#CHRIS-mas came early this year

[nightowl822]

Chris at the opening night of Zach's new play "The Cult of Love" on Broadway at The Hayes Theater on December 12, 2024 in New York City.

[chunghasweetie]

Haiii i've never submitted a request so bare with me.

What do you think about a criminal jk who's been in prison for over a year (don't know what crime u can pick honestly) him and y/n are in a established relationship and she's been waiting all this time for him to get out. Anyway he comes home and yk.. i'm sure you can get the rest ;)

𝐖𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐘 | J.JK

— pairing | fem!oc x criminal!jjk

— summary | (sorry it took so long!🩷) jungkook’s been locked up for 4 years and he’s finally back to see you !

— warning | bad writing (i’m doing my best)

unprotected sex, cursing, praising, daddy kink, dirty talk, crying, fluff(?)

— word count | 3.5k words

— song suggestion | wrong in the right way — chris brown

It was his first night freed from his 4 year jail sentence. After having a buddy drop off his car on the way to her, he was finally there.

Locked up for assault and battery and countless other charges he was finally free and finally able to see his woman again.

His tatted, muscular body stood at her doorstep, “Fuck,” He exhaled, taking a drag from his cigarette.

He was anxious to see her after endless phone calls and letters for years. He surprised her a day early. He finally stopped thinking about it and knocked at her door.

“Coming!” She hurried down the stairs, not expecting any guests at that hour.

She was in her pajama outfit, hair lightly curled and her face bare beside some eye brightener.

She opened the door, and she had almost gone into shock.

She came to a full body pause, color practically draining from her face when she seen him. “J-Jungkook!”

Jungkook's eyes softened at the sight of her, seeing the tears. He stepped forward, grabbing her in a tight embrace.

“I missed you so fucking much Y/n.” He mumbled into her hair. His hands ran up and down her back, holding her close.

She sobbed, “You bastard! Why didn’t you let me know you got out early?! I would’ve picked you up, done my makeup better, took you to dinner—“ She rambled.

Jungkook pulled back, gazing down at her with a smirk.

“Because I wanted to surprise you, Y/n. And you look fucking perfect just like this.” He ran his hand through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Finally face to face with my queen.”

“Fucking come in.” She sniffed. “All standing here in my doorway.” She hurried him in.

Jungkook stepped inside, his eyes scanning the apartment.

It looked a lot different than what he had remembered. It was a lot more modern and a bit girly. But it still felt like home.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. He followed her to the living room, his eyes locked on her as she walked away from him. He couldn't help but grin.

He was finally home.

“Missed you so much” She sniffed. “I didn’t fucking plan anything— Shit. You gotta be hungry right? Are you cold?”

“Relax baby. I didn’t expect you to be completely ready tonight,” He wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her close to him.

“But yes, I am fucking starving. Even thought I just wanna sit here and hold you.” He nuzzled his face into her neck, breathing in her scent.

“No baby— Gotta take care of you first. Probably want to eat good. Prison must’ve been so rough.” She pouted, babying him.

“Yeah, it was. But nothing's worse than being away from you, ma. You know that, right?” He pulled away from her, turning her around to face him.

He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs rubbing against her soft skin. “I missed your smile, your laugh, your attitude. Everything Y/n.”

“I missed you more than you could imagine Jungkook.” Her lip quivered. “So much.”

“I know, ma. You always made sure I know. You were always the one person I could count on, even behind bars.” He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers.

The kiss was soft and gentle, but it held a depth of passion that only they could understood. “I love you.”

“I love you more. So much more.” She kissed him back, “I’ll cook for you. I’ll show you to our room— I fixed it up for you!”

She led him upstairs, rushing him due to her excitement. “Are you ready to see it?”

“I'm more than ready, ma. I've been dreaming of this moment for so long. I've missed our bed, our room, all of it."

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "You look stunning, ma. You've never looked more beautiful to me."

Their room looked more homey and relaxing. She bought him a whole new closet full of clothes and shoes to his liking.

“I bought you some new ashtrays to put on your nightstand.” She told him. “There’s some lighters down there too.”

“You're spoiling me. And I’m more than grateful. I can already smell the smoke wafting through the air. You know me more than anyone." He grinned, running his hand over the new clothes.

"I love what you've done here, ma. You really outdid yourself for me and I couldn’t thank you more.” He added, thanking her once more.

“Anyrhing for you. I wanted you to come home and feel comfortable and relaxed.” She smiled.

“Now go shower, change, whatever you need to do to get all that prison time off your skin.” She laughed. “I’m gonna go downstairs and cook you some food that’ll knock you the hell out.”

Jungkook smiled, pulling her into a deep, passionate kiss. "You're the best, ma. I love you so fucking much." He whispered, giving her earlobe a gentle kiss before pulling away. "I'll be down in a few.”

“Take your time baby. Really.” She pecked his cheek, hesitant to leave him while she walked down to the kitchen.

Jungkook grabbed her hand before she could walk away, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"Thank you again baby— Seriously." He gave her a reassuring smile, squeezing her hand gently.

She left him and headed back downstairs, prepping dinner for him.

“I’ll miss you!” She called out from the kitchen, blushing and giggling in excitement.

She couldn’t believe he was really out of prison.

For years she spent everyday fantasizing and day dreaming about him finally living at home again. For him to actually be here was ground breaking.

She had devoted herself to that man the entire time he’d been away. Her friends would try to encourage her to see other men to fill in the gaps of his absence but she absolutely refused.

She had many opportunities. She was a beautiful woman.

But no other man could ever compare to Jungkook.

She started preparing a quick yet savory meal for them to eat while he was showering.

She had prepped wonton soup for the actual night of his arrival but she had enough ingredients to make it for him tonight.

Jungkook was upstairs. He stripped down to his white tank, revealing his well-built, tattooed body.

He smirked at himself in the mirror, satisfied with how much he had grown during his time.

He turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature to his liking before stepping in.

After scrubbing and shaving after what felt like forever, Jungkook hummed to himself as he stepped out the shower, feeling refreshed and anew.

He dried himself up before wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped into the kitchen where his girl was. “Smells amazing baby, what is it?" He kissed her cheek, leaning on the counter.

“I made a homemade wonton soup with a side of rice.” She smiled, “You look clean. Someone’s already comfy back home.”

Jungkook chuckled, “With everything you’ve done, you made it easy.” He grinned as his stomach growled, looking down at himself.

“Go put some clothes on and dry your hair. You’re gonna get sick. I laid out clothes on the bed.” She instructed. “Use my hairdryer in the bathroom. Should be hung up in the bathroom.”

She took care of him and she tried his best to always pamper him. "Yes ma'am." He smiled, standing up and giving her a soft kiss on the cheek. "I'll be right back, baby."

Jungkook went back to the bathroom and dried his hair then put on the clothes she laid out for him.

He took a look at himself in the mirror and smiled. He had been evaluating their home since he arrived, she had really good taste.

He walked back into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing her neck and inhaling her scent once more.


Couldn’t get enough.

“So much better huh baby?” She hummed, lost in his embrace.

“Definitely, baby. You always make me better." Jungkook whispered in her ear before giving her a soft and lingering kiss.

He reached for the food she was cooking, but she stopped him. “No. I’ll serve you. Go sit down.”

“Body” He obliged, not able to help it but steal another kiss before sitting down to eat with her. "This smells amazing, love."

She served him his soup along with a cup of jasmine hot tea.

She placed his bowl and cup on his side of the table. She served herself after him, sitting across from him. “Let me know if you like it. Too hot, too cold, too spicy, too salty. Anything like that.”

Jungkook blew on his soup before taking a spoon full, burning his tongue a little bit but he didn't care.

He was just desperate for a home cooked meal.

"This is so fucking good, Y/n… like really fucking good." He glanced up at her, giving her a little smirk before taking another bite.

“I’m not just saying that either.” He munched, lost in the taste of his food.

She laughed, “Glad you’ like it.” She enjoyed her soup across from him.

Jungkook finished his soup, but didn't finish his whole bowl of rice.

He sat back and took a sip of his tea. "So how was your day today? Besides making me the best fucking soup I've ever had?"

“I just spent today prepping for you to get here. Cleaned all day.” She exhaled.

“Was the rice not cooked right? You didn’t finish.” She looked at him, concerned a bit at his action.

Jungkook shook his head. "The rice is fine, love. It's just not my favorite thing to eat."

He took another sip of his tea and reached under the table, squeezing her knee. "It’s all I ever ate when I was in there— not really my favorite at the moment."

“Oh my gosh!” Her eyes widened, “I wasn’t even thinking!”

“Baby you make rice with every meal. It’s like muscle memory for you.” He chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. You’re too cute to worry.”

“It’s my man’s first night home from prison. Of course your opinion matters to me.” She sighed.

Jungkook smiled at her and looked down at his empty bowl. He reached for her hand and glanced back up at her. "You don't have to care about anything when it comes to me. I’m amazed by everything you do.”

“Mm so sweet.” She blushed, “Go relax.” She seized their bowls, washing them in the sink.

Jungkook laughed, "I just want to make sure you're happy too. Wouldn’t want my baby like that in her own house" He stood, slowly making his way around the kitchen island.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and moved his lips to her neck, giving her a soft kiss. "Smell so good baby. Can’t get away from you.”

She blushed at the close proximity, continuing the dishes.

Jungkook pulled away from her neck, his eyes glancing over her face. He enjoyed seeing her blush more than he thought he did.

"What's going on in your head? You can tell me you know." He leaned against the counter, watching her intently.

“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I’m just happy you’re here. More than happy I’m just— thankful.”

She started getting emotional, blinking back tears. “I just thought— I thought you’d have to stay longer.”

Jungkook walked towards her, his finger pushed her chin up, making her look at him.

"Don't cry on me now, damn baby. Making me feel guilty.” He wipes away a tear that fell down her cheek with his thumb. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

“Sorry sorry” She apologized, fanning herself.

Jungkook smiled, pressing a kiss to her forehead, moving her to clear her teary eyes. "Don't apologize for showing your emotions to me. I love how much you care for me."

“You smell so good too.” She hummed against him. “Better than that nasty fresh out of prison smell.” She laughed.

Jungkook grins, sniffing himself to remind her of the smell she meant, his arms squeezing around her. "If you thought it smelled bad..."

He kisses her cheek, “Imagine when I wasn't this clean for four years.” He teased, laughing.

“Ewww.” She giggled, “I’m okay not thinking about that.”

Jungkook chuckles, pulling back to look at her, cupping her cheek and wiping away loose tears with his thumb. "You're so cute."

He was laughing again. "Y/n, I missed you... I really fucking missed you. I don’t care how many times I told you tonight.”

“I missed you too Jungkook— Writing and calling you definitely isn’t as good as having you here at home with me.” She admitted.

Jungkook smiles, his eyes bright with happiness. "Yeah, I know... I fucking hated the phone. But-" He takes her hand in his.

"Being here now, being able to show up in the morning and see you again and again will make up for it all." He flashes her a wide grin.

“Four years was such a long time.” She groaned, walking out from the kitchen and walking up to their bedroom.

Jungkook nods and follows her, watching her hips sway as his thoughts drift to more primal thoughts.

He felt bad for wanting to get straight to it. But she had been teasing him in those

"It was. But hey-" He says from behind her. He wraps arms around her mid-section. "I'm here now. Should we get to it? Break our bed in together?"

“Oh my gosh you’re so annoying” She smacks his arm, “Go put on a movie while I change. You’re gonna be scrolling for a minute. I’ll be back.”

Jungkook laughs and lets go, jumping onto the bed. He grabbed the remote off the nightstand, surfing through the different streaming services.

He hadn’t seen anything like this in quite some time, but he already knew what he was looking for. She was definitely wrong about him scrolling for a minute.

She changed into a pajama set, being sure to show off a bit by leaving some buttons undone.

She knew what was gonna go down tonight, she just wanted him to wait for it.

She made her way back to the bed, resting her body beside him closely. “What’re we watching?”

“Starting tonight we’re gonna watch every Marvel movie made since I got locked up.”

“Are you serious?” She groaned. “That’s an insane amount of movies.”

“But,” He pouted cutely. “Your baby has been locked up for sooo long.”

“I hate you.”

He wraps arms around her mid-section, resting his head on her waist. "You know you love me, ma... and I sure as fuck love you."

“I love you more” She laughed and pecked his lips, playing with his hair as they watched the first movie together.

Jungkook hums in contentment, closing his eyes and letting her play with his hair.

Throughout the movie, Jungkook couldn’t help but grow more and more desperate.

He was on edge for the past few months. In prison they called and wrote letters but recently her letters had been more

Seductive.

Letters that consisted wordy details of her burning desire and unstoppable urge to have him.

“One more? Please? Last time really.” He pleaded.

“Fine.” She pecked his lips.

A few minutes later.

“Please?”

“Okay.” She pecked his lips.

More minutes go by.

“One more? Last time really.”

“Ugh fine.” She groaned, pecking his lips once more.

“Fuck I can’t take it." He groans as she pecks his lips, unable to help but leaning in and making out with her as their movie plays in the background.

“Don’t know how you expected this to go when you look like this.” He mumbled against her lips, mouth getting messier. “Wanna fuck you so bad.”

“Need to make love to you since you got locked up” Her kisses grew more demanding.

Jungkook flips them over, pinning her down onto the bed and kissing her harder in return. "I needed you to fuckin' kiss me that hard when I was locked up.”

His hips buck up against hers, grinding his hardened cock against her thighs. “Dreamt about this every fuckin’ night.”

“I know baby fuck— me too” She grunted.

Jungkook reaches over to unbutton her pajama pants, before sliding them down her legs slowly— trailing kisses down her thighs as he does. "Take 'em off, baby. I wanna see how fuckin' wet you are for me already."

“Wanted dick since you got locked up— Been wet since you got released.” She couldn’t help the bashful expression all over her.

Yeah?" Jungkook grins, slipping his fingers underneath her panties and teasingly spreading her lower lips, his fingers slipping and teasing over her clit. "And how wet are you actually baby?"

“Fuck” She could cum at the contact alone. “S-So wet.”

Jungkook snickers, slipping a finger deep inside of her and pumping it in and out slowly, moaning at the tight and hot feeling around his fingers. "Fuckin' wet and tight girl hm? Huh baby?"

“F-Feels good daddy” The sensual nickname slipped from her lips, making his ears ring at the sweet sensation of her voice.

Jungkook groans at that nickname, thrusting his finger in and out of her faster now. "Shiiit, baby, you know I love it when you call me that."

He then pulls his fingers out, sucking them clean. “Love the way you taste. Needed that for years.”

“C-Can’t take it” She whimpered at the feeling of his retracting fingers.

Maybe it had been too long for her. By herself it took a good amount of work for her to get off but this was ruining her in seconds.

Jungkook smirks at that, pulling his pants down, his already hard length flopping out. "You’re gonna take it good baby?”

“Daddy please—“

“Is that all you got?" Jungkook taunts, teasing her entrance with his tip. "Beg some more, or you ain't getting this dick."

His dominant and demanding voice was coming back into play, almost better than what she remembered.

“Want it so bad. I’ll take it good, I promise.” Her voice cried, “So desperate.”

Jungkook groans at her begging, slowly pushing inside her. "Mmm fuck— so damn tight, just like that baby.”

“Take Daddy's dick." Him fully entering into her in a slow, but deep pace.

Her chest rose as he slid inside her. She swallowed, adjusting herself to his length.

Jungkook smirks at her reaction, gripping her hips as he begins to thrust in faster, a low moan leaving his lips.

“Missed this wet ass pussy” He stared her down. “You miss that, baby? How Daddy fucks you like this?"

“Y-Yes”

“Fat ol’ ass and huge ass tits— And a pretty face. God, you're so fucking hot." Jungkook grunts, picking up the pace, thrusting harder and faster.

The sound of skin on skin filling the room, making sure to hit that sweet spot. "This what you wanted, huh baby?

“All I-I wanted— all I needed.” She whined out. “Fucking amazing.”

“I thought I was desperate." Jungkook growls, slapping her ass hard. “Such a pretty girl. Didn’t try to play me once.”

The room is filled with even louder wet slaps of his hips against her ass and his smacks. His thrusts becoming more erratic, his cock growing desperate for release.

“All for you, all yours. Been with no one but you.” She moaned, truthfully speaking.

"Good girl." Jungkook leans forward, nipping at her neck before whispering in her ear.

"Say my name, Y/n. Who's dick are you on?" He grips her throat.

“Fuck! Yours Daddy! Yours!” She was a mess on his cock, eyes rolling back.

“That’s my girl. All fucking mine.” He was watching as her body shudders from his touch.

He admired the way she was breaking down in front of him, going dumb on his dick.

The way her body twitched, he knew she was growing closer.

He watched her, clearly enjoying her lack of breath. The way she squirms, his to control and use.

"Gonna cum on daddy’s dick baby? Gonna let go for me?" He's almost there, wanting to finish strong.

“Want your cum— Need it.” She whimpered, eyes growing teary from the overwhelming pleasure. “Please daddy.”

“So fucking hard to say no to you." Jungkook snorts, pounding into her mercilessly. He was seeking his needed high so he could cum right with her.

The couple both reached their orgasms, moaning each other’s names before giving in and cumming together.

“Fuck— so in love with you.” Jungkook grunts, emptily filling her up. He catches his breath, panting with her.

She could hardly get out of the bed because of him, she was limp.

She was shuttering from her orgasm. Her legs were a trembling mess.

He watches her collect herself, loving the sight of her. The way she looks so used and satisfied, only at his hands.

Once she was all together, she got back in bed with him, kissing and chucking with him as the two panted together.

“I still got it.”

“Goddamnit Jungkook.” She hid her face. “Yes- you do.”

[nancydrewwouldnever]

I feel like the majority of his impetus behind ASP was his disgust with Trump. It feels like it was his more physical manifestation of his anti-Trump stance, beyond his tweets of the time. I feel like once Trump lost re-election in 2020 his politics interest started waning big time.// I noticed this too. I started questioning it ever since he brought the idea forward and doing interviews about it. It felt like a vanity project against trump with interviews of not so great republicans. Then once trump started going downhill and lost, his interest in it has almost disappeared. I wonder if he feels like he accomplished anything with ASP. I don’t think we’ll ever know but from the outside looking in, it doesn’t feel that way to me. However I do think it could’ve been a very decent political site if there was just more of a long term focus and determination about it. He’s just not a person who has that, in my opinion.

So, obviously, I'm using some older asks still in the inbox to spur some things I'm thinking about while I have asks off.

While I do believe in the loss of interest after Trump was out of office, I also want to talk about what ASP might have accomplished for Chris, even half-heartedly.

Let's not kid ourselves that ASP was not a cog in the wheel of a larger PR persona soft pivot strategy. Let's take a look:

The Wired Interview, January 2020 (clock when the interview actually happened though, October 2019 in L.A.)

So this was done not too many months after the Hollywood Reporter Interview of early 2019 that also teased the "quasi-retirement" angle and talked about ASP as well:

So, like any good business venture, using the year previous to launch to tease out the product. (The product being the reinvented post-Marvel Chris Evans.)

Then, a feather in the cap that would have hit at the same time as ASP's initial launch, had it not been for Covid, the Time Magazine May 2020 inclusion article:

But, to me, the real big score for any politico, a write-up in The Washington Post, October 22, 2020:

They even came to his MA house for the photoshoot, due to Covid.

The rebrand/pivot continued into 2021, post-election, but pre- him going back to more regular filming scheule. The Newsweek article, June 18-25, 2021 cover edition:

So, here we had it, the real gain from ASP, the post-Marvel all-grown up new Chris Evans PR persona. Yay.

Too bad whatever personal life decisions he made half-way through 2021 completely blew this up.

I would have liked to have seen where this version of Chris could have gone. (And I guess we'll never see this again, because he seems to have no interest in it anymore.)

[secretswiftymarvelfan]

Hi

I hope it's not to late to send in a headcanon for your birthday

How would the Chris characters would react to reader being on her period.

It’s never too late! Especially for you 😘 and thank you for sending in a prompt! Its been a while since I’ve done a Chris and Co. Headcanon!

Warnings: Period talk! Language!

Masterlist

Send me some Birthday headcanon and Drabble Prompts

Chris Evans

With his job and schedule it meant Chris couldn’t always be with you when mother nature came to visit

But that would never stop him from trying to help you feel better

He would order stuff to be delivered to the house, like your favourite icecream, snacks and even a new set of fuzzy comfy PJs

Whenever he got the chance he would FaceTime you and help distract you

And if you were in a real need of a pick me up he would text his ma and ask if she could bring you some of her cooking which he knew you loved

Andy Barber

Since Andy was a busy man with a very important job you never wanted to burden him

But no matter how busy Andy got with a case he would always notice when something wasn’t right with you

And even when you tried your hardest to play it down and act as normal but Andy knew your tell tale signs, he could just tell by the tone of your voice

So he made sure to leave the office on time or early if he could, pick up some more supplies and head on home

He would cook you a glorious meal and then you would curl up on the couch together watching whatever film or TV series you wanted

Mechanic!Curtis

Curtis knew just how bad your periods could get, the both of you having to cancel plans just because it was that tough on you

But despite how bad they could get, you never let them stop you from working, your patients needed you

So when you got home Curtis made sure your evenings were as easy as they could be

He had comfy clothes already laid out, hot water bottle’s ready to be filled, heating pads, a couple flannels in the fridge for your headaches, and meds all ready

As soon as you stepped inside he would swoop you up into his arms and wouldn’t let you lift a finger

You’d often end the evening laying between Curtis’ legs, your head on his chest as he read whatever book you we’re currently reading out loud to you

Biker!Ari

He knew something was up as soon as he stepped inside the bar

Your brows were pinched together and you weren’t your usual self, a lot more closed off than normal

He tried to ask you multiple times what was wrong but you waved him off each time, but Ari was persistent and he wasn’t gonna let this go

So he kept asking, right up until you practically bit his head off “Ari I swear to fucking god! It feels like I’m being ripped to shreds from the inside out I do not need you badgering me like a five year old!”

Ari didn’t say anything he just stood from his stool and walked behind the bar, your eyes wide with shock as he towered over you

“Go lie down for 30 minutes I’ll cover the bar” he states.

“Ari no, I’m fine” you sigh tiredly, running your hands down your face

“No, you’re not, go lie down” he says putting his hands on your shoulders “30 minutes at least”

You let out another long sigh, your shoulders dropping “fine, thank you Ari” you finally said

Ransom Drysdale

To begin with Ransom was pretty useless

He would just let you deal with it since he had absolutely no clue how to help

He didn’t know what really changed but one day he saw you really suffering, holding back tears suffering, so enough was enough he had to do something

Pulling out his laptop he began googling everything he could before heading out to the shops to get what he needed

When he got back he found you up in bed, curled up in a ball

“I brought you some stuff kitten” he says putting multiple grocery bags down on the bed

You frown sitting up and looking through all the bags “Jesus Ransom did you buy the whole store?”

“Maybe I just wanted to get anything you might need, I’m sorry if I’ve been pretty useless” Ransom apologises.

You smile softly over at him “thank you Ransom, its the thought that counts”

“Well from now on tell me what you need and I’ll sort it” he swears

“All I need right now is for you to hold me” you admit

Ransom doesn’t hesitate as he climbs into bed next to you and pulls you into his embrace “anything for you kitten”

Lloyd Hansen

Lloyd actually was useless

It didn’t affect him so he didn’t care

He would leave you to it, throwing you his credit card

“Just use that for whatever you need or want” he’d huff as he leaves

So maybe he did care, just a little bit

SEND ME SOME BIRTHDAY PROMPTS!

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Masterlist

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[dustedmagazine]

Learning to go out again:  Jennifer Kelly’s 2022 in review

Meg Baird plays Chicago

Meg Baird calls it “people practice,” the ordinary skills that we require to interact successfully with other human beings. Small talk, the appropriate amount of eye contact, a certain minimal degree of comfort in crowds: these are all things that eroded in the pandemic.  And going even further, I’d add we ran short of “leaving your living room practice,” the difficult process of readjusting to unpredictable environments again. I got really bad at that in 2020 and 2021.

