, and waited for a Texas country artist to make her debut once the heat wave settled among the corrugated steel walls. I had walk in and first came upon a band that I had photographed in the past, and we all seemed to be mutuals now online so I stopped to say hello. They were all nervous to talk and yet polite; they had expressed enjoying the work I’d done for them. I asked to shoot them again tonight and they were happy to oblige. The country queen herself had been nearby and I mustered up the strength to ask her of the same. She wore soft, untreated leather boots with beautiful carved desert trees, a doily-style white blouse, and a real Texan looking cowboy hat. I was nervous to be so close to her when she leaned in to speak but she was real sweet and genuine. She encouraged me to take as many shots of her as I pleased. My husband says the other band watched me when I was alone and wasn’t looking and wouldn’t ever dare make eye contact with him. He later pointed out that a few other characters were eyeing me through the night. I’m always oblivious to these things but it’s curious to know what macho games the men all play. He tells me he always has to maintain a presence of intimidation for this reason, to lay claim over his wife. He gifted me with a vinyl of hers, signed with a sharpie. He said she remembered my name and so he didn’t tell her to make it out to me but she was kind enough to do it on her own. She told the stories from on stage of her woes with making albums and made hilarious self deprecating jokes. Pretty soon I might head down to Big Sur to photograph another few bands from the bay and an artist whose music reminds me of a Cormac McCarthy novel and who I’ve been speaking about collaborating with. I have been hoping to find creative storytellers like me and this strange niche has been a kind one to me. Maybe it all has a reason or maybe it doesn’t.
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6/1/2022 - Jeju, last weekend
So it's 3 weeks before I go home, and I'm sorry I haven't updated as much as I said I would. I'll have plenty of downtime over the summer to sit back and tell some stories about the things I've done here, so be sure to check back!
In any case... I went to Jeju this past weekend with some other Americans, along with a Korean guy and someone else from another country I think, never did catch where. We rented a car, got some hotel rooms, and drove around the island for a weekend.
In case you don't know - Jeju is often called the Hawaii of Korea. I'd argue it's not; I've never been to Hawaii, but I'd imagine it's a lot less like the mainland USA than Jeju is like the rest of South Korea. It's fairly tropical, yes, but in general the vibe of the place is a lot like the rest of the country. It's more like Florida, except if Florida were its own island, and minus all the crazy news headlines.
The first thing we did was the morning after we got there - we went out to the ocean, rented some kayaks for about an hour for 12,000 won ($10) a person, and got on the water. This is where I began to develop a sunburn.
Next, we went to the beach, where everyone else (who all had swimsuits, I never got around to buying one) swam, while I picked up seashells. This was in the early afternoon, and everyone else was focused on keeping their kids from wandering haplessly into the ocean and drowning rather than picking through seaweed for shells, so I found a lot of good ones. Pictures pending, once I clean them up. I continued to become sunburned.
This was the last major thing we did that day, because the ferry we wanted to catch to our next activity was about to close, and everyone was tired. I got a mediocre, overpriced burger from a brunch restaurant, then we ordered in at the hotel.
It was a miracle I managed to get up and do anything the next morning. I was sunburnt, my arms were so sore from kayaking way too hard that even lifting my phone hurt... I took some painkillers and kept on trucking. Because... today was biking on Udo island.
We got to the island by that ferry we missed out on the afternoon before, and we rented bikes there for 3 hours for 10,000 won per person (~$8) and went joyriding. They were electric bikes that had a top speed of 25 km/h (~15.5 mph), but going downhill I got up to 30 km/h (~18.6 mph). It was a good time. I rode all the way around the island and then some, and I had some peanut ice cream, which I did NOT expect at all that it would be as absolutely delicious as it was.
So good. Not cheap; that little thing was 5,000 won (~$4), but it was just to try. Worth it. I want more so, so bad.
After this, we had to go back to the hotel because I forgot my Korean phone there... but I got it back, and all is well.
Then it started to rain. We couldn't do what was planned for the rest of the day... I think it was parasailing, which I probably would've chickened out of anyway. I wouldn't call myself terrified of heights, but they do make me nervous enough that I'm not sure I could've pushed past it. But we did go to a waterfall, which was nice! I have pictures, but Tumblr says they're too big to upload, so I might make a Google Drive folder when I get home with all my pictures for y'all to peruse.
We got food and went to the hotel after this, and then we all collectively passed out despite having plans to stay up longer... but that just means we needed the sleep.
Came back the next morning, and I had to go to a bank appointment before I even went back to my room... but it's alright, I only had my backpack, and it was even lighter for this trip than it usually is when I go to class :)
I had more thoughts that didn't have anything to do with Jeju, but I'll put those in a separate post later.
Hope y'all are all doing okay over in the USA!
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OJT EATS | Chet’s @ Rondo La Cave
Underneath the Hoxton Hotel is a pop-up space known as Rondo La Cave which similar to Carousel will have a number of guest residencies in the kitchen. Its latest residency is with Kris Yenbamroong, the chef behind LA restaurant Night + Market and it’s called Chet’s. Serving a mix of American and Thai cuisines, it sounded intriguing so we popped down to have a look.
First up was the garlic bread. This was done with milk bread and a spicy garlicky prik tum spread. The bread was super soft and the topping was so garlicky, a little spicy all with a little bit of crunch from the grilled crust. The bread was almost a little too soft for me but still super tasty.
Next up was the crispy rice salad. Now despite being called a salad, this was essentially fried rice but with some bits of the rice clearly deep fried to a satisfying crunch. The peanuts were good and not that it needed it but the peanuts added an additional crunch to the whole thing. There was a nice underlying heat which I liked too.
This was called a shimp bikini. Not sure what makes this dish at all bikini like but it was shrimp paste sandwiched between 2 layers of very thin pastry. Surprisingly light, very crisp and tasty. The only thing I’d say is that I’d have preferred a slightly thicker layer of the shrimp paste but otherwise, it was nice!
A very good example of fried chicken. It had a great crispy exterior and was super juicy. The ranch and red-eye sauces that it came with were a lovely balance of spice and creaminess.
Hailed as their signature dish, we couldn’t not go for the smashed cheeseburger. The patty was a mix of pork and beef, the cheese was American and the sauce on it was a secret. The pork and beef mix was really interesting as it had a bit more of a bounce to it than just beef. All in all, a really solid cheeseburger.
Chet’s was a really interesting mix of Thai and American cuisines that I really enjoyed. It’s only there for 4 months until September 2022 so will hopefully try to find the time to go back before it goes.
As for Rondo La Cave, it’s clearly becoming a trend but I like the idea of guest residencies. La Cave looks to be a great addition to the London food scene and am looking forward to all the guest chefs to come!
Rondo La Cave, The Hoxton, 199-206 High Holborn, WC1V 7BD
Cheers, JL
#foodporn#food porn#chets#chet's#rondo#la cave#rondolacave#rondo la cave#The Hoxton#TheHoxtonHotel#The Hoxton Hotel#Holborn#Hoxton
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Bucky Jr.
so i was planning on writing a small one shot based off of “Ive been watching you” by Rodney Atkins but it grew into a 5K+ imagine.
Takes place during/after endgame so don’t read if you haven’t seen it but it you haven’t are you living under a rock? all of the details based on the movie were written based off memory so if the dialog is a bit off its because i haven’t seen the movie in a while.
word count: 5k+ like i said i got carried away.
Bucky Barnes x reader, Steve x platonic! reader
y/n found out she was pregnant three months after they lost to thanos i think you can imagine how this story goes based off the ending of the movie and the song i based this story off of.
You honestly never thought that you could get Bucky after you found out that Thanos destroyed the stones. You did everything you could to try and get him back: going to the sanctum to see if there was a spell, pray, hell you even thought you would try to sell your soul. You even looked into the multiverse theory but nothing worked. Three months after half the universe turned to dust you found out that you were pregnant. The thought of having the baby without Bucky there, hurt.
Steve knew something was wrong when he hadn’t heard from you for a couple of days. He drove over to the house that you and Bucky had gotten. The only people who knew about the house was you, Bucky and Steve. And because Steve was Steve, he had gotten a spare key, so when he pulled up to the house he just walked right in.
Steve called out for you but you were too deep into your depression to hear him. You didn’t know that her was here til there was a knock on the bedroom door. You got out of bed so fast cause you thought that Bucky was back.
“Buck,” you asked opening the door.
Your smile fell when you saw that it was just Steve. You had forgotten that Steve knew about the house. Steve game you a soft smile because he knew how hard you were taking the loss. You left the door open and climbed back in into the bed. Steve walked over and sat by your feet.
“He’s not coming back is he,” you asked softly.
“I don’t think so,” he replied.
“I can’t do this without him Steve.”
“Do what?”
You reached into your night stand, grabbed the positive pregnancy test and handed it to Steve. He looked at the text then back at you.
“Did he know,” he asked placing the text on the nightstand.
“No. I didn’t know til last week. Steve I can’t do this alone.”
“(Y/n) you will not be doing it alone. I will be here for you,” he told you pulling the covers off. “Now come on. Time for you to get up.”
“No,” you said taking your pillow and covering your face with it.
“As godfather and favorite uncle it is my duty to get you to get out of bed.”
“Bold of you to assume you're the godfather,” you teased.
~five years later~
Ever since then Steve has been there for you every step go the way. He went to the doctor’s appointments, he helped you decorate the nursery, he even helped you pick the perfect name when you found out it was a boy: James Buchanan Barnes Jr.
Steve moved into the house, Bucky made sure that there was a spare room for Steve, to help you with the long nights after James was born. Every time he woke up to chance a dirty diaper, you would complain and tell him that you got it but he would reply with his same cheesy joke, “I’ve slept for 70 years.”
Steve was there for each step of James’ life. His first word: Steve, well it was te. His first steps, his first day of school. Steve even taught him how to ride a bike. He was like a dad to James, but he never took the role of dad. Every night before bed Steve would tell James stories of Bucky and growing up the two of you made sure that James knew about his father.
“Is daddy ever going to come back,” James asked Steve.
“I don’t think so,” Steve told James sadly.
“Mommy doesn’t talk about what happened to daddy. Can you tell me uncle te,” your son asked.
“Well you know how your parents and I are avengers?”
“Yea.”
“Well there was a bad guy that wanted to wipe out half the universe, so us and the rest of the avengers went to stop him. But we didn’t win so he wiped out half the universe and your daddy was one of those people who got wiped away.” Steve explained.
“Oh you mean the blip.”
“Yea.”
“I wish I met him,” James said pulling his covers up to his chin.
“Me too bud,” Steve tucking him in.
“Uncle te.”
“Yes buck,” Steve responded using the nick he called Buck. He only calls James that when you’re not around as to night hurt your feelings.
“Do you think daddy would like me?”
“I know your daddy would love you,” Steve assured him as he kissed if forehead.
James grabbed the photo of Bucky that you put of his nightstand and held it against his chest. Steve turned off the lights then left his room. Steve stopped when he saw you standing outside James’ room.
“He wanted to know,” he started to say ready to explain why he told James what he told him.
“He’s old enough to know. Im just glad you told him and not me. I would have broken down.”
Steve pulled you in to a hug. You pushed away from him and gave him a small smile letting him know that you appreciated the hug. Steve left to go to bed while you went to the living room and sat on the couch. You grabbed the photo book off the coffee table full of pictures of you and Bucky and just looked at them til you fell asleep.
The next morning you woke up from James pulling your eyelids open. Steve tried to stop him before he woke you up but he was a little too late.
“Sorry I tried to stop him,” Steve said handing you his coffee.
“But mommy had to wake up cause we are going to see Aunt Nat,” James said sitting down at the table eating his breakfast.
After finishing half the cup you got up and went to kiss James’ head. “Your right how silly of me to sleep.”
You finished the coffee and handed the empty up of Steve on your way to your room to get dressed. Going to your closet, you grabbed one of Bucky’s shirts and a pair of jeans. As soon as you finished getting ready for the day there was a little knock at the door.
“Mommy hurry up. I want to see Aunt Nat,”
You opened the door and ruffled his hair as you walked past him. “It that because she shows you all of the old weapons at the compound,” you asked as you grabbed the toast that Steve had made for you.
James stoped in his tracks and looked at you and Steve. “How did you know. It’s supposed to be a secret,” he asked.
“Thats because your mom knows everything,” Steve replied.
“Nu uh, Mommy what’s 12 x 12,” James asked crossing his hands over his chest and tilting his head a little.
“144,” you answered him.
James went over to Steve and held is hand out for Steve’s phone. He pulled it from his pocket and opened the calculator app. He checked your answer and looked up at you with shock and awe.
“Wow mommy does know everything,” he replied handing Steve back is phone.
After ten minutes and James running back to his room to grab his teddy bear Sarge, which he dressed to look like Bucky, the three of you left for the compound. While in the car, James wouldn’t sit still cause he was too excited to see Natasha.
“James, pleas stop kicking my seat,” You asked him.
“Im just too excited,” he replied using his hands to emphasize his statement. “Can we listen to the song?”
“What song it that buddy,” Steve asked looking to James in the rearview mirror.
“Mommy knows the song.”
Steve looked over at you from the driver seat and you smirked at him while grabbing your phone and finding the video. James quickly calmed down once he knew you were going to put the song on.
“Uncle te, you can sing it too,” He said hold Sarge tight in anticipation.
“I might not know the song,” Steve replied.
“Oh you know it,” you smirked.
The song started to play and James pretended to march in place while in his car seat.
Who’s strong and brave to save the American way
“Not all of use can storm a beach or drive a tank. But there is still a way for all of us can fight” James spoke.
Who vows to fight like a man for what’s right night and day
“Series E defense bonds, each one you buy is a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun”
Who will complain door to door for America
Carry the flag shore to shore for America
From Hoboken to Spokane
The Star Spangled Man with a Plan
“How do you know that,” Steve asked James and you.
“Mommy found it. It’s my favorite,” James replied.
Steve looked over at you and just shook his head. You noticed how red his face was and you just turned it up a little. The entire ride James spoke Steve’s part. After the second go around James convinced Steve to do it with him.
You couldn’t tell who was more happy to see the compound James, to see Nat, or Steve, so you could stop playing his song. As soon as the car came to a stop James unbuckled and got out of the car. Natasha walked out of the compound and held her arms open for James.
“Aunt Nat,” James yelled running into her arms.
“Hey JJ.”
After they went inside you didn’t really see either til lunch time. And since you didn’t hear an explosion you didn’t worry. James was eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while nat was talking with Carol, Okoye, Rocket, and Rhodey.
After everyone hung up nat teared up a little because of Clint and James noticed. He grabbed Sarge who was in the chair next to him and handed him to her. “Here Aunt Nat, Sarge makes me feel better when I am sad.” James then went back to eating his sandwich while Steve and Nat talked a little. Then you noticed that someone was at the gate.
“Is that Scott,” you asked.
“How old is that,” Steve asked.
“Its live.”
“James stay here,” you told him as the three of you ran to see if Scott was really back.
The four of you came back to the room and James just looked at confusion. Scott explained how he was here and his plan to get everyone back. You, Nat and Steve looked at each other while Scott sat next to James and ate Natasha’s peanut butter sandwich.
“Hi,” James said pushing a glass of milk to Scott.
“Hey,” Scott replied with a questioning look.
“My name is James Buchanan Barnes Jr.,” James introduced himself. “Wait are you Antman?”
“Yes I am.’
“You are so cool.”
“Thanks kid,” Scott thanked him and finished the sandwich. “I knew your dad.”
“Really, were you friends or did he try to beat you up when Hydra was hurting him?”
“Friends, well I helped him when he was in trouble,” Scott explained.
James nodded his head and thanked Scott for helping his dad, then continued to eat his sandwich. Scott finished his milk then walked over to you and motioned back to James.
“Cute kid.”
~time skip~
After the meeting with BruceHulk, you and Steve knew of the only person who might be able to help. James sat in the middle between you and Scott one the ride up to Tony’s cabin. The entire ride James and Scott were talking about Antman things. Once we got to the cabin James’ fascination with Scott disappeared. All he want to do was play with Morgan. He ran past Tony and gave Morgan a hug.
“Hi Morgan,” James said after their hug.
“James you came to play,” Morgan asked James nodded his head and they ran off to play.
“Hello to you too,” Tony called out to your son.
“Sorry. Hi uncle Tony,” James called out.
Steve, Nat, Scott and you talked to Tony and explained what the plan was. Tony didn’t agree with the plan and kept saying that it wouldn’t work. Morgan and James ran inside. Then Morgan ran back out to “save” Tony. He invited you to stay for lunch which you accepted and went in to see James helping pepper set up the table.
“Aunt pep, I need one more fork,” James said looking at the table counting the plates.
“Here,” she said holding one out for him.
He put the fork in its place and then ran to whisper something in Morgan’s ear. She agreed to whatever he said. They went into the kitchen and grabbed a towel and held it over their arms. James opened his mouth then closed it and went over to pepper. He tapped her leg and motioned for her to bend over so he could whisper in her ear. She whispered something back then came back to stand next to Morgan.
“Lunch will be ready in three minutes,” James said.
“Please wait to be seated,” Morgan stated.
They both came over to Steve and asked for his name. After he gave it name they check the “list” on Morgan’s hand and both nodded their heads.
“Right his way, Mr. Rodgers,” James said leading Steve to his seat.
They did this for everyone and then helped hand out the food to everyone. After lunch the kids played a little while longer but then it was time to leave. You had to figure out time travel without the help of Tony.
“Bye Morgan,” James said sadly.
“Bye James,” Morgan replied equally sad.
The entire time you guys where trying to perfect time travel James was standing next to Bruce wearing a lab coat that was too big and hold a clip board holding some of his drawings. You didn’t tell him why you guys were building a time machine because you didn’t want to get his hopes up.
After all the mishaps with Scott you walked over to James and asked for his scientific opinion on what you were doing wrong. He replied with ‘maybe the clock is broken’. Steve went outside for fresh air while you tried to help Bruce solve this. You were surprised when you saw Steve come back inside with not only his shield but also Tony.
“Let me guess, you were messing around and cracked time travel,” you asked throwing your hands in the air.
“Yes,” Tony said walking over to bruce.
“Wow, is that the shield,” James asked running over to Steve and ran his fingers on the vibranium disk. “Its beautiful.”
“Hold it,” Steve said handing it too James.
His eye lit up and he ran around pretending to be Captain America. After Tony explained how he cracked time travel the team split up to get more people to help with the mission. Tony got Rhodes, Nat got Clint, once rocket and Nebula got back to earth bruce and rocket went to get Thor. You called Pepper and asked her to watch James while you completed the mission and she agreed to so you and Steve brought him back to Tony’s cabin.
Once you pulled up you and Steve looked at each other and decided that now was the time to explain everything to him. Before he opened the door you told him that you needed to talk.
“Do you know why your staying with Morgan and aunt Pep for a couple hours,” you asked him.
“Cause you have a mission,” he asked.
“Yes but do you know what the mission is,” Steve asked him.
“No its top secret. Constitutional.”
“confidential,” you corrected him. “The mission is to bring back daddy and everyone who got blipped away,”
“Your going to save daddy,” James asked.
“Yes.”
“I want to help,” he exclaimed.
“I know you do bud but it's too dangerous. And we need you to be safe. Your dad would want you to be safe,” Steve stated to talk him down.
“Fine but you will call me right after.”
“Yes.”
“Ok, be safe and save daddy,” James said kissing you and Steve on the cheek before he got out of the car and ran too Morgan.
Pepper waved to you to let you know everything would be okay then you and Steve drove back to the compound. Once you two got back, everyone was in a room talking about the stones and when the best time to get them was. It was decided that New York 2012 would be the best time to get the mind, space and time stone, 2013 Asgard would be the best time to get the reality stone, and 2014 Space would be the best time to get the soul and power stone. The teams were Steve, bruce, Tony and Scott would go to 2012, Thor and rocket would get the reality stone, nebula and Rhodes would get the power, while you Clint and Natasha would get the soul stone.
Everyone suited up and we all wished everyone good luck on their missions to receive the stones. You were standing next to Steve and the next thing you knew you where on an alien planet in the year 2014. Rhodes enlarged the Guardians’ ship and flew team soul stone to vormir. There was a long hike to where the stone was supposed to be. The three of you climbed to the top of the twin mountains and where greeted by the Red Skull. It threw you for a loop but decided to focus on getting Bucky back then the head of hydra at least for now. He explained how we were to get the stone and it was along the lines of soul for a soul. So the three of you sat there in defeat.
“There has to be another way,” you said looking between the two former assassins who where having a whole conversation without talking.
“We have to get that stone. What ever it takes,” Nat said and Clint repeated ‘whatever it takes’
They both stood up and then looked confused at each other. Then you realized what their plan was. Nat was going to sacrifice herself for the stone and Clint was going to do the same.
“No way. That is not happening,” you told them.
“Its the only way,” Nat said walking over to you. “Tell JJ I love them. And get everyone back.”
Nat gave you a hug and an electric shock surged through your whole body. The amount of electricity that you got hit with knocked you out and you didn’t wake up it after you go the stone. You woke up next to Clint in some lake.
“No,” you cried when you saw the stone in his hand and Nat no where to be found.
The two of you took a second to gather your emotions then pressed your belt and went back to 2023. You came back to the platform where left on and just dropped to your knees. Steve came over and checked you for any wounds.
“She’s gone,” you cried as you wrapped your arms around him.
Everyone gave Tony the stones so he could build the gauntlet while you went out to the lake. One by one everyone showed up too. There was a small argument over whether or not we gaunt get Nat back with the stones but you and Clint knew you couldn’t. Steve walked over to you and sat down.
“How am I going to tell James that she’s gone,” you asked him.
“You won’t have to do it alone cause we are going to get Buck back and then all three of us will go tell him,” Steve said rubbing your back.
Everyone went back inside to prepare to bring everyone back. Thor really wanted to be the one to snap everyone back but it was decided that Bruce would do it. In his works, “its mostly gamma radiation. I was made to do this.” He put the gauntlet on and snapped his fingers. The power of the stones sort of burned his arms and you ripped the gauntlet off of him while Tony tried to help with the burns.
You couldn’t really tell that it worked but you heard birds. Lots of them. Then a phone started to ring and by the look on Clint’s face you were guessing it was his wife calling and so it worked. You looked at Steve and were about to tell him it worked when the whole compound blew up. The force knocked you out a bit and you woke up later next to Clint. You saw the gauntlet laying a couple feet away so you grabbed it cause there was no was a friend blew you up.
And you were right it turned out to be Thanos from 2014 because the nebula that came back want your nice nebula. You were trying to get out from all the rubble when you heard Steves painful groans. Of course Steve was facing the titan by himself. Once you could breath fresh air you looked out at the wasteland that was once the compound. You saw Steve get up and take a stand against Thanos alone. You were about to run to his side when you heard a faint voice on the comms.
“On your left,” you heard Sam say.
You never thought hearing Sam Wilson’s voice you make you cry but it did. Because if he was back so was Bucky. All around golden circles of sparks emerged and dozens of people stepped out. You made your way to take a stand against Thanos and out the corner of your eye you saw him. You fought the urge to run to him and never let him go. That could wait.
Thanos’s creepy alien army charged at us and we charged at them. You killed a bunch of the dog thingy and eventually found yourself next to Bucky. During a small window of peace you turned to him and jumped in his arms.
“Hey doll,” he said holding you tight.
“God I missed you Buck,” you cried.
“Sorry I was gone so long,” he replied pushing you back and pressing his lips firmly against yours. “You look gorgeous by the way.”
“There is something I really need to tell you Bucky.”
He pulled you close to him and then shot at some aliens behind you. “We are kinda in the middle of a war here doll. Tell me after we win.” He ran off to kill more aliens and you did the same. You were taking a hit but over the comms you heard a plan. To get the stones back before Thanos could use them again. So during the fight there was a game of Hot potato that was being played with the gauntlet. It work for a while but eventually Thanos got the stone. It happened so quickly. He was about to snap his fingers when Tony jumped on him. Thanos threw in aside then snapped his fingers. You closed your eyes to prepare for another loss but nothing happened. Then you looked over at Tony and saw that he had the stones. He snapped his finger and Thanos and the other aliens turned to dust.
You ran over to bucky and jumped in his arms again to celebrate the win but stopped when you noticed that Tony wasn’t getting up. Pepper and Peter when over to him. It didn’t look good. You noticed pepper crying and you knew that he didn’t make it. Everyone took a knee to honor him. The Steve, Thor, and Dr. Strange walked over and helped cover his body and retrieve the stones. You cried into Bucky’s then thought of James. Once Tony’s body was covered and the stones were safely put in a briefcase. You let go on Bucky and ran to Steve.
“James,” you cried.
Pepper walked over to you and you gave her a hug. She told you how Happy was with the kids. You felt bad for only thinking of James while your friend just died. Pepper looked at you and shook her head like she knew what you were thinking.
“Lets go,” Pepper said and you walked over to strange and asked him to do his portal to the cabin.
Bucky was right behind you completely confused on what you were doing. You looked at him and just smiled as you grabbed Steves hand then his and walked the the portal after Pepper. She ran inside but the three of you stayed outside.
“Bucky that thing I wanted to tell you,” you told him.
“I get it doll. Five years is a long time and you didn’t think I would come back,” he said looking at how you were still holding Steve’s hand.
You followed to where he was looking and stepped away from Steve. “No its not that,” you started to explain but were interpreted by James running out of the Cabin.
“Mommy,” he cried running to you. “Uncle Tony.”
“I know,” you dropped to your knees and hugged him.
You didn’t let go til he look over at Steve and he ran out of your arms into his. “Your okay,” James cried.
“Yes buddy. Just a little come cuts but I will be okay,” Steve replied.
You got up and looked over at Bucky was you could tell what he was thinking by the look in his eye. You went to go tell him he was wrong but heard James from behind you.
“You did it. Thats him right,” you son said wiping his tears away.
“Yea. Thats him,” Steve informed him.
James walked over to Bucky and just looked up at him. Bucky knelt down to meet the boy who he thought was yours and Steve’s kid.
“Hey,” Bucky said.
