#been thinking about going back to hamburg lately because i was there for less than 24 hours but it seems like a beautiful city

[binch-i-might-be]

the feminine urge to buy cheap train tickets and fuck off to somewhere else

[extra-stout-stories]

The Weight Clinic

A fat man who's unsure about losing weight signs up for a very unusual treatment program led by a dominant doctor with an agenda of her own. (SSBHM feedee, SSBBW feeder, implicit XWG. CW: Dubious consent, drugs, medical and deathfeedist elements.)

This story was written swiftly in response to an ask on my old blog: "A man signs up for a blind study of a weight loss drug (he doesn't want to lose weight, but you know how society is.) Unfortunately for him, it's run by a less than honest BBW scientist who decides to fatten him up instead." When I read that, I had to immediately sit down and transcribe the thunderbolt of inspiration before it passed. This could easily turn into a much longer story, and now that I've created this little fictional universe, I might come back to it some day. The dubcon is because I wanted to write a dommy mad scientist feeder, but if the story continued, our protagonist would definitely come to enjoy it and realize that she was right all along.

(April 2024: This is by far the most popular story I've written, and I'm moving it here so I can centralize likes/reblogs and deactivate my defunct account. I'm slowly working on a sequel as the inspiration strikes me.)

Please read the content warnings. If dubcon and medical/deathfeedist themes upset you, please don't click.

If you like it, on the other hand, please reblog.

--

He sighed inwardly as the receptionist led him past the double doors and into the medical suite of the clinic.

He didn't want to be doing this. Being fat had never bothered him. He had been fat since childhood, and as an adult he embraced the freedom of eating whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. In fact, there were times when he secretly enjoyed being fat. There was something profoundly satisfying about the way his belly was soft and heavy in his lap when he sat, the way his double chin was like a cushion when he tilted his head. Lately it seemed like he was inching closer and closer to 400 pounds whenever he stepped on the scale, and sometimes a part of him even looked forward to it.

But he was getting sick of how the rest of the world treated him. At Thanksgiving dinner, after he had gone back to the side table for a fourth helping of mashed potatoes, his parents had given him a fierce tag-team lecture about how his weight was out of control and he was overdue for a diet. Buying new clothes was getting expensive. And while the thought of 400 seemed strangely intriguing sometimes -- that's only a hundred pounds away from a quarter ton, he thought to himself -- he worried that if he got any bigger, he'd become one of those fat guys who was so big that they had trouble walking and had to use a scooter or wheelchair to get around.

There was a wheelchair in the corner of the room that the receptionist led him into. He couldn't help notice its gigantic width. "This is the suite where you'll be staying." The room looked like it was outfitted for a patient much bigger than he was. The king-sized bed was equipped with a bariatric Hoyer lift, and in addition to the usual IV bags and oxygen tanks, there were all sorts of medical machines he didn't recognize. The door to the bathroom and shower was only a few steps away from the edge of the bed, and he noticed a stainless steel railing to allow someone to steady themselves as they walked.

Noticing his expression, the receptionist continued. "You'll be staying here in the regular suite, since you don't have any serious mobility issues. Further down the hallway there's a second suite for larger patients. Both rooms will be kept operational during your stay in case there are any complications. As we discussed earlier, you'll be forbidden to leave the premises for the duration of the study. We can't have you going out to eat and breaking your diet."

He sighed inwardly again. He was already thinking of his usual Friday night meal, nachos and mozzarella sticks followed by a hamburger and fries at his favorite diner, washed down with a milkshake or two with each course. I guess I am a binge eater, he thought to himself sadly. This isn't going to be fun, but if I don't get myself under control, I really am going to end up weighing 400.

As if reading his mind, the receptionist gave a prim smile. "I hope you'll find the results of the study to be satisfactory. Dr. Moore is excited to be taking you on as a patient. Come back to the front desk with me and we'll get your paperwork finalized."

They returned to the waiting room through the double doors and he sat down on a double-wide chair to review the clipboard full of paperwork. HIPAA, check. Records release form, check. Insurance card, check.

After several more signatures, he came to the final document on the clipboard. Consent to Experimental Treatment, the header read. He skimmed through the legal verbiage, trying his best to take note of anything significant. The clinic was a private enterprise, he read. Dr. Moore had affiliations with several prestigious universities, but he waived his right to hold them liable for treatment outcomes. No guarantees were made as to results. "The Moore Clinic program is designed to help patients reach a satisfactory body weight through the application of both physiological and cognitive-emotional treatments. To ensure accurate data collection and clinical efficacy, all care will be taken by the clinic staff to prevent external influences from interfering with treatment. Patients acknowledge that for the duration of the study they will be under the exclusive supervision of Dr. Moore. Her permission will be required before patients can contact outside parties via phone or Internet."

He thought to himself for a moment. Well, I'm no good at sticking to a diet on my own. I might as well give this a shot. He signed his name on the last page of the form.

"Congratulations." The receptionist smiled as he turned over the stack of forms. "We're glad to have you here. I'm sorry Dr. Moore couldn't be here to welcome you to the first night of the study, but she had another engagement. These are our nurses, Sandra and Kevin. They'll help you get settled."

Soon he was being ushered into the hospital suite by the two nurses. Sandra was short and curvaceous, Kevin tall and stocky, and he couldn't help notice that neither of them was skinny. Both of them were chubby, in fact. Chubby verging on fat. They gave him a hospital gown and a plastic bin to store his belongings in, then drew a curtain around the bed and waited patiently while he changed.

Naked beneath the loose-fitting hospital gown, he couldn't help being aware of how fat he was as the two nurses drew the curtain aside and began to prep him for the treatment. He could feel the softness of his belly against his thighs, the subtle motion of his rolls quivering, as Kevin attached electrodes to his moobs and belly. A fold of his fat upper arm brushed against his elbow as Sandra straightened his arm and swabbed to insert an IV. I'm going to miss all this, he thought to himself. If this works, I'll be just another skinny guy in a size M. I might even have abs. And I'll probably never eat mozzarella sticks again. As the drugs in the IV began to take hold, making him woozy and disoriented and sleepy, he couldn't help wondering if waking up skinny was going to feel like a nightmare.

--

"Well, well. My patient has finally come to."

From the slant of the light in the hospital suite, it was late afternoon. He lay in bed, still naked beneath his hospital gown, the IV tube still in his arm, the electrodes still on his chest. Staring down at him from the foot of the bed, an appraising smile on her face, was a fat woman. A very fat woman.

She wore a crisp white coat over a snug set of scrubs that did little to conceal how gigantic she was. Her stethoscope bounced against her enormous belly as she stepped around to the bedside and lowered herself onto a double-wide chair next to the IV bags. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her triple chins swayed and quivered as she craned her neck slightly to take a readout from one of the machines beside the bed, then bent her head down to type some notes on a tablet.

"Welcome to the clinic. I'm Dr. Moore."

He couldn't help but be baffled by her size. A private clinic specializing in weight loss, and she was the doctor in charge? She must have read the expression on his face, because she immediately burst out laughing. "Yes, I'm really Dr. Moore. And I'm very excited to have you as my patient." She scrolled through the tablet, her eyes moving rapidly as she reviewed his case file. "You're here for morbid obesity. You say you struggle with binge eating. And you're concerned that your weight is continuing to rise."

He nodded, feeling suddenly hazy. The anesthetic had worn off, but whatever else was in the IV was still taking effect.

"Tell me." Dr. Moore's voice was suddenly stern. "Did you come here to lose weight?"

"Yes." His throat went dry as he began to speak. He realized with a start that he was dreadfully thirsty, and something in Dr. Moore's tone made him nervous. "My primary care doctor says my goal weight is 180 pounds. I've tried a couple of different diets, but nothing worked."

"One hundred and eighty pounds?" Her voice was full of disbelief. "Oh, no, no, no. That won't do at all. I'm going to write you a new prescription."

His heart was suddenly pounding. He didn't like the way she was talking to him. "I think your goal weight should be… five hundred and eighty pounds. For a start."

He tried to speak but no words came out. His throat was terribly dry. Dr. Moore turned the tablet to face him. "See? Goal weight five hundred and eighty pounds." There it was on his patient chart, as clear as day. She smiled. "I think you must be disoriented. Did you know you've been under anesthesia for four days? The treatment takes time to take effect. I'm going to get you something to drink." Without rising from her chair, she reached to open a refrigerator by the side of the bed. He had seen it during his tour and had assumed it was full of syringes and dry ice, but it was full of… cups? Giant cardboard cups with straws, the kind a fast food restaurant might use for a soda or a milkshake. She reached out and grabbed two.

"Drink. This will help settle you down." He wrapped his lips around the straw and sucked eagerly, feeling a cool, sweet, creamy liquid flow down his throat, soothing the dryness. It was a milkshake, he realized. Then he realized that he was ravenously hungry.

"Yes, that's your appetite coming back. Or rather, coming to. It never left, but you've been getting your nutrients intravenously while you were under. We call that one the 'feedbag.'" She gestured to one of the IV bags that fed into the tube leading to his wrist. In the color scheme he had already come to recognize as the Moore Clinic's branding, it was stamped with the words: "HIGH CALORIE FORMULA."

His heart was still pounding, but he was feeling more relaxed now. He heard a rustling behind him and realized that Sandra, the nurse, was busy adjusting the proportions of the IV bags.

"Yes, that's a sedative." Dr. Moore smiled. "I thought it might help put you at ease while I explain the details of my treatment program." Her voice took on a firm and didactic tone, as if she were giving a lecture to an auditorium full of med students, but underneath it he felt that he could hear something almost… flirtatious?

"The Moore Clinic takes an unorthodox approach to the treatment of obesity. As a dual-certified endocrinologist and psychiatrist, I bring a unique perspective to both the metabolic and biosocial components of extreme weight gain." She paused. "Sandra, another high-calorie bag. Thank you." As the nurse replaced the now empty bag of formula, Dr. Moore continued. "Many of my patients arrive with deeply disordered cognitive attitudes towards body weight. They are unduly susceptible to social influences, preventing their full psychological individuation as a mentally well, hedonically satisfied obese person. They regard themselves as suffering from morbid obesity instead of enjoying it." She reached out to pat his belly. "I'm afraid you're a textbook case."

He could feel himself getting hazier and hazier until the world seemed to shrink to himself, the milkshakes and Dr. Moore. He couldn't tear himself away from her gaze as she continued to speak, her triple chins and dimpled fat cheeks quivering hypnotically as her eyes seemed to pierce right into him. "This is why the use of psychotropic drugs is a key component of my program. To fully undo the traumatic effects of societal fatphobia on my patients, I must be prepared to use the entire arsenal of modern psychopharmacology."

Sandra laughed, catching a hint of the shock on his face. "It's a real cocktail in these IV bags, honey. If Dr. Moore tried to sell this stuff at a nightclub, she'd be arrested."

The doctor smiled at her nurse. "That's right. Some of these are experimental drugs, and Federally scheduled. I'm fortunate to have a license, and a substantial research grant which pays for high-grade laboratory synthesis. And the same is true for my metabolic work."

She reached out and slipped a hand under his hospital gown, grabbing ahold of the fold of one of his moobs and squeezing playfully. Even through the increasingly powerful haze of the drug cocktail, he could feel himself blushing. "The other vector of cure," she continued, "is to address the body itself. Too many patients labor under the delusion that the unfortunate medical side effects of morbid obesity are somehow a reason they must lose weight." Her voice grew stern. "Nothing could be further from the truth. Obesity is not a disease. It's a lifestyle. And it's beautiful."

"But sometimes," she continued, a frown on her face, "my patients resist. This is why I require a minimum of four weeks' supervised stay at the clinic. The setting here accustoms my patients to the possibility of living with bariatric equipment as a full-time lifestyle." He looked around the room, suddenly seeing it with new eyes. "And while my patients get used to the pace and challenges of their new lifestyle, my metabolic treatment can do its work."

Despite the sedatives, his heart was pounding faster than ever. Her words seemed to move as slowly as molasses, her chins swaying back and forth like a pendulum, as her eyes gazed into his. "There's more than just calories and party drugs in those bags, you know. There's drugs to shock your system, break down your metabolism, destroy your body's resistance to gaining ever more weight. Even if you left the clinic right now, all the diets in the world couldn't fix your metabolism. My treatment has taken you to the point of no return."

Just barely, as if fighting his way through a slowly moving fog, he managed to gasp out a single word. "When?"

"When?" Dr. Moore threw her head back in laughter, exposing a beautiful smile, her cheeks and chins quivering with mirth. "Darling, I told you -- you were under anesthesia for four days, and my treatment works quickly. It's already happened."

He tried to protest, but before he could speak another word, the fog seemed to close around him and he drifted into a deep anesthetic sleep. When he dreamed, he dreamed of being fatter than ever.

[aeoki]

Number Eight - Take a Chance: Chapter 1

Characters: Rinne, HiMERU, Kohaku & Niki Location: In the air

Niki: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!

I’m falling I’m falling! Please open the parachute!

…Do they not understand me!? Oh, god – it's all over!

Whaa… ah. It finally opened! Man, that was scary~... I think I just shaved five years off my life!

(Uuu, why do I have to do this too…?)

(This is all Rinne-kun’s fault!)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ< Ten or so hours ago. >

Niki: Sorry for making you guys wait~ Everyone’s here?

Kohaku: …Oh, Niki-han. Are you finished with your part-time job?

Niki: Yeah, sorry I’m late. Things were really hectic today because we put a new item on the menu. I finally get to take a break now.

Anyway, what did you mean by “big offer” yesterday?

You put it in a pretty roundabout way on ���Hallhands”, so I’ve been itching to know.

HiMERU: Regarding that, Amagi hasn’t shown up yet.

Niki: ? We were supposed to meet ages ago, right?

That’s odd~ Knowing Rinne-kun, I figured he’d be playing mahjong or something at Cafe Cinnamon.

HiMERU: Indeed. He was the one who organised his meeting, so it’s incredibly selfish to see him running so late.

After all, this isn’t his first time causing trouble for others. Let’s chat and wait for him to arrive. You can also use this time to rest, Shiina.

Niki: Guess it can’t be helped. I’ve got a staff meal with me, so I’ll have that as we wait.

Today’s staff meal is a hamburg steak rice bowl. I’m gonna enjoy the juicy meat and its wonderful flavours before Rinne-kun starts bothering me ♪

Ahhh…♪

Rinne: That for me? Thanks~♪

Niki: Whaa!? Rinne-kun!

Hey! How bad is your timing!? Were you waiting in hiding just so you could steal my hamburg steak!?

Rinne: You get pretty paranoid when it comes to food, huh. I just arrived a few seconds ago.

Anyway, the gang’s all here? Great, we can get the ball rollin’.

Get ready in half an hour, guys ♪

Kohaku: Huh? What’re you sayin’ all of a sudden…?

Get ready? For what?

Rinne: Gyahaha. You can tell by lookin’ at what I’ve got with me, right?

This suitcase is full of hopes and dreams, ya know? ☆

Kohaku: Uhh? I don’t understand a word you’re sayin’.

Rinne: Hmm~ Guess you’re too young, huh, Kohaku-chan ♪ Get this – we’re going overseas for our next shoot!

It’s part of the bullet tour project that Anzu-chan told me about – the one where you don’t know where you’re going! It’s perfect for “Crazy:B”, don’tcha think?

Niki: Overseas shoot…!?

HiMERU: Hmm. That’s sudden.

Do you even have a passport, Amagi?

Shiina has a hobby of travelling abroad to find new ingredients and Oukawa has attended the “IFF” award show, but you’ve never been abroad, have you, Amagi?

There isn’t a lot of time until the day of the shoot. The passport cannot be issued on the same day as the shoot, right?

Kohaku: That’s true… I just happen to have one since I was invited to attend the “IFF” award show, but I don’t think Rinne-han has had the need to go abroad at all.

Did you apply for a passport some time ago? Don’t tell me you knew about this work offer a while back?

Rinne: Gyahaha. Don’tcha worry, guys.

I got word that there weren’t any casinos in Japan. And you’d need a passport if you’re heading to the place famous for gambling. That’s all there is to it ♪

Niki: Whaaat…?

That sounds like something you’d say. But you could’ve said the reason for getting a passport was because you always dreamed of going overseas as an idol. Don’t you have any reasons like that~?

Rinne: Then I’ll ask you this: Could we even get any overseas work offers based on what “Crazy:B” has achieved so far? We’re still a rookie unit who’s only been together for less than a year, ya know?

We take off from Japan and head overseas – that’s a pretty enticing work offer for us, right?

Niki: It’s got no hopes or dreams, though.

Well, dreams won’t fill up an empty stomach, anyway~ Okay. We just have to get ready for an overseas trip, right?

The busy season is over, so it should be fine for me to take a break from my part-time job if I talk to the manager.

Kohaku: Are you sure, Niki-han?

This is still one form of a surprise attack. Your schedule’s filled out until the early evening, right? I don’t think you need to go out of your way to do this.

Niki: Nahaha. I guess this is another example of me going along with whatever Rinne-kun says~

But things are different if we’re going overseas for the shoot! If I get to use this opportunity to go overseas, then maybe I can make some progress on my food journey~

I get to combine my hobby with work and get something out of it ♪ It’s the perfect offer for me!

Kohaku: Oh, right… You were oddly motivated durin’ our last shoot too.

You really prefer the practical over the aesthetic, huh. If I hurt you, you’d probably forgive me if I simply gave you a box of sweets as an apology…

I suppose we should start packin’ our things right away then.

We’re talkin’ about Rinne-han here – he probably won’t take no for an answer.

HiMERU: HiMERU agrees. “Crazy:B” is all about readily agreeing even when everything is up in flames. We’re in no position to complain about the contents of the work offer.

Though it may be impertinent, I have a word of advice for you, Amagi, seeing as you don’t have a lot of experience overseas. Please make sure to bring your passport, a change of clothes and a cash card you can use there.

We don’t know where we’ll be going, but if it’s a place where idols work, then we should be able to manage somehow by sourcing things locally.

Rinne: Thanks. Now, this is what “Crazy:B’s” all about ☆

The dice is cast – there’s no going back. This is gonna be our first shoot overseas, so let’s hope the goddess of fortune looks down on us graciously…☆

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ← Previous Chapter ᠂ ⚘ ˚⊹˚ ⚘ ᠂  Next Chapter →

[dollsonmain]

Yeah I can’t get my old BDU pants, which used to be comically too large, up past my mid-thigh.

It’s funny how I was so tiny then and the military kept trying to convince me I was too fat. I was 124 lbs and they wanted me to be 110.

My lowest weight when anorexia was winning was 120. That’s when I was eating very little once a day or less. For two years in the military I ate a bag of baked potato chips and a jar of salsa per day and that was it.

I don’t feel any different at 170, to be honest. I mean, I feel the same amount of “too fat” now as I did then. Eating disorders are as wild as societal fatphobia is.

There was a stretch of time (2003 - 2005) where That Guy would buy nothing but 2 boxes of Hamburger Helper and one pound of beef per week, and one cheap trip to taco bell per week where we’d split a combo meal, and that was our food for the week. We’d use half a pound of beef per box of Helper and stretch those two boxes out for the week. I couldn’t do anything since I had no money then. I was 124 lbs then, too.

I hate Hamburger Helper.