So, while 2022 was, in many ways, a joyous return to the norm, it was also deeply uncomfortable. Again and again, I’d show up far too early to shows and avoid talking to strangers.  I’d mistake soundchecks for music. I’d get bands mixed up and think the opener was the headliner or at least the second band. It was like I’d never been to a show in my life.  But gradually, over a year that was really genuinely rich in opportunities to see live music, I started to remember why I loved it — and how to be marginally less annoying to everyone around me. And I got to see some wonderful performances.

There was James Xerxes Fussell’s intricately re-arranged Americana on the eve of a blizzard in January and Jaimie Branch’s mesmerizing Anteloper just a month or so before she died. Our local festival, Thing in the Spring, once again delivered incredible abundance with Lee Ranaldo, Myriam Gendron, Jeff Parker, Tashji Dorji and others all taking turns on the stage. I experienced the twilight magic of Bill MacKay and Nathan Bowles on a back porch in Northampton as the bats darted overhead, as well as the viscera-stirring low tones of Sarah Davachi at a three-story-tall pipe organ at Epsilon Spires in Brattleboro. I got to see one of my very favorite bands, Oneida, at a club in Greenfield, MA, late in the year. I saw my friend Eric Gagne’s band Footings expand Bonny Prince Billy’s songs into epic, twanging bravado. Yo La Tengo came to my tiny little town and tore the place down.  In Chicago for my birthday weekend, I got a chance to hear Meg Baird and Chris Forsyth at a whiskey distillery on the Chicago River. It was a great year. I’m so glad I was there for it.  

It was also an exceptional year for recorded music as, honestly, it always is. Here are the records I enjoyed the most in 2022, but don’t pay too much attention to the numbers. The order could change tomorrow, and I may very well discover more favorites in other people’s lists.  (We’ll have a Slept On feature at some point early in 2023.) I’ve written a little bit about the top ten, but you can find longer reviews of most of them in the Dusted archives. I’ve linked these where available.

1. Winged Wheel—No Island (12XU): An underground-all-star remote collaboration melds the hard punk jangle of Rider/Horse’s Cory Plump, the unyielding percussion of Fred Thomas, the radiant guitar textures of Matthew J. Rolin and the ethereal vocal atmospheres of Matchess’ Whitney Johnson in a driving, enveloping otherworld. Just gorgeous.  

2. Oneida—Success (Joyful Noise): The best band of the aughts has dabbled in all manner of droning, experimental forms in recent years, but with Success, they return to basics.  “Beat Me to the Punch” and “I Wanna Hold Your Electric Hand” are gleeful bangers.  “Paralyzed” is a keyboard pulsing, beat-rattling psychedelic dreamworld. Success is Oneida’s best album since Secret Wars and maybe ever. (I wrote the one-sheet for Success, but I would feel this way regardless.)

3. Cate Le Bon—Pompeii (Drag City): Eerie, madcap Pompeii refracts pandemic alienation through the lens of ancient disaster, floating narcotic imagery atop herky-jerk rhythms.  Abstract and experimental, but also sublimely pop, Pompeii haunts and charms in equal measure.  

4. Destroyer—Labyrinthitis (Merge):  Dan Bejar is always interesting, but the COVID lockdown seems to have shaken him loose a bit. Labyrinthitis is typically arch, elliptical and elegant, but also a bit unhinged. Hear it in the extended rap that closes “June” or in the manic disco beat of “Suffer” or oblique but perfect wordplay in “Tinoretto, It’s for You.”  

5. Horsegirl—Versions of Modern Performance (Matador): Horsegirl elicits a lysergic roar that’s loud but somehow serene, urgent but chilled. The trio out of Chicago were everywhere suddenly and all at once, as sometimes happens to bands, but on the strength of “World of Pots and Pans” and “Billy” I suspect they’ll stick around.  

6. Jake Xerxes Fussell—Good and Green Again (Paradise of Bachelors): An early favorite that refused to fade, Good and Green Again considers old-time music from a variety of angles, often incorporating more than one version of a traditional tune in a seamless way.  The music is lovely, made more exquisite still by James Elkington’s arrangements, which are subtle, right and unexpected.  

7. Lambchop—The Bible (Merge): Stark and lavish at the same time, The Bible catches Kurt Wagner at his morose and mesmerizing best. Surreal sonic textures—including orchestral flourishes and autotuned funk beats—wreathe his weathered baritone, as he traipses through ordinary landscapes turned strange and warped.  

8. The Weather Station—How Is It That I Should Look at the Stars (Fat Possum): Tamara Lindeman drew on Toronto’s vibrant jazz community to form her band for this sixth album as the Weather Station. The band improvised alongside here as it learned the songs. As a result, these songs have the usual pristine folk purity, but also a haze of late night sophistication in elegant runs of piano and pensive plucks of bass.  

9. The Reds, Pinks and Purples—Summer at Land’s End (Slumberland): Glenn Donaldson is pretty much the best at bittersweet jangle pop right now, and this wistful, graceful collection of songs about life’s dissatisfactions is every bit as good as last year’s Uncommon Weather. Plus it’s got a seven-plus minute improvised guitar piece right in the middle, what’s not to love?

10. Tha Retail Simps—Reverberant Scratch (Total Punk): Montreal’s Retail Simps make ferocious garage rock with a bit of soul in its tail feathers. “Hit and Run” sounds like a lost Sam and the Shams b-side and “End of Times – Hip Shaker” with having doing exactly that. If they ever remake Animal House, here’s the band. 

25 more albums I loved: 

Non Plus Temps—Desire Choir (Post-Present Medium)

Joan Shelley—The Spur (Important)

Mountain Goats—Bleed Out (Merge)

The Sadies—Colder Streams (Yep Roc)

Spiritualized—Everything Was Beautiful (Fat Possum)

Superchunk—Wild Loneliness (Merge)

Hammered Hulls—Careening (Dischord)

Kilynn Lunsford—Custodians of Human Succession (Ever/Never)

Oren Ambarchi/Johan Berthling/Andreas Werliin—Ghosted (Drag City)

Green/Blue—Paper Thin (Feel It)

E—Any Information (Silver Rocket)

Sick Thoughts—Heaven Is No Fun (Total Punk)

Pedro the Lion—Havasu (Polyvinyl)

Pan*American—The Patience Fader (Kranky)

Weak Signal—War & War (Colonel)

Frog Eyes—The Bees (Paper Bag)

Pinch Points—Process (Exploding in Sound)

LIFE—True North (The Liquid Label)

Mary Lattimore & Paul Sukeena—West Kensington (Three Lobed)

Wau Wau Collectif—Mariage (Sahel Sounds)

Vintage Crop—Kibitzer (Upset the Rhythm)

Anna Tivel—Outsiders (Mama Bird)

Chronophage—S-T (Post-Present Medium/Bruit Direct Disques)

Sélébéyone— Xaybu: The Unseen (Pi)

Zachary Cale—Skywriting (Org Music)

Jennifer Kelly

[vasiktomis]

Four-Letter-Words (18+)

Banner art by @minilev - thank you so so much for all the inspiration! please check out and support their works!

Pairing: Travis Hackett/F!Reader (No use of y/n). Rating: Explicit (Minors do NOT interact). Word Count: ~11000 Warnings: Needless plot to justify what occurs. Priest kink. Abuse of power/authority. Depictions of unsafe sex. Read it on Ao3 Here! | Support me on ko-fi

Tags: Catholic guilt, Unreliable Narrator, Pining, Light Angst, Bickering, Abuse of Authority, Premature Ejaculation, Cunnilingus, Church Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Cops aren't allowed to top, Not even when they're in priest au, Loss of Virginity, Unsafe Sex, Improper Use of Catholic Rituals.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Over the course of his career, Pastor Hackett has gone to great lengths not to pass judgement on the people around him.

It hasn't always been an easy feat; in fact, he’s pretty sure one of the Lord’s favourite ways of testing him are with temptations of hatred. From the threatening bitterness of a life devoted early-on to his position in the church, to the present diminishing town and parish over the years — to the curse his niece and nephew had inadvertently unleashed onto the town — just to add further threat to their already-struggling community. There's no shortage of ammunition to keep his constitution on its toes, but he sure does his best to carry it all with at least a little poise. Everyone has their problems, he tells himself. It is what it is. It'd be pure arrogance to say God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers, so the furthest Travis ventures is: at least the man upstairs made damn sure the Hacketts knew how to hunt before bringing a werewolf into their lives.

He’s done his best to be a humble man. Haughtiness came as naturally to him as it did the rest of his family, but Travis was willing to lean into the pride of having risen above it. There was no hating those altruistic kids for trying to do good for another soul, regardless of what it cost them all. Regardless of the days Travis closed the church doors early to dedicate to sleepless nights of hunting for the kid who'd cursed Caleb, who'd then passed it on to Kaylee and Chris — of bearing the failure and guilt of returning to his congregation, ignorant to the danger they were in. There was no hating the circumstance of a failing economy and the looming reality that North Kill parish might soon have to close its doors for good. One day, all that might be left of the county he'd devoted himself to are the bones of those they'd failed to save. The too-inquisitive tourists that posed too much of a risk for Ma and Pa to ignore (and he's thankful — so thankful — that his family haven't had to dispose of any churchgoers in the same fashion). 

Travis had chosen this life. It’s impossible to hate the tests he willingly endured; and that's all it is. 

Just a test.

You, on the other hand – 

You’re difficult not to hate.

Especially during times like this. 

He’s already forgotten the name and face of the last parishioner once they’ve taken their leave and you’re undoubtedly next in line. He’s known your position since the liturgy began; since the congregation lined themselves up to take part in mass and he was almost sure he’d find you remaining in your seat. Ever since you stood up, he’s been counting down how many times he’d have to run through the routine until you were the one across from him, and oh, he does not like that. 

Travis busies himself with shuffling through wafers (not exactly Covid-safe, but neither are the billions of germs that have been breathed all over his hands) before either of you can make eye contact. In his periphery, you kneel — a show of devotion — and his skin crawls. Yeah, okay, alright, he might actually hate you. How scarce you've made yourself in the church lately. How lax you’ve become with your faith; and yet, here you are. Pretending otherwise.

Officially, you’re not doing much wrong. Not everyone can devote their whole lives to the church. That’s for people like him. Despite the growing infrequency of your presence, you’re still making an effort, and according to the church, this should be enough. 

Not to Travis, it isn’t.

Something curdles in him at the sight of you settled before him once he’s turned around. Your gaze meets his, and he can just about swear he sees through you. Were it not for the implications, he’d call it disloyalty. Week after week, your randomised attendance flags total, impending disappearance.

One skipped sermon, and he’s scanning the pews for someone who knows you, who can tell him you might be ill today.

Travis makes an effort not to roll his jaw when he presents the wafer to you. Time slows as his pulse quickens. It feels like his blood is simmering. 

Two, and the skin on his neck prickles for the entirety of the service. His words sharpen while he reads to the congregation, halfway caught between acting as an indiscriminate messenger of God and wondering ‘where are you, why haven’t you shown up, why do you keep doing this to him?’. 

“Body of Christ.” He grits.

Three weeks, and he’s at least left with some sense of clarity that you might not come back. There’s an ache that comes with that thought, but he can at least convince himself to deem it liberating. Without the thought of you — without your presence — he doesn’t feel like he’s betraying his own vows. He can carry on simply mourning the loss of you with his faith intact. He can convince himself that his concerns stem only from an inability to provide spiritual guidance and not from however much time he spends staring into empty space, projecting lewd images of you because no it’s not like that,  it’s not,  it’s not like that–

…

Then, you’ll show up again, and it’ll all fall apart. 

Your mouth opens, and Travis is certain he hates you. 

“Amen.”

Liar.

You’ll come back to him without any explanation of where you’ve been. Seat yourself at the back of the room during a sermon, or place yourself in the centre of a group when he’d otherwise have the ability to speak with you one-on-one. 

The only time he gets with you alone is the few seconds of communion with an entire room of people watching, all too conscious of the extra milliseconds he could favour you with by accident and cause some observant member of the congregation to wisen up to how badly he wants to be alone with you like this. 

Travis’s thumb grazes an incisor, and the shiver that creeps through him is alert enough that he needs to wrap this up quickly. For a millisecond, he can feel the resistance of muscle as he presses the wafer to your tongue — and then he draws away, sharply casting his gaze over your shoulder to call for the next parishioner and have you ushered the hell away from him.

You stand and return to your seat so promptly that he nearly forgets to recite for the next-in-line, ignorant to the thoughts he is desperate to escape.

Yeah, Travis decides. He hates you. Especially during times like this.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Travis takes it upon himself to find his way to you after the service. 

The sun is closing in on its midday peak and whatever frost had gathered on the lawn overnight has melted into a dewy shine he just knows he’s going to hate scrubbing out of his shoes later. The anxiety tightening in his chest is a regular occurrence, despite the cheery weather; Travis has never been a sociable man, and holding conversation with the congregation is more challenging than reciting to a silent crowd. 

Today, the feeling is amplified.

An aborted effort is afforded to the usual suspect: social anxiety toward parishioners after a sleepless night on the hunt. His nerves aren’t as steeled as they could be, were he more rested. Crossing the lot, however — peering over and around groups of chatting attendees, he abandons the attempt to convince himself otherwise. He’s anxious to find you. To speak with you. To get some clarity on what’s happening, and managing to do all that without you figuring out the real depths of his investment in your business.

It might be better if you felt the same. It might be worse. He’d never know. It’s too intimate a topic to broach under the guise of a concerned priest. What he can confront you about, however, is why the hell you’ve been skipping attendance — and he fully intends to. 

For your sake, he tells himself. Your sake, and his own. 

You’ve stayed to socialise today. Of course, other members of the congregation have noticed your absences and take it upon themselves to do Travis’s job for him. Reason tells him they approach you from an altruistic place. Something more visceral calls it nosiness. An obstacle of dwindling time and the risk of scaring you away. Nevertheless, their conversations stagger your departure, and watching you get passed around from group to group to get brought up to speed on community goings-on, Travis can hold onto enough patience to uphold his own interactions. 

One exchange at a time, he gravitates closer to wherever you wind up. It’s not ideal, but it looks a whole lot better than bee-lining across the lawn and demanding a private audience.

Finally, he’s invited into your conversation. A local couple who met through the church have you cornered at a picnic table, and he’s certain there’s a seize in your shoulders when they wave him over. A nervous, if pointed, smile lasts a fraction of a second — this one directed at him — and it isn’t until the couple resumes talking that he realises it had been a warning not to approach.

“Pastor.” He’s greeted. “We were just talking about our honeymoon. Did we tell you we went to Disneyland?”

Oh.

Travis comes to a skidding halt on the lawn. 

Oh, no.

He devotes a moment to weighing up whether this is worth it, but the vacancy next to you beckons more than the hell promised by taking part in this conversation. “Okay. Yeah. Uh, Great. What about it?” He prompts, resuming his approach.

You lurch in your seat when Travis sits down beside you. “I’ll let you get the Pastor caught-up-”

“It’s fine.” The wife cuts in, and were her tone not hard enough to intimidate you into staying, Travis imagined she might have pinned you down with her bare hands if you’d attempted to leave. “It won’t take long. Honey, start at the beginning.”

Joining might have been a mistake. The next 20-odd minutes is a tag-teamed, bragging walk-through of what sounds like a living nightmare. It’s impossible to get a word in. He might have been pleased to have you trapped here with him, were it not for the aggressive display of eye contact that would have either member of the couple suddenly launching themselves across the table to grab at his attention every time he glances your way. 

All either of you can do is nod through the experience while the crowd dwindles and the parking lot empties. There’s no way the lovebirds haven’t run through every activity two people in their early 30s can take part in at a children’s theme park. They have to be done soon. They have to be. 

There’s a momentary lull. Finally. They’ve exhausted themselves. 

Then:

“Oh, but how would you rank them, honey-”

“Maybe you can tell us all about it next week.” Travis grunts. “I’ve already taken up half your day.”

“It’s only lunchtime, Father.”

“Yeah, well I’m sure you’re both busy-”

“Not really. Anyway-”

“Actually,” You interject, earning a venomous look from the couple, “I was hoping to speak to Pastor Hackett before I leave.”

“Then I’m sure you’re happy to wait your turn.”

“There’s always next month, if you can be bothered.”

The two almost descend into giggles before it’s clear that Travis isn’t laughing along. In fact, the jab at you has him rolling his jaw in irritation. 

“Enjoy your day.” Travis bids firmly, rising from his seat and doing his absolute best to clamber out of the picnic table without tripping. “God be with you both.” He gestures for you to follow, lingering a moment to watch you attempt the same.

You catch up once he’s rounding the side of the church, slowing to a stop along the path to the parsonage out back. You’ve probably seen it a thousand times, but standing here now — he’s suddenly very aware of how unimpressive his home looks. The garden hasn’t been maintained in years, and the little park bench wedged between the weeds and the outer wall of the church looks like it’s about to collapse. 

No matter where he looks, there’s at least some reminder that his private life is in shambles.

Nevertheless, Travis opts to play it cool. That starts with jamming his hands into his pockets. 

“What’s up?” He asks, like he hasn’t been waiting half an hour to approach you. 

“That’s…heresy, right?” You jab a thumb over your shoulder, “The whole…Disney marriage thing.”

“More like idolatry.” He shrugs. “Not doin’ any harm.”

You tilt your head. Incredulous. “You mean that?”

“Nope.”

“That was hell, right?”

“Yep.”

There’s a pause. Then it’s clear you’re not going to fill the silence. 

Travis bites the bullet. “You gonna talk to me about–”

“Hm?" The smile is slow to reach your eyes. "Oh, that was just a diversion. I’ll head out in a m-”

“Yeah, nice try.” He grumbles, crossing in front of you to seat himself on the pitiful little bench. An expectant look is thrown your way, and with a reluctant slouch, you comply. 

It’s hard not to let his glee at keeping you here become too apparent. The corners of his mouth keep tugging.

He’s finally got you alone. 

You avoid his gaze altogether, already fidgeting with your knuckles. “So you noticed I haven’t been here as often.”

“As often?” Travis raises his eyebrows. “A skipped week or two, I notice. You’re AWOL most of the month lately.”

With each word, you shrink more and more. Ashamed, maybe. Part of him wants you to be — to guilt you into returning.

Duty demands a softer approach. 

He breaks away to look out across the property, alleviating the pressure of his scrutiny. “What gives?”

“I’ll try to be here more.”

“That’s not what I wanna hear. I wanna know what’s causing you to flake out.”

Another pause. He lets this one sit a little longer.

“Are you alright-?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You sigh. “It’s weird to talk about. I don’t know how to word it.”

There’s no way he’s letting you get away so easily. He has to know. Just as much as you need guidance, he needs closure. Another month of wondering when he’ll see you next is a possibility he can’t stand to think about anymore. 

Incisors tap together while he considers his options. It must be more audible than he thinks, because you’re watching him now.

“How long’s it been since your last confession?” Travis, trying not to pay your attention any mind. 

“People still do that?”

“Once a year, tops.”

“Ouch.”

“But you never know when someone’s gonna need it.” He defends.

“Between three and five on Wednesdays?"

Travis has no choice but to risk it with a long-suffering look. You're grinning back at him, and he has to fight to keep his throat from closing up. It helps, he reminds himself, to hate you during these moments. 

It makes it easier to function.

"What, do you just like — wait in silence for hours?” You prod, and its with no absence of effort that he's able to respond sternly.

“Don’t be a smartass, alright. Just take it into account.”

”Okay. Thanks.”

Then, you're avoiding his eye again, and oh — does he hate how badly he wants your scrutiny now that it’s gone. 

He hates you. 

He hates how there's no arguing what this is. 

Travis cranes his head to catch your gaze. “So am I gonna see you there?” He presses. “Wednesday?”

There’s no more protest in you. Just exhaustion. You offer a defeated smile. “Fine.”

Satisfied with your response, Travis settles back against the bench. “It’s a date.” He declares his victory, at least before he runs back through that phrase and his stomach performs a backflip. “But not really. It’s not a — you’ll be talking to God, not me.”

Phew. Crisis averted. 

The panic doesn’t entirely dissipate with his clarification, though. Now he has something to anticipate. To look forward to. A few days more, and he’d at least have you back here again. Until then, he’d be doomed to pouring over whatever it is that you find too difficult to share with him. Anticipating the worst isn’t something he wants to have to do. He’d rather focus on having whatever resource he could throw at you to remedy the problem. If he can't do that, then at least — in the end — he'd be able to hate you for leaving. 

He’d said his piece. The ball’s in your court, now. 

In the meantime, he can at least appreciate your silent company.

…

“So do you have your little afternoon snack in there or what-”

“Get out.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Wednesday, 4:43PM. 

A drained Fruit Punch Capri Sun sits beside an anxiously tapping heel, curled vaguely on the hardwood floor like a dead bug.

As usual, Travis is here alone. 

He feels stupid for the lingering anticipation of your arrival despite the passing minutes.

He checks his watch. 4:43PM. Still 17 minutes remaining. That’s still 3 confessions worth, time-wise. 

It’s just a normal afternoon.

4:44PM. Nevermind. He feels like he’s choking. He feels stood-up. He shouldn't have held out hope.

This isn't fair. This isn't right. He shouldn't be waiting on you like this. He should've given up 3 whole entire minutes ago.

He should be closing up. Walking home. Stopping off at his parents' to linger for supper lest he have to make the drive for yet another pre-cooked grocery store rotisserie chicken and dinner rolls. Travis had always been partial to the combo, but in recent months, Chris had begun to refer to his weeknight meal as 'The Bachelor Supreme', and despite his loyalty to the cuisine, the Pastor can't help but hear his little brother's taunts in the back of his mind now whenever he's staring down those sweating plastic bags, dissociating in the aisle-

The creak of the front door beckons Travis back to reality.

“Pastor Hackett?” 

Your voice. Your footsteps, careful not to echo as you draw near. 

You showed up. You showed up and his throat is suddenly parched.

In lieu of responding, Travis takes a deep breath — and holds. Anything to slow the spike in his heart rate and the beginnings of chattering teeth. He has to calm the chorus in the back of his brain singing its victory that you showed up, you actually showed up. It’s just a normal afternoon. A much-needed confession. Not anything more. It can’t be. He won’t allow it to be. 

He’s just grateful to have the opportunity to provide the guidance you’ve clearly been needing. To be the leader you need him to be without the interruptions of the flock, alone, where he doesn’t have to throw his voice across the room to ensure you can hear him. Inches away from you. Silence highlighting the rhythm of the breath passing over your lips, your lips, your lips –

The knock on the opposite side of the booth jolts the priest almost entirely out of his seat. 

“It’s open.” His throat catches on the last syllable, and any hope he had of playing it cool goes up in smoke. 

“Can hear your foot tapping from the other side of the building.” You remark on your way in. “Thought you should know.”

He huffs at that. “What, are you seeking atonement for being a busybody?”

“No, it’s just super annoying.”

“Run through the damn routine, already.” Travis grumbles. “And you know what — make sure you start with insolence.”

There’s a shuffle as you get comfortable in the booth. “Uh, forgive me Father. It’s been…a while since my last confession.” 

“Have you been reflecting outside the church? Couldn't help but notice you barged right on in.”

“I would have, Father, but a local priest was making too much noise for me to concentrate-”

”Seriously?” Travis can’t help but swivel to shoot you a glare. You’re already meeting his gaze with such delight that he immediately looks elsewhere, lest it be contagious. 

“Yes, I’ve been reflecting outside the church.”

He lets the moment sober. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve…”

Travis waits a good few seconds in your apprehension. Then: “been–”

“Been–”

“Insolent–”

“Dude, come on.”

Travis shakes his head, refusing to feed your attitude. “Nope. Say it.”

“...Insolent–”

“Toward a spiritual leader–”

“Toward a spiritual leader–”

“Therefore questioning the Lord’s word and taking his concern in bad faith.”

A sigh escapes you, and the sound drifts over his ears like silk. “I was rude to my priest, and I hurt his feelings, and I’m sorry.”

My priest. My priest. My priest. 

Travis settles in his seat. “Confession is for mortal sins. But your priest appreciates your apology.”

“Dick.”

“Language.” He shoots back, sternly. “Continue.”

There’s a pause on your end. He resists the urge to turn and study you through the latticed screen. 

“I’ve been deliberately avoiding church.” You mutter. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right when I’m here.”