“Hi,” James replied looking at Buck’s face. “You’re taller than I imagined.”
“Yea,” Buck laughed. “Whats your name?”
“James Buchanan Barnes Jr. and this is Sarge,” James said showing Bucky his teddy.
Bucky looked at James then at you. “I thought…”
“You well you were never the sharpest tool,” you cut him off.
“Im glad I get to meet you dad,” James said wrapping his arms around Bucky.
“Me too.”
~time skip~
It has been a couple weeks since Tony and Nat’s funeral and James was taking Nat’s death better than you expected. You were pretty sure he was to busy getting to know Bucky to let her death get to him and you weren’t complaining.
“What happened to your arm. Mommy and uncle Te never told me that story,” James said poking Bucky’s metal arm.
“I lost it when I fell off a train,” Bucky explained.
“That was back in World War 2. How are you still alive? Did you crash a plane into water like uncle te?”
“No but I was frozen like him for a while.”
“When you were getting hurt by hydra.”
“Yes but now I'm all better.”
“Cool will you feel it if I punch your metal arm?”
“No.”
“Awesome. I want a metal arm.”
“Maybe for Christmas,” you replied laughing.
Steve came into the living room from the kitchen with drinks. James yelled something about doing something important and ran out of the room. The three of you sat in the living room and caught up. You told Bucky everything about James and Steve told y’all about his trip to return the stones. James came back into the living room ten minutes later with a huge smile on his face.
“What did you do,” you asked him.
“Nothing,” he replied.
Steve and Bucky looked at each other and just laughed. They mentioned how much James was like Bucky when he was a kid.
“Mommy can i’m hungry,” James told you as he sat next to Bucky.
You got up to go make his something to eat when you noticed black paint on the floor. You looked over at James and saw that his left hand was black with gold lines.
“James what did you do? And please tell me it comes off,” you asked.
James got up and took off his jacket to reveal that he painted his left arm black and gold to match Bucky’s
“Now I really match daddy, see. Same name and same arm,” he replied showing off the slightly wet arm.
You opened you mouth to yell about how there is paint on your floors and probably on the stairs too and how he ruined his clothes and possible the couch with the paint but just closed your mouth and shook your head.
“Now that you are back this is your problem,” you said walking into the kitchen to feet Bucky Jr.
“Did I do something wrong,” James asked looked between Bucky and Steve.
“No buddy, you just made a mess with the paint,” Bucky said pointing to the black paint on the floor.
“Oops,” He replied.
After eating and cleaning the paint, life started to normal. Steve staying til he found an apartment close by which James couldn’t understand why he was leaving. After Steve told him that he could come over and have guy night he decided that Steve could move out. And with Bucky back James basically pushed you aside and preferred his dad. Everything Bucky did James did. Everything Bucky ate James ate, even vegetables.
“James, I have been trying to get you to eat your vegetables for ever and now that your dad is here you love vegetables,” you asked when you saw him finish his carrots.
“No vegetables are gross but I want to be just like daddy and daddy eats vegetables,” he replied making a face over how gross he thought carrots where.
After he got in trouble for painting his arm James decided to do the next best thing and waste all the foil in the house to wrap is arm. You even caught his pretending to be Bucky while he was playing in the back yard.
“What,” Bucky said wrapping his arms around you are you watched James play.
“Red Skull I am the winter soldier and I am here to put an end to you and the rest of hydra,” James said pointing his toy gun and sarge who was wearing a red hat.
“He idolizes you,” you said resting your head against Buck’s shoulder.
“Jealous,” he asked kissing your neck.
“No just annoyed that he is a mini you.”
“Daddy come play,” James called.
Bucky walked outside and pulled you with him. James explain how Bucky would be on his team.
“We are stopping Sarge, he’s the red skull. And im you so you can be… Uncle Te.”
“What about me,” Steve asked waking into the back yard.
“You can be a bad guy with mommy cause she needs a partner,” James said placing Sarge’s red hat on you.
“Why am I the red skull,” you asked slightly offended.
“Cause you get mad a lot and look like him,” James stated like it was a known fact.
Bucky and Steve started laughing while you took the hat off and changed James around to get back at him.
“Daddy, mommy is crazy help me,” James yelled at the top of his lungs which caused Bucky and Steve to laugh more.
Bucky was too busy laughing so James stopped running and took of his jacket to reveal his foil arm and held it out.
“I am Sargent James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th infantry of the US army and I order you to stop chasing me,” he said and crossed his arms.
You stopped and just took in your son’s appearance. “Mommy you look really pretty,” James said with the same smirk Bucky gives you when he is trying to apologize or get himself out of trouble. Yea James was defiantly Bucky Jr.
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What Would These Astronauts Put in Their #NASAMoonKit?
NASA is hard at work to land the first woman and the next man on the Moon, and we want to know: what would you pack for a trip to the Moon?
We will be soon conducting our last in a series of Green Run tests for the core stage of our Space Launch System (SLS) — the most powerful rocket ever built.
The series of tests is designed to gradually bring the rocket stage and all its systems to life for the first time — ensuring that it’s ready for missions to the Moon through the Artemis program.
To mark this critical time in the history of American spaceflight, we’ve been asking people like you — what would you take with you on a trip to the Moon? Social media users have been regaling us with their images, videos, and illustrations with the hashtag #NASAMoonKit!
Looking for a little inspiration? We asked some of our astronauts and NASA leaders the same question:
1. NASA Astronaut Chris Cassidy
NASA astronaut Chris Cassidy recently took this photo from the International Space Station and posted it to his Twitter account with this caption:
“If I was on the next mission to the Moon, I would have to bring this tiny spaceman with me! He’s flown with me on all of my missions and was in my uniform pocket for all the SEAL missions I have been a part of. Kind of like a good luck charm.”
2. European Space Agency Astronaut Tim Peake
European Space Agency astronaut Tim Peake asked his two sons what they would take with them to the Moon. This is what they decided on!
3. NASA Astronaut Scott Tingle
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Based on previous missions to space, NASA astronaut Scott Tingle would put a can of LiOH, or Lithium Hydroxide, into his #NASAMoonKit.
A LiOH can pulls carbon dioxide out of the air — very important when you're in a closed environment for a long time! Apollo 13 enthusiasts will remember that the astronauts had to turn off their environmental system to preserve power. To keep the air safe, they used LiOH cans from another part of the vehicle, but the cans were round and the fitting was square. Today we have interoperability standards for space systems, so no more square pegs in round holes!
4. NASA Astronaut Drew Morgan
NASA astronaut Drew Morgan received some feedback from his youngest daughter when she was in kindergarten about she would put into her #NASAMoonKit.
5. Head of Human Spaceflight Kathy Lueders
Although Kathy Lueders is not an astronaut, she is the head of human spaceflight at NASA! Her #NASAMoonKit includes activities to keep her entertained as well as her favorite pillow.
6. NASA Astronaut Kenneth Bowersox
NASA astronaut Kenneth Bowersox knows from his past space shuttle experience what the “perfect space food” is — peanut butter. He would also put a hooded sweatshirt in his #NASAMoonKit, for those long, cold nights on the way to the Moon.
7. NASA Astronaut Michael Collins
NASA astronaut Michael Collins has actually made a real-life #NASAMoonKit — when he flew to the Moon on the Apollo 11 mission! But for this time around, he tweeted that would like to bring coffee like he did the first time — but add on a good book.
How to Show Us What’s In Your #NASAMoonKit:
There are four social media platforms that you can use to submit your work:
Instagram: Use the Instagram app to upload your photo or video, and in the description include #NASAMoonKit
Twitter: Share your image on Twitter and include #NASAMoonKit in the tweet
Facebook: Share your image on Facebook and include #NASAMoonKit in the post
Tumblr: Share your image in Tumblr and include #NASAMoonKit in the tags
If your #NASAMoonKit catches our eye, we may share your post on our NASA social media accounts or share it on the Green Run broadcast!
Click here for #NASAMoonKit Terms and Conditions.
Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com
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False God- Sean Wallace
Disclaimer: No gifs or photos are mine unless stated otherwise.
Warning: A violent, smutty NSFW Sean Wallace fic. What if that last day ended differently? What if Sean made it out with his wounds? And what if there was someone from his childhood who haunted him just as much as he haunted her?
Subject: Sean X Y/N
Growing up, Sean Wallace and I were one in the same. We liked the same jokes, ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut the same way- in triangles- and our only real difference was that I was an American. Our fathers, both legendary crime bosses in their own right, were great business partners and made each other filthy rich. We were dangerously similar.
Until we weren’t.
I’d been in America when Finn Wallace was murdered, and I’d stayed in America during the aftermath. My father had cared deeply for Finn, but the world we lived in was fucking brutal, cold, and my dad would never risk my well being by allowing me to go to the UK to be with Sean.
Hearing about all of it had been a nightmare, though. Hearing about murders and the carnage, communities and families wiped out when Sean locked the city down. My heart ached for the boy I once knew and feared for the man that was, and then, just as quickly as it all blew up, the flames went out. All was quiet.
Sean Wallace was dead.
Or so the world thought. My father, who had an in with Billy and Jac, knew the truth. The Wallace family had connections within the police force- cliché, right?- and when a few of their own found him lying in a pool of his own blood, bleeding out from his fucking face, they quickly pronounced him dead at the scene. I didn’t know the ins and outs, didn’t care to, because the life I lived now was so far from the life I was forced to live as a child. All I knew was they got him out of there and Sean Wallace, as London knew him, was dead.
I needed him to stay that way.
It had been nearly a year since then, nearly a year since I last had the nerve to ask my dad about him. I think he knew how I felt, knew I had gone to great lengths to distance myself from him and my mother and the hellish, brutal life they created. But that didn’t mean my dad didn’t love me. I knew he did in his own, twisted way, and I knew he caught on to the hurt I felt whenever Sean’s name was mentioned.
So he stopped mentioning it.
Billy and Jac were stateside and living under different names, that much I knew. I had yet to see them, but I knew they were close enough to drive to because my mother had made sure to mention in her last email that their “home was beautiful and they think it was quite rude of you not to come around and visit, Y/N.”
It was bullshit. Billy and Jac didn’t feel any type of way about me, we were never close. That was reserved specifically for Sean and me. And look how well that turned out.
I was haunted by the ghost of a man I didn’t even know anymore.
He was labeled as a terrorist and maybe that’s what hurt more than anything. I could never scream from the rooftops how much I fucking loved him because that’s crazy. Because who could love a terrorist? Who could love a man that had murdered, cheated, stolen to get his way? And if I did love him, what kind of woman did that make me?
It was a thought that had been in my mind on replay all day long, the musings drifting into the night as I drove towards my childhood home. I had made the agreement with my parents- namely my father- that once a month I would return home for dinner. It was nearly a two hour drive but one that I committed to because if I didn’t I knew they would show up at my apartment. And what twenty-something year old woman wants her parents showing up at her apartment unannounced?
The gravel ground under my tires as I pulled my all black BMW into the driveway. It was already dark and I knew my mother would have something to say about me showing up late, but at least I showed up. Sure, I was still wearing the navy blue pantsuit I’d worn at work all day and I usually changed whenever I had dinner with them, but my mind was occupied tonight. By thoughts of Sean. By thoughts of Sean getting his face blown off. Did it hurt? Did he remember? Would I ever know?
My father met me at the door. Six foot three and wide like a linebacker, the man was not to be messed with. He was no nonsense and the only people he smiled at were me and the people he was going to shoot right before he shot them. You can do what you want with that information.
“My little angel,” he said and reached for me, taking both my hands in his and bringing them to his lips. It was a simple gesture but one he did every single time. It was the one constant my dad ever provided me. “How was the drive up?”
“Traffic wasn’t too bad tonight, but I ended up getting out a bit later than I thought I would.”
He swung an arm around me as we made our way through the marble foyer, my heels clacking against the floor. “My art gallery owner. Your mother and I are so proud of you.”
I raised my eyebrows. He was feeding me bullshit, both he and my mom wanted me in the family business more than anything, but from the time I could voice my opinion I let them know. No. I would be taking no part in the family business.
Not that I didn’t know my shit. I knew my way around a gun shop and had a better shot than half the men my dad hired to protect us. I hit harder than my first two boyfriends and let everyone know that my last name was still my last name and not to fuck with me. I knew I was untouchable.
That didn’t mean I was embracing the lifestyle.
“Yeah, business is going great, I even hired someone part-time to help out.”
“Background check?”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Of course.”
“Family ties?”
“Her name is Mindy and she’s from a farm in rural Kansas.”
He paused and raised his eyebrows, one of the rare times my father ever looked shocked. “She doesn’t even know what our last name holds, does she?”
I shook my head. “Not a clue.”
He laughed his hearty, deep chuckle and stopped us at the bar cart outside of the dining room. As always, he grabbed two tumblers and threw a handful of ice in each before adding to fingers of whiskey. Our favorite. One of our few commonalities. “Proud of you, kid.”
“Thanks, dad.”
I was about to ask him how his week was when my mother’s voice drifted in from the balcony. She liked to drink her wine out there at night, before dinner. Just one glass, but it was a ritual she followed religiously. Her voice was somewhat raspy, a little cold, and I could hear her laughter as though it was wrapping around me like a vine.
But that was the thing; my mother drank her wine outside alone. That was her time. So who was she laughing at?
I glanced over my shoulder at my father to find him looking as though he was at a loss for words. It was so rare that he was speechless, a man of his stature always held a level of composure that was sometimes shocking. But not this time.
“Dad, wha-“
“You’re going to want to finish that drink, angel.”
My blood ran cold at his words. His tone was low, suddenly serious. The lighthearted moment from before was gone, something dark and heavy in its place.
I should have listened to him and finished the drink because as soon as I turned around I was met with the coldest, most pristine set of blue eyes I’d ever seen. Eyes that I once swore I would drown in someday.
Sean Wallace was standing eight feet in front of me. It was the first time we had seen each other in years, the first time I’d seen him since he was… dead.
His face was… fucked. Marred by the bullet that ripped through his left cheek on that fateful day. The skin was raised, almost burn-like, and left a medium sized indent in what would otherwise be a perfectly symmetrical face. His left eyelid held a little lower and it looked like he tried to cover up the other, minor scars with the facial hair that littered his jaw and around his mouth.
But even with the new, broken face, Sean Wallace was still the most breathtaking man in the room. His suit was impeccable and fit him like a glove, the stormy gray matching the storm that seemed to be raging in his eyes. His tie was a navy that matched my own suit and it felt like the universe was pointing at me and laughing. It felt like that bitch was having the time of her life watching me suffer.
“I…” I started, unsure of how to finish.
“I didn’t mean to startle you. I know this” he held a hand up to his face “is a lot to take in.”
I already shook my head, my stomach turning at the thought of him thinking he was ugly. “No! No, I… I, I’m, I wasn’t-“
“Best private schools in the state and she still has that damn stutter.” My mother’s cutting voice ceased my own and I bit at the inside of my cheek. She came around the corner in all her glory, designer dress, perfect manicure and not a hair out of place.
She made me fucking sick.
“It’s nice to see you.” I finally managed to get the words out, although I didn’t know if I was talking to Sean or my mom.
“Jesus, Y/N, you couldn’t even change first?”
“I think she looks great.” Sean’s voice caught everyone off guard and even my mom turned to look at him. “Beautiful, really. You always looked great in a suit.”
I knew he was referring to my high school graduation. Sean was two years older and had flown in to see me graduate. My mom, ever the lady, was determined to force me into a nightmare of a ball gown while I wanted a simple, chic suit. Sean had been there for the entire screaming match, laughing at my mother as she tripped over the dress she had been hellbent on making me wear.
I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged my lips and nodded at him. “Thank you.”
He nodded in return and said nothing else.
“Let’s eat, shall we?” I felt my dad’s hand on my back as he ushered me into the dining room. My feet felt like stone blocks were attached to them as I walked, feeling Sean directly behind me with his eyes burning holes into my suit jacket.
We all sat in silence with the ghost of my past sitting directly across from me. Sean made no secret that he was staring at me and it reminded me of the ignorant young boy I once knew. Sean knew he was handsome, powerful, and could easily get his way. He held himself with the confidence of a man who had everything and it seemed a gunshot to the face didn’t change that.
“You’ve managed to stay under the radar.” I noted as one of the maids poured red wine into my glass.
“Y/N!” my mother scolded.
I raised my eyebrows and didn’t glance in her direction, my eyes holding Sean’s. “What? Are we supposed to sit here and pretend everything is normal? You want me to ask him about the weather?”
“Y/N…” my father’s tone held a warning in it.
“No, she’s right.” Sean spoke up as I took a hearty gulp of wine. “Facial reconstruction had me laid up for a bit. Reconstructing an entire cheekbone can be tricky. And expensive.”
I nodded. “Especially when the entire cheekbone belongs to a dead man.”
The room fell quiet with even the staff scurrying to disappear. My mother was glaring at me and I was sure my father was too, but I didn’t care. I’d spent my entire childhood and teen years caring about and loving Sean only for him to cut me off when he became Finn’s minion and then fake his own fucking death a few years after. He got so caught up in the Wallace life, in the life I thought we both hated, that he forgot about me. And I was angry about it.
“I deserve that.” His accent was the same as always. Smooth. Elegant. The best that private school could buy. “I should have reached out sooner as I knew my siblings were in touch.”
My mother, the martyr, was quick to reassure him. “Sweetheart, you don’t owe us anything. We’re just so happy you’re alright.”
She was so warm with him, a complete contrast to how she acted with me. It was a constant reminder that she always wanted a son and ended up with me instead.
My father opened his mouth to speak when his right hand, Marcus, walked in with a phone in his hand. His face looked pinched, stressed, and my father immediately stood. “Excuse me.”
Sean nodded politely and turned to my mother, but she was already standing and following behind dad, sensing his stress.
“Should we be concerned?”
I shook my head, my eyes still trained in the doorway. “I doubt it.”
Things were quiet then. Too fucking quiet. So quiet I felt like I was suffocating. I took a sip of wine. Then another. Another until my glass was empty and the bottle was taunting me from the center of the table.
“You have every right to be angry.”
“I’m not angry.” I was instantly defensive.
His smile was small, but it was there. “You always were a shit liar.”
“You were always a good one.”
His smile disappeared then and I was soon sitting across from the gangster that was always lurking underneath. Sean could do cool, calm, and collected. But he could only hide the angry, arrogant Wallace traits for so long.
“I… can’t remember the last time we were face to face.”
I shrugged my shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable. “Christmas. Six years ago. Kingston.”
His smile- God, that fucking smile- reappeared. “You threw a drink in my face.”
“You called me a spoiled fucking twat.”
“You were acting like one.”
Now it was my turn to smile. I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t help it. My early twenties were filled with vodka soda fueled arguments and boyfriends that my family- and Sean- hated. I was so different, that girl doesn’t even seem real anymore.
I was about to respond when I heard shouting coming from down the hall. My father’s office.
Sean and I stood at the same time, both of us sensing a certain level of danger. My father rarely ever shouted, it had to be something catastrophic for him to raise his voice like that.
Entering the hall, I quickly grabbed my bag next to the bar cart and produced my glock before tucking it into my waistband. Sean watched me silently the entire time. He was getting a little too comfortable with staring at me.
“Always prepared.”
“Family business, right?” I shot back at him over my shoulder as we neared my father’s study.
“No, no, fucking No! What do you mean they’re all dead? An entire fucking warehouse of people and they’re all fucking dead?”
My heart stopped in my chest. That was… impossible. The warehouses were untouchable, no one knew where they were unless they were part of our inner circle. Our microscopic inner circle. Which could only mean one thing…
It was an inside job.
“Fuck.” I spat. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Y/N, something’s happened.” My mother appeared in the doorway as we approached.
“Who did it?” I asked, getting straight to the point. “Any ideas?”
My dad was seated behind his wooden desk, a desk so large it was fit for a king. When I was a child I would spend hours in there reading on the stuffed leather couch while he worked silently. It was one of the few places I felt “safe” growing up.
“Kensington’s dead.” Our eyes met.
Rodger Kensington was my father’s longtime business partner and someone who was like an uncle to me. He’d been there at my prom, my graduation, and when I took my first steps. He was… family.
“Shit.” Sean’s word was quick and quiet, but then I remembered he knew Rodger too, and he knew what this meant.
“What about Sherry? The kids?” I was desperate to make sure their little ones were alright, they were all so young.
“They’re fine. They weren’t home, they-“
My father never got the words out as one of the staff walked in. I had turned at the sound of him entering the room, just barely meeting his eye as he raised his arm, a small handgun pointed directly at the man whose home we were in.
“Y/N!” My mother screaming my name like that would haunt my nightmares for months after.
A single shot rang out and my ears rang, a gasp leaving my lips as I reached for the gun in my waistband. But it wasn’t there.
The man was dead, a gunshot to the temple with crimson blood spilling all over the Italian wood floors. And then there was Sean, standing at my side with my gun pointed straight ahead, a dead look in his eyes.
It was all dangerously quiet and I could hear my own heartbeat, but only for a moment. Because as soon as I took a single breath, shit hit the fan.
My mother released a blood curdling scream, Marcus rushing to her side and grabbing her as she collapsed. My father, stoic, stood and walked over to the wardrobe near the window, swiftly pulling out guns and rounds of ammo. More security rushed in and I stood next to Sean, everything moving in slow motion. I could hear voices, hear my dad barking commands at his security who acted like his soldiers.
“There’s blood on my shoes.”
“What?”
What? Did I just say there was blood on my shoes? But it was true. My expensive cream suede shoes had blood splatter on them and I was ninety percent sure there was bone fragment near my heel.
“Blood. On my shoes.” My voice sounded far away.
Sean was suddenly in front of me and tucking my gun back into my waist while everyone shouted around us. “I’ll buy you a new pair. Bought them at the store on fifth, yeah?”
“How the fuck did you-“ I stopped, putting two and two together. “Have you been watching me?”
Sean’s face changed then and he straightened his shoulders. Our height nearly matched but only because of my heels, and I knew his gesture was dominant, authoritative. “I promise we can talk about that later, but-“
I pushed past him and walked towards my father who was barking orders into a phone. “Did you have Sean keep tabs on me?”
“Y/N, this isn’t the time for you to complain about your independence.”
I slammed my hand down on the wooden desk the same way I had watched him do it so. Many. Times. “Answer me!”
My father, all six foot three of him, stood tall and looked over me even with a desk separating us. “Watch yourself, young lady.”
“What the fuck is going on that you hired someone to watch me? That you hired Sean to watch me? What aren’t you telling me?”
He paused for the briefest of moments while everyone moved around us. I could hear safeties being turned off, my mom screaming down the hallway, and feel Sean standing close enough that I could smell his cologne.
“I’ve known for a bit that someone on the inside was giving information to Merkov brothers. Rodger and I spent months sifting through the weeds trying to figure out who it was. We had a break last night, I was going to tell you everything-“
“Four black SUV’s were spotted five miles from the property. Moving quickly. We need to go.” Marcus had appeared in the doorway sans my mother, his face wiped of anything sort of emotion. In fact, Marcus may have been the most emotionless man I had ever come into contact with. I would even venture to call him heartless.
“Shit.” My dad scrubbed a hand over his face. “I promise I will tell you everything, angel.” He looked at me, the desk separating us. “But right now you need to go and it can’t be back to your apartment.”
“Dad, I…” I had no idea what to say. I couldn’t go back to my apartment in the city, there was most definitely a hit out on my family, including myself, and Sean Wallace was back from the fucking dead. My day was going from bad to worse, my life blowing up in a twenty minute time span.
But I knew my last name, knew the weight it carried. I knew I had a certain responsibility to handle my shit and handle it well, with my shoulders back and my chin up.
“Where am I going?”
He was already on the move and I was on his heels, following him down the winding hallways of the home I grew up in. It was the same house that was sure to be shot to shit as soon as those SUV’s showed up.
“Harbor House.” He barked over his shoulder. “You can drive down there in the charger. Tinted windows. Marcus, have Anthony load a bag into the car. Ammo, guns, everything she’ll need.”
“No one knows where Harbor House is except us.” I reminded him. His business partners may have known about the warehouses and my father’s permanent residence, but Harbor House was for family and family alone.
“I’m not taking any chances, Y/N, not with you. Sean will accompany you and you’ll stay there until you hear from me. I’ll call-“
“What?” I cut him off. “Sean’s not coming with me.”
“I’m not taking any chances with you.” He repeated.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
Sean cleared his throat behind me and I refused to look at him. I knew he was offended by what I’d said, but quite honestly I was offended by everything he had done since stepping foot in my parents’ home that day.
“This isn’t about what you need or want, Y/N. He’s going with you.”
I was about to fully lose my temper when shots rang out through the house. I reached for my glock and turned the safety off, immediately ducking behind a marble pillar with Sean’s hand on my elbow, holding me still.
There was yelling and gunshots, some of the housekeepers screaming bloody murder from the second and third floors. There was no way those SUV’s were already on the property, no way. It had to be someone else.
Someone had burned our entire fucking family.
“Dad!” I yelled as a bullet whirred past my head.
“Y/N, go! Now!” I could hear him but I couldn’t fucking see him. Marco was beating the shit out of a man dressed all in black, ripping his gun away and firing off a round into his chest. The smell of blood and gunpowder burned my nostrils and I winced.
“I’m not leaving you!” I screamed so loud my voice cracked.
“Sean!” My father shouted. “Get her the fuck out of here! Get her out now, kid! Now!”
I glanced over at Sean, warning him with my eyes not to touch me, but it was too late. He ripped the gun from my hand and wrapped an arm around my waist, tugging me backwards.
“Sean, no!” I screamed, trying to pull away.
“We have to go, Y/N.” He dragged me down the hall while I fought him the whole way , dragging my feet and scratching at the suit clad arm wrapped around my waist. He finally stopped at the side door at the end of the hall and yanked it open before tossing me in.
I stumbled across the cold concrete of the garage and caught myself against the car I was supposed to be leaving in.
Sean locked the door behind him and turned to me, my gun still in his hand. “In.” He motioned to the car.