Then in 2005 we moved to where I was able to walk to work (words cannot express how much I miss that, genuinely, and if I think about losing that ability too much I want to die, which I say with no exaggeration), and I did, and I started earning some money, and I started buying food. I was 135 then, and maintained that weight until I got pregnant.

After my son was born I leveled out around 140 and stayed there until I hit 38 and then BLOOP up to 160, then my kidneys gave out and I went down to 125 again for a year or two (anorexia was winning again), then back up to 170.

I have no money, now, but I have a little leverage with a kid in the house. It’s going to be a struggle to have access to food again when my son grows up and moves on.

I hate money.

I need money.

Need a car to get a job, need a job to get a car.

I guess one benefit of living in the type of households I’ve been living in (tl:dr abusive from birth to now) is that it’s taught me how to “don’t think, just do, to survive” which means I can eat, now, in spite of myself. And kind of in spite of That Guy, too. I have to admit some of my weight gain is to spite him.

Anyway I’m thinking about it because my pants are uncomfortably tight and I’ve caught myself wanting to be skinny again a few times lately, but had to sit down and think about why.

because That Guy keeps bringing up that he likes skinny young girls and he is my “partner” at the moment

society keeps telling me I’m supposed to be skinny and young and especially smooth and tight even though I’m no longer young

I have an eating disorder that also keeps telling me I’m supposed to be skinny and young and have smooth, tight skin

my clothes are tight and uncomfortable moreso than they were before and I don’t want to get new ones

None of those are good reasons. There are no good reasons.

I’d work on fit or at least strong if my body could take it.

[mydaroga]

Thoughts on ‘The Birth of the Beatles’

I watched this 1979 biopic originally early in my obsession (you know, lo five months ago or so) and it was interesting to look at it again having read and learned and thought a lot more. And I’ve been mulling it over the past few days, because it’s interesting.

I don’t love biopics of this nature, where it’s just “this event happened then this event and then this one.” You don’t actually learn anything you couldn’t get from a wiki entry, and it’s invariably far less accurate. This movie does not dispel that at all. It’s a pretty straightforward narrative of the newly-formed band going to Hamburg, coming back, meeting Brian, scoring their first hit. It skips over some stuff and gets some stuff wrong, of course. And most of the actors seem to have been chosen for a distinguishing feature that’s kinda like a feature the guy they’re playing has. (George, actually, looks the closest and is pretty dang cute.)

But aside from the general, there are some interesting aspects. Interesting given that it was made in the late seventies, it seems to be on the “John is the best” train, and quickly it becomes apparent that John is the lead character. By the end, it’s clear that this is The John Story. John is So Good, y’all. He is a good leader. And a good friend. And he even gives a very encouraging speech to Brian about how any love is good and you shouldn’t be ashamed of love in any form! It’s very nice. Except for how they do the “We’re going to the top!” bit but get it wrong, which is baffling.

Like many biopics of this nature, characters sort of drift in and out when necessary, so Cyn is a thing when it’s convenient, and just sort of pops up. Stu is there, and important, and he dies, but when he does John makes a heartfelt speech from the stage--they’ve already done the toilet seat madness bit earlier on. Mimi pops up at the end to be appalled by the scene in the hotel room as they’re finally about to make it, because Paul (of course) has a girl stripped down to her slip in there. I’m not exactly sure what is being foreshadowed here but it does feel portentious?

Speaking of Paul, while he’s a bit more marginal than I would have expected I do think this film does him a service by making him fucking weird and not at all a goody goody and there are some actually good bits with him being just as annoying as John. At one point he rides George like a pony with a mop in one hand in order to get John’s attention so he’ll cut class, which is all right with me. He is not my favorite Paul but his eyebrows are quite decent and for a side-man version of McCartney I will accept it.

But I think the absolute BEST thing about this film is the fact that Pete--yes, Pete Best--was the only actual band member who was consulted on the making of the film. Granted, that’s probably because none of the other guys wanted any part of this, but the result is stunning. Did you know? Pete Best taught Ringo everything he knows. Pete Best was the best drummer you’ve ever seen. Pete Best was only let go because he was just TOO POPULAR in Liverpool. The bias is truly glorious. There’s literally two scenes of Pete Best epic drum soloing, one of which prominently features Ringo watching avidly, soaking it all in.

All in all, this film is not actually instructive to true Beatles fans, especially in an age where we have more than one biography and the actual footage is available on Youtube. However, it’s a really interesting relic of an age where there really wasn’t that much out there: Compleat Beatles wasn’t out yet, and Anthology is ages away. Shout hadn’t even been published. John was still alive and really, things were fairly quiet in Beatledom. I was pretty dismissive upon first viewing, because I didn’t feel I learned anything I didn’t know. But on further reflection, I’ve realized that while it’s not actually a good movie, it does tell us something interesting about how the legend of this band was formulating, 9 years or so after its demise, and with considerably less information than we are now able to access just through a google search.

[no-reply95]

The Power Of Framing: John and Paul

Over the last few days I've been posting some quotes of interest that I'd bookmarked from Mark Lewisohn's Tune In book.

Tune In's reputation preceded it, every Beatles podcast I listened to mentioned it, Lewisohn's name either came up in conversation or the man himself would turn up for an interview so it got to the point that Tune In was so ubiquitous that I had to read the book and form an opinion for myself.

There are a lot of opinions I have on Tune In, both good and bad, but I'm not going touch on all of that here, at least not in this post.

The aspect of Lewisohn's narrative style that I want to get into is the way he frames the "bad" behaviour displayed by John and Paul.

There are two quotes from the book that I want to analyse, I'll start with John first:

John

“George was second only to John in the swallowing of Prellies and knew better than most the sum effect of taking too many for too long, how the combination of pills plus booze plus several sleepless days caused hallucinations and extreme conduct. He’d describe one occasion when he, Paul and Pete were lying in their bunk beds, trying to sleep, only for John to barge into the room in a wild state. ‘One night John came in and some chick was in bed with Paul and he cut all her clothes up with a pair of scissors, and was stabbing the wardrobe. Everybody was lying in bed thinking, “Oh fuck, I hope he doesn’t kill me.” [He was] a frothing mad person - he knew how to have “fun”.

Handling John was something his friends were well used to doing. If he didn’t murder them in their beds there was no greater buddy. They might fear for their lives but they loved him still. No way would they walk out and join another group. John was just John, and Paul and George’s hero-worship stayed fully intact.”

The above passage comes from the stint in Hamburg directly after Stu's death. John had always been the one to take the most prellies, as Lewisohn highlights, but he relays the fact that John was even more messed up than before subsequent to Stu's sudden death. I've highlighted a couple of lines from the extract to highlight how John's behaviour is framed by Lewisohn:

"the combination of pills plus booze plus several sleepless days caused hallucinations and extreme conduct"

From the outset Lewisohn is careful to outline the fact that John is under the influence of both bills and booze as well as being exhausted as a result of "several sleepless days" which has the sum impact of causing hallucinations and "extreme conduct" so in short, Lewisohn suggests that this behaviour from John is atypical and directly related to the substances and conditions he is under, the subsequent behaviour he displays, therefore, isn't a function of his innate personality, just a reaction to the chemicals and circumstances he currently finds himself beholden to.

"he, Paul and Pete were lying in their bunk beds, trying to sleep"

In terms of those impacted by John's actions, it isn't one individual that Lewisohn highlights, it's George, Paul and Pete, which to me suggests that anyone could have been on the receiving end of John's outburst. When describing the bedroom scene prior to John's entrance, Lewisohn describes the three guys as "trying to sleep", so a picture is painted of a quiet room where there's a lack of activity as everyone is tired and, either on their way to or currently, asleep.

"some chick was in bed with Paul and he cut all her clothes up with a pair of scissors, and was stabbing the wardrobe"

Firstly, the story that George relates (source Anthology, 2000), unlike the scene Lewisohn sets, makes it clear that there was only one target for John's outburst, not George, Pete or even Paul but an unnamed woman whose only crime was to be "in bed with Paul" so, far from trying to get to sleep, Paul was in fact having sex with this woman when John barged into the room. John, in the altered state that he's in, zeroes in on this woman by cutting up her clothes and stabbing at the wardrobe - it's a scary scene that George describes, so what is the lasting impression Lewisohn leaves us with?

"John was just John, and Paul and George’s hero-worship stayed fully intact.”

Despite the shock of the scene that George describes, ultimately John's behaviour has no lasting impact on his relationships with the others or on the future of the band. Lewisohn confirms that "Paul and George's hero-worship stayed fully intact" so not only was their view of John unharmed but they continued to hold him in the highest possible esteem, but how did they rationalise the unpredictability of John's behaviour? Well, "John was just John" the others knew that this was how John got from time to time, this was nothing new for them and their hero worship continued on, the core relationships were unaffected and the operation of the band was unscathed because there was no way that George and Paul would ever leave and join another band so, all in all, no harm done.

Paul

“Brian, John and George went to the Beehive and John used a public box to call Paul, returning with the message ‘He says he’s not coming.’ Brian must have been apoplectic: they’d be unable to play the booking, letting down the university and their paying audience, embarrassing him, ruining their chance of a rebooking, and undoing his repair work to the Beatles’ old bad reputation. He went back to his office to phone Paul, but Paul refused to speak. Jim informed Brian that Paul said he wouldn’t be turning up, and that was that.

Recalling the night five years later, Paul told of how, having discovered Brian and the others hadn’t waited outside his house for him, he decided ‘Fuck them - if they can’t be arsed waiting for me, I can’t be arsed going after them. So I sat down and watched telly.’ Jim was unable to persuade Paul to change his mind. Paul said he’d felt he’d always been ‘the keen one’, so now he’d go sharp the other way and make no effort at all.

John saw a bigger picture, and it would be surprising if it wasn’t equally obvious, or made obvious to Brian and George. He likened Paul’s enduring snag with Brian to his other long-standing difficulty: ‘[Brian] and Paul didn’t get along - it was a bit like [Stuart and Paul] between the two of them’.”

The above passage comes from a time in the Beatles' career, not long after they've agreed to take Brian on as their manager. Brian's hard work on their behalf is starting to pay off and they're getting the opportunity to do loads of gigs for good money. Lewisohn discusses an instance where Brian goes to 20 Forthlin Road to pick up Paul for the night's gig only to be told that he's running late and won't be able to get going for a while. As with the first passage, I've highlighted a couple of lines to highlight how Paul's behaviour is framed:

"Brian must have been apoplectic"

In this passage Lewisohn provides his interpretation of how Brian must have felt to turn up at Paul's house only to find that he'd defied his instructions to be on time. Right from the beginning of this story we are able to empathise with Brian, as the principle victim of Paul's actions.

"letting down the university and their paying audience, embarrassing him, ruining their chance of a rebooking, and undoing his repair work to the Beatles’ old bad reputation."

For the avoidance of doubt, Lewisohn details the wide reaching impact of Paul's behaviour and the list of the aggrieved is long: the university, the paying audience and ultimately the band, all the hard work that they and Brian have put in has been undone by Paul's actions and the tarnished reputation of old is back with a vengeance.

"John saw a bigger picture, and it would be surprising if it wasn’t equally obvious, or made obvious to Brian and George. He likened Paul’s enduring snag with Brian to his other long-standing difficulty: ‘[Brian] and Paul didn’t get along - it was a bit like [Stuart and Paul] between the two of them’.”

If the reader was left wondering if this was a one-off incident or if Paul was just having a bad day that he'd taken out on Brian, Lewisohn suggests that this was, in fact, part of a pattern of behaviour as "John saw a bigger picture" and Lewisohn remarks that "it would be surprising" if both Brian and George weren't equally aware of the bigger forces at play here. To reinforce the lasting implications of Paul's actions, Lewisohn talks about "Paul's enduring snag with Brian" and then likens it to Paul's other "long-standing difficulty" with Stu, which triggers the readers' knowledge of Paul's jealousy of Stu's closeness to John and invites the reader to also view Paul's relationship with Brian through that lens. The extract is then capped up by a quote from John (source, McCabe and Schonfled interview, 1971), seemingly, supporting Lewisohn's premise by linking the clash between Paul and Brian to the clash, that Lewisohn has already expertly laid out in his book, between Paul and Stu.

How the framing differs

In both excerpts I've pulled Lewisohn uses direct quotes from the principles as well as his own interpretation, both to varying impacts.

In the first excerpt, Lewisohn provides a context for John's behaviour, it's not long after Stu has died, John is under the influence of a cocktail of drugs and substances, so we're led to feel sympathy for the state that he's in and to excuse the frightening behaviour that subsequently follows. Lewisohn doesn't offer any context for Paul's behaviour, we assume that Paul is sober and of sound mind so there's no confusion as to the fact that Paul is in full control of his actions so we're less likely to excuse or able to rationalise his actions.

The preamble that Lewisohn writes prior to George's recounting of John barging into the room, mentions George, Pete and Paul being present, so Lewisohn gives us the impression that John's later actions are almost random, maybe it could have been Pete, or George, it just happened to be the woman in bed with Paul who triggered John's anger. We never hear about how the woman reacted to having her clothes torn to shreds just because she slept with Paul, Lewisohn doesn't offer any thoughts to Paul's reaction to having John barging into the room and raising hell while he was sharing an intimate moment with this woman. In stark contract, we're told precisely by Lewisohn about how he presumes Brian felt in the face of Paul's obstinance and the seriousness isn't lost on the reader because every possible group of people negatively impacted is called out with evocative language (i.e. embarrassing, ruining).

Lewisohn frames the Hamburg scissors incident in such a way that it's clear that this was just a blip on the band's radar, the "hero-worship" of George and Paul is undimmed and we're given the framework, either by accident or design, by which to view any similar outburst in the future, it's just John, he may overdo it from time to time but his negative actions will never be consequential because the love and worship the others have for him will never be overcome "no way would they walk out and join another group" because no matter what John did, Paul and George would condone it, stick by him and love him regardless, so why shouldn't we?

However, Lewisohn couldn't be clearer that Paul's disobedience of Brian was part of a larger pattern of behaviour that was detrimental to the band, John could see the bigger picture, the same bigger picture that was "obvious" to Brian and George. Rather than startling an unnamed German woman (Lewisohn leaves this to our imagination) Lewisohn carefully plots out how Paul's actions directly hurt the band and the good work they'd been doing with Brian's help. Far from a moment of chemically induced madness, Paul's behaviour is familiar, we've seen it before with Stu, now we're seeing it with Brian - Lewisohn is clear that the seeds of the break up are sewn in Tune In so is he suggesting that the behaviour Paul displays here can also be traced to 1969?

Was this difference in framing called for?

These two stories outlining John and Paul's behaviour aren't identical, one takes place in Hamburg in the privacy of a bedroom and directly impacts two people while the other takes place in Liverpool and directly impacts several people as well as the band, it could be argued that on this basis these situations Lewisohn was justified in framing these two incidents differently.

However, there are several similarities that I can spot between the behaviour John and Paul displayed:

Pattern of behaviour - Lewisohn appears to be making the case that John's outburst was purely circumstantial while Paul's clash with Brian was part of a longstanding jealousy issue Paul had of anyone close to John. I do think that jealousy may have been a factor in the clashes Paul had initially with Brian (as referenced briefly in my Jealous Guys post) but in my opinion there are complexities that exist with Paul's relationship with Brian (namely around Paul's dislike of authority figures and need for control) that don't exist in Paul's relationship with Stu or, further down the road, Yoko as neither Stu nor Yoko were ever in a position of authority over Paul, John didn't bring them into the band as a manager or producer so I think the more natural comparison is Stu and Yoko not Stu and Brian. Further, despite Lewisohn's descriptions to the contrary and lack of relation to a bigger picture, John's behaviour here was in fact part of a pattern of behaviour, this woman wasn't the first and would not be the last of Paul's love interests that John reacted negatively to; Jane Asher, Peggy Lipton and ultimately Linda would feel the brunt of John's negative attention throughout the Beatles and post-Beatles years, this was an opportunity for Lewisohn to lay the groundwork of that but unfortunately he didn't want to connect these particular dots.

Impact on the band - Lewisohn is at pains to outline how George and Paul weren't going anywhere and there's no suggestion that John's actions would have any impact on the band or its future but, with the hindsight we have, is that correct? Even before Hamburg, John is abusing alcohol, largely to numb the effects of the sudden death of his mother, then in Hamburg, he's now abusing drugs too which negatively impacts his behaviour. For the rest of the Beatle years John's substance abuse issues appear again and again (Bob Wooler incident at Paul's 21st birthday, destruction of ego and fall in productivity due to prolonged LSD use, increase in the communication issues in the band in the wake of John and Yoko's heroin addiction). If Lewisohn was really interested in giving us the bigger picture, why didn't he outline the detrimental impact that John's substance abuse issues were having on the band, all it would have taken was for him to help the reader to understand how the woman and Paul felt as a result of John's actions but instead he uses this story as another opportunity to reinforce the idea that Paul and George hero-worshipped John.

Links to the break up: In many of his podcast interviews (Nothing Is Real and Fabcast spring to mind) Lewisohn is clear that, although the events of the break-up are years away from being committed to paper, the roots are laid out in Tune In. Paul's clash with Brian is framed in such a way to underscore how it fostered long difficulties between Paul and the band's manager in a way that was obvious to the others, does that sound familiar? If we sub Klein in for Brian, we've suddenly been transported to the summer of '69, I believe this is intentional and given the pretty uncharitable way Paul's actions are described (Paul should have been on time but leaving without him so that he had to take several buses instead only made everyone later and poured gasoline on an already open flame, neither Paul, Brian or the band won in this situation which I think all parties came to realise at a later stage) we're already being conditioned to believe that by the time it's 1969 this reckoning for Paul has been a long time coming and we should be glad that John, George, Ringo and Klein are finally stand up to Paul's immature power plays. However, can the break up also be traced to John's actions. As already discussed, the first excerpt outlines one of the first instances of John's substance abuse negatively impacting the band, in 1961 he's destroying a woman's clothing, cock-blocking Paul and terrorising everyone, in 1969 he's in a heroin haze with Yoko which hinders the already frayed communication links with the rest of the band and fosters an environment where, to John, only "JohnandYoko" matter ("I mean, I’m not going to lie, you know. I would sacrifice you all for her [Ono]", Get Back Sessions, 1969) to the extent that they're able to be wooed by Allen Klein who knows exactly what John and Yoko want so they allow him to give it to them, irrespective of what the rest of band need or want.

In the end, I have no problem with either story being included in Tune In, neither John or Paul were saints and in these instances we can see aspects of their personality that will feature, for better and for worse, over the course of the rest of the Beatles' career and, in John's case, his life. However, it is a shame that time and time again, when given the opportunity to frame John and Paul's actions Lewisohn opts to minimise John's misdeeds via his emphasis on Paul and George's love and patience for him, while for Paul almost no context is provided for his negative actions and Lewisohn subtlety begins to plot the lines that will eventually lead to the 3 to 1 split and the lawsuit that, not only breaks up the band but ensures they never reform again. The part Paul plays in the break-up does have roots in his personality, which we see glimpses of in his interactions with Brian in 1961 (he won't be pushed around and his reaction to being pushed is to fight back not fall in line) but we also see John's role start to take shape too (the unpredictability of his actions under the influence of substances and the chain of events that would occur as a result i.e. LSD - loss of ego - jealousy of Paul's output and his loss of dominance - openness to Klein who identifies John as the leader and reinforces his belief in his supremacy in the Lennon-McCartney partnership as well as filling John with misinformation like reminding him he wrote most of Eleanor Rigby). It's a problem that only Paul's negative reactions and missteps are framed in the wider context of the band because this skews the story and fails to accurately plot the role John also played in the band's demise. If Lewisohn's aim is to provide us with a balanced, definitive take on the band's story then, based on this evidence, he's falling short.