“Are you struggling with your faith?”

“Yes.”

“Did something happen with someone in the congregation?”

“No, it’s more…I dunno.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve had thoughts lately that — honestly make it hard to think of practising as a good thing. The more I try to ignore it, the more I can feel myself internalising it.”

“But you do still come here. Don’t sell your effort short. What sins have you committed?”

“Indifference. When I’m here, I’m not here for the right reasons. I don’t show up to worship anymore. God’s the furthest thing from my mind, and I don’t feel anything when I think about that.”

“Do you know what’s causing it?”

“Yeah. Avarice, I guess. Lust, definitely. The guilt that comes from not feeling any guilt over impure thoughts. Actions aren’t any different.”

A pit forms in Travis’s stomach.

“Have you been –” His throat dries up before he can finish the question. Heat creeps up from beneath his collar. “Have you – er – is there…”

“There’s someone, yeah.”

That pit turns white-hot. Indignation courses through him first. Then outrage. Something akin to a betrayal that he has no right to feel. Then, despair follows. Hopelessness. 

“Someone in the congregation?” He musters, uncertain if the response would make him feel better or worse.

You fail to respond, and Travis is sure he’s been hollowed out from the inside. The latter, it seems.

He swallows. “Have you acted on it?”

“I’m worried I will.” You utter. “I think about it a lot. How it would happen."

”Can you tell me who it is?” Travis prompts, tasting metal on his tongue. “If it’s distance you need, I can intervene. We can work together to help you overcome it.”

”It’s not that simple.”

No, he’s not letting you get away that easily. 

”Don’t be stupid. If being around them makes you feel like this, we can work around it.” He insists. “We could set aside one-on-one time—“

”I really don’t think that’ll help—“

”I can visit your house—“

”What? God, no—“

”I’m tryna help—“

”It’s my priest.”

…

Travis’s brow furrows.

He didn’t quite catch that.

“Come again?”

You hesitate, and something stirs in him. Apprehension. 

“Uhm. It’s my — priest.”

Nope, didn’t hear it that time, either.

“Once more.”

“Travis, it’s you.”

…

“Oh.”

He’s not certain if his entire body has gone numb or if his nervous system is firing on too many cylinders for his brain to handle. It doesn’t make sense. Heat flushes his face, pooling in his ears. Something in his chest flutters, stirring a feeling somewhere between complete terror — and utter euphoria.

You want him too. You feel the same as he does. This can’t be real. This has to be some nasty prank. With that thought, the fluttering turns heavy in his gut. This isn’t a good thing, no matter how good it feels to hear you say it. It’s bad. It’s outright disastrous. Even more galling is that of all times to hear this, it had to be in a situation where he was supposed to forgive you. Advise you. Guide you through such an admission with piety in mind when the majority of his thoughts are screaming at him to start rejoicing. 

How is he supposed to hear this, after everything that’s been plaguing him lately — and be expected to be fine?

Travis clears his throat. A syllable escapes him. Then breaks. 

Travis clears his throat again.

“It’s not – er…it’s not uncommon for many people to — have thoughts about religious leaders. As effectively stand-ins–”

“I don’t see you as a substitute for God. It doesn’t feel like religious favour.” You answer bluntly.

No. No it doesn’t. It doesn’t feel remotely holy when he presses the Eucharist to your tongue. It’s anything but spiritual. When it comes to you, Travis couldn’t feel less religious. 

If anything, he realises, it’s an impediment. He’s further from God in your presence. The spirit can be damned when he’s all too aware of the flesh. He feels like a man; just a foul, helpless, hopeless man, cursing the wafer barricading the pad of his thumb from the flat of your tongue. For so long, he’s wanted to know what it feels like. Wanted this. Wanted you.

Knowing you’ve wanted it too? He’s in trouble. This is bad. This is very bad. He needs to cut this short. Do right by you. 

But — what’s it felt like, in your position? Do you also shut out the rest of the world for those few seconds when you kneel before him? Ignoring the passages he cites while you torture him with the gaze he’s now doomed to know is anything but unassuming? 

You think about him. You think about acting on whatever attraction exists between the two of you. How can he possibly escape this topic when all he wants to do is remain here in this little box and indulge in –

“There was a point where I was okay with keeping it to myself. I thought it would go away, but it doesn’t –”

Have you touched yourself? Brought yourself to orgasm over the thought of him? He knows all too well what it’s like, failing to escape the intrusive images his mind conjures when he’s alone. He hasn’t fornicated with another, but he knows the imagery. The process. The desire to be alone with you like that, like this, like right now, guiding himself into your mouth and revelling in what both of you have only wondered about. 

Travis can’t feel his extremities anymore. Every remaining ounce of attention that isn’t on you or his whirling thoughts is on the tingling heat gathering in his lap and the slowly emerging tension of cotton—

He can’t be doing this. 

He’s a goddamn priest. 

“We can’t –” Works it’s way out of his throat before he can even think to reflect on how damning those words are. “We…collectively, we-”

“I know.”

“Sometimes the best course of action — y'know, is none at all.”

“I know.”

“This is my life’s dedication–”

“I get it–”

“I feel the same.” He blurts.

Then, there's a long stretch of silence. 

Fuck. He's ruined it, all of it. 

“So what now?” You ask, sounding much less affected by his admission as he was yours. As if you've already retired the concept. “If this is a mutual problem, what do we do?”

Problem. That stings.

“Do I move to another parish?”

“No.” Travis answers too quickly to be impartial. It’s gut-wrenching. It’s unthinkable, the idea of you disappearing forever. “No, don’t leave.”

“Then what, Travis? What do we do to fix this?”

Fix this. You’re right to phrase it that way, but it still hurts. It is a problem.

Travis droops, resting his elbows on his knees. Were he not visible, he’d be more inclined to grip at what’s left of his hair. “We can ignore it. We know where we both stand. It’s out in the open. We can just…bury the hatchet.”

“I’m not sure if I could handle that.”

“Me neither. But we can try.” He exhales, considering the weight of your words. What could occur if this ended in failure. His days are spent serving God, and his nights are dedicated to his family. To hunting. The past few years have drained so much out of him. 

It’s not fair. 

He’s given everything he’s ever been asked to give. Why does he have to lose you, too? No ordinary priest would be expected to do what he does. Surely that should allow him some leeway. How can he justify letting you go when you’re half the reason he stays here?

What would be the fucking point in staying? 

“Travis-”

“Don’t leave.” It’s an effort to keep his tone even. 

Your gaze is fixed on him. Questioning. Reluctant. Piercing. 

His thumbs smooth over his knuckles, fingers interlacing, fidgeting as if he can offset the brewing anxiety. 

“It’ll be worse.” He continues, scowling at the floorboards. “At least if you’re here, then we can atone. We can still be part of the church. It’ll hurt but it’s worse otherwise. I know you’re having a crisis of faith, but believe me, if this is something that can pass with time, I wanna try it. If whatever this is is fleeting and you’ll lose interest, I need to know we tried to do the right thing.”

“You’re so full of shit.” You bite back. “You’re happy to drag both of us through this just because of catholic guilt?”

“It’s a factor.” Travis admits.

“So the right thing is preaching scripture that you don’t even practice. God, that’s so fucking hypocritical-”

“Hey — language–”

“You expect me to sit there and nod along while you lecture everyone about coveting, knowing full well both of us are doing exactly that?”

“You don’t get it. There’s more at stake–”

"Fuck you."

"I said watch your fucking language." Travis snaps, rosary digging deep enough to leave notches in his flesh. "I said you need to stay."

You suck in a sharp breath. He can practically feel the anger on you. "Why?" You ask, half-way between a whisper and a shout. "What's the point?"

“Because if you leave, I’ll follow you.”

It escapes him from a place of anger, and the way you freeze makes him feel like keeling over. Nevertheless, the grave’s already been dug. No point in stopping now. “And if you outgrow whatever this is? A few dozen people will be going without a pastor, for nothing. My entire livelihood goes up in smoke, for nothing. And you know what? If there wasn’t a risk you’d grow bored and move on, I’d actually be fucking okay with that."

He’s certain your mouth opens to reply. To agree. To put an end to this before it starts. 

He needs his own closure first. 

“For you, you can move on. Join another church. Whatever you like. For me, that’s not possible. It’d ruin me, and I’d let you ruin me, so long as it meant you’d keep me. So when I tell you I need to know if this is something that will pass?”

“How long, then?” There’s poison in your tone, now. “How many years? How long do you need me to have wanted you for it to feel like it won’t go away?” Wanted you. Wanted you. “The whole reason I hate being here is because it won’t go away. I mean – come on – the least you could’ve done was let me down. Told me you didn’t feel the same–”

“You want me to lie to you?” Travis bites back.

“Yes, I do!”

“Well I fucking can’t. Call me a hypocrite all you want but this sucks just as bad for me. On top of everything else that’s going on in my shithole life, I don’t stop thinking about you.”

The colour of the light filtering through the cracks has warmed. The sun is setting. You’ve probably stayed past closing time by now. 

“If leaving is the only option you’ll take, then I need you to know that." Travis breathes, slouching in his seat. Defeated. "If this is the last time we see each other, at least we can have closure. Get everything out in the open like any other confession, and leave it in the past.”

Your gaze meets for a moment. 

Then he breaks away again, fidgeting with the rosary between interlaced fingers lest he seek your touch. “I’ve wanted to be with you for a very long time.”

“You're an asshole.” You grit. For a long moment, you say nothing else, chewing your cheek in consideration. Then: “Elaborate. Tell me what you think about.”

...

Travis realises he has made a mistake. 

“Uhh-... y’know. Being…physical, with you–”

“Physical?” He can hear the thread of amusement in an otherwise hollow tone.

“Intercourse. Sex.” He snaps. “You happy?”

A breath of laughter sounds, and a shiver immediately licks all the way down his spine, reigniting that coiling tension in mere moments. Something buzzes in his core, warm and delightful and wretched. 

“You think about fucking me often?”

Every day. 

The blood drains from his face, pooling in his ears and neck until they burn. 

“Often is subjective.”

“Do you-”

“This isn’t dirty talk.” Travis grits. The tightness in his throat does well to undermine him. “This is repentance. Got it?”

“So if I’d had similar thoughts–” You trail, and all of a sudden the man finds himself wanting to backpedal. “It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to tell you about them?”

It’s impossible to respond. His stomach lurches. For a moment he’s so dumbfounded he’s sure his tongue has disappeared altogether. He feels clammy – like his clothes are sticking to his skin. Heat licks at his core, all but begging to allow you to keep talking.

This isn’t good.

“I need guidance, Father.” There’s something different in your tone. Something that has him shifting in his seat. “Am I supposed to tell you the nature of my thoughts?”

Fuck.

Travis swallows back a lump in his throat. No. It’s unnecessary. You’ve already stayed twenty minutes overtime. Technically, the church is closed. He doesn’t need to hear it. You’ve already agreed to leave this be. And yet – the heat coiling in his stomach and the tightness in his lap scream a different response. 

He has to fight it. This is a test that he can overcome if he just maintains his composure and shit, was he always this sweaty?

Perhaps it isn’t so bad. He’s only listening, after all. It’s his duty to hear you. To forgive you. To alleviate the burden of your sin. So long as he tows the line without crossing it, he’s in the clear. 

Travis smoothes clammy palms over the thighs of his slacks, doing his damndest to ignore the responding twitch of something all too eager to condemn him to hell should he pay it any mind. 

“Go ahead.” He chokes. 

He can feel how close you’ve gotten, and for that, he both thanks and curses the barrier between you. The pattern that partially obscures what feels like drenched skin. 

“How would you fuck me?”

That has him frozen to the spot.

“How would you treat me? Are you as self-assured as usual? Arrogant?” You continue amidst his stunned silence. “Would you already know how wet it makes me when you get that stupid look on your face during mass — how much I wonder what would happen if I was the last one to leave after service?”

Travis swallows, hard. He can't help it; a thumb strays over his thigh. Grazing what remains confined against him. The barest touch, and his whole body sings more, more, more–

“Sometimes, when I wear a skirt here, there’s a part of me that hopes you’ll catch me on the way out.”

“What would happen?” He tests, holding back the plea in his voice. He’s pawing at himself now, carefully, pressing. The smallest little back-and-forth motion along his confined shaft with the pad of his thumb. 

“I like to think you’d have me up against the door,” You answer, almost thoughtfully, “Lock us both in – pull my underwear to the side and fuck me from behind — fully clothed – not wasting any time.”

“Y-...You don’t think it’d go slower?”

“Not when all I want is to know what you feel like inside me.”

Jesus.

An exhale leaves him, much too heavy and hollow to go unnoticed. 

“Do you want that?” 

“Fuck. Yes.” Travis breathes, gripping his cock through his trousers. 

“As luck would have it–”

No way. You’re not. You didn’t–

Something screeches outside; the familiar sound of scraping wrought iron and it’s with a bolt of dread that Travis realises the two of you are no longer alone. 

It’s divine intervention. It has to be. 

Of all fucking times, that once-in-a-year confession picked this moment. 

Travis can hear you shift off your knees, no doubt aware of the third party approaching. There's a hesitation from both of you. Neither knowing quite how to cut away. Especially now, of all times.

“Wait.” He blurts.

There’s a pause. He feels your gaze on him through the screen, and he curses whoever built this place with the windows facing due North. Golden hour be damned — he’s practically glistening and there’s no hiding it. The best he can do is remain still. Keep his gaze trained on the wall ahead, no matter how much he wants to acknowledge you. What if you’re as affected as he is? He can’t know. He has another confessor waiting. 

“Yes?” Your head tilts in his periphery. 

There’s no telling when (or even if) you’ll be back. Not after what he’s told you. 

Travis’s hands are borderline shaking when he clasps them together. His body resists; beckoned by the temptation to cross the space between you. To touch you. To banish whoever had interrupted this moment and plead with you to stay, or take him with you.

“With me.” He mutters, rolling the beads over his knuckles. “I'm sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things.”

You catch on with the next verse, and together, you continue, “I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.”

He lingers on that. 

How the fuck can he avoid you?

“Our saviour Jesus Christ suffered and died for us. In his name, my God, have mercy.” Travis finishes, suppressing a shiver while you rise to your feet. 

“Thank you, Father.”

This is it.

He might not see you again. 

“Don’t leave.” He sounds pitifully small, and he can’t bear to say anything else. When all is said and done, even if neither of you can go down this road, then at the very least he can have you close by. The clarity will make it easier. Maybe one day it’ll turn into an in-joke. Eventually, a dwindling memory. 

You leave without another word, and from the sting of the door closing, Travis is sure a piece of him has left with you. What remains is quick to dab his face on the back of his sleeve and regain its composure to be properly present for the next person. 

There’s a murmur outside. A passing greeting, before the door opens and someone Travis can’t even begin to bring himself to give a shit about kneels down in the place you’d occupied. 

“Church hours are over.” Travis clips, annoyance biting his words. Already, he wants to follow you out. 

“I know, Father, I know. It’ll only take a minute.” Masculine. Panicked. Shuddering breaths.

He tries — really tries — not to huff, head falling back until the thinning patch on his crown makes contact with the wall behind him. “Make it quick, alright."

“It’s been 6 months since my last confession.” They sound like they’re bordering on hyperventilation. Travis doesn’t even have time to prompt them before they go on – which, in hindsight, should’ve been an indicator of his company. “I’ve — I’ve been lying. I can’t stand it. I love my wife, and I love that she has...passions, but Father — I’ve lied to her. I hate Disney. I hate it so much.”

Travis is straightening back out in an instant. 

“You –...uh,” He stammers, battling astonishment, “I’m sorry, wh–”

“It's everywhere. I thought that if I acted like I liked it, she'd be less intense about about it, but it's — it's fucking bled into every part of my life, Father. We’ve been wanting to start a family, but God, I don’t think I can do it. The last time we made love, and I got close – she – she told me to put a princess in her.” There’s a sob on the opposite end of the booth. 

…

This is the congregation he was lecturing you about minutes earlier? This is the kind of parishioner he felt guilty about leaving behind?

No, he can’t think like that.

“I couldn’t do it — I pulled out-”

“Okay, yeah, I get the picture.” Travis interjects with a wince.

“What do I do, Father?”

This is what he chose to prioritise?

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He has to at least try. “It’s obvious you’re…riddled with guilt over this. So, y’know — in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I absolve you of your sin.”

“That’s it?”

Fuck this. 

“That’s it.”

You might not have left the property yet. Maybe he can still go after you.

“I thought-”

“If you want a longer session, come by earlier next week.”

“O-okay. Thank you, Father.”

It feels like an eternity waiting for him to leave. Listening out for the creak of the main entry that marks Travis’s solitude. 

As soon as he hears the door close, Travis is on his feet. Tearing out of the booth.

He needs to catch up to you. Fuck, he can’t let you leave. 

He breaks into a sprint.

Then, almost instantly, Travis is grinding to a halt. 

There you are.

Right in front of him. Bordering on sheepish.   “You said to stay.” You mutter while the man resumes his approach, rosary slipping from his fingers. “Wasn’t sure if you meant now or in general-“

Without missing a beat, Travis is pulling you in by your shoulders. His mouth is on yours so fast that your teeth clink — awkwardly placed and glaringly clear he has no idea what he’s doing — but you sink against him all the same. 

He’s never been more scared in his life. 

It’s fucking divine. 

Your fingers find his blazer, curling, keeping him from backing out of the embrace. You reciprocate, just as hurried, and when your tongue slides against his bottom lip, Travis can’t help but hum.

"Please, tell me to stop." He murmurs against you, "Tell me this is a mistake."

The only response you give is a little hitch in your breath when a tentative hand presses to your hip, and Travis’s knees go weak at the sound. Your grip on the lapels of his shirt tightens, tugging him down into another dizzying kiss, and his confidence begins to fight back the nerves. One hand joins the other, and he’s pushing and pulling beneath the material of your clothes, exploring the sensation of your skin and the curves of your flesh. Your waist. Your ribcage. The dip of your spine. At some point amidst the frenzy he's working himself into, your back finds the wall adjacent to the booth, and his body slots against yours, hard. Reigniting overstimulated, needy nerve-endings that all but beg him to keep going. 

It’s wrong. It’s disgusting. You’re evil. You’re wonderful. He’s in fucking heaven. He’s failed you. He needs you.

“I’m sorry.” He pants whenever either of you break away. “I’m sorry.”

“Technically, you’re keeping me from leaving the church altogether.” You retort.

“You trying to tell me this is okay?”

You angle away, then, keeping him at bay with a palm to his chest. “You want to stop?” 

”God, no — and that’s the problem.”

This is his test. Compromising for your sake. To keep you faithful. That’s what he needs to do. As long as it takes, as often as he needs to. You’re his reward as much as you are his punishment. All of it. Everything. He just needs to hear it which one it should be.

The tension beneath your palm dissolves, trailing down his front.

"Then it's okay." You tell him.

That one little permission shoots sparks down his spine. His mouth finds yours again. Enough panic has subsided that he's able to somewhat follow your lead. Acquainting himself with the act, with how long either of you can go without needing to come up for air, with the little cues you give to signal which of his touches work the best. At least until your hand slides over the cotton confines of his cock, and the shockwave it sends through him has his grip tighten considerably on the breast he'd tentatively been exploring. His blunder earns a sharp 'ouch', but with a frantic apology, it seems you haven't been scared off.

“I haven’t —” He shudders at your breath on his throat, fingers trembling at your waistband, mirroring your own trailing over his. “Can I—”

You nod as best you can, given there's so little room between you. "Gently."

Unpracticed, Travis all but shoves his way down the front of your underwear, prodding and probing blindly until his fingers are suddenly sweeping through wetness, and he almost loses it right then and there. A curse slips through bared teeth, mingling with the sigh that escapes you, and sacrificing leverage for the sake of stability, Travis presses his body flush with your own. His mouth returns to yours, distracting from the throbbing thrill of pressing his middle fingers into your cunt with the glide of his tongue over yours. The sheer heat of you – the promising tightness of responding muscles might be enough to pull him under if it weren’t for the sharp gasp you draw in, right before your fingers grip at his shoulders in a fruitless attempt to yank him closer, deeper, hips rolling forward in encouragement. 

Then, your fingers are making their way back beneath his belt. Past his trousers. Separated only by his underwear, they curl around his cock and grip him hard.

"Fuck—" Travis grunts, eyes squeezing shut. It’s total bliss. No wonder there are so many agnostics. God can go fuck himself. Nothing has ever felt as good as this. The way you clutch at him. The sounds. The taste of you. The taste of you, the taste of you–

There’s a whine of complaint when he pulls out, and your hand stops its subtle back-and-forth in protest. For a moment, Travis feels as if he’s taken the lead. Insecurity marks your expression when he inspects his glistening knuckles, instinct crying out for him to follow curiosity. Tentatively, Travis’s tongue slides over the backs of his fingers. Your scrutiny pricks at his nerves while he tastes what he's coaxed from you — but God — the moment his taste buds are saturated, he wants more.

He can give you more. 

He’s dropping to his knees before you can instruct otherwise, attention split between the apprehension in your eyes and the material that barricades him from you. 

“Travis—” Your voice is tight. Your nerves; another indication that you’re not doing this purely to ruin him, only spur him on. “Travis, wait a sec.”

Travis’s fingers, curled around the hem of your dress, stop. He pauses. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Your head shakes minutely. 

“What’s the matter?”

“You don’t need to do that.” You reply. “You haven’t done this before, right?”

“So?”

“So you don’t have to-”

“If you want me to stop, say it.” Travis angles up at you, patience waning. Almost like a warning, he's pushing up the material up over your thighs. Just enough to let him at least get a look if you say no.

There’s a flash of irritation from you. “Just don’t assume you’ll be great from the get-go.”

“Oh, this isn’t for you. This is for me.” He mutters, disappearing beneath the skirt of your dress. He’s too impatient to attempt to disrobe you. So long as he has access, that’s enough. Despite the urgency of every cell in his body crying out for him to begin the moment you’re bared to him, however, Travis holds back. For once, he knows what it’s like to have you at his mercy, and he intends to indulge. 

Pads of his fingers glide over the soaked material of your underwear, fascinating himself with the heat of you and the minute hitch of your breath whenever he slides over that certain spot. You tense up when he uses just a little more force, and your want has him bordering on salivating. Shit, he wants to relieve himself of the constraint of his trousers. Take himself in hand and enjoy some semblance of what you're feeling right now. But — it would be too risky. He’s too new to this. At the very least, he can’t end this before it has any hope of starting. 

He can make his own fun, regardless.

“You ever picture me doing this?” He asks, “Have you had orgasms thinking about me playing with your cunt?”

“Back to Confession?” You grunt, hips rolling with his movements, subtly guiding him through the motions you like best. 

“Just tell me, already.”

You resist, stifling the breath in your lungs. The rosy red creeping up your neck gives him the answer he’s after, but that’s not how he wants it.

“Can’t shut your mouth for two minutes in any other circumstance.” He jabs. “Now you’re quiet?” 

The moment he halts, you give in. "Of course I have."

Heat shoots down his spine. Delicious. Prompting a grin. 

"That's more like it."

Then, he's hooking his fingers around the hem of your underwear. Tugging the material to the side. Burying his face in your bared cunt to taste you from the source.

Ignoring a gasp and the sudden grip on his shoulders as you try to balance yourself, Travis's tongue prods and swipes blindly at you, familiarising himself with the experience. The pads of his fingers are much the same; touching with as much fascination in their reverence as desire. Then, after a tentative moment of experimenting, Travis takes a breath. Drawing your scent into his throat, and a whine threatens to spill out on the exhale. His body lurches, unsatisfied. Hungry. Fingers grip the flesh of your thighs, and almost instantly his mouth is back on you. Desire takes over. His face presses against you like he can’t get himself close enough; tongue sweeping a wet trail as close to your core as it can reach while you’re still standing, following the press of his nose while he works his way back to your clitoris. 

He needs this to last. He needs to experience this at least once with you. 

He has to keep his head clear. Stay in control. Not pay attention to the insistent build of excitement coiling in him. 

“Travis—“

He hates how difficult you make that.