Still the same, bossy man he always was. Without responding, I turned and made my way across the expansive garage, shoving a table out of the way and yanking open the drawers of a metal cabinet.
“Y/N!” Sean was losing his temper and we were losing time.
“You took my gun!” I finally screamed back, practically growling at him as I picked up twin Berettas and tucked them into the back of my waistband. I grabbed a rifle to throw into the backseat, and one more Glock since Sean had unceremoniously stolen mine and left me empty handed.
He was staring at me as I made my way back to the car, his chest heaving. God, he still looked good. A gunshot to the face only amplified how rough and beautiful he was. Dumb fucking asshole and his dumb fucking face.
I grabbed the keys from the wall and tossed them to Sean who caught them with one hand.
Show off, I thought to myself sullenly as I got into the passenger side, my heart leaping out of my chest. I was about to leave my parents to potentially die. My childhood home was being torn apart, half the staff that knew me since I was a child were now lying dead in the same house they’d dedicated their lives to. It made me sick.
“Just focus on driving.” I told him as the garage door began to rise. I could already see the shadows of feet on the concrete leaned halfway out the window, my nine millimeter raised. One shot to the knee and a man fell, a second shot between the eyes and he was done.
The second man was smart, moved off to the side and just out of aim, and Sean floored the gas pedal while I kept watch.
“Your left.” I said quietly and pointed the gun in front of him, sending shots flying out of the driver’s side door, taking out the second man who had been waiting for us.
“Three of them in front of the gate.” Sean nodded towards the gate at the side of the property, all of them holding assault rifles and aiming at us. “Duck.” he commanded with the car still in reverse.
“What?”
“Duck.” I felt his hand grab at the back of my head he shoved me down, my forehead nearly knocking against my knee as he picked up speed. A loud blast blew out the back windshield and then there was a loud, violent thunk.
His wide palm was still resting on the back of my head, grip so tight it made my scalp prickle in a way that annoyed me. My body had no business getting turned on while in the midst of this shit.
When the tires squealed against the gravel and we went surging forward, I sat back up. I could see smoke coming out of the windows, bullet holes in the brick and mortar. It was a fucking war zone and we were on our way out, leaving behind my family and any shred of sanity I had left.
Fuck.
* * * * * *
The ride to Harbor House was almost completely silent. Sean, ever the Brit, would curse out other drivers every now and then even though ninety percent of the mistakes were his own. Maybe I should have insisted on driving, but at the time the only thing I could think about was whether or not my parents got out.
Although we were never close, I didn’t wish death on my parents. Sure, I resented them for bringing me up in a life of chaos and violence and I’m well aware they caused me a lifetime of trauma, but that didn’t mean I wanted them dead. Definitely not murdered.
It was nearly midnight by the time we arrived. Harbor House was in an exclusive neighborhood and every home had a gate. It had been years since I was last at the house, but it held the only fond memories from my childhood. Harbor House and the Wallace house always felt like home to me. Strange that I was sitting next to a Wallace and not a single shred of me felt comfortable or at home. It was strange, when we were kids he was always my safe space.
I punched in the code and black iron gates opened up, promptly closing with a loud clang behind us. The property itself was a sprawling estate with a two floor home as well as a large yard, pool, and separate guest house. It was on the edge of a cliff and overlooked the Atlantic. Isolated. Safe. Private. The kind of place my family relied on to keep us safe.
“Pull the car into the garage, we’ll get a rental tomorrow.” My voice was monotonous. I felt so drained of every emotion other than pure exhaustion. I was covered in blood, my clothes smelled like gunpowder and sweat, I needed a hot shower.
Sean silently pulled into the garage and killed the engine. We sat there quietly for a moment, so quiet I couldn’t even hear him breathing. If he had any blood on him, I couldn’t tell. From this angle he looked every bit the GQ model. It was only when he turned his face to look at me that I got a glimpse of the mauled left half and got angry all over again.
I was angry at my parents for birthing me into this.
I was angry at whoever burned us.
I was angry at Sean for disappearing from my life in favor of violence. But I was so fucking angry that he had let it go so far that the world thought he was dead.
I almost wished he was.
“There’s five bedrooms. I trust that you’ll find one far away from me?” I phrased it like a question but we both knew it wasn’t.
He gave a curt nod.
The house was exactly as I remembered it. It even smelled the same. Hardwood floors, light walls, French doors leading to a beautiful deck. A kitchen so modern it would make Gordon Ramsey cream his pants. It was the homiest home my family had. It was my haven.
Only now Sean was here to cast a shadow over it.
“There’s plenty of clothes in all the guest bedrooms. My parents like to be prepared for every emergency, you know that.”
Sean nodded as he closed the door that connected to the garage. He locked it and was quick to set the code. The code that he definitely shouldn’t have had.
“How did you-“
“Your father.”
I raised my eyebrows incredulously. “My father gave you the codes to Harbor House?”
He sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, eyes narrowing. “He gave me the code for the gate too, but I was polite enough to let you do it. That’s something, innit?”
He was being a smart ass, pushing my buttons on purpose simply because he could. Or because he’d had enough of my attitude. Either way, I wasn’t having it.
“You must be so fuckin’ proud of yourself. You still have an in with my father even after the shit you pulled in London. My father, Sean, not me. You don’t have shit with me and you made that perfectly clear.”
He squared his shoulders and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes as I sat on the edge of a beautiful cream colored sofa. I couldn’t wait to sink into it tomorrow with a good book.
I quickly fingered at the straps on my heels and kicked them off while mentally preparing for whatever speech he was about to throw my way.
“I’ve really had enough of you talking to me like I’m some shit person. Enough, Y/N.”
I stood back up, hating that I was smaller than him now as I turned on my heel and headed up the stairs. “If you hate my attitude so much then leave me the fuck alone and let me take a shower in peace.”
* * * * *
My shower was hot and relaxing and everything I needed. As soon as the steam surrounded me, I was able to calm down a bit, and once the hot water hit my skin I was able to sigh in relief. Washing off the blood and grime left me feeling like a whole new woman.
So new, in fact, I briefly forgot about the bane of my existence showering down the hall.
Sean. Showering. Sean in the shower with water dripping down his chest and into that perfect V of his hips. Sean’s hot, wet body pressed against mine. Sean’s-
“Can you not?” I said to my reflection as I ran a brush through my hair. Even when I was angry at him, violently angry, it was impossible to deny that he was attractive.
We never hooked up, not even when we were young. But there was always something there. We flirted. We toyed with each other. We got into nasty arguments. People noticed, my friends made comments. I always ignored them and played it off and said it was because we knew each other forever and just connected that way. They all argued that it was more.
I ignored them.
After changing into a comfortable pair of loose cotton pants and a long sleeved shirt, I made my way downstairs. The windows were open and I could hear the waves crashing against the cliff side. My favorite sound. It gave me peace. It soothed me.
The kitchen was empty and I grabbed a bottle of red wine with every intention of drinking the entire bottle. After pouring a rather large amount into the pristine crystal stemware my mother bought, I threw my head back and took a long, large sip.
Ugh. That’s better. I closed my eyes and took another sip, getting lost in the sound of the waves and the dark, cherry taste of the wine. A moment of peace after all the bullshit I had to endure tonight.
It was only when Sean cleared his throat that I realized I wasn’t alone. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs wearing black sweats and a white t-shirt. Simple. Clean. Comfortable. If this had been a few years ago I would have been aching to curl up against him.
“Kitchen’s all yours,” I said as I grabbed my glass and bottle, preparing to go out back.
“You told me you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.” His words cut like a knife to my retreating back and it made me pause, not yet turning around. “You fucking told me you were done.”
I knew what he was referring to. The last time we spoke had been over the phone, maybe four years ago. It had been a normal night with normal conversation and normal “I miss yous”. Sean had truly been one of my best friends and closest confidants. And then the conversation turned ugly when he informed me his father was sending him out on a seriously violent, potentially fatal, mission. Our argument had gotten vile and I said horrible things. He did too, including telling me to “stop acting like a girlfriend because you’re so fucking lonely”.
That had been my breaking point. He reminded me so much of Finn then. He dressed like him, spoke like him, became a carbon copy of him, and I was having none of it. So I had told him to fuck off and lose my number, to never call me again, to pretend I was dead.
It was the one time Sean listened to me and the one time I wished he hadn’t.
To this day, I got embarrassed when I thought about what he had said to me. The way he screamed and the way he humiliated me. Maybe I was lonely, maybe it came off as clingy, but my intentions were always good and I never thought I was a burden to him. But after that last conversation I spent years telling myself that’s exactly what I was. A burden. I checked in too much, my double texting him probably got on his nerves. Constantly complaining about our families when I knew how fortunate I was to live such a lavish life made me sound spoiled, he got tired of it. I spent years convincing myself there was no possible way he missed me and I didn’t miss him either.
“Do you even remember our last conversation?” I turned slowly to face him. “Do you remember what you said?”
He took a step forward and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course I do. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it- you. I’d been out drinking with my father-“
“And then turned into him?”
“Oh, fuck off then.” He shook his head, his frustration evident as he rounded the marble island in the kitchen. An expert, he seemed to know where everything was. The glasses. The whiskey.
“I’m not wrong.” I defended myself.
Sean laughed and the sound was hollow, sarcastic. He took a sip of whiskey before turning to me with a cold look in his eyes. “And I wasn’t wrong that day either. Was I?”
I scowled at him to mask the absolute hurt I was experiencing. My heart ached. He’d known he was hurting me. He didn’t care. He remembered and he didn’t care.
“Oh, fuck you, Sean.” I whispered before quickly pushing through the french doors and stepping onto the deck.
“Oi!” Sean shouted as I slammed the doors behind me, taking off down the steps, wine glass in hand.
“I’m not done talking to you.” Sean was hot on my heels.
“The conversation is over.”
“Like hell it is.” I felt long, thick fingers curl around my elbow and then he was hauling me back against him. “You say what you want to say and then think we’re done. We’re not.”
I ripped my arm back and shoved my finger in his face. “I’ve waited four years to say this shit to you!”
“So have I!” He shouted back, the vein in his neck becoming prominent. The female part of my brain wondered what it would feel like to run my tongue along that vein, feel it pulse against my mouth.
Wrong time, I thought to myself and shook my head. “You fucked off for four years, faked your own death, and now I found out my father has had you following me. I don’t know what kind of weird, stalker fetish you’ve developed, but it’s really not doing anything for me.”
Okay, maybe that last part was flat out bitchy, but at that point I didn’t care.
I drained my wine glass while I waited for his response.
“Would you like to tell me about your fetishes?”
“Sure, they all involve watching you bleed out.”
“Should have been there a year ago then, yeah?”
I didn’t have a response for that. I zeroed in on the left half of his face, the scar on his cheek. His cheekbone curved differently, probably because it was handmade, and his scar disappeared into his stubble. He looked so vastly different from the Sean I used to know. He was hardened by life, by Finn’s life. Thirty and angry and alone and legally dead.
I ached for the Sean I once knew, but this wasn’t him.
“How long have you been watching me?”
“A little more than three months.”
“Three months?” I was shocked. I’d had a tail for three months and I didn’t even know it? How embarrassing.
“You wouldn’t have known.” It was as though he could read my mind. “I’ve always been better at it than you.”
“You’re so fucking cocky.” I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or slap him, so instead I walked past him and back up the stairs, making my way back into the house to refill my glass. I knew he was following me, knew that the alcohol in my bloodstream was making me feel bold, more bold than I was sober.
Sean closed the French doors, the lock clicking with a tone of finality. I was too aware of it.
“You were shit as hide and seek when we were kids.”
“So that makes you a better spy?”
His tone was serious when he responded. “I was never spying on you. I didn’t have access to your flat. I didn’t follow you around with that ugly wanker with gray hair.”
“Leave Beckett out of this.”
“Beckett?” It was the first time his face had resembled something other than anger. He looked amused. “You’re dating a man named Beckett?”
I cocked my head to the side, narrowing my eyes. “We actually aren’t discussing my dating life, we’re talking about my stalker.”
“Stop saying that. It was to and from work. Only when you were out in public.”
“That doesn’t make it okay!” I finally shouted. None of what happened today was okay. Sean, my dad, the shootout. None of it was okay. “You don’t get to keep up with my fucking life when I have to pretend you’re dead!”
“Lower your voice.” Sean took a step forward.
“Fuck off!” I shouted even louder than before. “You don’t get to just come back and bark orders at me. This isn’t London, Sean!”
“Enough.” He took another step forward and I backed up, reaching for my wine glass.
He was so calm, so fucking collected while I was beginning to fall apart. I hated him for it. Fuck Sean Wallace, I wanted him to hurt the way I did. So, without thinking twice, I hurled my glass at him. Sean barely dodged it, whipping his head to the side as it soared past him and landed on the floor in a million little pieces.
He was a blur as he flew across the kitchen, growling as he slammed my back up against the wall. I cried out as searing pain sent shock waves down my back, but I was too angry to focus on it. My hands instantly went into fight mode and my fingers caught the tip of his nose as I swiped at him, but he pulled his head back, out of my reach.
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” He roared in my face. “Are you bloody mental?” His hands circled my wrists and he pinned them at my sides, effectively halting my movements.
Stuck between Sean and the wall, I suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Let me go.”
“The fuck I will.” He squeezed my wrists harder.
“Sean.” I shoved myself against him and he did the same thing, his face even closer than before. I could smell the whiskey on his breath, see the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. God, he was a sight. “Fuck. Off.”
His eyes zeroed in on my mouth as I enunciated the words, nostrils flaring slightly. My breasts were pressed against his chest and I couldn’t move even if I wanted to, because suddenly we were staring each other eye to eye and I couldn’t look anywhere else. I was drowning the way I always imagine I would except this time I didn’t want it. I wanted no part of it.
“Don’t even think about it.” I whispered softly.
“Or what?” Sean’s remark felt snide and childish, something I would have happily said to him had he not leaned down and slid his lips over mine. It was a light touch, so soft I barely felt it. But I still gasped because it was Sean’s lips touching mine and I hated that I liked it so much.
At the sound of my sharp intake of breath, he smirked. “I fucking knew it.” And then he smashed his lips against mine, not letting up on the grip he had on my wrists.
Sean’s tongue pushed past my lips and slid against mine, weakening my reserve just a bit. He tasted good, his scruff scratched against the edges of my mouth and I reveled in it, loving how rough he felt.
He fucking engulfed my mouth, taking complete control of the kiss and demanding that I give him more. Forgetting the position we were in, he let go of my wrists in favor of cupping my face, wide palms against my cheeks.
I should have pushed him away, should have told him to leave, but the simple truth was that Sean Wallace knew how to kiss. He kissed like a man, held my face, stroked rough thumbs over my cheekbones, and swallowed my moans. He crowded me, stood so close our torsos were touching while we made out against the kitchen wall. Our tongues touched, teeth clashed, and when I sucked Sean’s bottom lip into my mouth the groan he let out was guttural. Animalistic.
But the noise was enough to bring me back to reality and I shoved my hands against his chest, pushing him away from me as hard as I could.
Sean stumbled back and caught himself on the counter. He was just as caught up as I was, his eyes wild, cheeks flushed red.
“You’ve got some nerve.” I cleared my throat and wiped my mouth, still tasting him on my tongue.
“Me?” He had the audacity to smile, still clearly fired up. “You were the one sucking my lip like it was my cock.”
My cheeks felt hot. The way he said cock with the accent and the smirk… it murdered me on the inside. It absolutely killed me how good it sounded. “You wish.”
“Every fucking night.” Sean stepped forward again. “I think about you sucking my cock every. Fucking. Night.”
His admission left me breathless. It felt like someone had knocked the wind out of me. The thought of Sean laying in bed at night and thinking about my mouth wrapped around his dick lit me up. I was hot everywhere.
“Sean-“
“Shut the fuck up.” He crowded me again, this time wrapping one arm around my back and pulling me against him. “For once in your life, please, Y/N, shut the fuck up.”
Cupping the back of my head, Sean kissed me again. I wanted to fight him, wanted to tell him to fuck off, but that would only prove him right. I really did have a problem with shutting the fuck up.
So, I kissed him back. I gave it my all, twining my arms around his neck and leaning against him. Sean tongue fucked my mouth as though he’d been dying to for years, and after his admission I wondered if he had. His body felt warm against mine and feeling his fingertips glide along the exposed area of my lower back made my knees nearly buckle.
He smiled against my mouth and before I knew it, Sean was sliding both hands down, gripping my hips and hoisting me in the air. My legs locked around his waist instantly, ankles crossing at the small of his back while he carried me through the kitchen.
Our mouths never stopped touching. I’d been waiting years to kiss Sean. I’d been waiting years to slap the fuck out of him as well, but right now the only thing I cared about was keeping our mouths fused together for as long as humanly possible. I felt drunk on him, on the taste of whiskey on his tongue.
I didn’t realize we were in the living room until Sean sat down on the couch with me straddling his lap. I took the opportunity to pull back slightly, his lips chasing my own, and I smiled at the way he leaned forward. I cupped the right side of his face, loving the way his scruff felt against my soft palm. He truly was beautiful, the red-brown hair and beard, the plump mouth that spent more time scowling than smiling. His freckles, God, when we were young I could have spent hours counting them.
And then there was that scar. That brutal, obvious scar. The trauma his body must have gone through made me sick and when I reached up to run my fingers over the jagged, raised skin, Sean was quick to grab my wrist in a bruising grip.
“Don’t touch me there.”
But I wanted to. So badly. But it was clear in his reaction, in the stiffness of his body, that he was serious. Of all the limits Sean DIDN’T have, touching the left side of his face was one of them and I had no choice but to respect it.
“Fine, how about you touch me then?”
It was all the incentive Sean needed and he flipped me onto my back, hovering over me with one hand braces on the back of the couch. Our eyes held as I slid my hands down his chest, his heartbeat pulsing under my hand as I slid lower, lower still until I gripped the hem of his shirt and yanked it up. He leaned back, only for a moment to rip the shirt off his head and send it flying.
Fair skinned with broad shoulders and a tapered waist, I itched to lick the V that disappeared into his waistband. He may have been injured, but he hasn’t been resting this last year. Sean didn’t have the body of a man who rested, he had the Jody of a man who was constantly pushing himself. He was strong in every sense of the word and it made me pathetically, desperately wet for him.
“Your turn,” he said against my lips, fingers playing under my shirt and sliding along my ribs. “You’re so fucking soft.” He whispered against the skin of my cheek.
Unable to help myself, I reached down to cup him through his sweats. Jesus… Christ. “You’re so fucking not.”
Sean laughed then, but I was dead serious. Either Sean was hiding a gun in his pants or his cock was just that fucking solid. And… thick. Even through his pants I could tell. I squeezed once and he let out a guttural groan, the sound sending shock waves between my legs. I wanted that sound on a loop for the rest of my life.
He pushed my shirt up and over my head, eyes zeroing in on my breasts. “Fuck me…” He trailed off, cupping one in his hand and giving a firm squeeze as he settled his eight between my legs. I could feel him against my clit even with barriers of clothing separating us.
“I always wondered what your nipples looked like.” He licked one gently and my back arched hard, my whole body tightening. “They’re so much better than my imagination.”
Sean fastened his mouth against my nipple and he sucked, flicking his tongue against the sensitive bud while I writhed underneath him. My nails scraped through his shirt hair, digging into his scalp and holding him against me. He said he had wondered what they would look like, but I spent the better part of a decade wondering what this would feel like.
Fuck, it felt good.
Sean’s hips ground against mine as he moved to my other nipple, hands roaming felt over my body, gripping my clothes thighs and sliding up my sides. Tracing along my collarbone, fingers tugging at the nipple that wasn’t getting any attention.
I felt like a horny teenager, aching to have him inside me as fast as humanly possible. My nails raked over his shoulders and he gave a delicious growl in return, leaning up and hovering over me again.
“I’ve thought about your mouth on my cock for ages, but right now the only thing I want is to be buried inside you. That okay?”
I was modding before he even finished speaking. Fuck a blowjob, fuck foreplay. I didn’t need that with Sean, not now. Right now I just needed… connection. I was almost desperate for it and it fucking terrified me.
Sean leaned back on his knees and hooked his fingers into my pants, tugging them down in one swift move and leaving me completely naked and sprawled out in front of him. His eyes raked over me and my breath hitched in my throat. He could see… everything.
“Fuck me… this body was fucking made for me.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, wiggling my brows. “A bit cocky, yeah?”
“No.” His face was serious, eyes focused as they raked over my breasts, my hips, my legs, zeroing in on the spot between my thighs. Sean slid one long, thick finger over my slit and I cried out, my body stiffening. “I knew you’d be bald here.” He repeated the motion. “Been dying to see that tattoo on your thigh for ages.”
I’d gotten the tattoo when I was 20 and officially moved out of my parents house. It was one of those stupid young decisions, but I didn’t regret it. It was a snake that wrapped all the way around my right thigh, the snake’s tongue permanently engraved on my inner thigh like an invitation. Or a warning.
“And?” I asked inquisitively, rubbing a hand absentmindedly down my stomach.
“And I think this body was fucking made for me.”
His lips came crashing down on mine again and I wrapped my bare legs around his waist, loving the way his hip bones pressed into my thighs. He littered kisses over my cheekbone, an oddly sweet gesture, and then absolutely assaulted my neck, licking and biting and nipping at my collarbone until I cried out.
I reached down, yanking at his sweats and pushing them down his thighs with my heels. I was fucking dying for Sean Wallace to be inside of me, I couldn’t even breathe because I wanted him so badly. Needed him, needed to know what it was like to feel him.
“Sean.” I gasped as he braced one hand above my head, the other one gripping his cock and lining it up at my entrance. I gripped his bicep when he pushed the tip in, my nails digging half crescents into his skin.
“Sean.” I repeated his name, this time somewhat panicked because what the fuck was I doing? Was I really about to fuck him?
“Remember when I told you to shut the fuck up?” Sean’s eyes met mine and he gave one sharp, hard thrust and was suddenly inside me so deep I swore I could feel him in my cervix.
I didn’t even have time to gasp, my mouth fell open in a silent scream and Sean’s groan was something I’d think about for months. He was so deep I felt as though I couldn’t breathe, looking up at him completely frozen.
“Oh, fuck.” He finally breathed out. “That’s right, so good you can’t even speak.”
“I… hate you.” I finally managed, leaning up and catching his bottom lip between my teeth, tugging so hard he let out a groan of pain.
“You don’t hate me.” Sean pulled nearly all the way out before slamming back inside me, giving me no warning or time to breathe. But the yelp I let out was enough to make him smirk.
Cocky bastard.
Fine, I could play. Tightening my legs around his waist, I raked my nails down his back and watched his face change, jaw clenching tight. I licked his collarbone before sucking the skin there. I sucked hard and didn’t stop until I felt his fingers tangle in my hair and yank me back, forcing me to look at him.
“You’re not the fucking boss right now.” He practically growled the words, not letting up on the grip on my hair. He pumped in and out of me, my scalp pricking with a weird, pleasurable pain that left me moaning for more.
Sean’s thrusts got harder and I cried out when he hit that spot, so deep I could feel him everywhere. “Sean!” I cried his name, my breath hitching in my throat.
He let my hair go in favor of those perfect ducking fingers wrapping around my throat. His thumb pressed firmly under my jaw, I had no other choice but to look at him as he fucked me into oblivion.
“Fuck, I missed you.” He groaned, pressure on my throat tightening just a bit. “Thought about you every fucking day.”
I was instantly thrown back into reality. Everything that happened that day. The shooting. Sean coming back from the dead, all of it.
“Nope, stay with me.” Sean commanded, sensing my disconnect. He slowed his thrusts leaning down to lick at my lips lightly. It was oddly erotic and I found myself whimpering for more. “That’s it, relax for me.”
“I…” I started desperately. “I can’t. Sean-“
He squeezed my throat harder and I suddenly gasped, my air being cut off. “Relax.” His voice was oddly soothing. “You can still breathe.”
I shook my head.
He paused his thrusts, once again settling deep inside me with my legs splayed. “Yes, you can. I’m not squeezing that hard. Breathe.”
I took in a breath. It was shallow, but it was there. Letting it out slowly, I repeated the motion, Sean catching on and thrusting every time I exhaled. It all felt different like this, barely able to breathe and dripping wet onto the couch. I’d never wanted someone more and I was terrified, I’d never been “handled” the way he was handling me, treating me like I was his.
“Been waiting years to feel you come on my cock.” He groaned when he released my throat, leaning back on his heels and looking down at where we were connected. “God, you’re soaked. Made a proper mess all over me.”
I moaned because at that point words were not possible. My stomach felt tight, I felt like I was going to cry or laugh or scream. I felt like I was going crazy.
And then Sean rubbed his thumb over my clit, watching me jerk, and I knew I was done for. He did it again and again, giving me shallow strokes while he rubbed the little bundle of nerves that were certainly going to send me into a tailspin.
“Sean, please.” My back arched and I shouted, so fucking close, teetering on the edge.
“Come all over my cock so I can watch you lick it off after.”
My mouth fell open and I screamed his name, my orgasm hitting me like a ton of bricks. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling Sean lean over me and wrap an arm around my back.
He picked up the pace while I clung to him, whispering in my ear about how he’d wanted it forever, how this was his, how I was his. It was overwhelming, yet I couldn’t bring myself to do anything other than rake my nails through his hair and whisper his name over and over again in his ear.
“Fuck.” Sean’s groan was long and low, stroking into me one, two, three more times before holding himself still, his climax hitting him as hard as mine hit me.
His arms shook as he held himself over me, eventually collapsing onto my chest in a huff. We sat there silently, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliff side lulling us. Sean’s right cheek was pressed against my breast and his dick was still inside me. He was as close as he could possibly be but I somehow wanted him closer. I wanted to fucking absorb him into my body, keep him there forever and enjoy the weight of him on me.
“Sean?” I whispered, wondering if he was still awake.
“Hm?”
I ran my fingers lightly over the back of his neck and delighted in his shiver. “I’m really glad you’re not dead.”