[akaashisupremacy]

How to Find Love

Summary: Iwaizumi is on a quest to find love with an old friend. What can he do to get there?

Iwaizumi x fem!reader/Oc || Read it on A03

Genre : romance, friends to lovers

Hajime Iwaizumi ran into the cafe, eyes wide and panicky. “I’m already twenty minutes late for the date.”

As he composed himself before he entered the place, he took a deep breath. He was determined to enjoy this date because it might be their last. Hiromi had never taken lateness kindly.

“Gomen, the meeting ran longer than expected,“ he said, nodding his head into a bow, too embarrassed to meet her eyes, “I’m so sorry.”

She looked up from her books with a weary smile. Beside her was a pile of four or five books, some of which were beginning to yellow, meticulously tabbed with colorful post-its.

“You still made it,” she said, closing her book “I usually walk out if my date was a full hour late.”

It was a Thursday. She had an afternoon at the library while he had an early off (if it wasn’t for his work meeting). Neither of them worked traditional 9 to5 jobs. He began to wonder if seeing each other would be easier if they did. Iwa was leaving on a Friday for Osaka for the rest of the weekend. He was a physical trainer for a professional volleyball team, which meant that he travelled with them during their season.

They called for a menu and began to order what would be their dinner.

“How’s work?” he asked, surveying her through the menu.

“It’s a lot of reading,” she gestured towards her stack of books, “But we’re at the beginning of a new research-heavy campaign so it’s normal. How about you?"

“Mmm…it’s still the start of the season so most of the team is quite healthy. Some of them are a little excited so we’re just trying to reign them in to keep them from straining themselves.” he said, thumbing through the pages.

He had settled for a hamburg curry rice while she had gone for a bowl of tuna pasta. She looked distracted.

“What’s up?” he asked, leaning into the table now that the niceties were done with.

“I like my job. I like my team. But why do I feel like I’m just grinding day in and day out." she sighed, resting her chin on her books, “There’s got to be more in adult life than this."

“You’ve got to find the reason out on your own because your employer won’t do it for you. Not that I’m qualified to give advice or anything.” he said, looking up from his drink.

“I know,” she murmured, her head rested between her folded arms “It’s just so difficult to find the energy for it sometimes.”

Iwaizumi nodded. He knew what she meant. No one job could fulfill all his desires for accomplishment. He liked his job, but it wasn’t a perfect job. He wished that he didn’t need to spend so many weekends away from home.

Man, this date was sobering.

“You sound burnt out. Maybe take it slower at work?” he quirked his head to match the angle of hers.

“What is it that you want to do that you’re not doing for work?” he asked. Despite less than a year in the workforce, she already looked so glum.

She pulled herself up and swept her books aside, “I don’t know to be honest. Within the next two years, I just want to be published in other big publications. It doesn’t have to be necessarily on food, more like the stuff I write for fun. The stuff I’m willing to freelance while I have a day job, y’know?”

“Like what?”

Their order had arrived. She stabbed her fork into her pasta and gently twirled it around.

“The New York Times has a column called Modern Love where you write a long essay about some type of love. It doesn’t have to be romantic. It can be platonic, familial, or even failed love as long as it is set in modern day. I’ve been meaning to write about my failed relationships.” she said thoughtfully.

Iwa choked on his first spoonful.

“Well, if this doesn’t work out, I can at least write about it. Get three hundred dollars and buy you dinner to thank you for the experience.” she laughed drily.

“Are you always this pessimistic on your first dates?” he coughed, taking a sip of water “Either ways, I’m glad to be of help.”

She perked up a bit and grinned. Her whole face lit up when she smiled. A wave of warmth washed over him.

“Send me a copy when you get published.” he added, “I want to see what you write about me.”

“I’m definitely going to writet that you were late on the first date.” she said without skipping a beat. She was grateful that they had chosen this cafe. There were not too many people even if it was dinner time, yet the ambient noise that filled the air kept their pauses from being too silent.

Iwa stopped eating and squinted his eyes at her, “You are not gonna let me live this down, huh?" She winked at him with a glint in her eye. He smiled in response.

He couldn’t care less about what the New York Times was but she was evidently fascinated by it. He wasn’t going to own up to uncultured swine he was on a first date. He had already been late.

“Anyways tell me more about this Modern Love.” he settled back into his dinner.

She pulled out her phone and began typing, “The Modern Love column came out with questions to help get to know someone. This could be a fun date activity.”

“Sure, you want to give it a go?”

She shoved the phone in his face and scrolled through the questions. “There are three sets of questions. Each set more intimate than the last. You can choose from the first set.”

Iwa lightly held the phone, his fingertips grazing the back of her hand. He chose the first question that caught his eye.

“Number 4. What would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?” he read out loud. Hiromi took her phone back and read the question to herself.

“What’s your answer?” she asked.

“I just got back, I hadn’t figured out what a perfect day would be like here.” he shrugged sincerely.

She snorted loudly, “What a cop out answer!”

Iwa looked up and thought for a bit, “A day spent walking around in the city…maybe a day that starts with a morning jog and a hot unrushed breakfast after. Catching up with friends sounds good too.”

Hiromi nodded. She was fully absorbed as he talked. It was like she was going through the scenes of his day in his mind as he described them.

“What about you?” he asked, snapping out of her out of her reverie.

“A day at the market,” she said quietly. ”Any market day is a good day really.”

“To be honest, it doesn’t depend on the activities so much at times. The people you’re with is definitely important. A day at the market can still be terrible with the wrong company.” she added.

“I wasn’t subpar last weekend, was I?” he asked.

“No...you weren’t.” she replied a little more shyly than usual.

They moved onto the next question.

“What roles do love and affection play in your life?” she read out loud, “Doesn’t have to be romantic again.”

Iwaizumi inhaled sharply. That was such a loaded question.

“If you’ll use this for an article and it gets published, you better buy me dinner someplace nice.” he tutted.

“Then make this one good.” she smirked.

Iwaizumi stopped eating for a few minutes to think through the question. Before he answered, he closed his eyes and breathed out slowly.

“It defined my entire career in volleyball. My best friend and I watched a game and we kind of chose to go into the same school team after that because we were both so obsessed with the sport. Our connection was almost telepathic. We barely used signals when it was just the two of us. We basically ran off instinct.” said he softly, his eyes reminiscing a different time.

“Although we went our separate ways after high school, I spent so much time in volleyball that it defined a huge part of who I was too. I mean, if I didn’t play volleyball, I would probably be in another sport, but I’d still think I’d be different, y’know?”

You could tell he was avoiding the word “love.” Iwa was not one to be vulnerable.

“In college when I was in my first serious relationship, it was the type of love that gave me confidence and assurance. But I guess it wasn’t enough…for me to say it deeply impacted my later choices on career and other decisions, unlike volleyball.”

“I can’t help but feel that any defining…relationship I have romantically will be weighed against with my time with volleyball…my first real love…" he tried to laugh it off, but you felt the weight off his words, “And I’ve been lucky enough to have enough love in my life that I don’t need to constantly be in a relationship to feel complete.”

A moment of silence fell in between the two.

“That’s a lot to heap on a relationship.” she whispered in contemplation.

Iwa awkwardly scrambled for damage control, “…no pressure.” was all he managed to say.

“So why try to date? When it’s so tough to find someone who can match up with volleyball?” she asked.

“Companionship?” he shrugged, “It’s still nice to date around.”

“And you’re…nice. I’ve been wanting to date you since we were in college. I’ve liked you for a long time…” his entire face flushed pink.

Her eyes fluttered wide open. Since college? Is he serious?

“Our friends were right,” she said in a hush, “You did have a thing for me. I thought they were just teasing us.”

“You had a boyfriend back then and when you broke up with him, I was seeing someone else.” he exhaled, looking her earnestly in the eye, “Wasn’t it obvious to you?”

Iwaizumi couldn’t tell if Hiromi just didn’t want to speak or was too busy contemplating. She was too stunned to speak.

“It felt like fate seeing you on the plane.”

A million things were going through her mind, she slowly opened her mouth, “Now that we’ve been on two half dates, what’s it like? Is this what you’d thought it would be?”

“College is very different from now, but the short answer is yes.” he nodded, rolling his shoulders back. “Everything just clicks. I’m so comfortable with you. It’s so easy for us to talk. I like you just as much as I did in college…I just really like you. Time hasn’t changed that at all.”

Hiromi looked overwhelmed. She was unable to look him in the eye. She was barely getting to know him romantically and he had long been decided about his feelings for her.

“Do you wanna ask if they sell alcohol here? You look like you need a drink.” he joked. Hiromi didn’t look like she heard him.

"This is so intense for a first date.” she shook her head in what seemed like regret.

“We can stop,” he gently interjected, “We can talk about something else.”

She finally looked up to him and whispered, “Hajime, you’ve just dumped a lot of pressure on me.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to do that,” he smiled apologetically, “Anyways, I’m aware that we’re both at different…stages of attraction. Besides, I think this would be way more awkward if we both were pining.”

“Wouldn’t that be sweeter?” she asked.

“Way too sappy for me.” he waved with his hand. Hiromi let out a small chuckle. Iwa secretly sighed in relief.

——————————————————————————— After dinner, they headed to the arcade to blow off some steam. Iwaizumi offered to carry some of her books to which he somewhat regretted. Her books were like rocks. How the hell was she lugging them on her own in the city?

“I could carry them on my own if it’s too heavy.” she offered.

Iwaizumi looked at her incredulously. She was at least half a foot shorter and much smaller in build. His biceps weren’t going to buck in front of her.

They wandered around the arcade for a bit, unsure what to do first. Iwa silently prayed they didn’t have to do any dancing. Just when they were about to decide on the claw machine, Hiromi pointed towards a small karaoke booth at the corner of her eye.

“Let’s go in there.” she tugged at his jacket.

Iwaizumi flipped through the songs. None of them seemed to be in Japanese. All of them were in English.

“Did you pick up a default english karaoke song?” she asked, browsing through the catalogue. The room was clearly designed for kids. It was so small their knees touched and Iwa could barely sit up without hitting his head on the ceiling.

“Nah,” he shook his head, “I don’t really sing…in English. Any suggestions?”

Hiromi typed in the number of a song.

“I’m about to introduce you to your first usable English karaoke song.” she grinned at him mischievously. Iwa looked at her suspiciously.

The opening notes started to play—some acoustic guitar and a trumpet. The song sounded…Mexican? For the longest time there were no lyrics on the screen. Hiromi swayed to beat as her eyes were glued to the screen. When the song finally began to hit what sounded like the chorus, the music paused for a second.

“TEQUILA!” she yelled into the mic.

Iwaizumi was so startled he jumped up and hit his head on the ceiling. Hiromi was giggling uncontrollably.

“That’s it?!” he exclaimed.

“Yeah,” she laughed, pressing the mic towards him, “You try on the next chorus.”

When the trumpets began playing, Iwa readied himself. The song hits its familiar pause soon enough and he pulls the mic closer to his lips.

“Tequila?” he said tentatively.

“With more conviction, Hajime!” she urged, taking back the mic. On the third chorus, she moved closer to him so they could share the mic.

The music hits its third pause, they looked at each other and yelled, “TEQUILA!”

They both grinned and laughed, almost as if the act of singing about alcohol was like a drink in itself. He could feel her shins pressed against him as she continued to sway for the music. A glint in her eye flickered as she nudged him to dance along with her.

Iwaizumi wasn’t going to refuse. Especially not on their first date. He swayed what he could on the tiny box while the song lasted.

————————————————————————— At the end of the night, they both sat in the train waiting to get off on their respective stops. The carriage shuttled back and forth, pushing and pulling their bodies back and forth into each other.

“Hajime,” she tapped him on his shoulder, “We didn’t finish the last set. Let’s do a quick one before I get off.”

He nodded, “Pick one we can answer with just one word.”

Hiromi swiftly browsed the list, before looking up.

“Finish the sentence, ‘Right now, we are both feeling…’"

Their faces were both so close they could feel the heat of each other’s breath. The back of their hands were touching, but neither dared to reach out or pull away.

“Hopeful.” whispered Hiromi, an evident earnestness in her voice. She was fighting off her shyness just long enough to look him in the eye when she talked.

Iwa smiled, “Smitten.”

Before she could react, the train jolted as it shuffled towards her station.The train stopped at Hiromi’s station and she got up from her seat, taking the books from Iwa’s arms.

He followed her to the exit and watched her as she got off. She gave a small wave from the platform while she watched the doors closed.

Iwa was tempted to press his hands onto the window, unwilling to end their time for the evening. His last sight of her was her smile when the train plunged itself into the night.

“Did he start out his day at the market with a morning jog?” she asked herself, watching the train swiftly pull away.

Iwaizumi took a deep breath. The night had gone differently from how he thought the date would proceed. For one thing, he didn’t expect to confess so early into the relationship.

He took his phone and curiously googled the questions she mentioned.

It turns out the title of the New York Times article was not “Questions to Get to Know Your Date” as Hiromi had led him to believe. Instead, it was titled, “Thirty Six Questions That Lead to Love”.

“Huh,” he said to himself. He shut off the screen to his phone.

36 was too much. In his opinion 3 was enough.

-----------------------------------------------------------

This is part 3 of a series on Iwa living in Tokyo after he moves back from California. Comment or message to be added to the taglist. 

Also, I’ve been feeling quite down lately, so say some nice things if you feel like it in the comments 😬✌️

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3 || Part 4

Series taglist: @itstheee-ha-chan

[josefavomjaaga]

Hi ! Who was Eugène friends with throughout his life and were there people with whom he was not so friendly? How was your relationship with your wife's family? Thank you!

Hi there, and thanks for the question! Also, please bear with me, ´coz this is going to be lengthy.

Eugène's position changed a lot over the years but there are some people, usually not well-known, who will remain friends with him throughout all his life.

During the Consulate, Eugène was something like everybody's darling. This was partly due to his position as stepson of the new chief of state. First Consul Bonaparte increasingly resembled a monarch, and Eugène, the son of Madame Bonaparte,was the closest thing to a crown prince there was. Eugène's biographer Michel Kérautret emphasises how much he (and in a different vein his sister) were seen as the »next generation of France«. Eugène commanded one of the most famous regiments, the Chasseurs au Cheval de la Garde, and was universally admired. Little boys looked at him with big eyes when he walked by. Besides, he was completely apolitical, only interested in women, horses and the army, and could therefore be invited by anyone. As long as there was music and dancing, Eugène was happy.

His closest friends also came from the ranks of the army. His probably best friend is hardly known: Auguste Bataille (de Tancarville), later Baron of the Empire and one of Eugène's aides-de-camp. Napoleon was not very enthusiastic about him and his abilities. (If I remember correctly, poor Bataille once had the misfortune to have a thief steal the briefcase with the documents he was supposed to bring to Napoleon. Eugène then got a nasty letter saying "Don't send me that idiot any more!")

Auguste Bataille remained in Eugène's service until his death in 1821. He is the one Eugène sends to Napoleon in 1809 to report the arrival of the Armée d'Italie in Austria (when Eugène was probably expecting the thrashing of his life and instead received a hero's welcome). But he is also the one whom Eugène's sister and wife turn to when they want news of Eugène and he himself has no time to write, so clearly someone who is quasi-family. When Eugène had to leave Italy, Bataille, who was married there, remained behind to administer Eugène's Italian properties. He died in 1821, and when Planat de la Faye asked Eugène for a job in 1822, Eugène explicitly referred to the late Bataille and said "You have seen who else belongs to my entourage. Bataille was my friend and the only one I could really rely on - I want someone like that again." (Planat de la Faye will take this job very seriously and later defend Eugène's memory like a bloodhound).

Just to mention a few other people who became important to Eugène since his time in Italy and who also accompanied him to Munich into exile: his cousin Louis Tascher and his wife, his adjutant General Triaire and the family of his former secretary for political affairs, Etienne Méjean and his only remaining son. After Eugène's death, Eugène’s children will grow up with the children of Méjean Jr.; they will call them "Papa Méjean" and Grand-Papa Méjean".

Let's move on to more prominent people. Among the marshals, Eugène's best friend was clearly Bessières. Bessières had been Eugène's superior since Egypt and remained so until Eugène went to Italy as viceroy. Apparently Napoleon had tasked Bessières with taking Eugène under his wing (or perhaps just with preventing his overzealous stepson from accidentally killing himself in the Sahara in an attempt to somehow distinguish himself). This resulted in a friendship that lasted for years. Eugène called Bessières "tu" in his letters, even when he had become prince and viceroy; there are apparently over a dozen letters to him in the "Archives Nationales", which are according to the description "of a predominantly private nature". After returning from Egypt, Eugène and Bessières shared a house in Paris (and apparently the two also plunged into Paris nightlife together). Eugène also accompanied Bessières when the latter visited his fiancée in Cahors and repeatedly sent his regards to Madame Bessières. After Bessières' death, there were several letters of condolence between Eugène and Bessières’ widow. In his memoirs, Eugène defended Bessières against some accusations that Lannes had made against him after the battle of Marengo. (One would think that this would have been time-barred by 1823).

Duroc, from whom Eugène sometimes sent greetings in his letters to Hortense, completed the trio of friends (but Duroc seemed to get on well with everyone). Eugène recounts in his memoirs how Duroc once stopped him from literally sleeping through his duty in Egypt; later they lay wounded side by side in the military hospital outside Acre (Duroc, however, considerably worse). When Eugène was left all alone and clueless in Milan as Viceroy of Italy (that was how he saw the matter), Duroc seems to have been the only one who regularly looked after him and wrote to him. Apparently Duroc and Eugène also "shared" the attentions of a young lady from the stage (Emilie Bigottini). Later, whenever Napoleon was particularly angry with Eugène (which happened with a certain frequency), he did not write to him himself, but had someone else write; usually it was Duroc. Duroc was also the one who delivered the marriage proposal to Eugène's prospective father-in-law. When Eugène was in Vienna in 1809, he wrote an enthusiastic letter home to his wife because he had finally, for the first time in three years, been dining together with Bessières and Duroc! (Funnily enough, Bessières wrote almost the same letter to his wife).

However, Eugène's oldest friend among Napoleon's close collaborators, who even became his relative, was Lavalette. When Eugène, not quite 16 and just out of school, went to Italy as Napoleon's adjutant, the first Italian campaign was basically over. Napoleon sent his stepson to Corfu with dispatches (and explicit orders to get some rest and sightseeing there), and gave him Lavalette as an escort. Before the Egyptian campaign, when Lavalette was to ask for the hand of Emilie de Beauharnais, Eugène had to chaperone him and his cousin for a walk, only to remember that he had urgent business elsewhere and leave them alone. Lavalette was also among those whom Eugène continued to address as "tu" in his letters after he was promoted to viceroy. And after Lavalette narrowly escaped execution in the Second Restoration, he took refuge with Eugène in Bavaria, where Eugène and King Max more or less successfully hid him.