His tongue sweeps over that bundle of nerves, and the shiver that runs through you has him incensed. Desperate to hear it again. He keeps his attention there; clumsily lapping, hopefully compensating for lack of experience with enthusiasm. He must hit the right mark at some point, because your fingers are suddenly combing through his hair, hips rolling against his dampened face in an attempt to chase the motion. Sheer delight has him gripping the meat of your thigh, hard — fingers curling to find purchase while simultaneously dragging against a new spot inside you, and you gasp behind your palm. The sound shoots straight to his groin, and whatever logical thought Travis was once capable of leaves him. 

Travis holds you against him so close it feels like his nose might snap. He can’t tell how long its been since he took his last full breath. It doesn’t matter. Every motion leaves a new response to chase, a new spot to veer away from, a new twitch of your insides constricting his fingers and the tingling bliss of how fucking good it feels to shift his weight. To grind ever so slightly against the confines of his own trousers. Every time you tighten, his body reacts. Sympathetic. Reminding him what needs to be there instead. 

No, not reminding.

Pleading.

Every throb comes heavily. Every little yearning surge of pleasure at the way your fingers graze his scalp amplified. Even without being touched, Travis knows he’s close, but whether you are is another question — and he doesn’t plan on having this end before you’re at least satisfied in some way. Maybe it won’t be so embarrassing when the inevitable occurs if you’re already seen to. 

With that in mind, Travis continues on -  at least until one particular stroke coaxes your hand away from your mouth, joining the other in Travis’s hair just as a breathy little moan works its way out of your throat. Fingers suddenly tug at his roots, harder than before, and he can’t help but mimic your noises at the feeling. 

The pressure, the need, the insistent twitch of his cock — praying to return to your touch. Your grip doesn’t relent, and fuck, he’s so–

Fuck.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

There’s a far too familiar surge that crests, and he needs to put a stop to it. 

He’s in too much of a haze to think of pulling away. Whatever words of protest he aims for are dissolving into a babbled groan against you the moment he tries to speak. This is bad, and it’s getting worse. 

“Wait —” Travis manages to gasp, and to your credit, you release him immediately. He pulls back, momentarily relieved by the retreat of the impending point of no return. 

But then, your muscles twitch around his fingers again. Seeking him out. Desperate for more — and again, he can’t control the response. 

Travis removes himself from your cunt. Soaked fingers suddenly freezing in the evening air. Then, he catches a glimpse of the thread of wetness that still joins you, and that does it. There it is again.

It looms over him, trembling, desperate, delicious. 

He can’t help it. An orgasm he never asked for blooms, and he’s clutching at your clothes with a bit-off curse. Whatever reaction you have goes unseen while Travis is burying his face into the material of your dress, hopeless to fight off the peak, knuckles bleeding white and teeth grit. Then, he tips over the edge, and every nerve in him is alight. Singing. 

The aftershocks come quickly without the stimulation his body begs for. Release shoots through him, spilling into his briefs one pulse after the next. His orgasm wanes, but the twitching remains, persistent in the hope for more rather than totally spent, and in returning clarity Travis is grateful he at least has that much going for him. 

He isn’t aware that hes been holding his breath until it escapes him in a hollow, dazed sigh. 

He can feel your gaze. He knows you know. If it wasn’t from his display, then it’s gotta be from the increasingly soaked patch gathering around the fly of his trousers. 

Humiliation. Failure. 

Self-hatred creeps up on him, just like it always does when he’s in the afterglow. 

“Did you just—“

“Yeah.” Travis cuts you off, swallowing back shame. 

A hand drifts from his scalp to his neck, and there’s a flash of indignation when Travis realises you’re trying to provide aftercare. 

No, that won’t do. 

He’s not done. Neither of you are done. 

“It’s okay.” You offer. The patience in your voice is infuriating. “There’s always — fuck — Travis—?”

Travis’s mouth is back on you in an instant, resuming his previous ministrations with a vengeance. As if he can redeem himself — as if he can impress you enough to make you forget what just happened.

Your surprise is short-lived; unsure hands bracing yourself until your body eases back into his tongue tracing over your clitoris. It's not long until your breaths begin to shake and he's confident he's gotten you back to where he needs you, completely at his mercy. Fingers wind back into his hair, encouraging more force, and hes certain of it. 

His fingers push back inside you, welcomed by an insistent flutter of your muscles impatiently clutching at him. 

“Ah — like that — like that—“ You urge, and Travis does exactly as he’s told, not letting up. His nose can break for all he cares. Nothing could part him from you; not like this. 

Your sharpened breaths hit a crescendo. He’s getting so carried away that he loses rhythm. There’s no attempt at technique any longer. All he’s gauging now is how hard you’re holding onto him. How tight you are inside. When you’re finally clamping down on his fingers with a barely stifled whimper, he doesn’t stop. He can’t get enough until your legs are trembling, struggling to keep you upright. Then, you’re suddenly wrenching him away from your clitoris, leaving him to carry you through the tapering of your orgasm with his hand.

He slows only when the spasms subside, and then at the behest of a shove on his shoulder, Travis pulls away from you, much more concerned with flaunting his delight than catching his breath. First, however, he needs to summon the strength to stand.

It’s with a hiss that he regains his footing. Zeal, he notes, can only get him so far ahead of age; regardless of how little he’s done, really, he’s still going to be sore and stiff tomorrow — and the next day, probably. 

What else he’s to expect from the future, he should have considered beforehand. 

A streak of dread bolts through Travis at what feels like finality. It’s short-lived, especially when you’re drawing him in by his jaw to kiss you with just as much fervour as you had before he’d gotten you off. He’d gotten you off. He still couldn’t believe that. 

His mouth is busied with yours before he can comprehend to say anything. Your hands grip at his lapels, pushing until he takes the hint and allows himself to be walked backward into the booth he'd spent the afternoon wasting away in.

The seat catches the back of his spent knee, and the poor man buckles. What might’ve been embarrassment is dispelled the moment he’s seated, when you’re shoving the blazer past his shoulders. 

Once it’s off, you move in. Pressing him back into the cramped space. Reveling in the little breath he fails to hide when your weight shifts onto the backrest and you clamber forward, onto him, knees planted either side of his thighs with hardly enough space to accommodate. The soaked cotton of his trousers grazes your thigh while you position yourself. Humiliation might be fighting a better fight if the contact didn't feel so fucking good.

As much as he wants to keep going — as much as your intentions are known, he's still awfully nervous.

"You sure?" He mutters, hands lamely planted on the seat without any clue so as what to do with them right now. "It's, uh, it's messy."

The clink of his belt mid-unbuckling answers for you. Nevertheless, you glance at him while you yank at the accessory. "Unless you're carrying condoms around with you, Father, I think it won't really matter in the end. Are you?"

"Watch — ah —" Travis arches beneath you, helpless as your fingertips find his cock, tracing back and forth along strained material while your other hand works at his fly. "Watch the attitude."

"Do you want this or not?" You breathe, leaning down, lips grazing his neck, and he swallows back a shiver. 

"Yes, I want this."

Your pace increases. Travis's eyelids flutter at the feeling. Good, but no longer enough.

"There's one particular word I'm looking for." 

"Not happening." He grits, refusing to meet your eye lest he be inclined to give into your wishes. Even in his periphery, he can tell you're irritated. Nevertheless, the zipper is undone and he's plenty justified in gawking while you manoeuvre him out of his fly. 

No time is spared. You don't lend anything to savouring the moment — not like he has. Instead, you're rushing to situate yourself in just the right spot over him — one hand bracing your weight beside his head, the other with his cock in-hand. 

"Do me a favour?" You ask, earning a much too-eager nod. "Move those."

"Right." He affirms, steadying his fingers once again around the hem of your underwear. He's done this twice already now. He knows what you feel like. What you taste like. Yet this time, knowing what's to come — he's nearly trembling. The moment the material is out of the way, Travis casts a glance up at you. "Just so you know — the door's unlocked."

A breath of laughter escapes you. "Could've mentioned that before you'd gone down on me."

Then, you're sinking, taking him in inch by searing inch, and Travis's head dips back against the wall, mouth falling open in a silent groan. Silencing his own pleasure just to behold your reaction; the furrow of your brow as you settle in his lap, acclimatising to him. The gasp that catches in your throat. The aversion of a dilated gaze that has him realising he's been staring unblinking for a little too long.

A moment comes and goes. Both of you remain still. Dawning instinct to start moving, to seek out more begins to bleed into his thoughts. Awkwardness wanes. Now he just wants to make sure the two of you can finish this before another interruption occurs.

His palms find your thighs, smoothing the skirt of your dress back to access bare flesh. Naturally, organically, insistently, his fingers curl. Minutely tugging. Pushing. And yet, you don’t shift. All you do is slide your free hand beneath the band of drenched underwear. A pleasant sound hums in your throat, and Travis rolls his jaw in irritation at being so left out.

"Come on." He whines.

A particular wiggle of your hips, and you're tightening around him, unravelling that temper into desperation.

“Fuck — please.” Travis keens, gripping your thighs, desperate to find some semblance of friction. "You're killing me."

"So you do know how to be polite." You respond, punctuated with a rock of your hips, drawing a breathy moan from his throat. 

“More.”

“Hands off.” 

He protests when your hands pry his fingers from your thighs, guiding them up beneath the neckline of your dress to cup your breasts once more. It's not the control he's looking for, but fuck, he's not going to argue further if this is the alternative. One hand leaves his, drifting back down beneath your underwear. He doesn't make another move. Not when you shiver at your own touch. Not when you rock against him a second time. 

You do it again when he remembers to hold still.

“Good boy.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Travis slackens, mouth agape, eyes half-lidded, resigned to doing nothing but hold back while you set set a torturous pace around him, getting yourself off with his cock. 

“Feel better?” You murmur.

He grits his teeth, nodding. 

“Suddenly not so chatty?”

"Not taking my chances.”

“You want me to keep going?”

“God, yes. Yes.”

“You want me to go faster?”

“Yes.”

You do. Your fingers, tragically unseen behind your underwear, speed up as well. All Travis can see from this angle is his own cock, disappearing beneath the material each time you sink down and glistening with your slick when you rise back up. 

“You like watching this? You thought about this before?”

“…yes.”

“Tell me.” You urge, squeezing him, increasing your pace. With each landing and ascent, he can hear the faint tap of the wetness pooling at the base of his cock. “Let me hear you."

Fuck.

“Don’t stop — fuck — shit — keep going." Travis hisses. "I want you to come. I wanna watch you. I wanna see. You have no idea how much I want —“

"Travis — I'm close —"

Travis's grip hardens, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips with bruising force. Your words hurtle him to the brink in a heartbeat, and as much as he fucking hates that you're able to do that, he can do little else but follow along. He can hold out. Just a few more seconds. He can do the same to you, he knows it.

Angling as best he can, Travis rolls his hip up into you, finding just enough extra depth to have you both gasping.

"Every day — every fucking day —" He pants, driving up into you. "Picturing this is the only thing that gets me through."

That does the trick. Just another moment with you teetering on the edge, just enough for his words to sink in — and then your back arches, the most delectable sound escaping you. Your arms are suddenly slipping over his shoulders, clutching desperately around his neck, face buried against his pulse. All rational thought evaporates, then, with your muscles clamping down hard around his cock. Everything, everything is blind euphoria. A moment of stasis in which all that exists is the two of you as you are right now; with him locked between your legs, feeling the repeated, crushing high of your orgasm dragging him to the brink of his own. Your mouth on his, drinking in desperate gasps as he makes his final ascent.

Then, he tumbles over the edge, hips stuttering in insecurity over whether to pull out and an overwhelming, primal feeling eclipsing the idea in an instant. A litany of barely intelligible chants slip from Travis’s lips, barely resembling your name, and when you collapse against him, burying to the hilt, the peak hits him.

His cock twitches within you. Every nerve in his body surges in unison, and it’s all he can do to clutch at you in a feeble attempt to ride out the release. He can’t be sure if he’s vocalising anymore — not until the rhythmic pulsing of muscles overtake the release and the deafening rush subsides enough that he can actually hear the humiliating, babbled confessions of his affections spilling from his mouth. All higher function has left him. All sense of control, gone. All he can do, all he wishes, all he’s capable of — is keeping you locked to him until the twitching subsides. Until there’s nothing else to give.

By the end of it all, he’s slumped against you, totally spent. You recovery comes quicker than his; at least he feigns as much, given the opportunity to rest his head against your chest when you sit up, basking in the afterglow with fingers combing through his hair and the occasional, contented hum.

After a while, he can feel his come start to creep out of you, mingling with previous spend and your wetness in his lap, and a twinge of guilt picks at the back of his mind.

”That was rotten of me.” He murmurs. “Should’ve asked.” 

“Next time I’ll try and give you the chance to.” You reply, earning a snort. 

His eyes feel heavy. Everything feels…easy, all of a sudden. 

“Travis.”

“Hm.”

"Wake up — your gonna make me think you’ve actually been smote.”

"Hm?" Travis barely stirs, half-asleep in the afterglow. "Oh."

Silence stretches between you. Then:

"M'gonna have to break this to my family." He murmurs.

"Skipping town isn't an option?"

"Not right now. Loose ends. My life is over either way, but —"

"Travis." You repeat, angling to catch his gaze. "Wait until you've pulled out before you start talking about your family."

He’d expected this to feel worse. He's ruined his life, and all he can feel about it is...tired. Tired and relieved.

You cup his jaw in your hands, and the man nearly melts. "One step at a time."

"Probably should pack my bags."

"Towel might be nice, first."

Irritation blooms. "I told you—"

You cut him off with a short kiss.

"I'd be partial to a shower."

Travis stops in his tracks.

Considers it.

"Yeah. Okay. Shower works."

[sweater-daddiesdumbdork]

Gingerbread Delights, Ransom's New Favorite Cookies

Summary- 2.7k Ransom x Kitten. The Christmas season is upon them and one of your favorite times of the year. Ransom though... not so much. But your baked goods might just change his mind.

Warnings- Smut. This is an 18+ Only blog.

A/N- So I wrote this last year before I decided to make Ransom x Kitten a thing. It will be set further in their future. I wasn't going to originally post, but I really wanted to post something for the holiday season. This is also my entry for @what-is-your-plan-today 25 Days of CHRIS-mas. Divider made by @firefly-graphics Thank you so much for reading, Happy Holidays.

Masterlist

Ransom could only begin to guess what he would be walking into while he made his way up the steps to his front door. It was Christmas after all and you were in full holiday mode. With one of the holidays he hated the most. He tolerated Halloween because of the parties you loved dragging him to, dressing up in some outfit and halfway through the night you would both be drunk, peeling each other out of it.

Thanksgiving was a joke, one he tolerated for Harlan but you would be right at his side the whole time while with his family, effectively distracting him from the shit show that usually happened with naughty whispers in his ear and teasing him with your hand under the table till he couldn't stand it and announced you two were leaving early.

But Christmas you took to heart, the whole thing. The tree and decorations, watching the ridiculous feel good movies till his brain felt numb from the whole bullshit Christmas cheer, you would play the songs over and over till he would have to escape to his home office to get away from them, and after all of it, he didn't have it in him to completely say no to you about it. It was just a month after all, he could tolerate a month of nonsense to keep his Kitten happy, right? Fuck was it hard, probably the most selfless thing hes ever had to do.

But you were worth it, so what was he gonna do but grin and bear it.

Going inside, Ransom shrugged off his tan jacket and unwrapped his scarf once stepping inside the house, stomping his boots off for a moment while calling out. “Y/N? Are you here yet?” Tilting his head to listen while taking his boots off and sure to put them on the racks you had placed in the entrance way, he tossed his jacket into the nearby closet while following the sound of Christmas music towards his kitchen. Arching a brow, he folded his arms across his chest while leaning against the entrance frame, smirking at the little domestic scene before him.

You had the island scattered with ingredients, rolling pin diligently rolling back and forth before you tossed a spattering of flour against the dough to keep it from sticking. “Well look at this, when did you become a sweet little housewife for me?” He snickered as he pushed from the woodwork and went towards the other side of the kitchen to make himself a drink now that he was home for the evening.

“In your dreams Hugh.” You said cheerily that rewarded you with a warning over his glass of scotch.

“Watch it Kitten. It would be easy enough to change that tune of yours.”

You weren’t too worried as you picked up your cookie cutter and started to cut out the shapes to slide onto a cookie sheet, taking a peek at Ransom. The tops of his cheeks were still a bright pink cause of the cold outside, his hair damp where the falling snow had melted since he came inside. The gold of his pinkie ring glimmered from the bright overhead lights as his hand twirled the glass in his hand. You softened a bit towards him, considering he had yet to make a remark about the state you had his kitchen in. “Thought I would do something nice, it is the holiday after all.” You hummed at him playfully, reshaping the dough together to roll it back out.

Ransom glanced down at the shapes and snorted with a smirk. “Kitten, what are they supposed to be?” He reached to grasp one of the oddly shaped cutters, trying to make some sense of the shape.

“Gingerbread people Ransom.” You slid another cookie on the tray while reaching over to grasp your cookie cutter from him before he could study it to closely. Ransom folded his arms across his chest, watching you ever so diligent knead the dough back together.

“I know this is more your thing, cause you like all this crafty crap.” He leaned forward to dip a finger in one of the bowls of frosting you had pre made. “I will be fucking damned if this is a person shaped.” Smirking at you as you moved the bowl of frosting out of his reach, flashing your own knowing grin at him with a stick out of your tongue.

“Trust me, they are.” You spin with the tray of dough to stick into the oven while Ransom circled the island where you had your decorations spread out. The audacity of the man, he dipped his finger back in your frosting to lick his fingertip.

“Mmh, nice and sweet.” he sucks off the tip while you set the timer on the oven.

“You better not be eating my frosting, it's important for the cookies.” You threaten while he bluntly does it again without hesitation, and you twist to push him away before he can get another swipe and you would have to make another batch.

“But its fucking good and I can think of a better way to use it.” He grinned as you continued to push him backwards towards the exit of the kitchen. His hands danced at your apron, going to pluck the tie loose but you thwarted his wandering hands.

“Don’t you have a zoom meeting now?” you caught his hands from behind you and he easily turned it around to wrap his hands around your wrists and backed you into the wall, sweet sugared lips pressed to yours. Darts of his tongue slid against yours and you fought against it teasing for a moment, knowing that he wanted you to open to him. Nips of teeth and a pull at your mouth finally had you giving into him, curling your fingers in his soft sweater that hid the hard planes of his chest from sight but you could feel them under your palm.

Just as you were getting into the moment, your tongue pressing against his in that addictive taste mixing with your frosting, feeling your heart start to pick up and the heavy warmth blossoming in your lower belly, he yanked away.

“Yup, you're right Kitten. I do.” One final grind against you just to be a pain in the ass, he let you go and walked out the kitchen, laughing as you flipped him off while straightening your apron he had managed to wrinkle up around your hips.

“He’s such a pain in the ass.” You muttered to yourself while going back into the kitchen to check on your cookies, hearing the click of his office door where he shut himself in.

After the cookies baked and cooled, you were careful to follow a picture you had found on pintrest to recreate the gingerbread people. The crispy gingerbread had come out even better than you expected. You slid some onto a Christmas plate, and sang “Santa Baby hurry down my chimney tonight” to yourself while untying the apron. Now to the last part of your little cookie surprise.

Ransom had been half paying attention to his zoom call. He had been focused at the beginning on how enthusiastic the editor had been with Harlan's new book and release date. But he was over it now, he knew it would be a success, that they had to start pumping out copies in the new year. Yada Yada Yada, these fuckers sure knew how to drone on and on. “Listen, I assure you that we're all on the same page with this sh- stuff. Is there anything else we need to cover?” He barely caught himself, trying to be respectful for Harlan’s sake. Walt, who was on one of the screens, gave him a warning look, which Ransom promptly smirked back at him.

“Of course Mr. Drysdale, we are almost finished.” one of the women assured Ransom, which he had to admit being called Mr.Drysdale in a business setting made him feel a bit smug. Especially since Walt has basically been ignored the entire time.

A soft rap on his door drew his attention away from the screen and Ransom hit the mute button on his laptop.

“I got it on mute Kitten, come on in.” He leaned back in his chair to look around the laptop to see you let yourself into the office, his cream-white sweater pooling around your bare thighs and Ransom gave a knowing look while dragging his fingers over his lips. Red and white Christmas stockings adorned your feet and in your hands was a tray he was assuming was your cookies from before. “Got something for me Kitten?”

You paused while on the other side of his desk, keeping the tray slightly out of sight for a moment. “Are you able to step away from your meeting?” You question in a manner that you knew would make Ransom curious. True to your suspicions, Ransom held up a finger for just a moment before he turned back to his laptop to hit the unmute button. You stepped away while the drone of voices filled the room.

“Alright, I think we covered everything” Ransom raised his voice slightly, cutting Walt effectively off, which made this even more satisfying for the both of you. From across the desk, you could see the way Ransom’s eyes flashed and a tug at the corner of his mouth, that he was pleased with the way his uncle must have reacted. You readjusted your cookies for a moment before picking the one you knew Ransom would enjoy.

After their business contacts disconnected, you could hear Walt's voice get high-pitched at Ransom, obviously angry at your boyfriend. Grinning you made your way over back towards the desk, Ransom beckoning you to join him on the other side.

“I have other important matters to attend to right now Walt. So… Eat Shit.” Ransom told Walt off while pulling you into his lap, Walt's gaze darkening when he saw you.

“Ranso-” and that is when Ransom effectively snapped his laptop shut with a cocky laugh, his hands sliding along the inside of your bare thighs.

“That never gets old… Now, what do you have?” He questioned your cookie in your hand and you held it up to see now what you actually were making earlier.

You held up the gingerbread cookie, depicting two gingerbread people in a naughty act that had Ransom tipping his head back with a laugh now that you had the frosting all edged out, showing him the deed they were locked into.

“These were what the fucking cookie cutters were?” He plucked the cookie from your hand and bit off one of the heads.

You gave your own giggles with a nod. “I saw them online and had them shipped overnight because fuck I just wanted them.” You snapped off a leg and slipped it between your lips to chew slowly. Ransom seemed to enjoy it, the darts of his tongue clearing cookie crumbles from his bottom lip. He tossed the remaining part of the cookie on his desk, moving suddenly to a stand while making you go with him.

“They are good Kitten. But I see something I want more.” His hands dug into your hips under his shirt, grinding your ass against him. “Your cookie put that image in my mind. You just bent right over my desk.” His hand pressed against your back between your shoulder blades and you sprawled forward against the clutter of papers and pens.

“It’s been on my mind the whole time I was icing them. Which I barely had enough after you ate part of it.” You purred out now, getting the exact reaction you wanted from him. You could feel Ransom push the sweater to bunch around your hip, your bare ass on display for him which he slid a hand over the curve, and then dipped between your thighs to trace those soft petals while he kissed on your neck with precise knowledge of how to turn you on.

“I still stand on what I said earlier about using that frosting on something other than cookies.” He kept stroking you till you were withering under him, pushing back slightly to rock your hips when his fingers stretched you open. “Baking cookies and then coming in here looking all like a fucking snack yourself.” Your eyes rolled up as he curled his fingers, knowing where that sweet spot was and you started flexing around him,

“Ransom, you are going to make me cum if you keep that up.” you pressed your forehead against the desk, clutching your fingers around the edge to go white-knuckled.

“Do what you want to, but I'm still fucking this pussy afterward.” He informed you while speeding his fingers in you, making you arch your back further and wail softly against the cherry wood top desk when his thumb started to press and circle your clit. The rush was tingling racing up your spine and warmth spread through you to make you sigh in satisfaction. “We’re not done yet, Kitten.”

And you felt him grind in behind you, the telltale zip of his pants and the clank of his buckle. He leaned over against your back, his hand picking up the cookie and stuffing it in your mouth.

“This is to keep you quiet, Kitten.”

Keep you quiet indeed. You would forever think of Ransom pounding into you from behind with the future gingerbread cookies you would let grace your tongue in the future. The sweet spiciness would mimic the flare of arousal blossoming in your stomach while your hips were slammed into the desk, slaps of skin and Ransom grasping his hand around your neck to pull your head back, so he could watch you when you started to come undone. When you did, those flutters in your stomach broke to flood your system with bliss, your eyes rolled back and your jaw dropped. Ransom smirked as he dragged out your orgasm with twists of his fingers against your clit and taunting praises. “Ahh no Kitten, you gave it to me so fucking easy. Just aching for this pussy to be filled with cock, weren't you.”