He lifted his head then, searching my face for some sort of emotion, but I forced myself to remain stoic. It took Sean fucking my brains out for me to realize how much I missed him. How much I fucking loved him. But I couldn’t tell him that, I couldn’t give him that much power over me.
“Today was the first time in a year that I was thankful that bullet didn’t kill me.” Sean’s words were honest, quiet.
We didn’t say anything after that, we didn’t really need to. In that moment we were safe, together after years of being apart, and now all we had to do was wait for word from my father. Until then, I was going to enjoy whatever time I had with Sean and I prayed I would never have to pretend he was dead again.
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Possible theories about the teaser
#1 theory) it's a nightmare/ el ptsd flashback of what happened to the other numbers. And they died. In the s4 trailer brenner says to the other numbers "today i have very special plans for you." In s1 brenner tells el " today is a very special day. Because today we make contact (with the demogorgan/upsidedown)." And so the initial teaser for this trailer with the bloodbath could show it didn't go well. And that's why el was kept isolated from the other kids... there just were no other numbers left!!!!! In a s4 film hellraiser 2 the psychiatrist used patients to open a portal to another world which usually k*lled them so maybe el was locked away in her room for not obeying brenner like in the past- and just heard what happened with the door closed? .The last clip could be unrelated to the first scene of Brenner/the numbers- so el opening her eyes with a possible buzzcut & audio of brenner asking if she was listening/el hyperventilating could be from several diff eps of the present day and not even connected to one another.
audio of Brenner saying "eleven are you listening " could be a call back to how billy (when hurting someone) sensed El spying in the present day- and then el hyperventilates when billy sees her and acknowledges her presence. Sort of like the trailer.
In quite a few movies on the s4 list the m*rder victims had numbers carved on them- its possible they were dumped in Hawkins woods/quary years ago (aka lucas saying it wasn’t Will but another kid in the quary could be foreshadowing). And that causes all the paranoia/satanic panic in Hawkins. Because the catalyst for satanic panic of a small town-in one film was finding children dead in the woods and river (paradise lost).its possible someone comes across their bodies in Hawkins woods years after they were dumped/burried there?
El later probably tracks brenner down at penthurst with her tracking powers (after Kali asks her to) cause El may want to prevent another tragedy if she suspects he is starting up a new program . Kali even asked El in s2 for El to “face their father and heal their wounds together”. Pic Brenner’s actor (matthew modine) posted pre s3.
I think el has all her powers except telekinesis. El/kali team up and maybe sneak into pethurst facility (like in ace Ventura -people posing as siblings investigate a m*rder and one fakes being ‘crazy’ to sneak in to the psych facility and find a murderer) . In hellraiser 2 it was a real psych facility -but the basement was where the evil dr did his secret experiments unbeknownst to the other staff members. In ‘peanut butter solution’ 2 kids - 1 of them is goth/not american teams up with a girl to find a man named ‘senior ‘ who is kidnapping kids for their powers. That character snuck into the senior’s place to find their friend/sibling (maybe Will?? based off some foreshadowing/that bts pic of the noah look alike ...idk it’s possible). Also wtf is 12 if not maybe Will?
The one who sneaks in starts calling senior “dad” (like papa) to trick him into thinking they trust him. Kali already busted Dottie out of a psych hospital (so she may help El do the same) and lucas referenced El being at pethurst in s1 where she had never been - but the facility has been shown in s4 bts pics. Alexi in s3 even watches roadrunner- -in that “papa bear” throws him in a psych facility. So I think someone will be captured by Brenner (accidental or otherwise)- most likely el to save new experiments/ maybe Will.
Her appearing to have a buzzcut at the end of the trailer may be a shot from a diff episode when captured again-possibly in the upsidedown/void on Brenner’s request?
Other alternative possibilities/theories
#2 theory ) it could be something in the present day? but cut scenes/audio are once again meshed together to confuse us. This could be how s4 ends -on a ominous cliffhanger-with El and Will captured (and their futures undecided). And Brenner saying a line reminiscent to s1- which was what caused the portal to the upsidedown to open in the first place.
“TODAY we make contact...or maybe TOMORROW?” Could be a hint this scene in the s4 teaser is a cliffhanger ending . He says at the end of s4 “today is a very special day” cause of his plans to make contact again. But we have to wait for s5- to see them make contact again.There’s also only 2 teens who’s faces are obscured (everyone else is little kids). Like the older guy playing chess could be Will hard to say (it’s an older male teen - with an adam’s apple- and moles -similar to noah). And the only other teen is across from him and looks female. Will likes board games- and the older teen across from him could be el. in s4 bts people thought they saw millie (with her leg scar) and Noah at pethurst both wearing the lab gowns from the trailer. And the shot of the rooms 11 (and the room next to it - could be labeled 12 -since in another shot we saw a diff door from a diff hallway’s than El’s -say 10). If the door right next to her’s isn’t 10- well it may be 12. The other numbers could just be reused after the originals died/ escaped/ the hawkins lab program was forced to shut down (and brenner captured new kids in those 3 years El left -like starting from scratch back to 1-10 -and El and Will are 11 and 12 since they’re captured at the end). That could also explain why the rainbow room looks so different than the one in s2′s hawkins lab flashbacks-cause it’s at a new facility at pethurst. The real pethurst (from Pennsylvania) not the one in st/indianna was infamous for human rights ab*ses which is why it was shut down in the 80s. Not to mention how in s1/2 the lab was watching El/Will in the same way -and it was hinted Brenner suspected Will had powers.The Will ST comic- referenced ‘house of stairs’ (Will throws that book at the demogorgan) .It involved a gay male teen (in love with his childhood bff) and a gal with buzzcut -being kidnapped and thrown in the facility by an evil psychiatrist who is trying to make the teens into weapons for the government. And the “into the fire” st comic had a fire wielding character with mental health issues (cough Will the wise- having fire powers/ penthurst being a psych facility) . She was stuck in Brenner’s facility- and escapes using her fire powers. So I think it’s pretty likely it’s Will.And probably El too who go to Pethurst, where Brenner is.
#3) it's a flashback from Kali-like how el used her powers to see Terry and Billy's traumatic memories. However the way its shot is very crisp and clean. Terry's memories were blurry around the edges, or in parts of the void, or choppy memories blended together in a fast sequence. Billy's were also choppy/blended together in fast sequence and also in the upsidedown/void. But it could be a hint certain powers are getting stronger without her telekinesis? It could show how kali escaped - maybe an allusion of a bloodbath was used as a distraction? Kali said she escaped when el dissapeared from the rainbow room -and el appears to be isolated from the room.but idk since everyone has buzzcuts which kali didn't have in her 2 flashbacks (or heck in the comic the 3 other numbers-including the male/female teens who escaped had all their hair too)- what was the catalyst for the haircuts if not someone or multiple girls escaping? So would the teaser be post-kali’s escape? We may see kali flashbacks but that footage may not be from this teaser? I feel the theory of 1 or 2/a combo of 1 and 2 are the most likely. Kali may even try to rescue them with the help of others in s5/4
Personally, whatever happens, I still feel like we’ll see BOTH flashbacks of the lab- and El and Will captured by Brenner at Pethurst.
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Nicknames
A/N: I didn’t include all actors/characters but if you want one just send it in and I’ll do it. I’ll start including these in my writing
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Here are some nicknames that each of the reader’s have been given
Sebastian Stan “prinţesă”
-Obviously, its Romanian
-There were a few he tried out with you when you were younger but this one stuck for multiple reasons:
-You were a major daddy’s girl (still are) and you pretty much got anything you wanted. You were almost on the verge of spoiled brat
-It also didn’t help that you had a very huge liking for Disney and it’s princesses
-Those dresses with the matching shoes? You had almost all of them
-He called you that until you grew out of your princess obsession, saving it for certain times
-The first time you ended a long term friendship was the first time he used it in years. He’d either call you by your name or something more generic like “Sweetheart”
-You came home visibly upset and ran right into your dad’s arms
-You’d never been this upset before so he said it, hoping in some way it would calm you down
“It’s alright Prinţesă, I’ve got you”
-When it worked that time, he did it again after your first break up.
-You were more angry than sad this time
-He had to hold you down on the couch so you couldn’t hurt anyone
“Prinţesă, calm down. He’s not worth a criminal record
-He used it on days when you were sick or were feeling down
-Maybe even if you were in trouble
-You and him both thought by the age of sixteen, you would hate the nickname but surprisingly, you liked it even more
Chris Evans “peanut”
-Another case of daddy’s girl
-This one comes from several trips to Red Sox’s games
-Chris wanted to get you into sports when you were young (just to watch, not necessarily to play)
-He took you and Scott to one of the first games of the season and he bought peanuts, in his true American way
-You were seated in between him and Scott
-Both of them were sharing the bag while you had ice cream
-Peanuts were a new food for you and you wanted to try them. You grabbed a handful of them and copied your dad’s movements to crack open the shells
-You ate like twenty in less than a minute
-You loved them so much and that’s how that name happened
-Unlike the others, Chris uses this name pretty regularly
-You didn’t mind how often he used it until he started using it on front of your friends
“Hey peanut, do you guys need anything?”
“Dad! That’s embarrassing”
-Your face went bright red and for the rest of the day, your friends teased you (in a loving, joking way)
-Chris realized his small mistake and was a little more careful about when he used it
-Scott called you it once and you swear, you never saw your dad move so quickly
“She’s my peanut, not yours. Find your own nickname”
-Anytime he posts a picture of you on Twitter/Instagram, he used that name instead of your own
Matthew Gray Gubler “munchkin”
-Three words
-Wizard. Of. Oz.
-You had a very weird obsession with this movie. It’s almost embarrassing looking back at it now
-By the time you were three, you knew all the words (as best as you could) to all the songs
-Matthew was about to lose his mind because he had the songs in his head as well, twenty-four-seven.
-You would talk and talk about how much you wanted to go to Munchkin land and be a Munchkin
-It also didn’t help that at the time, you were probably close to the same height
-Sadly, as you got older, you and your dad learned you didn’t develop his height
-You were a whopping 5’2 at the age of fifteen
-And the name stuck
-He knew you weren’t super fond of the name but somehow, it always cheered you up
-If you had a tough day at school, he’d sit on the couch and let you vent
“Let it all out Munchkin”
-You secretly did like the name (even though the origins were embarrassing)
-Matthew never let you live down that obsession
-When you were on set and he called you that, everyone asked why.
“Matthew, why do you call her Munchkin?”
“Dad, don’t do it”
“She was obsessed with The Wizard of Oz”
-He also very rarely referred to you as “Y/n” on social media, opting for Munchkin instead
-Trying to get back at him, you tried to come up with some ridiculous name for him
“I’m going to call you dancer. Cause that’s how you broke your knee”
-That one didn’t last long but Munchkin sure did
Tom Holland “bubs or darling”
-Tom gets two because I can’t pick
-Bubs is because you are the baby out of all of the brothers
-It was also because before you could say any brother’s name, you just called them bubs
-Sam, Harry, and Paddy also called you Bubs. They still call you that sometimes so Tom wanted to try something new
-When you were about five or six, he accidentally called you darling
-It wasn’t a typical brother/sister name but it suited you
-You were such a kind person and your favorite movie to watch with Tom was Peter Pan
-And the last name of Wendy was Darling, so he thought it fitted
-When he called you darling, it was mostly after he came home from filming
“I missed you so much Darling”
-You liked the meaning behind your nickname
-Tom used Bubs if you weren’t feeling like yourself
-Whether it was a bad day or if you were sick
“Take some medicine Bubs” or “Bubs, tell me what’s going on”
-He hated the others calling him Tommy but for you, he’d let you do it anytime you wanted
-Literally, you were the only person he let you call him Tommy
-But he was the only person who could call you Darling
Bucky Barnes “doll”
-Classic
-This one is pretty self explanatory
-It was common during your childhood but once you were in the 21st century, Bucky couldn’t part with it
-It reminded him of the past (in a good way) and he always wanted to relive those memories
-You were eight when HYDRA took him and then you
-The name reminded him of when you were little, and it reminded you too
-While Bucky was in Wakanda, he’d send you letters once he woke up
“Hey Doll, I miss you so much. Hopefully we can see each other soon”
-You kept them all with you
-And when The Snap happened, you’d read those letters back to yourself everyday
“The sunset was really pretty today Doll, it reminded me of the ones from when you were little”
-After those five years, that was the first thing he said to you
“I’m glad you’re safe Doll”
-It only took one time for Sam to tease you about it before you threatened to hurt him
“You make fun of it one more time and I swear it’ll be the last”
-Sam didn’t really understand why that name meant so much to you
-Bucky had to explain it to him
-It was really one of the only things you had left of your childhood
-And it was the one thing you could hold onto for the rest of your life
Ransom Drysdale “princess”
-Again, I think this one is self explanatory and obvious
-You’re spoiled, no doubt about it
-The name actually came from Meg
-She was a few years older than you and she was so used to being the only girl in the family
-And now she had to deal with you
-The reason she called you that was pretty stupid in the first place but as an eight year old, it didn’t matter to her
-You had spilled your drink on her by accident and onto her new shoes
-She went red in the face and started screaming in your face. You burst into tears
-You were only four and Ransom had never raised his voice at you. It was a new experience for you
-All the adults came into the room and walked into the scene of Meg screaming and you crying
-Ransom scooped you up and told Meg off
-Of course Joni took her daughter’s side but no one else did, making her mad
“She never gets in trouble. She’s such a princess”
-After that incident, your dad only used that name just to piss everyone off
-Like there was no need for him to but he just did it
“Princess, come here”
-In general, Ransom liked to show you off and the nickname Princess was the best way to do that
-As you got older, he felt weird using it. Meg had finally gotten over herself and everyone accepted the fact that your dad was spoiling you rotten
-You didn’t need a name to show that
-But as you got older, the issues in the family and all the problems started to weigh down on you
-There was so much drama that happened at family dinners, you were completely drained and exhausted once you got home
-Ransom could tell something was up so he reached into his bag of good parenting skills (which he definitely had, which shocked everyone) and called you Princess for the first time in ten years
“Princess, please tell me what’s wrong”
-For some reason, that one name made everything better for you
-Ransom noticed the small improvement in your mood so he kept calling you that on the daily
“How was school today Princess?”
-And in front of the family again
“Princess, it’s time to go”
-This name was literally just used to show the other Thrombey’s that you and your dad were better than them
-Of course though, you didn’t need a nickname to see that
Spencer Reid “squirt”
-Another name based on an obsession
-But this one can be blamed on Garcia
-While Spencer was on a case one time, she was in charge of watching you
-To keep you entertained while at the BAU, she put on Finding Nemo
-That was a mistake
-From that point on, you had a weird fascination with sea turtles, because of Squirt
-Once Spencer got back, you would not shut up about turtles
“Daddy, look what I just read”
-He was glad you found something you were interested in. He sort of hoped you would find something closer to a more “normal” topic but he would never stop you from learning
-Spencer wasn’t sure how the name fell onto you but once it did, he didn’t stop using it
-He generally used it in the apartment with just you and him
“Squirt, can you pick your toys up for me?” or as you were older “Squirt, can you grab those books for me?”
-He used it a lot when you felt stressed and you weren’t telling him
-So whenever he called you that, you knew you might as well tell him
“Tell me what’s going on Squirt”
-It was such a small gesture but it really did help you
-He tried to explain why it probably made you feel better but you weren’t too interested in the science behind it
-The only time he used it in front of the team is when he got back from a case
-You always met him at the BAU (he made sure you were there to greet him)
-You would stand in front of the elevator and wait for the doors to open
-And when they did, you ran into his arms and he wrapped them around your body
“I missed you Squirt”
-The team absolutely adored that nickname but knew to never call you that, unless they wanted an angry Reid on their hands
Emily Prentiss “love”
-To me, Emily just has European vibes and so does this nickname
-Probably because Emily grew up in Europe, she developed this habit of calling you Love
-The parents of her friends growing up used that name
-She sort of just picked up on it, starting when she first held you in the hospital
“Hi Love, I’m your momma”
-It’s such a simple but meaningful name to her
-You were truly the one person she loved the most (even her mom and even Sergio)
-Speaking of, once she brought Sergio home you started calling him that as well
-You were only four and didn’t understand the concept but Emily didn’t stop you
“Hi Wove”
-Emily never used this in front of people unless something was wrong
-As you got older, it was used more as a reassurance for you
-Her “death” was really hard on you and every case, she would check in
-Lots of the time, the phone calls were short and around the other members of the team
“Hi Love, I miss you. The team says hi”
“I miss you too momma”
-Very rarely would she use it in normal, everyday conversation
-If you were visiting the office, sometimes it would slip out
“Hey Love, are you doing your homework?”
-In front of the team, she used names like “baby” or “honey”
-Love was strictly reserved for just you and her
Jennifer Jareau “bug”
-First thing to know
-If anyone besides JJ called you Bug, even Will, she would literally rip their heads off
-This name was super personal to her and she didn’t want the meaning to be ruined
-You had taken after her love and fascination with butterflies
-Except you hadn’t learned the word butterfly so you just called them bugs, hence the nickname
-JJ only called you two things “Y/n” and “Bug”
-Nothing else
-At one point, Will was convinced that she might’ve forgotten your first name because she called you Bug so much
“JJ, she has a first name you know”
“I know, I think Bug fits her better”
-She did attempt to get your name changed, but to be fair, she was drunk when that happened
-She didn’t care that as you got older, the name was a little embarrassing, especially around your friends
“I’ll pick you up at seven Bug”
“Mom! Really? In front of my friends?”
-Your brothers for awhile thought your name was Bug, because she really only called you that at home
“Do you need help with your homework Bug?” or “Bug, can you set the table?”
-You didn’t realize the meaning behind the nickname until she explained it to you
-And once you did, the name meant so much more to you
-Will helped you pick out a matching necklace set of two butterflies
-You gave it to her after a case and she cried, knowing exactly what it’s meaning was
“Thank you Bug, I love it”
-She never took that necklace off, ever
Taglist
@ssebstann @peachyprincessss @emmy-writes-sometimes @dudele @kerrswriting @laura-naruto-fan1998 @multifamdomfan12 @aquariuslavenderhoney @rafehogwarts
#x daughter!reader#x teen!reader#x child reader#x sister!reader#sebastian stan#chris evans#mgg#tom holland#bucky barnes#ransom drysdale#spencer reid#emily prentiss#jennifer jareau
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The Tower: Family - 5
The Tower: Family
An Avengers Fanfic
Series Masterlist
PREVIOUS //
Pairing: Avengers x OFC, Bruce Banner x Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton x Wanda Maximoff x Steve Rogers x Natasha Romanoff x Tony Stark x Thor x Sam Wilson x OFC (Elly Cooper)
Word Count: 1591
Warnings: Pregnancy
Synopsis: With new powers, Thor now living on Earth full time, a wedding to plan, and Natasha and Wanda expecting, a lot is changing for Elly and her large and rather unconventional family. When Elise’s parents try to reestablish connections, Elly questions what being a family actually means.
Chapter 5: I do
The month that led up to the wedding went by very quickly. We were all super busy setting up the compound to run without any of the actual Avengers there to run it, making sure the Tower was ready to move back into and making sure the hotel was ready for our wedding. Both Natasha and Wanda had both started experiencing morning sickness, but most days they could keep it under control with ginger pills.
The doctors had arrived and were running their tests and just before we left to our private Caribbean island, they each had their first ultrasounds and we got to see their little peanut-shaped lifeforms growing inside them. Everyone was excited and I was finally at peace with the idea that they were getting the kind of support I didn’t right from the start.
Two of Tony’s private jets took everyone to the island. One contained us and the kids and the other took Rhodey, Happy, Jax, Clarke, Sam’s siblings, May and Peter Parker, Vision, and Hill. That was the entirety of the group attending the wedding. The bonding on Asgard had been the real wedding, this was just making a legal part and our honeymoon.
The honeymoon villa had been renovated to suit us specifically. It had been there in the original hotel, with two bedrooms, a dining room, and living area, as well as its own private pool and a hidden entrance that led right out onto the beach. The dining table went from a six-seater to a twelve-seater and the master bedroom was extended out and a bed to fit all ten of us was built specifically for it.
We didn’t separate at all the night before the wedding. We’d already done all those traditions, and besides, we were far from traditional. Instead, after breakfast, the men went to a different hotel room to get ready, while I had Natasha, Wanda, and a small team getting us ready for the ceremony.
Getting dressed wasn’t too hard. We were wearing simple lace dresses. Natasha and Wanda’s were in matching long red lace. Both were fairly transparent, and while Natasha just wore matching lace underwear in the same shade of red as the dress under hers, Wanda wore a fitted black playsuit under hers. My dress was white lace, loose fitted, and very short, only barely reaching past my ass if I raised my arms above my head or bent over. It was also extremely transparent and I wore a matching white lace bra and panty set under it.
When we had our dresses on, they went about doing our hair and makeup. Riley and Pietro were dressed and ready already and we were also keeping half an eye on them so neither would mess up their hair. Riley had a long white lace dress on with her long blond hair in a halo braid with a crown of small white roses on. Pietro had a similar crown that his shorter blond hair curled into, and he wore a pair of white linen pants with a white linen button-up shirt that was not tucked in over it.
“How nervous do you think Tony is right now?” I asked as the make-up artist put the finishing touches on my makeup.
“Groomzilla?” Natasha asked. “Three thousand.”
I laughed. “But we already did the proper one.”
“Yes, but this is the public one,” Natasha said. “And it’s legal. You’re a Stark now. Yeah, there was the prenup, but you now have him. Legally. He’s going to start thinking he’s going to fuck it up. Plus you know that no matter what, it’s going to get out. I can cloak us, but people will post photos. Those photos are going to get out. And even if they don’t - word will.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” I agreed and the makeup artist moved away making room for the hairstylist to put my crown of white frangipani on. My hair was just left in loose curls that hung down my back and over my shoulders.
“Mm-hmm,” Natasha hummed getting up. Her hair was in a half braid with small red roses worked into it.
The stylist looked me over and gave me a nod. “I think you’re ready,” she said.
I stood and did a half-twirl. “What do you think?”
Wanda looked up at me from where they were threading red Frangipanis into her braid. “He’s going to cry.”
“It’s gonna make his pirate liner run,” Natasha teased.
I gigged. “But I barely even look like a bride.”
She shrugged and they let Wanda up. I picked up my bouquet of pale green, pink, and white tropical wildflowers and looked around. “Do I have everything?”
“Old, new, borrowed, blue? Garters?” Wanda asked.
“Well, I can see you’re wearing your underwear, so that’s no problem,” Natasha teased.
“I don’t have any of the other things,” I said, making a face.
“How can you have a proper American wedding without the traditional wedding things?” Wanda asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t like to do traditional things. Also if I add a garter to this outfit I’ll look like a stripper.”
Natasha looked me up and down. “Confirmed.”
I laughed. “Thanks, Nat.”
“You’re the one that dressed as a stripper for your wedding,” she teased.
Wanda picked up the bottle of bubble mix and the little satin cushion with the rings on them, while Natasha got both of their bouquets of red and white wildflowers.
“Okay, let’s go get married,” I said. “Come on, kiddos.”
We went down to the hidden entrance. I could see the wedding arch standing on the sand, the men all milling around it. In front of them were chairs set up in an aisle with our very small group of guests sitting at them. There were threads from me to every single person there, except the staff. It looked like a big web of light.
Wanda gave Riley her bottle of bubbles and the cushion to Piet as a staff member gave the nod to the duo on acoustic guitar and they began to play ‘Fluff’ by Black Sabbath.
“Okay, kiddos. It’s time,” I said crouching to talk to them. “Pietro, can you walk down to your daddies? Not too fast, not too slow. Go with the music.”
“Otay, mommy,” Pietro said and went through the gate and down the aisle that was laid out with petals.
When he was about halfway down I pointed Riley in the right direction. “You next, bug. Make sure you blow lots of bubbles for everyone but follow your brother.”
She nodded and took off after Pietro a little too fast. I chuckled as I watched her and Wanda took her flowers from Natasha. “See you down there, my love,” she said and kissed me gently before heading out after the kids.
I took Natasha’s hand and squeezed it a little too hard. “Oh, so now you’re nervous?” She teased.
I nodded. “Just a little.”
“It’s Tony,” she said. “And us.”
I nodded. “I know and we did it already.”
She looked at me with her head tilted. “Will you be okay for two seconds?”
I nodded. “Yes. I’ll be okay.”
She kissed me gently and let my hand go. “See you soon, Mrs. Stark.”
I watched her walk down and when she got to the end I stepped out through the gate. Tony looked up at me, his eyes shimmering. He was fidgeting a little, shifting from one leg to another and tapping his fingers on his thighs. When I reached him I offered him my hand and he took it quickly, his hands shaking slightly.
“Hey,” I said softly and gave his hand a small squeeze.
“Hi,” he replied, just as softly.
The celebrant stepped up to us and began. “First,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’d like to begin by welcoming everyone and thanking each and every one of you for being here on this happiest of days. It’s no accident that each of you is here today, and each of you was invited here because you represent someone important in the individual and collective lives of Tony and Elise.
“We are gathered here today to celebrate the joining of these people. A union that has already been made, but will now be formalized in front of you, their closest friends and family. Not just two hearts but many using these two individuals as a symbol of their group’s unity,” he said and focused his attention on Tony and I. “This contract is not to be entered into lightly, but thoughtfully and seriously, and with a deep understanding of its obligations and responsibilities. Tony and Elise have prepared vows that they will read now.”
Tony cleared his throat and looked into my eyes. “I, Anthony Edward Stark, take you, Elise Frances Cooper, to be my wife. I promise to never lock you out of my lab, especially when you’re only wearing a lab coat and nothing else. I promise that I’ll never enact the ‘kick you out of the tower’ protocol on you and that we will get Shake Shack after every stuffy event I take you to. I promise to make sure I cherish you every second we spend together but to make sure I let the others do that too. Today, tomorrow, and for our forever.”