I'm limiting this to Eugène's male friends, by the way. Female acquaintances are another matter altogether.

Who did Eugène not get on so well with? Quite a lot of people, interestingly enough, consideringhe is described in almost all sources as incredibly amiable, patient and sociable.

There is, of course, his rivalry with Murat, the exact origins and background of which would interest me immensely. The two were actually in a very similar position from 1810 on at the latest, but rather than communicating with each other, the two seem to have been constantly at each other's throats. I have the impression that Murat made a timid attempt at reconciliation now and then, and that at this stage Eugène was the one who no longer wished to hear anything from Murat. Probably because he held Murat responsible for Napoleon's separation from Josephine.

And only to avoid any false impression: Murat and Eugène also called each other "tu" when they met in private. But in their official correspondence, they almost suffocate from the pompous phrases they throw at each other.

Someone Eugène did not get on with at all was Marshal André Masséna. For this, I think alot of things came together: a social background that couldn't be more different, and perhaps a sense of class superiority on Eugène's part. On the other side, Masséna, who had really fought his way up from the gutter by his own efforts, was unlikely to have taken seriously this brat who, thanks to his stepdad, was allowed to play viceroy in Italy. Eugène, for his part, with his rather naïve attitude to war, was horrified by Masséna's ... rather creative approach to the subject of requisition and his general attitude to "mine" and "yours". In 1805 he complained bitterly about the way Masséna and his men had plundered the Italians they were supposed to protect, and Masséna actually had to pay back a huge amount of money. In 1809, Eugène desperately wanted no marshal (it would probably have been Masséna) to be sent to Italy, but to be allowed to take command himself. When the battle of Sacile promptly turned into a disaster, Napoleon told him pointedly that this would not have happened with Masséna, Masséna’s plundering notwithstanding.

Similarly, Eugène clashed with Auguste Marmont. This was also about money, financial trickery and personal enrichment. On this point, Eugène did not joke (and presumably this was precisely the reason why Napoleon had appointed him as overseer in Italy). The friction with Marmont developed into an enmity that lasted truly until after the death of the two adversaries, or rather only really erupted there: Marmont accused Eugène in his posthumously published memoirs (not entirely without reason, but in a rather exaggerated manner) of having been the main reason for Napoleon's defeat in 1814, and Eugène's daughters and Planat de la Faye (see above) then took the editor of the memoirs to court. Absolutely crazy.

From his correspondence, I take it he also at least once discovered Bourienne’s financial shenanigans in Hamburg.

I unfortunately do not know how his relationship with Marshal Lannes was (but I would love to know). My gut feeling says: probably similar to Masséna. Eugène does mention Lannes twice in his memoirs, both times respectfully. But I have not come across any personal interaction or correspondence between them at all. As Lannes was close to Murat and somewhat at odds with Bessières, he’s unlikely to have been friends with Eugène.

As this has gotten so long already, I’ll stop here and put anything about Eugène’s Bavarian in-laws into an extra post at a later date. Just so much for now: If this was Facebook, I’d pick »It’s complicated«.

[finn-ray-nal-beads]

The Time Of The Season

A/N: Hey guys! I finally felt slightly good enough to post this and hopefully, it does this story some justice. The wedding is coming up and a surprise or two is in store before this whole craziness wraps up! All of the love from me to you and thank you for being patient with me!

Warnings: Fluff, smut, tw: slight somnophilia, tw: slight choking, tw: daddy kink, tw: breeding kink, tw: unprotected sex, creampies (because I'm so predictable), oral sex (F receiving), all kinds of warm fuzzies (because again I love these two), squirting

(PLEASE for the love of Satan let me know if I miss a tag or TW, I try to be so hyper-aware and I miss tags all the time, I am so sorry)

The light shone through the cream curtains once again in your soft bedroom. The rays of sunlight bathing the cotton sheets as you woke up to the sound of his breath panting on the back of your neck.

The baby hairs standing in goosebumps as the hot air ebbed and flowed over your soft skin. He stirred slightly, pulling you into him like a stuffed animal, forcing his morning wood to bury itself into the crevices of your asscheeks. You laughed slightly, eyes still shut, bathing in the morning sun as you listened to the morning sounds. The birds chirping, a lawnmower in the distance stirring, along with someone hammering something down the road. It was another lazy Sunday.

Flip didn't have work, and it was the only day out of the week you both truly had for the two of you together. And you both made the most out of it doing the simple tasks you loved of course, on top of planning a stressful wedding, to which you both shoved aside for this day and this day only.

It was perfect, the feeling of him tightening his grip on your waist as he began to stir awake as well. His gruff moan in between your shoulder blades hid his tired eyes to the morning sunlight. He pecked the skin with his lips, rubbing up and down your midsection as you melted into him.

“Good morning, cowboy,” you whispered, running a small hand through his bed head as he gruffed a reply back.

“Mornin’,” he rose from behind you, laying a head between your neck and shoulder as he pushed into your head massage, “how did you sleep honey?” he whispered back, kissing and licking on your earlobe.

“Mmm, so good,” you said with a slight gasp, feeling his big hand knead your naked tit, hearing his graveled voice moan in his throat as he felt your ass push back on his pelvis.

“Is my butterfly all wet?” he groaned, his cock stiffening even harder as he heard your pretty voice sing for him, “did I not do my job last night?” smiling as he trailed kisses down your neck, running his other hand to cup your cunt in his grip, your folds completely slicked with arousal.

“Jesus, honey,” he growled, inhaling your sweet floral scent as you moaned, your hips pushing into his digits as he circled your bud with his middle finger slow and steady.

“I’ll always need you, Phil,” his tip twitched hearing your gorgeously shrill voice whisper his name.

“Just say the words, Y/N, I’ll make ya feel good,” inching his cock in between your warm thighs, his eyes rolling back in his head from the touch of your supple skin on his aching member.

“Fuck me, cowboy,” gripping his cheek from behind in a searing kiss, his hips pushing his dick deep into you with a single thrust, the feeling causing the both of you to groan in pleasure as your tongues touched each other.

“So, fuckin’ good for me,” he grunted, picking up the pace as he gripped your hip in a fervor, “I love you so much, Y/N,” panting as he kissed up and down your neck, bathing your mewls for him.

“I-I love you m-most,” you gasped, his tip gliding over your walls in the most tantalizing of ways, causing you to grip at the sheets in bundles while your mouth fell open in absolute pleasure.

“T-that’s it butterfly,” he cooed, picking up his pace again, slightly, to rub even faster on that spot he came to know very well, “you cum all over this cock,” he growled, bringing his free hand to grip your throat.

Your eyes rolling back in your head as the oxygen supply was depleting. Your moans and writhing only spurring his ministrations faster as he rubbed the spot to stoke that fire to a full blaze.

The feeling was euphoric. Your release came over you in a cascade of sparkles behind your closed eyes. The waterfall began from your crown to your toes as it washed over you in a stimulated haze. His words and actions only prolonging the high as he felt your velvet cunt clench around him.

“Jesus f-fucking,” he punched in once more, the hot gravy releasing into your hole in a flood as he gritted his teeth, his head resting in between your neck still while you pet his matted hair.

“Such a good boy,” you cooed, kissing him in bliss as you felt his cum coat your walls, the warmth from the sun no match as you reveled in his release.

“Mmm, I’m glad I could help,” he panted, kissing you again, this time more sweetly as your breaths timed downward, and the highs subsided slowly.

“What are we up to today honey?” gripping your ass cheek as he slid himself out of you, making sure to stuff the dribble back up where it belonged, loving the little moans you released as he did so.

“What we usually do,” stretching yourself out while he hovered over you, kissing every inch of exposed skin and whispering pretty little things as he did so. You gripped his face after the tenth kiss on your stomach, bringing his handsome features to strike your soul as you rubbed his cheeks with your thumbs.

“I just love you,” whispering as he lowered himself to kiss you ever so softly, “so much,” your noses touching as your eyes closed in unison, taking each other in as best you could, his hands coming to rub your cheeks too.

“I love you the most,” he barely whispered, kissing you again, the feeling of his mustache tickling your upper lip in the best way.

“We should take the dogs to the market with us today,” he sat up, rubbing the side of his neck, his muscled back tensing as he groaned from the soreness.

“I think that’s a good idea, cowboy,” sitting up to bring your delicate hands to his shoulder blade, rubbing circles slow and steady as you felt him relax from your touch.

“Did you sleep on this wrong?” hearing him wince and moan as you rubbed the knot out from the muscle.

“Possibly,” he chuckled, “I’m just gettin’ old,” laughing out loud as he grunted up from the bed, heading to the bathroom to get the shower started for the two of you.

“Psh,” you threw the sheets off yourself, your naked form glowing in the sunlight with a warm glisten of sweat and beauty, “you’re anything but,” finding your way to the bathroom too.

_____________

Spring in Colorado was magical. The wildflowers were blooming everywhere you turned, the smell of the crisp mountain air, the slight bite in the wind as the clouds rolled by. It was all as if it had been in a storybook. And the city was booming with the end of Winter. Shops opened up their doors, restaurants had outdoor seating, and the most anticipated market had come back into the streets as farmers and salesmen alike showed off their wares and the people flocked from all over to get a taste of the local goods.

Flip and you loved to go on Sundays. The crowds were lesser as people were in church or doing something else for the day, and the produce was fresher and easier to spot than on any given Saturday. The flowers were also to die for; the array of colors cascaded in bright pinks, blues, indigos, and yellows all over the landscape.

The babies tagged along, clad in their sweaters to keep them warm in the breeze, and in booties to which Flip insisted as their feet needed to be protected from possible injury. They smelled the flowers, sat next to the booths with their daddy while mommy browsed through the picks of the day.

The deal always was to visit every booth regardless of a purchase or not. Your theory was that maybe you’d find something you didn’t even know you needed, to which Flip always rolled his eyes at being the bag carrier.

“Honey,” after the millionth booth it seemed, “the dogs are tired and I’m starving,” he almost whined, the babies sitting at his feet with their tongues hanging out, the bags everywhere as his hands got tired of carrying the loads.

You came out of the mecca of flowers, carrying several bouquets, “which one babe?” showing him the array you had in your arms.

“Butterfly,” he whined again, sighing as you waited for a response, “just pick one I don’t care which one it is... I just want a fucking hamburger,” watching you roll your eyes at his childlike attitude.

“Honey, please just tell me which one, I can’t decide between them,” begging him to answer with something as you were starving too.

“Fuck,” he grunted, adjusting himself so he could see them better, “I like those,” pointing at the bouquet with peonies all over them.

“I knew I loved you,” smiling ear to ear as he’d picked the exact one you wanted him to, skipping to the cashier to purchase the blooms.

He took the load to the car while you took the baby’s potty, making sure they were okay before deciding on a place to sit down and eat.

You both decided on a small bistro that had outdoor seating. A less popular one so you could sit and hear each other speak while letting the dogs lay under the chairs.

You both ordered drinks and skimmed over the menu items, settling on stuff to share rather than getting separate entrees. You loved the intimacy of having similar palates, reveling in the flavors together while you discussed details about the day, the week coming up, and just being in each other’s company.

Flip had been wound a little too tight lately. Well, he always was, but it had been elevated since this big murder case came across his desk. It was a string of them, all seemingly connected, but with no real evidence to link them together.

This frustrated him to no end, tracing back and forth on the same details, trying to find any sort of linkage, and coming up with only dead ends. The most aggravating part had to be that with every step forward in the case, there happened to always be another assault or murder stringing up to cloud the evidence in more confusion. It had to be coincidental, you kept telling him when he came home smelling of heavy cigarette smoke, there had to be a piece to this puzzle.

He always got his man. That was why he had been promoted to homicide. He was a good detective, looking through every shrivel of evidence until his eyes crossed. Not leaving any stone unturned. And if this killer was to be caught, he had to be the man to find him come Hell or high water.

But today wasn’t the day for that kind of talk. Today was the one day he found solace in being in reality. That reality, of course, being you and the life he had built out of nothing so suddenly.

He silently reveled in your musings, loving the sound of your voice as you spoke of wedding details and such. He still couldn't believe that this was his life. That you were here, changing it in all the best ways. Making it worth living and worth all the struggle it took him to get there.

He drowned in your laughter, your gestures, the way you sipped on your wine, the way the lights glimmered in your eyes and the sun shined on your skin. How the curves of your body hugged the dress you chose, the supple skin on your chest peeking from the fabric, how your eyelashes batted in the light, the way your hair flowed in the light breeze. You were mesmerizing. And you were all his… Forever.

The shimmer of that diamond on your finger stoked it all for him. The whole drama that had led up to that Godforsaken proposal. It made him shudder to his core. But in the end, it settled your lives into one. You had all the strings attached, and now they were falling into the culmination of the union. And hopefully more in the future.

He stared into your eyes, hoping and wishing that you’d want more after the vows had been said. Wanting to give you everything and more to make you the happiest forever. He never had pegged himself to be a hopeless romantic, throwing more caution to the wind as he settled night after lonely night in his bachelor pad, which had now been renovated to meet your needs on top of his.

He loved his life now. Never wanting any of it to change for the worse, and he was determined to make that perfect, even if everything else wasn’t.

“You okay honey?” gripping his free hand and rubbing the palm as you kept sipping your wine, “where’d you go?” your eyebrows furrowing slightly as you watched him snap out of his thoughts.

“Just lookin’,” He smiled, his dimples coming out to make your heart melt as he put both hands to clasp yours, bringing them to his lips to kiss the soft skin.

“Why are you so perfect?” you cooed, his smile lighting up the entire outdoors seemingly as his teeth showed.

“I’m not at all,” he laughed, rubbing your skin in his to warm your hand up from the sun setting chill.

You huffed a laugh, putting your free hand under your chin while you cocked your head to the side, melting at his preciousness.

He was your perfect match. The other half of your soul. The light and darkness, the Alpha to your Omega. And he was perfect… To you.

“You are,” whispering just above a breath, “you’re everything,” the tears threatening to spill as you reveled in the adoration from him.

“You’re my everything,” his voice matching yours as he leaned over the table, meeting your lips with his in the slightest of kisses, only to be broken by the faint whimper of Waddles.

“I think we need to get them home, honey,” he chuckled, looking at the exhausted pumpkins pawing at his boots.

“Agreed,” taking a huge swig while he gestured to the waiter for the bill.

____________

Flip had insisted on bringing every bag in, putting the contents away just how you liked them, taking the dogs out to go potty, and putting them in bed for the night, so you could get ready to relax. You tried to convince him that you could and were capable of helping, to no avail as his sternness only made it into a fight you knew you’d never win.

So you trudged upstairs, getting yourself all pampered for bed, wearing a silk slip, and putting your hair up in a messy bun while you lotioned yourself up for the evening.

You took down the sheets, the cotton feeling so soft and serene as you flipped on the salt lamp in the corner of the bedroom, making the ambiance calm and collected while you flipped some quiet music on to set the mood.

Time Of The Season softly wafted from the record player, settling you into the welcoming bed with your book while you waited for your man to slide in for the night.

You heard his heavy footsteps come up from the living room, revealing his exhausted frame as he sighed upon seeing you all ready for him.

“Are they okay?” putting your book down on your lap as you pat the side of the bed for him to lay on.

“Just fine honey,” he grunted, pulling his boots off and unbuttoning his flannel to reveal his rippling pectorals in the soft light of the bedroom.

“That’s pretty,” he huffed, seeing the slitted silky dress you’d chosen and how it contrasted with the white sheets, “I mean you look pretty in anything, but that’s…” he trailed off seeing you push your legs up and outward to reveal your bare cunt to his eyes.

“What now honey?” you moaned, snaking a finger to open up the dress more and play with your pussy in front of him.

He immediately got down to the foot of the bed, moving his head to meet within inches of your fingers, marveling at the delicate touches you made on your lips.

“So… Pretty,” eyes growing wide as he watched your hole suck your fingers, begging to be fucked by him.

“I’m so wet for you, cowboy,” shoving three fingers in as far as they could go, feeling his hot breath ghosting your thighs while he sucked hickeys on them.

“I bet those fingers aren’t big enough for you, huh, butterfly,” squeezing a huge bruise on your left inner leg, the feeling making your head fall back as he did so.

“Not even close,” you gasped, feeling his thick hand pull yours from its spot, your cunt grasping at nothing as he marveled at your hole.

“Didn’t think so,” smirking as he sucked your digits dry, moaning at the taste of you.

“Daddy will take care of you, honey,” he cooed, blowing some air on your aching clit to watch your legs shudder from the breeze.

“I’m gonna suck this cunt until your cryin’,” spreading your folds open as he latched his vacuum suction on your bud, the cry you let out reverberating on the walls of the room as your hand found the back of his head, shoving his face further into your supple cunt.

“Mhmm,” he moaned, the vibration from his throat causing you to audibly scream as he assaulted your pussy. His other hand finding your hole as it sucked two fingers in deliciously, the squelch of your cunt making his dick harder and harder as he kept going.

“P-Phil!” literally crying as he ate you out like the animal he was, the feral noises under your slip sending you in hoards of pleasure and euphoria as he sucked your clit fervently.

Your thighs twitched and shook as he kept going and going, the grip on his head tightening as he felt your walls close in on his fingers in the best way. The damn broke then, letting out a stream of cum from your cunt as you cried endlessly on his movements.

“P-Phil holy s-shi-!” his suction breaking to open his mouth to the stream of spend that coated his face so beautifully.

“I fuckin’ told ya I’d make ya cry,” he growled, pulling himself up to meet your face, “you taste so goddamn delicious,” kissing you so hard the spend dribbled down your throat too, sending you into another stimulated haze as he rubbed his tip with your gaping entrance.

“You want daddy to fuck you?” lining himself up to watch you beg for his cock, your pretty moans and eyes signaling how badly you wanted him inside you.

“O-oh f-fuck,” your mouth falling open again as he buried himself in your sweet pussy, the warm feeling coating his cock in the best way.

“God d-dammit h-honey,” he managed to grit out, speeding up his movements after he had hooked your legs to meet his chest, pushing them towards you in a pretzeled fashion as his large frame loomed over your sweat-stained bodies.

“You’re s-so fuckin’,” he strained, the muscles in his neck along with their veins protruding in the sexiest way as he shoved himself into your guts more and more.

“Use y-your words c-cowboy,” you managed to choke out, feeling your second release creep up the more he pounded into your open womb.

“T-tell me what you w-want,” grabbing his inky locks that had since become soaked, his muscles taut as he plummeted further into you, your bodies becoming one as he breathed heavily and grunted with every stroke.

“G-god I l-love you Y/N,” he said, making searing eye contact as he watched your gorgeous face conjure in absolute pleasure underneath him. He could live in this moment forever. Get lost in your perfect screams and moans for him. The way you gripped his arms to pull him even further into you as he fucked your insides raw. He loved this. He loved you like this.

“I-I love y-you P-Phil,” you managed the words, feeling your release hit you like a freight train. The warmth of his cock gliding over your walls completely overwhelming your senses. The stars blinking behind your eyes as you melted into his body, your limbs releasing just enough for him to push your legs to meet the rest of your body and the mattress below.

“F-fuck,” he grunted out, feeling your body convulse under him, his grip above the bed frame tightening as he split you completely in half, your velvet cunt fluttering around him as he came closer and closer.