You couldn't do anything other than mewl your agreement that in fact, that was exactly what you had wanted. Ransom turned sloppy behind you, trying to reach his own ending and when he did, he leaned himself over your back, hot breaths from behind clenched teeth had him hissing when he ground against your ass once more, pumping his seed into you till you were dripping with him.

“Let's go see what other cookies you have for us Kitten.”

It was late into the night when you finally fell into bed exhausted only for you to wake up later to find Ransom missing from bed. Curious as to why how he wasn't as tired as you were made you unwrap the tangled sheet from around you and seek out a piece of clothing to cover you while you went wandering out of the bedroom to go seek Ransom out. Down the stairs, you went to find the kitchen light on. Peeking your head in, you bit your lip to suppress a giggle. Before you Ransom had his hand in the cookie jar, already chewing what looked to be the last bite of one gingerbread couple and going for a second one.

“I just caught someone with their hand in the cookie jar.” You teased and he looked up first in surprise, the flop of his hair out of place bouncing in front of his eyes. But you weren't fooled, not the way they glinted behind his bangs and his smile turned upright almost smirking at being caught.

“Going for the next cookie I'm using on you.” He started and your eyes widened as he pulled out another, this time legs wrapped around the other's waist.

“You are not at all tired?” You accused, starting to count on your fingers the different cookies you two tried out today.

Ransom grinned wickedly as he bit off the head of one gingerbread man. “Not in the slightest.” He started stalking towards you and you gave a squeal, turning to race back up the stairs, Ransom following right behind you, stuffing the rest of your cookie in his mouth.

[andydrysdalerogers]

Sideline Love ~ Chapter 15 ~ Most Stressful Time of the Year

Pairings - NFL! Chris Evans and OFC Rebecca Rooney

Series Summary: All football player Chris wants is to play football with his best friends in the NFL. But the night before he meets someone who could change his life... if she wasn't the bosses daughter. Can Chris change her mind with a little sideline love?

Word Count: 3K

General Warnings: smut! angst, cheating, parental interference, fluff, football Chris has beard ( 😏 ), injuries during the game, special appearance (don't @ me lol)

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Becca Rooney and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

I am trying out a taglist. Please let me know if you would like to be included.

Series Masterlist ~ Main Masterlist

On the other side of families, it is actually peaceful.  With the animosity between Becca and her father ended, the little family began to prepare for its grand tour.  While plans for Boston had already been made, Becca made sure to plan a day with her family so they could do Christmas right before. Charlie had been thrilled, opening presents early and getting to spend time with her grandparents.

Becca, on the other hand was nervous. As she was packing for Boston, she recalled the first meeting between Chris’s family and herself and she panicked. “Chris what if your mother just remembers me as…”

“As what?” cutting her off. “Angel, I explained what happened to Ma and she was fine.”

“Of course she’ll say she’s fine but she could be harboring dark feelings about it.  I mean Scott was ok but your mom was only concentrating on you at the moment.”

“Sweetheart, please relax.  My mom is a very understanding woman.  I send her pictures of Charlie and you all the time. She asks all the time about you.”

“Really?” Becca chewed the side of her mouth, her tell that she didn’t believe him.

Chris sighed.  “Look, I know that we had that bump in the road and it just so happened while we were in Boston but trust me, my family is going to love you.”  He kissed her forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too. But…”

Chris kissed her slow and deep, effectively shutting her up.  He pulled her close to him by her hips as her hands floated up to his hair, dragging his fingers through it.  He finally pulled away, leaving her breathless.  “Gonna keep talking?”

“Maybe.  Chris, I’m serious.”

“So am I”.  He kissed her again, this time walking her backwards against the wall. He pulled away. “Stop thinking Becca.  Everything will be ok.”  He started to work her neck, nipping and kissing.

“Chris,” she moaned, “we have to stop.  We need to pack.”

“Hmm, I know but you need a moment to relax.”  He started to pull her on her jeans, thumbing open the button and pulled the zipper down. His fingertips grazed the top of her panties.   

“Baby, ah shit,” she moaned as Chris dipped his fingers into her panties.

“Shh, quiet Angel.  Don’t want to wake Charlie do you?”  He stroked her gently, making sure to hit her clit with his palm. Becca’s head leaned back as she closed her eyes and pushed her hips forward. Chris chuckled against her neck.  “Enjoying it love?”

“Fuck yes,” she whispered trying to hold in her noises.

“I can tell. Cum for me Angel.” He continued to work his fingers until he could feel her tightening.  “That’s it.  That’s my girl.  Look at her, cumming on my fingers.” Becca bit onto his shoulder to quiet her moans. He slowed his movements as she came down from her high. He removed his hands and licked them clean.  “Feel better Angel?”

“I don’t think I can stand,” she replied, still holding on tightly to his forearms. Chris smirked and scooped her into his arms.  He carried her over to the bed and laid her down.

“Better?”

“Better.” She yawned but snapped her eyes open.  “What about you?”

“I’m ok Angel.  You can take care of me later.” He kissed her forehead.  “Take a nap. I’ve got some tape review to do for the game. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

**

The day before they were set to fly to Boston, Becca’s phone rang. “Hello?”

Becca, its Robert.

“Hi. What’s up?”

Tom has asked for a meeting with you while you are in Boston.  Just you.

“Me?  What the hell for?”

I don’t know.  I told him under no uncertain terms that you were meeting without counsel present.  But his lawyer called and explained what was happening. I think you should take the meeting.

“Robert, what is going on?”

I can’t say yet.  Just, think about it.  I promise, it would be worth it.

Becca said goodbye and hung up, sitting on the bench by the window.  Charlie was spending the day with Sebastian and Lizzy so Becca got lost in thought. She jolted up when her phone buzzed.

Tom: I promise it’s a good thing

Becca: You said that last time

Tom: I know.

Tom: But I need to say what I need to say to you in person

Becca: I don’t trust you

Tom: Bring Evans.

Becca: What?

Tom: Bring Evans.

Becca starred at her phone until Chris’s voice pulled her, starling her.  “Angel?”

“What time is it?”

“Almost six.  Angel, what’s wrong?”

“Tom wants to meet with us in Boston. Both of us.”

“Oh.”  Chris scratched his chin. “Okay.”

“Just like that.  Okay?”

“Well Angel, he must have something important to say.  We are Charlie’s parents so we have to decide what’s best for her.  If Tom wants to talk we should acknowledge that.”

Becca smiled softly. “We?”

Chris’s smiled faltered.  “I mean you are her…” but Becca stopped him.

“I love that it’s ‘we.’ You’re right.  We are her parents.  So the day after we fly in?”

“Its Christmas Eve Angel.  You sure?”

“If its going to ruin Christmas I would rather it be done sooner rather than later.”  She picked up her phone.

Becca: we fly in the 23rd .  We’ll meet you on the 24th.

Tom: Chris is from Boston right?

Becca: Yeah

Tom: Holy Grounds. 10AM

***

Charlie bounced in her seat for the short flight from Pittsburgh to Boston, her excitement being exaspertated by Chris’s own hyper energy.  The Steelers were going into a small Christmas break with the lead in the standing and Chris was riding the high. He had Charlie on his lap for most of the flight, describing things out the window until the pilot advised they were going to land.  “I can’t wait to show you around Angel.”

“I’ve been to Boston before love.”

“Yeah but not Sudbury.”

Coming off the plane with a 5 year old, a dog and three carry-ons, Becca and Chris tried to navigate to find the rental car desk when they heard.  “Yo Evans! You suck!”

Chris turned around to see who was yelling and a big smile graced his face. “Not as much as you do Evans!” Scott bounced forward and pulled his brother into a big hug.

“Its so good to see you and not in a hospital bed,” Scott said.  He let go to see Becca holding Charlie’s hand.  “Becca, its nice to see you as well.”  He pulled her into a gentle hug.  He let go and turned to Charlie, dropping to a knee.  “You must be Charlie.”

“Hi,” she said shyly before hiding behind Chris’s leg.

“Munchkin, this is my brother, Scott.  He’s…uh…”

“He’s your uncle, Charlie.  Uncle Scott,” Becca stepped in.

Charlie looked at Scott and then stepped towards him.  “You look like daddy.”

Scott chuckled.  “And you look like your mommy.  Can I give you a hug?”  Charlie stretched out her arms and Scott picked her up and hugged her before setting her on his hip.  “Ok Pitt gang, to the car!” Scott guided them to where he had parked and drove them home.  “Ma is excited to see you bro.  Its been Chris this and Chris that.  Geez, leave some love for the rest of us.”

“Don’t be jealous.”  They all laughed. 

“So Becca, how’s work.”

“Its ok.  Still not sure where I’ll end up after the season ends but at this rate I won’t know until February.”

“You think the Steelers have a chance?” Scott used the chance to rile Chris up but Becca answered.

“As long as I don’t distract the quarterback too much we should have a decent chance,” she deadpanned.

Scott roared with laughter as Chris threw a smirk her way. “I’m ok with you trying as much as you want Angel.”

“Oh gross,” Scott said, fake throwing up.

“Uncle Scott, are you sick?” Genuine concern crossed the little girls face.

“Nice one,” Chris said.

“Uh no sweetie.  Just playing around.” Scott looked in the mirror at his newest niece.

The arrived to a big house fully decorated for Christmas. “Momma look! They have a Santa on the lawn!”

“They do monkey.  Let’s get you out.”

Chris came and got Charlie out of the car and then helped Becca out.  He walked them over and the door opened revealing a nice looking woman in an apron.  “Chris!”

“Hey ma!” He embraced his mother hard.

“And who is this?” She looked at Charlie who leaned into Chris.

“This is Charlotte. Or Charlie. Charlie, this is my mom.”

Charlie waved but kept her body close to Chris.  “Hi Charlie.  I’m grandma Lisa.”

Charlie perked her head up.  “Like my Nana?”

“Yep.  I’m Chris’s mommy.”

Charlie studied her for a moment before reaching out for the woman.  Lisa held the little girl tightly before setting her down.  Lisa turned back to the couple.  Becca stood next to Chris, although shielding herself a bit with his arm.  “Becca, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.  Its nice to see you again,” Becca says, extending her hand.

Lisa takes her hand and pulls her into a hug.  “Thank you for making my boy happy,” she whispers. She pulled back.  “Let’s get inside and warm up.”  She took Charlie’s hand and led her into the house.

“That’s it?” Becca squeeked.

“Were you expecting her to yell?” Chris look amused at Becca’s facial expressions.

“Well… yeah.”

Chris kissed the top of her head.  “I told you Angel.  My ma is very happy for us.  Now c’mon, its time to meet my sisters.”  He pulled her hand and tugged her into the house.

“UNCLE CHRIS!” Three voices yelled as they tackled the quarterback.  Becca took a step back, smiling at the scene of two boy and a girl attacking Chris.

“Ok, alright, relax,” as Dodger added to the frey. He collected the children in a hug and then sat with them on the floor.  “Guys this is Becca.  Becca, this is Miles, Ethan and Stella.  They are Carly’s kids.”  Lisa stood back with Charlie.  “That over there is Charlie.”

Stella immediately ran over to Charlie.  “Do you like Barbie?”  Charlie nodded and Stella took her hand.  “Come to my room and we can play.”  They ran off together as Chris stood up.  He noticed his sisters in the door way. 

He took Becca’s hand.  “Becca, these are my sisters, Carly and Shanna.”

“Its nice to meet you.” Becca said as the girls eyed her up and down.

“So you’re the one that almost cost my brother his career,” Shanna said.

Becca began to panic. “I, uh…”

“Shanna that’s enough,” Lisa said sternly from behind them. “This is neither the time or the place.” Shanna looked away as Becca kept her head down. “Chris, why don’t you show Becca your room.  I set up the cot in Stella’s room for Charlie.”

“Sure Ma. Angel?”

Becca looked up at him and he could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes.  He threw a murderous look at his sisters before wrapping his arm around his girl and walking her away.  As they made it upstairs, Becca was able to keep the tears at bay. She took in Chris’s room. “Surfer?” she asked, looking at the poster.

“I haven’t had a chance to update it,” he grumbled as Becca laughed gently.

“So this is pre college Chris, huh?”

“This is it. I’m sure Ma has all the photo albums ready for you to look at and embarrass me with.”

“I’m sure.”  Becca walked around the room.  “I love it.”

“I love you,” he said, pulling her onto his lap.  “You ok?”

She shrugged.  “I guess your sisters hate me.”

“Ignore them.  They don’t know the whole story.  Ma does and Scott doesn’t care.” He caressed her cheek. “I love you Angel.”

“Love you handsome.”  She kissed him softly.  “We should head down and be social, I guess.”

“If you are ok.”  He took her hand. They went back downstairs as Lisa was serving hot chocolate to the kids.  “Oh, Becca, I forgot to ask if Charlie is allergic to anything.”

“Bananas. Not anything severe,” she assured Lisa. “You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you.  Please sit, let me get to know you.  I know I saw you at the hospital but I was…”

“Distracted.  I know.  I was too.  But ask me anything. Open book,” she replied.

Scott bounced in just as everyone is sitting.  “Hey Bex, so can you really get me field passes to see Chris?”

Becca looked at him curiously.  “Bex?”

“Oh, well, Rebecca, Becca, Bex.  Is that cool?”

“Just for you Scottie.” She winked at him and they laughed.  “Sure, I can get you passes.”

“Awesome.  Me and Steve really want to get up close and personal, ya know.”

“Steve?”

“Oh my boyfriend. You’ll meet him tomorrow.  Do you guys have plans?”

Chris cleared his throat.  “We have a meeting tomorrow in the morning but afterwards we should be free before the Christmas stuff starts.”  He could feel Becca tense in his hand.

“Meeting? I thought you weren’t working Chris,” Carly asked looking at Becca.

“I’m not.  We just have to meet with Charlie’s father,” he replied without thinking. “Shit.”

“Charlie’s father?  You’re dragging my brother into your issues?” Carly asked.

“Carly, stop,” Lisa said.

“No! I want to know what is going on.  I read all about her court case and she’s dragging Chris down, making him get benched and I want to know the truth,” Shanna said.

“Kids, why don’t we go into the playroom,” Scott said. “I’ll watch them.” He gave Becca a sympathic look.  Becca waited until her daughter and Chris’s nephews and niece were out of the room before rounding back to his sisters.

“I didn’t drag Chris into anything.  I broke up with him to try and protect him from all of this.  But instead he stood next to me and held me up at my lowest point.  I love your brother with everything I have. My father didn’t want me to date any players and I tried to stay away from him so he wouldn’t ruin his career.”

“Angel…”

“No Chris, they want the truth well here it is.  I had a relationship with Tom Brady for a couple of weeks six years ago. He cheated on his wife with me.  And I ended up pregnant with my daughter.  I raised my daughter all by myself after he denied being her father.  Now he wants back in and Charlie has to spend Christmas Day with him. He’s trying to take her away from me and now I have to meet with him tomorrow.  He asked that Chris be there as well.  I tried.  I tried so hard to protect Chris that it cost me a month without my family.  I quit my job to follow Chris wherever he goes because he deserves this.  So hate me, curse me, whatever.  I would do anything for this man.”  Becca turned and ran up the stairs.

Chris looked at his sisters.  “Really?”

They looked dumbfounded.  “Chris, we didn’t realize…”

“You guys are seriously the worst. She’s been through hell and back.  She’s worried about losing her daughter. She’s been so nervous to meet you guys. Thanks for this.”  He followed her out. He got up to his room but didn’t see Becca.  He walked around until he heard her quiet cries from the closet.  “Angel?” He opened the door to see her in a ball. “Oh Angel.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell,” she wailed.

“I know baby, I know.  Its ok, they deserved that.”  He sat next to her. “You wanna stay at a hotel?  We can.”

Becca shook her head. “No, I know you want to be with your family.  I think I’ll just stay out of the way.”

“Angel, you can’t do that.”

“Yes I can.  I’ll just stay in here.”

Chris sighed.  “Angel, please, you can’t stay in the closet. At least let me put you in the bed.”

She nodded and he picked her up. He laid with her until she fell asleep before heading downstairs to get her a drink and some food.  His mother was in the kitchen.  “Is she ok?”

“She’s refusing to come down.” Chris leaned on the counter with his arms crossed.  “What is their problem?”

“I think they are just being protective of you, Chris. I’ll talk to them.” Lisa wiped down a counter. “I didn’t know Brady wanted to meet with her while she was here. I’m sorry she is going through this. All I wanted was to meet her and her daughter. I really just wanted to get to know her.”

“I know Ma. I wanted you to get to know the woman I love too.  Maybe we can do something just the three of us.” He gave his mother a hug before he grabbed the food and water. “I just want to protect her.”  He walked out just as his sisters were coming in.  He ignored them and walked around just as he heard his mother round on them.  “I am so disappointed in you…”

The following morning, Lisa reassured Becca that Charlie was in good hands before Chris drove them to Higher Ground.  They snagged a table in the back and ordered a couple of coffees.  Becca hadn’t said a word, her knees bouncing.  “Angel, please relax.” She gave him a small smile.  Chris was worried.  Becca was always talkative but the last 24 hours had taken its toll.  He looked up and saw Brady approaching their table.  “Brady.”

“Morning Chris, Becca.”  He sat in front of them. “How are you?”

“We’re fine,” Chris answered, with Becca still looking away. “Rough landing here in Boston but we’re ok.”

“Sorry to hear that.” Tom swallowed. “I, uh, wanted to talk about Charlie.”

Becca jerked her head up to look at Tom.  “What now?  Not enough time.  Need more from me, from us.” 

“Becca, I…”

“No, you can’t have more. I can’t… I can’t bare it anymore.” A single tear slipped.

Tom looked at Chris.  “You hadn’t told her?”

Becca looked at Chris as he said, “you asked me not too.”

“Tell me what?”

  “I want to change the custody arrangements. I’ve submitted a petition to the court.”

Taglist

@patzammit @texmexdarling @jennmurawski13-writes

[wiypt-writes]

25 Days Of CHRIS-Mas

Day 25: A CHRIS-Mas Carol

Past

Summary: You and Chris have a love/hate relationship…in that you love to hate one another. But it hasn’t always been that way, and sometimes, to build a better future, someone has to be the bigger person and remember why and how it wasn’t always that bad.

Pairing: Chris Evans x Actress Reader

Warnings: Bad Language, smut (NSFW, 18+)

W/C: Hazard a guess about 4k ish?! Poss more.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction, any likeness to any persons or events in real life are purely co-incidental. I do not own any characters contained herein bar the reader and/or any original characters. I do not give consent for my work to be copied and posted/translated onto any other sites. If you see this fiction anywhere other than Tumblr, it has been taken without permission.By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer and ALL warnings posted here.

A/N: So this is my first EVER RPF and came from an idea I’ve had in my head for ages. It’s split into 3: Past, Present, Future. Posted on mobile with my left hand. Apologies in advance for any mistakes!

25 Days Of CHRIS-mas Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Day 24: Andy Barber (Defending Jacob)

“Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some.”

Early December, 2013

"You know I can’t tell you that!” You laughed, shaking your head. “I’ll get shot. All I can say is they’re keeping very true to Shadow’s comic book character. So, if you know you know. And I’m really excited to join the MCU. For a comic book geek like me, it’s a dream come true.”

Chris watched as you sat in the directors chair, next to Kelly and Michael, right in front of Disney World's Epcot, filming a segment for Live! With Kelly and Michael. You was there, doing an interview for your next film, due out this Christmas, about King Nicholas' daughter trying to find a way to bring the magic of the holidays back to her kingdom.

Filming a Disney animated film had been a dream come true for you and he knew it. Yet, he had to laugh at the way Michael snuck in a Marvel question.

“So you can’t give us any little snippets about the next Cap film?” Kelly pleaded, “nothing?”

“Nope.” You laughed, wagging your finger, “you’ll have to wait for the official press tour in the new year.”

Chris rolled his eyes as you dodged the typical questions. Filming had wrapped back in June of this year and the sequel to blockbuster hit, The First Avenger, was set to premiere in mid-March. Yet it was a well versed fact that everyone would try and cajole snippets out of the Marvel cast any way they could.

There was some more chat then about how voicing animation differed to live action movies and then, he sat up as Michael hit you with a question that wasn’t entirely off topic, but made him cringe nonetheless.

“So, in A Christmas Wish, Jeffrey Dean Morgan plays, or voices, your father, King Nicholas and obviously you starred alongside him and Chris Evans in The Losers a few years back. How did it feel being reunited again with your old costars?”

"Well, the weird thing is, I actually didn't see Jeff until we were doing press, because the beauty of animation is you can kinda record it anywhere. Where with Chris…” You hesitated and he groaned, knowing full well that was going to be picked up on. “Well, I was literally stuck with him in tight quarters sometimes for three months,” you laughed, trying to keep it light although your eyes told a different story.

“I can think of worse places to be stuck.” Kelly mused and you snorted. 

“Well, it… it can get hard when you’re living on top of one another for so long, it definitely helps when you get along.” You diplomatically answered.

"Do you though?" Michael seized his chance. "Does everyone get along? I mean, we're you the freshman here?"

Chris inhaled as Michael and Kelly both pressed you, and he watched you squirm to as you clearly were thinking of a way to dodge or redirect.

In the end, to his surprise, you did neither.

“Okay, I know what you’re hinting at, the rumours of a rift  between me and Evans so to speak but… ya know, we had a few creative differences but that’s it,” you feigned a casual shrug. “Chris is a passionate guy and knows Steve Rogers and is protective over him. I know my character and there were a few little disagreements on some aspects of filming in a couple of scenes but… it all gets left on set. You gotta draw that line, ya know?”

Chris could tell that, despite your best attempt to appear otherwise, you were rattled. Especially as your left hand toyed with your earlobe. He snorted and scoffed as he remembered exactly the moment you were talking about. It hadn’t been left on set, far from it. For once the trash mags had been correct in their reporting.

Thankfully, the interview went back to your current project and then finished about ten minutes later.

At that point, Chris shut the television off and got himself ready for the gym. It was early afternoon when he got a message from Meghan asking if he’d checked his Twitter. 

With a groan he opened up his account and searched through. Sure enough, you were trending as was he. The original article from TMZ, originally published mid-shoot, which had reported the argument so to speak was being dug up and reblogged again along with a bunch of new comments. The majority of people tweeting seemed to take your denial of said rift as confirmation.

And his fans were wasting no time in twisting the knives.

With an eye roll he called Meghan. “Well, this is fun…”

“You think?” She scoffed, “that was a pretty shitty question they asked her."

"She should have been better prepared but she handled it well, I mean, she's normally one to run her mouth.”

“Stop it," Megan scolded. "You are one to talk."

“Meaning?”

"Look, that's not the current point, what is is there's now a cacophony of comments and before you get a good lashing from Marvel, or her team jump in with something that paints you out to be the asshole, you need to redirect."

He sighed, “you told me not to say anything last time!”

"Well, clearly this is snowballing a second time and we need to stop it, so redirect. Post something political, or, I don't know, hug a tree or a strangers dog and take a picture."

“Message understood.”

“And call Y/N, thank her for not actually saying what she was probably wanting to."

“No. Hard pass." He shook his head as he spoke.

“I wasn’t asking.”

"Fine." Chris grumbled. "But I'm not happy about it."

“Good boy,” came the sarcastic reply.

He ended the call and with a huge groan scrolled through his contacts, stopping at one; PIMA. With a deep breath and an eye roll, he hit call and sat tapping his foot as he tried to reach you.

“What do you want?” You answered after his third attempt.

"Saw your slow pitfall this morning. I'm supposed to be thanking you for not speaking your mind. So... Thanks." He chewed on his cheek. 

She scoffed, “well you can tell Meg you did as you were told, good boy. How the fuck she puts up with you I don’t know.”

"Why are you such a brat?”

“And don’t worry, my team have no response to this shit storm on social media prepared. I can’t be bothered.”

“You know, there wouldn't be a shit storm to not be bothered with and we wouldn't be having this conversation if you'd just done what you’re media coached to do and that's reflect, redirect and move on. You....got sucked in." He growled.

There was a pause, “fuck you!” You snarled in response, “I deflected well enough and saved your precious golden boy reputation despite me being well within my rights not to-“

“Within your rights?”