I teared up as he spoke despite the soft laughter from everyone around. I squeezed his hands and took a deep breath. “I, Elise Frances Cooper, take you Anthony Edward Stark to be my husband. I promise to be patient when you get all caught up with your work and to try not to distract you from it unless I’m only wearing a lab coat. I promise to not get all weird when you give me presents and to listen carefully when you say ‘I love you’ when you aren’t using your words. I promise to love you with all my heart, just exactly the way you deserve so you never doubt that I am here for you and I’m not ever going anywhere. Today, tomorrow, and for our forever.”
“Do you Tony, take Elise to be your wife?” The celebrant said.
“Can I say maybe?” Tony teased. “No? Too late?” I giggled and pouted playfully and he caressed my cheek with his thumb. “I do.”
“Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect her until death do you part?” The celebrant asked.
“I do,” Tony repeated.
“And do you, Elise, take Tony to be your husband?”
“I do,” I replied.
“Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and protect him until death do you part?” He asked.
“I do,” I repeated.
“Then can we have the rings?” He asked.
“Dat’s me!” Pietro shouted, getting up off the ground where he and Riley had been building a mound in the sand. He bounced over with the pillow and Tony crouched down and took it off him.
“Thanks, bumblebee,” he said, kissing his son’s forehead. He got back up and untied the rings from the cushion and handed one to me.
“These rings are forged from precious metals taken from the earth, raw and imperfect. They were shaped and molded into the perfect circle. Unbroken and never-ending. Just as the love you have for each other was rough and imperfect and was shaped and molded together to something strong and eternal. Place them on your fingers as a symbol of your love,” the celebrant said. Tony’s hand shook a little as he slipped the ring on my finger and while I slid his into place on his.
“By the powers vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss each other,” the celebrant announced.
“About time,” Tony said, pulling me flush against me and dipping me back as he kissed me deeply. Around us, the others kissed too, and our small gathering of friends and family all cheered.
When he let me back to my feet, he held my hand tight and the celebrant held up his hands. “I now present to you, not just the happy couple, but the full polyamorous family!”
The guitarist started to play an acoustic version of ‘Back in Black’ and we made our way back down the aisle in pairs, a legal binding now part of our family bond.
// NEXT
#the avengers#steve rogers#bucky barnes#tony stark#natasha romanoff#bruce banner#clint barton#wanda maximoff#sam wilson#avengers fanfic#avengers x oc#steve rogers x oc#bucky barnes x oc#tony stark x oc#stucky#clintasha#natasha romanoff x oc#wanda maximoff x oc#clint barton x oc#bruce banner x oc#sam wilson x oc#all caps#thor x oc#thor#fanfic#fanfiction#smut#pregnancy#the tower
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A Brief History of Peanut Butter
The bizarre sanitarium staple that became a spreadable obsession
By Kate Wheeling | February 2021
Smithsonian Magazine
North Americans weren't the first to grind peanuts—the Inca beat us to it by a few hundred years—but peanut butter reappeared in the modern world because of an American, the doctor, nutritionist and cereal pioneer John Harvey Kellogg, who filed a patent for a proto-peanut butter in 1895. Kellogg’s “food compound” involved boiling nuts and grinding them into an easily digestible paste for patients at the Battle Creek Sanitarium, a spa for all kinds of ailments. The original patent didn’t specify what type of nut to use, and Kellogg experimented with almonds as well as peanuts, which had the virtue of being cheaper. While modern peanut butter enthusiasts would likely find Kellogg’s compound bland, Kellogg called it “the most delicious nut butter you ever tasted in your life.”
A Seventh-Day Adventist, Kellogg endorsed a plant-based diet and promoted peanut butter as a healthy alternative to meat, which he saw as a digestive irritant and, worse, a sinful sexual stimulant. His efforts and his elite clientele, which included Amelia Earhart, Sojourner Truth and Henry Ford, helped establish peanut butter as a delicacy. As early as 1896, Good Housekeeping encouraged women to make their own with a meat grinder, and suggested pairing the spread with bread. “The active brains of American inventors have found new economic uses for the peanut,” the Chicago Tribune rhapsodized in July 1897.
Before the end of the century, Joseph Lambert, an employee at Kellogg’s sanitarium who may have been the first person to make the doctor’s peanut butter, had invented machinery to roast and grind peanuts on a larger scale. He launched the Lambert Food Company, selling nut butter and the mills to make it, seeding countless other peanut butter businesses. As manufacturing scaled up, prices came down. A 1908 ad for the Delaware-based Loeber’s peanut butter—since discontinued—claimed that just 10 cents’ worth of peanuts contained six times the energy of a porterhouse steak. Technological innovations would continue to transform the product into a staple, something Yanks couldn’t do without and many a foreigner considered appalling.
By World War I, U.S. consumers—whether convinced by Kellogg’s nutty nutrition advice or not—turned to peanuts as a result of meat rationing. Government pamphlets promoted “meatless Mondays,” with peanuts high on the menu. Americans “soon may be eating peanut bread, spread with peanut butter, and using peanut oil for our salad,” the Daily Missourian reported in 1917, citing “the exigencies of war.”
The nation’s food scientists are nothing if not ingenious, and peanut butter posed a slippery problem that cried out for a solution. Manufacturers sold tubs of peanut butter to local grocers, and advised them to stir frequently with a wooden paddle, according to Andrew Smith, a food historian. Without regular effort, the oil would separate out and spoil. Then, in 1921, a Californian named Joseph Rosefield filed a patent for applying a chemical process called partial hydrogenation to peanut butter, a method by which the main naturally occurring oil in peanut butter, which is liquid at room temperature, is converted into an oil that’s solid or semisolid at room temperature and thus remains blended; the practice had been used to make substitutes for butter and lard, like Crisco, but Rosefield was the first to apply it to peanut butter. This more stable spread could be shipped across the country, stocked in warehouses and left on shelves, clearing the way for the national brands we all know today. The only invention that did more than hydrogenation to cement peanut butter in the hearts (and mouths) of America’s youth was sliced bread—introduced by a St. Louis baker in the late 1920s—which made it easy for kids to construct their own PB&Js. (In this century, the average American kid eats some 1,500 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches before graduating from high school.)
Rosefield went on to found Skippy, which debuted crunchy peanut butter and wide-mouth jars in the 1930s. In World War II, tins of (hydrogenated) Skippy were shipped with service members overseas, while the return of meat rationing at home again led civilians to peanut butter. Even today, when American expats are looking for a peanut butter fix, they often seek out military bases: They’re guaranteed to stock it.
But while peanut butter’s popularity abroad is growing—in 2020, peanut butter sales in the United Kingdom overtook sales of the Brits’ beloved jam—enjoying the spread is still largely an American quirk. “People say to me all the time, ‘When did you know that you had fully become an American?’” Ana Navarro, a Nicaraguan-born political commentator, told NPR in 2017. “And I say, ‘The day I realized I loved peanut butter.’”
Though the United States lags behind China and India in peanut harvest, Americans still eat far more of the spread than the people in any other country: It’s a gooey taste of nostalgia, for childhood and for American history. “What’s more sacred than peanut butter?” Iowa Senator Tom Harkin asked in 2009, after a salmonella outbreak was traced back to tainted jars. By 2020, when Skippy and Jif released their latest peanut butter innovation—squeezable tubes—nearly 90 percent of American households reported consuming peanut butter.
The ubiquity of this aromatic spread has even figured in the nation’s response to Covid-19. As evidence emerged last spring that many Covid patients were losing their sense of smell and taste, Yale University’s Dana Small, a psychologist and neuroscientist, devised a smell test to identify asymptomatic carriers. In a small, three-month study of health care workers in New Haven, everyone who reported a severe loss of smell using the peanut butter test later tested positive. “What food do most people in the U.S. have in their cupboards that provides a strong, familiar odor?” Small asks. “That’s what led us to peanut butter.”
George Washington Carver’s research was about more than peanuts
By Emily Moon
No American is more closely associated with peanuts than George Washington Carver, who developed hundreds of uses for them, from Worcestershire sauce to shaving cream to paper. But our insatiable curiosity for peanuts, scholars say, has obscured Carver’s greatest agricultural achievement: helping black farmers prosper, free of the tyranny of cotton.
Born enslaved in Missouri around 1864 and trained in Iowa as a botanist, Carver took over the agriculture department at the Tuskegee Institute, in Alabama, in 1896. His hope was to aid black farmers, most of whom were cotton sharecroppers trapped in perpetual debt to white plantation owners. “I came here solely for the benefit of my people,” he wrote to colleagues on his arrival.
He found that cotton had stripped the region’s soil of its nutrients, and yet landowners were prohibiting black farmers from planting food crops. So Carver began experimenting with plants like peanuts and sweet potatoes, which could replenish the nitrogen that cotton leached and, grown discreetly, could also help farmers feed their families. In classes and at conferences and county fairs, Carver showed often packed crowds how to raise these crops.
Since his death in 1943, many of the practices Carver advocated—organic fertilizer, reusing food waste, crop rotation—have become crucial to the sustainable agriculture movement. Mark Hersey, a historian at Mississippi State University, says Carver’s most prescient innovation was a truly holistic approach to farming.
“Well before there was an environmental justice movement, black environmental thinkers connected land exploitation and racial exploitation,” says Hersey. A true accounting of American conservation, he says, would put Carver at the forefront.
https://www.smithsonianmag.com/innovation/brief-history-peanut-butter-180976525/?utm_source=pocket-newtab
Tags
African American History
Food
Food History
Food Science
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Elmer Gantry (1960)
Upon the publication Sinclair Lewis’ novel Elmer Gantry in 1927, an eruption of outrage ensued. The novel, a Juvenalian satire of evangelical Christianity in the United States, drew invectives from evangelical groups and high praise from literary circles. Despite its popularity among American readers, Elmer Gantry’s content long prevented American studio executives from even considering the film adaptation rights. The Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA), from 1934 until 1968, enforced the Hays Code, a guideline for censorship, on all films made by the major American studios for theatrical release. Here is what the Hays Code says on religion – this section was never amended for the entirety of the Code’s existence:
No film or episode may throw ridicule on any religious faith.
Ministers of religion in their character as ministers of religion should not be used as comic characters or as villains.
Ceremonies of any definite religion should be carefully and respectfully handled.
The 1960 film adaptation of Elmer Gantry, released by United Artists (UA), directed and written by Richard Brooks, and featuring one of Burt Lancaster’s most electric performances of his career, violates the second and third part of this section and, arguably, the first as well. By the late 1950s and early ‘60s, enforcement of the Code was beginning to wither – boundary-pushing non-American films (which were exempt from the Code), television, and evolving behavioral and cultural norms in the United States contributed to its eventual demise. One of the beneficiaries was undoubtedly Brooks, whose output around this time – including Blackboard Jungle (1955), The Professionals (1966), and In Cold Blood (1967) – reflects the relaxing standards of Hollywood’s self-imposed censorship. Of the films Brooks made in this period, Elmer Gantry might be the most complete, excoriating, and cinematic.
Elmer Gantry (Lancaster) is a garrulous, ruthless, and ambitious con man who invokes Scripture to hock whatever he is selling. His shtick is effective, as his energetic sermonizing tends to break down the resistance of most. One day, curious about a traveling evangelist tent show passing through town, he encounters Sister Sharon Falconer (Jean Simmons). Gantry, taken by Sister Sharon’s virginal piousness and her fairness, convinces Sister Sharon’s assistant, Sister Rachel (Patti Page), to join their traveling group. Sister Sharon is impressed by Gantry’s – or “Brother Gantry” – orations, and she adjusts her own sermons to complement his. Where Gantry decries the congregants as sinners, Sister Sharon promises salvation through repentance. As time passes, Gantry’s presence in this itinerant ministry becomes the talk of the Midwest and Great Plains. Sister Sharon and Gantry begin to attract new congregants and onlookers’ horror, alike. The sermons become increasingly theatrical, writes the cynical big-city newspaper reporter Jim Lefferts (Arthur Kennedy), who is torn by his admiration of Gantry’s façade and his revulsion for hucksterism. Meanwhile, sex worker Lulu Bains (Shirley Jones) – who once knew Gantry when he was aiming to become a minister – is about to make an unexpected reentry into his life.
Character actors round out the cast of this motion picture, including Dean Jagger as Sister Sharon’s manager, Bill Morgan; Edward Andrews as businessman George F. Babbitt; and John McIntire and Hugh Marlowe as two reverends. Rex Ingram (1936’s The Green Pastures, 1940’s The Thief of Bagdad) cameos in an uncredited appearance as the preacher of a black congregation.
Elmer Gantry never feels like a 146-minute movie, as it moves through its scenes with fervorous pace thanks to some excellent performances and crisp filmmaking (more on both later). Brooks’ adaptation covers less than a quarter of Sinclair Lewis’ novel – Lewis allows its plot to unfold over the course of several years – and takes liberties in deleting or rearranging characters and plot points to fit neatly in a movie adaptation. Like the novel itself, Brooks’ adaptation ends without clear moral or narrative resolution – albeit at an earlier point in the novel. The character of Lulu Bains does not reappear in Lewis’ novel until after the events depicted in the film. To provide Elmer Gantry, the character, with the immoral backstory lost on a moviegoer unfamiliar with the novel, Brooks integrates Lulu into this film adaptation. On a surface level, that appears to deprive Lulu of her own characterization, agency, and backstory, but Brooks allows the character (and Shirley Jones) the space to portray and develop her complicated feelings – a stew of trauma, bitterness, and love – for her current life station and towards Elmer Gantry.
Reverential low-angled shots from cinematographer John Alton (1951’s An American in Paris, 1958’s The Brothers Karamazov) during the revivals make Sister Sharon’s tent seem cavernous, a fabric cathedral without need of stained glass, marble statues, flying buttresses. Looking slightly upwards at Sister Sharon’s of Elmer’s faces (at times with a Dutch angle), the film elevates the two above the masses listening intently on what they have to say, imbuing their scenes with striking imagery that draws the viewer’s attention. The decision to shoot the film in the 1.66:1 screen aspect ratio – wider than the Academy standard, but not as much as the widescreen standard sweeping through American filmmaking at the time – constricts the audience’s peripheral vision, forcing one’s focus on the speaker’s body language, rather than any miscellaneous activity occurring behind or to the side of the speaker.
As for the speakers or, should we say, actors, there are stupendous performances across the ensemble. For his turn as the eponymous lead, Burt Lancaster, known for his vigorous performances, provides Elmer Gantry with vigor aplenty. Modeling his performance off of the behavior of baseball outfielder-turned-evangelist Billy Sunday, Lancaster struts around the tent during revival meetings, his upper body animated in conversation and salesmanship outside those meetings. Even in stillness, Lancaster’s physicality swaggers, brimming with euphoria – his most private moments abound in sexuality molded by what his character might call the love of God. Even Lancaster’s haircut appears to be defying gravity more than usual in Elmer Gantry. The sweat on his brow, within the 1:66:1 frame, feels as if it is about to seep through the camera. As he delivers his lines, Lancaster masters the complicated beat – accelerating with certain turns of phrases and strategic pauses for emphasis – and wildly varying volume of Elmer’s sermons. “Love is like the morning and the evening stars,” he intones as Gantry (that is his signature quote), somehow making us believe in such bromides and other simplifications he sells to the revival’s attendees.
Jean Simmons, as Sister Sharon Falconer, is a clear-eyed minister who nevertheless falls – or, perhaps, “seduced” – for Brother Elmer’s pontifications. In her own way, Sister Sharon Falconer is as ruthless as the man who wheedles his way into her company. Simmons, retaining her British accent, speaks like a patrician but, as Sister Sharon, reminds all that even the poor, the downtrodden, the sightless, the hard-of-hearing can know the munificence of Christ. So different is she from Gantry that when the latter begins to aggressively court her, the scene elicits squirms. Not because the scene is poorly acted, but that Simmons and Lancaster (with assistance from Brooks’ screenplay) have developed their characters so masterfully that Elmer’s pretense-free seduction feels straight from an Old Testament story that invariably incurs God’s wrath. Their characters convince themselves of their mutual love, even though Gantry is probably incapable of loving and Sister Sharon cannot view love outside how she might interpret it through the Bible.
In the aisles or the congregation’s peanut gallery are Arthur Kennedy and Shirley Jones. For Kennedy, as the reporter Jim Lefferts, this is a dress rehearsal for the similar but more biting role of Jackson Bentley in David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia (1962). Like Bentley was to T.E. Lawrence, Lefferts views the work of Elmer Gantry and Sister Sharon with a cynical lens but, to some degree, each finds a professional need for the other. As Lulu, Shirley Jones crackles with a sexuality essentially nonexistent in American movies at this time. Upon Lulu’s introduction, she tells her fellow sex workers her past experiences with the minister now stealing newspaper headlines:
LULU BAINES: He got to howlin’ “Repent! Repent!” and I got to moanin’ “Save me! Save me!” and the first thing I know he rammed the fear of God into me so fast I never heard my old man’s footsteps!
With this suggestive language that would never have been tolerated by the MPAA a few years earlier, Jones delivers her lines with shamelessness, slightly colored by a modicum of romantic trauma that reveals itself later. Jones is not in Elmer Gantry long, but her presence, her character’s raw contradictions deepen the tragedies that seem to follow those entranced by a former seminary student now returning to preaching his idea of gospel.
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André Previn’s unsettled score to Elmer Gantry leans heavily on brass dissonance and rhythmically complex string runs in the few instances where there is no dialogue or diegetic music. Though not used often, Previn’s music lays bare Gantry’s motivations of lust and profit, a man devoid of internal meaning and one who craves sensation. There are moments throughout the score where it seems like a Coplandesque Americana sound is begging to burst free. But Previn, more than capable of composing such music and considering the narrative to this adaptation, knows better than to let those tendencies escape. The raving strings and blaring brass bury melodicism, which is left for the jazzy interludes that accompany Lulu’s scenes (jazz at this time was considered scandalous by many Americans). Previn’s score might not suit those longing for free-flowing motifs, but the technical skill required to play, let alone accomplish the musical phrasing he intends, some of the passages he writes for Elmer Gantry are stunning.
Earlier in this write-up in reference to the Hays Code, I mentioned that Elmer Gantry villainizes and makes comic characters out of religious figures, in addition to portraying the events at Sister Sharon’s revivals as debauched, deceitful. But does Elmer Gantry “throw ridicule on… religious faith”? Probably not, although those who despise religious belief in and of itself might disagree. Given Sister Sharon’s modesty and her less-fiery diction early in the film, probably not. Brooks does not expand upon what Sister Sharon’s congregation looked or sounded like in the months of years before Elmer Gantry’s arrival. Instead, Brooks’ movie targets individuals seeking to make economic and personal empires of organized religion – and Elmer Gantry, whose ravenous pursuit for money and women, is the man to defile Sister Sharon’s ministry. Only once he ingratiates himself to Sister Sharon, Gantry begins to emphasize what sounds suspiciously close to the “prosperity gospel”, which broadly states that faith in God and religious donations will lead to material wealth and physical wellbeing. The prosperity gospel is not scriptural. But it is a central tenant of numerous evangelical traditions.
Like Oral Roberts, Billy Graham, and the Falwell family, Elmer Gantry is the byproduct of the United States’ Third Great Awakening, which also resulted in Prohibition and the State of Tennessee’s decision to prosecute John Thomas Scopes for teaching human evolution in a public school. Sinclair Lewis, like Richard Brooks and his cast for Elmer Gantry, warn of profiteering “prophets” that remain a fixture of American life. From the mid-1950s to the mid-‘60s, the major Hollywood studios were prioritizing epic movies such as Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments (1956), William Wyler’s Ben-Hur (1959), and George Stevens’ The Greatest Story Ever Told (1965) – spectaculars intended to check the perceived threat of television to moviegoing. A film like Elmer Gantry that disparages religious ministers – even unethical, villainous ones – released during this time was nothing less than a landmark. Adapting a work by one of the great American writers of the twentieth century, Richard Brooks, with no small assistance from a cast topped by Burt Lancaster, results in a venomous film including one of the great characters of American film history. The book is almost a century old and the film is just past its sixtieth anniversary, but Elmer Gantry’s power endures. Elmer Gantry’s dialectic continues, even with evangelical Christianity akin to the homilies of Elmer Gantry supposedly on the wane.
My rating: 10/10
^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Elmer Gantry is the one hundred and sixty-fourth feature-length or short film I have rated a ten on imdb. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found in the “Ratings system” page on my blog (as of July 1, 2020, tumblr is not permitting certain posts with links to appear on tag pages, so I cannot provide the URL).
For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, check out the tag of the same name on my blog.
#Elmer Gantry#Richard Brooks#Burt Lancaster#Jean Simmons#Arthur Kennedy#Shirley Jones#Dean Jagger#Patti Page#Edward Andrews#Sinclair Lewis#John Alton#Andre Previn#TCM#31 Days of Oscar#My Movie Odyssey
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BTS when you’re pregnant:
Kim Seokjin:
Week 15 of pregnancy meant many things. Things like constantly feeling nauseous, your nose being annoyingly stuffy, and a small baby bump starting to form. It also meant cravings. So much cravings.
You shovel another spoon of peanut butter into your mouth, frowning slightly when you realize the jar is almost empty. You're pretty sure it's the second jar of PB you finished this week, and it's only Tuesday.
You're spread on the couch like a burrito, a huge fluffy blanket wrapped around you tightly, the television playing some cheesy drama, the kind you've been watching for the past weeks religiously.
Throwing away the now clean jar of the spread aside, you don't even hesitate to call your husband, Seokjin, pressing the ringing phone to your ear as you feel another wave of hunger cursing through your body like a hurricane.
"Hey, sweetheart", a small smile makes its way to your face at the sound of Jin's voice, and you feel your body relax for the first time today, curling a bit more into your gray couch.
"Hey", you mumble, blaming your pregnancy for the way your heart suddenly increased its pace, and you grip the phone even harder, trapping it between your ear and the white pillow supporting your back. "Where are you?"
"I'm on my way home. Like, two minutes away.", Jin answers, and despite being very happy to finally see your lover after a long, lonely day, you really need your peanut butter.
"Well…", you bite your lip before smiling sheepishly, despite Jin not being able to see your face. "Can you turn around? We ran out of peanut butter."
"You finished another jar?", your boyfriend asks, his voice somewhere between exasperated and disbelieving. He never quite understood your weird craving for the spread, mostly because it's such an American food.
"Yeah.", you say bashfully, and Seokjin sighs against your ear. "Baby, it's all you are eating for the last few days. You need to keep your body healthy.", he says gently, and you huff, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.
Of course, Jin was right. You had indeed been eating mostly peanut butter since your cravings started a few weeks ago, and your husband was going crazy seeing you sit on Reese's cups and peanut butter sandwiches all day long.
"But I want peanut butter", you whine into the phone, not caring the least about your childish behaviour, and Jin's silent for a second before he responds.
"How about this? I come home, make you some real food, and if you don't want it, I'll go and buy peanut butter.", Seokjin suggests, and you wonder how the hell did you fall on this perfect man, who was so patient with you, but also firm, taking care of you in the best way possible.
You hesitate for a second, not really liking the idea, but something about Jin's tone tells you he won't take no for an answer, and making him turn around after he's practically here is plain cruel, even for your pregnancy-induced mind.
"Fine.", you agree reluctantly, and you hear the other sigh in relief, a slight chuckle in his voice when he says: "Good, because I'm already in the elevator of the building".
***
When Jin steps into the apartment, you're still sprawled all over the sofa, your hands on your small baby bump and legs extended carelessly.
"Sweetie", Jin walks over to you with a soft smile, a short chuckle escaping his lips when you tilt your head up for him, silently asking for a kiss.
He looks exhausted after a day of practicing nonstop, his slightly long black hair falling over his eyes carelessly, wearing a plain gray t-shirt with long sleeves and ripped boyfriend jeans. His eyes are red from lack of sleep and his lips look swollen, and you know it's because of his habit to bite them whenever he's stressed.
Your heart clenches painfully at the sight of your husband, and you feel bad for being so selfish, even if you're carrying a living human inside of you. Jin was struggling to juggle his busy life as an idol and dealing with his pregnant wife, and you knew it.
You wrap your arms around Jin's neck when he leans down, pressing his lush lips against yours, and sigh into his mouth contentedly, momentarily forgetting about the need to vomit and your angry appetite, and just enjoying the affection you've been missing the whole day.
"How's my baby doing?", Jin mutters when he pulls back, keeping his forehead pressed to yours, and you exhale dramatically, tucking your face in the juncture between his shoulder and his neck. "Not good. I'm tired, and hungry and-"
"I meant the baby in your stomach", Jin says teasingly, letting out a high-pitched laugh when you pull away from him and send him a glare that could kill, your husband's humor existing even in times like this.
"Make me food, peasant. And it better be good.", you say flatly, raising an eyebrow at your lover, who simply shakes his head at you, muttering under his breath: "Nobody said pregnancy is like slavery".
You continue to stare at the TV blankly while your husband busies himself in the kitchen, humming to himself tunes and throwing around pots and pans loudly.
It must be around half an hour when Jin's head peeks out of the entrance to the kitchen, the apron tucked around his small waist covered with patches of flour and an assortment of colorful spices.
"It's ready!", he says with a toothy grin, wiggling his eyebrows at you. "Get ready to get your mind blown.", He adds confidently, and you get up from the couch, hearing your stomach rumble as you get closer to the source of the amazing smell filling your apartment.
Jin always makes you food, and has always cooked for you since the two of you started dating, so you were very familiar with his food, but whatever was on the white porcelain plate on your kitchen table, you haven't seen before.
"What is that?", you ask curiously, eyebrows furrowed with confusion as you inspect the omelet/pancake, unidentified red and green vegetables and pieces of seafood inside of it. There's also some sort of dark dipping sauce in a small bowl.
"That",Jin says proudly, his eyes twinkling the way they did when he was talking about something he was passionate about. "is my mother's famous Haemul Pajeon recipe. Our family's been eating this for years during cold winter nights. It's the best kind of comfort food."
You hum with interest, Jin's enthusiastic reaction lighting up some excitement inside of you, and sit down by the table, licking your lips as your boyfriend cuts you a slice of the large pancake, handing it over to you with an expecting grin.