“I-I’m gonna fuck a b-baby into you h-honey,” the feral groan escaping his lips going straight to your cunt as you opened your eyes again. Your big mountain man, completely falling apart over you in a sweat-covered pile of muscle and brawn.

“Y-you want that?” egging him on as you pulled him closer, your foreheads touching as he came so close.

“Mhmm f-fuck yes,” he moaned, feeling you pulse around him, loving how he mewled for you, “I-I want you so f-full of me by this time n-next year I-I won’t be able to t-take my h-hands off you,” gritting his teeth so hard at this point.

You cunt fluttering as the sinking feeling in your lower stomach came from his words. The thought of being the way he imagined, full of him, making you want it so much more than you’d ever thought before.

“What are you waiting for daddy?” you moaned, feeling his dick harden even more as he came to the edge, “knock me the fuck up,” voice above a whisper as you stared into his eyes, seeing his release as he dumped his hot seed into your core.

“M-mother of G-God,” trying not to break eye contact as he filled you with him, the hot spend feeling so good as it coated your fertile walls to the brim.

He held you both there for a few moments, spurts of cum exiting his tip as he watched your gorgeous face smile back at him, petting him and egging his release on and on.

“Such a good daddy,” whispering to him while he caught his breath, kissing your hands as his dick softened in your pussy.

“I was serious,” he looked back at you, feeling him slip out of you in a gush of spend, only to be plugged by two fingers as he sat back on shins.

He grabbed a pillow, forcing it under your hips while his digits still were lodged in your cunt.

“You’re gonna be knocked up by next year,” the smile on your face a clear indication of how you felt about the premonition.

“I can’t wait,” a low chuckle leaving his chest as he removed his fingers, lowering himself over you to kiss your perfect lips, caressing your side, and then circling over your stomach to the point of it slightly tickling.

“I can’t either butterfly,” he whispered on your lips, kissing you again and again.

_______________________

SPOILER ALERT: SARA IS A WHORE AND THIS IS GONNA GET WORSE LMAO...

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[ourladylennon]

list of mclennon fanfics? 👀

Coming right up!

Camera-less by fingersfallingupwards | smut | AU | length: >10,000 | “The words register and Paul barely keeps back an incredulous laugh. Is Lennon… is he really trying it on with Paul? There’s no hiding the implication; it’s the same way Paul’s approached whores on the street, thriving on the ignominy of it all. Lennon must be taking the piss.If he is having Paul on, well, two can play at that game.”

What You’re Doing to Me by smothermeinrelish | smut | length: >10,000 | “John's not sure what is going on. Since arriving in Hamburg, the sex and parties are non-stop, yet he can't shake this growing feeling there is something going on with him and Paul.Is it the sin of the city? Or has John found a void within that is looking for it's missing piece?”

Initiation by unchained_daisychain | smut | length: >10,000 | “Initially, Paul thinks they’re all taking the piss. As the newest member of the band, he has learned to laugh off the jokes made at his expense. But a frown soon misshapes his smile as he dumbly watches the boys disperse themselves throughout the room.“Yer serious?” he asks, confusion cementing his feet on the carpet. “All of you just…sit around an’ wank together?” “If you don’t wanna join, just wait outside till the big boys are finished,” Len says with grating arrogance. It feels like some type of test or initiation. Buy into our daft game and you’ll secure your spot in the band; bow out and consider yourself nothing more than an expendable instrument. Paul’s hand tightens around the neck of his guitar. Soon enough it disappears from his grasp entirely as he deposits it against the wall and seats himself in a vacant armchair.”

Bright Are the Stars, Dark is the Sky by unchained_daisychain | smut | *warning: taboo with consent* | AU | length: >10,000 | “John can never recall precisely when the feelings arose. In the beginning, he had despised another figure of authority in his life, even if by association. Neatly kept and well-spoken, Mr. McCartney had seemed just that, too. From the very start, John had tried to break him down…only to later realize he was the one crumbling to pieces. Because, in an unforeseen twist, Paul proves to be unlike the other oppressive parents of his generation. For a while, he thinks it is a fatherly bond that keeps him a frequent visitor at the McCartney residence. But when respect begins to wane in the presence of something stronger, it frightens him to the core. He can count on one hand the number of times he has been blindsided in his life, and the realization of his attraction to Paul is one of them.”

Tessellate by cloudy_blue | hurt & comfort | length: >10,000 | “No one had prepared her for John. Maybe they could have put aside fifteen minutes in-between teaching her how to make her stitches even and her chicken cooked through – what to do if your man is also sleeping with his bassist.”

Whatever Gets you Through the Night by sleeprettydarling | smut | length: 10,000+ | “When John catches wind of a prostitute in Hamburg who's willing to do two blokes at once, he and Paul agree to pay her a visit. John has an ulterior motive, but he's unaware that Paul has a plan of his own. Misunderstandings, feelings, and an abundance of sex ensue.”

Lifting Latches by thinkpink20 | smut | length: 10,000 + | “Paul is used to talking about everything with John. About girls, sex, fantasies about Bridget Bardot - everything. They even talk about Mary and Julia, when they've had enough to drink. He doesn't talk like that to anyone else, and he senses from the way John speaks in such a rush about all the important things that he doesn't either.So when something happens that they don't speak about, he knows it must be serious.”/ OR: Paul and John swap t-shirts, and also somehow change the nature of their relationship...”

French Connection by smothermeinrelish & unchained_daisychain | smut | *warning: taboo with consent* | length: 10,000+ | “Running low on funds during their holiday in Paris, John and Paul have to find some way to finance the rest of their trip. A wealthy stranger approaches them with an offer impossible to refuse. He shook his head, slowly and confoundedly. “Bleedin’ hell, I can’t believe yer actually considering this.”“We aren’t really in the position to be refusin’ offers.” At the answering silence, he swatted Paul’s shoulder, pressing, “C’mon, a thousand francs, Macca.”

The Ballad of Lennon and McCartney by please_dont_wake_me | angst & smut | length: 30,000+ (wip) | "“I think that to make real art - like, if you want to tap into the current of what’s really going on, you can’t be fully aware of it. You can’t be all in your head about it. You’re not speakin’ the truth, you’re feeling it - lettin’ it speak through you. You’re taking from the realm of truth and transforming it into something a human can perceive, but you don’t always know what it is.” In late 1966, the baby-faced balladeer Paul McCartney meets an unsuccessful artist named John Lennon at an Avant Garde gala. The ensuing relationship causes him to publicly lose his mind.

What is Living is Burning by orphanbeat | fluff & smut | length: 40,000+ | “Looking at John, watching his hands, seeing the slope of his nose, Paul realizes he wants to kiss him, always has. He wants to tell him, but he’s too afraid. He wonders if it was the other way around between them, would John tell him? /OR: In 1968, Paul is publicly outed in a book called The Homosexual's Handbook, written by Angelo D'Arcangelo.” 

Boy You’ve Been a Naughty Girl by merseysidestory | smut | length: 40,000+| “John makes Paul a bet. Paul takes him up on it. Crossdressing shenanigans and angst ensue, and ~feelings come out in the wash. 1961.”

Metered by fingersfallingupwards | smut | length: 40,000+ | "The bloke said something just the same as you did, about floating off unless tied down, or maybe it was the other way around, getting tied down to float off, y'know.”/OR: Canon-era John and Paul haphazardly invent BDSM, and learn a few things about power, surrender, pleasure, and themselves along the way” 

Art & Obligation by imaginebeatles | length: 100,000+ | fluff & smut | AU-1800′s | “John Lennon works as the apprentice of a well-known portraitist and is tasked to do the picture of the young Mr. Paul McCartney. He is the son of Jim McCartney, a wealthy and powerful landowner, and has the reputation of an arrogant, spoilt brat with a pretty face, who has a way of wrapping anyone around his finger. But soon John finds that things are not as straightforward as they may seem.”

On Our Way Back Home by kathleenishereagain | fluff & smut | length: 300,000+ | “Something ticked in Paul’s mind as the familiar words washed through him. When he looked at John, his friend was already looking at him. And suddenly, it all became clear: He remembered having that conversation more than 50 years ago. He remembered it too well.He had been thinking about it for years, wondering what he should have understood, how he should have reacted. /OR: Summer 2019, 77-year-old Paul wakes up feeling surprisingly good. One tiny problem: he is back in December 1965.”

I originally had Red Hall fic on this list, before having actually read it and that was a huge mistake. I do not condone, support or recommend it. It's beyond deplorable and a line was crossed when it was written. I am so sorry I ever carelessly placed it on this list to begin with.

these are just some of my personal faves, so many more to read. You are all. so. AMAZING. 

Bonus: beautiful mclennon artwork by auroralunatica

[instasiswetrust]

Bloodshot

Brown eyes stare into the void.

And the void stares right back.

Pitch-black and dark.

Dark, darker, and yet darker.

Vaguely, he registers liquid inside his mouth. His lungs. His chest. A part of his brain that's still working whispers that he's choking. Weird. He thought it would hurt more than this. Thought there would be more panic and flailing. Desperation to breathe.

Instead, all he feels is calm.

There's a sense of peace that instills in his body. Fills every crevice, nook, and cranny inside his flesh. Inside his bones.

Yes, he's dying, but he's accepted this as an immutable fact.

What use is there for panic when the croon of Miss Death is already so sweet in his ear? Why should he flail and claw to a life filled with heartache and pain, when instead he could stay in this calm embrace forever?

He's dying, and he's fine with this.

At first, he thinks he might be at the quarry. It would make sense. Maybe he was too drunk, tripped, and slipped off the ledge. Those kinds of things tend to happen to lonely people like him. Maybe others will think he jumped, instead. That's fine too.

But the liquid in his mouth tastes salty and coppery. A little too thick to be water.

Oh. Right.

Blood. He was choking on his own blood.

Things are coming back to him in slow increments. Flashes of scenes. He understands now where he is.

Or was.

Time is confusing when you're dying.

They had been in the tunnels. The demodogs had been close at their heels and the entrance just a few feet away. He had been so scared, utterly terrified, but not for himself. Never for himself. He needed to get the kids out first, all of them.

And he had.

Too bad it had been just a second too late for him.

Just as he was about to reach for the rope, a strong body had crashed into him and he had fallen on his back. Pain had jolted through his nerves as claws dug themselves into the skin of his chest. He remembers being vaguely concerned about the wetness spreading in his chest before that maw had bloomed into the most horrifying of flowers, and the petals wrapped themselves around his neck.

He thinks Dustin might've screamed. Steve felt bad that the kid had to see him like that.

But now the pain was no more and he was suspended in the void. Calm. Serene. Accepting.

Death was peaceful.

Until it wasn't.

---

The thing that crawled out of the earth, a whole week after the gate was closed, was not Steve Harrington.

At least not anymore.

Not in a way that mattered.

He still looked the same. Sounded the same. Moved the same. Felt the same.

He could think, and like, and long for things the same way he could when he had been alive.

But his mind was never quiet these days.

Hunt. Feed. Claw. Rip.

Blood.

A never-ending loop of words strung together until they sounded unrecognizable until they no longer made sense. And yet the feelings that came with the words would never go away.

Not when he started cooking his meat less and less to the point he resorted to just shoveling spoonfuls of raw hamburger meat into his mouth.

Not when he passed by the rotting corpse of a deer in the woods and had to take a moment to wipe the drool off his chin because for some reason the scent was appetizing.

Not when he gave in and hooked up with Nina Collins, and she let him bite her neck until he drew blood.

They never went away. Neither did the gnawing hunger inside of him.

And Steve could only be so dumb. He knew perfectly well what it was the voice in his head wanted. Could recognize it in the way his dreams had been filled with spiked bats hitting skin, breaking bones, and hands burying themselves in a mess of blood and guts.

He only wondered for how much longer he could hold himself back.

The answer came to him less than a week later.

---

First thing he notices when he wakes up, is that the hunger is blessedly gone.

For a single moment, he's glad. Happy and relieved. Until realization settles in and horror fills his chest.

Second thing he notices is that he's naked, sitting in a puddle of blood. The scent is strong.

And appetizing.

It makes him curl up onto his side and retch, but thankfully nothing comes up.

Quiet breathing is what clues him on the third thing. It also freezes him in place.

Somebody is looking at him. Saw what he did. Who he is. What he is.

Fuck.

Then they speak.

Double fuck.

"I knew you were fucked up, Harrington. Didn't think you were this fucked up though."

It's not the words that make him turn, eyes open wide. It's the voice. Because he knows that voice. Because it's Billy Hargrove's voice.

Ain't that just nice?

With the hunger and the voices gone, at least for the time being, it's much easier to try and recall the events of the night before. Steve almost wishes he couldn't though, because what he experiences -- not sees because those creatures don't have eyes -- is so repulsive that he can feel nausea clawing up his throat again.

"I killed your dad."

It's a fact, not a question. He doesn't need confirmation, his memories of the event are clear albeit fuzzy.

"And ate him. Yeah."

The fact that Hargrove doesn't sound horrified, or scared in the slightest, confuses Steve. He forces himself to ignore the panic, the nausea, and the embarrassment warring for his immediate attention and instead focuses on Hargrove's face.

Hargrove meets his gaze unflinchingly.

There's not a single ounce of remorse in those blue eyes but then again, why would there be?

After all, the bruises and cuts that litter his face and naked chest, speak enough about the type of man Neil Hargrove was.

"I did not... hurt you, right?"

Steve doesn't remember having approached Hargrove. The demodog hadn't wanted to hurt Hargrove, like at all. Still, he has to make sure. Just to put his mind at ease, of course. Not because he's worried about Hargrove or anything.

Hargrove shakes his head, frowning. The bruises must hurt pretty bad though because he winces. "You don't remember?"

"The memories are... fuzzy." Steve grimaces, pushing down another bout of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. "It's not- I'm not- I know what it looks like but I'm not that thing, okay? The dog- That's not me."

"And yet I watched that thing morph back into you. You are still lying in a pool of blood, you know?" He sounds unimpressed. Slightly annoyed too. "You just said you have memories of it. I'd say that counts as you being that thing, Harrington."

Yeah, okay. Steve can't really counter that logic. Doesn't help lessen the knot of guilt that sits heavy at the pit of his stomach, though.

"Fine. Okay. Yes. I just-" But the words die on his tongue because he's not sure how to even finish that sentence. He's just what? Horrified? Guilty? Considering taking a dive off the quarry or meet the bad end of Nancy's shotgun?

Hargrove must have read the indecisiveness on his expression because he huffs, crossing his arms. He winces again and Steve’s almost tempted to demand he take it easy.

"Here's what we are going to do, Harrington." His voice has an unexpected strength to it that commands all of Steve’s attention. “You're going to take a shower, borrow some clothes, then I'm going to clean off all this blood before Max and Susan get back, and then we're going to talk about Neil’s sudden disappearance. Understood?”

“Uh...”

Hargrove was... helping him. He was helping him cover up a murder. The murder of his own father. Hargrove watched as the demodog fucking ate his dad, morphed back into Steve, and now he was helping him.

Steve wasn't sure how he was feeling about this but grateful and confused came pretty close to explaining it.

“I asked if you understood, Harrington.”

“Yeah I uh, yeah. I understand.”

So that's how he found himself in Hargrove's kitchen half an hour later, clad in grey sweatpants and an AC/DC shirt that had seen better days. Hargrove sat in front of him, idly eating from a bowl of Lucky charms, his gaze not straying far from Steve.

The clank of the spoon as it fell back into the empty bowl was jarringly loud in the awkward silence.

"You really don't remember what happened last night, then?"

His gut reaction was to say no. He didn't remember anything. That the memories were fuzzy and the thing wasn't him. But that would be lying, wouldn't it?

And he had to admit that being able to share this secret with somebody else, even if it was Billy Hargrove of all people, felt like a much-needed reprieve of all the bullshit life had been throwing at him lately.

"I do but as I said, it's fuzzy. Fragmented, I guess?" He looks down at the table, drumming his fingers on the worn tabletop. "This thing, it doesn't see things as we do. Doesn't have eyes."

Hargrove hums, and Steve can see the way he leans back on the chair. Feels those eyes on him, not moving. It should set him on edge but instead, it makes him feel grounded. Like this is the first time, since he crawled out of the earth that somebody bothers to truly look at him.

It makes him want to look up and meet that gaze.

So that's exactly what he does.

"It was you that I- that the demodog was hunting, not your dad." Steve is glad he doesn't look away because it allows him to see the shadow of regret that crosses those blue eyes. "But then I- it jumped through the window. Saw what was happening. So the prey changed."

"And you have lived with this thing for how long?"

"Technically speaking, I'm not alive. Haven't been since that night in November, a little after the whole thing at the Byers."

Hargrove blinks, taken aback by what must surely sound like nonsense considering Steve was sitting across from him, breathing and talking. He's not sure how to explain it either but he knows with unwavering certainty that he's not alive anymore.

Not like he should be.

Not completely.

Liminal spaces. Whatever. Fuck.

"One of those things bit me. Dustin saw it happen too. Or at least saw the blood. And I remember dying." He shrugs, drums his fingers again just to have something to do. Restlessness eats at him but he's still under Hargrove's gaze and the itch to run has settled for now. "A week later I apparently dug my way out of the earth and Hopper found me at the junkyard. I can't remember it at all."

The marred skin of his throat is evidence enough. These days he does his best to cover it up with makeup or turtlenecks, not wishing to deal with the unwanted questions that would undoubtedly come. Not to mention that Dustin can't see it without tearing up. Kid still has nightmares about Steve covered in blood with his throat ripped out.

"Shit, Harrington." Hargrove tangles a hand in his blond curls, pulling lightly on the strands. As if the pinpricks of pain could reassure him about all this being real. "This is what you and those snot-nosed brats were up to that night? Fighting these things? Are you insane?"

"Only a little." The self-deprecating grin that accompanied it really sold it.

Steve watched as Hargrove's hands formed into fists, a dangerous sort of fire lighting up in his eyes. It lasted for a second or two before the fight left his body in a rush, body slumping slightly into the chair. It was a little impressive.

"What even are these things?"

The thing is, Steve's not even sure what those creatures are. He says as much and spends the next fifteen minutes explaining what he knows -- and what he's theorized -- about Will Byers, the Upside Down, the Mindflayer, and Hawkins Lab. Surprisingly enough, Hargrove listens through it all without commentary.

"Nobody understood how I was alive but I didn't want to question it too much. Guess I already knew something was wrong with me but I didn't want to see it."

Hargrove's eyes have drifted down to his empty cereal bowl but it doesn't seem like he's really looking at it. After a moment, he nods. "Okay so what now, Harrington?"

Steve's taken aback by the question, not understanding what Hargrove is getting at. "What do you mean what now?"

If looks could kill, he's sure that he would be dead again. Hargrove heaves an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before facing Steve.

"Harrington, I knew you were an idiot but this is too much even for you." Steve makes a sound of protest but Hargrove throws him a look and he goes quiet again. "The demodog needs to eat people to live, meaning you need to eat people to live. So tell me, what are you going to do about that?"

"Oh."

Well fuck.