“-do you have any idea how it felt earlier in the year when that article broke? Your fans ripped me apart. I was fat, ugly, fame hungry and you did NOTHING to stop any of it!”

"Shoes fit, sweetheart. You came at me, remember? You said you didn't like how Joe and Anthony had pinned you and Scarlett up like they had, you didn't like the way we had to improvise. I simply defended a character I've been for quite some time."

There was a pause as you took a deep breath, “I didn’t come at you!! I raised a concern I had, and Scarlett, Seb and Mackie had my back but you, you made me feel like shit on set. Like I was stupid, dumb…and left me to the wolves. You know what, Marvel might be my first big break but it’s yours too, remember that, asshole!”

The line went dead as the call purposely dropped on your end. Chris grumbled as he tossed his phone down and ran his hands over his face, scratching at that beard of his that was slowly growing back in. "Jesus, she's fahking impossible. Boils my blood."

But something about what you said was nagging at him. Sure, things had gotten hairy on set but he had simply assumed you’d ignored the comments and reactions arms he had. And he certainly hadn’t set out to belittle you.

It bothered him all the more because during filming for The Losers, you’d been tight. Real tight. It made him a little sad to think somewhere that had gotten lost along the way.

He looked at the phone again and was just about to call you back, perhaps attempt to maybe talk it through a little more calmly, when it lit up. Mackie was calling.

"What's up, dude?"

“Listen, far be it from me to get involved but what the fuck is with you and Y/N. She’s just called me in hysterics.”

Chris hung his head as if Mackie could see him. "I needed to talk to her and it ended like it always does, a fahking death match."

“Listen, I’m gonna say my piece and I’m done but don’t you think this had got outta hand? She merely questioned what the endgame with Shadow was. It wasn’t a dig st the improv scene. She just couldn’t see how it fit. But that aside, you really thinks she deserves the hatchet job that’s going down now?”

He had him there. No she didn't, neither of them did.

"You fucking idiot." Mackie sighed deeply when Chris remained silent. “Look, I’m on my way over to see her…”

“You’re in Florida?”

“She invited us over so the kids could enjoy Disney World. We’re going to the premiere. Her parents can’t make it, her dad ain’t been well.“

"She... Oh." Again, the situation left him without words, a rare occurance for himself. Then he sighed. "Just text me when you're done, huh? I'll try calling her later when she's calmed down."

But Anthony wasn’t done, “you know, she met with Feige a few weeks back? Asked him how much it would cost to back out of her contract and recast her.”

That floored him. "What?"

“You heard.”

"Fahk." He drawled in his slow, thick Boston accent.

"Yeah, fuck." Mackie mimicked. "You need to calmly fix this, for all our sakes."

“How? Like…”

“I dunno man, be more Steve Rogers… perhaps mean your apology.” There was a pause before Anthony laughed, “actually don’t, because he’s a reckless, stubborn asshole.”

"We're a lot alike in that sense." Chris sighed. "I'll think of something. Just... Keep her from going off the rails with ya? We used to be friends. We were tight, years ago. Then, I have no clue."

"I'll do my best, see you in the new year.”

"Yeah, see you man. Give my best to the wife and kids."

The call ended and Chris groaned. This was shit, and right now he felt like an asshole. He hated bullies, another of Steve’s traits he shared but now, he was beginning to feel a little like one.

And this was all down to the fact he couldn’t control his real feelings…

“Dick head,” biting his cheek he picked up his phone, checking Twitter again and grimaced. Some of it had taken a real nasty turn.

“Oh, fahk this…” he grumbled, and before he could back out, he typed a tweet.

It wasn’t much, but for now it was the best he could think of. His words were true, you were. As he sat and thought about everything, looking around in his lonely, huge, Hollywood hills home, he sighed as the bones of a plan formed on his head.

Standing from his couch, he headed for his room. This idea was not smart, it would stir a tonne of shit, and Megan would highly disapprove, but, he knew deep down you weren’t going to take his calls, no matter how hard Anthony worked at you. This called for desperate measures.

He refused to be the reason someone walked out of a job, a job that was going to skyrocket one incredibly talented and beautiful woman into the fast lane of her career.

"Josh, I need a favor. Or two...."

🎄🎄🎄🎄

You woke the next morning with a banging head. Mackie and you had sunk a very expensive scotch before he had left in the early hours of the morning after you’d assured him you were okay.

If anything you were embarrassed, annoyed too at how much that Bostonian Bastard could get under your skin.

Grumbling into your pillow you tried to comprehend where it all had gone wrong so quickly. Your time in Costa Rica years ago with him and the rest of The Losers was a great time, one of the times you'd ever had on set. You and Chris had been close, very close. Almost crossing that line between friends and more but not quite making it. But you’d left things on good terms, stayed in touch, talked and chatted when you saw one another at events and the like.

You’d been excited to get the part in Marvel, even more so when you were told you’d be one of the leads in the second Cap film… but for some reason, Chris had been lukewarm at best the moment you arrived on set. You, being fresh from a breakup, had probably let it get to you more than you should but it had. And still did. Because you didn’t understand. 

"Fucking asshole," you groaned, slowly sitting up. You grimly looked around your bedroom and sighed. "Shower, then coffee, no, coffee then shower."

You called downstairs for fresh coffee and toast with some greasy bacon and eggs, some potatoes and fruit. Then decided showering the stench of scotch away was a good idea while you waited for room service.

Just as you’d dressed in a pair of jeans and a logo tee, there was a knock on your door.

"Just a second!" You called our, towelling off your wet hair, bare feet padding to the door.

You swung it open, but weren’t greeted by your breakfast.

"What the fuck?”

Blue eyes pierced yours from under the brim of a Red Sox cap, a sweatshirt and jeans covering his body. "Room Service?"

“Idiot!” You hissed, glancing up and down the corridor. 

You yanked him inside and grabbed your cart behind him. "Just what the fuck are you doing here?" Your head spun, it throbbed.

“I wanted to talk to you, and you won’t answer my calls.”

“Yeah, there’s a reason for that, I don’t wanna talk to you!”

"Y/N," he sighed, taking your hands, "come on, this is extreme. We're too old for this shit."

"Extreme?” You yanked your hands away. “You're preaching to me about extreme actions when you literally just flew over three thousand miles all because your co-star didn't answer your phone call. How fucking childish! Even for you!" 

"Ant told me you went to see Fiege."

At that you blinked and then shook your head. “He had no right to do that.”

"Deal with that later," he popped a potato in his mouth. "Sit down and talk to me. Obviously, as you pointed out, I flew over three thousand miles to fix whatever absolute disaster has been created between us for whatever fahking reason. We used to be friends."

“Yeah, and then you turned into an asshole.” You wrapped your arms around your chest as you blinked back tears. “You made me feel like shit!”

"I'm sorry, you're right, I did, I was. I am an asshole. I don’t know where we went wrong.”

“You! You went wrong…”

“Fine, but why has it taken us six months to sit down and talk about this?"

You blinked and scoffed, “I had no desire to talk to you and be told I was being a drama Queen! You brushed me off, were cold… I’ve got no answers because I don’t KNOW!”

"Then we're at an impasse because I don't know either."

"You wasted your time and money on this trip, Chris."

“Clearly,” he sighed, “but God loves a trier huh?”

You stared at him, unable to even think if this was a scotch dream, your worst nightmare or the ghosts of Christmas past and present playing one fucked up trick on you.

“Look,” he leaned forward in his seat a little, blue eyes trained on you. “For what it’s worth I’m sorry. I’ve no explanation, I should have seen how it was making you feel, and for what it’s worth, I meant what I tweeted last night. And if you leave now, I think it will be a huge mistake on your part, and a huge loss for the rest of us.”

You licked your lips, your bottom one being pulled through your teeth. Your hand ran through your wet hair. "I can't... I don't know. The offer is on the table. I'm supposed to be back in LA to meet with them again after Christmas."

“They actually said you could sever?”

"We're negotiating." You answered honestly.

Chris took a deep breath and nodded, “I’m assuming there’s a deadline seeing as we’re supposed to start the prep for filming the next Avengers on March.”

"Like I said, after Christmas."

“Okay.” He slapped his thighs and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve said my piece and, well, I’m sure you’ll do what’s right for you. But, I do mean this, it’ll be a shame to see you go,”

You grabbed his forearm, "Chris..."

“Yeah?”

"I don't want to go. But I don't know if I can handle this anymore," you admitted shyly.

He hung his head, “yeah I get that too. And I’m sorry. I really am.”

"Is it me? Am I that hard to work with? Because we didn't have this problem before."

“No, not at all. I just… I honestly didn’t mean to act like I did. I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t aware I was doing anything, certainly not before our bust up anyway. But that’s not an excuse, I get it.”

You looked at him for a moment. His eyes were earnestly searching yours, his face genuinely contrite and you could tell he was being honest.

You took a deep breath and closed your eyes, deciding to take the olive branch. For your sake, not his…

"Maybe I took it more personal than I needed to. I just... I'd just gotten out of something and I brought it to work with me. Failed the first rule, you know."

“We all do that.” He chuckled then sighed. “Have you heard from him recently?”

"No. He's with... It doesn't matter, he's moved on. I gave him the ring back and that's it."

“His loss.” Chris shrugged. 

There was a brief pause as you thought about him. How it went down and how much it hurt you. 

"He felt threatened. My career was going up and his stalled." You shrugged. "He didn't want me to take the Marvel job."

“Yeah well, for the record, I never liked the prick.”

“And there he is,” you chuckled, shaking your head, “there’s the Chris I know and kinda like.”

“Kinda?”

“Don’t push it.” Your smile was soft. You sighed. "What the fuck happened?" You stood. "I... We..."

“I don’t know, I wish I did.”

"You kissed me in Costa Rica. It was the wrap party, we never spoke of it again."

Chris swallowed, “I know. I… well, I pulled a Steve, didn’t I? By the time I got my head out my ass, you were dating him and… well, I got back together with Minka…”

"You won out, I'm the over dramatic, single one." You chuckled uncomfortably.

“Hardly,” he shook his head, “ didn’t work for either of us did it?”

"You.... The two of you..."

"Two months ago. We're just not the same people. We tried. Gave it a year but," he shook his head. 

“I had no idea! How the fuck did I miss that?”

“Well, we didn’t make a huge deal of it. It’s mostly gone under the radar so far, and it’s not like we really talked is it? I know you don’t like her.”

“She also doesn’t like me.”

You gave him a second, a chance to see if there was anything he wanted to share more but didn't. 

"Okay, let’s… I… start over.” You licked your lips, “just… try not to be dickheads?”

"Deal, easy as that."

“Okay,” you nodded, “I don’t wanna be rude but I’m meeting Ant and the kids in an hour but…” your hands pulled at one another.

"Well, maybe if you don't have plans, we can grab some drinks, on the down low later? Either my room or yours, just hang out, talk, catch up?"

"Sure, erm… I can message you when I’m back?”

"Yep, I'll be here. Josh snagged me a premiere ticket just in case you slammed the door on me now. I figured I'd keep trying until you talked to me."

"Pretty extreme, even for you, Evans."

"Don’t worry, I was going in through the backdoor. You've had enough bullshit this week thanks to me."

“Maybe showing a united front would stop this bullshit once and for all,” you mused.

“Maybe, we can talk it through later. I’m happy to do whatever.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,”

"I mean it. Whatever started this shit, I fucked up, and I'm sorry." He now stood at the door, his hand in the handle.

You were behind him. “Fresh start remember?”

"I know, just..." He pointed to his head, "clearing out the noise."

“Gets loud in there huh? I feel ya.” You gestured to your own.

"We should talk about that shit, some time, like we used to."

“One step at a time,” you gave him a soft smile.

"I'll see you tonight. Maybe." He reached out to hug you. 

"Yeah, maybe." You hugged him back. 

With a final nod he left and you watched the door close behind you. You stood still before you wiped the tears from your cheeks and turned to get ready for your day.

🎄🎄🎄🎄

Part 2: Present

[im-in-love-with-pizza-bites]

Yours, Mine, Ours: Chapter 6

Single-Dad!Chris Evans X Single-Mom!Reader

Series MasterList

Series Summary: Your husband Caspian Richardson Senior died while serving in the military, so you move your three sons to Boston, MA. Where you meet an actor and his sweet daughter.

Chapter Summary: Caspian babysits Juniper.

Series Warnings: Death of a spouse/parent, divorce of parents, grief, military death, fluff, angst.

Chapter Warnings: Fluff.

"Okay, I'll be back by 10. All emergency contact numbers are on the fridge, her bedtime is 9, there's pizza for money or leftovers in the fridge." Chris explained to Caspian. "Juniper be good for Caspian."

"Okay." June said smiling.

"We'll have a blast! Don't worry Chris if anything happens I'll call I promise." Caspian assured.

"Okay. Bye Bug." Chris hugged juniper before he left.

"Okay kiddo what do you want to do?" Caspian knelt to the height of the 4 year old.

"Makeover!" She exclaimed. He chuckled and followed the toddler to her bedroom.

"Okay so do you want to give me a makeover first or do you want makeover first?" He asked once in her room.

"You do me first." June said sitting on her bed. He smiled instructing her to close her eyes before he looked in her bin of dress up stuff. He grabbed a tiara, a feather boa, before he found pink star sunglasses. He dressed the girl up before handing her a tutu to put on over the leggings she's wearing. She put it on before he directed her to her mirror.

"I'm so pretty!" She said happily. "Sit down!" She demanded pushing him to the bed. He did so before letting her dress him up.

Eventually he was allowed to open his eyes. He was in multiple feather boas, a pink sun hat, heart sunglasses and she had put lipstick on him.

"Where did you get lipstick?" He asked her keeping in a laugh about the outfit.

"Aunt Shanna left it." She shrugged. "Do you like your outfit?"

"I love it! Let's take a photo together and send it to your dad okay?" He offered she happily nodded her head.

He snapped a photo in the mirror and sent it to Chris as well as you. After they played a little more he ordered a pizza. They played a bit more, Chris checked in once. It was clear Chris was worried about leaving his daughter with a teen her hadn't known for that long. It's only been 3 months since you moved in and two since he met you and your sons. Chris did save the photo Caspian sent he found it adorable he decided to send it to his family's group chat since he knew they'd find it cute too.

"Okay June are you able put your pajamas on your own?" Caspian ask her after she picked her pajamas out.

"I can try." She told him.

"Okay I'll wait right outside the door come get me if you need help." He told her. She came out with her shirt on backwards but the pants were on correctly. "Okay here put your arms in your shirt." She did so and he turned her shirt around while it was on her. "There you go kiddo. What movie?"

"Descendants!" She told him he smiled leaning down.

"Okay get on my back I'll give you a piggyback ride to the kitchen for snacks!" He told her. Juniper smiled jumping on his back. Soon they had their snacks and were sat on the couch. Juniper had her head on Caspian's lap a bag of goldfish in front of her. Dodger was on Caspian's other side asleep.

Chris walked in at ten on the dot as he promised, he expected to see Caspian watching some random show or playing on his phone. He didn't expect to see Caspian asleep laying on the couch and Juniper laying beside him resting her head on his arm. Dodger was laying on Caspian. Chris smiled taking a photo before sending it to you.

—

You opened the message from Chris smiling at the photo and saving it. You text him back. He asked if you want him to send Caspian hope or just pet him sleep. You tell him to just let him sleep if he doesn't mind Caspian sleeping on his couch. He says it's okay and that he'll send Caspian home that morning.

You yawned texting him back before deciding you could get ready for bed as Jace had a baseball game early that morning, then Connor had a soccer game right after. You also had to take your youngest two sons to doctors appointments.

———

"Bye Chris! Sorry again for falling asleep on your couch. Bye Juni!" Caspian shouts before he ran down the driveway. "Hey, mom." Caspian smiled walking into your house.

"Hey, buddy did you sleep well?" You asked.

"Yeah." He nodded. "I'm going to go get dress so we can go to Jace's game." He said before hurrying up the stairs smiling at his baby brother who was walking down the stairs carrying his stuff.

"Mom! I can't find my cleats." Connor told you tossing his bag down.

"Buddy they're on the shoe rack." You told him. He hurried to the front door where a shoe rack sat, three of the pairs of shoes were wrapped in plastic bags to avoid dirtying the house and the car up. He stuffed his pair in his bag with the plastic bag still on them before putting on his sneakers.

"Okay mom! I'm ready!" He said walking in with his bag.

"You look great sweetheart now eat up." You push the plate toward him.

"You got it mom." Connor sat at the table eating his breakfast with Jace.

Soon you were sitting at Jace's game cheering him on.

"Run! Run!" Caspian screamed at the fence to his little brother. "Keep going! Go go go!!!"

"Come on Jace!"

"Keep going!" Caspian waved his brother on as Jace passed the third base looking at his brother. "Go!!" You smiled fondly at your oldest son, you don't think he noticed that he was doing exactly what his father used to at his t-ball games. "Yes!!! Good job Jace! That's my brother!" He screamed making you laugh. Jace just got the game-winning home run.

"Yes!" Connor exclaimed finally looking at the field from where he was busy snacking on goldfish.

"Good job sweetheart!" You cheer. Soon Jace was walking over to you his bag in tow ready to hurry to Connor's game.

"I wish dad could've seen that!" Jace said as the four of you walked to the car.

"Yeah he'd be so proud of you!" Captain agreed as he walked with Connor on his back.

"I hit the ball so far momma! Did you see it probably could've hit the moon!" Jace said happily.

"Definitely, it would've knocked the man in the moon right out." You laughed ruffling his hair.

"After Connor's game can we get milkshakes?"

"How bout we go out to lunch before you appointments and just maybe you can get a milkshake."

"Yay!"

Taglist: @anacrcarvalho @traceyaudette @deputy-videogamer @thesecretlifeofdaydreamss @yelenabelovawife @queenofthepouges @hauntedmuffinpersonarascal @stillthatbetch @findthebeautyinbreakdowns @selluequestrian @killerqueenfan @lharrietg @liecastillo @dontbescaredtosingalong @unicornblueberry @srhxpci @denisemarieangelina @stitchattacks @wisepeanutlady @haroldsstuff @marvelmenwhore @food8me @milacolibri

[lunaticus-platina]

This one is a depressing fic. This scenario is where Kaitlyn and Travis are the sole survivors at the end of the game. Dark!Travis warning.

My go-to song for writing depressed characters in depressive episode is Wires - The Neighborhood

TW: Implied murder, Arson, Suicidal thoughts, Drinking, Major character death, Implied alcoholism, Mention of child abuse, Suicide

He burned the house down.

It was ridiculous how easy it was to cover that up.

Gas leak, they think. He piled the bodies in the room and poured enough gas all over the place. Had to make sure, so he used some of the alcohol in the tunnel, and some gunpowder, too.

Such a tragedy, they said to him. A lonely sheriff, losing his entire family overnight. What a pity, for those young camp folks to die so early. How tragic. For such disaster to befell the good people that were at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Countless people he didn't even know the name of sent him condolences. 'The nightmare shall pass one day.', 'I'm sorry for what happened to your family.'

They didn't even know the half of it.

The counselors' family came and went. There was nothing to be found, of course. He was a police officer, he knew what and where to look for the evidences.

That girl, Kaitlyn. He took care of her too.

He already stabbed a girl who murdered half of his family to death, blew up a boy's head the same way the bastard did his brother. After that, any other things, came naturally.

Months passed since the 'unfortunate accident' of the Hackett's Quarry.

And now, here he sat in his office, a bottle of scotch whiskey nearly empty in his loose grip. A couple other bottles were already lying on the desk, their contents all poured out some minutes ago. Every one of them hard liquor, the stuffs he kept in the cabinet for rainy days.

His father enjoyed rum. The bootleggers' taste must've seeped into his family's bloodline, because the old man used to down the thing like water. Like life-source.

He hated it.

He hated the beating that followed even more.

Ma used to berate him for not being enough of a man to just 'take' it, that he should be strong, he should look after this family, that that was his job as the eldest.

That night, back at home, she wanted him to 'clean up his mess'. Well. He did.

Everything was supposed to go to the grandkids. Some portion went to Chris, the house too. Tiny bit for Bobby.

Not a thing for him, as expected. Chris had kids. Bobby needed care. He had his job. Surely, you could manage, Travis? Your family needs the money more than you, anyway.

Now, he got to have all of it.

So he could use them on this.

He looked at the brand new bottles on the corner of the desk that were yet to be opened. These were some of the finest. For all the years he worked as a sheriff, he didn't dare purchase one of those. Not just because his family would have chewed him out the moment they spotted it.

No. Every time his eyes drifted to the liquor corner and saw the brand, he didn't feel like he earned it.

He screwed open the cap and took a quick swig. It wasn't as good as he wished. Come to think of it, he didn't know what he expected. Wasn't it always going to end this way? He said it himself. There was no way one man could hold the weight of his entire family.

He took another gulp, and looked at his other hand. His father's revolver pressing down on his palm like lead.

He's done his deed. His duty was over. Might as well clean up the one final mess.

With a bottle in his hand, a barrel pressed against his chin, he thought he heard a faint, shrill laughter of a woman.

A shot went off in a static police station.

[nerdzzone]

Only For A Moment: June

Summary: A series of shorter one shots from Chris and Whitney’s life together throughout the pandemic. Some happy times, some harder times, some fluff and some things a little more sexy - they work through it all as they try to get settled in their new and blossoming relationship.

Chris Evans x OFC

Part of the Once Bitten/More Hearts series

Only For A Moment: May

Note: Thank you to everyone who liked, reblogged or commented on the first part of this little series. It’s been nice to write some fun family time, but please let me know if you enjoy it too! There will be some drama sprinkled in and relationship building conversations eventually, but I thought I’d let them be happy for a bit 😉

______

June 2020

When I first moved to Massachusetts, I'd been very excited about the change in climate. I was ready to get away from the perpetual heat of California and live somewhere with four real seasons and actual snow in the winter. However, as much as I enjoyed those new things, it only made me appreciate summer even more.

I loved lounging in the sun, I loved the bright early mornings with that fresh smell in the air that tells you it's going to be a hot day, I loved how it brought out all the little freckles on Grayson's cheeks and most of all, this year, I loved that we had easy access to a pool.

Swimming had always been my favourite summer activity and it was something that I must have passed on to Grayson because as soon as the weather turned hot, he was constantly pestering us to let him in the water. We were very stern with him about the rules - that he wasn't to go anywhere near the pool without adult supervision - but his patience was clearly wearing thin. Chris had to clean it and get it ready for the season after it had been out of use all winter and every day that Grayson had to wait seemed to physically pain him. It was the first thing he mentioned in the morning and all he wanted to talk about throughout the day until finally, as the temperatures neared the mid 80s and summer had clearly begun, the pool was ready for use.

And it came at just the right time, when we were all needing a little carefree family fun. On top of the normal, seemingly never ending anxiety caused by the pandemic, Scott had left the day before to return to L.A. and get his life back in order. We were excited for him, but there was a hint of sadness in the air as the house felt just a little bit emptier without him.

But that emptiness dissipated instantly when we got outside. Grayson was practically vibrating with excitement and his squeals and shrieks as he splashed in the pool with Chris did a wonderful job of filling any quiet that Scott's departure had caused. He was constantly impressing us with his patience and understanding of the current restrictions on our activities so hearing the glee in his voice was a comforting sound. I couldn’t help but think how a few short years ago rambunctious kids at the pool used to get on my nerves, but now the noise only added to my relaxation.

I was soaking in that relaxation as I laid on a lounger in the sun wearing the only bikini that I'd packed. I thought it was fairly modest as far as bikinis go - very mom friendly - but from the look Chris had given me when I first came out of the house, apparently it was sexier than I thought. I'd watched in amusement as Chris turned to stare, his jaw dropping slightly as I sauntered over to my seat, but there was no time for those kinds of distractions as Grayson protested his dad's lack of attention with a splash in the face. Chris let out an exaggerated shout of surprise, but was quick to retaliate by dunking him completely under the water. The urge to scold Chris was on the tip of my tongue, but Gray was full of heartfelt giggles when he popped back up and a smile slid onto my face as I relaxed back against my chair.

I did fully intended to join them in the pool at some point, but I couldn't resist taking a few moments to watch them play.