You can't help but moan when you bite into the perfectly spiced Korean dish, closing your eyes with satisfaction as your taste buds enjoy for the first time in a while something that wasn't peanut butter.
"So?", Jin says mischievously, "Should I go buy some peanut butter to go with this?", he asks sarcastically, and you roll your eyes, too focused on the delicious food in front of you to answer him.
Later, when the two of you are cuddled up on the sofa, the fuzzy blanket wrapped around your bodies and Jin's warm hand rubbing circles onto your slowly-growing belly, you tilt your head back to meet your husband's soft brown eyes, sending him a small smile. "Thank you, baby. For the food. And I'm sorry for being a brat all of the time."
Jin laughs, pressing a warm kiss to your forehead and pulling you even closer to him. "It's okay. I love you no matter what. And our baby girl, of course."
You lay there for a few more minutes of content silence, enjoying the warmth of each other after a long day for both of you. You can't help but laugh, shaking your head when a sudden thought comes to your head, and Jin lets out a questioning noise against your nape. "What is it?"
"Nothing", you snort, trying to silence your giggles in the palm of your hand, before turning to look at your husband, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I just realized I found my new craving."
Min Yoongi:
Waking up to yourself in week 28 was sort of like waking up to your pet elephant. You were huge now, your stomach and boobs blocking everything in front of you.
Yoongi was still asleep beside you, one hand thrown lazily across your thick waist, the other tucked behind his head. He looks peaceful, like he always does when he's asleep, his dark hair falling over his forehead messily, his small mouth closed and letting out these deep breaths, indicating he was sound asleep.
Sighing, you brush your husband's bangs away from his face, admiring his fair skin and soft facial features. How the hell was this perfect human being here with you, when you look like this? When you feel like this?
Not able to take the sudden wave of emotions, you get up from your shared bed slowly, biting your lip when your body screams at you to stay in bed and not move until you go into labor. Your boyfriend stays unmoving, as expected, and for once you're thankful for his deep slumbers. You don't want him to see you like this.
You walk out of the hallway slowly, padding out of your shared bedroom in your fuzzy white socks and one of Yoongi's old white T-shirts and shorts, which is sadly the only thing that fits you right now.
Making breakfast is the only thing you want to do right now, the best way to take your mind off of things, and you walk determinant to the kitchen, bracing your hand against the wall as you do.
Unfortunately, the long golden body mirror at the edge of the hallway catches your attention, and you can't help but stop in front of it, feeling your heart drop as you look at your reflection.
Pregnant women were supposed to have some sort of natural glow, right? They were supposed to feel like goddesses, like they were thriving. But you just felt like a wretched mess, and nothing more than that.
You were always an athletic person, and maybe also a little weight conscious. Suga gave you more self-confidence, helping you in his subtle actions and words, but right now, you felt like you were losing control over your own body, and you hated it. What if you stay like this forever?
You feel a wave of panic surge through you, tears brimming in your eyes as you stare at the girl in the mirror, with the blood-shot eyes from uncomfortable sleeping, the messy bun of dark hair and the pale skin from staying home these last few weeks.
"Babe?", you turn at the sound of your lover's voice, still hoarse from sleep, meeting his brown eyes with your own watery ones. At the sight of your trembling bottom lip and quiet sniffling, Yoongi's previously half-shut eyes widen, walking over to you quickly with a concerned expression.
"Hey, hey, what's going on?", he asks with an uncharacteristically soft voice, his warm hands coming up to cup your face, wiping the small teardrops from your cheeks. His eyebrows are furrowed cutely, his face so close to yours you can smell his breath, still minty from brushing his teeth not too long ago.
You sob, the embarrassment of being caught like this only intensifying your feelings, and avoiding your husband's eyes, who turns your face back to him, gently yet firmly, his eyes showing no intent to back down.
"I just… I feel so ugly, Yoongi. And I'm so scared. Scared I'll stay like this forever, scared you think I'm not good enough…", the last words come out in a whisper, your cheeks burning bright red as your boyfriend stares at you incredulously, mouth slightly open.
"Y/N, I know you're pregnant and have all sorts of weird moods right now, but this… this is straight up ridiculous. I love you, I'm your husband, and I'll never leave you.", Yoongi says firmly, grabbing your shoulders tightly as if trying to pass his sincerity to you, and you feel ashamed now for making the love of your life look like this, so worried and sad over something so meaningless.
"I'm sorry", you whisper, because you have nothing else to say, and Suga clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he brings one hand up to tilt your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes, now much softer than they were seconds before, holding love and affection that's meant only for you.
"Y/N, it's okay to feel ugly. You don't have to feel like you're a failure and a horrible person for not enjoying every second of your pregnancy. It's hard, and I love you so much for going through this. I love you so much for giving me our child.", he finishes, pressing a warm kiss to your hand, and you can't help but sob, the unexpected speech from your husband making you feel so much things, especially because you know how hard it is for him to say what's on his mind, even to you.
Yoongi doesn't say anything, simply wrapping his arms around your large figure carefully, pulling you closer until your face is buried in the crook of his neck, his hands stroking your hair slowly as you cry your heart out, letting out weeks of hidden fears and insecurities wash away with your tears.
Maybe you don't feel like the prettiest human right now, but it doesn't matter because you'll have the most beautiful child in the world, exactly like his father.
Jung Hoseok:
You're on the sofa in the living room, texting your mother, who you think is more concerned about your pregnancy than you are, when you feel something strange in your stomach, almost like gas bubbles, or a growling tummy.
You make a face and set your phone aside, squirming a bit on the blue-colored couch in an attempt to get comfortable. This feeling has been happening for a few weeks now, these little flutterings in your stomach, but now it's much more distinctive, and you place a hand on your curvy belly, trying to calm down the strange movements inside of it.
And that's when you feel it. The smallest of kicks against your palm, just above your belly button, like the wings of a butterfly, and you gasp, feeling tears well up in your eyes at the feeling that you now know is your baby moving in the womb.
How didn't you think about this possibility? You're already at your 25th week, just around the time when you can start feeling your baby's "quickenings".
"Oh my God. I have to tell Hoseok.", you whisper to yourself after a few seconds of complete shock, still a little bit delirious, before rolling into a seating position, your elbows supporting the weight of your unnaturally heavy body.
"Hoseok!", you shout, waiting impatiently as you hear cabinets closing hastily, and then the sound of hurried footsteps running down the hallway, before your husband's head pops out of the corner, eyes wide and worried.
"I was just making you a bowl of cereal, like you wanted. Are you okay?", your boyfriend asks gently, coming closer to you and crouching in front of the couch to be at eye level with you, his eyes scanning you for any reason of discomfort.
Hoseok's wearing an oversized dark grey sweater, light grey shorts and his favorite purple sandals, and there's cute black round glasses perched on his nose that make you feel all kinds of things, especially matched with his hot messy brown hair, but you don't let yourself dwell on his attractive appearance at the moment.
"Hobi", you whisper, not even knowing how to tell him about the fact that you've just felt your first child move for the first time.
Hoseok's eyes furrow, looking even more worried than before, and he reaches his hand out to squeeze yours gently, his skin warm against yours. "I'm here. Talk to me, baby."
You don't talk, but you do reach out to take your conjoined hands, and place them on your stomach, right where you felt the baby move a few seconds before.
It's quiet for a few seconds, your poor husband's expressions growing more confused by the second, but you know he feels it as well when his eyes suddenly widen, his jaw dropping and the hand against you jolting with surprise.
"Oh my God.", he breathes out, voice slightly shaky when he looks at you, his expression excited but also a little unsure, as if he didn't want to get his hopes up. "Was that-"
"Yeah", you bite your lip, bringing up your interlocked hands to kiss J-hope's palm. "That's our baby boy, Hobi.", you say with a tone of disbelief that matches your husband's expression perfectly.
You're not really surprised when J-hope jumps up, knowing your boyfriend's energetic personality, but you still laugh when he starts dancing in front of you, matching his cries of happiness to his impressive popping skills.
The baby seems to feel your excitement and happiness, too, because you're pretty sure he moves even more than before, kicking even harder against your stomach, almost as if he was dancing in the womb as well.
"It looks like this kid will be a musician just like his dad.", you mumble later, when you and your husband are curled up on the sofa together, your hands wrapped around Hoseok's torso tightly and your head placed on his chest, the steady beating of his heart setting you in a dreamlike state.
Hoseok laughs under you, and you feel the ripples underneath you, sending waves of warmth in your chest. He leans downwards towards you, pressing little butterfly kisses all over your face; your eyelids, your nose, cheeks and mouth.
He stops only when you're giggling like a teenage girl and pushing him away with your hands weakly, leaving one last peck on your lips before pulling away with a satisfied smile on his face, pulling you even closer to him with his hands around your waist, caressing your baby bump carefully.
"Well, he might be a dancer like his dad, but that's not the most important thing", he says nonchalantly, and you raise your head to look at him, slightly surprised that Jung Hoseok, who loves music more than all the people you know combined, is saying that. "What's even more important, is that he'll be an angel like his mom."
Kim Namjoon:
When Namjoon walks through the doorway, you're already standing in front of it expectantly, two hands on your pudgy waist while your left leg is tapping on the floor steadily, a habit you have gained whenever you're nervous or stressed.
"Um… Hi, baby.", your husband says carefully, easily reading your body language and knowing something's wrong. "What's going on?"
He's dressed like he's been at work, which makes a lot of sense considering he was busy composing and producing the songs for the upcoming BTS album the whole day. His caramel hair is slicked back, pushed away from his face with hair gel, there are golden specs placed on the bottom of his nose, and he's wearing fashionable khakis tucked into a mint button up.
He looks tired, and what he really should be doing right now, instead of staring at you with a worried expression, is go take a long nap, but the growing panic in your chest is overwhelming, and you can't help but let it control you.
"We need to get the nursery ready", you announce, watching as Namjoon freezes on his way to you, his concerned expression changing into a more confused look, eyebrows furrowed over his brown eyes and his mouth pulled into a small frown.
"The nursery is ready, though?", Namjoon replies, but it sounds more like a question than a statement, uncertainty tainting his voice as he seems to run through all the things you bought for the room since you discovered you were pregnant almost 36 weeks ago.
"It's not!", you reply, and maybe it's the unexpectedly sharp tone of your voice, or the slight shake of your hands that seems to jolt your husband awake, understanding filling his gaze as he scans your face carefully, his expression not as lost as before.
The past week or so, you've had these weird jolts of inhuman energy, followed by the need to organize and clean everything in sight, otherwise known as, the internet so generously explained to you, nesting. Namjoon had come home too many times to find you cleaning some old cabinet you never opened, folding loads of laundry for no apparent reason, and rearranging furniture in the middle of the night.
Your husband was slightly confused by the phenomenon for sure, but didn't try to stop you from cleaning as much as you like, although he did warn you to be careful not to wear yourself out, and tried to help as much as he could to take some of the pressure off of you.
"Okay, baby.", your boyfriend starts carefully, stepping towards you slowly as if he was scared you'll run away. "Why don't you tell me what needs to be done so we can figure it out, hmm?", he asks gently, finally reaching you, and his strong arms come to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him until your large belly meets his hard torso.
You let yourself relax slightly, your own hands dropping to your sides uselessly, the tension in your shoulders slowly decreasing, and exhale loudly. "We need to paint the room, and fold the clothes in the closet, and maybe buy more toys-"
"Okay, okay.", Namjoon's palm comes up to cup your face sweetly, stopping your frantic rant, and he sends you a dimpled smile that you can't help but smile back to, because you were always a sucker for the deep holes in Namjoon's cheeks, pregnant or not. "We'll do everything, I promise. Everything will be perfect when our baby comes along."
You nod, letting Namjoon press a soothing kiss to your temple, before he pulls back, leading you to your shared bedroom with a hand around your waist, taking off his shirt when you enter the room as well, clueless.
"What are you doing?", you ask, not hiding your confusion when Namjoon throws on himself one of his old, worn out t-shirts he never wears anymore, before tossing a similar one to you.
"Well, if we're going to paint the nursery today, we should probably wear something comfortable.", your lover says with a wide grin, and you can't help but grin back, changing into the huge shirt and taking off your pyjama shorts, before following Namjoon to the nursery, your heart feeling lighter than it was the whole day.
Park Jimin:
You whimper when you vomit again, lurching over the toilet as you empty your stomach, which you're legitimately surprised has anything left inside of it at this rate.
You can hear Jimin say something above you, but it sounds far away, like your head is underwater. You can feel his hand in your hair, pushing the sticky strands away from your face, the other one rubbing your back soothingly as he continues to mumble sweet assurances in your ear, even if you can't quite understand them.
Morning sickness was apparently just a name, because you were getting sick at the most random hours of the day, and it was definitely not limited to the early hours of it.
Just a few minutes ago, in fact, you were perfectly fine, helping Jimin cut some vegetables for a healthy salad before you suddenly felt a strong wave of nausea course through you, sprinting to the bathroom without another word to your husband, who followed you immediately, calling you name worriedly.
And now you were here, bent over the toilet for the last five minutes, letting out whatever food you ate today or maybe your whole life, with Jimin supporting you from behind, holding you through it.
Your knuckles are white from grasping the edge of the toilet in a death grip, when you finally let out a shaky breath that's been caught in your throat since you got here, letting your head fall between your shoulders as you try to catch your breath.
"Baby", Jimin's voice is soft and steady, but you can hear the worry and sadness tinging it. He hated seeing you like this, and you know he's blaming himself for not being able to do anything to make it better, even if none of this is his fault. "Do you think you can get up?"
You manage to nod, but don't make any move to straighten up, instead letting your husband's strong hands wrap around your shoulders, picking you up and spinning you around gently to face him, every movement calculated and careful, making sure not to trigger your vomiting all over again.
Your boyfriend's brown eyes are filled with pity when he sees your state, your eyes teary and red, face pale and body weak and motionless against him. "Oh, sweetie", he mumbles, brushing away the teardrops staining your cheeks, his skin warm against yours.
He looks so beautiful right now, with his blonde hair, which you insisted on combing today just because you find it so soft and fun to play with, and Jimin could never really resist you. He's wearing a simple black sweater, gray sweatpants, and fuzzy white socks, and his soft skin is shining under the harsh light of the bathroom, giving him an angel-like halo.
You would kiss him, but you feel like the taste of your mouth is probably deadly right now, and you don't even have the energy to cross the two inches left between your lips.
Jimin seems to understand you perfectly, because he wraps a hand around your thin waist, pulling you close until your face is tucked comfortably into the crook of his neck, leaving a soft, fleeting kiss on your dark hair. "Do you want to take some medicine, babe?", he asks, murmuring the words against your head, and you nod against him, too tired to answer.
You shriek when you suddenly find yourself in the air, Jimin lifting you bridal style as it it's not big deal, still making sure not to jostle you too much, and wrap your hands around the blonde's neck to steady yourself, glaring at him when he giggles cutely. "Yah, you should've warned me!", You scold him, but your cheeks are already heating up from the romantic gesture, and Jimin seems to realize, sending you a cheek grin.
"Sorry, babe.", Jimin apologizes sweetly, pressing another warm kiss to your red cheek as he continues trekking down the hall with you in his arms, not stopping until he reaches the kitchen, where the vegetables are still waiting to be eaten.
Placing you on the gray counter, Jimin shuffles through the different cabinets in the room, throwing out different ointments and medical supplies until he fishes out what he was looking for with a small victory cry, a container of pills your doctor recommended you to take whenever you suffer from morning sickness.
"Here, take this", Jimin passes you the box, before walking over to the kettle and switching it on, the machine immediately starting to let out soft whistling noises. "I'll make you some camomile tea, okay?"
You mumble a gentle 'thank you', your whole body filling with warmth when Jimin passes you a glass of water to down the pill with, watching you when you swallow it with cautious eyes.
You can't help but feel like you're the luckiest girl in the world, to be married to this amazing man, to carry your shared baby with this angelic human, and it feels like your heart is expanding when you watch Jimin blow on your tea, making sure it's not too hot, before handing it to you, standing between your legs and rubbing the inside of your thighs soothingly.
So you set the hot beverage aside, instead wrapping your arms around Jimin's neck, and pull your lover as close as possible, pressing your lips to his soft ones, smiling when you he lets out a surprised noise, but still wraps his own arms around your lower back, the action already natural to him by now.
You kiss for a while, these lazy, loving kisses that you enjoy even more than the hot, heated ones, and you can't help but whine when Jimin pulls away, biting your bottom lip gently as he does.
He presses his forehead to yours, his eyes opening to meet your own, and there's this soft, dreamy smile on his face that makes you want to kiss him again, to tug him even closer to you. "That was nice baby, but you should drink your tea. Don't want you getting sick again."
You sigh, pouting with annoyance, but grab the mug of tea reluctantly, deciding not to make Jimin's life harder than it already is. "Fine, but only if I get cuddles."
Jimin laughs at that, pressing another peck to your pouty lips with a fond mumble of 'cutie', before pulling away and helping you off the counter, the grip on your waist steady and firm. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
Kim Taehyung:
"I'm nervous", you whisper to Taehyung, squeezing his hand a bit tighter as you continue to walk down the hallway, getting closer and closer to the doctor's room at the end of it.
"Everything's going to be okay, don't worry.", your husband responds, sending you a soft smile, but you don't miss his slightly sweaty palms, and the nervous fluttering of his eyes. He was just as jittery as you.
Breathing through your nose, you stop in front of the tall door, gulping at the sight of the small sign mentioning the purpose of the room: "Doctor Choi Jisoo- Ultrasound and Pregnancy". It somehow made everything even more real.
Noticing your hesitation, Taehyung reaches in front of you, tapping the door with his knuckles before backing up, pulling you even closer to him before a soft feminine voice calls from inside. "Come in!"
You let out a shaky exhale, sending your lover another helpless look, and he smiles again, this time more genuinely, before pulling you to him to press a gentle kiss to your lips. "I'm right here", he whispers, forehead pressed against yours, his thumbs stroking your cheeks soothingly, before he pulls away and opens the door.
The office is neat and pretty, light streaming in through large glass windows, a large white desk in front of them covered with organized piles of files, writing tools in a tall cup, and a small plate of mints.
The woman sitting behind the desk fits the feeling of the office perfectly, a woman around her thirties, with shiny brown hair tucked into a tight bun, delicate features, and a slender figure clad in a white doctor's robe and a tight black pencil skirt reaching under her knee.
"Hello", the doctor sends you a small, yet kind-hearted smile, motioning you to sit down with a wave of her manicured hand. "You must be Kim Y/N. I'm Doctor Choi Jisoo, and I'll be doing your first ultrasound."
"Nice to meet you.", you reply, sending your own soft smile before continuing: "This is my husband, Kim Taehyung", you point at Taehyung, who bows his head towards the doctor respectfully. "Nice to meet you.", he says in his charmingly deep voice, still not letting go of your hand, placing it on his lap even after you sit down.
"Okay, let's get straight into it", the doctor says with a more formal voice, pointing at the clean, white bed in the edge of the room. "If you could lie there, please."
You get up, Taehyung following close behind you, and lie down on the hard mattress, watching as the doctor puts on gloves and takes a tube of clear-looking gel. "You're in your 12th week, right?", the doctor asks, lifting up your purple knit-sweater to reveal your tanned stomach as she gets ready to apply the gel.
"Yeah", you wince slightly when the cold gel touches your skin, and your boyfriend's by you in a second, holding your hand and rubbing his thumb along your knuckles to get you to relax.
"I'm fine", you promise when you see the worry in Taehyung's dark eyes, squeezing his hand two times to reassure him, and he squeezes back, obviously holding back from saying something to the doctor.
You hold your breath when the doctor puts the transducer on your stomach, and you feel Taehyung still beside you as well, the feeling almost like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting for your baby to appear.
"There it is!", the doctor says, and you can't help but let out a gasp, bringing your hand to cover your mouth as tears well up in your eyes, because even if the picture is grainy, and the baby is so small, not bigger than a plum, you already know he or she is the prettiest child in the world.
You vaguely register Taehyung beside you, mumbling something like 'the most beautiful thing I've ever seen', but you're too caught up in your own feelings, you don't even register it, nor the assurances of the doctor, promising you the baby is in perfect health and shape.
There's a light tap on your shoulder, and then you're turning around to meet the doctor's smiling face, her eyes bright, twinkling with something that looks like pride, and she's patting your head gently, whispering: "I'll give you two some time alone".
The seconds after the doctor exits the room are filled with so much unspoken words, the only sound in the room being the steady breathing of the two of you. It's Taehyung who speaks first, his voice filled with emotion and love.
"Our baby is beautiful", he mumbles, looking down at you, and you want to run your hand down his cheeks and wipe the glistening tears that lay there, but you also want to keep this image of him in mind, so beautiful, with his slightly curly black hair, his nose red from crying, deep eyes shiny from unshed tears, and lips stretched into a boxy grin so wide it blinds you.
"Yeah", you say back, your own voice sounding so filled with love and indescribable joy, and you let Taehyung wipe the tears off your cheeks with his lips, kissing all over your face as your grasp him tightly, afraid that this is all some amazing dream that'll slip through your fingers.
Later, when the two of you are home, Taehyung admiring your not-so-noticeable baby bump with a gaze so loving it melts you inside, running his hand up and down your stomach and telling you stories of what he thinks you should name him (he was sure it was a boy), you can't help but let out a disbelieving laugh, your boyfriend raising his eyebrows at the sudden action.
"We did that", you breathe out, your mind running back to the first picture of your first baby, which was now tucked safely in the drawer by your body, another copy already sent to get framed.
Taehyung laughs at that, leaning up to hover over you, his legs tangled with yours, and he runs his hands up your sides, smiling when you squirm from the ticklish sensation. "Yeah.", he replies, his eyes soft like melted caramel. "We did."
Jeon Jungkook:
"Y/N!", the sudden shout jerks you out of your thoughts, and you turn around to your boyfriend, who's looking at you with raised eyebrows, his eyes showing confusion and slight worry. "I've called like two times already. What's gotten you so focused?"
"Sorry", you sigh, rubbing the space between your eyebrows. Now that you think about it, it seems like you've been on your laptop for a long time, judging by the fact that Jungkook's already home and the sun is setting outside, coloring the world in hues of orange and pink.
Jungkook doesn't answer, simply sliding his black duffle bag off his shoulder and walking over to the chair you're sitting on, standing behind it, close enough that you can feel the warmth emitting from his skin.
"What are you doing?", he asks, staring at the open tabs in your laptop, numerous websites that range from "the size of your baby on week 23 of pregnancy", "ways to keep your body healthy during pregnancy", and "complications during labor".
You shrug, feeling slightly embarrassed at your boyfriend finding you surfing the internet like some crazed hag, and Jungkook seems to notice the change in your behaviour, because he turns the chair you're sitting on effortlessly, so you're facing him.
"Is everything okay?", Jungkook asks carefully, squatting down to your level and staring at you in the eyes, his expression slightly nervous like it always was when it came to talking about feelings.
You nod, but Jungkook doesn't seem to buy it, tilting your head up gently with a slim finger on your chin, so you have no choice but to look him in the eye. "You know you can tell me anything", he whispers, intelligent doe eyes holding so much sincerity and care that your heart stutters in your chest, and you sigh, running a distressed hand through your messy dark hair.
"I know, Kook.", you answer, pecking your husband's lips gratefully, and he hums against your lips, greatly satisfied by the gesture, before you pull back, biting your lip nervously while Jungkook stares at you, patiently waiting for you to say what's on your mind.
"I'm just", you start, your cheeks growing red at the thought of saying your cursed thoughts out loud, but you know better than to keep secrets from your husband, especially when it comes to your own child, so you grit your teeth and continue. "I'm scared I won't be a good mother. Like, what if I'm not responsible enough? I'm still so young, and so are you. Maybe having a kid at this age is crazy. What if we'll ruin his life?"
The silence that follows your ramble is deafening, Jungkook's mouth open slightly in surprise, his dark eyes wide, and you open your mouth to say something, anything to take back what you said, but Jungkook's already talking before you manage to.
"I don't know", your lover says, and you snap your head up on surprise, expecting some words of wisdom, or at the very least a clueless assurance. Jungkook seems to catch your shock, because he sends you a small, loving smile, reaching his hand out to stroke your cheek gently with the back of his hand, something akin to awe in his eyes as he stares at you.
"All I know is, I love you.", Jungkook continues, his voice completely confident and firm, yet also soft and loving, and he reaches out to grasp your hands tightly, almost desperately, in his own warm hands. "I want to learn these things with you, Y/N. I want everything with you. The good and the bad, and everything in between."
You feel your eyes water at your husband's sincere words, his effect on you still the same even after years of marriage and dating, and you bring him forward to kiss him, even though it's more of a desperate clash of tongue and teeth than anything else.
You pull back after a few seconds to stare at Jungkook, stare at the man you love so dearly, the man you cherish in a place so deep in your heart that no one could ever replace. The human bunny you fell in love with all these years ago, with his soft black hair, his cute button nose you love to kiss, his plush pink lips that curve into that gorgeous smile of his, the shiny eyes that crinkle whenever he laughs at something silly you say.
"I Iove you too, Jungkookie.", you whisper in the soft atmosphere between you, pushing away the dark strands of hair from his forehead so you can drown even more in the eyes that hold all the secrets to the universe. "I'm sorry for all the stupid things I said."
"There's nothing stupid about being scared, love.", Jungkook mumbles, his own hands running down your long hair before pushing a loose strand behind your ear. "I'm scared too, but it's okay, because I have you. Don't be afraid to lean on me."
"I won't", you promise, letting Jungkook sweep you down into another lingering kiss, the taste of his lips so familiar to you, yet just as sweet as always.
You can't help but giggle when Jungkook's lips leave your own, instead sliding down your throat, leaving little butterfly kisses on the way down, and stopping at your stomach, just where the baby is, and leaving another gentle kiss there. "I love you too, my little baby".
"Hey", you whine playfully, staring down at Jungkook with a fake glare, "I'm your baby", you complain, crossing your arms in front of your chest dramatically.