[bandtrees]

Iceberg and/or lament headcanons hand them over

YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND. i do love me my headcanons :] these will range from serious to just whatever nonsense i think is funny!:

iceberg:

nonbinary. based on the fact when i saw art of him before knowing who he was i couldn’t tell his gender so nonbinary ice is seared into my brain forever. so there’s this he/they...

very VERY attached to his scarf and refuses to part with it. it’s seen hell and back and is so scorched and ripped but he’ll wear it as long as it still can be worn, professionalism be damned

specifically had it with him when he got into [nonspecific incident that did That to his body temperature] and it’s kinda been a comfort object ever since. gets legitimately very stressed if he loses it. people have lost fingers in mysterious explosions for making fun of him for it

also autistic! i just get very big vibes from him and also like to project. i will restrain myself from going off about this but i feel it very strongly. among other things he’s constantly fidgeting and has the world’s worst volume control - sounds like he’s yelling a good 90% of the time

does not really get along with any of his fellow personnel but ESPECIALLY not kondraki. those two hate eachother SO much - kondraki because he has little respect for people lower than him on the foundation pecking order, iceberg because he’s incredibly egotistical and cannot handle people treating him like anything but the SAVIOR OF THE SCP FOUNDATION!!!! 

has a massive appetite especially for sweets and junk food. one of those people who has a stash of chocolate under their desk. once ate 3/4 of a hamburger in one bite in front of a slightly mesmerized gears

WILL put his cold hands on people without warning. “MOVE, I’M GAY”

comically unlucky. this isn’t a headcanon it’s just a thing i wish people thought of more in regards to iceberg. he has the life of a down-on-his-luck cartoon protagonist and nothing goes his way ever no matter HOW much he wants it to

(suicide) prior to his suicide he just kind of had a mild breakdown and destroyed all of the memorabilia from his work with gears - so when gears walked into ice’s dorm he not only saw his body and note but also drawers ransacked, stacks of paperwork and files torn and burned up, etc. someone probably could’ve heard ice breaking shit and stopped him before it was too late but alas the rooms were soundproofed

was assigned to work with gears because the foundation saw his reckless behavior and thought being stuck with gears would mellow him out (read: turn him into another emotionless work machine) so he would be less disruptive n stuff: he was a smart person and the foundation saw use in that, but they couldn’t really do much with it while he was still a loose cannon blowing up everything in sight, y’know

lament:

these are only based on in his own image im sorry im not reading resurrection my brain is too small

transhet king!!!!

i’ve drawn him several times now but for the people at home i imagine him in a black suit with a trans flag gradient cravat. also black fingerless gloves because he thinks they make him look cool.

in-universe he’s iceberg’s replacement and a lot of it’s because they’ve got slightly similar personalities as gears’ superiors wanted to try the “what working with gears does to a mfer” stuff again - lament is way less rude than iceberg but both are emotional, impulsive, pretty silly and unprofessional and were newbies to the foundation at the time, etc. the perfect candidates for this sort of thing. gears saw iceberg in lament which... created a very scary situation for lament as he was pretty much trapped with gears knowing what happened to the last guy but being unable to get out

so very traumatized - specifically by the scp-106 stuff but in general by all the shit he’s seen as an agent and containment specialist - but because he doesn’t like glass or what he stands for he refuses to really... seek help. a master of ‘grinning and bearing it’ but it’s REALLY not good for him. 100% will break someday

because of aforementioned 106 trauma it’s not really conscious but he hates to stand near walls or in corners. lingers in centers of rooms and gears has made it habit to lightly grab him and pull him back when he stands too close to danger because he can’t bring himself to back up

dating light and he thinks her stout scarred up self is the prettiest sight on the planet and you know what? he’s RIGHT. i didn’t really like their relationship much in ihoi because it felt kinda tacked on but i CAN appreciate them together in concept

unlike iceberg and gears, has incredibly high empathy. im a simple man i see a character i like i project my hyperempathy

smart in his own way of course but he sucks ass at math. mixes up odd and even numbers constantly. good with science in a “remembering names/events/etc and being very observant” way but if you stick an equation in front of him he’ll start short circuiting

very easily spooked and defensive especially with the... trauma. while putting gears with iceberg was an effort to make iceberg less reckless and more cooperative, lament is very much someone who takes the brunt of foundation work very badly and mentally is bad at handling it all and for him it’s more... trying to give him thicker skin and make him “””adapt””” like gears did

...can you tell i love lament and really really wish more people did too? XD i get why people find him sorta generic and are indifferent to him but i am always very drawn to protagonist characters haha. thank you for the ask! i hope these headcanons suffice :]

[docholligay]

Chinese Food in The American West

One of the things I frequently come across as a student of the American West* is that people get most of their information from movies and TV and then act like they know things. Wyatt Earp was not a Lawful Good champion who always did his level best even when it was hard to know. (You want Seth Bullock or Bass Reeves). Racism was far more complicated than white vs not white (I’ve talked about this EXTENSIVELY in Strange Empire, so I’m not going to bore you here**). 

And they didn’t just eat steak. In fact, they rarely ate steak. 

Steak as cowboy food isn’t INACCURATE, but it is MODERN. From about the early 1900s on, you had less and less drives and more and more ranchers who were staying put, with less and less hands needed, and so food was grabbed less “on the go.” Cows could be slaughtered and used to feed the family, allowing for more opportunities for things like steak, yes, but also things like chili, a play on sauerbraten, southern-style biscuits. The cattle drives were a real blend of culture and race, and a lot of what we have left as “Western food” owes a great deal to that. 

And if we leave the cattle drives and head into the towns of the American West, as we will today, we find things like oysters, pies, and various things like that. Far more well-heeled than the general expectation. 

I mean, here’s the menu from the Occidental Saloon circa the late 1880s:

Soups

Chicken Giblet and Consumme, with Egg

Fish

Columbia River Salmon, au Beurre Noir

Relieves

Filet a Boeuf, a la Financier

Leg of Lamb, Sauce, Oysters

Cold Meats

Loin of Beef, Loin of Ham, Loin of Pork, Westphalia Ham, Corned Beef, Imported Lunches

Boiled Meats

Leg of Mutton, Ribs of Beef, Corned Beef and Cabbage, Russian River Bacon

Entrees

Pinons a Poulett, aux Champignons

Cream Fricasse of Chicken, Asparagus Points

Lapine Domestique, a la Matire d'Hote

Casserole d'Ritz aux Oeufs, a la Chinoise

Ducks of Mutton, Braze, with Chipoluta Ragout

California Fresh Peach, a la Conde

Roasts

Loin of Beef, Loin of Mutton, Leg of Pork

Apple Sauce, Suckling Pig, with Jelly, Chicken Stuffed Veal

Pastry

Peach, Apple, Plum, and Custard Pies

English Plum Pudding, Hard Sauce, Lemon Flavor

This dinner will be served for 50 cents.

-I got this from the book “Saloons of the Old West” by Erdoes

But none of that is precisely why I’m here, I just can’t stop myself from talking about this, why I’m here is that one of the things I say that often surprises people, is that Chinese food was incredibly common for the, well, common man to eat. There’s very much a conception that we as a non-Chinese American  people did not start eating Chinese food until the 40s and 50s, and its truer that it took longer to catch on in the American East than the West simply as a matter of proximity and choice. 

Not MORE choice but LESS. Part of what made the West so unique, historically, is that the lack of choice and the basic scarcity caused people to work with and patronize people that their general prejudices would have kept them from using back east, because they had CHOICES. But out in the west, less so. There were few choices for a quick, cheap meal on the go. That dinner I just posted above is a lavish affair, and a great deal at approximately $20.00 in today’s money. (Which does not allow for the fact that cost of supplies has gone up and this dinner would most likely be offered for no less than 70 or so today.) 

People desperately wanted something that was cheap and quick, and the other options in the American West were few, far between, and not intensely pleasing. No one had really come up with the sandwich shop as of yet, and in any case, fresh meats and cheeses would have been too difficult for the low-cost supplier. 

ENTER THE CHINESE POPULATION.

If you have read my Strange Empire blogs, I hope you know that Chinese people were a huge presence in the American West, mostly working for the railroad and various mines, but also doing things like laundry, work that was extremely hard but took little in the way of English speaking. They existed in Chinatowns, for a combination of cultural and legal factors, but it’s a misconception that non-Chinese*** people never went to Chinatown. 

People are not new, and it was not unusual for non-Chinese people to use the laundries, tailoring, and other services of Chinatowns while suppressing the rights of Chinese people int he same breath. There were always individual Chinese people any given non-Chinese person liked and did business with. 

In time, they discovered the inherent wisdom of the noodle bowl. 

I don’t mean to suggest that all these early restaurants served was noodle bowls, but that was where it all started. Remember, Italian food had little prominence in America at the this time, as Italian immigration didn’t really get into full swing until the 1870s in America. While there are noodle traditions half of everywhere, and there is nothing new under the sun, what we today would consider a stir-fry bowl was wildly new to most of the non-Chinese folks in the West. That it could be offered up so cheaply, was so filling, and so delicious (more on this later) was a wild revelation. Everyone from simple cowboys (which, fun fact! Was a slur back then!) to mayors were swinging by Chinatowns to try the dishes. 

By the 1920s, chop suey, a fully Chinese American invention derived from the words for “various leftovers” was a hugely popular American food among all sorts. 

Doc, you may ask, was it just that these folks coming through to get medicines or laundry were SO adventurous? Not at all! Chinese restaurants back then actually, in a very short amount of time, realized that their non-Chinese townsfolk were an excellent way to make money as well, and began to adapt and change dishes to better fit the Western palate, leading what we call American Chinese Food today, which is a legitimate foodway I will defend to my death. Unfortunately, none of these menus survive today--the only ones we have are from places in San Francisco, places that were much more posh, and not the subject of this essay. 

There is a scene in Tombstone where Wyatt and his brothers are eating Chinese food, and it’s one of the things people often ask me about, assuming it’s anachronistic. Actually, it isn’t at all--the anachronism is that there’s broccoli in those noodle bowls, which had not yet hit our shores by the time of the OK Corral. Chinese food was a huge hit, Chinese restaurants were doing extremely well, and some Chinese restaurants were even beginning to attempt to print menus in English, with sit down areas, instead of serving simple fare from food carts. 

As the food from these “chow chow houses” grew in popularity, as we can infer from the advertisements of their competitors promising free potatoes with every meal, and other such niceties to entice, there was, as ever there must be, blowback. Anti-Chinese sentiment grew to a fever pitch, and with this came overt pressure for ‘Good Americans” to patronize ‘American restaurants’. The social pressure is actually where we get some of that old racist jargon about Chinese people serving dogs and cats, which people often think was spread by competitors to degrade the Chinese restaurants, which isn’t UNTRUE, but was just as often said sheepishly by someone who couldn’t stop themselves from going and grabbing a noodle bowl or even the American dishes they offered, such as roast chicken or pork chop sandwiches. 

(I won’t comment with anything but an eyeroll on the bullshit of people saying they’re ~allergic to MSG~ okay I’ll believe you when you stop eating processed food, meat, aged cheese) 

It actually kept this type of reputation as being slightly scandalous well into the early 1900s, as being something you ate after the bar, something to be had in the shadows, but it was all for naught, because Chinese food became an important part of American identity. But for all that, no one ever pictures the Lone Ranger chowing down (the American phrase ‘chow’ for food actually comes from these ‘chow chow houses’) on some chop suey, but there’s every reason to believe he would have. American Chinese food is just as American as the Germanically-influenced hamburger. 

(There’s a whole subtopic to go down about Jewish and Chinese communities and Kosher Chinese Food, two marginalized and othered communities coming together, but that’s a WHOLE other topic) 

(Also someone please buy me Chinese food. This shit always makes me so hungry.) 

*The American West is a specific time period, as far as the study of history goes. It covers the period between the end of the Civil War and the New Century, generally, and is, obviously, concerned with the western half of the country. It doesn’t cover stuff like Lewis and Clark (that’s Expansion) or even the Civil War itself, though you cannot possibly hope to study the American West in any level of seriousness without understanding the Civil War. Anyway! I know a lot about America between 1865 and 1900, and am just knowledgeable enough to be dangerous on everything else. Most History nerds are highly specified like this. We’re not as much help to your trivia team as you think.****

**I actually have had little chance to talk about ~European-style xenophobia~ as it played out in the west, because Strange Empire takes a more modern pass at it. But there was a hierarchy of “whiteness” as well, as still largely exists in Europe, land of intentionally clean ethnostates. 

***I use the term “non-Chinese” instead of white because believe it or not, non-white people were not magically free of racism against Chinese people. It was horrific and BASICALLY every non-Chinese person was guilty of it to some level, a wild-ass level of hatred that led to Chinese folks not being able to PURCHASE PROPERTY BY LAW in ENTIRE STATES. Being Chinese or Native in this place and time was your Worst Bet. 

****I actually was on a competitive trivia team, you DO want me.

[herstarburststories]

Pure Witch

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: While waiting for Rowena to help with a case, Dean distracts himself with the reader. Suddenly, the bar is under attack and you are the one who saves the Winchester brothers with magic. Dean didn't know you were witch-- but neither did you.

Warning: unprotected sex (y'all are better than that)

‘’Dean, can you focus for a bit, please?’’ Sam sighed, not for all surprised at his brother’s behavior but surely tired enough to cut him off. He had spent most nocturnal hours searching for a specific spell to save a victim from a herb coma after they didn’t find a hex bag that had probably been hidden by a sorceress. He’d finally given in and called the most powerful - perhaps more notably the only allied - witch they knew. Waiting for Rowena with less than two hours of rest while Dean ate hamburgers in heart attack form wasn’t comfortable. The fact that he was about to get up and flirt with a random woman when he was trying to be patient at her delay and not to freak out because of it was unlikely to help either. 

‘’Come on, Sammy. What’s the point of saving people if you don’t get a little nookie once in a while?’’ He winked at the other Winchester just to be greeted with an eye roll. ‘’Also, Rowena is two hours late.’’

‘’Dean-- Dude, come on!’’ Sam protested when his older brother left the table, rubbing his hands on his jeans as he walked towards you. 

‘’Hey, sweetheart. Can I sit?’’ Dean smirked at you and you nodded, waving your hand at the empty chair. If it was any usual day, you would be most likely to push him away with a dumb excuse, especially after he came up with cheap sweet talk, but he was pretty enough to entertain you a bit more, not to mention his velvet voice. Besides, it wasn’t a usual day. You could use a human shaped source of stress relief in a random bar. ‘’I have to say, you are drinking my favorite beer.’’

‘’Then you can have it,” you said, pushing the bottle to slip on the table. Dean grabbed it. ‘’Not really my kind. I like cocktail better.’’

‘’Cocktail over beer?’’ He arched his eyebrows, not so subtly judging your taste. 

You put your hand on your chest, mouth wide open in a circular form while you talked in an offended yet playful manner: ‘’You come to my table and judge my favorite drink? Outrage! I am really hurt, you know? I might have to go lick my wounds now.’’

Dean features quickly changed from worried that he had somehow offended you and threw his chance with a hot girl away to amazed. Spicy girls, he liked that.

‘’Don’t worry about that, sweetheart. I could help you with your wounds.’’ He rolled his head to the side and licked his lips before taking a sip of his beer. You giggled, rolling your eyes at his cheap attempt of a flirtatious line.

‘’Well, since we are already talking about licking wounds, my name is (Y/N). And I think we can agree that a good, old whiskey is better than both of them.’’

‘’Dean Winchester, at your service.’’ The green-eyed man offered you a wide smile followed by a wink. ‘’Yeah, whiskey gets it all.’’

‘’After tequila, of course,” you teased, just to see which reaction you could get from him.

‘’Tequila is better than whiskey? You didn’t just say that.’’ Dean raised his eyebrows. It made you laugh at how indignant he seemed to feel about it. Head tilted to the side and gaze locked with your bright eyes, he remained on the topic. ’’It’s the same as saying that salad is better than burgers or that Bon Jovi is better than AC/DC.’’

I love what you’ve got

Let’s get together, baby

Yeah, we can get hot

The guitar echoes from the song trembled through the bar’s bathroom when Dean threw your back at the wall, pushing his knee between your legs as his lips met yours into a needy, violent kiss. A weak howl left your mouth once you felt his hardness tickling against your bare leg thanks to the little skirt that barely dressed you. It hiked up with the sudden movements, almost letting show what was underneath. Unfortunately, his jeans made it a bit frustrating. He was way too dressed than either of you would like. Both of you were.

Dean’s hands tightened around your waist in a possessive act; it was an unspoken desire to get more of you-- all of you right there.You pushed him away, devil grin on your lips as you watched his confused features replaced by feral, wild eyes when you unconfined yourself from your shirt. The pretty fabric of your green bra seemed to hold the green of his eyes to your breast, as if it was the only part of you that mattered. 

The eldest Winchester denied his urge to ravish you just long enough to abandon his shirt as well as his flanel. In an instant, he was all over you again; licking your neck and going down to kiss your chest. You placed your hands on his shoulders to keep yourself steady. Your knees were too easily weakened at Dean Winchester’s touch to be considered trustworthy.

‘’Dean…’’ His name came out as a beg, a prayer for this man to give you what you needed. ‘’I want you inside me. Now. I’m so wet for you.”

‘’Fuck, sweetheart. You fucking get me when you talk like this.’’ He groaned in response, pecking your collarbone before he raised his head, locking his gaze with yours. His pupils were dilated, like a hunter’s glare when catching their prey. You could bet yours were awash in the same heat, full of lust and flaming hunger.

Opposed to losing any time, Dean put his hands on your back and lowered them while you unbuttoned his jeans, watching their particular path and enjoying how the naked parts of your body felt against his fingertips. He was certain that your pussy would feel just as good if he fucked you with his fingers, but he needed his cock inside you, and you felt such urgency for it, too. Perhaps later Dean could do all he wanted, in a bed or in the back seat of Baby. For the present time, the bedroom would be more than satisfying. He finally reached your ass, holding it as you gave into an impulse to jump.

You wrapped your legs around his waist as Dean pulled you up and pressed your body to the wall again as you finally finished unbuttoning his jeans, pushing the material down. Dean groaned in annoyance when he noticed that your skirt was lifted, but your panties were still on. You were visibly wet for his amusement, yet an obstacle to his need. Not willing to give away any further second, the hunter tore it apart.

‘’Hey, I liked that-- Dean!’’ Ultimately, your complaint was interrupted by Dean pushing into you. Fuck, it felt so good to have him inside you, his cock squeezed between your wet, tight walls. He held your thighs, mouth finding your breast in a kiss and then a bite. Dean pulled your bra, touching your erect nipple before pressing his tongue against it and sucking it. ‘’Dean!’’

His thrusts quickened in rhythm, and you tried to follow it, moving your waist to his pelvis. His cock pushed deeper and harder inside you, making you arch your back and groan when Dean found your G spot, repeatedly hitting there. 

‘’Fuck, (Y/N). You feel so nice around my cock. Wet and tight, just like I like it. Your pussy is so good to me, sweetheart.’’

Your nails scratched his shoulders. You pulled him close, and Dean looked up at you, vivid green eyes reflecting what his body and groans already said; your body was his. At least it was for now. You didn’t care if your favorite lace was crumpled on the floor or if you were fucking an aleatory man without protection or even if you would leave marks on his back. All that you cared about was his cock deep inside you, fucking you, and it seemed like he felt just the same.

He leaned forward, catching your lips in a passionate kiss. His grip tightened around your skin as your mouth escaped his in tease, encountering Dean’s neck and sucking on it there. It won a soft grunt of him, almost a whine. You giggled between groans, soon sealing his lips to yours together once more. The two of you part only to moan each other’s name in intense pleasure as the pace of his thrusts hastened.