Even when Chris and I hadn't been on the best of terms, I had always been grateful for the bond they shared. Grayson had definitely inherited his father's sense of humour - the way they teased and pestered each other was adorable to see - and they both looked at each other with so much pride, constantly thriving off the other's support and approval. Watching as Grayson flourished in his swimming practice with Chris' constant encouragement made my heart ache with happiness and I could have stayed in that moment - sprawled out on my lounger, soaking in their joy - forever without growing tired of it.

It wasn't until they'd been in the pool just over half an hour that there was any trouble. Grayson was a natural in the water - he had no fear of putting his head under, he didn't panic when he couldn't touch the bottom, he was probably a fish in a previous life - and he was excellent at listening to Chris' guidance to keep him out of any dangerous situations. However, he apparently wasn't as eager to follow our rules when he wasn't in the water.

That became apparent when Chris decided to show him how to do a cannonball. Grayson did as instructed and held tightly onto the side while Chris climbed out to demonstrate, but he got distracted when it was his turn to try. Dodger had been whipped into a frenzy by all the shouts and screams so as soon as Grayson was out of the pool, the happy dog went running past him.

"Dodger! Come back!" Grayson grinned, as his eyes lit up with an idea. "Dodger, get in the pool!"

Chris shook his head at Grayson's plan and insisted that it was a bad idea, but was almost entirely ignored as Grayson bolted after the dog.

"Grayson," I shouted over to him, sitting up straight so I could make sure I got his attention. "Don't run around the pool! Your feet are wet and the ground is slippery!"

Again, he completely ignored the opposition to his brilliant idea and he continued his sprint. I let out a huff of frustration and slipped my feet into my flip-flops, ready to chase after him when Chris spoke up.

"Gray!" He shouted, his voice stern and leaving no room for his seriousness to be misunderstood. "Listen to your Ma! You know not to run by the pool!"

Grayson's excitement was clearly clouding his judgment as he still paid no attention. I'd just stood up to go and physically stop him and make sure he understood why he needed to listen to us when he learnt the hard way, slipping and falling backwards.

My heart was in my throat as I jumped in to action, feeling only a hint of relief that he had managed to catch himself with his hands just fast enough to stop his head from smashing on the hard tiles around the pool. His first reaction was one of shock, but it only took a second for the tears to come.

"Shit," I heard Chris mutter as he immediately hoisted himself out of the water before rushing over, hot on my heels. 

I got to him first and pulled him into my arms.

"Oh, buddy, are you okay?" I asked as he buried his face in my neck and cried. "Where does it hurt?"

He sobbed out a quiet 'everywhere', but he was holding his wrist so it was safe to assume that was what bore the brunt of the impact. I rubbed his back as Chris crouched down beside us and took Gray's little hand in his own. He made him move it up and down and make a fist and when he did so without much more than a wince, it seemed like it was probably just a bit bruised.

"I think you'll be okay," Chris announced as Grayson's cries quieted down to a sniffle. "But this is why we reminded you not to run. It's not safe and you could have been really hurt."

"Sorry, Daddy..."

His words were soft as more tears filled his eyes and he crawled off of my lap into Chris' arms. Still crouched down, Chris gave him a big squeeze and assured him that it was fine, but warned him to make sure he listened to us next time.

Once Grayson's sniffles had quieted down almost completely, Chris glanced at me with a twinkle in his eye before leaning in towards Gray.

"Would it cheer you up if..."

His words trailed off and he leaned down to whisper the end of the sentence in Grayson's ear. From the way his eyes lit up at his dad's words and a giggle bubbled up from his chest, I had a feeling that I wasn't going to like whatever he'd suggested.

"Yes, Daddy!" Grayson grinned. "Do it!"

Chris shot me a smirk before sliding Grayson out of his arms and standing up. As soon as he moved behind me, I had a good idea what had just been discussed and my suspicions were all, but confirmed when he effortlessly lifted me up with one arm behind my back and the other under my knees.

"Chris..." I warned him, looking up at him in what I hoped was a menacing way. "Don't you dare throw me in that pool..."

"Why not?" He smirked. "It's such a beautiful day and you haven't even dipped a toe in yet..."

"I'll get in if you want me to, but I don't want to get my hair wet. The chlorine makes it so gross."

Chris rolled his eyes at my excuse and took a step closer to the edge.

"Do it, Daddy!" Grayson cheered. "Do it!"

"Chris..." My plea was more whiny this time. "Please, don't."

"Sorry, honey. The kid needs cheering up."

The grin on his face made it clear that he wasn't sorry at all, but before I could argue the point he tossed me out of his arms. I had just enough time to let out a squeal of protest before I hit the water. It was colder than I expected, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant since it was such a hot day. Still, as I popped back up at the surface and flipped the drenched mess of my hair out of my face, I glared at Chris. He was grinning as Grayson stood next to him, giggling uncontrollably.

"Chris! That was rude!"

My tone was harsh, but there was a smile on my face. It was hard to be annoyed when it had clearly filled Grayson with so much joy and, truthfully, I didn't mind getting wet. I wasn't about to let them know that though as I forced a pout and paddled over to the side of the pool.

"I'm sorry, Winnie," Chris apologized, but with a smirk that made me think he still wasn't being entirely sincere. "Here, let me help you out."

He held out his hand and I hid a smirk of my own. I couldn't believe he was stupid enough to do that, but I accepted his offer and grabbed on. Planting my feet on the side of the pool, I pulled on his arm and sent him flying into the water beside me.

Grayson could barely breathe he was laughing so hard after that and the look of shock on Chris' face when he resurfaced had me unable to hold back giggles of my own.

"I can't believe you fell for that," I teased. "That's the oldest trick in the book."

"Well, I didn't think you'd pull something like that when I was trying to be nice."

"It's called payback."

I shot him a smirk as I went to hoist myself out of the water, but his arms slid around my waist when I was halfway out and dragged me back in. We both ended up under the water this time and when we popped back up, he'd angled us so his back was towards Grayson and he was holding me tightly against his chest. I wrapped my legs around his waist to help me stay afloat and his hands went down to my thighs to support me.

"Well, throwing you in the pool was payback of my own," he informed me, his voice low. "Payback for strutting around in that sexy bikini when I can't do anything about it."

He slid his hands a bit higher, giving my ass a quick squeeze and I leaned down to steal a kiss. I'd be lying if I said that the sight of his very chiselled muscles as he splashed around shirtless hadn't been driving me wild too, but as Grayson called to us from the side of the pool, we were reminded just why the situation was so torturous.

"I wanna turn falling in!"

I pulled myself out of Chris' grasp at the sound of Gray's voice and smiled up at him.

"Jump in!"

"No," he shook his head. "I wanna be pushed too!"

Chris swam past me, chuckling as he went, and pulled himself out of the pool with ease. I was treading water, waiting to swim over and help Gray once he landed in the water as Chris scooped him into his arms. He tickled him, earning more hysterical giggles, and started swinging him over the pool. He didn't let go the first time though and repeated the action as he counted to three before he finally launched Grayson towards me.

Grayson's shriek was almost deafening and he landed in the water with a big splash. He spluttered and coughed as he popped back up, but the giggles quickly came back as I swam over and let him climb onto my back.

"Daddy! Come in!"

Chris smiled and turned around, looking down to make sure his feet were right at the edge of the pool.

"Stay back!"

I listened to his warning and swam a little bit farther away. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure we were in a safe place before swinging his arms and doing a perfect back flip into the water.

"Wow!" Grayson gasped, the awe clear in his voice. "That's cool!"

"Yeah? You liked that?"

Chris looked very proud of himself for impressing the three year old and it was cute to see. He had millions of fans all around the world, but nothing meant more to him than his son's adoration.

"Yeah! I did!" Grayson nodded enthusiastically. "I wanna try!"

"No way, buddy," I told him firmly, shooting Chris a glare as I heard that request and making sure he heard me too. "That's a trick for grown-ups only."

Grayson whined about how unfair I was being, but Chris chuckled and nodded his head.

"Your mom's right, Gray. That trick takes a lot of practice," he warned him as he reached over to pull him from my back. "But we can try something else. Here, stand on my hands."

He moved his hands under the water and put them under Grayson's feet. I watched, feeling a bit nervous about what he was planning, but I trusted that Chris wouldn’t do anything dangerous as they got settled into position.

"Ready?" He asked Grayson, who nodded eagerly despite having no idea what was about to happen. "Okay...One...Two...Three...Go!"

On 'go', Chris pushed his hands up quickly, tossing Grayson through the air. It was much less graceful than Chris' back flip, but that didn't damper Gray's enjoyment. As soon as his head was back above the water, he giggled and squealed for Chris to do it again. I smiled at his enthusiasm as I helped him swim back to Chris.

As we probably could have predicted, Grayson made Chris do it over and over again until we were all wrinkled from the water and baked from the sun. He probably would have made Chris toss him around the pool all night if we let him but, after almost an hour, we ruined his fun and dragged him back inside for a break from the warm weather.

To ease the blow of the pool party being over, we set him up on the couch with a popsicle while we got ourselves changed before joining him. As we all lounged in the living room - soaking in the joy of air conditioning - I was filled with a feeling that was becoming increasingly familiar.

Contentment.

The joy of domesticity was still so fresh for us. All these normal days spent together as a family that some people might find mundane were so special, but as much as I enjoyed them, I couldn't help but feel a hint of regret. I'd spent so long trying to protect Grayson by keeping Chris and I apart that I hadn't realized what he was missing out on and - as Chris pulled me close against his side with Gray tucked under his other arm - I was so grateful that we were finally able to give him the family that he deserved.

-

July

Tags:  @maggotzombie @moonlacebeam @mizzzpink @zaylaugh @flowery-mess @flowerjewels @njrronaldo7 @hockeychick10 @partypoison00 @theladybiers @sidepieces @firoozehmoon @patzammit @sparkledfirecracker @mytbel0st

[chrisevansluv]

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

Here is the 2012 Detail Magazine interview with chris evans:

The Avengers' Chris Evans: Just Your Average Beer-Swilling, Babe-Loving Buddhist

The 30-year-old Bud Light-chugging, Beantown-bred star of The Avengers is widely perceived as the ultimate guy's guy. But beneath the bro persona lies a serious student of Buddhism, an unrepentant song-and-dance man, and a guy who talks to his mom about sex. And farts.

By Adam Sachs,

Photographs by Norman Jean Roy

May 2012 Issue

"Should we just kill him and bury his body?" Chris Evans is stage whispering into the impassive blinking light of my digital recorder.

"Chris!" shouts his mother, her tone a familiar-to-anyone-with-a-mother mix of coddling and concern. "Don't say that! What if something happened?"

We're at Evans' apartment, an expansive but not overly tricked-out bachelor-pad-ish loft in a semi-industrial nowheresville part of Boston, hard by Chinatown, near an area sometimes called the Combat Zone. Evans has a fuzzy, floppy, slept-in-his-clothes aspect that'd be nearly unrecognizable if you knew him only by the upright, spit-polished bearing of the onscreen hero. His dog, East, a sweet and slobbery American bulldog, is spread out on a couch in front of the TV. The shelves of his fridge are neatly stacked with much of the world's supply of Bud Light in cans and little else.

On the counter sit a few buckets of muscle-making whey-protein powder that belong to Evans' roommate, Zach Jarvis, an old pal who sometimes tags along on set as a paid "assistant" and a personal trainer who bulked Evans up for his role as the super-ripped patriot in last summer's blockbuster Captain America: The First Avenger. A giant clock on the exposed-brick wall says it's early evening, but Evans operates on his own sense of time. Between gigs, his schedule's all his, which usually translates into long stretches of alone time during the day and longer social nights for the 30-year-old.

"I could just make this . . . disappear," says Josh Peck, another old pal and occasional on-set assistant, in a deadpan mumble, poking at the voice recorder I'd left on the table while I was in the bathroom.

Evans' mom, Lisa, now speaks directly into the microphone: "Don't listen to them—I'm trying to get them not to say these things!"

But not saying things isn't in the Evans DNA. They're an infectiously gregarious clan. Irish-Italians, proud Bostoners, close-knit, and innately theatrical. "We all act, we sing," Evans says. "It was like the fucking von Trapps." Mom was a dancer and now runs a children's theater. First-born Carly directed the family puppet shows and studied theater at NYU. Younger brother Scott has parts on One Life to Live and Law & Order under his belt and lives in Los Angeles full-time—something Evans stopped doing several years back. Rounding out the circle are baby sister Shanna and a pair of "strays" the family brought into their Sudbury, Massachusetts, home: Josh, who went from mowing the lawn to moving in when his folks relocated during his senior year in high school; and Demery, who was Evans' roommate until recently.

"Our house was like a hotel," Evans says. "It was a loony-tunes household. If you got arrested in high school, everyone knew: 'Call Mrs. Evans, she'll bail you out.'"

Growing up, they had a special floor put in the basement where all the kids practiced tap-dancing. The party-ready rec room also had a Ping-Pong table and a separate entrance. This was the house kids in the neighborhood wanted to hang at, and this was the kind of family you wanted to be adopted by. Spend an afternoon listening to them dish old dirt and talk over each other and it's easy to see why. Now they're worried they've said too much, laid bare the tender soul of the actor behind the star-spangled superhero outfit, so there's talk of offing the interviewer. I can hear all this from the bathroom, which, of course, is the point of a good stage whisper.

To be sure, no one's said too much, and the more you're brought into the embrace of this boisterous, funny, shit-slinging, demonstrably loving extended family, the more likable and enviable the whole dynamic is.

Sample exchange from today's lunch of baked ziti at a family-style Italian restaurant:

Mom: When he was a kid, he asked me, 'Mom, will I ever think farting isn't funny?'

Chris: You're throwing me under the bus, Ma! Thank you.

Mom: Well, if a dog farts you still find it funny.

Then, back at the apartment, where Mrs. Evans tries to give me good-natured dirt on her son without freaking him out:

Mom: You always tell me when you think a girl is attractive. You'll call me up so excited. Is that okay to say?

Chris: Nothing wrong with that.

Mom: And can I say all the girls you've brought to the house have been very sweet and wonderful? Of course, those are the ones that make it to the house. It's been a long time, hasn't it?

Chris: Looooong time.

Mom: The last one at our house? Was it six years ago?

Chris: No names, Ma!

Mom: But she knocked it out of the park.

Chris: She got drunk and puked at Auntie Pam's house! And she puked on the way home and she puked at our place.

Mom: And that's when I fell in love with her. Because she was real.

We're operating under a no-names rule, so I'm not asking if it's Jessica Biel who made this memorable first impression. She and Evans were serious for a couple of years. But I don't want to picture lovely Jessica Biel getting sick at Auntie Pam's or in the car or, really, anywhere.

East the bulldog ambles over to the table, begging for food.

"That dog is the love of his life," Mrs. Evans says. "Which tells me he'll be an unbelievable parent, but I don't want him to get married right now." She turns to Chris. "The way you are, I just don't think you're ready."

Some other things I learn about Evans from his mom: He hates going to the gym; he was so wound-up as a kid she'd let him stand during dinner, his legs shaking like caged greyhounds; he suffered weekly "Sunday-night meltdowns" over schoolwork and the angst of the sensitive middle-schooler; after she and his father split and he was making money from acting, he bought her the Sudbury family homestead rather than let her leave it.

Eventually his mom and Josh depart, and Evans and I go to work depleting his stash of Bud Light. It feels like we drink Bud Light and talk for days, because we basically do. I arrived early Friday evening; it's Saturday night now and it'll be sunup Sunday before I sleeplessly make my way to catch a train back to New York City. Somewhere in between we slip free of the gravitational pull of the bachelor pad and there's bottle service at a club and a long walk with entourage in tow back to Evans' apartment, where there is some earnest-yet-surreal group singing, piano playing, and chitchat. Evans is fun to talk to, partly because he's an open, self-mocking guy with an explosive laugh and no apparent need to sleep, and partly because when you cut just below the surface, it's clear he's not quite the dude's dude he sometimes plays onscreen and in TV appearances.

From a distance, Chris Evans the movie star seems a predictable, nearly inevitable piece of successful Hollywood packaging come to market. There's his major-release debut as the dorkily unaware jock Jake in the guilty pleasure Not Another Teen Movie (in one memorable scene, Evans has whipped cream on his chest and a banana up his ass). The female-friendly hunk appeal—his character in The Nanny Diaries is named simply Harvard Hottie—is balanced by a kind of casual-Friday, I'm-from-Boston regular-dudeness. Following the siren song of comic-book cash, he was the Human Torch in two Fantastic Four films. As with scrawny Steve Rogers, the Captain America suit beefed up his stature as a formidable screen presence, a bankable leading man, all of which leads us to The Avengers, this season's megabudget, megawatt ensemble in which he stars alongside Scarlett Johansson, Mark Ruffalo, Robert Downey Jr., and Chris Hemsworth.

It all feels inevitable—and yet it nearly didn't happen. Evans repeatedly turned down the Captain America role, fearing he'd be locked into what was originally a nine-picture deal. He was shooting Puncture, about a drug-addicted lawyer, at the time. Most actors doing small-budget legal dramas would jump at the chance to play the lead in a Marvel franchise, but Evans saw a decade of his life flash before his eyes.

What he remembers thinking is this: "What if the movie comes out and it's a success and I just reject all of this? What if I want to move to the fucking woods?"

By "the woods," he doesn't mean a quiet life away from the spotlight, some general metaphorical life escape route. He means the actual woods. "For a long time all I wanted for Christmas were books about outdoor survival," he says. "I was convinced that I was going to move to the woods. I camped a lot, I took classes. At 18, I told myself if I don't live in the woods by the time I'm 25, I have failed."

Evans has described his hesitation at signing on for Captain America. Usually he talks about the time commitment, the loss of what remained of his relative anonymity. On the junkets for the movie, he was open about needing therapy after the studio reduced the deal to six movies and he took the leap. What he doesn't usually mention is that he was racked with anxiety before the job came up.

"I get very nervous," Evans explains. "I shit the bed if I have to present something on stage or if I'm doing press. Because it's just you." He's been known to walk out of press conferences, to freeze up and go silent during the kind of relaxed-yet-high-stakes meetings an actor of his stature is expected to attend: "Do you know how badly I audition? Fifty percent of the time I have to walk out of the room. I'm naturally very pale, so I turn red and sweat. And I have to literally walk out. Sometimes mid-audition. You start having these conversations in your brain. 'Chris, don't do this. Chris, take it easy. You're just sitting in a room with a person saying some words, this isn't life. And you're letting this affect you? Shame on you.'"

Shades of "Sunday-night meltdowns." Luckily the nerves never follow him to the set. "You do your neuroses beforehand, so when they yell 'Action' you can be present," he says.

Okay, there was one on-set panic attack—while Evans was shooting Puncture. "We were getting ready to do a court scene in front of a bunch of people, and I don't know what happened," he says. "It's just your brain playing games with you. 'Hey, you know how we sometimes freak out? What if we did it right now?'"

One of the people who advised Evans to take the Captain America role was his eventual Avengers costar Robert Downey Jr. "I'd seen him around," Downey says. "We share an agent. I like to spend a lot of my free time talking to my agent about his other clients—I just had a feeling about him."

What he told Evans was: This puppy is going to be big, and when it is you're going to get to make the movies you want to make. "In the marathon obstacle course of a career," Downey says, "it's just good to have all the stats on paper for why you're not only a team player but also why it makes sense to support you in the projects you want to do—because you've made so much damned money for the studio."

There's also the fact that Evans had a chance to sign on for something likely to be a kind of watershed moment in the comic-book fascination of our time. "I do think The Avengers is the crescendo of this superhero phase in entertainment—except of course for Iron Man 3," Downey says. "It'll take a lot of innovation to keep it alive after this."

Captain America is the only person left who was truly close to Howard Stark, father of Tony Stark (a.k.a. Iron Man), which meant that Evans' and Downey's story lines are closely linked, and in the course of doing a lot of scenes together, they got to be pals. Downey diagnoses his friend with what he terms "low-grade red-carpet anxiety disorder."

"He just hates the game-show aspect of doing PR," Downey says. "Obviously there's pressure for anyone in this transition he's in. But he will easily triple that pressure to make sure he's not being lazy. That's why I respect the guy. I wouldn't necessarily want to be in his skin. But his motives are pure. He just needs to drink some red-carpet chamomile."

"The majority of the world is empty space," Chris Evans says, watching me as if my brain might explode on hearing this news—or like he might have to fight me if I try to contradict him. We're back at his apartment after a cigarette run through the Combat Zone.

"Empty space!" he says again, slapping the table and sort of yelling. Then, in a slow, breathy whisper, he repeats: "Empty space, empty space. All that we see in the world, the life, the animals, plants, people, it's all empty space. That's amazing!" He slaps the table again. "You want another beer? Gotta be Bud Light. Get dirty—you're in Boston. Okay, organize your thoughts. I gotta take a piss . . ."

My thoughts are this: That this guy who is hugging his dog and talking to me about space and mortality and the trouble with Boston girls who believe crazy gossip about him—this is not the guy I expected to meet. I figured he'd be a meatball. Though, truthfully, I'd never called anyone a meatball until Evans turned me on to the put-down. As in: "My sister Shanna dates meatballs." And, more to the point: "When I do interviews, I'd rather just be the beer-drinking dude from Boston and not get into the complex shit, because I don't want every meatball saying, 'So hey, whaddyathink about Buddhism?'"

At 17, Evans came across a copy of Hermann Hesse's Siddhartha and began his spiritual questing. It's a path of study and struggle that, he says, defines his true purpose in life. "I love acting. It's my playground, it lets me explore. But my happiness in this world, my level of peace, is never going to be dictated by acting," he says. "My goal in life is to detach from the egoic mind. Do you know anything about Eastern philosophy?"

I sip some Bud Light and shake my head sheepishly. "They talk about the egoic mind, the part of you that's self-aware, the watcher, the person you think is driving this machine," he says. "And that separation from self and mind is the root of suffering. There are ways of retraining the way you think. This isn't really supported in Western society, which is focused on 'Go get it, earn it, win it, marry it.'"

Scarlett Johansson says that one of the things she appreciates about Evans is how he steers clear of industry chat when they see each other. "Basically every actor," she says, "including myself, when we finish a job we're like, 'Well, that's it for me. Had a good run. Put me out to pasture.' But Chris doesn't strike me as someone who frets about the next job." The two met on the set of The Perfect Score when they were teenagers and have stayed close; The Avengers is their third movie together. "He has this obviously masculine presence—a dude's dude—and we're used to seeing him play heroic characters," Johansson says, "but he's also surprisingly sensitive. He has close female friends, and you can talk to him about anything. Plus there's that secret song-and-dance, jazz-hands side of Chris. I feel like he grew up with the Partridge Family. He'd be just as happy doing Guys and Dolls as he would Captain America 2."

East needs to do his business, so Evans and I take him up to the roof deck. Evans bought this apartment in 2010 when living in L.A. full-time no longer appealed to him. He came back to stay close to his extended family and the intimate circle of Boston pals he's maintained since high school. The move also seems like a pretty clear keep-it-real hedge against the manic ego-stroking distractions of Hollywood.

"I think my daytime person is different than my nighttime person," Evans says. "With my high-school buddies, we drink beer and talk sports and it's great. The kids in my Buddhism class in L.A., they're wildly intelligent, and I love being around them, but they're not talking about the Celtics. And that's part of me. It's a strange dichotomy. I don't mind being a certain way with some people and having this other piece of me that's just for me."

I asked Downey about Evans' outward regular-Joe persona. "It's complete horseshit," Downey says. "There's an inherent street-smart intelligence there. I don't think he tries to hide it. But he's much more evolved and much more culturally aware than he lets on."

Perhaps the meatball and the meditation can coexist. We argue about our egoic brains and the tao of Boston girls. "I love wet hair and sweatpants," he says in their defense. "I like sneakers and ponytails. I like girls who aren't so la-di-da. L.A. is so la-di-da. I like Boston girls who shit on me. Not literally. Girls who give me a hard time, bust my chops a little."

The chief buster of Evans' chops is, of course, Evans himself. "The problem is, the brain I'm using to dissect this world is a brain formed by it," he says. "We're born into confusion, and we get the blessing of letting go of it." Then he adds: "I think this shit by day. And then night comes and it's like, 'Fuck it, let's drink.'"