Jungkook laughs, bunny grin back on display, and you feel your heart explode from the tremendous amount of love you feel, hugging the older man's broad chest to you when he says: "You're my big baby, and they're my little one. I love you both, my babies."
#bangtan#baby#BANGTAN SEONYANDAN#bangtansosodone#bts#BTS v#bts fic#BTS jimin#btsgif#bts army#TAETAE#kim taehyung#bts taehyung#jhope#bts jhope#jhope x reader#j hope bts#min yoongi#bts yoongi#bts rm#bts rm fluff#rm#rm x reader#Jung HoSeok#jungkook#jung kook#justin seagull#BTS jungkook#jimin#jin
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Chasing Baker
My Nana was my greatest adversary.
In an otherwise charmed life, Nana was an immovable force and the only legitimate challenger to my willpower. Not without the warmth one would expect from a grandmother, Nana could be sharp - like a sun-warmed pane of glass. Lesser hearts might have bent to me when I requested accommodation - but not Nana. Nana set a firm bedtime, insisted on efficient tooth brushing, and rather than negotiate with hair tangles, made short work of them in single, swift wrenches when brushing your hair. No nonsense. When you stayed with her - in one of two twin beds in a room made precisely for grandchildren - you often found yourself in bed with the lights out, with no real memory of having gotten there, swept away in the tide of your sheets. Nana was uncompromising, and no arena was more suited to our mutual stubbornness as the dinner table.
I grew up a notoriously picky eater. After a weekend at my Uncle Jerry's, my mom received a hardcover copy of "The Strong-Willed Child" from him as a gift. He had spanked me for not eating chicken nuggets. As evident by its title, the book was meant to coach my mother on parenting strategies for mitigating my innate obstinance. This would not be the only copy of the book my mother received. Though, I think she could have written one by the time I turned 4. I simply refused to eat the things I didn't like, and that was a long list.
A relative once applauded - clapped his hands together in joy- upon learning that I had graduated from having the crusts cut off my bread to full-blown sandwich eating. The peanut butter and honey sandwich was my signature dish and an absolute staple. I'd like to say I've grown out of it - and I've certainly grown having tried llama steak in Peru, lamb heart at the table of a Lebanese family, and Greenland shark in an Icelandic cafe - but it took me a long time to let go of my habits and permit myself to try, and it took some coaxing. My preferences ran deep.
My diet from ages six through eleven included Eggo waffles, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, an assortment of cereals, a handful of specific fruits and vegetables, and the occasional steak when mom thought my iron was low. My mom - on the advice of a pediatrician who told her that if she force-fed me, I'd develop an eating disorder - catered to this preference. Nana did not. They must have been seeing different pediatricians.
Nana took the clear your plate approach - The approach driven by reward and consequence. Finish your plate, cookies delivered. Fail to try, become hungry and hungrier still as dessert passes you by. I took to swallowing food whole, and my mom took to sending me with granola bars on visitations. She'd line the interior of my suitcase like we were smuggling drugs. I'll admit it was an unusual form of contraband, but the measure seemed necessary in a divorced child's duplicitous world. What my mom saw as nourishment, my Dad might see as undermined parenting strategy even under the best of circumstances - which they often weren't. I was hungry, so decided it best to keep things a secret and wrappers out of the trash.
Despite Nana's apparent best efforts, I avoided the eating disorder. Thanks to my mom, I avoided most foods until my early 20s. I don't know who was right. What I know for certain is that I was loved.
When I sat down with Nana after my trip to Mt. Baker, she clutched her heart as she said. "Ally - to think about you as this little girl - and that you would only eat peanut butter and honey sandwiches - to think of you climbing mountains…" she shakes her head, "… well I just can't believe it."
I started to laugh and asked her, "Want to know the best part?"
She nodded, smile in her eyes, full of that sunny warmth - playful and kaleidoscopic.
"I ate peanut butter and honey sandwiches up and down the side of that mountain, Nana," I told her, laughing, and then we laughed together. Growing up is fun, I thought, especially in moments like this.
Laughing with your grandmother is a gift you receive in exchange for time, and it is a beautiful gift indeed. Here is a woman who bathed you, clothed you, fed you - and by the time you're old enough to understand the magnitude of the life she held before all that, she is often gone. I'm lucky to have this time. Nana is 90 years old now, and my mother's mother passed at 74. I never got to have the conversations I wanted to have with my grandmother, who died. To ask her questions like, 'Who were you?' 'What lifetimes made up the love you gave so effortlessly away?'
There is something about mountain climbing that makes you consider those kinds of questions in real-time. There is something about mountain climbing that makes you feel as if you are in the process of 'becoming.' So when, at the parking lot of Grandy Creek Grocery, I met my fellow climbers and our guides - there was a feeling of anticipation and nervousness about who I'd be sharing that story with. Dropping me off, my mom described it like the first day of kindergarten. The first person I met was Sharon.
I had been worried about Sharon. Weeks before, on the pre-trip Zoom call, she stood out from the digital crowd as the most visibly senior person there. Sharon did not look old - she looked undoubtedly the oldest. I think this is an important distinction - particularly to Sharon. I remember thinking - "I hope she is not on my trip because I'm worried she will show me down." A very judgmental thought and the universe saw to its reckoning. Sharon surprised the hell out of me.
She paced the parking lot, and I jumped out of my rig to greet her. We quickly began commiserating. Baker would be her first mountain. I had Mount St. Helens under my belt, but it's not much in the way of experience. We talked about our training plan, recounting long drives to taller places. Sharon was from Wisconsin, and she had to drive 45 minutes to get to peaks at 3,000 - the same as me in Eastern Washington. We had a lot in common. Where I ran, she had been hiking with weight and jogging. Sharon wasn't afraid of hard work. On our drive to the trailhead, I learned that she had just lost 75 pounds last year. I learned later that when Sharon signed up for this climb, she hadn't told anyone in her family she was doing it. She was 62 years old and had never once traveled alone. What on earth possessed her to climb a mountain? I'd be afraid of that question, too.
Sharon eventually fessed up to her family and made the trip official. That's how we found ourselves on the side of a mountain together. I'm embarrassed to have been so fundamentally wrong - but my confession is not without meaning, and I learned an important lesson. Never underestimate a Sharon.
When Melissa, our guide, described Mt. Baker for the first time, she called it by its indigenous name, Komo Kulshan. She then gave us its epithet - "The Great White Watcher." Having now met Kulshan face to face, I can tell you that's precisely how he feels. The summit looms as you navigate through the trees. Stoic in the face of the wilderness that surrounds him. Ice cold, he waits. In the Lummi language, he's called 'white sentinel.' He is persistent, vigilant, and watching.
I focused my nervous energy on preparing to meet this mountain by learning what I could about him. I learned that Mt. Baker is 10,781 feet tall, an active volcano, and the second most glaciated mountain in the continental united states (Rainier's got it beat, and you don't count Alaska). It's a formidable mountain, known - as nearly all alpine environments are - for its quickly changing conditions and the perils of its geology. This all, somehow, frightened me less than the thought of meeting Melissa Arnot-Reid. Her legend loomed not in the Cascades - where only a single peak resides above the threshold of 14,000 feet by which the Rockies measure their formidable "fourteeners." Melissa's legend loomed as large as Everest, on who's summit she has been six times - the only American woman to summit without the use of supplemental oxygen and survive. 29,032 feet. Melissa was someone I wanted to learn from, and I was scared shitless of her by reputation.
Suffering a bit of social awkwardness around celebrities, I prepared to meet Melissa by seeking to learn nothing about her at all. The antithesis of my mountain strategy - I told myself our experience would be what it was when we met on the mountain. My job was to learn - to ask my questions courageously - and be vulnerable and bold in seeking truth. I spent a fair bit of time wondering if she might be an ass hole, too. The age-old adage, "don't meet your heroes," drifted in and out of my mind.
In the last 15 minutes of our drive to Grandy's, my mom started reading Melissa's Wikipedia page aloud to me as I navigated the road, undoing months of my concerted preparation. I let her continue, greedy for information. "It says she trains by depriving herself of things - that she'll go without food and water."
"Probably a good idea if you're ever going to be stuck on the side of a mountain without it," I told her. I braced myself for a response. In the past few months, my mother had a growing sensitivity around topics that might suggest I could die on the side of a mountain. Admitting, so blatantly, that mountain climbing was a dangerous sport left me vulnerable to excessive mothering accompanied by exclamations of "Don't you dare!" Instead, my mom sort of nodded and continued, "I'm surprised her baby came out healthy."
My brow furrowed. I hated my mother for saying it. I had avoided a lecture from the mother of the mountaineer but failed to account for the mother of the daughter aged-almost-thirty. My uterus is a topic of conversation around my mother's table. Apparently, so was Melissas. Not wanting to discuss either, I let my mother's comment go unchecked as she continued to list accomplishments. "This article says she's focused on business, not emotions. That she is an incredible problem-solver." Now her reports felt more like cheating - it felt like an unfair advantage to meet someone armed with publicly available information about them. When you Google "Allyson Tanzer," you won't find much about my disposition under pressure. I told my mom it was time to focus and turned up the music.
When we parked, and I went to introduce myself to Melissa, three things happened. As I introduced myself, she first quickly let me know that she would not be giving out hugs due to the pandemic. Then, taking my hand in a firm grip, Melissa detailed that she and our other guide, Adrienne, had critical guide business to discuss and would be with us in a moment. She reported being thrilled to be meeting us as she quickly dropped my hand. Within thirty seconds, I was apologizing profusely and backing my way into the grocery. What can I say - first time formally climbing mountains, and I wasn't sure of the protocol. I fiddled with a bag of Cheetohs and continued to hope that she wasn't just an ass hole.
I went to the bathroom for something to do and remembered what my mother said. Task-oriented. I figured Melissa probably didn't hate me, after all. Despite my earlier misgivings, I was grateful to know a bit about her character, regardless of how 'honestly' that information was obtained. Thanks, Mom.
Our climb began. We left Grandy's in a caravan and parked near 3000' at the winter routes trailhead. On the first day, you ascend to 6000' and establish camp. You carry about 40 pounds, walking 1 mile and about 1000 vertical feet per hour, stopping for 15-minute breaks in those intervals. Conditions are warm, which means you're doing something the mountaineers call "post-holing" - ramming deep holes (as if for a fence post) into the ground as you step through snow that's washed out underneath. It's slow-going and rigorous. An hour and a half in, Melissa reports that we're standing in the location where she usually takes the first break. Unseasonably warm weather with a heavy snow accumulation has made for an exciting start.
You walk along a canyon ridge formed by a retreating glacier. You realize that time here is not measured in the same cadence that it's known to you. Mountains measure time in millennium, not decades. The formations of rock are carved by years, not minutes. The ground holds a history you can't conceive of - an ancient history of rock and ice. You are constantly struck by feeling small both physically and in your very chronology. I spent the first day happily in awe.
At camp, you maintain - guides (and playfully designated junior guides), boil snow, establish a base, dig a toilet. You assess whether or not you need to poop in a bag and carry it down the mountain with you as you try - for the first time - a rehydrated meal claiming to be chili Mac and cheese. Melissa teaches us how to walk on rope over a glacier. I try to mimic her knots. She redefines your concept of efficiency - breathlessly describing a packing order that accounts for calorie intake, warmth requirements and weight distribution - Every contingency considered. When I win the Ice Ax Rodeo by landing my thrown ax in a particular configuration - all is right in the world. Melissa is a drill sergeant giving instruction. She outlines the next minute - next five minutes - next hour - next day.
Her matter-of-fact nature reminds me of something. When I gave my parents a ride in an airplane for the first time with me as the pilot in command, I provided them near the same briefing as we were parked on the ramp. It ended dramatically with, "And if anything should happen, you have to exit the aircraft first in the following fashion." At which point I launched myself from the plane. I wanted them to be prepared to fight their instincts to protect me. I’m the only pilot on board - and my job is to protect my passengers, no exceptions. They both described a sense of foreboding and peace at the demonstration. It’s precisely how I felt when Melissa explained how she would be rescuing herself from a crevasse. “If you fall, I get you out. If I fall, I get myself out, but I need your help as an anchor to do so.” She took the approach of coaching us in only what we needed for the next challenge. We would learn crevasse rescue on a need to know basis. At Grandy’s, she told us to expect 48 hours of endurance. At camp, we’re at hour 9. She painted a picture of the following day.
"We'll begin between 11, and 2 am. Expect switchbacks up the glacier, a series of flats, and gains over the next hour. In 3.5 miles, we'll gain an additional 2000 feet - meandering a path through the glacier's crevasses, and it will gradually become steeper over time. About 1.5 miles to the summit, we'll hit the Easton glacier culminating in the Roman Wall. Then, because God has a sense of humor, you have a long flat walk to the summit after the steepest portion. All said it will take us between 5-7 hours to the top."
Frankly, it was just about as simple as that.
My eyes opened at 11:50 pm to the sound of movement outside the tent. Melissa had coached us here, too. "You may not be sleeping," she told us as we readied for 'lights out.' Days from the summer solstice, the sun burned brightly above us at 7 pm. "Remember that you don't need sleep; you need rest. That's what you're getting here at camp. You're horizontal; your feet are out of your boots. Close your eyes, and know you're getting what you need." Felt like a lie, but sure enough, with two hours of sleep, I couldn't describe myself as tired.
I did, however, feel cold. Chilly night temperatures had crept into our tent, and dressing for the day was arduous. I knew to keep my clothes in my sleeping bag. It was a trick I learned from a friend made trekking in the Andes for dressing in the cold. I knew to shorten my trekking poles while climbing, thanks to my guide on that same trek. I'd be leaving my trekking poles behind today, though. Ice axes only. We divide into rope teams. The race begins, but there's no starting pistol - only wind.
Fifteen minutes into our climb and we're struggling to find the rhythm. I'm still shaking the bleariness of the cold. The rope between climbers takes on an interesting dynamic. While it connects you to your fellow climber, it also isolates you from them. You have to maintain a certain distance away from one another while maintaining the same pace. It's a dance with crampons on in glacial ice - a delicate dance indeed - and it's where climbing feels like a team sport. You're all in it together.
Voices rang out in sequence like a game of telephone - one of our team would need to climb down. We said short goodbyes and waited as Adrienne (guide) descended with climber to camp. We were lucky - we hadn’t been climbing long which meant Adrienne could climb down and back to rejoin her rope. Guide redundancy is a safety net when groups of climbers work together.
Darkness continued. We continued. As you persist, darkness seems to persist along with you. In the first hour, it grows heavy. Your world begins and ends at the light of your headlamp, and that's where you find it—your rhythm. Crampons crunching, breath steady, and the gentle swish of your layers create a sort of timpani, a medley of percussion sounds. Clink, brush, crunch, and clink, brush, crunch, as ax bites ice, the movement of your clothes, and the toe of your boot kicks crampon into snow propelling you forward. There isn't much to think about in this grinding meditation. You're grounded in tugs from ahead or behind you as you march, slowly up. You can count steps, miles, feet of elevation - whatever keeps you moving. Whatever keeps you going up.
Moments before sunrise, we would lose another on our team. I listened to Melissa coach her. "What we're headed to is going to be harder than what we've just done. If how you are feeling is taking away from your ability to focus on your next step - I can only tell you that it's not going to get easier from here." That's when I saw the decision on her face. Another round of goodbyes - this one a bit more somber. She had worked so hard.
The decision to descend is a difficult one, but it’s one of the most important you can make. There are steep consequences to being in over your head in a place so remote. The summit is a siren, beware. Melissa - aware of the remaining teams intention to summit - advised us to plug our ears as she told the descending climber the Sherpa belief that a mountain won't let you summit for the first time if it likes you. Mountains bring you back. Further, she coached, the decision to go down can lift an entire team's chance of success if you feel you're a liability. Recognizing yourself and your limitations truthfully is a mountain in itself. That's the summit this person made in her decision to descend.
Like a good Agatha Christie novel, our list of characters dwindled. We added layers and continued - five of the original eight. Melissa was right, again. After we lost the second climber, our ascent became a proper climb. From that point forward, if anyone decided to turn around - we would all have to. There was only one remaining guide, and she had to protect all her climbers, no exceptions - me in the cockpit all over again.
She didn't show it, but 62-year-old Sharon was genuinely frightened. She had realized the same thing I did. If she didn't make it - no one would. Sharon kept climbing. Remember when I was worried she would slow me down?
When the sun starts to rise, everything begins to feel possible again. I don't mean to say that things were hopeless, just that with the sun comes energy and a sense of renewal. Color returns to the landscape, and you can begin to be able to measure your progress concretely. The mountain casts a shadow across the earth, stretching miles. You can't believe that you are contained within that shadow, on the face of such a giant who stands so impossibly tall. Melissa stood there, and I took her picture.
She had turned out to be not an ass hole at all. Where I sought to be her student, she aspired to teach - at once brilliant and kind. Her stride - her sport - a work of art. The precise art of what she calls slow, uphill walking. Her shadow and the shadow of the mountain impressed upon me the power of legends.
As the Roman Wall came into view - I knew we had it. We short rope in and make one last push. If Mt. Baker is a joke from God, the ending of the Roman Wall is its punchline.
Atop the incline awaits a long, easy walk to a haystack peak some few hundred yards in the distance. I was bubbling with emotion as my heart rate settled and the view became clear. There wasn't much difference between where we stood and where we were going. We dropped our packs, unroped, and ran up the summit. I was in tears.
Melissa broke her no-hugs-in-the-pandemic rule and celebrated us each in turn. I snapped countless photos and spent each frozen moment smiling. I pulled Melissa and Sharon in close. I had felt something on my heart and only needed a moment's bravery to share it.
I started awkwardly.
"I'd like to say something to you and Sharon," I muttered, barely audible over the wind, as I tugged on Melissa's sleeve. I grabbed Sharon's arm and pulled her in too. I don't remember the exact thing I said or the exact way in which I said it. I remember pausing to make sure I got it right and wondering for a long time if I managed to do so.
I told them that I had come to the mountain expecting to be impressed by one person. Melissa promised an impressive education - on which she delivered. She is of that rare quality - the kind who’s presence improves you. I came to Baker with that expectation, I confessed, I expected Melissa. I paused before telling Sharon, her gloved hand in mine, “You?” I laughed nervously. “I wasn’t expecting. A 62-year-old woman….” I nodded back to Melissa, “And you, the mother of a 3-year-old…” I didn’t want to get this wrong. “You are two people who our society labels and confines. Yet, here you are - on top of a mountain. I have to tell you….” I was choked up in earnest here and struggled to continue.
"It matters.” I said. “What you do matters. It matters to have an example of what is possible. Both of you have provided that example to me and women like me. Thank you." I sobbed. "I am so grateful for it and grateful for you." Melissa smothered me in her jacket as she embraced me, once again, in a hug. Pandemic be damned. My tears froze. While I expected a "There's no crying in mountaineering" a la Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own (it was a climb of mostly women, after all) the admonishment never came.
Sharon grabbed hold of me next and we shared the alpine view. Before I knew it, we were the last two on the summit. The wind howled a steady cheer. Celebrations concluded, it was time to leave. I stayed for just a moment longer, watching Sharon as she left. They don't make anything more beautiful than a mountain, and it's a view worth savoring. I descended, joyfully, to my team.
I didn't bury Jake up there. In Ashes to Ashes, I told the story of taking my old farm dog's remains to the top of my first volcano. He's not so much a good luck charm as he is an omen of protection. I don't need luck as much as I need safety, and he serves his duty well. Jake stayed with me through our descent to camp. I needed a little protection coming down off the Roman Wall, I thought. I wanted him close until we were off the glacier. He lays now at the foot of my tent—a very good place for a very good dog.
There's a natural mindfulness to climbing. I often find myself living in the present step - not thinking about the route that lies below. You forget in moments that the trip up is accompanied by an equally long and perilous journey down. From the summit, your journey is far from over. Yet, time flies by even as you stop to admire the steam vents. The rainbow that surrounds the sun refracts joy and color the same.
You reach camp, celebrate, pack up. Miles and thousands of feet remain even from there. That's when you realize it's ending and when I realized I didn't want it to end.
We spent the next few miles getting to know each other in earnest, savoring time and mountain views, chatting in the way of long-form hikers - about the nature of things and through storytelling. Melissa regaled us with vulnerable truths and comedic parables. We laughed. I kept sipping at the wells of knowledge around me, drinking in the moments. Laughter distracted from hunger, from wet feet, and from the dull and dim realization that all good things must come to an end. We made our way to the bottom of the mountain. Just like that - we say goodbye.
Sharon drove me back to Grandy's. We chitter like school girls - adrenaline and nostalgia collide in our post-climb delirium. We talk about the future. I realize that we are good friends. I am humbled by just how wrong a person can be to believe something about someone for no good reason.
Mom picks me up, and with her embrace my adventure is over. I’ve come full circle - safe and sound, parked in the lot of Grandy Creek Grocery.
Melissa found us there and knocked on our window.
"Your daughter is really special. The MOST special,” my hero and friend told my mom. Mom beamed with a special pride reserved exclusively for mothers of strong-willed daughters. I had been misreading things - the adventure had only just begun.
There are eight years between Melissa and I. I’m not sure I’ll be chasing Everest in that time, but I know I won’t be finished. I’ve got thirty-three years to catch Sharon at 62. In the mountain blink of sixty-one years, I’ll be as old as my Nana and I hope at least half as wise. Good thing there are so many years - for there is so much left to climb.
#mountaineering#mountains#travel#adventure#adventurephotography#traveling#travelblogpost#mountainclimbing#mt baker
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My Brilliant Career in Chicago Pro Wrestling: A True Story
Damn, I could have sworn I’d posted this 2015 Night Flight story, which remains the funniest thing I’ve ever written. Every word is true.
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In the early 1970s, before Vince McMahon’s World Wrestling Federation (today World Wrestling Entertainment) turned professional wrestling into a pay-per-view cash cow, pro grappling was a wide-open game run by maverick regional promoters and catering to lunatic fans. I got to experience this incredible world intimately: For two years, I served as “publicist” for the promoter in one of the biggest wrasslin’ towns in the country, Chicago.
I was fresh out of college back in 1972, and returned to my old room in my mother’s apartment in Evanston bearing a seemingly worthless bachelor’s degree in English and no immediate prospects for gainful employment. Fortunately, my father believed in nepotism.
After a long career as a TV executive that had garnered him two Peabody Awards, my dad was then the general manager of WSNS, a Chicago UHF station that broadcast on Channel 44. It was a low-rent operation that my old man helped legitimize by securing telecasts of White Sox games. (He loathed Sox announcer Harry Caray, who would get hammered out of his skull while working in the booth, and rightly thought major league screwball-turned-color man Jimmy Piersall was out of his mind.)
Though such questionable WSNS programming as a daily late-night weathercast delivered by a buxom negligee-clad blonde stretched out on a heart-shaped bed was a thing of the past, colorful holdovers from the old schedule remained. And thus my dad called me one day to say he could get me some part-time work doing PR for Bob Luce, the local pro wrestling promoter, who mounted the weekly show All Star Championship Wrestling on the station.
Naturally, I was hired on the spot at my first meeting with Luce, who was something of a legend in Chicago sports circles at the time. Chicago Sun-Times columnist Bob Greene captured had him perfectly in a famous column in which every sentence ended with an exclamation point.
Stocky, florid of complexion, and as loud as his off-the-rack sport coats, the outsized Luce was the dictionary definition of the word “character.” You’d sit down with him in a restaurant, and the other diners would duck and cover. Constantly agitated and gesticulating wildly, his stentorian conversation was a manic torrent of hype and madness, punctuated by explosive laughter than sounded like a machine gun going off next to your ear.
Fittingly, before joining the wrestling biz, Luce had edited a tabloid, the National Tattler. Like the National Enquirer of that frontier era, the rag made its bones with totally fictitious “news” stories featuring lots of cleavage and outré bloodletting. At one lunch, to the very evident embarrassment of the neighboring clientele, Luce regaled me with the tale of one inspired Tattler cover story, which I will recount Greene-style. Imagine it at full volume: “I got this idea, see, for a story about a sex orgy! [He pronounced “orgy” with a hard “g,” as in “Porgy” of Porgy and Bess.] But it had to be a different kind of orgy! So I got my wife Sharon to take her clothes off and covered her with peanut butter! And we took some pictures, and the lights were HOT, and the peanut butter melted all over her! They were great pictures! We called it – ha ha HA! – ‘PEANUT BUTTER ORGY!’”
Luce had graduated to promoting pro wrestling events in Chicago and other Midwestern markets, in partnership with the American Wrestling Association’s star attractions, Verne Gagne and Dick the Bruiser, of whom more in a moment. (His sweet, funny, but definitely tough wife knew the business: She had wrestled under the name Sharon Lass.)
As the noisy host of All Star Championship Wrestling, Luce would interview the stars of his upcoming promotions, show footage of recent contests, and pump the next matches. Thrusting a finger at the camera in one of his windups, he would shriek, “BE THERE!!!” Ever the sales impresario, he also served as the show’s principal pitchman, appearing in tandem with some of his hulking charges -- and occasionally with special guest hucksters like former heavyweight champ Leon Spinks -- to spiel for a long line of sketchy local advertisers. They are among the greatest and most hilarious commercials ever made.
As Luce’s publicity rep, commanding a monthly paycheck of $200, I was charged with lightweight duty: writing and mailing press releases promoting the bi-weekly Friday night matches at the Chicago International Amphitheatre, assisting the WSNS camera crew at the gigs (sometimes by protecting their extra film magazines from flying bodies at ringside), and calling in the results of the matches to the local papers. (The last task proved to be the most onerous. I’d ring up the local sports desks late on the nights of the matches and harangue some half-drunk, bored assistant editor whose interest in the “sport” could not have been more infinitesimal. When I finally managed to get the Sun-Times to print the results of one match, I felt as if I’d qualified for a Publicists Guild award.) I also performed certain functions for Luce when he was out of town or too busy to handle them. One weekday afternoon I accompanied Superstar Billy Graham, later a big WWF name and a sort of proto-Hulk Hogan, to Wrigley Field, where he was interviewed by nonplussed announcer Jack Brickhouse between innings of a Chicago Cubs radio broadcast.