The bar’s rock playlist was replaced by rougher music: punching noises, chairs breaking and screams from the few people on the bar who quickly tried to hide or run.  If an hour ago Sam cut a sharp glare at you and Dean walking to the bathroom, the last one was a victorious gesture at him while pointing at you. Currently, he was hopefully looking at the bathroom door stuck between killing a demon and fighting another when his brother finally appeared, followed closely by you. Both of you were disasters from wrinkled clothes to messy hair.

A ginger woman was hiding behind them and holding a book, flipping the pages fast as the boys furiously defended themselves from the things approaching them. ‘’Rowena!’’

‘’(Y/N), stay here!’’ he said in a commanding voice before running to Sam. They were fighting those human-looking creatures that shined when they got stabbed. It was clear that they weren’t normal and neither were their killers. You gulped, breathlessly watching the scene unfold in front of you. What could you do? You barely had any fighting skills other than self-defense. Besides, Dean and his partner seemed to know what they were doing. That is, if they were the good ones. What if you had just fucked an assassin?

‘’I’m trying, Samuel!’’ the redhead hissed, still skimming through the book’s writing. She appeared to be looking for something that she couldn’t find.

The things kept showing up and instead of just fighting, now one of them was able to throw things at Dean, Sam and Rowena. You were horrified. The new addition seemed to be a witch. But those weren’t real. Neither were things that died like there were storms inside them! What was happening?

The supposed witch gave the trio a bloody smile, taking calm steps to get to them. His hand gestured to the side, as if he was killing a mosquito, and Dean flew against the wall. Another move and Sam had the same destiny, seeming glued there next to his brother.

‘’Rowena, like the rat I knew you were. Looking for allies with the Winchesters? That is beyond humiliating, even for you,” the man talked sharply, disgust almost palpable in his tune. It was crystal clear that he thought he was better than the red-haired woman. Your blood fired up in your veins; you were scared and irate. The situation itself was similar to a horror movie’s scene, and the way he spoke towards her was just quite like a woman’s daily horror movie, especially when it came to the workplace. It hit a delicate spot for you. Dean and Sam tried to get away from whatever those things were with what you’d soon learn that was a spell that kept them stuck to the wall. ‘’You should thank me for being so merciful, rat.’’ He grabbed a strange knife and pulled his hand up, a malicious grin on his face as he pushed the lethal knife to Rowena.

Before he could finish his attempt, you screamed, ‘’NO! GET AWAY FROM HER!’’

The reflex on the blade twinkled, everyone’s attention on you. Dean was more nervous than before, Rowena was surprised, and the man looked like he had just heard a joke.

Glaring at you with a superior gaze, he moved his free hand. Instantly, you were slammed against the wall like the Winchesters. You hated it, feeling impotent. The fact that the man who put you through this state appeared to be unbothered himself with that only increased your anger, fear slowly sliding away to give room for your fury.

‘’The rat has a pet, too? How lovely. I might kill you first and then kill her with my knife stained with your blood. How does that sound to you, bitch?’’

‘’Leave her alone!’’ Dean shouted. His eyes never strayed, still connected with the vision of you.

‘’Standing up for the little rat and got a Winchester seal of worry? Forget about just killing you. It’s going to be a long torture. I’m going to make you my little pet before I kill you, bitch.’’

‘’Do you feel more like a man or whatever you are when you call me a bitch? Or when you call her a rat?’’ Your remark came angrily. Who did he think he was? You didn’t notice, but Rowena was searching for something in the book again. ‘’Your little ego gets rubbed when you do that? Maybe you get turned on? You are so fucking annoying, bitch.’’

‘’Respect me, whore.’’ Your throat started to close, the scarcity of air ravaging your lungs. ‘’I’m better than you and her. I’m more powerful than anyone in this room. You should be thankful that I’m directing words towards a little, arrogant slut like you. You fucking b--’’ 

His words filled all of your body with an intense savage rage. You didn’t think; you just wanted to make him quiet-- to bite back. Your eye color switched to a gloaming green, just like the smoke that filled the bar. An enormous noise was heard; the man had been thrown against the ceiling and then on the floor. His neck was noticeably broken, a pool of blood around his body. The earlier creatures ran away as Dean and Sam fell to the ground.

‘’What the fuck was that?’’ Dean asked, holding his gun up. 

You didn’t look at them. You were shocked at yourself, glaring at your trembling hands. Their afterglow dissipated from white and green to the normal color. Your eyes had come back to normal as well, and the smoke was no longer around.

‘’Did I do that? He is dead. He is-- Oh my. What were those things? They weren’t human, right? And he wasn’t a human either? What happened to me? My hands, they--’’

Sam rested his hand on the barrel of Dean’s gun and tilted his hair sideways. You didn’t know what you had just done. You probably weren't aware of your nature. ‘’I’m Sam Winchester, Dean’s brother. She is Rowena, and I think you are like her. A, hm, witch. I guess you didn’t know that, yeah?’’

‘'I am what? No, that’s not possible. I don’t even know if I believe in God-- I’m probably an atheist,” you denied quickly, shaking your head side to side. 

‘’Oh, darling. After all that you still believe that there is nothing else but humans?’’ Rowena grinned, empathic to your situation but mainly surprised by your ability.

‘’It’s certainly not the God I was taught to believe in!’’ Your face was pale and your damp eyebrows slightly raised together. ‘’I-- My. Are witches like, the higher power? Are you God?’’

‘’Well, I guess you could--’’

‘’Rowena, no.’’ Sam stopped her. He understood briefly what having a normal life and changing it abruptly to a supernatural one felt like. The way you were acting screamed nervousness. ‘’We were combating demons and a witch. I know that it is strange and surprising, but it’s real. Everything is real. Werewolves, vampires…'' He offered a gentle smile-- friendly, even. "Witches.’’

‘’God too, but He isn’t quite what we learn as kids. Neither are angels. Actually, most are assholes,” Dean tacked on, tucking his gun away under the hem of his shirt. He couldn't believe that he just had hot, sweaty sex with a witch. At least not even you knew that. You glanced at the three of them, completely disoriented.

‘’You are an Alstonia Sympathin. It is very rare. I myself thought your race was extinct,” Rowena said, gaining more confused glares from all of you. ‘’You know, how werewolves have a pureblood line? Well, she is like a pureblood witch.’’

Breathing deeply, you rubbed your throat in a futile attempt to calm yourself. ‘’What does it mean?’’

‘’You are one of the most powerful witches alive, darling.’’ She curved her lips in return, still holding the book to her chest as she answered, ‘’And you haven’t even started yet.’’

[sweetfirebird]

something like happy

Charity prompt fic for Felix, who asked for Tim and Cal and Ray and Nathaniel interacting. 

(It’s my fault it went long, because duuuhhhh I was altering the original ending to an entire fucking book and then realized that was too long, and I basically tortured myself for several days. Like a dumbass) 

Anyway, based on the “original” ending to Little Wolf, which was entirely notes and never existed, but which basically had Tim fleeing Wolf’s Paw and winding up back on Ray’s proverbial doorstep. But I shortened the whole idea for obvious reasons. (In this version, Tim did not tell Nathaniel to come rescue him. In this version, Tim just runs, because at that point in my notes, I hadn’t developed the rest of the plot yet.)

 Somehow, Tim was in Ray’s house. In Los Cerros, even though that morning Tim had been in Wolf’s Paw. It was well after dark, and Tim was sitting in the house of Ray the cop, Ray Branigan, even though Tim didn’t like to admit he knew Ray’s last name because it used to give him a little terrified jolt to think about knowing someone, and that someone being another wolf.

That had been before. Before the mountains and before Albert and before all the other things Tim was not thinking about. He kept his hands at his sides and dug his claws into his palms and did not think about them.

Instead, he thought about the dust and candy and last night’s dinner homey smell of Ray’s house, which had curtains and pictures on the walls and if that wasn’t shocking enough, it also had a fairy in it.

A fairy who stared at Tim, off and on, fascinated or judging, Tim couldn’t tell. Though he had small wings, for a fairy, and Tim sort of felt something about that, but he was trying not to feel things right now so he wasn’t examining it.

Tim was wearing some of the fairy’s clothes—well, his sweatpants—and some of Ray’s clothes—a shirt Tim was practically swimming in—because when Tim had gotten off the bus in Los Cerros he’d been caught in a late spring rain, and he’d only had the clothes on his back and nothing else.

The sweatpants smelled like perfume-free detergent and cinnamon. Tim’s clothes were in the dryer. He had sat in this house, in warm and soft fairy clothes, all through the evening, watching the news and several cartoon shows and then some weird human sitcoms about dating, while the fairy—Cal had watched him from nearby.

Or not watched. Cal had typed on a laptop for a while, but Tim got the impression of being fussed over without actually being fussed over. Like Robin’s Egg, but less overt. Ray also lingered on the edge of Tim’s vision, working from the kitchen table, growling on the phone a few times, but in no way getting up and leaving the house to return to his job, even though Tim had interrupted him.

He hadn’t meant to. He had been walking through Los Cerros in a shivering daze, hoping nothing there had changed dramatically in the weeks he’d been gone. He’d been on his way to the coffeeshop where he used to work when a car had pulled over and a woman with sharp teeth and Ray had gotten out to talk to him.

Ray had smelled concerned. It only occurred to Tim now that it might have been more for Tim’s silence than for the state of Tim’s clothes.

Tim should have snarled at him, or at least hidden his shaking hands better.

Sharp Teeth Lady—also a cop—had ushered Tim into the car and followed Ray’s directions to a fast food place and both of them had glared until Tim had eaten an entire bag of cheap hamburgers. Then she’d driven them here, to Ray’s fucking house, and left them, with a little soft grin for Ray that Ray had not acknowledged.

Ray had growled at Tim to go shower to warm up, and made some calls while Tim was under the hot water, still shivering, still cold, and when Tim had emerged in weird, borrowed clothes, there had been a fairy in the house.

Ray’s mate.

“You’re Ray’s mate?” Tim had said it twice within minutes of meeting Cal, too shocked to think about how Nathaniel would sigh at his rudeness.

“Cal,” Ray’s mate had said calmly, introducing himself like a werewolf and a fairy was something common, like it wasn’t strange for Tim to have noticed their mingled scents and finally understood what everyone meant by that. Although he didn’t know Tim, so he wouldn’t know that.

Cal had walked over to Ray while removing layers of his clothing, reached into Ray’s pockets to pull out a bag of pear drops, and popped three in his mouth before turning to begin his study of Tim. “So you’re the emergency.” He’d smiled. “You look like you’re starving.”

“We went through a drive-thru on our way here,” Ray had offered, stunning Tim back to silence when he leaned over to nuzzle Cal’s hair. “But I think he’s still hungry.”

“No, no,” Tim had blurted, digging his nails into his palms for the first time that afternoon as he thought of everything Ray had just done for him, how wolf it was. Tim was not a good wolf. So he’d lied. “I’m not hungry.”

Cal had scoffed. “Emotionally maybe. But physically, weres are pretty much always hungry.”

Then he’d gotten Tim a soda and box of cookies and shooed him over to a couch in the living room. He’d gone over to talk to Ray about a case or something, whatever he did for a living, and Ray grunted a few times but in a way that Tim could now identify as concerned and attentive because of Nathaniel and all the things Tim still was not thinking about. And then eventually, Cal had settled on the arm of the couch, not close enough to touch but close enough for his scent to fall over Tim like a slowly descending cloud and Tim’s senses stopped worrying over it.

Realizing that Cal had done that deliberately, that he knew weres, made Tim tense up again, but Cal and Ray continued to work from home while Tim went through a box of cookies and several episodes of Friends.

Just when the constant chatter and noise of the laugh track were getting to be too much, Cal turned the TV off and dragged Tim into the kitchen and plopped him into a seat around the table.

Ray looked over at him, one eyebrow raised, and Tim belatedly realized he should’ve protested.

“Hey,” he mumbled weakly, then straightened. “You don’t need to make dinner for me. I should be going. My clothes have to be dry by now.” He was being rude again. “I mean, thank you, but I don’t want to bother you. This isn’t—” he swallowed. “I can pay you back.” He was going to have to figure out the paperwork and everything, but he would, someday.

Ray glanced to Cal, and as if Cal really was his mate, Cal read something unspoken in that look and hummed as he poked around in the fridge. After a moment, Ray got up to join him, then gently shoved Cal out of the way to take over dinner duties.

Tim kept his hands curled tight and did not whine.

“Hmm so.” Cal pulled a lollipop from somewhere and curled up crosslegged on a kitchen chair to face Tim.

Tim had faced down Silas Dirus and Nathaniel Neri—that very day, in fact—and he still did not know how to react to intent, swirling fairy eyes.

“I know some about you, you know,” Cal began calmly, smiling. “Ray used to mention you. The little wolf at the coffee shop. He liked having another wolf around. It’s hard, being the only one. I say that as the only fairy in my elementary school for several years. He was worried when you left,” Tim looked over to Ray, then quickly turned back to Cal when Cal continued, “but Sheriff Neri kept him updated.”

Tim flinched.

Silas would have commented. Silas had commented. Tim had been so obvious that Silas had seen it and used it and this was the only thing Tim could do. But he….

“Oh dear,” Cal gently interrupted Tim’s panic. “His colors, Ray.” He leaned to one side, apparently addressing Ray without taking his eyes off Tim. “You called him, right?”

Ray grunted as he chopped onions. His eyes didn’t even water. He was just like that in all things. Tough. Like… like all alpha wolves, or whatever they were called since alpha wolves did not exist.

Tim’s nose was starting to tingle, and his eyes burned enough that he had to blink a few times. Then Ray dropped the onions into a pan with a bunch of ground beef, and Tim’s stomach gurgled. He shook his head anyway.

“I should go.” But Tim couldn’t put his hand on the table to rise without revealing the marks his claws had left behind, or that he had claws where he should have had fingernails.

“Ray,” said Cal.

“Sit,” Ray ordered quietly, and Tim glared at him before looking away. “It’s night. You’re welcome here.”

“You were welcome before, but Ray Ray always said he didn’t think you’d come here if he offered.” Cal was noisy about enjoying his lollipop, but Tim was too wound up to be distracted by it. “He thought you were scared of him. But see? Now, here you are, utterly confused by his half-fairy mate, waiting for him to make you some awful savory thing that you will both inhale. That Wolf’s Paw did you some good. Hmm, tell me,” Cal leaned in and pretended to whisper, “is Wolf’s Paw everything they say it is? Ray and I keep meaning to go visit his friend there, but work… you know how it is.”

Tim unexpectedly blushed down to his toes, then shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “The tourists have fun,” he said carefully, “but if you think Nathaniel….”

“Well, weres can be very fun,” Cal carefully interrupted him. “Mine certainly is.”

Tim startled at that word, the reminder.

Cal gentled his tone but his eyes continued to see everything. “They were very good for you there, I think. Is he very different from before, Raymond?”

Tim would never have once thought to call Ray ‘Raymond.’ Cal got another brief nuzzle for it, as well as a container of vanilla and butterscotch pudding, with a spoon.

“He’s been tracking scents better,” Ray remarked, meeting Tim’s embarrassed stare before going back to his cooking.

“Nathaniel taught me,” Tim replied without thinking, then sank into his chair and sniffled. Because of the onions.  

Cal hummed in a significant way and then raised his eyebrows. He nodded when Ray sighed, as if reading more into that sigh than Tim ever could, were or not. “Yes. I totally agree. Obviously, he has to stay here.”

“No?” Tim asked and then realized he was asking and sat up. “No,” he said again, more firmly. “I can’t. You’d be in danger. Right now, Si—my uncle—is confused or still thinks I’m back there, in Wolf’s Paw. He still thinks I’m weak, which I must be, because this is all I could think of. But he knows, and maybe everyone knows but I can’t help that! This is all I can do! He said… that is… he was probably lying but some of it is true. My part is true. My… ugh my feelings. And he can use those against him. And you don’t understand, Nathaniel is smart but he doesn’t know Silas like I do! He’ll try to protect the town and… and you know, me, because that’s what he does, the bastard. But I’ll just be a liability, drawing more attention, distracting him with all my problems. He doesn’t need that. He needs help. He needs people to back him up and make him rest more, and maybe someone with the sense to hire, like, a PR firm or something to promote the town so he can go back to everything else. Which is still too much, but at least he could focus on the real danger and not on me whining at him for—”

Tim clamped his mouth shut to halt the stream of words and took several breaths that did not calm him down.

Ray was looking at him.

Cal crunched the last of his lollipop, evidently waiting to eat his pudding until Tim and Ray were eating too. Then he set down the soggy stick with a final, decided air. “We’ll circle back to the uncle issue, but first, Timothy. Ray’s little wolf. Tell me, if you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you choose?”

Tim shook his head and spoke in a humiliatingly strained whisper. “That’s not relevant. All that matters is that I took away the only leverage Silas had on him. It’s the only reason Silas even told me—and he had to tell me, that’s how pathetic I am. That’s why I left.”

“Is it?” Cal did not seem bothered by a near-hysterical werewolf at his table. Even a small were being this upset would have worried some people. Cal stopped to watch Ray go to a rice cooker that Tim must not have noticed Ray setting up earlier to scoop some rice into two large bowls. “So… you… are leverage… to be used against Sheriff Neri… and this…” he waved at the table, at Tim, “is how you are protecting him?”

He scoffed.

“Werewolf thinking. You guys always fall for it. ‘Oh no, better push my mate away to protect them!’” Cal hollered that dramatically, followed by a swoony gesture. Then he snorted. “Like it’s not killing you to do it. And, as the mate, let me tell you, that does not feel good to witness. Neither does the pushing away part, but I, at least, had the knowledge of Ray’s colors, and therefore, his real feelings, to comfort me. Your sheriff does not have that. Your sheriff doesn’t even know for sure that you’re safe.”

Tim’s heart thudded against his breastbone. His stomach twisted painfully.

“Callalily,” Ray’s voice was soft.

Cal, all exposed, bare skin and shining glitter, was unflinching. “His colors, Ray.”

“Scent, too,” Ray remarked, spooning the ground beef over the rice. Tim stared at him in stunned alarm.

“Of course, of course.” Cal seemed thoughtful now. “How would you describe his scent, so I can compare?”

“A jumble.” Ray put one massive bowl of seasoned meat and rice in front of Tim. “Nothing good. Fear. Guilt, I think. An ache.” He shocked the shit out of Tim by putting his hand on Tim’s head, just for a moment. His hand was big and warm, gentle, then gone. He put a fork in front of Tim a moment later.  

“Emotions usually are not experienced one by one.” Cal began to eat his pudding the second Ray sat down. “You know who he sort of reminds me of, in a strange way?”

“Me.” Ray did not guess. Tim watched him with wide eyes.

“Less controlled, but yes. How funny.” Cal didn’t laugh. He focused back on Tim and seemed to settle into his chair. “Tell me about your sheriff.”

Tim didn’t quite flinch. His sheriff.

Ray had suckered him in with food and warm clothes and then left him to be interrogated by his evil little mate.

Tim tried to growl. Cal just waved him on with his spoon. “I’ve seen the pictures. I meant tell me about him.”