And so we do. It's getting late. Again. We should have eaten dinner, but Evans sometimes forgets to eat: "If I could just take a pill to make me full forever, I wouldn't think twice."

We talk about his dog and camping with his dog and why he loves being alone more than almost anything except maybe not being alone. "I swear to God, if you saw me when I am by myself in the woods, I'm a lunatic," he says. "I sing, I dance. I do crazy shit."

Evans' unflagging, all-encompassing enthusiasm is impressive, itself a kind of social intelligence. "If you want to have a good conversation with him, don't talk about the fact that he's famous" was the advice I got from Mark Kassen, who codirected Puncture. "He's a blast, a guy who can hang. For quite a long time. Many hours in a row."

I've stopped looking at the clock. We've stopped talking philosophy and moved into more emotional territory. He asks questions about my 9-month-old son, and then Captain America gets teary when I talk about the wonder of his birth. "I weep at everything," he says. "I emote. I love things so much—I just never want to dilute that."

He talks about how close he feels to his family, how open they all are with each other. About everything. All the time. "The first time I had sex," he says, "I raced home and was like, 'Mom, I just had sex! Where's the clit?'"

Wait, I ask—did she ever tell you?

"Still don't know where it is, man," he says, then breaks into a smile composed of equal parts shit-eating grin and inner peace. "I just don't know. Make some movies, you don't have to know…"

If someone doesn't want to check the link, the anon sent the full interview!

[fangirlovestuff]

Chris proposing on valentines day?

a/n - making this a hc because it takes me less time to write them and i really wanted to get one fic out on actual valentine’s :) the other ones will be up later this week probably🤞 thanks for the request nonnie, i hope you enjoy this!! and happy valentine’s day to all<3

Be Mine - Chris Evans x reader

warnings - a really small mention of smut, other than that it’s all fluff:))

this valentine’s chris asked you if you wanted to go on a little weekend getaway

“i’m sorry there aren’t surprises this year, i just didn’t know with your work and things-”

“it’s okay babe,” you cut him off, “i don’t need surprises. a weekend away does sound nice though,” you grinned.

“great!” he smiled, “i’ll get the tickets,” he pecked your lips

you got to the hotel two days before valentine’s, spending the time mostly lazing around

and, you know, utilizing the bed for other things

valentine’s morning, you woke up to chris already being out of the bed

you frowned slightly, and then you heard the faint murmur of his voice, following it to the kitchen of your hotel room

“yeah ma, i’ll tell her,” he said, on the phone, “love you too, talk to you later,” he added quickly when he saw you were awake.

he hung up a couple of moments later, putting his phone down on the counter and grinning as he came close to you

he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, your head coming to rest on his chest

“good morning,” you mumbled, still pretty sleepy, and very content in chris’ arms

“good morning,” he answered, his smile apparent in his voice, and then suddenly backed away from you

you were about to frown when you saw him excitedly reaching for a flower that you had failed to notice before, picking it up from the table and extending it to you

"be my valentine's?" he smirked

even then you could still see a faint blush on his cheeks, making you giggle

"of course," you grinned, taking the flower from his hand and kissing his lips gently, because you hadn't brushed your teeth yet

a little later, when you were more awake and sipping your coffee, you remembered to ask, "hey chris, what did your mom tell you to tell me? before, when you were on the phone?"

 "oh, just that she misses us and happy valentine's day," he shrugged

"aww, she called just to tell you that?" you smiled, "your mom's the sweetest"

"she is," he smiled, not addressing the first part of your sentence, a detail you obviously paid no attention to

"so, any plans for today?" you asked, taking another sip

"well, i thought we could eat something, then maybe look around the city, shop a little," he raised his eyebrows as he said the last part

"really?" you smiled, "and you wouldn't be too miserable shopping with me?"

"of course not," he said, getting up to put his mug in the sink, but stopping next to you, "i'll be with you," he kissed your temple before moving away to the sink

"sap," you grumbled under your breath, a grin stretching on your lips nonetheless

you spent the day wandering around, shopping a little, but mostly strolling around with your hand clasped tightly in his, your fingers intertwined

you made him try on some things too, of course

"now i remember why i don't do this," he grumbled half-heartedly, taking the shirt you handed him and heading towards the fitting rooms

"i thought i said you wouldn't suffer?" you inquired, amused.

"i said i'd be with you," he pouted

"well, i don't think people would take it well if i got into a fitting booth with you love," you giggled, pecked his lips and pushed him inside

when you two got back to the hotel it was almost time for dinner already, and you took a quick shower before he did

you were contemplating what to wear to dinner when he came out of the shower, drying off

"where are we going to dinner?" you asked, eying the two outfits in front of you

"oh, i thought we'd stay in since our flight leaves pretty early tomorrow," he said, putting on a polo shirt, "i could coo-"

"yeah okay, no. i'll do the cooking," you smirked, "and you... set the table or something," you shrugged, smiling teasingly

"fine," he rolled his eyes, a smile playing on his lips as well

you got to cooking you two some dinner and when you were done you saw the table was set, with a couple of candles lit

you smiled to yourself

"chris, i'm done with the food!" you called out, putting it on the table before sitting down, and in two seconds chris was there, sitting down as well 

"happy valentine's day," you smiled at him from across the table, and he took your hand and squeezed it in his, smiling back

you were eating your food and then you looked up at chris

"everything okay?" you asked, noticing he was being less talkative than usual

"yeah," he shrugged, "i'm fine."

"okay. because you know if anything was wrong you could tell me right? and if you didn't i'd snitch to lisa and she'd tell me," you smirked

"i know," he chuckled, "i called her this morning to make sure she wouldn-"

he suddenly cut himself off, and your head snapped up to look at him

"what's up?" you raised your eyebrow at him, putting down your fork, "should i call lisa and have her tell me?" 

and you were only half-joking

"well, if i already sabotaged myself... i guess this is something that you should hear from me," he said, smiling softly, and before you could react he got up and took something out of his pocket

when he got down on one knee, you realized what it was and took a sudden gasp, a smile stretching onto your previously concerned face

"i called mom to make sure she doesn't tell you," he said, "because i know you two conspire against me," he smirked. "and also," his voice softened, "because i was nervous." he swallowed, "because i knew that if things would go right, today will be the first day of the rest of my life. our life."

you were smiling so hard you felt your face was about to split in half, and you bit your lip to contain yourself from interrupting him

"i hope you know how much i love you," he continued with a smile, "and i hope you'll let me keep you for the rest of our lives. i want to be by your side forever," he let out a shuddering breath, "i want to see you smile, and make you smile, and be your valentine always. but also your monday, and your tuesday, and every other day, because i'd be with you. so," he smiled, "will you give me the greatest honor of marrying me?"

"yes," you nodded ecstatically, slipping down from your chair to the floor, "yes, of course i will marry you!"

you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him tightly before letting go, and the second you were far enough his lips were on yours, kissing you with a love you thought only existed in fairytales until you were lucky enough to meet chris

you broke apart, both of your eyes shining with tears of happiness, and you bit your lips excitedly as he slipped the ring onto your finger

"and by the way, mom told me to tell you she knew you'd say yes," he smiled, "but i felt like it was a bit presumptuous to say that before you said yes."

you giggled at that before simply kissing him again, expressing your feelings in a way you simply couldn't say in words

and he kissed you back like he understood, no words needed.

i’d love to hear your thoughts, and i hope you had a great valentine’s!!<3

Taglist:  @horny-nd-bored​ @shannon124 @perfectlyharolds​ @wintersoldierslut​ @iceebabies​  @sleepingpapermouse @steverogerswasalwaysworthy @holtzkinnon @angelicl-y @stydia-4-ever @thatoneperson5000 @fangirlfree​ @kaitcordx25 @bequeening​ @steve-barry-damon-logan​ @itscrazycherryblossomcollection​ @hollandxmarvel​ @stargazingfangirl18 @readsreblogsfics @onetwo3000 @beritmetal @harrystylesholland @jazbot2000 @anobscurename @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @peggycarter-steverogers @evansphnx12 @starlightcrystalline @procrastinatingsapphictrash

if you wanna join / be removed from a taglist, comment/message me! much love <3

[insanityclause]

There’s a moment that every child who aspires to movie stardom dreams about. They practise it in front of the mirror: graciously thanking their parents, their first drama teacher, their favourite hamster; smiling; waving; trying valiantly to cry. No, it’s not an Oscar’s acceptance speech – at least, not anymore; it’s the moment that super-producer Kevin Feige offers you his hand across a conference table and tells you you’ve landed a Marvel movie.

Yesterday came the first reports that Olivia Colman is in talks to slip into full-body lycra and join the MCU, via the studio’s next small-screen series Secret Invasion. The news follows a recent clutch of arrivals of actresses of a similar age and calibre to Colman to other Marvel projects, including Kathryn Hahn’s show-stealing turn in WandaVision, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus’ surprise appearance in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.

Such casting choices may once have sounded insane. Why would the woman who just two years ago won an Academy Award for her grief-stricken, crumbling performance as Queen Anne in The Favourite, and who is up for another one this weekend for The Father, choose to submerge her pristine brand as the reigning monarch of British acting, both on-screen and off-, in a barrel of brightly-coloured, pop-sountracked, quippy-scripted comic bookery?

Secret Invasion sounds even more deranged than the average Marvel project: it will likely focus on the race of green, reptilian aliens called Skrulls (Ben Mendelsohn will reprise his role as Skrull commander Talos from Captain Marvel), as they invade earth by shapeshifting to imitate superheroes. Colman as an alien reptile? It’s hard to think of a more unlikely piece of casting since Judi Dench dressed up in a catsuit.

But over the last decade, a foundational piece of Marvel’s strategy has been signing-on not just fresh-faced stars like Chris Evans and Tom Holland, but some of the world’s most serious performers: inde darlings (Mark Ruffalo, Tilda Swinton, Brie Larson), BBC-drama-grown Brits (Tom Hiddleston, Benedict Cumberbatch) and awards-laden  powerhouses (Annette Bening, Scarlett Johansson, and even Anthony Hopkins, Colman’s co-star in The Father, who is also up for an Oscar) have all rocked up in the MCU. Much as the Harry Potter franchise once was, the films have become a who’s who of Oscar after-party invite lists.

So why would the great and good of Hollywood acting willingly attach themselves to a franchise that one of the greatest directors of all time not so long ago declared to bear a greater resemblance to theme park rides than cinema? Marvel films are delightful but they are also frequently silly (inevitably, in the transition from cartoon comic book drawings to full-sized, three-dimensional adults leaping around on-camera dressed in skin-tight lycra suits and capes, some space for ridicule is opened up).

The studio is fully aware of this, which is why these films are comedies, but that does not make them any more obvious as vehicles for artists interested in rendering psychological depth on-screen. In 2012, Kiwi wunderkind director Taika Watiti told Interview magazine that he was suspicious of the way feature films can often “turn into commodities”. Yet five years later, his own Marvel movie, Thor: Ragnarok, hit cinemas.

The financial incentives to any actor are obvious and no doubt play a part but there is something even more valuable to someone like Benedict Cumberbatch – not exactly strapped-for-cash following Sherlock, The Imitation Game, and The Hobbit films – inextricably wound-up with those mega pay packages. That something is audience size. Avengers: Endgame, the highest-grossing film of all time until Avatar’s re-release in China in March last year, took $357 million at the domestic box office on its opening weekend.

In America, the average price of a cinema ticket that year was about $9  – that means, by the roughest of calculations, that within 48 hours of the film’s release, 12% of the population, or some 40 million people, had seen the film. An actress like Colman has not exactly been confined to niche audiences – The Crown is not a small show – but even so, the prospect of such unparalleled exposure must be seductive.

The dream of a Marvel movie has not replaced the dream of an Oscar – it all but guarantees it. A symbiotic relationship is emerging between the franchise and the Academy, as the popular reach of one feeds and is elevated by the prestige of the other. There is no better example of this than the tragically-curtailed career of the late Chadwick Boseman.

From a handful of critically-lauded but quietly received biopics (42, Get on Up), he was propelled overnight to global stardom by his MCU roles as Black Panther, Marvel’s first black superhero, culminating in the Black Panther film in 2018. Now, just months after his death from cancer, he is a shoo-in to win a Best Actor award this week for his role in Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. The opposite of a Marvel film in almost every sense – it’s claustrophobic, literary (it’s based on an August Wilson play), and tragic – it was Black Panther nonetheless that secured him the part.

This give-and-take between superhero flicks and prestige dramas extends beyond actors: Watiti, who has just wrapped shooting on another Thor film, was nominated for an Oscar in 2019 for his German Resistance drama Jojo Rabbit, while Chloé Zhao, who is sure to win Best Director this weekend for Nomadland, has just wrapped her own Marvel movie, Eternals, which is slated for release in November.

Kathryn Hahn, meanwhile, was brought into WandaVision by director Matt Shakman, better known for directing prestige shows like Mad Men and Succession. His vision, in collaboration with the writer Jac Schaeffer, led to a formally wildly innovative show, providing the opportunity for Hahn and the show’s pair of stars Elizabeth Olsen and Paul Bettany – both outstanding actors – to flex their comic and creative muscles. Such starpower behind the camera is itself an attraction for actors of Colman’s calibre, and while there is as yet no word on who will direct Secret Invasion, there are many exciting possible names in the mix.

A few powerhouse industry figures were instrumental in fostering this mutually-beneficial relationship. The first was Robert Downey Jr, the original posterboy of the franchise. When he agreed to star in the first film, 2008’s Iron Man, it was a huge gamble – director Jon Favreau had to battle the studio to accept him – as he emerged from a wilderness decade marred by drug addiction, but it was also a huge coup. Downey Jr had just been nominated for an Oscar for Ben Stiller’s comedy Tropic Thunder and had recently starred in David Fincher’s instant cult-classic Zodiac; his personal reputation may have been in tatters, but as a serious actor, he brought chops.

His Iron Man would become the emotional and dramatic heart of the franchise over its next three phases. Kenneth Branagh, who directed the 2011 film Thor, also bridged the gap between the big flashy studio and his own thespy circle: he brought his protégé Tom Hiddleston, who at that point was best known for his British TV and theatre work, onboard to play Loki, a decision that Feige apparently described as the most important the studio would ever make. Hiddleston capitalised on rather than abandoned his roots: he approached the character like “a comic book version of Edmund in King Lear, but nastier.” It paid off: Hiddleston is a global superstar, frequently touted as the next James Bond, and his dedicated Loki spin-off show is the Marvel TV release of the summer.

Of course, there’s one thing that Marvel offers its actors that money simply can’t buy: a bit of fun. “If my actors aren’t having a good time on set, then I’m doing something wrong,” Waititi told Polygon in 2016. Reflecting on her playfully heightened performance in the early episodes of WandaVision in a recent interview with the New York Times, Hahn said that her husband said her performance had reminded him of her younger self in her college days. “I haven’t seen that part of you in so long – just you, hamboning it,” he told her. Colman, who is by all accounts is a mischievous on a film set, may simply want to bust out of those period costumes, slip into a bodysuit, and have a good time.

[lets-steal-an-archive]

'Golden Girls' Polishes Its Scripts: Daily Revisions Geared to Sharpen Story and Hone Those Laugh Lines

TRUE OR FALSE:

Actresses Bea Arthur, Estelle Getty, Rue McClanahan and Betty White write their own dialogue for "The Golden Girls." (FALSE)

Older female writers write all 25 episodes each season because no one else could understand the problems of older females. (FALSE)

In order to keep the shows consistent from week to week, one writer prepares all the episodes. (FALSE)

Ten staff writers work together to prepare a season's worth of scripts. (TRUE)

It's a Monday morning in early October and on a sound stage at the small Renmar Studios in Hollywood, the "golden girls" have gathered to read a new script. This will be episode No. 60 of the series and it will air about three weeks later — on Halloween.

Everyone in the room has heard about this week's story line: Rose writes a letter to Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev. But apart from the writers, no one has seen the final script until now. It was completed on a Saturday, photocopied 150 times on Sunday and distributed this morning to NBC; co-producer Touchstone Pictures; the show's creator, Susan Harris; the show's lawyers and researchers, and the "Golden Girls" cast and crew.

"Hopefully, they'll laugh," murmurs head writer Kathy Speer as she prepares to hear the "table reading." "If they don't, we'll be here fixing the script for a long time."

The table reading really is at tables — eight of them arranged in a rectangle. The actresses and guest actors sit on one side, facing the writers. To the actresses' left are director Terry Hughes, executive producers Paul Junger Witt and Tony Thomas and co-executive producers/head writers Speer and Terry Grossman. To the actresses' right sit NBC representatives, the show's casting director and props and wardrobe personnel.

They begin. Director Hughes reads the stage directions: Interior, kitchen — day. Sophia is seated at table. She is reading book entitled 'Magic Made Easy.' Dorothy enters.

Bea Arthur, as Dorothy, reads: "Hi, Ma."

Estelle Getty, as Sophia, reads: "Give me your watch."

Another week is under way. As the actresses go through their lines, everyone else listens intently. They laugh (or don't laugh) and take notes. By the Friday-night tapings, this script will need to play at 22 minutes. But Friday is a long way off.

As soon as the table reading ends, the writers, producers, director and an NBC program executive huddle to discuss script changes. Then, while the actresses begin rehearsals using the first draft, the writers rush off to their yellow stucco two-story building nearby to begin rewriting.

"The secret of TV half-hour comedy shows is the revisions," explains Dean Valentine, NBC director of current comedy and also the program executive on "Golden Girls." "What they start out with is 75% away from what they end up with."

"I don't think this episode is going to need much work," co-head writer Terry Grossman announces cheerfully on his way back to his office. "It got a good response at the table. We just have to cut it, smooth out transitions and clarify some story points. New jokes will be the tough thing." He anticipates a few hours' work.

"Early in the first season we were throwing out whole scenes," he recalls. "Now we know what works for each lady and what she does best. That's the advantage of being in the third year of the show. The disadvantage is that stories are harder to come by."

Grossman heads into the office he shares with his wife Speer, who is also his writing partner. They are in charge of the writing staff. "That means we are the two who get yelled at the most when something goes wrong," he jokes.

Also piling into the conference-sized room are supervising producers Barry Fanaro and Mort Nathan and producer Winifred Hervey. Despite their titles, Grossman explains, "We're all writers."

"We are the five most dull people," Nathan insists.

"We're much funnier on paper," Hervey adds.

These five, all in their 30s, met when they worked on "Benson," an earlier Witt-Thomas-Harris series. They have been with "Golden Girls" since the beginning, and every Monday they jointly rewrite the script being taped that week. They jokingly call themselves The Gang of Five.

While they start rewriting, the show's other five staff writers — Chris Lloyd, Jeff Ferro, Frederic Weiss, Robert Bruce and Martin Weiss — go back to their own offices to work on new scripts.

"To keep quality, you like as many writers as you can afford," Speer explains. "This year, we have six 'entities' (writing teams) — four sets of partners and two individuals. And we also use a few free-lance scripts each season."

Approximately 25% of the show's budget goes to the writers, executive producer Tony Thomas says. Staff writers on a comedy series earn a weekly salary plus separate payments for completed scripts. A free-lance writer who does a story outline, a first draft and a second draft can earn about $11,000. (Note: All outside script submissions must come through agents.)

"A good comedy requires a lot of teamwork, a lot of people sitting in a room working together," Thomas emphasizes. "A good team is rare, but it's not extremely rare. It's like winning the NBA title. We had it in 'Soap,' and we had it for some years in 'Benson.' Obviously this is one of the most successful staffs we’ve ever put together."

Both Witt and Thomas deal with day-to-day details on "Golden Girls." Harris, who created the series, is less involved this season because, according to Thomas, "She is working on a feature for Disney with us. But she reads all the scripts and is familiar with most of the stories."

Flashback to the previous Friday, a week when "Golden Girls" wasn't taping. Every fourth week during the season, the show shuts down, giving the actors and crew a rest and allowing the writers to catch up.

The Gang of Five is trying to explain how their writing process works. They insist on telling, rather than showing, because, as they say, they're shy. "At the beginning of the season, even having our new writers in the meeting made me a little uncomfortable," Grossman admits. "It slowed down the process."

"One of the most important things that exists with this group is that the bottom line is making the show as good as possible. It's still very difficult when your script is read for the first time and the material doesn't work. It hurts for a moment. But there's no time to take it personally. It didn't work, and the clock is ticking. You better keep moving and get it right."

Like all sitcoms, "Golden Girls" has a "bible," a book that synopsizes everything that has happened on a series. Thus, new writers don't have to watch all the previous episodes. But there is no master plan of what will happen in the future.

The idea for "Letter to Gorbachev" surfaced last May at a beginning-of-the-season meeting of the writers and producers. "It was one of 20 or 30 story notions kicked around," Barry Fanaro recalls. The obvious similarity to Samantha Smith's letter to then-Soviet leader Yuri Andropov isn't mentioned.

"Most of them didn't work,” adds Fanaro's writing partner Mort Nathan, "but this one sounded amusing. Because Rose is a childlike character, we wondered what would happen if she wrote a letter to Gorbachev about world peace. We started fleshing it out, but we couldn't think of a second act. We went round and round, and finally six weeks later we came up with a way to make the story work."

"The five of us went over it scene by scene and agreed it was workable," Fanaro continues. "Then Mort and I went off and wrote it. It took about 10 days because we were also working on other things."

Each "Golden Girls” episode is written to a formula: "the idea, the act break and the resolution," Grossman explains. "Usually there's an 'A' story and a 'B' story going. It's the natural structure."

Although Fanaro and Nathan, who won a writing Emmy last year for a "Golden Girls" episode, wrote the basic Gorbachev script, the story the audience will see has gone through the usual "Golden Girls" grinder: The Gang of Five read and dissect the first draft, adding new scenes, new lines, new jokes. "It's really a team effort," Grossman stresses.

The jokes can be the easiest part — or the hardest. "They're only hard to write when you've got one that isn't working," Grossman says. "A joke in the middle of a scene can be weak, but the 'out joke' — a snappy one-liner that ends the scene on a laugh — has to be strong."

"We may decide a scene needs a new opening," Speer explains. "There will be a long moment of silence. Then someone will ask if anybody's eaten at some new restaurant. In the course of conversation, somebody will say, 'Wait a minute. I have an idea.'"

"With five of us, at least one of us is paying attention," Hervey deadpans.

"Good writers should be able to write for men, women, old or young," Grossman says. "We all draw on other people in our lives — parents, grandparents. Part of the reason for the show's popularity is that these are very vital people. The very same story you've seen 100 times on every sitcom takes on new light with characters in this age group. That makes life easier for us.

"Also, these four actresses are sensational. To have the entire cast be able to give such high-caliber performances means you don't have to adjust your material. You write the material, and they deliver. If they can't make it work, there's something wrong with the material."

The week goes by quickly. On Tuesday morning, the "golden girls" read over the revised script and discover that one scene has changed considerably. Some lines have been cut, while others have been sharpened. There are several new jokes. A press conference scene has been shifted from a hotel room to the ladies' living room.

On Tuesday night, the Gang of Five works late. During the day's rehearsals they realized that the revised scene didn’t play well so they jettisoned it and added some new dialogue and a few more jokes.

Following Wednesday's rehearsals, they hone the script a little more. Time is pressing. By the Thursday afternoon dress rehearsal, the actresses try to be script-perfect, although they often aren't. By now, the original 52-page script has been reduced to 50 pages, and almost every page has had at least one alteration.

For instance, on Monday when Blanche accidentally spat Coca-Cola on a Soviet Embassy official, he responded by saying, "No apology necessary." Now he says, "No need to apologize. In Moscow, we have to stand in line four hours to get this."

Late Friday afternoon, the audience files into Renmar Studios to watch the first taping. The writers are standing by, just in case a last-minute problem occurs. During the 90-minute dinner break, while a new audience is arriving, the cast, writers and producers calmly discuss how to improve the second taping. A few lines are cut, the taping is completed, and it’s on to the next week.

Source: Mills, Nancy. 1987. 'Golden Girls' Polishes Its Scripts: Daily Revisions Geared to Sharpen Story and Hone Those Laugh Lines. Los Angeles Times, October 30, https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1987-10-30-ca-11702-story.html