Every other week for nearly two years, I’d take the El down to the Amphitheatre, located on Halsted Street on the far South Side, adjacent to the old Chicago Stock Yards. (I held onto the job even after I secured a similarly nepotistic but full-time position – writing about cheap component stereo systems for Zenith Radio Corporation.) The antique, immense Amphitheatre had hosted big political conventions, auto shows, circuses, rodeos, and concerts by Elvis Presley, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin, but Luce’s dates at the venue, as you will see, attracted a distinctly different class of customer.
The pre-match staging area, where I’d meet Luce and the crew, was the Sirloin Room of the adjacent Stock Yard Inn, not far from the site of the old South Side cattle slaughterhouses. This is where Luce’s employees and pals would also convene before the night’s entertainment began to swill a couple of cocktails and shoot the breeze. It was a cast worthy of a Damon Runyon story.
Luce employed a bodyguard, a towering ex-Chicago cop named Duke, who had reputedly shot six men before being relieved of duty by the PD. He stood about six-four and dressed exactly like John Shaft. He emanated an aura of extreme menace. Once, when I asked him what he would do if someone actually started any serious trouble, Duke wordlessly pulled back the lapel of his full-length leather coat to reveal a shoulder holster bulging with a .44 Magnum.
The promotion’s bagman, charged with collecting the night’s cash receipts, was a diminutive cat everyone called Bill the Barber. I never knew his last name, but he did in fact run a South Side barbershop. He’d invariably show up dressed in a sport coat that looked like a TV test pattern and a skinny-brim fedora, with watery eyes that sometimes flicked nervously above his pencil-thin mustache. He kept a .38 strapped to his belt.
Many nights, a mysterious character referred to only as “Carmie La Papa” would put in an appearance. This elderly Italian gentleman was always treated with great deference and ate on Luce’s tab. I never found out exactly what he did. But he looked a lot like the mobster played by Pasquale Cajano in Martin Scorsese’s Casino, and I thought it wise not to inquire about his line of work.
There were also bona fide wrestling groupies, well-stacked, slightly haggard old-school broads who draped themselves on the bar, sipping pink ladies. One night, Luce leaned over to me in the Sirloin Room and said, in a whisper that could be heard 20 feet away, “After the matches, these girls and the guys go to a motel up in Prospect Heights, and they have orgies.” (Again, pronounced with a hard “g.”) The most popular of these was reportedly Gloria, a tall, pneumatic redhead of uncertain but rapidly advancing age; Luce confided, “She will do anything.”
The matches themselves were something to behold. I’d usually watch them in the company of WSNS’s young, jaded camera crew, from the dilapidated press box high above the ring in the center of the Amphitheatre. The crowd – thousands of poorly dressed, myopic, malodorous, and steeply inebriated men – was a product of what may be called the pre-ironic era of pro wrestling. There was no such thing as a suspension of disbelief among these spectators. Disbelief did not exist. Though the matches were as closely stage-managed as a production of Richard III, these rubes accepted every feigned punch and bogus drop kick as the McCoy.
Pro wrestling is the eternal contest between virtue and evil, and the wrestlers were identified in equal number as good guys and heels. Most of the good guys on the undercard – there were usually half a dozen matches, with one main event – were young “scientific” wrestlers whose Greco-Roman moves were no match for the brazenly illegal play of the dirty heels, who almost invariably won their bouts with tactics that would not pass muster with an elementary school playground monitor, let alone a legitimate referee. About the only one of these “babyfaces” (or, alternatively, “chumps”) who was vouchsafed an occasional victory was Greg Gagne, son of the promotion’s star attraction and part owner.
By the early ‘70s, Verne Gagne had been wrestling professionally for more than two decades; drafted by the Chicago Bears and then rebelling against team owner George Halas’ prohibition of a sideline on the mat, he had chosen the ring over the gridiron. He was 46 years old when I started working for Luce; he was still in decent shape, and, unlike almost all of his opponents, he still had all of his teeth.
I only managed to spend time with him once. For some reason now lost in the dense fog of time, Luce dispatched me to meet Gagne at the elegant Pump Room of the Drake Hotel near Lake Michigan. There, as cabaret star Dorothy Donegan serenaded us on the piano, the 16-time world heavyweight wrestling champion of the world got me brain-dead drunk, and then poured me into a cab home. He was an excellent guy.
Many of the other good guys on Luce’s undercards were reliable patsies for the baddies. Pepper Gomez, one of the domestic game’s few Mexican stars, was a venerable attraction who was allowed the rare triumph; billed as “the Man with the Cast-Iron Stomach,” he once allowed a Volkswagen Bug to be driven over his gut on Luce’s TV show, where he was a frequent guest.
One of my favorites was Yukon Moose Cholak. Then a veteran of 20 years on the mat, Moose owned a bar not far from the Amphitheatre, but he still worked regularly for his close pal Luce in the AWA. Huge, pot-bellied, and benign, he boasted a ripe Sout’ Side accent rivaled only by Dennis Farina’s. He was hardly an exceptional combatant: He moved around the ring with the fleetness of a dazed sloth. He was a regular on Luce’s show, and often appeared with the host in his TV spots.
The only time I appeared as a guest on All Star Championship Wrestling, Moose was the victim of the on-camera carnage that was a requisite feature of the show. At the time, conflict of interest be damned, I was writing a column about wrestling for a short-lived local sports paper called Fans, and was brought in to lend something like legitimacy to the proceedings. Luce offered me a chair on his threadbare set to push a forthcoming match between Cholak, who appeared on camera next to me, and Handsome Jimmy Valiant, a new heel on the rise in the market.
I figured something ugly was going to happen, but I went about extolling the virtues of Moose’s nearly non-existent mat skills in the front of the camera. Suddenly, Valiant crept up from behind the black scrim behind us and whacked Cholak over the head with a metal folding chair. To this day, I believe my expression of outraged surprise was worthy of a local Emmy, but a nomination eluded me.
I was actually very fond of Valiant, whom I interviewed with his “brother” and tag team partner Luscious John Valiant for Fans. Jimmy was a peroxided, strutting egomaniac in the grand Gorgeous George manner, and he had some classic patter: “I’m da wimmen’s pet and da men’s regret! I got da body wimmen love and men fear! And you, you’re as useful as a screen door in a submarine, daddy!” A rock ‘n’ roll fan, he went on to a very successful solo career, appropriately enough in Memphis, the capital of all things Elvis.
After Gagne the elder, the AWA’s biggest attraction was the tag team of Dick the Bruiser and the Crusher. Bruiser had gotten his competitive start as a linebacker for the Green Bay Packers, but had been a top wrestling draw since 1955. Somewhere along the way, he had been converted from heel to hero, and the Chicago fans adored him. Among the merch sold at the Amphitheatre were Dick the Bruiser Fan Club buttons; measuring six inches in diameter, they could either be pinned on one’s chest or, with the aid of a built-in cardboard stand, be displayed as a plaque. I kept mine on my desk at my straight job to freak out my co-workers.
Early in my gig with Luce, I was taken to meet Bruiser in the locker room. He sat on a table smoking a huge cigar. When I was introduced to him, he exclaimed, “Hey, you’re Ed Morris’ kid? You got more hair than your old man!” My father, who was in fact almost completely bald, had been known to associate with winners of the Nobel and Pulitzer Prizes. I was a little surprised that he ran in Bruiser’s circle.
The Crusher’s career in the squared circle dated back to the late ‘40s. I was even more impressed by him than I was by the Bruiser, for he had been the inspiration of the Novas’ wrasslin’-themed single “The Crusher,” a huge 1965 radio hit in Chicago for the Minnesota garage band the Novas (and later eloquently covered by the Cramps). Bruiser and Crusher were a unique combo: They were “good guys,” but they earned their keep by being badder than the “bad guys” they gutter-stomped.
The villains in that era of pro wrestling were often the object of atavistic xenophobia and hatred. Long before the U.S.’s conflicts in the Middle East, the Sheik (né Ed Farhat in Lansing, Michigan), who took the ring wearing a burnoose, was among the most reviled of heels. Some of the older fans were World War II vets, and they lustily booed Baron von Raschke, who climbed through the ropes with a monocle in one eye, draped in a Nazi flag. He was actually a U.S. Army vet born Jim Raschke in Omaha, Nebraska. His fake German accent was utterly feeble.
The AWA’s all-purpose villain, who would go on to bigger things as one of McMahon’s first WWF stars, was “Pretty Boy” Bobby Heenan, dubbed “the Weasel” by the Bruiser. Heenan was featured in his own matches, but he was most reliably entertaining as a manager, of the most duplicitous and cowardly variety, in another villain’s corner. You didn’t need a script to know what was going to happen: Just as it looked like the good guy was going to triumph, Heenan would leap into the ring and smash the apparent victor’s head into a turnbuckle or hit him over the skull with a water bucket.
Heenan featured in the most outrageous story I heard during my brilliant career in wrestling. One night I was sitting with the film crew when Al Lerner, the mustachioed, shaggy-haired, bespectacled WSNS sports reporter, entered the press box with a portable tape machine on his shoulder and a stunned look on his face. “I’ve interviewed people in front of burning buildings,” Al said. “I’ve interviewed people as they were jumping out of airplanes. But I’ve never interviewed anyone while they were getting a blowjob.”
It seems that while Al was in the locker room recording some audio bites from Heenan, a voluptuous girl standing nearby walked over to the wrestler, kneeled down in front of him, pulled down his trunks, and began giving him the kind of pre-match service Mickey Rourke probably dreamed of but never received. As she went about her business, Heenan continued to spout invective to Al as if nothing extraordinary was transpiring. With that moment alone, Bobby Heenan earned his place in the Professional Wrestling Hall of Fame.
I visited Heenan in the locker room on a somewhat less eventful evening, but that night I learned the secret of many pros’ mat success. As I was talking to him, I noticed that his forehead was crosshatched with tiny scars, some of them new and still livid. I later mentioned this to one of the crew, and was told that these wounds – referred to as “juicing” -- were actually self-inflicted, so that the wrestlers could easily draw blood during critical moments of violence in their matches.
As Heenan said in a later interview, “If you want the green, you gotta bring the red.” Gore was a staple of pro wrestling, and there was nothing like sitting in an arena filled with 10,000 or 15,000 crazed spectators and hearing a drunken chant go up as a good guy pummeled a heel to the mat: “WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD! WE WANT BLOOD!”
My last hurrah in pro wrestling was one of Luce’s rare alfresco promotions, a multi-bout 1974 card at old Comiskey Park, the White Sox’s stadium, which climaxed with a 16-man battle royal. I don’t remember who triumphed in the main event, but I do remember that someone on the crew brought a bat and some softballs along, and we ended the evening shagging fly balls under the lights where Nellie Fox and Luis Aparicio once played.
The outlaw era of regional pro wrestling is a dim memory for most. The racket would get wilder after I left it: In an interview with Nashville wrestling figure Jimmy Cornette, Heenan said that a fan at a 1975 Amphitheatre match pulled out a pistol and began firing at him, but the shooter only managed to wound four people in the rows in front of him.
McMahon’s WWF brought the regional promoters’ day to a close, pillaging most of the big names in the game in the process. Today, the WWE has been displaced in popularity by the even gaudier UFC contests. Most of the stars I met – including Bruiser, Crusher, and Cholak – are dead now. Heenan, a throat cancer survivor, has been in poor health for more than a decade. Verne Gagne died this April; in 2009, suffering from dementia, he accidentally killed a 97-year-old fellow resident in a Minnesota assisted living facility. Even the old stomping grounds are gone: The Chicago Amphitheatre was razed in 1999.
Bob Luce passed away in 2007, but his wild-ass legacy may live on via an unlikely champion. There are many analogs between pro wrestling and rock ‘n’ roll, and this April, mat mega-fan Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins announced on Twitter that he had bought Luce’s memorabilia and an archive of 9,000 vintage wrestling photos. Maybe he and former Hüsker Dü front man Bob Mould, a fellow wrasslin’ aficionado who once worked for McMahon as a writer, can make something of it. That would rock.
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Newt, being the New England trash that he is, insists on taking Hermann to a baseball game that’s totally not a date...
secret baseball fan newt is so fun. i made the opposing team my team because we may be bad but gotta represent and they can win in my fantasies 😔 also will newt starting college when he's like 12 ever not be funny to me? no
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“It’s the great American past time,” Newton says. “Like--I don’t know. Cricket for you. Right? A cultural thing. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“Technically speaking, Newton,” Hermann says, feeling very much like he does understand, and that he is very much on the right side of the argument here, “you’re not American either.”
Newton laughs. “And thank fuck for that! Okay, these are our seats.”
Their seats are--perhaps predictably--stiff, uncomfortable, and grimy, though Hermann’s thankful Newton was conscientious enough to book them ones designed for disability access. But Newton stops him with a hand to his chest before he can so much as take a step towards it and begins digging around in his tote bag. “What is it?” Hermann says.
“One second,” Newton says, and then--pulling a large, thin something out--laughs triumphantly. “Cushion! For you. More comfortable.”
Hermann takes it. It’s torn in one spot, its white padding poking out, and looks as if it’s seen better days. “‘MIT Dad’?”
“I played Little League in college,” Newt explains with a shrug. “I wasn’t really good, though. The pitchers always threw the ball over my head. Come on, sit, sit.”
The MIT Dad stadium cushion is placed over Hermann’s seat, Hermann’s cane is tucked comfortably to the side, and they sit down. Newton immediately begins digging in his bag once more. “Oh, I almost forgot! You need one of these.”
He presents Hermann with a Red Sox cap that matches his own. Hermann takes it gingerly. “Are we rooting for the same team, then?”
“Obviously,” Newton says. “I’d have to stop speaking to you if we weren’t. Kidding!”
He gives a loud, fake laugh, one that makes it clear to Hermann that he was not, in fact, kidding. The only thing that Newton takes a fraction as seriously his work is baseball: Hermann doesn't think Newton ever missed listening to a Red Sox game on the tiny, cannibalized radio they kept in their laboratory. “Thank you,” Hermann says, a bit awkwardly, and slips the cap on. It’s too big.
Newton insisted they show up abysmally early, so early they were the first in their entire section, and they watch Newton’s team practice as other spectators finally begin to file in. Newton is already fidgeting. “Should I get us beer now? Or later? I have peanuts in my bag--”
“Peanuts?” Hermann says.
“Tradition,” Newton says. He suddenly stands up. “Okay. Okay, I’ll get us beer and see if I can snag you a score card from somewhere. It’s a lot of, like--paying attention to numbers, and addition, you’ll love it.”
He scurries out of their aisle and past two men wearing the opposing team’s colors, though he stops--briefly--to scowl at them. They scowl back. Hermann desperately hopes a repeat of the last World Cup Germany played in isn’t in store for tonight: Newton became so excitable that he got into a shouting match with a j-tech and ended up with a rather furious black eye. Potential injury aside, Hermann really just doesn’t fancy holding an ice pack to Newton’s face for hours on end again. “Be quick!” Hermann calls after him.
The two men in orange and black sit further down Newton and Hermann’s row. They give Hermann a dirty look, too. Right--the hat.
Hermann will admit that this is not how he expected the weekend to go. A brief stopover in Newton’s hometown between speaking engagements--surely (Hermann thought) that meant an awkward dinner with Newton’s father, Geiszler family photo albums dug out of storage and presented to Hermann proudly, perhaps a tour of Newton’s old campus. But all Newton wanted to do was go to a bloody baseball game, his first in a decade--and he wanted to go with Hermann. Hermann couldn’t really begrudge him the request.
“Got the beer,” Newton declares proudly. He hands one large plastic cup to Hermann, then digs around in his pocket and produces the promised scorecard and a golf pencil. He’s penciled in the team names: Red Sox, surrounded by exclamation marks and underlined thrice, and Orioles, with a frowning face to the left of it.
“Don’t you think I ought to pick a side independent of your bias?” Hermann says, staring down at it.
“It's not a bias if I’m right,” Newton says.
“But the other mascot is much more interesting than yours,” Hermann says, casting a glance down at the opposing fans Newton had a run-in with earlier. A little cartoonish oriole smiles back at him from their own caps. “It’s a bird, not--someone’s laundry.”
Newton’s expression darkens. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that for the sake of our friendship. Peanut?” He holds a plastic bag out to Hermann. Hermann shakes his head; though, secretly, he can’t help but feel a bit pleased Newton implied they were friends. “I can get you other food if you want? They have big hot dogs and stuff. I’ll pay for anything you want.”
“I’m fine,” Hermann says.
“Anything. I’m serious.”
“I’m fine,” Hermann repeats.
He takes a large sip of beer so Newton will stop scrutinizing him. It’s not exactly to his taste: Newton prefers the lighter sort, IPAs and the like, and can never seem to understand that someone (in this situation, Hermann) might prefer something else. Though it's not as if any American beer is up to Hermann’s standards, to be frank. “You have a foam mustache,” Newton says, and wipes off Hermann’s upper lip with the cuff of his sleeve.
Hermann blinks at him. “Ah,” he says. “Thank you, Newton?”
They share a few seconds of strangely tense eye contact. Then Newton shakes his head. “Laundry,” he grumbles. “Unbelievable. Wait, it’s starting! Shut up!”
It turns out Newton’s behavior during baseball games is far, far worse than his behavior during the World Cup. He shouts and cheers himself hoarse; he holds one-sided arguments with the umpire; he boos so obnoxiously someone two rows back throws a peanut at him to shut him up; he grabs Hermann’s arm after every mildly interesting play, wrings it, and excitedly recaps it with commentary, as if Hermann himself hadn’t witnessed it only seconds prior. Hermann must admit Newton was right about his being amused by the scorecard, however, and after the fifth inning (when the Red Sox are leading by two runs) a high-spirited Newton treats him to a second beer he actually enjoys. Not even an awkward singling out by the kiss cam--in which they stay motionless, Newton blushing so furiously he looks like a freckled tomato, and Hermann avoiding eye contact so intently his eyes begin to sting--could put a damper on things, nor even Hermann inadvertently catching a fly ball while Newton--who’s been trying, fruitlessly, the entire game--is out getting him that second beer.
It goes downhill after the sixth inning.
“That was the worst playing I’ve seen in my life!” Newton hollers as they wait by their T stop a few hours later. He’s long since ripped off his hat in disgust, and Hermann saw him eyeing the trash bins contemplatively with it in hand on their way out of the stadium. “Fucking ridiculous! Can you believe it, Hermann?”
“Mm,” Hermann agrees.
“I shell out a fortune for these tickets,” Newton says, “and--we fly all the way from fucking Hong Kong to watch them lose!”
“We flew here because we were asked to give several guest lectures,” Hermann reminds him.
“Whatever,” Newton says. “Ugh. This is the worst! My first game in over ten years--”
Perhaps it’s because the sensation of Newton gently brushing foam off his lip lingers even now, hours later, or perhaps it’s because he can’t stop thinking of what could’ve happened if they hadn’t botched up the kiss cam, or perhaps it’s merely because he wants Newton to shut up, but (in a fit of desperation) Hermann suddenly finds himself seizing Newton by the collar of his oversized Red Sox t-shirt and kissing him until his shocked, undignified squeaks turn pleased. Even then, Hermann kisses him a bit more.
Newton’s eyes are as wide as saucers when Hermann finally pulls away. “There, now,” he says, and pats Newton’s cheek. “The night wasn’t all so terrible, was it?”
Newton shakes his head. He does seem remarkably cheered up.
“I might even go as far as to say I had fun.”
“Oh,” Newton squeaks. “Good.”
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Emily in Paris episode 4, or how I never got that thing about peanut butter
It's been a long time since I had revisited Miss Cooper's adventures in Paris, and many of you are over it anyway, but I was asked to go on with this so, why not? For that I had to rewatch again episode 4 and be reminded of one of its better characters/reasons to watch/whatever you want to call her. Camille. Oh I love Camille. Just like I love Sylvie. It's harsh, when in a series your least favourite character is the main one. Isn't it? but let's take a look to episode 4.
At the beginning of this episode we find our heroine trying to communicate with a very mysantropic flower seller. As we discover few minutes later, it's not that she's hostile with Emily and wants to give her a bouquet of wilting roses because she's a bubbly American but because she hates humanity. This last part is relatable but it's not good to have a job when you have to confront it constantly. Calm down Madame.
Fortunately a young, gentle Frenchwoman shows up and comes to Emily's rescue, not in a shining armour but with a smile the size of Jupiter. Evil flower seller is defeated and Emily walks away with this charming stranger and a perfect rose bouquet. Our new character's name is Camille, and she speaks good English because she watched a lot of series in her childhood. That's why we Spaniards are legendary bad at speaking other languages I guess. Everything is dubbed! Including this episode when I rewatched it. Not a copy in the original language available right now for me. Disappointing, I know.
Camille also invites Emily to the art gallery where she works at and where a famous hotelier is supposed to show up, along with other people from Chicago. Emily is a fan - its a bit weird to be fan of a hotelier, but who am I to judge - , definitely, and wants to meet him. It's also a good professional occasion, probably. The two girls part ways after accidentaly kissing on the mouth. Emily apologizes. Camille is not sorry at all and disappears from scene, big shining smile and all. We agree and are not sorry at all.
Back at home she finds the packages she was expecting from home have finally arrived. Gabriel helps up to take all that stuff inside her apartment. Unfortunately for her, the peanut butter exploded and has made a mess of what looks like a pile of magazines and the framed photo with her ex. Gabriel makes that unmistakable face. Peanut butter? Yours truly, having spent her childhood and teenagehood watching movies and series from the other side of the Atlantic, always wondered what was that thing. When finally tried it it was... so weird. Maybe it was the brand, maybe it was the concept. Who really knows. Whatever, let's go on.
(Yes, he makes that face, the face of a puzzled European I meant).
Also, I am sure Emily can find that thing in Paris, too. I live in a not very big town in Southern Spain and that thing can be found in our supermarkets. So why not in Paris? Big question that the series doesn't answer, tho, because Gabriel proceeds to ruin peanut butter forever with a simple omelette. Well done, Gabriel. But it's time to go to the office, isn't it?
So here we are, with Antoine and Sylvie clearly in the middle of an argument. While claiming she hopes she's not interrupting, Emily does interrupt the scene. Remember that thing from the last chapter when she claimed she had given up in her quest of being universally liked and/or being friends with everyone including her boss? Yeah, nevermind, that's in the past, it no longer matters. Emily tries to mediate and says Randy Zimmer (that's the hotelier's name) is overjoyed to hear Antoine's company is creating an exclusive scent for his hotels.
Sylvie goes on with Emily's lie, even if we can see she's not happy and later states - while throwing the bouquet or roses she just gave her as a "happy Tuesday" present on her desk - that she doesn't need to be rescued, and she doesn't want to take credit for ideas she doesn't know if she really likes. Sylvie is always the voice of reason and adulthood here. She teases her about the lingerie thing, tho. Emily claims her new friend Gabriel gave it to her.
I don't know about Sylvie, but Luc and Julien clearly don't believe that last bit, as they say clearly to Emily over the lunch. This is a dysfunctional workplace, she complains. Hey, smart girl, you are causing all the drama, Julien answers. His mood during the entire scene is exasperated. They tell her how Antoine and Sylvie became lovers in the first place, and warn her not to come between them. I don't think Emily has that intention.
Later that same day, Mindy is full of chaotic energy. Who cares if Antoine is married and with an official misstress? Why is Emily so disperate about becoming friends with Sylvie - yeah, Mindy, why, many of us are questioning that part of Emily's behaviour - why don't just enjoy Antoine's attention? What's more, why doesn't Emily introduce her to Antoine, since she doesn't care about what's her name? Is Mindy shipping Emily and Camille? Yes, she's one of us.
Our favourite French girl is there and warmly welcomes Emily, introducing her to Randy Zimmer who, clearly, goes to the same hairdresser than Antoine. No, really, I have certain difficulties to make the difference between the two, if Randy was wearing a suit with a tie I couldn't tell. As Camille and her fabulous bun walk away, Emily behaves like a dork with Randy. She has memorized his interviews and all. Is a bit awkward, but who am I to judge about memorizing completely irrelevant things in interviews. Randy goes from feeling a bit awkward to intrigued to totes wanting her card and finding her proposition interesting. By the way I really liked these paintings.
Randy shows up the next day at Savoir, and after smelling fragances all they agree they could go on talking about the deal with Randy's hotel empire over a good dinner. Sylvie decides to put again our heroine in difficulties by asking for an impossible reservation. By the way, I love her outfit. Sylvie, not Emily's. As she tries to do her best, Emily confronts Antoine over the lingerie thing. She clearly says it's inappropriate which is a thing I can agree with, he says he bought it for her not for him (eeeeh... are you all right?)
Even in front of the restaurant Sylvie is esceptical Emily really succeeded in her mission of doing that reservation. As usual, she's right. Emily got the dates backwards and made a reservation for November, not August. It should have been easy to find that bit of information online, as most of the world follows another datation system. Fortunately Emily lights the Gabrielsignal on and he comes to her rescue again.
The dinner is, as expected, a success, since we are in the last minutes of the episode a.k.a. in the Emily is saved time. There's a deal, Antoine is very happy with Savoir AND Sylvie. Even the latter makes a compliment to our heroine as they leave after the dinner. Less enthusiast individuals would have felt overjoyed in her place, so it's not strange that Emily decides to thank Gabriel for saving her ass, even if it's with another part of her body, that's is, her lips. Gabriel doesn't seem to object to this.
But, oh surprise in this Paris that is like "a little town" (ok... series... I am rolling my eyes at you again) a she goes out of the restaurant she bumps into our dear Camille, all smiles and charm. It turns out that she is Gabriel girlfriend. Ouch. This could be solved with a civilized chat and our three characters, that, we are about to find in the next chapters, get along together, being happy with this situation and riding into the sunset while enjoying themselves. Yeah, the three of them. Writers, unfortunately, have decided otherwise. But that's another story and will be told in another post.
#emily in paris#I am very late to the party but I don't really care#next time I am watching it on the original language promised
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