“Oh.” It slipped out despite himself. Maybe it was the delicious smell under his nose. Or maybe it was the pain in Tim’s chest that had been growing since he got on the bus and it took him farther and farther from home. “He, uh, he spent a long time trying to get me used to him, and to the others. He did it even when it…when I hurt him.” He wasn’t going to think about that now, either. Not with his colors apparently doing things. “But that’s what he does. What they do, there, and him specifically. Zoe says… well, anyway. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not nice, exactly. Nathaniel isn’t nice, but people who don’t know him don’t exactly realize it at first. They sort of view him as a thing and not a person and ugh he’s… I mean, his hobbies are like, terrible movies and chess. He works all the time. He’s kind of a loser. And hot like the sun. He could have anyone, but they never stay, because he’s a fantasy to them and I just… Oh fuck.”

Tim had left him there.

But that had to be okay. Someday, Nathaniel would find someone. Find his mate, which wasn’t Tim, because Silas was lying, probably. Tim was still Nathaniel’s weakness, but he wasn’t that.

“I’m not his mate,” Tim volunteered, his eyes shut to say it. “I would, um, I wish I was.” He felt like something was crushing his chest. “It hurt to leave. I couldn’t seem him again. If I saw him, I wouldn’t have been able to do it. But I won’t let him be dumb when there is a whole town on the line. Silas would… Nathaniel is good, and noble, and just fucking ridiculous, and I would be is downfall.” He opened his eyes to meet Cal’s. “You were trying to make a point, but I’m not like that. I don’t bring anything to the table except trouble, I guess.”

“Eat,” Ray grunted into the resulting silence.  

“Someday, a werewolf is going to explain the mate instincts to me in actual words that make sense.” Cal sighed. “Someday.”

“Don’t you already know all about it?” Tim couldn’t help the question.

“It’s different for humans. Different for fairies, too. And weres, or so I imagine. We get more certainty. Humans find it harder. My dad did it, for a while. They can’t be certain. We can. Though we still we mess it up. Well… some of us do.” He gave Ray a chiding, yet fond glance. “Some of us know right away and yet have to be patient while some of us get over themselves and then finally only admit their feelings in a desperate situation.”

Ray huffed, and the sound made Cal climb from his chair into Ray’s lap.

Tim didn’t even try not to listen to Cal’s murmured, “…hate being patient.” Or the soft, “Mate,” that Ray growled against the tip of Cal’s ear.

His hands were shaking again, though.

“Eat,” Ray grumbled again, and though Tim should have glared, and then did, he also picked up the fork and made a mess trying to empty his bowl when he couldn’t steady his hands.

That was having a mate. That was Ray Branigan, big and tough and scary, letting a half-fairy pepper him with kisses and leave vanishing trails of glitter on his cheek.

“Anyway,” Cal continued blithely from Ray’s arms, “though Ray doesn’t speak of it much, having me for a mate has hurt him. Well, his career at the PD. But do you know what else it’s done? It’s expanded his circle of friends, his pack, as it were, given him more connections throughout Los Cerros and beyond. Made him someone that not even his worst enemies would consider crossing lightly.”

Fairies, or just Cal, were not subtle.

Tim looked away, to the one or two grains of rice left in the bowl in front of him. He wasn’t. They weren’t. Nathaniel was not his mate. Or at least, he wasn’t Nathaniel’s.

But Nathaniel probably was worried. Tim couldn’t allow that.

“I should call him or—” the thought of hearing Nathaniel’s voice stole his breath. How was Tim supposed to keep away from him if this was what it was like only half a day without him? “I don’t even have his number. I didn’t take anything with me. I just convinced my friends this was right and I borrowed money and I…” He’d had friends there. He hadn’t even realized it until now. “I had friends there.”

He looked up.

Ray was eating again, his gaze on his food, but Cal was smiling at Tim.

“If I may?” Cal began politely. “Maybe you also ran a little bit out of habit? Not to drive it home, but emotions can be terrifying as it is, especially if you don’t have the experience to process them. And something like a were’s mate bond seems especially terrifying to certain types of weres.” He gave Ray what could only be termed a smooch when Ray huffed again. “When you realized all this, you got scared. Well, you were already scared, and you got more scared, and you reacted the way you reacted to previous things that scared you. You ran. It worked for you before, so why not?”

Tim suddenly had to blink several times. “Are you some kind of therapist?”  

“Fairies see the truth.” Cal rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone forget this? Tsk. Though, granted, not all of us use this in the best ways.”

“What am I supposed to tell him? That I left him for his own good?” Tim laughed, fake and loud. “That’s just proof that I’m not his—that I’m not good for him. Even though it’s like… molecular, but you can say no, which sort of means it’s more about what you choose to do than what it is. I could choose to stay with him and try to… to have his back. God, even just being in town, even though I wouldn’t like watching him with others.” His claws were sharp again. “I could be there. I could watch him that way. Smell him again, once in a while.” Tim was quiet, but only for a moment. “He doesn’t know Silas like I do, and he gives too much of himself to the town. Fuck, he tortured himself just to let me—I just, oh fucking shit, I just left him there! Alone! Exposed! When no one there has the sense to stand up to him, not even Zoe! Even if he doesn’t want me, I can’t believe I did that!”

Tim was on his feet and reaching for the chair before he could knock it to the floor. “Oh, fuck, I need to go back! I can’t access anything now if I wanted to. I don’t have… I don’t even have real ID. I’ll need paperwork! Okay.” He had to plan. He had to be calm and then plan. “Okay, I can get a job. I’ll work for a week or so, get food money and bus fare, then head back up there and hope he…”

“Raymond?” Cal asked in complaint when Ray stood up only to set Cal down on his feet. Ray looked at him. Cal beamed and let him go before turning to Tim.

He handed Tim a paper towel. “Your face,” he suggested gently, and Tim frowned but accepted the towel to wipe grease or rice off his face. Then he put the paper towel down and paced across the room.

When he reached the wall, he turned.

Nathaniel was in the doorway.

Cal was an explosion of glitter and distant, quietly pleased words. “Oh, Raymond. Did you do this? I will never doubt the heart of a were again, I swear.”

“Shush, Peony,” Ray said, somewhere even farther away.

“You can still go, if you want to.” Nathaniel’s voice wasn’t even, but he might have wanted it to be. He looked tired, as much as he ever could. He had a bag in one hand, hanging at his side. Tim’s bag. “I brought your things. The stuff I could find and pack in a hurry. There’s also some money. The pay you had coming from Egg, before you yell at me about it.” His gaze didn’t leave Tim’s face. “But there’s still a place for you there, even if you don’t want it to be with me. What happened today was—”

Tim cut him off, ruthless and desperate. “Is that still on offer? A place with you?”

“Little Wolf.” It sounded like one of Ray’s huffs. Like pain and a plea.

Tim’s palms hurt with what he’d done to them. He held them out anyway. “He doesn’t get to touch the town, or you. I won’t let him. Do you hear me, Neri? You have to listen to me about him. That’s my condition. He doesn’t get to hurt you.”

“So only you get to?” Nathaniel was mean when he needed to be. And correct.

Tim buried his face in Nathaniel’s chest without being aware of moving at all. “I’m sorry.”

Nathaniel’s lips brushed Tim’s hair, then his ear. He inhaled before dropping the bag and wrapping his arms around Tim, and tightened his hold when Tim wriggled in close. On the surface, he smelled like the inside of his truck and then relief and maybe, beneath that, something like happy. Something more than happy. Something Tim did not know well enough to name, but it felt a lot like the rapid beat of his heart. He gripped Nathaniel’s shirt to hide his trembling, but he was finally warm. He could breathe. Everything was pine scent and fire and home.

Home.

“Mate,” Tim said, muffled into Nathaniel’s uniform shirt, then froze.

Nathaniel exhaled.

Somewhere, in some other part of Ray’s house, in another part of the world, a fairy let out a little howl.

[fire-mage-719]

I made a little story for FireMage the character in @fazbear-ent-official 's FNAF RP blog, pertaining to the type of stuff I think would fit what I want from their character. It's pretty long so I'll leave it below the cut.

I just sort of sat down and wrote something out in an hour or two, so there's probably a few mistakes or something. Above all I wanted to make it work with what everyone's done with the "universe" so far but also make it work (as someone who likes timelines and stories that makes sense).

I'm going to reblog it with a TLDR, and a sort of explanation as to my thought process and how it can work with everything. Doesn't have to be canon in the RP, but I think it might open up more RP opprotunities/paths or something. IDK, I haven't done this sort of thing before. Anyways enjoy.

William sighed before he left the building. The sound of arcade machines, a distant song, and children echoing in the short distance behind him. Exiting the dark building, he shielded his eyes and squinted as he was suddenly bashed by the intense sunlight.

It was a glorious and sunny day. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the blue expanse cradling the unwieldy and bright sun. The building, his establishment, Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, blocked out all the lights for bright neon signs and shiny decor and moving party lights. The outside was a stark contrast.

Beyond just the sight was the smell. Inside smelled like pizza and soda, candies with enough sugar content to kill anyone in a nursing home, and a tinge of childly stench. Out here it smelled like fire, smoke, and meat. Not just any meat, but good barbecued hotdogs and hamburgers, a steak maybe, a pork rib, William couldn’t tell anymore, really. It was just savory and honestly, a very good palate cleanser to the rubbish that they sold inside.

Manning the grill was a tall figure. They wore an astronaut suit, pale white, with no flags or logos. No NASA logo, no indication that they had ever been to space, and in the end, it didn’t particularly matter. No one seemed to really mind, William the least. Especially with the reason that he hired them for. Though they did intently wish for two more additions to their apparel: a Freddy Fazbear branded apron and a nametag that read “FireMage”.

“Fire, I need you to do what I hired you for,” William sighed, his arm still shielding his eyes from the sun. “Not whatever you’ve got setup here.”

“All due respect sir, someone came in with a t-bone and said they’d pay me more than you would in a week to cook it,” The astronaut said.

The astronaut turned away from the grill, pointing the burger flipper at William.

“A week, boss. Like, rich white ladies are nuts, but money is money,” Fire said, turning back to the grill and plating a few burgers. “Besides, you’ve got a lot more business lately, despite all your goings on. I would like to think it’s thanks to me.”

William grimaced as Fire took the last burger off the grill and onto a bun. William’s eyes were focused on the t-bone that the astronaut mentioned until Fire had closed the grill.

“Besides, I take care of whatever you ask no matter what,” Fire said, turning to look at William.

It was slightly concerning, not being able to look them in the eyes. Even with the animatronics, William was able to look into the glassy fake orbs, but the visor to Fire’s helmet blocked anything but William’s own reflection. Used to the light now, William watched his mirror image let his arm down.

“If you can even remember what that initially was for,” Fire continued, leaning against the grill.

William went to open his mouth, but shut it. He couldn’t remember.

“Is it that you can’t remember, or that you haven’t been made to remember yet?” Fire asked.

William snapped, “Don’t do that. Just… go in and do what I asked, yeah?”

William turned for the handle of the door. Fire was arguably one of the easiest of his employees to deal with. Casual, respectable, and above all somehow able to get away with an odd amount of things, Fire was… one of the least suspicious people at any establishment. Whichever establishment that Afton was at, they seemed to be there. No one minded the obviously fake name, the obviously out of the ordinary outfit, and the odd comments that seemed to slip beyond most peoples’ notice.

“Mr. Afton, I have to ask, what’s up with the sudden influx of employees?” Fire retorted.

William paused and looked back, not angry, but a bit annoyed.

“I don’t know. Must have been Henry or Willow. They’re in charge of new employees.”

“Besides me,” Fire chirped.

William smiled, a bit sarcastically, “Yes. Besides you.”

“I would say that they act oddly in regards to the establishment, wouldn’t you agree?”

Fire started to approach William Afton, and though William knew that Fire wouldn’t do anything, he let go of the door knob and turned to meet their gaze… or as much of a gaze that they could have. Fire stopped a few feet away, and William let himself relax, not realizing the tension he had in his jaw.

“I mean… yes. They do seem odd. That’s nothing too out of the ordinary,” William said back in a neutral tone.

“And there’s that new establishment even, the what…” Fire rested one of their hands on their hip, snapping with the other for a few moments before it clicked. “The Pizza-plex!”

William’s brows came together in confusion, he himself not knowing quite what they were getting at.

“What do you mean? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, can’t you see? We shouldn’t be anywhere near the Pizza-plex yet!” Fire said exasperated. “We have a location with Toy Animatronics, with the Original Gang, we have the Funtime animatronics hanging out somewhere, none of this aligns!”

William sighed, looking up to the blue sky. If he just waited them out, they would be done, and he could go back inside. They weren’t even wasting time, since no one would interfere with what Fire was meant to do anyways.

“I don’t get what you mean,” He let his head drop to look down at Fire.

His heart skipped a beat when William saw Fire in front of him, grabbing his upper arms, holding him in place.

“Everything is wrong! I thought that something was off when I first got here, but now everything is wrong! All these things existing at once don’t coincide with the story at all!” Fire said. “None of the characters are in the right places! None of the events! The employees that appeared out of nowhere, they’re a part of this somehow!”

“Look, let me go,” William said, not struggling too much to let the astronaut let go of his arms. “I get it, you only agreed to work and do my odd jobs because… well…”

“You don’t remember how I got here, Afton,” Fire said, voice stale and monotone.

“I mean yeah, ok, I don’t!” William exclaimed. “Something is going on! I get it! But I don’t get what’s the deal! That hasn’t been an issue before. Sure! We got some weird employees! That one person with the rats, and that one person who got “adopted by Mr. Hippo”, and the one who started a wrestling ring, but that’s nothing huge!”

“But nothing has changed, yet,” Fire said. “The days go in and out, funky little things happen. But nothing moves forward. The days keep coming. The sun shines. You come out here and ask me to step away from my precious grill and clean up one of your little messes… that you don’t seem to be getting caught or suspicion for, despite the fact that it seems to be well known that Freddy’s is at least a slightly sketchy place.”

“Business is booming!” Afton sighed.

“Exactly!” Fire shouted. “It shouldn’t be!”

“What are you saying? I’m doomed to fail?” William laughed.

“In more ways than one,” Fire said plainly.

William didn’t like that statement, and glared at the astronaut. Fire walked forward, up to Afton.

“You and I can’t remember anything, but out of everyone, we seem to understand that there’s more than meets the eye going on. We’re stuck here, until something happens in this broken universe,” Fire said, inches from Afton, looking down on the man.

“Alright then. And what are we supposed to do about it?” Afton asked.

“Nothing. We can’t do anything. We’re nothing more than perversion, an offshoot of some original universe.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” Afton said, aggravated. “All the weird kids to go away? For me to finish my plans?”

“We’re waiting for the story to continue, of course,” Fire turned away.

They walked back to the grill, where sitting propped up next to it was a flamethrower. Dangerous to have next to a grill, to say the least, but William Afton never saw the astronaut without their flamethrower close by.

“There’s got to be some bigger plot point coming along. Something to move us all forward. We have to be going somewhere, but maybe it isn’t out yet. Whatever was going to come next, after Ultimate Custom Night. Before I got here,” Fire continued, returning to Afton.

“You’re making even less sense now,” Afton said, looking with concern down at the flamethrower. “You make it sound like, I don’t know, we’re just waiting for God to come roll the dice and choose what comes next.”

“Not God,” Fire said.

They looked away from Afton. Past him. Past the road. Past the buildings. Past the blue skies. Into the eyes of someone, into the eyes of you.

“No, someone else,” Fire returned their gaze to William. “That’s the only thing that makes sense. That everyone here is a puppet, or a pawn, of some sort. They know who you are, they know what you do, and they might know who each other are. They’re making a story, here, and it’s leading somewhere. Too many things don’t line up with what I know is true, and even the mysteries I don’t aren’t explained.”

William just stopped at that point. He was wondering if they had waited too long, and the cleanup would be harder. Though, he thought, it wasn’t his job to clean up.

“There isn’t anything beyond the locations. There’s nothing more than the world that revolves around you and Henry and the employees,” Fire poked William in the chest. “And the world never moves on. When did you make the Pizza-plex? Don’t answer, I know you don’t know. Why didn’t you shut down the Toy location? Don’t think about it? Here’s an important question, William Afton, how are the kids?”

William would have snapped. Would have grabbed Fire by the apron and strangled them with it. He was angry, but he didn’t know why. He was also sad. Afton stumbled backwards, into the wall. He didn’t know how he felt, it was a cacophony of emotions like an echochamber of butterflies eating at his insides. He looked up at Fire, who just looked down.

“We’re all waiting for them to continue the plot, Mr. Afton. And until they do, you and I are stuck in this little world. And unfortunately, knowing we’re in it, means we’re never escaping it,” Fire kneeled down, their voice soft. “I knew even before I came here about what you were up to. Your employees and coworkers don’t know what’s going on, but they’re too comfy with the nature of this place. I don’t particularly care about what you do, because according to the story, you are meant to complete these tasks.”

Fire offered their free hand to Afton. He looked at it, confused but accepting it nonetheless.

“Until the REAL story ends… and this place ends too… I’m here to make sure you achieve whatever it is to finish it properly.”

“What, like a little henchman?” Afton scoffed as Fire pulled the man to his feet.

“No, more like…” Fire considered for a bit, trying to hold their gaze on Afton and not pull past him, past the world. “More like plot armor.”

“For no other purpose than continuing some story?” Afton continued.

“For finishing the story.”

Fire turned their head to the door, as if they heard something. They slung the flamethrower over their back and walked over to the grill. They closed up the burgers, and opened the lid to the grill. The sizzling meat’s smell wafted over Afton, calming him a bit. Fire flipped it before lowering the lid, and turning to Afton.

“Mr. Afton I hope you remember, in the future, the real reason you hired me. How you got to this point. I hope the story becomes concise for you, because as someone who also does not remember their past… or how the story works… I know it is painful,” Fire picked up the burgers. “Above all, since only you and I seem to notice that something is up, we need to be there when one of us remembers something. Because most likely, it’s not us remembering, it’s us being told to remember.”

“Being told to remember?” Afton questioned, before regretting it. “You know what? Enough. I don’t know how we even GOT this far into whatever crazy conversation this is.”

“Me neither,” Fire shrugged. “It’s something seems to drive the plot of the universe it seems.”

Fire stopped and looked at the door. As they did, it opened. It was Willow, one of three people that Fire referred to as “boss”.

“You have that steak done?” Willow asked.

“Nope, got the burgers though,” Fire motioned by raising them up. “Boss-man Afton here and I were just chatting it up.”

“Alrighty, hurry it up on that steak if you can. And if you don’t mind, William, one of the animatronics is acting up and we need you to look at it. Something about smelling bad as well,” Willow said.

Fire looked at William, whose demeanor changed. He suddenly had a kind smile on, and seemed as if he didn’t have an oddly meta conversation.

“Of course. You go Willow, I’ll get the door for Fire.”

Willow nodded and left, letting the door close behind them.

William looked at Fire with a raised brow. Fire nodded to the door.

“You gonna get that?”

Afton rolled his eyes and opened the door. He went inside, holding it open as Fire walked through. Once Fire entered the dark corridor of the poorly lit building, crossing the threshold, they stopped. They turned their head and moved their body to look back out the door.

Once again they stared at nothing. But was looking right at you.

That is, until the back door to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza slammed shut.